[Path of the Eldar 01] - Path of the Warrior

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “Then why do we not embrace this shared feeling?” Korlandril asked, stepping forward and taking Thirianna’s hands in his. Now it was her turn to pull away. She could not bring herself to look at him when she spoke.

  “If I indulge this passion with you, it would hold me back, perhaps trap me here as the Poet, forever writing my verses of love in secret.”

  “Then we stay together, Poet and Artist! What is so wrong with that?”

  “It is not healthy! You know that it is unwise to become trapped in ourselves. Our lives must be in constant motion, moving from one Path to the next, developing our senses of self and the universe. To overindulge leads to the darkness that came before. It attracts the attention of… Her. She Who Thirsts.”

  Korlandril shuddered at the mention of the Eldar’s Bane, even by euphemism. His waystone quivered with him, becoming chill to the touch. All that Thirianna said was true, enshrined in the teachings of the craftworlds; the whole structure of their society created to avoid a return to the debauchery and excesses that led to the Fall.

  But Korlandril did not care. It was stupid that he and Thirianna should be denied their happiness.

  “What we feel is not wrong! Since the founding of the craftworlds our people have loved and survived. Why should we be any different?”

  “You use the same arguments as Aradryan,” Thirianna admitted, turning on Korlandril. “He asked me to forget the Path and join him. Even if I had loved him I could not do that. I cannot do that with you. Though I have deep feelings for you, I would no more risk my eternal spirit for you than I would step out into the void of space and hope to breathe.”

  There were tears in her eyes, kept in check until now. “Please leave.”

  Korlandril’s anguish was all-consuming. Fear and wrath in equal measure tore through him, burning along his veins, churning in his mind. Dropping beneath it all was a deep pit of shadow and despair, down which he felt himself falling. Korlandril wanted to faint but held himself upright, forcing himself to breathe deeply. The serpent inside him wound itself tight around every organ and bone, crushing the life from him, filling him with a physical pain.

  “I cannot help you,” Thirianna said, staring with misery at the anguish being played out in Korlandril’s actions. “I know you are in pain, but it will pass.”

  “Pain?” spat Korlandril. “What do you know of my pain?”

  His whole psyche screamed in torment, honed by his practice as an Artist, thrashing for expression. There was no outlet for all of the pent-up frustration; passes upon passes of suppressing his emotions for Thirianna threatened to erupt. Korlandril was simply not mentally equipped to unleash the torrent of rage that whirled inside him. There was no dream he could go to for solace; no sculpture he could create to excise the pain; no physical sensation he could indulge to replace the agony that wracked his spirit. Incandescent, his waystone was white hot on his chest.

  Violence welled up inside Korlandril. He wanted to strike Thirianna for being so selfish and shortsighted.

  He wanted to draw blood, to let his pain flow out of deep wounds and wash away the anger. Most of all he wanted something else to feel the agony, to share in the devastation.

  Wordless, Korlandril fled, his anger swept around by a vortex of fear at what he had unleashed within himself. He stumbled out onto the walkway and stared up into the endless heavens, tears streaming down his face, his heart thundering.

  He needed help. Help to quench the fire that was now raging in his mind.

  REJECTION

  In the time before the War in Heaven, before even the coming of the eldar, the gods schemed their schemes and planned their plans, engaging in an eternal game of deceit and love, treachery and teasing. Kurnous, Lord of the Hunt, was the lover of Lileath of the Moon, and they enjoyed both the blessing of Almighty Asuryan and the friendship of the other gods; save for Kaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One, who desired Lileath for himself. He craved her not for her beauty, which was immortal, nor for her playful wit, which made friends of all the other gods. Khaine desired the Moon Goddess simply because she had chosen Kurnous. Khaine endeavoured to impress her with his martial skills, but Lileath was unimpressed. He composed odes to woo her but his poems were ever crude, filled with the desire to conquer and possess.

  Lileath would not be owned by any other. Frustrated, Khaine went to Asuryan and demanded that Lileath be given to him. Asuryan told Khaine that he could not take Lileath by force, and that if he could not win her heart he could not have her. Enraged, Khaine vowed that if he could not possess Lileath then no other would. Khaine took up his sword, the Widowmaker, the Slayer of Worlds, and cut a rent in the void. He snatched up Lileath by the ankle and cast her into the rift in the stars, where her light could no longer shine. For a thousand days the heavens were dark until Kurnous, brave and resourceful, dared the blackness of the rift and rescued Lileath so that her light would return to the universe.

  It took some time for Korlandril to restore a small measure of equilibrium. Ashamed and desperate, he hid himself amongst the trees of the Dome of Midnight Forests, no longer weeping or growling. Korlandril detached himself from his physical processes, allowing them to continue without his intervention, losing all sense of sight and touch, smell and hearing. To isolate himself in such a way was a legacy of the Path of Dreaming, shut off entirely from outside stimuli. He was locked up with his own thoughts with no distraction, but resisted the urge to plunge into a memedream and forget everything. On the Path of Awakening he had learnt to divide his attention in the opposite direction, locking away conscious thought, concentrating purely on sensation and response.

  The two Paths had complemented well his choice to become an Artist, but now they left him vulnerable. His experience as an adult had been directed towards compartmentalising and controlling his interaction with the world; later, as Korlandril the Sculptor, he had been a conduit for creative expression, turning thought into deed. Now his thoughts were bleak, bloody even, and he could not express them.

  Sorting through his impressions and memories, Korlandril tried to make sense of what had happened. He did not understand what had broken the emotional dam that had kept his darker feelings in check. He could not find an answer. Disturbed, he was not sure what questions needed answering. He knew that he could not let these thoughts run rampant, nor could he act upon them. That would be to embrace the mayhem and indulgence that had brought about the Fall.

  Korlandril thought for a moment of finding an infinity terminal and contacting Abrahasil. He dismissed the notion. He was in no state to be interacting with the infinity circuit. His emotional instability would be sure to attract attention of the wrong kind, if it didn’t do any actual harm to him or the circuit. Even if he could muster enough self-control to navigate the circuit properly, Abrahasil would not be able to help him. This was not some dilemma of form or sensation, or even one of expression. Korlandril simply could not comprehend why he had become so distressed, and why that distress was manifesting itself in such a destructive manner.

  Amidst the maelstrom of his thoughts, Korlandril’s attention was brought to a small matter that needed resolving. A thought-cycle demanded his attention, a future-memory yet to be experienced. Korlandril analysed it and was reminded of the appointment he had made with Arthuis and Maerthuin. He linked the reminder with a memory and cycled them together with his current feelings. He encountered a shock of recognition, drawing on what he had seen, or rather not seen, in the blank stares of his friends while they had been wearing their war-masks. The deadness that was there, an expression devoid of shock, guilt, shame or remorse.

  If anybody could help him understand the turbulence that so unbalanced him now, it would be the Aspect Warriors.

  The Crescent of the Dawning Ages curved out from the starward rim of Alaitoc, bathed in the glow of Mirianathir. The kilometres-long balcony was covered by an arching vault of subtly mirrored material that dimly reflected the patrons below, blending their visual simulacra w
ith the ruddy light of the star to paint an ever-moving scene across the heavens.

  The new cycle was just beginning and there were many eldar sat at the tables along the balcony or moving between them and the food bars on the inward side. They ate fruits from the orchards and breakfasted on spiced meats brought back by traders with the Exodite worlds. Drinks of all colours, some luminescent, others effervescent, were dispensed from tall, slender urns or arranged in rows of glittering bottles, regularly replenished by those walking the Path of Service. A dampening field kept the conversation quiet, though there were thousands of voices raised in greeting and debate, departure and conciliation.

  One area was sparsely populated, the other eldar leaving an indistinct but noticeable gap between themselves and the patrons that sat at the long benches there. Here were the Aspect Warriors, shorn of their warpaint, together in quiet contemplation.

  Korlandril approached cautiously. Even after much meditation and calming mantras, he was still jittery from his recent experience. His nervousness was not helped by the stares of the other eldar as he crossed the pale blue floor, heading towards the Aspect Warriors.

  He stopped and poured himself a glass of dawn-water and leaned against the curving counter top as he scanned the assembled Aspect Warriors looking for his friends.

  A hand was raised in welcome and Korlandril recognised Arthuis. On his left sat Maerthuin. Around them were several other eldar that Korlandril did not know. They sat with thin platters on their laps, picking at finger food, their voices quiet. Space was made on the bench opposite his friends and Korlandril sat down, agitated by the presence of so many warriors.

  “Greetings of the new cycle to you,” said Maerthuin. “Are you not hungry?”

  “I’d skin and eat a narboar if I could,” said Arthuis. His plate was heaped with food and he broke off speaking to cram a handful of scented grains into his mouth.

  “This is Elissanadrin,” said Maerthuin, indicating the female eldar sat to his left. She was perhaps eighty or ninety passes old, almost twice Korlandril’s age. Her cheeks were prominent, angular, and her nose thin and pointed. When she turned and smiled at Korlandril, her movements were precise, every gesture clearly defined and a little abrupt. She paused as she sensed the identity of the newcomer.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Korlandril the Sculptor,” Elissanadrin said. Her tone was as clipped as her motion.

  Korlandril opened a palm in greeting. Other introductions were made: Fiarithin, a male just out of puberty; Sellisarin, a tall, older eldar male; others whose names and features Korlandril stored away for future reference.

  “There is something different about you, Korlandril,” said Arthuis, placing his empty plate on a shelf underneath the bench. “I sense something aggrieves you.”

  “It is hard not to feel your agitation,” added Maerthuin. “Perhaps you are uncomfortable with your company.”

  Korlandril looked around at the Aspect Warriors. On the face of it, they appeared no different to any other eldar. Without their war-masks on, they were each individual. Some were obviously distressed, others animated, most thoughtful.

  “I do not wish to intrude,” said Korlandril. His eyes strayed to one of the warriors, an old female who sat weeping, comforted by her companions. “I know that recently there was a battle.”

  Arthuis followed Korlandril’s gaze and shook his head disconsolately.

  “Several of us were lost. We mourn their passing, but their spirits were saved,” said Elissanadrin. There were approving nods from others at the benches.

  “I shall compose a verse to commemorate their time with us,” said Arthuis.

  “I wept like a babe when I unmasked,” Maerthuin admitted with a lopsided smile. “I think I shall miss Neamoriun the most. He was a good friend and a gifted singer.”

  The name flickered with recognition and Korlandril remembered attending a concert in the Dome of Enchanting Echoes.

  “I saw him perform,” said Korlandril, wishing to add something to the conversation. “He sang the Lay of Ulthanesh.”

  “That was his favourite,” Arthuis chuckled. “It is no surprise that he joined the Fire Dragons, so full of energy and excitable of temperament.”

  “It was only last pass that I saw him, I did not realise he was a Fire Dragon,” said Korlandril.

  “One cannot fight all of the time,” said Maerthuin. This appeared to remind him of something and he looked at Korlandril. “I am sorry that I missed the unveiling of your statue. I will visit it later this cycle.”

  A flicker of agitation disturbed Korlandril as he recalled his memories of the event, his disagreement with Aradryan marring an otherwise perfect evening. The others sensed his disquiet.

  “I was right, something is amiss,” said Arthuis. “I cannot think that your work was anything other than spectacular.”

  “I had a friend who thought otherwise.”

  There were whispers of concern and Korlandril realised he had used not only the past form of friend, but one used to refer to those that were dead. It was a slip of the tongue, but betrayed something deeper. Korlandril was quick to correct himself.

  “He has left Alaitoc to become a ranger,” he said, making a reassuring gesture. “It has been difficult, I saw him only briefly. He is still with us, though I do not think our friendship has survived.”

  “It is Aradryan of whom you speak?” asked Maerthuin. Korlandril nodded.

  “I always thought Aradryan was a bit strange,” confided Arthuis. “I half-expected to wake each cycle and discover that he had taken the starwalk.”

  Korlandril was shocked. To suggest that another eldar would take their life was one of the crudest notions he had heard. Arthuis laughed at Korlandril’s distaste.

  “I know that he was your friend, but he was always far too distant,” said Arthuis. “It does not surprise me at all that he’s become a ranger. I have always sensed something of the radical about him.”

  “I knew him well and sensed no such thing,” argued Korlandril.

  “Sometimes the things that are closest to us are the hardest to see,” said Maerthuin. “I can sense that you would prefer not to talk about it, so we will change the subject. How is Thirianna, I see she has not come with you?”

  The glass shattered into splinters in Korlandril’s hand. As one, many of the Aspect Warriors turned their attention to him, a sudden silence descending as they sensed a wave of anger flowing from the sculptor. There was concern in the eyes of several.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” asked Elissanadrin, leaning forward to look at Korlandril’s hand. He examined his fingers and palm and found no blood.

  “I am unhurt,” he said stiffly and made to stand. Arthuis gently but insistently grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.

  “You are trembling,” said the Aspect Warrior and Korlandril realised it was true. He felt a tic under his right eye and his hands were clenched in fists.

  “I am…” Korlandril began, but he could not finish the sentence. He did not know what he was. He was frustrated. He was saddened. Most of all, he was angry.

  “Our friend is irritable, it would seem,” said Maerthuin. “Is there a problem with Thirianna?”

  Korlandril could not reply. Every time he turned his mind to Thirianna his thoughts folded in on themselves, sending him crashing back into the pit of anger that had swallowed him. The snake within had coiled itself through every part of his body and would not let go, no matter how hard he tried to push it back.

  “It is Khaine’s curse,” said Sellisarin, intrigued. He reached out a hand towards Korlandril’s brow, but the sculptor pulled back.

  “Don’t touch me!” Korlandril snarled.

  Sellisarin made soothing sounds and moved closer, meeting Korlandril’s gaze.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the Aspect Warrior, again reaching out his hand.

  Korlandril writhed as the serpent whipped and wriggled inside, urging him to lash out. He raised his hand
s defensively instead, warding away Sellisarin’s attention.

  “Leave me in peace,” he sobbed. “I’ll… I’ll deal with this in my own way.”

  “You cannot find peace on your own,” said Elissanadrin, sitting next to Korlandril. “The hand of Khaine has reached into you and awoken that which dwells within all of us. You cannot ignore this. If it does not destroy you, it could harm others.”

  Korlandril looked pleadingly at Maerthuin. His friend nodded silently, affirming what Elissanadrin had said.

  “This is part of you, part of every eldar,” said Arthuis. “It is not a judgement, not something that brings you shame.”

  “Why now?” moaned Korlandril. “Why has this happened now?”

  “You must learn to understand your fear and your anger before you can control them,” said Maerthuin. “Always they have been with you, but we hide them so well. Now you must bring them into the light and confront them. Your rage is growing in power over you. It is not something you can fight, for such desires fuel themselves. Nor can you expunge them from your spirit, no more than you can stop breathing. It is part of you and always will be. All you can do now is find the means by which you can contain it, turn its energy elsewhere.”

  “And keep it contained when it is not needed,” added Arthuis.

  Shuddering, Korlandril took a deep breath and looked at the faces around him. They showed concern, not fear. He was surrounded by bloody-handed murderers, who not more than a few cycles ago had slain and mutilated other creatures. Yet he was the one that was weighed down by his anger; he was the one who felt a bottomless hatred. How was it that they could indulge that dark part of their nature and yet stay sane?

  “I do not know what to do,” said Korlandril, slumping forwards with his head in his hands.

  “Yes you do, but you are afraid to admit it,” said Arthuis. Korlandril looked at his friend, not daring to speak. “You must come to terms with Khaine’s legacy.”