Path of the Outcast

by Gav Thorpe

  Having witnessed the madness of the Chaos realm, Aradryan was consumed by trepidation when the announcement came via Estrathain that they were shortly to disembark. They had come upon their destination, the crone world of Miarisillion, somewhere in the depths of the Eye of Terror. The journey had not been without some tribulations – the Womb of Destruction was home not just to immaterial foes but also enemies of flesh such as the Space Marine Legions that had turned traitor against the will of the human Emperor. With speed sometimes, and with caution at others, the expedition had avoided these threats, moving into the depths of the Eye of Terror, always ready to turn and run lest they encounter some force or obstacle too great for them.

  It was a harrowing time, made all the worse by the ever-present pressure of She Who Thirsts bearing down upon Aradryan’s spirit. The Fae Taeruth was too large to enter the atmosphere of the planet, and so the expedition divided between Irdiris and the nameless vessel of the Harlequins. It was Aradryan’s duty to take his place beside Caolein at the controls of the ship, and he entered the piloting chamber just as his companion was guiding the starship from the bay of the Fae Taeruth.

  Miarisillion almost filled the navigational display, which was showing a true view of the vista ahead. Between grey scrapes of cloud Aradryan saw blue seas and white land. It looked like a frozen world, the landmasses encased in ice. Caolein shrugged at this suggestion, no wiser to the truth that Aradryan.

  Entering the upper atmosphere, Irdiris swooped down on the tail of the red-and-green diamond-patterned Harlequin vessel. It was some time before they entered the cloud canopy, and Aradryan switched the spherical imager to a rendered version of their surroundings, the Harlequin ship appearing as a pulsing rune not far ahead.

  Breaking out of the cloud at hypersonic speed, the two starships levelled, cruising above a wild ocean flecked with white crests of crashing waves. Daylight sparkled on the waters, though Aradryan could see no star to cast the light. Despite this, from the high altitude it was possible to see the terminator of night in the far distance, retreating towards the horizon.

  It was some time before Aradryan sighted land, as Caolein guided the ship down in a decelerating glide. A high cliff of dark stone rose up at the edge of his vision, marked at this distance only by the massive fountains of surf that crashed upon its rocky foundations. As they swept closer, Aradryan could see the remains of a building along the summit of the cliff. Pillars and piles of masonry jutted from the waves, brought tumbling into the seas by an age of erosion.

  The half-broken building continued along the cliff to the left and right, showing a remarkable cross-section of many-storeyed towers, stairwells and cellars. Aradryan could see the floors separating each level, linked by ramps and shafts, in places a maze of small chambers, in others becoming broad corridors and hallways.

  Beyond the edge of the sea, the building continued; wherever it was that Aradryan looked he saw endless white stone, which from orbit he had mistaken for permafrost. Every scrap of land as far as he could see was covered with domes and bridges, towers and halls. Long and winding open staircases ascended solid pilasters that stretched into the sky, tipped with circular balconies, while curving roadways scythed between colonnaded forums and statue-filled plazas in elaborate loops and geometric swirls.

  The whole edifice, save for that crumbled by the breaking cliffside, looked remarkably intact. Aradryan had been expecting a ruin, laid waste by the great tumult of the Fall, but the city looked no more damaged or decayed than if its occupants had simply departed peacefully a few cycles earlier. Pennants of grey and green snapped in the wind atop high banner poles.

  ‘Look there,’ said Caolein, pointing.

  Aradryan had not been completely correct. The building did not enclose every last piece of earth, for off to the right a forest of blue-leaved trees broke the undulating white of tiled roofs and flagged terraces. It too seemed untouched by the ravages of time; an arrangement of circular lawns, spiralling towards a centre point, each a little smaller than the outer clearing, was clearly visible amongst the broad ring of trees.

  There were other gardens, on the roofs and in gorge-like gaps between soaring halls. There were thousands of arched windows still glinting with panes, and doorways narrow and wide that led from hexagonally paved courtyards into the dark interior. Ponds and pools broke the monotony of the whiteness, some seemingly inaccessible except from the air. There were sculpture parks, their subjects too small to see even with the magnification of Irdiris’s viewer; streets were lined with much larger creations too, depicting naive interpretations of the eldar gods.

  ‘This city must have been teeming with people in its prime,’ said Aradryan.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Lechthennian. Aradryan had been so engrossed in the vista that he had not noticed the traveller coming into the piloting suite. Just behind him stood Estrathain. The kami’s head slowly turned left and right, taking in the magnificent view with gem eyes. ‘Only four thousand dwelt here. It is a palace, not a city.’

  ‘That is fewer inhabitants than one of Alaitoc’s habitation towers,’ replied Aradryan, frowning. ‘What of the other dwellings? How many lived outside the palace.’

  ‘There is only the palace,’ said Lechthennian, standing with his hands on the back of Aradryan’s chair as he looked up into the display overhead. ‘The whole world is the palace, every continent and island built to the design of one person.’

  ‘To think that we had so many worlds that such vanity was possible,’ said Estrathain. ‘From such bounty and plenty come indolence and disaster.’

  ‘It is unusual, even by the excesses of the empire in its greatest pomp,’ said Lechthennian, eyes half closed as if in remembrance. ‘There were those who built worlds in the webway, but for the creator of Miarisillion it was the dominance of the physical realm that stoked his pride.’

  ‘How can you know this?’ asked Caolein, twisting in his seat to look at the musician. ‘Where did you learn such a tale?’

  Lechthennian did not answer immediately, but looked at Caolein with a half-smile. The traveller shrugged, as if deciding that there was no secret to keep.

  ‘How do the Harlequins know that it is here? In the Black Library, where all of our knowledge of the ancient empire and the Fall is kept, there are maps and atlases and charts aplenty, and journals both written and recorded survive from before the coming of She Who Thirsts.’

  As Lechthennian mentioned the name of the eldar’s doom, Aradryan felt a shiver run through him. He did not know whether it was a simple reaction to the use of the title, or whether the dark god that had destroyed the eldar could sense its name being spoken inside itself, even when only spoken in euphemism. The others had fallen quiet and Aradryan guessed he had not been alone in the sensation.

  ‘You have been to the Black Library?’ said Estrathain finally, turning his sculpted face towards Lechthennian. ‘A most remarkable achievement, and one that can be claimed by even fewer than those who have come to the crone worlds.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, and I am sure I do not remember the way,’ said Lechthennian, still with the wry smile he had worn since raising the subject. ‘If we survive this adventure, perhaps you could persuade Findelsith to take you there.’

  ‘Looks like we will be landing nearby,’ said Aradryan, as he noticed the Harlequin ship had begun a descending spiral towards the palace, bleeding off speed in preparation for touchdown.

  Caolein returned his attention to the controls, guiding the ship along the vortex of a vapour trail left by the preceding craft. After a time-consuming descent, they eventually saw the Harlequins landing in a wide courtyard, lined with silver-barked trees with bright red leaves. Not far away was a massive dome, almost as large as one of Alaitoc’s, though constructed of stone rather than an energy field, its contents concealed from view.

  There was plenty of space to set Irdiris down beside the Harlequins, and as Aradryan let the engines decrease to idle, Caolein opened up the entry hatch and ac
tivated the boarding ramp. Aradryan took a last look at the view outside, noticing there were no birds or insects despite the mild clime and temperate conditions.

  ‘I think we are the only creatures on this world,’ said Aradryan, pushing himself from the reclining seat.

  ‘Let us hope that things remain that way,’ replied Caolein.

  Peril

  The Womb of Destruction – When She Who Thirsts came into being, roused from dormancy by the depravity of the old civilisation, the god’s body took form where the ancient empire had been at its strongest. So powerful was the birth-scream of the Great Enemy, it tore open reality, fusing the warp and the material universe together, creating a vast warp storm that has raged to this day. This rift has many names, for it is the most important feature in the galaxy. The Womb of Destruction it was called at first, for it was in the depths of this bleeding wound that the eldar doom was born. Some refer to it as the Abyss of Magic, as it is the Realm of Chaos given physical property, a well of psychic power. Another name there is; unusually it is a theft-phrase taken in translation from the mon-keigh, but it summarises the sense of despair one feels when thinking of the warp rupture through which the Dark Prince still jealously watches us: the Eye of Terror.

  The expedition mustered under the branches of the trees. Aradryan had brought his longrifle, pistol and the sword gifted to him by Maensith, and was not surprised to see the mercenaries more heavily armed with rifles, shuriken cannons, brightlances and other weapons that he could not identify. Slightly more revealing were the Harlequins, who sported all manner of blades and pistols. Findelsith carried an axe with a long, elegant blade across his back, and his wrists were sheathed in bladed cuffs that glimmered with energy fields.

  The Death Jesters carried shrieker cannons, black-painted versions of the shuriken weapons possessed by Maensith’s company, while several of the troupe were armed with the tubular, glove-like harlequin’s kiss, which Aradryan had heard about from Jair. The older ranger had claimed that when the harlequin’s kiss was punched into a foe, it released a long, molecule-thick wire into their innards, slicing them apart from within. If true, it was a grisly weapon for such gaily-appointed warriors.

  The entrance into the palace interior was formed by two trees at one end of the courtyard, the boughs of which formed an arched, glassed gateway. Findelsith led the way with Rhoinithiel the Shadowseer by his side and a cadre of harlequins not far behind. Maensith followed with Aradryan and the others close by, flanked by the mercenaries, while the rest of the Harlequins brought up the rear. Passing into the glass-ceilinged entranceway, the padding of their feet echoed along the corridor, disturbing a silence that had persisted since the Fall.

  Coming to a corridor that seemed to stretch into the distance to the left and right, the expedition split into two groups, each a mix of outcasts and harlequins. Aradryan and the others were in the group led by Findelsith, while Maensith took leadership of the other. Before they each went their separate way, Findelsith had a warning for them.

  ‘Baubles and treasures aplenty there are, to turn a mind or hand to their taking. You must resist such plundering urges, for in this place there can be no desire. Take nothing but the Tears that you did not bring with you, and leave nothing that we bring to this place. Feel no yearning and lust for another, for through these things the Great Enemy strikes. He can feel us but he does not see us – give her no pause to turn her gaze this way.’

  Another shudder gripped Aradryan at the reminder that despite the relative normality of their surroundings – as normal as a planet-spanning palace built by the arrogance of a single ruler could be – they were in fact on a crone world, steeped in warp energy, sustained by the psychic power of She Who Thirsts, who had fed upon the eldar since her birth during the Fall.

  Aradryan paused, thinking that he heard whispering, but dismissed the noise as the breeze on the windows above. He felt as though they were being watched, but put the feeling down to the tapestries that hung on the walls, each a larger-than-life-size depiction of a noble-looking eldar with a narrow nose and high brow. In the closest, his white hair hung in braids across each shoulder, and around his neck was a tight choker studded with diamonds fashioned as tiny skulls. Aradryan sneered at the embroidered portrait, as if in accusation that it was spying upon him.

  Turning, Aradryan realised that he recognised the face from a bust he had seen on a pedestal opposite where the entrance hall met the passageway. Examining the tapestries to the left and right, he saw that they all depicted the same person; though his hair and clothes and environs changed, the haughty features were unmistakable.

  ‘A testament to aggrandisement and ego,’ said Lechthennian. ‘A whole world dedicated to the hubris of one, who doomed his family and friends to share in this self-inflicted confinement of pride.’

  They continued to explore, finding several bedchambers and dining halls along the length of the corridor. As with the exterior, the inside of the palace was immaculate, with not a speck of dust, nor scratch or stain. The furnishings – portraits, sculptures, busts, tapestries and all showing the same overbearing face – were intact, with not a weave or stitch out of place in the carpets and chairs, the dark wood of the tables and mantels gleaming with polish.

  It was impossible to explore the widening maze of rooms as one group, so one at a time, and in pairs, the band dispersed through the chambers. Aradryan did not know what he was looking for, if anything at all, and he found himself leaving Lechthennian in contemplation of an ornate fireplace, the mantel and surround of which was carved from green marble, forming intertwining figures and animals, with spears and bows in evidence. Yet whether they were hunting or doing something far less desirable was unclear to Aradryan, given the interconnectedness of the participants, and he looked away hurriedly, content to leave the musician to answer the question for himself.

  Through various side passages, short stairwells and doorways Aradryan continued, always keeping a picture in his mind of where he was in relation to where he had come from, so that he could head back immediately if he needed to rejoin the others. This task was made more confusing by the abundance of mirrors he encountered. There seemed to be one every other room, and several in each passageway. Some were so large that at first he mistook them for branching corridors or additional chambers. The portraits at least had given way to this new form of vanity, but glimpsing himself every few steps, or seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, did nothing to help Aradryan relax.

  He was sure that when he was not quite looking directly at them, his reflections pulled different expressions. Figures flitted where they should not, though in truth they were probably reflections of reflections. On the whole, it was a most unsettling experience, but there was nothing to do except to push on in the hopes of finding something significant to report.

  The whispering seemed to have grown louder too, but Aradryan was almost used to it by now, it becoming a part of the background noise along with the pad of his feet on tile or hardwood floor, or the scrape of his scabbard as it caught on the corner of a table or shelf that he passed.

  Aradryan found an answer to the riddle of the whispering in the next room. It was another arena-size bedchamber, the bed itself almost lost at the heart of a carpeted red sea and crimson hangings. Through a massive window he saw a seascape just a stone’s throw from the palace, at the foot of a black-sanded beach. The waves seemed almost purple, and Aradryan realised with surprise that twilight was coming, the distant horizon darkening as he watched. The way the sea lapped, the sussurant hissing of the water, set his mind at ease. It was a comforting whisper, not a conspiratorial one.

  Senses dulled by the mesmeric washing of the waves, Aradryan felt the need to sit down for just a moment. He had been searching for quite a time, and if he could just rest for a little while he would be rejuvenated to continue the search. He looked around but the vast chamber had no chairs or stools or chests, only the large bed at its centre.

  Before he even re
alised what he was doing, Aradryan was beside the bed, stroking a hand across the silk-like covers. He did not need to sleep, he told himself as he turned and sat down on the edge of the bed. He would just sit here for a few moments, recharging his strength. He could see why such a place had been constructed; from the bed the sea seemed to come right up to the window, its wordless voice urging him to close his eyes and relax.

  Aradryan most definitely did not sleep. He did not even close his eyes, and stayed sat on the edge of the bed staring out at the alien sea. Despite being very obviously awake, the ranger started to notice that things were becoming decidedly dream-like. For a start, his waystone was gleaming gold and hot to the touch when he lifted his fingers to it. On top of that, he was not alone on the bed. He did not dare turn around, but he could feel the presence of someone else behind him, their weight on the mattress.

  Delicate music tinkled in the distance, soothing and quiet, echoing along the empty corridors and across abandoned rooms. Except the corridors and rooms were not empty and abandoned. The figures of eldar moved around the apartment, several of them gathering by the window in front of Aradryan, holding hands with each other as they looked out across the waves as darkness descended. They were a family, two small girls with their mother and father. The person behind Aradryan called out a series of names and the family turned with smiles, the children breaking free to run to the bed. One of them leapt onto the mattress, passing straight through Aradryan.

  Bolting to his feet, Aradryan turned to look at the ghosts. The eldar from the portraits, eyes lined with greater age, lay beneath the covers, which were rucked back to reveal his thin shoulders and shallow chest.

  The music had stopped, and the small girl who had leapt onto the bed was not smiling any more. Her tiny hands were at the old noble’s throat, and there were shouts and rings of metal from across the palace grounds. Old scores were being settled, the extended families dividing into factions, sectarian violence erupting between them to decide who should inherit the luxurious planet-manse.