A Dying Goddess

In the vast depths of the Flaythorn Forests, amidst tangled roots and branches heavy with cobwebs, a goddess was dying.

Chief Blazgrat looked up at the mighty Arachnarok before him: Squashakandra the Everfeeding, the goddess of his tribe. The belly of the giant monster was swollen and pallid, the skin around her dim eyes stretched and waxen. Fear and sadness filled Blazgrat’s ugly little face as he edged closer.

‘And there’s really nothin’ we can do, Boss?’

‘Nah,’ answered Grungit the Elderest, shaman of the Bittennob tribe, as he scratched his crooked and bone-pierced nose. ‘I even got some of the shamans from the neighbouring tribes to look at ’er.’ He pointed at some half-eaten grot carcasses and gave a heavy sigh. ‘She didn’t even finish ’em.’

Blazgrat shuddered and looked back at the hulking form of Squashakandra. ‘But she seemed okay when we woz fightin’ the git with the pointy teef on his burny-horse. Squashed his rattlers left an’ right an’ even gave him a good poundin’.’

‘Of course she seemed okay, dimwit,’ Grungit hissed. ‘She is a goddess after all.’

‘But… she’s dyin’, right?’

‘Right. It’s somethin’ she ate is what it is,’ Grungit explained. ‘Just gotta look at all those deadwalkin’ hordes, all rotten and stinky. May look like a feast, but can’t be too healthy, eh?’

‘I dunno, boss,’ said Blazgrat. ‘I say there’s some dark magics goin’ on. An’ you’re just not thinkin’ hard enough to find out.’

‘Magics, huh?’ Grungit shook his head. ‘I would’ve found out in no time. Nah, ol’ Squasha ’ere is dying, I dunno why. We’re done for, Blazgrat. I wonder what a pointy-toof was doin’ in Ghur anyway…’

The huge Arachnarok shuddered, her limbs moving weakly. A deep rumble emerged from her abdomen, but it didn’t sound as if the giant arachnid was hungry. More like something was… moving inside. The grots looked at each other with anxious faces and came closer.

‘O mighty Squashakandra,’ said Grungit. ‘Tell us what pains you an’ we gonna… uh, hurt it real bad until it goes away.’ The grot’s voice rose and fell in this impressive incantation, and Blazgrat listened in awe. For a short moment, he almost felt remorse that he had doubted the mighty shaman.

‘Rise, our goddess,’ shrieked Grungit, ‘come back to da tribe! Rise!’ Squashakandra continued to sway and staggered like a puppet with half its strings cut, her movements growing ever stronger. ‘Mighty Squashakandra,’ Grungit continued. ‘Return to us! Lead us to your enemies an’ we’ll destroy those lousy gits!’

Blazgrat dared to hope. Had they been wrong? Was the illness of their goddess fading?

The Arachnarok spider finally came to her feet, unsteady, but standing. All the while, Grungit continued his chanting. ‘Squasha! Kandra! Squasha! Kandra!’

From the darkness of the forest, between dead tree trunks and dense shrubs, a rustling nose began to build as dozens, then hundreds of grots came to witness how their goddess had returned. From the treetops, spiders of all hues and sizes came crawling. They were the brood of Squashakandra, hundreds upon hundreds of eight-legged horrors, and there seemed something like hope in their beady eyes as they anxiously clicked their mandibles.

Grungit turned around to face his tribe and held his arms up high, shaking his gnarled stuff in a powerful gesture. ‘Look, lads! Squashakandra returns to us! Our goddess wants to lead our Waaagh! once more!’ The forest resounded to cheers and the high-pitched shouts of zealous grots that scampered through the forest towards the commotion. ‘Tonight, we’ll ride out an’ we’ll go look for those dead gits an’ make ’em even deader!’

Blazgrat felt his chest swell with pride. His red eyes wandered over the gathering of Spiderfang Grots and giant spiders while Grungit continued his speech, driving his kin to a zealous frenzy. Yes, they would go to war tonight, and their goddess would lead them—

With a long and squealing wheeze, Squashakandra collapsed. A deadly silence fell upon the surrounding grots as they looked on in horror. Grungit slowly turned his back to his audience to look at the Arachnarok, his staff still high above his head. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t have any words for this. Their goddess was dead.

There was no doubt about it. Thick and venomous drool flowed from the crooked jaws of the giant monster. Her eyes were empty.

‘Well, uh… ,’ Grungit began, but he was interrupted by another rumbling sound from the belly of the enormous spider-carcass.

‘She’s still alive,’ squealed one of the grots from somewhere.

As Grungit just continued to stare, Blazgrat overcame his own fear and walked towards his dead goddess, his heart hammering. He carefully reached out, gulping heavily. Should he dare? She was dead after all, wasn’t she?

His hand touched the giant, soft abdomen. It felt slimy and feverishly hot under his touch. A moment after his hand made contact with the body, the rumbling grew stronger. Then there was something like a moan.

Blazgrat shook his head in terror as a hand stretched the surface of the Arachnarok’s skin from the inside of the carcass. The grot stumbled backwards and fell, screaming as the body of the enormous spider cramped and shook until her whole belly tore open like along its length. Dozens of Deadwalkers spilled forth, soaked in the bodily fluids of the Arachnarok spider and fattened by its flesh.

Blazgrat crawled backwards, shrieking in sheer horror as the undead horde tore into the gathering of his fellow grots. He saw two of the undead voraciously clawing their way through Grungit’s belly, and shivering fear took him head to toe. Aghast, the shaman hadn’t even put up a fight.

Chief Blazgrat came to his feet and stumbled into the darkness, screaming like he had never before in his life.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

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