Chapter 2
The Flesh Butchers
They came in the night, of course. Always in the night.
It was a small village, a bit bigger than the average farmstead that dotted the planet's surface. It was at a crossroads, four large roads intersecting. People came here to deal with small trade, things that didn't need the capitol's greater blessing. The village was overseen by a church, watching over it on a small incline.
People became roused from their sleep as the first panicked cries began to emerge, the first sounds of destruction. Something huge and guttural bellowing in rage. Buildings began to burn, though more from accident than design. These buildings were horrendously flammable with their thatched roofs and wooden supports.
Korolion slithered down a large thoroughfare, enjoying the sights and sounds, but feeling rather frustrated by his lack of ability to get his hands on a decent subject. He hadn't been able to prevent his Grotesque bodyguard from slaughtering a family he'd come across. He'd gotten his hands on a little boy, but in his haste he'd made it expire. Frustrating; he knew better than that.
He could hear a gaggle of Wracks cackling like Hyenas as they plied their murderous trade in a building nearby, and he felt a paternal smile pass his features. He was proud of his current class. They would make decent torturers, all of them.
Then, to his amazement, a human was coming at him. A middle aged man, in nothing more than his britches, armed with a shovel. In an instant, his venom blade flashed, and the man staggered, a bloody line across his right bicep. He re-gathered his wits and came again, but the shovel dropped from his hands, nerveless, and Korolion hefted him by his throat with the wiry strength Haemonculi possessed.
"Just a little blue anemone," Korolion noted with satisfaction. Unlike Kuras, he'd never learnt Gothic, and instead spoke in his own tongue. "A neurotoxin; doesn't kill, just incapacitates. It also prevents system shock." Calliper-arms on his back moved out and with awful precision removed the man's eyes while he was fully conscious. He couldn't scream. His hand moved and sewed the damaged sockets shut.
Not yet done, he drew his butcher's saw and removed both of the man's hands, again making sure to tie up the loose ends, to prevent exsanguination. He proudly admired his handiwork, drinking in the man's pain and absolute terror. He dumped him on the ground, immobile. A Grotesque rampaging nearby smelled the distinctive blue anemone and moved on. All members of the party knew it to be a safe trigger. Those weren't to be touched.
"That's one," he mumbled, moving on.
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Arming himself with a shotgun, Hans Murgen edged slowly out of his front door, listening. He was more scared than he could ever remember being. He had no idea what was happening, but with his wife and child inside, there was no way that he would sit idly by.
There was a gaggle of creatures, about the size of a human, but pale and unhealthy. They all wore metal masks, hiding their identities. They were conversing about something in their tongue, but he could understand their laughter. The group split apart, and now two were coming his way.
Not going to get much better odds.
He jumped out, shouting, and took the first one utterly by surprise in the chest. It went down, a huge hole blown in its ribcage. The second reacted with startling speed, drawing some foul cudgel dripping with blue liquid. It launched at him, but at the last instant his second shot went off, taking out most of the thing's upper torso.
Breathing heavily, he reloaded his shotgun. Hans had never killed a person before. Even if that word stretched to include these things. It was numbing, shocking. But whatever they were, they weren't immortal. Though the first one was still moving a distressing amount. He stamped on its neck until it stopped.
Then the entirety of his house seemed to dissipate. He turned to see something huge plough through. It was like a…well, it defied comparative analogies. A huge dark blue carapace swept back over a pale torso that housed an endless array of mechanical arms. His wife shrieked, and he watched in abject horror as in moments it flayed her into her separate components, hoovering them into separate vials erupting from its side.
His son screamed and the thing turned towards the sound. Hans shot it repeatedly at point blank range, but it seemed to shrug off the damage. A tail swatted him casually aside as it murdered his child. Then it came for him.
Having finished, but still under its imperative orders, the Talos moved on.
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Korolion proceeded to the church. He hoped the human religious leader slept there, but didn't know. What a bizarre concept religion was, he thought. As far as he was aware, no god could be appeased by praise. All roads led to eventual damnation, it was just a matter of how long one could avoid it.
He broke the lock with practised ease and pushed the heavy wooden doors open. It led into a large vestibule. Is this were the humans made their worship? He had to admit; it was interesting, if only as a passing fancy. He pressed on, looking for a back passage to living chambers when the man appeared.
Hilariously, he was jabbing a votive icon in Korolion's direction, while demanding the Emperor cast out the daemon. He couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. Even without understanding the language, the intent was clear. The holy man, a priest, he guessed, froze at the inhuman sound.
"Oh, dear child, thank you. You've made my night. Now, allow me to make yours."
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In the course of that night, not a single person was spared; save for the few near the village's edge that had the common sense to simply flee into the night. Most were placed into the Abattoir's, great slab-sided skimmers that carried them away to the Haemonculi's laboratories.
A large number were also simply expended, murdered in brutal fashion by the Grotesques, or decomposed by the Pain Engines. The coven drank deep that night, enjoying themselves.
But the remainder, roughly ten percent of the populous, had a more important goal; they were the message.
As dawn rose, no sign of the darkling kin was left, save for their handiwork.
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Called by those fleeing survivors, a single Chimera rumbled up in the early hours of the morning. It was painted in green mottled camo, and ten men piled out of the back in flak armour of the same colour. Sergeant Leverson of the PDF ordered his men to spread out, safeties off. There was no telling what might be left. Emperor, did he wish for some back up.
The men moved slowly through the ruins. After a short while, they started calling out with increasing desperation. Was there no one left alive? Then they found them.
They were bumbling around, because they had no eyes. They were sewn shut, but there were no eyeballs there. They called out desperately for help, groping around with their…stumps. They had no hands. There were dozens of them all feebly crying for help; some men, some women, some children.
Leverson heard at least two of his men throw up. He felt his own sanity wear thin. This was a sleepy, boring world. To see something like this…it was unthinkable. He hurried to the church to see if Father Bastion was alright. He wasn't stupid, but he had to see, to believe the Emperor offered some protection.
He noted the door was open and pressed in, letting his gun fall. He would not raise his weapon in His house. He made his way down the aisle, scanning. It was right in front of him. He hadn't noticed, hadn't thought…
Father Bastion was still alive. But Leverson had no idea how. He was hung, crucifix style above the pulpit. His chest was splayed open and every single organ inside his body was now outside, though still attached. He could watch his heart beat and lungs struggle.
What manner of sorcery could keep a man alive in this state? The Father groaned, but he had no tongue. No eyes. No hands. Leverson immediately forsook his earlier reservation, drawing his laspistol.
"I'm so, so sorry," he said, trying not to retch, "but I grant you the Emperor's mercy."
The shot sounded like thunder in the silence.
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"How is the stock?" Kuras asked. He stood behind a pane of glass as Korolion worked on a subject, vivisecting it. It was female, not that either really noticed. It was screaming, which they did. The Haemonculus held up a still beating heart. Kuras did so enjoy this wizardry. It was fascinating.
Kuras' own torture preferences were the complete opposite. He generally used bloodless methods. He always felt that once he made the first cut, it would rapidly spiral out of control. He loved punishing whole bodies more, dragging out the suffering of individuals rather than mass bloodletting. And a person intact could always be cut later.
"A little disease ridden, but otherwise fairly hardy. I believe that they would make good livestock." Kuras smiled at the Haemonculus' choice of word.
"Can you purge them of their diseases?" It was a fairly workmanlike problem, and the Haemonculus made an expression of annoyance.
"Of course I can. I do hate ending suffering, but strong livestock is important. I can make ready a course of anti-virals quickly." He barked orders at a nearby Wrack and he leapt to obey. "The diseases are all base things, nothing complicated." Sudden interest flared in his eyes. "Would you like me to unleash a virus on another human settlement?"
Kuras laughed at his eagerness. "Maybe later. Your first raid seems to have hit the mark. It's Silkaro's turn next. As is only right."
The Haemonculus never lost his interest. "And do we know the exalted Dracon's chosen method?"
Kuras raised a placating hand. "I don't know. I doubt it will be as visceral as yours, but he has a certain straightforward flair for despair."
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"Wesser, thank the Throne!" Mehan greeted the General of the PDF. The Governor's mansion contained a small war room, unused in its lifetime. Tech adepts laboured to get the venerable cogitators working again. Once they did, they'd at least have a central command. Rows of comm.-stations surrounded a central holo-table.
General Abraham Wesser was a short man in his forties, clean shaven with distinguished grey hair. His face's notable feature was a sophisticated bionic eye in place of his left one. With a perfect salute, he greeted the governor.
"Can't say I'm happy to be of service again, but we'll show these Xenos a thing or two, by the Throne! Unfortunately, we have no positive ID on the exact race we're dealing with. It sounds like the Piratical Eldar breed, though." Wesser walked over the now working holo-table, and drew up a simple map of the planet's surface.
"The main problem we face is mobility. The scum can attack us anywhere, while we can only hold certain locations. The first step is to identify key locations and protect those," he appraised in his clipped tones.
"I assume that you have suggestions." It wasn't a question.
"We only have the manpower to defend the Capitol, and these five key cities." Yellow icons glowed on the map, in response to his inputted commands.
"Five?" Said Mehan, aghast. "How many people does that leave to die?"
Wesser's expression hardened. "We will evacuate as many as we can to our defensible locations. As many as we can feed for a prolonged time. The rest will be left to their own devices. There is no guarantee that they will be attacked. In the Emperor's mercy, some may be spared."
"But my citizens…" said Mehan inconclusively. Wesser handed him a dataslate. Mehan scrolled through it, and it contained information of the recent attack, including numbers, details and pict-captures. His gorge rose.
"I'm sorry, Mehan. But in order to prevent this happening as much as possible, some people will have to be sacrificed." Wesser at least sounded contrite.
Mehan sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Begin the evacuation."
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Sybarite Dobengal laughed like a hyena, permanently half-baked on narcotics. He had just finished listening to Silkaro's plan of attack with amazement. His voice was normally quite low pitched, but it became sharp and annoying when he was amused.
"You're gonna attack the main capitol already? That's ballsy, man!" He was of the assembled squad leaders of the Kabal's Warriors.
Another Sybarite, Amenkon made a more useful appraisal. "Is Master Kuras going to be happy with us attacking such a high profile target without informing him? This could backfire if he is displeased."
"We're not going to destroy it," Silkaro said patiently. "Our goal is discord. We shall begin by reminding them that even in their strongest fortress that they are not safe. Who is going to join me in spreading fear?"
There was a cheer from the assembled leaders.
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"Well, well," said Kuras, perched on his throne. "A ballsy strategy indeed. Thank you, Ar'rankar."
With a contented hiss, the Mandrake evapourated back into the shadows, to act once again as Kuras' eyes and ears. He snapped his fingers, and Keri swiftly moved to his side, proffering a glass of fine wine. He took it with a thanks and one of his best paternal smiles. He sat back, sipping, and spoke to himself.
"Interesting, Silkaro. You have my attention. How this plays out will be most interesting indeed."