Ghost Warrior, page 26
Yvraine barely registered the changes, her thoughts fixed upon her goal. She started forwards, calling for her followers to advance. Sensing hesitation, she turned after several steps, wondering what was amiss.
The Ynnari seemed paralysed, some of them frozen in contortions of ecstasy and horror, others staring numbly at the impossibly ancient mausoleum that had risen from the sands. Some of them had glares of feral rage contorting their faces, threads of saliva hanging from their bared teeth. Many were shaking, tormented, fighting something within, their expressions veering between hunger and terror, grunts and moans escaping tight lips.
The not-dead seemed as bemused as she, turning this way and that, observing the strange conniptions and reactions of their living comrades. Kelmon hurried away, striding into the dunes that flanked the road, his runes trailing behind aflame with power.
‘Something stirs. Can you not feel the hot wind, Khaine’s presence?’ Althenian asked, voice oddly taut, the words sounding as though forced out between gritted teeth even though he required no breath to vocalise them.
‘Feel what?’ Yvraine had not the least idea of what he talked about, the only evidence that something was amiss being the actions of those around her. She was the Emissary of Ynnead, and under the geas of the Whispering God she alone of the living was immune to the siren call that sang in the minds of the others.
The Visarch was close at hand. Nothing could be seen of his face within his helm but his entire posture spoke of tension, hand close to the hilt of Asu-var but not quite gripping the weapon, the slightest quiver of the fingertips revealing a far more violent struggle beneath the surface.
The urge to kill was near overwhelming.
Laarian watched through a blood-red haze as Yvraine stepped closer, head cocked to one side in agitation and confusion.
Kinslayer.
The word echoed around his head and vibrated along his nerves, settling into the core of his being.
Kinslayer.
It was not an accusation – though it was true – but a title. A rank earned. A word of congratulation. Praise.
Kinslayer.
It was a plea. A demand. A command. A desire…
The Visarch’s fingers touched upon the crafted hilt of the Sword of Silent Screams and the instant of connection sang in his blood. The cronesword knew well the song that lifted him, that guided him to pull it free from its sheath. In desiring the knowledge of her own blood, Morai-Heg had given up her hand to Khaine, and the Bloody-Handed had cleaved it from her arm. The five digits of the fate goddess had been wrought into the Keys of the Dead, the croneswords that when united and blooded would open the Seventh Way and bring about the awakening of Ynnead.
The Whispering God slumbered still, His dreaming thoughts no match for the white hot fury of Khaine that rushed through the Visarch.
Kinslayer.
The word crashed like thunder and shook the ground, and it took a moment for Laarian to realise that the sound had not been in his thoughts but reverberated down the slabs of the road, echoing from where the immense doors of the grave-temple had slammed open. Something gleamed in the darkness within, flickering dully like a flame behind smoked glass.
KINSLAYER!
Laarian pulled back his sword, its edge licked with a flame that matched the burning in his heart. He saw the course of blood through the vessels of Yvraine, the vital fluid that pulsed and flowed and kept her alive. So simple a thing, so easily spilt, so quickly ended.
The Visarch fought back. The Visarch, champion of Yvraine, warden of Ynnead, held off the blow, all the while the voice of Kaela Mensha Khaine screamed in his head.
A spark appeared in the dark of the tomb gate. An ember, swiftly growing in brightness, resolving into a blade of pure fire. It transfixed those that looked upon it, including Yvraine, who saw in the rippling flame an end of worlds and the power of stars dying. Her head swam with the thought of it, her body shook with lust to wield such a weapon, to unleash destruction untold.
The cold breath of Ynnead quelled the fire, like a frost on the nape of the neck, a chill that doused the ardour of bloodthirst roused by the creature that stepped forth from Eldanesh’s resting place.
Like the avatars of Khaine trapped in the hearts of the scattered craftworlds, the being had flesh of magma and skin of pitted iron. Its face was a mask of fixed rage, eyes as twin chasms into the fiery depths of anger unbound. Two curling horns of shadow curled up from its brow, between them burned the rune of the Bloody-Handed, odious smoke trailing from it like a knight’s crest.
This volcanic being was girded in armour of polished bone, sculpted and fused from rib and skull, vertebrae and clavicle, femur and sternum. Scratched into the ivory-colour plates were a thousand runes, each a subtle variation on the symbol of the Bloody-Handed, the Thousand Names of Hate by which He became known during the War in Heaven.
It raised a black fist sheathed in gore, the self-same curse of the Bloody-Hand laid upon Khaine by Asuryan for the slaying of Eldanesh. Yet this hand was not empty, a heart beat within, the mortal organ of the founder of the first aeldari dominions. Fingers of shadow closed about the pulsing heart and the mortals arraigned before the infernal beast let out cries of pain and shock, as though their own bodies were crushed in the fierce grip.
The Warshard was its title, that benighted fragment of the war god drawn not by the survivors of the aeldari fleeing in their craftworlds, but the most bitter, hateful sliver of Khaine flung back to the site of His most infamous murder. All that saw the apparition of brutal death understood that they looked again at the closest thing to Khaine incarnate, of murder given immortal flesh.
It lifted the blade and screams of terror were torn from the mortal throats of those that witnessed it. As the Warshard was the most malevolent remains of the Bloody-Handed One, so it bore His most infamous weapon. Anaris, known as the Sword of Vaul, the Splinter of Suns, the Widowmaker, the Spite of the Slain. The same blade that ended the life of Eldanesh, whose blood still hissed along its insubstantial edge.
Dread swelled out from the Warshard, a visible wind of wrath that kicked up the sand and swept over the assembled Ynnari. Overcome by grief, they dropped to their knees, or lifted hands to the air, letting weapons tumble from numb fingers. Agonised howls rose to the boiling clouds above, tears of despair fell to the parched ground.
In Meliniel’s grip Ahz-ashir bucked and hissed as though he held a serpent by its tail, answering to the silent warcry of Anaris. The autarch stood tall while others around stumbled and flailed, silent where they sobbed and shouted. The roar of Khaine pounded in his ears, the heat of battle seared his body, but he remained placid, no stranger to the bloodthirst.
‘Stand strong.’ He did not bellow, but spoke the words calmly, using the messenger-waves to carry his voice across the host of the Ynnari. ‘Trust in yourselves, in the power of Ynnead.’
‘Autarch,’ Kelmon replied. ‘We must attack.’
The not-dead host advanced at a signal from the dead battleseer, forming squads and companies about their lords and ladies. Distort-scythes gleamed and heavy weapons turned towards the Warshard.
NONE SHALL SURVIVE!
The pronouncement by Khaine’s dark soul sounded like the crash of ten thousand blades striking, the ring of sword on armour, the slam of tomb doors. It was greeted by fresh eruptions across the ring of volcanoes around the shrine-tomb, their expulsions accompanied by the crash of thunder and flare of lightning in the ruddy clouds that covered the sky.
YOU CANNOT DEFEAT ME. I AM SLAUGHTER, I AM CARNAGE. I AM WAR!
The Warshard thrust Anaris towards the Ynnari, a pulse of crimson light springing from the flames. Where the fey illumination fell the spirit of Khaine boiled, setting in the hearts of the afflicted. Guttural shouts tore the skies and the Khaine-touched beat their fists upon the ground and their chests.
THE BLOOD WILL FLOW!
Thus commanded, those bathed in the terrible flamelight of the Widowmaker turned their weapons upon their own, the whisper of splinter rifles and sigh of shuriken catapults setting the air trembling as they opened fire on their unliving comrades. The battlelust spread like a disease, passing from the mind of one to the next, a bloodthirst cancer that took Commorraghan and craftworlder equally.
Aspect warriors snarled and laughed and barked insanely, so long the acolytes of Khaine, bloody desires repressed now given free rein. The exarchs roared and snarled their praises to the Bloody-Handed as they bounded towards their victims. Wych and scourge, incubi and guardian turned upon each other in a sudden orgy of bloodletting, giving no thought to their own safety or survival.
The wraith-warriors defended themselves against their living attackers. Dimension-ripping whorls of distort-cannons and wraithcannons tore the air, ringed about with orange fire in this cursed place, their void-bound victims sucked into the burning heart of the cosmos. Firepikes hissed, reaper launchers crackled and distort-scythes flared, the bare rock awash with blood and littered with severed limbs, the fractured remnants of armoured wraithbodies and the glitter of scattered spirit stones.
Meliniel ran, dodging through the erupting cataclysm, skirting past melees and through crossfires of splinter and shuriken, intent upon the monstrous avatar that stood upon the threshold of the tomb.
CHAPTER 31
KHAINE’S BLOODY GIFT
It was the slightest of movements, a drop of the shoulder, a slight twisting of the foot that betrayed the Visarch’s attack. Yvraine’s instinct reacted before she did, throwing her aside as the Sword of Silent Screams parted the crest of her headdress where a heartbeat before her skull had been. She rolled over the roadway, a distracting flurry of gown and trail, the warfan flicking out to catch the edge of Asu-var, not hard, but enough to send the tip of the Visarch’s enchanted sword clattering against the paving.
She regained her feet, Sword of Sorrows in hand, just in time to parry the next strike, diverting it from her midriff. She moved with the impact, cartwheeling sideways, her foot crashing against the chin of the Visarch’s helm mid-wheel. She swept for his legs but he leapt over her kick, plunging the sword down towards her chest as he landed. Forced back a step, Yvraine deflected two more attacks until Alorynis pounced, to land on the thick fur cape of her foe, claws scratching frenziedly across his helm. He flung out a hand, tossing the creature aside without thought.
Self-loathing fuelled Laarian’s blows as he thrust his sword at Yvraine’s gut, lusting to see the entrails within spilt before the lord of murder’s incarnation. The face of the creature churned in his vision, the same that had glowered at him from the mental reflection of his war mask, that had adorned the shadows of his incubi shrine. The ghost of the bloodthirst that had haunted his life took over, directing a vicious slash at Yvraine’s shoulder, turned aside by the bladed edge of her warfan.
You are holding back.
The Warshard’s admonition burned through him, setting agonising splinters rippling through his limbs. The pain spurred him on, fear turned to anger, desiring the ecstasy of release that would come with his mistress’ death. In the shadows of his mind, in the depths beyond the hot fire of his rage, the invention known as the Visarch scrabbled to break free of the net of dread that held it down.
Laarian pushed its mewling aside and took up his sword two-handed, switching style mid-strike. His next blow sent Yvraine reeling, retreating several paces under the force of his attack. Triumph filling his limbs with renewed vigour, he advanced after her, blade pointed at his prey.
Meliniel defended himself, using his spear to ward away the flurries of blows aimed at him by those under the sway of the Warshard’s curse. He did not strike back, save to trip or disable, never to kill. It was not simply compassion that guided his fighting technique. All about washed the hatred and blood-desire of Khaine, and it was within him also, just below the surface. To slay now, in the heart of the battle-furnace, would be another offering to the war god, and Meliniel was not sure if he could resist the power that would unleash.
Deliberate restraint was anathema to the Bloody-Handed One, the only defence he had against the anarchy that reigned across the rocky battlefield.
He broke away from the general melee, heading towards the tomb. Atop the step the Warshard noticed his approach and brandished Anaris, a stream of fire erupting from the sword to splash across the armour of the autarch. Meliniel pushed on into the inferno, teeth gritted against the projected ire of Khaine as much the unceasing ferocity and heat of the avatar’s assault. Like a knight of legend daring the dragonfire of his foe, Meliniel stepped with purpose, forcing himself into the near-fatal heat.
The cessation of the attack was as startling as its initiation. Meliniel almost stumbled, gripped by cold in the absence of the fire-fury. His vision was edged with white cloud, cast with the yellow of the flames, even the filters of his helm yet to recover from the brightness that had engulfed him. Blinking, he cleared his vision in time to see the Warshard set forth from the death-shrine of Eldanesh.
It bellowed, voice mouthing word-shapes, but to Meliniel’s ears all that came was a rush of angry sound, not a single word of it distinguishable from the incoherent rage of a wronged child or the roar of a hunting beast. Sword of flame in hand, the Warshard bounded forwards, pounding down the steps, sparks and rock splinters flaring where it trod on the dark stone.
Meliniel set himself, spear in both hands, awaiting the monster’s charge, for charge it must, a creature of such murderous rage.
Being right made it no easier to stand his ground as the incarnation, three times his height, ran over the bare earth, each footfall a drumbeat call to war, the flames and shadows of its body trailing in the speed of its attack. Bone armour flashed in the light of the flickering storm above, the Thousand Names of Hate writ in curls of black fire.
The Warshard was less than a dozen gigantic strides away. Its dead gaze was fixed upon the autarch, the Widowmaker raised aloft for a terrible strike. Meliniel inhaled slowly, picking his spot, channelling his spirit into the blow he would unleash.
His last blow, he reasoned.
There was no means by which he could stop the Sword of Vaul, that had slain the greatest aeldari heroes and laid low demigods of legend. He gave no thought to defending himself, and all thought to the strike he would make.
Fuelled by the knowledge of his inevitable and impending death, Meliniel was more awake than he had ever been. Every sense strained for a weakness, an opening in the bone armour, the slightest dimming of flame or paling of shadowform that betrayed a vulnerability. His mind raced, analysing, sweeping the body of his foe in its quest for something to attack. All else faded to nothing, the din of his warriors falling upon each other and the army of the dead, the blast of fusion guns, whine of shuriken and the hate-filled cries from those that had previously sworn kinship to one another.
Five paces distant, the Warshard started to swing its immortal blade.
Meliniel saw an opening beneath the arm, where no armour covered the gap, and calculated the angle at which a spear thrust would penetrate sideways up into the throat.
An assumption based on fighting mortal foes, it has to be said, and therefore no guarantee of slaying the immortal that bore down on him.
An assumption never tested, for even as he started to adjust his stride, a slender beam of blue energy erupted past him, slamming into the chest of the Warshard. Bone splintered and burned while god-flesh iron spattered in droplets of fire.
Darkness swathed Meliniel as a shadow passed over him. Something almost as large as the Warshard hurtled past with the speed and strength of a falling meteor, a flash of yellow and blue. A blade sheathed in black lightning rose to meet Anaris, a flare of soul-power coursing from its wielder through the wraithsword. The blow fell aside, slashing hot air and nothing more.
Momentum carrying him onwards, Althenian slammed bodily into the Warshard, wraithbone frame crashing into bone-wrought plate with an impact as thunderous as the storm-claps that surged across the battlefield.
CHAPTER 32
KINSLAYER
The Warshard was a vacuum, a bleak hole in reality where pure hate had torn between realms. To the wraith-sight of Althenian it was a maelstrom of blackness, sucking in every shred of rage, every particle of hate and horror. It cast a long shadow across the Well of the Dead and where that cursed umbra fell, the minds of mortals were twisted, filled with a thirst for violence and murder like nothing of mortal origin.
As the wraithlord struck the incarnation of this immortal chasm of hate, he felt the hot blades of its wrath piercing both body and soul. To touch such a fell thing was to invite its cancerous abhorrence into oneself. Barbs of fire split open his mind even as the firebrand Anaris slammed against the shell of his torso, carving open wraithbone as though it were simply soft mortal flesh.
A bloody fist pounded into the open wound and Althenian felt himself lifted, even as he slashed down at the leering face of shadow and flame, laying the edge of his wraithblade against the skull and jaw of the immortal. Removed from physical sensation, the former exarch cared nothing for the damage wrought to his frame, nor for the deafening bellow of rage unleashed as the Warshard heaved the wraithlord bodily through the air. That shout resonated through the spirit-mire, daggers of hateful intent that left burning welts across the soul of Althenian.
He crashed to the ground amid splintering rock and splitting wraithbone. Tumbling, an arm came away, and his brightlance with it, while over and over he rolled. He put out steel-strong fingers and skidded to a stop, raking furrows in the dark stone. Althenian lay still for a moment, half twisted, trying to marry the whirling remnants of his physical being with the shout-addled peregrinations of his spirit.
