Ghost warrior, p.21
Ghost Warrior, page 21
Three things occurred to interrupt him, seemingly at the same time, though when Meliniel thought back to that instant there was a tiny but perceptible sequence to what happened.
Firstly, looking at Atalesasa and the two other House Conversers knelt either side of him, the autarch saw their brows furrowing in consternation.
Secondly, the hymn to Lileath faltered. A shared intake of breath among the Zaisuthrans stopped the flow of harmony.
Thirdly, Azkahr drawing his splinter pistol to fire a storm of poisoned crystal shards into Atalesasa’s face as the converser of the House of Arienal turned his gaze towards Meliniel, a betraying corona of golden psychic energy playing about his pupils.
Atalesasa fell sideways with a piercing shriek, his hands only halfway to his ruined face before the toxins flooded his brain and sent him spasming like a beached fish across the stones.
Lisatja reached into her coat for a heavy laser pistol as she rose to her feet, but was cut down by a second burst of fire from the former dracon.
The third converser opted for escape rather than counter-attack, hurling himself with startling agility towards the rail of the balcony. Remarkably, a third arm shot out from under the fold of his cloak, grabbing the rail in a claw to guide him over and into the air beyond. Slashing shards of crystal followed a moment behind from Azkahr’s pistol, wide of their mark as Shasiayu of the House of Gatheal dropped out of sight.
‘What are you doing?’ bellowed Meliniel, sprinting after the departed converser.
The flare of laserlight lit the surrounding roofs and walls and in a heartbeat the messenger-frequencies were alive with alarm and shouts of anger. The buzz of shuriken weapons and thrum of powerblades echoed from floors and galleries below.
‘The viper never sleeps,’ Azkahr replied, joining him at the rail. ‘You command armies as easily as you move your fingers. I spent a life in Commorragh and smell treachery on the slightest wind.’
They looked down to the stone flags far below, but astonishingly there was no sign of Shasiayu. In the gardens beyond, a corps of Zaisuthrans had cornered a dozen of Meliniel’s warriors – guardians and dire avengers – and cut them down with ruthless volleys of laser fire that sparked red through the immaculately trimmed topiaries and hedges. From elsewhere the cries of waylaid and ambushed Ynnari told of further treachery by the purple-garbed aeldari.
Eventually they came upon the first of the portals, in a broad chamber with a floor of black tiles inset with red gemstones, the roof a dome of white and gold above them. A glimmer of runework betrayed the gate’s presence in a wall of grey and red marble. Two pillars delineated its extent, the space within indistinguishable from the rest but for the fine tracery of warding sigils.
Monsattra looked surprised and held out a hand, the gleam of the active runes catching on his jewellery, bathing his palm with its light. He turned around and Yvraine followed his gaze, seeing other telltale sparks of psychic power. She counted fourteen more gates in this chamber alone, and from the background aura that lit three arches leading out from the hall, there were many more in the adjoining spaces.
‘They seem eager to open,’ he murmured.
‘In returning to the lens of the galaxy, you have brought them closer to the webway that once powered them,’ said Yvraine. She smiled. ‘They still remember.’
‘Which is the Gate of Malice?’ asked the Visarch. The lens-eyed stare of his helm moved from one gate to the next and then back to Monsattra. He seemed agitated.
‘I cannot say, not yet,’ said the Zaisuthran. He tapped the side of his head. ‘But we are attempting to find out. I suggest we continue to the level below, where the oldest gates are found.’
Yvraine agreed and they accompanied Monsattra to a transit ramp between the domed halls. It did not take long to find themselves in a twilit hall four or five times the size of the one above, a single vast chamber where they found the outlines of six immense archways. Each was rendered differently, so that one appeared to be the boughs of two trees intertwined, another paired pillars of runes linked by an arch of golden chain. They stood away from the circular wall, equidistant from the centre and each other.
‘The hunt is over,’ said the Visarch as he pointed up. Above each gate was a silver rune set into the ceiling, instantly recognisable to all present. The Visarch named them as his finger traced the circle. ‘Asuryan, Isha, Kurnus, Morai-Heg, Vaul and… Khaine.’
Their eyes were drawn to the gate of the Bloody-Handed and there was no mistaking what they had discovered. Like two swords crossed, curved metal thrust from the ground, serrated and glinting with its own ruddy light. Though not active, the gate delineated by the two blades seemed to ripple, the air between seething as though in a forge heat.
‘It knows we are here,’ said the Visarch, taking a step forward.
‘Wait!’ Monsattra’s rebuke was sharp, the only time he had raised his voiced since he had arrived at Withershield for the conclave. ‘It is not yet time to open it. We have much to study first, and pacts to agree.’
Yvraine could feel her former exarch’s impatience, and it was infectious, feeding her own desire to know what lay beyond the portal. She fought her curiosity, the burning need to act immediately.
‘Poor guests we would be, to leave so soon,’ she said with a forced smile.
She turned back to the Gate of Malice and felt a shudder pass through her. It was not of the gate, but something else far more familiar. Only a few heartbeats later a low laugh caused all to turn sharply, to find in the doorway behind them a figure clad in the motley of a Harlequin: Idraesci Dreamspear.
In his arms he cradled a furry blue mass, matted in places with dried blood.
Alorynis leapt free and bounded across the hall, swerving through the legs of the Ynnari and Zaisuthrans. Claws skittering on the tiles, he came to a stop at Yvraine’s side, face marked by fresh cuts across cheek and nose.
He paused a moment to hiss violently at Monsattra and then bounded up towards Yvraine, forcing her to catch him.
At the moment of contact, the gyrinx’s thoughts flashed into her mind.
CHAPTER 24
TREACHERY REVEALED
The memory was incoherent at first, a panicked melange of smell – the sweaty stench of the quilling smothering all else – and the dance of colours and meaningless voices. But Yvraine’s ear recognised the language, heard the rhythm in the words that Alorynis could not.
Hey! Listen up, listen well, hark to my whisper,
Light comes the shatter-wind and her bladed sister.
Down our darkened tunnelway, shining in the domelight,
Waiting at the webway gate for the cold starlight,
There a handsome fellow is, Laughing God’s true heir,
Sharp as the cutting wit, lighter than the air.
Old Idraesci Dreamspear tales and death a-bringing
Always in the darkest time. Can you hear him singing?
Hey! Listen up, listen well, ‘til your heart is heaving!
Alorynis, Alorynis, your mistress is a-grieving!
Run little cruel-thing, do us no more harm!
Dreamspear’s in a hurry now. Battle will follow calm.
Dreamspear’s going home again, his friends’ souls a-bringing.
Always at the last cry! Can you hear me singing?
Bounding and skipping along the tunnel came a figure clad in bright colours, a flashing sword in one hand, crystalline pistol in the other. With each twist and leap, the blade slashed out to sever a questing frond or thrusting barb, leaving droplets of gore spattered in his wake. He ducked beneath flailing tendrils grown from the fabric of the tunnel itself, not missing a step as he twirled between sharp-thorned appendages.
The creature strangling Alorynis looked up, eyes saucer-wide at the stranger’s approach. She bared her teeth in anger, fingers tightening through the ruff of fur about the gyrinx’s throat.
In alcoves hidden in the shadow of thick bone-limbs holding up the roof, strange shapes moved. Many-limbed, chitin-clad creatures flexed and stretched as layers of veined, semi-transparent tissue parted at the openings, slit by claws that could cut prey to the bone without effort. Bulbous heads turned, dark eyes glittered in the scant light, watching the oncoming figure with alien malignancy.
With a screech and a twist, Alorynis dragged on the last reserves of strength and sank his teeth into the arm of his assailant. Claws scrabbling bloody ribbons from her gut, the gyrinx thrust free, bounding up the tunnel, yowling madly. Waves of warning thoughts flooded from the panicked empath, preceding it along the passage in a flickering wave of energy.
Like runners set free by the starter’s command, the crouching aliens burst from their hiding places as Alorynis sprinted up the tunnel towards the advancing aeldari. His mistress’ companion pulled free a crystalline weapon and the gyrinx felt the backwash of psychic discharge as a beam of scintillating power flashed past, targeting the creatures just a step behind. Agonised, high pitched shrieks and the clatter of chitin against chitin followed the gyrinx, but spurred by raw terror he sped straight on, not looking back.
Meliniel took stock of the situation in a few heartbeats. Remonstrating with Azkahr would both be a waste of time and, most likely, incorrect. His instincts were not to be second-guessed. The past could not be changed, only the future.
The autarch accessed the messenger-waves, calmly distributing his commands as he paced along the balcony, trying to see as much of the unfolding violence as possible. He called for reports as he did so, filtering out the pertinent information from an anarchic cacophony of responses. In his mind’s eye the manse had gone from a secure, peaceful stronghold to a roiling battleground. He could feel the sudden flash of spirits on the Whisper, the soulstuff from the slain trembling through his body, coursing across his skin like static.
The gift of Ynnead.
‘The skies,’ warned Azkahr, drawing his attention to three shapes lifting into view in the distance. ‘More ornithopters.’
They were not the only cause for concern. On the heathlands across from the manse, four more of the segmented transports hovered over a ridge. Weapons blisters spat red bolts of energy, searing into the upper storeys above the autarch.
‘Secure the inner walls,’ he told his warriors. ‘Feel the soulburst and turn it to our cause. Purge your vicinity of the foe and then secure your ground and prepare for fresh assault.’
The updraught of spirit energy swirled and swayed as the Ynnari gathered in the escaping energy of their departing companions. The Whisper was more than just a bonding empathy, it was a shared experience, a conjoined source of vitality.
This was the greatest gift of Ynnead, to tap into the long-forgotten aeldari power to absorb each other’s spirits – and to a lesser extent those of other creatures. This was the power of shared-thought unrestrained by the psychic teachings and circuitry of the Asuryani, not weakened by the soulthirst of the drukhari.
The Whisper was the voice of the dead, and the Ynnari had learned to listen.
Though a score had fallen and more, their deaths were not in vain. Invigorated and empowered by the influx of the dead’s dissipating force, Meliniel’s squads struck back with a speed and ferocity the Zaisuthrans could not have expected. Every death made them stronger, faster and more accurate as they dared the fusillades of their treacherous hosts and spat their vengeance with splinter, shuriken and laser.
‘We need to contact Yvraine,’ said Meliniel. ‘The Zaisuthran groupmind will carry these events across the craftworld at the speed of thought.’
‘It was the groupmind that spurred our foes to act,’ said Azkahr, drawing his blade. His kabalites were at one of the stairs, firing down into the level below. ‘Yvraine is most likely already dead. Iyanna also. If you desire salvation, look to our ships.’
‘No, the sisters-in-death still live, doubting one,’ said Meliniel. ‘Their passing would be a fire across the Whisper, and you know it. As for our ships, unless you know of some way of broadcasting into the void without an infinity circuit, it is beyond us.’
‘I am sure that if enough of us die, our passing would be felt by our companions aboard the starships,’ the former dracon replied with a vicious grin.
‘Little comfort,’ said Meliniel. He turned his gaze to the enemy forces gathering around the manse and its outbuildings. ‘But perhaps we could send a signal with the souls of our enemies instead?’
Yvraine shrugged Alorynis to the floor, where the gyrinx pushed close to her legs, seeking sanctuary in the folds of her gown. Cold fury rose like a tide, but before it took complete hold of her, she darted a look towards Dreamspear, who was standing at the threshold, dividing his attention between the occupants of the gate chamber and the tunnel by which he had entered – not the same passage that had brought the Zaisuthrans and their guests.
‘I know not how you come to be here, nor there, but my profound thanks,’ said Yvraine.
‘Alas that I deserved such gratitude. ’Twas curiosity, you see, that took me after your furry friend, nothing more wise.’ He motioned down the corridor with his sword. In the dim light, long shadows stuttered along the walls, of the creatures Yvraine had seen in the visions. ‘And I did not really rescue poor Alorynis, more that we eluded the inevitable for a short while…’
Monsattra retreated several steps when Yvraine’s gaze fell upon him, her eyes lit with a chill blue fire.
‘What have you done?’ he snapped, all pretence of diplomacy abandoned. He flinched as though in pain, eyes glazing for a moment before his focus returned, fixed upon the Opener of the Seventh Way. His companions drew about him, pulling free laspistols and sonic knives. ‘I advise that you do nothing rash, Yvraine. I am sure this is a misunderstanding.’
‘There is no mistake,’ Yvraine declared. She slid Kha-vir rasping from its sheath. The soul-hungering blade bathed the gate hall in a waxing illumination. Yvraine felt the distant pull of souls released from their mortal frames, though much obscured by the fog of the groupmind. She realised it was this, the gestalt psychic power of the Zaisuthrans, that had cloaked the energy of the gates, perhaps deliberately trying to hide them. ‘I know the manner of creature that has invaded your home. They are no daemons, they are aliens of flesh and blood.’
In this she was only partly correct, for Zaisuthra had suffered previously from the daemonic, the aftermath of the incursion witnessed by Iyanna. She was right, however, that Zaisuthra had been victim of a terrible incursion far, far earlier.
Dreamspear retreated into the hall, stepping past the gate marked for Asuryan. His voice rang back from the portals that ringed the chamber.
‘I saw hundreds of them, many dormant but waking…’
The first of the interlopers appeared at the arched mouth of the tunnel. Straightened, it would have stood half as tall again as Yvraine, but its hunched body made it look shorter. Four arms, two double-jointed legs, and a thick, ribbed tail. Its pale flesh body was sheathed in overlapping plates of dark chitin that gleamed with expressed oils. The smell was pungent, almost intoxicating. The slightly flat, bulbous head that held a maw of razor fangs was unmistakable, but it was the eyes like polished orbs of coal that caught her.
She had shared memories with Iyanna and had recognised in an instant the creatures that had infiltrated Zaisuthra. It was impossible to know how it had happened, but given their dependence upon the natural life cycle of their host culture, and the slow reproductive rate of the aeldari, it had to have been several generations since their first arrival.
These interlopers had many names, in many places, for as long as they had been known to the aeldari. The Hider in Plain Sight. Hearth-lurkers. Blood-shadows. Kin-thieves.
But it was the human appelation that came to her in that moment. Yvraine knew better than to allow herself to be bewitched by that alien gaze, and brought up the Sword of Sorrows, its pale gleam breaking the mesmeric effect.
‘Genestealer,’ she hissed.
Many are the tales of the Bloody-Handed God. His murderous rage and jealous lust caused much strife amongst the pantheon of the aeldari, and his slaying of Eldanesh precipitated the disastrous War in Heaven. So legends claim. Perhaps the truth is something else, but antiquity is a fog not easily penetrated. Legend also claims that when the Great Enemy arose, born of the nightmarish perversions, desires and twisted ambitions of the aeldari Fall, Khaine was there to fight, the warrior-god of his people.
Here myth is conflicted, and the sagas of one craftworld differ from the epics of another, as much as they differ again from the folk tales of Commorragh and the dances of the disparate Harlequin masques. Some say that She Who Thirsts tried to consume Kaela Mensha Khaine, but in struggling from her grip the Bloody-Handed One shredded into many parts and the tatters of His existence fluttered down into the universe of mortals. Some say that Khaine was always the son of the Great Enemy and the Lord of Skulls, their twain desires of glory and bloodshed matched within His breast. The elevation of the Doom of the Aeldari was too much and broke apart his immortal frame, scattering bloody parts into the cosmos. And there are those that claim the Brass King and She Who Thirsts fought openly for possession of the Bloody-Handed, and in the struggle Khaine was split asunder and flaming fragments of his being were released into reality.
Stories, but with a kernel of truth in each. And that truth is that within the psychic heart of every craftworld that had fled the dominions, nestled inside the raw infinity circuit, a piece of the war god settled and grew. The Avatars of Khaine they are called, each a terrifying incarnation of the god-that-was, roused only by the heat and blood of coming war.
Zaisuthra was no different in that respect, for in the core of the craftworld sat a creation not of mortal origins. The creature inside the inner sanctum sat upon the bronze throne of Kaela Mensha Khaine, brooding and majestic. Like the Avatars of Khaine across the galaxy, it was forged of immortal dark iron and bright flame, but in Zaisuthra its body was also grown from the unnatural flesh of the craftworld’s body.
