Path of the Dark Eldar

by Andy Chambers

  Constrained? I hear you cry, what constrains the gods of Chaos except one another? The answer, enquiring reader, is in their natures. They are what they are, they are defined by their natures and could not change them even if they wanted to – which they don’t, of course, as those elemental natures are what grants them existence. So it is with mortal leaders, they become what we want them to be, what we desire them to be and what we allow them to be. Those failing in our expectations are dispensed with and replaced with something more congruent with the popular zeitgeist.

  In the case of Commorragh this demands a being of pure terror. A creature so dark and vengeful that it can hold a gigantic city in thrall through the mere threat of its intercession. An entity so malevolent that it will hold the all-destroying power of Chaos at bay without regard to the cost. The Commorrites, the unrepentant survivors of the Fall, strive endlessly towards anarchy, but deep down in their black hearts they acknowledge their need for the most autocratically mandated order possible to survive as a species.

  Perforce all archons, the leaders and exemplars of Commorragh, have become lesser reflections of Asdrubael Vect: violent, brilliant, manipulative and ambitious. Beneath Vect’s rule they can be nothing less than absolutes that have burned away all other considerations other than their lust for power. They are dark flames beside the black conflagration of Vect’s wickedness. One day any of them might kindle sufficiently to outshine his brilliance as Yllithian so very nearly did, but that day has not yet dawned. No one has proved to be as ultimately grasping and selfish as Vect, not yet.

  Such is the Path of the Archon.

  Now I would ask you to take a moment and recall the three tales I’ve told. In the Path of the Renegade we followed several very different renegades rebelling against very different things. There was the young pathfinder Sindiel trying to escape his stifling existence aboard the craftworlds, there was the haemonculus Bellathonis rebelling against the strictures of his coven and there was Archon Yllithian seeking to overthrow the tyranny of Vect.

  All three reacted violently against the self-rule called for by their respective societies and all three came to know dire consequences of that action as events spiralled beyond their control. To their credit Sindiel and Bellathonis both acted to try to rectify the situation as best they could. Yllithian escaped only by the intervention of Fate, and found himself serving an uncertain master. The desire for freedom brings with it great peril from those who would exploit it. Let us call these the Exodites.

  In the Path of the Incubus we saw those who tread the straight and narrow by obeying the word of their masters, the scions of discipline, convention, honour, duty and order. The titular incubus Morr stood first and foremost in the tale, but also there was Caraeis, the doomed warlock of the craftworlds at the head of a squad of Dire Avengers.

  This seer and the aspect warriors were trained to be so narrow-minded that they regarded Morr as being ill-disciplined and dishonourable even when he offered his own soul to save the souls of billions. All of them suffered for their unquestioning loyalty and struggled to find new purpose under the bitter lash of failure. The acceptance of duty calls for self-sacrifice in pursuit of an ever-distant goal. For some the goal is forgotten and self-sacrifice becomes an end in its own right. Call these, then, the craftworlds.

  With the Path of the Archon we have witnessed the machinations of the high lords of Commorragh bearing bitter fruit. We have seen their ambitions turn their home into a battleground teetering on the brink of annihilation. We have borne witness to how, after planting the seeds of their own ruin, they made others pay the price for as long as they could. We may think, then, of these being the dark eldar.

  Three tales interweaving, each representing a facet of our fractured racial psyche. Each bears a warning but also a kernel of hope. Long have the eldar dwelled in isolation from themselves and one another, denying parts of their existence in the name of survival. Yet the boundaries are far from impenetrable when they exist only within our own minds.

  Hence the role of humble players such as myself. It falls to us to tweak the nose of Fate by crossing boundaries, defying convention and mocking the absurdities of existence. Among our divided folk it’s the only way we have to show that in this grim, dark universe there is always something to be learned from that which you most despise.

  About the Author

  Author of the Path of the Dark Eldar series, along with the novel Survival Instinct and a host of short stories, Andy Chambers has more than twenty years’ experience creating worlds dominated by war machines, spaceships and dangerous aliens, and currently works in the PC gaming market. He lives and works in Nottingham.

  An extract from Path of the Eldar – contains the novels Path of the Warrior, Path of the Seer and Path of the Outcast.

  A star was dying.

  To the eldar she was Mirianathir, Mother of the Desert Winds. She hung in the dark firmament, a deep orange, her surface tortured by frenetic bursts of fusion and rampaging electromagnetic winds. Particles streamed from her body and fronds of energy lapped at the closest planets, scourging Mirianathir’s children with their deadly touch. They hung barren around her. For a million years she had been dying and for a million more she would continue to die.

  Yet in her death there was life for others.

  For the eldar.

  Bathed in the radioactive glow of Mirianathir’s death throes, a craftworld floated upon the stellar winds; an artificial, disc-like continent of glowing domes and silvery energy sails, arcing bridges and glittering towers. Wings unfurled, the craftworld soaked in life-giving energy, an inorganic plant with mirrored leaves a hundred kilometres long. Surrounded by the ruddy light of the dying star, Craftworld Alaitoc absorbed all that Mirianathir had to offer, capturing every particle and stellar breeze, feeding it through the spirits of its infinity circuit to sustain the craftworld for a thousand more years.

  The space around Alaitoc was as full of movement and energy as the star upon which it fed. Ships whirled and swerved, tacking across the stellar winds, refuelling their own energy stores. The webway gate behind the craftworld swirled and ebbed, a shimmering portal into the space between the material and immaterial. Trade ships with long fluted hulls slipped into and out of the gate; sleek destroyers with night-blue hulls prowled through the traffic, weapons batteries armed, torpedoes loaded; slender yachts darted amongst the shoal of vessels; majestic battleships eased along stately paths through the ordered commotion.

  With a fluctuation of golden light, the webway portal dilated for a moment and where there had been vacuum now drifted Lacontiran, a bird-like trading schooner just returned from her long voyage to the stars of the Endless Valley. Trimming her solar sails, she turned easily along the starside rim of the craftworld and followed a course that led her to the Tower of Eternal Welcomes.

  The dock tower stretched five kilometres out from the plane of the craftworld, encased in a bluish aura that kept at bay the ravening emptiness of space. Like a narwhal’s horn, the tower spiralled into the darkness, hundreds of figures along its length, lining the elegant gantries and curving walkways. Eldar of all Paths had come to greet their long-travelled ship: poets, engineers, autarchs, gardeners, farseers, Aspect Warriors, stylists and chartmakers. Any and all walks of life were there, dressed in the fineries of heavy robes, or glittering skin-tight suits, or flowing tunics in a riot of colours. Scarves spilled like yellow and red waves and high-crested helms rose above a sea of delicately coiffured heads. Jewels of every colour shone in the glow of the craftworld alongside sparkling bands and rings and necklaces of silver and gold and platinum.

  Without conscious thought, the eldar made their way around each other: embracing old friends; exchanging pleasantries with new acquaintances; steering a private course, never encroaching upon the private space of another. Their voices rose together, in a symphony of sound as like to the babbling of a crowd as a full orchestra is to t
he murmurings of a child. They talked to and around and over each other, their voices lyric, every intonation a note perfected, every gesture measured and precise. Some did not talk at all, their posture conveying their thoughts; the slightest raising of a brow, the quiver of a lip or trembling of a finger displaying agitation or excitement, happiness or anxiety.

  In the midst of this kaleidoscope of craftworld life stood Korlandril. His slender frame was draped in an open-fronted robe of shining silk-like gold, his neck and wrists adorned with hundreds of molecule-thin chains in every colour of the spectrum so that it seemed his hands and face were wound with miniature rainbows. His long black hair was bound into a complicated braid that hung across his left shoulder, kept in place with holo-bands that constantly changed from sapphires to diamonds to emeralds and every other beautiful stone known to the eldar. He had taken much time to style himself upon the aesthetics of Arestheina, and had considered long the results in a mirrorfield, knowing that his companion was partial to the ancient artist’s works.

  She, Thirianna, was dressed in more simple attire: a white ankle-length dress pleated below the knee, delicately embroidered with thread just the slightest shade greyer than the cloth, like the shadows of a cloud; sleeveless to reveal pale arms painted with waving patterns of henna. She wore a diaphanous scarf about her shoulders, its red and white gossamer coils lapping across her arms and chest. Her white hair, dyed to match her dress, was coloured with two azure streaks that framed her narrow face, accentuating the dark blue of her eyes. Her waystone was also a deep blue, ensconced in a surround of white meresilver, hung upon a fine chain of the same metal.

  Korlandril looked at Thirianna, while all other eyes were turned towards the starship now gracefully sliding into place beside the uncoiling walkway of the quay. It had been fifteen cycles since he had last seen her. Fifteen cycles too many – too long to be away from her beauty and her passion, her smile that stirred the soul. He nurtured the hope that she would notice the attention he had laboured upon his appearance, but as yet she had made no remark upon it.

  He saw the intensity in her eyes as she looked upon the approaching starship, the faintest glisten of moisture there, and detected an excited tremble throughout her body. He did not know whether it was simply the occasion that generated such anticipation – the gala atmosphere was very infectious – or whether there was some more personal, deeper joy that stirred Thirianna’s heart. Perhaps her feelings for Aradryan’s return were more than Korlandril would like. The notion stirred something within Korlandril’s breast, a serpent uncoiling. He knew his jealousy was unjustified, and that he had made no claim to keep Thirianna for himself, but still the precision of his thoughts failed to quell the emotions that loitered within.

  Set within a golden surround, the opal oval of Korlandril’s waystone grew warm upon his chest, its heat passing through the material of his robe. Like a warning light upon a craft’s display the waystone’s agitation caused Korlandril to pause for a moment. His jealousy was not only misplaced, it was dangerous. He allowed the sensation to drift into the recesses of his mind, closed within a mental vault to be removed later when it was safe to do so.

  Thoughts of Aradryan reminded Korlandril why he was at the tower: to welcome back an old friend. If Thirianna had wanted to be with Aradryan she would have travelled with him. Korlandril dismissed his fears concerning Thirianna’s affections, finding himself equally eager to greet their returning companion. The serpent within lowered its head and slept again, biding its time.

  A dozen gateways along the hull of Lacontiran opened, releasing a wave of iridescent light and a honey-scented breeze along the curving length of the dock. From the high archways passengers and crew disembarked in winding lines. Thirianna stretched to her full height, poised effortlessly on the tips of her boots, to look over the heads of the eldar in front, one hand slightly to one side to maintain her balance.

  It was Korlandril’s sharp eyes that caught sight of Aradryan first, which gave him a small thrill of pleasure; a victory won though no competition had been agreed between them.

  ‘There he is, our wanderer returned to us like Anthemion with the Golden Harp,’ said Korlandril, pointing to a walkway to their left, letting his fingers rest upon Thirianna’s bare arm for the slightest of moments to attract her attention.

  Though Korlandril had recognised him immediately, Aradryan looked very different from when he had left. Only by his sharp cheeks and thin lips had Korlandril known him. His hair was cut barbarically short on the left side, almost to the scalp, and hung in unkempt waves to the right, neither bound nor styled. He had dark make-up upon his eyelids, giving him a skull-like, sunken glare, and he was dressed in deep blues and black, wrapped in long ribbons of twilight. His bright yellow waystone was worn as a brooch, mostly hidden by the folds of his robe. Aradryan’s forbidding eyes fell upon Korlandril and then Thirianna, their sinister edge disappearing with a glint of happiness. Aradryan waved a hand in greeting and wove his way effortlessly through the throng to stand in front of the pair.

  ‘A felicitous return!’ declared Korlandril, opening his arms in welcome, palms angled towards Aradryan’s face. ‘And a happy reunion.’

  Thirianna dispensed with words altogether, brushing the back of her hand across Aradryan’s cheek for a moment, before laying her slender fingers upon his shoulder. Aradryan returned the gesture, sparking a flare of jealous annoyance in Korlandril, which he fought hard not to show. The serpent in his gut opened one interested eye, but Korlandril forced it back into subservience. The moment passed and Aradryan stepped away from Thirianna, laying his hands onto those of Korlandril, a wry smile on his lips.

  ‘Well met, and many thanks for the welcome,’ said Aradryan. Korlandril searched his friend’s face, seeking the impish delight that had once lurked behind the eyes, the ready, contagious smirk that had nestled in every movement of his lips. They were no longer there. Aradryan radiated solemnity and sincerity, warmth even, but Korlandril detected a barrier; Aradryan’s face was turned ever so slightly towards Thirianna, his back arched just the merest fraction away from Korlandril.

  Even amongst the eldar such subtle differences might have been missed, but Korlandril was dedicated to the Path of the Artist and had honed his observation and attention to detail to a level bordering on the microscopic. He noticed everything, remembered every nuance and facet, and he knew from his deep studies that everything had a meaning, whether intended or not. There was no such thing as an innocent smile, or a meaningless blink. Every motion betrayed a motive, and it was Aradryan’s subtle reticence that now nagged at Korlandril’s thoughts.

  Korlandril held Aradryan’s hands for a moment longer than was necessary, hoping that the extended physicality of the greeting might remind his friend of their bond. If it did, Aradryan gave no sign. With the same slight smile, he withdrew his grasp and clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

  ‘Tell me, dearest and most happily-met of my friends, what have I missed?’

  The trio walked along the Avenue of Dreams, a silver passageway that passed beneath a thousand crystal archways into the heart of Alaitoc. The dim light of Mirianathir was caught in the vaulted roof, captured and radiated by the intricately faceted crystal to shine down upon the pedestrians below, glowing with delicate oranges and pinks.

  Korlandril had offered to drive Aradryan to his quarters, but his friend had declined, preferring to savour the sensation of his return and the casual crowds of eldar; Korlandril guessed from the little Aradryan said that his had been a mostly solitary journey aboard the Lacontiran. Korlandril glanced with a little envy as slender anti-grav craft slipped by effortlessly, carrying their passengers quickly to their destinations. A younger Korlandril would have been horrified by the indolence that held sway over Korlandril the Sculptor, his abstract thoughts distracted by mundane labour of physical activity. Such introspection was impossible though; he had put aside
self-consciousness in his desire to embrace every outside influence, every experience not of his own body and mind. Such were the thoughts of the artist, elevated beyond the practical, dancing upon the starlight of pure observation and imagination.

  It was this drive for sensation that led Korlandril to conduct most of the talking. He spoke at length of his works, and of the comings-

  and-goings of the craftworld since Aradryan had left. For his part, Aradryan kept his comments and answers direct and without flourish, starving Korlandril of inspiration, frustrating his artistic thirst.

  When Thirianna spoke, Korlandril noted, Aradryan became more eloquent, and seemed keener to speak about her than himself.

  ‘I sense that you no longer walk in the shadow of Khaine,’ said Aradryan, nodding in approval as he looked at Thirianna.

  ‘It is true that the Path of the Warrior has ended for me,’ she replied, thoughtful, her eyes never straying from Aradryan. ‘The aspect of the Dire Avenger has sated my anger, enough for a hundred lifetimes. I write poetry, influenced by the Uriathillin school of verse. I find it has complexities that stimulate both the intellectual and the emotional in equal measure.’

  ‘I would like to know Thirianna the Poet, and perhaps your verse will introduce me,’ said Aradryan. ‘I would very much like to see a performance, as you see fit.’

  ‘As would I,’ said Korlandril. ‘Thirianna refuses to share her work with me, though many times I have suggested that we collaborate on a piece that combines her words with my sculpture.’