Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 188 188: A Convergence of Ambitions

With the fall of the final Hold-Fortress on the planet Luny and the claiming of Durgar Ironhammer's head by Queek Headtaker, all nine worlds and the solitary star of the Eight Peaks System fell officially into the clutches of Clan Mors. The vast, abandoned wealth of Clan Angrund became the spoils of the Mors-kin, a dark echo of the Old World, where the Skaven of Mors once gorged themselves on the legacy of Karak Eight Peaks.

Nine worlds in a single system might seem a paltry sum for a Great Clan holding a seat on the Council of Thirteen, but in truth, it represented a gargantuan territory. In Skaven society, where clans are numbered in the hundreds of billions, a warlord capable of dominating a single continental plate, let alone an entire world, is a power to be reckoned with, standing head and shoulders above ninety-nine percent of the rat-kin.

Yet, Skaven greed and ambition are bottomless pits. When news of Luny's conquest arrived, even the strategically minded Gnawdwell found himself possessed by an even deeper hunger for dominion.

Across a star-chart of the Segmentum, scrawled on cured rat-hide, Gnawdwell gripped an elegant, ornate quill plundered from some human noble. With a jagged, crude stroke, he marked the Eight Peaks System with the great icon of Clan Mors.

"Queek... did not disappoint-fail me," Gnawdwell hissed, inhaling a long, raspy breath. "Mors's tithe-legions do not stop! Drive the stout-things out-out! Completely! Then the green-things, the iron-things, the bug-things… drive them all away! They must die-die! YES-YES!!"

"Yes-yes, My Lord! Mors is invincible-unbeatable!" Gnawdwell's adjutant chirped, his voice thick with a mixture of pride and sycophantic arrogance.

Gnawdwell was indeed savoring the moment. These nine prosperous worlds would bolster the strength of Mors ten-fold. In the mind of a Skaven, to cease expansion at such a peak was not only unthinkable, it was heresy against their own nature.

Thus, when Gnawdwell's command was relayed through the Warp-tongue of the Grey Seers to Queek's grand host, the Great Warlord expressed no surprise. If anything, it mirrored his own bloodlust.

"It is as ordered, Lord-commander..."

The Grey Seer, who had used a trembling slave-rat as a living conduit to repeat the message, smiled thinly at Queek. Receiving messages via the Warp was a perilous gamble; the slightest slip could allow a daemon to transform the recipient's soul and body into a living rift. The Grey Seers, naturally, preferred to let "disposable" slaves bear that risk.

"Father... Father's word has no doubt-error!" Queek leapt from his warlord's throne aboard the Scarlet Harvest, screaming with bared yellow teeth. "The claws of Mors will continue! Continue to tear-shred Father's enemies! Shred them! Shred them! AAAHHH!!"

Amidst Queek's manic shrieking, the Brood-fleets of Clan Mors transitioned into the Immaterium. These fleets were mobile hives unto themselves, where the Broodmothers remained in a state of perpetual, hormone-driven labor, churning out the endless swarms of pups required to replenish the ranks. Fed on chemically-saturated milk, these rat-kin reached maturity in a matter of weeks. Whether to cull the unchecked population growth or to sate their inherent avarice, a Brood-fleet in long-transit always required a bloody war to fill its belly.

To the south of the Galactic Core, in the heart of the territories guarded by the Urani-Surtr Regulates, the eastern reaches of the Shattered Stars stirred. There, the Greenskin privateer fleets of the Freebooter King Bogg were making their move.

In truth, Bogg's mobilization had nothing to do with any "pact" with the rat-men. In the Freebooter King's eyes, such a treaty was worth less than a Squig used for wiping one's backside. What mattered was that his pirate empire needed a WAAAGH! to revitalize its spirit; he needed a mountain of loot to fill his coffers.

Under Bogg's command, the Greenskin fleet swarmed forth like locusts. A dense, chaotic mass of warships, varying wildly in size and ramshackle design, plunged through the Warp, setting a course for the Shattered Stars.

Simultaneously, the Necrons of the Samnokh Dynasty began their march. The resident Phaeron had long sought to reclaim the primary Hold-worlds of the Urani-Surtr Regulates and purge all biological life from these sectors.

When Phaeron Isamakh learned of the Greenskin pirate mobilization, his logic circuits processed the data. He who plots against others may himself be plotted against. The ancient wisdom surfaced within his cold, mechanical mind.

"When the beings of flesh have spent themselves, the Samnokh Dynasty shall reclaim its birthright!"

Isamakh was confident; no creature of meat and bone could match the eternal patience of his undying legions. The Samnokh Dynasty marched to war.

As the Skaven, Greenskins, and Necrons converged, the Kin of the Votann did not sit idle. As one of the founding Leagues, the Urani-Surtr Regulates devised a desperate stratagem: to drive the tiger to consume the wolf, to bleed their enemies against one another.

In the southern galaxy, there was only one power capable of drawing the collective ire of the Orks, Necrons, and Skaven: the Hive Fleet Tiamet to the east, and the Imperium of Man to the south. The Imperium, currently besieged on all fronts, was unlikely to project significant force this far into the southern core, despite its proximity to the Nachmund Gauntlet.

To tip the scales, the Urani-Surtr Regulates brought forth a secret they had guarded for aeons, a lure to ensure the attention of the Tyranid Hive Mind.

"It is in your hands, Burnos. For the survival of the Regulates!"

In a scene reminiscent of an ancient epic's farewell, the High King of the Regulates, Snorri Whitebeard, personally saw the designated kindred off to their exploration fleet.

Though the kindred numbered ten thousand Kin and Ironkin, they were a mere pittance against the sea of enemies they faced, a suicide mission by any measure. They were tasked with slipping through the vast territories of the Greenskin pirate empire and the Necron dynasties to reach the eastern fringe of the Shattered Stars, where Hive Fleet Tiamet loomed.

There, they would use their secret to draw the Great Devourer out.

Every soul aboard knew their fate was sealed, yet not a single dwarf showed fear or hesitation. They had sworn the Great Oaths upon joining the Regulates; they had already placed their lives beyond the veil.

"The Name of the Ancestors shall not be shamed!" Burnos's face was a mask of grim determination as he boarded the vessel.

His entire kindred followed. Though their Votann Core remained behind, their soul-data would likely never be recovered by the Ancestor Core, a spiritual extinction that, to a Kin, was an agony worse than death.

With a low hum of power, the dwarf ships activated their Geller Fields and plunged into the madness of the Warp.

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