by Graeme Lyon
The Carnac Campaign: Episode Two
Sky Hunter
Graeme Lyon
In the interstellar depths, far from the eyes of man, lay a world that was not a world. No sun shone upon this structure of soaring wraithbone spires, great crystal domes and delicate walkways. No other planets circled with it, awaiting the inevitable death of the star around which they clustered.
This was Alaitoc, craftworld of the eldar, home to millions of souls, and though it orbited nothing, it had satellites of it own, smaller conglomerations that encircled it, performing a leisurely dance as Alaitoc slowly, ever so slowly, travelled between the stars.
One such satellite looked for all the universe like a miniature version of the great craftworld itself, with domes and connecting passages and wraithbone spires. It was the Bloody Blade shrine, home of Alaitoc’s small cadre of Crimson Hunters, those who walked the Path of the Warrior and practised their killing arts from the cockpit of a flyer.
Keladry Ragefyre pulled his fighter into a steep dive and wove through the narrow confines of a covered walkway barely larger than his Nightshade interceptor. He was a mere heartbeat behind his opponent, but the gracefully curving tunnel precluded a killing shot.
Then the tunnel was behind him and he flew out into a massive open dome, filled with trees older than entire civilisations and architecture that had been crafted more than ten millennia before. He twisted the ship around sharply and slipped beneath a finely-carved archway representing Khaine and Vaul locked in combat. With a thought, he fired.
Two bolts of light lanced towards his opponent, who jinked out of the way at the last moment. Keladry smiled. His foe was good. As well she should be.
Ilthana was his prize pupil, the greatest of his Bloody Blades. She had already lasted more than twice as long as any of the others.
The deep red craft – shaped to resemble a gore-soaked weapon, sleek, curved and deadly – was the mirror of his own, though his was the black of mourning. Ilthana sped away, accelerating out of his sights. His targeting system chimed sadly at the loss of the target lock.
Keladry flew upwards towards the great expanse of the void above, twisting his Nightshade upside down and bringing it close to the surface of the dome, mere metres away, and speeding forward. One false move, one stray thought, and he would be dashed against the nigh-impenetrable crystal, his soul lost to She Who Thirsts as his waystone shattered in the explosive destruction of his interceptor.
The thought was exhilarating.
For an exarch of the Crimson Hunters, there was no communion with other souls in his ritual armour, as other Aspects had. When a Crimson Hunter died, it was usually in a fiery explosion, far above the world. There was rarely armour left to recover, let alone a spirit stone. To walk this path was to know that at the end lay damnation.
He wondered – had always wondered – if the tales were true, if the loss of an eldar’s soul to the immaterium really left them prey for She Who Thirsts. Were he to die here, dashed against the surface of the craftworld, lost to the void, would he really be consigned to an eternity of torture as the hungry god the eldar had created feasted on all that he was?
Or would he know oblivion, the sleep of eternity?
Either way, he mused as he followed the gentle curve of the immense dome, it might be better than being trapped within Alaitoc’s infinity circuit, all that he had been in life laid bare to the billions of other spirits that occupied the craftworld’s communal afterlife.
He swept away from the dome’s surface and began a dizzying descent towards the ground far below. Trapped, he considered, in the infinity circuit without the one soul he would want to spend eternity with…
Keladry Ragefyre had become snared on the Path of the Warrior after… Alianna.
‘Alianna!’
Keladry ran, his voice echoing through wraithbone corridors as he screamed for his love. He heard laughter, the cruel, dark laughter of a soul that was cold and dead, sustained only by suffering and evil. Around him were the corpses of his crew, his friends, slaughtered by the pirates, their spirit stones cracked and broken, their faces locked in the unimaginable agony of their final moments.
He would not allow the same fate to befall. Alianna…
Keladry shook off the memory. She had been a gentle soul and had kept him grounded when he removed his war-mask. Her loss, and with no spirit stone to recover, had driven Keladry onto the warrior path, and further along it than he had ever wanted to travel, into solitude. Inevitably, into death – and with every cycle that passed, the desire to meet that death became stronger.
A gentle chime interrupted Keladry’s musings. There she was… Ilthana had taken her craft beneath the eaves of the mighty trees, skimming the ground. Daring. Very daring. She had such potential. She was coming now from beneath him, flying directly upwards in defiance of gravity’s pull.
That would work against craft of the lesser races, or even the guardian pilots of a Nightwing. But not a Crimson Hunter, and certainly not an exarch. He watched the vessel, sleek and elegant with its swan neck and dipped wings, speed towards his. At the last moment, even as she fired, he arrested his forward momentum and fired his thrusters, just enough to drop back slightly. Ilthana’s fighter flew past, the two Nightshades almost grazing one another. For a split second, he saw her through the crystal canopy of her cockpit, clad in the blood-red armour of the shrine, with a helm of black, emblazoned with the rune of the Crimson Hunter. The twin pulses of laser light she had fired spattered harmlessly against a wraithbone spire in the distance.
Keladry angled his ship’s nose towards Ilthana and issued the mental order to fire. His bright lances pulsed once and cerulean beams of energy impacted upon Ilthana’s hull. Immediately, her Nightshade shut down, the ship registering the hit and removing the Aspect Warrior from control. The engines flared and the fighter halted, switching to thrusters to keep it aloft.
The last remaining lit sigil on the console before him winked out. It was the twelfth such symbol to do so, and Ilthana’s was the twelfth ship floating amongst the silent domes and walkways of the shrine.
With a thought, Keladry activated the communications system in the Nightshade and broadcast a message to the squadron.
‘Training is complete. Lessons have been learned, I trust. Return to the shrine.’
He received a chorus of acknowledgements as he guided his Nightshade towards the hangar. As he passed back through the corridors and domes, the runes on his console lit back up as the Nightshades returned control to their pilots. One by one, his Aspect Warriors fell into formation around him, all flying in perfect time, their positions creating an aesthetically pleasing symmetry as well as being battle-ready.
Except…
Tuaren Stormwarden, who had felt the war god’s call only recently after many passes walking another Path, though the exarch could not remember which, was out of alignment. Keladry was about to open a channel to him, to chide him for his failure – his second failure of the cycle, as he had been the first to fall prey to the exarch’s fire – when Tuaren’s Nightshade spun on its axis and drifted. Its bladed wing clipped a great wraithbone pillar garlanded with a climbing plant and flowers, and sparks flew. The wing sheared loose in a spray of petals and the Nightshade’s gentle drift became a dangerous fall as its systems cut out.
Before Keladry could react, Ilthana was already in motion, guiding her craft down beneath Tuaren’s and gently nudging him upwards. Abruptly, the fighter’s engines flared back into life and Tuaren corrected his course. His voice came through the communications system.
‘My lord, exarch, I… I apolo
gise for my lapse in concentration. I saw something.’
Keladry frowned. ‘Saw what, Stormwarden? Explain thy meaning, hunter. Help me comprehend.’
The young Aspect Warrior was silent, hesitant, unsure. He had not yet achieved the full discipline that donning his war-mask required. He stood with one foot in the world of the Crimson Hunters and the other…
The Path of the Seer. Tuaren had previously walked the Path of the Seer. Keladry knew now what had happened, had seen it occur before.
‘You had a vision. The skein revealed a future. What fate awaits us?’
Tuaren, his travels on the path of witchery so recent, had experienced an echo of the skein, a glimpse at some possible fate. It was an uncommon occurrence, and one that almost always boded ill.
‘I saw a battle against the ancient foe, my lord Ragefyre. A legion of metal skeletons marching across the plains of a maiden world. I saw, standing against them, the high autarch and his armies, and… I saw him die. I saw Lord Swiftblade struck down.’
Horror flooded Keladry. The loss of such a warrior as Elarique Swiftblade would be an immeasurable blow to the embattled Alaitocii. With the upstart Imperium of Man in a state of permanent warfare with the craftworld, along with the myriad other alien foes that stalked the galaxy, and the ever-present threat of Chaos, losing such a mighty leader would be damage unparalleled.
‘Return to the shrine,’ Keladry ordered again, ‘and prepare for departure. I visit the seers.’
If the ancient enemy would dare to try and lay low the high autarch of Alaitoc, the Bloody Blades of Alaitoc would meet them and stop them. And if Keladry Ragefyre could meet his end in saving Swiftblade’s life, then all the better.
Eldorath Starbane flew.
His body was still, cross-legged in the sanctum at the heart of the Dome of Crystal Seers on tranquil Alaitoc, surrounded by his fellow seers and the crystalline remains of those who had once been like them. They were at once a harsh reminder of what Eldorath would one day become, and a reassurance. The dead were never really gone, not on a craftworld.
Eldorath’s body was sedate, but his soul soared. Around him were the glittering threads of time and causality, the skeins of fate itself, and his spirit-form grasped them with both hands – both hands – and followed them to his destination, passing through what had once been, what was, what might yet be…
…and what must never come to pass.
He saw flashes of futures unwritten, lives yet to be lived, wars yet to be won. Or lost.
Carnac.
He had not seen it coming. None of them had. The coming to Carnac of the souldark, ancient enemies of the gods themselves, had taken the Alaitocii seers by surprise. Surprise… It was so rare to one such as he, who walked in eternity; past, present and future open to him. He would have relished it, had it brought joy. But with it had come only pain. Death. And he had not foreseen it. He had failed. Eldorath Starbane had failed his people, and not for the first time. The yngiract – the necrons, as they called themselves – were making a habit of taking from Eldorath. His purpose, his confidence. His hand. His spirit-form was whole and unsullied, but his body was broken, one hand lost on Cano’var. He felt once again the pain, the fury, the humiliation and the overwhelming hatred for the creature that had taken the hand, the Stormlord.
As soon as the call for aid had been received from the exodites of Carnac, a psychic message that had held such pain and sorrow that even to remember it hurt, a force had been despatched through the webway. Eldorath was determined not to repeat the mistakes of Cano’var, so his response was overwhelming. Elarique led the Alaitocii host, of course. Headstrong Elarique, the Swiftblade.
But if Eldorath did not focus, the autarch would likely die soon. He pulled himself from his thoughts and focused on the threads that led to Carnac, to the acts that he had set in motion. Elarique planned to face the souldark on the field of battle, blades flashing like the heroes of myth. It was commendable, and it might work – but the more likely outcome was that the autarch would lose, that the yngiract would take Carnac and that Eldorath – again – would fail.
The farseer had enacted another plan. He had followed the twisted skein as best he could, had seen the leaders of the souldark force gathered for a council of war: their overlord, Anrakyr, known in the ancient tales of the War in Heaven as the Traveller; Orikan, the Diviner; Trazyn, the Infinite; names that lived in infamy amongst the children of Asuryan. And Imotekh, the so-called Stormlord. Eldorath held an especial hatred for this foe. He would see him dead. He would see all of them dead. He had summoned the outcasts and recalled the Nightspear. They could destroy the commanders of the unliving automata before their attack could be launched.
He found the thread of Illic Nightspear’s life and focused on it, sweeping along hundreds of years of war and death in a heartbeat. Until…
Carnac.
Eldorath watched as Nightspear took aim at the yngiract known as the Traveller… But then the creature was gone. The ranger and his comrades, both Alaitocii and exodite, scattered, marked for death by soulless hunters. They fled into canyons and caves, their threads diverging, many of them cut as the soulless predators caught them with their synaptic disintegrators, melting brain tissue and ending lives.
Eldorath held fast to Illic’s thread, watching as he fled, as he fought back, as his fellows died for him. Eventually, he escaped into the webway, through the sacrifice of many. Alaitocii and Carnacian alike. Catritheyn, Eldorath’s pupil, was with Nightspear, as was the Mawr, clan-chief of the exodites. Eldorath knew where they were going. He let himself slip from the skein, but was wrenched about, his spirit spinning away from the threads of fate. As he grasped for purchase, he saw stars moving and exploding, and a metal skull with a single green orb glowing balefully in its centre. It was haloed by a ring of gold and its monstrous, unmoving maw whispered to him…
Even your prophecies are not safe, Eldorath One-Hand. What does that leave you?
With a jolt, Eldorath felt reality reassert itself. He knew that yngiract, by reputation at least. The Diviner. Was it the source of the problems he and his seers had walking the skein? Senses returned, gravity took its hold and he felt the steady buzz of the infinity circuit, the whispers of seers long gone. Then he heard a voice, tentative and uncertain.
‘My lord Starbane…?’
He opened his eyes and figures resolved before him, seven of his fellow seers, all mighty and wise. They, too, had travelled the skeins, though they had taken different paths and seen different fates, different futures.
‘Nightspear lives.’
A psychic ripple of relief went through the chamber, and the infinity circuit buzzed in sympathetic response. Many of the council – and many of those that had once been but were no more – believed that Illic Nightspear was vital to the future of the eldar race. Some whispered that he was all that stood between their people and the Rhana Dandra, the end of all things. There had been disagreement in the council when Eldorath had sent Nightspear on his mission to Carnac. Some had decried the high farseer, claiming that he allowed his anger to cloud his judgement.
They had been right. He saw that now.
‘Did he achieve his mission?’ asked Thirianna, youngest of the council, and so instrumental in saving the craftworld from destruction just a short time before.
‘He… did not,’ admitted Eldorath. He looked each of his fellow seers in the eyes, one by one, as he spoke.
‘My prophecies were wrong. Again. By some vile sorcery, the necrons are disrupting the skeins of fate. We cannot trust anything that we have seen of Carnac. The Traveller was not in the valley. Nightspear’s force was ambushed. Many… Many died. Through their sacrifice did Illic escape. He returns here now. We must convene a war council.’
Thirianna nodded. ‘And send word to Lord Swiftblade that your plan failed. It is time for him to make his stand against the souldark.’
Stiffly, Eldorath nodded. ‘Yes. If we cannot trust the skein, we must turn to the sword and the shuriken for victory. If we cannot trust me, Elarique must be our salvation. Carnac’s salvation. Send word to the high autarch that he may launch his attack when he is ready.’
The tide of metal swept across the plains. Great phalanxes of necron warriors, balefully glowing rifles clutched in skeletal hands, moved thoughtlessly forward. Swarms of hideous metal insects flowed across the valley ahead of the unliving host, devouring all vegetation from the ground so that the warriors’ feet fell only on bare, dead earth.
‘Even as they move, they destroy,’ muttered Elarique Swiftblade, shaking his head sadly. He stood at the centre of the eldar line, far distant from the advancing enemy. Where the necron line stretched across the plains as far as eye could see, the eldar were a tight knot of warriors, a single drop against the ocean of enemy, arrayed between tall hills on the approach to the world shrine. Elarique was surrounded by his bodyguard, Dire Avengers sworn to preserve his life. The idea of another eldar laying down their life for his always made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he bore it with stoicism – his position as high autarch was as much a symbol for the people of the craftworld as it was a necessity of war. When he finally fell – and he would, on the field of battle, as did all of his kind – he would be spoken of in the same breath as giants of history such as Kael Ra, the Prince Ecliptic, and Amenteth Worldsbane. It was a weighty responsibility. As was the fate of a world.
Elarique prepared to give the order to open fire. He knew every weapon in the force – he had wielded most of them himself as he had walked the various warrior paths on his journey towards becoming an autarch. He retained several – the graceful wings of the Swooping Hawk adorned his back, Scorpion mandiblasters worked into his crested helm allowed him to spit laser death at his foes and he carried both a delicately curved powered blade and a deadly fusion gun.
Finally, the first of the enemy came into what he judged to be effective range, and Elarique opened a channel.
