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

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  There was something in Arhulesh’s tone that betrayed a deeper meaning to his words, though Korlandril could not think what it might be. There was a story here, one that Arhulesh was unwilling to tell.

  “You should see the others before Kenainath catches you,” Korlandril said with forced levity. “And before he sees you with me and extends my penance for another twenty cycles!”

  “Good health and prosperity, Korlandril. If we are both fortunate, I will see you in twenty cycles’ time.”

  Korlandril watched Arhulesh depart. When he was sure he was alone, he took up Rising Claw, continuing his ritual from where he had been interrupted. Out of the corner of his eye, Korlandril saw twin glimmers of red from the darkness of the doorway to the inner shrine and Kenainath’s quarters. In a moment, they were gone.

  Korlandril endured his solitary punishment without complaint. When released by Kenainath, his first instinct was to meet the other warriors. He counselled himself against the urge and decided that he needed to seek less warlike company. It came to mind that he should see someone he had not visited in quite some time.

  Thirianna’s surprise was a reward in itself. After a brief foray into the infinity circuit—the spirits within were not keen to be disturbed by active Aspect Warriors—Korlandril found her in the Garden of Heavenly Delights, poring over a scroll beneath the white-blossomed bower of a snow-petal. Thirianna was dressed in the deep folds of a blue robe, hung with rune charms and bracelets glittering with their own energy. Her hair was swept back in a long plait, coloured a deep auburn and decorated with ruby-red gems. She stood quickly, laying aside her text, and embraced Korlandril. Taken aback, he hesitated before wrapping his arms around her.

  “I heard that you had been injured,” Thirianna said, stepping back to regard Korlandril critically, assuring herself that he was well.

  “I am healed,” he replied with a smile. “Physically, at least.”

  Korlandril gestured to the bench and the two of them sat side-by-side. Thirianna opened her mouth to say something but then closed it. A flash of concern marred her features.

  “What is wrong?” Korlandril asked.

  “I was going visit you, as there is something you should know. I would rather we spoke about other matters first, but you have caught me unawares. There is no pleasant way to say this. I have read your runes. They are confused, but many of your futures do not bode well.”

  “There is nothing to fear. I have suffered some tribulations of late, but they will not defeat me.”

  “It is that which worries me,” Thirianna said. She reached out and laid her palm briefly on his cheek, but he flinched at the touch. “I sense confrontation in you. You see every encounter as a battle to be won. The Path of the Warrior is taking its toll upon you.”

  “It was one slip of concentration, nothing more,” said Korlandril, standing up. He stepped away from Thirianna, seeing accusation in her expression. “I stumbled but the journey goes on.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Has something else happened?”

  Korlandril felt a stab of shame at the memory of his mistake during the duel. He did not consider it the business of Thirianna; it was a matter for the Deadly Shadow to resolve.

  “It is nothing important, not of concern to the likes of you.”

  “The likes of me?” Thirianna was upset more than angry. “No concern of a friend?”

  Korlandril relented, eyes downcast.

  “I almost struck a genuine blow during a ritual settlement.”

  “Oh, Korlandril…”

  Her pitying tone cut sharper than the rebuke he had endured from Kenainath and Aranarha.

  “What?” he said. “You speak to me like a child. It happened. I will learn from it.”

  “Will you? Do not forget that I have been a Dire Avenger. Though that time lives in the mists of my past, it is not so old that I forget it entirely. Until recently I trod the Path of the Warlock. As a warrior-seer, I revisited many of my battle-memories, drawing on them for resolve and strength. I recall the lure of the Warrior’s Way; the surety of purpose it brings and the comfort of righteousness.”

  “There is no fault to be found with having the strength of one’s convictions.”

  “It is a drug, that sense of power and superiority. The war-mask allows you to control your rage and guilt in battle, it is not meant to extinguish all feeling outside of war. Even now I sense that you are angry with me.”

  “What if I am? You sit there and talk of things you do not understand. It does not matter whether you have trodden the Path of the Warrior, you and I are not the same. That much you made clear to me before I joined the Deadly Shadow. Perhaps you felt tempted by the power. I have a stronger will.”

  Thirianna’s laugh was harsh, cutting to Korlandril’s pride.

  “Nothing has changed with you. You have learnt nothing! I offer comfort and you take criticism. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is not the Path of the Warrior that makes you this arrogant; you have always been so self-involved.”

  “Self-involved?” Korlandril’s incredulity heightened the pitch of his voice. He took a breath and moderated his tone. “You it was that fluttered in the light of my attention, promising much but ultimately willing to give nothing. If I am selfish it is because you have taken from me that which I would have happily given myself to.”

  “I was wrong, you are not selfish. You are self-deluding! Rationalisation and justification is all that you can offer in your defence. Take a long look at yourself, Korlandril, and then tell me that this is my fault.”

  Korlandril stalked back and forth for a moment, analysing Thirianna’s words, turning them over to divine their true meaning. He looked at her outraged face and realised the truth.

  “You are jealous! Once I was infatuated with you, and now you cannot bear the thought that I might live my life outside of your shadow. Elissanadrin, perhaps? You believe that I have developed feelings for another, and suddenly you do not feel you are unique in my affections.”

  “I had no idea that you have moved your ambitions to another. I am glad. I would rather you sought the company of someone else, as you are no longer welcome in mine.”

  “This was a mistake. You are not worth the grief you bring, nor the time you consume.”

  Thirianna began to sob, burying her face in her hands. It was pathetic; an obvious attempt at sympathy and attention. Korlandril wanted no more of Thirianna’s manipulation. Without farewell, he ducked beneath the branches of the snowpetal and walked away.

  * * *

  Following his argument with Thirianna, Korlandril sought to banish the episode from his thoughts with a sculpture. He returned to his quarters to do so but could not settle. He paced about the living space, surrounded by his representations of Isha, each beautiful face a reminder of Thirianna. Every time he sat at his bench with white putty in hand, he could not bring forth a vision to fashion. His mind was full of barbs and edges. Far from creating a thing of beauty that would calm him, his attempts at sculpture brought to mind those things that vexed him the most.

  Restless, Korlandril returned to the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow. He found Elissanadrin shadow-sparring in the armour chamber.

  “Perhaps you would appreciate something to aim at?” he said, moving to put on his armour.

  Elissanadrin smiled and nodded in reply. She spoke quietly as Korlandril armoured himself.

  “There is a familiar agitation about you. Thirianna, I would say.”

  Korlandril said nothing, his mind focused on the mantra of aiming. Pulling on his breastplate, he spared Elissanadrin a brief flicker of a nod.

  “It is unfortunate that we grow apart from those we love, but take comfort that as you change, as your life goes on, there will come others with which to share yourself,” said Elissanadrin.

  Korlandril activated the suit and he flexed his arms as it tightened around him.

  “Is that an offer of congress?” he asked.

  “You are very
blunt today,” she replied. “I would not put myself up as substitute for Thirianna. I am not her, so you must take me as I am.”

  “I would not want you to be Thirianna,” Korlandril said coldly. He balled his hands into fists and loosened his wrists. “And you are not. I would very much like to court you and, if all goes well, we could share an intimacy.”

  Elissanadrin laughed gently.

  “You are so traditional at times, Korlandril. Perhaps we should ‘share an intimacy’ and then see if we wish to court? I regard physical compatibility highly.”

  Neither spoke as they walked to the arming hall and took up their chainswords. They followed the passageway down into the heart of the shrine in silence.

  “I already feel compatible with your physique,” said Korlandril. He raised his chainsword to his brow. “Perhaps the intimacy of the blade will convince you.”

  Elissanadrin returned the salute and took her place in the duelling ring. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled coyly.

  “I do not doubt your energy or your endurance, but I fear you may be out of practice with your technique.”

  “Let me prove to you that I still remember well the tricks and skills hard-learnt in the past.”

  Korlandril entered the circle and stood face-to-face with Elissanadrin, so close he could taste her breath and smell her skin. His heart raced, from the prospect of the duel and the pleasures beyond.

  The sound of scraping on stone caused both to spin toward the doorway of the duelling chamber. Kenainath stood there, armoured save for his helm.

  His dark eyes regarded them both, unblinking, his mouth a thin line.

  “No time for duelling, we are summoned to battle; the autarch awaits.”

  Shocked from their flirting, Korlandril and Elissanadrin exchanged a glance and followed the exarch hurriedly as he disappeared from the doorway.

  “Battle with whom?” asked Elissanadrin. Kenainath gave no reply.

  The others were waiting in the main chamber, unarmoured. Kenainath said nothing as the squad fell in behind their exarch. He took them through a narrow doorway and down a long ramp that led into a circular chamber. Lights glowed quickly into life, revealing four sleek transports, coloured the same green as the squad’s armour. They hovered slightly above the metallic floor, curved swept-back wings and the high arch of a dorsal stabiliser casting shadows over the squad.

  Arhulesh hurried to the closest, touching a rune on its side to open the shallow-domed canopy. He leapt nimbly aboard and moved to the front of the craft. Korlandril waited for the others to seat themselves in the back before taking a place next to Bechareth, thinking it best not to be too close to Elissanadrin considering the playful flirtation they had just been engaged in. Arhulesh closed the canopy and the skimmer breathed into life, a faint hum the only signal that it was now active.

  Under Arhulesh’s guidance, the craft swung towards an opening at the far side of the chamber, beyond which a row of yellow lights lit the way along a winding tunnel. Arhulesh steered the craft effortlessly along the concourse, gathering speed until the lights flashing past were a single blurred line.

  “Where are we going?” asked Korlandril. Elissanadrin turned from the front and hung an arm over the back of her seat.

  “The Chambers of the Autarchs,” she said. “It is where the shrines usually gather to receive news from the farseers before we don our war-masks.”

  Korlandril took this information in silence. He had never heard of the Chamber of the Autarchs and he wondered whereabouts on Alaitoc it was located. The skimmer flew along tunnels and conduits he had never seen before and he assumed that these were in substrata of channels used solely in times of war.

  Three other transports of similar design swung into view ahead, coloured in deep blues and black.

  “Dark Reapers,” said Elissanadrin. She leaned forwards to study the markings as the skimmers converged. “Shrines of Dark Moon Waning, Cold Death and Enduring Veil.”

  This last one Korlandril knew—the shrine to which Maerthuin and Arthuis belonged.

  Craft from other shrines hove into view behind them, joining the line of skimmers converging quickly on the Chamber of the Autarchs. The concourse ended in a wide space, its dome a black hemisphere through which nothing could be seen. The floor stepped down into an amphitheatre. Three figures stood upon a circular dais at the heart of the hall, two clad in heavy robes, the third in blue and gold armour, a crested helm beneath his arm and a long scarlet cloak on his back.

  The gathering Aspect Warriors dismounted from their transports on the upper level of the hall as squads took up their places around the autarch and farseers. Korlandril looked at the white stone of the broad steps and saw runes in gold etched into its surface, each indicating the place of a different shrine, arranged by Aspect. Several hundred warriors were already in place and as many again were following their exarchs into position.

  “Arhathain,” said Arhulesh, pointing to the autarch. “He wore the masks of the Dark Reaper, Howling Banshee and Dire Avenger before he became autarch.”

  “His name seems familiar,” said Korlandril. Kenainath stopped and Korlandril looked down to see the rune of the Deadly Shadow beneath his feet.

  “Commander of Alaitoc during the Battle of Whispers, and co-commander with Urulthanesh at the Thousand and One Storms,” said Elissanadrin.

  Korlandril recognised the names of the two battles, both long campaigns that had taken a heavy toll of Alaitoc’s warriors.

  “I do not know the farseers,” said Arhulesh. Both were male and of stately poise. One was younger than Korlandril, which surprised him. The other was venerable and even at this distance it was possible to see the strange glint of his skin, the first hint of his body turning to crystal, undergoing the transformation wrought upon him by his psychic abilities.

  “Time is short, so brevity is required,” announced Arhathain, his voice filling the air, projected by a sonic field to every part of the hall. “Farseer Kelamith,” the autarch indicated the elderly farseer, “and his acolyte have foreseen a terrible tragedy for Alaitoc. A silver river turns to black and its boiling waters flow towards Alaitoc. The Dancing Death is seen on the shores of a white sea, her hair braided with the skulls of our children. She Who Thirsts casts her greedy eye upon the stars and in times to come her infernal gaze will fall upon our lives.

  “It is vital that we move to prevent this event coming to pass. The Dark Gods have extended their reach once more, into the hearts and minds of the easily-corrupted humans. Though they do not yet know it, they are starting upon a path that will not only damn their own world but will bring forth a host of the Dark Gods’ creations. Such is their ignorance that in only three of their short generations they will unleash a cataclysm that will savage planets and bring ruin to the doors of Alaitoc itself. We cannot allow this to happen.”

  “The curiosity of the humans shall be their downfall if we do not intervene,” continued Kelamith. His voice was cracked and quiet, weighed down by an eternity of peering into possible futures, all of which eventually led to death and the destruction of Alaitoc. Korlandril wondered what manner of mind could stare into the face of such doom time and again, to avert each disaster as it became known. “We cannot warn them of dangers yet to come to pass, for in doing so we risk creating the very desire we seek to end. A swift move now, bloody but necessary, will eliminate the threat to Alaitoc and also keep safe the future generations of humans. Those we need to eliminate are few, and if we strike hard and with haste they will receive no reinforcement. Overwhelming force will bring capitulation quickly. Those we wish to destroy have in their possession, unwittingly, an artefact that must be retrieved and destroyed safely. You will know it when you are close at hand. On no condition must you approach the artefact itself, and endeavour at all times to keep it from your thoughts lest it ensnare your spirits also. It concerns that which we do not speak of, and so you understand this is no idle caution.”

  Korlandril shuddered
with the thought of She Who Thirsts. His spirit stone pulsed cold once in sympathy and other Aspect Warriors exchanged glances and gave each other nods of assurance and comfort.

  “We will attain orbit secretly and create temporary webway portals in order to strike at the heart of the target’s fortifications,” said Arhathain. “Their army will respond, and we must be prepared to withdraw under attack. Speed is of the essence, lest our ships in orbit be discovered and forced to break their webway connections. The rangers will gather what information they can about this human planet and the place where they store this vile prize. Detailed battle-sagas will be relayed to each exarch en route to the human world.”

  The autarch raised a fist and turned slowly, acknowledging the assembled warriors.

  “Alaitoc once again must turn to Khaine’s bloody messengers. You will not fail us.”

  “It is time to go, to don armour and war-masks, to quicken the blood,” said Kenainath, signalling the squad back to the transport.

  Though he had no training as a farseer, Korlandril knew the principles at work: every action had a consequence and it was the duty of the farseers to guide the weapons of the Aspect Warriors to bring about the destiny most favourable to Alaitoc. He felt some small pity for the savage humans that would have to die in this attack, for it seemed that they were unknowing of the harm they would cause. Yet it was a necessary tragedy, the shedding of human blood so that eldar lives were made safe.

  He wondered for a moment if killing a human would be harder than killing an ork. The ork was a creature of pure malevolence, of no benefit or advantage. Humans, though crude and unmannerly, were useful pawns and possessed of an innate spirit to be valued. That they were weak and easily corrupted—in body and in mind—was lamentable, but as a species they were more desirable as neighbours than many others in the galaxy. As he took his seat in the transport for the return to the shrine, Korlandril wondered what he would feel when he killed his first human. The thought gave him doubts concerning his chosen Path. Killing orks was simple extermination; killing humans one might consider a form of murder, albeit of a minor kind. Then he realised the ridiculousness of the question.