Ghost Warrior, page 27
Mind and body came together just in time to see the Warshard bearing down on Meliniel again.
If the Warshard was a self-consuming storm of darkness, the autarch was a gleaming spark. Ghostlight rippled from his spirit, the touch of the Whispering God, the same that glowed across the aether, the illumination of the dead that burned from the warriors of the Ghost Halls. Though still living he was entirely of Ynnead, the peace of his soul the water to the Warshard’s fire.
Althenian hauled himself up, wraithsword in hand. He raised the blade in challenge, the war cry that issued from his mouthless body scouring across the spirit realm as its echoes trembled through the physical plane.
Contempt flared from Khaine’s anointed slayer, but it turned all the same, Anaris directed towards Althenian in answer to the wraithlord. Meliniel came on behind it, to be met with a backhanded sweep of its blood-crusted hand that snapped his heirloom spear and sent him tumbling painfully across the rock. Intent upon Althenian, the Warshard advanced again, and the two met with shrieking blades.
The wraithsword shattered beneath the cutting edge of Anaris, shards of spirit-infused crystal slashing into the dome of Althenian’s head. The blow of the Warshard continued, the tip carving a deep furrow into the wraithlord’s shoulder, almost severing his remaining arm. The avatar’s fist crashed into his chest again. Burning blood frothed into the injury, lava searing through internal systems and spirit-crystals in a welter of steam and melting wraithbone.
Pain the likes the spirit had never known scorched through him even as his body disintegrated into falling flecks of charred wraithbone and showering molten droplets.
Althenian screamed, a sound he had not uttered in life, not even at his death.
Yvraine realised swiftly that she was going to die. It took all of her speed, guile and skill to keep at bay the relentless attacks of her former tutor, who in an instant could change from butchering, cleaving blows to the most elegant footwork and swordplay, dependent upon which of his many souls he allowed to come to the fore. Pirouetting and ducking, leaping and parrying, Yvraine needed only the slightest cut from the Sword of Sorrows to penetrate his baroque armour, but was certain that no such blow would ever land. Though it seemed the Visarch gave no thought for his defence, so precise and efficient was his attack that it allowed no opportunity to strike. The instant Yvraine tried to manoeuvre for a riposte he recognised her intent, switched stance or sword-hand, and attacked again with completely different technique.
All was falling to ruin about her. The air seethed with the escaping souls of dying Ynnari and broken spirit stones. Lamenting their demise, wailing the last thoughts that had passed through them in life, the wayward ghosts lapped against her, drawn to Ynnead’s power.
Through it all coursed a river of fire from the Warshard, burning into every soul it touched, consuming the dead and igniting the passion of the living. A vortex of heat and hate, Khaine’s fragment fed on the unfolding slaughter itself, even as Yvraine tried to draw on the power of the escaping lifestuff.
She rolled beneath a swinging attack, flailing with her gown to distract the Visarch as she regained her feet. Yvraine’s warfan fluttered and wavered, constantly moving like a darting wasp, feigning attack while she retreated a step more. Always the Visarch advanced, never giving ground, always gaining. Each time she dodged or sidestepped, Yvraine was aware that she was being manoeuvred across the flat paving towards the more uneven ground of the solidified lava that flanked the road. There, just a chance slip would see her doomed.
The Opener of the Seventh Way had not thought herself immortal, not in the age-worn sense. She flowed with the power of Ynnead, set aside from the precipice of life and death to walk a different path. Watching the blade of her foe flash towards her, eluding its deadly touch by a hair’s breadth, she had never considered treachery by her champion to be a possibility. That it would end her seemed faintly ridiculous, almost insulting.
There was nothing to be done though.
Except to trust in Ynnead.
She could see the fire of Khaine burning in the heart of the Visarch, rekindled by the proximity of the Warshard, given fresh life after an age dormant. All the while that it burned the Visarch would be Khaine’s creature again. The souls of Ynnead’s chosen shrieked their abhorrence of the Bloody-Handed’s servant as they whirled about him, but he fought on blind to their approbation.
Only one power could extinguish that fire, but it was beyond Yvraine’s reach.
Yvraine moved her hand aside as the Visarch’s next blow seared towards her breast. The edge of Asu-var bit deep through gown and the runesuit beneath, hewing into her mortal flesh.
There was no pain. Ynnead had inured her to such consideration. But blood flowed freely, gushing from her wounded flank to stain her gown crimson, puddling and spattering on the dark road.
She fell backwards, fan in one hand, the Sword of Sorrows still held tightly in the other, a fountain of her life fluid arcing from a severed artery as she collapsed.
Yvraine did not feel the ground as she hit. All was consumed by the icy grip of Ynnead, dulling sound and sight, touch and taste, so that it seemed as though she landed on a bed of welcoming pyre-ash.
Yvraine stared at the storm-wracked skies, and in the roiling clouds saw the face of her god.
Still dazed, Meliniel tried to rise, but a broken leg failed beneath him, leaving him clutching the wounded limb and cursing. Horror gripped the autarch as he saw the body of Althenian torn apart from within, plumes of fire detonating like artillery shells. He heard a wild shriek behind him and rolled over to see Iyanna sprinting through the morass of embattled warriors. Coming up beside him she hurled the Spear of Teuthlas like a javelin.
The eyes of both followed its arcing course towards the back of the Warshard. Meliniel’s chest clutched tight about his heart, expecting the immortal to turn and bat away the weapon at any instant.
His fears were unfounded. The white-fired tip of Iyanna’s spear struck Khaine’s murderous son in the back of the neck, above the rim of the bone cuirass. The impact pitched the monstrous fighter forwards, sending it to one knee as magma spumed like arterial flow.
CHAPTER 33
YNNEAD’S COLD EMBRACE
The sword slipped from Laarian’s grip even as the first blood coloured its blade. Yvraine fell away from him as though over a precipice, until he realised he was retreating, staggering back from her, the shock of what he had done as crushing as a physical blow.
Her expression was serene, haunting in its peacefulness, her eyes locked to his for a heartbeat.
She bounced like a discarded doll, blood-wetted courtly garb moulded to body and thigh, a river of crimson seeping out over the dark ground. The Visarch – returned now that Laarian had been sated – stared down at what his anger had wrought.
All went still. Not the battle, for that still raged without pause, but in the cleft between life and death, the spirit world occupied by the shades of the dying, Yvraine’s demise rippled out like a thunderous silence. No more the wailing spirits. No more the swirling revenants. No more the contorted agonies of the severed. Pregnant with unreleased potential, the psychic plane shuddered, a single violent convulsion that exploded out of Yvraine’s body as the Seventh Way opened to release the dead held within.
The Yncarne flooded into the Well of the Dead, birthcry shrieking in the ear and the mind. Its diaphanous form swept up through Yvraine, lifting her with it as it rose, holding her close to its chest like a grotesque father comforting a hurt child. Up the Yncarne rose, its ghostlight pushing back the storm clouds, white lightning leaping from its ascending body in answer to the scarlet bolts that crashed down.
A howl of grief swamped the battlefield, so forlorn that every living soul was turned by it, their rage suddenly forgotten, their weapons hanging limp in their hands, even in the throes of killing, all eyes drawn to the pale, beautiful, half-daemonic figure that soared above them.
Cradling Yvraine’s head, silver tears fell from the Yncarne’s eyes, coating her with a shimmering gown woven from Ynnead’s loss. White trails of spirit power streamed behind them as the Yncarne circled, clawed fingers holding tight against face and waist of the fallen Opener of the Seventh Way.
As a bird keeper might throw up one of his charges to aid it in taking flight, the Yncarne cast Yvraine away. She fell, a spark against the clouds, arms outstretched, fan and sword still in hand.
Tethers of power followed her, binding her plunging form to the Yncarne. The avatar of Ynnead’s shape unravelled, becoming tendrils of white fire that pulsed along the connection, flowing into the corpse of its summoner.
The Visarch felt rather than saw life burst forth again, though he imagined he saw closed eyes opening wide as the Opener of the Seventh Way returned to the mortal plane. Like a white thunderbolt she fell, and his eye was drawn to the ground beneath, where the Warshard crouched wounded on the black earth, a spear protruding from its back.
Yvraine laughed as she dived. She had believed and she had been rewarded. The power of the Whispering God infused her, was part of her, as she swooped towards the crippled figure of shadow and fire below.
She struck like a meteor, the Sword of Sorrows arrowed before her, parting the Warshard’s head from its shoulders with effortless grace.
Landing, the speed of her descent dissipated by an explosion of white fire, Yvraine turned in time to see the Warshard dying. Its body seized, solidifying like cooling iron, all shadow exposed to the light of the fire that had been set within it by the vengeance of Ynnead. A rust-like powder crept across its solidifying remains, dried blood that encased it from severed neck to toe. The ruddy crust flaked away as though in a wind, stripping the Warshard down to nothing, a pile of crimson ash that turned to an even finer powder and then disappeared.
CHAPTER 34
THE HEART OF ELDANESH
The Well of the Dead ached with funereal solemnity. All sound was muted; sobs of guilt, murmurs of disbelief, whispers of heartfelt apology. The survivors looked upon the carnage they had wrought and could not comprehend. Fully a third of the Ynnari that had passed through the gate lay bloodied and dead upon the unforgiving rock, a similar number of the Ghost Halls vanquished by the insanity unleashed by the Warshard.
Some stumbled through the flesh-wreckage, seeking favoured companions, calling softly the names of those they sought. Many sat down, numbed with shock, unblinking stares fixed upon the horizon, seeing only blood-riddled snatches of remembered slaughter.
Iyanna retrieved the Spear of Teuthlas from where it lay. She picked up the ancient weapon, noting that the tip was nocked, a splinter of the blade broken away. The price to pay for the death of a war god’s avatar.
‘I’m sorry.’
She turned at Meliniel’s apology, confused. The autarch sat with a leg outstretched, gripping the thigh. She saw the pain in his posture and guessed the cause.
‘Sorry for what? You did all you could.’ Kneeling beside him, she laid a hand on his leg. Spirit energy slipped through her fingers, igniting the accelerated healing processes hidden deep inside the core of every aeldari. Coaxing his nervous system into a burst of life, blood flowing from his quickening heart, she guided his body to begin knitting broken bone, replenishing lost cells. ‘Besides, you did not fail.’
When she was done, helping him gingerly to his feet with a hand, Iyanna strode over to the twisted remains of Althenian’s wraithbody. It looked grotesque, like splayed ribs decorated with strings of ribboned organs, but she knew there was nothing of flesh in it, nothing of the former exarch was suffering. Inside the mutilated remains she could feel the steady pulse of a spirit stone, its beat almost admonishment.
She reached in, pushing through the gore of artificial fluids and frayed crystal arteries to pluck free the gem housing the soul of Althenian.
I assume, given we are both still here, that we won?
‘Yes. I threw a spear into its spine and Yvraine died so that the spirit of the Yncarne could possess her and destroy it.’
Quite a feat. The stone warmed in her palm. I am glad I could provide… distraction…
‘You saved Meliniel, that was no small matter.’
I am glad. What happened to the Visarch? You saw him?
Iyanna looked around and saw the crimson-armoured warrior standing apart from everyone else, the Sword of Silent Screams held at his side, helm turned away.
‘It was not his fault.’
Probably. But will Yvraine think the same, of his deed?
Iyanna shrugged and searched the chaos for her sister-of-the-dead. She spied Yvraine moving through her people, the silver light of her presence falling upon the living and dead alike. Those close to the embrace of Ynnead were saved, spirits returned to their bodies before the link was severed. Alorynis, seeming no worse for his rough handling at the fist of Yvraine’s champion, scampered behind, bounding from corpse to corpse, stepping lightly over the ruins of the fallen wraithguard and wraithblades.
In time, the Opener of the Seventh Way turned in the direction of the Visarch. Iyanna watched Yvraine approach her warden, a spark of white fire confronting a droplet of blood. She knew not what passed between them, but the Visarch sagged, almost falling to the floor.
It was Yvraine that caught him this time, pushing him to his feet. Something else was said and the Visarch nodded. He took up his blade in both hands, tip to the ground, and knelt, bowing his head almost to the feet of Yvraine.
While the wounded were removed back through the gate and the wraithnobles mustered their dead hosts, and the disembodied spirits of the shattered army, the leaders of the Ynnari gathered on the steps before Eldanesh’s tomb. The doors were open, a constant yellow light within, though nothing of the contents could be seen from this distance.
They remained silent, but Yvraine took a step, the Visarch just to her right, Iyanna and Meliniel on the left. With a hiss, Alorynis held back, refusing to ascend.
The quartet stopped again at the threshold, for beyond the door they could see a black sarcophagus, topped with white marble carved into the effigy of a figure. They parted as they entered, their footfalls sounding harsh and loud in the sacred chamber, circling around the tomb within. Above, the ceiling was decorated with a star-filled void, the constellations of the night Eldanesh was slain, and through an opening the red moon still shone, casting a ruddy glow through a lens upon the chest of the effigy, where Anaris had cut the flesh of the Firstborn.
There was, at least in plain sight, no sign of a weapon, sacred cronesword or otherwise.
Yvraine sighed.
‘I am loath to disturb the tomb of Eldanesh. Death and the dead have been my companions for a long time, but even for me there is a place into which I would not venture freely.’
‘I do not believe he is buried with it,’ agreed Iyanna. She glanced at the sword in Yvraine’s hand, and to its companion held by the Visarch. ‘I feel no presence, nothing akin to the cold aura of the Keys of the Dead already discovered.’
None wished to say it, but it seemed that their quest had failed. Worse, that the hundreds that had perished had done so for nothing.
Yvraine found the idea hard to bear, but held back the anger that threatened to bubble forth. Had she not served Ynnead well? Given her life, metaphorically and, that very day, literally? Was she to ever roam the cosmos seeking the merest hint of a sacred treasure, a bauble dangled by myth and nothing more?
‘There is something else,’ said Meliniel, stepping closer to the tomb.
Yvraine saw nothing and, judging by their reactions, nor did the others. But Meliniel leaned across the tomb effigy, his fingers passing into the red light from above. When he withdrew his hand, it clutched a large ruby, shaped in a thousand facets as a droplet. He lifted it up and the light of the red moon sparkled from its edges.
Causing all to start, the droplet audibly gave a beat, pulsing red from its depth. Meliniel shuddered, faceplate of his helm bathed in the scarlet glow.
‘The Heart of Eldanesh,’ he whispered, the words spoken as though in a trance. ‘Formed of his blood, of his sacrifice for us all.’
He straightened and looked around at the others, coming to his senses.
‘I saw him…’ The words choked in his throat but he continued. ‘Just a fragment, a passing glimpse. Beauty incarnate, a spirit so pure. And his murder. So foul, so hate-filled.’
He turned the droplet left and right, examining it more closely.
‘Does it… do anything?’ asked the Visarch.
‘I think it does,’ replied the autarch. He turned back to the door and they followed him out onto the top of the steps. ‘Step back a little.’
They did as he asked, retreating a dozen or so paces. Meliniel held the Heart of Eldanesh to his chest plate, just next to his own heart. Fronds of red light like prismatic blood crawled through his fingers and onto the curve of his armour. He took a stumbling step back, releasing his hold, the gemstone held in place by its own power.
The light spread, growing like a second skin over the autarch, flashing with orange and yellow, as though hiding flame just out of view.
With a convulsive shout, arms thrust outwards, Meliniel immolated. Black and crimson fire engulfing his body. In a heartbeat he stretched, contorted, flesh and blood replaced with fire and shadow, psychoplastic transformed into rune-etched bone.
Flaming Anaris in hand, the Warshard stood where Meliniel had been.
Do not strike! The voice was the iron-echo of Khaine’s most murderous fragment, but the intonation was wholly Meliniel’s. The words sounded in their thoughts, the face of Khaine’s son permanently fixed in a terrifying snarl. The fire-wreathed creature held up a blood-slicked hand, turning it one way and the other as it examined the digits, and then moved its attention to the Widowmaker in its grasp.
