01 - Path of the Warrior

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  The larger transports had picked up speed. The nearest had a great plough-like ram on its front and hurled aside the ruins of the first destroyed buggy.

  From its back, its cargo of warriors spewed forth a hail of inaccurate fire from their barking guns, streaming bullets in all directions in a frenzy of violence. Heavier arms spat a more staccato beat, thudding their shells purposefully towards the Fire Dragons.

  Korlandril watched with horror as one salvo found its mark, tearing great shards of armour from one of the Fire Dragons. The warrior’s body—lifeless Korlandril assumed—was flung out of sight into the mangle of the ruined tower.

  Korlandril was conflicted for a moment. He was not sure what to think. A distant, whispering doubt told him that this was horrific. He had just seen another eldar brutally slain. Such a thing was perhaps the most traumatic sight he might witness. This quiet voice was drowned out by an altogether more feral roaring, which bayed for Korlandril to avenge the death of the fallen Fire Dragon.

  In those few heartbeats of uncertainty, much had happened. At the near end of the bridge the ram-fronted transport had fire licking from under its tracks, gears turned to a molten slurry by Firuthein’s firepike. The orks were tumbling over the sides and from the tailgate, gathering around a particularly vast creature with a metal banner pole tied to its back and a necklace of cracked skulls hanging on a chain around its neck. In one hand it carried a short but heavy pistol, in the other a double-headed axe with whirring chainblades.

  “The warlord comes out, now it is time to strike swift, and bring down the beast!” cried Kenainath. The exarch was surging forwards through the water even as he gave the shout. Korlandril followed on his heel and the others close behind.

  In the darkness and smoke, the Striking Scorpions arrived at the bridge quickly and unseen. The orks had laboured to shove aside the remnants of their transport, urged on by the bellows of their leader and threats from his pistol and axe.

  Sudden glimmers of brightness attracted Korlandril’s gaze to his right, past the ork warlord and his bodyguard. Like miniature supernovae, sparkling portals were opening up around the orks. Guided by spirit beacons placed by the rangers, the rest of the eldar force was arriving from the webway, surrounding the brutes to ensure none escaped. Squads burst from the ether with their weapons firing; squads of jetbike-riding Shining Spears charged out of the glimmering portals, their laser lances bright with power; caught between the converging squads, the orks died in droves.

  Under the bridge Korlandril saw dark shapes, and at first thought they were foes. On closer inspection, he saw more Striking Scorpions: Aranarha’s Fall of the Deadly Rain. They moved to cut off the orks’ progress at the webward end of the bridge while the Deadly Shadow advanced from the rear.

  Beyond Aranarha’s squad, battle raged. Bolts of energy and screaming bullets criss-crossed the Exodite towers. The Aspect Warriors attacked with sure and deliberate violence, cutting down all in their path, following in the wake of the Avatar. The shriek of Banshee masks mixed with an unearthly, deafening ululation.

  The Avatar of Khaine strode into the orks, the chilling sound coming from the fire-tipped spear in its right hand—the Suin Daellae, the Doom that Wails. Twice as tall as the Aspect Warriors surrounding it, the incarnation of the Bloody-Handed One was a nightmarish vision of metal and fire. Its unearthly flesh glowed with a ruddy light from within, its face a moulded visage of pure rage, eyes burning slits of white heat. The Avatar cast its spear through the bodies of a dozen foes before the weapon circled fully and returned to its grasp. Artificial lightning blasts from strange ork weapons crackled across the Avatar’s metal hide while bullets pattered and ricocheted all around.

  Korlandril had no more time to watch the ongoing orgy of violence—his own desire to shed blood heightened by the sight—for they had reached the winding steps up to the bridge. Kenainath broke into a run, mounting the stairwell swiftly, the rest of the squad following eagerly.

  The steps brought them out not far behind the warlord as it advanced towards the main eldar attack, still unaware of the threat emerging from behind. Seven of its brutal subordinates clustered around the alien, shouting encouragement to their smaller minions who were being cut down in swathes by the eldar attack.

  Kenainath closed in at a run, his shuriken pistol spitting a hail of razor-sharp discs. Korlandril followed suit, spraying a volley at the closest ork mentor, the salvo leaving a line of shredded flesh across the back of the creature’s left shoulder. It turned and glared at Korlandril with beady eyes beneath a heavy, furrowed brow and then opened its fang-filled mouth in a bellow of warning. Its teeth were as long as Korlandril’s fingers, spittle flying in heavy gobbets. The creature hefted a large cleaver in both hands, a shimmer of energy playing along its jagged blade. From its eyes to its posture to its roar, everything about the ork signalled murderous intent.

  It was a sight Korlandril could never have anticipated and his heart fluttered for a moment, gripped with primitive fear of the gargantuan monster confronting him. As before, Korlandril’s response to his fear was a surge of hatred and rage. He pounded forwards, peeling away from Kenainath to close with his chosen foe. The blades of the Striking Scorpion’s chainsword blurred into life, fuelled by Korlandril’s wrath to such a speed that they screamed as they split the air.

  The ork swung its weapon in a long arc towards Korlandril’s head. He ducked easily beneath the ponderous attack, his chainsword flashing up towards the underarm of the ork, teeth cutting through muscle and artery. Blood splashed from the wound onto Korlandril’s helmeted face as he spun past. Through the Aspect suit he could smell the stench of the ork’s life fluid and taste the iron in its blood.

  Korlandril’s mandiblasters spat laser fire as he sidestepped behind the ork, tearing at the flesh of its back and shoulders. The alien swung heavily around to its right seeking the cause of its pain, blade held overhead. Korlandril did not stand still long enough for the blow to land. He flexed his knees, crouched into Dormant Lightning, and then propelled himself forwards on the tips of his toes, unleashing River of Sorrow. His shuriken pistol fire raked the left side of the ork’s face even as Korlandril’s chainsword rasped through the thick muscle of its right thigh, gnawing at bone as the Aspect Warrior once again leapt past his unwieldy foe.

  The ork collapsed with a grunt, the cleaver falling from its grasp as the alien’s muscles spasmed in its death throes. Korlandril performed the coup-de-grace, cleaving his chainsword backhanded into the ork’s left temple, shearing through and slicing deep into its brain.

  A surge of victory filled Korlandril. The ruined flesh laid out on the stone of the bridge was a greater work of art than any he had ever conceived before. No Dreaming had matched the vitality—the heart-wrenching reality—of combat. Korlandril stood over his fallen foe, admiring the patterns made by the spatters of blood on the pale roadway. He looked at his own armour, smeared with filth, and was jubilant. Korlandril’s waystone pulsed in time to the thunderous beating of his heart.

  “Korlandril!” Min shouted.

  In his ecstasy, Korlandril barely heard his name. He turned to find the rest of the squad.

  Something immense loomed in front of him, blotting out the sky with its massive shadow. Korlandril raised his chainsword to Watcher Over Sky, but the defence was pitifully weak against the crashing weight of the warlord’s axe. Fang-like chainblades smashed through Korlandril’s weapon, sending shards in all directions, and bit deep into the Aspect Warrior’s gut.

  The force of the blow hurled Korlandril into the air, sending him crashing into the side wall of the bridge.

  Horror filled Korlandril as the warlord took a step towards him. The Striking Scorpion was numb with shock and collapsed, his legs suddenly lifeless. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lumbering ork closing in on him, but could feel his life seeping away through the ragged cut in his belly. His armour tried as best it could to knit the wound, but the damage was too severe.

&nbs
p; Kenainath stepped between Korlandril and the ork warlord, the crackling claw of his right fist raised in defiance. The warlord bellowed a wordless challenge and Kenainath responded with offence, smashing the Scorpion’s Claw across the chin of the warlord, cracking bone, the fist’s powerfield rupturing flesh.

  Then the pain hit Korlandril, rippling up his spine, sending a tremor of agony through his brain. He clamped his teeth together to suppress the scream, tears in his eyes.

  The rest of the squad wove a deadly dance around their exarch, landing blows upon the warlord, which flailed hopefully at its swifter foes. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds across its chest and upper arms.

  The last Korlandril saw was the long blade of Aranarha cleaving into the arm of the warlord, lopping off the limb above the elbow.

  Korlandril blinked back into consciousness. He thought he was drowning for a moment, before he recognised the swirling energies of the webway.

  Hands were around him, carrying him. He eased his head to the left and recognised the armour of Bechareth. He heard voices inside his head but could make no sense of them. They were stern, unflinching. The pain was intense, setting his whole body a-tremble.

  He could take no more. He was suffering too much. He passed out again.

  PAIN

  During the War in Heaven, Khaine the Bloody-Handed One slew a great many eldar warriors. Mother Isha became fearful that the eldar would be exterminated, so she went to Asuryan the all-seeing and begged for him to intervene. Asuryan also feared that Khaine’s rage would destroy not only the eldar, but the gods. He consented to aid Isha, but demanded of her to give up a lock of her immortal hair. This tress of hair Asuryan bound into the hair of Eldanesh so that he and all of his descendants could be healed by Isha’s love for them.

  Gentle chiming awoke Korlandril. He found himself lying upon a firm, embracing mattress, warm to the touch. A cool breeze passed over his face. He kept his eyes closed, savouring the sensation of tranquility. At the edge of hearing he detected subtle notes, a drifting music that surrounded him, stroked at his spirit.

  As he recovered consciousness, conflict disturbed Korlandril’s dream-like thoughts. An image pushed at his memories, insistent but formless. He pushed back, trying to keep the memory at bay.

  Through his eyelids Korlandril sensed a pulsing red light. His breath came in time to the surges of crimson energy flowing into his brain. It was slow at first but as it quickened in pace, Korlandril’s breathing and pulse became swifter. He had no sense of time passing other than the narrowing gap between each breath and each heartbeat.

  The red light had become a flickering strobe, alternating between harsh red and soft yellow. Korlandril hyperventilated, gasping rapidly, his chest aching with the exertion though the rest of his body remained motionless. His nostrils flared as he tried to fill his lungs but the flashing lights made him expel each breath before it had barely entered him.

  “Awaken,” said a gentle voice. “Remember.”

  The words trickled into his mind and he was powerless to resist their command.

  The barrier in his memories ripped asunder and a vast green beast with razor claws burst towards him. Blood drooled from its fangs. Pain flared.

  Korlandril screamed with what little breath he had and fell back into darkness.

  He floated, his body weightless, tied to the universe by the most slender tether of his consciousness. The voice returned, but this time there were no other sounds, no light save for a dim and distant pale green.

  “You are in the care of Isha’s healers,” said the voice. Korlandril could not tell if it was male or female, so softly spoken was the tone. “Nothing can harm you here. You are safe. You must heal. You must release the power from the Tress of Isha.”

  “It hurts,” Korlandril said, numb, barely recognising his own voice.

  “The pain will pass, but you cannot heal your wound until you confront it.”

  “The pain is too much,” whispered Korlandril.

  “The pain is not of your body but of your spirit. The Tress of Isha will free you from your pain. I am Soareth, and I will help you.”

  “I do not wish to die,” Korlandril said sombrely.

  “Then you must heal,” replied Soareth. The healer was male, Korlandril decided, and young. Soareth spoke with the language of youth. He did not wish to be healed by a novice.

  “What do you know of death?” he demanded, growing angry.

  “Nothing,” replied Soareth. “I am an advocate of life. Listen to me carefully, Korlandril. You still wear your war-mask. You cannot have one hand upon Khaine’s sword and the other upon Isha’s gift. You must take off the mask.”

  “You would leave me defenceless!”

  “The only enemy that you must fight is yourself.” Soareth spoke so quietly Korlandril could barely hear him. Or perhaps there was something else that made the healer’s voice so distant. “There is no other battle here, Korlandril. Your wound is grave, but you have the strength to overcome it. I will help you.”

  “You are little more than a child, I demand to be attended by someone with more experience,” Korlandril said flatly. He felt himself frown.

  “I am trained to help you heal, Korlandril. The power to survive does not reside within me, it is within you. Body and spirit are as one. You must strengthen your spirit to strengthen your body. I will show you how you will do this, and guide you to the Tress of Isha. With its power, you will heal. First you must calm yourself, release yourself from Khaine’s grip.”

  “I cannot,” snarled Korlandril.

  “What is it that you love, Korlandril?”

  The warrior dismissed the question. There was no love in battle.

  Soareth repeated the question, but this time there was a subtle change in the timbre of his voice. Love. The word began to resonate with Korlandril. There had been something he had once loved, before Khaine had taken him. If only he could remember.

  A gentle vibration stirred Korlandril’s fingers. It was the slightest tremor but it brought feeling to his fingertips. He felt them brushing through something. Something with fine strands. Brushing through hair.

  He stroked Thirianna’s head as they watched white-plumed snow finches reeling to and fro across the cliffs in the Dome of Infinite Tides. It was an absent-minded gesture, no intent behind it. Her hand was on his knee as they sat cross-legged on the shale beach and looked up at the towering pale rocks. Though there had been no motive behind that soft caress, the sensation stirred feelings inside Korlandril. Desire rose in him and he stroked her hair again, luxuriating in the closeness between them. He turned his head to look at her, admiring her beautiful face in profile, silhouetted against the low light from the distant wall of the dome. Her gaze was fixed on something far away, seeing something other than birds. Korlandril withdrew his hand, suddenly embarrassed at the gesture. Despite his discomfort, he felt at peace with the feelings now holding sway over him.

  Blood sprayed into Korlandril’s face, drowning him with a wave of thick red fluid. He sputtered and spat, clawing it from his cheeks, wiping it from his lips and eyes. But the blood kept coming, pouring from his eyes, dribbling from his mouth, seeping from every pore. He coughed, hacking up blood and tissue, despoiling his skin with its sticky gobbets.

  Korlandril awoke with a dull ache in every part of his body, and a sharper pain in his abdomen. He suddenly realised where he was and shouted out, a wordless cry of fear echoing sharply around him. Still he could not open his eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to look upon the source of his pain, the great wound in his stomach that was leeching the life from him.

  “Sleep,” said a quiet voice in his ear. He thought he recognised it, but before he could put a name to the voice he was swallowed up by a gentle somnolence.

  A rhythmic beating accompanied a slow pulsing of blue light behind Korlandril’s eyes. He felt tiny quivers of movement on his skin, like the scampering feet of an insect. It moved simultaneously from the
back of his neck down each arm and along his spine, forking at his waist to run down his feet. “Welcome back, Korlandril.”

  Soareth. Korlandril dragged the name from a dark recess in his memories. Something told him not to delve any deeper. He would not like what he saw.

  “I am well again?” he asked, surprised by the hoarseness of his words.

  “No, not yet,” said Soareth. “But you have returned to us from the grip of Khaine. You can open your eyes.”

  Korlandril prised open one heavy lid, cautious, fearing brightness. The room was softly lit, barely a twilight glow surrounded him. He opened the other eye and glanced around. The shaven-headed Soareth stood at the foot of the bed, a single-piece white robe hanging loosely from bony shoulders. In his hand he held a jewel-studded tablet. His fingers danced over the coloured gems and the room shifted around Korlandril; that is, the colours shifted, creating darker shadows, intensifying the light. The chamber felt smaller.

  “Do not be afraid,” said Soareth.

  Korlandril tried to sit up so that he could look down at the ruin that he knew his stomach to be. He couldn’t move, and said as much.

  “I have induced a paralysis for your own safety,” Soareth said. “The wound has bound but a little. You must help your body complete the healing process. You must draw on the Tress of Isha.”

  Korlandril attempted to nod.

  “What must I do?” he asked.

  “Focus on the ceiling and relax,” said Soareth.

  Korlandril looked up, seeing nothing but pearlesque off-white. He was aware of the pain in his abdomen and tried to push it aside so that he could concentrate.

  “Do not hide from the pain,” warned Soareth. “It must be confronted, not dismissed.”

  The colours of the ceiling shifted, almost imperceptible at first, a slow merging of pastel colours barely discernable from the white. The colours flowed together and swirled, with no distinct line between them, leaving an impression of a strange meta-colour made up of them all.