End of Amai

 End of Amai

“Know that all your cunning, your treachery and your guile is but a spit in the ocean compared to mine”.

That is what Kanaloa had told Amai when he first pledged his loyalty to the dread Archon. And now he found himself on the beautiful paradise world of Hafana, held against his will neck-deep in the ocean of one of the hundreds of magnificent beaches on the planet. Kanaloa stood over him, waist deep in the sea, flanked by his trusted bodyguards. The Archon let out a deep, rumbling laughter as the ocean began to lap over Amai’s porcelain features.

This was the fearful and fabled Death of A Thousand Drownings. The offender would be forced to inhale water, warm and saline so that it would burn their throat and airways, every nerve in their body screaming out in desperation as their lungs filled with water, the pain intense as they helplessly gasped for air, diaphragm pistoning, only to suck in more water. Then, just as they were on the cusp of unconsciousness, they would be raised back up and booted in the chest until their lungs had cleared of fluid, only to be plunged back into the water.

A thousand times over this would be repeated. Sometimes, should the victim be too weak to void their lungs, a knife would be used to puncture the ribcage to allow the fluid to drain before it was cauterised back shut, though Amai had not yet reached this stage.

Kanaloa practiced a more ancient form of this perverse method of execution. Amai had been nailed to a post in the sand for almost two hundred days now, his legs buried below him. Each time the tide came in he would be gradually submerged below the water, but such was his placement that as he came to the threshold of drowning the tide would return to sea, leaving him delirious and exhausted. The Archon has chosen where to bind Amai very carefully, perfectly calculating with cold, unrelenting intellect the positions of the ocean.

This was to be Amai’s nine hundred and ninety eighth drowning, though he had lost count months ago. Now he could barely remember his name, the salt crusting on his eyelashes permanently burning him. The acrid tang of blood flooded his mouth again as more of his lungs lysed from the salinity. The water around him was red with it; it was truly a miracle of eldar science that he was alive. Kanaloa was here to witness his final few drownings, drinking in the pain to fill his blackened heart with life again. His race were masters of torture, and he was no different.

Amai was a trueborn, one of the few in dark eldar society to be born of a woman and to grow naturally to maturity. The majority of his kin were grown in great vats, birthed as near-adults. As such he held not just a sense of superiority over them, but as a trueborn he was held far higher in the views of society. He had joined the Kabal and used his privileged heritage and wanton cruelty to ascend the ranks. Lust for power had gotten the better of him, and a botched attempt on the Archon’s life in order to cease control had stripped him of everything. Here, under the baking sun and relentless waves, where most sentient beings would relish the beautiful tropical scenery with nothing but awe, he had lost all vestiges of grandeur, of pride, and even of personality.

His mind was almost completely blank, his memory fading. As water lapped over him again he could barely fight to breathe. Long ago he had tried to speed up the drowning, savouring the release of death, but before he was able to draw too much water into his airways the tide would stream back out, and the guard tending to him would unceremoniously purge him of the brine with a sharp kick.

As the tide drew away for the nine hundred and ninety ninth time Amai began to become aware of something gnawing at the back of his conscious. Despite his delirium he was gripped by a sudden fear, a fear much greater than that of the Archon or even of death itself. She Who Thirsts was awaiting him, ready to consume his very being. He couldn’t summon the strength to cough, the water in his body like lead.

Kanaloa lowered himself to look into Amai’s reddened and swollen eyes. “So very close, aren’t we?” He said to the trueborn. Without another word he spat in Amai’s eyes, drew out his knife and cut him free. With dramatic gravitas he grabbed Amai by the throat and pulled him clear of the sand.

His legs were atrophied and limp, like sticks hanging from his body. Gazing into the distance Kanaloa shunted his blade into the base of Amai’s lungs, and a gush of blood and seawater sprang forth.

Amai’s vision began to fade as the tendrils of something malicious wrapped around his conscious. Kanaloa spoke, but his words sounded as though he was speaking behind a great stone wall.

“It ends, pathetic cur. I hope She enjoys your black and shrivelled soul.”

Kanaloa plunged Amai’s head back under the water, and without waiting drew his knife across his victim’s eyes. Pulling the blade across his face, he then thrust it into his skull, drawing his arm back and slamming it back into Amai’s face. Continually he stabbed into the once elegant visage until it seemed there was nothing left but blood and pulp. Brutal though it was, the Archon’s stabbing was not at random; for his had placed his blows so perfectly that Amai was, despite the horrific and bloody flaying, very much alive. Dropping the almost lifeless body into the water, Kanaloa waded back to shore, leaving a crimson cloud as he left the bloodbath. The trueborn laid motionless as his mutilated form suffered his final drowning.

Indeed, the Kabal of the Cruel Tide was a fitting name.