Warp Drills quickly bored a network of twisted tunnels through the earth, and soon after, the forces of Clan Skryre swarmed forth!
The interior of The Rock was a labyrinth of winding corridors designed to disorient any intruder, yet this was the very type of battlefield where the Skaven felt most at home.
As a high-pitched, mechanical whirring, resembling heavy construction, echoed through the halls, the defenders had no time to react before glowing green, high-speed drill bits burst through the deck plating. From within the excavations came the skittering footsteps and chattering, wheezing laughter of rat-men.
"Enemies! Form defensive patterns!" The Caliban Jaegers and several squads of Dark Angels remaining on guard reacted instantly. They could sense the potent, sickening stench of Chaos radiating from those green-tipped drills.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The Dark Angels opened fire with their bolt pistols. Immediately, the familiar sound of rupturing flesh and sharp, abruptly silenced shrieks echoed from the tunnels.
Just as the Dark Angels raised their chainswords, preparing to meet the charge alongside the mortal Auxilia, a hail of green and purple glass spheres was hurled from the dark openings. The Space Marines shot them out of the air, but the vials shattered into clouds of luminous miasma. In an instant, the breath of death saturated the narrow corridor.
"Aaargh—My Lord, I... gurgle... AAUGH!!"
Within seconds, the flak-armored mortal auxiliaries began to fester. Their clothes and skin rotted simultaneously; in mere moments, they were reduced to nothing more than heaps of acidic, liquefied gore.
"Gas!" the Dark Angel Sergeant barked, ordering his squad to activate their internal respirators. The advanced filtration systems of their power armor managed to hold back the Warp-tainted fumes, but the toxic mist still began to hiss against the ceramite, corroding systems not specifically hardened against such sorcerous rot.
The Astartes expected heavy infantry to emerge from the cramped tunnels to exploit the chaos. Instead, they heard the grinding of metal and the roar of engines.
Whirrr—clack-clack-clack!
"Ee-hehehehehe!!" Accompanied by the screech of metal on stone came the sound of blades flaying the floor. The Dark Angels beheld metal wheels, barely the height of a man, bristling with extending and retracting blades. Their rat-tailed pilots screeched with glee as they accelerated down the hall.
The corridor was too narrow to dodge. The heavy Dark Angels slammed their Storm Shields into the floor like a fortress wall and fired! Astartes marksmanship was peerless; they cut down the Skaven pilots of the Doom-Flayers, but the death-dealing wheels did not stop. Their momentum carried them forward.
In the blink of an eye, the Doom-Flayers slammed into the Storm Shields. For a Space Marine, the impact was manageable, but then came the follow-up. Oversized green projectiles, Warp-musket rounds, tore through their black power armor with terrifying ease. At the tunnel corners, Skaven Jezzail teams had deployed. Because these specialized long-rifles no longer required two-man teams to operate, their mobility was drastically increased.
Feeling the agony of their wounds and the crushing weight of failing power armor, several Dark Angels braced themselves with their chainswords, refusing to fall. They were the last line of defense within this sector of The Rock.
"For... the Emperor! For the Lion!"
The Space Marines detonated their melta-charges in a final act of defiance. A massive fireball engulfed the corridor, incinerating the nearby Skaven.
Ikit Claw cared little for the loss. To him, they were merely expendable fodder. The Chief Warlock Engineer of Clan Skryre had already slipped into the secret vault housing the Key-Fragment.
Engaging the enemy head-on was a desperate measure for any Skaven, and for Ikit, it was a waste of resources. His mechanical arm hissed as it spat Warpfire, melting the gothic reinforcements of the chamber. Finally, using a Grey Seer's psionic signal receiver, he located the "Fragment"—a human relic-blade known as Tuchulcha.
Though Ikit did not understand why a sword would be a "Key-Fragment," he could feel the unnatural power radiating from the object.
"Retreat! Fall back-away!"
Having achieved his goal, Ikit had no desire to linger. A Warp-Nuke was hastily hauled into the chamber by a dozen frantic Skaven. Ikit gave the massive device a personal adjustment, initiating the countdown. Like a receding tide, the Skaven vanished back through the Warp-portals.
At the exact moment Ikit's claws grasped the prize, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, the topknot of Abaddon the Despoiler twitched. He froze.
A blurred psychic prophecy flooded his mind, much like the visions he had received when Vashtorr the Arkifane first offered his aid. In the vision, Abaddon saw the Warp, dark and roiling. Upon Vashtorr's body of fused metal and molten slag, countless rats swarmed. These vermin, their eyes glowing with a baleful green light, began to devour the Arkifane's mechanical form. Looming over the scene was a rat-skull the size of the horizon, engraved with a triangular rune, watching the feast with a horrifying, chattering laugh.
"This sensation… no, how can this be?"
Abaddon opened his eyes, a cold, eerie dread settling in his gut. The prophecy was blunt and terrifyingly clear, yet he could not fathom what the triangular-headed rat represented. Nor could he understand how Vashtorr, the Master of the Soul Forges and a Demi-god of Chaos, could be devoured so easily.
Sitting within the Divine Domain of the Great Horned Rat, Lucius curled his fingers and smirked.
He had sent that prophecy to Abaddon himself. It was a classic tactic of the Dark Gods to corrupt mortals, much like Khorne spending a century whispering "I am Rogal Dorn" into a soul's ear.
"I am truly curious, Abaddon. Facing my prophecy and the coming rat-men, will you continue to aid Vashtorr, or will you believe your eyes?"
Lucius felt a surge of predatory joy. There was a unique pleasure in manipulating the "mighty" of the mortal realm like pawns. A simple nudge was all it took to make these "brilliant" strategists lose sleep and second-guess their destinies.
Elsewhere, Vashtorr the Arkifane froze as the psychic signature of the Tuchulcha vanished from The Rock. Supreme Grand Master Azrael seized the opening, delivering a devastating blow to the Chaos Demi-god.
"Nngh—!" Vashtorr reeled, a deep rent torn into his form by Azrael's blade. Rather than retaliating, the Arkifane cast a hateful glare toward the depths of The Rock. He waved a hand, forcibly subverting the systems of several Deathwing Terminators and turning their weapons against Azrael to cover his retreat. Then, he vanished.
With their master gone, the forces of the Dark Mechanicum and the Daemon Engines began to withdraw. Azrael stood amidst the carnage, bewildered. He did not believe for a second that a single strike from his sword had routed the King of the Soul Forges.
Back on the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon watched Vashtorr return. Ignoring the Arkifane's rapidly knitting wounds, the Master of the Black Legion asked coldly, "Why the retreat?"
"The signal for the Key... it vanished. No! It was stolen!" Vashtorr hissed, his mechanical claw tightening on his staff until the metal groaned and cracked.
At that moment, a Black Legionnaire entered and knelt before the Warmaster. "My Lord, a wretched xenos demands an audience. Shall we crush it?"
Abaddon's expression remained stony, but his hearts hammered against his ribs. "What manner of xenos?"
The Legionnaire's lip curled in disgust. "A rat, Warmaster. An upright, bipedal rat."
The image of the rats devouring Vashtorr flashed through Abaddon's mind again. Without missing a beat, he commanded, "No. Bring it in."
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