Warhammer 40k: Rise of the Great Horned Rat

Chapter 186 186: The Numerical Superiority of the Space Age

"Kin of Votann—Never Back Down!"

Faced with the collapsing alloy walls and the deluge of Skaven surging from the breach, the Leagues of Votann showed no fear; instead, their fury burned hotter.

The Hearthkyn Warriors formed a defensive line; short in stature, yet utterly unbreakable. Leveling their Bolters and Ion Blasters, they opened fire in unison, instantaneously reducing the oncoming tide of Skaven into a slurry of shattered bone and rent flesh.

The sheer weight of Slave Rats was insufficient to breach the overwhelming firepower, the formidable physiques, and the resilient Void Armour of these Kin warriors. Even those Skaven who managed to close the distance were couldn't hold their ground for a second.

The fists of the Hearthkyn, bolstered by their Void Armour, were powerful enough to beat a Slave Rat to death with ease, to say nothing of the fully mechanical, artificial intelligences known to the Kin as Ironkin. These robotic sentinels, driven by superior logic and cold efficiency, fought shoulder-to-shoulder with their biological brethren.

Under this brutal punishment, no amount of grand ambition or empty promises from their masters could halt the inevitable rout of the Slave Rats. When they realized that numbers alone could not break the line, their "strength in numbers" evaporated. The scent of fear-musk filled the air, and their advance instantly dissolved into a panicked scramble. Squealing in terror, the Slave Rats shoved their comrades aside, clawing and sprinting on all fours to flee the source of their dread.

"Useless! Worthless-useless things! Slaves are slaves, good for nothing!" A Skaven Warlord in the rear screamed, but his cursing, shoving, and summary executions of deserters did nothing to stem the tide. He knew it was time for the next phase.

"Send in the Clanrats! Use the bayonets! Skewer-stab them!"

The Warlord's command filtered down to the Chieftains, who passed it to the Stormvermin. Only after the Stormvermin had delivered heavy kicks to the backsides of the Clanrat Clawleaders was the order finally put into motion. It wasn't that the Skaven lacked radio technology; rather, most minor clans couldn't afford the Warp-tokens required for a Warlock Engineer to maintain a Warp-radio. Consequently, for the lower clans, logistics relied on walking, communication on screaming, and authority on kicking.

"Fix-attach bayonets! Rub on more Warpstone dust!"

The Clanrat Clawleaders scurried through the ranks of their subordinates, shrieking orders. With a mixture of terror and manic fervor, the Clanrats snapped monomolecular bayonets, similar to those of the Astra Militarum, onto their crude, bolt-action Warp-muskets. They then smeared the blades with Warpstone dust from their pouches. Many Clanrats would secretly sell or consume the dust themselves, but the higher-ups didn't care; if a rat lacked the Warpstone to pierce armor and died in battle, it simply meant one less mouth to feed.

After a brief preparation, the Clanrats formed ranks far more disciplined than the Slave Rats. Their attire was a motley collection of battered flak and carapace armor, depending on what spoils the individual rat had managed to scavenge or steal. Because of the constant threat of theft or a literal backstab, a Clanrat almost never removed their armor, leaving it encrusted with filth.

With their five-foot Warp-muskets tipped with glowing green bayonets, the weapons reached nearly two meters in length. As the Clanrats leveled their rifles, they managed to form a somewhat competent phalanx.

"Chit-ha! Chit-ha!" The Clawleaders, clutching triangular shields in one hand and Warp-pistols in the other, marched at the front-left of their units, barking garbled cadences.

"Hmph, finally, some interesting trash!" The Votann took a momentary breath and watched the Skaven maneuvers with localized disdain.

"Not a single rat gets inside! For Clan Angrund!" an Einhyr Champion roared.

As the breach in the wall widened, the Clanrat ranks expanded. Clad in helmets and scrap-plate, the Skaven began to tremble, half from paralyzing fear, and half from the terminal madness that fear becomes when pushed to the limit.

Thump-thump-thump!

Poisoned Wind Mortar shells rained down upon the Kin city. Green toxic clouds billowed out, but the effect was negligible compared to previous encounters. The Kin were prepared; every warrior was equipped with triple-layer filtration systems, reducing the corrosive toxins to a minor nuisance.

The Kin retaliated first. The twin-linked Bolters and Magna-rail Cannons of the Sagitaur ATVs roared, their high-velocity slugs punching through files of Clanrats in an instant. This only forced the Skaven to quicken their pace. As the Chieftains and Clawleaders shrieked their final battle cries, the Clanrats erupted into a piercing, discordant cacophony.

"For the Great Horned Rat!!"

"For Mors! YES-YES!"

The Clanrats broke into a sprint, firing as they ran. A rain of jagged, green Warp-bullets saturated the air. In the 41st Millennium, numerical superiority is a species' greatest asset. In the Old World, a few shields might hold back a swarm; but in this galaxy, the sheer volume of the Skaven reached a tipping point. Their single-shot rifles, by virtue of their staggering numbers, produced a curtain of fire denser than even the advanced weaponry of the Votann. As for how many shots hit their own kin in the back, that was of no concern to the Skaven.

The firefight ignited at three hundred meters, escalating into a brutal exchange. While Clanrats fell by the score, the Kin began to take losses; both Kinfolk and Ironkin were felled as Warp-rounds found gaps in armor or sheer volume overwhelmed their defenses.

Under the cover of this suppressive fire, the first wave of Clanrats reached the Kin line. They shrieked as they lunged with their bayonets. The lucky ones felt the sickeningly satisfying "pop" of a Warp-bayonet sinking into flesh before a counter-blow ended their existence. For the front rank, death was swift regardless of success. The Votann fought back with stubborn ferocity, their armored fists alone enough to shatter Skaven ribcages.

As the lines blurred, the "Space Butchers," the Cthonian Beserks, charged into the fray alongside the Einhyr Hearthguard. They swung heavy Plasma Axes and Plasma Blades that could carve through Astartes ceramite like ripened fruit. Their Concussion Mauls and Gauntlets pulverized armor and bone alike. However, using such weapons against Skaven felt like swatting mosquitoes with a siege cannon.

The Clanrats pressed on, tumbling over each other, thrusting bayonets desperately and firing point-blank into gaps in the Kin's defenses. This "forest of blades" began to push back the mighty Kin and Ironkin. Despite leaving behind mountains of Skaven corpses, hundreds for every dwarf fallen, the Kin were inevitably forced to give ground.

The battle moved into the streets. Doom-Flayers and Doomwheels, benefiting from their erratic yet superior maneuverability in tight urban corridors, ground down Kin who were unable to retreat in time. Even the Sagitaurs were outmatched in agility by these frenzied hamster wheels.

Finally, Durgar Ironhammer himself led his personal guard into the breach. It was only through the desperate charge of these three-meter-tall, battle-hardened Steel-Ironkin that a contingent of Skaven, nearly at the gates of the League's inner Hold-Fortress, was finally repelled.

"Yes-yes, those... those stout-things, they are mine-mine!" Queek Headtaker chattered. He sat triumphantly atop a transport converted from a captured Sagitaur, watching the retreating Clanrats in the distance. The Red Guard stood behind him, looming and lethal.

"Go now! Cannot wait! Blood...!" Ska Bloodtail, Queek's second-in-command, muttered as he licked Dwarven blood from the corner of his maw.

"Go!"

With a wave of Queek's hand, a massive unit of Ironclaw Warriors, the Skaven equivalent of Astartes, began a silent, rapid sprint. Standing over three meters tall and wielding reinforced Warp-lightning Polearms, their eyes burned with sharp, predatory focus.

Viewing themselves as superior to ordinary Skaven, a god-complex even more pronounced than that of a Space Marine toward a mortal, the Ironclaw Warriors didn't bother going around the Clanrat swarms. They smashed a path directly through their own kind, lunging toward Durgar and his elite Kin.

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