Warp-lightning cannons roared alongside the staccato hiss of Jezzails and Poisoned Wind Mortars. An endless tide of Clanrat slaves surged forward as disposable fodder, a carpet of vermin that seemed to stretch unto eternity. Behind them, elite Stormvermin and a menagerie of Moulder abominations crashed into the rear of the Imperial lines.
Stormvermin clad in scavenged power-armor tore through the Astra Militarum with chainswords and crude power weapons. Alongside them, Rat Ogres the size of enraged gorillas, their limbs amputated and replaced with warp-iron claws, flaying gauntlets, and warp-drills, pulverized the armored hulls of Sentinel walkers as if they were parchment.
Even more terrifying were the Brood Horrors and multi-headed Hell-Pit Abominations, monstrosities the likes of which the men of the Imperium had never witnessed.
"Where in the name of the Throne are these things coming from?"
"Fire support! I need fire support—Aaargh!"
The Warlord of Clan Blackback led his personal retinue of a thousand Stormvermin, the Black Slayers, armed with warp-shotguns and warp-halberds, butchering their way through the desperate Astra Militarum ranks.
Their momentum was briefly checked by a detachment of Battle Sisters from the Order of the Ebon Chalice. Crying out the names of the Emperor and the Living Saint, these zealots raised their power swords and charged.
The Skaven Warlord, standing over two meters tall, bared his yellowed fangs in a sneer. He had no intention of engaging these "man-things" in honorable combat. With a flick of his clawed hand, he signaled the Black Slayers to unleash a devastating volley of warp-shot. The Sisters' return bolter fire was soaked up by the bodies of his expendable elite guards.
"Xenos! Face me!" the leading Palatine screamed, her blade dancing as she cut down a dozen Stormvermin in a display of exquisite bladework.
The Skaven Warlord chuckled insidiously. "Yes-yes... the female hairless-thing speaks-talks... Great Bonagi will duel you, but not now. He-he-he!"
He retreated into the press of fur, and a mutated Rat Ogre nearly five meters tall lunged forward. Its fur was deathly pale, and its four powerful arms were grafts of horror: flaying gauntlets, warp-claws, a heavy flamer, and a warp-drill.
"ROOOAAAR!" The beast bellowed, a sound born of agonizing mutation. This Bonebreaker, a specialized strain of Rat Ogre from Clan Moulder, crushed two Battle Sisters underfoot before its flamer erupted in a gout of green balefire, liquefying three more.
These Bonebreakers served as the preferred mounts and guardians for Warlords throughout the Under-Empire, often provided as "loyalty incentives" for those who spent heavily on Clan Moulder's biological wares. The most infamous of their kind was the mount of Thanquol himself.
Under the combined assault of the Stormvermin and the Bonebreaker, the Palatine and her surviving Sisters were forced into a fighting retreat. Finally, a concentrated volley of heavy bolter fire staggered the beast.
"I trust we are not late, Palatine Lelia!"
The Palatine glanced back to see three Paragon Warsuits, their four-meter frames bristling with storm bolters and massive power blades.
"About time! Purge these xenos!" she commanded. Two of the warsuits laid down a punishing curtain of bolter fire while the third lunged forward with its power sword.
In a blur of disruption fields, two of the Bonebreaker's arms were severed. The monster shrieked in pain, and even the nearby Stormvermin began to skulk back in terror.
"Now you die, xenos scum!" The Palatine lunged forward to claim the Warlord's head.
Suddenly, a flurry of emerald-green darts whistled through the air, punching through her chest plate. As she struggled to swing her blade, a black blur, a shadow given form, spun before her. A pair of weeping blades flashed in a whirlwind arc, cleanly severing the Palatine's head and hands in a single motion.
More shadows flickered through the carnage like a lethal wind. Eshin assassins threw more warp-darts, targeting the exposed pilots of the Paragon Warsuits. Refraction fields flared to life, deflecting the projectiles as the warsuits swung their massive blades in retaliation.
Yet the figures evaded with a fluid, unnatural grace impossible for any human. They backflipped over the strikes, using their long, muscular tails to latch onto the warsuit's arm-struts, swinging themselves directly onto the pilots' cockpits.
Only then did the Sisters see their killers: ratmen swathed in charcoal-grey cowls and shinobi-masks. With twin weeping blades held high, they struck. The disruption fields offered no protection against the close-quarters bypass of the Eshin blades. The poisoned steel pierced hearts and brains simultaneously. Three Paragon Warsuits slumped into the mud, their pilots silenced forever.
The Eshin Assassin who had slain the Palatine scanned the battlefield with cold, glowing eyes. With a silent hand signal, his Death Runners followed their Master Assassin back into the shadows. They ignored the remaining Sisters and the Warlord alike, vanishing as silently as they had appeared, carrying only the Palatine's head as a trophy of their kill.
Warlord Bonagi shivered in terror. Even though they were technically allies, the silent arrival and departure of the Eshin struck fear into his black heart. He had intended for the Sisters to tire themselves out so he could steal the kill; he had no idea the assassins were even embedded within his own clan.
But such fears were secondary. No ratman could escape the Blade of the Great Horned Rat. He turned his fury back toward the humans, desperate to prove his zeal.
In an instant, hundreds of thousands of Imperial troops found themselves encircled. Even Astoren Korr felt the cold weight of regret; the Astartes had no established doctrine for fighting these "Rat-startes" and their bio-mechanical horrors.
His adjutant proposed a desperate gambit.
"Let me lead three hundred brothers to draw the Orks into the fray. If the Greenskins join the slaughter, the chaos will give us an opening!"
With no time left, Astoren Korr nodded. He would not retreat. In the Imperium, failure is an unforgivable sin. Soon, three hundred hand-picked elites from the Deathwatch and Salamanders ignited their jump packs, racing toward the rear with high-yield explosives. They knew the Orks were watching, and they were going to give them a "Waaagh!" they couldn't ignore.
…
In the Warp, within the Realm of Ruin...
Lucius looked upon the carnage of Vigilus and shook his head.
"What a mess," Lucius muttered from his throne. As a newly ascended Chaos God, his sympathies leaned toward the Imperium in this instance—he could not allow Abaddon to close the Nachmund Gauntlet. Yet he dared not intervene directly, lest the "Cold Sun" on the Golden Throne come looking for a reckoning.
Suddenly, a powerful surge of empyrean energy lanced through the Warp, heading straight for him. His Verminlords roared, attempting to intercept the psychic bolt, but it bypassed them entirely.
Lucius caught the energy in his palm as easily as one might catch a soap bubble.
"My Lord?" A dozen Deceiver Verminlords manifested like shadows at the base of the Great Horned Rat's throne, their voices a mix of concern and calculation.
"It is nothing," Lucius said, waving them away.
The psychic bolt was an invitation. More specifically, it was a summons from Slaanesh, Nurgle, Khorne, and Tzeentch. The Four Gods were initiating a new round of the Great Game, and they were inviting him to the table.
The resonance of the message wasn't threatening. Nurgle's tone was almost cordial, like a veteran at a wargaming club finally welcoming a newcomer who had finally scraped together enough points to play. It was a formal recognition: the Great Horned Rat was now a player of sufficient stature to join the game.
"The Great Game... interesting." Lucius stood and smiled. "I won't be a hermit like the Old Man on the Throne. No matter how this match goes, I suppose I ought to be social."
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