Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence, page 28
The sudden presence of Jain Zar was almost overwhelming, causing Tallithea to shake with emotion. The circuitry of the craftworld was alive with the Phoenix Lord’s approach and a confusion of fear and excitement coursed through Tallithea as she waited at the dock where the Phoenix Lord’s ship was berthed.
She almost fled, but at the moment before her nerve broke the Storm of Silence stalked through the high arch of the quay. Jain Zar turned towards her immediately, as if she had been expected. She stopped a few paces away, the chill of her presence prickling across the exposed skin of Tallithea’s arms.
Out of her armour, dressed in a smock of silvery-green scales, she felt even smaller next to the Asurya, who seemed more than ever a figure of legend, a statue from the gardens brought to life. The shrieking mask was terrifying, the glint of the Blade of Destruction beguiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Tallithea, bursting into tears. It was all too much, a rush of contending feelings that could not be stopped. ‘I can’t do it again!’
‘Rest, child, and speak easily. Cannot do what, Tallithea?’
‘Wear the war mask. I took off my armour and let the mask fall away and I felt sickened by the thought of what I had done.’
‘You remembered the battle?’
‘No, nothing that terrible. But just the knowledge of it, the idea that I fought and killed and… I don’t know what else I did, but it makes me weak to think of it. And I could die! The fear, all of that terror hidden away behind the mask, it’s crept into every part of me. It took everything just to leave my chambers to come here.’
‘And why have you come? For what are you apologising?’
‘I’ve failed you, Jain Zar. I’ve failed my shrine-sisters, and the memory of Danaesh. I wasn’t strong enough.’
Tears streaming, she turned away, but was stopped by a gentle touch at her elbow. She could not resist as Jain Zar eased her closer, into the mane that fell from her helm, its icy touch oddly comforting, bringing clarity through the haze of conflicting thoughts. The Phoenix Lord laid an arm about her shoulders, so tender it was impossible to think that the act was performed by one who had spilled the blood of so many foes.
‘My child, be glad, not sorry. This is not a failure, it is success. Had Danaesh been with you, he would say he was proud. The failure is his, to be trapped on the Path of Khaine. You are free of the grip of the Bloody-Handed One, freed of the hate and anger that can consume us.’ Jain Zar straightened and wiped away the tears on Tallithea’s cheeks with the tip of a black-gloved finger. ‘It is still within you, the war mask, and you will be called upon to wear it again before your spirit travels to the infinity circuit. Many times Ulthwé may need you, for this is a dangerous universe. But you are strong enough to walk away from the temptations of battle and the thrill of combat. That is a beautiful thing.’
Shuddering, taking a ragged breath, Tallithea nodded her understanding and thanks. A thought occurred to her, bringing with it a profound sadness.
‘What of you, Jain Zar? Can you escape this Path?’
‘One distant day, I will be free,’ replied the Phoenix Lord. ‘My Path shall be upon the bodies of my foes. Yet it takes me to the Rhana Dandra, the ending of all, beyond which I shall, as will all our people, eventually know peace.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the The Beast Arises novels The Emperor Expects and The Beast Must Die, Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
An extract from Asurmen: Hand Of Asuryan.
The daemons’ death-shouts reverberated around the ancient catacombs, filling the temple with grating cries. Asurmen’s blade flared with psychic energy each time its edge parted body, limb or neck of his semi-corporeal foes. Monomolecular-edged discs streamed from his vambraces, slicing apart the red-skinned bloodletters that stood between him and his goal.
The last of the daemons fell as the legendary Phoenix Lord reached the threshold of the inner sanctum. Silence descended, broken only by the sound of Asurmen’s boots on bare stone. The floor underfoot was quite plain, made of large, interlocking rectangular stone slabs. The walls were decorated with the faded, chipped paint of a mural. What had once been depicted could no longer be discerned, though Asurmen knew it from memory. The temple had been full of colour at its height, the frescos and friezes displaying scenes from the oldest eldar myths, many of them depictions from the War in Heaven.
At the centre of the hexagonal chamber was a pedestal as broad as his outstretched arms, waist-high, the top of which was carved with an intricate pattern of runes inlaid with bright crystals. The runes and gems had a dim inner light, creating six segments of blue, green, red, black, grey and white. At the centre of the pedestal sat a single globe, roughly the size of two fists together, swirling with white fog.
Another already waited there – a figure garbed in armour coloured like shifting flame stood beside the rubies embedded in the sanctum table. He held a firepike across his chest, the long barrel gleaming silvery-gold, matching the detailing on his wargear. In his other hand was a triangular-bladed axe, the air around its head distorted by the shimmer of heat. A demi-surcoat made of overlapping scales hung from his waist, matched by other dragonscale elements on the warsuit. His helm was flanked with broad projecting crests, casting a dark shadow across the shrine.
The air around the figure was hot, the temperature raised by the barely suppressed anger of the Phoenix Lord known as the Burning Lance.
‘Fuegan,’ said Asurmen, bowing his head in greeting as he took his place at the dais. ‘Has that time come, the appointed hour when your call will bring us together for the final battle?’
The Burning Lance slowly shook his head.
‘Not yet, shrine-father,’ he replied. His voice was a rasp, each word clipped as though spat through gritted teeth. Despite his tone, Fuegan’s pose was deferential to his teacher. ‘The threads of the Rhana Dandra are gathering together but it is not yet time for the final battle.’
Asurmen accepted this without comment and looked around, finding reassurance in the familiarity of his surroundings. Nothing had changed here – nothing could change in a place that existed outside of reality. The ceiling was covered in a thin coating of iron artfully decorated with threads and beads of bronze. Depending upon where one stood, one saw a different face looking down, each of the six primary Aspects of Khaine, the Bloody-handed God.
The crystal runes glowed bright in front of Asurmen, dappling the ceiling with deep blue. In their light the Phoenix Lord saw above him a stern, lean face. Not cruel, but uncompromising. The visage of Khaine the Avenger, Asurmen’s chosen Aspect.
Footsteps echoed along the halls and Asurmen turned his head to look at the next arrival. In came Maugan Ra, black-clad, his battle gear set with images of death, wrought with bones and skulls. For a moment it seemed as though moans and cries of despair followed in his wake, and then the silence of long aeons settled again.
The Harvester of Souls was armed with a shuriken cannon fitted with a scythe-like blade – the maugetar, slayer of countless foes. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of Asurmen but deliberately made no motion towards Fuegan. As hot as Fuegan’s temper was, Maugan Ra brought with him the chill of the tomb. He took up a position opposite the Fire Dragon, becoming a statue in his immobility. The crystals before him burst into black flame.
Next into the sanctum was Karandras, emerging from the shadows without a sound. He was clad in green armour, one hand engulfed by a gem-studded claw like that of a scorpion, a long tooth-edged chainblade in the other. Even Asurmen had trouble focusing on the darkness-clad Phoenix Lord, who seemed to disappear into the space between the glittering crystals, reappearing next to Fuegan. The two of them exchanged a brief glance.
‘Well met, Shadow Hunter,’ growled Fuegan as the emeralds set into place in front of the Striking Scorpion lit the shrine with their jade ghostfire.
‘I hear the call and I answer,’ Karandras replied quietly. He nodded to Maugan Ra. ‘It seems but a moment since we last parted company, shrine-brother of Death.’
‘We do not speak of our outer lives in this place,’ Asurmen said sharply. Karandras recoiled at the rebuke, almost becoming invisible again as his rune faded into dullness.
‘Apologies, shrine-father, I meant no discord.’ His voice was a whisper in the gloom. ‘I will speak no more of the outer world and the time beyond.’
Asurmen accepted the apology with a nod and beckoned Karandras to take his place properly.
‘Your tempered manner has always been an inspiration, Hand of Asuryan.’ So spoke Jain Zar, appearing at a doorway to Asurmen’s right, the long crest of her high helm drifting behind her in a psychic breeze, like the tresses of a goddess. Her armour was the colour of bone, light against the darkness past the threshold. She carried a long glaive with a silver head and a bladed triskele hung at her hip. Three quick strides brought her fully into the chamber – every movement efficient, smooth and promising – a latent energy that could be violently released at any moment. ‘May it guide us well on this momentous occasion.’
Jain Zar stood to Asurmen’s right, within arm’s reach of the dais. The runes of her Aspect glowed with a clear white.
They waited, sensing that one more was coming.
There was silence for some time before Baharroth appeared, the glittering metal feathers of his winged flight-pack furled like a cape around his arms and shoulders, his tri-barrelled lasblaster slung to one side. He moved to stand between Jain Zar and Maugan Ra, the flutter of his feather-crested helm the only sound. His rune became many colours, like a shaft of light through a prism, ever-changing.
‘I feel the call,’ Asurmen intoned, ‘and I answer it. I come here, to the First Shrine, outside of space, beyond time. I seek guidance.’
He paused and looked at his companions. Maugan Ra and Fuegan were intent on the central globe; the others returned his brief look.
‘It is rare that all are called together,’ the Hand of Asuryan continued. He took a moment, regarding his former pupils with eyes both new and old. He could remember them all when they had first come to him, afraid, alone, seeking guidance even though they had not known it. It was near impossible to reconcile those memories with the mythical warriors that shared the shrine with him. His own journey was no less remarkable, he realised.
‘Truly rare,’ said Baharroth, his voice like the sigh of a breeze. ‘My shrine-kin, take a moment to mark the occasion. Be of no doubt that we are each to return to the mortal world with sacred duties.’
‘Do you question our dedication, Cry of the Wind?’ snapped Fuegan, looking at his shrine-brother. ‘Always you speak as messenger, the doom-bearer, the wings upon which change is borne. What sky-whispers have you heard, tempest tamer, that we should know?’
‘No more than you know already, wielder of the pure flame. The storm unleashed follows you like a curse, and it will do so until the Rhana Dandra. You cannot outrun it.’
‘Why would I even try?’ Fuegan laughed, but there was little humour in him.
‘If it is not the End of All that brings us here, why did you summon us, Fuegan?’ demanded Maugan Ra, his voice deep, the words rolling around the chamber.
‘The fire of war burns bright, searing my thread upon the skein.’ Fuegan’s attention moved to Asurmen. ‘I followed. I do not lead.’
‘I followed also,’ said Jain Zar. Even standing still the Storm of Silence seemed to be in motion, seized in a singular moment of inactivity. ‘Loud was the cry across time and space that brought me here, issued from the lips of the banshee herself. A wail that doubtless brings death to many when I return.’
‘It is the will of Asuryan,’ said Karandras. The scorpion lord appeared to change position without moving. The simplest gesture came out of nowhere. Subtle movements in stance altered one pose to another seemingly without transition. ‘The heavenly dream falls upon us once more.’
‘Just so, shrine-son,’ said Asurmen. ‘Beneath ten thousand suns have we walked and fought. Timeless and endless is our quest, to bring peace to our people. No more are we living warriors, we have become ideas, memories of glories past and mistakes not to be repeated. We are the teacher and the lesson. Though we share this place now, we are but fantasy and myth, imagined in this place by the dream-wishes of a dead god, our spirits drawn from the realm of fact and reality. Scattered again we shall be when we leave, to such times we left behind when we answered the call. We will each see what we see and act as we will act, as we have done since the sundering of the Asurya.’
They all nodded their acquiescence and turned their eyes upon the great crystal at the centre of the shrine.
‘Let us seek the vision of Asuryan,’ commanded Asurmen.
Each Phoenix Lord placed a hand on their name-rune and the central sphere rose from its resting place and started to revolve silently. As it turned it formed a kaleidoscope, shedding multicoloured light on the sanctum’s occupants.
The light pulsed gently and the walls of the shrine melted away. The six Phoenix Lords stood beneath a storm-wracked sky, red lightning lancing across purple thunderheads above. The rage of thwarted gods made the ground crack and the sky burn. All about the shrine was devastated, a blasted wilderness thronged with daemons from great lords to mindless beasts, held at bay by the rage of Khaine and the blessing of Asuryan.
But nothing outside the wall of power moved, not as seen from within the stasis. The legions of daemons were a frozen tableau, the blazing storm nothing more than a bright pattern across the heavens.
A moment from the distant past, locked away for all eternity by the power of Asuryan’s Heart, the Asurentesh that lifted higher and higher from the altar-pedestal, streaming rainbow light down upon the shrine-family.
Asurmen felt his immortal gaze drawn further and further into the globe, until he was utterly lost within it. He saw the skein for a moment as the farseers witness it – a terrifying, impossible mesh of interlocking and overlapping fates. He saw his own thread, sapphire and vibrant, unbroken for an age. For a moment he saw the lives of the others branching out from the node of the shrine, but they fell away as the rest of the skein faded, leaving only a golden trail that drew Asurmen along until it plunged him into a living nightmare.
All is red, of fire and blood.
Screams tear the air and planets burn.
Two craftworlds, tendrils of darkness linking them together, dragging each other to destruction.
The sharp laughter of a thirsting god as it sups from the slaughter.
Ancient talons of stone, piercing a bleeding heart.
Ebon claws that break as a white flame of salvation erupts from that heart.
The shrine was dim when Asurmen was released from the vision, lit only by the ambience that had existed when he had arrived. The other Phoenix Lords were still in their places. The globe and runes were dull and lifeless. Asurmen lifted his hand from the pedestal and the others followed his lead. He felt a moment of disconnection, of spirits parting, leaving him feeling incredibly isolated. It was his usual state of mind and Asurmen was quick to master the sensation.
‘We have seen what must be done, each to their destiny. We speak not of what the visions show us, for it is unwise to cross the threads of fate. Our spirits depart, to return to the world of mortals, at such times and in such places as we left, and in the mortal sphere our lives will meet again. Khaine is sundered once more.’
In the distance he heard fierce cries and closer at hand threatening whispers.
‘Our daemonic besiegers draw fresh strength and so we must leave before they grow bold enough to dare our wrath.’
The Phoenix Lords departed, their armoured forms swiftly swallowed by the shadows outside the sanctum archways, footfalls dwindling into silence within moments as they passed from the First Shrine back through its hidden webway connections.
Karandras paused at the threshold and looked back, raising his claw in salute. Asurmen accepted the gesture of respect with a single nod.
And then Karandras was gone and Asurmen was alone. The baying of flesh hounds was becoming louder, the thunder of brass-shod juggernauts growing. The noise of whetstones shrieked in the darkness.
It was not wise to remain any longer, even for a Phoenix Lord. In the real universe he was functionally immortal, but the First Shrine was far from the real universe.
Asuryan had shown him his purpose. A wrong to be avenged. There was a war to end.
Blade at the ready, Asurmen stepped back into the darkness and the daemons attacked.
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To Jes, Andy and Rick, for WD127.
A Black Library Publication
First published in Great Britain in 2017
This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Mike ‘Daarken’Lim.
Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
