Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘My people are already doomed,’ sneered Eldrad. ‘In Ynnead we will find a saviour.’

  ‘You think-wish the dead-stolen will save-destroy you?’ The daemon scratched under its long chin with an appendage like a slender lobster claw. ‘Take a care-hope with what you desire-despise, Eldrad.’

  The daemon stepped back and gave a mocking bow, tongue sliding across its fangs. The door in the wall opened, revealing a golden shimmer from beyond, and then both daemon and portal were gone.

  Lightness of spirit was replaced by crushing weight. Eldrad groaned as he opened his eyes. He sat upon a plain chair in his chambers, surrounded by ephemera accumulated over a long life. None of it was any measure of his existence, but as he looked down at his bare hands, he saw the crystal taking root within vein and bone. After the freedom of his soul-journey, his body was near crippling, aching from head to toe.

  His task was not yet complete. In his other hand, a sealed phial of soulglass shone with strange lights. Remembering the words of N’kari, he unstoppered the crystal container. A wisp of mystical energy floated free, drawn to his thoughts like a moth to a light. He felt only a tremble of power as it slipped into him, baring its secrets to his probing thoughts.

  He saw the Eternal Matrix aflame with white fire. In its conflagration the webway was reduced to grey ashes, but out of the inferno rose a flame-robed being wearing a circlet of spirit stones upon its brow. Grim was the face, but not cruel; androgynous and spectral. It carried a star of shining silver in one hand, an orb of gold in the other.

  Ynnead ascendant.

  With the rise of the God of the Dead came a great welling up of the aeldari spirits, following their saviour like motes drawn into its wake. Streaming from the Eternal Matrix, the Reborn resembled a new cosmos, flitting about Ynnead like fireflies at dusk.

  Something else moved in the darkness. Rank after rank of skeletal figures emerged from the shadows, the gleam of silver and gold upon polished artificial bone. Like a circuit alive with energy, a green coruscation spread from star to star, opening immense vaults to pour forth uncounted phalanxes of the ancient dead.

  The necrontyr.

  With a stifled cry, Eldrad broke from the vision trance. The crack of the soulglass shattering on the tiled floor brought him back to the present, shivering with shock. He staggered to the wall, steadying himself with a hand while nerve-jangling pulses flashed through the crystal growths inside him.

  A single rune had escaped its pouch at his belt and hung in the air over the shards of soulglass. It turned slowly end over end, a serpentine icon trying to chase its own tail.

  The Cosmic Serpent, symbol of wisdom and secrets. And also the rune of Craftworld Saim-Hann.

  Eldrad did not know what it meant, and was too weary to delve further straightaway. He stumbled to his chair and almost fell into it, numb of limb and thought. The Cosmic Serpent drifted to him at a thought, circling an upraised finger as the farseer pondered his next act.

  Chapter 1

  FLEE THE DEAD

  The Wild Riders ascended from the chasm in a scarlet spiral, looping around each other as they accelerated. To fly straight was to be predictable, an easy target for the necrontyr scythe-craft that banked sharply towards them, lit by the ghost-glow of their terrible weapons. As they speared towards the heavens, the virgin forests of Agarimethea spread below them, the wind-tossed canopy like a sea of green.

  At their head, Nuadhu Fireheart rode upon a fighting platform atop the back of his Vyper, his pilot, B’sainnad, leaning over the controls in front of him. They shared mutual urgency across the spirit-connection of the Vyper. Crouched behind his pilot to reduce the drag on their vehicle, Nuadhu winced each time he heard the spine-chilling scream of a necrontyr Doom Scythe. His grip tightened on the long spear he wielded, known as the Drake’s Fang, the purple flame that wreathed its elegant blade whipped by their passage.

  Nuadhu felt a tremble of trepidation across the empathic psychic link with his kindred. The piercing shriek of incoming necrontyr attack craft grated on his nerves, but he pushed aside his growing dread and focused on the swirling vortex still some distance ahead.

  At his back swarmed sixteen more Wild Riders, a little less than half that had set out with him on the expedition. They were mostly of Clan Fireheart, a few of them more distantly related kin from other clans. The long nose of each anti-grav steed and the banners that flew from their pillions bore the sign of the Cosmic Serpent alongside family runes, marking them as warriors of Craftworld Saim-Hann. Some had helms to conceal their features, topped with hair crests of bright colours streaming in the wind. Those with faces bared showed off colourful warpaint and tattoos of kin sigils and personal decoration. A few bore the scars of intricate branding, lines and swirls of white upon cheeks and brow.

  There was one unlike any Wild Rider. Her steed was a reaver-bike of Commorragh, red also, but the shimmering crimson of spilt blood rather than the scarlet of Saim-Hann. Even so, her warrior nature was evident from the bladed, serrated armour she wore. Much of her flesh was exposed between highly ornate plates, strategically positioned not only to protect vital organs, but to accentuate her physical charms.

  Druthkhala, messenger of the Ynnari. She was the reason why the Wild Riders had come to Agarimethea, seeking the treasures of the ancient aeldari dominion. Glance drawn to the alluring curve of her leg as she straddled her jetbike, Nuadhu was reminded of why he had felt obliged to assist.

  Just behind Nuadhu rode Caelledhin, his half-sister. The rune of the Icewhisper adorned her twin pennants and a scowl of concentration twisted her brow as she guided her jetbike around the turns of her companions. She wore her hair shorter than was customary, her shoulder-length black locks a legacy of her mother’s lineage among the long blond braids of her companions.

  ‘This expedition was further proof of why you are not of sound judgement and should not rise to the position of clan chieftain.’ His half-sister’s words were almost lost in the speed of their passage though they came to the messenger bead inserted below his ear.

  ‘I have no ambition to do so yet. My father lies beneath the downward stroke of Death and you talk as though the blade has already parted him.’

  ‘Our father,’ she corrected. ‘I do not look forward to his parting, it will pierce my heart as sure as any dagger blow, but we cannot ignore the fact that the fate of Clan Fireheart might balance upon the whim of a warrior who would strike out on a ridiculous quest to impress a potential romantic partner.’

  Nuadhu wanted to argue the accusation, but the edge of its truth bit deep. He was of no substance and the admission was bitter in thought and mouth.

  Across the spirit-bond he shared his plan with the others, letting them see what he envisioned. As though moving his own limbs, he divided the flotilla into three separating streams, splitting apart as they soared higher. The diving wedge of necrontyr attackers broke as well, three coming after Nuadhu, two each turning towards the other Wild Riders.

  ‘Druthkhala!’ B’sainnad added a mental impulse of alarm to his shout.

  Nuadhu saw that the Bloodbride had continued onwards where others had peeled away, oblivious to the psychic communion of the others. Noticing her isolation, she wrenched her reaver-bike into a tight arc, trying to evade a dropping Doom Scythe. She jinked in the opposite direction a moment later, an instant before a screech erupted from the craft and a white beam flashed through the air where she would have been. A second Doom Scythe looped around, drawn to the solitary jetbike like a pack animal to wounded prey. Its underslung cannons crackled with artificial lightning.

  A sudden flurry of crimson beams slashed across the ascending alien craft, scorching trails across the living metal of its hull. The larger shape of the Vyper piloted by Ithalaris soared between Yvraine’s messenger and the Doom Scythe. From upon its back, Cualain fired the mounted scatter laser again, her salvo raking more welts across the ne
crontyr engine as it rolled away. They powered down towards the forest as the Doom Scythes adjusted their attack vectors towards the Vyper.

  ‘Return to the formation,’ Nuadhu told them. Joined to B’sainnad by the empathic link, he acted in concert with the pilot, leaning to the left to help the Vyper swing more sharply as B’sainnad hauled it into a tight, ascending turn. Green lightning snarled past a heartbeat later, sending static crawling through Nuadhu’s hair.

  Ithalaris and Cualain had not returned. Their Vyper skimmed through the upper foliage beneath the Wild Riders, preceding a storm of broken branches and tattered leaves. The two Doom Scythes fell in behind it, slicing through the wake of arboreal debris.

  ‘Come back!’ Nuadhu demanded over the messenger-waves. The Vyper’s course was diverging from the rest of the kindred, curving away back towards the river canyon. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Get to safety, cousin-lord,’ Cualain replied while Ithalaris took the Vyper even closer to the whipping branches in an effort to mask them against the sensors of the pursuing necrontyr. ‘Make sure the Ynnari gets back to her people with word of Clan Fireheart’s loyalty and strength. Our family needs powerful allies.’

  Druthkhala slid her jetbike alongside Nuadhu, eyes fixed on the Vyper, following each jink and swoop an instant after B’sainnad acted.

  ‘We’ll lose them in the canyon again, I promise,’ Cualain continued. Ithalaris steadied their course for just long enough for her gunner to fire another burst of scatter laser at the closing Doom Scythes. Scarlet energy sparked from the fuselage of one, but it did not slow nor change course. ‘Come back for the prize!’

  Two other Doom Scythes came at the kindred from opposite sides, angled to catch them in a crossfire while three more drew ahead, accelerating towards the webway portal. Rather than continue the chase, the necrontyr had decided to cut them off from their goal.

  Twin lances of lightning speared towards the Wild Riders. One bolt caught Ythasda’s jetbike on the tip of a slender stabiliser wing. Like a living creature, the crackle of green power crawled across the scarlet skin of the steed, turning everything it touched to scattering atoms, feeding on the energy released. A spark leapt to the rider, seeming to ignite Ythasda with a green storm, while another snapped across the air to Arnewan, striking her in the chest as she dipped below the faltering jetbike.

  Ythasda’s death-scream was short-lived, rider and steed disappearing into particles a couple of heartbeats later. Arnewan died in silence, his riderless jetbike plunging down into the forest to explode upon the canopy. The death-pangs resonated across the Wild Riders’ spirit-bridge, ripping a sympathetic yell from Nuadhu. Coldness clutched his heart, swiftly replaced by a fiery rage. It was a near-physical agony to flee rather than fight. B’sainnad responded, but as he was about to ease the Vyper on a course towards the Doom Scythes overhauling them, the messenger bead within Nuadhu’s ear quivered.

  ‘If we all die here, our clan dies too.’ The words of Caelledhin were like cool waters on the flames of his anger. ‘You are the Wild Rider, free as the wind. But now you must be the clan heir, guide of your people, protector of your kin.’

  Nuadhu glanced below and saw that Cualain and Ithalaris were nowhere in sight – presumably they had reached the sanctuary of the river chasm. It was possible they had died, too far from the empathic link for him to have felt it, but he preferred to believe his first assessment.

  There was nothing but open air between the Wild Riders and the webway, but a fresh salvo of living lightning scorched into the rising group. Dagdhel became a cloud of atomised matter drifting on the breeze.

  ‘Full speed, no more tricks,’ he called to the rest, slapping B’sainnad on the shoulder. ‘At the last, with speed we shall be saved.’

  No longer concerned with their evasive manoeuvres, the riders of Saim-Hann accelerated hard, unleashing the full power of their steeds’ anti-gravitic engines. At B’sainnad’s urging, Alean was like a mount unleashed after too much time corralled, almost throwing Nuadhu over the rail of his fighting platform. He gripped tight, looking into the drop towards the forest, laughter wrenched from the depths of his gut by the exhilaration of experience.

  Beside him, Alyasa stood up from his saddle, a glittering rod in one hand. Nuadhu felt the surge of psychic energy when the windweaver reached out with his thoughts towards the portal. Nuadhu strained every fibre of body and thought, urging on his riders for the last effort.

  Ahead, the three necrontyr craft slewed to a halt, sliding through the air as they turned their weapons on the rapidly approaching riders. Nuadhu’s chest was tight and his limbs trembled with suppressed emotion.

  A scintillating white beam leapt from the closest Doom Scythe, passing behind Nuadhu. He saw nothing, but in the next heartbeat could no longer feel Alguinas among the kindred-thought. The loss choked him, the thought of his cousin’s vaporised spirit stone trapping the breath in his throat.

  Desperation clouded the psychic link like a fog of despair, dragging at Nuadhu’s mind. He fixed upon the webway, eyes and thoughts locked to the swirl of purple as the symbol of life itself. He thought he saw the coils of the world spirit within the spiralling energy, a gate to Saim-Hann.

  Guided by him, the kindred set their minds to the goal. Of single purpose, their psychic potential throbbed within their union. Nuadhu sensed the touch of Alyasa’s thoughts, channelling the raw power, shaping it into a renewed entreaty to the webway. Mesmerised by the flow of emotional energy, each rider enmeshed in the temporarily shared spirit, Nuadhu was almost crippled by the jolt of Torasadha’s abrupt end to a fresh necrontyr beam.

  Fuelled by the mix of hope and despair, the portal spasmed. The insubstantial tunnel extended towards the windweaver’s outstretched wand, becoming a scarlet serpent with open maw. Nuadhu needed to issue no command. As one, the Wild Riders dived into the cosmic serpent’s gullet, finally reaching the sanctuary of the webway.

  Turning to check on the others as they passed into the tunnel of Alyasa’s delving, Nuadhu’s elation became despair. Ten of his kin had made it back to the web portal, along with Druthkhala.

  He had departed for Agarimethea to improve the standing of Clan Fireheart. Nuadhu had thought that the news of the tomb world’s vault would be worth the price paid, but as he counted his family’s losses, he knew that all he had brought back were tales of dead sons and daughters.

  Chapter 2

  BECOMING YNNARI

  ‘Welcome aboard the Ynnead’s Dream, Aradryan,’ declared the Ynnari waiting for him at the bottom of the docking ramp.

  She was garbed in a single piece of cloth that wrapped about her body many times, creating undulating folds of rainbow fabric. Her head was shaved bald, the near-white skin pierced with gem-headed needles and gilded rings. The rest of her visible flesh was unadorned, save for a crimson wristband on each arm denoting her allegiance to Ynnead. Aradryan immediately noted the lack of a spirit stone about her person – one of the drukhari, formerly of Commorragh.

  Suddenly disturbed at the prospect of disembarking, Aradryan glanced back to Unsushueth. The Dire Avenger that had plucked him from certain death was divested of his armour and war mask. A smile of encouragement accompanied his reassuring nod. His youth had surprised Aradryan, who had thought the Ynnari would mostly be like him: of at least middling term of age, wearied by their experiences. The truth was that he had met no such thing as a ‘typical’ Ynnari on the journey from Sithonemesh, where he had joined the kindred of the Reborn. To encompass the breadth of ages, backgrounds and demeanours as one type was to dismiss the great diversity of all aeldari. From across the craftworlds and Commorragh, from outcast bands and pirate lairs, thousands had been drawn to the cause. There was even rumour that some Exodites had felt the Whisper and responded to the pull of Ynnead. Yet for all their disparate origins, those that Aradryan had spoken to had a singular fate that united them.

  All sought
something greater to serve than themselves. All had been possessed of a deep dissatisfaction, beyond even the ennui of a bored craftworlder or the mind-weary fatigue of paranoia for those living in the Dark City beneath the shadow of She Who Thirsts.

  ‘Are you not coming, friend?’ Aradryan asked, suspicious of the stranger that awaited them.

  ‘No, we berth upon the Fires of Kirasujeth,’ the warrior told him. ‘Tzibilakhu will look after you for the time being, until you are comfortably acquainted with our ways and routines.’

  ‘Do not be intimidated. The Ynnead’s Dream is a warship, but you will find peace, companionship and knowledge here also,’ said the Commorraghan. Her smile became a grin, though its welcoming properties were somewhat curtailed by the blood-red gems affixed to each tooth.

  ‘I am not intimidated by your ship,’ snapped Aradryan as he started down the long ramp. Behind him a grav-sled followed like an obedient pet, carrying his meagre belongings: his guardian armour and a few hygienic essentials he had been gifted by others on the short journey through the webway to the roving Ynnari fleet. The clothes he wore – a loose-fitting shirt and trousers in black and crimson – were likewise the result of charity, for he had left the battlefield on Sithonemesh with only his battlegear and one other possession. His hand moved to the pouch at his belt, reassuring him that the spirit stone of Diamedin still nestled within. It was probably a trick of imagination that it seemed to pulse warmly at his touch.

  ‘Do not think that because I came to you as a guardian of Alaitoc I have seen nothing of the galaxy,’ he continued when his slippered feet stepped upon the marble-like dockside, casting an appraising look over the large berthing hall, as if assessing its suitability to be his new quarters. ‘Your ship is an impressive vessel, I once commanded one very much like it. And the flotilla it led.’