As one of the few surviving wings of the original Hexagrammaton, the Deathwing, composed entirely of veterans clad in Tactical Dreadnought Armor, represented the most formidable force the Dark Angels could currently field. These ancient warriors of the shadow, knowing the gravity of their duty, gathered to receive the commands of their gene-father.
Lion El'Jonson sat upon a throne of iron, once belonging to a planetary governor, now draped in the pelt of an unidentified great beast. He rested his hands upon the hilt of Fealty, eyes closed as if in meditation. He could not yet discern if the visions he had received were a ploy by Chaos to corrupt his reason or a revelation from the Emperor himself.
The Primarch remained silent, and the Space Marines below did not press him. Like knights awaiting investiture, they stood in solemn, absolute stillness.
After a long silence, the Lion raised his head, his resolve set. "I have a task for you. Though I should rightfully lead this quest myself, circumstances forbid it."
"You have our absolute loyalty, Father!" the Deathwing Company Commander declared, striking his breastplate with a fist that produced the heavy, rhythmic clank of ceramite.
The Lion transmitted the imagery from his psychic visions directly to their auspex units. The Terminators beheld grainy, flickering captures of strange, metallic wheel-like constructs.
"Destroy these xenos abominations. They are a blight upon this Imperial world. Leave none standing!" the Lion commanded, his voice echoing with authority.
"By your will, Father!" The assembled Deathwing knelt as one, swearing their oaths before turning to depart for the embarkation decks. Though the data provided was nebulous and the location of the enemy uncertain, the Unforgiven were long accustomed to such cryptic hunts. To them, the lack of information was merely another trial to overcome.
…
Dozens of Land Raiders roared to life, transporting these elite veterans to the transit zones between the Mid-hive and the Underhive. This region, though nominally a structural weak point, resembled a sprawling fortress. The outer bulkheads were encased in layers of crude macro-crete, guarded by platoons of Astra Militarum with leveled lasguns. Lines of razorwire and tiered trenches crisscrossed the landscape.
As the Land Raiders approached a massive gate integrated into the hive wall, the sheer scale of the passage to the Underhive became clear—it was wide enough for a hundred men to march abreast.
They drove for several solar days. The architecture grew increasingly ruinous, the air thick with industrial pollutants and the stench of decay. Only then did the Dark Angels realize they had truly entered the depths.
"Filth... the air reeks of death and the musk of the xenos," a Terminator growled through his vox-grille as the ramp dropped.
Grand Master Belial surveyed the battlefield. The Underhive, usually a chaotic hive of activity, was eerily deserted. The "scavs" and dregs who had populated these ruins only recently had vanished entirely.
Belial swept the area with his auspex. The screen lit up with a swarm of red runes signaling hostile intent. Immediately, a Terminator fired his storm bolter. The bolt shells, small explosive cannons in their own right, shattered a pile of debris, revealing the mangled, charred remains of dozens of oversized rats.
"It seems we are on vermin control duty," Belial remarked with a rare, grim attempt at humor. He stepped forward, crushing the squeaking rodents beneath his heavy sabatons, and shattered a meter-thick concrete pillar with a casual backhand of his power fist.
As the makeshift shanty collapsed, it revealed a yawning, bottomless pit. The auspex confirmed the void extended deep into the sub-levels.
"Descending," Belial ordered. The hundred Terminators leaped into the darkness.
The drop was not as deep as anticipated; the tunnels were haphazard and jagged. On the cavern walls, the deep gouges of tools, claws, and gnawing teeth were visible, unmistakable signs of the foul xenos. Soon, the tunnel branched into a labyrinthine network of diversions.
No brother spoke; they waited for the Grand Master's word.
"Form into squads of ten. Under no circumstances is a unit to drop below five. For the Lion! For the Lion!" Belial roared.
The Deathwing moved with practiced efficiency, splitting into tactical squads and disappearing into the various gloom-shrouded tunnels.
The deeper they marched, the more the rats multiplied. The stench became a physical weight, and glowing red eyes flickered incessantly in the dark. Finally, the first of the rat-men could no longer restrain its malice.
A gaunt, skeletal Skaven shrieked as it leaped from the shadows, firing a Warp-pistol at the approaching giants.
Thump-thump-thump—
While Warp-bullets, fueled by the foul energies of Chaos and sorcerous alchemy, could pierce the flak armor of Imperial Storm Troopers, these crude projectiles, merely soaked in Warpstone toxins, could not hope to breach Astartes power armor, let alone the reinforced plating of a Terminator.
The Deathwing retaliated instantly. A single bolt round reduced the Slave-rat into a red mist of gore.
Suddenly, a chorus of high-pitched chittering erupted. Countless Skaven began to crawl from every crack and crevice, a swarming tide of wretched xenos attempting to harm the scions of the Lion with their rusted blades.
"These are mere chaff meant to expend our munitions. Do not waste your fire. Follow me, charge!" Belial realized that while the numbers were overwhelming, they had yet to encounter the more formidable Skaven equipped with long-rifles or gear comparable to the Astra Militarum. Having fought these creatures for half a year, the veterans knew these were expendable slaves.
Belial chose a heading and lunged forward, using his massive Terminator plate as a living battering ram.
"Squeal! Die-die!!"
Faced with this four-meter-tall, mountain-moving tank of a man, the fragile bodies of the Slave-rats were utterly obliterated. They were transformed into a red slurry upon impact. No matter how many threw themselves forward, they could not halt the brutal momentum of the Deathwing. Power fists, wreathed in disruptive energy fields, swiped through the air, reducing xenos flesh to ash with every strike.
Carving a path of carnage, Belial tracked the auspex signatures toward the heart of the nest.
The rat-swarm thickened, and the topography became a nightmare of "architecture." Countless shanties built from refuse were stacked precariously atop one another, defying logic and gravity. Unlike the crude but sturdy scrap-piles of the Orks, these Skaven structures were rickety, layered hives of filth that rose like rotting skyscrapers within the subterranean cavern.
"Signal acquired. Massive energy source detected ahead. Advance, Brothers!" Belial bellowed.
As they breached the inner shanty-city, they officially entered the heart of the nest. Though this was merely the outskirts of a minor vassal clan, they were immediately met by the disciplined ranks of Clanrat regulars.
The Skaven opened fire from all directions, perched atop the jagged, steep structures. The terrain was treacherous, forcing the Terminators to return fire while seeking cover. They realized that the weaponry of these regulars was beginning to make their Tactical Dreadnought Armor shudder. They would need to consolidate their strength and strike in one unstoppable blow to shatter the target.