Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Read online

  And so, drop by drop, heartbeat by heartbeat, her body betrayed her. With each exertion more blood seeped from the wound dealt by Lelith, ushering the Daughter of Shadows closer to oblivion and the embrace of She Who Thirsts.

  Her actual executioner had been a priestess of Morai-Heg, a throwback to the sacrificial seer cult that had risen to prominence in the time of the dominion. Looking back, Yvraine smiled, for it was an even greater irony that Lelith had not intended. Literally locked in death as she choked the life from the crone-cultist, she and the hag perished together, the last vitality flowing from the many wounds upon her, carried into the sands by the final trickle of blood from Lelith’s precise blow.

  There her life ended.

  And, unknown to her, on the world of Coheria far across the galaxy, Eldrad Ulthran had attempted to raise Ynnead, God of the Dead.

  She stroked her fingers through the long hair of Alorynis. She and the alien feline formed a loop of mutual affection, her pleasure at the touch intensified by the gyrinx’s empathic purring.

  The star that had lit inside of Yvraine burned still, replacing the mortal blood that had once flowed from her veins with a white fire of Rebirth. Had it been any other than a crone of Morai-Heg, would Ynnead’s spirit have found her and not another vessel? Yvraine did not know, but chose to believe that it was a combination of many factors that had made her the perfect conduit for the nascent God of the Dead.

  A disturbance in the Whisper, a growing nearness of life where there had been none, alerted her to the approach of her next audience.

  Alorynis jumped down from her lap and she felt the disconnection, the sudden coldness without his presence, the reciprocal lack of warmth from her gown. Beside her, the Sword of Sorrows crackled with its own awareness, responding to the growing power of the Whisper. Yvraine reached out a hand and touched her fingertips to the scabbard, feeling the cronesword’s longing through the sheath. It craved ending. Not the deaths of others, not to be quenched in the blood of foes, but to be reunited with its lost companions – to become whole again.

  She envied it that fate, even as she recognised that perhaps its desire was simply a projection of her own. When Ynnead rose, what was to become of her? Would she remember the mortal span that had been known as Yvraine, as Amharoc, as the Daughter of Shadows? Eldrad had insisted that the aeldari soul continued from generation to generation, that it had been created with the sole purpose of remaining pure within the abyss beyond death. How he knew this, what long studies he had made into Ynnead and the ancient dimension, she did not know. Nor had she ever asked about the places to which he had ventured to gain such knowledge.

  The attendees were almost at the door, but she kept it closed, indulging a passing fancy. Eldrad had certainly travelled into the Womb of Destruction, the great Chaos storm that had swallowed the heart of the old dominion. Those lost planets, the worlds still trapped within the gut of the Great Enemy, were known as the Crone Worlds. She had thought it simply because of their age, and the associated decrepitude.

  Now it occurred to her that perhaps there was a deeper meaning behind the convention. Many legends she had dismissed in her mortal life had fresh meaning for her following the intervention of Ynnead. Even as she had sought the resting place of the last missing Key of Morai-Heg, she had delved into the oldest lore seeking enlightenment. Morai-Heg fascinated her, this goddess that cut the threads of fate and ended the lives of mortals. Not death itself. Just as Ynnead did not bring death but conveyed the separated spirit from the body, so Morai-Heg did not slay, but simply charted the course to its end. That revealed the true meaning of the Crone Worlds. The ending. The places where the dominion perished, drawn to its conclusion by inevitable fate.

  She suspected that it would be in the Crone Worlds that she would find the last of the hag’s Fingerblades. The prospect filled her with foreboding, for to venture into the Womb of Destruction was to dance upon the precipice of damnation itself. It was to enter the lair of not only the Prince of Pleasure but the Blood God, the Changer of Ways and the Hand of Decay. She had ventured there before, fleetingly, and had little desire to return.

  Alorynis batted at her leg, insistent.

  ‘Yes, you are right, I am procrastinating.’ She spoke to him, though their psychic link meant she need never voice her mind if she desired. The gyrinx knew well her feelings and, to some extent, her thoughts also. But it helped keep the notion of separation and allowed Yvraine to occupy a place outside of her mind that kept her tethered to the world of the physical and the living. She scratched the gyrinx behind the ear, eliciting a half-protesting purr even as Alorynis flopped to his side in helpless submission. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’

  Extending her will through the Whisper, she commanded the door to open.

  Tzibilakhu stood at the threshold and entered without need for invitation. She stopped just inside and waved in those that accompanied her. Eleven new Ynnari filed into Yvraine’s chambers, all looking wide-eyed at their surrounds, as though they dared the palace of Ynnead herself. They all wore nondescript garb – robes or long coats – but she could sense immediately their origins, the paths that had brought them here. Three Commorraghans, two outcasts and six craftworlders.

  When Tzibilakhu had withdrawn, Yvraine stood, gesturing for the newcomers to form a line across the chamber.

  ‘I am Yvraine,’ she told them. She smiled to ease their nervousness. ‘I think you already know that, yes?’

  A few mirrored her amusement, the others remained pensive. It made no difference to what would happen, but Yvraine preferred that whatever aloof ideal they created in their minds about her, whatever myths they chose to believe or stories they wove about her life, they should see her as aeldari first and figurehead of Ynnead second. She was with them, not above them.

  ‘You have all heard the Whisper.’ She walked along the line slowly, treating them each to a look of reassurance. ‘Ynnead has touched your soul, and you have responded. She reaches out to you, and I am here to let you reach back.’

  Yvraine returned to the centre and withdrew a little, casting her gaze back and forth without haste, letting her words sink in.

  ‘This is not a test, but nor will it be entirely pleasant. I ask that you do not speak of what happens next to anyone, not even your fellow Ynnari.’ Yvraine had, of course, only her side of the experience to draw upon, but did not care to know the other, and it seemed personal to each individual. ‘You and Ynnead are already connected, or you would not be here. The truth is that we are all part of Ynnead, the living and the dead.’

  She paused again. Alorynis stole forward and wove between the legs of one of the audience, mewing contentedly. The subject of this attention seemed perplexed, the others mostly amused. Another crouched to pet the gyrinx, but the fickle creature hissed and retreated, fangs bared. Yvraine noted the face of this individual but continued without any particular remark.

  ‘This is not who you are.’ Yvraine tapped a hand to her chest. ‘It is just a body. Those of you that have honed your psychic talent will know of the triumvirate essence. Body, thought and mind. You all know that those elements are not indivisible. This vessel can bring great delight, for in physicality we know love and art, and even grief and sadness are boons for the living. We can witness great sights and travel to amazing places, make relationships and do great deeds that the spirit cannot do without this temporary shell. To live is to feel. But it is also a cage. It cannot contain our passions. Whether drukhari or Asuryani, or something else, you know in your aeldari soul that you are frustrated, that you have been curtailed.’

  She saw recognition by some of them, confusion in the eyes of the others.

  ‘All are drawn to Ynnead in death, but you have heeded the call in life. The Whispering God has bent your ear for a reason. To bring about her return, not simply as the saviour of our spirits, the destroyer of our nemesis, but as one that will deliver us from ext
inction. Ynnead will not rise from the ashes of our death, but as a living god that will extinguish the Great Enemy and allow the aeldari to prosper once again. This is what it means to be Ynnari.’

  Even as the familiar imagery slipped from her tongue, Yvraine considered her words differently. If Ynnead was not to rise from the pyre of the last aeldari death, perhaps another figure from myth? The Phoenix God. Asuryan, Lord of the Heavens. The thought gave her a shiver of excitement, perhaps even prescience. Focusing, she approached her newest followers with a hand extended, her war fan held close to her chest in the other.

  ‘Ynnead has already awakened that part of you that can hear the Whisper. In time it will grow stronger, blossoming like the flowers planted above a grave. Yet you must know this hard truth. You have now one foot in the Realm of the Dead. Your spirit waits at the threshold, a bridge between worlds that reinforces Ynnead’s presence in the lands of mortals. Her touch is no lightly received gift. Strife will come. As all our people must fight to survive, the Ynnari seek out conflict, for we delve into the mysteries of the past and face directly against the machinations and followers of the Primordial Annihilator.’

  Yvraine took a deep breath, inhaling their uncertainty like a vapour.

  ‘The Whisper will grow louder over time, but I can aid you in the start of your journey.’ With deliberate slowness her gaze passed over each of them, looking deep into their souls. ‘Push you a little closer to the precipice, you might say.’

  The Opener of the Seventh Way darted forwards and her fingers touched upon the waystone of the first craftworlder, causing the other aeldari to flinch, horrified at the invasion of her most intimate object. Yvraine flicked closed her fan and reached behind the new Ynnari, hooking the wrist behind her neck to drag the quailing Asuryani into a loose embrace, fingertips again seeking the waystone.

  ‘A Tear of Isha, shed by our creator,’ said the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘It is said the mother of Eldanesh wept a single tear for each of her children that was consumed in the Fall, and then was consumed.’

  Her eyes fixed upon the struggling recruit. Yvraine extended her spirit, pushing it into the crystalline structure of the waystone. It mingled there with the essence of her new follower, spreading its chill power into the fibres of the craftworlder’s soul, meshing the two of them in a connection as close as sharing physical cells.

  ‘Mainadrethiena…’ Yvraine plucked the name from her companion’s thoughts as they locked gazes. She could not feel the border between them anymore, no veil between spirit and body.

  Mainadrethiena ceased her struggling, entranced by Yvraine, a long exhalation escaping her lips. They remained together for several conjoined heartbeats.

  ‘Hear the Whisper…’

  As she had given, so now Yvraine took back, siphoning a part of Mainadrethiena’s spirit back into herself. Though their souls were entwined, she knew nothing of what the other really felt. She drew deep, almost hollowing out the craftworlder for a few moments, the waystone beneath her fingers becoming grey and lifeless. The Asuryani started to fight again, desperately flailing in her immobile grip, fingers weakly dragging at Yvraine’s arm.

  The Opener of the Seventh Way let go and Mainadrethiena flew from her grip as though struck by lightning, a shriek ripped from her throat. She fell to the floor heavily.

  ‘No!’ Alongside Yvraine’s snarled warning Alorynis pounced in front of the others as they moved to help the fallen aeldari, his teeth bared. ‘Wait…’

  Mainadrethiena’s shoulders shuddered, at first wracked with sobs. Yvraine ignored the accusing looks from the other Ynnari, gaze fixed upon her new follower. The sobs became a laugh, notes of pure joy that matched a sudden light of revelation in the craftworlder’s eyes. She jumped lithely to her feet, looking at the others with wide-eyed wonder. And then she turned to Yvraine, mouth dropping in awe.

  ‘I hear it!’ Mainadrethiena declared happily. ‘The Whisper of Ynnead. The voice of our god…’

  She raised a hand, turning her fingers left and right as though seeing it for the first time. ‘I can see our souls!’

  ‘That will fade,’ warned Yvraine. She smiled. ‘I have released you from the prison of the waystone that bonded with you at birth. You do not need it anymore, though you may find you wish to continue wearing it, as a keepsake of your past life, or a reminder of the fate you have avoided. You will feel your companions through the Whisper. Until death, of course. This is how it feels to be true aeldari.’

  Another of the Ynnari recruits stepped forward, a sneering Commorraghan.

  ‘A pretty trick with a waystone,’ he said.

  ‘You poor parasite,’ Yvraine said gently, beckoning for the former drukhari to approach. ‘You are so close to death already, it takes so little to push you through the veil.’

  With serpent quickness, the Opener of the Seventh Way snatched the front of his robe and dragged him forward. She tilted her head and parted her lips as though for a kiss and he leaned into her on reflex, mouth opening. Before skin touched skin, Yvraine inhaled, using the physical act to guide her psychic desire.

  For a drukhari she did not need the interface of the waystone. His mind was already broken open, spirit laid bare by his lack of psychic strength. Just as he had spent a lifetime drawing on the suffering of his victims to sustain his spirit, she was able to easily pluck the essence of the Commorraghan from the weak tethers of his mind.

  The connection brought a flare of recollection, when she had first used this power, before she had become the Opener of the Seventh Way. Yvraine shunted aside the panicked screech of Alorynis as the memory took hold.

  In darkness. Her heart pounded, writhing at the cold dagger thrust into her chest by her waystone. She was not sure how the bond had been broken, which of her depraved acts had finally corrupted her spirit to the point that the psychic gem no longer recognised her as its twin.

  All she knew was craving. Not simply thirst or hunger or desire, but an existential need to feed. The mewling thing beneath her wetted fingers squirmed and she felt the quiver of pain lap at her senses even as a fresh pulse of blood flowed from her victim’s wounds. Digging her fingers deeper into the gash she had opened in the ur-ghul’s throat brought another shudder of agony that spilled like nectar into her empty soul.

  Her Commorraghan follower sagged to his knees, weeping gently, fingers trailing down her robes as he collapsed. It seemed like he had been boned from within, sinking into himself awkwardly as he slipped to the ground, head upon Yvraine’s booted foot as a pillow, an arm clasping to her calf for comfort.

  She withdrew her leg and he rolled to his back, staring emptily at the ceiling for some time. Rivers of tears streamed across his cheeks, soaking his white hair.

  Yvraine looked at the others.

  ‘Who wishes to be next?’

  Chapter 4

  THE CLAN FIREHEART

  Aboard a sky-skimmer in the colours of the clan, Nuadhu dipped from the transitway into a twilit dome, his mood torn between relief at his return and the anxiety that came from knowing what lay ahead.

  The Flameglades were named poetically rather than accurately, but for good reason. Situated on a coastal delta filled with orange- and red-leafed canopy, the ancestral palaces of Clan Fireheart straddled the numerous rivers on high arches. The walls and towers were shaped out of ruddy stone veined with blacks and greys, which gave the appearance of solidified embers in the constant twilight that lit the dome. Caught in the same ruddy hue, the slow-moving waters might seem as lava, flowing sedately beneath the spans of the grandiose edifice.

  As he came closer to the central buildings, apprehension won the war in his heart. To look upon the place where he had been raised, that would one day be his seat of power, filled him with foreboding not just for the coming encounter with his family, but also a more distant future.

  Like many of the buildings on Saim-Hann, the palac
es had few gates and doors upon the ground, but a plethora of landing platforms, aerial tether-ways and grandiose portals in the upper levels. As at the docks, the greater part of the domain was still, denuded of inhabitants by a generational decline. Like other aeldari, Clan Fireheart were not shy about their woe, having powered down the automated environmental systems so that the abandoned sections of palace were suitably overrun with russet-coloured creepers, in which nested flocks of atmospherically cawing bloodcrows. If Clan Fireheart was to slip into history, it would do so with suitable aesthetic flair.

  Nuadhu landed at the highest tower. Dappled in false dawn, the crystal canopy of the sky-skimmer slid back to let in the fragrant, familiar air. Nuadhu took a deep breath, a welter of memories ­resurfacing as he stepped down from the transport. The sky-skimmer closed up and settled into dormancy on the platform, the low whine of its anti-grav motors giving way to the rustling of the great trees far below.

  The clan heir headed not to the high gates of the main entrance, but angled to his right, making for a much smaller doorway. A single figure stood there, garbed in robes of black and yellow, her hair drawn up into tight knots, hands clad in skintight gloves.

  ‘Marifsa,’ Nuadhu greeted her, nodding to his aunt. He read in her expression that there was no change in his father’s condition, so he saved the breath of asking. He also did not need to enquire as to the clan lord’s location.

  ‘Few have come back with you,’ said Marifsa, her voice soft, barely audible above the wind and the rivers.

  ‘Too few, for which I lament,’ replied Nuadhu, feeling the stab of it in his gut though Marifsa had spoken without accusation.

  The door opened at his approach and Marifsa followed him in, her footsteps soft on the tiled floor, his boots ringing loudly.

  ‘It is good that you have returned,’ his aunt said as they followed the corridor beyond the doorway into the heart of the palace. ‘If both you and Caelledhin had fallen… You are too precious to throw away your lives with these pointless adventures.’