Too many unknown elements were at work, Ailill thought. Too many anomalies and strange variables. There was something deeply wrong here, he felt. Deep down in his soul, something screamed at him in warning. As second-in-command, as the vessel’s Lann Caihe, or water bringer, it was his duty to bring such doubts to the attention of his craft-master. She was the fire which he was required to quench with water, bringing harmony to the command of the Vual’en Sho. But Ailill knew that the moment for such action was past, that whatever reason he might have tried to have brought to the mind of his impetuous commander would be nothing compared to the savage, vengeful emotions now sweeping through her mind. One glance at the set of her hate-filled features, one psychic brush with the maelstrom of her grieving, rage-possessed mind confirmed that everything now was lost.
“Attack,” she commanded, in a tone which dared any to try and argue otherwise. “Send them all to their precious corpse-god. We’ll stack them in cairns a hundred high before that living abomination they call an emperor, and it still it won’t be enough to make up for the loss of Kornous and the others.”
In the depths of the warp, the shadow point opened wider. Darkness, vivid and crawling, spilled out of it, threatening to engulf all.
Somewhere near the edge of the Stabia system, Titus von Blucher, captain of the Lunar-class cruiser Graf Orlok, prepared to end his life in a manner very different from the way in which he had lived it.
Blucher was not a particularly brave man, but nor was he a coward. The fact was, he had never been required to exhibit any of the greater qualities associated with a captain in the Imperial Navy at any time during his ascent through the ranks of Battlefleet Gothic. Family connections, blueblood string-pulling and no small element of good fortune had conspired to assure his swift and reasonably effortless rise to the position of cruiser captain, a fact which had greatly rankled many within the battlefleet, most especially those officers of arguably greater, or at least equal, ability but who also lacked von Blucher’s shared aristocratic family heritage with Lord Admiral Ravensburg.
The outbreak of the Gothic War, which could easily have been the breaking of the man, had in fact been something of the making of him. His command skills had proven to be competent enough, and, while better captains and more illustrious vessels had fallen prey to the war’s voraciously endless appetite for carnage and destruction, von Blucher and the Graf Orlok had survived, achieving enough to earn the grudging respect of many within Battlefleet Gothic.
Some doubters still remained, but, if they could see him as he was now, seated on the command deck of his ship and preparing to face his vessel’s almost certain destruction, their doubts would finally have been silenced.
“Twelve thousand kilometres, and closing,” counted off a surveyor officer, as they watched the enemy target icons on the augur screen advance relentlessly towards them.
The three Chaos vessels—one Carnage-class cruiser, identified by its energy signature as the Despicable, a vessel which had erroneously been reported as presumed destroyed during a skirmish in the Lysades sub-sector eight months ago, and two Infidel-class escorts—had appeared on the surveyor screens over an hour ago, following a possible warp exit energy burst some time before. Moving to investigate, and still searching for the missing frigate Mosca, the Graf Orlok had encountered the three Chaos vessels on a course heading in-system towards the Macharius.
Damn this pulsar interference, thought von Blucher, staring at the closing enemy target icons. If it wasn’t for the random electronic noise being thrown off by the warp-damned thing, they’d have been able long ago to detect the enemy squadron’s approach and get a warning signal out to the Macharius and the Drachenfels.
As it was, they were condemned to fight an almost suicidal holding action, unable to outrun their faster enemies, desperately trying to buy time to make contact with the other ships and warn them of this new threat.
Von Blucher’s strategy so far had been simple, but relatively effective. Spreads of multiple torpedo fire had succeeded in scattering the formation of Chaos ships, even managing, at an impressively extended range, to land one successful hit on the cruiser. After that, he had put up a fighting retreat, deliberately leading the Chaos ships on a tangent course away from the other Imperial ships’ locations, while turning every so often to fire off broadsides at his pursuers. So far, this tactic had paid off, succeeding in damaging one of the escorts and stripping the shields several times from the cruiser vessel. Now, however, that game was almost played out, and the enemy had closed to lethal range, bringing its deadly prow-mounted lance armaments to bear.
For some minutes, turning to starboard and presenting its broadside flank to the enemy, the Graf Orlok was able to trade blows with the Chaos ships. A well-aimed lance strike exploded the prow of one of the escorts, possibly crippling it. Broadsides of massed turbo-laser and macro-cannon fire stripped the Carnage-class once more of its shields, landing hits across its sloped topside and opening up several breaches in its hull.
But, outgunned and outnumbered, for every hit the Graf Orlok inflicted on its opponents, it received many more in return.
Expert weapons fire from the Carnage picked off the Graf Orlok’s two starboard side lance batteries. A torpedo strike from the undamaged Infidel penetrated through to the enginarium section, knocking out two of the Lunar-class cruiser’s plasma reactors and causing a crippling power loss just when it needed power most. The Chaos ships showed no mercy on their stricken target, relentlessly pummelling it with volleys of broadside fire.
Explosions wracked the Graf Orlok from prow to stern. A wave of macro-cannon impacts gutted two entire decks of gun batteries on the starboard side, and detonated one of the secondary magazines. Hundreds died in the initial explosion, thousands more in the resulting conflagration as firestorms swept through decks and galleries, consuming everything in their path. Fires burned out of control throughout the forward section of the ship, isolating more than a thousand desperate crew in the torpedo rooms. Trapped, they faced a choice between asphyxiating to death as the fires consumed the remaining oxygen in that part of the ship, or, perhaps more mercifully, dying in a sudden explosive holocaust when the advancing fires ignited either the torpedo warheads or the missiles’ fuel mix.
On the bridge of the disintegrating ship, Titus von Blucher issued his last order as master of the Graf Orlok. “Boost all remaining power to communications arrays. The other ships must be warned!”
Seconds later, several direct hits on the command tower brought the roof of the command deck crashing in. Trapped beneath a gargoyle-carved support column, bleeding out onto the cracked marble floor, his legs and spine crushed, von Blucher could only watch in disbelief as a flickering, fading surveyor screen showed the enemy ships turning and moving away, disdainfully passing up the chance to deliver the final killing blow to the helpless Imperial ship.
Battlefleet Gothic records and the proud family history of the Ravensburg von Blucher clan would later attest that Captain Titus von Blucher died as he should have, giving his life valiantly in battle against the enemies of the Emperor and dying at the helm of his vessel. What such histories could not know was the true terrible truth of the situation. Von Blucher would die, but not at the helm of his ship, and not for many long, agonising months after the destruction of the Graf Orlok, and in a place and manner which could not be easily imagined by those who compiled such noble and glory-strewn histories.
Out in space, and as arranged, the dark eldar cruiser emerged from its hidden lurking place and bore silently and swiftly down on the dying Imperial cruiser. Even after the pillage of Medhbh’s Shield, there was still plenty of room in its slave holds for the remnants of the crew of the Graf Orlok, and it was all too happy to claim the prize left to it by the Chaos ships. Mon-keigh flesh was a less precious and valuable commodity than the craftworld eldar captured earlier, but there was always plenty of demand for such slave stock and torture fodder back in Commorragh.
“Signal fr
om the Graf Orlok, captain. They report they’re under attack from enemy vessels. A Carnage-class cruiser and two escorts.”
“And?”
The question hung in the air of the Macharius’s command deck for a moment. The communications officer who was reporting to Semper shifted nervously, before hesitantly answering his captain. “And that’s all, sir. It’s just a partial signal—all communications were then cut off, and we haven’t been able to establish contact with the Graf Orlok since.”
Semper cursed, a vicious, voluble oath which caused several nearby officers to blanch at the sound of language more fitting to deep below-decks than the bridge of an Imperial warship. He turned, looking towards the two figures standing nearby.
“A two-pronged attack, the eldar in alliance with the Despoiler? Admiral Pardain, could such a thing be possible?”
Pardain opened his mouth to answer, but it was the other figure standing beside him, that of Horst’s man, who replied first.
“In my opinion, no, commodore,” said Monomachus, with clinical Adeptus Mechanicus efficiency. “While the eldar are known to be a piratical race, and while many of the human pirate fleets have gone over to the enemy’s side, or at least sworn oaths of fealty to the Despoiler since the outset of the war, there are no reported incidences of eldar pirates directly aiding the enemy at any point. Indeed, Inquisition records show many confirmed incidents throughout Imperium history where eldar forces have, for whatever reasons, actually aided Imperium forces against the servants of the Powers of the Warp. There are also many recorded accounts to suggest that the eldar are also not above taking direct action themselves against the servants of Chaos, independent of any Imperium involvement.”
“Yes,” burst out Pardain, “and for every one of these ‘reported instances’, I can give you a dozen more proven examples of eldar treachery. You know well enough what they’re capable of, Semper. Colonies wiped out, convoys attacked, garrisons assaulted and warships ambushed. The aliens may not be in league with the Despoiler, but they’ve proven here yet again that they can never be trusted. I had my doubts about this endeavour, and so did Ravensburg, and now we’ve seen who was right all along. Horst’s notion of an alliance with such a race was a brave one, but also a foolish one, as we now plainly see.”
“There is no one single eldar race,” countered Monomachus, smoothly and calmly. “Rather, our studies have revealed there are many different factions or clan-like groupings, each one with its own distinct perspective and methods. It is a mistake to assume that the proven hostile actions of one group of eldar reflect on the likely behaviour of another. Indeed, internecine warfare between different groups of eldar is not unknown, and there is evidence, much of it Inquisition-sealed, to suggest that the worst atrocities ascribed to the race in general may in fact be the work of some kind of renegade faction or pariah offshoot which is itself extremely hostile to the rest of the eldar race.”
“Could we be dealing with just such a group here? Could Inquisitor Horst have inadvertently made contact with these pariahs? Would that explain why they have attacked our vessels?”
The tech-priest paused before answering Semper’s questions. “I think not, commodore. The inquisitor’s methods in making initial contact with the aliens were, by necessity, circumspect and confidential, but he has a thorough working knowledge of xenos matters, and I do not believe he would be so easily duped. The eldar we have seen here are the ones he set out to make contact with in the first place.”
Yes, Horst, Semper thought. He got us into this mess, but where was he now? He looked towards his communications section.
“Still no word from Ulanti or anyone else on the planet’s surface? Or from the Drachenfels?”
Unhappy shakes of head from several communications officers gave him the answers he feared. They were on their own in orbit around this blighted world, facing an enemy in front of them and now more in the system beyond. They had launched several ineffectual broadsides at the eldar cruiser, watching in helpless anger as it effortlessly eluded each of them, its speed and manoeuvrability taking it out of reach of the Macharius’s weapons batteries, where it hovered now, proud and mocking. The initial bomber attack on the ship had been successfully repelled, and now a dense screen of fighters surrounded it, protecting it from any further ordnance attacks. The Macharius’s full complement of Starhawk bomber squadrons sat stacked in their launch bays, patiently waiting for the word to launch in a mass assault on the eldar ship.
So what where they waiting for, wondered Semper? Did his eldar counterpart, like he himself, have doubts about what was truly going on here? It was undeniably true that the eldar ship had fired upon them first, but hadn’t he been preparing to do the same and had merely been beaten to the draw by a faster opponent? What had happened to the Mosca and the Volpone? Where were the eldar cruiser’s own escort vessels? Why were they not coming to offer it support against the Macharius? Did the eldar ship know of the presence of Chaos ships in the system? Were they truly, as Pardain suggested, in league with the Despoiler?
There is still so much we don’t understand about them, Semper thought to himself, unknowingly echoing the earlier thoughts of Horst. That’s where the danger lies: in our own ignorance.
“Communications—we still have those open comm-net frequencies to the eldar ship?”
Hard-bitten, veteran navy officers, Admiral Pardain amongst them, gawped at him in surprise. “Yes, sir,” an astonished communications officer managed to reply.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Semper almost smiled. If Commissar Kyogen was here, he would surely already be lining up his aim to put a swift bolter round through the skull of the Macharius’s captain.
“Open up hailing frequencies,” he ordered. “Tell them I want to speak captain to captain to their vessel commander.”
“A brave idea, but a foolish one.” That was how Pardain had characterised Horst’s gambit in initiating this whole rendezvous. In light of what happened next, barely before the words were even out of his mouth, it might equally have described the desperate and highly unorthodox strategy Semper had just tried to set in motion.
“Energy surge from the enemy ship’s launch bays,” shouted a surveyor officer. “It’s launching bombers, waves of them.”
FIFTEEN
The world known to the Imperium as Stabia had known violence before. The ancient races which had come long before the humans had fought their wars amongst themselves, and between each other, and those wars had on occasion touched this world. After those ancient ones, following purposefully in their footsteps, had come the eldar. The eldar did not wage war amongst themselves, it was widely believed, although their earliest legends and most dimly-recalled and secretly-held histories contained much evidence to suggest otherwise. Such ancient, fratricidal conflicts had not reached Stabia, and the world had remained at peace until the cataclysm of the Fall, when the eldar race turned on itself in one terrible, orgiastic moment of self-destruction.
Stabia had remained undisturbed since then, but the dust that covered its surface knew the taste of blood, and the remnants of those long-vanquished civilisations, dotted across the face of the planet, knew well enough the sounds of screams and conflict echoing amongst their ruined palaces and thoroughfares.
Now, after long millennia of silence, death had come once more to Stabia.
Ulanti ran forward at a crouch, aware of the sounds of death from all around him: screams and shouts, mostly human, mixed with the dry crack of las-fire, the solid, angry roar of shotcannons and the unfamiliar sound of the eldar weapons fire—a strange, high-pitched sibilant hiss. Even over the dull, smothering growl of the dust storm, Ulanti could still hear the loud insect whine of deadly projectile objects passing close by at supersonic speed. It wasn’t until a senior armsman close beside him screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching at his face, that Ulanti, who even with his goggles on could only see a few metres in front of him through the swirling dust, realised that these were no r
andom shots; the enemy was close, and actively firing at him.
He rolled to the ground, landing beside the twitching corpse of the armsman. The man’s face was gone, torn away by the impact of whatever had struck him. In amongst the oozing ruin of where his face had been, Ulanti could see jagged shards of some kind of crystalline substance buried into the pulped flesh and bone of the man’s skull. Smoke, or possibly poisonous vapour, arose from the terrible wound, and Ulanti could actually see the acidic substance of the shards dissolving as they ate a deeper path into their victim’s body. The acid or venom, seeping into the corpse’s bloodstream and nervous system, caused it to spasm and twitch violently, giving it the horrid illusion of life.
In spite of himself, Ulanti shuddered. Weapons were designed to kill, yes, but whatever manner of arms the aliens were using was also designed to inflict the worst kind of suffering on anyone merely wounded or maimed by a hit from such a weapon. Cold and aloof, that was his initial impression of the eldar. To that list he had now happily added deceitful, but what kind of cruel and malignant being would purposefully use a weapon like that?
Almost in answer, from out of the dust storm there came a banshee shriek of malevolent pleasure, and a shape came hurtling towards him. He saw a dark silhouette, moving fast and with inhuman agility, its body seemingly and confusingly made up of a series of whirling jagged blade-shapes.
There were blade-shapes in its hands too, although one of them might have been a pistol of some sort, although Ulanti was unsure if they were actually weapons or merely extensions of its blade-constructed body.
All this he saw and tried to take in during one confused and terrified second, and then a heavy booted foot painfully trampled him into the dust.
“Watch yourself, sir. I’ll see to this pointy-eared bastard!” called Borusa, stamping over his commanding officer’s body as he rushed towards Ulanti’s attacker. Inhuman speed and agility met all-too-human brutality and pragmatism.
[Battlefleet Gothic 02] - Shadow Point Page 21