The attack on the Song of Farewell was orchestrated by a Drukhari Kabalite fleet—pirates who had been lurking within the Webway, the ancient teleportation network left behind by the Old Ones. They waited in the labyrinthine sub-dimensions like spiders sensing a vibration on a silk thread.
Their target: a Pilgrim-class transport laden with "living cattle" and high-grade supplies.
Days ago, the Song of Farewell had tumbled out of the Warp in a battered state. Even as its navigation systems struggled against the localized subspace storms, the hunters had already locked onto their prey. The ship was at its most vulnerable, its crew lulled into a false sense of security by the silence of the void.
The leader of this warband was Archon Valak "The Piercer." Atop his command throne aboard the Torture-class cruiser, the Howling Corridor, a jagged smile split his pale, gaunt face. His prosthetic eyes gleamed with a predatory green light.
"Perfect timing," Valak's voice was a hoarse, melodic rasp. "Webway exit coordinates locked. Distance to prey: ten thousand meters. We are in their sensor blind spot."
"Activate the Shadow Fields. Run the Void Disruptors at maximum capacity. Let us give these slow-witted mon-keigh a surprise they will feel in their marrow."
With a chorus of cruel laughter from the bridge crew, the Dark Eldar fleet rose like demons from a black sea. Led by the Howling Corridor, two razor-sharp, purple-and-white Raider-class frigates surged forward. They moved without engine roar or heat signatures, appearing as though they were mere hallucinations of the void.
This was the terrifying hallmark of Drukhari naval doctrine: extreme speed and stealth at the cost of all defense. They were the ultimate "glass cannons" of the galaxy, relying on the fact that if the enemy could not see them, the enemy could not strike back.
The Shadow Fields ensured the Song of Farewell remained blind, while the surrounding subspace storms acted as a natural shroud, intercepting any frantic distress signals.
The Howling Corridor adjusted its posture, its hull resembling a twisted, metallic spine. Launch tubes beneath the bow opened like the mandibles of a carrion insect. Two slender torpedoes, etched with agonizing runes and microscopic spikes, were launched.
Electron-Decay Torpedoes.
These were malevolent creations designed to suppress energy grids. Trailing eerie green plumes, they struck the transport's pale blue void shields. There was no explosion; instead, a web of emerald energy crawled across the shield's surface, disrupting the generator's harmonics. The shield dissipated instantly, leaving a gap a hundred meters wide.
Only then did the alarms aboard the Song of Farewell begin to wail—a belated funeral bell for the souls on board.
"Alert! Unidentified vessels closing! Port shields collapsed!"
"It's the Dark Eldar!"
Inside the dining hall, Kelly von's face drained of color. His status as the descendant of an Astra Militarum General offered him no courage now. His greatest "battle" had been navigating the social hierarchy of the upper hive; he was utterly ignorant of the reality of war.
Isud was no better. She gripped her wine glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. She was a master of the ballroom and the boardroom, skilled at using wealth to buy influence, but military tactics were a foreign language to her.
Otto's obese face was slick with sweat. He had served in the Guard decades ago as a low-ranking grunt, surviving only through luck and cowardice. Now, expected to command a vessel against the galaxy's most sadistic raiders, he felt the weight of his incompetence like a mountain.
"The bridge! We must get to the bridge!" Isud shouted, her voice trembling.
"Yes! The bridge!" Kelly staggered to his feet, nearly tripping. He looked at Otto with pathetic, pleading eyes. "Otto! You... you take command! You were a soldier! Save us!"
Otto stammered, his mind a blank slate of panic. Under the weight of their desperate gazes, he managed a weak nod. "I... I will do my best, sir!"
The "command" that followed was a disaster. Upon reaching the bridge and seeing the consoles flashing red with hull breaches and casualties, Otto could only shout the same panicked orders: "Fire! All weapons, fire freely! Hold your posts!"
Without a unified tactical plan, the ship's defensive batteries became isolated islands, firing blindly into the dark.
The Drukhari did not waste the opportunity. The two Raider frigates darted into the shield gap, their Splinter Cannons and Dark Lances raking the deck. Their objective was simple: harass the weapon platforms and draw fire away from the main boarding craft.
As the Song of Farewell burned, the Howling Corridor opened its bay doors. A swarm of six Razorwing Jetfighters and four Voidraven Bombers screeched into the void, looking like a cloud of angry hornets descending on a wounded beast.
From a distance, hidden in the sensor shadows, Raynor watched the slaughter with a cold, calculating gaze. He wasn't waiting for the Dark Eldar to finish; he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike both the hunter and the prey.