Chapter 2
Space shimmered in distortion, a twisting and writhing curl of darkness that moved as a living thing. It was a dark haze, spreading across the stars like an oil slick on water and just as unnatural. The distortion glided past Imperial listening posts and auspex arrays without comment, not one blank-faced Servitor so much as twitching as it coasted by. Unseen and unheralded the shimmer slipped deeper into the system, closing on a green gas giant, one spotted with fierce storms and encircled by orbiting moons.
Behind the shimmer cruised a formation of narrow dagger like craft, each one a hooked blade stained with the blood of its victims. Their hulls curved and swelled in flowing lines, completely at odds with brute human engineering, and there was no blazing trail of plasma exhaust from gaping thrusters. Instead they slipped through space as gracefully as a fish in water, the merest twitch of their solar sails propelling them at speeds no Imperial ship could dream of matching. Among the formation there were four tiny little craft, mere poisoned darts flying free on black wings. Behind them followed three larger vessels, each one a deadly razor blade covered in dark runes and icons of pain and depravity. Their hulls bore potent laser-based weapon batteries and deadly Phantom Lances while they had Impaler assault boats cunningly concealed along their flanks. These vessels were born hunters and together they closed upon their prey, the thrill of anticipation thrumming through them as a psychic resonance.
The ships were sleek and deadly killers but they were also far more than mere warships, they were twisted works of art, inglorious slave-barges and hideous torture chambers all in one. Deep within their bowels the shrieks and cries of the damned never ceased, the sounds of pain and torment filling the air every hour of every day. To be captured and confined on a vessel such as this was to be sentenced to a fate worse than death, for the crew would never allow any morsel to die until they had wrung out every last drop of pain. Only when every single tear had been shed would they discard the bloodied remains and move onto fresh meat. The largest ship of the formation was also the grandest, a floating palace set among the stars. Her name was unpronounceable by human tongues but the closest translation would be 'Rapture of Excruciation'. She was an ancient and blood-soaked killer, that had seen countless worlds pillaged and every inch of her had been sculpted by hands skilled in ways humans would never understand.
Her bridge was a somewhat small place compared to Imperial designs, but graceful too, with no straight or inelegant line to it. Every inch was both beautifully alluring and sickeningly repellent at the same time, a macabre artwork built out of stone and bone. Walls were smeared with blood and skin was stretched over wraithbone frames like the finest gossamer veils. Her crew were stood at their posts with rapt attention, controlling the ship not with crude buttons and dials but via direct psychic manipulation. It was a two-way process, their minds infused the ship, making it act as a living thing, while at the same time they drank of the pain flowing through her decks in a perfect symmetry. Yet there was one thing present that stood out, a strange crustacean-like creature that was suspended from the roof on barbed chains. It hung there, quivering and convulsing as strange devices attached to its form did incomprehensible things to whatever passed for its nervous system.
Sitting in the middle of the bridge was a single being, a svelte and lithe figure wrapped in elegant robes and with a self-satisfied grin upon his face. His name was Athra J'rect and he was commander of this fleet, Archon of the Impaled Heart Kabal and a Lord of Commorragh, a title to be feared among the Dark Eldar. Athra J'rect was surveying his bridge with a wary eye, checking the crew were all in their places. He inspected his servants with a cautious glance, knowing that each and every one of them was plotting his downfall. This was only natural for the Dark Eldar, respect and admiration were foreign concepts to them, in Commarragh there was only fear and desire. Athra however was confident that he was currently safe, his star was in the ascendant and all present knew his death would lead to a bloodbath as claimants fought for the reins of power. An Drukhari was a cunning creature at heart and none would strike until they were confident of winning the resulting struggle. Still there was always some fool willing to try their luck and for this reason Athra kept his bodyguard close at all times. Dramaq was a fearsome sight in his jagged armour, bearing a two-handed Klaive blade and a suspicious mien at all times. Dramaq was an Incubus, a supremely skilled killer bought and paid for by Athra at exorbitant cost. It was worth every slave though, for the Order of the Incubus could not be bribed or turned, once a contract was sealed their loyalty was absolute: a priceless and unique asset among the Dark Eldar.
Athra turned his attention away from the bridge and inspected the chained creature dangling above his head, a Saruthi, a rare and exotic breed from the squalid wildernesses of the galaxy. It had been meticulously worked over by his allied Haemonculi Vl'hyas, its strange pain centres manipulated by eldritch devices to stimulate a symphony of alien agony. Athra felt the pain as a balm upon his soul, like delicate music in his ears or the finest of vintages upon his tongue. The Archon reflected that this was what set him apart from his kin in Commorragh, like all Dark Eldar he needed the torment of others to prevent his soul being devoured by She Who Thirsts, but his senses were more refined and cultured. The other lords were gluttons, gorging themselves on pain wherever it presented itself, shovelling down whatever they could in a frenzy of excess. Athra however was more of an epicurean, sampling rare and delightful torments like a connoisseur. Unlike his kin Athra could set aside a banal morsel in favour of a surpassing delicacy later on, savouring the anticipation of the banquet to come. True this attitude had cost him in the past, both in power and respect, but now his star was rising and none would dare criticise his eccentricities.
Athra was stirred from his reflections by the heavy, brutish clump of armoured feet behind. He glanced about and saw four bulky and primitive silhouettes entering the bridge, each one a hulking ogre clad in ugly slabs of Ceramite. The crew bristled at their presence but Athra held up a hand to sign the fifth article of hospitality, his fingers twitching with a sarcastic motion to indicate that these guests should have no idea of the mocking contempt the host held them in. The leader of the quartet stank of soured, warp-tainted psychic might, he had a helm with four horns and he bore a staff with a three-headed snake. His name was Beta and he was a Chaos Sorcerer, leader of this cell of the Alpha Legion, and the one who had made all this possible.
Beta stopped before Athra and made a clumsy attempt at the first greeting of welcome. Athra let him bow for a moment and then said in coarse High Gothic, "Welcome Beta, I trust you are making yourself comfortable in your quarters."
Beta was clearly suspicious but answered, "Yes indeed, quite comfortable. Gamma, Delta and Epsilon here were just saying how much they enjoyed your accommodations"
Athra saw the three others bristle at the sarcastic remark, especially that brute Gamma who was staring at Dramaq quite rudely as he kneaded the haft of a double-headed axe. Athra enjoyed the tension in the air as he said, "I presume you have come to check on our progress?"
Beta inclined his head, making his four horns sway as he replied, "Yes, is the target in sight?"
Athra sent a psychic impulse and an image appeared overhead, projected onto a screen of tanned skin. In the display was a green gas giant, shimmering with reflected sunlight and glowing like an emerald. Athra said, "We close swiftly, the Mon-Keigh vessel will soon be within our sights."
Beta looked up and said, "And the Imperials have no idea that we are here?"
Athra laughed and replied mockingly, "Crude Mon-Keigh technology penetrate our Shadow Fields? You make me laugh, dear friend."
Beta either did not catch the condescension in his tone or chose to ignore it as he replied, "Good, good I long to see the Storm Heralds destroyed."
Beta thought he was subtle, but he was not. Athra could tell that Beta cared nothing for the Storm Heralds, not even enough to genuinely hate them. The Sorcerer was only here as a step upon the road to another goal, the imperative to come and destroy this one Mon-Keigh vessel had arisen from another. They were playing their games for the highest of stakes, and they both knew the other would dispose of them the second their usefulness was exceeded by their threat.
Athra opened his arms and said, "And where is our other lovely guest? Did not T'selia see fit to come to witness this glorious day?"
Beta flinched slightly at the mention of the name, a fact that Athra stored away for later. The Sorcerer cautiously replied, "The Farseer remains locked in her quarters, she will emerge in the fullness of time."
Athra nodded in apparent acceptance as he thought of the strange visitor, a Farseer of the Craftworlds. She had approached Athra with the desperate need to kill one particular Mon-Keigh and it was her will that had brought them here. Athra indulged her compulsion, partly because he wanted revenge on this particular animal for previous scars but mostly as a move in a larger game. T'selia was a prize beyond compare among the Dark Eldar, their Craftworld kin capable of suffering on a level most creatures could not comprehend. Athra knew every member of his crew longed to capture her and inflict the most horrific of tortures on her delicate flesh but he had loftier goals in mind. The Farseer had revealed a darkness within her spirit, a rage and bitterness that could not be controlled and Athra was giddy at the prospects that such a flaw created.
Suddenly the brute Gamma barked in a vulgar tongue, "You haven't explained how we are going to go about this, how will your flimsy little ships take down a lapdog Battleship?"
Athra sneered at the brute, "If you had doubts then maybe you should have brought one of your own ships instead."
Beta spread his hands and said, "How could we when you would not tell us our destination?"
Athra smiled at the knowledge that his vulgar guests were isolated and trapped on his ship but replied, "It does not matter, we have more than enough strength here to finish the job."
Gamma growled like a rabid dog, "But how?"
Athra's smile widened and he said, "Let me show you."
The slightest psychic impulse sent his bridge crew into action and they hurriedly began altering the ship's systems. Lights dimmed as power shifted and the aura of the atmosphere trembled with energy as arcane devices went into effect. Beta looked confused and said, "What just happened?"
Athra blinked and the image overhead twisted, becoming a display of the Dark Eldar fleet, only now they weren't Commorraghite vessels at all. Now the display was of a formation of brutal slab-sided ships, all armoured buttresses, squat spinal towers and row after row of primitive gun batteries, an Imperial Naval squadron on patrol. Athra settled back and said, "What you are witnessing are Mimic Engines at work, don't try to understand their operation, it's quite beyond your intellectual reach."
Beta looked up at the faux Imperial ships, seeing every line and spar in perfect alignment and said, "Not bad, but will this fool the loyalist lapdogs?"
Athra replied confidently "Oh yes indeed, all the Mon-Keigh will see are good friends coming to call. By the time their primitive minds realise something is wrong we will be in position to obliterate them with one shot. The shock they experience will be quite delightful, it's only a shame that it will be so brief before they die."