Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  Yet serpents often showed more hot-blooded empathy than Caelledhin’s family.

  She opened her eyes, lashes flecked with the touch of frost. The spiralhorn found its long stride and they raced along the bank-lined road, the dark red petals of cold-flowering roses creating a wall of blossom to either side.

  It was impossible not to be moved by the surroundings, and Caelledhin remembered the few happy moments of her childhood: times spent with her mother laughing as they carved ice sculptures in the frozen caves below the towers, or riding narrow sliprunners pulled by fastidiously bred peakwolves. She could recall taking off her gloves to run her fingers through the thick fur of her beast’s ruff, drinking in the comfort of connection to the panting animal.

  Her grandfather had later chided her and scowled at her mother, and the recollection of it tarnished the memory. Carefree had not been an attitude encouraged by the Lord of the White Palace, perhaps the reason her mother had been driven into the arms of Naiall Fireheart.

  Their route took them between the lesser towers, winding down the long slope from the dome’s main entrance. She saw her reflection in the faceted lower storeys, a smear of colour against white and grey and palest blue. Beneath the off-white of her cloak she still wore the robe of a Fireheart, a splash of red in a wintry wilderness. She had considered changing it, but with her mood already fouled by the debacle at the council, she had left the Flameglades immediately. Regret told her that she should pause and change in one of her cousins’ apartments, but the reason for her visit hardened her resolve. She admitted to herself that she hoped her garb caused offence, because at least it would be her relatives that started the inevitable argument rather than her.

  The road wound down the last part of the slope and towards one of the lesser gates of the White Palace. The driver said nothing, face hidden in a swathe of scarves and hood, but had obviously been instructed to take this course. It was a not-so-subtle rebuke, the lower entrances reserved for guests rather than family members. The message was not lost on Caelledhin.

  Retainers – clan members following the Path of Service – hurried from their heated cabins beside the gate tower, one of them taking the halter of the spiralhorn, the other bringing a step for Caelledhin to alight onto the hard ice. She enjoyed the crunch underfoot as she headed beneath the open gateway and into the courtyard beyond. Across the square, she was greeted by another doorway flanked by two more clan functionaries. They bobbed their heads in perfunctory fashion, avoiding her gaze.

  One followed inside and took her offered cloak, folding it neatly as she waited for the matching gloves.

  ‘The Hall of Constants,’ the servant murmured, waving a hand towards the corridor that ran away to the left.

  ‘I know the way,’ replied Caelledhin, more sharply than she had intended. It was not the fault of the retainer that she was being treated as a stranger. She turned to apologise but the other aeldari had already soundlessly slipped away and closed the door.

  Her heart growing heavier with every step, Caelledhin navigated the narrow corridors and winding staircases towards the Hall of Constants. Although in appearance the White Palace seemed sculpted from a single immense block of ice, it was nothing of the sort. Warm air currents kept it tolerable even though she wore only a short robe, her lower legs bare, feet encased in ankle-high boots.

  The humiliation continued when she reached the antechamber of the Hall of Constants. There was no door warden to announce her, but the broad double-doors remained shut, the filigreed crest of Clan Icewhisper ornamenting the tall columns that flanked the portal.

  There was a small infinity circuit node in a pedestal just beside the door. She placed her hand upon the polished red stone and it lit up at her touch, sending psychic fibres into her thoughts, connecting her with the clan spirits.

  ‘Caelledhin Icewhisper,’ she announced, though the soul-network had recognised her at the moment of contact.

  A pulse of permission – not welcome – accompanied the hiss of the doors opening outwards, revealing the stately audience chamber of Laileh Icewhisper, Caelledhin’s great aunt and matriarch of the clan.

  It was not a large hall. The Icewhisper family did not host large gatherings of outsiders, and so the audience chamber could house perhaps three dozen guests with room to mingle and dance alongside an orchestra of humble size. Low benches and tables were assembled in a circular grouping in the middle, arranged so that when all were seated they faced each other, leaving room about the perimeter for individuals and small groups to move unobstructed, and for the attendants to engage in their duties from the smaller entrances at the back of the hall.

  There were no windows, but a crystal dome broke the pale ceiling above the seating, the winter half-light augmented by the gleam of icicle-like protrusions. There was not the slightest waver or flicker in the illumination, hence the name of the hall, so that one felt encased in a shell of cool blue light.

  The ageing chieftain sat on a bench flanked by identical twin infants, a story crystal held in her open palm. The gem flickered moving images that matched the words as Laileh quietly narrated one of the traditional clan tales to her most recent familial additions. Caelledhin saw a shifting picture of a small child venturing onto the deck of an ice skiff and knew the story immediately – the Tale of the Wayward Niece.

  Even in this, Caelledhin recognised an unveiled reprimand. The lady did not look up as her great-niece approached.

  One of Caelledhin’s brothers was amongst the coterie of attendants. Navaesaidth was only a little older, the first of Iyothia’s sons, born to Alsaethaim Frostwind. He wore a pale grey coat of straight cut, his dark hair plaited close to his scalp and hanging like rope down his back. His expression matched his severe clothing.

  ‘Lady Laileh is engaged,’ he said without any introduction, stepping across Caelledhin’s route.

  ‘And a welcome to you, my brother,’ Caelledhin replied with curled lip, unimpressed. She made a point of looking around the hall. ‘Where is Alsaethaim?’

  ‘My father is also busy.’

  ‘What slight offence did you cause the lady to earn yourself this role?’ Caelledhin asked as she moved towards one of the empty benches, knowing she would receive no invitation.

  ‘I volunteered for it,’ Navaesaidth told her with more relish than was entirely decorous among the etiquette of the clan. ‘I have hoped to speak to you for some time.’

  ‘I am sure that your father has sowed in you his own bitterness at the perceived betrayal of our mother,’ said Caelledhin sitting down, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Spare us both the time spent of empty admonishments.’

  ‘I will. Your presence is disruption enough, I shall not expend any more effort than necessary to see you on your way. Why have you come to the White Palace, Caelledhin?’

  ‘Why did you not come to the clan council? I am sure I heard Lady Laileh’s sentiments from the mouths of her friends. Why did she not utter them herself?’

  ‘Against the advice of some, Lady Laileh did not wish to crush utterly Naiall Fireheart’s petition.’

  ‘Really? So she organised an ambush by her puppets in the lesser clans instead?’

  Navaesaidth smirked, an uncommon show of amusement.

  ‘I am sure that the clans Fellwinter, Frostwave and others would disagree at being called lesser by any member of Clan Fireheart.’

  ‘I bear the name Icewhisper,’ snapped Caelledhin, raising her voice so that her words would reach Lady Laileh. ‘I once did so with pride.’

  ‘You cannot stand with a foot upon each river bank,’ her brother said, folding his arms. ‘You call yourself Icewhisper but act like a Fireheart. Your father… Naiall Fireheart did this clan a great dishonour when he stole your mother from the embrace of her family.’

  ‘There was no theft,’ snorted Caelledhin. ‘Iyothia made no vows to your father, nor to the clan. He wished to be
bound to the fortunes of Clan Icewhisper and she desired to be a mother.’

  ‘And then sought the congress of another. She used the name of Icewhisper and then discarded all that it meant.’

  ‘She was born into it! It was your father that wished to position himself higher within the family.’ She stood up, throwing out her hands in exasperation. ‘Tired arguments, long depleted of any merit. Our mother is dead and Naiall Fireheart upon the brink himself. Will this vendetta end when he is gone? What if I should have children – will the perceived slight of my father follow them down the generations?’

  A slight cough silenced the two of them. Lady Laileh had passed the story crystal to one of her daughters and seemed to glide across the floor towards them, as serene as an ice floe on a current. Hands clasped together at her waist, she stopped next to Navaesaidth.

  ‘It is Naiall’s stubbornness that fuels this argument,’ the chieftain declared in a soft tone, no hint of rancour. ‘Had he desired to make Iyothia his betrothed and joined the clan of Icewhisper, all would be well.’

  ‘And you really expected him to give up the name of Fireheart, sacrificing his clan?’

  ‘It is said that he and your mother loved each other. If that is so, what small price is a name?’

  Caelledhin could think of no retort, and felt as though she had been lured into a trap. She sought to change the subject to cover her regret.

  ‘What the seers have proclaimed threatens the entire craftworld, lady.’

  ‘If that is so, Naiall Fireheart will wish to put the good of Saim-Hann above the petty needs of his own ambition,’ the lady replied. ‘He can have the support of Clan Icewhisper. All he needs to do is name you clan heir rather than that idiot of a son, Nuadhu.’

  Caelledhin stepped back, distancing herself from the thought.

  ‘You deserve this, Caelledhin,’ Lady Laileh continued, following with hand outstretched, seeking an arm to lay it upon. ‘What has Naiall done for you save provide the seed for your creation? He could not even protect your mother.’

  Caelledhin recoiled again, disgusted. ‘Do not pretend you have concern for me. I have no desire to usurp my half-brother.’

  Lady Laileh’s laugh was as chill as the veneer of the hall.

  ‘Even you do not believe that, child, so do not expect me to swallow such falsehood. You know that Nuadhu will be a disaster for Clan Fireheart. If you have any regard for your mother’s wishes, her desire for Naiall’s family to prosper, you will take this message to him. If you are named clan heir, I will personally summon a council and back the expedition to Agarimethea. Better yet, Naiall will call the council and I shall support him in front of all the others. Forget the uncertain boon of Yvraine’s alliance, you know that my word will turn the fortunes of Clan Fireheart around.’

  Caelledhin stormed away, flustered and angered by the offer. She knew that Laileh wished nothing more than to erase the name of Fireheart from the rolls of Saim-Hann’s clans. She wanted to install Caelledhin as a puppet for her own schemes. Even should Naiall see sense and name his daughter heir of the clan independently of any offer made, Caelledhin realised now that she would never be free of the influence of her great aunt.

  As she reached the door, the lady’s voice carried to her.

  ‘Ask yourself, child, what are you willing to do for your family, and for the craftworld?’

  To try to ensnare her by demanding this in return for supporting the attack on the necrontyr was even more insidious than Caelledhin had expected. She turned, shoulders hunched, but could not find the words to respond. Frustrated, she fled, desperately holding back her tears.

  Metallic scuttling broke the stillness. With the sound came illumination, pale and sickly, but strengthening as dormant energy conduits broke the stasis of aeons. The thrum of returning Unlife burrowed deep into the catacombs, stretching along deserted subterranean avenues. Tomb after tomb creaked as ageless circuitry started to flare with purpose once more.

  The slow passing of countless lifespans had taken its toll. Here and there the darkness prevailed. Fractured links cut off whole precincts of tomb-denizens. Entire wake-routines fragmented into nonsensical loops and subsystems, partially restoring some incumbents, cutting off the last vestiges of life from others. As one logic gate after another opened, the cascade effect passed more and more power into the deeper recesses.

  Mausoleums of the massed Unliving sparked into wakefulness while insectoid canoptek guardians buzzed to and fro, and their larger controllers drifted more sedately along the broader passages. The life-signal reached the isolated chamber at the heart of the laby­rinth, flushing energy through the inhabitant.

  The tiniest kernel of remaining awareness kindled into something more alert. Like a deepwater creature surfacing, the incumbent of the tomb’s king-barrow started on the path back to wakefulness, from silent darkness to energetic light.

  The system began by shunting the consciousness coil into its cranial receptor, burying the true vestige of intellect, personality and vitality within a sphere of material only a molecule wide but as dense as the heart of a star. With this core thus protected, the reanimator introduced the spark of life. Focusing enough power to run a mortal city for a considerable time, the tomb chamber flared the revitalising pulse through the dormant metal shell. The dull surface gave way to a glossy liquid sheen. Limbs trembled as they assimilated sensation for the first time in thirty million orbits of the world on which they had been grown.

  The exophagus peeled back, detaching thousands of tiny stasis-fibres from the hardening skin of the tomb’s occupant.

  Optical lenses burned into life, filling the chamber with their distinctive jade gleam. Fingers flexed, testing their reaction and strength.

  With physicality came memory, though scattered with swathes of painful static.

  The Watcher of the Dark sat up and gazed about her surroundings.

  Her neural connectivity strengthened and with the synthesis between Phaerakh and tomb came the realisation that she had been woken for a reason.

  Intruders.

  Worse still, the defence algorithms set down by her peers identified the nature of the world’s attacker.

  Aeldari.

  Equipped with only the scantest detail from the past, unable to process the current welter of data flowing from the sensory arrangements of the tomb city, the Watcher of the Dark stood up, acting on flesh-instinct, though her body was now wholly artificial. Even the neurons that flared with the thought had been fashioned by the artifices of her people to last forever – for all practical interpretation, of course.

  Activating a hexacellular bank of archival circuits, the Watcher of the Dark tried to ascertain what had transpired since she had slipped into hidden stasis.

  The archive was ruptured, overloaded by the wealth of data it had tried to collect.

  Perturbed – the storage archive had been sufficient to record for a hundred lifetimes – the Watcher of the Dark was forced to the conclusion that she had slumbered far longer than originally envisaged. Through the synaptic interface she discovered that wide tracts of Pantalikoa had so far failed to activate.

  Sudden urgency burned into her thoughts as a primary motivation archive erupted into full flow.

  The Panatheitik Vaults had to be preserved!

  She knew nothing but the terrible burden of wardship that had been laid upon her. Pantalikoa had awoken because the seal of the primary access route had been tampered with. Hurriedly she sent a flood of data-flecks coursing through the pathways of the main vault gate. It was intact.

  There was no relief at this resolution. Cursory analysis of the aeldari attack suggested that it was purely a scouting mission. Having found what they sought, it was highly likely they would wish to regain access to the Panatheitik Vaults.

  The Watcher of the Dark could not recall what was within the vaults that required such ind
omitable defence, but she was filled with the overwhelming need to ensure that they remained inviolate. Speculation would be reserved for later.

  Despatching summoning pulses to her Immortals and Lychguards, the Watcher of the Dark opened the door with a thought-spark and strode from her tomb with irrepressible purpose.

  The aeldari had to be destroyed.

  Chapter 9

  THE WILL OF YVRAINE

  As he stepped down from the boarding ramp of the Eltereth, Nuadhu could not help but feel underwhelmed. At his side, perhaps noting something in his demeanour, Druthkhala looked at him.

  ‘Is there something wrong with the Ynnead’s Dream?’ she asked as they paced onto the quayside. Not far behind them, Neamyh and several other family members ventured into the hold of the Ynnari capital ship, gazing around the cavernous space as though venturing into the lair of a murderous beast.

  Nuadhu looked at the field barrier above, through which the webway swirled with immaterial waves, and against the kaleidoscopic backdrop hung the sailed shapes of dozens more vessels. Some were even smaller than the Eltereth, none were larger than the Ynnead’s Dream. Within the energy canopy the docking hub was almost identical to others Nuadhu had seen aboard Asuryani ships. Arches led along the dockside into the interior of the battleship, while the arc of loading appendages waited in the shadows between them. A line of ten floating rafts awaited the disembarking visitors, attended to by aeldari clearly in the garb of craftworld guardians, though the colours of their former homes had been replaced by a uniform deep red that signified their allegiance to Yvraine. Their faces were hidden within tall helms of white, marked with runes upon the forehead. Nuadhu interpreted a few of them, reading such concepts as ‘truth’, ‘arisen’ and ‘dreaming’. Upon their chests were marked runes of Ynnead, the symbol of the Whispering God.