Ever since his humiliation of Abaddon on Vigilus, Marneus Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, had been laboring under a relentless cycle of high-intensity warfare. Even with the bulk of the Black Legion in retreat, the planet remained a meat-grinder; the Genestealer Cults of the Pauper Princes, the Orks of the Speed Freeks, and the rats of Clan Rictus, who still operated their lucrative "Under-Express" transit business, continued to bleed the Imperium dry.
Within the Gnawholes of Clan Rictus, deep beneath the surface, stood a fortress garrisoned by tens of thousands of Stormvermin and a host of Clanrats ten times that number.
Countless Skaven clans from both the Imperium Nihilus and the Imperium Sanctus used this hub as a transit point. Strictly speaking, while the Great Rift had severed the light of the Astronomican, the violent Warp-echoes had also severely muffled the tolling of the Great Bell of Doom emanating from Skavenblight.
Just as Mankind required the Astronomican, the Skaven relied on the Bell's tolling as a beacon for navigation through the Immaterium. Without it, Warp-travel became a blind gamble. The Gnawholes were no different.
Though the Gnawholes were incredibly efficient, using Skaven souls as fuel for the psychic boring machines, without the beacon of the Bell, a tunnel might just as easily open into the heart of a star or the crushing gravity of a black hole. Countless clans had already been extinguished in such navigational catastrophes.
Among the endless stream of travelers, a foul messenger, reeking of decay, his body a crawling feast for maggots and flies, demanded an immediate audience with Kratch Doomclaw.
"NO! NO! Pestilens-thing! This is Rictus war-nest! You think strong-mighty Kratch will see you?"
A Stormvermin of Clan Rictus snarled, leveling his Warp-lightning polearm at the fetid messenger. To any Skaven, the plague-rats were terrifying, but as a member of the Council of Thirteen, Clan Rictus was not easily cowed.
"Fools! Idiots! I am the Plague-Herald of Skrolk! I come to offer a perfect scheme-trick! You slaves cannot afford to delay-wait!"
The Plague Priest shrieked, waving his rotting claws frantically.
At the mention of Skrolk, the Stormvermin flinched. As an agent of the Council of Thirteen, the Chief Plague Priest Skrolk was a name of dread, certainly a figure beyond their station to offend. Their arrogant posturing vanished instantly, replaced by a groveling, toothy sycophancy.
"Oh~ most humble apologies, noble Lord! Yes-yes, strong-mighty Kratch surely has… has time for you..."
"Hmph! Filthy slaves!"
True to Skaven nature, the moment the opposition showed weakness, the Plague Priest seized the opportunity to gloat, lifting his snout high in a haughty sniff.
Even Skaven feared the viral cocktails clinging to a Plague Priest's skin. The Stormvermin kept a wide berth, escorting him from a safe distance until they reached Kratch's primary brood-halls.
Kratch Doomclaw, Chieftain of Clan Rictus and Lord of the Council, did not flinch as the messenger entered. He sat upon his throne, encased in drab, brownish power armor, looking entirely composed.
"Oh… one of Skrolk's. If it were Nurglitch, I might-might be serious. But you? A piteous Pestilens-thing!"
Kratch's voice was a terrifying, guttural rasp as he bared his yellowed incisors.
The Plague Priest knew the disparity in their power. He smoothly dropped to his knees, his voice a wheezing, sycophantic croak. "Strong-mighty King of Rictus, I come-arrive by the will of the Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch. My master Skrolk, acting as his voice, extends-offers a claw."
"Skrolk says: if you… if you stand-sit with Clan Pestilens, the entire Nachmund Gauntlet shall be yours-yours! Our master requires only two worlds. Only two!"
Kratch let out a rasping cackle. "You think-think I do not know? The Great Horned Rat decrees: He grants the gift of ascension! Oh~ and why should I not be the one to ascend-rise? Vigilus sits right above us, right above Rictus!!"
"Of course, of course, my Lord! Provided you can hold-grip back the other clans. And those Chaos-things who want to give-give this place to their own god-things! The rot-strength of Clan Pestilens can help your clan keep what is yours-yours!"
Clan Pestilens had betrayed Clan Rictus in the past, but it was well known that Skaven have neither long memories nor lasting grudges when profit is involved. If the promised gain is high enough, past betrayals are merely footnotes, reminders to sell out one's ally first next time.
Clearly, Kratch was already calculating how to profit from this venture.
"Hehehe~ Fine. I shall trust you, trust Pestilens one more time. But this time, Rictus will not lead-steer the vanguard! Not a single Stormvermin of Rictus leaves the rat-nest until your plague-kin come-arrive!"
…
Beneath the surface of Vigilus, the Genestealer Cult of the Pauper Princes, who had spent centuries cultivating their influence, found themselves eclipsed. Once strong enough to face Chaos Astartes from the Night Lords and Death Guard, the cult was now in decline as the Skaven encroached upon their ecological niche.
The cult had defeated Space Marines before through sheer attrition, drowning the demigods in a sea of bodies. But against the Skaven, that tactic was laughable. In terms of subterranean adaptation, the rats far surpassed the hybrids; in terms of numbers, they weren't even in the same league.
On the desk of Marneus Calgar, reports concerning the Skaven were piling up in an unending stream.
Chief Librarian Tigurius, perhaps the most powerful psyker currently serving the Imperium, a man who had stared into the Maw of the Hive Mind and lived, had just brought Calgar news of a darker nature.
"Vigilus consumed by fire? The Nachmund Gauntlet severed forever? No, Tigurius. You know that shall never happen before my soul returns to the Golden Throne!" Calgar looked at Tigurius, offering a scoff of disbelief at the prophecy.
Tigurius sighed heavily. "I know your iron will, my Lord. But I have scoured every possible thread of fate. In every ending, the Aquila no longer flies over the spires of Vigilus."
"Am I to fail my Father? Fail the Emperor?!" Calgar's thick brow furrowed in disbelief, a momentary flash of despair crossing his features.
This was the final artery to the Imperium Nihilus. If it fell, Guilliman would be unable to send any resources to save the billions of souls on the other side. Calgar would be remembered as the man who lost half the Imperium.
The shame was almost too much to bear.
"What now? Shall we request reinforcements from Holy Terra?"
Calgar slumped into his command chair, rubbing his temples with the massive hands that had crushed countless xenos. Finally, he nodded. "So be it... I will not wait for death to find me. Tigurius, I will prove to you that the will of the Imperium is strong enough to shatter any psychic prophecy!"
"I truly hope so, my Lord," Tigurius sighed, withdrawing from the chamber. He, too, felt the weight of despair, but he would not stop fighting.
——————
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)