A veil of uncanny dread soon smothered the Drukhari fleet. The initial sadistic glee of the xenos had withered, replaced by a desperate entrenchment within well-lit, heavily fortified bastions. Reports reaching the Kabalite Archons were a cacophony of madness: raving accounts of shadows that murdered, and vengeful human wraiths that refused to die.
In the command sanctum of the flagship, Urien Rakarth, the Master Haemonculus and Grand Master of the Prophets of Flesh, sifted through the hysterical static. Centuries of depraved experience allowed him to peer past the madness to the chilling reality beneath.
"Let us see what lies behind their exquisite agony," Rakarth croaked. His withered form, integrated into a massive mechanical harness, extended a spindly logic-arm to manipulate the console.
Grainy pict-feeds flickered to life. In the few recovered frames, he witnessed ethereal, towering figures wreathed in roaring, spectral fire. They moved with the preternatural speed of phantoms. From the baroque silhouette of their power armor and the pattern of their armaments, Rakarth recognized the unmistakable iconography of the Imperium of Man.
These burning specters waded through storms of splinter fire. The Kabalite Warriors screamed in terror, their resolute counter-attacks doing little to halt the advance. One by one, the Drukhari were cut down, their corpses bearing the blackened, cauterized marks of supernatural heat.
As for the reports of "murderous shadows," Rakarth found no visual evidence, save for the mounting piles of corpses, each marked with a precise triangular brand upon the brow. Not a single frame of footage captured even a glimpse of these elusive killers.
The Sculptor of Flesh let out a long, dry sigh. He realized his petty scheme had been swallowed by a force far beyond his control, a power so vast that even he, a nightmare of Commorragh, felt the cold touch of fatalism.
"And the mon-keigh?" Rakarth asked his chief acolyte.
"They have begun to break out of the holding cells. Shall we force them back into their cages?"
Rakarth considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "Recall all forces to defensive perimeters. Ignore the mon-keigh. From this moment on, this is no longer our battlefield."
Though the order baffled his subordinates, none dared countermand the Master Haemonculus. Those who lacked the wit to obey would undoubtedly meet a swift and agonizing end at the hands of the new arrivals.
…
Within the slave pens of a Shadow-class cruiser, tens of millions of Imperial civilians had come to realize that their "saviors" were anything but. The Drukhari had begun a campaign of open slaughter and psychological torment.
But their despair turned to frantic prayer as they beheld the Emperor's Angels. The Legio Damnatorum, the Legion of the Damned, manifested like ghosts within the gloom.
These ethereal giants remained grimly silent. They offered no words to the enemies they butchered nor the citizens they saved. They simply shattered the locks of the cages and gestured for the humans to seek cover. Within the heart of the Drukhari fleet, the burning Astartes established fortified sanctuaries, their silent mission clear: the annihilation of the foe and the preservation of the Emperor's flock.
Finding that the specters did not pursue them into their fortified boltholes, the Drukhari huddled in the dark, praying for a salvation that would never come.
…
In the deepest shadows, the Eshin daemons moved. Clad in their Sneak-Cloaks, they crept through the labyrinthine darkness of the fleet.
They tasted the presence of the strange humans ahead, beings saturated with the essence of the Warp. No, they were not humans; they were Warp-entities draped in human skin.
The Legion of the Damned stood motionless, like macabre statues wreathed in fire.
Suddenly, the shadows shifted. Crimson eyes ignited in the dark. Lithe, powerful forms lunged forward, weeping-green blades bared as the Eshin Vermin Herders fell upon the Legion's rear.
THOOM-THOOM-THOOM!
Reacting with unnatural prescience, the Legionaries spun, their bolters roaring. Mass-reactive shells tore through the slender bodies of several Skaven daemons, but others utilized their terrifying agility to vault over the line of fire.
Just as the Legion of the Damned were formed from the souls of the Imperium's fallen heroes, these Vermin Herders were the ascended spirits of the most prolific Eshin assassins. In the Realm of the Great Horned Rat, their lethal arts had been honed to a degree far beyond mortal limits.
One Legionary parried a green blade with the heavy casing of his bolter while swinging a roaring chainsword in a punishing arc. The strike was perfect, delivered with unmatched strength. Yet, the Eshin Vermin Herder used its prehensile tail to whip a Weeping Blade upward like a third hand, parrying the blow before leaping clear of the Astartes' reach.
The rat-daemons glared with venomous hatred. Like true assassins, they crouched low and melted back into the shadows, waiting for the next opening.
Bolter rounds followed them, striking only empty air.
Across the entire Drukhari fleet, a silent, subterranean war erupted. Astartes were struck by Eshin daggers that could pierce their spectral forms; Skaven were obliterated by the holy fire of the Emperor's vengeance.
Aboard a massive Falling Moon-class battleship, a legend strode through the carnage. Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon and Gene-father of the Iron Hands, wielded the mighty hammer Forgebreaker. He led his spectral brotherhood, repelling wave after wave of Eshin infiltrators.
"Ugh—"
A sharp, stifled sound caught the Primarch's ear. Ferrus turned. Within the tight, interlocking formation of his battle-brothers, an Astartes slumped to the deck, his throat slit by an invisible hand. Not a single warrior had seen the attacker.
The Gorgon's brow furrowed in grim fury. Suddenly, a storm of green shuriken erupted from every shadow—above, below, and from the flanks. The hail of projectiles matched the bolters of the Astartes in both speed and lethality.
The Legionaries returned fire instantly. Dozens of Eshin Vermin Herders shrieked as they were blown from the shadows, their forms dissolving into Warp-mists as they were banished. But the cost was high; an equal number of Astartes vanished as the green stars found their marks.
"Skulking xenos…" Ferrus Manus growled, his voice a tectonic rumble. It was his first utterance since his manifestation.
Forgebreaker began to glow with a blinding intensity. A discharge of Warp-lightning illuminated the cavernous bay, reflecting off the jagged Drukhari machinery.
For a flickering second, a massive, horned shadow was silhouetted in the light. Every bolter in the squad tracked and fired instantly, but the shells only pulverized the alloy plating where the shadow had stood.
The towering silhouette seemed to rise in mock surprise before dissolving back into the gloom, a deliberate taunt to the Primarch.
"Agh!"
"For the Emperor!"
More cries of the dying echoed as Legionaries fell in the renewed darkness. The Primarch of the Iron Hands realized he faced an adversary of supreme cunning and lethality. This was no mere beast; it was a Great Daemon of the shadows, and he would have to exert his full might to lay it low.