The carved ceramic tiles of the Syren's chambers wove together under the dim room light, stretching out to all corners of the floor. Their interlocking wedges were nearly seamless, giving the illusion the floor was an enormous slab of porcelain, delicately cracked with age into a sprawling mosaic of thorns and sinews. Kylendris stared at it through one open eye, the other pressed against the silken pillow beneath him. Red light swelled and receded across the entire room, radiating from the walls themselves. It slowly faded to purple and blue with gradual shifts in temperature, as though the room itself were breathing. Along the side, like a pumping vein, a footbath ran through a trough in the floor. Kylendris listened to its light trickling over the rasping of Chariath's respirator next to him.
He let out a sigh, nursing a fresh cut along his shoulderblade. Kylendris never particularly enjoyed his time in the Cult of Claws, but these past several weeks were beyond endurance. Chariath, for all her insistence that she was keeping him safe, was not a gentle lover. Her appetites, while not as extreme as he expected, and indeed perhaps even tame by Commorrite standards, were nearly insatiable. Every night, Kylendris found himself falling asleep bleeding and bruised, sometimes bound, sometimes poisoned, and never satisfied. Every morning he would wash the dried blood from his body and pray that today would be the day the raid would finally be announced, but every day it was business as usual. Escort the Succubus, suffer the Wyches taunting during the day, and endure the Syren's pleasures at night. Kylendris rolled over with a groan, too sick of it all to get out of bed.
Archon Salendrid's plans took longer than he expected, and in the weeks leading up to the raid nearly every Archon under his command offered troops or vessels into his service as tribute. The Cult of Claws naturally would be joining in force, as would the Coven of the Didactic Cave, their Haemonculi eager to see their flesh sculptures hunting against the Wyches of the arenas and the Kabalite murder packs. What was once a formidable raiding party had become nothing short of a lower city coalition army. Salendrid had welcomed these contributions with open arms, for while his stated goal was to do away with Erinyes Irons, what he truly wanted was to make an example. The more who saw the consequences for defying the Gypsy Road Kabal, the better.
There was a soft chime and Kylendris winced. The light in the room began to gradually rise into a soft pink. Morning had arrived, the dawn of the day of the long awaited raid. Kylendris sighed as he shuffled further underneath the blankets. Chariath rolled over in the bed until she lay on top of him, pinning him down. As usual, she was not gentle, and as her body pressed against the tender wounds inflicted the night before, Kylendris let out a hiss. With a sleepy moan she ran her fingers along his chest, tracing every fresh cut, "Good morning, Kyle."
"Good morning, my Syren," he replied quietly.
"Did you sleep well last night?"
He looked away from her, his eyes shifting back over the room. Much like the bedroom at the Gypsy Road tower, the walls were ornamented with many straps and hooks and instruments of torture, as well as blades of all varieties to satisfy whatever debased whim a Wych might have for their lover. Kylendris had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of those ornaments these past several weeks.
"Well?" she insisted.
"I did not, my Syren" he replied. "The coming raid has me nervous."
"Ha," she straddled his body, her hair flowing down to his face, "I love when you lie to me, Kyle, you are so bad at it." She stroked his face before taking his neck in her gasp, "It makes you all the more delectable."
"Please, my Syren, don't…" he said as her thumb began to press against his windpipe.
"Mm that's right, beg for me," Chariath said.
"I must… fly today…" he gurgled, his hand tugging on her wrist.
Without a word she released him and Kylendris swallowed hard with relief. There had been more than one night when the Syren's "affections" left him too wounded to even leave the bed. This was one point of the raid he looked forward to greatly, as once Erinyes Irons was dead, his loyalty would no longer be a point of contention. As such, he would no longer need to play courtesan to this sadistic Wych any longer. Kylendris wondered what he might do with his newfound freedom. With Lady Irons out of the picture, Salendrid taking over the lower city Kabals, and the Cult of Claws insisting on ever more debauched antics, he was at a loss. Perhaps, he thought, he could start his own Cult, or become freelance mercenary, or a Corsair.
Chariath pulled her respirator away and set it to the side, interrupting his train of thought. Leaning over him, she put her lips to his neck, just above the collarbone, and bit down. Slow, playful nips tasted his skin and drew only a little blood, just enough for her tongue to lap. Kylendris looked down to see her hips swaying from side to side, gradually lowering on top of his manhood stiffened by the morning. He allowed her to get settled, but as she reached to the nightstand beside him, his stomach turned. From it she drew a riding crop oiled with the same sticky venom as an agonizer. Before he could protest, Chariath raised the torture instrument and struck his thigh, sending a jolt of agony through his body.
Kylendris cried out in a spasm, bucking into the Syren's waiting hips. With a grin, she struck him again, and then again, the rhythm of the crop forcing him deeper into her.
Between yelps and whimpers of pain, Kylendris managed to plead, "My Syren, stop! Not today!"
"Come now, Kyle…" she said, her voice rasping as she struck him again, "I am being gentle this morning."
He winced with the blows, baring his teeth in pain, "No... I beg of you… I must-"
"Yes, that is right, grovel for your mistress," she gloated. Striking him once more, the pain shot up his leg and into his spine, forcing him to convulse into her. Pleased with herself, Chariath began to ride him like a proper mount, her blows getting faster as her legs wrapped around his hips for leverage. As he writhed beneath her hips, she drummed the side of his leg with her riding crop, the powerful toxins causing him to shudder hard with each tap. Her pointed nails dug into his chest as she leaned over him and she could feel the pain radiating from his heart. Grinning ear to ear, she wound up and struck behind her. The crop smacked him hard across the thigh with a sharp *CRACK*.
Kylendris screamed as his entire body surged with full blown agony. Before she even realized what happened, Chariath found herself being thrown from his lap, his hands gripping his leg as he huddled in the bedcovers. She sat up, her expression furious, but all Kyle could do was sink deeper into the fetal position. The warmth of his searing pain radiated off him, yet Chariath found herself taking no pleasure in it. She reached out to turn him over and his eyes shot hate-filled daggers, the venom of his emotions made more potent by his faint base psychic emanations. They were strong and nourishing, but bitter.
Her expression stern, she commanded him, "Kylendris, remove your hands."
"It burns..." he muttered through gritted teeth, still holding his wound.
Seeing as he would not cooperate she grabbed his arms, pulling them away with her brute strength. His leg was red and tender from the riding crop's venom, the skin blistered, but he was otherwise fine. "The damage is superficial," she said blankly.
"I told you…" he said, tears welling in his eyes from the relentless agony, "I told you I had to fly today."
She shook her head, "You can still fly."
"I cannot even walk!" he growled, slowly rolling over, taking care not to let his tortured skin so much as brush against the bedcovers.
"Kylendris, you are being childish," she said. "You have endured worse."
The young pilot carefully pulled himself to the edge of the bed. His eyes wet, he tried to find his flight suit by the nightstand beside him. "Yes…" he said, his arms flailing over the glossy floor. "I have… endured worse. But I am still forced to suffer your relentless, sickening passions every night." His fingers latched onto the garment and he pulled it up gingerly. With the utmost care he slowly began to slip it on, the fabric gripping his skin.
Chariath's eyes narrowed, "If you think you suffer at my hand, I could turn you over to my Bloodbrides. They would not be so gentle."
Kylendris shoved his arms into the sleeves, his frustration momentarily overpowering his pain, "At least they would do me the courtesy of finishing me off afterword."
The Syren leaped at him, forcing him into the bed. One hand clenched his neck while the other was raised in a fist. "Mind your tongue!"
"UGH!" Kylendris could not speak, partly for his windpipe being held in her death grip, and partly for the brutal pain that flared in his leg.
Chariath shoved him further into the mattress, "And learn gratitude. It was I, after all, who saved you from Salendrid's judgement in the arena."
Kylendris struggled beneath her powerful grasp, unable to respond. When she was sure her message got across, Chariath released her courtesan. Gasping and flailing in pain, she drank in his emotions as he desperately tried to ease himself. There was delicious pain, yes, but also the taste of hate. It was strong and vile, like the poison of a blade. She had developed a taste for it like all Commorrites, but in this particular instance it did not sit well. As Kylendris struggled to finish putting on his uniform, she donned her own Wych suit, watching the slight Eldar struggle. He winced as he pulled the suit taught, the skin-tight material grabbing at his injured leg. With every step he stifled a moan as he hobbled towards the door to the common area, one hand clenched around his thigh the entire time.
Something stirred in her, an emotion she had not felt in a long time. Although she could not put her finger on it, it felt wrong, as though it infringed on her own needs. She enjoyed his pain but did not like seeing him this way, and the two emotions struggled for control of her desires. Frowning underneath her mask, Chariath approached the door.
"Kylendris," she said, her tone unsure.
"Yes, mistress," he replied quietly.
She picked up the pilot's helmet sitting on a thin table by the door, "Are you able to fly?"
He looked down at his leg as though he could see through his own flight suit. "I do not know..."
Chariath handed him his helmet and ran her fingers through his hair. The young pilot froze, unsure what she was about to do to him, but her hand merely caressed down his face, around his ear, and under his chin. Holding his face in her palm, she said, "If you are not able, then stay and rest. I shall explain what happened to Lady Arataire if she questions your absence."
The pilot just stood there, unable to believe what he was hearing. His gaze was fixed by hers, and he was shocked to find no malice or amusement in her eyes. Absently, he took his helmet from her hand, "I… think I can fly…"
She placed her hand on his shoulder, "Then let us go."
"Wait," he said, pushing the helmet over his face. "Why, what are you…"
"What is it?"
"Why would you do that for me?"
Chariath pulled away, her eyes falling into their usual icy stare. "I cannot trust an unfit pilot in combat."
With that, she opened the door to the common room and shoved Kylendris through. This place, like the bedchambers, seemed to be part pleasure den and part gladiatorial pit. The Wyches of the Cult of Claws were already gathered, impatiently waiting for their mistress to lead them to their raiding vessels. Dozens of girls broken into their respective squads idly played with their blades or gossiped in whispers, with more than a few doing so just within earshot of him, so as to better thicken the scandal surrounding his mysterious relationship with their Syren. Chariath retrieved her trophy rack from a display on the wall and mounted it on her back plate, the skulls and spirit stones dangling like so many children's toys. She then pulled her lightning claws from the weapon locker. Electricity snapped from the blades as she clashed them together.
"My Wyches!" she bellowed over the comradery, "Today we hunt, not just for the glory of our patron, for for the honor of our Lady!"
Whoops and sneers came from the crowded room, clearly unimpressed with her call to arms.
"Erinyes Irons struck down our Succubus, and today we shall claim her soul in vengeance."
"Irons is just a gutter rat," one of the Wyches said. "I would rather get my claws into one of those delicious human females."
"Mm yes, the ones in the armor…" another said, drooling at the prospect of fresh meat.
"I bet they make the most precious squeaking noises as they die," the Wych added, choking herself in pantomime.
The other Wych eyed Kylendris cruelly, "I bet they do, although Chariath probably gets enough of that already. Am I right, Kyle?"
There was a crackle of electricity and a sudden pop as Chariath's lightning claws raked the offending Wych's body, severing her into pieces where she stood. As her smoking remains hit the floor of the common room, all commotion ceased. Kylendris watched as Chariath picked up the Wych's lifeless head and added it to her grizzly trophy rack.
"Let us move, the fleet awaits," she commanded.
Every Wych followed behind her, their weapons sheathed and their combat drugs at the ready. Swallowing hard, Kylendris hobbled along towards the rear of the pack, stepping over pieces of the dismembered Wych on the carpet. As the last Wych left the room, he looked back to see a gang of slaves scuttle inside, already cleaning the mess off the floor for their triumphant return.
Clouds roiled above, stretching into the horizon as the storm loomed down on El Valle. Sergeant Cole stood by the targeting computer of his Wyvern, nervously fidgeting with the console. The mobile artillery was set up in a defensive position on the cliff overlooking the city below, their firing arcs calculated to deliver their shells beyond the frontline troops. Down below, the perimeter was secured by tanks and entrenched infantry, the Sisters of Battle throwing their lot in with the 4063rd Regiment by digging in just outside the feeble city wall. Although his attention was called by the rapidly growing stormclouds, he couldn't help but turn a suspicious eye to the Eldar further down the ridgeline. They were allegedly fighting the same enemy, but Alex suspected he would be turning his guns on them when the immediate threat was dispatched. Victor had once again led them into their snare, and just like before, they were in the clutches of xenos. It just so happened that now involved the defense of an Imperial city. A strange coincidence, but the Eldar were known for their cruelty disguised as benevolence.
"Do you see anything?" Victor's voice crackled over the vox, pulling the Sergeant from his thoughts.
Alex looked to the sky again. Shapes were forming but they were dark and muddled and he couldn't make them out. "I think so," he replied, holding the voxcaster to his mouth.
"We're in position" Victor replied, "all vehicles, activate motion trackers and prepare to open fire!"
"Yes, sir!" he said. Turning over his shoulder he shouted, "Eyes sharp, lads! Cover that city, and watch your fire! This is danger close, those trenches are filled with friendlies!"
"What of the Eldar?" Alex's gunner asked under his breath.
The Sergeant sighed, "One foe at a time." He paused for a moment and added, "But if it happens, I didn't see it."
"Yes, Sergeant…" he said.
The clouds billowed down until they nearly touched the spires of the cathedral. There was no thunder, no lightning, no rain or wind, just an endless expanse of murky darkness. The shapes within began to take form as the gunners lined up their shots, steady hands carefully dialing in their trajectories. Sergeant Cole held his lasgun at the ready, its grip solid in his palm as he squinted through descending storm.
"Sergeant!" One of the crewmen leaped off his gunnery platform, lasgun shouldered. Several others did likewise as a bedraggled woman trudged up the side path along the cliff. Her clothing was torn and matted with sweat, and what appeared to have once been robes were now nothing but tattered rags. Her skin, where it wasn't scarred or bruised, was completely red with sunburn. She stopped as the line of Guardsmen took aim and Sergeant Cole assessed the situation.
"Is that a civilian?" one of the Guardsmen asked.
"I don't think so," Sergeant Cole said, looking closer. He could feel a pressure in his mind emanating from the woman. As damaged as she appeared, something told him she was no mere human.
"Do not shoot, please…" she said weakly. Her accent was strange and Cole recognized it immediately.
"Is that… I know you…" He pressed his way between the Guardsmen to get a better look, "You're the one from the tunnels."
She wobbled back and forth on unsteady legs. Her hair was clinging to her cheeks and what was left of her broken ear. Cole had never seen an Eldar before, at least not without their armor on, and while they did indeed look very humanlike, this one in particular was so pitiful it almost shamed him to think they were fighting such worthless creatures.
"You are… the Alex, yes?" she said with worry.
"That's Sergeant Cole, xeno," he said, raising his lasgun and stepping closer.
"Please, I am trying to reach the other side of the cliff," she said, her speech rapid.
The Sergeant grinned sadistically, "Bitch, you aren't going anywhere."
A lascannon shot rang out from the front lines and thunder cracked, echoing off the cliffside and the buildings below. All eyes looked up as the murky darkness revealed its secret. Like hailstones, purple ships careened towards the planet surface, their pointed hulls coated in an oily darkness that obscured their true form from sight. They scattered in all directions, some for the horizon, and some for the city center.
"Shit!" Cole shouted, running back to his Wyvern, "All units open fire!" The crewmen leapt for their stations, leaving the exhausted Eldar standing on the ridge. Mortars belched shots downrange as an echo of cannonfire reverberated off the stone behind them. Artillery shells battered the earth into a hot and dry mulch ahead of the city trenches and the flack of Hydras peppered the air. Those ships taken down spilled their crew into the city below them as the vehicles exploded on impact with the stone walls of the buildings. Battle cannons from the Leman Russ tanks guarding the city gates destroyed survivors who leapt from the wrecked hulls. Hundreds of ships spread in all directions across the sky as some reeled back, turning away from the pressure of the Imperial guns. Clearly the invaders never planned to be the ones being ambushed! Yet for all their firepower, the torrent of slick, purple raiders continued. The direct assault turned into a swirling mass of ships roaming above and around the entire city. A rain of crystal pellets raked across the artillery line and several of Cole's men cried out in terror as their skin peeled and burned from their flesh. Unnerved and helpless to assist his men, Alex ducked for cover behind the blast shield of his Wyvern. He recognized these pellets, he'd seen them in the caverns before.
"INCOMING!" One of the crewmen screamed. A handful of ships dove at their position, the sharpened spikes and blades stealing the lives of several members of their crew in the process. One of them smashed a Hydra to pieces with its reinforced shock prow, crushing the vehicle into the side of the cliff like an insect beneath a boot. As the ships lifted off again, dozens of shrieking fighters drove from their hulls. Blades flashed, pistols fired cloying poison, and all around the terrifying she-devils murdered with abandon the terrified soldiers.
"Get back in there!" Cole shouted to his men. Drawing his gun, the Sergeant planted a shot between the shoulderblades of one of the fighters as her back was turned. She fell to the ground but got up a moment later, her eyes crazed in spite of her wounds. The Guardsmen fired back, spraying shots from the hip as the fierce xenos dove inside hatches and plucked the men from their hiding places. One by one the gladiatrixes fell upon them until Cole found himself surrounded.
The Sergeant heard a shout behind him. An unearthly, chilling sound in a language he didn't understand. It was something of a cross between the choral chanting of a hundred Ecclesiarchs and the whispers he sometimes felt in the back of his mind. All he knew was that as soon as it began, all the ferocity of the Eldar fighters turned to dread. Electricity crackled overhead as if he was caught in a generator. Ducking inside his Wyvern, he looked back to see the Eldar witch with her arms outstretched, her entire body bristling with some arcane energy. With a long howl, almost a prayer, the swell of energy burst from her fingertips and lashed wildly across the cliffside in chain lightning. All the Eldar attacking them were struck down, some of their bodies torn apart by the surreal energy, but others merely dropped where they stood, as if their very souls were ripped from them.
As the last jolt of unnatural energy collapsed into the body of a xeno, Alex stood up. His men crawled from their hiding spaces or the clutches of the lifeless Eldar. What was once an artillery line on the battlefield was reduced to corpses and gawking soldiery. In spite of the cacophony of battle below, the cliffside seemed eerily silent as all eyes turned to the witch. She was on her knees gasping for air, and blood was pouring from her eyes and nose.
"What in the Emperor's name did you do?" Alex said slowly.
Without raising her face she said, "Forgive me… it has been some time... since I called upon the warp so strongly."
"The warp?! I've seen psykers in action, that was… unholy."
"Your practitioners know mere parlor tricks," she said, coughing into the dirt.
He took a step back, shaking his head, "You're an abomination."
She looked at him, blood pouring from her face, "You know, perhaps you are right."
Her eyebrows narrowed and she looked across the cliffside to the cathedral in the center of town. The trenches and armored emplacements of the front lines were beaten but holding, and the enemy forces resorted to sending their remaining grav-tanks over the walls. Some, more rounded and less menacing than the shadowy triremes that flooded the skies before, absorbed the bolters and flak that pummelled their black and bone hulls as they careened towards the city center.
A glittering storm of lasers raked the sky from the furthest point on the cliff, their shot patterns like that of a long range shotgun. Some beams cut straight through the strange new grav-craft, others peppered them into failure, their crews abandoning the wreck only moments before it crashed into a building or road in the city below. Each volley sent the attackers scattering like insects, particularly the open-topped raiding craft, and every wave forcing its way into the city suffered more and more damage. Swathes of iridescent nets spun over the swirling raiders surrounding the city, capturing them and sending their ships hurtling into dusty ground below. Those who fell overboard were torn to pieces as if cut with impossibly sharpened blades, the webs passing through their armor and flesh.
"No, no this cannot be! Kaira could be down there!" the Eldar shrieked as she watched the carnage in the skies.
"What did you say?" Alex asked, as the Eldar continued to ramble in her own xenos tongue.
"My friend-I have not time to explain!" she said, hoisting herself up in spite of her injuries. "I need to get back to the city."
The Sergeant looked back towards his men, then scowled, "Everyone, back to your stations! Lock in coordinates and get those guns firing again! We're gonna drive those bastards back where they came from!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" the crewmen shouted, although he could tell by their faces they were completely unnerved by what just occurred.
Alex had to admit, he was a little spooked himself. This Eldar, who was now hobbling down the side of the cliff and looked a mere inch from death, commanded a frightening power. Thinking back to the time he met her on the Inquisitorial ship, to how she overpowered him merely with a thought… The Sergeant's gaze slid to the dead Eldar littering the artillery line. This creature had saved their lives, now more than once. Whatever reason she had for keeping him alive, he needed to know. The Sergeant looked down the path beside the cliff as his gunners began to reposition their weapons. The Eldar staggered along the rocks on trembling feet, supporting herself where she could on the boulders lining the way. He frowned, it was one thing to be spared by the xenos, but for her to do so at her own peril, it stuck in his pride.
"Where are you headed now, xeno!?" he called out to her from the cliffside.
She looked back, her face streaked with blood from where she wiped it away, "To the city… to reach my friend… I must stop her..."
"You aren't gonna make it off this cliff let alone all the way down there."
The Eldar shot him a fierce glare, "You would dare... try to stop me again?"
"No, just the opposite," he said, looking over at his Wyvern, "but after this, we're even."
