Path of the Warrior (19 page)

The room went as black as the gulf between stars, swallowing up Korlandril. He could see nothing but inky depths. Raising a hand, he could not even see his waggling fingers. He felt dispossessed of his body and tried to float upwards, buoyed by his own lightness. Something snagged at him, keeping him in place.

A star glittered to his left and he turned to face it. Other pinpricks of light sparkled into life, one at a time, until he was surrounded by a gently revolving constellation of millions of lights. Some were reddish in hue, others bright blue or harsh yellow. He was drawn to a golden star just above him. He reached out and found that he could see the vaguest outline of his hand in the starlight. The stars were close, close enough to touch. His fingers enclosed the warm gold, the light creeping between his fingers, glowing through his flesh.

The star touched his palm and Korlandril was in his chambers, looking up at his mother. Her long silver and black hair hid half her face, but she was smiling. Korlandril played with his animadoll, holding it in his tiny hands, making it wave its flaccid arms with his infant thoughts. The dough-like figure danced jerkily, mirroring Korlandril’s own undeveloped movements. Its noseless face creased into a smile.

“This is not where you will find your pain.” Korlandril’s mother spoke with Soareth’s voice.

He opened his palm and allowed the golden star to drift away. He looked for another, shying away from the baleful ruddy glows behind him, his fingers aiming for a pale blue spark. It bobbed and weaved, trying to elude him, and Korlandril laughed at its antics, still thinking like a child.

Finally his grip ensnared the elusive light.

The lights of the Hall of Inner Harmonies were bright and colourful, dappling the marble-like floor with vitality. Korlandril danced along the line of laughing and singing eldar, linking hands with them as he passed, Aradryan passing down the opposite side of the line. The music was fast and lively, Korlandril’s feet skipping quickly across the hard floor, barely touching the ground.

“It is not joy that you seek, Korlandril, it is your pain,” Soareth warned through the mouth of a young, pretty reveller.

Reluctantly, Korlandril spun away from the gala, releasing his hold on the memory-star. He twirled exuberantly a few times more, but his spin brought him closer to the glaring red light that he knew held the memory of pain.

He didn’t want to touch it. He could feel its heat, its poison.

“You must,” Soareth told him.

Korlandril’s hand trembled as he reached out, arcing his body away from its bloody gleam in fear. His hand closed into a fist, refusing his commands.

“I cannot,” he hissed.

“You will die.” There was urgency in Soareth’s tone. The light of the red star was fading, flickering away into the distance. The constellation around Korlandril dimmed, the darkness and shadows growing stronger, swathing him. He was torn between two fears, his hand refusing to grasp the memory of his injury while his mind shrank back from the engulfing blackness.

The stars, almost gone, began to oscillate slowly and music stirred Korlandril’s thoughts. Soareth sang gently, every note calm and measured, setting up a resonance around Korlandril that filled him with their vibrancy. The stars brightened and Korlandril’s hope grew, fuelling them further.

The red star was almost invisible, just the slightest smudge in the darkness. In moments it would be gone.

Korlandril lunged forwards, eyes screwed shut, and snatched at the dying star.

With a jolt he felt crushing weight. Opening his eyes, he found himself bound with silver chains. A huge shadow loomed over him as he wrestled and wriggled with his bonds. It was enormous, silhouetted against a sky of dripping blood. Its eyes were red coals and its hands were fanged jaws. The sky growled at Korlandril as he struggled to free himself, voiceless and impotent. He fell limp and rolled to his side, closing his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow.

“Face your fear!” Soareth’s voice was a harsh snarl, stinging Korlandril into action.

With an agonised yowl, Korlandril surged up, the silver chains parting, sending shattered links sailing into the air.

On his feet, Korlandril saw something glowing behind the shadow-ork, its golden aura pushing back the curtain of blood that filled his mind.

Korlandril dodged to his right, hoping to outwit the shadow-ork, but no matter where he moved, the golden glow was always behind his foe.

“I have no weapons!” Korlandril cried out plaintively. “My war-mask is gone!”

His words echoed dully. Then silence.

“Soareth? Where are you?”

There was no reply.

“I need you, Soareth!”

Desperate, Korlandril cast about for some weapon but could find nothing, just a featureless plain of grey dust as far as the eye could see. There was no way of escaping; Korlandril was trapped with his would-be slayer.

The shadow-ork did not come at him, it just stood glowering between Korlandril and his prize. Its teeth-fingers gnashed occasionally with a ring of metal that jarred Korlandril’s nerves.

Korlandril stumbled suddenly and fell into the dust. It was not dust at all, but ashes, and he spat them from his mouth. He could feel his strength fading.

He was dying.

Korlandril’s eyes and limbs felt heavy. It would be easy, to slip down into the ash, to lay down his head and wait for his death. His pain would be gone, his fears and anguish with it. There would be peace.

Then he heard it. It was a thunderous thump, but so very far away. He waited an eternity until he heard it again. It was a double-thud, as of a heartbeat. It seemed so slow. But it was not his heart he heard. It was something else, something far greater than he, something as vast as the galaxy. Yet part of it was within him. Unconsciously, his hand went to his naked chest and there he felt a smooth, oval object. His waystone. Glancing down, he saw it bursting through his skin, ruby-bright, slick with his blood. Death.

“Not yet!” screamed Korlandril, hurtling to his feet.

He raced towards the shadow-ork, fists raised. Blow after blow he rained down on its incorporeal form, clawing at it with his fingers, smashing it with his knuckles. His strength was sapped quickly; he could feel the last vestiges of his life fluttering away like moths.

With one last effort, Korlandril drove his fist into the shadow-ork’s chest, through the heart. It billowed into formless cloud, swept away by a howling wind.

Korlandril saw then the golden coil that had hidden behind the beast. It appeared as a lock of shining hair wound about the twin stems of a red rose entwined with each other, their thorns sharp. Korlandril cared not for the potential pain. He leapt forward and his fingers closed tightly around the rose and its golden tress.

The thorns pierced his flesh but he ignored them, feeling the white heat of the golden thread.

Light exploded. Korlandril unravelled, streaming away in the wind as a million particles, disintegrated into a galaxy of whirling motes of light.

Each mote became Korlandril. He saw himself from within, racing along nerves and synapses; every fibre and cell, every vein and sinew, every corpuscle and protein. The golden light that was Korlandril raced through the systems of his body, purging and destroying the black stain of infection carried into him by the filthy weapon of the warlord. The cleansing fire of his rebirth burned away a budding neoplasm in his gut and cauterised the frayed blood vessels in his abdomen.

Dissipating, losing energy, Korlandril could hold his mind together no longer and slipped away, allowing the Tress of Isha to do its work.

Soareth was waiting for Korlandril when he awoke. The healer sat at the foot of the mattress, gem-slate in hand, watching the warrior carefully.

“You have done well,” said the healer, smiling warmly.

Korlandril groaned. There was still a pain in his abdomen, but it was not as intense as the sharp agony that lingered on the edge of his memories.

“I will live?” he asked hesitantly. Soareth answered with a nod and a broader smile.

“How long must I stay here?”

“Your physical wound is healing quickly,” Soareth said. He stood and moved beside Korlandril to lay a hand on his arm. “The wounds of your spirit will take longer.”

Korlandril thought about this, confused.

“I feel well,” he said.

“That is because your fears and your woe are trapped inside that part of you which is your war-mask,” said Soareth, sympathy written in his features. “You must expunge them lest they remain forever, a caustic blight in your psyche that will grow to taint every other part of your spirit.”

“I… I must don my war-mask again to do this?”

Soareth shook his head and gripped Korlandril’s arm more tightly for a moment, offering encouragement.

“I can help you explore those parts of your mind now locked within your war-mask. It is not without risk, but I will help you.”

The walls, which had been a steady cream colour, flickered with brief veins of red. Soareth turned towards the door of the small room and Korlandril’s eyes followed him.

Dressed in a tight-fitting bodysuit of dark green and orange, Aranarha stood in the doorway.

“Leave!” Soareth said sharply, rising to his feet. The exarch’s cold stare passed over the healer and fell upon Korlandril. The room shuddered at the exarch’s presence, shimmers of agitation rippling across the ceiling.

“How is our warrior now? I hope he is well, there is much for him to do,” said Aranarha.

“Your kind is not welcome here,” said Soareth, stepping between Korlandril and Aranarha. “I tell you again, you must leave.”

The exarch shook his head, his twin braids slapping against his shoulders.

“We will deal with pain now, in our own manner, as befits a warrior.”

“No,” said Korlandril. He flinched at Aranarha’s scowl but remained strong. “I will remain here until I’m ready. Then I will return to the Deadly Shadow.”

“This is not the place for these words, for these ideas,” hissed Soareth, a hand fluttering across his dark blue spirit stone. “Do not speak of war in a place of healing.”

“Kenainath failed you before, his way has been wrong, it left you vulnerable. Return with me to my shrine, I will teach you well, make you stronger than before.” The exarch stepped past Soareth, though with care not to touch him, and extended an open hand to Korlandril, as if to help him to his feet.

“No,” said Korlandril, fists clenching by his sides. “Soareth will help me heal. I trust him.”

“He will destroy your anger, make you weak with fear, and tear away your war-mask. The warrior fights his foes, not parley with them, seeking negotiation. I will show you the true way, the warrior’s way, to confront these inner fears.”

Aranarha’s tone was implacable and he stooped towards Korlandril, hand still offered.

Korlandril closed his eyes and remained silent. The exarch gave a growl of disapproval and Korlandril waited until his heavy footfalls had receded from the room before opening his eyes. The walls had returned to their placid state.

“I cannot go back, not ever,” he said.

Soareth looked doubtful.

“You think I should return to the shrine?” asked Korlandril, taken aback.

“You have taken only the first steps of your chosen Path,” said Soareth. “It is unwise to leave early, with issues unresolved, our dreams and desires unfulfilled. Your journey is not yet done. I will help you heal so that you may continue upon it.”

“You heal me to send me back to battle?”

Soareth sighed.

“It is the burden of my Path, far too often, to mend that which will be broken again before too long.”

Korlandril thought about this for a long time before he spoke again.

“It must get depressing. To work in vain so often.”

The healer smiled and shrugged.

“To walk on the Path of the Healer is to give ourselves over to our hopes, to turn our backs on our fear of the future. Hope is an eternal spring from which I drink, and it tastes sweet forever.”

He stood and left the room, the light dimming as he passed out of the door. In the darkness, Korlandril saw vague shapes, moving on the boundary of awareness, looming just out of sight. He shuddered and knew that it would be some time before he was fit to return to the shrine.

Hawk and Falcon, messengers of the gods both, were close friends. Ever they swept with each other through the skies and danced amongst the clouds. Though filled with regard for each other, they also loved to compete and to set each other dares of skill and bravery. They would race to the moon and back to see who was swiftest. They would goad each other into circling the realm of Bloody-Hand Khaine, daring each other to fly closer and closer to the War God. At dusk one day Falcon and Hawk spied some prey, flying easily upon the mountain winds. Falcon declared that he would be the first to catch it, but Hawk claimed that he was the swifter hunter. The two stooped down upon their prey. Hawk was faster at first, but Falcon beat his wings the harder and dove ahead. Not willing to give up the victory, Hawk surged on, cutting in front of Falcon. Annoyed by his friend’s manoeuvre, Falcon batted a wing against Hawk’s tail, sending his rival off course. Hawk returned quickly, flying into Falcon to slow down his dive. Their wings became entangled and the two of them fell out of the skies. Their prey flew away, laughing merrily, and the both of them went hungry that night.

The quiet of the shrine was different to the peace of the healing hall. The Deadly Shadow brooded in its silence, the stillness stifling, heavy with melancholy rather than offering solace.

Korlandril walked through the looming trees, choosing to enter by the way he had first arrived rather than the more direct passageways that ran beneath the dome to the shrine building. He had been away for some time and was not sure what welcome, or lack, he would receive from Kenainath and the others. Unsurprisingly, none had visited him in the healing halls. Aranarha’s approach had been greatly against tradition, and Soareth had been agitated by it for several cycles after.