Path of the Warrior (40 page)

He reached out a hand to touch the glittering stars.

With a wrench, Morlaniath felt himself drawn from his weak physical vessel, every part of him: Morlaniath, the First, the Hidden Death; Idsresail, the Dreamer; Lecchamemnon, the Doomed; Ethruin, the Dark Joker; Elidhnerial, the Weeping One; Neruidh, The Forgiver; Ultheranish, the Child of Ulthwe; Korlandril, the Artist.

Not-Korlandril was but an atom in the star of Morlaniath, and Morlaniath nothing but a star in the whole galaxy that was Karandras. Countless essences, endless voices drifted slowly together.

Spirits from across the galaxy, of warriors born on every craftworld in every age, and the spirit-parts that made them, and the memories of those other spirits that had touched them, stretching out, far out into the infinity of the universe, all connected, all brought together in this one body.

Morlaniath fragmented, became his parts, each seeping away into the glitter of the Phoenix Lord’s essence. The silence of space greeted them. Not for them the life-in-death of the infinity circuit. Not for them the ravages of She Who Thirsts. Here they would end, truly and forever. Only Karandras lived on. Briefly, Korlandril lived again, and then was gone.

Peace.

He hid behind the tumbled arch of the old temple, shivering in his nakedness. Hunger gnawed at his gut. His limbs trembled with weakness, his breath wheezing in his throat. And the pain inside, the throbbing in his heart and head, the needles of agony that coursed through his mind, stretching him in all directions, more unbearable than any physical pain.

A foot scraped on dusty stone and he shrank bank further into the shadows, eyes desperately seeking an escape. There was none, he was trapped. Through the tears, he saw a figure silhouetted against the light from outside the shrine.

“Do not be afraid,” the stranger said, his voice quiet but strong.

He remained as still as death, holding his breath. The stranger crossed the bone-littered floor of the temple with easy strides, his green gown flowing behind him. The stranger’s eyes were unlike any he had seen before. They were empty of hatred, empty of lust, empty of jealousy and malevolence.

He flinched as the stranger reached out a hand. He pushed himself back until his spine was against the cold wall. There was nowhere else to hide. The stranger smiled, but there was none of the leering desire he usually associated with such an expression.

“What is your name?” the stranger asked. His voice was low, calm, not screaming, not shouting.

“Karandras,” he whispered back, his voice barely a breath.

“Karandras? That is a good name, a strong name.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want to help you.”

“Where are you going to take me? The others wanted to take me into the dark web, but I ran. I was scared.”

“You were right to be scared. The others are not to be trusted.”

“Trusted?”

“I will teach you about trust. It is a good thing. Come with me and I will teach you many things.”

“What will I learn?”

“You will learn not to be afraid. You will learn about happiness, and peace, and balance. Do you want to learn these things?”

“I do not know… What are they?”

“They are what will make us strong again.”

“Will you teach me how to hide?”

“There are no places left to hide.”

“Will you keep me safe?”

“Nowhere is safe.”

Karandras considered this for a moment. “Will you protect me?”

“Better than that, I will teach you how to protect yourself. I will teach you how to fight.”

Karandras reached out and hesitantly grasped the proffered hand. The stranger’s grip was firm but gentle. He allowed himself to be lifted to his feet, his head no higher than the stranger’s chest.

They turned towards the door together and walked across the light, Karandras’ hand in the stranger’s.

“Where are we going?” the boy asked.

“To a place where my friends are waiting. To a place where you can learn how to fight, to battle the enemies of the body and the spirit.”

They reached the cracked steps of the doorway, the harsh light causing Karandras to blink heavily, tears in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Arhra. I am your new father.”

Whiteness faded away to the colours of life and death. Karandras pulled himself to his feet, his armour fusing the wound that had allowed his energy to escape. The Phoenix Lord looked down at the empty suit of the exarch that had given him this new life. He felt nothing of the eldar that he had been. There were no memories, save his own. There was no spirit, save the one he had been born with.

He was Karandras, and Karandras alone.

He looked around, assessing the raging battle. The Alaitocii were fighting hard and driving the humans from the dome, but the fate of their craftworld was far from decided. Karandras stooped to pick up his chainsword, reassured by the feel of it in his fist. The Striking Scorpions who had joined him were retreating back to the woods, carrying two of their wounded number between them. The Phoenix Lord turned his back on them and headed after the Imperial Dreadnought that had killed him. The Phoenix Lord felt the thrill of retribution singing through his body.

Another war, another death. Such was to be his fate, until the final battle, the Rhana Dandra, when all things would end.

Gav Thorpe has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games developer. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a psychotic mechanical hamster currently planning the overthrow of a small South American country.

Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite
Angels of Darkness
and the epic Sundering trilogy, amongst many others.

You can find his website at:

mechanicalhamster.wordpress.com

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