Path of the Warrior (20 page)

So it was with some apprehension that Korlandril walked softly along the winding trails, though not as much as his first coming to the shrine. He began to recover his feel for the place, sensing the presence of the shrine seeping back into his spirit, reawakening emotions that had been dormant. He relaxed as he realised that it had not been the reaction of his fellow warriors he feared but rather he had harboured a lingering doubt that he might not be able to recover his war-mask. The curling mists and strange groans and coughs from the dismal marshes were slowly awakening something inside Korlandril, stirring memories he had avoided whilst in the healing halls.

He came upon the black opening of the shrine’s main portal and hesitated, peering into the strange darkness that filled the entranceway. It was the Deadly Shadow incarnate, the gloom of death and war that filled the shrine. Once he stepped into it, he would be back again on the Path of the Warrior.

He took another faltering step forward before a noise to his left distracted him. Min pushed his way through the foliage, exiting the ziggurat by some side door. He started upright, surprised to see Korlandril. Recovering quickly, Min smiled broadly and extended a palm in greeting.

“How have you fared?” asked Korlandril, returning the gesture. Min hesitated before replying.

“It is good to see that you are recovered from your injury,” he said.

“I am eager to recommence my training,” Korlandril replied. He studied Min’s face for a moment, noting doubt and worry in the lines upon his forehead and the clench of his jaw. “You did not answer my question.”

Min’s eyes shifted defensively for a heartbeat and then resignation showed in his features.

“I will not be training alongside you, Korlandril,” Min admitted. He looked out through the mangrove, away from the shrine. His gaze remained distant as he continued. “I am done with the Path of the Warrior.”

Korlandril felt a breath catch in his chest.

“How so? I can think of no other warrior, save Kenainath, more dedicated to the Deadly Shadow.”

“And that is the problem,” Min said heavily. “My war-mask is fading. No, that is not true. My true face is fading, being replaced by my war-mask. I find myself remembering that which should not be remembered. I enjoy the memories of battle, the surge of excitement I feel when fighting. It is not good.”

Korlandril nodded, unsure what to say. The war-mask of the Aspect Warrior served a two-fold purpose. The first was to allow the warrior to harness the energy of his anger and hatred and other negative emotions, giving them vent in battle. The second, and more important in some ways, was to act as a dividing barrier between war and peace. When not in his war-mask a warrior knew nothing of the heinous acts of violence he perpetrated whilst in his Aspect. He could slay and maim without guilt; a guilt that would crush the psyche of an eldar if allowed to dwell on it. That Min was haunted by feelings from his war-mask was a grave matter.

“You have made the right choice, Min,” Korlandril said, stepping forward to pat his companion on the arm. “I will miss you by my side in training, but I am sure we will still see each other outside. What is it that you plan to do next?”

A fervent gleam entered Min’s eyes and he grabbed Korlandril’s wrists in his hands and stared earnestly into his eyes.

“It is unlikely we will see each other again, Korlandril. I have sailed close to temptation and to see you and the others would not be wise while you remain Aspect Warriors. I have come close to being trapped, of becoming something like Kenainath and Aranarha. I need to leave myself for a while, and think I will take the Path of the Dreaming. Promise me, Korlandril, that you should ever despise your war-mask. Do not allow it to become something you crave, as I nearly did. Realise that it has power over you and you should shun its promises.”

Korlandril laughed and gently prised himself from Min’s tight grip.

“I have fought but one battle, I think I have many steps to take along this Path before its lures will tempt me to stay.”

“Do nothing rash! Keep that place of peace, which brings you back from the anger, close to your thoughts at all times. Fear lurks inside your war-mask, no matter what healing you have undergone. Do not let it feed your hatred or stir your anger too far.”

Korlandril waved away Min’s concerns.

“I bid you good health and a prosperous journey, Min,” said Korlandril. “I hope to see you again when my time as a Warrior is done. Until then, our Paths run different courses. If you wish to seek a guide for your Dreamings, I recommend Elronfirthir of Taleheac. Speak to the spiritseers, they will find him for you.” He turned his back on Min and strode into the shrine, the chill of its shadow sending a thrill through him.

The inner chambers of the shrine were instantly familiar. Korlandril walked through the darkness without hesitation, navigating through the utter blackness to the armouring chamber. The light within was dim, no more than a ruddy glow from the walls, and in the gloom he saw the suits of armour arrayed along each wall.

Korlandril walked to his armour. The gems set into its plates reflected the dawn-like glow of the room, their light brightening at his approach. He laid his right hand upon the chestplate, over the empty oval where his waystone fitted, and his left hand unconsciously went to the waystone at his breast. Perhaps he imagined the connection or perhaps there was some intangible thread linking him to the suit and back.

“Now you have returned, brought back to us by Isha, whole and well again.”

Korlandril turned his head to see Kenainath crouched upon the dais at the head of the chamber, his elbows rested on bent knees, chin cupped in his hands. The red hue of the room brightened slightly, becoming sharper, causing the shadows to stand out in starker contrast. Korlandril said nothing and returned his gaze to his armour, running the tips of his fingers along the edges of the overlapping parts, dwelling on the fingertips of the gauntlets, caressing gently the mandiblasters on the sides of the helm.

“The armour beckons, seeking its former master, wishing to be whole. Can you feel its will, pushing into your spirit, feeding on your mind?”

“Who made it?” Korlandril asked, stepping away, perturbed by Kenainath’s suggestion.

“By me and not me. It was made after the Fall, by First Kenainath.”

The exarch’s inflexion and choice of words baffled Korlandril. He switched between tenses, describing himself—Kenainath—as someone both living and dead.

“First Kenainath?”

“I am not the First, though there have not been many, to wear this armour. I am Kenainath, and I am not Kenainath, neither one nor sum.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That is for the best, hope that it remains like that, and you stay yourself.”

A dozen further questions came to Korlandril but he stayed his tongue and instead crossed to kneel in front of the exarch in the centre of the chamber.

“I wish to train again.”

Kenainath regarded Korlandril for a long time, a hint of a strange golden glow in his eyes. He looked deep into the warrior’s eyes, seeking something of what passed in Korlandril’s thoughts, perhaps seeing things even Korlandril did not see.

“Begin tomorrow, this coming night you must rest, training will be hard,” Kenainath said as he stood. He turned towards the shrouded door at the end of the shrine and then stopped and looked back at Korlandril. His lips pursed in appraisal and an eyebrow rose in inquiry. With a nod, the exarch seemed satisfied. “You are welcome back, Korlandril the Warrior, to Deadly Shadow.”

The exarch faded into the gloom, leaving Korlandril alone with his conjecture and apprehension. For all the worries and anticipation that fired Korlandril’s mind, his body was tired. Sleep seemed a very good idea.

* * *

Korlandril ached. Every part of him was stretched thin, every muscle and tendon quivered and twanged. He realised how honed his body had been before the fight with the orks and how much of a toll his inaction in the Shrine of the Healers had taken. Though his injury had healed it would be some time before he regained the physical perfection he had attained in the shrine.

It was odd to train without Min. It nagged at Korlandril, like looking at a familiar smile with a tooth missing. It was an imperfection in his world, a departure from what he had known as he had become a warrior. In an effort to ignore the distraction, Korlandril turned his thoughts inward during training. His near-death had shown that he was not so accomplished in the deadly arts as he had thought. He strived to find what had been missing from his fighting technique, analysing himself as he made the cuts and thrusts and moved from stance to stance.

As his strength and suppleness returned, so too did Korlandril’s precision and style. He was confident that his measured strokes were exact replicas of those demonstrated by Kenainath. It was not his technique that had failed him, it was something else.

It was hard to learn from an experience he could not remember. Objectively he was aware of what had happened to him—the fight with the ork and then the crushing blow from the warlord—but he had no sense of what he had been feeling, what he had been thinking. Those recollections were tied up in his battle persona, hidden behind his war-mask. Though he did not allow them to disrupt his practices and duels, questions surfaced in Korlandril’s thoughts when he was outside the shrine; when eating with the others or sculpting in his rooms.

What mistake had he made? Had he made any error, or had it simply been ill fortune that had seen him injured? Had he hesitated or been afraid? Had he been cautious or over-confident?

It nagged at Korlandril that he could not find the answers. His only course of action was to focus everything upon his fighting technique and his decision-making in the duels. The latter was difficult. He fought without conscious effort, allowing reaction and instinct to guide his weapons.

Perhaps that was the problem, he realised. Did his instincts make him predictable? Did he need to intervene occasionally to change his style, to move against instinct? Was it the ritual itself that had been his undoing?

Sixty-three passes had come and gone since his return to the shrine, during which Korlandril’s body had been restored to its peak of speed and strength. His actions were second nature, his weapons once more an extension of his will. He was due to face Bechareth again in a training duel. Korlandril decided that he would try to maintain more of a conscious awareness of his actions during the faux-combat.

The two of them faced off in the chamber beneath the shrine, Kenainath hidden in the shadow, Elissanadrin and Arhulesh calling the winning strikes. Korlandril began as usual, reacting and acting without thought to the attacks and defences of Bechareth. The contest was even, with perhaps Bechareth having slightly the upper hand.

As he ducked and wove, slashed and stabbed, Korlandril allowed himself to engage more closely with his body. He saw it as a globe of light in his mind’s eye, his warrior instincts envisioned as a miniature sun, ebbing and flowing with energy, his body moving around and within it. His conscious thought, his reasoning, Korlandril saw as another orb, its surface still and calm. As he fought, Korlandril tried to bring the two spheres together, so that conscious and unconscious might overlap.

He faltered, allowing Bechareth a strike to the abdomen that would have torn open his old wound. Korlandril hesitated, a flicker of memory touching on his thoughts. He retreated into ritual, taking up Hidden Claw, pushing aside the tatters of recollection.

Korlandril began again, forming the globe of tranquil consciousness, but rather than imposing it upon the fire of his intuition, he tried to meld the two, to make them as one. He parried and counterattacked, recognising the move his body had chosen, and the calm sphere slid a fraction closer into place. He lunged forcefully, his unthinking will recognising an opening.

Slowly, atom by atom, Korlandril merged the two parts of his consciousness. His mental exercise was far from finished when Kenainath called for the pair of them to cease their duel. Returning to repose, Korlandril fixed the last image in his mind, a partial eclipse of his warrior instinct by the rational mind, hoping to recreate it the next time he duelled.

Bechareth bowed his head in appreciation and gratitude, a knowing look in his eye. Korlandril mirrored the respect, his gaze not leaving that of his opponent.

“You are taking steps, moving swiftly on the Path, to fulfil your will,” said Kenainath, signalling for the others to leave. “Your spirit responds; I sense it developing, becoming as one. We are all conflicted, many parts vying to win, yet none may triumph. You must seek balance, in all things not just battle, to be whole again.”

Korlandril nodded and remained silent.

“Practise your focus, see yourself from the inside, and master your will. The Path is wisdom, to control that which taunts us, to find true freedom.”

“And when I am done, will I be free of my anger?”

“We are never free, that is to have no feelings, we hope for control. Our spirits soar high, on a fierce wind of feeling, that ever threatens. Learn to still that wind, to glide on it where you wish, and not become lost.”

“I never thought I would miss Min’s bad puns,” said Korlandril.

His gaze drifted to the empty space on the bench opposite, drawn to the social vacuum created by his former companion’s absence. Arhulesh seemed similarly perturbed, sitting next to the void, fidgeting with the scraps of food on his plate and staring absently over the balcony of the Crescent of the Dawning Ages. Korlandril looked over his shoulder. Within a bubble of blue and green captured in an invisible field, shoals of yellow cloudstars bobbed up and down, their slender tendril appendages wafting on gaseous currents. Their motions usually brought a mesmeric peace to those that watched them, but Korlandril was agitated.

“It is a shame that Min had to leave, I feel the squad is incomplete,” he said to break the uneasy quiet.

“It is a good thing that Min has left for another Path,” said Elissanadrin. She looked at Korlandril. “It is the proper way. We move on, we grow, we change. You have never been comfortable with change, have you?”