Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you: No adverts like this in the forums anymore. Times and dates in your local timezone. Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance. Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely. Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net. If you are already a member then feel free to login now.

First of all, I apologise for the amount of writing in this post. It is a Dark Eldar story that I have been working on for some time now. Feedback is welcome. Thanks.

Chapter I

In the Dark City, where the poor and sickly flocked towards the coliseum, there was no time for boredom or tiredness. Awaiting the call of the arena master, he sat with his head in his hands, attempting to get as much rest as possible for the next fight.

The coliseum’s daily spectacle of bloodshed laced anguish had progressed into a tri-daily orgy of peasant slaughter within the polished, black, obelisk walls that kept him locked inside. He had no freedom, not anymore, and he never thought he would see the day where his arms would grow tired of cutting down the weak and vulnerable. But alas, he was growing weary of the slaughter. His mind was in a drug abused haze that had clouded his joyous malice. He had not slept in over four days. Even if he were to sleep he was certain that his rival, Reltri’sk Bloodhand, would murder, poison, or burn him alive, just to put an end to his thriving success.

For the last fifty six years he had walked into the arena everyday and put down a variety of foe and beasts just to survive, but now he was fighting the innocent, who had no right in such a place and proved no challenge to his skilled prowess. Thanks to a local civil war, food supplies were running shorter than ever, and the poor, from both Archon Cavash’s and Archon Keltariel’s territories had flocked to the arena with the aspiration of earning fame and food. The Succubi had gladly let them in by the thousands and let them claw each other's eyes out and tear open chests, bite at limbs and disembowel, just for a little false hope. For what these people did not realise was that they were putting the Wych Cult in business. The Wych Cult of Massacre was proud to have the Grand Archon Dernia Cavash visit it every week, and while his soldiers were stationed here, the new spectacle had proved more popular than the red light districts and the drug houses for the Warrior’s during what little free time they had.

Times had never been better for the Wych Cult, even though less than a mile away, thousands stood starving, reduced to skin and bone, many too soul starved and maddened to ever return to sanity. He shook off the thought and stood up, stretching his shoulders before front flipping a number of times to warm himself up. His mind was trembling, and he could feel himself shake.

It was time, he thought. Dextrously, he placed a nimble finger upon a red jewel at his chest, activating a bright glowing rune. Suddenly he felt more alive, his veins became warm, his thoughts became clear and he once again realised that he couldn’t care less about the starving masses, as long as Archon Keltariel did not prevail and enslave his Cult.

Smiling, he began to juggle his knives in the vast, hollowed out holding cell that the other nine wyches also resided in. each one of them was warming up or trainging, each just as tired as he was. He looked around them, examining them each individually, assessing their strength and their psychical appearance. Eight of the Wyches were women, but after living here for a number of years he had learnt to control his primal, animalistic lust. He looked around, until he met the stare of Reltri’sk Bloodhand. In his arrogance, he was the only one not preparing himself. He thought himself better than the others, but the Wych knew he was wrong. He began to throw the knives higher and with more force, gaining attention quickly from the women, before back flipping, catching four of the airborne blades, and kicking the last shining monomolecular blade at Reltri’sk’s shaven, tattooed skull. He landed perfectly, legs wide, left hand on the ground while the other clutched carefully onto the knives. He stood, not caring for the attention provided by his Blade-Sisters who swooned as he walked past them, and walked gracefully over to his rival, stopping with a hand’s length between each other.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” He asked condescendingly, a contemptuous, curled smile sat upon his face. “I am the one the people want to see here, not you.” He continued, taunting the Wych. “You are neither impressive nor skilful.”

“If you are so sure of yourself then why don’t you prove how great you are?”

“All in good time, Brother. Just like Khaine’s hand weeps with the claret of Eldanesh, my hands shall be stained to remind me of your merciless death.”

“You dare compare yourself to the Lord of Murder?” He spat on the ground, disgusted by Reltri’sk’s disrespect to the mighty war god.

“No, you mistake my words. I am comparing you to Eldanesh. Weak, fragile and feeble.”

Their daggers scrapped for a moment as he attempted to slice his foe's throat, but as the blades met again, the War Gate rolled open, revealing the dusty arena ahead. His anger was not quelled however, as his rival laughed and walked away into the pit, unsheathing his sword as he did so.

He had heard the crowd roar as Reltri’sk stepped out and showed off for the masses. He knew that they wanted the famed Bloodhand, but as he raised his glaive he couldn’t help but smile. For a moment he unclasped the armour of his left arm and looked at what his desperation had driven him too. Placing the blade against his bicep he made a deep gash and prayed for Khaine to hear him before he fastened his armour once more and ran out at the end of the procession.



The crowd showered them with cheers. Thousands must have gathered to see the performance, but the numbers never put him off. The pressure invigorated him. He raised his glaive high and joined the circle formed by the others and began the ritual slaying that always took place before the main event. The first fifty wretched slaves were released, and the wyches stood in their circle, shoulders toughing while they staved off the relentless attack of the scum. He thrust through the chest of the first man and decapitated the head of another. The top of his skull slid off cleanly before he tumbled to the floor. Every droplet of blood spilt was absorbed by the ancient sand that had lived through more pain and suffering than any of the wyches had ever experienced. Countless displays had been shown upon it, and as it grew thick and wet with the spilt fluids the crowd began to scream out in approval. Within moments, the unwise that attacked directly were slain. By now, the others had turned to flee, some falling over bodies while others scrambled over the sand.

Laughing, he vaulted over a body and cleanly dislodged the skull of a single peasant with the blade on his heel. The head rolled away and the Wych's face was covered with the cooling specks of blood. With a smile he took in his first taste of the death and instantly grew excited. His heart pounded. All logic had gone. The hunt had begun.

He broke into a sprint and launched the glaive into the back of a fleeing coward. He went down with a scream, causing the man beside him to turn to foolishly look back. After seeing the male Wych charging he was not able to take another lungful of pain filled air before his pursuer had thrown one ofhis knives from one of his many harnesses into his neck, paralysing him. He began to slow as he approached the fallen man, and opened his arms wide, asking the opinion of the audience. Everybody simultaneously booed, making the Wych kneel down and tear the man’s head from his shoulders and raise it high into the air. His senses were ablaze. The audience cheered for him while his deceased prey’s mangled remains dripped tangy blood into his mouth. After consuming the fluids he released a primal scream, planted one foot upon the back of the impaled corpse and tore out his glaive before throwing the head into the audience, making them scream for more.
The opening ritual, the ode to the Dark Muse Qa’leh, had been completed. The time for true bloodshed would soon be at hand.

Slowly the noise faded into nothingness as the Wyches bowed towards a slowly opening gate. Shadows slowly rolled up her Wychsuit, caressing her perfect curves as she waltzed out from the darkness. Her beauty was breath taking and had the crowd enticed. They were enthralled by her perfection, and with every step the crowd seemed to become even more infatuated with her.

Her long, ebony hair dangled down, stroking her soft, scar-less, ghostlike skin. It swayed from side to side, mesmerising all those that stared for too long. Everything about her was too perfect. There had to be some secret to her unnatural glory, as she was over three thousand years of age but was still as magnificent as she has always been. She placed each step precisely, adding a feline grace to her every move. On her hip sat two short swords, Ysgriitrud and Ysmriitrud. Ysgriitrud was longer than its sibling blade, and shone an odd white light in complete contrast to Ysmriitrud, which seemed to cause a complete absence of colour wherever it moved. The two blades were certainly menacing as they jangled together like the chiming of the bell signalling the executioner’s hour before she halted at the centre of the arena.

“Welcome, Commorrites, welcome Pierced Heart Kabal.”
Her black lined eyes darted through the audience as she observed the military force present. From what she had counted there were at least three armed battalions, each lead by a separate Dracon
“You are all honoured to have been permitted access to my playground. This seductive carnival of death shall not just excite, no, it shall make you feel things you have never dreamt of. Tonight, twenty thousand Mon-keigh, eight hundred peasants, and eleven Wyches, including myself, take to the ground, for this is a special occasion. Tonight I have spotted a very special person in the audience, and a very good friend of mine. High Archon Dernia Cavash.”

He stood in his box, the entire audience unnerved by his presence. He was known for his rapid and uncalled for psychotic mass murders and change of heart. Once, in such a stadium, he had ordered a flotilla of Ravagers murder everybody inside after he grew bored of the warring Astartes. Faroughk, too, was aware of this and loathed the thought of anything happening to her precious home.

“Archite Faroughk, it is my honour to be here, witnessing your martial skill once more.”

“Who is this beautiful young woman you have with you?” She asked, knowing full well he had brought his daughter along for a publicity stunt. He revelled in pride, either in himself or his possession.

“Princess Althianesh Cavash.” The princess, who sat beside her farther, had the glow of a newly regenerated Eldar. Her eyes sparkled with a cruel darkness and she held an unholy aura that made her so much more alluring.

“It this her first time here, Archon?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Then I dedicate this performance to your daughter. May her body stay young and her blade stay sharp.”
With a final bow, menacing blade lined gates rolled open from every angle, releasing the crazed Mon-keigh she spoke of.



In the space of fifteen minutes the stocks of humans had been finely whittled down to the point where only the most devious and brutal remained. The air was sweet with the essence of life, and the audience had slowly grown healthier throughout the act. It was as if their lives were reversing. The wrinkle adorned were now youthful and the injured Kabalite Warriors were now energy filled once more. Even through the battle, he couldn’t help but take his eyes off of the princess. He had his choice of any female Wych within the Cult, but he wanted nothing more than to make the princess his to own forever. He hadn’t felt like this before. His heart burnt with desire, yet whenever she looked away from him desire turned into an all consuming rage that took control of his mind and flesh until his body was glistening with the blood of others. With a shout of rage he slit the throat of a weak human, swung the glaive around his head and elaborately removed the craniums of another two who came too close. He hadn’t realised it through his berserk fury, but the Commorrite citizens had entered a matter of minutes ago, and he had slain a good deal of them. Once again, he looked up to the princess and saw her starring down at the actions of Reltri’sk. For a moment he began to bite into his lip with his artificialy sharpened fangs, and as the taste of his own blood overwhelmed everything he was feeling he took three great steps and launched his glaive. The spinning blade cut down six contestants and narrowly missed the spine of his show off rival. The crowd still cheered, however, inspired and excited more by his attempted assassination than by the actual spectacle that they had gathered to see. He began to run, his head tilted forward with only Reltri’sk in his sight. To the Wych it felt like everybody else had vanished, they had fallen out of significance. He spun and flipped to avoid incoming blades, slid along the ground and performed a marvellous spin kick that made an arc of blood through the air before he withdrew two knives that glinted in the bright purple lights with murderous intent. A whispered prayer to Khaine fell from his lips as he forced all of his strength into one of the knives.

The blade spun rapidly through the air, moving at such a speed that even to the Eldar, with eyes that could allow them to dodge bullets, the blade left residual streaks in the air, making it seem circular. He thought it was all over, that the blade would cleave his foe's skull brutally asunder, and his cerebral matter would pour upon the sand in a moment that he would forever remember as his finest. How wrong he was.

The ground shook and the stadium moved. Everybody, the Wyches, the contestants, the audience, all except the Archite hit the floor as the coliseum quaked.

He forced himself back up at once, thinking his foe had played some cruel trick. What was happening was far worse. From the Dark Citiy;s perpetual twilight blood began to rain and great amber flames ripped the sky open. Thousands of craft descended, beams of darkness raining down into the crowd and into the sub realm. They obviously knew that the Archon would be present; otherwise they would not have waged war upon a neutral realm, the only four access routes of which were through Cavash’s own territory. The craft flickered with dark energies, and the crew that dangled from the sides of each one opened fire across the city. Those loyal to the High Archon lifted their rifles skyward and decimated the Raider squads with their high velocity toxic Splinter rounds. Many of the rival Warriors fell from their craft, the rounds causing great spurts of blood to be released from their night grey armour before the nerve toxins caused them to fall to their deaths. He turned his eyes to the Archon. The crowd was fleeing and screaming as they were cut down, both by the rival Kabal and by the Archon’s own Janissaries. He pushed his daughter aside as a Raider attempted to dive nose first into his dais. He showed no sign of fear and unfastened his Blaster faster than eldritch lightning. He held the blaster with one hand and aimed down the sight, as he was famous for, before placing a single dark beam through the throat of the pilot. Even with his life at stake he was sowing off. The pilot slumped forward onto the controls, causing the skiff to fall in an arc into the arena, the initial flames from the wreckage consuming over five hundred contestants and two Wyches. For an explosion that size it must have been lined with explosives.

Moments later, his red armoured Janissaries surrounded him, removing any clear line of sight from possible snipers while they attempted to move him to his personal craft. Annoyed, he pushed through them and commanded them to remove his daughter from the carnage. When they began to question his safety he withdrew his Huskblade, the twisted surface leaving black streaks through the air, and stabbed the youngest of his guards with it. He dropped to the floor, armour filled with nothing but dust that formed a cloud from the impact. Refusing to leave, Princess Althianesh stepped forward, her cloak of bristles trailing behind her. Smiling, she looked at her father with her bottomless black eyes and drew two blades that had been hidden beneath her spiked cloak. He knew that she had been trained by the Archite herself, but he did not realise that she was proficient enough to defend herself frp, am assault of this magnitude. She had only just left adolesence and was still a child by most Eldar’s standards. The High Archon nodded at her, placed his helmet upon his head and ran out onto a small balcony overlooking the City. The Wych lost track of them after that, but as another Raider came low over the arena and began to open fire he began to run. Every time shots were aimed at him he dived into a pile of corpses of behind pieces of a wreckage. Four Raiders had crash landed, each of them exploding horribly. This one, however, was manned. As it dropped low, the survivors departed and eight more of the craft followed its lead. The men gathered at the centre, forming a ring like the Wyches had one with their ritual dance, but now they opened fire at the Pierced Heart Kabal’s battalions who took cover in the stands. The Pierced Heart and the Dying Scream’s feud was relatively new compared to some of the wars the Pierced heart was taking part in at present. It had started less than a year ago when spies from the Dying Scream had been located within Dernia’s palace, and in retaliation he gathered a war host and laid waste to a major port within the Dying Scream’s territory, cutting off their negotiations and trade routes with other Kabals. It had escalated from there, and now they had attacked a relatively neutral faction, causing them to get involved.

He lifted his head up and looked over the grav-plate that he had taken refuge behind. Angry, he snarled. He felt trapped. If he moved then he would surely be cut down. The only weapons he had were his knives and his glaive was just out of reach. The other Wyches were in the same situation, until Archite Faroughk strolled easily towards the circle, deflecting shots with her blades and dodging them like quicksilver. Her calm composure was what inspired the other Wyches to charge. Instantly, two were cut to ribbons, but as shots began to fly over his head, he slid, picked up his glaive and rose from his slide, spinning his favoured weapon in one hand, the splinter shots ricocheting from the handle. He advanced quickly with the others, all attacking from different angles. He withdrew more knives and timed his throws perfectly, eliminating four of the Warriors before he had even reached them. The combat drugs pulsed through him. Combined with the pain he had caused he was able to leap eleven foot high, and brought down his glaive furiously, killing another two before he impacted the ground on the other side of the circle. He laughed as he rose from the roll he had landed and spun once more. Relentlessly he stabbed at the Warriors who had dared invade his home. They attempted to fight back with their bayonets, but the Wyches were all over them. They placed clean incisions between armour plates and manipulated pressure points for quick, easy deaths. One Warrior lunged for the Wych with a bewildered look, as after he blinked the Wych had evaded the blow almost pre-emptively. He barely had time to notice this before the glaive was lodged in his heart, the weapon in the Wyches left hand while he was balanced extravagantly on one foot. The hooked back of the glaive caused the dying body to be torn from the circle, letting the Wyches inside their defence to drive them out into the volleys of Splinter fire. Over the screams of the dying he heard the laughter of the Archite, who was taking great pleasure beheading them as they dropped to their knees.

The Wyches were panting where their mistress hadn’t even broken a sweat. He pulled down the scarf that covered the bottom half of his face. He had stitched it into his wychsuit to avoid it from slipping during combat.

“Succubus, what are your orders?” he asked, silver armour stained with the blood of the weak.

“Gather the others and take to the streets. I want every invader beheaded.”

“Should we protect the Archon?”

“No.” he soft voice turned firm. “If it were not for his petty political squabbles my realm would not be tarnished by such crude violence, would it?”

“No ma’am.”



Chapter II

The realm was in turmoil. Carnage spread throughout the rioting warzone, leaving only ruin in its wake. The sky was ablaze with intense plumes of heat that left many areas inhospitable. Spires burnt and people wailed as liquid flame stuck to their flesh. Within minutes all two hundred of the Wyches had taken to the streets. All of the armouries had been emptied. They carried as much as they were able. Many carried their favoured weapons and had Splinter Rifles slung at their sides while they charged down the entrenched enemy positions. A deep rage burnt within every Wych’s soul, a hatred that felt like it could never be satiated. The Malign Blade Coliseum was all that many of the Wyches had ever known, and now, thanks to the petty political struggles of others, their once proud arena had been reduced to rubble. Dark Lances had ravaged the grand structure until it could stand no longer and toppled from grace.

Seeing as the Wych had lost his birth name when he joined the Cult, and the Cult’s showground had fallen, he saw no point on clinging to the name given to him. He had not been able to remember is birth name for years as he had fallen into obsession with the Cult. All of his previous life that he had spent as an aspiring artist had vanished from his mind over time, and all that he remembered was that he had taken his stage name from his most grand exhibition. He had been called Remonstrating Darkness, and he felt like this name suited him now better than ever as he slinked through the flickering shadows, tracking a group of five Kabalite Warriors who were dragging along barbed nets filled with the Cult’s citizens. He hid behind his face scarf and held his armoured side to the wall as he edged towards them. They had dragged the people around the corner, laughing while they did so. They loomed above the bodies, glowing eyes at the peak of their blade adorned, elegant suits. The bodies writhed at their feet while the Warriors dug their boots into their limbs, cackling sadistically.

As silently as possible, he tip toed toward them, body flat to the wall. Quickly he had to make for the shadow of a doorway as one of the Warriors turned, thinking he had heard something.

His heart pounded. In the arena he had taken on more deadly opponents, but he was just under fifty metres away and, at that range, their rifles would easily overwhelm him. Carefully, he wrapped his nimble fingers around a small ornament mounted on the wall beside the door, and with no concern for the owner, he struggled it free. Slowly, he eased himself into position and then, with one act of great skill, he launched it overhead, meaning for it to slam fromm one building into another, until, finally, it collided with one of the Warriors. Instantly, the Warrior turned and raised his Rifle while his comrades laughed at his paranoia. Mockingly, one pushed him slightly, hysterically comenting how jumpy he was. He couldn’t hear what the Warriors were saying but could read their body language. He breathed a sigh of relief as four of them dismissed the paranoid Warrior’s thoughts and continued to drag the nets. After the fifth looked away he made his move. He bolted through the darkness and into the light of the street where he got a clear shot on two of the Warriors who had failed to wear their helmets. His blades easily dispatched these two, decimating their skulls and leaving a faint red mist lingering. He was able to dive into darkness while the other three turned.

“Show yourself.” They commanded.

“Show yourself!”
The Sybarite shouted now before firing randomly into the darkness. The shards implanted themselves into the walls, the glowing purple splinters protruding like fine gems within a deep, dank cave. The Sybarite grabbed one of his men by the shoulder and punched him in the back after a slight hesitation, causing him to take the Sybarite’s place while the other two dragged the captured citizens around the corner. The Warrior was nervous. The Wych could tell from the random firing and howhe trembled slightly. In Commorragh, the Wych could have been anything. He could have been a soul freezing Mandrake or a petrifying Medusae that had escaped from its master. He allowed the Warrior’s imagination to do the work for him, and, after his squad had fled, he too turned his back on the Wych. A fatal mistake. The Wych howled as he charged down the Warrior, who was weighed down by his armour and numerous trophies hanging from his waist. Readjusting his grip on the glaive, he leapt wildly through the air like a great carrion bird, swooping in to execute its wounded prey. His feet landed upon the Warrior’s back and he was soon bathed in fresh blood as the blade pierced his spine. His Splinter Rifle clattered away, and his head hit the ground hard.

“Why are you here?” the Wych demanded, turning the body over and tearing the helmet from the Warrior’s head.

“To pillage. To burn. To slaughter. Why do we ever do anything?” he coughed up blood while he laughed.

“Is this your Archon’s doing? Is he the one responsible for the annihilation of my temple?”

“Temple? Ha.” He spat more blood. “You Wyches prize your arenas highly, don’t you? Strange, seeing as you die so easil-”

“For Khaine!” the balde he plunge into the Warrior’s throat silenced his insult and his blood quickly lined the street. Rising from the corpse, he gathered his weapons and charged once more.

The raining blood had thinned over an hour ago, but the odd outbreak remained. Now, however, when an outbreak was serious enough to coat every statue and sculpture with a thick red gloss great forks of black lightning arced across the sky, trembling everything within the realm and causing the widespread skirmishes to halt in their intensity as every soldier lost their footing. This recent nuisance did not stop his fury, though, as when a huge blast in the sky occurred he had the sense to grab hold of the nearest building, hoping that it would not topple and become his tomb. It also failed to slow him, as when he clutched onto the walls he pulled himself along them, using his supreme balance to keep moving.

After he turned the corner he found that the Sybarite and the Warrior had not made it far. They were on the floor as he approached, their armour providing them with no traction upon the blood slick ground once they had fallen. Laughing, he strolled towards them, slowing from his furious run. He obtained a joyous high from watching his defenceless enemy squirm hopelessly in an attempt to escape.

“How does it feel to be hunted by your prey?”
he smiled, kicking away the Splinter Rifle that sat mere inches out of the Warrior’s grasp, who proceeded to withdraw a dagger fastened at his hip. He was soon put down by the glaive that shattered through his eye lens. The body slumped to the floor as he tugged on the glaive, all the while staring at the Sybarite who scrambled at the bloody ground.

“My death will not solve anything, Wych.”
“No, but it will mean one less politics obsessed coward that can come back to ruin my home.”
“You Wyches are beasts.” He snarled, his voice renewed with aggression. “You murder for payment by the masses.”
“We are the beasts? You hide in your palaces and torture those who have done nothing to harm you, and you call us beasts?” his shouting echoed throughout the streets like the rage of a rampant daemon. “You need to learn manners, Sybarite.” He kicked his floored opponent in the head before tearing off his helm and taking a knife to his face.

The screams of the Sybarite were too grisly and horrifying for most of the captured civilians to bear. Unlike those who fought, the average civilian in Commorragh never had access to the mind altering stimuli that the higher classes did. They never experienced the pleasure one could gain from torture or the satisfaction one got from poisoning his arch-nemesis. Many of the civilians started to scream and thrash at the actions they watched, before they were finally set free by the Wych who had now got a new mask.



It had only taken a few hours, but the invaders had fled after taking heavy casualties. Numerous battalions of their cowardly Warriors were pushed back to the central square of the Flexed Blade District before having hundreds of vicious Khymera released upon them. The hellish beasts of weeping muscles and polished bone slammed into the wall of bayonets, thinking nothing of the minor wounds they sustained before crushing every last Warrior within their skull cracking mandibles. The High Archon and his daughter were both safe, despite leading the Pierced Heart Kabal personally. The Archon had taken his own blade to confront the trio of Dracons who were leading the assault and dispatched them with contemptuous roars while his daughter watched and smiled from the ranks of the Janissaries who had been ordered to stand by and spectate their Lord create art. This was why everybody feared Lord Dernia Cavash. Unlike other Archons, who supped their wine from the warmth of their palaces and in the comfort of their thrones, Dernia always displayed his great talent and always overcame the odds. This tactic spread terror through the foe and managed to quell any rebellious thoughts amongst his ranks, especially during the famed Talon Wars. During this time he drove four separate Kabals to genocide against one another before strolling into the contested Tower of Tears, where the four Archons had gathered to discuss the situation, and beheading each one without any hesitance or flicker of emotion upon his ancient, ghost white face. He then mocked the shattered Kabals by leading his forces into the tallest fortresses of the different territories, striking down any who opposed him, and planting a banner depicting his personal heraldry upon the back skin of the fallen Archons. Since then few had even dared to trade with his forces as he had become so hated throughout the Dark City that he was venerated by some to be amongst the likes of Supreme Overlord Asdrubael Vect himself. Of course, these thoughts were spread by his Janissary police force, who executed without hesitance anybody who spoke otherwise.

Vect was a man that Dernia Cavash felt nothing but indifference for. He had only come across him four times in his life, and each time their forces had sparred as they attempted to outdo each other as military tractions and genii of whit. After being driven out of Vect’s palace neither of them had bothered to hunt down the other in some mutual admiration of talent.



The river of blood always calmed him. The trickling sounds soothed his soul as he knelt on the corpse lined banks. This artificial waterway had been constructed from those who fell during the displays at the arena, and even where he sat meditating, many miles away from the arena, the bodies still washed up. Great trees loomed over him, hiding him from the twilight sky that had now repared itself. The true nature of these trees was unknown to him. They weren’t actually plants as they were made from the very same material that the Webway had been constructed from, although these trees were dark and twisted compared to the original, pure material. They bore no leaves, but at their bases the ground was made from nothing but old bone made by the Cult.

“Do not sorrow over your father, Dayl’akrin.”

“That is not my name.” he hissed at the woman that approached him.

“He would not want you to be subject to such a weakness.”

“How did you find me?” She stood in her black robe simply staring at him from beneath the hood that shaded her face from the mouth upward.

“I remember when you were a child, Dayl. Your father cared more for your well being than his own. Remember him for that, not what he did.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What is that in your hand?” she ignored his demand, staring at the amulet depicting Khaine’s own symbol. “Mourning will not take away the sting of bereavement.”

“What do you want from me?” he screamed, pointing the glaive at her head, the tip resting inches from her hood.
“We need a favour, child.”

“I am not a mercenary, look elsewhere, wench.”
He knelt down back beside the river and began to pray once more for his soul to be released from its anguish.

“Khaine worship is outlawed in these parts Dayl.”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“No. I am working with you.”

“Who are you?”
He took in a deep breath to refrain from murdering the woman. In form of an answer she extended her right arm and allowed a small amulet to bounce back from its chain. It was almost identical to his.

“We will pay you well for any inconvenience caused to your life.”

“I told you, I am not a mercenary.” He rose and walked off, shadows covering his eyes as he tilted his head to scan the way like a predatory beast.

“Would your father have walked away like this?”

“My father brought shame upon my house.” He turned furiously and approached her. “He was a coward and deserves nothing but unrestrained loathing.”

“And yet you still mourn his death.”

“You talk as if you knew him, tell me what you know.”

“He nearly achieved something so great that he would forever be remembered as a hero of Commorragh.”

“He was a member of Khaine’s Murder Cult. There is nothing heroic about a fight with no challenge."

“And yet you spend every day training so you can easily dodge the blows of an enemy. Where is the challenge in your life?” She had him caught out. His mind split in two for a moment as he contemplated the situation. He could continue talking with the woman or he could strike her and incur the wrath of the War God.

“What do you want from me?”

“You are bored of your life, you feel as if it has no purpose. If you want to achieve something then I suggest you sleep. We will find you.”
Laughing, she melted away into the dark, her physical form leeching away into the shadows until thin air remained.

Ignoring the robed woman, as he had seen many of them before, he walked into the cool, congealing blood until it reached his waste. He began to pray.



The inner sanctum of the Archite’s palace had been left unscathed. Like most of her private estate her personal militia had defended the grand crystal palace with their lives. The hundreds of Dark lance that bristled from her home’s parapets acted more like a deteant than a defence mechanism, as the amount of firepower prevented even the bravest pilot from flying near her grounds. The inner sanctum was a glorious artistic, circular room with grand murals that depicted some of the bloodiest moments of the Cult’s history. Dayl’akrin’s personal favourite was the segment depicting Faroughk’s triumph over the Adeptus Astartes Adamantine Guard’s chapter master. The mural couldn’t have lived up to the glory of the real moment, but the realistic blood work certainly made it moving. On the picture she stood on her right leg, her left flexed out like a scorpion’s tail behind her while she looked into the sky, bemused as her impailer struck into his throat. Even now, some five thousand years after his death his skull rested at the top of a chandelier erected from skulls, purple soul light vomiting from the hollowed out eye sockets. The light shone down, casting a deep anguished light onto those that gathered within. It twinkled dimly from the armour of the Kabalite Trueborn that had followed their Dracon, and it made the flesh of the Hekatrix Bloodbrides seem cold and lifeless. This is where the argument had spawned; foul exchanges of words echoing down the halls between Prince Talludesh Ayr’kell Cavash and Mistress Khay’layiish, Syren of Massacre.

The fierce debate had started a only a couple of minutes ago, but already over half the Cult had gathered at the doorway and in the hall, each Wych staring down a Kabalite with fierce eyes.

“You can hardly blame this on us.” Khay’layiish said, feigning distress. She was good at playing on the emotions of men with acts of beauty and innocence, but Talludesh sat forward in his chair and looked straight through the charade, dismissing it where his men would have fallen.

“I think that it is rather convenient that at a time when my father, the most important figure in all of the Allied Spire Alliance, and my dearest sister were at their most vulnerable inside your territory, the enemy attacked from hidden routes with the knowledge of my father’s position.”

“While we risked our lives fighting to protect the Archon, where were you? I recall you hiding in your prized Reserves, hoping that you were not hunted.”

“This is preposterous.” He screamed, red in the face. He had never expected such disrespect from a lowly Wych.
“Calm yourself, Kabalite. You might find yourself falling upon a blade if your anger becomes out of hand.”

“You disease ridden whore.” He exploded from his seat in an attempt to intimidate her, but she just sat there, smiling. “I shall see your realm burn. You believe yourselves greater than the Archon and his authority. Your head will roll at my feet and-”
“Try it ‘Prince’ and I shall castrate you with your own crown.” Her remark was met with the applause and laughter of the Wyches, all of whom despised the Prince. This Prince was not brave like his brother or a weathered veteran leader like his father. Nobody, not even the street vendors who spent their lives spat at and starving, respected him.

The first shot was blasted through a Bloodbride’s toned stomach, the virulent toxin causing her body to convulse and foam before she finally stopped moving. Then all hell broke loose. The Wyches moved through the air like maddened daemons. One slapped away the barrel of a Shardcarbine and ran her delicate blade across the Kabalite’s throat in a glorious display of wanton hatred. The others followed suit, each picking off the Kabalites easily, like leaches on a wound. Even though they were outnumbered five to one, the Bloodbrides quickly evened the odds with wailing laughter. The Prince had drawn his Power Sword, the crackling surface making easy work of two of the twelve before he finally became disarmed by the Syren’s sword, the beautifully designed surface stopping upon the surface of his neck.

“Stop this madness.” A voice rang effortlessly down through the hallway and into the chamber, ceasing all activity in the red aired room. Many of the Wyches that lined the hall gasped and all averted their eyes while they crouched, making a clear pathway for the Succubus. Her hair swayed mesmerisingly from side to side as she tip-toed softly towards her chamber.
“What is the meaning of this?” her venom laced voice still soft and innocent.

“A slight disagreement, Mistress.” Khay’layiish answered, refusing to release her death hold upon the Prince. “He blames us, on behalf of the Archon, for the attempted assassination that took place.”

“If he suspects betrayal then why does he not confront us himself, degenerate?”

“Order her to let me free, woman!” He seemed to be the only person that did not realise that was a mistake. Her false smile dropped into a malicious frown as she coaxed her black, shine-less blade from her hip.

“Who are you to order me what to do? You are at the mercy of my protégé here, and after all, she does need practice. What do you think?” she turned to the anxious Wyches, engrossed in her performance. “Should I send his cold, stiff body to his father?”
The Wyches cheered in approval. Even many of the Trueborn wanted to see the arrogant fool mutilated.

“No. Please no!” he begged, helplessly.

“Give me one good reason why not.” She looked from side to side and smiled. “That’s what I thought. Khay’layiish, kill-”
“My Lady, stop.” A Dracon stepped forward and placed his weapons on the floor before removing his helmet and bowing before her. She recognised him, but wasn’t sure who he was.

“Chose your words carefully, Dracon, or you’ll be next.”
“My Lady, I do not see why this meat grinder needed to occur between my Kabalites and your fine Cult, but I assure you that this is not what we had intended. I implore you; spare the Prince his head, even though it is rarely good for anything.”
“How dare you!” he exclaimed before remembering his current situation.

“He had spoken rashly and out of turn with your Syren, and I guarantee that he does not speak on behalf of the Archon; he was just failing to intimidate your people into compliance.”

“You are much wiser than this waste of skin. Who are you?” She asked with a raised eyebrow, astounded by the respect and lack of fear shown to her.

“I am Dracon Relliach Korvesh master of the Blood Halls and Overseer of Recruits. I watch over the young and the promising, and my ability to keep a level head unlike the Archon’s dim witted son is why I am accompanying him.”
“Have I met you before?” she spat, patience thinning.

“I saved you from attempt upon your life by one of your treacherous former Syrens.”

“Oh yes.” She reminisced with a thoughtful glaze in her eyes. “Your hair was white then, and your face was wrinkled.”

“Your treacherous student helped to prolong my life. I was almost willing to accept death. I had not witnessed pain for many a month until that dreadful assassination attempt.”

“Then I owe you. Release the Prince.” Khay’layiish was overcome with sadness and reluctantly let him free.

“You have disrespected me, Dracon.”

“I saved your life you ungrateful wretch. Without me you would be in cubes. I am sure that the Syren wouldn’t mind decimating you if allowed. Would you like that?” he was shouting in the Prince’s face now, which had become a portrait of disbelief and terror.

“Nobody talks to me like that. My father shall hear of this moment.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, even if you gathered the courage to approach him he would still side with me, for he has sense, unlike you.” The laughing of the Succubus broke the argument, causing both the Kablites to look her way.

“I love the turmoil of politics, but I prefer beheading my foe rather than attempting to disarm them with words. What business brings you two into my palace?”

“Assistance.” The Prince rudely barked before the Dracon took his place.

“We are looking to hire the services of your Cult to aid our raid efforts.”

“My Cult is in ruins and I only have one hundred and forty six of the two hundred Wyches I had this morning. Why not ask some other Cult with more lives to spare?”

“We only want the most talented and proficient, sweet Lady. That is why we dare not ask anybody else.”
“ Your flattery is amusing,” she took her seat at the head of the Bloodbrides, her blades jangling at her hip. “But it does not convince me. What is in it for me?”

I knew that this is what it would come down to.” He smiled coldly and unfastened a pendant that he wore beneath his armour. Only after he pulled out the snaking golden thread did she smile.

“I haven’t seen one of those for years.” She gazed into the reflection on the twinkling mauve gem. It was a perfect specimen, rounded and perfectly clear, an entire lifetime of sorrow trapped within. It had once been a deep red, but through the relentless torture of its owner it had become corrupt and resented the very air around it, chilling it immensely.
“I can promise you hundreds, thousands if you so desire, all we want in return is your expertise at our side. You may send your entire Cult or you many go alone, but we need you.”

“The Archon is planning something, isn’t he?”

“I do not know or pretend to understand why the High Archon has extended this invitation, but he ordered me to tell you that G’ost is returning.” Her body chilled at the thought of the damn psyker. The pain she had caused was unbearable and almost ruined the Succubus. Her mind raged with thoughts of feeding the psyker to the Warp and laughing as her soul was consumed by the Thirster.

“I accept. We leave now. Round up my Cult, Bloodbrides. I wish for all to see this.”



Chapter III

Raiders descend like swarming hornets, the deadly stings of their Dark Lances and Disintegrators cutting down the Imperial foot soldiers without any challenge. The Imperial Guard had not noticed the knife sleek crafts until it was too late. While they had been fighting a prolonged trench war with the damned Militia that attempted to topple Imperial rule, the Raiders had crept with silent grace from temporary emerald-fire gates before descending upon the weary.

The planet of Equiosa had been, for many decades, gripped in a desperate struggle with local heretical insurgencies that had weakened its defences and depleted the ammo stocks. Usually the Archon was too proud to lead his forces against such a vulnerable and unsuspecting force, but when Prince Talludesh relentlessly hassled him with a newfound bravery about how he would be pleasantly surprised by what they would find he reluctantly accepted, only hoping to silence his least favourite child.

The Archon led from the frontline, his Raider at the head of the spear formation that cut through the material world. Five raiders flanked him on each side, each carrying a squad of his ruthlessly cunning Trueborns. Usually he would have brought his famed Coven of Wanton Massacre, or the Janissaries, as they were called by the slave class. He found no reason to bring them, however, as he was more than capable of protecting himself and he needed some defence in his palace in case the Dying Scream attempted to raze his home.

The Trueborns were heavily laden with Dark Lances and Shredders and began to salivate like starving feral beasts as they moved towards Hive Pentalon.

Behind the first ten Raiders followed thirty two weapon bristling Ravagers that would reduce any foe’s prized vehicle to a smouldering scrap heap. The Ravagers were followed by the anxious whooping Hellion Gangs of the Night Hydras. They filled the sky like a plague of locusts, their Skyboards spitting out hot blue flames that streaked through the air. Then came the rest of the war host.

The Raiders flocked in their thousands, each carrying a cargo of disdain for life. The Kabalite Warriors were all faceless and bland to the Wych, their true appearances shrouded by such unnecessary invention like helmets and gauntlets. The four Wych Raiders were at the front of the main force, but the Wyches did not care for large obvious assaults. Apparently, the Archon believed that the sheer weight of their firepower would overwhelm the humans and force them to flee, where they could easily be captured, but Dayl didn’t agree. Of course, he wasn’t going to argue with the Archon, for he rarely looked at his own leader out of fear of upsetting her, but he knew that it was a bad idea.

It was only when the Ravagers opened fire with unholy firepower that the humans realised they were being attacked.

The humans on patrol and guard duty on the Hive’s walls began to fire wildly before the howling Hellions swooped in and plucked them from their posts like unopened buds from a dormant thorn bush before discarding them onto the flagpoles that hung high from the spires; once noble standards dangling still in the night. The screams of the impaled cut through the darkness, waking the citizens of the lower rungs of society who slept in the freezing conditions of the under-hive. Then the Raiders descended.

He landed softly upon the frosted ground with the kind of soft landing that the Kabalites failed to imitate. His squad mates joined him, each spiralling off with heightened elegance unachievable by the Kabal’s standards that made them so highly prized for such a raid. With a nod from Hekatrix Vorshulth to the Raider-pilot the humble craft arced off into the dark before she took her place with her Wyches. The Hekatrix followed the Succubus, naturally, attempting to get noticed by her Bloodbrides but all in vain. Her squad, however, attempted to imitate her.

The way she extended her crackling weapon into an opponent’s neck was flawless, her balance was perfect and how she managed to achieve this superior quality of art without breaking a sweat to ruin her goddess visage was unbelievable. Of course, this was just to the average Wyches, as her peers all viewed the honoured Bloodbrides in the same light, an in turn they saw the Succubus as a superior being, one to sit amongst the ancient shattered pantheon.

He paid no attention to the first Mon-keigh he dissected as he landed and avoided the fountain of blood the fragile creature let off. Most if the Guardsmen had already been cut down by Splinter rifle volleys, making the street much more tolerable.

The others quickly gathered around and the sky darkened immensely. The moonlight was stolen away by insect-like Skyboards and Jetbikes that shot through the air like out of control bullets, an arcane light radiating in streaks from their bladed rears. As the Kabalites charged up the street the Wych Squad gathered around their Hekatrix, their pallid faces etched with a more serious demeanour than the maniacal, marauding snarls of those under the Archon’s reign. The main assault had been divided into two forces, those under the banner of the warrior-lord, Dernia Cavash, and those who followed the enraged shouting of the young and inexperienced Prince Talludesh Ayr’kell.

Much to Dayl’s displeasure, the Wyches were with Prince Talludesh.
Two of the females were the first to join him; the twins Ya’dgaul and Borrith’tal wielded their daggers along with their Splinter Pistols, the shinning metal cast with a blue hue, just like the all of the other Wyches’ polished grey armour. They both smiled at him as they took their place at his flanks. They had been the first who he had met upon initiation into the Cult of Massacre and were the first to ever have any faith in him. Also they were the first women he had ever had an affair with inside of the cult. He felt no emotional attachment to the pair, but they were always useful as stress relief for him. All of the other women glared harshly at him as he had, in one way or another, upset and scorned each individually, forcing them to take sides with Reltri’sk.

All of these Wyches, except Reltri’sk, were not the ones he served aside inside the arena as they had all been maimed of disposed of during the assault upon their home. They had all huddled around him, the group of seven staring down the others with no effect.

“I don’t know why we were dragged out here, and quite frankly I don’t want to be on this miserable rock. These mon-keigh are the least of our worries, yet we are have been dragged from our sanctuary without a reason. Don’t die; our numbers are too few already.” She flicked her hair back, her cold eyes devoid of a sparkle.

“I do not intend to die, Hakatrix. I am too valuable to fall.”

“Why don’t you silence your words and prove your worth, Reltri’sk?”

“I will Hekatrix, unlike some of your squad I will not fall this day.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, walking threateningly towards him, “who fall this day?”

“Hekatrix,” his voice overflowed with arrogance and false innocence so much that it was sickening to hear. “I never intended my words to raise suspicion. All I meant was that you cannot expect a K'darisk Plat'yyithdae” He nodded maliciously ant Dayl, “to achieve as well as I do.”

“Hold your tongue lest I cut it out for you!” Dayl’s Impailer silenced the forced laughter of those who had sided with his rival.

“What could you possibly do? Any street dweller with a week of training could slit your throat in combat.”
“Fine.” Dayl restrained his anger by biting into his lip, the deep metallic taste of his blood calming him. He stepped forward slowly, unfastening his left sided armour, allowing it to fall to the floor.

His Wychsuit clung to his muscular arm, hiding his sacrificial scars from sight.

“If you believe yourself to be so great then spill my guts! Run me through!”

Reltri’sk didn’t realise it, but the women surrounding him had all stepped away, leaving him out in the open with no other option but to accept the challenge. He looked from left to right and took a quick moment to think before he too shed his armour plates.

Reltri’sk raised his sword like a scorpion’s sting, the surface shinning in the soul-lights as much as his polished head, anticipating his opponent’s move. Smiling, Vorshulth stepped away from the duo as Dayl’akrin prepared himself in a stubborn stance, long handle at his torso, blade aimed at his foe’s sternum.

Their feet scraped at the solid human road as the two bolted furiously at one another, weapons waving ferociously. Rain began to slam down as the two made first contact, Bloodhand’s sword sparking off of Darkness’s Impailer-Glaive before he swung it around his body at a blinding pace in an attempt to intimidate the other Wych. With a half smile, Bloodhand launched himself into the air like a wolf, his short blade knocking away the sharp end of the glaive before he rolled past his foe.

Dayl knew that he was being toyed with, but he had always found that allowing the enemy to show off before being put down stung his pride so much more.

Fiercely he snarled from behind his scarf, lowering his body with his glaive skyward before the Wych made another pass. He expertly deflected, managing to make Bloodhand stumble slightly as he went past.
Dayl took his chance while his foe’s back was turned and struck out for his spine. Bloodhand span unexpectedly, sword knocking away glaive before opening up with an aggressive number of strikes and blows. Their feet moved like those of an expert dancing duo as they carefully stepped from side to side before ducking and dipping under another death shot.

Only through thrusting and through making Bloodhand stumble was he able to buy himself time
Bloodhand grabbed the glaive beneath his sword, thinking his opponent trapped like a fly in an arachnid’s web, but acting week was just what Dayl needed.

Before he could bring the sword around to make his signature mutilation, Dayl pulled with all the strength his sober form could muster. His much lighter opponent was lifted from the ground, his blade tumbling aside as Dayl flipped him onto his back, the twin end of his Impailer-glaive digging firmly into his gullet.

One push and it would be over. One push and he would end the miserable wretch’s life.

That feeling he had missed. What was it called? It was something he longed for…

Dominance.

Dominance over a worthy adversary. The power to know that a great warrior’s life is in your hands. His veins pumped full of newly found adrenaline, and he could feel his lips involuntarily curl as bloodlust coursed through him.

In a moment of clouded mindedness, he drew back his weapon and then took the plunge.

“This was amusing, but shouldn’t we get back to fighting the mon-keigh and not amongst ourselves?” Vorshulth’s Power Sword crackled as it made contact with the glaive, knocking it away much to the distaste of Dayl and his groupies.

“I-I apologise, Hekatrix.” He stepped back slightly; his black, hollow, contemptuous eyes condemning Reltri’sk.
“Do not apologise for strength, young one. If we were back home then I would not accept anything less than this failure’s head presented to me upon a platter of his polished ribs” By spitting on her floored, former top student, she made it perfectly clear that he had fallen from grace. The rain ran down their bare bodies as they stood there, staring at Reltri’sk, who flipped up in an eccentric manner, hoping that respect still existed for him. As he looked from angered face to angered face, he realised that it did not.
“We are not home, however. We are here, and late for the fight. For Massacre!”

He slammed through the door of the human habitat, his Splinter Pistol cracking wildly, executing each on of its residents. Each shot hit one of the four men in either the chest or the shoulder, causing them to drop through the stale smoke filled air. Those who wriggled got shot again, this time in the stomach and were left to die or be collected by the slavers. He didn’t know what they were smoking, but the acrid smoke made him splutter. From the looks of the place they had been under the influence of this recreational plant for some time as many empty cans and wrappers lay scattered around the room. It was fitting, he thought, that such a cattle race would live in such squalor and filfth.

He made his way outside and shaded his eyes from the blinding fires that rose high like the great columns of corpses that the Archon’s Janissaries erected on the borders of a conquered foe’s territory, serving as a perfect warning to any other Kabals. The Fires and columns of smoke had not been caused by the efficient, clean weaponry of the Dark Eldar, but the heavy, fuel consuming lumbering and monstrous guns of the Imperium.

Within minutes of the initial attack the alarms had been raised and all four regiments of Imperial Guard stationed among the spires were dispatched. The humans filled the squares and cut off streets with their Hydra Flak Cannons and their Leman Russ Battle Tanks. The quantity of punishment the Leman Russ’s could give out when ordered was terrifying, even to the Dark Eldar pilots. Although they were terribly inaccurate, entire mobs of Hellions and Reaver gangs had already been torn brutally apart, the number of shots fired at them enough to fill every corner of the sky.

He was approaching one such street with cautious anxiety. The long road eventually came to a cross section, where three other streets met between four monumental structures. At the end of his road he could see the silhouettes of the mindless Grotesques of Haughraskaivaach’s horrific coven ripping with great claws at the tanks. They lumbered along, ripping guns and armour plates from the machines before moving on, allowing the nuisance Scourges to spread ruin with the black shots of their Dark Lances and the fizzling waves of arcane energy that emanated from their Haywire Blasters.

From the sky behind him screaming blue jets called out. More Reavers swooped in low like the feared Slaughterwasps of the Depraved Reserves, blades slicing at the humans who attempted to flee. Their officers seemed well experienced at shooting their own men in the back, much to Dayl’s amusement. Dark Eldar shot their masters; mon-keigh shot their servants. It was strange, he mused, that true strength is demonstrated by the lowest ranks, for no sane Human would ever shoot their master.

As the numbers of fleeing targets grew he smiled and joined the hunt. He could taste the pain in the air as hyper-stimulants caressed his mind with their screaming tendrils that slowed time for him. The cold air chilled his pale face as he flipped from a tank and lanced a Sergeant with his blade. Calmly, he span on one foot, kicking the man aside and continuing to dance forward. One thing the Cult of Massacre was famed for was the refined movement of its Wyches as they stalked the weak. He flowed like fluid through the night; cutting between the spotlights of the Leman Russ’s and tore the head from a soldier’s broken neck. After the crack of his spine echoed, the four others in his squad turned and fired off into empty space, their pitiful weapons failing to threaten the Wych.

Startled, one shouted something in the bestial Imperial tongue and the others turned to run. For a short while he stood with his gun, barrel aimed into the shadows. He couldn’t see anything, but he was sure he had heard something.

His eyes were fixed on the same spot, searching for the unseen in the shroud of darkness. Carefully, the human stepped forward. He placed one foot calmly after the other and exhaled shakily, obviously disturbed by the events. Kabalite Warriors were advancing down the street over a mile away, cutting through the defences. No whole squad had caught up with him, but he would swear to his Emperor that he had heard something. Finally, he lunged.

Bayonet met air.

He chuckled in relief. If he hadn’t he was sure that he would lose his sanity.

Shaking his head, he turned his back on the night.

He spat up blood almost instantly. The monomolecular blade slipped through his carapace armour with ease, puncturing both his lungs and severing his spine before piercing through his ribcage. He dropped his gun and began to struggle, but in vain his feet only met air. After a brief moment of clasping at the weapon that would inevitably cause his death, a tear rolled down his face and his limbs fell loose. This soldier was different from the basic masses he had already slaughtered. His armour was higher quality, he had a distinctly scarred face that contradicted his years of service and his chest was adorned with medals of valour and heroism. Gently, he set the veteran down before pursuing the others.

The tear was warm upon his finger tip. The bitterness of fear and pain thrilling once again. He wondered why this was, for he had outgrown the basic pleasures of the simple pain of lesser creatures. Maybe it was because this human was young and most likely talented with numerous years ahead of him. He didn’t care what it was, he just wanted more.

Laughing as he charged, the shards from his pistol shredded the head of another veteran, his body falling limp and lifeless while the others turned around. He distinctly recognised the rank of the black capped leader as he shouted some crude battle cry and raised his Bolt Pistol. He was a Commissar.

The Bolt Pistol was never something to overconfident against. The explosive rounds would be fatal if they made contact, and they all knew it. What made his situation worse was that his left hand was a great shining metal fist that sparked blue with immense energy. It was quite clearly a Power Fist.

Even though it would be easy enough to evade and strike back between blows, if he were to luckily catch the Wych then his soul would be as good as gone.

Three shots met the hull of one of the primitive tanks, stripping the paint with a fiery flash of light. After a short pause he stood staring curiously at the space the Wych had stood in, baffled by the speed with which he had moved. Light glinted dimly from his metallic face as he turned to the others, ordering them to flee before he slowly began to walk forwards with a great sense of purpose, inspecting every corner and dark crevice.

His eyes shone a cruel, sterile red, implants replacing his originals. His face was constructed mostly of metal and poor mechanisms that in the extensive war with heretical forces had begun to rust. His long coat was not the usual leather coat the Dayl had seen on other Commissars, this one was more morbid. The leather was old, dry and dirt engrossed; mud and large brown tails of blood dried out into flakes that tumbled off while he walked like rotting flesh. His chest plate was reminiscent of a human’s skeletal system. Ridges of armour painted white that had faded, and chipped, over time formed his ribcage. From four separate gunshot wounds on his left shoulder a thick viscous fluid soaked into his clothes, staining them black.

That was strange, Dayl thought, as most mon-keigh blood that he had seen in his time was deep red, not black.

He had no time to contemplate it as the glowing red eyeshot towards him, the stern face showing no expression.

Then he smiled, barring blood slick canines made from polished ivory.

He raised his pistol and shot into the dark above a tank where the Wych was hiding, forcing him to throw himself to the ground. He landed with a far from majestic thud, making the Commissar turn to the source of the sound and fire two more shots, the quick bursts of light giving away the Wych’s position.
Dayl had never felt so vulnerable. He felt pathetic.

Shaking away his shame he sprung himself into the air and nimbly stepped aside a huge blow from the fist before discharging his Splinter Pistol into the Human’s leg. He expected the Mon-keigh to suffer, but he showed no sign of pain and displayed none of the symptoms caused by the toxins he utilised. Within a second the Commissar attacked again. He span swung for the Wych’s chest, a hit that Dayl had only narrowly evaded. Dayl attempted to make as much room between them as possible, but the Human was never far behind. Even when he weaved between the bulky, identical metal constructs to set up an ambush, he found that his target was not where he had expected him to be. Another attempted blow was barely ducked under before the Wych span behind his opponent and embedded the Impaler deep into where his heart should have been.

The duel stopped as the Commissar began to laugh, sparks flying from both the entry and exit wound. He was smug, too smug. Dayl attempted to drive his weapon fully through the Human, but he grabbed the end with his Power Fist and turned, Bolt Pistol spitting out the last of its shots that wildly missed.

Dayl accurately kicked the pistol from the cold hand of his foe, the sound of metal tumbling into the shadows filling his pointed ears before he reached for a knife from his belt. The two stood staring for a moment. Forces from both sides were making their way down the streets, using the tide of disabled Leman Russ’s as cover.

From one side the street flashed red as thousands of Lasguns shot up at the screaming Hellions who wildly swooped down and decapitated the Imperial Guard limb by limb. Occasionally a bright blue flash of an unmanned Skyboard combusting as it made contact with a wall would pierce the vermillion aura that slowly approached.

An explosion lit the sky and the two met in combat once more.

Dayl’s knife was plunged into the exposed armpit of the Commissar while his other hand kept his right arm away.

With too much resistance against his knife he left it in the wound and reached for another. It was only after he withdrew the fresh knife that he felt the cold fingers of the Power Fist grab him.

Helplessly he was torn out of his hold upon the Commissar and looked down on his opponent from the air and the Commissar looked back, eyes brimming with disgust for the Wych, a cold smile painted upon his face.
With a hydraulic hiss Dayl felt the air be forced from his lungs, and with no luck he attempted to struggle free.
He could feel his chest become tighter. His ribs began to creak and his legs flailed with little effect.

The cruel metallic laughter of the Imperial rang though his mind, thoughts of his inevitable death torturing him internally.

Panic struck him and his head shot in all directions searching for a way out.

Screaming out in pain he launched his knife through the power cable that linked the Fist to the Power Pack upon his hip.

Finally he dropped free, the Commissar’s entire arm falling limp as if his tendons had snapped from immense pressure.

The Wych struggled for breath as he knealt down, panting heavily while he picked up the knife on the floor beside him.

This was his chance.

Smiling, he stood, still forcing deep breaths as he stepped towards the Commissar, brandishing his knife with malevolent eyes that cut into the Human’s soul. He must have had some idea of the pain that would ensue.
The Wych’s mistake, however, was stepping too close, as with an iron head-but the Wych fell out of consciousness, allowing his enemy to return to safety, unarmed and severely wounded.



Chapter IV

The scent of his own blood and the sounds of dying humans were the first things he noticed upon his awakening.

He forced himself to open his eyes, the bright flames burning in his vision. He had not been on this world for long, but he already knew that he hated it.

It had once been dark and silent apart from the Manufactorums off in the distance, but now it was loud and brutal. No true art of war could be found in the streets here as the two sides relentlessly marched towards each other. Missiles gone astray rocketed into buildings, causing vast amounts of rubble to pile up upon the abandoned tanks in places, and as for the Commissar…

Well, he was no place to be seen.

He rubbed his face carefully, avoiding his broken nose and the agony it was causing him. He could feel his pulse in his wound as he rose from the ground and searched around for his Impailer. He kicked bodies aside and mutilated the dead to find his weapon. He lay flat to he ground to get a view beneath the crude Imperial vehicles, but alas he screamed out in burning rage as he gave up all hope of finding his favoured glaive.

High Archon Dernia Cavash allowed his enemy the ultimate reward and ultimate mercy before their inevitable deaths, allowing them to gaze upon his form. He was certain that his unholy glory must have maddened the humans, as it caused many of his most hardened Kabalites jitter and tremble whenever he entered the room. Of course, after his mercy came the extreme persecution that he was so fond of.

Without the slightest flicker of emotion across his, he fired a darklight shot down the barrel of a Plasma Cannon entrenched behind sandbags. He didn’t bother to cherish the looks of realisation of impending death upon the pathetic Mon-keighs’ face’s, but closed his eyes as the burning blue ball of incendiary beauty blinded those who looked directly into it.

As his ancient eyes softly slid shut his mind drifted off into memories. Nobody could see this, however, as his face was covered by his pristinely clean, smooth helmet, its face wrapped with the stretched face of a man he had once sought to forget. In a weak moment, he allowed himself to succumb to his mad visions of the past.

The perpetual twilight above the Dark City had once been penetrated by a searing blue flash akin to the burning ball that he now saw. He remembered that night all too vividly as it was the last time he saw his parents.

He rested his head softly upon his silk pillow and poked his head out of the finest sheets within Commorragh, his beady, hollow eyes eagerly looking out to the door, awaiting his mother’s arrival. He smiled to nobody in particular as the intoxicating narcotic fragrances of the Telkonian incense at his bedside softly massaged his eyes and made him feel overcome with prosperity and enlightenment.

The shadows of two Incubi at his door made him feel at ease, and, for a moment he nodded off. In his sleep he felt a great number of things, peace, pain and horror at the atrocities he had seen. His mind had been young, less exposed to the City’s madness and even the sight of his father shooting a servant just for looking at him made him scared.

The horrors he had seen in the previous days would be nothing compared to what he would eventually lead, but to a child, even of the Ynneas Eldarith, it was something difficult to stomach.

“Dernia… Dernia!”

His mother’s soft hands shook him into consciousness, they once kind expression he had grown to know replaced with concern and anxiety.

“Mother.” He grinned heavily in his drugged state, unaware of her urgency.
“Dernia, you need to find safety. You are under great threat and cannot stay here.”
“Why must I leave?”

“Dernia… you wouldn’t understand.” A single tear rolled down her face and onto the tip of her softly pointed nose. Sitting up, her sun wiped it from her face and held wrapped his arms around her corset, ignoring the blood that stained his sheets from his delicate forearms upon her razor threaded clothing.
“Don’t patronise me.”

Much to his shock, her kindness turned to rage and the brutal love of her firm backhand struck him.
“Do not tell me what to do, Dernia! I am you mother. If I say leave, you leave. Understood?” Even now, in his later life, he did not once think to resent his mother for her violent displays of power against him and his twin. It had distilled toughness in them that he surely would have thanked her for, if she had lived long enough.
“Fine.” He said through a split lip weeping crimson as he forced himself from the bed and walked past his mother, not paying her another glance. He didn’t know where to go, so he decided to go where it would be safest.


Explosions cut apart the central spire of the Cavash Dynasty’s palace, killing millions within minutes. He had known that the war between his father and the Solar Cult of the Rancid Wave had been approaching its peak, but he did not know that the Cavash Dynasty were on the loosing end of the conflict.

The Cult’s attack had not been completely unexpected, but the force and the brutality with which it had hit had been shocking to citizen and Warrior alike. Entire battalions ran through the halls and arching balconies, armour ablaze as they emerged with new life from the embers of destruction. In places they had taken refuge behind the scorched piles of civilians who had attempted to flee, others crouched behind fallen pillars and plinths.

The pain fuelled ran straight out into the open, cherishing the new pains that pulsed through their bodies, while the outright crazy grabbed the inexperienced and used them as fleshy meat shields, their bodies rocking and recoiling with every new shot that gouged out new, fatal wounds.

Raiders flew free, constantly rearranging themselves in the sky blocking flotillas in which they hugged the Commorrite skyline, annihilating any potential threat with violent persecution.

Reavers and Hellions swooped upon the battlements of the fortress, picking up anybody vulnerable enough to be thrown into the endless drop that the palace rose from. The Reavers and Hellions fought for no side in particular. They fought each other, the Cultists and the Dynasty just to taste the replenishing joys of suffering.

In the gardens far below, that floated upon shifting platforms, Warriors and snipers took refuge, picking at the pilots of the Cult crafts. Burning ships plummeted in unrestrained chaos, impacting with the lower rungs of the palace and erupting in intense bouts of blue and red flames that mirrored the peaceful gardens from which their execution had sprang.

In all of this carnage Dernia had, for the first time in his life, felt at home.
“Master Cavash, find refuge.” Sybarite Ten’garrln respectfully suggested as the boy made his way to the Docking Port.

“Sybarite, the Cult is not showing any signs of weakening in their assault. I must find my father.”

“Master Cavash, I do not recommend…” the pointed ram of a Raider through the Sybarite’s face was enough to silence him.

“Breach! Secure the breach!” Men shouted urgently as they surrounded the five hundred metre scar in the face of the wall. The Cult had done his in many other places. They concentrated fire in one area before sending a Raider to suicide dive itself through, tearing most of the wall with it. They then, deployed relentless swathes of troops.

“Find Prince Cavash!” The Dracon commanded as the first assailants entered, the muzzles of their Splinter Rifles spewing out clouds of needle thin sots. Their Rifles were different to the Dynasty’s. The Cult’s vomited out clouds of needles, allowing them to be less accurate but just as lethal, whereas the Dynasty favoured precise shots to save ammunition.

From beneath the wreckage Prince Dernia could see which one was more efficient is these confined quarters.

Eighty attackers were able to gun down over two hundred men within seconds before the four other battalions stationed hundreds of metres away were able to render the immediate threat obsolete.
The sudden strength of the suffering that wafted by the Prince renewed his vigour and replenished his strength, granting him the strength to force the bulky armour plating and bodies from atop of him. He crawled from the growing flames along the hall running west and was instantly grabbed by two Warriors. He hadn’t noted their allegiance, and before he had time to realise his mistake he slit the throat of one and forced his knife through the visor of the other, causing him to claw at his helmet and pin his hand upon the eye in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Prince, what are you doing?” A Sybarite asked, astounded.

“Where is my father?” He asked, dismissing his subordinate’s question.

“He is in his throne room, Master Cavash. I must ask you to find safety at once!”

“That is what I am doing. He will protect me.”

“And what of the Cultists? Surely they shall attack you upon your travels.”

“Follow me, if you wish, Sybarite. I do not care what you do, but I am going to find safety.”


The cries of billions resonated through the spire. Shots and bombardments rocked the very foundations. Statues toppled and occasionally the smallest flicker of starlight shone down through the war that raged on far above. The great blue ball’s heat that once beated down was now lost, frost beginning to coat the towers and blood beginning to curdle and freeze.

Cavash had prised a Blaster from the frozen fingers of a corpse in the only way he could, stamp the body until it shattered like glass. The weapon was the perfect size for him to carry. A Splinter Rifle was too long and a Dark Lance was too heavy for his short arms to hold. The Blaster was perfectly light and was effective enough, he found out quickly.

They ran hurriedly down the halls, Dernia and his entourage of twelve Warriors and a Sybarite. Urgency filled their minds for a reason unaware to all of them. Maybe they shared a sense of impending doom, that this was their last stand against the Solar Cults. Maybe, they thought, Lord Tyrr’antillian Cavash had already fallen, and any attempt to find safety for the Prince was futile. It was a thought that was not worth dwelling on. Even though nobody like Lord Tyrr’antillian and all wished to see his head fall to the dirt, everybody had been so indoctrinated into loving him that even the thought of harming him brought tear’s to a citizen’s eyes.
The Sybarite shot a clenched fist up in the air, commanding everybody to stop. They were approaching a Blood Hall, a perfect place for an ambush.

The internal walls were lined with weapons for the new recruits to train with. High balconies decorated the walls and columns sprouted thick from the polished marble ground. If they walked out into the open then they would surely be cut down.

“Do you hear that?” Dernia asked, forcing the others to strain their ears.

Clashing weapons and death screams emanated from the hall. A woman’s enraged grunting came from the centre of the bloodbath. Her shouts cut through the barrage of clashing swords and the thud of blood soaked bodies. It was after a short struggle that they were able to hear the woman be brought down with a jangle of what sounded like a Shardnet.

“Master Cavash.” The sybarite lowered his head, appalled by what he saw. A part of his wanted to keep Dernia away, but he knew that it was necessary.

His eyes began to water as he saw his mother dragged up to her feet by her flowing black locks of hair, her eyes bleeding and her body torn open. She had been too seriously injured to even stand by herself. Seeing his other in this weak, vulnerable form was not what had upset him. The Splinter Pistol forced into her spine was what had caused him the most pain.

“Master, do you wish fo me to deal with this?” The Sybarite tried his best to hold back the glee from anticipated murder from his face, but with little prevail.

“No.” He answered, wiping tears from his eyes. “I know what I must do.” He let his tears drop freely to the floor. This was a woman that everybody loved, and all her subordinates would die for. To see her, his idol of hope, fallen in such a way was to kill him without consideration. Bravely, he stepped around the corner and stood at the top of an archaic banister crafted from the bones of fallen recruits. He heard a distant thunder.
“Bow down to the will of the Solar Cults, surrender all you hold dear.”

He looked at the ramshackle raiders. Eight were scattered along the balconies, each tracking him intently. Two stood at the base of the staircase, rifles aiming for his heart while two stood either side of their leader, who used his mother as protection.

“Why should I, a man of purest blood and traditions, kneel to you, a second class ball of scum that doesn’t deserve to polish my armour?” It was odd as while he spoke, his tears rolled down his shining chest plate, wiping away the blood in streaks.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation you are in, child.”

“I understand full well what is happening. You wish to rule this city; you wish to rule this realm. As long as a single Cavash breaths you shall not be triumphant.”

“You don’t see what is happening here, do you, child?” His guards laughed as if on cue, mocking the Prince.
“Times are changing,” He continued, “The rule of the Noble Houses is not wanted, nor is it welcome.”

“You speak of what is not welcome as if you are permitted to do so. You intrude upon my home, kill millions and cause damage that will take years to repair. You have showed the utmost disrespect here and yet you think that you are qualified to talk about what is not welcome.”

“Ha, you know a lot of words for such a small child.”

Dernia continued, ignoring him, “Worst of all, you have come here and placed a gun against my mother’s back. You have no honour.”

“Honour!? What outdated notions have these people been teaching you?” with a grunt of exasperation he kicked Dernia’s mother to the ground and spat upon her broken form.

“Did you see what she did to my men? Quite frankly, this whore deserves all the torment she gets.” He looked up at Dernia, his Blaster drawn and aimed in his direction. “Put down your weapon boy, and surrender. At least then you can be with her.”

“I shall not have the Cavash name sullied with torture and insults.”

He was able snort back his tears and prevent his hands from trembling briefly, long enough for him to pull down on the trigger, and pray for his mother’s soul.


When her body was found, no face, no soul, and no replenish-able life remained.



Chapter V

“What happened to you?” The Hekatrix hounded Dayl, turning away from his shattered perfection.
He hung his head low. Even though he had stopped the bleeding, shame filled his every thought and the damage to his pride significantly outweighed the hurt caused by his physical wounds. “This…” she gestured to his broken nose, “was this caused by a… human?” She made no attempt to hold back her laughter. The squad soon broke into laughter, his accursed rival leading the mockery.

“What’s wrong, Dayl? Did he tickle you with the butt of his gun?” Dayl looked up at Reltri’sk, his gloating smile showing no signs of halting. He had attempted to hold it back, but sheer hatred overcame him. His fists hit his foe with the force of the brazen war god, his strikes precise and perfectly guided. Bloodhand attempted to fight back, but he was far too slow to fend off the fearless barrage of deadly lunges.

Four hits met his chest with bone breaking force, and two made contact with his stomach, rupturing his internal organs. Blood and sickly fluids oozed from his face, and in defence he raised an arm in submission.
Submission is a weakness.

Faster than expected, Dayl twisted the arm over his shoulder, sending the other Wych skyward only to be driven brutally to the ground before his arm could be twisted further, dislocating it and snapping several vital tendons with a mighty ‘crack’.

He could feel the hands of his squad mates attempt to drag him off of the beaten soon-to-be carcass, and with lightning precision he shunted back each individual, clinging to pressure points and manipulating his squad to strike against each other.

He felt no exhaustion as pure anger pulsed through his iced heart, thawing it with the flames of bloodlust. He tripped up his opponents and guided their knives into the fleshy, vulnerable spaces of others, before decimating bones within their skin receptacles and jabbing some in the throat, immobilising them temporarily.
One slashed with her knife, but he grabbed her forearm and punched into her delicate armpit before spinning her with her own arm and using her as a bag to absorb the hacks and stabs his squad.

He cared little for her screams, or the fact that it was one of the twins that he had grown fond of. Her sister attacked along with two others. He disarmed one and dissected his jugular with the hook upon his heel. His body reeled away, forcing another to the ground, leaving only the other twin and Vorshulth left to put an end to his madness.

A knife drove through the shield-twin’s sternum, splitting her rib cage open. He did not weep over her death, as the Power Sword of the Hekatrix granted her a truly speedy demise.

The sparking blade cut diagonally through her torso, leaving Dayl narrowly unscathed. In defiance, and as to serve a final disrespect, he broke the surviving twin’s skull with his elbow as he flung the upper body of his shield into the face of the Hekatrix.

She was not as foolish as the others however, and was already prepared. Her sword sent the body flying either side of her in quarters, showering her in the warm fluids of glory.

He waited, eagerly, for the sword to drop down out of his way before he made a feral leap, accompanied by a blood curdling cry.

Her sword tumbled beneath a tank, and together they dropped to the floor, locked in brutal death-grips.


His first punch came as a great surprise to Vorshulth, who, in return, gouged deep chasms into his forehead with her sharpened talons. As his blood rose from around her nails he grabbed her by the hair and busted her face with his forehead.

This was not the finesse the Cult of Massacre practiced. He was a wild beast, one that needed to be put down.

Enraged, she lifted him into the air and launched him like a grumpy child discarding a doll. Naturally, he landed in a roll and rose from the ground, before turning to face his mentor.

“What is this!?” She demanded, drawing a knife before moving into a position perfect for this sort of combat.

“This is the meaning of Massacre, Hekatrix.” His words conveyed no respect for her rank, only an unexplainable scorned hatred. “The tormented rising from weak to prove his divinity.” He mimicked her stance as he nimbly plucked a monomolecular blade from the back of a deceased Wych.

“No. This is not what it means to be a son or daughter of the Cult. Slaying your blade-kin in lieu of battle? This is ridiculous!” they began to circle each other, knives twinkling beneath the streaking beams of Retrofire Jets.

“Really? Well, if you think so, then I doubt that you are dedicated to the concept of Massacre.” He lunged at her chest, hoping to split open her skin and watch her muscle leap out, but she was just as fast as he was. She rocketed back and parried before swinging for his jaw, which he just narrowly avoided.

“I follow Massacre. How is the slaughter of your kin better than my contributions?”

“First, I am thinning out our stocks-”

“At a time when we have no Wyches to spare.” She interrupted while spinning towards him in a blur, blade flashing before his throat.

He was lucky to have timed it right, but his back flip was enough to disturb her assault, his foot scraping her cheek.

“Having excess Wyches leads to stagnation of talent. If these younglings cannot survive my simple assault then they are not elite enough to bear our colours.”

“What has caused this, Dayl? Your behaviour is extremely out of the ordinary.”

Vorshulth had not realised it, but above their heads softly lay a Raider. Upon its deck stood the Princess. He had been the only one to see its approach.

Even though he was attempting to impress the Princess with this display of treachery, he couldn’t help but feel a strange attraction towards the Hekatrix.

He hadn’t realised her beauty until he had seen her bathed in blood and fighting for her life.

The distraction of the Princess was his weakness, however, as in the slight moment his concentrations wavered, Vorshulth struck.

She knocked the knife from his hand and launched him onto his spine with agonising whiplash. She crouched above him, the knife between her hands, struggling to fight against his own strength.

The sparkling point wobbled as the two fought for control. Vorshulth was pressing down as hard as was possible, but Dayl was stronger. Even the pink tinged liquids that dropped from her hair onto his face didn’t seem to irritate him.

Something told her that he was enjoying this to much.

With a harrowing smile, he tore the weapon from her grasp and pulled her down on top of him before latching his hands around her throat and clamping down with a stern expression that betrayed the depraved joy he was obtaining.

“Do you see? Do you see now, Vorshulth? You are weak!” She gasped and struggled, thrashed and squirmed, but her soft hands were too weak to prise open the weathered fists of her student.
She hated to admit it, but she had been defeated. As her head fell loose upon her shoulders she could feel consciousness begin to elude her, and in her limp state, Dayl felt even more inclined to grasp tight and perform unspeakable acts that had ruined former prey far more than any physical pain he could cause.

But then he looked up.

The angelic gaze of the High Archon’s daughter radiated upon him, and for a moment he felt both cursed and blessed. He had her attention now, but surely having the attention of High Archon Dernia Cavash’s daughter could lead to excruciating results.

He allowed his nerves to get the better of him, and he discarded the Hekatrix before rising and bowing to the Princess. With rude disregard, her interest moved from the Wych and the craft flew off into the warzone.


Inside, in some emotional region he never knew existed, a part of him broke.


Dayl couldn’t believe his luck. He had been reunited with his favourite Impailer. The black razor edges inspired pure joy in the Wych, it was just a shame that he was on the wrong side of the weapon.

“So, what happens now?” He asked, surprisingly calm when facing death.

“You… you…” Reltri’sk was wounded to speak with any fluidity, and his right hand trembled as it grasped limply the Impailer, his other hand nursing his stomach. He could feel the internal damage and knew that he needed medical attention and quick.

“Bloodhand, you are hardly in a position to be threatening me.” Dayl held eye contact and brushed his hair back between his fingers.

“Wi-with you gone…” He gasped, “I can fi-finally get my… rightful fame.”

“Just lower the weapon. It wouldhelp you, massively.”

“How-” he gritted his teeth and attempted to savour his misfortune. “How could I t-trust you after all of this.”

“You can’t, but you can understand logic.” He starred at his wounded rival intently, making him eager to hear his words.

“Go on.” He forced more pressure onto the handle, causing the two points to sit either side of Dayl’s larynx.

“If you were to kill me” he began, “then you would have these crimes pinned on you. The Archite would certainly not be pleased with you killing so many blade-kin, and without good reason. With me dead, you will be all the evidence that they have. You are beaten so badly that it looks like you challenged the entire squad, and narrowly escaped. So, it is in your best interests that I continue to breathe.”

“I, however, heard everything.” An authoritative voice caught their attention as Dracon Relliach Korvesh slinked out from his vantage point and dropped three stories to the ground, rolling over his shoulder before rising, firm back and hands locked behind his back.

“Such treasons are enough to have you handed over to that revolting ‘scientist’.” His voice oozed with vanity that was easily highlighted by his pristine armour. This, however, was deceptive, as within his scabbard his sword sat stewing in the blood of the cattle they had come to slaughter.

“Yes, Haughraskaivaach has such a talent within his craft. Have you heard the rumours?” He asked, expecting an answer when the Wyches had mistaken it for an act of rhetoric’s.

“I’ve heard that he can blend with the very shadows around him. That he can change his own temperature to the point where he combusts of freezes solid. That he broke the barrier between energy and matter before Vect had crawled out of slavery.” His smile was not apparent behind his helm, glowing yellow eyes piercing through the black.

“If he can do all of this without feeling any pain, imagine the wonders that he could inflict upon you.” He scuttled forward, his dashes raising dust as he drew his sword in an elaborate display. Dayl didn’t care about Bloodhand anymore and knocked him unconscious with the spiked handle of his weapon, his eye becoming a crowning jewel upon the base of its shaft.

“Ha! What do you intend to do with that?”

“Leave me be, Dracon.” He spat, preparing himself for further treason.

“Tarrar! Kal’bayn! Kill!”

How had he not seen them? How had he not seen the towering Incubi power up their Klaives and attack without warning?

He was only able to dodge two strikes before being forced to roll aside to save his head. He couldn’t block the onslaught that the two Incubi dealt, and his only option was to move back.

He climbed upon a tank, two feet upon the barrel while the bulky Incubi cut clean through the armour, leaving him with less and less room to hide.

Eventually, he flipped and landed before breaking into a sprint. One of the Incubi, Kal’bayn ran after him while the other, more cautious of the two stayed a few paces behind, anticipating a struggle.

The Wych weaved through steel and ceramite maze, clambered over mountains of corpse strewn rubble and placed every step with complete consideration, as to avoid slicing open his foot on the bayonet of a Splinter rifle. His speed had been useful, but he was injured and the Incubi had, too, feasted that day, inspiring them to leave no recognisable remains.

He looked over his shoulder before turning down an alleyway and saw the Kal’bayn had pursued him with relentless vigour, and had closed the gap a startling amount.

Panicking, Dayl crouched low while he spun, swung a Spliter Rifle up from the ground and sprayed the Incubus with needles as his mighty two handed weapon was raised many feet above him.

Feeling his life draw to a close, he did what he usually did and lashed out.

Streams of blood flowed from the Incubus’s pierced eyes, the red rivers meandering down his bone white helm, staining the surface with defeat. He couldn’t believe it. The Klaive didn’t roll out of his armoured hand as he kicked the body away, jolting hard to withdraw his Impailer, speckled filthy with brain matter.

Tarrar turned the corner and face the Wych, his shadow cast long by the moon that was finally beginning to poke through the clouds.

This revealed a new threat, one which caused the Dracon to order the Incubus to stand down. Together they all looked to the sky, curious and shocked by what they saw.

Great tear drops of raw inferno arced through the sky, deployed from a mass of twinkling up above. How would the Astartes be so prepared and informed to be able to deploy in under an hour of the Dark Eldar entering real space?


“Lord, please understand-” Relliach’s attempt at reasoning with Lord Cavash over his helm’s communication link was silenced by Dernia’s calm anger. The Dracon’s sword cut down eight Imperial Guardsmen in a gleaming flurry before he received his orders from the High Archon.

“Yes, master. It shall be so.” He closed the link before snarling and kicking another Mon-keigh in the jaw, sending him down with a crack.

“Battalion nine through sixteen, seize your enslavement and close in on the central square. There is much blood to be spilt!” He ordered before preparing himself for the collaborative screams of over five thousand warriors. It was truly inspiring. The Wych that followed the Dracon, however, could not hear the mind splitting shouts.

“You.” The Dracon suddenly turned and pointed to Dayl, Tarrar stood behind the Wych with his Klaive prepared to behead him. “Your mistress, the Archite, she resides in the Archon’s Court, yes?”

“Indeed, she is following him. I think he-”

“I do not care.” He said with a preoccupied voice. “Can you guarantee that she will be following him?”

“Not for certain, but she would probably be near by.” He was curious now. Was there some issue between him and the Succubus? Even if there were it would be idiotic to attempt to blackmail a Dracon while an Incubus in his employ stood nearby.

“Hmm… this could be… interesting at the very least.” He raised his head and looked around. At the end of every street his forces made great advancements. They ran in a forced organisation, knowing that the Sybarites would not hesitate to whip any man to death who ruined the reputation of Relliach’s twenty batallions.

“Master, are you sure that all will play out as expected?” Tarrar’s voice boomed from behind his bleached bone mask, his great razor edged horns whistling through the air as the wind began to speed up.
“I am certain, Tarrar. It is worth more than that psyker’s life than to cross me. If I find he lied, then not even his curse shall save him.”

Dayl’s eyes shot to the Dracon, great suspicion and paranoia becoming the ruler of the moment.

“You consort with psykers?” Subconsciously he tightened his grip upon his Impailer and the foraged Splinter Rifle, which he was holding like a pistol.

“Don’t get any ideas, Wych. It was during battle that I came face to face with a Craftworld Seer. He was strong of mind, but my hatred overcame his trickery. He promised recompense on this very world, at this exact date.”

“You made us raid this world just for a challenge? What if his vengeance comes in the form of the Astartes slaying the Archon?” He gritted his teeth, anger rising.

“No!” He shouted. “They shall be here. Trust in my superior experience, it would serve you well.” He began to walk off, Tarrar following closely behind.

“Tarrar, I have a task for you. Do not fail me.”

“Anything, as long as I get paid.”

Relliach cackled, loving how the Incubi were so bound by their ancient codes and contracts, a stark contrast to the rest of their twisted race.



Chapter VI

“So, how are the Depraved Reserves this time of year?” Farougk asked, seeking to pass the time as she stood beside Dernia Cavash, seated on his thrown upon the Chariot of Grandeur. The throne had been crafted from over four hundred blades, eached positioned as to cut heighten his senses. This had worked many centuries ago, but such minute stimuli failed to entertain him in his advanced age.

He rolled his head from right to left and looked up to his oldest of acquaintances.

“The victims have been released. Those fallen since the last cycle have been hung upon the trees, their arteries emptied into my soothing reservoirs.” He didn’t even smile when thinking about his most highly regarded territory any more. “I had a new shipment of beasts eight days ago, so the wretched ‘Tau’ I released should be enjoying themselves right about now.”

The court forced out laughs, not wishing to offend their master. Dernia looked around those he had gathered out of generosity, to allow them to bathe in the wonder that was the grand idolised Cavash. He had considered setting up a church devoted to himself, but he already knew that in the quarters of every Warrior in his service there lay a shrine, devoted to venerating their merciful lord. He didn’t want to enforce this religion as, after all, he was benevolent.

The Depraved Reserves were managed and run by his favoured son, Prince Luckr’yth Cavash. His son crouched beside Faroughk, tending to his antique Agoniser.

His Agoniser was a family heirloom, and a relic from before the Solar Cults. The great bladed fingers could disembowel the toughest foe with the lightest of swipes.

It was a strange feeling that ran through Dernia’s heart at this point. He couldn’t quite remember its name. He felt it for himself, and all the time, but never had he suffered from this emotion when it concerned another life.
He was very similar to how his father had been in younger life. He was solely devoted to perfecting everything he did and showed no interest in distractions such as women and intoxicants. He was extremely focussed for a man of only two centuries, but Dernia knew where he had inherited this trait.

Little did Prince Luckr’yth know, he had not been born of Eldarith Ynneas, but had been grown as an experiment by Haughraskaivaach, another member of the Court, in the womb of a torture Aspect Warrior.
It was an experiment fuelled purely by curiosity, and Dernia had no intention of keeping the child, but as it began to grow within the woman he realised the potential for a perfect warrior. The cruelty of the true kin and the discipline of the foolish Craftworlders. It would take rigorous training to mould him into shape, however, as discipline was not passed down through genetics, only the potential for discipline.

At the bow, clad in ornate red armour that had grown to be rightfully feared within the Pierced Heart, stood Janissary Master Tr’anrik. His arms were crossed as he gazed out across the apocalypse his men had caused. Even though he was not part of the standard military structure that Kabal abode by, he was responsible for the constant protection of the Archon.

Incubi were loyal bodyguards, as long as nobody else paid them to pluck your head like a fresh bud. The Janisaries had been raised personally from birth by Dernia Cavash. They had been brainwashed into devoting their lives willingly to serve him. Although, to say that they chose this fate would be incorrect. They had all been picked from the children of conquered Archons if they were fresh with life. From here they were indoctrinated with a combination of propaganda and chemical therapy that had been handled by Haughraskaivaach.

They had grown to be feared after one terrifying night.

On the day of their release into the world, the original Janissaries had been allowed to display their superiority by conquering the fourteen thousand Kabalites of the Venom Teardrop with no help from other military forces. They had acted with such efficiency that it had impressed Lord Cavash, a marvellous feat that had only been achieved once before by the coldest hearted, most malicious woman ever to set foot in his palace.

Tr’anrik had never been seen to smile in the one hundred and forty nine he had served within the Janissary Elite, even when he ordered the release of the ‘cleansing’ disease that disfigured any citizens of the Pierced Heart that held any undesirable genes. This mass genocide of his own people, ordered by Lord Cavash, had lead to all Pierced Heart Kabalites being obscenely pale and tall, with shining black hair, perfectly pointed eyes and extremely toned musculature. This was the pure breed Dernia had hoped for.

Only three others were allowed to ride upon the Chariot with the Archon. At the Stern resided Haughraskaivaach, who at first glance seemed just like any other youthful Eldar. This, however, was a grave mistake to make. People had approached him, thinking him weak and easy to prey upon. Soon, they wished they had not.

He gleefully stripped flesh from bones as he spat a mist of acid upon his attackers. He could fire a variety of toxin polluted needles at his foe from hidden implants across his body and watch as the varying effects resulted in hilarious results. He had managed all of this through self experimentation, and, in his current incarnation, the only noticeable modification was that in place of hands he had nothing but bare, polished bones that spread death to whatever he touched. He was fond of this ability, as it had taken him two millennia to perfect.

His true age, and his true form, was a secret that he held forever by his side. Rumours had arisen, but only he knew the absolute truth.

The other two present were two more of Dernia Cavash’s children. He had summoned Prince Talludesh Ayr’kell to join him in confronting the Imperial Command of Hive Pentalons as the raid had been his idea. He hadn’t known why his son wanted to enslave this world, but it had proved to become a pleasant family outing.
Finally his daughter, Princess Althianesh Cavash. Her hair flowed back as the hot night’s wind brushed against her. She had been attempting to get Master Tr’anrik to speak to her for the last couple of minutes, but with no results. She was young and reckless, and had caused four wars in her short life. She had quickly become the centre of Dernia’s world yet he couldn’t show it. Even though it was common for Archons to show kindness to their children occasionally, he suffered severely from emotional ineptitude.

“Look, this is boring now. If your not going to talk at least look me in the eyes before I throw you overboard.” Althianesh proceeded to pester Tr’anrik, leaning against the hand rail provocatively beside him. He cared not for her attempts at seduction. She was young and susceptible to her basal urges. He continued to look forward, calculating the outcome of every skirmish far below inside his complex mind.

“Althianesh, you are not a daughter of Shaimesh, nor are you in the Sisterhood of Lhilitu. Stop trying to sell yourself like one of those blasted Lhamaeans.” Talludesh snarled with hatred, believing her to give the Cavash Dynasty a bad name.

“Stay out of this, coward. You have no place ordering what I do when you cannot command fear amongst your own men.”

“Cease this, lest I cut out your tongue!” He rose sharply causing his sister to draw one of her elegant blades.
“You quite clearly excel in the language of hypocrisy.”

The prince couldn’t back down from the insult and punched his sister with pure brute force. She squealed and fell back onto the Janissary, causing him to turn and grab the Prince by the throat, knowing how much Althianesh meant to his master.

The Prince choked and begged to be freed, his sudden dominance forgotten instantly. Almost robotically the Janissary looked over to Lord Cavash and awaited his order.
“Free him.”

With a nod he relinquished his grasp and resumed his position with a statuesque stillness. Luckr’yth assisted his sister from the floor before shooting a venomous glance to the other Prince.

“I have no time for petty quarrels. Act civil, or depart, now!” His voice made his children tremble. They had seen one of his threats enacted before, and now, every time he raised his voice, they all remembered the echoing snap that their sister’s neck made after she had disobeyed him.

“Apologies, father.” They spoke in unison, each looking into his bottomless eyes. It was once he leaned back that they were able to breathe easily.

“Dernia, I was informed by Relliach Korvesh that my trophies would be numerous.”

“I assure you, Archite, you shall find all that you desire here.”

“But we are here to face the man leading the Imperial defence, not our cousins as I was promised.”

“Haste, Faroughk. Learn to use it.” He slowly raised his hand as he spoke, silencing her.

“Who is this mon-keigh we shall face?” She asked after a moment’s consideration. Despite his insanity Dernia was extremely wise, causing his word to be followed by all he worked with.

“Even though this may upset you, we are not here for bloodshed, Archite it is just an added bonus. While in this poor excuse for a spire, I would like to avoid any possible hostilities.”

In unison his court looked straight at him with questioning glances. Everyone, of course, other than Haughraskaivaach who was too preoccupied with his skeletal weapons, and Tr’anrik who couldn’t care less.
“Why are you doing this? Is it because ofLady Mal-?”

“Don’t say it!” He screamed at the Succubus, deafening everybody on board, including the pilot and six gunners strapped to the extremities of the Chariot. “Do not, EVER, bring that up again, do you hear me?” He hissed at his oldest friend, a great urge to run her through with his knife growing in the back of his mind.
“Archon, these implants are truly marvellous. You should consider the modification.” A voice hissed from behind him.

“Not now, Haughraskaivaach.” He sighed before applying a slight pressure upon the jewel upon his chest. The new dose of drugs coursing through his body did not help calm him.

“Some things are more important in this life than destroying it outright.” He did not wait for a reply from the terrified Succubus, as he knew that he wouldn’t get an answer.


Smiling, he rose from his seat and clasped his hands together.
“We have arrived.”


From the weapon rack aboard his chariot he had taken an ancient agoniser, far more ornate than the one possessed by his son. He couldn’t have his son look better that him, especially upon his first meeting with these mon-keigh.

He took the first steps out onto the extended balcony, setting an example for his court. He couldn’t lose face. He needed to be seen first, otherwise his reputation would be tarnished. His Shadowfields were activated and his Blaster rested upon its clip. He caught first sight of the other side as his court dismounted. In the distant shadows he saw the shimmering of Chameleon Cloaks. This was a dishonesty that he hated. If the humans had at least been good at hiding their snipers the he wouldn’t have such a hatred already brewing inside him, waiting to erupt.

“Archon?”

A familiar lamenting voice soothed through him with absolute neutrality.

“Harlequin.” He nodded in acknowledgement. No Archon had ever shown disrespect to these enigmatic servants of Cegorach. They were shown trust and honour never seen within the Dark Eldar culture, and to deny them of their wishes would be insane, as it would incur the wrath of the Tyrant.

“Is everything in order?” Dernia asked.

“Do you underestimate me, Archon?”

“Of course not.” He bowed to her and encouraged his Court to do the same. In retaliation the Harlequin mimicked them, and beckoned for them to follow her into the atrium. The Archon waltzed carelessly into the vast circular room, the epitome of Imperial architecture. Large arches held up the tall vault roof, at the centre of which hung a blatantly expensive crystal chandelier. It wasn’t as beautiful as the skull chandelier in the Wych palace, but it was nice for something of human construction.

“Archon Cavash, I presume?” A soft, weathered voice asked in refined low gothic. A man rose from his seat dressed in a pristine, high buttoned leather great coat. He possessed short black hair and skin paler than most humans’. From the Archon’s observations, he must have sustained heavy injury at some point in his life, as a well oiled exo-skeleton ran over every bone in his body. The fact that it was slightly frosted over gave away the fact that he was a psyker.

“Indeed. And who are you?” Surprisingly, the Archon remembered a fair bit of the human tongue from when he used to hunt Space Marines.

“I am Lord Inquisitor Irvine Fathul of the Ordo Malleus.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Just sharing the same air with him made his skin crawl.

“No. Scarred.”

Dernia raised an eyebrow. For some reason this human was too brave, his ego needed to be cut down to fit his body.

“Captain Rayvos, our guests have arrived.” He didn’t wait to hear from the Dark Eldar as he sat back down with a thin smile upon his face. The Archon hadn’t noticed when he had walked in, but the Adamantine Guard first captain had been spectating since the Dark Eldar had arrived. His armour was a pristine devotion to their dying Emperor. Behind his beaked helmet sat many years of anger and resentment for the entire Eldar race. He didn’t realise it at the time, but Haughraskaivaach, the man responsible for the destruction of his home world, was present.

He stood still, staring at the Archon.

“You may wish to avert your gaze. Sight is a priviledge, one that can be easily taken away.” The Archon threatened, causing the Space Marine to at each alien present. He did not speak or take a seat. He just stood, towering above the humans and the xenos.

“These are the ‘much feared Dark Eldar’?” A man sat beside the Inquisitor asked, his red eye lenses glowing. His armour was a rare variant of Carapace, and from his shoulders hung a Ghillie Cloak that served no purpose within the Imperial chamber.
“I thought that they would be taller.”

“And I thought that you would have a sense of self preservation.”

“Why are your ears so pointed? Are you overcompensating for something?”

“Your face would make a well deserved addition to my mask collection, mon-keigh.”

The human smiled before unhooking the face piece of his helmet and removing the armoured upper section, setting it down upon the table.

“Maybe, one day, we shall meet in battle, Archon.” He spoke from rugged lips that rested upon his scarred face, blue patterns stained onto the skin of the left side of his face, as tradition dictated for warriors of his world.

“A Quinosian?” The Archon asked, instantly recognising the markings from fond memories of battles long gone. So many Quinosian souls had satiated his hunger that just being near his soul made him hunger.
“Lieutenant Quel’tresk, Quinosian Thirty First.”

“Oh, how exciting.” The Archon’s face lit up with desire. He had not had such a challenging duel since he last set foot upon their backward little world and faced the Lieutenant’s superior, Colonel Quel’hun.

Quel’hun had been outmatched in intelligence, speed, skill and strength, but he was certainly cunning. It was a shame that the Archon had only been able to maim him, and not drag him back to his exquisite home.

With a carless aloofness he strode onto to table and flexed the elongated blades upon his fingers. He could taste the agony all ready that he wanted to inflict upon the Guardsman.

No matter how much force he exerted, he could not move. His armour had frosted over and the air now possessed a terrible chill.

“No.” The Inquisitor spoke, psychic prowess so great that his voice resonated through the minds of all present. He wasn’t even attempting to use his will to influence the Archon, it was just natural for him.
“No blood needs to be shed between our two cells.”

“Cell? I have a noble Court, mon-keigh. Never forget it!”

Dernia wandered why the Janissary had not attempted to free him, but by the sounds of his struggling, he had been frozen too.

“Relinquish me!” He ordered, feeling the essence of his soul start to slip away while being the subject of the Psyker’s power.

“If you take a seat, we shall begin.”


The only thing that had kept the Court from torturing the humans was the Harlequin that stood silently between them, overlooking their interactions. The Inquisitor was not so bad, but the Captain was useless during conversation and the Lieutenant was insufferable. He constantly made racist remarks to the clearly superior Dark Eldar, his rightful masters through power and virtue.

“As I am sure you are aware, the Inquisition does not look kindly upon the cruel invasion of an innocent world.” Fathul spoke from his seat while enjoying a cup of Bergamot tea served to him by one of the women in his retinue.

“How is it that you are able to perceive yourselves as innocent?” Haughraskaivaach spoke through his translator, intrigued by their illogical thought processes. He refused to sully his tongue with their crude language.

“We have not set foot upon a single world owned by your master. We have not showed any outward hostility, aimed directly at your Kabal, and yet you attack us, unprovoked and without reason.”
Haughraskaivaach moved his cold face into a smile that managed to unnerve the Quinosian. “It is a simple answer, the one to your concern. We have no worlds that you can strike against.”

“So, wizened Eldar, please help me to understand. Why do you raid our worlds?” This was coming from a man who once stated that to attempt to comprehend the inner workings of n alien’s mind was a treason that should have the same punishment as if outright heresy had been committed. It was amazing how much he had changed in the last sixty two years.

“Hmm… how could I get you to understand…?” The translation device spoke clearly while he thought. “It is quite comparable to your current situation.”

“How so?” He leant back and took a sip from the cup as he anticipated hearing something that he would detest.

“Ten millennia ago your Emperor crusaded through the galaxy, uniting every single planet in the name of ‘Mankind’.” He shuddered with quite visible contempt.
“Your race caused thousands of other harmless species to become extinct and your united Legions, as I recall, held the power to quell the slightest upheaval or rebellion. It was truly an admirable attempt, considering the limitations of your philosophy and physiology.
“We had once been far more powerful than anything that you could have imagined. We could extinguish stars and alter the makeup of entire worlds, and all with no discomfort or effort for our populations. Whereas you had the Horus Heresy, we had something far worse.”
It flashed before his eyes. The horrific Cults that turned upon each other and the cruelty he was forced to enact just to survive. At the time, it had changed him, but now, as he felt every moment play itself out he felt it differently. He became ecstatic from every cry and every beg for mercy. Every tear he had caused fulfilled the emptiness at his core, only to be quickly snatched away once again.

“Now, after the carnage spread by the fallen Primarchs, you seek to eradicate all belief in the powers of which you fear. You seek to control all, and why? Because you still feel the pride aching in your thoughts from when your Imperium was expansive and prosperous. Now, just like you do, we Eldarith Ynneas” For some reason the device did not translate that part. “Seek to spread pain through those who do not deserve to have inherited the galaxy from its former rulers. If you were in a position of such power, I am certain that your people would fall to the same vices.”

The room fell quiet, only the sounds of heavy artillery and persistent Splinter fire broke the void. No human had been gifted with such knowledge from the lips of a survivor of The Fall, and other than Haughraskaivaach, Dernia and the Harlequin, not even the other Dark Eldar knew of the fall. It was a secret kept silent within the Pierced Heart Kabal, as not to inspire false hope and arrogance within the Kabalites, although it rarely helped.

“I cannot, and shall not, attempt to relate to what you speak of, as it would be to hinder my duties as an Inquisitor. But I ask, on behalf of the Harlequin, cease the assault.” The Harlequin nodded before Prince Luckr’yth looked over to the humans from his position. He had been stood beside his father, looking out for a potential ambush, but he had been listening the whole time.

“What circumstances could warrant such an unusual cease fire between our two sides? Give me one good reason why this hive should not be levelled.”

“One:” the Astartes finally spoke, his voice shocking the Archon’s daughter, causing her to jump up from her seat. “I have squadrons from four Companies of Adamantine Guard located at key defensive positions throughout this Hive, ready to set up kill zones that would render any infantry of your Kabal obsolete.”
“Anything else?” The Prince asked, expecting no answer.

“This. I am sure that your Archon can inform you of the dangers that this presents, to both the Imperium of Man, and your feral raiding force.” He threw a dataslate across the polished stone table, and as the glowing green image lay in front of the Archon his eyes opened wide, a feeling of disbelief shooting through his chest.



Chapter VII

Tarrar had not said anything since they had left the company of the Dracon, and Dayl was starting to feel threatened by the towering monastic warrior. His armour was by far superior to that of any armour utilised by Kabals or any other mercenaries within the Dark City. It was jet black with a slight green hue, and the Wych suspected that the armour itself could be just an effective weapon as his mighty Klaive could. Every overlapping panel’s edge was so sharp that they had dismembered fingers and sliced open the hands of anybody who attempted to attack them.

This aggression had been expected from the moment they learnt that they were returning to Commorragh. Due to the current economy within the High Archon’s territories the citizens who had once been able to afford homes were forced out onto the streets before being recruited into the Kabal, with only the old and mad being left behind.

Those who thirsted enough had quickly turned upon one another, leaving the streets littered with bodies, there bones exposed to the freezing air as their flesh had been ripped from bones between the needle teeth of the starving. Those who were too proud to murder the weak died. It was simple.

Together they walked through the Bone Alleys, a market complex that only the brave or stupid came to. Dayl wondered whether the Incubus even noticed the masses of people who stepped from their path just to stare and sharpen their knives.

Uneasily he took the Splinter rifle from the sling upon his back and held it to hi chest, anticipating another attack as the crowds began to follow them.


His blade moved too quickly for the Wych to see. In one swipe Terrar had cut four aggressors in twain, and with a deafening shout he drove into the crowd, slicing open the torsos of many more causing the others to flee. Terrar hated the state of the streets in recent decades. Thanks to this needless war that the Pierced Heart could have won with ease, the markets had started to sell a more exotic variety of drugs and weapons, imported from further afield, an act that had been named illegal by Grand Cavash. The new crowds of poor citizens stole, killed and robbed just to purchase the new highly addictive substances that altered their minds and drove them to pure, unrestricted barbarity.

This new threat had given his shrine a name as cruel and merciless as they set recruits upon the riots and warring street gangs, just in an attempt to keep order in the region surrounding their home. Naturally, the hostility shown by the two hundred and ninety eight fully fledged Incubi had caused any who wore their armour our wielded the loathed Klaive had casued civilians to attack them with no real reason.

The Shrine of the Blessed Blood Drop had no physical outer walls to keep upstarts and trouble makers at bay, but the psychological terror that they spread through false rumours of eating the hearts of new born children, and through their wonderful sculptures, kept most away. At the end of the Bone Alleys lay a waste that only hunters and the Incubi dared to venture. Shadows were cast through the area, shrouding the alien predators that had taken the place as their home, feasting upon those cast out from the Shrine. Sometime, the recruits, or Incubi-Samanera, as they were called by their superiors, were sent out into these badlands to prove themselves before their initiation into the Shrine. Like other Shrines, the recruit needed to challenge and slay a full ranking Incubus, locate and kill an Aspect Warrior in single combat, and then craft a terrible device from the Soulstone of the fallen Craftworlder. With other Shrines, this was the end, but to the Blessed Blood Drop, this was only the beginning.

As recruits, before challenging an Incubus, they were sent out here to meditate. They were given nothing more than a black loincloth and a piece of metal, with which to craft a knife that would stay with them forever. This knife was considered more valuable to these Incubi than their reputation.

Usually the knife would take over two cycles to make, draining any unworthy recruit of his spirit and determination as the ever sharpening edge caused innumerable scars upon their hands and arms. The scarring they suffered was considered the mark of a true craftsman, as before tasting the blood of any other creature they can only guarantee its legendary quality by feeling the pain for themselves.

While attempting to forge it in the ruins of the badlands, they must fight off exiles, Ur-guls, bounty hunters and even Kabalite scouting patrols with their bare hands, in order to survive.

After climbing the eight thousand and twelve steps upon their arrival back at the Shrine, they must then cut the throat of another recruit in silence, lest they be thrown back down the stairs and be left to be feasted upon by the horrors far below. Killing another in silence shows that from the Shrine they have not just learnt how to fight effectively in combat, but they have also learnt to eliminate a threat before it grows too great.
After this stage is completed they are personally welcomed home by the Incubus Hierarch. He then informs him of the next challenge.

First, on the spot, they must claim by name the Incubus that they wish to duel in five days time. Then, the two warriors are taken off into separate chambers where for five days they meditate and rest after feasting upon the most delectable food provided by their employers. They brush their bodies in oil and breathe in the smoke of mid caressing incense that clears their minds before being taken into the Hall of Prevail. At its head stands a mighty cast iron statue of the murder lord, Kaela Mensha Khaine. He stands tall and fierce, left arm outstretched above a great flaming cauldron. In his hand he clasps a shocked head by its wavy hair. Flames engross the head whenever a defeated warrior is thrown in. All around the hall sit the fully ledged Incubi-Sohei, dressed fully in their armour as tradition dictates. No Incubus Samanera is permitted to enter, as to maintain the secrets of the shrine.

Once the two have entered and been stripped bare, their bodies are brushed with irritant chemicals, as to open up previous wounds and cause their bodies to ooze uncontrollably, causing the weak hearted to tremble and faint in pain. If either one utters a single word as to the hell they are suffering, or betrays their calm with a curl of their lip, they are cut down by the members of the audience.

It is after of five minutes of agonising bleeding that they are washed and permitted to fight.

Terrar could remember his admission to the Shrine’s monks over six hundred years ago, and as they lurked through the Badlands it brought back all of his scarring memories.


“This is the location?”

“Yes, Archon.” Inquisitor Fathul answered, not intimidated at all by the presence of the nimble alien. This was a rare truce, one that would possibly need the population of the world to be purged, just in case word got out.

“What happens now? I have aided you, and your Imperium, but what do I get in return.”

“Hmm…” he pondered “I trust that you shall get your reward in time, when this is all over.”

“When what is all over, mon-keigh?” Dernia asked, suspicion rising.

They continued to walk through the base of the canyon, the Inquisitor feeling the earth with his mind, as to find the perfect location.

The Archon’s Warriors surrounded them on all sides and stood on the lookout, for a reason unknown to everyone except the Inquisitor. The Kabalites were quite clearly bored. Yesterday they had been pillaging and feasting, but now they were left to stand on guard while a human was aloud to walk among them, free along with his pet Space Marine.

“Here.” He whispered with a shiver at the energies that lay below.

“Archon, I do not wish to deceive you, so I shall be honest. The Harlequin required my aide in the destruction of a crypt.”

“A crypt?” The Archon smirked, wishing to behead the human and return to his palace. “Your race is so incompetent that it calls on my help to open the resting place of the deceased? No wonder you god is just a rotting effigy.” He had intended to mock the Inquisitor, but the fact that the man ignored the insult only managed to make the Archon infuriated.

++ Lord.++ a voice echoed through his mind. He recognised it as that of Inquisitor Helix, his none too willing assistant.

++ That Xeno, you can not trust him.++

++ I understand that, Inquisitor,++ He sent back, leaving the Dark Eldar unaware of his telepathic communications, ++ but rest assured that I have taken note from your Ordo Xenos, and I have not intention of relying on these aliens for any length of time. To do so would be to hand my soul to corruption.++

++ Action?++

++ Alert the Adamantine Guard. Have them ready to strike imminently. I want the Quinosian Regiments to close in on our position to lock in any survivors. If anything escapes I want this area demolished.++

++ That’s drastic, Lord.++ Helix’s psychic power was dwarfed by that of Fathul, and over the long distance that they were communicating his mind was beginning to ache.

++ What is drastic about wanting to rid the Imperium of the Emperor’s foes, Inquisitor? Such doubt is akin to heresy. Are you a heretic, Helix?++

++ No, my Lord.++

++Then have the Melta Torpedoes armed. I expect you to repent for your laxity. It is better to condemn a few souls than to consign a billion to the abyss.++

++Understood. The Emperor protects.++


From the moment they set foot upon the steps leading to the Shrine, they knew that they were being watched. The darkness seemed to swirl around them, and Dayl’s skin itched at the sensation of a thousand eyes fixated upon him. Hate was a common feeling for him, but here he felt it stronger than ever. He was not the one exuding it for once. It burnt at him like a thousand scolding needles being dug into his skin. He thrived from it.

He attempted not to show his exhaustion as Terrar walked effortlessly up the last of the stairs aided by his black Warsuit. Dayl didn’t dare question him or ask for assistance knowing that he would end up in two pieces at the base of the stairway.

The edge of the polished stairs had no hand rails, only trophy racks and braziers where the remains of slain foes and failed recruits were hung after being offered up to Khaine.

For a moment, just as he reached the top and breathed a sigh of relief, he felt that Terrar was going to execute him for taking too long. It was difficult to tell what the Incubus was thinking behind his bleached bone skull mask. He only ever spoke to members of his Shrine and his employer, leaving what he was thinking a mystery to the Wych. Without seeing his face there was also no physical clue as to what he was feeling. Eldar of all kinds communicate through body language as primarily as they do through spoken word, but this Incubus had bee trained to never show anything through movement. All he knew was how to kill; a fact that Dayl was fond of.

To his surprise the Incubus turned without any other response a headed over the polished black stone floor. All around weapons clashed as recruits in black loincloths sparred with poor quality versions of the Klaive. In some areas an Incubus took on up to eight recruits at once, seriously injuring those he deemed worthy while carelessly disembowelling the weak with the curved tips of their brutal weapons.

Fine grooves had been cut into the ground, perfectly carved into the rock as to lead to the towering shrine at the centre of the plateau. The groves housed the blood of fallen warriors, and in time every droplet of the pain laced elixir of life ran into the central beacon within the hall of prevail, to fuel the mighty flames that illuminate the sky above the dark temple.

Unlike the high rising spire and physics defying structures of the Dark City, this citadel was simple and logical. It was covered in arches and huge blade lined balconies, each rising tower was connected by winding bridges that shot through the night. Every detail was illuminated from below by the raging brazier.

It was perfect and made purely for defence. It seemed that the Incubi had no intention of attacking passing fleets from their home, only protecting themselves from passing pirates and corsairs.

If you could see high enough, the mass of towers eventually thinned out to become three great pointed feats of architecture.

It was a truly magnificent sight to behold.

The iron doors swung wide and the duo marched into the hallway. The room bustled with life. Incubi-Sohei led their pupils while mentoring them on the arts of war and thousands of loyal servants ran after them, bearing their master’s weapons and polished armour. Many servants carried great tomes of ancient knowledge, and others followed their master with calming incense that burnt within dangling mauls that had been sown surgically attached onto their bones. It was strange that all of these tormented servants had volunteered to do their job with only the promise of food and shelter.

It was when they had stepped in that the hall fell silent. All movement stopped as the Sohei looked to the Incubus-Thera and knelt, gazes averted. In turn the Samanera did the same, as did the servants, fearing for their lives.

“Hail Tarrar!” they all shouted in a choral unison that shook the foundations of the Shrine, before they all rose as one and slammed their left arms across their bare chests with a thunderous boom before raising their right fists in salutation. In return the Incubus raised his fist and looked across the crowd. It seemed that in the twenty two cycles he had been away their numbers had grown. Before he had left his mentoring duties due the dull life he was leading as the Hierarch’s advisor he had known each Incubus-Sohei by name, but now he did not recognise over half of them. This begged the question, how did they know of him? Of course, he was famed for his ice hearted slaying of any foe who faced him or turned their back to flee, but was he truly that much of a legend?

Now, he had heard from his brothers, the Shrine’s Sohei numbered two hundred and eighty six, whereas when he had departed to serve the Pierced Heart there were little more than sixty of them.

He overrode his curiosity and walked through the hall, basking in the attention given to him by the other Incubi. It had been a long time since he had allowed such vices as pride to get in the way of his work, but he cared little, for the joy he felt from it soon got rid of the shame. He would meditate on it later, he assured himself.
“Terrar.” An Incubus bowed before him as the Incubus walked past. He remembered this one as a former student. He now wore the topknot of an Incubus, telling Terrar that he had now left the ranks of the Samanera. “It is good to see your return, master.”

Terrar nodded and looked at the man. His hair was short, meaning that he had not been a Sohei for long.

“Who is this pitiful excuse for a warrior?” Tel’garyn asked, rolling his knife between his fingers, and, amazingly, not shedding blood.

“Don’t get so big headed, coward. You forget that you are without your precious armour. You can not hide from me.”

“Oh, and who might you be to teach me of combat?”

“I trained under Massacre. I know how to fight without the reassurance of Warsuits.”

“Interesting,” The Incubus said, beginning to circle his way around the Wych. “Yet you still have not answered my question. Who are you?” As he spoke the last sentence his knife drove towards the Wych’s throat, but the threat was swiftly immobilised by Dayl’akrin grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm in a way that caused him to drop the knife and flip over onto his back. With grin of ease, Dayl dug his Impaler into the Incubus’ chest.

“Don’t try it. You may be the masters of big swords, but we Wyches do not need to use weapons to force you to submission.”

“Yet you do not watch your back.”

On his shoulder Dayl felt the cold tapping of a Klaive. He knew it would be Terrar’s, so he let go of the Incubus and stepped back, dreading death.

With a smile he walked away, staring at the floored Incubus. His reputation was now tarnished, and the respect he had gained from others would be tarnished. Dayl so loved doing that.

Displeased he was dragged away by Terrar in one hand up more stairs towards the Hierarch’s chamber.


“Be assured, we have been watching you, Xi’lygaroth Hierarch, and your precious Shrine.” Her words would not have been so intimidating if they had not been coming from behind the golden red mask of the Janissaries.

“Uillikj’allath-”

“Janissary to you.”

“My apologies.” He gritted his teeth, wishing to strike down the wench and be done. The power and influence that came just when Lord Cavash’s name was mentioned was astounding. Here two servants of the Dynasty stood bullying an Incubus Hierarch in front of fourteen other Incubi, and yet through fear they were forced to watch and do nothing. “Janissary, I promise that we have not done anything to cause harm or displeasure to your Lord-”

“My Lord? I though that he was the Lord and Master of anybody within the reaches of the Pierced Heart Kabal, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you are not mistaken. He is our Lord, but if we have displeased him in any way then I promise that it was inadvertent.”

“I think the fact that you have been aiding the war efforts of Archon Keltariel renders that moot. Do you wish to see our master fall?”

In the Hierarch’s mind a million possibilities flashed through his mind. He could happily kill them both and burn the bodies, hoping that his Incubi could defend the shrine from angered Janisarries, or he could just give in. Quite frankly, he thought, even though the second option was less fun it would save him a lot of time and energy.

“No.” He sighed, hand twitching for his Klaive.

“I am glad to here it. Cancel all contracts you hold currently with that traitor-Archon, or we shall be forced to pursue further action.” Her tone of voice was much more of a warning than her words. Finally she bowed and ordered the other Janissary to follow her as she left. Together they crossed paths with Dayl and Terrar, both of which had a deep fuelled hatred for the red armour. Every Incubus glared as they left, but as the doors closed Xi’lygaroth looked over to the Incubus.

“Terrar, you have returned.”

“Hail Terrar!” the others saluted with a roar, as they stood to leave.

“Where is the Hierarch?” He asked, refusing to remove his helmet.


“Terrar, I am the Hierarch now.” This was bad news. Xi’lygaroth had always been far too reckless with little thought for pride or the honour of the Shrine. “Why are you here? Your contract runs for another four cycles in service of Dracon Relliach Korvesh. Has he been slain?”

“He is breathing. He has a new request, however. Dracon Relliach Korvesh requests the assistance of one hundred and twelve Incubi to bolster his forces in upcoming matters.”

In disbelief the Hierarch’s eyes widened. “Are you being serious, Terrar?”

“Yes, Master.” He forced the recognition of Xi’lygaroth’s rank out, wishing not to offend him.

“What is he willing to pay?” His voice was quiet now as he thought over the situation.

From a hidden crevasse he pulled a snaking gold chain until it snapped out into the air and dangled in front of him.

The Eldar Soulstone sparkled in the half-light.

“At least four thousand Soulstone shall be available, Lord.”

A wide smile was plastered upon the Hierarch’s face and immediately he ordered for his forces to prepare themselves.

“Who is this?” He gestured to the Wych after his excitement died down.

“Oh, he should not be a problem. Just make sure he has a place to rest.”

Those were the last words he heard before a fist slammed into his face, causing him to spiral out of consciousness.


The excavation crews dug at five times the normal rate under the watchful eyes of their reluctant Dark Eldar protectors. Much to their disappointment, they had been forbidden to interact with these humans and were not allowed to use their own methods of motivation to speed up the process.
It had not taken long for the tomb to be uncovered, and the results were underwhelming to say the most. Prince Talludesh had been left to manage the operation, and when what they had been searching for was found he was gravely let down. He had attempted to cut down anybody near him, but the Inquisitor was enough to quell his rage.

Urgently he scrambled at the jet black cuboid they dragged from the ground in a futile attempt to open it. An unknown script was scrawled over every surface, bewildering and draining the energies of those who stared too long. It was quite clearly dangerous, whatever it contained, but the fact that the Inquisitor wished to launch it into the nearest star in the name of the Imperium.

It was the moment that they began to argue that from all directions the pitiful sound of Shuriken Catapults rang out. Within moments the Kabalites entrenched themselves in the rock faces and took position to open fire upon their Craftworld kin.

Only seconds passed before they were surrounded.

“What is this betrayal?” Prince Talludesh demanded, but his concerns were dismissed as Fathul drew his Daemon Sword from his hip and began to run to a slight peak where he could see the charging Eldar.
“No, not this. Not again.” He spoke to himself, fury filling his heart.

Without any thought involved, psychic lightning began to ark between the fingers of his left hand before he unleashed a hellish cry carried through the warp. For a brief moment the advancing Craftworlders stopped their advance while their minds seethed despair.

The Inquisitor recognised these Eldar as the servants of Farseer G’ost and Autarch Beltaan, two creatures who he had never wished to meet again. He had met them through his years in service to the Emperor, and vowed to bring about their destruction, but never had he seen their forces mustered against him.
Shurikens whipped by causing Fathul to fearlessly charge towards two Howling Banshees while the Kabalites moved up to cover him. The Banshee’s swords were fast, but the Inquisitor’s sword was guided by the bloodlust of daemon. His sword danced effortlessly within his hand, countering each hit with its own sentience. Every time it met a Power Sword it screamed horribly, until it finally met flesh. Mercilessly it dissected the stomach of one Aspect Warrior, causing her to fall down and her blood to fall towards the twisted weapon, against all physics and reason.

The other died the moment the corrupt sword penetrated her helm, igniting her skull and consuming her life with glee.

Finally the Kabalites charged, bayonets rose as they kicked up dust while sprinting. Cries from both sides filled the air. Monomolecular blades delved with ease into the chests and throats of Guardians, who were flung aside and trampled on, left to bleed out.

Quickly Fathul moved, assisted by telekinesis to increase his speed. His Psychic wrath arced across the faces of the Craftworlders that dared look at him, scarring their bodies and souls. He knocked a large number aside and looked over to a Warlock who had just executed a Kabalite and kicked the body away. He knew instantly that this was a challenge.

Neither one waited for the other to move, as in war there is no time to spare.

The Warlock opened up with a psychokinetic blast that the Inquisitor easily dissipated before he forced his hand into a rock-like density and dented the Xeno’s helm. Quickly he removed the faulty armour and ducked below the swooping Daemon blade. In turn he swung his Force Sword, which scraped across the tainted sword, causing it to squeal and belch flames. Eighteen times their swords met in rapid succession, great flashes of red and blue illuminating them at the centre of the chaos. Their minds met in a desperate struggle as they knew on the physical plain they were evenly matched.

Fathul clawed at the Warlock’s mental defences, hoping for a weakness only to find his relentless offence to slide away, causing little more than a scratch.

This left his guard down, enabling the Eldar to drive a psychic spike through the Inquisitor’s soul, causing him more pain than he imagined losing a leg would.

He was desperate, and as he felt his power weakening he put all of his metal strength into one blunt hit that struck the Warlock, shattering his thoughts and sending him reeling back.

Exhausted, Fathul allowed himself a brief smile as the warm bodily fluids of the alien, accompanied by his soothing death cry, flecked upon his face.

This moment of peace was soon cut short when he realised that he had not slain the beast, but an Incubus stepping from a jade-fire portal had, accompanied by at least one hundred of his darkness clad brothers.


Xi’lygaroth crept through the shadows of his Shrine and stood outside the Wych’s room. He needed to be dispatched.

Knowing the inquisitive and questioning nature of these ‘fighters’, it would be too much of a risk to let him live.
Smiling, he pushed the door open and stepped in, Klaive deactivated but still sharp enough to kill him silently.

If he discovered what the Hierarch had done in recent Cycles to get where he was, or about the oath he had taken to serve Dracon Relliach Korvesh, his reputation and his life would be at stake.

Solemnly he lifted the sword and took one final look at the sleeping Wych.

It was amazing that Dayl’s head rolling upon the floor made more noise than the Klaive slicing through the air.



Chapter VIII

Something big was coming. Dernia felt it. He had seen cataclysm befall his territories before, but never had he ever been this anxious. He didn’t trust the Inquisitor he was being forced to co-operate with; oh how it made his blood boil, being so enraged yet he, the Grand Archon of the Pierced Heart, had been restricted from striking the Mon-keigh down. He had seen Archons bend to the will of the tyrant, but who ever heard of an Archon work with a Human?

Now, to make him flip over the edge into complete soul devouring rage, the Craftworlders had attacked and his failure of a son had been captured, along with the black sarcophagus, by an unknown side. Another thing did not add up in his mind. Why and how had so many Incubi appeared in his field of operations just at the right moment? None of it made sense.

He had no idea if the Inquisition had the artefact, or the Craftworlders had snatched it away upon retreat, but he was sure that he would find out eventually.

Strangely, Relliach Korvesh had disappeared in recent hours. Many had presumed him dead, but Dernia Cavash was not convinced. He knew the pain of paranoia in his mind, this new found caution, suspicion and concern for his own wellbeing was not it. Dernia knew Relliach personally as he was one of the only Dracons who he actually considered valuable. He was the Overseer of the Halls of Blood, responsible for training new recruits. All of his years in service to the Kabal had granted him great skill in combat had made Lord Cavash give the Dracon the personal honour of looking after his disappointment of a son. If the Dracon had died then somebody would have seen something, he would have gone down in a thunderous flash of light, but no. He had gone silently, something that perturbed Lord Cavash more than the thought of the Black Heart finally deciding to take an ‘interest’ in his affairs.

He had his forces move back into the Webway following the theft of the sarcophagus, preventing any more damage to his Kabal. He had instantly spread rumours that the Harlequins had ordered that the artefact uncovered must be let go, as to fulfil their wishes. It was, of course, lies; but they were necessary lies to make sure that he maintained his reputation.

Two of his four Archons slid into his throne room. Dernia had been the only person there before his chosen had arrived. He had dismissed his bodyguards as he required time to think. He had not realised that he had stood, gazing over his domain for half a day before they had been summoned.

Individually they had slid into his Throne room, waiting in the circular dome, waiting for the others before proceeding through the next set of doors to the balcony. They were his chosen, four that had proven worthy of the title Archon and allowed to lead his forces in his name. Even though they knew that he would not strike them down without good reason, and they believed that no such reason existed, they were still fearful and would only approach him together.

One of them Dernia had raised himself after the untimely death of her mother by his hands. Her mother had been Dernia’s ‘daughter’, if such a name could be given to the abomination. He had snapped her neck with wanton joy before extracting the fully developed child and raising it himself. She was one hundred and fourteen years old, but he still had faith that eventually she could be moulded into a tactical genius. She had lead his Kabal with great success, but she occasionally lost rational thoughts and started needless wars that had attracted the attention of many powerful Kabals.

They had all watched the Pierced Heart as she conquered new lands against all odds and forged a new name for herself. Dernia had named her Koroth’risse Cavash, but she had become known as the ‘Empty Soul’. This had been down to her affinity for slaughter and how she had been able to get so engrossed in battle that she cared not whose forces she killed. No number of souls could satiate her thirst and her murderlust was unrivalled.

The other three were not of noble blood and had fought savagely every day of their lives to gain the Grand Archon’s favour. Na’ttyin Reltoss, another woman, walked into the throne room and stood beside Koroth’risse, her emerald cloak trailing majestically behind her. She did not remove her helmet but did bow to the Trueborn, knowing her place within society. Na’ttyin was famed for her scouting expertise and it was rumoured that even without the aid of a crystalline Camouflage Suit she could blend herself in with any environment, making her the perfect hunter. Whether or not these rumours were true was purely down to speculation.
Whenever a raid was considered she would be sent out to investigate the target and evaluate it before the main force was sent to take slaves and plunder, or whatever Lord Cavash desired. Dernia did not rely on her, and could easily get on without the services that she provided as both associate and courtesan to the Grand Archon, but while she scouted out locations it was one less job that he needed to worry about.
She carried with her a stylised rifle, modified from the Craftworld variant to carry payloads of highly corrosive pollen from the Terpar rosettes in her master’s private gardens.

“Do you have word on the location of Prince?” Koroth’risse asked, standing perfectly straight and still, bewildering Na’ttyin with her serenity.

“I am sorry, my liege, but my scouts bear no word. I have had many hung above the crowds of my men and flayed alive to spread the word, the word that I shall not accept failure, but it seems to have not gotten through. Maybe a good old decimation may get them in line.” Her voice echoed through the chamber like a soft gust of wind, reaching every corner of the room, its source lost.

“Decimation?” the Trueborn asked with a quizzical smirk.

“Yes, the act of having a Kabalite’s kin beat them to death with little more than their fists and teeth.”

“Do not patronise me, low-blood. But don’t you see the flaw in your punishment?” She waited for a reply, but got none. “Decimation only instils fear for a minute moment. Once the victim is chosen then fear is replaced by glee, and they revel in the murder.”

“Not if performed correctly.” She nodded, as if about to lecture Koroth’risse. “If made aware that the man who is responsible for the Kabalite’s death shall be punished as if they had committed mutiny, before being regrown to rejoin their squad, it detracts the fun. Their animalistic side is ordering them to kill, while their own self preservation wants them to hide from persecution. This internal conflict is delectable.” She smiled behind her close faced helm, the razor edged blue arcs and angles shimmering where the light met them.

“So, you allow them to flee from persecution by refusing to partake in the butchery?”

“Oh, of course not. I leave the squad stripped of their clothing and freezing out in the wastes, watched over by Dracons to ensure that they do not escape. You see, their own physical pain, and the feeling of their life slipping away out there, is enough to drive them against one another. More often than not it results in me loosing four or five times more than anticipated, but it ensures their obedience for a while longer.” It was easy to forget that behind the quiet demeanour of the woman was the same beast that lurked at the centre of ever Ynneas Eldarith’s soul. She lusted; she needed the pain of others to sustain her.

“Well, that may be effective for you, but I do not wish to waste pawns for my battlefield.”

“It is understandable.” Na’ttyin’s response almost came as a surprise to the young Trueborn. She was out to provoke the other Archon, as she always liked a good duel of words, but she had not got the reaction she had wished for. “You pride yourself in overwhelming the enemy with numbers, by sending so many Kabalites that their flak shall not be enough to hinder progress. I am more discreet. While it may take longer, we both get the job done, with a different number of casualties and different tactics.”

“You may be right, stealth has its merits, but I save it for hunting the poor through the Depraved Reserves. Consider this, when facing the brunt of one of those crude Ork assaults, or when up against a million rifles that will annihilate you upon detection, numbers prove to be more valuable.”

“Who ever said that I get detected?” Her confidence caught Koroth’risse off guard, leaving the two staring at each other in silence for a moment. Surely, nobody could be that stealthy.

“If you two have finished discussing the arts of war, we have more pressing matters.” Neither of them had noticed Dernia watching them from the steps beyond his throne that led out onto the extended needle balcony.

“Sire.” They both bowed, averting their gaze. One of the eight moons captured by the Pierced Heart floated high above the realm; the glowing blue ball outlined his head perfectly, creating a halo for their master. It was amazing how he planned everything that he did, just to make thoughts of his godhood feasible. “Lord, should we not wait for the other Archons?”

“Silence, Koroth’risse.” He raised a hand, causing them both to flinch. “Join me.”


“What now?” The hooded figure asked, his face, like everyone else’s, enveloped by shadows. Together, the twelve stood around the polished alter stained with the blood of a dying Aspect Warrior. He was chained down and barely conscious. The burning cold chains gnawed at his flesh, the torture they had performed had made him lose the will to live and the will to fight back. He had no energy to hate them any more. All he wanted was a quick death, but he knew that was an impossibility while in their hands.

“He lays weak, spirit fading at the bottom of despair and without hope.” The ringleader, quite obviously a woman from the Aspect Warrior’s observations, spoke while waving around a black dagger made from a stone of some sort. With little emotion, she began to peel away the skin f the Aspect Warrior’s thigh before holding up the thin sheet to the light.
The concentration on her face shocked the others as she gazed at the patterns the blood had made. Finally, she smiled and placed the skin down beside the Craftworlder.

“He is stronger than we had anticipated. His body is broken but his discipline has kept his spirit pure.”
If he could have mustered the energy, maybe, the Aspect Warrior thought, he would have smiled.
“What do we do?” One of the hooded men asked, needing their leader’s guidance.

“All things in this harsh universe need pain and suffering. Many species of plant require the combustion of their parent before they can germinate. Poor Mon-keigh labour for the rich to have easy lives; they suffer for their enjoyment. We have the same occurrence, but much more literally. This city feeds from the nightmares of the weak, yet those who feed continue to suffer. Our suffering fuels the creature that makes us need the lives of others. If he is left for too long he will wither away into a husk.”

The Aspect Warrior shuddered for a moment and strained at his binds, only to be silenced by the soft hand of the hooded woman on his forehead.

“So it must be done now?”

“Yes. It cannot wait any longer.” The twisted smiles of his captors shone down on him, bathing him in malice. He closed his eyes, expecting the worst.

The words ‘a hero shall be made’ reverberated through the subterranean lair.

It was only when he finally opened his eyes that he realised that they were not talking about him.


“Master Cavash, it appears that you have had company.” Archon Na’ttyin Reltoss mused, making her way around body parts and piles of gore that adorned the floor in a tapestry of wonderful bloodshed.

“Wow, aren’t you a genius?” His sarcasm cut straight through her. It was dry, malicious and conveyed no ill tone, making it easy to look over. That made it hurt more than he could have intended.

“Sire, I have no word on the other Archons.” His granddaughter spoke, hoping not to incur his wrath for delivering the bad news.

“Do not worry about them, child. They have been informed of everything necessary, and they have no room in this conversation.” He didn’t bother looking to the ground as he walked, but easily retraced his last steps through the maze of corpses.

“Grand Archon, are you angry about something?” Koroth’risse asked. She had seen his mood flick rapidly from ecstatic to genocidal in seconds and did not wish to be on the bad side of it.

“Oh, because of this?” He gestured around him at the carnage he had orchestrated. “No. This was to clear my mind. These were all Kabalites convicted of treason. They were due to be tortured anyway, and I needed to regain my focus.”

“How many of these upstarts were there?”

“Two hundred and twelve. Each one broke quicker than the last, oh, other than the final two.” He walked over to an exquisite statuette of heads that he had sculpted and grabbed two from near the base. He wrapped their long black heir around his hands before lifting them, final droplets of bone marrow shifting to empty themselves across the ground.
Na’ttyin gasped with an expression of grief scrawled across her hidden face, much to the contrary of Koroth’risse whose eyes had lit up with the news of the other Archons’ deaths. Na’ttyin was weakened by her job. She spent much time around Outcasts from the Craftworlds and had become a slave bound in the same shackles of emotion that the Outcasts gave in to. Koroth’risse, however, cared little for their demise. With them dead her route to glory now had only two obstacles. The other Archon, and her grandfather. Of course, once Dernia had been slain, the entire Dynasty would start to war with each other, and the Dracons of the Kabal who knew little of the Cavash Dynasty’s heritage. If a Dracon of the Kabal of the Pierced Heart were to become an Archon then the forces of the Dynasty would halt their feud long enough to eliminate the foul blooded scum that had claimed Dernia’s place.

For a moment, her mind was in turmoil. Even if she were to kill Dernia now, throw him from the balcony to die miles below or be plucked apart by the Scourge instrumentalists playing at his organs, she would still need power to enforce control. If she murdered the Lord Cavash and Na’ttyin Reltoss there and then, then surely he strength would win the respect of the Kabal, and she would end up with the largest force following her. But then, what if she were to be assassinated before she could use her brutal politics? Power would surely fall into Prince Luckr’yth’s of Princess Althianesh’s lap. Althianesh was young and foolish, but Luckr’yth was scheming and more dishonest than an thief being brought to justice.

She stopped for a moment. What of Prince Talludesh? His disappearance can’t be coincidental. He could have set this up, he could have planned this. He was too idiotic and too reckless, she thought. He was not patient or cunning enough to spread such anarchy, so what was happening? Surely an opportunity like this couldn’t just be coincidental.

“Master Cavash, what did these men do to deserve such a fate?” Reltoss asked, slowly approaching the High Archon.

“They were just another brick in the wall attempting to slow my progress. They were as disloyal as could be expected. With the power of my Kabal divided up between myself and my four favoured, I knew that there would be chance of high treason. I have taken their military forces and I shall pursue the Craftworlders that interfered with our operation. Na’ttyin, Koroth’risse, I have requirements of you both.”

“Anything for you, Lord.” Reltoss said, stepping closer to him with an air of determination.

The Dark Eldar don’t have a term that translates into ‘suck up’, or even one that has the same connotation, but if they did Koroth’risse would have used it.

“While I am warring with the Craftworlders, I need my enemies taken care of. Luckr’yth shall look after my domain, but that Inquisitor is still out there. Na’ttyin, you shall take care of him. Learn everything you can about their knowledge of us and then dispose of him. Koroth’risse, you find my failure son and bring him back to me, dead or alive.”



Chapter IX

He strained with all his might, body throbbing from ache as he moved the smashed Falcon. He grunted and ground his teeth at the effort; the only thing fuelling him was the combat drugs that heightened his aggression into an unhealthy state.
Finally, exasperated and hopeless, he screamed at the looming dusk, startling nearby wildlife.

Carrion birds that lingered to pick at the carcasses of the fallen took off, panicked by the primal rage of the alien. His anger caused him to punch the armour of the wrecked transport, denting it deeply with no noticeable pain to his wrist. It was all going wrong.

The Dracon couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity, or Prince Talludesh. If he died then he would not be able to hide from persecution at the hands of the Kabal. For a moment he shouted out again, the fires inside showing themselves once again. The frustration and anxiety made him want to end his life, there and then, but even then he could not escape torture and tormenting laughter.

He breathed deeply, regaining his calm before stretching and walking back over to the Falcon’s edge. Feigning calm, he slowly wrapped his fingers around the edge of the machine and tried to stand. Looking down at the Prince, trapped and unconscious didn’t help as he almost burst out laughing. It was so strange that his life depended on the life of such a weak creature.

Then, he stopped. Slowly he stood, facing the same direction, but staring at nothing in particular. Something had caught his attention. He turned his head, scoring the landscape for what he had seen, until he finally stopped. Grinning wildly he climbed upon the ruined craft and peered through the canopy. The inhabitant was still alive, and was starring straight back at him.

Dracon Relliach Korvesh reeled back, and placed his left hand on his stomach, the sharp pain tingling at his core. The canopy had cracked and only a tiny slit told of what had happened. Suddenly, he was flipped onto his back, his head thudding down on a rock while the canopy swung open. From inside the pilot clambered out and jumped down onto the sand. Hands trembling, he reached to his leg and withdrew the small knife from his side, before aiming down the length of his pistol and approaching slowly.

With a smirk Korvesh raised his hands, causing the pilot to come closer. After a moment of silence between them, the pilot knelt down beside the Dracon and poured some water on the wound. How typical of the Craftworlders to help even their enemy in their time of need.

The Dracon smiled, savouring the sensation of the Craftworlder pulling the Shuriken out of his gut before looking him in the eye and snapping his neck.

The soul hurried to escape, but Relliach clawed after it and inevitably savoured the concentrated sorrow it held, rekindling his own life.

Dazed, he pulled himself up from the ground and looked around. Not much remained. After the battle he had hid himself in a nearby cave and watched as the Mon-keigh, under the orders of that blasted psyker, or Inquisitor, as the called him, carried away the bodies of his men. Both Trueborn and lowly Tube-children were flung into the open cavities of their crude metal transports, limbs twisted and faces bloodied. They had taken their own soldiers too but with much more care. Loosing his finest elite Warriors would be devastating, but he knew that he could not intervene. The Incubi had chased off the Craftworlders, so everything was going according to his finely tuned plan.

He hadn’t seen what had happened to the inquisitor, however. His body was not on the field, but he had not seen him leave. Very peculiar.

The Prince was still breathing, and there was no sign of horrific bleeding on his part, so the Dracon scrambled up a small dune and gazed out over a large flat waste. Through the centre ran the canyon’s river. It was a slow trickling stream really, a stream that had earlier been blocked by hundreds of bodies, some previously departed and others drowning, unable to escape because of their injuries. The Inquisitor had done a good job of cleaning up the area and leaving no evidence of the battle, or even any evidence that any Eldar had set foot on the world, for a Mon-keigh. He was sure that they would have an excuse as to why the Hive had been annihilated, a reason so idiotic that it would only boost the Emperor’s flock into further fanatical worship. Luckily, the cleaning teams had not made it up to his location, but it would not be long. He could see them. For a moment he watched, disgusted at the fragility of such creatures. Watching their brutality and clumsiness with every action made him wonder why the High Archon had allowed them to excavate the tomb, which, irritatingly, had now disappeared.


They had not noticed her arrival in the dead of night. Her craft had landed two miles away from the small coastal town where she had been sent. She had crept through the mountainous forests to look over the town. It was an unimpressive establishment. Rows and rows of houses and factories built on a downward sloping hill that finally stopped at the sea front, where an endless pier lanced out into the misty night above the crashing waves.

The fact that she had needed to hide and sneak around numerous patrols of Imperial Guardsmen, many of whom were intoxicated, told her that the High Archon’s inclination on the location of the Inquisitor had been correct. Usually the Guardsmen may have been enough to spot Orks or stop a small rebellion amongst the town’s people, but their numbers were too high to just be an average city defence force.

She crouched in a natural alcove that had been carved by weather and wind beneath the roots of a needle leafed tree that jutted up high in the air. Keeping her motions as natural and fluid as possible, she raised her rifle and looked into the town. Her helmet flashed red sigils before her eyes, informing her of the numbers in the streets and primary targets. Luckily, the only people in the streets were wounded veterans from previous wars returning home from the few working class taverns that littered the streets. Even though it pleased her that the lack of a real defence would not hinder her progress, she still thirsted for a real fight. Yes, sniping was fun, it was her calling. Nothing satisfied her more than watching the cranium of a high ranking officer become nothing more than vapour, the cerebral matter splattering his servants with dismay and panic, but sometimes a straight up knife fight just filled her heart with a joy that she had failed to find elsewhere.

It was just before the dying of the moon, a time referred to as by these Mon-keigh as midnight. That meant that soon a distraction would be at hand as thousands took to the streets to go home from a long shift or to return to the workhouses. Soon her plan would be complete and she would be back at her master’s home, in peace and quiet where she could meditate and enjoy the rewards that Lord Cavash would give her for her success.

Voices came from the darkness up the hill behind her, and carefully she readjusted her position, forcing herself into a small gap within a mound of jagged rocks. Even though they wouldn’t be able to see her she did not wish for one to trip over her and start to fire wildly, provoking suspicion.

From the number of voices she estimated that there were five of them, and from her observations earlier that would be correct. She had noticed that on high lying areas small pits were dug into the hills, surrounded with sandbags and fortified with crude, slug throwing gun emplacements. Each had a number of searchlights beneath cammo nets that failed to hide them from her. She had watched them to get used to their patterns and noted their locations. It seemed that each pit held five men at a time while five others would patrol the area. After an hour was over they would return to the pit and the other five would begin their patrol. A couple she had found, however, were more heavily fortified. They had portable defence armour plating surrounding them with a number of weapons pointing in all directions. She had estimated that these could hold twenty people at a time, unless they had underground bunkers. Then the threat would be much bigger.

She could hear the humans stagger towards the alcove, drunk and undisciplined. She was sure that if an officer were to find them that they would be executed. Humans were useless.

They were louder and louder as they came to a halt on the overhang just above her. Together, they stared over the town as one slid carefully down the bank and looked over to where she was crouched. Anxious, she placed her hand on the hilt of her hunting knife, but, as she suspected, the human looked away and continued to walk. He stopped beside her and stood looking up at the stars. She had not expected him to undo the zip on his fatigues and start urinating. Instantly disgust overwhelmed her, and even though she was outside of the splash range she still took it as her responsibility to stop this act. Smiling slightly, she shifted towards him, took a breath and…

His squad moved down the hill as quickly as they could. The Trooper had rolled over four hundred metres, colliding with every tree truck and ploughing through every spiked berry bush on the way. His head had smacked from side to side and as he began to reach a dangerous speed he emptied his stomach in the air around him. It was spectacular, especially through the Archon’s thermal imaging sensors. He was a blur that suddenly gave off a putrid cloud that flashed orange on her screen. It clung to the trees and ground around him, quickly cooling. The best part was what her advanced sense had allowed her to see, but what the other Mon-keigh were unaware of. His Flak Vest, possibly the only thing that would save him after his helmet shot off into a thicket of brambles, was becoming shaky and loose.

His water canteen ruptured, his bladder gave way and finally the clasps of his Flak Vest sheered apart. Moving at full speed the young human became impaled upon the dead branch of a freshly fallen tree.

From her position the spray of blood was certainly something to be savoured, and something that she would sell to the Pain Merchants once she returned home.

Happily she watched as the four other soldiers chased after him, scurrying sideways down the bank while one decided to run straight on. She saw an opportunity for more hilarity, but had to refrain from firing at a soldier’s knee cap, as if he was found to be wounded then it would go some way to ensuring that the entire city knew that somebody had snuck in to spread anarchy. With a sigh she lowered her rifle and moved further down the bank, slinking like a serpent silently slipping through the vegetation.


He had broken away from the central banqueting hall. The presence of the arrogant nobles that had willingly given their land to his father’s Kabal irritated him immensely. Each one thought themselves better than everyone else within the Dark City, but wouldn’t dare to say it out loud. Maybe that was because they truly knew that they did not even deserve pity, as they were scum so low that they should be dropped into the Khaides. Even then they would shame its glowing green banks with their cowardice and genetic lies. They believed themselves to be pure blooded, but they were all Half-bloods that had lived long enough to buy themselves a title. They thought that they had power and influence, but in the Luckr’yth’s eyes they were as lowly as slaves. They were only allowed to live because no reason had been found, as of yet, for why the Janissaries should murder them in their sleep.

It was an unusual sight for the Prince to be walking by himself, not surrounded by servants and guards, but it was a sight that frightened all who he passed on the system of capillary balconies and bridges. He walked past crowds at a time and everyone bowed as not to catch his attention.

Kabalites saluted and slaves scarpered away, all fearing that he had inherited his father’s rage. Such anger had not been seen in him, yet. It was feared that he was repressing everything he ever felt and that it would one day spark, leading to the type of genocide started by his father millennia ago.

That dark era was only spoken of in hushed whispers from beneath dark hoods, as it seen as attempting to soil the Cavash name, a crime punishable by death. For two centuries he turned large sections of Commorragh in meat grinders and abattoirs through manipulation and lies. He turned Kabal against Kabal and set up secret alliances between forces of rival sides, causing the command structure of each Kabal involve to collapse due to paranoia and unjust assassination. Then, when forces were confused and demoralised in the field his forces would swoop in and gather the weakened warriors to work as slaves. Each strike force was led by a Janissary, and each Janissary only answered to Dernia Cavash.

After slaves had been taken Janissary agents befriended, as well as they could, each family that had been taken over. Those who resisted, or were outwardly hostile, were eliminated silently, while the rest were invited to a Banquet so extravagant that it seemed that even the Dark Muses did not deserve it. In the Depraved Reserves they gathered before being invited into a vast courtyard, where their new master stood upon a plinth, overlooking them. His speech brought tears of joy and hope, yet crushed the spirit of all present, and when they believed that they would be invited in, it began.
A complex virus was released upon them, a virus so dangerous that it broke down the DNA structures of all considered to possess ‘undesirable’ genes before targeting the heart.

Many gruesome weapons come from the Dark City, yet this only made the victim’s heart stop. Few survived, and it was these ‘nobles’ Luckr’yth was forced to be around that evening.

Naturally, the virus was released upon other the Kabals crushed by Dernia’s scheming. It killed of the short, the old, the ill and the weak. The only people it left untouched were tall and pale with above average intelligence and stronger, more defined, musculature. Of course, killing off trillions with a virus was boring if he could not watch it work, so he had Haughraskaivaach release it into the ranks of his own Kabalites.

Eventually separate Haemonculus Covens came together in an unholy union of art and death, and were able to eradicate the virus from the streets, saving countless trillions more. It had always been speculated that Dernia had retained enough of the virus to launch further strikes if anything was ever to displease him with any severity. If he had completed weaponising the strain earlier then the first great war between the Pierced Heart and Poisoned Tongue could have had an entirely different outcome.

“Brother.” Luckr’yth turned, startled at the voice. He had not noticed anybody else around.

“What are you doing here?” He asked with genuine sincerity in his voice, something not often found within the Dark City. It pained her, for a moment, as if she had felt the keen edge of an assailants blade part her head from her shoulders.

“…erm…” She hesitated before gathering her thoughts. “The same as you. Those petulant nobles are insufferable.”

“You were not present in the banquet, Althianesh, so what noble had irked you?”

She smiled and looked down into the forbidden gardens, admiring the scent even though they were miles away. The cold winds carried the toxic pollen that delightfully scintillated the senses.

“No one man has bothered me, but the fact that we are forced to share our home with these… these peasants, and that we weren’t allowed to raid with father has frustrated me deeply.”

“Sister, you must understand something. I am here to rule in Lord Cavash’s absence and you are the most treasured of possessions to him.”

Her head shot towards him, flames of anger twinkling like raging stars in her eyes.

“I am nobody’s possession, and I can’t believe that you fear him so much that you call him ‘Lord’. You are a coward, Luckr’yth.”

“Do not attempt to shame me, sister.”

“You don’t deserve to call me sister, half breed. Even though this has never been said to your face everybody knows that father grew you in the womb of a Craftworlder as a mere experiment. You are not a brother to me, you have the caution and softness of a Craftworlder and you are just as boring.”

He drew the Power Sword from his hip, activating it immediately. Even though he was not armoured he would never travel anywhere without sufficient weaponry.

“Your disrespect shall not go unpunished, sibling.”

“Prove to me that you’re not boring. Prove to me that you are not another one of father’s mindless servants, relentlessly seeking his approval.”

She jumped down from her perched position upon the balcony railing and walked up to him, gently knocking the sword aside with a knife, sparks momentarily arcing into the air

“I have no need, or desire, to prove myself to you. You are young and do not realise the worth of restraint and respecting those who deserve it.”

“Haha, in other words you are a coward! Come on; let’s go down to the gardens. Only when you learn to break rules with YOU realise the true meaning of them when fully intact.”

With a stern expression he did not break eye contact with his sister, but powered down his blade, sheathed it and beckoned for her to follow as he turned away.


The sun had finally set and the wildlife slumbered as a chill began to line the canyon walls with frost. Realising the futility of his efforts he surveyed the crashed Craftworld vehicle for anything than could help him. He had snapped off spindly useless looking pieces and attempted to excavate a trough around the prince, but found that all the time he had spent trying to save the Prince was wasted. He could feel his own soul being drained away. His limbs were tired and he was losing the will to do anything at all. He could kill the prince and take a finger or an ear to have him regenerated from, but that would slow his plan drastically and would risk far too much. With a pained sigh he sat down beside the Craftworlder’s corpse, and after a moment, began to think dark thoughts.

He smiled and withdrew a monomolecular knife from its home upon his leg while he kicked the helmet from the body. He knelt down beside it and cut into the throat. Cleanly flesh parted, and with surgical precision he started to peel the flesh back from neck vertebrae until enough bone was exposed for him to easily snap the head away. No expression flickered across his face to tarnish the cool aloofness he felt while desecrating the body.

Inspecting the layout of tendons, and moving his fingers away from the blade as he ran the edge across the face, he began to peel away the surface, flesh and vessels leaking the last of their congealing juices over his hands.
After minutes of whittling he finally had a skull in perfect condition, ignoring the blood covered surface.
Finally allowing himself a smile of ecstasy, Dracon Korvesh turned his blade upon the rest of the body.


She had infiltrated the city with great success, leaving only four other humans dead. Naturally she made all of them look like accidents; a drunk fallen that became impaled on a metal fence post, a woman who tripped and cracked her head open over the pavement, a man fallen from a man who became hit by a thirty six wheeled delivery truck and finally a Guardsmen who lit a lho stick after brushing his Las-gun with oil, but failed to clean his own hands. She had made a game out of it, but finally she had arrived in the estate occupied by the Inquisitor.

It was a large, stately manor with polished black stone walls and void of any external markings, giving it the presence that the Inquisition loved to intimidate locals with. No such fright would befall her, however, as no Mon-keigh could ever best her.
She gazed down her scope from her position in a small woodland. A tributary stream ran beside her, masking her presence with the constant light trickling that made her remember why she hated humans. They cherished such ridiculous things, a child’s laughter, the success of others. She couldn’t bear to thin about it for too long as she began to feel physically sick.

Two hundred metres ahead a patrol of a single man accompanied by three Gun Servitors looked in her direction, inspecting for any disturbance. Finally, when she allowed herself to exhale, they left. She was prepared to shoot the patrol leader in the eye if he showed any sign of attacking, but she knew that she would not last. Two of the Servitors carried Multi Meltas; the other had a Heavy Bolter. She did have five Haywire Grenades, but one would, most likely, not be enough to stop three of them judging how far apart they were.

She moved her sights upon a large staircase the lead up to the main entrance. Naturally, that was too heavily guarded for any direct attack. Eighteen stories high meant that there were at least eighteen different levels, of entry, however, so she moved stealthily east, avoiding the poorly placed traps and sensors within the woodland.

She snarled behind her helm as it flashed red in front of her eyes. The diamond tracker had detected life and marked the position as out in the open. She looked over to the tired soldier who leant against a statue, lho stick smouldering between his fingers. His Vox crackled and he answered. That was him reporting in the results of his guard post so far, and it would be at least another half an hour until he would need to make contact again. That left her with plenty of time. She lined up her sights with the Mon-keigh’s exposed neck and flicked her rifle’s settings to Hexrifle rounds. Without a second thought she pulled the trigger.

The human became one with the statue, his confusion set in a crystalline beauty forever. The Lho stick still burnt in his hand.


The scent hit them like a raw narcotic straight to the bloodstream. Drowsiness set in and together they stumbled into the gardens, venturing deeper and deeper into the private domain of Lord Cavash. As flowers detected their presence they spat fresh pollen from the great black trumpets that shot through high red plumage.

Small creeping plants snaked at their feet and began to tug at their robes and constrict their ankles if they remained in one place for too long. Wide leaves shot up from short stalks, stealing whatever light they could get, moisture pooled on their surface. Needle edges dug into their legs and lacerated each other if they strayed too close.

Trees towered high, their branches adorned with all sorts of fruit that paralysed, combusted when eaten and poisoned the very ground they landed on. One of the most painful plants that the brother and sister suffered through while cutting back vines that attempted to strangle them was a short, thin grass that was as strong as steel but thrice as sharp as any blade he had come across.

The problem with this plant, however, was not when it sat low to the ground, but when somebody stepped lightly on a root or thorned tendril that it used to clear the area around it. If it detected pressure the thin, sharp leaves would eject coiled up thorns with horrific pressure and force, ensnaring the offender and reeling him in to be digested by a gaping maw at the centre. Many small, exotic creatures were impaled by these deceptive floras. Many lay dying; others were all ready in the central pool, their muscles and skin being visibly stripped from bone.

“Where does he find these plants?” Althianesh panted, the toxic air weakening her.

“I think he grows them.” Luckr’yth caught up after decapitating a plant name ‘Insidious Rush’.

“Come on. Much more to see.” She carried on walking, her brother doubtful to whether she was capable of any rational thought whatsoever.

“We should leave soon sister. This is not healthy.”

No reply came from the foliage.

“Althianesh?”

He turned and inspected every direction, searching for her.

“Alth-” His shout was halted prematurely as a thick vine pulled him off into the undergrowth. His arms flailed, his skin was torn by the countless thorn and hook shrubs he was dragged through. Struggling, he drew his Power Sword and cut himself loose, sending him hurtling into a clearing as a super sonic screech was emitted from nearby.
He sprung to his feet and saw it, the thing that had his sister.

He had slain Tyranids of all sorts, he had faced Ork Nobs and came out of the skirmish unscathed and alive. He could not be beat but fungi, yet now plants were mocking him. The plant that had his sister was a twenty foot high white flower with pink speckles. Hundreds of vines ran out from the stem and fed a central mouth of razor tusks whatever it could find. The flower’s surface was covered in a thick slime, one that made vast amounts of steam whenever it dripped onto surrounding plants. It was, from what he could tell, horribly corrosive.

Shaking off any fear he felt he prepared himself and launched forward, slicing effortlessly through creeping tendril and thorned vine alike. Ruthlessly he mad a barrage of attacks, targeting both leaves and surface roots alike. Looking up he began to panic.

The plant was raising his sister high into the air, her unconscious form simply dangling limp as she moved towards the devouring mouth. After a momentary burst of blurring speed he drove his Sword into the central stem, only barely damaging the metre thick column upon which the carnivorous flower rested. With another blood curdling scream a vine hit him in the back, sending him fourteen metres away into a thicket that ensnared him like barbed wire. Screaming, he struggled as he saw the blood ooze from every inch of his body. Reaching into the inner pocket of his robe he pulled out a device, raised it high and pulled the pin. For miles around the forest recoiled in horror as pure, unnatural pain and the essence of torture was released. It brought him enough time to scramble free, draw his Blast Pistol and place a single shot through Althianesh’s wrist, causing her hand to fall like the violent fruit of the Garden.

Mustering the last of his concentration he was able to charge one final time to obtain Althianesh’s hand before fleeing to avoid the sound of her bones crack and her organs split open, their fluids rupturing like obscene fireworks.

This is extremely long. I mean think of 30k characters is longhand. I know 60.000 is the border here, but this is too long, try to cut it up Cav.

The second post should begin when the crowd goes nuts. And so on. By all means it's very well written, but you have to really have the attention-span of someone who loves to read, to read this.

There is no limit on word count barring what can fit in a post.
He has formatted it well so frankly there's no real problem with this...

I liked this, a bit long thats no problem. I agree with purpelfood on the mather of the sheer lengt of it

Thanks guys.
I do know that this is a bit long, but I couldn't be bothered to divide up every chapter that I had already written. It just seemed like it would take a very long time.

From now on, however, I shall be uploading the Chapters as I write them, so it shouldn't be a problem from now on.

Also, I can see why you'd need a long attention span as it goes up to 145 A5 sized pages!
Thanks for reading.