The shadow point. The fhaisorr’ko.
It was here at last, all around them. They were caught in the midst of it, and his farsight was useless now, leaving him just another weak old man, depending on the strength of others, sacrificing the lives of the young to prolong his own already over-extended existence.
“Honoured kinsman. Lord farseer, you should not be here. It is too dangerous to be here alone.”
He turned, seeing Freyra, the Striking Scorpion warrior who was kin to him. Her tone was politely respectful, but also scolding. Her stance, and that of the two aspect warriors who stood with her, was firm and unyielding; he was under her protection, a duty which she took with deadly earnestness.
He allowed himself to be taken back to the others. His discussions with the human called Horst had not been concluded, and further conversation with him would be a pleasing and enlightening experience, and would help pass the time before the druchii inevitably tracked them down to this lonely and desolate place.
Suddenly, he paused, turning as he sensed something else out there. Freyra sensed his disquiet, as did the other two warriors. Kariadryl sensed the hot psychic rush as their combat senses bristled in agitation, and hands tensed on weapons.
“You sense something, honoured kinsman?”
Kariadryl remained motionless, staring out into the depths of the storm, staring out with his farsight into whatever hint of the future had briefly been revealed to him by the mocking blank face of the shadow point.
He saw nothing. Not even the phantoms of false ghost-futures.
“It is nothing, kinsman,” he answered, finally. “Just the dying breath of the storm,”
He allowed them to lead him off again, mentally mulling over the lie he had just told them.
He did not yet know what it was, but something was out there. Something was coming.
The burning god strode through the dying storm, and the storm retreated and parted before it in fear.
It had exited the webway through a long-disused portal amongst ruins far to the south. Nothing lived on this barren world, but the wind whispered its forbidden name in awe and the sand and rocks beneath its feet trembled at its passing. Its pace was steady and measured, its progress constant and immutable.
It continued on, knowing that the end was close, but not knowing whether it would be destined to arrive in time to intervene in the fates which converged at that end point.
SIXTEEN
“Alien attack craft are inbound on a direct assault approach. Still no response to our hails from the alien carrier vessel.”
All eyes on the command deck of the Macharius were fixed upon Semper. He felt the nervous, expectant gaze of his crew upon him, and could almost sense the anxious babble of thoughts going on beneath the tense, silent atmosphere which filled his vessel’s bridge.
What’s the old man playing at, they were no doubt thinking. We’re under attack, several of our sister ships have been attacked and destroyed, and he wants to parley with these xenos scum? We should be opening up at them with torpedoes and broadsides, not hailing frequencies.
Semper understood his crew’s frustration and anger. Nevertheless, something compelled him to try this most unorthodox of strategies.
“Enemy attack craft squadrons still approaching, commodore,” warned Remus Nyder, never lifting his gaze from the vital information relayed to him from lectern point’s surveyor screen. “They’re fast, these xenos crates, damned fast.”
The unspoken warning in his report was obvious: whatever it is you’re hoping for, you’d better hope it happens soon.
Semper paused, his mouth suddenly dry. Again, some ineffable sense told him there was much more at stake here than just the safety of his ship and the lives of his crew. Somehow, he knew that what happened here would have important ramifications far beyond this moment and far beyond the borders of the Stabia system. Something told him that the fate of the entire Gothic sector could be at stake, depending on what he did next and how his alien opponent reacted.
“Hailing frequencies?” he asked, struggling to keep any hint of inner turmoil out of his tone.
“Open, sir, but still no response to our signals,” answered a communications officer.
“Then open them all, damn it. Use every frequency we’ve got. They may not want to talk to us, but, by hell, I’ll make sure they can’t pretend not to hear us.”
Semper waited until a communications ensign gave him the signal that all comms channels were now open. Drawing himself up to his full height and automatically and unconsciously assuming his most imposing and authoritative voice, he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“Attention, commander of the alien vessel. This is Commodore Leoten Semper, captain of His Divine Majesty’s Ship the Lord Solar Macharius. You have attacked my vessel and we have been forced to defend ourselves. I know that there has been conflict between our two forces already, and I know we have both suffered the loss of sister vessels and the deaths of valued comrades…”
“…it was never our intention for any of this to happen. We came here as you did, in good faith. We came to talk, not to do battle. There is suspicion and hostility between our two races, perhaps with good cause, but I am a warrior, just as you are. As warriors, we must follow orders, and my orders were to watch and guard, not to attack. It was never my intention to engage in battle with you and your forces, and it is not my wish to do so now. Your vessel’s strike craft are even now approaching my ship on a direct attack course. My own ship’s squadrons stand ready to meet them, just as my vessel’s gunners stand ready to open fire on you, to defend my ship against any further attacks. If you continue in this current course of action, we will defend ourselves with all the force at our command, and then there will be no turning back for any of us, for either of our two races. As one captain to another, as one warrior to a fellow warrior, I beg you to reconsider your actions. There… there are things here hidden from us both, I think. Do not ask me to explain, for I cannot, but I believe there is some other force at work here, a force which neither of us is responsible for.”
The mon-keigh’s words, barbaric, alien and incomprehensible to most of those listening, echoed through the bridge of the Vual’en Sho. Lileathon, listening along with the rest of her crew, had to wait several more seconds for one of her vessel’s Mind Talker crew to finish translating the alien commander’s words.
As soon as the mind-speech translation was finished, Lileathon and Ailill exchanged looks. In contrast to the captain of the Vual’en Sho, there was hope and surprise in the face of the vessel’s second-in-command.
“You heard what the alien commander said, craftmistress. He has doubts, just as we have. We must call off this attack before it is too late.”
“More mon-keigh lies! More mon-keigh tricks and deceit! They are filled with lies, filled with deception. That is all they are capable of, that is all their animal souls can conceive!”
Lileathon’s voice was a shriek, the unshielded emotion that filled her emphasized by the blast of unmasked contempt which she mind-speech sent out to accompany her spoken words.
Ailill staggered as if physically struck, so powerful were the raw emotions of hatred and contempt psychically broadcast by his commander. There was a hushed, shocked silence all across the bridge. Several crew members made brief, frightened gestures while casting nervous glances at their ship’s commander.
Ailill recognized it. The fourth aspect of the second invocation of protection, seeking protection from any eldar whose animus was possessed by powerful emotions. It was a powerful signal, rarely seen in eldar society, and used only in extreme circumstances as a show of severe disapproval at any eldar whose emotional behaviour had gone beyond acceptable bounds. It harked back to the dark time of the Fall, and carried with it the eldar’s fear of events of that time, and of the cause of those events.
Raw, unchecked emotion was what the eldar feared most of all. Unbridled, their race’s darkest and most sensual emotions had onc
e almost destroyed them. Now, every eldar kept this side of themselves in careful check, and maintained a secret but equally close watch over the passions of their comrades.
Lileathon recognised the gesture too, and knew all too well what it meant. She stepped back, struggling to rein in the fierce emotions raging inside her. All eyes were on her, all eldar minds thinking the same carefully masked thoughts, and Ailill could only imagine how aware she must have been of the secret words those minds were now whispering to themselves.
Outcast. Renegade. Eshairr.
“Ailill, my old friend, my craft-comrade… I apologise…” Her voice was harsh and broken, her gesture of contrition clumsy and confused. Tears welled in her eyes, bringing more signs of fear and disapproval from her crew.
Compassion welled up within Ailill. “You feel the loss of Kornous deeply, honoured craftmistress, as we all feel the loss of any of our brethren. There will be a time for mourning, and then we shall remember our brother Kornous in a way which is fitting and honourable, but this is not that time, Lileathon, and this hatred you are filled with, this vendetta you pursue against the humans, these are not fitting ways to mourn those we have loved.”
He was looking directly at her now, his body language emphasising the nature of the relationship between them. “You are the craftmaster, but I am the Lann Caihe. It is my duty, when required, to bring water to quench your fire.”
All was still on the bridge of the Vual’en Sho. Although it had been unspoken, Ailill had made clear his intention to have Lileathon replaced as craftmaster, as was his right as the ship’s Lann Caihe, if he believed that his superior was no longer fit for command. Never before that anyone could remember in the history of craftworld An-Iolsus, had a vessel’s second-in-command ever had to invoke this ancient law. If it were to happen now, Lileathon’s shame and disgrace would be great indeed, and she would have no other choice than to leave the safety of An-Iolsus and become a true eshairr: a renegade without ties or allegiance to any craft-world, a homeless exile.
Lileathon realised the enormity of what she had done, of how close she had just come to crossing that forbidden line which her race drew around themselves long ago. She looked at her second-in-command.
“Ailill, wise Ailill, tell me what to do, and I will make it.”
The flight decks aboard the Macharius were a hive of activity, as yet more Fury fighters and Starhawk bomber craft were brought up from the hangar decks and prepped for take-off. The Macharius and its attack craft squadrons were going to war.
Strapped into the seat of his Fury, Kaether cursed loud at his ground crew, angrily urging them on to hurry up and get his fighter prepared for launch, even though he himself knew it would take several more minutes to familiarise himself with the status of the craft. Behind him, Manetho intoned tech-prayers under his breath as he communed with the fighter’s machine-mind, running diagnostic checks on its systems. Their own fighter was a write-off, crippled beyond salvage after the earlier battle, and Manetho himself had conducted the rite of expiration over the remains of their former craft.
This new one was a training craft. No two craft were identical, and even though Kaether knew the dangers of entering combat in an unfamiliar craft, he was still impatient to be underway. The rest of his squadron was already launched and facing the incoming wave of alien attack craft, and Kaether was keen to rejoin them before the battle began.
“How long to launch?” he asked impatiently.
“Eight minutes,” answered Manetho, in between snatches of the fourth passage of the rite of blessed synchronisation, “it being exactly one minute and fifteen seconds since you last asked the same question.”
Kaether’s reply, good-natured but typically foul-mouthed, was cut off by the booming voice broadcast over the flight deck vox-callers.
“Flight deck commander to all flight crews and ground crews. Stand down, that is an order. All launch missions have been put on hold. Complete pre-flight preparations and then stand to and await further instructions.”
Kaether could not believe what he had just heard, and this time his comment to Manetho was less good-natured but equally foul-mouthed.
“Vandire’s arse! The enemy attack wave is almost on top of us! Just what do those stupid scavving bastards up on the command deck think they’re playing at?”
“Confirmed, sir. the alien attack craft formations are turning back. It looks like they’re intending to maintain a wide holding pattern in orbit around the alien carrier cruiser.”
Semper looked to Remus Nyder for confirmation of his own reading of the situation. The grizzled Ordnance Officer nodded in agreement. “A climb down, but not a complete back-off. So where do we go from here?”
Semper looked at the enigmatic image of the eldar ship on the bridge’s main auspex screen.
“A good question, Mister Nyder,” he breathed to himself. “A very good question indeed.”
The answer was not long in coming.
The ship was cruising on three-quarters speed, carefully managing its tell-tale power emissions, gliding in amongst the invisible and unpredictable radio wave currents thrown out by the pulsar star. It blanketed itself in their static interference, using them to further mask its presence from its prey.
Finally, though, it had to emerge from its concealment. When it did, it would be quickly detected by its prey’s surveyor senses. It didn’t matter, judged the ship’s commander. He and his vessel still had a second means of concealment at hand. By the time the prey detected the subterfuge, it would be too late.
“Contact!” shouted a surveyor ensign aboard the Macharius. “A capital-class vessel, coming in at speed off our portside.”
“Identify!” barked Semper, aware that it would take only the slightest thing to destroy the fragile ceasefire they had seemingly only just managed to achieve with the eldar.
Or perhaps you are the one who has been betrayed, said a worrying voice inside him. Perhaps it is another eldar vessel, and this “ceasefire” was only a ploy to allow them time to gather their forces against you.
“Its shields are raised and it’s powering weapons… wait, I’m picking up a registry code. It’s an Imperium ship… it’s the Drachenfels, sir!”
“Open hailing frequencies. Get me through to Ramas immediately.”
Communications officers and adepts hurriedly carried out their captain’s orders, but to little avail. A senior communications officer nervously informed Semper of their failure.
“No response, sir. Drachenfels appears to be running deaf. Either her comm-net is down, or she’s refusing to talk.”
Scraper’s angry oath sent the officer scurrying back to his station. Raising his head, Semper stared at the surveyor screen, seeing the target icon of the Drachenfels bearing down on his position and that of the eldar ship. Erwin Ramas was a fine captain, he knew; one of the best he had ever had the privilege of serving alongside, but he was also a hard and uncompromising man. And he was an eldar-hater of long and bitter standing.
“Ramas, you cantankerous old bastard, what are you playing at?” Semper murmured to himself, fearing the worst.
“A second human vessel,” intoned one of the Vual’en Sho’s bridge crew. “It is the same one which we believe destroyed the Lament of Elshor. It is coming in on an attack approach, with weapons armed. The first human vessel is hailing it.”
“What response to their hails?” asked Ailill, anxiously.
“None so far, that we can detect.”
Lileathon and Ailill looked at each other, communing quickly in silent mind-speech. Both soon came to the same mutual decision.
“Signal the attack craft squadrons. Tell them to prepare for battle again.”
Eldar crewmen glanced towards Ailill, who countenanced Lileathon’s order with an impatient gesture of command to them. With two powerful human warships apparently ranged against them, now was no longer the time to counsel caution.
Aboard the Drachenfels, cocooned in his armoured strategium shell,
Erwin Ramas pored over the information fed through to him by his ship’s surveyor senses. They were closing in rapidly on the target. All he needed was a few more precious moments to catch his prey unawares.
Aboard the Macharius, Semper could feel the situation slipping out of control again as more and more information came through to him.
“Drachenfels still inbound on our position. Still no answer to our hails.”
“Alien cruiser is manoeuvring away. Could be swinging round to begin its own attack.”
“Alien attack craft are changing course, speed and formation. They’re reforming for an attack.”
“Commodore, we must do something.”
This last came from Nyder, who was staring hard at his captain. Swiftly, Semper came to a decision.
“Bring us around. Put us between the Drachenfels and the eldar ship. If Ramas wants to fire upon the alien ship, he’ll have to go through us first.”
The order brought blank looks of surprise and consternation from the bridge crew. If they were caught by surprise by their captain’s first order, then what came next was to truly shock them.
“Arm two torpedoes and get ready to fire on my orders. Our target is the Drachenfels. Perhaps a shot across Ramas’s bows will encourage him to start talking.”
Reluctantly but efficiently, the bridge crew prepared to carry out their captain’s orders. Powerful manoeuvring thrusters swung the Macharius round in space, bringing it onto a direct target bearing with the oncoming Drachenfels. Semper was awaiting final confirmation that torpedoes were loaded, aimed and ready to fire, when the urgent call came in from the command deck’s surveyors section.
[Battlefleet Gothic 02] - Shadow Point Page 25