Artistry of Suffering: A Kabal of the Crimson Night Story

“See, you need to understand, the whole thing is meta-contextual. Any ork can perform a raid. You need to look at what I’m doing from a social-emotional perspective, not just at the what’s and who’s.”

Above the skies of the damned hive city of Polis Primus, drukhari skimmers swerved, dived and lanced out at the hapless defenders of the Imperial world below. Thin lines of purple and black would fire from the swarming vessels, and a burst of fire and the flush of death would follow, like thousands of stinging insects eating away at a giant, bloated corpse.

Flittering among them, as swift and untouchable as the others, was the personal skimmer of Archon Bazhasar Kyrakyth, lord of the Kabal of the Crimson Night. A modified, oversized raider, trueborn manned dark lances fixed to the vessels more aesthetic than actually practical guard rails, the occasional violent hum interrupting his speaking.

Entirely undisturbed by the ship’s breakneck speed and violent changes of direction to avoid incoming fire, the Archon strode on the deck of the vessel with callous ease, as if maintaining one’s balance on such a tumultuous surface should be a simple thing; only an Archon could make the superhuman balance of the Aeldari a matter of arrogance.

“So, to begin, you need to understand the history of Polis Primus…you DO understand its history, yes?”

“Uuuuh!” Came the grunted, pained reply of Bazhasar’s conversation ‘partner’, a corpulent imperial that was currently chained naked to the raider’s mast. His body was red from exposed musculature; he had been partially skinned, flesh removed in elegant, pleasing curves and lines, art etched into his body over every inch until he was a gorgeous canvas of red and flesh and pain.

“Gods in the Heavens, you are the governor of this world, you of all people should understand its history! Fine, fine, we’ll just focus on the important parts. See, before it was what you humans classified as a ‘hive world’, Polis was…”

Down below, there was little hope for the world’s defenders, and the Kabal was making sure of it. Every time the defenders would rally in any significant force, it would be met by a single, decapitating strike from one of the Voidraven bombers, circling overhead; of course, this was part of the point, let the defenders gain flickers of hope, then steal it away, all part of the artistry of the raid.

“…and with the shields up, the poorer citizens, outside the shield, were of course all cut down by the orks, but the wealthy ones inside the shield survived. This is the most important point governor, are you paying attention?”

“uuuuuuuuh!”

Of course he was. Despite the pain and torture of his flayed flesh, his eyes were locked unerringly on the archon, never once blinking until his eyes were wet with tears. Even when the archon would pace behind the governor, he would crane his neck painfully, desperate to keep his eyes locked on the kabalite. This was, of course, due to the strands of metal that Bazhasar had had his haemonculi work into the Imperial’s brain, inducing immense nausea and agony if he were to ever NOT pay attention to the Archon. It’s good to have a captive audience.

“So, what you see what I’ve done is here actually meta-ironic. By convincing you to raise the shields to protect yourself from my peppering attacks, you’ve trapped yourself without your defending Astartes, who you KNEW would sally out to defend the poor citizens, thus locking them outside your shield and unable to defend you from our attack on the inside. It is a self-reflective inversion of the trope; the decadent elite’s cowardice and indifference to those beneath them is the vessel of their own demise, and the Knight’s willingness to throw themselves into danger to defeat a threat is not only entirely unnecessary, as they are not in danger, but also takes them FARTHER from the danger they were blithely willing to face. It’s music, the moment of conviction, the height of certainty, stolen in a moment of an unexpected twist. It’s genius! You get it, right? Tell me you get it.”

“UUUUUUH!”

Archon Bazhasar sighed. People just couldn’t appreciate good art. This was only the first layer, of course. He would HAVE to explain how the killing fields for the defenders were carefully selected to funnel any run off blood to drip down into the old miner’s shafts beneath; OBVIOUSLY referential of the way the city had built its success on the backs of the deaths of the prometheium miners beneath. He wouldn’t bother explaining how the movement of the civilians fleeing his terror squads was deliberately routing them to the old immigration spaceports for capture; I mean if the governor hadn’t picked up on that then, heh, well he shouldn’t even be calling himself governor!

Taking a moment, the Archon flipped open a display, a three-dimensional interface emerging from his gauntlet, displaying the distribution of his raiding forces, spread about the hive. It was a flush of information, far beyond what a human could hope to process, but to his suffering-sharpened mind, it was as clear as day. He could see each raider, each Raider squad, dispatching swiftly striking squads of kabalites and trueborn. He could see each small group of Ravagers, making sure any working vehicle the local defenders could scrounge up was turned to dust…but not before they got it working, just enough to elicit a fog of hope.

He could make out the movements of the mandrakes he had painstakingly hired to take control of the hives defenses, particularly its overpowered void shielding. They would keep it in their possession, as agreed, and he would not complain to see them wonder from their position, enjoying the opportunity to hunt any surviving techpriests within the complex; one must be sure to let your employees have fun with their work, when possible.

“Ah, Governor! You still alive?”

“uuuuh….”

“Good! You’ll enjoy this part. Remember how I said that the Astartes were part of the narrative structure of the overall performance?”

“uh.”

“Well, see, the subtextual emotional narrative is, as you’re obviously following, the rise and deprivation of hope. The possibility of salvation and success, dashed. That moment of realization that your attempts have failed, that mixture of despair and realization, deprived of the numbness of learned helplessness…ah, wonderful <3”

Bazhasar made a chef’s kiss with his fingers, smiling, savoring the thought.

“So, obviously we hit the grande theme with the trapping of the marines outside the shield, of course, but let us not be deprived of enjoying the leitmotif! See, your astartes allies have discovered that, well, there is a weakened corner of the shields, just enough for them to temporarily slip a handful of their marines through. Hope! Of course, they will take the opportunity; in fact, they already have.”

The Governor was straining against his chains, held in place by painful hooks that sunk deep into his musculature, desperately trying to watch the Archon, even as he had ignorantly stepped behind the governor, just out of view.

“The noble Knights feel a surge of hope, breaking through the barrier, a chance to save lives. Ah, but the crescendo of hope rises! They see their foes descend upon them, and who is among them but the leader of this foul offense. But only if they could strike him down, they would end this in one fell stroke!”

It is unbelievable, how the archon could bounce on the balls of his feet, even as the ship twisted and turned, throwing the governor painfully against his chains, screaming in agony, eyes desperate to stay glued on Bazhasar. The tall, elegant drukhari drew in his hands to a pair of wicked, curved swords, one sheathed in a crackling field of power, the other dripping in the stench of the noxious venom that slipped from microscopic pores along the length. Magnificent tools of violence.

“Are you ready, my friend? This will be magnificent!”

The Raider had not even stopped before Bazhasar leaped from its sides, descending the last several dozen meters in a carefully controlled fall. Behind him, he could hear the desperate screams of the governor as his raider sailed off; no longer able to draw a line of sight to the archon, his brain was now on fire in paroxysms of endless agony. Ah, shame he would miss it, but he had sweeter wines to enjoy.

He could see it, the flickering edge of the mighty void shield that kept the bulk of the world’s defenders locked behind, including the Space Marines that had come to defend it. As he had hoped, they had discovered a weakness in the shield; a cycling defect that, in one location, would leave the shield temporarily disabled; a weakness he could have fixed, of course, but he was anticipating what would come next.

Already, a half a dozen of these marines had slipped through, escorted by a single large red and black tank, matching the livery of the individual astartes. A gaggle of kabalite warriors had attempted to cordon in this band of intruders, and already they had cut down two dozen of his men. An unnecessary sacrifice, he had to admit, but he was archon! What was the point of all this power if he couldn’t indulge himself a little.

The victories had emboldened the marines, and as Bazhasar charged, moving at blinding speed towards the battling warriors, he could sense their rising hope, the belief that they could fight their way in, disable the shield…it was like the rising of a crescendo, waiting for the sweet release of their ultimate failure.

“Foolish servants of the corpse-emperor!” Bazhasar put on his best bestial snarl, knowing these imperial warriors loved a good, pointlessly inhuman foe. He singled out the most decorated of the bunch, a large marine bearing a gilded panoply, a sword in hand. Well, it wasn’t much of a sword. That thing was too big to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy, and too rough, it was more like a large hunk of iron than anything that Bazhasar would call a sword, but these warriors certainly seemed to think it was.

“I am Archon Bazhasar Kyrakyth, Master of the Kabal of the Crimson Night and slayer of your worthless species. It is I who have brought your city to ruin.”

the archon continued, letting out a little spittle in his bile-filled speech. He could already see the space marine turning to face him, clearly locked in by his performance; how could he not? He was magnificent.

“You think you have escaped my trap, but you will NEVER free this city, not while I live!”

There, plant that seed of hope, that seed that will grow into the sweetest fruit of failure and despair. The space marine raised his sword in a challenge, pointing it at the Archon as Bazhasar circled. Him. Perfect.

“I am Captain Tycho Koener of the Knights Angelicus. You have befouled this city and this world with your very nature, xenos.”

While the Archon’s speech was a carefully prepared deception, there was no dishonesty in the captain’s voice, only surety. Ah, these imperials, it was almost too easy to manipulate. He should raid a maiden world next time, the Archon thought, that might be more of a simulating exercise. One thing at a time though.

“And what do you plan to do about it, mutant?” the Archon spat back, savoring the slight on the Knight’s nature; ah, what a lovely hors d'oeuvres, feeling that slight uncertainty in the marine; so much zealous rhetoric on the hatred of the mutant, only to be reminded they were one. Delightful.

“First your head, xenos.” Tycho changed his stance to a high guard. “Then the heads of every one of your foul kind, until there is no more killing to be done.”

“Come, captain.” Bazhasar let the façade slip, the needlessly violent tone fall back, far too excited now, bouncing with immense energy for what was to come. Ugh, it was agony, waiting for the captain to charge the distance between them; why did they have to be so slow? He couldn’t wait, bursting the remaining distance.

Astartes were wonderful foes, as they went. Their speed and grace was…lacking, to say the least, but that strength and power, that resilience made for a most invigorating battle, and the Archon saved every minute of it. He danced between great strokes of that Imperial power sword, lashing out with his own weapons to strike at the marine’s body…but never too deep, never too wounding. The power sword licked at nerves, inciting immense pain in the marine, as the venom blade barely graced against the warrior’s body, infusing with just enough poison that force the marine’s immense resilience to kick in, leaving the captain in a state of constant misery, a banquet for the Archon to soak in and enjoy.

The ease of which he cut away at the marine made the disparity in skill apparent to all present, as the gathered marines watched their captain slowly overwhelmed by a clearly superior foe…until he wasn’t. Perhaps it was a misstep, or perhaps an act of genius on the part of the captain, but the Archon over extended, a step too far, and the captain offered a powerful backhand, stunning the archon and sending him crashing to the ground.

Shock, and then terror flashed on the archon’s face as the marine stomped down, pinning him to the ground with one great, powerful boot. Truly, it was a testament to the craftsmanship of the Archon’s armor that it did not pulp him like overripe fruit then and there. But it served its purpose, as the drukhari gasped and flailed smacking ineffectually against the armored boot of the marine, unable to use his immense agility, helpless before the marine.

“Well fought.” The Captain roared, bringing his sword up in both hands, before plunging it downward, a single, finishing strike. He wasn’t quick enough though, to catch the transition from terror on the Archon’s face, to rapt glee.

Of course, the Archon was always in control. The sword would never make contact.

A perfectly timed shadowfield, triggered by mental command, flickered to life, deflecting the sword to the side, which impaled deep into the ground. Bazhasar wasted a moment, admiring the feeling of shock and surprise in the marine, before springing to action. A power knife, drawn from his side, severed the tendons in the marines leg, freeing him from that pinning grasp, as he rose up and, in one smooth, perfect motion, a carefully practiced strike, he drove the venom blade up the neck of the marine, driving under his chin as the blade shot deep into the head of the marine.

For a few more moments, Bazhasar stood there, savoring the sweet death of the marine in his hands, the shock, the despair, the weakness, the unending agony. The Archon couldn’t help but shiver at the rush of emotion, letting out a hiss as he felt life swell within him; ah, he felt like he could take on Khaine himself right now! But the feast wasn’t done. The captain slumped to the ground, dead, as Bazhasar turned to watch the remaining marines, seeing their captain fall before them, the hope of victory dashed. He stood there, laughing in glee as bolter rounds flashed pointlessly off his shadowfield, watching their desperate attempt to change Fate. How foolish. How delectable.

But he didn’t wait long, lowering down, he charged, his speed amplified beyond anything they had seen, augmented by the Power of Pain. ‘Back off’ came the mental order to his kabalites, who obeyed; he would finish the rest of the Space Marines himself.