“You have made the right choice, Min,” Korlandril said, stepping forward to pat his companion on the arm. “I will miss you by my side in training, but I am sure we will still see each other outside. What is it that you plan to do next?”
A fervent gleam entered Min’s eyes and he grabbed Korlandril’s wrists in his hands and stared earnestly into his eyes.
“It is unlikely we will see each other again, Korlandril. I have sailed close to temptation and to see you and the others would not be wise while you remain Aspect Warriors. I have come close to being trapped, of becoming something like Kenainath and Aranarha. I need to leave myself for a while, and think I will take the Path of the Dreaming. Promise me, Korlandril, that you should ever despise your war-mask. Do not allow it to become something you crave, as I nearly did. Realise that it has power over you and you should shun its promises.”
Korlandril laughed and gently prised himself from Min’s tight grip.
“I have fought but one battle, I think I have many steps to take along this Path before its lures will tempt me to stay.”
“Do nothing rash! Keep that place of peace, which brings you back from the anger, close to your thoughts at all times. Fear lurks inside your war-mask, no matter what healing you have undergone. Do not let it feed your hatred or stir your anger too far.”
Korlandril waved away Min’s concerns.
“I bid you good health and a prosperous journey, Min,” said Korlandril. “I hope to see you again when my time as a Warrior is done. Until then, our Paths run different courses. If you wish to seek a guide for your Dreamings, I recommend Elronfirthir of Taleheac. Speak to the spiritseers, they will find him for you.” He turned his back on Min and strode into the shrine, the chill of its shadow sending a thrill through him.
The inner chambers of the shrine were instantly familiar. Korlandril walked through the darkness without hesitation, navigating through the utter blackness to the armouring chamber. The light within was dim, no more than a ruddy glow from the walls, and in the gloom he saw the suits of armour arrayed along each wall.
Korlandril walked to his armour. The gems set into its plates reflected the dawn-like glow of the room, their light brightening at his approach. He laid his right hand upon the chestplate, over the empty oval where his waystone fitted, and his left hand unconsciously went to the waystone at his breast. Perhaps he imagined the connection or perhaps there was some intangible thread linking him to the suit and back.
“Now you have returned, brought back to us by Isha, whole and well again.”
Korlandril turned his head to see Kenainath crouched upon the dais at the head of the chamber, his elbows rested on bent knees, chin cupped in his hands. The red hue of the room brightened slightly, becoming sharper, causing the shadows to stand out in starker contrast. Korlandril said nothing and returned his gaze to his armour, running the tips of his fingers along the edges of the overlapping parts, dwelling on the fingertips of the gauntlets, caressing gently the mandiblasters on the sides of the helm.
“The armour beckons, seeking its former master, wishing to be whole. Can you feel its will, pushing into your spirit, feeding on your mind?”
“Who made it?” Korlandril asked, stepping away, perturbed by Kenainath’s suggestion.
“By me and not me. It was made after the Fall, by First Kenainath.”
The exarch’s inflexion and choice of words baffled Korlandril. He switched between tenses, describing himself—Kenainath—as someone both living and dead.
“First Kenainath?”
“I am not the First, though there have not been many, to wear this armour. I am Kenainath, and I am not Kenainath, neither one nor sum.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That is for the best, hope that it remains like that, and you stay yourself.”
A dozen further questions came to Korlandril but he stayed his tongue and instead crossed to kneel in front of the exarch in the centre of the chamber.
“I wish to train again.”
Kenainath regarded Korlandril for a long time, a hint of a strange golden glow in his eyes. He looked deep into the warrior’s eyes, seeking something of what passed in Korlandril’s thoughts, perhaps seeing things even Korlandril did not see.
“Begin tomorrow, this coming night you must rest, training will be hard,” Kenainath said as he stood. He turned towards the shrouded door at the end of the shrine and then stopped and looked back at Korlandril. His lips pursed in appraisal and an eyebrow rose in inquiry. With a nod, the exarch seemed satisfied. “You are welcome back, Korlandril the Warrior, to Deadly Shadow.”
The exarch faded into the gloom, leaving Korlandril alone with his conjecture and apprehension. For all the worries and anticipation that fired Korlandril’s mind, his body was tired. Sleep seemed a very good idea.
* * *
Korlandril ached. Every part of him was stretched thin, every muscle and tendon quivered and twanged. He realised how honed his body had been before the fight with the orks and how much of a toll his inaction in the Shrine of the Healers had taken. Though his injury had healed it would be some time before he regained the physical perfection he had attained in the shrine.
It was odd to train without Min. It nagged at Korlandril, like looking at a familiar smile with a tooth missing. It was an imperfection in his world, a departure from what he had known as he had become a warrior. In an effort to ignore the distraction, Korlandril turned his thoughts inward during training. His near-death had shown that he was not so accomplished in the deadly arts as he had thought. He strived to find what had been missing from his fighting technique, analysing himself as he made the cuts and thrusts and moved from stance to stance.
As his strength and suppleness returned, so too did Korlandril’s precision and style. He was confident that his measured strokes were exact replicas of those demonstrated by Kenainath. It was not his technique that had failed him, it was something else.
It was hard to learn from an experience he could not remember. Objectively he was aware of what had happened to him—the fight with the ork and then the crushing blow from the warlord—but he had no sense of what he had been feeling, what he had been thinking. Those recollections were tied up in his battle persona, hidden behind his war-mask. Though he did not allow them to disrupt his practices and duels, questions surfaced in Korlandril’s thoughts when he was outside the shrine; when eating with the others or sculpting in his rooms.
What mistake had he made? Had he made any error, or had it simply been ill fortune that had seen him injured? Had he hesitated or been afraid? Had he been cautious or over-confident?
It nagged at Korlandril that he could not find the answers. His only course of action was to focus everything upon his fighting technique and his decision-making in the duels. The latter was difficult. He fought without conscious effort, allowing reaction and instinct to guide his weapons.
Perhaps that was the problem, he realised. Did his instincts make him predictable? Did he need to intervene occasionally to change his style, to move against instinct? Was it the ritual itself that had been his undoing?
Sixty-three passes had come and gone since his return to the shrine, during which Korlandril’s body had been restored to its peak of speed and strength. His actions were second nature, his weapons once more an extension of his will. He was due to face Bechareth again in a training duel. Korlandril decided that he would try to maintain more of a conscious awareness of his actions during the faux-combat.
The two of them faced off in the chamber beneath the shrine, Kenainath hidden in the shadow, Elissanadrin and Arhulesh calling the winning strikes. Korlandril began as usual, reacting and acting without thought to the attacks and defences of Bechareth. The contest was even, with perhaps Bechareth having slightly the upper hand.
As he ducked and wove, slashed and stabbed, Korlandril allowed himself to engage more closely with his body. He saw it as a globe of light in his mind’s eye, his warrior instincts envisioned as a m
iniature sun, ebbing and flowing with energy, his body moving around and within it. His conscious thought, his reasoning, Korlandril saw as another orb, its surface still and calm. As he fought, Korlandril tried to bring the two spheres together, so that conscious and unconscious might overlap.
He faltered, allowing Bechareth a strike to the abdomen that would have torn open his old wound. Korlandril hesitated, a flicker of memory touching on his thoughts. He retreated into ritual, taking up Hidden Claw, pushing aside the tatters of recollection.
Korlandril began again, forming the globe of tranquil consciousness, but rather than imposing it upon the fire of his intuition, he tried to meld the two, to make them as one. He parried and counterattacked, recognising the move his body had chosen, and the calm sphere slid a fraction closer into place. He lunged forcefully, his unthinking will recognising an opening.
Slowly, atom by atom, Korlandril merged the two parts of his consciousness. His mental exercise was far from finished when Kenainath called for the pair of them to cease their duel. Returning to repose, Korlandril fixed the last image in his mind, a partial eclipse of his warrior instinct by the rational mind, hoping to recreate it the next time he duelled.
Bechareth bowed his head in appreciation and gratitude, a knowing look in his eye. Korlandril mirrored the respect, his gaze not leaving that of his opponent.
“You are taking steps, moving swiftly on the Path, to fulfil your will,” said Kenainath, signalling for the others to leave. “Your spirit responds; I sense it developing, becoming as one. We are all conflicted, many parts vying to win, yet none may triumph. You must seek balance, in all things not just battle, to be whole again.”
Korlandril nodded and remained silent.
“Practise your focus, see yourself from the inside, and master your will. The Path is wisdom, to control that which taunts us, to find true freedom.”
“And when I am done, will I be free of my anger?”
“We are never free, that is to have no feelings, we hope for control. Our spirits soar high, on a fierce wind of feeling, that ever threatens. Learn to still that wind, to glide on it where you wish, and not become lost.”
“I never thought I would miss Min’s bad puns,” said Korlandril.
His gaze drifted to the empty space on the bench opposite, drawn to the social vacuum created by his former companion’s absence. Arhulesh seemed similarly perturbed, sitting next to the void, fidgeting with the scraps of food on his plate and staring absently over the balcony of the Crescent of the Dawning Ages. Korlandril looked over his shoulder. Within a bubble of blue and green captured in an invisible field, shoals of yellow cloudstars bobbed up and down, their slender tendril appendages wafting on gaseous currents. Their motions usually brought a mesmeric peace to those that watched them, but Korlandril was agitated.
“It is a shame that Min had to leave, I feel the squad is incomplete,” he said to break the uneasy quiet.
“It is a good thing that Min has left for another Path,” said Elissanadrin. She looked at Korlandril. “It is the proper way. We move on, we grow, we change. You have never been comfortable with change, have you?”
Korlandril did not reply, though he knew she spoke the truth.
“It is dread of the future that makes us cling to the past,” said Arhulesh. “Perhaps Korlandril is scared that he will become an overbearing dullard!”
“And what is it that you fear?” demanded Korlandril, his tone fuelled by sudden annoyance. “Being taken seriously?”
The hurt in Arhulesh’s expression sent a stab of guilt into Korlandril, who reached out a hand in apology. Arhulesh waved it away, his smile returning.
“Harsh, but perhaps true,” he said. His smile faded a little. “If I cannot take myself seriously, how can I expect anybody else to do so?”
“You are a warrior, it is a sombre responsibility,” said Elissanadrin. “Surely you can take some respect from that.”
Arhulesh shrugged.
“In my war-mask, that is certain. The rest of the time… I would laugh at myself if it was not so depressing.”
“Surely you became an Aspect Warrior to develop some gravitas,” said Korlandril.
Arhulesh laughed but it was a bitter sound, devoid of humour.
“I joined for a wager,” he said. He lowered his gaze sorrowfully while the others frowned and shook their heads in disbelief. “It is true. I went to Kenainath for a bet. I thought he would reject me.”
“An exarch cannot send away those that come to them,” said Elissanadrin.
“I wish I had known that now. He kept me there, like he kept both of you, until he’d delved inside my spirit and placed the seed he would nurture.”
“Why did you not leave?” asked Korlandril. “I mean, after your first battle?”
“I may have stumbled onto the Path of the Warrior by mistake, but I am not so self-centred that I would glibly depart from it. Maybe it was the lesson I needed to learn. Still need to learn.”
Korlandril glanced to his left, across a row of empty tables and benches, to where Bechareth sat looking over the park and lakes beneath the cloudstar bubble.
“And you know nothing of his story?” Korlandril asked.
“Nothing,” said Arhulesh. “I know more about Kenainath than Bechareth, and that is little enough.”
“I think he was one of the earliest exarchs on Alaitoc,” said Korlandril. “He told me he was not the first but said that the Deadly Shadow has not had many.”
“That chimes with what I have heard, in rumour and whispers from others that once fought with him,” said Elissanadrin.
“Of all the shrines to go to for your wager, why in all the galaxy did you choose Kenainath’s?” asked Korlandril.
“I cannot reason it,” replied Arhulesh, giving another shallow shrug. His brow furrowed. “He is a hard taskmaster. I have spoken to warriors from other shrines; they train half as much as we do.”
“I would rather be over-trained than under-trained,” said Elissanadrin. “In battle, at least.”
“Yes, in battle, perhaps, but we wear our war-masks for a fraction of our lives, it seems such a waste.”
“He is serious-minded, I like that,” said Korlandril. “Take Aranarha, for instance. He seems too eager. I do not think I could trust him.”
“He was once a Deadly Shadow,” Arhulesh confided quietly. “I have spoken with Aranarha several times, and I think he resents the ancient exarch a little. He is trapped on the Path, dedicated to Khaine’s bloody service, but locked away in there is some kernel of anger at Kenainath for allowing him to become trapped.”
“I think there is more the hand of destiny at work here than any ill-doing on the part of Kenainath,” said Elissanadrin. “It is inevitable that some will become enamoured of battle after much time, as surely as a farseer turns to crystal with the passing of an age. If nobody became exarchs, who would train the generations to come?”
Korlandril pondered this for a time, trying to imagine a universe without the touch of Khaine. The others continued to talk but he did not hear their words. He pictured Alaitoc free of bloodshed, free of the iron beast at its heart, the pulsing blood-wrath fragment of Khaine that dwelt inside every eldar just as it lay dormant in its chamber at the centre of the craftworld.
He then pictured Alaitoc overrun, by orks perhaps, or maybe humans, or some other upstart race. Without Khaine, without war, the eldar would be defenceless. Little enough remained as echoing vestiges of their great civilisation. Without anger and hate, they would be wiped from the stars.
“It is a dream without hope,” he said eventually. “Peace is merely an illusion, the momentary absence of conflict. We live in an age of bloody war, interspersed with pauses while Khaine catches his breath. I think I understand Kenainath a little better now. It is right to wish that the universe was otherwise, but it is foolish to think that it ever will be.”
“You see?” chuckled Arhulesh. “You are a warrior now, and fear a future where you will no l
onger have a place.”
“Things change,” said Elissanadrin. “You should learn from your healer; there should always be room in your spirit for hope.”
“All things change, and yet nothing alters,” said Korlandril, awash with philosophic thought. “We know that everything is a great cycle. Star becomes stardust to become another star. War becomes peace to become another war. Life becomes death…”
“…becomes life?” said Arhulesh. “I hope you’re not referring to my spirit meandering around the infinity circuit when this handsome yet fragile body finally succumbs. That isn’t life, is it?”
Korlandril had no answer. He was not quite sure what his point had been, and reviewing his words brought back nothing of the momentary insight he thought had occurred.
“As warriors, our deaths may bring life—for other warriors and for those on Alaitoc that we protect,” said Elissanadrin.
“I do not think that was the conclusion I had in mind,” said Korlandril. He stretched and stood up. “With that being said, I think it suffices for now.”
As he walked across the Crescent of the Dawning Ages, Korlandril felt eyes upon him and glanced back to see Bechareth staring intently in his direction. The Striking Scorpion made no attempt to hide his interest and raised his goblet in wordless toast. Korlandril gave a half-hearted wave in return and hurried out, unsettled by the attention of the silent warrior.
The cycle of life continued. Korlandril practised and duelled, and when not in the shrine he made an effort to visit his old haunts around Alaitoc—taking the air carriage across the swirling seas of the Dome of Infinite Suns, climbing the cliff paths of the Eternal Spire, swimming in the gravity-free Well of Tomorrow’s Sorrows.
[Path of the Eldar 01] - Path of the Warrior Page 16
