Eldar Prophecy
Page 13
Meanwhile, the jetbikes that had been hemmed in behind the Wave Serpent zipped passed Ela, Lhir and Aingeal, flashing past them on both sides in pursuit of the two running warriors up ahead. They were followed by two Vypers, weaving to and fro through the restricted space in single file, with their main cannons angled up into the cosmos, spraying the hidden emplacements overhead with sleets of shuriken. Another Wave Serpent emerged from the rear of the convoy, easing along the pathway with shuriken and las-blasts deflecting off its armour. Ansgar Guardians and Warp Spiders were springing out of its rear doors and hatches, clambering over its roof and then dashing along in front of it, desperate to join the fight up ahead. Then bringing up the rear, the midnight blue and silver Falcon grav-tank squeezed through the pass. Its turret-mounted star cannon was firing great javelins of plasma up into the invisible heights of the pass, but the line of fire of its prow-mounted shuriken cat- apults were blocked by the Wave Serpent in front of it. The pilot twitched the tank's prow-scythes in frustration at the restrictive space of the Ula Pass.
HE COULD FEEL the pulse of battle coursing through the Fluir-haern. Death-knells and killing words echoed and whispered on the breeze of faerulh. The icons of Khaine that decorated the walls of the temple sanctum glowed faintly, filling the shrine with an unworldly heat and the scent of blood.
Naois strode through the temple arena and passed through the narrow, gnarled tunnel that led into the sanctum in the heart of the shrine. There, he stood before the Altar of the Spider Exarch, and he knew that war was being waged on Kaelor. He could taste it. Looking up at the altar, Naois watched the blinking and sparkling runes that were illuminating around the chamber. They seemed to swim into patterns, forming into ancient signatures as though the temple itself were trying to communicate with him. A faint music was dancing through the air, like a chorus of infinite voices singing silently.
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On the left side of the Spider Altar was the ceremonial deathmask of the temple seer: the Araconid Warlock. It took a place of honour next to the threaded and interwoven structure of the altar itself, glaring down at him with profoundly lifeless eyes. Above the right side of the altar like a crucified saviour hung the ageless and inexplicable armour of the Lhykosidae - the mythical Wraith Spider of Kaelor. For as long as anyone could remember, the armour had hung lifelessly within the temple sanctum, little more than a shining, golden symbol of the mystical origins of the secretive Aspect. On this day, however, it seemed to glower down at Naois, as though animated with a life-force of its own. There was a voice just out of hearing. It was like a whisper of faerulh flickering through the furthest reaches of the spirit pool, just beyond the detection of even the most sensitive and open of minds. It was buried beneath the weight of the incessant gabble of life on Kaelor, hidden in amongst the chorus of war that pulsed and chanted through the spirit matrix of the ancient craftworld. Through some coincidence of fate, the soundless voice seemed to find a presence in the armour of the Lhykosidae. The change was imperceptible, but Naois could sense that the galaxy had suddenly and instantaneously reoriented itself around a new future. He bowed slowly and resentfully to the icons of his Aspect and then turned away from the altar. The possible significance of the invisible metastasis was secondary in his mind to the frustration of having been left behind. He could feel the battle of his gen- eration raging in the distant Ula Pass, but he was alone and abandoned like a child in the sanctity of the temple. Racks of weapons were arranged in preparedness on either side of the entrance to the passageway that led back out into the arena. There were rows of deathspinners and a series of sheaths containing the powerblade augmentations for Warp Spider gauntlets. A row of umbhala staffs stood on the opposite side of the passage mouth, each polished to such a high sheen that they seemed to be fashioned out of some kind of metallic alloy. He eyed the weapons carefully and his mind flashed back to his duel with Scilti. The devious cheat had fought him as though he had been using the characteristic deathspinner and powerblades of the Warp Spiders, even though he had been nothing more than a tyro with a staff. His victory had been false. With a sudden resolution, Naois strode forwards and grasped two of the umbhala shafts, one in each hand, and then he breezed through the passageway back into the arena beyond. In battle, he told himself, to ignore reality is to fall into defeat and ignominy. Scilti may have duped the arachnir, but he could not hide his facade from the reaper himself. War makes all eldar honest. AS THE FIRE died down, Scilti saw the ranks of the Teirtu Guardians marching through the smoke towards them, flames licking at their cloaks and armour like halos of power. The lithe and graceful form of Marshal Yseult was in the lead, several strides ahead of the banners and the other warriors. Her famous diresword remained undrawn at her side, but she swept along before her troops with a calm and inalienable determination. Despite himself, Scilti found a wisp of admiration passing through the flames before his eyes.
Tumbles of smoke rolled across the pathway, blowing over the shattered remains of the Wave Serpent and a number of the ruined wraithguard. Looking to either side, Scilti saw Khukulyn standing ready to fight with his witchblades crossed before his chest. The awesome figure of Aingeal stood on the other side, her deathspinner hanging easily by her leg as though she saw no need to brace it for combat. Behind them, he could feel the pressing presence of the other Guardians of Ansgar and the fleeting, sporadic movements of the squad of Warp Spiders. The jetbikes and Vypers brought up the rear of the vanguard, and the bulk of the tanks still rumbled further back.
Wisps of smoke floated back along the pathway, blurring the advancing line of Teirtu and making the stars of the Styhxlin haze into bursts of light. The scene was suddenly obscure and poorly resolved, but Scilti could see the figure of Yseult come to a stop and wait for her Guardians to pull up on either side of her. The two forces faced each other through the smoke and the flickering flames for a long moment. The banners of Teirtu, Ansgar and Rivalin fluttered in the convection currents. The star-filled void glittered all around them, and the barrage of fire from the heavens paused, the initial exchanges of the battle having been completed. There was silence, broken only by the hiss of flames consuming oxygen. Then all eyes were drawn to the tiny figure of Ela'Ashbel as she walked out of the Ansgar line and into the space between the opposing forces. She was dressed in a simple blue robe, hemmed with golden lace, which billowed in the smoke and rendered her in the image of a ghost.
The others didn't know how to react. Both Ansgar and Teirtu watched the child seer as though transfixed, marvelling at the way the smoke eddied and curled around her as she walked. It was as though her presence had brought time itself to a sudden arrest, and the others were powerless to shatter the stasis that flowed around her like a vortex. She stopped and turned on the spot, casting her sapphire eyes around the scene, letting them alight on the face of each warrior in the front line of both sides. This battle is an echo of the unforgotten future. It matters not. Your lives are worth less and more than this. Step aside and let the present through. Give way to what must be.
Scilti felt the thoughts in his head, just as all the others did. They left an indelible imprint in his mind, like tiny but heavy footprints in snow, but he could make no sense of their meaning, and their imprint melted slowly away to leave his mind feeling empty and pristine, as though it had been suddenly purified. He turned to Aingeal and looked up into her golden mask. The truth is often spoken in languages that we cannot understand, responded the exarch without looking down, but keeping her
eyes fixed on the infant seer before them. Failing to understand it, however, is no excuse for mistaking it for falsehood. 'You are not welcome here, Sons of Ansgar and Spiders of the Warp. You will turn back, or we will turn you back,' called Yseult from her line beyond Ela. It was as though she hadn't heard the child seer's words, or was simply ignoring them. A tumbling cloud of smoke passed over Ela, obscuring her from sight. Almost immediately, the adversaries seemed to forget about her completely, as though
the smoke had erased her from time. Who are you to refuse us welcome, servant of Teirtu? replied Aingeal, in an obvious and ritualistic repeat of their last encounter.
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'I am Yseult Teirtu-an,' announced Yseult, taking a step forward of her own lines so that she could be seen clearly by both sides, 'and I am duly empowered to welcome our friends, just as I am more than capable of repelling our enemies. Are you prepared to fight me on this day, Exarch of Khaine?' Scilti stepped forward of his comrades, preempting the response of his exarch. 'I will fight you on this day' he called, letting his voice resonate with confidence. 'I am Scilti Ansgar-ann, Warp Spider of the Temple of the Lhykosidae. Is this good enough for your blood, daughter of Teirtu?'
Instead of words, Yseult responded with a bow, flourishing her cloak into a whirl that culminated in its discard, leaving her standing forwards in a low combat stance with her hand touched to the hilt of her magnificent sword. At the same moment, Scilti folded his arms across his chest and vanished from his position at the head of the Ansgar forces. He reappeared only a few paces in front of Yseult, where he returned the bow in an ostentatious show of respect for the famed Teirtu Guardian.
Just as they were about to lurch into combat, another voice arose from the Ansgar lines, stopping them in their tracks. This was not how it was supposed to happen.
'I will not suffer to wait another moment for the blood of a Teirtu!' The voice boomed with emotion. 'The wait has been more than long enough already'
Khukulyn was striding out into the space between the frontlines. His witchblades were already drawn and poised, in dramatic disregard for the normal etiquette of the commencement of battle. 'Is there not one of you who will stand forth and fight me? Or would you all hide behind the female Avenger?' His voice seethed with passion and violence, as though his sense of decorum had been completely obliterated by his lust for blood. Images of Bedwyr's eyes flashed through the heavens around him, and he knew what he had to do to return peace to his soul. When faced with the choice, he had chosen death. None of the Teirtu Guardians moved, even as the striding warrior broke into a run towards them, lashing his twin blades across his body and down to his sides as he stalked at them. Then a voice made Khukulyn stop.
'I will fight you, Khukulyn, valiant son of Ansgar!' It was Lhir.
The Teirtu Guardian stared across at the assembled forces of House Teirtu, and he felt the conflict of emotion bunch into a heavy weight in his abdomen. He could see the banner of Rivalin fluttering proudly above the heads of his kinsmen, and he knew that the same banner flew over the paltry forces of Ansgar behind him. His hands had presented the farseer's cloak to the rebel house; he had brought this battle into being, pulling it out of the mists of the possible futures and giving it weight in the present. Not even the farseer had been able to bring this about on his own; Lhir had become the agent of war. He could see nothing but death in his future, no matter which way he turned.
As Khukulyn turned slowly to face his own kinsmen, Lhir took a couple of steps clear of the Ansgar lines. At that moment, it might have appeared to all present that the warriors had both changed allegiances, that the old Ansgar veteran stood at the fore of the Teirtu, and that the immaculate, young Teirtu-ann stood ready to defend the honour of the Ansgar. A murmur of unease whispered through the Teirtu Guardians as some of them recognised Lhir amongst the enemy. For a moment, Yseult's composure faltered as a number of the missing pieces suddenly fell into place: Lhir must have been responsible for taking the Rivalin banner to the domains of Ansgar; he was one of the farseer's personal guards, but what could have shaken the faith and the loyalty of a Guardian as immaculate and honourable as Lhir? She could not believe that he had been corrupted by greed or ambition, and his current stand proved that he had not. In the back of her mind, she knew that this must have something to do with Kerwyn's fate, but she repressed the disruptive thoughts to focus on the matter at hand. The matter of Iden's treatment of the farseer's heir would wait until the battle was won. As he started to pace back towards his own kinsmen, the flash of rage on Khukulyn's face suddenly gave way to satisfaction. He had never trusted the intentions of the stranger from Sentrium, and he had always trusted his own instincts. This was the perfect opponent for him to regain a measure of his lost honour. STANDING IN THE centre of the arena once again, the youthful Naois held his arms out by his sides as though revealing himself to the gods. He balanced the umbhala staffs in his open palms as he rolled his head back and gazed up towards the domed ceiling. High up above him, the veins through the ceiling started to glow, as though a breath of life had passed over a cluster of smouldering embers. The veins smouldered and then burned, revealing the hidden pattern of webwork that laced the inner face of the dome, lighting it up like passion.
At the same time, Naois started to move. He could feel the compulsion of the shrine wrap around him as his eyes fixed on the spiralling design above. Tentatively at first, but then growing in confidence and speed, he began to trace the reflection of the burning veins of the wolf spider above into the sand that lay in a thin layer over the floor at his feet. He spun the staffs in his hands as though they were extensions of his arms, dragging them through the dirt and scraping them into intricate designs that his limbs could not have managed on their own. The shafts seemed to pivot around his hands, as though each tip were somehow separate and alive in its own right, giving him the appearance of an eight-legged arachnid as he skittered and danced over the arena.
He moved faster and faster, performing the dancelike patterns of the combat forms that he had learnt from Adsulata and the Exarch Aingeal, as his motions blurred more smoothly and less rhythmically into those of a spider. The tips of the umbhala staffs gouged into the floor, scattering fistfuls of sand and flecks of burning ground around the arena. As he moved, he could feel the shrine talking to him. It was sharing its knowledge with him, feeding him with the whispers of the myriad dhamashir-souls that swam ineffably through the matrix of Fluir-haern, into which the Temple of the Warp Spiders was
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partially submerged. The Warp Spiders were singularly well attuned to the spirit of Kaelor, drawing their nature from the tiny crystalline creatures that roamed the highways and byways of the infinity circuit eliminating all psychic contaminations. He spun and leapt, spiralling through the air and then dragging the umbhala through impossible contortions in the fabric of the floor, wrenching webs and matrices into the metallic structure, and leaving them riddled with flames. He could feel his anger and frustration teetering on the edge of his control. The voices of Kaelor told him that Aingeal and Ela were already in the Ula Pass. For a moment he could see them in his mind. A vision of galaxies and stars flashed through his consciousness, showing the Warp Spider and the ehveline standing unmolested in the void. Then there was Scilti doing battle with a graceful Teirtu Guardian, and he caught a glimpse of his father's staunchest guard, Khukulyn, prowling around a foe that he could not name.
There was a burst of darkness and then the scene shifted. He saw Aingeal lying dead with her armour engulfed in daemonic fire. He saw Scilti sitting cross-legged next to the corpse, gazing down at his own bloody hands and weeping. He saw Khukulyn's mutilated body, dismembered, ruined and neglected, tumbling through the infinite void, and he saw Ela's porcelain face, running red with rivers of blood that poured out of her eyes like tears. A hand reached for her face, wiping away the blood. It was the hand of Ahearn Rivalin. He was smiling oddly, in a way that Naois had never seen before and could not understand. It was as though the movements of war that Naois was rehearsing in a frenzy of frustrated rage in the arena somehow formed a connection with the spirit pool and its untapped potential for vision throughout Kaelor and throughout time. The vision did not placate him. Rather it fed his anger. It should have been me! He couldn't believe that they had left him behind while they marched to their doom in the Ula Pass. Even
he knew that they could not triumph in the territory
that had almost been the end of Bedwyr himself. If they had marched without any visions or aspirations of victory - if they had marched with heroic doom in their souls, like Maugan Ra - then why leave him behind to rattle and shake in the sanctity of the temple. It made no sense. It was almost as though Aingeal had wanted to make him angry and leave him alone with his frustrations. He lashed out with the staffs, spinning tightly in the middle of the arena, focusing his fury along the lengths of their organic shafts and sending chains of wraith-thread whipping out of their tips. After a moment, he released them and let them flip and flash through the thickening webs around him until they punched into the dome of the ceiling penetrating all the way through to their trailing tips. Then he slumped onto the mica-strewn burning ground, exhausted and spent. Blood calls! I hear it. It should have been me... They wrong me, keeping me a prisoner in my own lair.
SCILTI TURNED BACK to face Yseult, letting the question of how to proceed float between them. The Ceremony of Commencement was supposed to include only one representative from each side, but the impatience of Khukulyn and the vagaries of Lhir had already ruined the established process. They could each feel the discomfort of their troops, who hesitated with their weapons, unsure of whether to wait for their marshals to complete their duel or to storm into the fray after the other two. The situation seemed suddenly frozen in time, like a priceless vase on the point of smashing to the ground. From her position in the midst of the Ansgar, Exarch Aingeal studied the complexities of the scene. She wondered why Ela's intervention had been ignored, but then instantly dismissed the question. There was no way that the others could understand the little abomination. Part of her wondered whether anyone would even remember the incongruous figure of the child wandering out into the warzone, alone and apparently unprotected, speaking in a silent tongue that everyone could hear. Besides, she realised, this fight was no longer about Kaelor or even about the Ansgar and the Teirtu. This was a battle for the private, unspoken passions that raged within Scilti, Khukulyn and Lhir. Only Yseult seemed innocent and pure of intention. As Yseult and Scilti nodded their understanding to each other, Lhir unzipped his shuriken pistol and levelled it at the charging form of Khukulyn, whose twin witchblades glinted with menace and the thirst for death. There was a brief moment before the parallel duels were joined. It hung in the air with a significance that was not wasted on any of those present, but was shattered almost instantly as Yseult lurched forwards. She unsheathed her diresword and swept it into a smooth killing arc in one seamless motion. At precisely the same time, but twenty paces away, Khukulyn whipped his blades out to his sides as he closed on Lhir and then spun them back across himself, hacking in towards the Guardian. The blood came from everywhere at once.