‘Old Father Nurgle demands joy!’ said Septicus, grinning his yellow grin at his king. ‘See what bounties are here for us to corrupt! Look at all this hateful organisation. We shall plough it under the soil and nourish it with the decay of this mortal realm. We shall raise high a garden ripe with endless fecundity! Entropy beckons! Growth without limit! Decay without reason!’

Ku’gath harrumphed. Septicus’ pipes were momentarily silenced, but his orchestra played shrilly on, piping out his tune on the femurs of dead men. The whole army was singing, a buzzing, wheezing, droning lament that was entirely the opposite of joyful.

‘Never mind,’ grumbled Ku’gath.

Septicus retrieved his mouthpiece, and raised his scabrous eyebrows in a request for permission. Ku’gath snorted, an action that sent streamers of mucous blasting from his nose.

Tilting his bloated head ironically, Septicus played anew.

Ku’gath belched and urged his nurglings on. He bullied his way through his Plague Guard until he reached the edge of the meadows where the ground rose up from the swamp towards a low hill. Reaching a mound, he brought his palanquin to a halt by lifting himself up and violently sitting, stunning his nurglings into immobility. A gleaming white building, hatefully clean, stood luminous not far away. It smelled of cleansing unguents and disinfectants. Ku’gath took a dislike to it immediately.

‘Medicine,’ he hissed. ‘Balms. Cleanliness! Oh, oh, oh, it will not do!’

That place was the death of Nurgle’s gifts.

A thought took hold in his rotting brain, and his doleful face almost managed a smile. The hospital was a perfect place to begin his task. He lifted his arm and gestured.

‘To the place of healing!’ he commanded. ‘Make it filthy! Make it stink! Make it fit for Nurgle’s work!’

The shuffling, singing horde of daemons immediately changed course, heading towards the hospital on the hill. Swarms of plague drones swung around in the sky and buzzed through the shifting veils of smaller rot flies towards it. Urging their winged mounts on, the plaguebearers riding the giant flies outpaced the daemons on foot. At their approach, gunshots cracked, cutting through the phlegmy dirge of the host.

Ku’gath pulled a face of contempt. They could not stop the Plague Guard! Turning around in his throne, he bellowed: ‘Pox-bearers, bring out the cauldron!’

Seven times seven plaguebearers broke off from their march and walked to the drooling corpse mouth of the lead ship. The dead void whale convulsed, vomiting up slimy, rotting ropes of twisted hair.

Seeing what Ku’gath had ordered, Septicus waddled to take command, his pipes honking and squalling under his arm. Squatumous and Bubondubon went with him. The latter uncoiled a filthy whip.

‘Get the ropes – pull them hard!’ commanded Septicus while Ku’gath looked on. ‘Heave, my pretties! Heave, my little dollops of unctuous gore, my decaying ones, my flaking fleshlings, my diseased darlings, heave!’