"Eyaaaah—!" The Vermin Herders let out manic shrieks of laughter, their hands clutching bizarre metallic contraptions encrusted with throbbing Warpstone cores.
Evil energy coalesced within green Warpstone muzzles before erupting in horrific, emerald ballistic streaks!
The slender legs of the Skryre Vermin Herder daemons were not merely for show; they sprinted with the same frantic agility as their verminous kin in the mortal realm. Cackling wildly, they unleashed arcs of Warp-lightning from their halberds, scouring everything in their path as they swarmed forward in a tide of fur and fury.
"Fire! In Vashtorr's name!"
A daemon—half-flesh, half-machine—had fused its lower torso into a massive artillery battery, its own malevolent will serving as the targeting array. Each thunderous discharge of this daemonic cannon obliterated dozens, even hundreds, of Rat Ogres, yet their numbers never seemed to dwindle.
Every breach cleared by heavy ordnance was refilled within half a second, the swarm surging onward like a literal plague of locusts.
Finally, through the Skavens' utter disregard for casualties and after countless Rat Ogres had been banished back to the Great Horned Rat's divine domain, they reached the inner curtain walls of the Forge of Souls.
Beyond lay the core of the Forge, a hellish landscape resembling tens of thousands of active volcanoes merged with a shifting, mechanical industrial complex. It was the heart of the realm, and the site of its most devastating defensive batteries.
"Bring the fire-makers! Melt them—YES, melt-burn them!"
Rat Ogres clad in jury-rigged power armor and gas masks carried fuel tanks the size of their own massive bodies. They had grafted chaotic tangles of green-fuel lines and massive, bell-shaped nozzles directly into their limbs. Upon closer inspection, their original arms had been severed, replaced by skeletal metallic frames. These creatures were far more insane than the Warpfire Thrower teams of the mortal world; they were the literal manifestations of those mortal pyromaniacs' obsessive pyre-lust.
As they pulled their triggers, torrents of green flame billowed forth!
This magical, armor-piercing fire burned with such unnatural intensity that the moment it touched the strange iron walls, the metal began to hiss and liquefy into bizarre, molten slag.
The mechanical daemons manning the battlements felt a surge of confusion and dread. They had never encountered such weaponry—the raw, concentrated power of Chaos emanating from it was even more potent than their own!
…
Be'lakor dissolved into a shroud of black smoke, drifting into the Forge of Souls. The shadows then churned, expanding into stable rifts through which emerged the twisted, horrific silhouettes of Arks of Omen fleets!
These were not Abaddon's men, but Chaos Space Marines who had pledged their souls to the First Prince: the Disciples of Be'lakor.
To these traitors among traitors, butchering their former allies was of no consequence. Looking down from the skies at the emerald and magma-colored explosions erupting between the mechanical daemons and the Rat-startes, the Chaos Space Marines let out frenzied roars of bloodlust.
"Fire! Advance!"
Chaos Chosen and Warband leaders screamed orders, exhilarated by the prospect of entering this Warp-spawned armory. They were ready to plunder everything in sight.
"Go forth, my sycophants—seize glory for Be'lakor!!"
Be'lakor spread his wings against the void, his laughter echoing as countless Dreadclaw Drop Pods rained down from the Arks of Omen into the Forge of Souls!
Kicking open the pod doors, Chaos Space Marines and Helbrutes poured out, raising bolters and corrupted blades to begin the slaughter.
"This belongs to Father Be'lakor! This belongs to the Dark Master!"
A Chaos Space Marine, formerly of the Iron Warriors, roared as he and his squad raised chainaxes and bolters, carving a bloody path through the mechanical defenders.
"Hehehe, well done. All shall be mine," Be'lakor declared. The Forge of Souls was the ultimate armory of the Warp. If he could seize this territory, or even usurp the worship intended for Vashtorr, Be'lakor's legion would instantly rival, or even surpass, the forces of the Despoiler.
"With this prize in hand, I can negotiate with the Horned Rat from a position of power."
…
Lucius saw Be'lakor's little maneuvers clearly.
However, he did not move to stop him. Partly out of sheer contempt for the Prince of Shadows, and partly because he knew the Chaos Gods were watching, waiting for him to falter. If he were forced to personally deal with a clown like Be'lakor, his standing in the Warp would undoubtedly suffer.
As his own power within the Immaterium swelled, and with the knowledge Be'lakor had shared, Lucius was beginning to master the brutal logic of Warp-existence.
"But Be'lakor... even if I don't act, someone else will," Lucius chuckled.
Through the eyes of his mortal vermin, he saw that Vashtorr the Arkifane had realized his Forge of Souls was under siege. The cunning daemonic demigod had just suffered a blow comparable to the loss of the Dissonance Engine!
Immediately, Vashtorr contacted his ally, Abaddon the Despoiler, demanding that the Black Legion join him in repelling the Dark Angels and the Skaven so that he could return to the Warp to restore order!
Abaddon did not answer immediately. At that very moment, in the Idolatros System, his "Uncle" was present.
Abaddon's famous claim, that the Age of Primarchs was over, was mostly posturing. The Warmaster squinted, wondering if Vashtorr had finally lost his mind. You really want me to go toe-to-toe with my Uncle? Did you not see our Uncle of the Butcher's Nails get beaten back into the Warp by him?
"It seems this partner is becoming unreliable, perhaps it's time for a new ally."
Abaddon had survived ten millennia by adhering to one principle: never interfere in the civil wars of the Great Powers of the Warp. He knew exactly what he was—a mortal man playing a god's game.
Since the "Key" to his empire-destroying artifact had been seized by another Warp deity, the only logical step was to use his status to strike a deal with the new power and continue his plans.
Whether he worked with Vashtorr or this Great Horned Rat mattered little to Abaddon, so long as they provided the weapons he required.
"You. Go and bring the representatives of these rat-xenos to me."
The Black Legion Terminator guard who was summoned nodded curtly, his voice thick with malice. "Understood, Warmaster. I shall make these xenos pay dearly for their insolence!"
"Wait. Who told you to do that?" Abaddon frowned, his top-knot swaying as he shook his head. "Vashtorr is a spent force. The Black Legion is changing partners."