Abaddon sought to sever the Nachmund Gauntlet, the linchpin of which was the deactivation or extraction of the anti-psychic Blackstone arrays scattered across its worlds. On Vigilus, the Blackstone had already been excavated for millennia by the Adeptus Mechanicus, inadvertently streamlining the Despoiler's grim labor. Sometimes, one had to concede that the Imperium's internal rot provided Abaddon with his most effective allies.
However, in contrast, the Great Horned Rat was no ally to the Warmaster. Lucius understood Abaddon's intent perfectly: once the Nachmund Gauntlet was closed, the Despoiler would move to rapidly unify the Imperium Nihilus and establish a "Second Empire."
Naturally, the Four Great Powers of the Warp cared little. To those supreme entities, Abaddon was merely a chattering lab rat attempting to scratch out a territory within its cage.
But Lucius was far from content. Chaos was the soil in which his opportunities grew. Should the Nachmund Gauntlet fall and the Imperium succeed in fortifying the Sanctum, the Skaven's ability to lurk and infiltrate would be severely compromised. It was normal for Guilliman to manage the headaches of a whole Empire, but if he only had half an Empire to govern, his administrative efficiency might drastically improve. Thus, keeping Vigilus in a state of perpetual, chaotic warfare best served the Skaven's interests.
In the East Thoria Hive Sector, the territory held in a three-way stalemate between the Purge, the Death Guard, and Clan Pestilens was becoming increasingly "festering"—in the most literal sense.
The "Rust-Plague" ravaged the sector, fusing human flesh with cold iron in a horrific mechanical symbiosis. Fetid Poxwalkers crawled through the ruins like sewer rats, their mindless, terrifying visages lashing out at any living soul that did not share their contagion.
Their quarry, however, was the rats. The Plague Monks of Clan Pestilens were not sluggish like the Poxwalkers; instead, they moved with a frenetic, twitching agility stimulated by their own diseases. Their rusted, virus-slicked blades blurred in a frantic dance, hacking the Poxwalkers into heaps of rotting mulch.
Yet, against the Traitor Astartes, the Plague Monks were utterly outmatched. A squad of the Purge burst into the fray, their lungs heaving with toxic exhalations. They slaughtered indiscriminately, their plague-encrusted chainaxes moving like shadows in the hands of three-meter-tall giants of pestilence.
Whirrrrrr—
Like the droning of a billion flies, the chainaxes tore through the softened flesh of Poxwalkers as if it were curdled milk, and shattered the reinforced frames of the rat-kin through sheer kinetic violence.
"Aieee—Retreat-back!"
The Skaven were not as mindless as the walking dead. Seeing the Plague Marines, and lacking overwhelming numbers, they turned tail and fled instantly. They knew that where the Purge fought, the warriors of the Death Guard would soon follow to purge such "unauthorized" heretics.
"Disgraceful! By the Great Horned Rat's teeth!" Skrolk roared, sending the lesser Skaven into a fit of shivering terror.
Following the sudden skirmish, Clan Rictus had already withdrawn its forces in bulk. Even for Skaven, the psychic maladies wielded by their rivals were an anathema they could not counter. In a short span, Clan Rictus had lost hundreds of thousands of troops to disease, a loss that had driven Kratch Doomclaw into a state of incandescent fury.
At this moment, a Plague Priest under Skrolk's command ventured a suggestion: "O, my... my foul and mighty Arch-Plague Priest, why not ask... why not petition the greatest Great Horned Rat for aid? Yes-yes."
Skrolk turned his rotted, eyeless head toward the priest. This planet meant little to him, but if the virulent strains used by the Death Guard and the Purge could be captured and returned to Clan Pestilens for study—that would be a feat of supreme merit.
However, to petition the Great Horned Rat was a gamble. No Skaven truly knew if their god would grant them aid or strike them down in a fit of divine caprice.
"Yes, we need... need power to break the can-things! But that would mean bowing to Skryre-Moulder things... No! Never!" Skrolk shrieked, smashing a nearby machine with his heavy Plague Censer.
Skrolk's devotion to Nurglitch and the aspect of the Horned Rat as the Lord of Pestilence was absolute. To beg for mundane technological aid was a terminal insult to his faith.
Yet, the idea of divine intervention remained. Skrolk quickly identified his scapegoat. He turned to the priest who had suggested the idea and spoke with a terrifyingly gentle tone: "Then it shall be you. You-you! Let the Great Horned Rat see your loyalty. Nurglitch will see your... your true heart!"
Without further preamble, he ordered the Skaven to construct a sacrificial altar of incense. This altar was far more "extravagant" than those of the other clans.
At Skrolk's command, Clan Pestilens brought forth all their captives: Imperials, Xenos, and even members of rival Chaos warbands. They intended to use their collective souls and agony to bridge the gap to the Great Horned Rat.
The heads of humans, mutated and ruined by a thousand viruses, had become nameless horrors. A single glance was enough to induce vomiting or a loss of consciousness; bloated maggots and flies writhed in their open sores.
Hundreds of thousands of captives, convulsing and seizing under the weight of experimental plagues, were discarded into a subterranean plaza slick with fungi and foul ichor.
As Skrolk signaled, the sacrifice began. The Plague Priests intoned their blasphemous litanies. The diseases within the captives reached a sudden, violent crescendo. Even the maggots and flies began to tremble, sprouting withered flesh and needle-thin talons.
The humming of wings shifted into a chorus of chittering. The small vermin transformed into hairless, nightmare rats that swarmed the captives, devouring them piece by agonizing piece.
Under this double burden of physical torment and existential dread, the suffering souls and the tidal wave of raw emotion surged into the Warp like a psychic maelstrom!
The display drew the attention of countless Warp entities, eager to feast on such concentrated malice. Among them were hundreds of Daemon Princes and Greater Daemons, sensing that such a bounty of psychic energy could grant them unprecedented power.
Then, a massive, furry hand, white as bleached bone, reached out from the chaotic mists of the Empyrean. With a motion like swiping away bothersome gnats, it closed. Thousands of lesser Warp predators were instantly crushed into a pulp of soul-matter between its claws.
A Greater Daemon of Khorne roared, leaping forward to strike at a finger a hundred times its own size with its massive axe. But the blade, capable of cleaving legions and toppling fortresses, could not leave a single scratch upon the skin.
With a casual flick of a finger, a hundred Greater Daemons were snuffed out, their essences dissolved into raw Warp energy. The Great Hand then firmly grasped the offering meant for Him.
The minor deities of the Warp fled in terror. The Cold Sun continued its silent, distant burn. The Four Great Powers watched with a mixture of derision and amusement. To them, seeing a Dark God personally descend to swat at ants was a rare source of "amusement", and "amusement " were exactly the kind of entertainment they craved.
…
Within the Warp, Lucius naturally ignored the mockery of the Four. He stared at the "sacrificial offerings" with an expression of profound disgust.
As a power within the Warp, he embodied the aspects worshipped by the various Skaven clans. He held a domain over viruses second only to Nurgle, yet the part of him that remained human still recoiled at the filth of these tributes. Looking at his divine realm, now cluttered with Skryre factories and Moulder bio-labs, he decided he did not want "shit" smeared all over his domain.
"I'll craft a daemon for you. Now take it and get out of my sight!"
Lucius bared his massive teeth. He reached out and began to knead the psychic energy of the sacrifice like raw clay. Soon, a ten-meter-tall horror was born: its fur was rotted away, its skin a map of gangrene, pustules, and parasites.
"Corruptor Greater Daemon, go forth," Lucius growled, his voice like rolling thunder.
The Greater Daemon, christened Nagdanon the Corruptor, fell to its knees before the Horned Rat like a fanatic. A moment later, it was cast out of the Immaterium and into the mortal realm.
…
"It comes! YES-YES! It comes!"
In the heart of the Clan Pestilens altar on Vigilus, as a gale of Chaos energy shrieked through the chamber, the Plague Lords and Priests fell into a frenzy of excitement. They felt a familiar, "affectionate" power approaching.
"In the name of the Horned Rat... Corruptor Nagdanon! Come-approach, my festering children! I bring the blessings of the Great Horned Rat!"
Out of the Warp-gale, accompanied by an echo that sounded like the splashing of a sewer, the Greater Daemon emerged.
The Skaven of Clan Pestilens erupted in jubilant chittering. This was the ultimate validation: their god had recognized their faith, just as He had for Skryre, Eshin, and Mors. The Corruptor Greater Daemon had arrived, the living prophet of the Plague-kin.
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