Path of grief adrian s.., p.1
Path of Grief - Adrian Southin, page 1
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Path of Grief – Adrian Southin
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Path of Grief
by Adrian Southin
The singing spear set before Itheíul had belonged to her brother, Arsan. When her fingers drew near the haft, she could still feel the wisps of his soul imprint.
She hesitated, and pulled back her hand. Other imprints lingered, those who had wielded the weapon in the name of the serpent of Saim-Hann before Arsan. So too could she sense those the spear had brought death upon. Some, by her brother’s hand, she had witnessed personally: the choirmaster of the Glittering Host, the crude ork engineers of Galthakka, the Imperial commander on Perinese. Many more she had not. The countless deaths the weapon had delivered reverberated through its wraithbone surface.
The Path of Grief does not suit you.
The voice echoed, grounded not in the chamber, but both near and impossibly distant, like a song carried over a still lake.
Itheíul knelt alone in the small, oval chamber. The chill of the floor bit through her ash-grey robe, a simple garment devoid of ornamentation. Other than the spear and the deep-green spirit stone placed in front of her, the chamber was bare. A taper of incense suffused the room with the earthy scents of far-off maiden worlds; the thin line of smoke gently twisted about the dark walls to stretch to some unseen height. Only the soft luminescence from the infinity circuit core beyond an archway lit the room. The wraithbone in the Halls of Whispered Lament was charged. It resonated with the energy of millions of whispering aeldari souls. The voices wove into an indecipherable and unpredictable melody, notes balanced on the edge of recognition.
Hunter. Warrior. Artisan. These are what you were known to be. Always in motion. The psychic presence seemed to circle Itheíul, like a hawk judging its prey. Now you are caught in stasis, adrift in the void. You mourn that which you do nothing to prevent. To what end?
Itheíul said nothing. She brought her thumbs and forefingers together into a triangle on her lap, and began to mentally recite the Elegies of Caoinath the Lost. It was not uncommon for the spirits of seers to reach out to those on the Path. Those formerly on the Path of the Witch retained greater consciousness in the infinity circuit and, as in life, they sought to advise and guide, especially when unsolicited. Yet the Mourners were cautioned against prolonged communions. It was unsafe for the living to engage with the dead, lest they be drawn too far from the material world.
When did you last leave these halls? The question was rhetorical, an attempt to goad her to lower her guard. Even the Aspect Warriors leave their shrine and remove their masks between battles.
For all its dangers, the Path of Grief was a necessary one. The anguish of a loved one’s death could overcome any aeldari, and such unchecked emotion presented an ever greater risk. Conducting funerary rites was a small facet of the Path. The Mourners acted as a conduit for the anguish of the entire craftworld. Though loss would still keen in the hearts of those close to the fallen, the burden borne by the disciples allowed the greater whole to carry on.
Why does the spear bring you such trepidation? The spirit pressed nearer.
‘It is but a weapon. Only the enemies of Saim-Hann need fear it,’ Itheíul spoke aloud, although she knew there was no need. Thoughts and emotions were as tangible to the spirit as the walls of the chamber were to her. Her voice was soft, uncertain, the words the first she had spoken in several cycles.
Yet you refuse to even touch it.
Itheíul craned her neck upwards to stare into the dark expanse. ‘What right do I have? It belongs in the hands of a seer.’ For a brief moment she thought she saw a glimmer of golden flame far above her, though she knew there was no source for the light.
Why do you not claim such a destiny? Take the mantle upon yourself, and lead the craftworld through these troubled times.
The light beyond the chamber dimmed, the voices hushed as their attention turned elsewhere. Perhaps a seer conclave had come to seek the circuit’s counsel, or to reanimate a host of wraith constructs from the spirit stones of the craftworld’s fallen warriors, a practice that had become disturbingly more frequent. The calls for Saim-Hann’s aid grew with each passing cycle, and the Wild Host was stretched thin. But the presence’s attention on Itheíul did not waver.
‘Is that to be my fate, then?’ Itheíul eyed the tip of the spear. A soft, emerald light played at the edge of the blade. ‘To direct our kin to further death? To expend their lives against a galaxy that has already doomed our people?’
We fight so there may yet be those who live. There was a time when such fervour burned in your every step. The presence felt incredibly close now, as if hovering right behind Itheíul’s ear. No longer echoing, the words stilled in the air. What of Deniadol?
Deniadol. The Exodite world, once a verdant paradise of clear lakes and coniferous forests, was being consumed. Bilious air stung the skin. Oceans acidified and choked with dead marine life. Soil soured and trees withered. If viewed from orbit, the planet would appear as if its very colours were being siphoned away. With the skin peeled back, the tyranids had begun to feast on the marrow of Deniadol.
The Exodites had fought fiercely for their world, but the swarms quickly devoured any pockets of resistance. Raiding parties were ambushed in their own hunting grounds. Monstrosities of incomprehensible size dwarfed the megadon dragons. The Exodites’ lasblasters, despite their deceptive sophistication, could not fire fast enough to slow the ravenous swarm.
When the Serpent Hosts of Saim-Hann arrived, two days after the tyranids had breached the atmosphere, little of Deniadol remained to be saved. The undertaking was vast. The craftworld’s fleet orchestrated hit-and-run raids targeting spores swollen with tyranid reinforcements and drawing the hive’s attention before darting away. Guardian squads and support batteries established defensive cordons around the shrinking patch of aeldari territory, while scribes administered thousands of refugees flooding to the planet’s webway gate.
The Wild Rider clans rallied in a clearing before the gate. Except for the scouts and Guardians watching the perimeter, and the Aspect Warriors who held no stake in clan politics, the entire host was ringed around two circling aeldari warriors. Both were stripped to their waists and carried simple glaives. Virulent green warpaint daubed their flesh in lieu of the tyranid’s corrosive ichor. Members of clans Tyllach and Morléath whooped and cheered their champions on. Those of other clans remained taciturn, their champions already bested. Small clusters of the Exodites had paused in their migration to watch the duel, the scaled hides draped from their armour marking them as the riders of their own kind. Most of the refugees paid no heed.
‘This display is ridiculous,’ Arsan said.
‘Why? Do you believe you should be out there?’ Itheíul glanced towards her brother.
Arsan exhaled sharply and ground the butt of his singing spear into the wilting grass. The greying strands peeled away in clumps, their roots brittle. Geometric wraithbone intersected the seer’s deep-crimson robes to form runes, which mounted a green waystone. The fur of a lycabeast covered his shoulders. Unlike many of the warriors, who let the weak wind play across their hair, Arsan kept his white helmet donned, the featureless black faceplate doing little to mask his irritation.
The warlock held his chest high. Though he now walked the Path of the Seer, he would always bear the proud posture of his time among the headstrong lancers of the Shrine of the Impaling Star. Itheíul had intended to join her brother at the shrine, but the Impaling Star exarch thought their closeness a liability and refused her. She instead found guidance at the Piercing Gale Shrine of Shining Spears. The siblings spoke little of their respective experiences on the Warrior’s Path.
The Morléath champion, Iylabir, abruptly ceased circling and darted forward with a flurry of blows. Anasariel of Tyllach stepped back and replied with a low sweep that was easily turned aside, before drawing up the momentum of the redirect to strike with the pommel of his glaive.
‘Be patient, Arsan. Anasariel will not lose us the honour of first strike.’
‘There is no honour in bickering over the right to slay the fiend.’ Arsan turned away from the duel and directed his attention to the polluted horizon. ‘Honour would be to end this immediately and strike before further ground is lost. He wastes precious time.’
Itheíul could understand her brother’s ill ease. The Saim-Hann fleet maintained orbital superiority over the gate for now, but the shadows of the bio-ships pressed closer. After the craftworld forces cleared out the initial predators, the swarm had been spawning fresh numbers to reply with overwhelming force. All of the aeldari could feel the pressure of the tyranids’ warp shadow mounting in their minds. For those who had attuned their psychic potential, like Arsan, that pressure must have been agony.
‘This is more than pride at work.’ Itheíul motioned to the assembled host. ‘See the might before us? With each blow they stoke the fires burning in each of us. Are we not drawn into a unity of purpose?’
Arsan did not contest the point further, but Itheíul knew her brother’s frustration was not assuaged. The duel wore on, punctuated by the rhythmic crack of the whirling glaives meeting one another. The champions’ bl
In truth, the duel’s prize was a bittersweet honour. While the other clans would remain behind to defend the webway gate, the riders of the champion’s clan would strike out to draw the swarm into traps and hunt the synapse creatures that bound the swarm to the hive’s will. The Serpent Host knew there could be no triumph on the battlefield. The clan would be riding into the very maw itself. But their sacrifice, should the gambit succeed, would buy the rest of the eldar time to flee the maiden world. The craftworld’s seers had weighed the fates carefully and deemed this course the least costly.
Anasariel’s misstep was slight, his footwork off by the width of a blade’s edge, but enough for his opponent to press the advantage. Iylabir drove the Tyllach champion to the edge of the ring and knocked his weapon wide. Iylabir lunged forward, and a cheer went up amongst his kin. The cries were cut short – Anasariel held his glaive to his rival’s throat. A bead of hot blood ran the edge of blade. The flat of Iylabir’s weapon was pressed to Anasariel’s side, the wraithbone wetted only by green warpaint.
A clever ploy, but a risky one. In Iylabir’s eagerness to capitalise on his opponent’s mistake, he had failed to notice that each step backwards had been carefully executed to draw him in. Anasariel had never lost control. A sudden shift on the balls of his feet was enough to avoid the lunge and spin his glaive around and upwards. Had he been any less precise, or misjudged his foe’s next steps, however, the blow would have impaled him.
The champion’s kin erupted, Itheíul’s voice among them. The exultation was brief, however. The Horn of the Hunt’s bass call cut through clamour and the clan delayed no further.
The Wild Riders of Tyllach prepared for war.
Where is that fire, Itheíul? The voice brought Itheíul out of the memory-trance. The spirit had sorted through her memories of the planet with ease, forcing her to relive experiences she had tried to lock away. The acidic wind lingered with her for a moment before she took in the dry air of the chamber. She focused on the tranquil incense and waited for her heartbeat to return to resting before she replied.
‘Fervour fuelled by foolishness.’ Itheíul opened her eyes slowly. ‘I was ignorant then of the Great Devourer’s true horror.’
Yet the foe was not invulnerable. Was glory not seized that day?
‘Glory and death. Honour and loss. Bravado begets tragedy. We faced but a claw of the enemy and still could not save that world.’
Itheíul stood and began a slow circuit of the room. She ran her fingers over shallow runes inscribed into the walls. Her sight had become accustomed to the gloom of the halls, and the darkness gave her no trouble in reading the engravings. They told of gods and aeldari long passed into myth: the woes of the War in Heaven and the fall of the House of Eldanesh; the severing of the hand of Morai-Heg, the Crone Goddess of Fate; the verses of the Elthir Corannir Rhiantha, telling of the maiden whose tears for the fallen warriors of Rhidhol became starlight. Lives of the craftworld’s fallen interwove the myths, crafting allusions and informing the recountings. Some were heroes dating back to the Fall, others more recent. She paused before reaching the epitaphs carved by her own hand.
‘A tendril of a splinter killed Deniadol.’ Itheíul winced as more memories of the planet’s death broke through the barriers of her consciousness. Images of a ceaseless sea of ravenous eyes and lipless maws lashed her mind. ‘The whole of the beast will drown the galaxy.’
The Wild Host will not face doom meekly.
‘What hope do we have against such ceaseless terrors while our people dwindle?’
Fighting for survival has ever been the way of Saim-Hann, even in our days of exodus before the Fall. Hope has not seen us through. Bravery in the face of certain death, against foes numerous enough to blot out the stars and hungering for our blood, is how the craftworld lives on.
The Wild Riders crossed the orbitally cleansed badlands between the gate and the renewed tyranid assault in moments. Hundreds of Tyllach jetbikes swept over the craters and canyons rent into the earth by the bombardments. Pennants bearing the clan rune snapped in the wind from the rear of the sleek, dart-like craft. Vyper squadrons were interspersed amongst the smaller bikes, followed by the more heavily armed Engines of Vaul. Had there been anything left alive on the scorched earth below to witness the charge, the clan would have appeared as a bloody meteor shower burning across the sky.
When the horizon before them began to crawl and writhe, the host splintered into smaller kinbands, each striking out in carefully determined directions leagues apart. Potent as the craftworld’s augurs were, against the shadow of the tyranids none could divine where the tyrant would strike, so the net was cast wide. The Tyllach chieftain, Cainasairre, and his closest kin struck out towards a grouping of the largest creatures, where the shadow was thickest, for the honour of the kill was his above all others.
Itheíul rode to the right of Arsan, who led the arrowhead of their kinband. Their cousins completed their squad: Sabareth, on Itheíul’s right, whose jetbike mounted a shuriken cannon, and the ever-competing brothers Múrien and Seoladh on the opposite wing of the formation. The cousins had ridden to battle dozens of times together, their instincts honed as one.
The squad streaked towards the front lines of the tyranids. The wriggling mass resolved into thousands of individual stampeding organisms. Itheíul fought an overwhelming urge to loose her shuriken catapults. The jetbike’s weapons were far out of range, and the barrels would run dry before they could shred even a fraction of the small six-limbed things screening the assault.
And then, in a heartbeat, the windriders were above the horde. Itheíul’s auditory inputs struggled to adjust to the deafening scraping of shell on shell, the squishing of cartilaginous flesh and claws chewing the dirt. The sensors dampened the cacophony. What remained was the dimmed sound of a nest of spiders scuttling over her helmet. The tyranids opened fire without breaking stride. Gobs of corrosive fluid and semi-sentient projectiles shot skyward. The aeldari remained above the short reach of the weapons, weaving easily through the wild streams of shot.
Itheíul spotted a pack of larger tyranids amidst the rolling crush of purple chitin. They loomed above the fodder, at least twice the size of the lesser beings. Spiked crests swept back from their foreheads. They levelled forearm-fused rifles at the jetbikes, and strains of lesser creatures snapped their gazes to the riders, synchronised to the attention of their overlords. With a thought, Itheíul marked the warrior-beasts with a rune of warning on her helmet display and relayed it to her kin.
The tyranids unleashed their salvo and sent the Wild Riders into an abrupt nosedive. The riders corkscrewed through the coordinated counter-fire, and loosed their underslung shuriken catapults with a thought. The monomolecular discs lacerated the warrior-beasts. Just before impact with the ground, the riders pulled up in a parabolic arc that would have incapacitated any pilot of a lesser race. The manoeuvre thrilled Itheíul’s Saim-Hann heart, obscuring her terror with a glimmer of exhilaration.
Again and again the windriders sought out and harried the synapse beasts, and drove the tide into further rages. The swarm brought forth hulking creatures that swayed under the weight of massive cannons in response, better equipped to shoot down the speeding craft, and the riders withdrew further up the canyons. The tyranids hurtled on, too incensed to give up on their prey.
The squad angled back around in time to see plasma-blue detonations atomise the rocky terrain and shoot great plumes of dust into the thinning atmosphere. More explosions erupted over the badlands. The payloads, which the craftworld’s wayward rangers had bored into the earth scant few hours ago, tore open deep sinkholes across the breadth of the swarm.
When the dust settled, however, the sight tightened the muscles of Itheíul’s chest. Múrien gasped and Sabareth cursed through the squad’s communication link. The stampede of tyranids had come to a standstill before the precipice of the chasm. While hundreds of the smaller organisms had been caught in the blast or plummeted into the molten rock hundreds of measures below, the tide behind them had arrested the inertia of the advance in a single-minded reaction. Artillery creatures immediately began to blast at the adjacent terrain from further within the throng. With thundering cracks, the rocks fractured and started a landslide above the fissure. Hulking brutes smashed at the canyon walls like living battering rams. Debris rained from the impact sites until their carapaces snapped open, and their pulverised bodies were hauled to the chasm as further fill. Thousands of sets of eyes fixed upon the windriders, hungry and possessed of an unsettling patience.
