Pushing himself to his feet, Burias-Drak’shal hissed in pain and staggered, falling back to his knees before once again rising. All thought of the pair of humans was gone, and he scanned the landscape, focusing on the dark shapes of the eldar as they darted towards his comrades.
Wincing in pain, the icon bearer began to stagger back towards the shuttle, when his enhanced senses picked up a familiar scent on the air. He threw himself forward into a roll as he registered the appearance of the shadow-eldar behind him, and came up facing the being, teeth bared.
That the creature was of eldar origin was clear, for its frame was tall and slight, its limbs long and elegant, but that was where the similarities ended. Its skin was as black as the night, and runes of twisted eldar design were inscribed into its flesh. These runes glowed with cold light, pulsing brightly as the creature entered fully into the material realm.
Burias-Drak’shal felt the power of the warp within the creature, but it was not possessed in the same manner as he was. It was almost as if the daemon within the eldar shade was at once there and not there, its will and individuality gone, but its strength tapped.
The shadow-eldar hissed at him, elegant, alien features contorting to reveal an array of small, sharp teeth, and its milky, elongated eyes, shockingly white against its black skin, flashed its murderous intent a fraction before it moved.
The creature disappeared, leaving a smoky outline in its wake, before it reappeared beside Burias-Drak’shal, the blades emerging from the back of its forearms slashing towards his wounded side.
Burias-Drak’shal was ready for it this time, swinging his arm around in a brutal arc that would have decapitated the slender eldar had its reflexes been less than preternatural. It swayed backwards from the blow, the possessed Word Bearer’s talons passing just centimetres from its face.
Burias-Drak’shal pushed his advantage, throwing a stabbing blow towards the eldar’s torso, seeking to rip its heart from its chest. The shade threw itself backwards and disappeared again, only to reappear to the icon bearer’s left, and the twin blades protruding from the back of its arm stabbed deep into his body. The blades of its other arm slashed across his pauldron, slicing monomolecular cuts through his power armour and drawing blood from his bicep.
Burias-Drak’shal snarled and spun, lashing out at the shadow-eldar, but his claws merely passed through a dark mist as the creature leapt away once more. It reentered the material plane to his other side, its blades flashing again, and the icon bearer felt hot blood begin to flow from another trio of wounds.
His anger grew as the eldar continued to prey upon him, taunting him with its speed, and Burias-Drak’shal roared in frustration as once again his claws found nothing but air.
For all his anger he could sense that there was a pattern forming in the creature’s attacks. It attacked and jumped away, always moving, and always attacking from a different angle.
As the shade disappeared once more, Burias-Drak’shal spun around on the spot, anticipating where its next attack would come from and lashing out. The eldar appeared where he had expected, and even its alien speed and reflexes were not up to avoiding the icon bearer’s pre-emptive strike.
Burias-Drak’shal’s talons closed around the slender eldar neck, and he pulled the creature sharply towards him, throwing it off balance.
“Got you,” growled Burias-Drak’shal, pulling the alien straight onto his rising knee, which thundered into the creature’s sternum.
Burias-Drak’shal grinned as he felt the bones and tendons under his grip strain, and he clubbed the creature in the back of its head as it bent over double. It was slammed to the ground, and Burias-Drak’shal followed it down, driving his knee into the small of the eldar’s back.
Burias-Drak’shal pulled his right hand back, and thrust down with all his enhanced might, seeking to drive his talons through the back of the creature’s skull.
It disappeared from beneath him, his talons spearing deep into the ice, and the icon bearer snarled in frustration.
Flicking his head to the side, he saw that his brother warriors had been engaged by the bulk of the eldar raiding force, and with a hiss he began loping painfully towards the escalating battle.
Baranov could barely contain his satisfaction as he hauled the bay doors of the Rapture open and the pompous, condescending elite of Perdus Skylla gaped in horror.
Eldar warriors were standing just outside the bay doors of the Rapture. Several of the courtesans screamed, while others whimpered in terror or merely gaped and soiled themselves. Baranov grinned, and stepped to the side.
A screaming woman was dragged from the shuttle by her hair, and the remaining high-ranking guilders shrank back, only to be pushed forward by Baranov’s burly crew members.
Chuckling, Baranov swung away from the spectacle. For a moment, his gaze was drawn towards the shimmering integrity field that covered the yawning docking bay. It was almost imperceptible to the naked eye, looking as though nothing separated the inside of the ship and the vacuum of space, and it always made him feel slightly uneasy, as if he would be sucked out into the void at any moment.
Ikorus Baranov stepped back alongside the dark eldar lord’s proxy, his arms folded across his chest as the wailing, weeping guilders and their lovers were led away in glimmering manacles that crackled with energy. He had never learnt the name of the eldar pirate, nor that of his representative. Not that it mattered, he thought. He would be unlikely to be able to pronounce it anyway.
“You have done well for me these past months,” said the eldar, his voice as smooth as velvet. The eldar spoke a curious form of Low Gothic, his pronunciation pitch perfect, but with a strangely singsong inflection.
“I am glad that your lord has been pleased with my deliveries,” replied Baranov, trying to keep his voice calm. In truth, the eldar terrified him, but they paid well. “That will be the last of them, I’m afraid. I won’t risk another run, not with the tyranids so close.”
Baranov flashed a glance at the eldar’s face, trying to read him. Normally a good judge of character, he found it galling that he could not gauge the eldar’s emotions in the slightest. Never again will I work with xenos, he thought, though he knew as soon as he thought it that it was a lie.
“The… what do you call them? Tyranids?” said the eldar. Baranov nodded.
“Your pronunciation is perfect,” commented Baranov. The eldar stared at him for a moment, and he felt himself shrink under his unfathomable gaze.
“The tyranids might well exterminate all of the lesser races, in time,” said the eldar casually.
“They are a menace,” agreed Baranov, unsure where the conversation was leading, and uncomfortable making small talk with the deadly eldar lord.
“If all of your kind are eradicated, where then will my lord find such slaves?” asked the eldar, gesturing towards the guilders being dragged away. “Your race breeds like vermin. Your race is vermin, but you have your uses, don’t you, Ikorus Baranov?”
“I… I believe we do, my lord. Or at least some of us do.”
“I am glad that you believe so,” said the eldar. He gestured more of his warriors forward, and they began to surround Baranov and his crewmembers.
“Ah,” said Baranov, “I think we should part ways now, honoured lord. I won’t press you for the payment for this last group. Consider it a gift, a gift to honour the friendship between us.”
“Friendship?” said the eldar slowly, as if savouring the word. “A curious, irrelevant mon-keigh concept. And honour? Where is the honour in betraying your own kind? Delivering them to an enemy, albeit superior, race? That is honourable in your eyes?”
Baranov felt the sweat running down his back, and his throat was suddenly dry. He flinched as the eldar walked behind him, but he felt rooted to the spot, unable to think, unable to move.
“You are a detestable race,” said the eldar. “Your very stench offends me, and yet, you have your uses. Your soul-fires burn so bright, and your fear… your fe
ar is delectable.”
The eldar spun away from the petrified mon-keigh worm.
“Enslave them,” he said in the eldar tongue.
Marduk took careful aim at one of the frenzied eldar wyches as it darted towards him. Squeezing the trigger, the eldar’s head disappeared in a mist of blood. The eldar warriors were almost naked, their flesh covered only by totemic war paint and ritual piercings, and they moved like deadly dancers as they cut into the warriors of the XVII Legion. Their strangely fashioned weapons wove dazzling patterns through the air, their movements at once enthralling and deadly.
A score of them had died as they approached, ripped apart by the murderous swathe of fire that the Word Bearers had laid down. More had perished when one of their hovering skiffs had been shot from the air, the fragile vehicle tipping onto its side, throwing its occupants onto the ice before it smashed down upon them, impaling several on its bladed sides and crushing more beneath its weight.
Now the wyches had engaged them in melee combat, and the odds were tipping towards the greater numbers of the eldar warriors.
Parallel beams of incandescent light speared through the night as a Land Raider fired upon the knife-like shapes of the dark skiffs that circled the battle, searing a pair of holes through one of its barbed, sail-like uprights. The raider vehicle veered to the side, moving with remarkable speed and grace as it avoided another pair of shots directed towards it, and another of the vehicles returned fire, a beam of darkness stabbing into the front of the Land Raider, which was rocked by the blow.
Jetbikes streamed out of the night, screaming low through the fight, peppering the Word Bearers with splinter fire. Marduk spun, his chainsword roaring, and cut the arm from one of the jetbikers as the vehicle screamed past him. Blood pumped from the wound and the rider lost control of his jetbike, which flipped into a sudden dive, skidding into the ice and smashing headlong into Kol Badar.
The Coryphaus saw it coming out of the corner of his vision and braced himself, leaning his shoulder into the careering jetbike. It shattered against him, breaking apart as it knocked him back a step, and the rider was catapulted over the handlebars, blood spraying in a wide arc from the stump of his arm.
Marduk fired his pistol into the chest of another of the wyches as it closed on him, and the painted figure was hurled backwards by the force of the shot. He spun, targeting matrices lighting up around him, and saw another of the wyches, her gaudy dyed red hair swinging behind her as she ducked under a swinging blow from one of Sabtec’s coterie brothers and slashed a blade through the warrior’s leg, cutting it off at the knee.
Marduk judged that this was the leader of the wych troop. She moved with exquisite, savage grace, her serpentine whip writhing with a life of its own. The whip cracked out, and its multiple barbed tips lashed around the arm of another warrior brother. Energy coursed up the length of the whip and the warrior of the XVII Legion dropped to the ground, his body convulsing.
Marduk levelled his bolt pistol at the wych’s head, but before he could fire, a net of fine, razor-sharp wire wrapped around his arm, pulling his aim off target and slicing through his vambraces. A tri-forked spear stabbed towards Marduk’s chest, but the First Acolyte swatted it aside with his chainsword and hacked into the eldar’s neck, ripping his chainblade through flesh.
Untangling himself from the wire net that had cut half-through his vambrace, Marduk turned and staggered back from the furious assault of another of the wyches. It danced towards him with a pair of long-bladed swords weaving before it. Each of the swords had a guard that protected the wielder’s hands, and they had curving blades for pommels.
The blades moved faster than Marduk could follow, and he was losing ground before their flashing advance. Snarling, he leapt forwards, his hatred fuelling his servo-enhanced strength.
One of the blades slashed for his neck, and Marduk blocked the attack with his forearm, while the other sword slashed up towards his groin. He met the blow with one of his own, and for a moment the two combatants were locked together. Then the eldar flipped backwards, first one foot and then the other cannoning into the base of Marduk’s helmet, snapping his head backwards.
The two blades stabbed towards Marduk’s heart, but he twisted at the last moment, and they scraped a pair of furrows across his chest. The First Acolyte grabbed one of the eldar’s wrists, pinning it in place, and smashed the spiked guard of his chainsword into the wych’s face, pulverising its skull.
Dropping the lifeless corpse to the ground, Marduk surveyed the battle. The eldar were everywhere, darting in and out of the melee, blades flashing and pistols spitting razor-sharp splinters. Another of the Land Raiders was destroyed, its blackened hull smoking and lifeless, and jetbikes screamed around the outside of the battle, banking sharply before gunning their engines and cutting like knives through the combat. Shadowy figures appeared on the outskirts, preying upon the unwary, blinking into existence behind warrior brothers engaged in combat, and cutting them down.
His warriors were acquitting themselves well, and the ice was strewn with the eldar dead, but he knew instinctively that this was not a battle he could win. The notion of retreating was repellent to him, but he had to keep things in perspective. He had what he needed. The knowledge was locked inside the explorator’s brain, housed in the body of Darioq-Grendh’al. He had only to get away from this damnable moon, and return to Sicarus. Everything else was meaningless.
Marduk had ordered the warriors of the Host to protect Darioq-Grendh’al, but he saw now that such precautions were unnecessary. The corrupted magos was killing anything that came near him, and the first Acolyte smiled at the daemon’s bloodlust as it overcame any resistance left within its host body.
A mass of writhing, daemonic tentacles, black and oily, burst from the magos’s body to join his mechadendrites, each appearing to move with their own will and sentience. They coiled around the legs of those eldar that closed in around the magos, effortlessly hurling them through the air, while other sucker-tipped tentacles drew victims in close, where they were dismembered by Darioq’s toothed servo-arms.
Snapping mouths upon the tips of mechadendrites burrowed into xenos bodies, and fresh mutations appeared upon the magos’s flesh. More spines and horny protrusions pushed out along the ridges of his servo-arms, and from his knee-joints, metal merged seamlessly into bone and horn.
“We are leaving!” roared Marduk, and Kol Badar instantly set about ordering the evacuation.
An arc of black light struck the side of the shuttle, and Marduk felt a stab of unease. It was not a feeling that he was used to, and it served only to feed his anger. If the eldar immobilised the shuttle, there would be no getting off the moon.
“Move!” roared Marduk, stepping back towards the embarkation ramp of the Idolater, holding his chainsword in both hands. His bolt pistol was gone, but it mattered not. All that mattered now was getting off this cursed world.
The Word Bearers formed a retreating arc, closing together and backing towards the shuttle, bolters blazing and chainswords roaring, and the engines of the Idolater roared to life.
Marduk stood with Kol Badar and Sabtec at the top of the embarkation ramp as the engines of the Idolater fired.
“Here he comes,” remarked Kol Badar as Burias-Drak’shal leapt through the press of dark eldar, crushing the skull of one of the wyches as he came. He was bleeding from dozens of wounds, the largest a gaping hole in his side, and his armour was peppered with splinters that protruded from his armoured plates like bizarre decorations.
The icon bearer staggered up the ramp, and Marduk stepped aside to let him pass.
“One minute more and we would have left,” barked Kol Badar, snapping off shots with his combi-bolter.
The daemon left Burias, his natural form returning, and he slumped forward unconscious, sprawling face first out on the deck, blood running freely from his wounds.
“Somebody see to him,” barked Marduk.
The engines roared as the plasma core
came into full power, and the ramp began to close. Splinters spat up at the trio standing guard atop the ramp, and Sabtec and Marduk ducked back to avoid the deadly projectiles. A line of the fine shards struck Marduk across the side of his helmet, their tips just penetrating far enough to graze his cheek. He ripped his helmet off and tossed it into the shuttle’s interior. Kol Badar merely endured the barrage of fire, for the splinters had not the power to penetrate his thick Terminator armour.
The eldar wyches made a last charge, leaping lightly onto the ramp as it rose past horizontal. Kol Badar killed three of them, firing his combi-bolter on full auto, and Sabtec took down another two, his bolter ripping the slender warriors in half. Marduk’s chainsword killed another, the toothed blade ripping it from groin to heart.
Behind them was another wych, the tall, elegant and sneering female with flowing hair that Marduk had seen take down at least three of his warriors, and as Kol Badar and Sabtec gunned down her companions, her sinuous, serpent-like whip lashed out, its barbed tips whipping around Marduk’s throat.
Debilitating energy coursed through the length of the whip, rendering Marduk’s enhanced physiology all put paralysed, and his muscles twitched spasmodically. Fighting the energy coursing through him, Marduk dropped his chainsword and reached up to the strangling whip wrapped around his neck, trying to pry it loose. With a powerful wrench, the eldar warrior hauled Marduk towards her.
Sabtec cried out and reached for the First Acolyte, but Marduk was already falling. Kol Badar’s combi-bolter roared, but the wych back-flipped from the ramp that was now more vertical than horizontal, and the bolts missed their mark. Marduk was dragged from the ramp behind the wych.
Kol Badar’s power talons lashed out, grabbing Marduk around the wrist as he fell. The Coryphaus leant his shoulder against the closing ramp, and its motors strained against him as he held it open.
[Word Bearers 02] - Dark Disciple Page 26
