Path of the Warrior (18 page)

It was a sight Korlandril could never have anticipated and his heart fluttered for a moment, gripped with primitive fear of the gargantuan monster confronting him. As before, Korlandril’s response to his fear was a surge of hatred and rage. He pounded forwards, peeling away from Kenainath to close with his chosen foe. The blades of the Striking Scorpion’s chainsword blurred into life, fuelled by Korlandril’s wrath to such a speed that they screamed as they split the air.

The ork swung its weapon in a long arc towards Korlandril’s head. He ducked easily beneath the ponderous attack, his chainsword flashing up towards the underarm of the ork, teeth cutting through muscle and artery. Blood splashed from the wound onto Korlandril’s helmeted face as he spun past. Through the Aspect suit he could smell the stench of the ork’s life fluid and taste the iron in its blood.

Korlandril’s mandiblasters spat laser fire as he sidestepped behind the ork, tearing at the flesh of its back and shoulders. The alien swung heavily around to its right seeking the cause of its pain, blade held overhead. Korlandril did not stand still long enough for the blow to land. He flexed his knees, crouched into Dormant Lightning, and then propelled himself forwards on the tips of his toes, unleashing River of Sorrow. His shuriken pistol fire raked the left side of the ork’s face even as Korlandril’s chainsword rasped through the thick muscle of its right thigh, gnawing at bone as the Aspect Warrior once again leapt past his unwieldy foe.

The ork collapsed with a grunt, the cleaver falling from its grasp as the alien’s muscles spasmed in its death throes. Korlandril performed the coup-de-grace, cleaving his chainsword backhanded into the ork’s left temple, shearing through and slicing deep into its brain.

A surge of victory filled Korlandril. The ruined flesh laid out on the stone of the bridge was a greater work of art than any he had ever conceived before. No Dreaming had matched the vitality—the heart-wrenching reality—of combat. Korlandril stood over his fallen foe, admiring the patterns made by the spatters of blood on the pale roadway. He looked at his own armour, smeared with filth, and was jubilant. Korlandril’s waystone pulsed in time to the thunderous beating of his heart.

“Korlandril!” Min shouted.

In his ecstasy, Korlandril barely heard his name. He turned to find the rest of the squad.

Something immense loomed in front of him, blotting out the sky with its massive shadow. Korlandril raised his chainsword to Watcher Over Sky, but the defence was pitifully weak against the crashing weight of the warlord’s axe. Fang-like chainblades smashed through Korlandril’s weapon, sending shards in all directions, and bit deep into the Aspect Warrior’s gut.

The force of the blow hurled Korlandril into the air, sending him crashing into the side wall of the bridge.

Horror filled Korlandril as the warlord took a step towards him. The Striking Scorpion was numb with shock and collapsed, his legs suddenly lifeless. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lumbering ork closing in on him, but could feel his life seeping away through the ragged cut in his belly. His armour tried as best it could to knit the wound, but the damage was too severe.

Kenainath stepped between Korlandril and the ork warlord, the crackling claw of his right fist raised in defiance. The warlord bellowed a wordless challenge and Kenainath responded with offence, smashing the Scorpion’s Claw across the chin of the warlord, cracking bone, the fist’s powerfield rupturing flesh.

Then the pain hit Korlandril, rippling up his spine, sending a tremor of agony through his brain. He clamped his teeth together to suppress the scream, tears in his eyes.

The rest of the squad wove a deadly dance around their exarch, landing blows upon the warlord, which flailed hopefully at its swifter foes. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds across its chest and upper arms.

The last Korlandril saw was the long blade of Aranarha cleaving into the arm of the warlord, lopping off the limb above the elbow.

Korlandril blinked back into consciousness. He thought he was drowning for a moment, before he recognised the swirling energies of the webway.

Hands were around him, carrying him. He eased his head to the left and recognised the armour of Bechareth. He heard voices inside his head but could make no sense of them. They were stern, unflinching. The pain was intense, setting his whole body a-tremble.

He could take no more. He was suffering too much. He passed out again.

During the War in Heaven, Khaine the Bloody-Handed One slew a great many eldar warriors. Mother Isha became fearful that the eldar would be exterminated, so she went to Asuryan the all-seeing and begged for him to intervene. Asuryan also feared that Khaine’s rage would destroy not only the eldar, but the gods. He consented to aid Isha, but demanded of her to give up a lock of her immortal hair. This tress of hair Asuryan bound into the hair of Eldanesh so that he and all of his descendants could be healed by Isha’s love for them.

Gentle chiming awoke Korlandril. He found himself lying upon a firm, embracing mattress, warm to the touch. A cool breeze passed over his face. He kept his eyes closed, savouring the sensation of tranquility. At the edge of hearing he detected subtle notes, a drifting music that surrounded him, stroked at his spirit.

As he recovered consciousness, conflict disturbed Korlandril’s dream-like thoughts. An image pushed at his memories, insistent but formless. He pushed back, trying to keep the memory at bay.

Through his eyelids Korlandril sensed a pulsing red light. His breath came in time to the surges of crimson energy flowing into his brain. It was slow at first but as it quickened in pace, Korlandril’s breathing and pulse became swifter. He had no sense of time passing other than the narrowing gap between each breath and each heartbeat.

The red light had become a flickering strobe, alternating between harsh red and soft yellow. Korlandril hyperventilated, gasping rapidly, his chest aching with the exertion though the rest of his body remained motionless. His nostrils flared as he tried to fill his lungs but the flashing lights made him expel each breath before it had barely entered him.

“Awaken,” said a gentle voice. “Remember.”

The words trickled into his mind and he was powerless to resist their command.

The barrier in his memories ripped asunder and a vast green beast with razor claws burst towards him. Blood drooled from its fangs. Pain flared.

Korlandril screamed with what little breath he had and fell back into darkness.

He floated, his body weightless, tied to the universe by the most slender tether of his consciousness. The voice returned, but this time there were no other sounds, no light save for a dim and distant pale green.

“You are in the care of Isha’s healers,” said the voice. Korlandril could not tell if it was male or female, so softly spoken was the tone. “Nothing can harm you here. You are safe. You must heal. You must release the power from the Tress of Isha.”

“It hurts,” Korlandril said, numb, barely recognising his own voice.

“The pain will pass, but you cannot heal your wound until you confront it.”

“The pain is too much,” whispered Korlandril.

“The pain is not of your body but of your spirit. The Tress of Isha will free you from your pain. I am Soareth, and I will help you.”

“I do not wish to die,” Korlandril said sombrely.

“Then you must heal,” replied Soareth. The healer was male, Korlandril decided, and young. Soareth spoke with the language of youth. He did not wish to be healed by a novice.

“What do you know of death?” he demanded, growing angry.

“Nothing,” replied Soareth. “I am an advocate of life. Listen to me carefully, Korlandril. You still wear your war-mask. You cannot have one hand upon Khaine’s sword and the other upon Isha’s gift. You must take off the mask.”

“You would leave me defenceless!”

“The only enemy that you must fight is yourself.” Soareth spoke so quietly Korlandril could barely hear him. Or perhaps there was something else that made the healer’s voice so distant. “There is no other battle here, Korlandril. Your wound is grave, but you have the strength to overcome it. I will help you.”

“You are little more than a child, I demand to be attended by someone with more experience,” Korlandril said flatly. He felt himself frown.

“I am trained to help you heal, Korlandril. The power to survive does not reside within me, it is within you. Body and spirit are as one. You must strengthen your spirit to strengthen your body. I will show you how you will do this, and guide you to the Tress of Isha. With its power, you will heal. First you must calm yourself, release yourself from Khaine’s grip.”

“I cannot,” snarled Korlandril.

“What is it that you love, Korlandril?”

The warrior dismissed the question. There was no love in battle.

Soareth repeated the question, but this time there was a subtle change in the timbre of his voice. Love. The word began to resonate with Korlandril. There had been something he had once loved, before Khaine had taken him. If only he could remember.

A gentle vibration stirred Korlandril’s fingers. It was the slightest tremor but it brought feeling to his fingertips. He felt them brushing through something. Something with fine strands. Brushing through hair.

He stroked Thirianna’s head as they watched white-plumed snow finches reeling to and fro across the cliffs in the Dome of Infinite Tides. It was an absent-minded gesture, no intent behind it. Her hand was on his knee as they sat cross-legged on the shale beach and looked up at the towering pale rocks. Though there had been no motive behind that soft caress, the sensation stirred feelings inside Korlandril. Desire rose in him and he stroked her hair again, luxuriating in the closeness between them. He turned his head to look at her, admiring her beautiful face in profile, silhouetted against the low light from the distant wall of the dome. Her gaze was fixed on something far away, seeing something other than birds. Korlandril withdrew his hand, suddenly embarrassed at the gesture. Despite his discomfort, he felt at peace with the feelings now holding sway over him.

Blood sprayed into Korlandril’s face, drowning him with a wave of thick red fluid. He sputtered and spat, clawing it from his cheeks, wiping it from his lips and eyes. But the blood kept coming, pouring from his eyes, dribbling from his mouth, seeping from every pore. He coughed, hacking up blood and tissue, despoiling his skin with its sticky gobbets.

Korlandril awoke with a dull ache in every part of his body, and a sharper pain in his abdomen. He suddenly realised where he was and shouted out, a wordless cry of fear echoing sharply around him. Still he could not open his eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to look upon the source of his pain, the great wound in his stomach that was leeching the life from him.

“Sleep,” said a quiet voice in his ear. He thought he recognised it, but before he could put a name to the voice he was swallowed up by a gentle somnolence.

A rhythmic beating accompanied a slow pulsing of blue light behind Korlandril’s eyes. He felt tiny quivers of movement on his skin, like the scampering feet of an insect. It moved simultaneously from the back of his neck down each arm and along his spine, forking at his waist to run down his feet. “Welcome back, Korlandril.”

Soareth. Korlandril dragged the name from a dark recess in his memories. Something told him not to delve any deeper. He would not like what he saw.

“I am well again?” he asked, surprised by the hoarseness of his words.

“No, not yet,” said Soareth. “But you have returned to us from the grip of Khaine. You can open your eyes.”

Korlandril prised open one heavy lid, cautious, fearing brightness. The room was softly lit, barely a twilight glow surrounded him. He opened the other eye and glanced around. The shaven-headed Soareth stood at the foot of the bed, a single-piece white robe hanging loosely from bony shoulders. In his hand he held a jewel-studded tablet. His fingers danced over the coloured gems and the room shifted around Korlandril; that is, the colours shifted, creating darker shadows, intensifying the light. The chamber felt smaller.

“Do not be afraid,” said Soareth.

Korlandril tried to sit up so that he could look down at the ruin that he knew his stomach to be. He couldn’t move, and said as much.

“I have induced a paralysis for your own safety,” Soareth said. “The wound has bound but a little. You must help your body complete the healing process. You must draw on the Tress of Isha.”

Korlandril attempted to nod.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“Focus on the ceiling and relax,” said Soareth.

Korlandril looked up, seeing nothing but pearlesque off-white. He was aware of the pain in his abdomen and tried to push it aside so that he could concentrate.

“Do not hide from the pain,” warned Soareth. “It must be confronted, not dismissed.”

The colours of the ceiling shifted, almost imperceptible at first, a slow merging of pastel colours barely discernable from the white. The colours flowed together and swirled, with no distinct line between them, leaving an impression of a strange meta-colour made up of them all.

“Chant with me,” said Soareth. He started a low intonation, just sounds without meaning, slow and purposeful. Korlandril followed, matching pitch and duration with the healer. His throat hummed with the sound, sending alternating ripples of calm and alertness through his body.

The chanting fluctuated, but Korlandril had the rhythm of it now and matched Soareth exactly. Above the warrior the mottling ceiling was pulsing with life, slow flashes hidden within the maelstrom of colour-energy.

Korlandril shuddered and gave a moan, his synapses flaring from the awakening frequencies pouring into his senses. The tightness in his stomach was sharp, the pain dragging at his thoughts like an anchor. He wanted to fly free of its weight, but the invisible chain held him down.

Eyelids drooping, Korlandril succumbed to the mesmeric influence of the light and sound. He was dimly aware of Soareth moving around him, still chanting, running an angular crystal along nodal parts of Korlandril’s body. Psychic energy earthed between Korlandril and the healer, flaring briefly along pain-filled nerves, spasming cells and dilating arteries.