Path of the Warrior (31 page)

It irked him that he was powerless, or so it seemed. He was entirely in the hands of the farseers, and they had chosen to ignore her.

He focussed on this train of thought. His distaste was not with the actions of Thirianna but with the inaction of the council. Part of him was too willing to simply accept their judgement. It was against his nature to submit, to blindly concur, now more than ever. The vestiges of not-Korlandril struggled against Morlaniath, urging him to do something.

Still in a state of conflict, Morlaniath gathered his squad at the start of the next cycle and led them in the combat rituals. It diverted his attention away from the dilemma posed by Thirianna.

Nurianda was proving to be the most capable of his students. Her technique was impeccable and she had found her war-mask without trauma. She had mastered the chainsword and the pistol without drama, and was at one with her suit. The others still struggled. They seemed reticent to lose themselves fully, still clinging to fragments of their past lives, gripping tight to the last vestiges of their former selves. While they resisted their own temptations they would never be able to progress.

Morlaniath tried to remember what it was like when he had been Korlandril. It was unpleasant, full of conflict and fear. The memories of the other Morlaniaths intruded upon his recollections, blurring the line between what had been his life and theirs. He had welcomed becoming the Hidden Death, yet the vestiges of his former life clung to his mind; or perhaps he clung to them. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been right to dismiss Thirianna. She was a tie to the past that no longer held any relevance for him.

He dismissed the squad and was about to leave when he noticed Nurianda lingering next to her armour.

“There is something amiss, you are free to leave here, yet here you still remain,” he said, approaching the Striking Scorpion.

“I find it difficult,” she admitted, eyes downcast. “I tried to speak to my father, but he does not understand.”

“He cannot understand. Each of us has a Path, which only we can walk. I am merely a guide, the journey is all yours, you must walk it alone.”

“What if… What if the journey does not have an end?”

“It ends eventually, at one place or other, though I do not know which. Do not dwell on the end, but move along the Path, striving for your own goal. Know what you leave behind, the suffering and fear, seeking a place of peace. The love for your father, his affection for you, should act as your anchor. While you drift it remains, as it was at the start, so too at the ending.”

Nurianda smiled, wistful and thoughtful.

“Thank you. I will be patient with him.”

Morlaniath waved her to leave and stood for a while longer, gazing at the empty suits of armour. Each had belonged to many warriors. He could remember all of them—the ones that had lived, the ones that had died; the ones that had moved on, and those who had become him. He was all of them and none of them. What was he? Nothing more than dismembered spirits sharing a corporeal prison, unable to welcome the peace of the Infinity Circuit, unable to die because She Who Thirsts would claim him. He was nothing if he was not his experiences, his memories. He was the walking dead, stuck in the limbo of this body.

He could sense himself losing touch. This fresh body, it had stirred old feelings and old thoughts: memories of freedom and love; moments of pleasure and pain; moments of mortal senses and mortal thoughts. Its touch remained for the moment, but Morlaniath knew from several experiences that it would not last. Not-Korlandril invigorated him for the time being, but soon that spark would gutter and he would be Morlaniath wholly, the immortal servant of Khaine.

Let go of the past? That was foolish. Though many were the ways he had become Morlaniath, each was unique to him, each was a journey he had made. The Path had ended for him, but that did not eliminate the route he taken to reach this point. That route had meaning, and the people who had walked beside him for a while also had meaning. He had no future, save an eternity of violence and death, but they did.

He did not like unfinished business. The past was not irrelevant, but he had to leave it behind. Morlaniath made a decision and headed for the skyrunners.

“Perhaps you seek war, for that is your nature,” said Arhathain.

“I cannot make a war, if that is my desire, it is the council’s choice,” replied Morlaniath.

He knew the autarch well; had fought beside him on many a battlefield. Like all autarchs he was strong-willed, determined enough to tread the Path of the Warrior several times without being ensnared by Khaine’s curse. He remembered Arhathain as a young Dire Avenger, and a Howling Banshee in more recent memory. As an exarch he was far older than Arhathain, but not-Korlandril had been less than half his age. A dichotomy of feelings warred within Morlaniath, causing him to feel ancient and infant at the same time, unsure of his place and his time.

He had called Arhathain to the Chamber of Autarchs and spoken of Thirianna’s predictions. Arhathain defended the council’s decision, as was to be expected. Morlaniath tried to find the words that conveyed his thoughts, but it was difficult; he wanted to seize the autarch and force him to agree.

Keeping his temper in check, he listened to what Arhathain had to say.

“Every day our seers uncover a thousand dooms to Alaitoc. We cannot act on every vision; we cannot go to war on every doubt. Thirianna herself cannot provide us with clarity. We might just as well act on a superstitious trickle of foreboding down the back of the neck.”

“She lacks the proper skill, the means to give you proof, hold that not against her. Give her the help she needs, to prove her right or wrong, she will keep her silence. This doubt will hold her back, it will consume her thoughts, until you release her. You have walked many paths, seen a great many things, lived a great many lives. That life you owe to me, I remember it now, so many cycles past. I was your guardian, the protection you sought, a true companion. I remember the debt, the oath you swore to me, it is now time to pay.”

Arhathain frowned and turned away, pacing to the far side of the rostrum at the centre of the hall.

“The one I made that promise to died ten passes and more ago,” he said softly, looking up at the circular opening at the top of the dome. A distant swathe of stars was strewn across the blackness of space. “I did not swear that oath to you. It is not Elidhnerial that asks me to repay that debt, it is Korlandril.”

“I am Morlaniath, Elidhnerial too, and also Korlandril. The debt is owed to me, to all the parts of me, united in spirit. Who save me remembers, can repeat the words used, heard them spoken by you?”

“If I do not do this?”

“Your honour is forfeit, and others shall know it, I will make sure of that.”

The autarch turned and directed an intent stare at Morlaniath.

“You will not call on me again in this way?”

“Your debt will be repaid, to Elidhnerial, and we shall speak no more.”

Arhathain nodded reluctantly and stalked up the shallow steps of the chamber.

Morlaniath smiled at his departing back; the part that was not-Korlandril was pleased. He did not know what would become of his intervention, what the future would hold for him or Thirianna. Yet he was content. As a last act before he wholly became Morlaniath, it was worthwhile. Soon she would be unimportant, just another one of the memories, no greater and no less than the thousands of others he had met and loved and hated and been indifferent to. This was his parting gift. Even now the memory was becoming lost in the haze.

By the time he returned to the shrine, he would no longer care.

When the Great Enemy was born, the Bloody-Handed God brought war against She Who Thirsts but was quickly vanquished by the newborn horror. The Prince of Pleasure and the Lord of Skulls fought over possession of Khaine’s spirit, for the Bloody-Handed God was a child of both but belonged to neither. Great was the struggle in the remnants of heaven, but neither She Who Thirsts nor the Master of Battle prevailed. When both the rivals were exhausted, they drew up their boundaries and in the calm eye of their wrath Khaine fell into the world of mortals. Here the Bloody-Handed One shattered into many fragments, unable to exist as a whole in the material realm. His power spent, his body divided, Khaine’s wrath was finally diminished. Though suppressed, his rage lingers on in these fragments, drawn to war and strife, awaiting the time when blood awakens him and his vengeful essence gains form once more.

The shrine throbbed once, a frisson of rage that peaked in less than a heartbeat and was gone; a spasm of energy that distracted Morlaniath for a moment, causing him to almost miss his next instruction. He put the tremor to the back of his mind and completed the training period with his pupils, dismissing them abruptly when they were done.

He was uncertain of the cause for the momentary flux of psychic energy that had disturbed him, though he had strong suspicions. He took a skyrunner from the shrine and flew through the bowels of Alaitoc, following an instinct.

The tunnels he navigated were lit by the solitary beam of his skyrunner, a circle of light in the blackness. In the darkness around him, strands of wraithbone glittered occasionally with psychic force as the spirits of the infinity circuit pulsed to and fro. This was the life of Alaitoc—the heart and arteries, skeleton and nervous system, thoughts and feelings of the craftworld. The disturbance that Morlaniath had felt did not come again as he rode, though he sensed a residual after-shock of its occurrence, a tension that filled the air.

At the hub of Alaitoc, where the many psychic veins and nerveways of the craftworld converged, Morlaniath exited the service passage and brought his skyrunner to a halt inside a darkened chamber. The infinity circuit glowed with a ruddy light, the red of a womb. A gate was open before him, its two huge doors opened wide to reveal a wraithbone-wrapped chamber. At the centre of that room was a great throne of iron. Upon that throne sat a statuesque figure, twice Morlaniath’s height, its skin fused metal, its eyes black, empty sockets. The immense figure brooded, sucking the light from the throne room, iron fingers in fists, face contorted in a silent roar.

He felt the approach of someone behind him and turned.

“
You
felt it also, a heartbeat of Khaine, the Avatar stirs?” asked Iriethien, Dire Avenger, exarch of the Light That Burns.

“I felt something stirring, the Avatar still sleeps, the time has not yet come,” Morlaniath said.

“War is approaching, Khaine knows of these things, he senses battle,” said Iriethien. He gazed at the immobile giant, seeking any sign of life.

“We will know soon enough, there will be no doubting, when the war god calls us.”

The presence of Iriethien had confirmed Morlaniath’s suspicions. As he returned to his skyrunner, a single thought troubled him: his warriors were not yet ready for battle.

The tremulous sensation from the Avatar of Khaine did not repeat itself, but Morlaniath knew that it had not been an aberration. Once it began to waken, the Avatar did not fall into slumber again without blood being shed. The other exarchs felt it also, and sent warning to the council of Alaitoc that events were unfolding that would take the craftworld to war.

Filled with a new urgency, Morlaniath pressed on as quickly as he could with the training of the Hidden Death Striking Scorpions. All of them had now progressed to mastering the helmet and mandiblasters but progress seemed slow to the exarch. He had to be certain that they were ready for battle and was still unconvinced. If their training was insufficient it might mean disaster, not only for themselves but for the other warriors that would be relying upon them.

Morlaniath did not fret, did not waste time worrying about this state of affairs. The matter was a simple one: when war came they would either be ready or they would not. If they were not suitably prepared, they would not fight.

The voices were no more. The nights brought silence and solitude, a time for contemplation. Morlaniath found peace in the memories of battle, reliving the glories of his past, sometimes even dwelling upon the moments of his deaths, learning from them, seeking ever to improve himself.

He found his memedreams lingering more frequently on his bloody encounters with humans. Was it because his last battle had been against the followers of the Corpse-Emperor? Was there some deeper force at play that led him to relive these wars?

His pondering was interrupted, seven night-cycles after he had felt the tremor of the Avatar. Through the strands of the infinity circuit he was aware of a new arrival coming to Alaitoc, a presence that resonated through all of his lives, all of his spirits. There was a counter-echo in the midst of his consciousness, a responding tremble of awareness from the other shrines, and again the great pulse of Khaine’s heartbeat thudded briefly across the infinity circuit.

The docking bay glimmered with light from the webway portal, swirling purple and blue dappling the curved walls and the armour of seventeen exarchs. They waited in silence, each called from his or her shrine; Swooping Hawk, Dark Reaper and Striking Scorpion. Morlaniath felt the same as the others, a primal instinct to gather, to greet their arrival.

They had been brought to the Star-Wreathed Stair, the docks where warships came and went, keeping their taint of blood from ships of peaceful purpose. This was the place where the Aspect Warriors boarded their vessels. It was where their remains were brought back. From here Alaitoc had launched its warriors into the night for an age, sending them to slay or be slain. This was a place of destiny, from whence the fate of Alaitoc had been steered: expeditionary forces to uncover rising threats; fleets bent on vengeance for eldar deaths; armies that had destroyed worlds; missions to kill the ignorant and the innocent; warriors sent to slaughter inferior races, whose only crime had been their existence.