When the last of the Skaven was cut down and the mountains of fur-clad corpses were committed to the pyres of the Astra Militarum, the Great Vermintide was officially declared broken.
However, in the wake of the carnage came an unending stream of casualty and loss reports. Even with the infamously glacial pace of Imperial bureaucracy, the scale of the devastation had reached a point where it could no longer be ignored.
The assets of the nobility had been hit particularly hard. Their precious agri-worlds and paradise worlds lay in ruin, their grain stores devoured, industrial machinery cannibalized, and even several Astartes Monasteries desecrated. It was clear that Roboute Guilliman would now have to expend far more effort on reconstruction than on his usual administrative reforms.
Yet, there was a single glimmer of good news. According to reports from frontier Planetary Governors and Astra Militarum commanders, the Imperium wasn't the only one suffering. Both the Xenos and the forces of Chaos had sustained catastrophic losses.
"The Orks, Drukhari raiders, the T'au, and even the incursions of Chaos have all ground to a halt?" Guilliman asked, his voice laced with skepticism, as he addressed the messenger from Chapter Master Marneus Calgar.
"Yes, Father," the honored Ultramarine replied with a deep bow. "Under the leadership of Lord Calgar, our defenses remain ironclad. The vermin xenos caused minimal damage to our sectors. Conversely, the planets in the Imperium Nihilus held by Abaddon have suffered a true apocalypse. The mining world of Vindigast and the Hive World of Kennett Prime, both already fallen to the Ruinous Powers, were assaulted so savagely by the xenos that they have been rendered strategically useless. Lord Calgar estimates we have gained at least a century of breathing room."
Guilliman's expression shifted through a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. He found himself at a loss: should he thank these rat-creatures or loathe them? Even as they granted the Imperium a reprieve, Holy Terra and the Sol System remained a shattered mess. At the very edge of the system, the fortified moon of Hydra had reportedly been seized by the elusive Alpha Legion.
…
Deep within the Imperium Nihilus, the Despoiler, Warmaster Abaddon, was consumed by a towering rage.
Ever since the Thirteenth Black Crusade split the galaxy in two with the Great Rift, Abaddon had viewed the Imperium Nihilus as his personal sovereign domain. The Warmaster, whose stubbornness rivaled that of Rogal Dorn, declared that he was no slave to Chaos, but a collaborator, the true heir to the will of Horus.
He claimed his rebellion was against the False Emperor alone and that he would still lead humanity to glory. While his Chaos Space Marines and cultists took such rhetoric as little more than hot air, there was no doubt that Abaddon brooked no interference in his "territory."
Before him lay what was supposed to be a vital human warehouse world, a logistical hub for his future campaigns. Now, it was unrecognizable. Countless ancient armories and storehouses had been swallowed by a shifting crust, dragged down into the lightless depths of the sub-strata.
"Take them back!"
Abaddon's fury boiled over. He knew this was the handiwork of the new god. The Warmaster had exhausted significant reserves during the war of attrition in the Nachmund Gauntlet; he needed to bleed his territories dry to replenish his strength.
"Leave it to us... hehehe...!"
A warband of the Emperor's Children volunteered. The leader's skin, pale, smooth, and looking like a horrifying plastic mannequin, split into a grotesque, ear-to-ear grin.
Abaddon knew exactly what these unreliable deviants were after: the Skaven's warpstone. Even he had to admit the potency of the substance. His sorcerers had found that warpstone could catalyze devastating empyric rituals in an instant. It wasn't just the Emperor's Children; rumors suggested even the Thousand Sons were hunting the "green stones."
"Secure the world. I want every crate of materiel recovered," Abaddon commanded.
"And I only want the xenos' little treasures~" the Emperor's Children warband leader chuckled, drawing a slender, ornate power saber encrusted with gems.
"Wooo-hoooo!"
The usually lethargic Emperor's Children were suddenly brimming with enthusiasm. They cheered as they boarded their Drop Pods. It was the only thing that actually pleased Abaddon. At last, these hedonistic failures were making themselves useful.
As the pods plummeted toward the shattered planet, the traitors fought amongst themselves for the few doses of "warp-elixir" they possessed. The supernatural ecstasy provided by this substance, distilled from the Warp, was an addiction no mortal or transhuman could resist.
The pods slammed into the fractured earth. Dozens of Flawless Blade, over a hundred Noise Marines, hundreds of ordinary Emperor's Children Astartes, and a sea of Slaaneshi cultists and mortal traitors, led by several Lord Exultants, descended as one. It was a rare, almost miraculous sight to see these disparate warbands united. They were bound together by the search for that seductive, addictive green mineral.
Naturally, the intruders were detected immediately. Unfortunately for the traitors, this world was held by a powerful subsidiary of Clan Pestilens: Clan Rotblight.
"Yah-hooo! Let the carnival begin!" one Lord Exultant screamed in delight.
The mortal cultists, shivering from withdrawal, charged recklessly into the yawning chasms of the earth.
As vassals of Clan Pestilens, these rats were no longer as backwards as their ancestors of the world-that-was. They had realized that without technology to match their enemies, they could never spread their "faith." Even without the Warlock Engineers of Clan Skryre, they had mastered the Rust Plague, a virus refined on Vigilus that allowed them to rot and subvert enemy technology.
"Chaos-things! Chaos-things coming-approaching!" a Plague Priest hissed, his rotting, filthy claws manipulating a massive auspex. The screen flickered with strange images, the machine itself seemingly infected by a bizarre fungal growth.
"Chaos-things! Enemies of the Horned Rat! They want to steal-take? NO-NO! Clan Rotblight gives nothing-nothing!" The Chieftain of Clan Rotblight, Dorrek Rotclaw, roared. He was encased in a suit of rusted power armor that resembled the wargear of the Death Guard, stimulated by a complex network of tubes pumping lethal pathogens directly into his veins.
"Yes-yes, my treacherous Lord! They will fail-fail, yes!"
As the Emperor's Children launched their assault, billions of slave-rats erupted from the ground. These rats, covered in pustules, gangrene, and insectile sores, charged with a fanaticism unseen in other clans.
Their pistols were jagged wrecks held together by fungal growths and necrotic viruses, yet the bullets they spat were saturated with lethal contagions.
The Slaaneshi cultists fired back wildly, expecting the Skaven to break at the first sign of resistance. But they had miscalculated. The Skaven of Clan Pestilens were not like their cousins; having instigated multiple civil wars in their history, their morale was the highest of all the rat-kin.
——————
If you want to read ahead of everyone, go to my pat-reon: pat-re-on.c-om/magnor (remove the hyphen to access normally)