Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Read online

  If Druthkhala was right – if the assertions of Yvraine were true – then it would change the aeldari forever, wiping away the stain of the Fall. He felt breathless at the thought. That victory would not be brought about by stepping aside and allowing others to fight. Each battle took the Ynnari a little closer to realising that grand ambition.

  He looked at his family again and thought of his legacy to the clan Fireheart, his need to leave his mark upon the chronicles of Saim-Hann. The truth was that fate did not care for fame, and adulation was only fleeting. The impact of his life would be measured not in his lifetime but by generations after. He could not be his own judge of success.

  Yvraine had presented him with a chance to prove his true worth.

  Chapter 22

  ONE FINAL HOPE

  Responding to the call of the Opener of the Seventh Way, the interested parties took a little time to assemble, the main carrier compartment of Yvraine’s dawnsail serving as a crude council chamber for the representatives of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann. Save for a couch for the semi-comatose Naiall Fireheart, all furnishings had been cleared away, so that the Opener of the Seventh Way walked among the delegations without any imposed stature of a throne or dais. Eldrad had withdrawn to the far end of the space, refusing to speak of what had happened, though Yvraine could guess his mood. The sensation she had felt had receded, the Whisper silenced once more now that they were outside the heart of the necrontyr stasis. She had sensed only a fraction of the breached vault’s power, so what that might have done to the farseer was not hard to imagine.

  Yvraine itched at the delay, having been so close to her prize and now apparently so far away. Perhaps it was the prowling of Nuadhu Fireheart among his family that fed her impatience, or the quiet but constant conversation between the farseers of Saim-Hann that hinted at developing motives and an unravelling of the coalition. If she had thought before that the Ynnari were unable to overcome their foes on Agarimethea alone, she was adamant that was now the case. She needed the Saim-Hann contingent and they likely knew it well.

  ‘I think we are ready to begin,’ announced Meliniel, banging the haft of his spear on the floor, a space clearing in front of the autarch as he forged towards his mistress. ‘All with any advice or concern have arrived and the longer until we attack again the greater the force we will face.’

  ‘I think you have it reversed,’ said Neamyh. The clan noble wore the armour of a craftworld guardian, a shuriken pistol and mono-edged blade at her belt, but seemed uncomfortable in her warlike garb. Her movements were stiff within the protective mesh and plate when she turned to the farseers. ‘The necrontyr and daemons will rip into each other without relent. Let them destroy each other.’

  ‘You cannot speak of either as a normal foe,’ said Meliniel, turning to face Neamyh. ‘You saw into the breach, as we all did. I will not pretend to understand the dynamics at play, but its opening has, whether intended or not, caused a breach into the Realm of Chaos. The daemons we saw issuing forth are only the vanguard of a host that will continue to grow in power and size.’

  ‘Then we shall let them devour Agarimethea,’ said Neamyh. ‘Less than a hundred cycles ago, this world was nothing to Saim-Hann. To anyone. A notation in the archives. Let it die, not our people.’

  ‘The necrontyr will respond to the growing daemonic threat by awakening ever more powerful catacomb-machines. Like the daemons they cannot be wholly destroyed while their resurrection chambers still function.’

  ‘An even better prospect,’ announced Neamyh. ‘A war without resolution to keep both sides locked in their deadly struggle.’

  The assembled aeldari moved aside when Eldrad emerged from the periphery, the tip of his staff gleaming like a star.

  ‘One world will not contain their war.’

  The farseer raised the staff and ribbons of colour streamed from the brightness to create an image on the air. Time raced, Agari­methea bathed in the rise and fall of its sun hundreds of times, changing from azure and jade to a black-and-silver orb, immense pyramids and pylons extending out to the upper skies, wreathed about with infernal towers of bone and flesh contorted by the power of Chaos. The world was swallowed as the view receded, one star among several, and between them a growing rift of power. Six more worlds burst into flame, engulfed by the spreading war between ancient powers. Within two orbits of Agarimethea about its sun, the stars were alight with both necrontyr power and the energy of the warp. Against this miasma drifted a craftworld, encircled by the devastation, cut off from all hope of intervention.

  ‘Saim-Hann,’ muttered Illiaca. ‘So the doom we foresaw will come to pass.’

  ‘It can still be avoided,’ insisted Daraesath. ‘Seeing this, the clans cannot fail to act as one. The Avatar of Khaine will rouse and all of Saim-Hann will fall upon Agarimethea, as we did Youlemesesh, Houns Ashemashea and many other worlds sullied by alien forces.’

  ‘It will be too late!’ Eldrad’s vehemence caused even Yvraine to flinch, an excited yowl escaping Alorynis in response. The image he had conjured fell into shards of light and then dust, while runes whirled from their pouches at his waist and circled his staff, edges glinting dangerously. ‘Saim-Hann cannot hope to face the escalated forces of the necrontyr, nor win a war against the endless host of the darkness.’

  ‘Then what must we do?’ asked Nuadhu, clenched fists betraying his frustration. ‘I assume that the all-knowing Eldrad of Ulthwé has seen the route to victory upon the skein.’

  ‘Victory lies where I cannot see it,’ answered the farseer. ‘And I am no longer of Ulthwé, but the Ynnari.’

  ‘You cannot see victory?’ Daraesath shook her head in disbelief. ‘You offer us no hope at all.’

  ‘Mark my words carefully, I do not choose them idly,’ Eldrad told them. His attention fell upon Yvraine and he spoke softly, as though addressing her alone. The others fell quiet to listen. ‘I said that victory lies where I cannot see it, not that I cannot see victory. The vault is the key. For aeons the necrontyr secured this world against the incursions of the Dark Powers. The field that devours the Whisper has hidden the vault from the gaze of the gods for untold lifetimes. The open vault feeds the daemon host its power. If it is closed, the daemons will be destroyed.’

  ‘And the part where victory lies out of sight?’ said Yvraine, fearing what he might say. She answered her own question, all the same. ‘We must enter the breach, yes? Venture once more into the Realm of Chaos?’

  Eldrad nodded.

  ‘This is folly,’ snapped Daraesath. ‘You speak of madness to enter the lair of the Great Enemy.’

  ‘No, not madness,’ replied Illiaca, holding up a hand to silence her companion. ‘If we are to save Saim-Hann then we must risk the sacrifice of everything.’

  ‘I will not step willingly into damnation,’ Daraesath insisted, retreating from the other farseers.

  ‘I will lead the Wild Riders,’ said Nuadhu, spear raised dramatically. ‘It was my foolishness that opened this portal. I will put right the error, with my life if necessary.’

  ‘And your soul?’ said Eldrad. He strode quickly across the floor of the dawnsail and raised his fingers towards Nuadhu, motioning as though he snatched something from the Wild Lord. ‘Death comes in many forms. In the place to which we must venture your spirit stone will not avail you.’

  The clan heir swallowed hard, eyes wide at the thought, but nodded hesitantly.

  ‘If… if that is what is needed.’

  A wheeze drew everyone’s attention to Naiall Fireheart, who sat up with some effort, lips trembling. His family gathered about him, concern writ on all their faces. The chieftain waved them away, except for Nuadhu. Using his son’s arm for support, Naiall stood.

  ‘I have faced the host of She Who Thirsts before,’ announced the clan leader. His gaze met Yvraine’s and hardened. In his eye she saw understanding, of the nature of what he had done in th
at battle and carried ever since. ‘I would rather spend my last breath fighting the doom of our people than hidden away in treacherous comfort.’

  ‘You cannot countenance it,’ said Neamyh. ‘You can barely stand, never mind fight.’

  ‘The elixirs of Isha will sustain me,’ declared the chieftain. His eye roamed to his other family members. ‘For long enough.’

  Yvraine saw Nuadhu share a glance with his half-sister, Caelledhin, and she read the import in their exchange.

  ‘Father…’ said Caelledhin.

  ‘I am content with my fate,’ Naiall replied. He looked at son and then daughter. ‘Though I would not hasten it, your time is coming soon. Celebrate my life, do not mourn my death.’

  The occasion was touching but ill-timed. Yvraine raised her voice to the assembled aeldari.

  ‘We lack the luxury of time to indulge in longer debate. I make ready to attack as swiftly as possible. Those that will join us, make yourselves known now. Those that will not, the ships wait still beyond Agarimethea.’

  ‘Wait.’ Meliniel’s injunction stifled a burgeoning discussion and movement. ‘We will not sunder our alliance here. It is not practical for all of our forces to dare the breach, nor desirable. Those that will not enter with us must still play a part. We need forces to break through the horde that bursts forth from within, and the necrontyr that battle them. If our attack falters against their numbers, we shall be thwarted.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Illiaca.

  ‘And then depart,’ answered the autarch. ‘If we succeed in sealing the vault, I cannot see how we will return to Agarimethea.’

  Yvraine had deliberately ignored this possible consequence and her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. Meliniel spoke quietly to her.

  ‘If we seek to close the portal from within, we shall be on the other side. Do you still wish to proceed?’

  Yvraine’s gaze passed over the assembled aeldari, Ynnari and Saim-Hann together. She caught the attention of Eldrad, who thrust his way through the gathered delegates as a buzz of fresh conversation erupted.

  ‘Is Saim-Hann doomed if we do not follow this course?’ she asked quickly. ‘And what of our fate and Ynnead’s if we should end here?’

  ‘They are one and the same,’ said the farseer. He turned his head to look at the seers of Saim-Hann, and then to the representatives of the clans. ‘Ere it perishes, Saim-Hann will know that its fate was sealed by the Ynnari. If the craftworld dies and we still live, we shall be shorn of all support and sanctuary. We exist by the good graces of others for the most part. Perhaps lesser craftworlds shall sustain us, and rare allies in Commorragh will help for a while, but we will become just another wandering band of outcasts. We cannot exist apart from those that would give us succour.’

  They fell silent at the approach of Nuadhu. The Wild Lord had a desperate look in his eye, suddenly thrust into personal and political turmoil. One could almost see the battles raging in his soul in the twitch of an eye and clench of the jaw. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, enunciating every word with careful control though his hands fidgeted at his spear, giving vent to the agitation within.

  ‘For good or ill, Clan Fireheart will ride with you. My Wild Riders… I shall lead the Wild Riders for one last glorious battle.’ He bowed, deeply and sincerely.

  ‘You speak for the Wild Riders but not Clan Fireheart,’ said Caelledhin.

  ‘So you would depart and abandon our allies when they most need us?’ said Nuadhu.

  ‘I would have none stay except of free will,’ Yvraine said sharply. ‘I place no bond upon anyone here beyond their own conscience.’

  ‘We will all fight,’ said Naiall, speaking with visible effort. ‘If I understand correctly, there can be no battle won beyond this if we do not succeed.’

  ‘Only a slow decline towards oblivion,’ said Yvraine.

  ‘It seems you will have your glorious charge after all, Nuadhu,’ said Caelledhin.

  He shook his head. His disturbed countenance became one of sincerity, the calmest he had appeared since the drop-craft had broken Agarimethea’s atmosphere.

  ‘I have learnt that glory is a trophy without reward, and it is usually purchased with the lives of others. I seek nothing more than to put right the waywardness of my earlier actions.’

  Yvraine smiled at Caelledhin’s look of surprise. The adopted daughter of Naiall walked away with bowed head, caught up in her own thoughts.

  ‘I am impressed, and delighted,’ said Yvraine, finding Nuadhu’s transformation remarkable. When she had laid the idea of Ynnead within him she had thought it seed scattered on barren soil, but her faith had not been so ill placed. ‘It seems not only the vaults of the necrontyr have been opened. Your eyes also, I would say.’

  ‘And my spirit,’ Nuadhu replied. The Wild Lord held out a hand to Yvraine. ‘I would be honoured if you rode with me, Opener of the Seventh Way.’

  His gracious invitation was unexpected, so sincere that it took Yvraine a moment to gather her thoughts. It had been an age since anyone had spoken to her with such casual courtesy, before she had become the Emissary of Ynnead, before she had left the Asuryani Path. It reminded her of her earliest days on the craftworlds, a life that had trapped her but now seemed like a peaceful dream.

  ‘There is not room on your platform for three,’ growled the Visarch, breaking her train of thought. He emerged from the press with all the foreboding of a crimson iceberg sighted suddenly in the mists by a ship’s captain.

  ‘You will have other duties,’ Yvraine said with a thin smile. Alorynis scampered past and leapt towards the Visarch, forcing the warrior to catch him in one arm. ‘Look after my gyrinx, he has a habit of finding trouble.’

  The Visarch’s reply was inaudible but Yvraine did not need the conjoining power of the Whisper to feel his dismay. She raised her hand and the Bloodbrides answered her gesture, gliding forwards from where they had been waiting along the side of the compartment. Nuadhu broke away to rejoin his family, lending an arm to assist his father as they crossed the interior of the landing craft. At a communication from the Visarch, the Coiled Blade formed up on either side of the dawnsail’s ramp as Yvraine reached the doorway. Wave Serpents, raiders and grav-tanks were already rising to either side, no doubt heeding orders issued by Meliniel.

  The Visarch appeared at her shoulder, still carrying Alorynis. Two open-sided raiders descended through the flotilla of rising Wave Serpents, anti-grav engines whining, their impellors kicking up dust as they slid sideways to come alongside the dawnsail. She gave her bodyguard a nod of assurance and he hurried down the ramp, the incubi of his personal retinue accompanying him as he leapt aboard the Commorragh-crafted transport.

  ‘Mistress?’

  Yvraine turned at the words of Alikhiaketh, succubus in the cult of the Bloodbrides. The wych-leader and her squad received the same wordless command as the Coiled Blade and likewise departed without further comment. Druthkhala and a few others followed after on reaver-bikes and jagged-winged skyboards, lifting their weapons in salute to the Daughter of Shadows as they hissed past.

  Following their route, Yvraine’s eyes were drawn towards the tomb complex. The sky pulsed above the distant necrontyr edifices, the peaks of the seven artificial mountains alive with green ambience. Shadow and light fought in the air above just as the forces that created them warred on the ground. It seemed distant and unreal, detached from her not by distance but meaning. Without the Whisper she had no sense of what was happening, no connection to the mortal story unfolding about her. She recalled Illiaca of Saim-Hann saying that she was empty but for the spirit of Ynnead coursing through her. She understood the meaning of it as she stood at the ramp contemplating the events yet to transpire. It was the first real time she had had the peace and stillness to consider herself – the needs of battle and discourse had occupied her since entering the necrontyr null field.
/>   Her earlier excitement at thinking she would bring about the rebirth of the gods now seemed an utter indulgence. Pure fantasy. Her surety of purpose wavered, a ship tossed about on a storm of doubts.

  Is this how she would die? Alone, unseen by Ynnead?

  Chapter 23

  THE PHAERAKH

  As one, the combined host of the Ynnari and Saim-Hann fell upon the tomb complex once more. The air was as much a battleground as it had been during the drop, but now the necrontyr scythe-craft duelled with whirling daemonbirds while gunnery pylons spat devastating blasts at soaring shoals of ravening predator-beasts. They soared through the floating ruins of the broken starship, shards of which now started to rain down on the tomb as the field weakened, falling like a hail of daggers upon both sides.

  The Ynnari fighters swept low, the tip of a perfect spear thrust devised by Meliniel. The necrontyr parted at their coming, continuing to target the emerging daemonkin in preference to the aeldari that had unwittingly freed them. Nightwings and Hemlocks rolled and banked, their weapons slashing through wailing snakes that undulated through the billowing cloud like serpents on dunes, their mauve and azure beams flaring alongside the jade blasts of the Unliving.

  From Nuadhu’s Vyper, Yvraine watched as the fighter screen punched a hole towards the pyramid, the last flights of missiles burrowing a path through a babbling swarm of winged daemonettes and hate-angels that ascended to meet them.

  Into this breach the Falcons, Ravagers and other heavier grav-tanks raced. Weapons blazed to exploit the hole, widening the breach in the daemon army until they came within range of the teeming hosts upon the ground.

  The flare of gauss and death rays mingled with the sparks of sorcerous blasts, all turned to a haze by a pastel fog that spewed from within the boundary field about the central pyramid. Daemons roamed at will, dashing along circuit-bounded boulevards and leaping into resurrection trenches, while serpent-riders and chariots ploughed across board plazas into the advancing ranks of necrontyr warriors. Hideous fiends with tongues like las-whips slid around obelisks and galloped into the depths, their immaterial hides shimmering with each strike of gauss energy.