The servitors had completed the automated repairs on the Orbital Defense Platforms. The massive structures, resembling orbital rails, stretched toward the heavens through rings of arcing electricity. Ammunition was ferried by Leman Russ tanks and manually loaded by the Guardsmen.
Typical Imperial technology. Archaic and cumbersome, yet undeniably powerful.
The Canoness and the Commissar watched tensely as the electromagnetic coils began to hum, fearing some last-minute sabotage.
But the systems held. Dozens of orbital cannons unleashed a synchronized volley into the firmament, their targeting systems locked onto the Hive Fleet looming in the void.
In the 41st Millennium, void warfare often resembled the naval engagements of the Age of Sail, with planetary orbital defenses serving as coastal batteries.
Because ground-based cannons were larger and more stable than ship-mounted equivalents, even the most powerful Hive Ship could be torn asunder if it failed to neutralize the orbital batteries. This was the strategic logic behind drop pods and teleporter strikes, the necessity of getting elite troops like the Astartes onto the ground to silence the guns.
After several minutes of travel, a dozen flashes brighter than suns ignited behind the clouded sky. The thick atmospheric shroud was momentarily blown back.
On the southern hemisphere, the Tyranid swarms battling the Skaven suddenly spasmed. The previously ordered, hive-minded swarm collapsed into a chaotic frenzy.
The higher-tier Tyranid organisms reverted to animalistic instinct, which ironically increased the immediate pressure on the Skaven front lines.
The Hive Tyrant, once the tactical lynchpin of the assault, fell into a feral rage. It, along with its Tyrant Guard, living tanks of muscle and bone, charged into the Skaven ranks with deafening roars.
As one of the most formidable Tyranid bio-forms, the Hive Tyrant swung its four bone-swords, each wreathed in a lethal psychic field. Nothing survived a single strike from those blades.
With the synapse network of the Hive Mind severed, the Tyranid capillary towers began spawning units at random. Among them emerged several massive Bio-Titans: the Hierophants.
Five of these Titan-class organisms had drained the remaining biomass from the local pools, but in exchange, they possessed the power to level cities.
Each Hierophant stood over fifteen meters tall, its multiple limbs protected by a carapace as thick as ceramite. Even the three-meter-tall Rat Ogres were torn apart like mere whelps.
"Big-big things! YES-YES, catch them!"
On the front lines, the Packmasters watched the giants with predatory excitement. Capturing such a powerful beast was the fastest route to promotion within the clan.
To that end, the Packmasters drove their mutated beasts and thousands of expendable vermin into the meat grinder, hoping to create an opening for capture.
Back at Throt's position, a mountain of muscle standing six meters high, a grotesque, rat-furred horror that moved like a gorilla on all fours, emerged. Several pairs of human arms protruded from its torso. It let out a howl that was a mixture of agony and fury.
Fused into the filthy, powerful muscle around the creature's neck were the heads of several Guardsmen and a Battle Sister. They were merged into the flesh, moaning incoherently as their nervous systems were hijacked.
The Master Moulder who had created this twisted Abomination bowed to Throt. "Yes-yes, my despicable master. It is... it is perfect. The man-things will tell-show us!"
Throt nodded. "Good. I leave it to you! The man-things... leave none alive! This world shall become... Moulder's own Hell Pit!"
In the eyes of this Master Moulder, the Hierophants were already his property. It mattered not that the Bio-Titans were currently reaping a bloody harvest; all that remained was to slaughter the humans who dared stay on "his" land.
Indeed, though they had not yet truly conquered the planet, the Skaven already considered it their own.
With the Tyranid fleet shattered, only fragments of charred carapace rained down from the sky. The Imperial forces had no time to regroup; they immediately contacted their remaining elements to investigate the southern hemisphere.
"Hello? Respond!"
Despite multiple attempts, the headquarters received no vox-signal. The troops at the Orbital Defense Platforms, who should have been standing by for further orders, were silent. It was an ill omen.
Sitting atop his Leman Russ, the Lord General commanded, "Stay alert. The Tyranids are broken. Now we go to destroy whatever drew them south. Whatever it is, the Emperor is with us!"
"Yes, sir!"
Clutching a captured Imperial vox-unit in his paw, the Eshin Assassin let out a cold hiss. With a flick of his tail, he signaled a dozen Death Runners to relay the intelligence back.
"The Great Horned Rat walks among us."
The Assassin crushed the vox-unit and vanished, leaping across girders and stones with supernatural agility. Behind him, the defense platform was a graveyard.
The corpses had been picked clean. The spoils had been looted. The only trace of the Canoness was a fresh scar across the Eshin Assassin's brow.
The hundreds of thousands of remaining Guardsmen easily swept aside the feral Tyranid remnants and marched south in a grand procession.
But as they crossed a vast, rocky wasteland, the ground began to crack violently. A massive earthquake tore through the earth.
Leman Russ tanks tumbled into the yawning fissures. The Imperial ranks were shattered. Commissars and Battle Sisters fought to maintain discipline, struggling to reform their lines through sheer force of will.
Then, a chattering sound began. It grew louder and louder, eventually drowning out the screams of the dying and the grinding of the earth.
"YES-YES! Hairless man-things, you are... you are dead! Ahahahahaha!!"
Riding atop the twisted Abomination was the Master Moulder, cackling with glee from a safe distance, a perfect display of Skaven cowardice and arrogance.
The Lord General finally laid eyes on the xenos: upright, verminous rats. A righteous fury took hold of him. He did not know when these creatures had arrived, but it mattered not.
He raised his power sword and hellgun, bellowing the order: "For the Emperor! Slay every one of these foul xenos!"
The Sisters of Battle and the organized remnants of the Guard opened fire with bolters and lasguns, charging the Skaven tide.
"For the Golden Throne!" The Battle Sisters, clad in silver power armor, moved like a whirlwind. Their power swords carved through the vermin, turning every Skaven they touched into red mist.
Under the Sisters' lead, the Imperial forces initially tore through the first wave of scrawny Clanrats. But then, the Rat Ogres arrived.
Six-meter-tall mutated Rat Ogres with Warp-claws leaped into the fray, their sheer mass and strength easily rending the armor of Leman Russ tanks.
This raw, monstrous power began to overwhelm the shaken Imperial forces as Skaven swarmed in from every direction.
The Master Moulder let out a wheezing laugh. "The tide... the tide has turned. This place... belongs to us!"
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