Ghost warrior, p.10
Ghost Warrior, page 10
When the near-seizure had passed, Iyanna straightened, using the spear for balance. The rooftop was roughly forty paces across, quite devoid of architecture or decoration, save for another sigil of Arienal carved into a hexagonal flagstone at the centre. Iyanna stepped quickly towards it, but still at a pace’s distance met a soft but unyielding force that would not allow her to step upon the stone. She tried from different directions, but on each occasion was met by the same subtle but impenetrable barrier.
On attempting once more to push through the force, Iyanna led with her free hand, summoning her spirit energy into a nimbus of white flame about her fist. Though she was no more successful than earlier, she realised that the resistance had hardened as she had tried to bring her other hand closer – the hand holding the Spear of Teuthlas.
‘Jealous ghosts,’ she muttered, setting aside the weapon, heirloom of a rival House.
When she tried again the resistance was gone and she stepped upon the sigil without effort. For several heartbeats, Iyanna waited, unsure what to do next. The House of Arienal had been the traditional watchkeepers, since the founding of Iyanden, but the role had swiftly become ceremonial as other developments had overtaken the ancient security system – not least the advent of the Path and the emergence of the farseers. Other than certain items of regalia, nothing remained of that duty. Iyanna noted sourly a particular absence of instructions or even family legend concerning the activation of Arieach.
‘I am Iyanna, of the House of Arienal, last of the watchkeepers,’ she whispered.
Nothing happened.
She repeated the words, louder, twice more until she was shouting into the gentle wind, but without effect.
‘Think about it,’ she told herself, turning on her heel, seeking inspiration. ‘You are an alarm system. The watchkeeper would come here and… what? Ask for help?’
It made no sense and Iyanna felt foolish. The thought of returning to Yvraine in failure set shame burning through her.
Beneath her feet, the sigil glimmered in response, flecking with gold and red for a few heartbeats. Iyanna felt a moment of triumph and the dancing specks faded almost immediately.
‘Of course, you fool!’
She let her thoughts peel away from the folds of her mind, sending tendrils of enquiry into the psychic circuit beneath her feet. The network was very simple, attuned to a singular emotion.
Fear.
In times of ancient danger, the watchkeeper would indeed be steeped in fear. He or she would not even need to broadcast such a thing, the detector was actively seeking the palpitations and psychic dissonance of dread.
So how would one activate the system, coming in the cold light?
Fear was the key, and just the thought of what she had to do made Iyanna’s heart tremble, her trepidation eliciting another response from the sigil key, this reinforcing her belief of what was needed.
Iyanna set her shoulders, braced her legs, closed her eyes and delved into her memories. She slipped past recent recollection, seeking those moments, one particular instance, buried far from casual gaze. Her battles with the Ynnari, her tribulations with the council fluttered past, inconsequential.
And in the dark of her innermost thoughts lay a locked casket of memories, bound by threads of silver denial, chained with loathing.
Had Yvraine known this was what would be needed? Had that been the cause of her warning?
Iyanna knew she was procrastinating.
With a sudden surge of feeling, she tore open the box and for the first time since it had happened she looked again at the moment her family had perished.
Not filtered through the haze of the Streets of the Dead, nor distended by spoken words. The memory itself the tight cluster of dark strands she had buried the instant it had happened, piling grief and terror upon the recollection to bury it deeper than she would ever chance upon.
Not names, not thoughts, not any reasoned or logical response. No faces, no screams, nothing physical. They were simply symptomatic of the dark fire that lay in the abyss of her dread.
The feeling. The stark and unsullied memory of knowing – knowing in every fibre of body and soul – that she was the last of the House of Arienal. The oblivion that had opened beneath her, the void that had swallowed her insides, the darkness that had fallen onto her spirit.
Utter loneliness.
Iyanna screamed, letting free the pain and suffering she had locked away, had never allowed to exist for fear that it would consume her.
Unseen in her moment of psychic agony, the sigil of Arienal burned bright. Brighter than ever before, fuelled by the existential horror tapped into by Iyanna. White flames consumed her, burning from the flagstone to sear skywards into the dead air.
The spiritseer staggered back, sobbing and heaving, every limb trembling. The beacon fire raged still, a pillar of pure white that pierced the artificial sky, brighter than the stars.
Coughing and choking on her grief, the spiritseer stumbled to the wall that bounded the roof of the tower, to look across the Barrenlands.
All was darkness and death still.
But only for a heartbeat more.
In the far distance an answering light shone, a gleam of gold from another tower, as of the sun shining on a gilded mirror. She knew instantly from whom the signal came, the recognition leaping into her thoughts from the watchtower itself: The House of Varinash.
An instinct drew her eye to the left, to an island on the far side of the bay. More golden light, gleaming from a circle of standing stones: House of Valor.
And others still, creeping and gleaming and blazing in response to the fire of Arieach, until near and far, from bay to horizon, the landscape was lit with a dozen pillars of gold, their fires splashed across the heavens. In their light the grasslands seemed alive, the seas tossed and vibrant, the air stirred to a gale in the force of converging energy.
Across the Ghost Halls, the dead awoke.
CHAPTER 10
THE DEAD HOUSES GATHER
Beneath the twilight of the cosmos beyond the enclosing domeshield, the great halls and towers of Iyanna’s home were dappled grey and green, shimmering as though in shallow waters. Not a living nor dead thing stirred, for of all the Ghost Halls, the realm of Arienath was bereft of all energy.
The hillsides and pale mausoleums that had once held the ancestors of the House of Arienal were broken rubble, strewn across dark terrain scarred by the detonations of the torpedoes that had destroyed so much of the infinity circuit and left Iyanna as sole survivor of her kin.
Hasty repairs by the bonesingers had left welts and mounds of raw crystal and ugly spurs of wraithbone jutting from a landscape that had once been as carefully composed and sculpted as any artist’s statue. Now weathered by the gentle but constant breeze, half hidden by the progress of lichens and small-leaved creepers, these gross reminders of the past’s destruction loomed as vague shapes in the distant darkness, numb to the thoughts of the two aeldari that entered, dead nerve endings, the absence of feedback distracting and discomforting.
‘How can you live here?’ asked Yvraine.
They came upon a high gate, thrice as tall as them between slender black pillars. Long banners hung down the gateposts, red pennants embroidered in white with runes of the House’s past and present leaders. A silver light spread from Iyanna as she stepped closer, snaking along buried conduits within the ground, energising the runemetal of the gate itself so that it shone with pale splendour. It parted, admitting them silently, revealing a long winding road up to the central cluster of towers and long halls.
The tracery of psychic power preceded them, igniting lamps set along the approach so that a pool of light followed their progress, darkening again when they had passed. Yvraine felt the tug of empty spirit circuits, nagging at her soul, but also trying to draw forth the dead bound within her by the power of Ynnead. The leeching was constant but not overpowering, a nag on the edge of sensation.
A false dawn broke across the abandoned palaces and keeps, brought forth by the manipulation of intricate energy fields set in motion when the dome had first been erected. In the growing light of an artificial morning the unkempt, deserted grounds of Arienath seemed even more depressing. The twilight had hidden the disrepair, inhabiting homes and crofts with shadows, the gloom departing to leave only the stark reality of utter emptiness.
Their route eventually took them to a broad-gated hall, roofed by four blue domes painted to resemble a summer’s day, holographic clouds drifting lazily across their surfaces. Yvraine saw wing flutters and heard the chirrup of small birds, a moment of delight springing forth from the simple sign of life.
‘Alas, it is not as it seems,’ sighed Iyanna. She raised a hand and the stream of psychic power that went before her receded slightly, slipping back through the psy-veins of the hall at her command. The domes dimmed and the speakers from which the artificial birdsong had sprung forth fell silent.
‘Oh.’
Yvraine felt like weeping. She had known for a long time the facts of Iyanna’s circumstance, and had spent much time with her since their paths had first crossed. But there was nothing that could prepare the Opener of the Seventh Way for the utter absence of companionship and hope that seeped from the cold stones of dead Arienath.
‘This is how it shall be, before we are Reborn,’ Iyanna told her. The hall doors opened at a gesture, thousands of spirit candles fluttered into life along the vast chamber within as the spiritseer extended the power of the souls bound to her stones and runes. ‘This is why I live here, as a reminder of the cost of salvation. This is but a single House on a single craftworld, a tiny echo of what befell the dominions during the Fall. When Ynnead rises, when only the dead remain, think of this place for it shall be everywhere.’
Iyanna cast her gaze over their surroundings, face impassive.
‘Each craftworld and colony, every Exodite planet, each webway realm, and even mighty Commorragh shall not be stirred by the slightest drift of our existence. In our dying, the Great Enemy dies too. We have been dying for an age, Yvraine, but are too scared to step over the threshold into the light beyond, the sanctuary that comes when She Who Thirsts is consumed by her own hunger. With you, to open the Seventh Way, we usher our people towards a fate ordained five lifetimes ago, and then we shall know this peace.’
It was humbling, put in such words, and Yvraine remained silent as they entered the hall. Banners of family members and household loyalties hung along the hall, above windows that brightened with the burgeoning light of the artificial day. Dust motes danced in the draught of their entry, and through tall pillars and ornately carved benches the wind whistled and keened like a child allowed to unexpectedly run free in a place so solemn.
‘They are coming,’ Iyanna announced, leading Yvraine towards a stage set at the far end of the chamber, between two grand staircases that disappeared into the upper levels of the hall-house. She directed the Opener of the Seventh Way to a throne on one of the lower steps while ascending to the most ornate chair. Yvraine bridled for a moment.
‘Is the Emissary of Ynnead to sit demurely like some lady-in-waiting?’
Iyanna’s reply was firm, bordering on harsh.
‘This is the great hall of the House of Arienal. It is an honour to sit upon any step herein.’
Cowed, Yvraine acquiesced and seated herself, spreading out the vastness of her courtly gown to either side, settling into the high chair. A moment later a small silhouette appeared at the sunlit doorway, paused sniffing the air and then scampered within. The gyrinx lay down beside Yvraine, bringing with it a coldness of the approaching dead that Iyanna had sensed earlier.
The first to heed the call was the House of Delgari, their delegation led by Faenorith Spear-born. The wraithnoble was as tall as Althenian though crafted with more flared protrusions, flamboyant compared to the lean design of the warrior-constructs of Iyanden. Her psychoplastic was a startling yellow but for a few narrow tiger-stripes of deep blue and the glitter of psyconductive stones. With Faenorith, her husband-in-life, Daethos Darkwinter, former autarch and hero of many a defence of the craftworld.
A dozen retainers carried the banners of their House, six wraithguard half as tall again as an aeldari warrior, in the same colours as their lady and lord, wraithcannons and distort-scythes held one-handed at a salute. They were followed by six wraithblades, of similar build yet bearing paired swords, their standard poles affixed to their spines. Others carried long halberd blades or pistol and shield, according to the predilections in life and duties in death. They marched in step, peeling away to one side of the hall at a thought from their lady-in-death.
‘Welcome, House of Delgari,’ said Iyanna, rising a little with a tilt of the head.
‘As tradition dictates, we have answered the summons,’ said Daethos, speaking for his wife who stood silent to one side, face turned away with aloofness. ‘Impertinence to make such demands of those that have earned eternal rest.’
‘What was earned might yet need be spent,’ said Iyanna, sitting again. ‘The House of Delgari wanes with each pass, as I see from the dwindling of your entourage. If you would seek to avoid the fate that befell the House of Arienal, you would do well to listen to my request.’
‘Few enough remain to do so,’ Lady Faenorith said sharply, her voice echoing down the hall though she still did not turn to face Iyanna. ‘But if you speak, we shall listen.’
It was not long before two others arrived, the contingents from the Houses of Haladesh and Valor, arriving together not out of alliance but rivalry, neither family wishing to concede their place to the other. Fortunately, the great hall was able to accommodate both, a trio of wraithnobles from each, with attendants arraigned in the colours of their Houses and bearing the gonfalons that customarily flew from the top of their towers. The crash of their footfalls rang along the hall and back, the two companies not quite in step with each other so that the reverberations clashed and crossed with their progress. It was a relief when both parties stopped before the stage, immobile as only the dead can be.
‘The House of Arienal extends its protection to its renowned visitors,’ Iyanna announced before the respective representatives engaged in any kind of petty rivalry concerning who would be addressed first. She was careful to raise her hands in welcome to both, before turning her attention to Agariam of the House of Valor. His wraithform was slight, barely taller than the artifices of his retainers, a midnight blue that flared with ornate yellow starbursts. ‘Long has been the alliance between Arienath and the Lands of the Grey River,’ she turned swiftly to Sophiorith of Haladesh, ‘and pleasing it is to see the regent of the Clearheavens attend with equal vigour.’
‘As in times past, so now,’ said Agariam, bending a knee slightly in supplication, his long ghostsilk tabard touching the floor for a fleeting moment before he rose. ‘There are those in the Ghost Halls that are not simply content to brood over past glories nor mourn the deprivations of the past. You are the last of your line, Valor laments that none carry the mortal burden for us, but we will not abandon the living.’
The words were well-meant but stung Iyanna. The House of Valor had no living members, but the ranks of its dead were plentiful. She would have gladly swapped her own mortal existence if it would return the lost spirits of her kin and ancestors. But they were gone forever, the dead and the living annihilated alike by the single chance stroke of fate and spite.
‘New glories await the brave-hearted,’ declared Sophiorith, her voice edged with the notes of a clarion, distinct and uplifting. She turned slightly, directing everyone’s attention to the tall figure that had slipped unannounced to the wide doors. Smaller shapes – rune symbols – orbited the figure with an erratic life of their own. ‘Though he has abandoned any rank of command to be included in this call-to-arms, there is another of House Haladesh that would hear your entreaty and offer counsel.’
‘Kelmon Firesight is always assured of an ear to listen to his advice,’ said Iyanna, formally inviting him across the threshold with a raised hand. ‘Had I more time I would have sent word direct to the famed wraithseer.’
Kelmon entered with long strides, ribbons of brightly embroidered dark cloth trailing from his golden wraithbone shell, his rune-shapes following a heartbeat later like inattentive underlings.
‘Not for five generations has the beacon of Arieach been lit,’ said the wraithseer as he advanced, his rune-tethers and floating talismans casting their own light and shadows in the rising dawnlight. ‘Though the galaxy is a place of many woes, I have foreseen no specific threat to Iyanden that would warrant such a remarkable – and singular – event.’
‘The threat is ever-present, honoured one,’ said Yvraine.
Nothing was said but her intervention was met with a wave of hostility; a stiffening of limbs and necks if such a thing was possible with the mainly immobile wraith-beings. A torrent of distaste, irritation and outright antipathy washed through the hall, accompanied by the whispered moans of agitated spirits.
‘This is a conclave of the Great Houses,’ Lady Faenorith said archly. ‘It is crass to bring outsiders, never mind for one to expect to offer opinion.’
‘I make no apology,’ said Iyanna, before Yvraine could retort and worsen the situation. ‘Though in tradition we have assembled there is nothing traditional about this assemblage. As Kelmon has alluded, only once shall I make this summons, for I am the last of my House, and you are the dead of yours. When all have come, I shall share my purpose, but not before. Until then, you extend to Yvraine every courtesy you extend to me, or consider yourselves unwelcome at these proceedings.’
