992.M29
The Webway
Approximately coterminous with deep space north-northwest of Kar Duniash
On the host marches, now through a tunnel the like of which they have never seen. It is not the smooth, organic flow of Wraithbone, yet neither is it the regimented mathematical not-stone of the Old Ones. No, this passage winds and twists irregularly, bulges and kinks, rough walls of dull grey-black almost-sandstone showing oddly regular striations. At last, however, it connects to more familiar passages, if clearly disused for some time, and here too are signs of that which the host seeks—for swiftly the host finds the ruin of a modest web-realm, scarred and blackened by plasma and flamer, and with the remnants great pyres in the ruined courtyards. Every inch of the realm seems scoured by flames—large portions, it is clear, were simply melted with enormous Melta charges—torpedos, most likely. Whatever happened here, it seemed someone decided it needed to be purged with fire,
thoroughly. And no more than perhaps six weeks prior. The Host is closing the distance between themselves and their quarry…
They hear it before they see it, and the Host comes to battle readiness—from ahead echos the din of battle, the throaty
Throp-BOOM of plasma guns, the snarling
KRAKKAKRAKKAKRAKKA of Hellguns on full-auto, and a roaring rush of air that is likely a massive flame-weapon of some sort.
Marching order is abandoned.
Engines howl as the war-hosts of the Aeldari come to full combat speed, rushing through passages and the fire seems to intensify from ahead—It seems whoever is engaged can hear the roaring howl of hundreds of jet-turbines as the Host grows nearer.
At last the front-lines of the Host screams around the final corner. And here they find not who they were seeking, but answers nonetheless: on one side, brilliant, vibrant colors flash and dance as fans of scintillating lasfire, searing stars of plasma and hissing hails of razor-discs cut into the other. Jetbikes dance in the air, trails of grenades lain behind them, and two large skimmers that seem to mostly be enormous flamers send roaring cones of fire playing across the front, thinning the horde—and a horde it is. Like ants, they pour from a side-passage, pale as death, ragged clothing dripping something oily and black. The creatures might have been Aeldari, once, yet there is no light within them, no soul of shining crystal, only a
void, and as the host closes the details of the swarming horde are made apparent—rictus smiles drip oily blackness, empty sockets filled with something that flows and writhes as black-oil tears run down faces. The
things swarm like animals, and where lasfire or shuriken cuts them down, they go in sprays of the same oil-black. Closer, and it becomes apparent that the black-stuff itself is an enemy—it pools and flows unnaturally, tendrils seeking to writhe around fire and fury to reach the line of Harlequins before them. Closer, now, and the scent of
rot wafts from the side-tunnel.
But as horrifying as these things are…
…it isn't that much worse than the mobs of the Croneworlds.
Formations shift with barely a curt command, and flame-weapons are brought to the van even as the Host closes the last few meters. Over Vox the troupe-master comes, and wanings welcome he brings:
" 'ware, good cousins come,"
"Shadow's touch death brings at once,"
"Fire's flame must burn all!"
If the Troupe brought a din, the Host brings a
roar, as dozens, then hundreds of weapons open fire, and at once the horde, before creeping gradually forward, is thrown back to the tunnel-mouth. Zahr-Tann takes here the lead, shrieking plascasters searing the tunnel black. There are a great many bodies and dripping oil-blackness in the side-passage, but star-bright plasma is more than sufficient to scour it clean. If such a mob had caught them by surprise, it might have been able to inflict some damage, if they had been unwarned of the oil-darkness it might have taken a toll…
…but neither can the foe claim.
The Host pushes down the side-tunnel, scouring every room and passage. Whatever this thing is, they will not leave it at their flank, and at last they push through into a small cavern-chamber. Once it might have hosted some retreat or other, but now orchards list, rotting branches dripping oilslick black into the pools of it that slowly flow over what might have been the grounds. Even the Wraithbone of the structure itself, some grand palatial thing, is not spared, sagging like rotted wood as thick mats of the
stuff quiver in the air where they hang from it.
Whatever it is, however, one thing is clear:
It burns quite nicely.
Oh, it
tries to resist, massing great mounds and rivers, and shambling, almost-men the size of tanks that throw globs of the oil-slick that comprises them, spinning out into great nets that attempt to cover the line.
The Host burns such right out of the air, and flames take the throwers not long after.
All in all, it takes the Host a mere three weeks to fully burn down this side-realm to the ground, and with not an injury among them.
The Harlequins, it is learned, are on the same trail as the Host, seeking lost Nacretini, before they were waylain by the swarming shadow-things. Five of their own were lost attempting the melee, and joined the horde within bare seconds of contact with the stuff. The lost Craftworld, it seems, has fought them as well—the troupe confirmed that when they passed the battle-site it had not yet fully cooled, still warm from the fires that had ravaged it.
What have you stumbled across?
Stand By…
.
