"As expected of that old deceiver, the Corpse-Emperor... truly insidious," Lucius muttered to himself as he watched the Orks swarming like locusts. However, he betrayed no outward sign of surprise. To a Chaos God, such occurrences were trifles; showing astonishment here would only invite the scorn of the other Ruinous Powers.
"These greenskin things won't stop my servants. Besides, they aren't just attacking my people."
Indeed, the Orks' ramshackle fleets were not solely targeting the Dark Mechanicum. They fell upon the Imperial vessels and the Drukhari ships with equal fervor, clinging to them like bone-gnawing maggots.
In the vacuum of space near the Bard System, the silence was shattered by the rhythmic thunder of macro-cannons and the searing lances of light fired from the dark, gothic hulls of the Dark Mechanicum fleet. Anything caught in their path was utterly devastated. Cruisers formed a protective screen around the battleships, while destroyers prowled the perimeter, using torpedoes and prow batteries to drive off the swarms of lighter "Rokk" ships and raiders harassing the capital ships.
Lucius couldn't help but mock the scene in his mind. This is just a space-borne version of the Battle of Jutland. Forget the Cold War, this is barely early World War II!
The Ork interference had successfully diverted the Dark Mechanicum's focus from the Imperium. Meanwhile, the Imperial forces, unable to fully regain control of their vessels, could only brace for impact. Within the cramped corridors and bulkhead gates, the Astra Militarum and Planetary Defense Forces (PDF) readied themselves for the inevitable boarding actions.
Predictably, the Orks had no patience for "girly" long-range duels. Countless boarding torpedoes and crude "Assault Ram" scrap-pods were launched from the massive junk-ships. Each one was packed to the gills with Orks. Those that hit their mark were considered lucky; those that missed were merely discarded fuel.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The hiss of melta-cutters biting into ship hulls echoed through the decks as Orks charged out with deafening roars. The Dark Skitarii, ever-vigilant, opened fire with galvanics and melta-guns. These archeotech weapons instantly began to unmake the Orks' rugged physiology.
However, the greenskins' numbers far outweighed the Skitarii's ammunition. Tiny, shrieking Gretchin, no better than Skaven Slaves, surged forward in a chaotic tide, armed with rusted knives and scrap-pistols. In an instant, the forces of the Great Horned Rat and the Emperor were plunged into a mindless, three-way melee.
"You won't win like this. Even a stalemate is a victory for me," Lucius said, tapping his sharp fingernails against the table with a crisp click. "I can still help Abaddon sever the Nachmund Gauntlet. Your Imperium will be left a bifurcated corpse, doomed to a slow death. Without its scale, your rotting empire is destined to collapse!"
The Emperor looked up, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face. It seemed he was well aware of the inevitable decay of his realm, yet he fought to delay it even for a single moment.
"You are mistaken. This is not the only force at my disposal," the Emperor declared, his golden eyes erupting with celestial light.
Following the direction of his gesture, a dark, spectral forest abruptly manifested upon the surface of Bard. The Orks on the ground stumbled into the woods in a daze, but not a single one emerged alive.
Moments later, a host of Astartes clad in emerald armor and heavy robes burst from the treeline. These formidable warriors were led by a knight—white-haired, yet radiating an indomitable, regal might.
Lucius recognized him instantly. It was the First Primarch, Lion El'Jonson, whom he had briefly encountered at The Rock and Wyrmwood.
Heh, figures. Of all the forces the Emperor could summon who were both capable and available, the Lion was the only one left.
"Where are we?" The Lion surveyed the strange planet with a furrowed brow. He had only just taken his revenge at Wyrmwood, yet here he was, facing a new unknown. As he had prepared to investigate this new front within the Imperium Nihilus, his Forest Walk ability had opened of its own accord.
Though he didn't fully understand why, he felt the faint, unmistakable pull of his Father's call within the woods. As a son whose devotion to the Emperor rivaled even that of Horus, the Lion didn't hesitate. He gathered his men and stepped through.
He was momentarily taken aback by the sudden change in scenery, but he was a Primarch, the First among equals. Upon seeing a hive city flying the Imperial Aquila besieged by Orks, no further explanation was needed. The Lion assumed his Father had brought him here to be the savior.
He was right.
Six Great Companies of the Dark Angels followed their gene-sire into the fray. With the Lion leading the charge, no Ork could stand for more than a heartbeat. His blade carved through the greenskins like a hot knife through butter. Behind him, the Cenobium Knights and the rest of the Unforgiven were emboldened, their war cries echoing as they vied for the honor of the first kill.
Seeing the Astartes arrive, the Astra Militarum, who had been abandoned by the Planetary Governor as mere fodder to delay the Orks, felt a surge of hope. They threw open the gates for the Emperor's Angels. Though the mortals did not recognize the Lion's identity, they knew the Adeptus Astartes. In short order, the entire hive's defense was under the Lion's command.
"Ah, it's getting livelier by the second! Now this is a party. Small skirmishes are so droll," Slaanesh giggled with delight. "Newcomer, you're starting to get the hang of this!"
Khorne, finally showing interest, leaned forward. Lion El'Jonson was one of the "SSR" mortals he wished to claim, second only to the Great Angel, Sanguinius. The Lion's presence demanded his full attention.
Tzeentch chuckled; these unforeseen variables were his favorite delight. Only Nurgle, looking like a jolly regular at a pub, sat beside Lucius and spoke in a hearty rumble: "Don't back down now, Great Horned Rat. Send your forces in. You can't afford to be careless against a Primarch."
Lucius looked at the hive city seized by the Lion and the Legion of the Damned desperately making their way toward Bard. He wondered how surprised the Lion would be to see Manus.
"It matters not. I may lack the Emperor's ancient foundations... but in terms of raw power, the Skaven fear nothing."
…
Meanwhile, navigating the tides of the Warp, Ikit Claw stared irritably at a disassembled STC. The Chief Warlock of Clan Skryre was fuming with resentment. He couldn't fathom how that boot-licking fool Chrot had been granted Daemonhood while he remained "mortal." Since he didn't dare complain to the Great Horned Rat, he vented his fury on every unfortunate enemy they encountered along the way.
"I will… will show-show the Great Horned Rat! Ikit is not… not lesser than Chrot! Never-ever!"
The Skryre fleet was the largest, most numerous, and most technologically advanced "Nest-Fleet" in the Skaven Empire. Ikit's flagship was the very first of the Nest-Ships: the Maximum Warp. Through a journey of scavenging and "creative" engineering, the vessel had bloated to a size rivaling The Rock itself. It was bristling with Warp-weapon arrays in a chaotic, non-linear mess—a fever dream of madness that should only have existed on a blueprint.
The rest of the fleet was equally terrifying: twelve Claw-class battleships, five Doom-class battleships, and hundreds of cruisers, destroyers, frigates, and transport vessels.
The Geller field, or rather, the Skaven equivalent, flickered as they translated back into realspace. However, the Skaven Navigators quickly realized something was wrong. Instead of the technologically advanced world they expected, they found a planet completely engulfed by an Ork invasion.