Needing to maintain some speed, Druthkhala broke away too, spiralling upwards with head craned over her shoulder to keep him in view, until she reached the apex of her manoeuvre. Thariansa started forward again, gaining momentum swiftly, thinking to have caught her unawares. As her opponent reached the point of commitment, Druthkhala killed the anti-grav impellors, dropping like a stone, wrenching a gasp from Nuadhu’s lungs.
She fell for four heartbeats, shrieking wind dragging at her hair, and then initiated the impellors again. The sudden inertia threw her backwards. Nuadhu imagined splints of pain along her back, but she held on, spear arm bent as Thariansa desperately braked, trying not to pass overhead. Throttling hard, the Ynnari sped up beneath him, bent low over her lance.
The Frostwave champion swept down his spear, turning hard into her attack, but her blow landed not upon his body, but striking the left-hand control vane behind his saddle. Nuadhu straightened as though the impact of the blow had struck him. Gritting her teeth against the jarring impact, Druthkhala twisted in the saddle to watch Thariansa’s jetbike pitch sideways, almost throwing him from the saddle. Holding on with his thighs, one hand wrestling at the controls, her opponent snarled an insult that was whipped away by distance and breeze.
Nuadhu heard jeers and insults as Druthkhala circled over the assembled clans – condemnations rising up from Thariansa’s supporters. Through the clamour there were calls for her disqualification, but they were shouted down by Nuadhu.
‘Surrender if you want,’ he called out, turning to his companions, urging them to add their own voices. ‘Save us the labour of watching you try to fight!’
Animated now, the other clans started cheering or berating, and Nuadhu was surprised to see several of the lesser clans he assumed were for the Frostwave champion openly supporting the Ynnari warrior.
‘See, there are still those that will follow daring and the call to glory,’ he said with a glance at Caelledhin, but she ignored him, looking pensive.
‘A victory here would be indisputable,’ said Naiall. ‘A surer success than an argument of words.’
The two riders circled until Illiaca signalled that the duel should continue. A tense silence fell across the dome again, broken only by the hiss of anti-grav motors and the occasional call of support to one or the other duellist.
Though far from crippled, Thariansa’s steed now laboured under his command, slipping sideways slightly for all forward progress made. Druthkhala wove back and forth, and Nuadhu realised that she was testing his reactions, and those of his jetbike. The Wild Lord noted that he turned more slowly to the left and assumed she would see the same. Thariansa’s deepening frown betrayed his own awareness of this fact as Druthkhala guided her mount in that direction, forcing him to slow so that she remained in front of him.
‘Come on and face me!’ the champion shouted, standing up with lance raised. ‘You fight like a skulking soul-thief, not a true warrior.’
Druthkhala said something to herself, lost in distance though Nuadhu thought he read the meaning in her lips as she swept down to the attack: ‘As you wish.’
Swallowing hard, his excitement replaced with apprehension again, Nuadhu watched the dark splinter that was Druthkhala falling from the high air, arrowing towards Thariansa. He had ridden alongside her at Agarimethea, but only now as an observer could he truly appreciate the violent poetry she embodied. Beneath her touch the jetbike was a part of her, as though she had spread wings and flew like a Swooping Hawk. Recalling the looping turns and sinuous twists of the duel so far, the Wild Lord took a visceral pleasure from the efficiency of her flying, with studied grace but no superfluous flourishes. What might seem to the uneducated eye to be prideful extravagances were in fact small interplays of lure and feint with her foe, every twitch of the controls a reaction to Thariansa’s movements or a temptation offered to him.
Disabling the control vane had been a stroke of Commorraghan genius, he realised, something he would have never considered. Neither would Thariansa or any other in the dome. So bound up in the ritual of the challenge, no Saim-Hann fighter would have thought beyond the bettering of their opponent. Received wisdom of generations had steered them towards the dogma of the duel, binding their thoughts against new interpretation. Was such a blow dishonourable?
Honour did not matter to Druthkhala, only victory. Nuadhu envied her that freedom, even as he knew he could not liberate himself from the boundaries that convention set upon him. Clan Frostwave and their cohort had thought to manipulate the laws of honour to cage Clan Fireheart, manoeuvring them into a duel they could not win. Instead their scheme would be turned upon them, guaranteeing that Naiall’s proposition to the council would be adopted and the craftworld would lend support to Yvraine.
Beside him, Caelledhin took in a sharp breath.
‘She has misjudged her course,’ his half-sister said, concerned. ‘Thariansa will parry from that angle and return the blow.’
‘No, she has fought perf…’ He trailed away, mouth dry, as he saw that Caelledhin was right. Thariansa had turned his jetbike on an intercepting course, but Druthkhala had not continued to push the advantage of her more manoeuvrable steed. In the coming head-to-head clash, she was giving up reach and the better angle of engagement.
Around him he heard disquieted murmuring from Naiall and others, and doubtless more contented observers in the opposing clans noted the same, some of them lifting fingers to point.
‘It makes no sense, why would she be so blind to it?’ Nuadhu gritted his teeth as he watched, trying to put himself in Druthkhala’s position. Perhaps her ignorance of the forms of the duel were not so much of a boon as he thought? Did she really not see how exposed she was? The duelling lance needed only to graze a body part to register the hit and all would be over – as a clan rather than personal matter there was no need for blood to be drawn in the cause of victory.
Realisation dawned, settling like a cold rock in Nuadhu’s gut. Not the acceptance that she would lose, but the chilling knowledge of what she had in mind. As though he himself wielded the spear, he could see now what the wych-rider intended.
As he had observed, she was not trying to prove herself best in the duel, but simply to win at any cost.
‘She is going to kill him,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Caelledhin shielded her eyes as the two blurs sped towards each other somewhere above the Clan Icewhisper cloud-raft.
‘She is going to ram her steed into his,’ declared Nuadhu, the visualisation of it burning in his thoughts. ‘She is going to block his lance and then crash into the midriff of his jetbike, breaking the engine.’
‘He will fall…’ Caelledhin looked down in horror towards the dome’s distant floor. Or perhaps Thariansa would hit one of the barges floating between them. Eyes wide, she clasped her hand back to her mouth.
There was only moments until the clash. Nuadhu fought through the hammering of his heart, conflict raging.
‘Concede the duel,’ he blurted, turning to his father. He glared at Alyasa and raised his voice. ‘I cannot speak for the clan. Druthkhala wants to kill Thariansa. We must concede!’
The windweaver responded immediately, wasting no time in question or seeking confirmation. Activating his address system, Alyasa projected his voice far across the dome.
‘Clan Fireheart withdraws its claim,’ he announced. ‘The honour is with Thariansa Frostwave.’
A shocked shudder of voices spilled across the barges as the pronouncement rippled from one clan to the next.
Thariansa heard the declaration and turned hard, breaking off his attack. Caught unawares, Druthkhala sped past, almost losing her grip on her machine as she twisted away, her scream of frustration drifting down to the watching aeldari.
‘This is a setback, nothing more,’ croaked Naiall, standing to lay a hand upon his son’s shoulder.
‘No, we are done,’ said Caelledhin, eyes like dag
gers for Nuadhu. ‘We have nothing left to leverage, and Clan Icewhisper will see us buried beneath the ignominy of this defeat.’
‘Do they despise Yvraine so much?’ said Nuadhu, recoiling from his half-sister’s words.
‘This was never about the Ynnari,’ she replied with an exasperated glare. ‘You… You did exactly what they wanted you to do. You spared not a moment to think. You never do!’
She whirled away and stormed along the barque, leaving Nuadhu frustrated and mute. Through the muttering of the others he heard the noise of the approaching jetbike. Looping over, Druthkhala steered towards Clan Fireheart, the blur of her expression resolving into murderous intent as she neared and slowed. Even before the steed had come to a halt she vaulted from the saddle onto the barge, casting away the lance. Fists balled, she strode towards Alyasa, eyes fixed upon the windweaver.
‘It was my command,’ said Nuadhu, intercepting her, hand raised to halt the Bloodbride. ‘I conceded the duel.’
It was an effort to meet her glare of disgust, but Nuadhu mastered not only his guilty unease but a flare of personal desperation. Surely whatever relationship they might have had was now soured.
‘The victory was mine,’ she hissed, visibly restraining herself. Her arms trembled with the effort of holding back blows. The look in her eyes rained down her assault with equal vehemence. ‘Coward!’
Smarting from the accusation, Nuadhu squared up to Druthkhala. ‘We shall not win honour with murder. This is not my fault, it is yours. Had you controlled your bloodthirst you could have bested Thariansa, but you let your worst desire rule your mind.’
The Ynnari took a step back, lifting a fist, but Naiall interposed himself between her and Nuadhu, breathing heavily. Though frail in body, his spirit was strong and he met Druthkhala’s stare with a long, unwavering look. Eventually she stepped back, jaw clenched as she swallowed her words of anger.
‘We will find another way,’ the chieftain insisted.
‘Remember this, when the dead of your clan are littered upon the ground of Agarimethea.’ Druthkhala shrugged, throwing off her wrath as though it were a cloak. Something that might have been sorrow entered her eyes. ‘Ask yourself then if it was worth the life of another clan’s son.’
‘I have little enough left to give my family, Druthkhala,’ said the clan leader. ‘My honour intact is one thing I can still pass on.’
She said nothing and turned away, shaking her head, unknowingly following Caelledhin’s departure in similar manner. Nuadhu passed his father but was stopped by quivering fingers on his arm.
‘She will come around,’ Naiall promised, but Nuadhu was not so sure.
As he watched the Bloodbride ride away, he knew it was more than his amorous intentions that he had thrown away. His impetuousness had all but doomed the expedition, and with it not only the future of Clan Fireheart, but potentially the whole craftworld.
The looks of the others were a mixture of pity and accusation and he could not bear to remain there. With a wordless growl he ran to the jetbike abandoned by Druthkhala and leapt aboard. He raced away, heart hammering, breath laboured as though his chest had been cleaved in two.
Chapter 13
A WARHOST DEPARTS
The door chime’s insistence broke through the fog of despair that permeated Nuadhu’s thoughts. He detected three arrivals at the door to his apartment – his abode in the Tower of Lower Delights rather than his suite in the Flameglades – but senses dulled by overuse of dreamroot failed to identify them. As he roused from the chair, still unsure whether he would grant the visitors entry, his foot caught one of several empty nightwine bottles on the floor. Another two adorned the arm of the chair opposite, where B’sainnad slept soundly.
The dreamroot had done its work well, quelling all but the vaguest memory of the night before. An entirely necessary precaution before indulging his more self-destructive side, freeing him from guilt and paranoia that would have dogged his waking thoughts for the rest of his life. Though the Wild Riders explored every aspect of their rampant aeldari psyche without fetter, it was unwise to do so without some protections in place. A regret over an ill-advised intoxicated liaison could easily become a kernel of a mental cancer that ate away at a person’s soul, until finally it broke them at some unforeseen time when back on the Path.
Though the dreamroot curbed all but flashes of his ranting and sobbing from the night before, the detritus of the apartment served as a physical prod to a pang of self-consciousness.
Taking a robe from where it had been discarded over a shelf of small busts of the ancient Wild Lords, he threw it over B’sainnad. ‘Put some clothes on.’
His friend mumbled something, pawed at the soft cloth and rolled over, mostly concealed by the garb.
Finding a jug of water, Nuadhu took a long drink and moved to the doorplate. He touched his fingers to the psychoresponsive material, willing the portal open with some effort of concentration.
‘I see you have taken our defeat well,’ said his father.
He was leaning with one hand on the wall outside, clearly out of breath. Behind Naiall stood Neamyh and Marifsa, suitably scowling. They remained in the passageway while the chieftain entered.
‘I…’ began Nuadhu but all excuse fled under the gentle but unwavering gaze of his father.
‘You need not defend yourself, I make no accusation, son of mine.’ He lifted a high boot from a chair and placed it on the floor before sitting down. ‘It is the right of the Wild Riders to let free any agitations in whatever way they see fit.’
Nuadhu sensed a caveat coming and retreated behind the chair in which he had awoken, as though it would give him refuge.
‘I know that you cannot bear the thought of becoming chieftain,’ Naiall continued.
‘It is the notion of your early death that grieves me, my father,’ Nuadhu corrected. ‘My subsequent elevation is incidental.’
‘Yet you do not offer to stand down as heir to allow the appointment of your sister, nor ask me to name her.’
‘My half-sister,’ Nuadhu said, a little more strongly than he had intended. Her connections to Clan Icewhisper were more than a small cause of his current woe.
‘My daughter,’ Naiall replied with emphasis on the last word. He shook his head and waved a hand to dismiss the conversation. ‘That is not why I have come, but your decision to flee the responsibilities of the clan following our reversal gives me pause.’
‘You should have called me to attend you, my father,’ said Nuadhu. ‘You did not have to make the journey here.’
‘I tried.’
Nuadhu felt a flutter of recollection seeping through the dreamroot-induced amnesia. He had closed off his empathic link with a surge of anger, seeking isolation in the midst of his frustration.
‘Yes, of course,’ said the heir. ‘Sorry.’
‘The issue at hand is not resolved, even if we are not to be made windrunners. There are seven other clans, minor houses I admit, that will ride with us if we make for Agarimethea. Alyasa tells me also that the seers will send a conclave to advise and support, Illiaca among them. And the Ynnari still await word of whether we will accompany them.’
‘The will of the council was–’
‘It is my will that Clan Fireheart will fight, Nuadhu. The council debates, it bestows title, but it does not rule. We are no more bound by their short-sightedness than we were before the fiasco with Clan Frostwave. Had we allies, had we the mantle of windrunners to strengthen our word, we would set forth with more, but that is not to be.’
‘Have we yet the time? What say the seers? The tomb lords gather strength with each cycle we delay.’ It took several heartbeats of silent stare before his father’s subtle rebuke set home. ‘Which is why you had to take the elixirs and come halfway across Saim-Hann to fetch me.’
‘All stand ready, with but a word. You will summon the Wild
Riders. Yvraine will bring the Ynnari. Aspect Warriors, seers and lesser clans all make preparation to leave. But I must know, will you ride beside me? If you think it ill-judged, then we shall defer to the will of the clans.’
‘Beside…? My father, you cannot possibly think it a good idea to leave the craftworld. Not into battle. Travelling to Yvraine all but ended you.’
‘Whether good or ill, our participation will be brief, I am sure,’ said Naiall. ‘Those that can ride and fight go with us, perhaps the last of Clan Fireheart setting forth. If you think I would send my family to potential ruin and remain in the Flameglades then perhaps you are not the son I thought.’
‘I understand,’ Nuadhu said quickly, eager to prove the chieftain’s doubts wrong. ‘But physically, how will it be done?’
‘When I say I will ride, I am being poetic,’ Naiall said. He smiled but without joy. ‘I shall travel in a Wave Serpent, with healers in attendance at all times. We shall remain in communion but I have no illusions that I will lead the Wild Rider host from the tip of the lance.’
Nuadhu nodded, and again with more conviction as the idea permeated his foggy thoughts.
‘Good,’ said Naiall. ‘There will be no secrecy this time. The banners will fly high and the clarions will sound the departure of Clan Fireheart. And let those that wish to share the glory follow us.’
Nuadhu escorted his father to the door, which swished open to reveal Neamyh and Marifsa in whispered conversation. The sudden stiffening of shoulders and sour looks betrayed the topic.
‘I will see you ere the cycle closes,’ Nuadhu told them. He watched the group head towards the skyrunner balcony, standing on the threshold until they disappeared around the curve of the tower.
Heading back into the apartment, he found B’sainnad dragging on the robe.
‘Forget that, fetch your armour,’ Nuadhu told his companion.
‘Are we going somewhere?’ the driver called out as Nuadhu headed into the adjoining chamber to wash off the excesses of the previous night-cycle.
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 15