When the final xenos organism in the trenches was put to the sword, the soldiers of the Astra Militarum could scarcely believe they had survived another day. Yet, more incredulous than the Guardsmen were their commanding officers.
Inside the Imperial Command Sanctum, scarred Commissars, caked in dust and gore, were gathered alongside the aristocratic Planetary Governor of this world.
The corpulent Governor, looking visibly relieved, declared with a jovial air, "The God-Emperor protects! It seems those damnable xenos were no match for the might of the Astra Militarum. Victory is close at hand."
In truth, his mind was already racing with thoughts of returning to his hedonistic exploitation of the planet. He reflected that he had only managed to take the lives of three young servant girls yesterday, surely a sign that the stress of dealing with the xenos had taken its toll on him. What a sacrifice he had made! Once this was over, he resolved that the tithes owed by the common dross during this period would be extracted tenfold.
A veteran Commissar, appearing to be in his fifties, ignored the man entirely. He struck a pict-recorder servo-skull, sending it hovering into the air. A flickering, blue-tinted hololith projected from its left ocular lens.
"No. The Tyranids have diverted their forces to specific regions in the southern hemisphere for reasons unknown!" The Commissar pointed to the blue projection, which showed grainy footage captured by a servitor of the Tyranid Hive Fleet shifting its vectors southward.
The Governor squinted his eyes, which were nearly swallowed by the folds of his fat, and watched the Tyranid swarms with a flicker of dread. "The south? How is that possible? The southern hemisphere was the first to fall. What could possibly be left there to attract the Great Devourer?"
Ignoring the fool, the Commissar turned to the Lord General of the Imperial forces. "Regardless of the cause, we have been granted a reprieve. We must seize this opportunity to retake the Orbital Defense Platforms. We'll blast the Hive Fleet out of the sky and then sanitize the surface!"
"Agreed. Let it be done!" The Lord General stood, unsheathing his power sword to trace a line of march across the tactical map.
"Deploy the Cadian 22nd, 27th, and 11th Infantry Regiments, supported by three Armoured Regiments and a mission of the Adepta Sororitas!"
"Excellent. The Tyranid assault has slackened significantly. Now is the time to strike!"
The room was in consensus, save for the Governor, whose face was pale with terror. He protested the division of forces, fearing there would be no one left to shield him. His objections were swiftly silenced under the silent threat of the Lord General's power sword.
As they formulated their plans, they remained blissfully unaware of the many pairs of eyes watching them from the shadows.
Orders were voxed. Three Astra Militarum infantry regiments, three Leman Russ armoured regiments, and a strike force of five hundred Battle Sisters from the Order of the Argent Shroud began their advance toward the fallen Orbital Defense Platforms.
What they did not know was that the Skaven wanted those arrays for themselves.
In less than half a month, Throt had made decisive progress. Inside artificial wombs, embryos, engineered to Throt's perfect specifications, gestated rapidly within amniotic fluid rich with nutrients.
The Rat Ogres that eventually crawled forth were covered in pitch-black fur, thick enough to deflect las-bolts and most man-portable weaponry. Their claws had been replaced with chitinous bone-blades, spikes, and bone-gauntlets infused with psychic molecular-disruption fields—bio-weapons harvested from the Tyranids.
As for the Hell Pit Abominations, Brood Horrors, and other abominable rat mutants, their lethality and durability had been augmented to unprecedented levels.
Throt's only source of frustration and fury lay in the Tyranid spore-mines and living artillery; because these "cannons" and their "shells" were parasitic organisms independent of the host body, Throt could not breed them directly. He was forced to rely on the technological monstrosities of Clan Skryre.
He compensated by grafting Warp-Lightning Cannons, Poisoned Wind Mortars, and Warpfire Throwers directly onto his mutated beasts, triggered by their own agony—a small consolation for his irritation.
But the insatiable greed of the Skaven immediately turned toward a new prize: the Hive Fleet in orbit.
To this end, Throt sought a sign from the Grey Seers. As a priest of the Horned Rat, and one who kept a particularly close eye on the Council of Thirteen, Lucius soon provided a response.
Seize the orbital defenses, and the Hive Fleet can be brought down!
From his throne in the Under-Altar of Zavka, Lucius mused privately that such pure technology was beyond Clan Moulder's crude expertise. Clan Skryre, however, seemed to possess an innate, unbidden talent for such things.
As if playing a galactic-scale RTS, Lucius shifted his gaze from Moulder toward the most powerful of the Skaven factions: Clan Skryre.
At that moment, on the Forge World known as Randolph III, the fires of Clan Skryre's ambition had already ignited a total war.
Countless Warlock Engineers were scrounging for precious technology like madmen. Many of the planet's STCs had already fallen into the vermin's paws.
"The... the Great Horned Rat has... has issued an omen! Take-steal the things of the hairless-man-things, and... and you shall have what you seek! YES-YES!"
The Grey Seer, having received the word of the Horned Rat, stammered the command to Throt.
Throt nodded his rat-head but did not move immediately. He was waiting.
Before long, a Clan Eshin Assassin manifested at Throt's side as if birthed from the very shadows. He did not dare appear behind the Master Moulder.
"The man-things have moved-marched." The Eshin Assassin spoke with sharp precision, devoid of the typical Skaven stutter. As he spoke, he used a Weeping Blade to scratch the enemy's route and estimated numbers into the dirt.
Twirling his whiskers, Throt leisurely studied the Imperial line of march before finalizing his scheme.
"Assemble all the Brood Horrors. Dig-tunnel a great surprise for the man-things! Yahahahaha!!" He simultaneously commanded his second-in-command to continue pinning down the Tyranids on the front lines.
At Throt's command, thousands of modified Brood Horrors, some long since augmented, others fresh from the breeding vats, began to dig. These monsters, the size of Dreadnoughts, used their razor-sharp claws and incisors to tear through the earth with frantic speed.
The efficiency of these specialized tunneling beasts was peerless. Soon, the already sprawling subterranean warren was extended by countless new tunnels stretching toward the northern equator.
The Tyranids had no use for the Orbital Defense Platforms; they were here for biomass, and as such, the facilities had suffered only superficial damage. With minor repairs, they would be operational.
The Imperial force advanced, with three regiments of Leman Russ tanks leading the way. The remaining Guardsmen and Battle Sisters followed, utilizing perfect combined-arms tactics to shatter the Tyranid counter-attacks.
From the rear, Basilisk self-propelled artillery and Hydra flak tanks thundered, hammering Tyranid positions to provide cover.
The Tyranids did not offer heavy resistance. Battling both the Imperium and the Skaven had severely depleted their biomass. The Hive Fleet's only priority now was to break even, secure enough biomass to flee the system, and retreat.
The Imperial army completed a 400-kilometer forced march, reaching the perimeter of the Orbital Defense Platforms. Strangely, in this region that had supposedly fallen to the Tyranids, not even a single Ripper could be seen.
The Canoness in command, a woman in her thirties clad in black power armor, a bolt pistol in her left hand and a power sword in her right bore a face marked by the scars of a lifetime of war.
She knelt, frowning as she inspected a chaotic mess of xenos footprints and marks that looked like tail-drags. Even her vast experience could not identify if these belonged to a new Tyranid strain or the mysterious force that had drawn the xenos away.
Regardless, the objective remained paramount.
"Secure the perimeter! Take control of the arrays immediately! I want these orbital cannons turning that Hive Fleet into celestial scrap within twenty-four hours!!"
The Imperial forces surged forward, filing into the defense array.
To their surprise, aside from a few Guardsmen and Battle Sisters who went missing under mysterious circumstances, the operation was unnervingly smooth. They encountered no resistance.
In less than six hours, the array was secured. Because the Tyranids had no interest in non-organic matter, the equipment was largely intact. With the aid of servitors, it was quickly brought back online.
Beneath the hollowed-out foundations of the array, the missing Imperial soldiers were already being dealt with.
The captives were bound tight, dragged by the filthy paws of scuttling rats toward their master's presence.
A Skaven clad in soot-grey robes stood waiting. He appeared unusually clean for his kind, though his person was festooned with vials, scalpels, and surgical implements.
"My... my despicable master, I have... have brought the hairless-things. They are... they are so pink and soft. Disgusting, Yes-yes!"
A Clanrat champion bowed and scraped before the figure. This was a Master Moulder, a high-ranking mutator whose status in Clan Moulder rivaled that of a Skryre Warlock Engineer.
Clearly, these unfortunate Imperials were his new test subjects.
As the Master Moulder approached, the Guardsmen shouted curses at the upright rats in their terror, while the Battle Sisters roared with righteous fury. The Skaven leaned in, sniffing them with his twitching snout.
Finally, he tossed his head in disdain. " Yes-yes. Fresh, untainted stock! Begone... claim your reward!"
The Clanrats squealed with joy, kneeling in thanks before scurrying away.
A Battle Sister gritted her teeth, her voice a snarl of defiance. "Xenos! What is it you intend to do?"
"Do not... do not shout so loud. I need-want someone who knows how to work those Skryre-toys to... help me, Yes-yes!" The Master Moulder rubbed his paws together with a treacherous grin.
The Sister realized instantly: the rats wanted to control the orbital guns. "You will find nothing but the Emperor's wrath!"
The Master Moulder paid her no mind. He picked up a scalpel as several Rat Ogres dragged forward a specialized chassis, a monstrosity grafted with a dozen human arms.
"It matters not. As long as your brains... cooperate!" The Master Moulder cackled. "I have already scooped out the original grey-matter. Now, I just stitch yours in... stitch it in, and it will be perfect!"
Realizing the horrific fate that awaited them, the Imperial captives erupted into screams of rage and terror.
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