Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Only my expectations,’ he said. ‘It seems so normal. I suppose I thought that the ship of Yvraine would be more… I don’t know. Less like a craftworld starship.’

  ‘Yvraine thought that you would be more comfortable in these surroundings, rather than aboard a former drukhari ship,’ said Druthkhala.

  ‘Probably wise,’ said Nuadhu, throwing a glance towards his aunt and cousins clustered near the foot of the ramp.

  At a signal from Druthkhala, two grav-rafts floated over to them, each piloted by an Ynnari. They were clad in less aggressive attire – jackets and trousers in pastel colours, the red of the Ynnari worn as a headband by one, a sash around the waist of the other. Both of them smiled warmly and waved for the Clan Fireheart delegation to climb aboard their transporters.

  ‘We shall await my father,’ said Nuadhu, sensing his family’s reluctance.

  It was not long before Naiall slid into view, reclined upon a floating couch. To those that knew no better, it would have appeared a statement of decadent repose. In truth, the chieftain was barely able to lift a hand or head, and such movement was achieved only at cost of pain and effort, and through the aid of more stimulating elixirs.

  In the last half a dozen cycles, Nuadhu had spent more time with his father than in the previous thousand cycles of his affliction. In that time, the clan heir’s appreciation of his father’s condition had grown considerably. He no longer considered him simply a comatose invalid, and a pang of guilt twisted his gut that he had thought that way before. Naiall had moments of waxing and waning, unpredictable in their occurrence and length, but signifying marked changes in his abilities.

  His father was, unfortunately, on the decline for the time being. The journey to the Ynnead’s Dream had been swift, and the audience would have to be short. If his father had not expended a potentially self-harming amount of energy insisting on seeing Yvraine, the family would have cancelled the visitation altogether.

  They parted as the grav-seat descended the ramp, and fell into line to each side. Nuadhu tried not to think of them as bier-companions alongside a funeral casket.

  Naiall said nothing, barely awake as he drifted the conveyance to the closest grav-raft. With the assistance of Alyasa, Nuadhu guided the platform onto the raft and the two of them sat beside the chieftain. Druthkhala mounted the anti-grav transport after shepherding the rest of the small contingent to the other.

  With a look from the Bloodbride, the driver guided them out of the docking hall and into the starship’s interior.

  The first thing that Nuadhu noticed was the quietness. Not in the ear, though a near-silence permeated the Ynnead’s Dream. The stillness was in his mind and it took a short while before he pinpointed its cause – the dormancy of the ship’s psychic matrix. Like a smaller version of Saim-Hann’s infinity circuit, every craftworlder ship from the smallest scow to the battleships was infused with the same conductive crystalline material. The psychic power of the crew – and any spirit stone planted within the matrix – gave a semblance of life to the vessel, allowing it to respond to the thoughts of those aboard, whether passengers or captain.

  The absence was like a deadening of the senses, so that everything seemed muted and faded.

  ‘Why the sour look?’ asked Druthkhala. They momentarily passed through shadow as the raft slipped beneath a low arch, traversing into the main hall towards the centre of the ship. It started to lift higher, passing several more decks before continuing towards the prow.

  ‘I cannot feel the ship,’ said Nuadhu. He looked at Alyasa. ‘How does it feel to you?’

  ‘Subdued,’ replied the windweaver. He turned his head left and then right, as though sniffing the air. ‘There is a spirit network, but it is barely functional. However, I sense something else, a vibrancy on the edge of sensation.’

  ‘You feel the Whisper,’ said Druthkhala, her lips forming a rare smile of contentment at the thought.

  ‘What is the Whisper?’ asked Nuadhu.

  It was Alyasa that responded first. The windweaver’s thoughtful expression was bathed in brighter light as the transport ascended again, into a short avenue beneath a star-filled sky.

  ‘I have heard the seers speak of it, and I sense it now and then when we transit upon the webway. It is the voice of Ynnead.’

  ‘Carried in the souls of the dead,’ added Druthkhala.

  ‘But you are psychically stunted,’ said Alyasa, shaking his head. ‘The drukhari cannot tap into an infinity circuit naturally, how can you hear the Whisper of Ynnead and yet I cannot?’

  ‘I was born into a drukhari body but I have an aeldari soul,’ Druthkhala told them. ‘A spirit that has persisted since the time of the dominion, before we were splintered. Commorragh exists within the webway, separated only from the naked Realm of Chaos by the engineering of the Old Ones and the sacrifices of alien psykers. Their pain, their terror, feeds the engines that maintain the barriers against invasion, because as you know an unfettered aeldari mind might become a gateway through those wards.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the windweaver. ‘Rather than practise restraint, you curb your potential altogether. Generations of selective mutation have all but bred the best quality of our people from you.’

  ‘Only its activation, the potential remains,’ said Druthkhala. ‘Our founders slew the most prominent psykers, eliminating the beacons that drew the daemons, but we can no more eradicate our heightened spirits than we can remove the necessity for breath. The presence of Yvraine, her proximity to her Bloodbrides since her awakening, has released some of that potential again.’

  ‘You said the dead carry the voice of Ynnead,’ said Nuadhu. He kept his voice low, conscious of his father beside him, though Naiall seemed oblivious for the moment, locked in a half-waking state.

  ‘The Whisper is the force that binds the Ynnari together. It is the potential that pushed us for all of our prior lives, the source of our discontent, our aeldari souls straining for release. The Asuryani, the drukhari, the Exodites and the others are but fragments of the completeness of our people. When we are Reborn, we become aeldari once more, and in doing so can use the lifeforce of the departed. We have no need of crude infinity circuits and spirit stones of the craftworlds, nor the tortures and depravities of Commorragh. We are united by the Whisper.’

  Nuadhu was going to delve further but they slid to a stop beside a narrow corridor. Druthkhala stepped down to the ochre-tiled floor and signalled for them to follow while the other raft drew up alongside. Nuadhu again helped with his father’s bier while the rest of the delegation dismounted and joined them. Without ceremony, Druthkhala led them along the narrow passageway to a small door at the end, somewhere close to the prow of the warship as Nuadhu reckoned it.

  ‘What manner of audience hall is this?’ said Neamyh as the Bloodbride strode to the door and lifted a hand towards it.

  ‘This is a battleship,’ Druthkhala replied coldly. ‘It does not have audience halls. Yvraine deigns to allow you to her own chambers, away from scrutiny. It is a rare honour she does you, for few outside of the Ynnari have walked these decks, and few even within the Ynnari have passed this door.’

  Cowed by Druthkhala’s aggression, Neamyh withdrew behind her mother, who trod the Path of the Warrior and was not to be so easily dominated. Marifsa drew herself up, looked Druthkhala in the eye and nodded that they were ready.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Alyasa. He bent over Naiall, a phial of pale green liquid unstoppered in his hand. He let a few drops fall upon the lips of the chieftain, who licked at the wetness. A few heartbeats later, Naiall’s eyelids fluttered open and a heavier breath passed from his lungs.

  ‘We are here, our lord,’ said the windweaver. ‘Yvraine awaits our visit.’

  It took a little while longer until Naiall sat up, limbs trembling from effort. He drew a ragged breath and swung his legs from the bier.

  ‘Brother…�
�� Marifsa stepped close and placed a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. ‘Do not let pride deliver a greater injury upon you.’

  ‘Thank you, but it is not only pride,’ the chieftain replied with a faltering smile. ‘I wish to exercise my body whilst I have the strength to do so.’

  He let her help him to his feet and stood swaying for a moment before letting go.

  ‘Very good,’ said Marifsa, stepping back.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Druthkhala asked softly, though Nuadhu detected a hint of impatience.

  ‘One does not rush a chieftain of the clans,’ he said archly, instantly regretting his tone when the Bloodbride turned a withering look upon him.

  ‘And one does not keep the Opener of the Seventh Way sitting idly,’ she growled back, placing a hand upon the door pad.

  The portal sighed open at her command and she stepped within. She had made no gesture for them to follow, yet there was no pronouncement of their arrival forthcoming either. Naiall took the lead, taking a few steps towards the door before holding out an arm for his sister. Marifsa was beside Naiall in a heartbeat, arm entwined with his, and together they crossed the threshold.

  As with the docking hall, Nuadhu was not sure what his expectations were, but the interior certainly did not match them. How exactly did one furnish for the Opener of the Seventh Way, Emissary of Ynnead, chosen one of the God of the Dead? Many were the rumours concerning her origins, but it was widely accepted that she had been born into the Asuryani, and had travelled the Path for some time before departing for the life of an outcast. What adventures and terrors she had experienced in that time were known only to her, but they took her to the dark city of Commorragh and the brutal arena fights of the Crucibael. Treasures and trophies from such a lifetime could come from far across the galaxy.

  What he had not been expecting was a tall, elaborate and clearly much-used scratching post.

  It looked like a six-armed mannequin made of bones, almost waist-high, covered in coloured tassels, ribbons and frayed yarn. A largish blue-furred feline paused mid-swipe of a ball and looked at him, yellow eyes narrowed. The gyrinx proceeded to nonchalantly bat the fluffy sphere and then retreated haughtily across the chamber.

  In following the feline’s progress, Nuadhu found himself gazing into a chamber not even as large as his bedroom in the Flameglades. It was mostly bare, the floor covered with a synthesised wood, except for a long red rug leading from the door. Scarlet drapery obscured the pale walls, and from the ceiling shimmer-flies in gilded crystal cages illuminated the scene with their pale blue light. The gyrinx shied away from a figure armoured in ornate red plate who stood to the right. Slinking close to the floor, the familiar headed to his mistress.

  Yvraine sat upon a high-backed throne grander than Naiall’s. Like the rest of the room, the chair was upholstered in deep red – what was visible behind the voluminous gown of its occupant. The frame was pale, and with a quickening of the pulse Nuadhu realised that, like the gyrinx’s post, it was constructed of bone. He was not sufficiently versed in alien anatomical details, but recognised skeletal limbs, ribcages and vertebrae. They were, thankfully, all far too thick and heavy to be aeldari remains.

  The Opener of the Seventh Way sat in cold repose, hands upon her lap, a blade-edged fan held lightly. Her elaborate court dress was layered over a stiff white bodice, which left her black undersuit revealed across the shoulders and arms. Her skin was translucently pale – unsettlingly similar to the effect of the affliction on Naiall’s skin. Her scalp was bald save for an enormous topknot of white hair that fell about her shoulders and over the arms of the throne like threads of silk. Over her right shoulder, on the back of the chair, hung a scabbard, a long hilt protruding. The infamous blade Kha-vir, the Sword of Sorrows. Even a sheath could not contain the chilling aura of the blade, as a dusting of ice coated the side of the chair and wisps of vapour coiled up from the scabbard. Nuadhu felt a scratching on his psychic sense, and wondered if what he detected was an echo of the Whisper.

  Thoughts of the sword drew his eye to its companion blade at the waist of an imposing warrior. The Sword of Silent Screams, Asu-var. Its wielder had remained motionless during the arrival of Naiall and his entourage, but now that all were within the chamber – almost uncomfortably so given it was not that large – the Visarch turned and bowed to the chieftain.

  ‘I have never had the honour,’ said the warrior, his voice resonating from within his all-enclosing helm. ‘Even so, the name of Naiall Fireheart has carried further and with greater respect than you might think.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied the clan chief, a little uncertainly. Marifsa stayed close as she guided Naiall to a chair indicated by Yvraine.

  ‘Welcome to the Ynnead’s Dream,’ said the Opener of the Seventh Way. Her gaze moved lightly from one visitor to the next, though she remained seated and immobile, and settled intently on Naiall. ‘You have my thanks for assisting Druthkhala, my lips and breath upon your world. And my sorrow for your losses in venturing to Agarimethea on my behalf. Though it is of little content, I am sure, know that they travelled to Ynnead’s realm and will be saved.’

  ‘We would rather they had stayed in ours,’ said Neamyh. She spoke quietly, angered but controlled, her forced politeness so sharp as to be eviscerating. ‘It is little comfort that they rest now with Ynnead instead of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. We trust that in time their deeds will come to have meaning, Lady Yvraine.’

  ‘When Ynnead rises, all will be saved,’ said Yvraine, not deigning to turn her eyes from Naiall. ‘The living and the dead shall all become the Reborn.’

  ‘In Ynnead we shall be Reborn,’ whispered Druthkhala. Nuadhu noticed that she was much subdued in the presence of her mistress, stood to one side with her head bowed and turned slightly aside from him.

  ‘Your need is as great as mine,’ said Yvraine. She stood up, and as she did so, her gown parted along memory seams, falling away like the chrysalis of a new butterfly. Clad in a skin-tight black bodysuit, her cascade of hair flowing to the floor, the Emissary of Ynnead paced slowly across the room and stopped before Naiall. She raised her hand and seemed to caress the air around him, eyelids fluttering. ‘Though more personal in nature.’

  ‘What does she mean?’ asked Marifsa, stepping defensively towards her brother.

  ‘They do not know?’ Yvraine frowned slightly, stepping back.

  ‘It is my burden,’ Naiall replied quickly. ‘No other needs to share it. Now that we have met, do you still wish an alliance?’

  ‘I can help you, yes, if you are willing to help me,’ said Yvraine. She returned to her chair and sat, the folds of her courtier garb embracing her once more. ‘The longer we wait, the greater the foes we will face. The Unliving are stirring on Agarimethea and we would do well to act swiftly.’

  ‘That was my wish,’ said Nuadhu, feeling that he had been ignored so far. ‘I will lead the Wild Riders beside the Ynnari, if you will come.’

  ‘It will take more than the Wild Riders, more than Clan Fireheart, to defeat the necrontyr,’ said the Visarch. ‘Against a foe that will not die, on its own tomb world?’

  ‘We are not looking to destroy them, but to open the vault,’ said Nuadhu. ‘A precise strike, carefully timed. When we have the contents of the vault, doubtless the tide of battle will move in our favour, or we can withdraw.’

  ‘Your strategy has merit,’ said Yvraine. She flicked a look to Druthkhala and then back to Nuadhu. ‘And you have shown yourself to be brave and resourceful. Even so, if more of Saim-Hann can be roused to the effort, the better our chances of success. It is victory we seek, after all, not simply individual glory.’

  Nuadhu smarted at these words, unsure if they were directed at him in particular. If so, he wondered what else Druthkhala had said about him.

  ‘What forces can you put at my disposal?’ he asked, trying to clothe himsel
f in the mantle of a leader. ‘The greater the effort put forward, the more seriously the council will take the endeavour.’

  ‘At your disposal?’ The Visarch seemed amused by the thought. The crimson-helmed warrior’s head tilted to one side as he regarded Nuadhu for several heartbeats. ‘The Ynnari are at no one’s disposal save for Yvraine.’

  ‘We appreciate all effort on your part,’ said Naiall, darting his son a cautioning look.

  ‘I will lead the Ynnari into battle,’ Yvraine told them.

  ‘How many?’ Nuadhu asked again. ‘The council will want to know what host the Ynnari send.’

  ‘My son is right, in his way,’ said Naiall. ‘Let me be blunt, Yvraine. The clan leaders will not wish to see more risked by Saim-Hann than by your people. If blood is to be spilt, they think it should come from the Ynnari, whose actions they feel precipitated this course of events.’

  ‘What do you think precipitated this course of events, Naiall?’ Yvraine asked quietly.

  The chieftain smiled sadly.

  ‘Fate,’ he replied. ‘Yours and ours has been bound together since you sent Druthkhala to Saim-Hann. I understand that you are closely acquainted with the myths of Morai-Heg?’

  Yvraine glanced back at the cronesword hanging from the throne.

  ‘I bear a shard of the goddess’ finger, so I have more than passing knowledge of the Ender of Fates,’ replied the Opener of the Seventh Way.

  ‘Then perhaps what transpires now is simply the culmination of events set into motion long ago.’ Naiall looked at the Visarch and then back to Yvraine. ‘Before even Ynnead attempted to rise.’

  Yvraine considered this, but Nuadhu realised he had again been pushed to one side. And his question had not been answered.