Path of the Outcast

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘A little lower, towards the pommel, so that the weight balances easily,’ Maensith continued. She stepped next to him, drawing her own sword, showing him the proper form. ‘This is a slashing blade, used for cutting more than stabbing. Though if you find yourself in a tight fix, ramming the pointy part into your enemies might suffice.’

  Her laughter was edged with just a hint of unkindness, which gave Aradryan pause. He turned to look at her.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.

  ‘Circumstance has thrown us together, my friend,’ Maensith replied, swishing her blade back and forth a few times, stepping lightly from one foot to the other. ‘It may come to pass that you and I must fight side-by-side. I would rather you did more damage to our enemies than to me.’

  ‘Surely it would be better to leave me to fend for myself in that event,’ said Aradryan, laughing at his own suggestion. Maensith did not laugh with him, but instead fixed him with a curious stare.

  ‘Would you abandon me so swiftly?’ she asked, her voice a soft purr. ‘And I thought we had an understanding.’

  ‘Oh no, you shall not trick me so easily,’ Aradryan said, wagging a finger in mock disapproval. ‘I know what you Commorraghans are like, and how fickle your loyalties can be.’

  He regretted the words almost immediately, seeing the genuine hurt on Maensith’s face. She sheathed her sword and turned away, shoulders tense.

  ‘If that is all you see in me, a dirty Commorraghan, then perhaps I should just leave you to die,’ she snapped, stalking towards the wide bay door. ‘One less clueless Alaitocii to get in my way.’

  ‘No regrets, you said!’ Aradryan called after her, his voice echoing quietly around the empty hold. ‘Am I allowed to apologise?’

  Maensith stopped but did not turn around or look back.

  ‘You can admit to making a mistake, if you want,’ she said, relaxing.

  ‘I do not just see a filthy Commorraghan,’ Aradryan said. ‘Please, I need you to teach me how to at least defend myself. You never know, if I stay alive a little longer it might give you more time to get away.’

  Turning with a half-smile on her lips, Maensith eyed him for some time, gauging him from head to toe. She evidently liked what she saw and rejoined him, sword in hand.

  ‘There are four basic parries.’ And so the lessons began.

  For another sixty-eight cycles the Fae Taeruth forged across the galaxy, sometimes hopping across realspace from webway portal to webway portal, heading towards the Eye of Terror. In that time, Aradryan learnt swordplay with Maensith, spending whole cycles in the lower decks practising parry and cut, dodge and riposte. Maensith proved herself a capable teacher, though prone to toying with him during their sparring sessions. She had perfected her bladecraft over a long lifetime and he was but the barest novice; often he ended a session panting with exertion while she appeared unruffled.

  Disapproving of his growing attachment to the ex-Commorraghan, Athelennil found quarters for herself, so that Aradryan slept alone. He and his fellow outcasts spent some time together, playing games of chance with the mercenary officers, and on two occasions they hosted a performance of storytelling, swapping exploits and anecdotes with some of those they had befriended amongst the Fae Taeruth’s company; none of them Commorraghans. Aradryan could see that they distrusted any kin of the Dark City on reputation alone, but knew better than to argue against this bias; the dark eldar were on the whole depraved and loathsome cousins to the Exodites and eldar of the craftworlds. It was perhaps his own yearning for a change in his life that guided Aradryan towards Maensith, who had been forced from her home and had adapted to life outside of Commorraghan society.

  He saw Lechthennian little and the Harlequins even less. Occasionally he would hear the trill of a lip-flute or thrum of a mourning harp from the bowels of the ship, and once or twice he spied his fellow outcast outside his cabin, humming or whistling to himself, sitting in the corridor. He seemed utterly unconcerned by their current quest, though as time passed and they came closer and closer to the Maw of Eternity, the others in the company showed signs of increasing nervousness.

  When Aradryan was not with Maensith, most of his time was spent with the kami of Estrathain. The half-living creation seemed to have inherited a disproportionate amount of his creator’s curiosity, and asked endless questions on Alaitoc and Lacontiran that Aradryan was happy to answer. The kami’s experience was all second-hand, but he regaled Aradryan and others with stories of those who had passed through Khai-dazaar during his life, and despite assurances of confidentiality to the contrary, shared a small amount of gossip and salacious tales of the more humorous and colourful disputes into which he had been brought for mediation.

  On the sixty-eighth cycle, as the lights were dimmed for sleep, Aradryan was called from his chambers by Taelisieth, one of Maensith’s lieutenants. Along with Maensith and her senior officers, the outcasts, Lechthennian included, were greeted in the navigational hall by Findelsith and his Shadowseer, Rhoinithiel. The whole chamber seemed to float in space, the walls, floor and ceiling covered with a psychogrammic projection of their location and the surrounding star systems. Opposite the door pulsed a seething wound of purple and crimson: the Eye of Terror.

  ‘We come to the hem, the blurring of worlds,’ said Findelsith, as the other eldar gathered in a circle around the two Harlequins. As he spoke, the view changed, coiling tubes of the webway overlapping the stars. Aradryan realised that the illusion was created by Rhoinithiel, the Shadowseer blending her abilities with the projections of the Fae Taeruth’s navigational network. ‘Into the Womb of Destruction we pass, if on this course our hearts and minds are set. The webway corrodes, falling to nothing, and the raw bleeding of the warp remains. This is the Great Enemy before us, not just of legend but in form made real. Our goal lies within that maelstrom of woe, into the heart of the Prince of Pleasure. Speak now and be mindful of your desires, for even here She Who Thirsts can know you.’

  It was odd the way Findelsith spoke this last sentence, indicating that he considered himself and his troupe apart from the other eldar in this regard. Aradryan wondered what made the Great Harlequin so sure that his own mind was free of the Doom of the eldar. He put such thoughts aside and considered the matter at hand. He had tried not to dwell on the prospect of entering the Eye of Terror, and in a way it had become secondary to the journey he had been making. It had not occurred to him that they might come this far and yet be baulked by the last effort, and so he had resigned himself to the quest with some misgiving. Having already spoken his mind at the outset and been overruled, he felt no desire to regurgitate old arguments. Instead, if one of the others was having doubts, let them be the first to raise it and he would support them.

  The discussion was swift, though, and there were none amongst the outcasts nor the mercenaries who was of a mind to retreat from the task before them. In the fashion of outcasts, Aradryan was asked directly by Jair if he wanted to continue. If he desired, he offered Aradryan Irdiris to make the journey back to Khai-dazaar, or to wherever his wishes would take him.

  It was a tempting offer, to have a ship and the freedom to go across the stars guided by only whim, and Aradryan was on the verge of accepting. He stopped himself, realising that a few swordcraft lessons and one battle with a longrifle was a woeful lack of preparation for life alone as an outcast. He might well make it back to Khai-dazaar, but if he was to leave now he would not only be abandoning his companions, he would be passing by an opportunity that might never come again.

  Steeling himself to the decision, he declined the command of Irdiris and confirmed himself to the quest for the Tears of Isha. There was some amusement, misplaced to Aradryan’s mind, in Findelsith’s acknowledgement of this.

  ‘So all are settled on the matter now, who will be undertaking this journey, to fetch the prize of Isha’s Tears and in doing earn themselves high reward. Be silent and listen to my warning, for it shall be delivered only once. When we cross the veil
we must take good care, so that not one of us is all alone. My troupe will watch over you for the time and so ensure that none are tainted. Many are the wiles of your greatest doom, heed not to any whispers of desire, for if not they shall be your undoing, and perhaps in your fall you doom us all.’

  As Findelsith had promised, so it was. The Harlequins divided amongst the crew of the Fae Taeruth as the ship emerged from the webway and delved into the swirling vortex that was the incarnation of She Who Thirsts. In those first few moments, Aradryan felt something like panic gripping him, though it went deeper than just the fear of their environs. He became quickly convinced that he was not strong enough to resist the temptations and snares that the Great Enemy would surely set for him, and the warning of Findelsith rang loudly in his mind’s ear, reverberating around his head.

  Along with the others of Irdiris, he sat on a couch in one of the gathering areas above the starboard weapons batteries. With them was Taenemeth, one of the Harlequin masque’s three Death Jesters, complete with bone-laden costume and skull-mask. The vision of death had said nothing since he had arrived, and his presence was more unsettling than it was reassuring. Thinking of death being amongst his companions sent Aradryan’s train of thought careening into more self-doubt.

  He was weak, selfish and cowardly, and had no place in such company. He would be the undoing of them all; the perpetrator of some chance act or remark that would open the way for She Who Thirsts to devour the entire complement of the Fae Taeruth.

  All of these thoughts clustered into his brain at once, clamouring for his attention. He imagined the lurid whispers of the Great Enemy’s daemonic servants, and wondered if he would be able to recognise them as such. Again and again his fingers fluttered to the waystone at his chest, seeking comfort in its presence, though its surface had turned icy cold to the touch. And then another fear took him: what if his dread was simply the whisperings of some daemonic voice, and not his own?

  Circular fears whirled about, reinforcing his desire to be away from this place. He stood up, desperate to be on his own, where he could do no harm.

  ‘I could kill you now if it would help out,’ said a voice close to Aradryan’s ear, mocking him. ‘Such a cure might be considered drastic. But if that is what you truly desire, I will make your demise look fantastic.’

  Spinning about, Aradryan came face to face with the death’s head visage of Taenemeth. The Death Jester titled his head sideways, waiting for a response.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ muttered Aradryan, stepping to one side to move past the Harlequin. Taenemeth moved to bar his path, shaking his head and wagging his finger.

  ‘A shame it would be to leave you a ghost,’ said the Death Jester, ‘that is the tree of the seed you have sown. But you do not have to fear such a fate, if not by my hand then surely your own.’

  What the Death Jester said was verging on nonsense, but Aradryan could not ignore the kernel of truth at its heart; it was in the company of the others that he was safest. There was no point running away from this, he had to endure whatever torments assailed his thoughts, for to be alone with such dark passions running through him would be to invite murder or suicide.

  Taenemeth took a step aside, allowing Aradryan to sit down next to Lechthennian. Noticing his agitation, the musician winked and pulled a thumb whistle from his pocket. He passed it to Aradryan, who held it in his hands like it was a serpent.

  ‘Just put the narrow end in your mouth and blow,’ suggested Lechthennian. ‘It will take your mind from other matters. If you want to get adventurous, there are three holes in the back you can cover with your thumb to make different notes.’

  Aradryan laughed at the absurdity of it; Lechthennian’s jibe on top of Taenemeth’s morbid joking. He brought up the thumb whistle and blew a hesitant note. It warbled quickly and died away. The others were looking at him, but he could not feel ashamed, not now. He realised how ridiculous the whole situation was, and how close he had come to falling prey to his own fears. He tootled a few more notes and laughed again, looking up at the skull face of the Death Jester. He thought he understood, just a little bit, how the Harlequin felt, and what it must be like to be touched by the Laughing God. There was nothing he could do at the moment to preserve his fate, so if he died right now it might just as well be with a whistle on his lips as a frown on his brow.

  Into the storm that was the incarnation of She Who Thirsts plunged the Fae Taeruth. Aradryan did not suffer a repeat of the episode that had beset him on their first entry, but he was acutely aware of everything that passed. It was as if his life had been brought into a sharper focus, so that every word uttered by his comrades, every thought that entered his mind, was loaded with meaning, both obvious and hidden. His senses felt acute, so that the touch of his sheets at night was a lover’s caress and the gentlest throbbing of the starship’s engines felt like rumbling thunder. He was aware of the stares of the crew as they passed, and every eldar aboard seemed to be touched by a vague paranoia. The ranger felt his temper fraying, as were his nerves, but always when he thought he was about to burst with the tension there was a Harlequin nearby, distracting him with a quip, brief poetic recital or an improvised dance that burst the bubble of his agitation.

  During the night cycle, his dreams were vivid and took him to scenes both remembered and imagined, and often both, so that he awoke with a start, unsure whether what he had felt was a real experience or just unconscious fantasy. He had expected nightmares, to be assailed by the visions of the Great Enemy, but the opposite was true. Aradryan’s dreams were awash with romance and love, filled with happiness and belonging.

  Sometimes he dreamed he was a bird, and would climb to the highest pinnacle of a tower that speared into a violet sky. There was no fear in him as he leapt from the parapet, and his wishes bore him aloft like wings, to soar amongst the purple clouds. Other times he was a fish, swimming with the shoal, one of many glittering bodies, enjoying the surge of current around him, drawn to the dappling light upon the surface of the raging river.

  There were much more intimate dreams too, of Thirianna and Maensith and Athelennil and past amours, as well as associates of his own creation. Sometimes these were gentle encounters, other times wild and carefree.

  Always after the dreams he was left with a slight melancholy, a sense of longing that was not wholly unpleasant. He spent much time in his cabin, seeking the dreams he had experienced, but despite his training he was unable to recapture them, their re-incarnations never quite as satisfying as the originals. A sense of unreality crept into his waking life, coupled with the heightened sense of his surroundings, so that as he ate and talked and practised with pistol and sword he would feel dislocated from himself at times, only to be brought back to the dullness of realty with a jolt, bringing a short but profound sadness.

  He saw nothing of Maensith in that time, and he assumed she was kept busy with the piloting and navigation of the ship. Thrice he had made inquiries after her, driven to distraction by the lingering moments of a remembered dream, seeking release from the gentle torment of dreamt promises, but she was incommunicado and he would return to his chambers with his ardour unchecked.

  Once, and once only, he took himself to the viewing gallery on the highest deck, to look upon the Womb of Destruction for himself. The long, domed chamber was empty except for Findelsith, who sat on a stool by the arched windows staring into the abyss. He did not have his mask on, revealing a face that was younger than Aradryan had expected. The eyes were different too, with none of the playfulness that glittered behind the ornate mask. Findelsith’s gaze was tired, and filled with woe. The red teardrop tattooed upon his cheek, the tiniest of rubies sparkling at its heart, summed up the Great Harlequin’s demeanour.

  Findelsith ignored Aradryan, so the ranger crossed to the other side of the narrow gallery and looked out. What he saw drew forth a choked gasp.

  He had been expecting a field of stars, perhaps, but what he saw was a blend of both the real universe and the
energy of the warp. Everything was shimmering, and stars burned with every colour, some of them seemingly so close that their coronal ejections of green and orange and blue must surely incinerate the vessel. As though he peered through the magnifying sight of his longrifle, wherever he looked came into stark focus, seemingly just out of reach.

  He could see worlds circling around the flaming orbs, shadows passing across the light. Some appeared normal, simple globes or gaseous giants, some ringed, others with circling moon systems. Many were utterly strange: triangular pyramids or straight-sided cubes, or dual and triple worlds that spun crazily about each other while leering faces made storm clouds in their skies. Dozens of lancing flames erupted from one world to his right, streaming into the haze of the space between stars.

  All seemed impossibly compressed, like a child’s interpretation of the galaxy rendered in holographic form, so that it could be rotated and manipulated, allowing Aradryan to look behind stars and into the whirling nebulae that painted images of lurid congress or swept past as flocks of celestial birds that darted through the heavens.

  Feeling dizzy and sick, Aradryan stepped back and looked away, fixing his gaze upon the toes of his boots to give himself a point of reference for reality and stability. It did not work, and he staggered to one side, losing his footing as the deck seemed to buckle and ripple beneath him.

  ‘To stare into the void is no delight, and but a few have eyes for such a sight.’ Aradryan looked up from all fours, seeing that Findelsith had replaced his mask and was coming towards him, a hand outstretched to help Aradryan to his feet. ‘It is too much for mortals to behold, to see nature’s end where the warp unfolds. Such are the dark whims of a mad god’s dreams, where once our towers rose and cities gleamed.’

  Swallowing hard, Aradryan stood up with Findelsith’s aid, keeping his eyes away from the windows, focused on the mask of the Great Harlequin. He nodded his thanks and stumbled towards the door, unable to speak of what he had seen.