Even within such treacherous terrain, the Adeptus Astartes maintained their peerless martial discipline. With reaction speeds far beyond mortal limits, they tracked the trajectory of the glowing emerald rounds and raised their boarding shields, igniting jump packs to hurtle toward the source of the fire.
Though the Ratlings of Clan Ratling had grown formidable through the boon of Warp-tech, their instincts for self-preservation remained as craven as ever. Their stealth cloaks, while providing optical mimicry sufficient to baffle the eyes of mere mortals, were insufficient to deceive the heightened senses of the Astartes.
The Space Marines tracked them through the subtle echoes of sound and the unnatural shifting of grit and scree. Though their auspex arrays remained crippled, the joint efforts of Techmarines and Librarians had restored a fraction of their functionality, enough to pinpoint the vermin at close quarters.
Huddled between the jagged rocks, several Ratlings watched the approaching Angels of the Emperor with a visceral mixture of awe and loathing. They hated the Emperor for ignoring their prayers in the dark; they hated that His angels descended to harvest their hard-won lives only after they had been forced to turn to a truer, darker god to survive.
Driven by spite, one Ratling fixed his Warp-scope on the incoming Astartes. The thought that he, a wretch once kicked and spat upon by his superiors in the Astra Militarum, could now assassinate an Angel of Death filled his warped soul with a sickening euphoria.
But pride invites the reaper's scythe. He fired; a round took an Astartes in the chest, punching a jagged hole through the ceramite plate and sending the warrior plummeting. Yet the others did not falter. They accelerated, their jump packs roaring as they descended upon the sniper's position in a heartbeat.
A sniper is a lord of death at a distance, but in the red itch of close combat, a massive Warp-musket is no more effective than a cook's ladle. In an instant, the Ratling was butchered. An Astartes reached down, grabbing the creature by its furred tail and hoisting the corpse aloft. Staring at the thing, which had been transfigured into a literal, humanoid rat, a cold, terrifying hatred for the xenos and the traitor surged within the warriors.
"This is the fate of those who forsake the Emperor. These Ratlings have truly become vermin!"
The Astartes spat the words with fury. A Techmarine knelt to examine the crude, exposed components of the sniper's rifle. As he pried the casing open, his expression darkened. "As I feared. These xenos-traitor weapons are powered by these green crystals. I cannot yet identify the mineral, but the Warp-taint clinging to them is more stagnant and profane than any heresy I have encountered."
He cast the warpstone ammunition aside as if it were burning coal. "This is no mere rebellion of mutants," he said gravely. "The Great Enemy is at work behind this."
"We must return these carcasses to the Ordo Xenos and the Deathwatch," the Lieutenant said, shaking his head. His intuition for the enemies of Mankind was sharp; he did not share the mortals' delusion that these were common mutants.
In truth, the Imperium had already crossed blades with the skaven on multiple fronts. Marneus Calgar was even now purging 'infestations' in the wake of the Vigilus campaign. Yet, save for the fleeting suspicions of Lion El'Jonson, most Imperial commanders dismissed the rat-men as minor, isolated xenos threats.
"Devere, my brother," the Lieutenant turned to the Apothecary. "Take the xenos remains and return to the main host. we shall provide cover. The Sons of Dorn do not retreat, but neither do we throw lives away in vain."
The Apothecary's task was sacrosanct; the gene-seed of the fallen he carried was more precious than any victory. "Understood, my lord," Devere replied without hesitation. He secured the diminutive corpse into an alloy containment box and bound it with heavy chains.
"Forward! Draw their fire! Locate the remaining nests and suppress them with heavy munitions!"
"By your command!"
There was no fear, only the grim resolve of those born for martyrdom. Thirty Astartes formed a defensive ring of Storm Shields, leveling bolters and stalker rifles at the surrounding ridges.
Whist-crack! Thrum-thrum-thrum!
A dozen emerald bolts slammed into the perimeter instantly. The Storm Shields groaned under the impact, the Warp-rounds leaving deep, glowing pits in the protective fields.
"Fire," the Lieutenant commanded, his voice as steady as an anvil. He raised his plasma pistol and unleashed a sun-bright fury toward a muzzle flash.
The remaining Astartes opened fire. The eerie silence of the valley was shattered by the rhythmic thunder of bolters. The sudden violence drew the focus of the Ratling snipers, while the pulverized rock and dust kicked up by the Imperial return fire masked the Apothecary's movements.
Seizing the moment, Devere ignited his jump pack. Carrying nearly all the unit's spare fuel, he stayed low to the ground, a grey-and-white blur streaking between the crags. He wove through the terrain, pausing only to toss smoke grenades to further choke the snipers' vision.
Behind him, the Astartes were slowly encircled by an ever-growing number of Ratling marksmen. They stood in the center of an invisible minefield—a battle devoid of glory or epic charges, only the slow, agonizing attrition of being picked apart from the dark.
Crack!
Another shot rang out. An MK X Tacticus helmet was punched through like parchment, the round passing through the warrior's skull and out the other side. The Astartes was hurled backward by the force, his lifeblood spraying across his battle-brothers.
"Cowardly filth! Face us in honorable combat!"
Fury finally overcame the Lieutenant. He roared, mag-locking his empty plasma pistol and drawing a Storm Bolter, hosing down every shadow and crevice where a rat might hide. From the darkness, the Ratlings chittered and giggled as they pulled their triggers. Whether as men or rats, they savored the thrill of the kill from the safety of the unseen.
By the time the Apothecary reached the Astra Militarum main lines, he had taken two rounds through his shoulder plating.
He found the twenty regiments in a state of near-total collapse. The soldiers of the Emperor, who had made landfall with spirits high, were now huddled in shallow trenches and hastily dug foxholes, terrified to expose even an inch of flak-armor. Their numerical losses were manageable, but the psychological terror of an unseen, inevitable death had broken them.
Leman Russ battle tanks and Rhinos had been pulled into a tight "iron circle" around the Commander and his staff. Inside the command tent, Enforcers and representatives of the Inquisition were locked in a heated dispute.
"It is a mere uprising! We have the numbers to crush them if you would only show some spine!"
"This is no longer just an uprising! Who knows what xenos aid these traitors have secured? How else could these sewer-dwelling thieves stand against the might of the Imperium?"
Apothecary Devere stepped into the tent, his power armor scarred and venting steam. He slammed the containment box onto the hololith table.
"Call for the Ordo Xenos," he commanded, his voice booming through his vox-grille. "Summon the Deathwatch. What has befallen this world is the work of Chaos."
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