Path of the Dark Eldar

by Andy Chambers

  ‘The pleasure is mutual, Yllithian,’ Aez’ashya purred. ‘It seems so little time since I was undertaking missions on behalf of Archon Xelian, and by extension her close allies like Archon Kraillach and your good self, of course. Missions of the most delicate nature, or so it seemed at the time. Now I send my own minions to do my work for me.’

  Yllithian smiled with his lips but not with his eyes. She was warning him in subtle terms not to push too far. What Aez’ashya had witnessed in the accursed halls of Shaa-dom was enough to damn Yllithian five times over if she brought it before the supreme overlord. It felt oddly refreshing to be on the receiving end of blackmail for once. Of course such a revelation would bring doom on Aez’ashya too – entry to Shaa-dom was forbidden on pain of death, so it was a case of mutually assured destruction.

  ‘Quite so, it must all seem so very new to you now. This will be your first meeting with Asdrubael Vect in person, will it not?’ he chuckled. ‘Given the circumstances he will be in rare form today, you’re in for a treat.’

  ‘Speaking of rare form I had heard rumour that you had fallen prey to a wasting disease, but I confess you look better than ever. Even a little younger perhaps.’

  ‘Too kind, too kind,’ Yllithian replied smoothly. ‘It’s truly a wonder what the haemonculi can achieve when all seems lost. I still await the return of my dear friend Xelian with an almost breathless anticipation.’

  ‘Oh? I had hoped to ask you if there had been word on Xelian’s whereabouts. I’m told that her most dedicated hekatrix stole away her corpse before it could be tended to. No sign has been discovered of it since, personally I fear that the noble Xelian may be lost forever.’

  ‘I have indeed heard such tales being told.’ Yllithian smiled again, sympathetically this time. ‘But I have complete faith in Xelian’s unconquerable spirit. That she will be found, in some form, is not a subject of doubt in my mind.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. All natural laws are turned on their head at present, so why not in this matter also I–’

  A hideous crash of cymbals and screech of horns abruptly rent the air, rendering any further verbal sparring impossible rather to Yllithian’s regret. At the top of the steps two vast, engraved doors were grinding inward to reveal a dark space beyond that was broken occasionally by an ominous, flickering light. One by one the great archons turned and walked inside in answer to the summons. The supreme overlord was ready to receive them now.

  Interlude

  We become such slaves to continuity, insisting that we receive our portions of beginning, middle and end dished up to us in our trencher in order to feel that our repast has substantive significance. A story most particularly is expected to slide from gate to gate with the orderly precision of public transport. All aboard… on your left you’ll see… on your right you’ll see… and so on until the end of the line, please ensure you take all belongings with you when exiting the vehicle.

  Of all the mortal constructs this one is perhaps the most pernicious. Our efforts to impose structure mean that things have to have a beginning, a middle and an end, that they must unroll with visible cause and effect, not to mention a sprinkling of moral lessons and insightful observation along the way. Our existence is spent crafting our own stories into a suitable lifetime, categorising every experience to fit them into self-imposed contexts, trying to write ourselves towards an ending that we don’t really want to reach.

  Reality is not like this. Reality is spontaneous and unknowable, chaotic, abrupt, wonderful, terrible and most of all unpredictable. The sad truth is Things Just Happen. Plans go awry, unforeseen elements prove pivotal and unrelated events combine in the most unexpected ways.

  That is to say unexpected to some at any rate. There are powers in the universe that see all possibilities and endlessly try to shift the balance towards their own ends: a nudge here, a push there and all will be as they desire it. Little do they know that powers above them also nudge and push them in turn.

  It’s said that when mortals try to plan that the gods laugh. Thus we come to where we are now. Morr and Motley both frustrated in their efforts by an unexpected third party, the world spirit still bent upon revenge against Commorragh, the inhabitants of the dark city struggling and failing to survive (and, in some cases, prosper) in a catastrophe unleashed by powers beyond their reckoning. Events still continue to spiral out of control, creating more debris as they fall into anarchy. Is there still hope for a gratifying resolution and perhaps a moral lesson or two? It’s difficult to say at this juncture. Time is most certainly running out.

  CHAPTER 17

  TRANSITION

  Motley emerged into an all-too-familiar landscape. Bleached dunes of dust lay all about them lit by a single, lonely-looking sun that was little more than a chilly red disk hanging high overhead. The air was bitterly cold and infected with an unpleasant acidic tang that invaded through the nostrils and sat on the back of the tongue. It was familiar as a generality rather than as a specific, hundreds of worlds bearing gates to the webway were virtually identical to this one – blasted wastelands devoid of all life. Motley looked back to see that they had emerged from a five metre tall wraithbone arch protruding incongruously from the face of a dust dune. The warlock, Caraeis, was leading the squad of Dire Avengers and the bier carrying Morr away across the dunes on an arrow straight course presumably towards another gate.

  The warlock was playing it safe, taking the long way around by moving from planet to planet to keep their journey outside the webway as much as possible. Motley felt his lip curl involuntarily a little. Time was of the essence yet Caraeis was acting as if he could take all the time in the world. An unwelcome thought that had already been lurking at the edge of Motley’s mind settled into a fully-developed suspicion. He fished a small object from his sleeve, a thin oblong of crystal embossed with stylised masks that laughed and cried. He surreptitiously breathed on it once, polished it and then flipped it back through the gateway where it vanished like a puff of smoke.

  The Harlequin turned and ran lightly after the Aspect Warriors until he caught up with them. Morr was conscious now, glaring silently at Motley as he passed. Motley liked to think there was more despair in the look than hatred, and he gave Morr an encouraging grin and wink anyway. He was most certainly going to need the towering incubus’s support soon. Caraeis was already vanishing down the opposite slope of a dust dune, sending tiny avalanches downward with each footfall. Motley called out to him.

  ‘Caraeis? I’m still not really sure about your direction here. Are you intending to take us all the way around the Great Wheel just to get back to Biel-Tan?’

  ‘You well know the webway is too unstable to risk traversing long sections of it at present,’ the warlock replied testily. ‘Your disregard for your own safety and that of others does you no credit.’

  ‘The safety of “others” is actually at the foremost in my mind,’ Motley said brightly, ‘probably more so than yours. The difference lies in who those “others” are. From your outlook you would regard two thirds of our race as not being worth taking any risks for.’

  Caraeis stopped to face him evidently needled by Motley’s implication. ‘Pure hyperbole,’ the warlock said. ‘You would accuse me of caring nothing for the Exodites – that is untrue.’

  ‘Oh, so just one third are disposable then? Who set you up as judge, Caraeis?’ Motley asked in outrage. ‘Of course the webway is a little unstable – that’s because Commorragh is in the process of being broken apart! Meanwhile you delay and prevaricate to do your best to ensure that the process is completed!’

  The warlock did not even trouble to deny the accusation. ‘It’s true I would not risk a single life to see the dark city continue,’ he said. ‘The foul perversion of Commorragh has gone on too long already, I would rejoice to see it ended in my lifetime.’

  ‘And so you would sacrifice Lileathanir too?’ Motley mocked. ‘Because that’s
what Commorragh will take with it at the very least. More likely is that the entire webway finally unravels, and our race is left stranded, scattered through the stars as we finally fade away into nothing.

  ‘You want to know something interesting, Caraeis? Commorrites refer to themselves as “true eldar”. The way they see things they have continuity with the pre-Fall days that neither the craftworlds or the Exodites can lay claim to. If you really want to reforge the empire you should ask the dark kin, they’re the ones that really remember it.’

  Motley was acutely aware of the Dire Avengers, and especially their exarch, standing stock still behind him. The sort of accusations the Harlequin was cheerfully throwing at Caraeis verged on blasphemy in polite craftworld society. They were deadly insults for one on the Path of the Warrior and a matter to be settled by open conflict if honour was to be maintained. The Harlequin was gambling that the Aspect Warriors would not leap to the warlock’s defence because they already suspected his motives in some fashion. The internal conflict that was evident between Caraeis and the Dire Avengers was only going to be intensified the more they saw him failing to live up to their standards.

  ‘Does he speak the truth, Caraeis?’ the exarch said. ‘Is there a risk to the webway as a whole?’

  ‘No,’ the warlock snapped irritably. ‘Again hyperbole and exaggeration, the current… ah… flexing will rectify itself with time.’

  ‘You mean you hope it will!’ exclaimed Motley. ‘You can’t know that’s true!’

  ‘Wiser minds than mine have studied the problem,’ Caraeis said more evenly, ‘and I agree with their conclusions.’

  ‘What a shame these august authorities aren’t on hand to support your claims,’ Motley remarked acidly. ‘I, on the other hand, speak from considerable personal experience. I can take you straight to Lileathanir right now if you’ll just let–’

  ‘Your life of… vagrancy and your foolish doom-saying do not make you an authority on anything!’ Caraeis thundered in response, he caught himself and checked his anger before continuing shakily. ‘Our actions have been planned and foreseen, directed by the highest minds towards a path most conducive to the continued existence of our craftworld. You act only to provoke me and waste the time you claim is so precious in pointless argument. I will hear no more of this.’

  With that Caraeis turned and stalked away down the dune. After a moment of hesitation the Dire Avengers followed him with their prisoner still in their midst. Motley followed and attempted to provoke the warlock further with a few more choice observations but got no response. Caraeis was right that Motley was trying to delay him. It was, however, a far from pointless exercise. Another tall wraithbone arch was coming into view atop the next dune. Motley hoped he had bought enough time for his message to get through.

  Kharbyr soon abandoned the idea of stealing transportation; the place seemed a city of ghosts. As they moved coreward the parkland quickly gave way to tightly packed slave quarters that had encroached into the manicured lawns and hidden arbours. The narrow, crooked streets were barely shoulder wide in places to give protection against marauding gangs of hellions and reavers. Scourges were usually to be found in the uppermost and outermost parts of the city, but packs of wild riders of skyboards and jetbikes were a peril just about anywhere. They saw it as a personal challenge to take their machines through the tightest streets, down inaccessible pipes and along the faces of the spires themselves when they took a mind to. Wires and chains were strung between the overhanging eaves of the slave quarters so that even riders wild enough to try their luck in the twisting streets would soon catch a swift death instead.

  It hadn’t saved the inhabitants. Dead slaves lay everywhere, sprawled in doorways, piled in the streets in an untidy mixture of races and sexes. They had all been cut down by splinter fire from above, probably a Raider full of warriors moving above the rooftops. Plentiful pockmarks and puncture holes in the flimsily constructed buildings showed that the slaves that had tried to remain inside hadn’t fared any better than the ones that tried to run.

  ‘Why kill them all like this?’ he asked Bezieth.

  ‘You’re a pretty little idiot aren’t you, Kharbyr?’ she told him. ‘The answer’s as plain as the nose on your face. Think. Why execute the slaves?’

  ‘Well the old joke is because they’re revolting,’ Kharbyr said in confusion, ‘but these don’t have any weapons so they didn’t plan it very well.’

  ‘Seriously? Look above your head, boy!’ Bezieth snarled in exasperation. Kharbyr looked up without thinking, up through the narrow gap between the buildings to where vivid, ugly colours were being visibly plastered across the sky from moment to moment. The sight wrenched at the soul, as if he were seeing the bones of creation were being laid bare in all their base simplicity. What was worse was the feeling that he was also seeing familiar reality being rewritten into new and alien forms before his very eyes. He looked away stifling a curse.

  ‘All it takes is one of these idiots to think he’s seen god or salvation or his great, hirsute, uncle Uggi up there and we could have a whole new problem on our hands. Belief, desire, worship – the daemons would be feeding on it like a swarm of locusts,’ Bezieth explained heavily. ‘Not the smartest move leaving a heap of potential meat-puppets like this, but I imagine whoever did it came through here in a hurry.’

  Bezieth noticed that Xagor was looking back curiously in the direction they had come from, even though the black, narrow street seemed empty save for the dead. ‘What is it, Xagor?’ she snapped. The wrack jumped reflexively in response.

  ‘Sounds, quiet sounds!’ Xagor babbled. ‘Gone now, but whisper-quiet!’

  Bezieth frowned and looked back along the street too. Still nothing moved and nothing could be heard above the distant roar of infernal winds. She looked to Kharbyr who returned her gaze with a shrug before circling his temple with one finger to indicate his judgement on Xagor’s sanity.

  ‘Well there’s nothing there now, keep moving and stay alert,’ Bezieth said with more certainty than she felt.

  A few hundred metres away, hidden by a trellis of climbing rose in an artfully-placed gazebo Cho studied the input of her twitching sensor vanes and needle-fine probes with some confusion. The trace to the target had been present, a strong trail existed and was developing moment by moment, and yet the target itself was not present. No comparable scenarios existed within Cho’s frame of reference and it was making the data extremely difficult to analyse.

  On one logic path she had now followed the trace to its termination point and not found the target she was looking for. Therefore she must turn around and rejoin Vhi to investigate his trace, and so in effect cede defeat. Another logic path took into account the additional factor that the trace was still developing, the psychic spoor appearing in the ether like oil spontaneously appearing in water. Pursuit of this ongoing development might yet lead to the target, and the contest with Vhi would remain in contention.

  Taking both logic strands and twisting them together produced two potential conclusions. In the first the target was present but using an unknown technique to mask its exact whereabouts. The technique did not eliminate the spoor entirely but rendered the target, in effect, invisible to Cho. In the second a form of decoy was being used to lay false trails. Both conclusions had precedent, although neither equated exactly to the phenomena being demonstrated in this precise example. Cho fluttered her sensor spines in something akin to frustration.

  Attacking a decoy would undoubtedly compromise her chances of success by forewarning the real target. Such a scenario even held the potential of incurring the level of structural damage that could critically impair Cho’s functionality. This outcome held a strong negative reinforcement, elimination of the target superceded all self-preservation considerations but that only applied once the target was positively acquired. In other words Cho was quite ready to get hurt and possibly die, but not against the wrong t
arget. This was the kind of logic that Vhi seemed to interpret as a form of cowardice.

  The other engine was undoubtedly taking the most direct and bloody route possible in his pursuit of the target. That was simply the way they had been made: Vhi for speed and strength, Cho for agility and cleverness. Part of Cho was being constantly distracted by not having her companion engine close at hand, missing its brainless certainty and the enhancement of their collective capabilities when they were together.

  Correct psychic parameters or not Cho could still detect four living minds moving together through the park and generating the correct psychic trace as they went. Logic dictated that they had strong probability of connection to the target even if they were only being used as decoys. Cho concluded that patient stalking/hunting protocols might reveal more information. If necessary a direct attack strategy could be used to force a decision later, but only once Cho could determine whether that was liable to drive the target into the open or deeper under cover.

  The sleek machine-form of Cho rose up on whisper-quiet impellers and slid forward on the trail of the lifeforms with all the focused intensity of a stalking panther.

  The light leaking into the auditorium through its high windows was awful to look upon. Livid, angry colours swirled within it; bruised purples, sullen reds, diseased yellows, poisonous blues and nauseous greens fought to overwhelm the eye and baffle the mind. Its brightness jumped and leapt capriciously from moment to moment. Periodically an all-enshrouding gloom would fill the great hall in defiance of its many lamps. In the next moment retina-burning flashes sent grotesque shadows darting across its trembling flagstones from the forest of chains hanging down from above. Each chain bore a body that had been hung up like freshly killed meat, although many of them still quivered or twisted in silent agony.