01 - Path of the Warrior

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  With a shriek of anguish roaring from Korlandril’s throat, the memory of Thirianna’s rejection engulfed him. That primal scream brought forth a hail of spitting fire from the weapons array built into the helmet—the mandiblasters for which the Striking Scorpions were famed and feared.

  Plasmic energy crackled along the discharge of conductive needles fired from the helmet-mounted weapons, spraying across the arming chamber in a burst of fury. The anger looped between Korlandril and the suit, sending him staggering, hands raised to the helmet to drag it off. The suit refused him, pulling him down into its dark embrace.

  Blackness swamped Korlandril and he collapsed, clattering to the floor in a twisted heap.

  Memory, reality, hope and fear spun with kaleidoscopic chaos within Korlandril’s mind. Not even his first Dreaming had been as terrifying. He felt like a mote of dust in a hurricane, a tiny speck of light amidst the furnace of a star. One image burned into his spirit, white-hot in its intensity, inescapable in its magnitude. The rune of the Striking Scorpion seared into his mind.

  | Lost | Alone | Pathless | Abandoned |

  Laughter—Korlandril dimly recognised it as Aradryan’s—turned from humour to taunt. Thirianna’s eyes—strangely golden—looked at him with pity and scorn. Kenainath’s mocking words, his disdain. Korlandril was child-like, insecure, exposed to the overwhelming sensations of the universe again. There was nowhere to hide. The shadows brought their own perils.

  | Darkness | Rage | Hate | Death |

  The need to destroy—to eradicate anything and everything—suffused Korlandril. He would tear the throat from laughing Aradryan. He would pluck the scheming eyes from Thirianna. He would slice the head from Kenainath and take it as a trophy. He would heap ruin upon those that had wronged him, slurred his reputation and scorned his advances.

  | Light | Hope | Friendship | Love |

  Like the waters of a tidal wave flowing down a whirlpool, the doubt and fear and anger swirled away from Korlandril. He heard the joy in Aradryan’s laughter. He saw the affection in Thirianna’s eyes. He felt the respect in Kenainath’s words.

  His hand reached to the spirit stone at his breast, its coolness spreading to each part of him, through his skin, along his nerves, into every organ and bone.

  | Calm | Silence | Discipline | Peace |

  Korlandril awoke on his cot in the dormitory, unarmoured. He was alone. He could remember nothing save an overwhelming sensation of contentment. The gloom was a comforting embrace, devoid of stimuli to confound and distract him.

  Korlandril closed his eyes and slept. He did not dream.

  It took six more attempts for Korlandril to finally master the Scorpion’s Sting. With each session, he gradually learned to interface with the psychic connections of the armoured suit without suffering the catastrophic feedback of his first encounter. When he finally stood before the others, fully armed and armoured, he was calm and in control.

  Bechareth was the first to congratulate him, bowing sincerely and deeply. Elissanadrin came next.

  “You have become that which you needed to become,” she said sombrely, her melodic voice tainted slightly by the transmitter of her suit. “You have achieved the division between your spirit and your war-mask.”

  “Which is good news for us,” said Arhulesh, joining the pair.

  “How so?” asked Korlandril.

  “You will be able to join us outside the shrine,” Arhulesh said. “The glasses of the Crescent of the Dawning Ages have nothing more to fear from you.”

  It was with some shame that Korlandril recalled the incident that had propelled him to the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow.

  “Of course,” Arhulesh continued, “if you feel like smashing anything, make sure you finish your drink first.”

  The import of what Arhulesh had first said sank in.

  “I will be able to leave the shrine?” said Korlandril. His first reaction was trepidation. What if the others were wrong? What if his anger was not under his control? Korlandril’s second thought was of embarrassment. For all that he had discovered about himself as a warrior, he was still ashamed of the journey that had brought him to the shrine’s doors. What if he met Thirianna?

  “We will be with you,” said Min, laying a comforting hand on Korlandril’s arm. “And if I guess your doubts correctly, you should remember that Thirianna was once a Dire Avenger. In fact, was it not you that judged the warrior more harshly?”

  Korlandril had to admit he had confessed as much to the others several times. His views were more conflicted now, but he still felt a certain unease.

  “I would like to train for a little more time before I venture out,” he said.

  “Nonsense!” declared Min. “You have learnt too well the art of stealth and secrecy. It is time to step back into the light and enjoy Alaitoc again.”

  “Brooding here like Kenainath won’t help you,” said Arhulesh. “What you really need is the company of others.”

  “And a carafe or two of summervine!” Elissanadrin added. The suggestion roused in Korlandril a desire to indulge himself a little, to lose himself in talk and wine.

  “You are right, this is a time of celebration, not mourning,” Korlandril announced, smiling inside his helm. “Khaine can keep Kenainath here, but I’m filled with the teachings of Kurnous. Wine and song, and perhaps I might even visit a few old friends.”

  The others fell silent and Korlandril felt a presence behind him, a slight chill as if a breeze drifted over his neck. He turned to see Kenainath staring at him.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

  “No apologies, I would not wish you to stay, who still has freedom. Find happiness now, enjoy your life while you can, you have earned that right.”

  Kenainath swung away and then stopped to direct a long stare over his shoulder at Korlandril.

  “Do not forget me, and not the Deadly Shadow, who gave you this gift. A pact you have made, with the Bloody-Handed God, he is part of you. Live well and train hard, heed the shrill call to battle, and return to me.”

  Korlandril bowed low, humbled by the exarch’s words.

  “I will return on the morrow, and we will continue. I cannot reject Khaine’s gift, and so I look to you to guide me.”

  The exarch nodded once and strode away, swallowed by the dark of the shrine.

  FEAR

  Before the War in Heaven, Eldanesh, sword-brother and hawk-friend, faced the nightmarish horde of the Autochtinii and he was afraid. Countless in number were the foe and the eldar were few. Not for himself did Eldanesh fear, but for the lives of his warriors. As Eldanesh girded himself for the battle to come there was a great tumult of fire in the air. Khaine himself, iron-skinned and fire-blooded, arrived with spear and shield and stood beside the mortal prince. Though Khaine hated Eldanesh and Eldanesh had no love for Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One would protect the eldar from their foes. So it was that Eldanesh’s fear was quashed by the presence of the war god and the eldar knew victory over the Autochtinii.

  Korlandril smoothed out a graceful curve from the ivory-coloured putty, shaping the thigh of the figurine coming to shape in his hands. The old part of him, the essence of the Artist that had survived into Korlandril the Warrior, knew it to be a crude ornament, but the fingers of the Striking Scorpion still recalled the dexterity and skill of his former Path.

  The sculpture was of Isha, as were the four others that he had added to his collection since his first departure from the shrine. It helped him to focus on a moment of purity with Thirianna. Korlandril had also come to terms with the rift that had erupted between him and Aradryan, and recognised that the unveiling had not been the start of that division.

  It had been childish not to accept that his friend had changed from the eldar he had known before Aradryan’s voyage. With the pragmatic eye of the Warrior rather than the idealistic gaze of the Artist, Korlandril could see that he had changed as much during Aradryan’s absence. He looked back at the conceited sculptor he had been and wo
ndered why he had so wished to cling to the past.

  The door signal chimed and Korlandril stood up, gesturing for the portal to open. He did not look to see who was visiting him as he crossed into the cleansing chamber to remove the vestiges of the putty from his hand. It was probably Min or Elissanadrin, both had visited him regularly.

  “Things change again.” The visitor’s voice was not Elissanadrin or Min, though it was oddly familiar. Korlandril turned around to welcome the arrival.

  It was Aradryan.

  He was dressed in a tight suit of shifting greens and blues, his outline indistinct. He wore a belt and sash with many pouches and pockets and a long knife hung at his hip. The garb of the ranger.

  “Things change again,” agreed Korlandril. He remembered his manners and gestured for Aradryan to seat himself. The ranger declined with a slight shake of the head.

  “I have come out of courtesy to the friendship we once shared,” said Aradryan. “I thought it wrong to come back to Alaitoc and not see you.”

  “I am glad that you have come,” said Korlandril. “I owe you an apology for my behaviour the last time we met.”

  “It was never the case that we wronged each other intentionally, and neither of us owes the other anything but respect.”

  “I trust your travels have been fruitful?”

  Aradryan smiled and nodded.

  “I cannot describe the sights I have seen, the thrill of adventure that has coursed through my veins. The galaxy has been set out before me and I have experienced such a tiny fraction of the delights and darkness it has to offer.”

  “I too have been on a journey,” said Korlandril, cleaning his hands.

  “I have heard this,” said Aradryan. Korlandril looked at him and raised his eyebrows in question. Aradryan was hesitant, quiet, when he continued. “Thirianna. I met with her first. She told me that you are now an Aspect Warrior.”

  “A Striking Scorpion of the Deadly Shadow shrine,” said Korlandril. He delicately rinsed his hands and dried them under a warm vent above the sink. “It does not anger me that you saw Thirianna first. My parting from her is an event of the past, one with which I have wholly come to terms.”

  Aradryan’s eyes swept the living quarters, taking in the Isha statues arranged around the room. He smiled again and darted a doubtful look at Korlandril.

  “Well, perhaps not wholly,” the warrior admitted with a short laugh. “But I truly bear you no ill-will concerning your part, unwitting as it was, in the circumstances that engulfed me.”

  “Have you seen her recently?”

  Korlandril shook his head.

  “It would serve no purpose. If I happen to cross her path, it will be well, but it is not my place to seek her company at this time. She and I travel to different places, and we make our own journeys.”

  “Someone else?” suggested Aradryan.

  Korlandril was about to deny such a thing but paused, his thoughts turning unbidden to Elissanadrin. He was shocked and it must have shown on his face.

  “Aha!” laughed Aradryan.

  “It is not like that,” Korlandril said hurriedly. “She is a fellow warrior at the shrine, it would be entirely inappropriate for us to engage in any deeper relationship.”

  Aradryan’s face expressed his disagreement with this notion more than any words, but he said nothing. The two of them stood in silence, comfortable if not pleasant, before Aradryan’s expression took on a more serious cast. “I have also come to give you advance warning that you will be shortly called to your shrine.”

  “How might you know this?” asked Korlandril, frowning fiercely. “Have you spoken to Kenainath?”

  “I would not tread foot in an Aspect shrine! And your exarch does not venture forth. No, it is from first-hand knowledge that I am aware of this. I have just returned from Eileniliesh. It is an Exodite world not so far away. Orks have come to Eileniliesh and her people call on Alaitoc for help. I have come back as their messenger. Even now the autarchs and farseers debate the best course of action. There is no doubt in my mind that they will issue the call to war.”

  “And I will be ready to answer it,” said Korlandril.

  “I have my own preparations to make,” said Aradryan, taking a step towards the door. “Other rangers are gathering here to share what they know of the enemy. I must join them.”

  Korlandril nodded his understanding. Aradryan was at the door before Korlandril spoke again.

  “I am glad that you are alive and well, my friend.”

  “As am I of you, Korlandril. I do not know if I will see you on Eileniliesh or before we leave. If not, then I wish you good fortune and prosperity until our next meeting.”

  “Good fortune and prosperity,” echoed Korlandril.

  He watched the ranger depart and the iris door close behind him. He wondered whether to head directly to the shrine or await Kenainath’s command. Korlandril decided on the latter course of action; he was in no haste to put on his war-mask.

  Korlandril continued to sculpt into the twilight of the cycle, and still no message from Kenainath arrived. He was putting the finishing touches on the sandals of his miniature goddess when he had cause to pause. Something had changed. He was not sure what had distracted him; a glimmer of sensation at the back of his mind.

  He dismissed it and returned to his work, only to be disturbed a few moments later by a more vigorous sense of something untoward happening. It was a feeling at the base of his spine and in his gut. His heart was quickening, growing in tempo along with his breathing. Perturbed, Korlandril sat back in his high-backed chair and concentrated, seeking the source of his discomfort.

  It felt like tiny vibrations, running through his spirit rather than his body. Something was awakening his nerve endings, stimulating parts of his mind he did not visit outside of the shrine.

  For a fleeting heartbeat he thought he could smell burning and blood, and felt a prickle of heat wash over him. He glanced around the chamber seeking the source but could see nothing. The heat was coming from within him.

  Unbidden, the apparition of his imaginary sparring partner flickered through his mind. Like a circuit being completed, the image touched off a chain reaction in Korlandril’s mind and body. He flushed with a surge of energy even as he felt a tingling behind his eyes as his nerves sought to connect with something that was not there.

  He realised that he was seeking his armour. Even as he thought of the shrine, a ghastly roar echoed in the back of his mind, blotting out all other sensation. Korlandril was almost knocked senseless by the sudden assault of rage and hatred encapsulated in that feral bellow. At once, he knew what was happening, and knew also that he had to go to the Deadly Shadow shrine as swiftly as possible.

  War had come to Alaitoc. The Avatar of Kaela Mensha Khaine was awakening.

  A small box had been left at Korlandril’s door, a simple white cube no larger than the palm of his hand without wrapping or message. Korlandril bent his knee to pick it up and as his fingers neared the package he felt a sensation of warmth. He pulled back slightly, surprised by the feeling. It felt like Thirianna, though there was something else mixed in with the strange hint of presence that lingered around the gift.

  He picked it up and opened the lid.

  Inside was a rune, shaped from silvery-grey wish-stone. He recognised it immediately, the symbol of the Dire Avengers. It was the martial discipline of this warrior Aspect that had merged with the tender thoughts of Thirianna. Holding it in his palm, Korlandril concentrated, teasing the thought-stream with which the rune had been imbued.

  He felt momentary sadness and longing; regret at their parting; pride in his actions. Most of all, he felt the sensation of understanding. Korlandril divined the message. Thirianna herself had once heard her call of Khaine and supported him on his current path. Running a finger along the bars of the rune, Korlandril knew she had taken it as a souvenir from her armour, and now she had passed it to him as a token of her friendship, one that he would be able to unders
tand from one warrior to another.

  He closed his fingers around the gift and smiled.

  It was the first time Korlandril had suited up with the purpose of true battle. Kenainath stood before him with a shallow bowl, a sliver of a blade in his right hand.

  “We give of our blood, as Khaine’s call roars around us, calling us to war.”

  The exarch took the knife and made a cut in the palm of Korlandril’s right hand, allowing the lifeblood of the warrior to drip into the bowl and mingle with that of the other Striking Scorpions.

  Kenainath then moved around the squad, in turn painting the rune of the Striking Scorpion upon their foreheads. Korlandril was the last and watched with some trepidation as he saw his companions’ eyes glaze over, their muscles twitch and their lips curl back from their teeth in snarls.

  Then he felt the blood upon his own skin. It felt like the exarch was carving the rune into his flesh with a fiery brand, the pain flaring in Korlandril’s mind. The pain turned to anger, welling up from deep within him. The anger drew on the deep-seated frustrations and humiliations Korlandril had put aside, wakening those forgotten emotions.

  Quivering, Korlandril did nothing as the war-mask erupted from within him. His blood thundered in his ears and the cut on his palm burned sharply. The air crackled with life and his skin crawled with energy. Like an obscene birth the warrior spirit of Korlandril burst forth through the barriers he had erected, seething and hungry.

  The voice of Kenainath cut through Korlandril’s senses.

  “The peace is broken, harmony falls to discord, only war remains.”

  Korlandril began the ritual of arming, following each step without thought. It was as if he walked towards a burning fire and was preparing to pass through the flames. He steadied himself mentally, concentrating on the exarch’s mantra.

  “Now we clothe ourselves, with bloody Khaine’s own raiment, as a warrior.”