The spotlights of the Cult of Claws arena glared overhead, radiating down from the mind-bending geometry of Commorragh. Kylendris sat on his jetbike, watching the carnage inside from behind steel bars. The remaining warriors of the now defunct Kabal of the Iron Maiden were fighting a desperate battle against a ravenous Kroot hunting pack, their agony slaking the bloodthirst of the ravenous audience in the spires and awnings above. Hunkered down behind the sunken debris of their Raider, the surviving warriors hopelessly fought the alien beasts with knives and pistols, their rifles having long since run out of ammo. As a particularly large Kroot tore an Eldar's arm from its socket the floor was sprayed with fresh blood, adding yet another layer to the caked on mess that coated the arena floor from the night's previous victims. High above, screaming Eldar drank their fill of the pain being served and howled for more. Kylendris swallowed hard as the severed arm was tossed from the jowls of the Kroot and rolled towards him.
A chill ran down the pilot's spine and he broke his attention away, glancing down the short corridor he'd been lead through. This was a one way trip, a locked cattle chute where his only way out was into the arena. He could make a break for the skies, but chances were they had a remote shutdown on his Reaver jetbike. Anxiously he caressed the small syringe on his belt. Along with a vehicle and gladiator weapons, he was furnished with a combat drug for the audience's amusement, though for all he knew it contained nothing but poison. The entire purpose of this spectacle after all was to kill the entire Kabal off in as grizzly a manner as possible. Such was the revenge of Lady Arataire upon learning who her true killer was.
A sharp cry snapped his head forward as a warrior had his leg sawn clean off by a Kroot knife. Taking this opportunity, the entire hunting pack lunged upon the remaining Iron Maiden warriors, slashing their armor with fierce daggers and snapping necks in their maws. Kylendris couldn't help but watch, horrified as the Eldar he once called his allies were reduced to pulp and meat for sport. The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles as the dimensional scene above shifted to the fully recovered Lady Arataire and her gaudy entourage. Archon Salendrid of the Gypsy Road Kabal sat to her right, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment while dining on a choice selection of meats that bore an eerie resemblance to the previous night's victims. To her left Kylendris recognized her Syren, Chariath. She stood statuesque by her mistress as she analyzed the scene below, her tailored lightning claws still on her belt. All around them were Wracks of the Didactic Cave, Incubi guards, and the elite Bloodbrides of the Cult.
Lady Arataire stepped forward and raised her glaive slightly as her honored guests offered a polite applause. "Thank you, my friends, for joining me this night." The stands boomed with elation but were quickly silenced with a bat of her porcelain hand. "It is my honor to present the destruction of this filthy Kabal and the vermin responsible for my injuries. Let me also thank Salendrid for his continued generosity and patronage." The audience thundered with applause once again. "Also the impeccable craftsmanship of the Coven of the Didactic Cave for both their flawless work during my recovery and their continued arena contributions." She stepped forward, the animal skin cloak around her neck fluttering in a light breeze. Holding her archite glaive high, she commanded, "Now, bring out the next victim!"
A loud clang made Kylendris jump as the gate before him shot into the ceiling. Gently rolling on the throttle, he glided forward, his jetbike gradually coming into the spotlights. The roar of the crowd gave way to laughter as the lights whirled around him, illuminating the enormous arena floor. He caught the snide jeers and comments in the air, emphasized by the distorted reality of the arena's geometry. A trueborn being humbled like this was cause enough for the audience to heckle, but on top of that, Kylendris was not exactly an imposing Eldar. Indignant, he revved his jetbike, a flare popping out the main thruster as the engine whined. Betrayal was par for the course in Commorragh as he well knew, but after the Cult of Claws turned on his Kabal and drove out Archon Irons, he took it personally. Maybe it was his upbringing. Maybe it was how Chariath had always gone on about honor, only to betray them when victory was just within their grasp. Or maybe it was his fondness for Archon Irons. She was, after all, the only Eldar in the entire city who bothered to put up with his eccentricities. Whatever the case, a fire burned in his chest, consuming him from the inside out. He would show these traitors what it meant to be an Iron Maiden.
All at once the tone shifted and the crowd booed as the gate across the arena opened. From within cruised three clunky, black jetbikes. They were decorated with red trim and skull motifs, and each vehicle was intricately detailed with flittering paper, affixed by red seals to the machines. They were piloted by Space Marines who themselves were large, heavily armored creatures, clad head to foot in power armor as dark and soulless as the jeering audience above. Kylendris had fought these creatures before and knew only too well their tenacity and strength.
Succubus Arataire slammed her glaive into the podium in commencement but the Space Marines didn't seem to bother waiting. As soon as they spotted Kylendris, they cranked their bulky jetbikes into high gear, tearing across the arena towards their quarry. He could hear them shouting over the growl of their engines in the mon-keigh tongue, though he wasn't paying enough attention to understand. Instinctively he jammed the throttle and took off, the Reaver bike's engine thrumming as he ripped through the air. The wall of the arena came up on him and he banked hard, gaining momentum as he leaned sideways, the bladevanes on the side of his bike screaming as they cut the air. To add to the slaughter, the arena walls began to jut blades and spikes in front of him. Kylendris jinked hard, pulling the bike up into the air hundreds of feet above the ground before going full throttle into a nose-dive.
The Space Marines below widened their formation and prepared to intercept him, their front jets lifting their wheels. As he neared, all three opened up with a torrent of bolter fire. Kylendris jerked the handlebars left and right, desperately trying to avoid the incoming shells as he careened towards the captured humans. One of the bolts struck his bladevane, knocking him off course and sending the Reaver bike into a spiral. Panicking, he pulled up on the handlebars for all he was worth, the stabilizers jamming the bike straight upwards. Gathering momentum once again, Kylendris aimed his bike down towards the Marines, his broken bladevane dragging through the air, causing the bike to pull hard to the right.
"Battle Brothers, end this foolish xeno!" the Space Marine commander yelled, pointing at Kylendris as he barreled towards them.
"Let him come!" another replied, "If he wishes to taste the Emperor's sword then he shall!"
The wind resonated inside his helmet and Kylendris lowered his head, his thumb caressing a button on his handlebars as he braced himself against the footpegs. The Space Marines neared and he released the throttle, yanking the front of the bike up with all his strength. Gunning the engine once again, the thrusters spat fire, giving him a burst of lateral momentum and catapulting him forward. He mashed the button as the bike zoomed flat out over their heads, missing the mon-keigh warriors by mere inches. One of them lashed at him with his chainsword, prying the last of the damaged bladevane off and sending him hurtling away. Yet after a few seconds, the clatter of timed explosions rumbled the arena floor beneath.
Reining his bike in, Kylendris slowed down to watch his adversaries. One of the Space Marines was blown to pieces, the caltrops having rent his armor to shards, while the other two still held onto their bikes. The controls on the Reaver fought him with every move and it took all of Kylendris' skill just to keep flying in a straight line. He glanced over his shoulder, the mon-keigh were closing in, their cumbersome steeds howling as the revs climbed. He saw one of them with a sword raised, angrily shouting his battlecry for vengeance. Kylendris tried to accelerate but even the slightest twitch of the throttle pulled his bike hard to the right. It seemed speed was no longer on his side.
Slowing down, he whirled his bike around hard as the machine buckled on its injured side. With the Space Marines baring down on him he opened fire with his under-slung splinter rifles. Glass shards pelted the human warriors, most of which bounced harmlessly off their incredibly thick armor. One lucky shot pierced an elbow joint, causing the rider's arm to slough off in the virulent poison.
If the Space Marine noticed he gave no sign. Undeterred by his overwatch, the bikers surrounded Kylendris, slamming into him with their own jetbikes. He mashed his throttle as they came, sending the Reaver into a hurtling arc, its left bladevane catching the front forks of one of the human jetbikes. Machines and riders were sent spiraling away across the arena as Kylendris found himself in a dizzying ascent, his Reaver swirling towards the upper parts of the arena in a clumsy hit and run. Pounding the throttle off and on, he eased his decent from a death spiral to a bumpy glide. The human he'd flung in the air with him however didn't seem as lucky. Glancing down, he saw the mon-keigh jetbike was too heavy and underpowered to survive a drop like that, even if its pilot could. The human warrior dragged himself from under his own damaged craft, a bolter clutched in his ceramite gauntlet, still ready for combat in spite of the dramatic fall.
Do these mon-keigh ever give up!? Kylendris wondered as the Space Marine lined up a shot. The human opened fire as he tried to jink away but his controls locked up. The strain of flinging the mon-keigh jetbike into the air broke his steering mechanism and the Reaver was left hurtling towards the foe. Kylendris' arms strained against the handlebars as the metal clicked uselessly. A bolter shell struck the front of the bike, tearing the splinter rifle from underneath and creating a plume of poison behind him. Unable to stop his Reaver and with his weapons destroyed, Kylendris yanked the nose upward and pressed the button on the handlebars. Caltrops spilled from the rear of the bike and he let go, rolling head over heels against the hard arena floor as his Reaver slammed into the Space Marine. A moment later the explosion blasted him backwards, leaving nothing but a charred and twisted husk of ceramite armor where the human once stood.
"Taste the Emperor's wrath!"
Kylendris looked up, still prone from where the explosion had thrown him. The last Space Marine was barreling towards him, his jetbike screeching at full throttle. He had just enough time to roll out of the way as a chainsword gashed the floor where he laid, taking a solid chunk out of the bloody, rocky ground. Kylendris hurried to his feet, drew his pistol, and reached for the syringe on his belt. It was a gamble, he'd never used combat drugs before and he had no idea what was in it. Still, as the mon-keigh rider wheeled his jetbike around for another pass, he didn't see much of a choice. Jamming his neck with the device, he heard a loud click. The mechanism released its dose like a bullet and at once Kylendris could feel adrenaline surge through him. Time seemed to slow down and his body shuddered with energy as his nerves bristled beneath his skin.
The Space Marine charged forward with an augmented cry, weapons blazing, but Kylendris ran headlong to meet the foe. The terrain jutted up a bit, sending the jetbike's shots high and wide as the human closed the distance. Kylendris fired back as he ran, his pistol repeating as quickly as he could pull the trigger. He gripped the knife at his belt and braced himself as the jetbike roared by him, mon-keigh's chainsword lashing his chest wide open. In spite of his grievous wounds the pain didn't even register. Wrapping his arm around the Space Marine's weapon hand, the small pilot drew his blade and sliced at the open elbow joint in one deft gesture, causing the human to veer off course and fall from his mount as the toxins dissolved his flesh. Blood ran from the wound like water and the chainsword fell from the Space Marine's grasp, only to be picked up with the other hand. Stalking the small pilot again, the human's determination radiated with every pounding step.
"Your death shall be but the first of many, xeno filth," the Space Marine uttered. "My brethren will purge this realm of your pestilence."
Kylendris fanned his pistol into the approaching human until the poison chamber was bled dry. His hands were shaking from the drug and every shot either missed or bounced harmlessly off the mon-keigh's armor plates. Tossing his empty gun away, he gripped his wychblade, anticipating the agony to come. The bloodlust that surged through Commorragh didn't affect him as strongly as the other Eldar, but here, in this arena, with the crowd baying above him and the drugs pounding in his veins, with the inky figure of a looming Space Marine three times his size ready to tear him asunder bearing down on him, he felt it. The terror of his own death staring him in the face, the desperate need to kill, and the basic, murderous instinct he'd tried to fend off all these years finally took hold.
He cried out and in a flash was upon the wounded mon-keigh, lashing at its armor with his poisoned blade. The sluggish human swung his chainsword, parrying and chopping the diminutive Eldar with one hand, but he couldn't land a solid blow against such an agile opponent. Kylendris felt the human's sword knick and cut through his pilot's suit as he desperately sought an opening, paying such trivial wounds no mind. He stabbed between plates and cut against wires, plunging his dagger wherever he thought a weakness might be hiding, but the Space Marine stood strong, slamming him to the ground with his enormous fist.
Kylendris was stunned for a brief moment, then scrambled forward and swung his blade around the mon-keigh's armored legs. Though they were as thick as tree trunks, the dagger edge caught the soft joint behind the knee and sunk into the human's flesh. The Space Marine lashed at him, breaking his arm and grinding more of his torn body between the blades of his chainsword, but it was too late. In seconds the creature's leg dissolved, causing him to collapse with a dull thud as his armored carapace hit the ground. Clamoring atop the flailing beast, Kylendris plunged his knife into the neck gap beneath the helmet. The mon-keigh's lashing stopped with a gurgled curse and the pilot found himself sitting on a bloody corpse.
Exonerating cheers and spiteful boos rolled across the arena in equal measure as the audience was torn between surprise at his unlikely triumph and their desire to see his remains strung between the human jetbikes and paraded around like a trophy. His body mangled and the elation of battle drifting from him, Kylendris could just about pry himself off the human corpse as Lady Arataire stepped forward on her pedestal to address him. He saw Chariath catch hear wrist and she stopped, her expression flashing curiosity. The Syren whispered to her as the Succubus's head lifted. Her eyes narrowed in amusement, the faintest smile creasing its way across her face as she moved forward into the spotlight.
"Kylendris, you are the first of your Kabal to survive my challenge tonight," she said, her voice carrying over the roaring crowd. "It would be unfitting not to reward that exceptional performance, especially considering it was delivered by such a…slight gladiator."
The spectators burst into hysterics as Lady Arataire grinned, her fanged teeth sharpened to needle points as if to better resemble the beasts whose hides she wore. Kylendris felt the heat rise in his face but said nothing, his limbs trembling from the pain and drugs still coursing through him.
Once the insult had run its course, the Succubus raised her hand for silence. "Now then, I shall give you a choice of two fates." She gestured towards an open gate at the far end of the arena, "Leave here, and enjoy the same exile as your foolish Archon Irons." She lowered her hand to the podium floor, "Or stay, and pledge your service to my Cult of Claws."
The audience belligerently shouted their suggestions until their voices swelled into a deafening billow of vile insults. Kylendris looked up at Lady Arataire, his helmet concealing the confused expression firmly etched in his face. "You would have me join you?"
"You have impressed my Syren, pilot, a task not easily done" she replied, turning slightly to Chariath. "So much so she requested you personally for her retinue. It would be rude of me to deny such a simple desire after her magnificent display of loyalty during my absence."
Chariath bowed to one knee, "You honor me, mistress."
Lady Arataire nodded lightly and the Syren rose to her feet once more, "So which do you desire?"
Kylendris glared at Chariath from under his helmet. Why would she request him of all people? He was the most loyal of all the Iron Maidens to his Archon. After all, it was he that came up with the rescue plan that ended in Lady Arataire's death in the first place. Kylendris could only imagine the horrors involved in being under her employ. Being flayed by her lightning claws, or hung on hooks like a decoration in her private chambers, or worse, given to Glaucon and his brethren of the Didactic Cave for experiments. Still, what other option did he have? With no other Kabal willing to tolerate his fickle desires, he would have to either give up his lifestyle or leave Commorragh. And where would he go? Off to blindly look for Lady Irons? To wander the webway alone in search of the Harlequins? To return to… no, no he had to stay.
Muscles now rigid from injury, overuse, and the raging adrenalight, Kylendris lowered himself to one wobbly knee, "I pledge myself… to the Cult of Claws, and her grace, Lady Arataire."
The audience sneered and heckled the small pilot as he bowed his head, the mirrored surface of his helmet brushing his broken arm and sending a twinge of pain down his back. Lady Arataire lifted her chin slightly, signaling for him to rise as a doorway beneath the towering spire that held her podium lifted. Carefully he stood up and entered the dark corridor as the gates behind him opened, unleashing the next pair of victims into the arena to tear each other apart. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was the crunching sound of meat as a Talos Pain Engine gorged itself on a Vespid swarm.
Wyches lined the corridor, each brandishing their own version of the Cult's signature weaponry; hydra gauntlets. Some had exotic animal fur imprinted into their flesh, others bore the spines and fangs of fearsome creatures, grafted by skilled Haemonculi. Kylendris felt their patronizing attention as he pressed his way through, the Wyches shoving him forward, making a shallow cut or groping him where they could. They knew better than to seriously damage the Syren's new plaything, but such fresh meat was intoxicating to the seasoned gladiatrixes. His wounds still bleeding freely, the pilot was pulled by his new cohorts to a holding cell.
It was dark, the only light coming from a glowing red console beside a metal table. An Eldar stood inside, his metal claw and grizzly mask familiar to Kylendris, but there was something else. Protruding from the Wrack's shoulders was a third arm, as clean and developed as his other two. The Covenite looked up from the console, "Ah, Kylendris. Good to see you again."
"Glaucon," Kylendris groaned, pulling himself away from his Wych escort, "What are you doing here?"
"The same as ever, experimenting," he replied nonchalantly. "The mon-keigh specimens I recovered during our last expedition together are proving extraordinarily fruitful in the arenas, so Master Meliankris asked that I continue my work with them here."
The pilot held his broken arm, its sinew barely holding together, "And now I take it you are going to experiment on me."
"Do not speak such foolishness, Kylendris," he replied, gesturing to the table with his third arm. "I am here for the benefit of the Cult of Claws. It would be suicide to tamper with Syren Chariath's new toy." The Wrack let out a huff of amusement, "Speaking of which, congratulations on surviving the arena. You are the first of your Kabal, you know."
"No, but I guessed as much," Kylendris said, stepping towards the metal slab.
"I have no doubt that beautiful Talos will be along any minute once it has finished consuming whatever unfortunate the other Kabals brought for it to fight." The Wrack sighed, "It is such a lovely machine."
"Archon Irons seemed to think so," he replied glumly while taking a seat.
"Oh come now, Kylendris, this is a stroke of luck for you," the Wrack said, sticking the pilot with a dripping syringe. "You are under the employ of a rising star; the Cult of Claws is en-vogue with the finest Kabals in Corespur, the Gypsy Road of course among them."
Kylendris winced as he felt the cool medicine slither through his veins, "You know I am no beggar when it comes to my choice of Kabals, Glaucon. I am a trueborn, and a wealthy one."
"Which invites the question," he said, taking a step towards the console, "Of all the organizations of Commorragh, why the Iron Maidens?"
The pilot sighed, "I have my reasons. Suffice to say, I will never find another home quite like it."
A hearty laugh hissed through the thin cut openings on the Wrack's mask, "Oh Kylendris, your melodrama never grows old!" He inserted a few tubes into the syringe connected to the pilot's arm and checked the readout on the console, "I am sure you will enjoy your stay with the Cult of Claws."
"Provided they do not betray me again."
Glaucon stopped what he was doing and looked up, the red glow of the controls reflecting off his mask, "Chariath never betrayed you or the Iron Maidens, Kylendris."
The pilot cocked his head, "Then why did the Cult of Claws forfeit their attack the moment Salendrid was in their grasp?"
"Because while I was busy working with the mon-keigh, I was also arranging for my master to reanimate Lady Arataire," Glaucon replied, his tone low. "Then during the attack, Archon Salendrid and I revealed this to the Syren personally."
"You… what?"
"I knew Syren Chariath would never do anything that might jeopardize her Lady's return." The Wrack leaned over a bit, his mask gleaming in the weak light, "And I do not take kindly to being kidnapped by upstart half-borns."
He pulled the syringe from Kylendris' arm, the wound healing almost instantly around where the needle entered. The pilot looked at his arm, it wasn't as bloody but he still couldn't move it. He said nothing, as the Wrack returned his attention to the console, busily scanning the readings his sensors took of his blood.
"Your physical trauma is no longer life threatening. Once the adrenalite wears off your body should begin to recover," he said, not looking up. "In the meantime, I suggest you do all you can to learn the ways of the Cult of Claws. The Wyches can be quite particular in how they present themselves and the last thing you want is to upset your new mistress."
Kylendris rubbed his arm, it was already beginning to tingle as the nerves reconnected, "I suppose it would be too much to ask if they ever dabbled with the Harlequins during their performances."
The Wrack's metal claw snapped at Kylendris' wrist, tearing his checkered cuff away and holding it up, "Unlikely." Glaucon powered down the console, its light fading as the room sank into complete blankness. As Kylendris' eyes adjusted to the darkness, the door opened and the Wrack stepped through, the silhouette of his third arm making him appear all the more surreal. "As I said, Kylendris, you should learn to make yourself at home." He held up the scrap of cloth wedged between his steel fingers, "After all, it is likely the last one you will ever know."