The upper leg armour came next, fitting to Korlandril as snugly as the rest of the suit. He found that if he flexed in a certain way, the plates interlocked delicately, strengthening his stance, offsetting the imbalance of the powerpack. Korlandril’s pulse was almost feverish, burning along his arteries, hissing in his ears.
“We do not flee death, we walk in the shade of Khaine, proud and unafraid.”
The lower legs were each protected by a single boot-greave piece, which Korlandril slipped over his feet and knees. He fastened these to the thigh armour, fully encasing his legs. Threads of material grew rigid around his ankles, adding additional support, while the boots shortened themselves to fit his feet. A sensation of solidity, of unmoving permanence, filled Korlandril.
“We strike from the dark, as swift as the scorpion, with a deadly touch.”
The vambrace-gauntlets connected to the upper armour, more clasps linking the two as one. Korlandril flexed his arms, feeling cartilage-like tendrils tightening against his flesh, reinforcing his wrists and elbows. Now fully clad save for his face, Korlandril felt incredible, filled with a heat that did not waver. His armour was his skin; it pulsed along with his thundering heart, drawing life from him and returning its strength.
His next act was to retrieve his waystone from its niche, detaching it from the silver surround of the necklace. It responded to his touch, warming gently, suffusing him with delicate reassurance. He placed the waystone into the aperture of the chestplate. It settled home with a soft click. His armour felt the waystone’s presence as much as Korlandril, giving a brief, almost imperceptible quiver and then falling still again.
“That is all for now, there is no need of the mask, we are not at war.”
With the donning of the armour complete, Kenainath gestured for the Striking Scorpions to assemble before him. Korlandril took a step forward, the movement feeling awkward in the armour; its weight was evenly spread across him, but its bulk restricted normal movement. In response, he changed the nature of his stride, his body remembering the motions he had learnt while unencumbered. As strange and stylised as they had felt in his robe, they were natural when armour-clad.
The warriors stood in a single line, a short distance apart, facing the exarch. Kenainath led them through the ritual stances and the Striking Scorpions moved together, each replicating his poses without hesitation or variation. Almost like automatons they mirrored the exarch’s thrusts and parries, like marionettes all controlled by the same strings.
Korlandril felt a sense of belonging he had not known for a long time, in perfect synchronisation with his fellow warriors. He was as them, and they were as he; of one mind and one function. Every stance brought a fresh thrill, as he learnt anew their purpose. The armour made him complete, his body now perfected.
For most of the cycle they practised their ritual stances. Some were genuinely new to Korlandril, impossible to attain without the support of the armour. He learnt them without effort, swiftly adapting to each challenge. As the session progressed, the stance changes came more swiftly, the tempo of Kenainath’s actions increasing with each round of moves.
The exarch spoke rarely, only to reinforce his previous teachings and adding new insights into the way of the Striking Scorpion.
“With balance we strike, not acrobatic Banshees, flailing and screaming. With strength of motion, strike with sure and deadly grace, power from balance.”
Throughout the exercises the hot temper that had filled Korlandril continued to burn. He began to visualise a foe, formless and shadowy, which he gutted and decapitated, countered and eluded. His imaginary opponent had eyes that burned with a red fire, but was otherwise featureless; an anonymous conglomeration of those who had wronged him, an incarnation formed of his anger and fears. In striking at this apparition, Korlandril drew great strength, feeding on his power to destroy that which had tried to destroy him.
Invigorated, Korlandril was somewhat disappointed when Kenainath signalled for them to stop, returning to the stance of repose, palms touching, legs slightly apart, heads bowed.
Korlandril stood there for a while, expecting some new instruction. Footfalls alerted him to the others moving back to their armour-stands and he did the same. Kenainath had left without word.
Reversing the same series of motions they had used to put on the armour, the Aspect Warriors divested themselves of their battlegear. As he removed each component, Korlandril felt a lightening in his spirit as well as on his body. Though he had felt relaxed throughout the practice, he realised he had been functioning at a far higher state of awareness than normal. Colours seemed a little blander, sounds more muted as he brought himself down from the peak of physical attentiveness and assumed a more relaxed demeanour.
“Welcome to the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow,” said Elissanadrin, extending her palm in greeting. She wore a tight-fitting bodysuit with a pearlescent quality, gleaming with tones of white and ivory. Korlandril laid his hand briefly on hers in reply.
“Let me introduce you to your companions-in-arms,” she said, turning slightly, open hand gesturing towards the others.
“Be known to Arhulesh,” she continued, indicating a warrior a little shorter than Korlandril, his long black hair tied into braids with slender dark red ribbons.
“Greetings Korlandril,” Arhulesh said with a lopsided smile. “I would have liked to make your acquaintance earlier, but Kenainath is such a stickler for his routines. I must admit, I greatly enjoyed your exhibition, The Rising of the Heavens. Did I detect a slight mockery of Khaine in your pieces?”
Korlandril frowned. He could barely remember the sculptures he had created. They were locked away in his memories somewhere, but it was as if he had lost the map and could not find them.
“Oh, Kenainath has drawn you in most conclusively,” Arhulesh said with a raised eyebrow. He turned to the others. “Careful, we have a real devotee on our hands! I wonder just what, or who, it is that you’re hiding from, Korlandril.”
“Hush, Arhu,” cut in Elissanadrin with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You know that we do not speak of our lives before, unless we wish to.”
Arhulesh directed a nod of apology towards Korlandril, who noted a slight twist to the inclination, a tiny gesture of sarcasm. Elissanadrin laid a hand upon Korlandril’s elbow and led him towards the next Striking Scorpion, a serious-faced eldar with gaunt features and stark white hair cropped into a scalplock. He was attending fastidiously to his armour, using a silk-like cloth to wipe away every speck and smear on its surface.
“Speaking of silence, this is Bechareth.”
The name startled Korlandril, for it meant Spirit on the Wind; an appellation given to those whose true identity was not known, usually a stranger. It was also a euphemism for those that had died without the protection of a waystone, their spirits lost to the clutches of She Who Thirsts.
“He doesn’t, or can’t, speak,” explained Elissanadrin. “Kenainath brought him to us with that name, and neither has told us anything else. Do not be fooled by his silence, he is a capable warrior.” She paused uncomfortably before continuing. “I owe him my life.”
Bechareth stood and offered his right hand in greeting; vertical, palm towards Korlandril, a gesture of equality that was rarely used in Alaitoc society except to greet those from other craftworlds. Korlandril raised his left hand in mirror of the gesture, indicating trust, and received a slow blink of gratitude from the warrior. His dark eyes glittered with amusement, and Korlandril felt himself drawn to the mysterious eldar despite his outlandish behaviour.
“Mithrainn,” said Elissanadrin, nodding towards the last of the four. He was of venerable age, probably five hundred passes older or more, with a sharp brow and aquiline nose.
“Call me Min,” he said, eliciting a laugh from Korlandril. The nickname was from the myths of Vaul, after the weak link in the chain that had bound the smith-god to his anvil.
“It is good to meet you… Min,” said Korlandril, touching palms with
the elder. “Forgive my impudence, but I would have thought the Path of the Warrior was more suited to those of less experience.”
“You mean that you think I’m too old for this sneaking about and running around!” Min declared with a grin. He thumped his hand to his chest. “The heart of a youth still beats within my breast.”
“Powered by the mind of an infant,” added Elissanadrin, rolling her eyes. “He makes up for Bechareth’s silence with his volume. I still think he has some Biel-Tan stock in him, despite his protestations to be pureblood Alaitocii.”
“You may say that, Lissa, but you have yet to catch me in the swamp.”
Elissanadrin conceded this obscure point with a reluctant nod and a pursing of the lips. She smiled when she saw Korlandril’s confusion.
“When you have mastered the arts of the fighting poses, you will join us on our hunts. We go out into the surrounds of the shrine and try to sneak up on each other. The Striking Scorpion is stealth as well as strength.”
Korlandril nodded in understanding. “And how long do you think it will be before I join you?”
“How long is a star’s life?” quipped Arhulesh from behind Korlandril. “Kenainath has a whim of iron. It could be next cycle, it could be not for another two or three passes.”
“Two or three passes?” Korlandril was taken aback. “Surely my progress has been swifter than that.”
“Whim of iron, remember, whim of iron,” said Arhulesh, shrugging shallowly.
“Is that before or after I get my war-mask?”
“None can say when you will find your war-mask,” said Min. “For some it never comes and they leave without truly treading the Path. For others, they wear it from the start.”
Bechareth stepped closer and looked intently into Korlandril’s eyes, studying every detail. He held up a thumb and forefinger, a little way apart. His meaning was clear: a short time. The gesture turned to an upraised finger of warning.
“He’s right,” said Elissanadrin. “You shouldn’t chase after your war-mask, not until you’re ready to take it off.”
“I’m not quite sure I still understand what this war-mask is,” confessed Korlandril. “I mean, Kenainath wouldn’t let us wear our helmets today. I don’t understand the connection.”
Arhulesh laughed harshly but his face was serious.
“The war-mask is not a thing, it is a state of mind. You have come close to it, or you would not be here. You will know it when it comes. We cannot tell you what it will be like, for it is unique to each of us.”
“Just know that we have all been through the same experience,” added Min. He laid a hand on Korlandril’s shoulder. Korlandril was slightly uneasy with a gesture of such familiarity, having only just been introduced. He resisted the urge to pull away but Min must have sensed his reaction. He drew his hand back. “When it comes, you will share what we all share and my touch will not be so unwelcome.”
“I did not mean any off—”
“We do not apologise to one another,” cut in Elissanadrin. “Know that in this place, with mask on or off, all is forgiven. The past is the past, the future will be whatever it will be, and we share only the present. Perhaps it is regret that keeps you from discovering your mask. Leave it behind; it has no place in your spirit. As a warrior, regret will kill you as surely as a blade.”
Korlandril pondered this silently. The others turned as one towards the exarch armour at the head of the hall and Korlandril looked over his shoulder to see that Kenainath had returned. He had made no sound that Korlandril had heard and he was at a loss to know how the others had been aware of his arrival. Perhaps they had not been aware at all; the thought that the exarch might have heard the conversation disturbed Korlandril, though he was not sure why.
“It is time for us to depart,” said Elissanadrin.
“Not you,” Min said as Korlandril took a step towards the doorway.
“Enjoy your training, little scorpion,” added Arhulesh, directing a glance towards the exarch, who stood with arms folded across his chest, looking sternly at his disciples.
Bechareth passed Korlandril last, giving a short bow in farewell before leaving with the others. Suppressing a sigh, Korlandril turned towards Kenainath.
“I am yours to teach,” Korlandril said, dipping his head.
“That is well and good, for there is still much to learn, Striking Scorpion.”
ANGER
When the eldar first rose from the bosom of the ground, nourished by the tears of Isha, the gods came to them and each offered them a gift. Asuryan, lord of lords, gave the eldar Wisdom, that they would know themselves. Isha gave the eldar Love, that they would know one another. Vaul gave the eldar Artifice, that they would make their dreams a reality. Lileath gave the eldar Joy, that they would know happiness. Kurnous gave the eldar Desire, that they would know prosperity. Morai-heg gave the eldar Foresight, that they would know their place in the world. Khaine gave the eldar Anger, that they would protect what the gods had given them.
The training continued as before; though now in armour and often in the company of the other warriors of the shrine. Kenainath also turned his attention to introducing the disciplines of stealth and ambush, leading Korlandril through the swamps as silently as a breeze. The pair of them travelled to places new to Korlandril—narrow gorges, winding rivulets and shadow-shrouded caves. Despite the bulk of the Striking Scorpion armour, Korlandril moved as soundlessly as if he were naked. So controlled and effortless was Korlandril’s motion, so attuned was he to the swaying of the branches and the slightest ripple of water, he was able to blend his movements to those of his surrounds.
For thirty-eight cycles this continued. Korlandril could discern no pattern to the lessons save for some inner timeline that Kenainath maintained for himself. He did not know against which mark he was being judged or to what standard he might aspire, and so could only follow Kenainath’s instructions without question. The exarch made no mention of any change in Korlandril’s skills, though he knew for himself that they were steadily improving.
In the carefully choreographed ritual of the shrine, Korlandril could now respond so quickly to the exarch’s commands it was if he anticipated them. He kept pace with the other Striking Scorpions without thought. His progress, even if unremarked by the others, gave him some satisfaction and he looked forward to the underlying spirit of sharing he felt when he practised alongside the rest of the shrine. Always he felt invigorated when putting on his armour, but now he was left also with a sense of fulfilment when he took it off.
At the rising of the thirty-ninth cycle, Kenainath, clad in his armour but without his helmet, came to the bare dormitory where Korlandril slept. He instructed Korlandril to don his own wargear and led him into a new chamber. Here were arranged the weapons of the Striking Scorpions, hung upon the wall of the circular room. Ten slender chainswords were paired with matching shuriken pistols.
Not quite knowing how, Korlandril walked directly to the arms that he knew belonged to his armour. He ran his fingers along the cladding of the chainsword, able to feel the entwining decorations through the empathic connection to his gauntlet as if he touched it with bare skin.
“Take up your weapon, let it become part of you, feel it in your hand,” said Kenainath.
Korlandril closed his fingers around the guarded hilt of the chainsword and lifted it easily from the curved wall bracket. Like his armour, it was surprisingly light for its size. It fitted snugly into his palm, like an extension of his arm. He twisted his wrist and examined the narrow blades, each sharp enough to slice through flesh and bone with a single stroke. He saw red reflections of his own admiring face in the jewels along its length.
“How do I activate it?” he asked.
“How does your heart beat, your fingers move at your whim, that is the answer.”
Korlandril stalked to the centre of the chamber and took up the stance known as Sweeping Bite, hunched forward slightly. His right fist was raised in front of his left sho
ulder, but now he could see that the length of the chainsword extended horizontally in front of his face, just below eye level. He rotated, sliding back his right foot, the weapon flashing in an arc, finishing in Hidden Claw.
Growing in confidence, Korlandril moved through the First Ritual of Attack, pacing steadily across the chamber, cutting back and forth with the chainsword. At the fifth stance—Rising Fang—the chainsword purred into life of its own accord.
Shocked, Korlandril stumbled, the weapon almost falling from his grasp. Kenainath made a strange hissing sound and Korlandril turned, expecting to see scorn on the exarch’s bare face. The opposite was true. For the first time since Korlandril had met him, Kenainath was quietly laughing.
“As it was with me, first time. I took up a blade, now so long ago.” Kenainath’s humour dissipated quickly and he gestured for Korlandril to continue.
The chainsword had fallen lifeless in his grasp. Regaining his focus, Korlandril started afresh from the first stance, and almost immediately the chainsword’s teeth whirred into motion, making no more sound than the buzzing of a lava-wing. Unperturbed, Korlandril continued, cutting and slashing, each move increasing in speed until the blade was a green and gold blur in the air. He made backhanded cuts and rounded overhead chops, advancing on invisible foes.
As he weaved the blade around him, the shadowy foe he visualised during his routines came into sharper focus. Its eyes still burned red but it took on a more distinct shape, narrow at the hip, broader at the shoulder. In the eye of Korlandril’s mind, his foe bobbed and ducked, parried and countered, advanced and retreated.
With an explosion of breath, Korlandril delivered a killing strike, sweeping the blade up beneath the chin of his imaginary adversary, to come to a perfect standstill in Claw of Balance. Drawing a lungful of air, Korlandril stepped back, assuming the stance of repose. He turned towards Kenainath.
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.
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