‘You say that one must die to seal the vault, but a great many of us will die to reach it,’ said Meliniel.
Twin orbs of blazing emerald turned upon the autarch.
‘You are the hand-that-guides-from-behind. It was your air-voice that created the crude tongue by which you are addressed. The words-of-the-aeldari have lost much meaning but you will comprehend.’
‘You listened to our messenger-waves?’ The autarch was horrified by the idea, doubtless thinking that his every command and strategy had been overheard.
Phaerakh Hazepkhut returned an unblinking glare to Yvraine but then the dreadful gaze moved on to Nuadhu, who flinched at being the subject of the ancient being’s scrutiny.
‘Yours is the blood-that-awakens. Blade-edge that cuts first.’ Nuadhu swelled a little, confident that the words were a compliment for his brave leadership. ‘Yet the repeated blows have dulled you. The blade will snap soon. The sea will be parted to ease your crossing.’
‘It wants us to die but offers nothing,’ growled the Visarch.
‘We are open to the offer of alliance,’ Eldrad said quickly, in a more conciliatory manner. ‘Neither of us benefits from the release of the daemonic horde within your vault.’
‘Vaults,’ said Naiall from behind them. ‘You showed us seven worlds in your vision, Eldrad. If I understand it right, this Phaerakh controls seven such vaults.’
‘You are correct, one-that-walks-with-ending.’
‘This “parting of the seas”, it means you will break through the enemy so that we can reach the vault?’ suggested Yvraine. ‘We will combine our forces to overcome the common threat.’
‘One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier. Only an aeldari can accomplish this. You lack the strength to prevail and so the strength of the Cross-upon-the-Worlds will aid you.’
A chilling song rang out across the precinct, interrupting the council. Nuadhu felt it in his spirit as much as its rising notes reached his ears: a promise and threat woven together in words that danced at meaning but spoke directly to the heart rather than the mind. He felt a yearning for… Anything. Everything. To hear the call of the voice was to know that life was meaningless, to understand existence without fulfilment, separated and alone.
‘Another of the six manifestations-of-glories-unearned has broken free. If another arrives it will overcome those arrayed against it.’
‘We will fight with you, but how will you open a path to our goal when even now you are pressed hard to simply keep the tide in check?’ asked Yvraine.
‘Observe.’
Prove more strength, growled the one with the taintstorm inside it. Its attitude was of a leader but it seemed barely capable of mastering the forces trapped within its mind-cavity. The Watcher of the Dark felt the warp potential within the creature straining against the null curtain.
‘I will demonstrate,’ the Phaerakh assured the aeldari.
She had been avoiding this act for as long as possible, but the continued escape of the extemporal corruption from within the Panatheitik Vault had progressed beyond manageable levels. The gate had been sealed by a combination of necrontyr learning and aeldari sorcery, and no matter what she could achieve militarily against the dissonant force unleashed, only with the aid of the aeldari could the capstone be reactivated and the gate shut.
The lesser creatures stared at the Phaerakh with dull-eyed expectation, but it was not towards the Watcher of the Dark that they needed to direct their attention.
The Phaerakh thought-transferred into the main energy system and deactivated the coupling bonds that kept shut the tesseract chamber. Swarms of canoptek leeches slithered into the parting chamber as the top section of the containment obelisk split to allow electrocarrier waves to elevate its contents.
Inside the dampeners the god-fragment writhed. Photon emissions raged at the perceived barbarity to which it had been subjected. The Watcher of the Dark felt no sympathy for the sun-shard, for if it was set free it would not hesitate to destroy her, her great works and any living thing within reach. It was important to remember that the electron-shriek of distress emanating from within the containment net was nothing more than the protestations of a being denied free rein to rampage. Subjecting the god-fragment to imprisonment was not only coercive, it was essential to survival.
The Watcher of the Dark turned and indicated the opening edifice with her staff. Ejections of stray particulate sprayed from the open section, carving flickering arcs of ionised air that seemed imbued with a life of their own. Through eyes far superior to any organic equivalent she marvelled at the interplay of molecules distorted and rent apart by the released energy of the god-fragment.
The thought that she harnessed the energy of this galactic predator brought a glimmer of satisfaction. It was but a small piece of the whole yet it would burn for eternity, giving off its lifeforce to sustain Pantalikoa as it had once sought to feed off the lives of her people. It would be mistaken to think of the caging of the exostellar manifestation as a punishment for the betrayal of its whole. The far greater reason was pragmatic. When the stars themselves would gutter and die, when entropy had all but quenched life from the galaxy, this being and the others like it would sustain the necrontyr civilisation. Truly they had mastered their destiny. Retribution was fleeting, dominance was forever.
‘Witness the power of this fully wakened defence complex,’ she announced.
Chapter 25
THE SUN-EATER
Scampering along the edge of a broad boulevard, Alorynis had hoped to keep to the shadows but between the flares of green and the growing golden glare there was no such cover. It did not seem to make much difference. The cold machine-folk that marched along the street paid no heed to the gyrinx, advancing in synchrony towards the brightness ahead.
Eyes wide and ears flat, Alorynis hurried past the ranks of dead things. Though he could smell and see them, they left no imprint upon his mind, like moving pieces of scenery, shadows made solid. Their artificial coldness permeated the entire city, which was why the burst of psychic warmth was such a lure.
The red warrior was so fixated upon Alorynis’ companion that it had been easy to slip away as the floating floor had slowed to land. Within a few heartbeats he had lost himself among the unmoving dead warriors and into the buildings beyond them.
The pulse of the warp continued its calling in the distance, gentle murmurs that beckoned to the gyrinx, reminding him of the home he had left. Fleeting memories – more like sense impressions than thoughts – filled him with a sense of longing. He enjoyed his bonding to the mistress, but he missed the company of others of his kind. The purr-like whispering from the golden-gleaming structure reminded him very much of his litter-dimension and the softness of his mother.
Real noise intruded upon the psychic harmony, discordant and unpleasant. Weapons crackled, blades hissed and beings of blinding light shrieked and howled with grief and joy. If the dead-machines were outlines of freezing blackness in his thoughtsenses, the denizens that had sprung free from the opened gateway were the opposite. They were vital, hot things alive with the power of love and hate. Trails of raw emotion seeped like fluid through the air around them.
But Alorynis knew they were tainted. Even as he had nuzzled at his mother his mind had hardened against the claws of pain that threatened to peel apart his thoughts. The same instinct closed off his psychic awareness now, dulling the beautiful song that flowed through the city, pushing away the silence.
The battle raged hard, almost blocking the route to the golden gate. Alorynis paused at the edge of the wide space and washed his face while he contemplated what to do next. He had thought to find the music that his mistress was hankering after. The void in her heart was a pain in his too, eating away at his wellbeing just as the emptiness devoured her sense of self.
But the hunter-things were here instead, not the dead-song of the ae
ldari that so lifted his mistress’ spirits.
It seemed wrong to go back without trying harder. Following the charge of the mind-gougers, the metal-that-walked was pushed back into the neighbouring streets, opening up a temporary gap to the mind-rip.
There was no time to ponder the consequences. Alorynis dashed onwards, haring between the legs of a loping, long-necked monster, slipping past the rumbling wheels of a beast-drawn carriage to come before the rent in the world.
Psychic static danced across his fur. Now committed, believing that if he could find just a morsel of the death-voice to bring back it would ease his mistress, Alorynis plunged into the tear between realms.
‘Behold the unleashed potential energy of the tomb-bindings-under-rule.’
Yvraine flinched at the explosion of jade light that erupted from a hexagonal edifice behind the necrontyr Phaerakh. Something huge and blocky ascended from the flickering interior, pulling at tendrils of power as though ripping itself free from their embrace. Coruscations of energy played about the black surface of the floating obelisk, which was not so different from some of the resurrection gates already arranged about the tomb complex.
Circuit-engrams shifted on the surface forming golden lines that widened until they became cracks, splitting the mass into an expanding quadrilateral shape. The light intensified, if that was possible, far outshining the meagre disc of the star beyond the veil of the clouds.
Squinting, Yvraine saw a shadow in the light. At first it seemed nothing, a trick of optics. As the containment obelisk continued to open it revealed more of the energy source trapped within. The shadow became an outline, of a many-limbed being writhing in the heart of lashing power trails. The white was tinged with the pale green that suffused all necrontyr technology and it became obvious that the being within the rising geometric prison was not only contained by the power, it was also its source.
‘A sun-eater,’ whispered the Visarch. Yvraine darted a look at her bodyguard, having never heard such a tone of awe from him before. He stood with lensed gaze fixed upon the emerging apparition.
‘Only a fragment of such, but self-aware,’ corrected Eldrad, but there was wonder in his voice too.
A being with the power to consume suns formed into a humanoid at the heart of the tame fission detonation, extruding appendages of raw energy from its impossible body. Though it was silent, its movements roared frustration and rage, enmeshed by its own power within the energy prison.
The Phaerakh pointed the staff-tip towards the daemon incursion, but uttered no word. Fronds of particles whirled from the captured sun-eater, crackling along the conduits of its gaol-shell. A phosphorescent hand reached out towards the skies and then closed into a fist.
Not more than a heartbeat later, the sky turned pale yellow. Another heartbeat brought a rain of plunging fireballs slamming down amid the cavorting daemon host. Cosmic detonations shook the ground, hurling the shredded remnants of daemons high into the air, their corporeal forms turned to scattered pseudo-particles by the impacts. Jade beams speared from spheres upon the surface of the hovering prison-obelisk, flashing towards the beetle-like daemon lord. They slashed across its carapace, turning into fracturing arcs of energy on contact to hurl the Chaotic manifestation through a swathe of its lesser servants. Hissing, the creature righted itself and spat a ball of incandescent violet that splashed across the prison-engine.
Howling winds stirred beneath the sun-eater vault as the imprisoned entity slid through the sky towards its hated foe. With another contemptuous gesture obsidian-like shards ripped up from the surface of the tomb complex, shredding dozens of daemons, their dismembered bodies reflected in the glossy black surface of the blades that ended them.
Enraged, the legion of the Great Enemy howled at the godly being brought into their midst, following behind their beetle-prince as glittering wings broke from beneath its shell to carry it towards the sun-eater. Beneath, the elite warriors of the Phaerakh charged into the distracted minions, energy blades searing a fresh path towards the pyramid-vault.
‘Full attack!’ Yvraine announced, dashing back towards her raider. ‘All forces, concentrate your attacks alongside the sun-eater. Target everything at the daemons.’
The projected voice of the Phaerakh reached her as she leapt aboard the skim-craft.
‘One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier.’
Pistol spitting deadly blasts, Meliniel Pureheart advanced with the seers of Saim-Hann at his back and a knot of Aspect Warriors arranged about them. Missiles from Dark Reapers flared past, the blossom of detonating warheads tearing apart the lithe bodies of cavorting daemons. The shuriken fire raged like a tempest and flares of super-heated energy and bright laser bursts split the bodies of hideous beasts and leering daemonettes. At his side, Azkahr spat curses even as his splinter pistol spat volleys of crystal shards.
The pulse of anti-grav engines shook the ancient paving as a flight of Falcons swept past, their turret weapons targeting the daemon prince soaring above the battle. Swooping Hawks wreathed trails about the monstrous apparition, their lasblasters firing constantly, its mortal flesh immune to the flashing beams.
The portal convulsed, retching forth another flurry of daemonettes. They were better armoured than those already encountered, with long gonfalons made of mortal skins flowing from spinal protrusions, their claws sheathed in gold, hermaphroditic bodies encased in silver-and-grey plates. Pulses of daemonfire erupted from their gauntlets, scything down a squad of kabalites that had counter-attacked towards them.
Larger shadows moved in the silvery mist, portents of even deadlier foes yet to break free.
‘The attack has stalled,’ Meliniel called to Azkahr. ‘Muster your kabalites and wyches to move around the flank.’
‘What flank?’ the former dracon snarled back. ‘We are nearly surrounded.’
The lieutenant’s assessment was true. In pushing hard for the portal behind the attack of Yvraine, sheathed as it was by the elite guards of the necrontyr Phaerakh, the combined host of aeldari and necrontyr had thrust deep into the daemon host, but nothing secured their rear. Soon they would be engulfed entirely, and resistance ahead was strengthening, not diminishing.
How had he missed their predicament?
The fiery pulse in his chest answered him. It craved release, desiring to annihilate the followers of the fell god that had shattered Kaela Mensha Khaine. The need for vengeance seethed through Meliniel’s blood.
The fighting was getting closer, more desperate. The Coiled Blade had disembarked, and Yvraine fought now on foot also, leading the Bloodbrides on another attempted push to reach the energy barrier.
Release me.
The urge to let go of himself was nearly overwhelming, but Meliniel dug into the last reserves of willpower to resist. With everything balanced upon the knife-edge of battle, now was not the time…
I will win this battle for you.
Viewing the situation as dispassionately as possible, Meliniel could see that the Warshard would be a considerable boon at that time. Was it immoral surrender to release the First Avatar, or simply bowing to the inevitability of necessity?
Meliniel’s gaze roamed over the warring sides, taking in the gleam of powerblades and crackle of gauss weapons. His eye was drawn to the fleeting blur of Nuadhu’s Vyper skimming above a throng of howling daemons. The Wild Lord’s lance dipped and plunged, scathing through the Chaos creatures without relent.
He heard Nuadhu’s laughter across the messenger-waves and understood the perversity of happiness amid the carnage. Not joy at the fighting itself, no gladness of killing, but the thrill for life that only came with the closeness of death. It recalled a time for Meliniel before the Path of Command, when he had fought as an Aspect Warrior. More than once he had trodden that Path, each time holding back the savagery and bloodlust that Kaela Mensha Khaine had placed in him, learning what he could
of war without succumbing to the lure of the Bloody-Handed One.
Now the embodiment of Khaine resided within him. He could no longer deny his nature. Head and heart warred with each other but in the end consensus was reached.
‘Step back,’ he warned Azkahr.
‘Yes! Now the bloody whirlwind shall turn,’ laughed the Commorraghan, grinning savagely as he withdrew several strides from his commander.
Meliniel holstered his pistol and reached a hand up to the blood-coloured gem set through his breastplate into the flesh within. The Heart of Eldanesh kicked at his touch, welcoming and vital. The autarch felt the heat building beneath his fingers and let go his last restraint, welcoming the rush of battle, hearing the din like martial drums, the heat becoming the fire of vengeance.
From within, the flames of Khaine burst free, immolating Meliniel with black and red. His distending figure grew thrice in size, plates of pitted iron replacing flesh and armour, boiling magma searing through him where blood had run moments before. The hand upon his breast wept thick blood, the curse for Eldanesh’s murder, while in his other his spear transformed into Anaris, the kinslayer, infamous widowmaker sword of myth.
That which had been Meliniel faded, becoming just a part of the entity known as the Warshard, whose spirit he had assimilated in the Well of the Dead. He looked with a demigod’s eyes at the scintillating play of energy that raged around him – the power behind the physical facade of the daemons. As an immortal he saw not dancing, shrieking figures, but nodes of power and consciousness, whirling about the storms that were the daemon princes, all linked back by vaporous tethers to the empty pit that was the breached vault.
Pureheart-Warshard, the Avenger of Eldanesh lifted the baleful sword, its blade ribboned with black flames.
‘Let your rage run free and clear!’ the avatar bellowed, its voice the crash of cannons and clang of blades combined. Pointing Anaris at the daemons, the Warshard broke into a run, metal feet casting sparks from the stone underfoot. ‘Cast these phantoms of lust back to the abyss and avenge your fallen!’
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 27
