by C. S. Goto
that it contains the soul of Naemzar, one of the Wild Rider chieftains of Saim-Hann captured during the Craftwars. It certainly
has the unbridled fury of such a wild warrior, and it required a wielder of unusual discipline and skill. In any case, I am pleased
to have a memento of my lost Yseult. I confess that I had hoped that she might return to the Avengers in due time. She would have
made a formidable and righteous Exarch of Khaine, but the Lady Ione had warned me that it might not come to pass...
'I did not come here only to return the sword, quihan,' confessed Iden, more abruptly than he would have liked. 'I came to ask for your assistance.'
You want the Avengers to fight at your side. You want us to turn our vengeance against the Ansgar and against the Warp Spiders
of their realm. Lairgnen looked up from the sword and stared at Iden. You are transparent, my lord. You were always an
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
emotional warrior, Iden; this is both your most intoxicating strength and your most debilitating weakness. It makes you powerful
in battle, but it also makes you predictable.
'They must pay for what they have done, quihan. You cannot deny the value or power of vengeance in this case. I was taught its use in this very chamber. They have sinned against Teirtu and they have sinned against Kaelor, and I am the Vanquisher of Sin. They have also deprived us of a star in the darkness of these times, and we must avenge Yseult's passing.' She came to me before the end, replied Lairgnen slowly, as though not hearing Iden's words, and she asked me to breach the
covenant to stand with her at your side. I refused, Iden. There are bigger issues than the fate of Yseult or House Teirtu in this
story, and the Covenant of the Asurya's Helm has a role to play in Kaelor's future. Have you not seen what is happening in the
Sentrium? Have you been so obsessed with vengeance and the affairs of the broken House of Ansgar that you have neglected what
lies right under your nose? Have you not seen the crackling energy of the Maelstrom coursing through the veins of Kaelor? The
craftworld is in peril, Iden of Teirtu, Zhogahn of the Rivalin Court. There are sinners in need of vanquishing, and you must steel
your resolve to see it done.
'Will you stand with me or not, Exarch Lairgnen?' asked Iden flatly. He did not need to be lectured by this Exarch of Khaine. It was bad enough that he had to endure the whispered, duplicitous criticism of the Knavir. He was the lord of the Sentrium, not them. He was the Zhogahn.
'I do not ask you to march to war with House Teirtu, since I know that you are sworn not to, despite the Aingeal's treachery. I ask only for a raiding force to avenge the murder of Yseult and to recover the farseer. Both are functions worthy of the Avengers, quihan.'
You do not intend to invade the domains of Ansgar?
Iden bit down on his teeth. 'I understand that you would not be able to participate in such an action, exarch, and I do not ask you to do so.'
You have not answered my question, Lord Iden.
'You do not want me to answer your question, Lairgnen! You want to avenge the death of your protege, and what I have said permits you to do it with a clear conscience and without abrogating the covenant. If the idiot Morfran decides to launch an invasion at the same time, that will be merely an unfortunate coincidence caused by a bungling fool. I am asking only for a strike of vengeance, not support in a political war. What we do in ignorance we do without sin.' Iden smiled. You have become quite the politician since your move to the Sentrium, Iden, nodded the exarch. You will have your Avengers.
IN THE ABSENCE of the farseer, Morfran sat at this place at the table. His bandaged and aching leg was propped up on the edge, giving the impression of relaxation instead of pain. He had an almost empty carafe of Edreacian wine in his hand, which had doubtlessly helped to alleviate the self-inflicted agony of his shredded limb. Sitting opposite him was the delightful Cinnia, bedecked in the delicate red court chiffon of the Yuthran sisterhood. It was worn loosely and without self-consciousness. Next to her sat the handsome figure of Celyddon Ossian, whose sumptuous robes and golden eyes made the others think of luxury every time they looked at him. It was the first time that any of them had been in the farseer's chambers, high up in the tower, without Ahearn shuffling around on his staff, fetching drinks and making sure that his guests were comfortable. 'I can't believe that you shot yourself in the leg!' laughed Cinnia, lying back in her chair as though it were a couch. 'It was so transparent. Even that sober-minded prude Uisnech saw through you!' 'It hurts,' moaned Morfran, as though that should be enough for some sympathy. 'Serves you right, you clumsy tureir-iug,' countered Celyddon. 'Perhaps I should have shot you?' laughed Morfran, draining the carafe and then hurling it across the table towards Celyddon. 'Why did you have to shoot anyone?' asked Cinnia. 'Did you really think that Iden would believe that you fought with the Warp Spiders and that they shot you in the leg as you stood between them and Ahearn?' 'What does it matter what he believes?' replied Morfran. 'It is almost too late for him to change anything, anyway.' 'Almost, but not quite,' said Cinnia, suddenly serious. She leant forwards onto the table. 'The prophecy has not yet come to pass. We must retain our vigilance, otherwise all of this will be lost.' She cast a relaxed arm around the room to indicate what she meant.
The others fell into silence, as though they had suddenly understood the gravity of the situation, and Cinnia rose to her feet. She swept her arm over the tabletop, clearing the glasses and empty carafes, which clattered to the ground and smashed into pools of smoking liquid. Then she climbed up onto the table and sat cross-legged in the middle, composing her robes around her in an incongruous display of decorum.
Closing her eyes and interlacing her fingers in her lap, the Yuthran seer started a whispered, resonating chant that quickly filled the chamber with trembling vibrations. The others looked up towards the ceiling where an oily image was beginning to sheen into visibility. It was faint at first, but quickly grew in density and coherence, revealing a vision of the startling depths of space in which the massive structure of Kaelor was sailing. The stars shifted in a complicated parallax, showing the movement of the huge craftworld, but there was something unusual about the pattern of the movement, as though Kaelor's path was somehow circuitous or contorted. The stars seemed to twist in a slow arc, as though the craftworld were turning gradually in a wide spiral. As the scene shifted, a fringe of purpling colour infused the edge of the picture. It grew brighter and more intense as a vast, roiling cloud of warp energy bled into view. It was punctuated by gashes of dark light and scars of sickly brightness, which seemed to roil and curdle into nauseatingly chaotic patterns. On the cusps of the massive warp storm, the space-rime fabric of the material realm seemed to twist and bleed, as though the void of deep space were pouring into the boiling Maelstrom. Morfran looked up into the moving image and smiled broadly. 'Not much further to go,' he said, letting his excitement bubble in his throat as he spoke. 'We're almost there.'
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'You're sure that this is going to work, Morfran?' asked Celyddon. The sight of the Maelstrom made him suddenly doubt their plan. It did not look like the heaven of sensual and artistic pleasures that had been promised to them. It looked like hell. Cinnia gasped with a sudden thrill and opened her eyes, which glowed bloody red with concentration. 'It will work, Celyddon of Ossian. We have made a bargain, and it will be kept.' The voice had an unusual edge to it, as though it wasn't Cinnia's at all. It sounded as though something was speaking through her. 'Everything is moving in the right direction, and soon there will be more souls to feed our lust.'
Morfran grinned at the prospect, but an involuntary shiver pulsed through his body, as though his flesh rebelled against the unbridled decadence of his mind. He stared at the serenely daemonic figure of Cinnia for a moment, letting his thoughts touch her skin as it flickered in and out of view beneath her chiffon robes
, and then he lifted his eyes into the swirling Maelstrom above. He couldn't believe that Kaelor had strayed so close to that warp-cauldron without anyone noticing or protesting. After all, the sons of Asuryan had spent all these long eons since the Fall trying to escape from the lascivious fingers of the Great Enemy, and now Kaelor found itself teetering so close to an inferno of lust. It was as though the Rivalin Farseer had engineered it, encouraged it, or at least permitted it.
In the back of his mind, Morfran even wondered whether the indulgent souls of the Knavir had created the roiling storm as a manifestation of their communal extravagance. The idea was simply too delightful, and it made him squirm in his seat. Cinnia blinked, closing her burning eyes and then reopening them in their normal sharply drawn green. 'We need only a few more souls,' she said, lying back along the table between the other two, as though physically exhausted from unseen and otherworldly exertions. She sighed, feeling the last tingling touches of pleasure breath between her porcelain skin and her weightless robes.
RETURNING NAOIS'S BOW, Khukulyn whipped his witchblades over his shoulders and spun them loosely in his hands, flexing his shoulders and warming his muscles. Meanwhile the crowd of eldar before the Spider Temple pushed back from the challengers, leaving a wide clearing, like an arena for the combat. Without further ceremony, Khukulyn charged forwards, lashing his blades in figures of eight as he ran. A couple of strides short of Naois, he thrust his weapons forwards and then lunged, diving like a thrown lance towards his foe. For Naois, it was as though the whole thing was moving in slow motion. He watched the veteran warrior rush towards him and then throw his weight into a lethal strike, but he watched with disinterest, as though the action did not really concern him. A moment before the tip of Khukulyn's blades were about to pierce into his armour, he stepped aside, letting the other warrior's momentum carry him right past, stumbling and falling onto his face. It was ridiculous. He watched Khukulyn climb back to his feet and dash back in to attack, swiping his glimmering witch-blades in a complicated form, hacking down diagonally from above and below at the same time, with his face set in concentrated fury. Naois watched with more curiosity this time. The form of the attack was imaginative and interesting, and he could see the passion flowing out of Khukulyn, but there was no malice in the attack, and Naois felt no danger. He took a step back and let the blades lash past his face, just fractions from his mask, tilting his head to one side quizzically. Khukulyn pressed his drive, flourishing his flashing blades in increasingly furious and rapid formations, slicing them around the impossibly fast figure of Naois, who simply stepped aside each time, as though unimpressed. It was infuriating. Naois had not even parried a single strike, let alone struck out with a counter-attack. He had just moved around all of Khukulyn's swipes as though trying to avoid fighting altogether. For a moment, Khukulyn wondered whether the son of Bedwyr merely thought that he was an unworthy challenger. Was he being mocked? It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was putting his life on the line for the good of the House of Ansgar. If Naois really was the Wraith Spider of legend, then Khukulyn would gladly lay down his life in order to prove it to those who would doubt it. The Ansgar would need its full strength if it was ever to challenge the Teirtu again, and that strength could never be mustered if there was doubt about the leadership of the house. Even Scilti had not been enough to bring the warriors out of their hideouts in the for- est.
If he were not the Lhykosidae, then Khukulyn would lay him low and save Ansgar from the fate of marching hopelessly into battle behind a pretender to the throne. If he killed Naois, son of Bedwyr, he would be doing it for the good of the Ansgar, although he knew that the house would never forgive him for it. Either way, Khukulyn's life was over, but he had chosen death long ago. He had chosen it when he had seen the recrimination in Bedwyr's eyes as he had died in the Plaza of Vaul. He had chosen it in the Ula Pass, when he had charged into battle with only his blades, but he had been cheated of an honourable death of deliverance. Or perhaps he had been spared so that he could die in a last art of devotion to Bedwyr. He was dead already, and death held no more mysteries or fears for him. He thrust out with his right hand and then spun back around to his left, trying to anticipate Naois's evasions, but both blows missed their marks as the golden armour danced clear of the strikes. 'Fight me!' yelled Khukulyn as he realised that Naois had not even drawn a weapon. 'I will not be mocked.' At the least, he thought that he was owed an honourable and serious end, not the death of a bumbling fool. I deserve better than this mockery, he thought, as he dropped low and swung both blades in parallel towards Naois's legs. The next few moments passed in slow motion for Khukulyn. He saw the golden boots of Naois's armour spring into the air, jumping cleanly over his swinging witchblades. Then he watched as Naois's weight dropped again with impossible speed, crunching the soles of his boots down onto the flat sides of his twin swords and snapping them out of his hands. In automatic response, Khukulyn sprang forwards, launching himself bodily into the golden warrior before him. This time not even Naois could move aside quickly enough to avoid the collision, and Khukulyn slammed into him with his full force.
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Naois didn't move. He was a full head shorter than the veteran Guardian that smashed into him, but it was as if Khukulyn had thrown himself at an immovable pillar. He crunched into Naois's abdomen and wrapped his arms around his waist, trying to wrestle the youth to the ground, but it was futile. Instead, Naois reached across and gripped Khukulyn by the neck, yanking the Guardian away from his waist and snapping his powerful neck like a straw. It was almost as though it was an accident. For a moment, Naois stood erect, his arm outstretched, with Khukulyn dangling limply from his grip like a rag doll. He looked up into the fading light in Khukulyn's eyes and saw a glint of gratitude flash back at him. His own black-webbed, silver eyes stared back blankly and without comprehension, and then he dropped the dead Guardian of Ansgar into a heap at his feet. There was silence throughout the clearing in front of the temple as the assembled eldar tried to understand what had happened. Khukulyn Ansgar-ann lay dead at the feet of the heir of Ansgar, who turned away from the most devoted of his father's warriors as though he were nothing. There seemed to be no emotion within that majestic golden form, no remorse, no pain, no anger and no compassion. What did this mean?
As Naois climbed the first few steps, heading past the stunned Scilti and back up towards little Ela, whose calm face was running with tears, and the horrified figure of the farseer, he paused suddenly. He saw the exarch turn away and stride back through the gates into the crumbling interior of the temple. But there was something else. Slowly, he turned back towards the crowd and cast his eyes around the open space, scanning the tree line like a sensor array. On the far side of the clearing, there was a rustling in the foliage and a solitary figure emerged. It stood upright and proud on the cusp between the forest and the open ground. It held a long ranger rifle in one hand, while the other hand lingered over the hilt of a pistol in a holster that was strapped to the side of its chest. It was shrouded in a long, hooded cloak that may once have been a rich, dark blue, hemmed in silver thread, but the material was ragged and dirty, as though it had not been repaired or replaced in many years.
After a moment, about a quarter of the way around the curving tree line, another similarly cloaked figure emerged. It held a long bladed, executioner glaive in both hands, braced diagonally across its chest. Whilst the cloak and garments of the eldar were in a poor state of repair, the elegant blade of the executioner shone immaculately, as though it had been polished and sharpened every day.
Then another figure stepped out of the foliage, this time with a bulky shuriken cannon braced in both hands. Then another with an ornate firepike and another with what looked like a singing spear. Then another and another until there must have been sixty or seventy eldar warriors in a crescent before the Temple of the Warp Spiders. As though at an agreed but invisible signal, dozens more warriors that were hidden amongst the
crowd that had assembled earlier threw off their ragged, matted and colourless cloaks to reveal the blues of Ansgar and strode out to join their brethren around the tree line.
As one, more than a hundred Ansgar Guardians threw their once magnificent midnight-blue cloaks over one shoulder and sank to one knee, punching their fists into the ground in a sign of reverence and devotion to their new leader. Naois stood on the steps of the temple, and beside him, Scilti's eyes widened in amazement at the number of Guardians that had survived in the forest zones for all these years. Then his eyes narrowed again as he realised that they had remained in hiding when he had tried to assemble a force to march on the Teirtu only days before. They had emerged for Naois and his golden armour. They had emerged because of Khukulyn, but they had offered him nothing. Naois swept his eyes around the kneeling warriors for a moment, without a word, as though in appreciation of the scene. Then he turned once again and strode up the steps of the temple, breezing past Ahearn and Ela and disappearing into the shadows within, leaving the crowd and the Guardians unsure about how to proceed.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
CHAPTER EIGHT: AINGEAL
THERE HAD NOT been a Convocation of the Exarchs for untold ages. The Aspect Temples had agreed long ago that their power must not be put to political use on Kaelor. They were fully aware that one or other of the shrines had complete power over various of the other craftworlds, and that some of the mightiest of the majestic vessels, such as the legendary Biel-Tan, were ruled by a warrior council in which all of the exarchs sat together. It had been a conscious decision on Kaelor, back in the days of peace following the terrible Craftwars, which had so nearly torn the entire world in two. Gwrih the Radiant had convened the Convocation, summoning each of the exarchs to the chambers of the Ohlipsean and laying his vision of the loss of Kaelor before them.
The Craftwars had pushed the Aspect Temples and the great houses of the outer realms into the centers of power, and all of Kaelor had relied on them for security and survival. They had accumulated vast reserves of resources, bleeding the artificial world dry of its mineral and psychic reservoirs in the quest to build more and better armies. At the end of the Craftwars, as Saim-Hann was finally repelled and Kaelor tumbled, free-falling through the vastness of deep space, the exarchs and house patriarchs had stood hovering on the brink of civil war. They had magnificent armies poised and waiting for merely a single word from them. They waited, ready to unleash their passion for blood against any enemy that their leaders defined. The years of war-readiness and constant battle had pushed the breath of Khaine deeply into the souls of many Kaelorians, leaving them primed and ready, and thirsty for battle.