While Grand Master Belial of the Deathwing led his primary assault, ten other squads operated independently, surging into the subterranean skaven warrens from the territories of various sub-clans. They were not all as fortunate as their commander.
One squad found itself beset by Ghoritch-pattern Rat Ogres. These monstrosities possessed metallic carapaces forged entirely from ceramite-equivalent alloys; in terms of sheer structural durability, they rivaled or even surpassed the sacred Terminator plate of the Adeptus Astartes.
The massive, hydraulic-driven warp-claws of these beasts snapped open and shut with a deafening, industrial roar. Even a slab of reinforced ceramite would be shredded like soft wax beneath their onslaught.
"Purge these xenos abominations!"
The Deathwing Terminators were already encrusted with the viscera and foul ichor of the skaven horde. A dozen Ghoritch-pattern Rat Ogres charged, their mechanical lungs emitting a rhythmic, metallic wheezing as they smashed through obstacles and lesser skaven alike. With whirring warp-drills and piston-driven claws, they slammed directly into the Terminator line.
A Storm Shield was raised just in time. A thunderous crack echoed through the tunnel as warp-lightning arced across the shield's surface, erupting in a violent spray of sparks.
Upon initial contact, the Terminator felt the crushing strength of these mechanical constructs; it was a brute force that exceeded his own. As the warp-chemicals surged through green, translucent conduits, further overcharging the frenzied machines, the Terminator's tactical dreadnought armor groaned under the pressure, the ceramite joints shrieking as if on the verge of catastrophic failure.
"I am with you, brother!"
Other Terminators lunged forward to repel the beasts, but the mechanical Rat Ogres reacted with a predatory speed that matched, or even eclipsed, the Astartes. Their warp-claws flashed through the dark like arcs of baleful green lightning.
A Terminator barely parried a strike with his Power Sword, the impact vibrating through his primary and secondary hearts, preventing him from aiding his besieged comrade.
Across countless centuries, these veterans had faced foes with physical attributes far superior to their own, yet they had always triumphed through superior combat doctrine and martial discipline.
But these mechanical Rat Ogres were different. These crude, savage monsters possessed a tactical acumen that was not inferior to their own. Every strike, every feint, and their interlocking fields of fire suggested a deep-seated martial cohesion... almost as if they were Astartes themselves.
"Most strange, I recognize the patterns of the Ultramarines in their strikes!" a Terminator voxed in confusion after knocking a Rat Ogre back with a pommel strike.
"Observed. But there is no time for contemplation!"
The Ghoritch-pattern horrors gave them no respite. Working in perfect synchronicity, three of the beasts held back, suppressing the Terminators with chest-mounted rotary Warp-Blasters, while the others dropped to all fours like gorillas, leaping back into the fray.
With a mechanical screech, the Rat Ogre's limb joints twisted at angles impossible for biological creatures. A whip-like tail lashed around to a weak point in the Terminator's rear plate, discharging a concentrated warp-laser.
The Terminator's power armor was punctured. As he stumbled, the Rat Ogre seized the opening, burying its claws deep into his chest.
Spitting poisoned blood, the Terminator roared, a final act of defiance as his Power Sword decapitated the beast.
Yet even the loss of a head did not halt the machine-driven carcass. The claws expanded inside the Terminator's torso, instantly shredding the transhuman physiology of a veteran who had survived a thousand wars.
Simultaneously, several Warplock Jezzails fired from the shadows, the heavy rounds staggering the remaining Terminators. In that momentary lapse, the mechanical Rat Ogres tore through their "indestructible" shells.
Within a Clan Skryre observation chamber, several Warlock Engineers adjusted the lenses of their brass-rimmed goggles. They watched the slaughter with manic intensity.
"Yes-yes! Man-things... man-thing-stuff... must steal-take! Improve! Plunder!"
The Engineers chattered like carrion birds, analyzing the combat data of the Terminators. They were already on the verge of a lethal brawl over who would claim the spoils, specifically, the severed heads of the Astartes.
Since Ikit Claw had perfected this technology, he had "open-sourced" the design, partly to buy loyalty, and partly out of a spiteful "if I can't have it, no one gets it" mentality.
The greatest bottleneck remained: where to find enough brains possessing high-level combat instincts to serve as organic processors.
To delve into the heart of the skaven warrens was to pay a price in blood, especially when invading the stronghold of the wealthiest and most technologically blasphemous of the Great Clans.
Of the ten squads, only three eventually managed to rendezvous with Grand Master Belial. Despite the heavy losses, there was no mourning, only the cold professional report of the Deathwing: "Lord, here is the intelligence we have gathered."
"The Gene-father will not forget their sacrifice, Brother," Belial replied. Utilizing his superhuman intellect and centuries of experience, Belial synthesized the data, mapping the erratic, labyrinthine warrens until he identified the correct vector, the point of highest energy concentration.
"The man-things... they enter-invade?"
Ikit Claw received the reports of the Astartes incursion. The various sub-clans had been caught completely off guard, suffering catastrophic losses. Several smaller clans had already descended into fratricidal civil war after their Warlords were decapitated by Astartes strikes.
He looked up at the gargantuan metal wheel before him. Countless skaven laborers scurried across its frame, hammering away with tools that were surgically stitched to their own limbs.
Ikit reached out to touch the device but hesitated to activate it again.
The machine was a success, but it brought no joy to the skaven. The first time the portal had hummed to life, a titanic gravitational suction had nearly pulled Ikit himself into the void.
On the other side lay the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space.
Ikit had realized the success of his mad invention was a double-edged sword: without precise coordinates, there was no telling what lay beyond the threshold.
"No, no! Must not let man-things in! My invention-creation is not... not yet finished-done! YES-YES!" Ikit shrieked in a fury.
Meeting the invaders in a pitched battle would be simple enough, but these giants, despite their massive frames, were masters of stealth and infiltration.
Aside from the three or four squads that had been cornered and annihilated by sheer weight of numbers, the skaven were struggling to pin the Terminators down. The small, elite squads utilized lightning-strike tactics before vanishing into the darkness of the vents.
Ikit's underlings fled in terror, spreading the Chief Warlock's wrath throughout the Skryre quarters.
But there, in the impenetrable shadows, a dozen pairs of crimson eyes watched. An Eshin Assassin leaped down, landing silently behind Ikit. He fell from a great height, yet his landing did not even disturb the dust on the floor.
"Aieee! Who-who-who?!"
The Stormvermin bodyguards squealed in fright. Ikit himself flinched, but managed to maintain his composure. He looked at the assassin, a member of the clan that never showed its face but perpetually threatened the lives of all.
"For the Great Horned Rat, yes-yes... what do you want-seek?"
"These man-things... Eshin will take-kill them for you," the assassin said, his voice as cold as a grave. "You stay-do your work-tasks."
Before anyone could react, the Eshin Assassin dropped a warp-smoke bomb and vanished before their very eyes.
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