Eldar Prophecy

by C. S. Goto

  The fate of Kaelor was balanced on the edge of a knife. Push it in one direction and the craftworld would spiral into an existence of eternal war, as though blending the bellicosity of Biel-Tan with the furious intramural conflicts of Saim-Hann. One push in the other direction, and the paths of the future held eons of peace and prosperity. To the first of the Rivalin Farseers, the choice had seemed as obvious as the choice between death and life. He had chosen life. Gwrih the Radiant had summoned the Exarchs of Khaine to the crumbling remains of the Ohlipsean and had asked them to swear an oath to him, to the Rivalin dynasty, and to the maintenance of peace on Kaelor. He had drawn up the Covenant of the Asurya's Helm, and watched each of the exarchs place their hands on the helm and speak their vow, never to interfere in the political concerns of the craftworld. It was a guarantee for the future, and with it the future seemed guaranteed. On that day, the crumbling, cracked and ruined remains of Kaelor had been placed in trust into the hands of the Rivalin. Those who could have opposed the future stood aside and let it happen, either war-weary or simply blind to the other possible consequences of what was being done. Kaelor became a feudal domain, ruled by the hand of a single dynasty in the name of peace and prosperity. All the major challengers to power were bound in impotence by their own vows, but also by their concern for the very survival of the craftworld on which they lived. The stage was set for decadence as much as for peace. As Aingeal sat in meditation in the sanctum of her Spider Temple, setting the beacon to summon the second Convocation of the Exarchs, she could not help but wonder whether Kaelor would have been better served had they refused to seal the helm all those eons ago. She had been there. She had pledged her vow with the others. She had been one of those who had spoken in defence of the radiant farseer's vision. She had been one of the first exarchs to wrestle free of the raging, compulsive voice of Khaine that had thundered in her mind for the previous years of relentless battle, driving her as though she were an aspect of the war god himself. She had been one of the first to realise that the Way of the Eldar was not comprised entirely by war, just as the Way of the Warrior was not encapsulated entirely by the Path of the Warp Spider. It needed variation and the disciplined cycles of the Ihnyoh, just as Asurmen and the Eldar Knights had predicted after the Fall. It was the rare dhamashir that could sustain a single dhanir forever, stuck as a Path Stalker for all time. The eldar dhamashir-soul was not equipped or prepared for eternal war. It needed peace in which to grow and flourish. The eldar were a wayfaring people. They needed to move from dhanir to dhanir as their soul's needs dictated. Even the Exarchs of Khaine should be able to see that about those over whom they stood sentinel. Just as an eldar soul cannot live with eternal war, reflected Aingeal wistfully, so it cannot live with perpetual peace. The tendency towards extremes that marked the eldar character meant that the only persistent state that could be healthy was one of persistent change. Dangers lurked in all extremes. For the eldar, decadence in any pursuit might lead to futures worse than death. As the exarch muttered her invocation, pushing her thoughts through the myriad highways of the infinity circuit in pursuit of the other exarchs, she let part of her mind wander. She held a vague image of the cosmos in her mind's eye, seeing it as though through the eyes of another. Someone somewhere on Kaelor was monitoring the course of the craftworld through space. The image was smouldering and infernal, shot through with storms of sha'iel and billowing warp clouds. Kaelor was skirting the edges of a maelstrom, but Aingeal found no surprise in this. She had been watching the proximity closely for the last several years. It had been a long slow process. It was not the case that the craftworld had made a sudden leap through the webway only to emerge so close to this terrible conflagration. It had been within distance for longer than Aingeal cared to remember. Perhaps it had even been there at the time of Gwrih the Radiant. Perhaps, pondered the exarch cynically, it was at the time of the last Convocation that the maelstrom had first appeared in the visible distance, unseen by the unwilling eyes of the Kaelorians. Others must have seen it. The exarchs and their warlocks must know, just as she did, but the Helm of Asurya kept them from interfering with the farseer's directives in the Ohlipsean. Surely the seers of Yuthran could see it? They should be able to see it even better than her, so why had they done nothing? Had nothing been done? Given the unusual spatial and temporal properties of the warp, Aingeal had often wondered whether it was possible to gauge the correct distance of the craftworld from the firestorm outside. Although it was partly in material space, much of it was simply unreal and immaterial, merely the raw projections of the warp, infused and seeping into material space through a horrible process

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  of osmosis. The warp dripped and then poured through into the seen dimensions through ever widening perforations in the fabric of space and time. It pushed and raged to get in, but there had to be a reason for why it had appeared so close to the craftworld. For every push, Aingeal wondered whether there had also been some kind of pull. Coincidence was an ancient and forbidden word on Kaelor. The eldar had outgrown it ages before. If distance was difficult to gauge, Aingeal had realised long ago that she could not be certain whether Kaelor had been slowly drawing closer to a distant maelstrom, or whether a small breach in space-time in the foreground had been slowly growing into the infernal storm that raged just out of reach. Was it the case that Kaelor had not been steadily advancing towards a distant horror, but rather the horror had been gradually forming on its doorstep and keeping pace with the craftworld's attempts to flee? Either option contained terrible implications, either way, it seemed clear to Aingeal that it was already well past the time when something had to be done. The exarchs could no longer stand aside, hidden behind their anachronistic vows, and do nothing. They had already ignored the rise of the great houses in the outer realms. They had watched the periphery of Kaelor grow poor and embittered as Gwrih's radiance had become increasingly focused in the Sentrium, leaving the outer realms with nothing. They had watched the warrior heroes of Teirtu and Ansgar rise up against the inequities of the feudal, hereditary system and bring battle back into the perpetual peace of the Rivalin's plans, inevitably returning some balance to Kaelor's soul. The craftworld had changed, and Aingeal could see that it resembled the war-torn and precarious state that it had been in at the end of the Craftwars. Just like the eldar soul, the spirit of Kaelor moved in cycles, no matter what the Ohlipsean tried to do to prevent it. It could not exist in perpetual peace; that was as much of an aberration as perpetual war. Only cycles of change could last forever.

  As it had done all those eons before, Kaelor was again balanced on the edge of a knife, teetering on the brink of its own destruction. The exarchs could no longer pretend that they had no influence on the paths that the craftworld chose to navigate into the future. However, just as the souls of the Kaelorians had once been so steeped in blood that they had found it hard to conceive of a world at peace, so now they had become so wrapped in the pleasures of peace that they would find it hard to embrace war once again. The rule of the Knavir had turned Kaelor against the values of the exarchs, and their only hope lay in the warrior houses of the outer realms.

  War must return to Kaelor. The eldar must know what it means to bleed again. Finally, Aingeal's mind located the last of the exarchs, Waendre of the Swooping Hawks, and she issued her summons, requesting that they all meet in the Temple of the Warp Spiders for a second Convocation of the Exarchs. IT WAS A scene that had not been witnessed in the Sentrium since the last days of the House Wars, when Iden Teirtu had marched his army along the Tributary of Baharroth and up to the gates of the Farseer's Palace to claim his honours. Since then, the military power of the Teirtu had been implied rather than asserted, since the Knavir and other eldar of the Sentrium had found the presence of warriors so offensive and abhorrent. Aside from the minimum necessary security to service his ongoing paranoia, Iden had attempted to permit life in the Sentrium to continue at its previous pace, even if that meant sending much
of his glorious army back to the domains of Teirtu.

  Kaelor had changed once again, and Iden could no longer afford the luxury of pandering to the effete decorum of the Knavir. The Plaza of Vaul was filled with Guardians, five hundred, maybe more. Their emerald cloaks and gold-etched armour shone and their banners fluttered proudly above their heads. Falcons, weapons platforms, Vypers and jetbikes were interspersed throughout the formation. There were three Fire Prism tanks and an entire squadron of Wave Serpents. The infamous Soulguard of Teirtu was arranged to one side: the Wraithguard squadrons that Iden had constructed during the course of the House Wars, using the spirit stones of his finest fallen warriors to animate their souls. The inorganic, artificial constructs were magnificent and terrible in equal measure, as they stood with implacable, mechanical calm waiting for orders. They brought the unerring and fearless determination of the dead back onto the battlefield.

  From his balcony in the Farseer's Palace, Iden inspected his army with pride swelling his chest. It was like a homecoming. In that moment, seeing the Sentrium riddled with deep green armour and the glittering gold of the serpent of Teirtu, Iden felt a forgotten calm return to his soul. The power and the threat of violence that his army represented was like a tonic for his tortured mind. He had spent too long attempting to suppress his passion for battle and his thirst for war, just to please the farseer and his disgustingly decadent courtiers. He had suffered years of being made to feel inferior and barbaric, merely because he had been enchanted by the affluence and sensuous grandeur of the Ohlipsean. Now, looking down at the most powerful military force that Kaelor had seen during the time of peace, Iden realised who he was once again. Once again he understood that the power of his sword was no less abhorrent than the devious, political machinations of the Knavir. Indeed, he saw that his sword was more honest, more direct, and ultimately more compelling than the moralising of impotent, decadent fools. 'My children!' he yelled from the balcony, using vocalised tones to bolster his defiance of the culture of the Knavir, who found such audible volume uncouth.

  As one, five hundred Teirtu Guardians turned on their heels and looked up towards the balcony. 'My children! Long have you suffered the ignominy of silence and invisibility. Where once you had raised flames that were seen by the gods themselves, you were then hidden under the sackcloth of the prejudice of others, but no more! You are hereby returned to the light once again. Your swords gleam with the eye of Khaine and the swift cunning of the Serpent of Teirtu. You are called upon to forge your souls through the strength of your bodies. Once again you are given the opportunity to live: choose death! You have been wronged in this time of peace. You have not been rewarded as you should have been for the heroic deeds of the House Wars. Together we brought the enemies of Teirtu to its knees, and we took the Sentrium for our own. Yet the Sentrium did not accept us... Once again, you are the proud and glorious army of Teirtu. You are my army!' A loud, thunderous, cheer roared out of five hundred throats, making the Plaza of Vaul tremble, and Iden grinned maliciously at the thought of the appalled Knavir on their balcony higher in the palace. He thought of the affected outrage of the witch Cinnia

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  and of the prudish, fragile mother of the new farseer, Oriana. Most of all, he thought of the pathetically earnest Uisnech of Anyon, who had refused to summon his own army to stand beside the Teirtu, as they had stood together in the name of the farseer in the past.

  'On this day, you will march against the old enemy once again. On this day, we march against the Ansgar! They have stolen our prize and insulted our standing, sneaking into the Sentrium and abducting the farseer, after we had left our defences low out of trust in the new peace. On this day, we finish the war that we permitted mercy to leave incomplete. Now we bring the House Wars to an end!'

  Another great cheer rose from the warriors in the plaza, thunderous and resonant like a powerful engine. The eldar started to stamp their feet and pummel the hilts of their weapons against the ground, making the area pulse with the violence of life and the lust for death. At that moment of frenzy, the gates of the Farseer's Palace cracked open and a phalanx of warriors emerged into the plaza. They wore the robes of the Rivalin and flew the twin banners of the Farseer's House and House Teirtu. Morfran marched at the head of the group, striding with uncomfortable determination and doing his best to affect the aloof charisma of leadership. The Teirtu Guardians parted to permit Iden's son and heir passage to the front of the army. Despite the contagious euphoria that echoed and throbbed in the emotional dhamashirs of the assembled warriors, Iden could feel a ripple of doubt suddenly pass through the crowd. Had he not done enough to whip them into an irrevocable passion? Would enough of them retain sufficient reason to reject the leadership of his bumbling son? The ripple of uncertainty passed. It was overwhelmed by the tide of passion and barely restrained violence that had been pent up for years and then given a vent by Iden's words. Nothing short of death or defeat would turn this army from its purpose now, Iden realised with satisfaction. Not even his fool of a son could mess this up, he thought, and if he did mess it up, he would be dead, so the future held only the best possible outcomes. Meanwhile, Iden had another battle to fight. ONLY LAIRGNEN OF the Dire Avengers had refused the summons, but this had not surprised any of the others. It was well known that Iden and many of the Teirtu had been trained in the Shrine of Vengeance and, whilst none would dare to call the integrity of Lairgnen into question, it would have been almost unthinkable for him to attend a convocation in the current circumstances. Aingeal had made her own position very clear, long before, and her position seemed to sit in opposition to that of the Avenger in nearly every conceivable way.

  The sanctum of the Spider Temple remained shrouded in shadow, and the darkness was accentuated rather than diminished by the fiercely glowing runes and icons on the walls, as well as by the ghostly apparition-projections of the seven exarchs that had appeared for the convocation.

  What would you have us do, Aingeal of the warp? The image of Waendre stood out of his holographic, winged and taloned throne.

  The Swooping Hawks have witnessed the gradual decline in the martial spirit of the Knavir from close at hand. We have fewer

  and fewer tyro from the knightly families. Only the Anyon retain their devotional corvee. Our numbers grow small and our energy

  weakens. There is only one who might one day replace me on the Raptor's Throne, but even he is as yet ignorant of this possible

  future.

  The Knavir have never been warriors, Hawk Waendre, replied the image of Morenn-kar of the Howling Banshees. She did not

  rise from the ancient and beautiful Storm Throne, but spoke instead with the authority of casual disdain. They have always viewed the dhanir of Khaine as vulgar and without sophistication. They are as ignorant as they are weak. You waste your time with them.

  We defend the tears of Isha, not them.

  The Howling Morenn is right, offered Fuarghan, standing sharply from the Flaming Throne of the Fire Dragons. His image burned

  brighter than all the others, as though the flames of his Aspect gave his dhamashir-image an unusual and special intensity. He stood with the dignity and pride that had once been associated with the Eldar Knights of old. The Knavir have emasculated Kaelor and left it weak in the face of the evils that we must face.

  It is worse than that, hissed the vague and almost invisible presence of Kuarwar, the sinister and shadowy Exarch of the Dark

  Reapers. His image shifted slightly, as though to indicate that he was standing, but the apparition was too subtle to be seen clearly, and it looked merely like a rippling of oil. The unchecked indulgences of the court have generated those very evils. The future is darkened by the brightness of their present decadence. He paused, knowing that the others could not fail to understand his

  meaning. I am not the only one here who has seen the maelstrom outside. It is not there by coincidence. You believe that the vision of the Radiant Gwrih was flawe
d? asked the glittering, silver shape of Andraste, the slender and elegant

  Exarch of the Shining Spears. You think that Kaelor would have been better off had it degenerated into another age of relentless war?

  War is my master, death my mistress, intoned Kuarwar.

  I believe that what has happened has brought us to the present, and that this is a time neither of peace nor of prosperity for any

  but the Knavir themselves. Moina of the Striking Scorpions spoke with gentle force, as though accustomed to taking others by

  surprise. Kaelor was never meant to become a floating pleasure palace. It was from such monstrosities that the craftworlds were first built to flee. Kaelor moves into the dimness of the distant past, not into the future. Gwrih's vision was incomplete. It was his

  understanding that was flawed.

  And what of the great houses? What of Iden Teirtu? Has he not driven Kaelor even closer to the brink? Aingeal spoke from her

  own throne, sitting beside the vacant thrones of the Lhykosidae and the Araconid Warlock. We should have stood against him before to protect the Ansgar. Had Bedwyr survived, balance would have remained on this craftworld. Iden is too weak. He was