[Path of the Eldar 01] - Path of the Warrior

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

“Why would you sneak up on me like that?” she demanded. Now that she had been given a moment to study Korlandril, she took a fearful step back. Her voice was subdued. “What do you want from me?”

  Korlandril could not fathom the cause of her disquiet. He had surprised her, but that did not warrant such a guarded reaction.

  “I have a question. Have you experienced any problems with the infinity circuit of late?”

  “I have not,” she said stiffly. Her tone was clipped, her language formal and cold. Though they were strangers, there was no reason for such bad manners.

  “It was a simple enough request,” said Korlandril. “I do not understand your hostility.”

  “Nor I yours,” she said, turning away. “Leave me alone.”

  Korlandril stood dumbfounded as she strode quickly back towards the lakes. He took a moment to review what had happened.

  Korlandril was behind the concealing bulk of a tree before he realised it, clinging to the shadow like a spider on its web. From his hiding spot, Korlandril eyed the arrival. She was a little shorter than him, with black and gold hair swept high from her pale forehead. Her soft white tunic had a long tail that danced in the subtle dome breeze, twisting on itself and curving invitingly in her wake. She was laughing, a crystal reader in hand, eyes focussed on its pale display.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” said Korlandril, stepping forwards into Claw with Rising Sun, right arm crooked ready to defend, left arm raised for a strike.

  The maiden shrieked and the reader fell from her grasp. She caught it before it hit the wood bark of the path, swiftly straightening as Korlandril approached, moving forwards in a crabwise fashion, right arm extended in Lunging Serpent.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, shifting to the posture of repose.

  Korlandril looked at her retreating back, wondering how it was he had slipped into the ritual postures without effort, and why he had not been aware of it. The two versions of the same event vied in his mind—the one the experience as it had happened, the second his more conscious reflection upon it.

  The stranger’s fearful and angry reaction proved that his recollection of events was true; it had been his experience of them that was amiss. He had stalked her like prey. Troubled, Korlandril turned away from the lakes and headed back into the woods as the light dimmed and the Midnight Forest earned its name.

  Korlandril could not think. There were too many distractions: rustling leaves, skittering insects, hooting birds, yelping creatures.

  He tried to centre his thoughts but every movement triggered his instincts and he was instantly aware, eyes fixed on a snuffling thorn-eater or ears pitched to detect the next beat of a wing overhead. Even the gentle swaying of the trees and the dappling of Mirianathir’s light demanded his attention, each shifting shadow requiring his scrutiny before he could settle again.

  For most of the night cycle he sat frustrated in the grove, far from the paths used by lovers and philosophers, trying to attain a measure of equilibrium.

  Frustrated, as the dome’s field depolarised to let through more of the dying star’s rays, Korlandril quit his attempts at meditation and headed for the Deadly Shadow.

  Korlandril found the shrine empty, or those parts to which he had access. He suspected Kenainath was present somewhere—where else would the exarch be?—but the chamber of armour and hall of weapons were deserted. In silence, the mantra running through his head, Korlandril equipped himself for training.

  He went through his opening routines with ease, stringing together a series of attacks and defences to loosen his muscles, tightened by his unsettling experience in the forest. As he went through these motions, he began to frame the shadow-foe in his mind, readying himself for more extreme exertions.

  He found that zone of control and instinct he desired, his chainsword flickering in and out at his whim, weaving a deadly dance of blade alongside imaginary shurikens and bursts from his mandiblasters.

  Korlandril stopped, halfway between Rising Claw and Serpent from Shadow.

  His shadow-prey had a face. Several in fact. The faces of the humans he had killed. He saw them morphing into each other, eyes dead, mouths agape.

  With a laugh, Korlandril slashed at the apparition’s throat, taking the head clean off. Its ghost whispered away into cloudy shreds and disappeared. Korlandril continued his training without it. He needed no imaginary foe to fight; he had drawn real blood and taken real lives.

  He practised for most of the cycle and was quite weary by the time he hung up his chainsword and took off his armour. Despite his fatigue, his mind was still aflame, not the least satiated by his exertion. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him, but it was not just for food and drink that he craved. He wanted something to occupy himself. He needed some entertainment.

  He found the others at the Crescent of the Dawning Ages and sat with them, a full platter on the table before him.

  “I am of a mind to hear a recital, or perhaps see a theatrical performance,” he told the others between mouthfuls of food. “Something stirring, with drama, and perhaps a little bit of sensuousness.”

  “There is a rendition of Aeistian’s Tryst in the Dome of Callous Winters,” Elissanadrin told him, helping herself to the carafe of summervine Arhulesh had brought to the table.

  “Too rhetorical,” Korlandril replied.

  “There’s a Weaving of the Filigrees in the Hall of Unending Labours,” suggested Arhulesh. His eyes flickered between Korlandril and Elissanadrin in a suggestive manner. “Perhaps the two of you could attend.”

  Korlandril considered this for a moment, but dismissed the idea. He did not want to be distracted during his first congress with Elissanadrin. The more he thought about it, the less appealing the notion of physical intimacy with his companion became.

  He shook his head.

  “We could race skyrunners along the Emerald Straits, I’ve always wanted to try that,” suggested Elissanadrin.

  Korlandril sighed.

  “It’s not as dangerous or thrilling as it looks, not if you’ve any experience with a skyrunner at all.”

  “I’m not going to waste my time with this,” said Arhulesh, standing up. “It’s clear that you have no appetite for any suggestion I might make. Enjoy the summervine.”

  “Wait!” Korlandril cried out. “I am sure we can think of something. I just want to find something to kill time.”

  All within earshot turned towards Korlandril. Across the Crescent of Dawning Ages a shocked silence descended.

  “What are you all staring at?” rasped Korlandril, rising angrily to his feet. “Have none of you ever suffered from a momentary boredom that cannot be satisfied?”

  There was a tight grip at his elbow and Korlandril felt himself dragged back to the bench.

  “You cannot say something like that!” hissed Elissanadrin. Her expression was a mixture of exasperation and shock.

  “Was it my tone? Did I raise my voice too much?”

  Elissanadrin’s look turned to incredulity and her mouth opened twice without words. Korlandril considered his words innocent enough, but his experience in the Dome of Midnight Forests gave him a moment of doubt. He reviewed the past few moments.

  “We could race skyrunners along the Emerald Straits, I’ve always wanted to try that,” suggested Elissanadrin.

  Korlandril sighed, his lips turning to a scornful sneer.

  “It’s not as dangerous or thrilling as it looks, not if you’ve any experience with a skyrunner at all.”

  “I’m not going to waste my time with this,” said Arhulesh, standing up. “It’s clear that you have no appetite for any suggestion I might make. Enjoy the summervine.”

  “Wait!” Korlandril cried out. “I am sure we can think of something. I just want to find something to kill.”

  Korlandril rose back out of the memory with shock.

  “Kill time!” he barked. “I want to find something to kill time!”

  Elissanadrin appeared unconvinced. Korlandril w
as about to argue his point, that it was an innocent slip of the tongue, but he stopped himself.

  Korlandril’s whirring blade opened the first along the spine from neck to waist, showering the Aspect Warrior with blood and fragments of vertebrae, creating a harmony of wet spatters and bony pattering.

  The moment had been sweet indeed. All he had remembered before had been the faces, but now the artistry with which he had wielded his weapons came back to Korlandril. And the sensation… The hint of it sent a thrill through him, rousing his blood, making every detail of his surroundings stand out in sharp detail. Elissanadrin’s breath on his cheek and the scent of gladesuns in her hair. The heat from her body. Even her blood, pulsing though her arteries and veins, flushing just beneath the skin.

  What a rich, red paint it would make.

  “I do not like the way you are staring at me,” she said, pulling back from Korlandril.

  With a shudder, Korlandril forced himself to focus. He stood up, gave a stiff bow of apology, and fled.

  The Shrine of the Deadly Shadow would not welcome back Korlandril. He had tried the entrances of which he was aware and none of them would open at his approach. Even the infinity circuit refused to acknowledge his presence. Unsure what this presaged or what course of action to take, Korlandril resorted to returning to the main gateway and banging upon the iris-door with his fist.

  “Is this your doing, Kenainath?” he demanded, his voice echoing coldly around the accessway.

  His demand was met with silence and he stood fuming and impotent for some time. As he was about to turn away, the door peeled open to reveal Kenainath in full armour, complete with helm.

  “You are not welcome; I am exarch of this place, your shrine is elsewhere.”

  Kenainath’s voice was flat, emotionless. Korlandril took a step forwards but halted when the exarch raised his claw.

  “This is where I belong! You cannot cast me out.”

  “You have lost your way, you must find another shrine, it is tradition. The Path ends for you; Khaine has taken your spirit, you are an exarch.”

  “Nonsense!” Korlandril’s laugh was harsh. “One does not become an exarch after two battles. This is ridiculous.”

  “Your journey was short, but now it is completed, you must accept it. There are other shrines, empty and without leaders, one will call to you. As it was with me, as it was with all of us, those trapped on the Path. We will meet again, not master and his pupil, but as two equals.”

  “Tha—”

  The door whispered shut, cutting off Korlandril’s retort. He slumped against the wall, head in hands. It made no sense to him. He had barely taken two steps upon the Path of the Warrior. There could be no way he was trapped. Something had gone wrong, but he was no exarch.

  Taking a deep breath, Korlandril straightened, fists clenched. He would not accept this without a fight.

  He took several steps away from the door and then halted. Self-realisation blossomed within him. The more he fought this fate, the tighter its grip had become. What was it he was fighting against? Himself? Thirianna? Aradryan? It was senseless, this craving for confrontation. The listlessness that had filled Korlandril since returning from the battle against the humans nagged at him. Would it last forever? Would he ever be rid of the drifting, formless feeling that consumed him?

  Kenainath was right. Korlandril craved that dance between life and death, more than anything he had craved in his life—adulation, recognition, self-awakening, all were trivial in comparison to the rush of blood from war and the exquisite delight of a foe slain and a victory achieved.

  There was one place left that might provide him with the answers he needed. Moving away from the Deadly Shadow, Korlandril located a bay of skyrunners. Taking one, he turned on the automatic guidance and entered the Chamber of Autarchs as his destination. Thoughts awhirl, he gunned the engines into life and sped away.

  The massive audience hall was empty save for Korlandril. He paced around the broad steps, looking at the long circles of runes around the central platform, each an Aspect shrine. Some were worn thin by generations of feet, others as bright as the day they had been inscribed. As he circled slowly, he recognised the pattern. The oldest shrines were at the centre, many of them Dire Avengers, Striking Scorpions, Howling Banshees, Swooping Hawks and Dark Reapers. There were duplicates, their runes careful variations of their parent shrines, each moving further from the dais. New runes appeared, of Aspects unknown before—Crystal Dragons, Warp Spiders, Shining Spears. Outwards and onwards the history of Alaitoc’s warrior past spiralled.

  On the innermost step, Korlandril stopped. He stood on a Striking Scorpion rune. Examining it closely, he read its name in the simple curls and curving cross-strokes. Hidden Death. It was unfamiliar, though he was sure he did not know the name of every Aspect shrine on Alaitoc.

  In hiding he had come to the Aspect Warriors, and in death he was trapped. It seemed to make a form of sense. Was this what Kenainath had meant?

  Korlandril quickly returned to the skyrunner and entered the Shrine of Hidden Death as his destination. Lifting into the air, the skyrunner turned a half-circle and then darted towards the rimward exit from the chamber. This led into the labyrinth of tunnels Korlandril had seen when coming from the Deadly Shadow. Left, right, and then ascending through a vertical fork, the skyrunner climbed towards the dockside area of Alaitoc, gaining speed. The wind pulled at Korlandril’s hair and face and tugged hard at his flapping robes as the skyrunner banked sharply to the right around a curve, spiralling downwards once more, flashing past other junctions.

  Even with the considerable speed of the skyrunner, Korlandril was able to memorise the route, ingraining every twist and change of direction into his mind. The further he flew, the greater his hopes surged. It was not the thrill of speed that filled him, but the sense of belonging he yearned for. Along the tunnels and concourses the skyrunner took him closer and closer to his destiny. It sang in his ears with the thump of his heartbeat, coursing through every fibre.

  This was the call mentioned by Kenainath.

  It was the Time of Contemplation before the skyrunner began to slow, perhaps halfway around the rim of Alaitoc from the Deadly Shadow, nearly as far away as it was possible to get. Was this coincidence? Korlandril was quick to dismiss the idea. There was no coincidence at play. The infinity circuit, the great mind of Alaitoc, had guided him here, by some means or other. Korlandril did not fool himself that he understood everything that was happening, but was content to be buffeted along on its tide for the moment. He had wandered from the Path and become lost; it mattered not who guided him now. Only a single hope remained—to find the peace of battle he so sorely missed.

  The skyrunner came to a halt outside an inconspicuous archway, sealed with a solid gate of deep emerald colour. Dismounting, Korlandril dismissed the skyrunner and it sped off around a bend in the corridor. Hesitantly, fearful that this place would reject him also, Korlandril approached the gates.

  With a sigh, they swung inwards and a wash of warm air billowed out to engulf Korlandril in an airy embrace. He closed his eyes, savouring the smell of strong spice and the light touch of the breeze on his flesh, the brightness through his eyelids as of a sun close at hand. Opening them, he blinked twice to settle his eyesight and looked upon his new home.

  Low dunes of red sand stretched across the dome, their boundaries obscured by distance. Here there grew scrubby patches of candlewood, their violet blossoms small but pungent. A burning orb hung low to his left, like an impossibly close sun, and even as Korlandril watched it sank further and further from view, until all that remained was a dusky glow, though the rest of Alaitoc was perhaps not much past mid-cycle.

  Korlandril threw off his boots and robe and undid the ties from his hair, letting all fall free. Bare-footed and naked, he crossed the threshold and walked into the sandy swathes, feeling the particles beneath his soles, sliding between his toes.

  Unnoticed, the gates swished shut behind him.r />
  Korlandril wandered this new worldscape for some time, getting a feel for his position and for its atmosphere. It was like no other dome he had seen. The artificial sun disappeared, leaving only a red haze. Far in the distance he could see the glimmer of a forcefield and the glow of Mirianathir. He headed towards it.

  Approaching the centre of the desert, his footprints gently swept away by the breeze, Korlandril felt a tremor. Stopping, he located the source of the disturbance, some way off to his left. As he headed in that direction the tremors became stronger, sending waves of sand cascading down the dune-sides.

  Cresting a particularly high dune, Korlandril came upon a deep crater-like bowl, edged with a thin, high wall. The sands within the wall danced and bounced in agitation. With a rushing of sand, something erupted from the bowl, the red grains pouring from the stepped shelves of its structure. It was a ziggurat, a little smaller than the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow, made of yellow rock. The force of its arrival almost threw Korlandril from his feet as the sands slipped from underneath him.

  A white light glowed from the slit-like windows and doorways of the lowest level. With a joyous shout, Korlandril ran down the slope towards the shrine. He paused at the low doorway—barely high enough to enter without stooping—and took a deep breath. The act did nothing to quell the excitement he felt. This place was like a Dreaming made real. Korlandril touched the rough surface of the doorway to assure himself that it was no phantasm. The light spilling from the shrine felt thick in his hands and heavy on his skin, but the stones were real enough.

  As he stepped into the doorway, almost blinded, the light vanished, plunging all into darkness. Korlandril’s heart quavered for a moment and he stopped, taken aback by the sudden change. As his eyes adjusted, he became aware of a red glow, coming from around a corner ahead. Walking quickly, he followed the patch of dim light, turning left from the main passage into a side chamber. The glow was stronger, coming from an archway opposite, through which seven steep steps led down into the shrine. Coming to a U-shaped landing, Korlandril was confronted by two more archways. The light came from the left, now strong enough for him to see the walls to either side.