Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 182 182: The Movements of Clan Mors

Only now did Lucius feel he had truly shed the awkwardness of a shut-in playing tabletop wargames. While he found these "live-action" strategy games immensely entertaining, having a companion around was infinitely better.

This was especially true when that companion was Isha, the Eldar Mother Goddess. Her peerless beauty, a pinnacle of her race, was a feast for the eyes even if she were merely a decorative presence.

For her part, Isha found the current arrangement tolerable. She was no longer forced to consume Nurgle's foul concoctions and could simultaneously extend her protection to her children. Her only grievance was that this newly ascended Chaos God seemed to have a rather limited repertoire of "diversions."

What began as Lucius's assertive, borderline coercive advances had shifted; now, Isha took the initiative. She had even begun to instruct Lucius in certain "lost exotic techniques of the Aeldari."

Lucius was, to put it mildly, enlightened. These miraculous maneuvers could only be performed by the slender, elongated, yet finely muscled anatomy of the Eldar. Even with his imagination, he couldn't fathom how their race had devised such positions.

"But I am the Great Horned Rat... I am the God of Treachery and Despair, the Lord of Infinite Distortion. I cannot spend every night in revelry," Lucius muttered, dragging himself once more from Isha's cloud-bed. Isha's snowy, curvaceous, and long-limbed form lay draped across him, her flushed cheeks betraying none of her former rejection or spite.

"It's a good thing I'm a True God of Chaos," Lucius joked to himself. "If anyone weaker than Asuryan tried this, they'd be drained bone-dry."

Having entered a state of post-coital transcendence, Lucius decided the bedroom games had had their run. It was time to check on his playing pieces.

News of Isha's return had spread through the Aeldari like wildfire. The prestige of the Ynnari skyrocketed, and under Isha's divine influence, the Eldar's tragically low fertility rates began to show a marked improvement. The Seers of Ulthwé excitedly proclaimed this the "Second Renaissance of the Eldar."

Of course, Isha's efficacy was only possible because of the Great Horned Rat's protection. Without the might of a Chaos Octogram, who could possibly snatch a meal from the maw of Slaanesh?

"Hmph, boring lot... For now, you are merely new pieces in my 'Racial Expansion Pack.' Accumulate some numbers first, then provide me with some real sport."

With that, Lucius averted his gaze from the Eldar. That handful of models wasn't even enough for a two-thousand-point match.

His focus shifted to the galactic core, specifically the territories of the Leagues of Votann. This was the domain of Clan Mors. In the Eight Peaks System, though Clan Mors held the advantage, they had been unable to decisively seize the region.

Furthermore, Lucius had been somewhat overindulgent lately, leading to a lapse in his supervision of the Skaven. As a result, even the Council of Thirteen in Skavenblight was starting to get ideas above their station.

Because of the unique nature of this universe, the conflict for Clan Mors in the Eight Peaks System had escalated from a three-way struggle into a full-blown War of the Five Armies. This made the clan's advancement grueling. With so many complex factions involved, even Gnawdwell had to tread carefully.

"Hmph! I knew it. The filth in Skavenblight can achieve nothing-nothing!" Gnawdwell, a ratman who appeared neither physically imposing nor remarkable, yet sat upon his throne with immense majesty, snarled.

Since the Great Horned Rat had not manifested in the mortal realm for some time and divine blessings had grown infrequent, the denizens of Skavenblight had begun to harbor treacherous thoughts.

For instance, Gnawdwell currently held a notice from the Patriarch of Clan Moulder, Verminkin, announcing a price hike for Rat Ogres. Verminkin even demanded that Clan Mors share the manufacturing secrets of their Rat-startes Ironclaw Warriors as a "cooperative gesture."

The reason was simple: Clan Mors had begun using the powerful frames of Rat Ogres as templates for Space Marine-style surgeries, creating Terminator-like monstrosities known as Iron Rats. This had caused the demand for Rat Ogres to skyrocket.

Furthermore, because Clan Mors had been bogged down in the Eight Peaks System for years, the other Great Clans assumed Gnawdwell had grown senile. Even Clan Rictus was growing fat on transit tolls at Vigilus, taxing ratmen traveling between Skavenblight and the City of Blight.

Meanwhile, Mors appeared stagnant. In Skaven society, perceived weakness is merely the prelude to being devoured from within.

"Mors accepts no blackmail!"

Gnawdwell hurled the worthless notice to the floor, stomping it viciously. They think Mors has weakened? Fools! he thought with cold fury.

Queek Headtaker, returning to report on the frontlines, watched his father in confusion. Now standing over three meters tall, clad in power armor that was a patchwork of scars and repairs, the "Legendary Warlord of the Skaven" blinked at his sire.

"What-what is it, Father? Some rat-scum offended you? Queek will go kill! Kill them all!"

Queek didn't understand what had provoked such rage in his "sneaky" (wise) and "cruel" (brilliant) father, but he was more than willing to decapitate whoever was responsible.

Looking at his pride and joy, and his greatest headache, Gnawdwell shook his head and smoothed his demeanor. "It is nothing, Queek. I have everything in hand-hand."

"We have been confined to this-this tiny system for too long-long. The rats of Skavenblight have forgotten the might-majesty of Mors," Gnawdwell declared. "I shall launch-start an offensive, Queek. Mors will not be caged!"

"YES-YES! Father! Queek waits... waits for your command-order!" Though drenched in gore, Queek was visibly elated.

Lately, he had been acting like a glorified firefighter, scurrying between the various planets of the Eight Peaks System. Without his father's leave, he couldn't lead a full-scale slaughter.

Gnawdwell had not risen from an obscure minor clan to a member of the Council of Thirteen by accident; he was a strategic genius. He immediately revealed his tactical deployment.

Several small-scale Skaven fleets departed from Pillar Star, the capital of the Eight Peaks System. They split into two groups: one heading toward the territory of the Orkish Freebooter King, Bogg, and the other toward the Samnokh Dynasty of the Necrons.

His reasoning was cold: in this War of the Five Armies, these were the only two factions even remotely capable of "dialogue." The Urani-Surtr Regulates of the Leagues of Votann and the Tyranid Hive Fleet Tiamet were utterly beyond negotiation.

"Oh, NO-NO! Greenskins don't listen... won't listen! They only get killed by Queek!"

When Queek learned his father intended to "negotiate" an alliance with the "metal-things" and "green-things," he shook his head vigorously.

"Queek, wherever there-there is intelligence, there-there is weakness. This is the lesson-insight I must teach you," Gnawdwell told him. "Beyond mere battle-combat, a Warlord must master-learn the hearts of his enemies."

Utilizing Warp routes and the resonating chimes of the Great Bell, the two Skaven fleets soon reached their destinations. Given the years of constant warfare, both opposing forces immediately dispatched interceptors.

The Skaven, undeterred, promptly hoisted signals for parley and surrender.

"Boss, let's krump 'em! Krump the rats!" a greenskin Nob slurred to his Warboss, only to have his nose bridge shattered by a swift punch.

"I sez when we krump 'em! You want more of diz rat-fink things to show up, don't ya? Diz lot ain't enough to make a proppa scrap!" The Warboss rubbed his iron jaw, muttering to himself.

To the Orks, the Skaven were straightforward: fun to kill, but annoying. They were too many and too weak, you could get bored of them easily. However, if the "Rat Big-Uns" showed up... now that was a fight.

"Right then. Tell dez furry gitz to come 'ere. Tell 'em to bring more of the Big-Uns, and I'll give 'em a proppa krumping!"

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