Path of the Warrior (28 page)

“War, death, blood, all that remains. I am Exarch Korlandril.”

Exarch Morlaniath.

The name meant nothing to Korlandril, save for the most distant shimmer of a recollection, though he could not place it. It was someone else’s memory of a myth Korlandril had once heard, or the name one keeps for oneself and never shares with another.

The time had come.

As he took the armour from the stand, he whispered the mantra that would have him take up his war-mask forever more. Unbidden, the words changed between brain and tongue, but he spoke them surely, as if this was the way he had always meant to say them.

“The peace has been broken, balance falls to discord, only battle remains.”

A shadow-voice joined his as he drew on the first parts of the armour.

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

Now we array ourselves, with bloody Khaine’s raiment, as a true warrior.

Images flashed through his mind: memories not of his life. His mind burned with pain, his thoughts stretching to accommodate a whole new lifetime’s worth of experiences. Faces of friends he had never met, of parents who had not created him, of foes he had never slain. So many dead faces, thousands of them, in a torrent of anguish and death, and throughout all a jubilant laughter rang in his ears.

And finally a moment of blackness, of agony and ending.

As an automaton, Korlandril continued with the armour, the next line of the mantra barely a breath from his lips, another voice taking it up in his mind.

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

In Khaine’s Own Iron Skin, We Clad Ourselves For War, While Fire Burns Hot Within.

Another storm of memories, more pain, more death. Korlandril tried to fix upon something he knew to be his own life.

He ran his fingers through Auriellie’s sapphire hair, kissing her neck, her sharp cheeks illuminated by firelight.

No! That was not his memory. He had never done that. He had never known Auriellie. He tried again, but the mantra continued to spill from him and he was swept away on another tide of false recollection.

“The iron blood of Khaine, from which we draw our strength, grows greater within us.”

THE IRON BLOOD OF KHAINE, FROM WHICH WE DRAW OUR STRENGTH, GROWS GREATER WITHIN US.

“Battle comes upon us; we bear its dark burden, upon our broad shoulders.”

BATTLE COMES UPON US; WE BEAR ITS DARK BURDEN, UPON OUR BROAD SHOULDERS.

Smaller and smaller, vanishing to a single point. Korlandril’s individuality was engulfed by the tide of personalities from the spirit stones. He drowned in darkness, flailing to retain some sense of self against the torrent heaping upon his frail mind.

“Come to stand before Khaine, unyielding in our fate, free from all doubt and fear.”

COME TO STAND BEFORE KHAINE, UNYIELDING IN OUR FATE, FREE FROM ALL DOUBT AND FEAR.

The dead numbered in their tens of thousands. Countless lives extinguished at the hands of those who had worn this armour. Creatures of all races, some warriors, many not. Victims of Khaine’s bloody murders.

Korlandril wailed with the last vestiges of his grief, giving his last compassion for those that had been killed, saving none for those to come.

“We do not flee from death; we stride in Khaine’s shadow, proudly and with no fear.”

WE DO NOT FLEE FROM DEATH; WE STRIDE IN KHAINE’S SHADOW, PROUDLY AND WITH NO FEAR.

WE STRIKE FROM THE DARKNESS, AS THE SWIFT SCORPION, WITH A MOST DEADLY TOUCH.

SEE NOT WITH EYES ALONE, BUT ALLOW RAGE TO FLOW, LET KHAINE’S GIFT COMFORT YOU.

* * *

Korlandril was all but gone, a swirl of motes in a far greater consciousness.

Morlaniath returned. The exarch opened eyes closed for an age and turned to the great double-handed biting blade upon the wall behind. Taking it up, Morlaniath remembered the weapon’s name:
Teeth of Dissonance.
Like two lovers of old meeting, Morlaniath and the immense chainsword became as one, the exarch stroking a hand along the length of the casing. Morlaniath’s fingertips danced across the point of every blade. Taking up a ready stance, Morlaniath willed the weapon to life, stirring her from a long sleep. Her purring was as smooth as when she had first been baptised in blood. Together they would bring death again.

When the War in Heaven was at its height, the followers of Khaine numbered many. They were dire foes to the Children of Eldanesh and Ulthanesh, for they had given in wholly to their bloodlust. Yet, one-by-one the Champions of Khaine fell. Khaine would not relinquish his servants so easily, and kept their spirits, armouring and arming them to continue the war. Though they were as bloody-handed as their master, these warriors also were defeated and fell. Still Khaine would not release them. Despite Khaine’s threats and tortures the Smith-God, Vaul, would forge no more armour and arms for the Bloody-Handed God to rebuild his armies. Khaine would not release his grip on those that had sworn themselves to his cause, and he crushed them together in his iron fist, so that several would fight as one, sharing such weapons as Khaine could spare.

Filled with the wrath of Khaine, the spirit-warriors slew many of Eldanesh and Ulthanesh’s children. Yet such was their anger these spirits fell to fighting amongst themselves. Each spirit-part vied for control of the whole and they splintered. Khaine’s spirit army fell to ruin as the spirits finally fled his grip.

It was a place of bones and skulls, where blood rained from thunderous skies and the clash of blades and screams of the dying sounded across an unending plain.

He floundered through the bones, slipping and falling with every other step. He cast about for some sense of place or direction, seeing nothing but death. He called out but the wind whipped away his voice as soon as it left his lips. He was lost. Alone. What was his name? Who was he?

He examined the skulls, small and large: eldar, human, threeshan, ork, demiurg, tyranid and many others. Tiny witchlights glowed in their eyes. He picked up a misshapen head, its snout pronounced, the eyes set wide, a ridge of bony nodules across its brow. He stared deep into the eyes, connecting with the remnants of spirit within.

The sky burned with black flames while dazzling yellow beams criss-crossed the ruins of an alien settlement. The Hrekh poured out of their stilt-legged towers, running on bow-legs, guns chattering in their long arms. He sprang easily aside, muddy water splashing up around his legs as he ran through the sluggish river. Vyper jetbikes screamed past, their gunners directing torrents of scatter laser fire into the wood and stone towers, gunning down the Hrekh by the dozen. He leapt up to a walkway above the shallow lake, pulling himself over the rail in one easy motion. The Hidden Death followed, their mandiblasters crackling, shuriken pistols spitting. Pursued by the gleaming jetbikes of the Shining Spears, a Hrekh clan leader hurried around the corner, looking over its shoulder. He pounced, driving the
Teeth of Dissonance
between the creature’s swaying paps to erupt from its back. He ripped the biting blade free and kicked the corpse into the water.

The skull dropped from his fingers and the memory disappeared.

How many thousands of deaths were collected here? How would he find one that he recognised?

He picked up another skull, of a human, but in the first flash of recollection he knew it did not belong to him. He threw it to the ground and stamped on it, but the skull only bounced away from beneath his naked foot.

Somewhere there was a memory that was his. He needed to keep looking.

Dim red light reflected from the mock-stone walls of the chamber. He looked down and saw sandy footprints on the floor. His footprints. That was confusing. For three generations he had waited in the chamber, waited to be found by the one who answered his call.

Who was he?

We Are Morlaniath.

The thoughts were his, but not his alone. Others stared out of his eyes with him, flexed his fingers around the grip of the long chainsword in his hand, felt the whistle of air into his lungs.

“Who was I?”

We Were Morlaniath, And Idsresail, And Lecchamemnon, And Ethruin, And Elidhnerial, And Neruidh, And Ultheranish, And Korlandril.

Korlandril.

The name focussed his attention. It was not his only name, but it was his most recent. This body, these limbs and brain and nerves and bone, they had been called Korlandril. With this knowledge, he delved into his memories, seeking the truth of what had happened.

He waited. For a timeless span, there was only spirit. Ultheranish’s body had been slain. They had carried the suit here—Kenainath, Aranarha, Liruieth and the other Striking Scorpion exarchs. The sands piled on the doors and the light disappeared. It mattered not. One would come, sooner or later. What was time? A meaningless measure of mortals.

The shrine trembled. Miniscule movement. He awoke. He could feel the anger. The shrine resonated with it. The Avatar had roused. Still none had come. He fell dormant again.

The Avatar was unleashed again, stirring his spirits to awareness. None came. He did not sleep. There was a whisper echoing through the shrine. So far away, so quiet. He listened and learned. One would be coming. He had heard the thoughts of the New One. He shared the New One’s anger and rage, felt the pain of his wound. Soon, he realised. Soon he would be coming.

He waited.

The sands shifted. The New One was coming. His thoughts rang like cymbals around the chamber.

Come To Me. I Am Peace. I Am Resolution. I Am The Ending.

The silver chain between them shortened and he pulled harder. The shrine responded, throwing off the detritus of generations. Soon. So soon.

The New One entered. He recognised himself. He touched his armour and the two parts of him became one for a moment.

You are we, and we are you.

“This is mine,” he said, and heard, and replied.
Yours…

The New One spoke and he listened. “I shall be the Hidden Death.”
Hidden Death…

There was a moment of doubt, of contemplation. He knew what he was seeking. He had always been seeking the same. He was what he was seeking.

Answers…

The New One took up the armour and Morlaniath began the chant. Glorious return was nigh.

He understood now where he had come from. He was not-Korlandril. He was not-Morlaniath. He was both, and others beside. He was all and they were him.

He explored his memories. They were all his, but some he had not seen before. Time passed in a blur of old relationships, battles lost and won, friendships long and short, enemies slain and escaped, love and hate, births, romances, disappointments, old hopes and new dreams, and a half-dozen painful deaths. He flitted from one to the next without effort, seeking nothing in particular.

He came across one that caused him to stop. A face he knew. He recognised all of the faces, but this was one of the old memories, unknown before to this body. He put a name to the face.

Bechareth.

It did not fit with the other memories. The Bechareth of this body was a Striking Scorpion. The Bechareth of the memory was something else. He searched further back, seeking the genesis of the memory, the start of the story.

He was Ultheranish, the vessel before this current one. They were in the webway, aboard a ship. Through high-arched windows, he watched the glowing rivulets of psychic energy swirling past.

Alarms sounded. Something else was in the webway. He was one of the Hidden Death, just another warrior ready to defend the starship. Not-Neruidh was exarch. He flitted between the two memestrands, watching himself as exarch and seeing himself through the exarch’s eyes. The Hidden Death followed the exarch into the outer corridors, waiting for the attack. Another vessel came alongside, a bladed, sinister reflection of their own warship: the kin of Commorragh. With cutters and forcefields they breached the hull, a swarm of raiders armed with splinter rifles and crackling blades. The Aspect Warriors fought back, the Hidden Death at the fore.

He met sword-to-sword with one of the Lost Kindred, a cruel-eyed wych almost naked save for a few slender straps and curving shoulder armour. His foe was swifter than he, her twin daggers darting and weaving around his chainsword. His armour bore the brunt of her strikes, sparks of energy flying from her blades as they struck. He brought up his pistol to her face and she ducked, to be met by the rising point of his chainsword. Her face split in twain and she fell to the ground, her beautiful features now a gory mess.

Others followed the wyches. They wore armour also, not unlike his, though coloured in black and white. He recognised them immediately. Incubi. A perversion of Khaine’s Aspects, debased and immoral. Mercenaries without principle or code.

In a rage he hurled himself at the closest, his chainsword plunging towards the helmeted head. The incubi swayed back, his powered glaive rising to deflect the attack. Spinning, the incubi delivered a kick to his midriff, sending him staggering. His chainsword flashed up to ward away a strike towards his chest, sending the glaive’s gleaming head screaming past his right shoulder.

The pair parted and circled, feinting and jabbing with their weapons. The incubi’s eye lenses gleamed with a yellow, ghostly light. Sickened with rage, he launched another flurry of attacks, mandiblasters spitting, chainsword weaving left and right. The incubi ducked and swerved aside from each blow, the tip of his glaive carving figures-of-eight in front of him.

A chance salvo from the Striking Scorpion’s pistol caught the incubi in the thigh. He followed up with a blistering series of strikes towards the head and throat, each caught at the last moment on the haft of the incubi’s weapon. A sudden change of direction and a twist to the left sent the chainsword’s teeth into the incubi’s lower back, slivers of torn armour spraying to the floor.