Though filled with loathing, Abaddon's Justaerin elite carried out the Warmaster's command with cold efficiency. They retrieved the wretched Clan Skryre diplomat, a creature left behind as literal cannon fodder to distract the Black Legion and Vashtorr.
The Terminators' massive power claws were nearly the size of the rat-creature's entire torso. The lead Captain hurled the Skaven onto the deck with a thunderous clang.
"Watch your tongue, craven xenos," the Captain growled, his voice a mechanical rasp through his vox-grille. "Lest I grant you a conclusion far more agonizing than you can imagine."
"YES-YES! Of course, of course! Skaven-kin are most polite, most courteous-civil!"
The creature writhed like a common gutter-rat caught in the talons of a hawk, its voice a high-pitched, stammering squeal. The surrounding Chaos Space Marines felt a collective urge to simply crush the pathetic thing beneath their sabatons.
Clang—
The reinforced blast doors of the Vengeful Spirit's strategist-sanctum ground open like the maw of a great iron beast. The Justaerin knelt before Abaddon in a display of practiced martial fealty, tossing the Skaven to the floor.
"By your command, Warmaster. We have brought the specimen you required."
The Skaven's beady eyes darted frantically across the room. Recognizing the aura of supreme authority radiating from Abaddon, it immediately threw itself into a groveling prostration, devoid of any shred of dignity or honor.
It was to be expected. The Skaven were creatures of inherent duplicity and cowardice, doubly so for a piece of expendable refuse abandoned by its own kin.
"Enough, xenos!"
Abaddon's roar silenced the creature's sniveling pleas and sycophantic drivel.
"I wish to know the designs of your god," Abaddon said, his tone moderating slightly, though still heavy with menace. "Rest assured, we need not be enemies."
Yet, at the mention of its deity, the Skaven began to shake with a violent, rhythmic palsy.
The Great Horned Rat. To all Skaven, the name was an absolute, immovable terror. The Horned One dominated their very souls; even the Lords of the Council of Thirteen felt only a desperate craving for His erratic blessings and a paralyzing dread of His punishments.
"No, no-no! Great Horned Rat... Mighty Horned One! Terrible, Dreaded One!"
The Skaven stammered and shrieked until a flick from a Terminator's finger sent it tumbling across the deck, finally shocking it into silence.
"I will treat with your deity, xenos! You will not be afforded a second opportunity!" Abaddon declared.
Despite his visceral disgust for the alien, Abaddon was no fool; he would never dare show overt disrespect to a nascent power of the Warp.
Under the immediate threat of execution, the Skaven, clad in ornate but tattered robes, finally agreed to prepare a ritual site. He set about arranging an altar of rotted timber, anointed with foul-smelling corpse-oils and candles of rancid tallow.
The gathered Chaos Space Marines watched with unconcealed disdain.
"Xenos filth," one Justaerin muttered, careful to maintain his posture. "Even the Corpse-Emperor's hypocritical cathedrals are more pleasing to the eye than this. Not that the False Emperor deserves anything but death, of course."
Suddenly, the mundane flickering of the candles shifted. The pale flames transformed into a sickly, baleful shade of empyreal green. This "Warp-light" provided no illumination; instead, it cast a colossal, distorted shadow against the bulkhead.
The shadow began to take form, growing elongated limbs and sprouting a crown of twisted, jagged horns.
At the sight of this manifestation, the Skaven diplomat began kowtowing so violently his head struck the deck like a drum, his bladder failing him in an explosion of terror.
Abaddon and his guard felt no such primitive fear, but they were struck by a crushing, physical weight of pressure.
"Such horrific psychic potency!" a Chaos Sorcerer hissed, his teeth bared as he attempted to weave a defensive kine-shield against the suffocating miasma.
But as a single wisp of the shadow drifted past, the Sorcerer, a man who could crush a Dreadnought with a thought or incinerate a squad of Terminators with a gesture, suddenly doubled over. He clutched his midsection, dry-heaving violently.
"Squeak! Squeak-squeak!"
The Sorcerer did not vomit blood or bile. Instead, a tide of black-furred rats poured from his mouth. The vermin scrambled over his armor, their red eyes fixed on him as they began to feast upon his living flesh with needle-like teeth. Within moments, the Sorcerer's internal organs had been transfigured into a swarming mass of rats, and he became nothing more than fodder for his own corruption.
The horrific spectacle silenced the remaining Space Marines, their previous arrogance extinguished by a cold, Warp-born dread.
"You seek my presence... mortal?"
A voice like the grinding of tectonic plates and the chattering of a billion teeth echoed through the hull of the Vengeful Spirit.
"Ugh... ah..." Even the elite of the Black Legion found themselves forced to one knee, gasping for breath under the sheer metaphysical weight of the entity.
Abaddon alone remained standing, though his frame was taut with the effort. He was the Despoiler, and he would not break.
"I have come to negotiate, God of the Vermin!" Abaddon called out.
"How curious. A Manling seeks to bargain with ME." The voice of the Great Horned Rat, or rather, Lucius speaking through the divine conduit, echoed with amusement. To Lucius, once a mere fan of the setting, there was a profound satisfaction in seeing the legendary Abaddon speak with such cautious trepidation while his "mighty" Astartes knelt in the dirt.
He was willing to entertain this distraction even as he fought the war of the gods. In the Forge of Souls, Be'lakor's ambition had led his Disciples into a brutal meat-grinder against Vashtorr's Dark Mechanicum. The Skaven, true to their nature, were busy fading into the shadows to preserve their strength.
Abaddon continued, sensing the entity's power. This being was perhaps not yet the equal of the Ruinous Four, but it was far beyond any minor warp-entity he had encountered, and certainly more formidable than the "upstart" Vashtorr.
"Work with me, Chaos God," Abaddon shouted. "Together we shall claim the power to fulfill my destiny, and the Black Legion shall repay the debt in kind!"
"Oh... you must desire that little bauble I plucked from the Arkifane? How precious. That it should be so 'valuable'—yet it is nothing compared to the amusement it provides me."
"Yes! Give it to me, or let us seize its full potential together!" Abaddon urged. "We can cast down the False Emperor. Surely you do not wish for that Golden Light to become your new rival!"
At the mention of the Emperor, Lucius recalled the cold, psychic sun he had glimpsed in the Immaterium. It was a power that rivaled the Four, but one that remained mindless and stationary, anchored to the Golden Throne, burning everything that drew near without conscious intent.
Lucius had no desire to challenge the Emperor yet, but an alliance with Abaddon cost him nothing.
"You have a silver tongue, mortal. Very well... I shall grant you this opportunity. But remember: my memory is long, and our tails are longer still..."
The Shadow of the Horned Rat dissipated, and the crushing pressure vanished instantly.
Abaddon took a steadying breath, his mind racing as he processed the sheer scale of this new deity's power.
"Prepare for deployment," the Despoiler commanded his stunned warriors. "The Black Legion only sides with the victor."
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