Ghost Warrior, page 19
‘I have met similar, from the kabals of Commorragh. Haemonculi they are called, demented experimenters for the most part.’
‘I am glad to say no such dementia beset our founders,’ the Lord-Guardian continued. ‘While we possess wraithbone and other psychoplastics, our ancestors supplemented the meagre supply with artificially induced living tissue.’
Iyanna could not help but recoil at the thought and her reaction drew a frown from Sydari, the only negative expression she had seen mar his features since their first encounter.
‘It is quite inert, I assure you. It is no more feeling or sentient than your robe or the gems you wear.’
Her reaction betrayed the falsity of this comparison, earning Iyanna a deeply scrutinising look from Sydari. The Lord-Guardian said nothing, but his silence was more excruciating than any spoken examination. Iyanna knew it was plain that she was concealing the truth and the desire to unburden herself of the secrecy was greater than her fears of Sydari’s reaction.
‘They are spiritstones,’ she told him, plucking one from a chain about her neck. It was a pale blue, lit by a glimmer of white from within. She held it out in the palm of her hand, its psychic aura as plain to her as the light it gave off, stronger even. ‘This is Anasai Sorena, a poet, Striking Scorpion and navigator from Iyanden. He piloted a wraithblade for a short while in defence of our people before his shell was cracked by a tyranid claw. I was able to save his essence at the last moment.’
‘These words…’ Sydari sat back, brow creased, though whether from confusion or consternation was not certain. ‘I do not understand all of what you tell me. But if you say what I think, then this stone, all of these stones, contain the spirit of an aeldari?’
‘Except this one,’ said Iyanna, tapping a finger to the oval jewel upon the breastplate of her runic armour. ‘This is my waystone. It is empty, but attuned to my spirit so that when my body dies my soul will be absorbed.’
‘And this is how you avoid the Ravenous One?’
‘That is a title I have not heard before, but an apt one. She Who Thirsts. The Great Enemy. The Maw Eternal. Five lifetimes have created many names for the Doom of the Aeldari.’
His keen look did not falter, silently repeating the question. Iyanna did not know why she felt so reluctant to share the truth, and told herself it was no great secret even though his eagerness for an answer seemed disproportionate.
‘Yes. The waystones are the Asuryani’s last guard against damnation.’
By biomechanical grav-barge, Yvraine and her companions were conveyed across Zaisuthra into the depths where the oldest parts of the craftworld were buried beneath accretions of later generations. As they travelled, Monsattra explained more of the craftworld’s unique nature. He told them of the proto-organic engineering they had turned to in the absence of wraithbone and bonesingers, showing them the cartilage and sinews beneath the glossy exterior of their transport. It was strange for many of them to understand how the technology of the aeldari – the ancient science of gravity and field manipulation that kept the barge afloat and directed it through the skies – could be combined with living flesh.
For Yvraine the leap in comprehension was not so great. Gifted her deathsight by Ynnead, she saw the psychic energy that lurked within even the smallest atom of living tissue. To the Opener of the Seventh Way the capillaries and tendons of the Zaisuthran constructs were little different to the crystal matrices and silicate faux musculature of other aeldari creations. It was the animus of the spirit, the spark of psychic life provided either by sentience of external source that gave them power and direction.
They passed into tunnels and halls that had been the original trade ship. Like all craftworlds, Zaisuthra had originally been a long-range merchant vessel, seeding distant worlds of the dominions, conveying goods across far-flung star systems. It had grown since its first crew had fled the Fall, though far less so than the likes of Ulthwé and Iyanden.
The decreasing size of the passages forced them to dismount and proceed on foot.
‘Your psychic matrix is very weak here,’ remarked Yvraine. ‘I can barely feel anything of the circuit that must have existed when Zaisuthra was first released into the stars. I expected a webway gate would burn like a beacon in this darkness, but I feel nothing.’
‘A necessary part of our self-exile was severing our ties to the webway,’ said Monsattra. He led them along a curving gallery, between towering rib-like spars that held apart a vast chamber below them, lit by the crystals at the heart of the craftworld, a dapple of subtle greens and blues against the flesh-tint red. ‘Beyond the fringe of the galaxy, even the webway falters. It took more power to sustain the links than was gained from the energy flowing through the webway network. My ancestors, who for a generation were the sole claimants to the title of Lords-Guardian, took the difficult decision to close all of the gates. Guarding them had become a burden too heavy.’
‘What of your recent attacks?’ said the Visarch. ‘If the gates are disconnected, from whence do the daemons come?’
‘We have seals upon them, the best wards we could create, but there is no sure defence against intrusion from the empyrean. Our groupmind serves as a shield to our thoughts, but alas it could not protect the entirety of Zaisuthra’s vast matrix. I do not know how the first hole appeared, unseen, but like the smallest tear it could be widened, and was.’
They fell silent at the thought, the cadre of soulbound and Iyandeni guardians following a short distance behind as Yvraine and the Visarch walked at Monsattra’s side, heading deeper into the catacombs.
CHAPTER 21
UNCOMFORTABLE REVELATIONS
The downdraught from one last beat of the ornithopter’s red-and-golden wings caused Meliniel to retreat to the edge of the platform, to watch the hawkship land with all the delicacy and poise of a living thing. He could see something of a recognisable structure beneath the tens of thousands of coloured feathers, a skeleton of wraithbone and other psychoplastics joined by what seemed to be actual living tendons and muscle.
He caught a murmur of disquiet from some of his warriors and directed a sharp glance towards them to silence their chatter.
The chest of the ornithopter opened up, parting like a door to reveal a lit interior. Three Zaisuthrans stepped down from within, garbed in the heavy cloaks and coats common among the craftworld’s inhabitants, cowls lifted to leave their faces in shadow.
It was a peculiar affectation, at odds with the usual overbearing vanity of the aeldari. Though many were the occasions the folk of the craftworlds and Commorragh donned masks, adopting various persona as celebration or lifestyle dictated, few ever hid their faces, real or artificial.
As the delegation approached closer, their pinched features could be seen, hands clasped together tight across their chest. Their body language radiated deference, but also defence, pricking the autarch’s suspicions.
Meliniel recognised all three, introduced earlier as House Conversers, heralds of the Lords-Guardian. The first of their number was Atalesasa, aide to Sydari Arienal.
He took a step, anxious to hear what Atalesasa had to say. Something in the autarch’s demeanour alerted his warriors, who brought up their weapons without a command voiced.
The three House Conversers stopped immediately, the air bristling with their distrust.
‘We have enough grievances without our allies bearing arms against us,’ said Atalesasa, coming forwards again.
‘Apologies,’ said Meliniel, signalling to his warriors to stand down. ‘With both Yvraine and Iyanna removed from my sight, I am prey to my nervous disposition.’
‘Understandable,’ replied the House Converser. ‘On both accounts I can assure you that your companions are safe, but there has been an unfortunate development.’
‘How unfortunate?’
The three House Conversers formed a triangle, the two lesser envoys at the shoulders of Atalesasa as though aimed at Meliniel. He was conscious of the spear in his hand, and the body of troops at his back, where the emissaries bore no obvious armament and came with no escort.
‘You recall Monsattra told you of our recent difficulties with intrusions from the powers of the dark abyss?’
‘Daemons…’
‘A presence, nothing more,’ one of the other conversers said hurriedly – an aeldari the autarch remembered as Shasiayu from the House of Gatheal.
‘A resurgence,’ Atalesasa clarified. ‘The taint of their last attack was not quite expunged and now renewed activity seeks to exploit any weakness they can find. The groupmind is directing efforts to thwart this and eject any manifestations that might occur.’
‘Manifestations? You are speaking of corporeal daemons.’
‘Yes, that is a danger, though remote at the present.’
Azkahr watched with slitted eyes, his hand fidgeting close to the grip of his splinter pistol. In Commorragh one would have never allowed a stranger such access, welcomed into the heart of their, albeit temporary, citadel.
The drukhari had honed suspicion to a fine art, both of foe and friend. In fact, the drukhari word for alliance, inhazkhain, translated literally as not-currently-enemy. It was not only that any contract or bargain was only as good as the weapons that backed it, it was to be expected that one or both parties would renege on their obligations the moment a situation made it worthwhile doing so.
In Commorragh the fluid nature of such deadly politics was the bloody oil that kept the entire despicable machine working. For those that had come to the Ynnari, it was a hard lesson to learn trust, to feel part of something beyond self-interest. A good many Commorraghans had not yet reached that point, serving Ynnead only in defence of their own souls.
Whether selfless or selfish, all Ynnari strived towards an ending, a place of final rest. Azkahr was no better or worse than most, though elevated by the favour of Yvraine to a position of some prominence.
At that time, watching the Zaisuthrans, he squarely placed them in inhazkhain territory. The only thing that remained to be seen was who would break the pact first.
He tried to read the envoys’ pallid expressions but there was little enough to be seen within the darkness beneath their heavy hoods.
‘We are sure that you are more than capable of protecting yourselves, but we would be remiss as your hosts not to safeguard your presence,’ Atalesasa said as he gestured towards the transports that skimmed nearer over a ridge of dark moorland. ‘We must also protect what is ours, we are sure you would agree.’
Azkahr coughed, a warning to his commander, wishing quite fervently that he possessed the telepathy of a seer.
Meliniel did not need the Commorraghan’s reflexive distrust to alert him to the dangers of allowing armed Zaisuthrans within the boundary of the manse. Yet he had no reason to refuse…
‘A temporary precaution,’ the third of the group assured him – the envoy of the House of Zaitroka, Lisatja. She raised a hand, her skeletal fingers brushing back a wisp of white hair from her thin face. ‘Without any of our people here, the groupmind cannot detect any potential insurgence by the corrupting power.’
‘Iyanna and Yvraine will be returned to you shortly, as soon as it is safe,’ added Atalesasa. ‘Due to the integration of our groupmind with Zaisuthra’s energy system, we must keep inter-dome travel to a minimum, lest we unconsciously open a pathway for this intrusive presence to exploit. For the time being only, I must reinforce our request that you do not stray beyond the limits of the Highlands of Distant Repose. And preferably, you remain on the grounds here at Withershield.’
Looking past the trio of heralds, Meliniel spied the transports undulating to a stop before the low outer wall. Their bulbous fronts opened to disgorge several dozen Zaisuthrans clad in long grey coats with high collars, worn over purple bodysuits that slid with morphic plates of armour. Their helms were all-enclosing and high, like those of craftworld guardians familiar to Meliniel and the others, but with serrated ridges upon the brows and pronounced muzzle grilles. The banners of their houses flew at the backs of the squad leaders and the bright badges of their allegiance to Zaisuthra was marked upon their long-barrelled lasweapons and the scabbards of the blades at their hips.
With them came an assortment of heavier weapons pulled on anti-grav sleds, which the officers started to direct to various points about the perimeter. Those that came with these support platforms seemed surgically or bionically adjusted. They held elegant pistols and swords, or gilded lasrifles, while from under their heavy cloaks additional limbs worked the controls of the weapon sleds.
‘Of course.’ Meliniel hated to say the words, but he could not allow himself to be swayed by baseless paranoia. ‘Let us hope that such precaution is not tested.’
‘A precaution, as you say. Nothing more than that.’
Iyanna hesitated to ask the obvious question, but her reluctance made it plain what she desired to know.
‘We have our own defences,’ Sydari confirmed. ‘The groupmind. It is in all of us and part of us is held within. Should one of us die the strength of the others is enough to keep the newly severed spirit from being devoured. In this, Zaisuthra, our fleshmelding, is a boon.’
‘I am a spiritseer, an expert in the transference of souls and psychic potential. I do not understand how you could simply protect each other falling into the abyss of the Great Enemy. Even our most gifted seers have not the psychic strength to resist that implacable pull.’
‘The groupmind is greater than its parts, Iyanna,’ Sydari explained, leaning closer, hand hesitantly seeking her arm once more. Now recovered from her ordeal, she allowed it to settle. ‘It is a thing of itself, the soul of Zaisuthra.’
The revelation stunned her for several heartbeats, though as her thoughts settled she realised it should not have. Was not Ynnead a god conjured from the mass of the eldar dead? Perhaps Zaisuthra held another key to understanding how the Whispering God might be ushered into wakefulness, beyond possessing the Gate of Malice.
‘That is remarkable,’ she said, careful to moderate her enthusiasm. ‘It also explains why none of us can connect with the groupmind, if this oversoul is keeping us out. A psychic entity powerful enough to resist the draw of She Who Thirsts would have no issue with fending off any lesser power.’
‘In truth, I am not sure if the groupmind could willingly allow one not of Zaisuthra to meld with its presence.’
The unspoken thought hung between them, refusing to dissipate.
‘If it were possible…’ Iyanna began, but trepidation silenced her. She reminded herself that the Lord-Guardian was a stranger, even if he shared the name of the House of Arienal. The groupmind was an unknown, its powers and intent as invisible to her as the chamber beyond the wall.
But it was also a chance for connection. If it was possible, if she could attach to the groupmind of Zaisuthra there was potential for something far greater, far more important than the discovery of a mythical gate and the uncertain promises that lay beyond it.
Her heart ached to share its burden. It seemed an age since she had walked upon the Avenue of the Dead, though in reality it had been less than a cycle since she had set foot on Zaisuthra. It was churlish to think of such a thing when before her sat a living member of her family. More than that, here was opportunity to become part of something more intimate than the shared fate of the Ynnari. And what of their technology? What might be done with the wraith-knowledge of Iyanden and the Zaisuthran fleshmelders, in bringing back life to the unliving?
The spiritseer held up a hand and took off the glove, exposing slender white fingers.
Hesitantly, Sydari raised his own. The rings gleamed with an inner light, turning his digits to rainbows, their outline almost lost in the ambient power.
They looked at each other and Iyanna longed to touch his fingers more than she had desired for anything. She thought for a heartbeat that she saw something darker in his gaze, a look of cruel triumph, but a moment later his hand touched hers and they became one.
Alorynis stalked closer to the babble of minds near the outer edge of the dome. Like Iyanna, the gyrinx could feel the permeating unpleasantness of Chaos corruption. The air was heavy with it, the ground underfoot slick with its taint; every particle around him noisome to his highly attuned alien senses. Unlike Iyanna, Alorynis was used to such disturbances, having travelled much at the side of Yvraine, of late into the Garden of Nurgle itself. The cloying energy that suffused the dome was no worse than the afterstench of that excursion on the body and mind of his mistress.
The bobbing, attractive thoughts of the Zaisuthrans drew the gyrinx closer. He flattened his body close to the ground and reached the sanctuary of a twisted bole. Scampering into the lower branches, blue-furred body hugging the rotted wood close, he nestled soundlessly in the shadows and watched.
There were three aeldari, their thoughts just the barest flicker of a corona around them. This was odd, very different to the companions Alorynis had accompanied of late. Yvraine shone with an icy cold, the Visarch steeped in the blood of his victims, Meliniel a beacon of blue fire and martial pride. Even though they each had great strength of will, some measure of psychic mastery over their thoughts, their energy leaked.
These aeldari… The gyrinx could barely sense them, and flicked out a tongue to taste the air, trying to detect more of their thoughts. There was something else. Not the Chaos taint. That was everywhere, but no stronger here than in the rest of the dome.
Something alien.
