This is the first short story I've ever written for Warhammer
40k, concerning two things I'm not really all too familiar with: namely the Dark Eldar (the Archon - guess what's going to happen to that guy) and Malice, or Malal as he is sometimes known.
I wrote this in a burst of imagination, so it'll probably contain some less logical or downright nonsensical elements. I'm also no pro in fighting scenes, so they might feel a bit off. Any suggestions or comments are welcome, improving my writing is one of the reasons I'm putting it up in the first place
Enough rambling, let's get to it already!
---An Archon's End---
The Archon delighted as the broken man in front of him trembled in fear. His subordinates were busy collecting other specimens all over the town, the terrified screams of the rabble piercing the ominous sound of great fires razing the city. So weak, these mon’keigh, the Archon thought, as he picked the helpless man up by his throat. So pathetically weak. The villagers hadn’t even had time to react to their sudden appearance, the raid tearing through the local militia in record time.
He squeezed softly in the man’s flesh, his nails pressing hard against the skin. He couldn’t understand how a creature so inelegant and foolhardy managed to cover so much of the universe with their filth. Although he had to give them credit; the mon’keigh proved to be resourceful, if nothing else. Their methods and machinery were perhaps crude and inefficient, but they achieved results, something they shared with the Orks, that other persistent blight on the galaxy. So much potential, yet so little experience, his Haemonculus used to say. Used to, as the Archon had been forced to flay the flesh-sculptor after that insidious bastard had taken to ‘experimenting’ on his courtesans. He’d given the flesh-shapers apprentice the honour of punishing his mentor, who took upon the task with an unusual vigour. Unfortunately, the apprentice had been a bit overzealous in his work, which ended in his mentor’s tragic demise. A classic case of the student outclassing the master, the Archon thought smiling. He’d then taken it upon himself to teach the errant apprentice the proper way to flay a man, being so kind as to give him a hands-on demonstration.
The Archon lifted the man closer to his face, bringing him to just about eye-level with his victim. The mon’keigh’s irises were shaking uncontrollably, unable to avert the Archon’s gaze. Just as he was imagining how he was going to torture his new plaything, he felt a slight disturbance in the world around him. Annoyed, he cast a look behind him, scouting the burning ruins around him. The place had once been a dark back-alley, where only those even the mon’keighs referred to as scum resided. The small, curved street coiled between several great wooden houses, which towered over him like silent giants. They were burning now, but the wood held, keeping the structure intact for as long as it could. It was almost a metaphor for the decrepit Imperium these mon’keigh served, he thought, grinning at the image.
But there was something wrong with the scene in front of him. His eyes darted around the landscape, looking for whatever had chosen to disturb him in his work. It was only when he stopped looking around that he realized what had piqued his interest; it had suddenly become a lot quieter.
He was rather puzzled by the information, unable to grasp what could be behind such a change. His Kabal was supposed to be busy rounding up the slaves, and the mon’keigh were supposed to be busy dying. The complete absence of sound of either of those things concerned him. The only sound he could hear was the rumbling sound of the fires eating away at the wooden constructions.
The Archon released his grip on the human’s throat, and turned to the alley’s entrance. He couldn’t see much of the street beyond the entry, the smoke of a burning vehicle blocking his view.
The silence was becoming more ominous, the sound around him dying out even more with each passing minute. The human had started sobbing uncontrollably, his wailing cries a new source of annoyance. The Archon turned around again, planting his heel firmly in the man’s chest.
Be quiet, worm!, he snarled. He was losing his patience rapidly. He turned to the entrance again, angrily peering into the thick smoke.
Who dares interrupt me?, he shouted, noticing how frail his own voice had suddenly become.
There came no reply, no battle-cry of a desperate fool or a terrified gasp of a man who just realized his mistake. Only unending, uncaring silence.
Until a presence made itself known.
Without a sound, a hooded figure emerged from the black mist. He was human, judging from his size. The robes the man was wearing reminded the Archon of those machine-obsessed cultists the mon’keigh had running around, but the colour was wrong. They were supposed to be red, if he remembered correctly, but these were black and white, halved in the middle. The man’s face was concealed by his hood, only his eyes vaguely visible as they reflected the dancing flames. He walked slowly towards the entrance, not one of his footsteps piercing the noise of the fires raging above.
So it is you who disturb me in my little performance, the Archon spoke theatrically.
No matter, the more souls the merrier, as your kind is so eager to say, he continued, grinning widely. He hadn’t been able to test some of his new toys yet, so an extra test subject was always more than welcome.
Unfazed, the man kept walking, until he was only a few meters away from the Archon. The Archon was starting to feel unusually uncomfortable, a strange sense of dread emanating from the man in front of him.
Have you nothing to say, human? , he asked, careful to add just enough concealed threat to his mocking tone.
Don’t worry, I have many ways to make you squeal…
With that, the man opened his robe, revealing a horribly mutated arm, which split into several tentacle-shaped appendages as he quickly adopted a combat stance.
The Archon’s face twisted into an extreme expression of disgust.
You sickening abomination!, he spat, drawing his sword in an instant.
Your very presence taints reality, you pathetic warp-spawned mongrel! I’ll take great pleasure in sending you back to what miserable hell you crawled out of!
The mutant merely snarled at the remark, and lunged forward towards the Archon, whirling his tentacles in erratic arcs. The Archon responded by grabbing three throwing knives and flinging them at the man’s chest with dazzling swiftness. Three tentacles caught the knives in mid-air, odd-coloured blood sprouting from them as the barbed hooks on the blades dug into the flesh.
The Archon immediately followed up with a burst from his splinter pistol, the toxic shards only nearly missing the mutant’s head as it stormed towards him. One tentacle surged forward at such speed the Archon barely had the time to retract his hand before it hacked his pistol in half. The Archon hissed as he slashed the tentacle in one stroke of his sword, which sent it reeling back in pain. The mutant himself didn’t seem to notice, its eyes firmly fixed on the Archon as it raised another tentacle upwards, bringing it down like an axe made flesh. The Archon caught the blow with his sword, and used the momentum to plant his fist firmly in the monster’s face as he deflected the tentacle to his side.
The mutant staggered backwards, using his tentacles to regain his balance. The Archon charged forward and swung his left leg in a gracious but resolute arc towards the man’s neck. Moments before the Archon’s foot would connect with his throat, the mutant blocked the kick with its normal arm, after which it vehemently pushed the Archon back. With its breathing space regained, the mutant swung back all his tentacles at once, making the shape of a monstrous outstretched hand, each tentacle forming an elongated finger. The tentacles were swung forwards again, as if the mutant was trying to swat a giant fly out of the sky.
The Archon barely dodged the razor-sharp appendages as he leapt into the air and over the mutant, landing just behind his attacker.
Nice trick! the Archon said.
Did they teach you that in the kennels?, he added mockingly.
Before he could set eyes on the mutant’s face to see the effect of his taunting, three tentacles burst through the front of his armour. Perplexed, he stared at the fleshy limbs, wondering how something so weak could pierce his armour. His back was fully impaled, his spine severed at three different locations. Somehow, even the combat drugs couldn’t prevent the anguish from taking hold. Somehow, a Dark Eldar, a being which lived and died for pain and excess, found himself in unpleasant agony.
He coughed up a large glob of blood, staining the ground at his feet. His body tensed as he was slowly rotated, until his eyes met the cold, dead gaze of his assailant. He felt a cold sliver of fear descend down his broken body as the monster leaned in closer, until its mouth was practically right in front of his eyes.
Malice is coming, Eldar, the man whispered softly,
and he needs… fleeeeessssshhhh…..
The Archon looked over the man’s shoulder in terror as the smoke cleared, revealing several similarly-clad men and women feasting upon the remains of his Kabal. The last thing he saw was a maw filled with rows of small teeth, stretching wide open to swallow his head whole…