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

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Rash.

  It Was Decided. The Vote Was A Majority. You Cannot Revisit That Decision.

  I Was Always Dubious, But You Would Not Listen To Me.

  You Are Dubious About Everything.

  Quiet! thought not-Korlandril.

  The voices fell silent as Morlaniath strained his senses. Someone was approaching the shrine.

  “Hello?” a quavering voice called out.

  Greet Him.

  Let Him Wait.

  Who is it?

  Your First Pupil.

  One To Be Taught.

  So soon?

  Always It Is So. A New Exarch Needs Followers. The Shrine Calls To Them. Stirs Their Blood. Most Are Deaf To My Call. There Will Be More In The Times To Come.

  How do I teach him?

  We Have Taught Many Already. Remember.

  The First Of Many. Hidden Death Will Rise Again.

  * * *

  With trembling hands Morlaniath took off his helmet. Slowly and precisely, he unfastened the clasps of his armour and took it off piece-by-piece, reverentially placing each part back on its stand.

  The other voices subsided, but their presence remained. His head still contained names of those he had never met, faces he had never seen with these eyes, foes slain in bloody combat by hands other than his.

  Clad in the undersuit, Morlaniath turned to his left, knowing that the steps through the archway there led directly to the main chamber of the shrine. He could feel the presence of his first acolyte; nervous, frustrated and angry. Just as he had been.

  He ascended the stairway swiftly and silently, entered the main chamber behind the aspirant. The newcomer was young—younger than he had been when he had approached Kenainath. He could feel his anxiety, pouring out in waves.

  “We are the Hidden Death; you hearken to our call, who is troubled in mind.” Morlaniath barely recognised his own voice and was unsure if he had spoken the words. There was a ritual cadence to them, phrases so oft-spoke in times past that they spoke themselves.

  “I dreamt of a river of blood, and I bathed in it,” said the young eldar, his voice querulous, his eyes fixed on Morlaniath as he stepped slowly across the chamber floor.

  “Dreams of death and bloodshed, Khaine’s hot touch on your mind, a hot thirst for battle. These have brought you to me, Exarch Morlaniath, the keeper of this shrine. I will lead you to truth, take you on that dark path, into your mind’s shadows.”

  “I am afraid, exarch.” The youth’s subservience was both refreshing and yet familiar. As an Aspect Warrior, Morlaniath had quickly grown used to suspicion and dismay from others not on the Warrior Path. Now he was exarch, feared but revered.

  He took the other’s arm in his grip and pulled him to his feet. He fixed the warrior-to-be with a long stare, gauging his mood. He wondered if he had appeared as pitiful to Kenainath. So full of ignorance, so afraid of himself.

  “The Path will be bloody. You walk alongside Khaine, and may not make the end.”

  The eldar nodded dumbly, fingers fidgeting at the loose robe he wore.

  “The urge is strong in you, to shed blood and bring death; you must strive for control. We will bring your war-mask, unleash your death-spirit, so that it cannot hide. You will control its wrath, it will hold you no more, you will gain your freedom.”

  “Why has this happened to me?” Such a familiar question! He remembered it from his own lips and from dozens like him. All faced the same shadows in their spirits, all had to deal with Khaine’s double-edged gift. Why did each one of them believe themselves different? Did they truly think they were free of Khaine’s touch, or that there would be a time when Khaine’s hold on the eldar would be broken for good?

  “You are not so special, to feel these darkest moods, and wish to act on them. You are but a mortal, with a mortal’s nature, for the good and the ill. Learn to embrace this gift, love Khaine’s dark legacy, and you will master it.”

  “I… I am so weak…” the eldar sobbed.

  “You are at your weakest, so we will make you strong, strong enough to prevail.”

  Morlaniath headed towards the archway leading to the shrine’s central corridor, beckoning his aspirant to follow.

  “Weak in body and mind, full of doubt and sorrow, but we will remove them. A farewell to your guilt, no remorse or lament, a warrior in truth.”

  He led the youth out into the heat of the desert, the warmth on his skin like a homecoming. Here he had first learnt the ways of the Striking Scorpion from Nelemin, who had been taught by Karandras the Phoenix Lord. For life-after-life he had come to this place, first to learn, and then to teach, reinventing himself with each episode, an unending link to the founding of the Striking Scorpions.

  “I am Milathradil.”

  Morlaniath regarded the youth without expression.

  “You are Milathradil, of the Hidden Death Shrine, a Striking Scorpion.”

  The night-cycle of the desert dome was dry and frigid. Morlaniath stood at the gate of the shrine and looked out over the sands, feeling at home. The dome’s fields dampened the dying star, leaving only the faintest glimmer of scarlet to light the dunes, ever-shifting in the artificial winds. Constant but changing, like Morlaniath. Every cycle-start, at the Time of Wakening, he looked over his domain. For an age this had been his place. It was still his place, through this new body.

  The shrine alerted him to the presence of Kenainath and Aranarha. He felt them crossing the threshold from the sub-strata tunnels. He turned and made his way to his chambers, walking along feet-worn corridors and down ancient steps without thought.

  The two exarchs waited for him in his private arming room, clad in loose robes, their spirit stones lighting the gloom.

  “A welcome return, from the void of somnolence, with new life inside,” said Kenainath, giving a polite bow.

  Morlaniath smiled.

  “It is good to return, you trained this body well; I am fully restored.”

  “Yet the spirit was weaker, it is trapped with us, doomed to tread this path with us,” said Aranarha.

  “Another always comes, be it soon or later, the nature of Khaine’s gift.”

  Morlaniath felt his newest disciple stirring in the chambers above. Out across Alaitoc, others were responding to his presence, troubled by their thoughts, fearing their own anger. They did not yet know it, but they would come to him soon.

  “Do you feel his anguish, sense his dark destiny, the burning in his blood?”

  The others nodded.

  “He will make a fine pupil, so full of anger, his resentment is his key,” said Aranarha. “He will train ferociously, you must watch him close, temper him with much patience.”

  Morlaniath nodded in agreement. The three exarchs exchanged gestures of parting and then Morlaniath was alone.

  He felt nervous inquiry resonating through the shrine. Milathradil was awake and seeking him. It would not be well for him to wander the shrine without a guide. Invigorated by his fresh life, Morlaniath headed up the stairs to find his new pupil.

  The students were willing and growing in number. Over the last sixty cycles, Milathradil had been joined by Euraithin, Lokhirith and Nurianda and the four of them were attentive to Morlaniath’s instruction as he taught them the rituals of combat. Much of the teaching was in the style of the Hidden Death, but in places the stances and strikes were subtly evolved, incorporating Deadly Shadow techniques from not-Korlandril’s experiences.

  The Hidden Death desert was the opposite of the dank swamps of the Deadly Shadow, but Morlaniath’s previous lives had been spent in this arid dome and he adapted to the environment without hesitation. He learned afresh what he already knew, the instinct of the residual spirits dwelling within him guiding him effortlessly across the dunes, leading him to the training areas and the tests to put before his acolytes. He knew the haunts of the sand-serpents that burrowed beneath the dunes; the piping calls of the windhoppers; the trails of the scurrying worm-hunters and the coiling casts left by th
eir prey.

  Without his armour, he walked across the drifts, comforted by his sense of place and the residual presence of his other selves. They were always there, though speechless, guiding him indirectly, steering him this way or that.

  The former exarchs were stronger when Morlaniath wore his armour. Nagging doubts and unconscious knowledge were given voice by their spirit stones. Their counsel was sometimes at odds with Morlaniath’s own inclinations, and even with each other, though all professed a common goal.

  At night Morlaniath did not sleep, but instead retreated to his private chamber and donned his armour, to rest his body and commune with his other selves. It was one such night-cycle that Morlaniath pulled on his armoured suit, his thoughts on the progress of his nascent squad.

  You Are Too Lenient With Your Pupils. They Are Not Focussed. They Chatter Aimlessly When You Do Not Attend Them.

  Nonsense! It Is To Attain Balance That We Strive, Not To Create More Exarchs. Their Division Of War And Peace Is Proceeding Well.

  An exhausted mind makes mistakes. I show them the rewards of control, the freedom they will earn for themselves when they have separated their warrior spirits, when they have grown their war-masks.

  I Sense Kenainath’s Hand In This. He Has Too Much Influence Over You.

  I Too Learned At The Deadly Shadow. Kenainath’s Teachings Grant Perspective And Offer Challenge.

  I will teach as I see fit.

  Foolish, To Dismiss Our Experience So Quickly.

  I share your experience, it is mine also. The Hidden Death is being reborn, but it will take some time. I will show patience, as Aranarha suggested.

  Another Upstart!

  You Are Jealous Of Him. He Is Popular With His Warriors. Your Aloofness Was Always Your Weakness.

  Some Will Die. It Does Not Benefit Master Or Pupil To Grow Too Attached To Individuals. Warriors Come And Warriors Go. The Hidden Death Is Eternal.

  And it shall remain so under my leadership. I am now the Hidden Death.

  We Shall See.

  For all his patience, Morlaniath was eager for his squad to complete the first stages of their training. Heedful that rushing matters could risk everything, he waited until all four of his students were ready to take the next step. He introduced them to their armour, allowing each to pick their suit. He felt a perverse delight when Milathradil picked the suit once worn by not-Ultheranish when he had been a simple Striking Scorpion. It stirred something in his memories, a nugget of information he had not examined before, when he had chosen his first suit of armour, which now concurred with an older fragment of knowledge.

  His first instinct was to stand beside Elissanadrin, seeking the familiar, but he dismissed the urge. It was change and renewal that he needed, not the comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, Korlandril thought he saw a momentary glitter in the eyes of one suit. He turned towards it. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others, but something about it tugged at Korlandril.

  “This one,” he said, striding towards the armour. He stood beside it and turned to face the exarch.

  “That is a wise choice, a noble suit you have picked, which has served us well,” said Kenainath. “You are now ready, in body if not in mind, to don your armour.”

  “Which has served us well?”

  Kenainath was referring to himself, the exarch, not the shrine as an entity. He had once worn the armour that Korlandril had picked. The thought gave Morlaniath pause, to wonder if perhaps he had been destined to become himself at the moment he had first stepped into the Deadly Shadow.

  He led the others in their armouring, teaching them the Hidden Death mantra, which had been passed to him by his fore-spirits when he had donned his exarch armour.

  It was intriguing to watch the reactions of his pupils, and to see himself again as that novice wearing armour for the first time, more than half a dozen times over. He felt again the surge of power, of strength, that had flowed through him, the first glimmerings of his war-mask shining through.

  Milathradil was the most eager. Morlaniath could feel his war-mask just beneath the surface. It resonated with the exarch, feeding him and drawing on him at the same time. Morlaniath would have to watch Milathradil closely; his passion could be his undoing.

  Nurianda and Euraithin were more hesitant, sharing excitement and fear in equal measure, as it should be. Lokhirith was afraid. He was fearful of his own power, afraid to embrace his war-mask, holding back on the tide of emotions that needed to be given freedom before they could be controlled. Morlaniath decided he would pair Lokhirith with Milathradil for a while; they were in an odd balance together and would bring each other closer to internal harmony.

  When the warriors were full-clad, Morlaniath began the rituals again. He moved without thought, called out the names of the poses. With that part of his mind not occupied by the training, he wondered which of his followers had shadow-foes and which did not. They moved with poise and precision, but it was not their technique that Morlaniath examined as he called out Rising Sting from Darkness. He was connected; connected to the shrine and through it to the Striking Scorpions, those in front of him now and all of those that had come before.

  He read the micro-expressions in their faces and sensed their emotions. Euraithin was too focussed on his body, tightly controlling every motion. He needed to allow his instinct to prevail so that his attention to his environment was not lacking. Nurianda, she was a study of balance, at once a whirling maelstrom and a tranquil lake. Milathradil was distracted, too intent upon the creation of his shadow-foe. Morlaniath could read the fierce visualisation in his gestures, in the determination of his thoughts and the slightly curtailed, clipped nature of his technique. Lokhirith was still uncertain, second-guessing his body, his eyes straying to Morlaniath or his companions, seeing too much of the real world to lose himself entirely in the battle.

  Progress had been made, but there was still a long way to go.

  Morlaniath communed, resting his body in his armour while his spirits digested the events of the cycle. There came a sudden interruption to their deliberations. One Is Coming.

  Morlaniath sensed a presence at the borders of his domain, at the main portal to his desert dome. It was not an aspirant, though he felt a great deal of tension from his visitor. It was not an exarch: he would recognise his kin instantly. There was something familiar in the presence; a similarity to someone locked away within his memories, but dissimilar enough that he could not locate it. The person approached and then went away, and then approached again. There was hesitancy, a mixture of fear and doubt.

  He opened his eyes, feeling change afoot.

  Still armoured, Morlaniath took a skyrunner from the shrine’s depths and sped across the desert leaving a plume of sand in his wake. He flew directly to the main portal, the nagging sense of recognition tantalising in its closeness but still eluding him. Dismounting, he opened the wide gateway with a thought command.

  A farseer turned quickly, taken aback by his arrival. She was dressed in a long robe of pure black, embroidered sigils of silver and white decorating the hem and cuffs of her gown. She fidgeted with a pouch at her waist, while her eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and disgust.

  He recognised those eyes. It was Thirianna.

  Oh, It’s Her. Troublemaker, That One.

  “It that you, Korlandril?” she asked.

  “I am not Korlandril, though he is part of me, I am Morlaniath.”

  You Should Say “We”. It Is Very Rude To Ignore The Rest Of Us.

  We Are One. “I” Is Correct.

  Ignore Them Both. This Argument Never Ends.

  Thirianna took a step away, shoulders hunching.

  What Does She Want?

  She Doesn’t Belong Here. Send Her Away!

  Look How Scared She Is Of Us.

  “Why do you disturb us, coming here unbidden, breaking the gold stillness?”

  She took a few steps further back, shaking her head.

  “This was
a mistake. I should not have come. You cannot help me.”

  Good Riddance.

  She Has Already Roused Us. We Have Nothing To Lose By Letting Her Speak.

  We Have Wasted Enough Time. Let Her Go.

  She might return and disturb us again.

  “Now that you have come here, seeking guidance and truth, speak your mind with freedom. If I can assist you, if you have hard questions, perhaps I can answer.”

  Thirianna approached and stared past Morlaniath, taking in the wide vista of the desert. Her gaze turned to the exarch.

  “Is there somewhere else we can speak?”

  Always The Same. Farseers Want To Know Everything. Do Not Let Her In. She Is Not Welcome.

  The Shrine Is Soaked In The Memories Of Blood. She Cannot Go There.

  “The shrine would not be fit, farseers enter with risk, and I am loathe to leave.”

  “Can we perhaps walk awhile? I do not feel comfortable discussing matters on your doorstep.”

  Morlaniath turned away, assuming she would follow. The sands shifted under his booted feet but he walked with purpose and balance, heading towards a shallow oasis gently fed by irrigation webs beneath the sands. Clusters of red-leaved bushes hid the water’s edge, bright white stars of blossom poking from the foliage.

  The water was still. Sometimes he came here to contemplate without his companions. This was the first time he had come here in the full presence of the others. Memory came without asking, swamping him for a moment with recollections of this place as each spirit clasped to some distant event, seeking to relive them. He pushed them away and gestured for Thirianna to seat herself beside the still pool.

  “This is… pleasant.” She looked at her surrounds and sat down, gathering her robes to one side, her black hair tossed over her shoulder, head tilted away from Morlaniath.

  “It is the birth in death, the hope in hopelessness, life amongst the barren.” She did not look at him when he spoke. She gazed thoughtfully into the waters. Insects skimmed the surface, sustained by its tension.

  “I have foreseen troubling times for Alaitoc, perhaps something worse.”