Path of the Warrior (25 page)

Spurred by the thrill, he fired his pistol at a human cowering behind the torn remains of an armchair. The flash of discs buried in his forehead, some slicing through his eyes into his brain. The corpse slowly tumbled to the floor, its gun clattering loudly on the wood.

At the far end of the hall, sheltered amongst a press of drably coated guards, lurked three male humans clad in thick robes of purple and red, edged with fur and gold. The trio were elderly, by human standards, their creased faces twisted in grimaces of shock and terror. The ostentation of their garb marked them as personages of power in the hierarchy of the humans, if not the eyes of the eldar.

Soon this last group were all that remained.

One of them—his thick hood fallen back to his shoulders to reveal a hairless head mottled with blemishes—stood up and shouted in his unintelligible tongue, brandishing a box no larger than his hand, encrusted with pale blue and pink gems. His wide-eyed expression may have been of fear or anger, it was impossible to tell. His contorted face was a grotesque caricature of expression, a gross parody of emotion.

Korlandril’s eyes were drawn back to the box, a faint whisper in the back of his mind. The human fell to his knees and his bodyguards threw down their weapons, holding up hands in capitulation. His two magisterial companions fell forwards and debased themselves, looking up imploringly at the warriors surrounding them.

It was the box that called to Korlandril and he stepped forwards, ignoring the human soldiers. The gems upon its surface glittered so brightly, entrancing him. He heard the murmurs of other Aspect Warriors around him.

It would be a sweet prize indeed. Korlandril pictured the bloody ruin he would make of the decrepit creature that kept the beautiful box from him. Korlandril would tear out the human’s innards and use them as garlands. His bones would make fine pieces of sculpture, suitably painted and rearranged.

Touch nothing. Free your minds of desire and temptation.

Korlandril recognised the thoughts of Farseer Kelamith. They cut through the strange fog that had clouded his spirit since entering the room.

The air crackled behind the surrendering humans. Where a moment earlier had been empty air, seven heavily-armoured warriors appeared. They were clad in red and black, their backs and shoulders encased in broad, beetle-like carapaces decorated with the designs of white spider webs. In their hands they wielded bulky weapons, deathspinners, glowing blue from within, their muzzles surrounded by spinning claw-like appendages.

As one the Warp Spiders opened fire on the last humans. The muzzles of their weapons flashed with bright blue as gravitic impellers spun into a blur. The air filled with a swirling cloud, indistinct but nebulous. The writhing monofilament wire mesh unleashed by the deathspinners engulfed the humans, slicing effortlessly through skin, flesh and bone. The grey cloud turned red with gore as the humans disintegrated into thousands of miniscule pieces, each small part further sliced and dissected by the streaming wire cloud until only a faint red mist remained.

The sight brought a tear to Korlandril’s eye. Such destruction, wrought so quickly and so beautifully. For a moment he entirely forgot the presence of the box, until it clattered to the floor, the remnants of the human’s fingers dripping from the enticing gems.

There was a presence and Korlandril stepped aside, sensing new arrivals at the doorway behind him. The Aspect Warriors parted to allow Kelamith and Arhathain to enter. Three dozen runes gently orbited the farseer, intersecting and parting with each other’s paths as he strode forward. Arhathain wore his blue armour, in his right hand a spear almost twice as tall as the autarch, its leaf-shaped head inscribed with thousands of the tiniest runes, each burning with its own energy.

With them came a coterie of grim-faced seers, all clad in plain white, heads shorn of all hair. Between them floated an ovoid container, dark red in colour and patterned with silver runes. Korlandril recognised wraithbone—a psychoplastic woven into existence by the bonesingers, the living core of Alaitoc and every other eldar creation. Korlandril’s waystone fluttered warmly as the casket slowly glided past him.

From amongst the wreckage to Korlandril’s right, a human surged forwards, one arm hanging limply by his side, a long wound in his thigh spraying blood as he sprinted across the room towards the artefact.

Arhathain reacted quickest, his spear singing across the hall to catch the human in the chest, hurling him bodily through the air. A blink later, several shuriken volleys and laser blasts passed through the air where the man had been. Arhathain beckoned to the spear and it twisted, ripped itself free of the dead human and flew back to his grasp. Unperturbed, the autarch approached the box and lowered to one knee beside it, studying the artefact closely.

Whispering protective mantras, the white seers closed around him, their robes obscuring all sight, their sibilant incantations growing in volume. When they parted a moment later, silence descended. The box was gone but the wraithbone casket gleamed with a darker light, an aura of oily energy seeping from it. Korlandril took another step back, unwilling to get too close to the accursed contents now that he was freed from its lure.

The white seers departed with their tainted cargo.

“Humans gather in force to destroy us outside the walls,” Arhathain announced, standing up. “The garrison are all slain. Return to the webway and we will be away. Take our dead, we cannot leave them in this forsaken place.”

With the others, Korlandril descended to the level below. Here they found several dead eldar, armour pierced by bayonets or cracked by las-blast and bullet. Korlandril stooped and picked up the remains of a Howling Banshee. His faceplate was shattered, revealing an empty eye socket and bloody cheek. Korlandril lifted him gently in his arms and carried him back to the webway portal.

The solemn notes of pipes and a slow and steady drumbeat heralded the arrival of the funeral cortege. Three long lines wound slowly into the Dome of Everlasting Stillness; two lines of eldar flanking the bodies of the dead borne upon hovering biers. The bodies were covered with white shrouds, each embroidered with their names. On the left of each bier the Watcher bore the spirit stone of the deceased: the dead eldar’s waystone now imbued with their essence, ready for transference to the infinity circuit. On the right of each departed walked the Mourner in a heavy white veil sobbing and occasionally giving vent to plaintive wails—an eldar who trod upon the Path of Grief. Other eldar of Alaitoc gathered in their thousands to watch the procession, tears in their eyes, memories of the fallen stark and bright in their minds.

They lamented the deaths of those they knew, but could not give full voice to their sorrow lest it consume them. That was for the Mourners, who had devoted themselves to the outpouring of the emotion death brought about, freeing others to remember the fallen with calm regret without being destroyed by guilt.

Korlandril watched sombrely as covered body after covered body slid past, the growls and choking cries of the Mourners falling deafly on his ears. He remembered the sorrow of past occasions, but felt little of it now. It seemed a matter of numbers, though each of those numbers represented a life no more. Twenty-four had died during the attack.

There would be other burials in the cycles to come, but none to match the communal grieving taking place. Twenty more were in the Halls of Healing, some of them fighting with little hope against wounds even the Tress of Isha could not heal. This was for all of Alaitoc to feel its woe. Smaller ceremonies for friends and families would take place after, when the spirit stones of the deceased became one with the infinity circuit.

A shroud marked with the rune of Arthuis passed. Korlandril closed his eyes, memories flooding back.

It was the eve of the Festival of Illuminations. Korlandril danced with Thirianna, while Arthuis and Maerthuin poured large measures from a black crystal decanter.

“What is that you have brought?” Thirianna asked gaily. “Is it a special treat?”

She had been drinking summervine since mid-cycle and was a little unsteady on her feet. Korlandril relished the opportunity to hold her close as he supported her, though not so close that it would be inappropriate.

“It is a secret family recipe,” said Arthuis. He proffered two half-full glasses towards Korlandril and Thirianna. The dancers broke apart and seated themselves at a low table beside the gently bubbling stream that wound through the Valley of Midnight Memories. The dome lights were still bright, shining above like a hundred suns, but soon all would become as black as the deepest shadows between stars, save for the ghost-light of waystones and the glittering ornaments worn in hair and around necks. It was the Time of Shadow, the cycle before the Festival of Illuminations; the night before day, hidden and dark delights before revealing light. It was the night that all could indulge their passions without regret, to expunge themselves of the memories the next cycle.

Korlandril tasted the thick liquid, which was as black as the bottle it came from. There was a hint of effervescence about it and a subtly bitter edge that sweetened into a pleasant aftertaste.

He raised the glass to Arthuis and Maerthuin.

“I congratulate your family on keeping such a delectable tipple a secret for so long!”

“It’s just duskwater and nightgrape, mixed with firespice, cloudfruit and dustsugar,” laughed Arthuis. “Be careful, it tastes innocent, but it hides a sting like Anacondin’s spear at its heart!”

“Nightgrape?” said Thirianna, placing her glass on the table untouched. Her eyes flashed with anger. “That is not respectful. To take the crop from the Gardens of Immortal Solace and use them for intoxication! What would you do if your grave flowers were so used?”

Arthuis grinned, took up the glass and downed its contents in one gulp.

“If it was from my plot, I’d expect you to choke on it!”

The memory disturbed Korlandril. He should not have recalled it—the Festival of Illuminations should have swept away all recollection. What other doors in his mind had he opened when he had drawn on the Tress of Isha?”

Korlandril closed his eyes and pictured Arthuis as a statue, immortalised in black gemstone, full of strong corners, but with a hollow within containing a vial of his secret midnight cocktail. It would be a fitting tribute to one who embraced his darkness so openly, and yet strove so hard to bring light to the lives of others.

His death was unfortunate. Sacrificed, like so many others, so that future generations would know peace.

Korlandril opened his eyes and scanned the gathered crowds. Many were Aspect Warriors but the majority were not. None were exarchs, for tradition dictated that the priests of Khaine were not welcome at these ceremonies. Peddlers of destruction were not allowed to mourn their handiwork. To the rest of Alaitoc the exarchs were already dead, and none would mourn their passing, though their deeds would be honoured and cherished. The crowd looked on in demure silence as the glorious dead passed through the Gate of Farewells, a white arc crowned with the golden rune of Alaitoc.

The quiet disturbed Korlandril. These eldar had given their lives, not for quiet contemplation and respectful peace, but for life, for the joys to be experienced by those around them and those yet to come. Their deaths were sad but the accomplishments of their lives were not rendered obsolete by such ending. Even their spirits would live on within the infinity circuit. This was a transition from the corporeal to the incorporeal, not the ultimate termination of life, and for the first time Korlandril saw the funeral rites with different eyes.

“Farewell, Arthuis!” Korlandril called out, raising a hand in salute to the departing body of his friend as it disappeared into the glow of the gate. “You lived as you wished, and died most nobly! I will visit you soon!”

Korlandril felt the heat of agitation around him and the stares of others fixed upon him. He turned to the eldar next to him, a young male eldar perhaps only on his first Path. The youth was frowning in reproach.

“Is what I say not true?” Korlandril demanded. “Will you one day be ready to give your life like my friend? Would you want those you have been cleaved from to whinge and whimper, or would you want them to roar out their tributes to you?”

“This is not the place…” said an austere eldar to Korlandril’s left. She laid a hand on his arm and pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. “You discredit yourself, and the spirit of your friend.”

Korlandril pulled his arm from her grip and pushed her away. He had meant the contact to be gentle, but she fell, landing heavily. Korlandril stooped to offer her a hand but others pushed him aside with pursed lips and glares of reproach.

Righted once more, the matriarchal eldar straightened the folds of her robe and faced Korlandril.

“You are not welcome,” she said sternly, and turned her back on him, deliberately and slowly. Others did the same, leaving Korlandril in a spreading circle of isolation.

“What need have I for the fawning attentions of others?” he snarled. “Once you all craved to be known by me, and I indulged you. You are less than Arthuis. He I called friend and did not judge, and in return he did not judge me and called me friend. Who else here could say the same?”

With a last growl, Korlandril stalked through the flower-studded meadow towards the waiting air-rider.

During the War in Heaven, Khaine unleashed untold evils upon the eldar. Ulthanesh at first refused to fight, claiming the quarrel of Khaine was with the House of Eldanesh, not all eldar. Khaine’s wrath was not so confined and there were those in the House of Eldanesh who remembered the bitter parting with Ulthanesh. Those tainted by Khaine fell upon Ulthanesh’s followers and there was war between the Houses. Khaine was pleased, but Ulthanesh finally relented from his pacifism and took up his spear, not to confront the House of Eldanesh, but to bring war to the Bloody-Handed One. Seeing their common foe was the War God, the House of Eldanesh made their peace with Ulthanesh and the two fought side-by-side as the warriors had done of old. But there were those of both Houses so enamoured of war that Khaine worked them against each other, and they would slay any foe, regardless of loyalty. They became creatures of the Bloody-Handed God and turned against their own kind.