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

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  He felt the approach of someone behind him and turned.

  “You felt it also, a heartbeat of Khaine, the Avatar stirs?” asked Iriethien, Dire Avenger, exarch of the Light That Burns.

  “I felt something stirring, the Avatar still sleeps, the time has not yet come,” Morlaniath said.

  “War is approaching, Khaine knows of these things, he senses battle,” said Iriethien. He gazed at the immobile giant, seeking any sign of life.

  “We will know soon enough, there will be no doubting, when the war god calls us.”

  The presence of Iriethien had confirmed Morlaniath’s suspicions. As he returned to his skyrunner, a single thought troubled him: his warriors were not yet ready for battle.

  The tremulous sensation from the Avatar of Khaine did not repeat itself, but Morlaniath knew that it had not been an aberration. Once it began to waken, the Avatar did not fall into slumber again without blood being shed. The other exarchs felt it also, and sent warning to the council of Alaitoc that events were unfolding that would take the craftworld to war.

  Filled with a new urgency, Morlaniath pressed on as quickly as he could with the training of the Hidden Death Striking Scorpions. All of them had now progressed to mastering the helmet and mandiblasters but progress seemed slow to the exarch. He had to be certain that they were ready for battle and was still unconvinced. If their training was insufficient it might mean disaster, not only for themselves but for the other warriors that would be relying upon them.

  Morlaniath did not fret, did not waste time worrying about this state of affairs. The matter was a simple one: when war came they would either be ready or they would not. If they were not suitably prepared, they would not fight.

  The voices were no more. The nights brought silence and solitude, a time for contemplation. Morlaniath found peace in the memories of battle, reliving the glories of his past, sometimes even dwelling upon the moments of his deaths, learning from them, seeking ever to improve himself.

  He found his memedreams lingering more frequently on his bloody encounters with humans. Was it because his last battle had been against the followers of the Corpse-Emperor? Was there some deeper force at play that led him to relive these wars?

  His pondering was interrupted, seven night-cycles after he had felt the tremor of the Avatar. Through the strands of the infinity circuit he was aware of a new arrival coming to Alaitoc, a presence that resonated through all of his lives, all of his spirits. There was a counter-echo in the midst of his consciousness, a responding tremble of awareness from the other shrines, and again the great pulse of Khaine’s heartbeat thudded briefly across the infinity circuit.

  The docking bay glimmered with light from the webway portal, swirling purple and blue dappling the curved walls and the armour of seventeen exarchs. They waited in silence, each called from his or her shrine; Swooping Hawk, Dark Reaper and Striking Scorpion. Morlaniath felt the same as the others, a primal instinct to gather, to greet their arrival.

  They had been brought to the Star-Wreathed Stair, the docks where warships came and went, keeping their taint of blood from ships of peaceful purpose. This was the place where the Aspect Warriors boarded their vessels. It was where their remains were brought back. From here Alaitoc had launched its warriors into the night for an age, sending them to slay or be slain. This was a place of destiny, from whence the fate of Alaitoc had been steered: expeditionary forces to uncover rising threats; fleets bent on vengeance for eldar deaths; armies that had destroyed worlds; missions to kill the ignorant and the innocent; warriors sent to slaughter inferior races, whose only crime had been their existence.

  Death stained the twining branches of wraithbone around the dock, the infinity circuit singing a mournful dirge at the back of Morlaniath’s mind. It nourished him and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

  The bow-wave of psychic energy from the webway grew stronger, the arrival of a ship imminent. It carried with it a sensation of belonging, of acceptance and stability. These thoughts were touched with blood, images of destruction played out in bursts of mental activity. It was similar to the sensation he felt from other exarchs, though greater in its intensity, increasing in its power the closer the ship came.

  As when Thirianna had come to the shrine, Morlaniath knew who it was that came to Alaitoc, but could not recognise him. The whole had changed but parts remained familiar, much in the same way as an exarch’s spirit slowly evolved into a new personality with each warrior that took up the armour.

  Ageless immortality was the backdrop to each of the sensations, older even than Morlaniath, a spirit so deep that it swallowed everything that touched it.

  The webway portal pulsed, readying for the ship’s exit. A surge of psychic energy swept through the assembled exarchs, bringing flashes of insight, visions of distant worlds and ancient places.

  The ship broke through the portal at incredible speed: one moment the bay was empty, the next the sleek black hull filled the void. Its surface rippled with faint colour, waves of dark purple and blue shimmering from shark-like nose to slender tail fins. It lowered silently to hover just above the deck, merging with its own shadow.

  A circular portal opened, creating a disc of faint white light. Morlaniath strained forward, pulse racing.

  Three figures appeared at the portal as the tongue of a ramp extruded itself to the floor. They wore armour, their suits versions of the exarch armour of those that waited but far heavier and more elaborate, and even more ancient: Swooping Hawk, Dark Reaper, Striking Scorpion. Their weapons were ornate artefacts of the time before the Fall when eldar power had been at its height; beautiful instruments of destruction salvaged from the ruins of an entire civilisation.

  The first wore wings that shimmered in a thousand colours, a curved blade in one hand, a multi-barrelled las-blaster in the other, helm adorned with a single feathered crest, his armour a mottle of summer blue and winter grey. The next had armour of black, sculpted with golden bones, his helm a red-eyed skull, the image of Death itself, a scythed shuriken cannon in his grip. Last came the Scorpion, and upon him Morlaniath fixed his gaze, the flow of connection between them strengthening as the new arrival approached. His yellow and green armour was banded with obsidian ribbing, his helm curved back in a series of plates like a scorpion’s tail, crackling mandiblaster pods to either side. One hand was an elegant claw wreathed with energy, the other gripped the hilt of a biting blade, its teeth so sharp that rainbows of cut light danced around them.

  They were the first exarchs, those who had walked the Path of the Warrior in the wake of the Fall and studied under the guidance of Asurmen. Morlaniath knew them immediately, remembered them from previous encounters while legends of their deeds surfaced in his mind.

  Three founders of the Aspect shrines: The Cry of the Wind, Baharroth; The Harvester of Souls, Maugan Ra; The Shadow Hunter, Karandras.

  Three Phoenix Lords, almost without precedent, had come to Alaitoc for a single purpose: war.

  * * *

  The arrival of the Phoenix Lords was both a reaction and a catalyst. They had sensed a new doom approaching Alaitoc and had been drawn to the coming conflict. Their presence reacted with the somnolent essence of Khaine’s Avatar, speeding its wakening. Morlaniath’s memories were clouded with blood, his training sessions with his warriors interrupted by waves of bloodthirsty sensation. The other exarchs felt it too, and the Aspect shrines and infinity circuit gently thrummed with the nascent rage of Kaela Mensha Khaine.

  Faced with these events, the council of Alaitoc summoned its greatest seers to divine which potential cataclysm was most likely to engulf the craftworld. They studied the runes of Thirianna, ready to listen to her half-formed tale of approaching death. Eyes more ancient than hers scanned the skeins of possibility, following the threads of Aradryan’s life and the interwoven fates of Alaitoc.

  All agreed: a great darkness was descending upon the craftworld. The rune of the humans blackened when touched and the farseers felt the irrational
hatred of mankind directed at Alaitoc.

  The autarchs called the exarchs to assembly in their circular hall, Alaitoc’s deadliest warriors all gathered in one place. The air seethed with their fierce pride and lust for battle. Morlaniath was drenched in their growing anger and strengthening hatred, soaking it into his spirit, elevating his own anticipation to a peak.

  Arhathain, accompanied by Alaitoc’s three other autarchs, addressed the restless throng of shrine leaders.

  “It is the humans,” he said solemnly. “The followers of the Emperor will come to Alaitoc intent on conflict. Why they choose to do so is unclear, but some slight against them has stirred their wrath. As a single pebble may start a landside, so the act of one has led the humans to Alaitoc. Though the farseers have travelled the strands of destiny, there is but one consequence that cannot be averted: Alaitoc will be attacked.

  “It is not our place to speculate on the shortsighted decisions of humans. It is our task to prepare for war and deal with the consequences. Rangers have returned to Alaitoc, bearing grave news. Imperial ships forge their way through the Sea of Dreams, heading in our direction. There is insufficient time to elude them; they are too close and Alaitoc is not yet at full energy peak. Our starships will intercept them, deter them from coming, but humans are ill-counselled and stubborn. It is likely they will attempt to breach Alaitoc and bring battle to our homes. Though they think that they come with surprise as their weapon, we have not been taken unawares.”

  The autarch had calmly relayed this information, but now his voice rose, stoked by feeling.

  “We will not allow this absurd action to go unpunished! The temerity of the humans staggers belief, even if their ignorance is well-recorded. It is not just Alaitoc that we must fight to protect, but all of our people. If the humans think that they can attack craftworlds with impunity, it will signal the end of our species. They must learn the folly of their action, through the bloodiest lesson we can give them. They are cowards, and superstitious. We will write new legends for them; myths of how the eldar slaughtered them for their stupidity; stories written in their entrails and blood.”

  Arhathain walked slowly around the circumference of the podium, bright blue eyes passing over the circles of exarchs. His lips formed a snarl.

  “We abhor you! We who are free are fearful of you, the living reminders of the consequences of weakness and indulgence. Rightfully you are shunned, for your spirits are cursed by Khaine. You are warmongers and murderers. Those of us who have passed along the Path of the Warrior stand absolved of the atrocities we have committed and have found peace. You are trapped, relishing your bloody deeds, glorying in your hatred and rage.

  “But we who are free also need you. Without the exarchs, we would all be lost. You carry the burdens of our guilt. You stand between our fragile spirits and the degradations of war.”

  His voice became a harsh whisper as he continued to circle, tense, shoulders hunched, fists tight.

  “This is your time! The humans seek to violate our beautiful homes. They dare to bring war against us! You are our bloody messengers. You are Kaela Mensha Khaine’s anointed slayers, our vengeance incarnate, our anger given form. You are merciless, and rightly so. Our survival allows no compassion; our continuing existence depends upon the unthinking doing the unthinkable.

  “Feel now the pulse of Khaine throbbing through your veins. We who are free, we feel it also. But it is but a cold trickle in our veins compared to the white heat of its ferocity in your hearts. The Avatar awakens. Feel his call. Take to him that which he needs.”

  The autarchs and exarchs turned as one to the main gate at the height of the stepped auditorium. A lone figure stood there, silhouetted against an orange light beyond. It was the Shining Spear exarch, Lideirra of the Midnight Lightning shrine. She wore her silver and gold armour and carried an immense spear, its head as long as her arm and as broad as her face—the Suin Daellae, the Doom that Wails, the weapon of the Avatar.

  “Behold the Young King!” announced Arhathain. “Your gift to Khaine in return for the awakening of his Avatar.”

  With a fierce shout, the exarchs raised their right fists in salute to the Young King. Chosen from amongst their number, the Young King served as their spiritual leader for five hundred cycles and then passed on his or her crown to another. For most, their rule passed without sacrifice; for a few their reign would end in blood, their spirit offered up to Khaine to breathe life into the metal husk of Khaine’s Avatar.

  Lideirra stood calmly in the archway, accepting of her fate. It was not only a great honour to be chosen as Young King—named after Eldanesh’s epithet as a child, though the chosen exarch could be male or female—it was also a promise of release. To be consumed by the rage of Khaine’s fiery spirit was a release from immortality, one that few exarchs would ever know.

  The six exarchs of the innermost ring, the oldest of their Aspects, headed up the steps to the Young King: Morlaniath, Striking Scorpion; Iriethien, Dire Avenger; Lathorinin, Howling Banshee; Faerthruin, Fire Dragon; Maurenin, Dark Reaper; Rhiallaen, Swooping Hawk.

  They formed an honour guard around the Young King, three on the left and three on the right, and walked slowly from the hall. Another triumphant shout echoed behind them as they passed from the sight of the exarchs.

  The walls of the passageway were covered with holographic images of the oldest myths of the eldar, the tales that had inspired the Aspects. Scenes of destruction from legend enveloped the entourage as they paced slowly towards the shrine of the war god. The doors closed silently behind, leaving them bathed in the soft glow of the projections. This was the Bloodied Way. It wound gently downwards, bringing the procession to the antechamber of the Avatar’s throne room. The great bronze doors were closed, a thick trickle of ruddy light creeping from beneath it.

  Morlaniath could feel the presence of the Avatar; its heat on his body, its spirit in his mind. The ground reverberated beneath the exarch’s feet with a sonorous beating. His heart matched the rhythm.

  From hidden doorways, masked and robed seers entered: the warlocks. Former Aspect Warriors, the seers too felt the pull of Khaine. They brought with them a long cloak of red and a golden pin fashioned in the shape of a dagger. The two bearers stood before Lideirra as the exarchs slowly removed her armour. They handed each piece to one of the remaining warlocks.

  When Lideirra was naked, Iriethien took the dagger-pin in his left hand. Another warlock garbed in white robes came up next to him, an ornate golden goblet in his hands: the Cup of Criel. The myths of the eldar held that when Eldanesh had been slain by Khaine, his followers had caught his blood in seven cups, to keep it from the war god. Khaine fought hard to reclaim the life and spirit of his victim, but Eldanesh’s people had held the war god’s armies at bay, preserving Eldanesh’s spirit forever.

  Standing behind the Young King, Iriethien used the point of the pin to cut the rune of the Dire Avenger into the flesh of Lideirra, beneath her left shoulderblade. The dagger-pin cut through skin and flesh effortlessly. Blood ran in rivulets across the Young King’s pale flesh, dripping from her buttock to be caught by the cupbearer.

  When he was done, Iriethien passed the knife to Morlaniath, who drew out the sigil of the Striking Scorpions on the other side of Lideirra’s back. He passed the knife to Lathorinin, who carved the rune of the Howling Banshee beneath Lideirra’s left breast. Next came Faerthruin, making the mark of the Fire Dragon on the Young King’s right side. Maurenin and Rhiallaen cut Lideirra’s arms, inscribing the runes of the Dark Reaper and Swooping Hawk respectively.

  All the while Lideirra stood in silence, trembling slightly but not once flinching from the blade worked upon her flesh. Her eyes were bright with anticipation, fixed upon the bronze doors in front of her. Her white skin was criss-crossed with trails of blood.

  One of the warlock attendees brought forth Lideirra’s waystone, clasped into a fixing upon a pale silver chain. This was hung around her neck. The stone bearer then took up the dagge
r-pin and delicately cut the rune of the Avatar into Lideirra’s forehead. Crimson trickled into her eyes but she stared unblinking, red tears streaking her cheeks.

  The mantle of the Avatar was hung from her shoulders, fixed with the bloodied dagger-pin. Its great length was wrapped about her body twice, and still it trailed on the floor behind her. Darker shadows spread across the red cloth as her blood soaked into the tightly-woven fibres.

  Next she was presented with the Suin Daellae, taking the immense spear in her right hand. Into her left was placed the Cup of Criel, now brimming with her blood.

  The warlocks formed a circle around the Young King and her honour guard. One of them raised her voice, giving vent to a piercing wail which flowed into the opening words from the Hymn of Blood. Another took up the refrain, adding a discordant tone beneath the first, and then another and another until the warlocks filled the antechamber with the sound of harsh singing.

  Morlaniath turned his attention upon the throne room doors. The light from beneath was growing bright, flickering, reflected from the entwined wraithbone of the antechamber. The heat from the bronze portal increased steadily, until the air shimmered and Morlaniath blinked sweat from his eyes inside his helmet. Crackles and splintering noises sounded dully from within the throne room. Hisses of steam and the snap of flames grew louder.

  The exarchs joined their voices to the chants and shrieks of the warlocks, adding another discordant harmony to the hymn.

  Morlaniath felt the stirring of the Avatar at the base of his spine, its presence tingling up to his neck and then flowing along into his fingertips, into his gut and down to his toes. Energy suffused every part of him, setting his nerves alight.