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

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  The exarch betrayed nothing of his thoughts. There was neither praise nor condemnation in his expression. The pride Korlandril had felt in his performance evaporated quickly under that inscrutable stare.

  “You have now begun, the Path continues onwards, you must follow it.”

  Korlandril dared a glance towards the shuriken pistol on the wall, and then looked back at the exarch. Kenainath gave one shake of the head and pointed at the chainsword in Korlandril’s hand.

  “First master the claw, the venomous bite comes next, the sting is the last.”

  Korlandril licked his dry lips and nodded. He returned to the centre of the chamber and took up Claw from Shadow. The chainsword responded to his urging before he had so much as twitched a muscle and within moments he was moving again.

  For the following cycles Korlandril trained in isolation, until Kenainath was convinced that he could spar with the other Striking Scorpions without undue danger to them or himself. After twenty-three cycles, the exarch informed Korlandril that he was ready to train armed with the other warriors. Kenainath took his warrior-acolyte to a grove not far from the shrine and gestured for Korlandril to seat himself on a moss-covered log.

  “What of history, the tale of the scorpion, can you tell to me?” Kenainath asked. “What myths have you heard, of Karandras and Arhra, the first of our kind?”

  Korlandril raked his fingers through his hair as he remembered what he could.

  “Asurmen was the first, the creator of the Path of the Warrior,” he said. “I guess it was Asurmen that discovered how to don the war-mask. He founded the first shrine and gathered disciples to teach, Arhra amongst them, the Father of Scorpions. Some dark fate befell Arhra, of which I do not know the story, and his greatest pupil Karandras took up the mantle and spread the teachings of the Striking Scorpion.”

  “That is true enough, the briefest account of it, but you should know more,” replied Kenainath, crouching opposite his pupil, his eyes intent. “Arhra fell from grace, touched by the dark of Chaos, and betrayed his kin. He turned on the rest, brought daemons to the First Shrine, hungry for power. The Asurya, the first exarchs of the Path, fought against Arhra. They lost the battle, scattered to the distant stars, and Arhra escaped. He strayed from the Path, consumed by his ambition, and found new pupils. His teachings are wrong, a perversion of the Path, the Fallen Phoenix. It is a great wrong, one that we cannot forgive, the worst betrayal. Karandras hunts him, across the stars and webway, for retribution.”

  “Arhra still lives? The tale of the Fallen Phoenix was mixed up with the other myths of the Fall. Not even the eldar had such long lives.”

  “Who can say for sure, in the warp and the webway, time passes strangely.” Kenainath sighed and his expression was sad, a stark change from his usual indifference or hostility. “Keep true to the Path, heed Karandras’ teachings, remain Korlandril.”

  “Have there been others?” Korlandril asked fearfully. “Warriors that follow the Path of the Fallen Phoenix?”

  “Not from my pupils, I have guided them all well, taught them properly,” said Kenainath as he straightened quickly. The exarch’s familiar stern expression returned. “Go back to the shrine, tomorrow you fight proper, tonight you must rest.”

  Dismissed, Korlandril walked slowly back beneath the dismal bowers of the trees to the shrine building wondering why the exarch had chosen that moment to reveal the truth about the founding of the Striking Scorpions. As the lights of the shrine dimmed for the night portion of the cycle, Korlandril lay awake pondering what the following cycle would bring.

  He woke early, full of nervous energy. The shrine was still swathed in twilight and he swiftly pulled on a loose robe and left his solitary dormitory, feeling confined by its walls. In the gloom outside, the swamp was quiet save for the first chattering of the jade-toads. He took a deep breath, accustomed now to the humidity and heat, though he was far from thinking his present environs were his home.

  With that, his thoughts turned to the rest of Alaitoc, as they usually did when he was left with time to think. It was with only a barely intellectual interest that he thought of Thirianna. She was probably upon the Path of the Seer by now. Though it had been a short time, barely a blink in the life of an eldar, that moment when his inner anger had been unleashed by her dismissal seemed distant. Irrelevant. His struggle was not with Thirianna, or Aradryan, or any other eldar. It was with himself.

  His body and mind were being perfected for one thing—to slay other living creatures. The thought caused him to shudder. Today he would face one of the other members of the Deadly Shadow, but it would not be a fight to a death. It would be controlled, disciplined, ritualistic. Though he knew nothing of real war, he imagined it to be a desperate, harrowing maelstrom of courage and fear, action and blood. And in that anarchy of battle he would kill. He did not know when, or how, but as surely as he had not been an Artist until he had sculpted his first piece, he would not truly tread the Path of the Warrior until he killed his first foe.

  He did not know how he would bring himself to do it. Would it be taken out of his hands? An instinct of defence to protect his life? Would it be coldblooded, a pre-meditated slaying of another creature defined as an enemy of the Alaitocii by the farseers and autarchs?

  Korlandril realised that this was the war-mask Kenainath and the rest talked about. Only on one occasion had he been ready to strike out in anger, truly wishing harm on another individual; that cycle in the swamp, when rage and hate had combined into a moment of pure action. He tried to capture that instance again, but all of his tricks of memory failed him. In that heartbeat his entire being had been focussed on that one effort to hit Kenainath, and nothing else.

  For some time he wandered the pathways around the shrine, not straying too far. He knew the twisting trails as well as any other part of Alaitoc, their mysteries unveiled to him through Kenainath. He no longer feared his surroundings. More importantly, he knew that in overcoming his apprehension of this place he had steeled himself against future dread and doubts when confronted by the unknown and unknowable. He was self-aware enough to understand the process being awoken in him by the teachings of Kenainath, weaving layers of the war-mask that would, one day, emerge from within his spirit.

  The light was considerably brighter when a resounding chime sounded within the shrine, calling him back.

  It was Bechareth. He was armoured save for his helm, and carried his chainsword in an easy grip by his side. There was a tightness to his lips, and fire in his eyes, which spoke of his enthusiasm for the duel about to commence. He appeared relaxed in body, but his eyes were attentive, floating easily but with focus from Kenainath to Korlandril and back again.

  As he armoured himself, the mantra of Kenainath flowing through his veins, Korlandril’s anxiety slipped away. With each step he became Korlandril less, the Aspect of the Striking Scorpion taking his place. Part of his mind watched the rest with cold detachment, reminding him of the Seven Parrying Sweeps and the Four Rising Attacks. He knew nothing of Bechareth, had only witnessed him performing the practice rituals with the others. Would he be defensive or aggressive? Did he favour a particular style of attack? Korlandril realised that he did not even know how long Bechareth had been treading the Path of the Warrior. He made these observations coolly, without judgement or fear.

  He was also unsure of his own strategy. That Bechareth was more experienced seemed certain. Would Korlandril do better to confine himself to fight cautiously until he had more of a measure of his opponent? Or would that hand too much of the initiative to his adversary? Korlandril wondered if he would react well enough to whatever attacks Bechareth made. Part of him considered if the duel would even last more than a few heartbeats.

  That thought did bring with it a reaction: a stab of pride. Korlandril had worked hard to learn the fighting stances and the poses of attack and defence. Now was the time to demonstrate that he had learned well. He was determined to give a good account of himself.

  At
Kenainath’s wordless signal, the pair fell in behind the exarch as he led them down a winding ramp to a chamber deep below the pyramid of the shrine’s upper storeys. The others followed a little way behind the three of them, walking in single file, clothed only in the undersuits of their armour.

  The passageways had a rough, hard-worked surface that seemed odd to Korlandril. The part of him that had been an Artist recognised it for the affectation that it was; nothing on Alaitoc was anything but artificial. Yet the warrior part of Korlandril’s mind recognised what the change in surroundings represented. It was tradition, a warrior code that stretched back to the time of the Fall. A shrine dedicated to the teachings of the Striking Scorpion’s founder; or rather the teachings of the founder’s greatest pupil after his master fell to the darkness.

  The ambient light, such as there was in the shrine, was replaced by narrow, flickering tubes. There was pretence here, but one that Korlandril could understand. This was a reconstruction of that first shrine, created by Arhra after learning under the tuition of Asurmen. The Deadly Shadow, as all the other shrines on Alaitoc and the many other craftworlds, was not paying homage to the birthplace of its traditions, but trying to recreate them. Everything was now as it was then. What it was to be a Striking Scorpion had not changed in the thousands of passes that had gone by since that founding.

  All of this Korlandril was aware of, with the small critical eye at the back of his mind. The greater part of him, the bulk of his spirit that was now warrior, immersed itself in the atmosphere, heightening his anticipation for the coming duel.

  The ceiling was intentionally low, barring the two of them from leaving their feet or swinging their swords too high overhead. The floor was etched with a circle, not much wider than the space the two of them occupied, with the rune of the shrine at its centre. Korlandril knew that the duellists would not be allowed to leave the circle. This was a contest of skill at close confines, of control and precision, the foundation of the Striking Scorpion ethos.

  No rules had been explained to Korlandril, but he knew that there would be no actual contact, no risk of drawing blood or damage to the precious armour. He was not even sure this was a contest; he inferred as such from Kenainath’s next words.

  “This is not a test, a place to prove yourself, to you or to me,” intoned Kenainath, signalling the two warriors into the centre of the oval chamber. The exarch nodded for them to begin and stepped back into the shadows. The other Striking Scorpions watched silently from close to the wall.

  The pair shifted instantly, Korlandril assuming Leaf that Cuts, a defensive posture. Bechareth needed no encouragement and stepped forwards and to his left, chainsword humming towards the side of Korlandril’s head, the whirring blades stopping short by only the span of a hand.

  “Cut!” The word was muffled by the small chamber, coming from the throats of the others at the same time.

  Korlandril was taken aback by the speed of Bechareth’s attack. The two returned to their positions of repose, staring into each other’s eyes. There was intensity in Bechareth’s and Korlandril imagined his were the same. This was no war-mask; had it been, the last blow would have sliced off the top of Korlandril’s head and Bechareth would not have thought twice about it.

  They stood immobile for some time, neither willing to make the first move just yet. Korlandril shifted quickly into Cloud Turning to Storm, feinting high and then spinning low and driving his chainsword toward Bechareth’s stomach. His foe deflected the attack, flat of blade on flat of blade, knocking Korlandril sideways by a fraction. Through this miniscule opening, Bechareth stepped forwards again, the tip of his humming blade aimed at Korlandril’s throat.

  “Cut!” announced the onlookers.

  Bechareth stepped back, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

  Again and again the same pattern played out: Korlandril countering or attempting an attack, only for Bechareth to manoeuvre into a killing position within a few strokes.

  Korlandril shook his head, rapidly losing what confidence he had. It was one matter to execute the strikes and defences he had learnt against thin air, another to perform them against a target that was trying everything to misdirect and unbalance him. His mind, which he had never thought of as particularly slow, seemed unable to register Bechareth’s moves quickly enough; any response he might come up with was always too late.

  As they paused before their seventh exchange, a sensation of movement, perhaps the slightest sound of a footfall or a breath, caused Korlandril to whirl around, sword cutting the air. He stopped the blade just before it struck Kenainath’s outstretched arm. The exarch wore a pleased expression. He moved his gaze from the whirring teeth of the chainsword to Korlandril’s stare.

  “Do not consider, act without thought or feeling, no hesitation.”

  Korlandril understood the lesson, but as he turned to face Bechareth again, he was unsure how to implement the exarch’s teaching.

  Bechareth flicked up his sword towards Korlandril’s thigh, the novice’s blade sweeping down and stopping it short. Distracted, he had reacted better than when he had been concentrating. It was not a matter of process, it was a matter of instinct. His body, his inner mind, knew better what to do than his conscious thoughts.

  Korlandril focussed on his breathing, relaxing himself, while Bechareth launched a complex assault. At each strike, Korlandril’s sword rose to intercept his foe’s chainsword with a dull ring. Korlandril could almost see without his eyes, hear without his ears. As never before, he felt enmeshed with his armour, the chainsword an extension of himself and not some foreign object gripped in his fist.

  After three more parries, Korlandril took the offensive, sliding a foot forward, lunging towards Bechareth’s midriff. Bechareth knocked Korlandril’s chainsword downward and flicked his wrist, but Korlandril had already responded, ducking to his left while his blade flashed out towards Bechareth’s shoulder. Again the blades met with a brief shudder of contact and then moved on, darting and probing. Korlandril felt like he was standing with the others, simply watching the duel from a distance, amazed at the agility and skill of his body.

  “Cut!”

  The barked word broke the flow of Korlandril’s consciousness. For a moment he felt triumph, for the call had come as he aimed a throat-slashing blow. But Bechareth was smiling, his eyes narrowed. A glance down revealed Bechareth’s chainsword barely a finger’s width from the inside of Korlandril’s thigh—a cut that would have torn through the artery and cut deep into his pelvis.

  Kenainath stepped between them, hand raised to halt the duel. He nodded approvingly towards Bechareth, who bowed slightly and withdrew towards the others. The exarch turned on Korlandril, eyebrow raised in question, head tilted ever-so-slightly to one side.

  “The lesson is learnt, but you are still a novice, and must practise more.”

  “Yes,” replied Korlandril. A moment’s reflection and he realised that he was not ashamed of being beaten, he held his head high, his shoulders square. He pondered Kenainath’s quizzical expression for a moment, and realised what was expected of him. “The claw I will master. I am ready to learn the ways of the venomous bite.”

  Kenainath nodded in agreement.

  Korlandril found the shuriken pistol—the venomous bite of the Striking Scorpion—more straightforward to use than the chainsword. Like his blade, it responded to his thoughts, firing a volley of monomolecular-edged discs that could slice flesh with ease. Though it could be used at some distance, the shuriken pistol in the hands of the Striking Scorpion was mainly a close combat weapon, complementing the cuts and parries of the chainsword. The sweeping movements Korlandril made with his left hand during the rituals became short bursts of fire, to distract or incapacitate the enemy whilst the chainsword delivered the killing blow.

  It was impossible to duel with loaded pistols without risking serious harm, and so Korlandril continued to fight with chainsword alone against the others. His skills improved with each encounter, to the point wher
e he would score a cut almost as often as his opponents. Despite this, there was no word of praise from Kenainath, and of the other shrine members only Elissanadrin ever complemented him on his growing skill.

  It was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that, seventy-eight cycles later, Korlandril found himself back in the armouring chamber with Kenainath, about to enter the final stage of his training—the Scorpion’s Sting. He suited up as he had done dozens of times before, but on this occasion there was a final line to the mantra intoned by the exarch.

  “See not with the eyes, but allow anger to flow, let Khaine’s gift guide you.”

  Korlandril lifted the helmet above his head and lowered it purposefully, encasing himself fully from toe to scalp. With a hiss of air, the suit sealed itself. He was gripped by a terrifying claustrophobia, trapped inside the helm. It was dark and stifling and he flailed to take it off again, dreading suffocation.

  “Be calm warrior, do not let your fears take hold, but extend your will.” Kenainath’s voice drifted into Korlandril’s consciousness, his tone soothing, patient.

  Korlandril forced himself to quell his hyperventilating and took a deep breath, fearing it would be his last.

  “See not with the eyes, but allow anger to flow, let Khaine’s gift guide you,” Kenainath said again.

  The Striking Scorpion performed a mental twist, turning his fear—defence—into anger—attack. He wanted to master the horror creeping up within him, to slay the sly serpent writhing in his gut that threatened to still his heart.

  Almost immediately there was light, blinding in its brightness. Korlandril felt the tendrils of the suit’s systems reaching into his mind, probing for connection. He fought the urge to resist and instead surrendered himself to its gentle but insistent exploration. The sensation was deeply unpleasant as the Aspect helmet sifted through his memories and thoughts, seeking purchase. Flickers of past events strobed through Korlandril’s consciousness, each too brief to recognise but as a sum stirring up long-dead feelings.