Septicus took the mouthpiece of his pipes from his lips and cupped a puffy hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, Ku’gath! Oh, Plague­father! The host of sickness is assembled! We are waiting! Come lead us, might putrefactor. Bring us the blessings of your filth!’

Septicus began to tap his foot and shout ‘Ku’gath! Ku’gath! Ku’gath!’ to the beat. He waved his free hand, conducting the others, until the place of manifestation resounded to the chants of all the daemons, calling upon their lord with foetid breath.

‘Ku’gath! Ku’gath!’ the daemons chanted. Septicus played his pipes, and the orchestra that had gathered by his side joined in. Bubondubon laughed loudly.

‘Ku’gath! Come!’ gasped the Gangrel. Every word was that being’s last. He lived perpetually on the cusp of death.

An angry roar was their answer. An impact squelched from within the first whale-ship, then another, and a rusty broadsword the length of a battle tank carved down through its rancid hide. An arm emerged holding the sword, then a head crowned with a spread of horns, and out came Ku’gath the Plaguefather: lord of disease, and most favoured son of Grandfather Nurgle.

‘Enough! Enough!’ he bellowed as his wooden palanquin forced its way free of the whale-ship. Stacked high upon it were mildew-spotted canvas parcels, tied up with fraying rope. Within the damp boxes, alembics, thuribles, burners and tubes of matter clinked, for Ku’gath carried his laboratory with him wherever he went. Hordes of nurglings bore him up, but their mirth annoyed Ku’gath, who was by nature a despondent being.

‘No more music! No more laughter!’ He leaned violently to the left, causing the nurglings on that side to burst, but there were always more of them to carry his massive body. The palanquin shifted in the direction he flung his weight. Its sodden banners swaying heavily behind Ku’gath’s horned head, the palanquin turned and moved forwards.

‘Shut up! Be quiet! This is no laughing matter!’ he boomed. His shout was powerful as a pandemic, and reached as far. ‘Grandfather Nurgle’s business is a serious business!’

Septicus smiled more broadly and played more merrily, and the horde of daemons swayed from foot to foot in the slow dance of decay.

Ku’gath rolled his eyes so violently that one fell out from his skull. He was still pushing it back into place when his palanquin drew level with Septicus. He slapped the mouthpiece of the pipes from his lieutenant’s hand. The pipes moaned mournfully.

‘No more music,’ grumbled Ku’gath. ‘Why must there always be music?’