In addition to these psychically-augmented units, Axion had made specialized preparations for this theatre of war. Commorragh was a den of treachery, and for the continued survival of his Aeldari allies, Axion did not hesitate to employ measures that were far from gentle. Had this not been deep within the Webway, restricted by the narrow dimensions of its arterial gates, Axion would never have deigned to use ground forces.
Fleet suppression and overwhelming orbital coercion were far more efficient than a grinding terrestrial advance.
Under the guidance of Lady Malys, a silver tide surged from the various Webway portals scattered throughout Commorragh. The daemons and Emperor's Children, who had been advancing with predatory confidence, suddenly found themselves besieged from both front and rear.
Behind them were silver machine-frames, their arms wielding blades that shimmered with pale gold and ethereal blue; before them were the Drukhari, brandishing "pain-stimulant" blades that glowed with a sickly, baleful light.
Compared to the inefficient combat methods of the Dark Eldars, the efficiency of the Iron Men was stark. The Drukhari were obsessed with agony and torment. Rather than seeking a swift kill, they preferred to inflict lingering lacerations, utilizing weapons infused with malevolent energies to plunge their foes into a state of exquisite suffering, thereby sating their own warped desires.
The Iron Men were entirely different.
The machine-entities possessed no desire. Every action adhered to a singular directive: target elimination—efficient, rapid, and unwavering. If an enemy could be cleaved in two with a single strike, they would never waste time flaying them alive first. Their clinical lethality highlighted how the Drukhari's twisted combat habits made them far less efficient than even their Craftworld cousins.
Furthermore, the Iron Men were devoid of fear or emotional fluctuation. Even as the daemons roared and counter-attacked, amidst a spray of ichor and severed limbs from the Drukhari warriors, the mechanical eyes of the automata betrayed no dread. Instead, they projected a cold, singular sense of mechanical contempt.
"Incredibly inefficient. What purpose is served by these Drukhari wasting so much kinetic energy to produce such superficial trauma?"
Watching the flamboyant sword-dances of the Dark Eldars, spinning through the daemonic ranks yet failing to deliver a killing blow, Axion, observing through the optical sensors of a Morlanad automaton, could not help but voice his derision. The Wyches, with their spiked lashes and tiny stiletto-knives that could barely penetrate a daemon's warp-flesh, made Axion want to shield his sensors in exasperation.
He held even greater disdain for the warped flesh-constructs of the Haemonculi. To Axion, these refuse-creations, incapable of following complex protocols, devoid of intellect, and driven only by mindless rage, were unworthy of being classified as weapons.
Axion's criticisms did not escape the ears of Malys, who stood nearby. However, she found herself struck dumb, unable to formulate a retort. The combat prowess of the machine-legion had left her utterly shaken.
A small portion of these man-height silver automata shimmered with the radiance of the Warp, wielding blades of pure psychic energy alongside power swords of an unknown pale-gold alloy, banishing daemons with terrifying haste. The majority, lacking psychic empowerment, engaged the Neverborn with the same golden blades and strange, orange-hued beam weaponry.
What stunned Malys was not merely the advanced technology, but the martial technique displayed: cold, lethal, and optimized. Most terrifyingly, every single automaton within her visual range appeared to possess identical skill levels. Each was, at a minimum, a master of the blade. Malys searched her memory, but even the Incubi of the arenas or the Howling Banshees of the Craftworlds could not boast such an incredible concentration of bladematers.
Once the smaller Automated Sentry-Troopers were in position, heavier units began to stride onto the battlefield. Close-quarters variants of the Erratana-class Armored Wardens mixed with the swarms of "Swordmaster" Sentries, utilizing their massive frames to deliver crushing, suppressive blows against Greater Daemons.
The projectiles from the Peltast Sniper Automata hissed through the narrowest gaps between the limbs of friendly units, striking their targets with preternatural precision. It was like a perfectly choreographed tragedy; every swing, parry, shot, and impact seemed pre-calculated. The scene evoked an uncanny, eerie sensation in any organic observer.
In a corner of the battlefield, several massive crates were being dismantled by the industrious Eight-Legs. These containers held Axion's ground-based trump cards. Due to the size constraints of the Webway, these colossal machines had to be transported in pieces and reassembled in the heat of battle.
…
The emergence of the silver army naturally caught the attention of the powers within Commorragh.
When Asdrubael Vect was informed that the silver machines slaughtering daemons on the outskirts were led by Malys, his expression twisted into something grotesque and inscrutable. Then, he straightened, a bizzare, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"Dispatch envoys to contact Malys. Tell her I wish to see her. In my capacity as the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh, command her to present herself immediately. If she refuses, declare her and her Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue traitors to the Dark City. Proclaim that these strange machines are here to destroy Commorragh, just like the daemons."
The Aeldari adjutant of the Kabal of the Black Heart nodded and hurried away from the soaring spires of High Commorragh.
Vect would never grant Malys an opportunity to subvert his rule; his pathological obsession with power bordered on madness. He understood Malys's hatred for him perfectly. If she ignored his summons, she would become an enemy of the entire city; if she answered, she would be walking into her own disappearance.
As for the silver machines, Vect felt no true concern. He held vast reserves of military power. So long as they weren't facing a Warp-incursion, the Drukhari feared no foe. Due to the loss of ancient records, Vect knew virtually nothing of the Iron Men; the Tyrant of Commorragh had no idea he was facing a force that even the ancient Aeldari Empire at its zenith could not truly vanquish. And his so-called "military reserves" were incomparable to the might of that lost empire.
On the battlefield, several shimmering shadows flickered through the outskirts of the city. They bypassed their kinsmen and slipped through the daemon lines commanded by the fallen Emperor's Children, darting toward Malys, who watched the battle surrounded by her Poisoned Tongue guard.
As they passed the mechanical legion, the shadows faltered for a fraction of a second. The cold, electronic eyes of the machines conveyed a clear message: the stealth techniques upon which these shadows relied were transparent to the automata's sensors. Yet, the machines did not strike, allowing the intruders to pass through their lines.
Soon, the black shadows revealed their true forms. They were Mandrakes, a unique and ghastly breed of Aeldari native to the dark dimensions of Commorragh. They were tall and gaunt, their skin a ghastly, translucent grey-white, eyes shimmering with an eerie light that seemed to pierce the darkness itself. Their bodies were covered in shifting runes and tattoos that pulsed with a sinister, otherworldly power.
The Mandrake infiltrators, acting on the orders of the Kabal of the Black Heart, manifested directly before Malys.
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