‘No more. We are the True Kin. We do not live in fear. If Ynnead draws the souls of the aeldari to himself, then the aeldari will answer. If K’Shaic and Vect and every other terrified old man in High Commorragh want to quaver in fear and ignore the call, then we will leave them behind with the orks and mon-keigh they’ve chosen to emulate.’
He shot through the ranks of troops, those bearing his colours, those in the green and black of the Jade Labyrinth and those daubed with the red of the Ynnari. The cloak fluttered behind him, a rallying banner that advertised the blood that united them and the blood that they would shed.
‘The future belongs to the aeldari!’
He could have boarded a Raider and squeezed a tiny bit more speed from his advance, but there was strength in unity. He needed the hellions, and the full force of Reavers, when he impacted his father’s lines. They swarmed behind him. Venoms and Raiders paused long enough to allow troops to board them, then roared to catch up with the skyboards and jetbikes already speeding to follow their archon.
The trip was brief. The garrisons had been designed to reinforce the port in the event of attack; it needed to be close. There wasn’t even time to focus the nishariel crystal again before the webway artery curved and their destination was in sight.
The Port of Widows utterly dwarfed the garrison. It was huge, a maze of platforms and arched walkways, battlements and bunkers. Across its surface, the battle raged in full. Wyches matched blade with incubi. Hellions soared over clusters of gunmetal-armoured kabalite warriors, exchanging rattling, hissing volleys of splinter shard fire with each other. From a distance, the two sides couldn’t even be discerned. Only a morass of aeldari, all fighting each other.
K’Shaic’s battle-barque stood out as they drew closer. It was designed to: a massive banner daring the enemy to strike.
Corpses were strewn across all three decks of the barque, the remains of several assaults intended to decapitate the fleet’s leadership. Half of the guns were silent, the gunners dead with no replacements available. Wych bodies had let forth a virtual river of blood, rent asunder by the klaives of K’Shaic’s personal guard.
Most of the incubi had already died. Only one of them remained, a sullen, silent figure to whom Naeddre had never been introduced. Centuries of following his father’s leadership could not evaporate in an instant. He wondered if he could speak to K’shaic, to convince him to heed the Whispering God.
K’shaic stood at his command dais, issuing instructions to his forces. At the metallic clank of Naeddre’s booted feet on the grilled deck, he glanced up. He gave his son a jerk of his head: all the praise and reward he intended to give for Naeddre’s performance.
The curt gesture sent cold fire coursing through Naeddre’s body. Centuries of sacrificing his very soul upon the altar of his father’s own hubris, for nothing more than a snide tilt of the head? His silver words turned to lead in his mouth. All thoughts of convincing his father to turn his banner evaporated. He drew his blast pistol and fired into his father’s exposed back, turned to him with the same fatal arrogance Phaerl had shown.
The sole remaining incubus was a credit to his caste. He gave no indication of even looking at Naeddre, but when the blast pistol fired, he had already shoved his liege aside. The darklight instead bored a trough through the bodyguard’s chest. He took a faltering step towards Naeddre, determined to protect K’Shaic to the end, but there was no more he could do. The drukhari collapsed.
K’shaic lunged at his son. He hadn’t become the leader of one of Commorragh’s greatest kabals by giving in to shock or sentiment. It was all Naeddre could do to get his helglaive up before his father’s sabre gutted him. The surgesabre sent a cascade of sparks ringing off his weapon.
‘Here?’ his father bellowed, incredulous. ‘Now? You couldn’t wait?’
The surgesabre was lethally dangerous. It did not radiate energy or absorb light, or any of the fancy tricks that some archons desired in their weapons. It could, however, deliver an electrical charge that would kill a rampaging gnarloc. Naeddre had seen his father plunge the sword into an ork warboss, the furious energies holding the greenskin immobile while the power did its work, the warlord’s mighty frame only able to twitch and spasm as its skin blackened and its eyes melted out of its skull. Even a glancing blow would stun him. A solid hit would mean death in an instant. He’d practised subjecting himself to shocks of increasing intensity so that he might one day be able to resist his father’s weapon, but he had nowhere near the degree of tolerance he would need to survive a substantial blow from the surgesabre.
‘Of course,’ said Naeddre. ‘How else can I make sure the Jade Labyrinth escapes your assault?’
He heard his words with a slight reverberation in his own helmet. His father’s command dais was still on, still transmitting. Every dracon, solarite and klaivex could hear everything that happened on the command barge. Every pilot could see, in holographic miniature, the battle between father and son, playing out before their very eyes.
‘The rebels?’ K’shaic hissed. He wielded the surgesabre in his left hand, and a ghoulsteel knife, its grey-green metal inherently toxic to living flesh, in a backhand grip in his right. ‘You join with the traitors?’
Naeddre didn’t need to respond. The hellions, his hellions, were smashing into the Bladed Lotus forces.
‘Why?’ K’shaic drove his son backwards with his skill. His blades moved faster than any Naeddre had ever faced.
‘For a better future,’ Naeddre replied.
‘Fantasies? You trade a seat at the right hand of greatness, the chance to steal the throne yourself, for a child’s fairy tale?’
‘A child’s fairy tale?’ It was Naeddre’s turn to be furious. He’d never felt this sort of anger. ‘Like the supremacy of Commorragh? How the galaxy lights torches because it is we who have made them fear the darkness?’ His staccato back-and-forth attack pattern brought both blades to bear simultaneously, forcing his father to defend from both ends.
‘We are supreme!’ Never had the sentiment sounded so desperate before. Naeddre knew the truth now: his father spoke to convince himself. ‘We take what we wish! We fear nothing, not even the Ancestral Enemy that the craftworlders shake and imprison their souls to avoid!’
Naeddre laughed in his father’s face. The dam had broken, and he had centuries of disrespect built up.
‘We are Her slaves!’ he yelled. ‘And She eats away at us, little by little.’
‘And you think to break the cycle?’ K’shaic sneered. ‘Will you preach to me like one of the dirt-worshipping Exodites? Do you ignore the blood on your hands, Naeddre? The deeds you’ve committed?’
His father tried to vault off the command dais, but Naeddre’s helglaive hooked the old archon’s leg, tripping him. Before Naeddre could swing in to end the fight, K’Shaic had rolled to his feet.
‘I did it all!’ Naeddre laughed. His blows hammered away at K’Shaic, who was desperately defending himself from his son’s ruthless onslaught. ‘I slaughtered, and I killed. Millions wept. But I did what I did because there wasn’t another option. I am a true son of Commorragh – if damnation is all that remains to me, I will drape it about myself like a cloak of regency, I will drink and savour it like a fine wine. But to choose damnation when salvation is not just an option, but freely offered? That’s nothing more than the terrified cowardice of an old man too afraid of the future to unmire himself from a past that’s eating him alive.’ He stopped, allowing his father to gain a handful of steps between them.
‘Go back to your Dark City,’ Naeddre spat. ‘Crawl back to your Overlord. You can clutch each other together and cower in the darkness like frightened children.’
The battle was lit by a colossal explosion. Both combatants recoiled from a shock wave overhead, uncomfortably close. One of the Reapers that was the pride of K’Shaic’s fleet burned in mid-air, its anti-gravity engines struggl
ing to keep it aloft even as cobalt-blue flames engulfed its decks. Fighting had broken out between the crews, with the Reapers turning their massive vortex projectors on members of their own squadron.
‘The future belongs to the aeldari!’ The cry came over the command network. An unknown dracon, commanding his own men to turn on the loyalists. Throughout the fleet, those who had heard the whispered entreaty tugging at their hearts for weeks finally committed to its call.
For a moment, father and son stared at one another across the deck. The forces of the Bladed Lotus were in turmoil. Half of them floundered, unsure whether to attack Naeddre’s forces or continue assaulting the Ynnari, not realising the two were now the same. A few dracons, believing a coordinated coup was underway, had chosen to support one of the sons rather than the father, and had struck K’Shaic’s banner in favour of Naeddre or Qeine’s colours instead. The Ynnari shared a much greater unity of purpose. The Commorrites who flew Naeddre’s banner they largely left alone, turning their fury on those still bearing the purple-on-steel pennant of K’Shaic’s Bladed Lotus.
The ancient archon crossed the dais in an instant, his blades scissoring at his son’s neck. Naeddre gave ground, unable to do anything but defend against the feral attacks of his father. K’shaic’s strength and savagery was born of desperation; he knew as well as Naeddre that whoever won their duel would win the loyalty of the majority of the kabal, and would carry the day.
Naeddre turned and ran straight for the prow of the barque, as though to hurl himself from the side. His father pursued, his wrath stoked to full blaze. Naeddre leapt, kicked off the highest point of the railing, and flipped backwards over his father’s headlong charge. All it would take was a single kick to send his father tumbling into a fatal fall. As he flipped overhead, the surgesabre clipped his shoulder, slicing a slight nick in his flesh.
Naeddre crashed to the deck, skidding to the opposite rail. His limbs wouldn’t work. All he could do was shake; every joint tried to clench and unclench at the same time. He could taste blood, ground his jaw hard enough to hear his teeth crack beneath the strain.
K’shaic stalked towards his son, pointing the blade at his wayward child. Naeddre’s head, held aloft for all to see, would put the challenge of the Ynnari to rest with unambiguous finality.
The archon’s chest burst apart, as a lance of black energy tore through him. K’shaic stared down in wrathful ignorance. Steaming, charred flesh ringed the wound. The archon turned to see Evaeline standing at the foot of the forecastle. She held Naeddre’s blast pistol in a two-handed grip.
‘The future belongs to the aeldari,’ she said.
She didn’t pause to help Naeddre up, returning instead to the pilot’s console. Naeddre staggered to his feet and stumbled to the command dais. His limbs still twitched from the electrical fury the sabre had unleashed on him, but he fought through the tics and tremors with sheer willpower.
‘The fortress belongs to the Ynnari,’ he rasped, his voice harsh. Even his throat had suffered the ravages of K’shaic’s sabre.
The proclamation was unnecessary. Many of the purple-on-steel banners were cut down, replaced by the pink-on-black of Naeddre’s own banner. The Raiders, Venoms and Ravagers that had not struck the colours of K’Shaic’s Bladed Lotus still fought, but for escape, not for victory. All that remained was to consolidate his forces.
Naeddre tapped the controls of the command dais, then stared in confusion. Qeine’s forces were moving in the opposite direction. As if in answer to his confusion, his brother’s voice cut over the communication network.
‘K’Shaic is dead,’ his brother said. ‘Long live Archon Qeine, ruler of the Amaranth Spire and leader of the Kabal of the Bladed Lotus!’
‘Damn it,’ said Naeddre, restricting the communication to Qeine alone. ‘Brother, listen to me – there’s a chance for something better. We don’t have to do this.’ No answer came back. Over the open network, he could still hear Qeine posturing and issuing orders.
‘Excellency, what do we do?’ Evaeline had brought the barque to a hovering halt.
‘“Your grace” will still suffice,’ Naeddre said.
‘What do we do?’ The barque pilot repeated. Long years of service to his father before him had taught Evaeline to be task-oriented and unfazed by threats, sarcasm or torrents of gunfire.
‘We regroup,’ said Naeddre. ‘The corsairs of the Blackblood Nebula will be here tomorrow. We trade the goods in the port’s holds to secure passage out of here.’ He’d need to coordinate with Kysthene, if she still lived, to get the most out of the Labyrinthae. Eventually, he’d need a long-term plan. Raiding for supplies would be good, finding the bulk of the Ynnari would be better. Crusading to liberate more aeldari willing to fight for the future of their race, that seemed the most enticing.
Naeddre stood on the command dais, unmoving. The cowards who had fled for the Dark City were gone. The warriors, the Ynnari under his command, were rounding up the Commorrite loyalists they’d managed to capture. Many of the damaged ships could be repaired. Those who survived had their pick of equipment that could be scavenged from the dead. The hellion gangs were already scouring the wreckage far below, looking for weapons and other commodities to be bartered.
‘Are you injured, your grace?’
‘No,’ said Naeddre, ‘it’s just quieter than I expected.’
Evaeline said nothing. Naeddre knew she’d piloted the barque for decades, and had witnessed the raucous aftermath of the Bladed Lotus’ battles. She’d seen Naeddre and his brother boasting and threatening one another, laughing and lying as each recounted their own personal glories from the fight they’d just survived. They always claimed they were vying for K’Shaic’s favour, but their braggadocious stories often continued long after the old archon had lost interest.
Naeddre gripped the railing, his legs still unsteady after the surgesabre’s assault. There was an emptiness inside him. Not a devouring hole like the call of She-Who-Thirsts, or the gentle whisper of Ynnead. Just an emptiness. A pit where something had been lost, something that could never be replaced.
Still, it was the silence that hurt the worst.
PATH OF THE DARK ELDAR
by Andy Chambers
For millennia, Asdrubael Vect has ruled the dark city of Commorragh, crushing any who dare to cross him. His reach is long and his position unassailable… or so he thinks. In this novel trilogy, the backstabbing politics and twisted nature of the dark eldar is explored in grisly detail. So too is the twilight realm of Commorragh, making this a must-read for any fan of the Dark Eldar.
Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com
NO HONOUR AMONG VERMIN
C L Werner
C L Werner is known for his rip-roaring adventures in both the Mortal Realms and the World-That-Was. This time, Werner is commanding a murderous band of skaven as they undertake a near-impossible heist within enemy territory.
Fylch Tattertail is part of a team tasked with stealing a Chaos cult’s most prized possession – a daemon summoning bell. Now all he must do to succeed is survive a tide of blood-thirsty cultists, a scheming skaven warlock and crewmates whose daggers are never more than a whisker away from his turned back. If Fylch is lucky, he’ll escape with his life… If he’s really lucky, he might even get paid.
The pungent smell of incense was predominant, but there were underlying scents as well. Human scents. Odours of subjugation, anxiety and adoration. The stink of fear.
Fylch Tattertail’s whiskers twitched as his nose instinctively tried to draw more information from the air. He knew it was a futile effort. The walls of the tunnel were much too thick and the alcove much too high to discern much by scent. It was by visual inspection that the truth would be revealed.
The brown-furred skaven pawed about in the pouches woven into the inside of his thread-bare tunic. Fylch pulled out a motley assortment of oddments.
The skull of a weasel, the shiny carapace of a dried beetle, a rusty bolt of dubious importance, a gold coin badly scratched where it had been bitten, five buttons, a salted grot ear that looked a bit mouldy. Fylch let the litter of junk spill onto the tunnel floor. He didn’t need any of it. What he wanted was… He stopped fumbling about his tunic when he removed the blackened bit of warpblend. Steel infused with trace amounts of warpstone, the three-inch rod was etched with Queekish symbols invoking the Horned One’s protection. Fylch wasn’t so sure he accepted the merchant’s pitch about such divine defence, but he did know that the taste of warpblend on his tongue was a powerful stimulant, giving him a clarity and focus that was otherwise elusive.
Fylch scrambled up the last few steps to the top of the alcove. Slaves had spent several painstaking weeks excavating the secret stair and the little spy-perch at its top, working in absolute silence until their task was done. Fylch regretted it had been necessary to work them so hard – by the time the slaves were finished there hadn’t been much meat left on their bones. And Skowl Scorchpaw had been counting on the slaves to supplement the meagre rations the expedition had brought along.
Fylch shook his head and bit down harder on the warpblend. He was letting himself get distracted. He had to focus on the job ahead.
At the top of the alcove, Fylch found the brass-rimmed eyepiece jutting from the wall. Just a twinge of fear coursed through him as he pressed his face to the lens. He knew what he should expect to see; his biggest concern was that he’d be too late. If things had gone too far and the skaven had to wait for the next moon… Well, there weren’t any more slaves left to eat.
Peering through the lens, Fylch was afforded a bat’s-eye view of the chamber on the other side of the wall. He didn’t pretend to understand the complex arrangement of mirrors and mechanics that allowed the spy-scope to bring everything into view with such clarity. It was enough that the device worked the way it was supposed to work, something not always a certainty with Clan Skryre’s inventions.
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 28
