Valedor, p.9
Valedor, page 9
Taec stared into the tunnel a while, lost in the rolling procession. ‘I will leave you to your task, captain,’ he said. ‘I will not trouble you again. Please inform me when we approach Biel-Tan.’
‘As you wish, farseer.’
Taec rejoined his party, sat in sombre mood in the ship’s simple lounges. Fifteen others accompanied him and Kelmon. Autarch Yaleanar and his aide Herethiath stood for the war council of Iyanden. The rest of the autarchs travelled with Prince Yriel or with the army. Three spiritseers also came with Taec’s group. Away from the thrumming infinity circuits of Iyanden, Kelmon grew sluggish. His mind wandered from the world of the living. Without the ministrations of the spiritseers, Taec struggled to keep his dead colleague focused upon the matters at hand. The rest of the group was comprised of a party of rangers, eldar who had chosen to become outcast. Taec heard the dialects of several craftworlds and Exodite colonies when they spoke, but they did so infrequently. There was no conversation besides the infrequent talk of the rangers. The frivolity that characterises eldar at rest was absent.
Taec spent the remainder of the journey reliving his vision, going over every fragment of imagery. Each time he thought on the fire of his demise, he quailed within. But he could not discern how this came about, nor what it truly betokened.
And so it went, one cycle, then two, then three. Days spent in frustration, nights spent sleepless. Food was ash in his mouth, conversation irritating and frivolous.
On the fourth cycle, the captain called Taec to the bridge.
‘We approach our destination. Behold,’ he said, ‘the Nexus of Remembered Supremacy To Be Regained, the primary gateway to Biel-Tan.’
Imbriel’s Embrace emerged from their small tunnel into a cavern wrested from the membrane twixt the worlds. Its sides were full of tunnel mouths, the exit points of other ways into the webway. Other craftworlds kept the way to them secret; not proud Biel-Tan. The portway to the craftworld sported a massive gate, thousands of lengths in height and breadth, and coloured bold green and white. Two gargantuan wraithbone statues faced one another: on the one side stood howling Khaine, sword clasped in both hands upright in front of his face. On the other was Asuryan, his proud head bowed in sorrow. He held aloft his scales, their balance off. It was said that the balance moved, and that when the time had come for the eldar to reclaim their empire, it would be level once more. That time would be a long time coming, looking at their cant. The gateway’s frame carried on over the figures, flowing from their backs to form an ostentatious arch scored by hundreds of thousands of runes. It bristled with weapons emplacements, cunningly incorporated into the design. At the very top stood the world-rune of Biel-Tan, a heart in a Y-shaped cup: the Rebirth of Ancient Days.
Dozens of ships plied the space in front of the gate, sleek traders, far-runners, and void ships. The tunnel appeared to go on indefinitely behind the gate, vessels coming through from the real space side suddenly appearing as if from nowhere.
‘I see no warships,’ said Taec with a heavy heart. ‘Biel-Tan does not ready for war.’
The captain ignored his indiscretion. ‘I have a docking berth assigned, farseer.’
‘Proceed, then,’ said Taec. ‘We shall see what the Biel-Tanians have to say for themselves.’
Imbriel’s Embrace went through the gate, a tiny dart in comparison to the massive structure. One moment they were in the webway, the next in the void, Biel-Tan passing under their keel. Where Iyanden was kite-shaped, Biel-Tan was a long, sleek dart, its stern split in a swallow tail. Iyanden’s form owed much to personal expression, Biel-Tan’s everything to symmetry and the prosecution of war. Everywhere there were statues of Khaine and the other gods’ warlike aspects. Massive fortresses studded its length, the weapons they bore not hidden as on other craftworlds, but exaggerated proudly. Biel-Tan was a world that spoke of reclaiming a lost empire at the point of a sword. Taec could hear its warlike soul shouting defiance at the stars.
The captain spoke to the dockmasters of the craftworld, and presently Imbriel’s Embrace pushed through a forcefield to approach a docking tower equipped with thousands of quays.
Taec and the party from Biel-Tan disembarked, leaving the long ramp of Imbriel’s Embrace. Shockingly, they were met by the guns of three aspect shrines, a single farseer at their head.
‘What folly is this?’ said Taec. The rangers accompanying them brought up their own long rifles, their outlines fading as the cameleoline in their cloaks engaged.
The farseer addressed them in the curt accent of the Biel-Tanians. The movements of his body underlined the character of all his kind, curt, imperious and aggressive. ‘Folly? Wisdom! Here you come, and no further will you go.’
Taec narrowed his eyes. He recognised the psychic imprint of this seer. ‘Do I speak with Farseer Altariec?’
‘You do.’
‘We have conversed many times before in amity. I protest! This is no fitting manner to receive our embassy.’
‘This is the manner in which we greet those we cannot trust,’ said Altariec baldly. He addressed the Aspect Warriors with him. ‘Iyanden calls us to their aid, do they forget our alliance is a thing of past times? Broken, so I recall, by their own unwillingness to commit to the struggle to restore our people’s glories.’
‘You were too aggressive, too soon. We share the same purpose still, I assure you,’ said Taec. ‘The time will come when we will march onwards to restoration together, and all the other craftworlds besides.’
‘Your assurances are worthless. How many enemies will they fell? There are wars that should have been fought from which you turned, and yet wars that should have been avoided that you fought.’ An unpleasant sense of bitter amusement passed through his posture. ‘Those you seem to have suffered greatly from. Why should we listen to you?’
‘A confluence of probability has formed. Now is the time to act in concert,’ said Kelmon. ‘Put up your weapons and let us pass.’
‘You would have us fight, Wraithseer Kelmon, engage that which threw down the bastions of Iyanden, the greatest of all the craftworlds?’ Altariec said this disdainfully. ‘Reckless.’
‘It is my shame to have counselled war whilst I lived. The result is all around you. Shame binds my soul. I am shaped by it,’ said Kelmon. ‘I repent my pride, and bring only wisdom to you.’
‘You remain reckless in death then, if you still preach war. Where is your shame? This world of Dûriel was lost to us long ago. Let the Great Dragon complete our task for us, and remove the human blight.’
‘The dead are not reckless. What you have seen cannot come to pass, you know this,’ said Taec.
‘And you come here, the Silvereye, come here and beg for our aid in your struggle. Great as Eldrad Ulthran, they say. Greater, perhaps. No!’ Altariec slammed the butt of his staff hard on to the floor. ‘What trust there once was between us is gone. You and we, the greatest of craftworlds, together we could have stayed the slow death of our kind. It was foreseen!’ He levelled the point of his staff at the Iyandeni. ‘Scried on the skein by the minds of the seers of both craftworlds, and yet your kind turned aside.’ His voice grew dark, the air grew thicker with his wrath, the light bled away by his displeasure.
‘I know of those seeings,’ said Taec calmly. ‘I was told of them by Uriethaniel Goldenhand, he who instructed me upon the Path of the Seer, now passed. He told me the reading was not so clear cut, that glory could have been the result, it is true, but that suffering to both peoples would be the more likely result.’
‘Your seers were wrong,’ spat Altariec.
The wraithseer spoke. ‘Kelmon the Admonished I call myself, not the far-sighted but the short-sighted. Yes! Even Kelmon the Fool. I was proud, and I was wrong. I have sworn never to be so again. We must act now.’
‘You are wrong again, once-Kelmon,’ said Altariec. ‘My own foresight has warned me. This battle cannot be won. We will lose many warriors. Who can afford to, when each life is so precious and each fighter needed?’
‘Prince Yriel does not think it unwinnable.’
‘The pirate king?’ scoffed Altariec. ‘Pride brings ruin, no one is better placed to know this than the Prince Yriel, for his pride ruined you all.’
‘I know this better,’ countered Kelmon. ‘Even more than the Exiled Prince. It was my pride, not his, that proved Iyanden’s downfall.’
A figure hurried onto the dock, elaborately garbed, one far along the path of the seer. He took in the scene on the quayside, his dismay palpable.
‘Farseer Taec Silvereye?’
‘I am he.’
‘I was not informed of your arrival. Altariec, as the elder farseer on Biel-Tan at this time, why did you not tell us?’
‘I wished to deliver my displeasure to them myself,’ said Altariec.
‘Then it is good the infinity circuit told me you were here. I am Farseer Dahtarioc.’ He turned to regard Altariec’s guard of Aspect Warriors, their weapons levelled at the visitors. ‘Why do you berate our kinsfolk so? This is most unbecoming, unforgivable, for Altariec to greet you in this manner! Are we the brawlers of Commorragh? Stand down your arms, warriors of Biel-Tan! You have our hospitality, O Taec Silvereye of Iyanden.’
The Aspect Warriors, two shrines’ worth of Dire Avengers and one of Fire Dragons, looked to their exarchs. These held up their hands flat, fingers spread. The weapons dipped.
Taec hid his relief in courtly words. ‘And we gladly accept it.’
‘You have come alone? We expected your armies,’ said Dahtarioc.
‘Our warhost makes its way to Dûriel directly. Prince Yriel comes here, to take the star-road to Dûriel where he will destroy the voidspawn in space. We will attempt the attack even if Biel-Tan will not stand beside us.’
Dahtarioc was taken aback. ‘What makes you say this?’
‘We received no reply to our plea. I see no warships.’
‘It was sent, farseer, it was sent. We decided in majority, the seer and war councils both, to aid you. Only Altariec here and his followers disagreed. We move with all haste towards Dûriel.’
Taec slumped a little with relief. ‘Do not allow Biel-Tan to approach the Dragon itself, that was Kelmon’s error. I pray you will not make it yourselves.’
‘No,’ said Altariec. ‘The fools are not that foolish. Biel-Tan moves nearer so as to close the distance, nothing more.’
‘The craftworld will be in no danger,’ said Dahtarioc.
‘We cannot be sure of this,’ said Altariec.
‘We can be sure of nothing, the shadow is on everything! It has been decided, farseer,’ said Dahtarioc. He spoke more civilly to Taec. ‘Perhaps the shadow of the Dragon consumed our reply? We have had much trouble with our communications, so strong is the alien mind-voice now that it casts a pall over the webway and warp together.’
Taec nodded hesitantly. ‘Perhaps so. I sense the shadow, it is deep and dark and clouds all thought. We were forced upon an astral journey before we could start our scrying. This means then that you will aid us? If that is so, I come to press you still, for Biel-Tan to attack immediately. The chances of success if we wait for the Phoenix Host are slim.’
The word phoenix carried many complex meanings, and Taec chose to reveal the name of their army purposefully. It was a concept that lay at the heart of Biel-Tan’s philosophy. Dahtarioc smiled.
‘Ancient days will be reborn. It is good to hear it from the lips of the Iyandeni once again.’
‘Yes, even if the fire of Asuryan’s shrine is doused.’
‘It will burn again, farseer. We will light it with the bonfires of war. Come now, rest. You have no reason to press us.’ He reached out his arms and performed a complex bow of true greeting. The physical nuance it added to his words appeared odd to Taec, but its meaning was clear. ‘The assembled warhost of Biel-Tan departed for Dûriel half a cycle ago under the command of Autarch Aloec Sunspear,’ said Dahtarioc. ‘We go to Dûriel with all speed.’
Taec was aghast. ‘You attack alone?’
Altariec slammed his staff upon the floor. ‘And there you have it! Idiocy! Poor counsel! No good will come of this, you will see.’
Chapter Four
The Swordwind Strikes
The Shrine of the Patient Blade lived up to its name. Aspect Warriors of all kinds gathered on the plateaus surrounding the valley slopes, but the Patient Blade, led by Exarch Thurliarissa, had been first to descend into the den of the enemy. A half of this planet’s cycle they had hidden, awaiting their prey under the spore-choked skies of Dûriel. A parade of alien monstrosities passed them by, and they had not stirred. The squad felt the awful touch of the hive mind as much as any eldar, their psychically sensitive minds open to its terrors. But death was their ally, her presence palpable, and their faith in Khaine reduced the warp shadow cast by the fleets’ minds until it was as threatening as a cloud in front of the sun.
A signal. Tulian had their prey in sight. Thurliarissa pulsed the command to move and they slipped carefully through the boulders and scrub of the valley sides. They had all memorised the shape and the thought forms of the creature they had been sent to kill, and wisely so. A Dragon in Shadow was a difficult prize to track. It moved as stealthily as they moved, a ghost, its chameleonic skin making it a little more than a shimmer on the land. The exarch had deep respect for this creature; its genetics were artfully engineered, perfectly adapted for its role as scout, sentry, and terror weapon. A lictor, humans called it. A superlative hunter, this cycle it was the hunted. Thurliarissa was intent today’s rising sun would be the last it ever saw.
Her Aspect Warriors broke cover, emerging from hollows in the rocks. Following the wavering outline of the lictor, they ran over the scrubby hillside in the stance of Death To Giants, for giants they sought.
‘Strike swiftly and hard, the claw closes on our prey, bring death mercilessly,’ Thurliarissa spoke to the squad. The crystal psychic pick-ups in her helm were useless, for all but the strongest psy-signals were blocked out by the flat, raging presence of the hive mind, and she was forced to speak over radio. Silently, they spread out into the form requested, nine of them in a curved U – a moving pincer preparing to snap shut.
The lictor caught wind of them just before the trap was sprung, the tendrils on its face twitching, somehow tasting their presence despite their armour’s sophisticated baffles. Thurliarissa had heard they could sense electromagnetic radiation, and cursed the psychic roar of the hive mind for forcing such crude communications on them. It spun around to meet them, shedding its camouflage and rearing up to its full height, four times that of an eldar. Scythed talons five paces long arched over its back, a mockery of the curved sting of the scorpion. These were all too ready to meet the blade of Dariathanar as he leapt and struck.
The Dragon in Shadow caught Dariathanar’s whirring chainsword on the armoured upper surface of its claws, turning its torso up and back to pitch him off-balance. It smashed at the Striking Scorpion with its lower hands, slamming him backwards half a dozen paces. Dariathanar clattered against the stone and lay still. In her helm Thurliarissa caught sense of his injuries: not grave, but he was stunned. Seven of her Striking Scorpions remained. She would chide Dariathanar for his rashness when they returned to the shrine.
Wordlessly, she signalled her warriors to attack as one, not alone. They moved swiftly around the creature, sending artful fusillades at it, their chainswords swirling through the air in complex death patterns. Quick as they were, the warrior beast was swifter, moving with speed that was breathtaking. Wherever their weapons went, a claw moved to intercept them and turn them away. Shuriken embedded themselves in the mountain’s rock where a short instant before the lictor had stood. Embattled on all sides, it was on the defensive, but they could not slay it, no matter that they outnumbered it.
Thurliarissa saw an opening and moved in, her warriors parting in their deadly dance to allow her through. She ducked under a claw that chopped towards her, switching postures. Stances that looked ungainly and uncomfortable away from battle enabled her to slip around the lictor’s blows. Ferion got too close, the lictor reacted, and the point of its claw buried itself in his chestplate. Ferion struggled upon the spike, his waystone’s light brightened, and he hung limp.
Ferion’s death bought Thurliarissa victory. She opened up with the shuriken pistols built into her chainsabres. Twin streams of sharp discs smacked into the creature’s heavily armoured thorax. It screeched as they penetrated its chitin, finding their way into the soft organs beneath. Thurliarissa bounded forwards as it staggered back, arms apart in the stance of the Claw’s Embrace. She swung her forearms together with force, targeting the Dragon in Shadow’s knobbled neck. The teeth on the ancient weapons screamed as they cut through the creature’s spine, and its head rolled from its shoulders and fell into the dust. The Scorpions moved aside as it died, the tall, lanky carcass spouting bright fluids as it collapsed to the floor.
Thurliarissa panted, praise to Khaine on her lips. She communicated the squad’s triumph to Inner Command. It was her great pride that Sunspear had once fought under her, in an earlier life. ‘The Patient Blade fights well, the scorpion’s prey is dead, this zone is now clear.’
Praise came from Sunspear, then new orders.
She stopped to pluck Ferion’s waystone. Marking the position of his corpse for later retrieval, she led her squad onward, down into the reeking forests of the valley.
The Godpeak was Dûriel’s highest mountain, and the site of the world’s ancient webway portal. From his command position upon the cliffs fringing the summit, Autarch Aloec Sunspear of Biel-Tan sent his thanks to the Patient Blade. He consulted his viewing orb’s map of the Godpeak and the valley stretching out from its southern side. Faint shimmers showed the positions of eldar hunting squads, and he nodded in satisfaction. Ever since the Battle of Iyanden had reduced Biel-Tan’s erstwhile ally to a haunted ruin, Sunspear had studied the Great Devourer, certain that its attention would one day fall on his own craftworld. He had determined that the Dragons in Shadow operated as an early warning system for the swarm, among other things. He was confident that with the lictors dead, his force would be able to move in unopposed and take the creatures of Far Ranging Hunger by surprise.
