Path of the Dark Eldar

by Andy Chambers

  Yllithian began stripping off his garments as he crossed to one of the cabinets. He stood naked as a newborn as he reached inside and drew out fresh clothing of unornamented black. Bellathonis stepped closer to the glass wall to look outside, just like they always did. Yllithian smiled to himself, it was all too easy.

  ‘What do you intend to do with yourself now?’ Yllithian asked casually as he dressed himself and watched the potted trees silently extending their fronds towards the haemonculus. ‘And be careful of the black eloh trees, by the way,’ he added maliciously at the last possible moment. ‘They bite.’

  Bellathonis turned and batted away a questing tendril fondly. ‘Oh I’m well aware of the proclivities of the species, my archon. I am greatly impressed by the breadth of your accomplishments – I hadn’t taken you for a fellow enthusiast of carnivorous horticulture.’

  Yllithian shrugged and waved away the compliment with unconvincing humility as he reflected that he had been right, the master haemonculus was never going to be caught out so easily. ‘Only a passion of my great-grandfather Zovas Yllithian,’ Nyos told Bellathonis. ‘I merely honour his memory by keeping them alive. To be honest they remind me of him a little – grasping and eternally hungry.’

  Now that he was closer to the glass wall Bellathonis could truly see outside the spire that formed the White Flames’ fortress. The view was astonishing. Ashkeri Talon stretched out far below him, its sharp angles and innumerable jutting spines vanishing off into the distance. The point where it joined the artificial horizon formed by the city’s immense docking ring was virtually lost in the gloom yet it still showed as a pale line to the unaided eye. Three kilometres below him the juncture between talon and spire was covered with the leprous districts of Low Commorragh growing over each other like competing patches of fungus. Despite the sweeping curve of the glass wall no other High Commorragh spires were visible from this angle, which was probably the only reason such a structural weak spot had been permitted to exist.

  Ordinarily the vista below would be bustling: ships moving to and fro on the docking spines, shipments of slaves being brought into the city and raiding forces heading outward in endless caravan. Now the only things moving were fires burning out of control. In the multi-hued void a thousand more rosettes of flame burned brightly – the hulls of shattered ships being consumed by their own fusion fires as they drifted helplessly. The insipid light cast by the Ilmaea over the scene was shifting constantly as if they were obstructed by clouds where no clouds could possibly be. Some part of Bellathonis hesitated to look up to see what was making the fluctuations and he obeyed the instinct, fixing his gaze outward instead.

  The shifting veil of the void beyond the wardings was normally diaphanous, sometimes opalescent but most commonly dark with only a hint of shifting, nacreous colour. Now it was vivid and poisonous looking, a storm-wracked sky filled with angry, competing thunderheads of blue and deep green interspersed with spears of flickering, multi-dimensional lightning. The ominous thunderheads seemed to be rolling ever closer, piling up above the height of the spire, above all of High Commorragh and above the entire city like a frozen tidal wave… Bellathonis realised that Yllithian had stopped part way through pulling on a pair of iron-grey sabatons and was waiting for his answer.

  ‘Forgive my distraction, my archon, the scenes outside are rather… dramatic. With your permission I had hoped to remain in the comfortable, and safe, environs of your fortress for a while.’

  ‘Oh did you now?’ Yllithian smiled. ‘That hadn’t really crossed my mind. I suppose you could always take over Syiin’s old quarters temporarily. If I gave my permission, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Yllithian lifted a black, glossy cuirass from a stand and fitted around his torso. The armour sighed lightly as it gently enfolded him and moulded itself perfectly to the contours of his body. ‘There’s been no sign of Syiin for quite some time,’ Yllithian remarked idly. ‘A curious business, that.’

  Bellathonis failed to rise to the bait. Both of them knew full well that Yllithian’s previous haemonculus, Syiin, had been murdered by none other than Bellathonis himself. However High Commorrite etiquette, after countless centuries of scheming and backstabbing, had come to eschew outright commentary on such things as a sign of being excessively gauche or obtuse.

  ‘It would seem unlikely that he will turn up again at this point,’ Bellathonis mused, still gazing distractedly outside. One of Bellathonis’s favourite personal modifications had been to implant a pair of stolen eyes into his bony shoulder blades. By concentrating on a corner of his mind he could enjoy a fully panoramic view of his surroundings and so keep an eye on Yllithian even while he looked out at the destruction. The scenes below were no doubt being replicated a thousand times over around Commorragh. An almost palpable sense of suffering was in the air and Bellathonis found it was most intoxicating.

  He stroked another questing eloh frond under its ventral vein to make it curl up involuntarily as he considered his options. Yllithian was fishing for more information about the clash between himself and Syiin, a line of inquiry that seemed unlikely to be in Bellathonis’s own best interests. On the other hand Yllithian could grant security for the immediate future on a whim, or, if it came down to it, he could simply summon a fortress full of retainers to exercise his will. Bellathonis decided it was probably wise to give the archon something.

  ‘It is perhaps possible,’ Bellathonis said, ‘that Syiin’s jealousy over my association with your noble self drove him into a fit of madness, causing him to undertake acts eventually harmful to himself.’

  Yllithian was attaching the second of two barbed pauldrons to his shoulders. He pulled on a pair of gauntlets attached to hooked vambraces that covered his arms from wrist to elbow. ‘It’s true that Syiin seldom seemed to have the best interests of his archon at heart,’ Yllithian said. ‘I have wondered if his coven had some hand in his disappearance. He was a member of the Black Descent wasn’t he? Just like you?’

  And there it was. Not a difficult thing to find out, but it proved that Yllithian had been doing his homework. Bellathonis began to worry that he had underestimated Yllithian’s resourcefulness. He turned to look at the archon directly. Yllithian was now resplendent in full war armour and vermillion cloak, with a tall helm held in the crook of one arm, a sword at his side and the horned crown on his head. Bellathonis had to admit that he looked every inch an archon. Yllithian’s steady gaze held no hint of softness, indecision or mercy as he awaited Bellathonis’s answer.

  ‘I parted ways with the Black Descent quite some time ago, my archon,’ Bellathonis said carefully. ‘It was the subject of some acrimony at the time – a trifling business really. I suppose it’s possible that the Black Descent eliminated Syiin in retribution for his association with me. I understand that he did draw your attention to my abilities in the first place.’

  Yllithian watched the haemonculus’s face carefully as he spoke, trying to judge his veracity through the mask-like distortions of countless surgeries. Not an outright lie, Yllithian thought, but a half-truth at best. Bellathonis certainly seemed to think the Black Descent had some hand in the matter, which was an interesting fact that Yllithian mentally filed away for later examination. Right now more pressing matters demanded his attention, even more pressing than vengeance on the haemonculus that had crippled his former body. The thrice-cursed supreme overlord Asdrubael Vect could not be kept waiting.

  ‘Very well, you have my permission to occupy Syiin’s quarters until further notice,’ Yllithian said, waving away the haemonculus’s grateful bow. ‘I must go to Corespur and attend to the supreme overlord’s wishes. Ensure that you are still here when I return, we will have more to discuss.’

  Yllithian ignored Bellathonis’s acquiescing bow and stalked out of the conservatory with his cloak billowing impressively. The haemonculus hurried to exit close at his heels – perhaps fearing to be trapped i
nside the hidden chamber. A sudden thought struck Yllithian as he reached the vestibule.

  ‘What became of the crone’s head, Bellathonis? I carried the damned thing to El’Uriaq’s banquet as you suggested but I left it there. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I do not, my archon,’ Bellathonis replied just a shade too quickly. ‘I could initiate a search for it if you wish, although I fear it will have been destroyed in the Dysjunction.’

  Lie. Lie. Lie. Yllithian felt radiantly good, as if his machinatory powers were returning to him in blazing flashes of insight. There was no doubt in his mind that Bellathonis still held the crone, Angevere, within his power. By extension that meant she was still in Yllithian’s power too.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MANY BLADES OF ARHRA

  Motley was the first to sense something wrong. In truth a sick feeling of disquiet had crept into his belly after the first duel and stayed there. The bloody-handed code of honour of the incubi had seemed somehow laudable within the confines Commorragh, but out in the webway it seemed a very different thing. It was like seeing some predatory undersea creature that can be admired for its deadly beauty in its own environment. When that same creature is removed and examined under the harsh light and differing pressure of the world above it is revealed as something foul and monstrous, an aberration.

  The Harlequin found himself wondering if the sub-realm of the shrine was really a sub-realm at all, or the dreams of Arhra made solid. What Motley truly knew of Arhra could be comfortably inscribed on a napkin while leaving enough room for a sonnet or two, but he mentally reviewed the little he did know. Arhra, so the legends recounted, was one of the legendary Phoenix Lords that had appeared in the immediate aftermath of the Fall. As the scattered, pitiful remnants of the eldar race struggled to survive in a hostile universe the Phoenix Lords had come to teach them the ways of war.

  Different branches of the eldar told different tales of the origins of the Phoenix Lords. Some believed them to be the last fragments of the gods, driven like Khaela Mensha Khaine into taking mortal form to escape the depredations of Slaanesh, the entity that the eldar call She Who Thirsts. Others maintain the Phoenix Lords were the ancestor spirits of the mightiest eldar warriors to ever live, called forth to save their people once more. Yet others believe they were something new, beings sprung from those that lived through the Fall and became something greater. Gods, demi-gods or ghosts, the Aspect Warriors they trained never spoke of their mysteries.

  Arhra was known as the Father of Scorpions, and his disagreements with the other Phoenix Lords were said to be deep and vitriolic. The Phoenix Lords preached discipline and caution, a slow rebuilding around the preserved kernel of the eldar of the craftworlds. They foresaw that the heightened passions of war could destroy what was left of the eldar in the centuries that followed. Motley knew that Aspect Warriors learned to adopt a persona, a ‘war aspect’ that could insulate their souls from the carnage and prevent them developing a taste for it. As with so many other things, the craftworld eldar saw the allure of bloodletting and senseless violence as a gateway for Chaos to enter their hearts and complete their ruination. What Arhra believed was a secret known only to his followers, the incubi.

  ‘Morr, would you tell me more about Arhra?’ Motley ventured finally. ‘As we’re going to his shrine I feel I should know more about him. I’ve heard what the craftworlds have to say, but I suspect their version may be a little biased.’

  Morr snorted. ‘I’m sure they portray him only as a fallen paragon, another one of their lessons about the dangers of Chaos. Very well, I will tell you of Arhra as it is told to postulants at the shrine. You may judge the truth for yourself.’

  The causeway was slick with slime, its tilted slabs occasionally disappearing entirely into pools of flatulent mud. The lower-lying mists were thicker here. They hung across the path in moist tendrils, and made the trees appear to be flat, two-dimensional images like scenery on a stage. Morr’s voice was the only disturbance in the silent marsh as he paced along telling the story of Arhra.

  ‘After the great cataclysm of the Fall the eldar peoples were left scattered and leaderless. Debauchery and hedonism had eroded any form of discipline they had and left little knowledge of how to defend themselves. The eldar survivors were preyed upon by the slave races and driven from one place to another as they wavered on the verge of extinction. Finally a group of heroes arose who could stand against the enemies of the people. These were the Phoenix Lords the craftworlders speak of, some called them heroes that because they believed them to be reborn of the essence of their dead gods. Asurmen was the first but others quickly followed, including Arhra himself.

  ‘The heroes fought on behalf of the people, and they taught others to fight to protect themselves. Each hero gained a following of devotees committed to their particular style of combat: Asurmen’s warriors were fleet of foot and deadly in their aim, Baharroth’s hawks took wing and fought from above, Maugan Ra’s killers reaped souls from afar, while Arhra’s followers learned to fight with the true gift of fury.

  ‘Arhra taught his followers how to direct their fury with discipline, how to harness the power of their rage and strike out with it. Soon none could stand before them. The other heroes quarrelled with Arhra’s methods. They wished the people to learn to lay down and take up the role of warrior at need as if donning a mantle, they wished to abandon the peoples of Commorragh and fight only for the craftworlds. Arhra saw that the long fight against Chaos would require true devotion from all of the peoples, not weak compromise for the benefit of a few. He refused to accept the heroes’ ideals and went his own way.

  ‘Followers flocked to Arhra’s shrines and he tested them for their worth. The weak and corrupt he slew, he taught discipline and martial skill only to those possessed of sufficient fury to stand against him. Where Chaos threatened Arhra always stood against it. It is told that in his final battle Arhra stood alone and without respite through days and nights when the other heroes failed to come to his aid. At last Arhra was pierced through the heart by the dark light of Chaos. What returned to the shrine showed Arhra’s face yet burned with an unholy fire that drove Arhra’s students into terror and madness.

  ‘When all seemed lost the students heard their master’s voice from amid the flames. It bid them to marshal their fury and stand against him, that now was the ultimate test of their discipline. Such was their devotion that they obeyed despite their terror. They slew Arhra’s corrupted mortal form and partook of his untouched spirit, taking it into themselves so that the way of Arhra should endure for ever more.’

  Morr fell into silence and Motley wondered where the truth lay between the legends told in the craftworlds and those of the shrine of Arhra. Both seemed to agree he had fought against Chaos and fallen to it, but the stories diverged in regards to the outcome thereafter.

  It was almost a perfect ambush. The trees had begun to cluster more closely around the causeway as they got closer to the shrine, and they became bigger, and more gnarled with great exposed root systems that arched completely over the path itself in some places. The assailants had chosen a spot that was not so obvious as a passage beneath roots or through a particularly dense section. When Morr and Motley came to the natural amphitheatre created by four especially large trees they had already passed through a dozen similar sites already, and many better ones for assailants to lurk in waiting so they thought nothing of it. The spot was unremarkable rather than the perfect spot for an ambush, and because of that it came that much closer to succeeding.

  Motley stepped lightly along the causeway behind Morr with weapons out, projecting more confidence than he felt. He was straining every sense, probing the dark, misty hollows and tree boles around them. The great black mass of the shrine of Arhra had vanished behind the trees but he could still feel its presence, weighty and ominous, ahead of them. Suddenly as Motley looked forward on the causeway he caught sight of a darker shape in t
he mist. A flicker of movement and it was gone, but that was more than sufficient for Motley to cast caution to the winds and shout a warning.

  ‘Look out, Morr!’ Motley screamed. As the words left his lips a rustling and cracking of branches sounded all around. Four incubi sprang into view, surrounding them, two dropping from the overarching canopy like ugly spiders just as two burst out from behind concealing barriers of roots with flashing sweeps of their klaives. The black and green warriors were upon them in an instant, their double-handed klaives raised to hack and slay. Three closed in on Morr while the remaining one came for Motley with an easy slowness that betrayed his contempt for his allotted task.

  As quick as thought the bloodstone tusks affixed to Morr’s helm flashed with baleful energy. Spears of ruddy light transfixed one of the advancing incubi and sent them reeling back in the grip of a palsied shiver. Morr lunged forward to strike his incapacitated attacker, but his other two opponents quickly rushed forward and drove him onto the defensive. Klaives streaked through the air back and forth, block and counter, too fast for the eye to follow as Morr tried to hold his ground in the clash.