by Gav Thorpe
Asurmen looked at Neridiath. ‘The task at hand is to blunt the next attack of the Flesh-thieves. The moment we are ready for take off, you must be ready.’
‘Try to relax and rest,’ added Tynarin. Neridiath gave him a dubious look. ‘Please try.’
‘We have a battle to wage,’ Asurmen told the others, turning away.
‘You mean a battle to win,’ said Hylandris.
‘Possibly.’
The doors closed soundlessly, leaving Neridiath and Manyia alone with the corsair captain. He smiled as he passed a hand over a control panel, impelling the transporter to the destination they needed. With a gentle hum the conveyance set into motion.
Strangers.
‘Farseers and Phoenix Lords and pirates,’ whispered Neridiath, under the guise of kissing her daughter’s forehead. ‘Strangers indeed, my little starlight.’
Danger?
‘Sleep, beautiful one, and never worry about that.’ She cast a glance at Tynarin, who was feigning disinterest, closely inspecting the gem of a ring. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’
VII
Illiathin ran, carving swirled furrows through the glittering gold fog that had descended on the city. Everywhere he looked were dead bodies, strewn along streets and alleys, some hideously broken where they had fallen from upper floors and balconies. All had disturbingly peaceful expressions, as though in their final moments their anguish had been taken away, their worldly desires satiated at the point of death.
A cackling laugh broke the stillness, betraying the presence of other survivors. Knowing the manner of eldar that had ruled the city in its final days, Illiathin had no desire to encounter these others.
He ran towards the headquarters of the True Guardians, his mind a whirl of conflicted thoughts. Fear for Tethesis drove his legs to move even though his mind was in numbed shock. Fear for himself propelled him also, fuelled by a sliver of hope that his brother survived and would protect him.
The fog started to coalesce, forming larger and larger droplets. Shining silver beads the size of his fist slowly drifted to the ground, sliding through the air like tears running down a cheek.
Astounded, Illiathin stumbled to a stop. He held out his hand and one of the droplets fell into his outstretched palm. It was cold to the touch at first, but after a heartbeat of contact it warmed up, seeming to leech life from Illiathin. Not leech, he realised, but share. The droplet hardened in his grasp, becoming an oval stone. It pulsed quickly, the rhythm matching his speeding heart.
There were other stones around him, settling on the floor. He grabbed as many as he could, putting them into the pockets of his robes, filling two pouches that hung at his belt. He noticed that these others remained inert at his touch.
As he straightened from collecting another, he looked up, seeing the sky for the first time, the mists now little more than a glimmering wisp in the air.
He dropped the stone in his hand, a silent scream locked in his throat as he saw what had become of the heavens.
The sun burned black in a magenta sky, its surface contorted with whorls and ripples like agitated oil. Around it a crown of stars was arranged, glimmering diamonds of white light that slowly orbited. Beyond, the stars of the deeper sky winked in and out of existence, some of them burning red and green and blue, others fluctuating wildly, phasing in and out of reality.
The sky itself shifted and swelled, like a wave just before it breaks, distorting the star field even further. It made Illiathin dizzy to look upon it but he could not tear away his gaze.
Turning, he surveyed the sky all around, his stare coming to rest upon two pillars of fire that burned in the void, huge conflagrations of yellows and orange despite the vacuum of space. He realised that they were the columns of the webgate consumed by psychic energy, once vastly distant but now impossibly close.
Illiathin managed to drag his stare from the heavens and started running again, panting in desperation, eyes scanning the broken buildings around him for a sign of the familiar streets he was seeking. Now and then he glimpsed someone in the distance, at a far junction or on an aerial walkway above. Some stood in shock, others were running too, some staggered fitfully in stunned horror.
Eventually he found the True Guardians’ headquarters. The guard at the door was dead, an orb of crystal settled on his armoured chest. Leaping over the body, Illiathin dashed through the open door. The dead were in every room and corridor within, slumped against the walls, lying headfirst down the spiral stairs, collapsed across chairs and tables and work counters.
He found two people on the roof, staring up at the sky.
‘Tethesis?’
One of the armoured figures turned and relief flooded through Illiathin at the sight of his brother. The two of them staggered towards each other, so numbed by events they could neither laugh nor cry.
A sudden explosion near the centre of the city drew their attention. A column of lightning speared upwards, white and purple, coruscating into the heavens for several heartbeats. In its wake it left a slash across the sky, which at first Illiathin took to be an after-image in his eye. But the crack in the air did not move as he turned his head. Black smoke seemed to pour from the rift, heavy, boiling down into the narrow streets and alleys of what had once been Starwalk.
The tear grew wider, suddenly expanding to engulf several more towers with violent bursts of energy.
‘A warp rift,’ muttered Tethesis. ‘A wound on reality.’
‘There’s another,’ said the other True Guardian, an eldar called Maesin. She pointed to a rainbow of fire that sprang from the arena park, its arch slowly flowing outwards. Beneath the span of bright colours was a shimmering plane of black and gold.
‘What is it? What has happened?’ asked Illiathin. He lifted up one of the sky-tears he had found. ‘What are these?’
Tethesis took the proffered stone and like the first that Illiathin had found it sprang into life at the touch of his brother, glowing a deep red in his hand.
‘It seems to be psychically keyed,’ offered Illiathin. He showed his brother his own stone. ‘Can you feel it? The connection?’
‘I do,’ said Tethesis. He gestured for Maesin to take another and the three of them stared in marvel at the glowing crystals.
‘The old world has ended,’ Tethesis declared. ‘This new world contains many perils and miracles. In time we will learn about them, but for the moment survival is the key. Others have survived, and they will not all be allies.’
‘We are damned,’ Maesin said quietly. ‘The doom that was prophesied has come to claim us and this is the hell we have built for ourselves. Hearken to the cries of our tormentors.’
Illiathin listened, but it was not the sporadic shouts and cries from the streets that Maesin referred to. There was a whispering, a constant monologue on the edge of hearing, of threats and promises and descriptions of unspeakable acts. The more he listened, the more Illiathin was convinced that the voice was his own thoughts. He lost himself, caught up in the taunts and temptations.
Tethesis’s hand on his shoulder broke the bewitchment. Illiathin looked out over the city and saw darkness and madness, the stars above reeling and wheeling like drunkards, the sky itself broken and torn. Beyond, he could feel something else, something that was part of him, that was joined with his spirit at the most fundamental level. It was monstrous and malign and it was aware of him, desiring Illiathin’s essence for itself.
Illiathin fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands, trembling violently, terrified beyond comprehension.
17
The Flesh-thieves attacked at dusk, amassing all their disparate forces for the assault on the battleship. It began with a storm of shells that made the ground shake, ripping gouges through the forest, turning the flattened clearing around the crashed starship into a wasteland of smoking craters. The eldar had no choice but to wit
hdraw from the hellish deluge of shells, surrendering the approaches to the ship to escape the bombardment.
Splinter-craft from the Chaos cruisers in orbit flitted across the darkening sky, lighting the twilight with flares of lightning from their cannons. The sleek shapes of eldar aircraft moved effortlessly through the descending enemy squadrons, taking a heavy toll. On the upper decks of the Patient Lightning point-defence blisters sprang into action, unleashing torrents of converging laser fire to destroy and drive away the incoming attack craft. Explosions blossomed across the ruddy cloudscape and shattered fighters fell like rain, but a few of the Chaos craft managed to break through. They ignored the battleship and sped across the burning forest unleashing incendiary bombs that drove the eldar even further back. They were eventually hunted down by the eldar fighters or caught by the gunners aboard the downed battleship.
Amidst the blazing of shells and flaming detonations the wraithknight of Nymuyrisan and Jarithuran crouched under an overhang of rock, as much power as they possessed fed to the scattershield. The white flare of the energy field was lost among the destructive barrage, just another bright flash of light. Even so, shrapnel and earth pattered against the armoured skin of their war engine, midnight-black with tiger stripes of purple almost invisible in the dusk.
The tempest of destruction ceased as soon as it had begun. The boom of detonations and scream of diving aircraft had gone, replaced by the crackle of fire and the throaty roar of crude combustion engines. The whirring of motors and screech of sawn wood was added to the din as armoured walkers led the ground assault, chopping down trees with spinning saw blades and ripping them from the ground with energy-wreathed fists. Behind them came more stumpy war engines, lumbering forward on short legs as they unleashed volleys of rockets from pods on their back.
Though much of the covering terrain had been flattened or set afire, the eldar moved back into what shelter they could find. The eldar targeted the walkers with starcannons and brightlances, the dark, scorched remnants of the woods lit by the flare of lasers and plasma. In the dance of shadows squads of Striking Scorpions advanced, their chainswords and pistols at the ready.
On the open ground around the battleship the Falcons, Fire Prisms and other grav-tanks slipped forwards, turrets turning as they unleashed bursts of anti-tank fire at the incoming enemy. The walkers pushed into this barrage of fire, armour pierced and torn open by bolts of plasma and blasts of azure laser. Fuel tanks exploded in gouts of fire and black smoke, adding to the already hellish nature of the scene.
Along paths cleared by these mechanical brutes came the tanks and infantry carriers, bumping and labouring over broken stumps, sliding down the sides of craters, tracks churning dirt and ash. Behind them marched even more humans, clad in a mixture of robes, padded jerkins, soldiers’ uniforms and plates of solid armour. Each bore in tattoo, scar or daubed symbol the rune of the Dark Lady, the mysterious champion that had amassed such a grievous host.
The Chaos-tainted were intent upon the battleship, uncaring of the casualties being inflicted by the flicker of scatter lasers or the pulse of starcannons. Swooping Hawks flitted above the advancing mass on their winged flight packs, snapping off volleys of fire from their lasblasters. Weaving between return fusillades of las-bolts and bullets, they launched haywire grenades at the tanks, overloading engines and more sophisticated systems with bursts of electricity and electromagnetic discharge. Plumes of plasma from dropped grenades followed wherever the winged Aspect Warriors moved.
Giving no heed to providing themselves with covering fire or protecting their flanks, the Chaos horde pushed on towards the Patient Lightning, directly into the teeth of the eldar defence. In silence, Nymuyrisan watched as a squadron of tanks and a platoon of infantry advanced past no more than a stone’s throw from the wraithknight’s hiding place, ignorant to its presence.
When they had passed, Nymuyrisan wanted to surge out of their cover and attack, but his instinct to fight was baulked by refusal from Jarithuran. The dead twin kept them crouched where they were, resisting his brother’s insistent mental commands that they move.
‘We have them at our mercy!’ Nymuyrisan complained, flooding the wraithknight’s spirit circuit with disapproval. ‘We should attack now!’
There was no response from Jarithuran, just an obstinate silence and no reaction from the wraithknight. Irritated, Nymuyrisan tried to override his brother with sheer force of will, urging the walker to rise and attack. The command faded into nothing, dissipated by Jarithuran’s obstinate opposition.
The battle continued to rage as Nymuyrisan watched with frustration. A dozen tanks had been reduced to burning wrecks, at the cost of a trio of eldar vehicles. The toll amongst the Chaos infantry was impossible to calculate – hundreds already, possibly thousands. They cared nothing for the carnage, their vehicles ploughing through piles of the dead, the soldiers that followed clambering over the wounded and slain without hesitation.
It was only then that Nymuyrisan realised why Jarithuran had waited.
Behind the infantry attack came an immense machine, towering above the tanks and transports. It advanced on six mechanical legs, crushing the remains of tanks and warriors without trouble, the few remaining trees in its path shouldered aside with splintering trunks. On its back was a turret mounted with two huge cannons.
It paused in its approach, all six legs locking firm to provide a firing platform. The turret tracked from right to left, following a target. With a thunderous boom it opened fire.
A bright apparition screamed across the battlefield – to Nymuyrisan experiencing the battle through the wraithsight of his war engine it appeared as a pair of flaming skulls. The psychically charged rounds hit a Fire Prism and exploded with green fire, shattering the hull of the grav-tank. The remnants flipped and tumbled over and over, cutting a swathe through a squad of Guardians that had been manoeuvring their distort cannon into position behind the tank.
The behemoth started forward again, secondary weapons in a score of turrets opening fire, trails of tracer rounds and the detonations of explosive bolts shining in the darkening twilight. A squad of Swooping Hawks dived towards the hulking war engine but were met with a hail of fire from cultists manning anti-air weapons mounted on cupolas on the creature’s spine.
Like a door being opened to admit a gale, Jarithuran suddenly allowed Nymuyrisan’s impulse to inundate the wraithknight’s psychic matrix. The war engine leapt into a run, driven by the pilots’ desire, the starcannons spitting plasma at the Chaos behemoth.
Closing on the huge monstrosity, Nymuyrisan was taken aback for a moment, almost losing his balance. The thing they attacked was not simply a machine, there was flesh beneath the armoured flanks and turrets, dark blue and scaled. What he had taken for a vehicle was an armoured beast, its horned head sheathed in a metal helm that he had taken to be a driver’s compartment.
He recovered his wits quickly enough when the turret swung towards them. Activating the scattershield, he brought up the left arm a moment before the Chaos followers manning the beast opened fire. The skull-shells punched straight through the shimmering field and smashed into the scattershield generator. Jade flames licked up the arm of the wraithknight and the scattershield hub exploded with a cloud of sparks.
‘This could be problematic,’ said Nymuyrisan, but Jarithuran was paying no attention.
The wraithknight, fuelled by the dead twin’s anxiety, accelerated to a sprint, the starcannons falling silent on its shoulders. Large-calibre bullets and phosphorescent shells whipped and cracked past the charging war engine, the occasional strike doing little to slow the wraithknight’s progress.
They slammed into the side of the Chaos beast at full speed, dipping one shoulder. The impact lifted up the behemoth as the wraithknight’s legs straightened. Nymuyrisan gasped at the weight but he was almost a bystander, his brother’s fury powering their actions. Feet sinking into the dirt, the wrai
thknight pushed and pushed until three of the beast’s legs were off the ground.
The behemoth tried to get away, but the wraithknight grabbed an armoured plate, the metal twisting and buckling yet holding firm as Jarithuran sought to flip over the bucking beast. Top-heavy because of the turret on its back, the behemoth could do nothing as the wraithknight straightened to its full height and lifted.
Like an upended turtle, the beast rolled over. The turret crumpled beneath the weight, the sorcerous ammunition within exploding with a series of blinding blue, red and purple detonations that showered both beast and wraithknight with murderous scythes of serrated splinters.
A piece of gun barrel speared through the chest of the wraithknight. Nymuyrisan gave a shout and Jarithuran’s anxiety sent a flare of reaction through the matrix. Focusing on the behemoth, Nymuyrisan took control, grabbing the beast’s helmed head and pushing it aside to expose a mottled yellow throat. The ghostglaive shimmered with psychic energy, a ripple of fire dancing along its length. Nymuyrisan plunged the blade into the behemoth, sawing through its thick skin and muscle.
A dozen Chaos cultists had survived and were ineffectually shooting at the wraithknight with pistols and lasguns. Rising again, the eldar walker swept half of them away with a sweep of the ghostglaive. The others Jarithuran incinerated with a volley from the starcannons.
Standing over the defeated behemoth, Nymuyrisan was panting hard, as though the exertion had been physical rather than mental. He was thinking of a humorous observation to share with his brother when something smashed into their left shoulder, the impact ripping away the arm and sending the wraithknight spinning down into a spreading mire of mud and behemoth blood. The shot had torn away part of the chest plastron, shattering part of the psychic circuit. Nymuyrisan tried to make contact with his brother, but for the first time since they had been born he could not feel his presence. Physically dazed, the wraithsight of his machine swirling with interference, the pilot turned his attention to what had fired at them.