With Durgar Ironhammer added to Queek's collection, the Skaven fully usurped the Angrund Kindred's hold-world. Crippled by severed logistics and the fall of both orbital defense platforms and subterranean starship hangars, the remaining Angrund Kin were forced to retreat to other celestial bodies within the system.
Though the Angrund Kindred's influence was confined to this star system, the League of Votann's mastery of stellar engineering had transformed its planets into a chain of fortified colonies. Including the Angrund Hold, there were eight habitable spheres in total. Consequently, following the naming conventions of the League, the system was known as Eight Peaks.
However, the Urani-Surtr Regulate was a demographically sparse League; even their Ancestor Votann—the localized "Thinkers"—were ancient and failing, leaving them with the smallest population of any major League. Thus, within these minor colonies, the Angrund Kindred possessed only limited technological archives.
Belegar, having ascended to the position of Kahl, swore a solemn oath to avenge Durgar and scour the upright vermin from existence. Yet, as the Angrund Kindred petitioned the Regulate for military aid, both the Orks and Hive Fleet Tiamet launched simultaneous offensives. The League of Votann, spread thin across multiple war zones, could spare no reinforcements for the Angrund. Belegar was consumed by a cold, righteous fury.
While the Kin seethed, the Skaven of Clan Mors seized this critical window of opportunity. The far-sighted Gnawdwell had already identified the path to securing a permanent seat of power on the Council of Thirteen: the biological augmentation procedure that Queek called the "Ultra Stormvermin" project.
"No, no! I will not betray-sell out Moulder, my treacherous employer!"
Tevat Rust-Claw, the Master Mutator of Clan Moulder who had led the reverse-engineering of the Astartes ascension rites, waved his hands frantically. Rust-Claw was a grotesquely obese ratman, a result of his own genetic experiments, possessing six lidless eyes.
Despite his protestations of loyalty to Moulder, Gnawdwell noted the greed dancing in the Mutator's shifty eyes. "You know well that I do not stint on rewards for rats of merit," Gnawdwell said smoothly. "If you wish, I can make you second only to myself, and I guarantee that should you return to Clan Moulder, your research will be stolen and your life forfeit."
For a Skaven, betrayal is as natural as breathing, yet few technical specialists dared defect from the Great Clans, for the power of Skryre and Moulder was absolute. Neither the Grey Seers nor Clan Eshin would deign to harbor a defector, and minor clans lacked the strength to protect them. Tevat found himself in a state of agonizing indecision.
Finally, he squeaked, "I... I will serve-work for you, treacherous master. But do not make me openly-publicly betray Moulder. How about that? How about that?"
Gnawdwell did not press further; he nodded with satisfaction, accepting the terms.
"Father, why? Why agree-consent?" Queek asked irritably, looking up at Gnawdwell, who was now half a head shorter than his augmented foster son.
"Queek, Mors is only beginning its ascent. Until we have fully devoured the tech-secrets of the stunty-things, we cannot openly challenge the authority of the Great Clans," Gnawdwell explained, his hands clasped behind his back.
Queek ground his teeth in frustration, but recalling how the mad surgeons had transformed him into a superior predator, he was forced to acknowledge his father's long-term vision.
Using similar machinations, Gnawdwell persuaded the Warlock Engineers. Without requiring an open breach with their parent clans, Gnawdwell used his political acumen to effectively monopolize the patent on the "Rat-startes" procedures. He believed that with a loyal corps of elite Stormvermin, Clan Mors would one day achieve the absolute status of a Great Clan.
More importantly, he harbored a secret ambition: to one day ascend to daemonhood within the Great Horned Rat's foul and sacred realm.
…
Within the Warp, Lucius watched these petty Skaven intrigues with a sense of approval. He admired Gnawdwell's rare combination of martial prowess and strategic foresight.
He felt no urgency to elevate the Warlord to daemonhood yet. Clan Mors needed a leader to guide it; Queek was a peerless champion of Eight Peaks, but he was no statesman. Lucius remained indifferent to the monopoly over the Rat-startes procedure. In Skaven society, if you have the strength, you steal and plunder. That was the rule and the primary motive for their "Great Crusade."
Suddenly, Be'lakor, the Dark Master, the First-Damned, approached Lucius like a fawning shadow.
"Oh, my dear collaborator, nascent god... I bring an exquisite gift, one that will see your Great Crusade and your race flourish," Be'lakor's voice dripped with honeyed temptation.
Lucius sat upon his Throne of Ruin, his skeletal sockets glowing with baleful warpstone light as he stared at the shadow. "Be'lakor, I trust nothing you say. The Great Horned Rat has no friends. But I will permit you to speak your schemes."
Be'lakor felt an unsettling sense that this new deity understood his nature too well, but he pressed on with his plan: Driving the tiger to swallow the wolf.
Many entities in the Warp hungered for divinity. In the material universe, the most active was the master of the Soul Forge, Vashtorr the Arkifane. Motivated by the classic spite of fearing his "brothers" might surpass him, Be'lakor sought to pit the Skaven against the Arkifane. By stoking a war over Vashtorr's search for the Old Ones' artifacts, Be'lakor hoped to feast on the scraps of the loser.
"Heh... I can but offer counsel, not sway the will of a Chaos God. But you will be interested." Be'lakor gestured toward the chaotic, ramshackle laboratories and "Vermin Herder" daemons dwelling within this ruined domain. He knew the Great Horned Rat held dominion over dark technology; no Chaos God would refuse the chance to devour another's portfolio.
Be'lakor whispered the name: "The Arks of Omen. The fool Vashtorr seeks the keys of the Old Ones. Whether or not that interests you, your race certainly requires the Arks themselves."
Within the Great Horned Rat's domain, Be'lakor had seen the Skaven spreading through the stars in fleets of literal garbage. Many craft collapsed before reaching their destination; others were easily swatted aside by the Imperial Navy. This clearly displeased Lucius. Despite nesting on Zavka for a century, that mining world lacked the shipyards necessary for true void-warfare. The Arks of Omen were a powerful lure.
Lucius saw through the ruse instantly. Be'lakor wanted to incite a war between him and the Arkifane, but would the Skaven flinch?
Never. A Skaven acts without regard for consequence; if they want it, they steal it. Furthermore, Lucius was genuinely curious about the artifacts Abaddon and Vashtorr were hunting.
"Hehe... Be'lakor, your bait is quite transparent. But I find I like the taste." Lucius chuckled coldly. He then dispatched a divine mandate to Clan Skryre, the clan whose inherent nature was most perfectly aligned with the grimdarkness of the 41st Millennium.
——————
If you want to read ahead of everyone, go to my pat-reon: pat-re-on.c-om/magnor (remove the hyphen to access normally)
For more free additional chapters, throw some power stones!
100 PS = 1 Chapter.