In an unnervingly short span of time, Clan Moulder utilized their mastery of profane bio-engineering to hollow out Ironward III. What was once a strategic depot and resource transit moon for the Imperium was utterly reshaped into a verminous sub-orbital Warren.
Predictably, the Skaven's occupation was marked by a sudden internal purge. Infighting over the spoils of war led to the execution of several Warlords; apprentice Master Mutators, seeing weakness or lack of vigilance in their tutors, slit throats and assumed command. From this charping, murderous chaos, a semblance of Skaven order was restored.
"Master... Master-Throt! We cannot-must not let the metal-things ruin-destroy the precious gene-sequences! The man-things... they provide much-much material for Skaven-kind!"
A newly ascended Master Mutator, who had crudely stitched his former mentor's severed head onto his own back to siphon his residual knowledge, spoke with frantic urgency to Throt the Unclean.
His grease-slicked whiskers twitched as he pleaded for a full-scale offensive against both the humans and the Necrons. His motive was transparent: as a warlord who had backstabbed his way to power, he needed to secure a string of victories and distribute enough plunder to appease his underlings. If he failed to provide, his own head would soon be the one stitched to a subordinate's spine.
Throt chewed on the dilemma. As the Chief Master Mutator, he craved the biological bounty of the Five Hundred Worlds, but he was loath to suffer excessive attrition.
The Necrons, he noted, were not easy prey.
After a moment of deliberation, Throt's bloated, rat-like visage split into a lecherous, high-pitched chortle. "Yes-yes! I know, I see, you little-things... you want glory-meat! The Council will reward you, and Moulder shall reward you more!"
Throt rubbed his three paws together, his black eyes gleaming. "Good, good, good... I agree-consent! Every drop of blood belongs to Moulder! I shall watch from the rear. Go! I will give you many... of my finest creations!"
"Ah—gratitude, my most despicable lord!" the Master Mutator Warlord chirped. He knew he was being used as expendable fodder, but his paranoiac, obsessed brain was ready to gamble.
Such was the nature of the Skaven: beyond their cowardice, treachery, and lack of empathy lay a pathological addiction to the long shot. If the stakes were high enough, a Skaven would ignore a near-certainty of death to chase a sliver of victory.
…
Months bled by. Under the relentless advance of Ammentar's Destroyer host, even the disciplined synergy between the Ultramar Auxilia and the Ultramarines' 11th Company proved insufficient.
The Imperial lines were compressed with terrifying speed. Only the fanatical resistance of a thousand Battle Sisters from the Order of the Bloody Rose prevented a total collapse; their fervent prayers and martyred zeal seemed to inexplicably disrupt the Ophydian Destroyers' ability to tunnel through sub-dimensional space.
Despite this spiritual shield, the Imperium paid a staggering price. Hundreds of thousands of corpses and countless shattered bastions were abandoned as the survivors retreated to the capital city of Vespator.
There, bolstered by the litanies of Battle Sisters and Priests invoking the Emperor's light, and supported by fortifications maintained by the Ultramarines for ten millennia, the Destroyer Lord's advance finally ground to a halt.
From the city's battlements, a cacophony of heavy ordnance roared. The capital was encased within a gargantuan aegis of interlocking energy fields and void shields, providing a sanctuary of flickering blue light. Under this protection, the feared long-range Gauss salvos of the Necrons were neutralized.
Ammentar countered immediately. He commanded his Skorpekh Destroyers to advance under the cover of vast swarms of Canoptek Scarabs. These mechanical insects threw themselves into the path of the city's incoming shells, sacrificing their metallic bodies to shield their masters.
As dedicated melee units, the Skorpekh Destroyers moved with deliberate, haunting slowness through the void shields to reach the city's structural weak points.
Seeing the breach, the Ultramarines of the 11th Company and the Sisters of the Bloody Rose met them head-on with bolters roaring and chainswords screaming.
"FOR THE EMPEROR! SISTERS, KILL!!"
"FOR THE FIVE HUNDRED WORLDS! FOR ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN!"
The red-armored Battle Sisters and blue-clad Astartes collided with the mechanical giants. Even at point-blank range, bolter shells and melta-blasts struggled to down the Destroyers, creatures who had long since purged their souls to become pure engines of slaughter.
The Skorpekhs' hyperphase threshers moved with a fluid, terrifying elegance that defied their massive frames. Their metallic physiology allowed for contortions impossible for the living. When surrounded by a circle of Astartes and Sisters, a Destroyer would simply rotate its torso in a blurring whirl, its phase-blades carving a sphere of absolute lethality. These blades, among the sharpest weapons in the galaxy, capable of shunting matter into the Warp, held even the most veteran warriors at bay.
Beep-Beep-Chirp—!
The Skorpekhs emitted bursts of electronic static, a binary roar of hatred. Their tripod legs churned, slicing through soil, stone, and reinforced plasteel alike. Against a legion of foes whose individual strength rivaled a Dreadnought, it seemed the Imperium's doom was sealed.
But at that moment, in the heart of the capital, Company Captain Decimus received two simultaneous vox-transmissions.
The first: The unidentified xenos fleet that had seized Ironward III months ago had made planetfall on Vespator. They had deployed massive forces across the southern continent, and the Imperial garrisons there were being systematically annihilated.
Decimus watched the pict-feeds in grim silence. He saw twisted, mountainous heaps of fur and necrotic meat, creatures of recognizable rodent morphology, tearing down fortress walls with brute, supernatural strength.
The streets were being choked by a carpet of vermin. They ranged from small, dog-sized beasts with glowing green fangs to monstrosities the size of Dreadnoughts, and multi-legged meat-constructs that rivaled Scout Titans. This unknown xenos threat possessed a terrifying, claustrophobic momentum. Their numbers seemed infinite; for every thousand the Ultramar Auxilia slew with their meticulous tactics, ten thousand more surged over the heaps of the dead. The "Rat-tide" was a sea with no shore.
"Where did these xenos come from? How were they not detected?" Decimus demanded, his voice thick with fury.
He could not blame Imperial Intelligence for two reasons: First, the Adeptus Terra's agents had failed to notice even Belisarius Cawl hiding entire Legions of Primaris Marines beneath the surface of Mars for ten thousand years. Second, the Skaven primarily haunted the Imperium Nihilus. While news of their appearance before Chapter Master Calgar on Vigilus had broken, the Warp-shadows had delayed the tidings. With their erratic Warp-tech and the favor of the Great Horned Rat, the Skaven moved at speeds the Imperium could not match.
The second transmission, however, brought a flicker of hope:
Titus, Master of the Watch, had arrived in-system. Commanding an Ultramar defense fleet, he had engaged both the unknown xenos and the Necron vessels in a blistering naval confrontation.
Under the personal lead of Captain Titus, the Imperial boarding parties had forced the xenos fleets into a temporary retreat.
The reinforcements had arrived.
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