Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 183 183: Unholy Alliances

At the northernmost reaches of the Leagues of Votann and the Urani-Surtr Regulates, a murderous armada of countless Greenskin pirates has gathered. These inexhaustible Orks have embedded themselves like a splinter within the Shattered Stars.

They do not merely contend with the Kin of the Leagues; they are in direct, violent friction with the Tyranids and their peculiar nesting behaviors. These splinters of Hive Fleet Tiamet, while lacking the world-consuming mass of the primary hive fleet, possess an insatiable hunger for new territory.

Leading this Greenskin slaughter-fleet is the infamous Bogg, the King of Freebooters. This "King of Kings" among Orks threw himself into this chaotic theater for one simple reason: it is incredibly "flashy." Between the Leagues of Votann, the Necrons, the Hive Fleets, and the recently emerged Skaven, the region is teeming with enemies who are as "good for a scrap" as they are for looting.

With his pockets bulging from the spoils of war, more Greenskin pirates have flocked to join Bogg's "grand feast." On the primary world of the Shattered Stars, the Orks have transformed the surface into a vast, ramshackle hub for stolen goods. Around the equator, countless racing tracks, carved by the jagged treads of Ork vehicles, crisscross the landscape. Their scrap-heap architecture stretches to the horizon, a sprawling slum where untold numbers of Orks are born, brawling and boozing before taking up the choppa. Most eventually join Bogg's fleet, driven by the singular desire to find even "proppa" fights in the void.

The Warboss of this domain, the Supreme Overlord of the slaughter-fleet, Bogg, resides within the largest mountain of junk on the planet. This refuse heap has been reinforced with scrap metal into an ugly yet impregnable fortress. Crude, oversized cannon barrels bristle from its surface like the spines of a sea urchin. The Orks guarding the path to his throne are exceptionally tall, strong, and visibly wealthy by Greenskin standards.

"Wot's diz then? Caught another scrawny anuvver ratties, 'ave we?" a Flash Git barked, sneering as he tested his snazzgun on a group of cowering Gretchin.

"Nah, 'e came knockin' on 'is own. Sez 'e's got bizness wiv da Boss. I figured I'd bring 'im in!"

The Greenskin exchange was brutally simple. The Skaven captives were elite Stormvermin, yet without the transhuman augmentations of the Rat-startes, they were merely furry "humies" in the eyes of the Orks.

The Orks soon escorted the Skaven into the heart of the metal mountain. There, upon a towering throne, sat a behemoth of an Ork. He wore a flamboyant pirate captain's hat and a lavish greatcoat; one eye had been replaced by a crude, black mechanical optic. This was Bogg himself.

"Heh-heh-heh... Wot's diz? You 'ere to be my dinner?" Bogg rumbled, drool leaking from his maw.

"NO-NO! We are… we are emissaries of the mighty-powerful Clan Mors! We come-arrive to talk business with you, oh great-strong green-things! A big deal-trade! A grand slaughter!" The lead Skaven spoke with a stuttering, rapid-fire urgency.

"A big scrap? Wot you wantin', a time and place to krump?" Bogg stood, revealing a massive, hulking frame at least five meters tall.

"NO! Mors wants to unite-join with you, green-things! Kill the stunties! Kill the bugs! Kill the iron-skeleton things!" The Skaven grinned obsequiously, rubbing his paws together. "Mors is sincere-honest! We kill the stunties! Loot the iron-skeletons! Then we... we have a proper fight-battle afterwards, YES-YES!"

Bogg scratched his chin with a massive hand. This brute possessed a level of cunning and low animal intelligence far beyond the average Ork; he had to, in order to rule the craftiest pirates of his race.

"Heh-heh-heh... The ratties wants to play wiv me? Fine. But when it comes to da loot, I'm takin' seventy percent!" Bogg grinned, baring yellowed tusks.

The Skaven of Clan Mors grumbled inwardly. Gnawdwell wouldn't give them a single coin, and planned to kill the Orks anyway. But their faces showed only fawning agreement. They bowed and scraped instantly. "YES-YES! Mors is most generous-kind! Great green-things should take much-much!"

Meanwhile, Bogg laughed in his head: I'm gonna shoot you gitz in da back da second you turn 'round!

Negotiating with Orks was rarely complicated, provided one could tolerate their inevitable treachery. Naturally, the Skaven did not mind. To a Skaven, an ally was merely a target currently standing in the wrong direction.

…

Elsewhere, within the Samnokh Dynasty…

The Necrons were far less accommodating. Upon the Skaven's arrival, the local Necron Overlord immediately ordered the destruction of their fleet. They systematically purged the interlopers until only one terrified rat remained to be dragged before Phaeron Isamakh.

Hearing the Skaven's trembling, high-pitched squeaks, the Phaeron let out a dry, rasping laugh of pure disdain. "Filthy lesser organism. Do you intend to amuse me with such pathetic jests? Alas, only your biological dissolution could provide me any modicum of pleasure."

The Skaven emissary, driven by a frantic instinct for survival, saw his hyper-active brain kick into overdrive. "Clearly, you need us… need us to help you! Those stunties are hard-tough to kill. You have not taken them in so long-long. But we-we can create the opening together! YES-YES! The stunties cannot stop-halt us both! Kill-slay the stunties first, then... then we continue our own war-battle!"

The Phaeron's logic circuits processed the proposal. His god-like technology summarized the local theater of war in a microsecond. Through cold analysis, the Necron reached a conclusion:

The dynasty's ancestral lands were currently occupied by the Hold Worlds of the Urani-Surtr Regulates. The Kin's resilience was indeed formidable. If these verminous biologicals could be used as fodder to break the stunties and reclaim the territory, it would be efficient. After all, Skaven, Orks, and Tyranids were far easier to purge than the stubborn, entrenched Kin.

But once the Hold Worlds fell... a light like cold starlight flickered in the Phaeron's mechanical oculars. He gave a slight, stiff nod. "Lowly creature. I shall grudgingly concede to your idiocy this once. You may depart. Return to your wretched master and report that I have agreed."

…

When both parties returned to the Pillar Star with news of the alliances, a cold, predatory smile crept across Gnawdwell's face.

"Yes-yes... the cheese is set-placed. Now we wait for them to step-walk into the trap." Gnawdwell knew these treaties were built on sand, but he remained utterly confident: no one in the galaxy could betray a partner faster than a Skaven.

"Queek, begin-start your preparations. And tell-order the Warp-Genetics labs to accelerate. I want more Ironclaw Warriors and Iron-rats. I want-want them ALL!"

"Yes, Father! Queek is ready!"

Under Gnawdwell's command, Clan Mors mobilized with frantic energy. The Breeder-rats in the birthing pits were pumped full of massive doses of warp-chemicals, forcing them into a state of hyper-fecundity. Female pups were selected for further mutation, while the males were funneled directly into the burgeoning ranks of Clan Mors.

Under Gnawdwell's meticulous long-term planning, Mors had avoided reckless over-expansion due to resource constraints. But now, he required a bloody, total victory. For that, he needed fodder, and he needed it in millions.

The Warlock Engineers and Master Mutators of Clan Mors were driven into high-intensity labor. Gnawdwell even spent a fortune to hire a massive contingent of Clan Ratling mercenaries from the Imperial Sanctum via the Gnawholes.

The pieces were moving; the Great Horned Rat's shadow was lengthening over the cluster.

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