Path of the Warrior (8 page)

The new cycle was just beginning and there were many eldar sat at the tables along the balcony or moving between them and the food bars on the inward side. They ate fruits from the orchards and breakfasted on spiced meats brought back by traders with the Exodite worlds. Drinks of all colours, some luminescent, others effervescent, were dispensed from tall, slender urns or arranged in rows of glittering bottles, regularly replenished by those walking the Path of Service. A dampening field kept the conversation quiet, though there were thousands of voices raised in greeting and debate, departure and conciliation.

One area was sparsely populated, the other eldar leaving an indistinct but noticeable gap between themselves and the patrons that sat at the long benches there. Here were the Aspect Warriors, shorn of their warpaint, together in quiet contemplation.

Korlandril approached cautiously. Even after much meditation and calming mantras, he was still jittery from his recent experience. His nervousness was not helped by the stares of the other eldar as he crossed the pale blue floor, heading towards the Aspect Warriors.

He stopped and poured himself a glass of dawn-water and leaned against the curving counter top as he scanned the assembled Aspect Warriors looking for his friends.

A hand was raised in welcome and Korlandril recognised Arthuis. On his left sat Maerthuin. Around them were several other eldar that Korlandril did not know. They sat with thin platters on their laps, picking at finger food, their voices quiet. Space was made on the bench opposite his friends and Korlandril sat down, agitated by the presence of so many warriors.

“Greetings of the new cycle to you,” said Maerthuin. “Are you not hungry?”

“I’d skin and eat a narboar if I could,” said Arthuis. His plate was heaped with food and he broke off speaking to cram a handful of scented grains into his mouth.

“This is Elissanadrin,” said Maerthuin, indicating the female eldar sat to his left. She was perhaps eighty or ninety passes old, almost twice Korlandril’s age. Her cheeks were prominent, angular, and her nose thin and pointed. When she turned and smiled at Korlandril, her movements were precise, every gesture clearly defined and a little abrupt. She paused as she sensed the identity of the newcomer.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Korlandril the Sculptor,” Elissanadrin said. Her tone was as clipped as her motion.

Korlandril opened a palm in greeting. Other introductions were made: Fiarithin, a male just out of puberty; Sellisarin, a tall, older eldar male; others whose names and features Korlandril stored away for future reference.

“There is something different about you, Korlandril,” said Arthuis, placing his empty plate on a shelf underneath the bench. “I sense something aggrieves you.”

“It is hard not to feel your agitation,” added Maerthuin. “Perhaps you are uncomfortable with your company.”

Korlandril looked around at the Aspect Warriors. On the face of it, they appeared no different to any other eldar. Without their war-masks on, they were each individual. Some were obviously distressed, others animated, most thoughtful.

“I do not wish to intrude,” said Korlandril. His eyes strayed to one of the warriors, an old female who sat weeping, comforted by her companions. “I know that recently there was a battle.”

Arthuis followed Korlandril’s gaze and shook his head disconsolately.

“Several of us were lost. We mourn their passing, but their spirits were saved,” said Elissanadrin. There were approving nods from others at the benches.

“I shall compose a verse to commemorate their time with us,” said Arthuis.

“I wept like a babe when I unmasked,” Maerthuin admitted with a lopsided smile. “I think I shall miss Neamoriun the most. He was a good friend and a gifted singer.”

The name flickered with recognition and Korlandril remembered attending a concert in the Dome of Enchanting Echoes.

“I saw him perform,” said Korlandril, wishing to add something to the conversation. “He sang the
Lay of Ulthanesh.­

“That was his favourite,” Arthuis chuckled. “It is no surprise that he joined the Fire Dragons, so full of energy and excitable of temperament.”

“It was only last pass that I saw him, I did not realise he was a Fire Dragon,” said Korlandril.

“One cannot fight all of the time,” said Maerthuin. This appeared to remind him of something and he looked at Korlandril. “I am sorry that I missed the unveiling of your statue. I will visit it later this cycle.”

A flicker of agitation disturbed Korlandril as he recalled his memories of the event, his disagreement with Aradryan marring an otherwise perfect evening. The others sensed his disquiet.

“I was right, something is amiss,” said Arthuis. “I cannot think that your work was anything other than spectacular.”

“I had a friend who thought otherwise.”

There were whispers of concern and Korlandril realised he had used not only the past form of friend, but one used to refer to those that were dead. It was a slip of the tongue, but betrayed something deeper. Korlandril was quick to correct himself.

“He has left Alaitoc to become a ranger,” he said, making a reassuring gesture. “It has been difficult, I saw him only briefly. He is still with us, though I do not think our friendship has survived.”

“It is Aradryan of whom you speak?” asked Maerthuin. Korlandril nodded.

“I always thought Aradryan was a bit strange,” confided Arthuis. “I half-expected to wake each cycle and discover that he had taken the starwalk.”

Korlandril was shocked. To suggest that another eldar would take their life was one of the crudest notions he had heard. Arthuis laughed at Korlandril’s distaste.

“I know that he was your friend, but he was always far too distant,” said Arthuis. “It does not surprise me at all that he’s become a ranger. I have always sensed something of the radical about him.”

“I knew him well and sensed no such thing,” argued Korlandril.

“Sometimes the things that are closest to us are the hardest to see,” said Maerthuin. “I can sense that you would prefer not to talk about it, so we will change the subject. How is Thirianna, I see she has not come with you?”

The glass shattered into splinters in Korlandril’s hand. As one, many of the Aspect Warriors turned their attention to him, a sudden silence descending as they sensed a wave of anger flowing from the sculptor. There was concern in the eyes of several.

“Have you hurt yourself?” asked Elissanadrin, leaning forward to look at Korlandril’s hand. He examined his fingers and palm and found no blood.

“I am unhurt,” he said stiffly and made to stand. Arthuis gently but insistently grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.

“You are trembling,” said the Aspect Warrior and Korlandril realised it was true. He felt a tic under his right eye and his hands were clenched in fists.

“I am…” Korlandril began, but he could not finish the sentence. He did not know what he was. He was frustrated. He was saddened. Most of all, he was angry.

“Our friend is irritable, it would seem,” said Maerthuin. “Is there a problem with Thirianna?”

Korlandril could not reply. Every time he turned his mind to Thirianna his thoughts folded in on themselves, sending him crashing back into the pit of anger that had swallowed him. The snake within had coiled itself through every part of his body and would not let go, no matter how hard he tried to push it back.

“It is Khaine’s curse,” said Sellisarin, intrigued. He reached out a hand towards Korlandril’s brow, but the sculptor pulled back.

“Don’t touch me!” Korlandril snarled.

Sellisarin made soothing sounds and moved closer, meeting Korlandril’s gaze.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the Aspect Warrior, again reaching out his hand.

Korlandril writhed as the serpent whipped and wriggled inside, urging him to lash out. He raised his hands defensively instead, warding away Sellisarin’s attention.

“Leave me in peace,” he sobbed. “I’ll… I’ll deal with this in my own way.”

“You cannot find peace on your own,” said Elissanadrin, sitting next to Korlandril. “The hand of Khaine has reached into you and awoken that which dwells within all of us. You cannot ignore this. If it does not destroy you, it could harm others.”

Korlandril looked pleadingly at Maerthuin. His friend nodded silently, affirming what Elissanadrin had said.

“This is part of you, part of every eldar,” said Arthuis. “It is not a judgement, not something that brings you shame.”

“Why now?” moaned Korlandril. “Why has this happened now?”

“You must learn to understand your fear and your anger before you can control them,” said Maerthuin. “Always they have been with you, but we hide them so well. Now you must bring them into the light and confront them. Your rage is growing in power over you. It is not something you can fight, for such desires fuel themselves. Nor can you expunge them from your spirit, no more than you can stop breathing. It is part of you and always will be. All you can do now is find the means by which you can contain it, turn its energy elsewhere.”

“And keep it contained when it is not needed,” added Arthuis.

Shuddering, Korlandril took a deep breath and looked at the faces around him. They showed concern, not fear. He was surrounded by bloody-handed murderers, who not more than a few cycles ago had slain and mutilated other creatures. Yet he was the one that was weighed down by his anger; he was the one who felt a bottomless hatred. How was it that they could indulge that dark part of their nature and yet stay sane?

“I do not know what to do,” said Korlandril, slumping forwards with his head in his hands.

“Yes you do, but you are afraid to admit it,” said Arthuis. Korlandril looked at his friend, not daring to speak. “You must come to terms with Khaine’s legacy.”

“I cannot become a warrior,” said Korlandril. “I am an Artist. I create, I do not destroy.”

“And that is good,” said Sellisarin. “It is the division of creation and destruction that you need, the split between peace and war, life and death. Look around you. Are we not peaceful now, we who have killed so many? The Path of the Warrior is the path of outer war and inner peace.”

“The alternative is exile,” said Maerthuin. A sly smirk twisted his lips. “You could always follow Aradryan, flee from Alaitoc.”

The thought appalled Korlandril. To abandon Alaitoc was to abandon all civilization. He needed stability and guidance, not unfettered freedom. His spirit could no more survive without the protection of Alaitoc than could his body. Another thought came to him. To leave the craftworld would mean parting from Thirianna—in shame, his last act towards her one of anger.

“What must I do?” he asked quietly, resigning himself to his fate. He looked at the warriors. Each had chosen a specific aspect of the Bloody-Handed God to become: Dark Reaper, Howling Banshee, Shining Spear. How did one know which Aspect thrived within? “I do not know where to go.”

It was Elissanadrin that spoke. She crouched in front of Korlandril and held his hand in hers.

“What do you feel, at this moment?” she asked.

“I just want to hide, to be away from all of this,” Korlandril replied, eyes closed. “I am scared of what I have become.”

The Aspect Warriors exchanged glances and Elissanadrin nodded.

“Then it is in hiding, in secrecy, in the shadows that you will find your way,” she said, pulling Korlandril to his feet. “Come with me.”

Korlandril followed her mutely as the other eldar parted for them. He could feel their stares upon his back and cringed at their attention. So much had changed so quickly. A cycle ago he had craved the interest of others, now he could not bear their scrutiny.

“Where are we going?” he asked Elissanadrin when they had passed out of the Crescent of the Dawning Ages.

“In the darkness you will find strength. In the aspect of the Striking Scorpion you will turn fear from enemy to ally. We go to the place where I also learnt to hide: the Shrine of the Deadly Shadow.”

Quiet but agitated, Korlandril allowed Elissanadrin to lead him to the shuttle vault beneath the Crescent of the Dawning Ages. The wide platform was almost empty, only a handful of other eldar waiting for the cross-hub transport. Korlandril sat on a bench next to Elissanadrin but the two said nothing as they waited for the shuttle.

A soft hum heralded its arrival, pulsing from the tunnelway to the left a moment before the shuttle whispered alongside the platform and came to a standstill, a chain of bullet-shaped compartments hovering just above the anti-grav rail.

The pair found an empty carriage towards the front of the shuttle and sat opposite each other.

“It is not wrong to be afraid,” said Elissanadrin. “We must learn to live with our fears as much as our hopes and dreams and talents.”

Korlandril said nothing as the shuttle accelerated, plunging into a blue-lit tunnel. For a moment the swiftly-passed lights dappled through the windows until they became a constant stream of colour, blurred together by the speed of the shuttle.

Korlandril tried to relax, to find a dream to take him away from what was happening, but his fists gripped the moulded arms of the chair and every muscle in his body was tense. Closing his eyes did not help. The only memory that came to him was a real dream, a nightmare battle that had plagued his sleep the night-cycle before Aradryan’s return.

“Do you dream of war?” he asked suddenly.

Elissanadrin shook her head.

“It is so that we do not dream that we learn to don our war-masks,” she replied. “Combat is an immediate, visceral act and should not be remembered.”

Her answer only increased Korlandril’s anxiety, while the shuttle raced on, heading for the Vale of Khaine, speeding him towards his fate.

Korlandril stood in front of the last of the three gates that led to the shrine. He could see nothing beyond the white portal and was alone. Elissanadrin had left him between the first and second gates and taken another route. The entranceway was physically unassuming, identified by a solitary rune above the outer door. They had passed several such Aspect shrines on the short walk from the shuttle station, along deserted corridors and through empty passageways.