Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 192 192: First the Dwarfs, Then the Greenskins

Who says the Skaven are not the natural predators of the Dwarfs? The rat-men launched a subterranean assault that smoothly bypassed the ironclad outer defenses of the Kin, with countless vermin flooding the intricate mine-networks and sub-conduits of the League of Votann.

Though it could be said that the Leagues of Votann have no true weak points, their strength had been thinned by the Greenskin siege. Exploiting this, the Skaven breached mine-shafts reaching hundreds of kilometers deep into the planetary crust. The few defending Einhyr Hearthguard were swiftly overwhelmed by the sheer, chittering weight of the rat-swarm as the Skaven began an offensive from the depths.

"Hahaha! This place belongs to Mors now-now! The stunties cannot run! Cannot hide!" Queek Headtaker cackled manically, planting his paws firmly upon a Kin corpse.

With their interior breached, the Kin manning the fortress walls were forced to redeploy inward. This withdrawal allowed the Greenskins to bring their ramshackle war machines closer to the hive-districts, launching masses of Orks like catapult stones directly through the void shield projectors.

These Orks, skipped into the fray like jagged boulders, simply shook their heads, stood up, and began hacking at anything that wasn't green with choppas and sluggas.

"Fall back! Retreat to the Hold!" the remaining Votann Kin shouted, ushering survivors and Ironkin toward the central fortress via high-speed armored mag-lev railcars.

The Kin left only a small rearguard to buy time for their exodus. While the Urani-Surtr Regulate might be stubborn, they were no fools; protecting the Votann Core at the heart of the Hold took precedence over all else.

In short order, the fortress-hold became a chaotic playground for both Skaven and Greenskins.

The two factions fell into a frenzy of looting, heedless of one another at first. They smashed exquisite Kin crafts or defiled Votannic icons with the crooked sigils of their own clans, a scene reminiscent of barbarians sacking Rome.

Inevitably, these two uncivilized tides collided. Everyone knows what happens when a filthy Skaven, clutching a burlap sack of loot, bumps into an equally avaricious Gretchin or Ork.

"Whatchu lookin' at, ya runty git? Hand over da shiny stuff!"

"What-what? I stare-look where I want!"

"I'll krump ya!!"

The looting parties instantly devolved into brawling and mutual slaughter. Neither the Skaven nor the Greenskins spared a thought for their respective main armies still clashing in the open wastes outside; they only cared about their "harvest."

The Skaven who were initially driven off used a mix of tall tales, bluster, and treachery to regroup for ambushes, while the Orks responded with increasingly lethal violence.

Blinding promethium spewed from the nozzles of Burna Boyz, who roared with laughter as they watched the fur-clad rat-men scurry about in flames. Tankbusta Boyz fired wildly imaginative, self-assembled anti-tank weapons into the densest crowds, purely for the joy of seeing fire mingled with flying viscera.

"Diz here iz our turf! Rats bugger off!" bellowed a Warboss nearly five meters tall, looking like a living engine of destruction. He squeezed his power klaw, and a Skaven vanished into a wet crunch.

"No! No! This is Mors territory! Powerful Mors-land!" countered a Skaven Warlord. Though not as massive, he was encased in power armor and brandished a weeping warp-blade and a large-bore warp-musket.

"You! Tiny ratties dares talk back? I'll stomp ya flat!" the Warboss roared. With a sweep of his power klaw, his Boyz surged forward with a deafening war cry.

"Attack! Kill-slay! For Mors! For the Great Horned Rat! YES-YES!!" the Skaven Warlord shrieked, waving his own forces into the meat grinder.

Within the fortress and without, these ancient rivals, from the Old World to the Age of Sigmar, resumed their eternal grudge upon a 40K world.

Clanrats leveled their jezails and met the Ork charge with bayonets, only for Burna Boyz to shoulder their way through the green throng and unleash sheets of flame. The Skaven countered with Warpfire Thrower teams, spewing emerald flames so volatile they could melt auramite.

Between bayonet and choppa, the piles of Ork and Skaven corpses grew until they were crushed into paste by thousands of trampling feet. Seeing his opening, the Ork Warboss led a vanguard of Mega-Nobz and a dozen Killa Kans directly toward the Skaven Warlord's position.

"Stop them! Stop-kill them!"

The Skaven Warlord shrieked orders while scurrying backward. A duel? Only a fool among rats would seek a fair fight; even in the martial Clan Mors, Queek was the only one mad enough for such "honor."

Green-tracer rounds cut down several Mega-Nobz and Killa Kans, but the Warboss launched a "Bull Charge" that shattered the Clanrat line like a house of cards. Bolstered by the protective sheath of Waaagh! energy, the warp-bullets peppering his hide failed to find a vital organ, leaving the brute as ferocious as ever.

The Skaven Warlord, mounted atop a Bonebreaker Rat Ogre, attempted a panicked retreat, but the Warboss was already upon him. A hydraulic power klaw snatched the Bonebreaker's tail, while the Ork's right iron-fist hammered into the beast's skull.

Ceramite faceplates shattered. The Bonebreaker was floored by the single, thunderous punch. The Warlord fired his warp-musket point-blank, but the shot was deflected by the thick, slab-like metal of the power klaw.

"Zog it! Me klaw's bust again!" the Warboss cursed. The shot hadn't penetrated, but it had shorted out the klaw's mechanisms.

The Bonebreaker tried to rise, but the Warboss was more experienced in the art of the brawl. He delivered a brutal kick to the Rat Ogre's snout before bringing his depowered klaw down like a primitive sledgehammer. With no room to dodge, the Skaven Warlord was pulverized into a red smear.

"WAAAAAAAGH!!"

The Warboss's victory roar sent Ork morale soaring, while a wave of cold terror washed over the Skaven. As the scent of musky fear-glands permeated the air, the Skaven lines wavered, and the first cowards began to break and bolt.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a catastrophic rout. But circumstances were not normal, for the one leading this host was none other than Queek Headtaker, the Skaven God of War.

Splat!

The sound of bursting flesh echoed as a fleeing rat-man collided with Queek's claw. The crimson-clad warlord, his expression a mask of feral cruelty, crushed the coward in his grip before projecting a roar through his suit's vox-emitters:

"Anyone who runs-flees before Queek... DIES!!!"

The sheer savagery of his voice suppressed the chemical instinct of fear with an even deeper, more immediate terror.

"Queek! Queek! No-no!"

The Skaven prostrated themselves or chittered in terrified submission as the Red Guard and a thousand Ironclaw Warriors, rats of unnaturally upright and powerful stature, stepped forth.

"One wave! I give you only one attack-wave! Bring me the heads of these green-things!" Queek snarled.

"Yes, my Lord!" Ska Bloodtail hissed, baring his teeth. He knew Lucius only cared for targets of worth.

Enclosed in ceramite power armor and powered by warp-generator back-packs, the three-meter-tall Ironclaw Warriors leveled their Warp-Lightning halberds and charged the Orks!

While they might lack the tactical finesse of the Adeptus Astartes, their deficiencies were invisible against the Orks' own chaotic style.

"Wah! Lookit da Rat-Cans!"

The Orks barely had time to marvel before the Ironclaw Warriors slammed into them, wreathed in crackling warp-arcs! Swift as the wind and possessed of monstrous strength, the armored rats began to dismantle the Orks with the same systematic brutality the Orks had previously shown the Clanrats.

Meanwhile, Queek himself, flanked by his Red Guard, made a direct line for the Warboss and his Mega-Nobz.

"Rat-Cans! Bin waitin' for a proper scrap!" the Warboss bellowed, brandishing his dead klaw like a trophy.

Queek didn't care for the banter. His eyes were fixed on that massive green head. He was already imagining what amusing things that head would "say" to him once it was mounted on the trophy racks of his back-banner.

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