‘I always find this place quite inspiring,’ remarked Nuadhu, casting a gaze up to the dome ceiling. ‘Uplifting.’
Unlike the great tracts of artificial wilderness that dominated most domes, the Hall of Considered Light was quite plain, made specifically for the coming together of the clans. Rather than mountains and rivers, the landscape consisted of rolling hills in the bloom of spring growth, cut through with sparkling streams.
‘I regret that it has not improved the mood of our rivals,’ said Caelledhin.
It was not unusual for clan councils to be become heated, one might even say contentious. Strongly held views and the overbearing importance of name-honour was an occasionally explosive combination for debate, where intellectual principle was subordinated to the demands of personal reputation. Even so, by the standards of Saim-Hann, the exchanges that had marked the recommencement of the Agarimethea deliberations had been vitriolic, if not outright toxic at times.
Despite Nuadhu’s professed expectation to the contrary, Naiall had insisted on being present and seemed invigorated by the prospect of both verbal and mortal battle. Lady Laileh was also in attendance, though had not yet spoken directly. Caelledhin knew that the presence of her great aunt was a reminder to those who enjoyed her support, and a silent challenge to Naiall. The leader of Clan Fireheart barely took his eyes off the draconian matriarch, personal antipathy pushing aside political consideration.
Caelledhin had not carried the lady’s offer to her father, knowing that although he claimed otherwise, the chieftain was too weak to deal with such obviously antagonistic manoeuvring. Caught at the crux of the necrontyr crisis and his familial disputes, as well as no small amount of physical stress, Naiall needed no additional strains upon his constitution.
‘I do not think we will win over the council, even with the seers advocating for our leadership,’ Caelledhin confessed to her family. She skirted around her great aunt’s threats, but was not able to ignore them entirely. ‘There are those here that will oppose us on principle, regardless of sense or merit.’
‘We cannot bend ourselves to the whims of fools,’ replied Nuadhu.
‘Why not, if they are in the majority?’ countered Caelledhin. ‘Perhaps we are being the fools, shackling ourselves to the desires of Yvraine and her kind.’
Her eyes flicked to Druthkhala, who stood apart from them, but had been allowed onto Clan Fireheart’s barque as a sign of support – against her judgement and argument.
‘Without Yvraine the battle is lost before it has commenced,’ Naiall said.
‘Why? It is the Ynnari that have divided us. Remove them from the argument and the clans will form alliance for the defence of the craftworld.’
‘We do not need to defend the craftworld,’ argued Nuadhu. ‘We need to attack Agarimethea. It is that mission that the other clans rejected. If they will not follow us into battle, then we and the Ynnari must hope to succeed without them.’
‘Do we put ourselves above the good of Saim-Hann?’ Caelledhin countered. She directed her words to her father. ‘Perhaps we should withdraw the demand that we be named windrunners, and allow another clan to take the lead. Someone the others will unite behind.’
‘Clan Icewhisper perhaps?’ Naiall asked, voice barely a murmur but laden with intent.
‘Never,’ growled Nuadhu. Caelledhin felt his accusing gaze like a blade in her ribs, though her guilt was in omission not subversion. Their distrust was no novelty, and she hated the role she was forced to play between the two clans. Shunned by that of her mother, kept at arm’s length by her father’s.
‘That was not my intent,’ she said weakly, but already the damage was done. Father and son turned their gazes back to the council, pointedly ignoring any further protestation.
Alyasa announced that Clan Fireheart had extended invitation to Yvraine of the Ynnari. The news that a fleet of Ynnead’s followers lay just beyond the great webway gate was not taken meekly by the rivals of Caelledhin’s family. The Hall of Considered Light rang with angry words, shouts of approval and opprobrium, and the thunder of stamped feet and hisses of judgement.
‘It is not for you to extend the welcome of all,’ cried Lorasi Bluewoven, jabbing his rod of office towards the barge of Clan Fireheart. ‘You have conspired with enemies of Saim-Hann and our security is compromised.’
‘You would see us all dragged into the abyss with you,’ added Ameridath Frostwind. ‘Would it give you a last satisfaction before you succumb to your infirmity, to see our home destroyed by the legions of the Unliving?’
‘Your meddling has already tempted disaster,’ continued Cuithella Frostwave. ‘To engage in any escalation against the tombs of Agarimethea is the surest invite to cataclysm that we have seen in a generation. Let the sleeping dead quieten, do not rouse them further.’
‘It is too late for that,’ insisted Alyasa. ‘The threat from the necrontyr mounts with each cycle. Only a swift and decisive blow will stop them now.’
‘I thought the courage of the Frostwave was well regarded,’ snarled Nuadhu, the auditory workings of the hall carrying his off-hand remark across the dome. A stillness betrayed the sudden tension.
‘Do you question the bravery of Clan Frostwave?’ Cuithella’s question was directed at Naiall rather than Nuadhu. ‘A grave accusation.’
‘I am sure–’ began Alyasa but Nuadhu cut across the windweaver.
‘All I hear are excuses from the clans opposite,’ declared the Wild Lord with a dismissive toss of the head. ‘It is for them to offer reason why their blood is too good to spill in fighting for the craftworld.’
An audible intake of breath sighed across the divide, Cuithella’s eyes widening with affront.
‘Retract your statement,’ insisted her nephew, Thariansa. ‘You will not dishonour the name of Frostwave with this slight.’
Nuadhu faced down the other aeldari, and then glanced at his father, seeking guidance. It was unlike her half-brother to doubt himself, but was that a good sign or a bad one? Naiall seemed disinterested, fixated upon Lady Laileh. To Caelledhin it was obvious that both of the chieftains seemed happy to contest via proxy.
‘I make no apology.’ Nuadhu’s words rang out into the silence but Caelledhin detected a slight hesitancy, as if the Wild Lord wished to say otherwise.
‘Is there one willing to force the matter?’ asked Thariansa.
Caelledhin suppressed a groan. The ritual challenge had begun and now there were only two options. To concede the apology of Clan Frostwave, and by extension surrender the argument of the whole council in their favour, or to settle the debate by duel. She saw only one opportunity to avoid that conclusion.
‘Nuadhu is with the Wild Riders, he does not speak for Clan Fireheart,’ she quickly announced. ‘He cannot accept your challenge.’
She suffered Nuadhu’s disgusted stare without regret, hoping that there might be one last attempt to salvage something from the council. She gazed imploringly at her great aunt, but received no answering glance.
‘Then I reframe the argument,’ said Thariansa. ‘Clan Fireheart has dishonoured itself by welcoming the title-less vagrants of the Ynnari to our craftworld. They have brought disrepute to the council by engaging with Yvraine without the consent of their peers.’ He directed a narrow stare at Druthkhala. ‘More so, it seems that since the outset they have been conspiring to undermine the rightful sovereignty of the council of chieftains, bringing in an outsider to disrupt the cordial rule of Saim-Hann. I find them in contempt of this council and demand that Naiall Fireheart be stripped of any right to speak further on this. Is there one willing to force the matter?’
All attention fell upon the barge of Clan Fireheart. Caelledhin caught her half-brother’s eye and they drew together, their earlier dispute set aside in the face of external threat.
‘Thariansa is a skilled duellist, he rode as a Shining Spear while on the P
ath of the Warrior,’ she warned.
‘I know this,’ he replied with a grimace, perhaps realising the situation had moved beyond his control. ‘I am our best fighter but…’
‘But your position disallows you from answering the challenge,’ she finished for him. Together they eyed the other family members present. ‘Neither can Marifsa answer while sworn to the path of the Fire Dragons.’
‘Neamyh has never seen battle,’ Nuadhu said with a slight shake of the head. ‘Of our other cousins, none are a match for Thariansa.’
‘The champion of Clan Frostwave knows it,’ concluded Caelledhin.
‘He goaded me knowing I could not defend my own words?’
‘I fear that was his calculation.’ Her eyes strayed to Lady Laileh, knowing that the calculation had not been Thariansa’s at all. ‘The progress of the whole council was orchestrated before it had started. The appeal of the seers was never going to be given consideration and the invitation to Yvraine simply provided the opening for our rivals.’
‘None of you?’ Thariansa called out, eyebrow raised.
Caelledhin felt Lady Laileh’s gaze finally upon her. The leader of the Icewhisper family stared intently at her great niece, her silent challenge added to that of her puppet. Infuriated in equal measure by Laileh’s manipulation and Nuadhu’s senseless belligerence that fell for it, Caelledhin drew in a breath, about to accept.
‘You will lose,’ said Nuadhu, guessing her intent. ‘You can ride well, but you are no match for Thariansa.’
‘I will fight under the name Icewhisper,’ she replied, ‘My loss of honour will be more palatable than damage done to any bearing the name Fireheart. But we shall still have to concede the council. Fortune may favour me…’
‘It is said to favour the bold, so you may be right.’ Nuadhu clasped her hands, a rare show of support. ‘Don’t get hurt.’
‘I will force the matter.’ The pronouncement came from the far side of the Clan Fireheart platform, where Druthkhala had waited in silence for the duration of the gathering.
‘Nonsense,’ laughed Thariansa. ‘You cannot answer the challenge.’
‘I do not care for your rules, Saim-Hann weakling,’ the Commorraghan sneered. ‘You insulted me and you insulted my mistress. If you have any heart you will settle the argument with me.’
Startled, Caelledhin was not sure whether to be angry or happy. Was this Druthkhala giving vent to her unchecked emotions, or was she simply meeting Thariansa’s barbs with her own to draw out the venom of his challenge? If the latter, it was well done, for frantically whispered consultation broke out around the champion, but the tone in Druthkhala’s words was too much for the champion’s pride to ignore.
‘So be it, drukhari vermin,’ Thariansa answered across the protestations of his kin. ‘You have no honour to take, but I will delight in seeing you swallow your own insults.’
‘Less talk, more bladework,’ Druthkhala replied with a sly smile, confirming Caelledhin’s suspicions. ‘My lance will silence your foolish yammering.’
Chapter 12
A DEADLY BLOW
While the other parties withdrew, the barges of the clans Fireheart and Frostwave almost met at the centre of the dome. Druthkhala had said nothing to Nuadhu following her challenge, and he studied her intently.
As she straddled the jetbike, Druthkhala gauged her opponent with roving eyes, as did the Wild Lord. Thariansa was slightly taller than her, which put him among a rare few, but more heavyset. His steed would not manoeuvre as well, which detracted from the advantage of extra reach. He held his duelling spear at the one-third-point, marking him out as an aggressive fighter, looking to score an early hit if possible. Did Druthkhala notice any of this? She was experienced in the Crucibael of Commorragh but a Saim-Hann honour duel was as different to the bloody fights of the arena as a shark and a hunting cat. She gripped her decalibrated las-lance at the halfway mark, surrendering more reach but improving her control during the pass, so perhaps her eye saw the same as Nuadhu’s.
With her other hand she guided the jetbike left and right a few times, learning its heft and responsiveness. She powered up the skim-engine and ascended, turning slowly above Clan Fireheart and their allies, testing the acceleration. Seeing her winding higher made Nuadhu’s heart race faster, on her behalf but also jealous of her part in the contest about to commence.
Pouring on the power, she dropped like a hunting bird, contrails streaming from the control vanes as she dived towards Nuadhu. He had seen the way she rode at Agarimethea, and though he had not flown her reaver-steed he had certainly noted its capabilities. The top speed of the craftworlder jetbike she rode for the duel was barely two-thirds of her own bike, but the slightest adjustment of the piloting vanes performed a series of spine-wrenching loops and rolls.
She sped onwards, the whine of the jetbike growing louder as she plunged directly towards Nuadhu. Instinct told him to move, to let her sweep past, but he controlled the fear, trusting her not to hit him. She pulled hard, deploying the air brakes, to slew to a halt beside the Wild Lord, the tip of her lance gently nudging against his chest-plate. The buzz of the contact alarm sounded clearly, demonstrating that the duelling weapon was ready.
‘I win,’ she told him with a half-smile.
He grinned back, but had no time to respond – the combatants were being called upon to attend to the contest. Engines barely more than idling, they slid towards each other. Thariansa lifted his lance in a perfunctory salute and Druthkhala responded in kind, moving the speartip with a lazy, mocking sweep. Seeing the furrows in his brow deepening brought a rush of pleasure to Nuadhu. The two warriors came alongside each other, facing opposite directions, and halted just beyond each other’s reach.
‘You’re going to crawl back to Yvraine in shame,’ growled the Frostwave champion.
Nuadhu let out a snort of contempt but Druthkhala let silence speak for her, matching his angry stare with a half-lidded look of boredom.
As a relatively neutral party, Illiaca Winterbright had been nominated as overseer of the duel. The farseer approached the pair atop a floating platform, scarlet robes flowing around her in the gusts of wind that played across the dome. Nuadhu felt tension returning as the arbitrator stopped alongside the duellists. If Caelledhin was right, he had been lured into a trap and the success of the alliance with the Ynnari – and the possible future of Clan Fireheart – now rested on Druthkhala. She was a formidable fighter in life-or-death battle but Nuadhu’s gut tightened at the thought of what would happen if Thariansa proved the better duellist.
‘This contest has the assent of the council,’ Illiaca declared, raising a hand. ‘At my command you will commence. At my order you will cease. Failure to comply with my demands will be taken as concession of defeat. Do you understand?’
The farseer seemed to direct the question at Druthkhala and the Commorraghan nodded.
‘When I win, this melt-heart fool will acquiesce to my authority,’ she said, raising her voice so that it carried to the distant yachts, barges and galleasses.
‘Go back to your corpse-worshipping, you crone-cursed vagrant,’ spat back Thariansa.
Illiaca cleared her throat and started her platform drifting backwards, the barques of the contesting clans doing likewise. Nuadhu’s pulse continued to pound in expectation, strong and swift, as if he were the one wielding the lance. The seer lifted a hand, gloved in black and bedecked with silver rings. When she had retreated some distance, she dropped her hand with a shout.
‘Begin!’
Thariansa tried immediately to swing his jetbike around, thrusting his spear towards Druthkhala, but she had predicted the attack and gunned her engine immediately, carrying her directly away from his laboured blow. He followed fast, matching her turns and jinks with his own, but with his extra weight he was not able to steer as tightly as she, and heartbeat by heartbeat she pulled away.
Nuadhu let out a short yell of encouragement, his exclamation falling unaccompanied into the silence of the other spectators. Next to him Caelledhin watched with a hand over her mouth, barely breathing. Naiall’s attention moved between the duellists and Lady Laileh, eyes narrowed.
Continuing with the momentum of her turn, Druthkhala briefly inverted, allowing her to loop after the fleeing craftworlder. He pitched his bike almost vertical, speeding towards the hilled floor of the dome, seeking sanctuary among the winding rivers and shallow slopes. To Nuadhu’s surprise Druthkhala broke away, rising higher rather than be drawn into the more constricted airspace.
Sensing she no longer followed, Thariansa slowed and then turned, stopping his jetbike some distance away, facing her. She flicked her lance tip in a light-hearted fashion, as though beckoning to him.
As the Frostwave champion accelerated with a snarl, Druthkhala put her foot to the throttle, matching his increasing speed. A streak of red versus a thunderbolt of blue-black, the two of them screamed towards each other, eyes slits as they picked their spots. Nuadhu held his breath, fists clenched tight, unable to predict the outcome of the pass.
The two lances crashed together, hafts deflecting the mutual blows as the two challengers flashed past each other. Nuadhu flinched as if the vibrations ranging along Druthkhala’s arm afflicted his own, but she ignored any discomfort and turned sharply, readying for the second pass. Thariansa declined the invitation, circling to the left as he considered his options.
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 14
