Wait. There is something that you must know.
* * * * *
Saulh pointed at the main viewscreen on the control deck of the Litany of Fury and said nothing. Words were redundant.
“By the Throne, sergeant,” muttered Captain Ulantus. “What in Vidya’s name is happening to that star?”
A constellation of sunspots was clustered near the star’s equator. They were black against the radioactive radiance of the sun, but they appeared to shift and shimmer, as though possessing their own power. Massive fiery storms were raging around the perimeter of the star, spilling fountains of thermal radiation and superheated hydrogen through the orbits of the inner planets of the Lorn system. Lorn I was already beginning to die, as its atmosphere started to bleed away under the onslaught, leaving the rocky surface of the planet exposed to the rain of fire and radiation. Its colour was gradually shifting towards an inferno of orange, even as the star began to swell and its colour darkened towards red.
“It’s dying, captain.”
“I can see that, Saulh. But how, why?”
“We can’t tell. All the probes indicate that it is well within the average lifespan for a star of this size and constituency. Something appears to be draining it of energy, literally bleeding it dry.”
“What about the aliens?” Ulantus’ mind leapt immediately to suspicion.
“The eldar? Their vessels have not moved, captain. And we can detect no connections between them and the star.”
“Where is the energy drain focussed?”
“On the far side of the sun, captain. We should be able to see it shortly, when the orbit of Lorn V swings us around the next sector of the ellipse.”
“I’m not sure that we should wait that long, sergeant. Bring the engines on line. Let’s take a look.”
“As you wish, captain,” replied Saulh, nodding a signal to one of the serfs at the main control bank.
As the image on the viewscreen began to move, reflecting the sudden motion of the Litany of Fury, the picture began to snow and disassemble. Interference patterns hissed across the image, breaking up the picture until it was hardly discernable.
“Sergeant?” prompted Ulantus, waiting for an explanation or a solution.
“Working on it, captain. It looks as though—”
Saulh’s voice was cut off by a loud squeal of static and feedback that resounded around the control deck. At the same time, the image on the viewscreen flickered and then snapped into focus, showing the porcelain face of the eldar farseer once again. “Captain Ulantus,” nodded Macha, making a visible effort to remember and pronounce his name.
“Alien,” replied Ulantus, his irritation obvious. “Your timing is terrible. You are interfering with the Litany’s viewers. Desist at once.”
Macha’s face was untroubled by the captain’s words. She ignored him as though his protests were utterly insignificant. “You must realise your failure, human. The yngir are returning. Look to the star. They draw its strength into themselves, waiting to be reborn into the materium.”
“We destroyed the necron fleet, alien. Had any of them survived, your own kin would have confirmed this.”
“No, not destroyed. The yngir are not a foe that can be destroyed with the weapons of mon-keigh. The silvering hordes return and return until they are put to death by the spear of Khaine, or by the wraith blades of Vaul himself. Where is Gabriel?”
Ulantus growled. “Sergeant, kill this connection. We have more important things to worry about than the rantings of an alien witch. Captain Angelos may place his faith in these creatures, but I will place mine in the Great Father, in the Emperor’s light, and in the righteous bombardment cannons of this battle-barge.
“Kill this connection and bring us around to the far side of the sun; let’s see what is really happening with our own eyes.”
Snapping the oversized book of charts shut, Ahriman rose abruptly to his feet as the rest of the Prodigal Sons burst through the doors into the librarium. Quickly scanning the piles of books that had been discarded onto the floor by the side of the desk, he reached down and extracted one other tome before turning to address his Marines, who had rapidly arrayed themselves into formation before him.
I stood to one side, watching the scene unfold like an observer of a piece of theatre.
“Brothers,” he began, with a broad smile playing over his shifting, ghostly features. “This is a reckoning day. We have searched for this world for many centuries, following the leads left for us by the treacherous and devious minds of the aliens in their vulgar and misconceived tomes of poorly directed knowledge. And now we are presented with an embarrassment of riches as reward for our diligence and intellectual labour. Here, in this hand,” he said, raising the large book of webway charts, “I hold the key to our final destination. And here, in the other hand,” he added, holding up the Legend of Lanthrilaq, “I hold the encrypted directions to the location of the last of the Blade Wraiths of Vaul. This is the day when Ahriman and his Prodigal Sons will finally take the knowledge and the power for which we have been searching, for which we have been dying, for which we have been killing. Neither the effete Harlequin guardians nor the misguided Blood Ravens can prevent this now.” The last words were directed towards me, and I nodded in affirmation, believing them to be true.
“My lord,” asked one of the sorcerer-Marines. I recognised him as Obysis, the one sent by Ahriman to recover the book of webway charts. “Do we have time to achieve both goals? Should we not merely choose the greater and concentrate on that? Once we have found the Black Library, will not the blade of Lanthrilaq pale into insignificance? The Blood Ravens draw near,” he added, casting a furtive and untrusting glance at me.
“It is always good to ask questions, Obysis,” smiled Ahriman with menace glinting off his phantom teeth. “Questions are the ground-spring of knowledge, after all. But it is usually unwise to question me. Do you question me, Obysis, sorcerer of Ahriman’s cabal?”
“I… I do not question your intentions, Lord Ahriman. I merely ask about the possibility of success.”
“So you question my judgement? Is that it?”
Obysis hesitated visibly, unsure whether this was the kind of contestation that Ahriman would reward or punish. He decided, wisely, to err on the side of caution. “No, my lord. Your judgement is superior to my own, which is why you are Ahriman and I remain Obysis.”
“Yes, Obysis, greater power is the result of greater knowledge. Let that be your lesson for today, and let mine be the recovery of the Blade Wraith and the discovery of the Black Library. We have come too far to let either of these slip through our fingers now. When there is power hidden in knowledge, then I will make it mine: the sword of Lanthrilaq will be in these hands before we leave Arcadia!”
If knowledge is worth anything, it is worth dying for. The thoughts came unbidden to my mind.
I will not be dying today—but a few other deaths would be a price that Ahriman could afford to pay.
“And it is worth killing for,” grinned Ahriman, glancing at Obysis with mock subtlety. Then he turned and strode out of the librarium, with the Prodigal Sons falling into formation behind him. Before I could think about what to do, I found myself being swept along with them.
An explosion from far below told us that the Blood Ravens had broken through the security doors at the base of the tower.
* * * * *
The grand amphitheatre of Arcadia was alive with motion. In the centre of the stage, Eldarec, the Great Harlequin, had established a podium on which he had prominently displayed the sword of Lanthrilaq, so that it could be clearly seen from even the very highest of the balconies.
A gentle music had already begun to resound reassuringly through the stonework of the ancient arena, and the chorus troupers were already in place in the pit under the stage, singing and chanting the earliest stages of the mythic cycle, The Death and Re-Birth of Hope.
The stage itself was teeming with Harlequins, each rushing to prepare
the props and trap-doors that would be required for their individual performances in the forthcoming play. The margorachs, Death Jesters, dashed for their emplacements, letting their dathedi fields cycle and flicker through the various masks that they would have to don during the performance, settling eventually into the visage of death itself. The distaur, the mimes, flipped and somersaulted around the back of the stage, preparing their supple bodies for the contortions and exertions that would soon be required of them.
At the same time, the athesdan, the high warlock, flicked his mask to the image of the great story-teller, a distant echo of the face of the Laughing God himself, and positioned himself in amongst a cadre of esdainn, the warlocks who would support his telling of the story with resonating voices to fill out the sound, and with moments of magic to show the wizardry of the theatre.
Only Eldarec himself sat in silence and inactivity. He had positioned himself at the very front of the stage, with his legs hanging down into the chorus pit below. He had never played the Laughing God in this mythic cycle before, and he was mulling the risks in his mind. Any performance that involved so many of the rillietann was potentially hazardous for his sanity, since he had to hold the entire play in his mind, directing the action as it unfolded. But The Death and Re-Birth of Hope involved players from outside his control—creatures from beyond the reaches of Arcadia, mammals that had no sensitivities for the artistry of the sons of Isha or the spawn of Cegorach. The risk was considerable, but death was a price worthy of high art.
Up in the balconies, more troupers had positioned themselves in amongst the mannequins, giving the impression that the amphitheatre was full of eyes. They had adjusted their dathedi-fields to project images of the mannequins themselves, so that the living and inanimate members of the audience were indistinguishable—each of them grinning in sinister anticipation. At some point during the performance, Eldarec knew that the troupers in the audience would have a role to play. It was the way with all the best shows: the audience doesn’t realise that it is part of a fabrication until it is too late to escape from it. Art, reality and death are the perfect blend.
“They are coming!” The voice echoed down from one of the highest balconies as one of the look-outs spotted the approaching mon-keigh.
“And so begins the play of our time,” said Eldarec, springing to his feet and turning in a slow circle so as to address every soul in the amphitheatre. “And like the best of all beginnings, this one commences in darkness.”
With that, the stage blinked into emptiness, as though all of the troupers had suddenly vanished. All that was visible was the slight electric shimmer of dozens of dathedi fields shielding the Harlequins from the light. In the audience, only the mannequins were still visible.
With Eldarec apparently alone at the front of the stage, the house lights went out.
Karebennian’s movements were slow and deliberate compared with those that Gabriel had seen in the ice cave on Lorn V. It was as though he were speaking very slowly, for a foreigner or a slow-witted fool. His body shifted and flowed under the radiant, red spotlight in the ornate and breathless hall, twisting into impossible contortions. Then suddenly his body seemed to explode, shedding fragments of light in all directions, like a rain of silver, making the Blood Ravens step backwards, instinctively moving out of range.
Each of the silvered fragments planted itself like a seed into the flagstones, before taking root and growing into recognisable shapes. After only a few seconds, a dozen silvering necron warriors shimmered into being, each of them swaying in sympathy with the movements of the Solitaire. But then Karebennian swirled into a vortex, transforming his image almost beyond recognition. His shape cycled through the appearances of several eldar heroes, with every one of them hacking out towards the silvering horde with blades and spears, until his form finally fixed on that of Lanthrilaq the Swift.
At the same time, the cavernous space within the great hall shifted and pulsed, as though the Solitaire’s performance were eliciting sympathy from the building itself, drawing in the inanimate surroundings with the magical captivation of his solitary performance. The walls appeared to move and morph, taking on the shape of tiered seating, stands, and balconies, until the great hall appeared transformed into an intimate amphitheatre, with Karebennian alone on the stage in the midst of a battle with the silver host.
The Blood Ravens reeled, turning on their heels, struggling to make sense of the shifting sensory data around them. But Karebennian continued to draw their attention, holding them in his thrall while he flipped and swooped through the combat postures of the legendary, tragic hero.
Finally, having slain a number of the ancient enemies, Lanthrilaq lay dying on the flagstones, bathed in the blood-red shower of light. His blade fell dramatically from his hands as he collapsed to the ground, turning over and over in slow motion, as though art were working against the force of gravity.
It clattered against the stone, chipping and splintering its already imperfect shape, splashing into a pool of Lanthrilaq’s blood.
The Blood Ravens stared at the fallen sword, momentarily unable to take their eyes from it. Enchanted by the power of tragedy, and by the sudden on-rush of hope that the existence of the flawed blade represented for the future.
“The Blade Wraith of Lanthrilaq,” muttered Jonas.
His words shattered the illusion, bringing the other Blood Ravens back into the cold, stone, great hall. The amphitheatre was gone, as were the silvering hordes of the necron.
Looking up from the image of the broken blade, Gabriel searched for Karebennian, his mind riddled with questions and awe, but the Solitaire had vanished too. When he looked back down into the pool of red light at the base of the shaft, Gabriel saw that the sword had gone. The Blood Ravens stood alone in the cavernous hall once again.
An explosion from the shadows to one side of the hall told them that Ephraim’s attempts to open the doors had failed, and that Tanthius had succeeded. “Quietly is better, but open is better than closed,” mused Gabriel to himself.
Collecting his thoughts, Gabriel turned to his squad. “We need to find that amphitheatre,” he said, striding off towards the tower of the librarium.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: DEATH AND REBIRTH
The star was bleeding.
As the Litany of Fury powered around a tight solar-orbit, it rapidly brought the far side of the sun into view. Tendrils of gleaming matter were questing out from its gyring form, and the rotation of the massive sun was slowing visibly. Huge sunspots speckled its fiery surface, but each appeared to be riddled with tiny stars, as though they were actually holes through the substance of the sun itself, revealing the space beyond. Infernos of solar storms erupted from the star’s surface, throwing radiation and fire out into the Lorn system, bathing the floating wreckage and debris with heat and reactive energy.
The snaking tendrils of starlight whipped and lashed into the vacuum, filling it with streaks of silvering light. After a while, the questing tendrils seemed to latch on to flecks of debris, cracking into them and filling them with iridescence. Even as Ulantus watched the main viewscreen on the control deck of the Litany of Fury, he saw the apparent debris flare and catch, reforming into recognisable shapes, as though flicking back into life. After a few more moments, he could see the distant specks flash with power as their engines came back online. The immobilised necron vessels seemed to be drawing power directly from the sun, bleeding it dry so that they might live again.
With the viewscreen magnifying the distant image, Ulantus checked the images against the vessel-categorisation charts just to be certain, and he could see that perhaps ten or fifteen of the smaller, Dirge-class raiders were already back in motion. A couple of slightly larger Jackals had come online, and all the raiders were spiralling around a group of crescent-shaped Shroud-class cruisers, which remained dark and lifeless, despite the arcs of lightning that poured energy into the pyramidal structures that encrusted their surfaces.
“Sergeant,” said U
lantus with a calmness that belied his internal turmoil. “See whether you can contact the Ravenous Spirit. Tell Captain Angelos that his presence is required in the Lorn system. Code your message ‘imperative’.”
“As you wish, captain,” answered Saulh, nodding briskly and turning to leave.
“And Saulh,” continued Ulantus, as though reluctant to voice the next sentence. “If you can match their frequency, try to raise the eldar vessels. We may need their help.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Then get back to the Rage of Erudition and prepare it for battle. Let us hope that repairs have been completed since our last encounter with these cursed necron. We will need all the firepower we can muster.
“Gunnery. Target torpedoes and bombardment canons onto one of the Shrouds. Fire when ready. And keep firing until there is nothing left.
“Helm. Keep us on this course. The closer we can get, the more damage our heavy weapons will do.”
The amphitheatre was shrouded in darkness and quiet as we entered. Ahriman paused for a moment at the side of the stage, keeping us arranged behind him, and looked up around the balconies. He muttered a few words of power and a reddish glow erupted from his Black Staff, filling the arena with a moody and bloody light.
All around the stage, tiers of seats and balconies rose up towards the invisibly distant ceiling. There must have been room for an audience of tens of thousands.
Staring up into the stands as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I thought I could see hundreds of eyes staring back at me. Hundreds of half-hidden figures sat in the balconies, their eyes glinting and their teeth sparkling in the suggestions of grins. Before I could process the image properly, a bank of spotlights clunked and then hummed into life, blasting bright white light down onto the stage and dazzling us, forcing us to turn away from the audience and shade our eyes for a moment.
[Dawn of War 03] - Tempest Page 27
