Kratch Doomclaw's strategic acumen might not equal that of Gnawdwell, the War-King of Clan Mors, but his ability to hold a seat on the Council of Thirteen without collapsing into a ruin of lies and backstabbing was proof enough of his lethality.
From the intelligence gathered by his scouts, Kratch understood one thing perfectly: this planet was dying of thirst. On Vigilus, clean water was a more precious commodity than grain. In the fledgling Under-Empire, only the Stormvermin and higher castes were permitted filtered water; Clanrats subsisted on tainted runoff, and as for the Slaves... those wretched things usually quenched their thirst with the hot blood of their fallen comrades.
Thus, when the Eshin assassins returned with reports of the Stygian Spires, massive structures maintained by the Tech-Priests of Stygies VIII capable of harvesting ice-crystals from the void of space, Kratch made it his primary target.
This vital water-processing infrastructure had been commandeered by Marneus Calgar at the onset of the War of the Beasts. Though the Magi of Stygies VIII were livid, none dared openly defy the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines.
Below the spires, the Imperial defensive lines were being systematically swallowed by the vermin-tide. The problem remained: the spire was a needle piercing the heavens; one could not simply climb into space. The elevators had to be brought down.
Kratch waited with predatory patience as a specialist team arrived under a heavy escort of Stormvermin. A Warlock Engineer, encased in hissing Warp-Power Armor, trotted toward the base of the space-elevator's colossal foundations.
Three specially augmented, four-armed Bonebreaker Rat Ogres carried a massive, buzzing metal apparatus, a device shaped like a mosquito the size of three Skaven. Together, they slammed the machine into the spire's hull.
"Ahababa—YES-YES! Just like that! Hairless-things are always, always so sloppy-weak!" The Warlock Engineer cackled, activating the device. A surge of raw Warpstone energy began to bleed into the mechanical spirit of the tower.
Since their arrival in this galaxy, the Engineers of Clan Skryre had noted a peculiar trait in the local technology: what the natives of Zavka and beyond called the "Machine Spirit." The Skaven cared little for the theological truth of such a concept, but they were exceptionally good at inventing ways to kill it.
This was a Corruption Engine. It worked by flooding a machine's systems with the entropic power of the Warp, forcing the "Machine Spirit" to serve the Horned Rat's design. Currently, the technology was limited; the engine was so bulky it could only be used on massive structures, a puzzle the Skryre masters were still struggling to solve.
Sure enough, the baleful green energy surged upward. Amidst a silent, digital scream of agony, emerald fractures spread rapidly across the surface of the Stygian Spire, climbing toward the clouds.
High above, the resident Tech-Priests stared in horror as their data-altars hemorrhaged error codes. "Why is the Machine Spirit displeased?" one asked.
A Magos, whose body had been refined into a multi-limbed engine of logic, tapped out a sequence on a brass terminal. "A profound source of empyric filth is agonizing the spirit. We must begin the rites immediately! Invoke the Omnissiah!"
The Tech-Priests formed a circle, burning sacred incense and chanting binary psalms. Meanwhile, the remaining Magi ordered the Skitarii Marshal to deploy his forces.
Driven by the maddened Machine Spirit, the city-sized elevator platform began its descent. With a thundering roar that shook the continent, the massive iron slab slammed into the ground.
Ignoring the thousands of Slave-Rats crushed into red paste by the elevator's arrival, Kratch bellowed orders, though he made no move to board the platform himself. Such a dangerous vanguard was not for a Lord of the Council.
Instead, Kratch clapped a heavy, encouraging paw onto the broad shoulder of Rikcruk Sliceblade. "You... you are the greatest warrior of Rictus besides myself! Go-lead! For the Horned Rat! For the glory of the Clan!"
Rikcruk nodded with manic fervor. To him, this was a promotion to Marshal of the Rictus host. He gripped his twin Warp-blades, raising them high as he turned to the teeming masses. "Rat-kin! Follow-chase me! CHARGE!!"
Rikcruk was a brute, but he was no fool. He knew that if this space-bound mission went wrong, he was a dead rat. But the political stakes were immense. If Kratch were to meet a sudden, unfortunate end, the prestige of leading the Rictus main host would make Rikcruk the prime candidate for the Council of Thirteen.
The swarm flooded onto the elevator. The platform itself was a sprawling industrial city, though the violent descent had caused many of its iron spires to collapse. This chaos had taken a heavy toll on the defending Skitarii.
"FOR THE HORNED RAT!!"
"KILL-SLAY!!"
As the Skaven poured in, the Skitarii Marshal issued urgent commands. These cold, emotionless warriors, the Skitarii Vanguard and Rangers, immediately began fortifying the wreckage of their lines, raising galvanized barriers and readying their galvanic rifles.
Against the swarm, the Skitarii knew no fear. The red-robed soldiers advanced in a measured cadence, firing with mechanical precision from behind cover.
The Skaven countered with their usual disregard for life. Clanrats kicked Slave-Rats forward, using the living meat-shields to soak up galvanic fire as they closed the distance. Onager Dunecrawlers and Kataphron Breachers unleashed a devastating storm of ordnance, their twin-linked heavy phosphor blasters and Eradication Beamers turning hundreds of rats into ash and red mist. Even an Earthshaker Cannon, repurposed for elevator defense, boomed, clearing entire city blocks with a single shell.
Yet, for every hundred rats vaporized, thousands more surged forward to fill the gap. The Skaven reached the first Skitarii line in a matter of minutes.
Twitching, wiry Slave-Rats shrieked as they fell upon the cyborg defenders with rusted shivs. Though the Skitarii crushed them with superior strength, more rats swarmed over them, seeking out exposed cabling and weak points in their bionics with their yellowed fangs.
Then came the Clanrats, marching in crude but effective formations. Under the lash of their Paw-leaders, they crouched and aimed their jagged Warp-muskets, returning fire with mutating green rounds.
Suddenly, the booming Earthshaker fell silent. The unified Skitarii network flickered, reverting to autonomous, decentralized combat modes.
In the command bunker, the Skitarii Marshal's head had been cleanly lopped from his shoulders by a Weeping Blade. The killer, a sleek Eshin Assassin clad in a warp-stealth cloak, stood over the corpse with eyes cold and sharp.
"X-Xenos… bzzzzt... Kill, fire... bzzzzt—"
The Marshal's severed head emitted one final command before a squad of Sicarian Ruststalkers lunged forward on hydraulic legs, their transonic blades humming with lethal frequency.
The Assassin didn't flinch. With a fluid aerial flip, he kicked the Marshal's decapitated body into the path of the lead Ruststalker. He slammed a Warp-Smoke bomb onto the deck, instantly saturating the area with multi-spectrum interference that blinded the Skitarii's ocular sensors.
CRACK—SNIP!
The Eshin, trained to hunt in total sensory deprivation, flickered through the smoke. His Weeping Blades danced among the Ruststalkers. There were brief flashes of green light, followed by the sound of heavy metal limbs hitting the floor.
A grappling hook hissed through the air, catching a ceiling strut. The Assassin vanished into the rafters, defying gravity as he disappeared. When the smoke cleared, the remaining Skitarii found only the diced remnants of their elite hunters.
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