‘Druthkhala must speak to the council for Yvraine, and if we allow another to call the assembly, we give up what little benefit we have earned with our spilt blood.’
‘And what of me?’ Naiall’s expression was as though he dined on sour fruit. ‘I give my name to this council and then cannot attend it. What little legacy I have left to pass on will be ruined. Is my reputation to be offered up as the carrion to entice the scavengers to our side?’
‘Then attend it,’ said Nuadhu.
‘Look at me! This is not the face of Clan Fireheart that needs to be remembered.’
‘You hide in this place, and the rumour of your frailty is greater than the substance.’
‘It is not.’ The chieftain moved to a couch and lowered himself onto the cushions with a wince. ‘I feel thrice my age, Nuadhu, and though I am coherent now, there is no guarantee I will be cogent on demand.’
His eyes fluttered shut and a ragged breath wheezed from his thin lips. Nuadhu stood close at hand, caught in an agitated judder from one foot to the other, attention flitting between his father, the water pitcher beside him, the door to Naiall’s bedchamber, and the phials of elixir from the halls of healing on a cabinet by the wall.
‘Stop fluttering like a grieving moth,’ rasped the clan leader, eyes still closed. He waved a hand in the vague direction of the medicines and Nuadhu hurried across the room to fetch them.
Nuadhu returned with the handful of slender crystal bottles, each shimmering with a different colour. Naiall took them and started measuring out drops into a silver goblet, but a sudden palsy in his hands let slip a phial. Nuadhu caught it before it hit the carpet, and set it next to the others.
‘I know that there is still strength left in you, father, just as there is strength in Clan Fireheart.’ Nuadhu finished mixing the dosage and topped up the goblet with water. He looked into the liquid, summoning the words that gave voice to his quiet desperation, unable to look at his father. ‘We need… I need you to do this. If not, there is nothing that will be left for me when you pass.’
He hated appealing to his father’s sense of legacy, but distaste was preferable to obscurity. Nuadhu passed the elixir to his father. The liquid’s inner light shimmered golden on Naiall’s chalky skin before he lifted it uncertainly to his lips and swallowed it in one draught.
The chieftain straightened immediately, eyes fixing on Nuadhu. The Wild Lord met Naiall’s gaze, fearing what his father saw but determined that it would not be cowardice.
His father let out a long sigh. ‘Very well, I will call the council. And I will attend, if I can. Let me see this Druthkhala and hear what she has to say.’
Nuadhu opened his mouth to thank his father but Naiall waved away the gratitude and looked sternly at his son. ‘Let the others in,’ commanded the chieftain. ‘We must prepare while I still have thought intact and strength to speak.’
Nuadhu nodded and headed towards the antechamber.
‘But not Caelledhin!’ his father called out. When he continued, his mood was thoughtful. ‘I would not have my words carried on the swift wind to the ears of Clan Icewhisper.’
‘I am sure she w–’
‘She stands between two clans, my son.’ He opened his eyes, gaze a little brighter under the influence of the rejuvenating elixir. ‘It is better she is spared any conflict of the heart. If asked by her other family, she can speak truthfully that she knows nothing.’
It was the first time that Nuadhu had even considered the effect of Caelledhin’s dual kinship beyond the political ramifications. Unsure of his feelings on the matter, he moved to the door, trying to find the right words to dismiss her without insult.
It is an unavoidable fact of Saim-Hann’s character that a large part of its people’s unruly nature exists due to the distance the craftworld fled the aeldari capital worlds during the Fall. Not only did this engender a cultural worship of independence – and physical speed, to a lesser extent – but it also placed it among one of the later craftworlds to be visited by the Phoenix Lords of Asuryan. Saim-Hann’s culture post-Fall had developed for almost two generations before the arrival of the Phoenix Lord Drastanta, famed founder of the Shining Spears Aspect Warriors.
So it was that knowledge of the Asuryani Path that would come to define craftworld existence became enmeshed with Saim-Hann’s own attempts to survive the thirst of the Great Enemy and mitigate the excesses of spirit that had led to her creation. The clans were one part of that solution, so that kinship would always reign over any transitory cult, philosophy or fashion. Rather than indulging in exoticisms and sectarianism, the Saim-Hann’s political influences were directed towards less destructive familial rivalry. Ultimately the clan, and inter-clan relationships, kept occupied such minds that would otherwise chart a more dangerous course to ambition and power.
Another distinct cultural evolution that survived the adoption of Asuryani principles was the evolution of the Wild Riders. Where the Path later taught the people to quell their most unruly tendencies, and deal with their potentially self-destructive passions through various stages of their life, the Saim-Hann had opted to allow full but temporary expression of their innate extremity.
Nuadhu was the epitome of this permitted indulgence, being prone to tremendous acts of loyalty, generosity and love, but also victim to swift rages, dark lusts and selfishness. Though one could step aside from the Path to become a Wild Rider at any age, it was unsurprisingly most often adopted by those emerging from adolescence. In this regard Nuadhu was a little older than the majority of his peers, and Naiall’s untimely affliction had cast the responsibilities of a senior clan member upon Nuadhu at a time when he was meant to eschew anything but the expression of himself, in order that he would discover and expunge his most damaging personal traits before stepping upon the Path again.
The knowledge that clan leadership awaited the inevitable end of his time as a Wild Rider weighed heavily upon his thoughts as the clans attended to the council called by his father. To move from heir to chieftain was to travel the Path of Command, albeit in different fashion to those that claimed the title of autarch on other craftworlds. Rising upon one of three Fireheart cloud-barques above the Lake of Tranquil Sorrows at the heart of the Flameglades, Nuadhu stood next to the chair that held Naiall and watched the other entourages drifting across the landscape from other parts of the craftworld.
The chieftain wore a coat of heavy red material over his robes, its hood raised to conceal his hairless scalp and shadow his skull-like face. It had been agreed that his presence was enough to lend legitimacy to the proceedings. The majority of the actual discourse would be carried out by Neamyh, who stood on the other side of the specially constructed throne, which through hidden supports aided their chieftain in sitting upright.
‘It is an unfortunate truth that the chieftains of our people are perhaps the least qualified to lead them,’ his father wheezed.
Nuadhu was not sure if Naiall spoke to him or his cousin, and both of them bent closer to hear his wisdom.
‘How is that, my father?’
‘Ambition is one of the greatest vanities of our people, my son. When aspiration becomes ambition, it eats away at all other resolution, with the desire for power becoming an end in its own right rather than the means. There is a part in each of us that delights in the domination of others, but also in manipulation and the feeling of superiority gained from political victory.’
‘You do the council a disservice, uncle,’ said Neamyh. ‘Yourself, in particular. Without the chieftains to guide us, we would be prey to the whims of the seers like other craftworlds.’
They turned their eyes to the elaborate floating barge that held the representatives of the Saim-Hann seers. It hung not far above the waters, the red-robed figures upon its decks reflected in the still surface. Nuadhu could follow the tracery of orbiting runes and the glimmer of golden witch-sign as they continued the
ir prognostications ready for the start of the clan council.
‘Introspection is perhaps as much of an indulgence as self-ignorance, but I near the end of my mortal span, many passes before I thought it would happen. It forces one to evaluate life differently. Do you know why it is to the elders that rule of the clans usually falls?’
Nuadhu, one of the youngest aeldari present, became aware of his father’s inquiring gaze upon him. The heir shook his head. ‘Because we look to your experience?’
‘Because we have nothing better to do.’ Naiall laughed, but his humour brought on a short coughing fit that wracked his cadaverous body. Nuadhu held back from offering assistance, cognisant of his father’s instructions to draw no attention to his physical weakness during the council. When he recovered his shallow breaths, he continued. ‘Citos of Alaitoc said it best. “No matter where we move upon the Path, or leave it altogether, there is one thing we cannot leave behind, that shall ever shadow all that we do.”’
‘Death?’ suggested Neamyh, giving voice to the answer that had come to Nuadhu also. This earned a scowl from Naiall.
‘Ourselves,’ he told them. ‘We can control our anger and grief, harness the power of our merest thought, embrace every creative urge that wells up between us, but none of that releases us from who we are. Those that have travelled the Path for some time, and have experienced the fullness of life as Wild Riders, must inevitably come to the conclusion that all we have mastered is within us, we have yet to make any real mark upon the external world. Boredom beckons for the mind unoccupied, and so we turn to politics to add meaning to an existence that is, in all likelihood, without purpose beyond simple biology.’
Nuadhu swallowed hard, trying to hide his shock. It had been some time since his father had spoken at such length, and it pained the heir to hear Naiall use his precious energy to denigrate himself and his position. More so, it deepened Nuadhu’s fears of assuming the mantel of chieftain, which at that moment seemed even more of a trap than ever.
He shared a glance with Neamyh, wondering if this cantankerous turn of mind was related to the encroaching illness. Naiall lapsed into a brooding silence, allowing Nuadhu the opportunity to direct his attention back to the other clan barges converging across the Lake of Tranquil Sorrows. He felt a flutter of apprehension at the number of clans that had responded. The air above the lake was filling fast and more sky-barges were gathering.
‘See, father, when Naiall of Clan Fireheart speaks, many still listen.’
The chieftain said nothing at first and Nuadhu wondered if he had been heard, or perhaps that his father had lapsed into one of his waking-comas that on occasion robbed him of speech and senses. Concern growing cold in his breast, he was about to signal for Yerias of the Healer’s Hall when his father roused with a murmur.
‘Morbid curiosity,’ he muttered. ‘I am, if nothing, even more of an enigma of late. I know that we…’
He slumped forward, one hand raised to his brow. Nuadhu stooped, thinking the chieftain would fall from his chair – and noticing that his cousin made no move to assist the ailing lord. Naiall waved him away with a flick of skeletal fingers as he straightened. His eyes glimmered silver and veins pulsed through transparent skin. It lasted just a few heartbeats and then his paleness returned, for once seeming an improvement.
‘A side effect of the elixirs,’ the clan leader explained. ‘We cannot afford for the council to drag on.’
‘A rare hope,’ said Neamyh. ‘Chieftains love the sound of their own voices. Present company excepted, of course.’
Nuadhu looked around, trying to judge how long it would be until the other attendees had assembled. He counted nearly a hundred clans, gathered in their broader family groups – each defined by its elemental roots, such as the clans Frostwind, Fellwinter, Frostwave, Icewhisper and a dozen more almost directly opposite the barque of Clan Fireheart. His own family and their closest allies numbered less than a score now – the clans Flamespirit, Firelord, Truespark, Soulflame and others waited to the left and right of their ancestral leader.
‘I do not see Druthkhala,’ he told his father. ‘She sent word that she had a message from Yvraine.’
‘And therein we find the cause of our popularity,’ replied Naiall. ‘A double novelty, to see a crippled chieftain and one of Yvraine’s deadly maidens.’
‘The seers have come in considerable number,’ remarked Neamyh.
‘Does that favour or hinder our cause?’ asked Nuadhu.
No reply was forthcoming from his companions, for the minds of seers are as difficult to delve as the skein of fate upon which they venture.
He felt a ripple of activity through the infinity circuit. A sudden swell of expectation spread across the proceedings and he turned, guided by the accumulated thoughts of the others. From behind him came a jetbike with a rider, small among the stately drift of barques and galleasses.
His eagerness to lay eyes again upon Druthkhala Shadowspite was tempered by apprehension. Like the intent of the seers, her purpose was impossible to know. Questions raced through his mind about Yvraine and her people, and what it might mean not just for Saim-Hann but for Clan Fireheart.
‘Be glad that she comes,’ Naiall told him. ‘That she needs to speak to the council means Yvraine intends to have dealings with Saim-Hann. If she did not, there would be no sense in seeking this audience.’
Nuadhu accepted this wisdom with a nod, eyes still fixed on the rapidly approaching rider. Other gazes followed her with equal interest, drawn not just by attraction but also political consideration, doubtless hoping to extract some small advantage from foretelling her route, perhaps to read into it some meaning of her intent.
The pale skin of Druthkhala’s arms, thighs and midriff was barely visible beneath startling tattoos, each of the several hundred images a depiction of tiny vignettes of bloodshed. Her face was decorated, cheeks and brow marked by spider-like designs. The wych-rider’s hair was the equal of any Wild Rider crest, red and black tied in complex braids that flew in the speed of her passing, held from her face by a tiara of long spikes adorned with jewels fashioned in the shape of skulls.
It was with some disappointment that Nuadhu watched her fly past, with not even a look towards Clan Fireheart, and no glance for him. A pang of guilt wracked the heir as he realised his chagrin was more personal than political. He fought back a flush of anger at being snubbed, but it was hard not to feel that he had been used and discarded.
Chapter 6
HARD ANSWERS
As Druthkhala started to speak, Caelledhin watched the other attendees more than the Ynnari representative. The number of clan leaders that had responded to the call from Naiall was even greater than those that had witnessed Druthkhala’s first audience. Those that had not seen the emissary before stared with a mix of unalloyed lust or disgust in equal measure; those chieftains that had attended previously watched the Commorraghan with a mix of veiled expressions, apathy and outright cynicism. Given her experience so far, she was inclined to agree with the last group.
‘By your own means you will have learnt of what transpired upon the world of Agarimethea,’ the Ynnari began. ‘Not a maiden world as we thought, but a tomb kingdom of the necrontyr, lain dormant beneath the surface since the earliest times of our people. A dormant threat now awoken.’
Caelledhin felt Nuadhu stiffen at her side, but Druthkhala made no direct comment about who it had been that had awakened the slumbering dead. As well she should not, for though it had been Nuadhu’s approach that had seemed to activate the tomb complex, it had been Druthkhala’s intent to venture to Agarimethea in the first place.
‘In our discovery we find hope, for Agarimethea is indeed home to a vault of the old aeldari, guarded by the fortifications and defenders of the necrontyr. As my companion so accurately summarised,’ she now glanced at Nuadhu, ‘if the necrontyr wish to clutch on to this prize then we should endeavour
to relinquish them of the vault’s contents.’
‘I say we let them keep whatever ashes and dust they want,’ called out Ameridath Frostwind. He stepped to the edge of his clan’s barque and waved a hand palm-up towards his allies gathered close about. ‘Who are we to stir further the Unliving Terror for the aggrandisement of Yvraine?’
Druthkhala looked to rebut the accusation, but another of the chieftains cut her off – Yrannae Fellwinter. The revered war leader stood upon the prow of a small audience-yacht as though leading a charge across the waters of the Flameglades.
‘Not without concern do the desires of Yvraine fall upon a craftworld, Druthkhala Shadowspite. Shall we listen to the laments of Biel-tan and Iyanden, or perhaps ask the leaders of Ulthwé what good comes from consort with the followers of the Whispering God?’
‘It is because–’ started Druthkhala, but she was offered no more chance to speak, the victim of a well-prepared diplomatic ambush. Cuithella Frostwave – a distant aunt of Caelledhin – rained down the next rhetorical attack, her pale blue coat caught in a sudden breeze across the lake adding a further touch of drama to the proceedings.
‘Already the sons and daughters of Saim-Hann lie dead upon Agarimethea!’ She thrust an accusing finger towards the throne-barge of Clan Fireheart. ‘Blood from this craftworld has been spilt for your mistress with nothing but woe in return.’
Caelledhin saw Druthkhala’s fingers flexing, as though she longed for a weapon in her grip. As much as the Commorraghan feigned civility, there were signs of her inherent depravity below the surface. One could remove the wych from the arena, but not the arena from the wych. Her stare was venomous, darting from one accuser to the next, her jaw set tight with unreleased fury.
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 6