"No, no! Mercy, man-thing! The sacrifice-offering has been taken—a Grey Seer, YES-YES!"
Gadriel's massive hand crushed the Skaven's body as if it were a mere plaything. The flak armor worn by the Clanrat shattered instantly under the crushing grip of the Primaris Astartes.
The Skaven shrieked, its voice a high-pitched frantic trill.
"Who is this Grey Seer, and where has he gone?!" Gadriel roared, his fury unbridled.
"There-there! The direction of the altar is there!" Without a moment's hesitation, the Clanrat spat out every scrap of information it possessed.
Realizing the creature had nothing more to offer, Gadriel cast the Skaven onto the ground. As the rat-man scrambled to find its footing and flee, Gadriel spoke with cold finality: "I thank you for your cooperation, filthy xenos. Now, I shall grant you the only mercy remaining in the Emperor's light—death!"
Gadriel brought his armored boot down, pulverizing the Clanrat into a smear of gore. The narrow mine shaft behind them was already choked with corpses.
The massive bulk of a Brood Horror lay slumped in a tunnel it had clawed open, its life ended by a bolt shell that had detonated half its skull. Beside it lay the broken forms of eight Rat Ogres and hundreds of Skaven, piled high within the twisted, claustrophobic confines of the passage.
Titus knelt on one knee beside a battle-brother whose lower body had been shredded by the Brood Horror's fangs. "Brother Astoren," Titus said softly, "you have done your duty. May the light of the Emperor and Ultramar shine forever upon your noble soul."
"My thanks… Brother Titus. Please, you must… reclaim Ultramar…"
The Astartes' hand fell limp. Titus closed his eyes in brief, silent mourning before standing. Of his half-company, only he, Gadriel, and Metaurus remained. It felt like a grim echo of his past struggles against the Tyranids and the Thousand Sons.
"I shall begin the recovery of their gene-seed," Metaurus said after a moment of shared silence, kneeling to begin the grim task.
"You are a man of many talents, my lord," Gadriel remarked, watching Metaurus expertly cut through the power armor to extract the precious progenoid glands.
"My combat experience is more extensive than you realize, Ancient."
"Report, Gadriel," Titus asked, glancing at the remains of the crushed Skaven.
"Yes, my lord. We must move swiftly. These xenos intend to use our brothers' gene-seed as sacrifices to their foul, alien false god!" Gadriel reported, his voice tight with concern.
Titus's expression grew grim. After purging over a dozen Skaven clans, he had learned from the dying gasps of countless rat-men that these strange, loathsome xenos worshipped a malevolent entity they called the Great Horned Rat.
He did not know what this being truly was, perhaps a mere delusion of the xenos mind, or perhaps a new and terrible power stirring within the Warp. Regardless, the Emperor's precious gene-seed would never serve as a sacrifice for such filth. This was a dishonor the Ultramarines would not endure.
"It is done. We move," Metaurus said, rising and securing eight gene-seed vials into the dispensers at his belt. The great rat-beast had been formidable; its claws and teeth had pierced Mark X Tacticus armor with ease. It was only through the desperate sacrifice of their brothers that a greater catastrophe had been averted.
"Indeed. For the Emperor! For Ultramar!" Titus gave a sharp, steady nod and a battle cry, then shattered the fractured rock wall before them with a single blow.
They finally emerged from the suffocating tunnels into a scene of even greater horror. The ground was littered with unidentifiable remains, rotting and gnawed by bloated rats. The rough rock walls were stained with a macabre tapestry of dried and fresh blood. In the distance, scattered groups of the upright rat-creatures stood sentinel.
"My lord, this area serves as a slave pen for the xenos. We might use this to our advantage," Gadriel noted, pointing to his auspex. He suggested breaking the shackles of the captives, using a mass breakout to distract the Skaven while they closed in on their objective.
Metaurus harbored reservations. The captives were citizens of Ultramar. While the Ultramarines did not prioritize civilian lives above all else in the manner of the Salamanders, they held a deep bond with the people of the Five Hundred Worlds.
"But my lord, we cannot extract them," Gadriel urged. "Better they meet the Emperor's embrace in a moment of glorious defiance than continue to endure the humiliations of the xenos."
The final decision rested with Titus. The Master of the Watch weighed the grim calculus of war, then opened his eyes and nodded. "Very well. We shall grant them a final glory, rather than leave them to shame."
"Understood, my lord!"
The captives, of all origins, were crammed into filth-ridden cages, left to rot alongside the decomposing corpses of those who had perished before them. High-born nobles shared cells with scarred scavengers; wailing infants lay beside the semi-conscious elderly. To Clan Moulder, all slaves were merely experimental subjects, distinguished only by their perceived value.
Outside, the Skaven guards alternated between high-pitched laughter and sudden, petty rages. They brandished their jezails and warp-rifles, tormenting those beneath them while groveling before the larger, more powerful members of their kin.
Suddenly, three massive shadows lunged from the darkness. Dozens of Skaven patrollers were trampled instantly as the Astartes unleashed a whirlwind of slaughter. Before the rat-men could screech for reinforcements, they were annihilated. The Space Marines shattered the cage locks with ease.
"Citizens of Ultramar!" they called out. "In the name of the Emperor and the Primarch, the hour of your defiance has come!"
"Oh… Angels… the Emperor's Angels have come for us! Praise the Emperor!"
Hope flickered in the eyes of the broken and the numb. They scrambled from their cages. A few disfigured nobles demanded that Titus escort them to safety, but Titus would not be swayed. He gave them the coordinates of the exit, cast weapons to the floor, and told them to form ranks. Perhaps a few would survive the trek.
As more cages were sundered, the throng of human slaves swelled into a sizeable force.
"Do not fail the Emperor! To be bound in shame is a fate He will not tolerate!"
Fueled by desperation and the sheer weight of their numbers, the slaves ignited with a will to fight, preparing to claw their way out of this "Hell Pit."
Titus watched the crowd with a look of mingled guilt and resolve before turning away. He, Gadriel, and Metaurus vanished into the depths of the complex.
Soon, the staccato thunder of gunfire erupted, joined by the chittering shrieks of Skaven and the terrifying roars of monsters.
In the path of the fleeing humans, a nightmare emerged: a mountain of stitched muscle with five arms, each wielding a different weapon of terror. This was a Brood Horror, controlled by a Master Moulder or Packmaster sewn directly into its flesh, a creature that served the Skaven as a Dreadnought did the Astartes.
"The metal-things can go-go in! Let them kill the fool-idiot Grey Seer! These slave-things are for practice-play!" the controller shrieked with a manic cackle.
The Brood Horror charged like an unstoppable, barbed locomotive. No makeshift weapon could pierce its hide, which was tougher than ceramite and reinforced with metallic subdermal plating. The chain-hooks, warp-claws, flaying gloves, warpfire throwers, and Ratling cannons on its five limbs began a systematic and bloody harvest.
Meanwhile, Titus had reached the site of the ritual. Below them, they could see the broad, filth-slicked altar, surrounded by the incessant chittering of opulently dressed Skaven.