Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Read online

  The driver slipped up the side of the Wave Serpent and into the piloting pod. The purpose of Nuadhu’s presence returned to him and his eye roamed the dock area seeking Naiall.

  ‘Now it is plain where you get your rash streak from,’ snapped Caelledhin as she stormed past Nuadhu, almost shouldering him aside. ‘Our father has already boarded the ship.’

  The crowds parted before her and Nuadhu felt himself drawn into her wake, hurrying to catch up.

  Yvraine arrived at the transitway between the main galleries and the lower attack craft berths and found Meliniel waiting for her. Even before she stepped aboard the descender carriage she could feel the tension in the autarch. Within the red Heart of Eldanesh implanted in his chest a tiny flame burned, at times in the shape of an indistinct rune of Kaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One. The essence of the war god inside Meliniel throbbed through the Whisper, like a distant roaring trying to be heard. She could not imagine how hard it was for the autarch to keep chained the beast he had allowed into himself; likewise there was not another she would trust more, having proven his self-discipline upon the Path and as an Ynnari time and time again.

  Coming closer to him was to approach a furnace with her thoughts, feeling the intensity even though it was, in theory, safely contained. It was a strange dichotomy, that he should serve the God of the Dead and yet was once more bound to the God of War. Yvraine preferred to interpret the duality as a good sign. As the favour of the Harlequins – or some of their masques – was approval from Cegorach the Laughing God, so the ‘taming’ of the Warshard, the First Avatar of Khaine, was a sign of support from the Bloody-Handed. Eldrad had warned her of reading too much of the intent of immortals in the actions of their servants and pawns, but the Opener of the Seventh Way could not avoid the feeling that she was creating something even grander than an alliance of aeldari. If her people were Reborn, was there also hope for the return of other gods?

  ‘I have devised an alternative plan of attack,’ the autarch told Yvraine as she sat on the bench opposite. ‘One that compensates for the lack of webway access to the surface.’

  The Visarch sat behind Yvraine without comment. Meliniel shifted, glancing over his shoulder as the carriage slid into the descent tunnel, swiftly gathering speed.

  ‘Yet you have reservations,’ she said, reading his uncertainty.

  ‘As we cannot come upon the tomb complex directly from the webway, we must break the attack into two phases.’ His hands moved to illustrate his explanation, motioning a separation. ‘I presume that the necrontyr will be aware of our arrival in orbit and, even if they have no voidships launched yet, the element of surprise will be much reduced. So that we are not destroyed piecemeal we must land first, gather our strength and subsequently launch a coordinated assault on the tomb precinct itself to secure the vault.’

  ‘I trust your judgement, Meliniel, in all military matters.’

  ‘It is not the Ynnari that concern me, but the Saim-Hann.’ The autarch took a breath and in the pause the Heart of Eldanesh on his chest shone brighter, accompanied by a flutter of the wrathful energy contained within his soul. ‘If they act precipitously, we shall lose the advantages gained. This Wild Lord, Nuadhu Fireheart, is not a measured commander.’

  ‘You must have had your fair share of impetuous subordinates,’ said the Visarch. ‘Arrange your plans accordingly.’

  Meliniel treated the warrior to a dark stare, teeth gritted in anger.

  ‘Would you be so complacent if you had a limb that did not act fully within your control?’ snapped the autarch. ‘How willing to fight would you be?’

  ‘I would slice it free,’ said the Visarch. ‘Allow its animus to take its course while I follow mine.’

  ‘You…’ Meliniel’s retort faded and a more thoughtful composure came upon him. ‘I think you may be right.’

  ‘If you are thinking to sacrifice the Saim-Hann, reconsider your plan,’ Yvraine said sharply, thinking she guessed his intent. ‘Finally we are putting the memory of the disaster of Biel-tan behind us. I would not create fresh cause for the craftworlds to distrust or openly oppose us. We must demonstrate that we work for all aeldari, not just those that choose to follow me.’

  ‘You misjudge me.’ Meliniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have never possessed the kind of callousness you suspect. I think that your time in the Crucibael has eroded the values you learned as one of the Asuryani.’

  ‘Forgotten values, or discarded bonds?’ said the Visarch. ‘When you release the power inside of you, do you think it cares where its blade falls?’

  Meliniel fidgeted again, lips thin. He glanced away once more as the carriage slowed, its vertical trajectory smoothing out again to the horizontal as it approached the fighter berths.

  ‘I will allow the Saim-Hann as much free rein as possible,’ the autarch said stiffly as he stood up. ‘In the grander scheme, I will trust the Wild Riders to do what they do best and look to guide the Ynnari to victory alongside them.’

  ‘Trust?’ Yvraine stepped out of the carriage, gown flowing around her as a subtle breeze from the docking berths caught the fabric. ‘I trust you with everything, Meliniel. Every time we go to war, I place my trust in your abilities, and your judgement. This battle is no different.’

  The autarch bowed his head in gratitude, a fleeting smile across his lips. A flutter of connection across the Whisper forestalled any reply as Theoderonil touched upon their minds.

  The first of our ships are about to exit the webway, Opener of the Seventh Way. The Ynnead’s Dream will lead the second wave with the Saim-Hann flotilla. You should board the drop-craft immediately.+

  I am but moments from doing so,+ Yvraine replied.

  I will send you the particulars of the drop sequence, captain,+ Meliniel broadcast back. +All fighter escorts are to launch before we clear the webway and exit in our stream for immediate atmospheric entry.+

  Yes, autarch. The squadrons across the fleet are ready.+

  The sensation of connection dissipated, leaving Yvraine pondering what would happen next.

  Eldrad had been less than forthcoming about the battle to come, following the debate with the farseers of Saim-Hann. He had declined participation in the first assault, claiming he needed more time to consult the runes. Yvraine tried her best to believe that the farseer would never deliberately sacrifice her, but she was also keenly aware that he had plundered the crystal seers of many craftworlds in his first attempt to waken Ynnead, and the emissary of the Whispering God might be an acceptable price to pay for any gains towards the coming of the Reborn.

  And it was a source of pride that she was comfortable with that role. If her death served Ynnead, she would not endeavour to withhold it. The span she had been granted since the rise of the Whispering God was a debt to Ynnead, whose partial ascension had saved her from death in the Crucibael. What remained of her existence she gladly offered in return.

  The passing of many souls into the embrace of Ynnead sustained Yvraine’s existence, each spirit a step towards Rebirth, yet that greater purpose did not lessen the pain of each death she felt. Her own passing would be a release.

  Chapter 15

  ATTACK FROM THE HEAVENS

  ‘I assure you, this is not the first time I have flown into danger.’ Aradryan let some of his frustration seep into the Whisper so that Tzibilakhu could feel it. ‘I do not need this cloying attention.’

  ‘What a self-centred way of looking at the situation,’ replied the Commorraghan. ‘Consider that perhaps my decision was not about you. We will be carrying Yvraine to the surface.’

  Aradryan and his appointed mentor ascended the spiral accessway that would take them to the piloting suite of the dawnsail drop-ship. He glanced along the sleek lines of the craft, acquainting himself with its dimensions and properties.

  Its hull was black and crimson, the former colour seemingly streaked along the l
atter in broad strokes that gently undulated for the whole length of a vessel larger than most void-to-atmosphere craft he had piloted, in size more equivalent to a small starship than an aircraft. Its prow was reminiscent of a falcon’s head and breast, a glossy black dome where the cranium would be reflecting the ceiling of the berthing hangar. About a third of the way down its length the dawnsail broadened considerably, creating an internal space big enough to convey many warriors or even a pair of Wave Serpent transports. The extended hull flared into curving wings for the final third.

  He could see the subtle articulations that would allow it to mimic the shape of a gliding bird once it reached sufficient atmospheric pressure to fly. The surface of the wing was covered in glittering feather-like protrusions, thousands of tiny facets that could be individually adjusted to capture the raw solar wind or the stellar energy reflected from a world’s upper atmospheric layers.

  ‘If you think I am not worthy of piloting alone, why bring me at all?’ Aradryan slid sideways into the slats of the piloting cradle that would hold him while in the void.

  ‘Have you ever flown a dawnsail before?’

  ‘No,’ replied Aradryan. ‘But I–’

  ‘And have you ever flown without spirit stones?’

  The question took him aback, reminding him that this was not a craftworld vessel, that he was no longer one of the Alaitocii. He had become accustomed to the Whisper, mentally substituting its presence for the infinity circuit with which he was far more familiar.

  Even so, it seemed a pointless question.

  ‘What difference would that make?’

  Tzibilakhu slipped into the cradle behind him. It raised her towards the glassy dome of the dawnsail’s main canopy, though at present the material was opaque, displaying a slowly shifting montage of vistas – Aradryan recognised the hundred-domed Temple of Isha’s Sorrows from Alaitoc, and knew the sheer-sided peaks of Lugganath’s Heavenly Pinnacles from a brief stay during his time aboard the starship Lacontiran.

  The embrace of his own couch-net tightened and drew him forward to the main controls and navigational displays. On instinct his hands moved to where he expected the spirit circuitry connectors, but his fingers found only smooth panel.

  He knew some of the runes that identified projector crystals and interface gems, but there were gaps where other control systems were meant to be.

  ‘Where are the…?’ He tried to turn in the cradle as he spoke, but the restrictive mesh prevented him from seeing Tzibilakhu except on the very periphery of his vision.

  ‘No spirit stone interface, Aradryan,’ she said, enjoying his discomfort. ‘When you can communicate within the Whisper directly you have no need of dead spirits to translate.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Aradryan shucked off the pilot net and rolled to his feet to face her.

  ‘What you believe is psychic communion is simply the natural language of the dead. Since the Fall it has been impossible to listen to directly, the birth-shriek of She Who Thirsts echoes still through the soul-matter of our people. The craftworlds use runes and crystal to filter out the noise, and my kin in Commorragh blanket it with the screams of their victims. The Whisper is pure thought, the essence of being aeldari. It is untouched by the corruption suffered by our bodies.’

  Recalling his experience during his ‘awakening’ by Yvraine, the sense of formless purity that had been the aeldari state of creation, he climbed back into the cradle.

  ‘No spirit stones,’ he said, as though speaking it as an affirmation would eradicate the strangeness of the concept. ‘Use the Whisper.’

  ‘So you are willing to learn?’ asked Tzibilakhu.

  He placed his hands where the stones would have been and let his thoughts relax in the manner he had learned aboard the ­Lacontiran. Rather than extending his mind into the waiting network of the dawnsail he allowed it to drift like a ship slipping its moorings, sensing a wider connection all around him.

  The Commorraghan’s mind lanced into his own, sharp and hot.

  I shall take that as a yes,+ she thought to him.

  Skittering images crept across the visual interpreters that had replaced the Watcher of the Dark’s eyes, filtering between an imposed view of the aeldari attack and the semi-random flickers of returning archival data. Neither were complete, and the former seemed to inspire the latter; the unfolding events continued to trigger sporadic memory-bursts as they approximated a previous experience or otherwise conflated with some past activity stored within the vast banks of Pantalikoa.

  The current battle progressed against her designs, with more and more aeldari landing close to the outskirts of the city. The speed of their assault made it difficult to respond in a tactical sense, and they were encroaching upon her territory far more swiftly than the city could awaken her followers in response.

  The thought-trail brought another flash of memory-data: portal-rips of ravening warp spawn as they burst upon the inhabitants of Chazaokal. The denizens of the accursed under-realm had rampaged through half a continent before the first attack-cohorts had been ready to fight back. Beams of deadly fire crisscrossed the skies above the Lanternbridge, searing the forms of immense predators.

  The descending aeldari ships seemed inspired by the same creatures, sleek-flanked and swift. Had they succumbed to the anathema? The Watcher of the Dark could not see other overt signs of corruption and the notion seemed counter to her recollections of the aeldari that had been sent against the Crownworlds. The Galactic Engineers had brought this deadly new species into being with the specific intent for them to resist the counter-dimensional incursions.

  So much she did not know. So many lifetimes lost without knowledge.

  Memories raced half seen while she calibrated fresh attack algorithms for her burgeoning phalanxes. It was not enough to simply hold the Panatheitik Vault, she had to eradicate all opportunity for the aeldari to interface with the sealing mechanism. She was not sure why, but a brooding sense of disaster hung on her every thought when she contemplated the consequences of failure.

  The concept brought a shivering welter of recollections both recent and ancient. Worlds perished in darkness, torn apart by tamed black holes, shredded by disharmonious particulate detonations or simply razed of life by purposefully introduced hegemonic viral vectors. Billions slain, whole species wiped from existence to prevent the spread of the foe-that-creeps.

  The stark image of a constellation disappearing from the skies above Pantalikoa reminded her of her title. The Watcher of the Dark. Did it refer to her present task, or her history?

  Revelation followed the line of inquiry.

  Pantalikoa and Chazaokal. Two of seven.

  Heptaric coordinates fluttered into reality: Aleksakris. Dazhar. Imsuda. Akadis. Zhanjava.

  The Septaplurachy of Kiush.

  Her domain. Seven worlds, each housing one of the Panatheitik Vaults.

  What of the other six?

  Pantalikoa was far from fully operational, and with all effort bent towards stalling the aeldari assault there was no energy to spare for any kind of interstellar sensory forays. The lack of obvious signal from the princess-worlds could be interpreted in two ways. Either they remained dormant, or they had been destroyed. If the latter, Pantalikoa was the last vault gate. If the former, how long would it be until the aeldari turned their warlike intentions upon the other worlds of Septaplurachy?

  Neither was an acceptable circumstance. The aeldari aggression had to be halted for certain. The tomb-programme was decoding the aeldari attacks as it was fashioned to do, but acted very slowly to preserve stasis for as long as possible for the rarest engines and incumbents of its catacomb. The Watcher of the Dark had to find the escalation protocols to speed up the reawakening process if she was to prevent disaster.

  It was a regrettable but inevitable consequence of the aeldari attack. Such measures would prove costly in resour
ces and once the Septaplurachy was fully activated, it would doubtless draw attention from all manner of other foes. It had survived long hidden, but would it continue to remain intact when its full presence was broadcast to the universe?

  Once started, the inevitable fulfilment of the Watcher of the Dark’s strategy had to be the total activation of the entire Septaplurachy’s defensive systems.

  More worlds would burn.

  At first the welter of information was overwhelming. Every system of the dawnsail assailed Aradryan with a constant flood of data and feedback. Without the inert psychic potential of spirit stones to absorb the majority of the impulses, he was conscious of even the smallest function. It was like having to beat his heart with conscious effort and deliberately breathe and remember to send signals to his muscles and listen to every nerve ending and…

  Trust.+

  The thought of Tzibilakhu fluttered into his mind, dislodging a torrent of vital energy feedback impulses. Panic whirled through Aradryan as he tried to cling on to the lost connections, as though parts of the drop-craft were physically falling away.

  Focus. On. Me.+

  Her presence was a shaft of solidity in the ever-permeable morass of psychic data. Aradryan flung his thoughts towards Tzibilakhu like a tired swimmer floundering onto a rock.

  But there was no rock.

  Tzibilakhu’s presence was no more of a sanctuary than thin air for one that is falling. His thoughts seemed to pass through her, briefly touching before disappearing into the weight of the dawnsail’s reports and interactions.

  Make your own foundation.+