Path of the Warrior (11 page)

A thrill of elation shivered through Korlandril. For the first time since coming to the shrine he sensed a moment of achievement. He had been dimly aware of the progress he had been making, so subtle had been the changes wrought in him by Kenainath. Now that he was stood beside his armour, Korlandril looked on what had passed with fresh eyes. Just as he had learned to control the ghost stone as a sculptor, now he controlled every muscle and fibre of his body. It was an instrument wholly subservient to his will and whim.

The donning of his armour was not as straightforward as Korlandril had imagined it might be. Just as with the fighting poses, every stage of armouring was precise, each stance and movement strictly defined by Kenainath. With each stage came a mantra from the exarch, which resounded in Korlandril’s mind as the Striking Scorpions repeated the words.

First he stripped naked, casting his robe aside as if throwing away a part of himself. He took his waystone on its silver chain and placed it carefully in a niche in the wall. He felt a quiver of fear at being separated from his spirit-saviour. It was perhaps his imagining, but Korlandril felt a moment of scrutiny, as if detecting eyes suddenly upon him, regarding him from a great distance. He dismissed his unease, knowing that nothing could befall him in the shrine.

“The peace is broken, harmony falls to discord, only war remains.”

Korlandril followed the lead of the others, taking the bodysuit that was folded on a small ledge behind the armour.

“Now we clothe ourselves, with bloody Khaine’s own raiment, as a warrior.”

Korlandril stepped into the legs of the bodysuit. It was large and sagged on his limbs and gathered in unsightly bulges between his legs and under his arms, its fingertips dangling uselessly.

“In Khaine’s iron skin, we clad ourselves for battle, while fire burns within.”

Korlandril’s heart quickened. In his gut, the serpent of his anger stretched slowly. He placed his palms together in front of his face, copying the movements of the other Aspect Warriors. In response, the body suit tightened. As the fabric of the suit shrank against his taut muscles, dormant pads began to thicken, forming rigid areas across his chest and stomach and along the bulge of his thighs, stiffening along his spine.

“The spirit of Khaine, from which we draw our resolve, strengthens within us.”

Korlandril kept his eye on Elissanadrin, following her motions. Reaching behind the armour, he undid the fastenings along its back, letting the lower portion of the torso fall free in his hands. Wrapping it about his stomach and lower back, his nimble fingers worked the fastenings back into place. Its stiff presence around his midsection was reassuring, supporting his back, squeezing against his sides in a firm embrace.

“War comes upon us, we must bear its dark burden, upon our shoulders.”

Following the lead of the others, Korlandril undid the clasps fixing the upper part of the armour to its stand. He lifted it above his head, solid but not heavy. With careful movements he lowered it onto his shoulders. The plates gripped the surface of the undersuit, extending down his upper arms; the rounded bulge of the power generator slipped easily across his shoulder blades. As before, he returned to a stance of repose and the suit shifted slightly with a life of its own, adjusting itself to his body. When it had stopped moving, he tightened the clasps, fixing the armour in place. He felt top-heavy and adjusted his back to stand straighter.

A moment of fear made Korlandril tremble as the bodysuit extended up towards his face, enclosing his throat and neck, the touch of rippling ridges insistent but gentle. The moment passed as soon as it stopped just below his chin. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

“We stand before Khaine, unyielding in our calling, free of doubt and fear.”

The upper leg armour came next, fitting to Korlandril as snugly as the rest of the suit. He found that if he flexed in a certain way, the plates interlocked delicately, strengthening his stance, offsetting the imbalance of the powerpack. Korlandril’s pulse was almost feverish, burning along his arteries, hissing in his ears.

“We do not flee death, we walk in the shade of Khaine, proud and unafraid.”

The lower legs were each protected by a single boot-greave piece, which Korlandril slipped over his feet and knees. He fastened these to the thigh armour, fully encasing his legs. Threads of material grew rigid around his ankles, adding additional support, while the boots shortened themselves to fit his feet. A sensation of solidity, of unmoving permanence, filled Korlandril.

“We strike from the dark, as swift as the scorpion, with a deadly touch.”

The vambrace-gauntlets connected to the upper armour, more clasps linking the two as one. Korlandril flexed his arms, feeling cartilage-like tendrils tightening against his flesh, reinforcing his wrists and elbows. Now fully clad save for his face, Korlandril felt incredible, filled with a heat that did not waver. His armour was his skin; it pulsed along with his thundering heart, drawing life from him and returning its strength.

His next act was to retrieve his waystone from its niche, detaching it from the silver surround of the necklace. It responded to his touch, warming gently, suffusing him with delicate reassurance. He placed the waystone into the aperture of the chestplate. It settled home with a soft click. His armour felt the waystone’s presence as much as Korlandril, giving a brief, almost imperceptible quiver and then falling still again.

“That is all for now, there is no need of the mask, we are not at war.”

With the donning of the armour complete, Kenainath gestured for the Striking Scorpions to assemble before him. Korlandril took a step forward, the movement feeling awkward in the armour; its weight was evenly spread across him, but its bulk restricted normal movement. In response, he changed the nature of his stride, his body remembering the motions he had learnt while unencumbered. As strange and stylised as they had felt in his robe, they were natural when armour-clad.

The warriors stood in a single line, a short distance apart, facing the exarch. Kenainath led them through the ritual stances and the Striking Scorpions moved together, each replicating his poses without hesitation or variation. Almost like automatons they mirrored the exarch’s thrusts and parries, like marionettes all controlled by the same strings.

Korlandril felt a sense of belonging he had not known for a long time, in perfect synchronisation with his fellow warriors. He was as them, and they were as he; of one mind and one function. Every stance brought a fresh thrill, as he learnt anew their purpose. The armour made him complete, his body now perfected.

For most of the cycle they practised their ritual stances. Some were genuinely new to Korlandril, impossible to attain without the support of the armour. He learnt them without effort, swiftly adapting to each challenge. As the session progressed, the stance changes came more swiftly, the tempo of Kenainath’s actions increasing with each round of moves.

The exarch spoke rarely, only to reinforce his previous teachings and adding new insights into the way of the Striking Scorpion.

“With balance we strike, not acrobatic Banshees, flailing and screaming. With strength of motion, strike with sure and deadly grace, power from balance.”

Throughout the exercises the hot temper that had filled Korlandril continued to burn. He began to visualise a foe, formless and shadowy, which he gutted and decapitated, countered and eluded. His imaginary opponent had eyes that burned with a red fire, but was otherwise featureless; an anonymous conglomeration of those who had wronged him, an incarnation formed of his anger and fears. In striking at this apparition, Korlandril drew great strength, feeding on his power to destroy that which had tried to destroy him.

Invigorated, Korlandril was somewhat disappointed when Kenainath signalled for them to stop, returning to the stance of repose, palms touching, legs slightly apart, heads bowed.

Korlandril stood there for a while, expecting some new instruction. Footfalls alerted him to the others moving back to their armour-stands and he did the same. Kenainath had left without word.

Reversing the same series of motions they had used to put on the armour, the Aspect Warriors divested themselves of their battlegear. As he removed each component, Korlandril felt a lightening in his spirit as well as on his body. Though he had felt relaxed throughout the practice, he realised he had been functioning at a far higher state of awareness than normal. Colours seemed a little blander, sounds more muted as he brought himself down from the peak of physical attentiveness and assumed a more relaxed demeanour.

“Welcome to the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow,” said Elissanadrin, extending her palm in greeting. She wore a tight-fitting bodysuit with a pearlescent quality, gleaming with tones of white and ivory. Korlandril laid his hand briefly on hers in reply.

“Let me introduce you to your companions-in-arms,” she said, turning slightly, open hand gesturing towards the others.

“Be known to Arhulesh,” she continued, indicating a warrior a little shorter than Korlandril, his long black hair tied into braids with slender dark red ribbons.

“Greetings Korlandril,” Arhulesh said with a lopsided smile. “I would have liked to make your acquaintance earlier, but Kenainath is such a stickler for his routines. I must admit, I greatly enjoyed your exhibition,
The Rising of the Heavens.
Did I detect a slight mockery of Khaine in your pieces?”

Korlandril frowned. He could barely remember the sculptures he had created. They were locked away in his memories somewhere, but it was as if he had lost the map and could not find them.

“Oh, Kenainath has drawn you in most conclusively,” Arhulesh said with a raised eyebrow. He turned to the others. “Careful, we have a real devotee on our hands! I wonder just what, or who, it is that you’re hiding from, Korlandril.”

“Hush, Arhu,” cut in Elissanadrin with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You know that we do not speak of our lives before, unless we wish to.”

Arhulesh directed a nod of apology towards Korlandril, who noted a slight twist to the inclination, a tiny gesture of sarcasm. Elissanadrin laid a hand upon Korlandril’s elbow and led him towards the next Striking Scorpion, a serious-faced eldar with gaunt features and stark white hair cropped into a scalplock. He was attending fastidiously to his armour, using a silk-like cloth to wipe away every speck and smear on its surface.

“Speaking of silence, this is Bechareth.”

The name startled Korlandril, for it meant Spirit on the Wind; an appellation given to those whose true identity was not known, usually a stranger. It was also a euphemism for those that had died without the protection of a waystone, their spirits lost to the clutches of She Who Thirsts.

“He doesn’t, or can’t, speak,” explained Elissanadrin. “Kenainath brought him to us with that name, and neither has told us anything else. Do not be fooled by his silence, he is a capable warrior.” She paused uncomfortably before continuing. “I owe him my life.”

Bechareth stood and offered his right hand in greeting; vertical, palm towards Korlandril, a gesture of equality that was rarely used in Alaitoc society except to greet those from other craftworlds. Korlandril raised his left hand in mirror of the gesture, indicating trust, and received a slow blink of gratitude from the warrior. His dark eyes glittered with amusement, and Korlandril felt himself drawn to the mysterious eldar despite his outlandish behaviour.

“Mithrainn,” said Elissanadrin, nodding towards the last of the four. He was of venerable age, probably five hundred passes older or more, with a sharp brow and aquiline nose.

“Call me Min,” he said, eliciting a laugh from Korlandril. The nickname was from the myths of Vaul, after the weak link in the chain that had bound the smith-god to his anvil.

“It is good to meet you… Min,” said Korlandril, touching palms with the elder. “Forgive my impudence, but I would have thought the Path of the Warrior was more suited to those of less experience.”

“You mean that you think I’m too old for this sneaking about and running around!” Min declared with a grin. He thumped his hand to his chest. “The heart of a youth still beats within my breast.”

“Powered by the mind of an infant,” added Elissanadrin, rolling her eyes. “He makes up for Bechareth’s silence with his volume. I still think he has some Biel-Tan stock in him, despite his protestations to be pureblood Alaitocii.”

“You may say that, Lissa, but you have yet to catch me in the swamp.”

Elissanadrin conceded this obscure point with a reluctant nod and a pursing of the lips. She smiled when she saw Korlandril’s confusion.

“When you have mastered the arts of the fighting poses, you will join us on our hunts. We go out into the surrounds of the shrine and try to sneak up on each other. The Striking Scorpion is stealth as well as strength.”

Korlandril nodded in understanding. “And how long do you think it will be before I join you?”

“How long is a star’s life?” quipped Arhulesh from behind Korlandril. “Kenainath has a whim of iron. It could be next cycle, it could be not for another two or three passes.”

“Two or three passes?” Korlandril was taken aback. “Surely my progress has been swifter than that.”

“Whim of iron, remember, whim of iron,” said Arhulesh, shrugging shallowly.

“Is that before or after I get my war-mask?”

“None can say when you will find your war-mask,” said Min. “For some it never comes and they leave without truly treading the Path. For others, they wear it from the start.”

Bechareth stepped closer and looked intently into Korlandril’s eyes, studying every detail. He held up a thumb and forefinger, a little way apart. His meaning was clear: a short time. The gesture turned to an upraised finger of warning.

“He’s right,” said Elissanadrin. “You shouldn’t chase after your war-mask, not until you’re ready to take it off.”

“I’m not quite sure I still understand what this war-mask is,” confessed Korlandril. “I mean, Kenainath wouldn’t let us wear our helmets today. I don’t understand the connection.”