Though the galaxy had changed, the ancient enmity between the Greenskins and the Skaven endured. The disparity of their weaponry and the novel scale of their theater of war did nothing to alter their use of primitive, time-honored slaughter-tactics.
The Slugga Boyz brought down their choppas, sharpened slabs of industrial iron and steel pipes studded with jagged bolts, onto the heads of the Skaven. One solid blow was enough to spray the brain-matter of a scrawny rodent across the bulkheads.
Yet, simultaneously, the Slave-Rats chattered and shrieked, discharging Warplock Pistols at point-blank range. Daggers and rusted shivs coated in warpstone dust sliced through the Orks' hide, flesh that usually served as organic flak armor, as if it were soft curd.
"Outta da way! Let's get stuck in wiv da burny stuff!"
Seeing the battle stall into a grinding melee, a four-meter-tall Ork Nob grew impatient. He used his massive Power Klaw to shove his own Boyz aside, bellowing orders for the Burna Boyz to move up.
At the sight of the fuel tanks and long-nozzled burners, the Orks scrambled to get out of the way. Amidst the pyromaniacal cackling of the Burnas, torrents of liquid prometheum ignited into roaring tongues of high-temperature flame.
The galaxy's most psychotic arsonists cared nothing for the comrades in their path; in these narrow corridors, there was no room for tactical withdrawal.
"AAAAAUGH—!"
The screams were deafening. Not only were the Orks scorched, but the wiry, fur-clad Skaven were instantly transformed into screaming, charcoal husks.
But just as the Slave-Rats in that corridor began to break in a panic, the "merciful" Skaven Warlords provided a new surprise.
"Quick! Quick! Forward-advance!"
Clad in Warp-Power Armor, a Skaven Warlord gestured frantically, his triangular Storm Shield and Warp-Blade blurring in a hyperactive rhythm.
Behind him came the Stormvermin, marching with a discipline rare among their kind, barking rhythmic war-chants. These elite killers locked their shields into a makeshift firing platform. Weapon Teams, laden with massive ammo-totes and multi-barreled rotary cannons with bell-mouthed muzzles, scrambled onto the shield-wall and opened fire on anything that moved.
"Dakka-dakka-dakka—YEE-AAUGH!!"
Thanks to Skryre ingenuity, these "Ratling Guns" required only a single operator. Their integrated hydraulic exoskeletons allowed them to bear the immense weight of the weapon and its recoil.
Six barrels spat tongues of emerald flame. In the gloom of the corridor, the tracer fire of the warpstone-laced ammunition was blindingly bright.
Thwip-thwip-thwip—
The warp-bullets tore through flesh and metal alike with a sickening, wet sound. First, the luckless Slave-Rats were shredded into clouds of red mist and flying limbs, and then the fire found the Orks.
In such a confined space, the Slugga Boyz had no choice but to charge headlong into the storm, using scrap iron plates as makeshift cover. In past wars against the Imperium, their massive physiques and the sheer weight of a "WAAAGH!" usually allowed them to weather lasgun fire long enough to reach melee range.
This time, it was different. Their "shields" were perforated like paper; even their thick, leathery skin offered no protection against the mutating radiation of the warp-rounds. They were mowed down in droves.
"Cowards! You's gettin' thumped by one shot?! Move it, ya gits!!"
The Ork Nob roared in a fury. Raising the "kustom mega-slugga" on his left arm, he discharged high-caliber rounds while commanding his Shoota Boyz to lay down suppressing fire.
Even behind their Storm Shields, the Stormvermin were battered by the sudden hail of lead. The Skaven fire-line wavered for a split second.
The Nob seized the moment. Pumping his mechanical legs, he led his Nobz bodyguard and a fresh wave of Boyz pouring from the boarding pods.
"Get to stompin', boyz! WAAAAAAGH!!" The Nob thundered forward like a landslide, his heavy footsteps echoing through the deck.
Suddenly, a monstrous, bestial roar answered him. A terrifying, white-furred titan of a rat charged forward with the gait of a silverback gorilla. This was a Mutant Rat Ogre, a four-meter-tall abomination whose paws had been amputated and replaced with Power Flayers and Warp-Claws. Driven by the lash of its Master Moulder, it leaped into the fray.
The special muscle-grafts provided by Clan Moulder's Master Mutators allowed this beast to match the augmented strength of a Meganob.
"ROIGHT! LET'S 'AVE IT!!"
The Nob swung a massive Killsaw directly at the Rat Ogre's hideous head.
With a metallic CLANG, the Rat Ogre caught the blade on its Power Flayer under the direction of its handler. Simultaneously, it lashed out with its Warp-Claw.
The Nob moved to parry with his Power Klaw, but to his horror, the green-glowing talons sliced through the industrial-grade hydraulics and armor-plating of his claw as if through soft wax.
He couldn't comprehend it. His Power Klaw was sturdy enough to crush the ceramite of a Space Marine, and it was further reinforced by the "invincible" protection of the WAAAGH! field.
He did not know that the WAAAGH! field is a psychic phenomenon, and the Warp-Claws are inherently anti-psionic and warp-saturated. At the moment of impact, the claws had simply unraveled the protective field.
The Nob's fury only grew. His Boyz rushed in to protect their leader, but they were met by the Stormvermin. Clad in grey-white power armor, the elite rats raised their shields and plunged into the melee with their Warp-Blades.
The tide turned. These were not the weaklings of the slave-pens; these were the Stormvermin of Clan Rictus. Rictus was famed throughout the Council of Thirteen for its high birth rate of "black-furred" elites, maintaining the largest standing army of Stormvermin in existence.
Upon impact, the power-armored rats actually began to push back the Orks. As their armor hummed, Warp-Stimulants were pumped directly into their veins. The vermin's eyes turned a baleful crimson, purging all sense of pain or fear.
"DIE-DIE!!"
Standing nearly six feet tall, the Stormvermin were only slightly shorter than the Slugga Boyz, but their weaponry was far more lethal. The Orks realized too late that their armor and ruggedness meant nothing before these glowing green blades.
This was the Skaven way: utilize the most unstable, hyper-lethal weaponry so that the enemy dies as fast as they do, then rely on a staggering birth rate to drown the survivor in the blood of the fallen.
With Clan Moulder's "improvements," the fertility of the Breeder Queens had increased a hundredfold. Pumped full of warp-elixirs from birth, these Queens possessed "Daemon-Wombs," producing pups that reached combat maturity in months rather than years.
As the Greenskins and Skaven butchered one another, the Ork fleet outside was suddenly rocked by blinding secondary explosions. The chain reaction spread, consuming ship after ship.
Back on the flagship, a charred and smoking figure rolled across the floor near a teleporter beacon. It was Tretch Craventail. His fur was blackened and singed, and he spat curses as he tumbled.
"Lucky-fortunate... run-flee just in time! They sent me… sent me to the green-things' magazine! Bad luck! Terrible-awful luck!!"
This was exactly why Tretch was the second-in-command of Clan Rictus: his absurd, supernatural level of "luck." Once again, Kratch Doomclaw had assigned Tretch to a "suicide mission" behind enemy lines, hoping to rid himself of the coward.
And once again, Tretch had survived. Through sheer fluke, he had teleported into the Orks' primary munitions deck, accidentally triggered a catastrophic detonation, watched his entire hand-picked squad get vaporized, and managed to teleport back a microsecond before the hull collapsed.
Every time, Kratch Doomclaw was forced to reward Tretch for his "heroism," all while secretly wishing he could throttle the lucky bastard with his own two claws.
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