In this week’s chapter of the Dawnbringer Chronicles, the Loonking Skragrott finds himself interrupted by an unexpected visitor among his mushrooms. As the leader of the Fungal Asylum, Skragrott is accustomed to the antics of his underlings, but this particular interruption seems to hold promise.
‘Dis had better be good, Krib.’
Skragrott congratulated himself on restraining a sigh as he spoke. In the Loonking’s experience, his underlings’ petitions rarely hit the threshold of ‘decent’, let alone good. Still, part of bosshood was showing magno… magnamig… magnomino… was not feeding gitz to the squigs just because they annoyed you.
The Loonking reclined in his litter – the upturned cap of a Greater Stinkhorn, borne by armoured troggoths – and inhaled. There was a pleasant chewiness to the Fungal Asylum’s air. Colours he’d stopped trying to name pulsed from the scryshrooms that stood in clusters, vestigial faces gurning on their stalks. The shroom-mutants’ screeching rose into the asylum’s heights, where conventional geometry had become a shouting match between impossible cosmic forces.
‘Sure as Gork is green, ya looniness, you’z gonna love it!’
The snivelly voice took a cudgel to Skragrott’s threatening good humour. He shifted atop his throne to sneer at the figure below. Decaying refuse squelched as Krib, the asylum keeper, performed a bandy-legged jig. The grot kept nodding like a squig with juicy prey in its gob.
Skragrott glanced at the others upon his litter. These were his High Gobbapalooza, or at least those he’d been able to round up. The Mighty Mezmerizmo was busy liquefying the brain of some unfortunate snotling. Curdlegore, his Arch-Spiker, was deep in conversation with the creepy-crawlies that slunk amongst his bottled poisons. The mound of filth-encrusted robes and rusted alembics off to the right would be Slumblegut. The elderly Brewgrit caught Skragrott’s eye and shrugged.
‘Krib.’ The Loonking’s utterance saw the grot’s squelching dance cease. ‘Get to da point, or I’ll stuff puffguts down ya until ya burst.’
‘R-right, ya dankness. Sure, sure.’ The asylum keeper gave a spittle-spraying whistle. From behind a colossal scryshroom that had once been a gargant matriarch came the sound of straining and shuffling. A troupe of five grots staggered out, clutching a struggling shape.
Robes had been torn from the skaven’s white-furred body, but the horns spiralling from its brow made plain its nature as a shaman. Acidic webbing bound its arms and tail against its body, sizzling lightly. The ratman squirmed, and likely would have snarled if not for the wad of deffcap rammed between its jaws.
‘A gift from Boss Shivvit up in the Minewarrens, ya Moony Magnificence,’ Krib beamed, as his underlings snickered and jabbed the ratman. ‘Thought you’d want to see it right away.’
‘Ratty spellflinger…’ Slumblegut gurgled, leaning in. ‘Rare, boss. Especially when da Minewarrens scrap ain’t goin’ so good.’
The remark drew a warning look from the Loonking, but no more. The war against the ratmen to the north had started well enough, before skaven reinforcements had flooded the caves and began jamming massive spars of glowy rock into the ground, fighting like fanatics to defend them. Aside from mutterings of ‘bad vibez’, no grot had yet deduced what the ratmen were playing at.
‘The ratty wants to speak!’ Mezmerizmo warbled. Skragrott ran a warty thumb over his metal chin-spike.
‘Let’z hear it, then.’
The ratman’s first instinct, following his gag’s removal, was to spit an incantation. The bossfungus that sprouted from Skragrott’s skull tingled as the magic fell flat. The Loonking laughed, a jagged shiv of a noise.
‘I wouldn’t, ratty!’ Bullying by generations of orruks had given grots an innate appreciation for the power of a proper loom. It was a technique Skragrott employed with relish, as he made sure his shadow – stretched in the mildewed twilight – fell long across the prisoner. ‘Ya sparky spells ain’t no good here. Look around…’ Skragrott gave his most regal sweep of an arm, grinning as clusters of scryshrooms shuddered.
‘These wuz all shamans once. Then they had a run-in wiv da Moon Onna Stikk. They tell me more interesting stuff now.’ The Loonking paused, letting the wailing of his captive seers escalate. A pungent odour was rising; he’d fought skaven enough to recognise the musk of fear. Snorting, Skragrott wagged a finger.
‘But see, we don’t get many rattiez round here. An’ I reckon you’re a brainy sort. You know about our scrap with ya mates. So, here’s me with a problem, and you in a position to be… offerin’ advice.’
The ratman narrowed in an evil gaze at Skragrott. ‘The Screaming One will gnash-gnaw your bones!’
‘Ya try and be reasonable,’ Skragrott tutted, reaching for his stave. Atop a staff of gnarled snagglewillow, the Moon Onna Stick glowered like a jaundiced gargoyle. The skaven twitched, baring his fangs.
‘Inflict your torments, green-thing. Grey Seer Razzik fears nothing!’
Two denials, Skragrott mused. Committed, for a ratty. A stamp of his pointed shoe signalled the troggoths to lower his throne.
‘Wait-wait.’
Aha.
Razzik’s eyes darted to and fro, before he puffed out his chest.
‘Incautious words, yes-yes. Did not sense your lordliness, green-thing. And now I am abandoned by worthless minions… new alliances do appeal.’ He attempted a bow, licking dry lips. ‘There is a plot. We sniff for where magic pools. There, we drive in warpstone like poisoned daggers, until—’
A hacking spasm wracked him. Skragrott wondered if he was choking on a hairball. Razzik thrashed and frothed, eyes rolling back.
Then he exploded.
Skragrott had already started running. The blast still hurled him from the litter, screeching and cartwheeling. He bounced off the spongy flesh of a scryshroom before landing amidst the filthy underbrush with a splash.
Ears ringing, the Loonking looked up. Warpflame stung his eyes where it raged through the air. A troggoth litter-bearer had been reduced to ashes. Another was half-aflame, screaming in something uncomfortably close to terror. The other two had tossed the litter aside, edging away from the hungry flames. At first, Skragrott didn’t recognise a blackened husk nearby as Curdleslop, legs arthritically contorted in death like one of his beloved spiders. Slumblegut, at least, had avoided burning. He hadn’t avoided landing on his neck.
The scryshrooms’ yowling was deafening. Those closest to the blast screamed and blubbered as they were lashed by tails of emerald flame. They ignited easily, as did drifting spore-clouds that became spreading sheets of fire.
The Fungal Asylum was burning.
Skragrott had never really hated a foe before. Gordrakk had been better to manipulate, Kragnos even more so. The sky-stunties who had raided Skrappa Spill, well – that was business as usual. This was different. Trembling, the Loonking staggered to his feet, snatching up the Moon Onna Stikk and his chittering Skull Wand.
‘NOT IN MY HOUSE, YA ZOGGIN’ GITZ!’
Skragrott vomited his contempt as a fug of spore-mist. The cloud expanded, drawing other motes of fungal arcana to form a gurning moon-visage. The apparition’s jaws widened with the crack of insect limbs. It swallowed the warp-flame. There was a low, gulping rumble. The moon’s eyes bulged. Then, with a muffled bang, the spell-construct burst. A last spiteful wave of heat swept the Asylum, before fizzling out.
The shadow of a figure lingered where the Grey Seer had once stood. It was horned and verminous, a mirror of Razzik, but stretched to appalling lengths and emanating foulness. It raised its arms in mocking benediction. Sneering, Skragrott returned a gesture of his own.
The shape dissipated, leaving Skragrott retching on smoke. Nothing was left of Krib but a pair of fire-blackened boots. The burning troggoth now lay still, and while Mezmerizmo had survived, even the Boggle-eye’s cackles were less spirited than usual.
Surrounding them was a forest of charred scryshrooms. Skragrott’s spellcraft had saved the greater swathe of the Asylum, but nothing could be done for these, stalk-faces locked in ashen rictuses. No more prophecies would dribble from their lips.
Wood cracked. The Loonking’s grasp had splintered the Moon Onna Stikk’s shaft. He shook splinters from his bloodied hand and chuckled in a low, ugly drawl.
‘Alright, rattiez… now it’z personal.’
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