Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  Such was her lack of genuine diplomacy, Druthkhala was forced to weather the scorn of the council in silence. Caelledhin darted a look at her half-brother, to see if this display had peeled away the veil Druthkhala’s outlandish appeal had laid over his eyes. He stared in anguish at Cuithella, his fingers twitching with their own agitation.

  A nudge against her leg drew Caelledhin’s attention to her father sitting beside her. Naiall said nothing but his look was equal parts commanding and imploring. So wrapped up was Caelledhin in Druthkhala’s discomfort that it took several heartbeats until she recognised the unspoken demand from the chieftain.

  ‘It is not for others to speak on behalf of Clan Fireheart,’ Caelledhin declared to the council, laying a hand upon the shoulder of her father. ‘Count the cost of your own cowardice if you will, but always have we been proud to stand at the forefront of any conflict. We will lament our fallen, but save your grief for your own.’

  If anything, Druthkhala’s mood worsened, perhaps insulted that Caelledhin had deigned to come to her rescue. The emissary’s words were curt as she sought to regain control of the situation.

  ‘None bleed more than the Ynnari.’ Her glare scoured the watching crowd, causing some to flinch with its anger, met coldly by others. It lingered on Caelledhin for a heartbeat as it passed, who matched it with her own disdain. ‘We do not desire praise or reward, though it is for the souls of all that we fight. Think perhaps on Ynnead and whether you shunned the Opener of the Seventh Way when you stand upon the threshold of the Great Enemy’s embrace.’

  A chill danced across Caelledhin’s skin and shocked muttering rippled out through the assembled barques, rafts and throne-barges. To speak so blatantly of the Doom of the Aeldari was frowned upon even in the robust debates of Saim-Hann. With good reason, for there were few present, or indeed anywhere among the many far-flung people of the aeldari, that wished to be reminded of the creeping torment that stalked their existence.

  Caelledhin was about to speak, to bring the council back to the needs of Clan Fireheart, but another broke the startled silence first.

  ‘It is too late to stand in denial of what has happened.’ The words were uttered by Illiaca Winterbright, one of the most respected seers – though respect for those that plied their runecraft was a relative term amongst the chieftains. ‘We can debate from now until the Rhana Dandra on what might or should have been, but we cannot change what has transpired. The runes are clear. The necrontyr present a grave threat to Saim-Hann.’

  ‘Brought upon us by Yvraine’s lackeys!’ snarled Yrannae Fellwinter.

  ‘We are lackeys of none,’ Caelledhin called back, despising the situation she found herself in. She no more wanted to defend Druthkhala and Yvraine than give up her kin’s blood for them, but the reputation of her family was low enough already. Further impugning by association was too much to bear. ‘Was it not the Fellwinter that led us to humiliation at Lotheorisesh?’

  A bright flare startled everyone, the illumination bursting from the upraised staff of Illiaca. The seer held the blazing rod aloft while she spoke, her voice low and chilling, but carrying to all present.

  ‘We have cast the runes and the path of Saim-Hann is set. From Agarimethea the necrontyr will spring into wakefulness and their legions will come upon the craftworld with deadly intent.’

  The declaration tied a knot in Caelledhin’s gut. She had been there, party to the start of these calamitous events. If she had been stronger, not cowed by Nuadhu’s nature and the menace of Druthkhala, she could have spoken out and prevented this disaster. It was too late and the realisation left her speechless.

  ‘Our only hope is to stifle the threat before it gains sufficient strength,’ continued Druthkhala, now much calmed. ‘An overwhelming attack by the united clans and the Ynnari will eliminate the necrontyr before they are fully awake. The sooner we strike, the simpler the task.’

  Excited conversation erupted amongst the delegates, some between clan councillors, others calling to neighbouring barges. The cadre around Clan Frostwind pulled closer, urgent discussion plying between the conspirators. Caelledhin turned to her father and his advisors.

  ‘This could take some time,’ she warned.

  ‘It will,’ answered Naiall with a grimace.

  Yet their fear was unfortunately to be proven false. It was, in council terms, a precipitously short time before Celidhi Mistwearer ventured from the knot of discussion, the newly nominated spokesperson for the coalition opposed to Yvraine.

  ‘Seers have brought dire warnings before, yet been proven mistaken,’ the clan leader declared, flicking fronds of pale hair from her slender face. She turned her full attention on Druthkhala. ‘The meddling will cease. The necrontyr have no cause to seek war with Saim-Hann, unless we bring war to them. The Ynnari are not welcome in the stars around Saim-Hann, and unless further evidence can be brought before council of the dangers posed by this tomb world, there is nothing against which we must answer. Let the Ynnari fight their own battles.’

  With this pronouncement the clans Mistwearer, Bluewoven, Frostwind, Fellwinter and allied families dispersed, breaking away from the gathering above the lake. Caelledhin watched them go with a sinking heart. For all that she did not care for Yvraine’s cause, the decision was as much about the political end of Clan Fireheart as it was the situation presented by the necrontyr. Though some of the major clans remained, it was clear that without the cabal around Clan Frostwind, no concerted attack would be made.

  One by one the others each drifted away from the council, leaving only the closest allies of Clan Fireheart remaining, Druthkhala slumped upon her reaver-bike alone in the centre of a widening circle. The defeat of the Ynnari herald brought Caelledhin no comfort, coming twenty cycles too late.

  ‘So be it,’ croaked Naiall. ‘It seems that we are powerless to change course.’

  ‘I will not surrender until we are truly defeated,’ vowed Nuadhu, already moving along the barque towards the smaller launches floating alongside. ‘There are others that might lend their aid.’

  Before he could be questioned further, the Wild Lord leapt into one of the small skimmers and was away, flitting across the waters in the wake of the larger craft departing the dome.

  ‘Whatever can he mean?’ grumbled Marifsa.

  ‘Trouble, I’m sure,’ replied Caelledhin.

  The hiss of an anti-grav engine called her attention to the approach of Druthkhala. The Commorraghan slid alongside the throne-yacht and stopped for just a moment, meeting Naiall’s troubled gaze. She said nothing before she accelerated away, doubtless to report to her mistress on the woeful proceedings of the council.

  The seer-barge remained, on almost the opposite side of the waters. Illiaca Winterbright and her companions were in a close debate, huddled near to each other, heads bobbing and shaking as they argued. Eventually they too departed to continue their own schemes.

  ‘Get some rest,’ Caelledhin told her father, receiving a weak nod as promise of compliance. She signalled to the navigator at the tiller and the skim-engines thrummed into life, taking the barge back towards the halls.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Neamyh.

  Caelledhin did not reply, her thoughts already progressing along a path she was wary to tread but knew she could not avoid any longer.

  ‘There was a notable absence at the council,’ she told her family as the barge pulled alongside the docking quay of one of the upper towers of the clan palace. ‘I will address that absence.’

  Nuadhu stopped as his companion laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘This is unwise.’ B’sainnad drew his fur-lined cloak tighter about his body, though any sense of chill must have been purely in his mind. ‘I’ve heard stories of what happens to folk that come to the Shadow Vale.’

  ‘Then why did you accompany me?’ replied Nuadhu.

  He pulled himself up a nearby rock
to have another look at the winding trail ahead. It cut back and forth down a steep slope dotted with thorny bushes and stunted trees. Glancing back up, he reckoned they had traversed about half the distance down into the dark gorge and the shadows were starting to lengthen as the dome’s artificial star waned towards dusklight. The thought of being in the Shadow Vale as domenight set in gave Nuadhu an equal thrill of excitement and tingle of dread.

  Turning his attention back to the valley floor he still spied nothing but rocks, sparse vegetation and the trails of beasts criss-crossing the yellowing grass. The screech of roosting birds seemed almost scripted to complement the desolate scene. Knowing the affectations of abandonment in the Flameglades it was not too much of a stretch to believe that everything about the eerie landscape might be arranged and choreographed.

  ‘There are ghosts here,’ B’sainnad continued, scrambling closer, a wayward foot sending a small run of pebbles clattering noisily down the slope. Both of them froze, sharing a horrified look, as though the wraiths of generations past would swell out from the ground to assail them at the disturbance.

  ‘There are ghosts everywhere, my friend,’ replied Nuadhu, forcing a laugh as he jumped down from his perch. ‘The infinity circuit is powered by the spirits of our departed. I think you have perhaps been reading too many tales of Craftworld Iyanden and have become confused.’

  B’sainnad frowned and curled his lip, evidently finding his lord’s words dismissive rather than light-hearted. He straightened, arms crossed tight over his chest.

  ‘You’re right, why did I come here with you? Oh, that’s right.’ The pilot jabbed a finger a Nuadhu, a highly improper gesture, which the Wild Lord forgave only on account of their close friendship. ‘It’s because you asked me. I think a bit more appreciation of what I am doing is in order.’

  ‘What you are doing is complaining endlessly,’ snapped Nuadhu.

  ‘You ungrateful…’ B’sainnad was lost for words, fingers clawing as though to snatch a suitable epithet from the air. ‘I don’t have to tolerate this, not for you!’

  ‘Friend, I am sorry,’ said Nuadhu, extending a hand back towards his companion. B’sainnad looked away with a sigh, arms folded again.

  ‘This is an awful lot of trouble just to impress a would-be lover. And remind me, what do I get out of this?’

  ‘You think this is about Druthkhala? She bewitches me, that is for sure, but even I have some sense of proportion. I told you what the seers proclaimed. We have stirred up the necrontyr and war with the waking legion of Agarimethea will follow.’

  ‘We? You mean you stirred up the necrontyr.’

  ‘I…’

  Nuadhu found no words for the denial, because he knew B’sainnad was right. He sat down on a rock, picked up a handful of smaller pebbles and started casting them into the deepening gloom. His friend’s shadow fell across him and he looked up to see B’sainnad standing close at hand. Nuadhu was about to say something, to offer apology again, but noticed that his companion was not looking at him.

  ‘Look, I know I drag you into some troubles but–’

  B’sainnad hushed him with a raised hand, the other held to one side of his face, shielding his eyes against the set of the domesun. Nuadhu followed his gaze and saw that a flock of large birds were circling over the valley some distance away. Not just circling, but spiralling down out of sight.

  ‘The cave?’ ventured the Wild Rider lord. ‘That is what we’ve been looking for. The oracles dwell within a crystal cavern.’

  ‘Do you think the birds are their eyes above ground?’

  ‘They are ancient seers, melded with the remnants of a broken infinity circuit. I am sure that they knew we were here long before any bird spied us,’ said Nuadhu. B’sainnad did not look encouraged by the explanation. ‘Fine. Yes. The birds are their spies, returned now to them with word of our approach. Is that better?’

  ‘It is,’ B’sainnad said with a smile. ‘If I’m to be cursed or enchanted by fickle oracles, I’d prefer the story was suitably atmospheric.’

  As Nuadhu had feared, the domesun was soon just a dim glow at the lip of the gorge behind him. Looking back, he realised that the dusk had not approached as swiftly as he had thought, but simply the descent into the steep ravine had made it seem so. It was little comfort as he stared at the forbidding cave mouth ahead.

  It was broad but only just high enough to enter without stooping, lined with crystalline jags that looked very much like broken teeth. In fact, the whole cliff in which it gaped might look like a hideously contorted daemon’s face if one caught the shadows at just the right angle. B’sainnad did just that, pacing back and forth, alternately chuckling and sucking in agitated breaths.

  ‘It really is like something out of one of the children’s tales,’ the Vyper pilot remarked. ‘I’m not sure I can take it seriously, but then I look at it and I can’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding.’

  ‘Then we shall err on the side of caution,’ said Nuadhu. ‘This place is one of the oldest of Saim-Hann. Perhaps the stories originate in the truth we see here, rather than this place reflecting the artifice of the stories.’

  B’sainnad hurried back to his side, face betraying his concern.

  ‘We had best go in,’ announced Nuadhu, though several more heartbeats thudded in his chest before he actually took a step.

  Even before they crossed the vague boundary of the cavern, Nuadhu could feel the swell of spirit power. He knew that words like ‘ghost’ and ‘haunted’ were fanciful, but the sense of otherworldly energy pervading the cave made his skin prickle.

  A glow emanated from within, and its source became clear as they stepped into the wan yellow light. The ceiling was lined with slender ribbons of psychic crystal, pulsing arrhythmically. Its lack of natural tempo was disconcerting, and Nuadhu staggered, finding it hard to measure his paces with any certainty. Likewise, B’sainnad placed a hand upon Nuadhu’s shoulder, using him for support as they ventured into the disorientating gleam. A low noise accompanied the light. In similar fusion it did not remain at a constant or predictable pitch, just on the edge of Nuadhu’s keen hearing.

  Though it was inconstant, Nuadhu recognised a direction to the gleam of the spirit light. In the faint glow he discerned a fork of tunnels not far from the cave mouth, one heading down and to the right, the other continuing straight on. The soul-glow seemed to be heading downwards more than ahead.

  ‘Wait!’ B’sainnad’s hand on his arm stopped the clan heir. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m following the lights.’

  ‘Do you know nothing?’ B’sainnad shook his head mournfully. ‘You don’t follow soul lights. They’ll lead you to your doom.’

  ‘They will?’ Looking up at the glittering veins, Nuadhu was not sure there was any purpose to them, at least no conscious intent. ‘What about the seers?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Oracles of the Last Truth. The clue is in the name. Oracles. We are supposed to consult them, so how do we do that if we cannot find them?’

  B’sainnad considered this for a few moments.

  ‘It’s a test, yes? Of worthiness.’

  Nuadhu looked at his friend, unsure whether he was being serious or not. He concluded that B’sainnad was not speaking in jest.

  ‘You really need to study more history and read fewer tales,’ he told the pilot before turning away towards the descending branch. He did not hear his friend’s tread behind him and glanced back to see B’sainnad waiting, wringing his hands. ‘Are you coming?’

  With visible effort, B’sainnad gathered himself, setting after Nuadhu with a determined nod.

  ‘This dome was one of the first built,’ explained Nuadhu as they entered the tunnel. It was wide enough for them to walk abreast, but B’sainnad hung back a step. ‘It is close to the centre of the infinity circuit. That is why the lights pulse the
way they do, towards the craftworld’s heart, where the seers were trapped.’

  They followed the lights for a short distance, becoming more accustomed to their irregular beat. The sound resolved into a murmur, like distant running water but hinting at vague words.

  ‘Ghost voices,’ whispered B’sainnad.

  ‘I think… Actually, I think you are right.’ Nuadhu listened more closely and realised that the words were inside his thoughts as much as sounds in his ears. ‘The infinity circuit was broken, remember? The seers had to bond with the crystal to stop the spirit energy bursting free. After all this time, some of the residual soul source permeates that crystal in the rocks.’

  ‘Haunted. That’s the word for it, Nuadhu. All this talk of conduits and crystal pathways, spirit energy and such. It doesn’t fool me, you know. These are the lost spectres of our ancestors, seeking sanctuary. You shouldn’t listen to them.’

  ‘I doubt we would understand anything if we did,’ Nuadhu replied. ‘From what the spiritseers have said, once disconnected from corporeal life, our energy lacks coherency.’

  They came upon another junction, and took the central route of the three branching corridors. Here the walls seemed more fashioned than natural, smooth beneath Nuadhu’s fingers. Of course, everything on a craftworld was constructed in one sense or another, without tectonic shift, glacial flow or other geological forces to create landscapes. Considering that fact, Nuadhu concluded that the change in the environment had to be deliberate. Perhaps a sign they were heading the right way?

  ‘When did you speak to a spiritseer?’

  They ducked beneath a crystal-edged ridge of stone above, finding themselves in a passageway with shallow steps.

  ‘When my mother… My father was a spiritseer when we lost her. After Iyothia was gone, my father consulted with his companions frequently.’ Nuadhu paused, remembering what it was like to come into the presence of the soul-talkers, the chill in the air around them, the tingle of his waystone in their presence. ‘We hoped that there was some way to recover her soul.’