by Gav Thorpe
‘I am back,’ he whispered and he realised he was crying.
Resolution
Alaitoc – One of the major craftworlds that survived the Fall, Alaitoc is known for the strength of its inhabitants’ adherence to the Path. This strict regime can be too much for some, and so many depart Alaitoc seeking the life of the Outcast, and thus it has a large diaspora of rangers, corsairs and other adventurers across the galaxy and other craftworlds. The name of the craftworld derives from the legend of Khaine and means ‘Sword of the Heavens’.
The council of Alaitoc sat on the stepped seats of the amphitheatre-like Hall of Communing. It was a column-lined dome set close to the rim of Alaitoc, and Aradryan felt very small as he stood at its centre, surrounded by nothing but a transparent force dome and the stars of the galaxy. The council consisted of the seers and autarchs of Alaitoc, joined by a few other select individuals of exceptional wisdom or age.
Farseer Anatharan Alaitin had been nominated as spokesman, though in truth the eldest councillor’s role had been more of interrogator than mouthpiece. There were shining motes of crystal in the ancient farseer’s skin and eyes, and his hair was as white as snow. Aradryan had been questioned for several cycles, pausing only for refreshment, concerning his exploits since he had left the craftworld. He was still not sure why everybody was so concerned with his business, and as the fourth cycle of questioning began his exasperation became vocal.
‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded, turning a circle to look at the assembled councillors. ‘I feel as if I am on trial for some charge that has not yet been levelled.’
‘In a way, you are.’ This came from one of the eldar sat on the lowest step of the hall. Aradryan recalled the lengthy introductions that had preceded the inquisition and brought up a name: Kelamith. ‘Purposefully or unwittingly, your actions have brought about great destruction to Alaitoc. We are here to divine the nature of that threat and whether you are complicit in its arrival or simply a victim.’
‘Destruction?’ Aradryan looked around, hands spread wide in innocent appeal. ‘I see no destruction. What have I done?’
‘The humans are coming,’ said Alaitin. ‘Soon, we fear. They bring war with them.’
‘And what has that to do with me?’
‘This Imperial commander, De’vaque, tell us more about him,’ said Kelamith. ‘We see your thread and his tightly bound together. On the skein we have seen that the bloodshed stems from your line, but there are too many fates to count at the moment. We need your help, Aradryan, to avert disaster for our craftworld.’
Taken aback by the farseer’s humble tone, Aradryan nodded. He felt ashamed of what had happened with De’vaque, realising that his pride and self-opinion had fuelled his confrontation with the governor more than sense or desire for freedom. He carefully explained the circumstances that brought him into De’vaque’s circle, firmly placing the emphasis on the existing relationship created by Yrithain. Alaitin delved deeper, demanding to know what happened at Daethronin. With some chagrin, Aradryan related the encounter on the Imperial commander’s yacht. There were whispers and mutters amongst the councillors, who felt that they were now hearing something that would explain how such a doom was being brought down upon Alaitoc.
‘And so you held his son hostage until you were free, yes?’ said Alaitin. ‘That was the last you saw of the Imperial commander?’
Aradryan swallowed hard, painfully recalling his actions that had followed. He looked at Alaitin, who regarded him sternly with slate-grey eyes.
‘That is not what happened,’ said Aradryan. At that moment, he desperately wanted to wake up. This dream had gone on long enough, it was beyond tiresome and had now becoming frightening.
‘What happened, Aradryan?’ Alaitin’s question was like a blade slicing into Aradryan’s heart, through flesh and bone into the core of his being. Aradryan remembered a cloud of exploding plasma and gas. In his heart he felt the galaxy trembling with the affront he had done to De’vaque. He could not believe his own callousness, and his head swam at the recollection.
‘What did you do, Aradryan?’ Alaitin was relentless, his eyes boring into Aradryan.
‘We killed them,’ he replied softly, meeting the gaze of some in the assembled audience. As he spoke, Aradryan saw dismay and disgust written on their faces. ‘I killed them: De’vaque’s son and bodyguards. I blasted their shuttle apart and scattered their ashes into the ether. It was unnecessary and cruel, and the greatest hurt I could have inflicted on Commander De’vaque.’
Silence more condemning than any shouted accusations swallowed Aradryan. He felt the scorn of the councillors washing over him, stripping away the last tattered vestiges of his dignity. Their silent charge echoed over and over in his mind: cold-blooded murderer.
‘So now we perhaps come to understand the why,’ said Kelamith. He laid a hand on Aradryan’s shoulder, eyes soft with pity. ‘Thank you.’
‘There is as yet no explanation as to the how.’ This came from a tall, well-built figure who had been sitting opposite Kelamith. His robes were dark and light blue, threaded with white, and his face was narrow with flared nostrils and bright blue eyes. Aradryan knew who he was – everybody on Alaitoc knew Arhathain, chief amongst the autarchs. He stood up now and approached Aradryan, fixing him with that pale stare.
‘Commander De’vaque knows nothing of your connection to Alaitoc, nor where the craftworld might be found?’
‘That is correct, autarch,’ said Aradryan. He wanted to flee from that piercing glare, but was pinned to the spot by its intensity. ‘My place of birth never arose in conversation with him or his son, and Alaitoc is far from the eyes of the humans. I cannot see how he...’
Aradryan’s voice died away as he thought about the question. His heart sank even further, though he had thought it impossible. Even his confession about Darson De’vaque paled in comparison to the revelation that was coursing through his thoughts. Panic gripped him as he looked into the uncaring eyes that regarded him from every direction, dozens of them judging him silently.
‘The Commorraghans.’ Aradryan squarely met Arhathain’s. ‘They had been waiting in the webway for the Azure Flame to flee from the ambush at Nathai-athil. We thought it was simply opportunism, but...’
He let them draw their own conclusion, unable to voice it himself. It was Kelamith who spoke next. When Aradryan turned in the direction of the farseer, the pysker’s eyes were ablaze with energy.
‘Bitter and spiteful, filled with hatred for the betrayal against him, Khiadysis Hierarch will lead Commander De’vaque after the one he despises.’ The farseer’s unnatural gaze fell upon Aradryan. ‘The Imperial commander brings allies with him, for he has persuaded others that Alaitoc is a nest of pirates that has been plaguing their star systems of late. A fleet he brings, and soldiers of the Emperor’s army. And with them comes another, a titan of a man who leaders a Chapter of the Emperor’s Space Marines. He is called Achol Nadeus and it will be by his hand and his word that Alaitoc will be doomed.’
Aradryan shuddered at the prophecy, remembering the dreams of fire and Thirianna’s warning. He felt a tremble, not from within but from Alaitoc itself. It was as if a great drum had pounded in the depths of the craftworld and reverberated to its outer edge in moments. The sensation brought with it a quickening of Aradryan’s heart. His pulse raced and an image flickered in his vision; a memory from Hirith-Hreslain, of a giant of fire and wrath that wrought carnage wherever it trod.
The Avatar of Khaine was awakening and war was coming to Alaitoc.
The Dome of Crystal Seers was bathed in twilight from the dying star that Alaitoc was orbiting. The orange light glinted from the faces of past farseers, their flesh absorbed by the infinity circuit of the craftworld, so that now they stood as crystalline statues, dozens of them across the dome, set into sweeping, beautiful parklands of silver and blue.
Aradryan flexed his fingers, trying to work off some of the tension that gripped his body. Every joint fe
lt stiff, every nerve taut. His mind buzzed with what might come to pass. And all he could do for the moment was wait.
‘You may like to know that Thirianna is doing well,’ said Alaitin, who waited with him. The two sat on a curving white marble bench, their backs to a glittering pool of black. Alaitin was garbed in battle dress, his robes covered with rune armour, his head encased in a jewelled helm that hid his face. He was unarmed, as was Aradryan. The farseer had explained several times that this was essential, but Aradryan felt naked without his sword and pistol. He wished he still had his longrifle. For one who had not known battle for so long, he realised he had swiftly become accustomed to its accoutrements.
‘It will not be long now,’ said the farseer. He turned his head away for a moment.
Earlier Aradryan had watched the fire and strife of the space battle unfolding through the dome. Las-fire and plasma had flickered across the firmament and ships like cathedrals and swans had duelled against the stars. The humans had not been stopped – could not be stopped – and they had boarded at the docks two cycles ago. Since then, they had been pushing steadily towards the core of the craftworld, the spearpoint of their attack formed by the Sons of Orar Space Marines led by Achol Nadeus.
‘What of Maensith and the Naestro?’ asked Aradryan. ‘She told me they would stay to help in the fight against their starships.’
‘The Naestro... survives for the moment,’ replied Alaitin. ‘She was badly damaged in a duel with an enemy frigate, but the ship and her captain are still with us.’
Aradryan nodded, relieved by the news. Whatever happened to him – to Alaitoc – the ships would be able to escape. There was a little comfort in knowing that.
The silence that followed was not quite complete. Aradryan could hear the distant sound of shells and explosions. Now and then a tremor would ripple through the infinity circuit. Here, in the Dome of the Crystal Seers, that ripple was magnified, and it seemed that the ancient farseers would whisper amongst themselves for a moment as the wind stirred around them. The rustling was no more than a breeze in the trees, Aradryan told himself, but it was no less disturbing to hear.
He found himself listening for the next sussurant exchange, but instead he heard something entirely unexpected. It was jolly, chirping notes, though no bird made its home here. His hand strayed to his pocket, and there he found a thin, silver tube – the thumb whistle Lechthennian had given him. It had been amongst the possessions he had taken from the Fae Taeruth, and throughout his adventures Aradryan had never once thought about it before now.
He lifted the thumb whistle to his lips and blew a few stuttering notes. A flurry of a reply sounded to his right and he stood up, playing a little more. Sat on the edge of a fountain not far away Aradryan saw a figure garbed in outlandish colours and patterns, his face hidden behind a blank mask beneath a diamond-studded hood. Something silver glinted in his gloved hand.
‘Lechthennian!’ Aradryan cried out the name and ran over to the Solitaire. Mischievous eyes glinted in the dark beneath his hood, looking at Aradryan through the lenses of the mask.
‘Not just I, my wayward companion,’ said the Solitaire, pointing with his thumb whistle. ‘The stone you cast has rippled far and wide.’
Aradryan recognised Findelsith’s motley costume immediately, and with him were his troupe, leaping acrobatically from two skyrunners. The Harlequins bounded lithely across the grey turf and formed a group behind their leader. Findelsith pointed dramatically at Aradryan and shook his head. His finger then moved to Lechthennian, and the Great Harlequin gave an exaggerated, resigned shrug.
‘For you I would not cross the voids of space,’ Findelsith said in his sing-song way. ‘Yet the Solitaire has brought me to you, and to you I must now pledge my service. In his company his debt is now mine, and the Laughing God will not be denied.’
‘What debt?’ asked Aradryan, looking at Lechthennian. ‘You do not owe me anything.’
‘Not knowing me, you defended my back, when we fought the daemons of She Who Thirsts,’ explained the Solitaire. ‘You were a brighter spirit at that time, it is a woe to see the darkness now.’
‘I have travelled many dark paths since we parted, and I have none but myself to blame for taking them.’
‘For Alaitoc we will fight our battle,’ declared Findelsith. ‘The humans will be our clumsy partners in the Dance of the Bloody and the Bold.’
Sensing someone behind him, Aradryan looked over his shoulder to see that Alaitin had joined him.
‘Did you know they were coming?’ Aradryan asked the farseer, who shook his head. The Harlequins returned to their skyrunners, Lechthennian waving a farewell as he bounded aboard the open-topped skimmer. The two vehicles rose into the air and hissed past, heading towards the rimward side of the dome.
‘The Laughing God prances lightly up the skein, and it is a rare seer that can follow his trajectory. I count us amongst the blessed that Cegorach’s servants have come, but they step lightly and will not alter our fate for the better or for the worse. There are, however, some others who have come who are known to you. The Irdiris arrived ten cycles ago and her rangers even now lure the humans into our trap in the Dome of Midnight Forests.’
‘Athelennil is on Alaitoc? Can I see her?’
‘There is not time,’ replied Alaitin. He raised his head, as if looking at the stars above. ‘Thirianna has done well indeed. The attack in the Dome of Midnight Forests is halted, and so the next and final blow will come here, to the Dome of Crystal Seers. All is in motion as we predicted.’
‘And my part?’ asked Aradryan, mouth becoming dry as he contemplated the fate the seers had decreed for him.
‘It will be as we explained.’ Alaitin took Aradryan by the elbow and led him back to the bench, but the outcast could not sit down. He was too agitated to stay in one place and started to pace back and forth across the paved area surrounding the dark pool.
‘You cannot be certain we will succeed,’ said Aradryan.
‘Nothing is ever certain, but this course grants us the greatest chance of success. It is too late now to avert what must be done. Since your arrival events have been set into motion that must be guided to a satisfactory conclusion. You cannot escape your fate any more than we can guarantee it.’
‘So all I can do is wait?’ said Aradryan.
‘Yes,’ said Alaitin. ‘But you will not have to wait long.’
Aradryan forced himself to sit down, pulling his coat tight around him though the air was warm enough. He looked at generations of seers around him, their cold crystal bodies gleaming in the light of a dying star, and felt utterly alone. It had been pleasant to see Lechthennian, who still held some measure of regard for Aradryan, but there was nobody else in his life who would spare him a moment’s thought. The only reason he was still on Alaitoc, and not formally banished, was because the craftworld needed him. He was the centre of this catastrophe and it would only be through him that final oblivion could be averted.
‘There is a moment of imbalance,’ announced Alaitin, his tone worried. Aradryan shot a look at the farseer next to him.
‘What sort of imbalance?’
‘A human psyker, one of the Space Marines, has been protecting the enemy against our interference, masking his part on the skein.’
‘You mean that something has been hidden from us all along?’ Aradryan swallowed hard. ‘There is not time to change the plan now!’
‘Do not be afraid,’ said Alaitin. ‘Thirianna sees the threat and moves to thwart it. The attack across the Dome of Midnight Forests can still be halted, forcing the enemy here.’
‘Thirianna? She has no experience, how can she possibly prevail where others have failed?’
‘Through her love of her friends and her duty to Alaitoc,’ the farseer replied, regaining his air of equilibrium.
Time seemed to pass slowly, and Aradryan’s skin crawled as he thought of all the plans of the autarchs and seers going awry, sent off course by the actions of one Space
Marine. It was too late to change now, though; the fate of the craftworld had been set in motion the moment Aradryan had been told what he must do by the council.
‘Thirianna prevails,’ said Alaitin. Although the farseer had waited as calmly as the immobile statues around the pair, there was a hint of relief in his voice.
Aradryan gazed morosely at the blue moss creeping through the cracks between the paving slabs under his feet, still not convinced that all would proceed as the farseers had predicted. There was much still that could go wrong and doom him to a painful death, and see Alaitoc destroyed.
He felt a tremor of energy course through the infinity circuit. The whispering of the farseers started again, but this time it did not quieten within a few moments. He thought he caught words amongst the gentle murmuring.
‘The wanderer returns.’
‘The wanderer returns.’
‘The wanderer returns.’
Over and over the phrase echoed through Aradryan’s thoughts.
‘Thirianna has cast the rune and sent the signal,’ said Alaitin, sitting next to Aradryan, hands in the lap of his seer’s robe. Rune-incised rings glinted on his fingers. Aradryan twitched as an explosion rolled across the dome, from somewhere to his right. He looked and saw a pall of black smoke rising towards the stars. Alaitin did not react at all. ‘The humans have been halted and their new offensive brings them here, seeking the core of Alaitoc. Sensing victory, Achol Nadeus will lead the attack. Our doom approaches.’
Las-fire scorched across the plaza, blasting fragments from the surrounds of the ponds and fountains. Aradryan sat rooted to his spot on the bench, hands white from clenching the edge of the seat as a hail of shuriken fire whistled in front of him, ripping apart the arm and shoulder of a human soldier, his grey uniform torn to thin tatters.
