Waving mechadendrite tentacles sprouted from his spine, and where before they were tipped with mechanical claws, sensory apparatus and data-spikes, now several of them ended in gaping lamprey mouths, filled with rings of barbed teeth, from which ropes of oily saliva dripped. The surface of many of the tentacles too had changed, their metal bands morphing into smooth, black skin, wet and slick like the body of an eel.
The insignia of the Adeptus Mechanicus had been altered and corrupted, for such a reminder of the false machine faith was offensive to the fundamentalist Word Bearers. The cogged wheel of the Mechanicus had been overlaid with the holy eight-pointed star of Chaos, and the black and white skull motif of the machine cult had been corrupted, now bearing daemonic horns and wreathed in flames so that it mirrored the sacred Latros Sacrum borne upon the left shoulder of every warrior brother of the XVII Legion.
As if to emphasise the corrupted nature of the magos, Darioq-Grendh’al paused besides a dying Imperial soldier, who stared up at him in horror, face awash in blood. The magos peered down at the man, his unfathomable red glowing right eye boring into the soldier. Four of the lamprey mouths of the semi-organic mechadendrites waved towards the fallen man, who recoiled away from them in horror. The tentacles were drawn to him as if they tasted his blood in the air, and latched onto him, attaching to his neck, his chest and his face.
The man screamed in horror and pain as the tentacles twisted back and forth, burrowing into his flesh and began sucking away his vital fluids. The man died in torment, and as the feeder mouths pulled away from the corpse with a wet sucking sound, blood dripping from their gaping apertures, the magos tilted his head to one side and, with an almost tender, tentative movement, lifted one of the man’s limp arms with one of his own mechanical power lifters. Releasing the man’s arm, it flopped back to the ground, and Darioq-Grendh’al stared down at it in incomprehension.
Amused, Marduk watched as the magos tried to raise the man to his feet, lifting him up gently in his mechanical claws, careful not to crush him in his powerful grip, but the body collapsed to the ground as soon as it was released.
‘The life-systems of this flesh-unit have failed,’ said the magos. ‘Already its body temperature has dropped 1.045 degrees, and its cellular make-up is entering corporal decay.’
‘He’s dead, magos,’ said Marduk softly. ‘You killed him.’
The magos looked at Marduk, and then back down at the corpse. Then, slowly, he raised his head once more to meet Marduk’s gaze.
‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ said Marduk.
The magos paused, looking down at the corpse at its feet in incomprehension. Then the corrupted once-priest of the Machine-God straightened.
‘I wish to do that again,’ he said.
‘Oh you will, Darioq-Grendh’al,’ promised Marduk.
Having breached the defences of the guild hab-city, the Word Bearers made swift progress through the tunnelled streets and boulevards, encountering no resistance and sighting few living beings. The citizens that still remained in the city fled before the advance of the enclave, scurrying like vermin into the darkness of side-tunnels and alleys.
Marduk gave them no mind. He cared not for the fate that awaited them once the tyranids had descended on the planet. They would all be slaughtered, their bodies consumed to feed the growth of the hive fleet.
They descended deeper into the guild city, guided inexorably onward by schematic maps that flickered across auspex screens, uploaded from the data banks of the guild bastion. They marched through what must have been the mercantile district of the sub-surface city, which was rife with detritus and evidence of looting. Doors were smashed from hinges, and goods and foodstuffs lay scattered across the tunnel floor, along with the occasional corpse.
‘Trampled to death in the exodus,’ said Sabtec evenly as he knelt by one of the bodies.
‘The cowards won’t even stand to fight for their own world,’ said Khalaxis, a fresh array of scalps and death-skulls hanging from his belt, ‘and they kill each other in their panic to escape. These are not worthy foes.’
‘Rejoice at the weakness of the Imperium,’ said Marduk. ‘Namar-sin, which direction?’
‘East, two kilometres,’ said the champion of the Havoc squad, consulting the throbbing blister display of his auspex. ‘There, we must rise four levels towards the surface, and proceed a further kilometre to the north-east before we get to the ore docks. That is where the lift rises from the ocean floor.’
‘Burias, take point,’ rumbled Kol Badar. ‘Khalaxis, move in support of the icon bearer. Let’s move.’
Dracon Alith Drazjaer raised one thin eyebrow a fraction, his almond-shaped eyes glinting dangerously. That one small movement would have been all but unseen by a human, but to the keen eyes of the eldar, the subtle nuance spoke volumes.
The dracon reclined languidly on his command throne, his thin chin supported by the slender fingers of one hand as he stared down at the supplicant kneeling before him. He was bedecked from neck to toe in tight fitting segmented armour, like the scaled skin of a serpent, glossy and black. A mask covered the left half of his face, its barbed blades, like the legs of spiders, pressing against his flesh. A pair of blood-red tattoos extended down his pale cheeks from his eyelids, like bloody tears.
‘How many?’ Dracon Alith Drazjaer said, his voice a soft purr.
The sybarite supplicant, Keelan, paled and licked his thin lips. Unable to hold his master’s gaze, his eyes moved to the figures behind the throne. A pair of the dracon’s incubi guards stood there, but there was no hope of support from them. They were as still as statues, their faces hidden beneath tall helmets, and they held curving halberds in their gauntleted hands. Keelan’s eyes flicked to the other two figures standing by the dracon’s side.
On the left stood the firebrand, Atherak, her tautly muscled body covered in swirling tattoos and wych cult markings. The sides of her head were shaved to the scalp and tattooed, and a ridge of back-swept hair ran along her crown like a crest, falling down her back past her slim waist. A myriad of weapons were strapped to her limbs, and she sneered at Keelan.
On the right was the haemonculus, Rhakaeth, unnaturally tall and thin even by eldar standards, his cheeks sunken. He looked like nothing more than a walking corpse, and his eyes burnt feverishly hot with the soul-hunger. Keelan quickly averted his gaze, looking at the floor.
‘How many?’ Drazjaer asked again, a subtle change in his inflection registering his displeasure, and the sybarite knew that he would not escape without punishment. Dracon Alith Drazjaer of the Black Heart Kabal was not a forgiving master. Doubtless he would experience torment beyond imagining at the hands of the haemonculus, Rhakaeth, but not death. No, he would not be allowed death.
‘We lost twelve of our number, my lord,’ Keelan said finally.
‘Twelve,’ repeated his master, his voice expressionless.
‘It was not the regular mon-keigh forces that we faced, my lord,’ said the sybarite, desperation in his voice. ‘The… augmented ones were there.’
A line furrowed the dracon’s brow for a second, and the haemonculus, Rhakaeth, leant forwards hungrily.
‘You are sure?’ asked the dracon.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Keelan. ‘It was not my fault; it was Ja’harael. He is to blame. He drew us in, and we had no warning that we faced anything but the regular mon-keigh forces.’
‘We should not have sought the service of the half-breed and its kin in the first place,’ spat Atherak, her cruel features sharpening. Her muscles tightened, her hands clenching and unclenching into fists, and beads of sweat ran down her long limbs.
‘The mandrake half-breeds serve us well,’ said Drazjaer evenly, dismissing the wych’s words. ‘How many slaves did you take, sybarite?’
Keelan licked his lips again. The dracon doubtless already knew the answer to his question. He looked up, feeling eyes upon him. The haemonculus, Rhakaeth, was staring at him hungrily, a slight smile upon his lips. He loo
ked like a grinning corpse, and Keelan swallowed thickly.
‘None, my lord,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘None,’ said Drazjaer flatly, ‘for the loss of twelve of my warriors.’
‘Ja’harael is to blame, my lord,’ protested Keelan. ‘If anyone is to be punished, it should be him.’
‘What have you to say on the matter, mandrake?’ asked the dracon, and Keelan stiffened. Ja’harael materialised out of the shadows next to him, darkness clinging to him like a shroud. His milky eyes stared into Keelan’s for a moment, and the sybarite recoiled at the half-breed’s presence. He was an abomination, a thing that should not be, and his mouth went dry.
The mandrake’s skin was as black as pitch, and sigils were cut into his flesh, marking his damnation. The mandrakes were shadow-creatures. Once, they had been eldar, but they had long ago given themselves up to darkness, inviting the foul presence of others into their souls. Now they were something altogether different, living apart from the eldar race, preying on their own in the darkness of Commoragh and the webway. They existed in three planes – the real, the webway, and the warp – and were able to slip between the realms at will.
‘I did not realise that I was employed to safeguard your warriors from harm, Drazjaer,’ hissed Ja’harael.
‘You are not,’ said the dracon. If he was offended by the casual use of his name, he gave no indication.
‘Their failure shames you, Drazjaer,’ hissed the mandrake. ‘They make you look weak.’
The dracon smiled coldly.
‘Do not seek to goad me, half-breed,’ said the dracon stroking his chin thoughtfully. The haemonculus leant over the dracon, whispering. Drazjaer nodded, and leant back in his throne, stretching his back languidly.
‘The presence of the mon-keigh elite intrigues me,’ he said finally. ‘Their souls are much sought after in Commoragh, and will garner much favour.’
‘And perhaps offset a certain amount of your Lord Vect’s displeasure,’ hissed Ja’harael.
Drazjaer’s eyes flashed angrily, but the mandrake continued regardless.
‘Perhaps you see your time running out, Drazjaer, and your quota not yet achieved.’
A blade appeared to materialise in Atherak’s left hand so fast did she draw it, and in her right she flicked her long whip, its barbed tips writhing like serpents across the floor at her feet. Her muscles quivered with anticipation, and Ja’harael smiled at her, exposing his array of teeth, flexing his fingers. The wych cracked her whip and took a step towards the mandrake, but was halted by a sharp word from the dracon. Drazjaer’s anger was gone, and he smiled coldly.
‘It seems you know much, half-breed,’ he said, ‘but be careful, knowledge can be dangerous, and my patience can be stretched only so far.’
The mandrake spread his arms wide and gave a mocking bow.
‘The souls of the enhanced ones will offset any shortfall in the quota, it is true, and Rhakaeth desires to work upon one of the enhanced mon-keigh creatures,’ said the dracon, indicating the haemonculus with one languid gesture, ‘though why he would wish to perform his art upon their brutish forms is beyond my understanding. However, he has pleased me of late, and I shall indulge his whim. Bring him some specimens, Ja’harael.’
‘You would honour the half-breed abomination with this hunt?’ sneered Atherak. ‘Let me lead my wyches in. You owe me that honour.’
‘You would make demands of me now, wych?’ asked the dracon. He did not look at Atherak, and the words were said casually, but Keelan could feel the underlying threat in his voice.
‘I make no demands, lord,’ said Atherak, ‘merely a request.’
‘Ah, a request,’ said Drazjaer. ‘I refuse, then. Ja’harael will go. He and his kin are being well compensated for their service, and it is high time that they began earning it. We shall see how well he fares, since my warriors have failed me so. Go, half-breed. Get out of my sight, for your presence is beginning to offend me.’
The mandrake grinned and then was gone, as if he had never been there in the first place.
‘I’d like to gut the filthy creature,’ hissed Atherak, and the dracon smiled.
‘All in good time,’ he said, stroking his chin. Then his gaze dropped once more to Keelan, who was trying to remain inconspicuous on his knees, praying that his lord and master might have forgotten about him.
‘Take him,’ said the dracon, banishing any hope that Keelan had of escaping punishment. ‘Rhakaeth, see that he is suitably chastised for his failure. I leave the level of his punishment to your discretion.’
Keelan felt his heart sink as he saw the hungry light in the haemonculus’s dead eyes.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the haemonculus, and Keelan was dragged away.
Marduk stood gazing down into the gaping hexagonal shaft that descended into darkness below. Yellow and black hazard stripes lined the edge of the impossibly deep drop-off, and a steel barrier stood along its rim to protect the unwary or the clumsy from falling.
It had been time-consuming but not difficult to breach the guild city, nor to penetrate to its heart.
Warning lights were flashing, and the immense cable that descended down the centre of the shaft vibrated as the lift rose from the stygian darkness. The cable was over five metres in diameter, and was formed of thousands of tightly bound ropes of metal. It connected the guild city to the mining facility on the bottom of the ocean far below, and it shuddered as the lift ascended.
The surrounding loading area was vast, easily the size of one of the embarkation decks of the Infidus Diabolus. Scores of loading vehicles lay dormant in neat rows, as if in readiness to unload the next shipment of the ore transported up from the mining facility below. Over a hundred servitor units stood immobile within the arched alcoves lining the loading dock walls, their arms replaced with immense power lifters. Massive hooks and clamp-mouthed lifters hung from thick chains linked to heavy machines overhead that would come to life to lift the heavy containers of mining ore onto waiting transport pallets when a fully laden lift ascended from below.
The lift rose from the shaft, water streaming from its sloping sides. It was shaped like a diamond, with powerful engines positioned in either tip that hauled it up the thick cable. It came to a grinding rest, and steam and smoke spewed from the engines as they powered down. The sides of the pressurised, octagonal lift hissed as they slid upwards, exposing the expansive interior.
The lift was spartan, consisting of a single grilled, open floor-space where cargo could be loaded, with a barricaded area around the thick cable that spooled through its centre. In effect, the lift was like a massive bead through which the thick cable was threaded, and its interior, though the ceiling was low, was large enough to house half a tank company. Its sides were thickly armoured to withstand the intense pressure of deep sea
‘Sabtec, Namar-sin,’ said Marduk. The two named champions snapped to attention. ‘You and your squads are to stay behind, to hold this position. Khalaxis, you and your brethren will join me, Burias and the Anointed for the descent.’
‘You heard the First Acolyte,’ barked Kol Badar. ‘Let’s get this done. Move out.’
The chosen warriors stamped forward into the expansive interior of the lift. Buzzing strips of glow lights hung from the roof of the lift. More than half of them were dark, but the flickering remainder lit the space with a dim, unnatural light.
‘Darioq-Grendh’al,’ said Marduk, his voice commanding, ‘come.’
Impelled by the power in the First Acolyte’s voice, the magos stepped forward obediently.
Marduk slammed his fist down onto a large button on the lift’s command console, and the sides of the lift began to close, venting steam.
‘May the gods be with you,’ said Sabtec, bowing his head as the doors slid shut.
‘Oh, but they are,’ said Marduk.
Burias tensed, sniffing the air as an unusual scent reached his nostrils. It was the same odd scent that he had regis
tered just before the dark eldar attack in the tunnels. His every sense alert for danger, he registered a flicker of movement outside the lift.
He roared a warning, but his cry was lost as the lift doors sealed shut.
CHAPTER TEN
Sabtec and Namar-sin watched as the lift descended into darkness down the abyssal shaft in the floor. Neither of them had heard Burias’s cry of warning, and neither of them noticed the shadowy figure crawling head-first down one of the hanging chains ten metres above their heads.
The black figure dropped soundlessly from above, twisting in the air like a gymnast and landing in a crouch, with one foot on each of Namar-sin’s shoulders and one hand steadying itself on the top of his helmet. Before the sergeant-champion could react, the shadowy creature punched a blade through the back of his neck, severing the vertebrae. Its serrated tip emerged from the front of his throat, the monomolecular blade sliding through his gorget as if it were made of paper.
The Word Bearer champion fell soundlessly, blood spurting from the fatal wound as the blade was retracted. Sabtec bellowed a warning as he lifted his bolter. The shadowy creature, its skin as black as pitch and with glowing runes cut into its flesh, sprung from the dying Word Bearers champion’s shoulders, throwing itself into a back flip even as Sabtec began to fire.
The explosive-tipped bolt-rounds passed straight through the creature as it became as ethereal as smoke, even as Namar-sin fell face-first to the floor, dead.
Sabtec lost sight of the murderous eldar and threw himself into a roll as he felt a second presence materialise behind him. A blade slashed the air where he had been standing a fraction of a second earlier, and he came up firing. Again, his bolt rounds found no target.
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