Wild Rider
Author: Gav Thorpe
Date: 2018-11-10 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction
Description: The Wild Riders of Saim Hann craftworld are renowned for their skill and daring, none more so than their headstrong Wild Lord, Nuadhu Fireheart. Having been approached by a representative of Yvraine, emissary of the Whispering God, Ynnead, Nuadhu has unwittingly awoken a slumbering threat – a tomb world of the aeons-old necrontyr. Now, Clan Fireheart must seek alliance with the Ynnari in order to combat the threat to their craftworld, and preserve their honour and the future of the family. The two forces return to Agarimethea to destroy the necrontyr before their strength becomes unassailable.
Publisher: Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd
Rights: Copyright © 2018 Games Workshop Ltd.

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Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Dark Imperium: Plague War’

A Black Library Publication
eBook license

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die.

Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Prologue

Imagine a vast ocean, uncontrollable, swept by storms, wracked with treacherous currents and inhabited by the deadliest predators. Populate this tempestuous sea with islands. Some of the islands are not fixed, but float above the waves, linked to its power but never touching the surface for fear of being swallowed. Each island is joined to others by long bridges, and the bridges themselves are adorned with castles and cities, some capable of housing millions of souls. It is ancient, the maze of bridges, its arches collapsing, its piles eaten away by the merciless aeons of its existence. In places it has been consumed by rising tides, in others it has fallen beneath the surface.

Where these tumbled spans touch the waters, the predators learn to walk. Yet they are not air-breathers by nature, and their time out of the sea is limited. They cannot rove far from the breaches into their inimitable world, but they crave the light of the open air.

Try to imagine the same, wrought not of matter but raw emotion. Now you have but the vaguest notion of the warp and the webway.

Such visualisation exercises were unnecessary for Eldrad Ulthran, former farseer of Ulthwé Craftworld and self-appointed herald of Ynnead. He who had thought to raise up the aeldari God of the Dead knew the webway intimately. He looked upon it not only with mortal eyes, but with the full power of his psychic senses. Its wonder needed no metaphor.

It was in this place, in the space between spaces, that he had first discovered Ynnead. Rather, it was here he had first sensed the potential God of the Dead. He alone had witnessed the nascent power of an ascending deity, felt the tremor of her heartbeat hidden in the pulse of the universe.

Scattered across the stars, the craftworlds of the Asuryani had thought themselves isolated, each hoarding the souls of its dead within an infinity circuit. A closed loop, they had believed, and Eldrad had thought it also.

Until he had heard that awe-inspiring throb of burgeoning godhood.

At that moment he had realised that his people had been woefully short-sighted. To believe that the spirit-vaults of an infinity circuit were wholly closed off from the warp had been to think only in mortal dimensions. It mattered not whether in the bodies of the aeldari, or in the crystal pathways of a craftworld, a spirit affected the warp in the same manner that matter could bend space. And the webway linked all of them together, like a network of cables running along the bridges, conducting energy from one side of the galaxy to the other.

The Eternal Matrix, he had called it. It was part of the webway, the greatest achievement of the aeldari dominion; an interconnection between not only every populated world but, on a fundamental level, every single aeldari born.

Before the Fall, when the aeldari had been consumed by the deity birthed out of their own decadence, their spirits had been gathered in the Eternal Matrix. A soul could return to a new life. Resurrection. Reincarnation. Rebirth. Eldrad was not sure of the exact mechanism, but he knew it should be possible again.

Ynnead, God of the Dead, was the Eternal Matrix given mind and purpose.

But let us return to the analogy and to the place where Eldrad stands upon a broken span, looking down into the waters where the sharks await. An island beneath the unforgiving waves is close, within reach, harbouring secrets of the past, present and future.

To the eye of a mortal, the Falls of the Unshed Tears were suitably named, like a great cascade of flowing greenish-blue energy that poured from a breach in the webway’s barriers. It bisected a grand hall, as large as a city precinct, walled with smooth crystal veined with grey and black.

Eldrad stood at the centre of the hall and examined the roaring cataract. It was not his body, but a projection of his spirit. It was therefore still young in appearance, clad in light robes of purple and grey, his staff like a rod of light in his hand. Waves of hair fell to his shoulders, held back by a band of gold with a tear-shaped ruby upon his brow. He moved without effort, almost floating with each step, carried by the power of the mind, not muscle.

What he needed, the knowledge he sought, was beyond the ever-shifting veil. He had cast the runes three times, and each occasion had shown the path to the Falls of the Unshed Tears.

Even as part of him marvelled at the physical beauty, his psychic mind probed the immaterial construction around him. It was the breach itself that was of value. Raw warp power knows nothing of causality. Here there was no boundary to what had been, what was and what might come to pass.

His boots soft on the marble-like floor, the seer approached the falls. Shapes slithered within the spray, not yet aware of him. He lifted a vial from his belt, fashioned of crystal close in appearance to that of the walls. Soulglass it was called, similar to the wraithbone used by his people to carry psychic energy. Similar, but opposite, for soulglass was psychically repellent rather than conductive. Thought could not pass through it. It was a material that could shield against the warp or, in this case, be used to contain it.

It froze his fingers. Like Eldrad, the phial was not real, but a reflection of its mortal counterpart. Which was good enough in this place.

Arm extended, the seer was almost at the falls when he felt a gentle breeze upon his cheek.

He stopped and turned, to find a door in the wall where there had been nothing but smooth crystal.

In front of the door stood a young aeldari. Sort of. The image of an aeldari through a particular lens, perhaps. The newcomer was almost waspish in shape, so slender at the waist, neck long. Tresses of golden hair hung almost to the ground, braided into shapes that seemed to be figures entwined in ecstasy. A robe of silver was slit at shoulder and thigh, revealing pale pink skin. Eyes like polished sapphires regarded him from an oval face.

It took a heartbeat before Eldrad noticed that the figure stood with arms crossed over a single-breasted chest and with hands clasped politely in the small of the back. The extra set of limbs immediately betrayed the identity of the interloper.

He murmured the name, caught between cold terror and a grudging admiration for the greater daemon’s ability to arrive without him being forewarned.

‘N’kari.’

‘Eldrad.’

The voice was like silk sliding across the soul, caressing yet strong. Just the utterance of the seer’s name seemed a lascivious invitation. The daemon grinned, revealing needle teeth.

‘Do you never tire of being banished?’ Eldrad slipped the vial back into its pouch and in its place conjured a simulacrum of a golden blade.

‘Do you ever tire of my return?’ the greater daemon replied, remaining motionless except for a coquettish tilt of the head.

Eldrad risked a flick of the eyes towards the falls. They had not changed. If N’kari wanted to summon its daemonic minions from the flow, it had not yet done so.

‘Why are you here?’ the seer asked, stepping away from the warp power.

‘To invite you to look deeper,’ said the greater daemon. ‘Within, you will find all that you desire.’

‘And you think that is a temptation that will entrap me?’

The daemon shrugged, which was quite expressive with four arms.

‘My kind are called the Keepers of Secrets for a reason.’ N’kari waved two hands at the mystical cascade. ‘You have my word that I will not interfere.’

‘As though the word of a daemon should count for anything.’

N’kari tried to looked hurt, but could not suppress a sly smile.

‘Drink of the waters, Eldrad. That is why you came, is it not?’

The seer gritted his teeth and regarded the incarnation of She Who Thirst’s servant with narrowed eyes.

‘I see your intent, weaver of lies. You think that if you seem enthusiastic, to thwart you I will decline. The reality is that you do not want me to drink, and seek to turn my thinking around with these tricks.’

‘Of course,’ conceded the daemon with an expression of mocked sadness. ‘I could never hope to outwit an intellect as great as yours, Eldrad. It is my folly that I attempted to do so rather than summoning a horde of my daemonettes and fiends to rend your spirit from your body.’

N’kari’s words struck a chord and halted Eldrad as he turned back towards the falls. He bit his lip, trying to read something of the daemon’s intent in its expression, but all he saw was guile, which was no more than he expected.

‘A pretty-petty conundrum-riddle,’ said the Keeper of Secrets. The daemon placed all four slender hands behind its back and started to pace, circling around Eldrad, keeping the same distance between them. ‘Do you perceive-see a bluff-trick, or witness-countenance a tangle-double-bluff? You think-hope you are free-lost of my mistress-master’s love-hate, but I loathe-adore you, Eldrad. Your arrogance-confidence will be your salvation-downfall. And it will be all the bitter-sweeter to me because it will be at your-my hand that you save-doom your-our people.’

Eldrad backed away in an attempt to keep both the magical waters and the daemon within view. His mind raced with possibilities, but alighted upon a simple answer.

‘You know that I can trust nothing you say, and so you have said both what I want to hear and that which I would not listen to.’ As he spoke, Eldrad moved towards the cascade. It made the floor tremble and roared in his ears, but he knew that it was only his mortal senses trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. ‘I cannot know whether you wish me to partake of the vision-waters or not. All you have done is introduce doubt. Given that my original intent was to drink, it is that course of action you wish me to reconsider. If you truly wanted me to drink, you would not have intervened.’

‘Do not!’ snarled N’kari, baring fangs like stilettos.

Eldrad dispelled his spirit-blade and lunged towards the falls. He brought up the soulglass container, sweeping it through the flow of energy. In the same motion he turned, eyes upon N’kari, and downed the contents.

The liquid was like sweet acid. His triumph lasted only a moment before the lilting laugh of the Keeper of Secrets reached his ears. It joined the thump of his own heart as the power of the Unshed Tears flowed into him.

‘So predictable-entertaining, Eldrad.’ N’kari laughed again. The daemon’s voice, and the sight of the assumed form, became indistinct as Eldrad’s soul burned with the energy of the warp. ‘I just want to see-smell your face-soul when you realise-despise what you have broken-created.’

The fire of the Unshed Tears coursed through the spirit of Eldrad, threatening to consume him with its power. The hall began to whirl around him, faster and faster, until it became a temporal spiral, forever circling itself through beginning to end. He was a mote upon the maelstrom, swept along by its uncaring power.

In the froth of spray and crackle of flames he heard N’kari’s mockery. Pride. The daemon had used his own pride against him, the notion that he could not have been wrong to seek the Unshed Tears.

Pride saved him.

Indignation at the thought of falling prey to the daemon’s trickery became a pillar at his core, an unshakable foundation beneath his feet. Sheer arrogant stubbornness refused to be swept away by the torrent of the cascade that now poured around him, trying to drown his spirit.

He absorbed the fire, he drank deeper of the water, infusing himself with its power rather than fighting it.

Eldrad burst from the raging waters, ascending in a corona of golden light to land a short distance from N’kari, phial and staff still in hand. The daemon rippled, becoming a towering monstrosity of purple flesh with clawed limbs and bovine face. Jewel-like eyes regarded the seer from beneath a deep frown.

The seer raised his staff, expecting attack.

‘It is not enough to absorb-drink the Unshed Tears, Eldrad,’ said the daemon. ‘The power-emptiness is within you now, but you must look-fall into the depths-shadows of your soul to see-feel the vision-truth they contain.’

‘Do not try to claim victory from this defeat, N’Kari. You hoped to keep this power from me, but it is mine now.’

‘This is the glad-sad expression I want to see.’ The Keeper of Secrets leaned closer, perfumed breath washing over Eldrad. He saw himself reflected in each of the dozen facets of its eyes, a picture of defiance. ‘This is the depth-height of your delusion-revelation, the instant-eternity when you are at the nadir-apex of your confidence-sadness and ambition-betrayal. Come with me then-now, Eldrad, and you can wipe out-rule the void-stars. Deny-love me again, and your-our people are saved-doomed.’

‘My people are already doomed,’ sneered Eldrad. ‘In Ynnead we will find a saviour.’

‘You think-wish the dead-stolen will save-destroy you?’ The daemon scratched under its long chin with an appendage like a slender lobster claw. ‘Take a care-hope with what you desire-despise, Eldrad.’

The daemon stepped back and gave a mocking bow, tongue sliding across its fangs. The door in the wall opened, revealing a golden shimmer from beyond, and then both daemon and portal were gone.

Lightness of spirit was replaced by crushing weight. Eldrad groaned as he opened his eyes. He sat upon a plain chair in his chambers, surrounded by ephemera accumulated over a long life. None of it was any measure of his existence, but as he looked down at his bare hands, he saw the crystal taking root within vein and bone. After the freedom of his soul-journey, his body was near crippling, aching from head to toe.

His task was not yet complete. In his other hand, a sealed phial of soulglass shone with strange lights. Remembering the words of N’kari, he unstoppered the crystal container. A wisp of mystical energy floated free, drawn to his thoughts like a moth to a light. He felt only a tremble of power as it slipped into him, baring its secrets to his probing thoughts.

He saw the Eternal Matrix aflame with white fire. In its conflagration the webway was reduced to grey ashes, but out of the inferno rose a flame-robed being wearing a circlet of spirit stones upon its brow. Grim was the face, but not cruel; androgynous and spectral. It carried a star of shining silver in one hand, an orb of gold in the other.

Ynnead ascendant.

With the rise of the God of the Dead came a great welling up of the aeldari spirits, following their saviour like motes drawn into its wake. Streaming from the Eternal Matrix, the Reborn resembled a new cosmos, flitting about Ynnead like fireflies at dusk.

Something else moved in the darkness. Rank after rank of skeletal figures emerged from the shadows, the gleam of silver and gold upon polished artificial bone. Like a circuit alive with energy, a green coruscation spread from star to star, opening immense vaults to pour forth uncounted phalanxes of the ancient dead.

The necrontyr.

With a stifled cry, Eldrad broke from the vision trance. The crack of the soulglass shattering on the tiled floor brought him back to the present, shivering with shock. He staggered to the wall, steadying himself with a hand while nerve-jangling pulses flashed through the crystal growths inside him.

A single rune had escaped its pouch at his belt and hung in the air over the shards of soulglass. It turned slowly end over end, a serpentine icon trying to chase its own tail.

The Cosmic Serpent, symbol of wisdom and secrets. And also the rune of Craftworld Saim-Hann.

Eldrad did not know what it meant, and was too weary to delve further straightaway. He stumbled to his chair and almost fell into it, numb of limb and thought. The Cosmic Serpent drifted to him at a thought, circling an upraised finger as the farseer pondered his next act.

Chapter 1

FLEE THE DEAD

The Wild Riders ascended from the chasm in a scarlet spiral, looping around each other as they accelerated. To fly straight was to be predictable, an easy target for the necrontyr scythe-craft that banked sharply towards them, lit by the ghost-glow of their terrible weapons. As they speared towards the heavens, the virgin forests of Agarimethea spread below them, the wind-tossed canopy like a sea of green.

At their head, Nuadhu Fireheart rode upon a fighting platform atop the back of his Vyper, his pilot, B’sainnad, leaning over the controls in front of him. They shared mutual urgency across the spirit-connection of the Vyper. Crouched behind his pilot to reduce the drag on their vehicle, Nuadhu winced each time he heard the spine-chilling scream of a necrontyr Doom Scythe. His grip tightened on the long spear he wielded, known as the Drake’s Fang, the purple flame that wreathed its elegant blade whipped by their passage.

Nuadhu felt a tremble of trepidation across the empathic psychic link with his kindred. The piercing shriek of incoming necrontyr attack craft grated on his nerves, but he pushed aside his growing dread and focused on the swirling vortex still some distance ahead.

At his back swarmed sixteen more Wild Riders, a little less than half that had set out with him on the expedition. They were mostly of Clan Fireheart, a few of them more distantly related kin from other clans. The long nose of each anti-grav steed and the banners that flew from their pillions bore the sign of the Cosmic Serpent alongside family runes, marking them as warriors of Craftworld Saim-Hann. Some had helms to conceal their features, topped with hair crests of bright colours streaming in the wind. Those with faces bared showed off colourful warpaint and tattoos of kin sigils and personal decoration. A few bore the scars of intricate branding, lines and swirls of white upon cheeks and brow.

There was one unlike any Wild Rider. Her steed was a reaver-bike of Commorragh, red also, but the shimmering crimson of spilt blood rather than the scarlet of Saim-Hann. Even so, her warrior nature was evident from the bladed, serrated armour she wore. Much of her flesh was exposed between highly ornate plates, strategically positioned not only to protect vital organs, but to accentuate her physical charms.

Druthkhala, messenger of the Ynnari. She was the reason why the Wild Riders had come to Agarimethea, seeking the treasures of the ancient aeldari dominion. Glance drawn to the alluring curve of her leg as she straddled her jetbike, Nuadhu was reminded of why he had felt obliged to assist.

Just behind Nuadhu rode Caelledhin, his half-sister. The rune of the Icewhisper adorned her twin pennants and a scowl of concentration twisted her brow as she guided her jetbike around the turns of her companions. She wore her hair shorter than was customary, her shoulder-length black locks a legacy of her mother’s lineage among the long blond braids of her companions.

‘This expedition was further proof of why you are not of sound judgement and should not rise to the position of clan chieftain.’ His half-sister’s words were almost lost in the speed of their passage though they came to the messenger bead inserted below his ear.

‘I have no ambition to do so yet. My father lies beneath the downward stroke of Death and you talk as though the blade has already parted him.’

‘Our father,’ she corrected. ‘I do not look forward to his parting, it will pierce my heart as sure as any dagger blow, but we cannot ignore the fact that the fate of Clan Fireheart might balance upon the whim of a warrior who would strike out on a ridiculous quest to impress a potential romantic partner.’

Nuadhu wanted to argue the accusation, but the edge of its truth bit deep. He was of no substance and the admission was bitter in thought and mouth.

Across the spirit-bond he shared his plan with the others, letting them see what he envisioned. As though moving his own limbs, he divided the flotilla into three separating streams, splitting apart as they soared higher. The diving wedge of necrontyr attackers broke as well, three coming after Nuadhu, two each turning towards the other Wild Riders.

‘Druthkhala!’ B’sainnad added a mental impulse of alarm to his shout.

Nuadhu saw that the Bloodbride had continued onwards where others had peeled away, oblivious to the psychic communion of the others. Noticing her isolation, she wrenched her reaver-bike into a tight arc, trying to evade a dropping Doom Scythe. She jinked in the opposite direction a moment later, an instant before a screech erupted from the craft and a white beam flashed through the air where she would have been. A second Doom Scythe looped around, drawn to the solitary jetbike like a pack animal to wounded prey. Its underslung cannons crackled with artificial lightning.

A sudden flurry of crimson beams slashed across the ascending alien craft, scorching trails across the living metal of its hull. The larger shape of the Vyper piloted by Ithalaris soared between Yvraine’s messenger and the Doom Scythe. From upon its back, Cualain fired the mounted scatter laser again, her salvo raking more welts across the necrontyr engine as it rolled away. They powered down towards the forest as the Doom Scythes adjusted their attack vectors towards the Vyper.

‘Return to the formation,’ Nuadhu told them. Joined to B’sainnad by the empathic link, he acted in concert with the pilot, leaning to the left to help the Vyper swing more sharply as B’sainnad hauled it into a tight, ascending turn. Green lightning snarled past a heartbeat later, sending static crawling through Nuadhu’s hair.

Ithalaris and Cualain had not returned. Their Vyper skimmed through the upper foliage beneath the Wild Riders, preceding a storm of broken branches and tattered leaves. The two Doom Scythes fell in behind it, slicing through the wake of arboreal debris.

‘Come back!’ Nuadhu demanded over the messenger-waves. The Vyper’s course was diverging from the rest of the kindred, curving away back towards the river canyon. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Get to safety, cousin-lord,’ Cualain replied while Ithalaris took the Vyper even closer to the whipping branches in an effort to mask them against the sensors of the pursuing necrontyr. ‘Make sure the Ynnari gets back to her people with word of Clan Fireheart’s loyalty and strength. Our family needs powerful allies.’

Druthkhala slid her jetbike alongside Nuadhu, eyes fixed on the Vyper, following each jink and swoop an instant after B’sainnad acted.

‘We’ll lose them in the canyon again, I promise,’ Cualain continued. Ithalaris steadied their course for just long enough for her gunner to fire another burst of scatter laser at the closing Doom Scythes. Scarlet energy sparked from the fuselage of one, but it did not slow nor change course. ‘Come back for the prize!’

Two other Doom Scythes came at the kindred from opposite sides, angled to catch them in a crossfire while three more drew ahead, accelerating towards the webway portal. Rather than continue the chase, the necrontyr had decided to cut them off from their goal.

Twin lances of lightning speared towards the Wild Riders. One bolt caught Ythasda’s jetbike on the tip of a slender stabiliser wing. Like a living creature, the crackle of green power crawled across the scarlet skin of the steed, turning everything it touched to scattering atoms, feeding on the energy released. A spark leapt to the rider, seeming to ignite Ythasda with a green storm, while another snapped across the air to Arnewan, striking her in the chest as she dipped below the faltering jetbike.

Ythasda’s death-scream was short-lived, rider and steed disappearing into particles a couple of heartbeats later. Arnewan died in silence, his riderless jetbike plunging down into the forest to explode upon the canopy. The death-pangs resonated across the Wild Riders’ spirit-bridge, ripping a sympathetic yell from Nuadhu. Coldness clutched his heart, swiftly replaced by a fiery rage. It was a near-physical agony to flee rather than fight. B’sainnad responded, but as he was about to ease the Vyper on a course towards the Doom Scythes overhauling them, the messenger bead within Nuadhu’s ear quivered.

‘If we all die here, our clan dies too.’ The words of Caelledhin were like cool waters on the flames of his anger. ‘You are the Wild Rider, free as the wind. But now you must be the clan heir, guide of your people, protector of your kin.’

Nuadhu glanced below and saw that Cualain and Ithalaris were nowhere in sight – presumably they had reached the sanctuary of the river chasm. It was possible they had died, too far from the empathic link for him to have felt it, but he preferred to believe his first assessment.

There was nothing but open air between the Wild Riders and the webway, but a fresh salvo of living lightning scorched into the rising group. Dagdhel became a cloud of atomised matter drifting on the breeze.

‘Full speed, no more tricks,’ he called to the rest, slapping B’sainnad on the shoulder. ‘At the last, with speed we shall be saved.’

No longer concerned with their evasive manoeuvres, the riders of Saim-Hann accelerated hard, unleashing the full power of their steeds’ anti-gravitic engines. At B’sainnad’s urging, Alean was like a mount unleashed after too much time corralled, almost throwing Nuadhu over the rail of his fighting platform. He gripped tight, looking into the drop towards the forest, laughter wrenched from the depths of his gut by the exhilaration of experience.

Beside him, Alyasa stood up from his saddle, a glittering rod in one hand. Nuadhu felt the surge of psychic energy when the windweaver reached out with his thoughts towards the portal. Nuadhu strained every fibre of body and thought, urging on his riders for the last effort.

Ahead, the three necrontyr craft slewed to a halt, sliding through the air as they turned their weapons on the rapidly approaching riders. Nuadhu’s chest was tight and his limbs trembled with suppressed emotion.

A scintillating white beam leapt from the closest Doom Scythe, passing behind Nuadhu. He saw nothing, but in the next heartbeat could no longer feel Alguinas among the kindred-thought. The loss choked him, the thought of his cousin’s vaporised spirit stone trapping the breath in his throat.

Desperation clouded the psychic link like a fog of despair, dragging at Nuadhu’s mind. He fixed upon the webway, eyes and thoughts locked to the swirl of purple as the symbol of life itself. He thought he saw the coils of the world spirit within the spiralling energy, a gate to Saim-Hann.

Guided by him, the kindred set their minds to the goal. Of single purpose, their psychic potential throbbed within their union. Nuadhu sensed the touch of Alyasa’s thoughts, channelling the raw power, shaping it into a renewed entreaty to the webway. Mesmerised by the flow of emotional energy, each rider enmeshed in the temporarily shared spirit, Nuadhu was almost crippled by the jolt of Torasadha’s abrupt end to a fresh necrontyr beam.

Fuelled by the mix of hope and despair, the portal spasmed. The insubstantial tunnel extended towards the windweaver’s outstretched wand, becoming a scarlet serpent with open maw. Nuadhu needed to issue no command. As one, the Wild Riders dived into the cosmic serpent’s gullet, finally reaching the sanctuary of the webway.

Turning to check on the others as they passed into the tunnel of Alyasa’s delving, Nuadhu’s elation became despair. Ten of his kin had made it back to the web portal, along with Druthkhala.

He had departed for Agarimethea to improve the standing of Clan Fireheart. Nuadhu had thought that the news of the tomb world’s vault would be worth the price paid, but as he counted his family’s losses, he knew that all he had brought back were tales of dead sons and daughters.

Chapter 2

BECOMING YNNARI

‘Welcome aboard the Ynnead’s Dream, Aradryan,’ declared the Ynnari waiting for him at the bottom of the docking ramp.

She was garbed in a single piece of cloth that wrapped about her body many times, creating undulating folds of rainbow fabric. Her head was shaved bald, the near-white skin pierced with gem-headed needles and gilded rings. The rest of her visible flesh was unadorned, save for a crimson wristband on each arm denoting her allegiance to Ynnead. Aradryan immediately noted the lack of a spirit stone about her person – one of the drukhari, formerly of Commorragh.

Suddenly disturbed at the prospect of disembarking, Aradryan glanced back to Unsushueth. The Dire Avenger that had plucked him from certain death was divested of his armour and war mask. A smile of encouragement accompanied his reassuring nod. His youth had surprised Aradryan, who had thought the Ynnari would mostly be like him: of at least middling term of age, wearied by their experiences. The truth was that he had met no such thing as a ‘typical’ Ynnari on the journey from Sithonemesh, where he had joined the kindred of the Reborn. To encompass the breadth of ages, backgrounds and demeanours as one type was to dismiss the great diversity of all aeldari. From across the craftworlds and Commorragh, from outcast bands and pirate lairs, thousands had been drawn to the cause. There was even rumour that some Exodites had felt the Whisper and responded to the pull of Ynnead. Yet for all their disparate origins, those that Aradryan had spoken to had a singular fate that united them.

All sought something greater to serve than themselves. All had been possessed of a deep dissatisfaction, beyond even the ennui of a bored craftworlder or the mind-weary fatigue of paranoia for those living in the Dark City beneath the shadow of She Who Thirsts.

‘Are you not coming, friend?’ Aradryan asked, suspicious of the stranger that awaited them.

‘No, we berth upon the Fires of Kirasujeth,’ the warrior told him. ‘Tzibilakhu will look after you for the time being, until you are comfortably acquainted with our ways and routines.’

‘Do not be intimidated. The Ynnead’s Dream is a warship, but you will find peace, companionship and knowledge here also,’ said the Commorraghan. Her smile became a grin, though its welcoming properties were somewhat curtailed by the blood-red gems affixed to each tooth.

‘I am not intimidated by your ship,’ snapped Aradryan as he started down the long ramp. Behind him a grav-sled followed like an obedient pet, carrying his meagre belongings: his guardian armour and a few hygienic essentials he had been gifted by others on the short journey through the webway to the roving Ynnari fleet. The clothes he wore – a loose-fitting shirt and trousers in black and crimson – were likewise the result of charity, for he had left the battlefield on Sithonemesh with only his battlegear and one other possession. His hand moved to the pouch at his belt, reassuring him that the spirit stone of Diamedin still nestled within. It was probably a trick of imagination that it seemed to pulse warmly at his touch.

‘Do not think that because I came to you as a guardian of Alaitoc I have seen nothing of the galaxy,’ he continued when his slippered feet stepped upon the marble-like dockside, casting an appraising look over the large berthing hall, as if assessing its suitability to be his new quarters. ‘Your ship is an impressive vessel, I once commanded one very much like it. And the flotilla it led.’

Tzibilakhu looked suitably impressed, though it was impossible to know if she was feigning the reaction.

Except it was not impossible, Aradryan remembered. He let the Whisper flow through him, feeling the spirit of the Commorraghan.

‘That would not be wise,’ Tzibilakhu told him, growing serious. She raised an admonishing finger. ‘You are not yet ready to share the soul of another, and certainly not one that has lived as I have.’

Rebuffed, he let the Whisper fade, and shrugged to dismiss her complaint, and his embarrassment.

‘So what is your role here?’ he asked. ‘Chaperone? Valet? Are you to show me to my abode?’

She did not reply immediately. Her smile returned, mischievous but fleeting.

‘It was passed to us that you have some experience as a steer-thought. If you commanded a ship, as you say, we might even find a vessel for you to captain.’ She moved to stand alongside him and, with a gentle hand on his arm, encouraged him to start walking along the quayside. He glanced back to see that the dawnsail transport that had brought him had already withdrawn its boarding gantry and was floating away from the dock.

‘I would…’ He looked at her, wanting to start this phase of his life in trust, but cautious of the perils of familiarity that had brought him such pain in the past.

‘I understand,’ she said, stopping, turning both of them to face the departing ship. ‘You wish to see the ship leave. To know for certain that you are here, one of the Ynnari, and to accept that there is no return to the life you once led.’

‘That is remarkable insight for…’ He trailed away, regretting the remark.

‘For an Ynnari?’

‘A Commorraghan,’ he confessed.

‘We are not renowned for our empathy,’ she conceded. ‘But I have travelled the journey you’ve only just started.’

Her nod directed his attention back to the departing transport, which raised silver moth wings as it slipped through the shimmer of the docking bay’s force field. The undulating iridescence of the webway flashed along the ship’s length for a few heartbeats and then the vessel turned and rose out of sight. A sigh escaped Aradryan and his shoulders slumped.

‘I am not a servant,’ Tzibilakhu told him as they continued towards the high archway at the end of the pier. ‘There is no Path of Service here. No slaves or menials. We each stand together, and alone.’

‘So how is it that you have come to see me off the transport?’

‘I will be your mentor. One who has heard the Whisper for some time guides each of those newly called to Ynnead. As Yvraine showed us the power of the Whispering God, we now pass it on to others.’

‘So you have been with the Ynnari for some time? I have come to realise that age is no guide, but you seem barely more than an adolescent to me.’

Her laugh was easy and warming, so genuinely full of humour that Aradryan could not stop himself from smiling at the sound.

‘It is you that is the child to me,’ she told him. They were almost at the gateway now, a ruddy-lit hallway beyond. ‘Do you know the story of the Lanathrialle?’

‘Only rumour,’ replied Aradryan. ‘It is said that among her many lives before becoming the Opener of the Way, Yvraine was a corsair captain, commander of the Lanathrialle, also known as the Sword of Winter’s Vengeance.’

‘I always liked that name. Alas, when Yvraine was forced to flee Commorragh she came seeking the Lanathrialle to aid in her escape. Pursued by the ships of Asdrubael Vect, the starship was destroyed, sacrificed to give her time to evade the imminent wrath of the Kabal of the Dark Heart. A sacrifice made with great loss but no regret. Even after that time her crew still adored her, you see.’

‘That is quite a claim on Yvraine’s behalf. None can know for sure.’

‘Except that I can, for I was captain of the Lanathrialle when Yvraine returned to us, and chief navigator when I served under her.’

Aradryan stopped and stared at Tzibilakhu, shocked at such a blatant falsehood.

‘You? No, impossible. That would make you at least twice as old as I am, if you served as you say.’

Tzibilakhu fixed him with a stare, her humour now gone.

‘You must rid yourself of these prejudices and self-delusions if you are to foster the power of the Whisper. I cannot say that you will not face deception and self-interest among the Ynnari, but you should not come to expect it. We are united in our belief in Yvraine, and in our service to the God of the Dead. I gain nothing from lying to you. I was captain of the Lanathrialle and it was my command that drove it into a webway portal too small for it to pass, blocking all pursuit, killing hundreds of my crew and dooming the rest to despicable ends at the hands of Vect’s torturers and his haemonculi allies. I and only a handful of my closest crew escaped with Yvraine.’ She stroked the back of her hand across her smooth cheek. ‘You would be surprised at the rejuvenating properties of a lifetime spent drinking souls kept in agony and despair.’

Aradryan shuddered, reminded of the diabolic nature of drukhari existence.

‘Do you still…?’ He hardly dared ask the question.

‘Not out of preference,’ she replied. ‘But you will learn more of that as I teach you about the Whisper and the forces it can channel. Before then, we shall get you settled and then we shall see Yvraine.’

‘Yvraine?’ He did not think he could be more startled. ‘What do you mean we will see her?’

‘When time permits, she grants audience to every new soul drawn to Ynnead. We have time now.’ She laid a hand on his shoulder and he noticed for the first time her fingernails had been replaced with sharpened slivers of red crystal. He cringed away at the thought of the blades so close to the blood vessels in his throat.

‘Tell me, on which ship did you serve? What was the name of this corsair fleet that called you admiral?’

‘The Fae Taruth,’ he told her as they resumed their journey. It had been a long time since he had named the ship and it brought back a flood of recollection, little of it as pleasant or glorious as he had thought at the time. ‘My fleet was known as the Azure Flame. We ran from the Golden Gate to the Winter Gulf, terror of the aliens.’

‘No,’ said Tzibilakhu, shaking her head. ‘I have not heard of them.’

Aradryan told himself that it did not matter, that it was better that his period of shame was left in the past. Yet he could not fight a small resentment, and wished that he could enjoy just a little notoriety from those dark times.

Nuadhu’s starship, the webrunner Eltereth, slid into place alongside his clan’s boarding pilaster in the forward docking spars of Saim-Hann. The neighbouring towers were lightless, devoid of activity where once they had bustled with the affairs of Clan Fireheart. Two other starships sat dormant at their quay-pillars, all that remained of a flotilla that had once numbered more than a dozen.

The mood of the Wild Riders was understandably sombre as they disembarked onto the pale stone dockside, the alighting hall humming with the noise of anti-grav engines. In solemn procession, they glided down the Eltereth’s ramp, their bright banners removed, sashes of white – the aeldari colour of death – laid upon the sleek noses of their craft.

Nuadhu led them atop Alean, jaw clenched as tightly as his fingers gripped the rail of his fighting platform. Caelledhin followed, and the others in order arranged by their relationship to the clan heir. Druthkhala did not join them, but waited in the bay of the starship. Nuadhu hoped it was out of respect for their observances for the dead, but with the Commorraghan he was not sure of her motivations. He had avoided her on the journey home, not wishing to confuse his grief with thoughts of her. To feel as the ancients had felt, that was the Wild Rider creed – whether to sadness or anger, laughter or lust – but there were only so many emotions one could handle at a time, and he had fled the one extremity to wallow in another for a while.

B’sainnad stopped just beside the arch that led into the tower’s interior, allowing Nuadhu to vault down from the Vyper. Caelledhin pulled over her jetbike on the opposite side of the gold-wreathed gateway, her eyes downcast.

One by one the Wild Riders flowed past, heads bowed, one hand upon the spirit stone mounted above the heart. It took a painfully short time for them all to depart, leaving Nuadhu with Caelledhin. Still his half-sister did not look at him, head turned away.

The growl of a different engine timbre drew his gaze to the approach of Druthkhala. She stopped a short distance away and sat up straight in the saddle of her reaver-bike, arms crossed.

‘Your losses are not in vain, Fireheart,’ she told him. ‘I will send word to Yvraine of what we have uncovered on Agarimethea.’

‘And what will she do?’ Caelledhin snapped suddenly, face flushed, eyes rimmed with the red of long weeping. ‘Mistress of the dead, shall she conjure our fallen back from the embrace of Ynnead?’

‘The necrontyr will have no interest in their spirit stones,’ replied the Commorraghan. ‘The artifice of the soul is anathema to their thinking. Your dead can be recovered.’

‘What will Yvraine do?’ Nuadhu asked. ‘Will she travel to Agarimethea, will she come to Saim-Hann?’ He really wanted to know if Druthkhala would be staying for much longer but avoided the question.

‘I cannot guess her mind,’ admitted the Bloodbride. ‘Many are her concerns, and more still the voices that clamour for her attention.’

‘But you promised support for Clan Fireheart…’

‘Support?’ Druthkhala frowned. ‘The Ynnari do not like to meddle in the politics of individual craftworlds.’

‘You said that we would be friends of the Ynnari.’

‘Your recollection is flawed. No promise was made. The friendship of Yvraine is… uncertain. There are many that actively seek to avoid it. We are the Reborn, servants of Ynnead, messengers of the dead. It is often unwise to court our company.’

Nuadhu was not sure if she meant it as such, but he took her last words to be a more specific warning rather than a general one.

‘Some things are worth a little risk,’ he told her.

Caelledhin snorted her derision, but Druthkhala rewarded him with a lopsided smile.

‘I shall bring word of Yvraine’s intent to the council, if you would call the leaders to attend.’

‘I do not have that authority,’ confessed Nuadhu. The reminder was a twist of the knife that pierced his heart. ‘Only my father can call the council on behalf of Clan Fireheart. But I am sure they would wish to listen to the emissary of Yvraine as they did before.’

His gaze slid to his half-sister, meeting her scowl with an innocent smile.

‘Perhaps if you spoke–’

‘No! You will see father first, and it will be from your lips that he will hear the names of the nephews and nieces he will not see again.’

With a last venomous glare for Druthkhala, Caelledhin sped beneath the arch, leaving Nuadhu alone with the Commorraghan. He was about to invite her to the Clan Fireheart palaces in the Flameglades but she gunned the engine of her steed and shot after Caelledhin, the wind of her passage buffeting Nuadhu as she raced away.

Alone, leaning heavily on Drake’s Fang as though wearied by long toil, Nuadhu considered his immediate future. He sighed heavily and shook his head, not sure which of the surviving gods he had offended to deserve such a destiny.

Chapter 3

THE EMISSARY

Yvraine sat alone in her chambers aboard the Ynnead’s Dream, in a few precious moments enjoying the absence of others – the closeness of her familiar, Alorynis, notwithstanding. The gyrinx lay on his side and purred contentedly, eyes half-closed. She dulled the noise of the Whisper, letting the souls of those in the ship around her seep from her awareness. Cocooning herself in mental silence, she performed the same muting thoughts upon the spirit energy that ebbed through her body, sustaining her life long past its allotted fate.

A near-silence of the soul descended, bringing an approximation of peace. Even so, there was one soul-sound that could not be ignored, like the ripple from a constant drip into a still pool. The cronesword Kha-vir, Sword of Sorrows. She laid a hand upon its sheathed blade and felt the coldness of the void-death that it brought to those it cut. In that instant of contact, the shard of Morai-Heg wavered in its yearning to be reunited with its companions, and in the following instant of peace Yvraine indulged her introspection.

Occasions of true joy were rare for Yvraine. She had known periods of immense physical pleasure, and had indulged intellectual and spiritual desires with equal fervour. Raised on the Asuryani Path, she had learned to carefully control every emotion, parcelling out her deep passions like sips of water in a desert. She had been a warrior and a seer, a creator and a servant, a lover and a philosopher. Each discipline she had mastered quickly, often to the surprise of her mentors, but so wary had she been of becoming trapped on a particular Path that she never delved in any depth. It had not provided the satisfaction she sought.

As a corsair she had let herself roam free across the stars, hunter and hunted, living her life on the edge between existence and oblivion. She had partaken of narcotics and other intoxications, but always the loss of self had concerned her and she had shied from becoming addicted to those highs, wary of the inevitable lows.

Looking back, it had been inevitable that she would end up in Commorragh. She had to fully travel the broad spectrum of aeldari experience to find her place within the cosmos. She had won favour easily with the archons of the kabals, carefully managing her alliances, striking bargains only of benefit, always shy of becoming too embroiled with a single cause or cult.

That she had drifted to the wyches and the arenas was another progression in a life seeking meaning. As a gladiatrix of the Crucibael she had finally lost herself for a while, relishing the blend of deadly fights and equally lethal politicking.

Even then she had served nothing but herself, and that cause only by necessity rather than desire. She had wearied of the blood-matches but had finally ended up in a place from which she could not escape, the very thing she had always sought to avoid. To anyone else it seemed as though the Daughter of Shadows was a queen among the wyches. Glory and praise, riches and patronage were all hers for the taking. Enemies also, and even as her influence grew, as her fame brought greater benefits and power, so the obstacles set in her path were raised higher and higher by those determined to see her fail.

And in the end it had finally caught up with her. As the chosen champion of Lady Malys, Yvraine inherited by proxy her mistress’ foes, and they hated Lady Malys with a cold intensity only an aeldari could muster. Though the lady herself might be beyond the assassin’s poison or the touch of a traitor’s stiletto, killing her undefeated champion would be enough to remind Lady Malys that she was not beyond retaliation for her bloody ascension through the ranks of the kabals.

The Night of Revelations, it had come to be known. Yvraine smiled at the thought. A perversion of what had been called previously the Night of Revels, a rare – and often unobserved – occasion, when warring powers put aside their grievances for mutual celebration of life. Nobody could remember when the Night of Revels had begun, its history lost somewhere in the darkness of the time just after the Fall, when the cults of the dominion had been forced to set aside their traditional conflicts for the sake of survival, in a universe that now included the Great Enemy.

The Crucibael had thronged with Commorraghans. Yvraine remembered well waiting behind the gates of the immense arena, listening to the ring of cruel laughter, the jeers and the shouts of encouragement. She recalled with intimate awareness, skin prickling again at the recollection, the sensation of knowing she was going to die. It was no premonition, simply an acknowledgement of fact. Vect himself had decided to make a point to Lady Malys, and Yvraine’s death would be the message. She was to face Lelith Hesperax, deadliest warrior of the Crucibael, leader of the Cult of Strife, the blade that had ended a thousand lives and more on the sands of combat, and ten times that number on battlefields beyond the Dark City.

Yvraine had not been ready to surrender meekly to this fate, but though she had risen quickly in notoriety against skilled foes, she was chillingly aware that her opponent had been fighting in the wych-style for ten, perhaps twenty times as long as she had. The attentions of the best haemonculi ensured that the old adage of youthful vigour versus aged experience was weighted firmly in the favour of the latter. Yvraine had studied holos of Lelith in action and saw no weakness to exploit, no slowness of limb or thought despite her long-serving history to the Cult of Strife.

Even more acutely, she felt again the knife-blow through her chest that had nicked her heart. A fool would have thought it fortunate that Yvraine had lived past that moment; that Lelith’s blow might easily have ended her there and then had it penetrated deeper. Yvraine knew better. She had watched with dimming vision Lelith walk contemptuously away, having dealt Yvraine a blow with such precision that it was assuredly fatal, but not for some time. The Queen of Knives had not deigned to remain for her vanquished foe’s demise.

Coldness swept through the Opener of the Seventh Way as she relived the moment. Death’s grasp crawled up her legs, along her spine, its clammy touch robbing her of sensation, slowing her movements. Though Lelith had moved on, there was no shortage of foes that wished to end the life of the Daughter of Shadows. Every dagger thrust Yvraine made, every parry with her war fan, had forced her heart to pump a little faster and brought her demise a fraction closer. Her bursts of frantic, devastating anger had become infamous, and her rage had kept Lelith Hesperax at bay for a time, but the canny wych-fighter had turned that anger against Yvraine. Lelith’s last blow had been a telling insult, a taunt to Yvraine to lay down and surrender to fate that she might live longer. But Yvraine could not. She had to fight – her anger would let her do nothing else.

And so, drop by drop, heartbeat by heartbeat, her body betrayed her. With each exertion more blood seeped from the wound dealt by Lelith, ushering the Daughter of Shadows closer to oblivion and the embrace of She Who Thirsts.

Her actual executioner had been a priestess of Morai-Heg, a throwback to the sacrificial seer cult that had risen to prominence in the time of the dominion. Looking back, Yvraine smiled, for it was an even greater irony that Lelith had not intended. Literally locked in death as she choked the life from the crone-cultist, she and the hag perished together, the last vitality flowing from the many wounds upon her, carried into the sands by the final trickle of blood from Lelith’s precise blow.

There her life ended.

And, unknown to her, on the world of Coheria far across the galaxy, Eldrad Ulthran had attempted to raise Ynnead, God of the Dead.

She stroked her fingers through the long hair of Alorynis. She and the alien feline formed a loop of mutual affection, her pleasure at the touch intensified by the gyrinx’s empathic purring.

The star that had lit inside of Yvraine burned still, replacing the mortal blood that had once flowed from her veins with a white fire of Rebirth. Had it been any other than a crone of Morai-Heg, would Ynnead’s spirit have found her and not another vessel? Yvraine did not know, but chose to believe that it was a combination of many factors that had made her the perfect conduit for the nascent God of the Dead.

A disturbance in the Whisper, a growing nearness of life where there had been none, alerted her to the approach of her next audience.

Alorynis jumped down from her lap and she felt the disconnection, the sudden coldness without his presence, the reciprocal lack of warmth from her gown. Beside her, the Sword of Sorrows crackled with its own awareness, responding to the growing power of the Whisper. Yvraine reached out a hand and touched her fingertips to the scabbard, feeling the cronesword’s longing through the sheath. It craved ending. Not the deaths of others, not to be quenched in the blood of foes, but to be reunited with its lost companions – to become whole again.

She envied it that fate, even as she recognised that perhaps its desire was simply a projection of her own. When Ynnead rose, what was to become of her? Would she remember the mortal span that had been known as Yvraine, as Amharoc, as the Daughter of Shadows? Eldrad had insisted that the aeldari soul continued from generation to generation, that it had been created with the sole purpose of remaining pure within the abyss beyond death. How he knew this, what long studies he had made into Ynnead and the ancient dimension, she did not know. Nor had she ever asked about the places to which he had ventured to gain such knowledge.

The attendees were almost at the door, but she kept it closed, indulging a passing fancy. Eldrad had certainly travelled into the Womb of Destruction, the great Chaos storm that had swallowed the heart of the old dominion. Those lost planets, the worlds still trapped within the gut of the Great Enemy, were known as the Crone Worlds. She had thought it simply because of their age, and the associated decrepitude.

Now it occurred to her that perhaps there was a deeper meaning behind the convention. Many legends she had dismissed in her mortal life had fresh meaning for her following the intervention of Ynnead. Even as she had sought the resting place of the last missing Key of Morai-Heg, she had delved into the oldest lore seeking enlightenment. Morai-Heg fascinated her, this goddess that cut the threads of fate and ended the lives of mortals. Not death itself. Just as Ynnead did not bring death but conveyed the separated spirit from the body, so Morai-Heg did not slay, but simply charted the course to its end. That revealed the true meaning of the Crone Worlds. The ending. The places where the dominion perished, drawn to its conclusion by inevitable fate.

She suspected that it would be in the Crone Worlds that she would find the last of the hag’s Fingerblades. The prospect filled her with foreboding, for to venture into the Womb of Destruction was to dance upon the precipice of damnation itself. It was to enter the lair of not only the Prince of Pleasure but the Blood God, the Changer of Ways and the Hand of Decay. She had ventured there before, fleetingly, and had little desire to return.

Alorynis batted at her leg, insistent.

‘Yes, you are right, I am procrastinating.’ She spoke to him, though their psychic link meant she need never voice her mind if she desired. The gyrinx knew well her feelings and, to some extent, her thoughts also. But it helped keep the notion of separation and allowed Yvraine to occupy a place outside of her mind that kept her tethered to the world of the physical and the living. She scratched the gyrinx behind the ear, eliciting a half-protesting purr even as Alorynis flopped to his side in helpless submission. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’

Extending her will through the Whisper, she commanded the door to open.

Tzibilakhu stood at the threshold and entered without need for invitation. She stopped just inside and waved in those that accompanied her. Eleven new Ynnari filed into Yvraine’s chambers, all looking wide-eyed at their surrounds, as though they dared the palace of Ynnead herself. They all wore nondescript garb – robes or long coats – but she could sense immediately their origins, the paths that had brought them here. Three Commorraghans, two outcasts and six craftworlders.

When Tzibilakhu had withdrawn, Yvraine stood, gesturing for the newcomers to form a line across the chamber.

‘I am Yvraine,’ she told them. She smiled to ease their nervousness. ‘I think you already know that, yes?’

A few mirrored her amusement, the others remained pensive. It made no difference to what would happen, but Yvraine preferred that whatever aloof ideal they created in their minds about her, whatever myths they chose to believe or stories they wove about her life, they should see her as aeldari first and figurehead of Ynnead second. She was with them, not above them.

‘You have all heard the Whisper.’ She walked along the line slowly, treating them each to a look of reassurance. ‘Ynnead has touched your soul, and you have responded. She reaches out to you, and I am here to let you reach back.’

Yvraine returned to the centre and withdrew a little, casting her gaze back and forth without haste, letting her words sink in.

‘This is not a test, but nor will it be entirely pleasant. I ask that you do not speak of what happens next to anyone, not even your fellow Ynnari.’ Yvraine had, of course, only her side of the experience to draw upon, but did not care to know the other, and it seemed personal to each individual. ‘You and Ynnead are already connected, or you would not be here. The truth is that we are all part of Ynnead, the living and the dead.’

She paused again. Alorynis stole forward and wove between the legs of one of the audience, mewing contentedly. The subject of this attention seemed perplexed, the others mostly amused. Another crouched to pet the gyrinx, but the fickle creature hissed and retreated, fangs bared. Yvraine noted the face of this individual but continued without any particular remark.

‘This is not who you are.’ Yvraine tapped a hand to her chest. ‘It is just a body. Those of you that have honed your psychic talent will know of the triumvirate essence. Body, thought and mind. You all know that those elements are not indivisible. This vessel can bring great delight, for in physicality we know love and art, and even grief and sadness are boons for the living. We can witness great sights and travel to amazing places, make relationships and do great deeds that the spirit cannot do without this temporary shell. To live is to feel. But it is also a cage. It cannot contain our passions. Whether drukhari or Asuryani, or something else, you know in your aeldari soul that you are frustrated, that you have been curtailed.’

She saw recognition by some of them, confusion in the eyes of the others.

‘All are drawn to Ynnead in death, but you have heeded the call in life. The Whispering God has bent your ear for a reason. To bring about her return, not simply as the saviour of our spirits, the destroyer of our nemesis, but as one that will deliver us from extinction. Ynnead will not rise from the ashes of our death, but as a living god that will extinguish the Great Enemy and allow the aeldari to prosper once again. This is what it means to be Ynnari.’

Even as the familiar imagery slipped from her tongue, Yvraine considered her words differently. If Ynnead was not to rise from the pyre of the last aeldari death, perhaps another figure from myth? The Phoenix God. Asuryan, Lord of the Heavens. The thought gave her a shiver of excitement, perhaps even prescience. Focusing, she approached her newest followers with a hand extended, her war fan held close to her chest in the other.

‘Ynnead has already awakened that part of you that can hear the Whisper. In time it will grow stronger, blossoming like the flowers planted above a grave. Yet you must know this hard truth. You have now one foot in the Realm of the Dead. Your spirit waits at the threshold, a bridge between worlds that reinforces Ynnead’s presence in the lands of mortals. Her touch is no lightly received gift. Strife will come. As all our people must fight to survive, the Ynnari seek out conflict, for we delve into the mysteries of the past and face directly against the machinations and followers of the Primordial Annihilator.’

Yvraine took a deep breath, inhaling their uncertainty like a vapour.

‘The Whisper will grow louder over time, but I can aid you in the start of your journey.’ With deliberate slowness her gaze passed over each of them, looking deep into their souls. ‘Push you a little closer to the precipice, you might say.’

The Opener of the Seventh Way darted forwards and her fingers touched upon the waystone of the first craftworlder, causing the other aeldari to flinch, horrified at the invasion of her most intimate object. Yvraine flicked closed her fan and reached behind the new Ynnari, hooking the wrist behind her neck to drag the quailing Asuryani into a loose embrace, fingertips again seeking the waystone.

‘A Tear of Isha, shed by our creator,’ said the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘It is said the mother of Eldanesh wept a single tear for each of her children that was consumed in the Fall, and then was consumed.’

Her eyes fixed upon the struggling recruit. Yvraine extended her spirit, pushing it into the crystalline structure of the waystone. It mingled there with the essence of her new follower, spreading its chill power into the fibres of the craftworlder’s soul, meshing the two of them in a connection as close as sharing physical cells.

‘Mainadrethiena…’ Yvraine plucked the name from her companion’s thoughts as they locked gazes. She could not feel the border between them anymore, no veil between spirit and body.

Mainadrethiena ceased her struggling, entranced by Yvraine, a long exhalation escaping her lips. They remained together for several conjoined heartbeats.

‘Hear the Whisper…’

As she had given, so now Yvraine took back, siphoning a part of Mainadrethiena’s spirit back into herself. Though their souls were entwined, she knew nothing of what the other really felt. She drew deep, almost hollowing out the craftworlder for a few moments, the waystone beneath her fingers becoming grey and lifeless. The Asuryani started to fight again, desperately flailing in her immobile grip, fingers weakly dragging at Yvraine’s arm.

The Opener of the Seventh Way let go and Mainadrethiena flew from her grip as though struck by lightning, a shriek ripped from her throat. She fell to the floor heavily.

‘No!’ Alongside Yvraine’s snarled warning Alorynis pounced in front of the others as they moved to help the fallen aeldari, his teeth bared. ‘Wait…’

Mainadrethiena’s shoulders shuddered, at first wracked with sobs. Yvraine ignored the accusing looks from the other Ynnari, gaze fixed upon her new follower. The sobs became a laugh, notes of pure joy that matched a sudden light of revelation in the craftworlder’s eyes. She jumped lithely to her feet, looking at the others with wide-eyed wonder. And then she turned to Yvraine, mouth dropping in awe.

‘I hear it!’ Mainadrethiena declared happily. ‘The Whisper of Ynnead. The voice of our god…’

She raised a hand, turning her fingers left and right as though seeing it for the first time. ‘I can see our souls!’

‘That will fade,’ warned Yvraine. She smiled. ‘I have released you from the prison of the waystone that bonded with you at birth. You do not need it anymore, though you may find you wish to continue wearing it, as a keepsake of your past life, or a reminder of the fate you have avoided. You will feel your companions through the Whisper. Until death, of course. This is how it feels to be true aeldari.’

Another of the Ynnari recruits stepped forward, a sneering Commorraghan.

‘A pretty trick with a waystone,’ he said.

‘You poor parasite,’ Yvraine said gently, beckoning for the former drukhari to approach. ‘You are so close to death already, it takes so little to push you through the veil.’

With serpent quickness, the Opener of the Seventh Way snatched the front of his robe and dragged him forward. She tilted her head and parted her lips as though for a kiss and he leaned into her on reflex, mouth opening. Before skin touched skin, Yvraine inhaled, using the physical act to guide her psychic desire.

For a drukhari she did not need the interface of the waystone. His mind was already broken open, spirit laid bare by his lack of psychic strength. Just as he had spent a lifetime drawing on the suffering of his victims to sustain his spirit, she was able to easily pluck the essence of the Commorraghan from the weak tethers of his mind.

The connection brought a flare of recollection, when she had first used this power, before she had become the Opener of the Seventh Way. Yvraine shunted aside the panicked screech of Alorynis as the memory took hold.

In darkness. Her heart pounded, writhing at the cold dagger thrust into her chest by her waystone. She was not sure how the bond had been broken, which of her depraved acts had finally corrupted her spirit to the point that the psychic gem no longer recognised her as its twin.

All she knew was craving. Not simply thirst or hunger or desire, but an existential need to feed. The mewling thing beneath her wetted fingers squirmed and she felt the quiver of pain lap at her senses even as a fresh pulse of blood flowed from her victim’s wounds. Digging her fingers deeper into the gash she had opened in the ur-ghul’s throat brought another shudder of agony that spilled like nectar into her empty soul.

Her Commorraghan follower sagged to his knees, weeping gently, fingers trailing down her robes as he collapsed. It seemed like he had been boned from within, sinking into himself awkwardly as he slipped to the ground, head upon Yvraine’s booted foot as a pillow, an arm clasping to her calf for comfort.

She withdrew her leg and he rolled to his back, staring emptily at the ceiling for some time. Rivers of tears streamed across his cheeks, soaking his white hair.

Yvraine looked at the others.

‘Who wishes to be next?’

Chapter 4

THE CLAN FIREHEART

Aboard a sky-skimmer in the colours of the clan, Nuadhu dipped from the transitway into a twilit dome, his mood torn between relief at his return and the anxiety that came from knowing what lay ahead.

The Flameglades were named poetically rather than accurately, but for good reason. Situated on a coastal delta filled with orange- and red-leafed canopy, the ancestral palaces of Clan Fireheart straddled the numerous rivers on high arches. The walls and towers were shaped out of ruddy stone veined with blacks and greys, which gave the appearance of solidified embers in the constant twilight that lit the dome. Caught in the same ruddy hue, the slow-moving waters might seem as lava, flowing sedately beneath the spans of the grandiose edifice.

As he came closer to the central buildings, apprehension won the war in his heart. To look upon the place where he had been raised, that would one day be his seat of power, filled him with foreboding not just for the coming encounter with his family, but also a more distant future.

Like many of the buildings on Saim-Hann, the palaces had few gates and doors upon the ground, but a plethora of landing platforms, aerial tether-ways and grandiose portals in the upper levels. As at the docks, the greater part of the domain was still, denuded of inhabitants by a generational decline. Like other aeldari, Clan Fireheart were not shy about their woe, having powered down the automated environmental systems so that the abandoned sections of palace were suitably overrun with russet-coloured creepers, in which nested flocks of atmospherically cawing bloodcrows. If Clan Fireheart was to slip into history, it would do so with suitable aesthetic flair.

Nuadhu landed at the highest tower. Dappled in false dawn, the crystal canopy of the sky-skimmer slid back to let in the fragrant, familiar air. Nuadhu took a deep breath, a welter of memories resurfacing as he stepped down from the transport. The sky-skimmer closed up and settled into dormancy on the platform, the low whine of its anti-grav motors giving way to the rustling of the great trees far below.

The clan heir headed not to the high gates of the main entrance, but angled to his right, making for a much smaller doorway. A single figure stood there, garbed in robes of black and yellow, her hair drawn up into tight knots, hands clad in skintight gloves.

‘Marifsa,’ Nuadhu greeted her, nodding to his aunt. He read in her expression that there was no change in his father’s condition, so he saved the breath of asking. He also did not need to enquire as to the clan lord’s location.

‘Few have come back with you,’ said Marifsa, her voice soft, barely audible above the wind and the rivers.

‘Too few, for which I lament,’ replied Nuadhu, feeling the stab of it in his gut though Marifsa had spoken without accusation.

The door opened at his approach and Marifsa followed him in, her footsteps soft on the tiled floor, his boots ringing loudly.

‘It is good that you have returned,’ his aunt said as they followed the corridor beyond the doorway into the heart of the palace. ‘If both you and Caelledhin had fallen… You are too precious to throw away your lives with these pointless adventures.’

‘Is that what I am, just a bulwark against the predation of the Clan Icewhisper?’ He railed at the use of ‘pointless’ but was in no mindset to justify his decisions regarding the Ynnari.

‘You are my nephew,’ she replied sharply, making Nuadhu regret his petulance. ‘Blood of my brother. But you are also the clan heir, and I would miss both the body and the position if they were not returned to me.’

‘It is nice to be wanted, I suppose.’

‘You are a Wild Rider and these tantrums are to be indulged, but that does not mean you have free rein to drag this clan into disrepute and ignominy.’ She paused at a narrow window and he stopped beside her. The scene outside was of the open moorlands that bounded the tower, their fiery hue merging with the stylised dusk twilight. ‘I have two daughters. Do not think that if you persist I will not make the case that one of them should be named clan heir in your place. Caelledhin is not the only alternative. Your father is stubborn but has moments when he might be amenable.’

‘Manipulated,’ said Nuadhu, stepping away. ‘Moments when you can manipulate him.’

‘Do not conflate your best interests with those of Clan Fireheart, Nuadhu,’ his aunt told him as she caught up.

The Wild Lord gritted his teeth to prevent any further word slipping free, unsure if his aunt was genuine or simply baiting him for petty revenge. Politicking with the other clans was enough of a distraction; the thought that he would have to fend off usurpers from within his own family left him cold.

In silence they took a gravitational chute into the height of the tower, to the chambers of the chieftain. Four others stood at the closed doors to Naiall’s suite, one of them his half-sister. The other three were the rest of the clan’s representatives on the council, robed and solemn as they watched the heir approach. It was clear that they had despatched Marifsa to ensure that Nuadhu attended to his father at the instant of his arrival.

‘Did you fear that I would abscond to my chambers without chaperone?’ he said as he reached the group of worthies. Nuadhu avoided Caelledhin and addressed his eldest cousin, Neamyh. ‘Do you think so little of me?’

‘You delight in shirking responsibility, heir-lord,’ replied another cousin, Feidhinna. She stepped back, leaving a gap to the chamber doors. The last of the group, an uncle by marriage named Husarthas, touched fingers to the control panel and exerted a little will to command the door open.

Taking a long breath, the eyes of his peers like weights upon his back, Nuadhu stepped inside.

Suppressing his growing anxiety, Aradryan watched the Commorraghan – he’d caught the name Verkhainsza earlier – slip slowly to the floor like a droplet down a cliff of melting ice. His gaze flicked to Mainadrethiena, who still looked at Yvraine as though she had come upon a beautiful flower, examining its exquisite details.

The Whisper felt like a prickle of heat inside his thoughts, and the Opener of the Seventh Way a white-hot element from which that heat emanated. He feared to approach closer lest he was scorched from existence, but at the same time felt himself drawn to the power. His eyes slid to Mainadrethiena once more, not just to the happiness in her face but the whole lightness of her being that seemed to carry her as she stepped away from Yvraine.

The lure was irresistible.

‘Who wishes to be next?’

There was no hesitation in Aradryan as he strode forwards, bearing the stone upon his chest as though presenting his heart to be pierced. The longing stirred inside him by the sight of his fellow craftworlder’s transformation was nearly unbearable. He knew that Yvraine held the secret he had been seeking for his whole life, a secret that all the teachings of the Asuryani Path had failed to reveal.

Death.

Death had weighed so heavily upon him since his earliest memories. He had tried to elude the dread as a Dreamer, but the cold hand of ceasing had gripped him in his dreams. He had travelled to the far corners of the galaxy as a ship’s navigator but it had followed him, waiting for him in the cold between stars when he arrived. As an outcast his attempts to face his fear had brought bloodshed to thousands and near ruin to his craftworld. As a Mourner for those that had died… That had brought him to Yvraine.

He was not sure of what she did, the movements that brought her next to him. All he knew was that she became a star within him, the light and fury and life that reached into his soul.

Aradryan experienced being born.

Not the meagre physical birth that had seen him eased from the body of his remembered bearer, but the very moment of his beginning. From nothing came existence. Out of the ether of emotion a particle of spirit was brought into being. As the elements were forged in the furnace of the stars, so he was wrought in the storms of the warp.

From destruction, creation.

It was freedom unparalleled, to fly upon the waves of unfettered desire, a mote on a river of timelessness.

He grew aware of the stream that carried him, and that he was part of the stream also. Other spirits existed, around and about him, forming the creation into which he had been introduced.

All of this came only as vague awareness, for there was nothing physical by which it might be measured. Impressionistic, instinctual knowledge rather than the perceptions of senses sketched understanding into his budding consciousness.

He revelled in the company of his fellow souls, feeling the warmth of their massless presence, himself reflected a thousandfold and more, and in turn reflecting them back to themselves.

The joy was impossible to describe, of fulfilment without limitation.

Without death.

Shadows fell upon existence and the stream splintered beneath the cold darkness.

Panicked, Aradryan-that-will-be tried to flee the encroaching umbra, to follow the flow of his companions away from the turbulence that raked through their existence. Yet he had nothing to move, for he was formless, and there was no action against which to react.

A predator that had lurked long out of sight suddenly thrashed through their midst, casting the shadow and being the shadow at the same time. Impotent horror, powerless rage burned from the iota of existence that was to become Aradryan, fuelled by the concept of ending.

Light entered the ether, for a time shepherding the thought-atoms from their peril. Their efforts were not enough. Aradryan-yet-to-be knew that he had not yet reached his full potential, that fleeing the shadow-maw had drained him of vitality.

And then from existence came life.

As though a godly hand had scooped up the impermanent froth of the waves and set it upon a shore in lasting form, Aradryan came to be, clad in physicality. With eyes he saw a bright sun. With ears he heard a crash of water on a rocky coastline. Smell was virgin air and the scent of his brothers and sisters clad in their own bodies. With taste came the saltiness of the sea. Touch… Touch was warmth and coldness, and the awareness of the billions of particles ordered together to comprise his being.

And he felt alone.

There were countless others of his kind close at hand and he felt their thoughts in his, and yet the space between atoms separated him from them. They were no longer as one.

The loss might have been impossible to bear had not the sensation been accompanied by a memory of what-came-to-be. Aradryan-that-is recognised himself, and though purity of spirit had been sacrificed, there was a perception of what was missing.

The curse of She Who Thirsts.

The overbearing presence of the Great Enemy had not laid upon his lightness. The eternity for which his spirit craved was still possible, albeit through a succession of mortal incarnations. A clumsy necessity of the physical experience, but one that granted other benefits.

Excitement welled up through him at the opportunities that lay before his immortal self.

And there was no fear of death, for it was but the temporary cessation that reset the cycle. A thousand lifetimes… A million lifetimes! Some only infinitesimally different, others massively divergent, exploring the entirety of creation for the length of its countless aeons. The cycle would never break.

Gasping, Aradryan fell into his current senses to find himself in a foetal self-embrace at Yvraine’s feet.

Aradryan felt something hard in his fist and opened his fingers to see an oval gem. It took a short while until he recalled that it was the spirit stone of Diamedin. He laughed at the thought of her soul inside the jewel, remembering the bodiless sensation that had accompanied his soul-birth. Was that how it would feel to be severed from his body again?

He longed to return to the purity of spirit, but mortality impinged. However, where dread had once dogged his every movement, the weight of She Who Thirsts a burden upon every limb and thought, now he felt… nothing.

Not emptiness, just himself. Aradryan. Aeldari.

Free.

Chapter 5

AN AILING CHIEFTAIN

The first chamber was small but well appointed, furnished with low couches and small tables, such that might make visitors comfortable for a short while. Nuadhu did not stop, but continued through the large door opposite, into the main apartment. The broad chamber was walled on three sides by crystal windows, seemingly open to the elements – in fact actually open on one side, where the large panes had been slid aside to allow access to a balcony, through which a chill wind blew.

The rest of the space was sparse: a long table for meetings, some white wooden cabinets with shelves filled by ornamental bottles and vases. The floor was covered in a thick carpet, woven in a pattern that suggested the fallen leaves of autumn. Someone had arranged small bouquets of yellow and red flowers from the gardens in strategic places in an attempt to brighten the room, but they seemed lost in the dour emptiness.

Nuadhu suddenly became aware of his armour. It felt heavy and out of place here, as was perhaps his family’s intent in ushering him away from his dormitories. The spear in his hand was even more out of place, and he set it to one side, glad to be free of its weight. Though he was unmarked by stain – a rarity after battle – he felt the bloodshed inside. He carried it within rather than on his armour, and its presence was no less a taint for being invisible.

Nuadhu was about to continue on through to the bed chamber when he noticed a figure upon the balcony, hands on the rail, staring out across the Flameglades.

His father.

Equally surprised and concerned that Naiall Fireheart was out of his bed, Nuadhu hurried to the open window-doors. The wind cut at his skin this high up, dragging his hair from his face.

‘Father, the cold…’ he said, stepping out onto the balcony.

The chieftain turned at his son’s words. His robe – black with flame motifs about the hem and cuffs – hung in unsightly folds from a frame that was more bone than flesh. Eyes and cheeks sunken, head devoid of hair, hands little more than skin-wrapped phalanges, Naiall looked even more wasted away than when Nuadhu had left, though only twenty cycles had passed during the journey to and from Agarimethea. Upon a thick chain around his neck, the chieftain’s spirit stone glimmered fitfully with a wan green light.

Nuadhu tried to hide his shock, but something in his expression must have revealed it, for the chieftain sagged even more, disheartened by his son’s reaction to his continually worsening condition.

‘What are you doing out here?’ Nuadhu asked the question casually, but he worried for the answer. As well as the physical ravaging caused by his father’s malaise, of late there had been growing bouts of insensibility. Naiall looked cogent enough as he replied.

‘I cannot see the slopes of the Duskmoors from my room.’ The chieftain lifted a finger towards the distant hillside, its stream-cut flanks filled with low-growing bushes that were now in bloom, a riot of purples and dark blues. They were well-named, almost mirroring the twilight of the cloudy skies above.

Nuadhu looked over the rail of the balcony to the gardens far below. He saw figures moving along the grey paths between beautifully cultivated hedgerows and lawns, disappearing under the permanently autumnal leaves of the copses dotted between the bridges and towers.

‘You will be warmer inside,’ he said, laying a hand upon his father’s back. He forced himself to keep his hands there, though inwardly he cringed at the touch of protruding ribs and shoulder blades beneath the light garment.

‘Do you feel the cold sting your eyes when you ride upon the winds?’ Naiall asked, a hint of a smile on bloodless lips.

‘No,’ admitted Nuadhu. ‘My blood runs hot and guards me against any chill from air or fear.’

‘My blood runs hotter still, my son. It burns me from within.’ A vague gesture indicated the chieftain’s face and hairless head. His gaze sharpened and he knitted his fingers together, clasped to his chest. ‘I am still master of this realm. Your relatives think that I do not know what passes, but I do. They may keep their secrets, but I can hear and feel. I am connected still to the spirit of Clan Fireheart.’

‘What secrets, father?’ Nuadhu moved closer.

‘Conspiring, of course,’ snapped Naiall. ‘Chatter and gossip, to oust me.’

‘I will not let that happen.’ Nuadhu hated to say it, but it was impossible to avoid voicing the promise he had held in his heart for some time. ‘There may yet be hope for us all. I have a new associate. Druthkhala, she is one of the Ynnari. If anyone might understand what besets you, some way of reversing it, Yvraine will.’

Naiall shook his head, lips pursed.

‘I will not be an outsider’s puppet, Nuadhu.’

‘That’s not what will–’

‘Power borrowed from others has to be repaid later. Whatever Yvraine can grant us, she will take back twofold when she desires it.’

‘I already have what she desires, father.’ Nuadhu stepped away from the rail, gloved fingers fidgeting with the mesh of his under-armour at his waist. ‘My expedition, it was a success.’

‘Remind me…’ The request was plainly made, but spoke of diminishing faculties.

‘Do you not recall?’ The thought worried Nuadhu. ‘We spoke on the matter not more than twenty cycles past.’

‘Indulge me,’ his father said before another coughing fit took hold for several heartbeats.

‘Druthkhala, the herald of the Ynnari, father,’ Nuadhu replied, unsure if his father was covering for the lapse or seeking something else. ‘She came seeking allies to travel to Agarimethea. We went there and found that it is no maiden world, but a tomb vault of the necrontyr.’

‘The Deathless? Good consort for the Ynnari, I would say.’

‘They had something locked away. Something from the time of the dominion.’

‘And you recovered this for Yvraine? What did you find?’

Nuadhu deflated, and looked away.

‘You do not have it?’ His father sighed. ‘What, then, do you think to offer Yvraine for her assistance? The prize given already is no prize at all.’

Nuadhu ground his teeth, frustrated by his father’s dismissive words.

‘We will help her recover the artefact, and then our fortunes will improve.’

He continued to look at the dusk-touched horizon and felt his father move closer. The chieftain’s next question was a whisper on the wind.

‘How many of my warriors have I lost, my son? What price have we paid for Yvraine’s uncertain friendship?’

Swallowing hard, Nuadhu forced himself to look at Naiall. His trembling lip and tearful eyes were all the answer the chieftain needed. Yet when Nuadhu desired most his father’s understanding he saw Naiall’s cadaverous face twisted in an expression of disappointment.

‘Perhaps it would be better if I let your aunt and her conspirators have their way.’

‘No!’

‘What alternative is there?’ Naiall became animated in his anger, pacing along the balcony, his robe fluttering in the wind. A hand swept out towards the landscape. ‘This will all diminish until there is nothing left, Nuadhu. We need alliances of substance.’

‘We need to remain true to each other and not tear ourselves apart!’

A ghost of a smile danced across Naiall’s lip.

‘Is that leadership I hear in your voice?’ The clan chieftain rubbed spindly hands together and then interlaced his fingers. ‘Perhaps your time in the Wild Riders is coming to a close if you are capable of such thoughts.’

‘Is that what you desire? Do you think I have been avoiding my responsibilities?’

‘That is perhaps the intent of the Wild Riders, is it not? To let us distance ourselves from concern?’

Nuadhu absorbed this without comment, in part because he knew his father was right. To hear his own fears spoken so plainly by Naiall was something of a shock. Nuadhu focused on the positive to be drawn from the exchange – that his father’s mental capacity was clearly not compromised.

‘I spoke of alliances,’ the chieftain continued. ‘I regret that of late I have not kept abreast of developments in the council.’

‘We have nothing to offer the other clans, father. Even those joined to us by kinship make only word-oaths, their deeds do not match our needs. Only Caelledhin and Clan Icewhisper speak out of any true intent.’

Mention of Nuadhu’s half-sister brought a forlorn look to Naiall’s face, but Nuadhu knew that the unspoken lament was not for Caelledhin but for her mother, dead now for more than half his lifetime. The heir took refuge in formality, an unfamiliar place.

‘I need you to summon a council, father.’

‘Nobody will come.’ Naiall walked back to the window-doors and stepped inside. Nuadhu followed and a heartbeat later they closed with a sigh like a last breath. Immediately he started to feel warmer, but any comfort was drained by the coldness of his father’s despondency. ‘When I was young, your grandfather would have to utter only a few words and the clans would fight among themselves to dine at his table. Now we are the ones that must feed on scraps left by others.’

‘Druthkhala must speak to the council for Yvraine, and if we allow another to call the assembly, we give up what little benefit we have earned with our spilt blood.’

‘And what of me?’ Naiall’s expression was as though he dined on sour fruit. ‘I give my name to this council and then cannot attend it. What little legacy I have left to pass on will be ruined. Is my reputation to be offered up as the carrion to entice the scavengers to our side?’

‘Then attend it,’ said Nuadhu.

‘Look at me! This is not the face of Clan Fireheart that needs to be remembered.’

‘You hide in this place, and the rumour of your frailty is greater than the substance.’

‘It is not.’ The chieftain moved to a couch and lowered himself onto the cushions with a wince. ‘I feel thrice my age, Nuadhu, and though I am coherent now, there is no guarantee I will be cogent on demand.’

His eyes fluttered shut and a ragged breath wheezed from his thin lips. Nuadhu stood close at hand, caught in an agitated judder from one foot to the other, attention flitting between his father, the water pitcher beside him, the door to Naiall’s bedchamber, and the phials of elixir from the halls of healing on a cabinet by the wall.

‘Stop fluttering like a grieving moth,’ rasped the clan leader, eyes still closed. He waved a hand in the vague direction of the medicines and Nuadhu hurried across the room to fetch them.

Nuadhu returned with the handful of slender crystal bottles, each shimmering with a different colour. Naiall took them and started measuring out drops into a silver goblet, but a sudden palsy in his hands let slip a phial. Nuadhu caught it before it hit the carpet, and set it next to the others.

‘I know that there is still strength left in you, father, just as there is strength in Clan Fireheart.’ Nuadhu finished mixing the dosage and topped up the goblet with water. He looked into the liquid, summoning the words that gave voice to his quiet desperation, unable to look at his father. ‘We need… I need you to do this. If not, there is nothing that will be left for me when you pass.’

He hated appealing to his father’s sense of legacy, but distaste was preferable to obscurity. Nuadhu passed the elixir to his father. The liquid’s inner light shimmered golden on Naiall’s chalky skin before he lifted it uncertainly to his lips and swallowed it in one draught.

The chieftain straightened immediately, eyes fixing on Nuadhu. The Wild Lord met Naiall’s gaze, fearing what his father saw but determined that it would not be cowardice.

His father let out a long sigh. ‘Very well, I will call the council. And I will attend, if I can. Let me see this Druthkhala and hear what she has to say.’

Nuadhu opened his mouth to thank his father but Naiall waved away the gratitude and looked sternly at his son. ‘Let the others in,’ commanded the chieftain. ‘We must prepare while I still have thought intact and strength to speak.’

Nuadhu nodded and headed towards the antechamber.

‘But not Caelledhin!’ his father called out. When he continued, his mood was thoughtful. ‘I would not have my words carried on the swift wind to the ears of Clan Icewhisper.’

‘I am sure she w–’

‘She stands between two clans, my son.’ He opened his eyes, gaze a little brighter under the influence of the rejuvenating elixir. ‘It is better she is spared any conflict of the heart. If asked by her other family, she can speak truthfully that she knows nothing.’

It was the first time that Nuadhu had even considered the effect of Caelledhin’s dual kinship beyond the political ramifications. Unsure of his feelings on the matter, he moved to the door, trying to find the right words to dismiss her without insult.

It is an unavoidable fact of Saim-Hann’s character that a large part of its people’s unruly nature exists due to the distance the craftworld fled the aeldari capital worlds during the Fall. Not only did this engender a cultural worship of independence – and physical speed, to a lesser extent – but it also placed it among one of the later craftworlds to be visited by the Phoenix Lords of Asuryan. Saim-Hann’s culture post-Fall had developed for almost two generations before the arrival of the Phoenix Lord Drastanta, famed founder of the Shining Spears Aspect Warriors.

So it was that knowledge of the Asuryani Path that would come to define craftworld existence became enmeshed with Saim-Hann’s own attempts to survive the thirst of the Great Enemy and mitigate the excesses of spirit that had led to her creation. The clans were one part of that solution, so that kinship would always reign over any transitory cult, philosophy or fashion. Rather than indulging in exoticisms and sectarianism, the Saim-Hann’s political influences were directed towards less destructive familial rivalry. Ultimately the clan, and inter-clan relationships, kept occupied such minds that would otherwise chart a more dangerous course to ambition and power.

Another distinct cultural evolution that survived the adoption of Asuryani principles was the evolution of the Wild Riders. Where the Path later taught the people to quell their most unruly tendencies, and deal with their potentially self-destructive passions through various stages of their life, the Saim-Hann had opted to allow full but temporary expression of their innate extremity.

Nuadhu was the epitome of this permitted indulgence, being prone to tremendous acts of loyalty, generosity and love, but also victim to swift rages, dark lusts and selfishness. Though one could step aside from the Path to become a Wild Rider at any age, it was unsurprisingly most often adopted by those emerging from adolescence. In this regard Nuadhu was a little older than the majority of his peers, and Naiall’s untimely affliction had cast the responsibilities of a senior clan member upon Nuadhu at a time when he was meant to eschew anything but the expression of himself, in order that he would discover and expunge his most damaging personal traits before stepping upon the Path again.

The knowledge that clan leadership awaited the inevitable end of his time as a Wild Rider weighed heavily upon his thoughts as the clans attended to the council called by his father. To move from heir to chieftain was to travel the Path of Command, albeit in different fashion to those that claimed the title of autarch on other craftworlds. Rising upon one of three Fireheart cloud-barques above the Lake of Tranquil Sorrows at the heart of the Flameglades, Nuadhu stood next to the chair that held Naiall and watched the other entourages drifting across the landscape from other parts of the craftworld.

The chieftain wore a coat of heavy red material over his robes, its hood raised to conceal his hairless scalp and shadow his skull-like face. It had been agreed that his presence was enough to lend legitimacy to the proceedings. The majority of the actual discourse would be carried out by Neamyh, who stood on the other side of the specially constructed throne, which through hidden supports aided their chieftain in sitting upright.

‘It is an unfortunate truth that the chieftains of our people are perhaps the least qualified to lead them,’ his father wheezed.

Nuadhu was not sure if Naiall spoke to him or his cousin, and both of them bent closer to hear his wisdom.

‘How is that, my father?’

‘Ambition is one of the greatest vanities of our people, my son. When aspiration becomes ambition, it eats away at all other resolution, with the desire for power becoming an end in its own right rather than the means. There is a part in each of us that delights in the domination of others, but also in manipulation and the feeling of superiority gained from political victory.’

‘You do the council a disservice, uncle,’ said Neamyh. ‘Yourself, in particular. Without the chieftains to guide us, we would be prey to the whims of the seers like other craftworlds.’

They turned their eyes to the elaborate floating barge that held the representatives of the Saim-Hann seers. It hung not far above the waters, the red-robed figures upon its decks reflected in the still surface. Nuadhu could follow the tracery of orbiting runes and the glimmer of golden witch-sign as they continued their prognostications ready for the start of the clan council.

‘Introspection is perhaps as much of an indulgence as self-ignorance, but I near the end of my mortal span, many passes before I thought it would happen. It forces one to evaluate life differently. Do you know why it is to the elders that rule of the clans usually falls?’

Nuadhu, one of the youngest aeldari present, became aware of his father’s inquiring gaze upon him. The heir shook his head. ‘Because we look to your experience?’

‘Because we have nothing better to do.’ Naiall laughed, but his humour brought on a short coughing fit that wracked his cadaverous body. Nuadhu held back from offering assistance, cognisant of his father’s instructions to draw no attention to his physical weakness during the council. When he recovered his shallow breaths, he continued. ‘Citos of Alaitoc said it best. “No matter where we move upon the Path, or leave it altogether, there is one thing we cannot leave behind, that shall ever shadow all that we do.”’

‘Death?’ suggested Neamyh, giving voice to the answer that had come to Nuadhu also. This earned a scowl from Naiall.

‘Ourselves,’ he told them. ‘We can control our anger and grief, harness the power of our merest thought, embrace every creative urge that wells up between us, but none of that releases us from who we are. Those that have travelled the Path for some time, and have experienced the fullness of life as Wild Riders, must inevitably come to the conclusion that all we have mastered is within us, we have yet to make any real mark upon the external world. Boredom beckons for the mind unoccupied, and so we turn to politics to add meaning to an existence that is, in all likelihood, without purpose beyond simple biology.’

Nuadhu swallowed hard, trying to hide his shock. It had been some time since his father had spoken at such length, and it pained the heir to hear Naiall use his precious energy to denigrate himself and his position. More so, it deepened Nuadhu’s fears of assuming the mantel of chieftain, which at that moment seemed even more of a trap than ever.

He shared a glance with Neamyh, wondering if this cantankerous turn of mind was related to the encroaching illness. Naiall lapsed into a brooding silence, allowing Nuadhu the opportunity to direct his attention back to the other clan barges converging across the Lake of Tranquil Sorrows. He felt a flutter of apprehension at the number of clans that had responded. The air above the lake was filling fast and more sky-barges were gathering.

‘See, father, when Naiall of Clan Fireheart speaks, many still listen.’

The chieftain said nothing at first and Nuadhu wondered if he had been heard, or perhaps that his father had lapsed into one of his waking-comas that on occasion robbed him of speech and senses. Concern growing cold in his breast, he was about to signal for Yerias of the Healer’s Hall when his father roused with a murmur.

‘Morbid curiosity,’ he muttered. ‘I am, if nothing, even more of an enigma of late. I know that we…’

He slumped forward, one hand raised to his brow. Nuadhu stooped, thinking the chieftain would fall from his chair – and noticing that his cousin made no move to assist the ailing lord. Naiall waved him away with a flick of skeletal fingers as he straightened. His eyes glimmered silver and veins pulsed through transparent skin. It lasted just a few heartbeats and then his paleness returned, for once seeming an improvement.

‘A side effect of the elixirs,’ the clan leader explained. ‘We cannot afford for the council to drag on.’

‘A rare hope,’ said Neamyh. ‘Chieftains love the sound of their own voices. Present company excepted, of course.’

Nuadhu looked around, trying to judge how long it would be until the other attendees had assembled. He counted nearly a hundred clans, gathered in their broader family groups – each defined by its elemental roots, such as the clans Frostwind, Fellwinter, Frostwave, Icewhisper and a dozen more almost directly opposite the barque of Clan Fireheart. His own family and their closest allies numbered less than a score now – the clans Flamespirit, Firelord, Truespark, Soulflame and others waited to the left and right of their ancestral leader.

‘I do not see Druthkhala,’ he told his father. ‘She sent word that she had a message from Yvraine.’

‘And therein we find the cause of our popularity,’ replied Naiall. ‘A double novelty, to see a crippled chieftain and one of Yvraine’s deadly maidens.’

‘The seers have come in considerable number,’ remarked Neamyh.

‘Does that favour or hinder our cause?’ asked Nuadhu.

No reply was forthcoming from his companions, for the minds of seers are as difficult to delve as the skein of fate upon which they venture.

He felt a ripple of activity through the infinity circuit. A sudden swell of expectation spread across the proceedings and he turned, guided by the accumulated thoughts of the others. From behind him came a jetbike with a rider, small among the stately drift of barques and galleasses.

His eagerness to lay eyes again upon Druthkhala Shadowspite was tempered by apprehension. Like the intent of the seers, her purpose was impossible to know. Questions raced through his mind about Yvraine and her people, and what it might mean not just for Saim-Hann but for Clan Fireheart.

‘Be glad that she comes,’ Naiall told him. ‘That she needs to speak to the council means Yvraine intends to have dealings with Saim-Hann. If she did not, there would be no sense in seeking this audience.’

Nuadhu accepted this wisdom with a nod, eyes still fixed on the rapidly approaching rider. Other gazes followed her with equal interest, drawn not just by attraction but also political consideration, doubtless hoping to extract some small advantage from foretelling her route, perhaps to read into it some meaning of her intent.

The pale skin of Druthkhala’s arms, thighs and midriff was barely visible beneath startling tattoos, each of the several hundred images a depiction of tiny vignettes of bloodshed. Her face was decorated, cheeks and brow marked by spider-like designs. The wych-rider’s hair was the equal of any Wild Rider crest, red and black tied in complex braids that flew in the speed of her passing, held from her face by a tiara of long spikes adorned with jewels fashioned in the shape of skulls.

It was with some disappointment that Nuadhu watched her fly past, with not even a look towards Clan Fireheart, and no glance for him. A pang of guilt wracked the heir as he realised his chagrin was more personal than political. He fought back a flush of anger at being snubbed, but it was hard not to feel that he had been used and discarded.

Chapter 6

HARD ANSWERS

As Druthkhala started to speak, Caelledhin watched the other attendees more than the Ynnari representative. The number of clan leaders that had responded to the call from Naiall was even greater than those that had witnessed Druthkhala’s first audience. Those that had not seen the emissary before stared with a mix of unalloyed lust or disgust in equal measure; those chieftains that had attended previously watched the Commorraghan with a mix of veiled expressions, apathy and outright cynicism. Given her experience so far, she was inclined to agree with the last group.

‘By your own means you will have learnt of what transpired upon the world of Agarimethea,’ the Ynnari began. ‘Not a maiden world as we thought, but a tomb kingdom of the necrontyr, lain dormant beneath the surface since the earliest times of our people. A dormant threat now awoken.’

Caelledhin felt Nuadhu stiffen at her side, but Druthkhala made no direct comment about who it had been that had awakened the slumbering dead. As well she should not, for though it had been Nuadhu’s approach that had seemed to activate the tomb complex, it had been Druthkhala’s intent to venture to Agarimethea in the first place.

‘In our discovery we find hope, for Agarimethea is indeed home to a vault of the old aeldari, guarded by the fortifications and defenders of the necrontyr. As my companion so accurately summarised,’ she now glanced at Nuadhu, ‘if the necrontyr wish to clutch on to this prize then we should endeavour to relinquish them of the vault’s contents.’

‘I say we let them keep whatever ashes and dust they want,’ called out Ameridath Frostwind. He stepped to the edge of his clan’s barque and waved a hand palm-up towards his allies gathered close about. ‘Who are we to stir further the Unliving Terror for the aggrandisement of Yvraine?’

Druthkhala looked to rebut the accusation, but another of the chieftains cut her off – Yrannae Fellwinter. The revered war leader stood upon the prow of a small audience-yacht as though leading a charge across the waters of the Flameglades.

‘Not without concern do the desires of Yvraine fall upon a craftworld, Druthkhala Shadowspite. Shall we listen to the laments of Biel-tan and Iyanden, or perhaps ask the leaders of Ulthwé what good comes from consort with the followers of the Whispering God?’

‘It is because–’ started Druthkhala, but she was offered no more chance to speak, the victim of a well-prepared diplomatic ambush. Cuithella Frostwave – a distant aunt of Caelledhin – rained down the next rhetorical attack, her pale blue coat caught in a sudden breeze across the lake adding a further touch of drama to the proceedings.

‘Already the sons and daughters of Saim-Hann lie dead upon Agarimethea!’ She thrust an accusing finger towards the throne-barge of Clan Fireheart. ‘Blood from this craftworld has been spilt for your mistress with nothing but woe in return.’

Caelledhin saw Druthkhala’s fingers flexing, as though she longed for a weapon in her grip. As much as the Commorraghan feigned civility, there were signs of her inherent depravity below the surface. One could remove the wych from the arena, but not the arena from the wych. Her stare was venomous, darting from one accuser to the next, her jaw set tight with unreleased fury.

Such was her lack of genuine diplomacy, Druthkhala was forced to weather the scorn of the council in silence. Caelledhin darted a look at her half-brother, to see if this display had peeled away the veil Druthkhala’s outlandish appeal had laid over his eyes. He stared in anguish at Cuithella, his fingers twitching with their own agitation.

A nudge against her leg drew Caelledhin’s attention to her father sitting beside her. Naiall said nothing but his look was equal parts commanding and imploring. So wrapped up was Caelledhin in Druthkhala’s discomfort that it took several heartbeats until she recognised the unspoken demand from the chieftain.

‘It is not for others to speak on behalf of Clan Fireheart,’ Caelledhin declared to the council, laying a hand upon the shoulder of her father. ‘Count the cost of your own cowardice if you will, but always have we been proud to stand at the forefront of any conflict. We will lament our fallen, but save your grief for your own.’

If anything, Druthkhala’s mood worsened, perhaps insulted that Caelledhin had deigned to come to her rescue. The emissary’s words were curt as she sought to regain control of the situation.

‘None bleed more than the Ynnari.’ Her glare scoured the watching crowd, causing some to flinch with its anger, met coldly by others. It lingered on Caelledhin for a heartbeat as it passed, who matched it with her own disdain. ‘We do not desire praise or reward, though it is for the souls of all that we fight. Think perhaps on Ynnead and whether you shunned the Opener of the Seventh Way when you stand upon the threshold of the Great Enemy’s embrace.’

A chill danced across Caelledhin’s skin and shocked muttering rippled out through the assembled barques, rafts and throne-barges. To speak so blatantly of the Doom of the Aeldari was frowned upon even in the robust debates of Saim-Hann. With good reason, for there were few present, or indeed anywhere among the many far-flung people of the aeldari, that wished to be reminded of the creeping torment that stalked their existence.

Caelledhin was about to speak, to bring the council back to the needs of Clan Fireheart, but another broke the startled silence first.

‘It is too late to stand in denial of what has happened.’ The words were uttered by Illiaca Winterbright, one of the most respected seers – though respect for those that plied their runecraft was a relative term amongst the chieftains. ‘We can debate from now until the Rhana Dandra on what might or should have been, but we cannot change what has transpired. The runes are clear. The necrontyr present a grave threat to Saim-Hann.’

‘Brought upon us by Yvraine’s lackeys!’ snarled Yrannae Fellwinter.

‘We are lackeys of none,’ Caelledhin called back, despising the situation she found herself in. She no more wanted to defend Druthkhala and Yvraine than give up her kin’s blood for them, but the reputation of her family was low enough already. Further impugning by association was too much to bear. ‘Was it not the Fellwinter that led us to humiliation at Lotheorisesh?’

A bright flare startled everyone, the illumination bursting from the upraised staff of Illiaca. The seer held the blazing rod aloft while she spoke, her voice low and chilling, but carrying to all present.

‘We have cast the runes and the path of Saim-Hann is set. From Agarimethea the necrontyr will spring into wakefulness and their legions will come upon the craftworld with deadly intent.’

The declaration tied a knot in Caelledhin’s gut. She had been there, party to the start of these calamitous events. If she had been stronger, not cowed by Nuadhu’s nature and the menace of Druthkhala, she could have spoken out and prevented this disaster. It was too late and the realisation left her speechless.

‘Our only hope is to stifle the threat before it gains sufficient strength,’ continued Druthkhala, now much calmed. ‘An overwhelming attack by the united clans and the Ynnari will eliminate the necrontyr before they are fully awake. The sooner we strike, the simpler the task.’

Excited conversation erupted amongst the delegates, some between clan councillors, others calling to neighbouring barges. The cadre around Clan Frostwind pulled closer, urgent discussion plying between the conspirators. Caelledhin turned to her father and his advisors.

‘This could take some time,’ she warned.

‘It will,’ answered Naiall with a grimace.

Yet their fear was unfortunately to be proven false. It was, in council terms, a precipitously short time before Celidhi Mistwearer ventured from the knot of discussion, the newly nominated spokesperson for the coalition opposed to Yvraine.

‘Seers have brought dire warnings before, yet been proven mistaken,’ the clan leader declared, flicking fronds of pale hair from her slender face. She turned her full attention on Druthkhala. ‘The meddling will cease. The necrontyr have no cause to seek war with Saim-Hann, unless we bring war to them. The Ynnari are not welcome in the stars around Saim-Hann, and unless further evidence can be brought before council of the dangers posed by this tomb world, there is nothing against which we must answer. Let the Ynnari fight their own battles.’

With this pronouncement the clans Mistwearer, Bluewoven, Frostwind, Fellwinter and allied families dispersed, breaking away from the gathering above the lake. Caelledhin watched them go with a sinking heart. For all that she did not care for Yvraine’s cause, the decision was as much about the political end of Clan Fireheart as it was the situation presented by the necrontyr. Though some of the major clans remained, it was clear that without the cabal around Clan Frostwind, no concerted attack would be made.

One by one the others each drifted away from the council, leaving only the closest allies of Clan Fireheart remaining, Druthkhala slumped upon her reaver-bike alone in the centre of a widening circle. The defeat of the Ynnari herald brought Caelledhin no comfort, coming twenty cycles too late.

‘So be it,’ croaked Naiall. ‘It seems that we are powerless to change course.’

‘I will not surrender until we are truly defeated,’ vowed Nuadhu, already moving along the barque towards the smaller launches floating alongside. ‘There are others that might lend their aid.’

Before he could be questioned further, the Wild Lord leapt into one of the small skimmers and was away, flitting across the waters in the wake of the larger craft departing the dome.

‘Whatever can he mean?’ grumbled Marifsa.

‘Trouble, I’m sure,’ replied Caelledhin.

The hiss of an anti-grav engine called her attention to the approach of Druthkhala. The Commorraghan slid alongside the throne-yacht and stopped for just a moment, meeting Naiall’s troubled gaze. She said nothing before she accelerated away, doubtless to report to her mistress on the woeful proceedings of the council.

The seer-barge remained, on almost the opposite side of the waters. Illiaca Winterbright and her companions were in a close debate, huddled near to each other, heads bobbing and shaking as they argued. Eventually they too departed to continue their own schemes.

‘Get some rest,’ Caelledhin told her father, receiving a weak nod as promise of compliance. She signalled to the navigator at the tiller and the skim-engines thrummed into life, taking the barge back towards the halls.

‘What will you do?’ asked Neamyh.

Caelledhin did not reply, her thoughts already progressing along a path she was wary to tread but knew she could not avoid any longer.

‘There was a notable absence at the council,’ she told her family as the barge pulled alongside the docking quay of one of the upper towers of the clan palace. ‘I will address that absence.’

Nuadhu stopped as his companion laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘This is unwise.’ B’sainnad drew his fur-lined cloak tighter about his body, though any sense of chill must have been purely in his mind. ‘I’ve heard stories of what happens to folk that come to the Shadow Vale.’

‘Then why did you accompany me?’ replied Nuadhu.

He pulled himself up a nearby rock to have another look at the winding trail ahead. It cut back and forth down a steep slope dotted with thorny bushes and stunted trees. Glancing back up, he reckoned they had traversed about half the distance down into the dark gorge and the shadows were starting to lengthen as the dome’s artificial star waned towards dusklight. The thought of being in the Shadow Vale as domenight set in gave Nuadhu an equal thrill of excitement and tingle of dread.

Turning his attention back to the valley floor he still spied nothing but rocks, sparse vegetation and the trails of beasts criss-crossing the yellowing grass. The screech of roosting birds seemed almost scripted to complement the desolate scene. Knowing the affectations of abandonment in the Flameglades it was not too much of a stretch to believe that everything about the eerie landscape might be arranged and choreographed.

‘There are ghosts here,’ B’sainnad continued, scrambling closer, a wayward foot sending a small run of pebbles clattering noisily down the slope. Both of them froze, sharing a horrified look, as though the wraiths of generations past would swell out from the ground to assail them at the disturbance.

‘There are ghosts everywhere, my friend,’ replied Nuadhu, forcing a laugh as he jumped down from his perch. ‘The infinity circuit is powered by the spirits of our departed. I think you have perhaps been reading too many tales of Craftworld Iyanden and have become confused.’

B’sainnad frowned and curled his lip, evidently finding his lord’s words dismissive rather than light-hearted. He straightened, arms crossed tight over his chest.

‘You’re right, why did I come here with you? Oh, that’s right.’ The pilot jabbed a finger a Nuadhu, a highly improper gesture, which the Wild Lord forgave only on account of their close friendship. ‘It’s because you asked me. I think a bit more appreciation of what I am doing is in order.’

‘What you are doing is complaining endlessly,’ snapped Nuadhu.

‘You ungrateful…’ B’sainnad was lost for words, fingers clawing as though to snatch a suitable epithet from the air. ‘I don’t have to tolerate this, not for you!’

‘Friend, I am sorry,’ said Nuadhu, extending a hand back towards his companion. B’sainnad looked away with a sigh, arms folded again.

‘This is an awful lot of trouble just to impress a would-be lover. And remind me, what do I get out of this?’

‘You think this is about Druthkhala? She bewitches me, that is for sure, but even I have some sense of proportion. I told you what the seers proclaimed. We have stirred up the necrontyr and war with the waking legion of Agarimethea will follow.’

‘We? You mean you stirred up the necrontyr.’

‘I…’

Nuadhu found no words for the denial, because he knew B’sainnad was right. He sat down on a rock, picked up a handful of smaller pebbles and started casting them into the deepening gloom. His friend’s shadow fell across him and he looked up to see B’sainnad standing close at hand. Nuadhu was about to say something, to offer apology again, but noticed that his companion was not looking at him.

‘Look, I know I drag you into some troubles but–’

B’sainnad hushed him with a raised hand, the other held to one side of his face, shielding his eyes against the set of the domesun. Nuadhu followed his gaze and saw that a flock of large birds were circling over the valley some distance away. Not just circling, but spiralling down out of sight.

‘The cave?’ ventured the Wild Rider lord. ‘That is what we’ve been looking for. The oracles dwell within a crystal cavern.’

‘Do you think the birds are their eyes above ground?’

‘They are ancient seers, melded with the remnants of a broken infinity circuit. I am sure that they knew we were here long before any bird spied us,’ said Nuadhu. B’sainnad did not look encouraged by the explanation. ‘Fine. Yes. The birds are their spies, returned now to them with word of our approach. Is that better?’

‘It is,’ B’sainnad said with a smile. ‘If I’m to be cursed or enchanted by fickle oracles, I’d prefer the story was suitably atmospheric.’

As Nuadhu had feared, the domesun was soon just a dim glow at the lip of the gorge behind him. Looking back, he realised that the dusk had not approached as swiftly as he had thought, but simply the descent into the steep ravine had made it seem so. It was little comfort as he stared at the forbidding cave mouth ahead.

It was broad but only just high enough to enter without stooping, lined with crystalline jags that looked very much like broken teeth. In fact, the whole cliff in which it gaped might look like a hideously contorted daemon’s face if one caught the shadows at just the right angle. B’sainnad did just that, pacing back and forth, alternately chuckling and sucking in agitated breaths.

‘It really is like something out of one of the children’s tales,’ the Vyper pilot remarked. ‘I’m not sure I can take it seriously, but then I look at it and I can’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding.’

‘Then we shall err on the side of caution,’ said Nuadhu. ‘This place is one of the oldest of Saim-Hann. Perhaps the stories originate in the truth we see here, rather than this place reflecting the artifice of the stories.’

B’sainnad hurried back to his side, face betraying his concern.

‘We had best go in,’ announced Nuadhu, though several more heartbeats thudded in his chest before he actually took a step.

Even before they crossed the vague boundary of the cavern, Nuadhu could feel the swell of spirit power. He knew that words like ‘ghost’ and ‘haunted’ were fanciful, but the sense of otherworldly energy pervading the cave made his skin prickle.

A glow emanated from within, and its source became clear as they stepped into the wan yellow light. The ceiling was lined with slender ribbons of psychic crystal, pulsing arrhythmically. Its lack of natural tempo was disconcerting, and Nuadhu staggered, finding it hard to measure his paces with any certainty. Likewise, B’sainnad placed a hand upon Nuadhu’s shoulder, using him for support as they ventured into the disorientating gleam. A low noise accompanied the light. In similar fusion it did not remain at a constant or predictable pitch, just on the edge of Nuadhu’s keen hearing.

Though it was inconstant, Nuadhu recognised a direction to the gleam of the spirit light. In the faint glow he discerned a fork of tunnels not far from the cave mouth, one heading down and to the right, the other continuing straight on. The soul-glow seemed to be heading downwards more than ahead.

‘Wait!’ B’sainnad’s hand on his arm stopped the clan heir. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m following the lights.’

‘Do you know nothing?’ B’sainnad shook his head mournfully. ‘You don’t follow soul lights. They’ll lead you to your doom.’

‘They will?’ Looking up at the glittering veins, Nuadhu was not sure there was any purpose to them, at least no conscious intent. ‘What about the seers?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Oracles of the Last Truth. The clue is in the name. Oracles. We are supposed to consult them, so how do we do that if we cannot find them?’

B’sainnad considered this for a few moments.

‘It’s a test, yes? Of worthiness.’

Nuadhu looked at his friend, unsure whether he was being serious or not. He concluded that B’sainnad was not speaking in jest.

‘You really need to study more history and read fewer tales,’ he told the pilot before turning away towards the descending branch. He did not hear his friend’s tread behind him and glanced back to see B’sainnad waiting, wringing his hands. ‘Are you coming?’

With visible effort, B’sainnad gathered himself, setting after Nuadhu with a determined nod.

‘This dome was one of the first built,’ explained Nuadhu as they entered the tunnel. It was wide enough for them to walk abreast, but B’sainnad hung back a step. ‘It is close to the centre of the infinity circuit. That is why the lights pulse the way they do, towards the craftworld’s heart, where the seers were trapped.’

They followed the lights for a short distance, becoming more accustomed to their irregular beat. The sound resolved into a murmur, like distant running water but hinting at vague words.

‘Ghost voices,’ whispered B’sainnad.

‘I think… Actually, I think you are right.’ Nuadhu listened more closely and realised that the words were inside his thoughts as much as sounds in his ears. ‘The infinity circuit was broken, remember? The seers had to bond with the crystal to stop the spirit energy bursting free. After all this time, some of the residual soul source permeates that crystal in the rocks.’

‘Haunted. That’s the word for it, Nuadhu. All this talk of conduits and crystal pathways, spirit energy and such. It doesn’t fool me, you know. These are the lost spectres of our ancestors, seeking sanctuary. You shouldn’t listen to them.’

‘I doubt we would understand anything if we did,’ Nuadhu replied. ‘From what the spiritseers have said, once disconnected from corporeal life, our energy lacks coherency.’

They came upon another junction, and took the central route of the three branching corridors. Here the walls seemed more fashioned than natural, smooth beneath Nuadhu’s fingers. Of course, everything on a craftworld was constructed in one sense or another, without tectonic shift, glacial flow or other geological forces to create landscapes. Considering that fact, Nuadhu concluded that the change in the environment had to be deliberate. Perhaps a sign they were heading the right way?

‘When did you speak to a spiritseer?’

They ducked beneath a crystal-edged ridge of stone above, finding themselves in a passageway with shallow steps.

‘When my mother… My father was a spiritseer when we lost her. After Iyothia was gone, my father consulted with his companions frequently.’ Nuadhu paused, remembering what it was like to come into the presence of the soul-talkers, the chill in the air around them, the tingle of his waystone in their presence. ‘We hoped that there was some way to recover her soul.’

‘What happened to her? I mean, the family records say that she was a warlock when she died in battle. But, what happened?’

Nuadhu was reluctant to talk about the dead in this place, but the silence that followed B’sainnad’s question was even less welcoming as they continued into the depths.

‘I do not know much. A force was mustered in the webway to destroy an incursion by servants of the Dark Powers. My mother died in the fighting, but her spirit stone was not recovered. My father believed – still believes – that her soul is bound within the webway itself. I know that his malaise is related somehow, though he does not speak of it.’

‘And you think that Yvraine might help?’ asked B’sainnad with uncharacteristic perception. ‘So, it’s not just about Druthkhala at all.’

‘She fascinates me,’ admitted Nuadhu. He smiled lopsidedly. ‘And terrifies me. Under her beauty I know she has a soul as dark as midnight. Or did. She is Commorraghan, a veteran of the arenas. She’s killed how many other aeldari and lesser creatures? A murderer, through and through.’

‘I certainly wouldn’t want her in my bed, I’m not sure I would wake up in the morning.’

‘That’s the thrill, is it not? And there is more to her than bloody death. She is the messenger of Yvraine, one of the Ynnari. If you want stories of ghosts and hauntings, the Ynnari are the living tale of it.’

‘She’s fed on the terror and pain of countless victims, Nuadhu. That taint cannot be erased.’

‘Like you said, it is not just about Druthkhala,’ said Nuadhu, eager to change the subject. ‘I am hoping that Yvraine might know something of my father’s condition, or perhaps just settle his fears regarding what happened to my mother’s soul. I have heard that she is a vessel for Ynnead’s mercy, able to channel the souls of the departing to the God of the Dead, and use that power against her enemies.’

‘Now who is believing fantastical rumour?’ The pair stopped as the last step brought them to a corridor that ran straight ahead, the walls agleam with spirit power. A stronger light shone from archways ahead, a cold silvery hue among the dim gold.

‘How long have we been walking?’ asked B’sainnad suddenly. ‘I have no sense of it. Nor can I recall how long since we came to the dome.’

Nuadhu tried to answer but found that he also could not reckon the time that had passed since they had arrived. It was unpleasant, reminding him of traversing the webway.

‘Spirit energy bends the material world around it,’ he told his companion, trying to find comfort in rationalising the irrational. ‘The escaped spirit matter contorts time in these caves, I think.’

‘We’re nearly there, aren’t we?’ said B’sainnad, nodding to the glowing arches ahead. ‘There’s going to be a chamber or hall, and the oracles are going to be there, frozen in time.’

‘Yes, I believe that is the truth of it.’ Nuadhu’s waystone felt heavy on its chain around his neck, as though soaking up the spirit energy. ‘Almost time.’

‘And what are you going to say to them?’

‘I am more concerned with what they will say to us, my good friend,’ replied Nuadhu, straightening his shoulders as though a heavy pack was set upon them. ‘Come on.’

Side by side they strode up the corridor and into the golden light.

Chapter 7

THE LAST TRUTH

The Oracles of the Last Truth were almost exactly as Nuadhu had expected them. That did not stop the thunder of his heart at the sight, nor the shock at seeing his breath fogging in the suddenly freezing air. The cold was like a physical assault, leeching sensation from lips and fingertips, hurting his eyes. A gasp from B’sainnad confirmed that he was not alone in the affliction.

Like frozen waterfalls, widening crystal threads cascaded down the slope of the hall, gathering in a pool at the centre. It was no great leap of imagination to picture the dire time when the infinity circuit had fractured and the spirits within had burst forth like gushing water, sucking life and light from anything they came upon. Scores had died and hundreds of spirits had been lost before three brave seers had dared the depths of the psychic explosion to stem the expulsion.

They stood there still, crystal bodies garbed in robes now threadbare, still adorned with their charms and rings, their runes scattered about the floor around them.

The oracles had arms upraised, fingers spread as they had channelled the escaping psychic power. Like those who spent a lifetime harnessing the energy of the warp and spirit, their bodies had turned to crystal from the bone outwards. But not for them a slow envelopment and eventual long sleep. Their faces were twisted with pain, teeth bared and brows furrowed against the agony of their turning.

Nuadhu shuddered, not just from the warmth-sapping psychic aura, but a more existential chill that ran through him when he looked at the trio of petrified figures. Though they looked like aeldari – clad in forms with arms and legs, dressed in the garb of seers – they were no different from any other part of the infinity circuit. The people, the memories, the personalities they had been were long gone. It was simply an illusion of life.

And it was the fate that waited all Asuryani.

Those fortunate enough for their waystones to capture their souls, that was.

His hand moved unconsciously to the gem at his chest, fingers smarting from its ice-rimed surface. Its cold fed into his spirit also, numbing his passion, draining vitality.

Nuadhu’s gaze flicked to B’sainnad, who had uttered not a sound since his expression of shock. His friend stood as rigid as the crystal statues, head cocked slightly to one side, lips parted in horror.

‘B’sainnad!’ Nuadhu moved to grab his friend’s shoulder to shake him free of his entrancement, but there was no need. At the sound of his name echoing around the chamber, the pilot blinked and turned his gaze slowly to Nuadhu.

‘It is…’ B’sainnad did not finish the hesitant sentence. A brighter gleam from the centre of the hall drew their attention. The light within the crystal figures was slowly strengthening.

The Wild Lord and his companion descended the sloping floor, careful to avoid the rivulets of psychic crystal that ran across the cracked slabs. The air grew colder still, forcing them to wrap their arms about their bodies, hiding their fingers in their armpits. Nuadhu’s eyes ached with it and the tips of his pointed ears grew painful.

The flickering orange that emanated from the figures suggested a fire, and the simple hint of warmth drew the pair of petitioners closer still.

Nuadhu was relieved to find that the light was not merely a suggestion of heat. As the psychic power coalesced into the frozen seers, the atmosphere regained some of its former warmth. It was barely enough to melt the flakes that had gathered on their eyelashes, but after the momentary freezing, it felt like a return to comfort.

They watched as the witchlight suffused the seer-statues, filling them as a liquid inside an oddly shaped vessel. The light brought greater detail to the features, every line on their faces, even eyebrows and veins below the skin visible within the subtle crystal growth. A breeze of no normal origin stirred the robes, giving the sense of movement. The pair stepped back, wary once more.

With a strange creaking, the closest figure lowered its arms.

Locked rigid by fear, Nuadhu watched wordlessly as the crystal seer slowly turned her head, robbing him of volition even as the statue seemed to gain its own. The psychic light pooled in places to give the aspect of eyes and a flush to the cheeks, flowing like blood within the prison of crystal.

The other two followed in a semblance of life, hands at their sides, faces turned towards the interlopers with softly furrowed brows.

The lips of the first that had roused parted, mouthing silently, but words came to Nuadhu’s thoughts – and B’sainnad’s too, judging by his utterance of surprise.

+Here arrives one to disturb the Oracles of the Last Truth. A seeker of glory. A warrior-lord.+ The psychic communion took a more sinister turn. +One who would bend falsehood into truth and bring ruin to us all.+

‘I am Nuadhu, heir to Clan Fireheart, Lord of the Wild Riders.’ He was not sure whether he needed to speak or simply think the response, but put the answer into words all the same. The idea that they were inside his mind was unwelcome, even for one used to the omnipresence of the infinity circuit’s empathic links.

‘I am B’sainnad Fireheart.’ The pilot cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘Companion to the Lord of the Wild Riders, second son of Tiramanya and Naerien Fireheart.’

+I am Illanor the Augur.+

The name was familiar to Nuadhu. A farseer that had died fighting humans not so long ago.

‘I thought the oracles were Cathasarren, Alodrist and Yddgara?’ said Nuadhu.

‘My mother fought with Illanor several times…’ whispered B’sainnad.

+These forms belong to all. They are a conduit, nothing more.+

+I am Yddgara.+ A brightening of the statue furthest away indicated from whom the spirit voice emanated. +One of those that crossed the veil to save our people. Five lifetimes I have spent trapped within this not-flesh prison so that Saim-Hann endures.+

+I am Lorios the Fatebringer,+ added the last of the triumvirate. Another seer, two generations dead. +We inhabit these vessels to speak with you, but make your petition swift. The dead do not like to be reminded of what they have lost.+

Nuadhu tried to quickly gather his thoughts. Why had he come? The decision of the council not to support the seers in a pre-emptive strike had riled him, and he sought… some excuse, he realised, heart sinking. He had come here out of little more than petulant opposition to the council.

‘A great evil has awoken, ancient seers,’ said B’sainnad, whose infatuation with fictional works had clearly prepared him better for the encounter. Nuadhu raised his eyebrows in disdain at his friend’s arch tone. ‘The necrontyr.’

+For a lifetime and more they have been waking,+ said Lorios. +Now they threaten Saim-Hann.+

‘How do we defeat them?’ Nuadhu said bluntly. ‘The clans are at odds and if the seers had more to say on the matter they would have shared it at the council. I was hoping that the most ancient minds of Saim-Hann could point me towards victory.’

Yddgara lifted a finger towards Nuadhu.

+You are the one that roused them, Nuadhu Fireheart. This curse is laid upon you.+

‘How could we know that Agarimethea was a tomb world? It was not my fault.’ He faltered under the otherworldly stare of the animated spiritseer. ‘Not mine alone.’

+Whether you accept the blame is irrelevant,+ said Yddgara. +Upon the skein of fate it is your thread that crosses the necrontyr world, and no amount of denial can sever a road already walked. It is the future that concerns you more.+

‘The seer council warns that the necrontyr will gather their strength and then attack, and Saim-Hann will be caught in the war that unfolds.’

+We assisted in the scrying,+ said Illanor. +Devastation will follow if the necrontyr war is not diverted or stopped.+

‘The involvement of Yvraine of the Ynnari makes matters more complicated,’ said Nuadhu. ‘The clans are wary of helping the one that almost destroyed Biel-tan.’

+She too will come,+ said Yddgara. +The skein resonates with the power of the Whispering God, and the dead listen. Our prehistory returns to cast its shadow over the living. The aeldari and the necrontyr have battled for eternity. Once both races combated the Dark Powers, but they were turned upon each other by divisive and irreconcilable ambitions. The cycle turns again, slow but inevitable.+

Lorios lifted a hand and an image appeared in the air above the animated group. It swam in and out of focus for a moment, a picture cast upon mist, until it resolved into a world orbiting a violent star. As fronds of devastating stellar winds lapped at the planet, great starships emerged, huge stasis barges carrying thousands – millions – fleeing to other worlds. Nuadhu knew the story well enough. The origins of the necrontyr had been taught to him as a youngster, along with the rise of the aeldari dominion, the War in Heaven and the Fall.

Across the galaxy spread the ancestors of the Living Dead, raging war against the Old Ones that had been the creators and protectors of the infant aeldari. A shadow blotted the stars, lit only by a tracery of light that Nuadhu recognised as the webway – hidden in the warp against the encroachment of the necrontyr.

The grip of Dark Gods and the predators of the warp assailed the realms of both Old Ones and necrontyr. Once more the galaxy burned with war, a conflict that broke the barriers between realms and exterminated entire star systems. Whole species caught in the conflagration perished. Their death-cries echoed in Nuadhu’s ears, indistinct, fading to nothing.

The coming of the sun-eaters known as the C’tan burned across the vista, consuming the necrontyr, leaving ash in its wake. From the dead worlds rose a host of metal skeletons, undying but soulless. Thus was the fate of the necrontyr sealed for eternity.

The war did not end, but became a longer, colder contest. Though the Old Ones diminished and disappeared, a brighter star awakened in their passing. Guided by the last survivors of their ancient creators, the aeldari rose to dominance, using the bright paths of the webway to strike far and wide, unleashing the power of their psychic might against the physically trapped necrontyr. The shadow of death receded, fleeing to worlds on the halo of the galaxy, far from surging aeldari warhosts.

And then the expanding light halted and dimmed.

‘We should have hunted them down when we were at our full power,’ declared Nuadhu, the display of the seers letting him understand anew what he had known and forgotten.

+Indeed. And there lies perhaps our greatest error,+ said Illanor.

+The Fall was but the consequence of the lapse in rigour that occurred so many generations before even the first of the pleasure cults was formed.’ Yddgara raised a crystal hand to his brow, head bowed in sorrow at the thought. +Complacency. We did not see our foes defeated entirely, but were content that they would never return. From that contentment and comfort were sown the seeds of our later woe. Folly of the highest order.+

+But not unexpected of a people war-weary after an existence of endless conflict.+ Lorios’ avatar turned amber-filled eyes on Nuadhu.

‘And now I have brought them back to plague Saim-Hann,’ whispered Nuadhu. ‘When we are already sorely beset.’

+Your guilt is misplaced, young lord,+ Lorios replied. +For a generation now, the necrontyr have been reviving. Not by chance, we see, their return is but part of the unfolding malaise that engulfs the stars again. Detecting the growth of warp disturbance once kept in check by their technologies, the necrontyr are waking again.+

‘Doubtless to exploit the weakness of their old foes in these troubled times,’ said Nuadhu, the image of the necrontyr expansion and dissipation still lingering in his thoughts. ‘So you say that even if I had not disturbed the tomb vault, the necrontyr of Agarimethea would have roused at some time.’

‘Learned seers, I still do not understand how it is that the waking of a tomb world so close at hand was not foreseen.’ B’sainnad’s affectation had become almost comically arch in his attempt to address the seers in what he considered an appropriate tone. Nuadhu darted him an amused look and earned a scowl and shrug in reply.

+It is not an unreasonable thought,+ Lorios answered. +Had you greater maturity, Nuadhu, you would understand that we should never accept blindly what we assume to know.+

‘I am not an infant,’ Nuadhu growled. His mood soured and his tone became sarcastic, mocking both B’sainnad and the seers. ‘Why is it, wise and ancient ones, that you of such mature knowledge did not foresee the coming of the necrontyr?’

+To answer you must look to Yvraine and her people,+ said Illanor, showing no sign of irritation at the Wild Lord’s outburst. +Where the Whispering God treads, the threads of fate are shadowed. Our living counterparts may have read the runes a hundred times and seen the rise of the dead, but not interpreted the signs beyond the arrival of Ynnead’s birth.+

Still cold, Nuadhu rubbed his hands together, looking from one seer to the next. The conversation had moved away from his original intent.

‘We must strike at the necrontyr before they can rise in greater strength. The longer we delay, the harder the task becomes. How do we persuade the council of this strategy?’

+It is beyond your capacity to destroy a tomb world, Nuadhu Fireheart,+ Yddgara told him. +If the clans do not unite, there is no hope of taking the war to Agarimethea.+

+I do not concur with your assessment,+ said Illanor. His face assumed the semblance of a half-smile, the reflection of Nuadhu disjointed upon the crystal facets. +The means of their demise is contained within them.+

‘What does that mean?’ asked Nuadhu, who was in no mood for seer-riddles and enigma. ‘Our people may live or die by what we decide in the next few cycles.’

+You already know the answer to that,+ Illanor replied. +It is that which took you to Agarimethea at the outset.+

‘The vault!’ blurted B’sainnad, grinning. ‘Whatever they are guarding, we can turn it on the necrontyr.’

‘If we can reach the vault again and open it,’ added Nuadhu. Though he struck a note of caution, the prospect excited him just as much as the promise of the original expedition. A small part of him also delighted at the prospect of more time spent in the company of Druthkhala. ‘But Clan Fireheart is too weak to face even those forces that had been raised against us when we were there. You are right, alone we cannot breach the tomb complex.’

+And alone you will perish in the attempt, lord and clan together.+ Lorios’ proclamation was a cold fist wrenching at Nuadhu’s heart, giving voice to the doubt that had bedevilled Nuadhu since the council.

‘Earlier you said that Yvraine is coming to Saim-Hann,’ said Nuadhu, clutching at any hope he could find. ‘With the Ynnari’s aid we could open the vault. They gain what they desire and we shall be rid of the necrontyr.’

‘I still don’t see how that helps us,’ said B’sainnad. ‘Unless you think that Yvraine will personally change the minds of the other chieftains.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Nuadhu. ‘But enough of them.’

+Yvraine’s arrival will force you to confront not just the necrontyr, heir of Clan Fireheart.+ Illanor could not move his crystallised feet, melded with the veins of the infinity circuit that ran through the floor. Instead he leaned closer, his proximity and direct attention bringing a fresh chill to Nuadhu’s skin. The voice continued though the glassy lips were now still. +Your father stands between the realms of the living and the dead. Before you ally with Yvraine you must consider the assistance you require, and the aid she may give.+

‘I don’t understand,’ said Nuadhu. ‘What does Yvraine have to do with the affliction of my father?’

B’sainnad stepped towards the Wild Lord, excited. ‘Do you think she can help him?’

The seers paused, the gleam of their psychic light dimming for the moment as their crystal incarnations turned their faces to one another. Nuadhu assumed they were communing in some fashion. It did not take long before they resolved their discussion and gleaming dead eyes focused on him once more.

+It is not our place to say.+ Lorios held out a hand, palm upwards as though offering something. +You must speak to Naiall of what he did, before you seek Yvraine’s help. You must decide what is to be done in full knowledge of all the consequences. You must choose whether the price is worth paying.+

Nuadhu was about to ask for clarification, and sensed that the conversation had again moved from his original purpose in coming to seek advice for facing the necrontyr. That was the difficulty with seers, they always pursued their own agenda. Before he could speak, the seers turned away, hands rising again, assuming the position they had held when Nuadhu and B’sainnad had entered. The spirit light started to wane.

‘Wait!’ Nuadhu reached out but stopped himself from laying flesh upon the crystal hand closest to him. ‘What price? You mentioned a price. What price?’

The spirit within the shell that had been Yddgara brightened momentarily.

+None venture into the domain of the dead and return without paying.+

Dimness flowed through the hall, leaving Nuadhu warmer but more confused than when he had arrived.

‘The realm of the dead?’ B’sainnad looked around. ‘Did he mean here? Or the vault of the necrontyr? Or perhaps the Ynnari?’

It was a good question, one that Nuadhu could not answer.

‘Druthkhala Shadowspite, herald of Yvraine of the Ynnari.’

Those attending to Naiall Fireheart looked up at the call of the door herald, startled by the announcement. Nuadhu’s heart raced, and not just at the prospect of seeing her again. Usually the declaration of such arrivals was purely traditional, the occupants of an apartment or halls made aware of visitors in advance via connection through the infinity circuit. Vary rarely did anyone call on another unexpectedly. Druthkhala was of the drukhari, her psychic sense all but withered to nothing. She made no impression upon the infinity circuit and consequently her appearance came without any warning.

She stood at the threshold dressed in her full battle regalia, though unarmed. As she advanced across the chamber, her gaze roved across the handful of people clustered about the throne of the chieftain, perhaps assessing each. Nuadhu noticed the way she moved with liquid grace, the sight of her not atop her reaver-bike unfamiliar to him. Every step seemed considered in its placement, each stride perfectly balanced as the weight transitioned. She did so without effort, walking quickly towards them.

Marifsa tensed beside Nuadhu and he placed a hand on her arm as he sensed she would move forward to intercept the newcomer. She glanced back at him and then down at his fingers on her sleeve, eyes flashing her annoyance. With a cautioning look, Nuadhu lifted away his hand.

‘My son has told me much about you,’ croaked Naiall, forcing himself to sit straighter, grimacing.

‘When I heard that Naiall Fireheart was again taking audience, I thought it right to seek a conversation.’

‘It is correct that the lord of Clan Fireheart has made several public appointments,’ said Neamyh, moving a step sideways, her defensive manoeuvre unconscious but placing her a little behind Nuadhu even as she continued. ‘No such arrangement has been made with you, Druthkhala.’

‘An oversight on account of the fact that I cannot use the infinity circuit,’ the Bloodbride replied, stopping just out of reach. Nuadhu had never stood this close to her before and realised that she was as tall as him, easily his physical match and far more powerful than any of the others present. Yet it was not simply lean muscle and her generous frame that granted her strength. The way she held herself bordered on the predatory, as though just an instant away from a killing lunge.

He glanced at his father and saw that Naiall met her gaze steadily, though his fingers quivered slightly on the hands of the throne. The last five cycles since the council had convened to discuss the necrontyr issue had taxed him greatly, his sudden re-emergence into the political domain met with a succession of potential and former allies – and a few rivals – using the opportunity to visit the reclusive lord. Doubtless for most it was simply to gauge his health and mood, but for a few it had been genuine happiness or concern that had brought them.

‘Welcome to the Flameglades, Druthkhala of the Ynnari.’ The ailing chieftain stood with some effort and inclined his head, a greeting usually reserved for other clan leaders. ‘Let me introduce my closest family. Nuadhu and Caelledhin you already know…’

Nuadhu’s attention wandered as Naiall continued, as did his gaze. The audience chamber of Clan Fireheart was one of the few remaining sites of grandeur remaining in the Flameglades palace. The long hall was lined with exquisite statuary from twenty different schools of art, collected over time since the founding of the clan. Family history claimed that the oldest had been salvaged from the Fall, taken aboard Saim-Hann in the moments before it departed to flee the depravity that had beset the aeldari dominions. Nuadhu could well believe it, for there was an aura about them that unsettled him, as though the stone still held the pre-birth resonance of She Who Thirsts.

‘I thank you for the honour of this audience.’

The sound of a different voice returned Nuadhu’s attention to Druthkhala, feeling something of the same unease he did around the ancient sculptures. But it was not simply that he sensed no echo of her in the infinity circuit, though that was distracting. He thought perhaps it was the nature of the Commorraghan soul within her – an ever-present taste of the horror and bloodshed she had inflicted on others to stave off the continual assault of the Great Enemy.

It was not that either, he decided. He had spent time among warriors – alongside the exarchs of Khaine who were steeped in death – and not felt the same. It had to be her newer calling, that of being Ynnari. Something about her association with the God of the Dead left an imprint upon her spirit that was unsettling, yet the nature of it also excited him.

‘I have come to you first with important news, in thanks for the services you have already rendered unto the Ynnari,’ Druthkhala told them, her eyes moving from one clan member to the next before lingering a moment on Nuadhu. ‘And for the lives given in that endeavour.’

‘What news?’ demanded Marifsa.

‘A message from Yvraine.’ The Bloodbride returned her full attention to Naiall. ‘She is but a cycle’s journey from Saim-Hann.’

‘She is almost here?’ gasped Neamyh.

‘Who else knows this?’ asked Naiall.

‘You are the first I have told,’ replied Druthkhala. ‘Though the Ynnari fleet comes unannounced, they do not hide their approach. The seers must know of it.’

‘But they have said nothing to the council members,’ added Alyasa. The windweaver had remained silent behind the throne, but now stepped forward, lips pursed in thought. ‘That they have chosen to remain silent means that they consider the knowledge advantageous.’

‘I do not see how,’ said Nuadhu. ‘Within a cycle, everyone will know that Yvraine is here.’

‘If she leaves the webway,’ said Druthkhala. The Bloodbride directed her gaze at each of them once again. ‘She cannot in good conscience enter the territorial space of Saim-Hann without invitation.’

‘Then Clan Fireheart will extend the hand of welcome,’ said Naiall, matching the sentiment with the physical gesture.

‘Uncle!’ yelped Neamyh. ‘You cannot vouch for these untrustworthy vagabonds and strangers! What little reputation we have left will be sullied by the slightest misdemeanour they perpetrate.’

Nuadhu cringed and a heartbeat later Neamyh looked horrified at the insult she had offered to Druthkhala, hand raised to her mouth as her eyes locked to Yvraine’s ambassador. Even so, no apology was directly forthcoming. Druthkhala met his cousin’s shame with a slight smile.

‘It certainly takes more than the will of Clan Fireheart to entice Yvraine from the sanctuary of the webway. We are, after all, untrustworthy vagabonds and strangers. Yvraine desires that you rally such allies as you can to extend the invitation, enough to allow her to personally address the council.’

‘We can do that,’ said Nuadhu, too quickly for the liking of his aunt and half-sister, who both directed scornful glares in his direction. He addressed his father rather than them. ‘If you desire it, of course, my father.’

Naiall said nothing. Nuadhu quelled the urge to ask again, unsure whether his father was contemplating the issue or sliding into the depths of his malaise. Druthkhala took a step closer, fascinated. She lifted a hand, gently, palm out towards the chieftain, eyes narrowed.

‘How did he manage such a feat?’ she asked.

‘What feat?’ replied Marifsa. She moved towards the Bloodbride, who withdrew her hand and retreated. With a delicate frown, Druthkhala turned to Alyasa.

‘Surely you see it?’

The windweaver shook his head with a scowl.

‘How curious,’ said the Ynnari ambassador.

Nuadhu only half considered the exchange, more concerned with his father. He was on the verge of dismissing the others when Naiall let out a long breath and focus returned to his eyes. He looked first at Druthkhala.

‘I must see Yvraine first,’ he said hoarsely. ‘To see the Emissary of Ynnead for myself.’

‘She cannot come to Saim-Hann,’ said Druthkhala. ‘We have few enough allies here and the Opener of the Seventh Way has no wish to earn the enmity of others by arriving without permission.’

‘I… I will go to her, if she allows it.’

‘It is too dangerous.’ Nuadhu’s warning was lost among similar protests from the other family members. When they had finished, he squeezed Naiall’s hand and continued. ‘Even leaving the Flameglades might be too much effort, my father. What can be so important that you cannot give your blessing now?’

Naiall said nothing, but directed a questioning look at the Bloodbride.

‘We can muster support before you make any declaration,’ said Nuadhu, looking to others for agreement. They gave their assurances, though Neamyh and Marifsa both nodded with obvious reluctance. ‘If you wish to bring the Ynnari here, we will help, but please do not risk yourself for these people.’

‘It is not for them,’ said Naiall, gaze still fixed on Druthkhala.

‘I will pass your request to Yvraine, but I can confidently suggest that you prepare for the journey. She will be most intrigued, and happy, to have you call upon her.’

‘Then let it be so arranged,’ announced the chieftain, looking at his closest family. ‘It is my wish.’

And there was no more to be said against it. Nuadhu had reservations but he did not wish to tax his father’s health with debate. He watched Druthkhala depart with a curt bow, distracted for a moment by the alluring sway of hips and hair. When she was gone, his thoughts were dragged back by sharp words from Marifsa, who apparently did not share Nuadhu’s worry regarding the detrimental effect of argument with her brother.

‘What can you possibly hope to gain, Naiall?’ she snapped. ‘Is this a misguided attempt at reclaiming some semblance of your lost vigour? It will kill you if you are not careful.’

Naiall said nothing, gaze distant, though clearly he was still mentally present, just ignoring her. Nuadhu remembered something of the cryptic answers of the Oracles of the Last Truth, about his father standing between life and death. He clarified the memory – they had spoken of the realms of the living and the dead, something different to his personal condition. They had also been specific that if Clan Fireheart attempted to breach the necrontyr tomb vault alone, they would perish, ‘lord and clan together’. That they had singled out Naiall in that statement was significant, but he had no idea what they had hinted at.

‘My father, may I speak with you alone?’

The chieftain shifted at the edge in Nuadhu’s voice. He nodded before addressing the others. ‘I have my reasons, be sure of it. And not vanity, but the future of the clan. Do all that is needed to ready us not only for audience with Yvraine, but to gather about us such support as we might find at home. And for battle against the necrontyr. Remember, if we are successful, it is only to earn the Ynnari as allies for terrible war. A war we cannot avoid, it seems, whether we choose to wage it alone or wait for the terror to come to Saim-Hann.’

Though they were clearly unhappy about the decision, Nuadhu’s aunt and cousin murmured their acquiescence before turning away. Alyasa lingered a few heartbeats longer, a doubtful look upon his face, but he said nothing and followed the others.

‘What do you wish to say, my son?’

Nuadhu waited until the doors were closed, the audience chamber sealed against the keen hearing of his kin. Though his father had, in less lucid times, spoken in paranoid terms about the plotting of his family, hinting even at espionage, Nuadhu was almost certain that they were unheard and unobserved.

‘This is about mother, is it not?’

Naiall drew in a breath, looking sharply at his son. He nodded.

‘There are some that say you are too flighty,’ said Naiall, ‘even for a Wild Rider. But you see the hearts of others well, when you choose to look.’

The clan heir waited, hoping to draw some further admission from his father with silence, not willing to openly ask for more information. Naiall settled into the large chair, apparently content to share nothing further.

‘That is all I needed to know,’ Nuadhu said. He knelt in front of the chieftain with head bowed, one hand upon his father’s knee. The other the heir placed upon his spirit stone, its pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. ‘Whatever it is, I will be with you, and will bring you success, no matter the cost.’

His father said nothing. When Nuadhu looked up, he saw the chieftain had slipped away again, his vacant gaze raised to the fresco on the ceiling. He stayed where he was, gripping his father’s leg, resolving to remain as long as was needed.

Chapter 8

GHOSTS OF A DEAD PAST

If there is one thing that can be said against the Saim-Hann clans, it is a certain kind of literalism regarding their ancestral names. Even when the craftworld was nothing more than a few domes attached to a fleeing trading vessel, the heir-names of its families were already well established, passed down for generations from nobles and scoundrels alike in the aeldari dominions.

When the cataclysm of the Fall swept across the civilisation of the aeldari, the Saim-Hann fled aboard their small world, taking little with them save terrible memories and the names in their hearts. It was of little surprise that in tumultuous times those names took on great significance, perhaps in the misguided thought that they derived from some older, purer past than the cult-ridden debauchery that had doomed the people of the dominion.

It will never be known whether there had ever been any common heritage between the clans Frostblood and Iceriver, Flamekin and Sunstalker, Windtide and Cloudwalker. It did not matter. Similarity was reason enough to breed familiarity, and so the first alliances formed along titular lines rather than out of any great political scheme. In cleaving to these last remnants of pre-Fall ancestry, the clans created a new identity to fit the troubled, mysterious world they faced.

Generations later, name was as important as deeds to many in the clans. And repute was a currency more precious than any rare element, polished gem or shining metal. The clans lived for their names, and in doing so they focused everything on them.

Nowhere was this literalism more evident than in the realmdomes of the clan leaders. As the Flameglades of Clan Fireheart were filled with russet warmth and ruddy disposition, so the White Palace of Clan Icewhisper sat among the Wintershards, a tundra broken by jutting icicles that soared like towers, the weather kept ever at the cusp of a frost – never enough to snow, but never warming the flesh either. Like the constant autumnal twilight of the Flameglades, the domesun of the Wintershards never rose to anything much; instead its pale rays lit low across the icy landscape, glinting from rimed clifftops and the ice floe-packed rivers.

Caelledhin’s breath was a mist about her, furred hood tight to her face, cloak pulled about her lap as she sat in the back of the snow carriage. The rider flicked a gentle rod against the back of her spiralhorn and the lithe beast started forward, dark pelt sparkling with freezing droplets. With the runners skidding along the track, Caelledhin sat back and closed her eyes, remembering precisely the last time she had visited the other side of her family. A death, unfortunately, of an aunt.

The recollection was unpleasant, and not simply because of the loss of a loved one. Heated words had been exchanged and tempers lost. A gross display in the eyes of the winter-born clans – as those cold-themed families so grandiosely referred to themselves – who took pride in embodying the cool aloofness suggested by their titles. Clan Icewhisper was no different, lionising the notion of the softly spoken, indifferent comment that would cut to the heart of a matter. Arguments amongst the members of Clan Icewhisper were remarked upon by others for their resemblance at times to snow-serpents engaged in a hissing contest.

Yet serpents often showed more hot-blooded empathy than Caelledhin’s family.

She opened her eyes, lashes flecked with the touch of frost. The spiralhorn found its long stride and they raced along the bank-lined road, the dark red petals of cold-flowering roses creating a wall of blossom to either side.

It was impossible not to be moved by the surroundings, and Caelledhin remembered the few happy moments of her childhood: times spent with her mother laughing as they carved ice sculptures in the frozen caves below the towers, or riding narrow sliprunners pulled by fastidiously bred peakwolves. She could recall taking off her gloves to run her fingers through the thick fur of her beast’s ruff, drinking in the comfort of connection to the panting animal.

Her grandfather had later chided her and scowled at her mother, and the recollection of it tarnished the memory. Carefree had not been an attitude encouraged by the Lord of the White Palace, perhaps the reason her mother had been driven into the arms of Naiall Fireheart.

Their route took them between the lesser towers, winding down the long slope from the dome’s main entrance. She saw her reflection in the faceted lower storeys, a smear of colour against white and grey and palest blue. Beneath the off-white of her cloak she still wore the robe of a Fireheart, a splash of red in a wintry wilderness. She had considered changing it, but with her mood already fouled by the debacle at the council, she had left the Flameglades immediately. Regret told her that she should pause and change in one of her cousins’ apartments, but the reason for her visit hardened her resolve. She admitted to herself that she hoped her garb caused offence, because at least it would be her relatives that started the inevitable argument rather than her.

The road wound down the last part of the slope and towards one of the lesser gates of the White Palace. The driver said nothing, face hidden in a swathe of scarves and hood, but had obviously been instructed to take this course. It was a not-so-subtle rebuke, the lower entrances reserved for guests rather than family members. The message was not lost on Caelledhin.

Retainers – clan members following the Path of Service – hurried from their heated cabins beside the gate tower, one of them taking the halter of the spiralhorn, the other bringing a step for Caelledhin to alight onto the hard ice. She enjoyed the crunch underfoot as she headed beneath the open gateway and into the courtyard beyond. Across the square, she was greeted by another doorway flanked by two more clan functionaries. They bobbed their heads in perfunctory fashion, avoiding her gaze.

One followed inside and took her offered cloak, folding it neatly as she waited for the matching gloves.

‘The Hall of Constants,’ the servant murmured, waving a hand towards the corridor that ran away to the left.

‘I know the way,’ replied Caelledhin, more sharply than she had intended. It was not the fault of the retainer that she was being treated as a stranger. She turned to apologise but the other aeldari had already soundlessly slipped away and closed the door.

Her heart growing heavier with every step, Caelledhin navigated the narrow corridors and winding staircases towards the Hall of Constants. Although in appearance the White Palace seemed sculpted from a single immense block of ice, it was nothing of the sort. Warm air currents kept it tolerable even though she wore only a short robe, her lower legs bare, feet encased in ankle-high boots.

The humiliation continued when she reached the antechamber of the Hall of Constants. There was no door warden to announce her, but the broad double-doors remained shut, the filigreed crest of Clan Icewhisper ornamenting the tall columns that flanked the portal.

There was a small infinity circuit node in a pedestal just beside the door. She placed her hand upon the polished red stone and it lit up at her touch, sending psychic fibres into her thoughts, connecting her with the clan spirits.

‘Caelledhin Icewhisper,’ she announced, though the soul-network had recognised her at the moment of contact.

A pulse of permission – not welcome – accompanied the hiss of the doors opening outwards, revealing the stately audience chamber of Laileh Icewhisper, Caelledhin’s great aunt and matriarch of the clan.

It was not a large hall. The Icewhisper family did not host large gatherings of outsiders, and so the audience chamber could house perhaps three dozen guests with room to mingle and dance alongside an orchestra of humble size. Low benches and tables were assembled in a circular grouping in the middle, arranged so that when all were seated they faced each other, leaving room about the perimeter for individuals and small groups to move unobstructed, and for the attendants to engage in their duties from the smaller entrances at the back of the hall.

There were no windows, but a crystal dome broke the pale ceiling above the seating, the winter half-light augmented by the gleam of icicle-like protrusions. There was not the slightest waver or flicker in the illumination, hence the name of the hall, so that one felt encased in a shell of cool blue light.

The ageing chieftain sat on a bench flanked by identical twin infants, a story crystal held in her open palm. The gem flickered moving images that matched the words as Laileh quietly narrated one of the traditional clan tales to her most recent familial additions. Caelledhin saw a shifting picture of a small child venturing onto the deck of an ice skiff and knew the story immediately – the Tale of the Wayward Niece.

Even in this, Caelledhin recognised an unveiled reprimand. The lady did not look up as her great-niece approached.

One of Caelledhin’s brothers was amongst the coterie of attendants. Navaesaidth was only a little older, the first of Iyothia’s sons, born to Alsaethaim Frostwind. He wore a pale grey coat of straight cut, his dark hair plaited close to his scalp and hanging like rope down his back. His expression matched his severe clothing.

‘Lady Laileh is engaged,’ he said without any introduction, stepping across Caelledhin’s route.

‘And a welcome to you, my brother,’ Caelledhin replied with curled lip, unimpressed. She made a point of looking around the hall. ‘Where is Alsaethaim?’

‘My father is also busy.’

‘What slight offence did you cause the lady to earn yourself this role?’ Caelledhin asked as she moved towards one of the empty benches, knowing she would receive no invitation.

‘I volunteered for it,’ Navaesaidth told her with more relish than was entirely decorous among the etiquette of the clan. ‘I have hoped to speak to you for some time.’

‘I am sure that your father has sowed in you his own bitterness at the perceived betrayal of our mother,’ said Caelledhin sitting down, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Spare us both the time spent of empty admonishments.’

‘I will. Your presence is disruption enough, I shall not expend any more effort than necessary to see you on your way. Why have you come to the White Palace, Caelledhin?’

‘Why did you not come to the clan council? I am sure I heard Lady Laileh’s sentiments from the mouths of her friends. Why did she not utter them herself?’

‘Against the advice of some, Lady Laileh did not wish to crush utterly Naiall Fireheart’s petition.’

‘Really? So she organised an ambush by her puppets in the lesser clans instead?’

Navaesaidth smirked, an uncommon show of amusement.

‘I am sure that the clans Fellwinter, Frostwave and others would disagree at being called lesser by any member of Clan Fireheart.’

‘I bear the name Icewhisper,’ snapped Caelledhin, raising her voice so that her words would reach Lady Laileh. ‘I once did so with pride.’

‘You cannot stand with a foot upon each river bank,’ her brother said, folding his arms. ‘You call yourself Icewhisper but act like a Fireheart. Your father… Naiall Fireheart did this clan a great dishonour when he stole your mother from the embrace of her family.’

‘There was no theft,’ snorted Caelledhin. ‘Iyothia made no vows to your father, nor to the clan. He wished to be bound to the fortunes of Clan Icewhisper and she desired to be a mother.’

‘And then sought the congress of another. She used the name of Icewhisper and then discarded all that it meant.’

‘She was born into it! It was your father that wished to position himself higher within the family.’ She stood up, throwing out her hands in exasperation. ‘Tired arguments, long depleted of any merit. Our mother is dead and Naiall Fireheart upon the brink himself. Will this vendetta end when he is gone? What if I should have children – will the perceived slight of my father follow them down the generations?’

A slight cough silenced the two of them. Lady Laileh had passed the story crystal to one of her daughters and seemed to glide across the floor towards them, as serene as an ice floe on a current. Hands clasped together at her waist, she stopped next to Navaesaidth.

‘It is Naiall’s stubbornness that fuels this argument,’ the chieftain declared in a soft tone, no hint of rancour. ‘Had he desired to make Iyothia his betrothed and joined the clan of Icewhisper, all would be well.’

‘And you really expected him to give up the name of Fireheart, sacrificing his clan?’

‘It is said that he and your mother loved each other. If that is so, what small price is a name?’

Caelledhin could think of no retort, and felt as though she had been lured into a trap. She sought to change the subject to cover her regret.

‘What the seers have proclaimed threatens the entire craftworld, lady.’

‘If that is so, Naiall Fireheart will wish to put the good of Saim-Hann above the petty needs of his own ambition,’ the lady replied. ‘He can have the support of Clan Icewhisper. All he needs to do is name you clan heir rather than that idiot of a son, Nuadhu.’

Caelledhin stepped back, distancing herself from the thought.

‘You deserve this, Caelledhin,’ Lady Laileh continued, following with hand outstretched, seeking an arm to lay it upon. ‘What has Naiall done for you save provide the seed for your creation? He could not even protect your mother.’

Caelledhin recoiled again, disgusted. ‘Do not pretend you have concern for me. I have no desire to usurp my half-brother.’

Lady Laileh’s laugh was as chill as the veneer of the hall.

‘Even you do not believe that, child, so do not expect me to swallow such falsehood. You know that Nuadhu will be a disaster for Clan Fireheart. If you have any regard for your mother’s wishes, her desire for Naiall’s family to prosper, you will take this message to him. If you are named clan heir, I will personally summon a council and back the expedition to Agarimethea. Better yet, Naiall will call the council and I shall support him in front of all the others. Forget the uncertain boon of Yvraine’s alliance, you know that my word will turn the fortunes of Clan Fireheart around.’

Caelledhin stormed away, flustered and angered by the offer. She knew that Laileh wished nothing more than to erase the name of Fireheart from the rolls of Saim-Hann’s clans. She wanted to install Caelledhin as a puppet for her own schemes. Even should Naiall see sense and name his daughter heir of the clan independently of any offer made, Caelledhin realised now that she would never be free of the influence of her great aunt.

As she reached the door, the lady’s voice carried to her.

‘Ask yourself, child, what are you willing to do for your family, and for the craftworld?’

To try to ensnare her by demanding this in return for supporting the attack on the necrontyr was even more insidious than Caelledhin had expected. She turned, shoulders hunched, but could not find the words to respond. Frustrated, she fled, desperately holding back her tears.

Metallic scuttling broke the stillness. With the sound came illumination, pale and sickly, but strengthening as dormant energy conduits broke the stasis of aeons. The thrum of returning Unlife burrowed deep into the catacombs, stretching along deserted subterranean avenues. Tomb after tomb creaked as ageless circuitry started to flare with purpose once more.

The slow passing of countless lifespans had taken its toll. Here and there the darkness prevailed. Fractured links cut off whole precincts of tomb-denizens. Entire wake-routines fragmented into nonsensical loops and subsystems, partially restoring some incumbents, cutting off the last vestiges of life from others. As one logic gate after another opened, the cascade effect passed more and more power into the deeper recesses.

Mausoleums of the massed Unliving sparked into wakefulness while insectoid canoptek guardians buzzed to and fro, and their larger controllers drifted more sedately along the broader passages. The life-signal reached the isolated chamber at the heart of the labyrinth, flushing energy through the inhabitant.

The tiniest kernel of remaining awareness kindled into something more alert. Like a deepwater creature surfacing, the incumbent of the tomb’s king-barrow started on the path back to wakefulness, from silent darkness to energetic light.

The system began by shunting the consciousness coil into its cranial receptor, burying the true vestige of intellect, personality and vitality within a sphere of material only a molecule wide but as dense as the heart of a star. With this core thus protected, the reanimator introduced the spark of life. Focusing enough power to run a mortal city for a considerable time, the tomb chamber flared the revitalising pulse through the dormant metal shell. The dull surface gave way to a glossy liquid sheen. Limbs trembled as they assimilated sensation for the first time in thirty million orbits of the world on which they had been grown.

The exophagus peeled back, detaching thousands of tiny stasis-fibres from the hardening skin of the tomb’s occupant.

Optical lenses burned into life, filling the chamber with their distinctive jade gleam. Fingers flexed, testing their reaction and strength.

With physicality came memory, though scattered with swathes of painful static.

The Watcher of the Dark sat up and gazed about her surroundings.

Her neural connectivity strengthened and with the synthesis between Phaerakh and tomb came the realisation that she had been woken for a reason.

Intruders.

Worse still, the defence algorithms set down by her peers identified the nature of the world’s attacker.

Aeldari.

Equipped with only the scantest detail from the past, unable to process the current welter of data flowing from the sensory arrangements of the tomb city, the Watcher of the Dark stood up, acting on flesh-instinct, though her body was now wholly artificial. Even the neurons that flared with the thought had been fashioned by the artifices of her people to last forever – for all practical interpretation, of course.

Activating a hexacellular bank of archival circuits, the Watcher of the Dark tried to ascertain what had transpired since she had slipped into hidden stasis.

The archive was ruptured, overloaded by the wealth of data it had tried to collect.

Perturbed – the storage archive had been sufficient to record for a hundred lifetimes – the Watcher of the Dark was forced to the conclusion that she had slumbered far longer than originally envisaged. Through the synaptic interface she discovered that wide tracts of Pantalikoa had so far failed to activate.

Sudden urgency burned into her thoughts as a primary motivation archive erupted into full flow.

The Panatheitik Vaults had to be preserved!

She knew nothing but the terrible burden of wardship that had been laid upon her. Pantalikoa had awoken because the seal of the primary access route had been tampered with. Hurriedly she sent a flood of data-flecks coursing through the pathways of the main vault gate. It was intact.

There was no relief at this resolution. Cursory analysis of the aeldari attack suggested that it was purely a scouting mission. Having found what they sought, it was highly likely they would wish to regain access to the Panatheitik Vaults.

The Watcher of the Dark could not recall what was within the vaults that required such indomitable defence, but she was filled with the overwhelming need to ensure that they remained inviolate. Speculation would be reserved for later.

Despatching summoning pulses to her Immortals and Lychguards, the Watcher of the Dark opened the door with a thought-spark and strode from her tomb with irrepressible purpose.

The aeldari had to be destroyed.

Chapter 9

THE WILL OF YVRAINE

As he stepped down from the boarding ramp of the Eltereth, Nuadhu could not help but feel underwhelmed. At his side, perhaps noting something in his demeanour, Druthkhala looked at him.

‘Is there something wrong with the Ynnead’s Dream?’ she asked as they paced onto the quayside. Not far behind them, Neamyh and several other family members ventured into the hold of the Ynnari capital ship, gazing around the cavernous space as though venturing into the lair of a murderous beast.

Nuadhu looked at the field barrier above, through which the webway swirled with immaterial waves, and against the kaleidoscopic backdrop hung the sailed shapes of dozens more vessels. Some were even smaller than the Eltereth, none were larger than the Ynnead’s Dream. Within the energy canopy the docking hub was almost identical to others Nuadhu had seen aboard Asuryani ships. Arches led along the dockside into the interior of the battleship, while the arc of loading appendages waited in the shadows between them. A line of ten floating rafts awaited the disembarking visitors, attended to by aeldari clearly in the garb of craftworld guardians, though the colours of their former homes had been replaced by a uniform deep red that signified their allegiance to Yvraine. Their faces were hidden within tall helms of white, marked with runes upon the forehead. Nuadhu interpreted a few of them, reading such concepts as ‘truth’, ‘arisen’ and ‘dreaming’. Upon their chests were marked runes of Ynnead, the symbol of the Whispering God.

‘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 himself 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.

‘I know that three is considered an important number in our myths, from the maiden-mother-crone to the triumvirate that you lead, but must I ask a third time?’

‘All of them,’ Yvraine told him curtly, her glare causing him to flinch. ‘The Ynnari have many quests and labours, but all that currently travel with me are committed to the battle, Nuadhu. Starships and transports, aircraft and squads of warriors. A warhost greater than any single clan of Saim-Hann can muster. Is that enough for you, Wild Lord? Does that satisfy your demand?’

Nuadhu realised how inappropriate he had been, but her rebuke only pricked his pride further. Before he reacted, his father laid a hand on Nuadhu’s shoulder, fingers weak but the intent clear. The Wild Lord bit back his words and bowed his head. In the act of submission, he found himself relieved, the need to argue dissipated by the simple moment of deference. It was only he that seemed intent on conflict.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking first at Yvraine and then the Visarch. ‘I can control a jetbike with more deftness than I can my tongue, I promise you.’

‘And it is that skill that will see us to victory, of course,’ conceded Yvraine.

As they exchanged their parting remarks, the gyrinx stole from behind the throne to rub against Nuadhu’s leg. Trembles of contentment shivered from the psychic creature. Druthkhala stepped after the clan representatives as they departed and stopped at the threshold. She gestured for Nuadhu to remain after the others.

‘I will be travelling back to Saim-Hann,’ said the Bloodbride. ‘Take refreshment and have what rest you can.’

‘I think he likes me,’ remarked Nuadhu, indicating the feline sat purring softly at him.

‘He is Yvraine’s familiar,’ said the Bloodbride. She smiled and leaned close. ‘If Alorynis likes you, it is because my mistress does.’

Nuadhu was left feeling unsure whether she really spoke of the gyrinx, or made veiled reference to herself. The door slid shut, leaving him with his questions.

‘Why did you not speak?’ asked Yvraine, turning towards the robed seer who stood to the side of her throne, one gloved hand on its arm, the other clasping a long staff tipped with a representation of the death mask of Ulthanesh. His silence during the council had been a distraction. Runes tethered to his belt clattered as the farseer turned towards her, attracting a few lazy swipes from Alorynis.

‘I did not let them see me,’ replied Eldrad Ulthran. ‘There is suspicion enough roused by your exploits, and I am not fondly remembered on Saim-Hann after the incident at Coheria. The clans feel they were misled. Also…’

‘What?’ The Visarch clenched his fists as the farseer lapsed into silence. ‘Also what?’

They all felt the pulse of communication through the Whisper, coming from the captain of the Ynnead’s Dream, Theoderonil.

Another ship approaches from Saim-Hann, Opener of the Seventh Way. A single-crewed vessel. The pilot claims to be a warlock despatched by the seer council to seek the guidance of Eldrad Ulthran.

‘You warned their seers of your arrival?’ The Visarch shook his head.

‘It is one matter to cloak my presence from the minds of a weary windweaver and a scattering of those who currently suppress their talents. My movements cause echoes upon the skein that move to the ear of god and seer alike.’

‘Grant the emissary permission to board,’ Yvraine announced, ignoring the wrangling of her companions. Since Eldrad had come to her with news of the vault on Agarimethea her thoughts had been fixed upon retrieving the contents. Now that it had been revealed as a necrontyr tomb world, other concerns stirred her.

‘You spoke of seeing the Unliving legions in a vision before you came to me,’ she said to Eldrad. He nodded. ‘It is no coincidence that the necrontyr stir on Agarimethea at this time.’

‘A belief that I share,’ said the farseer. He indicated Druthkhala. ‘I knew nothing of the necrontyr connection when I bid that you despatch a messenger to Saim-Hann seeking inquiry into the maiden world. I thought it another stepping stone across the river of uncertainty that stands between us and the last of the croneswords. The necrontyr complicate matters but the goal remains the same.’

‘There were aeldari runes upon a necrontyr septachoroid vault,’ said Druthkhala, returning from the doorway. ‘I saw it for myself. How do you explain that?’

‘There are as many reasons for the creation of a maiden world as there are planets that were seeded by the aeldari.’ Eldrad tapped his fingers on his staff as though counting off a list. ‘It seems plain to me that Agarimethea was already occupied by its slumbering necrontyr population when a dominion genesis ship reached the world. The Exodites’ later arrival triggered a response that saw them destroyed. Partially awakened, the necrontyr would have subsumed the nascent aeldari structures into their tomb complex.’

‘That bodes poorly for the import of the contents,’ said Yvraine. ‘Leftovers of an Exodite expedition are too recent to provide any source of information on the croneswords. We need archives that date back to the dominion itself, before the descent towards the Fall.’

‘All knowledge is valuable,’ contested the seer.

‘A very academic response,’ growled the Visarch. ‘Typical.’

‘Our armoured companion is correct,’ said Yvraine before Eldrad could protest. ‘This is not an exercise in esoteric study, but a life-or-death battle for our people. If there is nothing to be gained by venturing to Agarimethea, then why risk the lives of Ynnari and Saim-Hann?’

‘You misunderstand,’ said Eldrad.

‘Or you are not being clear,’ snapped Yvraine. ‘Ever since your most recent communication, you have been distracted. I sense that you have more on your mind than the croneswords.’

‘On the contrary, Yvraine, it is the fifth cronesword that occupies my thoughts most directly and perhaps overly so.’ Eldrad leaned on his staff with both hands, stooping towards the seated emissary. ‘My concern is that the vision of the necrontyr does not purport to anything we do here, but to a far broader peril. I fear that when we destroy the doom of our own creation we will waken an even more ancient foe.’

‘The necrontyr?’ Yvraine shrugged, the movement sending ripples through her courtly attire. Her fingers toyed with her fan, opening and closing it as she fidgeted.

‘The necrontyr started to waken before your failed attempt to rouse Ynnead and I walked upon the white sands,’ said the Visarch. ‘It is a tenuous connection.’

‘Yet I must ask a simple question regarding the return of the necrontyr.’ Eldrad was pensive, an expression that was both unfamiliar and unsettling for Yvraine. Throughout all of the trials she had faced since she had first heard the Whisper, the farseer’s unswerving determination had been her anchor amid the turbulence. To see him uncertain was to feel the encroaching waves of anarchy lapping at her back. ‘Why now?’

‘Nothing that is mortal survives forever,’ said Druthkhala. ‘How many tomb worlds have died without ever being discovered? How many revived in the shadows and then returned to slumber? You are a seer, it is your nature to seek patterns out of disorder. As a fighter, I react only to that which I see before me, wary of misdirection or assumption that will get me killed.’

‘Why now?’ Eldrad’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though he had not heard Druthkhala’s argument. ‘After thirty thousand lifetimes, the tombs began the process of revival. The stasis fields deactivated on these tomb worlds not even half a lifetime before the Realm of Chaos surged forth in unprecedented strength.’

‘It is too long a time,’ said Yvraine. ‘One might try to cast a thread the breadth of a star system and expect to hit the eye of the needle as much as plan to awaken after such a gulf of aeons.’

‘What did you say?’ Eldrad turned sharply on Druthkhala, causing her to flinch. ‘About being a warrior?’

‘I… A warrior reacts to the truth of reality, not assumptions.’

‘A reaction. Yes.’ The seer’s mood brightened, though Yvraine could not discern the cause for this change of demeanour. ‘Not a prediction, but a reaction.’

A shiver across the Whisper alerted them to the imminent arrival of the Saim-Hann warlock.

‘We will continue this discussion,’ Yvraine assured Eldrad. ‘What do you know of Saim-Hann’s seer council?’

‘Like the exarchs, they stand apart from the clans, at least for the duration of their representation. The clans are wary of their power, and unlike most craftworlds, Saim-Hann does not grant executive power to its seers. They may only propose and answer ballots in council with the strength of a single vote.’

‘The seers seemed the least aggrieved by my arrival,’ said Druthkhala. ‘Less threatened, I would suppose.’

‘It is telling that they seek you, Eldrad,’ said Yvraine, settling her hands in her lap, assuming her calmest pose to greet the new arrival. ‘Let us hope that it is with a welcome and not accusation.’

Chapter 10

MESSAGES

Yvraine noted that Eldrad had not replied to her comment, but chose not to push the matter further. The seer returned to his place beside her, expression guarded. With an extension of will she commanded the door to open as Alorynis rubbed up against her leg, soothing her troubled mind.

The aeldari revealed in the doorway was dressed in a plain scarlet robe, devoid of her rune armour and helm, bearing nothing more offensive than a many-faceted sapphire. A tattoo of the world serpent circled her right eye, its tail twisting down her cheek, open jaws on her brow as if ready to devour her other eye. Yvraine could feel the psychic energy condensed into the crystal, its passage causing a disturbance through the Whisper like an aircraft leaving vapour trails. The warlock had her mind barred to inspection, a small pebble in the psychic flow around Ynnead’s Dream.

Yvraine beckoned the warlock to enter, smiling. The messenger from Saim-Hann bobbed her head in quick deference, her attention quickly focused on Eldrad.

‘Intriguing,’ said the farseer. He strode down the chamber and extended a gloved hand. The warlock placed the near-globe of sapphire in his palm and stepped back. ‘This is a gem of Thuasytha. A spectral link…’

‘What does it do?’ Druthkhala eyed the crystal, a touch of hunger in her look. Yvraine could also feel the spirit power within the gem, though Ynnead had rid her of any soul-hunger the moment the Whispering God’s presence had passed through her.

‘It is a bridge for the soul,’ said Eldrad. He started back towards Yvraine and tossed the gem lightly into the air. At the zenith of its arc it stopped, floating about head height halfway between the Opener of the Seventh Way and the farseer. She could feel his psychic power extending to the crystal, like invisible hands caressing its surfaces, unlocking the energy within.

With a gasp, the warlock fainted. Druthkhala reacted first, catching the unconscious psyker before her head hit the floor. Alorynis yowled and bounded down the chamber, tail flicking in agitation. Yvraine remembered that Alorynis’ first soul-ward had been a warlock also, who had given up her life so that the gyrinx had been free to bind with the Emissary of Ynnead. The familiar made mewing noises as Druthkhala picked up the inert aeldari and laid her upon one of the empty couches.

+I am well.+ The voice emanated from the soul-vault. +My essence is required to channel the minds of my companions that remain upon the craftworld, but when we are concluded I shall return to my body.+

The orb-like jewel started to spin, the light refracting from its many edges until it shimmered with a rainbow aura. As it continued to gather speed, the corona of light grew, and within the shifting prismatic display, silhouettes appeared. The shadows lengthened and took on a more defined quality, forming faces and fingers, the edges of runes hanging around neck and belt, the soft fold of robes.

Three figures stood in the flickering aurora, not wholly present, as though a reflection viewed through a mist. All three carried themselves with the confident demeanour of senior farseers, a slight arch of the brow and tilt of the chin that Yvraine knew so well from Eldrad.

‘I am Illiaca Winterbright, the Serpent-eyed,’ said the first, bowing her head to Eldrad and then to Yvraine. Silver curls of hair fell about her shoulders, like a froth of bubbling metal in the half-seen projection. ‘It was at my instigation that this delegation was formed. With me come Daraesath Glimmerfire and Yndrathias Summerscale.’

‘A broad representation,’ said Druthkhala, arms folded. ‘From three of the largest clan-alliances.’

‘We thought it important that you understood we speak as one voice,’ said Yndrathias, his projection addressing the words first to Yvraine and then turning to regard Druthkhala. ‘Shadowspite. I thought you spoke well at the first council. The interruption of Nuadhu Fireheart was not to your credit, I am afraid.’

‘I do not remember the Sighing Winds Dome ringing with endorsements from the seers.’

‘Let us remedy the oversight,’ Illiaca said quickly. ‘We will bear your message to the council for you, and lend our weight to its argument.’

‘If I understand correctly, the opinions of seers are not so well regarded on Saim-Hann as other craftworlds,’ said Yvraine, drawing the seers’ attention back to her. She trusted Eldrad without question, his links to Ynnead far stronger than the bonds he had once felt for Ulthwé. Even though he followed a unique, private agenda at times, she never doubted his dedication to the Reborn and the Whispering God. The hand-wringing seers of Saim-Hann were a different matter. ‘I think that you seek to increase your power with talk of alliance rather than to extend my reach to your people.’

‘You think that Clan Fireheart will give you legitimacy?’ said Daraesath Glimmerfire. She was willowy even amongst the slender aeldari, and a head taller than the other two seers. Black hair fell in two severe braids either side of her face, and into the flesh of her brow had been implanted a circle of small red gems, intricately carved to look like dragonscales. ‘Nuadhu’s favour means nothing. He is the Wild Lord, he can speak for no single clan.’

‘We need your help,’ said Illiaca suddenly. She held out a pale hand, the fingernails as scarlet as the armour of her craftworld’s guardian squads. The gesture was towards Eldrad though, not the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘We cannot see anything but the doom of Saim-Hann.’

‘Not so,’ said Eldrad, cutting her off. ‘I have followed the same threads of fate as you have. Death ends all travels, but that is not the same as doom. When Ynnead stirs, death follows, but it need not be an omen of ill future. Threefold is the interpretation. It could mean the ending, as you have chosen to read it. The death could also signify your salvation by the intervention of the Ynnari. It might mark nothing more than the return of the necrontyr on Agarimethea.’

‘How are we to know which is foretold?’ said Daraesath.

‘Perhaps you are not supposed to,’ said Yvraine, standing up. ‘Perhaps you must choose the way you wish to follow and the skein will then order itself.’

‘We are pledged to aid you,’ said Illiaca. ‘We know that great peril will come from Agarimethea. What Nuadhu and your emissary have stirred up will not settle again until it is destroyed or Saim-Hann falls.’

‘Strong words,’ said the Visarch. ‘You think you have the power to destroy a tomb world?’

‘If we act quickly, yes,’ said Yndrathias. ‘If all of the clans unite behind the proposal.’

‘Two “ifs” make a weak argument,’ said Yvraine.

‘You misunderstand our purpose, Daughter of Shadows,’ said Daraesath. ‘We do not seek your permission, our intent is already set. We seek your help, Eldrad, to know better the path along which Saim-Hann will be guided. You see deeper into mystery than any mystic of Saim-Hann, you must know what will happen when we attack.’

‘Your words, flattering as they are, contain the kernel of your own frustration.’ Eldrad paced towards the trio of apparitions, staff thudding on the floor. ‘You have already decided on your course and from it flows all future streams. If there are no possibilities to explore, the skein is set and I am blind to it. To understand the true power of our sight, we must work between the strands of fate.’

‘From one moment to the next we make decisions, Eldrad,’ said Yndrathias, ‘solidifying certain futures and eliminating others. We must act against the necrontyr. The alternative is to surrender to the destruction of our craftworld.’

The former seer of Ulthwé sighed, sagging as if burdened by the weight of their concerns.

‘If you desire our aid, then you must listen to our wishes,’ he told the Saim-Hann delegation. ‘When you speak in the council you must pledge not only to support Clan Fireheart, but also insist that they shall be primary amongst those that will fight.’

‘Make Clan Fireheart the windrunners?’ Daraesath’s laugh was not of humour. Her scorn deepened as she continued. ‘One might as well set our forces against the foe led by a leaf on a wind. There is no strength or direction in Clan Fireheart.’

‘Nevertheless, it is our wish.’

‘You presume too much, Eldrad,’ snapped Yndrathias, all pretence of respect abandoned in a moment. ‘Still you try to manipulate others for your own ends. We have not forgotten how you used Saim-Hann to screen your rash scheme on Coheria.’

‘It is my wish,’ said Yvraine, standing up. She summoned all of the regal demeanour she had acquired whilst travelling the courts of the drukhari, chin raised, eyes flashing imperiously. The Opener of the Seventh Way flicked out her fan and glided across the chamber. ‘We speak as one. If you wish the Ynnari to fight with you, Clan Fireheart will be the windrunners of Saim-Hann.’

Standing close to the apparitions, Yvraine could feel the heat of their souls. The Opener of the Seventh Way also noted how none of them strayed more than a step from the floating gem, forced to remain in its proximity. She had known the farseers to be projections, but had misunderstood their nature. It was not light that was guided through the webway by the crystal, but the essence of the psykers themselves. Their bodies remained on the craftworld but their spirits had travelled to the Ynnead’s Dream.

‘Why have you contacted me in this way?’ she asked, almost within reach of Yndrathias. ‘I understand why you might not wish to physically leave Saim-Hann, but there are other means by which we could communicate. My fleet lies just within your main webway gate, after all.’

‘I wished to be in your presence,’ said Illiaca. She met Yvraine’s eye with a ghostly stare. ‘To be able to sense the nature of the Opener of the Seventh Way.’

‘And what do you feel?’

‘Power,’ said Illiaca.

‘And emptiness,’ added Yndrathias. ‘The power is not yours, it is Ynnead’s.’

‘I make no argument against that,’ said Yvraine. ‘I am the emissary, not the Whispering God herself.’

‘The emptiness is not Ynnead,’ said Illiaca. Her image fluttered for a moment as she drifted closer. ‘Is this the aeldari future you promise us?’

‘Your soul burns bright,’ replied Yvraine. She reached out, the back of her hand gently caressing the wraith-like cheek of the farseer. Psychic static crawled across her skin and the farseer flinched, tiny black drops of flame falling from where the Opener of the Seventh Way had touched her soul. ‘What will it be like when it is locked away in the infinity circuit? Will you feel the coldness of the crystal? When eventually the defences of the craftworld break for the last time and the Great Enemy sups deeply on all within, what then for Illiaca of Saim-Hann?’

The shadowy figures moved away as Yvraine advanced into their midst, trying to avoid her, tendrils of their power flowing like black mist from the gem. Yvraine lifted a hand to the crystal, careful not to set her fingers upon it but feigning as though she would snatch it from the air. The farseers made hisses and squeals of protest, their forms becoming even more insubstantial.

‘What I promise is the chance to avoid that fate,’ she continued, retreating back to her throne, eyes fixed on the materialising spirits. She sat down, immobile once more. ‘The Rhana Dandra will not work. The last battle against Chaos will end in defeat. Only in the embrace of Ynnead can we continue.’

Silence descended. The formless seers wavered back and forth for several heartbeats. Yvraine could feel the communion between them but not discern its content. The silhouette of Illiaca thickened again, forming her face in some detail, her brown eyes fixed upon Yvraine.

‘Why Clan Fireheart?’ the farseer demanded. ‘Of all the families of Saim-Hann, why choose one of the weakest to lead?’

‘It is because you think to dominate them in their vulnerability,’ said Daraesath.

‘Does it matter?’ asked Eldrad.

‘Of course it matters,’ replied Yndrathias.

‘Really?’ Eldrad stroked a finger down the side of his nose in contemplation. ‘So you admit that there exists an argument that would convince you to put forward Clan Fireheart as windrunners?’

‘I suppose,’ admitted Yndrathias, withdrawing slightly from Eldrad, gaseous features twisted in perturbation.

‘Then let us presume it is so and dispense with the need for the debate,’ said the exiled seer. ‘Do not think that I make such a demand on a whim.’

The trio of farseers flowed around Eldrad, their eyes alight with ghostfire. He regarded them not with wariness but weariness, evidently tired of their scrutiny.

‘It is the cost of our alliance,’ said Eldrad. ‘If you will not agree to this simple condition, our fleet will depart and you will face the necrontyr alone.’

‘Monstrous!’ declared Daraesath. The diaphanous figure thrust an accusing figure at Druthkhala. ‘Your messenger stirred up the Endless Dead and now you would abandon us to the destruction caused by your meddling?’

The Bloodbride smiled.

‘It was Nuadhu Fireheart that awakened the tomb,’ she replied. ‘Not I.’

‘And you think that he must lead the attack to make amends?’ said Yndrathias. ‘That is why you insist on Clan Fireheart being windrunners?’

‘No,’ said Yvraine, the last of her patience worn thin. ‘I insist because I can. I want you to understand that we are not upon the Path of the Trader, bargaining for wares at a market stall. I am the Emissary of Ynnead, the chosen vessel of the God of the Dead. Understand that your craftworld now lives or dies by my will.’

Daraesath and Yndrathias responded with shocked gasps, and Illiaca pulled her staff close to her chest, both hands clasped about it, head bowed.

‘Well earned is the title Daughter of Shadows,’ said the farseer. ‘There is darkness in you, a love for death that has nothing to do with Ynnead.’

‘We are all dead, Illiaca. I have accepted this. All that remains is to embrace the chance of glory beyond that point. Only from Ynnead does that light shine.’ She softened her tone. ‘I did not wish this. Do not think that what has come to pass was orchestrated to manipulate Saim-Hann into a position of weakness. I desire only to discover the cronesword yet to be found, and Agarimethea is just one of scores of worlds that drew our interest. Yet I must think of my people, as must you. Ynnari will die to protect Saim-Hann from the necrontyr, if I choose to intervene. All I ask is a show of… faith? Name Clan Fireheart as the windrunners of your host and the considerable strength of my fleet and army will stand at your side.’

There was another flutter of psychic communication between the delegates. Yvraine held her breath, wondering if she had pushed the Saim-Hann seers too far. She exhaled slowly to mask her tension, just as Illiaca nodded sombrely.

‘We cannot promise that the council will endorse Clan Fireheart,’ the seer warned. ‘If they choose another, will you still fight?’

‘This thread of fate was unwittingly spun by Nuadhu Fireheart, only he can sever it,’ replied Eldrad. ‘The expedition shall amount to nothing without Clan Fireheart as windrunners.’

Yvraine noted that he had avoided the question, but the seers of Saim-Hann were not inclined to pursue the matter directly. Their desperation was almost palpable even across the spatial divide. Eldrad was not prepared to give them any leeway.

‘The clans will react poorly to this coercion,’ added Yndrathias.

‘Then do not tell them,’ Eldrad said sharply. ‘They know that the craftworld is in danger. Feed them the truth they desire to hear. Tell them that fate demands that you follow a certain road.’

‘Your underhand tactics may still work on Ulthwé, Eldrad, but Saim-Hann is not so easily deceived again,’ argued Daraesath.

‘Druthkhala will be present,’ said Yvraine, indicating her Bloodbride with a hand. Alorynis bounded down the chamber and up into the surprised warrior’s arms. ‘My fleet will not enter the starspace of your craftworld unless invited, so she will be the sole judge of whether you live up to your part of our agreement.’

‘Then we have a pact,’ said Illiaca. The other two seers bowed and dissipated back to the crystal. Illiaca remained a moment longer, her dark eyes turned to Eldrad. ‘I had hoped to say it had been an honour to meet you, but I cannot. It is a disappointment, Eldrad, that one so venerable has become party to these tricks and violence.’

‘I accept your rebuke,’ the farseer said calmly.

‘We will be ready for when Druthkhala sends word, and shall begin preparations for travel to Agarimethea immediately,’ said Yvraine.

She flicked out her fan and raised it to her face, ending the discussion. The Emissary of Ynnead felt rather than saw Illiaca withdraw her presence, and a heartbeat later the warlock upon the couch let out a shuddering breath. Eldrad caught the gem as it fell out of the air, and hurried to her side.

‘What do you remember?’ he asked, pressing the crystal into her palm as she sat up.

‘Nothing,’ the warlock replied. ‘I was asleep?’

‘Very well.’ Eldrad helped the warlock to stand. ‘What is your name?’

‘Nepharua,’ replied the warlock. She seemed untroubled by her experience, standing without effort or instability. ‘Of Clan Goldwind.’

‘You have done your craftworld a great service today, Nepharua Goldwind,’ said Yvraine. ‘Return now to your people with the good will and best wishes of the Ynnari.’

When the warlock had departed, Alorynis slipped back to Yvraine, rubbing his cheek against the leg of the throne. She reached down and he used her arm to climb into her lap, where he curled contentedly. Soft snoring swiftly followed.

‘Is Nuadhu Fireheart really that important?’ asked Druthkhala, looking first at Yvraine and then Eldrad.

‘His thread has become bound to Yvraine’s,’ said Eldrad. ‘Only time will reveal how that will transpire, but it is better to keep him an ally than an enemy, and an ally should always be granted power to act rather than be dominated.’

Yvraine was tired and stroked a finger across her brow as though to soothe her troubled thoughts. Interacting with the farseers had drained her of what little stamina had remained after her audience with Clan Fireheart.

‘I must rest,’ she told her companions. ‘You may go.’

‘I will remain,’ said the Visarch. As sometimes happened, so silent and unmoving had he been, Yvraine had nearly forgotten he was present.

‘Of course you will,’ she said. She stood, carrying Alorynis, who did not stir, and turned towards the curtain draped across the archway to her private chamber. Her eyes fell upon another, lost deep in thought for much of the conversation, so much so that he had passed the audience entirely without remark or notice – Meliniel. The autarch sat in one corner, hands in his lap, regarding the floor with deliberate interest. Yvraine let her attention flow upon the Whisper and Meliniel looked up, the blood-red gem embedded in his chest gleaming with a pulse of energy. ‘I have no intention of allowing an ill-disciplined Wild Rider to command our host. Meliniel, find out all you can about this tomb world and devise suitable stratagems for the attack.’

With that matter dealt with, she pushed through the curtain into the welcome solitude of her chamber, trying to calm her whirling thoughts.

Chapter 11

DISPUTES

Even as the starship docked, Nuadhu felt the mental embrace of the ever-present infinity circuit. While the conduit of the Eltereth allowed him to share his presence with those of his family onboard, there was no sensation quite like regaining contact with the mind of the craftworld. It was one of the reasons he was glad to be a Wild Rider rather than exploring his inner nature as an outcast away from Saim-Hann. The thought of spending his life isolated from the place that had raised him set a cold shiver in his heart.

With the questing aura of the infinity circuit came the connection with what had transpired in their absence. Even before he knew any details, Nuadhu could tell that the mood of Saim-Hann had changed. Explanation came from Alyasa, who entered the chambers of Naiall with a respectful nod, taking his place at the bedside of the comatose lord. The chieftain’s elixir had sustained him long enough to return to the starship, but his condition had rendered him unconscious ever since. Nuadhu sat at his father’s side. His aunt and cousins were close at hand on couches, the tables before them set with the remnants of the last meal.

‘I have briefly communed with Almic the Wise,’ the windweaver told them. ‘The seers have called upon the clans to act against the necrontyr of Agarimethea immediately. They have nominated Clan Fireheart to be given the role of windrunners.’

‘They want us to lead the warhost?’ Marifsa stood up and crossed the chamber, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She laid a hand on her brother’s arm. ‘Almic and the others must know that Naiall is in no condition to speak for the clan.’

‘Is that their intent?’ demanded Neamyh, arms crossed tightly. ‘They would make pawns of us in the absence of our chieftain.’

‘Or they know that I will lead in battle,’ said Nuadhu. ‘Or did you think they would dismiss me as easily as my own family, it seems?’

‘To be windrunners is more than to form the vanguard of attack, Nuadhu,’ said Alyasa. ‘It is to be in command of all the forces of Saim-Hann.’

‘I don’t know why they would pick us,’ said Marifsa. ‘It seems almost antagonistic, given that we have been turned back by the council already.’

‘Yvraine demands it.’ They all turned to Druthkhala, who was sat on a chair on the opposite side of the room, long legs stretched before her, hands in her lap. She stood up, hand on hip. ‘Or rather, Eldrad Ulthran has cast your runes and determined that you give Yvraine the greatest chance of victory.’

‘I sensed as much when Yvraine spoke of me,’ said Nuadhu before the full content of her explanation settled in his thoughts. The involvement of Eldrad could bode well or poorly given recent events on other craftworlds. ‘What has the seer of Ulthwé to do with this?’

‘He is of the Ynnari now, not Ulthwé, and travels with the fleet. Your seers contacted him after your audience with Yvraine.’

‘But the clans will refuse to follow the will of Eldrad,’ said Marifsa. ‘They are suspicious enough of our own seers. The fear of being manipulated by Eldrad will outweigh any good of acting against the necrontyr.’

Nuadhu thought it odd that his aunt talked about the clans as though Clan Fireheart were something apart from them. Had she already surrendered any thought of a return to influence?

‘I am certain Eldrad’s name will not arise in the debate,’ said Alyasa. He glared at Druthkhala. ‘I was unaware of any communication between the seers and your fleet.’

‘They sent an emissary to act as a conduit, so that their purpose would be hidden on the skein,’ explained the Bloodbride. She looked at Naiall. ‘Not unlike our own expedition.’

Reminded of their subterfuge and, it might be claimed, underhand dealings with Yvraine, the highest members of Clan Fireheart offered no further complaint and instead prepared to disembark. Nuadhu took Marifsa, Druthkhala and Alyasa to one side.

‘My father is in no state to attend a council,’ he told them, looking at Naiall with a sad glance. ‘I am a Wild Rider, unable to speak for the clan. Alyasa, as our windweaver you can act as Naiall’s proxy.’

‘And when demand is made regarding your father’s absence?’ said Alyasa. ‘When not ten cycles past he attended council?’

‘His indisposition is no secret, we do not have to offer details,’ replied Nuadhu. ‘When does the council start?’

‘The seers awaited our return before extending their invitation to the Hall of Considered Light. Debate will commence with the start of the next cycle.’

‘Then we still have half a cycle to ready ourselves.’ Nuadhu looked at Druthkhala. ‘Is there anything else we should know, about Eldrad and Yvraine? Have they said why I am key to victory?’

‘I did not say you were the key to victory,’ replied the Bloodbride, puncturing his pride. ‘Only that your leadership grants the best probability of a favourable outcome for all of us. You should know better than to read personal success into the foretelling of the seers. Where Eldrad is concerned, only Ynnead’s raising matters to him. He sacrificed millions of your people’s souls in his attempt to awaken Ynnead. Do not think for a moment that the life of one Wild Rider overly vexes his deliberations.’

Nuadhu wanted to know whether her warning was specific to him, but knew she would not say. Instead he leaned closer, trying to ignore the intoxicating smell of her. ‘Not just a Wild Rider, but Lord of the Wild. When I call, the Wild Riders answer. What support from Yvraine can we expect?’

‘All that she has,’ said Druthkhala. ‘As she told you herself. An army the match of anything that you can muster, be sure.’

‘Even so, I will speak with some of our allied clans,’ said Alyasa. ‘Yvraine and Eldrad count for nothing in the council. The voice of other chieftains will hold more weight alongside the seers.’

‘I will speak with the exarchs,’ said Marifsa, a reminder than she was currently upon the Path of the Warrior, a Fire Dragon from the Shrine of the Golden Flame. ‘The avatar does not stir, but the chosen of Khaine are always eager for battle. It will mean nothing in the debate, but if we are to go to war, the support of the shrine-squads will be very welcome.’

Nuadhu watched the two of them depart, joined by his cousins at the door, leaving him alone with Druthkhala and his father.

‘There is much going on,’ he said with a lopsided smile. ‘I fear I have little chance to acquaint myself with you better.’

‘Should all go well, you have your whole life ahead for us to become better acquainted,’ Druthkhala replied. She threw a glance at Naiall. ‘Look after your father, Nuadhu. Be sure of what you want, for when we enter battle you must be focused on our goal and nothing else.’

‘I shall hold you to that promise,’ he said, ignoring the second part of what she had said. He started to reach out to her, but she slipped past.

‘I will see you in the Hall of Considered Light,’ she said over her shoulder.

And then she too was gone and he stood alone in the chamber, the stillness broken only by the laboured breathing of his father. He recalled not only Druthkhala’s reaction but Yvraine’s extraordinary conduct towards Naiall. He bent over his father, brushing a bead of sweat from the chieftain’s face.

‘What did you do?’ he whispered. ‘What claim does the God of the Dead have over you?’

He wished he could stay longer, drawing strength from his father even in his beset condition. There was no time; he would have to rouse the Wild Riders soon and needed to be ready for the challenges of the council.

With some trepidation, Caelledhin stood at her father’s side in council once more, though on this occasion the venue was not the Flameglades but the Hall of Considered Light. The dome was small compared to most on the craftworld, one of a handful clustered close to the infinity circuit hub nestled within the substructure of Saim-Hann.

‘I always find this place quite inspiring,’ remarked Nuadhu, casting a gaze up to the dome ceiling. ‘Uplifting.’

Unlike the great tracts of artificial wilderness that dominated most domes, the Hall of Considered Light was quite plain, made specifically for the coming together of the clans. Rather than mountains and rivers, the landscape consisted of rolling hills in the bloom of spring growth, cut through with sparkling streams.

‘I regret that it has not improved the mood of our rivals,’ said Caelledhin.

It was not unusual for clan councils to be become heated, one might even say contentious. Strongly held views and the overbearing importance of name-honour was an occasionally explosive combination for debate, where intellectual principle was subordinated to the demands of personal reputation. Even so, by the standards of Saim-Hann, the exchanges that had marked the recommencement of the Agarimethea deliberations had been vitriolic, if not outright toxic at times.

Despite Nuadhu’s professed expectation to the contrary, Naiall had insisted on being present and seemed invigorated by the prospect of both verbal and mortal battle. Lady Laileh was also in attendance, though had not yet spoken directly. Caelledhin knew that the presence of her great aunt was a reminder to those who enjoyed her support, and a silent challenge to Naiall. The leader of Clan Fireheart barely took his eyes off the draconian matriarch, personal antipathy pushing aside political consideration.

Caelledhin had not carried the lady’s offer to her father, knowing that although he claimed otherwise, the chieftain was too weak to deal with such obviously antagonistic manoeuvring. Caught at the crux of the necrontyr crisis and his familial disputes, as well as no small amount of physical stress, Naiall needed no additional strains upon his constitution.

‘I do not think we will win over the council, even with the seers advocating for our leadership,’ Caelledhin confessed to her family. She skirted around her great aunt’s threats, but was not able to ignore them entirely. ‘There are those here that will oppose us on principle, regardless of sense or merit.’

‘We cannot bend ourselves to the whims of fools,’ replied Nuadhu.

‘Why not, if they are in the majority?’ countered Caelledhin. ‘Perhaps we are being the fools, shackling ourselves to the desires of Yvraine and her kind.’

Her eyes flicked to Druthkhala, who stood apart from them, but had been allowed onto Clan Fireheart’s barque as a sign of support – against her judgement and argument.

‘Without Yvraine the battle is lost before it has commenced,’ Naiall said.

‘Why? It is the Ynnari that have divided us. Remove them from the argument and the clans will form alliance for the defence of the craftworld.’

‘We do not need to defend the craftworld,’ argued Nuadhu. ‘We need to attack Agarimethea. It is that mission that the other clans rejected. If they will not follow us into battle, then we and the Ynnari must hope to succeed without them.’

‘Do we put ourselves above the good of Saim-Hann?’ Caelledhin countered. She directed her words to her father. ‘Perhaps we should withdraw the demand that we be named windrunners, and allow another clan to take the lead. Someone the others will unite behind.’

‘Clan Icewhisper perhaps?’ Naiall asked, voice barely a murmur but laden with intent.

‘Never,’ growled Nuadhu. Caelledhin felt his accusing gaze like a blade in her ribs, though her guilt was in omission not subversion. Their distrust was no novelty, and she hated the role she was forced to play between the two clans. Shunned by that of her mother, kept at arm’s length by her father’s.

‘That was not my intent,’ she said weakly, but already the damage was done. Father and son turned their gazes back to the council, pointedly ignoring any further protestation.

Alyasa announced that Clan Fireheart had extended invitation to Yvraine of the Ynnari. The news that a fleet of Ynnead’s followers lay just beyond the great webway gate was not taken meekly by the rivals of Caelledhin’s family. The Hall of Considered Light rang with angry words, shouts of approval and opprobrium, and the thunder of stamped feet and hisses of judgement.

‘It is not for you to extend the welcome of all,’ cried Lorasi Bluewoven, jabbing his rod of office towards the barge of Clan Fireheart. ‘You have conspired with enemies of Saim-Hann and our security is compromised.’

‘You would see us all dragged into the abyss with you,’ added Ameridath Frostwind. ‘Would it give you a last satisfaction before you succumb to your infirmity, to see our home destroyed by the legions of the Unliving?’

‘Your meddling has already tempted disaster,’ continued Cuithella Frostwave. ‘To engage in any escalation against the tombs of Agarimethea is the surest invite to cataclysm that we have seen in a generation. Let the sleeping dead quieten, do not rouse them further.’

‘It is too late for that,’ insisted Alyasa. ‘The threat from the necrontyr mounts with each cycle. Only a swift and decisive blow will stop them now.’

‘I thought the courage of the Frostwave was well regarded,’ snarled Nuadhu, the auditory workings of the hall carrying his off-hand remark across the dome. A stillness betrayed the sudden tension.

‘Do you question the bravery of Clan Frostwave?’ Cuithella’s question was directed at Naiall rather than Nuadhu. ‘A grave accusation.’

‘I am sure–’ began Alyasa but Nuadhu cut across the windweaver.

‘All I hear are excuses from the clans opposite,’ declared the Wild Lord with a dismissive toss of the head. ‘It is for them to offer reason why their blood is too good to spill in fighting for the craftworld.’

An audible intake of breath sighed across the divide, Cuithella’s eyes widening with affront.

‘Retract your statement,’ insisted her nephew, Thariansa. ‘You will not dishonour the name of Frostwave with this slight.’

Nuadhu faced down the other aeldari, and then glanced at his father, seeking guidance. It was unlike her half-brother to doubt himself, but was that a good sign or a bad one? Naiall seemed disinterested, fixated upon Lady Laileh. To Caelledhin it was obvious that both of the chieftains seemed happy to contest via proxy.

‘I make no apology.’ Nuadhu’s words rang out into the silence but Caelledhin detected a slight hesitancy, as if the Wild Lord wished to say otherwise.

‘Is there one willing to force the matter?’ asked Thariansa.

Caelledhin suppressed a groan. The ritual challenge had begun and now there were only two options. To concede the apology of Clan Frostwave, and by extension surrender the argument of the whole council in their favour, or to settle the debate by duel. She saw only one opportunity to avoid that conclusion.

‘Nuadhu is with the Wild Riders, he does not speak for Clan Fireheart,’ she quickly announced. ‘He cannot accept your challenge.’

She suffered Nuadhu’s disgusted stare without regret, hoping that there might be one last attempt to salvage something from the council. She gazed imploringly at her great aunt, but received no answering glance.

‘Then I reframe the argument,’ said Thariansa. ‘Clan Fireheart has dishonoured itself by welcoming the title-less vagrants of the Ynnari to our craftworld. They have brought disrepute to the council by engaging with Yvraine without the consent of their peers.’ He directed a narrow stare at Druthkhala. ‘More so, it seems that since the outset they have been conspiring to undermine the rightful sovereignty of the council of chieftains, bringing in an outsider to disrupt the cordial rule of Saim-Hann. I find them in contempt of this council and demand that Naiall Fireheart be stripped of any right to speak further on this. Is there one willing to force the matter?’

All attention fell upon the barge of Clan Fireheart. Caelledhin caught her half-brother’s eye and they drew together, their earlier dispute set aside in the face of external threat.

‘Thariansa is a skilled duellist, he rode as a Shining Spear while on the Path of the Warrior,’ she warned.

‘I know this,’ he replied with a grimace, perhaps realising the situation had moved beyond his control. ‘I am our best fighter but…’

‘But your position disallows you from answering the challenge,’ she finished for him. Together they eyed the other family members present. ‘Neither can Marifsa answer while sworn to the path of the Fire Dragons.’

‘Neamyh has never seen battle,’ Nuadhu said with a slight shake of the head. ‘Of our other cousins, none are a match for Thariansa.’

‘The champion of Clan Frostwave knows it,’ concluded Caelledhin.

‘He goaded me knowing I could not defend my own words?’

‘I fear that was his calculation.’ Her eyes strayed to Lady Laileh, knowing that the calculation had not been Thariansa’s at all. ‘The progress of the whole council was orchestrated before it had started. The appeal of the seers was never going to be given consideration and the invitation to Yvraine simply provided the opening for our rivals.’

‘None of you?’ Thariansa called out, eyebrow raised.

Caelledhin felt Lady Laileh’s gaze finally upon her. The leader of the Icewhisper family stared intently at her great niece, her silent challenge added to that of her puppet. Infuriated in equal measure by Laileh’s manipulation and Nuadhu’s senseless belligerence that fell for it, Caelledhin drew in a breath, about to accept.

‘You will lose,’ said Nuadhu, guessing her intent. ‘You can ride well, but you are no match for Thariansa.’

‘I will fight under the name Icewhisper,’ she replied, ‘My loss of honour will be more palatable than damage done to any bearing the name Fireheart. But we shall still have to concede the council. Fortune may favour me…’

‘It is said to favour the bold, so you may be right.’ Nuadhu clasped her hands, a rare show of support. ‘Don’t get hurt.’

‘I will force the matter.’ The pronouncement came from the far side of the Clan Fireheart platform, where Druthkhala had waited in silence for the duration of the gathering.

‘Nonsense,’ laughed Thariansa. ‘You cannot answer the challenge.’

‘I do not care for your rules, Saim-Hann weakling,’ the Commorraghan sneered. ‘You insulted me and you insulted my mistress. If you have any heart you will settle the argument with me.’

Startled, Caelledhin was not sure whether to be angry or happy. Was this Druthkhala giving vent to her unchecked emotions, or was she simply meeting Thariansa’s barbs with her own to draw out the venom of his challenge? If the latter, it was well done, for frantically whispered consultation broke out around the champion, but the tone in Druthkhala’s words was too much for the champion’s pride to ignore.

‘So be it, drukhari vermin,’ Thariansa answered across the protestations of his kin. ‘You have no honour to take, but I will delight in seeing you swallow your own insults.’

‘Less talk, more bladework,’ Druthkhala replied with a sly smile, confirming Caelledhin’s suspicions. ‘My lance will silence your foolish yammering.’

Chapter 12

A DEADLY BLOW

While the other parties withdrew, the barges of the clans Fireheart and Frostwave almost met at the centre of the dome. Druthkhala had said nothing to Nuadhu following her challenge, and he studied her intently.

As she straddled the jetbike, Druthkhala gauged her opponent with roving eyes, as did the Wild Lord. Thariansa was slightly taller than her, which put him among a rare few, but more heavyset. His steed would not manoeuvre as well, which detracted from the advantage of extra reach. He held his duelling spear at the one-third-point, marking him out as an aggressive fighter, looking to score an early hit if possible. Did Druthkhala notice any of this? She was experienced in the Crucibael of Commorragh but a Saim-Hann honour duel was as different to the bloody fights of the arena as a shark and a hunting cat. She gripped her decalibrated las-lance at the halfway mark, surrendering more reach but improving her control during the pass, so perhaps her eye saw the same as Nuadhu’s.

With her other hand she guided the jetbike left and right a few times, learning its heft and responsiveness. She powered up the skim-engine and ascended, turning slowly above Clan Fireheart and their allies, testing the acceleration. Seeing her winding higher made Nuadhu’s heart race faster, on her behalf but also jealous of her part in the contest about to commence.

Pouring on the power, she dropped like a hunting bird, contrails streaming from the control vanes as she dived towards Nuadhu. He had seen the way she rode at Agarimethea, and though he had not flown her reaver-steed he had certainly noted its capabilities. The top speed of the craftworlder jetbike she rode for the duel was barely two-thirds of her own bike, but the slightest adjustment of the piloting vanes performed a series of spine-wrenching loops and rolls.

She sped onwards, the whine of the jetbike growing louder as she plunged directly towards Nuadhu. Instinct told him to move, to let her sweep past, but he controlled the fear, trusting her not to hit him. She pulled hard, deploying the air brakes, to slew to a halt beside the Wild Lord, the tip of her lance gently nudging against his chest-plate. The buzz of the contact alarm sounded clearly, demonstrating that the duelling weapon was ready.

‘I win,’ she told him with a half-smile.

He grinned back, but had no time to respond – the combatants were being called upon to attend to the contest. Engines barely more than idling, they slid towards each other. Thariansa lifted his lance in a perfunctory salute and Druthkhala responded in kind, moving the speartip with a lazy, mocking sweep. Seeing the furrows in his brow deepening brought a rush of pleasure to Nuadhu. The two warriors came alongside each other, facing opposite directions, and halted just beyond each other’s reach.

‘You’re going to crawl back to Yvraine in shame,’ growled the Frostwave champion.

Nuadhu let out a snort of contempt but Druthkhala let silence speak for her, matching his angry stare with a half-lidded look of boredom.

As a relatively neutral party, Illiaca Winterbright had been nominated as overseer of the duel. The farseer approached the pair atop a floating platform, scarlet robes flowing around her in the gusts of wind that played across the dome. Nuadhu felt tension returning as the arbitrator stopped alongside the duellists. If Caelledhin was right, he had been lured into a trap and the success of the alliance with the Ynnari – and the possible future of Clan Fireheart – now rested on Druthkhala. She was a formidable fighter in life-or-death battle but Nuadhu’s gut tightened at the thought of what would happen if Thariansa proved the better duellist.

‘This contest has the assent of the council,’ Illiaca declared, raising a hand. ‘At my command you will commence. At my order you will cease. Failure to comply with my demands will be taken as concession of defeat. Do you understand?’

The farseer seemed to direct the question at Druthkhala and the Commorraghan nodded.

‘When I win, this melt-heart fool will acquiesce to my authority,’ she said, raising her voice so that it carried to the distant yachts, barges and galleasses.

‘Go back to your corpse-worshipping, you crone-cursed vagrant,’ spat back Thariansa.

Illiaca cleared her throat and started her platform drifting backwards, the barques of the contesting clans doing likewise. Nuadhu’s pulse continued to pound in expectation, strong and swift, as if he were the one wielding the lance. The seer lifted a hand, gloved in black and bedecked with silver rings. When she had retreated some distance, she dropped her hand with a shout.

‘Begin!’

Thariansa tried immediately to swing his jetbike around, thrusting his spear towards Druthkhala, but she had predicted the attack and gunned her engine immediately, carrying her directly away from his laboured blow. He followed fast, matching her turns and jinks with his own, but with his extra weight he was not able to steer as tightly as she, and heartbeat by heartbeat she pulled away.

It was an awkward start. Certainly Thariansa had the initiative. Nuadhu’s fingers and legs twitched as though he sat at the controls, but Druthkhala’s manoeuvres did not match those he would have taken. Hauling her weight sideways, Druthkhala turned hard, throwing the jetbike through a half-arc so that she faced her pursuer. Thariansa dived just in time, flailing up his spear to deflect her lance as he swept below her.

Nuadhu let out a short yell of encouragement, his exclamation falling unaccompanied into the silence of the other spectators. Next to him Caelledhin watched with a hand over her mouth, barely breathing. Naiall’s attention moved between the duellists and Lady Laileh, eyes narrowed.

Continuing with the momentum of her turn, Druthkhala briefly inverted, allowing her to loop after the fleeing craftworlder. He pitched his bike almost vertical, speeding towards the hilled floor of the dome, seeking sanctuary among the winding rivers and shallow slopes. To Nuadhu’s surprise Druthkhala broke away, rising higher rather than be drawn into the more constricted airspace.

Sensing she no longer followed, Thariansa slowed and then turned, stopping his jetbike some distance away, facing her. She flicked her lance tip in a light-hearted fashion, as though beckoning to him.

As the Frostwave champion accelerated with a snarl, Druthkhala put her foot to the throttle, matching his increasing speed. A streak of red versus a thunderbolt of blue-black, the two of them screamed towards each other, eyes slits as they picked their spots. Nuadhu held his breath, fists clenched tight, unable to predict the outcome of the pass.

The two lances crashed together, hafts deflecting the mutual blows as the two challengers flashed past each other. Nuadhu flinched as if the vibrations ranging along Druthkhala’s arm afflicted his own, but she ignored any discomfort and turned sharply, readying for the second pass. Thariansa declined the invitation, circling to the left as he considered his options.

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 daggers 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.

‘To war!’

It often felt to Meliniel as though he were at the centre of a thousand spinning galaxies, each of which required his constant attention lest it be pulled apart by the power of its own stars. Fleeting from one concern to the next, poring over every last scrap of data from the scout craft, he formulated and revised, strategised and planned. Each concern seemed to spawn a dozen more, so that when he turned his thoughts to the ad-hoc expeditionary fleet of Saim-Hann he immediately wondered how the coalition of clans would hold up. How would the seers of the craftworld bend their powers alongside Eldrad? The Aspect Warriors that accompanied them, would they see common cause with those shrines now sworn to Ynnead or would their dedication to Khaine cause animosity, perhaps even hostility between them?

And all of these considerations crowded upon his thoughts before paying any attention to the unknown nature of the foe. He had gleaned what little he could from the reports of those that had come back from Nuadhu’s foray, including a lengthy debrief with the Wild Lord himself. Other than some geographical and topographical features, and the scantest dialogue on the nature of the enemy force they had encountered, he knew almost nothing about the necrontyr.

He moved about the command chamber in the heart of Ynnead’s Dream adjusting the psycholithic display, so that the mirrored red surface perfectly captured the shape and dynamic of attack he hoped to attain.

It was more than a science – there was an art to wielding an army at war. Intuition played as much a part as logistics, improvisation was as important as preparation. In order to be ready he had to absorb the essence of the plan as well as the practicalities of it. He had learned those lessons with hard-earned victories at the command of the Bladewind of Biel-tan. Over the time that had passed since he had left his craftworld to aid Yvraine, he had endeavoured to turn the Ynnari warhost into something approaching the perfect weapon of Biel-tan’s deadly force.

The echo-beat of his pulse was strong in his chest, a reminder of the creature that lurked within him now. He could feel its rage radiating through him, trying to colour his every thought.

The presence of the Warshard’s spirit inside Meliniel made it all the harder to concentrate on any given task. It filled him with a desire to attack even when retreat would be prudent. Its supernal anger tainted every strategy, pushing him to more aggressive plans, desiring him to create bloodshed for the sake of it. Meliniel had to constantly revisit his schemes for signs of the Warshard’s pollution, often spying small gambits that added nothing to the chances of victory but carried within them greater risk.

And always was there the threat of positioning himself too close to the fighting, wishing greater personal glory at the expense of strategic competence. The knowledge that he could unleash the Warshard hovered in the background, but he never exploited the possibility in his planning. It was too tempting to fall back on the power of the First Avatar as a crutch.

He started at the sound of boots just behind him. He whirled around to confront the arrival, an aeldari garbed in ornate kabalite armour, an insincere smirk smeared across his face.

‘You missed a bit,’ said Azkahr, his second-in-command and source of much consternation for the autarch. The former dracon of the Dark City sauntered further into the twilit command room without so much as a request for permission, eyes roving expertly over the projected battle display. His customary half-sneer faded as he felt the scorn of his leader’s stare full upon him.

‘What?’ Meliniel tried to keep a score of whirling thought processes in motion even as he focused on the intruder. ‘Missed?’

The Commorraghan pointed at a gap in the interweaving runes and lines that described the attack waves and potential victory paths for the assault.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘A hole.’

‘I am aware of it,’ snapped the autarch. He sighed aggressively, abandoning any attempt to retain his inspiration in the face of the interruption. ‘I am seeking confirmation of certain facts from clans Flamewalker and Ashdancer, and the Saim-Hann seers.’

‘I see,’ conceded Azkahr. ‘That seems acceptable.’

‘And are our own ships ready for deployment?’

‘That’s why I have come,’ said the former dracon, face screwed up in consternation. ‘We have a problem. The webway is blocked.’

‘Blocked? What does that mean?’

‘It is the word used by the clan windweavers,’ Azkahr explained with a shrug. ‘It is blocked. No further progress. We are halted.’

‘But we are not even within low orbit over Agarimethea yet.’ The psycholith screen faded into motes that reconvened in a new arrangement, approximating the aeldari fleet dispositions. They were still within a main arterial route of the webway, from which the windweavers were supposed to create a temporary delving down to the surface of the tomb world.

He let his thoughts free upon the Whisper.

+Eldrad?+

+I know of what you seek, but it cannot be done.+

+There must be some way of getting us closer.+

+None. I have tested the barrier and it encompasses the entirety of the planet. It is a null field of considerable power, which I assume has been activated following Nuadhu’s rapid departure via the webway. The necrontyr have erected their anti-psychic defences to prevent webway burrowing. We will not be able to breach the surface.+

Meliniel suppressed a sigh and signalled his affirmative before withdrawing his thoughts.

‘You sensed that?’ the autarch asked his companion.

‘Yes,’ Azkahr replied distractedly. ‘Like I said, the webway is blocked.’

‘Then we must assemble our fleet for an atypical attack,’ said Meliniel. In his breast he felt a pulse of satisfaction, recognition that such a strategy brought with it far more attendant risks than direct webway insertion.

‘Atypical for you, perhaps, but not I,’ said his subordinate. ‘Many raids I led did not benefit from the luxury of a webway portal.’

Meliniel held back the surge of wounded pride that would fuel a rebuke. Always aware that he could not allow uncertain temper to sway his actions, he took a deep breath, manipulated the psycholith to a rudimentary image of Agarimethea and turned to the former dracon. He indicated the display with a wave of the hand.

‘I am no stranger to void war either, but please, furnish me with your expertise…’

‘What do you see?’

Nuadhu turned away from the glass-like plate of the viewing gallery as Yvraine swept through the broad arch in her full regalia. Like a crimson shadow, the Visarch waited just beyond the doorway. Alorynis showed no such compunction for the veneer of privacy and trotted after his mistress, tail twitching.

‘Out there?’ asked Nuadhu, flicking a nod towards the window. ‘Or in here?’

Yvraine flicked out her war fan and Nuadhu flinched at the glint of starlight dancing across the sharpened leaves. The Opener of the Seventh Way continued along the narrow hall, her gaze fixed on Nuadhu like a swooping predator. Pinned by her stare, he could neither speak nor move, disgusted at his own fear response but incapable of mastering it.

She stopped beside him and turned, waving the fan towards the green orb of the world before them. The solar sails of other ships in the fleet reflected the local star, appearing to give Agarimethea a halo of flickering lights.

‘A world,’ Nuadhu managed to say, focusing on the planet rather than the reflection of Ynnead’s chosen daughter. Having her standing so close sent cold tremors through his soul, as though simply being near would pluck the spirit from his body. He swallowed hard. ‘A lost world?’

‘It is history given substance, Nuadhu.’ She tapped her fan against the window. ‘I have followed our oldest myths, seeking artefacts of a time before even our ancestors’ notion of antiquity. A time when gods and Old Ones were not the subject of legend, but a reality of life. On this world lies a remnant of that time. We think that the Fall signifies the old times, but six thousand times the span between the Fall and now have passed since the necrontyr began their slumber.’

‘It is almost impossible to imagine,’ said Nuadhu. ‘Thirty thousand lifetimes.’

‘And yet the animated mechanical beings of this world, and the many others like it, are not the only survivors of that time.’

Quicker than Nuadhu could follow, Yvraine lifted a hand, her finger touching lightly upon his forehead. He gasped at the connection, as though an icicle had been driven into his brain. From the point of contact flowed a sudden explosion of images, starting with a rapid fire of vignettes from his own life but blurring into a seemingly endless stream of scenes and faces he did not know.

He staggered back, breathing quickly, heart racing.

‘What was that?’ he demanded, stumbling against the window-wall. After-images of arcane yet disturbingly familiar vistas floated through his thoughts. He remembered – recalled as though he had been there – vast cities in space larger than any craftworld. Giant figures that reminded him of the avatars of Khaine stalked alongside them, taller than Phantom Titans, bearing weapons that devastated strange cities and incinerated armies of unkempt alien beasts. He witnessed flights of starships that dwarfed the Ynnead’s Dream laying waste to whole star systems. Endless legions of skeletal warriors and terrifying engines of destruction fell upon him, razing worlds. With them flew the sun-eaters, feeding upon the suns of their foes, the galaxy swathed with shadow by their passing.

‘What…? How…?’ He regained a modicum of focus to find Yvraine standing directly in front of him, her stare no less penetrating than before.

‘Your aeldari soul remembers,’ she told him. ‘It has survived as long as the constructs buried beneath the surface of this world. In fact, it has thrived and lived, not dwelt in stasis. It has learnt and grown and become more powerful than ever. But trapped within the shell of your body it cannot express.’

‘Express what?’ Nuadhu pushed himself upright and looked at the planet again, only to avoid the unsettling stare of Yvraine.

‘Everything.’

He dragged his eyes back to her, angered at what seemed a thoughtless violation of his mind.

‘Why did you show me that?’

‘So that you no longer have to imagine it.’ Yvraine’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. ‘And to think perhaps of what we seek, and to know the feats of which your spirit is capable if allowed free.’

She started back towards the door but stopped as Nuadhu spoke.

‘I will not join the Ynnari,’ he told her. ‘My clan, my people, are everything to me. I will not abandon them for you, Yvraine. If you think to make me hear the Whisper, you have erred.’

At first it seemed as though she was going to leave in silence, flowing ethereally to the door before she stopped and inclined her head to one side. Alorynis scampered past, mewing loudly. Yvraine regarded Nuadhu with a sidelong look.

‘The beauty of Ynnead is that you will be taken to her whether you follow me or not.’

She departed, but for several heartbeats the Visarch stood at the archway, staring silently at the clan heir. The warrior raised a hand to his chest – a salute – before he turned away. Nuadhu was not sure if the gesture had been mocking or earnest, and the uncertainty gnawed at him as he returned his gaze to Agarimethea.

Chapter 14

FINAL DELIBERATIONS

Though the Ynnead’s Dream’s infinity circuit had been more dormant than Nuadhu was used to, it now thrummed with the tension of pre-battle preparations. With the necrontyr blocking any extension of the webway, the attack would launch from near-orbit, a prospect that filled Nuadhu with foreboding. The glimpses of the past – the horrors of the necrontyr in that long-lost age – kept returning to the clan heir. He imagined arcane weapon systems incinerating starships in orbit, and immense war machines levelling the forests of Agarimethea, burning the hosts of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann. They were almost like waking dreams at times, swelling up from the awakened memory to distract him from what he was doing. Cold trembles beset his body without warning, accompanied by the shrieks of the scythe-craft that had hunted them, now seeming like the heaven-splitting war cries of vengeful deities.

He wandered the halls and corridors, restless, knowing that the time to depart was fast approaching but consumed by a dread he could not voice. Nuadhu told himself it was not cowardice, but when he was alone with his thoughts, away from the bustle of his kindred, he felt a very real and insular dread of the battle to come.

The clan heir cursed Yvraine. He thought her spiteful for setting this horror in him, conjuring waking nightmares from his overactive imagination. Such it had to be; her talk of a soul as old as the aeldari themselves was pure fantasy.

Pacing the passages of the lower decks, earning himself strange glances from the few Ynnari that passed, he muttered to himself, fists clenching and relaxing, teeth gritted. Never before had he been afraid to die, and even now it was not the notion of his mortality that vexed him. Something more substantial worried at his being, unleashed by the meddling of the Opener of the Seventh Way. Other images flashed through his turbulent mind. He saw his father as a skull-faced ruin, but at the same time he saw his mother, her expression troubled.

He chased the thoughts around each other – Yvraine and his father, his mother’s death, the aeldari soul within him. There seemed to be a connection, a pattern that would link everything together into a semblance of sanity if only he could look at it the right way.

A shout cut through the loop of confusion. His name.

‘Nuadhu!’ Caelledhin called again, running along the corridor.

He read the concern in her face and let out a shuddering gasp before falling towards her, arms thrown about her shoulders.

‘Yvraine…’ said the heir. ‘She placed something in my mind. Broke me.’

When Caelledhin did not reply straight away, her body rigid in his grasp, a chill of lucidity stilled his thoughts. Nuadhu stepped back, feeling her anxiety seeping into him, displacing the torment. Her concern had not been for him.

‘Father?’ he guessed, his gut becoming a knot of ice. She nodded. ‘Is he…?’

‘No,’ she replied quickly, emphasising the point with a fierce shake of the head. ‘No, he lives. But you must come right now. We need to speak with him.’

They ran together, heading further down at the next grav-chute. Nuadhu barely paid heed to those that he passed, seeing only in sketch the black armour of Dark Reapers, the bone of Howling Banshees, and squads of scarlet-armoured Ynnari.

‘Tell me more,’ he demanded as they neared the bay where the Eltereth was docked. As a webrunner it was capable of atmospheric entry and would carry Naiall and many of the clan’s remaining fighting vehicles. He stopped just outside the gate-barred archways and grabbed his half-sister’s arm to halt her. ‘What am I going to find in there?’

‘A stubborn old lord,’ snapped Caelledhin. ‘He will not listen to anyone, but perhaps you can talk to him.’

‘About what?’

‘His health deteriorates. Yet he insists that he will travel to the surface.’

Nuadhu bit back an angry retort and retreated a step. Taking a breath, he mastered the sudden quickening of his pulse.

‘Do you understand just how scared you made me?’ he said quietly. ‘You made me fear for his life, his mental wellbeing. I thought some disaster had befallen us. But it’s simply because he won’t listen to you? Why should he not travel with us?’

‘Because he will die,’ Caelledhin snarled back. ‘If the necrontyr do not slay him, his condition will. I tell you, my brother, if our father goes to Agarimethea, he will not return. You of all people wish him to live.’

‘To live, yes. Not to eke out his existence coddled and sliding into dotage.’

‘So you stand ready to renounce the title of Wild Lord and become chieftain of Clan Fireheart?’

Nuadhu opened his mouth and then closed it again, rendered dumb by the idea of ascending to his father’s position. Caelledhin fixed him with a knowing look.

‘All of the time you claimed it was our father’s death that made you anxious, but it is really the responsibility that waits for you. You want him to live because it means you can remain as selfish as ever, without a consideration for anyone else. You are as ensnared by the role of Wild Lord as any poor soul trapped upon a Path.’

Nuadhu stared at her, hating that he was so obvious to her, and hating her even more for using it against him like a weapon. With a shake of the head, he pushed past her.

The dock gate sighed open at his approach, revealing a line of Wave Serpent grav-transports sliding into the carrier bays of the Eltereth, marshalled by members of Clan Fireheart and the Ynnari. There were others in the colours of Saim-Hann – the guardians that would crew the transports, as well as the Falcon grav-tanks and other more heavily armed war machines.

The sight stopped him in his tracks. It was not the first time he had seen the clan called to war. Thrice in his life the Avatar of Khaine had woken and his father had commanded his kin to muster to the needs of the craftworld. More than that, he had fought with the Wild Riders many times, and lost family and friends.

But this time felt different.

He saw one of the guardian drivers, her helm held on her hip, white hair tied tight to her scalp. Nuadhu knew her, a distant cousin walking the Path of the Artisan. There was rumour that she might apprentice to one of Saim-Hann’s greatest living bonesingers. Or she might die within the turn of the cycle, her ambitions unachieved, her creativity unfulfilled.

It put him in mind of what Yvraine had said. An everlasting soul trapped in a succession of physical forms. Nuadhu had been taught the philosophies of resurrection and reincarnation as a youth, but it had seemed an abstract concept. The Ynnari focused the mind on the matter of death, and the emergence of Ynnead raised uncomfortable questions about what happened to the aeldari when they died. The guardian, should her body be slain, would have her soul taken by the waystone in her armour. If it was recovered, the stone would be set within Saim-Hann’s infinity circuit to power the craftworld and guide its people for… forever? It seemed unlikely. All of existence was based upon a cycle, endlessly repeated with only cosmetic variation.

The driver slipped up the side of the Wave Serpent and into the piloting pod. The purpose of Nuadhu’s presence returned to him and his eye roamed the dock area seeking Naiall.

‘Now it is plain where you get your rash streak from,’ snapped Caelledhin as she stormed past Nuadhu, almost shouldering him aside. ‘Our father has already boarded the ship.’

The crowds parted before her and Nuadhu felt himself drawn into her wake, hurrying to catch up.

Yvraine arrived at the transitway between the main galleries and the lower attack craft berths and found Meliniel waiting for her. Even before she stepped aboard the descender carriage she could feel the tension in the autarch. Within the red Heart of Eldanesh implanted in his chest a tiny flame burned, at times in the shape of an indistinct rune of Kaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One. The essence of the war god inside Meliniel throbbed through the Whisper, like a distant roaring trying to be heard. She could not imagine how hard it was for the autarch to keep chained the beast he had allowed into himself; likewise there was not another she would trust more, having proven his self-discipline upon the Path and as an Ynnari time and time again.

Coming closer to him was to approach a furnace with her thoughts, feeling the intensity even though it was, in theory, safely contained. It was a strange dichotomy, that he should serve the God of the Dead and yet was once more bound to the God of War. Yvraine preferred to interpret the duality as a good sign. As the favour of the Harlequins – or some of their masques – was approval from Cegorach the Laughing God, so the ‘taming’ of the Warshard, the First Avatar of Khaine, was a sign of support from the Bloody-Handed. Eldrad had warned her of reading too much of the intent of immortals in the actions of their servants and pawns, but the Opener of the Seventh Way could not avoid the feeling that she was creating something even grander than an alliance of aeldari. If her people were Reborn, was there also hope for the return of other gods?

‘I have devised an alternative plan of attack,’ the autarch told Yvraine as she sat on the bench opposite. ‘One that compensates for the lack of webway access to the surface.’

The Visarch sat behind Yvraine without comment. Meliniel shifted, glancing over his shoulder as the carriage slid into the descent tunnel, swiftly gathering speed.

‘Yet you have reservations,’ she said, reading his uncertainty.

‘As we cannot come upon the tomb complex directly from the webway, we must break the attack into two phases.’ His hands moved to illustrate his explanation, motioning a separation. ‘I presume that the necrontyr will be aware of our arrival in orbit and, even if they have no voidships launched yet, the element of surprise will be much reduced. So that we are not destroyed piecemeal we must land first, gather our strength and subsequently launch a coordinated assault on the tomb precinct itself to secure the vault.’

‘I trust your judgement, Meliniel, in all military matters.’

‘It is not the Ynnari that concern me, but the Saim-Hann.’ The autarch took a breath and in the pause the Heart of Eldanesh on his chest shone brighter, accompanied by a flutter of the wrathful energy contained within his soul. ‘If they act precipitously, we shall lose the advantages gained. This Wild Lord, Nuadhu Fireheart, is not a measured commander.’

‘You must have had your fair share of impetuous subordinates,’ said the Visarch. ‘Arrange your plans accordingly.’

Meliniel treated the warrior to a dark stare, teeth gritted in anger.

‘Would you be so complacent if you had a limb that did not act fully within your control?’ snapped the autarch. ‘How willing to fight would you be?’

‘I would slice it free,’ said the Visarch. ‘Allow its animus to take its course while I follow mine.’

‘You…’ Meliniel’s retort faded and a more thoughtful composure came upon him. ‘I think you may be right.’

‘If you are thinking to sacrifice the Saim-Hann, reconsider your plan,’ Yvraine said sharply, thinking she guessed his intent. ‘Finally we are putting the memory of the disaster of Biel-tan behind us. I would not create fresh cause for the craftworlds to distrust or openly oppose us. We must demonstrate that we work for all aeldari, not just those that choose to follow me.’

‘You misjudge me.’ Meliniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have never possessed the kind of callousness you suspect. I think that your time in the Crucibael has eroded the values you learned as one of the Asuryani.’

‘Forgotten values, or discarded bonds?’ said the Visarch. ‘When you release the power inside of you, do you think it cares where its blade falls?’

Meliniel fidgeted again, lips thin. He glanced away once more as the carriage slowed, its vertical trajectory smoothing out again to the horizontal as it approached the fighter berths.

‘I will allow the Saim-Hann as much free rein as possible,’ the autarch said stiffly as he stood up. ‘In the grander scheme, I will trust the Wild Riders to do what they do best and look to guide the Ynnari to victory alongside them.’

‘Trust?’ Yvraine stepped out of the carriage, gown flowing around her as a subtle breeze from the docking berths caught the fabric. ‘I trust you with everything, Meliniel. Every time we go to war, I place my trust in your abilities, and your judgement. This battle is no different.’

The autarch bowed his head in gratitude, a fleeting smile across his lips. A flutter of connection across the Whisper forestalled any reply as Theoderonil touched upon their minds.

+The first of our ships are about to exit the webway, Opener of the Seventh Way. The Ynnead’s Dream will lead the second wave with the Saim-Hann flotilla. You should board the drop-craft immediately.+

+I am but moments from doing so,+ Yvraine replied.

+I will send you the particulars of the drop sequence, captain,+ Meliniel broadcast back. +All fighter escorts are to launch before we clear the webway and exit in our stream for immediate atmospheric entry.+

+Yes, autarch. The squadrons across the fleet are ready.+

The sensation of connection dissipated, leaving Yvraine pondering what would happen next.

Eldrad had been less than forthcoming about the battle to come, following the debate with the farseers of Saim-Hann. He had declined participation in the first assault, claiming he needed more time to consult the runes. Yvraine tried her best to believe that the farseer would never deliberately sacrifice her, but she was also keenly aware that he had plundered the crystal seers of many craftworlds in his first attempt to waken Ynnead, and the emissary of the Whispering God might be an acceptable price to pay for any gains towards the coming of the Reborn.

And it was a source of pride that she was comfortable with that role. If her death served Ynnead, she would not endeavour to withhold it. The span she had been granted since the rise of the Whispering God was a debt to Ynnead, whose partial ascension had saved her from death in the Crucibael. What remained of her existence she gladly offered in return.

The passing of many souls into the embrace of Ynnead sustained Yvraine’s existence, each spirit a step towards Rebirth, yet that greater purpose did not lessen the pain of each death she felt. Her own passing would be a release.

Chapter 15

ATTACK FROM THE HEAVENS

‘I assure you, this is not the first time I have flown into danger.’ Aradryan let some of his frustration seep into the Whisper so that Tzibilakhu could feel it. ‘I do not need this cloying attention.’

‘What a self-centred way of looking at the situation,’ replied the Commorraghan. ‘Consider that perhaps my decision was not about you. We will be carrying Yvraine to the surface.’

Aradryan and his appointed mentor ascended the spiral accessway that would take them to the piloting suite of the dawnsail drop-ship. He glanced along the sleek lines of the craft, acquainting himself with its dimensions and properties.

Its hull was black and crimson, the former colour seemingly streaked along the latter in broad strokes that gently undulated for the whole length of a vessel larger than most void-to-atmosphere craft he had piloted, in size more equivalent to a small starship than an aircraft. Its prow was reminiscent of a falcon’s head and breast, a glossy black dome where the cranium would be reflecting the ceiling of the berthing hangar. About a third of the way down its length the dawnsail broadened considerably, creating an internal space big enough to convey many warriors or even a pair of Wave Serpent transports. The extended hull flared into curving wings for the final third.

He could see the subtle articulations that would allow it to mimic the shape of a gliding bird once it reached sufficient atmospheric pressure to fly. The surface of the wing was covered in glittering feather-like protrusions, thousands of tiny facets that could be individually adjusted to capture the raw solar wind or the stellar energy reflected from a world’s upper atmospheric layers.

‘If you think I am not worthy of piloting alone, why bring me at all?’ Aradryan slid sideways into the slats of the piloting cradle that would hold him while in the void.

‘Have you ever flown a dawnsail before?’

‘No,’ replied Aradryan. ‘But I–’

‘And have you ever flown without spirit stones?’

The question took him aback, reminding him that this was not a craftworld vessel, that he was no longer one of the Alaitocii. He had become accustomed to the Whisper, mentally substituting its presence for the infinity circuit with which he was far more familiar.

Even so, it seemed a pointless question.

‘What difference would that make?’

Tzibilakhu slipped into the cradle behind him. It raised her towards the glassy dome of the dawnsail’s main canopy, though at present the material was opaque, displaying a slowly shifting montage of vistas – Aradryan recognised the hundred-domed Temple of Isha’s Sorrows from Alaitoc, and knew the sheer-sided peaks of Lugganath’s Heavenly Pinnacles from a brief stay during his time aboard the starship Lacontiran.

The embrace of his own couch-net tightened and drew him forward to the main controls and navigational displays. On instinct his hands moved to where he expected the spirit circuitry connectors, but his fingers found only smooth panel.

He knew some of the runes that identified projector crystals and interface gems, but there were gaps where other control systems were meant to be.

‘Where are the…?’ He tried to turn in the cradle as he spoke, but the restrictive mesh prevented him from seeing Tzibilakhu except on the very periphery of his vision.

‘No spirit stone interface, Aradryan,’ she said, enjoying his discomfort. ‘When you can communicate within the Whisper directly you have no need of dead spirits to translate.’

‘What does that mean?’ Aradryan shucked off the pilot net and rolled to his feet to face her.

‘What you believe is psychic communion is simply the natural language of the dead. Since the Fall it has been impossible to listen to directly, the birth-shriek of She Who Thirsts echoes still through the soul-matter of our people. The craftworlds use runes and crystal to filter out the noise, and my kin in Commorragh blanket it with the screams of their victims. The Whisper is pure thought, the essence of being aeldari. It is untouched by the corruption suffered by our bodies.’

Recalling his experience during his ‘awakening’ by Yvraine, the sense of formless purity that had been the aeldari state of creation, he climbed back into the cradle.

‘No spirit stones,’ he said, as though speaking it as an affirmation would eradicate the strangeness of the concept. ‘Use the Whisper.’

‘So you are willing to learn?’ asked Tzibilakhu.

He placed his hands where the stones would have been and let his thoughts relax in the manner he had learned aboard the Lacontiran. Rather than extending his mind into the waiting network of the dawnsail he allowed it to drift like a ship slipping its moorings, sensing a wider connection all around him.

The Commorraghan’s mind lanced into his own, sharp and hot.

+I shall take that as a yes,+ she thought to him.

Skittering images crept across the visual interpreters that had replaced the Watcher of the Dark’s eyes, filtering between an imposed view of the aeldari attack and the semi-random flickers of returning archival data. Neither were complete, and the former seemed to inspire the latter; the unfolding events continued to trigger sporadic memory-bursts as they approximated a previous experience or otherwise conflated with some past activity stored within the vast banks of Pantalikoa.

The current battle progressed against her designs, with more and more aeldari landing close to the outskirts of the city. The speed of their assault made it difficult to respond in a tactical sense, and they were encroaching upon her territory far more swiftly than the city could awaken her followers in response.

The thought-trail brought another flash of memory-data: portal-rips of ravening warp spawn as they burst upon the inhabitants of Chazaokal. The denizens of the accursed under-realm had rampaged through half a continent before the first attack-cohorts had been ready to fight back. Beams of deadly fire crisscrossed the skies above the Lanternbridge, searing the forms of immense predators.

The descending aeldari ships seemed inspired by the same creatures, sleek-flanked and swift. Had they succumbed to the anathema? The Watcher of the Dark could not see other overt signs of corruption and the notion seemed counter to her recollections of the aeldari that had been sent against the Crownworlds. The Galactic Engineers had brought this deadly new species into being with the specific intent for them to resist the counter-dimensional incursions.

So much she did not know. So many lifetimes lost without knowledge.

Memories raced half seen while she calibrated fresh attack algorithms for her burgeoning phalanxes. It was not enough to simply hold the Panatheitik Vault, she had to eradicate all opportunity for the aeldari to interface with the sealing mechanism. She was not sure why, but a brooding sense of disaster hung on her every thought when she contemplated the consequences of failure.

The concept brought a shivering welter of recollections both recent and ancient. Worlds perished in darkness, torn apart by tamed black holes, shredded by disharmonious particulate detonations or simply razed of life by purposefully introduced hegemonic viral vectors. Billions slain, whole species wiped from existence to prevent the spread of the foe-that-creeps.

The stark image of a constellation disappearing from the skies above Pantalikoa reminded her of her title. The Watcher of the Dark. Did it refer to her present task, or her history?

Revelation followed the line of inquiry.

Pantalikoa and Chazaokal. Two of seven.

Heptaric coordinates fluttered into reality: Aleksakris. Dazhar. Imsuda. Akadis. Zhanjava.

The Septaplurachy of Kiush.

Her domain. Seven worlds, each housing one of the Panatheitik Vaults.

What of the other six?

Pantalikoa was far from fully operational, and with all effort bent towards stalling the aeldari assault there was no energy to spare for any kind of interstellar sensory forays. The lack of obvious signal from the princess-worlds could be interpreted in two ways. Either they remained dormant, or they had been destroyed. If the latter, Pantalikoa was the last vault gate. If the former, how long would it be until the aeldari turned their warlike intentions upon the other worlds of Septaplurachy?

Neither was an acceptable circumstance. The aeldari aggression had to be halted for certain. The tomb-programme was decoding the aeldari attacks as it was fashioned to do, but acted very slowly to preserve stasis for as long as possible for the rarest engines and incumbents of its catacomb. The Watcher of the Dark had to find the escalation protocols to speed up the reawakening process if she was to prevent disaster.

It was a regrettable but inevitable consequence of the aeldari attack. Such measures would prove costly in resources and once the Septaplurachy was fully activated, it would doubtless draw attention from all manner of other foes. It had survived long hidden, but would it continue to remain intact when its full presence was broadcast to the universe?

Once started, the inevitable fulfilment of the Watcher of the Dark’s strategy had to be the total activation of the entire Septaplurachy’s defensive systems.

More worlds would burn.

At first the welter of information was overwhelming. Every system of the dawnsail assailed Aradryan with a constant flood of data and feedback. Without the inert psychic potential of spirit stones to absorb the majority of the impulses, he was conscious of even the smallest function. It was like having to beat his heart with conscious effort and deliberately breathe and remember to send signals to his muscles and listen to every nerve ending and…

+Trust.+

The thought of Tzibilakhu fluttered into his mind, dislodging a torrent of vital energy feedback impulses. Panic whirled through Aradryan as he tried to cling on to the lost connections, as though parts of the drop-craft were physically falling away.

+Focus. On. Me.+

Her presence was a shaft of solidity in the ever-permeable morass of psychic data. Aradryan flung his thoughts towards Tzibilakhu like a tired swimmer floundering onto a rock.

But there was no rock.

Tzibilakhu’s presence was no more of a sanctuary than thin air for one that is falling. His thoughts seemed to pass through her, briefly touching before disappearing into the weight of the dawnsail’s reports and interactions.

+Make your own foundation.+

Her words came more easily this time. Aradryan realised that it was his reception that was clearer, not her broadcast. Without effort his brain was already starting to filter out some of the unnecessary inputs.

He dragged in a ragged breath and realised that in his confusion he had genuinely stopped breathing.

‘I don’t…’ he began, but he was not sure what he wanted to say.

+You can. Look at your hands.+

He did so without question, focused on his painted fingernails dark against the near-whiteness of the console panel. He could see reflections of projector gems on the glossy surface.

And stars.

Looking up, the cradle adjusting beneath him, he saw the stars of the heavens splashed across the dome of the canopy. And ahead, the immense curve of Agarimethea.

Physicality helped push aside the irrelevancies. He could still feel the impulses from the dawnsail but they were no longer as loud in his thoughts as his own. As with the tremble of nerve endings detecting the pressure of the piloting web around him, so that mass of information from the drop-craft was sifted and sorted for relevancy, and most of it discarded.

He detected their forward motion, becoming more pronounced as they fell deeper into the planet’s gravity well.

Aradryan took a moment to move his conscious thought back into the systems, to delight in the nourishing feeling generated by the stream of stellar energy drifting into the collector feathers along the wings.

‘Better now?’ It was strange to hear Tzibilakhu’s voice rather than to feel her thoughts. ‘Now you see why you could not fly alone.’

‘It is not all that different,’ he replied, recalling the thought processes of a pilot from deep memory. At his willing the projectors sprang into life, forming unfolding schematics of the airflow in the atmosphere ahead, positional representations of the other craft and telemetric links to the energy systems of the drop-craft.

Tzibilakhu’s derision gnawed at him across the Whisper.

‘Really? And when we enter the upper air and a fresh bombardment of sensations rips through you, you’ll be prepared, yes?’

Aradryan swallowed hard and nodded, but he could not mask his uncertainty leaking into the Whisper. His companion’s cruel laugh echoed within the Whisper but was suddenly cut short by a pained gasp.

He felt it too, a sharp cessation of the extra sense that linked him to the other Ynnari. The canopy was pale yellow with light reflected from the highest wisps of Agaramithea’s atmosphere, but that was all he could sense. With the loss of the Whisper he had no reference for the dawnsail itself, other than the vague impressions of his other senses that they had started to spin as they fell, the brightening and darkening of sunlight through the canopy.

His heart raced and his thoughts with it, but other than the biological response he felt no edge of panic. Aradryan’s reasoning mind sped through the possibilities and analysed thousands of variables, but the one constant was a lack of fear. The possibility of death was no longer an overwhelming terror. His ending would not be the horrific oblivion with which he had become so obsessed.

With detached gratitude he considered how remarkable his transformation by the simple removal of that fear.

The Whisper was gone but the echoes of Ynnead’s voice remained, reflected from the souls of the others aboard the dawnsail. He imagined rather than felt the spirits of others. Stretched across the galaxy like constellations, gathered in their craftworlds, aboard starships and through the webway.

Ynnead guarded him now, and would be his succour after death. He had experienced the endlessness of his soul’s purpose, crafted for immortality in the far-distant past. His current life – his current physical incarnation – was a brief interlude in a far-longer existence. What would it matter if he died?

‘Aradryan!’ He turned lazily at his name, rotating the piloting cradle towards Tzibilakhu. She glared at him from above, teeth bared. ‘Do not abandon this life. I know the abyss to which you head, but Ynnead needs you to fight, not to lay down and surrender. And what of Yvraine? We are custodians of her fortune now. If her body perishes, what chance for Ynnead to rise again?’

His contemplation was interrupted by a shrill whining from the dawnsail as a thickening atmosphere started to buffet the craft. As gravity increased Aradryan could feel them twisting and turning uncontrollably, plunging through the increasing density of air. Heat was building up along the wingtips and nose, more than the materials and coolant systems would be able to cope with. The craft’s warning signals throbbing through his nerves felt like increasing pain.

‘Tzibilakhu.’

Aradryan announced the word with growing recognition, surfacing from his morbid thoughts. His companion floundered at her own controls but her gaze snapped down to him as he shouted her name. Sudden recollection of their predicament shunted aside all philosophy and higher thought, a rush of physical stimulation that dragged Aradryan’s mind to the here and now.

‘Use your spirit to power the systems,’ he told her, extending his soul into the control panel. ‘Between us we can still give the dawnsail life.’

‘I can’t,’ groaned Tzibilakhu. ‘Without the Whisper the soulthirst returns. I am emptying!’

‘Reach out your thoughts to me, as though you heard the Whisper,’ said Aradryan, even as he wrestled with the angles of the attitude planes, desperate to bring some semblance of control to the falling craft. Wisps of clouds streamed past. ‘Use me as your anchor. Feel the others!’

Aradryan returned his focus to the interface panel, extending the wings fully for atmospheric descent in an attempt to increase their lift. Attitude vanes extruded from the tail and wings, stabilising their flight a little.

‘I can feel it…’ It seemed that Tzibilakhu whispered directly in his ear but it was in fact the internal messenger-waves of the dawnsail carrying her voice to him. ‘I feel you. And others. But where is Yvraine?’

He had noticed that also in a distant fashion, accepting the absence of the Opener of the Seventh Way as normal. She was the conduit, after all, through which the Whisper resounded into the physical universe.

‘It does not matter for now,’ he told Tzibilakhu, sensing her unease returning. ‘I cannot control all of the dawnsail’s systems. Join with me in the crystal matrix and regulate the drives. I will guide us.’

He sensed a moment of resistance from the other pilot, perhaps bridling at his superior tone, but any umbrage was swiftly overtaken by the instinct for survival. Aradryan felt the Commorraghan beside him, within him, a sharp-edged presence that leveraged itself painfully through his soul. Gritting his teeth, he persisted, driving his thoughts into aerofoils and rudder. He coaxed rather than forced, sublimating his thoughts with Tzibilakhu’s so that they acted in concert, powering forward at the time when they were level.

A few harrowing heartbeats later they managed to bring the dawnsail into a steep but stable dive. Aradryan settled his thoughts into the navigational systems to identify where they were in comparison to the rest of the descending host.

Fresh warning pulses tore through his consciousness as the sensory suite powered up, detecting alien aircraft approaching on a swift intercept route. In the back of his thoughts he noted a distant shriek, growing louder.

Chapter 16

A HUSHED WHISPER

An aeldari fleet going into battle might be compared to a flock of birds or fish shoal, united by a common understanding and instinct. Though the Ynnari and Saim-Hann ships existed in different spheres – one guided by the souls of their shared infinity circuit, the other the common experience of the Whisper – in purpose they were as one. Drukhari battleships and Asuryani cruisers broke from the webway surrounded by a swarm of smaller vessels, both of the Ynnari and the craftworld. As shoaling fish move together, each individual reacting instantly to the presence and movements of its neighbours, so the assembled warfleet of Yvraine reformed squadrons and flotillas, bending their courses about each other as they angled from the handful of webway breaches to the gleaming atmosphere of Agarimethea.

Yvraine sat in a side compartment of a dawnsail, nestled within the main bay of the Ynnead’s Dream. Via the battleship’s psychic network she was able to monitor the dispersing fleet as envisaged by the massive vessel’s sensors, relayed into her thoughts as though she witnessed them personally. She saw the dazzle of sunlight on unfurling solar sails and the gleam of etheric engines lighting as the ships detached from the energetic impulse of the webway itself. A momentary sense of dislocation dizzied her thoughts as the Ynnead’s Dream moved from a semicorporeal state into full reality, as though suddenly burdened with weight and dimensions it did not previously possess. The pull of Agarimethea’s gravity was a nagging sensation, but the light of its star was warmth upon her back.

The world itself seemed a glassy orb of beautiful blue and green swirled with pale cloud, the poles stark white against the blackness of space.

Perfection.

On the surface, but not within. Like a fruit with rot at its core, there was a canker beneath the glorious appearance of the maiden world. A fitting name, taken for the goddess Lileath. Unsullied but full of future power. Lileath had been the moon goddess, creator of dreams and guide to good fortune. She had been the daughter of Isha, the mother of the aeldari, in turn granddaughter of the crone goddess Morai-Heg. It was the hag-seer that gave up her hand to Khaine so that she might drink her own blood and know her fate, and from whose finger bones the croneswords had been forged by Vaul the Smith.

Myth held that Lileath had been gifted with a vision of Kaela Mensha Khaine being slain by the mortal descendants of Isha, and thus Khaine had murdered Eldanesh and the War in Heaven started. Dreams and death, always intertwined. The Whisper was like a waking dream when at its most powerful, guiding her actions and thoughts as if from outside.

With a sudden sense of profound realisation, Yvraine saw the pattern within, the cycle of the aeldari that she sought to turn full circle.

Ynnead was not simply the spirits of the aeldari, the sum of the Reborn given life. She was the full incarnation of the maiden, mother and crone. Ynnead was Lileath, granter of visions; Isha, birth-giver to the aeldari; Morai-Heg, holder of fate.

She stood, reeling while the power of the revelation coursed through her.

‘Yvraine!’ The Visarch’s sharp call was filled with concern but she waved him away as he moved to her, reluctant to speak lest she lose her grip on the thread of thought that caused a tremble of excitement.

Had she been approaching her task wrong all of this time? She had thought it obvious that her quest was to unite the croneswords and in that moment Ynnead would rise from her slumber to destroy the Great Enemy. But what if the croneswords were simply the means, not the end?

She had been known as the Daughter of Shadows. Was she Ynnead’s aspect of the moon, the mortal incarnation of Lileath? If so, then perhaps the keys of Morai-Heg were simply a means to discover the Mother and the Crone.

Yvraine thought of Eldrad. When he was younger he had been known as the Eye of Fates Unseen. Such was his power on the skein that the only veil he could not see beyond was death itself. And even that he had tried to pierce, to bring about Ynnead on the sands of Coheria.

Could he be the Crone? Farseers were the cultural descendants of the old priesthood of Morai-Heg, the fate-gatherers that had once acted as oracles in the aeldari dominion. Eldrad himself had been a pivotal force in reshaping that ancient worship into the runelore that had spread with the Asuryani Path. And though he aged, and the crystal curse of all seers grew in his veins, his longevity was remarkable. What the seer dismissed as simply being too stubborn to die perhaps had a more divine root.

Did he know?

Yvraine looked at her companions, seeing them afresh with the gaze of this knowledge.

Meliniel drew her eye, sat on one of the benches with hands clasped in his lap, fully armoured, spear beside him. It was not the autarch that fixated her but the gemstone within his breast. The jewel of Khaine, a symbol that Meliniel was now host to the Warshard. Kaela Mensha Khaine’s greatest avatar, bearer of the actual blade Anaris that had slain Eldanesh.

And others not present. Idraesci Dreamspear, the Harlequin, the embodiment of the Laughing God. What of her ally on Iyanden, Iyanna Arienal? The symbol of her craftworld was the flame of Asuryan, the father of the gods himself, lord of the reborn phoenix…

What of others? Hoec and Kurnus? Gei and Isha? Perhaps the fifth cronesword would not be revealed to her until the pantheon had been assembled.

It made glorious and yet terrifying sense. Do the gods not also have souls? When the Great Enemy attempted to devour its aeldari creators not all were consumed. Cegorach escaped. Khaine was shattered into the avatars of the Bloody-Handed. Other fragments might have survived. A piece or pieces of every god scattered throughout the aeldari, born again and again into mortal form just as the souls of the aeldari themselves.

She almost fainted with the weight of understanding.

The Visarch was at her side, Meliniel rising also, and she realised she had fallen to her knees. Alorynis scampered back and forth, hissing at the others as they tried to approach.

Doubt crept into her thoughts, replacing elation with a cold sickness.

Was it all delusion? Not so long ago she had been resolved to her own destruction for the cause, and now she wove a fantasy about the rebirth of the gods. Belief and disbelief warred, her mind wracked back and forth between the two until all became blurred, her vision misting in physical sympathy.

She staggered to her feet and at the same moment felt through the Whisper a sense of detachment as the dawnsail launched from the Ynnead’s Dream along with the rest of its berthed flotilla. Her mind’s eye focused again on the warship’s view of Agarimethea, which had started her train of thought. Battle was imminent, she could afford no distractions.

Yvraine resolved that the revelation was true, but that she could not yet reveal that purpose to the others. They seemed ignorant of their own divine heritage and perhaps for good reason. The myths of the gods were full of deceit, infighting and treachery. Better that none of them harboured a higher ambition than the service of Ynnead. And if she was to voice her new dream, would they believe her?

‘I am well,’ she assured them, straightening her gown. Alorynis confirmed this with a contented meow, and proceeded to wash his face with a paw. Yvraine offered no further explanation. She had learned quickly in Commorragh that it was often better to say nothing rather than a falsehood that could be disproved.

She could see nothing of the Visarch’s nor Meliniel’s faces but their doubts washed through the Whisper. Yvraine was about to offer further reassurance when the dawnsail reached the upper atmosphere of Agarimethea.

To Yvraine it felt like being slipped into a pool of acid, burning into her from her skin and down to the bone. Particle by particle she was stripped away, every cell emptied of its vitality. The Whisper died with her, the ever-present buzz of her Ynnari fading to nothing as she sank between the waves of electric agony.

She screamed but made no sound, writhing in silent torment.

Choking on invisible fluid, she rose from drowning, throat burning, eyes afire with pain. Her corpse-self animated once more with the thrum of life, bringing movement to leaden limbs, turning her inert heart into a burning organ once more. With the return of life came the return of sensation. Light. Sound. The chill of the floor beneath her.

And a horrific silence within her mind.

The Whisper had gone.

There were scores of warriors aboard the dawnsail with her but she might well have been entirely alone for all that she could feel their soul power.

Once again her companions stood over her. Alorynis lay twitching not far away, rolling on his back, legs jerking with phantom pains. She felt like cracked glass, so fragile that the slightest movement might cause her to shatter.

‘Do not touch me,’ she sighed, cheek pressed against the floor as a reassurance that she was still upon the dawnsail. But it was an empty vessel, literally. She felt nothing of the others on the ship.

Slowly, as though every limb might snap and her lungs might turn to dust, she turned to all fours. Steadying herself, she knelt up, straightening a back that might split apart with the effort. Moving only a tiny amount at a time, she managed to get her feet under her, the bones in her legs feeling as brittle as a confectioner’s delicately spun wares. Warning glares kept the others at bay each time they made a move towards her.

‘The Whisper has gone,’ said Meliniel. He sounded betrayed. ‘What does that mean?’

‘That we are within the necrontyr’s reach,’ croaked Yvraine. ‘The same power that fends off any delving of the webway has robbed us of Ynnead’s voice.’

The Visarch presented a flask of rejuvenating liquid, its honeyed flavour sweet on Yvraine’s tongue even though the rest of her felt like flakes of ash compacted into an approximation of her body.

‘It seems to have affected you hardest,’ said her bodyguard. ‘We can return to orbit, if you wish.’

‘No.’ Yvraine shook her head, disturbingly aware of her skull’s own weight and the bones within her body, like a carcass remembering to move. Even so, the shock of transition into the necrontyr dampening field was wearing off. The effect on her empathic link remained, her mind robbed of all sense of her followers, but the physical symptoms were softening. ‘I regain my strength. I will fight.’

‘Not yet, you will not,’ insisted Meliniel. She knew that he had already adjusted his strategy accordingly and made no argument. In truth she desired nothing but more time to recuperate. ‘The Wild Riders will draw the strike of the necrontyr and then we shall respond and cut off the sting.’

‘Very well,’ said the Opener of the Seventh Way. She managed to reach a seat and almost fell into it. Groggily, Alorynis followed, ears flicking, tentative as he picked his way between the legs of the Visarch and curled up on a fold of her robe.

Meliniel departed to make good his plans, but the Visarch ignored her warning stare and stood close, as though her ailment were a foe he could save her from with a stroke of his blade. Seeing him standing guard still brought some measure of balance to her thoughts. She remembered her epiphany from before the loss of the Whisper, and wondered which of the gods might be wearing the crimson armour. The thought brought comfort and she allowed herself to slip into unconsciousness, safe in the sanctuary of his presence.

Carried aboard several drop-ships, the Wild Riders led the Saim-Hann contingent of the warhost, their commander in the foremost craft. In direct contradiction to placing himself at the tip of the attack, he had insisted that his family, escorted by squads of warriors from the Aspect shrines of Khaine, made the descent in the heart of the arriving flotilla. Even his father’s protestations had been overruled by the Wild Lord, who was quite willing to take the greatest risks for the greatest glory, but would be loath to extend the same opportunity of swift demise to his close family.

Nuadhu’s first impression, looking down upon the forest-covered hills of Agarimethea through the tinted canopy of a Ghostlance drop-craft, was that nothing had changed since he had fled with his Wild Riders. First impressions are rarely to be trusted, and it was not long before the truth was revealed.

When his expedition had come upon the tomb vault, it had been a relatively small collection of structures surrounding a central pyramid, nestled in a wooded valley. The valley itself was still visible, in a fashion. Where before had risen majestic slopes of woodland now towered silver-flanked bastions that glittered with a jade aura. Pulses of energy flared along complex circuit-sigils that ran the length of the edifices, discharging as bursts of forking lightning from their summits. Seven higher peaks stood out – the ones that had disgorged a flight of necrontyr attack craft, he recalled. Higher than the others, their peaks opened like the petals of a bloom, revealing cavernous interiors with a great burst of green light. From these hangar-tombs rose a stream of crescent-shaped interceptors, coruscations of power dripping from their wingtips as they emerged, as though dragging themselves free of the pulsating coronas.

The valley floor was equally denuded of its arboreal cover, revealing an expanse of trenches, obelisks and smaller pyramids that ran along its considerable length. Like the mountaintops, the artificial fissures gleamed with necrontyr power, casting their emerald light across circuit-scribed needles and tall archways.

Opportunity to further study the enemy’s lair was interrupted by the pilot.

‘You better mount up,’ she said, pointing to the glint of incoming scythe-ships. ‘We’ll need to take evasive manoeuvres. I’ll try to get down to drop altitude as quick as I can.’

Around the Ghostlance, Nuadhu could see other drop-ships plunging groundwards, while Crimson Talon fighters and Hemlock fighters soared ahead to meet the gleaming stream of necrontyr attackers. In the moments before the nose of the craft plunged down, he saw the opening flickers of bright lance fire and the answering scorch of emerald beams. The memory of the necrontyr death rays disintegrating his kin made him shudder and he quickly picked his way out of the piloting suite to the transport compartment.

Three Vypers nestled in the hold, held in a tracery of harness lines, his steed Alean between the two other attack skimmers. Each was a large jetbike, the two flanking machines fitted with a seated gun platform at the rear, while Alean had a railed fighting deck upon which Nuadhu rode to battle. Inertia-dampening systems masked the worst effects of the Ghostlance’s movement, but as he clambered aboard the back of the Vyper with a nod to B’sainnad at the controls, Nuadhu could feel the rocking motion of the pilot’s efforts. A glance through the viewing ports to either side revealed a swinging horizon of trees and skies, appearing and disappearing alternately as the Ghostlance rolled first one way and then the other, zigzagging towards the arboreal landscape.

‘Get ready to drop!’ shouted the pilot, her alarm not only heightening the pitch of her voice but throbbing along the drop-craft’s empathic spirit-link. ‘Ground defences appearing!’

Looking over his shoulder, back through the pilot’s canopy, Nuadhu saw swathes of woodland falling away, a pulse of green light felling trees like a harvester’s blade, turning timber and leaf to a floating haze of particles. In the place of the forest, necrontyr engines were revealed, shimmering with jade energy. Cruciform semicircular firing arrays turned skywards and arcs of artificial lightning leapt up towards the plunging aeldari aircraft. Powerful gauss rays flared along the fuselage of the nearest Ghostlance, turning matter to scintillating clouds of atoms. Its wing tore away, sending it spiralling down towards the green canopy.

Some distance ahead, closer to the tomb complex, even larger weapons slid out of their subterranean stasis vaults, the shimmer of their deadly cannons dancing across the surrounding treeline.

‘Drop us now and climb!’ barked Nuadhu, leaping over the rail of his fighting platform. He attached the grav-harness to his armour – he usually eschewed the safety precaution for freedom of movement, but even in his excited state knew better than to let himself freefall from such a height.

‘My lord?’ the pilot replied.

‘We are too high for the anti-gravitic impellors, Nuadhu,’ said B’sainnad.

‘The lord is right, we can glide first to bleed off descent speed, and then activate the engines when we are low enough,’ said Ceridhan, one of the other Vyper pilots.

Her gunner, Laedagda, nodded from his scatter laser’s cradle. ‘Better than getting shot down from the skies before we launch.’

‘All right,’ conceded B’sainnad. ‘You better hold on really tight.’

The pilot darted them a look, assuring herself that they were secure upon their war steeds. Receiving their shared assent across the matrix, she lifted her fingers to her spirit stone and then brow in a departing salute.

‘Opening drop doors now,’ she announced. With a hiss, the fuselage slid forwards, splitting the rear and bottom of the Ghostlance’s sleek form. Wind screamed past, carrying the growing shriek of necrontyr attack craft. ‘Fly sure. Fight well.’

Nuadhu was about to reply with something inspiring, but the words were ripped from his mouth as the securing harness peeled away like a parted web. In the next instant Alean was falling through open sky, the Ghostlance swiftly becoming a red blur above them.

‘This is a transport, it has no weapons.’

Tzibilakhu’s words confirmed what Aradryan had feared and his attention slipped back to the scythe-like attack craft vectoring hard towards the incoming Ynnari drop.

‘Concentrate on flying, leave the fighting to others,’ his companion continued. He felt the edge of her consciousness butt against his and allowed their peripheral thoughts to overlap within the dawnsail’s systems.

It happened on instinct, but only when he felt the sharp edges of her spirit gripping his did he remember that her history in Commorragh was very different to his upbringing on Alaitoc Craftworld. When he had been a self-exiled outcast, Aradryan had spent much time in the company of the drukhari Maensith, but never had he shared her soul in this way. Tzibilakhu’s mind was hot to his psychic senses, their connection like heated nails binding them together.

Pushing through the discomfort, he focused on the dawnsail’s ailerons and other control surfaces, while his partner used her thoughts to manipulate the thruster engines and anti-grav impellors. The dawnsail shuddered and the hull twisted slightly as Aradryan sought to bank away from the attacking necrontyr while Tzibilakhu’s pulses of energy were directed towards taking them to the enemy. He pulled back from the manoeuvre as she also altered her commands, so that the dawnsail yawed leftwards, slipping sideways through the air.

‘This is not working.’ Aradryan tried to do nothing, letting the drop-craft settle again. ‘You are reacting too slowly.’

‘And you are going the wrong way! Follow my lead, do not try to force your course upon me.’

‘But you would have us steer directly towards the enemy. Folly!’

‘We must travel where we can be protected, Aradryan,’ Tzibilakhu insisted. ‘Look further afield.’

Following a nudge from her thoughts, Aradryan let his consciousness seep out into the dawnsail’s main sensory array. He picked up several dozen other plunging aeldari craft, among them the star-like pulse of interceptors. They spiralled around the descending flotilla but soon they would have to break off to engage the incoming necrontyr.

‘That still makes no sense!’ Aradryan tried to pull the dawnsail away from the imminent exchange of weapons fire. ‘The fighters should be between us and the enemy!’

‘If we break away from our escort and even one scythe-craft gets through, who will be close by to protect us? We fly together or die alone.’

The drop-ship juddered as Tzibilakhu attempted to push it back to its original course with a sudden fire of attitude thrusters. She bulged the anti-gravitic field to slew the craft to the right, clumsily dragging them between two diving Nightwing fighters.

‘What is the meaning of this unruliness?’ Aradryan did not recognise the voice on the messenger-waves.

‘We are still adjusting for the loss of the Whisper, autarch Meliniel,’ replied Tzibilakhu, darting a venomous glare at Aradryan. ‘It will not happen again.’

She freed a hand from her cradle and drew a long serrated blade, holding it up so that the edge caught the glint of control projections. The Commorraghan needed no words to convey her intent, the connection between them carried her murderous threat in a spine-chilling shudder through Aradryan.

‘You claim you have flown starships into battle, but I have flown with the Ynnari since their first escape from the clutches of Asdrubael Vect. If you do not follow me, I will fly by myself.’

Aradryan wanted to retaliate, but the scant Whisper between them eliminated any possibility of her threat being a bluff. Any retort seemed pointless. She would dare. A pulse of attachment to Yvraine overcame all other considerations. She would die – and kill – for the Opener of the Seventh Way.

Cowed, Aradryan let his consciousness recede slightly from the control systems.

The streaks of holo-fielded craft darted past, flashes of laser leaping from within the rainbow blurs. Green arcs spat back from rolling scythe-craft, the shriek of engines thrumming through Aradryan’s soul as well as his hearing.

‘You have but one goal now, Aradryan.’ Tzibilakhu’s thoughts were a welcome thunderous distraction from the macabre scream of the necrontyr attack craft. ‘Yvraine is the start and end of your existence. She is our hope, all hope. Your death is nothing if she lives. Your life is nothing if she dies.’

The vehemence with which this message was delivered was like magma forcing its way through Aradryan’s veins, fuelling him even as it turned his thoughts to cinders.

Your life is nothing if she dies.

With this thought flaring through every part of him, Aradryan lent his mind to his companion, guiding the dawnsail towards the necrontyr behind a cloud of fighters.

Chapter 17

FIRST ASSAULT

Cold air stung Nuadhu’s eyes and robbed his lungs of breath, pulling at his hair. For what seemed an age they plunged vertically, a most unpleasant sensation that felt like his innards were being forced into his throat.

Faced with a potentially deadly plummet, his racing thoughts alighted briefly on his family, hopefully still within the cluster of craft descending more sedately above him. He hoped earnestly that they negotiated the enemy interceptors and anti-drop arsenal with less drastic measures required. More immediate concerns ripped his attention back to his predicament.

As the atmosphere continued to thicken, the Vyper shuddered, wisps of vapour coiling from the sharp tips of the stabilising fins, curling away from the tip of Drake’s Fang in its mounting sheath. With some effort, Nuadhu turned his head to the left, to see Ceridhan’s Vyper a distance below them. Above and to the right, Nuarrath’s skimmer followed.

A sudden bolt of emerald flashed past the nose of the falling Vyper. The bold green streak struck the tail of Nuarrath’s Vyper, a glancing blow that was still enough to shear away half the fuselage. The gun cradle of Liaska’s brightlance peeled away, left hanging by a twist as it bucked in the draught of the Vyper’s decent. Nuadhu could see the panic in her face as she pulled at the gun harness, eyes flicking between the mechanism and the main body of the Vyper.

At the same time, Nuarrath wrestled with the controls, trying hard to avoid the Vyper going into a flat spin.

‘Get us alongside!’ Nuadhu shouted over the windrush, jabbing a finger up towards the other Vyper.

‘We don’t have gravitic power yet,’ the pilot replied with a grimace. ‘We can’t climb.’

A scream wrenched Nuadhu’s attention back to the beleaguered pair. The last piece of fuselage sheared away as Liaska dragged herself out of the gun harness. For several heartbeats she clawed at the ragged edge of the Vyper while Nuarrath leaned back, trying to extend a hand. The clan heir howled his frustration, almost within reach himself but powerless to help as Liaska’s grasp failed and she whirled away, her cries loud in the messenger bead inside Nuadhu’s ear.

‘I’ve lost part of the gravitic impellor,’ Nuarrath said over the link. ‘I cannot fly and have no gunner. Win this battle, Wild Lord.’

The other Vyper angled away, prow pointing almost directly down. Nuadhu moved to the back of the platform to follow its progress, watching until it became a scarlet blur heading towards one of the defence pylons below. He almost lost sight of the craft, but a sudden flash of detonation marked where it crashed into its target.

Nuadhu fought back tears and looked around. Deadly beams of green and white flared up from the tomb complex’s perimeter, cutting through the flotilla of Ghostlances and larger craft. Aeldari fighters swooped and spiralled around necrontyr scythe-craft, lighting the skies with exchanges of brilliant energy.

‘We’ve acquired gravitic tension,’ announced B’sainnad. A heartbeat later the pilot pulled hard on the controls, tearing Alean out of its precipitous dive. Nuadhu’s legs buckled under the force and spots of light danced through his vision, distorting the view of entwined aerial combat. As his vision returned, he blinked hard, seeing dark blurs against the pale clouds above, almost bat-like in shape.

The messenger bead buzzed with a long-range connection.

‘Stay on approach to your target, Lord of the Wild Riders,’ said a voice he didn’t recognise. ‘We shall clear the path for you.’

The shadows rapidly resolved into the shapes of swooping Vampire and Phoenix bombers, a dozen of them in the scarlet of the Ynnari.

The ripple of unruly plasmic detonations throbbed across the canoptek array that served as the Watcher of the Dark’s royal chamber. Stood within the webwork of energy interfaces, crisscrossed by a mesh of energy lines, she monitored everything that transpired on the surface.

The wave of heavy aerial craft inflicted a significant interlude to the resurrection cycle, their incendiary munitions and seismic charges not only incapacitating scores of awakening warriors but severely disrupting the whole immortality grid of Pantalikoa. Fast-attack gravitic vehicles exploited the denuded phalanx and rushed towards the tomb city.

The aeldari simply could not be allowed access to the Panatheitik Vault. The Watcher of the Dark was slowly regaining more faculties, including access to older memory banks in the heart of the catacombs. Though she had not yet tapped into the founding data, she encountered more and more warnings about the inward dimensional barrier and the importance of maintaining its integrity. Past-her had been so insistent on this fact that she had incorporated several actionable routines to prevent any such interference from herself. The Watcher of the Dark had no direct control over the vault gate itself, unable to penetrate the temporal field that had activated following the aeldari’s first intrusion.

‘Attend to me, wraiths of the neversphere.’

It was the first vocalisation she had made since her entombment and it felt good to interact on a purely physical level. The imposition of strict sonic principles helped her detach her consciousness from the greater part that was the city, and in that separation she recalled a name.

Hazepkhut. Phaerakh of the Septaplurachy.

She revelled in the identifier, and the flood of memories that came with the positive association. Allies and enemies, lovers and foes, a succession of experiences and encounters that would all end when her ravaged physiology finally succumbed to the genetic weaknesses within.

And then the blessing and curse of the day that Illuminor Szeras had come to Pantalikoa. The miracles of biotransference promised everything she had desired – everlasting dominion over her subjects and an eternity to indulge her desires.

The reality was far harsher. She looked down at the shimmering metal of her artificial body and mourned the loss of sensation that had so filled her mortal life. When had that desire to seek experience forever been replaced by the solemn duty she now performed?

Thoughts turning full circle, she returned her awareness to her present situation. Three figures drifted in front of the nexus-throne, each serpentine guard slowly undulating as though carried on the waves of emerald energy that pulsed slowly about the chamber.

‘We answer the summons,’ they intoned together, bowing their long bodies before their queen.

‘Heed my message and take it forth to the commanders of the aeldari army,’ she commanded, reaching out a hand. A flare of luminescence carried her thoughtwave to their receptors, imprinting her order upon their obedience circuits. The wraiths shuddered as new imperatives flowed into their systems.

‘It shall be done,’ they chorused with another bow.

Together the trio of canoptek guardians withdrew, their bodies shimmering into half-reality as they activated their dimensional destabilisation matrices. For a few moments Hazepkhut watched them through the last flicker of ante-spectrum reflection and then that too faded as her messenger-assassins ascended with flicks of their tails, passing from sight through the circuit-etched ceiling.

Content with her actions, the Watcher of the Dark slipped back into memory, succumbing to the lure of fractured, half-recalled nights of sensual indulgence.

The land about the jade-lit wound of the necrontyr valley complex was a lush woodland across steep foothills, as pristine as the day it had been sown a thousand lifetimes earlier. The forests of the maiden world were bald in places, cut with geometric precision around subterranean emplacements and fortified entrances into the cryo-tombs.

Like a swarm gathering at dusk, the drop flotillas of the warhosts came together, escorted by waves of fighters and renewed bombing attacks. Scarlet and crimson mingled as drop-craft and anti-grav vehicles flowed together like merging streams of liquid ruby, passing into the shadows beneath the immaculate canopy.

Slowing her jetbike, Caelledhin wove between the assembling Wave Serpents and Falcons of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann. Grav-tanks slowed to disgorge squads of Aspect Warriors into the surrounding woods while guardians amassed in their battle companies under the protection of heavy weapons drifting on floating platforms. Commorraghan-born wyches and former kabalite warriors leapt from the boards of their raiders while larger drop-craft settled upon the grass of the broad clearing a short distance ahead.

She guided her grav-steed towards this gathering, the indicator on the bike’s display telling her that this was the location set for the leaders of the warhosts to come together. Coming upon transports in the colours of Clan Fireheart, she vaulted from the saddle before her mount had come to a stop, landing lightly on the impellor-flattened turf. The whine of reaver-bikes drew her eye to a squadron of Yvraine’s Bloodbrides, Druthkhala at their head. The leader peeled away from her companions and brought her bike to an idling standstill just ahead of Caelledhin.

‘Summon your family – the Opener of the Seventh Way demands audience before the main attack.’

Prickling at the Bloodbride’s tone, Caelledhin reined in an angry retort, refusing to grant the former Crucibael fighter the satisfaction of her irritation.

‘Naiall Fireheart will grace her council with his presence,’ she replied with a cold smile. ‘It is good that Yvraine listens to the counsel of wise heads.’

Druthkhala sneered and powered away, the wash of her reaver-bike’s anti-grav field throwing pollen in its wake.

Another Wave Serpent landed just ahead, turning slightly as it lowered the last distance. Caelledhin raised a hand in greeting as a squad of Fire Dragons disembarked, Naiall and a few other senior clan members huddled amongst the Aspect Warrior escort.

‘We should not delay,’ said Neamyh, helping the chieftain to step down from the transport’s ramp.

‘I shall be fine, cease your worrying,’ insisted Naiall, but Neamyh’s expression conveyed a different story.

‘The sooner we conclude, the swifter the attack,’ said Caelledhin. ‘Let us not give the necrontyr even longer to prepare.’

They passed between transports landing and taking off, a spreading ring of warriors pushing out along the forest trails. Overhead, fighters continued to duel with the necrontyr scythe-ships and Ynnari ground attack craft launched more bombing runs against enemy emplacements and forces between the aeldari host and their target.

Caelledhin and the others came upon Yvraine holding court in the open air, the Visarch and Meliniel in attendance, along with squads from the Coiled Blade and Bloodbrides. Druthkhala emerged from the shadows, now dismounted, and joined her blade-sisters.

‘Father!’

Caelledhin’s heart leapt at Nuadhu’s shout and she turned to see the Wild Lord come racing upon them on the back of Alean. B’sainnad deftly steered around a disembarking squad of Dark Reapers and brought the craft to a halt a short distance away.

‘It is good that you are still with us,’ said Caelledhin.

‘Only just,’ muttered B’sainnad.

‘Why do we delay?’ demanded Nuadhu, as though he had not heard her at all. Caelledhin could feel his agitation like emanating heat, his movements fitful as though his own body were not quite under his control. He thrust Drake’s Fang towards the unseen enemy. ‘The foe are building their strength while we tarry here and chatter.’

‘Yvraine has called upon us and we answer,’ replied Naiall. ‘Better that we attack in unity than be destroyed by unpreparedness.’

‘We shall lead the attack, the Ynnari can follow,’ said Nuadhu, shrugging extravagantly. ‘What more is there to discuss?’

‘I believe that you left your senses somewhere in the clouds,’ said Caelledhin, looking up to the skies where fighter craft still duelled.

‘Are you intoxicated?’ demanded Neamyh.

‘Only by the prospect of battle, dear cousin!’

Caelledhin snorted, lost for words at his self-importance. There was certainly something amiss with her half-brother, more so than his usual battle-fever. Her indignation gave way to concern.

‘Nuadhu…’

‘Save your condescension,’ the Wild Lord growled, cutting her off. ‘I know what you will say, but you are wrong. I have never felt better.’

Nuadhu looked around the clearing, searching for something. Apparently he did not locate it, given his disappointed expression.

‘She is with Yvraine,’ said Caelledhin, guessing the object of his quest.

‘Then perhaps we can spare a short delay,’ Nuadhu conceded, moving to the back of his fighting platform ready to disembark.

‘No,’ declared Naiall, his expression pained by the need to state this truth. ‘Stay here. You are in no state for this audience. We must speak swiftly and I fear you will be a disruption.’

‘Whatever can you mean, father? I just dropped from the skies like a Swooping Hawk, what could be more calm-inducing?’

‘Wait here, Nuadhu.’ Naiall’s tone was laboured but his quiet insistence silenced the Wild Lord. ‘I will call for you when we are ready to attack.’

‘Am I still to lead the attack?’ Nuadhu was almost pleading, and his rapid glances towards the Ynnari betrayed his growing concern.

‘I am sure Druthkhala will be more impressed by victory than stupidity,’ growled Caelledhin, stepping between her brother and father. ‘Calm yourself, Nuadhu. Your behaviour is not only unbecoming of a clan heir, it will see us dead.’

‘You think…? It’s not…’ Nuadhu waved them away with a dismissive hand. ‘I would see our clan restored to glory, but I fear that I might be alone in that concern. Go! Fawn yourselves to Yvraine.’

Nuadhu slapped B’sainnad on the shoulder, who turned the Vyper away with an apologetic look towards his companion’s family. Caelledhin watched them settle not far away. The thought that Nuadhu would one day lead the clan filled her with a dread that almost equalled the prospect of fighting the necrontyr.

‘Come.’ Naiall set off again, stride gaining vigour as he forged through knee-high grass towards Yvraine and her contingent.

The Opener of the Seventh Way broke from her conversation and bowed her head in welcome to the chieftain. She did not speak, but withdrew a step, drawing attention to her autarch as she receded.

‘We have suffered a setback,’ confessed Meliniel, addressing his words to Naiall. The autarch’s face was hidden within his high-crested helm but his body language was oddly demure. ‘The Whisper – the force of Ynnead that binds the Ynnari together – is silenced by the null technology of the necrontyr. The same energies that prevented the binding of the webway portals now flattens all psychic activity on Agarimethea.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ replied the chieftain. ‘What does that mean for the attack?’

‘That we must be especially coordinated in our preparations. I have despatched my forces with specific instructions, and I must rely upon the clan Fireheart to lead the Saim-Hann contingent without compromise. Any broad deviation from the agreed plan could be disastrous.’

‘Very well, I assure you that we will do our part.’

‘The mission is the same,’ said Yvraine, coming to the fore again. ‘We are not here to defeat the necrontyr but to open the vault and take its contents. Meliniel will–’

The Visarch leapt forward, his Sword of Silent Screams cutting the air towards Naiall.

A moment before the glowing blade slashed into the chieftain, something shimmered in the air in front of him. A ghastly apparition appeared from nowhere.

It shone with semi-substantial energy, a ghost of metal with a fleshless body like a serpent’s skeleton. Four scythe-arms splayed outwards, the edges of the blades crackling with potency. An insectile head with a single green-glowing lens for an eye and clacking mandibles twitched within reach of Naiall, the chieftain reflected on the surface of the orb.

Caelledhin screamed even as the Visarch’s weapon struck the necrontyr assassin-construct in the shoulder, cleaving into its living metal ribs.

Flung sideways by the blow, the wraith sprawled upon the floor, its tail slamming into Naiall. The chieftain staggered back, hand clutched to his chest. Caelledhin fumbled at her weapons but one of her cousins responded more swiftly, leaping between Naiall and his would-be killer. The wraith-assassin lashed out with two scythe-arms, carving furrows through the attendant’s flesh. The wounds did not bleed but shimmered with ghostly pale energy, seeming to eat into his body. He thrashed, teeth clamped together, foaming saliva on his lips, and then collapsed.

The Visarch attacked again, sweeping Asu-var downwards towards the wraith’s neck. It fluttered out of existence before the blow landed. A heartbeat later, it materialised again, emitting a nerve-shredding chitter as it slithered towards Yvraine.

The Opener of the Seventh Way met it with the tip of the Sword of Sorrows, piercing its chest, while the edge of her war fan sliced open its metallic face. Circuitry sparked and limbs spasmed as it fell back from her, seeming to melt into the grass.

‘There’s more,’ growled the Visarch, stepping closer to Yvraine.

Caelledhin had her sword in one hand and pistol in the other, pushing close to her father as she saw another indistinct movement around the Wave Serpents.

Flexing his fingers, Nuadhu stalked back and forth across the clearing, darting looks to the mountaintops in the distance. For better or worse his fate would be decided beyond those peaks. Yet when he thought back to that soul-chilling sensation as he dropped helplessly groundwards, it was not the necrontyr that came to mind. His thoughts lingered on his own people. On considering the closeness of his demise – perhaps closer than even during their foray to Agarimethea the first time – the Wild Lord was agitated not by the possibility of death itself but more the ending of the opportunity to prove himself.

What had he really accomplished in his life? He had fought battles, even won wars, but though he was lauded amongst a certain community on Saim-Hann, he knew his name would never share the same breath with the likes of autarch Evanae Oldspirit or Meore Deoneth, the Wild Lord from Clan Flamewalker. Nuadhu had thought Agarimethea might be his great victory, but he realised now that it could not be. His part in bringing near-disaster to Saim-Hann tainted any legacy of success. He was, he told himself bitterly, simply clearing up a mess of his own creation.

B’sainnad loitered not far away, lending support with his presence but sensible enough not to intervene in his friend’s fuming. Nuadhu wanted to draw strength from his friend, but B’sainnad’s loyalty was habitual from shared childhood, not earned by Nuadhu’s deeds as an adult, something else the Wild Lord occasionally exploited for himself without repercussion.

The pulse-jarring aftermath of his plunge through the sky was seeping away, leaving his stomach like a void, his emotions roiling. His mood soured quickly as he considered the council taking place without him, and the words of his father and half-sister burned into him like a brand – a mark he could never escape. Thoughtless. Headstrong. Unstable. Certainly unfit to be a clan chieftain…

A shrill cry wrenched Nuadhu from his inner monologue, drawing his attention to the cluster of Wave Serpents.

B’sainnad was already running, pistol in hand. Aeldari of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann alike dashed through the impromptu encampment, some with weapons readied, others worriedly calling the names of companions. There were other calls, from the left and right, sowing further confusion.

As he came into view of the transports, heart hammering at the thought of what he might see, Nuadhu rounded the hull of a Falcon and nearly fell over a Commorraghan Ynnari kneeling over another. He leapt, clearing the pair on instinct. The Wild Lord faltered as he landed, glancing back at the aeldari on the ground. He was garbed in drukhari-style armour, maskless helm framing a face caught in a rictus of agony, yet there seemed not a mark upon him.

This ghoulish sight thrust into his thoughts, Nuadhu sped on, shouting for a clear path as others streamed through the congregation of anti-grav vehicles. Ahead of him B’sainnad pushed his way through, creating a gap for the clan heir to sprint past.

Passing the curved front of a Wave Serpent, his eye was immediately drawn to a figure upon the ground. His first thought was for his father, but a moment later he saw that it was not Naiall upon the dirt but Cescagath, one of Nuadhu’s oldest cousins. Yvraine and the Visarch seemed to be dancing on the far side of the area, their blades whirling and slashing at nothing. As he concentrated, Nuadhu saw a flicker of movement and a spectral shape appearing and disappearing within the air itself.

Yvraine dodged back as a towering, serpentine-bodied apparition materialised in front of her, squealing strange, sharp noises at her. It was clearly of necrontyr design, a half-machine creation with four blade-limbs that juddered as it wove back and forth in front of Yvraine. The Visarch swept his blade high, but the spectre-droid shimmered into nothing for the instant the blade would contact it, reforming a heartbeat later to resume its sonic assault.

‘Another!’ The shout of Caelledhin turned Nuadhu in time to see a glimmer of a shadow pass between two of the other transports. He advanced with Drake’s Fang in two hands, wary of any movement. His half-sister approached from the left, pistol and blade in hand.

‘Over here!’ called B’sainnad from the other side of a Wave Serpent.

‘Impossible,’ replied Nuadhu. ‘It can’t have moved through the Wave Serpent.’

‘It can,’ said Caelledhin with a grimace. Without any verbal agreement, she turned slightly so that she was watching Nuadhu’s back and he hers. ‘We saw the first appear right in front of us out of nothing.’

‘Get out of here, father,’ Nuadhu told Naiall. ‘Protect yourself.’

‘No!’ snapped Caelledhin. ‘It was coming for you, the safest place is here.’

Naiall nodded wordlessly, eyes roaming the area. He looked more fatigued than scared and Druthkhala moved to take his arm across her shoulder, helping him back towards the Wave Serpents. She had a bared sword at the ready, its wickedly serrated blade edged with black flame.

‘Here!’ Everyone snapped around at the shout of another Bloodbride, her whip cracking out towards a vague disturbance in the air.

‘You said there was another?’ Nuadhu asked his half-sister.

‘It disappeared when it was struck,’ she explained. ‘I think there are only two left.’

More aeldari warriors gathered around their leaders. Among them were the Coiled Blade, the devotees of the Visarch, former incubi mercenaries from Commorragh. Their two-handed klaives flickered with energy as they advanced towards their master.

‘Watch the perimeter,’ growled the Visarch, pointing with the Sword of Silent Screams. He slowly circled Yvraine, making clear his priority to protect the Opener of the Seventh Way in favour of any other action.

Stillness descended. With shallow breaths, Nuadhu heard only the creak of armour, soft tread of wary aeldari and whisper of leaves in the wind. He scanned left and right, the tip of Drake’s Fang moving with his gaze as he searched for any mote out of place that would betray the location of their assailants. He could feel the others around him, Caelledhin at his back, the suppressed spirit warmth of the other Saim-Hann aeldari a backdrop to his thoughts.

A part of the vision granted him by Yvraine flashed through his thoughts, setting his heart juddering. He dimly recalled wraith-killers that stole into the homes, ships and headquarters of their foes, murdering without compunction, assassinating the commanders of the necrontyr’s foes.

‘They came for us, the leaders,’ he said, looking at Yvraine as his movement brought him into view of the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘Ghostly assassins meant to cripple us before we attack. I was right, we should have pressed on while we could.’

‘This is a poor time to claim prophetic wisdom, my brother,’ said Caelledhin.

‘They are guardians of the tombs,’ Yvraine told him, eyes passing him by as they swept their surroundings. ‘They can pass through matter without effort, and materialise their blades inside you without leaving a mark. Be stern against them, their purpose is to sow discord and terror.’

‘More may come,’ said the Visarch. ‘When we have dealt with this pair, we should move on.’

Like a heat haze, the air just in front of Nuadhu started to shimmer. Before he could respond, a single jade eye-gem appeared as though from a mist, its glow highlighting the half-seen edges of the clawed mechanical beast to which it belonged.

It emitted a stuttering shriek, the force of the noise enough to send Nuadhu reeling before he could attack. The sounds struck deep into his core like the wail of a Howling Banshee, which froze the nerves and overloaded the synapses.

It advanced after him, half-substantial, continuing its sonic assault.

The crack of a fusion pistol interrupted the stream of noise. The intense blast of radiation vaporised the crypt-wraith’s head, silencing it immediately. What he saw of its torso faded like shadows in the light, falling groundwards for a heartbeat before they vanished.

He risked a glance to his left, from where the shot had come. His saviour was Yvraine’s autarch, the one called Meliniel, standing at the ramp of his Wave Serpent. A squad of Ynnari guardians fanned out at his gesture, completing the circle of warriors trying to contain the ethereal attack.

Nuadhu shuddered at the recollection of the horror that had attacked him. Its chittering screech echoed in his thoughts, terrifying yet startlingly familiar. There was something within the noise, a pattern to be recognised. Or remembered.

A hiss of splinter fire drew everyone’s attention to the opposite side of the gathering, where most of the Bloodbrides kept watch. One of the wychs pointed to her left.

‘It was that way,’ she said, pistol aimed at empty space. ‘Just in front of us.’

Nuadhu tapped Caelledhin with a free hand and nodded towards their father. She understood his intent and together they slipped towards Naiall, wary of attack. Other squads continued to sweep the area with their weapons, without any report of contact.

‘I think it’s gone,’ said B’sainnad. ‘We’ve scared it off.’

‘The necrontyr do not fear death,’ said the Visarch.

‘You cannot kill that which does not live,’ added Yvraine. ‘They are animate but soulless. Never forget that.’

‘And they do not relent,’ the Visarch continued. ‘If it is hiding, it does so only to strike in the future. Stand ready.’

Caelledhin took over from Druthkhala, half carrying Naiall to his transport while the Bloodbride rejoined her arena-sisters. Nuadhu held his spear at the ready, though it was a little unwieldy to use on foot. Other members of Clan Fireheart stayed close at hand, shuriken catapults and pistols moving back and forth as they kept watch.

‘We cannot remain here indefinitely,’ said Nuadhu, feeling his patience already wearing thin. ‘Perhaps this is the intent of the necrontyr. While we are paralysed by a single enemy, more foes awaken in the catacombs.’

‘My son is correct,’ said Naiall, stirring with visible effort at the foot of the Wave Serpent’s ramp. ‘This delay is counter to our every intent. We cannot hope to overcome the massed warriors of the tomb complex, we must open the vault before the number of our foes is overwhelming.’

‘And let that crypt-stalker pick us off?’ replied Meliniel.

‘More will be sent,’ said Yvraine, her fan held up like a shield, the Sword of Sorrows in her other hand with tip raised to strike. ‘While Nuadhu’s urgency may have been ill-tempered before, he is right that we cannot be held in one place like this. This lull serves the enemy better than us.’

Beside her, the Visarch lunged, the Sword of Silent Screams a blur. The cronesword cut the air just a hair’s breadth from one of his incubi, the tip slashing past the back of his neck. An otherworldly shriek split the quiet and a half-seen thrashing churned the air in front of Yvraine for a heartbeat and no more.

‘I believe the issue has been simplified,’ said the Blade of Ynnead, lifting his weapon to a guard position. ‘For the time being.’

Still unsure that invisible assailants did not lurk in their midst, the gathered aeldari reluctantly separated, moving back to their transports, jetbikes and Vypers. The Bloodbrides and Coiled Blade remained close to Yvraine, and likewise Nuadhu stayed at his father’s side until he was back on board his Wave Serpent, Marifsa and the other Fire Dragons ready to protect him. Stepping down the ramp of the transport, he noticed that the light was dimming.

‘We’d best hurry before nightfall catches us,’ he called to Yvraine, who was in conference with Caelledhin, the Visarch and Meliniel. ‘Eldrad will have to meet us when we have secured the vault-temple.’

‘Dusk is still some time away,’ said the autarch.

Yvraine looked up with a frown, her gaze turning in the direction of the distant pyramid-mountains.

‘Our need for urgency has not diminished,’ said the Emissary of Ynnead.

Nuadhu shivered as he turned around to see a green-flecked blackness flowing up from the necrontyr complex, casting a shadow across the ground in a creeping eclipse.

Chapter 18

PIERCING THE PHALANX

The keening of Drake’s Fang through the air was the song in Nuadhu’s heart. Around him the Wild Riders carved through animated skeletal warriors, their scatter lasers, shuriken cannons and brightlances slashing through the ranks of necrontyr marching forth from their tombs. The air shimmered with emerald gauss fire, a companion jade glow streaming from the open catacombs. More gauss-shimmer lit the peak of the main temple, illuminating the clouds that roiled above the ancient complex.

Some distance to his left, and a little behind, the Ynnari warhost broke towards the mountainous flank of the tomb city, while on the right the remainder of the Saim-Hann advanced on the ground and above the trees to an opposite outlying area. Before the wraith-assassins had interrupted proceedings, Yvraine and Naiall had devised a plan to split apart the defending necrontyr host. Nuadhu had not been present to agree to this strategy, but he would have given his consent to the simple but effective ploy. The Wild Riders were the first thrust, probing towards the tomb complex. When the necrontyr responded, the two flanking forces would be pushed forward swiftly, coming at the pyramid vault from two directions, relieving the pressure on the Wild Lord and his warriors to allow them a final piercing strike into the heart of the dead city.

Nuadhu raised his spear to wave forward his squadrons, while overhead flights of bombers made more passes. Sonic bombs thrummed in the heart of the tombs while energy beams lanced down into the emerging swarms of skimmer craft. Centauroid necrontyr skimmers flashed over the open ground bathed in the otherworldly glow of the tomb city, their weapons pulsing green rays into the approaching host of Ynnari and Saim-Hann kindreds. With them came squadrons of bizarre anti-grav craft like smaller versions of the arc-guns that had targeted the aircraft, each bearing a skeletal pilot meshed within the upright semicircular curve of its chassis. Underslung guns spat animated lightning that skittered across the divide like serpents seeking prey.

Streaks of heavier weapons fired from aeldari grav-tanks split the crisp air. Volleys of scatter laser fire lit the metallic foe alongside the scintillating beams of pulsars and prism cannons. Where they touched the body or machine of a necrontyr these beams left bubbling welts across the living metal. Amid bursts of vaporous light such wounds healed over, restoring broken engines to functionality, bringing downed warriors back to their feet.

Bitter experience had taught the aeldari that necrontyr casualties were not permanently disabled. Their entire society was constructed around the resurrection of the fallen, from the whirring scarab repair constructs that flitted overhead to the tomb world itself. Nuadhu watched those grievously damaged by the aeldari attacks disappear, melting into the jade energy that suffused the tomb complex. A few detonated into emerald sparks beneath the fury of a particularly accurate or potent beam, self-atomising back to rejuvenation chambers hidden deep beneath the surface of Agarimethea.

The exchanges were harsh, each volley of fire from one side or the other meting out destruction. Technologies as old as the colonisation of the planet itself warred as much as the combatants that wielded them. Distort cannons ripped open void-gulfs amid the enemy to suck them bodily into the warp while ravening particle beams from the necrontyr scoured flesh from bone and then turned bone to dust. Nuadhu remembered the spectacle of the frozen seers and the ancient memories awakened by Yvraine.

This was not a new war, but the recommencement of hostilities after a break of thirty thousand lifetimes.

B’sainnad wove the Vyper between the crashing fusillades, dipping and dodging emerald flares and coruscating rays. At times they whipped past the ground just a hair’s breadth from destruction, other times climbing swiftly to elude a chasing necrontyr skimmer. Around them the other Wild Riders charged into the teeth of the enemy, trusting to keen reflexes and instinct to keep them safe. Just to Nuadhu’s left Alyasa rode with wand held aloft in one hand, a dome of protective runic power shimmering about the windweaver. Gauss fire and living lightning skipped from the cerulean hemisphere to discharge harmlessly into the skies.

Nuadhu’s eye was drawn to the pennants whipping behind Vypers and jetbikes, and to the streamer from his own weapon dancing on the breeze of their swift passage. He shared their lightness, feeling carried along by the currents of fate as much as they were slaves to the gusts of wind.

It was a liberating experience. As his blood coursed faster and the din and blinding flashes became almost hypnotic, he could lose himself here. Gone were the worries of the clan heir. The politics of seers and councils, though they had led them to these moments, were now of no further concern. Self-doubt was left whirling away in the wind with the pennons.

Here he was free.

The leading edge of the necrontyr skimmer squadrons met the lance tip of the Wild Riders, Nuadhu at its point. He could hear the whine of Vyper engines and the strange purring of the necrontyr repellors. The kaleidoscopic sparkle of las-fire and gauss rays skittered across the skeletal frame of the closest rider and its arcane machine. A gleam lit the eye sockets from within, the whole machine-soldier potent with an emerald aura.

Nuadhu knew that the creature was sentient but not truly alive. Its kind had bargained away their souls for the protection of the sun-eaters, encasing consciousness but no spirit within their undying bodies. The spark that illuminated its gaze was a mockery of life, not the glimmer of anything deeper. A flicker of motivating energy and nothing more.

Detached from the world of the living, even the most sophisticated technologies and a carcass of living metal could not approach the senses and reactions of a flesh-and-blood aeldari. B’sainnad banked Alean left as the gleam of the skimmer’s guns brightened in the instant before firing. An emerald beam passed harmlessly to Nuadhu’s right as he detached his harness strap. With only a little effort, he leapt to the rail of the fighting platform and then forwards, landing with spear in both hands plunged into the chest of the necrontyr rider. A crackle of disintegrating power burst into the animated metal as the blade continued on, slicing through the creature and into the engine.

A heartbeat later, Nuadhu somersaulted away, landing upon the back of Alean once more as the bisected parts of the necrontyr craft crashed into the ground amid a shower of green sparks and lashes of released lightning.

He had no time to spare for his first kill. Another arc-craft peeled towards him, the expressionless monster within intent on the master of the Wild Riders.

A hail of shuriken fire from B’sainnad ripped into the approaching skimmer, each of the scores of monomolecular discs leaving slashes across the living metal frame and the deathless creature huddled within. A flare of azure laser fire from behind Nuadhu followed in the moments after, punching neat holes through the chest and skull of the rider. Jade light blazed from the gaping rents, consuming it from within even as it dipped groundwards. The whole entity phased out before it slammed into the ground, leaving a strange aura for an instant before that too evaporated.

Ahead, the pyramid loomed larger and larger, but Nuadhu knew that there was still a great distance to cover. And between him and his goal marched a legion of the animated dead.

The Sword of Sorrows parted a necrontyr warrior from clavicle to hip, shearing through the living metal without effort. Yvraine pirouetted through the vanishing body parts to cut the arm from another with her war fan. Around her, gauss rays crackled jade death, the phalanx of reanimatrons almost oblivious to the death-dealers in their midst, their fire still concentrated upon the vehicles bringing more aeldari to the fight.

At her side the Visarch swept the legs from a foe as he ducked beneath a scintillating beam. Rising, he bisected the falling warrior, sending its constituent parts scattering into emerald vapour. A clumsily swung gauss rifle passed through the space he had occupied a moment before, its wielder met with the tip of the cronesword, skull split from jaw to cranium. The rest of the Coiled Blade advanced with their leader, their two-handed klaives striking a furrow through the press of reanimated foes, cleaving into the necrontyr squad just as their powered duelling blades cut through immortal bodies.

Further afield the Bloodbrides wove a mesmerising trail of destruction through the swarms of scarab-constructs that whirled above the mass of the Returned Dead. Clouds of sparks followed the progress of razorflails and hydra gauntlets, the destruction of each beetle-machine denoted by a small explosion of sparks. Weaving through their sisters, reaver-riders cut longer swathes across the construct swarm leaving gleaming wakes like the remnants of phosphorescence left by the demise of certain deep-ocean creatures.

Portal gates had risen all across the tomb structures, each crackling archway a window into a resurrection vault far below the surface. For every warrior destroyed, another emerged from the gates, pushed into battle by animation protocols laid down in the mists of prehistory. From beyond the advancing squads of necrontyr fresh swathes of scarabs wove into the air, breaking into devouring clouds above the heads of the warriors. Yvraine knew well from legend that even more powerful constructs would be stirring, brought out of dormancy as the threat to their tombs increased.

‘We are progressing too slowly,’ she said to Meliniel, who fought from the board of a raider a little way ahead, using the advantage of elevation to aid his strategising.

‘Your assessment is, unfortunately, correct,’ replied the autarch. ‘The enemy’s tactics are sound. They have driven us from our swifter transports with their heavier weaponry and will now swamp us with numbers until they can resurrect their most deadly engines.’

‘Do not just agree, come up with a plan!’ snapped the Visarch. He hewed the head from a metallic skeleton and kicked the juddering remains into another. ‘I think it is time that the Warshard came to our aid.’

‘The battle is not yet that far gone,’ argued Meliniel, the words strained not by combat but the prospect of unleashing the aspect of Khaine buried within his soul. ‘If I go, who will command? A headlong rush into the foe will serve us poorly.’

‘Speaking of headlong rushes, what of the Saim-Hann?’ The Visarch smashed the brow of his helm into the shoulder of a necrontyr warrior, forcing its blow to pass harmlessly over Yvraine’s head. ‘Should they not be drawing the attack from us?’

Alorynis leapt into the arm of another foe, dragging down its guard as Yvraine lunged forward, allowing the tip of her blade to sever its neck with one clean strike. The gyrinx dropped from the teleporting carcass to dash between the legs of the next warrior, causing it to stumble into his mistress’ descending sword.

‘They suffer the same adversity as us,’ said the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘Jetbikes and Vypers are of little use against a concentrated foe that desires to protect a static target. The enemy seem wise to our ploy to draw them out and break through with a counter-attack.’

‘Then it is time we had another,’ said Meliniel. ‘I shall summon the final wave.’

‘This is not working,’ Nuadhu declared across the messenger-waves. He gasped as another scarab detonated on the tip of Drake’s Fang, becoming a shower of white-hot droplets spattered along the side of the swooping Vyper. His return sweep parted the bodies of two more, the flashes of their demise cutting bright sparks into his vision. ‘There are too many to destroy in this fashion.’

‘If they are attacking you, our assault towards the necrontyr stasis-temple is spared their attention,’ replied Meliniel. ‘Keep attacking.’

Nuadhu cast his gaze down and to the left, where the Wave Serpents and grav-tanks of the force speared into the flank of the assembling necrontyr warrior phalanx. The thrust through the enemy ranks would soon reach the precinct grounds and allow the transported squads to deploy, dividing the defenders. A further glance at the swarming constructs around the Wild Riders reinforced Nuadhu’s assessment, despite the autarch’s assertions.

‘We will die or be driven off before you have cut through the necrontyr,’ he replied. B’sainnad rolled the Vyper hard as a trio of scarabs tried to grasp a hold of the jetbike’s nose, sending them spinning down the side of the craft, into the flashing blade of Drake’s Fang. ‘We should assist more directly in the breakthrough.’

+There is another way.+

The sudden voice inside Nuadhu’s head caused him to flinch, his next blow almost missing its target, The edge of his spear slashed a wing from a diving scarab, sending the gleaming body trailing jade sparks to the ground below.

The words were accompanied by a sensation of timelessness and deep understanding. The psychic tone hinted at secrets untold, a mind that had traversed both the light and the dark to arrive in its current place. The source needed no other introduction.

Eldrad Ulthran.

+Seek the patterns within the anarchy to divine your target,+ the legendary farseer instructed. +There is a force that guides the attack. Trace it to the source and destroy it.+

As sharply as it had appeared, the presence broke away, before Nuadhu could even acknowledge the farseer’s advice. It was typical seer-talk, at first pass bearing resemblance to a riddle and little else. But the seed sown in the clan heir’s thoughts swiftly grew and bloomed into understanding.

‘Take us a little higher,’ he told B’sainnad, placing a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. His companion complied, angling the Vyper upwards, away from the main swirl of the fighting.

Almost immediately Nuadhu saw the pattern to which Eldrad had directed him. The scarab swarm was made of several interposed components, each following interlaced flight plans that spiralled out from three points within the mass of the necrontyr warriors on the ground below. With his change of perspective, Nuadhu could see the source of the flying constructs. A trio of heavy arachnid-like mechanical drones drifted between the warrior squads, their domed carapaces underlit with fluctuating emerald energy. From this ethereal light emerged more of the smaller constructs, materialised from matter converters, swooping up to reinforce the scarab flights. And it was from this triumvirate of mindless constructs that the scarabs were directed, their complex movements now revealed to be centred around the three spyders.

‘With me, Wild Riders of Saim-Hann!’ Elation spurred Nuadhu as he directed B’sainnad with the tip of his spear and Alean plunged into the swirling morass of flying constructs. ‘Slay the master-constructs and the scarab slaves will falter. Strike swift, clear a path and we shall be rid of these vexatious swarms.’

Minds amplified and linked by the spirit stones of their steeds, the Wild Riders converged on Nuadhu, flying perilously close to each other but never at risk of collision. Shuriken catapults and cannons spat volleys of scarab-slashing discs while the riders rolled and spiralled around their leader, lighting the route into the heart of the necrontyr with a track of detonating scarabs. The heavier weapons of the Vypers scoured tears through the implacable ranks of the necrontyr, who marched onwards heedless of the craft flashing above them, intent upon the grav-vehicles cutting their way towards the main pyramid.

‘Caelledhin, go hence,’ directed Nuadhu, indicating the furthest tomb spyder with his lance. He whipped the weapon to the animating construct on the right. ‘Maethaeregr, take the foe here. I shall eliminate the other. Guard our backs, Halethalas!’

The squadrons of Wild Riders peeled into four, three arrowing towards the scarab-spawning constructs, the fourth circling back to cut fresh swathes through the pursuing swarms, their passage highlighted by emerald detonations. Trusting to his companions to do their part, Nuadhu focused on the spyder before him, Drake’s Fang pulsing in his hands, matching the thunder of his heart.

The spyder drifted rather than walked, its limbs thrashing back and forth beneath its body to conjure new scarabs out of seemingly empty air. Beams of scatter laser and brightlance flashed past, scoring deep wounds upon the curved flanks of the construct while controlled bursts of shuriken fire tore apart the freshly emerging mechanical insects. Arcane energy rippled from beneath the spyder, meshing together the seared carapace wounds, sealing damage amid a surge of jade power.

Nuadhu picked his spot, between the many-lensed head and the sloping plates of the main body. Through the spirit-link B’sainnad felt his intent and eased the Vyper across to compensate, leaving clear the strike on the right-hand side. The spyder moved with cumbersome grace, its sedate movements no match for Nuadhu’s deadly aim.

Drake’s Fang cleaved into the living metal with a thunderous crack of power as B’sainnad wrenched the Vyper away, splitting open the spyder’s shell amid a blinding expulsion of energy. The shock wave lapped over Nuadhu – as a chill wind, not heat, the otherworldly power sapping at his spirit rather than burning flesh. He shivered as awakened recollection flashed ancient memories of spirit-vaults broken open, the transitory panic and wailing of departing souls eating into his heart.

Off balance, he almost fell when B’sainnad pulled them onto a new trajectory to avoid a sudden burst of gauss fire from the surrounding necrontyr. His fingers found the rail of the fighting platform at the last instant, even as the tip of his foot teetered on the edge. He swung away from the Vyper, the blade of Drake’s Fang unintentionally cutting through the metal scalp of a warrior as it laboured to track his progress with a gleaming rifle.

With the bulky arachnid constructs destroyed, the warriors responded to the threat in their midst, a storm of emerald beams lancing up from the homogeneous mass of metal skeletons. Jetbikes fell from the skies and riders disappeared, consumed by crawling fronds of green energy unleashed by the horrific technology of the necrontyr.

‘Into their midst, give them no easy target,’ called Nuadhu. He braced himself again, Drake’s Fang couched under his arm as B’sainnad dropped the Vyper low. ‘Cleave to the ground as you would a loved one!’

The lance tip punched through the chest of a warrior, splitting it apart from groin to neck. Whipping free Drake’s Fang, Nuadhu adjusted his stance, bringing the weapon to bear on another target as it lifted its gauss rifle. To the left and right flashes of emerald discharge announced the arrival of the other Wild Riders, their weapons fire like a plough furrowing a field, slashing welts through the column of living metal warriors. Dissipating animus energy rose in a green vapour from the disrupted bodies, so that in the wake of the jetbikes and Vypers trails of emerald mist drifted among the not-dead.

Something heavy clanged against the nose of Alean, and a cracked skull whirled past Nuadhu, eyes dimming even as it became vapour.

‘We have simply swapped one endless foe with another,’ said Caelledhin, bringing her jetbike alongside. The shuriken cannon slung beneath turned a pair of necrontyr to evaporating shards in a brief burst of fire.

+I descend.+

Nuadhu felt the presence of Eldrad Ulthran stronger than before, and from the throb across the empathic spirit-link knew that his message had not been for the clan heir alone. With these two words came a welter of impressions scorching through Nuadhu’s thoughts in quick succession. It was too fast to accurately recall each, but he felt an overwhelming urge to break off his assault and make for the central pyramid. Around him the Wild Riders spilt formation and crisscrossed each other with intricately arranged attack runs to allow B’sainnad to extricate them from the depths of the necrontyr phalanx. With no prompting from Nuadhu, the pilot turned the Vyper hard, banking towards the spear of Wave Serpents and supporting grav-tanks as they burst through the last of the foe protecting the inner tomb complex.

Nuadhu saw a small cloudcutter piercing the darkening sky-veil. He marvelled at the power to project thought into so many minds at once, over a considerable distance and through the necrontyr null field, even as he resented the coercion that now summoned him to attend to the farseer.

Chapter 19

TO THE VAULT

High-powered weapons lashed down into the cohorts of mechanical warriors, cutting furrows of destruction ahead of the Ynnari advance. Yvraine fought clear of the warriors around her and looked up, Alorynis bounding up to her shoulder. Descending through the clouds, the Beautiful Fury was the image of wrath, its solar sails furled tight, waspish hull silhouetted against the sky while spears of blue energy lanced down into the outskirts of the necrontyr complex. Another atmosphere-capable starship, the Starwander laid a curtain of destruction down upon the necrontyr engulfing the Saim-Hann host. Flights of missiles streamed from the corvette’s batteries, each chasing after a scythe-craft until its target was destroyed in an emerald detonation.

Hemlock wraithfighters flocked down alongside the bombardment, the last of the aerial reserves. A gift from Iyanna Arienal, the former Iyanden attack craft were piloted by spiritseers recruited from various craftworlds, guiding the spirits of the dead that pulsed through the systems of the sleek wraithfighters. Yvraine smiled as ravening warp-tears exploded among the relentless Unliving legion, ripping apart metal skeletons and dragging warriors whole into the other-realm. Against such energies even the necrontyr were powerless, their soulless artificial bodies cast for eternity into the warp where no resurrection teleport could reach.

Flights of Swooping Hawks plunged like vengeful birds of prey, light glittering on their feather-crafted wings. Scatters of grenades fell like seed pods, to blossom into fiery torrents among the scarab swarms. Into these holes dived the Aspect Warriors, lasblasters scything into the warriors below.

The aeldari of Yvraine and Saim-Hann pushed fast into the gaps, shuriken catapults, needle rifles and more arcane weapons annihilating those foes that had been spared the rage from the skies. Yvraine ran, her Bloodbrides at her side, but the necrontyr were scorched away beneath the torrent of fire from her companions, like flesh cut by the edge of Kha-vir.

‘Quickly now!’ she called to her followers, projecting her voice across the messenger-waves. ‘The way ahead lies open. We need only secure the vault and victory shall be within our grasp.’

The shock of the aerial assault and renewed ground attack was too much for the ranks of necrontyr warriors. Their self-healing metal bodies were no match for the storm of gunfire, the teleportal arches crackling with fronds of escaping power as they tried to summon even more fighters from the catacombs.

Yvraine felt the earth underfoot change to hardened pavement, and realised they had finally reached the outer precincts of the tomb complex. She could see the main pyramid ahead on her right, perfectly centred between the seven towering defence-mounts that bounded the valley-city. The air around the vault shimmered with interference, a projection between tall needle-like structures. Some kind of defence field, she assumed.

‘Have the starships targ–’ Her command was interrupted by a sudden flexing of the air above the city. Like a storm in full electrical fury, the cloud about the complex convulsed with forks of emerald power. Discharges leapt up in response from the guard-mountains, arcs of blinding energy that snaked along the hulls of the corvettes. Smaller flares struck the whirling wraithfighters, cracking open their fuselages and tearing away wings. Yvraine stumbled as she watched a whole squad of Swooping Hawks struck by one of the deadly bolts, turned to falling jade-gleaming ash in an instant.

The starships pulled away, struggling against the storm as if gripped by fingers of electrical power. The Starwander managed to rip itself free, pieces of superstructure falling away as it tore from the net of overlapping discharges. The Beautiful Fury, being somewhat lower, fared poorly. Engines gleaming white with effort, the attack ship listed heavily while green arcs shattered another stabilising fin. Escape craft scattered like seed pods in a wind as the ship inverted fully, its spine snapped, dorsal galleries shattering like crushed glass.

Staggering to a halt, Yvraine was transfixed by the unfolding demise of the corvette. It was only when she saw the green sheen of necrontyr energy reflected on the blade of the Sword of Sorrows that she realised the glow’s source was not the ongoing display of annihilation playing out overhead.

The trenchways and apertures that turned the complex floor into a maze blazed with fresh energy. Huge slabs snarled out of sight to reveal ramps into the depths, while widening holes flickered with resurrection power, casting long shadows from the distracted aeldari caught amongst them.

Rising with dreadful purpose, monolithic engines coalesced from the streaming energies, each a fresh gateway into the necrontyr undercity. Mobile portals, these machines vomited forth a fresh wave of necrontyr warriors, while other constructs, sleeker and more heavily armed, marched from the tombs.

The ground shook, almost throwing Yvraine from her feet. Steep-sided edifices peeled apart, splitting along geometric divides to reveal floating barges crammed with necrontyr. Elevated above the mass of advancing defenders, these craft streamed with sepulchral power, the gleaming eyes of their riders fixed upon the invaders.

A shout from behind drew her attention to the Visarch, who pointed to a Wave Serpent swooping low over the forests below.

‘Meliniel calls a carriage for us,’ declared her self-appointed bodyguard.

‘Indeed,’ the autarch answered. ‘There is yet time to reach the pyramid.’

Orchestrated by Meliniel, a flotilla of raiders, Wave Serpents, Falcons and other transports swept through the emerging mass of necrontyr, cutting left and right with precise volleys of fire to hold back the growing counter-attack. Kabalite squads and Aspect Warriors surged back towards their craft while Yvraine and her companions dashed to the closest. Meliniel joined them at the ramp, cloak flowing in the speed of his passage.

‘One last attack,’ he told Yvraine as they raced inside. ‘The Wild Riders are cutting through to us as well, two blades aimed at the necrontyr heart. We have one chance only.’

‘And if we fail?’ asked Yvraine, knowing that the autarch had considered the possibility in some detail.

Meliniel sat down opposite as Yvraine settled onto the bench, the lurch of the Wave Serpent’s ascent unusually strong. ‘Eldrad is being conveyed by another escort, to meet us at the pyramid. We shall be in the heart of the tomb complex, surrounded by foes. The lightning field prevents any aerial route of escape.’

‘We die,’ said the Visarch, answering the question more abruptly. ‘If we fail, we die.’

Meliniel looked at the crimson-armoured champion and reluctantly nodded.

More and more necrontyr war engines ascended from the glowing depths. With Alean soaring over the resurgent phalanxes of warriors, Nuadhu had a perfect – and concerning – view of the whole complex. Lifted on beds of jade energy, grand engines evolved from the death barges of their ancient civilisation slid ponderously along the avenues of statues and relief-marked spires. Cannons crackling, batteries of mobile gun platforms that rivalled the Vyper in size spread along the perimeter of the tombscape, cutting off any retreat.

‘They mean to trap us,’ called Caelledhin. ‘If we do not leave now, there will be no way out.’

Nuadhu understood her worry, and though it burned his pride to consider withdrawal he was the clan heir and the destiny of his family was at stake. Fighting back the desire for a glorious battle, he watched the spear of Ynnari grav-tanks and transports thrusting deeper into the necrontyr host. The storm above had relented slightly, flaring across the remnants of the starship still held within its net of insubstantial limbs. Glancing over his shoulder he took in the squadron of jetbikes and Vypers of his Wild Riders, and the swathe of scarlet warriors and machines from across the clans that accompanied them. Among them he picked out the Wave Serpent carrying his father, flanked by a pair of Fire Prisms.

‘We cannot abandon Yvraine,’ he declared, broadcasting his message to all of the Saim-Hann forces. As he spoke, he channelled the raw emotion coursing through him, the unfettered fear, hope and desire fuelling his words. ‘Though it would seem foolish to nourish our honour with fresh blood after so much has been spilt without effect, it would render folly those lives already spent to relent in our purpose now. Our prize is within reach, we have but to render ourselves the strength to strive that little harder for its conclusion. Glory and honour may not feed our children, nor defend our families against death, but they are the foundations of the future that Saim-Hann must build. It is not to hide in the shadows that we were born, but to blaze across the stars. What cost is death if our legacy lives on? Let no fear stall us, no discomfort slow us, no foe bar us. Fate has laid at our feet the path to greatness, only the blind would not follow it!’

B’sainnad guided the Vyper towards the central pyramid, the Wild Riders swarming after, squadrons of scarlet spreading out to either side as the rest of the craftworld host followed.

Nuadhu clung to the feeling of exultation as warrior-laden barges turned towards them, gleaming with spectral energy. It was in the nature of his unfettered mind that he embraced all parts of experience to the fullest, encountering the heights and depths of his aeldari psyche. Confronted by the amassing necrontyr legion, if he did not climb to the peaks of joy at the challenge presented he would surely succumb to the abyss of despair.

Now that Yvraine had awakened the heart of his spirit – or whatever it was that she had done to him – Nuadhu found it easier to find that place in his soul unburdened by fear. Consciously he had his reservations about the Opener of the Seventh Way and her plans for the aeldari race, but there was certainly a part of him where the fear of death had been locked away that was now removed.

‘Let us carve the names of our clans into the heart of the foe, and be remembered until the ending of our people! Let those that seek immortality strike their names upon history to earn it.’

Slicing across the awakening tomb city, the Wild Riders led the charge. Vyper weapons spewed volleys of energy into the oncoming necrontyr while missile launchers and star cannons pulsed destruction from the following grav-tanks. Shuriken weapons shredded swathes through the re-emerging infantry below as squadrons swerved between the towering temple-constructs.

The Saim-Hann force split, the bulk of the Wild Riders peeling away back towards the outskirts, their gunners lashing punishing fire into their pursuers as lumbering tomb-barges turned after them. Nuadhu and a small cadre of his followers arced over the needle-spires and towers to join the Wave Serpents and their more heavily armed escorts, punching directly towards the pyramid. From almost directly ahead, on the opposite side, the Ynnari slashed their own course through the monolithic teleporter-engines and soaring weapons platforms of the necrontyr.

A transport-barque reared up ahead of the Saim-Hann charge, jade energy playing along its rib-like flanks as the necrontyr warriors within were awakened from their slumber. Gleaming eyes fixed upon the Wild Riders while arrays of gauss flayers crackled into life along its sides.

With no word spoken, Nuadhu urged B’sainnad directly towards the Unliving abomination. Spears of laser pulses flashed past, striking molten welts across the living metal of the barge as Alean screamed closer. At the last instant B’sainnad slewed the Vyper hard to the left and Nuadhu leapt from his platform, Drake’s Fang held before him. The tip sheared through the chest-plate of the first skeletal warrior as he landed, and continued onwards to pierce the one behind it.

Warriors rose slowly from their stasis crouches as he continued along the ventral channel, cutting them down as they roused from dormancy. The head of his lance gleamed with energy and droplets of liquid metal sizzled across the blade, dancing with their own life as they attempted to reunite with the decapitated and dismembered necrontyr warriors behind him. Surrounded by the sparks of the collapsing stasis field, Nuadhu chopped the head from the last of the incumbents, and darted a look aside to see other arks spinning to the ground trailing flame and broken warriors from the combined fire of Falcons and Fire Prisms, the fractured carcasses raked with further volleys from twisting Wild Rider squadrons.

The liquid metal under his feet melted away as the ark initiated its recall protocols. In moments it would transfer back to its vault below the surface, potentially taking Nuadhu with it.

Sensing B’sainnad closing from the right, the Wild Lord vaulted up to one of the rib-like spars that had held the necrontyr and leapt without looking, landing gracefully upon his platform as Alean sped past. A heartbeat later, the ark had faded from view.

Cohorts of warriors marched from yawning rampways and the glimmer of monolithic portals heralded the arrival of even more, but the Wild Rider host of Saim-Hann had broken through and there was clear air – and ground – between them and their objective.

Nuadhu recalled the boundary markers from his previous visit, though at that time they had been inert. The seven needle-towers crackled with necrontyr energy, occasionally linked together by lightning-like discharges. Their purpose was not defence – at least in any normal sense – for Nuadhu could see aeldari craft passing into the inner reaches of the tomb complex without effect. Even so, he suspected some excoriating blast to consume him and B’sainnad as they raced across the tomb’s perimeter. The unsettling sensation he had encountered on the first expedition was increased tenfold, as though his insides had been flipped outwards and his skin turned inwards. His thoughts similarly turned about for an instant, simultaneously crushed into an impossibly small point and expanded to infinite breadth.

Also afflicted, B’sainnad lost control of the Vyper for a heartbeat, and recovered just in time to stop them screaming into the flat ground.

The light was different within the border, suffused with an ochre taint. Hot air burned in his lungs where just before he had breathed in the chill of Agarimethea. The whine of other craft filled the air as raiders and Wave Serpents slowed and circled, the Wild Riders of Nuadhu braking hard behind him as they entered the otherworldly vista.

‘Where are we?’ said B’sainnad, slowing Alean.

The question brought home the strangeness of their environs, confirming that the environment had drastically changed. Yet the features remained consistent. The pyramid and its surrounds had not moved, only the forest was no more, replaced with arid wasteland, the sky overcast with turbulent dust clouds kept at bay by warding screens.

‘I think it may be more a case of when are we…?’ whispered Nuadhu.

Chapter 20

THE PANTHEITIKHON OPENS

Yvraine’s attention fluctuated between the immobile form of Eldrad Ulthran as he regarded the glimmering pyramid, and the fresh surge of fighting that burst across the perimeter of the tomb complex. The hiss of shuriken catapults and crackle of gauss rifles added a disharmonious backdrop to the scene. Now and then her gaze was drawn to the golden pyramid and the oscillating runes upon its surface, but she could still make no sense of the shifting inscriptions.

Just behind her a knot of scarlet broke the crimson of Ynnead’s warriors, where Clan Fireheart looked at their surroundings with interest. Nuadhu’s gaze was fixed upon the pyramid, perhaps reliving the moment he had awoken it, or transfixed by its appearance. Naiall and his seer, Alyasa, were in quiet conference while the clan chieftain imbibed another of his sustaining elixirs. The potion had little effect on the sagging leader, though Yvraine felt a flutter of psychic strength and a surge in the other presence she detected.

Yvraine returned her attention to Eldrad.

‘Can it be deciphered?’ she asked, gown billowing as she strode across the central plaza, the only one of the present company bold enough to address the farseer.

+That is a polite way of asking if I can decipher these writings.+

‘They seem so familiar,’ said Druthkhala. ‘More like drukhari ideograms than craftworlder runes.’

‘Yes.’ The others flinched to hear Eldrad speak. His voice was resonant even without the amplification of the messenger device in his helm. The farseer’s head turned to look at the Bloodbride, eye-lenses shimmering in the auric gleam. ‘What does it say to you?’

‘I cannot read it,’ replied Druthkhala.

‘Guess.’

The Bloodbride shook her head.

‘I cannot. The script is meaningless to me.’

‘Yet it is aeldari, even if ancient in origin.’

‘We do not have time for this diverting but pointless conversation,’ insisted the Visarch, a nod of the head indicating the fighting that had erupted not far away. Though she had dulled the input of the messenger bead in her ear, Yvraine could well imagine the waves being alive with the orders and reports of those fighting for their lives at the boundary of the tomb vault. Her kin were dying, their spirits trapped within the prison of cooling flesh that had been their bodies, the pressure of the necrontyr anti-psychic wards enough to chain a soul to its physical incarnation. In contrast, the regular buzz of necrontyr bodies transitioning back to their resurrection tombs was clear, sudden flashes of static across her perception though they were utterly soulless.

She focused again on the runes, her desire to know what lay within almost unbearable, as was the frustration of her ignorance.

‘Why would it have aeldari script?’ said Nuadhu. ‘Why would the necrontyr use the language of our ancestors?’

‘They would not,’ replied Eldrad. ‘But you might say that our ancestors used the language of the necrontyr, or a divergent child of it.’

‘But these are clearly aeldari runes, as you said,’ insisted Yvraine. ‘Not a proto-language shared by the Old Ones. The style is ancient, but definitely of our people.’

‘Then perhaps if I was allowed a little more time to think, I might unravel this linguistic knot,’ grumbled the farseer, moving away from the others with staff held up so that its gleaming head illuminated the writing. His head tilted occasionally from side to side, as if reading the runes sideways.

‘Last time we were here, Nuadhu touched the pyramid,’ said Druthkhala, stealing forward to stand beside her mistress. She threw an inquiring look at the clan heir. ‘Perhaps he should do so again?’

‘Not I!’ gasped the Wild Rider. ‘Its discharge threw me across the plaza and even now I feel the pain in my bones.’

‘Yet it reacted?’ Eldrad’s movement was sudden and incisive, stalking towards Nuadhu with a finger pointing. ‘You laid flesh upon the surface?’

‘My palm outwards,’ he confirmed, acting the gesture. ‘Upon the rune-metal itself.’

‘Interesting,’ said the seer, turning back towards the vault-stone. Yvraine followed his gaze as he looked up and down the steep-sided edifice, but could no more make out the meaning of the runes than she could have translated the strange chittering of the wraiths that had attacked their brief encampment.

‘Alright,’ said Nuadhu, striding forwards, shoulders hunched. ‘I’ll do it.’

Eldrad whipped round the Staff of Ulthamar, its point coming to rest just in front of the Wild Rider as he made to step past.

‘Not yet,’ insisted the farseer. ‘Perhaps it is not the physical touch that awakens the vault, but that it conveyed your spirit-presence within the null field of the necrontyr. Though it weighs heavily upon my thoughts, I am not so bound by the mortal shell as you.’

He pushed Nuadhu back a few steps within his staff, and then turned fully towards the pyramid with the Staff of Ulthamar raised high in both hands. A golden lambency played about his ghosthelm and Yvraine felt the faintest stuttering of psychic power. Her gaze moved from the seer to the object of his attention, desperate to see some reaction to his psychic probing.

‘There!’ Nuadhu’s shout startled them all, save for Eldrad, who stood as still as an inhabitant of a craftworld’s dome of crystal seers. The clan heir pointed to the foundation stones, and more specifically the runes planted upon them.

There was indeed a matching shimmer from the ideograms, though Yvraine at first dismissed it as simple reflections of the light from Eldrad. Yet as she watched, the reflection impossibly spread, becoming brighter as it leapt from one rune to the next, climbing up the side of the pyramid and coursing along the other faces. Sparks danced between the runes, red and silver, black and green, their convoluted streams forming other runeshapes in the after-shadows across her eyes.

‘It’s opening!’ Druthkhala’s declaration was unnecessary. Everyone present could see the silver thread that seemed to run from the base of the pyramid to its tip.

At the same instant, Yvraine felt a surge of connection, a sudden influx of the Whisper. Not of her kin fighting still at the boundary, but from within the vault itself. It remained muted, muffled beneath the layers of construction, but unmistakably a frisson of warp power.

The crack emitted a keening cry, short and piercing, and a sudden blue bolt leapt from the summit to earth along Eldrad, It sparked violently from his rune armour. He stood shuddering in its coruscating grip for several heartbeats, arcs of energy playing around his upraised staff. Then, with ponderous momentum, he fell backwards and crashed upon the plaza flags.

He lay unmoving.

Others started towards him but a fresh wail screeched from the opening vault halted them. Silver poured across the plaza, the colour of reflected moonlight. It was almost a liquid, moving with fluid slowness as it spilled from the widening gap in the pyramid.

Yvraine stared at the encroaching gleam as though it were a pool of acid about to swallow her, filled with foreboding. She stood rooted to the spot as it flowed across Eldrad’s inert body and settled upon her.

The sensation she had thought was the Whisper was anything but that. The voice of Ynnead was drowned in her thoughts by a triumphant laughter, part titter of excitement and part guffaw of deep amusement. As the light fell upon her arm she felt a shiver of touch, as though delicate fingers caressed her skin beneath her bodysuit. Her flesh responded with agony, sending needles of pain shooting through, as if her bones had erupted spines where the insubstantial fingers had traced across her body. The amusement intensified, and became a lascivious purr.

Hot breath on her neck set her heart racing with fear. A presence just out of sight, to the side, behind her if she turned her head, stripping her down to her soul with an unblinking gaze.

Yvraine felt utterly alone. Her scream choked in her throat, lungs tight with dread and gut churning with the horror of the light that folded about her in an unwelcome embrace.

A yowl of anger and a scratch across her cheek broke the spell. Alorynis sat upon her shoulder, a drop of Yvraine’s blood dripping from his extended claw. Hissing, the gyrinx bared his fangs at the apparitions shimmering from the silver portal-light.

Jade beams laced the heavens, slicing between the twirling squadrons of aeldari craft. From below, necrontyr defences spat their deadly rays from the broken forests; from above, the scythe-craft dived to the attack again and again, every pass accompanied by the soul-leeching wail of otherworldly engines. The air itself boiled with the dissipating energy of brightlances and scatter lasers, while missile trails and the blossom of rocket detonations marked the passage of interceptors. Flights of bombers unleashed the last of their payloads upon the forces gathered about the tomb complex, the shuddering burst of seismic bombs and sonic detonators accompanied by plasma blasts and the furious hunger of living flame.

The dawnsail dropped near-vertically, pivoting about its centre to fall between the crossing rays of two necrontyr attack craft. Their minds enmeshed, Aradryan and Tzibilakhu pulsed the engines and rolled the craft simultaneously, punching it past the swooping attack run of another scythe-ship. A Hemlock fighter flashed past, stabs of deadly light from its wings piercing the necrontyr. The scythe-craft splintered like glass, the broken pieces falling to vapour as it teleported back to its reconstitution chamber.

+How much longer?+ asked Aradryan.

+How would I know?+

There had been nothing from Yvraine and her task force since they had passed into the shield-barrier of the inner tomb. Not a single flutter upon the Whisper nor the briefest communication across the messenger-waves.

+What if they are dead?+ Aradryan thought the question at the same time as he pulled the dawnsail into a steep, climbing turn. Bolts of deadly energy chased them from pylon-cannons in the forest below. +Are we to die while we wait for them?+

+If needed.+ Tzibilakhu engaged the main thrusters, powering the craft out of range of the alien guns. +We will not abandon the Opener of the Seventh Way.+

+So what if they need rescuing?+

Aradryan cast his thoughts through the main sensors of the dawnsail to witness the legion of necrontyr warriors converging on the hazy silhouette of the central pyramid. Jetbikes and grav-tanks, Commorraghan Ravagers and squads of Aspect Warriors slashed through the advancing cohorts, but with each passing moment the aeldari forces were being pressed back further and further. A fresh wave of destroyer-skimmers rose from a trench-break and set off after scattering Wild Rider Vypers. Soon Yvraine’s forces would have their backs to the energy wall and with no space to manoeuvre their end would become inevitable.

Yet there was no way to aid them. Defences ringed the precinct, ready to rip through any aircraft attempting to land. In the air above the pylons scythe-craft patrolled, darting forward in coordinated forays when they sensed a vulnerable foe, content to circle menacingly when they did not.

Sharp urgency across the connection with Tzibilakhu snapped him back to their immediate situation just in time to detect three scythe-craft converging on their position. There was no aeldari fighter within range.

+We have to run,+ he pulsed.

+We need to evade,+ Tzibilakhu replied. +We cannot outpace them.+

+We can climb higher, orbital if needed.+

+No! We must remain close to help!+

A flash of jade power screamed across the divide, missing the wing by a shockingly narrow margin. Aradryan acted rather than thought, his instinct to wrench the dawnsail away from the line of attack. Tzibilakhu thought otherwise, seeking to drop below the rising enemy fighters. The fuselage squealed its protest and a pain-like sensation flared along the dawnsail’s subsystems.

The drop-craft foundered like a ship hitting a reef, its sudden stall fortunately dropping it below the next flurry of necrontyr death rays.

Without needing any prompting, he submitted himself to Tzibilakhu’s will again, letting her lead the flight. Banking hard, they raced for the cover of the trees, daring the ground fire in preference to the interceptors.

+Too late.+ Tzibilakhu’s verdict was delivered with resignation rather than fear.

It was true. Aradryan could feel the trio of scythe-craft sweeping around to either side, two to the left, one on the right. It would be only a matter of moments before they opened fire again, and there was nowhere for the dawnsail to turn.

Regret welled up, swiftly followed by anger. The promise of everlasting spirit-immortality suddenly felt like raw compensation for the loss of fleshly endeavour. He was not afraid, not after Yvraine had lifted the curse of She Who Thirsts, but it seemed such a waste of potential now that he had found a purpose. Ever since he had felt sundered from his friends on Alaitoc he had been craving a direction to his life. He had finally found a creed to which he belonged and now he was going to die.

Aradryan let out a howl of frustration.

He cast about for some source of salvation, a fighter racing to their rescue, a break in the trees into which they could plunge.

There was nothing.

Tzibilakhu’s spirit cleaved tight to his, a psychic embrace in the face of their imminent mortal end. It felt like daggers through his eyes but he relished the sensation all the same, a last biological thrill before his body perished.

An instant before opening fire the scythe-craft broke off their attack runs.

Aradryan gasped, shock like ice cast across his body.

The necrontyr hurtled back towards the pyramid. Everywhere, alien craft wheeled away from the aeldari flyers, their screeches silenced. The quiet of their departure was even more unsettling than their screaming attacks.

+That bodes ill,+ thought Aradryan.

It seemed to be a sentiment shared across the remaining craft and squadrons. Possessed of the same thought, Phoenix bombers and Vampire raiders, drop-craft and interceptors, Nightwing fighters and Crimson Hunter Aspect Warriors chased after the departing necrontyr.

Minds in union once more, Aradryan and Tzibilakhu turned the dawnsail towards the tomb complex and accelerated hard.

The crack widened and the howling increased, becoming an almost physical assault upon the senses. Within the brightness, shapes moved. Nuadhu stood entranced by the writhing, coiling shadows where he had expected nothing of the sort. The howling became a far softer susurration, whispering into his ear of deep desires and dreams fulfilled, Unbidden, his gaze moved to Druthkhala, who stood in rapt attention staring into the light.

The clan heir saw himself with the Bloodbride, not simply lovers but rulers of a world, of a star system – a king and queen worshipped by their followers. The adoring masses chanted the name of the Wild King and brought exotic tribute from distant worlds to lay at his feet. His word was their law, his whim their greatest wish to obey.

Freedom beckoned. Freedom from clan and craftworld, the bonds to his people cast aside like shattered manacles. They held nothing over him; he was free to indulge his slightest desire without fear, while the scrabbling masses clawed at each other for the smallest hint of his favour. They sung praises to his greatness, to utter his name a reward in itself.

And his foes… Their polished bones were a palatial beauty, laid before him in appeasement of his anger. No slight went unanswered. Those that had scorned him, had brought low his clan, were laid upon the pyres of perfumed flames, the flesh of the wrongdoers consumed for his delight. The meekest insubordination was crushed; only those utterly loyal to the Wild King endured.

But the cooked flesh of his enemies was ashes in his mouth. The praises of his followers were hollow shrieks of despair begging for mercy from a deity that cared nothing for them. Friend and family alike fell beneath his ire, for he would suffer none to eclipse him. Even Druthkhala was torn apart by his fanatics, for daring to look upon him with anything other than abject adoration.

The emptiness gnawed at him, demanding more praise to fill the hollowness of his soul. Immortality was his, but it stretched before him like an endless waste, a wilderness of his own creation in which to lose himself. There was no sustenance, no stimulation, for all that had been worthwhile was rendered into dust. There was no adversity to overcome, no challenge against which he might define himself.

The frozen wastes permeated his being, creeping in where the fire of passion had once burned. Like the glorious star that must still succumb to the turning of aeons, his life stretched out beyond all mortal measure. The pain of existence consumed him atom by atom until nothing but a cold heart of resentment remained.

Weeping tears of his family’s blood, he begged for forgiveness, for the misery to end, and truly knew that he was damned not blessed. This was the horror of the Great Enemy. Not to be devoured and come to an ending, but to endure ever after as part of the ravening entity that had been created out of the warped psyche of the aeldari. A god of inevitable self-consumption that did not seek to destroy its creators but embraced them in the depravity of their own demise.

Wretched and immortal, he slew himself again and again, only to be revived by the power that sustained him, thrown back into a universe that was agony to inhabit.

Death. He yearned for it. Amid his own incensed shrieking he longed for the silence of oblivion. Alight among the fire of his own tortured senses he craved the stillness of nothing.

And then came the power that would carry him to that shadowed place. A breeze that became a wind, that became a hurricane, ripping him free from the grasp of She Who Thirsts. Tossed upon its currents, he abandoned himself to the merciless elements, finding release in the embrace of the Whispering God.

The golden light faded, replaced by the image of Yvraine bathed in a white fire. The Opener of the Seventh Way levitated beside Eldrad’s crumpled body, buoyed by a whirling mirage of spirits, the flicker of vacant faces curving about her.

Swallowing hard, blinking back hot tears, body trembling with sensation and fatigue, Nuadhu looked again into the opening vault.

He knew what he would see. The visions that had struck him still burned through his thoughts, even though the piercing cold of Yvraine’s intervention robbed them of their seductive power.

A single figure stepped from the arch of golden power that stretched over the pyramid, no taller than an aeldari, and as slight of build. The creature was neither male nor female, possessed of delicate features and a single breast, the face an almost perfect oval with slit nose and eyes like black gemstones. One limb ended in a claw, long and serrated, the other a three-fingered hand with spindly, multi-jointed digits that moved in disturbing ways. It was almost white of skin, below the surface not a tracery of veins but a glittering energy, feeding from the auric pulsing of the opening vault.

A daemonette, lesser servant of She Who Thirsts.

The abomination raised its claw, beckoning, and distended its mouth, tongue licking out as a ululating call sounded.

And from the glow of their prison, a daemon horde poured forth.

Chapter 21

A TERRIBLE REVERSAL

The plaza resounded with the scratch of claws and pound of cloven feet as the tide of immaterial creatures burst forth from their confinement, spilling towards Nuadhu and the other aeldari. A chorus of lilting voices sang hymns to the Prince of Pleasure, simultaneously horrifying and uplifting, incomprehensible daemontongue yet thrumming upon the spirit of all that heard them. Riders emerged bearing horns and harps, their keening and strumming forming the rhythm to which the host marched. Yet ‘march’ was too formal a word, for though the daemonettes and the serpentine steeds of the musicians moved in time, they did so not as formal units but with shared undulating grace, as though choreographed. The host of nightmarish beasts and daemons moved with effortless swiftness like a spreading pool that threatened to encircle the bedazzled aeldari.

Nuadhu’s breath came in choked gasps as packs of bipedal jewel-eyed fiends burst from the throng of daemonettes, lash-tongues tasting the fear of the aeldari on the warming air. Snake-like manifestations writhed through the mass of incorporeal foes, their bodies flexing gilded scales, gusts of perfumed breath issuing from puckered spiracles along their flanks. Glittering, moth-winged figures with blades for arms and whiptails ascended above the growing host, flitting back and forth while the whispers from their needle-fanged mouths joined the orchestral chanting.

Yvraine stood over the fallen shape of Eldrad, the Sword of Sorrows burning in her fist. The Visarch arrived at her side as two of the Coiled Blade dashed forward to lift the seer upon their shoulders, the Staff of Ulthamar clattering from his weak grip. Another of the scarlet-clad incubi scooped up the farseer’s staff and together they withdrew towards the Wave Serpents.

Seeing a cluster of long-snouted fiends galloping towards his father, Nuadhu broke into a run, shouting a warning. The others of Clan Fireheart turned their weapons on the dashing monstrosities, meeting them with a hail of shurikens and the whine of the Fire Dragons’ fusion guns, while behind Nuadhu the air buzzed with anti-grav motors as the handful of Wild Riders that had followed him into the inner complex raced skyward. Across the plaza the Ynnari unleashed the ire of their weapons, splinter rifles hissing their wrath alongside the snap of scatter lasers and shriek of focused plasma.

Reaching Naiall, Nuadhu stooped to pick up the chieftain while the others of the household formed up around them.

‘Let me.’ He turned to discover one of the Fire Dragons reaching out an arm, her fusion gun held in the other hand. He refused, before realising that it was Marifsa. Nodding, he helped Naiall to almost fall across the shoulder of the chieftain’s sister and she retreated to the company of her shrine-kin, gleaming beams of condensed radiation from their weapons cutting down handfuls of daemons.

With Drake’s Fang in both hands, Nuadhu stood with legs braced waiting for the next enemy. He heard a rustle of cloth beside him and felt the chill presence of Yvraine at his shoulder, the crimson shadow of the Visarch just beside her.

‘Brave, but pointless,’ said the emissary’s bodyguard to Nuadhu.

Already a hundred and more daemons had breached through from their containment and there seemed no end to their numbers.

‘I cannot see that the necrontyr would go to all of this trouble to contain a few score of daemons,’ said Yvraine, eyes narrowed against the golden gleam of the open vault. ‘We might face thousands or tens of thousands.’

An extra-sensory impulse alerted Nuadhu to the rapid approach of B’sainnad aboard Alean. He gave a nod to Yvraine and leapt without looking, somersaulting backwards onto the platform of the Vyper as it swooped past. His last sight of the Opener of the Seventh Way was of her withdrawing towards the Wave Serpents, the Bloodbrides like a ring of red about her, while Ynnari squads fell back alongside, their guns obliterating any daemon that came too close. Overhead, Swooping Hawks levelled their lasblasters at the whirling daemons above the encroaching host, fending off their darting forays.

B’sainnad accelerated while banking hard, forcing Nuadhu to cling on to the rail lest he be dropped to the hard ground rushing below. Ahead, the pylons crackled with their barely contained power, fronds of green energy licking along their flanks and arcing across the great divides between them.

As they flew directly towards the insubstantial barrier, still gaining speed, the clan heir fervently hoped that the ethereal wall was more a barrier to the daemonic than the mortal.

From outside the tomb complex the full effect of the breached warp-vault was clear to Nuadhu. The spreading umbra that had fallen upon the surrounding woods flickered and churned, lit from within by multicoloured streaks. The lightning that had danced between the tower peaks flared into the skies in constant streams, like beacons projected towards the heavens.

As the Wild Riders raced along the tomb-lined valley, Nuadhu noticed the lack of enemy fire. In the skies, scythe-ships that had duelled with the aeldari craft turned back towards the vault complex, while the low-altitude skimmers that accompanied them swept through the trees, making all speed for their catacomb city. The legion of warriors had turned about, expanding their ranks to broader lines that started to encircle the inner edifices.

Of the daemons themselves Nuadhu at first saw nothing. Hidden with the stasis veil of the vault precinct the pyramid appeared as it had since his first arrival on Agarimethea. It was illusion, of course, now revealed as such by the host that had sprung forth from within its towering walls.

Yet as the Vypers ascended the slope of the valley, still twisting and turning to evade fire from the ground weapons that did not come, the Wild Riders’ commander saw movement in the barrier wall. His hope that it might contain the spreading daemonic taint was shattered when the flitting shapes of mothkin and speeding fiends broke the rippling air, forerunners of the greater part of the army yet to issue forth. With their escape the inner pylons exploded, shards of black, living metals and golden circuitry cast high into the air upon green flames.

The veil thinned, revealing the inner precinct, thronged with thousands of daemons. Necrontyr skimmers raced back and forth raking beams of devastating light across the spreading mass, but as deadly as their weapons were to the living, the immaterial manifestations of the Dark Powers drew their energy from a source anathema to the living dead. Spawn of the warp, the daemons shrugged aside scintillating rays that could sluice apart grav-tanks, while gauss beams that would strip a mortal creature to atoms in a few heartbeats passed through them without effect.

Even as the sight dwindled with distance, the vista took on a more abstract sense, of a silvery ring distending to the thrusts of brightly coloured energy within its circumference. Just before Alean reached the ridge and passed out of view, the clan heir saw the constricting circle broken in places, the pink and pale purple flow within bursting forth like liquid from a pierced vessel.

‘Where to?’ asked B’sainnad, slowing the Vyper as they descended the other side of the encircling mountain ridge. Wherever Nuadhu looked he saw the aeldari in retreat. Vampire hunters and Nightwings circled in their patrols overhead, keeping clear of the tortured penumbra that writhed above the tomb complex. Grav-tanks and transports slid back through the shattered trunks of the forest, following the artificial trails cut down by ravaging gauss weapons and energy cannons that had defended the outskirts. Flashes of red and blue, bone and black between the broken trees betrayed the presence of squads retreating on foot, their withdrawal overseen by flights of Crimson Hunters and wing-borne Swooping Hawks.

Nuadhu searched for the crimson of the Ynnari among the scarlet of Saim-Hann, and spied a trio of Wave Serpents skimming low over the forest canopy to his right, escorted by Falcons and Fire Prisms. With them travelled a solitary Fireheart transport, his father’s personal dragon sigil emblazoned along its hull. Turning his gaze ahead of their flightpath he saw the settled dawnsails and other landers of the Ynnari fleet, a flock of Nightwing fighters darting back and forth above them. He pitched his voice in the manner that would activate his messenger-wave transmitter.

‘Yvraine! Are we to conclude that this endeavour has failed?’ He flinched as a convulsion of bright light scorched across the necrontyr cloud cover, almost consuming it entirely to leave a glittering haze in its place. ‘There are no treasures of the dominion to be retrieved.’

He leaned over the rail to grasp B’sainnad’s shoulder, silently urging the pilot to turn their Vyper towards the Wave Serpents.

‘We cannot know for sure what is contained within the vault,’ replied Yvraine. ‘I will not give up the search without knowing for certain that it is without merit.’

‘A tide of the Great Enemy’s spite has poured forth from the crypt-vault!’ Nuadhu wondered that he even had to mention this overwhelming truth. ‘We cannot fight both the necrontyr and the daemons. Agarimethea is a lost cause to us.’

‘I never thought the lord of the Wild Riders to be a coward.’

‘Save your manipulation, Yvraine. It is my family that have given their lives in this fool’s errand. We were mistaken. I was wrong. You may think each death a worthy step towards the ascension of Ynnead but I would rather my kin enjoy life for a lot longer.’

‘There is no life beyond death, only damnation. If you truly loved your people as I love mine, you would see that only in becoming Reborn can they escape the fate of our kind.’

Ahead, the group of Wave Serpents slowed, circling down to the summit of a broad hill studded with shattered tree trunks. Naiall’s transport followed, nestling amongst the other grav-tanks.

‘Perhaps the necrontyr and warp spawn will break each other,’ suggested B’sainnad as he guided the Vyper towards the gathering aeldari host. Wild Riders and more transports settled on the long slopes of the hill and squads dispersed into the scatters of woodland to stand guard against attack.

‘Yet still a war we cannot win,’ replied Nuadhu. ‘For the survivors of both will quickly be bolstered by the returned fallen, whether manifested from the Realm of Chaos or teleported from the resurrection catacombs.’

Despite his protestation, Nuadhu’s thoughts lingered on Yvraine’s words as Alean settled. He dismounted and hurried towards the Wave Serpents, calling for his father. The Wave Serpent’s ramp was open, the Fire Dragons with Marifsa standing sentry beside it. Nuadhu’s aunt stepped forward from the squad to intercept the Wild Rider lord, a hand held out.

‘Your father sleeps,’ she said curtly.

Though she had always been sure in her manner, the war mask of her aspect turned her words into an aggressive growl. Nuadhu could feel the psychic heat of her anger, as though in front of a furnace with its door closed, contained but threatening to break free. She had once tried to explain the war mask to him, as had Caelledhin when she had been a Dire Avenger, but their analogies of placing their fury into a vessel to be opened only in war made little sense to one who let his emotions have free rein.

‘Nuadhu.’ Hearing his name spoken by the Visarch, he turned to see Yvraine’s bodyguard beckoning for him at the foot of another Wave Serpent ramp. ‘Eldrad stirs.’

‘Is father safe?’ he asked Marifsa, taking a half-step towards the Ynnari transport.

‘He sleeps,’ she repeated. ‘If he wakes, I will tell you.’

Nodding his thanks, Nuadhu strode over to the Visarch, who gestured for him to board the Wave Serpent, the bodyguard’s boots loud upon the ramp behind Nuadhu as they entered the carriage compartment. The clan heir concluded that the heavy tread was a deliberate warning, for he had seen the Visarch move as lightly as a gyrinx.

Inside, Yvraine looked up to them as she stooped over Eldrad, one hand to her chin, her war fan in the other. Two of Saim-Hann’s seers were also in attendance, hands clasping their staffs tight to their bodies, uncertainty washing from them in palpable waves.

‘Alyasa, attend to me with Yvraine,’ transmitted Nuadhu. ‘I would have my family windweaver present to counsel me.’

‘I am on my way,’ replied the psyker. ‘Caelledhin is with me.’

‘Good.’ It seemed petty to think in raw numbers, but Nuadhu was heartened by the thought of more of his family being present in the discussion that was surely to come. Yvraine had already made clear her intent to remain, and it was her ships for the most part that had carried the host to Agarimethea.

He remained at the doorway and glanced outside, searching for the Bloodbrides. A group of wych-reavers sat upon their jetbikes not far away, Druthkhala among them. One of the other Bloodbrides noticed Nuadhu’s look and directed Druthkhala’s attention towards him. Her hair rippled like a wave as she slid her jetbike across the hilltop and came to halt at the end of the ramp.

‘I am glad that you still live,’ said the Bloodbride. It was the first exchange between them since the abandoned duel.

‘A condition that may not continue if your mistress has her way, I suspect,’ replied Nuadhu, though he accompanied the complaint with a smile to dull its edge. ‘She seems determined to remain here.’

‘So we shall remain.’ She sat up, hands on thighs. ‘To follow the Whispering God is to give yourself over to something greater than simple mortal life.’

‘Ynnead cannot save you from She Who Thirsts if one of those infernal servants slays you and eats your soul.’ Nuadhu said this with more vehemence than he had intended, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at him since Eldrad had opened the vault.

‘Ynnead will save us all from the Great Enemy.’

He remembered the temptation and damnation that had been visited upon him in the daemon vision. The recollection brought ice to his veins, a reminder that the Great Enemy was not a foe apart, but born in the spirit of every aeldari. Even now a piece of the Prince of Pleasure nestled within Nuadhu’s breast, nurtured by his passions; a part of him dwelt in the shadow of She Who Thirsts, bathing in the reflected glory of the god created by the aeldari Fall.

If Druthkhala was right – if the assertions of Yvraine were true – then it would change the aeldari forever, wiping away the stain of the Fall. He felt breathless at the thought. That victory would not be brought about by stepping aside and allowing others to fight. Each battle took the Ynnari a little closer to realising that grand ambition.

He looked at his family again and thought of his legacy to the clan Fireheart, his need to leave his mark upon the chronicles of Saim-Hann. The truth was that fate did not care for fame, and adulation was only fleeting. The impact of his life would be measured not in his lifetime but by generations after. He could not be his own judge of success.

Yvraine had presented him with a chance to prove his true worth.

Chapter 22

ONE FINAL HOPE

Responding to the call of the Opener of the Seventh Way, the interested parties took a little time to assemble, the main carrier compartment of Yvraine’s dawnsail serving as a crude council chamber for the representatives of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann. Save for a couch for the semi-comatose Naiall Fireheart, all furnishings had been cleared away, so that the Opener of the Seventh Way walked among the delegations without any imposed stature of a throne or dais. Eldrad had withdrawn to the far end of the space, refusing to speak of what had happened, though Yvraine could guess his mood. The sensation she had felt had receded, the Whisper silenced once more now that they were outside the heart of the necrontyr stasis. She had sensed only a fraction of the breached vault’s power, so what that might have done to the farseer was not hard to imagine.

Yvraine itched at the delay, having been so close to her prize and now apparently so far away. Perhaps it was the prowling of Nuadhu Fireheart among his family that fed her impatience, or the quiet but constant conversation between the farseers of Saim-Hann that hinted at developing motives and an unravelling of the coalition. If she had thought before that the Ynnari were unable to overcome their foes on Agarimethea alone, she was adamant that was now the case. She needed the Saim-Hann contingent and they likely knew it well.

‘I think we are ready to begin,’ announced Meliniel, banging the haft of his spear on the floor, a space clearing in front of the autarch as he forged towards his mistress. ‘All with any advice or concern have arrived and the longer until we attack again the greater the force we will face.’

‘I think you have it reversed,’ said Neamyh. The clan noble wore the armour of a craftworld guardian, a shuriken pistol and mono-edged blade at her belt, but seemed uncomfortable in her warlike garb. Her movements were stiff within the protective mesh and plate when she turned to the farseers. ‘The necrontyr and daemons will rip into each other without relent. Let them destroy each other.’

‘You cannot speak of either as a normal foe,’ said Meliniel, turning to face Neamyh. ‘You saw into the breach, as we all did. I will not pretend to understand the dynamics at play, but its opening has, whether intended or not, caused a breach into the Realm of Chaos. The daemons we saw issuing forth are only the vanguard of a host that will continue to grow in power and size.’

‘Then we shall let them devour Agarimethea,’ said Neamyh. ‘Less than a hundred cycles ago, this world was nothing to Saim-Hann. To anyone. A notation in the archives. Let it die, not our people.’

‘The necrontyr will respond to the growing daemonic threat by awakening ever more powerful catacomb-machines. Like the daemons they cannot be wholly destroyed while their resurrection chambers still function.’

‘An even better prospect,’ announced Neamyh. ‘A war without resolution to keep both sides locked in their deadly struggle.’

The assembled aeldari moved aside when Eldrad emerged from the periphery, the tip of his staff gleaming like a star.

‘One world will not contain their war.’

The farseer raised the staff and ribbons of colour streamed from the brightness to create an image on the air. Time raced, Agarimethea bathed in the rise and fall of its sun hundreds of times, changing from azure and jade to a black-and-silver orb, immense pyramids and pylons extending out to the upper skies, wreathed about with infernal towers of bone and flesh contorted by the power of Chaos. The world was swallowed as the view receded, one star among several, and between them a growing rift of power. Six more worlds burst into flame, engulfed by the spreading war between ancient powers. Within two orbits of Agarimethea about its sun, the stars were alight with both necrontyr power and the energy of the warp. Against this miasma drifted a craftworld, encircled by the devastation, cut off from all hope of intervention.

‘Saim-Hann,’ muttered Illiaca. ‘So the doom we foresaw will come to pass.’

‘It can still be avoided,’ insisted Daraesath. ‘Seeing this, the clans cannot fail to act as one. The Avatar of Khaine will rouse and all of Saim-Hann will fall upon Agarimethea, as we did Youlemesesh, Houns Ashemashea and many other worlds sullied by alien forces.’

‘It will be too late!’ Eldrad’s vehemence caused even Yvraine to flinch, an excited yowl escaping Alorynis in response. The image he had conjured fell into shards of light and then dust, while runes whirled from their pouches at his waist and circled his staff, edges glinting dangerously. ‘Saim-Hann cannot hope to face the escalated forces of the necrontyr, nor win a war against the endless host of the darkness.’

‘Then what must we do?’ asked Nuadhu, clenched fists betraying his frustration. ‘I assume that the all-knowing Eldrad of Ulthwé has seen the route to victory upon the skein.’

‘Victory lies where I cannot see it,’ answered the farseer. ‘And I am no longer of Ulthwé, but the Ynnari.’

‘You cannot see victory?’ Daraesath shook her head in disbelief. ‘You offer us no hope at all.’

‘Mark my words carefully, I do not choose them idly,’ Eldrad told them. His attention fell upon Yvraine and he spoke softly, as though addressing her alone. The others fell quiet to listen. ‘I said that victory lies where I cannot see it, not that I cannot see victory. The vault is the key. For aeons the necrontyr secured this world against the incursions of the Dark Powers. The field that devours the Whisper has hidden the vault from the gaze of the gods for untold lifetimes. The open vault feeds the daemon host its power. If it is closed, the daemons will be destroyed.’

‘And the part where victory lies out of sight?’ said Yvraine, fearing what he might say. She answered her own question, all the same. ‘We must enter the breach, yes? Venture once more into the Realm of Chaos?’

Eldrad nodded.

‘This is folly,’ snapped Daraesath. ‘You speak of madness to enter the lair of the Great Enemy.’

‘No, not madness,’ replied Illiaca, holding up a hand to silence her companion. ‘If we are to save Saim-Hann then we must risk the sacrifice of everything.’

‘I will not step willingly into damnation,’ Daraesath insisted, retreating from the other farseers.

‘I will lead the Wild Riders,’ said Nuadhu, spear raised dramatically. ‘It was my foolishness that opened this portal. I will put right the error, with my life if necessary.’

‘And your soul?’ said Eldrad. He strode quickly across the floor of the dawnsail and raised his fingers towards Nuadhu, motioning as though he snatched something from the Wild Lord. ‘Death comes in many forms. In the place to which we must venture your spirit stone will not avail you.’

The clan heir swallowed hard, eyes wide at the thought, but nodded hesitantly.

‘If… if that is what is needed.’

A wheeze drew everyone’s attention to Naiall Fireheart, who sat up with some effort, lips trembling. His family gathered about him, concern writ on all their faces. The chieftain waved them away, except for Nuadhu. Using his son’s arm for support, Naiall stood.

‘I have faced the host of She Who Thirsts before,’ announced the clan leader. His gaze met Yvraine’s and hardened. In his eye she saw understanding, of the nature of what he had done in that battle and carried ever since. ‘I would rather spend my last breath fighting the doom of our people than hidden away in treacherous comfort.’

‘You cannot countenance it,’ said Neamyh. ‘You can barely stand, never mind fight.’

‘The elixirs of Isha will sustain me,’ declared the chieftain. His eye roamed to his other family members. ‘For long enough.’

Yvraine saw Nuadhu share a glance with his half-sister, Caelledhin, and she read the import in their exchange.

‘Father…’ said Caelledhin.

‘I am content with my fate,’ Naiall replied. He looked at son and then daughter. ‘Though I would not hasten it, your time is coming soon. Celebrate my life, do not mourn my death.’

The occasion was touching but ill-timed. Yvraine raised her voice to the assembled aeldari.

‘We lack the luxury of time to indulge in longer debate. I make ready to attack as swiftly as possible. Those that will join us, make yourselves known now. Those that will not, the ships wait still beyond Agarimethea.’

‘Wait.’ Meliniel’s injunction stifled a burgeoning discussion and movement. ‘We will not sunder our alliance here. It is not practical for all of our forces to dare the breach, nor desirable. Those that will not enter with us must still play a part. We need forces to break through the horde that bursts forth from within, and the necrontyr that battle them. If our attack falters against their numbers, we shall be thwarted.’

‘And then?’ asked Illiaca.

‘And then depart,’ answered the autarch. ‘If we succeed in sealing the vault, I cannot see how we will return to Agarimethea.’

Yvraine had deliberately ignored this possible consequence and her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. Meliniel spoke quietly to her.

‘If we seek to close the portal from within, we shall be on the other side. Do you still wish to proceed?’

Yvraine’s gaze passed over the assembled aeldari, Ynnari and Saim-Hann together. She caught the attention of Eldrad, who thrust his way through the gathered delegates as a buzz of fresh conversation erupted.

‘Is Saim-Hann doomed if we do not follow this course?’ she asked quickly. ‘And what of our fate and Ynnead’s if we should end here?’

‘They are one and the same,’ said the farseer. He turned his head to look at the seers of Saim-Hann, and then to the representatives of the clans. ‘Ere it perishes, Saim-Hann will know that its fate was sealed by the Ynnari. If the craftworld dies and we still live, we shall be shorn of all support and sanctuary. We exist by the good graces of others for the most part. Perhaps lesser craftworlds shall sustain us, and rare allies in Commorragh will help for a while, but we will become just another wandering band of outcasts. We cannot exist apart from those that would give us succour.’

They fell silent at the approach of Nuadhu. The Wild Lord had a desperate look in his eye, suddenly thrust into personal and political turmoil. One could almost see the battles raging in his soul in the twitch of an eye and clench of the jaw. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, enunciating every word with careful control though his hands fidgeted at his spear, giving vent to the agitation within.

‘For good or ill, Clan Fireheart will ride with you. My Wild Riders… I shall lead the Wild Riders for one last glorious battle.’ He bowed, deeply and sincerely.

‘You speak for the Wild Riders but not Clan Fireheart,’ said Caelledhin.

‘So you would depart and abandon our allies when they most need us?’ said Nuadhu.

‘I would have none stay except of free will,’ Yvraine said sharply. ‘I place no bond upon anyone here beyond their own conscience.’

‘We will all fight,’ said Naiall, speaking with visible effort. ‘If I understand correctly, there can be no battle won beyond this if we do not succeed.’

‘Only a slow decline towards oblivion,’ said Yvraine.

‘It seems you will have your glorious charge after all, Nuadhu,’ said Caelledhin.

He shook his head. His disturbed countenance became one of sincerity, the calmest he had appeared since the drop-craft had broken Agarimethea’s atmosphere.

‘I have learnt that glory is a trophy without reward, and it is usually purchased with the lives of others. I seek nothing more than to put right the waywardness of my earlier actions.’

Yvraine smiled at Caelledhin’s look of surprise. The adopted daughter of Naiall walked away with bowed head, caught up in her own thoughts.

‘I am impressed, and delighted,’ said Yvraine, finding Nuadhu’s transformation remarkable. When she had laid the idea of Ynnead within him she had thought it seed scattered on barren soil, but her faith had not been so ill placed. ‘It seems not only the vaults of the necrontyr have been opened. Your eyes also, I would say.’

‘And my spirit,’ Nuadhu replied. The Wild Lord held out a hand to Yvraine. ‘I would be honoured if you rode with me, Opener of the Seventh Way.’

His gracious invitation was unexpected, so sincere that it took Yvraine a moment to gather her thoughts. It had been an age since anyone had spoken to her with such casual courtesy, before she had become the Emissary of Ynnead, before she had left the Asuryani Path. It reminded her of her earliest days on the craftworlds, a life that had trapped her but now seemed like a peaceful dream.

‘There is not room on your platform for three,’ growled the Visarch, breaking her train of thought. He emerged from the press with all the foreboding of a crimson iceberg sighted suddenly in the mists by a ship’s captain.

‘You will have other duties,’ Yvraine said with a thin smile. Alorynis scampered past and leapt towards the Visarch, forcing the warrior to catch him in one arm. ‘Look after my gyrinx, he has a habit of finding trouble.’

The Visarch’s reply was inaudible but Yvraine did not need the conjoining power of the Whisper to feel his dismay. She raised her hand and the Bloodbrides answered her gesture, gliding forwards from where they had been waiting along the side of the compartment. Nuadhu broke away to rejoin his family, lending an arm to assist his father as they crossed the interior of the landing craft. At a communication from the Visarch, the Coiled Blade formed up on either side of the dawnsail’s ramp as Yvraine reached the doorway. Wave Serpents, raiders and grav-tanks were already rising to either side, no doubt heeding orders issued by Meliniel.

The Visarch appeared at her shoulder, still carrying Alorynis. Two open-sided raiders descended through the flotilla of rising Wave Serpents, anti-grav engines whining, their impellors kicking up dust as they slid sideways to come alongside the dawnsail. She gave her bodyguard a nod of assurance and he hurried down the ramp, the incubi of his personal retinue accompanying him as he leapt aboard the Commorragh-crafted transport.

‘Mistress?’

Yvraine turned at the words of Alikhiaketh, succubus in the cult of the Bloodbrides. The wych-leader and her squad received the same wordless command as the Coiled Blade and likewise departed without further comment. Druthkhala and a few others followed after on reaver-bikes and jagged-winged skyboards, lifting their weapons in salute to the Daughter of Shadows as they hissed past.

Following their route, Yvraine’s eyes were drawn towards the tomb complex. The sky pulsed above the distant necrontyr edifices, the peaks of the seven artificial mountains alive with green ambience. Shadow and light fought in the air above just as the forces that created them warred on the ground. It seemed distant and unreal, detached from her not by distance but meaning. Without the Whisper she had no sense of what was happening, no connection to the mortal story unfolding about her. She recalled Illiaca of Saim-Hann saying that she was empty but for the spirit of Ynnead coursing through her. She understood the meaning of it as she stood at the ramp contemplating the events yet to transpire. It was the first real time she had had the peace and stillness to consider herself – the needs of battle and discourse had occupied her since entering the necrontyr null field.

Her earlier excitement at thinking she would bring about the rebirth of the gods now seemed an utter indulgence. Pure fantasy. Her surety of purpose wavered, a ship tossed about on a storm of doubts.

Is this how she would die? Alone, unseen by Ynnead?

Chapter 23

THE PHAERAKH

As one, the combined host of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann fell upon the tomb complex once more. The air was as much a battleground as it had been during the drop, but now the necrontyr scythe-craft duelled with whirling daemonbirds while gunnery pylons spat devastating blasts at soaring shoals of ravening predator-beasts. They soared through the floating ruins of the broken starship, shards of which now started to rain down on the tomb as the field weakened, falling like a hail of daggers upon both sides.

The Ynnari fighters swept low, the tip of a perfect spear thrust devised by Meliniel. The necrontyr parted at their coming, continuing to target the emerging daemonkin in preference to the aeldari that had unwittingly freed them. Nightwings and Hemlocks rolled and banked, their weapons slashing through wailing snakes that undulated through the billowing cloud like serpents on dunes, their mauve and azure beams flaring alongside the jade blasts of the Unliving.

From Nuadhu’s Vyper, Yvraine watched as the fighter screen punched a hole towards the pyramid, the last flights of missiles burrowing a path through a babbling swarm of winged daemonettes and hate-angels that ascended to meet them.

Into this breach the Falcons, Ravagers and other heavier grav-tanks raced. Weapons blazed to exploit the hole, widening the breach in the daemon army until they came within range of the teeming hosts upon the ground.

The flare of gauss and death rays mingled with the sparks of sorcerous blasts, all turned to a haze by a pastel fog that spewed from within the boundary field about the central pyramid. Daemons roamed at will, dashing along circuit-bounded boulevards and leaping into resurrection trenches, while serpent-riders and chariots ploughed across board plazas into the advancing ranks of necrontyr warriors. Hideous fiends with tongues like las-whips slid around obelisks and galloped into the depths, their immaterial hides shimmering with each strike of gauss energy.

Into the maelstrom of war plunged the aeldari, weapons targeted at the unnatural host of the Great Enemy. Concentrated las-fire rippled through iridescent bodies and mobs of howling daemonettes, while missile cluster strikes ripped apart towering monsters that swept up clawfuls of necrontyr warriors.

Wild Riders and transports arrived next as the grav-tanks pushed further and further towards the objective. Around her the Bloodbrides laughed with exhilaration, never quite rid of the battle-fever that possessed them when in the Crucibael. A flight of reavers escorted the raider, Druthkhala at their head, and beyond them the scarlet of Wild Riders streaked the embattled skies.

‘It is working!’ declared Meliniel from his Wave Serpent a short distance behind. ‘The route to the barrier is clear. Once we are inside, the transports will fix a perimeter and we shall disembark into the breach on foot.’

A trio of Falcon grav-tanks formed up ahead of the transports, their turrets tracking left and right as pulse laser fire and scatter lasers raked devastating bursts through the horde of monstrosities still pouring from the open vault. The shimmering field around the pyramid crackled into life with each daemon breaking through, a continuous curtain of energy that lashed back and forth in emerald bursts.

A sudden explosion of power wracked two of the needle-towers, engulfing them in blinding wreaths. The field between them distorted like a membrane taut across a blade, the pressure from within finally cutting through.

Amid tatters of jade lightning a creature thrice the size of anything that had come before burst free. It had a waspish torso that ended in a snake body tipped with a gleaming sting. Its four arms moved in mesmerising patterns, each fist clutching a blade of gold as long as an aeldari was tall. Incredibly delicate-looking wings fluttered from its back, wide enough to stretch from one side of the avenue to the other, the scales upon them ever-moving, forming runes of She Who Thirsts that burnt the eyes to look upon.

Yvraine recoiled from the sight of the creature, heart turned to ice by the appearance of the daemonlord. Without the Whisper to guard against it she felt the full force of the Great Enemy’s thirst, the same life-draining presence that had turned her into one of the Parched scrabbling for life in the undercity of Commorragh. Her breath would not come, her lungs empty with dread.

Letting out a lilting cry of joy, the daemon prince ascended on its beautiful wings, leaving a silvery trail in the air. A burst of scintillating colour from its eyes struck the first grav-tank, slicing through it like the beam of a pulsar. Engine detonating, the Falcon became a multicoloured fireball hurtling into the ranks of necrontyr below.

Swords flashing, the daemon prince swooped upon the next Falcon, tail sting lashing against the cockpit. The canopy splintered beneath the blow, the pilot within plucked from her cradle with daemon venom pumping through her body. The presence of the powerful daemon weakened the null field and Yvraine could feel the corruption pouring into the spirit of her followers, even as its acidic carrier melted the body. Of the Whisper she still heard nothing.

Gilded blades carved apart the turret, slicing through the gunner within, and turned the rest of the Falcon to falling streamers streaked with the blood of the squad that had been carried within.

In the daemon prince’s wake fresh monstrosities hurled themselves at necrontyr and aeldari with equal fervour. The pilot of Yvraine’s raider swerved hard, forcing the open transport wide of the daemon even as it lunged towards the Bloodbrides with a leer of pleasure.

Like a practice lance splintering against armour, the thrust of the Wild Riders split upon the surging daemonic host. The daemon prince throbbed with warp power, an incarnation of the aeldari’s worst nightmares, a prophet of destruction that filled them with overwhelming dread. Where it attacked the aeldari withdrew, terrified of their souls falling to the consumption of She Who Thirsts.

Nuadhu’s fear was more practical as B’sainnad wheeled away from yet another aborted attempt to charge the daemons. More and more necrontyr were pressing towards the emerging host from other parts of the tomb precincts, trapping the aeldari within a tightening cordon of metal warriors. As before, if they did not break away soon there would be no choice but to fight both the daemons and the Unliving.

‘Is there any way to destroy that monster?’ he called across the messenger-waves. A detonation cracked sharply through the cacophony of battle as the daemon prince broke open the shell of a necrontyr portal monolith, spilling its resurrecting power across the complex like a miniature jade star. ‘Surely if we concentrate…’

He trailed away as a new abomination burst from the barrier around the pyramid. Equal in size to the prince already roaming the sky, the new arrival stalked forwards on three pairs of insect legs, its body shining like polished chitin. The shell gleamed with enchanting flashes, mesmerising to look upon, the face that stared from beneath the carapace a startling rendition of a handsome but androgynous aeldari with enticing gaze. Claws like silver daggers slashed through the necrontyr while blasts of power burned harmlessly from its shining wingcase.

‘I fear we have acted too late,’ said Meliniel. ‘We cannot hope to enter the breach and return.’

‘Then we must close it,’ replied Yvraine, and her tone conveyed her heavy heart. Nuadhu could feel her dismay emanating behind him, in effect conceding the impossibility of ever finding what she had sought. ‘Even if we will not return. It matters nothing to survive Agarimethea only to lose Saim-Hann within a generation.’

That she was willing to sacrifice not only herself but her cause for the craftworld shocked Nuadhu. The Opener of the Seventh Way had at times appeared callously disinterested in the fate of the clans and their home. Was this reciprocation for his own change of spirit? To hear her speak of the craftworld’s destruction with such sorrow set hooks of regret in his heart.

‘No!’ He spoke without thought, as usual, letting emotion steer his words to a conclusion he had not yet reached himself. He glanced at Yvraine over his shoulder. ‘If any are to lay down their lives for the craftworld it will be those that were born there. The Wild Riders will make the charge, if your Ynnari can endeavour for just a while longer to draw the poison of the enemy’s fury.’

‘I cannot see how you will succeed,’ said the autarch. ‘You have no weapon that will damage the portal gate.’

‘It was my touch that began this disaster, perhaps it will heal the wound I opened.’

‘There may be some merit to what you say, Nuadhu.’ The Wild Rider recognised the voice of Eldrad but there was none of the swelling of spiritual energy he had felt at their last contact. The farseer sounded strained. Doubtless he was engaged in some other battle as well as the physical, pitting his psychic potential against the daemonic energies radiating from the breached vault.

‘What must I do?’ asked Nuadhu.

B’sainnad wheeled high to avoid a sudden blast of power from the ground, forcing Nuadhu to cling tight to the rail with one hand. For several heartbeats the Wild Lord stared directly down into the melee between the daemons and necrontyr – shifting immortal bodies of pink and grey and pale flesh against the silvery tide of the reawakened machine-hosts. Flashes of recollection danced through his thoughts, of past lives from bodies inhabited by his soul down the aeons. It was as though he did not witness the fighting below but recalled it from a distant past.

‘I have no advice but for you to follow your instincts,’ said Eldrad. ‘The same instinct that led you to the pyramid before will hopefully guide you again.’

‘Hopefully?’ The Visarch did not sound convinced. ‘As appreciative as I am of any ploy that sees us emerge from this with mortal and immortal faculties intact, I think we require a secondary strategy.’

Receiving a look of agreement from Yvraine, Nuadhu set B’sainnad on a course directly towards the pyramid, heedless of the strange daemon-beetle rampaging between the edifices on the ground and the soaring moth-prince above. Much reduced in number but not heart, the remaining Wild Riders slipped into the wake of their lord, raising their voices in a last ragged cheer.

A dark blur from the left snatched Nuadhu’s attention away from his objective, expecting a fresh attack. Instead he saw Druthkhala at the head of her reavers, hair like a streamer, lips pulled back in a fierce grin. More Bloodbrides lined the flanks of a raider behind her.

Another raider pulled alongside on the right, the crimson of the Visarch at the fore of the Coiled Serpent incubi. With a further glance he saw Caelledhin not far behind, other kin and those he considered as such following closely. Druthkhala approaching from below, and many others he knew so well. Wave Serpents and raiders in the livery of Clan Fireheart and Ynnead lifted after them in a ribbon of scarlet and crimson.

‘We fight together,’ said Yvraine.

‘We die together,’ added the Visarch.

It was not an unpleasant notion. Nuadhu’s thoughts were not for himself, nor his family. What occurred went far beyond his duties to the clan and his place in history. Perhaps for the last time, Nuadhu raised his spear to salute his companions.

‘For Ynnead and Saim-Hann!’

The Visarch’s sentiment seemed more likely as the combined hosts of the aeldari confronted the daemonic horde alongside the necrontyr. As the Unliving seemed content to leave the aeldari unmolested so they in return did not turn their weapons upon the necrontyr: an alliance of circumstance rather than trust. For all that the tide of otherworldly abominations was held at bay, there appeared no route to pierce the wall of daemons thrown about the pyramid from which they continued to spill.

Yvraine was upon the verge of ordering a direct attack, a terribly inelegant demand that would see many Ynnari and Saim-Hann slain even if successful. The voice of Meliniel cut her short as she prepared to issue the command.

‘Fresh necrontyr forces approach, Opener of the Seventh Way.’

From the far side of the complex a resurgence of tomb arks and teleporter monoliths drifted sedately towards the raging battle. Yvraine felt Nuadhu and his pilot tense – she could see at once that they did not come alone. From resurrection fissures gleaming with jade light marched more necrontyr infantry, but unlike anything they had yet encountered. This variety of humanoid constructs were larger, some bearing heavier weapons than the warriors, others with shining glaive-like melee arms, crackling staves or elaborate shields and axes that shone with the ever-present tomb glimmer of their kind.

With them floated more spyder-constructors vomiting forth fresh clouds of scarabs, and hexapods with riders upon their backs that clambered deftly over the sloping walls of the tomb buildings.

Ahead, the other Wild Riders were forced to break off from their attack run, sharply curving away from the ascending wall of necrontyr machines lest they crash against it like flies upon the visor of a rider. Scattered like droplets of a fountain, the blurring scarlet spear became a disentangling cloud, quickly joined by swerving Wave Serpents and hurriedly banking raiders as more and more of the aeldari slewed away from the formidable necrontyr apparitions arriving between them and the daemon army.

The lightning field crackled into life once more, earthing green sparks through the flying daemons, but also forcing the attendant fighters and other aircraft of the Ynnari to ascend from harm or dive low between the towers of the tomb precincts.

‘We are being… redirected.’

Yvraine recognised what Meliniel had seen in the continuing movements of the necrontyr. The Unliving closed hard from behind and cut off all but one route ahead, funnelling the aeldari down and towards a broad plaza some distance from the pyramid. Though they had not yet opened fire, it would be sheer folly to attempt to evade the massed guns of the ancients, and any survivors would just as surely be cut down by the daemons beyond.

Street by street the necrontyr arks and engines guided the coalescing aeldari force. Suddenly emerging force fields of emerald cut off parts of the host, separating some of the heavier grav-tanks from the transports they escorted. Rising monoliths and crackling weapons arrays herded other elements towards the outskirts, and yet not a single gauss weapon opened fire nor particle beam seared the air.

‘I spy something below,’ Nuadhu announced over the messenger-waves. Many of his followers and much of the Saim-Hann host had been split away from the Wild Lord, leaving just a handful of jetbikes, Vypers and a solitary Wave Serpent in attendance. ‘A figure on the ground, alone. Energy whips about it like a robe in a gale, and it bears a staff of light. I think it is the tomb lord of this world. Its warriors hold back at the plaza edges.’

‘An offer?’ suggested Eldrad. ‘It seems we are being invited to land.’

‘A trap,’ warned the Visarch, but more from habit than conviction judging by the off-hand manner of his words. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Whether offer of truce or an ambush, it is a fate we cannot ignore,’ said Yvraine, with a last check of the cordon of huge engines that were drawing close about the slowing aeldari host.

With heart almost stilled by the thought, she signalled for Nuadhu’s pilot to bring the raider down into the plaza. A few other vehicles landed nearby, including the Wave Serpent of Naiall Fireheart, Eldrad’s transport and Meliniel’s also.

‘All of our leaders…’ the Visarch remarked, hurrying across from his raider.

‘And theirs,’ said Eldrad, emerging from his Wave Serpent, staff waving towards the lone metallic skeleton at the centre of the heptagonal plaza.

Chapter 24

ANCIENT WAR

His battle-fervour draining away rapidly, Nuadhu swallowed hard and laid a hand upon his pilot’s shoulder.

‘Is this…’ As he brought Alean to a stop B’sainnad darted a look back at Nuadhu and then Yvraine. His gaze returned to the necrontyr stood immobile upon the circuit-etched stones of the plaza. ‘Is this actually happening?’

Nuadhu gave no reply but dismounted cautiously. Yvraine sped towards Eldrad. A hasty glance confirmed that they were surrounded by necrontyr, both on the surface and in the air. Those closest to the tomb lord had a particularly sleek and menacing air about them, as though possessed of a more malign intent rather than simply automaton servants of an ancient will. Rows of flickering jade eyes followed the aeldari as they dismounted and warily approached.

The necrontyr noble regarded them without movement, eyes fixed upon Yvraine, who led the delegation forward. It stood a little taller than the Opener of the Seventh Way, made of the same living metal as the other constructs, in an approximation of humanoid appearance. Its silvery plates and bone-like limbs were inlaid with gold and turquoise, pitted with small rubies, diamonds of glassy black material and slivers of other exotic matter doubtless from the dawn of ancient history.

It wore also a semblance of regal garb. Its skull-like face and head were framed by a high collar of blue that became the folds of a soft cloak, its edges disappearing into diaphanous clouds that shimmered with necrontyr resurrection energy. A kilt of the same hung from a belt-like loop about the hips, buckled with a rising sun motif. Its staff was bladed down one side, the edge dull for the moment, but traceries of circuit-pattern glinted with suppressed power.

Yvraine stopped a few paces away. Nuadhu judged she was just out of reach of the deadly axe-staff. The Sword of Sorrows remained in its scabbard, but Yvraine’s hand rested lightly on her hip beside its hilt. The Visarch was less circumspect, advancing with Asu-var half drawn, but he halted beside his mistress and approached no closer.

Nuadhu wondered what had happened to Yvraine’s gyrinx, the thought forgotten when a cough drew his attention to his father, who was being assisted by Caelledhin and Neamyh. Along with Meliniel they hung back a little from the Opener of the Seventh Way.

The thud of staff on stone punctuated Eldrad’s stately approach. His ghosthelm rendered him as expressionless as the tomb commander and by the manner of his approach the old farseer conveyed his intent that he would not be rushed, that his mere presence was a boon to the proceedings about to commence and all would do well to be patient. Whether these displays were of any use against the necrontyr was doubtful, but Nuadhu suspected Eldrad was not one to give up such a ruse lightly.

‘One of you will die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier.’

The voice that issued from the lipless mouth was not artificially created, or at least its generation was so sophisticated that it might have come from organic vocal cords. It was softly spoken, almost delicate in tone, but projected with conviction. The language was also archaic, a mix of sounds that hinted at aeldari tongue and others that were simple approximations. It seemed both stilted and florid at the same time.

‘Your threats are untimely,’ said the Visarch.

‘Your ignorance also is untimely. Catastrophe follows your arrival. One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier.’

‘The vault that was opened?’ asked Eldrad, finally arriving alongside Yvraine. ‘We can close it?’

‘One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier. Your cadre of leaders has been assembled here. Which among you is fit to speak to me?’

‘And who are you to make such a claim?’ said Yvraine haughtily, chin raised. ‘I do not address title-less minions.’

‘You address Phaerakh Hazepkhut, Watcher of the Dark, Guardian of the Seven Voids, Holder of the Cross-upon-the-Worlds and Champion-Surrogate of the Golden Arches.’

It certainly seemed an impressive list of accolades, though Nuadhu had not the least idea what any of them meant – except perhaps Guardian of the Seven Voids. He looked about the tomb complex, noting the septet of fortress-mounts that surrounded it.

‘You say that one must die to seal the vault, but a great many of us will die to reach it,’ said Meliniel.

Twin orbs of blazing emerald turned upon the autarch.

‘You are the hand-that-guides-from-behind. It was your air-voice that created the crude tongue by which you are addressed. The words-of-the-aeldari have lost much meaning but you will comprehend.’

‘You listened to our messenger-waves?’ The autarch was horrified by the idea, doubtless thinking that his every command and strategy had been overheard.

Phaerakh Hazepkhut returned an unblinking glare to Yvraine but then the dreadful gaze moved on to Nuadhu, who flinched at being the subject of the ancient being’s scrutiny.

‘Yours is the blood-that-awakens. Blade-edge that cuts first.’ Nuadhu swelled a little, confident that the words were a compliment for his brave leadership. ‘Yet the repeated blows have dulled you. The blade will snap soon. The sea will be parted to ease your crossing.’

‘It wants us to die but offers nothing,’ growled the Visarch.

‘We are open to the offer of alliance,’ Eldrad said quickly, in a more conciliatory manner. ‘Neither of us benefits from the release of the daemonic horde within your vault.’

‘Vaults,’ said Naiall from behind them. ‘You showed us seven worlds in your vision, Eldrad. If I understand it right, this Phaerakh controls seven such vaults.’

‘You are correct, one-that-walks-with-ending.’

‘This “parting of the seas”, it means you will break through the enemy so that we can reach the vault?’ suggested Yvraine. ‘We will combine our forces to overcome the common threat.’

‘One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier. Only an aeldari can accomplish this. You lack the strength to prevail and so the strength of the Cross-upon-the-Worlds will aid you.’

A chilling song rang out across the precinct, interrupting the council. Nuadhu felt it in his spirit as much as its rising notes reached his ears: a promise and threat woven together in words that danced at meaning but spoke directly to the heart rather than the mind. He felt a yearning for… Anything. Everything. To hear the call of the voice was to know that life was meaningless, to understand existence without fulfilment, separated and alone.

‘Another of the six manifestations-of-glories-unearned has broken free. If another arrives it will overcome those arrayed against it.’

‘We will fight with you, but how will you open a path to our goal when even now you are pressed hard to simply keep the tide in check?’ asked Yvraine.

‘Observe.’

Prove more strength, growled the one with the taintstorm inside it. Its attitude was of a leader but it seemed barely capable of mastering the forces trapped within its mind-cavity. The Watcher of the Dark felt the warp potential within the creature straining against the null curtain.

‘I will demonstrate,’ the Phaerakh assured the aeldari.

She had been avoiding this act for as long as possible, but the continued escape of the extemporal corruption from within the Panatheitik Vault had progressed beyond manageable levels. The gate had been sealed by a combination of necrontyr learning and aeldari sorcery, and no matter what she could achieve militarily against the dissonant force unleashed, only with the aid of the aeldari could the capstone be reactivated and the gate shut.

The lesser creatures stared at the Phaerakh with dull-eyed expectation, but it was not towards the Watcher of the Dark that they needed to direct their attention.

The Phaerakh thought-transferred into the main energy system and deactivated the coupling bonds that kept shut the tesseract chamber. Swarms of canoptek leeches slithered into the parting chamber as the top section of the containment obelisk split to allow electrocarrier waves to elevate its contents.

Inside the dampeners the god-fragment writhed. Photon emissions raged at the perceived barbarity to which it had been subjected. The Watcher of the Dark felt no sympathy for the sun-shard, for if it was set free it would not hesitate to destroy her, her great works and any living thing within reach. It was important to remember that the electron-shriek of distress emanating from within the containment net was nothing more than the protestations of a being denied free rein to rampage. Subjecting the god-fragment to imprisonment was not only coercive, it was essential to survival.

The Watcher of the Dark turned and indicated the opening edifice with her staff. Ejections of stray particulate sprayed from the open section, carving flickering arcs of ionised air that seemed imbued with a life of their own. Through eyes far superior to any organic equivalent she marvelled at the interplay of molecules distorted and rent apart by the released energy of the god-fragment.

The thought that she harnessed the energy of this galactic predator brought a glimmer of satisfaction. It was but a small piece of the whole yet it would burn for eternity, giving off its lifeforce to sustain Pantalikoa as it had once sought to feed off the lives of her people. It would be mistaken to think of the caging of the exostellar manifestation as a punishment for the betrayal of its whole. The far greater reason was pragmatic. When the stars themselves would gutter and die, when entropy had all but quenched life from the galaxy, this being and the others like it would sustain the necrontyr civilisation. Truly they had mastered their destiny. Retribution was fleeting, dominance was forever.

‘Witness the power of this fully wakened defence complex,’ she announced.

Chapter 25

THE SUN-EATER

Scampering along the edge of a broad boulevard, Alorynis had hoped to keep to the shadows but between the flares of green and the growing golden glare there was no such cover. It did not seem to make much difference. The cold machine-folk that marched along the street paid no heed to the gyrinx, advancing in synchrony towards the brightness ahead.

Eyes wide and ears flat, Alorynis hurried past the ranks of dead things. Though he could smell and see them, they left no imprint upon his mind, like moving pieces of scenery, shadows made solid. Their artificial coldness permeated the entire city, which was why the burst of psychic warmth was such a lure.

The red warrior was so fixated upon Alorynis’ companion that it had been easy to slip away as the floating floor had slowed to land. Within a few heartbeats he had lost himself among the unmoving dead warriors and into the buildings beyond them.

The pulse of the warp continued its calling in the distance, gentle murmurs that beckoned to the gyrinx, reminding him of the home he had left. Fleeting memories – more like sense impressions than thoughts – filled him with a sense of longing. He enjoyed his bonding to the mistress, but he missed the company of others of his kind. The purr-like whispering from the golden-gleaming structure reminded him very much of his litter-dimension and the softness of his mother.

Real noise intruded upon the psychic harmony, discordant and unpleasant. Weapons crackled, blades hissed and beings of blinding light shrieked and howled with grief and joy. If the dead-machines were outlines of freezing blackness in his thoughtsenses, the denizens that had sprung free from the opened gateway were the opposite. They were vital, hot things alive with the power of love and hate. Trails of raw emotion seeped like fluid through the air around them.

But Alorynis knew they were tainted. Even as he had nuzzled at his mother his mind had hardened against the claws of pain that threatened to peel apart his thoughts. The same instinct closed off his psychic awareness now, dulling the beautiful song that flowed through the city, pushing away the silence.

The battle raged hard, almost blocking the route to the golden gate. Alorynis paused at the edge of the wide space and washed his face while he contemplated what to do next. He had thought to find the music that his mistress was hankering after. The void in her heart was a pain in his too, eating away at his wellbeing just as the emptiness devoured her sense of self.

But the hunter-things were here instead, not the dead-song of the aeldari that so lifted his mistress’ spirits.

It seemed wrong to go back without trying harder. Following the charge of the mind-gougers, the metal-that-walked was pushed back into the neighbouring streets, opening up a temporary gap to the mind-rip.

There was no time to ponder the consequences. Alorynis dashed onwards, haring between the legs of a loping, long-necked monster, slipping past the rumbling wheels of a beast-drawn carriage to come before the rent in the world.

Psychic static danced across his fur. Now committed, believing that if he could find just a morsel of the death-voice to bring back it would ease his mistress, Alorynis plunged into the tear between realms.

‘Behold the unleashed potential energy of the tomb-bindings-under-rule.’

Yvraine flinched at the explosion of jade light that erupted from a hexagonal edifice behind the necrontyr Phaerakh. Something huge and blocky ascended from the flickering interior, pulling at tendrils of power as though ripping itself free from their embrace. Coruscations of energy played about the black surface of the floating obelisk, which was not so different from some of the resurrection gates already arranged about the tomb complex.

Circuit-engrams shifted on the surface forming golden lines that widened until they became cracks, splitting the mass into an expanding quadrilateral shape. The light intensified, if that was possible, far outshining the meagre disc of the star beyond the veil of the clouds.

Squinting, Yvraine saw a shadow in the light. At first it seemed nothing, a trick of optics. As the containment obelisk continued to open it revealed more of the energy source trapped within. The shadow became an outline, of a many-limbed being writhing in the heart of lashing power trails. The white was tinged with the pale green that suffused all necrontyr technology and it became obvious that the being within the rising geometric prison was not only contained by the power, it was also its source.

‘A sun-eater,’ whispered the Visarch. Yvraine darted a look at her bodyguard, having never heard such a tone of awe from him before. He stood with lensed gaze fixed upon the emerging apparition.

‘Only a fragment of such, but self-aware,’ corrected Eldrad, but there was wonder in his voice too.

A being with the power to consume suns formed into a humanoid at the heart of the tame fission detonation, extruding appendages of raw energy from its impossible body. Though it was silent, its movements roared frustration and rage, enmeshed by its own power within the energy prison.

The Phaerakh pointed the staff-tip towards the daemon incursion, but uttered no word. Fronds of particles whirled from the captured sun-eater, crackling along the conduits of its gaol-shell. A phosphorescent hand reached out towards the skies and then closed into a fist.

Not more than a heartbeat later, the sky turned pale yellow. Another heartbeat brought a rain of plunging fireballs slamming down amid the cavorting daemon host. Cosmic detonations shook the ground, hurling the shredded remnants of daemons high into the air, their corporeal forms turned to scattered pseudo-particles by the impacts. Jade beams speared from spheres upon the surface of the hovering prison-obelisk, flashing towards the beetle-like daemon lord. They slashed across its carapace, turning into fracturing arcs of energy on contact to hurl the Chaotic manifestation through a swathe of its lesser servants. Hissing, the creature righted itself and spat a ball of incandescent violet that splashed across the prison-engine.

Howling winds stirred beneath the sun-eater vault as the imprisoned entity slid through the sky towards its hated foe. With another contemptuous gesture obsidian-like shards ripped up from the surface of the tomb complex, shredding dozens of daemons, their dismembered bodies reflected in the glossy black surface of the blades that ended them.

Enraged, the legion of the Great Enemy howled at the godly being brought into their midst, following behind their beetle-prince as glittering wings broke from beneath its shell to carry it towards the sun-eater. Beneath, the elite warriors of the Phaerakh charged into the distracted minions, energy blades searing a fresh path towards the pyramid-vault.

‘Full attack!’ Yvraine announced, dashing back towards her raider. ‘All forces, concentrate your attacks alongside the sun-eater. Target everything at the daemons.’

The projected voice of the Phaerakh reached her as she leapt aboard the skim-craft.

‘One must die to activate the vault-space-prison-barrier.’

Pistol spitting deadly blasts, Meliniel Pureheart advanced with the seers of Saim-Hann at his back and a knot of Aspect Warriors arranged about them. Missiles from Dark Reapers flared past, the blossom of detonating warheads tearing apart the lithe bodies of cavorting daemons. The shuriken fire raged like a tempest and flares of super-heated energy and bright laser bursts split the bodies of hideous beasts and leering daemonettes. At his side, Azkahr spat curses even as his splinter pistol spat volleys of crystal shards.

The pulse of anti-grav engines shook the ancient paving as a flight of Falcons swept past, their turret weapons targeting the daemon prince soaring above the battle. Swooping Hawks wreathed trails about the monstrous apparition, their lasblasters firing constantly, its mortal flesh immune to the flashing beams.

The portal convulsed, retching forth another flurry of daemonettes. They were better armoured than those already encountered, with long gonfalons made of mortal skins flowing from spinal protrusions, their claws sheathed in gold, hermaphroditic bodies encased in silver-and-grey plates. Pulses of daemonfire erupted from their gauntlets, scything down a squad of kabalites that had counter-attacked towards them.

Larger shadows moved in the silvery mist, portents of even deadlier foes yet to break free.

‘The attack has stalled,’ Meliniel called to Azkahr. ‘Muster your kabalites and wyches to move around the flank.’

‘What flank?’ the former dracon snarled back. ‘We are nearly surrounded.’

The lieutenant’s assessment was true. In pushing hard for the portal behind the attack of Yvraine, sheathed as it was by the elite guards of the necrontyr Phaerakh, the combined host of aeldari and necrontyr had thrust deep into the daemon host, but nothing secured their rear. Soon they would be engulfed entirely, and resistance ahead was strengthening, not diminishing.

How had he missed their predicament?

The fiery pulse in his chest answered him. It craved release, desiring to annihilate the followers of the fell god that had shattered Kaela Mensha Khaine. The need for vengeance seethed through Meliniel’s blood.

The fighting was getting closer, more desperate. The Coiled Blade had disembarked, and Yvraine fought now on foot also, leading the Bloodbrides on another attempted push to reach the energy barrier.

Release me.

The urge to let go of himself was nearly overwhelming, but Meliniel dug into the last reserves of willpower to resist. With everything balanced upon the knife-edge of battle, now was not the time…

I will win this battle for you.

Viewing the situation as dispassionately as possible, Meliniel could see that the Warshard would be a considerable boon at that time. Was it immoral surrender to release the First Avatar, or simply bowing to the inevitability of necessity?

Meliniel’s gaze roamed over the warring sides, taking in the gleam of powerblades and crackle of gauss weapons. His eye was drawn to the fleeting blur of Nuadhu’s Vyper skimming above a throng of howling daemons. The Wild Lord’s lance dipped and plunged, scathing through the Chaos creatures without relent.

He heard Nuadhu’s laughter across the messenger-waves and understood the perversity of happiness amid the carnage. Not joy at the fighting itself, no gladness of killing, but the thrill for life that only came with the closeness of death. It recalled a time for Meliniel before the Path of Command, when he had fought as an Aspect Warrior. More than once he had trodden that Path, each time holding back the savagery and bloodlust that Kaela Mensha Khaine had placed in him, learning what he could of war without succumbing to the lure of the Bloody-Handed One.

Now the embodiment of Khaine resided within him. He could no longer deny his nature. Head and heart warred with each other but in the end consensus was reached.

‘Step back,’ he warned Azkahr.

‘Yes! Now the bloody whirlwind shall turn,’ laughed the Commorraghan, grinning savagely as he withdrew several strides from his commander.

Meliniel holstered his pistol and reached a hand up to the blood-coloured gem set through his breastplate into the flesh within. The Heart of Eldanesh kicked at his touch, welcoming and vital. The autarch felt the heat building beneath his fingers and let go his last restraint, welcoming the rush of battle, hearing the din like martial drums, the heat becoming the fire of vengeance.

From within, the flames of Khaine burst free, immolating Meliniel with black and red. His distending figure grew thrice in size, plates of pitted iron replacing flesh and armour, boiling magma searing through him where blood had run moments before. The hand upon his breast wept thick blood, the curse for Eldanesh’s murder, while in his other his spear transformed into Anaris, the kinslayer, infamous widowmaker sword of myth.

That which had been Meliniel faded, becoming just a part of the entity known as the Warshard, whose spirit he had assimilated in the Well of the Dead. He looked with a demigod’s eyes at the scintillating play of energy that raged around him – the power behind the physical facade of the daemons. As an immortal he saw not dancing, shrieking figures, but nodes of power and consciousness, whirling about the storms that were the daemon princes, all linked back by vaporous tethers to the empty pit that was the breached vault.

Pureheart-Warshard, the Avenger of Eldanesh lifted the baleful sword, its blade ribboned with black flames.

‘Let your rage run free and clear!’ the avatar bellowed, its voice the crash of cannons and clang of blades combined. Pointing Anaris at the daemons, the Warshard broke into a run, metal feet casting sparks from the stone underfoot. ‘Cast these phantoms of lust back to the abyss and avenge your fallen!’

Those warriors that had been protecting Meliniel broke aside to allow the Warshard to charge free. Anaris swept low and long, slashing through the bodies of half a dozen foes, flame-coursing body turning the remains to cinders as it thundered through them. Daemonblades shattered against its immortal hide while Anaris blazed again, its black fire swallowing another handful of enemies, turning them to howling smoke. Others were crushed underfoot as the avatar strode on, occasionally backhanding a wailing daemonette or seizing a fiend by a long neck to dash it against the flagstones.

A screech of challenge echoed from above and the serpentine daemon prince dived, hands becoming long claws of serrated silver. The Warshard turned, blade leaping up to meet the incoming monster, the edge of Anaris crashing against the immortal talons aimed at its chest. The impact of the creature’s attack sent them both skidding across the plaza, crushing daemons and necrontyr beneath their bulk as they rolled, a flaming, scintillating mass of mutual hatred.

They parted, the daemon flitting acrobatically upright, the Warshard rising with more purpose, the tip of Anaris scoring a flaming furrow in the ground between them.

Hissing, the daemon prince darted forwards, lashing a claw into the face of the Warshard. Droplets of lava flew from the blow like blood, but the First Avatar remained resolute.

‘Puny prince,’ the Warshard laughed, and hammered its bloody fist into the daemon’s face, almost splitting the creature with the force of the blow. As it reeled backwards the Warshard hacked Anaris into its midriff, sinking the deadly blade into incorporeal flesh, eliciting a shout of both of agony and rage from the lord of the Great Enemy’s warhost. The avatar kicked the creature off the blade and raised Anaris high. ‘Now you face a king!’

Silver-barked trees reached up to a brilliant violet sky, the blue leaves of the canopy swishing in mesmerising fashion against a backdrop of scudding ruby clouds. Light glimmered everywhere as though each surface were dusted with tiny particles of glass, and the cream-coloured ground underfoot was soft and welcoming like a mattress. The air carried a delicate perfume that was both relaxing and rousing, like the musky closeness of a mate.

Alorynis froze, taken unawares by the change in surroundings. The sound of the undulating leaves was a calming whisper, soothing away the clamour of battle he had just left.

In the branches above small shapes slithered and flittered, moving in one direction from treetop to treetop. Waves of tiny winged figures and fluffy worm-like creatures moved along the branches, skipping from one bough to the next, their miniscule voices adding barely heard laughter to the song of the breeze.

The gyrinx looked back and saw one of the great trees had been split, from arching root to soaring branches, the trunk opened like a gateway through which a dull grey vista moved jerkily across the gap. Everything beyond the opening seemed ponderous and slow and sharp-angled, hard to look upon.

Alorynis fixed upon his purpose in coming here and flicked his ears, hoping to catch a note of the dead-song he was seeking. He thought he caught fleeting moments of the harmony in his mistress’ soul and stole forward slowly, seeking the source.

He stopped again, not recognising his surroundings though it seemed he had only taken a couple of paces. Turning about, the gyrinx sought the split-trunk tree, but could see nothing through the arboreal giants around him. The trees seemed even larger than before, but their trunks were close-pressed, their canopies overlapping and intertwined so deeply that there was no sight of the sky.

It was a lot darker than he remembered. The figures on the branches emitted their own aura, fireflies of purple and green and white and red, dancing along the twisted branches. After-images left strange shapes cut upon his thoughts, further confusing him.

With a disconcerted hiss, he pushed on and quickly came upon a clearing. Above there was no sky, the heavens bounded by a flat-mirrored surface that reflected a distorted image of the paradise woodlands. Although it seemed so distant, the gyrinx felt that if he stared hard enough he might find himself among the azure leaves looking back.

The movement of the grass drew his thoughts. There was no wind upon his fur but the slender blades swayed back and forth. Yet each charted its own rhythm; they did not move together.

Eyes narrowed, the gyrinx saw that each leaf was fixed upon a minute figure, budding from the head of a diminutive individual trapped waist-deep in the pale earth. He recognised immediately the slight faces and pointed ears of his mistress’ people and his heart thrummed as he felt the despair of the trapped souls, thousands of them.

Panicked, he turned and ran, forgetting any hope of finding the voice of his mistress’ power. Following instinct alone he headed back to where he thought the rip-gate lay, darting through the trees until his lungs were burning.

Tiredness forced him to pause, pushed against the arched root of a tree, eyes trying to pierce a darkness that had become thick and cloying.

He recalled a time when he had rushed back to the mothernest after a foray as a youngster, when he had become separated from his siblings on a mock hunt. He had been lost among the life-paths, beset by fears that started to manifest, unable to see the way back.

Closing his eyes he ignored the noises of the forest and the scents that now carried a hint of burning flesh and acrid sickness. Instead of physical senses, he let his mind lead, following just the faintest trail left by his own passing, acting on pure thought alone.

A splintering of wood forced his eyes open. Something was coming up behind him, fast and huge, and its approach was heralded by a wave of pure terror that set his whiskers quivering, tail lashing.

Closing his eyes, he bounded forwards again, thoughts turned upon a single goal – safety. But it was not the mothernest that he conjured to guide him, but the embrace of his mistress. He imagined the touch of her hand on his fur, the strength of her arms beneath him. He even populated the fantasy with the red warrior, always close at hand like a sour shadow. Yearning for her company as though it were life itself, he sped blindly on.

Chapter 26

A LOST SOUL RETURNED

On occasion fate changes with the slightest of sighs, a whispered word or halted breath. In absence of something, the universe changes, unaware that its trajectory was anything but the course it now follows. At other times the blare of clarions and crash of thunder announces the ending of one age and the commencement of another. So often in bloodshed is the catalyst for a path laid; fate demands sacrifice for its uncertain favours and in sorrow rather than joy do hearts turn inwards and alter destiny.

About the pyramid of the necrontyr one epoch-defining clash built to its climax. The greatest strengths of the woken dead and aeldari were pitched together against the abominations of the abyss, and the outcome hung in the balance. Ruin and damnation lay upon one side of the scales, a step towards eternal freedom from the Great Enemy had been placed in the other.

Watching the gigantic apparition of the Warshard exchanging blows with the daemon prince, Yvraine pressed forwards with flashing strokes from the Sword of Sorrows. Around her the Bloodbrides and Coiled Serpent cleaved into the baleful host, cutting down fiends and daemonettes to either side.

Eldrad and the Saim-Hann seers had formed a cabal, conjoining their powers to hurl purple bolts and white flames even through the null field of the necrontyr. Though it swallowed the Whisper and hampered the craftworlders’ psychic might, Eldrad had been clear that if the field were to be raised, the entirety of the vault’s impossible contents would be vomited forth. With the aeldari seals breached, only the null-pylons were keeping Agarimethea in any semblance of reality.

The incarcerated sun-eater continued its rampage, its very presence anathema to the incorporeal foe, every swing of extruded energy-blades and snaking coronal tendrils ripping asunder a daemon-creature.

Closer at hand, Druthkhala’s reavers and Nuadhu’s Wild Riders whirled, their slashing attack runs like scalpel cuts parting flesh in the body of the daemon army. With Naiall and the rest of Clan Fireheart and their allies at her back, she finally felt that they might reach the pyramid and seal the vault.

Splitting the head of a pouncing daemonette, she stood before the wound in reality, a gaping rift of silver that burned the eyes and caused a sweat of fear to stand chill upon her flesh. It was as though she looked into the gaze of She Who Thirsts, a slit into the naked ether that bound the souls of every aeldari to the Great Enemy.

Her unease became a sharp pang of terror, emanating from the portal itself. She realised it was not her own dread but the horror of Alorynis that stirred her.

A heartbeat later the gyrinx burst from the silver band, ears flat, eyes narrowed as he darted through the legs of the daemons towards her, fur trailing warp-sparks. Yvraine slashed the birdlike legs from the closest adversary and stepped towards her familiar, but Alorynis scurried past, slinking close to the ground.

Waves of abject terror washed into her from the gyrinx, almost causing her legs to buckle. The feline’s dread was very specific, focused entirely upon the breach from which he had emerged – or more specifically something inside the breach.

A shout from one of her companions alerted her to a change in the rift above the heads of the screeching daemonettes and cawing fiends. Golden flecks coloured the gout of energy, coalescing into something that dwarfed even the towering Warshard and its many-limbed foe.

As though a three-dimensional creature pushed itself along a two-dimensional plane, the fourth manifestation-of-intemporal-psychic-deceit, as the Phaerakh had termed them, exuded into the realm of mortals.

The first thought was that a giant aeldari warrior had stepped from legend, a gold-armoured incarnation of Khaine perhaps. Though it stood many times Yvraine’s height, the daemon possessed two legs, two arms and an enchanting but otherwise normal face beneath an ancient-styled helm crowned with curling thorn-barbed stems. Slender limbs were garbed in vambraces and greaves; a breastplate adorned with perverse runes of nightmare clasped a single-breasted chest. In one hand the daemonic noble carried a flickering whip and the other a spear that split into two tines, the blades carved with runes that smoked as they touched the mortal air. Only upon closer look did Yvraine see that the whip was in fact made of intertwined writhing figures, each an aeldari figure no bigger than her thumb, limbs entwined with others to shape the flex of the impossible lash. The haft of the spear was the same, forged from the spirits of dead aeldari.

She felt the screams of tortured souls vibrating through her even as the arm drew back and the whip coiled like a living serpent.

The Visarch tackled her to the ground an instant before the screeching tip of the lash snapped through the air where she had stood. The blow sliced the head from Narizha, one of the Bloodbrides, sending it tumbling through the air.

A storm of fire from the accompanying Aspect Warriors and guardians met the incarnation of the Prince of Pleasure, but Yvraine knew that it would not be enough.

‘There are still two others within!’ she gasped, pushing herself up as the Visarch rolled to his feet. ‘We cannot defeat them with weapons alone.’

‘There is no Whisper to draw upon,’ said the Visarch. ‘The souls of our dead lie among their fallen carcasses, locked to their mortal forms.’

She knew the truth of his words and yet railed against them. Like fingers scratching on panes on the other side of a craftworld, she felt the tiniest tremors of their spirits, but could not reach out to them. No matter how hard she tried, she could not prise the dead from the grip of their physical forms.

Desperate, she hacked her way through the daemonettes, heading directly for the latest daemon prince. It was busily lashing and striking at the Wild Riders, who darted to and fro with whickering shuriken fire. Nuadhu struck with his spear, but even the ancient Drake’s Fang raised not even a welt upon the daemon’s incorporeal flesh.

And then her questing thoughts touched upon the mind of Naiall and the passenger that rode with him.

Caelledhin fired her pistol into the face of another daemonette, turning its angelic features into a tatter of daemonic blood and false flesh. She ducked beneath the claw of another, drawing her blade across the inside of its knee to send it tumbling to the hard floor among the sparkling corpses of its companions. From beside her, Neamyh’s fusion pistol incinerated its chest.

‘Give her to me!’

She turned at the sound of the cry, expecting to see some daemonic apparition falling upon them. Instead it was Yvraine, aloft on the whirling spirits that sustained her, drifting towards her family like a banshee of legend. She pointed her sword at Naiall and repeated her demand. ‘Give her to me, lord of the Firehearts.’

‘No!’ Naiall shouted back, clutching a fist to his chest as though protecting something. ‘She is not yours.’

‘Nuadhu!’ Caelledhin’s panicked thoughts leapt to her half-brother for help, calling his name over the messenger-waves. ‘Come quickly!

‘I am coming.’ She saw his Vyper in the distance angle back towards them.

‘What do you mean?’ Caelledhin demanded, moving protectively between her father and the Opener of the Seventh Way. She glanced at Naiall. ‘What is she talking about?’

‘Stand aside, child, or I will cut you down,’ warned Yvraine. Fey glimmer played from her eyes and the edge of the Sword of Sorrows burned with ghostlight. ‘Do not expect mercy from the Opener of the Seventh Way. We shall all die regardless, so it matters not by whose blade you fall.’

‘I cannot!’ Thick tears flowed down Naiall’s cheeks. ‘She belongs to me.’

‘She belongs to Ynnead.’ Yvraine rose higher, white lightning streaming from her limbs. Forks of power struck down any daemon that approached, creating a brief respite in the fighting around them. Beyond, the fighters of the Coiled Blade and Bloodbrides continued to slash and cut their way through the horde, protecting their mistress. ‘If you do not release her, I will take her.’

‘Who?’ cried Caelledhin. She caught sight of a scarlet blur, which moments later resolved into Alean speeding back across the field of battle. ‘Father, talk to me.’

‘She wants… your mother,’ said Naiall with a grimace, again clutching at himself as though in pain.

‘What is afoot?’ called Nuadhu as the modified Vyper slewed to a halt beside the lord of Clan Fireheart. ‘Yvraine, do not threaten my father!’

The Opener of the Seventh Way turned upon the clan heir, but her expression softened. The Sword of Sorrows lowered a little in her grasp. She looked at Naiall and nodded sadly.

‘Tell them, Naiall.’ She drifted closer. ‘Tell them how you tried to save her. And then say your goodbyes.’

‘Do you know what she is talking about?’ Nuadhu asked Caelledhin. She shook her head, jaw clenched in fear, wild gaze roaming between Yvraine and her father.

Yvraine stopped a short distance from Naiall.

‘This should not have been concealed for so long,’ she said gently. ‘This is the wound that is killing you, Naiall. Be free of its poison.’

The clan chieftain sagged as though stabbed in the gut, and Caelledhin threw an arm around him to stop him falling.

‘It is true,’ said Naiall. His gaze moved from Caelledhin to Nuadhu and back again. She had never seen him so helpless and weak even in the worst grip of his infirmity. ‘Your mother… She did not perish in the webway, not wholly.’

‘Not wholly?’ Nuadhu leaned over the rail of his fighting platform. Emotions warred in his expressions, settling into distrust. ‘What did you do?’

‘I was once a spiritseer, you know this. The webway, it held her departing spirit and I could see the Great Enemy, claws about to snatch her away. I broke her waystone and took her soul into me.’

Joy and disgust warred within Caelledhin, neither gaining the upper hand.

‘You did what?’ she croaked, throat tight as though strangled by an unseen grip.

‘How is that possible?’ asked Nuadhu.

She had not been Nuadhu’s mother, he did not understand Yvraine’s intent, and his placidity angered Caelledhin even more. She turned on Yvraine, brandishing her blade.

‘Your deathly god shall not have her.’

‘Ynnead has already claimed her,’ Yvraine replied calmly. She extended her other hand and ghostly energy played about her fingers, the miasma reflected in the sheen of Naiall’s waystone upon his chest-plate. ‘Your father stole her away.’

‘She was going to be devoured by She Who Thirsts,’ snarled Naiall. ‘I protect her.’

‘Ynnead will save her,’ said Yvraine. She lifted her hand as though pulling at a rope. A golden flicker sprayed from Naiall’s waystone, eliciting a cry of pain from the chieftain.

‘Leave him alone,’ shouted Caelledhin, but made no move to back up her demand with action, impotent in the face of Yvraine’s power.

‘Listen to her.’ Nuadhu’s words were the last thing she had been expecting. She turned an incredulous gaze on her half-brother.

‘Druthkhala cannot hear you, you impress nobody,’ she snapped.

‘I told you before, this isn’t all about Druthkhala,’ Nuadhu protested. ‘If we cannot trust Yvraine in this, we have nothing left to fight for.’

‘She was not your mother…’

Caelledhin turned her gaze to her father and saw resignation growing in his eyes. She stepped back from him, leaving him to stand limply on his own, not sure if she could bear to see him any longer.

‘Her spirit will be free,’ Yvraine said. ‘Not tethered to a corpse on this silent world. It yearns to be one with the ether again, to answer the call of Ynnead. Let her free, Naiall, and she will lead me back to the Whisper.’

The Emissary of Ynnead pivoted slightly, a fleeting gesture indicating the daemonic beasts and huge apparitions that fell upon aeldari and necrontyr around them.

‘Do it.’ Caelledhin realised the words had passed her lips. Hot tears welling up, she laid a hand on her father’s arm, feeling the quiver of agony running through him. ‘No more good can come from keeping her.’

Nuadhu leapt down and moved to his other side, hand on his shoulder in a show of unity. He nodded wordlessly, adding his endorsement to Caelledhin’s.

Closing his eyes, Naiall sagged to his knees, and then bowed his head to the floor, wracked with sobbing. But his defiance was gone and an aura played about him for several heartbeats before it streamed across the divide to coalesce into Yvraine’s waiting palm.

The Opener of the Seventh Way looked down at the shimmering star with a joyous expression and then she tilted her head back, gaze moving far further afield as she listened to the Whisper of Ynnead.

The soul-gleam spread into her body, rippling along limbs and torso like a second skin. Caelledhin gasped as it touched Yvraine’s face, not following the contours of her expression but moulding a new visage: the face of Iyothia Icewhisper, her mother. A wordless shout of angst escaped Nuadhu and he sagged, face buried in the crook of his arm.

Caelledhin forced herself to watch, to study every line of the emerging face, as though updating the memory she had held since a child. But there was no difference. It was the same look she had known from memory, preserved by her father’s thoughts as well as hers.

The face smiled, but the warmth seeped from it, replaced by a cold glare. One cheek melted away, reforming into sharp-boned features, while the other half of the face distorted into a cruelly smiling expression, a spiral horn curling from the brow.

Heart thrashing at her ribs fit to end her, Caelledhin watched the last of her mother fade away, to be replaced with the stare of Ynnead, the Whispering God, Keeper of the Dead.

Chapter 27

WAR OF THE DEAD

While battle raged between necrontyr, daemon and aeldari, an impossible bubble of stillness enveloped Yvraine. She had threatened to drag the soul of Iyothia Icewhisper from Naiall, but it felt as though the aeldari spirit fled the confines of his body for sanctuary within her. Naiall, Nuadhu and Caelledhin all stared at her with a mixture of fear and awe.

The escaping spirit energy hit her like a thunderbolt, crackling through the Opener of the Seventh Way from head to foot, infusing each part of her with its power. Yvraine had not noticed how divided from the Whisper she had become and it was a revelation to feel the presence of another soul again. Like a rush of blood, the spirit of Iyothia charged her nerves with feeling and coursed through her synapses, awakening the other dormant souls inside Yvraine.

With the power came a distant connection, as though a slender thread issued from Yvraine into the daemon prison. Just as the escapees were sustained by the warp energy within the vault so Yvraine was able to tap into the deeper consciousness that was her god. Through the veil of reality the breach provided a means for the tiniest echo for the Whisper to penetrate.

Her inner voice was a cry for succour, silent to the others but screamed from every part of her Reborn soul.

In the abyss a voice answered.

Like an approaching storm its energy boiled and swelled within the warp, forcing itself through the permeable layer of the necrontyr prison dimension. Gathering speed the apparition rushed upon Yvraine, breathless in its haste to be free, carving through the pulp of daemon-froth that still hung swollen in the vault.

In the instant of connection Yvraine gasped. A mix of terror and joy scorched through her, dancing upon every reanimated cell to muster a foothold in the physical world of mortals.

Like an uncoiling serpent the Yncarne reared up from Yvraine’s thoughts and burrowed out of her body.

It rose, still coalescing into a half-handsome, half-deformed monstrosity. A cascade of hair sprouted from the scalp, a mane of pale death-colour that writhed with its own soulpower. Streamers of deathly energy fell from its limbs and back like a cloak, spreading far as it lifted higher and higher.

The incarnation of Ynnead held up a hand and a beam of corpselight formed into a leaf-bladed spear – Vilith-zhar, the shape-changing cronesword, forged in an inferno of burning aeldari spirits while Craftworld Biel-tan had been wracked by the birth-tumult of the Yncarne.

Spiralling over the aeldari, the Yncarne levelled its spear at the gilt-clad daemon prince, issuing a howl of challenge that pierced the ears. Watching the two of them facing each other, Yvraine was struck by the similarity – the hermaphroditic appearance of both and the elegance of their manifested limbs. She shuddered at the thought that the Yncarne might be born in the image of the Great Enemy, but the unease passed with the revelation that the opposite was true: She Who Thirsts had been moulded as the aeldari from whose perverse dreams the Chaos God had been spawned.

Sweeping aside necrontyr and aeldari with its whip, the daemon-warrior launched itself at the Yncarne, black fire trailing from the twin blades of its spear. Vilith-zhar gleamed with icy light as it met the downward slashing lance. The two artefacts crashed together with a detonation like thunder, hurling the daemon prince meteor-like into a phalanx of necrontyr warriors while the Yncarne whirled away like a reeling tornado.

Yvraine’s heart hammered as Ynnead’s avatar readied again, black sparks burning welts through its immortal flesh. The daemon prince rose up trailing streamers of gauss fire from the surrounding squads of Unliving, ignoring the particle beams whipping at its torso.

The exalted servant of the Great Enemy directed its whip towards the Yncarne, the grasping soul-lash aimed for the wrist of the hand holding the cronesword. The Yncarne chopped down, catching the twirling whip end with the haft of its mutable weapon. Tendrils of spirit-whip coiled about the haft and the Yncarne pulled, wrenching the daemon prince closer.

Among the silvery bodies of the necrontyr the unleashed sun-eater had fallen upon the scarab-prince and was prising apart its shell casing with energy-manifested limbs, vomiting fiery ejections into its writhing foe. At the head of the Ynnari Aspect Warriors the Warshard had despatched the snake-prince and now hewed its red-hot blade through swathes of fiends and daemon-riders, the guns of its followers cutting down dozens more.

‘Yvraine!’

The Visarch’s call warned her in time to dodge the daemonclaw that would have separated her left arm from the shoulder. No longer entranced by the duel between the immortals, Yvraine realised that she had been standing in a circle of the Coiled Blade, defended by their klaives while the Bloodbrides dealt death further afield with a storm of attacks. She sheared the head from the daemonette as it lunged again. Alorynis pounced from beside her, fangs and claws sinking into the long face of a monstrous fiend as it burst through the cordon of incubi. Hissing, the gyrinx leapt away, tearing the creature’s head to tatters as he did so. The remains flopped to the floor, becoming dried wisps like ancient parchment before scattering to dust.

All across the plaza the Ynnari were pushing forward again. Yvraine could feel their souls drawing strength from the fallen, a gathering power snared from the dead all across the tomb complex. The return of the Whisper brought not only the Yncarne but rejoined the Opener of the Seventh Way with her people once more. The lifeforce flittering around her was like a constellation of beautiful stars, shot through with the nebulous rising spirits of the dead.

‘We are the Reborn!’ she cried, raising the Sword of Sorrows above her head. She fed on the gathering energy of the dead, making herself the eye of a soulstorm that whirled faster and faster around her. ‘We are the wrath of Ynnead!’

Yvraine drew the tempest into herself, becoming the conductor for the lightning of the Whispering God, jets of immortal flame spearing from the upraised tip of her blade. With the fire of death enveloping her, the Opener of the Seventh Way drove forwards through her bodyguards, sword striking with a life of its own. Each sweep of the cronesword shattered the body of a daemon, turning them to scattering crystal-like shards. From their demise wreathing flames erupted, jumping from daemonette to daemonette, earthing through the eyes of fiends and mounts, crawling across ornate chariots and burning hell-serpents to ash.

At the head of her host, Yvraine advanced and the daemons perished.

While Yvraine had reached out to her god, Nuadhu had been swept up by concerns far more visceral. The grief of his half-sister and father lingered like fog in the air, though shot through with relief. He was at odds with himself, his emotions wrenched at the sight of his family’s heartbreak but feeling little of it himself. He had spent so long ruled by simple passions it jarred him that he felt distanced at this time, as though he looked upon the scene from afar, and only witnessed his part within it.

‘She is gone,’ whispered the chieftain, face in his hands.

Nuadhu felt Caelledhin crouch beside him but did not take his eyes from Naiall, whose shoulders sagged even further. Neamyh and others gathered about them but Nuadhu paid them no heed. The Wild Lord reached out a hand to his father’s shoulder, reassuring himself even as he hoped to lend his strength.

‘Look…’ Caelledhin pointed to Naiall’s hands, where tears leaked between his cadaverous fingers.

The flesh gained some colour, the skin seeming to thicken, masking the thick veins beneath. Hands quivering, Naiall sat back and moved them from his face. His cheeks had more flesh on them, his eyes brighter and white, not jaundiced as before. With lustre returning to his fingernails the chieftain pulled back his hood and ran thickening fingers over his scalp. Where before dead skin had flaked now was only smoothness, almost pink like an infant’s.

‘It was killing you,’ said Nuadhu.

‘No body can sustain two spirits,’ said Caelledhin. She reached out too and between them, Nuadhu and his half-sister helped Naiall to his feet.

An explosion not far away caused the chieftain to flinch, a reminder to them all that the battle was far from over.

‘What does this mean?’ asked Neamyh. ‘Will he live?’

Nuadhu could not say, but Naiall answered the question with a sorrowful nod.

‘The burden has been released from my body. Now it will return to its natural course.’ He looked first at Caelledhin, tears blistering in his eyes. ‘I am so sorry. I thought there would be some way… I thought that she might be returned to us. I could not…’

‘It was a noble gesture, but she would not want you to wither away simply to forestall her death.’ Caelledhin swallowed hard and wiped the tears with the back of her hand. ‘She died for me a long time ago, now she has simply been set free.’

‘You look much stronger already,’ remarked Nuadhu. Assured that Naiall was not at any immediate risk – no more than the rest of them – the raging sounds of battle now nagged at the Wild Lord. He took a step back towards Alean and flashed B’sainnad a look, receiving a nod of understanding in return. He looked at his father and half-sister. ‘Someone has to close the vault.’

Nuadhu turned away but was stopped by an unusually fierce grip on his arm.

‘No!’ Naiall drew in a heavy breath. ‘I have already lost so much. I cannot bear to lose my son also.’

‘It cannot be helped,’ said Nuadhu, gently pulling himself free. ‘The Phaerakh said as much.’

‘There must be another way,’ begged Naiall as Nuadhu headed back towards the Vyper.

‘There is,’ he heard Caelledhin declare.

The Wild Lord half turned at the sound of running feet, just in time to see Caelledhin dashing towards him out of the corner of his eye. In the next moment metal flashed and something hard hit him in the temple, sending him sprawling to the floor with stars flaring across his vision. She stood over him for a moment, her pistol in hand, and then set off running once more, dashing past her shocked father to vault into the saddle of her jetbike.

Nuadhu tried to force himself up but dizziness swept through him so that he tottered like a small child. Pain flared through his head as the whine of Caelledhin’s jetbike cut through his hearing.

Turning sharply, his half-sister arrowed the steed towards the silver rift, rising quickly above the embattled hosts, following the course of Yvraine as the Opener of the Seventh Way carved a broad path through the daemons.

Nuadhu mastered his nausea and raised a hand to the messenger bead, activating it with a wince.

‘You cannot do this,’ he transmitted to her as he staggered towards B’sainnad, the weight of Drake’s Fang dragging at his arm. The pilot guided Alean closer but all Nuadhu could muster was a weak grip upon the rail of the fighting platform; he could not pull himself up. ‘The Phaerakh said mine was the blood-that-awakens.’

‘Blood that I share, my brother,’ she replied. The jetbike was a dark blur against the coruscating veil of silver energy, almost impossible to see against the brightness. ‘One must die to close the barrier.’

‘But not you, my sister.’ Nuadhu grimaced and mustered what strength he could, hauling himself onto the platform to sit behind B’sainnad. Caelledhin was almost lost from view, caught in the splay of energy fronds about the breach. ‘I am not fit to be clan lord. Our people deserve better.’

‘If this does not work, then feel free to follow me.’ Her laugh was short and forced, her next words delivered with heart-rending solemnity. ‘Do not overshadow my death with your fears. Leave me this glory. You must live, Nuadhu. I was wrong. Though he has many cycles left now, Naiall will not be chieftain forever. You will be a far better leader than I.’

‘I can barely control myself, never mind a whole clan,’ rasped Nuadhu.

‘You have time to learn. But do not change too much. Our people do not need a chaperone into the long night, but a star to light the way to glory for them. Burn bright, brother. Burn bright!’

It was impossible to know whether the stab through Nuadhu’s chest was simply a reaction, or if he literally felt the moment Caelledhin passed into the veil. With a loud moan he fell to his back, Drake’s Fang clutched tight. Against the dark skies the daemons, scythe-craft and aeldari fighters whirled and fought.

Silver flashes pulsed through the air, leaping from the prison vault. Each sparking sheet of power snatched at the daemons, setting barbs of energy in their immaterial bodies that dragged them back towards the breach. Searing flecks danced along the ground, looping tendrils of silver light about the host of the Great Enemy, shearing through them, whipping their screaming forms back into the breach.

‘It worked…’ B’sainnad muttered. ‘She did it.’

Nuadhu rolled to his side and craned his neck to look at the pyramid. Squinting against the intensity of the light, he saw the flailing shapes of daemon princes, fiends and steeds dragged into nothing. Flickers of portal-energy crawled across the empty ground devouring the incorporeal remains of the slain daemons, leaving nothing behind.

A dozen heartbeats after Caelledhin had disappeared not a daemon remained to pollute Agarimethea. Nuadhu sat up and stared about him in amazement, his gaze moving to the curtain of power that enveloped the pyramid. For a little while longer he strained to see anything, desperate for a darting shape to emerge.

But the Watcher of the Dark had not lied.

The silver fractured, became streamers of rainbow hue, which in turn faded to just memory. The pyramid stood inert against the dissipating aura of the daemon-taint.

Caelledhin was gone and would never return.

Chapter 28

AN UNEASY TRUCE

The quiet after battle can be more unsettling than the din of war, bringing with it the silence of voices lost and the nag of questions that cannot be easily answered. Such was the case in the aftermath of the daemons’ banishment. The lifeless eyes of the necrontyr phalanx glared from the gathering twilight, lighting the city with their pale green essence. Not a warrior or scarab stirred, not dormant but diligent, awaiting the next command of their Phaerakh.

Agarimethea had once again become a place of the dead.

Alliance forged in necessity easily breaks at convenience, and Yvraine was keenly aware of the metallic legion massed around her own, much-diminished force, their weapons silent for the time being but poised for immediate attack.

From the midst of her host strode the Warshard, Anaris bathing them in the gleam of its fire as the First Avatar raised the widowmaker in salute to her.

‘One foe is vanquished but another remains,’ growled the Warshard, turning its ember gaze upon the Unliving army.

‘We cannot face the Watcher of the Dark’s host and win,’ said Yvraine.

Around her the Coiled Blade and Bloodbrides gathered, the Visarch at her shoulder once more. Overhead the Yncarne drifted back and forth, sated for the moment but ready to unleash the power of Ynnead if needed.

The Saim-Hann were scattered all about, Wild Riders and clan warriors heading for each other as remnants of necrontyr formations dispersed back to their main lines around the pyramid plaza. Yvraine saw Nuadhu and his father side by side, surveying the unlikely scene together. Rid of the burden of Iyothia’s soul, Naiall Fireheart stood straighter, and even had a pistol in hand.

She looked for Eldrad and found him with two of the Saim-Hann seers – the third lay like a crumple of discarded robe not far away, wisps of vapour drifting from a body incinerated by daemonfire. Several warlocks loitered close at hand, witchblades and singing spears at the ready. Eldrad sensed her attention and broke away with a parting word to the other farseers.

‘Look.’ The Visarch pointed with his blade as ranks of armoured necrontyr parted to reveal the Phaerakh. Above the Watcher of the Dark loomed the imprisoned sun-eater, its baleful energies wrapped about itself for the time being, lapping along the sides of its levitating cell like waves on a shore.

‘The vault-space-prison has been sealed. The manifestations-of-intemporal-psychic-deceit have been returned to captivity.’

The voice seemed to resound from every surface, not loud but omnipresent, as if the city spoke to them. Eldrad advanced a few steps towards the Phaerakh, staff thudding deliberately with each pace.

‘It is in the interests of all that your vaults remain locked,’ said the farseer.

‘The vault-space-prison will remain sealed.’

‘If we desire it,’ declared Nuadhu. He pointed his spear at the pyramid. ‘By aeldari hand the nightmares can be unleashed again. Any move against my people and we will ensure that before we are slain we will break open one of your vaults and see your domains destroyed.’

‘The threat-mock-boast is unnecessary. The Septaplurachy exists only to guard-maintain the vault-space-prison. There is no expansion-intent-ambition. Mutual survival-need-peace is binding.’

As though a gesture of goodwill, the four parts of the sun-eater’s massive casket whined shut, enclosing the demigodly creature again. A darkness fell upon the plaza in the wake of the sun-eater’s light being swallowed. The prison-edifice slid across the sky back to its housing and descended into the emerald gleam of the underground tomb city.

With its departure the umbra that tormented the skies cleared, wiping away the last remnants of the trapped starship to allow twilight to shine down upon the opposing forces. Yvraine felt the Whisper grow in strength, the background hum that was her people becoming the familiar tingle of their soul-presence.

‘The null field is lifting,’ said Eldrad.

‘Your intemporal-burrow-bridge is made possible.’

More breaks in the lines of immortal constructs revealed pockets of Ynnari and Saim-Hann gathering from other parts of the city, escorted towards the plaza by slowly marching phalanxes of warriors. Transports and squads on foot advanced along the pathways left for them, like wayward flock animals returned to their herder. From the skies, shadowed by silent scythe-fighters, the aeldari aircraft descended, dawnsails and other drop-ships landing amid clouds of impellor-scattered dust.

The Warshard grimaced as it watched the proceedings, but bowed to one knee before Yvraine, showing deference in the moments before it relinquished control. Its flames guttered and iron flesh faded to ashen grey before flaking away upon a sudden wind, leaving Meliniel in its place, surrounded by a golden nimbus that collapsed into the Heart of Asuryan upon his breast.

The autarch stood and approached Yvraine.

‘As much as I am sure the Phaerakh is sincere, let us not tempt a terrible fate by dwelling here any longer than necessary.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Yvraine. She sheathed the Sword of Sorrows, and crooked her arm for Alorynis to jump to her. The gyrinx nuzzled close, contented for the most part, though an occasional twitch of the tail betrayed agitated memories. ‘Let us leave Agarimethea to the dead.’

Watching the Opener of the Seventh Way ascend the ramp of the dawnsail, Aradryan marvelled that any of them had survived at all. He sensed Tzibilakhu crossing the control chamber but kept his gaze on the scene through the side canopy, eyes following the Visarch, Meliniel and then Eldrad as they followed Yvraine.

‘Is it always like this?’ he asked.

‘Like what?’ replied the former drukhari, leaning against the canopy sheet to share the view.

‘Like living in a myth?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Demigods and avatars, sun-eaters and necrontyr… I would say that it was a legend from the War in Heaven if I was told it.’

She laughed softly and stepped back

‘Not always. But often.’

He made his way back to the pilot cradle and settled into it in preparation for the command to lift off, but did not seal it completely about himself. He took the spirit stone of Diamedin from its pouch at his waist and stroked a finger across its smooth surface.

‘Can we really find the fifth cronesword and bring about the Rebirth of the aeldari?’

‘Does it matter to you? Is that what you were willing to die for?’

Aradryan frowned.

‘Of course it does! If we are to free our people from She Who Thirsts the Whispering God must ascend.’ He cradled the spirit stone between his palms. ‘Every soul, given fresh release to live again as we were intended. Free.’

Tzibilakhu approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. She smiled again, the expression so at odds with her fierce Commorraghan appearance.

‘Are you not yet free, Aradryan?’

He thought of the lightness in his spirit since he had accepted Ynnead’s voice into his life. The weight of the aeldari’s doom had been lifted from him, no matter what came next. He thought about the endless lives he had lived – lives he did not recall but could still feel in his immortal soul – and of the great cycles of the universe.

‘How many Wars in Heaven have there been?’ he asked, struck by the sudden thought. He glanced out of the window at the distant figure of the necrontyr queen who stood immobile observing the departure of the aeldari, surrounded by thousands of unmoving warriors. ‘Necrontyr and aeldari created these vaults together. Did all of this happen before?’

‘Who knows?’ replied Tzibilakhu, moving to her piloting space. ‘Perhaps in a thousand lifetimes the events that unfold around us will be known as the War in Heaven.’

Aradryan nodded, pleased by the idea. He tucked Diamedin back into his belt, safe in the knowledge that one day she too would be Reborn. Even if not, if the last cronesword was not recovered before his mortal time ended again, this one was not a bad life to live through.

When all was over, it still remained to count the cost of a dubious victory. Though equilibrium with the necrontyr of Agarimethea had been established, such balance was precarious at best, a delaying of conflict and nothing more.

Even so, the folk of Clan Fireheart could number themselves among the privileged to have survived the encounter, the spirits of their fallen guided to peace by Yvraine and her god. On returning to their starship, it was not the past that concerned the leaders of the clan, but the future.

‘What do you intend now?’ asked Naiall as he settled into a chair aboard the Eltereth.

His question was directed to Nuadhu, who had spoken little since Caelledhin’s sacrifice to close the portal. The Wild Lord studied his father. He looked healthy, though still thin and hairless. There was no listlessness in his movements and no hesitancy in his breath. Eyes full of strength watched thoughtfully.

Nuadhu looked at the other family members gathered in the chieftain’s chamber, feeling keenly the absence of his sister.

‘This is not the end of our woes,’ said Nuadhu. ‘Clan Icewhisper will not take kindly to the death of Caelledhin, as much as they disowned her in life.’

‘No, but the enmity of Lady Laileh is nothing new,’ replied Naiall. ‘But I speak not of the clan, but you, my son. Fates willing, it shall be some time before you inherit my title. You need not hide from the burden of heir.’

Nuadhu thought to argue against the assumption, but instead accepted the truth of his father’s statement with a shrug.

‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘For what seems my whole life I have been caught between my fears. I think I might remain Wild Lord for a while longer, but to embrace my freedom, not to run from responsibility. While the dread of your imminent death hung over me, while my unease at succeeding you weighed upon my thoughts, I wasted the opportunities of being a Wild Rider.’

Nuadhu regarded them all in turn, filled with a sense of belonging he had not felt for a long time. In extremity, Clan Fireheart had been brought together, reforged by the hammers of adversity and the heat of battle.

‘I think I have discovered who I am and what I want, but it will take time to work out what that means,’ he told them. ‘I will see the name of Clan Fireheart sung with pride again from every vale and peak of Saim-Hann. The Flameglades will again become the envy of all others.’

He stooped over his father and placed a kiss upon his brow, relishing the new warmth that came from the touch where before had been the coldness of near-dead flesh.

Fireheart, he thought. We shall burn brighter than ever before, my sister.

About the Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, and several audio dramas including the bestselling Raven’s Flight. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Ashes of Prospero, Imperator: Wrath of the Omnissiah, Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior, Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence and Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Warhammer Chronicles omnibus The Sundering, and much more besides. In 2017, Gav won the David Gemmell Legend Award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from Dark Imperium: Plague War.

Weak light bobbed through pitchy black, casting a pale round that grew and shrank upon polished blue marble quarried on a world long ago laid waste. The hum of a grav motor sawed at the quiet of the abandoned hall, though not loudly enough to banish the peace of ages that lay upon it. The lamp was dim as candlelight, and greatly obscured by the iron lantern framing it. The angles of the servo-skull that bore the lantern further cut the glow, but even in the feeble luminance the stone gleamed with flecks of gold. The floor awoke for brief moments at its caress, glinting with a nebula’s richness, before the servo-skull moved on and the paving’s glory was lost to the dark again.

The lonely figure of a man walked at the edge of the light, sometimes embraced by it completely, more often reduced to a collection of shadows and mellow highlights at its edge. The hood of his rough homespun robe was pulled over his head. Sandals woven of cord chased the light at a steady pace. The circle of light was small, but the echo of the man’s footsteps revealed the space it traversed as vast. Less could be discerned about the man, were there anyone there to see him. He was a priest. Little else could be said besides that. It would certainly not be obvious to a casual observer he was militant-apostolic to the Lord Commander. He did not dress as men of his office ordinarily would, in brocade and jewels. He did not seem exalted. He certainly did not feel so. To himself, and to those poor souls he offered the succour of the Emperor’s blessing, he was simply Mathieu.

Mathieu was a man of faith, and to him the Space Marines seemed faithless, ignorant of the true majesty of the Emperor’s divinity, but the Mortuis Ad Monumentum had the air of sanctity nevertheless.

Mathieu liked it for that reason.

Beyond the slap of the priest’s shoes and the whine of the skull, the silence in the Mortuis Ad Monumentum was so total, the sense of isolation so complete, that not even the background thrum of the giant engines pushing the Macragge’s Honour through the warp intruded. The rest of the ship vibrated, sometimes violently, sometimes softly, the growl of the systems always there. Not where the priest walked. The stillness of the ancient hall would not allow it. Within its confines time itself held its breath.

Mathieu had spent his quieter days exploring the hall. Its most singular features were the statues thronging the margins. They were not just in ones or twos, effigies given space to be walked around and admired, nor were they ensconced in alcoves to decorate or commemorate. No, there were crowds of stone men, in places forty deep, all Adeptus Astartes in ancient marks of armour. It may be that they were placed with care once, but no longer, and further into the hall, the more jumbled their arrangements became. The hall had been breached in days gone by, and the statues destroyed. Untidy heaps of limbs were bulldozed carelessly aside and ugly patching marked wounds from ancient times.

The warriors remembered by the statues had died ten thousand years before Mathieu’s birth. Perhaps they had even fallen in the Emperor’s wars to create the Imperium itself. Such an incredible length of years, hard to comprehend, and yet now the being who had led these self-same dead men commanded the ship again.

It dizzied Mathieu that he served a son of the Emperor. He could not quite believe it, even after all that had happened, all that he had seen.

Mathieu stopped in the dark where a group of statues huddled together. White stone glowed grey in the gloom. He had the terrifying notion that they had come alive and gathered to block his path, a phalanx of ghosts angered by profanity. He put aside the thought. He ignored the cold hand of fear creeping up his back. He had come off course, nothing more. It was easy enough to get lost in a hall half a mile wide and almost as long.

His servo-skull bore a large HV upon its forehead. By the letter V alone he called it. He could not bring himself to refer to it by her name.

‘V,’ he said. His voice was pure and strong. It cut the shadows and frightened back the dark. Mathieu was an unimposing man, young, slight, but his voice was remarkable; a weapon greater than the worn laspistol he carried on his left hip, or the chainsword he bore into battle. Loud and commanding before his congregations, it seemed tiny in the face of the dead past, but like a silver bell chiming deep in winter-stilled woods, it was clear and bright and lovely.

V emitted a flat, static-laced melody of acknowledgement.

‘Ascend five feet. Elevate lamp, pan left to right.’

The skull’s motors pulsed. It rose up into the high voids of the monumentum. The light abandoned Mathieu, angling instead for the still figures surrounding him. Stone faces leapt from the dark, as if snatching the chance to be remembered, quickly drowning again in the black as V turned away. For a moment Mathieu’s fear came back. He did not recognise where he was, until V’s pale lamplight washed over a Space Marine captain of some unremembered era, the right arm held so proudly aloft broken off at the elbow. This warrior he recognised.

Mathieu breathed in relief. ‘Descend to original height. Rotate lantern downwards to light my way. Proceed.’

V voiced its fractured compliance. There were pretensions to musicality in the signal, but the limited vox-unit was fifth hand at least, scavenged like all V’s other fittings, and overuse had blunted its harmonies.

‘Proceed to the hermitage, quickly now. My time for this duty is running out.’

V banked around and swept onwards. Mathieu picked up his pace to keep up.

The Adeptus Astartes pretended to disdain worship. It was well known among the Adeptus Ministorum that they did not regard the Emperor as a god. Mathieu had known this all through his calling. The truth had proved to be not so simple. On the ship there were many shrines, decorated lovingly with images of death, and containing the bones of heroes in reliquaries that rivalled those of the most lauded saint in their ostentation. The Ultramarines’ cult was strong, though they did not worship. In chapels that denied religion their skull-masked priests protested loudly about the human nature of the Emperor and the primarchs while venerating them as gods in all but name. Their practice of honour, duty and obedience was conducted with a fanatical devotion.

There was an element of wilful blindness to their practices, thought Mathieu.

The way the Adeptus Astartes reacted to Roboute Guilliman bordered on awe. From the beginning Guilliman had warned Mathieu himself not to be worshipful, that he was not the son of a god. The priest had witnessed how irritated the primarch became with those who did not heed his words. And yet, these godless sons of his looked upon him, and they could barely hide their fervour.

Mathieu did as he had been told. He affected to see the man Guilliman wished to be, but his familiarity with the primarch was largely an act. Mathieu did revere the primarch, sincerely and deeply.

Previous militant-apostolics had carved themselves out a little realm in Guilliman’s palace spire atop the giant battleship. The position came with appropriately luxurious quarters. Some time before Mathieu’s tenure the largest room had been converted into a chapel of the Imperial Cult. It was gaudy, too concerned with expressions of wealth and influence and not faith. Mathieu had done his best to make it more austere. He removed some of the more vulgar fixtures, replaced statues of ancient cardinals with those of his favourite saints. There had been a sculpture of the Emperor in Glory standing proudly, sword in hand, upon the altar. Mathieu had replaced that with an effigy of the Emperor in Service; a grimacing corpse bound to the Golden Throne. Mathieu had always preferred that representation for it honoured the great sacrifice the Emperor made for His species. The Emperor’s service to mankind was so much more important than His aspects as a warrior, ruler, scientist or seer. Mathieu always tried to follow the example of the Emperor in Service, giving up what little comfort he had to aid the suffering mass of humanity.

The chapel was tainted by the dishonesties of holy men. He preferred to lead worship with the ship’s bonded crew in their oily churches. He maintained the private chapel only because the display was expected of him. He rarely prayed there.

For his private devotions he came down to this deserted cult monument of irreligious men.

At the back of the hall was a small charnel house, where the stacked skulls of fallen heroes were cemented in grim patterns. The dust lay thick on all its decoration when Mathieu had discovered it. Nobody had been there for a long time.

Beneath the eyeless stares of transhuman skulls, he had set up a plain wooden altar, this also bearing an effigy of the Emperor in Service. Arrayed around it were lesser statues of the nine loyal primarchs, as could be found in any holy place. That representing Roboute Guilliman was three times the size of the others. Mathieu genuflected to both Emperor and His Avenging Son, though the real Guilliman might well shoot him for doing so.

He knelt awhile and prayed to the statues, the Emperor first, His sons and then finally to Guilliman. He stood and took from a large ammunition box thirty-six candles which he added to the racks of hundreds around the periphery of the room. When the candles were in place upon their spikes, he ignited a small promethium flame, and from it lit the wicks one by one, whispering solemnly over each.

‘Emperor watch over you,’ he said. ‘Emperor watch over you.’

Each candle represented the wish for a prayer from a menial somewhere, those ordinary folk who made up the majority of the Imperial citizenry yet otherwise had no voice. When someone asked him for the blessing of light, Mathieu never refused, no matter how high or low, but promised to burn a candle for every request. There were so many pleas, so many in pain, even within the small world of a starship, that he could not possibly hope to keep his vow. In the end he had taken on aid, as his deacons insisted he should. Having always denied himself servants or servitors he was troubled by how easily he had got used to them. He never wanted to become like other high churchmen, with bloated households thousands strong, and feared this was but the first step on that road.

When he found himself taking the servants for granted, he had taken penance, straining the capacity of his auto-flagellator to punish himself. After his scourging he had prepared this hermitage for himself, clearing it out with his bare hands, washing the floors, crafting the objects of worship. When he had done, he had reverently set up an identical rack of candles to show his sincerity, so now every lost soul had two candles to burn for them; one above lit by his servants, and one below lit by himself. His hermitage was dark when he arrived. He doused the candles when he left and he relit them every single time he went within, until they burned down to stumps. There were always more to replace them.

‘The Lord Guilliman chose me for my humility,’ he said to himself. With one unwavering hand he touched the promethium torch to every stick of wax. His other hand was clenched so tightly in his robes his knuckles glowed white in the candlelight. His auto-flagellator ran at a setting of mild agony. He let the pain thrill his body, purifying him of his selfish thoughts. ‘O Emperor, do not let me lose myself in this office. Do not let me damn myself by forgetting Your grace and Your purpose for me. Let me be free of pride. Let me be pure of purpose. Let me help Lord Guilliman to see the truth of Your light. Help me, O Master of Mankind.’

After an hour, he was finished. He took out a sanctus-astrogator from his robes and let it find the likely position of Terra for him. Whether it truly worked in the warp he did not know, yet he followed its suggestion, and genuflected in the direction of man’s ancestral home, where the Emperor dwelled in majestic pain.

That done, he went to his desk.

He lit six large candles lodged into the open tops of a pair of skulls. They had belonged to the faithful dead, martyred in anonymity by the marauders of Chaos. He thanked each of them for providing him light in the dark. Then he sat down and opened the leather tome he had upon the desk. The paper was smooth and creamy, far better than any he had used before. There were some benefits to being the primarch’s tool. The book fell open at the title page, displaying the legend The Great Plague War. Mathieu turned the pages, looking upon those chapters he had already finished but whose illuminations remained rough sketches. Before committing his thoughts to this history, he worked and reworked them in chapbooks, until he deemed them ready for this first drafting. Today was a momentous day. The next part of his testament was finished and could be laid down for posterity.

Guilliman required so little of him. Mathieu’s assessment of the position of militant-apostolic as a mouthpiece was accurate. He was called upon from time to time to advise the primarch on how to handle the church, or to deliver oratory to one gathering or another. Often, Guilliman rewrote his sermons.

Mathieu filled his time with service to the Emperor as he understood it. As he had gone among the poor and sick on the worlds of Ultramar, now he went among the Chapter and vessel serfs that served aboard the Macragge’s Honour, dispensing alms or medical aid, and bringing spiritual comfort. In the dingy chapels of the lower decks he spoke of the Emperor’s mercy. Baseline humans in the fleet were discouraged from religious demonstrations, for the Ultramarines found open worship distasteful, but they were not forbidden their beliefs either. Mathieu gave them what comfort he could. Their lives were hard. He pitied them.

At other times he wrote. Partly he wrote in slavish imitation of the sainted primarch, whose every spare moment was spent in his scriptorium. Mainly it was because he believed the deeds of Roboute Guilliman should be recorded by one of the faithful for the faithful, and not only preserved in the obscurity of the Ultramarines librarium.

Mathieu turned to the next blank page and opened his inkwell. He looked away from the book, his fingers spread on the paper, and took a moment to steady himself, clear his mind and make his soul ready for the sacred task. Only then did he take up his quill, dip the nib into black ink and meticulously write an ornate title.

The Sainted Guilliman’s triumph upon Espandor against the horrors of the unclean powers.

He drew the letters slowly, filling the bubbles of each with decorative flourishes. Later, should the writing still stand up to his critical eye, he would expand these efforts at illumination, illustrating the document with fine pictures. For now, he sketched in a few ideas, only lightly so he might easily scrape them out. Once done, he thought a moment on whether to name himself as the author of the chapter. He wavered, then decided he would, and wrote quickly before he could change his mind.

As related by Militant-Apostolic Frater Mathieu of the Acronite Mendicants, third line postulant, who was present personally during the campaign.

He regretted his vanity as soon as he finished the sentences. Before commencing each instalment he had the same fruitless inner battle. Knowing only too well how fragmented documents could become over time, he had put his name under every chapter heading. Although he had been there on Espandor, and intended to refer to sights he had seen with his own eyes, there was little need to attribute the writing, less still to point out who he was and who he had been. His story was not the point, the primarch’s was, and yet he yearned to be recognised as its author. There was twofold pride in that sentence, in stating his exalted rank, and in insisting his humble origins so that all would know how high he had risen.

He meditated a moment, asking the Emperor for forgiveness. He resolved to write the entire account of the war, then remove his name. That was the way. He would continue with his ritual debate until the end, then purge himself from the account.

Breathing evenly so as not to disturb his penmanship, he started his story.

Upon Espandor, the Sainted Guilliman did drive back the forces of the dread primarch Mortarion, may he forever be condemned to suffering the Emperor’s punishments for his treachery. With great force and intelligence, the Imperial Regent Guilliman, the last and most faithful of the sons of the living God-Emperor, did set his forces against those of the unspeakable ones, and so remove them from the world and its attendant subject planets. And in the star systems close by he attacked with such aggressive certainty of victory that the fell voidcraft of the enemy were pushed out, and the blockade lifted, so Espandor was brought relief. The cities were retaken, and in them all the Sainted Guilliman wept to see the temples of his father profaned, and the servants of Terra much reduced by sickness and by war, so that only a tenth of the peoples of Espandor who had been before living remained in the Sainted Guilliman’s service, and that of Ultramar, and of He who rules from Terra.

For fifteen days the primarch did battle across Espandor, overthrowing the hegemony of daemons and Heretic Astartes alike. By cunning strategy, he drove them before himself, breaking their might and annihilating them piecemeal with his fury. With lightning strike and surprise assault, he divided the enemy and so overcame them. At the Spires of Priandor he cast down the rusting daemon-golems of the fallen Legio Onerus. The river of Gangatellium ran black with daemonic ichor so deep that to purify its waters required the prayers of twenty-two high cardinals. In the provinces of Berenica, Ebora and Iorscira the enemy were routed and slain. So swift and terrible was the primarch’s advance that all went to disarray before him, whether daemon, mortal, or undying legionary. At every clash the primarch led, the sword of his father flamed bright in his grasp. About the Sainted Guilliman the protection of His angels and His saints burned bright in a terrible nimbus that lit the souls of the faithful with great strength, and smote the servants of the enemy wheresoever it did shine upon them. The minions of the Plague Lord, who feed upon despair and hopelessness, knew despair themselves. Yea! And their skin did smoke at the light’s touch, and their wargear faileth, and the machine things that should not be fell into steaming parts, and were sent out of this realm forever.

Seven battles the primarch waged in defiance of the Plague Lord’s unholy number, for seven brings the Plague Lord power. The seventh battle was the greatest of all.

At the commencement of every fight, Guilliman strode forth out before his armies and spake these words for all to hear.

‘I am the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, fury of the Emperor! These worlds are under my protection. You will be driven out, and cast down, and all your number slain. There shall be no mercy for you who have turned your back on the holy light of Terra, and defied the divine grace of the Emperor. I call to you, and say, present unto me the arch-traitor Mortarion, my brother, fallen primarch and high daemon, and I shall take him, and slay him, and your multitudes will know the mercy of a swift death.’

I, Militant-Apostolic Mathieu, know these to be true accounts, for I was there at the Sainted Guilliman’s side, and fought in the Emperor’s name in the primarch’s sight.

Naturally, Guilliman had not phrased his challenges quite like that, and there was maybe a little bit of flourish around the displays of the primarch’s power. But Mathieu was convinced that the Emperor fought alongside His son. He could practically see Him. One day Guilliman would believe the truth of his father’s nature, and thank Mathieu for showing him the path to faith. What he wrote might not be strictly accurate, but it was truthful, he was sure of that.

These minor additions bothered him not in the least, but another part did cause him disquiet.

His shameful pride had resurfaced. He chewed his lip in anguish, rereading the lines where he mentioned himself. He had fought there. The Emperor’s name was ever on his lips. That, more than the bolts of light his holy gun had fired, had brought many fell beings to ruin. He was, however, far from unique. Many other faithful warriors of the Imperium had lent prayer and las-blast to the charge. Their names were not recorded, why should his be? But then, was it so very wrong to recount his own, modest part in these struggles? In many hagiographies the narrator regaled the reader with their own deeds at the sides of the saints. On the other hand, how many other accounts had he read where there seemed to be no connection between teller and tale because the writer had let modesty win out, when their own deeds had been greater even than Mathieu’s, so as to better honour their subject?

Mathieu’s neck flushed. He was tempted to scratch the last sentence out. He had not intended to include it. Pride moved his hand.

His pen hovered over the offending line. Another memory stopped him. Guilliman had said to him after the battle of the Cooling Spire on Espandor’s scorching equator that he had fought well. The approval of the primarch had been bestowed upon him. Had he not won the right to celebrate himself, if only a little?

He set aside the question for the time being. He was due on the lower decks soon, and he wished to finish before he went. A swift jolt from his auto-flagellator refocused his mind. Once the pain faded, he recommenced his work. The scratching of the pen cast its spell, and he fell into the storyteller’s rhythm.

The power of the enemy was broken by degree. No final glorious struggle was fought upon Espandor, for the enemy was craven and would not be brought to battle, preferring instead the quiet ways of disease and despair. By many hundreds of desperate skirmishes were they finally rooted out. Dirty and hard the struggle was, and seemingly without end. Sickness and maladies of the soul took their toll on all but the most faithful of the Emperor’s servants. But by His mercy the forces of evil are not infinite in their number, and so in this way was Espandor retaken piece by piece, until but small groups of the enemy remained upon its sacred earth, and these were ringed about by the siege lines of the avenging hosts, and marked by them for cleansing violence in due course.

Unto his lieutenants the primarch gave the final tasks of Espandor. War raged across the firmament, yea, from Talasa unto Iax and all places between those systems. In this, wise Lord Guilliman spake to his generals.

‘A single man cannot in every place be, but he might move swiftly, and bring the full force of his might to bear upon the weakest places, and so with pressure crack the walls of the enemy, and shatter his line of supply. Thusly shall we triumph, and make Ultramar clean again.’

So speaking, he took his leave, and with him went fully eighty-nine point three per cent of his armies. From the blighted forests of Espandor did the Lord Primarch Roboute Guilliman set out with mighty host in train, driving his course towards Parmenio where the forces of dread Chaos gathered in great multitude.

This was better, Mathieu thought. More honest.

The warp was in awful tempest as the sainted primarch travelled, and the great vessel Adarnaton was lost with all hands, and others scattered far. The light of the Astronomican did flicker dimly, and be obscured for a space of time, and the fleet was sundered. Lo! And the holy fields of Geller did break, and daemons run amok amid the ships of the Emperor’s servants, and the primarch fought alongside his sons and with the lesser men, and did drive the warp spawn from his ship, and by his example did inspire other men to do the same.

The faithful raised shouted prayer to their Emperor as they fought, and the light of the beacon burned true again, and the warp calmeth, and what daemons did remain were burned by the hymns of the faithful, so that soon no unclean creature remained, and those men struck by unnatural sicknesses were miraculously made well, and those close to death rose up and were become hale!

I saw this. I was there.

He grimaced. He had done it again. This time, he upped the output of his pain device so much that he cried out at its activation.

The expanses of the empyrean thereafter calmed to perfect smoothness, for the Emperor of all Mankind commanded it to be so, and in good time the primarch’s fleet made translation at the Tuesen System, which lies not far from the Parmenio System, and there regathered with much relief, for ships thought lost were brought home into the fold, and losses made good.

Sundry undertakings were ordered to make the fleet fit once more, and a layover of three Terran weeks decreed.

On the ninth day there was a great rejoicing when the sky was rent and from out of the warp came one hundred and one ships in the service of the God-Emperor. Many loyal children of men journeyed from across the Imperium, seeming as if by chance, and Guilliman’s warhost was greatly fortified by this good fortune. Taking his opportunity, Guilliman bade all his astropaths sing out a message without fear, for the warp was at rest, and he told them to summon what other aid they could to Ultramar, for many men under arms and war machines had come already at his command, but more he would have.

And then did he retreat to his strategium awhile, and set himself into thought.

He emerged ten hours later, and lo! was there the promise of victory upon his face, and a light did shine about his head. ‘Tell my finest astropaths to speak with their brothers upon the star fortress Galatan, and bring it hence to orbit around the prime world of Parmenio, and rain its fire down upon the unbelievers and the faithless, for in this way am I sure to destroy my brother, and undo the works of the unspeakable Plague God.’

Immaterial breach was made without incident, and in fine array the ships sailed again upon the seas of the empyrean where the light of the Emperor may be witnessed, and His eye is upon all.

From Tuesen, Parmenio was but two weeks’ journey, and the beacon light in the empyrean blazed strongly, and the soul seas between were much becalmed, so that the Navigator of the Macragge’s Honour, Guilliman’s great conveyance, did come down from his navigatorium to speak in wonder and in faith of the sights he had seen upon the currents of that Other Place. Of angels, and of saints, and walls of gold that held back the tides of evil that would drown us all, and take out our souls from our bodies.

By the grace of the Emperor, messages passed between the fleet and the fortress of Galatan, whose power was commanded that day by Chapter Master Bardan Dovaro of the Novamarines. Dovaro promised fealty, and immediate obedience, but delivered his utmost apologies. The star fortress, stationed then at Drohl, was slow in its hugeness, and so was delayed by dint of its own might, for verily it mounted many guns and carried a great host of the Emperor’s warriors, and much labour was needed to bring it out of Drohl thence to Parmenio. The Avenging Son would not wait, but told Dovaro to come as fast as he might, and upon arrival deploy the ancient power of Galatan in the Imperium’s favour.

Guilliman was resolved to make haste to the prime world of the Parmenio System with the greater part of his armies, where the enemy gathered all but exclusively, and there to save those of the good people of the Imperium that he might from painful death and the soul oblivion. Victory was assured by His decree, for the Emperor protects, as all faithful men and women know.

Click here to buy Dark Imperium: Plague War.

Dedicated to Chris, because you just can’t keep a good Necron down.

A Black Library Publication

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