Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 190 190: Greenskins and Circular Loyalty

Necrons. Clan Mors had encountered these soulless, unliving husks many times before. To most Skaven, engaging the Necrons was a bankrupt venture; the "Iron-bones" possessed nothing of value to the Under-Empire, no succulent meat to feast upon, and no sprawling underground civilizations to usurp.

Within the Necron tombs, there were only cold, lethal machinations. Worse still, a Skaven struck by a gauss flayer left no corpse behind, which was a loathsome waste of potential protein. Consequently, aside from the research-obsessed warlocks of Clan Skryre, few Skaven cared to exchange "greetings" with the Necron dynasties.

Queek Headtaker felt the same. The Necrons were stingy wretches who didn't even leave a trophy skull to claim.

"We-we have met the Iron-bones before, yes-yes?" Queek barked at his adjutant, Ska Bloodtail. The massive vermin simply nodded in silence.

"Your brain-head is useless-dull!" Queek snapped, realizing that asking Ska was a waste of breath.

When the Tomb Fleet and the Brood Fleet met head-on, the Necrons drifted to a halt. Phaeron Isamakh sat upon his Command Barge, his six sub-mind matrices whirring with tactical advice.

"These filthy, base biologicals are unworthy of existence. We must purge them immediately!" urged the Conqueror-protocol matrix.

Another sub-mind countered, "We have treaties with their kind. To break the protocol first would bring dishonor to the Necrontyr legacy."

"Our priority is reclaiming the fortress-worlds of the stunty-Kins. Do not squander our strength on vermin, or the error will be total."

"There is no honor to be kept with low-born flesh!"

The six sub-minds bickered incessantly until the Phaeron grew weary. He silenced the council's input and commanded the fleet to maintain its course toward the Shattered Star, ignoring the Skaven entirely.

The vast Tomb Fleet vanished in a flicker of light, slipping through a Dolmen Gate to skim the webway.

Watching the emerald-tinged fleet disappear, Queek let out a breath of relief. There was no other reason: Necrons were simply too difficult to kill.

"Yes-yes! The Iron-bones will regret-rue this day! Our tails are long, and our memories are longer!" Queek hissed, making a mental note of the slight. Even though the Necrons hadn't technically done anything to him, in Queek's mind, it was an unforgivable insult.

The Mors Brood Fleet continued its transit until it finally reached the Shattered Stars system. This region of space was a chaotic, disorganized mess, looking as though it had been physically smashed apart, leaving the stellar systems fragmented and drifting. Yet, it remained a vital frontier in the southern Galactic Core; once past the Shattered Stars, a traveler would find no other foothold in the void.

…

On the planet Shattered Star.

Countless greenskin drop pods streaked through the atmosphere, slamming into the earth to ignite fierce conflicts with the Leagues of Votann, whose defensive fortifications were scattered across the landscape like a network of iron stars.

Wave after wave of Choppa Boyz, brandishing rusted blades and firing sluggas into the air just for the joyous noise of it, threw themselves at the Kin. Under the command of their Nobz, they died in droves beneath the disciplined, concentrated fire of the dwarfs.

Eventually, with a cacophony of screeching metal, the larger transport ships deployed Grot Tanks and Killa Kans. Relying on their thick scrap-armor and heavy weaponry, these clanking monstrosities began to overrun the weaker Kin outposts.

"WAAAGH! I'm gonna 'ave me some stunty-steak tonight!" Bogg, the Freebooter King, roared with laughter as he watched the fires of war spread across the planet's surface, visible even from orbit.

"Yes, Boss... but da rats ain't 'ere yet. Dey stood us up, didn't dey?" a groveling Grot, dressed in an ill-fitting but garishly colored pirate suit, squeaked beside Bogg.

Even a Warlord as mighty as Bogg wasn't certain he could swallow the Shattered Star alone. He had only committed to this massive invasion because the rats had promised they were "all-in."

"Bah, dem sneaky rats! I neva liked da look of 'em anyway. We'll krump 'em all later!" Bogg grunted.

The greenskins were numerous, but without the time to cultivate new fungal spores, even the largest mob could be ground down by attrition. After several brutal assaults on the Kin's most hardened bastions, leaving behind hundreds of wrecked Kans and piles of corpses, the Ork warbands began to consolidate.

The Boyz were not tireless gods; after a proper scrap, they needed a place to gorge on squig-meat, guzzle fungus beer, and rest amidst the deafening "music" of a greenskin band.

As night fell over the Shattered Star, the Orks began to entrench themselves in the southern regions of the primary continent, specifically within the forests and rolling hills. Scrap-iron from the war was scavenged to build sprawling "Junk Cities." Methodically, the Orks buried their fallen kin in the soil, seeding the ground to sprout new generations of warriors.

Big Mekz and Mekboyz arrived in these shanty-metropolises, using their wealth of teef and technical "know-wot" to secure plots of land for factories. Soon, scrap was fed into the maw of these workshops, emerging as wildly different weapons born from the Mekz' erratic genius. In time, these super-factories would give birth to Stompas and Great Gargants.

This was the "gathering effect" of the greenskins; the more there were, the more ridiculous and deadly their toys became.

"Enough-enough! Cannot let the green-things take-take the stunties' nest!"

In the warp-lanes, Queek grew agitated as he monitored the situation. He knew all too well how troublesome greenskins became once they infested a planet of this size. He could no longer sit back and watch; he immediately ordered the Mors fleet to deploy and seize territory.

"Tell the Council of Thirteen! Clan Mors has not-not faded!"

Reality was torn asunder as the Skaven hive-ships, resembling flying, filth-ridden hab-blocks, were vomited into realspace like sewage from a pipe. Innumerable smaller craft, their engines flaring with sickly green warp-flame, raced toward a major spaceport on the Shattered Star. Only by capturing a port could the fleet find safe harbor.

The Skaven crashed into a continental mass in the northwest, a region already embroiled in a violent clash between Orks and the Kin. Neither side expected a third party to join the slaughter.

From black, rusted drop pods and landing craft, a tide of emaciated, screaming Skaven and swarms of giant rats poured forth.

"SQUEEEEEE—!!"

Skavenslaves in the vanguard fired crude pistols frantically, spraying warp-bullets before throwing their frail bodies into the meat grinder.

"Ratties? Heh, now we're talkin'!" A Warboss leading the assault on the northwest continent grinned. To an Ork, more enemies just meant more fun. Bogg might have a treaty with the rats, but he certainly didn't.

Many Ork Boyz, frustrated by the unyielding dwarf defenses, shifted their focus with glee, charging toward the Skaven. With their superior strength and heavy choppas, they found the Skaven to be easy prey, smashing through the slave-ranks in a single collision.

"Gwahaha! Diz iz great! Killin' rat-things iz way more fun!" The Choppa Boyz roared, covered in gore, ignoring the frantic chittering of the Skaven who screamed that they were there to fight the "stunties."

"If that is how it is, Mors is not-not to be bullied! Send in the Clanrats! Send the Stormvermin!"

At Queek's command, the disciplined Clanrats of Mors disembarked in tight formations. These well-equipped warriors didn't charge blindly; instead, they dug in, firing from cover. Long-range warp-muskets sang, creating a curtain of green tracer-fire that cut down both the charging Orks and the fleeing Slaves alike.

Enraged, the Ork Warboss diverted a significant portion of his "heavy metal"—Grot Tanks, Killa Kans, war-bikes, and buggies—to crush the interlopers. The Mors commanders responded in kind, unleashing Rat Ogres, Hell Pit Abominations, and Doom-Wheels.

In an instant, the northwest continent was plunged into the absolute carnage of a three-way war.

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