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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Of the Cycles of the eldar, and the acts of Cegorach

Down through the ages the Laughing God watched, unspeaking but never inactive, watching as the eldar moved with the winds of time. And as their race flourished and grew, the other gods grew joyful, and the Laughing God took content in His work. Foremost among His children were the harlequins, and to these did Cegorach assign the duty of forever recording the stories of the eldar and to ensure that the lessons of the past are not forgotten. For the Laughing God held the art of magnificently woven tales close, and loathe was He to let even a simple piece of knowledge or history or lesson slip away. And the eldar continued to grow.

And this was the First Cycle.

Then came the time when Khaine, the mighty god of war, learnt of the doom that awaited Him, and great was his wrath at His findings, and so did the First Cycle end.

Then did Khaine wage war against the eldar, and many did He slew, for war was His domain. Then did the Phoenix King decree that the gods were no longer to walk among the eldar, and thus ended the Second Cycle.

And the time of the Third Cycle was the shedding of the blood of gods by Their brethren as they made war one upon another. And did the heavens tremble and the Fates stir.

But find did Cegorach many ways with which to subvert the barriers of the Phoenix King, and those that He could not find, He made. And thus did His soft guidance of the eldar not cease, though never may He truly walk with His followers as He once did.

But the Phoenix King had erred in preventing the gods from interacting with Their children, and thus did the eldar turn away from their gods to seek the gifts of beings more capricious and uncaring than them.

And this was the Fourth Cycle.

And much did the Mother of the eldar then weep, for She saw the path that Her children had set upon, but helpless was She to stop them. And without their gods did the plight of the eldar grow. And then did the Phoenix King come to regret His decision, but what He did He could not now undo.

But it was not in the nature of Cegorach to remain inactive. And so did He gather the harlequins, and on that day when He conceived of this notion, He gave, through diverse means, much to His followers. And great were the knowledge that He imparted, and awesome were the gifts and boons and assorted blessings, but heavy, too, was the burden that He placed upon them. Gladly did the harlequins accept, doing so despite knowing that their patron was unable to guide them through the whole of their task, so complete was the decree of the Phoenix King upon even one such as the Laughing God.

And so did the duties of the harlequins change, for the Laughing God had instructed them in the proper methods to preserve all that the eldar had and were. And across the stars they went, and much did they hide away for safekeeping.

Then the time came when the eldar race was dashed and much of their civilization consumed even as the Laughing God had predicted. And did the harlequins find refuge in the webway as their patron god had instructed, and though the decree of the Phoenix King weakened many-fold the Laughing God’s ability to protect the harlequins, the followers of the Laughing God emerged unscathed.

And so ended the Fourth Cycle.

Down through the long millennia did the harlequins toil, their duties unchanged. And turned they their arts into weapons of war, for though the harlequins preferred to avoid confrontations, the wisdom of the Laughing God prompted them ever onwards, and moved they from battlefield to battlefield under His guidance.

But this was not to last, for though the Laughing God never left, His absences grew ever longer, and His guidance ever less. And though many speculated upon His actions, none could say for certain.

Thus it now stands. The harlequins continue their endless duties, even as the signs to the final act that Cegorach has spoken of countless millennia ago come true.

And as the gates to great woe stand poised to open, the Laughing God takes once more the actions that He took to evade the decree of the Phoenix King in eons past, and once more does He walk among His followers, working even as the harlequins do, though to what end, not even the wisest of His children could say.

But it is said that, written in a secret tome in the script of the Laughing God there will come a time upon the world that Slaanesh shall harness all Her might and rise up, and in doing so sow the seeds by expanding Her own might the seeds of Her destruction.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

Blanketed by a thick pall of smoke, the battle raged on under a blood red sky. Between huge smoking craters and piles of the dead and dying the Chaos Marines led the charge, their war cries filled with unparalleled zeal, their eyes burning with fanaticism. Amidst their tightly packed ranks, brief rifts to the Warp opened, and just as quickly disappeared, leaving behind only bloody chunks of flesh and metal. Flashes of blinding light ripped into their armor, leaving behind large smoking holes. The Marines pressed on, the combined roar of their weapons serving as a strange testimony to their eagerness. The Aspect Warriors, each fully knowing of his role, met the hosts of Chaos in combat. Missiles streaked overhead to explode in a fiery display behind the Chaos lines, blasting great holes in their ranks, holes that were quickly filled by more of their comrades. Projectiles flew one way and the other, shredding warriors on both sides. Howling Banshees, their armor gleaming and their shrieks shrill, descended upon the Marines, their swords flashing as they engaged them in close combat.

Eldar vehicles streaked across the battlefield, weapons sowing destruction into the enemy ranks. Demons dragged themselves out of the Warp, beings of horror that ripped through entire squads of eldar, hurling their mangled bodies aside with impunity. Fire and lightning sizzled across the battlefield, consuming entire ranks of infantry. Planes whizzed and spun and battled overhead. Storms came whirling out of the sky to scatter infantry and toss vehicles around, and forces of pure energy drawn out of the Warp collided with each other, sending titanic shockwaves blasting out in all directions and setting the very earth to trembling.

And there were the Phoenix Lords, finally all gathered in one place, whirling and darting and weaving, felling the enemy with their dreadful implements of war. And the Avatar of the Bloody Handed God walked with them, The Wailing Doom clutched firmly in his right hand, the blood of Eldanesh still dripping from his left, leaving a pile of mangled corpses in his fiery wake. Masses of the enemy came at them, but there they stood, resolute in the face of certain destruction, and cast their spite back into the teeth of the enemy tide.

Then, in a single crushing instant, fate abandoned the Eldar hosts. And the first Phoenix Lord fell, his ancient weapon slipping from his grasp, and he was swarmed under by the enemy, pulled apart by the combined might of a thousand blades.

And the fall of the mighty figure was thunderous, and the ground shook as his body collapsed.

One by one, they all fell, ripped or blasted apart by a thousand hands. But with each of their deaths, the awful presence that was always at the edge of the battlefield grew stronger.

The Eldar civilization came to an end on that battlefield. Not in a great outburst that most races associate with such an event, but with a slow death, as a fearsome predator suffers at the hands of a thousand wounds, its heart faltering with every burst of a weapon or strike of a sword that successfully claims an Eldar life.

But when the Eldar civilization bled out, and the last soul filled its soulstone, the awful presence that lurked and waited at the battle’s edge burst into consciousness with a vengeful howl. With a whisper more dreadful than any Warp spawned creature Ynnead came into being, the souls of the Eldar that gave life to this terrible existence screaming and crying out for vengeance.

The vision was not a new one. Every eldar Seer knew of it. Every eldar Seer could describe it in great detail. And though Farseer Illiawe knew of the end to that familiar vision, she did not bother watching it to its conclusion. Absently, she toyed with her seer stones. Every thread in the skeins led to that conclusion, and Illiawe was not sure that she liked the inevitability implicit in that vision. She sat glumly for some time, tossing the wraithbone pieces, though she paid no particular attention to them.

Through the floor of her house, she felt the thrum of the craftworld’s infinity circuit, a repetitive rhythm that was strangely soothing. The trilling notes of its song resounded within her mind and Illiawe set aside her seer stones, submerging her mind into the great ship’s infinity circuit. The craftworld was quiet and still, and the infinity circuit’s pulse was light as it acknowledged her. She returned with a warm thought and sent her mind through the circuit, more for the pleasure of the craftworld’s company than anything else.

The thrumming of the infinity circuit grew steadily louder as, slowly, the eldar aboard the craftworld woke and it came alive. Her thoughts were soon joined by others, and the song of the infinity circuit soared as the combined psychic energy of the eldar flowed into it. Ulthwé was a large craftworld, and the psychic energy of the eldar aboard the ship was considerable.

Illiawe stayed for a time within the craftworld’s heart, and the sun that they were orbiting was high overhead when she pulled her mind back. She pushed herself to her feet and put her runes and seer stones away. Then she went out of the house. The farseers of the craftworlds spent their days travelling the skeins, searching its threads for dangers and threats, and they seldom left their homes. While that suited the older farseers, Illiawe needed to stretch out her legs every now and then.

She was almost at Ethorach’s house before she realized that that had been her destination all along. The tall spires of the craftworld rose on both sides of the road like the trunks of slender trees, each structure a unique piece of art rather than simply places of accommodation. The path she walked on glittered as the psychoplastic material reflected the rays of the sun overhead.

She turned down a particular side street, moving to the house at its end and reaching out with her mind to an ornate panel of wraithbone by the entrance, letting Ethorach know of her approach. The door opened all by itself as she neared, and she stepped through without breaking stride, slipping her plain travelling cloak off her shoulders and hanging it by the door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Ethorach said from where he sat by a tall window, not bothering to rise from his plump armchair or to even turn his head. He had a crystal goblet on a low table by his side and a small scroll in his hands. Illiawe smiled, pulled her boots off, and went over to join him.

“Good day to you, Ethorach,” she said, her hands stretched out civilly.

Ethorach grunted. “It’s not too bad. A little chilly, perhaps.” He had not moved or taken his eyes off his scroll. Much of the eldar language was expressed through psychic and bodily motions, and any other eldar would have taken offense at Ethorach’s lack of response. Ethorach, however, did not really mind. In all the years that Illiawe had studied the arts of the seer under Ethorach’s tutelage, the elderly farseer had never once shown any sign of caring about what other eldar thought of his callous nature. It went beyond a simple indifference and, try though she might, Illiawe had never been able to figure out the reasons for his disregard.

“Are you still reading from scrolls?” she asked, trying to provoke a response from him. Sure enough, the other farseer grunted.

“Crystal slates might be useful, but there’s something about a scroll or a tome that is rather pleasing. You might want to try it sometime.”

“If I am in the mood for novelty, then I just might, Ethorach.” She stared at the other farseer. He wore a brightly colored loose fitting robe with wide sleeves. His long silvery hair was unkempt and unbound, a characteristic that arose not out of a slovenly nature but due to a preference for the comfort that it provided. That, at least, was his assertion on the matter. Illiawe had always privately suspected that he was simply too lazy to groom himself. Ethorach had a deeply lined face and a heavily furrowed brow, but his eyes were bright and alert.

“You’ve seen me before, Illiawe,” he said in his dry voice, his eyes not leaving his scroll. “I haven’t changed significantly since then, so don’t stare.”

Illiawe smiled contritely. “I am sorry.”

Ethorach sighed and put down his scroll. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked in a resigned tone.

Illiawe shook her head slightly. “It’s nothing important.”

“Don’t be coy, Illiawe.” Ethorach’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been having the same vision of the Rhana Dandra?”

Illiawe nodded, and Ethorach sank lower into his seat. “Why do you keep going back to that thread? It is not going to change soon, and you know that.”

“Perhaps there is something that we have missed.” Illiawe shrugged. “You have always emphasized that no thread is certain.”

“I am glad that you remember what I have been trying to tell so many of my students now.”

Illiawe held up a finger. “Then, if threads that were previously impossible were made possible, we could avoid it.”

Ethorach laughed. “Forget about it, Illiawe. This particular event is almost unavoidable. A way out of it would require actions across millions of worlds and millennia of careful planning. Believe me when I say that it is not an easy thing to do. It is well out of your ability.” He took a sip from his goblet. “Of course, you could try it if you wished, but remember all those eldar lives lost from an improper manipulation of the skeins. You risk a lot more should you try to manipulate this string of events.”

Illiawe’s face stiffened. “That was unkind,” she accused.

Ethorach nodded. “I am sorry, but it’s the only thing I can think of that will make you reconsider. Do not dwell upon the Rhana Dandra, Illiawe. Let the gods sort that out between themselves.”

Illiawe tried another approach. “The harlequins are actively working toward changing it.”

“You are very transparent, Illiawe. The harlequins – your friend included – are taking instructions directly from Cegorach himself. I hope that you are aware that he makes far fewer mistakes than you or any other farseer ever could.” He straightened in his seat. “Besides, there are things that have to happen before even Cegorach’s plans will come into fruition. To rush it is to cast certain doom upon it.”

“What does that even mean?”

Ethorach gave her a sly look. “Perhaps you will soon find out. I am not going to tell you. There is, after all, that certain doom I was talking about to watch out for. You could ask Cegorach about his plans, I suppose, but I am certain that he is not going to tell you about them.”

“You are very infuriating.”

“I am aware of that, yes.” He smiled. “I think that we have exhausted all the possibilities of this discussion. Shall we move on to something else?” He paused. “You know, if you want to do something useful, you could always consider my offer.”

“Must you bring that up every time we talk?”

“I am hoping that you will eventually give in, yes.”

Illiawe shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I am not going to join the council.”

Ethorach shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

“Indeed it is. What have you been up to, then?”

The conversation moved on to more general topics then. They talked until the craftworld turned away from the sun in a convincing imitation of a sunset and bathed its surface in a ruddy glow. Then she bade Ethorach good night and returned to her house.

She spent the next few days in meditation. She dipped a few times into the skeins, but she did not delve deeply into the threads. Perhaps what Ethorach had said had influenced her decision, or perhaps it was something else. Curiosity nagged at Illiawe, but she did not pursue the matter.

When she was not occupied with her meditations or the skeins, Illiawe spent the days wandering the craftworld. She usually did so with her mind, exploring its length through the infinity circuit. On occasion, however, usually when the sky was still a steely gray and when most of the eldar were still resting, she pulled her cloak around her shoulders and went out into the quiet streets. On those days she spent the mornings reclining in the craftworld’s gardens and forests and the afternoons visiting shrines and marketplaces and, occasionally, even friends. That last was rare indeed. The nature of the role of the farseer meant that there was seldom time to renew acquaintances, and any number of those visits usually started with the eldar she visited expressing various degrees of surprise.

The harlequin troupes visited Ulthwé every so often. Illiawe had always been rather fond of the harlequin dances, and so she made sure to attend their performances whenever a new troupe arrived. And on particular nights when the massive dome overhead was clear enough that Illiawe could see the distant stars that speckled the void above, she would take a blanket of wraithmesh out into the small garden behind her house, lie close to the rough trunk of the single tree that grew there, and drift off into sleep. It was quite a pleasant way to spend her days, but too much loafing about can grow boring after a while, and so Illiawe eventually returned to the skeins.

Conflict visited Ulthwé, of course. Hardly a cycle of the craftworld’s moons went by without some alien threat being foreseen by the farseers and the warhosts gathered, Aspect Warriors from all the craftworld’s Aspect Shrines coming together in preparation for defense against rampaging orks or daemonic threat. On occasion, the warhosts were gathered to prevent some idiocy by the humans from causing future harm, and once, they gave aid to another craftworld that had been in conflict with a nearby tyranid swarm. Often times, the few Aspect Warriors of Ulthwé proved to be insufficient, and the Black Guardians – and even the Guardians – were called upon for aid. The Guardians, of course, were just as unwavering in their duty as the Aspect Warriors were when they donned their war masks and the memories of their civilian lives faded into the back of their minds, but the autarchs spent hours in deliberation when such an action was required. The calling of the Guardians was an action that was never to be taken lightly, yet it was one that was needed far more often than any eldar would like. There was no help for it, however. The eldar tried to avoid conflicts, but there were many other races that sought them out. And so the wars came and went, and the Aspect Warriors followed in the wake of its call.

The farseers, on the other hand, did not pay much attention to these incidental conflicts. The Eye of Terror lay in plain sight every night, a rift between the Warp and the material plane that shimmered with rainbow light and rumbled with the baleful energies of the Warp. It was a constant reminder of the threat that Ulthwé and the rest of the eldar faced. The autarchs were no more oblivious to the situation than the farseers were. When they were not planning battles still years away or leading warhosts, they busied themselves by fortifying the craftworld.

The Council of Seers, of course, remained the most vigilant of the eldar aboard the craftworld. The other farseers were, by necessity, reclusive, but the members of the council took the tendency to extremes. They rarely went out of their houses, and when they did, it was usually to travel to the impressively vaulted chamber at the center of the craftworld where they talked extensively about things of great import. When they were not doing that, they spent their days seeking out potential threats to the craftworld within the skeins and acting to avert disaster after disaster. The only exception, naturally, was Ethorach. Despite his position as the chief farseer, he was rather dismissive of the actions of the other farseers. Illiawe had once, when she was still early in her tutelage, let her curiosity get the better of her, and she had asked him about it.

“It’s foolishness,” he had said in reply. “Their manipulation of events are not a testament of skill, but of hubris.”

“What do you mean?” she had asked.

“The threads do not always tell of events as they are,” Ethorach had said. “Sometimes, you need to look for the threads that you do not see. At other times, you are better off not manipulating events at all.”

“How do I tell the difference?”

That particular lesson had taken her most of her tutelage. As it progressed, Illiawe found that being a farseer was just as much about not doing anything as it was about taking action. A part of her, perhaps, realized that this was quite possibly unique to Ethorach, but she chose not to question him about his teachings.

This was not to say that Ethorach was somehow unsuited for his position. He was perhaps the fastest reader of the skeins that Illiawe knew of, able to take in events that span across decades in minutes. He simply chose not to act upon what he saw.

The rest of the eldar living upon the craftworld were no more idle than the farseers and autarchs were. The psychic inclinations of the Ulthwé eldar affected even the lives of the civilians, and many strode the Paths that emphasized a honing of their raw power. Bonesingers and other psychoplastic craftsmen strolled about the ship, constructing items and machines of great or little practicality and importance and altering the corridors and various locales of the craftworld into exquisite works of art. Healers channeled their considerable psychic abilities into the art of altering the flesh, their touch closing over gaping wounds and banishing various ailments and causing minute bruises to vanish. Yet others turned their powers to the tending of animals and plants, speeding along their growth and ensuring that there was always plenty for the eldar when they sat down for their meals. Not all that they tended were for the purpose of consumption, however. Many of the flora and fauna aboard the craftworlds were the last surviving specimens of the old eldar empire, and their caretakers were responsible for the continued survival of that aspect of the vanishing eldar civilization.

The other eldar who did not have such profound surges in psychic might nonetheless contributed to the survival of the craftworld, if not directly, then to its memory, history, and the eldar civilization as a whole. In a lot of ways, those who walked the Paths of the Scribe, the Artisan, and even the Path of Servitude were as important as those whose chosen Paths directly aided in the immediate survival of the craftworld.

And every few months, the civilians would stop their lives for a couple of weeks, and they would make their way to the various training fields of the Aspect Shrines. And there they would don their suit of Guardian armor and take up their arms, whether it be gun or blade or vehicle. And under the watchful eyes of the Aspect Warriors, the eldar would train in the ways of warfare. They were not quite as proficient as the warriors of Khaine who aided in their training, but they were skillful enough to overcome almost any foe.

The Black Guardians of Ulthwé were quite another story. Though the fates had not called them to walk the Path of the Warrior, they were just as familiar with the arts of war as those who did. Of all the eldar aboard Ulthwé, it was perhaps the Black Guardians that Illiawe respected the most. Ulthwé’s standing army of Aspect Warriors was small, and the eldar of the Black Guardians willingly gave up the opportunity to walk other Paths so that they could swell the ranks of the craftworld’s standing army.

Months past, and the wars continued, as did life aboard the craftworld. Occasionally, Illiawe took time away from the skeins or her trips through the craftworld to follow one warhost or another into battle. Her contributions to those were hardly of great magnitude, but she liked to think that she helped in the saving of eldar lives with her foresight.

It was in this period of relative monotony when the harlequin troupe arrived. Mimes had arrived on the craftworld the night before, stepping through its main webway gate with great aplomb, which immediately identified them as being from a Light troupe. The mimes did not speak – mimes never did – yet the subtle movements of their actions were all that they needed to inform all who saw them of the details of their performance. It had been quite some time since the harlequins had last visited Ulthwé, and so Illiawe was quite thrilled. She rose early that day, and, for a moment, it was almost as though she were a child, waiting in anticipation as she had many centuries before.

She strolled leisurely along the road that led from her house. The morning was warm, the star that the craftworld was orbiting unobstructed by the usual asteroid belts that partially hid the ship from probing sensors. A soft breeze swept along the street, setting her cloak and hair to fluttering. She took a skimmer from the port at the end of the street and made her way to a particular hall that lay within a crystal dome. Conveniently, the harlequins had chosen the hall closest to her house in which to perform, and so it was only a few minutes when she arrived.

There were already eldar there, more than she had anticipated, and Illiawe hurriedly stepped into the dome. The bonesingers had been busy the previous night. Though she was sure that none had requested it of them, an ornate stage had been raised in the center of the hall, encircled by tiered seating that were quickly filling up with eldar. Illiawe selected a seat and settled into it, waiting for the harlequins to come on stage. The garden quickly filled with eldar, and a shimmering mist rolled out from the stage. The eldar in the audience grew still. The harlequins waited for some time, then their shadowseer stepped onto the stage. Illiawe started. The shadowseer’s face was hidden behind a featureless silver mask, but Illiawe recognized the touch of her mind. It was rude to do so, but Illiawe stretched her mind out to the shadowseer, making contact with the mind of the other eldar.

“Hello, Illiawe,” the shadowseer’s thoughts sounded quite clearly in her mind.

“What are you doing here, Taeryn?” Illiawe sent the thought back.

“What do you mean, Illiawe? I am only doing what the harlequins are tasked to do. Must there be an ulterior motive?”

“Perhaps I was too suspicious,” Illiawe apologized.

“Well, there is something that I have to talk to you about, but that can wait until later. Now hush and let us dance.”

Illiawe felt Taeryn’s mind reach out, and the mist that rolled across the ground shimmered. Then there were things moving within the mist and, as Illiawe watched, strange forms began to take shape. With words and illusions, Taeryn narrated the tale of the Fall, of the hubris and complacency that led the eldar down the path of decadence, of the birth of the Chaos God Slaanesh, of the single dreadful instant when all the glory of the eldar was dashed, and of the destruction of the gods of the eldar by Slaanesh. And there dancing on the stage was the lithe forms of the players, and the troupe master, and, light glinting off the horns upon his grim faced mask, the solitaire. The players leapt and twirled in a riot of color, narrating the story with dance just as Taeryn narrated it with her words and conjurations.

And as the story unfolded and the remnants of the eldar of old scattered into the stars, seeking salvation in faint hopes and strength in past glories, the troupe master and the solitaire met in the exact center of the stage, each perfectly reflecting the movements of the other. They twirled and circled around each other, ignoring the rest of the troupe, and the never-ending struggle between Cegorach and Slaanesh was reflected in their dance. Faster and faster they danced, until they almost seemed to blur as they moved.

All unbidden, the image of her visions of the Rhana Dandra rose to the surface of Illiawe’s thoughts, the fires of a million burning planets seeming almost to flicker in the blurred forms of the two fencing harlequins. The mist along the ground roiled up, flashes of light flickering like thick bolts of lightning within it. Thicker and thicker it grew as it rose up, until everything around her vanished within the silvery fog. Sounds and light and even the psychic presence of the eldar around her grew muffled and faded away, and a terrible loneliness came over Illiawe. Within the mist she saw something move, taking form, and then there was a stark silhouette of a female eldar there. She had neither eyes nor mouth, and there were no more details upon her body than there were upon an unfinished statue. The eldar moved, her actions almost revoltingly sensuous. She turned her head slowly, looking directly at Illiawe with eyes that were not there. Then, even though she had no mouth, the figure grinned with all the humor and amiability of a hunting predator and Illiawe gasped, the soulstone against her heart growing suddenly cold and bile rising in her throat.

She hastily drew in her will, lashing out at the stifling mist around her, pushing it and the leering figure back. The image was hardly real or hostile, she knew, and some part of her knew that she would have to apologize to Taeryn later for lashing out as she did, but that was not the first thought on Illiawe’s mind at the moment.

The eldar to her right was trembling, his face pale and his eyes bulging as he saw things before him that only he could see. The one on her left appeared in a state of near faint. Illiawe did not really care. She moved past the eldar on her left and stumbled down the tiered seating, making her way toward the entrance to the hall.

Taeryn had an amused expression upon her face when she met Illiawe outside of the hall. Her deep cowl had been lowered and her smooth mask lay fastened at her hip. A light but sturdy looking longcoat lay over her checkered holosuit. The longcoat was not part of the standard attire of the shadowseers, but Taeryn tended not to care about such things. Clutched in her right hand was a staff topped with the symbols of her troupe and masque, and thin tubes rose above her shoulders from an equally thin grenade pack at her back.

“I hope that you are well, Illiawe,” she said when she drew close.

Illiawe nodded, not trusting herself to answer.

“It is a pleasant day, isn’t it?” Taeryn continued, looking exaggeratingly up. Then she smiled. “Oh, Illiawe, just relax. I’m not going to turn into a daemon or anything.”

“You’re not angry about what I did in there?”

“I admit that your little outburst put me off balance somewhat, but there was no harm done. I understand why you did it. I’m not even going to berate you for it.” She laughed and ran her free hand through her auburn hair. “I will even admit that I might just have gotten a little carried away back there.”

“Will you?” Illiawe asked archly.

“Perhaps.” She laughed again and stepped forward to briefly wrap her arms around Illiawe. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

Taeryn stepped back and looked around. “Now, let’s go to your house. There are some things that I want to talk to you about.”

“Is it about that artifact that Cegorach has you out looking for?”

“We will talk about it when we get to your house, Illiawe,” Taeryn responded with heavily exaggerated patience.

“All right. Is that why you chose this place for your performance?”

“I suggested it to the troupe master, Illiawe. There’s a difference. Now, let’s get going.”

They took their time going back to Illiawe’s house. It had been quite some time since they last saw each other, so there were quite many things to talk about, and neither of them were in any real hurry. They strolled up the small street to Illiawe’s house, and Illiawe opened the door with a thought.

“Close the door, Illiawe,” Taeryn said as she walked in. “And the windows, too, just in case.” She looked around and Illiawe felt her mind ranging out, searching the house and its surroundings for a presence. When she was satisfied that there were no eldar around to overhear their conversation, she took a seat and got down to business.

“I think that I have tracked down the artifact that Cegorach wants us to find, Illiawe,” she said seriously.

“You,” Illiawe corrected. “He wants you to track it down. I am just going to come along.”

Taeryn shrugged. “Whatever you wish. The important part is that I think I have finally tracked it down.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “Are you sure about it this time? The last five times you said that, the trail either went cold and you had to start over or it turned out to be a false lead.”

“I think that this is the right one.”

“I am sorry, Taeryn,” Illiawe said, shaking her head. “I think that I would like some verification first.”

Taeryn smiled thinly. “This is the best assurance that I could give, unfortunately.”

Illiawe pursed her lips. “Have you tried asking Cegorach?”

“I have yet to find him. Cegorach can be very elusive when he wants to be.”

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. “I cannot possibly leave on something so dubious, Taeryn. There have been three separate plots on Ulthwé in the past month alone.”

“That is hardly unusual.”

Illiawe shook her head. “I am not referring to plots far in the future, Taeryn. As closely as I can determine, these plots were to occur quite soon, and all stem from Chaos.”

Taeryn frowned. “So that’s what it means,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t mind what I said. There are certain cryptic instructions that Cegorach left for me. Perhaps it is best if you were to stay here after all. If I understand things correctly, you are going to have to stay here for a couple more months before you could even think about going anyplace.”

“Can I ask why?”

Taeryn nodded. “You could, but I could not provide you with a very good answer. All I know is that if you leave now, the eldar race will be in great peril.”

“I am not seeing that in any of my visions.”

“Probably not. Farseers see actions and their consequences. Shadowseers see a result and the actions that we will have to take to get there.”

“And it is telling you that I will have to stay here?”

Taeryn nodded. “It did not fall into place until you told me about the plots against Ulthwé.”

“Then I guess that you have got two more months to find verification on the location of the artifact.”

“I will see if I could find anything else that gives us a more definitive answer as to this artifact’s location. I will return in a couple of months, then.” She paused. “One more thing. You might want to let Ethorach know that you will be coming with me when I return. You might be willing to go along on nothing more than a hint, but Ethorach would not be so thrilled.”

Illiawe chuckled. “Not so fast, Taeryn. I would like something solid before we go chasing hobgoblins across the stars.”

Taeryn smiled. “In any case, get Ethorach’s permission. It is going to be considerably harder if we have Ethorach chasing us every step of the way.” She wrapped her arms briefly around Illiawe. “I’ll see you in two months, then.” She turned away. “Hopefully with something solid,” she threw back over her shoulder, then grinned impudently and went out of the door.

Illiawe did not talk to Ethorach for a few days after Taeryn left. She was in two minds about her friend’s request. On the one hand, she meant what she said when she had told Taeryn that she would not be willing to go out into the stars on nothing more than a few hints. On the other, the harlequins were working toward preventing the catastrophe of the Rhana Dandra, and the idea of joining the harlequins in their task appealed greatly to Illiawe.

Finally, she decided to leave the problem up to Ethorach. About a week after the departure of Taeryn, Illiawe went to visit him. The elderly farseer, however, was not in his house. Illiawe frowned, and she stretched her thoughts out across the craftworld, seeking the familiar mind of Ethorach. It took her only a few seconds to locate his thoughts, and she traced it up through the craftworld until she came to the chamber where the Council of Seers gathered. She pulled her mind back and turned away from Ethorach’s house. The council always took their time during one of their meetings, and so Illiawe did not hurry.

She took a skimmer, and it soared gracefully upward, its anti-gravitic engines silent. The tall spires of the craftworld flashed past, and the early morning sun reflected off them in wavering sheets of rainbow light. The various domes and halls lay strewn across the surface of the craftworld below like gems scattered across a marble floor.

The council chamber lay somewhat apart from the other buildings that surrounded it, not out of a sense of aloofness, but rather out of necessity. The psychic arts were dangerous, and though the farseers were skilled and the precautions that they took were many, not a single eldar was willing to place the craftworld and its inhabitants at even the slightest risk. She made her way toward the stretch of empty ground that encircled the imposing structure in the middle. The chamber – though in actuality it was more in the way of a fortress, one designed to keep things in as well as out – had imposing wraithbone walls that were covered in wards and protective runes that glowed and pulsed softly. The bonesingers of Ulthwé had sought to soften the almost warlike appearance of the chamber, and ornate designs were engraved into the walls, telling of the many exploits of the great farseers of the craftworld. In an act of ingenuity, the bonesingers had even adopted the runes and wards into the overall design. The roof had been similarly molded, and the massive pillars that kept it where it belonged had been shaped into beautiful columns with sweeping bases and capitals.

The farseers of the council, of course, paid little attention to the additions, but the bonesingers and assorted artisans certainly did. They stood at a safe distance away from the chamber, gawking at its designs in appreciation. Illiawe moved past them and went up the short flight of steps to the chamber. She stopped at its great doors and laid a hand on its wraithbone frame. She sent a small pulse of thought into it, leaving behind a psychic imprint for Ethorach. Then she turned and went off in search of something to occupy herself with while she waited.

The council session was characteristically protracted, and the ruddy glow of the setting sun was staining the surface of the craftworld when Ethorach’s thoughts came to Illiawe.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.

“Yes. Come to the lake opposite the council chamber.”

“What is so important that you need to talk to me in person?”

“I simply like being in your company. Don’t argue with me, Ethorach. Just come on over.”

Ethorach sighed, and the sense of his mind faded away. Illiawe lay out on the grass in the shade of the tree that she was under and waited. After a few minutes, Ethorach came sauntering toward her.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asked Illiawe, looking pointedly at her.

“Whatever are you talking about?” she asked innocently, then she patted the grass next to her. “Join me, Ethorach. Relax a little.”

The other farseer shook his head. “There will be time enough for that later.”

“You are no fun,” Illiawe accused.

“You are wrong, Illiawe. Perhaps more than any other in this galaxy, I know how to enjoy life, but momentous occasions are upon us, and there is yet much to be done.”

Illiawe sighed and pushed herself to her feet. “Very well. Taeryn paid me a visit a few days ago.”

“I know. I was wondering when you were going to bring it up.”

“I should have known that you would know. Do you also know of what we discussed, then?”

Ethorach smiled. “You are pert, Illiawe. But, to answer your question, I do.” He paused. “It is not that I do not wish for you to go, Illiawe. If you think that this is a good use of your time, then you are free to do so. However, there are still some things that have to happen before you can join Taeryn on her search.”

“What sort of things?”

Ethorach’s expression became evasive. “Nothing too important.”

“Then I guess that it will not have such a massive impact on anything if I left before they happened, will it?”

“Please, Illiawe. I am not being deliberately vague. I cannot give you any specific information at this time, or you might start meddling. I’m sure you understand.”

Illiawe glowered at him. “How long more will I have to wait, then?”

“It will not be long, I promise.” Then he smiled. “Return to your fun, Illiawe. You will get little of it when things are set in motion.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

Despite Illiawe’s attitude toward him, it was not the fact that Ethorach did not tell her of the important event that so irritated Illiawe. She was, after all, well aware that even something as innocuous as the revelation of an event could significantly alter the threads within the skein and draw into doubt the possibility of its occurrence. What really annoyed Illiawe, rather, was the fact that she was going to have to decide for herself whether she was to accompany Taeryn when she next returned. Ethorach’s non-committal response had only delayed the time of decision for Illiawe, and she did not like having things hanging over her head.

Illiawe spent the next few days in what could only be described as brooding. Her brooding did not go unnoticed. Ethorach visited every so often, and they talked about inconsequential things. At times when he probably thought that she wasn’t looking, he would look at her with a mixture of small concern and slight amusement. Finally, even he appeared to grow weary of it. On one of his periodic visits, in what was perhaps a laughably transparent attempt to cheer her up, he brought up once again her candidacy for the Council of Seers. It was a topic that had at times brought about hours of argument in the past, and perhaps the aged farseer reasoned that it would take her mind off things.

“Would you not like to come to the meeting of the council?”

Illiawe fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Again, Ethorach? I seem to remember having trouble keeping awake at the last one, or the one before that.”

“Would it be any worse than sitting here sulking?”

“I am not sulking,” she retorted almost instinctively.

“Really?”

“Is this what it’s all about, then? A way to get me out of the house?”

“Of course. I would have thought that you would have figured it out already.” He turned and opened the door of her house with a flourish, then bowed at the waist, gesturing grandly toward the door. “Shall we?”

Illiawe laughed helplessly. Then she stood and followed Ethorach out.

The council was in session when the two of them entered the chamber. Ethorach motioned for her to sit and quickly hurried to his place at the council table. Illiawe moved to the seats reserved for those important guests who might take a fancy at participating in one of the council's frequent meetings, and sat in the same place she always did. It was a nice place, one where she could watch the proceedings easily, and had a nice view of the chamber, yet was shrouded in enough shadow that, with a little help from her powers, she could doze off on particularly slow days.

This day proved to be one such day. The council covered matters like the constant threat of the Eye of Terror and the tyranid hive fleets with grunts of agreement in regards to their current strategy. The craftworld's response in the event of aggression by the Imperium of Man proved to be more entertaining, providing a debate consisting of a few muttered words that lasted for a whole minute. When that was done, the council moved on to matters relating to other craftworlds - problems, threats, major decisions. That took up all of ten minutes. The council then fell back on the topic that, in Illiawe's mind, single handedly kept it in business, so to speak. That subject was the lives and problems of the individual eldar of Ulthwé, a subject which, in Illiawe's experience, often resembled a few friends trading gossip. Illiawe leaned back, knowing that, once they had exhausted that topic, they would start discussing various visions that they had, unimportant enough to not have taken precedence over the meeting, and make plans to correct any problems they presented. Not that it ever mattered, of course. Each Farseer would have already set events in motion as soon as he had the vision. But it gave them something to do, Illiawe supposed, and it was nice to share plans and ideas once in a while.

Comfortable that nothing interesting was going to happen, Illiawe let her mind drift off. After some time, there was a stir at the table as the meeting adjourned and the farseers prepared to leave. Illiawe waited until most of them had left, then she stood and followed them.

Ethorach was waiting for her outside the chamber. “I suppose I couldn't convince you to join us?”

“That was no different from all the other times, Ethorach,” she said with exaggerated patience. “It might even have been a bit more of a waste of time.”

“It wasn't that bad,” he muttered, sounding hurt.

“It most certainly was.” She looked up at the ruddy sky. “It’s getting rather late. Maybe I should head home now.”

“That might be a good idea. I have got a few scrolls that I’ve been meaning to read for a while now.”

“All right.”

Ethorach looked at her rather closely then. “You will be fine, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head.

“You seem rather moody as of late.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Illiawe said dryly. “I will get over it eventually, Ethorach.”

“I certainly hope so.” He smiled. “Good night, then.”

The months passed, as they had a habit of doing. The attacks from the forces of Chaos grew more frequent, daemons and assorted Warp beasts spewing out of the Eye of Terror to strike at worlds near the rift. For the most part, they were Imperial worlds, and, on occasion, the farseers and autarchs saw fit to aid one world or another in their defense against Chaos, but they were few and far between. The outcasts of the craftworlds found the almost constant strife between the humans and Chaos rather amusing. They also found it rather profitable. More and more often, they hired themselves out to various desperate human governors for increasingly exorbitant prices. The unparalleled aim of the Rangers devastated the treasuries of the governors just as much as they devastated the ranks of the forces of Chaos, and the commanders of the various corsair fleets and ground forces soon found that more riches were to be had by helping the humans than by raiding their settlements. The outcasts, of course, explained their sudden interest in mercenary life as being in the interest of their brethren aboard the craftworlds. Their excuses were incredibly transparent, however, and after the sixth corsair captain whom Illiawe talked to pulled a long face and said in a mournful voice, “my crew sacrificed the exciting life of piracy for the grueling life of a mercenary, helping the mon-keigh, of all things, to keep the tides of Chaos away from the craftworlds”, Illiawe threw her arms up in disgust and studiously avoided the infantile corsair captains and commanders.

Despite herself, Illiawe stayed within the skeins for increasingly greater periods of time. It was during one of these sessions when Taeryn returned. Illiawe was just pulling her mind out of the skeins when her friend stepped out of the air into Illiawe’s house.

“Back so soon?” Illiawe asked her archly.

“Don’t try to be funny, Illiawe,” Taeryn replied, scowling.

“Where is the rest of your troupe?”

“They are with the rest of the masque on the other side of the galaxy.”

“Oh? What are they doing?”

“Defending an Exodite World from the forces of Chaos.”

Illiawe nodded. “That explains why you did not bother with the performance this time. What did you find on your journey?”

Taeryn made a disgusted sound. “It was a complete waste of time.”

Illiawe smirked at her. “I told you so.”

“All right, Illiawe. Don’t rub it in.”

“Are you going to continue searching?”

Taeryn nodded glumly. “It looks like I will have to start all over again.” She shrugged. “I have nothing better to do, anyway.” Then she turned to glare at Illiawe. “Stop smirking like that, Illiawe. It’s disgusting.”

“Sorry.”

“Have you talked to Ethorach yet?”

Illiawe nodded.

“What did he say?”

“He wasn’t very specific, but from what I gathered, he has no problems with me going along with you.”

“That’s good.”

“Not quite. He was very firm about not going with you until certain things have come to pass.”

“I take it that he did not bother to elaborate on what these things are?”

“Of course not. Apparently, he is afraid that I would try to meddle and make a mess of things.”

“I can’t believe that he’s afraid of that happening when it’s about the only thing that he keeps reminding you of.”

“Ethorach’s cautious.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” A frown creased her brow. “I wonder what could be so important.”

Illiawe shrugged. “I am confident that he will tell us when the time is right.”

Taeryn gave her a skeptical look.

“Ethorach might be secretive, but he’s quite sensible. If this event is as important as it seems to be, he will advise us of it.”

“Perhaps. I would like to know when it will be taking place, at the very least.”

“Why? You still have not found the true location of the artifact. If this event occurs after you find it, then we can both go to retrieve it. If it happens before you find it, then we can both keep each other company while you try to track it down.” Illiawe pursed her lips. “I will only wait for so long, however. Ethorach’s managed to arouse my curiosity on this matter, and he’s not going to put off telling me about it forever.”

Taeryn smiled. “Let me know if you manage to get him to talk.”

“Of course. Will you be going back out now?”

Taeryn shook her head. “I think that I will stay here for a while, then I want to check on the troupe.”

“Are you afraid that they are unable to handle things?” Illiawe asked, grinning.

“It is always a possibility, after all.” She looked around. “Have you got anything to eat around here? I haven’t stopped moving for days now.”

“I think I can find something. What are you going to do while you are on Ulthwé?”

“I haven’t quite decided. There’s nothing important for me to do here, of course. It’s more in the way of relaxation than anything. I have been moving around quite a lot lately. You don’t happen to have a spare room that I could use, do you? I would go to the harlequin cities, but since I’m here anyway -”

“Of course. You are welcome to stay for as long as you want.”

Taeryn smiled. “It’s nice to have friends. Is that food ready yet? I’m absolutely famished.”

True to her word, Taeryn did not do much of anything for the next several days. She infrequently left the house, and when she did, it was to go to the gardens and parks to recline. After a week, however, she began to grow restless.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she announced one morning. “I think that it’s time that I looked in on the troupe.”

Illiawe nodded. “I’ll get your coat and holosuit.”

Taeryn smiled. “Before I go, would you mind coming with me to talk to Ethorach?”

“Whatever would you want to do that for?”

“I was hoping that Ethorach might be more forthcoming with his information if you are there with me.”

It took Illiawe a moment to figure out what Taeryn meant. “Is that still on your mind?” she asked, amused.

“I am somewhat curious, yes. Aren’t you?”

“Not particularly. We have been over this once before, Taeryn.”

“But you have yet to convince me to let the idea go. If I could not find out when this event will be occurring, I would at least want to know what it is.”

“Forget about it,” Illiawe said shortly.

But Taeryn, of course, did not. She badgered Illiawe incessantly. She complained. She begged. She wheedled. She appealed to Illiawe’s curiosity, and when that did not work, to their friendship. To Illiawe’s credit, she actually managed to hold out until some time after midday. Then she threw her arms up.

“Fine. We’ll go talk to Ethorach.”

Taeryn smiled. “I knew you would come around eventually.”

“You can be very irritating when you set your mind to it, do you know that?”

“You can be anything if you set your mind to it,” Taeryn replied blandly. “Don’t dawdle, Illiawe. Go fetch your cloak.”

Ethorach was waiting for them with an apprehensive expression on his face, and Illiawe noted that he had a full decanter resting nearby. That made Illiawe just a little nervous, for some reason.

“Illiawe,” he greeted her with obviously feigned enthusiasm. “And Taeryn. How nice of the both of you to stop by.”

Illiawe smiled at him. “It’s our pleasure, Ethorach.”

He waved his arm, inviting them to seat. Then he held the decanter out. Illiawe shook her head, and Ethorach shrugged, leaning back in his seat. They traded pleasantries for a while, talking about inconsequential things. Ethorach encouraged it, seeming almost intent on avoiding the question of the real purpose of their visit. After an hour or so, however, he seemed to realize that Taeryn was not going to leave, and he sighed.

“Well, then,” he said in a resigned tone. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? What do you really want to talk about?”

Taeryn gave him a transparent look of innocence. “Whatever are you talking about, Ethorach?”

Ethorach sighed again, sinking lower into his seat. “Please, Taeryn.”

“Well, since you were so kind as to ask, I wonder if you would be just as kind and told us about this mysterious event that you would have Illiawe wait for.”

Ethorach shook his head. “I’m sorry, Taeryn, but that is not going to happen.”

“Illiawe knows not to tamper with things, Ethorach, and so do I.”

Ethorach’s expression grew pained. “You are going to insist on this, I take it?”

“Of course.”

Ethorach sighed. “Very well. The both of you have to promise not to tamper with events, however. This includes looking at it within the skeins.” They nodded, and Ethorach looked pointedly at Taeryn. “Very well. I assume that you are aware that certain important things are about to happen?”

“Of course I am.”

“Good. Now, in order for things to turn out in our favor, we need to do certain things to sway the odds. The other side – the forces of Chaos – knows that, too, and they are doing everything that they could to do the same thing. What it comes down to, then, is trying to work around them to gain an advantage.”

“Stop trying to draw it out, Ethorach,” Taeryn said in an exasperated voice.

“Be patient, Taeryn. I am merely trying to explain myself, and if I am going to tell you about this event that you are just dying to hear, you and Illiawe will both have to understand the reasons for it – just as a precaution, if nothing else.”

“A precaution for what?”

“I am getting to that. One of these things that we have to ensure happens relates to a particular ork. He will turn out to be quite useful in many various ways in the future.” He paused. “To put it shortly, we need to get into the good graces of this ork.”

A dreadful suspicion began to form in Illiawe’s mind, and she was not sure that she liked the implication of it. “What exactly do you mean by “get into its good graces”?” she asked Ethorach.

He shrugged. “It is quite simple. You will have to befriend the ork.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, her tone flat.

Ethorach shrugged. “If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have asked.”

Illiawe stared accusingly at Taeryn, then she turned back to Ethorach. “Why me?”

“Please don’t ask that, Illiawe. You just have to do it.”

Illiawe opened her mouth to object, but found that she was at a lost for words.

Taeryn had been watching the exchange silently, her eyes narrowed speculatively. Illiawe barely paid any attention to it, and so she did not stop to wonder as to the significance of her friend’s expression. While Illiawe did not object overly much to Ethorach’s revelation, she did not accept it with great enthusiasm, either. Illiawe did not share the views of some of the other, more prideful members of her race regarding the validity of the orks as sentient beings, but it did not mean that she liked them. They were rowdy, crude, and utterly lacking in civility, and their love for combat almost to the exclusion of all else seemed to her just a little extreme. The more she thought about it, the more the idea of not taking up Ethorach’s task appealed to her. Some part of her, however, quickly dismissed the idea. If this was a necessary task, then she would take it on, gladly or not.

Ethorach was staring intently at her, and he smiled. “I had hoped to save you time and energy by keeping this from you. Now you will spend the rest of the time from now until then brooding and moping around.”

“Moping?” Illiawe objected.

“It’s as good a word as any.”

Illiawe grumbled for a bit, then she let the matter drop. They stayed until quite late, and then they left Ethorach to return to his books.

“Well,” Taeryn said brightly as they left Ethorach’s house, “that was quite a worthwhile trip, would you not agree?”

“I would not, no.”

Taeryn grinned. “I would have thought that you would have. After all, now you get time to get all that moping out of your system before the time for befriending your ork friend comes.”

“Shut up, Taeryn.”

“My, we are irritable today, aren’t we?”

Illiawe chose not to respond to that.

Taeryn left the next day, stepping into the webway between one step and another, and Illiawe settled back down into her daily routine. She was careful not to “mope”, as Ethorach had called it, and occupying herself with the skeins seemed like the best option. As tempted as she was to do so, however, she did not search for the thread that Ethorach had talked about.

She avoided Ethorach after that. Some part of her had already decided that she was going to follow Ethorach’s instructions and, rather irrationally, she was not happy about it. She was unsure that she could keep her feelings under control if she saw Ethorach. Her former mentor appeared to understand her feelings, and so he, too, left her to herself.

There was a certain domesticity to her routine, and it aided in easing her mind away from the task that lay ahead of her. After a couple of weeks, she quickly became used to the idea, and the thought faded away into the back of her mind.

As though he knew when she had grown accustomed to the idea of her task – a very distinct possibility, Illiawe realized – Ethorach paid her a visit. It was something that he very seldom did, and that alone caused Illiawe to become alert.

“Please tell me that the matter that you are about to bring to my attention is no more important than my meeting with this ork of yours,” she said as soon as he entered her house.

“It could be that I am simply lonesome,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching.

“That is highly unlikely. I would sooner bet on the forces of Chaos becoming chivalrous and charitable than I would on you simply yearning for my company.”

“That is quite a good chance, then. Perhaps your opinion of me is not so low, after all.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “I don’t think that you understood what I meant.”

“I understood it quite well. But let us not dwell on that. I have come to tell you that things are almost in readiness. The pieces are in place. It is time for you to befriend the ork.”

Illiawe made a face. “You just had to remind me of it, didn’t you?”

“Can you trot that by me one more time?”

“I had almost forgotten about it, and about how unpleasant it is going to be.”

“We all have to do things that we do not like, Illiawe. We squandered the opportunity for such choices when our ancestors turned away from the eldar gods.”

Illiawe sighed. “Do not lecture me, Ethorach. I know about that, but it does not mean that I have to like it.”

“Perhaps not, but if it will save countless billions of eldar lives, you can at least try to like it, could you not?”

Illiawe looked at him, and, as they always were in such situations, his eyes were piercing, as though they saw right into her soul. His ancient and lined face was serene, bearing the marks of his enormous age with a stoic dignity. His expression was calm and somehow almost bored, yet there was an unnatural resolve there, a firmness that was almost unnatural. And as she looked into his ancient eyes, her disgust and reluctance and resignation faded away, and she smiled at him and nodded once, accepting the task that he had laid upon her with a glad heart.

Chapter Text

“The ork’s name is Ghahzlay,” Ethorach informed her as they made their way toward one of the craftworld’s outer docks. “He is – or will be – the new warboss for his clan. I will leave the exact method of getting into his good graces up to you.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Illiawe said in obviously feigned jubilation.

“Please don’t do that, Illiawe.”

“You were asking for it.” She shifted the belt on which her witchblade lay into a more comfortable position, and brushed her fingers over the two pouches at her hip that contained her runes.

“I have taken the liberty of booking you passage on a craftworld ship. The captain’s an old friend, and he won’t ask too many questions.”

“Is this task of mine really so secretive?” Illiawe asked, an eyebrow raised archly.

Ethorach raised his head, gazing in silence at the clear dome overhead, and the star around which they orbited. “Perhaps not. Then again, not all eldar would agree with the objectives of your task.”

“Then don’t tell them about it. They cannot condemn what they do not know.”

Ethorach smiled faintly. “A simple solution. Not even that might work now. The eldar of this craftworld may not know of what you are setting out to do, but it will not be so easily missed by others.”

“Don’t be cryptic, Ethorach. What does that mean?”

Ethorach shrugged. “We live in interesting times, that is all.” He looked around him, frowning. Then his eyes grew wide. “I knew I forgot something.”

“What is it?”

“Your escort, of course. I'll get some warlocks together immediately.”

“Don't bother.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can protect myself. Besides, a lone eldar doesn't pose much of a threat to a warboss. A retinue, on the other hand, could provoke an attack.” She smiled at him. “You do want this vision of yours to come about, don't you?”

Ethorach smiled, but he said nothing.

The craftworld was harder to leave behind than Illiawe had imagined. Her Path had kept her constantly close, and she stepped onto the ship that was to transport her to her destination with a reluctance born of nerves. Ethorach, of course, was no help whatsoever. He appeared almost lost in thought as Illiawe went along a delicate bridge toward her ship, and his farewell was just as absent. Illiawe was used to that, but she did feel just a little crushed.

The ship that awaited Illiawe was a sleek vessel, floating in seeming serenity at the end of the dock. There was no record of her name that Illiawe could see or feel, though her unscarred bone-white hull was heavy with lingering psychic imprints that stretched back for millennia. When Illiawe was halfway across the dock, a rainbow ripple ran through the ship’s hull, and the great sheets of her solar sails that stretched out like the fins of some deep-sea predator glinted as her crew awoke her from her slumber. The ship tilted away from the dock once, as though impatient to be off, and Illiawe unconsciously picked up her pace.

A small entrance lay at the end of the dock, a tiny speck of light against the vastness of the rest of the ship’s hull. This was not to say that the doorway was small, however, for it stood twice as high as Illiawe. Inside that entrance was a soft yellow glow, steady and warm. There was an eldar waiting for her there. He was slender and hard faced, and the lock at the top of his head that all eldar customarily tied their hair back in seemed almost severe. He gestured curtly with a small flick of his head as Illiawe stepped onto the ship, the wraithbone door sliding shut of its own accord behind her. He did not talk as he showed Illiawe to her room, and left without a single word.

The room was small, considering the sheer size of the ship. A narrow bunk lay in one corner and a desk in the other. The walls and floor were draped and carpeted in some semblance of comfort, and odd pieces of furniture and ornaments lay in strange places around the room. Illiawe dropped her possessions onto her bunk. Some effort had obviously been made to soften the room's stark interior, but the positioning and designs made it plain that whoever did it had not taken his job very seriously. Obviously the vessel's crew had not bothered enough to request an eldar following a Path of the Artisan to complete the job, instead opting to have one of their numbers do it. Illiawe would not have minded, except that some of the decorations were frightfully ghastly.

Illiawe unbuckled her witchblade and laid it atop her few possessions at the foot of the bunk, leaned her spear against the wall, and sank cross legged down onto the floor of the chamber. Closing her eyes, Illiawe ran her mind across the churning tides of the Warp, and sank once more into the realm of visions and dreams.

The world was barren, the ground cracked and dry. It stretched on, an endless black wasteland as far as Illiawe could see. The Vampire’s engines hummed quietly as its pilot waited for her to exit. Gripping her spear tightly, Illiawe stepped out of the hold. The heat of the atmosphere hit her like a furnace. The dry wind carried grains of sand with it, and that too picked up, stinging at her face and setting her robes to flapping.

Illiawe took a few steps forward. The Vampire’s engines whined, and the craft shot up into the sky, leaving Illiawe alone on the planet.

Using her spear like a staff, the Farseer started walking. The rays of the sun beat down upon the ground, causing the air to shimmer. It was not long before Illiawe began to feel tempted to recall the Vampire. Every time, however, she caught herself just short of reaching out to the pilot. She did not want her first meeting with the Ork to start with a hail of gunfire from the Orks.

And so, step after step, Illiawe walked on, her steps faltering. The wind tugged uncomfortably at her robes, and her spear grew heavy in her hand. The heat continued to pound down on her. Finally she stumbled, and reached out with her spear to right herself. The weapon struck the baked ground, failing to find purchase. Illiawe's knees buckled, and she fell heavily to the ground.

Weakly, she reached out to the pilot, her thoughts amplified by her psychic might. “I need help.”

The pilot's psychic feedback was startled, almost panicked. Illiawe felt him drawing closer, homing in on her psychic beacon. But already she could feel the energy leave her weakened body, her limbs growing unresponsive.

Icy fingers clutched at her, not at her flesh, but at her soul. Illiawe shut her eyes, focusing on the mind of the approaching pilot. There were voices now, soft and motherly, yet strangely malevolent. A slight pressure built up in the back of her head as she was joined by another presence.

The psychic weight of a Chaos God descended upon her all at once, blanketing her, a thousand red hot hooks that dug into her mind. Barriers learnt since she was a child and reinforced by centuries of study shattered all at once, and Illiawe was suddenly vulnerable as a newborn child.

On the brink of death, She Who Thirsts loomed over her, eagerly waiting as the seconds passed. The icy fingers flexed, clasping possessively at her soul. Slowly, it tugged, and Illiawe saw the expanse of the Othersea beyond the awful presence of the Chaos God, a brief vision of the God's realm that had reduced her to a wreck the first time she had caught a glimpse of it. She Who Thirsts retreated back into her realm, taking Illiawe's soul as she went.

Then, at the last moment, Illiawe's soul gem came to life. The force of the Chaos God was suddenly no longer enough and Illiawe moved away from that terrible presence, back toward her body. The fingers dug into her soul, struggling futilely to take hold. Then her soul was ripped from its grasp, sucked into the safety of the gem, leaving Illiawe alone in its confines with the enraged screams of the God as, cheated of another soul, she grudgingly returned to her realm.

Illiawe pulled her mind away from that vision, shifted around, searching for another thread. It did not take long. Quickly she sunk her mind into the vision.

Illiawe sat in the cool interior of the transport. Her spear resting across her lap, she toyed with one of her many runes, waiting for the pilot to spot something. There were small displays in the corners at the front of the hold, a few of them displaying footage of the Vampire’s surroundings, and Illiawe entertained herself by watching the barren landscape roll past and taking note of their position.

Finally the pilot's voice sounded out through the hold. “Farseer,” he said, “I see something. Orks.”

“Show me.”

The feed on one of the screens moved, magnified, concentrating on a spot of land. A group of Orks came into view. They were on foot, but moving quickly.

“Is that it?” Illiawe asked.

“I don't see anyone else.”

“That's them, then. Put me down near them.”

“Wait, I see another. It's alone.”

“Put me down near the group. Let's see where this goes.”

The pilot angled the craft sharply down, and, at the last moment, levelled it again. The transport came to a smooth halt in front of the group of Orks.

The beasts did not hesitate. With guttural growls of approval they raised their weapons, sending a storm of bullets flying at the transport.

Illiawe winced. She looked at the screens. The Orks showed no signs of stopping. There was a slight shift in balance as the pilot turned the craft to face the Orks, preparing to shoot at them.

Illiawe did not wait to see how it would turn out. She pulled away from the vision and went looking for another one.

“Put me down,” Illiawe instructed the pilot. “Behind those Orks.”

The pilot maneuvered the craft and set it gently, silently, down behind the unsuspecting Orks. She stepped quickly out of the craft, and, soundlessly, it disappeared off into the sky.

The Orks were running quickly, their weapons drawn. Illiawe frowned. She did not even bother trying to keep up with them. Instead she drew in on her powers, and moved herself to a spot just far enough away from them to remain unnoticed. In little hops she followed them as they ran, shouting an growling and waving their weapons.

Then, out of curiosity, Illiawe moved in front and to the side of that group. A lone Ork, slightly larger than those behind, was running before them. His hands were empty, but his steps were stumbling, unsure, as if he was panicked, or injured.

Illiawe continued watching. It did not take long for the group to catch up to the lone Ork. The one in front stopped, and turned.

“Y' made a 'uge soddin' mistake,” one of the Orks in the group growled.

“Iz our very own boss scared t' come fight?” the lone Ork taunted.

“Warboss Edioez ain't sared. 'E's mighty busy ta bother 'bout a scamp like y', Ghahzlay.”

The name struck Illiawe like a hammer. It was the one Ethorach had given her. “Wait,” she shouted, already harnessing the powers of the Warp even as she ran.

But it was too late. The Orks opened fire. The bullets struck Ghahzlay, ripping his flesh apart. Then the Orks turned to Illiawe.

She opened her eyes, pulling her mind away from the Warp. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair, and prepared to go looking for yet another thread of the future. There was a light step from outside the room, and Illiawe quickly looked up. An eldar walked into the room carrying a tray, his steps light. He stopped abruptly when he saw her looking at him.

“I suppose it was foolish to try and sneak up on a farseer,” he said sheepishly.

“What do you want?”

He lifted the tray. “I thought you might like a meal,” he quickly replied, hefting his tray, seemingly taken aback by her abrupt manner.

“Put it over there,” she said in a softer voice, pointing vaguely at the desk.

“Of course.” He set the tray down, and turned to leave.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, trying to set him at ease.

He stopped and rather hesitantly gave a small bow. “My pleasure.” He paused. “Was there anything else you needed?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “Actually, is there a cloak somewhere on this ship?”

“We have a few of those cloaks that the Rangers use somewhere with the other wargear.”

“That'd be perfect,” she said. “Could I trouble you to get me one of those?”

“Of course.” He left, and Illiawe closed her eyes again, and returned her mind to the Warp.

The lone Ork stopped, and turned. Illiawe was ready. She drew the powers of the Warp around her. A slight pressure began to build up just at the back of her head as she took more of it into herself. With a thought, she was there in the middle of the group of Orks. Her hand lashed out, lightning shooting from the tips of her fingers, striking one of the Orks and blasting a gaping hole into his chest. The rest of the Orks turned, confused, but Illiawe was already moving, lashing out at the mind of the Orks, twisting, distorting. The Orks shouted and bellowed, firing their guns wildly. Illiawe shifted the grip on her spear, just as she had done when the armor that clad her body had been the bone white set of the Howling Banshee aspect. She whirled through the Orks, dancing the intricate dance of the Banshees, her spear severing heads and slicing open limbs. Lightning flashed from her fingers, once, twice, and a third time, leaving behind smoking holes in the Orks. Only when the last of the Ork was dead did she stop, and Farseer Illiawe returned her spear to the relaxed grip she usually carried it with. She straightened, moving the spear by her side once more, feeling it slide smoothly through her hand until it thumped solidly on the ground. She looked around at the bodies of the Orks scattered at her feet. Then she looked up. The lone Ork had a gun pointed at her.

“No,” she said.

“Yes.” He pulled the trigger.

Illiawe pulled out of the vision, exhaling in irritation. She closed her eyes again.

The Ork pointed his gun at her, but she was ready. She tapped the ground with her spear and a shimmering shield flared up around her, flickering as the bullets from the Ork's gun struck it. Illiawe stood in her shield as the Ork gun continued firing. Then it stopped, but she kept her shield up.

“A clever 'un,” a brutish voice spoke. “Come outta dat. I ain't gonna shoot ya.”

Carefully, she approached the Ork, keeping her shield up.

“Well, 'urry up,” the Ork growled. “I ain't got all day.”

He kept his gun and held up his empty hands as she neared, in an exaggerated display that he was unarmed. “Y' helped me,” he growled.

“You shot at me,” she accused. “But you don't have to thank me. I've got things to talk with you.”

“What are y' goin' on about?” He moved in close to her. “Tha' was my fight. Y' offed them as was mine.”

“I saved your life,” she pointed out.

“Bah,” he waved that fact aside. “Hasn't anyone taught ye it's mighty bad manners t' take a fight as does not belong t' y'? Y' took me fight. Now y' gotta pay up.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “How am I to do that?”

“Offer me another fight, of course. Ain't anyone taught y' basic manners?”

“Well, I suppose I could find a fight for you.”

“No,” he said slowly, as if explaining a difficult concept to a child. “I tell y' da fight. It's the on'y way I know it iz a good fight. Y' gonna help me get t' it.” He turned away. “Lucky for y', I've got a fight I've bin just itchin' to start.”

Illiawe pulled her mind out if the vision. Then she shrugged. It was a pretty good outcome. Good enough, actually. She stood, and sat at the table. There was still time for a meal, and perhaps a nap.

She was roused by a light tapping at the door, and she groggily opened her eyes. “What is it?” she asked.

“Sorry to interrupt, farseer,” came the reply. The same eldar who had brought her the meal opened the door and stuck his head through. “We've arrived at the planet Farseer Ethorach directed us to.”

She nodded, sliding out of the bed and grabbing her possessions, attaching them to their places on her person. “Did you get that cloak?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good.” She walked out of the room and took the cloak that was draped over his arm, pulling it around her shoulders. “Where's the hangar?”

“Follow me.”

They went through the ship, occasionally stopping for groups of eldar as they went about on their business.

“There seems to be a disproportionate number of rangers aboard,” she observed.

“They've returned to the craftworld a while ago. Now they're going back out among the stars.”

They left the groups of eldar behind, moving at a brisk pace. Her companion introduced himself as Amroth, from a craftworld that was not Ulthwé. In his recount of what could very well have been his life story, Illiawe learned that he had walked many different Paths, drifting from one to another like a leaf in the breeze. Eventually he had settled down as one of the ship's crew - at least, as settled as someone like him could possibly be.

“Maybe I could walk the path of the Eagle Pilots,” he mused after he was finished. “I've always wondered what it was like to fly.”

She gave him an amused look. “What about your stint with the Swooping Hawks, or the Windriders, or the Shadow Specters?”

He waved her comment aside. “That wasn't true flight. At least, not the way I want to fly.” His speech was quick, his actions animated. Illiawe soon found that he did not mind that she contributed little to the conversation. Illiawe, for her part, was content to just let him talk.

Then, halfway through a sentence, he stopped. “There's the hangar bay,” he said.

“Good.”

“And there's the captain.” He nodded toward a lone eldar standing a little way away from them.

“The captain?” she asked, surprised. “Why's he here?”

“I don't know. Why don't you go ask him?” And with that, he returned the way from which they came.

The captain was a tall eldar with a long face and a furrowed brow. His arms were crossed across his chest, and it gave him the look of a disappointed parent. Illiawe slid her hand down the shaft of her spear and swung it so the tip angled downward. The captain looked disapprovingly at her as she did so, as if it was the most dangerous thing that she could have done.

“I'm Illiawe,” she said as soon as she got close enough.

“Mornedor,” he introduced himself with a small incline of his head. “Your transport is just over there. Follow me.” Without another word, he started walking.

“Why did you feel the need to come down here in person?” she asked him, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Farseer Ethorach placed your safety and well-being in my hands.”

“He's too paranoid.”

“He's sensible.”

“You have a strange idea of sensible.”

“He's a little too sensible.”

Illiawe made a sound of frustration and rolled her eyes.

The craft that was waiting for them was large and elegant. Its wings curved gracefully downward, holding its streamlined body off the ground. A couple of the ship's crew were making last minute checks on it, going over its scatter and pulse lasers. Illiawe instantly recognized the make of the aircraft.

“A Vampire? That's a little excessive, don't you think?”

“Farseer Ethorach specifically instructed us to transport you in one. For your safety, he said.”

Illiawe sighed, then she nodded. “Fine. Is it ready to depart?”

“In a few minutes.” He pointed toward the open rear of the craft. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable?”

“Thank you for the trip,” Illiawe said.

He nodded once. “I'll be orbiting this planet for a while. If you need to return, the Vampire's not going to be far. If you need assistance, just call out.”

“Of course.”

“Good luck, farseer. May the Fates be at your side.”

The inside of the eldar craft was dim and bare to the point of being severe. Its seats were narrow and hard, the roof of the interior low. Despite the best attempts of its crew to make it seem inviting, the craft's distinctly military purpose was plainly evident. Illiawe shifted about on the seat, her arms folded behind her head, listening to the quiet hiss of the craft's star engines. The aircraft ran smoothly, and, as she always did, Illiawe had that strange sense that they were not even moving. Finally she gave up and stood, pacing the interior of the craft nervously.

There were screens in the corners at the front of the Vampire's hold, and Illiawe glanced every so often toward them, noting their position, watching the barren land roll by.

“I see something,” the pilot of the Vampire said suddenly.

“Put me down behind them,” she replied, not bothering to look at the screens.

“Of course, farseer,” the pilot said immediately, unquestioningly. The Vampire angled sharply downward, the wraithbone that covered the back of the hold already sliding open. Illiawe moved toward it, pulling her cloak tightly around her with her free hand. The dusty surface of the planet was approaching quickly, and the Vampire came to a stop a few feet over the ground, hovering for a brief moment. With a small step, Illiawe hopped off, landing lightly on her feet as the Vampire shot off into the sky.

The unrelenting heat of the planet struck Illiawe immediately, and the dry wind tossed her robes and cloak out around her. Illiawe ignored that and moved quickly forward, until the group of orks came within sight. She crouched, laying her spear close to the ground, trusting in her cloak to keep her undetected.

The orks did not even notice her. They were running hard, their growls and ragged breathing drifting loudly back to her. Illiawe pulled in her powers and translocated herself some distance ahead of the group. She did so another time, and yet again, mirroring the actions she took in her vision.

The orks caught up to the one they were chasing and, just as they had in the vision, started trading insults. Illiawe did not stop to eavesdrop on their conversation. She reached into the Warp, and started pulling its powers into herself.

The leader of the orks raised his gun, but Illiawe was ready. She translocated herself in front of Ghahzlay, facing the other orks. The lead ork pulled the trigger. Illiawe reached out with her free hand, erecting a shield of pure psychic might in front of her. The hail of bullets stopped in midair a foot in front of her as if they had struck a solid piece of metal, before dropping with dull thuds to the ground.

Ghahzlay was already moving. With a mighty roar, he ran around Illiawe, brandishing his fists like they were a pair of war hammers gifted to him by his own gods. He fell on the stunned orks with glee, chortling and shouting like it was some great joke that only he knew the punchline to. He smashed the heads of two orks together, his fist caught a third on the jaw. He plucked the gun of a fourth out of the hands of its surprised owner, and fired the weapon right into the face of the beast. For just a moment, it seemed almost as if he might actually win.

Then an unexpected blow caught him in the pit of the stomach, lifting him up into the air and sending him flying. Ghahzlay landed a few feet behind Illiawe.

He got up and dusted himself off. “Oi,” he growled at her. “Stop standin' there and use dat knife o' yours.”

“I couldn't possibly kill your enemies,” she replied blandly. “It's bad manners.”

“F'git y' manners,” he snapped. “'Elp me kill this 'ere gits.”

“If you insist,” she said with mock reluctance.

“I do.”

Illiawe dropped her shield. She waved her hand, reaching out to the orks with her mind. The beasts started screaming incoherently, cursing and swearing as they swung their weapons all around them, flailing at enemies only they could see.

Illiawe slid her right hand up the shaft of her spear. With a few quick steps she launched herself at the orks. Her spear came down upon the neck of one, sending its head flying off into the air. Smoothly she brought it back down the other way, sticking it into the belly of another ork. With an upward motion of her arms the blade tore through the torso of the ork. She neatly stepped around the toppling pieces of the corpse, her spear seeking its next target.

There were two more orks left, and, though their attention was not focused on her, their weapons were just a little too close for comfort. She translocated herself behind one of the orks, and brought her hand up. Lightning shot out of her fingertips, crackling and sizzling, hurtling toward the ork's back. The impact threw the ork forward, and he collapsed in a heap, unmoving. Illiawe turned to the last ork, but he was on his back. Ghahzlay was kneeling on his chest, his powerful arms raising and lowering mechanically, raining blows down on the unfortunate ork's head. Something snapped audibly, a dreadful crunch that made the ork howl in pain. Ghahzlay did not stop. The ork kicked at the ground under his unrelenting and repeated blows, until he finally grew limp.

Ghahzlay stood, his chest heaving, an appreciative smile on his face that contorted it hideously. He picked up the dead ork's gun.

“Good weap'n,” he said in a voice that Illiawe had heard eldar artisans use when admiring masterpieces. “Me thinks I'll keep it.”

Illiawe eyed the weapon in his hand. She tightened her grip on her spear, and erected a shield around her. The ork walked closer to her. After a few steps he stumbled as if he had just walked into a wall.

“No need for no shield,” he growled. “Iff'n I'm lookin' t' kill y', I'll have me shiny new gun in m' hand.” He lifted his hands to prove his point. The barrel of the gun came up with them. “Oh,” he said sheepishly, quickly tucking the weapon behind his back. His hand came up once more, palm facing outward. “No gun. Y' saved m' life. I won't kill y' iff'n I gave you no warnin'.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ghahzlay does not lie. I owe y' one favor.”

“All right.” She lowered her shield.

His hand came up, and Illiawe took a step back, her spear thrust forward.

Ghahzlay laughed, his harsh voice barking merrily. “You pointy-eared gits are so funny.” He stretched the hand out to her. “Don't ya shake hands?”

“The Mon-keigh do,” she said, returning her spear to her side.

“Oh. I always git y' two messed up in m' 'ead. Maybe 'cos you two look all the same.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Well, what was your name, then?”

“Well, the pointy-ears don't know everything, after all. I'm Ghahzlay.”

“Illiawe.”

He made a disgusted noise and waved his arm. “I'll try t' remember. Can't keep all yous fancy names in me head. Get a proppa name. Then people will like you.”

“How'd you figure that out?”

“Well, proppa names are easy t' remember, ain't they? And if people remember ya name, you are important. Important people have powa, and people respect powa. And if people respect y', they'll like y'.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

He shrugged. “It ain't me problem. I've got a proppa name.”

“And do people like you?”

“No. I'm workin' on dat.” He stopped, and looked at her speculatively. “Maybe y' can 'elp me wif something as is bin botherin' me.”

“What sort of problem are we talking about?”

“Me and me warboss don't see eye t' eye no more. It was he as did send those boyz t' come git me. I wanna tell 'im why that iz a mighty bad idea.”

“Tell him?”

“What, dem pointy ears makin' y' deaf or somethin'? I said “tell him”, didn't I?”

“I was just checking. What did you need me for, then?”

“T' 'elp me tell him, of course. Da sun cooking y' brains or somethin'?”

She pretended to mull over it. “What do I get out of this?”

“One favor not good enuff for ya? You's just greedy. I kill dat warboss, you c'n call me anytime you get inta trouble.”

“All right. I'll help you.”

“Good.” He jerked his head, gesturing for her to follow. “Dem boyz brought their own flya. We'll be taking dat.”

Illiawe nodded. She sent her psychic presence out, reaching for the pilot of the Vampire through her wraithbone pieces. “We'll be leaving in another craft.”

“We'll be right behind you,” the pilot responded.

“There's really no need for that.”

“It's not my decision. Farseer Ethorach’s instructed us to stick with you.”

Illiawe sighed. “Fine. Don't come too close.”

“I think I know how to be discreet.”

Illiawe nodded and broke the psychic link. Pulling her cloak tight over her shoulders, Illiawe followed the hulking form of her new companion.

Chapter Text

The ork plane was large and resembled a bunker that had grown wings rather than an aircraft. It had guns sticking out of the sides and top, and engines that were half as large as the plane. There was a large hold in the back for troops, and the cockpit had two seats placed beside each other. The seats were about the only things on the craft that looked comfortable. Illiawe leaned her spear against the side of the seat and gingerly lowered herself into it. It was covered by the leathery hide of some animal and the stench of its previous orkish occupant. Illiawe wrinkled her nose, trying to ignore the odor as Ghahzlay plunked into the other seat with an appreciative grumble. He jabbed his fingers at the controls, prodding at buttons until the craft spluttered and shook into life. “Where are we going?” Illiawe asked.

“Da fort of me boss. It’s on da ovar side of da planet.”

Illiawe frowned. “You walked halfway around the planet?”

Ghahzlay shrugged. “It ain’t dat big of a planet.” He paused as the craft’s massive engines blasted, pushing the craft into the air through sheer force. The craft shook violently as it ascended into the sky. “Dat’s a powerful flya,” Ghahzlay said, his voice tinged with joy.

“If you say so,” Illiawe muttered.

“So, what's you doing lookin' for me for?” Ghahzlay asked.

The question caught Illiawe unprepared. “I wasn't,” she lied. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Ghahzlay made a sound that was almost like disgust. “You went t' dat planet and happen t' pass by me?”

“I was tracking Chaos disturbance.”

“So why agree t' come wif me?”

“I'm taking the time. There might come a time when I'd need help in the fight against Chaos.”

“An' since dem Chaos gits are too tricky as t' fight proppa, you need t' call in a favor from da best fightas.” He leaned back in his seat. “Clever.”

“Thank you,” she said distantly. “So, what's your story?”

“Story?”

“What did you do to make your warboss want to kill you?”

“Orkz are always lookin' ta kill each other.” He grunted. “Dis time da boss got a reason t' want ta kill me, though. See, I wuz on dis 'ere planet that was got itself infested with them spiky Chaos gits. Da boss knows a fight when he sees one. Dem spiky gits ne'er give a good fight, but we was goin' for a good long time without a proppa fight, so da boss took his shoota, looks at them spiky gits, an' says "well, I'll just go on ovar dere an' give dem da orky welcome." Me and da boyz, we looks at each other and said, "dat boss sure iz greedy, taking all da fight fer 'imself." And we all went on ovar t' da spiky gitz and clobbered dem real good. It wuz da worst fight in me life. What d'ya know, a group of bugs showed dere faces. Da spiky gits were fighting dem all along. We wuz all real happy, as we didn't get a proppa fight before. Well, dis 'ere bugs, dey gots one real big 'un in da middle. Da boss, 'e went choppin' through dem dere bugs as t' get t' dat big 'un. But dere was a good lot of dem gits, and they started jumpin' on 'im.

"Well, me an' da boyz, we knew 'e needed 'elp. So we all charged the bugs. I wuz da first t' reach da boss. We chopped up t' da big bug, we did, and all da boyz followed.

"Da boss went choppin' at da big bug, and 'e wuz smacking it on it's 'ead. Da bug got real mad then, an' it picked da boss up. Now, da boss ain't one ta get scared, so 'e took 'is choppa an' started beating da bug real good.

"Da bug started concentratin' on 'im, an' I got right under it. I wuz carrying me favorite shoota. It was real good at killing big things, so I just started shootin'."

"So your warboss wants to kill you because you took his kill?"

"No. Da boss iz a mighty forgiving ork. What 'appened was my shoota must 'ave 'urt da bug somethin' good. It reached under an' grabbed me too. I wuz right in front of its face, and it wuz lookin' at me all angry like. I took me shoota an' started shootin' at it. Da bug went roarin' an' snarlin', then it ate me shoota."

"It ate your gun?"

"It did. Well, me an' da boss, we took our choppas, and got ta hackin'. Da boyz were killin' bugs all around us, and me an' da boss were 'urtin' dis bug real bad. It must 'ave 'urt, because da bug dropped us an' ran."

“It just... dropped you?”

"It did. It gave dis real big roar, then it and all da small bugs ran off. Me an' da boss, we all chased dem, but we nevar caught da big 'un."

"What does this have to do with your warboss wanting to kill you?"

"I'm gettin' ta dat. Da boss an' me wuz real friendly after, on account of me savin' his life an' all dat. But I still miss me shoota. So I wuz about ta go find dis bug an' git me shoota back. On'y problem wuz dat it grabbed da boss. An' if da boss ain't mean enuff ta kill it, I ain't mean enuff ta kill it. So I thought t' meself, what iz da meanest guy I know? Well, dat wuz da big bug. Da second meanest wuz da boss 'imself. So I reasoned, if I kill da boss, I'll be da meanest ork I know. Maybe even as mean as da big bug. Then I can find dat git an' get me shoota back."

"I take it the fight did not go so well?"

"No. Da boss beat me up pretty good."

Illiawe chuckled, stopping just short of shaking her head at the ork's logic.

Ghahzlay looked at her. "Somefin' funny?"

"Yes. Your story about fighting the warboss. It's amusing." She said it in as mild a tone as possible, though an irrational part of her hoped that the ork would detect the derision in the statement.

Ghahzlay grinned. "Who knew a pointy-ear would like a proppa fight story?" He nodded approvingly. "I knew there wuz somefink orky 'bout ya."

Illiawe smiled perfunctorily. Ethorach had sent her after a warboss. That was obviously significant in the course of the best possible future. Fulfilling that aspect of Ethorach’s vision, furthermore, was not going to be too taxing. The unfortunate situation that Ghahzlay had found himself in was set up just a little too conveniently for her not to take advantage of. Illiawe, however, was just a little wary. Events never played out so well unless they had been pushed in the proper direction. Immediately she ruled out farseers as the source of the interference. After all, a farseer would have finished the job and Ghahzlay would have already been a warboss. The matter needed further investigations, but, for now, she had a task to complete.

“And this fight of yours,” Illiawe asked, “is it against your warboss?”

"Ha!” the ork barked. “Smart too. Who woulda thought?"

"So, what exactly do you need me to do?"

"It's simple, really. Ya jist turn invisible, an' I'll do da rest. Den, when me an' me boss fight, y' 'elp me win."

"That's a very vague plan."

"I thought it up fer ya benefit, pointy-ear, so show a lit'le more respect."

"For my benefit?"

"Y' pointy-eared gitz like everythin' all good an' planned. Dat's no fun at all."

Illiawe sighed. Apparently, she was going to have to get some answers by herself. She took her wraithbone dice out of a pouch under her robes, and tossed them on the grimy floor of the craft.

Promises hold firm. Traditions crumble. An extended hand. Darkness, obscured. Favorable.

Illiawe kept the pieces, closed her eyes, and went looking for details.

Too many details. Too many possibilities. And yet she must look at them all.

Mostly favorable. But which route was the best?

Like a distant memory, blanketed by the mists of time and the displacement of her mind, the material plane intruded upon Illiawe’s senses. She was dimly aware of the passing time, of the ork shaking her by the shoulders. But she had to keep looking.

And looked she did.

Her face stung. He was slapping her, the rude beast. "Wake up," his rough voice rumbled at her.

Illiawe opened her eyes. "One more moment," she said.

"Och," Ghahzlay growled in frustration. "Y've slept enuff. Git up."

"I'm not sleeping," she snapped, annoyed. Her eyes closed.

He tugged at her arm, trying to pull her off the chair.

"Stop it! I'm trying to find the best route for us to take."

"Why? I've brought us 'ere. Dis is a good flya, she iz."

"No, it's not a physical route." The visions flashed by, one by one, a riot of colors and sound. Illiawe's trained mind took them all in.

"Ah, one 'f y' pointy-eared magics. No need. Make it up as we go."

"I like to know how a situation is going to end."

"Y' rely too much on ya powers. I trust me shoota an' me brains. Y' cin trust mine too. I'm a generuz ork."

"Trust your brain?" she retorted scornfully.

"I'm not da cleverest ork, but the only other option 'ere is your brain." He hit a button on the controls, and with a small quiver, the craft's engines stopped. "Come on. Put ya magics away. It's moar fun dis way." He moved past her and toward the dimly lit hold of the craft.

Illiawe stared after him, then quickly got up, grabbing her spear. Ghazhlay made a few quick gestures at her. They were obviously supposed to mean something, but she could not figure out what.

"Make yerself invisible," Ghahzlay growled.

"Right." He turned to step out of the craft, and Illiawe caught his arm. "Wait."

"What is it now?"

She reached for his head. Instinctively, he drew away. "Stop that," she chided, placing her fingertips on his forehead.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing harmful," her thought brushed at his mind.

"Wha-" He pulled away from her, watching her lips intently.

"Don't be so jumpy. The time may come when we'll have to communicate without talking. Now we can do so."

"I can do dis too?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"You there?" His thoughts burst into her mind, howling and echoing as if some great phantom wind had swept through the vaulted halls of an abandoned stronghold.

"Don't think the words," she instructed. "Think the thoughts."

"Like that?" his thoughts came to her, free of the accent that normally tainted the speech of the orks.

"Much better," she said. "It's faster, too. Once we step out of the craft, don't talk to me using your mouth." She drew on the powers of the Warp, and tugged at the light surrounding her. Like a cloak she pulled the essence around her frame, over her shoulders, around her ankles, across her face. Cut off from light, the world around Illiawe was plunged into a great darkness, as if all the light in the universe had been suddenly extinguished. Illiawe pushed out with her mind, moving her thoughts over the inside of the craft, the ork beside her, the area outside the craft, the orks gathering around it that she hadn't seen before. Sight - and more than simple sight - was quickly returned to her. Illiawe allowed some time for herself to adjust, letting the images seen by her mind to solidify.

"Let's go," she sent her thought to him after a moment.

"Where are ya?" he asked, looking around.

"On your right. Don't speak, think."

"We're not outta da plane yet."

"Just don't forget about it. Let's go."

Ghahzlay hit a button on the side of the craft, and a thin line of light shone in as the doors at the back of the craft ground open, its mechanisms clicking and thumping and scraping together.

Five orks were waiting for them outside, each with a cruel looking axe in his hand. They growled angrily when they saw Ghahzlay, and brandished their weapons at him.

"Y've got guts comin' back 'ere, Ghahzlay," the ork in front said.

"I'm 'ere t' speak t' da boss."

"After da last time? Why would y' want ta?"

"Da boss sent boyz t' come attack me, after dat last fight. I want ta know why 'e let me live, then send boyz t' kill me. I wanna know why 'e's acting all coward-like."

"Dat doesn't sound like da boss," the ork replied.

"There's a mark on the bottom of our plane that proves it belongs to those orks sent to kill you," Illiawe sent her thought to Ghahzlay. "Use that. These orks will recognize it."

"Are y' callin' me a liar now?" Ghahzlay asked, bunching his shoulder up ominously.

Unconsciously, the lead ork took a quick step backward. "No," he said, eyeing Ghahzlay in worry. Evidently, Illiawe's ork companion had a reputation amongst these orks.

"Cut the drama," Illiawe sent the thought out.

Ghahzlay jerked his head at the ork craft. "Look under dat flya's wing."

The lead ork motioned to one of his men, who moved quickly around to the side of the craft, peering under its wing.

"It's 'ere," he called out after a moment. "Da mark of da boss."

The lead ork looked impressed, and his weapon arm lowered, just a little. "Ya killed da boss' own boyz? I thought da boss had beat da fight outta ya. Now I know why 'e let y' live." The other orks nodded in agreement.

"Then take me t' da boss. I wanna know why 'e's acting like a gutless git."

The lead ork nodded. "So would I."

He led them away from the craft. There was a fortress of sorts not far away. Ghahzlay's reputation had obviously been intact enough to allow him to land near the ork fort despite his current status. The orks drew up around Ghahzlay, keeping a respectful distance between him and themselves. Illiawe lurked around the side of the party, the natural grace of her race keeping her silent and unnoticed.

The fortress was what Illiawe had come to expect from orks. Its walls were thick and formidable, despite its makeshift look. Large slabs of metal were riveted haphazardly into the wall, reinforcing the structure and probably patching up holes. Red, yellow and purple banners hung from the battlements. Roughly stitched onto them was the head of an ork, its jaws hanging open. Behind it, forming a cross, was the image of an axe and a gun. In crude green writing below the head were the words "Bad Parnz". Orks stood at the top of the wall. Some were fiddling with the turrets on the wall, though most seemed to be content with watching the horizon for threats.

They stopped outside a gate, as crudely constructed and solid as the wall was.

"What's ya got wif ya?" a voice called down at them from above.

"Ghahzlay," the lead ork shouted back.

"What's 'e want?"

"Da boss iz a coward!" Ghahzlay hollered in a voice that could have probably been heard on the other side of the fort. "'E sends boyz t' fight hiz fights!"

"Iz dat what 'e did?" the gatekeeper hollered back.

"'E did!" the lead ork shouted. "I saw da plane Ghahzlay took from dem! It wuz da boss' own boyz!"

"Den da boss got some explainin' t' do." There was a rattle of heavy chains and the scrape of metal on metal, and, ponderously, the gate swung open.

"Be careful in there," Ghahzlay’s thought came to Illiawe. "It's a little cramped. You don't want to get caught."

They went into the fort, and the gate slammed shut behind them. The inside of the fort had none of the usual trappings that would normally accompany the camps of the eldar. That is to say, it lacked such basic infrastructure as individual buildings and streets. It was an unplanned mess, as though a group of builders had set out to construct a city, and each had erected his own idea of the perfect building wherever he wished, with whatever he wanted. The lack of uniformity gave the place a makeshift appearance, with buildings hanging over each other and streets that went around and even through houses. Orks stood everywhere along the areas between the buildings that served as streets, shouting and laughing as they went about their business. More than once they were forced to stop as a couple of orks wrestled in the dusty streets, striking at each other with their fists while a group of orks cheered them on. Now and again the orks would notice the passage of the group through their streets. Then all activity would stop, and the din of the street would be replaced by the murmuring of a dozen angry orks, all demanding, with varying levels of coherence, to know what the weakling called Ghahzlay was doing in their fort.

And, in a loud voice, Illiawe's companion would holler, "Da boss iz a coward. 'E sends boyz t' fight fer 'im. I wants ta know why 'e's such a coward."

And though the angry mutters remained angry, the object of their anger was no longer Ghahzlay. Ghahzlay encouraged that anger with little speeches that bore heavy emphasis on the cowardice of the warboss. Soon there was a sizeable group of orks trailing along behind them, loudly demanding that the warboss explain himself. Illiawe soon found that even her natural eldar dexterity had trouble keeping her away from the closing orks, and soon she was forced to rely on her psychic powers to evade the orks.

It was therefore a great relief when they finally drew close to the warboss' dwelling. It was a building that could be accurately described, in a word, as ugly. The walls looked as though the builder had simply thrown a random mix of metal and slabs of concrete one on top of another. Its construction was so haphazard that Illiawe did not need her eyes to detect its crudity. The corners were rough and uneven, the angles imperfect. In testament to the mentality of the orks, massive guns lined the tops of its walls and jutted out of windows, giving the building a distinctly fortified appearance.

The warboss sat on a throne in front of the building. A banner of the clan hung over his head, and a massive chain-axe stood by the throne, only inches away from his hand. Warboss Edioez was a large ork. His arms were thick, his hide rough and scarred. His fists were clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he looked on at the activity around his camp, and hulking muscles rolled under his hide every time his fists clenched. Illiawe moved near him, her eldar senses active, her mind constantly probing her surroundings.

Then the group of orks, with Ghahzlay in the lead hollering about the warboss' cowardice, pushed past the general bustle of activity.

"Ghahzlay!" the warboss exclaimed. He jumped up from his throne. "Ya came back!"

Illiawe tilted her head slightly to one side. The ork's voice was friendly, almost warm. It was definitely not what she had expected.

"Y' coward!" Ghahzlay roared at him.

Warboss Edioez had been walking toward Ghahzlay before, but now he stopped, staring at Ghahzlay in what was almost confusion.

“I know now why y’ didn’t kill me when ya had da chance,” Ghahzlay growled at Edioez.

“Y’ saved me life, so I did not kill ya.”

“Y’ did dat t’ look good in front o’ da boyz. Den y’ sendz boyz t’ kill me anyways.”

The camp had gone quiet as the orks gathered around the pair, watching the confrontation eagerly, as if expecting a fight to break out soon. The warboss’ face was twisted in an expression of bemusement. He opened his mouth a few times as if to speak, but stopped. His heavy brow was furrowed in a massive frown as he tried to piece together Ghahzlay’s accusations.

“Tell them he won because of the help of an eldar.”

“Why?”

“You mean to fight him, do you not? Forfeiting the last fight makes your case stronger.”

“I also found how ya won dat last fight,” Ghahzlay said, taking advantage of the warboss’ confusion. He turned to the crowd of orks, pointing an accusing finger at the warboss. “‘E has a pointy-eared gitz wif ‘im. ‘E wuz a coward an’ cannot fight me by ‘imself!”

Illiawe pursed her lips. The multitudes of possibilities, the many branches of the future that led to the end of this event, it was all narrowing down, moving to one set path; and at the end of that path, a single conclusion that opened up again for the next event. Illiawe quickly ran through all the remaining possible scenarios in her mind. Thousands of alternatives, weaving together, crossing into others, merging, then pulling away, and Illiawe sorted through them, moving through the memory of the visions, keeping each one separate as only a farseer could.

The orks were in uproar, a single outraged cry rose from their masses as each ork added his voice to the accusing roar. The warboss looked around frantically at his orks, still not comprehending the severity of the situation.

“I do not…” he started, then stopped, staring at Ghahzlay.

Illiawe’s companion grunted angrily. “Ya ‘ave got a pointy-eared git wif ya. Tell it ta come out.”

Illiawe grimaced. “It?” she sent the indignant thought at Ghahzlay.

“Just show yourself.”

Were she in any other situation, Illiawe would have preferred to keep herself invisible. A quick probing with her mind, however, informed her that any danger to her person that would normally follow the sudden revelation of an eldar in an ork camp was nonexistent, so transfixed were the orks on the conflict between the warboss and Ghahzlay. Nevertheless, Illiawe carefully reached out with her powers, keeping the orks’ anger at the warboss at the front of their minds. Certain in the knowledge that she was safe, Illiawe released the cloak of light from around her, and vision returned to her eyes. She paused for a moment, readjusting herself to her normal vision, letting her psychic sight fade away. “Yes,” she said in a clear voice that travelled throughout the orkish ranks around them. “I helped warboss Edioez with the fight against Ghahzlay.” An angry murmuring rippled through the crowd. “I also helped him with all his other battles,” she continued. “Why do you think you have so many victories?”

“What are you doing?” Ghahzlay’s puzzled thought came to her.

“Quiet. The orks need something to think about, otherwise your power is going to be challenged in the future.”

“How does that work?”

“I need to defend Edioez, otherwise the orks will get suspicious. Simple enough?”

“You’re being too cautious.”

“Just be quiet.”

The warboss was staring at Illiawe as if she were the strangest thing he had seen in his life.  Illiawe ignored him. “Your boss saved me a while ago,” she said to the crowd. “So I helped him with his battles.” The orks nodded, accepting her explanation. It was, after all, something they understood.

“Den why did ya ‘elp ‘im fight Ghahzlay?” one of them asked. He looked around at the orks beside him, grinning at the cleverness of his question.

“Because Edioez has the same enemies as the eldar. He leaves us alone, he leaves the humans mostly alone. It benefits the both of us.” She turned to face Ghahzlay. “Then, of course, Ghahzlay came along and challenged Edioez. His goals and mine might not coincide, so why let him win?”

Ghahzlay jabbed an accusing finger at her. “Y’ cheated me of my fight!”

The orks murmured in agreement.

“I do not care about your little fights,” Illiawe replied coolly. “The important question is, will you do the same as Edioez does if you won?”

The ork pretended to think about it. “If ya don’t ‘elp Edioez dis time ‘round, den I will do da same.”

Illiawe nodded. “Very well. I will not interfere, then.” She looked around at the faces of the orks. Their expressions were indifferent, those orks that understood the exchange accepting the reasons given by Illiawe, and those that did not pretending to do so. “Be careful,” Illiawe sent her thought to Ghahzlay. “I’ll see what I can do the disrupt Edioez.”

Ghahzlay moved to stand in front of the warboss. “Well?” he asked, thrusting his lower jaw out pugnaciously. “I say ya don’t get ta be da meanest ork.”

The warboss was still trying to comprehend the situation. The belligerence of Ghahzlay, however, quickly snapped him out of his near-stupor. It was a situation that he understood very well.

“Whateva y’ are sayin’ I done,” he said, “I say y’ are wrong. I says I gets ta be boss.” He walked over to his throne, and lifted the axe that was next to it.

Ghahzlay turned to the crowd. “If da warboss iz a coward, and if I make a better boss, den I will trounce dis ‘ere ork!” The orks roared approvingly. Ghahzlay looked around, plucked an axe out of the hands of a nearby ork, and, raising it over his head, he turned to face the warboss. “I kills ya, I gets ta be da baddest ork.”

Illiawe retreated a few steps to give the two orks room for their duel, as did the surrounding orks.

The duel was like none other that Illiawe had witnessed before. Duels amongst the eldar were matters of personal honor. Moreover, the declining population of the eldar made every eldar life precious. As a result, they were formalized affairs, stilted and heavily regulated, and the drawing of blood was usually enough to signal a victor. The duel between the orks were vastly different. Despite knowing that the contest would not be over until one of the parties was dead, Illiawe was shocked by the brutality of the combatants. They clashed together with mighty bellows, axes swinging ferociously, each strike designed to deliver incapacitating blows to their opponent. Heedless of the precise art of warfare, they slammed into each other again and again, trying to overpower the other through sheer might. After a while, the duel started to resemble a wrestling match with weapons than anything else. It was only the anchor that her task provided that kept Illiawe from turning away from the contest in disgust.

The key, of course, was precision. Her interference had to be subtle, yet sufficient to allow Ghahzlay to gain the upper hand. As Illiawe looked at the size disparity between the two, the full implications of her task dawned on her, and she grimaced.

The two orks broke away from each other for a moment, and Ghahzlay’s thought sounded in her mind. “What’s the problem, pointy-ear? Why aren’t you telling me what he’s going to do?”

“That wouldn’t work,” she sent the thought back at him. “You’re not going to survive by relying on your own strength.”

“Then wha-” Bellowing, the warboss charged at Ghahzlay, breaking off his train of thought. The smaller ork raised his axe in a desperate attempt to block the inevitable strike. The warboss swung his arm in a negligent backhand, intending to sever Ghahzlay’s head. Illiawe sent her powers rushing toward the warboss, concentrating on the head of the axe. Spluttering loudly, the lethal blade went soaring over Ghahzlay’s head. The warboss brought his axe around, exposing himself, and Ghahzlay stepped close to him, his axe slicing an ugly wound across the warboss’ chest. The warboss grunted in pain, and swung his axe again. And again did Illiawe lash out with her mind, causing the warboss to stumble. The axe missed Ghahzlay by the width of a hand. He sprung in close to the warboss, swung his axe, and quickly retreated out of the warboss’ reach, leaving behind a nasty wound in the larger ork’s face.

Illiawe glanced around at the rest of the orks. Not one appeared to notice that the warboss was being particularly clumsy. Their anger at the warboss was still strong, and they roared with approval every time Ghahzlay landed a blow. There were movements in the crowds as they watched the fight, industrious orks taking the opportunity to lay a few bets. Rather absently, Illiawe noted that most of the bets around her appeared to be laid against Edioez.

A beefy hand clamped down on Illiawe’s shoulder, and she turned to the owner of the hand, assuming a lofty expression.

“Y’ gonna place a bet?” the ork asked.

“Of course. One for Warboss Edioez.”

“Y’ sure about dat?”

“Why not? He seems like the one more likely to win.”

The ork threw his head back and laughed, sending spittle spraying out in front of him. Illiawe grimaced and, cringing, wiped her face with the sleeve of her robes. “Becoz ‘e’s da boss?” the ork said after he had regained some semblance of his composure. “Me thinks Ghahzlay iz going ta be da warboss. He makes a betta boss, anyway.” The ork shrugged, the action making him look like he was rolling his shoulders ominously. “Ya got teef ta bet wif?”

“No, I don’t. At least, I haven’t got any I’d be willing to part with.”

“Ah,” the ork grunted dismissively. “Ya pansy gits are too stingy.” He walked away, loudly recounting her support of the warboss like it was the greatest joke he had ever heard. Illiawe turned back to the duel. Her eldar pride stung at being the butt of a joke, but she turned her mind away from it. Sacrifices had to be made, and she could not support Ghahzlay openly until Edioez was dead.

With Illiawe hindering his every move, Warboss Edioez was having the worst time of his life. The longer the fight went on, the more blatant Illiawe’s interference became. Eventually, Edioez was stumbling around, bellowing hoarsely in rage and pain, bleeding from dozens of ugly wounds. His left eye had been put out, his right arm hung limply at his side, and he limped with every step. The orks were in a frenzy now, loudly demanding that Ghahzlay finish the fight.

Then, ignoring the grievous wounds he had sustained, Edioez made a desperate charge at Ghahzlay, his axe raised. He brought it down in a powerful swing, aiming to split his opponent in half. Ghahzlay's own axe came up to meet the descending weapon, and Illiawe harnessed her powers. The two weapons collided, and Illiawe unleased her psychic force. Edioez's axe went flying out of his hand, and he spun around, collapsing to the ground and groaning in pain.

A massive roar rose from the crowd as every ork screamed in anticipation, urging for Ghahzlay to finish the fight. Grimly, Ghahzlay stalked toward the twitching form of his opponent. Illiawe straightened. It would not be long now, before she could return to the craftworld.

Ghahzlay stopped by the prone figure of the warboss. His lips curled, exposing a good deal of his teeth. "Dere's a new warboss now," he said.

Edioez groaned.

To the mass roar of the crowd, Ghahzlay raised his axe high over his head. Grinning, he rolled his shoulders, and brought the axe down on his twitching opponent. Edioez’s head separated from his shoulders in a spray of crimson blood. The orks went wild. Teeth exchanged hands, and fights broke out as losers lashed out in the hopes of getting their teeth back. The fights did not last long, as those who placed bets on Edioez were vastly outnumbered, and were promptly ripped apart. The vast roar of the crowd rose in volume.

Ghahzlay stooped and picked the severed head of Edioez up. He looked into its empty eyes for a long moment. Then he raised it over his head, and gave vent to a triumphant bellow. Gradually, the surrounding orks settled down. Ghahzlay turned in a slow circle, looking at the orks around him.

"Any git wants ta say I am not da meanest ork?" he challenged.

For the first time since Illiawe entered the place, the fort was completely silent.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

The ceremony that declared Ghahzlay the new warboss came almost immediately after Edioez had been decapitated. As all things of the orks, the ceremony was crude and inelegant. It was short and lacked the rituals that normally came with such ceremonies performed by the other races, as though the orks that had invented the ceremony knew that they were held in high regard by other races, yet did not fully understand their significance. The attending orks were no better, their rowdy behavior quickly stripping away what little semblance of formality that remained.

A couple of burly orks removed the headless body of Edioez, and another took the head out of Ghahzlay's hands, and stuck it on a pike as a trophy. Ghahzlay once again addressed the surrounding orks, asking pugnaciously if any wished to challenge his authority as warboss. As before, if any ork felt that Ghahzlay was not suited for that title, he kept his opinions to himself.

And just like that, clan Bad Parnz had a new warboss.

The general celebration that came directly after the ceremony, however, was anything but crude. It started slow, befitting the solemnity of the occasion as orks walked about speaking in relatively quiet and serious tones. It actually lasted for the good part of a minute, then the orks descended into their habitual hollering as they loudly demanded for the things that festivities demanded. Unhesitatingly, gretchins sullied forth into the orkish ranks, courageously plunging into the tide of the larger greenskins, scurrying through the crowds, each laden down with the many implements of the orkish party. As far as Illiawe could tell, they consisted of nothing but food and beverages. There were foul smelling drinks and unidentifiable roasts and various other foods that only managed to turn Illiawe’s stomach and make her queasy. The celebration continued, and the general noise produced by the orks only grew louder as the minutes went by. Inevitably, the fist fights started, and the noise turned into cheers and shouts of encouragement as impromptu wrestling matches sprang up. Illiawe rolled her eyes and went looking for Ghahzlay.

She found him sitting on the throne that Edioez had occupied, watching the revelry with indifference. The axe that had belonged to Edioez was placed by the throne, and the pike with his predecessor’s head attached to it was stuck into the ground nearby.

“Dat’s real creepy,” Ghahzlay said as she drew closer, his voice effortlessly rising over even the noise of the orks. “It’s gotta take sum getting’ used ta.”

“What’s creepy?” she shouted back.

“Dat,” he said, pointing at her. “Y’ walkin’ round wif ya ‘ead in da air an’ nofin’ under it.”

She looked down. Her body, concealed by the cameoline cloak that she had pulled tightly around her, was nothing more than a vague outline. “Oh, I forgot I had it on.” She loosened the fastenings that kept the cloak around her, letting it swirl around at her ankles. “Better?”

“No,” he said. “Now y’ are a ‘ead on a stick.”

She shrugged. “Is there someplace quieter we could talk?”

Ghahzlay nodded, and led her into the house behind the throne. The inside of the building was dim, and weapons and ammunition lay everywhere, stacked up in massive piles in the corners and strewn over half of the floor. The celebration of the orks came through the poorly fitted walls, muted but clearly audible.

"What d' ya need ta talk about?" Ghahzlay asked.

"I've fulfilled my part of the bargain," she said.

Ghahzlay grinned. "Y' did. Maybe you pointy-ear gits are not so bad after all."

"Don't forget about our agreement."

"Of course not. Fair iz fair."

She nodded. "Good. Then I'll be going back to the craftworld now."

Ghahzlay frowned. "Ya not staying fer da party?"

"No. I've got that Chaos business to take care of, remember?"

He nodded. "I'll call sum boyz ta take ya back, den."

“No need. I've got my own craft.”

Ghahzlay nodded again. "I'll go wif ya t' yer flya, den."

"Sure."

He waved her out of the building, and took the lead, pushing through the ork crowds. They stepped aside for him long enough for the pair to squeeze through, then returned their attention to whichever wrestling match had caught their fancy. It was not long before they were on the same street they had followed into the fortress, though now it was noticeably more empty.

Illiawe reached out to the pilot of the Vampire. He responded immediately, following her psychic beacon as she guided him to a spot just outside of the fortress.

The gate rattled and creaked open, and they went through.

Illiawe glanced at the ork beside her. "Do you have any plans for the future, now that you are warboss, or are you going to just make it up as you go along?"

Ghahzlay's chuckle was like the rumble of distant thunder. "Do I look like one of ya, pointy-ear? Stop askin' stoopid questions."

They reached the Vampire, and stopped. Ghahzlay squinted back at the ork fortress. "Ya know, I think ya pointy-ear are a funny sort, and weak and pansy. But y'are not so bad." He clapped her on the shoulder, and her knees nearly buckled. "I’ve nevar had a pointy-ear friend before. If ya evar have someone dat needs trouncing, come find me." He paused. "Da loot becomes ours, though."

Illiawe smiled. "I'll keep that in mind.”

Ghahzlay grunted. “Well, I be goin’ back t’ da boyz now. Den I git me sum proppa shootas, an’ go find dat bug.”

Illiawe nodded. “Don’t get yourself killed or ousted. At least, not until I’ve called in those favors from you.”

Ghahzlay grinned. “No concern for da well-being o’ ya new friend? Ya make me sad.”

“Deal with it.”

Ghahzlay grinned. Illiawe stepped into the hold of the Vampire, and the doors slid close, shutting her off from the rowdy and raucous atmosphere of the ork fortress. She closed her eyes briefly, reveling in the satisfaction of the successful completion of yet another task. Then she leaned her spear against the wraithbone wall of the hold, and slid onto one of the benches as the Vampire shot off into the sky, heading for the eldar ship orbiting above.

Amroth was waiting for her when she got back. “That was quick,” he observed as she stepped out of the Vampire.

She glanced at him. “I certainly hope that you haven’t been waiting here all this while since our last talk,” she teased. She made her way toward the back of the hangar, away from the Vampire.

He fell in beside her. “Mornedor told me to welcome you back to the ship. I guess your pilot informed him that you were returning.”

“Splendid. Well, you are here now. Did Mornedor, perhaps, also instruct you to show me to my room? I think I am in need of a good rest.”

Amroth grinned. “Of course. Just follow me.”

He led her to the same room that she had occupied, retracing the steps they had taken only a day before. “You know,” Amroth said, his voice filled with barely suppressed mirth, “we were all expecting that you would be gone for a far longer time.”

“I, too, assumed that that would have been the case. Clearly, it was not so.” A trio of rangers moved past them, their steps unhurried, talking in the uncaring manner of those who have been away from their craftworlds for a good amount of time. They were, however, decked out in full gear, save for their cameoline cloaks, which were fastened to or draped on various places of their person. Illiawe paused, removed her own cloak, and draped that over her left shoulder.

“Have the rangers not left yet?” she asked her guide.

Amroth laughed. “No. Some of them have left, true, but most of them are only just preparing to leave.”

They reached her room, and she opened the entrance with a thought. Amroth nodded once, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” she called to him, and he stopped, looking questioningly back at her. “I have another favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“Would you kindly show me to the baths? The atmosphere of the planet we are orbiting is not the most pleasant.”

"Of course," he said, leaning against the wall, waiting as she deposited her belongings on the bunk.

The baths, one of many that were scattered throughout the ship, were located not too far from her room. Amroth tapped a rune on the wall, and part of it shimmered away, revealing a space beyond.

"The baths," he presented with a grand flourish.

Illiawe peeked past the door. A short corridor lay beyond, with runes lining the walls on either side.

"It's quite austere, I'm afraid," Amroth said, "but this is not a very large ship, after all."

Illiawe turned to him. "I am looking only to cleanse myself of a bit of grime and dust, Amroth. If your facilities include water, it is adequate enough."

Amroth folded his arms across his chest. "And here I thought all farseers were needy. I think I wouldn't mind in the least if I dropped dead tomorrow."

"I think I would like to use the baths now. I know the way back to my room," she said pointedly.

"Do you need some company?"

She fixed him with a withering look. Amroth went back down the way they came from, laughing merrily.

Illiawe stepped out of the baths very much refreshed, and traced her way back to her room. She lay on the bunk and waited for the ship to return to the craftworld. She ran through the events of the past day over in her head. The trip had been fairly profitable. What pleased her more than that, however, was the fact that the journey had been straightforward, and produced no pressing questions that needed answering. Those mysteries that did surface, furthermore, should not be too difficult to solve. She was confident that Ethorach could work them out in short order. And so it was that, as the last of the rangers departed and the ship prepared to return to Ulthwé, Farseer Illiawe allowed herself to relax, and she quickly drifted off into sleep.

Ethorach’s private quarters were, as always, immaculate. The desk at one end of the circular main room was topped with a couple of scrolls and pieces of wraithbone, all positioned just so they lay perfectly parallel with the edge of the desk. Shelves lined the walls, filled with curiosities and bits of intriguing constructs, all holding a story of its own, a little bit of the aged farseer’s long past that will be forever preserved even if Ethorach’s own memory started to become clouded. Illiawe, of course, privately doubted that such a thing could happen. Though the years behind him were numerous, his mind still remained sharp.

The farseer himself sat on a comfortable looking chair, padded with plump cushions, on the other side of the room. He was staring at a section of the wraithbone wall in front of him, an action that he had often claimed helped him think. A finely wrought goblet rested in his right hand, and his left was playing with a set of wraithbone dice. His back was facing her as she walked into the room, and, as she always did, she stared at the exposed parts of his skin, looking for the shimmering that would announce the beginnings of the crystallization process that was the eventual fate of every farseer. Try as she might, however, she could not see any, and she smiled.

“That is very rude, Illiawe,” Ethorach said without bothering to turn his head. “Walking in unannounced is one thing. Staring is quite another.”

Illiawe moved towards him, and sat herself on a chair next to him.

“An interesting journey, Illiawe,” he observed in his dry voice.

She started to answer, before realizing that it was not a question. “Were you watching me?”

“Of course I was. Don’t blame me for it. I was concerned.”

Illiawe threw her hands up. “I should really be used to this by now.” She leaned forward. “Well, do you have any opinions to share?”

“It is strange that you should ask that,” he said slowly, sipping from his goblet. “I would have done things very differently.” He turned to her, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed mirth. “I would have peered further into the threads of the future. Gleaned what information I could in what little time I had available.” He smiled, the sides of his mouth creasing deeply. “I am not faulting your methods, however. Pray, do not take offence at what I say. Each seer uses his power in a different manner. Some of us like to look far into the future, looking at the consequences of our actions, and at the consequences after them, and those after them. Only then do we decide on the best course to take. Some prefer to base their actions on the best outcome of any given situation. I have yet to find another farseer, however, who look so closely at the threads of time as you do. Other farseers, at least, take the time to look at events past the current one, even if the time to do so is limited.”

He stared into his goblet, seemingly lost in thought. After a while, he spoke again. “Your preference for getting details rather than information on future events is strange, but fresh. Perhaps the rest of us are held down by our need for that information.”

“So you have no criticisms?” Illiawe asked.

“Were you not listening, Illiawe? I have many criticisms of how you handled the whole affair. But they are all related to style. I find fault in neither your actions, nor your technique.” Then he turned to her, an irritated frown on his brow. “Must you always come to me after your adventures? Do you crave so much for my praises?”

Illiawe grinned at him. “I do enjoy your company, my revered teacher.”

“Do not call me that. Your tutelage under me has long since passed.”

“It is a bond that will forever remain,” she said solemnly.

“Forever is such a long time,” he observed. “Is there something else besides praises and company that you seek?”

“Yes, there is. The previous warboss of the Bad Parnz clan – Edioez – acted a little strangely.”

“How so?”

“Ghahzlay accused Edioez of sending a squad to hunt him down. I did a little probing, however. Edioez would not have sent a squad after Ghahzlay. Indeed, he still considered Ghahzlay a true friend. Someone else imposed the decision to send the squad after Ghahzlay onto Edioez’s mind.”

Ethorach straightened slightly, and looked piercingly at Illiawe. “What are you suggesting?”

Illiawe shrugged. “The events that the imposition set in motion coincided too perfectly with my task. It could not have been a farseer, for Ghahzlay would have already been warboss if the events were set in motion by a farseer.”

“Perhaps,” Ethorach mused. “Or perhaps the farseer who did so had other plans than to befriend an ork warboss. Perhaps the farseer who set the events in motion wanted you to be the one to befriend the warboss.”

“Me? Why?”

Ethorach shrugged. “Perhaps the farseer could not stand orks, and would rather some other eldar complete the task.”

Illiawe made a face. “I do the things others do not want to do. That is an unpleasant thought.”

“Leave this up to me,” Ethorach suggested. “Do not be disquieted. I will find out who did this thing.”

“I have every faith in you, my revered teacher,” she said with a half-bow.

Ethorach ignored her, turning his attention back to his wall. Illiawe stood and moved to a sideboard and poured herself a drink from one of the many exquisite decanters there.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable,” Ethorach said as she lowered herself back into her chair.

She tilted her head, puzzled. Ethorach waved his arm negligently, and the door to the room shimmered away. Without breaking stride, two eldar entered the room, unfazed by the fact that their host had already been aware of their arrival.

Ethorach glanced slyly at Illiawe. “Looking far into the threads of time has its benefits.”

Illiawe turned in her seat to look at the new arrivals. They walked shoulder to shoulder, both dressed in combat attire. She recognized one of them. Balelath, an eldar who had studied alongside her during her time in the Warp Spider shrine centuries before. She laid her goblet down and walked to him. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he grinned, before enfolding her in a quick embrace. She returned the gesture, and stepped back, looking at his ornate armor.

“An autarch,” she said, noting the runes embedded into his armor. “So, you resisted Khaine’s calling after all.”

“Indeed.” His face grew serious. “Gladly would I permit us the time to rekindle our friendship and dwell upon tales of each other’s exploits, Illiawe. Such luxuries, however, have to be set aside for a later date.” He waved an arm at the eldar standing next to him. “This is Isenran, one who has only recently lost himself upon the Witch Path. He brings grave tidings, I fear. It is for this reason that I have agreed to accompany him here, to seek the counsel of Farseer Ethorach.”

Illiawe narrowed her eyes, and she quickly nodded, stepping aside to allow the pair passage into Ethorach’s dwelling. They walked over to where Ethorach sat.

“He’s not going to turn around,” Illiawe called to them. To Isenran, she said, “you might as well start your account.”

Isenran nodded. He was young, and, well aware of the scrutiny of two who have settled on their Paths longer than he has and the unavoidable presence of Ethorach, he was very nervous. “It is not a very good vision, I’m afraid,” he started. “There are many who are more experienced than I am. It was a riot of colors and noises, and I could not tell much. There was a presence, however, a sense that something was very wrong. A great disaster, a terrible doom.” Illiawe tilted her head, waiting for Isenran to divulge a little more details.

If he had more details to share, however, he was prevented from doing so by Ethorach’s voice. “Come over here, boy,” he said, wagging his fingers at Isenran. Obediently, he went over to the aged farseer. Ethorach raised his hand, and touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Think of the vision,” Ethorach instructed. “Pull it to the front of your mind.”

Illiawe waited. It took only a moment, then Isenran gasped, and jerked away from Ethorach’s hand. “My teacher never taught me that,” he whispered.

“Of course not,” Ethorach said in a low voice. “So much has been lost. Millennia of knowledge, gone with the passage of time.” He lifted the goblet to his lips. “An unclear vision, Illiawe, but a great danger nonetheless. The boy’s vision is indistinct, but it is clearer than his description has led us to believe.” A flurry of color filled Illiawe’s mind, a torrent of flashing images and voices, screams and laughter, mixing into a great jumble. One thing, however, stood out clearer than all the rest. A pedestal, white as fresh snow. On it, a small box of the deepest red and black, covered in clots of blood black with age and clasped shut with a piece of metal, pitted and twisted. The presence that emanated from the box was familiar. Illiawe felt a cold fear clutch at her heart, seeping into every fiber of her being. Hurriedly, she pulled her mind away from the vision, and turned to look first at Balelath, then at Ethorach.

“Chaos.”

“Indeed,” Ethorach said. “A planet, not too far from Ulthwé. Remote, uninhabited, and tiny enough to escape notice. There an artifact of Chaos lies, waiting for curious hands to lift it up so it may begin its work of corruption. It has to be destroyed.”

Illiawe understood the implications. “I’ll make preparations at once,” she told Ethorach.

“You’re going to insist either way, so why would I stop you?”

Illiawe gestured to Balelath, and he nodded, and moved to follow her out of the room. Isenran started toward the door, too.

“Wait,” Ethorach said, and they stopped. “Take the boy with you, Illiawe. You’ll need the help.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Illiawe nodded and went out the door, Balelath and Isenran close on her heels.

“How did you get dragged into this, Balelath?" Illiawe asked as soon as they were out of the room.

"I was with Isenran's former teacher when he came seeking advice on what to do with the vision. She advised Isenran to bring the matter to Ethorach, and I decided to come along."

"It seems that fate intended for us to be brought together again."

"Coincidence," he dismissed with a grin.

"The prejudice of your background is showing."

"The outcasts are a good judge of character." The craft that carried Balelath and Isenran to Ethorach’s quarters waited for them, its engines purring with only the softest of sounds. It hovered slightly off the ground, though it might as well have been at rest, such was the stability of the vehicle. Balelath gestured at it, inviting her to take her seat, before taking his place at the controls. With a small hiss and a barely noticeable shift, the craft shot forward, quickly leaving Ethorach’s dwelling behind.

"Where are we headed?" Illiawe asked.

"One of the rooms that autarchs use for small battles such as this." He paused. "At least, I pray that it remains a small battle. It will not bode well for Ulthwé should we be forced to gather in the Hall of the Autarchs."

"The artifact lies in isolation. Its goal is to be found by the unsuspecting. There should not be significant opposition, if at all."

"We can only pray for it to be so."

The chamber was located at the top of a spire near the middle of the craftworld. It was a small but airy room, designed for silence more than anything else. Only the most basic of furniture filled it; a large table, benches that lined the walls, and a few implements that the autarchs make use of in their planning sessions.

“Is the battle to be planned by us alone?” Illiawe asked.

“We will look at the opposition first. I will call upon more autarchs should they be needed.”

“Very well.” She sat on one of the benches, gathering her robes to one side of her. Balelath gestured for Isenran to take a seat, and perched on the edge of the table.

"All right, Illiawe. What foes await us?"

Illiawe reached into the threads of time, quickly looking at the various paths. It was not a difficult task. The battle was inevitable, and the forces of the enemy were unchanging. As she moved from one thread to another, only the forces of the eldar caused the threads to change. "It is as we have thought. The battle is to remain small. Sparse numbers of daemons, a few warriors of Chaos. It seems fate still favors us, old friend."

“And the higher servants of Chaos?”

"None."

"Leaders?"

"A Chaos sorcerer. Isenran and I can handle him," she said confidently.

"Vehicles?"

"None."

Balelath nodded. "Describe the terrain."

"I can do better." She reached out with her mind and implanted the image of the battlefield and her visions of the enemy into his mind.

Balelath smiled. "That's very useful. It would have made my planning a lot easier had other farseers been able to do this."

"As Ethorach said, much has been lost."

"Indeed. Let us now work to preserving what is left.” He turned to gaze out one of the wide windows, looking down at the glistening domes and spires of the craftworld. “Is that all there is to it?”

“It is.” Even as she said the words, there was a tug on her mind, a sign that the futures she was watching have subtly shifted. “Wait," she said, holding up a finger. "There are others. Mon-keigh. Untouched by Chaos. These are... different. They cut daemons down in droves." Illiawe frowned. "They are like no mon-keigh I have seen." Quickly, she extended her thoughts out to the autarch, placing the visions that she saw into his mind.

"Ah. A human order,” he said. “I have come across them in my travels. They are dedicated to fighting the machinations of Chaos."

"Then we must leave them unmolested."

"The question, Illiawe, is whether they would extend us the same courtesy."

Illiawe frowned, her thoughts questioning.

"The order's intentions are good. Their goal, as always, will be to retrieve the artifact. But they neither understand it, nor do they have the means to keep it from furthering its master's purpose. Their arrival, I fear, is a double-edged sword." He turned back to her and stared at the table, a frown on his brow, and Illiawe could feel his thoughts racing as he planned, took into account a host of factors, laid contingency plans. Illiawe could only begin to understand the scope of his thoughts as they flitted from one idea to another, making and discarding ideas. After a moment he raised his head.

"Perhaps the mon-keigh will accept a truce. An alliance. Will they relinquish the artifact? Who should be our emissary?"

“The mon-keigh do not trust us. Their understanding, as their lives, is short. They think us fickle, when we know the future like they do not. But their hatred for Chaos is as ours. If this order is as you describe, then perhaps we can find common cause in our mutual foe.”

“And the artifact? What of it? The mon-keigh think they know the vile machinations of Chaos. They presume to understand the depths of the depravity of Chaos when, in their naivety, they can barely comprehend Chaos’ purpose. They would take the artifact away. Conceal it. Hold it for study. And, surely, in this act they will have sowed the seed of their corruption. Their lives are short, and the future holds little meaning for them. But we know that corruption is inevitable; if not of members of the order, then of some other member of their race.”

“I will be Ulthwé’s emissary to the mon-keigh. Perhaps I am able to convince them not to hold on to the artifact.”

“When do you think it appropriate to approach the mon-keigh regarding this issue?”

“Certainly not before the battle. It might be best to wait until they are in the presence of the artifact. Perhaps they will realize the folly of taking it with them when they are in its vile presence.”

“Perhaps.” Balelath rubbed at the side of his face. “We will not need too large a force. The Black Guardians will not have to take up arms in this fight.” He turned to the door. “If there was nothing else either of you would like to add, we should be moving. I have need to talk to the exarchs, and we cannot wait to strike for too much longer.”

“Truly,” Illiawe noted solemnly to Isenran, “a plan of such brilliance only an autarch could have conceived of it.”

Isenran smiled nervously, unsure of whether it was appropriate to express himself. Only when Balelath burst into laughter a fraction of a second later did he allow himself to grin.

“Get me to the Dome of Crystal Seers before you go to talk to the exarchs,” Illiawe called out to Balelath as she got into the waiting transport.

The skimmer took off again, and Illiawe turned in her seat to look back at Isenran. “Have you joined battle as a farseer before?”

Isenran shook his head. “I have studied in a shrine of a Dire Avenger, however. The call of war is not alien to me.”

“The responsibilities of a farseer are vastly different from that of an Aspect Warrior. But it’s good to know that you are not unprepared.”

“My training is sufficient. I am ready for this battle.”

“Only the battle can judge the truth of your words.”

They got off the transport at the final resting place of all farseers. “Go talk to the exarchs,” Illiawe said. “We will join you and the army when we are done.”

Balelath nodded, gave a perfunctory bow, and turned his craft around. Illiawe looked around. The wraithbone dome stretched far overhead, disappearing into the shadows above. The ancient forms of the farseers themselves sat under the sanctuary of the dome, tier upon tier of them stretching further than the eye could see. Each crystal form glowed softly with a light of its own, illuminating the dome. Rainbows danced in the air, shimmering displays of many hues and shifting light, many of which Illiawe was sure that only the artists had names for.

"Ah, there they are," she said to Isenran before realizing that, even as she had when first entering the Dome of Crystal Seers, the younger farseer was staring at the display of light in front of him, oblivious to the affairs going on around him. Illiawe smiled and walked further into the Dome, leaving Isenran alone with his awe.

A group of warlocks stood waiting for her some distance into the dome. The rainbow light danced around them, giving them an almost spectral look. They were all garbed in rune armor, had weapons by their sides, and had the simple helmet of the warlocks tucked under their arms. One of the warlocks stepped forward.

“I am Elratari, Farseer Illiawe,” he said with a respectful inclination of the head. “We came as quickly as we could.”

“I appreciate that,” Illiawe said, inclining her head in return. “Ethorach tends to forget that I do not share his enjoyment of preparing for war in this place.”
            “It was no trouble,” the warlock said. “Farseer Ethorach sent us a timely warning. There was ample time for us to gather our wargear and make preparations.” He gestured, and two warlocks came forward. They were both helmeted; Illiawe’s witchblade rested on the outstretched palms of one, and the other carried her singing spear and helmet. “Your wargear, farseer,” the warlock said.

Illiawe stretched forth her hands to the one bearing the sword, her actions measured. She took the witchblade from him, pausing as the weapon passed from his hands to hers. She strapped the sword to her side, and took the spear and helmet from the second warlock. Another warlock moved past her to Isenran, bearing a witchblade and a helmet.

“We will serve as your guard this day,” the warlock announced. He reached into his robes, and took out a small mesh bag. “Your protective runes.”

Illiawe took the bag from him, and put it away next to the bag containing all her other runes. “Your protection is most welcome,” Illiawe said gratefully. There was a twitch at the base of her spine, a tingling feeling that reached up to her head. “The autarch calls,” she said. “The warhost is gathered. We must join them.”

The warlocks nodded, and fell in around her as Elratari led the way out of the Dome of Crystal Seers to the transport they arrived on. Illiawe sat on one of the seats, and took the protective runes out of the bag that Elratari had given her. She waved her arm, directing her psychic energy at the pieces. The runes floated into the air in front of her, lined up in a perfect, bobbing line, each piece pulsating with a soft radiance. Illiawe reached her hand out to them, feeling the psychic energy channeling through them. She curled her fingers and the runes floated toward her, attaching to various parts of her robes.

“We have arrived,” Elratari said.

Illiawe glanced toward him, and nodded. The door of the transport slid open, and Illiawe stepped out, with the rest of the Seer Council right behind. Ulthwé’s warriors were gathered in a large hall that was filled with the chanting of exarchs. They were in their individual squads, and Illiawe’s eyes skimmed over their massed ranks, picking out individual aspects – the blue of the Dire Avengers, the white of the Howling Banshees, the red-clad Fire Dragons. Balelath had been thorough in his gathering of the warhost, it appeared. There was a particular current in the air and underfoot, a buzz that Illiawe remembered from the Paths that she used to walk. It was the cry of war, a horn marking impending conflict which sounding used to set her blood to rushing. There was movement between the squads as rangers moved amongst them, each group moving toward their assigned squads to guide them through the webway.

“You certainly have the look of a Howling Banshee warrior about you,” a voice to her side said.

Illiawe turned. Balelath stood a little to her left. His ornate armor was now adorned with a brilliant red and gold-trimmed cloak and a pair of wings that furled and unfurled lazily. A sword was strapped to his hip, and a fusion pistol attached to his right thigh. The elongated helmet of a Striking Scorpion was tucked under his arm.

Illiawe smiled. “Is everything almost ready?”

“Everything is ready. Our preparations have been performed to the best of our abilities, in so short a time. It is now that we must perform our duty.”

Illiawe straightened, her hand tightening around the shaft of her spear. “Then we go to war.”

Balelath nodded and fastened his helm upon his head. “To war.”

The warlocks surrounding Illiawe stirred, and Illiawe looked around. A squad of rangers approached them, their cameoline cloaks leaving only their faces exposed. The lead ranger stopped in front of Illiawe. His expression grew questioning as his gaze fell upon the cameoline cloak wrapped around her shoulders, but he said nothing.

“We will be guiding you through the webway, farseer,” he said.

Illiawe bowed her head in gratitude.

“I will accompany you through the webway,” Balelath said.

“Very well.”

The Aspect Warriors were moving, heading to the webway portals that were to bring them to the surface of the planet. The ranger followed suit, and it was not long before they were moving under the shifting colors of the webway. An immense calm came over Illiawe as they walked through the shimmering confines of one of the many tunnels of that labyrinthine construct. Her hand dipped into the pouch tucked beneath her robes. The runes within responded to the brushes of her fingertips with a warm pulsing, and Illiawe channeled her psychic powers through them, wrapping a part of her mind around the runes, until they were no more than just another aspect of her, one that she was only subconsciously aware of. Her hand came back out of the pouch, her fingertips tracing undulating patterns in the air. The runes followed the trails left by her fingertips, until they were all laid out in front of her. Illiawe took a moment to admire each of the runes as they crossed her vision.

“Do not grow so enamored by your runes, Illiawe,” Balelath muttered beside her. “We will come upon the surface of the planet soon, and your powers will be needed then.”

“I am well aware of the passing of time, Balelath,” she replied archly.

The autarch raised one skeptical eyebrow.

“Mind your own business,” Illiawe muttered darkly, and her fingers twitched. Obediently, the runes settled close to her, orbiting her body along paths deemed most convenient by her.

“Much better,” Balelath said approvingly, as one might to a misbehaving child.

“Humorous,” Illiawe said dryly.

Balelath grinned. “The nerves of battle are best dispersed by humor,” he said philosophically.

Illiawe turned to Isenran. “Have you noticed how the prospect of battle makes some eldar so exuberant as to be almost irritating?”

The younger farseer grinned, and he quickly turned his head away to hide his amusement. His hands dipped beneath his robes, and he busied himself with preparing his few runes for the impending battle.

“The time comes when my plans are to be tested, Illiawe,” Balelath said. “I am not smitten by the gift of foresight. The sight of my plans coming into fruition still holds some small thrill for me.”

“And what feelings do watching your plans crumble around your ears hold for you?”

Balelath smiled slyly. “Perhaps, in time, I may yet experience this feeling. In truth, I am told it is at once humbling, yet insightful. It is unfortunate, then, that I have not had the pleasure of learning such a lesson.”

“It seems to me that you are simply guarding your pride, Balelath.”

“Take from my words what you will, esteemed farseer,” he said with a mocking bow. “If you are so inclined, however, perhaps you may one day find the leisure to follow the footsteps I have left in my wake in the threads of time. You might learn much from such an endeavor too.”

Illiawe rolled her eyes. The lead ranger came back to them. His hood was pulled up, and Illiawe was only able to detect him by his thoughts. He pushed his hood back, just enough so that his eyes were visible over the mask covering his lower face.

“We have arrived. The temporary webway portal is open. We can go through it, if you’re all ready.”

“We are,” Balelath answered, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Let us join our brethren on the battlefield.”

The ranger nodded, adjusted his hood, and stepped through the webway portal. Balelath nodded at Illiawe and followed, with her following just a moment later.

They came out in a snow-covered plain. Black rocks dotted the landscape. There was a small complex made of black rock just a short distance ahead of them. Shapes moved behind the windows of the stone buildings, as yet oblivious to the hostile force advancing toward them.

A squad of Dire Avengers moved past her, their weapons held close, their quiet footsteps muffled by the snow. The Aspect Warriors were completely silent. Each squad was well aware of its role, and moved without sound to accomplish it. Illiawe extended her powers, touching the minds of each of the exarchs. Though she did not walk the Path of the Warrior, the pulsing of the warhost’s purpose surged through her, pulsating in time to her own heart. Harnessing her powers, Illiawe advanced with the eldar warriors, another piece in the impending doom that was soon to befall their unsuspecting foe.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6

The fortress was made of massive stone, rough and worn with age. The malignant energies of Chaos seeped through the very fibers of the rocks, curling and twisting about the walls of the corrupted fortress. Illiawe clearly saw the corruption, the threads of the foul energies that almost seem to hold life of its own, seemingly mocking the beings fighting for survival in the material plane. She saw its malicious gaze turn toward the Ulthwéan warhost, saw the tendrils lash out hungrily, sensed its delight at the prospect of new violence and fresh blood. She fought back a wave of revulsion as her mind was filled with sibilant whisperings and the gross perversion of the Chaos energies.

“This place reeks of the filth of Chaos,” Balelath observed.

“Be thankful that such is all you sense, Balelath,” Illiawe replied. “The Chaos artefact has lain here for too long.” She looked at the coiling tendrils of the Chaos taint, and tilted her head. “It is dangerous to venture forth into such a place, but maybe there is a way to protect against the effects it has on the mind.”

“The influence that Chaos has on a place is huge even if it does not actively seek out targets to harm,” Balelath said dubiously. “Can you be sure that it will work?”

“Ethorach has taught me many things, some more useful than others.” She glanced at the autarch beside her. “I sense your disquiet. Do not fear. I have seen this corruption in my visions, though I needed to look at it by myself to be sure. I know of the steps that I should take.”

She gathered her powers, weaving them through her runes until they formed a blanket of pure psychic energy. Then she reached out to the Aspect Warriors surrounding her, placing the barrier between their minds and the turbulent energies of Chaos, repelling the passive influence of the Chaos energies with her powers. She straightened, running her mind over the squads of warriors, checking and testing the strength of the protection. Satisfied, she turned her mind out toward the warhost once more, concentrating on the physical presence of the eldar forces. One of the runes orbiting her glowed as she enveloped the advancing Aspect Warriors with her powers, distorting the light around them, muffling any chance sounds that might be made. The warriors, aware of the cloak, moved forward, quickly but quietly, each exarch already seeking out the best location for his squad and leading them toward it.

Her role thus fulfilled, Illiawe turned her attention to the complex the eldar were advancing upon. Its stone walls were high and formidable looking, and turrets were placed at intervals along it. Narrow windows lined the top of the walls and turrets. It was an ancient design that would have been formidable against weapons of a similar technological age. Illiawe tilted her head as she studied the architecture, rather irrationally wondering about the civilization that built this fortress. Now and again a form moved past one of the windows; corrupted humans roaming the halls, cultists drawn in by the whisperings of the artefact and coveting its promises, yet having no use to the masters of the artefact.

"The pawns," Illiawe observed. "Of use only to keep up appearances, to prevent any who finds the artefact from growing suspicious."

Balelath, too, was studying the fortress. “Your vision showed me the humans, Illiawe,” he muttered, “but I see no sign of them.”

“Your impatience for their arrival is unseemly, Balelath.”

“I see no reason why eldar lives have to be placed in the path of danger when the humans are just as capable of destroying the forces of Chaos that lie behind those walls, farseer.”

“The reason is the artefact itself. As much as my visions tell me otherwise, I would prefer it if I do not have to attempt at talking sense into the mon-keigh. I would prefer it if we could retrieve the artefact without coming into contact with them. They are difficult to communicate with, and their understanding is slow, their acceptance of the eldar slower still.”

“Is speed important, then?”

“Haste is preferable, but it should not place eldar lives in unnecessary danger. We all have to make sacrifices, and I will talk to the mon-keigh if need be.”

Balelath nodded. He looked around him, making sure that the Aspect Warriors were ready. He sent a quick signal, one that Illiawe did not see. As one, the eldar warhost broke out of their stealthy advance and jumped into action. The roar of gunfire and war cries of the various Aspects shattered the stillness of the air. Hails of shurikens flew toward the windows, and screams confirmed that the shurikens had found their mark. Red armored Fire Dragons sprinted across the snow. Their fusion guns hummed, a sound so quiet as to be almost undetectable, and streams of fire burst out of the weapons. The stone of the walls instantly glowed a bright red before vaporizing. The weapons barely had time to stop firing before Howling Banshees leapt through the glowing breaches in the wall. Their augmented screams resounded from within as they methodically moved through the inside of the fortress, falling upon the surprised cultists within and cutting them down. Swooping Hawks leapt into the air, descending upon the parapet and blasting at the cultists there with their weapons. Warp Spiders activated their jump generators, moving to strike at enemies within the turrets and along the walls of the fortress. Illiawe followed them all with her mind, pulling at the threads of fate to ensure favorable scenarios for each squad. The cultists, now alerted to the attack, struck back at the eldar with fanatical zeal, ignoring the casualties inflicted upon them by the eldar and pressing into assault. Illiawe turned her attention to them, striking at their minds. There was a confused babble of sound as dozens of minds recoiled at once, and Illiawe withdrew, leaving the cultists to lash out at the images of eldar warriors that had suddenly materialized within their midst. Beside her, Isenran was reaching out with his own psychic powers, guiding the Aspect Warriors, pointing out threats and easy targets, nudging them into taking cover when needed.

Then Balelath turned to her. “The warriors have advanced far enough into the fortress. We may now proceed.”

Illiawe nodded.

Followed closely by a couple of warlocks, Balelath moved through one of the breaches that the Fire Dragons had made. Behind the wall was a bailey, soiled by countless years of the touch of Chaos and littered with the bodies of the cultists who dwelt there. Beyond that lay a cluster of buildings, some half collapsed with age and neglect, and, beyond them, a large cathedral. Illiawe pointed at the large building with her spear.

“There is our goal. The artefact lies within it.”

“So your vision has shown me,” Balelath muttered.

A cultist, screaming incoherently, ran towards them, waving his sword in the air. Flecks of foam dripped from his mouth, and his eyes were wide. Balelath took a few quick steps toward him. His sword came up, brushing the feeble swipes of the cultist aside. The mandiblasters attached to either sides of his helmet hissed as they fired, and the cultist staggered back, tendrils of smoke rising from holes in his chest. Balelath’s sword came whistling down, and the head of the cultist went flying as the rest of his body collapsed.

“Come, Illiawe,” he said. “The warriors will need your help if we are to reach the cathedral before the humans arrive.” He turned to look around him, taking in his surroundings. With a few flicks of his hand, Balelath ordered squads of Aspect Warriors to clear out specific buildings. Rangers moved in behind the squads, ready to provide covering fire from those buildings as soon as they were clear. More Rangers moved out ahead, the snaps of their long rifles eliminating unfortunate targets. Dire Avengers and Howling Banshees advanced along the streets, sweeping the cultists from before them.

“Ready yourself,” Illiawe muttered to Balelath. “Resistance will increase before long.”

The autarch nodded. “Hold the perimeter,” he instructed the Rangers through the communications piece in his helmet. “Keep the retreat routes clear, should our advance fail.”

Wordlessly, the eldar force split into separate groups, each group moving up one of the narrow streets that led to the center of the fortress, where the cathedral was located. Illiawe sent a quick thought out, probing for the street where the fighting was the heaviest. When that was done she picked her way forward, moving up along the street until she came to the front of the eldar assault. Littered along the street were the mangled corpses and severed limbs of the cultists defending the fort. The rapid advance of the eldar had caught the defenders by surprise, and the Aspect Warriors had pressed their advantage, denying the cultists time to regroup and prepare. The attack had not been without loss, however. Here and there among the bloodied corpses of the cultists lay the brightly armored form of an Aspect Warrior. Isenran’s gaze lingered on each fallen eldar, and his face grew troubled.

“Surely you have seen eldar fall on the field of battle before,” Illiawe said to him.

“I have. It has never been through the eyes of a farseer, however. The Witch Path views death with a very different outlook, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.”

“Many of these deaths were preventable.”

“That does not mean that they were unnecessary, however. Put these thoughts out of your mind, Isenran. Concentrate instead on the living. There will be time to mourn for the dead later.”

They joined a squad of blue armored Dire Avengers taking cover behind a partially collapsed building. The exarch leading the squad nodded in greeting, snapping out of cover to fire his weapon, sending hundreds of shurikens whizzing toward the cultist lines. Illiawe peeked around the Dire Avengers. A group of cultists, perhaps a dozen, were hunched behind a low wall stretching across the street. Then they moved aside, and a score of pink creatures, their bodies covered in tentacles and assorted disproportional appendages, came bounding over the wall. The exarch hissed angrily, and fired his weapon again. The shurikens struck one of the daemons, slicing it apart and sending its shredded flesh flying out in all directions. Still the warp beasts kept coming. Elratari stepped out from behind the building. His witchblade whistled as he levelled the weapon at the daemons. His psychic power surged through his glowing blade as the warlock concentrated his fury. The air in the middle of the daemons crackled and hissed. There were flashes of light, and a ball of lightning formed in the daemons’ midst. Electrical fingers lanced out, seeking the daemons. There were pops and crackles as the air was filled with the shrieks of the daemons as their bodies blackened, flesh burning away, until there was nothing left of them but a pile of ashes and some scattered pieces of bone.

The cultists hiding behind the walls had been moving up behind the warp beasts. Now they stopped, suddenly lacking the cover they had placed their confidence in. Elratari raised his sword and the warlocks surrounding Illiawe moved, warp fire lancing out of their fingertips, striking the cultists and burning flesh away from their bones.

The Dire Avenger exarch burst out from behind the building, leading his squad forward. Across the street a squad of Rangers, noticeable only by slight shifts in color under their cameoline cloaks, moved forward, leapt over the smoking remains of the cultists and came to a stop at the wall. Their rifles snapped again and again, and Illiawe moved up the street behind the squad of Dire Avengers. More squads of the blue armored warriors came from behind.

“I will take to the skies now, Illiawe,” Balelath said. “I am curious as to how my plans are turning out.” Without waiting for a reply, the autarch crouched. With a rush of air and a blur of color he shot up into the sky.

Illiawe looked at the Dire Avengers around her. “Be on your guard,” she sent the thought out. “Enemy resistance will stiffen soon, and the cultists will be joined by daemons.”

The exarchs responded immediately, drawing their squads up into defensive formations, forming overlapping fields of fire that covered their now cautious advance. Her attention divided between the different groups of the eldar force and the many probable paths of the future, Illiawe was only barely aware of that. Such a small part of her concentration, however, was enough to alert her as a group of daemons, snarling and roaring fearsomely, came bounding toward the Dire Avengers. Immediately, two score of shuriken barrels hissed, sending thousands of spinning disks into the attacking force. The daemon advance simply dissolved. The assault halted momentarily under the constant fusillade, and the Dire Avengers managed to hold the daemons at bay for an entire minute before their weapons ran dry. With practiced ease they reloaded, but the delay was enough. Ignoring their injuries, the remaining daemons leapt over the remains of the dead and closed in on the blue armored warriors. The warlocks in Illiawe's retinue met them with their combined psychic might, and daemons fell screeching as their flesh were boiled away.

Isenran raised an arm and smote the daemons with torrents of warp fire. Ashes spun and swirled in the air as he called down the fire again and again. The warlocks spun and weaved, lightning lancing out from their fingertips as they held the daemons away from the Dire Avengers with their blades. Yet the daemons kept coming, heedless of the casualties they were taking. Slowly, the Dire Avengers gave ground, moving back step by step in the face of the counter-attack.

Then, in between one psychic strike and another, Illiawe linked her mind to the exarchs. “Hold your positions. There is no cause to give unnecessary ground.”

It was in testament to the trust that the Dire Avengers placed in their farseers that the Dire Avengers stopped their grudging retreat immediately. Their shuriken weapons spat projectiles into the daemon horde, and sliced bits of the warp beasts landed only a few feet in front of them. The daemons pressed in on their assault, snarling and spitting, intent on getting to the eldar. The Dire Avengers grew uneasy. Their psychic feedback increased just a little as the daemons drew ever closer, despite the best efforts of the warlocks.

When respite came, it was sudden. One moment the daemons were charging, a tide of flesh and teeth; the next, the middle of the tide was replaced by a fine red mist. Her spine tingled and Illiawe glanced quickly toward the roof of the surrounding buildings, just in time to give a thankful nod as the Warp Spider exarch activated his jump generator, leading his squad to another area of the battlefield. There came a piercing screech, and Illiawe smiled grimly. Shapes flashed past her, almost too fast for her to properly see. Past the Dire Avengers they went, smashing into the center of the daemon horde. Again came that screech, and suddenly the bone-white forms of the Howling Banshees were there, their glowing blades dancing next to those of the warlocks. The Dire Avengers marched forward again.

“A most timely assistance,” Illiawe sent the thought to Balelath.

“Was it what you had in mind?”

“The Warp Spiders might have been too dramatic, but it is a welcome assistance nonetheless. How well is your strategy holding up?”

“Most exemplarily.” His thoughts were just a little smug. “The daemons are sorely lacking in ranged weapons. We are proceeding at a good pace.”

“The enemy force is not one that is intended to win battles,” she reminded him.

“Whatever the reason, a victory on the field of battle does not change. It will not be long now, before the artefact will lie in our hands.”

The eldar pushed the daemons and cultists back along the streets, a blur of color and sound. Her mind joined with the exarchs, Illiawe clearly saw their advance, and the intricate harmonies of war began to take shape. The tides of fate eddied and swirled all around Illiawe, pressing in around her, then moving away. Now and again the tides grew agitated as death stalked closer to the eldar warhost, and Illiawe tried as best she could to turn it away again. Then the eldar forces broke through the cultist defenses, and there, lying before them, was the cathedral itself. As was the rest of the fortress, its black walls seeped with the energies of Chaos. High but narrow windows adorned its otherwise plain surface, the only ornament in its bare walls save for a pair of massive doors at its front. A wide flight of stairs led up to the doors. Between the eldar emerging from the streets and the cathedral lay a broad plaza. It was there that the defenders were making their stand, fortifying their position with whatever they could get their hands on. A wall of rubble and corpses had been hastily erected in front of the stairs, and daemons stared intently at the approaching eldar, their various appendages writhing and thrashing as they impatiently waited to be set loose.

Balelath landed lightly next to her. His sword was clutched loosely in his right hand, and his breastplate was splattered with the blood of his foes.

“The final obstacle,” he observed softly, sounding distracted. He scanned the black walls of the cathedral looming high above them, and Illiawe noted the guarded stance that he, perhaps unconsciously, took.

“Is something troubling you, my friend?”

“Indeed. The Chaos sorcerer has not yet been found. This is most unlike them. The humans of your vision, too, have yet to appear.”

“Your worries, then, are for nothing. The sorcerer waits within that cathedral with a great horde of daemons.”

“We must drive him out, then.” Balelath said grimly. “I do not like the loss of eldar lives such an action will cause.”

“Again, you worry too much. Indeed, your problems are all about to come to rest.”

Balelath’s thoughts raced, his psychic feedback grew puzzled. Under her helm, Illiawe smiled at his bemusement. She looked quickly around her. The majority of the eldar force was gathered in the plaza in front of the cathedral now, engaging the cultists and daemons that had fallen back there. Illiawe sent a thought out, and the Striking Scorpions and Howling Banshees pulled away from the enemy. The other Aspects moved quickly to deny the enemy time to regroup, suppressing them with their weapons.

A roar, quiet at first but quickly growing in intensity, came from above them. Explosions rocked the ground in front of the eldar force, sending the mangled bodies of cultists flying. Two silver aircraft, bulky and ponderous, swooped down from the sky. Another volley of missiles spewed out of pods under their wings, blasting into the ranks of both cultists and daemons. They flew close to the ground, skirted the edge of the cathedral, and disappeared behind the building. There was a moment of silence, then explosions and shouts came from behind the cathedral, followed quickly by squeals and shrieks as the humans cut their way through the daemons there.

“The humans,” Illiawe said. “Right on time. They will draw the daemons inside the cathedral to them. And so are all of your worries dissipated.” She looked around at the Aspect Warriors around her. “Keep pushing forward, warriors. We have to reach the artefact before the humans do.”

Balelath turned to her. “Is this now a race between us and the humans?”

“No. The humans will listen to my words, that much is sure; but we have to get inside before they leave with the artefact. Do not turn your full attention to this task, however. Eradicating all presence of Chaos from this place is just as important. In this matter, the humans agree, so there is still time.”

“As you say.”

The Aspect Warriors swept into the inner courtyard, their weapons raining death down upon the Chaos forces. Squads of Howling Banshees, their armor gleaming and their swords flashing, leapt forward to cut down the enemy with their swords. Striking Scorpions stalked along the perimeter of the courtyard, rushing in to slaughter isolated squads before moving quickly back out. Dire Avengers moved along the broad expanse of the courtyard, their shuriken weapons spitting a hail of projectiles into the enemy. From above came flights of Swooping Hawks, their wings flashing brilliantly, lasers lashing out at the targets of their exarchs. Balls of fire exploded under them as they dropped plasma grenades down on the heads of the cultists.

Illiawe advanced with the Aspect Warriors, intercepting enemy fire with barriers of pure energy, striking at the minds of the cultists, and concealing the eldar forces with mirages and illusions. Isenran stayed close to her, supporting her with illusions and protecting the warriors near them with his foresight. The warlocks surrounded the two of them, gouts of warp fire and lightning spewing out from their fingertips to envelop the enemy. Their witchblades sung as they struck at any unfortunate cultist who strayed too close.

Then the sounds of the surrounding battle dropped. The clash of blades and cracks of weapon fire and the war cries of both sides became muffled. The back of Illiawe’s mind tingled, and the tides around her grew turbulent. She looked hurriedly around, and there, upon the top steps of the cathedral, stood a figure. His wore a suit of black and red armor, adorned with spikes and coated with flakes of dried blood. Skulls hung from his belt and a heavy black cloak, worn with age, hung from his shoulders, the material flapping around his ankles, buffeted by unseen winds. Clutched in his right hand was an ornate staff, topped with a ring surrounded by spikes. The staff was held negligently in his hand, as though it was a symbol of authority more than it was a weapon.

Illiawe straightened, and the runes orbiting her glowed as she gathered her psychic powers. Flames leapt at her from the tip of the sorcerer’s staff. As one, the warlocks moved to shield Illiawe, their swords held up in front of them, their blades rippling with psychic energy.

"No," Illiawe stopped them with a quick thought. "Protect the warriors. Do not place yourselves in such senseless danger. You too, Isenran."

Unhesitatingly the warlocks complied. Isenran took a little longer, but his mind turned away from the confrontation to concentrate on the eldar forces.

The fire enveloped Illiawe, striking at her psychic shield. She waved her spear, parting the flames with the blade. The sickly green fire waned, and died. She struck back with a rippling burst of pure energy that she had often used to drive whole squads of soldiers to their knees. The black armored sorcerer waved his staff and diverted its flow, and sent another blast of fire at her. Again and again they traded such blows, small but quickly growing in strength, each testing the skills of the other. The sorcerer fought with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer. His attacks were quick and powerful, each designed to force Illiawe to commit more into her defenses. Illiawe countered by scanning the threads that lay before her, blocking his attacks with the least amount of exertion before lashing out, a quick strike that probed at his formidable defenses, searching for weaknesses to exploit.

The psychic battle was tremendous. The area around the two psykers became free of enemies, not because of fear of either psyker, but due to the sheer force that surrounded the pair driving anyone who dared approach back. Illiawe, her robes flapping around her ankles in phantom winds, hovered a foot above the ground. Energy crackled and sizzled around her as she hammered on both the mind and body of her opponent. The sorcerer, for his part, stood resolutely, his feet planted solidly on the top of the stairs, his staff trailing darkness as he moved, waving aside her attacks and returning with his own. The air around them grew alive with warp energy. The sorcerer’s barriers were resolute, but already Illiawe could see its form, the way it wrapped around both mind and body of the sorcerer, its protective strength as the sorcerer fueled it with his considerable might. She also saw its weaknesses, small areas where her attacks, if properly constructed, could penetrate without too much exertion on her part.

She blasted apart a shadowy monstrosity that reared up over her and sent chills down her spine, and weaved her fingers, channeling the psychic force through a few of her runes. The attack struck the sorcerer’s mind at hundreds of different points, each weaving around his barriers, looking for gaps through which to penetrate. The sorcerer responded immediately, and Illiawe gasped as a searing pain raked through her soul, clawing and ripping as the sorcerer sent all his psychic might down upon her at once. Her soulstone grew cold as the relentless assault continued, and she mustered her psychic energy, striking back at the sorcerer and pushing back against his attack.

As if from a great distance away she felt the dull consciousness of Isenran turn to her in surprise and worry. For a brief moment, Illiawe was tempted to call to him for help. The other farseer, however, was inexperienced. Quickly, Illiawe cast her mind about in the threads around her. Victory for Isenran was not impossible, but there was a great chance of failure, a chance that Illiawe was reluctant to take. Still struggling against the Chaos sorcerer, she cast her mind about the battlefield, searching for another mind that she knew must be close by. She found him lashing out at a group of daemons, reducing them to a pile of smoldering corpses with a shout and a burst of warp fire. Illiawe brushed against his mind, only the gentlest of touches.

The humans responded immediately. His mind lashed out at her, but she was already gone, leaving behind only the faintest sense of her perils.

“Turn your mind within the cathedral,” she instructed Isenran. “Help the humans there.”

Isenran raised his arms, and for a moment a burst of conflict raced across his thoughts. Then a powerful wave of pure energy rippled out of his outstretched palm, slamming into the Chaos sorcerer, an attack launched with the purpose of breaking down the sorcerer’s defenses through pure force. It was a futile act of defiance, initiated without the intricacies needed to overcome the sorcerer’s defenses. But it diverted the sorcerer’s attention for one crucial moment as he turned to Isenran, his psychic energy building up as he prepared to strike at the eldar. In that moment, Illiawe struck. Her attacks broke through the gaps in his defenses, and he shrieked, clutched at his head and fell to one knee. Illiawe gathered her powers for one final blow. Before she could do so, however, a burst of lightning struck him from behind, throwing him off his feet. A fraction of a second later, a gout of fire, burning so brightly Illiawe had to turn away from it, enveloped the Chaos sorcerer. No sound came from within as the fire burned.

Illiawe released the psychic energy that she held, and settled lightly back onto the ground. She turned to Isenran, a rebuke for his actions upon her lips. The other farseer looked back at her, his thoughts expressing his concern. In a second, Illiawe saw his intentions, the inexperience of his foresight that caused him to act in the manner that he had. The rebuke died on her lips, and she turned back to the dying fire around the scattered remains of the sorcerer.

"The humans have made it into the cathedral," she sent the thought to Balelath.

There was no signal, no chatter in her earpiece or a visual command as Balelath adjusted his strategy. The Swooping Hawks circling overhead dived, their lasblasters cutting down scores of cultists. The air crackled as Warp Spiders activated their warp generators, disappearing and appearing behind enemy squads, their deathspinners reducing bodies to a fine mist. The shrieks of Howling Banshees filled the air, the death screams of their foes coupling with the warriors' wails in a strange harmony. The change was subtle, but the newfound urgency at which the eldar fought was unmistakable. Dire Avengers strode forward with renewed purpose, the bursts of their shuriken weapons lasting just a fraction of a second longer than they had previously. Striking Scorpions grew bolder, charging at greater numbers of cultists and staying longer in combat. As one, the eldar warhost worked its way toward gaining entrance into the cathedral.

The warlocks moved in front of Illiawe purposefully, cutting a swath through the cultists with both blade and warp fire. Elratari waved his sword, and the makeshift wall in front of the cathedral’s steps exploded in a shower of dust. He led the warlocks in a charge at the stunned cultists taking cover behind the now ruined wall. There was fire and screams and flashes of light, then the warlocks advanced up the steps. They formed a semi-circle at its top, patiently waiting while the farseers under their charge ascended the stairs. Illiawe extended her mind out to Balelath, and, a second later, the autarch landed lightly next to her.

“How goes the battle?”

“The forces of Chaos are nearly destroyed. There are but a few pockets of resistance. They will not give the warriors any trouble.”

“Then may we proceed into the cathedral?”

“We may.” He spoke into his earpiece, and the back of Illiawe’s mind tingled. Two squads of Warp Spiders appeared on the steps behind them. “A slight precaution,” Balelath muttered. He gestured at the entrance to the cathedral with his sword.

The inside of the cathedral was dimly lit. Braziers and broken altars lined its walls, smashed apart by the humans. Piles of corpses lay scattered about its floors and in the corners, mangled almost beyond recognition by their brutish weapons. In the center of the hall was a raised dais. The silver armored humans were gathered near that platform, intently watching as three of their number stepped onto it, approaching a pedestal mounted in its middle. A fourth stood near them, chanting in a sonorous voice. The three warriors gathered in a circle around the pedestal, their attention fixed upon the artefact of Chaos that lay upon it.

A figure moved in front of her, cutting off her view of the pedestal. He was heavily armored, a sword was clutched in his right hand, and his exposed face adorned with scars and a heavy scowl. Illiawe recognized him. She inclined her head at him, smiling as his thoughts grew first surprised, then wary.

“Your assistance in dealing with the sorcerer is appreciated,” she sent the thought to him.

His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, slight but still noticeable to Illiawe. A force pushed back against her mind, and the link between their minds snapped apart.

"What are you doing here, xenos?" he asked.

Illiawe adjusted her thoughts, phrasing her reply in the language of the humans. "We are here for the same reason as you are."

"The Chaos artifact is to be guarded by the Inquisition. It's the only way to be sure it does not bring harm."

"The only way to be sure is to destroy it. The eldar knows how to accomplish this."

The human’s eyes narrowed. "You will not take it back with you, xenos. We trust you no more than we do the powers of Chaos."

Illiawe tilted her head. The conversation was moving along just brilliantly. "I have not come to trade petty insults and threats with you, human. I bring you a warning. Whether you choose to heed it is your business. But, should your choice be awry, know that you will not suffer the consequence alone, for the universe will bear the troubles with your race."

The human started to retort, but he stopped, and Illiawe felt his thoughts race. A crease appeared on his forehead and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Abruptly, he turned and returned to his squad.

"Are you sure they will relinquish the artefact?" Balelath muttered.

"Undoubtedly." She frowned. "There is something amiss about the artefact, however. A small cloud that I cannot pierce. Be on your guard."

The leaders of the humans were talking amongst themselves, casting frequent looks toward the eldar. Illiawe waited for a few moments while they held their discussion, then advanced into the cathedral until she stood in front of the dais. The four humans atop the dais were still holding their ceremony, preparing themselves to handle the artefact.

"I am the brother-captain of these Gray Knights," a voice rumbled near her. Illiawe's eyes turned to the leader of the humans. His bulky armor was heavily decorated with sigils and emblems and the fresh blood of slain cultists, and a large sword was strapped to his side.

"I appreciate your attitude, captain," Illiawe replied, inclining her head. "Most of your kind would have at least been on alert." She glanced pointedly at the four figures standing on the dais.

"We are somewhat tolerant toward xenos."

"So I can see. Do you tolerate us enough to relinquish the artefact?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." She turned and climbed the steps of the dais. Almost immediately, the humans reacted. Their weapons came up, pointed right at her. The eldar responded. The Warp Spiders crouched, their jump generators activating. The warlocks, immobile as statues before, brought their witchblades forward, and their hands rippled with psychic energy. They clustered protectively around Illiawe. But Illiawe was ready. She drew in her powers, and a few of the runes orbiting her lit up as Illiawe sent the power at the humans.

They cried out in surprise as their muscles were suddenly locked in place. The hall was filled with grunts as they struggled futilely, willing their muscles to respond.

Illiawe sent a psychic thought to the eldar forces in the hall. Unquestioningly, they lowered their weapons. She continued up the dais until she was standing in front of the pedestal. The four humans there grunted as they fought against her restraints, balefully eyeing her as she rested her spear against the pedestal.

“Oh, do be quiet,” she muttered, reaching for the artefact. Dimly, she was aware of the runes about her glowing a dull red. Restraining so many psychically capable individuals was taxing. The artefact that rested atop the pedestal was just as she has seen in Isenran’s vision. It was smaller than she had expected, enough to fit snugly in the crook of her arm, and positively dripping with the foul energies of Chaos. Illiawe tilted her head, wondering what kind of secrets lay within the box. She touched the surface of the box with her fingertips and tentatively reached out to it with her mind. The link had barely been established when she drew in a sharp breath. She spun around, and touched her mind with the human psyker.

“By the sword of the Emperor, you will pay,” his thoughts grated at her.

“Perhaps. It will not be this day, however. Listen to my words, as an enemy of Chaos to another.”

His thoughts grew grudgingly accepting, and his struggles, both physical and mental, ceased.

“The artefact is not alone. It has a twin, and both have to be destroyed – or guarded, in your case – for their threat to end. Our differing opinions on the handling of this situation has to be set aside for now. We have to find the twin, and wrest it from the grip of Chaos. Then we may argue about the path to take in ending its corruption.”

The human’s thoughts grew suspicious. Illiawe sighed and released her hold on him. “Have a look for yourself, if you yet remain wary.”

Gingerly he approached the pedestal, glancing every so often at her with narrowed eyes. He maneuvered carefully until he had the pedestal between her and himself, and Illiawe noted absently that his sword was held in just a way as to make catching him unawares with a physical attack difficult. She smiled and moved away a few steps from him. He glowered at her for a few moments, then reached out toward the box with his psychic powers. Illiawe waited. A moment later the human stepped away from the pedestal. He turned to stare at her for a second, then stepped off the dais, going to the captain. Illiawe released the captain, and they talked for a while. The captain’s face grew troubled, but he finally nodded.

Illiawe retrieved her spear, and released the remainder of the humans, the runes orbiting her dimming as cooling steel would as she reeled her powers back in. There was a commotion as the humans moved into battle stances. The captain barked a sharp command and they stopped, lowering their weapons.

The captain, accompanied by the psyker, came walking up to her. “We will be moving to retrieve the artefact’s twin.”

“Not by yourselves, you are not,” Illiawe replied coolly.

“We don’t need your help.”

“Quite to the contrary. Your psyker could hardly detect the existence of the twin, let alone discover its location. You could accept the assistance of the eldar and we can negotiate the terms for the ownership of the artefacts at a later time, or you could race against the warhosts of the eldar in retrieving the second piece.”

The captain scowled. “The decision is not mine to make,” he said abruptly.

“Of course it is not. I will leave you to converse with your commanders.” She turned without waiting for a reply and returned to Balelath’s side.

“You assured me that the humans will turn the artefact over to us,” he muttered. He had removed his helmet, and his eyes were darting about the cathedral, looking over the figures of the humans, the positions of the eldar, and the pedestal that held the artefact.

“I know I did. I did not detect the existence of the second artefact until I laid hands on it.”

His eyebrows raised. “A second artefact?”

“One that’s linked to this one. Both have to be destroyed.”

“That’s awfully inconvenient, Illiawe. Was that the cloud hanging over the artefact that you could not pierce?”

“The cloud does not “hang over” anything, Balelath,” she said tartly. “But, yes. That was the part I could not pierce.”

Balelath glanced at the human warriors. “And the agreement with the humans that you were so sure of?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. A mistaken outcome like that has not happened since my earliest days on the Witch Path.”

“Perhaps you should speak to Ethorach for more training.”

“That was uncalled for, Balelath,” she said stiffly.

“No matter. We will leave it in possession of the humans for now. Their aid will save eldar lives, and I would rather not antagonize them. We will retrieve this second artefact, engineer a plan to wrest the first one out of the hands of the humans, and return to Ulthwé.”

Illiawe nodded. “Warp Spiders would be best. They would allow us to escape with both artefacts.”

Balelath shook his head. “I would need a combined force. We will have to make our escape through the webway.”

Illiawe beckoned Isenran over, and relayed their plan to him. “Return to Ulthwé. Those gates have to be ready.” The farseer nodded. “One more thing, Isenran. When all is done, go to my quarters. Ethorach will lead you to it, should you need it. Atop the largest shelves is a rune of the Moon. Take it in your hands, and send a psychic pulse through it.”

“What will that do?”

“Signal for backup, should we need it.”

Isenran nodded. Illiawe laid a hand on his shoulder, and nodded once. “Lead the forces through the webway,” she said to Balelath. “I will need to guide the mon-keigh to our destination.”

“Have they agreed to accept our help, then?”

“They will.”

“Forgive me, esteemed farseer, but I will hear the words from their mouths before I make my plans.”

“Then here comes your answer.” She pointed at the approaching captain and the psyker.

“Cooperation is beneficial to both of us,” the human said. “We will find the artefact first, and talk about the custody of them later.”

“I am pleased that you agree,” Illiawe replied. “I will accompany you to where the second artefact is kept. The rest of the eldar will join you there.”

The captain nodded curtly. He waved his arm, and the humans prepared to leave.

“Go with the warhost,” Illiawe said to Elratari. The warlock nodded, and they turned as one to rejoin the eldar forces outside the cathedral. Balelath and Isenran went with them, leaving Illiawe alone with the humans. The artefact was being carefully carried out of a hole that was blasted in the back of the cathedral, surrounded by monotonous chants and hymns as the humans sought to protect themselves from its influence. Illiawe snorted derisively and drew a blanket around her mind, hefted her spear and followed them out.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

It was quite possibly the stares that annoyed her the most. No matter where she went in the dark and cavernous command bridge, curious eyes, tinged with suspicion and not a small amount of hate, followed her. Her weapons and cameoline cloak had been taken away from her the moment she exited the transport craft, and Illiawe fervently wished she had the protection of invisibility to shield her from the tracking eyes. The humans had not taken from her her runes, however, and disappearing using the powers of the Warp would have been easy under normal circumstances. The heavy footfalls of the three human psykers that dogged her every step, however, reminded her that doing so without ruining the truce between their two races was difficult, even if it was only for a little while. And so Illiawe did the only thing she could do. She kept her chin up, treated the psykers as though they were a contingent of warlocks, maintained a haughty expression, and strutted around as if she owned the ship. That last bit drew more than a few annoyed glances, and it boosted Illiawe’s confidence.

With a stately pace, she sidled over to the center of the bridge, where the navigation equipment were. The navigators of the unlovely human ship studiously kept their attention focused on their work, though they grew tense when she drew near to them. She casually looked over their navigational data, deliberately drawing close to them as the ship made ready to leave the planet, smiling as the humans shifted uncomfortably every time she did so.

There was movement behind her, footsteps heading in her direction. The psykers parted, and the captain of the silver warriors, still clad in full armor, walked through their ranks. At his side was another human. He was a head shorter than the armored warriors surrounding him, and, instead of their suit of armor, he wore a heavy attire not unlike the cloaks of the rangers. Assorted ornaments, polished until they gleamed, hung from thick golden chains. His heavy coat hung open, and the hilt of an ornate sword peeked out from under the cloak. He regarded her silently, his brow furrowed. Illiawe returned the stare, and she felt the human psykers around her carefully harnessing their powers, ready to leap to the defense of the man should she initiate any form of psychic combat. Illiawe forced herself to keep a straight face.

The man crossed the distance toward her, and stopped a foot before her.

“I am Volorus,” he introduced himself. “Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus, Lord of the Volor Guard, Master of the Three Fleets, and loyal servant of the most holy Emperor of Mankind.” He straightened, his shoulders unbowed by all those vast titles.

“Illiawe, farseer.”

“I do not regard your presence on this ship as an affront, as the more stringent of my colleagues do, but you are barely tolerated. Watch yourself.”

“You’re too kind,” Illiawe muttered.

Volorus gestured to the captain standing next to him. “Guigrim has filled me in. You will guide us to the other artefact. Try anything else and the librarians will destroy you.”

Illiawe tilted her head, and looked skeptically at the psykers before her. “That message has been made clear to me even before you opened your mouth, mon-keigh,” she said coldly.

“Then at least we understand each other.”

“Perhaps. This mission benefits the eldar also. But take great care not to treat me as a captive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The Inquisitor inclined his head stiffly, and turned on his heels. “Make ready to enter the Warp,” he threw back over his shoulder at the navigators. They nodded, and punched in a string of commands into the navigational panels around them. The great ship trembled as its engines shuddered into life. Illiawe clasped her hands in front of her as a rift to the Warp opened before the ship. Her soulstone grew cold as the rift yawned larger. Illiawe steeled herself, waiting for the ship to enter the Warp. It was only her past training as a Warp Spider that allowed her to maintain some semblance of calm as the rift swallowed the human ship. The blazing energies of the Warp enveloped the ship, a turmoil of raw emotion that, unlike the calm of the Webway, shifted and churned in response to the feelings of mortals and the whims of the beings that dwelt there.

Rather quickly, Illiawe began regretting her decision to join the humans on their journey. From outside the ship came hissing and growling as the denizens of the Warp converged on it, trying to get past the defenses that the humans had set up to repel them. They whispered and snarled and growled, and Illiawe instinctively checked her mental barriers, shielding her presence from them. The human psykers stirred as they felt her draw on her powers.

“Relax,” she muttered to them, “unless it is your wish to be joined aboard this ship by the daemons lurking outside.”

The psykers looked uncertainly at each other, then stared distrustfully back at her. “The Gellar Field will hold,” one of them said firmly.

Illiawe turned away from them. “The choice is entirely yours. Eldar souls, however, are highly sought after by certain creatures of the Othersea – what you call the Warp. Or did you not know that?”

The psykers nodded curtly and turned their attentions to the daemons.

The scraping and hissing continued, and grew frenzied. Illiawe frowned. She slowly gathered her powers, siphoning the energies of the Warp carefully so as not to agitate the daemons any more than they already were. The human ship had its own defenses against an incursion from the creatures of the Warp. Illiawe, however, was not about to trust in their engineering for protection. She was almost certain that the technology responsible for keeping the daemons out were not secure, try though the humans might to make it so. She looked over the runes orbiting her, and selected one. The sounds from overhead grew louder as more daemons joined in.

One of the human psykers shifted warily. "They sense the witch's presence."

A simple explanation, fitting the nature of his race. Even so, Illiawe was uncertain that she had indeed gone unnoticed by the daemons, and it was not a question that she would like to know the answer to. Illiawe's rune pulsed, and for just one moment its link to her mind grew dim. Then a soft blue light burst from its center, basking the area around her in a ghostly glow. A warmth spread through her torso and she raised an arm. The warmth travelled down the length of her arm until it pooled at her fingers. Illiawe flung her arm out, and blue light shot from her fingertips. The light rose upward, until it touched the metallic ceiling of the bridge. There it flared, and, when the light dimmed, a symbol of shifting blue light – the rune of Warding – appeared on the surface of the metal, etched into the cold surface. The daemons hissed angrily, and the scraping stopped for a moment. Then it started again.

“What is that?” one of the armored psykers asked.

“A rune. Protection from the denizens of the Othersea. Temporary and hardly the strongest. It will do, however. I would feel much more secure when human wards are not the only things keeping the daemons out.”

The psyker’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. “Such ferocity is rare from simple travels through the Immaterium.”

“Nothing is by chance, human. Not even this attack. Now, I shall see to it that sufficient Warding Runes are placed about your ship.”

But the human ship was large, filled with corridors and vents and whole rooms that lay unoccupied and dark. Those areas that were occupied, on the other hand, were cramped with enough of the humans that the combined brilliance of their souls caused the daemons to concentrate their efforts there. Illiawe quailed, suddenly realizing the enormity of her task. Had she been on an eldar ship, Illiawe only needed to request, and warlocks and farseers would have leapt to her aid. She was not on an eldar ship, however. Illiawe bit on her lower lip, forcing her powers out, inscribing runes of shifting blue light into the walls and ceilings and floors of the outer halls of the ship. The glow of the rune orbiting her shifted as well. The blue slowly faded, and, from its center, a rapidly expanding pinpoint of glowing red appeared. She was drawing too heavily on the powers of the Warp.

Then a rush of psychic energy surrounded Illiawe, twisting around her outstretched arm, forcing its way next to her own energy that she was channeling through the rune. The psychic manipulation was heavy and blunt, lacking any of the subtlety mastered by the psykers of the eldar.

The psychic presence came from behind her, and Illiawe spun about. It was not another of the silver armored psykers that was helping her, however. The figure was clad in a black robe embossed with ornamental runes, runes that matched those that decorated Inquisitor Volorus’ own attire. A deep cowl was pulled over the figure's head. Illiawe scowled.

"Your clumsiness is throwing me off, mon-keigh."

"We have studied the eldar use of psychic powers," came the reply from under the hood. "We have never joined our might with one of your kind, however."

"I sincerely doubt that any eldar would willingly accept your help. Indeed, you may just do more harm than good."

"This is not the time for this," the hooded psyker said. "You need aid, and we are the only ones who can provide that aid."

Illiawe scowled. As much as she hated to admit, the human was right. She was unable to ward the whole ship by herself, and, if the psyker really did have even a marginal understanding of the eldar techniques, then they might just be able to combine their powers. The problem, of course, was admitting to the human that she needed his assistance.

"The two of us are not going to be enough," she said in as even a tone as possible.

"I did say "we" and not "I"."

Out of the shadows behind the human stepped a dozen figures, all similarly robed and hooded as the first. Silently, they moved to gather around her. Their heads bowed, the human psykers began drawing on the Warp.

The combined might of their psychic powers struck her like a hammer. Illiawe grunted in surprise.

"Stem your powers, idiots!" she grated. The mon-keigh obviously knew nothing of the psychic art. Their efforts were typical of their race, all brute power, lacking grace and respect for the power that they held. Illiawe shuddered as she thought about the implications on the humans’ use of psychic powers.

As blunt as their support was, however, it was far from useless. Their psychic energy poured into Illiawe, and she channeled it – the bare minimum for the task at hand, as all eldar learned from the first day of stepping onto the Witch Path – through her rune, and she ceased entirely to draw her own energy from the Warp. The rune returned to its blue glow. As long as the humans were willing to take the risk for her, Illiawe was perfectly happy to let them do so. The humans continued lending her their psychic might, their flow barely reduced even after her rebuke. The unused energy built up in Illiawe, sending tingles down her spine and setting a pressure against the back of her mind. Illiawe extended her powers, laying down runes all over the ship. Loathe as she was to admit it, the excess power of the humans placed Illiawe in a rather interesting situation. Maintaining the runes became an almost trivial matter, almost as if a whole Seer Council had joined her, and Illiawe started looking for something else to do. She shielded herself from the daemons lurking outside, weaving a web from the power of the human psykers. Then she sent her mind out, seeking the daemons outside the ship. Beside her, Illiawe heard one of the humans drew in a sharp breath. The cause of the amazement was not terribly difficult to figure out. Teeming outside the human ship was a horde of daemons, more than what was perhaps normal for an incursion into the Warp. A chill settled over her, and, almost instinctively, Illiawe lashed out at the daemons, striking at them with sharp blows. The daemons reeled away, but only for a moment. Illiawe concentrated, and a bubble of pure force enveloped the ship. She extended it, until it reached out past the human defenses, pushing the daemons back as the ship plowed through the Warp. More daemons came pouring out of the turbulent surroundings of the Warp, pressing against Illiawe’s barrier.

The armored psykers stirred uneasily. “Will the runes hold?” one of them asked.

“They will,” she replied nonchalantly.

“Maybe we should make sure that the Gellar field is still running properly,” the psyker said to the other two, “just in case.” He glanced at the runes, then at Illiawe. His tone was cautionary, uncertain, as though fearful that Illiawe’s runes would fail. Illiawe, however, picked up something else. Try though the human might to hide it, there was just a hint of distrust implicit in his expression when he had looked at her.

“I have an interest in keeping the wards in place and the daemons at bay,” she said tartly. “Certainly more than you do. Quite probably more than you could begin to understand.”

Beside her, Illiawe felt a burst of emotion; curiosity, certainly, though it was tinged with apprehension. A mind, shallow and simple, though more complex than her past experiences had taught her to expect, touched her mind. Illiawe felt the hooded psyker probe around the edges of her consciousness, touching her barriers, looking for a way past her psychic defenses. Illiawe let a small bit of her guard down. The human searched around, until she found the gap. Eagerly she pushed her mind past Illiawe’s defenses into that small portion of Illiawe’s mind that Illiawe allowed her to view. There was awe as the human mind linked with Illiawe’s. Almost idly, Illiawe realized that, had she been inclined to, she could have ripped the human mind apart with no fear for her own safety. Carefully, she stored that information away.

The wards, however, still needed to be kept up, and Illiawe needed the power of the psyker. Almost instinctively, she started to retaliate, to push the nosy human out of her mind. Behind that probing, however, Illiawe detected a purpose. Her mind brushed the human's lightly, and Illiawe straightened. Her rebuke to the armored psyker had stirred the human's curiosity. The human wanted to know of the fate that Illiawe spoke of. The farseer tilted her head to one side. Knowledge of the fate that all eldar knew awaited them should their souls fall to She Who Thirsts might perhaps aid the humans' understanding, or, at the very least, instill some fear and, perhaps, some modicum of respect. On the other hand, humans were notoriously slow of understanding. The eldar learned to live with the possibility of such a fate, but the humans remained blissfully ignorant, and the full implications of even the torments that eldar souls suffered might be enough to destroy the sanity of the human psyker. It was an interesting conundrum.

Normally, Illiawe would not have cared if the human survived the experience sane. The remaining humans, however, might choose to accuse her of attacking the psyker. So Illiawe brought one of the milder visions that she had picked up in her time as a farseer, and brought it into the small part of her mind that she had allowed the human to access. Then she withdrew and waited, watching as the human probed ever deeper, drawing ever closer to the memory. The human was taking it slow, trying, it appeared, to prevent Illiawe from noticing what she was doing. Then the human’s mind touched the memory that Illiawe had put out for her.

The effect was instantaneous. The psyker gasped, and her mind was wrenched from Illiawe’s. She fell back, out of the circle. Then her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. Her companions looked at her in concern, but they kept their psychic energy up. The armored psykers, on the other hand, took the situation a little more seriously.

"What did you do?" one of the armored psykers demanded. His sword came whistling out of its sheath.

"Perhaps she has overextended herself," Illiawe suggested mildly.

"The psyker entourage of the Inquisitor does not "overextend"," he said scornfully.

Illiawe ignored him, looking instead at the shaking form of the psyker. "Perhaps you should stay out of the mind of an eldar," she suggested.

The armored psykers, of course, completely misunderstood Illiawe's suggestion. "You will regret attacking her," he grated. His sword came up, and lightning crackled in his left fist.

“Stop.” The command halted the armored human in his tracks. It was the first of the hooded psykers. "The eldar is not responsible for the attack."

The armored psyker glared at Illiawe for a moment, then he rammed his sword back into his scabbard. "What's wrong with her, then?"

"Good question. Maybe we should ask her when she recovers." He turned to Illiawe. "Will Sylana's disposition affect the wards?"

"No. I am curious, however, how you managed to discern that I am not to blame for the condition of your friend." Illiawe glanced at the shaking human female.

"We have established a permanent link between our minds. I knew of Sylana's intentions when she entered your thoughts."

Illiawe's eyes narrowed. "That is an eldar technique."

"It is."

"Then you know what she saw?"

"No. Intentions is all we can sense."

That made Illiawe feel a lot better. The humans had not mastered the technique. Though that was some small comfort, the fact that they even knew how to do so in the first place disturbed Illiawe.

Then it was over and the human ship exited the Warp. Illiawe drew in a deep shuddering breath. Tension that she had not known had been building up was suddenly released, and Illiawe rubbed at her forehead, reaching back into her memories of her Warp Spider training to calm herself. The hooded psykers moved away to gather around Sylana, though the first psyker moved to stand before Illiawe.

“Are you all right?”

Illiawe quickly let her hands drop. “I am fine,” she replied curtly. She took another deep breath, forcing her expression to remain neutral, and tried to push the thoughts of the Warp from her mind.

“Are you sure?”

No, I am not. It has been too long since I have traversed the Othersea. But what would a mon-keigh know of the terrors that plague our race? “Yes,” she said irritably, “I am fine. Leave me be, human.”

“Noshan,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s my name. I thought you might prefer to use it instead of calling me “human”.”

“Perhaps I will remember it.” Illiawe said it in as dismissive a tone as she could manage, willing the human to return to his friends.

“Perhaps. It was an interesting experience, farseer. Perhaps we might one day have a chance to talk more. I’m sure I could learn a lot from you.” He smiled, turned, and walked away. After a few steps, he stopped. “Don’t worry too much about the Warp. The Eldar are not the only ones who get nervous travelling through it.”

Illiawe’s eyes narrowed, but he had already turned away.

Then Inquisitor Volorus came walking onto the bridge, with Guigrim by his side. "Most excellent work," he complemented his psyker entourage. "You will accompany Guigrim onto the planet," he said to Illiawe. "I understand that the rest of your race will be there. You will work with the Grey Knights to retrieve the artifact, and bring it back to this ship. Then we will discuss its ownership."

His choice of words caused Illiawe's eyes to narrow, but she quickly suppressed her feelings and nodded coldly to the Inquisitor.

"Do not plan on stealing the artifact from us, xeno," Volorus continued. "The moment you turn on us, my ship will scour the planet of your kind."

"Tactful," Noshan said, quickly moving to the side of his lord before Illiawe had the chance to retort. "You continue to surprise me with your diplomatic skills. Forgive my lord," he said to Illiawe. "Trust me, his actions do not match with his rather belligerent attitude." He gestured to the hooded psykers and they moved to the Inquisitor's side, supporting the still weak Sylana between two of their number.

Volorus' eyebrows rose at the sight. "What happened?" he asked, and Illiawe thought she detected concern in his voice.

"I'll tell you later. Now, why don't we leave the eldar in the capable hands of the Emperor's warriors?"

Volorus grunted, and the group swept out of the bridge, leaving Illiawe alone with the psykers and the scowling captain.

Guigrim stared at her for a minute, then he turned and, without a word, followed the Inquisitor out of the bridge with the psykers right on his heels. Illiawe rolled her eyes and followed them.

The captain led them down the length of the ship, moving at a purposeful pace. The other humans aboard the ship took one look at the grim expression on the faces of the armored humans and prudently melted out of their path. Illiawe moved behind them, her long legs allowing her to easily keep pace with the humans despite the captain’s best attempts to push her into a degrading run. She kept an icy calm over herself, preparing for the looks of hatred that the humans would direct at her. As they went down one corridor after another, however, no hostile looks were cast her way and, in spite of herself, even began to enjoy herself as the humans occupied themselves with staring at her in amazement as they waited for the party to pass. Rather quickly, Illiawe was forced to revise her long-held prejudices against the humans. It appeared that Mankind’s hatred for all things alien did not stretch past their immediate territories. The thoughts led her to the interesting conclusion that, just perhaps, a greater understanding between their two races could be had. She pursed her lips, wondering at the idea of explaining matters to the humans rather than the eldar’s customary bursts of violence as a solution to threats posed to both their races. The thought appealed to Illiawe, but she was forced to push it into the back of her mind as nothing more than idealistic fantasy. The humans had millennia to develop, and their knowledge and conduct were both still infantile.

They came to the transport hold in the bowels of the ship, a cavernous bay that had statues lining its walls and a great arcing roof that stretched up into the shadows above. Five of the silver human crafts awaited there. Humans, loud and clumsy robotic arms arching out over their backs, puttered around the crafts, prodding and adjusting as they chanted to the crafts. More of the silver armored humans were gathered in front of the crafts, lined up with parade grounds precision as they waited for Guigrim and the psykers to approach.

Guigrim looked over the humans, and nodded once. “We will strike at the heart of the daemons, and rid them from this world. Each one of you know your duty. Perform them well, so that the Most Holy Emperor may look favorably upon you.”

"Marvelous speech," Illiawe muttered to him.

He huffed irritably and moved to join his men. There was a light step behind her, and Illiawe turned. An unarmored human stood just behind her to the left, laden down with her wargear. He was young, even by human standards, and his face was drawn in a comical expression that he probably hoped made him look dangerous. Hesitantly he held the wargear out to her and she took them from him, smiling as she did so. Instinctively he flinched, and Illiawe laughed, the trailing end of her silvery mirth scrambled slightly as her helmet hissed into place. Guigrim and the psykers spun about, their weapons unconsciously rising. Illiawe pulled her cameoline cloak around her shoulders with a flourish so that the material flared out dramatically behind her. As the cloak settled around her shoulders, something tugged at her mind, and Illiawe smiled. The touch of the humans was all over the cloak. Their study of it, fortunately, was a failure, as she had known it would be. Illiawe frowned. The humans must have known, too. Their stubbornness amused Illiawe greatly, for some reason, and she found herself grinning as she joined Guigrim.

"Either raise your arm or lower it," she said to the humans. "You look absolutely ridiculous with it half raised like that." Without waiting for a reply, she swept into the hold of the waiting craft. Gathering her robes to one side, she sat next to an armored human, who was doing his best to pretend like she did not exist. "Come on in," she called out to Guigrim, "we do not have much time, and my kin are already awaiting our arrival."

The craft started with a jolt and a heavy shudder that reminded Illiawe of the Ork craft, and ponderously rose into the air. With a deafening blast the crafts rose and, turning, shot out of the ship’s hold. The crafts streaked down toward the planet, and Illiawe readied her mind. The craft shuddered as it entered the atmosphere of the planet. Then the crafts levelled out, and the humans started shouting at each other. There was the clash of metal upon metal as the humans stood, shifting their weapons and armor into more comfortable positions. There was a small hiss as the hatch to the transport’s hold opened and a thin stream of light poured in.

“Ready yourselves, brothers!” Guigrim hollered needlessly.

The hatch swung open, and the humans exited the craft with a guttural war cry and a storm of weapons fire. Illiawe followed after them, her mind probing her surroundings for the Eldar force. The world was a dusty one, rocky and uneven. A string of rocky mountains curved around behind them, brown and blasted by the sun. Rather absently, Illiawe noted that the Fates seemed bent on making her set foot upon unpleasant planets. Her searching mind made contact with a group of rangers at the top of a hill some distance away, and their mental responses came back, acknowledging that they were aware of her presence.

“We saw the human crafts descend,” the lead ranger muttered through her earpiece. “We have you in our sights, farseer.”

“Where’s Autarch Balelath?” Illiawe responded mentally.

“Ahead. There is a fortress past the rise ahead of you not much different from the one on the other planet. The autarch awaits on the other side of it. Our forces have made good use of the time it took you to arrive. They are spread out around the fortress. We are ready to strike as soon as he gives the word.”

“Perhaps I should seek him out.”

“We’ll cover you as best we can.”

Illiawe turned her attention toward the humans. They were advancing up the dusty surface of the planet, moving through the dust that had been kicked up by the engines of their crafts, which were clawing into the air to provide support. Their pace was cautious, their weapons held close to them. From behind her, Illiawe heard the snaps of the rangers’ longrifles. There were cries from in front as the rangers found their mark. There was a moment of silence as the rangers continued scanning for more targets. Then, as they fired a second volley, the terrain erupted in sound and light. Enemy fire filled the air around them. Eldar would have moved away and waited for the support of other Aspects. The humans, on the other hand, surged forward, their heavy footfalls rising intimidatingly as they broke into a run.

“Destroy them!” Guigrim shouted to the armored humans. Their weapons barked as they sprayed fire in the general direction ahead of them, seeking, perhaps, to eliminate their foes through chance shots. Illiawe quickly looked into the strings of the future, and translocated herself near Guigrim's squad. She held her left arm out, releasing her psychic powers. A glowing barrier of pure force materialized in front of the humans. Enemy fire struck at it, but it did not falter under Illiawe's will.

"Over there," she pointed at the top of one of the rocky hills ahead of them. To the credit of the humans, they did not waste time questioning her. The squad crashed to a halt and directed their fire toward the area that she had pointed at. From the twisted minds of the Chaos forces there, Illiawe felt shock, followed by panic and agony, and then there was silence. She pointed to another spot, and Guigrim relayed a command to one of his men. Another squad stopped, and Illiawe extended her barrier, protecting them as they opened up with their ungainly weapons. She felt the remaining cultists scatter, and the enemy fire lessened until Illiawe was able to drop her barrier and let the humans’ armor protect them.

The Chaos troops who have been shooting at them were retreating, and they pressed on unopposed. Then they crested the rise that the ranger had pointed out to Illiawe. Before them, just as the rangers had said, stood a fortress that could almost have been taken directly from the world they were previously on. Its walls were the same, high and imposing but which Illiawe knew stood no chance against the weapons of even the humans, made of the black rock that bled the violent energies of Chaos into the surrounding air. The humans advanced upon it, their psykers in the lead, and Illiawe let them go. She broke away from the humans and skirted around the fortress, looking for Balelath with her mind.

She found him crouching at the edge of a cliff quite a distance away from the fortress. She gathered her powers, and translocated herself next to him. He turned his head slightly, and nodded once, acknowledging her presence. She crouched down next to him, laying her spear down in front of her and removing her helmet.

“It is good to see you well,” he greeted her.

“It was an interesting journey,” she admitted.

“Oh?”

“Daemons,” she explained. “We came under attack by them. I suspect it was not a random encounter.”

He turned to her, his action reflecting his concern.

            She waved her hand. “We must not dwell on past troubles. How fared matters here?”

“The rangers have given me detailed accounts of the composition and position of the enemy,” he muttered. “I have made plans, and was waiting for your arrival before attacking.”

From the distance, there was the sound of heavy gunfire and rapid detonations. “Let the humans bear the brunt of the Chaos attack, Balelath. I have come into contact with the Chaos forces. They do not fight as they normally do.”

“How were they fighting?”

“They weren’t. At least, not for very long. When we returned fire, they ran away. They do the same in all my visions. They do not seem to want to fight.”

“Show me,” Balelath said, and Illiawe put the memories of the cultists and the visions into the autarch’s mind. “No,” he said after a couple of seconds. “They are fighting, save that they have adopted our tactics.” He turned to look grimly at the fortress. “No matter. Countering them should be of no moment.”

“Surely the Aspect Warriors are more than a match for the forces of Chaos.”

“I do not have all the Aspect Warriors with me, Illiawe,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Only the Warp Spiders and Rangers are with me. I sent the rest of the warhost back to Ulthwé.”

“Why would you do that?”

“We met an eldar in the webway on the way here. A servant of Cegorach. Shadowseer. The warhost will suffer a great loss if it included those who could not flee to the webway at a moment’s notice.”

“You describe something that is in none of my visions, Balelath,” Illiawe said, trying to keep her voice level.

"I do not question the instructions of a harlequin, Illiawe," Balelath said stiffly. "Especially not the word of a shadowseer."

Illiawe rubbed her brow. "Why? What does this shadowseer know that I have not foreseen?"

"This would not be the first time that your foresight has failed in recent times," Balelath said softly.

Illiawe shot him an unfriendly look.

"I did not intend to offend," he said quickly, his hand stretched apologetically. "I was merely suggesting that there might be fates yet unknown that the shadowseer is attempting to prevent."

"I need no advice on the art from one who has no connection to Lileath," she said darkly.

"Is that the way to talk to a friend, Illiawe?" a familiar voice said from behind them. Illiawe quickly turned her head.

A female eldar, whom Illiawe was sure was not there before, stood a few feet away from them. She was garbed in the flamboyant garb of the harlequins, a tight fitting, diamond checkered suit of yellow and blue. Over that she wore a loose coat of shimmering yellow, its deep cowl pulled low over her head. Beneath the hood, however, her face was covered by a polished, featureless mask. In her right hand she carried a staff, and there was a thin pack attached to her back. The shadowseer reached up, her arm splintering into a million specks of color as it moved, and removed her mask. The face under it was unchanged. A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her lips, her eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth, and a vagrant lock of brown hair fell across one side of her face, accentuating her rather striking features.

"Taeryn!" Illiawe exclaimed, rising to her feet.

Taeryn smiled, her form splitting into shards of color and growing indistinct as she walked forward to quickly embrace Illiawe.

“It is good to see you well, Illiawe,” she returned the greeting. Then her face grew serious. “Listen well,” she said, “the humans will turn on you.” Before Illiawe could enquire further, Taeryn cut her off. “Go down to join the humans, lest they grow suspicious. But stay on your guard.”

“What about the artefact down there?” Illiawe pointed at the fortress. “When are the humans going to turn on us?”

“You know I see the fates and not the future, Illiawe. But I do know that we do not have much time to lose. Go now.”

“What about you?”

“I have to retrieve the first artifact.”

“The humans have kept that on their ship.”

“I know.”

“How are you going to board the ship?”

Taeryn smiled slyly, and placed the mask back on her face. “The webway extends farther than most realize. One simply needs to know where to exit. Now go.” Then the shadowseer was gone.

Illiawe turned to Balelath. “I hope Taeryn explains this all when she gets back.” Illiawe straightened. “Well, I guess I should join the humans.”

Balelath nodded once.

Illiawe looked out over the fortress, and an idea began to form in her mind. She extended her thoughts, and found the humans engaged with the enemy, halfway to the cathedral. They have not lost even one of their number, and Illiawe’s eyebrows rose in admiration. “Balelath,” she said then, “how quickly can our forces withdraw to the webway when the humans turn on us?”

“The rangers carry wraithgates on their person. The Warp Spiders and the both of us, however, will have to travel to the closest one quickly.”

“That would not be much of a problem, then.” Illiawe pointed at the fortress again. “The fortress has exactly the same layout as the previous one. If we, along with the Warp Spiders, jump into the cathedral, we can take the artefact and leave, without having to worry about the humans.”

“A dangerous plan, Illiawe,” Balelath said dubiously. “Can you be sure of the outcome?”

Illiawe sighed and shook her head.

“It seems that, perhaps, something is clouding your foresight,” Balelath said carefully. Apparently, her earlier outburst had made him cautious. Illiawe grimaced. She was going to have to apologize to him about that later.

“Indeed something is, Balelath,” Illiawe replied with a comforting smile. “I am uncertain about this plan, however, which is why I am sharing it with you now. We will follow Taeryn’s instructions, in case the Fates remain fickle and it is our actions that provoke the humans into attacking. You move in with the Warp Spiders and prepare to take the artefact away, should my worries prove to be unfounded and the humans turn on us.”

“You are placing yourself in grave danger.”

“You are the one who have to fight the Chaos forces, my dear friend,” she returned with a smile. She stooped and picked up her helm and spear. “Hurry. And keep in contact with me.”

Balelath inclined his head, and shot into the sky, his mental call for the Warp Spiders sending tingles down her spine. Illiawe turned to the fortress, and suddenly she was surrounded by gunfire and steel clad bodies as she translocated herself into the midst of the humans. The bloody corpses of daemons and cultists were strewn all along the streets, and the humans’ armors were stained with blood. They pressed onward, ferociously killing all who stood in their way.

Then Balelath’s thoughts came to Illiawe, lacking some of the confidence and calmness that Illiawe had long since grown accustomed to. “It’s not here.”

Illiawe felt a sinking feeling rise in her stomach. “The artefact?”

“No, Khaine’s own war-chariot.”

“There is no reason for that. Get out. Tell the rangers to retreat to the webway. Get the Warp Spiders away from here.”

“What about you?”

"I will stay with the humans for a while longer," she said. "The human aircraft are still in the sky. If I alert the humans, the crafts will begin hunting you. Let me know when the last eldar is in the webway.”

“That’s too great a risk,” Balelath protested.

“Just leave!” The thought must have been sterner than she had intended, but Illiawe felt the warp jump generators of the Warp Spiders activate. Illiawe chewed on her lip, hoping that the eldar had enough time to make their escape.

It did not take long for the humans to slaughter their way up to the steps of the cathedral. Illiawe felt her soulstone pulse in time to her heart, rapid beats that she strove to suppress as she waited impatiently for Balelath’s signal. Her mind stretched out, seeking the runes orbiting her.

The humans mounted the steps.

The door was reduced to splinters by a wave of the hand of one of the human psykers, and the humans poured in. Illiawe noted in one moment the soupy puddles of gore that were the daemons and cultists before the Warp Spiders had fired upon them, the snowy white pedestal that stood empty, and the sudden deadly silence that fell over the humans. She saw the walls of the cathedral shimmer and fade like witchlight in heavy fog, and the whole fortress vanished. They were standing on a large pile of rocks. She saw Guigrim turn, his expression like a thundercloud. Hoping that the eldar had all made it into the webway, Illiawe unleashed her powers, sending the humans staggering in the wake of her psychic shockwaves. Some fell to their knees, clutching at their heads. A projectile flew past her head. Human, large and crude, designed to end the battle in the fastest way possible, with no respect for the proper flow of battle. Rather absently she noted that it had the unlovely writings of the humans upon it. Her powers welled up in her again as she prepared to move herself to a nearby squad of rangers. Something flew toward her, clattering to the ground by her feet. A grenade, perhaps. It did not matter. Her rune armor would protect her.

But the grenade did not explode in a ball of fire. Energy erupted from it almost as soon as it hit the ground. Illiawe's mind grew numb as she felt her connection to the Warp break. The human psykers caught in the grenade's blast grunted as their own connections were similarly severed, and they dropped to their knees. Her means of escape suddenly taken away from her, Illiawe brought her spear around, trying desperately to draw her powers in again. A sword came down and she slid it off the blade of her spear. She twirled, shifted the grip on the spear and swung it around, felt it glance off another sword. Something struck her in the back and Illiawe gasped, moving to regain her footing as she felt her armor twist the fates to divert what would otherwise have been a fatal blow. Even as she brought the spear back around, Illiawe frowned. She had grown too reliant on her foresight. Movement is armor. Every Howling Banshee learned that. The exarchs certainly never let them forget it.

But Illiawe was surrounded by the blades of the humans. She spun and parried, desperately buying time, waiting for her connection to the Warp to return. Then something hit her on the side of her head, and she heard the wraithbone crack. It was a wild blow, executed without precision or finesse. But it sent her reeling, and Illiawe brought her spear to her side to prevent herself from falling. To fall was to invite death, but preventing the fall forced her to leave herself open to attack. Her soulstone grew cold. A hand - small, certainly not one of the humans - wrapped around her right upper arm, fingers digging into her robes with a grip of iron. Fear. There was fear all around her, clawing into her very soul, but Illiawe did not make a sound as she was pulled backwards, dragged out of the material plane by that inhuman hand.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

There were stars, swirling colors and energies that teased and played around each other, flowing and ebbing like liquid. There was also talk, a murmuring that was almost too indistinct for her to pick out individual words. She moved - or, rather, was moved - propped into a sitting position. Arms wrapped around her, but Illiawe did not pay attention to that. She sent her mind out, felt it connect with the Warp, and that brought a smile to Illiawe’s face.

“Are you all right now?” a voice whispered next to her ear, filled with concern.

Illiawe’s head snapped up. A few moments passed before she realized that she was under the shifting lights of a webway corridor. The arms around her were covered by cloth of blue and yellow diamonds. She sucked in a breath of relief and leaned into Taeryn’s embrace, content, for the moment, in the sense of security. Taeryn waited silently, gently rocking her back and forth until Illiawe opened her eyes again.

“Thank you,” she said to the shadowseer. “Your extraction was most timely.”

“You did call for my aid, after all,” Taeryn smiled. “At least, you had another farseer call for my aid.”

Illiawe frowned. “You went to that planet in response to Isenran’s call?”

Taeryn pursed her lips. “No. Not entirely, anyway. The harlequins were seeking a shadowseer to bring you the warning. I sought to solve both their problems and yours at the same time.”

Illiawe smiled. “You did not realize the humans will turn on us by yourself, then?”

“I only realized that after I got to the planet, actually. The original warning was that something terrible would happen to the eldar warhost.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that which you speak of. Firstly, however, were you successful in retrieving the artefact from the humans?”

“I was.” She laid her hand on one of the pouches hanging from her belt. “You, however, appear to be missing its twin.”

“Indeed. It was all nothing more than an illusion. The fortress, the artefact’s presence. It had all been a trick.”

Taeryn frowned. “That much is obvious. Whom, however, was the trick directed at?”

“The better question, I think, is who created the illusion. I am unable to discern any answers yet, beyond some vague hints, hints that even an eldar child could guess at.”

“Why don’t you share these hints, anyway?”

Illiawe glowered at her. “If you wish. The one who initiated this is a very powerful psyker – and perhaps more than even that.”

“Surely there is more to it than that.”

“No, there isn’t. It was a complex trick. There was not only the illusion of the fortress and its defenders, but the sense of the second artefact that lay within the first. Yet it was subtle enough that only I, and not the human psykers, felt it.” Illiawe rubbed at her neck. “I should have known, perhaps, that the fortress was a fake when the Chaos forces there used eldar tactics.”

“You are thinking that the one who casted the illusions is an eldar.”

Illiawe nodded.

“Or, perhaps,” Taeryn continued, “it is yet another trick to dupe you into thinking such a thing, while the conjurer of the scheme remains undetected.”

Illiawe drew away from Taeryn to turn and scowl at her. “Why do you have to make it more complex?”

Taeryn shrugged. “It is as I have said. There are simply too many things we have to consider to make your question a viable one. Perhaps we should look to revealing who the scheme was directed at, and its purpose. There are less things to consider, and the answer might lead us to unveiling the one behind it.”

“I’m glad that we have got it all sorted, then,” another voice said. Illiawe turned. Balelath stood some distance away, looking at her with some concern. Yet his stance was guarded.

Embarrassment welled up in Illiawe, and she placed a hand under her. Taeryn shifted, and helped her up. She walked up to Balelath, and extended a hand in a gesture of apology.

"Am I forgiven, then?" Balelath asked.

Illiawe turned her head away, embarrassed. "I was churlish and unkind. I should not have said such things to you."

"The fault is also in part mine." He reached out and touched her outstretched arm, accepting her gesture of peace.

"It really is not," Taeryn observed. Balelath shot her a warning look.

"My foresight has never failed," Illiawe said, turning back to Balelath. "I suppose my cankerous attitude was a result of an injured pride."

"Undoubtedly," Taeryn chirped in.

Balelath’s expression became irritated.

“But my foresight did fail. The fortress was an illusion, and I did not notice.”

“Worse things could have happened,” Balelath said. “You guided the eldar as best you could. It is not an unheard of occurrence, after all.”

Illiawe smiled gratefully at him, and Balelath placed his hand on her shoulder, and all was fine again.

“Now that we have the recent unpleasantness out of the way,” Taeryn said briskly, “there is some need to decide our next step. The Aspect Warriors have to be returned to Ulthwé, and I am certain that the rangers yearn to disperse again out among the stars.” She looked pointedly at Balelath.

“Of course,” he said quickly, “I will return to the craftworld.”

Illiawe reached up, and her helmet hissed as she pulled it off. “I heard something crack just now. Could you perhaps get a bonesinger to perform repairs on it?”

Balelath nodded, taking the helmet from her. “Of course.”

“Talk to Farseer Ethorach while you are there,” Taeryn instructed. She held out a disk to Balelath, a circular piece of wraithbone that fit snugly into her palm. “Hand this to him. It contains information about the complications that we have faced. Perhaps he might be able to discern something from it.”

“I am perfectly capable of relaying that information by myself,” Balelath said.

“Are you really? Including the psychic details of the situation?”

Balelath snatched the disk from her hand. “Is there any other duties I could perform for either of you?”

“You could, perhaps, tell Ethorach that I will be travelling with Taeryn for a while. Tell him not to get upset or anxious. Tell him that I will not be coming back to Ulthwé anytime soon, however. There are a few questions that I would like answered before I do so.”

“Anything else?” Balelath asked in a flat tone.

“Probably not,” Taeryn said. “You have more than you can handle already.”

Balelath turned to Illiawe. “Your friend has too clever a mouth.”

Illiawe grinned at him, and he stalked off, muttering to himself.

“Have a pleasant journey,” she called after him. He did not reply.

Illiawe watched as the warhost followed after the autarch down the webway corridor, and turned to Taeryn. “What now?” she asked.

“We are going to see a few friends of mine. Should we wish to solve this mystery, we have to seek the counsel of masters of trickery.”

“Harlequins?” Illiawe guessed.

“More than harlequins. They whom I speak of are the high shadowseers. They have mastered their art in the same way that the Chief Farseers of the craftworlds have. Fate and the workings of the minds of mortals are all within their understanding. Perhaps they could shed some light on our problem.”

“Could they do what foresight could not?”

"I certainly hope that they are able to."

"That does not fill me with the greatest confidence," Illiawe complained.

"You are welcome to find your own answers," Taeryn offered.

"No, that's not needed. I have no better ideas anyway."

Taeryn nodded and started walking at a rather leisurely pace. Illiawe walked along beside her, losing herself in the shifting colors of the webway corridors.

"I see that you have not lost your love for this place," Taeryn commented.

"It is the absence of danger that allows me to appreciate the beauty, Taeryn," Illiawe smiled.

Taeryn glanced up. "It has never held much allure for me."

"And yet you choose to live here."

"You know that we can only obey the call of Fate," Taeryn started, then abruptly stopped when she saw the smile on Illiawe's face.

"Besides," Illiawe continued, "the constant danger of the Othersea has made me enjoy the moments when I am safe from it."

"I cannot imagine what it must be like living with such constant fear." Illiawe could almost feel the smirk under her friend's mask.

"I see that time has not lessened the cruel streak in you."

The shadowseer chuckled. "Ah," she said then. "We are here."

Illiawe pulled her eyes away from the dancing lights. "That did not take long."

"There are ways around the webway that many do not know. I have led us through one of them."

Illiawe shook her head. "I do not think I understand."

"The webway is more than just a simple cave system, as the humans who call themselves scholars on the eldar like to explain it as. No, the webway folds on itself in many ways. We would have had to walk for many hours before we reached this place, even if such was not the case in the material world. Fortunately, you are travelling with me."

"I still do not see anything besides the webway corridors."

Taeryn stretched out a hand, and a shimmering rune appeared on the wall of the corridor in front of her. She brushed her fingertips against it, and Illiawe felt her mind stretch out. A section of the webway corridor shimmered, and Illiawe waited for an entrance to form, but none did. She looked quizzically at Illiawe.

"Step through," Taeryn prompted.

Illiawe frowned, and stuck her hand into the section of the corridor. Her hand passed through as though the wall was nothing but air. She tilted her head, and stuck a leg through.

"Please, Illiawe," Taeryn said from behind her. "Move your whole body through. Don't stick yourself halfway in like that."

Illiawe moved through it, and Taeryn followed. The corridor shimmered and became solid again.

"The backstage," Taeryn murmured. "City of harlequins. One of them, anyway. Come. We have to see the high shadowseers as quickly as we can manage."

The area that lay beyond them was a city in every sense of the word. Eldar walked up and down straight and well lit streets, often stopping to converse with each other. They wore loose fitting robes of different colors, but when the material fell back, Illiawe sometimes caught glimpses of various weapons tucked in belts and strapped to waists and thighs. Each eldar moved carefully, yet unconsciously, around each other, never once breaking step or bumping into each other. Along the broad streets were low buildings, and little strips of cloth hung along their walls. Illiawe looked curiously at one as they passed. There were two pieces of cloth hanging over the door there. The first had the rune of the rose weaved into the material, and the second bore the stylized symbol of a sun.

"The symbols of the troupe currently residing in the house," Taeryn explained. "Troupe of the Light, of the Masque of the Laughing Rose."

Illiawe tilted her head. "I thought I recognized the symbols. Its placement outside the building has the same purpose as the runes outside of Aspect Shrines, then?"

"No. The markings help remind us where we currently call our home. It also helps other troupes know that the houses are occupied, of course, but you will be surprised how difficult it becomes to remember our current accommodations when we travel so much, and stay every month in a different city."

Illiawe frowned. "This makes little sense, Taeryn. Do you not know shortcuts through the webway? Why do you need to move when one city is no farther from another?"

"In part, it is because not every harlequin know of these routes. We also value our role as performers. No troupe has stayed in the same dwelling after changing the location of our performance since Cegorach first conceived of us."

"Finding accommodation in every new city must be a hassle," Illiawe noted.

"Hardly," Taeryn laughed. "There is a pattern in place. Someday, perhaps, I will explain it to you."

Taeryn led her deeper into the city. As they walked, Illiawe noticed that the harlequins paused briefly as they passed, greeting Taeryn with little gestures. Some were flamboyant, others severe, but they were all filled with a certain amount of respect.

"The harlequins seem to know you," Illiawe observed dryly.

"Foolishness," Taeryn retorted.

"They appear to be taking it rather seriously."

"When Cegorach asked me to look for a farseer, the harlequins took it to be some sign of special favor, or perhaps some future importance that only Cegorach Himself knows. All those who have been burdened with the same task became suddenly respected. It is a strange feeling, but it is not bad."

Illiawe looked around her. "Is there not a transport that we can ride on? I do not fancy walking across half the city."

"We are almost there," Taeryn said, pointing.

Illiawe followed her gaze. "I do not see it."

"How could you not? It is there." She stabbed her finger again.

Illiawe shook her head. Taeryn sighed and waved her on, until they stopped outside a building that looked like all the others. Where the banners bearing the markings would have hung, however, the house's wall had only one strip of cloth bearing the symbol of a crescent silver moon.

Illiawe looked suspiciously at Taeryn. "Are you sure that this is the right place?"

Taeryn let out a long suffering sigh. "Yes, of course I am." She reached up, pulled her hood back and removed her mask, clipping it at her waist.

"Forgive my skepticism," Illiawe said. "This does not look like someplace where someone of note would live."

"You have been too long on the craftworld. We know who our leaders are. There is no need for the opulence that the craftworld eldar are drawn to."

Illiawe ignored the veiled insult, and shrugged. "Then you shall be my guide, in this matter as in all things," she proclaimed grandly, sketching mockingly the formal curtsy that the eldar used only rarely.

Taeryn tossed her head lightly and walked up to the house. The entrance shimmered and melted away, and Taeryn entered the house without breaking stride. Illiawe followed her.

Much of the bottom level of the house was taken up by a rather large and simple table. A robed eldar sat at it, poring over a large book. She was an ancient eldar, her face deeply lined and her brow furrowed. Stairs ran along either side of the room, narrow structures designed to take up as little space as possible. The room was bare and unadorned, though the walls gleamed with something that sent a buzz through Illiawe when she brushed against it.

"A most unorthodox visit, shadowseer," a soft voice spoke, drawing Illiawe’s attention back to the eldar at the table.

Illiawe turned. The eldar had not taken her eyes off the book, yet Illiawe shifted uncomfortably as she felt the eldar silently assessing them. Taeryn stepped forward, her steps slow and measured. Then she bowed from the waist, her arms stretched out suppliantly by her sides, her legs crossed behind her, and her staff in her right hand angling up behind her back so that its bottom came up near her left cheek. It was the greeting of a performer, executed with the grace of the dancer that Illiawe seldom saw her friend display. She took Taeryn's lead and moved with a stately pace to a spot just behind her friend, repeating in full the curtsy that she had poked fun at Taeryn with before.

"There is no need for your deference, farseer," the eldar sitting at the table said.

Illiawe straightened. "Respect is a virtue, is it not?"

"An important part of our traditions," the eldar agreed in her soft voice. "Some here might accuse you of showing deference that is not due, however. Should traditions be kept, they must be preserved well." She turned to look sternly at Taeryn. "You might have been chosen by Cegorach Himself, but it is still not proper for you to come to me, shadowseer. The shadowseers of the Troupe of the Light have their own leaders. Go to them."

Taeryn clasped her hands respectfully before her. "I would not have come to you, save that I have questions that, I think, your aid will help answer quickly."

The high shadowseer regarded her silently. "Very well," she said at last. "What is your problem?"

Illiawe recounted their search of the first artefact, the truce with the humans, and the discovery of the second artefact. Halfway through, the high shadowseer asked to see the artefact, and Taeryn took it from her belt and laid it on the table. The other shadowseer pushed her book aside and brought the artefact close, probing at it with both fingers and mind while Illiawe continued.

"I went with the humans, and we fought up to the cathedral. The fortress started to vanish as soon as the humans saw the pedestal within," she concluded.

"It's a trick," the high shadowseer muttered.

"Taeryn and I figured as much," Illiawe said dryly.

"No," the other eldar said. "I am not referring to the illusions." She straightened and held up the Chaos artefact that lay before her. "This is hardly something that is even worth retrieving, let alone devoting effort to destroy." The high shadowseer fixed them both with a stern look. "Did neither of you sense that?"

Taeryn and Illiawe looked at each other like children who had been caught misbehaving. The aged eldar shook her head disappointedly.

"Perhaps the both of you might need some lessons." She looked piercingly at Illiawe. "Perhaps you should call Ethorach for some special lessons of his own, too. Warhosts are supposed to mobilize when one farseer - an inexperienced one at that - gets visions?" She muttered angrily for a while under her breath. "How were you, Illiawe, not alerted when no other farseer received the vision, especially on a craftworld like Ulthwé?"

Illiawe shifted uncomfortably under that gaze, made even more self-conscious by the fact that the eldar knew her name. “You know Farseer Ethorach?” she asked quickly, trying to turn the disapproving eldar’s mind away to other matters.

“Yes,” she replied, “an eldar who is too clever for his own good.”

Hesitantly, Taeryn cleared her throat. Illiawe let out her breath when the eldar's gaze shifted to her friend.

"What are your thoughts on our problem?" Taeryn asked delicately.

"My thoughts? That the both you are idiots. That is as much of a problem for you as figuring out who conjured this plan.” The aged eldar pushed the artefact back across the table. “Either the trick was aimed at sparking yet another conflict between the humans and the craftworlds, or it was aimed at sowing discord between the humans and us.”

Illiawe tilted her head. She had been expecting something a little more insightful. “Are those the only explanations?”

“Perhaps not. I will look into this matter. It might, however, take a while. Whoever did this is skilled at concealing himself from psykers. It was a good idea to come to me. The shadowseers of the Troupes of the Dark are a bit more subtle than those of the Light. That said, you might want to talk to some people I know in Commorragh who offer some rather unique services. They are masters of collecting information, and might be able to find the information that you need without the use of psychic powers.”

“Who do we talk to?”

The eldar’s lips twitched slightly in amusement. “I have a few contacts, some more trustworthy than others, and some more skilled than others.” Illiawe felt her mind reach out as she shared the relevant information with Taeryn. Then she leaned back in her chair. “Ask for Ezarvyn before you visit any of the others. Tell him that High Shadowseer Lirys sent you. It would make him more cooperative, and it is quite possible that you would not have to visit any other of the Commorrites to obtain the services that you require.” She pulled her heavy book back in front of her, and looked at them pointedly.

Taeryn bowed deeply. “Your assistance is much appreciated, high shadowseer,” she murmured. “May Cegorach look favorably upon you this day.”

High shadowseer Lirys smiled. “Perhaps someday you might find the humor in that statement.”

Confusion crossed Taeryn’s face, but she quickly brought her emotions under control and bowed again. She retreated to the door, and Illiawe followed her.

They stepped back out into the streets of the harlequin city, and Taeryn turned to her. “That went better than I had hoped.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “You were not sure if Lirys would provide assistance?”

“High shadowseer Lirys,” Taeryn corrected. “No, I was not certain that the high shadowseer would even consent to speak with us. The high shadowseers love their privacy, and they seldom are willing to provide aid and advice to shadowseers outside of their troupes. It is an ancient tradition, and one that the high shadowseers like to keep.”

Illiawe frowned. “That seems a little foolish. Such procedure will prove to be a great hindrance in times of crisis.”

Taeryn shrugged. “I suspect that tradition is something that the high shadowseers hide behind to avoid responsibilities and ensure that they are left alone. Of course, it is not something that I can be certain of.”

Illiawe looked up the street that they were on. “Do we head for the Dark City now?”

“No. I have to figure out what to do with the Chaos artefact. The fact that it is not as powerful as we had first thought it was removes the need for it to be destroyed immediately, but I would not want to carry it with me everywhere I go. After that, I have to talk to my masque. The Commorrites will not impede my progress, but I do not fancy walking into Commorragh alone.”

Illiawe nodded. “Fair points. Where are we headed, then?”

“Within the webway are places that not all harlequins are aware of. Some of them deal with Chaos artefacts. We will be heading to one of them.” She pulled her hood over her head, though Illiawe noticed that she did not bother with the polished mask. “We will need some transportation, however. It is quite a long distance, even with my knowledge of the webway.”

She led Illiawe back down the street, going down alleys and picking her way through the eldar going about their business. They turned corners and went down twisting paths and, once or twice, Illiawe was almost certain that they doubled back. Taeryn, however, wordlessly led her on, the confidence in her steps cutting off the urge in Illiawe to ask if her friend was lost. After a while, Illiawe stopped trying to keep track of her surroundings, instead placing her trust in Taeryn. As she blindly followed the shadowseer, Illiawe began to realize just how the harlequins defended their cities.

“The bonesingers turn the craftworlds against invaders, but the geometry of your cities does the same thing to turn aside invaders,” she remarked with a certain degree of awe.

Taeryn turned to her in surprise. “Actually, that is not intentional. As more eldar join the harlequin masques, our cities grew accordingly. There was never any plans that the layout of the cities followed, so they expanded according to individual whims. Sometimes that even resulted in cities expanding into another section of the webway.”

Illiawe pursed her lips. “There was never any plan to impede an invader’s progress, then?”

“That is a welcome bonus, but it has never been the goal. We do not care much for defending cities. They are a convenience, no doubt, but hardly necessary.” Then she straightened and looked around. “We should be close.”

Taeryn had led her to a sprawling dome that rested well out of the range of the clusters of houses that the harlequins lived in. It was a quiet location, save for a group of eldar milling around outside. Taeryn gestured for her to wait outside, before entering the dome through a shimmering portal. After a few minutes a black vehicle shot out of the portal with Taeryn at the helm, coming to a stop just in front of Illiawe.

“Have you already damaged it?” Illiawe asked, pointing at a particularly nasty gash that ran along the side of the sleek jetbike.

Taeryn barely glanced at it. “This is where damaged vehicles are repaired. This skyweaver was the best that I could find.”

“Could you not obtain an undamaged vehicle?”

“We are not going to battle. There is no need for an undamaged vehicle.”

Illiawe shrugged and climbed aboard behind Taeryn. “How do you sit on this?” she asked, staring at the curving wraithbone between the pilot’s seat and the rear of the craft.

“You stand,” Taeryn replied laconically.

Illiawe sighed and placed her feet on either side of the hull. “Precarious,” she muttered, clutching her spear with her right hand and the elaborately wrought support behind Taeryn’s seat with her left.

“You’ll get used to it,” Taeryn smiled back at her.

“I am sure of it – assuming that I do not fall off before that. Do not go too fast.”

“We are in a hurry,” Taeryn reminded her.

“We are not in that much of a hurry.”

Taeryn brushed a glowing rune on the panel before her, and the skyweaver’s engines hummed softly. The jetbike leapt forward, gently picking up speed as Taeryn allowed Illiawe time to adjust. They left the harlequin city behind them and entered once more into the corridors of the webway. The swirling lights melded into a constant stream of color as they sped down the corridors, barely slowing as Taeryn skillfully navigated the myriad corridors of the webway. Illiawe soon learned to secure her footing as she felt the skyweaver tilt, almost imperceptibly. Despite her best efforts, however, her footing inevitably slipped as the craft turned sharply, and Illiawe’s heartbeat quickened as she quickly shifted her weight.

After what seemed like an eternity, Taeryn sent out a pulse of thought, and the skyweaver slowed. They passed through another shimmering entrance in the wall of the webway corridor that appeared to open to Taeryn's presence. Beyond the portal was a large and well lit space, a room of sorts that was lined with statues of eldar clad in the tight outfit and polished masks of the harlequins. At the far end of the room stood three figures. They wore no mask, and the suits and greatcoats that they wore were of only one color. The first was clad in black, the second in white, and the last in a deep shade of blue. They stood motionless, statues embodying the different harlequin Troupes.

Illiawe let out a sigh of relief as Taeryn brought the jetbike to a stop just inside the entrance and hopped off. She stepped off the skyweaver, noting that her knees shook as she did so. She straightened her robes as she waited for the thrill of the ride to wear off. "Why did we not stop there?" she asked, waving her spear toward the motionless forms of the three harlequins.

"There are certain formalities involved in gaining entry into one of the harlequin vaults," Taeryn explained. "The guardians know that we are allowed in here, of course, but it's an important process nonetheless." Taeryn's face was soft, almost serene, and her voice bordered on reverent.

"I take it we will not be seeing the guardians if we are not allowed in here."

Taeryn flashed her a quick grin. "Indeed. Assuming we managed to force our way past the wards and safeguards, I would imagine that our greeting would be very different."

The guardians walked up to them, their stately pace contrasting heavily with their drawn blades. They halted just in front of the pair. “Who art thou who entreateth entry into the vault of the children of the Laughing God?” the harlequin in white asked in an archaic form of the eldar tongue, one that Illiawe recognized only from visions of the days just after the Fall.

Taeryn pushed her hood back, her movements as measured as those of the harlequin guardians. “I am Taeryn,” she replied, “a daughter of Cegorach and shadowseer of the Masque of the Darkened Moon.”

“By what may we know thee?” the harlequin asked.

Taeryn reached under her robes and drew out a couple of runes. “By these symbols of my masque may you know me.”

The harlequin in black stepped forward to examine the runes. Illiawe fought the urge to roll her eyes. The harlequins were performers at heart, and they were clearly enjoying the elaborate ritual.

The one in black stepped away. “These symbols prove without a doubt that she is indeed who she claims,” he said to his companions, who nodded their heads gravely.

The one in white turned to Illiawe. “Thou art welcome into the vault of the children of the Laughing God, Taeryn of the Darkened Moon. The identity of thy companion, however, is yet unknown to us.”

“She who accompanies me is Illiawe,” Taeryn intoned, “a farseer of Ulthanash Shelwe, our kin amongst the stars.”

“How, then, dancer of the Darkened Moon, wilt thou vouch for her?”

“As a daughter and faithful servant of Cegorach and dancer of the Darkened Moon I vouch for her.”

“Then do we also extend our welcome unto thee, Illiawe of Ulthanash Shelwe,” the harlequin in white said, inclining his head to her. He turned back to Taeryn. “May you find that which you seek within our vault.”

The three harlequins turned as one and went back to assume their positions.

“Grandiose,” Illiawe observed.

“Do not be so churlish, Illiawe,” Taeryn rebuked. “You keep your own rituals aboard the craftworlds.”

“None of our rituals are so extravagant.”

“The ancient rituals are always like that,” Taeryn said, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Perhaps the craftworld eldar have preserved even less of our traditions than they like to think.”

Illiawe flushed. “Do you not have some task to perform here?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Are you going to do that, or stand here and make jokes?”

Taeryn grinned and moved forward. They went across the room, moving under the lights of the webway and the gaze of the statues to the three harlequins there. The one in black waved an arm, and the wall behind them shimmered and vanished. The trio stepped aside and Taeryn led Illiawe through. Then the guardians returned to their vigil and the portal shimmered and vanished.

“What now?” Illiawe asked.

“This is where any artefacts that require protection is kept, where knowledge is stored, and stories recorded. There should be a keeper around somewhere. We can hand the Chaos artefact to him, and be rid of the thing.”

Illiawe looked around. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but the ancient looking shelves that stood row upon row as far as she could see was certainly not it. The place was lighted by orbs hanging overhead, so bright that she could not look directly at one of them. As far as she could tell, there was no end to the vault.

“I would have thought that there would be more concealed portals,” she noted to Taeryn.

“This place is old. When the need for such a place arose, the leaders of the harlequins crafted rooms into the corridors of the webway. They could not extend the webway quickly enough, as they had other duties and many vaults throughout the webway were needed. Now these rooms are used to store only the most trivial of things. There are other places within these vaults concealed far better than this room.”

“A vault within a vault?”

Taeryn smiled. “Merely a more secure part of the vault.”

“You reveal a lot of secrets, shadowseer,” a voice behind them spoke. Illiawe turned. The eldar was old, his hair gray but neatly trimmed. He had a squint, though Illiawe thought that it made him look rather menacing. He was dressed in a robe of a rich blue.

Taeryn inclined her head toward him in greeting. “I apologize if my actions were out of order, keeper.”

The eldar squinted at her, then at Illiawe. His eyes widened momentarily, and he waved Taeryn’s apology away. “No, you were not at fault. These are things which your companion can know about.” He scowled at Illiawe. “Do not repeat these things to anyone else, however.”

“I will not,” Illiawe promised.

The keeper nodded. “What did you require?”

Taeryn took the Chaos artefact from the pouch at her hip and handed it to the keeper. “Something that we found,” she said. “I do not want to keep it with me.”

The keeper took the artefact and studied it. “Hardly dangerous,” he observed.

“Yes, we realize that now,” Taeryn said with exaggerated patience.

The keeper frowned, confused. “I did not intend to offend.”

“I know.” Taeryn shook her head. “Forget about what I said. Will you keep it here?”

“Of course. Perhaps there might be some use for it. I will put it on those shelves.”

Taeryn nodded in gratitude. “Then we will be leaving.”

The keeper nodded. “Stay safe.” His eyes flickered to Illiawe before he nodded once and turned, moving away from them and getting lost among the rows of shelves.

“That was quick,” Taeryn noted. “Come, Illiawe. It is time we went to my masque.”

Illiawe nodded. They got back onto the skyweaver and Taeryn navigated the webway corridors again, until they were flashing past streets that they left just hours before. Then Illiawe revised her thought. Hours in the webway, she corrected herself. Rather idly she wondered how much time had passed in the world outside of the webway. The pondering pulled her mind away from the weaving and darting of the skyweaver, and it was not long before she felt the jetbike slow and Taeryn hop off. Illiawe blinked and looked around.

They were back in front of the dome where Taeryn had borrowed the skyweaver from. She hopped off, waited for her friend to return the vehicle, and they went on foot back into the more populated sections of the city. Taeryn again led her through the web of the streets, and Illiawe once again followed along blindly next to her, until they stopped in front of a building not unlike those surrounding it.

“You know, you might want to spread the idea of making your buildings look different from each other,” she said lightly to Taeryn. “There are many benefits that will come from such an endeavor.”

“They look similar on purpose, Illiawe,” Taeryn smiled. “It keeps down vying for opulence, for one, and having one house identical to another makes abandoning them easier.”

She ascended the steps and stepped through the portal, gesturing for Illiawe to follow.

As there was in the house of the high shadowseer, there was a large table set in the middle of the room on the other side of the entrance. A dozen harlequins were sitting around the table, having a meal. They were dressed in the simple garb that harlequins wore when they were not performing, though various weapons lay on the table close at hand. Racks were lined along the room's walls, laden down with the equipment of the harlequins.

Even as engrossed as the harlequins were in conversation, it did not take them long to notice the pair, and the conversation ceased almost immediately. Curious looks were cast in Illiawe's direction, though they were by no means unfriendly.

"Our great shadowseer returns to us," one of the harlequins stood and proclaimed in a grave voice. "And with her comes a friend." He bowed with a grand flourish. He had a sly grin on his face, and his eyes sparkled with glee.

"Pay no heed to Esarlyth. Troupe masters are usually very serious. Ours is the only one who thinks he is funny."

"Pray, do not insult me so in the presence of strangers," Esarlyth said.

"Perhaps I would get around to introductions if you would just be quiet," Taeryn retorted. She took Illiawe's spear from her and leaned both it and her staff on one of the racks. "This is Illiawe, farseer of the craftworld of Ulthwé."

"Why are you travelling with a farseer, Taeryn?" one of the harlequins asked. "Does it have something to do with that mysterious mission Cegorach has you doing?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Taeryn teased.

Illiawe started. She had almost forgotten about the mission that had occupied so much of Taeryn's time in recent years. She tilted her head. Perhaps they will have time to continue her friend's quest as soon as their current one was over.

Taeryn took a spot at the table and waved Illiawe over. The easy familiarity with which the harlequins spoke with each other made Illiawe feel suddenly self-conscious, and she sat beside Taeryn with some degree of apprehension.

“I need the help of the troupe, Esarlyth,” Taeryn said as soon as she was seated. “I have business in Commorragh, and I would rather that the Commorrites leave us alone.”

Esarlyth nodded. “When do we need to leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

Esarlyth nodded and stood. “Then we can head for Commorragh now,” he said, his face suddenly grim.

The rest of the troupe stood and moved to the surrounding racks, taking their equipment and heading up the stairs to put their gear on. Illiawe reached out and took a few pieces of meat from the table, silently waiting for the harlequins to ready themselves. Esarlyth came back down the stairs, his form blurred as the holo-suit shattered his form into a million pieces of light.

“We will take the starweavers,” Taeryn said.

“That is not going to make the Commorrites happy,” the troupe master warned, adjusting the hideously grinning mask that now concealed his face.

Taeryn shrugged. “They will just have to deal with it. I do not wish to drag this matter out any longer than I have to, and the sooner I do what I have to in Commorragh, the better.”

Esarlyth nodded. “Very well.” There were flickers of movement at the top of the stairs, and Illiawe turned her head. The players of the Darkened Moon gathered there, each clad in the tight fitting suits of the harlequins. Weapons were strapped to various parts of their bodies, and their masks bore hideous expressions of twisted humor and dreadful scowls.

Esarlyth briefly looked over them. “Let us go now to perform for our kin in Commorragh,” he said simply, then he turned and stepped out of the building.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

They took five starweavers from the vehicle bays of the Masque of the Darkened Moon, sleek crafts of the deepest blue just a bit larger than the skyweaver that Taeryn had acquired earlier. Illiawe had approached the crafts with great reluctance until she had noticed that the second position on the craft behind the turret was set deeply into the starweaver's hull, rather than the precarious perch of the skyweaver.

A sixth starweaver, painted in the colors of the Masque and bearing its symbol on the sloping beak that formed the craft's elongated front, shot past them and disappeared into the webway ahead as the troupe's mimes moved to announce to the Commorrites the coming of the harlequins.

Illiawe fidgeted, adjusting the mask covering her face. Before they had left, Taeryn had insisted that Illiawe don the outfit of the shadowseer. Taeryn had reasoned that it would attract less attention from the eldar's dark kin than a farseer, and it had sounded like a good idea to her at the time. As she shifted and tugged at the material around her neck, however, Illiawe started to regret her decision. The outfit was a perfect fit - just a little too perfect, she felt. It clung to her skin, snug enough to be almost stifling. Taeryn had not provided her with the greatcoat that she wore, and fastened to Illiawe's hips were instead the silken tassets that were customary for the shadowseers. The strips of cloth reached down to her knees, and Illiawe thought they looked rather pretty. The pack on her back containing the hallucinogen grenades, however, were not viewed upon favorably by her. The tubes extending upwards on both sides annoyed her when she turned her head, and she often forgot that it was there until she leaned against something and was rather unpleasantly reminded when the pack got in the way and the tubes hit her in the side of her head.

As part of the disguise, Illiawe had left her singing spear and witchblade behind. Strapped to her left hip was a sword of harlequin design. Her runes lay in a pouch at her hip, the string that held it closed only loosely tied so she could access them quickly. Despite Taeryn's protests, her protective runes lay in various places about her person, attached to areas of the suit that were covered by folds and ornamental fabrics.

Illiawe shifted her weight, and her form blurred and split into tiny fragments of color. Illiawe shuddered. Even though she had seen the effects of the harlequin holo-suit before, seeing her own limbs disintegrate and fall apart brought a chill to her heart.

The squadron of starweavers were streaking through the corridors of the webway, travelling in routes that only the harlequins knew. Taeryn piloted the craft that Illiawe was in, skillfully breaking formation when the corridors narrowed and closing in with the other crafts when they opened up again. Illiawe leaned back, curiously probing into the threads of the future to pass the time while the harlequins navigated the webway.

She had skimmed through hundreds of possible futures when she finally felt the craft slow. Illiawe raised her head. Out of the shadows of the webway loomed spires, slanted and jagged. They rose like claws, reaching up from the ground, their tops almost seeming to become lost in the shifting light of the webway corridors above. Unlike the structures of the craftworlds, these were dark, seeming almost to suck in the surrounding light and leaving the place looking decidedly bleak. Spikes and cruel looking protrusions decorated the buildings. The design was meant to instill fear and dread rather than awe, and it almost definitely succeeded.

There was no gate or fortification at the edge of the Dark City, as though the pride of the eldar’s dark kin led them to believe that none would dare attack their capital. Yet, even as they neared, Illiawe saw no houses or movement.

“Where are the Commorrites?” she asked Taeryn.

“Just as the webway has many routes that have been forgotten, the city of Commorragh has entrances that not even the Commorrite nobles know of.” Taeryn turned her head slightly, and Illiawe sensed the humor in her gesture. “The Commorrites are always startled when we appear not from one of their beloved ports, but seemingly from within the city itself. I’ve always found it rather amusing.” She shrugged. “The vying kabals within the city have been trying to find those entrances for a very long time, but they have never succeeded. And so, they remain tied to their ports while we enter the city from these hidden entrances, a different one every time.” Taeryn giggled wickedly. “It drives the nobles insane.”

Illiawe smiled. "How much farther until we come into the heart of the Dark City?"

"Not too much further. We have to go through this part of Low Commorragh first, then through another one of those hidden passageways I mentioned."

The harlequins gently guided the starweavers through the city. Low Commorragh was, put simply, a mess. A perpetual cloud hung over the city, thick and heavy, muffling all sound. The clawed spires that rose along both sides of its streets curved and leaned out in all directions, turning the narrow streets into what was essentially a tunnel. Sparse gaps allowed thin shafts of the webway light through, though what little light that managed to reach the ground immediately had all color leached out of it, giving the dusty rubble strewn streets a depressing shade of gray. In the shadows of the buildings lurked the hunched and crooked figures of things that could not have been eldar. Illiawe felt their incurious stares as the flight of crafts went past. Now and again one of the figures would dart out, scampering, usually on all four limbs, across the streets to the safety of the shadows of another building.

The harlequins slowed their vehicles even more, and they moved through the empty streets, the engines of the starweavers soundless. One of the lurking beasts scampered behind their crafts, mindlessly snarling. Despite its deformed stature, the beast was fast, almost as fast as some of the Howling Banshees who had studied with Illiawe in their old shrine. Its loping gait was unusually smooth, its arms stretching out before it in the manner of the predators that stalked Ulthwé's glades. Despite the creature's speed and the squadron's relatively slow pace, however, they quickly left it behind, and the streets grew eerily silent again.

Illiawe first heard the screams and agonizing shouts. Then there was laughter mixed in the sounds, loud and raucous laughter that failed to contain the maliciousness within. There was a hiss, almost like a shuriken rifle, but deeper. Half a second later there was another scream.

Taeryn shifted. "Watch yourself," she said over her shoulder.

"What is happening?" Illiawe asked curiously.

"One of the wars that break out in these parts every so often."

“Will it impede our progress?”

“We should not run into any problems. The Commorrites in Low Commorragh know better than to trouble a harlequin troupe. I wish I could say the same for the nobility, but it is a problem that we will have to deal with later.”

An eldar came running around the corner. His spiked armor was stained with blood, and he was clutching his side. He ran unsteadily, his knees almost buckling as he pushed himself forward. Blood ran down the side of his face, contrasting heavily with the pallid complexion of the Commorrite eldar. There was another of the deep toned hiss, and the eldar lurched forward, collapsing face down in front of the starweaver squadron.

There was a high pitched laugh, and two eldar sprinted around the corner, their jagged swords dripping with blood. They took in one glance the dead eldar and the still forms of the harlequins in the starweavers, then turned and disappeared around the corner, shouting something to their warring compatriots. Almost immediately, the sound of weapons fire stopped.

“It should be safe now,” Taeryn said.

They turned the corner and went down the street. Dead eldar lay strewn in the streets, mangled and dismembered almost beyond recognition. The street was quiet as the harlequin troupe passed, but it was not the awed and respectful silence that Illiawe was used to on the craftworld. As they passed, she detected fear emanating strongly from the eldar hiding silently in the surrounding buildings, watching wordlessly.

They continued for some time in the starweavers until Esarlyth pulled the lead starweaver to one side. He led them through a shimmering portal, and, suddenly, they were in the well lit depths of High Commorragh. Much like the poorer regions of the city, the structures that lined High Commorragh’s streets were unlovely affairs. Grim and foreboding, they stretched up further than Illiawe could see. The similarities, however, ended there. While Low Commorragh was dark, High Commorragh was lit by suns held suspended far above even the top of the tallest spires. The inhabitants of High Commorragh appeared to believe that spikes and mutilated bodies were an indication of wealth, and the towers were lined with row upon row of majestically curving protrusions and impaled bodies and, not uncommonly, bodies impaled upon majestically curving protrusions. The pained moaning of the Commorrites’ victims filled the broad streets; human, ork, Chaos cultists, and even a handful of the Commorrite eldar. Illiawe closed her eyes, trying to filter out the sounds and the psychic feedback of the dying.

Residents of High Commorragh stalked the streets in large groups. Most were in full armor, and, Illiawe noticed, those who wore loose garments of fine material were sure to have a number of armored eldar around. Unlike the eldar in Low Commorragh, the eldar here did not run for cover when the harlequin troupe moved past. They did not even move out of the way, instead looking at the harlequins with unbowed heads, as though daring the troupe to challenge them for their lack of cordiality. Esarlyth, for his part, led them on wordlessly, though he did make a point of moving close enough to the ground so that the bottom of their starweavers almost touched the top of the heads of the Commorrites when they were forced to fly over large crowds. After a while he pulled his starweaver up, and climbed to join the Commorrite crafts weaving their way through the air in a confused mess, moving around buildings and other crafts. There was no order to the traffic. Crafts swooped and dived and climbed seemingly according to the whims of their pilots, each eldar trusting to his skill to prevent a fatal collision. Into the chaos the harlequins went, unerringly navigating through the veritable swarm of Commorrite crafts. There was traffic both above and below them, and Illiawe became astutely aware of how easy it was to become lost in such conditions, and that concern soon joined her fear of a fiery accident. Yet the harlequins never once lost sight of the other starweavers, moving as one around the dark crafts of the Commorrites. Then they turned away from their course, heading for a particularly large building some distance away. Esarlyth led them to a platform protruding out of its side near the top and dismounted. Taeryn gently set her starweaver down beside his and, touching a rune, powered the engines of the craft down. Illiawe hopped out of the starweaver, consciously adjusting her cowl.

They joined Esarlyth as he walked toward the building. There were four Commorrites standing in front of a formidable doorway. Their armor and weapons were ornate and imposing, and their lean faces were hard.

"The light troupe of the Masque of the Darkened Moon has arrived," Esarlyth said to them.

"We know," one of the guards said coldly. The middle two guards stepped aside, wordlessly permitting the troupes to pass. Then one of the other guards turned to them, a malicious grin on his face.

"Get to dancing for your god," he said. His tone bordered on insulting, but Illiawe was not sure that the veiled insult to the Laughing God was the only implication in his words. The harlequins froze, and the air suddenly grew tense. Taeryn shifted slightly, and Illiawe sensed her intent.

"He is new," the first of the guards spoke up for his fellow Commorrite. "Newly recruited. He has never talked to servants of the Laughing God before."

"Indeed," Taeryn said in a soft voice. "It is time that he learnt. You High Commorrites lack respect, for the gods and our race both. Know that even your peoples are not exempt from what lies before the eldar race. You should prepare yourselves." She moved in front of the smirking guard, looking him full in the face. "Perhaps I can help you along."

Illiawe quickly looked around her. The other three guards had taken a few inconspicuous steps away from Taeryn and the fourth guard, and their eyes glittered as they intently watched the confrontation. The guard, still rather oblivious to the threat that Taeryn posed, did not shrink away like the others did. He stood leering at Illiawe's friend. Then his eyes widened and his pallid complexion grew, if anything, even paler. His arms trembled, and his weapon fell to the floor. He tried to turn away, but found that he was unable to do so as Taeryn held him transfixed, keeping his attention focused on her mask. He cried out once in horror, and his hands came up, trying to shield his eyes from the nightmares that filled Taeryn's mask.

"Hide your face all you want," Taeryn said coldly, "but you cannot block out the images."

The guard did not appear to have heard her words. His legs crumpled beneath him and he crashed to the floor, gibbering incoherently.

"Remember your place," Taeryn said to him, not seeming to care that he was too busy to pay any attention to her. "The gods will have you play your part, no matter what you think of them. Things will be much more pleasant were you to keep your derision to yourself." She turned away from him. Without another word, Taeryn swept past the guards and through the open doorway. Illiawe caught up with her.

"What did you show him?" she asked curiously.

Taeryn turned to her. She paused, long enough for Illiawe to wonder if it was done for effect. "Things," she said after a while.

"That is a silly answer."

"It was a silly question." She glanced at Illiawe. "He'll be fine after a while," she said.

Illiawe shrugged. "I do not care much either way."

"That attitude is beneath you, Illiawe," Taeryn chided.

"I will care more if he were to step away from degeneracy." Illiawe shrugged again. "As it stands, his survival - and the survival of the rest of his people - is not a concern."

"When the time comes, every eldar life will be of a large concern."

"You did not act well when he insulted Cegorach either," Illiawe accused. "Do not lecture me on compassion for the Commorrites."

"That's different.  Besides, his life was never in any danger."

"That's a fine way to shrug off burden," Illiawe said dryly.

"I am serious, Illiawe. What I did would never have killed him. He needed to be put in his place, however. Your attitude was nothing more than a lack of concern for his life."

Illiawe shrugged again. Taeryn sighed, but let the issue drop.

The interior of the building was what could only be described as grim. Spiked chandeliers made of a shiny black material hung from the ceiling, providing a dim purple light that barely stretched to either side of the cavernous room beyond.

"Is this the place where Lirys instructed us to come?"

"Hardly. However, we have to stage a performance first. It is expected, and it would look strange if we do not. Besides, the troupe did not come to Commorragh just to look at the scenery."

"How long will it take?"

"Not very. The mimes have already gone before us. The Commorrites will have had ample time to prepare for a performance." She glanced at Illiawe. "You have seen a troupe perform before, haven't you?"

Illiawe nodded.

"Good. You know the basic dances, then?"

"Taeryn, what are you getting at?"

"You will perform with us."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You will have to perform with us," Taeryn repeated.

"I did not see that in my visions."

"Of course not," Taeryn said lightly. "I am very adept at shrouding the fates. I did not wish for you to panic, after all, and I do love surprising others. Don't you love surprises?"

"Not these kinds."

"Oh, don't be so grouchy. You are away from the craftworld now."

"Taeryn," Illiawe protested, "I know nothing about the harlequin dances. Now I do not have the time to learn the steps of the dance."

Her friend laughed, causing the other harlequins to turn their heads in curiosity. "You will not have to dance. However, you will have to stay on stage."

Illiawe smiled. "That I can do."

"You know where you are supposed to stand?"

"I have watched many performances, if you will remember."

Taeryn nodded.

The troupe gathered in the middle of the room, each standing apart from the rest, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Illiawe went to the other side of the room and nudged the door open. The sound of a thousand different voices drifted through the open door. Illiawe stepped up to it and peeked out. Instead of a room, the door led straight onto a raised platform. It was a large and grandiose structure, its smooth surface made of the black glossy material that the Commorrite eldar seemed to love. It had none of the usual trappings of Commorrite eldar ornamental tastes, and some effort had apparently been made to beautify the stage. Colorful banners hung haphazardly everywhere on the stage, clashing horribly with each other, seemingly in mockery of the gaudy preferences of the harlequins. A crowd had gathered before the stage, armored eldar who, despite the vastness of the crowd, chose to gather clannishly in tight bundles along the floor. Almost without exception, the eldar of each group eyed the eldar of the surrounding groups distrustfully, while animatedly holding conversations with his friends and ignoring the suspicious stares of the eldar of the other groups.

Taeryn moved next to her and glanced through the doorway, ignoring the crowd and staring at the stage. "I see that the Commorrites have not acquired a better understanding of the subtleties of interior decorations since I was here last," she observed softly.

Illiawe turned sharply to her, but it was difficult to tell if her friend was joking. "Which story is the troupe going to be performing?" she asked curiously.

"I would like to dance the tale of the Fall. The Commorrites don't like being reminded of it, however." She shrugged. "We don't have a solitaire with us, anyway."

A great change had come over the harlequins. Their movement slowed, and the usual energy which they usually displayed seemed almost to dissipate, to be replaced by a vast sense of calm. It was a contagious feeling, and Illiawe found herself slowing to match the harlequins. A sense of lassitude seemed to settle over her mind, drowning out thoughts and emotions. The clamor of the crowd faded away and Illiawe found herself moving without conscious thought to join the harlequins. She closed her eyes, shaking her head, trying to push the fog from her mind.

"Don't fight it, Illiawe," Taeryn's thought came to her. "You are part of the troupe now, however briefly that may be."

"I need my wits about me, Taeryn."

"I think you'll rather like what happens next if you give in, then."

Illiawe sighed, and did as Taeryn instructed. Mental barriers, erected and strengthened over the centuries of her life, flowed away like water as Illiawe lowered them one by one. Taeryn's presence grew sharper, as did the presence of the rest of the troupe. Illiawe gasped as the last of her barriers was lowered, keenly aware of the vulnerability of her mind. Then the minds of the harlequins enfolded hers, drawing the farseer into their midst, where their thoughts mingled and swirled together. A mind brushed her thoughts, and Illiawe instinctively raised her barriers, preparing to ward it off. Then Taeryn's reassuring presence was there, and Illiawe relaxed. The harlequin retreated, leaving behind an apologetic thought.

“Perhaps the farseer needs more time to get used to this," one of the harlequins' voice sounded in her mind. Thoughts of amusement came from the rest of the troupe.

Illiawe flushed, yet she was well aware that it was true. The merging of the harlequins, without the normal reservations and barriers of the craftworld eldar, was more complete than Illiawe had ever experienced or, indeed, dared to attempt. Immediately Illiawe realized the cause of the harlequins' mythic coordination. No player was isolated from the rest of the troupe, and all their thoughts were shared amongst themselves. Around the shared consciousness lingered a presence. It was just a small fraction of the full consciousness, yet it was unimaginably vast. Almost as if the knowledge had been written in her memory from before her birth, Illiawe recognized the presence. The god of the harlequins had enveloped the troupe consciousness in his own, standing solidly between them and the horrors that would seek to take advantage of the vulnerability of his children.

In a moment of epiphany, Illiawe sought the presence of Taeryn. "You do not do this often, do you?" she asked, suddenly aware of the great honor that the harlequins had bestowed upon her.

"No," came the reply. "The troupe's consciousness is not to be shared on a whim. Even if you should pull your mind away from ours, you are now a part of the troupe of the Darkened Moon."

Illiawe bowed her head in a gesture of respect. There was not much else that she could say. She was well aware of the exposed thoughts of the harlequins lingering at the edges of her mind, but she kept at a distance, preventing her thoughts from merging with the troupe's. “Why did you let me in, then?”

“Perhaps one day you might find out for yourself.”

Illiawe frowned. She was about to press for further answers, but Esarlyth’s thought interrupted her. "The time has come."

Taeryn nodded, quickly checking that her mask was secure. The harlequins gathered around them, and Esarlyth nodded once. There was a twitch in the back of Illiawe's mind, and she took a deep breath, suppressing the instinct to lash out at the minds of the harlequins. Gingerly she reached out, until she brushed against the group consciousness. It was as though a dam had burst in her mind. No sooner had the merging finished that thoughts and memories flowed into her mind. There was the memory of a first performance, and another of the rapid steps of a dance. A harlequin shot a warm thought as he welcomed Illiawe into their thoughts, while the rest watched on in amusement as Illiawe probed around, almost unconsciously, in the act of looking for the exact limits of the group consciousness, probing into the exposed memories of each harlequin, skimming over the collective memories there. None of the harlequins objected to the intrusion, though there was patient amusement there, as one might feel when watching the antics of a very young child. That brought Illiawe up short, and she quickly reigned in her curiosity, slowing her probing down to what she hoped was a more dignified pace.

Illiawe soon realized that the sharing of thoughts between the harlequins was almost total. While a few small gaps, most of them from Esarlyth and Taeryn, indicated that some memories were kept private, there was almost nothing that the harlequins hid from each other. In a sudden flash of insight, Illiawe realized that the troupe was the sum and total of most of the players' lives, and there was therefore no need for privacy. There seemed to be one exception, however. Almost consistently, none of the harlequins revealed memories from their past lives, save for certain snippets of useful information or experiences.

The harlequins had been almost still before, but now they moved, heading toward the half open door. As if the thoughts were her own, Illiawe moved past it onto the stage, knowing that her role required her to accompany both Taeryn and Esarlyth. The rest of the troupe hung back just out of sight of the audience, with Taeryn masking their presence, a precaution that could very well have been redundant.

The Commorrite eldar did not grow silent even as they moved onto the stage. In fact, Illiawe was not sure that they even noticed the harlequins. Esarlyth looked out over them for one moment, then he nodded to Taeryn. She lowered her head, raised her staff, and solidly struck the stage with its end. Her powers lashed out at the Commorrites. The silence that fell over them in an instant was total.

Esarlyth stepped forward, looking out over the now still crowd. He lowered his head, not speaking for a long moment as he allowed the anticipation of the audience to build up. "Commorrites," he started, his head still bowed. "The tales of our race are many, the myths numerous. Yet there are so few of you who remember even one of them. Indeed, they have grown dim in your memories amidst the constant conflicts in your lives." He straightened, the hideous grin on his mask catching the light, the bared teeth glinting as he turned his head. "Rejoice, then, ye of Commorragh," he proclaimed in a loud voice, "the troupe has arrived, and it is time that you learnt the tales of our people. For heed my words. Just as constant conflict has tempered your bodies and sharpened your minds, so will the legends of our past prepare you, one and all, for what is to come. Watch, then, our unruly kin, and learn well the lessons contained therein." He bowed his head and stepped back, vanishing from sight as Taeryn folded the shadows around him.

Two harlequins leapt onto the stage, their steps light and quick. They twirled around each other, keeping a very small distance between themselves but never quite touching. Taeryn stepped up, and began to narrate. In the old verses of the accompanying tale she spoke of the twin eldar heroes who vanquished many races that sought the destruction of the eldar, whether intentionally or by accident. And the harlequins danced and acted out the heroes’ glory, emphasizing the triumphant words of Taeryn’s with graceful and fluid movements. Even as she spoke, the rest of the troupe moved onto the stage, acting out the parts of the attacking races.

They moved to dance around the first two harlequins, forming an ever tightening ring about them. Then, with a great flourish, the two harlequins swept their arms out, and the circle of players melted back into the shadows. Illiawe smiled. It was an old dance, spinning a tale of ancient kinship. Her eyes flickered between the spinning forms of the two harlequins playing the part of the heroes – Ymeriel and Beldor.

"Many foes did the heroes vanquish," Taeryn intoned solemnly, "and much prosperity came to the eldar then."

The two harlequins danced alone on the stage now, their steps ever quickening, lightly tapping out the complex rhythm of their dance.

"But strife ever has a way of creeping into tranquility," Taeryn continued. "And so it was with the heroes. It was but a small matter, one worthy not of even the least of attention, but it flared and blossom. Then did the heroes fight, and great was the sundering. As the mighty house broke in two, did the armies of Ymeriel and Beldor take up blades of fine design against each other. As brother waged war against brother, were weapons of terrible destruction brought to bear, and the fires of suns did rain down upon the eldar."

Four harlequins leapt onto the stage to dance behind the first two harlequins. They drew toward each other, the belligerence of their dance drawing murmurs of approval from the audience. A ripple of barely concealed tension ran through the Commorrites, and, even though there was no real battle occurring, the feverish mood grew, until it was almost as if the Commorrites were themselves preparing for battle. Taeryn encouraged their bloodlust, fogging the minds of the audience and drawing their focus on the performance into the front of their minds. Illiawe pursed her lips. No performance on the craftworlds included such an illusion. The harlequins’ dances were quite obviously tailored according to their current audience.

Taeryn tapped her staff once, and a fine mist rose up out of the ground. Gasps rose from among the Commorrites as Taeryn weaved illusions of vast destruction before their eyes. The hunger for battle was suddenly gone, replaced by profound horror. Illiawe tilted her head. Within the troupe’s shared consciousness, Taeryn kept the details of her illusion to herself. One look at the expressions of horror on the faces of even the oldest of the Commorrites, however, convinced the farseer that it was probably for the best. If the images frightened even the Commorrites, Illiawe was perfectly content not knowing what they were. Illiawe, however, was forced to reassess her friend. She bit her lip, stuck between awe over the discipline of her friend and newfound fear.

Illiawe tore her eyes away from Taeryn, concentrating instead on the performance. The story was a favorite amongst the harlequin troupes and, with the shared knowledge of the troupe freely available to her, she now knew why. It was a relatively tame tale, one that did not require the players of a whole masque, yet told the same story that so many of the other dances did. It was one of discord and strife, of destruction and suffering, an occurrence that was never quite banished from the long history of the eldar race. And then her thoughts joined with that of Esarlyth, and she sensed the troupe master's firm belief in the possibility of putting such conflicts to an end; apparently, he had decided that the Commorrites were ideal candidates in heeding the warnings. One look at the raptured faces of the Commorrites told her that, in some ways, the troupe master was right. The eldar's dark kin might not care for tales of the crumbling of the eldar civilization and aesops of restraint, but they were happy to watch the myths of the eldar heroes, and the harlequins rather slyly reminded them of the honor and valor that their ancestors possessed through the ancient tales. Whether or not the Commorrites will simply return to their normal life when it was over, however, was a question that nagged at Illiawe. She shrugged, pushing it out of her mind. That was Esarlyth’s problem.

"But in their conflict did the enemies of the eldar grow strong once more, and great was their wrath as they sought redemption for their loss.

"And did word of this grave danger reached the brothers, who, though overcome with bitterness, quickly sought common ground. Then did the great warriors of the eldar march once more to confront their foes."

Even though she had not been instructed to act, a sudden compulsion filled Illiawe. She stretched out her powers, letting the troupe’s consciousness guide her, weaving in front of the eyes of the audience an army of monsters. Without really thinking about it, as though it was something that she had done so many times now, Illiawe meticulously created cruelly fanged and clawed creatures and unleashed them upon the minds of the audience. She felt a mind beside her own, and realized that Taeryn was guiding her in the crafting of the illusion, instructing her in the detailed creation of things long since dead. It took but a moment, until the Commorrites saw thousands of the creatures forming the opposing army.

Illiawe watched as the exhausted armies of the eldar turn to face her phantom army. The dance quickened as the harlequins moved across the stage, until they were no more than whirling forms of color. The dance picked up pace until it was no more than a riot of color and emotions as the harlequins acted out the battles and the bravery of individual eldar until, finally, the enemy lay broken and scattered, their few remaining numbers driven away before the eldar warriors. The dance slowed as the harlequins acted out the final moments of the war.

But the dance was not yet concluded. Taeryn tapped her staff on the stage, and the harlequins came together, their movements slow, measured, and sorrowful. Illiawe knew the details of the final act of the harlequins' dance. The enemy was vanquished, but it had cost the eldar of old dearly. The brave warriors of the eldar lay dead on the field of battle, their heroes fallen, their homes shattered. Taeryn gathered the shadows around the harlequins, hiding the troupe from sight. They withdrew from the stage, leaving the Commorrite audience with nothing but the vivid image of a land sundered by fire, occupied by nothing more than a crumbling reminder of past prosperity and the tattered banners of forgotten glory.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

They went out from the building the way they had entered it, making their way quickly to the Starweavers before the Commorrites had even begun to leave. The guards were still standing at the doors. Illiawe noticed that the fourth guard had recovered from his earlier discomfort, though he made a point to avoid looking at the troupe, for some reason. Illiawe climbed aboard one of the Starweavers, settling down behind Taeryn. Her friend took the lead this time, angling the craft upward to climb into the upper reaches of Commorragh where the traffic was markedly a lot thinner than it was nearer to the streets.

“Are we headed for Lirys’ contact now?” Illiawe asked.

Taeryn nodded.

“Finally,” Illiawe muttered. “What did Lirys tell you about this eldar whom we are going to visit?”

“From what I understand, he is an haemonculus who happens to owe High Shadowseer Lirys some favors. She was confident that he will be able to provide us with any assistance that we might need.”

“Did she tell you at all whether we could trust him?”

“She would not have instructed us to seek his help if he were not in some way trustworthy,” Taeryn replied, then she shrugged. “At least, as trustworthy as any Commorrite could be.”

“That does not fill me with the greatest confidence,” Illiawe complained.

Taeryn shrugged again. “Does it really matter? The information that we seek is hardly important enough to warrant secrecy.”

“That is unwholesomely optimistic, Taeryn.”

The shadowseer turned her head. “Perhaps, but if you have got better contacts, I will be happy to go to them instead.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, then.” Taeryn’s tone was almost beatific. “Don’t you think you should not concern yourself overmuch with the trustworthiness of our current contact?”

Illiawe chose – perhaps wisely – not to answer that.

Behind them, the mimes’ Starweavers, along with another, veered away, streaking down toward the streets and disappearing into the shadows. Illiawe leaned over the hull of their Starweaver, tracking their descent until they disappeared from sight.

“Where are they going?” she asked.

“Why don’t you have a look in their thoughts and find out for yourself?”

“Why would I go to all that trouble when I have you here to tell me all about it?”

“You’re lazy, Illiawe.”

“Yes, I think that is the correct term. So, where are those harlequins headed?”

Taeryn sighed in resignation. “The troupes seldom stay together if one of us has something important to attend to,” she explained. “We attract less attention this way. The harlequins in those Starweavers will probably be roaming the streets until we are done.” She paused. “Or they could be following us from a distance.”

Illiawe turned around to glance at the other three Starweavers behind them. “What about the rest of the troupe?”

“They will probably drop away after a while. Don’t let it bother you. We will be able to find each other again when this is over.”

“That is not what I am worried about. Would the Commorrites care about half a harlequin troupe walking around their streets?”

“They are not going to say anything. Enough intrigue happens in their own lives for them to know better than to get mixed up in ours, too.”

"If you are certain about that."

"Of course I am."

Then a thought occurred to Illiawe. "Do you know where you are going?" she asked worriedly.

"Of course I do. Lirys showed me what to look out for, and how to get there. Why don't you go look into the future?" she asked in the tone one used to instruct an interrupting child to return to his toys.

Illiawe glowered at the back of her friend’s head from behind her mask, then sighed and did as she was told.

As Taeryn had predicted, two of the Starweavers dropped away after some moments. Esarlyth, however, stayed with them. Illiawe caught a thought from the troupe master, a decision to stay with them until they reached their destination.

After a while, Taeryn brought the Starweaver to a slow halt, and Esarlyth followed. Taeryn looked around her for a good while, then leaned over the Starweaver's hull to study the shadowy streets below. A dreadful suspicion began to form in Illiawe’s mind.

"You are lost, aren't you?" she asked accusingly.

"Of course not. I simply have not figured out our exact position."

"That means the same thing, Taeryn."

"Not quite," she said absently, still intently studying the streets. Then she pointed. "Ah, there it is."

Illiawe followed her gesture. "Our destination?"

"No. One of the things that Lirys told me to look out for."

Illiawe clenched her teeth together to keep in the sounds of frustration. “I thought you knew where to go.”

“I do,” Taeryn replied in an infuriatingly calm tone.

Illiawe raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Well, it is going to take a while, but Lirys did show me the way, after all.”

“She did not do a very good job of it, I see.”

Taeryn looked irritably at her. “Do you want to take over piloting the Starweaver?”

“And miss out on the chance to make fun of you for getting lost? Don’t be absurd.”

Taeryn halted the Starweaver a few more times during the ride, moving from one section of the webway to another, popping up each time in yet another section of High Commorragh, until finally she pushed the craft into a sudden dive, straightening it just moments before it struck the crowded streets. They weaved between a couple of buildings, then, leaving Esarlyth behind, they went through a shimmering portal. Lying on the other side of the portal was not the packed streets that appeared to make up the rest of Commorragh, however. It was rather a vast space, brightly lit by blazing suns hanging overhead, a sort of empty field paved with glittering stones. In the very center of that field was a large pale dome, shiny and glistening with a coating that reflected the light of the suns overhead. Taeryn stopped the Starweaver outside the dome and unhesitatingly walked toward it. There was a sound like grinding stone as a thin slit appeared in the surface of the dome, growing ever larger until it stood open just wide enough for them to enter one at a time. Illiawe stood just inside the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

A thin figure, stooped until his head was almost level with his chest, came walking out of the shadows. Thin appendages like the legs of insects sprouted from his back, stark and many jointed limbs that lifted him a couple of feet off the ground. His head was bald and so pale as to be almost translucent. He regarded them with deeply sunken eyes and a dark scowl.

“What do you want?” he asked in a raspy voice.

“A talk with Ezarvyn.”

The hunched Commorrite’s eyes narrowed. “As a harlequin, or as a customer?”

“As someone claiming a favor that Ezarvyn owes to High Shadowseer Lirys.”

The Commorrite’s scowl deepened. Then he abruptly turned and moved to the other side of the dome on his insectoid limbs. He pressed a rune on a small panel, and there was a hiss and a small hatch on the floor slid open. There were steps leading down into a ruddy light below, and, without a word, the Commorrite descended them. Taeryn and Illiawe glanced at each other and warily followed the Commorrite. At the bottom of the steps was a circular room, filled with silent machinery that clicked and buzzed and made strange chirping noises. Row upon row of vats filled with a purplish liquid lay among the machinery, each containing the still form of a Commorrite creature of war. Despite what she had heard of Commorrite society, it was not slaves who attended to the maintenance. Rather, black spherical drones floated back and forth between the vats, polishing their surfaces carefully like prized pieces of art. The ruddy glow that filled the chamber came from exquisite sconces that lined the curved walls, dull balls of crimson that pulsed with organic rhythm.

The dour faced Commorrite gestured for them to stay and went back up the steps. Taeryn went to one of the vats and bent slightly, reading the holographic display beside it and examining the creature within.

"Come away from that, Taeryn," Illiawe said disgustedly.

Taeryn gestured for her to be still, moving around the vat and on to the next one. Illiawe wrinkled her nose as she watched Taeryn.

"Stop that," she said. "How could you look at those things?"

"Don't you like my creations?" The voice came from the opposite end of the chamber. Ezarvyn walked into the dim light. He wore a long flowing robe, his hair tied back in a single lock at the back of his head. He was tall and lean, his shoulders unbowed, his features sharp. His eyes glittered, glowing red in the strange light. There was a smile on his lips - not the malicious ones of most Commorrites, but one that almost seemed to be genuine. He sighed with mock regret. "And I try so hard to create the best specimens that I could." His voice was soft and steady. His gaze flickered to Taeryn. "What do you think of them?"

"I think they are grotesque," she replied, turning away from a particularly lumpen creature.

He inclined his head. "That's the idea." Then he straightened and rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well, Lirys sent word of your problem."

"She did?" Illiawe asked, feigning surprise.

"Yes, she did. I offer the best services that I could, and I work best with time." He gestured for them to follow him, and turned on his heels, leading the way out of the circular chamber. He led them away from the room into an adjacent chamber. There he pressed a rune on the wall next to the entrance, flooding the room with a warm yellow light. The room was furnished with a number of comfortable looking couches arranged around a polished table fashioned from a glistening blue material. He gestured for them to sit, and moved to a side table, taking a crystal decanter and pouring out a drink. He turned and held out the decanter to them. Taeryn shook her head slightly. Ezarvyn shrugged and replaced the lid on the decanter before sitting himself in one of the couches, draping a leg over one of the arms.

“What kind of favor do you owe to Lirys?” Illiawe asked on an impulse.

Ezarvyn shrugged. "Lirys helped me with setting up in Commorragh. We went around handing out bribes, making a few threats, and killing a few individuals. After a while, I gained enough power to spread my own influence. A lot of what I own is in some way built upon her help.”

"I can't imagine why she would want to do that."

"Well, it probably has something to do with the fact that I am very good at what I do," he said with no attempt at modesty. He paused, rubbing at the side of his face reflectively. “In exchange, I had to drop whatever I was doing at the moment if she asked for help. I suppose she was expanding her contacts, but she doesn’t ask for assistance too often, so I am not too burdened by the terms of the deal.” He straightened, and looked around him. “From what I understand, you are looking for the source of a certain psychic manipulation. I have sent some of my people out. With luck, they are going to be able to locate this target of yours.”

“How long is it going to take?” Illiawe asked.

“Who knows? From what I understand, the caster is quite adept. However, these agents of mine are the best under my employ, and I have many of them. We are bound to stumble upon something eventually.”

“It is crucial that it does not take too long.”

“That is out of my control. My agents will try their best, but I cannot guarantee anything.”

“That is the best that we could hope for, I guess,” Illiawe grudgingly conceded. She had been hoping that Ezarvyn would have some way of quickly finding out the information that they needed, something, perhaps, that only the Commorrites had access to. She was forced to admit, however, that the simple fact that there was now more eldar looking for answers was a great assistance in itself.

“You are welcome to check back in every so often, if it would make you feel better,” Ezarvyn offered.

“No, I don’t think that I would need to do that. Commorragh is a difficult city to travel around in.”

“You just need to get used to it. Is that all that you needed, then?”

Illiawe started to nod, then Taeryn held out an arm. “Have you done any research into toxins and biological agents, Ezarvyn?”

“What kind of haemonculus would I be if I haven’t?”

“How extensive are your experiments and research in the field?”

Ezarvyn’s expression grew suddenly wary. “Are you asking me this on behalf of Lirys, or as a customer?”

“You can assume, for now, that I am a potential customer, if that makes you happy.”

Ezarvyn’s eyes brightened. “A paying customer, I hope?”

“Have you ever heard of one who doesn’t pay?”

Ezarvyn made a face. “Unfortunately, I have. Quite frequently, too.” He abruptly stood. “If you would follow me, I could show you what I have.” He was suddenly very businesslike; the amused and even slightly indulgent look was gone from his face, and his eyes became alert. He set his drink down and went to a wall, tapping at a grid of runes there.

“What do you need toxins and viruses for?” Illiawe sent the thought to Taeryn.

“I don’t, really. It’s nice to see what new concoctions the various haemonculi have invented now and again, however. I have come across some rather interesting things that way.”

Illiawe shuddered.

“Ezarvyn is definitely not what I expected from a Commorrite, let alone an haemonculus,” Taeryn observed.

“He does seem a little too…” She stopped, groping around for the right word.

“Normal?”

“I wouldn’t say that. The word makes too many assumptions.”

“How about ‘nice’?”

“It is a massive understatement, but why not? I suppose that, in a way, he doesn’t seem to fit in Commorragh. I am sure that he has at least a few torture chambers close at hand, though.”

Ezarvyn had opened a section of the wall to reveal a dark space. Illiawe stared at it. The empty space that had opened up was the kind of darkness caused not by the absence of light, but by the presence of shadows so dark no light could banish it. Indeed, the light of the room seemed to end precisely where the portal was. Within it the shadows appeared almost alive, its writhing and pulsing growing more prominent the longer Illiawe stared at it.

Ezarvyn beckoned to them, and stepped into the portal. Taeryn shrugged and stepped in after him, with Illiawe not far behind.

It was as though she had been picked up and hurled through some dark pool of water. It lasted only for a moment, then there was a wrenching feeling, and her feet struck solid ground. Ezarvyn was standing only a few feet away from her. He swept his arm in a grand circle around him.

"My laboratory," he said laconically, yet with a certain amount of pride. "Please don't touch anything. I do not need any more test subjects, and I would much rather have a paying customer than a dead one."

Illiawe looked around her. The three of them were standing in a small space surrounded by four walls of shelves. On the shelves lay vials and containers and spheres of a clear material, all carefully labelled and arranged. She frowned. “It’s an awfully small laboratory,” she observed.

“On the surface, yes. This place is as large as I want it to be, however. It is unconstrained by the material plane – or even the webway. Of course, no one needs to see the full extent of it, least of all my customers. You are here to trade, not to dabble in my work.” He looked at Taeryn. "Was there anything in particular that you'd like to see?"

“No.”

Ezarvyn frowned, tapping thoughtfully at his chin. “I suppose that you are looking for the more exotic kinds, aren’t you? I do have a number of very destructive creations.”

Taeryn shrugged. “I suppose that it’s worth a look.”

“Good,” Ezarvyn said briskly. He went to one wall, bending slightly and looking at the labels, muttering to himself. He reached out, pressed a rune next to one of the shelves, and the containers on it shimmered and blurred. When they became clear again, there was a set of new containers sitting there. Ezarvyn muttered again and tapped the rune next to the shelf above the one he was inspecting. After a few minutes of tapping and muttering, he took a small vial off the shelf and came back toward them.

“A particularly potent virus, this one,” he said, brandishing the vial like a bottle of fine wine. “Adapted from one of the strange viruses that pop up in Low Commorragh now and then. Within a couple of days, an infected subject becomes incredibly contagious – in a manner of speaking. It does not infect other people. It infects the planet. Everything organic dies within a day, leaving all their possessions lying around free for the taking once the virus dies out in about a week.” He turned the vial back to himself and looked speculatively at it. “I am currently trying to make the process last longer, however. Some Commorrite nobles prefer agony over material goods, and the more picky ones keep complaining that the agony doesn’t last quite long enough. I keep telling them that they should fight more conventionally if that’s what they want, but some of them are just lazy, I guess. Of course, that is not a problem for you, is it?” He shrugged. “I also have one that attacks the neurons – or anything like it – of the inhabitants instead. It kills far more quickly, and with more agony, but, again, some of the nobles want a longer lasting one.”

“Your customers are very demanding.”

“Tell me about it.” He shrugged and replaced the vial upon the shelf. Then he came back with another vial. Ezarvyn was in his element here. It was as though he was selling pieces of particularly fine jewelry. Every new vial or container was presented with a great flourish and a glowing speech rife with details about the delivery method, effects, and after-effects of the biological weapon. He meticulously weighed the cost of the compound against the benefits of using it, and dwelt in great detail upon the type and length of the suffering that the weapon would deal. With each new presentation, the descriptions became more and more grisly, and the effects more and more horrific. There were viruses that ruptured insides and melted brains, and toxins that melted the flesh off bones, and a nasty poison that chipped away at the soul while the target writhed in helpless agony as his body stopped responding. The casual way in which Ezarvyn talked unnerved Illiawe, and she soon found that a chill ran up her spine every time Ezarvyn brought the next specimen forward. Taeryn, on the other hand, appeared to grow more and more interested, almost anticipating the next concoction. Finally, she held up a hand.

“This is all very interesting,” she said, “but they are quite ordinary. Have you got anything special that you are working on right now?”

Ezarvyn pursed his lips. “I do have something, but I’m not sure if it is what you are looking for.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I designed it as something of an elixir. It reduces a candidate into an easily stored form. The candidate retains most of his mental and emotional faculties, while the compound inflicts various trauma upon his mind and soul. In essence, it becomes a constant source of pain and terror and all these other lovely emotions, easily kept in a small flask, if you so wished.” He waved an arm, and the shelves on one of the walls shimmered away. Ezarvyn led them down the hidden corridor. “I’ve got a test subject under its effects at this very moment. I’ll let you have a look at him.”

“That sounds like something that would be very popular here in Commorragh,” Taeryn observed.

“Yes, it would be. However, this mixture also happens to keep the candidates alive for so long that it might as well be all eternity. It is a necessary measure to counter certain complications, but it would effectively put the haemonculi out of work. No Commorrite would require the services of a good inflictor of pain when a special concoction is all that is needed to do the same thing for the rest of time. We will lose prestige and business very rapidly if this got out.”

“Then why tell me about it?”

Ezarvyn shrugged. “I like you and your prudish friend, for some reason.”

“He is lying, is he not?” Illiawe asked Taeryn silently.

“I would say so, yes. That revelation was quite deliberate.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I do not really know, but the intent does not seem to be malicious.”

They came into a room filled with tables and machinery. Pieces of paper and holographic displays decorated the walls, save for one that was filled from top to bottom with cruel looking knives of varying sizes. Ezarvyn rummaged around amidst a pile of paper, and dug up a gold box. He pressed a few runes on its surface, and flipped its lid open. It contained a single thin flask, transparent and filled with a thick green liquid.

The psychic shockwaves struck Illiawe like a hammer. Immense pain and terror emanated from the flask, a blinding agony so powerful it brought tears to her eyes and made her knees go weak. There was a plaintive wail, a psychic cry that resonated through her mind and almost drove her to her knees. It was as though a hundred eldar had been suddenly and violently massacred, and she found herself crying out with the suffering soul trapped in the flask. Unthinking, she stumbled back, desperate to get away from the presence. Through the haze of her thoughts she saw Taeryn jump to her side, then her foot caught on something and she stumbled backwards, through an open doorway. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. Then, as if a door had been slammed shut, the psychic shockwaves were gone. Illiawe blinked. Her mind was still numb, though it was quickly beginning to clear.

Ezarvyn placed the now sealed box back in its position, and joined them. “That was a rather dramatic response,” he observed.

“She’s a little sensitive to the psychic aspects of suffering,” Taeryn quickly replied.

“I noticed. I thought only the prudes on the craftworlds were like that.”

Taeryn shrugged. “That’s quite a large misconception.”

“I see that now. Well, it is quite fortunate that the test subject was not an eldar, don’t you think? I think that it would have knocked your friend out if it was.” He turned to Illiawe, his expression amused. “I must admit, however, that your terror was quite beautiful. It is not often, I think, that harlequins become afraid. Seeing a shadowseer panic was quite the treat.” Taeryn turned slowly toward him, and he quickly sketched a quick bow. “No offense intended to either of you, of course.” A sly smile, however, still played about his lips.

Illiawe pushed Taeryn’s arms away and stood. Her knees still shook slightly, but her stance remained steady. Upon reflection, she realized that she really should have, at least, anticipated and prepared for something like that. She looked around her, trying to keep her movements casual and pushing the embarrassing episode out of her mind. The room that she had stumbled into was filled with holding cells and cages. Small creatures of all kinds filled the cages, spitting and snarling and rattling at the walls of their confines. Drones flew around the cages, subduing the more excitable creatures with gas and needles and little bolts of lightning. Despite the ruckus from the creatures, it was the cells that Illiawe’s attention was drawn to. There were easily dozens of them, tiny spaces each filled with one or two captives. There were Commorrites and humans and a number of brutish orks, and even a few snarling tyranids. Illiawe did not need to ask the reason for their captivity. She thought back to the liquid remains in Ezarvyn’s golden box, and shuddered. Revulsion built up in her, and she moved to turn away. Then she saw the eldar.

Her skin was not the pallid tone of the Commorrite eldar. She bore herself proudly, not seeming to notice the dozen drones hovering near her cell. Illiawe bit her lip. The eldar was most definitely not from Commorragh, and Illiawe’s mind raced, wondering how she could help her. Then the captive looked up, and their eyes locked. Illiawe froze. There was a fire in those eyes, one that Illiawe knew well. She had, after all, came into contact with a number of eldar who bore the mark of Khaine.

Ezarvyn had followed her gaze, and he smiled when he saw whom Illiawe was looking at. "A prized specimen. An exarch of the Howling Banshees. I'm not quite sure which craftworld she is from, however."

Illiawe suppressed the urge to make certain demands that would undoubtedly arouse suspicion. She took a quick look into the threads of the future, and looked to the exarch, trying to appear as casual as possible. “I would think that it would be a waste to use an exarch for a test subject.”

“You would be right. Not all the captives here are test subjects, however.” He pointed to a growling ork. “That one is a gift for an associate. That tyranid is for sale to willing buyers.” He pointed at the exarch. “She will be fighting in one of the arenas later today.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “It’s a shame, really. The arenas are a dangerous place, and her fate is rather tightly interwoven with some rather momentous events.”

Ezarvyn shrugged. “That is not my problem.”

“I would think that permanent death and destruction of your soul would be of a greater concern to you.”

Ezarvyn looked sharply at her. "Is that what will happen if the exarch fights?"

Illiawe nodded.

Ezarvyn’s eyes narrowed. "I have seen a number of the very tales that harlequins dance," he said. "How do I know that letting her go will not trigger this death instead?"

"The craftworld farseers manipulate events," Illiawe replied. "Shadowseers influence fate. In addition, I find that I have a strangely high opinion of those who follow my suggestions in matters such as these." She shrugged and calmly adjusted her tassets. "The choice is entirely in your hands, however."

"You strike a cruel bargain, shadowseer. I need her for a fight in the arena later today. I stand to gain a lot if my fighter wins."

Illiawe shrugged again. "Find another champion."

"I can't." His voice was almost anguished. "An exarch is probably the only fighter skilled enough to match the competition in a duel."

"You seem not to place very great value on your soul," Illiawe observed.

"I would prefer not to lose anything in this transaction. The loss of my soul is not a certainty, anyway."

"Unless the fates are nudged in that direction." She straightened. "How would you feel if I offered another champion?"

"I told you, there isn't one skilled enough for this match."

"Not even a servant of the Laughing God?"

Ezarvyn looked speculatively at her. "That's not a bad idea. Harlequins are skilled fighters. I assume that you are offering to take the exarch's place?"

"Your wellbeing is of some importance to us for the moment, Ezarvyn."

Ezarvyn smiled. "I could take advantage of that fact."

"Unless you would like me to do some of that nudging I mentioned earlier, it is probably best if you do not."

Ezarvyn grinned. "You would have to wear the exarch's armor, I'm afraid. I did a little bragging a couple of days ago. Most of the Commorrites know that my fighter is a Howling Banshee exarch."

"I'm sure the exarch and I can work something out."

Ezarvyn nodded and took a tiny disc from his robes. He tapped it once and a couple of drones flew in, bearing a set of familiar bone white armor. Illiawe went up to the exarch and stood before her, assuming a particular posture that not even the keen senses of the eldar could detect. She removed her mask, and, making sure that her back was turned to Ezarvyn, she held her hands before her, her fingers weaving an intricate symbol in front of her. It was an age old greeting amongst the disciples of Jain Zar, one that quickly allowed them to identify themselves and their shrines. The exarch's eyes widened briefly, and Illiawe reached out with her mind.

The response of the exarch was one of shock. "Farseer," she greeted Illiawe. Then she straightened, her chin raised defiantly. “I cannot allow a farseer to take my place in one of Commorragh’s arena. They are a dangerous place, and, even if you should survive, I will not be said to have done such a thing.”

Illiawe sighed. “I have already made the deal with the Commorrite. If you continue in your reluctance, he will become suspicious of my identity, and you will have placed my life, my duty, and the very eldar lives depending on its success in jeopardy. Will you have that tainting your name, exarch?”

“No, I will not. I will submit to your decision, honored farseer; but I ask that you pay careful heed in the arena.”

“I will not burden you with my death,” Illiawe promised.

The exarch stood, the cell door clicked open, and she knelt beside the set of armor. She placed her palms flat on its pauldrons, muttering under her breath.

“What is she doing?” Ezarvyn asked, frowning.

“You Commorrites have forgotten a lot, haven’t you?” Illiawe muttered. “An exarch’s armor is as much the exarch himself. And one does not hand over a part of oneself so easily, does one?”

Ezarvyn grinned. “I know of more than a few ways to do so. Some of them are even quite pleasant.”

Illiawe scowled at him, privately wondering if his ignorant question was asked for the benefit of the one joke.

Then the exarch stood, and stepped away from the armor. “It would be strange to fight in the suit of an Aspect Warrior,” she said for the benefit of Ezarvyn. “You might need some time to get used to it. The souls of the previous exarchs will guide you.”

“Of course,” Illiawe replied. She looked steadily at Ezarvyn, and he politely turned his back. Illiawe quickly removed the harlequin’s holo-suit, transferring with a flick of her hand the protective runes onto the Howling Banshee armor. She paused, quickly undid the fastenings of the pouch that held her runes, and selected a few of the more subtle ones. These she concealed in various places on the armor. With the help of the exarch, she strapped the pieces of the armor onto her body, feeling the pieces meld into each other and the exarchs in the soulstones awakening.

“Most unorthodox,” one of them said, his thoughts echoing around in her mind.

“Indeed,” another said.

“Quiet, the both of you,” a third snapped. “She has walked the path of the Banshee before.”

“What difference does that make?” the first asked.

“He has a point,” said the second. “She has never walked it as an exarch. I am not pleased with this.”

“But the three of us are,” replied the first. “And since we all are one, the rest of you will just have to deal with it.”

“She’s on the Witch Path,” a new voice said.

“What difference does it make?” the first asked again, somehow managing to sound menacing.

“You are too traditional.”

“Blame it on my age.”

“Be quiet, all of you,” the Howling Banshee exarch’s voice cut through their argument. She quickly looked Illiawe over, then tugged on the twin scabbards at her hip. She reached for the banshee mask.

“No,” Illiawe said quickly. She glanced at Ezarvyn’s turned back. “I am not to don the war mask.”

“Very well.”

“Are you quite finished?” Ezarvyn asked over his shoulder.

“Quite,” Illiawe replied.

“Good.” He turned back around. “You look quite the part. I guess being a performer has its uses. Now come along. We will have to present you to the audience quite soon.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11

The four of them went out of Ezarvyn’s little dimension, leaving Taeryn and the exarch on the couches in the brightly lit room and, after a rather conspicuous activation of some defenses designed to keep them from leaving the room and going off to explore, Ezarvyn bustled Illiawe onto a waiting craft. He expertly navigated out into the crowded streets of Commorragh.

"What exactly will you be gaining from this fight?" Illiawe asked.

"Almost the entirety of the possessions of one of my rivals. Influence, slaves, creations." His expression grew serious. "My rival has some connections to the wych cults. It'll be one of them whom you'll be fighting. She's one of the best her cult has to offer, so be a little careful." He looked at her critically. "The armor would probably hinder you enough so everyone will not automatically realize you are a harlequin the moment you start fighting, but try to keep the dancing out if this."

"I will try," Illiawe said curtly in a suitably offended tone.

"Good. We are here."

The arena was filled with Commorrites sitting tier upon rising tier, stretching up well above the arena floor. They went into the arena through a small and heavily guarded door. Ezarvyn escorted her to the edge of the gladiatorial ring. There was already a Commorrite waiting at the opposite side of the field, a lithe eldar of the wych cults clad in a rather revealing outfit that barely qualified as armor. Illiawe, however, knew that, even more so than the Howling Banshees, it was not armor that the wyches relied on for protection. Half of the audience whom Illiawe surmised to be Ezarvyn's supporters were jeering rather vocally at the wych. That made Illiawe feel a little better. Then she stepped out onto the floor, and the other half started jeering.

Ezarvyn was fidgeting nervously. "Are you sure that you can win?" he asked.

"Of course. If need be, I can always cheat."

"Are you sure that will work?"

Illiawe nodded. "Only the wych will know, but she wouldn't be alive to talk, will she?"

Ezarvyn grinned. "I like you, shadowseer. End the fight quickly. You know how we fight, so don't let it drag on for too long." He turned quickly.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to place a few bets. There's easy profit to be made here."

Illiawe shook her head as she watched him bustle away. Illiawe quickly dipped her mind into her runes, finding the most subtle of them, and checked to make sure that the protective ones were in place. Her hands dipped to her side, her fists clenching around the finely wrought hilt of the mirrorswords. With a sharp hiss they came sliding out of the scabbard, and Illiawe turned to face her opponent.

The wych was clutching loosely at a pair of serrated swords. Her eyes were half closed in an expression of exaggerated boredom. She strode forward and Illiawe followed, already looking into the threads of the future. There was no introduction or announcement. The wych lunged forward, one of her swords stretched forward, and a great roar rose from the crowd – at least, the half of the crowd that supported the wych. Illiawe caught the extended blade on her left, and brought her right sword around in a tight arc. The wych launched herself away from Illiawe, sinking down to a crouch. Arms apart, the wych stalked around her, her eyes intent. Illiawe brought her swords forward and waited.

The wych moved, stepping in quickly, her swords whistling out like twin vipers. Illiawe slid them off her blades and brought them forward in a quick thrust. The wych ducked out of the way so quickly that Illiawe did not see her move. The wych’s sword came up, glanced off Illiawe’s armored forearm. Illiawe swung her blades in a quick circular motion, almost connecting with flesh. The wych twisted, and the blades went harmlessly by.

The crowd had gone quiet. All knew that the exchange was nothing more than a test by each combatant of her opponent’s style, quick strikes that were designed to test strengths and vulnerabilities rather than to wound. The ferocity of the exchange, however, gave the audience quite a good idea of the moments to come, and the air grew thick with tension as they hovered on the edge of their seats.

The wych stepped forward again, her swords held low. Illiawe parried her swings, then the wych dropped low, her swords slashing at Illiawe’s legs. There was a light pulse at her leg and the bone-white greave shifted of its own accord, pulling Illiawe’s leg back. The swords narrowly missed her shin.

“Idiot,” one of the souls in the armor muttered.

“Thank you,” Illiawe sent the thought back.

“Do not make me do that again. It is difficult enough that you are not connected to us and the armor without also having to drag you along when we move the armor.”

Illiawe struck the wych on the side of her head and her opponent reeled back, confusion and disbelief on her face. Illiawe brought her hands close together, her blades twirling in the air before her. Created by the exarch of her old shrine, it was a series of moves designed to quickly overwhelm an opponent. Illiawe’s blades struck the wych on her stomach, and the wych hissed, stumbled almost imperceptibly, lashing out with her sword. It was a precise strike, and the flat of the blade caught Illiawe on the side of the head. Illiawe staggered back, and the wych jumped forward with newfound vigor.

Illiawe jumped to one side. Then she started a series of strikes that she had used so many times that each subsequent move came naturally. The wych ducked and weaved, her swords coming up to deflect Illiawe’s attacks. Unbidden, the cry of the Banshees rose to Illiawe’s lips as she spun and stepped around the wych’s blades, searching for just the smallest moments of vulnerability. The wych raised a sword to ward off an overhead blow. Mid-strike, Illiawe twisted, changed direction, and swung low. Her sword opened a deep wound in one of the wych’s unprotected thighs, and the wych cried out, in horror more than pain.

The wych knew the final blow was coming. She brought one of her swords down to intercept the blades, and the other in a wide swing levelled at Illiawe’s head.

“Duck!” one of the exarchs sounded in her mind.

Illiawe had been prepared to parry the attack, but she drew her swords back close to her body and dived to the side. She rolled to her feet, her swords ready, meeting the cold gaze of the wych. Her opponent recovered from her swing, crouching low to the ground and circling Illiawe like a stalking predator.

“You might want to end this quickly,” another of the exarchs said.

“What do you think I am trying to do?”

“Try harder. The Crossed Wraiths might do the trick.” There was a murmur of approval from the other exarchs.

“It will not work. She is too fast.”

“You do not know what a student of Jain Zar is really capable of,” another exarch said.

“You are a farseer, are you not?” The first exarch sounded amused.

Illiawe glanced covertly at the audience. “I suppose that it would not be detectable if I directed the energies inward.”

“That appears to be our best chance at ending this quickly.”

The wych’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Illiawe leapt at her before she could attack, her swords whistling through the air in quick, short strikes. The wych grudgingly gave ground and Illiawe pressed her attack, not giving her the opportunity to retaliate. The exarchs fought with her, adjusting her movements with the precision that only exarchs possessed and offering alternatives and advice. They battered away the defenses of the wych with the classic Silver Wind, opened a long wound in her side and slashed at her face with her former exarch’s innovative Shade’s Return, and ripped at her arms and legs under the guidance of one of the exarchs. In desperation, the wych threw caution to the wind and ran at Illiawe, her swords weaving dangerously through the air and forcing Illiawe to retreat. Sparks sizzled angrily as their swords connected again and again. One of her swords glanced off Illiawe’s forearm, sending a bolt of pain through her.

“Strike back,” the exarchs instructed.

Illiawe gritted her teeth and did as the exarchs instructed, fighting her instincts to fall back into a more defensive stance. The exarchs’ instruction, however, proved to be sound. The wych’s eyes grew suddenly afraid, her movements faltering as she parried Illiawe’s strikes. Illiawe feinted, the wych brought her blades up, and Illiawe thrusted. Her blade scraped past the wych’s, and her opponent cried out as the sword pierced her abdomen to come out the other side. Illiawe brought her other sword up for a final fatal blow, but there was no real need. A couple of feeble swings caught Illiawe on the back, but her protective runes turned them aside. The wych was trembling, the tremors running down the length of Illiawe’s blade. The farseer drew her sword out of the dying eldar’s body. Unsupported, the wych collapsed, her swords dropping to the ground. She lay there, gasping and clutching at her belly. A great roar rose from the crowd, drowning out everything else. Dismay and tribulation mingled in the air.

“Not too bad,” said an exarch.

“Thank you.”

Illiawe turned and returned to her side of the arena, leaving the dying Commorrite behind. Ezarvyn was waiting for her there, and Illiawe noted that there were pouches and vials hanging half-concealed in the folds of his robes that have not been there before his venture into the dangerous realm of gladiatorial gambling. "A most profitable match," he said as she approached. Then he threw his fist gleefully in the air. "It's going to take my poor rival a very long time to recoup his losses."

"That is assuming he doesn't try to weasel out of it."

"Oh, you do not have to worry about that. There are a number of measures that could be taken to ensure that anyone who matters recognize my new holdings. I have taken them all. Trust me, only my death will stop his possessions from transferring to me." Grinning, he turned away from the gladiatorial ring, back along the tunnel toward his transport. "I think I will celebrate tonight. There are a few interesting concoctions I have that haven’t been tested yet, and I have just come into possession of a whole bunch of new slaves."

Illiawe pursed her lips. She reached out to his mind, and quickly made a few adjustments to his thoughts. “What are you going to do now?"

"Perhaps I will celebrate this rather pleasant turn of events with a drink. The day’s been quite exciting, and it’ll be good to relax."

Illiawe smiled. It was a small effort, but she rather hoped that it helped the slaves, at least for a while. At least, it got them away from whatever invention Ezarvyn devised. She turned her head. “I think that it is going to get quite a bit more interesting.”

Ezarvyn raised an eyebrow. Then a hard faced Commorrite came up behind them. He was clad in an ornate suit of armor, and was flanked by two heavily armed and armored bodyguards.

“Bazeqar,” Ezarvyn said in surprise. “Funny to see you here. How has your day been?”

Bazeqar scowled. “You know how it has been. Fortunately, I am here to make sure that you aren’t going to see any of your new holdings.”

The Commorrites around them were starting to notice the confrontation, and they prudently vacated the area for another part of the arena. There was no panic or rush, as if they were moving away from a piece of remarkably boring entertainment.

Ezarvyn grinned. “You know that I would have taken precautions against you trying to reclaim your lost property. Of course, if you would rather buy them back, I’m sure we can come to a deal.”

Bazeqar smiled thinly, and his eyes took on a malicious gleam.

“Don’t be hasty,” Ezarvyn said. He gestured toward Illiawe. “Not even your beautiful champion from the wych cult survived the blades of my exarch.”

Bazeqar’s eyes flickered nervously toward Illiawe, but his smile remained. “I don’t think your slave would wish to protect you.”

Ezarvyn grinned impudently at him. “I promised her freedom if she won. She will be fighting to protect that, at least.” Even as he said that, his arm came up. Clutched in his fist was a pistol. A number of things happened at once. Both Ezarvyn and Bazeqar fired their weapons. One of Bazeqar’s bodyguards stretched out an arm, and shoved his employer off to one side. Bazeqar’s aim went wide, and a chunk of the tunnel to Illiawe’s right exploded in a shower of dust. Ezarvyn’s shot, however, struck the bodyguard on his armored forearm. The armor at the point of impact buckled inwards, and blood came spurting out of a hole no larger than the width of a finger. The guard screamed once, and a grey liquid seeped out of the gaps in his armor. His voice turned into an incoherent gurgling as his flesh melted off his bones. Illiawe had turned her psychic powers upon the second guard, and he screamed once as she struck at his brain again and again. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be nothing more than a Howling Banshee exarch, she drew one of the mirrorswords and sent his head flying. She then turned toward Bazeqar, who was still struggling to regain his balance, but Ezarvyn pulled her back toward the door they had entered from. There was the barely perceptible whine of engines, and a couple of Commorrite jetbikes descended upon them, the curving blades set into their sides whistling through the air as they closed in.

“Reavers,” Ezarvyn cursed. He took a small disk from his robe, and flicked it once. A shimmering blue barrier flared up over their heads, deflecting the fire from the jetbikes. Ezarvyn pulled her away from the door that they used to enter the arena. “Bazeqar’s probably destroyed the vehicle we came in on,” he muttered. He led her around the back of the seats. “Fortunately, I know of a few places out of this arena.” He turned his head slightly, speaking rapidly into a communication device somewhere in his robes. Then he turned to Illiawe. "I've got a hidden Venom at the other side of the arena."

Illiawe nodded. "Then we must attempt to reach it." She waved an arm, and weaved the light around their bodies. She glanced speculatively at Ezarvyn, and left a small gap in the weave, allowing some light through. "Keep your head down," she instructed him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are concealed from sight, but you cannot see with your mind like I can. Anyone who looks at you from the right angle will be able to see your eyes. We do not wish for that to happen, do we?"

They sprinted lightly across the arena. Armored figures were descending the steps, slowly scouring the tiered seating for them. The Reaver jetbikes circled slowly overhead like a pair of hunting raptors.

They had just reached the other side of the arena when one of the jetbikes erupted in a blaze of fire and smoke. Its wrecked chassis fell tumbling toward the ground. A volley of fire, pitch black lasers, lanced out toward the ruined craft, breaking it apart and sending the fragments crashing into the arena's seats. Another volley struck the second craft, sending it to follow the path of the first.

Ezarvyn had stopped, and was looking appreciatively at the destruction. The armored warriors scrambled about, trying to find some cover from the approaching crafts. Illiawe reached out with her mind, and found a dozen of them streaking toward the arena. "Come," she said to Ezarvyn, "let us not dwell here any longer."

Ezarvyn nodded, and pulled his eyes away from the burning jetbikes.

He groped around along the wall until he found a hidden rune. There was a hiss, and a portion of the wall melted away to reveal a small cell, large enough only for the Venom gunship that it housed. Ezarvyn leapt onto its sloping hood, sliding into the pilot seat and shutting the cockpit above him. The Venom started up and Ezarvyn carefully slid it out of hiding. Illiawe hopped onto one of the wide blades attached to its sides in place of the stabilizer fins of the craftworlds' gunships. No sooner had she landed on the blade that Ezarvyn gunned the Venom's engines. Illiawe gasped and hurriedly reached out for the craft's hull. Her hand closed around the rim of the gun port, and she swung herself up and over. It might perhaps be nice to say that, despite the rapid acceleration of the Venom, Illiawe landed gracefully behind the gun. Unfortunately, events never worked out in the best way possible. She slammed down into the port, up against the back of it. She grunted as a bolt of pain shot through her back, but pushed herself off. Then Ezarvyn made a sharp turn and Illiawe was thrown forward, her forehead hitting the Venom's turret. She scowled and rubbed at her forehead, pushing herself upright and looking around her.

Ezarvyn's escorts were swooping and diving in the air above the arena, bursts of fire erupting from their guns. The pilots of the crafts, however, were not seeking to kill. More crafts, these designed in the manner of the sea-faring vessels of the eldar's earliest days, came swooping down out of the sky. Armed and armored eldar leapt off those crafts, falling upon the scattered and uncoordinated forces of Bazeqar, subduing them with vicious kicks and blows. Gleefully, Ezarvyn's men rounded up their foes, working their way methodically through the arena.

"You continue to bring me much profit," Ezarvyn's voice came over a speaker set into the side of the gun port.

A movement caught Illiawe's eye, and she tapped the rune next to the communications device. "Ezarvyn, is that Bazeqar down there? Crawling about between the seats a little to your left?"

"Why, I do believe that you are right." He chuckled evilly. The Venom tilted, heading straight for the scurrying Commorrite. There was a dull toned buzz as Ezarvyn fired the Venom's nose mounted guns. The shots struck the seats just a little to Bazeqar’s side, and he looked up in horror at the closing craft. Scrambling to his feet, Bazeqar bolted. He weaved about between the seats, ducking behind them every now and again when a burst came too close. Ezarvyn hounded him mercilessly, chuckling in malevolent glee.

"He's getting away," Illiawe observed as Bazeqar neared one of the arena's entrances, trying to remain as detached as possible. The attitude of Ezarvyn disturbed her. She knew of the twisted appetites of the Commorrites, but being in such close proximity to such revelry made her just a little nauseous.

"I know," came the reply. "I am not seeking to kill him."

"I suppose there is a good reason for that?"

"Of course. Killing him would force his troops into conflict with mine. I hardly want that. It kills potential captives, and is a waste of resources. Besides, humiliating him like that is fun, too, and sparing him gives me a positive, merciful image."

"Merciful?" Illiawe asked scornfully.

"Every bit helps."

"I wasn't expecting you to have such a good reason," Illiawe said.

"All of my reasons are good ones. What were you expecting?"

Illiawe looked down at Ezarvyn's men rounding up the last of their foes. "Forget about it."

"Suit yourself. I think it's about time we returned to my laboratories. There is not much left to do here, and I am sure that you don’t want to stay in Commorragh any longer anyway."

He turned the Venom around, and the Reaver jetbikes fell in behind them. They had not travelled far when a shadow flickered over them. Illiawe looked up. A squadron of Reaver jetbikes was diving down toward them. The symbols on their noses were not those of Ezarvyn’s. Illiawe reached for the turret in front of her, and turned it on the approaching Reavers.

Ezarvyn’s escort also noticed the hostile force. They broke off, scattering out to either side. Illiawe dipped her mind into the skeins and fired her weapon into the squadron. The fire tore through the jetbike’s engines and the craft tilted sideways, suddenly spiraling out of control. Illiawe turned her gun on another of the jetbikes, her fire tearing into the pilot. There was a detonation, and both jetbikes went down in a ball of flames. Illiawe bit her lip. It would be much easier if she had unrestricted access to her powers, but the risk of detection was too high.

Ezarvyn's escort came around the sides of the hostile formation, their weapons firing. Two of the Reavers went down in a blaze of fire. The remaining Reavers fell in behind their Venom, and Ezarvyn's escort spun about immediately, dipping sharply to their sides as their engines fired up. Almost before the hostile Reavers had even aligned themselves behind their Venom, the jetbikes of the escort were already on an intercepting course. Fast as their pilots were, however, it was not they who ultimately destroyed the tailing Reavers. As the wrecked chassis of the hostile jetbikes fell silently to the streets of Commorragh, several vehicles shot past Illiawe’s vision in a riot of color. The Starweavers of the harlequin troupe came around and joined them, with Esarlyth's in the lead.

“We sensed that you were in trouble,” Esarlyth’s voice sounded in her head.

“I was safe enough. You should not have come to our aid, troupe master. The Commorrites are better off not knowing of our connection to Ezarvyn.”

Illiawe felt Esarlyth wince – in a manner of speaking. “The deed has been done. We can only accept its consequences.”

“Indeed.”

“Where is Shadowseer Taeryn?"

"She stayed at Ezarvyn's laboratory. We are on our way there now."

"Then we will accompany you there."

Illiawe shrugged. There was probably no longer any reason to try and hide the fact that the harlequin troupe was actively helping Ezarvyn now. Despite the problems that Illiawe was sure such rumors will cause, she was to some extent grateful for their presence. The harlequins' skills with their Starweavers would prove very useful in getting rid of any pursuers. Through the linked mind of the harlequins', she reached out to Taeryn.

"You did not run into too much trouble, I hope?" her friend responded immediately.

"You are aware of what transpired?"

"In a manner of speaking. I could know so much more if you would only open your mind and your thoughts to us."

"Perhaps, but I am reluctant to lower my barriers. Are you and the exarch prepared to leave?"

"Of course."

"Good. Barring complications, we should be there in just a few minutes."

And then, of course, complications happened. A dozen Venoms, their guns blazing, came swooping down upon them. Behind them came a score of Reaver jetbikes.

Ezarvyn whistled. "It appears that not everyone is happy with your victory in the arena, shadowseer."

"Have you only just figured that out?"

"Feelings of vengeance are common in Commorragh, shadowseer, especially considering what was at stake. Those pursuers we encountered earlier were most likely under orders that Bazeqar issued during the heat of the moment. This, however, is a much more rational attack. It appears that I will have to have a talk with him about losing graciously."

"Is that a trait that you possess?"

"Of course not. But then again, I am not a flawless character."

Ezarvyn's escort scattered again, moving to flank the approaching gunships. The harlequins did not scatter. With Esarlyth's Starweaver in the lead, the troupe charged into the face of the attack. Their holofields activated, sending false signatures and illusions jumping out from the Starweavers in all directions. The harlequins maneuvered their crafts around the enemy fire, expertly moving between volleys and returning with their own. Illiawe looked into the future, following the threads of fate of the players. She bit her lip and lowered her barriers, sharing her visions with the troupe. Her mind merged with theirs, and once again Illiawe found herself marveling at the groupmind of the harlequins. There was no need for word or even thought. As though they themselves were looking into their own futures, the players reacted, steering away from doom after doom before they happened. Illiawe frowned in concentration. The pairing of the players' skill and her foresight made for a potent combination when it came to avoiding even fates that appeared unbending, but, with every doom that was averted, a hundred more possibilities opened up. It was, put mildly, a taxing experience. Bursts of light mingled with holofield projections as the gunships spun and weaved through the air, their pilots trying to outmaneuver each other. Ezarvyn's escort dove in and out of the engagement, their guns hissing furiously. The harlequins fought in the exact middle of the engagement, their Starweavers performing complex maneuvers so quickly that it was only the troupe's linked thoughts that allowed her to keep track of their position. Destroyed Venoms and Reavers on both sides fell down to the streets below.

Then the portal to Ezarvyn's laboratories loomed up before them, shimmering and pulsing expectantly. At a sharp command from Ezarvyn, his escort peeled away from the engagement to cover the Venom. The harlequins, too, altered their tactics, fighting a running engagement to follow Ezarvyn's Venom. Esarlyth's Starweaver was the last to break off. A couple of Reaver jetbikes gave chase, and the engines of Esarlyth's Starweaver flared, and suddenly it was gone. The pilots of the jetbikes had only just begun to register the fact when the Starweaver dropped in behind them, its guns blazing. The fire struck the Reavers, cutting through the jetbikes and sending them tumbling to the ground in a fiery wreck.

Then they were through the portal. Illiawe looked about her, counting the crafts that came through behind them. "We are all through," she said, opening the Venom's communications channel to Ezarvyn.

"Good." He turned the Venom around to face the portal. Its glowing surface pulsed once, then its purple light dimmed, and vanished. "We should be safe for a while. Let's get your friend and the exarch and get your troupe out of here."

"Will this put you in any kind of danger from the Commorrites?"

Ezarvyn laughed. "I am always in danger from the Commorrites. It keeps life interesting." He turned the Venom around, heading for the laboratory. They slipped through the dome and Ezarvyn hopped out, waving for the Commorrite escort to remain with their vehicles.

"Are you expecting trouble?" Illiawe asked him.

"Perhaps. It does not hurt to be cautious."

He quickly led the troupe underground and into the room where they had left Taeryn and the exarch. The pair stood as soon as they entered, and Illiawe noted that Taeryn had her shadowseer garb in her arms. She handed them to Illiawe, and Ezarvyn and the troupe politely turned their backs.

"Is the Starweaver that we came in on still in the docking bay, Ezarvyn?" Illiawe asked as she peeled the bone white armor off and slipped into the shadowseer costume. "I did not see it as we came in."

"Indeed it is. Doubtlessly one of my drones or servants moved it to one side."

"Good. We have to leave as soon as possible."

Something in the far corner of the room beeped, and Ezarvyn moved away to check on it. They had just finished putting the Howling Banshee armor back on the exarch when he came back, his eyes twinkling.

"Bazeqar's minions are outside the portal trying to reactivate it."

"Do you not have another route out of here?"

"Of course I do. Don't be insulting." He had brought a silver piece of crystal with him, and he tapped a few times at it. A wall of the room shimmered away, revealing many large crystal screens. Illiawe recognized the dome of the laboratory and its surrounding grounds. It was quiet and still, signs that Ezarvyn's portal was not yet breached.

The haemonculi was rubbing at his chin and muttering to himself. He jabbed once at the crystal piece in his hand. On one of the screens, the portal pulsed and began to glow with its purple light. Almost immediately the dark forms of Commorrite crafts started streaming through, Reavers and Venoms. Then the dark prows of the larger Commorrite crafts slid through the portal. No sooner had they emerged that armored Commorrites began disembarking. Ezarvyn chuckled evilly as more of the crafts appeared. He twirled a finger comically over the screen in his hand, and jabbed it once.

The ground in front of the portal erupted. Shockwaves rolled across the ground, sending even the lower flying crafts rocking. Commorrites were hurled off their feet, and commotion spread through their ranks. Lightning crackled in the air, sending the invaders' vehicles falling from the sky, smashing into the ground. Armor plating crumpled and small pieces of wreckage flew out in all directions. Commorrites were thrown into the air, lifeless bodies thudding to the ground amidst the destroyed crafts.

Ezarvyn tapped another button, and a mist rolled across the grounds. When it touched a Commorrite, he became suddenly stiff, weapons dropping from his fingers. Small twitches, however, told Illiawe that they were not quite dead.

In the span if only a few minutes, the Commorrite warriors were thrown into disarray. Ezarvyn grinned. "I will never understand Bazeqar. He knows perfectly well that I am very well prepared for situations such as this." He laid the pad down. On the screens, bolts of lightning and beams of black lasers sparked across the ground, methodically cutting down those who still stood. Ezarvyn's drones skimmed over the remnants of the invaders, dragging the living and the dead alike off into holes that had opened in the ground.

"I expect that you would be wanting to go your own way now," Ezarvyn said briskly.

Illiawe looked dubiously at the screens. "Will Bazeqar continue hounding you?"

"Of course. Don't let that worry you, however. I am used to evading those seeking to kill me. My laboratory is very well defended. Do not fret, shadowseer. You will have the answers you seek, Bazeqar or no.”

Illiawe nodded. “Very well.”

He led them back to the underground docking bay and moved off to one side while they mounted their Starweavers. The Howling Banshee exarch got behind the turret of one of the Starweavers, and the harlequin whose position she took latched on to the side of the vehicle, one hand gripping onto the turret port to keep himself in place. One of the walls lit up with the purple light of the Commorrite portals and Ezarvyn gestured toward it. “Go on through. You will come into a webway corridor. Keep following that until you come out in Lower Commorragh. I am sure that you can find your own way out from there.”

“I appreciate your help, Ezarvyn,” Illiawe muttered.

Ezarvyn grinned. “Your actions have made me a lot of profits, shadowseer. It is the least that I can do.”

Illiawe nodded. “Good luck, then.”

“Same to you, shadowseer.”

They went through the portal one at a time. As Ezarvyn had said, they emerged in the confines of a webway corridor.

“That was not a very fruitful trip,” Taeryn observed.

“It was certainly exciting, though.”

“For you, perhaps. I hardly did anything.”

“We could always turn around and head back into Commorragh. I am sure that things would get exciting rather quickly.”

“No, that’s fine. I do not need additional excitement if I could possibly avoid it.”

Then there was a strange pulse, and the webway corridor almost seemed to shudder. Illiawe looked around in surprise.

There was the pulse again, and suddenly the rainbow light overhead flared up brilliantly. The walls of the corridor became almost fluid, and Illiawe was tempted to touch its surface to see if her hand would go through it.

“Did Ezarvyn trick us?” Taeryn’s thoughts came to Illiawe.

“Why are you asking me? You know the webway better than I do.”

“I do not think that this has ever happened before.”

Illiawe frowned, quickly scanning the fates. “This is not the doing of Ezarvyn.”

“Then who is it?”

“I do not know. There is no danger, however. That much is certain.”

The brilliant light of the webway dimmed, the rest of the troupe seemed almost to fade away, and suddenly they were no longer in the corridor. Their Starweaver, too, was gone. Illiawe looked quickly about her, instinctively gathering her psychic powers.

“There is no need for that,” a voice spoke.

Illiawe looked in the direction from which it came. There was a figure there, silhouetted against a light that appeared to have no source. He moved and, though the rest of his body was still shrouded in shadow, Illiawe could clearly make out the harlequin mask that the figure was wearing. Much like the masks of the harlequins, its expression was twisted in an exaggerated grin, eyes glinting cruelly above a long pointed nose. Yet the mask appeared fluid, its expression contorting and changing according to the will of its wearer. A vast presence emanated from the figure, and Illiawe found that she already knew who he was. Taeryn walked slowly forward, removing her mask and bowing reverently. The figure turned to look first at Taeryn then at Illiawe. She swallowed as the Laughing God regarded her silently. Then he turned back to Taeryn.

"Thy dance yet remains well, Taeryn," Cegorach said. "Thou hast not erred in thy choice."

"Thank you, master," she replied with a respectful bow.

The features of Cegorach’s mask shifted, growing stern. "But thou hast spent too long away from thine intended task. Abandon this fruitless search of thine at once. It is but a small distraction, and there is no time for it."

"At once, master." Her voice was subdued.

"I sense thy disquiet, my daughter."

Taeryn raised her head to look full in the masked face of the god. "I do not know much about my mission, Master. I am quite lost."

"I cannot reveal too much, Taeryn," Cegorach replied, his voice gentle. "There are those who will seek to extract what thou knowest from thee. Follow mine instructions. I will tell thee of my plans when the danger of discovery has passed."

"As you say, my master," Taeryn replied with a small sigh.

Cegorach nodded, and the light of the webway returned. Illiawe found herself again behind the turret of the Starweaver, and the Laughing God was gone. The rest of the troupe were looking at them in concern.

"I wish Cegorach would tell me more of His plans," Taeryn complained to Illiawe. "I am moving blindly here."

"Imagine how I feel," Illiawe replied dryly.

Taeryn glanced at her. "I guess I have not told you much, at that."

"You have not told me anything."

“I will explain once I get the opportunity to do so, I promise.”

“What is wrong with doing it now? Come on, Taeryn. What does this artifact that we are after actually do?”

Taeryn sighed. “Fine. Cegorach is after an artifact that would allow Him to overpower Slaanesh without the help of Ynnead.”

“That was a quick explanation.”

“You are too inquisitive, Illiawe.”

“I would like to know the exact details of whatever it is I am involved in.”

“I can see that. The artifact is in the possession of a Chaos cult.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “I do not see the problem.”

“Perhaps “Chaos cult” was a bit of an understatement.”

“I still do not see the problem.”

“Yes, well, we will have to find it first.”

“It seems like we are spending a lot of time finding things these days. Can you not ask Cegorach to tell us where it is?”

“I could, but I wouldn’t. Would you?”

“No, I would not. So what are we supposed to do now?”

“Cegorach did give me some directions. There is a barren world in a rather remote system, near one of the places monitored by the Rangers. We are supposed to go there.”

“That is not where the artifact is, is it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Cegorach thinks that this is terribly amusing, doesn’t he?”

“Perhaps.”

Illiawe sighed. “Are we headed to that planet now, then?”

“Of course.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Forget about it.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12

The activity of the eldar aboard Craftworld Ulthwé was just winding down when Farseer Ethorach stepped out of the council chamber. He could feel the psychic bustle of the ship slow through his feet, becoming still. Though Ethorach knew that the activity of a craftworld was never quite finished no matter how quiet things became, it provided a sense of serenity that he rather liked and, on quiet days when his council and advice were no longer needed and he was free to do as he pleased, he would sit in a rather special spot in his house where he had an almost perfect view of the craftworld, where he could contemplate in peace with only the light pulse of the craftworld’s infinity circuit for company. Today, however, was not one of those days. He moved quickly through the emptying streets of Ulthwé, keeping to the walls of buildings and taking shortcuts through side streets. Eventually he came to the heart of the craftworld, where he took a flight of spiral steps down below its wraithbone hull. He slowed his pace as he stepped into a wide broadway topped with shimmering crystal domes. Along either sides of the broadway were webway portals, each glowing plane of brilliant light framed by intricate wraithbone, inlaid with crystals and dozens of runes. Ethorach moved confidently to one of the portals, adjusting its configurations with a few brushes of his fingers. The shimmering light of the portal pulsed once, and Ethorach stepped through.

He found himself in the familiar corridors of the webway, and reached out to place an affectionate hand on its walls. Staring up at the rainbow light dancing overhead, Ethorach smiled softly, feeling, for just one brief moment, the troubles and responsibilities of the craftworld fall away.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Ethorach moved purposefully down the familiar corridor. He took a couple of shortcuts and hidden passages, until he came into one of the harlequin cities that lay hidden within the webway, even from the inquisitive expeditions of the Commorrite Eldar.

He went through the streets of the city, ignoring the curious looks that he received from some of the harlequins. The harlequins seldom allowed visitors to enter their cities unsupervised. A quick search with his mind informed him that such was still the case. There were harlequins trailing along discreetly behind him. It was only his status as a farseer, he surmised, that prevented the harlequins from immediately confronting him. As long as he doesn’t do anything too alarming, Ethorach figured that he would be left alone. He did not begrudge the harlequins the right to be curious about newcomers, so he continued walking on at a confident pace, pretending not to have noticed the discreet harlequins.

Ethorach’s destination was the accommodations of a rather kindly shadowseer – assuming, of course, that one got used to her rather stern demeanor. Privately, Ethorach thought that the shadowseer took herself a little too seriously – a trait that, he had found, most shadowseers shared – and felt that she would be much more pleasant company if she did not resort to sharp retorts and lectures quite so quickly. Of course, he did not say such things to her face.

Without knocking, Ethorach nudged the door of the house open, and entered without waiting for an invitation. The shadowseer, as Ethorach had anticipated, had her concentration focused on a large tome. She looked up in annoyance as he entered. Her expression did not even change when she realized who it was.

“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

“It’s good to see you too, Lirys,” Ethorach answered mildly.

“The proper mode of address is “High Shadowseer Lirys”, Farseer Ethorach of Ulthanash Shelwé.”

“So it is,” he muttered indifferently. Moving to take a seat opposite her at the table, he grinned at her, trying to imitate the impudent expression that Illiawe quite often adopted. As it always has for him, Lirys’ expression grew annoyed, tinged with just a touch of disapproval.

“Don’t do that, Ethorach,” Lirys snapped. “You are too old for that.”

“Farseer Ethorach,” he corrected.

“Have you come just to annoy me?” Lirys said with a deep scowl.

“Would I do that?”

“Yes, you would.”

“It is nothing important. I wanted to know how the problem with Illiawe and Taeryn is going.”

“You already know, so why are you asking me?”

“I would like to hear the account from you personally.”

Lirys huffed in irritation. “The two of them came here asking information regarding the illusion of the city. I told them that finding the truth could take me some time, and sent them off to the haemonculi Ezarvyn in Commorragh. I do not expect that they will be back for some time.”

“They actually believed that?” Ethorach asked incredulously.

“Of course. They are a really trusting pair. Would you believe that they came in with that artifact that you sent them after, actually thinking that it posed a credible threat? Neither one of them bothered checking.”

Ethorach chuckled.

Then Lirys’ eyes narrowed. “I should smack you over that incident, too. Whatever possessed you to give only a single inexperienced farseer the vision of the artifact? An artifact as powerful as what we made it out to be would show up in the visions of more than one farseer – and certainly not in that of an inexperienced one, at that.”

Ethorach shrugged. “We wanted Illiawe to be the only experienced farseer on that mission, didn’t we? Isenran served that purpose. Any more farseers would complicate matters and make them harder to control, while experienced ones were just as likely to go running off by themselves.”

“Oh, come now,” Lirys said skeptically. “Do you actually expect me to believe that? The both of us know that you are perfectly capable of keeping matters under control.”

“Well, I had my mind on other matters at the time,” Ethorach said defensively.

“Of course you did,” she drawled sarcastically. “You are lazy, Ethorach.”

His expression grew pained.

“You are lucky that Illiawe is so trusting, especially of your word. Any others would have immediately become suspicious.”

Ethorach pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did make sure that she would not ask too many questions.”

“If you had done your job properly in the first place, you wouldn’t even have needed to do so.” She lowered her eyes to the tome again. “If you have nothing else to talk about, Ethorach, please leave me alone with my book.”

The green mass of orks milled around at the bottom of the hill, bellowing and cursing at the top of their lungs. From behind the coarse fabric of his large fluttering banner, Warboss Ghahzlay looked over the army. They were getting restless. Deciding that the suspense had been allowed to build up long enough and that any further waiting was liable to cause the impatience of the orks to spill over violently, Ghahzlay stepped out from behind the banner. The improvised cape that hung from his neck snapped and fluttered in the breeze. He reached up with his left arm, checking to make sure that the dented iron crown – an ornament that had been hastily painted gold by a group of squeaking gretchins – lay securely atop his head. The cape and the crown was something that he had come up with shortly before he was due to give the speech. As such, it was hardly a flawless addition to his garb. The red piece of cloth that served as a cloak was patched with purple and yellow strips of cloth, its edges were frayed, and there were some rather unsightly holes in it. Thankfully, his body concealed the worst of the holes. The crown had been hastily beaten into shape. It lay crookedly atop his head, always sliding down to one side despite repeated attempts to adjust it, and the incompetent gretchins had left lumps of drying paint along its surface. Ghahzlay was far enough from the orks, however, that he hoped the flaws in his props would not be noticed. For that was what they were – props, meant to inspire and confirm his status and eligibility as warboss. So far, it seemed that this flash of inspiration was working. The orks had grown eerily still, something that Ghahzlay had never been sure before that they knew how to do.

He dropped his axe by his feet and placed his right foot on its blade. “Orks o’ da Bad Parnz Clan,” he began in a loud voice. Immediately, the mass of orks began hollering and cheering. Ghahzlay scowled, but waited until the ruckus died down. That took quite a bit of time. Orks are notoriously robust.

When the cheering finally started to lose steam, Ghahzlay tried again. “Orks o’ da Bad Parnz Clan!” Quickly rushing on before the orks regained their breath and started cheering again, he said, “Warboss Edioez wuz a lousy boss. We know dis ‘cuz I am here, and he ain’t. But, lousy as ‘e wuz, Edioez wuz a bad ork. Only I am badder den him. But dere wuz one more who iz badder dan Edioez. It wuz da on’y fing dat Edioez lost ta, except fer me. We are goin’ ta find dat bug, an’ kill it! Den da Bad Parnz Clan will be da baddest orky clan dere iz, an’ I da baddest ork dere iz!” Ghahzlay thrusted his arms out to the side as he concluded his speech. The orks stamped their feet and roared approvingly. Gunshots sounded in the air as the orks fired their guns at the sky, and it was quickly picked up by other orks. Soon the sound of automatic weapons fire filled the air, drowning out even the shouts from the orks. Ghahzlay stood at the top of the hill soaking up the approval of his subjects with a large grin on his brutish face. His crown threatened to slip off a few times, but Ghahzlay coaxed it back into place by jamming it more firmly on his head. It did not help, of course, but Ghahzlay was not about to let the antics of a stubborn crown ruin his fun.

Even endless praise and approval, however, can quickly grow tiring. And so Ghahzlay turned away, moving behind his banner and down the opposite side of the hill, leaving the orks of the Bad Parnz Clan to their simple but wild celebrations.

With the warriors of the Warp Spider shrines marching along behind him, Balelath led the way through the corridors of the webway toward the craftworld of Ulthwé. A squad of Rangers roamed through the corridors ahead of them, not so much leading the warhost as trying to speed them along on their way. They disappeared for long moments at a time, though one or two were always sure to return to check on their progress, usually with irritated little gestures and impatient postures that made Balelath unconsciously pick up his pace. Finally, when even that was not fast enough for the Rangers, they sent one of their number to talk to their Balelath. She came striding toward him with her hood lowered and her longrifle slung over her shoulder.

“Would it kill you to walk a little faster?” she asked, an annoyed little frown creasing her brow.

“Probably. Why are you so eager to get back to the craftworld, anyway?”

“The sooner we get to the craftworld, the sooner the other Rangers and I can return to our explorations. It is so much more fun than leading a group of slow warriors through the webway.” She turned on her heels and moved away from him.

Despite the Rangers’ gripes with their pace, it did not take too long before the lead Ranger waved his arm at a glowing point in the webway corridor ahead. “There is your exit to the craftworld,” he said. Without another word, the Rangers pushed past the Warp Spiders and disappeared into the shadows of the webway corridor.

Balelath shrugged slightly and continued on toward the exit. Their return to Ulthwé was muted. Though a large crowd was gathered expectantly before the portal, they made no sound. As the Warp Spiders made their way through the craftworld toward their shrines, the civilians kept a respectful distance between themselves and the Aspect Warriors. Balelath smiled. The removal of the war mask was an important part of the ritual of the Aspect Warrior, a process that was as practical as it was symbolic. For their waiting relatives and friends on the craftworlds, however, it was the only thing that remained before they could return to their normal lives – at least, for a while, until they had to return to their shrines.

Balelath moved away from the warriors, heading toward his house. He went past the Hall of Autarchs, a collection of great domes and shimmering crystalline structures that was built around a central walled field. On an impulse he crouched and, with a sweep of the powerful wigs upon his back, he launched himself into the air. He circled once over the Hall, and landed lightly in the middle of the open field. Statues of past Autarchs stared down regally from their spots along the walls. Balelath looked around him. The Hall, as it always was, was empty. Balelath would have liked to think that the cause of it was due to all the Autarchs being preoccupied somewhere else. He found that he really had to concentrate on that to not immediately dismiss such a statistical improbability, had there really been as many Autarchs as Balelath wished. He stood there for a little while, then leapt back into the air. He dipped his wings, turning toward his house. The air rushed past Balelath and, almost in spite of himself, he grinned, the exuberance of flight rather quickly pushing all thoughts regarding the state of the Hall of Autarchs out of his mind.

He landed in the garden at the front of his house, folding the wings behind him as he stepped inside. He stripped the war panoply from his body, feeling a cool sense of calm settle over him, along with the thoughts and emotions that normally occupied his thoughts. His war mask released its hold on him and, along with it, the fiery bloodlust of Khaine and the cold clinical eye of his Path. Slipping into a soft robe, Balelath placed his armor on its stand, returning his sword to its proper place on a rack that held the other weapons that he had gathered from time spent at the various Aspect Shrines. He took a quick shower, and went off to bed.

Isenran stopped by a couple of days later. The young farseer had a troubled look on his face, and he stood uncertainly by the door until Balelath waved him in.

“What’s bothering you?” Balelath asked as he moved about the house trying to find something to offer his visitor to drink.

“It’s Farseer Illiawe,” Isenran blurted. Balelath turned to him, an eyebrow raised questioningly. “Will she be all right?”

Balelath chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about her. Illiawe can take care of herself.”

“Have you known each other for long?”

“Quite. We have been busy with our own things these past decades. As you go down a Path, you have less time of your own. We have kept in contact with each other, however.” He stared piercingly at Isenran. “Where are you going with this?”

“When we were fighting the corrupted cultists, Farseer Illiawe did not seem very concerned about the dead eldar.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes. Farseers are supposed to protect the eldar, are we not?”

Balelath pursed his lips. “No.”

Isenran’s eyes widened.

“She explained it to me once,” Balelath continued. “I did not understand too much, but I will see if I can explain it.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “The ultimate goal of the farseer is the advancement of the eldar race. There are always times when the Fates grow stern, and demands the spilling of eldar blood. Farseers strive to minimize this, not waste their efforts averting it.”

“So, in situations like these, we just let eldar die?”

“Yes.” He held up his hand. “But in the most meaningful way possible. It’s a little like commanding a warhost. Sacrifice a squad to save something more important. From what I understand, however, it is not only eldar lives that have to be saved. Sometimes, there are events – important ones – that can only come about through the blood of countless eldar. I do not understand this part. It’s akin to sacrificing an entire warhost when they are the only ones who can win the battle.”

Isenran’s face grew troubled. “How do I tell which path to take, and when to take them?”

“I don’t know, Isenran. That’s why you are the farseer, and not me.”

Lord Inquisitor Volorus was in a foul mood. He sat behind his desk, his head buried in one hand in an artful display of despair. In the other he held a glass of deep red wine. Noshan, leader of the Inquisitor’s psyker entourage and his advisor, confidant, and closest friend, knew that his lord did not drink that particular wine unless he was especially happy or in especially bad humor. It was not too difficult to tell which end of the spectrum the Inquisitor fell in on this day.

There are two things that Noshan knew to do when Inquisitor Volorus was in such a mood. The first was to stay silent until his friend was ready to talk. The second was to brace himself for either a blistering rant or a terribly long-winded complaint. Noshan could do the first thing. And while Noshan could also do the second, he rather wished that he did not have to. Noshan had no love for either angry rants or complaints, and the door to Volorus’ office was starting to look more appealing by the minute.

He fidgeted in his plump armchair. The Grey Knight Guigrim glanced over at the movement, but he said nothing. In fact, that was the first time that Noshan had seen the Astartes move. He had been standing silently to one side of Volorus’ desk the entire time since the three of them had gathered in the office, having declined to sit due to the armor that he still wore. His silent presence added a grave tone to the meeting, one that Noshan felt really did not need to be there. Then Volorus looked up, and Noshan knew that the opportunity to bolt had passed.

“How could this have happened?” Volorus wondered, not for the first time that day.

“The thieves were eldar,” Noshan again reminded him. “That should be explanation enough. They are famous for their trickery, after all.”

“Yes. And now it is going to cost me so much. I have promised to return with the artifact, but now I have nothing.” He smacked his palm on the armrest of his chair. “There are so many Inquisitors who will gladly use this opportunity to destroy my reputation.”

 “I did urge you not to make such a promise,” Noshan reminded him.

“You should have urged harder.”

“You should have listened. A lot of this could have been averted, you know.”

“Don’t lecture me, Noshan,” Volorus said wearily.

“I wouldn’t. But I can offer you a solution,” Noshan said dubiously. “It is not perfect, but it would save you a lot of trouble from the other Inquisitors.”

“Right now, I would take suggestions from anybody.”

“My psykers and I can find a daemon infested world. Perhaps one of them might have something important on it.”

“How does this help with retrieving the artifact?” Volorus asked, puzzled.

“It doesn’t. But it will appease your colleagues at the Ordo Malleus.”

“That is not the result that I was looking for, Noshan,” Volorus complained.

“No, it isn’t,” Noshan agreed. “I’ll speak frankly, Volorus. You are in a lot of trouble. There is nothing that you can do to get out of this. The most that you can do is try and salvage what you can.”

“There is something. You could track down the eldar and take the artifact back.” The Inquisitor’s eyes sparkled with hope.

“Don’t be foolish, Volorus. When we joined our minds with the farseer, we sensed quite a lot of things. The farseer is powerful. If she stole the artefact from us, then there is not much that we could do to find her. The eldar wants the artefact, and they are not going to let us track her down until they no longer have use for it.”

Volorus scowled. “By the Emperor,” he exclaimed. “Why can’t things ever go smoothly?”

“Get a grip of yourself,” Noshan told him. “I suggest that you dwell on this later. Right now, it might be best if I went and searched for a suitable planet.”

Volorus nodded. “What should I do?”

Noshan hesitated in the act of rising from his seat. “Finish your wine, and go to sleep. It would be best if you do not stress yourself out by dwelling on this matter any further.”

Noshan went out of the Inquisitor’s office, heading quickly for the cabin where the rest of his team of psykers gathered. The crew moved aside for him as he walked through the corridors of the ship, and he made good time. The psykers were sitting around a circular table when he entered.

“How did it go?” Sylana asked as soon as he entered. The woman had recovered from her earlier collapse, and the color had returned to her face.

“Better than I could’ve hoped,” he replied. Quickly, he relayed the details of the meeting to them.

“So, we are to locate a daemon planet for the Inquisitor, then?” one of the psykers asked, grinning. “That is a lot of freedom that you have attained for us, Noshan.”

“I had to talk very fast,” he admitted, moving to sit between two of the hooded psykers.

“And, I suppose, if we ran into the farseer on the planet, it would just be a lucky coincidence, wouldn’t it?” another asked. He, too, was grinning broadly.

“Of course. After all, there is no way for us to track the farseer down.”

“How are we going to find something for the Inquisitor, though?” Sylana asked worriedly.

“I’m sure that the eldar have some Chaos cult that they are itching to get rid of,” Noshan replied. “I think that we ought to be able to get the location of one of the minor ones from the farseer.”

Sylana grinned. “I’m sure of it. She was rather accommodating, for an eldar.” Her breathing was shallow, and she was trembling with barely concealed excitement. “It is rare that such an opportunity to learn the psychic secrets of the eldar would present itself.”

Noshan smiled. “Calm yourself, Sylana. The time is not far away now.” He reached out his hand and opened a plain wooden box that was placed in the exact middle of the table. He flipped its lid open, and took out a thin disk. It was the color of old bones, oblong and almost as large as his hand. Already he could feel the psychic energy emanating from the disk, and hear a sibilant whisper, almost like an errant breeze in his ear. The rapt expressions of his fellow psykers told him that they, too, felt and heard what he was hearing and feeling. Noshan smiled as the psykers lent their power to him, and he delved into the whispers of the disk. It then spoke, and Noshan suddenly knew where to find the eldar farseer.

To be fair to Volorus, he really did try taking Noshan's advice. The situation that he was in, however, troubled him to no end, and his sleep was restless. The Inquisitor dipped in and out of sleep and, when he sank back into slumber, the shadowy forms of his colleagues stalked him, heaping accusations of failing to uphold his duty to both the Emperor and the Ordo Malleus upon him. In the realm of dreams, he watched as his fleets were taken from him, his entourage disbanded, his titles stripped, and his possessions seized. It was, put mildly, an unpleasant night.

Finally, deciding that sleep was doing more harm than good, Volorus got out of bed and went into the adjacent office. Its walls were lined with medals and awards and little pieces of jewels and precious metals, a testimony to his many victories and successes, evidence of the painstaking path to his vast reputation. And now, it had all come crashing down - not from a Warpspawn, but from the damnable xenos. It was infuriating indeed. Inquisitors - especially those in his position - were allowed some slight leeway when it came to their tasks. It was results that were important, and all knew that mistakes would always be made, that not even the Emperor's most holy light could save every one of His servants from the machinations of xenos and heretic. Volorus, however, knew all too well the lengths to which his colleagues would go to disgrace him, and he did not want a stain on his otherwise unblemished record. Something had to be done to remedy the situation. And while Volorus had utmost confidence in Noshan's abilities, he felt that there were certain steps that could be taken to insure against any grave accusations by his fellow Inquisitors.

Volorus' entourage was skilled and varied enough that the need seldom arose for external aid. In combination with his extensive network of contacts, this resulted in many individuals in various positions of importance owing him numerous favors. On this occasion, Volorus felt that particular professionals were needed. If he could not retrieve the artifact, then the least that he could do would be to get rid of the individuals who have offended him. It was petty revenge, but Volorus was not taking his nightmares too well.

Taking up a pen and a scrap of parchment, he rubbed at his chin, wondering the best way to phrase his call for aid. Eventually, he decided to settle for a blunt request.

“To Essatea of the Officio Assassinorum,” he wrote, “I have need of an assassin of the Vindicare Temple experienced in the removal of eldar farseers. Enclosed is the details of the target. While not very thorough, I have the utmost faith in your assassin's ability to complete this task.

“While of high priority, speed is not crucial.” After all, he only needed to appear to be doing something about the situation, and there was no point in wasting unnecessary favors if there was no need for it. “The xeno might be carrying an artifact of Chaos nature. If so, I would ask that you safeguard it until such time as I could retrieve it in person.

“May the Emperor’s most holy light fall upon you.

“Lord Volorus, et cetra.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 13

Illiawe followed Taeryn absently, gazing up at the colorful dome of the webway. It seemed that she was spending more time in the webway than in the outside world lately, and she found that she actually missed the usual sights and sounds and dangers of the material world. Taeryn, on the other hand, was perfectly tranquil. Illiawe had never fully realized just how much her friend liked being in the webway until now. Illiawe’s affection for the webway stemmed directly from the sense of safety that its corridors provided. The shadowseer, however, viewed it quite differently. Though the group consciousness of the harlequins had given her new understanding, there was a connection between Taeryn and the webway that Illiawe could barely understand.

They emerged some time later in the middle of a grass covered plain, with rolling hills and sparkling streams stretching out in all directions. The sky was a clear blue, and little puffs of white clouds chased each other across that expanse like errant children. While they had been in the webway, Taeryn had informed Illiawe of their destination. The world, she had said, served as one of the many hubs for travelling Rangers scattered around the galaxy. Despite Taeryn’s descriptions of it, Illiawe was not prepared for what greeted her on the planet. Planes and transports entered and exited the atmosphere carrying groups of Rangers and the more free-spirited Corsairs. Around the central webway gate, a number of wraithgates had been set up, monitored and looked after by a number of eldar. The gates flashed almost constantly as eldar travelled in and out of the webway. Laughter and friendly conversation filled the air. There was a very relaxed atmosphere around the hub, a mood that was almost carefree. Despite the heavy traffic through the hub, the eldar there went about their business without the purposeful pace of those on the craftworlds or the suspicious hurriedness of the Commorrites. The Outcasts moved about at a leisurely pace, frequently stopping in their errands to exchange pleasantries and polite conversation. Here and there amongst the outcasts were groups of Corsair pirates, their decorated armor distinctive in the crowd. They moved with no more urgency than the Outcasts, though their eyes were alert, their hands never straying far from their weapons even as they exchanged friendly greetings with Outcasts and other Corsairs. Their faces were hard, unspoken evidence of the constant hardships of Corsair life. There were no houses in the hub, only tents and other makeshift shelter, simple affairs that could be readily packed away or abandoned without a second thought, should the need arise.

“What now?” Illiawe asked Taeryn.

“We find a captain who is willing to ferry us to that planet Cegorach wants us to go to.”

“That should not be too difficult,” Illiawe noted, looking out over the bustling hub.

“Well, it’s persuading one of the captains to do it that’s going to be difficult.”

“Why?”

“The Corsair captains – and some of the Outcasts – are going to want something in payment. Something tangible.”

“That would make things a little difficult.”

“More than a little,” Taeryn agreed. “Perhaps we can find a Craftworld captain instead. That would save us quite a bit of trouble.”

Illiawe looked around, noting the distinct absence of Craftworld garb in the crowd. “That might prove to be just as much of a challenge.” She pursed her lips and turned her mind to the Fates. After a while, she found what she was looking for. “Follow me,” she said to Taeryn. To her friend’s credit, Taeryn did not question Illiawe’s laconic command.

Following the thoughts of the lone eldar that her powers had latched on to, Illiawe pushed her way into the crowd. A few curious looks were cast their way, but Illiawe ignored them. The tugging at her mind grew more insistent, until she finally stopped in front a large gaudy tent. Despite its name, the makeshift structure before her resembled a cabin rather than the conventional interpretation of a tent. It had no visible support keeping it secured to the ground, and it looked almost as solidly constructed as a house of wraithbone. It was made of tough but soft fabric, a material of Exodite origin that Illiawe recognized from the craftworld. Laughter and raucous conversation emitted from the tent. She pushed the tent flap aside and stepped through, stopping just inside the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The tent was filled with eldar – Outcasts, Corsairs, and even a few from the craftworlds. They sat around simple tables that were arranged in an orderly manner around the tent, talking good humoredly over their food and tankards.

Illiawe was used to such establishments having a certain air of decorum about it, a sense of seriousness and restraint that marked such halls on the craftworld. All of that was missing here. The Outcasts and Corsairs, free from the necessary stringency of the craftworld, talked and laughed like they had not one care in the world.

Illiawe looked around, trying to find the eldar she knew was there among the crowd. Finally she gave up, instead reaching out with her mind. Her delicate prodding paid off after a couple of minutes, and she made her way through the tent, navigating between the tables.

She saw the lean figure of her target sitting at an out of the way table, his Craftworld robes standing out among the flamboyant garments of the Corsair captains that he was talking seriously with.

"Captain Mornedor?" she exclaimed in mock surprise as she neared him.

The eldar turned as the sound of his name. He squinted at her for a moment, his expression puzzled, and Illiawe remembered that she was still in the garb of the shadowseers. Then his face cleared. "Farseer Illiawe," he greeted her, sketching a perfunctory greeting. "I had not expected this meeting."

"Neither had I," replied Illiawe. "The Fates have brought us together again, it seems."

Mornedor frowned. "Do not toy with me, Farseer. I know those who walk the Witch Path. I dare say that this is not a chance meeting."

"Would I do that?" Illiawe asked, her expression arranged in an artfully innocent look.

"If not you, then one of the other farseers. How may I assist you?"

"I mentioned no such thing."

"Don't be coy. We will not be talking if my aid was not needed. What do you need?"

"I have need of a ship to travel to a world with no entrance to the webway."

Mornedor gestured to Taeryn. "Can't your shadowseer friend open a temporary gate there?"

"This situation is a little different," Taeryn quickly replied. "We must not use the webway for this trip."

Mornedor rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "Of course I can provide the aid you require," he said. "What is the current rate for a short trip like this?" he asked the other captains.

"You would not!" Illiawe exclaimed, aghast.

Mornedor shrugged. "These captains were telling me how much they make by ferrying passengers. It sounded like a lucrative business. You are quite desperate for such a trip, so I think that it might be a good place to start."

"That would also mean that you could charge her a bit extra," one of the Corsair captains observed with a grin. "I think that the shadowseer masks would be rather valuable." He waved his hand at the mask fastened to Illiawe's hip.

Illiawe chewed worriedly on her bottom lip. "I don't suppose that you would consider something a little more accessible?"

Mornedor rubbed at the side of his face. "I suppose that if you gave me a detailed account of my fate, I would take you to wherever it is that you are going."

Illiawe forced herself not to roll her eyes. That was quite probably the most common - and the most futile - request. "Fine," she said in exasperation.

"Good." He turned to the other captains, and resumed their conversation.

"Mornedor," Illiawe said tentatively.

"Yes?" he said without turning.

"We need to leave as soon as possible."

"That is exactly what I've planned, farseer."

Illiawe bit on her lip, trying to push the irritation out of her voice. "Then why are we not on the way to your ship?"

Mornedor turned to her. "I understand that you are in a hurry, farseer," he said patiently, as though explaining a difficult concept to a small child. "However, there are goods from the Exodite worlds and items that the Rangers have gathered that are just being loaded onto my ship. While I respect the urgency of your need, the eldar on the craftworlds are waiting for these goods, and I cannot possibly leave without at least some cargo. Besides," he said, glancing at the mug before him, "I have yet to finish my drink."

"She's incredibly self-centered, isn't she?" one of the Corsair captains asked.

"Your prejudice is showing again," another said with a laugh. "She's young and immature, that's all."

"Isn't she, though?" the first asked with an exaggerated leer.

Her face flaming, Illiawe turned on her heels and stormed away.

"I'll come and find you when my ship is ready to leave," Mornedor shouted after her.

Taeryn said something in reply, but Illiawe was not paying any attention.

True to his word, Mornedor came looking for them a couple of hours later. Illiawe had regained her composure by then, and she met him with a cool look on her face, her shoulders unbowed and her head held high. Like a statue sculpted by the most skilled of bonesingers, her expression was unchanging, fixed in a regal indifference. An aura of aloofness emanated from her posture, her every move indicating with no attempt at subtlety the fact that the captain's very presence offended her. She had made up her mind that she was not going to show any cordiality until Mornedor showed signs of remorse for the earlier slights from his captain friends. Mornedor took one look at her pouty - and definitely very unregal - attitude and assumed a cheerful smile, an artfully crafted expression that indicated that the day had been a very jovial one. Illiawe privately thought that it looked far better on him than his usual disapproving expression, if somewhat unnatural.

"Well," he said in his dry voice as soon as he neared, not seeming to notice her mood. "The ship is ready. You are the only cargo left to board." Before Illiawe could object to being addressed as "cargo", he turned sharply and, with the bottom of his robes swirling in a strangely disapproving manner around his ankles, he went away. Illiawe hurried to catch up to him before he became lost in the crowd, leaving behind the opportunity for a retort fluttering like so many pieces of tattered fabric in the wind.

For someone so advanced in his years, Mornedor moved surprisingly quickly. Illiawe found that she had to stretch her legs out to keep pace with him. He led them through the hub until they came to one of the sections that had been set aside to serve as landing areas for the various crafts. A large aircraft wanted for them, the tips of its downward curving wings barely touching the ground as its anti-gravity engines hummed softly. The hatch to its hold was open, and Mornedor led them into it. The craft angled sharply upward almost before the hatch had closed, shooting up into the void above with only a slight lurch to account for its movement.

Illiawe looked at Taeryn. Her friend’s face was serene, her eyes half closed and her breathing slow. Curiosity overcoming even the respect for another’s meditation that Ethorach had instilled in her, she leaned toward Taeryn.

“What will we be doing on the planet?” she asked.

Taeryn opened an eye. “Nothing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There is nothing for us to do. There will, however, be a rather important event occurring there, and we need to be a part of it.”

“What sort of event?”

Taeryn smirked knowingly. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise for you.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “You are not going to tell me about it?”

“Of course not. Weren’t you listening?”

“Fine. Be that way, if you must.” She leaned back in her seat, casting her mind into the skeins. There was something there, however, an inky shadow that clouded her readings and blurred the threads. Illiawe frowned. It was the same shadow that had been following her around lately, obfuscating her readings. She bit her lip and pushed further into the skeins, searching for a clearer vision. No matter which path she chose to follow, however, the events on the planet remained shrouded, each thread coming to an abrupt stop at the exact moment when her questions will be answered. Illiawe huffed in frustration, but not even the tricks that Ethorach had taught her – nor even those that she had personally developed by expanding upon Ethorach’s teachings – revealed what she wanted to know. Finally she drew her mind away from the skeins.

“Found anything of interest?” Taeryn asked politely.

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.

“It would not kill you to wait a little while longer, you know.”

“Perhaps not. There is something a little more worrying, however. Something was blocking my visions. The same thing happened a few times in our hunt for the Chaos artifact.”

“It was not much of a hunt, Illiawe.”

“That’s not the point. Do you know anything that could do that?”

Taeryn’s eyes narrowed. “Describe it to me.”

“It was like a shadow that blocks off all possible futures relating to that which I seek. It extends no further than that, but it covers just enough that I never have my answers.”

“That does not make any sense,” Taeryn objected.

“What doesn’t?”

Taeryn toyed with an errant curl. “Shadowseers know a rather unique trick that hides a particular fate from scrying. At times, we can even hide whole threads, should we wish to. It makes it easier to prompt an individual to start down a particular fate when he is not aware of what awaits him. I used the exact same technique to hide your role in the performance back in Commorragh, if you’ll remember. Anyway, the shadow that you have described sounds a lot like the mark of the inexperienced in the technique. However, concealing even a particular thread is difficult. Most shadowseers will only ever be able to conceal an individual’s fate. Concealing specific details is impossible. Not even the Great Shadowseers could achieve that.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “That’s interesting. Is doing so without the shadow necessary for mastering the technique?”

“Not quite. It is the mark of subtlety, but it is not necessary. Of course, the shadowseers have always prided ourselves on subtlety, so there is very little difference between the two.”

Illiawe nodded. “So the caster of this shadow – the one concealing information from me – is powerful, but unskilled?”

“I suppose so.” She gnawed on the lock of hair. “This is very worrying. For some reason, a shadowseer is obstructing us.”

“Why are you assuming that it is a shadowseer who is doing so?”

“It has to be, Illiawe. There is no others who know of the technique. The fact that this shadowseer has not yet mastered subtlety, moreover, has very bad implications.”

“What kind of implications?”

“Experimentation, and a very careless and unwatchful mentor.” Illiawe noticed that Taeryn did not talk about the obvious alternative.

“An experimenting shadowseer still in his studies is causing this?” Illiawe demanded incredulously.

“It is the only explanation.” Taeryn shrugged. “There is another, but its implications are even worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“This particular technique requires a fair bit of concentration. The most powerful shadowseers, however, could cast it without expending all their concentration on it. However, this usually leads to mistakes – such a lack of subtlety.” Her expression grew troubled. “I know all of them, and not one would willingly jeopardize us when we were hunting for the Chaos artifact.”

“What if the caster is not one of these, but have simply chosen to eschew subtlety?”

“Why? What purpose does that serve?”

“I don’t know. I was simply providing an alternative explanation.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Illiawe shrugged.

“Ethorach taught you how to share your visions with others, did he not?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Next time you receive one of these clouded visions, share them with me. Perhaps I could ascertain the caster’s skill if I saw the skein veil for myself.”

Illiawe nodded. It was only then did she realize that Mornedor was no longer with them. She looked around the transport hold. “Where’s the captain?” she asked Taeryn.

“Gone. We have arrived at his ship while you were trying to find answers in the skeins. I gave him directions, and we are now on our way to the planet.”

“Fair enough. Will we be staying in here for the duration of the trip, then?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Illiawe grinned and stood, shrugging to settle the grenade pack on her back into a more comfortable position. “I wish we had returned with the Troupe of the Darkened Moon to retrieve my robes,” she grumbled. “This outfit is quite uncomfortable.”

“You’ll just have to get used to it.”

“I don’t plan to wear it long enough for that. As soon as I have the opportunity, I’m getting some new robes.”

“If the grenade pack bothers you so much, get rid of it.”

“Gladly.” She unclasped it from her back and held it out to Taeryn. Her friend clasped her arms behind her back. “Hold on to your own things,” she said, shaking her head.

Illiawe glowered at her and returned the contraption to its place on her back. Taeryn touched a rune at the rear of the hold, and the hatch slid open. The docking bay of Mornedor’s ship still had that same air of excitement that Illiawe remembered, as though the free-spirited Rangers that used the ship had left their mark on it. They went out of the docking bay and along the corridors of the ship. Mornedor’s ship carried no Rangers on this trip, and there was a marked emptiness to its corridors.

“Where’s our assigned quarters?” Illiawe asked.

“I don’t know. Mornedor said that it would be the one you stayed at last. He did not tell me how to find it, though.” She looked expectantly at Illiawe.

“Is something the matter?” Illiawe asked.

“You’ll have to lead the way. I do not know where your previous room is.”

“Oh, of course.”

They arrived at their destination some hours later. The eldar who was sent to inform them of that fact had a familiar beam on his face.

“Amroth?” Illiawe asked as she opened the doorway to their room.

A shock of recognition flashed across the eldar’s face. “Farseer Illiawe,” he said warmly. “I did not expect you. Are you on another task?”

“Yes, I am.”

Amroth grinned. “Let’s hope that this task is as quick and safe as the last one was.”

“Yes,” Illiawe agreed. “Let us pray that it is so.”

“Interesting choice of attire,” he said then. “Have you been called by Cegorach to join the ranks of his children?”

“It was not entirely my idea,” Illiawe answered.

Amroth’s eyes flickered to Taeryn. “Ah,” he said delicately. “Well, I certainly prefer this over your old robes.”

Illiawe glowered at him, and he grinned impudently back.

“Anyway,” he said as though nothing had happened, “I was supposed to lead you to the bay where a craft is waiting to take you to the surface of the planet.”

“Perhaps you should start with that the next time instead of making silly comments,” Illiawe said dryly.

Amroth shrugged. “It’s a habit of mine.” He gestured for them to follow him, and led them to the closest docking bay. An unarmed craft awaited them there, similar in design to the ones used by civilians on the craftworlds. The pilot cockpit located at its front was spacious and its body elaborate, unlike the compact design of the eldar’s military vehicles. Amroth left them with a quick bow and a mischievous grin. The pilot of the craft waved them in.

The craft soared out of the docking bay with barely a lurch, and Illiawe settled into her seat, readying her combat and protective runes. The lack of details on their current path made her nervous, and Illiawe went over her preparations a number of times, checking that all was well. She might not be able to avoid any difficulties, but she could at least try to mitigate them. Opposite her, Taeryn was busy with her own preparations. As closely as Illiawe could tell, it consisted mainly of toying with her mask with both fingers and mind. When she was done, she placed it over her face and moved to sit beside Illiawe.

The pilot’s voice came over the communications device. “We are nearing the surface. I hope you brought appropriate equipment. The atmosphere of this planet is very toxic.”

“We know.”

“Good. Where would you like me to put you down?”

“Anywhere would be fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

Taeryn unclasped the mask from Illiawe’s hip and placed it over her face, her fingers running over its rim and between the thin section where it connected with her suit, prodding and pushing at things that Illiawe did not know of. Things were happening to her mask, small hisses and little clicks sounding in Illiawe’s ears. Finally Taeryn lowered her hands, settling back into her seat.

“What did you do?” Illiawe asked.

“The mask has a little filtration system that we are going to need.”

Illiawe nodded.

The craft slowed and came to a stop, the hatch sliding away. Illiawe peered out. The world was gray and unlovely, its air thick and tinged with green. There was no life on its surface, and there was not even any sign of a wind. Illiawe followed Taeryn out of the hold. Already the tight costume of the shadowseer clung to her skin in the arid climate, though, strangely, Illiawe felt no discomfort from the atmosphere.

“What now?” she asked Taeryn.

“You keep asking that question,” Taeryn observed.

“Maybe I would not ask it so frequently if you would just tell me what we are supposed to do next.”

Taeryn let out a long-suffering sigh. “We wait until the time is right.”

“When is that?”

“I don’t know,” Taeryn said irritably. “The humans are notoriously unreliable. I can’t tell how long it would take them to get here.”

“We are waiting for the humans, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Shut up and help me find somewhere to wait,” Taeryn snapped.

“I was just making an observation,” Illiawe said in a hurt voice. “You have no reason to get all excited about it.”

Taeryn turned to look steadily at her. Despite the mask concealing her face, Illiawe knew that her friend was glaring at her. “Fine,” she said. “I will help you find some shelter.” She walked off, muttering to herself.

They found shelter in a cave some distance from where they had been dropped off. The world was dull gray, dusty and decorated only with rocks and boulders. There was neither wind nor cloud, and not a single plant or animal grew on it. Everywhere they walked, the greenish haze stained the air. Illiawe quickly grew bored of the scenery, and it did not help matters much that Taeryn appeared more interested in her meditations than in relieving boredom. Illiawe stared for a while at the still form of her friend before giving up. She sat cross-legged on the cave floor and stretched her mind out to the skeins. Of course, the shadow was still there, and Illiawe pushed at it, trying to break the veil. The shadowseer, whoever he was, was powerful, and, after the better part of an hour, Illiawe grudgingly retreated. She glanced back at Taeryn.

“Would you like to see the shadow for yourself?” she asked.

“No, Illiawe,” came the reply. “Not now.”

“What are you doing?” Illiawe asked curiously.

“It’s none of your business.”

Illiawe stood. “How will we find the humans when they arrive?”

“We don’t. They will find us.”

“We are supposed to meet with them, then?” She threw her arms up into the air. “Perfect. Let me know when they arrive.”

“Where are you going?”

The opportunity was too good to pass up. “It’s none of your business,” Illiawe said with a tight grin.

The cave that they had taken shelter in was a labyrinthine system that stretched on for a long time. With her mind probing the passageways before her and her fingers trailing along the cave walls, Illiawe explored the extensive system. Where her fingers touched, a shimmering trail of softly glowing runes appeared, marks by which she could find her way back later. The tunnels led down toward a focal point, of that much Illiawe was certain. She did not quite know, however, what, if anything, lay within.

For a while Illiawe walked, drawing ever closer to the focal point, guiding herself down the right paths with her mind. Then Taeryn’s voice came to her.

“The humans have arrived,” she declared.

“I will be back presently,” Illiawe promised.

When she returned to the mouth of the cave, Taeryn was standing just inside its entrance, gazing wordlessly at the barren land before her with her hands on her hips.

“Where are they?” Illiawe asked as soon as she drew near.

“There,” Taeryn replied, pointing at a flaming speck falling from the sky, growing increasingly larger by the minute. As it got closer, Illiawe could hear the bestial roar of its oversized engines as it struggled to keep the vehicle from plummeting down to the ground.

Something brushed at her mind, and Illiawe ignored it. The feeling returned, more strongly this time. Illiawe tilted her head, puzzled, and reached out with her own mind. Her thoughts connected with the human’s, and she gasped, quickly severing the link.

“We have to leave,” she said to Taeryn.

“Why?”

“Those humans in the craft are the psyker entourage of the inquisitor we met when searching for the Chaos artifact.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why are we waiting for them to arrive? The psykers know that we are here. It would not be long before they send their warriors.”

“Nothing has changed, Illiawe. It is imperative that we come face to face with the humans in the first craft. They would not be hostile.”

Illiawe shifted nervously, fervently wishing that she could push aside the veil that lay across the skeins to see what lay ahead.

“Do not fret,” Taeryn said. “Our fates are certain. No lasting harm will come to either of us here.”

“Lasting harm?” Illiawe asked. “That does not have very nice implications, Taeryn.”

“I know.”

“I wish I knew what lies ahead,” Illiawe muttered.

“You cannot be prepared for every situation, Illiawe.”

“I know, and I do not try to be. But I would certainly like to be prepared for situations like these.”

The first craft, guided by the human psyker, came to a stop before the cave. Dust and pebbles billowed out as its engines blasted at the ground with brutish force. Illiawe took a deep breath and, for once, she was grateful that her mask hid her face. Humans were particularly dull when it came to detecting emotions more complex than the baser instincts through facial expression alone, but she did not want any hint of her nervousness to show.

The back hatch to the craft opened with a loud grinding sound, and a dozen robed and hooded figures emerged. Under their cowls, they were large and ungainly respirators, and they had airtight suits covering the rest of their body. One of them, his gold-trimmed robe swirling about his ankles, walked up to them. His steps were heavier than Illiawe remembered, and she smiled. The human was doing a very poor job at hiding his nerves under a façade of bravado. She did not take her eyes off him even as he stopped in front of them.

“Farseer,” he said, his tone containing an unspoken offer of amicability.

“Noshan. Why do you pursue us?”

The human glanced uncertainly between Illiawe and Taeryn.

“Be nice,” Taeryn’s thoughts sounded in Illiawe’s mind. “Let’s not start any conflicts that we can avoid.”

“I would like to make sure that they are not really pursuing us, and that this is nothing more than a coincidence, Taeryn.”

“There are no coincidences,” Taeryn responded almost instinctively.

“We are not pursuing you because of the artifact,” Noshan said.

“Then why are you here?”

“We are after something else that you have only allowed us to glimpse. We would like for you to instruct us in the manipulation of the Warp. In return, we can provide you with assistance whenever it is needed.”

Illiawe laughed scornfully. “What makes you think that I need your assistance, or that I am willing to show you anything related to the psychic arts? You humans are infantile beyond belief. You have no reason to be allowed to wield the Othersea like the eldar do.”

“It is as you’ve said. However, wouldn’t it be in the interests of both our races if we learned better control over the powers of the Warp?”

Illiawe pursed her lips. “Good try,” she said. “This is getting tiring. I think that it is time for us to leave, Taeryn.”

“Wait,” Noshan said, his arm stretching halfway out. “There is something else. A vision. Perhaps it might help to convince you.”

“Convince me of what, mon-keigh?” Illiawe asked, her voice dripping with derision. “That it is the right thing to show you the ways of the psychic arts? That we need your help? Or perhaps you think that this vision could convince me that you will not turn this new knowledge on us or, fueled by your ignorance and fears, cause greater problems for the eldar?”

Noshan hesitated. “Yes.” The nervousness was gone from his voice now, and he stood upright, staring unflinchingly at her.

Illiawe shook her head. “Forget about it. We may be only a remnant of what we once were, but we have not yet sunk to that level of desperation.” She started to turn away.

“And by the time you have, it would be too late.” It was not Noshan who spoke.

Illiawe turned to look at Taeryn. Her face was covered by the mask, but Illiawe did not need to see her expression. There was something in that mask; not a vision, but raw emotions, undiluted sorrow and despair, growing ever deeper as the eons raced past. Somewhere beside her, she heard Noshan gasp as emotions on a level that he barely comprehended threatened to overwhelm his mind, even though he was only on the peripheral of Taeryn’s psychic hold. The shadowseer’s mind touched Illiawe’s, and there was hope there, a shred of confidence that everything could be made well again.

“Listen, farseer,” Taeryn’s thoughts sounded in her mind, “give the human a chance. Do not struggle against your fate.”

Illiawe bit on her lip. “I make no promises. Humans do not so readily offer such aid, especially not for something they have no knowledge of.”

Taeryn’s thoughts grew warm. “That is your real fear, isn’t it? See his vision, and only then make your decision. Ignorance cannot be overcome without guidance.”

Illiawe nodded. “One vision, human.”

Noshan inclined his head. He had barely begun to draw on his powers, however, when the skeins tugged on Illiawe’s mind. She looked quickly around. High in the sky, a second craft came blasting through the atmosphere. Noshan took one look at it and waved his entourage back into their craft. He turned to Illiawe. “We have to conceal ourselves before the Gray Knights get here – at least, until I am able to show you the vision.”

Illiawe did not hesitate. She turned and ran back into the cave, pushing into the labyrinth of tunnels that lay within. Heedless of direction or guidance, she led Taeryn and Noshan deeper into the caves, seeking passage with her probing mind. She did not realize where she was headed until the walls of the tunnels changed. They had been rough before, but now the stones were smooth. Yet this was not the smoothness of stones worn by eons of exposure to the elements. The walls were almost perfectly cut, as though the tunnels had been constructed. But this was not the construction of the buildings on the craftworlds or the stout structures of the humans. The tunnels had a strange feel to them, something that was almost wild and untamed. And then they were in the central chamber, where all the tunnels led to. There was a bluish light there, coming from the middle of the chamber. It was a glow that Illiawe was familiar with.

Taeryn stepped up to the portal, inspecting the runes carved into its wraithbone structure. After a little while, she straightened. “So, I guess that the time has finally come,” she said cryptically.

Illiawe tilted her head. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Taeryn said, shaking her head. “Come, the both of you.” And she pressed a rune on the side of the portal, and stepped through its shimmering surface.

There was the tinkling of tiny bells in the complete darkness on the other side of the portal, but there was otherwise no other sound. There was a flurry of movement to the side of her, and something made a small, shimmering sound. A tiny speck of incandescent light formed in md-air some distance before them, bobbing like a leaf in a bowl of water. It hurtled upwards and almost vanished into the depths of the shadows above. The light expanded rapidly, until, in a heartbeat, it was as if a sun hung above their heads. Illiawe looked about her. There were shelves and chests littered all around her, made of white wraithbone ot the dark material of the Commorrites. Scrolls and tomes and record slivers filled the shelves, and little contraptions of unfathomable purpose lay upon the chests and shelves and almost every other surface. Illiawe looked with great interest at each contraption, each piece capturing more of her attention than the last.

Taeryn stepped forward, her mask no longer covering her face. Her fingers brushed along the shelves and chests with great reverence. She seemed lost in thought as she laid her hand fondly on the strange contraptions.

“Taeryn?” Illiawe called to her friend.

“Let Noshan share his vision with you, Illiawe. I will explain when you are finished.” Her voice was muted. She looked up at the top of one of the shelves, then stepped behind a bookcase and moved out of sight.

Illiawe shrugged. “What is it that you wanted to show me?” she asked the human standing next to her. He did not respond. “Noshan,” she prompted, laying a hand upon his shoulder.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. The vision.” He exhaled, and Illiawe felt his mind reaching out, trying to link with hers. Illiawe allowed him to do so, and there was a wrenching feeling as he dragged Illiawe into his visions. Illiawe shuddered. Perhaps Noshan was right. The humans really needed instruction. There was no time for that now, however. Images were already flashing into her mind as the skeins drew her in. It had barely begun when Illiawe recoiled in horror. Despite her past experiences, Noshan’s skill in prescience was certainly commendable. Feelings and emotions in addition to visions unfurled before her mind with great clarity. She saw complete devastation, worlds set alight and shattered and reduced to dust, and the endless wails of souls drowned out all other sounds as they were herded toward an eternity of pain and horror unimaginable. Around her, the lights of Asuryan flickered, waned, and slowly died.

As if the vision had opened a floodgate, her mind was drawn into the skeins, though she made no conscious choice to do so. The shadow was gone now, and Illiawe looked around for the thread that she knew had to be there. Finding it, she followed it to its end. And there, though the children of the Phoenix King were doomed, they were not alone. The souls of Man burned with them in eternal agony. Through the vast oceans of time, their psychic suffering trickled back down toward her. Illiawe wrung her mind away from the thread and looked at the human standing before her. Her breathing was ragged, and there was a dull throbbing at the back of her mind.

“How did you find that?” she asked after she had somewhat regained her composure.

“I don’t know. It came to me a few days ago, clearer than any other vision that I’ve ever seen.”

Illiawe returned her mind to the skeins, now free of the obscuring cloud. The threads that contained the vision all had the conflicts between Man and Eldar erupting into uncontrolled hostility at its fore, and the malicious forms of Chaos loomed over every one of them. Illiawe tilted her head. She know knew that the human’s offer for assistance was sincere. They, at least, shared a common goal. Illiawe, however, also knew that the human did not speak for the whole of his race.

“The assistance that you have offered,” she said. “How many feel the same way?”

Noshan winced, obviously hoping that he would have been able to gloss over that point. “Not many.”

“Define “not many”.”

The human sighed. “None. Not even my lord Volorus knows about the deal that I am striking with you.”

Illiawe turned away from him. The human was apparently clumsy in more than just the psychic arts. “Why would you keep something of such import from those of your race? How can this disaster be averted if you would not share the information?”

Noshan shrugged. “My lord allows me certain freedom of decision. I am informing you of this, so you would bear this information to your people. My lord is not in a very good mood right now. I will share this with him when he his mood brightens.”

“I do not know whether your interest in the psychic arts is born from self-interest or not, human, but, for now, I – and quite a few other farseers once they are made aware of the danger, I expect – am willing to teach you to better control the gift. However, I will only do so when you have provided the aid you promise and uphold your end of the deal.”

Noshan nodded. “That sounds fair.”

“Fair or not, your race is not going to drag mine into the clutches of Chaos with it.”

“I’m glad that you are so reasonable,” Taeryn said. Illiawe had not noticed that she had returned. She was leaning against a shelf, and had an open scroll in her hands.

“Whom are you referring to?” Illiawe asked.

“You, of course.” She turned to Noshan. “Now that we have gotten your proposition out of the way, what do you think that our next best course of action is?”

Illiawe raised her eyebrows at Taeryn so casually turning the decision making over to the human, but she said nothing.

“Well,” Noshan said, “the Gray Knights are probably searching for me right now. It might be best if I joined them as quickly as I can so as not to arouse suspicion.”

Taeryn nodded. “Do that.”

He inclined his head. “I will do my best to ensure that my lord agrees to a certain level of cooperation, and bring you the news as soon as possible. May the Emperor’s blessings be with you.” Then, seeming to remember just who he had directed that ritualistic farewell at, he stuttered awkwardly for a few moments, before giving up and hurrying out of the portal.

Illiawe looked at Taeryn. “You were not really planning on letting him return to the ship unsupervised, were you?”

“Of course not. I am not that trusting. Besides, there is no way that he or his fellow psykers could have tracked us down so quickly.”

“You think that he might have some help?”

“Of course. And I would like to find out who – or what – is helping him.”

“All right. When do you propose is the best time to sneak aboard the human ship?”

“As soon as the psykers return to it. I would like to stay here for just a little longer.”

Illiawe nodded. “You said that you would explain this place to me.”

“Of course I will. Have I ever withheld information from you?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Be nice,” Taeryn muttered. She looked around her. “Much was lost in the centuries after the Fall. Our traditions, our culture, our knowledge; but there was much that the harlequins collected and preserved. Those that we could, we returned to the craftworlds and the exodites. But there were things that, for one reason or another, could not be returned. These the harlequins kept away in vaults such as this, for when the time comes for the pieces of our past to be returned to the eldar.”

Illiawe frowned. “I was under the impression that the Black Library is where such knowledge is kept.”

Taeryn laughed. “The Black Library is a ruse. The only knowledge that one would find there are the scripts for the dances. It houses the historical records of the eldar – valuable beyond belief to us, but less so to the other races.” She gave Illiawe an amused look. “You did not really think that we would keep all our collected knowledge in there, would you? Especially since it’s so well known?”

Illiawe flushed.

Taeryn grinned. “I’m teasing you. That particular image has been very carefully cultivated by the harlequins for centuries. It helps to keep the real source of information away from those who would seek it, and it makes letting those who would seek such knowledge aboard the Black Library less of a consternation.”

Illiawe looked around with renewed interest. “What part of the eldar’s past does this vault hold?”

Taeryn lowered her eyes to the scroll in her hands. “As far as I can tell, it contains detailed instructions for the ancient eldar’s weapons of war.”

Illiawe’s eyebrows rose. “That could prove to be very useful.”

“Indeed. It seems that Cegorach would like the craftworld to prepare for trouble.” She paused. “That is, more trouble.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The vaults do not get found unless Cegorach wants them to be. And that usually means that the knowledge stored within is to be dusted off – so to speak.” She returned the scroll to its place atop a shelf. “Give me a moment while I contact Esarlyth. A few of the harlequin Keepers would have to sort this out before they are distributed to where they are needed most.”

It was Taeryn who transported them onto the human ship, leading Illiawe through the webway using a temporary portal into that dimension. They came out in a draughty hall with massive planes of stained glass windows and row upon row of marble reliefs placed along its walls.

“Where are we?” Illiawe asked as soon as they stepped out onto the ship.

“On the human ship, of course. More specifically, in a temple aboard the human ship. Were you expecting something else?”

“Don’t be clever. Nobody likes that.”

Taeryn shrugged. “My troupe always finds it amusing. We are just a corridor down from the inquisitor’s office.”

“How do you know that?”

“I had ample time to explore the ship when I was here last. At least, the areas surrounding the office.”

Illiawe nodded, reaching out to her runes and weaving the light around the two of them. She then turned her attention to another rune, and shielded their minds from psychic probing. Beside her, she could feel Taeryn lending her own powers to the preparations, concealing their bodies and minds with shadowy veils.

“Are we ready?” Illiawe asked a moment later.

Taeryn nodded. “I will be turning the attention of the crew away, just as an added precaution. I’ll get you into the inquisitor’s office, then I’ll leave you for the chambers where the psykers are.”

Illiawe nodded. They stepped boldly out into the corridor outside, and not one of the passing human crew so much as bat an eye at the loud grinding of the temple’s heavy doors. They moved quickly down the corridor, walking around the crew as best they could in the confined space. It was only a matter of minutes before they reached the office, and Taeryn nudged the ornate doors open without hesitation. She pushed Illiawe through and pulled the doors shut. Illiawe hurriedly looked around. Unlike the rooms upon the ships of the eldar, the office that she was in, though comfortable, was small. A large and exquisite mahogany desk facing the door took up almost half of the room. Bookcases filled with scrolls were placed against the wall on either side of the doors, and the remaining walls were lined with medals and various other flashy ornaments. There was a comfortable looking couch placed along the left wall, and two plump armchairs stood before the desk. Sitting slouched behind the desk was Volorus. The stern and haughty look that Illiawe remembered from their last meeting was gone from his face, replaced by a weary look. His hair was unkempt and his plain shirt was rumpled. He had a glass of wine in his hand, and he was running a finger absently over its rim. Illiawe moved to sit on the couch, silently watching the human.

The door opened, and Volorus looked up. Noshan walked into the room, pushing his deep cowl back from his face.

“What did you find?” Volorus asked as soon as the doors had clicked shut.

Noshan drew in a deep breath. “I am not sure if you would like this,” he said carefully, lowering himself into one of the armchairs.

“Spit it out, Noshan. If it’s bad news, don’t draw it out.”

“I did not find a Chaos artifact on the planet.”

Volorus buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“However,” Noshan continued, seemingly oblivious to Volorus’ despair, “I did come across something else. I talked to the eldar farseer.”

Volorus’ head shot up. “The one who led the eldar army alongside the Gray Knights?”

Noshan nodded.

Volorus slammed his fist down on the desk. “By the Emperor,” he swore. “What are these xenos planning? Why are they toying with us?” He looked at Noshan. “What did the xenos say?”

“She offered us a deal. Our full assistance in exchange for certain knowledge.” Illiawe tilted her head at the psyker’s lie.

“Full assistance?” Volorus echoed.

“Favors whenever they are needed.”

Volorus frowned. “That’s quite a lot to ask for. Why didn’t you capture her, or attempt to get the information of the Chaos artifact from her?”

“I didn’t get a chance to. They knew we were coming.”

Volorus leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his face with both hands. “That’s quite a mess that we’re in. Our options are to either be accused of aiding xenos in the hopes of getting our hands on another artifact, or be accused of failing to fulfill my duty. I do not fancy the outcome of either choice.”

Illiawe released the cloak of light from around her, letting herself become visible again. “Then perhaps I could make you a better offer,” she said casually, taking some delight in the shocked expressions of the two humans.

Volorus was the first to recover. “How did you get here?” came the inevitable question. He reached for a pistol on his desk.

“Don’t you want to hear my offer?” Illiawe asked in amusement. She erected a barrier before her, looking cautiously at the barrel of the gun that was now pointed at her.

“What exactly is your offer?” He did not lower his gun.

Illiawe looked steadily at him. “You are desperate for the Chaos artifact.”

“The one that you stole.”

Illiawe nodded. “Correct. Provide all the assistance within your power to provide whenever the eldar call for it, and I will hand the artifact over to you.” As much as she had derided Noshan when he had made the proposal, the idea of having the resources of an inquisitor at her beck and call was becoming more appealing by the minute. And if that was the terms that the humans were considering, Illiawe was not about to argue.

“The artifact is not that important to me,” Volorus scoffed.

“Perhaps not, but, with information provided by the eldar, you could put down a lot more Chaos threats, could you not? I do not think that a choice between ruination and increased reputation is that difficult of a decision, do you?”

“Working with xenos is not very commendable either.”

“You should practice a little more before you try something like that again. You and I both know that inquisitors seek the aid of my people very frequently in service of your Emperor against Chaos.”

Volorus hesitated, and finally lowered his pistol. “Fine,” he said grudgingly.

“I’m glad that you’ve come to your senses,” Taeryn said from the door.

Volorus scowled at the shadowseer. “How many of you are there?” he asked, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.

“Just the two of us.”

Volorus looked accusingly at Noshan. Taeryn caught the look, and she laughed.

“It is not his fault, Volorus. You would have needed many more psykers than there are on this ship if you had wanted to detect us or keep us out.” She pushed herself off the door and stepped forward. “As it so happens, I have need for your authority. There is a governor on one of your worlds who has some information that I need. It would make things so much easier if I questioned him using your authority.”

Volorus’ eyes narrowed. “What kind of information are you talking about, and how do you plan on questioning him?”

“So suspicious,” Taeryn muttered.

“I have to be when dealing with your race.”

“You misjudge us, but that is a discussion for another time. The information relates to Chaos. I am going to simply ask him a few questions, and if he gives up the information, I do not have to hurt him. Your authority would help greatly with that.”

Volorus’ expression remained dubious, but he nodded. “A word of caution, however. Should you do anything that harms humanity’s interests, I will shoot you.”

“I will not do anything that harms the Imperium’s interests.”

Volorus nodded again, accepting her concession. “I trust that you will hand the Chaos artifact over when you have gotten what you wanted?”

“Of course, Volorus. Any further assistance from the eldar, however, will only come if you continue to provide your services.”

“I would expect no less,” Volorus agreed.

“Good. Tell your navigators to take us to the world that you call Cephanos IV, then.”

“We are travelling there aboard the human ship?” Illiawe sent her anxious thought to Taeryn.

“Yes.”

Illiawe shuddered, but closed her eyes and steeled herself, trying to settle into the lessons of the Warp Spiders as the chill of the Warp rift washed over her.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 14

As far as Illiawe was concerned, she would much rather not use a human vessel again as a mode of travelling the stars. When the ship finally exited the Warp, she found that she was trembling almost uncontrollably. That, however, might have been due to the fact that the Regina Umbra had been beset on all sides by daemons during the trip rather than a simple fear of Warp travel. Once again, Illiawe had been forced to join her power with that of the human psykers and seal the daemons out with runes. This attack, however, was larger and more ferocious than even the last. Taeryn was frowning as the ship exited the Warp.

"How did they find out?" she was muttering to herself when the human psykers broke up their circle and she joined Illiawe.

"How did who find out about what?"

"The daemons. This attack is a lot larger than normal. Surely you've noticed that."

"Of course. The same thing happened the last time I was aboard this ship."

Taeryn frowned. "You know that the daemons are from Slaanesh, don't you?"

"I thought I detected something like that. I would not be surprised, though. We are after something that could very well bring Slaanesh to ruin, after all, and I'm sure that Slaanesh could sense that."

"That doesn't make sense, Illiawe. If the daemons wanted us dead, they wouldn't have waited until now to do so."

"Perhaps they are really after the humans?"

"That is a possibility, I suppose, though I am not sure if that's their real goal."

"What do you mean?"

"If the daemons' real goal is to kill the humans, the humans would not have be so nervous during the attack. This implies that they are not yet used to it."

"I don't think one could ever grow used to a daemon attack, Taeryn."

"Perhaps, but I'm exploring possibilities here. I don't want to close off any explanations just yet."

"All right."

Taeryn frowned. "Perhaps the daemons are really looking to stop an alliance between us and the humans. If they attack the ship enough times, some with a dislike of the eldar - like Volorus - would link the attack to our presence, or accuse us of calling upon the attack."

"That seems pretty petty."

"For the daemons, or for the humans?"

"Both."

"Humans are not entirely rational when they grow fearful. As for the daemons, it's actually quite logical. Cegorach wanted us to talk to Noshan. The alliance was probably His intention. If Cegorach wants it to happen, it must be integral to His plans. Naturally, Slaanesh would want to prevent it."

"That makes sense, I suppose."

Volorus himself led them down to the docking bay, with Noshan following close behind them. The inquisitor had abandoned the heavily decorated attire of his office, and had instead elected to wear a plain coarse smock. He had, however, assumed the stern look that he normally wore before he had stepped out of his office, and none of the humans aboard the ship mistook him for a common crewman. Illiawe and Taeryn both wore the coarse robes of the human psykers over their shadowseer garb, and their cowls were pulled as far over their heads as possible to hide their distinctive racial features. Taeryn had bundled up her coat and taken a short trip into the webway to put it away, an action that had drawn looks of disappointment from Volorus.

Forewarned of their arrival, the mechanics aboard the ship had prepared a shuttle for them. It was a sorry looking craft, small and free of the Imperial insignias that adorned the other crafts in the hangar bay.

"We'll be taking this shuttle down to the planet surface,” Volorus said. “It will let us land unnoticed.”

"We?" Taeryn asked.

"I will be going with you. If you are going to do anything in my name, I’d like to be there to supervise it.”

Illiawe nodded. “That explains your attire, I guess.”

Volorus looked down at his clothes. “It is best if we don’t draw any attention to ourselves.”

“Yes,” Taeryn agreed. “The cloaking systems of your ship might prevent us from being detected, but there is no cause for taking unnecessary risks.”

Volorus looked sharply at her. “How do you know about the stealth systems?”

Taeryn smirked at him. Volorus scowled, and waved them aboard the shuttle.

There was really no isolated spot on the planet. Through the grainy feed on the screens in the craft’s hold, Illiawe saw gray buildings of stone and metal rising high into the sky. Like all human constructions, they were simple and plain, purely utilitarian structures. The buildings were organized around those of the wealthier portion of the population, large complexes whose sole ornaments were stylized symbols of the human Imperium. Each of these complexes were separated from the less grandiose buildings around it by a wide street that encircled it. The city – for there was only one city on the planet – stretched on further than the craft’s visual sensors could pick up, the plains and forests of Cephanos V having long been replaced by stone and metal. A perpetual haze lay over the city, a thick gray smog that smothered everything around it and reduced the visual range to barely a quarter of its original distance.

The state of the city ensured that there was no place that the craft could drop them off without someone noticing. The pilot brought the shuttle in low, hovering over a narrow street, and pushed the craft back into the sky as soon as they had gotten off. The street was filthy. Grime covered the streets and the walls of the buildings on both sides, and the air had the lingering stench that marked the production facilities of the lesser races. Emaciated humans, clad in little more than rags, lined the streets, looking with dull-eyed curiosity at them.

“The outer districts,” Volorus said, his lips twisted in an expression of distaste. “It’s always the most interesting on any hive world.”

Illiawe glanced at him, trying to determine if he was being sarcastic.

“This one would be more interesting than most,” Noshan said. “Any hive world with no distinct cities always have the most entertaining outer districts.”

Volorus nodded, looking around him. “Let’s move away from here as quickly as we can.” He looked around. “This is the outer district of the governor’s home city. Let’s go.”

The city was built in an inverted cone, rising tier upon tier upward. “Isn’t it interesting how these cities are designed?” Taeryn asked casually.

“What do you mean?” Volorus asked carefully.

“The poor live below, and their masters watch over them, who are, in turn, watched over by their masters. I wonder why that is.”

“This organization is the most efficient,” Volorus said stiffly.

“Is it? Do the rich need to remind the lower classes of their authority by both height and proximity to the seat of power?”

Volorus’ lips grew thin, and he did not reply. Taeryn glanced at Illiawe, and flashed her a quick grin.

They were almost to the middle districts when Illiawe felt a small tug on her mind. Discreetly but quickly, she sent out a probing thought. Eight humans lay in various positions on either side of them, whispering amongst themselves. Illiawe stopped in her tracks and looked directly at the hiding spot of the closest man.

“We are in quite a bit of hurry,” she spoke in a voice that carried to the man’s compatriots. “I would appreciate it if you go look for another target.” She parted the folds of her robes to reveal the wraithbone hilt of the harlequin sword at her hip. There was a scuffling noise, and the presence of the men withdrew. Volorus was looking at her with a puzzled expression. “Just some men looking for some entertainment,” she said lightly. “Could we move on now? We do want to reach the governor’s palace as quickly as possible, don’t we?”

The streets became progressively cleaner and the citizens less miserable-looking as they ascended the hive city. The worn looking buildings were replaced by sturdy gray structures with large metal plating for their gates, and the citizens actually looked like they had important things to attend to. Then they entered the districts where the individuals of power and wealth lived, and the proportion of lounging citizens started to outnumber the industrious ones again. The houses, however, became even more splendid. Walls were overlaid with marble and decorated with gold and precious gems in marked attempts to outdo its neighbors. Each house was surrounded by expansive grounds, each containing fountains and tacky oversized statues of gold and marble that loomed over all passing beneath. As they walked, Illiawe started to notice a pattern in the construction. The buildings in the different districts had their own sets of decorations, as if their owners had seen the ornaments of their neighbors and resolved to outdo them, rather than the decorations being born of a desire to beautify the resident’s home. Dimly, Illiawe began to understand the fundamental factors that accounted for the design differences between the constructs of the humans and that of the eldar.

A heavily armored vehicle cruised past them. Volorus ducked his head. “Don’t look at them,” he muttered. “We don’t need to draw their attention to ourselves.”

Illiawe glanced curiously at the vehicle. It was painted a solid black and, though it was obviously civilian in nature, the heavy metal plating bolted onto its sides and its darkly tinted windows gave it a distinctively military appearance. The vehicle slowed to a stop beside them, and a trio of humans stepped out. They were burly men, dressed in a black uniform with thick ceramite breastplates. The men sidled toward them, their postures belligerent.

“Enforcers,” Noshan muttered. “You might want to flash your Inquisition seal, Volorus. They look like they are itching for a chance to exert their power.”

“Let’s see where this goes first,” Volorus muttered back. “I don’t want to have to reveal my status before I really have to. There’s really no point in alerting the governor to our presence, if he’s what the farseer and her friend are after.”

“You don’t look like you belong in this area of the city,” the enforcer said as soon as he drew near.

“Looks can be very deceiving,” Volorus said mildly.

“What?” the enforcer asked, taken aback. He was obviously unused to having his authority questioned.

“You heard me.”

The enforcer narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like your tone,” he said ominously.

Volorus shrugged. “You don’t have to like it. I have done nothing wrong, so what I do is none of your business.”

The enforcer looked at the two men by his side, as if for reassurance. “But it is my business. The people living in this good neighborhood don’t like you commoners walking around on their streets, and they have elected me to make sure that it stays that way.”

“Do that someplace else, then. My friends and I are just on our way to the governor’s house. "

The enforcer grinned maliciously. “I bet that you are. You’ll have a nice view of it from the prison.”

“What are you charging us with?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something. The nobles don’t really care what we charge the riffraff with, as long as we keep them away.” The other two enforcers reached over their shoulders and drew their las-rifles. “You’ll come with us quietly, won’t you? I would hate to have to offend the residents with the sight of pieces of you lying all over the place.” He turned to his friends, grinning at his own clever remark.

“Of course,” Volorus said. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of such esteemed officers such as yourself.”

One of the enforcers opened the doors to the reinforced hold at the vehicle’s back, and bundled them in. The doors slammed shut with dull metallic clicks, and there was laughter from outside as the enforcers began to congratulate each other.

“Perfect,” Noshan said dryly. “I would really like to hear your reasoning behind not showing them your inquisition seal, my lord.”

“Stop complaining, Noshan,” Volorus replied coolly. “They are going to take us directly to the governor’s house.”

“Tell him, farseer,” Noshan appealed to Illiawe.

“Tell him about what? I would much rather ride to our destination than walk, and this situation is not so dire that we will not be able to get out of it in a heartbeat. Besides, Volorus does have a point. We should not let the governor know that an inquisitor is here if we could avoid that. He should not be allowed to prepare for our arrival, and it would be easier to extract the information that we need should he not have his guard up.”

Volorus rubbed at his chin. “The attitude of the enforcers is distressing, however. Perhaps I should find some time in the future to straighten the nobility out. Maybe I should have a little talk with the governor if we get the time.”

“I would not have expected this charity from you, inquisitor,” Illiawe said to him, an eyebrow raised archly.

“Abuse of power leads to problems, farseer. Corruption and dissention takes root under such circumstances. It should not be allowed to fester. Besides, the nobles rely greatly upon the common people, and they should be treated with some form of respect.”

The enforcers took their time getting into the vehicle, confident that their captives were too intimidated to show resistance. Illiawe ran her fingers over the hilt of the sword at her hip. It was testimony to their overconfidence that they had neglected to search them for weapons. Illiawe was thankful for that. She was not sure how the humans would react if they realized that she was not a member of their race, but she did not really care to find out. Quickly, she probed the skeins of time for favorable outcomes. Humans were notoriously fickle, and she did not want one of them springing something unexpected in her direction.

The vehicle stopped outside a large building that could only be described as a fortress. Its walls were high and imposing, slabs of thick metal lining gray stone. Wire was stretched across the top of the walls, and humans patrolled along its top. Machinegun emplacements lined the top of the walls and the area surrounding it, giving the place a rather warlike appearance. Illiawe looked quickly around her. They were some distance from the inner districts of the governor’s sector of the city. As far as Illiawe could tell, they were some distance from almost everywhere else. The closest buildings was a grandiose complex located across a wide boulevard on the prison’s right, a building surrounded by walls almost as high as the prison’s own, with enough guards to fight a moderately sized war.

Volorus was also looking at the complex. “The governor’s palace.” Turning to Noshan, he said, “I told you that it will save us a lot of walking.”

“Yes,” Noshan replied dryly, “now all we need to do is figure out how to get out of that.” He gestured toward the prison. “You could try flashing your inquisitorial seal.”

“I will, if things get too difficult.”

“Try not to wait too long to do so, will you?”

Illiawe rolled her eyes. The enforcers moved to push them into the prison, and Illiawe reached out to their minds, channeling the powers of the Warp through her runes. The enforcers lowered their arms.

“I hope that you had an enjoyable trip,” the first of them said, bowing respectfully.

“We certainly did,” Illiawe replied. “Thank you for your help.”

“It was our pleasure,” he replied.

Illiawe looked meaningfully at Noshan and Volorus before moving off in the direction of the palace, leaving the enforcers looking amongst themselves in confusion.

Noshan looked at the guards stationed around the palace. “Getting in might be a little difficult,” he noted.

Illiawe pursed her lips, turning to Taeryn. “Can you cloak the four of us long enough to find the governor?”

Taeryn nodded. “Definitely, as long as the humans don’t jump around too much.”

“Jump around?” Noshan protested.

“In a sense. Your minds have trouble being still, and, while I am sure that I could get us past any form of detection in that palace, it’ll make things a bit more difficult.”

“I’ll try not to get distracted,” Volorus said dryly.

Taeryn extended her powers, wrapping the shadows around their minds. She nodded at Illiawe, and the farseer reached into the skeins, searching for the governor. They circled around the outer walls until they came to one of the heavy ornate gates. Taeryn reached out toward the minds of the guards there. The humans looked right at them, but they made no move to stop them. Illiawe led them past the guards and through a smaller gate set at the side of the main gate. Noshan stopped to stare into the face of one of the unaware guards.

“This is really fascinating,” he said.

“Yes,” Volorus said flatly. “It’s really helpful.”

“Don’t mind him,” Noshan told them. “He doesn’t like being aided by your race.”

“I don’t mind their help, Noshan,” Volorus corrected. “That doesn’t mean that I have to like them, though.”

There was a second wall behind the first, with sturdier fortifications and an even more impressive array of weapon batteries. The guards there paid no more attention to them than those at the first gate had. They went through with no more hassle than they had at the first, and found themselves within the walls of the palace.

Volorus looked around him. “Perhaps it is time to reassess the defenses of our hive cities,” he mused.

“Your concern is misplaced, inquisitor. We do not involve ourselves in the affairs of Man lightly.”

Volorus laughed shortly. “Perhaps you might want to tell that to the rest of your race. They seem to have missed that instruction.”

“You condemn what you cannot comprehend, inquisitor. It is this exact rashness that cause us to doubt your adequacy and leads to so much of what you now castigate.”

The insides of the palace of the governor of Cephanos V was what could only be described as shabby. Despite its opulent outsides, its inner walls contained only the last vestiges of its former glory. Its dimly lit corridors were empty, and there were doors that were barred shut and broken windows that had been boarded up rather than replaced, and entire wings had been closed off. Illiawe moved to peek into a side room. The room had been stripped bare of furniture and other ornaments, and only the painting on the walls and the gold linings of its corners bore testimony to its once lavish furnishings. A thick layer of dust clung to its floors, undisturbed in the eerie silence of the palace halls.

“What happened to this place?” Illiawe asked as she rejoined her companions.

The humans shrugged. “Good question,” Noshan said. “Perhaps the governor of this city learned frugality.”

“I guess we will soon find out. Let’s go up that staircase. There are no guards around to stop us.”

“Are you sure?” Noshan asked.

“My visions have never once failed me,” she replied, ignoring Taeryn’s amused look.

Unopposed, Illiawe led them into the unimpressive office of the governor, and the equally unimpressive presence of the governor himself. The governor was hardly more than a boy, with a weak chin and a disposition to match. He was alone in his sparse office, sitting behind a plain worn desk piled high with documents and reports, furiously scribbling away at a piece of paper.

“I am almost done,” he said in a small voice when they entered, not looking up from his papers.

“We can wait,” Illiawe said, quickly closing and locking the doors behind them.

The governor looked up in surprise. “Who are you?” he asked shrilly.

“We have a few questions for you, governor, and we would appreciate it if you would answer them.”

“Is it because of the taxes? Vosh handles it, really. I only sign the approval papers.”

“No, that’s not what we’re here for.”

“Oh, good,” the young governor said, slumping further into his chair in obvious relief. “The merchant princes are always telling me that the economy can’t handle any more taxes, but the treasury is starting to get very lean.” His attention started to return to his papers, then his head shot up again. “So what are you here for?”

“As I have said, we have a few questions for you, then we’ll be taking our leave.”

“Sure,” he said enthusiastically. “Just make it quick. Vosh doesn’t like it when I fall behind on the paperwork. I keep telling him that I can’t help it, since I’m doing it all by myself, but we had to let the people who usually do it leave because we can’t afford to keep them here.”

Taeryn stepped forward. “I’ll be sure to keep this short, then,” she said. “Where is the Spirit Box?”

“The what box?”

“Don’t be coy, governor. The both of us know that you are a Chaos cultist.”

Behind her, Illiawe heard Volorus and Noshan gasp.

“I don’t know anything about cults or boxes,” the governor said.

Taeryn sighed. “I was hoping that we could keep things pleasant.” She moved, and sat on the edge of his desk. Illiawe felt her mind stretch out toward the governor’s. The youth’s eyes widened, and he fell back in his chair, slack-jawed. His hands started trembling, and his lips moved in soundless screams.

“Stop!” he wailed. “Take it away, please! I don’t know anything about boxes or cults!”

Taeryn released her hold on him, and he buried his face in his hands, blubbering incoherently.

“This is puzzling,” she said, pushing herself off the table. “Either he is a lot more courageous than he looks, or he really does not know anything about Spiorad.”

“The what?” Noshan asked.

“An eldar name, translated loosely into your language as a spirit – or a spirit box, in this case. I would use the rather quaint term of your language, but let’s call it by its proper name, shall we?”

Illiawe glanced at the humans. “I may be able to help,” she muttered in the eldar language so as to keep their conversation from the humans. “Ethorach knows of a certain technique to draw information directly from a person’s mind. I’ve seen him use it a couple of times, and I know how to replicate it.”

“Why do you seem so worried, then?” Taeryn asked, also speaking in the eldar tongue.

“There’s a certain subtlety to it, and while I am sure that I could replicate it to some degree, the human is liable to die if I take too much information from him. I have never seriously experimented with it myself, and Ethorach has always been reluctant to teach this technique to me, so I am not sure of these exact limits.”

“That’s awfully short-sighted of you, Illiawe,” Taeryn reproached her. “This technique would certainly be useful right now.”

“Are you sure that the governor has the information we seek?”

Taeryn nodded. “Cegorach was sure, and the Fates agree. The ruler of this world will give us the information we seek.”

Illiawe chewed on her lip. She looked at the young governor, who had mostly regained his composure, though his eyes were still a little wild. The human met her eyes, before shrinking away in fright and lowering his head quickly. “Who did you say the one who made the decisions regarding the tax was?” she asked.

“Vosh,” he replied quickly. “He’s been very helpful to me. He does all the things that I cannot, so that I can concentrate on the paperwork.”

“What sort of things does he do, exactly?”

“Oh, a lot of things. He helps me manage the day to day business of the city, and gives me a report every day. I’m sure that he is in a very unappreciated position, though. If the people bother him as much as the nobles and merchants bother me about the tax system, he must have a very tough job. He never complains, though, even now when my poor city is on the brink of bankruptcy.”

Illiawe glanced at Taeryn. “Where can we find Vosh?” she asked the governor.

“Are you going to ask him about the box that you are looking for? That might not be such a bad idea. Vosh knows about all kinds of things. You can find him in the east wing of the palace on this level. You might have to wait a bit if you want to talk to him, though. He’s usually very busy.”

“I’m sure that we could convince him to take some time off for us. Is there an unoccupied room or something here where we won’t be disturbed?” Taeryn asked.

“Well, the north tower has just recently been closed off, so it shouldn’t even be too dusty.”

“You would not mind if we stayed there while waiting for Vosh’s schedule to become free, would you?”

“Of course not,” the governor replied quickly.

“Then we will be leaving now. I’m sure that you would not mention our visit to anyone, will you? Not even Vosh?”

“I suppose that if it made you happy, I could do that.”

“I appreciate that. We will leave you to your paperwork, then, governor.”

“You can just call me Sagard.”

Taeryn nodded. “All right.”

Governor Sagard smiled happily, and returned to the documents piled on the desk before him.

Inquisitor Volorus was in a barely contained rage when they snuck into the north tower and had ensured that they were alone. “Idiot,” he was muttering over and over to himself.

“Will you be still?” Illiawe finally asked when not even her meditations could keep out the sound of him pacing up and down.

“How did that imbecile ever get to be governor?” he exploded.

“He is weak of will, that is all. Give him some time to grow up.”

“The Emperor does not suffer adolescence. I have half a mind to go and beat some backbone into him.”

“Your emperor needs to learn patience, then.”

Volorus spun around, his nostrils flared. “Don’t push my patience, xenos. I was ready to kill the both of you when your friend hurt the governor, and I would have if the possibility of him being of a Chaos cult had not been there.”

“Nightmares never hurt anyone, inquisitor. It was good that you chose not to shoot at us. I would have hated to kill you because a boy was having bad dreams.”

Volorus stared helplessly at her, and turned abruptly away.

“So,” Noshan said in a tone that indicated that he was trying to avert unpleasantness, “Sagard is not really a cultist, then?”

“No. He would have admitted to it otherwise.”

“Your friend’s spell couldn’t really be that powerful, could it?” he asked skeptically.

“The power lies not in the spell, but in the mind. A person’s own thoughts are very potent weapons to use against them.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Then perhaps it is better that you do not.”

“Where is your friend, anyway?”

“She went snooping.” Illiawe paused. “You want to understand the psychic arts, do you not?”

Noshan nodded.

“Then the first thing that you should know is that it is terrible manners to interrupt the meditations of another psyker.” She glanced at the fuming Volorus. “If you have nothing to do, why not tell Volorus about that vision that you had?”

Volorus turned to them at the sound of his name. “What’s this?” he asked curiously.

“Thanks,” Noshan muttered darkly to Illiawe.

“It is best that we do not keep secrets from each other, human.”

“I wonder if you will be so keen on sharing them if the secrets were yours,” Noshan said.

“Of course not.” And, without waiting for a reply, she sank back into the skeins, leaving Noshan to explain things to Volorus.

Taeryn came back shortly after, and she had a worried frown on her forehead. “Vosh is the one,” she said as soon as she had joined them. “There are markings dedicated to the Chaos Gods all over his private quarters.”

“Then we should question him as soon as possible,” Illiawe said.

“Not so fast,” Volorus interrupted. “If Vosh really rules over Cephanos V, we cannot be sure just how many here have turned to the worship of Chaos. I will have to investigate.”

“We are not here for that,” Illiawe said.

“But your deal binds you to my cause. You promised aid in locating and destroying Chaos cults.”

“Only to locate them,” Illiawe corrected. “You can conduct an investigation for however long you wish, but we have our own tasks to attend to.”

“Doesn’t the presence of a Chaos cult concern the eldar?”

“It is of no importance, and well within the capabilities of your inquisition to handle. However, we may talk about this at another time.” She turned to Taeryn. “When should we question this Vosh?”

“I would prefer to do it as quickly as possible. Much conflict surrounds the point where our fates link with his, and I would rather not be caught up in it.”

“Do not kill him, though,” Volorus said. “I might just need to question him regarding the extent of Chaos corruption on this planet.”

Illiawe raised an eyebrow. “You would rather talk to a cultist than kill him? You are rather open-minded for a human, Volorus.”

“It is a special kind of talking,” Volorus said shortly. “The inquisition cannot get answers from a dead heretic, and a lack of answers makes the task of purging less thorough. We can kill him after we make him talk.”

“That’s settled, then,” Taeryn said. “We will be going without the both of you,” she informed the humans. “I would rather not have to protect the both of you should anything untoward happens.”

“We can protect ourselves,” Volorus said stiffly.

“I would rather not have to deal with the excess problems anyway, if you don’t mind.” She paused. “And even if you do,” she added.

There was nothing more to finding Vosh than navigating the empty hallways of the palace. Having already committed the layout of the building to memory, Taeryn led the way unerringly. Though it was probably unnecessary, Taeryn kept their presence firmly concealed. There was evidence that the east wing of the palace had once been the most opulent part of the palace. Its construction was large and sturdy, and a number of its large windows even had glass still in them, stained pieces that bore the imagery of the palace’s former inhabitants and notable moments of their history. Like the rest of the palace, however, all vestiges of wealth had been stripped from its halls. Rooms and corridors lay dusty and forgotten, its age-old construction lying unmaintained. They came to a plain door at the end of a hallway, and Taeryn glanced once at Illiawe, nodding slightly. She reached out her arm and pushed the door open, and they hurried inside. Illiawe looked quickly around. The room was bare to the point of being severe. A thin cot lay against one wall and a flimsy desk against another. Placed in the exact center of the room was a small altar, barely more than a stand with a shallow dish resting upon it. A man was standing at the altar. Though he was facing the door, he did not so much as raise his head when the pair entered the room. Sibilant whispers emanated from the altar, and the man was muttering in response to the whispers, his head bobbing as he communed. Illiawe tensed, drawing the barriers of her mind tighter around her, trying to ignore the whispers and the sense of corruption that permeated the room.

The man broke off his communion, moving away to the desk. Vosh was an average human with a scraggly beard and a thin face. Despite Illiawe’s initial beliefs, he appeared perfectly content with the frugal lifestyle that the rest of the palace had plunged into. His clothes were made of rough cloth, its edges frayed and its elbows patched. Combined with the shifty look in his eyes, it gave him the appearance of an urchin. The physical corruption that was the inevitability of Chaos worship had not yet touched him, though the repulsive aura that stemmed from him pronounced rather clearly that it was a conscious choice on the part of his patron rather than a sign of a recent conversion. Illiawe tilted her head. It was doubtlessly for the purposes of tricking the weak Governor Sagard into believing his ruse and accepting his administration, and that made Illiawe alert. The planet might not be of great import to the eldar, but the interest of the planet’s instability to the Chaos Gods roused Illiawe’s curiosity nonetheless. She quickly scanned the skeins, looking for dangers and possible threats.

Beside her, Taeryn had drawn her sword. She nodded once to Illiawe, and lowered the blanket of shadows from around them. Leaping to the side of the unaware Vosh, she placed her sword at his throat. Vosh made a sound that was almost like a squeak of surprise, and he froze.

“Where is Spiorad?” Taeryn asked him, her voice dangerous.

Then, unexpectedly, Vosh visibly relaxed, and he chuckled. “You can put the sword away, eldar. I am not going to fight you. You’ll note that the corridors that you came through was void of any sort of protection or guards. I am not looking to keep the likes of you away.”

Taeryn glanced at Illiawe, and she nodded, and Taeryn lowered her sword.

Vosh brushed the tips of his fingers against his neck, checking for signs of blood. “I wasn’t expecting your arrival in so short a time, to be honest. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even expecting your arrival at all. Has the eldar finally taken notice of my master’s activities?”

Taeryn frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Vosh shrugged. “My master has been making spirit boxes for a while now, but all of them seemed to have gone unnoticed by your race. You’d think that the eldar would pounce on something that would help against Slaanesh once they catch the slightest wind of it.”

Taeryn shrugged. “Where is Spiorad? I wouldn’t want to have to force the information out of you.”

“Is that what you’re calling this one?” Vosh raised his hands. “No need to get violent. My master did not forbid me from telling anyone of its location. It’s useless to Him now, and I’m sure it amuses Him to have you chasing it across the galaxy. As for me, I’m glad that everyone else who’s looking for the box are going to be chasing after you and not me. You couldn’t imagine the things I had to evade when I was carrying that box. Khorne’s followers were particularly unhappy with it, as I recall, and I came close to getting killed a few times. I don’t have it anymore. Some Slaaneshi cultist took it from me. It didn’t bother my master, and I was glad to get it off my hands, but I think that you might be a little more concerned.”

“Get to the point,” Taeryn told him, the point of her sword coming up in emphasis.

Vosh laughed. “There’s no need to rush. My master gave me Sagard to toy with, but it gets rather boring once in a while with no one to talk to. I am sure that I know where the servant of Slaanesh took the spirit box.” His eyes grew calculating. “Perhaps we could make a deal. What will you give me in exchange for telling you where it is?”

“Your life is your reward, and not wringing the information from your mind is my payment.”

Vosh nodded. “That is true. There is a Slaaneshi stronghold in what was once the Gadevar system. I’m sure you’ll be able to tell which planet’s the right one.” He smiled maliciously. “Why didn’t you just get one of your farseers to find out its location? I’m sure that it would be a lot faster than going around begging for information.”

Illiawe was about to retort when she felt the skeins tug on her mind. “We have to leave,” she sent the thought to Taeryn, gathering her will about her. “Trouble’s incoming.”

“What sort of trouble?” Taeryn questioned, and Illiawe felt her gathering the powers of the Warp.

“Chaos. A hostile force, not one with Vosh.”

Taeryn turned back to Vosh. “Then we had better get out of here. Volorus would not be happy that he will not get the opportunity to question Vosh, but I suppose that we all have to make sacrifices.”

Illiawe nodded, turning toward the door. They had barely began to move when there was a crash from somewhere in the center of the palace, and a thunderous detonation. The walls of the room shook, causing dust and debris to fall.

Vosh looked up sharply. “What was that?”

“Your fellow followers of Chaos. Slaanesh worshippers.”

Vosh made a face. “Don’t lump me together with that group. What do they want?”

“To kill you, I expect.”

Vosh nodded soberly. “Perhaps they are trying to stop me from spilling the secrets on the spirit box’s location. You know what it does, don’t you?” He did not wait for a reply. “I was hoping that my master would protect me, but it appears that he no longer has use of me.”

“You are taking this very philosophically.”

Vosh smiled. “My life was already at an end when you walked in.” He grinned. “You weren’t really planning on letting me live, were you? I can afford to take it philosophically.” Vosh nodded toward the door. “Now, you might want to get off this world before those deviants outside the palace come in.”

Illiawe did not much like taking the suggestions of a worshipper of Chaos, but it was the only acceptable course of action. Taeryn was already heading toward the door, and Illiawe followed, looking quickly into the skeins as she ran.

“Volorus may not like leaving the planet now,” Taeryn warned as they sprinted toward the tower where they had left their human companions. “I will hand over the artifact that we have retrieved, and we can leave using the webway once our end of the deal is fulfilled.”

“We are not going to leave this world without first dealing with the daemons,” Illiawe said. “I see many favorable circumstances if we were to aid Volorus now in getting the daemons off this world.”

Taeryn nodded, understanding. “Then let’s wipe them out quickly. I’ll see if I can call for some aid.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 15

The familiar chill of the Warp had settled over the empty hallways of the palace. Its silent halls seemed to muffle all sound within, and things appeared to waver and undulate at the edge of Illiawe’s vision. There was a tug on Illiawe’s mind, and, instinctively, she spun about, her right arm coming up, and unleashed her will. A bolt of lightning crackled in her palm, and shot through the air, sizzling spitefully. The lightning caught the half-naked cultist who had been sneaking furtively out of a side room in the exact center of his chest. The lightning plucked him off his feet, and he screamed once before falling twitching to the ground, a smoking hole in his chest where he had been struck. As though the death of the cultist had stripped all sense of restraint, the corridor was suddenly filled with howling fanatics. Illiawe drew her sword, the soft blue light of its blade filling the dim corridor. A cultist, her weapon half-raised, charged at Illiawe, until the farseer’s sword separated her head from her body. Illiawe brought her sword around, chopping the weapon of another cultist in half, and split him down the middle with a quick overhead blow. Taeryn had discarded the coarse human robe that Volorus had provided them with, revealing the shadowseer garb she wore underneath it. She darted from one cultist to the next, never slowing even when she attacked. Her form split into a million spots of light in the air as she danced her lethal dance, her holosuit fragmenting her image until it was as though it was not a single eldar, but a swarm of fireflies moving amongst the enemy. Her sword flashed through the air in rapid patterns, separating heads and limbs in blurs of movement, then she was gone, leaving the cultists to flail away futilely at the spot where she had been. A pair of cultists, flecks of foam spewing from their mouths, rushed at Illiawe with strangled screams. Illiawe swatted the wild swing of the first cultist away and brought her sword around. Blood gushed from his slit throat, and Illiawe danced around his crumpling body, ducking under the swing of the second cultist, and ran her sword through his quivering body. Illiawe withdrew her sword, looking around for another target, but there were no cultists left.

“Where are the humans?” Taeryn asked, unclipping her mask from her waist and sealing it in place.

Illiawe reached out with her mind, searching for the humans, and gestured for Taeryn to follow her.

They found Volorus and Noshan in a corridor overlooking the center courtyard of the palace, trading fire with the invading cultists down below. There were a dozen other humans with them, guards drawn from those stationed outside the palace proper who had been alerted by the sound of fighting within its walls. At a sharp command from Volorus, the pair were let through the wary ranks of the guards, and they moved to crouch down behind a wall. Illiawe looked down at the cultists in the courtyard. They numbered about a hundred, fanning out from the point of the courtyard that they arrived in to stream into the surrounding buildings. From where Illiawe was, it was pretty obvious why the courtyard had been chosen. Its place in the palace allowed the cultists to search the place for Vosh in the least amount of time possible. Obviously, they had not expected any resistance.

“I’ve sent word through the vox,” Volorus said, coming over to where they were. “The Gray Knights will arrive in a minute to help us contain this breach.” He looked around at the Guardsmen beside him. “I informed these men of my inquisitorial rank. They come from the regiments closest to the palace, and they’re all the support that we are going to get. I don’t want to draw the other Guardsmen away from the walls in case the other cultists within the city attack.”

“No,” Illiawe said. “These cultists are here to kill Vosh.”

Volorus hesitated, and nodded. “I see. Let’s try to keep the rest of the city unaware of this incursion, then. If the Emperor wills it, Vosh’s cultists on this planet will not be alerted to our presence and flee. We might yet be able to catch them all.”

Illiawe peered out of her cover again. “I think that we can deal with these cultists by ourselves.”

As if on cue, there was a flash of crimson light in the middle of the courtyard, and the chill of the Warp washed over Illiawe. A figure walked out of the dying crimson light, holding a staff in his armored hand. At his back was a banner, one that Illiawe recognized. The Slaaneshi sorcerer looked around slowly, looking over the dying cultists and the las-fire from the Guardsmen with equal indifference. He raised his staff once, and, all throughout the courtyard, the crimson light flared up in a dozen places. When they died down, pastel armored figures stood in their place, each carrying a heavy weapon of twisting tubes and strange protrusions. As one, they raised their guns, and opened fire at the Guardsmen’s position. But Illiawe was ready. The sonic blasts slammed into her barrier of force, blasting out to either side and shaking dust and debris off the surrounding walls. The Guardsmen reeled about, momentarily stunned, but otherwise unharmed. Illiawe gathered her will, and sent the barrier blasting out at the Chaos Marines. They stumbled, and some were driven to their knees. The Guardsmen, undeterred by the fact that their las-rifles had barely any effect on the armor of the Marines, poured volley after volley of las-fire into the hulking figures. Noshan raised his arm, and an arcing bolt of lightning shot out from between his clawed fingers, striking one of the armored figures. He screamed, the edges of his armor blackening, and smoke began to pour out of the gaps in his armor. He fell to his knees, and collapsed twitching to the ground.

Then there was another light in the center of the courtyard, a momentary flash of blue. There was a familiar touch on Illiawe’s mind, and lithe figures leapt out of the light. With Esarlyth leading them, the Light Troupe of the Masque of the Darkened Moon fell upon the servants of Slaanesh, cultist and Chaos Marine both, the flashes of their swords and the remains of their enemies the only visible things amongst the spots of light that marked their passing. The Slaaneshi sorcerer took one look at the harlequins, and raised his hand again. This time, the crimson light brought forth beings of snarling maws and sickening sensuality, impish beasts of varying sizes that snapped and growled, eyeing the harlequins hungrily. With a grandiose wave of his hand, the sorcerer released his restraint upon the daemons. With chilling howls the daemons leapt forward, their jaws agape.

But the harlequins did not even seem to notice the daemons. They continued their deadly dance, cutting down cultists and Chaos Marines, but made no move to meet the charging daemons. The blue light flashed one final time, and another harlequin, clothed in black rather than the gaudy garb of the Troupe and with curving horns protruding out from under his cowl, stepped out onto the courtyard. A strange mix of emotions settled over Illiawe as she beheld the harlequin, a mixture of fear and confidence and anticipation. The Solitaire walked slowly forward, his head lowered, waiting for the daemons to reach him. They fell upon his position with outstretched claws and ferocious bites, but the Solitaire was already moving. He danced around them in a blaze of color, moving so quickly that his splintered form was barely a mist in the air. The daemons attacked with tooth and claw, but not one of their strikes made contact. Daemons, reduced to nothing more than pulp, marked the Solitaire’s passage through the courtyard.

The sorcerer’s eyes blazed like hellfire. He raised his arm, prepared to strike at the Solitaire with the might of his power. Taeryn placed her hands on the corridor’s rails, prepared to jump to the Solitaire’s aid. Illiawe reached out, and held her back.

“Wait,” she said, pointing across the courtyard at the opposite building.

Taeryn followed her finger. There, moving along the corridor, looking on at the battle down in the courtyard, was Vosh. He trailed his fingers along the railing, and raised it, levelling his open palm at the Slaaneshi sorcerer. A spark, black as the void of space, shot out of his palm, slamming into the sorcerer’s armored back. The sorcerer stumbled, his own spell sizzling out and dying.

“Filth of Slaanesh!” Vosh cried out in a voice that could probably have been heard on the other side of the planet. “In the name of Tzeentch I cast my spite in the teeth of you and your patron both. Come, depraved pawn of the least of the Warp Gods. Set your mettle against mine, if you would have what you came here for.”

The sorcerer of Slaanesh turned slowly to face the unassuming figure of Vosh, his attention caught quite nicely by the calculated challenge. With eyes like burning coals he stared at the defiant Vosh, and a cruel smile touched his lips as he looked into the face of his target. He raised his arms, and Vosh was flung off his feet, over the railing of the corridor, to plummet down to the ground of the courtyard. Just before he hit the ground, however, an inky cloud, almost like smoke, surrounded Vosh, and he disappeared. The Slaaneshi sorcerer spun around, looking for his vanished target, until he was struck in the back by another black bolt. The sorcerer turned, his attention now fixed wholly upon the duel with Vosh. He threw his arms out, and a ring of Warp fire burst from the ground beneath his feet, rapidly expanding until the area around him was aflame. Daemons caught within the blast were immediately reduced to ash, and those unlucky enough to be close enough to the flames burst into balls of fire from the heat. Rapid blasts of inky energy spewed from the sorcerer’s outstretched hand, turning the dirt of the ground and the stones of the surrounding walls to slag with every hit. Vosh, however, was never quite where the Slaaneshi sorcerer aimed at. His aura of smoke never vanishing, he moved from place to place, returning with black lightning of his own.

Illiawe knew the mistake was coming, but Vosh did not. Growling in frustration, the Slaaneshi sorcerer unleashed a torrent of Warp fire upon his opponent. At the same time, his form shifted, seeming to turn into liquid. When it coalesced again, a decrepit figure stood in his place, with wispy white hair and a deeply lined faced and skin that shifted and bulged, as though there were things trying to break free from within his flesh.

Vosh laughed scornfully. “You seek to trick a servant of the God of Deceit?”

But that, of course, was not the sorcerer’s intent. In his moment of incredulity, Vosh’s attention had been momentarily split. And so it was that, when the Slaaneshi sorcerer raised his arms and called upon the Warp, Vosh did not move away in time. A golden mist roiled across the ground, heading for Vosh. Yet it was only a mist in appearance. In the space of a heartbeat, it had surrounded the unprepared Vosh, hiding him within its glittering embrace. Vosh screamed once, a sound of unbearable agony. Then, within the golden glow, a dark spot appeared, growing ever larger. The air grew heavy. There was a sound like a strong blast of wind had swept through the courtyard, and iridescent fire burst out, burning away the golden mist. Vosh stood in the center of the flames. His jaw was clenched, and there was a dreadful look in his eyes. The Slaaneshi sorcerer threw his arms wide, and twin whips of golden energy lashed out at Vosh. He caught them with a wall of green lightning, wrapping it around the ends of the whips and sending it up their glowing lengths toward the Slaaneshi sorcerer. The air between them crackled with unseen attacks, and the ground beneath their feet began to crack as both sorcerers poured their entire being into the duel. The trickery and illusions were gone now, and each attack became more vicious then the last, each seeking to pummel his opponent into submission. There they stood, locked in their struggle, neither having the opportunity to seek even the slightest advantage that would allow him to finally overcome his opponent.

“The time has come,” Illiawe informed Taeryn. She placed her hands upon the railing before her and deftly vaulted down to the courtyard below. She landed lightly, and, with Taeryn by her side, made for the dueling sorcerers.

The cultists were dead now, and harlequins dueled Chaos Marines and daemons all throughout the courtyard. Illiawe untied the knot that secured the coarse robe around her shoulders, clipped her mask on her face, and drew her sword. The daemons turned to her balefully, and Illiawe leapt at them, her mind turning unbidden to the kill. The Solitaire had cut down many of the daemons, and fully half of them lay dead. A dozen of the creatures leapt snarling at Illiawe, and she split the closest one in two with a swing of her sword. She unleashed her will, and blasted at the remaining daemons with lightning, reducing their bodies into piles of ash. A Chaos Marine stood some distance off, his gun blasting out sonic waves. Illiawe flicked her hand, and the Marine was lifted up into the air, the heavy plates of his armor crumpling, crushed under her psychic will.

“Go,” Taeryn said. “The troupe will keep the daemons at bay.”

Illiawe nodded, pulling a barrier up around her mind, warding off the raw energy that spewed from the sorcerers’ duel, and closed in on the pair. Raw energy spewed out into the air around them and Illiawe felt her rune armor shifting, twisting at the fates to keep her safe. She reached out with her mind and calmed the air around her, advancing in the face of that storm of psychic energies until she could go no further. The side effects of the duel was quite destructive, and it rather handily ensured that no daemon or Chaos Marine would bother her. She gathered the powers of the Warp into herself, holding it in. A couple of seconds later, there was a pressure in the back of her mind and a tingling feeling running down her spine as the pent up force threatened to spill over. She sent the power through a number of her runes, and fire burst out from her outstretched arm. The air crackled as lightning arced toward the Slaaneshi sorcerer, slamming into his psychic barriers and leaving smoking holes in his armor. Again and again Illiawe lashed out with her will, collapsing the barriers of the Slaaneshi sorcerer and forcing him to divert his attention between Vosh and herself. She struck at his mind with illusions and horrors, and summoned howling winds and thick bolts of lightning to strike at her adversary. The fury of her will joined that of the two sorcerers. The air grew dry and the heat scorching one moment, and chill the next. Light was created in one moment and extinguished in the next, and raw emotions contended in the air.

But the effort of concentrating on two separate targets quickly took its toll on the Slaaneshi sorcerer. An errant blast from Vosh caused him to stumble and fall to one knee. The barriers around his mind collapsed as panic set in. Illiawe was prepared. As soon as his barriers weakened, she gathered all her will and struck a great blow. But Illiawe had not attacked on a purely physical level. She struck at the sorcerer’s mind, rending with a psychic force bolstered by her powers and engulfing his soul with flames.

Desperate, the Slaaneshi sorcerer raised his staff over his head and brought it down upon his knee in a sharp motion. The shockwave of the staff breaking knocked all around him away; daemon, harlequin, and Chaos Marines were sent flying. Even through the barrier that Illiawe had erected, the shockwave’s passing caused Illiawe to sway with the impact. There was a deep rumbling and the ground trembled, and the chill of the Warp washed over the battle. A rift opened from the broken pieces of the staff and a red mist rose up into the air. With a howl like that of an errant whirlwind, the mist coalesced, forming a towering figure that was vaguely humanoid – that is to say that it had a head, two arms, and two legs. The resemblance ended there, however. Its face was twisted into an expression of abject horror, its mouth open in a soundless scream. Its hide was a pale and an unhealthy looking gray, and Illiawe could almost see the flesh under its skin. It had claws for fingers and toes, and its back was studded with spikes and bumps. In its right hand was a massive sword of iridescent light. As with most eldar, Illiawe knew of the many forms of the daemons of Slaanesh, and, though she did not recognize the daemon that stood before her, its purpose was obvious. There were few occasions when Slaanesh needed efficiency in the elimination of a target, and it appeared that the Slaaneshi sorcerer had decided that the elimination of Vosh was one of those times. The greater daemon of Slaanesh raised its head and screamed, a sound that was almost like that of an eldar, and all the more chilling for it. The Slaaneshi sorcerer gazed at Vosh with a look of triumph. Vosh’s lips curled in contempt and he lashed out with an arm and a wave of roiling energy enveloped the sorcerer. Overcome with sudden confidence, the sorcerer had forgotten to raise his defenses. The effect was instantaneous. The sorcerer’s armor pitted and fell away, his flesh grew fluid, becoming like melted wax, running off his frame to reveal his bones. Yet his triumphal laughter continued, until it ended in a watery gurgle as his bones fell in a heap in the middle of the liquid puddle of his remains.

Illiawe, however, cared little for the fate of the sorcerer. Her attention was fixated upon the daemon rearing up before her. The shockwave caused by the breaking of the deceased sorcerer’s staff had flung the harlequins to the opposite side of the courtyard and, unopposed, the remaining lesser daemons and Chaos Marines had taken the opportunity to flock to the side of the greater daemon. Illiawe suddenly found herself alone in the middle of a ravening horde of daemons. Through the collective minds of the harlequin troupe, she felt the harlequins moving to provide assistance. Illiawe, however, was only peripheral in the attention of the daemons. The creatures of the Warp advanced toward Vosh, ignoring the casualties that he inflicted upon them with blasts of force that he unleashed upon their ranks with every lash of his arm. Illiawe squinted at the daemons’ dismissal of her and pursed her lips. She raised her arms, and the air crackled as a ball of lightning formed in the midst of the daemons. Electrical fingers reached out over the ground, and daemons shrieked as the fingers touched them, their bodies blackening and shriveling as they jerked about in uncontrolled spasms for a few seconds and collapsed. Then the harlequins were there, their blades flashing, claiming the life of one daemon after another.

With an ear-splitting howl, the greater daemon lunged at Vosh, its claws extended. Golden tendrils burst from its chest, coiling around the invisible barriers of the sorcerer, thrashing and grasping, trying to break past. Vosh gathered his powers, trying to move himself out of the daemon’s grip, but it lashed out with its claws, initiating a flurry of blows that drove Vosh to his knees. Then an errant swipe caught Vosh unprepared. He was picked up off his feet and hurled through the air to land unmoving behind the eldar. The greater daemon turned, and looked at the eldar as though for the first time. Its burning eyes flickered between Vosh and the harlequins, and it raised its head and howled. As one, the daemons surged forward, their collective growling sounding almost like the rumbling of an approaching storm. At a sharp mental command from Esarlyth, the harlequins straightened momentarily, their swords by their sides. Then, with Esarlyth and the Solitaire in the lead, they ran toward the charging daemons.

The two forces came together in a flurry of blades and claws, and, just as she had in Commorragh, Illiawe shared the skeins with the troupe.

Then there was a whistling in the air, and a couple of crafts came streaking down out of the sky. Gunfire slammed into the midst of the daemons from above and explosions rocked the ground, ripping the creatures to shreds. The pair of aircrafts levelled out with a huge roaring of their engines and hovered in the air. Heavily armored humans leapt out of them, dropping directly into the middle of the daemon horde, crushing a number of the unlucky creatures beneath the heel of their heavy boots. Their guns blazing, the Gray Knights lent their support to the troupe, their blades taking the life of a daemon with every swing. Explosions dotted the courtyard as the Gray Knights cut down the surviving Chaos Marines with their brutish guns, and then they turned on the daemons. With a few shouted commands from Guigrim, the humans changed their stances, forming a wedge that cut through the ranks of the daemons like a hot knife through butter.

The greater daemon’s eyes flickered towards the still form of Vosh and the dwindling numbers of the lesser daemons in front of it. In an act of desperation, it bounded past the lesser daemons, leaving them to deal with the humans and harlequins. Illiawe waited until the greater daemon had drawn away from the lesser daemons, then flung a sizzling bolt of lightning at its head. The daemon looked briefly at Illiawe. That small moment of pause proved to be fatal.

With a mighty war cry, Guigrim charged resolutely toward the greater daemon, his sword and gun cutting down any foe that got in his way. The greater daemon turned to fix its baleful eyes on him, silently acknowledging the challenge. It brandished its sword and made a sudden lunge at Guigrim. The human's arm came up, and his forearm-mounted guns thundered. The greater daemon stumbled backward with a snarl of shock and Guigrim advanced, his sword swinging. The daemon parried his attacks and thrust out with its sword. Guigrim's blade came up to meet it, and the air crackled as their swords crossed. They both recovered, the daemon lunged, Guigrim slid it off his blade and feinted. The daemon twisted, and Guigrim’s blade missed its mark. But the daemon was larger than Guigrim, and it pressed upon its advantage, the whistling point of its sword keeping Guigrim at bay, forcing the human on the defensive. Then the daemon brought its sword down in a mighty overhead blow that was almost too fast for even Illiawe’s eldar senses to detect. Guigrim rolled his shoulders, knocking the blow aside, the impact causing him to stumble. His other arm came up and his guns thundered, his sword coming back around to meet the daemon's blade. But the greater daemon did not bring its blade back down. Instead, its left arm came up in a vicious swipe. Prepared, Illiawe lashed out with her will. She struck at two places simultaneously. The first was the back of Guigrim's left shoulder, and the second was one that disrupted the otherwise lethal blow of the daemon's claws. In only a fraction of a second, it was the daemon's forearm, rather than its claws, that struck at Guigrim, and it was the human's heavily armored chest that faced the blow. And between the daemon's arm and the armored chest of the human was Guigrim's sword that he had raised to ward off the daemon's blade.

The daemon screamed in surprise and anger as Guigrim's sword sliced through its flesh. Its claws connected, and Guigrim was sent flying a few feet away, but he rolled to his feet and opened up with his gun. The daemon stalked towards him, its eyes burning with hatred. Then it stumbled to the side as Taeryn, leaping into the air, struck it on the side of its head with her heel. It brought its sword curving toward her, but she lightly skipped out of the way, her sword darting out in a whip-like slash. The daemon growled and raised its sword. Pillars of fire burst out of the ground, and Taeryn threw herself out of the way in a flash of color. The daemon raised its clawed hand, and made a gripping gesture. Taeryn exclaimed in surprise as she found herself suddenly incapable of movement, suspended above the ground. Almost idly, it flicked its hand, sending Illiawe’s friend flying backwards.

Illiawe looked quickly around. The harlequins and Gray Knights had almost cleared the courtyard of the lesser daemons, and all that was left were a few small pockets of resistance. She pulled her mind away from the threads of the troupe, turning her concentration instead to the task of destroying the greater daemon.

The daemon reared its head and howled. The golden coils burst out from its chest, wrapping around Guigrim, twisting and contracting. The wards on the human’s armor flared up, but held. Taeryn stalked around to the back of the daemon. She darted in, her sword dancing, slashing at its legs, and darted back out before the daemon could react. The golden coils came snaking toward Taeryn, but she danced out of the way, Illiawe twisting at the fates to help her evade them.

But the fates could not always be denied. An errant coil found purchase, wrapping around Taeryn's ankle. Illiawe gasped. The daemon turned to the shadowseer, its eyes alight, and raised its sword. Illiawe did not hesitate. Without consciously thinking about it, her sword came whistling out of its scabbard, and she was already drawing on her powers to teleport to the aid of her friend. As fast as she was, however, she was not the first to reach Taeryn's side. There was a barely perceptible flash of color. One moment Taeryn was ensnared, and the next she was suddenly free. Sparks flew as the descending sword of the greater daemon was caught on the raised blade of the Solitaire. The silent figure threw the blade off with a seemingly casual flick. Dancing around the strikes of the daemon, his sword flicked through the air in a blur, each strike drawing blood and increasingly agitated howls. He was soon joined by Taeryn, and finally by Guigrim as the human freed himself from the daemon's coils. The speed of the harlequins' attacks was such that the daemon had to concentrate on defending itself, denying it the opportunity to call upon the powers of the Warp.

Illiawe reached her mind out to her runes, gathering the powers of the Warp until the pressure in the back of her mind grew almost uncontainable. She raised her drawn sword, and sent her will surging out through the glowing blade. The force of the release of her will almost drove her to her knees, and a bolt of energy, glowing like the sun, shot out of the tip of her sword. The intense bolt caught the greater daemon square in its chest and it stumbled, looking disbelievingly down at the smoking hole in its chest. Taeryn took the opportunity of its moment of shock, and moved quickly around it. Leaping up into the air, she flipped her sword so that it faced backward, and drove the blade down into the daemon directly between its shoulders, her added weight pushing it down until the sword was buried up to its hilt. Her will blasted out through the blade, and the greater daemon screamed. It was a sound that was very much like the scream of an eldar, and Illiawe shuddered, trying to block out the sound. But the scream only rose, higher and higher, and Illiawe saw Guigrim fall to his knees. There was a pounding inside her own head, and a wrenching feeling, as though a hand had reached into her and was wringing her brain as one would a wet piece of rag. Then the scream rose beyond even her range of hearing, but the pain, if anything, grew worse, despite all her efforts to raise enough barriers to ward it off. Dimly, she noted that the Solitaire was standing perfectly still before the convulsing daemon. Taeryn, too, appeared unaffected, still crouched upon the daemon’s back with her sword embedded into it.

Things were happening to the daemon. Cracks started appearing in its gray skin, and an oily black smoke spewed out of the cracks. The daemon started to shake. As though there was something within clawing to get out, its flesh writhed and grew mottled. Its face briefly became still and strangely serene. Then the cracks widened, and, with a silent detonation that swept through the courtyard like a phantom gale, the greater daemon of Slaanesh shattered, its form vanishing in an instant but for a few bits of ash, floating in the wake of its destruction like dried leaves in the wind. Taeryn walked around to stand by the Solitaire. There they stood for a moment, silent and unmoving. Then Taeryn bowed to the spot where the daemon had been only moments before, her legs crossing gracefully, her left arm sweeping out to the side and her sword arm tucked behind her back, as though it was simply the conclusion to one of the harlequins’ dances.

The Solitaire did not bow. He simply stood staring, silent and immobile, even after Taeryn turned away and rejoined Illiawe.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 16

Governor Sagard was a clueless man in most matters. Not even he, however, could live so closely to a Chaos incursion, no matter how small, without becoming at least vaguely aware of it. As soon as they walked into his office, the young man jumped to his feet.

“What happened?” he exclaimed, waving his hand vaguely in the general direction of the central courtyard.

“Do you want the truth, or would you like us to take some time and make up a story for you, governor?” Illiawe asked mildly.

Sagard’s expression grew puzzled. “Why don’t you tell me the truth first?” he asked tentatively.

“Very well. The truth is very simple, governor. Your palace had been invaded by Chaos cultists.”

Sagard’s face paled. “Vosh did warn me that it was a bad idea to lower the defenses, but I couldn’t possibly keep it up with the amount of tax that we’re raising.” He smiled. “Thank the Emperor that you were able to stop it. You did stop it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, we did,” Illiawe replied.

Volorus, however, was frowning. “What is your tax rate for the nobility and the merchant princes?”

“Three percent. Is that too high?” he asked worriedly.

“Twenty percent is too high. Ten percent is the standard in the Imperium, though some worlds set it higher than that.”

“My nobles have been lying to me?” Sagard asked. He seemed shocked.

Volorus sighed. “Yes, Sagard, they have.”

“I should’ve listened to Vosh, then?”

“Vosh is a servant of Chaos. I would refrain from listening to him, no matter how good the advice was.” Then his face grew grim. “Perhaps I should talk to the nobles,” he mused.

“What are you going to say to them?”

“I plan to persecute them. Their greed has endangered a governor of a city of the Emperor and, by extension, a city of the Emperor, and I plan to correct this treachery. The Imperium cannot afford to have such things weakening it.”

Sagard frowned. “They probably wouldn’t listen to you.”

Volorus made a face. “I suppose that there is no point in hiding my identity from you any longer.” He reached under his robes, and drew out a thick gold-lined leather wallet and flipped it open, showing Sagard the red and silver seal of the Inquisition within. Sagard took one look at the seal, and fell back into his chair, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Close your mouth, governor,” Volorus said, tucking the wallet back under his robe.

“Yes, my lord,” Sagard stammered, though his mouth did not close.

“One way or another, your nobility will listen.” He looked sternly at Sagard. “I am not very pleased with how you have handled your city, governor. I hope that you have a good reason for how you have handled things here.”

Sagard’s face blanched. “I can explain, really,” he said quickly.

Volorus held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it, governor. There is an inquisitor from the Ordo Hereticus on the way. He should be here within the hour. You will give him a full report of your time as governor to the best of your abilities. If he decides that your performance has been unsatisfactory, he will take appropriate action against you. Your city and its nobles and merchants, moreover, are also to be subject to an investigation. Do not fret about the purge to come, governor. You have your own problems to worry about.” A squad of six Guardsmen marched into the office, their rifles held close. “Guard the governor, men,” Volorus said shortly. “If he attempts to flee, kill him.” He turned toward the door. “Now I have to oversee the cleaning up of the mess that you allowed to happen.”

The Grey Knights were moving about the courtyard when they returned to it, watching as their psykers went to work. Though the Chaos incursion had been brief, it had left its mark on the ground of the courtyard. Pools of color lay on the ground and light that was almost soothing shimmered and wavered under its surfaces. Psychic suggestions flowed out of the pools, promising wealth and power and unfathomable pleasures, and the air was filled with a sickeningly sweet smell. The armored psykers of the Grey Knights strode back and forth, muttering prayers under their breath, striking out at the corruption with their will, the clashing of their fire and the taint filling the air with flickering lights and colors that pushed against each other, each trying to drown the other out.

Illiawe watched them work for a while, and grimaced. She sidled up to one of the psykers, and stood beside him. “There is a much easier way,” she said in a conversational tone.

The psyker turned and looked at her with narrowed eyes. “What is that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Go around the enchantments rather than burning it up bit by bit. You will find that you could remove it in short order.”

“I won’t skirt around any corruption even if it takes all my strength. It’s a task that I have devoted myself to, and I will ensure that it is done correctly, rather than using a technique that I am not familiar with. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“The results are similar, human. For a shorter amount of time and at less expense, you can burn the corruption away.”

“The Most Holy Emperor does not suffer corruption. I will gladly burn it all a bit at a time if He requires it.”

“Is your Emperor really so demanding, human, or are results what He seeks? Is this stubborn action something that He demands, or something that you blindly obey, thinking that it may earn His favor?”

“Do not seek to lecture me on His will, xenos.”

“I would never presume to do so. But I will lecture you on the most efficient destruction of our shared enemy.” She gathered her will, and cast it out toward the pool, seeking for the weaknesses that she knew were there. And found them she did, and struck at them with her will, working at it until the Chaos magic loosened as a poorly laid stone would, and she felt it crack. The pool vanished in a cloud of golden mist, and the corruption vanished along with it. Illiawe turned to stare meaningfully at the human psyker.

He scowled. “I will do as I will,” he said abruptly, turning to move to the next pool. Illiawe followed him. The psyker returned to his chanting and channeling of the powers of the Warp, fixing the pool with a fierce glare, as if trying to cow it into submission as one would a misbehaving child.

“It would be much simpler should you not look into the pool,” Illiawe suggested.

“Leave me, xenos!” the human roared. His outburst brought a sudden and unexpected smile to Illiawe’s lips, and the face of the human mottled with barely suppressed fury. Illiawe’s smile widened, and she turned and walked away.

“You play a dangerous game,” Taeryn observed as her friend neared.

Illiawe shrugged. “The humans’ lack of skill irritated me, and they need something to think about, anyway.”

“Do not push things too far,” Taeryn warned.

“Of course not.”

Taeryn looked at her suspiciously, but let the matter drop.

The harlequin troupe had left shortly after the fight had concluded. Esarlyth and the Solitaire had been the last to leave. The Troupe Master had consulted briefly with Taeryn, though Illiawe had not known what they had spoken of. The Solitaire had only stood, silent and still, looking on at the marks that the daemon forces had left behind. Only when Esarlyth had sketched a bow to Taeryn did he move, following the Troupe Master through a brief portal into the safety of the webway.

Taeryn had a distracted look on her face since Esarlyth had left, and it was still not yet gone.

“Is something the matter?” Illiawe asked her friend.

“No,” Taeryn replied, shaking her head. “I relayed some instructions to Esarlyth, and I am not sure how things will turn out.”

“You do not trust Esarlyth to carry out the instructions well?”

“On the contrary. Esarlyth may be overly fond of jesting, but he is rather focused and serious should the need arise. However, a great deal hinge upon these instructions, and they are rather difficult to carry out.”

“What sort of instructions are they?”

Taeryn looked at Illiawe, chewing on her bottom lip. “The time for the eldar to march to the final battle is near. These instructions are simply the preparations for the battle.”

Illiawe’s stomach knotted. “Rhana Dandra?” she whispered.

Taeryn smiled humorlessly. “It is simply another battle, Illiawe, and the eldar have faced many, and emerged victorious besides.”

Illiawe smiled shortly, appreciating her friend’s effort to cheer her up. “We have to hurry, then. If Spiorad is to be used, we would have to retrieve it before the battle comes upon us.” Her mind raced. “I think that I would have to send word back to the craftworlds. We have to look into the skeins and prepare. Someplace has to be set up in the far reaches of the webway. The exodites and the harlequins have to be sheltered from the battle if we are to rebuild. I need time to look into the skeins.”

“Patience, Illiawe,” Taeryn said, placing a hand upon Illiawe’s shoulder. The shadowseer’s eyes had taken on a strange look when Illiawe had mentioned sheltering the harlequins, but Illiawe was not sure why.

“Patience? The Rhana Dandra is upon us, Taeryn,” Illiawe reminded her friend in a strained voice.

“The instructions that I have relayed to Esarlyth are going to aid us when the time comes, Illiawe, but it is not going to help matters should you fret. Right now, we should just focus on getting to the Gadevar system and finding Spiorad. Let Esarlyth worry about strengthening the warhosts of the craftworlds for when the time comes.”

Illiawe sighed, and nodded. “What are these instructions that you relayed to Esarlyth, then?”

“Esarlyth is to go to Commorragh to broker a deal between them and the craftworlds, among other things.”

“The Commorrites? This is not a good idea, Taeryn. The Commorrites fight for no one but themselves.”

“And does this matter not concern them too, Illiawe?” Taeryn asked.

“They are untrustworthy,” Illiawe said shortly, as though it explained everything.

“Perhaps, but if they have just as much at stake, would it not be foolish to reject their assistance in our time of need?”

“They do not have as much at stake, Taeryn. They think themselves safe from the gaze of Slaanesh as long as they continue their rituals. This makes them fickle, and relying on their assistance will bring us much woe.”

Taeryn smiled. “Do not worry, then. We of Cegorach can be very persuasive should the need arise.”

The inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus was a man named Uriel. It was an unassuming name for an unassuming man. He was soft-spoken, and his features neither brutish nor regal. He was not burly, but he was not a man of small stature either. His entrance to the hiveworld of Cephanos V, however, was anything but unassuming. The first signs that the inhabitants of Cephanos V received regarding his arrival was the signature of half a dozen inquisitorial ships exiting the Warp on the edge of the system. With purposeful pace, they neared Cephanos V, and the ships in the planet’s orbit moved out of the fleet’s way like rabbits before a wolf on the prowl.

Planes swooped down out of the sky, hundreds of crafts which arrival was like an approaching thunderstorm. With the smooth efficiency of long practice, the crafts moved across the planet, laying down the troops of Inquisitor Uriel onto the surface of the hiveworld. From door to door they went, thoroughly searching for the taint of Chaos.

Inquisitor Uriel walked into the palace with great aplomb. He was flanked on both sides by an escort of a dozen men, with another dozen bringing up the rear. Illiawe and her companions were all forewarned of his arrival, since another score of troops with his liveries on their armor went out ahead of him, clearing the way for their lord with shouts, curses, and firm shoves. Inquisitor Uriel himself was dressed in a stern black robe that did not have a single wrinkle on its surface. Seals and holy writs hung from his shoulders, and an inquisitorial sigil was displayed rather prominently over his heart. His graying hair was held down by a tall cap, and that too had an inquisitorial sigil displayed in its very center.

To the precise beat of the boots of his marching soldiers, the inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus strode past the checkpoints of the palace. Volorus met him right inside the inner gates, and the two men clasped each other’s arm with easy familiarity.

“You have gotten more flamboyant as the years go by, my lord inquisitor,” Volorus said.

“Impressions are everything, my lord inquisitor,” Uriel replied with a broad grin on his face, “and good impressions make sure that everyone knows that we are serious when it comes to stamping out heresy. It makes my job so much easier.”

“One should not shirk away from hardships in the serving of The Most Holy Emperor,” Volorus replied seriously, “for such actions allow the taint of Chaos into the bastion of our souls.”

“The Most Holy Emperor looks to results, not methods, and he who wastes the fewest of His resources are looked favorably upon,” Uriel returned with a perfectly straight face. He turned, looking at Illiawe and Taeryn. “I wouldn’t have thought that I would see you working with eldar, Volorus.”

“There is need for it,” Volorus said shortly. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Of course. There is that business that you called me here to attend to. The governor has to be investigated, you say?”

“Yes. He is… ah… rather incompetent.”

“I see. Could you point me to his office so that I may speak to him?”

And so, with his escort in the lead, Inquisitor Uriel marched off to intimidate the poor governor. When he returned to them, he was shaking his head. “It is as I have thought. Young Sagard is inexperienced, that’s all.”

“What did you do?” Volorus asked him intently.

“I gave him some encouragement and advice. I expect that the young man would turn out to be rather promising.”

“That’s all?” Volorus asked incredulously.

“We can’t afford to go around replacing every governor whose mistakes stem from a lack of experience, Volorus. I have actually seen some rather inexperienced and weak-willed governors turn out to be rather great leaders. They seem to lack the mentality that leads to oppression and the eventual revolts or corruption of the common populace that stems from it.” He shrugged. “That did not take as long as I expected. Is there anywhere in this palace that we could wait in while my troops finish investigating the hivecity?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Uriel squinted at Volorus. “You have got Gray Knights with you, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Could you send them out to help my troops investigate the inner districts? From what you told me and from what I gleaned from Sagard, the problems that Cephanos V faces arises from simple greed rather than Chaos influence, but it would be good to have the added protection should my investigation teams need it. The Slaaneshi cultists you have faced may not be the only ones on this planet. Besides, the intimidation that they provide will prove invaluable.”

“I will, as soon as they are finished burning away the taint of Chaos from the central courtyard.”

“They could already be done if they would only put aside their stubbornness,” Illiawe muttered.

Uriel looked at her in bemusement, but Volorus turned him away, shaking his head and scowling deeply. “We were staying in a rather nice, out of the way room before the incursion. Let’s go there, then we can talk some more.”

Uriel nodded, and they followed Volorus to the north wing of the palace. Noshan had declined to go with them, preferring to remain with his psyker entourage in aiding the Gray Knights to clear up the Chaos taint.

Uriel’s guardsmen were moving through the hallways of the palace, their crimson liveries gaining them unrestricted access from the few palace guardsmen roaming its halls. They broke down doors, searching the palace room by room for heretical objects with efficiency born of long practice. Then another group of Uriel’s troops came marching down the corridor toward them. There were a dozen of them, all female, their uncovered hair silver as one would see on the very elderly, though their faces did not bear the features that marked those of such individuals. They were clad in an armor that was more compact than the bulky suits worn by the other armored warriors of the humans, and they had various large weapons by their sides. The guardsmen, both Uriel’s and those stationed in the palace, stepped away from them in gestures that was mixed with fear and respect. The human at the front looked imperiously at the guardsmen around her even as she went past them. Her eyes swept over Uriel’s troops, but lingered on the faces of the palace guardsmen. Without slowing, she waved an arm shortly, and the other armored women behind her moved toward the palace guardsmen. They removed their weapons from their holsters, and, with sharp commands and gestures, rounded the men up and marched them away for interrogation.

Volorus turned to Illiawe and Taeryn. “Adepta Sororitas,” he muttered. “Orders Militant. The both of you might want to disappear for a few moments. Some of them are rather zealous in their duty.”

“Why?” Illiawe asked. “No harm will come to either of us at their hands. Let them raise any objections they might.”

Volorus shook his head. “Please make sure that the Sisters hold their fire, Uriel.”

Uriel flashed him a smile. “The Sisters of Battle – and most of the Adepta Sororitas – are much less wary of the alien than some others.”

“That’s one way to put it. Still, there are some who are rather extreme, and I would rather avoid any incidents if at all possible.”

“Don’t worry, Volorus. Estoris and her sisters are rather tolerant. A little like yourself, actually,” he added with a sly sideward glance.

“Tolerant” was the last word that Illiawe would have used to describe the leader of the Sisters of Battle. She stopped in front of Uriel, though she did not look at him. Her eyes were fixated upon Illiawe and Taeryn in a fierce glare, her lips pressed together thinly. Her hand clutched the pistol at her side tightly, and her knuckles were white.

“What are xenos doing here?” she grated, her jaws clenched tightly.

Uriel laughed nervously. “They are here on a separate business, Estoris.”

The woman’s eyes flicked toward Uriel. “Make sure that they do not cause more problems for us, Uriel. The eldar have a poor reputation when it comes to the stability of the Holy Imperium.”

“We do not hold your race in high regard either, human,” Illiawe retorted. “But I have not come to this world to trade spite with any human.”

Uriel cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Estoris, you have free reign of Cephanos V. There are matters that I have to discuss with Inquisitor Volorus. Try not to cause too much mayhem.”

Estoris nodded curtly, and went away, leaving the rest of her squad to herd the palace guardsmen away.

“An enthusiastic girl,” Uriel observed, “but a little too stringent.”

Volorus squinted at him. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

Uriel shrugged. “It gets in the way sometimes. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked lightly, casting a sidelong glance at Volorus. Then he waved his arm. “Would you like to continue leading the way to the room?”

They passed a few more groups of crimson-clad guardsmen before they finally reached the room. Volorus held the door open for Uriel, then followed him in without even a backwards glance. Illiawe rolled her eyes, waved Taeryn through, and closed the door behind them.

Uriel looked around at the room. “It’s adequate, I suppose,” he conceded after looking out of the windows in what Illiawe felt was elaborate checks for possible dangers.

There was a respectful tap on the door, and three humans walked into the room, bearing a number of wooden packages. Strange smells came from the baskets, and Illiawe tilted her head. “What is that?” she asked curiously.

Uriel barely glanced at the men. “Food, of course. Volorus’ summons caught me just as I was about to have my supper. I didn’t even get the opportunity to eat on the way here, so urgent was his message.” He waved at the humans to place the baskets on a small table. They did so, and went back out of the room. Uriel went over and opened the baskets, taking a few pieces of some strange meat out of one of them. He waved for them to help themselves, and sat himself in an armchair, cocking one leg over one of its arms and dropping his hat by his feet.

Illiawe took a piece of crusty bread and gingerly took a bite.

“Be discrete when you spit it out,” Taeryn teased.

“It does not taste too bad,” Illiawe sent the thought back, suddenly realizing that she had not eaten in days. But, of course, she made sure to chew slowly, as though the action was only an afterthought. “You should try some of this.”

“I will return to the harlequin cities if I grow hungry, Illiawe. Humans do not make very good cooks.”

Illiawe shrugged, dipping her hand into another of the wooden boxes. “Give my compliments to your cook,” she said to Uriel. “This food is actually edible.”

Uriel inclined his head. “I will break the news to him as gently as I could. He is a rather sensitive man, and I don’t want him to mistaken it for an insult. He might just fall over dead otherwise.”

Illiawe smiled. “Yes, please do. Talent is difficult to come by amongst your race.”

Unexpectedly, Uriel grinned. "Well, then," he said between bites, turning to Volorus, "what're you doing here?"

Volorus stroked his chin. "It's quite a long story," he said evasively.

“Then you'd better get to telling."

Volorus sighed, and lowered himself into a chair. Rather quickly, he filled the other inquisitor in on the deal that he had made with Illiawe and the purpose of their mission as best he could, as well as their discovery of the Chaos presence on Cephanos V. When he was done, Uriel leaned back in his chair.

"Is that it?" he asked, his eyes flickering to Illiawe and Taeryn and back to the humans.

"Volorus has given you all the information that he has access to, Uriel," Illiawe said. "It is not much, certainly, but that is not his fault.”

“What of Vosh, then?”

“He was still unconscious when the greater daemon was banished. He is now locked away for inquisitorial interrogation. He would not live long, I expect.” He rubbed at his chin. “He has been surprisingly cooperative, however. All part of the plans of Chaos, I expect,” he waved his hand dismissively.

“Cooperative?” Uriel asked, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Yes. He’s been giving us all kinds of information about the extent – or lack thereof – of Chaos cults on this planet, as well as the exact details of the policies that Sagard enacted under his influence – the reduction in contributions to both the governor and the Imperium, the increase in power of the nobility and merchant princes over the rest of the population, things like that. I could give you the transcripts of the interrogations when we are done, if you would like.”

“And you believed him?” Uriel asked incredulously.

Volorus laughed shortly. “No, of course not. We use his information as a basis for investigation, but I do not have enough men to conduct a thorough verification and subsequent investigation on a sufficient scale. That’s why I called for your aid in the first place.”

“I’m flattered, Volorus, but my men are already investigating. Perhaps we will see how reliable your interrogation techniques are after they are done. I would like for my own interrogators to speak with Vosh, however – just to verify some things, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll pass the instructions along.”

“You have found yourself in a rather interesting mess, haven’t you, Volorus?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.” Uriel rubbed at the side of his face, looking speculatively at Volorus. "What would you say to a bit of... uh... assistance?"

"I wouldn't mind it in the slightest. What sort of assistance are we talking about?"

"I thought that you would appreciate the resources of another inquisitor," Uriel said lightly.

Volorus had a goblet at his lips at that moment, and he fell into an extended fit of choking. "That is not a light proposal,” he said when he had recovered, “especially for one with your extensive networks. If you are serious about it, of course I would be grateful for it." Volorus leaned forward in his chair. "What brought this on?" he asked curiously.

"It interests me, Volorus. I don't often see you work with xenos, and it's aroused my curiosity. The Ordo Malleus and the Ordo Hereticus have interests that usually overlap, and anything that is useful to you is most likely going to benefit us too sometime in the future." He paused. "I must admit that my willingness to help is not entirely straightforward, however. The Ordo Hereticus is one of the most hated branches of the Inquisition within the Imperium because of our nature. It might help our image if we extend our resources to deal with external threats now and again."

Illiawe turned her head to hide her smile. It was not the fact that Uriel wanted to extend his aid to his friend that amused Illiawe, but the human's excuses were transparent, even for a creature of his race.

Volorus nodded his acceptance. "We are likely to face many daemons in our task, Uriel. Your men – guardsmen and Orders Militant – are not going to be safe, even with their defenses."

"I know, Volorus. But resources is usually a more valuable tool for the members of the Inquisition than any soldier or weapon, and I can provide you with much resources."

Volorus grinned. "That would be most helpful. The eldar are very secretive about information."

Uriel laughed. "We all know about that, my friend. What would you be doing now?”

“Noshan was clear about us lending the eldar aid.” He turned to Illiawe. “So, where are we headed to?” he asked grudgingly.

Illiawe opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off by Uriel’s laughter. “I have misjudged you, Volorus,” Uriel said after a while. “Perhaps your hatred of the xenos runs shallower than most of us thought.”

Volorus’ eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Uriel grinned. “Nothing, old boy. Nothing at all.”

Volorus stared suspiciously at him for a few moments, then turned inquiringly back to Illiawe. “Well?” he asked shortly.

“Do you know of the Gadevar system?” Illiawe asked the inquisitors.

They looked at each other. “It is – was – a system in the Segmentum Obscurus,” Volorus spoke up, “until we lost contact with it some years back. The Ordo Malleus has never considered it important enough to send in the Gray Knights, and the Gray Knights themselves have never seen a threat rise from that area. As such, we have only kept it under surveillance.”

Illiawe nodded. “That is our destination.”

“It is a dangerous journey,” Uriel said dubiously. “Even before the corruption of the system, its worlds were home to many cults and heretical ideas.”

“It is a journey that we must make.” She paused. “I do not intend to give offense,” she started.

“Well, that’s new,” Volorus interrupted her.

Illiawe flashed him an annoyed look. “In the interests of our new alliance, human, I am willing to try and put aside my predispositions toward you. I could cease this newfound humility, if you would like. As I was saying, your ships are ill-protected against the creatures of the Warp, as our previous trips have proven. In the interests of keeping myself from having to join with your psyker entourage again, we will allow your fleets passage into the webway. We will use it to travel to the Gadevar system.”

Volorus nodded. “That makes sense.”

“It would be much simpler if we were to make the journey aboard a craftworld ship,” Taeryn’s thoughts came to Illiawe.

“True, but we are likely to face opposition when coming into the system, and I would much rather this opposition be stopped by the forces of the humans than an eldar warhost.”

Uriel turned to Volorus. “It is probably a bad idea to take Vosh along with us,” he warned.

Volorus nodded. “Good point. Perhaps we should make a detour to one of the strongholds of the Ordo Malleus to drop Vosh off, along with your interrogators.”

Uriel nodded. “It’s settled, then?” he asked, looking quizzically at Taeryn and Illiawe. Illiawe nodded. “Good,” he said, then he turned to Volorus. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a few reports to file.” He rubbed at his chin. “I don’t think that we would need to stay here until my troops have swept the whole planet. I am more worried about the nobility, so we could leave after they have been investigated. The commanders of the guardsmen know enough about what they are doing to take care of the rest of the populace. Let me know where this Ordo Malleus stronghold is, and I’ll send some instructions to a few of my other ships to join us near the place, then we can move to the Gadevar system.”

Volorus nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“And done,” Taeryn’s thoughts came to Illiawe.

“What does that mean?” Illiawe asked silently, but her friend did not reply.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 17

The investigation of the nobility and merchant princes went well into the night. Illiawe had wandered out onto the parapets of the palace when the sky was still dark, leaning against the rough stone and watching as the light of the false dawn illuminated the sky of Cephanos V. As the light slowly faded, the sounds of Uriel’s guardsmen storming houses finally moved further away from the palace into the lower districts of the city. Finally, when the first rays of the sun peeked out over the horizon and stained the sky with a pinkish hue, Taeryn came to her.

“The humans are preparing to leave,” she informed Illiawe.

Illiawe nodded. “Then let us not tarry. I am growing weary of this hunt.”

Taeryn smiled. “It will be over soon.”

Illiawe scowled. “You are assuming that Vosh was telling the truth, or that he truly knows the location of the artifact.”

“Have a little more faith, Illiawe. I have never once known Cegorach’s information to lead those who follow it astray.”

Illiawe sighed. “I wish that I could only pierce the shadows surrounding the artifact, Taeryn.” Then she straightened. “If the fates decree that I must put my faith in the Laughing God, however, so I shall. Are things in readiness?”

“Not just yet,” Taeryn said. She took a small skip, and vanished from sight as she went into the webway. A minute later she returned, clutching at a silken pouch that contained the Chaos artifact that they had retrieved almost a week before.

Illiawe looked at the artifact. "I had almost forgotten about that," she admitted.

Taeryn smiled. "Luckily for you, I am here. We must not let the humans think poorly about us, must we?"

"My mind was distracted," Illiawe said defensively. "I do not usually forget about conditions of deals or objects such as this."

"After all,” Taeryn continued relentlessly, “the humans already think us fickle. How would we ever find common cause if they think us forgetful too?"

"You have made your point," Illiawe muttered.

"The dignity of our people must be upheld, Illiawe."

Illiawe sighed. "You insist on doing this, don't you?"

"I do not "insist", Illiawe, but I must ensure that you live up to the good name of our people."

Illiawe rolled her eyes, and rather prudently decided to keep any thoughts that she had to herself.

They met Volorus and Uriel at the central courtyard. The Gray Knights had finally finished clearing it of Chaos taint, though pieces of debris and cooled slag and large holes in the ground and surrounding walls still marked the scene of the battle. Noshan and his psyker entourage and Estoris and her Sisters were there with them, and a little off to the side stood the Gray Knights.

Taeryn walked up to Volorus, and held the artifact out to him. The human at first looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed.

“The first part of our deal is done, human,” Taeryn said, shaking the artifact insistently. “Let it not be said that the eldar do not keep our bargains.”

“That has not always been my experience,” Volorus muttered almost instinctively.

“Then, perhaps, you were asking for more than you are prepared for.”

Volorus snatched the artifact out of her hands, giving her an unfriendly look.

"Let it lie,” Uriel muttered to him in a voice that he probably thought that the eldar could not hear. Illiawe smiled, but decided not to press the issue.

Volorus turned away, with Uriel by his side. He moved away to where the Gray Knights were and handed the artifact to Guigrim.

The shuttles and aircrafts of the humans came not long after, dropping one after another out of the sky to hover in the courtyard. The inquisitors led the eldar and Noshan’s entourage into the first craft that landed, and they were back into the sky before the rest of the crafts had started to close their holds.

Volorus’ flagship was waiting for them, its hangars clear and brightly lit in anticipation of their arrival. The pilot set the craft down, and they got out.

“Are you not going to return to your ship, Uriel?” Illiawe asked.

“No. That would be too much trouble. Besides, Volorus and I have things to discuss.” He turned to follow Volorus out of the hangar. “I’ll need to send some orders to the crew of my flagship first. They’ll have to follow us.”

Volorus nodded. “The bridge’s this way.”

Uriel chose only his flagship, the Vitium Liberare, and one other escort – a ship that bore the bulk of his Adepta Sororitas retinue – to follow them, leaving the rest behind to oversee the tasks of the soldiers on the ground.

Uriel turned to Illiawe and Taeryn. “So,” he said, “you wanted us to travel through the webway to get to the Ordo Malleus stronghold?”

“Yes,” Taeryn said. She dipped her hand into a silken pouch at her hip, and took out a thin disk stylized with a face bearing an exaggerated grin and the symbol of her troupe upon its forehead. Then she pointed at the star at the center of the Cephanos system. “Head toward the sun, Inquisitor. I will handle the rest.”

“What is that?” Illiawe asked Taeryn in the eldar tongue.

“It is what we use to open temporary portals into the webway,” she replied, turning the disk around in her hands. “I can only hope that it works now.”

Illiawe bit her lip. “What do you mean?”

“Theoretically, this could open a doorway however wide we would have it open. However, I have never tried admitting anything larger than an escort before, and you will note that the ships in this fleet are quite a bit larger than that.”

“And?” Illiawe prompted.

“What do you mean, Illiawe?”

“What other problems are there?”

“There are no other problems, Illiawe. Wherever did you get that idea from?” She rubbed at the disk with her thumb. “Perhaps I could nudge the doorway open should the need arise.” She drew in a deep breath. “It is not going to be an easy task.” Then she turned to look speculatively at Illiawe. “Would you like to help?”

Illiawe quailed at the thought of the amount of effort required for such a task, but she nodded. “Of course. Let us hope that your device works as intended, however.”

“Here goes,” Taeryn muttered. She ran her fingers along the edge of the disk and pressed her thumb and forefinger on both its faces. There was a quick flash of blue light, then they were within the corridors of the webway. As she had expected, flashes of awe came from the humans, though there was also an almost palpable tension in the air. Illiawe reached out with her mind.

“The other two ships are within the webway,” she informed Taeryn.

Taeryn nodded, tapped the disk again, and put it back into its pouch.

“It might be best if you were to keep that safe,” Illiawe said. “The humans might just find such a device useful, and I would not want to share the webway with them.”

“Are you implying that the humans might just successfully steal it from me, Illiawe? I am hurt.”

“It is only a precautionary piece of advice, honored shadowseer. I would not presume to teach you the arts of stealth, much less that of thievery.”

Taeryn chuckled. She turned as Volorus and Uriel approached, waving them to the holographic star map in the center of the bridge. “Point out your destination, Volorus.” The human did so, and Taeryn nodded. “I will stay here and guide your crew to your destination.”

Volorus nodded curtly. “I have to make arrangements for the handing over of the Chaos artifact with the Gray Knights. Uriel, could you please stay here to look after the eldar?”

”Are you afraid that we will dirty your bridge, Inquisitor?” Illiawe asked archly.

Uriel turned to Volorus. “Have you ever noticed how running a joke into the ground is not only a human trait, especially if the joke wasn’t particularly funny to begin with?”

Volorus laughed, clapped Uriel on the shoulder, and went out of the bridge. Rather deliberately, Uriel turned to Illiawe, and his eye closed in a slow wink.

Illiawe smiled. She was forced to reassess her preconceptions of the humans. Perhaps there was still some hope for their race.

Uriel moved away to check on the various systems of the ship. Illiawe stood near the back of the large room, leaning on a thick railing and looking at the various holographic displays and the humans who scurried around them.

“Keep on this course,” she heard Taeryn say to Uriel. “I will inform you should we need to change direction.” Her friend came to stand beside her. “This is a very ponderous ship. I will not be surprised if it is unable to properly navigate through some of the smaller corridors of the webway.”

“Human engineering does leave a lot to be desired,” Illiawe agreed. “There is something that I have been meaning to ask you, Taeryn.”

“What is it?”

"Spiorad. How exactly will it help us defeat Slaanesh?”

Taeryn straightened, gathering her thoughts. "There is really only one difference between the gods and other Warp entities and the races of the material plane, Illiawe, and that is that the souls of gods are a greater collection of souls rather than a single one. Slaanesh is no different. Spiorad captures souls, either like your spirit stone does, or by cutting the cord between it and its host. Then it isolates that soul in a special place away from any other soul that it captures. It is a horrifying existence for the captured soul, but that is not what Cegorach wants it for. If Spiorad is used against Slaanesh, powered by Cegorach Himself, then He can split Slaanesh back into Her individual components. Every eldar soul that Slaanesh has ever devoured – every single soul that makes up the essence of Slaanesh – will be free from the grasp of Slaanesh. At that point, Slaanesh would be nothing more than another pitiful presence, wailing in the Warp for all eternity - assuming that some other daemon does not consume Her first."

Illiawe paled as a horrifying thought came to her. "You would condemn the souls that Slaanesh has consumed to eternal isolation?"

"Would it be any worse than being in the clutches of Slaanesh?" Taeryn asked bluntly. "We can try to free them later, but, by then, they will be free, and the eldar need no longer fear Slaanesh. It is a heavy price for our dead, Illiawe, but can you tell me that you would not gladly pay it for the boon that we receive in return?”

“No. No, I cannot. But you know as well as I do what isolation for any long period of time does to even the dead, Taeryn. What if we could not find a way?”

“The dead are very patient. They have ways to cope with the passing of time that even the spiritseers do not understand – at least, that is what I have been told. The price that we have to pay is a lot more than that, but this isolation is the greatest of them all.” She looked around. “We will have to change directions here. Do not dwell too much upon it, Illiawe. Cegorach has His plans all laid out. Place your trust in Him.”

Illiawe took a deep breath and, for want of something to take her mind away from the conversation, dipped her mind into the skeins, searching through the threads of the future. She saw them in the Ordo Malleus stronghold, she saw them hand Vosh into custody, and she saw them leave the stronghold, all without incident. Then the skeins did something unexpected. From the point of them leaving, the many threads of future possibilities came suddenly together, as they would for an inescapable event. Illiawe tilted her head in bemusement. She pushed her mind deeper into the thread, and saw their path diverted, drawn away from the Gadevar system. Then she saw a familiar brutish face. She frowned and searched around the skeins for a few moments. As she had anticipated, she found Ghahzlay's thread intertwined with hers and Taeryn's at that inescapable event. Her suspicion suddenly aroused, Illiawe pushed deeper into the thread.

She did not get far. There before her mind was the shadow again, obscuring the skeins. But the shadow did not hide all. Whether by design or mistake, two things failed to escape Illiawe's scrying. There was a world of the humans, and there was the sense of the tyranids. Illiawe pursed her lips. The skeins might be obscured, but she thought that she knew what the event - and Ghahzlay's role in it - was.

"Is there something on your mind?" Taeryn's voice cut into Illiawe's thoughts.

Illiawe pulled her mind out of the skeins and looked at her friend. "I have been looking into the skeins. The shadow is back."

"Show me," Taeryn said peremptorily.

Illiawe reached back into the skeins, sharing it with Taeryn.

Taeryn was silent for a while. "That is without a doubt the work of a harlequin," she said finally. "However, I am more interested in something else, Illiawe. The two pieces of information that you have obtained regarding the tyranids and the place of the event have been partially concealed. Yet you were able to discern it."

"Is this important?"

"Of course. It is an extension of the shadow that we use to conceal threads. Only harlequins know how to cast it."

"This only tells us that the one who did this is himself a harlequin. That is nothing that we do not yet know."

"I have not finished, Illiawe. This technique is used to hide information from those who do not know how to look for it. Only shadowseers can uncover such information. It has to do with the way that we view the skeins."

"What are you implying, Taeryn?"

"Firstly, that your technique mirrors that of ours. Secondly, that this mysterious shadowseer knows about this."

"This does not tell us much, Taeryn?"

"You do not understand, Illiawe. The scrying of such details is not the mark of power or skill, but it is rather an implication - a side effect, if you will - of something else entirely."

"What is it, then?"

Taeryn sighed. "It is strange that your technique is akin to ours, and it is stranger still that this harlequin knows that. The first can be answered by understanding what and how Ethorach has taught you, though why he would have things this way bears answering. The second, however, is trickier. Either way, I plan to seek the answer to both these questions."

Taeryn's expression remained clouded for the rest of the journey through the webway, and her instructions to the humans were distracted. When they exited the webway at the edge of the system, she came up to Illiawe.

“Will you be fine on your own?” she asked.

“Of course. What are you about to do?”

“Our conversation has got me thinking, and I would like to verify a few things before we go any further.”

Illiawe nodded, understanding. “Where are you headed?”

“I think that I would first like to have a word with Ethorach. His answers might just make things a little clearer.”

“Of course. Let me know should you find anything of import, would you not?”

“Of course I will.”

“May Isha watch over you.”

Taeryn smiled. “Walk with Cegorach.” Then she was gone.

Uriel came up to her. “Where did your friend go?”

“Something came up,” Illiawe replied shortly.

“Ah, another secret. Very well. I respect another’s privacy, even if that other person is a xenos.”

“No suspicions?” Illiawe asked in surprise.

Uriel laughed shortly. “Suspicion,” he said, mulling over the word, as though trying it out. “What do you think has led the Imperium to its current state? I see suspicion every day, eldar. And I have seen its effects. They are never good.”

“You are entirely trusting, then?”

“Only a fool is. Some suspicion is good, but too much leads to the ruin that we are in.”

“You are surprisingly enlightened for a human.”

“And you are surprisingly accepting for an eldar.”

“Humans are ignorant, Inquisitor, but that is not a crime in itself.”

“Yet you do not hesitate in persecuting us for our actions.”

“A child has to be disciplined when his actions grow too unruly. Yet do not mistake that for pure rage. That is reserved for those who know of the consequences of their actions but continue reveling in them anyway.”

Uriel’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You are referring to another people, aren’t you?”

Illiawe glanced at him. “Yes. Our kin who dwell in Commorragh are ever as the criminal, delighting in the harm that their actions will bring.”

Uriel frowned. “You know, not even the Inquisitors of the Ordo Xenos really understand this compulsion in the eldar. Why do you delight in causing such terror?”

Illiawe turned on him, fixing him with a fierce glare. “Do not presume to mix us of the craftworlds with those who dwell in Commorragh, Inquisitor. We share many things, but not quite enough to share in their name.”

“All right,” Uriel said hesitantly, taken aback by her vehemence.

Illiawe scowled at him. “And you wonder why we hold your race in such scorn.”

“What do you mean?”

 Illiawe laughed bitterly. “Do I need to remind you of the many times that a craftworld was attacked for the actions of the Commorrites? We have lost many, while the idiot soldiers of your race feeds the base desires of our dark kin. They laugh at you, and you are never the wiser.”

“It is never really the fault of the soldiers. Not many even know that there are different factions within the eldar race, let alone manage to tell you apart.”

“Then perhaps you should take the time to learn before wasting craftworld lives in your foolishness,” Illiawe said acidly. “We do not mistake the forces of Chaos for those of the Imperium, do we?”

Uriel’s face contorted in anger. “Don’t speak as though the eldar is free from guilt. How many times have you attacked Imperial worlds for no reason?”

“There is always a reason!” Illiawe replied, her voice rising. “There are many dangers that you are never aware of, and you act without consideration of what might happen in the future! We have to take up responsibility for decreasing the damage that your careless disregard causes.”

“Then warn us of the danger instead, and we can solve it by ourselves. Or guide us, if you think that we’re so incapable.”

“Do you think that we have not tried? Every time we do so, we are viewed with suspicion, as though we seek only the destruction of your race. Do you think, human, that we like throwing lives away for such thankless tasks when there are already so few eldar left?”

“There is a reason for that. Everything that you do appears random. When you attack, it appears on impulse. If the eldar explain things more often, this cycle can be brought to an end.”

Illiawe opened her mouth to retort, but there was really nothing to say. She laughed sheepishly. Uriel appeared at first apprehensive, then he, too, laughed, drawing a number of startled looks from nearby humans.

“I guess that neither of our races have really be innocent in this matter,” Uriel said reflectively after he had recovered. “Perhaps when all this is through, we could host a parley. Some negotiations and explanations could go a long way toward ensuring the survival of both our civilizations.”

“That’s very open-minded of you, Inquisitor,” Illiawe said, smiling. “Not all the eldar would agree, however.”

“You have those too, do you?” Uriel asked wryly. “There is going to be much opposition to such an occurrence within the Imperium too, of course. The members of the Ordo Xenos are going to be the loudest protestors, I’d imagine.” He smiled slyly. “We don’t have to tell these people of the plan, though, will we? At least, not until after negotiations are complete. Then they can scream all they like, but we’d be able to force them to be cordial.”

“You would practice such trickery in a matter such as this?”

“Of course. Most of the Inquisitorial orders understand that the Imperium might be beset on all sides by threats, but some threats are greater than others. The Ordo Xenos, however, sometimes take their duty a little too far.”

“And there are also bitterness caused by past experiences, are there not?’

“Of course. I think I can say that this goes both ways.” He moved a hand over his face. “It’s probably nothing more than wishful thinking, anyway. The chances of anyone even bothering to obey any treaty that is signed is negligible. Conflict between our two races has gone on for too long, I’m afraid.”

“Do not yet despair, human. The Fates have brought our paths together for a reason. Perhaps Cegorach wills such an agreement to come to pass.” Illiawe smiled, for a moment even believing her reassurance.

Uriel nodded moodily. Then he straightened, shaking his head. “This Cegorach you speak of. Can you tell me about this person?”

“Why?” Illiawe asked, more curious than suspicious.

“Understanding leads to cordiality, doesn’t it?” Uriel asked. “Perhaps I can tell you about the Holy Emperor later.”

Illiawe took a quick look into the skeins. There was a thread there that she had not noticed before, and she followed it, looking for harm to the eldar that her actions might bring. It never hurt to be cautious, after all. Finding none, she smiled at the human. “Of course, Uriel.”

The stronghold of the Ordo Malleus was situated on a large moon orbiting a lifeless planet close to the system’s only star. The moon itself was less the site of the stronghold and more the foundations of the stronghold itself. Covering the entirety of its surface were massive structures, vast towers and complexes that was signature of the humans. Arrays of huge weapons dotted the complexes and orbited the moon in the void of space, great guns and sensor arrays that kept a baleful watch on any who approached. Massive caverns and tunnels snaked downward from the structures above into the very core of the moon, opening up into chambers and rooms of varied nature and purpose. Volorus came back onto the bridge as the moon came into sight. He found the both of them deep in conversation, and he raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but he did not press the issue. Illiawe glanced at him.

“Why does Volorus hate the eldar?” she asked Uriel, cutting him off in the middle of a long-winded praise of the Emperor.

“Please, harlequin,” he said with a pained look, “I am trying to spread the word of the Holy Emperor here.”

“I am a farseer,” Illiawe corrected him. “The outfit is but a convenience, born of necessity. Now answer the question.”

“It’s rather simple, Illiawe. He had another retinue about a decade ago. All men and women who had been by his side since he first became an inquisitor. Needless to say, he was rather close to them. He was investigating a tainted world when they were attacked by eldar, apparently for no reason. I think you could figure out the rest.” He gave her a pointed look. “It’s another incident that could have been averted if there had been more attempts at communication between the parties involved.”

“Perhaps there was no time,” Illiawe protested. Despite their earlier conversation, a part of her still felt inclined to defend the actions of her kin.

“Perhaps,” Uriel said. “We can never know. His case is not one that is new in the Imperium, but he holds it to his chest like a mother with a newborn baby. Luckily, he’s a pragmatist. He’s not going to let that stop him from working with your race if it is beneficial.”

“I have seen the looks he cast at me when he thinks that I am not looking, Uriel, and sometimes even when I am.”

“Don’t let it bother you. I believe that it’s only for show, but I haven’t been able to verify that yet.”

Volorus waved them over. “The Ordo Malleus is sending a team to retrieve the artifact. We will then move Vosh into their custody, and be on our way.”

“I suppose that adequate facilities have been set up for the artifact?” Uriel asked.

“We have done this before, you know,” Volorus replied.

“What will you plan to do with it?” Illiawe asked curiously.

“Study it,” Volorus said, shrugging. He held up his hand. “No, I do not want to hear anything regarding our inability to protect ourselves from corruption.” He turned away, pointing at a dozen signatures on the closest display. “There they are now.”

The handing over of the artifact was conducted through an elaborate ceremony that was part ritual and part practical necessity. A squadron of heavily armed silver aircraft approached their ship, and Volorus met them in a hangar bay that had been cleared of all crew, equipment, and vehicles. A score of humans, robed and hooded, stepped out of the first craft, carrying between them a heavy golden casket.

From the second craft came a dozen men, robed all in white, with tall conical hats atop their heads. They carried holy symbols and smoking pots of incense, and one bore a tall staff topped with sacred symbols. The white robed priests formed a circle around the casket, chanting and shaking their pots, filling the air with smoke. Illiawe turned her head aside, covering her nose and mouth with an arm.

Guigrim took the artifact in his armored hands, stepping slowly forward. The Chaos artifact seethed in his armored grip, as though it knew what was happening. As one, the priest bearing the staff stepped forward, his holy symbols held in front of him like a weapon. He reached under his robes, took out a piece of white cloth embroidered with holy sigils, and lay it under the artifact. A second priest stepped up and placed a number of small seals and wards in that piece of cloth, and Guigrim wrapped the cloth around them. Two psykers of the Gray Knights followed closely behind him, concentrating on suppressing the artifact with their psychic might. The priests lined up in two rows, forming an aisle for the Gray Knights to walk down. The armored humans did so, moving through the smoke and chants, until they reached the casket. Three of the hooded men stepped up to him, the lead figure pressing a holy sigil onto the cloth in Guigrim's hands. With inexorable intent, the Gray Knight leaned down, placing the artifact almost gingerly into the casket. Two of the hooded humans on either side of it shut the lid with a heavy thud, and they carried it back into the aircraft, their chants never once breaking.

Volorus rubbed his hands together. “That’s done, then.” He turned to Guigrim. “Go fetch the sorcerer.”

Guigrim nodded and left with three of the armored humans. They came back some time later with Vosh. He was disheveled and weary looking, his plain clothes rumpled and his hair unkempt. He had been bound with chains and wards, his arms caught in the iron grip of two of the Gray Knights with grenades clutched in their fists. Illiawe recognized them as the ones that had severed her connection to the Warp when she had fought the humans before. Those security measures, however, appeared largely unnecessary. Vosh seemed unconcerned by his predicament, his expression uncaring and his posture relaxed. He smiled at Illiawe as he was brought closer.

“I do wish that you had killed me back at the palace,” he said in a conversational voice. “These barbarians are terribly nasty to people like me.”

“It is quite the least that you deserve,” Illiawe said coldly.

Vosh clicked his tongue. “How cruel,” he muttered.

“Shut him up,” Volorus said shortly. “There will be time enough to hear his voice later.”

Vosh laughed, a surprisingly joyful sound. “Was that a poorly worded threat?” he asked mildly. “Those don’t work on someone in my particular situation.”

Volorus scowled, turning away. “I said to shut the filth up.”

One of the Gray Knights came back with a strip of cloth and gagged Vosh with it. Vosh looked speculatively at Volorus, and a deep toned sound came from his throat. It changed tune, and Illiawe realized that he was humming. Volorus spat a curse. Without warning, he crossed the distance to Vosh and lashed out. His fist caught Vosh on the nose, and there was a sharp crack. Vosh came up sniffing, blood running down his nose into the gag. Muffled laughs, however, issued from him.

Volorus wiped his knuckles on his clothes. “Let’s get him to the stronghold and make him someone else’s responsibility,” he growled.

They took a couple of shuttles down to the moon, with Vosh closely guarded by the Gray Knights throughout the whole trip. The pilots set them down in a heavily guarded docking bay, and Vosh was led out of the craft under the watchful eye of a dozen psykers and many more soldiers. His face grim, Volorus led them deeper into the base, ignoring the salutes cast his way. The bowels of the stronghold were wide and surprisingly well-lit. Humans went about their business hurriedly, their eyes fixed forward.

“This is an interesting place,” Uriel observed. “How did it come about? I didn’t think the Ordo Malleus had any bases.”

“It’s not really a base,” Volorus replied. “I called it a stronghold before, and that’s really all that it is. It came about out of necessity, really. The inquisitors of the Ordo Malleus collect a lot of tainted artifacts and even a few prisoners in our investigations. We needed to store them in places that more or less run themselves, but none of us really had such expansive resources. So a few of us got together and built places such as this. They are funded by certain contributions from each of us, and serve as convenient places to go to when we need it, or places for us to gather information and resources. The idea’s even catching on in the order.”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” Uriel mused. “Perhaps I should talk to a few of the other inquisitors. It would be nice to not have to pay for such facilities all by myself. It could free up a lot of resources.”

“That’s the general idea,” Volorus said. He pointed down a corridor. “The dungeons are down that way.”

The dungeons were places with walls more heavily reinforced than anywhere they had passed in the stronghold. Its corridors were lined with heavy mechanisms designed to isolate parts of the dungeons should the need arise, and its walls were lined with wards and guarded by psykers, priests, and soldiers alike. Volorus led them down a corridor lined on both sides with heavy metal doors. Now and again there was a scream from one of those rooms, screams that were not always human – nor even humanoid. Uriel’s eyebrows rose.

“Tainted humans?” he asked Volorus.

“And sometimes bound Warp spawns. Not all of them are very cooperative, though.”

“Isn’t this dangerous?” Uriel asked. “This place is well defended, I suppose, but accidents can happen.”

“Do you see those wards, Uriel?”

“It’ll be difficult not to.”

“Those suppress the use of certain powers somewhat. I think our eldar friend has noticed that already.”

“That’s a reasonable measure of protection, I guess,” Uriel said dubiously. “I guess that would level the field for your men, but it would still be costly if an incident occurs.”

Volorus smiled. “You speak as though you are more experienced in such things than us.”

“Aren’t we?”

Volorus let that slide. “That’s not quite all the defenses that we’ve got.” He nodded at a man coming down the corridor from the other direction. “There’s an example.”

The man wore rough robes, and he carried no weapons. A terrifying emptiness came from him, and Illiawe fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling her already muted connection to the Warp fade away just a little bit more. She knew what the man was, and her instincts were to lash out at him, to destroy him so that normality would return. Were she in any other situation, she probably would have done so, too. It had barely been a day since her contact with the harlequin Solitaire, however, and Illiawe was acutely aware that her hostility had not been present during that encounter. Indeed, Illiawe found that, if she carefully thought of the man as a Solitaire and offered him the same amount of respect as she would a Solitaire, the irrational animosity quickly faded away into the back of her mind. It was a strange feeling doing such a thing, but Illiawe could not really see any other alternative.

They passed the soulless human, and Illiawe kept her head down, keeping her mind firmly away from the emptiness around him. Then he was gone, and the emptiness went with him. Illiawe took a deep breath and looked around. Volorus led them further down the corridor. Finally he stopped in front of a heavy door guarded by a pair of psykers. He nodded slightly, and one of them pushed the door open. Illiawe had one moment to look into the room beyond. It was dark and small. A metal table imprinted with wards and sigils lay prominently in the center of the room, and there was nothing else besides. The walls had been similarly imprinted with wards. Then the Gray Knights pushed Vosh into the room. They went in with him, and a dozen priests and psykers followed them. Behind them came a trio of robed and hooded men dressed all in black. They bore packages under their arms, rolled up pieces of cloth that clinked when they shifted them.

The last of them stopped at the door. “Was there anything special about this one, my lord?” he asked Volorus.

“No. My interrogator would be here in a couple of minutes. He’ll fill you in on the details. While you are waiting for him to arrive, you could start with the usual questions.”

“That’s a boring start.”

“You don’t have to like it.”

“Of course not, my lord. I’m pretty sure that I could think of some more interesting questions than that, however.”

“Then ask them. Try not to let this one escape.”

“That has never happened before, my lord,” the hooded man said stiffly.

Volorus shrugged. “Just a precaution.” He turned away.

“Are we ready to return to the ship?” Uriel asked.

“Of course.”

“Good.” He took out a small crackling vox unit, and walked some distance away, pressing his hand to his ear. When he came back, he was smiling. “Right on time, too. Our escort fleet has arrived. I have taken the liberty of requisitioning the Adepta Sororitas, and they await us in orbit. We can head to the Gadevar system anytime you are ready.”

“I want to have a look at the records of that system first. Perhaps we might find some useful information.”

“Of course.”

Volorus led the way out of the dungeons, and stopped a passing Guardsman. “Lead us to the archives,” he instructed.

“Of course, my lord,” the man replied with a bow. “It’s this way.”

The walk to the archives was long, and, though the humans had attempted to ventilate the corridors to the best of their abilities, it was stifling, the air stale and artificial, a fact that grew more acute the longer they dwelt there. Each section of the Ordo Malleus stronghold had been laid out excruciatingly within the moon, separate from each other by both construction and personnel. They passed barracks and laboratories and an entire section filled with nothing but groaning machinery and humans who were just as much machine as flesh. They took an elevator down further into the depths of the moon, emerging in front of a large metal door. The Guardsman left them with a bow to the inquisitors, and Volorus stepped up to the door. He placed his hand on a pad next to the door and then bent down, fiddling with various mechanisms in a number of locations. Finally, the door hissed and groaned open to the sound of clanking chains and hydraulics. Volorus went through without a word, and Uriel and Illiawe followed him inside. Shelves lined with scrolls and books and other physical records lay side by side with cogitators and other more arcane equipment, all sorted in a system that was blindingly complex. It was quite undeniable evidence of the propensity of humans to overcomplicate things; she was sure, however, that the humans would deny such a fact, and so she kept her peace, settling instead for rolling her eyes and sighing melodramatically. The humans looked at her quizzically, but she shrugged and turned away, hoping that her implied message had gotten through, but knowing that it probably had not.

Volorus went to one of the cogitators, probing at it and muttering to himself. He then went to one of the shelves, running his fingers along it and swiveling his head about. Then he gave a triumphant shout, reached up, and took a couple of leather-bound books down. These he carried back to the cogitator, cross-referencing their contents with those on the screen of the cogitator before him. Uriel went to stand beside him, and the two stood hunched over the records, muttering and nodding their heads solemnly. Then they scampered between the surrounding shelves and the cogitators, bearing books and scrolls back and forth like beavers with pieces of wood. As they worked, their conversation became more and more excited, until they came back to Illiawe, their faces glowing.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Illiawe asked them.

“We did. The Gadevar system is home to a dozen planets. Most of them are uninhabitable, but a few are not too bad. Three of the planets there had been under the control of the Imperium until two years ago, when it was overrun by Slaanesh cultists.”

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. “That is interesting.”

“What is?”

“As far as we are aware, that is when Spiorad appeared – at least, that was about when we first heard of it, and Taeryn started hunting it down. I would think that it is rather safe to assume that that was about the time Vosh lost possession of it.”

Volorus nodded. “Our records state that their movements indicated that they were after something, but we were not sure what. Then, a few months ago, fighting broke out. We aren’t sure who attacked, however.”

“Khornate daemons,” Illiawe said, dipping her mind quickly into the skeins for confirmation.

“What?”

“The daemons of Khorne attacked. They are after Spiorad, too. I would guess that they are seeking to destroy it.”

“All right. As far as we are aware, they are still fighting.”

“This changes things,” Illiawe mused.

“Yes,” Uriel agreed. “If we can locate this Spiorad, we could attempt to sneak past the Chaos forces while they are distracted.”

“We would require Taeryn. I do not think that I could hide us from two whole armies by myself.”

“I’ll send Guigrim and a couple of Librarians down with you,” Volorus said, his voice strained, as though he was trying to convince her of an impossibility. The human tried to hide it, but it was so obvious that Illiawe did not need to look into his mind to sense it. At once, she knew the reason for Volorus’ behavior. He wanted this to be over so that he could attend to his other duties. And though Illiawe felt the same impatience tug at her, she did not fancy falling victim to an easily preventable mishap.

“It does not matter,” she replied curtly, hoping that the abrupt manner would stave off further arguments. “I would feel more secure with Taeryn’s help. Besides, we will need her to open a gate into the webway.”

“Be quiet, eldar,” Volorus growled. “The ships are ours, and I have every confidence in the Gray Knights’ abilities to succeed. If you don’t like it, we can send the Gray Knights in, and you can stay here while we go retrieve Spiorad for you.”

It was a perfectly calculated retort. Illiawe, of course, could not possibly allow the humans to embark on this mission alone and unsupervised. Under normal circumstances, Illiawe would have gladly accepted the offer. The task, however, was too important, and Volorus knew that.

Illiawe glowered at him, suddenly remembering her earlier vision. “Bring plenty of troops,” she advised.

“What does that mean?” Volorus asked, but Illiawe had already turned her back on him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 18

Inquisitor Uriel’s second fleet consisted of a dozen ships of various sizes, each decorated with a red triangular prow and thick spires. They circled protectively around Uriel’s and Volorus’ flagships, ready to respond to any threat that presented itself. Four more ships waited with the flagships. They were each different in design from the others, each having a massive statue of a winged woman on it, an iron sword held aloft in a silent salute.

Volorus nodded quietly, staring at their visual signatures as the shuttle neared the ships. “What did it cost to hire this many ships from the Ecclesiarchy?”

“Enough to make some Inquisitors turn pale,” Uriel replied wryly. “The Ecclesiarchy is getting more and more greedy with the price of the Sisters’ assistance.”

“They are a potent force, however.”

“If the price rises any more, not even that would be worth it.” He smiled. “Fortunately, we can usually convince the Adepta Sororitas that our mission is important enough to secure their aid without payment. It’s only when we want their help for matters of low priority to them that money starts to become an issue.” Then he shrugged. “I suppose that even the Ecclesiarchy needs to eat now and then.”

Illiawe, too, had been looking at the ships. “How do you propose that we pass unnoticed within the Gadevar system with a force such as this?”

“It’s only for peace of mind,” Uriel explained. “They’ll be staying behind, away from detection. If there is no way for you and the Gray Knights to sneak past the forces of Chaos, then the Orders Militant would mount an attack, spearheaded by the rest of the Gray Knights. That should provide a sufficient distraction for you to retrieve that Spiorad.”

“Stop calling it that,” Illiawe snapped at him. “Spiorad is its name.”

“I didn’t know that. It’s a silly name.”

“It is a name that means many things, human.” And those are always silly. But she said, “I do not expect you to understand its true import.”

“When we return with Spiorad,” Volorus said then, “we would have more than fulfilled our end of the bargain. I expect a hefty piece of information toward the battle against Chaos.”

“Yes,” Illiawe muttered. “Should the Fates favor us, you shall witness a battle to glut you for some years yet. Perhaps the eldar would even invite you to Rhana Dandra. That would be a great service to your emperor, and that is what you seek, is it not?”

Volorus tilted his head, not quite understanding, but Illiawe did not bother to explain. They passed the next few minutes in silence as the fleet neared, then they were back inside Volorus’ flagship. He got out before the shuttle had even landed, moving quickly toward the bridge. The ship was already moving, trembling beneath Illiawe’s feet as it turned away from the moon. Volorus did not give the order to enter the Warp until Noshan and his psykers had gathered in the bridge. Then the space before the ship shimmered and a yawning rift opened, gaping wider as the ship approached it. The chill of the Warp washed over Illiawe, and she channeled the psychic power of the humans, putting up barriers even as the fleet slipped through that rift into the roiling Warp.

The effort, however, was ultimately wasted. Minutes passed, and the Warp remained calm. The silence was almost palpable, and Illiawe could clearly hear the shallow breathing of the humans as they nervously waited for the attack that all knew was coming. Illiawe frowned. The size of the fleet made protecting it as thoroughly as she had Volorus’ ship challenging and, even with the help of the humans, Illiawe was not sure that her barriers would hold up for long under an assault. It was, in short, the perfect target for the daemons.

“Be on your guard,” she heard Noshan mutter to his fellow psykers. “I’m sure they’re only waiting for us to relax.”

But when trouble came, it was not in the form of daemons. Without warning, the energies of the Warp churned, growing agitated. Flashes of green lightning lit up the bridge, striking against the ship. Its void shields flared, but held. Raw energy crackled outside the ship, spitting angrily. Tendrils lashed out at the fleet, striking again and again at Illiawe’s barriers, but the humans poured their psychic will into her, and the barriers held. Like the sound of approaching thunder, there came a low rumble, distant but quickly growing louder. Then the ship rolled on its side. Startled cries came from the human crew as they ran from control to control, fighting the Warp currents as they attempted to bring the ship back under control. The ship shuddered and creaks filled the bridge. The chill of the Warp settled more deeply into Illiawe, and, through her feet, she felt the Warp swell and heave, pressing in on the ship from both sides.

Then a man with a deeply lined face and a black eye upon his forehead turned to Volorus. “We’re drifting off course,” he said, trying to keep his voice level but not quite succeeding.

Volorus cursed blisteringly, moving quickly through the bridge, looking over the shoulders of the crew as they tried to get the ship back on course. But, of course, there was nothing that he could do.

Illiawe turned away from him in disgust. “I told him to wait for Taeryn,” she said to no one in particular. A finger of lightning came at the ship, lighting the bridge up in its sickly glow before colliding with the void shields and dissipating. Illiawe focused her frustration, her mind returning to the teachings that she had learned on the many Paths that she had walked, and channeled it through her runes. There was perhaps nothing that she could do to guide them, but she could try and stave off the worst of the storm, at the very least.

Buffeted by the energies of the Warp, the ship bucked and rolled. The storm only worsened, the energies growing more turbulent. Sparks sizzled spitefully, and the air in the bridge grew heavy and thick. Finally, Volorus threw his hands in the air.

“Get us out of the Warp!” he shouted at the crew.

The response was immediate, as though the humans had been anticipating such an order. Shouting excitedly, the humans moved about the controls, and a rift tore open before them. Like a pregnant whale, the ship turned on its side, clawing its way through the waves of energy beating into it.

They exited the Warp on a roiling wave of Warp energy, riding it out of the portal into the material world.

“Did the rest of the fleet make it out?” Uriel demanded of the nearest crew.

One of the men turned to a nearby display. “The Emperor’s Gaze and Indignant Retribution have not exited the Warp, my lord.”

Uriel lowered his head. After a moment, he asked, “and the ships of the Adepta Sororitas?”

“All accounted for.”

“Damage reports?” Volorus asked.

“The void shields and Gellar fields have held. None of the damage is significant. The ship is fully operational.”

“And the rest of the fleet?” Uriel asked intently.

“I am not getting reports of major damage,” another man replied.

Volorus straightened. “Very well. Where is our position?”

“We are at the edges of the Segmentum Tempestus,” one of the humans replied.

Uriel frowned. “That’s the exact opposite of the direction that we want to go.”

“The nearest Imperial held system is the Caliphas system,” the man continued, “about three hours away under our own engines.”

“What kind of worlds are in this system?”

“It’s an industrial world, responsible for mining and the production of a small number of military vehicles. It is quite a large trade hub in this sector.”

“What about orbital assets?” Volorus asked.

“There are space docks throughout the system, my lord, for the use of maintaining the system’s ships. More than enough for our needs.”

“Get us there.” He came up to Uriel and Illiawe. “When we get there, I’m going to commandeer a few of those docks. I want to make sure that the fleet is in good condition.” He looked directly at Uriel. “Let’s pray to the Emperor that the other two ships are safe.”

Uriel nodded. “Of course.” He passed his hand over his face. “That was a rather unfortunate incident. I didn’t think that the storm was that severe.”

Volorus looked around him. “I’ve got a few rooms near my office that are not being used,” he said. “You can wait there, if you’d like. It’d probably be better than waiting here for three hours.”

Uriel nodded. “That’d be a good idea.”

Slowly, Volorus turned to Illiawe. “What about you?” he asked in a casual tone.

“I think that some quiet place to look into the skeins might be in order.”

Volorus nodded. “Follow me, then.”

He led them down the ship, heading toward its upper levels. Humans moved hurriedly throughout the vessel, filling the corridors with shouts and curses. Most carried loads of twisted metal and broken objects, clearing out the damages in the ship caused by the warp storm. More humans came out from lower decks, these laden down with replacement equipment.

Illiawe looked around at the humans working. “The damage done was not insignificant,” she observed.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Volorus said over his shoulder. “There doesn’t look to be anything major in these piles.” He leaned down to inspect one of them. “Nothing major at all. We could not bother replacing any of this and do no harm.”

“Then why have them at all?”

Volorus laughed shortly. “Just because they aren’t useful to the operation of the ship doesn’t mean that we don’t need them. Don’t worry, the crucial components are not so easily broken.”

The empty rooms were in the same section of the ship as Volorus’ office. The inquisitor nudged two doors on opposite sides of the corridor open, and Illiawe looked into one of them. It was small and dark and littered with furniture, more like a room for storage than one for living. She looked back at Volorus, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

“It’s not much of a room,” Volorus said apologetically.

“Do not trouble yourself with it,” Illiawe replied. “It will serve its purpose.”

Volorus nodded. “All right, then. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to look into my office to see how much damage is done, and then return to the bridge.”

Illiawe nodded and went into one of the rooms, flashing a quick smile at Uriel. She closed the heavy door with her foot and sat on the narrow cot that took up almost half of the room, taking her runes out of the pouch by her side and toying with them absently. She was almost in a state of reverie when she entered the skeins, and the visions flashed by much like dreams as her mind went unconsciously from one thread to the next. Illiawe sighed and leaned back against the cold metal wall of the room, taking comfort in the constancy of her meditation.

It was some time later when the door opened and a human peeked through. “Inquisitor Volorus requests your presence,” he informed Illiawe. She nodded, and pushed herself to her feet, stretching her arms over her head. Uriel was waiting for her outside the room. “Is there trouble?” Illiawe asked him.

Uriel shrugged. “I don’t know. Come on, let’s not keep Volorus waiting.”

They followed the human back to the bridge. His steps were hurried, urgent, and Illiawe felt a cold knot form in her stomach, a dreadful suspicion beginning to form in her mind.

“What’s the matter?” Uriel asked Volorus as soon as they entered the bridge. The other inquisitor was standing before a large display, and he wordlessly pointed at a couple of dots on the screen. Uriel squinted, trying to make them out. “What are those?” he asked.

“Tyranids,” Illiawe said shortly from behind them.

Uriel paled.

“Ten AUs out, in the Caliphas system,” Volorus said grimly. “It does not appear to be a major incursion, probably nothing more than a small splinter fleet.”

“But we need the facilities of that system,” Uriel protested.

“Then our course of action is clear, isn’t it? I will not stand by while a system of the Imperium falls to these creatures, anyway.” He turned their attention to a nearby display of a star system. The Caliphas system consisted of a dozen heavily industrialized planets. In their trademark fashion, the humans had filled the spaces between each planet with artificial satellites and weapons platforms and other large metallic constructs so that there was barely space for ships of any considerable size to move deeply into the system. Avenues had been left open to allow for passage to the docks that lay throughout the system, and these were themselves filled with the last of the ships that had not yet fled in the face of the tyranid attack. "From the look of things, the tyranids have only just made it to the surfaces of the outermost planets. The Imperial Guard and the local planetary defense force are fighting, but they have fallen back to a fortress. I don't think that they can hold the tyranids back for long." He pointed at a score of shapes in orbit around the outermost planet. “It would look as though the local navy has been destroyed. If we could break past those ships, we could send reinforcements to the soldiers on the ground.

Uriel shook his head. “I don’t like these odds, Volorus.”

“We are servants of the Emperor. It’s what we are paid to do.”

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. “Perhaps I can help the fleet.”

Volorus turned to her, an eyebrow raised. “You would?”

Illiawe nodded. “This is but a small invasion. The presence of the Great Devourer is negligible, at best. Perhaps with my guidance, you will lose few enough ships to launch a large enough assault on the ground.” She chewed on her lip. “It would be difficult. Your ships move like asteroids, and your crew are sluggish, but it should be achievable.”

Uriel rubbed at his neck. “I’ll tell the bridge crew of the fleet to listen to your commands.”

“Even the Adepta Sororitas?” Volorus asked.

“They will listen. They understand the situation. Now, our assault has to be quick. As soon as there is a clear path, we launch our ground forces. With the help of the Sisters, perhaps we could stop them before they go anywhere closer to the central planets.” He squinted at the display. “I am more concerned about missing some tyranids when we start to clean them out. Hopefully, our assault is quick enough that this would not become a problem.”

“Those outer planets are simply stops for the shipping routes to and from this system. If need be, they can be burned and rebuilt or replaced by space docks.”

Uriel made a face. “Let’s try to avoid that.”

Volorus nodded. “We have about two hours until we come within range. Get the men ready.”

Uriel nodded, reaching for the nearest communication unit and rapidly issuing orders to the soldiers aboard the ships.

Volorus stared intently at the displays surrounding him. “Is the fleet ready for battle?” he asked.

“Everything is in place.”

Volorus nodded. “Then we wait.”

They did not have to wait for long. "Tyranid bio-ships at four hundred thousand kilometers out, my lord!" one of the crew announced, his excited voice snapping Illiawe out of the skeins.

Illiawe looked at one of the closest displays. There were twenty bio-ships, and, at this range, even the human sensors were close enough to pick up on details. The ships were all different, each an individual tyranid form that mutated to suit its role in an engagement. They were, however, all covered in overlapping layers of metallic chitin, forming a shell that offered significant protection down each creature’s entire length. Though they all looked different, each had eyes and antennas and other sensory organs in the gaps between its carapace, and many-clawed tentacles writhed beside gaping maws filled with row upon row of hooked teeth. Though they looked much like legless insects that could do no more in combat than wrap its claws around a target vessel before feeding, Illiawe knew that hidden away unseen on each bio-ship were organs that unleashed torrents of plasma and streams of acid and various other projectiles. In the middle of the fleet was a bio-ship larger than those around it. Ripples ran down its length as it flexed, processing the biomass that it had already taken from the asteroids and various human constructs at the edge of the system. Illiawe stared at the hiveship, knowing that its destruction was of great priority, yet understanding that it was an action that they could ill afford to make until the time was right.

"Fire the prow guns," Volorus ordered grimly.

The shot sent tremors reverberating through the ship. Flashes of light came from either side as the other ships in the fleet fired their own guns. The movement of time slowed for Illiawe as she settled her mind into the battle meditation as she had been taught to do. Barely two seconds passed, but it seemed like minutes as Illiawe allowed the war mask of the witch path to claim her. The tyranid bio-ships were turning around, moving with the perfect coordination that was the result of their overmind, their gaping maws stretched wide and their many eyes staring balefully at the human fleet. Then the shots struck the bio-ships, ripping through their thick chitin carapaces and the flesh and bone underneath. The creatures' mouths stretched wide in silent screams of agony as they writhed, their movements sending ichor and dirty blood spraying out into the void. But even as Illiawe watched, the flow slowed as writhing flesh closed over the gaping wounds. Another tremor ran through the bridge as the guns fired again, ripping more holes into the bio-ships. The tyranids returned with a volley of their own, balls of plasma filling the space between the two fleets. The human ships turned out of the path of the tyranid volley, but some struck their targets, the plasma splashing over the void shields in great boiling waves.

Uriel barked a command into his communication unit, and small crafts flew out of the ships in swarms, easily evading the plasma that came their way. They closed the distance quickly, and specks of light flashed against the darkness of the void as they unloaded their weapons.

Illiawe felt a shift in the skeins, and she motioned to Uriel. “Call those aircraft back,” she said urgently.

Uriel nodded, barked a few commands into his vox unit, and the human bombers turned away, almost too sluggishly for Illiawe’s comfort. A split second later, the space around the bio-ships filled with dirty looking clouds. The aircraft nearest to the bio-ships simply disintegrated. Lashing tendrils and clouds of volatile living missiles filled the space around the ships, and tiny flashes of fire filled the area around the bio-ships. The bio-ships flexed and gaps in their carapace opened up. Small creatures came flying out of those gaps, spitting acid after the human planes, tendrils stretching out hungrily. Uriel was wincing as the remnants of the human squadrons hurried to the safety of the ships.

Illiawe waited for the skeins to shift once more, and sent a quick pulse of thought to the captains of the fleet. The human ships banked, moving into the positions that Illiawe had instructed, and their point defense guns opened fire on the swarm.

The human ships slipped around the bio-ships, pounding at the tyranids with volley after volley from their broadside guns. The ships of the Adepta Sororitas disengaged, turning toward the planet. Illiawe drew her mind away from them, concentrating her efforts on stopping the tyranids from diverting toward them.

As primitive as the ships of the humans were, Illiawe had to admit that they were brutally effective. The guns of the engaged ships fired volley after volley, forcing the bio-ships to concentrate on them, and though the ships were hardly fast or maneuverable, guided by Illiawe, they managed to avoid the worst of the tyranid fire. Under the immense power of their plasma engines, the human fleet headed time and again into the face of the tyranid ships, their prow guns and torpedoes ripping holes into the bio-ships and pounding at them with their broadside guns before pulling away in a crude imitation of the basic tactics used by eldar captains.

The sheer amount of fire being poured into the tyranid fleet was immense, but the human ships were not made for such a style of combat. Although not a single human ship had been lost, the maneuver meant that they were unable to take advantage of their attritional nature and bring the bulk of their guns to bear. Each wound that was scored was quickly healed, and the tyranids moved relentlessly on, eager to consume the ships of the humans.

The inquisitors, too, appeared to be aware of this. "We have to engage the bio-ships directly,” Volorus said urgently. “It’s the only way to overcome their healing.”

Illiawe shook her head. “I am not seeking to destroy the tyranid ships."
Volorus stared at her in disbelief. “What did you say?”

“I am expecting reinforcements that would destroy those bio-ships,” Illiawe said evasively. “We would require this fleet intact if we plan to launch an assault on the Gadevar system, and I would not want to lose them to avoidable circumstances.”

“I don’t suppose that you would give some details?” Uriel asked. "Communication, remember?"

Illiawe shook her head. “We will receive support. I am not certain as to the exact nature of it, however.” She glanced at Volorus, and Uriel nodded, understanding the unspoken reason. “For now, let us concentrate on keeping the tyranids from causing any more damage to these worlds.”

Their ship shuddered again as its prow guns fired, and it tilted to the side, avoiding a stream of plasma, before pulling away from the bio-ships.

Volorus threw his arms into the air. “This is ridiculous,” he burst out. “Give me that vox unit,” he said, plucking the device out of Uriel’s hands. He hit a button on the unit. “Prepare the nova cannon!” he snapped. “Aim for the hive ship!”

The gunners that Volorus had shouted the command at belonged to Uriel’s flagship. The vessel turned, facing its prow at the largest of the bio-ships. A flash came from below the triangular plating at its prow, and the massive vessel visibly slowed. The shell, larger than even the Vampire gunships of the eldar, struck the hive ship. It simply fell apart. Viscera sprayed out in all directions as the shell tore a ragged hole as large as the creature’s gaping jaws through the top of its head. Then, within its bowels, the warhead detonated. Sheets of fire burst out from under the hiveship’s chitin carapace. The bio-ship exploded in a shower of gore, and fire followed its charred remains, burning great smoking holes in the bio-ships near it.

Volorus looked at the result on one of the displays, then turned to look meaningfully at Illiawe. She shook her head. “I would not yet rejoice, inquisitor.”

The tyranid fleet responded with a volley of their own. Plasma flashed across the void of space. Uriel’s flagship was slowly turning its prow away from the tyranid fleet, but its fate was set the moment it had turned into a predictable course to fire the nova cannon. In a single second, plasma washed over its prow and sides, and its void shields flickered and died. Streams of acid jetted toward the flagship, crossing the intervening distance almost as quickly as any human projectile. The surfaces of the ship’s hull bubbled and melted away, and great gaping holes appeared, sending crew and debris flying out into space. Plasma and yard long spikes followed quickly after. Oxygen rich atmosphere ignited, the fires within the ship studding the hull with flickering lights. The other human ships came in, their broadside guns and lances putting volley after volley into the tyranid fleet in an attempt to draw fire away from the Vitium Liberare.

Uriel's face was pale as he watched his ship limp away. It skirted around the planet, attempting to put it between the ship and the tyranids. It was not quite fast enough. Streams of pale acid struck at the ship in a long sweeping arc, searing a deep bubbling gash into its hull and across its stern. The heavy metals of the ship’s plasma engines distorted and bubbled away where the streams had struck, and the edges of the gashes contracted, blackening. The lights of the engines flared up once, and died. There was a groan of dismay from beside her, but Illiawe ignored Uriel. The ship still survived, and that was enough. She returned her mind to the skein, looking now for the destruction of the tyranids as much as the survival of the humans.

The loss of the hiveship had taken its toll on the tyranid fleet, but the creatures moved on at a predatory pace, stalking the human ships, as though the destruction had gone unnoticed. Illiawe glanced quickly at Volorus and sent a quick pulse of thought to the captains of the human ships. Slowly, the vessels turned, skirting around the bio-ships. Flashes came from their prow guns, pummeling incessantly at the tyranid fleet. For minutes the bio-ships withstood the assault, returning with streams of plasma and acid and spikes of their own, flesh closing over almost as quickly as they were ripped open.

That the humans had patience for such warfare was a marvel to Illiawe, and she found that, in a strange way, she almost admired them. Finally, pressed even past their ability to withstand, the paths of the tyranid ships diverged, each bio-ship moving to strike at a target of its choosing. Even the humans saw the opportunity that such a situation presented. Without prompting, the human ships adjusted their course, their guns already firing. Concentrated fire struck one bio-ship after another, ripping through carapace and writhing appendages. Then there was a flash at the edge of Illiawe’s vision, a tiny spot of light that Illiawe would have easily missed had she not already known what it was. She did not turn her head to look as the human destroyer was ripped in two by plasma and the fires and combustions that raged through its hull.

The humans pressed on and, slowly, the return fire from the bio-ships dwindled, becoming less severe as the minutes went by.

“We’ve got a new contact,” one of the humans suddenly called out. Volorus was by his side in a heartbeat, examining the display in front of the man.

“What are they?” Uriel called out to him.

“Space Marines,” Volorus called back. “Deathwatch.”

A score of blinking blue signatures appeared on the holographic display in the center of the bridge, darting in from the edge of the system. They closed in on the engagement, torpedoes already snaking across the void of space. A dozen prow guns fired in a tight volley, their shells ripping at near lightspeed velocities into the already battered bio-ships. Macrocannon batteries were fired, volleys that would reduce whole cities into craters lighting balls of liquid fire across the shells of the bio-ships. All semblance of coordination evaporated as the tyranid forms opened their mouths in soundless screams. Illiawe winced as the psychic scream reached her and she gritted her teeth, instinctively raising her barriers to dampen the unwitting assault.

The tyranid bio-ships’ regeneration had been barely holding out against the guns of Uriel’s fleet. With the additional support given by the Deathwatch fleet, however, even their rapid regeneration could not possibly keep up. The first bio-ship died emanating a shrill psychic scream that dug knives into Illiawe’s mind. Its ruined body, held together in some parts by nothing more than tendons and bone, writhed and thrashed around as smoke poured out of a hundred holes in its shell. A lance strike peppered its head and abdomen with more of those smoking craters, and the psychic scream ended suddenly.

Uriel barked a command into his vox unit, and squadrons of bombers flew out of the hangar bays of the human ships. Like a swarm of insects, the bombers circled the bio-ships, blasting at them with missiles and guns. Tendrils whipped out of the ships, and the drone creatures spilled out. Human fighters moved in to intercept them, and the area around the ships became filled with light and smoke as the crafts battled each other.

Under the combined fire from the two fleets, the bio-ships grudgingly retreated, drawing away from the human ships.

“Don’t let them escape!” Volorus snapped into the vox unit.

The tyranid creatures writhed as fire raked across their shells. Volorus’ ship came at one of the bio-ships from its underside, launching a salvo of torpedoes that ripped into its innards and causing a dark plume of oily smoke to pour out of its agape jaws. Illiawe drew her mind away from the skeins and from her surroundings, watching the battle proceeding through the displays throughout the bridge.

Three of the ships of the Adepta Sororitas, light from the system’s star glinting off the statues of the woman atop them, came back around the planet. Lance fire burst out of their guns, followed immediately by heavy shells and torpedoes. Volorus’ ship turned, and two of the closest human ships followed it, lending their fire to the Adepta Sororitas. Tremors ran through the ship, again and again, as they bombarded the bio-ship with shells and lances. First its carapace, then its flesh, burned away under the tremendous fire. Battered beyond even the capabilities of its regeneration, the bio-ship groaned and collapsed on itself. Illiawe looked around. Other bio-ships had fallen to the guns of the human ships, their tattered carcasses drifting unmoving through the void.

Their ship shuddered again, and the last bio-ship writhed. Already heavily wounded, the bio-ship did not have the time to attempt to evade the volley. The shells embedded into its scarred shell, detonating close to the softer flesh beneath. The chitin cracked and splinters were sent flying out into space, and the human ships rolled and dove below the bio-ship to avoid the shards. Sheets of liquid fire erupted from the warheads, burning the rest of the way through the carapace. Smoke roiled out of the bio-ship as the fire spread through its insides, and its exposed flesh blackened and shriveled up.

Uriel straightened as the last bio-ship burned. “That’s that, then,” he said in a final tone, coming over to stand beside Illiawe. “Why didn’t you want to attack the tyranids at first?” he asked curiously.

“I was waiting for additional support.”

“I hardly think that you needed to conceal the fact that we were to wait for support from the Deathwatch fleet, farseer,” Uriel said. “I’m sure that Volorus would’ve gladly waited if you had told him that we were to buy time until they arrived.”

“I was wondering where you were going with this line of conversation, Uriel. These Deathwatch were not the salvation that I was awaiting. They are not numerous enough to turn the tide of this battle. In truth, I would be gladder had they not shown up. They bring with them much complications.”

“They won us the battle against the bio-ships, didn’t they?”

“Did they?” Illiawe asked pointedly.

“Of course they did.” Illiawe gave him a skeptical look, and he shrugged. “Who were you waiting for, then?”

“Orks.”

“Orks?”

“You can see why I did not want to go into too much detail. Volorus would have undoubtedly wanted to know who we were waiting for.” She paused. “What happened to your flagship was an inevitability," Illiawe said. "Volorus would never have agreed to wait for orks, of all things, to destroy the tyranids, and he would never have been patient enough to wait for such an event from occurring based on my word alone. This was the best possible outcome."

Uriel gazed at the remains of the bio-ships. “I would’ve been happier if that had not happened, but it was a fair trade, I guess.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your destroyer, too. It served well, in this battle, at least.”

Uriel nodded. “She and her crew will be properly honored. We are fortunate that she was all we lost. Thank you for your aid.”

Illiawe nodded and squared her shoulders. “I will be heading down toward the planet now. This victory has to be mirrored by one on the ground.”

“And what about the orks?”

“They are late, as is to be expected from unreliable creatures like them. They will be here, however, and provide the support that we will need. The humans down on the planet will be safe from the brutes. They are after the tyranids and nothing more.” One of Uriel’s eyebrows raised questioningly, and Illiawe shrugged. “That is one of the reasons that I am heading down to the surface. There are steps that we must take if our meeting with Ghahzlay is to remain cordial.”

“Ghahzlay?”

“The leader of this group of orks.” She reached out hesitantly, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mourning is a necessity of life, but do not let it cloud your thoughts.”

“Of course. We have work to do here.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Is that what you say to other eldar?”

“As it has once been said to me. I am in no position to repeat the words that you humans use in such occasions, after all.”

“It’s appropriate.” Then his expression grew businesslike. “I’ll stay here and oversee the ships and coordinate orbital support for the ground forces. I think that Volorus might prefer to go with you onto the ground, though.”

“I have no doubts about that.” She turned on her heels. “I think that I can find my way to the hangars by myself.”

Uriel nodded, walking with her to the heavy doors of the bridge. Volorus quickly joined them, and Uriel clasped the other inquisitor’s arm. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, nodding at them.

Guigrim was waiting for them outside the bridge. "We will be going down to the planet with you," he informed Volorus.

The inquisitor looked at him in surprise. "Are you sure? This situation does not require the intervention of the Gray Knights.”

Guigrim nodded. “We have been sworn as the Imperium’s protectors. We will not sit by while one of its worlds is threatened.”

“I am more concerned about the fact that your presence would have to be struck from all records and minds when this is over. You are equipped to deal with daemons, and this would be too large a cost for a small benefit.”

“My lord,” Guigrim said formally, his voice low and firm, “Inquisitor Uriel has promised you the use of his resources. Draw upon that if you must.”

Uriel winced, but he nodded. “Let us not tarry, then,” Illiawe said. “We must not give the tyranids more time.”

Volorus nodded. “I had ordered my Valkyrie prepared. Noshan should be waiting with it. Let’s go.”

A man was waiting at the hangars with the coarse and deeply cowled robe of the human psykers. Illiawe took it from him and wrapped it around her shoulders. Volorus gestured wordlessly first at Illiawe, then at a black aircraft waiting in the bay.

Illiawe shook her head. “I will go with the Gray Knights to the front lines. The Deathwatch are killers of anyone not human, are they not? I doubt that my presence would be welcome near them. It would be easier if I were to provide aid against the tyranids. The soldiers, at least, will be more welcoming of my aid than the commanders of this system would.”

Volorus nodded and tossed a palm sized communication unit to Illiawe. “I will be in touch, then. Good luck.” He nodded at Guigrim, then at Illiawe, and turned away.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 19

The air was cold and crisp when the Gray Knights stormed out of the transport hold of the Thunderhawk. Illiawe was the last one to exit, gathering her runes about her and looking around. There was a wall behind them, a fortress of metal that rose high enough that, even when she tilted her head back, Illiawe could not see the top of. Light flashed from little gaps in its surface as the human defenders fired at the tyranids with all manner of weaponry, from lasrifles to artillery pieces the size of tanks. The fortress itself was surrounded by a wall of vehicles sitting in a heavy cloud of smoke, the booming of their guns a constant rumble that sent tremors through the ground as an earthquake would.

Shoulder high trenches had been hastily dug out before them and concrete and metal barriers erected, circling the fortress, stretching out to both sides from one horizon to another. It was filled with soldiers and screaming officers, and guns lined its edge like the spikes on a hedgehog. The black armored warriors of the Deathwatch were joining the soldiers now, their heavy weapons firing. Illiawe looked into the distance, and her vision blurred for an instant before becoming focused again as the mask zoomed in at a thought. The tyranids were still far out, a dark mass that, from where they were at the top of a hill, barely seemed to even move. Here and there among the mass were creatures that stood taller than those around them, some so large that their many limbed silhouettes were distinctive even at this distance.

Before the main tyranid force ran scouts, swift creatures that crouched low to the ground, skipping smoothly over debris and obstructions, their tails swaying to keep their balance. Instead of hands or claws, their arms ended in the organic weaponry of the tyranids. The scouts were already within range of the guns of the Guardsmen, and light stabbed through the distance between them and the humans. Tyranid corpses littered the area before the trench, missing limbs and heads and smoking holes peppering their bodies. The scouts returned fire with their weapons, and there were screams of pain from the humans as they were struck by blobs of plasma and impaled by foot long spikes.

The vox unit concealed in the folds of Illiawe’s suit crackled, and she held it up, taking a moment to figure the controls out. “Are you in the command center?” she asked.

There was a moment of silence, then Volorus’ voice came back to her. “We are.”

“Good. How many tyranids are there?"

"The whole planet’s swarming with them. We have detected at least a couple of million individual tyranid forms in that horde converging on us alone, including those hiding beneath the surface. Sensors estimate that there are tens of millions of tyranids all throughout the planet."

"And how many troops do we have?"

"Including the armored divisions and aircrafts? Three hundred thousand Imperial Guardsmen, a few million Planetary Defense Forces and half as many militia, as well as five squads of Deathwatch and a bit more than a company’s worth of Astartes drawn from various chapters."

"That is not a force capable of fighting even a single battle."

"This system was never meant to do so. Its main responsibilities are mining and trade, as well as the production of vehicles and machinery. A distress signal has been sent to the nearest systems under Imperial control, however."

“They will not arrive in time.” Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. "Make sure the other commanders do not order the troops to go on the offensive. They are to stop the tyranids from gaining entry into the fortress and nothing more."

"That is not a strategy made to win wars," Volorus protested.

"I know, and I do not intend to win. We only need hold out for a few more days."

"What will happen then? Are you expecting other kind of support?"

Illiawe smiled. "Something along those lines. Do not be crestfallen, Volorus. The Fates are clear. We cannot lose here. How open-minded are the rest of the command staff?"

“My inquisitorial status is ensuring that a lot of my orders are being carried out. However, the Deathwatch came with an inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos. He’s young and zealous in his duty. It would be difficult to convince him of the proper course of action.”

“Keep him busy, then.”

“I’ll try.”

“What about you, Volorus?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you willing to wait as I have suggested?”

“Yes.” Volorus’ voice was subdued. He knew precisely what prompted Illiawe to ask that question. “I may not like it, but I will do as you have suggested.”

Illiawe shrugged. It was close enough. “Very well. Noshan is with you, is he not?”

“He is.”

“Instruct him to contact me should there be any need to relay information that needs to remain private. I will watch over the humans here.”

“Of course. May the Emperor watch over you.”

Illiawe smiled, but did not say anything.

Guigrim had also been surveying the tyranid force, his arm coming up now and again to fire at any tyranid that strayed too close. At a command from him, the Gray Knights squads moved to various places in the trenches. Illiawe jumped into the trench, landing lightly, her feet sinking slightly into the soft mud. The nearby humans looked at her in surprise, curiosity and relief clouding their expressions.

“Keep shooting,” she muttered to them, adjusting her cowl to make sure that it covered her distinctive features. She ignored the humans and looked out over the walls of the crude fortifications. The tyranid scouts were getting closer, a writhing mass that closed in on the fortress on all sides. The Gray Knight psykers lashed out with lightning, aiding in the destruction of the scouts.

Guigrim turned to one of the soldiers near them. “Where are the officers in charge of this side of the trench?”

“Colonel Sadeus, my lord? He’ll be near the tanks with Commissar Palicia.”

“Why is the commissar not near the trench?”

The soldier made a rueful face. “She has a sharp eye and a very long reach, my lord. I think she’s almost part hawk. You’ll probably find them on the command Chimera. The commissar watches the soldiers from up there.”

Guigrim nodded and turned away, gesturing for Illiawe to follow. “You’d better come with me, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Guigrim remained silent, but Illiawe thought she knew what he was referring to.

As the Guardsman had said, they found the colonel next to a black transport, poring over some documents and giving out orders to men with communication units. He looked up as they approached, and a woman hopped down from the vehicle to join him. They both wore leather coats that reached down to their ankles, and wore tall hats on their heads.

“Colonel Sadeus?” Guigrim asked as they neared.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where are your defenses the weakest?”

Sadeus glanced at the documents in his hand. “The Guardsmen are quite evenly spread out along the length of the trenches. Your support would be welcome anywhere.”

Guigrim nodded and turned to look back out at the tyranids. “What about the composition of the enemy force?”

“They have more bio-titans and larger creatures on the south side,” Sadeus replied, jerking a thumb behind him. “That side’s quite steep, however, and we have moved more tanks and artillery pieces there.”

Palicia moved to stand beside Guigrim. “I am not too concerned, honestly. We have a whole fleet of ships in orbit. All we need to do is survive.”

Guigrim shook his head. “The bulk of the fleet are busy with the tyranids at other places on the planet. That limits our orbital support until they are through.”

Palicia frowned. “That’s troublesome. It’s the smaller creatures that I’m more worried about. The ships in orbit can destroy the larger creatures rather quickly, but there might be too many tyranids for us to handle alone.”

“Don’t let the troops hear you say that,” Sadeus called to her.

The commissar ignored him, squinting at the tyranid force. “I would say that the tyranids will be in range of our tanks in a couple of minutes.”

Sadeus nodded. “We have two ships ready to provide lance support any time. Those will have to make do. If we see any bio-titans, those will be the first target for the lances.”

Then, surprisingly, the tyranid force halted its advance. From the middle of the tyranid mass, a group of small fast beasts ran out ahead of the horde. They stopped every now and then to raise their heads and bellow loudly.

“What are they doing?” Sadeus asked in bewilderment. “I don’t think that I’ve heard of tyranids doing that before.”

“I think that they’re trying to lure us out,” Palicia said slowly.

“That’s silly. Why would we run out of the trenches rather than wait for them to come to us?”

“These tyranids have been fighting orks, and have adapted their tactics for that purpose,” Illiawe supplied. “It appears that they expect us to respond to that force as the orks do.”

“How do you know what they’ve been fighting?” Sadeus asked curiously.

“Note the large composition of claws and rending weapons that the creatures had been grown with as opposed to ranged weaponry. They have been made to combat enemies that prefer closing in on their foe.”

Palicia laughed shortly. “Well, if we had known that sooner, we would have drawn back here in the first place rather than try to contain them.” She chewed on her thumb. “When we don’t respond, they are going to either launch probing attacks on the trenches or to charge the trenches.” She peered into the distance. “Do you see any winged tyranids?”

“According to the reports that I’m getting, those tyranids are at other parts of the planet fighting our aircraft. I’m guessing they want to take the bombers out of the picture.” He looked at the small group of posturing tyranids. “I think that we should do something about that.” He said something into one of the vox unit near him. The ground rumbled as the largest of the human guns fired, and the cluster of tyranids vanished in a blast of fire. Sadeus grinned. “That’s always thrilling to watch.”

A great roar came from the rest of the tyranids, and the creatures moved forward, the smaller warriors scuttling ahead of the lumbering forms of the larger creatures.

“Looks like we’ve got their attention,” Sadeus said. He picked up a vox unit and spoke into it. A moment later, a bright pillar of fire came from the sky, breaking through the sparse clouds. The fire struck one of the tyranid bio-titans. When the pillar of fire abated, there was only a crater of cracked glass where the bio-titan had been only a moment before.

A loud cheer rose from the Guardsmen, which was promptly drowned out as a dozen shells fell out of the sky like comets to erupt within the swarm. More lance strikes followed, the bright pillars claiming the life of a monstrous tyranid every time.

There were, however, too many tyranid creatures for even the ships to kill. As the swarm drew closer, the bombardment gradually slowed, until only the smallest of the ships’ guns fired for fear of catching the humans in an errant blast.

The vehicles stationed in front of the fortress picked up the fire, bombarding the tyranids again and again. Volleys of crimson las-fire struck the tyranids.

Palicia crammed her hat more firmly atop her head. “I guess we should join the troops now.” She turned to Sadeus. “Let me know if anything unusual comes up.”

“Of course,” the colonel nodded. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.” She and Guigrim started down toward the trenches.

The vox unit at Illiawe’s hip crackled. “What is it?” she spoke into it.

“Uriel is holding half of the Orders Militant in reserve,” Volorus said. “I’m guessing that he is waiting to make a grand entrance.”

“How goes the fight on the other side of the fortress?”

“Reasonably well. The tyranids sent their warrior-creatures at the Guardsmen in one big charge. They ran right into the flamethrowers of the Sisters. They are taking their time now, sending the warriors in waves with the larger creatures. The ships above are killing the biggest tyranids before they can make it very far, though.” Volorus paused. “The tyranids seem to have very few ranged forces with them, for some reason.”

“I had just explained that to the colonel here. These tyranids were built to combat orks.”

“That makes sense. You will have to make do without orbital support for a while. The bulk of the fleet are keeping the rest of the tyranids on the planet from moving to attack the fortress. I’ll see if I can free up one or two more ships to provide support, but, right now, we’re going to have to split the fire of the two ships above us to all sides of the fortress.”

“We will wait until then. How is the situation in the command center?”

“Tense. The Ordo Xenos inquisitor I told you about wants to evacuate the Astartes and the officers and blast the planet to slag from orbit. The governor of this system, however, wouldn’t allow it. He’s got my support, so the inquisitor can’t do anything – for the moment, at least. I’m sure he’s trying, though. I hope whatever it is you’re waiting for comes quickly, Illiawe. I don’t know how long I can keep him from doing something foolish.”

“If you can do so for another few days, it would certainly help.”

“I can try to block anything he advocates. That should slow things down for him.”

“Do not oppose him too often or too vehemently, Volorus. He might do something rash.”

“I know. This is not the first time I’ve done this.”

“Good luck.”

“You fight your battle. I’ll fight mine.” The vox unit crackled and went silent.

Illiawe returned it to her hip and went down the hill to join Guigrim.

The tyranids crashed into the human lines with terrible force, swarming into the trenches and striking at the Guardsmen with claws and long, pointed teeth. Guigrim gave a loud battle cry and leapt into the trench, crushing the back of a tyranid creature under one heavy boot and lopping off the head of another with his sword. Illiawe drew her own sword and followed him, striking back at the tyranids with her blade and lightning that crackled in her free palm.

Palicia did not join them in the trench. With a blocky pistol clutched in her right fist, she stood unflinching at the edge of the back wall of the trench, heedless of the occasional projectile that flew too closely. She was firing her pistol down into the trench, filling the air around her with curses and vulgar encouragement. The Guardsmen seemed to take encouragement from her presence, wrestling with the tyranids with renewed vigor.

With Guigrim by her side, Illiawe killed the rampaging tyranids in their immediate vicinity. Then they turned upon those that have yet to reach the trench. The gun emplacements that had survived the initial charge opened up again as the number of tyranids within the trench dwindled.

A movement caught Illiawe’s attention and she turned her head to look. A couple of hundred yards away, a serpentine creature hovered a foot above the ground. Its bulbous head was wider than its body, reared up like a snake waiting to strike, undulating, weaving from side to side. Las-fire and rapid detonations struck it, but they dissipated off a sphere of cracking blue energy that surrounded it.

“Guigrim!” Illiawe shouted, scanning the trenches for the massive human.

“What is it?” he asked, coming to her side. His silver armor was stained with black blood.

“Do you have any of those grenades that sever connections to the Warp?”

“Psyk-out grenades? A couple.”

Illiawe pointed toward the hovering creature. “Throw a grenade at that.”

Guigrim turned to follow her finger. As she watched, the creature lashed forward, striking at an invisible enemy. A bolt of green energy shot out of its gaping jaws. It struck a Guardsman and he screamed once before he was reduced to dust.

Guigrim drew his arm back, took a couple of heavy steps, and hurled the grenade. It landed a couple of feet in front of the creature. The tyranid screamed when the grenade detonated, writhing in confusion. Illiawe levelled her sword at the tyranid, sending a bolt down the weapon’s length at the creature. A number of shells from the human tanks struck it a moment later. Stripped of its psychic defense, the creature exploded in a shower of gore.

From far off, there was a hoarse bellow, and, as one, the tyranid creatures turned around, sprinting back down and away from the hill, with the guns of the humans hounding them until they finally drew out of range.

“Why would they do that?” Palicia asked, bemused. “We would not have been able to hold them off if they had stayed for a while longer.”

“The tyranids have been attacking the other sides of the fortress in waves,” Illiawe told her.

“But why? I know how the tyranids fight. They don’t care about losses. Why would they do so now?”

“We are not the primary concern of this swarm. Another is coming, of a greater threat than we are. With their bio-ships destroyed, the tyranids are not going to risk unnecessary loss until they are strong enough to fight the one that comes.”

“What is coming?”

Illiawe hesitated. “An acquaintance.” She turned away from the woman, pretending to be busy surveying the area before the trenches and hoping that the human would take the hint and not press the issue. To her relief, the human started issuing orders to the Guardsmen in a loud voice to repair and reestablish their defenses in preparation for the next charge.

The second assault came when the sun was high in the sky. The tyranids struck without warning, a force composed of small and light creatures designed to cover ground quickly. They struck on a broad front, and the ships overhead only had time to fire a few shots before the tyranids were among the soldiers, ripping bodies apart with their serrated claws.

Illiawe thrust her arm out, sending lightning sizzling through the air. Fingers reached out, touching all that Illiawe directed them to, reducing creatures to fine dust. The lightning travelled down the trench, bouncing from one tyranid to the next, and Guardsmen pushed themselves to their feet and resumed shooting at the tyranids. Off in the distance to her left and right, bright glows told Illiawe that the Gray Knight psykers were striking out in a similar fashion.

And yet the tyranids came, running through sweeping bombardment that placed five yard wide craters into the ground with each hit. Illiawe drew in a deep breath, drawing in her will. She unleashed it in a roiling blast before her, sweeping tyranids away in a great wave. Where the wave went, tyranids simply vaporized, as though they had never been there.

Illiawe started to draw her powers in again, before she realized that there was no real need for it. The area before them had been cleared, and what few tyranids that remained were quickly cut down by the Guardsmen.

Illiawe let out her breath and leaned back against the back wall of the trench. Palicia looked down at her. “Not bad work,” she complimented. “Are you all right?”

Illiawe nodded. “I will just need a couple of moments.”

“You’ve probably earned it.” Then her eyes turned steely as she looked at the Guardsmen around Illiawe. “You lot haven’t. Move and lend your fire to the other parts of the trench.” Obediently, the soldiers hurried off.

Illiawe waited, making sure that the commissar was well away, then dipped quickly into the skeins. Such displays of psychic prowess were not to be taken lightly, and Illiawe was reluctant to be forced to do so again. She placed her palms on the back wall of the trench and lightly pulled herself up, quickly looking around to ensure that Palicia was nowhere near. Pulling her cowl low over her head, Illiawe made her way to the command Chimera.

Colonel Sadeus was still busy with his field reports as Illiawe neared. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

“I heard about you frying those tyranids. The men are very appreciative. Where did you learn to do that? Not even the Astartes librarians are having such an easy time.”

“It certainly was not easy for me. It was a little trick that I picked up in the past.”

“Ah,” Sadeus said, understanding. “It’s a secret, is it? I can respect that. Was it from the same place where you got that sword from?” he asked shrewdly, gesturing at the harlequin sword tucked under the coarse robe at Illiawe’s hip.

“You have very sharp eyes, colonel.”

“If you don’t want anyone to notice it, don’t use it.”

“It is not something that you will report me for, is it?”

Sadeus’ nose twitched. “How much will you be willing to pay me for my silence?” Then he laughed. “I’m joking, of course. You’ve saved a lot of my men today. That means a lot to me, ah…”

“Illiawe.”

Sadeus nodded. “Ah,” He said delicately, his eyes suddenly distant, a small frown on his brow. “I won’t tell anyone of what you are, either.”

Illiawe smiled at him. “I knew I could count on you. It is better if you were to find out now than later, when you could not afford any surprises.”

“Well, then, Illiawe,” Sadeus said after a while, “why are you here?”

“I was wondering if you had some time. There are things that you should know, I think, before the next attack.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have a map of this area?”

He nodded, rummaging around for a while around he produced a piece of paper, a hastily drawn plan of the fortress’ defenses.

Illiawe looked at the map for a few seconds, translating the vision that she had seen onto the hand drawn diagram. She found that it was quite an accurate map. She pointed at a dozen places on the trench on this side of the fortress. “The next wave will concentrate their forces on these positions. It would keep the tyranids away if you concentrated your fire on them right from the start.”

“How do you know where the tyranids are going to strike?”

“I am clairvoyant, of course.”

“Of course you are,” Sadeus replied with no hint of irony. He nodded. “I will prepare accordingly.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“Would you like me to do anything else?”

“No, I think that this is enough.”

“All right. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.”

As Illiawe had predicted, the next attack was not a general one as the previous charge had been. Forewarned of the points that the tyranids will concentrate on, the human artillery and tank crews poured concentrated fire into the mass of tyranids. The fires of the explosions burned brightly in the dim light of the evening, and the death screams of the tyranids visibly lifted the morale of the troops. Then there was silence. Illiawe lowered herself onto the ground near one of the tanks, leaning back against its metal hull. They had survived the first day.

Sadeus sent squads of soldiers out that night to lay mines and other traps before the trench, and he called the reserves up to mend the barricades and keep watch. Like far off thunder, there was rumbling in the distance as the ships continued their relentless bombardment of the tyranids on the other parts of the planet.

Illiawe pushed herself to her feet and moved along the back wall of the trench. Soldiers smiled at her as she passed. Illiawe nodded back in acknowledgement, letting them return to their meals and naps.

Then Sadeus was there by her side. “The troops appear to like you,” he observed.

Illiawe shrugged. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m checking in on the troops. It helps with morale.”

“What about Palicia?”

“She’s checking in on the wounded.” Sadeus laughed. “She forgot to holster her pistol when she walked into the first tent. It frightened the troops.”

“Is such fear really necessary?”

“Unfortunately so. The Imperium’s enemies are fearsome. It is the task of the commissars to keep the men fighting, whether by leading by example or other means. The soldiers must both respect and fear the commissar. It is a difficult balance, but Palicia handles it well.”

Illiawe nodded. “Do you know where Guigrim is?”

“The Astartes you were with? He was asking for you before, actually. I think he’s even sent a few people out to search for you. He said that he’ll be waiting for you at the north gate. That’s the one over there.” Sadeus pointed some way before them to his right.

Illiawe nodded, murmured her thanks, and moved in the direction that he had given.

Guigrim had cleaned his armor and weapons, though there were a few small scratches in his heavy breastplate. He had set aside his helmet, letting the night breeze sweep through his hair, still damp from the exertion of the day.

“Finally,” he said as Illiawe neared.

“I want to have a talk with Volorus,” she said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Illiawe nodded and followed Guigrim into the well-lit interior of the fortress.

They found Volorus standing before a holographic display of the area surrounding the fortress, as well as feeds of various parts of the planet captured by the orbiting ships. Pieces of paper and various tablets lay scattered before him, filled with maps and other documents. A half-eaten meal lay amongst the pile.

“Volorus,” Illiawe called to him.

“I’m a little busy,” he snapped.

“This can’t really wait.”

“Be quick about it, then.”

“You might want to consider drawing the troops back into the fortress.”

“Why? We are doing fine now, aren’t we?”

“Not for long. The tyranids will bypass much of our defenses tomorrow.”

“What will they do?”

“I don’t know. I did not probe too deeply into the skeins. I cannot risk detection, not with the Deathwatch so close by.”

“They know you are a psyker, Illiawe.”

“But they do not know that I am not human,” she muttered quickly. “I plan to keep it that way, and no human probe as deeply into the skeins as we do.”

Volorus passed his hand over his eyes. “I can try convincing the others, but I don’t think that even the governor would agree.”

“Then they will come to regret their decision. There is another thing that I want to talk to you about. With the ships above expending their ammunition, we will not have enough to mount an attack on the Gadevar system.”

“We will have to make do with lance batteries and the larger guns. We will need to make some amendments to our original strategy, but, if all goes well, we wouldn’t need to use the ships’ guns anyway.”

“I would prefer something a little more solid. See if you are able to restock the supplies of the ships. That was our original intention, anyway.”

“It will take a while longer.”

“Then we will just have to wait. I am not prepared to take such a risk.”

A grim faced human with a deeply lined face and a perpetual scowl walked over to where they were, his fine clothes rumpled and his gray hair unkempt.

“This is Belaro,” Volorus introduced him, “the governor of the Caliphas system.”

Belaro wearily inclined his head, fighting back a yawn. “Chiro is going to be furious when he sees you,” he said to Illiawe. “He wasn’t too happy when the Deathwatch informed him of your presence.”

“Chiro?”

“The Ordo Xenos inquisitor.”

“I would have not set foot on the planet if my presence was not absolutely necessary,” Illiawe replied.

Belaro shrugged. “That’s not my problem. Past experiences have taught me that the Imperial Creed is too rigid for its own good. As long as you are here to help, you are welcome. Chiro will not see it that way, though. The man irritates me.” A pained expression came across his face. “You wouldn’t tell him that I said that, would you, my lord?” he asked Volorus.

“He irritates me just as much as he irritates you, Belaro. Try not to let it get ahead of you, though. Something tells me that Chiro wouldn’t take kindly to you expressing your feelings to his face.”

Belaro grinned tightly and turned back to the holographic display. “As far as we can tell, the tyranids appear to have someplace where they hide from orbital bombardment. We have detected a number of underground passageways. The ships are burning out those closer to the surface, but we can’t get to those deeper under the crust without using weapons that would also destroy at least a good part of the planet.”

“We are therefore in a conundrum,” Volorus took over. “Chiro has brought up bombarding the planet from orbit, but Belaro would rather not have that. The alternative is setting off explosives within those tunnels. The other planets in this system are responsible for producing vehicles and weaponry. Perhaps a number of melta or fire warheads will burn them out. The Astartes could teleport in there, so the only real problem is making sure that the tunnels are free of tyranids before they go in. If the rest of the planet is any indication, the ground itself would already be infected, so the Marines can’t linger, and therefore cannot waste time killing any tyranids.”

“I could perhaps teach Noshan the finer points of reading the skeins. Perhaps he might become apt enough to do so accurately.”

“Don’t take too long. We don’t have much time.”

“Neither do the tyranids,” Illiawe pointed out.

“It would be nice if this mystery support of yours would show up sooner rather than later.”

“Patience, Volorus. Patience.”

“That does not really help,” Volorus complained.

Illiawe shrugged, and went looking for Noshan.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 20

Illiawe did not sleep that night. While it was not yet, strictly speaking, necessary for her to do so, sleep would have been greatly welcome. As the hours wore on, however, there was still no move to pull the troops back into the relative safety of the fortress. Illiawe paced nervously before Sadeus’ Chimera, glancing toward the fortress now and again. As much as Illiawe would have liked to sink into her meditations, it was a serenity that she could not afford. And so she watched the horizon for signs of movement, cycling through her mask’s various filters. The eerie silence was almost total, and that made Illiawe even more nervous.

Then, when the first light of dawn shone over the horizon, Illiawe finally saw movement. Thousands of tyranid warriors came over the empty horizon. And that made Illiawe even more wary. Where the corpses of tyranids had littered the horizon before, there was now nothing there but debris from the surroundings.

She did not, however, have time to think about that. Shouts came from the humans as they, too, detected the tyranids, mingling with sharp detonations as the mines laid down the previous night exploded.

But the warriors were nothing more than distractions. A small tremor ran through the ground, and Illiawe gathered her powers. The humans around her were oblivious to it, but Illiawe felt the ground shake through the soles of her feet. The vibrations grew steadily more pronounced, and Illiawe sank into her warmask, turning to the teachings of the Howling Banshees rather than that of the seers. The shift was jarring as Illiawe surrendered the stark clarity of mind for the keen awareness of the Howling Banshees. The continuous rumble of the human guns and the many distractions of the battlefield faded away, replaced by the vibrations that ran under the ground as Illiawe concentrated upon it.

From somewhere beside her, there was excited shouts and a rapid stream of barked orders. The equipment of the humans, it appeared, had detected the underground movements and, though they were tracking it just as Illiawe was, they knew just as well as she did that their rifles were unlikely to be of much use. Their officers continued barking orders, keeping the rifles of the soldiers focused on the tyranid scouts and trying, in their noisy and clumsy manner, to draw their attention away from the tunneling creature.

Illiawe released the Howling Banshee warmask and channeled her powers through her runes. A tingling feeling ran down her spine, and her runes started to glow a dull red. The ground a few feet in front of them heaved, and then it exploded, sending dirt and broken barricades flying out in all directions. A giant serpentine head shot out of the hole, its mouth agape, revealing rows of hooked teeth. Illiawe thrust her right arm out, sending bright bolts of lightning shooting at the creature. A moment later, the guns behind her fired, raking the tyranid creature with thunderous explosions. It roared hoarsely and reared back, and a sickly green acid spewed out, engulfing the tanks closest to it. The chassis of the vehicles bubbled and melted away, the crews inside screaming in agony. The serpentine head swept from side to side, and there were a number of explosions as vehicles exploded. The human vehicles turned their guns around, pummeling the serpentine tyranid with shells.

Then the tyranid warriors struck the trench, swarming into it. All sense of coordination among the humans evaporated. Contradicting orders were shouted and lasfire flashed wildly throughout the trench.

Human aircraft came swooping down out of the sky, their engines whining. Clusters of missiles slammed into the serpentine tyranid, which turned on the aircrafts, bolts of plasma spewing from its mouth.

Illiawe drew in her will, waiting for the right moment. She reached out to the humans in the vehicles, planting the best firing solutions directly into their thoughts. The vehicles fired again, the shots striking at the weak points in the carapace of the monstrous creature. The guns fired volley after volley into the creature, until it began thrashing about from the pain. It moved, sliding back into the safety of the underground tunnel. When only its head remained, Illiawe unleashed her will, striking at the eyes and agape jaws of the creature with warp fire. The creatures writhed one last time before falling still. The human tanks turned their guns around, but it was too late. The tyranid warriors had reached the trench, flailing about them with their wicked claws. Behind them came more tyranid creatures, these with large organic guns on the edges of their limbs. The guns spat, sending bolts of plasma into the human tank line. Behind them came lumbering creatures, each as large as a tank.

“Volorus!” Illiawe shouted into her vox unit. “Get Uriel to fire on those tyranids out there now, or we will get overrun!” She drew her sword and struck at the tyranids in the trench with arcing bolts of lightning.

There were bright flashes on the horizon as balls of fire engulfed the tyranids there and the shockwaves blasted at her, but Illiawe paid little attention to them. She parried a frenzied slash from a warrior-creature and severed its limb before taking its head off. She was at the edge of the trench now, and there was fighting all around her, humans wrestling with tyranids with bayonets and combat knives. She found herself fighting alongside Sadeus at one point. The colonel had leapt forward to fend the tyranids off with a roaring chainsword in one hand and a laspistol in the other. White lightning flashed across the surface of a barrier of energy that surrounded him, and his plain coat was stained with black blood.

The chaos of the combat drew them eventually away, Illiawe lashed out with her lightning again and again. Over the sound of the battle, Illiawe heard Palicia’s voice ring out. She moved toward it, blasting at any tyranid that came too close. She found the commissar standing before the tanks. She had managed to round up three score of Guardsmen and formed them into lines, coordinating their fire with sharp commands, rallying the other Guardsmen with shouts and emphasizing it with the loud crack of her pistol. She nodded at Illiawe, acknowledging her presence before returning to her duties. Heavy weaponry were brought to bear, tearing into the tyranids.

But there were too many of the creatures, and, despite the best efforts of the humans, the tyranids drew steadily closer, the green-clad forms of stranded soldiers disappearing under a flurry of tooth and claw. Illiawe gritted her teeth and sent waves of energy blasting out at the tyranids, burning row upon row of them to a cinder. Lightning arced out from the tip of her sword, jumping from one creature to another.

A tyranid warrior leapt at her, snarling and with spittle flying from its jaws. Illiawe swung her sword, parried, feinting, and impaled the creature on her blade. There was a scream off to her side as another of the creatures tackled a Guardsman to the ground. The human pushed back with his rifle, managing to keep its snapping jaws an inch away from his throat, until its wildly thrashing claws turned the rifle into two separate chunks of useless metal with a single deft swipe. The Guardsman jammed the pieces of his rifle at the underside of the tyranid’s head.

Illiawe flicked her fingers at it, throwing the creature back into the charging tyranids, dimly aware of the fact that Palicia was already screaming for the Guardsman to get back on his feet. Something latched onto her back and the smell of rotting meat drifted to her nose. Illiawe wrinkled her nose and thrust her elbow backward in a futile attempt to dislodge the creature. The skeins tugged at her mind and she brought her sword in front of her, blocking the claw aimed for her throat. There was the sound of ripping cloth and Illiawe threw the creature over her hip. It rolled, moving to get up, and she impaled it on the tip of her sword. An errant breeze ran across the battlefield, and a lock of hair fluttered at the edge of her vision, and only then did Illiawe realize that the human cloak was gone from around her shoulders, ripped away when she had thrown the tyranid off.

The Guardsmen stared at her in shock until Palicia’s shouts reminded them of their duty. The woman looked for a second at Illiawe. Her lips were stretched in a thin line and, though her eyes were surprised, she did not show it. Their eyes locked for a moment, then Palicia turned her attention back to the tyranids.

Then the silver-clad Gray Knights were there, accompanied by the black armored Deathwatch. Guigrim led them, cutting through the tyranids, his arm-mounted weapons firing. Guigrim paused for just a single instant when he saw Illiawe, as did the Deathwatch. She shrugged and pulled the cowl of the shadowseer costume over her head, clipped the mask onto her face, and activated the suit’s holofields.

There was a massive rumbling in the air, fire came from the sky, explosions raking the tyranid swarm. Three dozen human planes slowed to hover a few feet above the ground. From those planes, the black armored forms of the Sisters of Battle emerged, jumping out to land among the tyranid swarm, swords and guns already cutting into the creatures. More of the Battle Sisters dropped into the space cleared out by them, and they pushed forward, dousing the ravening tyranids in fire.

The arrival of the Orders Militant provided some much needed support, and, together, they struck back at the tyranids, cutting them down by the score. At last, the battleground grew silent, save for the groaning of the wounded and dying.

Illiawe looked around her. There were fires everywhere, billowing from the burnt-out husks of human tanks and ammunition that had detonated. The green-armored form of the Guardsmen and the red and white tyranids lay all over the ground. Here and there among the dead was a black armored form of a Deathwatch soldier.

There was a commotion behind her and Illiawe curiously turned to look. The human vehicles were moving, reversing in pairs and trios to the north gate of the fortress. Sadeus came running up to them.

“We are pulling back into the fortress,” he said in a breathless voice.

“Are you all right?” Palicia asked him. The colonel had an ugly looking gash under his left cheek, and his left arm hung limply by his side.

“I’m fine,” he replied flippantly. “A bug fell on me, is all.”

“Come again?”

“A bug tried to jump on me,” Sadeus explained. “An autocannon round tore its guts out, then the rest fell on me. My forcefield was down at that time, so I got crushed.”

“I think your arm’s broken.”

“I’ll get someone to look at it later. The governor wants us to pull back into the fortress. I guess he and that other inquisitor managed to shout down Chiro.”

“You will not speak ill of an inquisitor, Sadeus,” Palicia snapped.

“Come now, Palicia. I know that you don’t think too highly of him, either.”

“Chiro still holds the title of an inquisitor of the Holy Inquisition,” Palicia said disapprovingly.

“I’m likely to call him by other titles myself,” Sadeus replied.

Then a black armored form came up behind Illiawe, and she felt rather than saw the barrel of a weapon raised to her head. Illiawe spun around, there was the sound of metal striking metal, and a pistol went off, the bolt whizzing harmlessly into the air. Guigrim was there, and he had a Deathwatch Marine in a firm grip, one arm around the black armored man’s neck and another clutching at the man’s right wrist. Metal scraped against metal as Guigrim tightened his grip around the other man’s wrist, the black vambrace actually crumpling slightly as the two armored warriors struggled for the aim of the pistol. Then the Deathwatch Marine dropped the weapon, his left arm shot up, using Guigrim’s arm to spin himself around so that he faced the silver armored human. His face was mottled with barely suppressed fury.

“Why do you protect it?” the black armored warrior burst out.

Guigrim shifted his grip, his gauntleted hand coming down on the top of the other warrior’s black breastplate. He pulled the man close, shoving his face into the other human’s. “The xenos has helped greatly in our fight against the tyranids. She has helped save many worlds. Show a little gratitude.”

“It is doubtlessly following its own agenda.”

“Perhaps, but the survival of many more worlds depend upon her survival. Should you take issue with her, bring it to Inquisitor Volorus. Harm her, however, and he will judge you most severely.”

The black armored warrior pushed Guigrim away. He looked at the silver armor of the Gray Knight, and his eyes narrowed. “Which chapter are you from? I do not recognize your heraldry.”

“The Silver Crusaders,” Guigrim said promptly, and Illiawe resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. “Descended from the Ultramarines themselves.”

“I have not heard of your chapter,” the warrior said pugnaciously.

“You would not have. We combat the tyranid threat, tirelessly and in secret. Few have heard of our chapter, but many respected members of the Ordo Xenos have sought our aid.”

The black armored warrior scowled at him, his scarred face contorting horribly. He glared at Guigrim for a second before walking off.

“Well, then,” Palicia said after a moment of silence. “I’m glad that’s sorted out.” Her voice was casual, as though talking about the weather. She looked at Illiawe. “Normally, I’d be asking a lot more questions, but, if an inquisitor trusts you enough, I am not going to argue. Besides, you did save a lot of Guardsmen.”

“Are you getting soft on me, Palicia?” Sadeus asked jokingly.

“Not likely.” She looked around at the soldiers near them. “Get moving!” she screamed at them. “We have to get in the fortress before the bugs come back.”

Guigrim and Illiawe left them to themselves, looking back out over the trench for the tyranids.

“Thank you,” Illiawe said to him.

Guigrim shrugged. “The inquisitor would not be too happy if I allowed you to get killed. I don’t really understand the exact purpose of our current objectives, but, from what Inquisitor Volorus and the librarians told me, there is more at stake here than an eldar’s desire for an object.”

“You are as transparent as glass, Guigrim. You are more concerned about the information that we could provide you regarding Chaos, are you not?”

“Perhaps. I think that I am at least entitled to some explanation, however. Why are you after this particular artifact?”

Illiawe became wary. Should the humans learn about the real value that Spiorad was to the eldar, it was almost inevitable that they would find some way to get a better deal. To say too little, however, was to arouse suspicion. Illiawe shrugged, trying to make her movements appear nonchalant. “Spiorad is an object of great power. Eventually, it would fall into the possession of those who would use it as a weapon and inflict great destruction upon his enemies.”

“Then we must destroy it.”

Illiawe glanced at him. “You do not understand. The spirit boxes cannot be destroyed, no more than you can destroy a daemon prince. They will always return. Even if you could, Spiorad calls to those who would use it. The thought of destroying it becomes reprehensible. It draws ever greater danger to its owner and all that he cares for until he is finally forced to use it. Then it feeds upon his soul until he is but a withered husk.”

“We have been trained for such things. We can at least banish it.”

“Then it will unleash a great calamity upon you when you do.”

“I am prepared to give my life if need be.”

“You will give more than simply your life. Nevertheless, I am not prepared to do so.”

“You do not have the will to do what is necessary.”

“That may be so. But I know that this is not a necessity. We have ways to contain Spiorad such that it may never bring harm. This is what we are going to do.”

It took only an hour for the Guardsmen to pull back into the fortress and take up positions within its walls. The survival of the humans depended greatly upon the stout walls of the fortress, and so they had a great deal of motivation. Illiawe and Guigrim made their way to the command center at the heart of the fortress. Volorus and Belaro were still at the holographic map, watching the progress of the tyranids at other parts of the planet. Guigrim and Illiawe went through the heavy doors of the room, the Astartes’ armor gaining them immediate entry and unobstructed passage to Volorus.

The inquisitor looked up as they neared, and he nodded in greeting.

“How did Noshan and the Marines do?”

“Relatively well. Belaro here got some of the factories that make grenades and converted them a little and are shipping the weapons over here. The Marines spent the whole night planting bombs the size of their helmets all throughout the tunnels. From what I understand, the tyranids started scrambling around in pure panic the first few times that happened. After that, they spread out all throughout the tunnels, and things got trickier, but the Marines still managed a couple more trips, since the tyranids had to spread themselves out too thin, what with the first few bombs killing a lot of them and all. But that didn’t last, of course. We have taken out their ships, but the tyranids appear to be multiplying all the same.”

Illiawe tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

Volorus nodded. “Almost certain.”

Illiawe quickly sunk her mind into the skeins. “I see,” she finally breathed. “It looks like the tyranids have managed to grow some hives that perform the same tasks as their hiveships do. These are located all throughout the planet.”

“Processing biomass and producing tyranids?”

Illiawe nodded. “I think that I have a plan, but I will need to talk to Noshan first.”

“He’s over in that corner resting.” He turned back to the displays. “There is nothing much that we could do about those hives. However, we should see if we could try to hold out for a little longer. The rest of the fleet is still unavailable, unfortunately. The rest of the planet is still infested with tyranids.” He turned to Belaro. “That is another problem. Even if we manage to kill all the tyranids, the rest of the planet’s already infected. It’s almost impossible to clear it out.”

Belaro smiled. “Let me worry about that. I know a Rogue Trader who claims that he has gotten his hands on something that cleans the infestation left behind by tyranids right off the planet without needing to blow it up. He’s offering a rather handsome price if I would agree to let him test it out when we are done here. I can take that money and rebuild the spaceports on this planet, and even have a little left over when I’m done.”

Volorus laughed shortly. “It always come back to that, doesn’t it?”

“Money? Of course. A whole star system is very expensive to run, inquisitor.”

“What would you do if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we’ll go back to burning it up with fire, both the normal and psychic kind, and get a few Ecclesiarchal priests to clean and sanctify the ground. It’ll be a bit more expensive, but it’s still cheaper than building whole spaceports in space.”

Volorus shook his head. “Anyway, those other worlds in this system are still in operation. We have orbital superiority, so shipping a few extra guns over would not be a problem. It’s finding the crew for them that’s the problem.”

Illiawe shrugged. “Just teach a few humans which button to press to fire, and how to load the guns. They do not have to know how to aim. The tyranids are hardly difficult to hit when they start charging, and the humans can learn as they go.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Illiawe shrugged. “That has always been a rather large flaw in humans.”

Volorus ignored that. “There is really not much else that we can do except to wait and pray.”

Illiawe nodded. She turned away, looking around the room, until she saw Noshan standing by himself in a corner. She approached him. “Noshan,” she called out.

“Yes?”

“There is something that I need your help with.”

“Of course, farseer.”

“Where is your psyker entourage? We will need their help with this.”

“I could have them here within the hour.”

“Good. I will wait for them to arrive.”

Noshan nodded and his eyes grew distant for a moment. “What is this all about?” he asked Illiawe.

“I took a look into the skeins. The tyranids usually send biomass up to their hiveships for processing. They have created something similar here on the planet. If we manage to kill it, we will have a greater chance of surviving. At the very least, it means that we would not have to kill the tyranids again every so often.”

Noshan nodded. “This can’t be the only one.”

“It is not. However, it is the only one that we will have to worry about first. If this turns out well, then, perhaps, we might consider targeting the others. Will you be able to acquire sealed suits?”

Noshan nodded.

“Good. When I next meet you, have them ready. One more thing. Do not tell Volorus of the details. I fear he will object too vocally.”

“Volorus has the utmost faith in us. He will not object if we were to take no one else in our strike.”

“Tell him if you must, Noshan. Just make sure that he does not send any troops out. We do not have enough soldiers here as it is.”

“You are very concerned about that, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. That is why I am repeating myself so often.”

They met at the top of the fortress, in an out of the way place along the parapets. There were artillery guns there as large as any super heavy vehicle, surrounded by dozens of soldiers.

“Do not move through the Warp,” Illiawe said, fighting back a sigh, “let the Warp move you.”

“Sorry,” Noshan apologized. “It is a strange concept. We’ve never done it this way before.”

“That is because humans refuse to think that there might be other ways to achieve something. Try it again.”

Noshan nodded, and he disappeared, reappearing at the far end of the parapet.

“Finally,” Illiawe muttered.

“It is much easier this way,” Noshan commented as he sidled back.

“Of course,” Illiawe said flippantly. “You would come to appreciate that when you start to move through obstacles.” She motioned to the other psykers. “When you have all practiced with moving yourself, try it with something heavy and cumbersome. You might want to perfect it. If possible, I would want to find this creature and kill it by tonight.”

“Tonight?” Noshan asked. “We have only just started.”

“Why put it off? It would be relatively quick. If we combine our psychic energies, we should be able to kill even a bio-titan.”

“Should?”

“I like to be cautious.”

“I will talk to Volorus if I were you. He might be able to provide you with a better alternative. Some sort of weapon, perhaps.”

“I would rather leave Volorus out of this.”

“Then I will ask him for it.”

Illiawe squinted at him. “On second thought, allow me to do so. You might slip up and reveal things you should not.”

Noshan nodded. “We will be waiting here.” He glanced up at the sky. “It is not yet noon. You have got plenty of time.”

Illiawe sighed and went away to find Volorus.

Another man was consulting with Volorus when Illiawe stepped into the command center. He was barely out of his youth, with fiery red hair and a temper to match. He was flamboyantly dressed, his attire rather similar to Uriel’s. Where Uriel wore it with a certain degree of dignity, however, the ornate robes made this man look almost like a child who had stumbled into a particularly long piece of draping and had subsequently torn the furnishing off its rails. He was shouting when Illiawe entered the room, his voice audible even before she had stepped through the doors. Those around him gave him a wide berth, more due to the fact that his arms were gyrating about him like a broken windmill than any semblance of respect. Volorus, to his credit, bore the youth’s tirade with a tolerant, if mildly annoyed, expression. Governor Belaro, on the other hand, was far from mildly annoyed. He had a deep scowl on his heavily lined face, and his expression grew darker as the seconds passed. He was careful, however, to keep his expression from Chiro – not that it was really necessary. Chiro appeared too absorbed in his own rantings to pay much attention to anything that was happening around him.

Then the young human caught sight of Illiawe. “You!” he practically screamed. “What are you doing here? I should have you shot. Volorus might be willing to tolerate your foul presence, but I am not! Get out of my command room!” He gestured wildly at the door.

“You must be Inquisitor Chiro,” Illiawe said mildly.

“He is,” Volorus said. “I do apologize. Our two races have never had the best relationship, but, as you can see, some of us are rather more vocal about that fact. Frequently and very loudly, in this case.”

Inquisitor Chiro was still shouting. Illiawe idly wondered why he had not yet unholstered his weapon.

Volorus moved away from Chiro, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, his rank protects him to a certain degree, so you would just have to bear with that like the rest of us, I’m afraid.”

“How did he become an inquisitor?”

“The title is not given only to suitable candidates, unfortunately. There are criteria to meet, of course, but sometimes, zealotry counts for a lot in the selection process. Usually, there’s someone around to rein those like him in. It looks like I’ve been selected this time.” He shrugged. “We all started out in a similar way. He’ll learn and, hopefully, mellow out. The Imperium cannot survive on idealism alone.” Volorus shook his head. “Were you after something?”

Illiawe nodded. “The bombs that the Marines have been using to destroy the tunnels would not be powerful enough to kill the hive. However, if we could get something larger, Noshan and the human psykers would be able to translocate it near the hive.”

“A really large explosive? I suppose that I could spare a few shells.” He rubbed his cheek. “Perhaps the melta warheads from a Basilisk would be powerful enough. Anything bigger and you might not be able to move it. If we modify it a little, it would make a powerful bomb. Give me some time to think of something. I’ll have your weapon by sunset.”

When the tyranids struck once more, they did not bother charging across the ground as they had before. Instead, the ground just a few feet before the fortress heaved and burst upward, and the serpentine creatures came spilling out. Behind them came tyranid warriors. The human ships fired shells that burrowed into the ground, blasting at the tyranids there. The creatures scaled the walls of the fortress, often using the corpses of the other tyranids to aid them.

The defenders pulled back into the fortress, making use of its corridors to funnel the tyranids. When the attack was finally over, corpses, both human and tyranid, lay strewn within the halls of the fortress. Systematically, the humans went about the corridors, vaporizing the bodies with meltaguns or throwing them off the front of the fortress to be burned.

There were three more of such attacks that day, and the hallways soon became filled with the groans of the wounded that lined its walls. Volorus’ face was grim when Illiawe met him just as the sun was going down.

“We have barely enough men left to man the defenses,” he reported. “Most of the vehicles and artillery platforms are damaged in one way or another. Thankfully, there are enough vehicles left to hold the courtyards and the main corridors, and the main gates appear to be holding.” He sighed. “I have your weapon, if you want to have a look at it. It’s sort of like a larger version of a vortex grenade, so you’ll have enough time to get out before it detonates.”

“How big is it?”

“Not very. The governor pointed out that we haven’t seen too many bio-titans or even the larger tyranids yet, so this hive can’t be too large. That’s helpful, because it’ll be easier for you to move the bomb.”

Illiawe nodded. “What is Chiro trying to do now?” she asked, nodding toward where the inquisitor was in a heated conversation with Belaro.

“If you can’t guess by this point, you’re pretty dull.”

Illiawe rolled her eyes. “Is he still trying to bombard the planet?”

“The latest attack has given him an excuse to bring it up again. Honestly, I would agree with him if you weren’t so sure that we will win here.”

“What was that you said?” Illiawe asked slyly.

“You heard me. This tyranid swarm is quite small, considering their usual size, but we are wasting a lot of lives here. I don’t think that Belaro is going to allow him to continue for much longer, though. He doesn’t have much in the way of humor, and Chrio’s tantrums weren’t too funny to begin with. Come to think of it, I should really see if we can do something about the recruitment process of the Inquisition. Chiro’s probably a particularly extreme example, but it really is time for the inquisitorial orders to drop the fanaticism and take in more level-headed people.” He muttered angrily under his breath. “I guess we should see if Belaro needs my help.”

“I will wait here.”

“Good idea.” He went to join the other two men. Chiro postulated wildly for a while, not noticing that Belaro’s mouth had drawn into a thin line or that he had developed a twitch at his neck.

“Enough!” the governor suddenly roared. For a man so advanced in his age, he had a surprisingly loud voice. All movement in the command center came to a sudden stop as heads turned in the direction of the three men. A heavy tension hung in the air. One does not threaten an inquisitor without reprisal, whether instantaneous or deferred, and Chiro looked like the sort of inquisitor with a very long memory. Belaro, however, did not really seem to care. He jabbed his finger angrily at Chiro. “Your refusal to draw back into the fortress has cost many lives today, my lord.” The last words he spoke with barely concealed irony. “Their deaths is a pointless waste.”

The inquisitor’s expression grew first shocked, then outraged. “I will have you executed for this!” he screamed, his face becoming, if anything, even redder. Illiawe inched closer to them.

“You have no jurisdiction over me in this matter here,” Belaro said in a quiet voice.

“I’m an inquisitor!”

“You’re not the only one,” Volorus said. He looked around him. “Somebody bring me a vox unit.”

Several were brought forward, the humans stumbling over each other in their haste to comply. Volorus selected one of them and jabbed at it a few times.

“What is it?” Uriel’s voice came over the unit’s speakers.

“Please identify yourself,” Volorus asked for the benefit of Chiro.

“I am Inquisitor Uriel of the Ordo Hereticus.”

“And are you aware of the situation here, Uriel?”

“I am, yes.”

Volorus looked pointedly at Chiro. “We have a matter here that we would like your input in.”

“Of course.”

“Chiro here is planning to execute Governor Belaro for criticizing his tactical competency. The point of contention is whether Chiro has the authority to do that.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes. This matter, however, falls under the jurisdiction of the Ordo Hereticus more than the Ordo Xenos. Unless I agree on the matter, the man who orders the governor’s execution is technically a traitor to the Imperium, now or in a few decades time – assuming that the governor does not commit any acts of treason, of course.”

“And do you find fault with Belaro’s statement?”

“I do find Inquisitor Chiro to be a rather poor example of a servant of the Emperor, actually. The waste of his troops traded precious Imperium resources for pride. I am willing to give him the benefit of doubt, however, and think that his blunder is a result of him simply falling short of the ideal that we all struggle to achieve rather than any deliberate malice toward the Divine Emperor or His Most Holy Imperium.”

Volorus smiled beafitically at Chiro. “Well, there you have it. The Inquisition does not always adhere to the rules, but appearances must be kept up, at least. The least that we could do is to obey technicalities, wouldn’t you say?”

Inquisitor’s Chiro’s eyes were bulging, but he said nothing. Then he stormed away.

Volorus shook his head. “I have half a mind to beat some sense into that kid.”

“Only half?” Belaro asked in mock surprise. “I see now that I am too intolerant. I shall repent and strive to emulate you, my lord.”

“Stop that.”

The corners of Belaro’s mouth twitched. “You’ll have to beat the fanaticism out of him first, though.”

“The Ordo Xenos has always gone to extremes,” Volorus agreed. “I hope that’s the last we hear from him.” He turned to Illiawe. “Come on, I’ll go show you the bomb, then you can gather up Noshan and the others.”

The bomb had been placed at one of the many landing bays in the fortress. As Volorus had said, it was not a large weapon, reaching only up to her waist and thin enough that she could wrap her arms fully around it.

“How powerful is this?” Illiawe asked with some concern.

“One of these could take out a whole column of super-heavies. At least, that’s what Belaro claims. He owns the factories, so he must know what he’s talking about. Be careful, though. It’s incredibly volatile, but we figured that it will not be a problem for you.” His brows creased in concern. “Will it?”

“No, it will not. We do not have to place it too closely to the hive, then? That is good. I doubt that your psykers are proficient enough to move with much accuracy yet.”

“All right, then. When will you start?”

Illiawe tilted her head. “I told Noshan that he would have until night. I think that he will need the time to practice, anyway.”

“I don’t think that Noshan needs all that much time to practice,” Volorus jumped to the defense of the psykers.

“I beg to differ.”

Volorus shrugged. “Shall we wait in the command center, then?”

“Go on ahead. I will wait here.”

“Why? Because of Chiro?” He smirked. “Don’t worry about him. Watching him lose his cool might be taxing, but it has its own hilarity.”

When the sun began to set, Illiawe and Volorus returned to the landing bay. She sent out a thought to Noshan, calling the human psykers to her. There was a shift in the air and Noshan and his fellow psykers appeared behind Illiawe. She waved them over, gesturing for them to gather around the weapon.

“We are going to do this slowly," Illiawe instructed. “We will first take a look at the area surrounding the hive. Then we will return and move the bomb over.”

“Do you know where it is?” Noshan asked.

“Well, of course I do. What a silly question. Just concentrate on moving yourself over there. I will hide us from detection, but I do not want to remain for longer than needed.”

“You don’t all have to go, do you?” Volorus asked, frowning.

“I cannot carry the whole of the bomb by myself and hide my presence at the same time, Volorus. Noshan and his friends will have to do the carrying.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

Illiawe looked speculatively at the psykers. “Before we start, why don’t you try picking the bomb up and move to the other side of the landing bay?”

Volorus nervously bit on his knuckles. “Be careful with that. You don’t want to accidentally blow this whole place up.”

“We’ll try,” Noshan promised.

“Do more than try.”

The humans gathered around the device, their brows furrowing for a second. Then they were gone. Illiawe turned, saw them standing around the weapon in the shadows on the other side of the bay, and smiled.

“It looks like we are ready,” she observed to Volorus. She crooked a finger at the psykers, and they were by her side in an instant. “Follow what I do. When we get there, take a good look around you. I will not have time to lead you when we are carrying the bomb with us.”

“This all seems very complicated, Illiawe,” Volorus observed. “Can’t they just provide you with the power while you do the work? You know what to do, so there’ll be fewer risks, too.”

“Not really. When a group of psykers decide to pool their power together, it requires some kind of proximity to each other. The eldar have discovered ways to circumvent this requirement, but Noshan and his psykers do not have the tools or skills necessary to do so. The mountains where the hive is are quite far away, and I do not want to make a mistake just as I am coming out into the caves. It is easier and faster to do it this way.” She paused. “There is another reason too, of course. I promised to teach Noshan something about the eldar use of psychic abilities. This is as good a time as any other, and I would prefer to do it now than if we are really in danger.”

Volorus nodded, then his eyes slowly narrowed as the implications of what Illiawe had said slowly dawned on him. “Noshan,” he said in a dangerous voice. “Did you make a deal with Illiawe?”

Noshan winced. “Thanks,” he said dryly to Illiawe. “Yes, my lord, I did.”

“What exactly did you offer in exchange?”

“Simply to open the idea of working with the eldar up to you, Volorus,” Illiawe replied for Noshan.

“You and I are going to have a long talk about this, Noshan,” Volorus said.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Illiawe said. “When you get down to it, the offer that he made me was insignificant compared to the one that you made with me.”

“If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have made that deal with you, would I?”

“Probably not. Now, if you do not mind, there is a bomb that we have to plant.”

“One more thing,” Volorus said. “That’s a rather expensive bomb. If possible, try to place it somewhere where it’ll do the most damage.”

“I will see what I can do,” Illiawe promised.

There was the shifting feeling as she translocated herself to the place she had seen in her visions, in the very base of a mountain range lying to the north. She could feel the humans follow her. There was a strange feeling as she felt herself moving, even though her senses told her otherwise, then they were inside a large cavern under the range. The caves were almost devoid of light, and Illiawe turned her mask’s night vision on. The stone of the walls were still fresh, signs that the cavern had only recently been dug out. Ichor and slime coated every surface of the cavern, along with strange growths larger than Illiawe, twisting and coiling about themselves. There were tyranids there too, though fewer than Illiawe was expecting. Their carapaces were glistening in the dim light, signs that they had just been hatched. Most of them appeared to be tyranid warriors. Larger creatures strolled around the cave, laying clutches of eggs. In the exact middle of the cavern was a hulking mass, a dome of flesh and bone. It was quite a bit smaller than Illiawe was expecting, only a little larger than a Vampire gunship. There was a gaping entrance in its side. As she watched, the maw opened with gross wet sounds, and one of the serpentine tyranids slithered out. Half a minute later, it opened again, and other of the creatures came out. Illiawe felt a cold knot form in her stomach. At this rate, it would not take the tyranids long until they had another swarm of sufficient size to attack the humans with. She sent a quick pulse of thought to the humans, and they translocated back to the fortress.

“Well?” Volorus asked as soon as they appeared.

“We saw it,” Illiawe confirmed. “They are consuming those mountains to the north from the inside for biomass, but it appears that they do not want to forage for more if it exposes them to the guns of the ships above.”

“They are short on biomass, then?” Volorus asked intently.

“It would appear that way,” Noshan confirmed. “We saw a few tyranids laying clutches of eggs. It is almost as though they are rationing biomass, reserving it only for those that take too long to grow.”

Volorus rubbed at his cheek. “That’s something, anyway. Will you be going with the bomb now?”

Illiawe nodded. “I dare not delay. The tyranids were being produced at a frightening rate. They are concentrating on those burrowing ones that attacked earlier, but it would be good to wipe them out, at least.”

Volorus nodded. “Good luck, then.”

The humans gathered once again around the bomb, and Illiawe pulled the shroud back around them, concealing their minds and bodies. They came back out in the cavern, materializing near the center. Noshan bent down, pressing his hand to something at the side of the device. A strobing light flashed once, and Noshan stood, nodding to Illiawe. She gathered her will, ready to leave. Something brushed her mind, probing, then a heavy weight pressed against her mind as something unimaginably vast pushed against her thoughts. There was a sound like the chittering of a trillion creatures, and her cloak wavered, starting to give away under that onslaught.

Then the Warp was flowing around her and, when light returned to her eyes, she found herself back in the fortress. She was breathing heavily, and she struggled to get it back under control.

“Was that the tyranids?” Noshan asked, his eyes a little wild.

Illiawe nodded.

“Did they find us?”

“They knew that something was there with them. I am not certain whether they were aware of us.” She straightened. “Come, I want to have a look at the effects of the bomb.”

They made their way to the top of the fortress and Illiawe looked out toward the range of mountains to the north, magnifying her vision with her mask. There was a perfectly circular hole at the base of the tallest of the mountains, a hole that stretched halfway up the mountain. Even as she watched, the peak tilted to one side and the rest of the mountain gave way, collapsing in on itself, causing a great ball of dust to billow out.

Volorus lowered the binoculars that he had to his eyes. “I wish it were always this easy,” he said with a broad grin.

Illiawe nodded. “It is fortunate that the presence of the Great Devourer is so mild here.” She looked up at the night sky. “It might be best if you took some rest,” she said to the humans. She was yearning for sleep, but she knew that it would not come.

Volorus turned to Noshan. “Go,” he said to the psykers. “I don’t think that I can sleep, anyway.”

“How long until they can go out again?” Volorus asked.

Illiawe chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Moving something so large is not as easy as it looks. I would have trouble after a couple of trips, and I have had a lot more practice at it than Noshan and his friends do. I don’t think we dare do so again, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“The tyranids broke through my barriers just as we were leaving. They will be waiting for us if we tried to do so again.”

Volorus sighed and leaned on the battlement. “Well, perhaps we could think of another way to get rid of them.”

“Things could be worse,” Illiawe said.

“How?”

“The tyranids could decide to abandon their defensive stance and come swarming out from under the ground.”

Volorus laughed shortly. “That might be a little problematic.”

They stood there in the open for quite some time, gazing out at the horizon. The night was deathly silent, the tension easily detectable even from where they stood. Down below, like little insects, soldiers scurried here and there inside the fortress walls. Barked orders drifted up now and then, so muffled and indistinct as to have an almost ethereal quality to it. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

It was Volorus who first broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking,” he said after taking a deep breath, “I have been rather callous toward you since we met.”

“Not for these last two days, you have not,” Illiawe observed with a small smile.

“That’s what I’m getting at. I have been reassessing some things recently, and I’ve decided that you’re not too bad.”

“Your approval is very touching,” Illiawe muttered.

“Please, don’t make this more difficult than it already is. The point I’m getting at is that I haven’t actually given you a fair chance.”

“Are you apologizing?”

“I suppose I am.”

Illiawe smiled. “You do not have to do that. Uriel has told me about your past experiences with my race. Your attitude is justified.”

Volorus leaned his elbows on the parapet. “Nevertheless, perhaps it is time to put that behind me.”

Illiawe turned and leaned back against the wall. “What was it exactly that brought this on?”

“I would rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind,” Volorus muttered. Then he suddenly straightened, peering intently at the horizon, his hand fishing for the binoculars.

“What is it?” Illiawe asked.

“I thought I saw something near these mountains.”

Illiawe, too, scanned the horizon. “There,” she said after a while, pointing at several specks circling above the collapsed mountain.

Volorus followed her finger, then he swore. “Looks like they are finally bringing the flying bugs here. Do you see any more of them?”

As if on cue, the sky above the mountains were suddenly filled with a thick mass of beating wings as hundreds of winged reptilian creatures clawed their way into the air.

“By the Emperor,” Volorus swore.

“Are we able to fight that off?”

“Barely.” He spoke rapidly into the vox unit at his collar, calling for the human interceptors at other parts of the planet to return to the fortress.

“Is that altogether wise?” Illiawe asked.

“What else can we do? If those tyranids come near the fortress, we are doomed.”

Alarms blared in the fortress below, a shocking sound that shattered the silence. All around her on the roof, heavy weapon systems swiveled ponderously about. Swarms of missiles were fired, the smoke that they trailed along behind them nearly blotting out the horizon. There were shouts from below as, once again, the ground heaved and tyranids broke out before the wall.

Volorus looked grimly as the creatures scaled the wall. “It’s lucky that this fortress had been built to withstand such tactics. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if the tyranids can attack us from within.”

“That is scant comfort, Volorus. The tyranids are desperate. We have deprived them of a great deal, and they will seek to destroy us.” She pointed toward the horizon, where a swarm of tyranid creatures too large to fit into the tunnels came lumbering toward them. “They will make one charge and nothing more until we kill them all or they have wiped us out.”

Volorus scowled. “I think it is rather obvious which of that would happen first.” He rubbed at his neck and yawned. “I’ve had enough of this anyway.”

“Do not despair, Volorus. There is still hope.”

“Your mystery support? I don’t know, Illiawe. They seem to be perfectly willing to wait for the tyranids to bleed us out.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. If the tyranids overrun this place, then Uriel will order the planet be scoured clean. There is really no hope for the tyranids. They can hide as deep underground as they want; it’s not going to help them when this rock gets cracked in two.”

As Volorus had predicted, the defenders did not hold out for long. This was not to say that the humans did not put up much of a fight. The tyranids were simply too numerous, however, and the defenders too few. It was not the sort of odds that any amount of bravery could help with.

Grudgingly, the order to retreat was given, and the humans pulled back off the wall and into the fortified corridors of the fortress, with their tanks providing cover as the tyranids scaled it and came pouring down from the top.

The humans activated explosives as they retreated, destroying corridors and collapsing ceilings in attempts to impede the tyranids and to kill as many as was possible. One courtyard that was particularly packed with the ravening creatures was obliterated by a single shell from one of the orbiting ships, vaporizing the monsters and leaving behind a massive crater of cracked glass.

Eventually, the humans reached the heart of the fortress, a series of constructions that resembled heavily reinforced bunkers rather than rooms, and they settled down to wait for the phase of battle that the humans gloomily called the “last stand”. Officers paraded up and down the bunkers, reminding the troops about the honor and glory that they were privileged enough to receive from their Emperor by fighting to their last breath in his name.

None of those surviving soldiers received glory and honor that day. Massive asteroids, pushed by spluttering engines that trailed oily smoke, crashed some distance before the fortress. From those asteroids came a massive, incoherent war cry. The asteroids burst open from within with terrifying force, pieces of it flying high into the air and landing on those tyranids still before the walls. Like a sea of flesh, the hulking figures of the orks came rushing out of the craters left behind by the asteroids. Laughs and shouts and bawdy challenges came from the orks. The tyranids, realizing the new threat, turned away from the fortress, charging to meet the newcomers.

The two forces came together with a loud crash, and pure chaos broke out. Orks wrestled with tyranids in a flurry of grinding blades and thrashing claws. They bit at the tyranids even as they struggled to keep the creatures’ jaws from closing around their necks.

Those tyranids that have not drawn close to the humans turned away with their characteristic singleness of purpose, moving back the way that they had come from. The orks gave vent to another mighty war cry as the ranks of the tyranids were bolstered, and they fell upon the tyranids with renewed vigor. The air filled with laughter and whooping and even a few snatches of bawdy and off-tune singing.

Then pillars of fire lanced down from the sky. The mighty wall of the fortress that had withstood assault after assault by the tyranids finally came down, reduced to nothing more than glowing slag, even as everything else around it was vaporized.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 21

Ghahzlay stepped out of his shuttle with a broad grin on his face and a swagger in his steps. He had a dented and slightly lumpy crown on his large head, and a patched cape was tied crudely around his neck, the heavy material swirling lazily around his ankles.

“Oi!” he roared as soon as he saw Illiawe, “dere’s me pointy ear friend!” He laughed coarsely and stepped forward, his hand shooting forward to clasp Illiawe familiarly on the arm. Illiawe stumbled and rubbed at it, wincing as she did so.

Ghahzlay laughed again. “Ya ‘umie friend said t’ me “dat farseer iz on da planet” or somefin’ like dat, and I fink t’ meself, “who’s dis git ‘e’s blabberin’ onna ‘bout?” Now, y’ an’ I both know dat ‘umies ain’t too clever. So I decided ta let ‘im live, on account o’ me ‘aving chased dat big bug I told ya ‘bout o’er ‘ere, an’ I don’t want ‘im getting’ away again, becoz I’m getting’ real tired of chasin’ ‘im all over da place, see?”

Illiawe nodded. “Vaguely. I’ve been expecting you for a few days now. What kept you?”

Ghahzlay made an indelicate sound. “I wuz wif da boyz, an’ we chased dat big bug I wuz talkin’ ‘bout. Now, da bug, we were finkin’ dat ‘e wuz a good fighta, but when me an’ da boyz rushed at ‘im ta kill ‘im an’ take back me shoota, ‘e runs away. Now, I wuz not too hapy ‘bout dat, so I got me sum moar ships, an’ we chased afta dat big bug.

“Now, dat big bug iz a real coward. ‘E ran from star t’ star, an’ ‘e stayed fer a while at each, an’den run away sum more when me an’ da boyz start fightin’. Now, me boyz are tough, so we weren’t ‘bout t’ run away from a fight even if it means dat da bug iz runnin’ away. Da shoota calls t’ me, see, an’ I knew dat ‘e wouldn’t run where I culd not find ‘im.

“Problem wuz, da bugs dig dese real big tunnels. Me an’ da boyz spend a very long time movin’ through dose tunnels tryin’ t’ make sure we did not leave a bug behind. Dat wuld be runnin’ from a battle, an’ me boyz don’t run from battles.

“Well, we finally chased ‘im down ‘ere, an’ me an’ da boyz, we were finkin’ dat we wuld ‘ave t’ chase ‘im down sum moar. Den we come an’ find da ‘umies’ ships ‘ere. Da boyz were mighty angry becoz dey were finkin’ dat da ‘umiez stole our fight, but den I saw da bugs everywhere, so da boyz got ready t’ fight. But I saw right off dat we need a clear place t’ land an’ find da big bug.

“Den I said t’ da ‘umie up dere t’ shoot at me boyz while da bugs ‘ere wuz all busy wif dem. An’ da ‘umie wuz finkin’ dat I wuz crazy t’ shoot me own boyz, but ‘e’s too stupid t’ understand, is all. Da boyz liked being shot at by dat big ship gunz.” Ghahzlay seemed really proud of his plan. “Anyway, I came down ‘ere, finkin’ dat I have t’ speak t’ some ‘umie, but den I saw ya. Da rest ya know.”

Illiawe nodded. “You are planning to fight your way to the heart of the hive, are you not? There are a lot of tyranids here. How do you plan on doing that?”

Ghahzlay threw his head back and laughed, sending spittle flying out in front of him. “Ya are funny. Dat’s why I like ya. Da Bad Parnz ‘as grown a lot since ya ‘elped me kick ‘Edioez off da frone. It ‘az grown a lot. I ‘ave many boyz now, an’ many planets, and lotz o’ teef. I’ve bin killin’ a lota lousy warbosses, ya know, and orky klans are lookin’ t’ join da Bad Parnz now.” He gestured vaguely at the sky. “Right now, me boyz are out fightin’ da bugs on lotsa different planets. An’ when I say “lotz”, I am talkin’ more dan twenty.”

“Do you even know how many twenty is?”

“Of coz I do.” He held up his hands and wiggled his plump fingers, then he pointed to his feet. “I am not like da boyz. I am cleva, an’ I can count ta twenty,” he announced proudly. “Gork an’ Mork gave orkz ten fingas an’ ten toes, an’ orkz shuld use all o’ dem t’ count, not jus’ one ‘and. It insults da gods.”

Illiawe shook her head. “Fine. How many orks do you have to help you take this planet?”

“Lotz.”

Uriel arrived in a shuttle then. He stepped out with Estoris and her squad flanking him, approaching them and looking cautiously at Ghahzlay. “You make interesting friends,” he observed to Illiawe.

“Indeed,” she replied, giving him a sly look, which Uriel ignored.

“I figured that I don’t have to supervise the bombarding of the tyranids now that this area is safe.” He looked around at the ruins of the fortress and the remnants of the human defenders and shrugged. “Sort of, anyway.”

In Illiawe’s defense, her failure to notice the danger was not entirely her fault. The relief at seeing Ghahzlay finally arrive, combined with two days of combat without sleep, had dulled her perceptions by quite a bit. Ghahzlay, however, did notice the danger. The ork gave a shout and shoved Illiawe away, picking her up off the ground. There was a loud crack and something whizzed past her. She hit the ground a dozen feet away and rolled into a crouch, one leg stretched to the side to keep her balance.

Ghahzlay was clutching a Deathwatch Marine, lifting him up off his feet with one hand by the head. The other was gripping the Marine’s weapon.

A burst of shells struck Ghahzlay in his heavily armored back, and he stumbled, but appeared otherwise unharmed. A small group of Deathwatch Marines approached them, their weapons ready. At a gesture from Uriel, Estoris and her sisters moved to stand before the Marines, blocking their path.

The soldier leading the group snarled. “An inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos has ordered its death!” he shouted at the grim-faced Sisters of Battle. “We will kill you as well should you continue protecting it.” His eyes flickered toward Ghahzlay. “Should you continue protecting them,” he amended.

“Volorus,” Uriel called into the vox unit at his collar, “I need you here right now.” He walked around the Sisters. “I trust that we will not do anything hasty here?” he asked the Deathwatch politely.

“We have orders from an inquisitor to kill the xenos,” the Deathwatch leader said.

“And now you have orders from an inquisitor not to.”

The Marine hesitated, his eyes uncertain.

Uriel met his gaze. He was a whole head shorter than the Marine, but his gaze was unflinching. “What will it be?” he asked. Slowly, the Marine looked away.

“Kill them!” a familiar voice rang out from behind the Deathwatch, and Illiawe sighed. The fiery Inquisitor Chiro came stomping up, pushing past two of the black armored Deathwatch Marines. Then he saw Uriel, and his eyes widened as he took in at a glance the ornate robes and tall hat with the Inquisitorial rosary displayed prominently upon it. Their earlier conversation obviously left a lasting impression upon Chiro.

“Lower the weapon, inquisitor,” Uriel said tiredly. The Sisters pointed their weapons at Chiro in emphasis, and his eyes widened in shock.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You dare threaten an inquisitor?”

“You forget who you are talking to, Chiro,” Uriel replied shortly. It had its desired effect, and Chiro hesitantly lowered his weapon. “Now that everyone’s here,” Uriel said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I happen to have been allowed – by those of your very own order, no less – to deal with certain members of the xenos races in fulfillment of my – and Volorus’ – task. I trust that you can appreciate the threat that Chaos has to the Imperium as a whole, and that a man as knowledgeable about the eldar as yourself must realize that, as irksome as this race of xeno is, they have proven that Chaos, and not the most honored Imperium, is the greater threat in their eyes.”

Chiro’s gaze did not move from Uriel’s face. “If you have evidence of this, I suppose that I will allow you until the completion of your mission to remain in the company of this xenos without taking direct action against you or your entourage,” he said grudgingly.

“Unfortunately,” Uriel said with an exaggerated look of pain on his face, “I have no written documents with me regarding this issue. The inquisitor who gave me this permission, Arvor – heavily wrinkled, as old as the dirt, commands enormous amount of respect within the Ordo Xenos through his reputation alone; you might know of him – does not trust written documents. They can be forged too easily, you see, and Arvor trusts me enough that other measures are deemed unnecessary.”

Inquisitor Chiro scowled. “Cut your games, Uriel. Produce some evidence, or I will have you executed right now.”

Uriel smiled beatifically. “Of course you will have your evidence. Do you happen to have an astropath in your service?”

Chiro nodded, and flicked his hand. A moment later, a woman with a cowl pulled over her head came to stand beside him. Uriel quickly filled her in on the situation. The woman nodded, and her eyes grew distant.

“Well?” Chiro asked impatiently.

“The astropath of Inquisitor Arvor of the Ordo Xenos confirms that he has given Inquisitor Uriel permission to deal with select xenos eight Terran months ago, provided that a full report of these deals are made under psychic screening regarding their specifics.”

“There,” Uriel said lightly, “you’ve heard it from your own astropath.”

Chiro’s expression, however, remained unconvinced. “How do I know that the witch is not bringing this falsity into being with her trickeries?”

Uriel’s face hardened. “I’ve had enough of this. You have heard my testimony, made as an agent of the Holy Inquisition. To trial us, judge us, or further impede us without counter-evidence of your own is tantamount to treason, a betrayal of the laws of our Holy Imperium. Moreover, Volorus here is an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus. We are currently on a task to face a threat from the very Ruinous Powers themselves, one which threatens every human life in existence. Should you needlessly and unjustly impede us further, you will be branded as an aide to Chaos itself should harm be brought about by our inability to stave off this threat on time. These charges bear the punishment of death, to be laid out on the spot.” He looked sternly at Chiro. “Either way, one of us is in a great deal of trouble.” He paused to let the information sink in. “Do you have anything to say?” In his defense, he did give Chiro nearly a whole second to answer. “I didn’t think so,” Uriel muttered. Then he drew himself up. “You, nor the Deathwatch, will try to seek the life of the eldar any longer. Doing so will jeopardize our mission, and I believe that we have made it clear what will happen then.”

“What of the ork? What of all the orks?” Chiro waved his pistol in a general gesture.

“You will leave them alone, too. They have just saved your life.”

“I was willing to give it in service of the Emperor,” Chiro replied stiffly.

“As we all were, Chiro. But you heard what Arvor said. We could seek the help of any xenos required to complete our task.” He turned to Ghahzlay. “What do you think about helping us in our mission to combat Chaos?”

Ghahzlay had been following the conversation, and he shrugged. “A fight iz a fight. It don’t matter who we fight or why, as long as dere’s profit t’ be made and clompin’ t’ be done.”

Uriel turned back to Chiro. “There you have it. Now, I hope that we will not have to do this again. It’s getting tiresome, and I am very short-tempered. Do you understand me?”

Chiro nodded. It would have been hard not to understand Uriel, since the Sisters of Battle flanking him were toying very conspicuously with their weapons when he asked the question.

Ghahzlay rather vehemently refused their offer to help track down and kill the tyranid that had swallowed his weapon. And so, while Illiawe waited in the ruins of the fortress with the inquisitors, the orks went away in their smoky and unsteady aircrafts to hunt the tyranids down. Uriel sat on a piece of debris and pulled a dataslate from under his coat.

“It’s raining orks,” he muttered after a glance.

Volorus turned to him. “What?” To Illiawe’s surprise, Volorus was taking the arrival of the orks rather calmly.

“Orks are dropping out of space onto the planet everywhere. Ghahzlay wasn’t kidding when he said that he had enough orks to wipe the tyranids from the planet.”

Then Volorus started swearing.

“What is it?” Uriel asked.

“You know what happens after an ork infestation, don’t you?” Volorus asked. “This planet is never going be free from orks.”

Uriel’s brow furrowed. “There is usually only one way to deal with a problem like this.”

Volorus shook his head. “We spent so many lives fighting the tyranids just so we didn’t have to give such an order.” He sighed and gestured to a nearby Guardsman. “Fetch Governor Belaro.”

The soldier saluted and went away.

Belaro’s clothes were stained with blood and his face was drawn when he came into their presence.

“Is that yours?” Volorus asked, pointing at the bloodstains.

Belaro laughed shortly and humorlessly. “I am too old to be fighting, Volorus. No, I’ve been helping out with the wounded. There aren’t quite enough able bodies left, and there are a great deal of wounded. What was it you needed?”

“Do you know how orks reproduce, Belaro?”

“Vaguely. Spores fall off their bodies and grow into more orks. Am I close?”

“As close as most people could get. Those orks are usually feral. That is mostly beside the point, however, since your primary concern is that you now have a world within your system that is infested, and there is really only one way to get rid of the orks.”

Belaro’s face paled. “Are you going to order exterminatus?”

Volorus nodded gravely. “As soon as the troops are well enough to evacuate, yes. I’m sorry, governor.”

Uriel glanced speculatively at Belaro. “I could provide you with the funds necessary to construct a few stations to load the goods from system. Give it a month or so, and things will be back to normal.”

Belaro flashed him a quick smile. “I appreciate the thought, inquisitor, but I have enough funds for that. I only don’t want this on my record, is all.”

“This was entirely out of your control. I don’t think that it will be held against you.”

“Maybe.” Belaro squared his shoulders. “I’m going back to the medic tents. The soldiers will need aid if we want to evacuate them as quickly as possible.”

Ghahzlay returned about a week later. His armor was melted and charred in some places, there was a gash that ran diagonally down his face, and one of his arms showed signs of having been hacked off at the elbow and then messily stitched back on. His piggy eyes, however, were bright, and there was a large toothy grin on his face.

Illiawe was with Volorus when Ghahzlay’s aircraft landed. She had been spending more time with the human lately, and they were, if not friends, at least on good terms. “I take it that everything went well?” Illiawe asked Ghahzlay when he stepped out of the craft.

“Ain’t ya clever? I got a mighty good story t’ tell ya, dat’s fer sure.”

“Yes. It’s a shame that we missed the opportunity to see it first hand,” Volorus said dryly.

Ghahzlay grinned at him. “Don’t ya worry. I tell gud stories.” He reached back and unslung a gun that was quite nearly as long as he was tall. There was a long serrated blade attached to the bottom of the gun. “Ain’t she a nice shoota?”

“How was it even in a good enough condition after so long?” Illiawe asked.

Ghahzlay shrugged. “She’s a durable shoota. I cut open da belly o’ da bug, an’ she wuz jus’ dere, waitin’ fer me in its guts. It wuz a little mangled an’ melted in sum places, but da Mekboyz an’ I took it out an’ stuck sum nugginz on an’ it’s gud as new. Anyway, da boyz are now clearin’ out da tunnels o’ da bugs. Dis iz a ‘umie world, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Gud. Who iz da ‘umie in charge? I need t’ speak t’ ‘im.”

“Why?”

“T’ git my teef, o’ coz. Ya didn’t fink da boyz an’ I came ‘ere t’ kill da bugz fer da ‘umies fer free, did ya?”

“Of course not. You came here to get your gun back. The fight is just a lucky coincidence.”

“But we ‘elped ya right at first when da bugz wuz attackin’ ya, didn’t we?”

“You needed someplace to land. You said so yourself.”

“Den da boyz will leave now, since I got my shoota back an’ all an’ we ain’t getting’ paid t’ keep fightin’.”

Illiawe shrugged. “Go right ahead. But that would be running from a fight, and I do not think that the orks will think very highly of you afterwards.”

Ghahzlay’s face grew mournful. “Ya a terrible friend,” he accused, “ain’t helpin’ me get richer an’ all.”

Illiawe shrugged again. “Belaro is not too bad himself, and I would rather that you did not swindle him or kill him for refusing to pay, so it is best to get that idea out of your head now.”

Ghahzlay nodded unhappily. Then he looked around. “What ya doin’ now?”

“Nothing much, really. We are waiting for the troops to recover enough from their injuries, then we are evacuating.”

“What fer?”

Illiawe paused, trying to think of a delicate way to explain the situation. Finally she sighed and simply told Ghahzlay about Volorus’ decision.

When she was finished, Ghahzlay threw his head back, slapping his knee and howling with laughter. “Ya don’t know anyfin’ ‘bout da orky culture, do ya?” he asked Volorus when he had recovered enough to speak again.

“Which parts of it do you have in mind?”

Ghahzlay burst into laughter again. “Which parts?” he gasped. “Gork an’ Mork made da orks grow da way we do, but dey also gave us manners. We knew right off dat dis wuz a ‘umie world, so we did not shed spores when we came down. Dere will be no orky infestation on dis planet. Da boyz weren’t too ‘appy wif dat, but I’m da boss, so dey jus’ ‘ave t’ listen.”

“You can control the spores?” Volorus asked curiously. “I’ve never heard about that before.”

“Of course we can. But we never want t’ very often. It makes no sense, see?”

“Belaro might want to hear about this, then.” He turned to Illiawe. “I hope you’ll excuse me.” And he strode off in search of the governor.

Ghahzlay shook his head. “Dey iz a funny race, da ‘umies.”

“They do take some getting used to,” Illiawe agreed, then she looked speculatively at Ghahzlay. “What will your boys say to another fight?”

“Afta we are done ‘ere? Dis iz da one wif da Chaos boyz ya talkin’ ‘bout before? What kind o’ fight iz it?”

“It’s a rather good fight. There’ll be lots of things to kill.”

Ghahzlay shrugged his bulky shoulders. “I got nofin’ else t’ do, and dis way I don’t have ta go lookin’ fer a fight, I guess. When will ya be goin’ t’ dis fight?”

Illiawe tilted her head. “We are planning to get to it when this has all been cleared up.”

“From one fight t’ another?” Ghahzlay grunted approvingly. “Ya almost as gud as an ork.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“I fink dat I can jus’ leave me boyz ‘ere an’ go wif ya. Den, if dere iz a big fight, I can call me boyz ovar. It ain’t no use getting’ dem ovar if dere iz no gud fight, ‘coz it will make dem angry.”

“I don’t want to have to wait for your orks when we get there, Ghahzlay.”

“Wait? Y’ don’t have t’ wait. Da boyz ‘ave tellyportas on all da ships. Dey will get dere immediately.”

“Teleporters? Really?”

Ghahzlay nodded. “Dere wuz diz real cleva boy wif one o’ da clans dat I clomped. ‘E made a lot of new stuff, an’ I got da teef t’ ‘ave ‘im continue t’ make moar stuff, not like ‘is ol’ boss. ‘E came t’ me pretty quick.”

The orks moved methodically across the surface of Caliphas XII, falling upon the tyranids wherever they found them. The inquisitors spent the days in a large tent that had been hastily set up before the broken walls of the ruined fortress, and the orbiting fleet kept them informed of the orks’ progress, sending data down to the many screens and holographic displays that filled its inside. The tyranids fought back with a desperate viciousness, but the orks appeared to enjoy it all the more. Then, when there were no tyranids left on the surface of the planet, the orks laid down crude camps in a neat grid all over the planet and waited.

After a couple of days of waiting that was just short of a miracle for the impatient orks, and when the inquisitors and the governor were almost beside themselves with irritation, the tyranids responded. For days and nights groups of the creatures burrowed their way out of the ground. The orks were waiting for them, the positions of their camps allowing them to respond quickly to any of those sorties by the tyranids. The orks, however, appeared to take a perverse delight in allowing the tyranids to rampage for a few hours before falling upon them. The orks celebrated the day’s victories each night with drink and poorly cooked roasts, and each night the air was filled with off-tune bawling.

Ghahzlay let that continue for a few more days, then he removed the tightly placed restrictions upon his orks.

The sun was high in the sky when the orks all across the planet broke camp by trampling them under as they rushed toward the nearest hole that the tyranids had spent the past few days burrowing out of, howling and bawling and cheering. Their charge stopped quite suddenly as the first few orks found quite suddenly that the tyranids had closed the entrances to their underground tunnels, and were promptly trampled under.

“Looks like the tyranids really don’t want the orks in their lairs with them,” Uriel observed dryly, looking at the video feed from one of the ships.

“Would you?” Volorus asked him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Uriel grinned. “I don’t imagine that the orks will be willing to stay outside for long. As a whole, they don’t make very good guests, and barging in uninvited is just the sort of thing that poor guests would do.”

The orks, however, did not immediately force their way into the tunnels. They stomped around for a while, loudly demanding to be let in. The tyranids ignored them. Then the orks rang the doorbell. Their doorbell took the form of several large bombs piled haphazardly over and near each of the collapsed entrances that the tyranids had made, and their ringing left yards deep craters in the ground. The orks scrambled down the steep slope of the craters and poured into the tunnels.

It took the orks another few days to flush the tyranids out of the deepest tunnels. With the human ships providing fire from above, it took only a little less than a fortnight until the tyranids were reduced to nothing more than a few small swarms trying to hide from the heavy blades of the orks. That did not concern the orks very much, and their laughter trailed along behind them just as closely as they trailed along behind the tyranids. Orks were, after all, simple creatures, and easily amused. After twenty days, Uriel reported that the tyranids had been completely eradicated.

Inquisitor Chiro left the next day, taking the Deathwatch with him. Illiawe breathed a little easier after they departed. The inquisitors did not see their juvenile colleague off. They spent the days in the command center, which had by now grown into a sizeable cluster of tents and with messengers, servants, and servitors rushing about carrying equipment and reports, and scribes recording everything that was said on everything from rolls of parchment to holographic cogitators. Belaro usually attended their meetings, discussing in somber tones the restoration of the system. Rather surprisingly, Volorus invited Illiawe to these discussions, though she gave little in the way of input.

During one of these sessions, a man in rough clothing entered the tent, bowing respectfully to Belaro and the inquisitors. He spoke softly into Belaro’s ear, bowed once more, and left.

“What is it?” Volorus asked.

“Reparations and refitting of your ships has just begun.”

“Only just?”

“The space docks were only running on a skeleton crew and had to aid in the reconstruction of the destroyed merchant ships,” Belaro reminded him.

“Of course. Reestablishing full trade with the rest of the Imperium must come first.”

Belaro nodded. “Most of those who have fled are returning, so we can go back to normal operations. Your fleet has been given top priority, and I will draw some resources away from the other forges to speed it along. The ships should be fully operational and restocked by tomorrow.” He paused, turning to Uriel with an apologetic look. “Unfortunately, your flagship and a couple of the cruisers are too heavily damaged to be repaired within that timeframe. There’s almost nothing left of the Vitium Liberare that doesn’t have to be replaced.”

Uriel nodded. “I sort of expected that. It’s a miracle that she doesn’t have to be rebuilt from the ribs up. This changes things, however. Without the Vitium Liberare, we are not going to have quite enough firepower to invade the Gadevar system in force.”

“I have already solved that problem,” Illiawe said. “This tyranid attack has cost us quite many warriors, anyway, and I doubt that we will have enough to perform more than a suicidal diversion. However, Ghahzlay has agreed to assist us in this matter.”

Volorus frowned. “I don’t think that I agree much with this plan.”

Illiawe tilted her head questioningly, and Volorus shrugged. “I have been doing quite a bit of reflection on my views these past weeks, but I don’t think that I’m ready for this just yet. Ghahzlay is not exactly stupid. You heard how he wanted to ask Belaro for material benefits in exchange for helping against the tyranids. What if he wants something else for this? I don’t want to owe favors to an ork, Illiawe.”

“Did he ask for anything when he agreed, Illiawe?” Uriel asked.

She shook her head. “I dangled the possibility of a good fight before him, and he readily accepted.”

Uriel rubbed at the side of his face. “Then he might not be looking for anything else. Ghahzlay might be smarter than most orks, but he’s still an ork.”

Volorus’ expression remained dubious, but he nodded. “I guess that we need all the help we can get. I’ll bear the cost of his help in mind, however, when asking for any more favors – at least, until we are sure of what exactly Ghahzlay really wants.”

Uriel nodded. “All right. We will take the Regina Umbrae and nothing else. We will enter after Ghahzlay’s orks start their assault with the ship’s stealth systems fully activated. This should allow Guigrim and Illiawe to slip in unnoticed.”

Volorus nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.” And he turned back to his work. Uriel tilted his head, gesturing to Illiawe. She nodded and followed him out of the tent.

“Have you really considered our course of action when we reach the Gadevar system?” he asked, staring out at the desolated land before him, squinting in the glare of the sun.

“I have not,” Illiawe admitted.

“That’s a surprise. What’s the reason for that?”

“I have learned quite a while ago not to look too deeply into the skeins.”

“It didn’t stop you from doing so before.”

“Of course it did, Uriel. If you had been paying attention, you would have realized that I do not look very far into the skeins, and I do not try very much to manipulate them.”

Uriel grinned at her. “You know, now that you mention it, I have noticed. Why is that?”

“Events don’t always work out,” Illiawe said shortly.

One of Uriel’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Oh. I see.”

They gazed in awkward silence out at the carousing orks on the plains before them. Then Uriel glanced at the tent behind him. “You know,” he said, seemingly more out of a desire to break the silence than out of any real interest in the subject, “Volorus’ attitude has changed.”

“You’ve noticed, I see.”

“It’ll be hard not to.I can’t seem to figure out the reason behind it, however.”

“I could guess. Chiro probably has something to do with it.”

“Chiro?” Uriel asked in surprise. “I guess it is possible. Perhaps his opinions might have done some good, after all.” Then he grinned. “I wonder how Chiro would feel if he found out that he ranting made Volorus more friendly.”

Illiawe smiled. “He’d probably have apoplexy.”

Uriel laughed, then he waved his hand in front of his face. “I wonder if the orks will cut down on their celebrations just a little. This place reeks of burned meat.”

“You could ask, but I don’t think that they would listen.”

Illiawe’s sleep was restless that night. She tossed and turned on the bag that had been laid out in the tent that she had shared with two human officers. The humans were surprisingly amicable, which forced Illiawe to once again reassess her thoughts on them. It was happening with alarming frequency in recent times, Illiawe realized. It was undeniable, however, that not all the humans saw the eldar as Inquisitor Chiro did, and some friendly relations, at least, could perhaps be considered.

She turned, seeking a more comfortable position. Outside a wind picked up, setting the tent flap to snapping. Off in the distance, the bawdy songs of the orks drifted to her. Illiawe huffed in irritation and pushed herself into a sitting position, sinking quickly into her meditations.

The sky was just getting bright when she pulled herself out of the skeins. She crept out from the tent, effortlessly navigating its confined space so as not to wake the sleeping humans. The morning air was crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the ruined landscape around her. Illiawe walked aimlessly across that crater-filled ground, heading through the rows of tents that housed the human troops. She had drawn near the edge of the camp when she came across Colonel Sadeus and Commissar Palicia. The colonel’s left arm ended in a neatly wrapped bandage at the elbow, and his expression was one of resignation. As Illiawe drew closer, however, she realized that the look on the colonel’s face was not the result of his missing arm. Palicia was berating him in a voice that travelled far despite her attempts to keep it hushed. Illiawe hurriedly stepped behind a nearby tent and listened.

“It’s a reasonable action,” Sadeus was saying placatingly.

“No, it’s not. It’s stupid. Why would you want your arm removed when it would have healed perfectly on its own?”

“It was taking too long. A cybernetic arm, too, would be so much more useful than…” He paused, fumbling for the proper word.

“A normal, fleshy, useless one?” Palicia supplied in an icy voice.

“Yes, exactly. Why are we talking about this, though? The arm’s already off.”

“Don’t speak of it like that.” Even from this distance, Illiawe saw her shudder.

“Palicia, you haven’t explained why you don’t agree.”

“I don’t… It’s a stupid idea. It’s childish.” Then there was a small cry. “Promise you would never do that again.”

“I promise. Unless I think of something that could be useful if replaced.”

Illiawe smiled and went around the tent. “Colonel Sadeus,” she said in mock surprise. “And Commissar Palicia. Could neither of you sleep, too?”

Sadeus had his arms around Palicia, and they jerked apart when Illiawe approached.

“I was visiting Sadeus in the medical tents,” Palicia said quickly.

“I see that he is well now,” Illiawe replied.

A slow blush crept up Palicia’s cheeks.

Illiawe flashed Sadeus a small smile. “I do agree with the commissar, Sadeus. It was an incredibly silly reason for you to have your arm replaced.”

Palicia gasped. “You know?”

“The entire camp probably does. You should learn to properly modulate your voice should you wish to keep a secret.”

“Look what you’ve gone and done,” Palicia said accusingly to Sadeus. “The eldar’s laughing at us.”

Sadeus shrugged. “Wait until I get my new arm tomorrow. You will probably like it.” He straightened, tugging at the collar of his coat to straighten it out. “The troops are waking. If you’ll excuse me, I am going to parade my missing arm around for a little while. The soldiers deserve that much, at least.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Palicia said.

Sadeus grinned at her and walked away.

Palicia rolled her eyes. “He’s such a baby.”

“It does appear to be a universal compulsion,” Illiawe agreed, and Palicia laughed.

“Do you have any idea how we are going to get to the Gadevar system?” Volorus asked Illiawe when they gathered once more in the tent.

“We are not using the Warp,” Illiawe said adamantly.

Volorus nodded. “That’s why I asked you if you have an alternate method.”

Illiawe relaxed. “Good. I don’t want to be thrown to the other side of the galaxy again.” She nodded. “I have made certain arrangements.”

They left for the Regina Umbrae around midday. At Uriel’s insistence, Estoris went with them, and with her went her squad. Ghahzlay followed them in his aircraft and, at Volorus’ instructions, settled down in the back of it for the journey to the Gadevar system. Ghahzlay appeared to understand the situation and the inquisitor’s reasons for his confinement, and he did not even so much as complain.

Everything was in readiness when Illiawe stepped onto the bridge.

“How are we going to get into the webway?” Volorus asked.

Illiawe smiled and held up a finger. Right on cue, a new signature appeared on the displays. Volorus peered at it.

“An eldar ship?” he asked in surprise. “I thought that we were going to the Gadevar system in this ship.”

“You mistake my intent, Volorus. We will not need to transfer. The eldar ship is able to open a temporary portal into the webway. She will leave it open long enough for us to get through. She will guide us through the webway and open another portal at our destination.”

Volorus nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Good.” She pushed her mind out toward the eldar ship, linking first with its infinity circuit. The ship pulsed in welcome, and, given free reign, she sought the mind of the captain.

“Farseer,” Captain Mornedor answered immediately.

“It is good to see you, captain. Figuratively speaking.”

“You said that you were headed to the Gadevar system?”

“As the humans call it, yes.”

“You are aware that this system is the home to the minions of She Who Thirsts, aren’t you?”

“I am, yes.”

There was a pause. “I do not presume to argue with you over your actions, farseer, but this is a bad idea.”

“I know. Are you ready to lead us into the webway?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She turned to look at Volorus. “Is everything in readiness?”

Volorus nodded. Illiawe reached her mind out to Mornedor again.

The captain’s psychic feedback was filled with anxiety. “I pray that no other captain catches wind of this. I will be ostracized if they find out that I not only let mon-keigh into the webway, but let them out where the minions of She Who Thirsts run rampant.”

“Blame me for it. You know that I would not have done this if it was not strictly necessary. Put aside your doubts, captain. I need to get to the Gadevar system, and time is short.”

“Many eldar are going to hate you for this.”

“I know, but travelling through the Warp is too risky, and we must not be detected.”

“An eldar shadow ship will do that just fine.”

“And the eldar would approve more of letting humans on board a shadow ship than letting one of their ships into the webway?”

“Well…”

“The harlequins will speak for the both of us should any eldar disapprove of this. Open the portal, Mornedor.”

The eldar ship turned, aligning effortlessly with Volorus’ ship. Mornedor led them away from the sun, then it vanished. Half a second later, there was a blue flash, and they were in the webway.

They followed Mornedor through the webway corridors. The humans were silent, and when they spoke, their voices were unusually hushed.

Then Mornedor’s thoughts came to Illiawe. “Our destination is near.”

“Good,” she replied. “Open the portal before our ship when the time comes.” She gestured to Volorus and he nodded curtly, issuing orders to the bridge crew. The light in the bridge dimmed and the deep rumble that ran through the ship quieted into a soft whine. A number of sensors fizzled and grew dark, and those that continued working became subdued.

Illiawe looked around her. “Are you not going to activate the stealth sensors?” she asked Volorus.

“What did you say?”

“Is there not anything that takes over the normal sensors when the stealth system is activated?”

“No, of course not. Any auspex suite would eventually give our position away if the enemy scans with a large enough variety of sensors.”

“But we are going in blind!”

“Not entirely blind. It’s one of the disadvantages of stealth.” He gave her a direct look. “Didn’t you know that?”

Illiawe groaned softly and rubbed at her temples. “We should have taken a shadow ship and deal with the consequences later.”

Volorus shrugged. “We are here now, so there’s no point in being regretful. Where would you like us to drop you?”

Illiawe peered at one of the images of the system, squinting and trying to make out its now-fuzzy outline. “There,” she said, pointing. “The second planet from the sun. Spiorad is lying there.”

“Are you sure?”

Illiawe nodded.

“All right.” He turned to Uriel. “Where are Estoris and her sisters?”

“They are in the chapel praying. They should be there for another ten minutes or so.”

“Plenty of time, then.” He looked around. “Somebody go fetch the ork down in the hangar.”

The man who led Ghahzlay onto the bridge looked as though he was ready to bolt. His hands were trembling and his eyes wild and, as soon as Volorus nodded for him to leave, he hurried away.

Ghahzlay looked at the fleeing human with a huge grin on his ugly face. “I love t’ do dat,” he declared.

“What did you do?” Illiawe asked curiously.

“Da ‘umie, ‘e said yes when I asked ‘im if ‘e wants t’ ‘ear sum o’ me stories. So I told ‘im ‘bout dat one time I killed a ‘ole squad o’ ‘umies by meself an’ den tore dem ‘eads off an’ ate da brains.”

“Did you really do that?”

Ghahzlay shrugged. “Da exact details may ‘ave gotten fuzzy o’er da years. But it scared da boyz good eve’y time, so I figured dat da ‘umie wuld be scared too.”

Illiawe shook her head and turned to the display. She seemed to feel a soft touch upon her mind, almost like a pull, beckoning her toward something. She frowned. The touch did not feel very friendly, but she did not really have time to worry about that. Quickly she brushed it from her mind. “The second planet from the sun,” she said, pointing. “There’s our objective. The rest of the system is filled with daemons too, however. You will need to provide a lot of distraction in the space around the system and on the ground of the planet for us to get in.”

“Do ya need me t’ distract dem on da ovar planets too?”

“If you have the troops for it, sure. It would keep the Chaos forces from focusing their attention on us, at least, and if you can draw the enemy away from that second planet, it would be even better.”

“Dey are fightin’ between demselves in dat system.”

Illiawe nodded. “It looks that way. I do not really care why, either. Can you do that?”

Ghahzlay grinned tightly. “O’ coz I can.” He threw back his head and roared, a sound that reverberated through the bridge and forced Illiawe to cover her ears. It continued for the better part of a minute before he finally stopped. Gingerly, Illiawe lowered her hands. Her ears were ringing, and there was a small throb at the base of her skull.

“What was that for?” she demanded angrily.

“I jus’ called me boyz,” he replied with that same hideous grin. “Dey will be ‘ere in a bit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Volorus muttered darkly. “Don’t you have anything to communicate with?”

“I jus’ told ya, I already did. Ya need t’ listen.”

There was a deep toned beep as, on the displays, a new signature appeared near them. There was another beep, and yet another in rapid succession, until it almost seemed to be a single sound, creating a strange siren that sounded throughout the bridge.

Volorus looked around him. “Shut that off.”

“Dere’s da boyz now,” Ghahzlay said.

“Yes, we heard,” Volorus said. “Get to the hangar,” he instructed Illiawe. “I will let you know when the orks have started their assault.”

Illiawe nodded and went out of the bridge.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 22

The human gunship that they entered the atmosphere of Gadevar II in, as the planet had been called before the daemons came, followed in the wake of the third wave of the ork assault upon the planet. It levelled out with its engines screaming in protest and Illiawe was pushed back in her seat as the human inertia dampeners failed to completely overcome the massive forces that worked upon the craft.

Guigrim hit a red button by the hatch at the back of the craft and it lowered with a sharp hiss. He stormed out of the gunship, sweeping his arm mounted guns to both sides. The two armored warriors that were with them – librarians, Guigrim had called them – followed him out, sweeping the area around them with their staves, and Illiawe followed them.

The surface of Gadevar II was barren and bleak. The land lay beneath an ash choked sky, the sun was red as blood, and the clouds that scuttled overhead were dirty and sparse. Red and black and shimmering golden tendrils whipped and coiled overhead like the tentacles of some unimaginably vast sea monster, and when they clashed against each other, they evaporated into fine golden mist or sooty shards like shattered glass. Reality was barely existent in the sky; the air itself twisted one moment into horrific monstrosities that were almost out of the scope of understanding of any living being and the next into things of repulsive beauty and impossible perfection. Raw emotions seemed to seep out of the ground itself, a raging incomprehensible anger and an insatiable thirst for great violence, and sibilant promises of unattainable beauty and perfection and all worldy pleasures and an insistent need for fulfillment of all possible desires.

The land itself was black and rotted, and there was a terrible wrenching agony emanating from the ground as the soul of the world itself writhed in the clutches of Khorne and Slaanesh. The twisted gods, however, were concentrating their attention one upon the other, and so the world did not yet die, but suffered instead as their contest went on. Hills and mountains had been twisted into claws that reached up toward the sky, forests were twisted and decayed, and the plains were like pools of spiraling mist and jagged shards that bobbed and floated around in the solid ground. Dotted here and there across that desecrated land were small ruins, the remnants of the human cities that once populated the planet. The ruins themselves had been twisted into aberrations of their former selves, defaced with the myriad symbols of the Chaos Gods and bearing howling semblances of the daemons and champions that sought to add their mockery to the human emperor. Guigrim looked at those structures, his jaws clenched and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

The orks had already made good progress. They clambered up and down the spired claws like huge green apes, ignoring the corruption all around them. Their war cries were loud and mostly incomprehensible, and they laughed and chortled as they spilled out of the hollowed out asteroids that they had ridden through the planet’s atmosphere. The daemons of Slaanesh and Khorne battled all over the land, and the orks went crashing into them, laying around them with their weapons. The ferocity and suddenness of the ork attack caught the daemons completely by surprise, and the Chaos armies of both gods fell back under the rampaging ork assault. After a while, however, the ork charge began to lose momentum, the daemon resistance stiffened, and things settled down into a grueling three-way struggle with no significant advances being made by any of the armies.

Guigrim turned to Illiawe. “Where is Spiorad located?”

“I don’t know. Not exactly, anyway.” Guigrim’s expression became puzzled, and Illiawe pursed her lips. “There is a kind of sense that Spiorad has. I can follow it.” Illiawe turned away from him. It was not until she had thought about it that Illiawe realized that the pull she had been feeling since they had entered the system had been Spiorad. Briefly she wondered if Taeryn, or perhaps even Cegorach, had a hand in that.

Guigrim came to stand beside her. “Is something wrong?” he asked, and there was a strange note of concern in his voice.

“No. A thought came to me, that’s all.”

“Anything that we should know about?”

“No.”

“All right. Do you want to move now?”

“Let’s stay here for a while. I want to make sure that the orks are making enough noise to cover our movements.” She stretched out her hand, as though into water, feeling the flow of the energies of the Warp around her. The snarls of the Slaanesh daemons echoed immediately in the back of her mind, hungry and baleful, and her soulstone went cold. She sucked a quick breath in and pulled her mind away from the Warp. “The daemons of Slaanesh are many here. I hope that the orks will provide sufficient distraction for me to go unnoticed.”

“What about the others? The Khornate daemons?”

“They aren’t much of a danger.” She looked at him and forced a smile. “At least, not when the minions of Slaanesh are around.”

Guigrim nodded, appearing to understand. “We will have time to make a few preparations, then.” He grinned at her, a surprisingly amused gesture. “I don’t like walking unprepared into a horde of daemons either.”

“It’s not the same thing, Guigrim.”

He shrugged. “Is there really all that much difference?”

She pursed her lips, thinking about it for a while. “Much more than you realize, but I guess that they are similar – at least, on the surface.”

They spent the rest of the day there. The orks moved quickly, enthusiastically, and in only a few hours, a well-fortified staging area had been set up around them. The unlovely and ungraceful ships of the orks came and went almost constantly, unloading troops and supplies. The days on Gadevar II were a lot longer than those on Ulthwé – or, indeed, those of all the other planets that she had visited since she had left the craftworld – and it was only noon when Illiawe finished her preparations. The blood red sun was high in the sky, and the heat pounding down was one moment almost unbearable and the next almost chilly. The clouds had been blown away, and the ash was gone, replaced by shimmering sheets of rainbow light that formed into various monstrous shapes that leered down in nauseating seductiveness as the Chaos Gods continued their endless struggle. Like flocks of migratory birds, shapes were weaving about through the air, daemons with bat-like wings and the planes of the orks taking up in the skies the battle that was raging down below.

Guigrim and the librarians were on their knees some distance away, their heads bowed and their weapons laid out on the ground before them, chanting hymns and dedications to their emperor, and Illiawe left them there, moving some distance away to ready her battle runes.

The sun was just about to set when an ork brought them a haunch of some large animal, laid out on a slab of metal that looked suspiciously like the hull of some light vehicle – a buggy, perhaps, or a bike. Illiawe looked skeptically at the badly burned piece of meat.

“What is that?” she asked warily.

“On’y da finest squig,” the ork said. “Da boss said ta give ya a proppa meal before ya set off. It’z a great gift, ya know.” He puffed up his chest, and it was only then that Illiawe noticed that he wore a gravy-spotted leather apron about his waist that was charred in the corners. “I’m da bestest cook ‘round ‘ere, ya know, an’ da boss told me ta cook it fer ya meself.” He looked curiously at her. “I ain’t nevar seen da boss be dat generuz, ya know.” He thrust the platter out to her. “Well, eat up. Da squig don’t mind.” Then he walked away, chuckling grotesquely at his own joke.

Illiawe looked steadily at the hunk of charred meat, picked the platter up, and walked over to where the humans were. They were just finishing their rites when Illiawe approached them.

“What is that?” Guigrim asked, looking curiously at the platter.

“Dinner,” Illiawe said lightly. “The orks were considerate enough to remember us, and Ghahzlay himself ordered this made specially for us. Their best cook made this, you know.”

“If that’s the best that the orks could come up with, I’d really hate to see what they usually offer,” Guigrim observed dryly.

“They are orks. The cook’s probably the best because he actually bothers to throw what he serves up into a fire.” She glanced at the hunk of meat. “Even if it’s for too long.”

“That, or he’s beaten every other contester to the title – with his fists, that is.”

“That is a possibility,” Illiawe agreed. She turned her attention back to the haunch. “It does look a little unappetizing, doesn’t it?”

One of the librarians smiled. “I could not burn my food as badly if I took a flamer to it.”

Guigrim frowned. “I suppose we could cut out the outer layer. I don’t think that any of us find the thought of eating something that tastes like charcoal all that appealing.”

“We are the Emperor’s Marines, brother,” the other librarian reminded Guigrim. “We are above even such fear and disgust.”

Guigrim smiled and unsheathed the heavy combat dagger from his thigh. The power blade cut easily through the meat, and Guigrim sliced off chunks of it with a few deft flicks of his wrist. The haunch was not as badly burned as it has initially appeared, and Guigrim only had to cut off a couple of inches of the meat. He set his dagger aside. “That looks almost edible,” he said dubiously.

“At least it’s not completely burned,” Illiawe agreed.

Guigrim shrugged and cut himself a slice of the squig. “Interesting flavor,” he said mildly, chewing slowly.

Illiawe’s eyes narrowed, and she turned away. “I think I’ll pass on that.”

“It’s really not so bad, Illiawe,” Guigrim assured her.

“I’d really rather not take the chance.”

The moon that rose was a tiny thing that leeched what little color there was from the surrounding landscape. Illiawe watched the moon rise higher into the sky with great appreciation. She did not really want the land to be brightly lit when they were walking across it.

They waited a little while longer, then Illiawe stood. “I think that we should get ready to move,” she suggested.

A burly ork a whole head taller than Illiawe came up to them. “Movin’ already?” he asked.

Illiawe nodded.

The ork grinned. “Me an’ da boyz were jus’ wonderin’ if ya were plannin’ ta stay all night. Well, let’z git a move on. Dere’s smashin’ ta do, an’ we ain’t got all night.”

“We?”

“Didn’t ya know? Da boss figured what ya ‘bout ta do iz real dangerous, an’ ‘e thought ya needz a gud proppa escort. Me an’ da fast boyz are gonna git ya dere safe an’ fast.”

Illiawe opened her mouth to protest, but then she pursed her lips. After a few moments she nodded. “All right. Get your orks ready, then.” And she went off in search of Guigrim.

“I don’t really think that it’s altogether a good idea,” Guigrim protested when Illiawe informed him that the orks will be going with them.”

“It’s really not too much of a problem, Guigrim.”

“We cannot possibly go unnoticed if we have a horde of orks at our back, Illiawe.”

“I know, but that’s the point. The orks will be causing so much noise that we will be nearly invisible, visually and psychically.”

“I suppose that we will move faster if we were in vehicles anyway,” Guigrim conceded.

Illiawe looked in surprise at him, and he returned the look.

“Aren’t we going to take vehicles?” he asked.

Illiawe grimaced. “I haven’t even thought of that, actually. It’s probably because the vehicles of the orks resemble scrap heaps that happen to move rather than actual vehicles.”

While, if one were to be candid, that rather critical assessment was not entirely true, it had at least some basis in fact. The sidecar in which Illiawe rode had no suspensions, and it seemed to find every bump in the land as it went along. The bike to which it was attached was no better. It was a roaring brute of a vehicle that belched black smoke and thundered like an erupting volcano and shook the ground with the rumbling of its engine alone as it went along, leaving an unbroken foot-wide track behind. Guigrim was behind its handlebars, and his stiff posture spoke quite loudly that driving the bike was at least as painful as riding in its sidecar was. The orks around them were mounted on bikes or riding in trucks and in cars with giant wheels and equally large guns mounted to their tops and bolted onto their sides. The orks whooped and laughed and sang in their coarse voices, looking for all the world like they were on the greatest adventure.

“At least they’re having fun,” Guigrim observed sourly, shouting over the noise.

“You were the one who wanted to take the orks’ vehicles,” Illiawe reminded him primly, which was somewhat marred when she winced as the bike went over a bumpy stretch of land.

“We do seem to be going at a decent pace, however,” Guigrim observed.

“I think that I’d rather have walked.”

The orks were firmly in control of the land in that region, and they passed through it without incident. As the night wore on, however, they began to encounter daemons. For the most part, these daemons were locked in battle with roving bands of orks, and they skirted past without so much as a fight. Illiawe was rather relieved each time they managed to do so, but the orks frequently gazed back longingly as they left each fight behind them.

“It’z unnatural,” the leader of the orks said, pulling his bike in beside Illiawe, his voice rising effortlessly over the roar of the vehicles.

“What was that?” Illiawe shouted back.

“Dis runnin’ away. It’z unnatural. Orkz do not run from smashin’ gitz into da ground.”

“Don’t think about it, then.”

“’Ow could I not?” he asked, just a little petulantly, Illiawe thought.

Then, as the first light of the blood-red sun came across the horizon, they ran into one of the front-lines. Millions upon millions of orks battled with daemons across the vast expanse of a surprisingly level plain. Tanks and jerky walkers battled with daemons mounted on fearsome Warp beasts, and the heavily armed and armored ork titans of war traded fire and blows with various greater daemons. The plain was covered in corpses and wrecked vehicles and pools of corruption, and blood and Warp energy ran in rivulets across the surface of the plain.

Illiawe gestured for Guigrim to stop. They looked out over the battle. “Do you see any way around that?” she asked him.

“I don’t. I think we are going to have to go through it.”

The orks grinned broadly at that.

“I would rather not do that,” Illiawe said. She looked around. “There. Over by the fallen titan – the one at the edge of the battle with its buzzsaw stuck in its head. I don’t see any daemons with the orks there, do you?”

Guigrim peered at them for a moment, scanning the area between them and the other side of the plains. “I don’t. If we go through the orks there, we could skirt around the left flank of the daemons there and avoid a confrontation altogether.”

“That is terribly risky.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t.” She chewed on her lip. “All right. We’ll go through it, then.”

Guigrim looked at her. “You sound nervous.”

“I am fine. I’m just not very enthusiastic about riding into an entire army of Slaaneshi daemons.”

“We will only be riding past them,” Guigrim corrected.

“It’s close enough.”

He peered at her. “It certainly can’t be that bad.”

“It most certainly is. Slaanesh has a particular interest in eldar souls, and I am not sure if my defenses will be sufficient to keep out all those daemons, especially not all at once.”

“Can we do anything to help?”

Illiawe turned to him in surprise, then she smiled. “No, I don’t think so. I appreciate the thought, though.” She drew herself up. “If we go into the midst of that, I am not going to draw upon the energies of the Warp. If we come across anything, you are going to have to handle things.”

Guigrim nodded. “I think that we could manage without needing to take such steps,” he said confidently, then he suddenly grinned.

There was, however, one thing that they had not anticipated, rather predictable though it was. Firmly, the orks put their foot down.

“No,” their leader declared adamantly. “Dat’s da biggest fight ‘appening now, an’ da boyz are not goin’ ta miss it by runnin’ through it.”

Guigrim turned away in disgust. Illiawe, too, resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She looked speculatively at the ork before her. “Ghahzlay told you to help us, did he not?”

“Dat’s right. Da boss said ta escort ya, on account o’ ya getting’ yerself smashed if weez weren’t ‘ere ta save ya.”

“We can discuss the specifics of that later, but don’t you think that you should stay with us if you plan on escorting us?”

The ork frowned as he worked his way through the idea, and his face grew sheepish. “I guess I did not fink o’ dat.”

“I didn’t think that you did. You really shouldn’t get sidetracked, you know.”

“All right,” Guigrim told her. “We need to get moving. It isn’t likely that it will be able to see the joke in it anyway.”

“He might surprise you,” Illiawe suggested.

“Let it lie, Illiawe.”

They swung down toward the fallen titan. There was no fighting there, though the orks did press eagerly forward, attempting to close the distance with the daemons. They did, however, move quickly aside as Illiawe and the Gray Knights thundered through with their escort right behind them.

Then from before them came a vast bellow, an inhuman voice hurling guttural challenges in a language that seemed to have neither syntax nor clearly discernable phonetics. Then there rose before them a vast figure hundreds of feet tall.  It was but a vague outline, shimmering hazy and indistinct. Then a pulse ran through it, and it solidified with a seemingly sudden inrush of air, and a greater daemon of Slaanesh stood there before them, its face lifted in a chilling screech. An elongated tongue protruded from its gaping mouth and flickered nervously, tasting the air. It had four arms, each ending in a clawed hand. Liquid dripped from those claws, and where the droplets landed, the ground fizzled and boiled away. Clutched loosely in each hand was a black sword, their blades long and jagged. An ork tank came too close and the daemon swung one of its arms negligently. The tank went flying in two pieces through the air. Specks of golden light spilled out from the gash, consuming the halves completely. Within a half second the lights faded, and there was nothing of the tank left.

The daemon, however, paid little attention to the tank it had just destroyed, and it paid no greater heed to the fire that the orks quickly directed at it. Its head swiveled this way and that, its beady black eyes glaring out at the armies before it as though searching for something. Illiawe’s heart went cold.

“I think that we should change our plan,” she shouted at Guigrim.

“Good idea.” And he revved the engine of the bike and plunged directly at the greater daemon.

“What are you doing?” she almost screamed at him, but he did not answer.

Illiawe watched the towering figure of the daemon grow even larger, and she shrank back into her seat in a futile gesture to make herself less conspicuous.

As they went past the orks, they began to cheer. Ponderously, like a great wave that had been let loose, the orks began to run, sprinting with poor coordination after the bikes. Beside her, Illiawe dimly heard Guigrim begin to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

Guigrim glanced back over his shoulder. “The orks must think that we are leading them in a charge against that greater daemon.”

“That does seem to be what we are doing,” Illiawe noted.

The daemon tuned, noticing the orks, and its eyes settled on Illiawe. It grinned then, a malevolent expression, and the fire in its eyes flared up, burning balefully. Illiawe quailed under that gaze. The smaller daemons around its feet turned in response to some unseen signal to stare hungrily at them.

The greater daemon raised its arms. “Eldar!” it roared, and its voice went reverberating through the ground like an earthquake. “I know why you are here. The insane berserker who calls himself Khorne is troublesome, but you are greatly less so.” It grinned mirthlessly, showing row upon row of razor sharp teeth. It raised its arms and the air around it crackled and distorted. Reality broke away like shattered glass and Illiawe saw the turbulent energies of the Warp behind it, roiling and tossing like the waves of some unimaginably vast ocean. There were other things there, jagged spires and the sense of trillions of tortured souls and things so incomprehensible that Illiawe’s mind shuddered away from them. “I am Malenesh, Most Favored Servant of Slaanesh, and it is by my hand that my master’s troubles will be brought to an end.”

“Malenesh?” Illiawe gasped, paling. She knew the name, but what stood before her was not the eldar dancer of legend whom she normally associated with it.

“Do you like it?” the daemon asked almost coquettishly, grinning in gross indulgence at her obvious discomfort. Then it raised its arms, and the air grew thick and heavy, and an oppressive weight settled over Illiawe. From somewhere far off, there was the sound of crackling lightning. Streams of gold danced under the pallid gray skin of the daemon and its eyes flickered as it prepared, in one dreadful moment, to obliterate them.

Then a huge red fist caught it in the side of the face.

“Filth!” a great voice boomed, and the fist struck again. “Trust a daemon of Slaanesh to be so showy.” The sound of the descending axe was like a howling gale. The owner of the axe was a hulking red daemon of Khorne. Its goat-like face was mottled with rage and its eyes little balls of fire beneath a heavy brow. Malenesh leapt lithely out of the way of its heavy blade and, screeching like a banshee, it pounced on the Khornate daemon. The lesser daemons of Slaanesh scattered under the heavy footfalls of the towering daemons. Then they caught sight of Illiawe and the Gray Knights and came bounding toward them.

Guigrim held his course until the last moment, then he turned the handles of the bike. It skidded, its tires screeching and its engines roaring, and they angled away from the daemons before them. The single-minded charge of the orks, however, had built up too much momentum to falter or turn aside. The two sides came together with a loud crash, and Illiawe heaved a sigh of relief.

The orks flowed around the daemons of Chaos, inadvertently cutting off pursuit as they each strove to get within striking distance of the daemons. Illiawe glanced at the leader of their escort. He looked back once, a look of profound disappointment on his brutish face, then he sighed heavily and regretfully turned away.

Malenesh glanced once at them, screaming curses as it attempted to break free from its Khornate adversary. But the Khornate daemon struck at it again and again, and Malenesh shrieked once in impotent rage as it watched Illiawe and the Gray Knights move away.

They went in a large arc around the battle to avoid any chance of further incidents until they came to the edge of the plain, quickly leaving the dreadful confrontation behind them. They continued on for quite some time, then the leader of their escort suddenly laughed. Illiawe looked questioningly at him.

“Dat red ‘un will make a very gud ork,” he observed gaily.

Illiawe shuddered at the thought and looked quickly away.

“Why did dat red ‘un smash da pale ‘un?” he asked curiously.

“The gods of the Othersea do not always like each other,” Illiawe said shortly.

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?” Guigrim asked.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Illiawe said acidly.

“But you forget that this is my business, Illiawe.”

Illiawe sighed. “You are going to insist on this, aren’t you?”

“Of course, Illiawe.”

She sighed again. “Very well. As closely as I can determine -”

“What do you mean by that?” Guigrim interrupted.

“I had to make a few educated guesses here and there. Anyway, as closely as I can determine, Spiorad is a creation of Tzeentch. As is to be expected from the Lord of Change, Spiorad is almost wholly psychic in nature. It uses Warp knowledge to not only sever souls from an individual, but also to isolate the soul. Khorne, naturally, does not like it.” She looked at him archly. “You did know that Khorne has an intense dislike of all things he deems sorcery, don’t you?”

Guigrim nodded.

“I believe that Slaanesh is, for one reason or another, unable or unwilling to take up Spiorad,” Illiawe continued. “Hence, she protects it, hides it away.”

“You plan on using it, don’t you?” Guigrim guessed shrewdly.

“I did not say that.”

“You did not have to. We have collected quite a lot of information on the forces of Chaos, and we have realized that the eldar seem to have a particular dislike for the forces of Chaos. You yourself are afraid of the daemons of Slaanesh. It is not difficult to see a correlation there.” He paused. “Can Spiorad really do that? Can it really isolate the daemons of the Chaos Gods?”

“Not the daemons of the Chaos Gods. It is our plan to use it on the gods of the Othersea themselves – more specifically, on Slaanesh.”

“Will that work?” Guigrim asked incredulously. “Is it really that powerful?”

Illiawe paused. “I don’t know, and I am not going to try.” She stared moodily at the landscape around them.

“This does not really hold water, Illiawe,” Guigrim said after a while.

“What was that?”

“If Slaanesh is afraid of Spiorad and Khorne wants to destroy it, wouldn’t it be more logical for Slaanesh to hand it over to Khorne?”

“What would be the point in that? Spiorad is, like the greater daemons, simply created from a portion of the power of the Othersea Gods. If it is destroyed, the power would simply return to Tzeentch, and he would just create another. It is better for Slaanesh to deny possession of it to Khorne.”

“Then it becomes a war of attrition.”

“One that neither side is in a position to lose,” Illiawe agreed.

From behind them came a sudden predatory screech, and Illiawe turned quickly in her seat. Running behind them – and gaining upon them at a worrying pace – was a score of Slaaneshi daemons, all riding sleek reptilian beasts.

Guigrim turned in his seat, his arm-mounted guns firing. The Warp beasts weaved, their bodies stretched out low to the ground, and the explosive bolts thudded near them, littering the area around them with explosions. The beasts shook off the concussive effects and pressed forward.

“Ya go on!” the leader of their escort hollered. “Me an’ da boyz got dis.”

“We’ll need more than just that to evade those daemons,” Guigrim growled.

Illiawe nodded. She glanced at the librarians, sending her thought out to them. “Do either of you know how to conceal our presence from the daemons?”

“Of course.”

She felt their thoughts reach out, enveloping them, forming a bubble. But there were some differences.

“No,” she sent an irritated thought to them. “Not just a visual cloak. You’ll need to conceal our minds and souls as well.”

The librarians hesitated, and Illiawe turned about in her seat to look at them. “Don’t you know how to do that?”

Their answering thought was just a little sheepish. “We have never really concentrated much on concealment.”

“That’s a very glaring lapse in your training,” she replied acidly.

“Couldn’t you do it?” the other librarian asked.

“You really are clueless in this matter, aren’t you? I could conceal us, but it would first require me to expose myself to the daemons. I would have to suppress our thoughts even further to conceal us.” She sighed. “I guess there is no help for it,” she muttered.

The daemons howled in triumph as they felt Illiawe gather the powers of the Warp into herself. Even past the commotion of their skirmish with the orks, she felt them turn as one to regard her with baleful eyes and an anticipatory hunger. She sunk their thoughts deeper into her protective fold, ensuring that not a single stray thought should escape. The daemons screeched in rage and quite suddenly broke away from the orks, growling and snapping in rage and frustration, scanning with hungry eyes the landscape for their vanished prey. Now and again one of them would draw up alongside them, so close that Illiawe could see the individual scales upon their leathery hide. Then the orks were upon the daemons once more, diverting their attention away from Illiawe and the humans.

They rode on for some distance. The land itself was dark, and so Illiawe did not completely conceal them from sight. Though little light came through the filmy surface of her concealing bubble, it was enough to just make out their surroundings. Warp beasts flapped and flitted about in the sky above, but they did not notice as Illiawe and the Gray Knights rode past beneath them. After a while, Illiawe called a halt.

“What is it?” Guigrim asked in concern, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Nothing dangerous,” Illiawe told him in an amused tone. “I just thought that we should leave the bikes here and continue on foot. We are getting close to our destination, and it would be much easier to hide us if I did not have to also hide the ruckus that those bikes cause.”

Guigrim looked around him. “Where are we headed, then?”

Illiawe pointed at a ridge before them. “Spiorad lies within those hills.”

Guigrim turned to look at the slowly brightening horizon, dismounting as he did so. “We’d better hurry, then.”

It became quickly apparent that the decision to leave the bikes behind had been the right one. The ground was rough and uneven, and there were cracks and fissures in it that ran for miles out in either direction, creating a landscape of never-ending cliffs and walls and miles long falls. They climbed more often than they walked, and it quickly grew tiring. The cliff faces were constantly undulating and constantly shifting, and it was difficult to get a proper hold before it shifted and melted away. The one solace that Illiawe took was the fact that the shifting cliffs created hand and footholds that would otherwise not have existed on the smooth surfaces.

The humans fared no better. Lacking the natural grace of the eldar, they had to quite literally claw their way up each rise, their bulky armor scrapping and grinding against the surfaces. With a certain spitefulness, Illiawe noted with great satisfaction their strained grunts as they heaved themselves up each face.

The sun rose steadily, and, almost as if the climate itself was attempting to make things as unpleasant for them as was possible, it began to beat down with a stifling heat that had not existed the day before. After a while, Illiawe motioned for them to stop.

“What is the matter?” Guigrim asked.

“Would you please stop asking me that every time I call for a stop?” Illiawe asked with a pained expression. “I just thought that we should stop for a while. Keeping us concealed is pretty difficult with so many daemons around.” She looked at her runes. Already she could see a faint red glow forming within their depths.

“All right,” Guigrim said, “but we can’t stay here for long. It’s too risky.”

“I am aware of that. I just -” There was a sound from off to Illiawe’s left, a kind of rustling, and she turned sharply.

“Seer,” a voice called out in the eldar tongue, barely more than a whisper.

“Who’s there?” she called back in the language of the eldar.

“No one who means harm, seer,” the voice replied. The shimmer was so slight that, against the dark surface of the land, it was barely visible. Then it was gone, and an eldar with pallid skin and a long flowing robe stood in its place. Illiawe recognized him.

“Ezarvyn?” she asked incredulously.

“The very same,” the Commorrite haemonculi replied with a florid bow. “You are certainly very hard to track down, you know.”

“What are you doing here?”

Ezarvyn looked around him. “This is a rather uninviting sort of place, isn’t it?” He turned back to Illiawe. “I was run out of Commorragh, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember Bazeqar, don’t you? The one who sent all those murderers after us when you beat his champion from the Wych cults?”

“The one whom you let get away? Of course.”

Ezarvyn made a face. “That might have been a very big mistake.”

“I could have told you that. What did he do?”

“Well, he was very dissatisfied with the fact that I managed to take everything from him that day, so he fabricated a few stories against me – among other things.” He coughed delicately. “I would rather not go into the details of them, but suffice to say that they weren’t very flattering. Anyway, while I was busy trying to minimize the damage to my reputation, Bazeqar and a few others got together and sold their services to my usual patrons.” He sneered. “They promised similar quality for a lower price.”

“I thought you said that your services were invaluable,” Illiawe pointed out.

“Apparently, they aren’t as valuable as I had thought they are.”

“What do you plan to do, then?”

“Nothing. Not one of them is as good as I am, and their skills – or lack of them – will get rid of them pretty quickly. My former patrons are rather exacting.” Then he grinned evilly. “I also left a little something behind for them. I suspect that they are going to be most upset when they find out.”

“What was it you left behind?” Illiawe asked in morbid curiosity.

He glanced at her slyly and winked. “Perhaps one day you will find out for yourself.”

“Why have you been trying to find me, then?”

“I have nothing else to do,” he said, shrugging. “Besides, I have a little proposition for you.”

“What kind of proposition?”

“It is quite simple, really. I have an idea of what you are doing. It is quite admirable. I am willing to assist you in this matter.”

“How did you find out what I am doing?”

Ezarvyn’s expression grew pained. “Please, Illiawe. You were not told to ask for my aid in finding information for nothing. I am very good at what I do.”

“And yet you have not found out who was behind the disruptions in the skeins, have you?”

Ezarvyn smiled thinly. “Actually, I have. Now is probably not the best time for it, however. I suspect that you will have a great many questions when I tell you what I have found, and this is really not the kind of place that you want to get distracted in.”

“Assuming that I think you can provide sufficient aid, what do you want in exchange for your aid, then?”

“Like I said, it’s simple. This recent attempt to tarnish my reputation has made me reconsider certain matters. I have always had plans to eventually take over the haemonculi laboratories in my section of Commorragh, but I think that it is time I put those plans into motion.”

“That’s really quite a large proposition, Ezarvyn. I don’t think that you can provide enough support in my task for me to think that your request should be considered, especially given that we have almost retrieved what we came here for.”

“I am wounded,” Ezarvyn said in a tragic voice. “Actually, your own contributions to my endeavor would be peripheral at best. I don’t really need too much help, and I am prepared to offer you my services past the retrieval of this artifact that you are after.”

“Why are you striking this bargain, then? You’re obviously not getting a lot of benefit, if any,” Illiawe asked suspiciously.

“A coup is really fun if there are friends around to watch it succeed, Illiawe,” Ezarvyn said expansively. Then his expression grew serious. “Actually, there is a bit more to it than that. It’s not going to cost you a lot, but it is a problem that is rather close to my heart. As I’ve said, I know what you are trying to do. The Rhana Dandra is imminent. It will be all well and good if you succeed. But I don’t like taking risks.” He looked intently at her. “You know how we stave off the touch of She Who Thirsts, don’t you?”

“Of course. You do it through torture.” She did not really intend to, but her tone was just a little accusatory.

“I wish that there was a better way, Illiawe, but the essence of another cannot be extracted through hugs and songs, and it is their essence that sustain us; in the same way that your soulstones hide you from She Who Thirsts, the sustenance keeps our souls away from it by giving up those that we have absorbed instead.”

“Do not compare the Tears of Isha to your disgusting techniques!” Illiawe flared.

“My apologies,” Ezarvyn said obsequiously. “It is merely an emphasis. My point, however, is that this technique requires slaves and living captives. I don’t have to know the future to know that fresh captives will be in very short supply after the Rhana Dandra. Furthermore, this technique of ours is not without its flaws. If we lose the Rhana Dandra, then She Who Thirsts will reign over all the eldar in this place and the webway. Not even the essence of others can stave off its grip on our souls then.”

“And this is where I come in?” Illiawe guessed.

“It is. The harlequins have always been protected by Cegorach himself. They do not require essence or soulstones. If things go wrong, Cegorach is my only chance at avoiding falling into the clutches of She Who Thirsts. I want a good word put in with him on my behalf. It is only fair, after all. I am aiding you in your task – and his.”

Illiawe face grew troubled. “What makes you think that Cegorach will listen to me?”

“Not you, probably,” Ezarvyn agreed. “But he will listen to one of the harlequins.” He smiled slyly at her. “Did you really think I didn’t know? You don’t have the bearing of a harlequin. Your friend Taeryn, however, does. She will be the one to take this request to Cegorach.”

“Then she will be the one whom you have to talk to. Why involve me at all?”

“I venture that you know where she is,” he replied flippantly. “Then he gave her a pitying look. “Oh, Illiawe. Do I have to explain even this to you? When we are done here, I would have already assisted you in the retrieval of this artefact that Cegorach is looking for. Taeryn cannot exactly deny my request then, could she?”

“Of course she could.”

Ezarvyn chuckled. “You don’t know very much about the harlequins, do you?” Trust me on this, Illiawe. She will not refuse to at least bring this to the attention of Cegorach.” He looked around him. “This really is an unpleasant place. Shall we move on? I don’t think that a Chaos controlled world is the best place to discuss the intricacies of the harlequin society.”

Wordlessly, Illiawe led Ezarvyn back to where the humans were waiting. Guigrim glanced first at Ezarvyn, then at Illiawe.

“This is an acquaintance,” she said shortly. “He will be travelling with us for a while.”

“Please, Illiawe,” Ezarvyn said in the human tongue, “you do not have to hide my identity from these good companions of yours.” He bowed floridly to the humans. “I am Ezarvyn, haemonculi of Commorragh.” When he straightened, Illiawe caught a small glimmer of malice behind his eyes.

Guigrim and the two librarians tensed slightly, but it was unmistakable to Illiawe. They shifted uncomfortably, and Ezarvyn grinned with a perverse delight.

“Come, then, my friends,” he continued urbanely. “Let us not tarry. The day draws on, and there is plenty to do. We don’t want those nasty creatures to get our scent, do we? I don’t mind inflicting horrors myself, but I would much prefer it if I do not experience it from the other side.”

He peered closely at the humans, seeming to see their reactions even through their heavy armor, and he laughed delightedly. Then, spinning smartly on his heels, he went to the nearest cliff face and began to scale it effortlessly, the ghost of his taunting laughter lingering in the air.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 23

There was something about the speech of the Dark Eldar – Commorrite, Illiawe had called him – that rather irritated Guigrim. His speech was quick and his manner disgustingly urbane, and it was made worse by the fact that he always moved as though he were on an afternoon stroll. In fact, there was very little about him that did not irritate Guigrim. He and the farseer appeared to know each other, and they were usually speaking in the eldar language. It was childish, perhaps, but Guigrim wished that they would not do so. The Dark Eldar, after all, had demonstrated fluent Low Gothic when he had introduced himself to them. Guigrim did not like it when others spoke in tongues that he could not understand. It made him jumpy, and the poor reputation that the Dark Eldar had when it came to honor only served to exacerbate the situation. His instincts, honed by centuries of training and combat, made him instantly suspicious, and he walked with his hand close to the hilt of his sword.

In all fairness, his paranoia was probably nothing more than just that. On the other hand, though the farseer had come to demonstrate her usefulness, Guigrim still did not entirely trust her as he would one of his brothers – or, at least, any of the Guardsmen that he had fought alongside on occasion. This was not to say that he still did not trust the eldar. Indeed, he was sure that, should the occasion arise, he could count on her aid in almost any situation. But he was mindful to keep a watch out – just in case.

Guigrim did not know what to make of his feelings regarding the farseer. On the one hand, she was alien, and the Imperial Creed was clear on how one was to act toward the alien; the pragmatisms of the Adeptus Astartes and the Order of the Gray Knights both urged him to be on constant guard, and common sense and prudence both warned him to bear constantly in mind the duplicitous nature of the eldar. On the other hand, he and his brothers had foes more accursed than the eldar, and she – it, he quickly corrected himself – had been helpful against the myriad enemies of the holy Imperium they had encountered in their time together. But she was callous and arrogant – though he was forced to admit that she had become marginally less so in recent days – and he still had not forgotten about the time when she had tricked him into fighting the corrupted cultists while she and the eldar commander made use of the distraction to steal both Chaos artifacts away. It was perhaps unfortunate that none of his brothers had been lost that day; if even one had been mortally wounded, Guigrim’s stance on the problem at hand would have been easily made. Under his helm, the burly warrior clenched his jaws, silently cursing the chicanery of the eldar. He hated conundrums. The Gray Knights had only a single purpose, and their training did not cover the intricacies of such relationships. He made a mental note to consult the chaplains regarding the state of his soul when they were discharged from Inquisitor Volorus’ service.

Guigrim straightened, pulling his mind away from such idle reverie. They had a task at hand, and he was going to make sure that it was completed. He ran the briefing that the inquisitors and Noshan had given them prior to their departure. It was a dangerous mission, but Illiawe moved eagerly forward, and that rather unnerved Guigrim. The Gray Knights were dedicated to their duty of combatting and destroying corruption wherever it appeared, but not even they marched into such a situation with a smile upon their faces.

Guigrim glanced at Illiawe. She had not put her mask on nor pulled up her deep cowl, and the smile was still there, tugging at the corners of her pale lips. Her alien features were serene, her almond shaped eyes half closed even as she walked. A lock of brown hair had slipped out of the simple binding at the top of her head, and she blew absently at it now and again. Then she turned, looking directly at him, as though seeing through the lenses of his helmet. One of her eyebrows raised questioningly. Guigrim glanced away, careful not to move his head. It was silly, unbefitting of a warrior of the Emperor, but he found that he did not really care.

Guigrim looked around him, more to focus his wandering thoughts than anything else. The land that they were on was one customary of Chaos incursions. The ground here had been warped, forming deep gorges, sudden cliffs, and mountains with bulbous tops. Red mist clung to the ground, and in place of plants were strange growths that seemed almost to follow them as they went past. Here and there in the sky and at the bottom of cliffs were pitch black wells that melded with the ground so that Guigrim was not sure where the ground ended and where the holes started. Things flickered at the edge of his senses, eluding him every time he tried to concentrate on one. Yet Guigrim knew that this was quite hospitable as far as tainted planets went. Reality and physics as they knew it, at least, still existed. The never ending conflict between the forces of Slaanesh and Khorne was reflected upon the land itself. Each host tried to impose its own version of reality upon the world, resulting in a reality that was neither one nor the other, yet keeping the rules of the Materium. He glanced once more at Illiawe. The fact that she did not appear to be having difficulty breathing was a testimony to that, but Guigrim kept his helmet on. He did not want to take the risk.

His two brother Librarians walked some distance before them, keeping away the worse of the taint. The two eldar walked some distance to his left and, he noted with a scowl, they were both still in conversation. One of the Librarians suddenly held his hand up, and they moved slowly forward to join them. Brother Osmadiel gestured toward the edge of a low ridge before them and they crouched, peering carefully over the ridge.

There was a corpse-littered battlefield down below. Shapes vied with each other in mindless frenzy, ripping into each other. Illiawe unclipped her mask and placed it over her face, pulling up her cowl. “Daemons,” she said shortly. “It looks like that has been going on for quite some time, but more daemons are being called forward. It does not look like it is going to end anytime soon.” She pointed to the right. “Follow this ridgeline. The daemons of Khorne appear to be heading in that direction.”

“I thought you knew the way,” Guigrim accused.

“I do, but some confirmation does not hurt. Keep moving. We must not stay here for long.”

“Perhaps we should wait for the orks to catch up with us,” the second Librarian, brother Nossius, mused.

“I don’t think we have the time,” Guigrim told him. “We cannot hide indefinitely from the daemons.”

“It is better this way anyway,” Illiawe added. “The daemons are distracted with each other and the orks are drawing the rest of their attention away from us. We should not run into too many daemons, and I should be able to continue keeping those we do run into from detecting us.”

Guigrim peered at her. The smooth surface of her mask rippled, and he thought he saw something stir within its silver depths. He looked quickly away. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said dismissively in that infuriatingly flippant tone of hers. “As long as we don’t run into an army of Slaaneshi daemons, I can keep this up.”

“If you say so.”

Illiawe and Ezarvyn went ahead of them, and Guigrim was once again stunned by the ease at which they navigated the uneven ground. They ranged silently before them, moving quickly, and, for some obscure reason, Guigrim found that he was quite suddenly fully conscious of the heavy footfalls of him and his brothers.

They were just coming down out of a steep foothills when Illiawe came back, moving lightly across the ragged land. “There’s a battle out ahead between the orks and some Slaaneshi daemons. It appeared to have been quite a large one, too.”

“The orks?” Guigrim asked. “How did they get so far out here?”

“I think that they dropped in from orbit. There are asteroid pieces all over the place. From what I could tell, the orks smashed right into the daemon horde. That’s remarkable accuracy, actually. I would certainly have never anticipated that from them.”

“Were the daemons looking for us?”

“I did not think to stop one and ask.”

“We must assume that they are aware of our presence, then.”

Illiawe nodded. “Keep your paranoia in check, though. I don’t want to drop our cloak until we are certain that they have our scent, and I can’t keep it up if we move too quickly.” She looked at the Librarians. “Stop blasting at the corruption. It is difficult to keep us concealed if you keep doing that, and sooner or later someone’s going to notice what you’ve been doing. We wouldn’t want that if we can possibly avoid it.”

The Librarians looked at Guigrim, and he nodded. “She has a point. We can make our way through the taint if we must. Keep your faith in the Emperor. He will protect us.”

Ezarvyn chuckled. “That’s hilarious. It’s nice to see that such naivety hasn’t yet faded away.” He turned. “All right, then, children of the Emperor. The orks look to be almost done. Let’s move on, shall we? The day’s wasting.”

They did not so much walk down the hill as they did slide down its steep slopes. At least, Guigrim and his brothers did. The eldar appeared to have no problems staying on their feet. Guigrim found that he did not really mind that. If eldar biology was anything like that of a human, their feet will soon blister before they even reached the artefact. For some reason, the thought made him feel strangely satisfied.

They spent the next several hours moving cautiously, dodging daemonic patrols. They frequently ran into pitched battles, and those took longer to move around. Illiawe chaffed at each delay, growing more and more uneasy as the hours went by. She did, however, take what Guigrim felt to be extreme measures of caution. Her mind ranged out, deftly subverting the probing eyes and thought of the daemons. Though Guigrim would not have admitted it to her, the farseer’s skill was astounding, working with a subtlety that even the Librarians of his chapter did not possess, either out of disregard or a lack of skill or strength. Many times the daemons sent concerted pulses of thought out, attempting to break through the barriers that hid them. Repelling those probes would not have been a challenge, but doing so without alerting the daemons that they were close by was quite another matter. Yet they continued moving forward and the daemons continued on without once being aware of the mortals within their midst.

The mass of daemons around them, however, grew denser as they pressed further on. Daemons trailed along behind them, snarling and growling to each other like a pack of hunting dogs, drawing worryingly closer. Flocks of winged creatures circled overhead in ugly spirals, squawking in guttural tones. In a lot of ways they reminded Guigrim of birds of prey, but they did not appear to have pinpointed their location.

The three runes that orbited Illiawe began to glow a dull crimson. From seemingly somewhere far off, there was a soft wailing like that of a wind, and a short sharp stab at the air around him. Illiawe sucked in a sharp breath.

“What was that?” Guigrim asked, his voice tense.

“The daemons. They know we are here. They are trying to find us.”

“Can your shield hold?”

Illiawe glanced quickly around them, then up at the daemons overhead. “Probably not. The daemons are going to find us eventually. Sheer numbers count for a lot.”

Guigrim checked his stormbolters. “I guess we had better get ready for a fight, then.”

“Don’t be stupid. We won’t last five minutes against all that. If we could get to Spiorad before the daemons find us, we will be fine.” She did not sound too confident, however.

Then there was a screech from behind them, and the jab came again. This time, however, it was not the tentative touches of the previous ones, but was rather a sudden pinpoint stab that crackled like lightning. Illiawe cried out in sudden pain, stumbling, and the air shimmered and her shield collapsed. Guigrim did not hesitate. In one motion he drew his sword and raised his arm, firing his stormbolters into the gaping mouth of a snarling daemon. Beside him, Illiawe waved her arms. A couple of runes floated out of a pouch by her side to hover before her. Guigrim clearly felt her drawing upon the energies of the Warp, and her arms began to crackle with eldritch energy. Then she gasped and stumbled. Guigrim caught her and half-carried her onward.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Slaanesh,” she replied shortly, her breathing heavy. “The presence of the Othersea Gods are too strong here. I dare not expose myself to them.”

“Don’t bother,” Guigrim growled. “Bolters will kill the daemons just as quickly as warpfire will.”

“We can’t fight them all,” Illiawe protested. She drew in a deep breath, shook his hand off, and her runes began again to glow. A sound came from her, almost like a stifled whimper. Guigrim’s vision blurred and there was the sense that they were moving, even though his senses told him otherwise. Then they were somewhere else, and there were no longer any daemons around them.

“Where are we?” he asked tersely.

“Not far,” came the laconic reply in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

Guigrim looked sharply at Illiawe. She was trembling violently, the movement causing her holosuit to activate and blurring her outline. It made her look as though she were almost ready to fly apart, and Guigrim did not take that as a good sign.

Ezarvyn asked her something in the language of the eldar, and Illiawe replied, nodding slightly. She straightened.

“Hurry,” she urged. “It won’t be long before the daemons locate us again.”

“Where to, then?”

Illiawe pointed at a range of hills perhaps a dozen miles away. “Spiorad lies there.”

“Are you sure that it’s there?”

She gave a long suffering sigh. “Of course I am. Let’s not dawdle, shall we?”

“Do you have any idea of what we’ll face in there?”

“An agent of Slaanesh, as closely as I can determine.”

“A greater daemon, perhaps?”

Illiawe shook her head. “No. It doesn’t feel the same.”

Guigrim clenched his jaw, his mind quickly going over the wards and incantations that he had committed to memory all those decades ago during his novitiate.

“Don’t bother,” Illiawe told him. “We are not going to want to fight this daemon if we can help it. Your spells are probably not going to do much anyway.” She squared her shoulders. “Come on. We’d better hurry.”

She led them across that corrupted ground, her steps light and quick. When they reached the hills half an hour later, Illiawe visibly relaxed. There was a single cave at the base of the hills, and Illiawe waved them almost impatiently through. The Librarians went in first and Guigrim followed, their armor scraping against the walls as they muscled their way through. Illiawe and Ezarvyn went in quickly after them. The Commorrite stood at the cave mouth for a while, his head cocked slightly as he listened intently for signs of pursuit. Then, satisfied, he stepped back, fished a darkly pulsing disk from under his robe, and attached it to the side of the entrance.

“What’s that?” Guigrim asked.

“Something to keep the daemons from finding us,” he replied. “It will not hold for long, though, so we really should pick up the pace.”

The tunnel leading away from the entrance did not widen appreciably, and they were forced to quite literally push themselves along. His armor scraped loudly against the stone every time he took a step, and Guigrim winced as the thought of the damage to the armor came to him. They moved that way for a number of minutes, and the darkness became so absolute that neither his enhanced vision nor the many visual modes of Guigrim’s helmet aided him.

Then they were no longer in the dark. Like mist sifting down through still air, a soft yellow light began to appear over their heads. First a few, then more, specks almost like dust drifting silently down to hang motionless in the air. Soft voices called from some far off place, mocking, attempting to cause doubt and fear. Guigrim clenched his jaw and turned his mind away from the phantom sounds. They came back stronger, wheedling, cajoling.

“Keep your mind focused,” Illiawe grated from somewhere behind him.

Guigrim pushed himself another step forward. “You know,” he said conversationally, “we are not exactly children. We have all had psychic training.”

Illiawe did not answer.

When the voices returned, they returned with rage and fury, and fingers clawed almost desperately into his mind, screaming for him to turn back. The very rock against which they moved shifted, changed, pressing in on both sides. Growths formed out of the ground, whipping coils that curled around his torso and legs and sudden pits that formed directly under his feet, all seeking to ensnare, trap, and obstruct. A few snatches of sonorous conversation broke past the clutches upon his mind. Guigrim tilted his head, listening. It took him only a moment to recognize the words. It was not conversation, but chanting. Ahead of him, the Librarians were reciting prayers and litanies to the Emperor. In High Gothic they chanted, and in Low Gothic they prayed. And almost on instinct the words that he had so long ago taken into his soul came flowing out of Guigrim’s lips. In measured cadences they intoned the Prayer of the Emperor’s Light, with heads bowed in piety they chanted the Nineteen Litanies of Purification, and in exultant tones they recited the Six Hundred and Sixty-Six Liturgies. And the rocks grew still and the voices shrieked in desperation, and the obstacles at their feet turned and shied away.

And then, mid-way through an intonation of the Rites for the Combat of the Greater Taints and Marks of Chaos and All That Oppose the Holy Purpose of the Emperor, the cave widened into a single cavern. Guigrim took a few more steps, pushing himself free from the confines of the tunnel, and looked quickly around him. The cavern was larger than the tunnel leading to it would have indicated, with smooth walls and floors that at once identified it as being artificially formed. There was only a single source of light there, a gilded rectangular box that lay on a small altar of black stone. A soft green light came from it, though it did not reach very far. Even with the night vision auspexes in his helmet activated, Guigrim could barely see the low-hanging roof of the cave, and the surrounding walls were masked in almost total darkness. Guigrim paid only passing attention to the formation of the cave or the unnatural light coming from the altar. His head swiveled this way and that, looking for signs of more immediate dangers.

“No daemons?” he asked Illiawe, his voice unconsciously soft.

“No. They have all gone out to fight the warriors of Khorne.”

Guigrim fingered the hilt of his sword. “Are you sure that this is the right place? Where is that daemon that you were saying would be waiting for us in here?”

“It’s here. Don’t worry. The instructions that I received were very accurate.”

Guigrim, however, caught a small tremble in her voice, and that did little to ease his worries. The artifact was just lying out there, seemingly for the first person who walks in to take, and it immediately made Guigrim suspicious. The librarians, too, became tense, their eyes scanning the cavern for signs of the enemy, but they found none.

Beside him, Illiawe took a deep breath. Perhaps it was the dim light or an effect of the suit that she wore, but Guigrim thought he saw her quiver. Then she drew herself up and walked purposefully toward the altar, her arm outstretched.

Then there was a flare of light, and green fire engulfed her.

Unspeaking, unhesitatingly, the Librarians moved, their psychic might already building. With intense focus they struck out, centuries of training and discipline focusing their concerted counter into a single pinpoint strike. There was neither light nor sound, but the flames wavered. Then out of the walls of the cavern came shadows, inky phantoms that moved through the air like wisps of smoke. One went past Guigrim and he thought he saw the shape of a hauntingly beautiful woman within it. The phantoms went for the Librarians, swirling about them, moving through them as though they were not there. The Librarians grunted, falling to their knees.

Guigrim pulled his will into himself. There was little that he could do. The Librarians were so much more powerful, so much more experienced than he, and Illiawe, certainly, wielded psychic finesse so much more potent than his. As he so often had, Guigrim drew upon his discipline, and the world around him seemed to grow still, unmoving. His mind raced, his augmented thoughts going over the rites, rituals, and incantations that he had learned, seen, heard, and even those that he had only glimpsed in his many years as a Gray Knight. Unbidden, a thousand possible plans and spells came to him, but those he quickly discarded. He did not quite know what it was they faced, but he knew, on instinct, that few of what he had learned in the combat of Chaos were powerful enough, and they were quite beyond what he was capable of. And in that frozen instant, Guigrim agonized over his conundrum.

The seconds passed, seeming like hours, even days, to Guigrim, and the shadowy shapes continued to dance, and the green fire continued to burn ever brighter, its light reflecting off the smooth walls, until it was as though the cavern itself was ablaze and the fire no longer a fire but a wall of light, so intense was it.

Then something moved within the flames, and a slender hand stretched out of it, unscarred by its intense heat. The flames curled around that outstretched arm, but it moved implacably forward. Then the phantoms and the fire were gone, and Illiawe stood there, still reaching for the gilded box, the air around her wavering with the force of her will.

But the air had turned heavy. Illiawe’s head snapped up, looking to the far corner of the cave. Then she snatched Spiorad up and quickly backed away from the altar.

“Let’s go, then,” Guigrim said tersely.

Illiawe shook her head. “I think that it might be too late.” She nodded at the far wall of the cave. Guigrim turned. Even in the dim light, he could make out the shimmering in the air, like rising waves of heat in the midday sun. Flecks of light formed within that path of wavering air. Guigrim felt suddenly cold, though the cave was certainly not frigid. With a sudden inward rush of air, the shimmer solidified, and an eldar woman stood there, hovering a few feet above the cave floor. She was dressed only in a sheer dress that clung to her, swirling over her skin like smoke. There was an overly ripe quality about her, an almost ethereal beauty that was at once alien yet strangely compelling.

Illiawe took one look at her and screamed, a sound of pure terror. She almost seemed to shrink away from the floating figure. At the sound, the figure turned her head, looking at Illiawe. Her lips twisted into a cruel smile and Illiawe reeled back. The figure’s smile grew indulgent, and she turned to look at the rest of them with an amused kind of curiosity. Her gaze lingered on Guigrim, and the chill ran through him again. An overpowering presence emanated from the figure, and it only increased as he looked into her eyes. A sudden realization came over him, and Guigrim thought he understood the reason for Illiawe’s terror. The warriors of the Adeptus Astartes did not feel fear, but Guigrim’s mouth became suddenly dry and his twin hearts thudded painfully in his chest as he looked full in the face of the Prince of Excess.

And the Warp God Slaanesh looked back, and she slowly grinned.

Illiawe was still whimpering, and Slaanesh leered mockingly at her, a look of transparent hatred in her eyes. Ezarvyn went to her and drew her into his arms, as though he could shield her from the Warp God. Slaanesh turned her gaze upon him and her grin grew wider, her eyes blazing with otherworldy fury.

“Isn’t this interesting?” she asked in an almost sultry voice. “How long have you ran and hidden, trying to evade my grasp? Why have you brought yourself before me now?” She spoke in neither High nor Low Gothic, but instead in the lilting tongue of the eldar, yet Guigrim found that he was able to understand her words. In any other situation, he would have taken the time to wonder about that peculiarity, but his attention was instead drawn to Ezarvyn. The Commorrite was looking at Slaanesh with a look of hatred and loathing so pure and intense that Guigrim was amazed anything living could even experience it, let alone express it. The Warp God, however, simply laughed, a light, musical sound.

“That is adorable. And here I was thinking that, perhaps, you have realized the folly of attempting to hide from me and have come to offer yourself as a tribute of apology, perhaps in the hopes that I would spare you from that which awaits all.” She clicked her tongue, her expression becoming one of girlish discontent. “That’s too bad, really. I would have loved that.” She looked appraisingly at Guigrim and his brothers. “How about you? I could give you so many things.” Guigrim clenched his jaw and drew his mental defenses around his mind, preparing for an attack that he had no chance of stopping. Slaanesh laughed and clapped her hands in an exaggerated display of delight. “This is simply wonderful,” she enthused. “I wonder what you see in her that brought this on,” she said suggestively.

“My oaths and duty bind me, even if not common hatred.”

“Oh, how tiresome.” She pouted. “Perhaps I might find something else for you when I get hold of your soul. Wouldn’t you like that? My company’s so much more fun than that of your stuffy emperor.”

Despite her seeming bravado, however, Guigrim thought he detected something else. Then he realized what it was. The beasts that he had hunted as a child were all ferocious, but there inevitably came a time when they felt threatened and chose instead to snap and growl in the hopes that those hunting them would be cowed. Guigrim had learned, even in those early years of his life, to look for the signs of such behavior, until it had become almost instinctive. And now, those signs were reflected upon the form of Slaanesh. Despite himself, Guigrim was suddenly sure of their chances of survival. The Warp God was not as confident as she hoped to appear. His brothers were probably aware of that fact, but Guigrim was not sure if the eldar were, and the information was useless if they knew nothing about it.

The problem, of course, lay in telling them about it without Slaanesh knowing. Sending her a psychic thought was out of the question. The Warp Gods were said to be limitless, and though they were quite obviously not so, he did not dare take the chance. The Emperor protected all his servants, but Slaanesh was much closer than He was. So Guigrim did the only thing that he could think of. He raised his left arm and fired his stormbolters. The weapon thundered, sending bolter rounds flying out toward Slaanesh. She let the bolts strike, explosions raking across her face and torso, and she laughed in sadistic delight. Almost delicately, she raised an arm, and Guigrim was hurled off his feet. He slammed into the wall of the cave, felt it give behind him. The Librarians were moving, hurling streams of fire at Slaanesh, and he pulled himself out of the hole he had made in the rock.

He crossed the distance to Illiawe in a couple of strides, planting himself between her and Slaanesh. “Go,” he said to her.

She stared back at him, uncomprehending.

“Get out of this cave, and return to the Regina Umbrae. Get Spiorad away from this place. That is our only objective.”

Ezarvyn took a shiny black disk from a pouch at his side. “We’ll use the webway,” he muttered quickly. Then he nodded in appreciation at Guigrim.

Illiawe shook her head. “You are a fool. May you rest in the arms of your Emperor.”

Ezarvyn flicked the disk and a small pinpoint of rainbow light burst out some distance to their left. Guigrim looked quickly at Slaanesh. She was drawing closer, ignoring the warpfire and crackling lightning and bolts of pure energy that burned and clawed at her, paying no attention to the explosive bolts of his bolters. Her eyes instead were fixated upon the eldar, and there was within it anger and hatred. Her expression twisted and contorted then into one of loss and regret.

“Your souls are mine!” she screeched.

Ezarvyn made a small gesture, and the light expanded, and there was the shimmering face of a webway portal. A small disapproving frown creased Slaahesh’s forehead and she stretched her arm out in a motherly gesture, and the webway portal shimmered and went out. The disk flew from Ezarvyn’s fingers to her hand and she looked at it curiously.

“Do you think to escape?” she hissed at Ezarvyn. “You and your kind made me in the image of your souls. Why do you fear me now?”

Guigrim felt Illiawe’s mind reach out, but she sought not to act or fight. Instead he heard the echo of a single word, as though projected over some unimaginably vast distance, repeated over and over – Esarlyth.

“Go!” he shouted at her again in a voice that brooked no opposition, pointing at the entrance of the cave. Then a figure of bright shifting colors stepped out of the air next to the two eldar. He clapped an arm on each of their shoulders and dragged them back, and the three of them vanished.

There was a howl of loss and fear from Guigrim’s side and he turned, just in time to see Slaanesh dart to the spot where the eldar had been only a fraction of a second before. She screamed in anger, and Guigrim took great satisfaction in her frustration. He helped the Librarians to their feet, and the momentary sense of triumph that he had felt became one of bitterness. He wondered if his brothers were yet aware that he had just given up their lives and souls for a couple of eldar. He squared his shoulders, pushing the thought out of his mind. Slaanesh was striding back and forth, still consumed with frustration. She was also between them and the entrance. Guigrim glanced quickly about, giving a couple of quick signals to his brothers. Perhaps they could still get away. Then Slaanesh turned her gaze upon Guigrim. He clenched his jaw and drew his sword in a pointless act of defiance, taking comfort in the familiar pulse of energy that ran down its blade.

Slaanesh sneered at him. “That wasn’t very clever, was it? Your sense of duty might just be misplaced.” She crooked a finger at him, and an incredible pressure began to build up in the base of his skull. He suddenly felt as though he was suffocating and his muscles refused to move. Sounds of strain coming from either side of him told him that the Librarians were having no more success at breaking free of the invisible bonds. His vision blurred, and black spots appeared before his eyes. Slaanesh’s smoldering eyes were strangely tender as she slowly, maliciously, drew his soul out of his body. There was a slight flicker at the very edge of his failing vision, a slight instance when it was as though all light in the universe had gone out all at once, and the Immaterium burst through into the Materium, and like the angry waves of an ocean in a raging storm the energies of the Immaterium flooded out, engulfing all within that cave.

Then Illiawe was between him and the Warp God, and there were half a dozen harlequins with her. Slaanesh actually looked startled for a moment, and then she laughed mockingly.

Illiawe appeared to be fully composed now, all traces of her earlier incapacitation gone. Her head was bowed, her hands clutched before her. Her back was facing Guigrim, but he could see the soft blue light shining out from her clasped hands. Slaanesh’s eyes widened, and she stumbled back, her hold on Guigrim loosening. His vision slowly cleared, and the pressure at the base of his skull vanished. Illiawe raised her arms, and Guigrim saw Spiorad, now glowing blue, clutched firmly in her hands. She raised her head, and when she spoke, her voice was thunderous, her words couched in an eldar dialect far more ancient, more formal, than that which she had previously used.

“Impotent and depraved godling of the Othersea. In the name of Cegorach I defy thee, and in the name of Khaine and Asuryan the Phoenix King also. In the name of Ynnead, the Last, I cast my spite in thy teeth.”

Slaanesh screamed with dreadful anger, lashing out at Illiawe with terrible weapons spun out of the Warp, weapons that caused ripples to spiral out as reality drew away from them. The energies of the Immaterium pressed in around Illiawe, scattering all of time and space before it as it closed in. The soft blue light of Spiorad, however, had enveloped Illiawe, and it stood unbending against Slaanesh’s might.

“Long have the eldar suffered under thy rule,” Illiawe continued. “Thy twisted and unwholesome whims shall be decree no longer. For long hast thou feasted, and for long have we endured. Thy machinations have lasted for long enough. No more shalt thou take our souls, and no more shall we need fear death. Return to thy realm, and weep for all that thou hast lost this day. And when thou dost awake, taste then the suffering that thou hast inflicted upon the Children of Isha, and let thy fear and consternations then be magnified a hundred-fold. Leave, I abjure thee, and never return.”

And then Slaanesh looked at Guigrim, and her eyes were pleading, almost like that of a child. “Don’t you see what they are?” she asked him in a voice tinged with desperation. And then the form of Illiawe shifted, and things moved beneath her pale skin, thrashing, writhing. Spiorad fell from her hands. There was something else there now, superimposed upon her, occupying the same space as the farseer, a hideous monstrosity of broken fangs and claws and undulating growths, bearing itself with a kind placid indolence.

Guigrim paused. Some part of him screamed at him, attempting to warn him of trickery. But he found himself ignoring its warnings. What if the eldar really were the real daemons?

From somewhere far off, Illiawe shouted a single word. “Begone!” Her voice rang like crystal.

The psychic feedback was enormous, and it forced Guigrim to his knees. There was no light or sound, but the effects were quite visible. Slaanesh writhed, thrashing around like a dying animal. Still held in place, she could go nowhere, and her screams grew even more frantic. Then her outline grew fuzzy and indistinct, and her voice became fragmented. From somewhere within her, a wave of force burst out, washing over the Gray Knights and the harlequins. The roof of the cave, however, blew upwards with a deafening roar. Slaanesh’s screams rose in pitch, boring into Guigrim’s mind, until it abruptly ended with a silent detonation. Like a plane of glass, cracks appeared in the form of Slaanesh. Then, with a tremendous force, she blew apart, her shattered pieces scattering, breaking into a million flecks of golden dust that hung in the still air.

Illiawe lowered her arms, her chin raised and her eyes still blazing with traces of her defiance. There was an absolute silence, then, as one, the harlequins turned and vanished, all except for one. Illiawe watched them leave, then her shoulders became slack, and she fell to her knees, weeping like a broken-hearted child.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 24

There was light, and that, strangely, was what Guigrim’s attention was drawn to. The blast that had shattered Slaanesh had taken a considerable toll upon the cavern. The surrounding walls were cracked and some sections were crumbling away. A hole had been bored through the roof of the cave, and where there was supposed to be the rock of the hill above them, there was only sky. The fact that none of them had been harmed raised more questions, and Guigrim was not sure that he even wanted them answered. Light from the blood red sun above streamed in through the ragged hole, forming a rough circle of crimson on the floor. It seemed strangely appropriate to Guigrim, for some reason. Dust drifted in the sky above, and even that was quickly settling.

Not far away, Illiawe was weeping, her head bowed in a grief so absolute that Guigrim immediately pushed it from his mind, not even bothering to consider it. Ezarvyn was by her side, muttering, though Guigrim was not sure that Illiawe heard him. Now and then a psyhic pulse flashed through the cavern, a stray thought from Illiawe, and, for only the briefest of instants, Guigrim caught hints of her sorrow, and he thought he understood – though he knew that he could never do so – the depths of the despair that so consumed her. The authoritative, prideful, and sometimes frustratingly superior eldar was gone, and for the moment she looked very fragile, vulnerable. A sudden irrational protective urge welled up in Guigrim, and he found himself wondering if it would have been appropriate to put his arms around her. Despite himself, he chuckled once at the thought, a bitter sound, but he found that he did not really care that he had just committed a heinous sin.

A tiny shape circled in the air above, and Guigrim watched it descend. Instinctively he raised his arm, pointing the muzzles of his stormbolters at the shape. When it reached the hole in the roof, however, it screeched, beating its membranous wings frantically backward, as though to run from some danger that only it could sense. It hovered in place for a while, glowering at Guigrim. Its wings flapped a couple of times, and it tried again. It fared no better on the second try, and its third had it squealing like a wounded swine. It snarled and snapped in frustration at Guigrim, then turned and went away. Guigrim lowered his arm.

And Illiawe continued to weep.

The Librarians came to stand beside Guigrim, looking at the farseer.

“We need to move,” Nossius muttered, looking anxiously up at the sky. “That blast was sure to have caught the attention of the daemons. I wouldn’t want to be caught here if they came to investigate.”

Guigrim looked over to the eldar. “We can’t move with her in this condition. Ezarvyn was sure that his devices could keep the daemons out. I am inclined to believe him. Listen.” He cocked his head, amplifying the sounds around him. He filtered out all the other sounds until all that was left were growling and the snapping of teeth coming from outside the cave.

“The daemons?” Nossius asked.

“It certainly sounds like it, doesn’t it? It looks like we still have some time.”

Nossius looked dubiously at Illiawe. “If you say so.”

Guigrim returned his attention to the hole in the roof, watching it intently for signs of daemons trying to enter from there. Now and again he scanned the rest of the cave, watching for the minute wavering in the air that indicated that a daemon was attempting to teleport in among them. Ezarvyn’s devices, however, appeared to do more than simply keep daemons out of the cavern.

The harlequin that had remained behind had stood silently, only watching. On an impulse, Guigrim sidled over to where he stood. The harlequin acknowledged him with a slight tilt of his head.

“Is she all right?” he asked the harlequin before the thought that he might not speak their language occurred to him.

The harlequin, however, nodded. “She just had to do something that she didn’t like.” His accent was strange but his words articulate. “We feel emotions much more strongly than you humans do. Add to that the fact that what she had just done involved the condemnation of almost the sum and total of all the eldar who ever were and she is actually taking it rather well. I was thinking that she would have required one on the Path of Mourning to assist her in this matter.”

Guigrim opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but at that moment Ezarvyn raised his head. “I think she has composed herself well enough. At least, she’s stopped now. Perhaps we should go into the webway. She will have all the time she needs when she’s within its corridors.”

Guigrim nodded. “It will be much safer there, anyway.”

Ezarvyn took his disk out, then he held it closer to his eye. “Slaanesh scratched it,” he half exclaimed.

“Just open the portal,” Guigrim told him.

“All things must be cared for, human,” Ezarvyn replied piously. “Not all that we use are to be so readily discarded. What are you doing?” he asked sharply then.

Guigrim was in the middle of reaching down to Illiawe, and he stopped. “We need to get into the webway, and Illiawe does not seem quite capable of doing so by herself yet.” He bent and effortlessly lifted the farseer. “Now open the portal. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

The Librarians stepped through Ezarvyn’s portal and Guigrim followed, with Ezarvyn bringing up the rear.

“You’ll have to take the lead, I’m afraid,” Ezarvyn said to the harlequin. “I am unfamiliar with this part of the webway.”

“That is the reason that Illiawe requested me to stay behind. Keep going down this corridor a little way. There’s a spot some distance from here where time virtually stands still.”

“Virtually?”

“Don’t walk around too quickly when you are there, or time will start going backwards.”

Guigrim did not bother trying to figure out if he was joking. He looked down at the eldar in his arms. She had grown quiet and still, though her eyes were blank and unstaring, and traces of horror lingered in her expression.

“What’s wrong with her?” Guigrim asked Ezarvyn. “The harlequin’s explanation didn’t exactly explain much.”

“Nothing. Coming face to face with the gods of the Othersea – and She Who Thirsts in particular – tends to do that to eldar.” His lips twisted bitterly. “There are horrors that you do not even understand awaiting us should our souls fall into the possession of She Who Thirsts.”

“Perhaps I might understand if you bothered explaining it.”

Ezarvyn chuckled humorlessly. “No, human. I don’t think that you would. In any event, if you really want to know what awaits us, ask Illiawe about it. The farseers of the craftworlds have good reason to pay very close attention to such things, since it is a very good incentive to read the skeins properly before they embark on something important.”

“But you don’t have to worry about Slaanesh anymore, though, do you? She’s gone.”

Ezarvyn stared at him. “Do you really think that a single farseer – even one wielding a weapon such as a spirit box – is capable of killing a god? A greater daemon, maybe, but a Warp God is simply too large to be so easily contained.”

“That’s what I don’t really understand. How did Illiawe managed to contend with a Warp God?”

Ezarvyn shrugged. “You will have to ask her that, too.”

“It was Spiorad,” Illiawe murmured then, and Guigrim looked quickly down. Her voice was still weak, but some of the color had returned to her cheeks. “You can put me down, Guigrim. I can walk on my own.”

“Perhaps, but you can do so when we get to that section of the webway that your harlequin friend was talking about.”

Indignation crossed Illiawe’s face, and she opened her mouth.

“Don’t argue with me,” Guigrim said. An idea came quite suddenly to him. “You are just going to slow us down, and time is essential. You can walk around all you like when we get there.”

Illiawe’s mouth closed and Guigrim quickly stored the information away for future use. The pride of the eldar might just prove to be very useful. “Why don’t you continue with your explanation?”

Illiawe glowered at him for a while. “There is a restriction – a barrier, if you will – that prevents the creatures of the Othersea from wholly coming into this place. The Othersea gods have usually found other ways to circumvent it when they take the occasional interest in the affairs of this plane – making greater daemons with fragments of their consciousness, infusing champions with some measure of power, creating artifacts and weapons, and the like. For some reason, the idea of the eldar possessing Spiorad frightens Slaanesh, and she tore through the barrier. The Othersea gods are vastly stronger than all the other things that dwell there, but I did not think that even they would be capable of breaking through.

“To put it shortly, Slaanesh expended almost all her power breaking past the barriers between the Othersea and the material plane. The Othersea Gods are simply too large to do so without great difficulty, and it weakened Slaanesh enough for Spiorad to split her avatar up into its component souls.”

“That was not Slaanesh, then?”

“Don’t repeat the obvious. That was no different from a greater daemon, really. An avatar of the Warp God. More than a greater daemon, but a projection and not the Warp God herself. That singular consciousness that is Slaanesh is still within the Othersea – severely weakened but still very much active.” She smirked. “I think that the dreaded Slaanesh is going to have a very tough time now, however. If she’s not careful, she might just get consumed by the other Warp creatures.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” Guigrim asked with mock regret.

Illiawe took Spiorad from her side and held it in her hands, staring at it. Now that he could see it clearly, Guigrim saw that it was more in the way of a gem than its name would imply. It was milky white, and there were softly glowing streaks of blue running along its surface. Its edges were rounded, and it fit perfectly in Illiawe’s palm.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her.

Wordlessly, she shook her head and tucked the cube back into a pouch at her hip.

“How long more do we have to go?” Guigrim asked the harlequin moving before them.

“In real time or perceived time?”

“Both.”

“Almost instantly in actuality. It might seem like hours to you, however.” The mask of the harlequin shimmered, became transparent, exposing the grinning face beneath.

Guigrim scowled. “Do you all think you are so funny?” he muttered darkly to Illiawe.

“Aren’t we?”

Guigrim’s scowl deepened, then a thought came to him. “Why were you so afraid of Slaanesh?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Not quite to the same extent, no.”

Illiawe looked speculatively at him. “I don’t suppose that you understand, at that. We made a mistake once. We thought ourselves the undisputed rulers of the galaxy. Our mistake gave rise to Slaanesh. Death for you is a simple thing. You fade away, unknowing and uncaring of your eventual fate. We know what will happen if we die. Our mistake has given Slaanesh claim to our souls, and it is that which we fear over all else.”

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

She pursed her lips. “Perhaps you don’t at that. You might understand better if I were to show it to you.”

Guigrim felt her mind reach out to him, and first images, then emotions, began to enter his mind. It was hazy, quite indistinct, as Illiawe showed him things that he did not quite comprehend. There was pain and fear and hatred, all so profound as to be almost unrecognizable. Illiawe flashed him image after image, memories of things that have happened and things yet to happen to those souls that found their way into the clutches of Slaanesh. And in one moment Guigrim saw terrible suffering and inflicted horrors, all of which caused him to shudder and his blood to run cold. And at the very edge of that vision was a single eternal presence. Guigrim recognized it, of course. He should. It was the same presence that he had faced in the cavern where Spiorad had lain.

And when Illiawe finally released her hold on him, he was not surprised to find that he was trembling violently.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Illiawe asked almost conversationally.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I don’t think that I have heard that the eldar are all that willing to talk about these kind of things.”

She shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

“You just feel like talking?” Guigrim asked, slightly amused despite the things that he had just seen.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe the future will reveal the reason in time.”

They went in silence for a while, then Illiawe spoke again, and Guigrim was surprised to see a fire in her eyes. “Tread carefully. You humans are heading down this same path. We can only do so much to prevent a similar doom from falling upon you, but only you can avert this fate.”

“Surely there must be something that you could do regarding your fate,” Guigrim said, brushing her warning aside.

“You are unwholesomely optimistic, Guigrim,” Illiawe said with a sad smile. “But you are right. There is something that we could – and did – do.” She reached beneath her suit and took out a dull blue gem. “You recognize this, do you not?”

“I have seen things like it on eldar warriors and vehicles. I don’t think that many know what they are.”

Illiawe turned the jewel over in her hand. “The Tears of Isha. Soulstones. Whatever we call them, they capture our souls when we die, so that we do not fall into the clutches of Slaanesh. This is all that saves us from eternal horror.” She tucked the jewel back under her suit, her lips twisting bitterly. “Our options are endless torment or the endless twilight of walking between life and death. It is not a very tough choice.” She fell silent then, going into a kind of reverie.

The code of the Holy Imperium was clear. To put aside hatred for the xenos was foolishness, to consort with them was idiocy, to feel sympathy for them was vile heresy. Like all Gray Knights, Guigrim's soul was pure. The corruption of Chaos had never found purchase upon his heart or soul, and his mind was as a fortress against even the foulest of magics. Yet he felt words rise unbidden to his throat, and even as he spoke them, he knew that the Ordo Xenos would condemn him to the very deepest reaches of hell should they find out. "I'm sorry," he said shortly, the words feeling unnatural.

The eldar looked at him in surprise, then she smiled sadly. Guigrim felt eyes on him, and he looked up. His Brother-Librarians were looking at him. Neither of them would speak of this, and he trusted them to keep the incident safe. But even as he looked into the eyes of these men who had spent their lifetimes studying the way of the Warp, he knew that they understood, perhaps more than he ever could hope to, the plight of the eldar. And, within himself, Guigrim felt a warm glow, like that of satisfaction after a hard-won battle, as he felt their approval.

Illiawe did not speak again for the rest of the way. All throughout that time she kept her eyes closed. Once, and only once, did she suddenly cry out as though in pain, her face contorting into an expression of agony. Alarmed, Guigrim looked down, but there was nothing that he could have done. Then both Ezarvyn and the harlequin were there by his side. The harlequin placed the tips of his fingers to Illiawe’s temples, and Guigrim felt his mind searching, gently probing. Then both he and Ezarvyn went off some distance, talking together softly but urgently.

“What is it?” Guigrim asked when they returned.

“Spiorad is a heavy burden,” Ezarvyn answered shortly. “Illiawe would require some time to get used to it.”

“That’s not everything.”

“No, it’s not, and you can forget about trying to find out.”

They continued on for some time more, then the harlequin stopped. “This is the place,” he announced. “We’ll just wait here until Illiawe has sufficiently recovered.”

Guigrim took a quick look about him. The rainbow corridors did not seem any different from the ones that they had travelled through previously, but he wisely kept his skepticism to himself.

Illiawe sat cross-legged on the ground of the webway, clutching Spiorad in her hands and staring morosely into its depths. After a while, Ezarvyn knelt by her side and spoke to her, his voice soft, comforting. Illiawe replied in a voice almost on the verge of tears, and Ezarvyn nodded. He took a silken pouch from his robes, emptied its contents into a pocket, and offered it to Illiawe. She flashed him a quick if sad smile and dropped the softly glowing cube into the pouch. They spent the next few minutes doing things to the pouch, then Illiawe tucked it away.

Finally Illiawe looked around her, drawing in a deep breath. Her chin lifted, and in a second all traces of the vulnerable eldar was gone, and the stern and disapproving, if a little worn out and weary looking, farseer returned. She spoke to the harlequin for a few moments in the eldar tongue, and the harlequin nodded, leading them back through the tunnels of the webway. As they walked, Guigrim studied the face of Illiawe, but all traces of her earlier disposition appeared to have vanished, though she was still a little pale, and there was a noticeable tightening around her eyes.

They stepped out of the webway into the commotion of a mobilizing army. Orks ran here and there, all rushing toward this or that frontline. Tanks and bikes and jerky walkers moved in a disorganized mob, heading from where they landed toward the daemon hordes. Illiawe was the last one to leave. She and the harlequin spoke quietly together for a few moments, then she turned away and stepped lightly out of the shimmering doorway. And then the surface of light was gone.

Guigrim opened up a private vox link with Volorus. After a moment, the inquisitor’s voice came over the vox.

“Did you get it?” he asked tersely.

“We did, my lord.”

There was an explosive sigh of relief. “I’m diverting one of the orks’ gunships to your location now.”

Several moments later, there was a loud whine, and a bulky plane that looked like it had been repaired with the hull of a dozen different tanks came dropping ungracefully out of the sky. It did not so much land as it did crash into the ground, and the heavy door at the back clanged open.

“Oi!” a gruff voice hollered from a couple of dented speakers at the top of the aircraft. “Da boss told me ta pick ya up, so git ya zoggin’ feet in ‘ere now!”

“Unsubtle, aren’t they?” Ezarvyn observed mildly.

“Get in,” Illiawe said. “I’ll be much happier when we are back aboard the ship.”

The inside of the aircraft was a lot smaller than it had appeared to be from the outside, and Guigrim shuddered at the idea of the sheer thickness of the hull. The plane wobbled worryingly as it lifted off the ground, its engines screaming in protest.

“This thing is going to take us to the ship in orbit?” Ezarvyn asked in amusement.

“The planes of the orks are a lot more capable than they appear,” Illiawe assured him.

“I am aware of that, but it’s a wonder that this thing can even fly, let alone go into orbit under its own power.”

“It’s not going very quickly, if that’s of any comfort to you.”

“It’s not.”

A number of ork planes joined them as they ascended, as did a dozen winged daemons that had managed to evade the general aerial battle taking place all throughout the skies of the planet. The daemons converged on them and their escort turned to cut them off before they got too close.

“Are the orks going to be able to fend them off?” Ezarvyn asked with some concern.

Then there was a coarse laugh and their pilot pushed a metal plate at the front of the hold to the side, opening a small window. “Dem bats fink dey can catch me girl.” He guffawed, spraying spittle all over his controls. Then he craned his head around to look quizzically at his passengers. “Ya don’t fink it’s funny?”

“They certainly aren’t going to have much of a problem,” Ezarvyn observed, staring pointedly at a fuzzy display in the front of the hold. A couple of the daemons had broken off and were clawing their way upward in pursuit of the plane.

“Bah,” their pilot dismissed them. “Dem finks ain’t gud enuff ta catch us. Diz girl’s tuff, and fast.”

“Whatever you are going to do,” Illiawe said, “you might want to consider doing it now.”

“Ya need ta learn patience, pointy-ear,” he told her with no trace of irony in his voice.

The ork slammed his fist down on the control panel and there was a whirring noise from somewhere beneath their feet. There was the roar of a number of heavy cannons and the plane shuddered. Even inside its hold, Guigrim could quite clearly hear the screeches of the pursuing daemons.

The pilot laughed. “Dey didn’t expect dat, did dey? No one expects dat.”

Ignoring the smoking fist-sized holes in their bodies and wings, the daemons relentlessly continued their pursuit, even into the face of the cannon fire.

“Dey don’t want ta go away, do dey?” the pilot said. He reached out and pulled a rusty lever. The plane’s engines rose to an almost painful whine. The ork plane, of course, was almost completely devoid of intertia dampening systems, and it was only by locking the joints of his armor that Guigrim was able to keep himself standing. Despite his augmentations, dark spots began to appear before his eyes after only a few seconds. Dimly, he saw the daemons on the screen fade away as the aircraft left them behind.

When the plane finally slowed, they had left the planet behind them. The Regina Umbrae loomed large before them, hazy and indistinct as the last of its stealth systems were turned off. It took Guigrim a while to recover. The first thing that he noticed was that their pilot was laughing. The ork turned around, grinning hideously at them.

“What do ya fink?” he asked excitedly.

“It is certainly surprising, dear fellow,” Ezarvyn said. “I would never have thought this plane capable of such things.”

The ork’s grin grew wider. “Da boss made it specially fer ‘imself. It ain’t as fast as a ship like ‘e wanted, dough. ‘E might be a tad angry when ‘e ‘ears dat. It’z a waste o’ a gud ship engine.”

“A ship engine?” Illiawe asked, baffled.

“Not everyfink in a ship engine needz ta be dere. Da mekz tuk stuff out, and made da rest smaller. I guess dey must ‘ave taken out too much or somefink, ‘cuz she’s not as fast as da sip wuz before.”

“How many more of these planes have you got?” Illiawe asked warily.

“Jus’ dis one. Da boss don’t want ta take annova ship apart fer planes. It don’t make sense. ‘E on’y made dis one ‘cuz sometimes ‘e gotta go someplace in a real ‘urry.”

The ork put the plane down in the hangar of the Regina Umbrae, and they went immediately to the bridge. Volorus and Uriel were both waiting for them when they got there, and they had expectant looks on their faces.

“Well?” Volorus asked, looking at Illiawe.

“Well what?”

“We spent all this time and effort to get our hands on this artifact, Illiawe. The least that you could do is show it to us.”

“I don’t think so, Volorus. It’ll not be a good idea to display it in the presence of so many. If you think about it, I’m sure you’d see why.” She sighed wearily and moved to sit on a nearby bench. Guigrim looked closely at her. Her face was drawn and pale from her earlier storm of weeping, but there was something else there that he could not quite place. Illiawe’s words came back to him about the effects that Spiorad had on the soul of its wielder. At the time he had suspected that it was not the truth, but now he was no longer sure.

“All right,” Volorus said, then he went out of the bridge, gesturing for Guigrim to follow. The inquisitor did not speak again until they reached his office. “Close the door,” he instructed, moving to sit behind his desk. “What happened down there, Guigrim? Illiawe’s looking a little strange.”

“I am not certain, my lord. There were quite a few things that I don’t fully understand.” Quickly he recounted the events that had occurred, concentrating upon those that took place in the cave. When he was finished, Volorus leaned back in his seat. His eyes were very bright.

“Illiawe defeated Slaanesh all by herself with Spiorad?”

“The harlequins were there, my lord, and I am not sure exactly how much aid they provided.”

“But it appeared that she did so on her own?”

Guigrim nodded.

“Then the harlequins could have been providing instructions just as much as they could have been providing aid in the banishment of Slaanesh?” Volorus asked intently.

“It is likely, my lord.”

“Imagine what we could do with such a weapon in our possession,” Volorus mused. “We could sweep Chaos out of the Materium and keep them contained within the Eye of Terror.”

Guigrim moved quickly to head off that line of thought. “It is a weapon that we do not understand. You know of the dangers that possessing it brings. It is best if we let the eldar do with it as they will.”

Volorus nodded glumly. “It is a nice thought, though, isn’t it?”

“It borders on the heretical, my lord.”

“Heretical,” Volorus scoffed. “The term is used too freely within the Imperium. In this case, however, you might just be right. I think that if the eldar cannot prevent this leeching of their soul, neither can we, and it’ll probably be too dangerous to even try using it.” He rubbed at the side of his face speculatively. “Is there anything that we could do to help Illiawe?”

Guigrim shook his head. “I think that the eldar have their own solutions for that.”

“Maybe, but then again, maybe not. Why don’t you take Noshan and talk to Illiawe about the matter? He’s studied matters of the Warp in quite great detail, and he might know of something.”

Guigrim nodded, swallowing the protests that rose to his lips. He highly doubted that Noshan could produce a solution that the eldar could not.

“That’s it, then, isn’t it, Guigrim?” Volorus said.

“My lord?”

“All we need to do now is get Illiawe away from this place, and our mission is completed. You’ll return to your chapter, and I’ll take the information that the eldar provides me with and go stamp out some more Chaos cults.” He drummed his fingers absently on the desk, his expression reflective. “You know, this has all been really exciting. I think I’ll almost miss it when things settle back down.” Then he laughed ruefully. “At least, as settled down as they can be.”

As Guigrim had expected, the talk with Illiawe was ultimately fruitless. Illiawe did not appear willing to elaborate upon the details of Spiorad’s effects upon her, and Noshan was overenthusiastic in his questioning. The combination resulted in a one-sided affair that was nothing more than a colossal waste of time. It appeared to entertain Noshan, though, and Illiawe did not really seem to mind.

Ghahzlay came aboard the ship just as they were prepared to leave. His armor was splattered with blood and raked with claw marks and holes as large as Guigrim’s fists, but there was a broad grin upon his face.

“I’ve nevar seen dem fings fight so ‘ard before,” he declared when they gathered in a small conference room a short way from the bridge. The crew of the Regina Umbrae were all unspeakably brave, as all men under Volorus’ employ were, but the sight of the hulking Ghahzlay made them all more than a little nervous, for some reason. “Da boyz are ‘avin’ da best fun.”

“I’m so glad that you are enjoying yourself, old boy,” Ezarvyn drawled.

Ghahzlay grinned at him. “A gud fight ‘as ta be enjoyed.”

Illiawe sank lower into her chair. “We’ve got what we came for. As soon as we leave, the daemons are going to do the same, too. You had better let the orks know about that first. They might just get too disappointed if the daemons they are killing just vanish before their eyes.”

Ghahzlay looked at her worriedly. “Dey won’t really do dat, will dey?”

“They might. Or they might come after me. I wouldn’t really know.”

Ghahzlay grinned. “If dey try ta chase ya, me boyz will chase dem. Don’t ya worry, pointy-ear. Dey are not gonna be chasin’ ya. Me an’ da boyz will make sure of dat.”

“You’re too kind,” she murmured.

Ghahzlay threw his head back and laughed. “Kindness ‘as nofin’ ta do wif it, pointy-ear. No one runz from a fight wif da Bad Parnz. It’s right an’ coward-like, ya know, an’ da boyz an’ I, we oughta teach cowardz ta fight gud an’ proppa.”

“By beating them until they learn?” Ezarvyn asked in a faintly amused tone.

“’Ave ya evar ‘eard of anovvar way of teachin’?”

Ezarvyn shook his head, but he chose not to answer.

“You are going to stay here, then?” Illiawe asked him.

“Ya don’t ‘ave anywhere fer me ta go, do ya?” His heavy brow twitched questioningly. “Do ya?”

Illiawe tilted her head, her lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps I might. I’ll let you know when I need your orks again. Until then, you can keep on killing daemons if you have nothing better to do.”

“Ah, but diz iz da best fink I can do.” Then he grinned broadly. “Now comes da fun part.”

“Oh? Which part was that?”

“’Ow much ya goin’ ta pay me fer my service ta ya, of coz. Dis fight wif da spiky gitz iz from da goodness of me ‘eart, but ta keep dem deemonz away from ya wuld cost ya, an’ if ya want ta call me an’ da boyz later, ya gotz ta pay up.”

“We can talk about that later.”

Ghahzlay shook his head. “In advance, pointy-ear.”

Illiawe sighed. “This might take a while. You only take teeth, don’t you?”

“Ya don’t luk like ya gotz any dat I’d want, though. Dey too small. Maybe if ya kin get sumfin’ else interestin’, I wuld take dat.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

Ghahzlay nodded, looking around and scratching vigorously at his arm. “Ya do dat. I’m ‘ungry. I’ll go see if I kin catch a squig. Where’s da food place at?”

Volorus went to the door and spoke briefly to the guard outside. A minute later a servant came hesitantly into the room. “You called, my lord?” he asked Volorus.

The inquisitor nodded. “Show Ghahzlay here the way to the mess hall, will you?”

The servant looked apprehensively at the hulking ork. “Forgive me, my lord, but is that altogether wise? I’ve heard stories about the diet of orks.”

Ghahzlay laughed. “It’s not true. ‘Umies taste bad, an’ are not as fillin’ as squigz.” He clapped his hand familiarly on the servant’s shoulder, ignoring his flinch and the fact that the man’s knees quite nearly buckled. “Dere wuz diz one time I got ‘ungry when fightin’ da ‘umies, though, an’ dere wuz all diz fresh ‘umies dat wuz jus’ lyin’ around. Come on. Show me ta da food place, an’ I’ll tell ya ‘bout dat time.” And he quite literally steered the poor man out of the door.

“Interesting figure,” Ezarvyn noted. The Dark Eldar’s appearance aboard the ship had drawn some strange looks, but Volorus had not made issue of the fact. Ezarvyn was with Illiawe, so Volorus was tolerant, if not welcoming, of him. Evidently, the inquisitor’s change of heart had gone further than any of them had realized. The rest of the crew, of course, did not realize the significance of Ezarvyn’s pallid complexion. He grinned at Illiawe. “You’ve dug out a rather large hole for yourself, haven’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll have to think of some way to produce something that Ghahzlay wants or you will lose his aid altogether.” Ezarvyn’s grin turned into a smirk. “You don’t happen to have an ork that is willing to give away his teeth up your sleeve, do you?”

“I’m ahead of you on that score, Ezarvyn. I just need to check with the crystal seers for the specifics.”

“Specifics of what?”

Now it was Illiawe’s turn to smirk. “I am going to create ork teeth right here for Ghahzlay, Ezarvyn. I think I know how to do so, but it would not hurt to get some confirmation anyway.” She stretched a hand out, and a glowing rune floated out from a pouch by her side to hover above her open palm. Her eyes grew distant for a moment. Then she nodded, taking out another rune. Guigrim quite clearly felt her reaching out, then, with dull clattering sounds, a veritable shower of teeth and fangs popped out of the air to fall into a great pile in the center of the table. It continued for some time until the pile spilled over off the table onto the floor. Illiawe withdrew her hand, and the shower stopped.

“Where did they come from?” Uriel asked, leaning in to inspect the pile.

“That’s psychoplastic.”

“Wraithbone?”

“No. Wraithbone doesn’t look quite as convincing. This is a different type, one that the artisans use to line gardens with – among other things. A number of the crystal seers have had experience in shaping psychoplastics, and one of them offered this alternative.” She pursed her lips, musing half to herself, “it is a useful skill. Perhaps I should take the time to learn the art. It shouldn’t take long to learn to channel my powers in that direction.”

Uriel picked up one of the teeth and inspected it. “It does look pretty convincing. What if Ghahzlay finds out that they’re fake, though?”

“I plan to tell him that they are fake.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Honesty is a virtue,” Illiawe said with great aplomb. Then she shrugged. “Actually, he’s probably going to find out sooner or later, and I am hoping that he would see the benefits to having access to as many teeth as he wants without waiting for his own to fall out.” She paused. “Of course, these teeth are going to last longer than the ordinary ones. Perhaps the idea of a reserve fund might appeal to Ghahzlay.”

“I think that you might just be overestimating the intelligence of the orks,” Ezarvyn drawled.

“That is beside the point.” She looked around, and a momentary frown touched her brow. Her hand dipped into the pouch by her side that contained Spiorad.

“Illiawe?” Uriel asked.

The farseer shook her head slightly, as if trying to clear her head, and her face paled slightly. Guigrim happened to be looking at Ezarvyn then, so there was no question about what happened next. Ezarvyn’s eyes narrowed, then, as Illiawe took her hand out of the pouch, they widened in shock before the Dark Eldar quickly got his expressions back under control. His eyes, however, lingered upon the pouch at Illiawe’s hip.

“What will you be doing now?” Volorus asked, peering intently at her.

Illiawe smiled, and Guigrim thought that it was just a little wan. “I will be returning to the craftworld. If you take me someplace close by, I could call on Mornedor. It would be a terrible idea to call him to a place such as this.” She dipped her eyes in the general direction of the planet for emphasis.

Volorus nodded, understanding. “Where would you like us to drop you off?”

Illiawe shrugged. “Anywhere, I suppose.”

“Perhaps somewhere at the edges of Imperial space, away from any star system,” Ezarvyn recommended. “We wouldn’t want the humans to panic if an eldar ship appears over their planet out of nowhere, would we?”

Illiawe nodded absently.

Volorus sat straighter in his chair. “Now, of course, we come to the important part. You promised me great information regarding the forces of Chaos within the Imperium. I would like that information, if you please.”

Illiawe smiled a little listlessly. “The one whom you call the Despoiler is coming.”

Volorus scowled darkly. “I know that. You promised things that I don’t know.”

“No,” Illiawe replied, “you misunderstand. I am not speaking of some slight skirmish of a million souls. The final days are near at hand, Volorus. The last battle in the void around the rift to the Othersea. This is the information that I give you in exchange for your aid. For the survival of both our races, if not for friendship, do I impart to you that which I have and will glean of battles still to come. Do with it as you will.”

Volorus gaped at her. “This wasn’t what I had in mind,” he protested.

Illiawe tilted her head. “Was it not? I promised glory. Take that which I give you and present it to those who should know. Whether or not they heed your warnings, you will obtain the glory that you seek.” Her eyes grew distant. “Try your best to warn them, however. Just as you require our aid to emerge victorious in the coming war, so too will we need yours.” She stood abruptly. “I think that I will go lie down for a while, however. I will give this information to you when I wake. While you are waiting, you could get us away from this place.”

“What about Ghahzlay?” Uriel asked, gesturing at the pile of teeth on the table.

Illiawe scowled darkly, then she sighed in resignation. “I guess I should talk with him first, shouldn’t I?”

“That is probably a good idea, yes.”

Illiawe muttered for a few moments, and her eyes grew distant. Then she sat herself heavily back in her chair to wait for him. After only a few moments, the ork came walking into the room with a beefy arm draped familiarly around the shoulders of his guide. The man’s face was white, his hands were trembling, and he had the look of one who was ready to bolt.

Volorus waved Ghahzlay in and nodded at the servant, who bowed rather quickly and fled.

“What did you say to him?” Uriel asked curiously.

Ghahzlay grinned, his teeth gleaming. “I told ‘im a few stories, iz all. I don’t know why ‘e’s so scared fer.” He pulled up a chair and, without invitation, unceremoniously sat. He shifted his huge bulk around, and Guigrim thought he heard the heavy metal of its arms creak and the solid metal plate of its seat crumple slightly. “All right, den,” he said. “What do ya ‘ave fer me?” He eyed the pile of teeth on the table suspiciously. “Where did ya get all dis teef from?”

“I made them,” Illiawe said.

Ghahzlay’s piggy eyes narrowed. “What ya mean ‘made’?”

Illiawe held out a hand, palm up, and a speck of white formed over her open palm. It grew and molded itself, and a half second later a large curved fang hovered in the air above her hand. She shook her hand lightly and let the tooth fall to join the rest of the pile.

Ghahzlay’s eyes widened, and his expression became sly. “Ain’t dat sumfin’?” he asked. “Well, now.” He leaned back in his seat. “Dat’s a real nice trick ya got.”

“Here’s the deal,” Illiawe said. “As of this moment, consider yourself hired. You get a pile just like this for every day of service.”

Ghahzlay leaned back in his seat. “Every day? Ya gonna make me a very rick ork at da end o’ dis.” His eyes narrowed. “Dem teef act like orky teef?”

Illiawe frowned for a moment, not understanding, then her brow cleared. “No,” she said. “The teeth will not decompose, and it is highly unlikely that you will live long enough to see them do so.”

Ghahzlay shook his head. “Don’t make it do dat,” he growled.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want da ovar orky klans ta ‘ave teef dat don’t go bad. Can’t ya do sumfin’ ‘bout dat?”

“No, I can’t, and I won’t,” Illiawe said icily.

“Ya gonna wreck da orky ekonomee, pointy-ear,” he said glumly.

At that, Illiawe burst into peals of silvery laughter.

“Fine,” Ghahzlay said, looking a little hurt. “Maybe I will keep it, den.”

Illiawe shrugged. “Do with them however you will.”

Ghahzlay squinted at the pile. “I might need a bag or sumfin’ fer dat.” He shook his head. “I’ll call one o’ me boyz.”

“Don’t take too long going about it. I do not want to remain in this system for longer than I have to.”

A look of confusion came over Ghahzlay’s face. “Why not? Diz place iz fun. Dere’s plenty ta kill ‘ere.”

Illiawe’s look turned frosty. Ghahzlay grinned impudently at her for a moment, then stood and went out of the room in the direction of the hangar. After some time he returned with two hulking orks in tow. The orks had sacks of some animal hide slung over their shoulders, and they began filling the sacks with the fake teeth. When they were done, Ghahzlay turned to Illiawe.

“Diz iz da pay fer tomorrow. ‘Ow ‘bout da rest?”

Illiawe rolled her eyes. “Take your ship and come with us. I’ll make the teeth on your ship when we are away from this system.”

Ghahzlay shook his head. “I don’t know why ya wanna give up a perfectly gud fight like dat.”

“Do you want the teeth or not?” She ran a hand through her hair. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going off to bed.”

Volorus had a vaguely worried expression on his face when they left the conference and made their way to his office. “Does this seem like a good idea to you?” he asked as soon as the door was closed.

“Does what seem like a good idea?” Uriel asked.

“Hiring the orks.”

Uriel shrugged, moving to one of the shelves and pouring himself a drink. “I would much rather have the orks fighting for us than against us.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. If what Illiawe says is right and the final battle is here, then she is most probably going to use the orks to fight in the most heated zones. Can you imagine the expressions of the generals and commanders when orks start appearing in places like Cadia to help push the forces of Chaos back?”

Uriel’s eyes widened. “Emperor!” he swore. “I haven’t thought of that.” He grinned broadly. “I’d imagine that they’ll be just a little shocked.”

“That’s the greatest understatement of the century,” Volorus agreed. “It is a very dangerous alliance, however. Accidents have a way of happening, and I’d think that some of the troops might have grudges against the orks.”

Uriel shrugged. “I imagine that they hate Chaos more than they do the orks. Besides, the eldar will probably make sure that such things don’t happen. I don’t think that they want us and the orks fighting any more than we do.”

Volorus shot him a disgusted look. “You are sickeningly optimistic, do you know that?”

“Nobody’s perfect, Volorus. Not even me.” He held out a goblet to Volorus. “Want some wine?”

After a few minutes of consultation, the inquisitors decided to hold the transfer with the orks out in deep space at the fringes of the galaxy. The sensor arrays in those places were sparse, and one of the few places left in the galaxy that was free from the prying eyes of the assorted Imperial departments.

The trip through the Warp occurred without incident, and the Regina Umbrae came out only a couple of hours after they had left. Ghahzlay’s patchwork ship, a hulking monstrosity that resembled a moon more than a ship and with so many guns jutting out that it looked rather much like a sea urchin, was already waiting for them. Volorus signaled crisply, and a shuttle carrying Illiawe flew out of the Regina Umbrae. A slab of metal in the ork ship, indistinguishable from the other similar slabs around it, slid aside haltingly to admit the shuttle. Something flew out of the docking bay toward the shuttle, and Guigrim looked quickly at one of the nearby screens, fearing treachery. But it was not a projectile. Rather, the thing that had been vented was a thrashing ork, stripped bare and yet impossibly alive.

With kicks and flails it angled its way toward the approaching shuttle as though moving through not a vacuum but water. It made a desperate swipe as the shuttle passed near it, its fingers finding purchase on the craft’s hull.

“Oi!” Ghahzlay’s voice came over the vox, booming in the confines of the bridge. “Ya in da plane. Jiggle ‘round. Shake dat squig fer brains off.”

“How did they get into this channel?” one of the communications officer asked.

“Forget about it,” Volorus told him, sighing.

“Uh… what did you say?” the shuttle pilot said.

“Ya ‘eard me,” Ghahzlay growled. “Dat git cheats a lot. Me an’ da boyz are sick o’ waitin’ fer ‘im ta pay up all da teef ‘e owes us. Now shake ‘im off before da shuttle brings ‘im back.”

There was a short exchange from inside the shuttle, then Illiawe spoke. “Ghahzlay,” she said. “I am just a little tired. I would rather the shuttle not jiggle all over the place, if you don’t mind.”

“But -”

“You can throw him out later.”

“We can’t, pointy-ear. An ork can on’y be thrown out once fer each crime. If ‘e makes it back onta da ship, ‘e isn’t guilty no more.”

“Invent some other crime to throw him out for, then.”

“Pointy-ear,” Ghahzlay said stiffly, “da Bad Parnz klan don’t do dat. Justice iz important ‘ere.”

Illiawe’s answering laughter was filled with mirth.

“Shut up!” Ghahzlay shouted, his voice anxious. “Don’t let ‘im come back!”

“You should have thrown him out when a shuttle isn’t approaching, then.”

“But diz way iz moar effeeshent,” Ghahzlay grumbled.

The shuttle entered the docking bay, and Ghahzlay growled in irritation. Then the ork went flying out of the docking bay, its jaws agape in a silent scream.

“Oops,” Illiawe said absently.

There was a stunned silence, then the vox channel erupted with the howls of ork laughter.

“We ‘ave ta kill ya fer dat, ya know?” Ghahzlay said. “An attack on one of our boyz when ‘e ‘as no guilt must be punished.”

“I would like to state in my defense that the poor ork let go of his own free will,” Illiawe replied in a solemn voice. “It seems that he felt the ship was just a little cramped, and wanted to have some space to himself.”

“Oh,” Ghahzlay said in a suitably somber tone. “I guess dat’s all right, den.” And he howled with laughter.

“Ork justice is quite straightforward, isn’t it?” Uriel observed mildly. “I wonder if we could reform our own after theirs. The points of law within the Imperium are getting just a little bit too convoluted and obscure.”

“Are you insane?” Volorus asked.

“Probably, but you have to admit that there’s something about arbitrary justice that’s appealing.”

Volorus looked at first shocked, then he, too, grinned.

Illiawe was on board the ork ship for a while, and, while she was there, an eldar ship popped out of nowhere to drift gracefully up alongside the Regina Umbrae. There had been no warning from any of their sensors of the arrival of the eldar ship, and though they were expecting it, the crew on the bridge rushed about in a moment of panic borne of instincts before remembering that it posed no threat. The eldar made no move to contact them, and the silence grew almost tense.

Then Illiawe’s shuttle came out of the ork ship, returning to the Regina Umbrae. Illiawe came onto the bridge a few minutes later. She looked at each of them in turn, then, unexpectedly, stepped forward and clasped the arm of the inquisitors in a formal gesture. Then she smiled.

“It has been rather interesting,” Volorus said, seemingly more to fill out the awkward silence than anything else.

Illiawe nodded once. “That it has. Your assistance in this matter is most appreciable, Volorus.”

Volorus suddenly grinned. “You make it sound like it has not been tainted by self-interest. I am already reaping the benefits of this deal. My scribes have been busy compiling everything that you have told me. Once I get enough people onto it, the Black Crusade will suddenly become a whole lot more difficult for our friend at the head of the forces of Chaos. It’s going to be good for my reputation.”

Illiawe flashed him a grin. “I like to see friends get ahead in the world.”

Volorus laughed, an easy sound that contained no inhibitions. “I hope to see you again, Illiawe.”

If the eldar was surprised at his words, she did not show it. “Likewise, Volorus.” She took a step back and bowed rather formally to each of them in turn, her hands clasped before her chest. “May Isha watch over you.”

“And may the light of the Emperor shine upon you,” Volorus responded formally, before allowing a single, brief smile.

Illiawe smiled, her eyes growing distant for a moment. “Until the Fates bring our paths together again.”

On the displays, a gunship exited the eldar ship that lay like a resting serpent beside them. Illiawe nodded once more and turned, with Ezarvyn close behind her. The pair made their way to the door of the bridge with the characteristic grace of their race, then they went through the door and were gone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 25

Troupe Master Esarlyth gunned the engines of his skyweaver, racing down the corridors of the webway. Two other skyweavers flew at his side. Their riders were the troupe masters of the dark and twilight troupes of the Darkened Moon. They crouched low in their seats, keeping perfect pace with Esarlyth. A thought came to him from the Twilight troupe master and Esarlyth veered his jetbike off to one side in response, moving down a side corridor. The shifting walls of the webway became unfamiliar. His role now performed, he fell back and let the Twilight troupe master take the lead. It was a precautionary feature that the webway contained. Each troupe master knew how to navigate only a part of this route; to reach the Pavilion of the Troupe Masters under normal circumstances, then, required all three of a Masque’s troupe masters to be present. Esarlyth did not bother trying to remember the directions for the rest of the journey. Like the rest of the webway, the path to the Pavilion was always shifting, so that one trip was never the same as the next. Each harlequin knew the webway’s corridors only as far as the webway willed and no more.

The master of the Dark Troupe took the lead for the rest of the way. Esarlyth felt a tug on his mind, and he realized that they had arrived. They pulled their skyweavers aside and dismounted. There were already dozens of jetbikes there, scattered in groups of threes and, now and then, twos across the webway’s shimmering floor. Esarlyth checked to make sure that his mask was secure, and went with the other two troupe masters to a pulsating portal in a nearby wall.

The Pavilion of the Troupe Masters was nothing but a large room within the webway, stretching on for so far that even the light of the dozen captured suns hanging above could not reach its walls. Esarlyth and his companions stepped out of the portal at the edge of where the light and the shadows met. In the exact middle of the room was a stage half of snowy psychoplastic and half of the dark Commorrite synthetic material. Esarlyth and his companions split up, moving to stand at three sides of the room. Esarlyth joined the other Light troupe masters that had already gathered there. With a pulse of thought he greeted them, and they welcomed him. When that was done, Esarlyth turned his mind to the other Troupe Masters, greeting them all. Some of them were new, but most he knew, and Esarlyth smiled as the warmth of their thoughts touched his mind, inviting him to join in their conversations. Some he politely declined, others he joined in, and most he did not participate in but remained aware of what was being discussed.

More and more Troupe Masters arrived, until even the space under the light of the suns was completely filled and the late arrivals stood in the shadows.

Then the light of the suns dimmed for an instant. When their brilliance returned, there were figures standing on the stage, silent and unmoving. As one, the troupe masters turned their attention to the figures. The silence was filled with reverence. All knew who the figures were. The High Avatars, the masters of the Masques, stood in their rainbow colored garb upon the stage. One of the figures stepped forward, his long coat swirling about his ankles. He bowed deeply from the waist, turning in a slow circle, including all in his greeting.

“The doom of the eldar race is at hand,” he started. No one spoke. It was common knowledge, after all. “All signs leading up to it have come to pass. Our master, your god, has set his final pieces in place. The harlequins are called to gather for the final dance. The High Shadowseers are, even now, gathering in communion, and the Great Harlequins, and yes, even the Silent Guards cease their patrols of the domain of the Laughing God. The Keepers and Scribes are preparing to open the vaults in their care and to release the knowledge contained within.” Yet not a single eldar had moved. The concise update of recent events were nothing more than a formality. The gathering of troupe masters in the Pavilion was held only in the direst of times, and so the grave implications that the update contained came as no surprise to the troupe masters.

Then Esarlyth felt a previously hidden part of the harlequin overmind open and he felt the troupe masters stir around him as what they had all been awaiting finally occurred. Esarlyth directed his mind toward that area that had just been opened to the troupe masters, feeling the others do the same. As he shared in that information, his thoughts grew clear, and the rest of the dance fell into place within his mind. And as he turned the new information over in his mind, his spirit fell and his shoulders slumped as he saw unspeakable destruction before him. And the Pavilion of the Troupe Masters and the collective thoughts of the harlequins became subdued as each troupe master grieved.

            The men under Colonel Sadeus’ command were brave men, all ready to give their lives in service of their planet, if need be. Of course, all the soldiers of the Imperial Guard were uniformly brave and ready to give their lives in service, but Sadeus liked to think that his men were braver than the rest even without the blunt encouragement of their commissar to bolster their courage. Commissar Palicia, for her part, would have nothing to hear of not going along on their little trip, and so she had come, too. If one were to be candid, Sadeus did not mind the company.

The reason for their journey was simple and, even though Sadeus had enormous respect for the man, was entirely Governor Belaro’s fault. Shortly after the inquisitors had left with the orks, the Rogue Trader that Belaro had spoken of had arrived and cleansed the planet of Caliphas XII with some strange technology that left no marks but caused the lingering effects left behind by the tyranids to crumble to dust, and less than dust. It cleansed the world, of course, but the tyranids had stripped everything down to the ground and even taken large chunks of the crust with them in their pursuit of the consumption of biomass. This left Belaro with the grim task of restoring the functionality of the planet. It was therefore almost inevitable that, when an offer for assistance was made, Belaro did not hesitate in accepting it.

The offer, such as it was, came in the form of a couple of grandiose ships. Sadeus had never paid much attention to the bureaucracy of the Imperium, so he was not quite sure which department of the Adeptus Terra they belonged to, but he knew that they were important, since whole sections of the ships were covered in gold and there were symbols of office displayed prominently on their sides and wedged prows.

Sadeus had never been able to get the whole account but, as he understood it, a deal had taken place between Belaro and those officials. They would provide reconstruction aid and, in return, Belaro would send the remnants of his troops to aid in a nearby system that was under attack.

In hindsight, Sadeus revised his opinion. It was not Belaro who was to blame. It was, in fact, the troops themselves. The governor had been sure to ask the troops for their opinions regarding going out to combat again so soon after the tyranid assault. Sadeus had hoped that the men would reject the deal.

They had not. The fact that they survived the tyranids had made them reckless, and Sadeus had no choice but to go along with their insanity. Bravery was nice among the troops, but Sadeus’ men took it to extremes.

Even as their Valkyrie transports descended from orbit and the screens inside the hold showed footage of the carnage going on down below, the light did not fade from the eyes of the men in his transport. Palicia claimed that this sudden enthusiasm was a result of the men feeling like their survival at Caliphas XII had been the result of divine intervention, and they felt a certain obligation to continue fighting. Sadeus had a wholly different claim, one that he was wise enough not to voice in front of Palicia. He loved her, but the commissar had very strange opinions at times.

The Valkyries landed, and the veterans of the Battle of Caliphas XII stormed out. Sadeus took one look at the situation, and he immediately felt a cold fear grip his heart. Howling cultists, some dressed in nothing more than rags, came charging toward them. The Imperial Guard met them with a rolling line of tanks, which were promptly reduced to pillars of fire and twisted metal by the enemy’s own war machines. Hulking figures, much like the Space Marines that had aided them at Caliphas XII, came behind those fanatics, showering the Guardsmen with streams of explosions. Sadeus looked around, but there were none of those Marines on their side. He felt that that was distinctly unfair. Off in the distance, a massive war machine hundreds of stories tall traded fire with another, the effect of their weapons taking out whole battalions and rows of tanks moving around the giants on both sides with every shot.

Sadeus traded a quick look with Palicia. As always when around the troops, her face was stern and unafraid, but the both of them knew each other well enough to know what the other was thinking. It was not a battle that they were going to be of much use in; it was certainly not one that they were going to win, and there were no orks around to save them this time.

Perhaps the Guardsmen knew that, and perhaps they did not. It did not stop them from doing their duty. With a great cry, the Guardsmen shouldered their rifles and charged into the face of oblivion.

Sadeus did not know how he had survived. A rational man would have taken a look at the battlefield and the force composition on both sides and correctly judged that he had no more than a couple of hours to live. Indeed, Sadeus had come to that very same conclusion when he had stepped out of the Valkyrie two days before. Yet he still lived, watching the horizon under the blood red sky be lit up by flashes of light and the detonations of distant shelling sounding like the discontent rumblings of some far-off earthquake. The great machines of war, all the towering giants and the massive tanks and the largest artillery guns, all had fallen silent by now, reduced to nothing more than scrap. That Sadeus had actually outlived those great machines was a fact that did not escape him, and it made him rather strangely elated.

The enemy, the forces of Chaos, as the soldiers who had faced them before called them, did not bring any more of those great machines onto the field of battle. Neither did the Imperium. There were probably many reasons why that was the case, but Sadeus was too tired to really care. He had his own problems to worry about. One of them, for instance, was the fact that his new robotic arm had been torn in two by an errant blast. Palicia had found that to be rather amusing, for some reason. Sadeus had not laughed. The arm will be quite costly to replace.

The commissar lay half-seated beside him now, watching the troops around them. The last of the largest vehicles had taken with them any chance of a decisive victory for either side, and they had settled down into a grueling battle of attrition. The Guardsmen had dug out their trenches and their bunkers, and they now lay within them, watching the horizons intently. In battles such as these, lulls were to be expected, and Sadeus and Palicia had taken the opportunity to rest.

A grizzled Guardsman, one of the few men left under Sadeus’ command, came walking toward them, chuckling. Sadeus wanted to stand. He should have. It was part of his duty. But he found that he could not muster the energy to do so. Palicia tried, almost managed to haul herself into something resembling a standing position, and Sadeus’ opinion of her soared to even greater heights. After a few tries, however, she too gave up.

“What’s so funny?” Sadeus asked the Guardsmen. He figured that the soldiers under his command have earned the right to see them as no more than fellow soldiers, anyway.

“Nothing much, colonel,” the man replied gaily. “I was just talking to the Guardsmen from the other places, is all. Some of them have fought this Chaos before, you see. Apparently, they are terrified of them. I don’t see why. How bad can a few madmen be when compared to tyranids?”

“There are daemons too, you know,” Palicia told him. “Literal daemons out of Hell.”

The Guardsman shrugged. “I’ve seen bugs eat men alive and soldiers get their faces melted off. The daemons have a really tough job ahead of them if they want to make me scared.”

“Aren’t you a little blasé?” Palicia asked him acidly. “Do you see daemons so often that they bore you more than a few scuttling insects?”

“Not really, commissar. I’m just trying to keep my mood up, is all. I don’t like attritional warfare. With the tyranids, the battle was moving. The crazies out there aren’t scary enough to push us back, but we can’t advance, either. It’s going to be hell.”

“Go back to your post, Guardsman,” Palicia snapped at him.

“This is my post, commissar,” the man said in a placating tone.

“Then turn around and keep your mouth shut.” She turned slowly to look at the grinning Sadeus. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said quickly.

“Well, don’t.”

When the next attack came, the daemons that Palicia was talking about began to appear. They were hideous beyond imagining, with gaping jaws and goat-like horns. They clutched at barbed whips that trailed golden mist when they sliced through the air. The shapes of the daemons seemed indistinct, shifting constantly from a vaguely human form to ones that drove men insane. Here and there were even daemons that appeared to be no more than a thick haze as Sadeus’ mind refused to comprehend their chosen forms.

The Guardsman scoffed. “That’s not so bad. They can’t even decide what they want to be.”

“Concentrate on firing, soldier,” Palicia told him.

“Of course. It would be easy to do so when I don’t have to hide from acid that melts the flesh off a man’s bones.”

For all the bravado of the Guardsman, the weapons of the daemons were horribly effective. The golden whips lashed out, and men were reduced to a fine mist. The presence of the daemons themselves were horrible, and the noises that they made caused Sadeus’ flesh to crawl and a shiver to run up his spine. Sadeus grimly fired his pistol, but the daemons and fanatics drew inexorably closer. All up and down the trench, there were screams as the daemons slung light and mist into their ranks. Then there was a bestial bellow and, from behind the daemons, there came an enormous monstrosity. It looked fairly human, save for its glistening hide, the twin curved horns upon its forehead, and the pair of beady eyes that lay under its heavy brow. It might have been the fires of the battle or, perhaps, the flashes of the Guardsmen’s laser weapons, but Sadeus thought he saw flames dancing within those eyes. The daemon swept its gaze over the human lines and its mouth stretched into a grotesque imitation of a grin.

“Emperor,” a nearby Guardsman breathed. “That thing is massive!”

A dozen Leman Russ tanks turned their guns on the daemon, but it simply shrugged off their fire. It lashed out with an arm and a stream of dazzling colors flashed out toward one of the Leman Russ. The tank simply vanished.

Palicia swore. “You!” she shouted at a couple of Guardsmen manning a lascannon battery nearby. “Shoot at that thing.”

“The big daemon? We’ve tried, commissar.”

Palicia glowered at the Guardsmen and they swallowed, nodding quickly. The daemon, of course, ignored the lascannon fire. One who pays no attention to tank shells does not have reason to pay any greater attention to lascannon fire. The daemon, however, grinned its horrible grin and altered its course mid-stride, the Leman Russes suddenly forgotten. That would not have bothered Sadeus if it wasn’t for the fact that the daemon was now headed toward them. That definitely worried Sadeus. The daemon flicked its arm and a rainbow whip appeared in its hand. It cracked it against the ground a couple of times as it drew inexorably closer, leaving sizzling trenches many feet long in the ground. Sadeus froze. He knew that there was nothing that they could do if the daemon got close.

It never did. Twin lines of purple light flashed through the air, catching the daemon in its chest. It stumbled, moving back a couple of steps to maintain its balance. The lasers flashed again, and the daemon was pushed back another few steps.

Sadeus turned to look behind him in surprise. There was a great gate of glowing blue light a mile away, standing there with no support of its own. The twin lasers flashed out from it again and again, and Sadeus thought he saw a wavering shape behind the glowing surface of the gate. A giant cloven hoof broke through the surface of the portal, followed by a long slender leg. The material and construction was strange, looking almost like rocks that had been worn smooth by the elements. High above the leg the barrels of two weapons appeared and an alien walker stepped out of the portal, its movements delicate, almost stately. It was dozens of times taller than a man and very slender, seemingly almost incapable of the task that it had been made to do. The walker turned its elongated, featureless head to look at the human defenses, and Sadeus exchanged an uncertain glance with Palicia. The surface of the portal rippled and tanks came flying out, circling around the walker and falling upon the daemons and fanatics, filling the air with laser fire and hails of alien projectiles. They cut swathes through the Chaos force, leaving chunks of ruined flesh in their wake. The speed of the alien attack was such that the shock of their sudden arrival only began to wear off after the initial wave of tanks had broken away from the enemy and angled up into the red-tinted clouds. Several cries of “eldar!” came from various parts up and down the trench, filed with a strange mixture of relief and trepidation. Sadeus did not quite share those feelings. Though he had only ever seen one eldar before, as long as the eldar force did not start shooting at his men, he more than welcomed their presence.

Gingerly, he moved to the edge of the trench and peeked over its top. The eldar attack had lasted only a few seconds, but the results were devastating. Large chunks of the Chaos force had been killed, and the once impressive and intimidating charge had been reduced to nothing more than a dribble. This was not to say that things became easy at that point. Though greatly reduced, the Chaos forces before them were still numerous. But the Guardsmen held them back, if only just barely so.

For all the carnage that the eldar wrought, however, the greater daemon still stood. There were a dozen smoking craters in its glistening hide, but it did not appear greatly inconvenienced by them. The daemon lashed out with its arm and the rainbow light danced toward the eldar walker. With surprising dexterity that belied its size, the walker jumped off to one side, jets at its side coming to life, evading the attack.

The portal shimmered again, and a second eldar walker strode out of it. It took only a second to take in the situation, then it was already moving, jumping around a blast with more grace than anything its size had any right to be. It fired both of its weapons and Sadeus felt a sudden chill, though there was no sign of a breeze. Two spheres of absolute darkness appeared in the torso of the daemon, one in its chest and one in its abdomen. The spheres expanded, and the daemon collapsed in on itself, screaming in a surprisingly human voice as it was dragged back through the rift into the Warp. The smaller daemons around it fared no better. They flailed around, gouging foot deep marks in the ground as they were pulled upward to follow the greater daemon.

An eldar vehicle came to a stop a dozen feet behind the trench, its engines making barely a whisper. A ramp at its back lowered and a group of six eldar stepped out. They were clad in heavy black robes, their faces concealed beneath tall conical helmets. They stepped lightly down into the trench and the eldar in the lead came forward to Sadeus, pulling off his helmet. Half a dozen softly glowing runes orbited in the air around him.

“You know Farseer Illiawe?” the alien asked, fixing Sadeus with a penetrating stare. His speech was halting, and there was a noticeable lilt to his tone.

“I think I do.”

The alien’s eyes narrowed and Sadeus felt something reaching into his mind. The image – a memory, he realized – of the farseer that he had met on Caliphas IX rose to the surface of his thoughts. The farseer before him nodded once in satisfaction.

“Contact your commanders,” he said peremptorily. “We are not here to attack you.”

“You could do that yourself.”

The farseer’s expression became hard. “Were I to go anywhere near them, they will start shooting at us,” he said in a patient tone.

Sadeus’ jaw clenched. The other farseer – Illiawe – had not been so condescending.

Then another eldar in burnished black armor landed lightly beside the farseer. He folded the brightly colored wings at his back and touched the farseer on the shoulder. The farseer nodded once and turned away, muttering angrily.

“Forgive Isenran,” the winged eldar said to Sadeus. “He is rather young and untried. He is unfamiliar with speaking to humans. Perhaps that will change with experience.” The new eldar’s speech was much more fluent and relaxed. Like his speech, the eldar bore himself well, neither arrogantly nor with great meekness, though the pride that marked, by all accounts that Sadeus has read or heard, all of the eldar race still lingered in his posture. He smiled easily. “I am Balelath, autarch of these eldar.”

Sadeus nodded. “Colonel Sadeus.”

“Of course. Isenran tells me that Farseer Illiawe knows you?”

“We have met not too long ago, yes.”

“How was she?”

“She seemed fine.”

“Good. You might want to contact your commanders now. They will need some time to get used to the idea. While you are at it, tell them that it would be pointless to waste lives trying to defend this place. It is already lost.” He crouched, the wings at his back unfurled majestically, and he shot up into the air before Sadeus could answer.

The daemons came at them in a single wave. The eldar tried their best to hold them back, but more and more started to trickle past them. Then, just as the sun was going down, the ground trembled. On the horizon, a dozen greater daemons appeared, marching resolutely into view. A thick golden mist swirled around their ankles, and for that Sadeus was grateful. The very air behind the daemons contorted into grotesque shapes, and Sadeus’ mind was filled with a strange thrilling noise, almost like a soft song. Around him, Guardsmen fell convulsing to the ground or stood unmoving, looking at things that only they could see. Some screamed, others smiled and giggled childishly, and yet others wore expressions dredged up from the regions of a man’s soul that had lain forgotten for millennia.

The eldar psykers had raised their faces to the sky, their runes glowing like orbiting stars as they sought to repel the terrors that the simple presence of the daemons unleashed. Sadeus, however, knew that it was useless, and he could only watch helplessly as the Guardsmen dropped to their knees around him even as his own thoughts became dim and hazy.

Balelath descended out of the sky. “Sadeus!” he snapped.

Sadeus turned slowly to look at him. “What is it?”

“I have just come from the command center of your commanders. They are preparing to leave.” He turned to point behind him. “We will be opening portals to the webway all along the back of the trench for the humans here. I suggest that you get them moving. We will close the portals as soon as the forces of Chaos get close, no matter how many humans are left behind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sadeus saw the eldar walkers move near where they had arrived. The largest of the eldar tanks were also making their way there. The significance of that, however, did not register on Sadeus’ thoughts. He had his mind on other matters.

“The commanders are leaving without telling us?” he asked, bemused. “Belaro would’ve never done that. Maybe they had a good reason.” He frowned. “I wonder what that is.”

Balelath took one look at his expression and left him standing there, going over to where Palicia was. They talked for a while, and without a word, she nodded and shouted some orders into a radio. Then she came to stand before Sadeus.

There was a loud smack as her palm caught him in the side of the head and he stumbled, looking blankly up at her. His ears were ringing, but his mind was clearing.

Palicia drew her arm back again, and he quickly raised an arm to stop her. “One’s enough. I’m fine now.”

She touched his shoulder, looking at him with some concern. “Good,” she said after a second. “Now get the men on that side of the trench moving. If possible, I want everyone in the webway before the eldar close the portals.”

“Just give me a second to clear my head.”

“Of course.”

“Your methods are very direct,” Balelath observed mildly.

“I have found that that’s the best way to snap someone back to their senses.”

“It certainly worked. You and your friend have uncommonly resilient minds.”

Palicia looked at the collapsed forms of the Guardsmen around her. “They will be fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I have got work to do.”

They would never have managed to evacuate every last Guardsman, Sadeus knew. The daemons were approaching too quickly, and they had to escape into the eldar portals while under fire. The eldar themselves had withdrawn, leaving only a small force of warriors and vehicles behind to keep the daemons away when they got close. Sadeus soon had to make a number of tough decisions. It was a desperate situation, but the soldiers of the Imperial Guard had been trained for desperate situations, even if it was running away.

Those Guardsmen that were able to do so had abandoned the dubious safety of the trench and had gathered before the portals, forming a ragged firing line while those less able to do so were moved into the portal.

Balelath descended again from the sky. “Get the other soldiers in now. If you don’t abandon the injured, you are not going to get all these Guardsmen into the portal before the daemons arrive.”

The greater daemons kept coming, marching resolutely across the field. In their wake lay eldar and human, ripped limb from limb. Sadeus watched in horror as the daemons slaughtered their way through the warhost and the Guardsmen.

Then there was a flash in front of them, followed by another, and then another, and yet another still. Half a dozen shapes stepped out of the lights, their faces covered by a polished horned mask that reflected awful truths and clothed in black longcoats that swirled around their ankles. Then there were more flashes, dozens more, then hundreds, from one side of the trench to another, forming a wall between the humans and eldar and the daemon hosts.

"What is this?" Sadeus asked.

“Harlequin Solitaires,” Balelath replied, his voice strangely reverent. “This is… most unusual.”

            And then the flashes stopped. Thousands of Solitaires stood there, a warhost in its own right, weapons held close, ready to repel the full might of the Chaos servants. But they had one more thing yet to do. As one, they raised their voices, and a hauntingly familiar hymn filled the air. Sadeus felt suddenly light, weightless, and his vision blurred. Panic gripped at his heart, and he fought, but the song of the Solitaires only rose, and the warhosts of the craftworlds and the Guardsmen wavered as though caught in rising heat from a sun-baked ground, then they faded from that bloodied battlefield. And the last that Sadeus saw of them, the Solitaires gave a mighty cry, and charged into the face of certain annihilation.

The news was distressing. And, as all distressing news had the tendency of doing, they worked their way up the line until they found someone of sufficient importance to dismiss it as being unworthy of his time and were relegated back down to those serving under him. In this instance, however, the reports were of such great importance and magnitude that none could reject it. And so, steadily, it worked its way up the convoluted command line of the Imperium until it found its way onto the desk of Spymaster Grundig of the Officio Aucipis. Grundig, of course, had no one to give the responsibility of dealing with the problem to. So he did the next best thing. He took the cogitator containing the report with him to work. Then, when his colleagues had all gathered around the council table like the important people that they were, he put on a grave expression, solemnly announced that he had important and urgent news to share, and, with a certain amount of childish delight, dumped the information directly into the laps of the High Lords of Terra. If he had to deal with such a problem, he was going to ensure that his colleagues did not shy away from performing their duty.

The information at hand pertained to a particular – and rather peculiar – series of events that had been occurring throughout the Imperium for the past several days. The root of the problem, of course, were Chaos incursions. The problems always seemed to be Chaos incursions in recent days. Under normal circumstances, Grundig would have trusted in the warriors of the Emperor and the Ordo Malleus both to repel the vile forces of the Warp. The sheer scale of these incursions, however, was greatly disturbing, and Grundig had qualms about even the Ordo Malleus and their prodigious might being able to properly combat or anticipate these threats. The High Lords of Terra, of course, were greatly concerned. The frequency of such occurrences had worrying implications and could very well crumble the Imperium all by itself. More troubling, however, was the fact that, when the forces of the Imperium were spent, armies of eldar would appear. Sometimes they would aid in the evacuation of the humans, other times they would not. It was this that Grundig found most perplexing.

Naturally, it was the Lord Commander Militant Malor of the Astra Militarum who spoke first, and, equally naturally, it was he who dismissed the reports. “Just another trick by the xenos,” he growled. “We should be more concerned about this sudden surge in the frequency of Chaos incursions.”

“I don’t think so, my lord Malor,” Grundig said. “It is not at all like the eldar to fight battles of this size with only infantry, and there are numerous cases when exactly this have occurred.” He paused. “These troops do not retreat. They fight until they are all dead.”

Malor shrugged. “Let them do whatever they want. I don’t care.”

“Be petty in your own time,” Lord High Admiral Valeria of the Imperial Navy said acidly. “Grundig’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a report of the eldar willing to throw away their lives – and to defend our worlds, nonetheless.”

“What are you suggesting?” Malor asked.

Valeria shrugged. “Maybe they are trying to send us a message. Perhaps we should get in contact with them.”

“Are you insane?” Malor exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t act like it’s unprecedented,” Balden, the Inquisitorial representative, scoffed. “I can name a dozen inquisitors right off the top of my head that are more than happy to do so in times like this. I’m sure you could name a few commanders, too.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “I’ll see if I can dig up a few inquisitors from around the place. I think a dozen would be enough for first contacts. I am really curious about what the eldar are trying to do here, and I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

“Send in a few of the less pompous inquisitors, my lord,” Valeria suggested mildly. “And remind them to take as unthreatening a retinue as possible.”

“They aren’t really all that bad,” Balden said, a little defensively.

“Really? I know that some of them tow around whole fleets when they go to lunch. I am as curious about all of this as you are, and I would rather that things go smoothly.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 26

Taeryn slipped onto the craftworld Ulthwé at an isolated location along the edges of its hull. The infinity circuit of the great ship pulsed under her feet, acknowledging her presence. The activity near the edge was minimal, and Taeryn moved swiftly through its streets, easily avoiding any eldar she came across. Her mind slipped into the infinity circuit, looking for Ethorach. It took only a second, and Taeryn made her way to the nearest shuttle docks. She ignored the looks cast her way – curious craftworld eldar wondering at the presence of a lone harlequin, no doubt – and took a skimmer. She gunned the engines and shot into the higher reaches of the craftworld, flying quickly to where Ethorach was. She found him lounging on the balcony of his house, his feet resting on the curved rails, looking out over the craftworld. The aged farseer jerked upright when he saw her.

“Ethorach,” she called to him, “I need to speak with you.”

“Of course.” He gestured vaguely to the door of the house. “Show yourself in.”

Taeryn pushed the nose of the skimmer down, levelling out at the last instant, letting the skimmer drift to a stop. She got off, went into his house, and made her way upstairs. Ethorach had not moved from his seat, though there was another chair next to him that Taeryn was sure had not been there before. She sat on it, declining the drink that Ethorach offered her. She could see most of the craftworld from where she sat, perfectly straight boulevards and streets lit by rainbow light and gardens filled with all manner of plants and beasts. The tiny forms of distant eldar walked those streets. A couple of unusually tall spires lay diagonally to either side of that view, framing it almost like a picture, serene and quite carefree.

“You have not come to look at the scenery, have you, harlequin?”

“No, I have not,” Taeryn replied, pulling her eyes away from the view of the craftworld. “I came to talk about Illiawe.”

“Of course you did. How is she, by the way?”

“Last I saw her, she was doing fine.”

“Good. I would hate for anything to happen to her. I’ve invested too much into her and the others for that.”

“The others?”

“Have you not noticed anything strange about Illiawe? I thought you are more observant.”

“You are evading the question.”

Ethorach laughed, a dusty and dry sound. “Perhaps I am, but how can you be sure? After all, that is the beginnings of the answer to the questions that you were really wanting to ask, is it not?”

“Well…”

“Of course it is,” Ethorach said briskly. “Ask them, then.”

“Very well. Illiawe’s technique mirrors that of the harlequin shadowseers.”

Ethorach nodded, causing Taeryn to stop.

“I figured that you might start with that. I am not going to answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“The answer is not something that you would want to get from Farseer Ethorach. Believe me on this one, for kinship, if nothing else. The time has not yet arrived for this.”

“You do not get to make that decision.”

“You are wrong.” He held up a finger. “However, if that is really what you seek, you should talk to Cegorach about it.” He reached under his robes and drew out a small disk, holding it out to her.

Illiawe took it and turned it over in her hands. “This is a harlequin webway disk.”

“So it is,” Ethorach said in mock surprise. “Funny how I’ve never noticed that.”

“How did you get your hands on it?”

“Do you really expect me to tell you that? Go talk to Cegorach. The old fool would explain everything to you.” Taeryn gasped, and Ethorach turned to her, his eyes twinkling. “Please don’t stare, Taeryn. Cegorach does not mind. The both of us are so close we are practically the same person. Now go and let Him explain things to you.”

Taeryn looked helplessly at him for a while, then activated the disk and entered the webway.

She found herself in that same dark void where she and Illiawe had met the Laughing God before. The Laughing God was as he had been the last time Taeryn had seen Him. He was standing in a beam of light, though it seemed to have no source. His diamond-checkered suit constantly shifted, different colors and hues dancing across its surface. Around Him writhed sheets of darkness, though the inky shadows did not touch the living mask upon His face. His vast and familiar presence filled her mind and Taeryn smiled, lowered her cowl and curtsied gracefully.

“Don’t do that,” His thoughts sounded in her mind. Then He said, “What seekest thou?”

“Answers, master,” Taeryn replied. “Farseer Ethorach said that you would provide them.”

“And I will. What wouldst thou have me answer?”

Taeryn shrugged. “There is much that I do not understand about Illiawe.”

“As thou shouldst not have. Farseer Illiawe hath been of necessity specially trained. The route that she and others like her hath taken diverges from that which the farseers of the craftworlds hath laid down. Hast thou noticed, perchance, that thy friend looketh neither deeply nor frequently into the skeins as the other seers are wont – and, indeed, compelled – to do?”

Taeryn nodded slowly. “Now that you mention it, you are right. Farseers usually spend all day meditating and looking into the skeins.”

“As is their duty to do so,” Cegorach agreed. “Thy friend, however, hath been taught, through various mishaps, to not do so. Learned she well the dangers that ever exist when manipulating the skeins.”

“What sort of danger?” Taeryn asked, her heart suddenly becoming cold.

Cegorach laughed. “Nay, my daughter. It is not as thou thinkest. The danger of which I speak is no bodily peril, yet it is a dangerous one nonetheless. Even before the birth of Slaanesh have I sought to avert disaster – not the coming of Slaanesh, for that hath been made inevitable by the decree of the Phoenix King, but another. At long last, found I my answer in Lileath and Morag-Hei both. Unto me they did reveal certain truths, ways by which certain dooms could be made uncertain. And so sought I to cause these ways to come about.

“But, in time, I found that those trapped on the Witch Path become blind to the possibility of other threads that doth exist within the skeins. Pride, I found, was to be our undoing, even as it will – or had – been the undoing of the ancient eldar.”

“Pride, master?” Taeryn asked.

Cegorach inclined his head. “Pride. The single largest failing of the eldar.”

“Do the eldar not have reason enough to be prideful, master?”

“Indeed you do, my daughter. But even pride, as in all things, must needs be taken in moderation. The farseers of the craftworlds, unilaterally, all take their duties seriously, and seek whatsoever they may find within the skeins. As is to be expected, the might of the farseers grew with each passing day, and as their power grew, so too did their visions become clearer.

“As thou dost undoubtedly know, this enabled the farseers to manipulate the skeins with greater precision, and the longer the farseers do so, the more are they filled with ever greater surety in their abilities, and become they ever more prideful. A youthful farseer, by cause of his inexperience and lack of confidence, will surely look with great care upon the skeins, gauging the proper course to take. He, however, has little power to call his own. Contrast this, then, with the experienced farseer, who has power aplenty but possess little caution, for so sure is he in his readings that threads passeth him by without earning any more than a single glance. The youthful farseer knows that the skein doth not reveal all threads and, moreover, knows he that threads could be created where there once was none by way of proper action. The prideful farseer has lost sight of this.

“By virtue of needing farseers of great power with the caution of the inexperienced, resolved I to teach some promising farseer to never let the claws of confidence lay claim unto him. Many did they number, and many eons did I toil, but, alas, it hath never borne fruit.

“Resolved then did I to ensure that certain farseers shall never fall to this. By way of countless failures and mistakes, these farseers, under my guidance, found reason to let the skeins do as it may, and take not the actions that alter the threads greatly. In this manner, the farseer has such power as is needed, and has the ability to view the skeins, yet will not dismiss threads nor forget that all threads that can be viewed are not all the threads contained within the skein. Thy friend Illiawe is one such farseer.”

Taeryn frowned. “You deliberately caused her plans to fail so that she will stop trying to alter the skeins?”

“Know that it is for her own good. My guidance has caused her to look to all threads, as well as knowing that threads are not certain.”

Taeryn nodded. “I understand that. I just did not think that anyone could think of such a thing. The very idea itself is almost self-contradicting.”

Cegorach laughed. “Anyone, my daughter? Didst thou forget that I am not a mere “anyone”?”

“You know perfectly well what I meant.” Then she frowned. “What about the harlequin techniques that Illiawe uses?”

Cegorach paused for an almost imperceptible instant. “Thy friend was trained by a craftworld seer, but it was my hand that guided her in her endeavors. I have imparted certain teachings unto her so that, in time, she may find them of use.”

“Why did you not tell me this?”

“For fear of thy tongue, Taeryn. Thou and thy friend are both close, and thou mayest yet impart certain truths unto her that should not be said.”

“Until now?”

“Indeed so, my daughter. Verily, thou art quick of mind.”

“Master,” Taeryn said with some exasperation, “is there anything else that you wanted to tell me?”

“But one more thing, Taeryn. Tell thy friend to concern not herself with the shadows within the skeins. That is my doing, for there are things that she must not prepare overly much for, for to do so would be to bring disaster upon certain plans, and yet others that must remain in secret – and thou knowest as well as I that there are ways that the sorcerers of our enemies could take knowledge from one’s mind, no matter how well protected. Better would it be if she doth not tamper with that which she knoweth naught of. I disclose this now unto thee, my daughter, for I know that it troubles thee inasmuch as it troubles thy friend.”

“Indeed it has, master,” Taeryn said in an icy tone. “It hath long troubled Illiawe and I both, causing us unthinking distraught whenever the shadow doth impede her scrying with its presence, causing us to head into a situation all unready such as a newborn babe might be.”

“I sense thy irritation, my daughter, but thou dost exaggerate.”

“I seek only to do my part, master,” Taeryn said contritely, returning to her normal speech. “Illiawe is not present, and I do not think that she would find the time to berate you for this, so I am doing it for her.”

“If that is thine intention, then thou hast succeeded beyond compare. I have to take now my leave of thee, my daughter.” He paused. “One final instruction for thee, Taeryn. The time will soon come when the craftworlds will gather for war, for many are they who know that the time is nigh. Though thou growest impatient to rejoin thy friend in the pursuit for Spiorad, set that responsibility upon her shoulders alone. Remain thou aboard the craftworld. Thou shalt know of the actions thou wilt have to take when the time is come.”

Taeryn blinked, and she found herself back on the balcony of Ethorach’s house. The farseer did not even turn to acknowledge her return.

“Did you find the answers that you were looking for?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“Good. Was there anything else that you would like to know?”

Taeryn shook her head.

Ethorach grunted. “Will you be leaving now?”

“I think that I will stay for a while more. There are things that will happen that I will have to attend to.”

“On Ulthwé? I cannot imagine what they will be.” He sipped at his wine. “My home is open to you, shadowseer, for as long as you need.”

Taeryn’s eyes widened. “That is very generous of you.”

Ethorach grunted nonchalantly. “You can use Illiawe’s old room.”

“Illiawe’s room?”

“New farseers usually stay with their mentor for a while for further training until they have complete control. I have not had a new student since Illiawe, nor do I plan to have one any time soon. The room’s sitting there doing nothing, and better you take care of it than me.”

“Plan? The fates do not allow one the luxury to pick one’s pupils.”

Ethorach smiled, but said nothing.

Taeryn spent the next few days wandering the craftworld. She had set aside her harlequin suit and wore a soft dress, and she went about her business without much fuss from the eldar aboard the craftworld. She visited the various gardens and plazas, and those halls and shrines that permitted her entry. It was not often that Taeryn had the opportunity to wander by herself around a craftworld, and she rather appreciated the chance to wake up each morning without the urgency that had plagued her in the past few weeks.

On this day Taeryn was making her way through the avenue that the eldar on Ulthwé called the Boulevard of Remembrances. It was a singularly unsuitable name. The street was lined with stalls and sculptures and interesting baubles and accessories that appeared to have little use beyond that of brightening up a room. Eldar walked up and down that street, talking and laughing. Her destination was a lovely garden that had caught her eye the day before but which she had not found the time to visit then.

It was still early when she got there, and there were almost no eldar there. There was a thin layer of fog swirling above the ground, muffling all sounds and giving a sense of quiet isolation that Taeryn rather liked. Taeryn strolled around it once before sitting herself by a sparkling lake. The artificial sun above the garden basked her in its warmth and she leaned back. A soft wet nose touched her hand and Taeryn opened her eyes. A colt, one of the few creations left from an age long past, looked back at her with soft brown eyes. Taeryn smiled sadly at it, reaching up and stroking it behind the ears. It nuzzled her hand once more and loped away to drink from the lake. Taeryn sighed in contentment and stretched out on the bench that she sat on.

She did not know how long she lay there, but the artificial sun continued to glow steadily brighter and warmer, until it finally became unbearable and she was driven to seek shelter in the shade of the trees. The fog had been burned away and there were other eldar in the garden now, surrounded by modestly sized crowds as they showed off various pieces of artwork. Taeryn sat for a time watching, then she got up and left.

She was about to head back to Ethorach’s house when she felt a number of minds some distance away in the shared conscious of the harlequins. On an impulse she changed direction, turning down a side street. Before her stood a large shimmering dome and Taeryn made her way toward it. She entered, standing just inside the portal to let her eyes adjust to the dim light within. A Dark Troupe was performing on the stage before a large crowd of rapt eldar. It took Taeryn some time to recognize their dance, and when she did, Taeryn chuckled and leaned back against a wall to watch the performance. It was a rather light-hearted tale, and the audience appeared to appreciate the choice. The dance was light and quick, the illusions that the shadowseer cast among the audience bright.

Then the dance concluded, and the harlequins bowed extravagantly. The troupe master turned and slowly, deliberately, looked to where Taeryn was. Though she was shrouded in shadow at the back of the dome, he unerringly met her eyes. After a moment, he nodded in acknowledgement, his mind brushing against hers in greeting, and there was just the faintest hint of amusement in his thoughts. The troupe turned and left the stage and Taeryn followed the audience as they started to leave, chatting and laughing among themselves. The light tone that the performance left was infectious, and the psychic feedback of the eldar around her were buoyant. It was difficult to remain unaffected, and Taeryn found that she was smiling broadly as she made her way back to Ethorach’s house.

The messenger arrived a few days later. Taeryn and Ethorach were in the dining room when the farseer raised his hand, opening the portal to his house. A warlock, clad formally in his full panoply of war save for his helm, stepped through the doorway. He paused when he realized that Ethorach was not alone, before the farseer waved him in. The warlock bowed perfunctorily to Ethorach.

“I bring grave news, honored farseer,” he said.

“I am aware of that. The other farseer councils call, do they not?”

“They do, farseer. The Conclave of the Craftworlds is being called.”

Taeryn exchanged a look with Ethorach. “The Conclave of the Craftworlds? That hasn’t been called in a millennia!”

Ethorach’s expression was amused. “Surely there is reason enough to do so now.” He turned back to the warlock. “It will be held on an Exodite World, will it not?”

The warlock nodded. “Kenaleith.”

Ethorach made a face. “I certainly hope that the craftworlds will recognize its neutrality.”

“No craftworld host will willingly violate the ground of the Exodites,” Taeryn said.

“Not right at first, perhaps, but grudges have a way of surfacing in the most inappropriate way, and there are all manner of grudges between the craftworlds.” He frowned, thinking. “It will not take us long to get there, even by foot. Are the other councils on their way there, too?”

The warlock nodded.

Ethorach stood. “Then we should be on our way, too.”

Taeryn felt his mind reach out to the rest of Ulthwé’s farseer council, gathering them for the journey. “I will be going with you,” she announced.

“This is most unorthodox,” the warlock protested. “You are not on the council.”

“How forgetful of me,” Ethorach said. “This is Taeryn, a shadowseer of the Harlequin Masques.”

The warlock started to speak, but apparently thought otherwise, and he nodded. “None may prevent the followers of the laughing God from going where they please.”

Taeryn chuckled. “That is not necessarily true, but I understand your point.” She turned to Ethorach. “Will you leave Ulthwé with none of its council present?”

“Of course not. Two of our number will remain behind, as is required to oversee the guidance of the craftworld. Gather your things. We must not keep the other councils waiting.”

Taeryn had often noticed that the other eldar were never truly at home within the webway. Though they undoubtedly knew that no harm shall befall them while they remained within its corridors, they nevertheless, for reasons that Taeryn had yet to fully determine, grew somewhat uneasy. The farseers, with the sole exception of Ethorach, were no different. Illiawe’s former mentor, on the other hand, showed the serenity of the seasoned webway traveler, one that bespoke of having spent more time within the webway than in the material plane. The farseers were dressed in the formal robes of their office, the black and white trimmed colors of Ulthwé giving them an appropriately solemn tone, and they brought no weapons nor openly displayed their runes. Taeryn had taken only her suit, foregoing the grenade pack and leaving the cowl down. Tied around her shoulders was a cloak that concealed her harlequin garb. The skimmer that they were in made good time, and the trip to Kenaleith did not take as long as Taeryn had initially anticipated.

They were greeted by a score of hard faced warriors riding reptilian beasts of war. The warriors waited in a semi-circle around the webway portal, carrying lances that were held close in a ceremonial manner. Ethorach touched his finger to a rune by the hatch and stepped out of the skimmer. Taeryn pursed her lips and followed him.

An Exodite eldar rode forward to meet them. Like the other riders, his burnished armor was simple, though certain markings and trimmings here and there marked his higher status. “We are here to escort you to the Fields of Meeting,” he said to Ethorach.

“We are honored to have you with us,” the farseer responded.

The rider looked questioningly at Taeryn. “You are not a farseer.”

“How observant,” she muttered. “I am a servant of the Laughing God. I come as an emissary to observe the proceedings of this Conclave.” She drew open her cloak, showing him the harlequin suit underneath.

After a moment, the Exodite inclined his head. “Come, then. This conclave is of great importance, and it is best if you do not tarry.”

Ethorach nodded and they went back into the shuttle. It hummed softly and lifted off the ground. The Exodites formed up around their craft, keeping perfect pace as they moved across the verdant land.

Then on the horizon rose spires and silver towers, so delicate and airy as to be seemingly weightless. And then they crested a hill, and a city appeared on the screens inside the skimmer, with tall walls that bore beautiful engravings and glimmered under the sun. More spires peeked out over the top of the walls, each similarly airy and carefully decorated. It stretched out for miles, open to the sky of Kenaleith, and Taeryn saw no visible signs of defenses, shields, or even gun emplacements. It was a city ripped straight out of one of the old eldar myths, and just as outdated, unprotected against the contemporary weapons of war.

“Mar-Kenaleith,” Ethorach intoned grandly. “The capital city of Kenaleith. The Exodites are frighteningly direct with their names.” He smoothed the front of his ornate robes. “Let’s hope that the other councils remember their manners and that this will pass without any bloodshed.”

Taeryn looked sharply at him, trying to determine if he was joking, but the old eldar’s face was unreadable as their skimmer started down the hill toward the city of the Exodites.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 27

A portion of the city’s walls shimmered away as they approached. They went through, and it was as though they had entered a forest rather than a city. Plants grew large and wild behind the walls, and streets were paved around them rather than the other way around. The Exodites walked with creatures of all kinds, many of which had things of eldar design on various parts of their bodies, though for what purpose, Taeryn did not know.

The buildings themselves were built on ground that the trees had not already laid claim to, or on the wide branches of the trees themselves. Their design were unusually organic even for the eldar, usually lacking symmetry. Yet despite their strange appearance, there was something about their design that was strangely familiar, as though the architecture was based upon an archaic principle that gnawed at Taeryn yet eluded her best efforts to recall.

The branches of the trees had been grown to form walkways and corridors, though only the youngest of the Exodites wandered about there, laughing and giggling as they played.

Their transport slowed to a stop and they disembarked. There were two other skimmers there, and Taeryn recognized the yellow and blue trimmed colors of the craftworld Iyanden on one, though the silver and black panoply of the other eluded her. The councils of both craftworlds had just gotten off and the Ulthwé council moved quickly to join them, and the farseers milled around their shuttles exchanging pleasantries. A few of them appeared to be acquainted with each other, and the faces of the Exodites grew annoyed. Ethorach stood some way apart with two other farseers, the gold trim on their robes indicating that they were the high farseer of their respective craftworlds. The three appeared to be fast friends, and they talked animatedly with each other, oblivious of the presence of the others.

Then the leader of their escort, his face set in an expression that brooked no opposition, formed his warriors up around the farseers with a few sharp commands, and quite literally herded the oblivious farseers through the city. The farseers strolled absently along, seeming to pay little heed to their surroundings.

Despite its initial appearance, Taeryn soon realized that Mar-Kenaleith was not as haphazardly constructed as it had first appeared. Its seemingly aimlessly twisting streets were not only easy to navigate, but their layout was such that even a stranger could know on instinct which route led to his destination. The animals that walked with the Exodites appeared to serve in capacities more than simple beasts of burden, and the flora thrummed with an energy that was tantalizingly familiar. Though the Exodites used no technology as those of the craftworlds or the Commorrites did, they worked with the effortless efficiency of any of their other eldar kin. A sudden epiphany came to Taeryn and she realized that, though the Exodites refused to utilize the technological amendments that their kin used, they had brought with them knowledge and understanding of the universe when they had fled the calamity that was the Fall and improved upon them. In many ways, they vastly overshadowed any of the other eldar. Taeryn struggled with the idea, her whole perspective suddenly shifted. Many of the harlequins – and, indeed, most of the craftworld eldar – had always believed that, when Rhana Dandra came, the Exodites, ill-equipped to repel the hosts of the gods of the Othersea, will remain after the war, and from them will the eldar once again flourish. And perhaps the Exodites will still fulfill the same role, but it will not be the result of a lack of capabilities to do so.

As the thought came to her, she felt Ethorach’s gaze upon her and turned.

“That was fast,” he observed quietly. “Most have trouble understanding or accepting it.”

Taeryn shrugged, not really surprised that the farseer had known her thoughts. “It seemed appropriate, for some reason.”

“It is perhaps fortunate that so few truly understand the import of what they see on the Exodite Worlds,” Ethorach muttered cryptically, almost to himself. “The time is not yet right for any to possess what lie here.”

Taeryn narrowed her eyes, a dreadful suspicion beginning to form in her mind, but she said nothing. She looked around, making a mental note to talk to the keepers of the Reliquaries regarding the Exodites.

The other farseers, too, had appeared to notice the level of knowledge and understanding that the Exodites displayed. Some of them had awed expressions, others outraged, and yet others appeared confused. Idly, Taeryn wondered what Illiawe’s reaction would be.

The trees grew thicker as they approached the heart of the city and the paths that they followed grew narrower. There was a soft touch on Taeryn’s mind, growing firmer with every step that she took. Instinctively she traced the thought back, seeking its owner, but found that the trail ended at the flora surrounding them. In spite of herself, Taeryn grew tense. She retreated back into the harlequin consciousness, seeking refuge in the arms of Cegorach. Beside her, she felt that foreign presence touch the minds of the farseers. On an impulse, she followed the thought to where it touched Ethorach’s mind. The aged farseer did not bother concealing his thoughts as she had, and Taeryn felt an inhuman surprise come from that presence, and a kind of recognition and respect. Then there was communication between the two, though what they spoke of, Taeryn did not know.

The road that they were following came to an abrupt end, blocked off by vines as thick as Taeryn’s torso, stretching down and out from the trunks of the surrounding trees. They pulsed with a violet energy, and Taeryn knew that their touch was death. Their escort had grown suddenly still, their faces taking on an intense look. The touch on her mind came again, sharper and more insistent this time, working its way past even the protection of Cegorach and the harlequin consciousness, and Taeryn knew that whoever was probing her mind had just seen in an instant her lives – not only of her time as a harlequin, but also of the time before that. The gloomy streets of Commorragh flashed in a riot of color within her mind. The presence dwelled on innocuous details, probing deeply into her memories of seemingly mundane things and skimming over events that had seemed so tumultuous when they had happened. The streets of the Dark City resurfaced with stark clarity, and the locales that she frequently visited rose, places that she had thought lay dim and forgotten. She remembered the strange pull that had led her out of Commorragh into the halls of the webway beyond, and the strange presence followed her steps in great detail, looking for something. It dwelt upon her first meeting with the harlequins of the Darkened Moon and her first meeting with Cegorach. It skimmed over the linking of her mind into the harlequin consciousness and the reawakening of her psychic abilities. It looked only for the briefest of moments at her initiation with the Troupe and the Masque. In an instant, the presence had leeched out every one of Taeryn’s thoughts and memories and emotions, passing through her entire life with its curious probing touch.

Finally, apparently satisfied with what it found, the presence withdrew. Feeling somewhat angry – and perhaps a little mortified – at having all her memories read with such ease in so short a time, Taeryn stretched her mind out, intending to follow the retreating thought, but her search once again ended at the surrounding trees. Taeryn gritted her teeth in frustration.

The vines that had been blocking the path moved then, coiling in on themselves. The purplish aura faded away. Behind the vines was a kind of amphitheater, with a clear area in the middle and surrounded by row upon row of tiered seats. Unlike the rest of the city, the amphitheater was clear of plants, save for the intertwining vines that formed an intricate dome overhead. Their Exodite escort motioned for them to enter, then turned and went back the way they had come. The purplish glow returned to the vines as they closed the path off again.

Ethorach led the way up the seats, moving to the middle rows and sitting himself. Taeryn sat down beside him, looking around. There were hundreds of craftworld eldar present, sitting clannishly in their individual councils. Here and there, eldar eyed each other warily. Though the conference ground of an Exodite world was, by custom, one of the most neutral of places, it did nothing to stem old grudges or discontent. Taeryn looked apprehensively at them, hoping that their most immediate worry would, in some measure, bring unity to the craftworlds.

Over time, more eldar arrived, and the amphitheater started to fill up with bright swirls of color. When the last of the councils had arrived and seated themselves, the conference got under way. There was no introduction or explanations. All present knew why the Conclave had been called, and all sought to put forward their best idea on the proper course of action to take. Hundreds of voices rang out at once as the chief farseer from each craftworld spoke, filling the amphitheater with a babble of voices. The psychic communication was no less quiet. The deliberations’ primary objective was speed, not clarity, and the farseers appeared to be stepping along just fine. Now and again, the conversation would die down and the farseers would nod sagely before returning to their deliberations.

After a while, Taeryn began to pick up the technique, and she found that she was able to differentiate one conversation from another and to spread her attention between them. Ethorach flashed her a quick look of approval before turning back to join a handful of other chief farseers in hurling insults at one of their particularly obstinate colleagues.

The point of discussion was strategy. All knew what would happen, but none could agree on the steps that were to be taken. The discussions rose in volume as it progressed, until it resembled one of the impromptu celebrations of the orks. Taeryn’s head began to throb, a situation made worse by the equally clamorous psychic discussion. Then, at some unseen signal, the farseers grew silent. One by one they rose perfunctorily to their feet. They stood so for a few seconds, then the Conclave adjourned.

Shortly after, the farseers drifted back to their seats. The many members of the craftworlds’ councils had taken the opportunity that had been provided to identify opponents and potential allies. They sat in those groups now, eyeing the other groups suspiciously. Taeryn paid very close attention to those groups. It was unlikely for every craftworld to agree on a single strategy, and it was almost impossible that all will lend their aid to a strategy that they did not agree with. Some semblance of cooperation, however, was needed, and the pugnacious looks that the farseers casted at each other were less than promising.

The proceedings went very differently from before. The farseers did not speak all at once. Instead, a single farseer stood and delivered his plans to a silent audience. Their propositions were many and varied, ranging from the plausible to the absurd. There were a few groups that wanted to leave the material plane, and others that preferred letting the forces of the Chaos Gods wear themselves down on the various terrors of the galaxy. Those were largely ignored, however. All present knew that the Rhana Dandra was inevitable – for the survival of the eldar race, if nothing else.

Then the chief farseer of Biel-Tan, an eldar almost too young for one in his position stood, his head lowered speculatively. “The autarchs of Biel-Tan and its farseers don’t always agree. Indeed, we cannot even alter the course of Biel-Tan without entering a day-long argument with the autarchs.” A ripple of laughter ran through the farseers. The rivalry between the farseers and the military leaders of the warlike craftworld was well-known. The farseer smiled, then his face grew serious. “In this matter, however, we both agree. There is only one course of action that we could take” He looked around him. “The proposals that have been made today are many and varied, but I cannot believe that some here are so irrational. Do my fellow farseers truly propose sitting on the sidelines while the armies of the Othersea destroy the humans? We may spurn them, but there cannot be one among all of you who believe that we will survive without their aid. Clumsy as they may be, their emperor is instrumental in keeping the influence of the Othersea gods from spreading, and it is undeniable that their efforts and ability to field many warriors aid us in no small measure. Their doom and ours are tied in equal measure.

“How, too, could the proposal for hiding within the webway be made? How long must we stay there to preserve our souls? Surely those who argued for such a course must realize that to do so would leave us defenseless against the fully realized might of the gods of the Othersea should our wards fail. And yet I hear those who suggest that we take this opportunity to strike at the humans. Have these farseers lost their minds entirely? Has the excitement of the Rhana Dandra robbed them of their wits as well as their good sense?”

“You go too far!” a farseer shouted.

“There is no distance too far in the eradication of idiocy!” the Biel-Tan farseer snapped. He looked around at the other farseers. “Surely you realize that our only possible option is to aid the humans in their battle against the forces that threaten us both.”

“There is another way,” a second farseer said, also standing. “A compromise. We do not have warriors in sufficient numbers to fight as the humans do. We will only be ground down in a war of attrition.” He looked first at the farseer of Biel-Tan then at the other farseers around him. “Do we at least agree that the Rhana Dandra is to be fought, as all our prophecies have said since the Fall?”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Very well,” the farseer continued. “Then I propose that we do not face our enemy head on. Let us instead allow the humans to do so, and take this opportunity to gather our defenses.”

“This is not a winning strategy!” the Biel-Tan farseer exclaimed. “You are proposing an eventual war of attrition not of our own choosing!”

“It will not be a war of attrition! We will fight as we have always done, but we must not join the humans in assault.”

There was another murmur of agreement.

“Don’t be a fool,” the Biel-Tan farseer snapped. “If we are both to fight, then it would be of greater benefit if we were to do so in cooperation.”

The farseers hesitated, and, slowly, first a few, then more, nodded. Taeryn rolled her eyes.

“I wish they’d make up their minds,” she complained to Ethorach. “We’re going to be here forever if they continue being so easily swayed.”

“They see merit in both courses of action,” Ethorach told her.

“How long will it take for them to make up their minds?”

“As long as is necessary.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Don’t be so harsh, Taeryn. Some caution’s better than none at all.”

The farseers, however, were already talking among themselves, and it quickly became apparent that the Conclave was almost evenly split between both courses of actions. The discussions were very spirited, with some farseers even going so far as to leap to their feet, shouting and gesticulated wildly.

“This is interesting,” Taeryn observed to Ethorach. “I never would have thought that the craftworlds were being led by a bunch of children.”

“Don’t be such a prude, Taeryn. It might be undignified, but this is a sensitive topic, after all.” He cast her a sly sidelong glance. “You are not in a position to criticize anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your patron god is the most famous prankster in our mythology, Taeryn,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone. “That’s not exactly the pinnacle of maturity.”

“They are lessons, Ethorach,” Taeryn said, irritation creeping into her voice.

Ethorach shrugged. “Call it whatever you want to.” Taeryn’s eyes flashed with anger and Ethorach laughed shortly but let the matter drop.

All sense of decorum that had previously existed was quickly evaporating. Insults were slung and tempers flared, and Taeryn chewed on her lower lip in worry, watching helplessly as the situation spiraled out of control.

The change in the light from the dome overhead was slight, almost imperceptible, but the effect that is had was far from subtle. The combined psychic feedback of the farseers had ben turbulent before, but now it was suddenly calm. The farseers became still, almost serene. Taeryn frowned. She had not thought such a thing was possible. She quickly reached out with her mind, though she thought she already knew what awaited her. She tracked the influence that had so altered the minds of the farseers through the branches and vines of the dome above, and, sure enough, the link ended at the surrounding trees. She sighed, almost in resignation.

Then Ethorach stood to a now silent crowd. “The long hours have made us all irritable, It seems,” he observed mildly. “Perhaps it would be of great benefit if we were to all clear our heads over the night and convene again tomorrow.”

The farseers slowly filed out of the dome.

“Excellent suggestion, Ethorach,” Taeryn said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now they are going to mill around for the rest of the day and do the same thing tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry so much, Taeryn. Something’s going to happen to sway them in the right direction.”

“Oh? What is going to happen?”

Ethorach touched a finger slyly to the tip of his nose. “Come on,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I think that I’d like to go read a few of my books.”

“You did not answer my question.”

Ethorach’s expression grew pained. “Must you always say that?” he asked plaintively. “I did not answer it, and I do not intend to answer it. Perhaps you should wait and find out for yourself. I am told that these things are incredibly satisfying.”

She cast him an unfriendly look, but he studiously ignored it.

They waited until the dome was nearly empty, then got up and followed the other farseers out.

“Where to now?” Taeryn asked him as soon as they were outside.

“I told you. I’m going to the house that the Exodites have prepared for us. You can come along if you’d like, but you really don’t have to.”

Taeryn shrugged. “I have nothing better to do anyway.” She looked around her. “Do you know where the house is?”

“Of course. One of the Exodites pointed it out to me when we were coming in.”

Taeryn looked at him skeptically, but said nothing.

Despite her reservations on the matter, however, Ethorach moved confidently through the streets, until they reached at last a cliff that rose straight up out of a flat grassland like a black cube that had been laid down and promptly forgotten about. The cliff almost certainly did not fit its surroundings, and it stuck out like a sore thumb. Holes had been dug into its surface in neat rows and columns. As they got closer, Taeryn saw that they were in fact windows glazed with jeweled glass that sparkled with the colors of the rainbow. There were walkways along the face of the cliff, and sweeping staircases that curved out to both sides, enveloping the massive face of the cliff. There were eldar lounging at the foot of the cliff and moving across its broad walkways, and Taeryn recognized a few of the farseers from the Conclave.

“Where are the Exodites?” she asked Ethorach before the idea that he might not know came to her.

“They don’t live here,” Ethorach replied, squinting at the cliff. “I think they raised this place just for us, actually. It really is a rather beautiful job.”

Taeryn stared at the cliff face. “Which room’s ours?”

Ethorach pointed at one of the ones at the foot of the cliff. The door was almost inseparable from the rest of the cliff, and only a barely perceptible line convinced Taeryn that it really was there. As they approached, the door moved back of its own accord, barely making a sound, and swung back.

The room beyond – for there was only a single room – was what could only be described as elaborately furnished. A heavy marble table lay in the center of the room, covered with a finely woven cloth of the purest white. Heavy drapes framed the windows, the shimmering material glinting like flecks of gold and silver in the rainbow light streaming in. A sturdy fireplace lay in the corner of the room, a roaring fire crackling and popping merrily in it. A couple of plump armchairs sat before it, finely upholstered and designed. Delicate vases lay here and there around the room, filled with a wide variety of wildflowers. The fragrance of the flowers filled the room, and it seemed to have a languorous effect on Taeryn. Numbly, she shook her head to clear the somnolence. The light in the room seemed suddenly to be very bright, and Taeryn glanced up incuriously. A large dish hung from the ceiling. Within it were chunks of some kind of crystal, providing luminescence to the room with a steady soft blue light. Ethorach moved over to the fireplace and sat in one of the armchairs. “Very nice indeed,” he said with great satisfaction, stretching his legs out toward the fire even though the room was hardly cold. “Aren’t you going to join me?” he asked Taeryn.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s still bright outside. I think that I’ll go walk around for a bit.”

He pulled a slender leather bound volume from under his robes. “Don’t be too long,” he said, his words sounding strangely paternal.

Taeryn rolled her eyes at him and went out of the door, not trusting herself to speak.

Her head cleared the moment she stepped out of the door and she walked away from the cliff, strolling around aimlessly. The Exodites went about their business with a studied urgency, as though they did so not because they were on a time constraint, but rather because it was a conscious choice. Taeryn knew why. While the harlequins sought refuge from Slaanesh in the arms of Cegorach and those of the craftworlds sought theirs in their Paths, the Exodites chose a life of constant hardship, busying themselves with a million mundane tasks each day lest they fall into the same indulgence that the eldar of the old empire had fallen into. Yet even as Taeryn made her way through the streets of Mar-Kenaleith, she detected a routine manner to their movements, as if they continued to do so only out of habit than out of necessity. She immediately ruled out the possibility of such behavior being the result of the Exodites’ self-imposed hardships having settled into local customs. The eldar lived for millennia, and the Fall had only occurred ten millennia ago, after all. If these eldar were acting in this manner out of habit, it was because they no longer saw reason to enforce their chosen lifestyle rather than because it had become customary to do so.

Puzzled, she moved through the twisting streets, wondering at this sudden change. She was so consumed in her thoughts that it was quite some time before she noticed that the sounds of the Exodites had gone silent. Startled, she quickly looked up.

If it was anywhere else, what lay around her would have been called a wood. In the city of Mar-Kenaleith, however, it was simply a part of the city that the Exodites did not live in. After a while, a sense of being watched began to intrude itself upon Taeryn. She tensed, reaching out with her mind, but found no one around her. The watcher did not appear to have any ill intentions, however, so Taeryn continued moving among the trees, puzzled but unfrightened.

Then there was again the touch on her mind of the psyker that had been dogging her since they had arrived upon Kenelaith. Taeryn’s eyes narrowed, a sudden wave of irritation welling up in her. She resisted the urge to look for the psyker with her mind, peering instead into the shadows under the trees intently, hoping to catch some indication of the presence of the psyker. A tingle ran up her spine and she spun around, her eyes blazing.

“Come on out,” she ordered peremptorily. It was probably ungracious, but it had to be said that Taeryn was rather irritated by that point, and she did not like being spied upon. There were many things that Taeryn did not like.

There was a rustle in the branches, and an Exodite dropped down from his perch, landing lightly on the moss-covered ground. He was dressed in the brown cloak of the Exodites and had a bow slung over his shoulder that was crackling with arcane energy. “You can end your search, daughter of Cegorach,” he said solemnly to Taeryn. “You will not find that which you seek.”

“Drop the formality,” Taeryn said. “Were you the one who has been meddling  with our minds since we came here?”

The Exodite laughed. “Not I, daughter of Cegorach. I have merely been sent to you.”

“By whom?”

“You claim to know much, but you are almost as bad as the craftworld eldar.” He waved his arms out to the side in an elaborate gesture. “By the forest, of course.”

“The forest?”

The Exodite grinned. “Many think that we live near the trees because we like the nature and her bounties. You have since, I think, realize that, in some way, it is not true at all. Yet there are certain truths to that particular misconception. The trees have been planted for a particular purpose, and we live close to them for a particular purpose, and it is for this exact same purpose that we treasure them so.”

“Get to the point. I believe that you were telling me who this mysterious meddler was.”

“I am getting to that. The trees are more than the infinity circuits of the craftworlds. They are our protectors, they give us all that we need, they allow us to communicate across the galaxy, and they provide much more besides.”

“What does this have to do with my question? No psyker could have evaded me. Are you saying that the trees helped you to do so?” Then she paused as a peculiar thought came to her, and, even as she thought about it, it seemed to fit. “The trees?” she asked incredulously. “The trees were the ones who calmed the farseers and searched my memories?”

The Exodite nodded. “It did.”

“It? Which one are you referring to?”

“Oh, no,” the Exodite laughed. “I refer to all the trees – and this world, and all the Exodite worlds besides. They are all the same entity.”

Taeryn’s mind reeled. “How did this come about? I have not heard of this.”

“You would not have. The trees are quite careful to erase that information from the minds of anyone who does not need to know. It has granted you quite the privilege. As for your other question, we created it when we first fled the Fall. We sought to create a shield against the cataclysm of the birth of She Who Thirsts.”

Taeryn found that she was trembling. “Created? How do you create something like that?”

The Exodite coughed in embarrassment. “We cheated. It was not always this powerful, of course, nor did its influence reach so far. After the Fall, we faced threats from all sides. It would have taken a millennia for it to grow powerful enough, and we could not wait. Our answer came from the Commorrites.”

“The Commorrites?”

“Have you not wondered why their psychic abilities have degenerated so quickly? That does not happen, no matter how much one focusses upon physical conditioning. This is especially true of the psychic prowess of our ancestors. Even when actively suppressed for generations, ten millennia would have only weakened – or made latent at the most – the psychic ability of the eldar, and it will never stay so far hidden like that of the Commorrites.”

“What happened, then?”

“They were not using – were unwilling to use – their psychic abilities, so we took them.”

“What?” Taeryn was stunned.

“Oh, it’s not like it’s a crime,” the Exodite said dismissively. “Perhaps that is the wrong term. We did not take, but merely borrowed their psychic energy. Nothing, not even the trees, could take the gift away from the Commorrites without also killing them. But we can redirect it, and so we redirected it into the trees, to give it a little boost. Of course, once we did so, we could not return control of the energy back to the Commorrites. They have already grown accustomed to suppressing their psychic energy – which, of course, is redundant, to say the least – and the conversation at that meeting would have been too awkward anyway. And so the trees continue growing in power. It is better this way. The last thing any of us need – even the Commorrites themselves – is for them to be suddenly overflowing with psychic potential. It would be disastrous.” He paused. “The trees do let the more stable ones keep their potential, though. The laws of that place makes sure that nothing terrible would happen. That is rather nice, would you not say so?”

“It does not fit,” Taeryn protested. “If the trees are so powerful, then why do you continue to face dangers?”

“Is so powerful,” the Exodite corrected absently. “They are all a single entity, remember.”

“Answer my question.”

“Of course. An attack that destroys a world is of no moment. The trees are one, and the worlds also, and its protection stretches to all eldar that were, are, and will ever be. The trees protect us, and we return when we will. To defend itself, however, is to expose itself, and tere are more important things that the trees have to do than that.”

Bemused and awed, Taeryn reached out to the nearest tree and gingerly lay her hand on its rough bark. Her mind touched it, and she shuddered away from the vastness that suddenly opened up within her mind, a vastness that encompassed worlds uncountable and stretched through all of time.

“Interesting, is it not?” the Exodite asked in a conversational tone. “Let this be the first lesson for you.”

“What does that mean?” Taeryn asked, but the Exodite was already gone.

Taeryn spent the night sitting on the moss-covered floor with her back leaning against the tree. Occasionally, the trees touched her mind, and Taeryn would shudder back from its vast presence, but she made no move to block it out – not that it would have done any good if she had tried. Now that she understood what it was, the trees became almost friendly. Their touch was strange, alien, yet strangely familiar. The things that the trees told her, however, were far from familiar. Taeryn did not understand much of it, but the trees did not really seem to mind.

When the sun came up, she got up, gave the tree a little pat, and returned to the house that she shared with Ethorach. She had not gone far before she realized that something was wrong. Farseers moved about listlessly, aimlessly, their faces haggard and their eyes haunted. She increased her pace, possible horrors creeping unbidden into her thoughts. Outside the cliff, farseers sat on gnarled tree roots that served as benches, and some even had their faces buried in their hands. Though the Conclave convened in an hour, Taeryn noted that only a few of them wore their formal robes.

She found Ethorach sitting in his chair by the fire, a glass in his hand and a somber expression on his face. His eyes were distant and his lined forehead was creased with a small thoughtful frown.

“Ethorach,” she called, coming around before him and bending slightly to look directly into his eyes.

He blinked absently. “Hmm?”

“What’s happened here?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then what’s come over all the farseers out there?” She waved vaguely toward the door.

“Oh, that. There was a vision, that’s all.”

“A vision? Of what?”

“The Rhana Dandra,” he replied simply.

“What?”

“That was the vision they – we – were all visited by.” He passed his free hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, moody. “Thousands of different threads relating to the Rhana Dandra, each one worse than the last.”

“Worse?”

“Death everywhere, and endless suffering. It was horrifying.” He became silent for a moment. “There was one that turned out well, however, the one in which the eldar faced the forces of Chaos directly. The message is quite obvious, I think.”

“Mass visions do not happen randomly, Ethorach.” She looked closely at him. “Are you all right? You don’t seem to be as affected by it as all the others are.” She glanced briefly at the closed door.

Ethorach’s face took on a look of exaggerated suffering. “How’s this?”

“That’s awful.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “I suppose that I am much more used to this kind of thing. Or perhaps I’m just stronger than they are. Who knows?” He finished his drink and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, I think that it’s time we went to the Conclave, don’t you?”

“How about the rest of the farseers?”

“Give them a few minutes and they’ll be fine,” he replied confidently.

When the Conclave convened, it was silent. An air of gloominess hung over the farseers, and Taeryn found it to be rather depressing. The debate of the previous day was, for the most part, gone. A few councils, however, stubbornly clung on to their opinions, insisting that defense was the eldar’s best option. Surprisingly, their most vehement advocate was Ethorach, and his arguments were long and loud. As it went on, however, his arguments rapidly began to lose their edge, and quickly grew more and more spurious, and Taeryn steadily grew more and more irritated. After a few hours he raised a few more lame excuses, then gave up and let the matter drop. And as he ended his objections, so too did those around him surrender.

And so it was in their greatly undignified manner that the farseer councils moved the craftworlds toward the coming war.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 28

In the days that followed, the other farseers came and went, travelling between the Exodite World and their craftworlds. Sometimes they returned with autarchs by their side, other times they sent other seers in their stead, and at yet other times they sent only projections of themselves so they did not have to leave their craftworld. However they attended and with whomever they attended, however, they always gathered in the dome that served as a council auditorium and a war chamber both, talking in somber tones and nodding gravely every so often. It was all very awe-inspiring, but Taeryn was a harlequin, and the sobriety of the craftworld leaders did not impress her. Less and less often she travelled with Ethorach to the many meetings.

During those days she went out into the city, walking its streets and feeling the consciousness of the trees surrounding her. Her expeditions did not go unnoticed, and she went out of the house one day to find a lean beast waiting patiently for her outside. The animal reached up to her shoulders, its tail stretching out almost horizontally behind it, swaying lazily from side to side. Its scaly hide was tinted with silver, and though it looked shiny, it did not reflect the light of the morning sun. Its thin reptilian head swiveled slowly around on a long serpentine neck to look incuriously at her as she stood in the doorway. It cocked its head to one side, then, deciding that she posed no threat, it looked away.

Taeryn glanced around her, searching for the owner of the beast, but none of the passing exodites paid much attention to it. Warily, she approached the animal, and it turned, baring its teeth warningly, showing row upon row of curving, needle-pointed teeth. She reached out a hand, touching her fingertips to its back, looking for some psychic imprint that might let her know the owner of the animal.

Before her fingers could touch it, however, the now-familiar presence of the trees came to her. “It’s yours, Taeryn. For as long as you remain here. Consider it a gift.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Then the presence was gone.

The lizard shied away from her the first few times she tried to place her hand upon it, but it soon grew accustomed to her. For a few days it followed her around – probably on the instructions from the trees – like an overgrown puppy. Taeryn, for one, found it rather inconvenient, but she was prudent enough not to tell the trees to take their gift back.

Ethorach found her one morning while she reclined in the sun in one of Mar-Kenaleith’s gardens. Taeryn had not seen much of the farseer in the last few days. He had taken an almost childish delight in the preparations of the craftworlds, and he was seldom far from the chamber where the leaders of the craftworlds gathered. As he came closer, Taeryn saw the faint look of indulgence upon his face.

“You’re enjoying all this a little too much,” she observed.

“Of course I am, Taeryn. A lot of preparation’s gone into this moment. It’s a good feeling.” He looked at the lizard by Taeryn’s side. “I see that you’ve got yourself a friend.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Have you ridden him yet?”

“No.”

Ethorach went over to it and stretched out his hand. Obediently, the lizard stood and walked over to him. “You’d need reins if you plan to ride him, and perhaps stirrups, even a saddle for your first few trips. These lizards are quite skittish, and you would probably not want to fall off – at least, not until the both of you have had some time to get used to each other.”

“You are suggesting that I ride him?” Taeryn asked incredulously.

“Do you have anything better to do?”

“I don’t, but -”

“I didn’t think so,” Ethorach grunted. “The trees gifted him to you for a reason, you know.”

“How do you know that?”

“The lizards do not approach any eldar, and the trees is the only one who is able to make them do so. It’s not difficult to guess who gifted him to you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. Are you going to ride him or not?”

Taeryn sighed. “I guess so.”

Ethorach flashed her a quick grin. He held out his hand and plucked an intricate set of stirrups and reins out of the air. The lizard lowered his head and stood trembling as Ethorach placed the reins about its muzzle and the stirrups upon its back. Then the farseer gestured for Taeryn to approach. She pushed herself to her feet. The lizard did not so much as acknowledge her presence. Gingerly, in what was almost trepidation, she placed her left foot into his stirrup. The lizard turned his long neck to peer curiously back at her with one golden eye, his thin head cocked to one side. Taeryn swung up onto his back and smiled at the creature, patting his scaly neck.

Ethorach laughed shortly. “Have fun,” he said by way of farewell and sauntered away, whistling tunelessly to himself.

Taeryn stared after him in consternation. For some reason, she had thought that the farseer was going to be more helpful than that. She looked back at the lizard. His lipless mouth was pulled back, not in a snarl but a fang-filled approximation of a grin. He hissed, and Taeryn thought it sounded just a little amused.

“Shut up,” she told him. He hissed again and made a curious barking sound. Grumbling to herself about the uncooperativeness of Ethorach, she nudged the side of the lizard with her heels. He tossed its head and walked slowly forward, still barking in amusement.

It was difficult at first. The lizard was overly enthusiastic and Taeryn too unused to riding, and it was only through the natural grace and reflexes of the eldar that she was able to stay upon the lizard’s back – at least, for most of the time. The falls were never serious and they were few and far between, however, that Taeryn soon picked up the technique, and it was only a few days later when they were, if not flying across the land, at least moving with the fluidity of the experienced rider.

With the lizard carrying her, Taeryn’s field of exploration increased vastly. Where she had been confined to the city before, now Taeryn found herself suddenly able to move well beyond its walls. She supposed that she would already have been able to do so had she only taken one of the shuttles that the farseers had taken to the craftworld, but there was a certain thrill the lizard provided that the shuttles did not. Like all the children of Cegorach, Taeryn was much enraptured by the tales of old, and her mount from ages long shrouded by the turmoil of the galaxy and the march of the millennia stirred something deep within Taeryn, and she often found herself laughing with pure pleasure. Should any have found her, eldar or no, they would have undoubtedly thought her quite insane. Taeryn, however, was having too much fun to really care. Taeryn was like that sometimes. She took to rising before the sun and returned only when the sky grew dark. They went across streams and rivers and through gorges and valleys and around and occasionally over mountains, the seemingly tireless lizard moving unfalteringly across the land. Occasionally they saw large creatures off in the distance and more frequently ferocious predators that snarled and growled threateningly as they went past, but her lizard sprinted right past them without so much as a moment’s pause, its body held low to the ground, its head stretched out before it and its tail swaying behind, its powerful legs taking them away before the predators had time to give chase. Now and again they saw monsters, beasts that stalked throughout all the Exodite worlds across the galaxy. These they gave a wide berth; the Exodites chose their worlds for their inhospitality, and while the Exodites upon this world may have tamed the air and the weather and the lands, they did not touch the creatures that roamed the world, though whether it was by choice or by inability, Taeryn did not know, nor did she really care. And so they simply avoided the beasts and continued upon their way.

They had been riding in this manner for only a week when Taeryn came upon the grove. It was buried in a cluster of trees hidden in a valley flanked on both sides by snow-capped peaks. The grove was quiet and peaceful, untouched by the turmoil of the world, and seemingly would remain so though the galaxy burned in the fires of the wrath of the Othersea Gods. There was a single tree in the middle of that grove; its twisted trunk was thick and rose up majestically, the white of its bark contrasting heavily with those of the trees around it. Its lower branches stretched up high above Taeryn’s head and its top was lost in the canopy of the surrounding trees. Taeryn dismounted and slowly approached it. There was a familiar pull as Taeryn neared, and an absent kind of acknowledgement. The serenity of the place seemed so perfect and Taeryn found herself smiling indolently. She sat beneath the tree, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes, and there she remained until the sun went down and she regretfully got up to make her way back to Mar-Kenaleith.

Over the next few weeks Taeryn went frequently out of the city, and when she was not riding she lay in the sun or under the shade of the tree in that little grove. Ethorach watched her do so with a tolerant smile and amusement in his eyes, but he did not comment on her activities. This was not to say that Taeryn no longer heeded the affairs of Mar-Kenaleith. She still roamed its streets, still talked to its residents, and she remained very much aware of the activities of the Exodite and craftworld eldar. The impending war, however, was most certainly not at the fore of Taeryn’s mind. Like all harlequins, Taeryn placed her faith in Cegorach, and though she could be said to, on occasion, take the tendency to extremes, she was realistic enough to understand the pointlessness of working the plans of the gods for Them. The eldar of the craftworlds, on the other hand, did not quite appear to, and so while they made their preparations for war, Taeryn continued her idle explorations of Kenaleith.

On this particular day, Taeryn made her way through the winding streets of the exodite city, under arches of twisting branches and rustling leaves. Her destination was the residence of an exodite craftsman that she had struck up a friendship with over the past several days. He was a slight eldar with heavy brows and a heavier squint and a quiet personality that Taeryn rather liked. He was kneeling in the garden before his house when Taeryn found him, working on a strange device placed in the precise center of the lawn.

“Taeryn,” he greeted her as she neared, looking up briefly before turning his attention back to his device.

“Maulas,” Taeryn replied, looking curiously at his work. Like all Exodite craftsmen, Maulas worked with tools rather than with his mind – at least, on the surface. There were a number of signs that is was only a subterfuge, however. Abrasions and rough edges disappeared under his gaze and loose parts righted themselves before his hands had even touched them. “What are you working on?” Taeryn asked him curiously.

“A weapon,” Maulas replied absently.

“Whatever for?”

“For defense, of course. What else is a weapon used for?” He looked at her, and a sly look came across his face. “The eldar of the craftworlds and the shadowseers of the harlequins always seem to forget that they are not the only ones who are able to read the signs in the skeins. We know what is coming just as well as you do, and we are not going to sit around waiting for it to happen.” He turned back to his work. “The Exodites are getting very excited over it. Our skills are being turned toward weapons of war just as much as they are turned toward ornaments these days.” He shrugged. “They are all beautiful, I guess.”

Taeryn watched him work for a while. He was carefully molding a fist-sized orb in his hands, turning it over and examining it in minute detail. Then he brushed at its surface with his fingertips and, apparently satisfied, laid it down and wiped his palms on the front of his clothes. He looked up at the sky. “I think that I’ll go and get something to eat. Coming?”

They went to a tavern up the street from Maulas’ house, a homely sort of place with warm yellow light streaming out through broad windows that were swung wide open. It lay in a small grove of ancient trees, giving it a sense of privacy and seclusion. Something had been done to the grove that made the sounds coming in from the outside seem muffled and distant. Unlike most of the structures in Mar-Kenaleith, the tavern was constructed of fine marble and dark wood. Rose bushes grew in twin rows before it, marking out the cobblestone path that led up to the front door. Maulas led Taeryn up the path into a low ceilinged central room. Sturdy and well-maintained tables lay neatly around the room. Eldar sat at those tables, chatting amiably. Maulas led her to a table at the back of the tavern and rather unceremoniously sat himself. Taeryn followed his example. The chair was plumply cushioned and comfortably upholstered, an extravagancy that seemed incredibly out of place in a tavern. A slight eldar came up to them and took their order, returning only moments later with a couple of tankards. The drink was strong and fruity, and there was a faintly sweet fragrance about it. Taeryn found that she rather liked it.

She was nursing her second tankard when a couple of Exodites entered the tavern. They were garbed in the full panoply of war, burnished armor studded with identifying marks and runes and a helmet with an open face and a tall crest and armed with weapons modelled after the lances of the eldar warriors of myth. The pair walked up to the counter and took something from the eldar behind it and went back out of the tavern.

“Who were those two?” Taeryn asked curiously.

“Warriors, obviously. The beasts upon this world have to be culled every so often if we don’t want our cities to be overrun.”

“A hunt?” Taeryn chewed on her lip. “I wonder if they’d let me go along.”

“Are you feeling restless?” Maulas asked in a faintly amused voice.

“Just bored. There is nothing for me to do until the farseers finish their business.”

“That might take quite a while,” Maulas noted.

“You noticed,” Taeryn replied dryly. She stood. “We’ll talk some other time, Maulas. I want to catch those warriors before they get too far.”

She moved quickly out of the tavern. There were two of the Exodites’ reptilian creatures there, laden down with a number of strange implements and unknown liquids. The warriors were just getting ready to mount, but they stopped when they caught sight of Taeryn.

“What do you want?” one of the Exodites asked gruffly.

“Just to ride with you when you leave on your expedition,” Taeryn replied pleasantly.

“I suppose that’s all right.” He suddenly grinned. “I wouldn’t object to having someone else along to distract the lizards when I’m busy running away.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing alarming. Some of the creatures have a fearsome temper, and I don’t find the prospect of being crushed under the foot of one of them or the other particularly exciting.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to.”

“I did not say that.”

“Good. You would need a mount first.”

“I think that I’ve already got one.” She sent a pulse of thought out and after a moment her lizard came bounding toward them. The Exodite’s eyebrow raised questioningly.

“It’s complicated,” Taeryn said by way of an explanation.

“Of course it is.” Then he looked at her appraisingly. “Where is your wargear?”

Taeryn smiled at him. “I’ll just take one of those lances that you’ve got.”

“Suit yourself.”

They went with the hunting party – which Taeryn thought rather resembled an army – out of Mar-Kenaleith’s north gate. The wind was brisk and the sun bright, and it lifted Taeryn’s mood enormously. They turned off the main road, the various beasts that formed the support arm of the Exodite army ranging out on either side, their anti-vehicle weapons swiveling, scanning constantly for threats.

A dozen walkers waited patiently for them at the edge of the forest north of Mar-Kenaleith. The hunt master rode forward to meet them, bowing floridly from the back of his mount. “We welcome the guard of the champions of the orders of the houses of Kenaleith,” he intoned, noting the symbols of status on the banner that hung from the hip of each of the walkers. “The skills of the knights in the hunt is widely known and justly feared.”

“And the prowess of the warriors of the houses of Kenaleith is just as widely known and respected,” one of the knights replied.

The Exodite knights reminded Taeryn of the wraith and titan walkers of the craftworlds. They had sloping elongated heads and vanes upon their backs, and their limbs were slender and deceitfully fragile-looking. Tall banners hung at the front of their hip, denoting rank and house and order, and they were elaborately designed. They clutched in their massive fists swords and axes easily a dozen times as tall as Taeryn, and various long-barreled weaponry fixed upon their shoulders.

“We have glimpsed the one that we hunt,” the knight continued. “It is larger than even us, so don’t get too close.”

With a few curt gestures and pulses of thought, the hunt master sent the Exodites fanning out. The knights followed their example, striding off into the forest. Taeryn followed them, excitement bubbling up inside her.

The forest was dark, the thick canopy above allowing very little light through, and it was unusually silent. The hunters around her moved with an intensity that served only to heighten the tension, and their beasts of war were no different. Now and again, as though from somewhere far off, there came the sound of a bestial bellow. The knight moving before Taeryn stopped, looked around for a moment, and then the outline of his walker blurred for an instant and he vanished.

They pushed deeper into the forest, and then suddenly there were no more trees. The ground around them was blackened, turned in some areas to glass, and of the trees there was only a few bits of ash floating in the still air. Taeryn suddenly grew very alert.

Taeryn pushed her mount forward to ride beside the hunt master. “What exactly are we hunting?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “We detected it only moments before we set out. The knights have caught nothing more than glimpses of it.” He looked around him. “It’s probably nothing to worry about. This kind of thing happens all the time. All things considered, this is actually pretty tame.”

Taeryn looked skeptically at him, not entirely sure whether or not to believe him. She looked quickly around. Marks had been scoured into the ground, clawed prints dozens of feet long. Golden mist swirled around at the bottom of those prints. Taeryn’s grip tightened about her lance, activating it with a psychic pulse. The ground had been cleared for hundreds of feet in all directions, but now Taeryn realized that there was something else than simple ash. There was the unmistakable presence of taint in the air. Before the knight moving ahead of them, there was first a pinpoint of yellow light. It grew quickly, expanding outwards, and golden mist rolled out along the ground.

“Daemon!” an Exodite yelled, but it was too late. The mist reached the Exodites, and those that it enveloped screamed and fell twitching to the ground, leaving behind only lifeless husks. The reaction of the Exodites was instant. They swung the weapons mounted upon the largest of their beasts around, filling the air with flashes of laser fire. It was firepower that would have felled even greater daemons. The fire, however, went right through the golden mist, exploding craters dozens of feet wide in the ground and turning whole trees into nothing more than a few flakes of floating ash, but they did not so much as touch the daemon.

Taeryn threw a pulse of thought out back toward Mar-Kenaleith. Ethorach’s thought came back to her instantly.

“Taeryn?” he asked, sounding puzzled.

“Ethorach, get a few farseers down into the northern forest. There is a daemon on Kenaleith, and it’s adopted the form of a mist. Our weapons aren’t doing anything.”

“Give me a couple of minutes to gather up some farseers.”

“Hurry, Ethorach.”

There was screaming all around her now as the daemon continued its grisly work. The Exodites retreated back through the forest, leaving more desiccated bodies behind as they went. They had stopped firing by now, seeking only to stay alive. Then something occurred to Taeryn. She reached out once again with her thoughts, directing it toward the surrounding forest. There was nothing there, not even the acknowledgement of the trees. Taeryn pulled her mind away from the trees, fighting back her disappointment. She had been hoping that a daemon on the planet might in some measure bring the trees into taking action.

Then Ethorach’s thought came to her again. “Taeryn, I have got a number of farseers with me. Keep sending your thoughts.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Keep talking. We have to pinpoint your location.”

“All right. How many farseers are with you?”

“I rounded up a dozen, just to be on the safe side.”

“Only a dozen? What if more daemons show up?”

“Are there any more daemons?”

“No. It appears to only be the one greater daemon.”

“Then we will be fine, Taeryn,” Ethorach’s voice sounded from beside her. She reined in her lizard and pointed back toward the encroaching mist. Ethorach nodded, his face suddenly grim. The farseers raised their arms and Taeryn felt them drawing upon the Warp. The release of their will lashed out at Taeryn and she squeezed her eyes shut, instinctively erecting psychic barriers against the intensity of the psychic release. From somewhere far off there was a thunderous bellow and a silent pulse that set the ground to trembling, and then the mist was gone, and a greater daemon of Slaanesh stood there before them.

The Exodites stopped in their tracks. As one they turned, the whine of their charging weapons already filling the air. The first volley caused the daemon to stumble, the second knocked it back a step. The daemon thrust a clawed hand out and one of the Exodite beasts was caught up in a web of golden strings. As Taeryn watched in horror, the creature quite literally fell apart, pieces of twitching flesh no larger than Taeryn’s thumb falling wetly to the ground. The daemon waved its arm, and the turrets mounted upon a dozen lizards combusted, their barrels melting, burning through the lizards; the wraithbone cores that powered the weapons burned like miniature suns, reducing trees and eldar beside them into nothing.

Then the knight came striding out of the trees. The daemon grinned awfully and raised its arm again. There was a psychic pulse from the farseers, and Taeryn felt their minds turn toward a single task. The release of psychic energy was slow. The greater daemon growled and thrust its arm out at the knight.

Nothing happened.

The daemon snarled something in a grotesque tongue and pulled a golden whip out of the Othersea. It strode forward to meet the knight, hurling warpfire all around it as it did so.

The knight raised its left arm and a shield of crackling energy formed before it. The warpfire splashed across its surface, scouring deep holes into the ground and turning trees into ash. The knight thrust its sword out. The daemon stepped lightly to one side in a blur of motion, responding with another hail of warpfire. Its whip lashed out, so quickly that Taeryn did not see it, catching the knight on the side. A deep gorge appeared in the chest of the walker, the armor simply vanished where the whip had struck it. The knight swung its sword, the daemon dodged, cackling hysterically, until a hail of missiles from the pods at the side of the knight’s head struck it in the chest. The daemon growled and lunged again at the knight.

The two continued their duel, their attacks coming in rapid succession, until they were moving at a blur, crushing undergrowth beneath their heavy steps.

Then the Exodites fired again. The daemon screeched in irritation and its head turned, just a little, almost instinctively, toward the firing line. Seeing an opportunity, the knight jumped in, its sword extended, aiming for the daemon’s chest. The blade pierced the daemon to protrude from its back and it screeched in pain and anger. It looked down at the sword buried in its chest and it clutched at the great blade. Then it began to pry itself off the sword. The knight pressed in, twisting the blade, but the daemon ignored it and pushed back. There the two stood, locked in their struggle. Then the daemon released the sword. The knight jerked forward, steadied itself, and the daemon swung its whip, aiming for the legs of the knight. The whip stiffened as it whistled through the air, becoming a blade. Warpfire lashed out as the blade struck the back of the knight’s knee. The walker fell heavily. It rolled away, its shoulder weapons firing, the pods at its head sending volleys of missiles streaking out toward the daemon. The daemon reared back, pulled the sword out of its chest and raised the blade and its own weapon all in one motion.

Then two other knights were there. They came crashing out of the trees; the first caught the descending weapons of the daemon on the blade of its spear. The second rushed at the daemon, its axe crunching into the base of the daemon’s skull.

Ethorach gestured to Taeryn with his head. “I think that our task here is done. The Exodites can finish up without us.”

“What’s the matter?” Taeryn asked, noting his grim expression.

“Is it not obvious?” Ethorach asked, surprised. “It looks like Slaanesh is getting desperate. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

“You think that the daemon was supposed to stop the Conclave?”

“Can you think of any other reason it was here? Slaanesh is losing, and She knows it.”

“If that’s the case, then why did Slaanesh not send more daemons? She must know that one would not be enough, and she certainly has the power to create more than this.” Then Taeryn stopped, her eyes widening as realization dawned on her.

Ethorach smirked back at her.

“She did it, didn’t she? Illiawe actually recovered Spiorad.”

“And more than simply that.” His smirk turned into a grin.

Taeryn laughed shortly with sheer delight. “By Cegorach,” she breathed.

“Indeed,” he drawled, a sudden twinkle coming to his eyes.

Taeryn looked at him. “You admit it, then? You planned all of this.”

“You could say that, yes.”

“But why the subterfuge?” she asked, gesturing vaguely at him.

“Why not?” he returned roguishly, grinning wickedly. “I trust that you could keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

Ethorach looked gravely at her. “Good girl.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then they burst into laughter.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 29

Taeryn waited for the return of Illiawe with great anticipation. The farseers, too, were quite noticeably excited, though Taeryn was sure that it was for an entirely different reason. The farseers had found the daemon presence to be particularly intriguing and, in a painfully predictable manner, they had all went away to peer into the skeins. Taeryn was sure that Illiawe’s thread had been rather prominent within the skeins, and she hoped that it was not in an ill manner. The excitement building up in Mar-Kenaleith – both regarding the impending Rhana Dandra and the new weapon in Illiawe’s possession – became feverish, frenzied, and Taeryn took with greater frequency to her little grove.

Finally, the time came when Ethorach announced that Illiawe had visited Ulthwé. Then, two days after the daemon attack, a webway portal opened up outside the Mar-Kenaleith, and Illiawe stepped out onto the planet. Taeryn was waiting for her and she stepped quickly forward, giving Illiawe a quick hug. Illiawe grinned back at her.

“I trust you are well?” Illiawe asked.

Taeryn smiled, then peered closely at Illiawe. Her face was weary and travel-stained and her eyes troubled. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.”

“I’m fine, I think. Spiorad is a little too burdensome for me. I will be all right once I hand it over to the harlequins.”

“If you say so.” Behind Illiawe, the webway portal pulsed again and another eldar stepped out. Taeryn recognized him. “Ezarvyn?” she asked.

The Commorrite bowed floridly. “The very same.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Lending my aid, of course,” he drawled.

Together, they turned, walking back toward the city.

“What’s he doing here, Illiawe?” Taeryn asked as they walked.

“He has a little proposition,” Illiawe explained. “He wants you to ask Cegorach to protect his soul if things don’t work out.”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to do it?” Illiawe asked in surprise.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I? Everyone benefits from a deal like that.”

“He’s a Commorrite, Taeryn.” Illiawe said.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Illiawe. We are all eldar.”

“Surely Cegorach wouldn’t accept an haemonculi.”

Taeryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I love you like a sister, Illiawe, but you are terribly prejudiced at times. The harlequins don’t care about such things. Besides, once Cegorach takes Ezarvyn’s soul into His arms, he would not need to continue taking the energy of others into himself.”

“He’s a Commorrite, Taeryn. They do what they do because they think it’s fun, not because it’s necessary.”

“Perhaps, Illiawe. But you wouldn’t know until you give him the chance, would you?” She sighed. “We can talk about this again later. I want to hear what happened.”

They went past the gate into Mar-Kenaleith, and Taeryn watched her friend closely. Illiawe looked at her surroundings, taking in the strange design of the Exodites. Even as Taeryn’s had, her expression grew first bemused, then awed, and troubled. Taeryn watched the play of emotions flicker across her friend’s face. Then Illiawe made a sound of dull surprise.

“How interesting,” she mumbled almost absently, as though talking about a curiously shaped tree or a child’s first sculpture.

“That was disappointing,” Taeryn said, crestfallen.

Illiawe’s head tilted curiously. “What is?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Illiawe looked once more around her. “I stopped by to talk with Balelath on the craftworld. He and Isenran filled me in on what has been going on.”

“Then you should know that the craftworlds are all getting ready for the war.”

Illiawe nodded. “Are we ready?”

“How should I know, Illiawe?”

“Cegorach did not tell you that?”

“Why would he tell me that?”

Illiawe smiled vaguely. “Do you want to have a look at Spiorad?” she asked suddenly. Her hands fumbled at a pouch by her side.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Illiawe,” Taeryn muttered.

Illiawe smiled again, still fumbling at the strings to the pouch. Taeryn frowned. Illiawe’s movements were just a little too clumsy. Then Illiawe gave a choking cry and fell to her knees. Her breathing was short and heavy, and her psychic feedback was a conflicting mess of emotions and thoughts. Taeryn reached under the collar of Illiawe’s suit, looking for the jewel that she knew had to be there. Her fingers brushed against something and she pulled it out. Illiawe’s soulstone was glowing faintly, pulsing weakly in her hand.

Then Ezarvyn was there. “Listen,” he said, his words quick. “She doesn’t have much time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Spiorad has taken a fancy to her soul.”

The color drained from Taeryn’s face. “She used Spiorad?” she asked incredulously.

“It was necessary at the time. I’ll explain it to you later. At the moment, there is only one thing that could be done to save her soul, and to do that, we have to take her back to my laboratories.”

Taeryn narrowed her eyes. “I know what you are thinking, Ezarvyn. Forget it.”

“The essence from a few tortured souls could sustain her, Taeryn. She’ll die otherwise, and her soul would also perish.”

“Forget it!” she snapped. “I think I know of another way.” She looked quickly around her. Exodites had gathered around them, their faces expressing their concern. “But not here. Pick her up. There’s a small cluster of trees nearby. We should be undisturbed there. Hurry.”

There was no time to locate Cegorach. Even as she led Ezarvyn to the cluster of trees she flung her thoughts out, screaming His name. Again and again she did so, but the galaxy was a big place, and the webway bigger still. She grew increasingly desperate, knowing that the Laughing God could be anywhere in either dimension.

And yet there was no reply.

Then, even in her anxiety, she felt a strange feeling, one of compassion and concern. Startled, she looked up. The trees pressed in around her, their psychic feedback almost maternal. A single thought rose among her welter of confused emotions. What was it that the Exodites had said all those weeks ago? The influence of the trees stretched through time and space? The presence of the trees grew heavier. Then it touched her mind, and all at once the memory of the touch of the trees surfaced with stark clarity. There before her stretched the image of the one entity of the trees down through the ages, the memory of the moment when she had first joined her mind with it. She virtually flew to the closest tree, ignoring the puzzled questions of Ezarvyn, and laid a trembling hand upon its rough bark. Again there was that vast touch of the trees upon her mind and once again she saw the seemingly endless expanse of all that it saw, all that is, was, and will ever be. But there was mingled in that alien and incomprehensible mind a sense of care and an open inviting welcome.

It was surprisingly easy. A quick thought of Cegorach sent the trees off in search of the elusive Laughing God. It took only a moment, but within that moment, the trees took her to places within the webway she hadn’t known – could never know. It took her to the farthest fringes of the galaxy and beyond, and it went to times when the eldar began to awake and times so far ahead that Taeryn struggled not to think about the implications involved. Then there was a sense of quiet exultation, and the familiar presence of Cegorach came to her, rushing toward them. She quickly amended that thought. No, they were the ones rushing toward Him.

Then Cegorach was there.

“Master!” Taeryn cried even before the trees had deposited her before Him.

“What ails thee, my daughter?” Cegorach asked in alarm, moving quickly beside her.

“Not me, master. Illiawe. We need your help. Her soul is dying.”

“Is that all?” Cegorach laughed. “I had thought that the unforeseen had crept up upon us.”

“That’s all?” Taeryn echoed. “How could you say that?”

“Thou mistakest my meaning, Taeryn. Only one such as the gods may use Spiorad, for indeed, only one of our number has strength enough to overcome the power of Tzeentch, though it be but a fraction of his power just as one of his daemons be but a fraction of his power. I have, therefore, lest Illiawe be tempted to use it, prepared certain measures.” He touched her shoulder, and they were by Illiawe’s side again. Ezarvyn had taken out a black case and had produced various curious implements. “That is unneeded, wayward son of Isha,” he said sternly.

Ezarvyn looked up in irritation, then his face paled as he saw who stood before him. “O my lord,” he blurted. “Forgive mine impertinence, but her very soul doth slip away.”

“Nay, Ezarvyn. There is another way, one that doth catch me all by surprise that you thought not of. The solution is but a simple one. They on the craftworld seek salvation for their souls in the silvery depths of Isha’s tears. They of Commorragh do seek theirs in myriad occult practices. My children, however, seek theirs in a simpler fashion. Illiawe shall, will she, nil she, surrender herself into mine arms, for there is little else besides that could save her most precious soul.”

Cegorach definitely adored his speeches.

Taeryn gasped. “But master, you can only offer your protection to the harlequins! The Phoenix King shall not be happy otherwise.”

“Then Asuryan shall only have to be kept from learning of this truth,” Cegorach replied slyly. “But alas, this subterfuge is unnecessary. Think back, my daughter. Illiawe is as thy sister in all but name. She is come into the harlequin mind, and so shall she stay. She hath learned much of the harlequins, and so shall she not forget. She useth the techniques of the shadowseers, and so shall it change not.”

“You have been preparing her for this.” Though she should not have been, she found that she was shocked at Cegorach’s duplicity. Her actions, seemingly small and insignificant at the time, had been all part of this plan of Cegorach’s.

“Truly I tell thee, Taeryn, I will gladly do this, for she hath trained by my instruct, and she is already as a daughter to me. Let us, then, make this an undisputable fact forever more.” He bent and gently touched Illiawe on the forehead. “Come, my daughter, answer thy calling, and let fate send thee into my house.”

And Illiawe gasped, and sucked in a deep breath. She opened her eyes groggily, and her arms twitched, but when she spoke, her voice was very clear. “Cegorach, my master.”

And Cegorach touched her shoulder in solemn benediction. “Be well, my daughter.” He ran a hand in the air over her face, and Illiawe’s eyes slowly closed, and her breathing became deep and regular.

And Cegorach laid His hand out by Illiawe’s side, and a milky jewel rose out of a pouch at her side, coming to rest as a bird in Cegorach’s palm. The Laughing God looked at it for a moment. His fingers twitched, and the jewel vanished, and He stood. “It is done,” He said simply. Then He looked at Ezarvyn. “Thou wishest for Taeryn to inform me of certain matters involving me most keenly. Why concern thyself with such a cumbersome method? Speak thou thy mind unto me.”

Ezarvyn’s eyes widened and his face grew noticeably paler. He swallowed nervously. And then Cegorach laughed.

“Thou needst not ask, Ezarvyn. I hear thy worries.” Then He turned to Taeryn. “Thou hast more questions to ask of me,” he noted, his voice sounding in her mind.

“It is nothing important, master.”

“Do not be coy, Taeryn. For thee, it matters greatly.”

“Were you the one who gave all the farseers that dream the first night we were here?”

“It was not a ‘dream’ that thou speekest of,” Cegorach replied disapprovingly, “but a ‘vision’.”

“Correct me in your own time. Were you the one who did that?”

“Why ask of that which thou already knowest?”

“Merely for confirmation, master. Why would you do that? We both know that you have other ways to get them to follow the right thread.”

“The farseers are slow of thought and stubborn of nature. Any advice must needs be forceful and obvious, so that there will be no other alternative.”

Taeryn narrowed her eyes as something came to her. “What else have you been doing in the past several weeks?”

“I know not of the things that thou speekest of.”

“Don’t be coy,” Taeryn threw His words back into His teeth. “I have had a few suspicions before, but this did not occur to me until now. How much of what happened in the past few months was a result of your doing?”

“But a small fraction of it, Taeryn. Not even one such as I could hope to orchestrate all the events that doth happen in this galaxy.”

“I was talking about those concerning Illiawe and I, Cegorach.”

“Then thou should have specified.”

“You knew what I was referring to. Stop trying to evade the question.”

Cegorach sighed. “Most things that did happen to Illiawe and thou both were done by me. You were both important, and it is necessary that you remain upon the right path. I personally took a hand in events that ought to come to pass.”

“What kind of events?”

“Thou art persistent. If it eases thy mind, then, it was I who caused Illiawe to meet with the ork Ghahzlay. It was I who led her to the artifact, the first to ensure the help of the humans, and the second, which was nothing more than a mirage to cause the humans to abandon Illiawe so that they shall meet again in circumstances more than simply of convenience to both.”

“Why? They almost killed her there!”

“But thou wert there to save her. Why dost thou think that thy place upon yon world was of such fortune?”

“I traced Spiorad there, and -” She paused.

“Indeed. In truth, though wouldst never have found it before then. The trail, however, doth, quite by chance, happen to lead thou unto places that I will have thou, and at times when I will have thou. It was quite convenient, so I saw no reason to say otherwise.”

“By chance or design?”

Cegorach laughed merrily. “Think of it as thou wilt. Know, however, that there is scarce little that I leave to coincidence.”

Taeryn nodded. “I thought so. What else did you do?”

“I do not think that thou requirest this information in thy task. Just do as thou doest, and thou shalt not err.”

“Master,” Taeryn protested.

“Thou art overly curious. I am with thee, and I watch over thee. Thy path hath been laid out. All that thou needst do is walk.”

“You are very unhelpful.”

“It is but necessity. For now, ensure that the eldar do not stray from their path.”

Then, quite suddenly, Cegorach turned His attention away from Taeryn, and there was a kind of acknowledgement as His mind touched the tree’s, and she felt suddenly insignificant as their vast consciousness met. Then Cegorach was gone.

“I don’t know why I bothered,” Taeryn muttered to herself. She allowed herself a few moments to indulge in a bit of grumbling, then she turned her attention back to Illiawe.

Her lizard proved to be very useful in getting Illiawe back to the house that the Exodites had set them up in. After only a few minutes of talking, Taeryn was able to convince the usually overly enthusiastic creature to complete the journey to the house at an agonizingly slow walk. Ezarvyn helped her to carry Illiawe into the house. They laid her down on Taeryn’s bed, Taeryn tucked her in, then they went back out, shutting the door behind them.

Ezarvyn looked around him for a while, and then he grinned wolfishly. “This is rather interesting,” he observed. “I seldom have the occasion to come to an Exodite world for nothing more than pleasure. It’s rather quaint, wouldn’t you say?”

Taeryn remained silent, not quite trusting herself to answer.

“Do you remember the reason that you and Illiawe contacted me?” Ezarvyn asked suddenly.

“Of course.”

“Good. The one behind all of it is Ethorach. Farseer Ethorach, of Ulthwé,” he added, as if afraid that the impact of his revelation would go unrealized.

“I know,” Taeryn said in as offhand a tone as she could manage.

“There’s something else too,” Ezarvyn said. “One of my agents has certain – ah – tools available to him. To put things simply, he discovered – stumbled upon, if one were to be honest – that there is another behind Ethorach. This individual is Cegorach.”

This time, Taeryn made no effort to conceal the smug expression on her face. “I am aware, yes.”

Ezarvyn’s expression became irritated. “What don’t you know?”

“Not much. I know a bit more about this relationship between Cegorach and Ethorach, for example, than you do.”

Ezarvyn scowled darkly. “Why did you and Illiawe come to me, then?”

Taeryn could not help herself. She smiled slyly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Ezarvyn’s scowl deepened, and Taeryn laughed. They watched the leaders of the craftworlds go about their business with great urgency and the Exodites go about theirs in a more relaxed pace. After a few minutes, she turned to Ezarvyn again.

“What happened to Illiawe, Ezarvyn?”

“She used Spiorad, and it started to feed upon her soul. Surely this isn’t the first time that you’ve heard of such things happening.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking, Ezarvyn. Why did Illiawe use Spiorad?”

Quickly he recounted the events that took place in the cave to her. Taeryn listened to his story, and when he was done, she pursed her lips.

“That makes a certain amount of sense,” she mused. “It would explain a number of things, anyway.”

Ezarvyn shrugged. “I’ll leave the deciphering of events up to you and the other farseers.”

“What would you do now, then?”

Ezarvyn looked up at the sky. “You heard what Cegorach said. I am supposed to wait for His call. Until then, I don’t really have all that much to do.” Then he turned to her with exaggerated casualness. “Would you like to come with me to Commorragh?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I left a lot of things unfinished when I left the place. I thought that some company would be nice while I am cleaning the competition out of my business – so to speak.”

“I suppose that I could see if I could enlist the aid of the Commorrites while I’m there,” Taeryn mused.

Ezarvyn grinned at her.

Commorragh was unchanged and unchangeable. The sky, lit brightly by dozens of captured suns, was filled with bat-winged Scourges and speeding jetbikes that clouded the sky and blocked out the light, and the finely carved streets were decorated with spikes and hooks and various corpses and bits of fresh gore.

At Ezarvyn’s insistence, Taeryn had thrown a heavy cloak about her shoulders. Under the cloak, however, Taeryn wore the full garb of her position, finding reassurance in the symbols of the Laughing God and, if need be, shield herself, as it were, from the predations of the Dark City behind the authority of the children of Cegorach. Ezarvyn had put on a heavy long coat that was tattered around the edges. The cowl of the robe was pulled up and the lower half of his face was concealed beneath a mask that had been designed to look like an agape, fang-filled maw. He walked slowly behind Taeryn, his head bowed and his hands clasped before him, hidden in the voluminous sleeves of his robe. The streets in that part of Commorragh were filled with debris and littered with craters, mute evidence of a recent war. Most of the buildings around her were still standing, if only in part, so Taeryn surmised that the conflict had not been a major one. The debris lying everywhere, however, made Taeryn glad that she had brought her flip belt with her. The anti-gravity device made traversing the piles of rubble noticeably easier, though Ezarvyn grumbled as he went along.

As she went, Taeryn looked discretely around her. Figures crept stealthily in the shadows around them; they all had long-barreled splinter rifles in their hands, but they made no move to attack. They seemed content to merely watch, and so Taeryn watched them in return. This was Commorragh, after all, and unexpected events had a way of occurring with alarming frequency.

They went up that dimly lit street, then another, and another, and all the while the stealthy eldar watched them. They came at last to the end of the street they were following, and there before them lay a circular plaza. A single crystal fountain stood prominently in its center, spilling out gemstones in an ostentatious display. Statues lined the plaza, so lifelike and detailed as to rival even the works of the artists of the craftworlds. Unlike the works of the craftworld eldar, however, these statues wore expressions of either terror or malignant delight. Pieces of gore had been draped upon those statues like pieces of expensive jewelry. Before them rose a building of grandiose construction. It had been sheathed in marble, the color contrasting sharply with the dark hues of the synthetic material that the Commorrites used. It stood out like a sore thumb, aloof and self-important. Like the rest of the building itself, the ornaments that decorated it were garish, spikes and grinning gargoyles set tastelessly alongside elegantly coiling vines of gold and marble.

Ezarvyn paid no attention to his surroundings. He made his way to the bottom of the stairs that led up to the heavy wooden doors at the front of the house. There were four guards there, and they raised their rifles as Taeryn and Ezarvyn drew near.

“Stop right there,” one of the guards ordered.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it, old boy?” Ezarvyn drawled. “If I wanted you dead, you would all be dead, rifles or no.”

“Ezarvyn?” the guard asked, sounding surprised.

“The very same. Are you working for my enemies now, Drahis?”

The guard nodded with no hint of nervousness or self-consciousness. “Your power appeared to have crumbled overnight when you left Commorragh. A quarter of the warriors under my command were dead before three hours had passed. I certainly wasn’t ready to die yet. I’m sure you understand.”

“Certainly,” Ezarvyn replied dryly. “You left my service as the chief of my estate guard to serve as a glorified doorman. I’m sure that was a terribly good deal.”

Drahis shrugged. “It’s better than dying.”

“Are you tired of being an ordinary guard, Drahis?”

“Are you going to leave us to dry again, Ezarvyn?”

“Probably,” Ezarvyn admitted, “but unless something very unexpected happens, I should not have to do so in the foreseeable future.”

“That’s good enough,” Drahis grunted. “On one condition, Ezarvyn. I want a pay rise.”

“Do you?”

“I do, Ezarvyn. Call it an insurance, just in case you wander off again.”

Ezarvyn chuckled. “Perhaps I have something else that might interest you more, Dravis. I can offer you instead protection of your soul from a certain god for all eternity.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

Drahis paused. “All right, let’s see this protection, then.”

Ezarvyn laughed coarsely. “Not likely, Drahis. You will get it only after you have served me for some time. Perhaps a year or so.”

“A year in the webway might as well be eternity, Ezarvyn. A year with you is even worse.”

“After that, you wouldn’t have to worry about your soul anymore.”

“All right, Ezarvyn. I’ll send the word out that you are back.”

“Good fellow,” Ezarvyn murmured.

“We are going to have a long talk about this, Ezarvyn,” Taeryn hissed at him. “None but Cegorach has the right to offer His protection.”

“Relax, Taeryn. I’ve made many deals with things that I have no right to before.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Taeryn threatened.

“I didn’t think that I have, Taeryn.” He turned back to look at the other three guards, noting the runes on their armor. “I suppose that the three of you will follow the example of Drahis here?”

“We do as the archite does,” one of the guards responded promptly.

“I am so glad to hear that. All right, Drahis. Who were you under the command of?”

“Murikas. His guards are mean-spirited and arrogant, and he believes that us swapping over to his side means that he has us under his control.”

“Wasn’t that exactly what was happening only a few minutes ago?”

“We were simply pretending, O my master,” Drahis replied in an exaggerated ingratiating tone.

Then a Commorrite riding a beast with huge bat-like wings came descending out of the sky. “You!” he hollered at Drahis, landing his mount on the plaza a little off to the side. “What are those two doing here?”

“Who is that eldar?” Ezarvyn asked mildly, not bothering to turn around.

“One of those arrogant guards that I was telling you about. This one was the one in charge of us. He’s worse than most.”

“You two!” the guard ordered self-importantly. “Turn around. You are both standing on the estate of the haemonculi Murikas. By his law, you are now his slaves.” He gestured at Drahis. “Take them into the pens.”

Drahis did not move.

“What is this?” the guard asked incredulously. “I just gave you an order!”

“And I am going to ignore that order. I am an archite of the lord Ezarvyn.”

“A title that no longer exists for an eldar who is no longer with us,” the guard scoffed.

“I was not finished. These two are not slaves, since they are not standing on the estate of Murikas.”

“What?”

“I am standing on my own estate,” Ezarvyn said then. He turned around to face the guard, unclipping his mask as he did so.

“You!” the guard exclaimed, his already pallid complexion paling even more.

“As a matter of fact,” Ezarvyn continued pleasantly, “you are also standing on my estate. Riding, I notice, one of my beasts, in range of the rifles of my guards. You would do well to seek forgiveness now.”

The guard drew himself up. “Your authority in Commorragh was void the moment you decided to run away,” the guard declared.

“This eldar irritates me,” Ezarvyn said calmly.

Drahis was moving in an instant, his slender frame uncoiling like a spring, leaping down the dozen steps and crossing the twenty foot gap between himself and the guard. The guard barely had time to open his mouth to scream before his head was sent flying.

Then half a dozen more of the winged beasts came out of the sky, coming to a hovering stop nearby.

“Drahis!” the Commorrite in the lead shouted. “Traitor! Murikas will have your soul for this.”

“I’m afraid not,” Drahis replied pleasantly. “This place is no longer under Murikas’ control.”

“I don’t think that we need to go through this again,” Ezarvyn said. “Surrender and we wouldn’t kill you.”

The guard looked around at the eldar around him as if to reassure himself. “We are airborne, and you are not,” he pointed out. “You have no chance.”

“You are correct,” Ezarvyn said. “You are mounted – on my creations.” He barked a single word and, as one, the beasts flipped over, and their riders fell heavily. The now-riderless creatures landed in a circle around Murikas’ guards, growling threateningly.

“Don’t bother trying to stand, gentlemen,” Ezarvyn said. “Your master should really have been more thorough. My creations are not without failsafes.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Now, you can choose to surrender and I promise not to kill you, or you can choose not to. It’s entirely up to you.”

One by one, the guards grunted their consent.

Ezarvyn laughed once. “They appear to be as prudent as you, Drahis.” He bent to inspect his new prisoners, who were contorted into strange positions, unable to move so much as a muscle. “Do you think that they will desert if Murikas appear to regain the upper hand?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then we should probably not offer them positions as new guards, should we?”

“Probably not.”

“Good. At the first chance you get, take them and extract their souls. I have a few constructs that need a few more bound souls.”

“Will it kill them?”

“Probably not. They might even live for a very long time. Why do you ask?”

Drahis shrugged. “Let it not be said that Ezarvyn does not keep his word.” He gestured, and the protesting guards were dragged away into the house by his grinning men.

“Is that altogether safe?” Ezarvyn asked.

“Oh, yes. Just a few hours ago, there was some kind of disturbance on the outskirts of these estates – your estates. Murikas and the other haemonculi have been discussing who gets which parts of your holdings in the usual fashion, but from what I gather, this was something else. I haven’t been able to determine exactly what it is, but Murikas took his armies and almost all his guards out to put whatever it is down.”

Ezarvyn burst out laughing. “Good girl!” he shouted, clapping his hands in a melodramatic display of glee.

“What does that mean?”

“I sent word to Baesvyn to watch for my return. You remember her, don’t you?”

“The succubi of the Splintered Woe wych cult?”

“That’s the one. Her agents are the best among my hekatarii contacts, and my agents have been relaying information to hers. She knew we were coming before we even stepped into the webway. I didn’t think that she would go through with it, though.” He cast a sidelong glance at Drahis. “Most of my friends seemed more than happy to save their own skin.”

“Don’t mix friendship with business, Ezarvyn.” He raised an arm, and dozens of warriors came running up the street toward the house, keeping to the shadows.

“Weren’t those the eldar who were watching us before?” Ezarvyn asked Taeryn.

“Not all of your friends left you,” Drahis said. He gestured curtly to the open door of the house and the warriors moved quickly through.

“Don’t get blood all over the place,” Ezarvyn called after them.

“We will save that for Murikas’ place,” Drahis said, grinning. “Let’s go to the control room, and take your holdings back.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 30

Murikas had left only a token force behind to keep watch over Ezarvyn’s guards, and they were not expecting Ezarvyn’s guards to so suddenly turn upon them. The unfortunate fate of the squad that had accosted Taeryn and Ezarvyn outside the house had started a veritable battle inside the house, and Commorrites loyal to Ezarvyn skirmished with those loyal to Murikas all up and down the corridors of the house. The arrival of reinforcements from the outside sealed the fate of Murikas’ guards, and those who were too hasty in dropping their arms had plenty of time to regret their decision as they were dragged away to the laboratories under the house.

Taeryn, Ezarvyn, and Drahis made their way to the control room with a minimum of fuss. Ezarvyn tapped away at a thin slate that he had produced from somewhere inside his robes as he walked, and all throughout the house defenses came alive. Doors were sealed off, trapping whole squads inside rooms that rapidly filled with various gases and toxins. Beams of black lasers and hails of hypersonic crystal shards struck down any of Murikas’ troops unfortunate enough to be caught out in the open, and one unfortunate eldar was set alight by a weapon hidden somewhere behind the walls, the sticky fire burning into his armor. None of his comrades came to help him. As a matter of fact, Taeryn was sure that his agonized screams – which quickly turned into a sick gurgling sound – only served to drive them away.

Ezarvyn’s troops went out before them, clearing the way. The deaths of Murikas’ guards only served to push them on forward like hounds that have caught the scent of a wounded prey. They slaughtered their way past Murikas’ guards, taking perverse delight in each cry of pain. Little drones came flying out of the walls, moving to each fallen warrior, both friendly and foe, extracting their souls for purposes that only Ezarvyn knew.

They came eventually to the control room at the heart of the house, a place filled with only a single control panel in the middle and screens that lined the walls. Ezarvyn moved quickly to the console, tapping at a few runes. The images on the screens shifted. As far as Taeryn could tell, Ezarvyn had monitoring devices spread out all throughout that section of High Commorragh. There were streets and roads and the many layers of air lanes high among the spires of Commorragh, rooms inside of houses that Taeryn was sure that Ezarvyn had neither rights nor access to, and in vaults filled with weapons and equipment and every kind of imaginable wealth that Ezarvyn probably had fewer rights and access to. There were footage of underground routes and inside of wych cults and haemonculi laboratories and even of the topmost spires of Commorragh where the Scourges make their home.

Ezarvyn, however, was muttering angrily to himself. “Where is he?” he murmured over and over.

“Where’s who?” Taeryn asked.

“Murikas, of course. The little rat seems to have disappeared. My drones aren’t picking him up, and he’s definitely not in any of my laboratories or estates.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Drahis, see if you can find anything that he may have left behind. He’s most probably altered his genes, but it might be worth a try. While you are at it, get a few of your men to load up the spy planes. I’ll need more drones in the air.”

Drahis nodded and went out of the room. “I’ll be in touch,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Good man,” Ezarvyn muttered.

“Are you sure that we can trust him?” Taeryn asked.

“Of course.”

“He did betray you,” Taeryn pointed out.

“That’s just business. I would do the exact same thing in his situation.”

“And Murikas? Perhaps Drahis is still aiding him.”

“You are too suspicious, Taeryn.”

“I wonder why,” she said dryly.

“Relax, Taeryn. Drahis is back on our side now.”

“If you say so, I suppose.”

Ezarvyn looked at his dataslate. “It looks like word has gotten out. My troops are coming back under my banner.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better to do things quietly? All the haemonculi who opposed you are going to go into hiding now.”

“That wouldn’t really be a problem. I know who they are. Right now, I have to dissuade any other players from joining them and stop them from consolidating more power. I could fight these haemonculi, but not if they manage to get someone powerful on their side.” He turned back to the screens lining the walls and waved his hand. The images changed to show a number of small aircraft, each perhaps half a foot long from the tip of one wing to another.

“Aren’t those a little big for spy drones?” Taeryn asked.

“Those aren’t the drones.” He tapped a few more runes on the control panel. The planes lifted smoothly off the ground, the glow of their anti-gravitic engines barely visible. They went out of a small gap in the roof of the manor and into Commorragh, darting among spires and buildings before shooting up into the air. With a flourish, Ezarvyn tapped another rune and the planes turned to return back to the manor. The images on the screens fizzled for an instant and new footage appeared, this time from somewhere high up in the air above this section of High Commorragh.

Ezarvyn turned to flash a quick grin at her. “Those are the drones. I’d say they’re microscopic, but they’re a good deal smaller than that.” He rubbed his hands eagerly. “I think that I should have no more blind spots now.” He flicked a finger and the drones began to move, buildings below flying past as they went quickly to their positions.

“How many of those are there?” Taeryn asked curiously.

“A couple trillion or so. I might send more out later, but I want to get this grid set up first.”

“Is there any chance of them getting detected?”

“Probably not – not right at first, anyway. They are fitted with a blend of shadowfields and the cameoline technology of the craftworlds.”

“So there is a chance that they might be detected?”

“That cynicism is going to get annoying before very long, Taeryn. That’s the job of the craftworlders, not the harlequins.”

“I’m just trying to cover all the possibilities,” Taeryn replied sweetly.

“Do that in your own time – out of my hearing, if possible. There’s nothing that I could do regarding the sensors of my enemies, so why worry myself about it?”

“But -”

“Please, Taeryn. If they get detected, I’ll just have to find some way to circumvent the sensors.” He pulled up a chair and settled comfortably into it, gazing intently at the screens. “Look, a few of them are already where I want them to be. I think that gaining access to my rivals’ most secure installations might be quite good for my reputation.” A light on the panel blinked and Ezarvyn leaned forward to press a rune.

“Ezarvyn,” a feminine voice called. Her voice was light, melodic, and enthusiastic.

“Baesvyn. Thanks for your help.”

“I did not do it for you, Ezarvyn. The other haemonculi irritate me, that’s all.”

“I’m hurt.”

“You are too easily hurt. What’s going on over there? Murikas’ bully boys are retreating. I don’t think that we’ve hurt him all that badly.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that, Baesvyn. My troops are taking back my estates. Murikas probably thinks that I’ll go after him once I’ve settled things here.” He paused. “Come to think of it, I might do just that. That might draw him out of wherever he’s hiding at.”

“Might I suggest another target?”

“Of course.”

“You might want to go after Bazeqar instead.”

“Are you proposing to go directly for the head of the snake?”

“Don’t repeat the obvious.”

“That’s not how things are done. If we go directly for Bazeqar, we lose the fear that working our way up his co-conspirators will put in him.”

“Melodrama, you mean,” Baesvyn said flatly. “Listen to me, Ezarvyn. I don’t care how you do it. The girls and I are going after Bazeqar. We are not going to waste our time with his underlings. The Commorrite nobility aren’t going to pay to watch us attack second rate plotters. It’s Bazeqar that they want.” She paused. “If you aren’t going to do it my way, then I am just going to have to take his estates for myself when I dispose of him. I would feel terrible for you, of course, but I’m afraid that there wouldn’t be much that I could do about your loss then.”

“You are a hard woman, Baesvyn.”

“I know. Are you going to follow my plan or not?”

“All right, Baesvyn. What have you got planned?”

“It’s pretty simple. One of my wyches has got a cameoline cloak, modified to work without the use of the psychic energy of its wearer. I’ll take the cloak, sneak into Bazeqar’s place, and chop his head off. Then I’ll place it on a platter and deliver it to you.”

“You are never going to get in even with the cloak. I am looking at his manor right now, and the place is locked tight.”

“Of course it is. You’ll have to distract the guards. That’s the show that the nobles are paying me to watch anyway. Bazeqar thinks he’s invincible now that he’s gotten rid of you once. He’s not going to run away, so he’s going to be easy to find.”

“That’s because he’s surrounded by whole armies.”

“I’ll leave it up to you to figure out how to get rid of them.”

“Thanks,” Ezarvyn said sourly. “Are you able to get your hands on only one cameoline cloak?”

“The craftworld Rangers are difficult to catch.”

“You’ll need someone else to watch your back, you know.”

“I told you that I’ve only got one cloak.” She paused. “Have you got another to spare?”

“No. Come on over to my manor, Baesvyn, and bring your cloak with you. You’ll be heading out from here.”

“You’ve made me curious, Ezarvyn. I’ll see you there.”

Ezarvyn cut the link and turned to Taeryn. “Well?” he asked.

“The harlequins of the Darkened Moon do not involve themselves in the politics of Commorragh, Ezarvyn.”

“But how about you? Surely you would be willing to help a friend out.”

“No.”

“Well, that’s not very pleasant.”

Taeryn squinted at him. “I seem to recall that you once mentioned a deal that you made with High Shadowseer Lirys. Perhaps we could come to a similar agreement now.”

Ezarvyn shook his head. “I get the feeling that you will call upon favors a lot more often than dear old Lirys does.”

“Then you do not get my help. Something for something, Ezarvyn. Isn’t that how things work in Commorragh?”

“Not precisely,” Ezarvyn muttered. “I seem to be coming out on the losing end of a lot of negotiations today.” He shrugged. “I guess the holdings of all the other haemonculi more than makes up for it.”

“I knew you will see things my way – eventually.”

Baesvyn was a lean eldar with a surprisingly soft and cheerful expression. Her raven hair tumbled in curls down her back, and a cameoline cloak was clutched loosely in her right hand. Her tight-fitting suit had a wide slit down its left side held together by thin straps, and her left arm was almost bare and leanly muscular. A pair of swords hung in a twin scabbard at her left hip and a coiled whip at her right. She looked to be young, perhaps no more than a couple of millennia old at most, but Taeryn knew that the succubi of the wych cults routinely kept themselves youthful through the agony of their victims.

“All right, Ezarvyn,” she said as soon as she walked in, “what have you got for me?”

Ezarvyn touched a finger slyly to his nose and jerked his head at Taeryn. She lowered the cowl of her cloak. Taeryn had put her mask on before Baesvyn had entered the room, and the succubi found herself staring at her own reflection in Taeryn’s mask.

“Don’t stare, Baesvyn,” Taeryn advised. “You might see things within the mask that you really don’t want to see.”

Baesvyn blanched. “Are you insane?” she demanded of Ezarvyn. “You can’t bring a shadowseer into Commorragh.”

“Why not? None of us may keep them out anyway.”

“Forget about it, Ezarvyn. I am not going to work with a shadowseer. It’s ill luck to do so.” She turned on her heels.

“Are you afraid, Baesvyn?” Taeryn asked.

“I am, harlequin. The servants of Cegorach are dangerous. I am certainly not going to tempt the fates by involving myself with you – or involving you with this task.”

“Do not speak of things that you know nothing about, Baesvyn. I am much closer to the fates than you are, and I certainly don’t see any troubles for you by choosing to come with me on this task.”

“Go with you?” Baesvyn asked blankly.

“I have decided to take up this goal of yours, Baesvyn. You can choose to come with me or remain behind.”

Baesvyn looked accusingly at Ezarvyn. “Fine. I’ll go along. But if anything bad happens to me, I’ll have Ezarvyn bring me back and come after you.”

“And incur more ill fortune by doing so? Don’t be silly, Baesvyn.”

The succubi looked helplessly at her. “You just had to bring her along, didn’t you?” she grumbled sourly to Ezarvyn.

He laughed. “If the both of you will follow me, I’ll show you the craft that you’ll be taking.”

The craft was a Voidweaver – or a Venom, as the Commorrites called their version of the craft – that had been stripped of its turret and the weapons mounted under its hull, and the blades upon its wings and under the vanes at its side had been removed.

“It’s terribly under-equipped, isn’t it?” Baesvyn said critically.

“You’re not going to get into any fights – hopefully,” Ezarvyn replied. “The shadowfields should get you past any patrols that may have been left behind, and if not, you should be able to outrun anything, with the exception of interceptors – maybe.”

Baesvyn climbed into the pilot seat and Taeryn settled down behind her.

“Give my troops a few minutes to get into the fight,” Ezarvyn instructed. “I’ve got a few creations that I’d like to test anyway, and this seems like a good time to show off the more impressive ones. Who knows? Perhaps some nobles might decide to purchase a few of them if they’re impressed enough.”

“Must you always try to get something out of everything that you do?”

Ezarvyn considered the question for a moment. “Yes, I do.” He pressed a finger against the collar of his robe. “If you’ll excuse me, there are a few leaders of Hellion gangs waiting for me. I’ve got to coordinate their attack to draw fire away from my creatures. Take care, ladies.”

Ezarvyn’s distraction was everything that it needed to be. His Hellion mercenaries came swooping out of the sky toward Bazeqar’s manor, the darklances and rocket pods mounted to their skyboards rippling across the crackling shield that surrounded the manor. The weapons, of course, were Ezarvyn’s – probably scavenged from the stores that Murikas’ troops had left behind, and equally likely the only payment that the gangs had received in exchange for their services.

Bazeqar’s troops responded immediately. Jetbikes came streaming out of the fortress. Some were instantly shredded by the Hellions. Most of them, however, evaded the fire and returned with their own. Eldar were vaporized and skyboards fell to the ground in shattered pieces. The Hellions, of course, did not wait to see if they could fight the jetbikes. They turned their skyboards, attempting to get away, and the jetbikes gave chase, their guns cutting down Hellions by the score. The smarter members of the Hellion gangs chose instead to fight, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the fleeing Hellions to strike back at the jetbike pilots. The Hellions, however, were clearly outmatched. The jetbikes were vastly superior machines, and, despite their best efforts, the Hellions found themselves on the losing end of the engagement. Then, from the edge of the fight, a dozen of Ezarvyn’s bulbous creatures drifted close. In their frenzy for bloodshed, neither the Hellions nor the jetbike riders had noticed them. They certainly noticed, however, when the creatures erupted in an impressive display of pyrotechnics. The resulting fireball rolled out, consuming Hellion and jetbikes alike. When the fire finally went out, there were only bits of floating ash left behind.

Then Ezarvyn’s creatures attacked. Some were only a couple of feet tall, others were hulking monstrosities that did not so much walk forward as they did shamble. Regardless of size, the dead-eyed creatures all had cruel looking blades attached to their bodies, barbed and jagged and hooked, weapons that were designed to maim rather than kill. They strode through the withering hail of fire directed at them from the fortress, ignoring wounds that would have felled ordinary creatures of their size.

Behind them came Ezarvyn’s troops, warriors and wyches mounted upon transports and advancing on foot under the cover of portable shadowfields.  Hails of darklance fire and missiles struck the fortress again and again. The shields crackled. More of Ezarvyn’s creatures advanced further, greenish lightning spewing out of agape maws and the tips of tentacles and assorted other appendages, and the shields wavered and died. Then Ezarvyn’s jetbikes and assorted aircrafts struck, weaving past the fire from the fortress’s defenses and interceptors.

“Let’s go,” Baesvyn said after a moment, looking away from the screens where she had been observing the progress of the battle. She gunned the engine of the jetbike and they shot out of the Ezarvyn’s manor, keeping low to the ground.

“How far to the fortress?” Taeryn asked through the radio, shouting over the roar of the wind.

“Two hundred leagues,” Baesvyn shouted back. “Ezarvyn’s troops should have breached the walls when we get there.”

“Give them a little time to do so.”

It took them just under an hour to reach Bazeqar’s manor. The wyches and warriors had dismounted by then, and fighting was happening all throughout the topmost levels. Ezarvyn’s creations had swarmed through a dozen breaches in the walls, falling upon the eldar within with their blades. Baesvyn brought the jetbike to a halt, and Taeryn quickly ran through the vision filters in her mask.

“There,” she said at last. “Near the middle of the house.”

“Are you certain?” Baesvyn asked.

“As closely as I can tell, yes. There are groups of warriors gathered there, and I think I see slaves moving valuables.”

“If you say so.” She spoke shortly into the radio and gunned the engine, pushing the jetbike into the air. A couple of transports joined them, their heavy weapons flashing. Darklance shots struck the wall, vaporizing the material. Baesvyn did not slow down as they plunged through the gap.

The fire from the transports had cut a ragged corridor through the house and Baesvyn followed it through, shooting past startled guards before they could even raise their weapons.

“Where to?” Baesvyn called back.

“Straight ahead.”

Baesvyn gunned the engine of the Venom. Taeryn only had a moment to brace herself before the jetbike ploughed through the wall of a central room. Baesvyn was off in an instant, launching herself through the air, a sword already in her left hand and her whip in her right. She drove her heels in the face of a nearby guard and caught the other on the chin with the end of her whip. The guard stiffened and fell heavily, convulsing uncontrollably. Taeryn drew her sword and decapitated a guard. She swung her staff, catching another on the side of the head. He screamed once as his sanity shattered and he turned and bolted, screaming incoherently.

It took them another week to clear the guards out. When they were done, Baesvyn looked quickly about her. “Where’s Bazeqar?”

Taeryn scanned the room, searching for an escape route, some way, perhaps, that the haemonculi could have taken.

“What’s that?” Baesvyn asked then, pointing to a small rune set in the wall at the far end of the room.

“That must be it,” Taeryn said in satisfaction.

“Go on through before the guards come,” Baesvyn said. She pulled the cameoline cloak from under the seat of the Venom and pulled it around her shoulders, and her body vanished. She stepped into the portal and Taeryn followed, activating her holosuit as she did so, adjusting its field so that it hid her from sight.

The light of the portal pulsed as they stepped through. The room beyond was bare. They emerged at one end of it, and at the other end was the door out of the room. Between them and the portal stood a dozen guards, each equipped with high-quality and probably very expensive equipment. Taeryn had only the single moment that it took to step through the portal to take it all in. She moved hurriedly off to one side, sprinting towards the far end of the room. A tenth of a second later the air before the portal and out toward either side filled with hails of splinter shards and darklance shots as the guards recovered from their shock. They were still firing when Taeryn went past them, ducking out of the way of a stray shot or two, and then she had made it out of the arc of fire.

She had just reached the far wall when the portal pulsed again, and a Commorrite stepped through. The markings on his armor marked his out as an archite. He took one look at the raised weapons of the guards and swore.

“Shut the portal down!” he ordered. “Everyone on the other side’s dead anyway.” He scanned the walls. “Did any of you see anything?”

His question was met with silence. Slowly, Taeryn inched closer to him, slipping her staff down through her fingers.

“They must still be in this room, then.” Without a word, he raised his arms. The splinter pistols attached to his forearms came alive, and his guards followed his example, peppering the walls with shards. Taeryn moved, slapped aside with her sword a couple of shards that came too close, and leaped at the closest eldar. He screamed once, a gurgling sound, as she deftly slit his belly and throat with two swift strokes. Her staff found the armored back of another guard and he turned his weapon upon a third guard as his sanity broke. A moment later a dozen shards from various rifles struck him. Both guards fell in writhing agony as the toxins laced in the crystals that had struck them did their work. Around her, more guards fell to an invisible foe as Baesvyn struck with her swords. The wild firing about them dwindled and died out.

“Where’s the archite?” Baesvyn asked through her radio. They had adjusted their cloaking attire to prevent sound from escaping, but such infiltration conveniences were not without their drawbacks.

“He took one look and ran. I think he teleported away.”

From somewhere outside the room, the archite’s voice came over unseen speakers, sending his men to comb the facility for them.

“It looks like you were right,” Baesvyn said. “I would like to get my hands on something like that.”

“You could do that later. We’ll first have to figure out where Bazeqar is and how we’re going to get to him through all his guards.”

“The first shouldn’t be all that difficult,” Baesvyn said confidently. “We’ll just find someone and extract the information from him.”

“It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose. Be careful where you move, Baesvyn. That cloak will shield you from scanners, but be careful not to bump into anyone.”

“I know how this works, Taeryn. Now move, before more guards come checking.”

Bazeqar’s guards strode all up and down the corridor outside the room, and more than once they had to stop and press themselves tightly against the walls to allow a squad or two to pass. It was extremely slow going, but there was no help for it. Once when they stopped Baesvyn started muttering to herself.

“What’s the matter?” Taeryn asked.

“We are in Bazeqar’s fortress. I should have known that he wouldn’t be in his manor. This place is in one of his created dimensions. Ezarvyn’s going to need some time to send his forces through – if he even bothers.”

“That’s going to be a problem.”

“Maybe not, actually. If Bazeqar keeps his troops in here, Ezarvyn will be free to take over his estates in Commorragh.”

“You know Bazeqar better than I do. What will he do?”

“I don’t know, Taeryn. Bazeqar lost everything he had to Ezarvyn a while back. He’s not going to lose what he has regained to Ezarvyn again. We will just have to keep moving and hope that he moves these troops out.”

“I guess that we’ve got plenty of time to find out where Bazeqar is hiding, then.”

“Can’t you scan the building like you did at the manor?”

“I’m afraid not, Baesvyn. These walls have been shielded against such things. Nothing is getting through, not even bio or psychic scanners. We’ll have to do this the hard way.”

“Let’s get to it, then.”

The word “vast” barely described Bazeqar’s fortress. It was littered with hangar bays that could fit whole starships, super-heavy tanks could comfortably drive five abreast down the larger of its corridors, and whole armies could probably gather within its halls. A growing sense of dread filled Taeryn as they traversed the seemingly endless corridors of the place. It seemed to her that they would be stuck in Bazeqar’s fortress for the rest of eternity, forever roaming blindly about its corridors.

Then there were suddenly around them, mingled with the guards, the twisted forms of Bazeqar’s creations of war. Their tortured moans filled the air, drawing looks of unease from even the Commorrites around them.

“We must be getting close,” Baesvyn observed. “Bazeqar is the kind of eldar who trusts his creations rather than his guards.”

“All Commorrites seem to be that kind of eldar,” Taeryn replied slyly.

“It’s not our fault that everyone around us cannot be trusted. Look out for the Commorrite guards. If you see someplace that has more monsters than eldar, Bazeqar would not be far.”

They continued onward, creeping past the guards. Then lumbering towards them came a dozen of Bazeqar’s monsters. Their gray flesh were lumpy and mottled, they had blades instead of arms, and their jaws were frozen in a silent scream. They shuffled in a tight pack down the corridor, moaning and grumbling, their blades dragging heavily behind them.

“In here!” Baesvyn snapped and a small door at one side of the corridor swung slightly open. Taeryn squeezed hurriedly through, caring less about alerting the surrounding Commorrites and more about getting away before the lumbering creatures ahead could draw too close.

“Who’s there?” a voice called.

Taeryn froze. Baesvyn did not freeze. There was a barely perceptible rush of air as she leaped across the room. In the time that it took for Taeryn to turn around, Baesvyn had crossed the distance to the eldar and had a blade pressed up against his throat. The eldar saw neither the succubi nor the sword, but he certainly felt the blade, and his eyes grew wide.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

Taeryn deactivated her holosuit and the eldar started. Deliberately, she walked toward him. He shrank back, his eyes fearful. “I’m so glad that we understand each other,” Taeryn said pleasantly. She continued forward until she stood before him. “I take it that you are important?”

The eldar nodded.

“Good. Where’s Bazeqar?”

“I don’t know,” he said sullenly. “Lord Bazeqar never tells anyone where he’s going. If I had to guess, I would say that he’s in his bunker. It’s just a little way down this corridor.”

“Thank you. You wouldn’t let anyone know that we were here, will you?”

“No,” he said hastily. “Of course not.”

Whether or not he would have, however, Taeryn never got the chance to find out. With a deft flick of her wrist, Baesvyn separated his head from his shoulders.

Taeryn watched his headless body collapse. “I suppose that this is the only way that we can be sure,” she murmured.

“My thoughts exactly,” Baesvyn said. “Perhaps we should see if those brutes have moved on.”

They slipped out of the room and continued down the corridor, heading in the direction that the creatures had come from. There was a single portal at the end of the corridor. It was deactivated, though a few strobes of dark purplish light running along the inside of its frame indicated that it had, at least, not been completely shut down. The portal came alive as they neared, and a dozen more of Bazeqar’s creatures came out in pairs. Taeryn moved quickly, sprinting to one side of the portal and pressing herself into the corner before the creatures had time to fill the corridor. The creatures kept coming out until there was a score of them gathered before the portal, and they went shuffling down the corridor, and the portal fizzled and again went out.

“Taeryn,” Baesvyn called. “Did you manage to evade them?”

“Of course I did.”

“And to think that I was worried about you,” Baesvyn said lightly. “Bazeqar’s laboratory is probably through that portal. I don’t see a rune to activate the portal, do you? We could wait here until Bazeqar sends more of his creations out to sneak inside.”

“We could do that.” She looked around. “I certainly hope that Bazeqar keeps as few eldar around as you think, Baesvyn.”

“I wonder what Ezarvyn is doing,” Baesvyn asked suddenly.

“Does it really matter? We are here now.”

“You are a harlequin, Taeryn. You should know better than to tempt fate.”

“And you, Baesvyn, are a Commorrite. You should have neither faith nor belief in fate.”

“We do not place our belief in the gods, Taeryn. I have no problems with fate.”

“You are a hypocrite, Baesvyn.”

“I know, and I love every moment of it.” She huffed in irritation. “What’s taking Bazeqar so long?”

“Patience, Baesvyn.”

The laboratory beyond the portal was everything that Taeryn had thought that it would be. It was lit by a sickly green light that shone from thin tubes that lined the walls at evenly spaced intervals, and spread all over the floor were machinery and cables as thick as Taeryn’s forearm. There was a door in each of the walls of that room, and they all stood open, revealing a different purpose. In the left room were tall tables, each with a single body upon it in different stages of research. Bazeqar’s research, Taeryn saw, tended toward the grisly, and she noticed that some of his subjects were still alive and obviously very conscious and aware. The room on the right was a place of healing. Animals, ork, human, eldar, and even one or two alien of races that Taeryn had never before seen writhed in agony in transparent tubes that covered almost all of the available space. Above those tubes were shelves, and upon those shelves were Commorrite eldar in various stages of recuperation, broken bodies regenerating lost limbs or consciousness returning from beyond the veil of death as they soaked in the agony of Bazeqar’s victims within the tubes. Behind the last door, Taeryn saw as they inched closer, were row upon row of tubes and cases. Creatures dredged up from nightmares lay within them, things that had been created for the sole purpose of war. Bazeqar, however, was not in any of the rooms.

Taeryn moved through the door of the last room, past the creatures that lay writhing in their tubes and cases. The walls of the room were lost in dim light, and it seemed that the room stretched back far back to some unknown place. Taeryn kept moving forward, ignoring the creatures of Bazeqar glowering blankly down at her from their glass tubes. When she eventually reached the end, there was only a single eldar there. The door stood wide open arrogantly, as though the thought that anyone would dare enter is unthinkable. There were only two eldar in the room beyond. The first was the archite that had earlier evaded them, and the second was a disheveled eldar who was strapping on the last pieces of his ornate armor. His face was gaunt, his eyes, cold and hard, sunken deeply into his face, and his hair was thin and wispy. His mouth was twisted cruelly, humorlessly.

“Baesvyn,” Taeryn called. “Come over to the far end of the last room.”

There was a moment of silence, then Baesvyn’s voice came to her. She peered into the room. “That’s Bazeqar, all right.”

“It’s about time. This is taking longer than I had expected.”

“Patience, Taeryn.”

“Master,” the archite was saying, “you can’t step outside. There are assassins loose within our fortress.”

“Whose fault is that?” Bazeqar asked coldly. “Ezarvyn’s out there slicing off bits and pieces of my territory and slaughtering my troops, and my estate guards are hiding in its fortress pretending to look busy.”

“But your life is at stake!”

“Funny that you should think of that only now,” Bazeqar said sarcastically. “I am going to rouse my beasts. I suggest that you get the guards moving as well. Your position is not very secure just now, and it’s not going to get any firmer the more holdings I lose to Ezarvyn.”

“This is a rather convenient turn of events,” Baesvyn noted. “Are you ready, Taeryn?”

“Of course.”

Baesvyn let her cloak fall to the ground and lashed out with her whip all in one motion. The toxin-laced tip crossed the distance to the archite in only a tiny fraction of a second, but it was not fast enough. The archite ducked, rolled to one side, his swords already in his hand. With an animalistic snarl he lunged at Baesvyn, his blades thrust out before him. Taeryn altered the functions of her holosuit and the camouflage faded away, replaced by the splintering fragments of color that she was more used to. Bazeqar drew a pistol from his belt, and in his other hand was a dark orb that floated an inch over his open palm. Taeryn turned aside the splinter shards of his pistol with her sword, weaved past the green lightning that came at her from the orb in his palm. He moved away as she approached, almost stumbling in his haste. It was, of course, quite nearly impossible for Taeryn to avoid his lightning and his pistol both indefinitely. A finger of green lightning came too close. Taeryn jumped off to the side just a little too slowly and a bolt of pain shot through her as the lightning just grazed her side. She grunted but pressed forward, weaving unpredictably, hoping to throw off Bazeqar’s aim. She crossed the last few feet to him in a single leap. He brought his arm up, filling the air below her with shards. She caught him in the side of the head with her heel and they went crashing to the ground. She rolled to her feet. Bazeqar raised his pistol, she lashed out, kicking it aside before he could pull the trigger. He brought his other arm around, the orb already crackling with green lightning, and she brought her sword down. Bazeqar was fast, but Taeryn was faster still. Her sword went through his forearm, and the lightning went wide, turning a few feet of the wall behind her into dust. Taeryn raised her sword again. Then Baesvyn crashed into her. The succubi was on her feet in an instant. Her whip lashed out and caught the archite in the middle of his chest. A great ragged gash appeared in the front of his armor. He stared at it in amazement, then he stiffened and collapsed, writhing and convulsing uncontrollably. A black oily liquid seeped thickly out from between the gaps of his armor, and Taeryn was glad that it prevented her from seeing what was happening to the eldar within.

“Taeryn!” Baesvyn shouted in warning. Taeryn turned. Bazeqar was fumbling at a pouch at his side. She leaped at him, kicked him in the side of the head, her sword descending even as she did so. Her blade sliced through his neck and he crumpled to the ground. Then Taeryn saw what he had been reaching for. It was a single disk, and Taeryn did not have to wait for long to figure out its purpose. The whirring of the machinery around her grew quiet, and with brief hissing sounds they opened, and the creatures within came stepping out.

Taeryn swore. “Baesvyn!” she shouted.

“I see them.” She looked at Taeryn’s side. “Are you going to be all right?”

Taeryn glanced at the wound. Her suit had protected her against the worst of the lightning, but the flesh was raw and blistered. Already her suit was closing over the wound, healing her, repairing itself, and the searing pain became only a dull ache. “I’m fine,” she said. “We’ve got to find some way to get out of here before all those creatures notice us.”

Baesvyn picked her cameoline cloak up from where she had dropped it and pulled it around her shoulders. Then she went over to the archite and began rummaging around in various pouches at his side. “Here it is,” she said triumphantly after a while.

“What is that?”

“His teleportation device, I’m guessing.”

“Hurry up and get us out of here, then.”

“Hang on a minute.” She pulled a marble sized grenade from her belt and sent it rolling across the floor to Bazeqar’s decapitated corpse. The grenade detonated in a white flash that obscured the corpse. When the fires died down, there was nothing left of Bazeqar.

“Just in case,” Baesvyn said with a wink. “We wouldn’t want anyone to come along and accidentally resurrect him, would we?”

“After all the time that we’ve wasted on him? Don’t be silly, Baesvyn.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Wouldn’t Bazeqar have some piece of himself stored away somewhere in case something like this happened?”

“Probably, yes. However, from what he was saying before, Ezarvyn is making very good progress. It would probably not be very long before he would be able to cut off any contingencies that Bazeqar may have laid down.” She laid her hand on Taeryn’s arm and activated the archite’s disk. A moment of brief darkness crossed Taeryn’s vision, and they were no longer in Bazeqar’s fortress.

Baesvyn looked quickly around. “Well, this is interesting,” she murmured. “This is neither the webway nor the Othersea.”

Taeryn glanced around. It was not a room that they stood in, but a void, bare of any constructions. “It looks rather like another dimension, doesn’t it?” she observed.

“I’m sure that Ezarvyn would like to have a look at this.” Baesvyn turned the disk over in her hand. “I wonder how one is supposed to use this.” She inspected the device, muttering all the while to herself. Finally she straightened. “I think I see now. This dimension has no anchor, and could be moved where we wanted. If I am right, I only have to press this rune.”

“Well, stop playing around with it and get us back to Ezarvyn’s manor, then.”

“Don’t rush me, Taeryn. We wouldn’t want to end up inside of a wall, would we?”

Taeryn looked sharply at her, wondering if she was joking, and Baesvyn laughed.

Baesvyn’s first few attempts at least did not turn out too disastrously. They stepped out in various places within the webway, some frequently travelled corridors, others places so obscure that Taeryn was not sure that even the scribes and keepers of the harlequins knew about them. Once or twice, on particularly miscalculated attempts, they even found themselves on one world or another in the material plane.

“Please be careful,” Taeryn said to Baesvyn on one of these occasions. “I would rather not end up in the void or the Othersea if I can help it.”

“Please,” Baesvyn replied with a pained expression, “these blunders are not quite that bad.”

Their jumps quickly became more precise, and then they found themselves back in the control room of Ezarvyn’s manor. The haemonculi was busy at his control panel, and he started when they appeared out of the air before him.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded.

“You might want to look to your wards against other dimensions in your estates,” Baesvyn suggested. “If your enemies ever find out how poor they are, they’d invade before the day is over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just do it, Ezarvyn. I’d explain it to you later. How are things going here?”

“Remarkably well, actually. I wasn’t gone for so long that my reputation has lost its weight around here. My old contacts are positively flocking back to lend me aid. It’s very nice of them, of course, but the new deals that I am making with them are actually quite profitable.”

“Oh?”

“Actually, it goes a little beyond that. I had the opportunity to right some of the more one-sided dealings from my early days in the politics of Commorragh.”

Taeryn rolled her eyes, fighting back an exasperated sigh.

“But it’s only business,” Ezarvyn laughed, catching her look. “They should have known better than to leave my alliance after only a few days of ill fortune.” He turned back to his screens. “How did things go with Bazeqar?”

“He was in his fortress rather than his manor, actually,” Baesvyn replied. “He appeared to be very confident that he could hold us off. I think he underestimated the troops that you were able to muster.”

“Humility has never been his strong suit.”

Baesvyn laughed. “He was very glad to see us, though.”

“Glad?”

“Yes. I guess that he’s missed your presence in Commorragh. In fact, he was so happy that he lost his head.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Ezarvyn murmured.

“Indeed. He simply fell to bits when he heard that we were leaving, and vanished without a trace.”

Ezarvyn turned to grin back at her. “I’m sure that our friend would like to remain undisturbed. Perhaps we should make sure that no one bothers him.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?” Taeryn asked.

“But Taeryn, dear,” Baesvyn replied with a feigned look of total innocence, “it’s the least that we could do.”

“Quit your gloating. It’s disgusting.”

Baesvyn and Ezarvyn turned to look at each other, then they burst out laughing. Their laughter went on for what Taeryn felt to be an inordinately long time, and when he had gotten himself somewhat under control, Ezarvyn turned to look as though for the first time at her.

“You’re hurt,” he observed mildly.

“It’s nice of you to notice,” Taeryn said dryly.

“Don’t be snide, Taeryn. How’s the wound?”

“I’ll be fine, Ezarvyn. Give it a while and I wouldn’t even know it’s there.”

“If you say so.” He gestured to the screens. “I have been busy taking out the holdings of all the other haemonculi. I think that the news of Bazeqar’s death should rattle the others enough to drop this whole affair.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Baesvyn said.

“It’s worth a try, anyway.”

“Have you located Murikas yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You might want to prioritize that first, Ezarvyn. You don’t want him running around making plans behind your back.”

“I know, Baesvyn. In the meantime, I’ve got something for you. You wouldn’t believe the kind of captives that some of the haemonculi keep. There are aliens that I have not even heard of before. They should make quite the prize for your arenas.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Baesvyn enthused, clasping her hands together girlishly.

“I thought that you might like it. I am keeping their creations for myself, though.”

“Of course, Ezarvyn. The crowds do not like watching lab-grown combatants anyway.”

“Excellent. I will have them shipped over immediately.”

“Good. They will be just in time for tonight’s festivities, then.”

“That one went by me a little fast, Baesvyn.”

“Oh,” she said absently. “Did I forget to tell you? The Cult of the Splintered Woe will be hosting a game today. We thought that it would be a good way to emphasize your return, and it would certainly help with our reputation while we’re at it. You will put in an appearance, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. This is a very good idea, Baesvyn.”

“I know,” she replied without any attempt at modesty. “You are also invited, of course,” she said then to Taeryn.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The presence of a harlequin will send out all sorts of messages to the various houses that are still indecisive about their allegiance to Ezarvyn.”

“Does everything have to be about politics?” Taeryn asked them pointedly.

“You could tell yourself that your invitation is the result of our friendship if it makes you feel any better,” Baesvyn said mildly. “Personally, I’d like to get both out of the way at the same time.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 31

The nobles of that part of Commorragh turned up in droves, all eager to show their support of Ezarvyn. They paid the exorbitant entrance fee with wide smiles, and they sat down to watch the bloodsport with appreciative expressions. Everything in the wych cult’s arena had been carefully planned. The banners that hung from the walls were embroidered with mocking epitaphs to the recently deceased enemies of Ezarvyn and immodest declarations of Ezarvyn’s glory. The drinks that were served were fine and prohibitively expensive, and the guards stationed unobstructively here and there were more numerous than was really needed, and their equipment had been buffed until they shone. Ezarvyn sat with Taeryn and Baesvyn in a special box high above the tiered seats where sat everyone else, aloof, wholly regal, and in full view of almost everyone in the arena. The guards around him were imposing and heavily armed, and they glowered at everyone who so much as looked their way. In a moment of perverse creativity, Ezarvyn had reserved a second box right next to theirs for the haemonculi who had taken part in opposing him. The various seats of honor, however, were quite conspicuously empty.

The message, of course, was not lost on the nobility who entered to watch the festivities. The whole event reeked of towering confidence, and if the nobles had any qualms regarding the recent shift in events, they were quickly disabused of the notion.

A set of hidden trumpets blared an ancient tune of war by way of calling the crowd to silence. Baesvyn, flanked on both sides by the other two succubus of her cult, stepped out to a podium at the front of their private box. With an almost breathless anticipation, the crowd turned to them.

“Nobles of Commorragh,” she started, “we appreciate you taking the time to gather here for our modest performance.” That, of course, was a lie. Commorrites, as all the eldar knew, would stop whatever they were doing at the merest hint of the prospect of a performance by the wych cults. Then Baesvyn started speaking, and her speech heavily contrasted with the tone of her surroundings. The arena was ill-prepared. The preparations were hastily planned. The planning was below standards. The refreshments were poor and the challengers poorer. Most alarming of all, the performance was most probably not going to be very entertaining.

“Does she really expect anyone to believe any of that?” Taeryn murmured to Ezarvyn.

“Of course not. It will keep the nobles wondering, though. You will note that she did not talk at all about the nature of the challengers.” He chuckled evilly. “All this show of meekness is not going to prepare them for the warriors of Bazeqar and his friends. The both of us know that it’s going to be little more than an execution, but we don’t have to be too ham-fisted about it. The joy, after all, is in the surprise of discovery.”

Baesvyn concluded her mournful speech with a dramatic wave of her hand and below her a gate ground open. A pair of eldar emerged – or, rather, were forcibly made to emerge through the medium of the barrel of a couple of rifles. Their armor prominently bore the markings of Bazeqar, and various runes identified them as the chief of the guard of this or that holding. A ripple of appreciation ran through the audience.

A couple of wyches stepped into the arena then to the polite applause of the crowd. They smiled, waved, bowed, acting for all the world like performers of a much loved play. The look that they directed at Bazeqar’s guards, however, was far from cordial. They circled the guards, their swords held low, their expressions intent. With the look of one who knew he was about to die, the guards raised their swords in reply. The next few minutes were very long and very painful for the guards. The wyches darted in and out, their swords flicking and darting. The guards reeled and staggered about as the wyches methodically stripped their armor off a piece at a time. It was testament to the skill of the wyches that their strikes did no harm, though Taeryn knew for a fact that the plates of the guards’ armor were held in place by hooks that dug into their skin. The guards’ movements faltered as the realization of how much trouble they were in dawned on them. And then the first of the wyches’ whiplike strokes drew blood. The psychic feedback from the audience was wild, feral, as the pain began to emanate from the guards. The crowd cheered the wyches on, drinking Ezarvyn’s wine and the guards’ pain and desperation in equal measure. When the guards finally succumbed to their wounds, more captives were brought into the arena, and fresh wyches came forward to try their blades against them. The watching Commorrites were enraptured. Some sat at the edges of their seats, others wore dispassionate expressions, but the collective psychic feedback was churning with unconcealed anticipation.

Then Baesvyn and the other two succubus took to the floor. To an outside observer, there was no change, but the sudden psychic roar of the surrounding Commorrites was deafening. It was seldom that all the succubus of a single cult came together, and the Commorrites awaited eagerly for their performance.

Ezarvyn turned to Taeryn. “A rather satisfactory event, wouldn’t you say?”

“Say that after Baesvyn and her friends have finished.”

Ezarvyn barely glanced at the three succubus. “They’ll be fine. It takes a lot to defeat those three, and none of our challengers are good enough.”

“Challengers?” Taeryn asked amusedly.

“It’s as good a word as any. This whole affair didn’t take all that long, did it?” He paused reflectively. “I think that Baesvyn’s idea of going after Bazeqar was a good one. It saved us days of work cutting up his alliance a bit at a time.” He cast a sidelong look at her. “You don’t necessarily have to tell her that I said that, though.”

“What is my silence worth to you, Ezarvyn?”

He stared at her in shock. “You wouldn’t really tell her that I said that, would you?”

“That depends, Ezarvyn. I may need something from you one day.”

“That’s despicable, Taeryn.”

“I know. What have you got planned when all this is over?”

“That is a good question. I think that we are done for today. There are plenty of things that we have to catalogue and consolidate.” He looked speculatively at her. “You are welcome to stay the night in my manor, if you wished.”

“Thank you.”

Ezarvyn shrugged. “Don’t think about it. I think that I will speak with the archon tomorrow. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Are you looking to frighten the archon with my presence again?”

“To the contrary, actually. The archon and I are old friends. You will be there to persuade him that my position is stable enough that he is not going to be in any danger if he decides to break his alliance with the other haemonculi and return to one with me.”

“I don’t see much difference between the two,” Taeryn observed. “I have noticed that the line between a naked threat and a guarantee of safety becomes very blurred in Commorragh.”

“Of course there is a difference,” Ezarvyn said with a pained expression.

“I would love to believe you, Ezarvyn.”

“We are so misunderstood,” he said with an obviously feigned look of hurt and laughed shortly.

Baesvyn had an expression of sheer joy on her face when she came walking back to them. “That was fun,” she said shortly.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Ezarvyn said dryly.

“And more than that, Ezarvyn. I had forgotten what it was like to fight before an audience.” She ran a hand through her hair and Taeryn thought she saw a shiver of pleasure run through her. “What now?”

“We’re going to bed. In the morning, we’re going to Archon Iruthan.”

“Oh, are you going to chastise him?” Baesvyn asked with a wicked little smile. “Let me know if you are; it’ll be fun to watch. I’ll be with the wyches if you need me.” She waggled her fingers at them and walked away.

“Well,” Ezarvyn said, standing. “I guess that we’d better get back to my manor. Coming, Taeryn?”

She awoke early the next day, well before the light of the captured suns that hung over that part of Commorragh was let out. Once again she clothed herself in the full garb of the shadowseer and went out of the room that Ezarvyn had provided for her. She went down the excessively long hallway outside of her room and down the stairs. Ezarvyn was sitting at a table in the dining room, tapping at a pair of dataslates. A half-eaten meal lay forgotten on the table before him.

“Taeryn,” he said in greeting.

“Ezarvyn. What are you doing?”

“I’m sorting out the things that the troops retrieved from the other haemonculi.”

Taeryn sat herself in a chair opposite him, pulling a bowl of berries closer. “The spoils of war, you mean.”

“That’s not a very nice term, is it?”

“It is accurate, though.”

“Probably, yes. I am going to need a lot more guards, that’s for sure.” He set aside the dataslate. “I can do that later. Let’s go to the palace to see the archon.”

They took one of Ezarvyn’s many skimmers up to the palace. The vehicle was fast and heavily armored, and very obviously built for a purpose that was not peaceable. Ezarvyn set their destination and the vehicle shot off without another command, effortlessly weaving past the heavy traffic of Commorragh’s skies. They made good time, and arrived at the palace only an hour later. The palace was set upon a tall hill, surrounded on all sides by vertical cliffs. A dome of crackling energy surrounded it, sealing it off from the rest of Commorragh. It was an imposing structure that brooded over the rest of Commorragh, with tall battlements surmounted by guns many dozens of feet long. The palace gates was sheathed in gold and flanked on both sides by a pair of guardhouses. Ezarvyn brought the skimmer to a stop beside one of the guardhouses and one of the guards came out. A section of the vehicle’s hull by Ezarvyn’s head slid away and one of the guards looked through.

“Oh, my apologies, my lord,” he said quickly when he saw Ezarvyn. “I’ll lower the forcefield for you.”

“Who’s that?” another voice called from inside.

“It’s Lord Ezarvyn and a harlequin shadowseer,” the first guard called back.

“What does he want?”

“I don’t question either the haemonculi or the harlequins.” He smiled ingratiatingly at them. “Go on through, my lord. I’ll let the archon know that you are here.”

A small gap appeared in the energy field that stood before the gate and Ezarvyn moved the skimmer through. A large courtyard lay beyond the gate and they got off, leaving the skimmer in the hands of a servant. An eldar met them on the steps leading up to the front door of the palace.

“Lord Ezarvyn,” he said, bowing. “I will show you to the archon.”

“There’s no need,” Ezarvyn replied. “I know the way there.” He led Taeryn past the eldar and into the palace.

Statues and portraits lined the walls of the palace’s corridors. Slaves tottered here and there, keeping the various ornaments clean.

“Where are all the guards?” Taeryn asked, looking around her.

“They’re watching. I’d suggest that you not make any sudden movements.”

“How far is it to the archon?”

“The throne room is quite some distance from here. Iruthan has a love for the grandiose, and he thinks that it impresses his guests if they had to walk for hours to get to him.”

“Hours?”

Ezarvyn grinned at her. “Luckily for us, I know of the way that he normally takes.” He went off to one side of the corridor and held a door open with a flourish.

Taeryn went past him and looked around. There were a pair of jetbikes there, and a single corridor leading off away from the door.

“Well, hop on,” Ezarvyn said. He sat behind the handles of one of the bikes and gunned the engine. “This corridor leads straight to his throne room.”

The corridor was empty and well-lit, and so it took them only a few minutes to reach the throne room on the jetbike. The door opened in a well-concealed alcove near the front of the room. Ezarvyn strode in like he owned the place. There were other Commorrites there, guards for the most part, and one who appeared to be holding audience with the archon. He stopped when Ezarvyn walked in and gaped rather foolishly at them.

“Please,” Ezarvyn said mildly, “don’t stop for my sake.” He leaned back against the wall in the manner of one who was intending to wait.

“No,” the eldar replied. “My business can wait for another time. I am sure that the archon is eager to talk to you.” He bowed perfunctorily to the archon, turned on his heels, and walked out of the room.

“Who’s he?” Ezarvyn asked in an offhand voice.

“A representative of another archon, here to discuss an alliance. That is rather unimportant, however. Are you here to discuss my change of patronage to Bazeqar and his friends?”

Taeryn looked closely at Archon Iruthan. Like most of the Commorrite nobility, he was an eldar of a youthful countenance, one obtained through the palliating effects of certain of the haemonculi arts. Unlike the other Commorrites, he lacked the hard faced look typical of those who make their home in the Dark City, and he was slouching in his throne with one leg cocked over one of its arms. He was, however, looking at Ezarvyn with just a hint of apprehension.

“That was not my first intention, no,” Ezarvyn replied. “Now that you’ve brought it up, however, why did you ever agree to accepting their services over mine?”

“They promised me that they could offer the same kind of services that you could for a much lower price, Ezarvyn,” Iruthan said somewhat defensively. “It seemed like a good proposition at the time.”

Ezarvyn sighed. “I had hoped that that wasn’t the case. I have told you many times before that services of the quality that I offer is not cheap.”

“I thought that it was just a trick to scare me into keeping your services.” His face hardened. “Whatever happened to Bazeqar anyway?”

“He had a little incident. The way I understand it, his head came suddenly off his shoulders.”

“That’s rather inconvenient,” Iruthan muttered.

“I believe that he rather shares your sentiments,” Ezarvyn said dryly.

“That is not what I meant, Ezarvyn. Bazeqar’s services left a lot to be desired.”

Ezarvyn sighed. “How many troops did you lose?”

“A couple hundred.” His expression grew clouded. “And Merihira.”

“The succubi of the Broken Claw cult? That’s unfortunate.”

“She’s also my concubine,” Iruthan said frostily.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.” Ezarvyn shrugged. “Get another.”

The archon glared at him and Ezarvyn returned with an uncaring look. The air grew thick with tension. Ezarvyn laughed, and the archon’s lips curled dangerously.

“All right, Iruthan,” Ezarvyn said at last. “I will bring Merihira back.”

A sudden, impossible hope sprang up in Iruthan’s eyes. “Are you sure that you could do that?”

“Of course. She’s strong of will.” Ezarvyn held up a finger. “It is a big favor that I’m doing you, you know.”

“Don’t try anything foolish, Ezarvyn.”

“No,” Ezarvyn corrected meticulously. “It is you who should not do anything foolish. I’ve always told you that love will get you in trouble.”

“What do you want, Ezarvyn?”

“In return for bringing your beloved back, you are going to go up to Asbrudael Vect and talk to him about seeking a Commorrite alliance with the craftworlds. Only he has enough power to bring all the archons and noble houses in line.”

“Vect?” Iruthan asked, his expression stunned.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Of course it is, Ezarvyn. I’d have to be out of my mind to do what you’re asking me to do.”

“All right, then Merihira stays dead.”

Iruthan glared at him. “I will talk to Vect.”

“Marvelous. I am sure that Merihira appreciates that.”

Iruthan squinted at him. “Hang it all, Ezarvyn.” His eyes flickered to Taeryn. “I think I understand. Is it time for that already?” He rubbed at his face. “Do the craftworlds really want an alliance?”

“They will ally,” Taeryn replied, “whether they want to or not, as will you.”

“I guess that is the most that we could hope for. I will try my best, Ezarvyn, but I cannot guarantee anything. I’ll put a word in with Vect tomorrow.”

“Later today, Iruthan,” Ezarvyn said firmly.

“I can’t, Ezarvyn. Overlord Vect is occupied for the rest of today. I don’t want to think about what would happen if I irritated him. I’m sure you understand.” He paused. “You don’t happen to have a patron at the moment, do you?”

“You know, I was actually thinking of going into the business by myself.” Iruthan’s expression grew pained, and Ezarvyn laughed shortly. He took a tightly rolled up document from somewhere inside his robes. “I have taken the liberty of drawing up a new contract – just to save time, of course. I am sure that our reforged alliance will be very profitable to the both of us.” He flicked the document at a guard, who dutifully brought it forward to Iruthan.

Iruthan glanced at the document. “I see that you’ve added a few extra clauses.”

“It’s only a precaution, you understand. Obviously, the next time that you turn to other haemonculi for services, I’d not be helping you fix their mistakes. I’d also have to kill you, of course,” he added.

Iruthan laughed easily. “Of course. You know, I’ve got a party planned later today. You are invited, if you’re interested.”

“No thanks, Iruthan. I have a lot of things to attend to and very little time to do it in. Perhaps we could do this when I’ve gotten everything sorted out.”

“Of course, Ezarvyn. Take care.”

“You too, Iruthan.” He turned back to the door. “Coming, Taeryn?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about what you had planned?” Taeryn demanded when they were alone.

“Are you referring to getting the Commorrites to ally with the craftworld eldar? I didn’t plan for that. It just came to me.”

“That was very quick of you.”

“I thought that you would like it. Remember to put in a good word to Cegorach for me if this works.”

“If it works, Ezarvyn,” Taeryn smiled, placing heavy emphasis upon the words.

“Of course it will work, Taeryn. Let’s go back to the manor.”

Taeryn removed her mask and clipped it at her hip, climbing back onto their jetbike. “I think that I’d like to return to Mar-Kenaleith.”

“Why would you ever want to return to that stuffy old place?” Ezarvyn asked with exaggerated shock. “Commorragh is so much more fun.”

“You did not have to sneak into a haemonculi fortress, Ezarvyn.”

“I know. The last two days would definitely not have been quite nearly as much fun if I had done so.”

“Are you going to finish up with the other haemonculi now?”

“Of course.” He paused. “You know, I’ve been thinking of what I’ll be doing once I’ve gotten rid of all the haemonculi in this section. The archon on the other side of the Red Dawn gate has recently been replaced by a nasty Commorrite while I’ve been gone. From what I’ve been told, he’s incredibly belligerent. Perhaps Iruthan and I could pop through that gate for a quick visit.”

“Are you looking to expand your holdings, Ezarvyn?”

“Not really,” Ezarvyn replied. “We’ll just have to remind him not to come through that portal if he values his health. It’s difficult to keep holdings on the other side of a portal without a substantial base there. The gates of Commorragh have a nasty tendency to shut down at the most inconvenient moments, and I’d rather not waste my time with something that I could lose to a single saboteur – and no gate in Commorragh is truly safe if any saboteur worth his salt puts his mind to it. No, Taeryn, it’s better to just consolidate my position for now. Besides, Baesvyn and her sister succubus are planning a raid into the material plane. From what I’ve heard, archons from a dozen different places in Commorragh have already paid to participate in it. That should keep us all entertained for a couple of days.”

“Try not to target any human worlds, Ezarvyn. We’ll need them soon, and I’d rather there aren’t any raw wounds for them to nurse over when the time comes to gather around the table.”

“The Splintered Woe isn’t the only cult that organizes raids, you know.”

“I do know, Ezarvyn, but having one less of you targeting human worlds is one less problem that I have to worry about.”

“I’ll talk to Baesvyn,” Ezarvyn said dubiously, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

“I know of a few places whose natives will make very interesting arena specimens,” Taeryn told him. “Some of them have even invented ways to travel out of their native star system.”

“That might convince Baesvyn,” Ezarvyn said. “She’s always looking for new and interesting things to put against her wyches.”

“I thought that she would be. Just remind her to leave some of the natives alive this time. There will be no one left for next time if she captures or kill them all now.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 32

Now came a time when the Laughing God took the gem that was called Spiorad from where He had it lain high up upon a shelf in that place that was His, where neither mortal nor god nor the spirits that roamed the turbulent depths of the Othersea have ever entered, where even the Four that dwelt in those dark places passed by in Their idle contemplation of the universe and the things that dwelt therein. And Cegorach took up the gem and laid upon it wards of darkness so that its glow and its essence shall not escape into the Othersea and alert the Four.

And Cegorach raised then His will, and spoke to the gem, saying, “hearken, thou fragment of Tzeentch, who is Me as I am He.”

And Spiorad could stand not against Cegorach, and bowed its will and submitted, for Cegorach and Tzeentch, from whom it came, were as the same being.

And Cegorach peered deeply into Spiorad and saw He there the souls of eldar long past, and the eldar looked back to Him, and they were glad, and raised their voices up to Him and gave their pleas.

But sadly did Cegorach shake His head and said to them, “thy time is not yet come. Bear this torment of isolation for but a while more.” And He gave each His blessings, to keep their company until the time is come.

And Cegorach went still into Spiorad, and there He finally saw the glorious forms of His brothers and sisters. And He took Them, each by the hand, and said, “come, for there is much to do.”

And the gods of the eldar, who had been imprisoned within Slaanesh since Her birth, rose from the depths of the jewel, following all the while a light that Cegorach caused to be which drove away the walls that were within Spiorad and came at last out of the thing that had freed Them from the hunger of Slaanesh but which had also been Their prison.

And within that place that neither mortal nor god saw Cegorach looked around Him and beheld there the countenance of the six of His siblings that had been consumed by Slaanesh. And His heart was made glad.

Now came Asuryan to Cegorach, and since He was the oldest of the gods Cegorach bowed low to Him. But Asuryan placed His hand upon Cegorach’s shoulder, and Cegorach beheld a gentle smile upon the face of the Phoenix King.

“No,” said Asuryan, “do not bow to Me. We are all grateful that You have rescued Us.”

And Cegorach took the arm of Asuryan in His own. “Not all, My brother,” said He.

And Asuryan most solemnly nodded. “Do you have a plan to aid Khaine and Isha?”

“Thy rescue was but the first step, Asuryan. Thy power and the power of Our brethren shall be needed for the things to come.”

“Then go and speak to Them,” invited Asuryan.

And Cegorach went forth and greeted His fellow gods, Vaul and Hoec and Morai-Heg and Kurnous. And when He came at last to Lileath, youngest of the pantheon, He greeted Her in a manner most warm, for She was ever as a well-loved child among the gods of the eldar. And when He had greeted Her He said most solemnly to Her, “I shall give unto Thee the ways in which I go unto the mortals, so that Thou mayest guide Our children and draw them away from the precipice on which they doth trod.” And He said this knowing that Lileath’s domains were fortune and dreams, and that She, better than He, could know of that which lies ahead.

And Lileath did cast Her eyes upward, for She was yet young, and the seemingly obvious things that Cegorach said exasperated Her most. And She smiled a youthful smile that was full of mischief, and replied, “are You still using that outdated speech, Cegorach? I thought that You would have grown tired of it by now.”

And Cegorach smiled, for He enjoyed the pertinence of Lileath. “This matter is of utmost importance, Lileath. Thou shalt show the eldar the ways in which to travel. We shall not again leave them without Our guidance.”

“I understand, Cegorach,” said Lileath, most vexed. “Show me how to communicate with the eldar, and I will not leave Our children without Our guidance again. Now drop that speech. It sounds ridiculous.”

Now did the gods set to work. Vaul took up once more His tools with which to craft weapons of war and Kurnous took His hounds and raptors of the hunt and Morai-Heg took Her knife and plucked at the strings of fate and looked to the things of mortals that not even the gods knew. And Asuryan held His hands out and garbed Himself in armor of His will and placed upon His head a helm which crest was the light of the stars, and took in His hands His ancient sword. And Cegorach took His cloak which was called Shadow and placed it around His shoulders and went with Asuryan and Hoec out of that place which neither mortals nor gods have seen.

Presently Cegorach turned to Hoec, and beseeched Him perform His task. And Hoec, whose domain was that of dimensions, took Cegorach by the left shoulder and Asuryan by the right and stepped through the ways that not even Cegorach had knowledge of, and all at once They came into the Plague Gardens of Nurgle, where dwelt the Othersea God whose domain was disease and entropy and all things unseemly.

Now Nurgle sent His minions out to scour His kingdom, for the Othersea Gods were bitten by strife and contention even among Themselves, and trusted not one of the others. And Cegorach threw His cloak out and pulled it around Asuryan and Hoec both, and the minions of Nurgle came past Them and above and below, but saw or heard or sensed Them not. Stealthily did the trio move through the churning currents of the Othersea, and on silent trails did They pass by the sentries of Nurgle and the ships of the mortals that gave worship to the lord of that realm. Moved They through places where the constant laws of the universe were not, and crested They tides where time and space held no sway. And because They were beings of the Othersea, Their power were magnified a thousand-fold within that kingdom in the Othersea, and the daemons and spirits that travelled those tides knew naught of Their passage as They went through with the cloak of Cegorach around Them.

Now Cegorach held in His hand the leash of a hound of Kurnous, who had taken scent of Isha, who was held prisoner by Nurgle. And presently the hound gave a small bark and its steps grew quick and it tugged upon the leash in Cegorach’s hand. And Cegorach took the leash from the hound and the hound ran up a tide and leapt across the dirty gray leaves of twisted bleached trees and jumped over a stream of freshly brewed maladies and sat upon the bank on the other side, casting an impatient glance first at the eldar gods still upon the opposite bank and then at the places beyond the stream. And Cegorach and Asuryan and Hoec leapt across the trees and flew over the stream, and Kurnous’ hound once more took off.

And came They now to a place where walked no minion of Nurgle, and Asuryan fastened His shield upon His arm and drew His sword, for He knew that They had come at last to the foul place where Nurgle sat and made His vile concoctions. And Cegorach took the collar of the hound in His hand and They crept closer, and there before Them was a pasture, the grounds rotted and where no life grew, where clouds of sickly pestilence hung heavy over the ground and where virus most potent hung in the air. And all over that Pasture stood pots and cauldrons and vials, and other things less material, and all of it held maladies and afflictions imagined by the lord of the realm. And there, in a single cage, the eldar gods saw Isha, and They beheld how She looked forlorn and harrowed, and They were greatly distressed.

Then came into the Pasture where there was no being before the god Nurgle, humming in tones as one who was drowned an ancient tune, and went He up to the place where held Isha and put His hand out. And in great agony did Isha scream, and Nurgle watched on with pleasure as He imparted unto the Mother of the eldar His vile gift. And the three gods of the eldar stayed Their hands and only watched.

Now Cegorach took the jewel that was called Spiorad and let it out for a moment from under His cloak, and far away in the Othersea Slaanesh sensed the jewel. And because the minions of Slaanesh sought to please their mistress, who had ever been disconsolate after Spiorad was raised up against Her, they went with all haste after the order of their mistress to the borders of the Plague Gardens, and there behind the host went Slaanesh. And the minions of Nurgle gathered to oppose them, and Nurgle Himself was for a single moment distracted. And since the minions of Slaanesh sought to outdo their rivals for the favor of Slaanesh, and because Slaanesh made few daemons after Her defeat and none as mighty, they advanced not into the heart of the Plague Gardens.

Now Cegorach and His brothers went up to Isha’s place of holding while Nurgle was distracted, and Asuryan raised His sword, which has cleft countless stars and greater cosmic bodies in days long past, and struck three blows to the great lock of Isha’s cage. And Cegorach’s cloak was over the cage, and Nurgle heard not the sound.

Now Isha was still weak by Nurgle’s affliction, and so Asuryan took Her up in His arms, and the gods were made glad to see the relief upon Isha’s face.

Now Cegorach was sore wroth with Nurgle, and He moved Isha’s cage closer to the Lord of Plagues and Decay, and when Nurgle turned back from the commotion of Slaanesh’s minions did Cegorach set loose the hound of Kurnous which pounced upon the sore-ridden back of Nurgle. And the Plague Lord was thrown forward and fell even into the cage. And laughing merrily at His jest, Cegorach took the arm of Hoec and went away from the Plague Gardens of Nurgle. And the lord of that realm gave chase but caught them not, for Hoec knew of ways none other could know of, and Nurgle could do scarce little but watch Isha slip from His grasp and howl in impotent fury as all ways of testing His ailments vanished. And, alone in His Pasture after millennia of company did Nurgle cry out in loss as the one for whom He had showed such great affection left forever from His side.

Illiawe awoke with a blinding headache. The sun of Kenaleith seemed for some reason too bright that day, and her limbs were heavy and stiff. She thought about getting out of the bed that she had no recollection of getting into, but quickly changed her mind. She looked around her, and even that proved to be a challenge. The building that she was in was distinctly eldar in architecture, and she allowed herself to relax; there was not really much else that she could have done anyway. The ceiling above her began then to glow a soft shade of blue, and Illiawe’s eyelids grew heavy. The thought of fighting the somnolence did not even cross her mind as she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

The hardest part about it all was forgetting. Even as she lay in that bed, she fancied that she heard screams, as though from somewhere far off, raised in a cacophony of mindless agony, one born not of pain or sorrow, but of an eternity of isolation, one that drove even the strongest of minds toward the brink of insanity. Before her eyes there rose the accusing gaze of countless eldar, row upon row, stretching, it seemed, so far back that there was no world that could hold them all. She returned their glares with only fleeting looks of apprehension, but there was no manner in which she could seek recompense for her actions. Some part of her, perhaps, knew that her fear was only a result of her conscience, but that part was quickly drowned out as the ghostly forms of eldar from days long gone returned once more.

The shades, however, never did claim her. The light from the roof overhead made sure of that. It almost seemed to know when her worries have reached its peak, and then it would begin glowing, occasionally a soft blue, other times a rich purple, and yet other times hues and colors that there was no name for, and the storm of emotions within her would grow calm and the shades would fade away.

Taeryn stopped by often, always with that same tender look upon her face that gave Illiawe assurance just as much as the strange light overhead did. On this day she sat in a plump armchair near the fireplace, an archaic feature that, as far as Illiawe could tell, served no real purpose. The shadowseer was, much like Illiawe, wearing an airy dress that was distinctly out of fashion. Taeryn had claimed that the Exodites modelled their lifestyle in such a way for the purposes of nostalgia, but Illiawe wasn’t so sure. Though all evidence she had seen in Kenaleith had proved otherwise, Illiawe did not want to think of the apparent sophistication of the Exodite eldar.

It was all coming too quickly, she decided as she lay there staring absently into the light above her. The fate that she had placed upon the eldar when she had taken up Spiorad had been overwhelming in itself, but the claiming of her soul by Cegorach was just a little too shocking. Illiawe pushed herself up by her elbows, looking directly at Taeryn.

“Did you know about what Cegorach had planned?”

“Do you really think that Cegorach keeps me informed of everything? You are going to be sorely disappointed, shadowseer Illiawe.”

Illiawe blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. “You’re right, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. We’d have to get you a troupe, of course, but I’ve already sorted all that out. Esarlyth does not mind, and it’d be good to have another shadowseer with the troupe.”

Illiawe held up a hand. “Please, Taeryn, I need some time to get used to all of this.”

“Whatever you want.” She came to sit on the bed by Illiawe’s side. “How are you feeling?”

“A little strange.”

“You’ll get used to it. Cegorach’s protection is quite different from that of the soulstones.”

Illiawe frowned. “That reminds me of something.” She took her soulstone out from under her dress. “I suppose that I should return this to the craftworld.”

“Hang on to it, Illiawe. You are going to need it for a while yet. Cegorach wants you to continue staying on Ulthwé as a farseer. Consider the soulstone something in the way of a prop.”

“I suppose that He did not give you any reasons for that either?”

“How did you figure that out?” Taeryn asked with heavily exaggerated curiosity. She reached into a nearby drawer and took out a neatly folded garment. “Get dressed, Illiawe. If you stay any longer in that bed, you’re going to forget how to walk.”

Illiawe took the clothes from her and laid it upon the bed. Her robes of office had been carefully cleaned and pressed, and the wraithbone runes of Ulthwé at its hem gleamed in the light.

“I’m going to miss the holosuit,” she noted slyly to Taeryn.

“I know,” Taeryn replied airily. “The holofields are a much better defense than your rune armor.” She smirked at Illiawe.

Illiawe grinned back at her and went behind an ornate partition in one corner of the room. “How is that Conclave coming along? Did I miss anything?”

“No. None of the farseers so much as hit each other. Their insults, on the other hand, were quite hair-raising. Come on. We’ll go to someplace nice, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They went to a pleasant garden not far from the place where they were staying. Taeryn insisted that Illiawe first recount the events that she had been caught up in, and so Illiawe obliged. Taeryn stopped her once as she told her tale.

“Hold it all,” her friend said. “You told Guigrim that Spiorad consumes the sould of its wielder?” She pressed a hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to hold back the helpless giggle that spewed form her lips.

“The irony of that does not escape me,” Illiawe said tartly.

“I’m sure it does not, Illiawe,” Taeryn gasped. “What a shock it must have been for you after you took it up against Slaanesh.”

“I really don’t see how it’s all that funny,” Illiawe muttered darkly.

Taeryn grinned impudently at her. “Harlequins have a much greater appreciation for irony. I’m sure the humor in this will come to you in time.” And she descended into another peal of silvery laughter.

Illiawe scowled at her friend. It proved to be a very long scowl, and Illiawe’s brow had started aching by the time Taeryn had composed herself enough for Illiawe to continue with her recount.

Then it was Taeryn’s turn, and she entertained Illiawe with a possibly embellished tale of the events of the Conclave. At one point Illiawe stopped Taeryn.

“Ethorach was in favor of staying out of the war?” she asked.

Taeryn chewed on her bottom lip. “It was a bit more complicated than “staying out”, but you’re right.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Illiawe muttered. “Ethorach knows just as well as anyone how the Rhana Dandra should play out.”

“Well, he’s also the kind of farseer who prefers to wait for things to happen,” Taeryn pointed out.

“Not for this, Taeryn. He wouldn’t allow the forces of Chaos to gain momentum.”

Taeryn shrugged. “If you’re so curious about it, you should ask him yourself.” She gestured with her chin. “It looks like you could do so now.”

Illiawe turned. Ethorach was walking towards them, and with him were Balelath and Isenran.

“Illiawe!” Balelath called when they neared.

Grinning, Illiawe stood and walked forward to quickly embrace her friend. “What are you doing here?”

“The autarchs of the craftworlds are sending representatives to the joint council held here. I was elected to be Ulthwé’s representative.” He frowned. “I suspect that the other autarchs may have cheated at the lot, though. The meeting is mostly a formality, and none of them really wanted to leave the craftworld.”

Illiawe grinned. “Excuse me for a second, Balelath.” She turned to Ethorach. “Do you mind explaining your actions during the Conclave?” she asked him bluntly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you know what I am talking about, Ethorach. You know that the minions of the Othersea Gods have to be fought directly.”

Ethorach smiled. “I thought that it would have been obvious, Illiawe. The craftworlds do not have a single unity of purpose. Every farseer council had their own separate idea of the proper course of action. I did not want those other councils to get too caught up in their silly notion, so I spoke for them, long and very loudly. Then, when enough of them started letting me argue, I gave in. The rest of the farseers who had been depending on me had no choice but to give in at that point, and they dragged a few more with them when they abandoned ship. They know that they cannot succeed with so few craftworlds aiding them.”

“All right,” Illiawe smiled. “Maybe you had a pretty good reason after all.”

Taeryn folded her arms. “Not all the councils gave in,” she reminded Ethorach.

“They are probably just going to slow our preparations down. Let them fortify their craftworlds. It’ll be good to have something that we could fall back to, anyway.” He paused. “Of course, by the time I got around to doing that, only the more stubborn of the farseers really believed in that course of action. The mass vision on that first night was really helpful.” For some reason, Ethorach seemed enormously pleased with himself. He looked around him. “If you have finished interrogating me, Illiawe, I think that I’d like to return back to the house.” Without waiting or a reply, he went off at a leisurely stroll.

“I heard about what you did,” Balelath said to Illiawe. “Did you really defeat Slaanesh’s own avatar?”

“Not really. I had Spiorad, after all, and Taeryn’s troupe was there to help me control it.”

Balelath looked closely at her. “I don’t really understand all the things that Taeryn had told me,” he said carefully, “but what I did understand did not really sound very good.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it, Balelath.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Concentrate on the things that you are here to do, Balelath. I will talk to the spiritseers if the burden gets more than I could bear.”

Despite her assurances to Balelath, Illiawe certainly did not feel so confident about the whole affair. Her actions weighed heavily upon her, and it was difficult to shake the feeling of sudden and violent retribution from the eldar of the past. Most of them, after all, had lived before the Fall, and it was quite likely that their sense of justness was just a little different from those of her contemporary kin, and it was probably just as likely that their sense of justice was equally alien. Illiawe tried not to think about the sentence that her ancestors might pronounce, and she suddenly realized that it was possible that they had ways to do so that were so utterly horrible that there was no way that she could even imagine them, much less replicate. Then she glanced up and saw Taeryn staring at her. The look on her friend’s face was pitying, the sort of look that one gave a child – or perhaps a puppy – who was being incredibly silly. Illiawe flushed and resolutely turned away from that reasonable stare. What did Taeryn know of the moods of the old eldar, after all? It was Illiawe who sealed them within Spiorad, and it was her whom they would seek vengeance upon for an eternity of isolation and a lack of companionship. If anything, Illiawe was sure that she was entitled to the right of imagining the horrors that will be visited upon her. Out of the corner of her eye, Illiawe saw Taeryn shrug slightly and turn back to an animated conversation with Balelath and Isenran, and Illiawe returned to her morbid musings.

Ethorach returned to Ulthwé a few days later on some unspecified – and possibly non-existent – task. Illiawe went often to the Fields of Meeting to watch the Conclave in its deliberations. Taeryn always went with her, and they were frequently accompanied by Balelath and Isenran. The two seemed for some reason inseparable. Illiawe found that she was quite curious as to the reason, but she chose not to pursue it.

On this particular day, the deliberations of the Conclave were many and wide-ranging, and the councils dwelt for hours upon seemingly trivial points. Illiawe eventually stood.

“Come on,” she muttered to Taeryn. “This is not as interesting as I’d hoped it’ll be.”

“Not so fast, Illiawe. I need to get a few things from the farseer councils first.”

“What kind of things?”

Taeryn winked at her and stood, gesturing for Illiawe to follow her.

“Where are we going?” Illiawe asked.

“There is a particular council that I need to talk to.”

“What for?”

“The craftworlds will have to seek an alliance with the Commorrites, and there are a number of craftworlds that are closer to them than most. This council belongs to one of them.”

“Wait,” Illiawe said, grabbing Taeryn’s arm. “You seek to ally with the Commorrites?”

Taeryn sighed. “Are we really going to go through this again, Illiawe? The Rhana Dandra does not concern only the craftworlds, as much as you’d like it to.”

“We cannot trust the Commorrites!”

“I am not having this discussion again, Illiawe,” Taeryn said firmly. “There is no time for that. You can choose to put aside your suspicion of the Commorrites and accept their help, or you can let prejudice blind you and fall into the grasp of Slaanesh knowing that you at least managed to uphold the traditions of the craftworld eldar. The choice is entirely up to you, but you’d best choose quickly. Like it or not, you can’t stop this alliance.” She glanced at the farseers seated around them. “And neither can they.”

Illiawe chewed on her lip, swallowing her retort. She muttered angrily to herself for a few moments and started off after Taeryn. The shadowseer led her along the seats and up the tiers toward the back of the dome. There were few eldar there, and Taeryn sat herself next to a group of disconsolate looking farseers in crimson and silver robes.

“Farseer Elbera,” she said in mock surprise.

The chief farseer barely glanced at them. “Isn’t this dreary?” she asked shortly.

“That just begins to describe it,” Taeryn laughed. “I have a request to make of you.”

Elbera sighed. “What is it?”

“Surely it’s obvious. The Rhana Dandra must be fought by the eldar, not only those of the craftworld.”

“That’s a novel notion.”

“Please, I know that your council keeps close ties with certain Commorrite archons.”

“How do you know that?”

Taeryn smirked at her. “I would like for you to broach the subject of an alliance with the Commorrites.”

“The other councils are not going to like it.”

“They don’t have to like it.”

The farseer stared at her and finally nodded. She stood, waiting for the farseers around her to quieten. “These discussions are all very well and good, but I think that we should really get to the main issue, don’t you think? The Rhana Dandra is not going to wait forever, after all.” She looked around her. “I’ll be direct then. We all know of the visions of the Rhana Dandra. I am sure that we’ve all seen hundreds of possible courses that we could take. I hope that I don’t have to remind all of you, however, that there is one thing that has to come about if we ever hope to finally defeat She Who Thirsts.”

A ripple of uneasiness ran through the Conclave at the mention of Slaanesh, even by euphemism.

Elbera looked around her. “I should hope that we are all aware that, even as much as we dislike each other, there must be an alliance with the Commorrites.”

There was a thunderous roar as the farseers leapt to their feet, protesting loudly.

“We don’t need the aid of lunatics!” a nearby farseer shouted, his words quickly snatched away by a roar of approval from those around him.

Elbera looked reproachfully at Taeryn.

“Don’t worry, Elbera,” Taeryn replied with a sly smile. “They’ll come around eventually.” She turned to Illiawe. “It looks like our work is done here.” She started down the stairs, heading toward the exit.

“Is that it?” Illiawe asked.

“I believe so. The idea’s there now. All we need to do is wait.” She shrugged. “At least, that’s what Cegorach told me.”

“Sometimes He really irritates me, Taeryn.”

“Don’t be so hard on Him, Illiawe. The gods have a strange sense of humor.”

The nightmare did not involve some scene of terrible danger nor persistent demons, but was rather a single image filled with shadows that clawed at her mind and things that had no form that chilled her soul. The shades of a trillion eldar glowered silently at her, and rising up horribly behind them was a presence that Illiawe had no cause to forget; and there seemed upon the face of Slaanesh a wide, baleful smile, and in that smile lay the promise of suffering planned for millennia and perfected over eons besides.

“Illiawe!” Taeryn’s voice called from some far off place, and there were hands upon her shoulders, shaking her awake. Illiawe forced her eyes open, struggling to bring her mind into focus.

“What is it?” she murmured, and her voice croaked.

“Are you all right?” Taeryn asked, leaning over Illiawe and staring down at her intently.

Illiawe pushed herself into a sitting position. “I’m fine. I had some bad dreams, that’s all.”

Taeryn exhaled heavily and sat down by Illiawe’s side, flicking the light by her bed on. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t be coy, Illiawe.”

Illiawe rolled her eyes. “Not you too, Taeryn. I’m fine, really.”

Taeryn laughed shortly. “No, you’re not. Your thoughts and emotions have been dismal and despondent ever since you came here.”

Illiawe looked sharply at her.

“You forget that you are a daughter of Cegorach just as much as I am, Illiawe.”

“Stay out of my mind, Taeryn.”

“I will not,” Taeryn said primly. “Your grief is every bit as painful to me as it is to you, Illiawe. You can’t brood over it forever, and I am not going to let you do so even if you could.”

“I have been brooding over a lot of things for a very long time. One more wouldn’t really hurt me.”

“To the contrary, I think. This particular problem certainly hurts us all.”

“I can deal with it on my own.”

“I don’t think so, Illiawe, and you know that too.” She stood abruptly. “I think that we’ve known each other too well and for far too long to go through this dance. I’ll be here when you are ready. Good night, Illiawe.”

The conundrum that Illiawe now found herself in was a painful one. On the one hand, she hated to admit that Taeryn was quite possibly right, and hated more the private thoughts and emotions that she would have to share. On the other hand, she rather liked the idea of sharing her woes with someone else. She bore the anguish for another few days, then she went looking for Taeryn.

Her friend, it seemed, had been waiting for her to do so, and when Illiawe announced that she was returning to the craftworld to talk to the spiritseers, Taeryn merely stood and calmly announced that she, too, would be going along. Illiawe, for one, was glad for the company, so she did not object too strenuously.

They boarded the craftworld through its central webway chamber. Ulthwé was gripped in preparation for war. The usually crowded streets were nearly empty. Bonesingers stood in groups of twos and threes, their arms outstretched and their voices rising clearly as they shaped wraithbone to bolster the defenses of the ship. The air above them was filled not with the shuttles and skimmers that normally travelled through the craftworld’s sky, but with squads of jetbikes and larger crafts, filling the air with the roar of sonic booms, the glow of their plasma engines lighting the dark sky like a million blue comets. Starships sailed against the blackness of the void around the craftworld like shoals of fish. Below their feet the infinity circuit’s pulse was heavy, its steady rhythm setting Illiawe’s heart to racing.

They went past a number of Aspect shrines. Their warriors had come out of their shrines, and the gardens and domes around them were filled with Guardians and Black Guardians both, practicing their roles of warfare under the watchful eyes of the Aspect Warriors training them.

They made their way past the bustle of wartime preparations and descended through the outer layers of the ship, past long stretches of corridors and under great arches that kept the hull of the craftworld where it belonged.

The spiritseers preferred to dwell deep inside the center of the craftworld where lay the spine of the infinity circuit that ran from the prow of the ship to its stern. Illiawe seldom had cause to descend this far into the ship, in body or mind. Her communion with the craftworld and its infinity circuit had always before been restricted to its outer ribs, since she did not need to go any further. They were in a perfectly circular tunnel, though its vaulted ceiling stretched so far above their heads that Illiawe was convinced that one of the craftworld’s ships could fit comfortably inside. The ceiling and the floor both were aglow with a soft light, pulsing with the distinct measured beat of the infinity circuit. They walked among somber eldar now, robed no differently than the other seers of the craftworld. Their expressions, however, were solemn and grave, their eyes distant as they communed with the souls within the infinity circuit. It was all decidedly unsettling, but Illiawe and Taeryn pressed on deeper into that gloomy place. Something seemed to tug Illiawe on, pulling her toward a particular place along that tunnel, and there was a sense that she was looking for a particular spiritseer, though she did not know who he was. The infinity circuit continued to pulse, egging her onward, past the silent eldar who walked all around her.

The tunnel opened then into a wide circular chamber, where a single pillar of the infinity circuit rose up out of the ground and up past the ceiling like the trunk of a great tree. Its surface was patterned with bulbous growths, soulstones that lay empty, pulsing softly in tune with the infinity circuit, patiently awaiting a bond with some eldar in need of a soulstone. Along the walls like crystalline vines ran smaller fingers of the infinity circuit, crawling up to the ceiling and spreading from there all throughout the craftworld. The floor beneath their feet was broken into rainbow light. Past the crystal floor Illiawe could make out the heart of the infinity circuit itself, a single glowing causeway with ribs that grew majestically from it, curving gently away, forming the skeleton of the craftworld. Eldar from all Paths milled around the spirit chamber, communing with lost friends and relatives, seeking the wisdom of their ancestors, all in their own way preparing for the coming war. Other eldar moved amongst them, robed and hooded spiritseers, coaxing the most vengeful of the spirits within the infinity circuit into empty soulstones to aid the living in their battles away from Ulthwé.

Illiawe led Taeryn through the crowd, scanning the far reaches of the chamber with her eyes and mind. A slight movement caught her attention and she turned. The spiritseer stood half-concealed in shadow, her fingertips touching one of the thin vines that lined the wall. Her head was bowed in silent communion and, as Illiawe approached, the shadowseer moved her fingers to brush one of the bubbles in the nearby wall. The wraithbone melted away under her touch and she plucked the lifeless soulstone from its place, touching it to the infinity circuit. The soulstone glowed a rich purple as the soul of an eldar long dead flowed into it and the spiritseer tucked it away inside her robe.

“You should be glad, you know,” she said suddenly, straightening and turning to face Illiawe. “The dead do not mind, really. Only the living make such a great fuss about taking our ancestors back under the banner of Khaine.” The spiritseer’s deep cowl was pulled low over her face, but her piercing eyes seemed strangely visible. “I am Elasa,” she introduced herself.

“I know. I am Illiawe.”

Elasa turned her head slightly. “The both of you walk with Cegorach.”

Taeryn laughed softly. “Is it so obvious?” she asked playfully.

“I see the souls of those who stand before me, harlequin.”

“Please, my name is Taeryn.”

“Very well. What favors do you seek, harlequin?”

“I need some counselling on the moods of the eldar dead, Elasa,” Illiawe answered. “I hear that you are the most knowledgeable in this regard.”

“One of the most,” Elasa corrected meticulously, “and only among the living. What matters do you need advice on?”

Quickly, Illiawe explained the situation of the souls within Spiorad to her. Elasa’s expression grew more and more troubled as Illiawe continued, and when Illiawe concluded, she was silent for a long time.

“Time does not matter in the dream state, Illiawe,” she started slowly. “Cause and effect has no meaning to the dead, and they have no meaning to anyone who remains unaffected by the material world. The ghosts of our ancestors view things a lot differently than we do if we are not there to bring the thoughts of this world back to them. A millennia is very much like a second to them. If nothing else, the dead are very patient.”

A sudden impossible hope sprung up in Illiawe.

“Of course,” Elasa continued, “you trapped them not in soulstones, but in an artifact of one of the Othersea gods. I do not know how they will feel about that. I’m sorry, Illiawe, but I have never talked to any souls in such a situation before.” She smiled consolingly. “Perhaps you could try talking to them and see if they will accept your apology. The dead are very good listeners.”

Illiawe glared at her.

Elasa laughed a silvery laugh. “I am sure that they will understand, Illiawe, if you talk very fast.”

Illiawe blinked. Before she could object, however, the blue light of the infinity circuit dimmed, and turned red. Illiawe looked up in surprise. Brighter and brighter it grew, and in the pillar of the infinity circuit that rose up in the center of the room a speck of incandescent light shone like the heart of a star. A pulse ran through the craftworld, firm but faint. All throughout the chamber eldar milled about in confusion.

The pulse returned again, stronger this time, and it was accompanied by a fiery surge through Illiawe’s veins. She exchanged a quick look with Taeryn. They both knew full well what that surge meant. Taeryn grabbed her arm and her vision momentarily blurred as Taeryn pulled them away from the spirit chamber, taking them across the vast expanse of the craftworld until they stopped on the outside of the ship near the stern, a district dedicated to the making of war. Here the shrines of the various Aspects of Khaine were the most numerous, and the Aspect Warriors were already coming out of their shrines ready for war, their faces blank and unfeeling under the influence of their war masks. All around them eldar had emerged, seeking answers to a single dreadful question. Illiawe sunk her mind through the infinity circuit of the craftworld, moving through the whole ship, looking for signs of invasion.

“Well?” Taeryn asked tersely.

“No. We are not under attack. Perhaps that wasn’t the awakening of Khaine’s avatar,” she said unconvincingly.

There was the soft flap of a wing and Balelath descended from the sky.

“What are you doing here?” Illiawe asked him.

“The autarchs called me back for a few private matters.”

“Are we planning a war that I don’t know about, Balelath?”

“No. The Young King hasn’t been given over to Khaine.”

“Then why is His avatar awake?”

“You should see it for yourself,” Balelath replied grimly. He led them through the confused crowds, heading toward the temple where the Avatar of Khaine normally sat, silent and cold, awaiting the call of the eldar to war.

They rounded a corner and stepped past the threshold of a large and empty square where only the Young King and his exarchs were allowed to cross, and there before them loomed the temple to Khaine where there had been only sky before. There were autarchs and exarchs and even a couple of farseers there, but Illiawe barely acknowledged their confused babble. The stairs that led up to the temple were blackened with soot and its walls were charred. The runes of the war god that hung above the temple doors blazed with a fire that left the wall that the rune was attached to unscathed. The heavy doors that lay closed during times of relative peace stood open. Yet it was not that fact that sent a chill down Illiawe’s spine. The heavy doors had been forced open from the inside by some powerful blast. Like the temple walls, it was blackened with soot, but Illiawe’s attention was drawn to the domed central roof of the temple. A pillar of fire blazed fiercely out of a ragged hole dozens of feet wide in its center, and though the wraithbone that made the temple was not flammable the fire continued to burn, tongues of flame licking around the jagged rim of the hole. The fire that burned without fuel was white-hot, almost too bright to look at, and it seemed that, as it burned, the fire ate away at more than just the temple’s roof.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 33

The Avatar of Khaine was gone. Those were the words that were repeated throughout the craftworld. The Avatar was gone, and Khaine’s temple lay in ruins. The effect that it had upon the eldar aboard the craftworld was grim. Though the eldar had always held their blood-thirsty god in low regard, He was a singular symbol of the martial might of the eldar, an assurance of victory in battle, and the eldar drew a certain comfort in the knowledge of His protection.

And now, at the eve of the Rhana Dandra, their war god has withdrawn His blade from their side.

Illiawe did not take the latest turn of events well. It seemed to her that the sacrifice of the eldar trapped within Spiorad was now wasted. Without their war god to assist them, Illiawe no longer had the comfort of probable victories that Khaine’s avatars will bring in the coming conflict.

And as the minutes went by, news from the other craftworlds came to Ulthwé, telling of destroyed temples and pillars of fire before an empty throne. The farseers of the craftworlds, of course, searched the skeins for some clue as to the fate of the Avatars, but they found nothing. Taeryn spent the next few days in the libraries and repositories of the harlequin cities, though what she hoped to find there, Illiawe did not know. Balelath returned to the work of the autarchs with a new resolve, and Illiawe spent her days exploring the skeins, hoping, though she knew that it was in vain, that she might stumble across an answer.

And all the while the Aspect Warriors trained for war, and the Guardians trained with them.

The hardest part were the questions. The eldar of Ulthwé were not particularly pious, but they wanted to know, quite reasonably, if the disappearance of the Avatars of Khaine was the work of the enemies of the eldar. Illiawe wanted to ease their fears, but the skeins remained obstinately unhelpful. Illiawe soon grew to shun the streets of the craftworld even outside her robes of office, and she spent the days meditating within her house.

Then, one day, Ethorach stopped by. As was his custom, he showed up unannounced and entered her house uninvited. Illiawe had been making breakfast when he walked in, and she waved for him to sit himself.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to the Avatars, do you?” she asked him.

Ethorach’s expression grew pained. “Not you too, Illiawe.”

“I was just making conversation,” she objected innocently.

“Talk about something else, then. If I had uncovered any information, you would be one of the first to know.” He looked closely at her. “How are you holding up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know why you came to Ulthwé, Illiawe. Unfortunately, I don’t think that even the spiritseers could help you with your problem.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Trust me on this, Illiawe.” He looked penetratingly at her. “Have they been able to help you yet?”

Illiawe shook her head once, and Ethorach grunted.

“I didn’t think so. I don’t know why you’re getting so upset about this, Illiawe.”

She fixed him with a flat stare.

“Everything that we’ve ever done has always been about the sacrifice of the few for the many, Illiawe.”

“Do you really think that trapping all the eldar who have ever lived in isolation for the rest of eternity is saving the many, Ethorach?”

“Eternity is a very long time, Illiawe. As for your question, I do. Your anguish is a good price in exchange for the freedom of all those souls from Slaanesh, isn’t it?”

“It’s not really freedom if they are trapped inside that artifact, is it?”

“You really need to stop with that, Illiawe. Wherever did you get the absurd idea that the eldar cannot be freed?”

Illiawe stared at him. “You know how to free them?” she asked incredulously.

“I do, yes.”

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. “Why didn’t you say so before?” She looked around for her cloak. “I’ll go get Spiorad, and you can get them out.”

“Cegorach has it, you know.”

“I know. I figured that if I asked Him, He might lend it to me for a few days.”

Ethorach laughed then. “This is a lot more amusing for me than you know, Illiawe. You are not going to ask Cegorach about anything. In the first place, you don’t know where to find Him. In the second place, He is not going to allow you to take Spiorad. Trust me on this. In the third place, even if you did convince Cegorach to let you have Spiorad, I will not help in releasing the eldar trapped within.”

“Why not?”

Ethorach sighed. “You really need to think these things through, Illiawe. If the eldar were released, they will just return to the Othersea, and Slaanesh would be right there waiting for them.”

“We could trap them in soulstones and release them into the infinity circuit.”

“We could, but remember that the daemons of Slaanesh could see the souls of the eldar. Her minions will be all over us before we know it. Trillions upon trillions of souls is positively irresistible to the minions of Slaanesh. There will be nowhere to hide for whichever craftworld whose infinity circuit we released the souls into, whether here, in the webway, or on the other side of the universe. Will you place the living eldar of a craftworld at risk?”

Mutely, Illiawe shook her head.

“It is better this way, Illiawe. Not even Slaanesh has found Cegorach yet.” He stood. “I’m glad we had this talk, Illiawe. I’ll leave you alone now.” He paused. “You really should not be unhappy now. The time is coming when the many are going to be sacrificed for the sake of the few.”

“The Rhana Dandra, you mean?”

“No, but it’s a close guess.” He went toward the door. “Take care, Illiawe.”

Taeryn returned shortly after that, bearing the look of one who has returned from a fruitless search.

“What a pointless waste of time,” she muttered darkly as she walked in through the door.

“That sounds familiar,” Illiawe suggested slyly. “I take it that things didn’t go so well?”

Taeryn made an indelicate sound. “That’s putting it lightly. Not even the keepers of the Black Library know what could have caused the disappearance of the Avatars. They suspect that it might not be the doing of our enemies, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“They seem to be, anyway. From what I understand, there is an obscure piece of writing regarding this event. Apparently no one actually believed that it will come about, so it has lain forgotten for all this time.”

“That’s something, anyway. Do the keepers know what this is about?”

“No. They are still working on it.”

“That is the best that we could hope for, I guess.”

Taeryn nodded. “In the meantime, we should return to our preparations.”

“Are you planning on returning to Kenaleith, then?”

“Do you have someplace better to go?”

“Don’t be clever, Taeryn.”

“Someone’s in a sour mood today.”

“Sorry. The disappearance of the Avatars has got me a little on edge, that’s all.”

“I’m sure it’s more than just a disappearance,” Taeryn assured her.

“How would you know that?”

“I don’t think that you’re ready for the answer, Illiawe.”

“Taeryn,” Illiawe said slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Have you been spending too much time around Cegorach lately? You’re starting to sound like Him.”

Taeryn shrugged. “It’s only natural, I suppose. He is my god, after all.” Then she laughed shortly. “Actually, I don’t really know why they’ve vanished.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Illiawe asked in irritation.

“We do have a reputation to maintain, Illiawe. I’m sure you understand.”

News of the disappearance had spread to Kenaleith long before they reached it. The Exodites, who were not as oblivious to the affairs and nature of their cousins aboard the craftworlds as they seemed, were already gathering their beast herds. Vaults of laser weapons were opened and emptied. Some of their number went out to shape the lands and skies of the world beyond Mar-Kenaleith into more suitable defenses, and energy ran like veins all throughout the vines and the trees and the ground itself of the city and beyond.

“What’s going on?” Illiawe asked a passing autarch.

“Don’t you know that the Avatars on board the craftworlds disappeared?” The autarch seemed surprised.

“We know about that,” Illiawe said shortly. “What’s happening here?” She waved an arm around her.

“Oh. The Exodites have declared that they will join us in the Rhana Dandra. They seem to think that they could match the might of a few hundred Avatars of Khaine.”

“That’s insane!” Illiawe exclaimed.

“I know it is, but the Exodites seem supremely confident about their military prowess.”

“I am not talking about that. The Exodites could fight in the Rhana Dandra if they were so inclined. They’re just not supposed to do so. They are to rebuild our civilization when this is all over.”

The autarch shrugged. “You could try telling them that, but I rather doubt that they will listen.” He dipped his head slightly by way of farewell and strode off.

Illiawe looked after him helplessly.

“You can’t do anything about it, Illiawe,” Taeryn said. “Let’s go see what the autarchs and the farseers are up to.”

“The autarchs?” Illiawe asked in surprise.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t think that the autarchs would allow us into their meetings.”

“How are they going to keep us out?” Taeryn asked with a mischievous smile. She led Illiawe through the Exodite city until they came upon a glade that was strangely silent. Autarchs were gathered there, all impressively dressed in ornate armor that had been buffed until they gleamed – no mean accomplishment for the stone like surface of wraithbone – and with cloaks that were prominently fastened with symbols of their craftworlds and emblazoned with their honors and titles along the hem. As far as Illiawe could tell, the autarchs were concentrating on posing as much as they were on making plans. The whole affair was a riot of color and posturing and not much else.

“They’re like a bunch of birds, aren’t they?” Taeryn observed.

“The farseers will never waste their time with this,” Illiawe agreed.

“You’re right. The farseers would much rather be childish in another way.” She grinned briefly as Illiawe’s expression became outraged and turned back to the autarchs.

An autarch with yellow and white armor had just concluded a long-winded speech. Another autarch had replaced him before he had even walked out of the center of the glade. Illiawe recognized his colors and symbol as being those from Alesnar. He turned once, slowly, allowing the audience to get a full view of his wardrobe. When he spoke, his voice was studied.

“Our enemies lie beyond the barrier that divides this place from the Othersea. Prudence dictates that we make our peace with the humans so that we may both face this threat together.” He paused, a small frown creasing his brow. “The autarchs of Alesnar stand with those of Biel-Tan. There will be time enough to rebuild when our enemies have been eradicated.”

“What is this?” Illiawe heard Taeryn mutter. Illiawe thought that she knew, but she chose not to say anything.

“The farseers claim that none of the craftworlds will survive this war,” the Alesnar autarch continued. “If that is the case, then Alesnar is prepared to abandon the moral reservations that have clouded our conceptions of tools of peace and war. Biel-Tan has used the implements with which we sculpt worlds in war. If we are to give up all our lives, then Alesnar will follow their example – without the restraints that Biel-Tan placed upon their tools. Alesnar will see whole fleets consumed down to nothingness before we give our own lives.” He looked around him. “I am aware that you have among you tools of art and things that tradition forbids the use of, but these should be set aside for the coming war.”

“What do you ask of us?” a voice rang out. The first autarch walked out of the crowd to stand beside the one from Alesnar. “We do not need to reduce ourselves to the level of the humans and the other uncultured races to go to war. Biel-Tan and all those with Biel-Tan forget that restraint keeps us from becoming like the orks, curbing of our desire to turn things of peace into weapons of war keeps us from becoming like the humans, and tradition holds us back from the brink of consumption by She Who Thirsts. Turn tools of creation into weapons that scour planets if you wish, but you will be fighting this war as no better than the Commorrites. You know as well as I do that the Rhana Dandra will be fought to preserve the eldar race, and has to be fought as true eldar and not the frenzied creatures that our ancestors became in the final millennia of our empire or the savages that the Commorrites now are.” Then he looked directly at the Biel-Tan representative and sneered. “Or has the enmity between the seers and the martial leaders on that craftworld grown so wide that you think to know the future better than they do? Perhaps our bloodthirsty kin have devolved far more than we had thought and exchanged rationality for cruel and violent abandon?”

Illiawe gasped. “Why would he say that?” she exclaimed. “It was going so well before.”

Taeryn shrugged. “It looks like some of the discontent between craftworlds have finally surfaced.” She peered for a moment at the autarchs before them. The spiteful comments had caused an uproar of protests, and insults flew through the air this way and that like volleys of gunfire, but the abuse appeared to be limited strictly to the verbal kind. “Come on, Illiawe,” she suggested. “This will most likely go on for quite a long while.”

“I hope that it will not cause any problems later on,” Illiawe muttered, chewing on her bottom lip in worry.

“Probably not. Battle always tend to make everyone jumpy. It looks like the autarchs are no exception.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Trust me, Illiawe. I’ve seen war meetings descend into a lot worse things than a few insults before. In Commorragh, whole raids could be called off because the cooperating archons couldn’t agree on who among them gets the best spot to watch the battle.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad.”

“It is when the reason the raids are cancelled is because the kabals are busy discussing politics.”

“Politics?”

“Someone has to fill the position of archon when it is vacant. That tends to happen when the whole section of Commorragh collapses into an event horizon.”

Illiawe sniffed. “Commorrites are idiots sometimes, but we know they are unreliable. I don’t know why you think that a few inconveniently placed weapons are all that bad when it involves Commorrites.”

“You don’t know much about the Commorrites, do you? There are usually general truces when a raid is called. Physical violence before a raid is generally frowned upon, let alone assassinations.” She grabbed Illiawe’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go to the Fields of Meeting. I want to see how the farseers are coming along in their discussions.”

“You really are very passionate about this, aren’t you?” Illiawe was quite irrationally amused. Taeryn was almost childish in her eagerness, and her mood appeared to be quite contagious.

“Be quiet, Illiawe,” Taeryn said dismissively.

Illiawe laughed helplessly and let Taeryn lead her along. It took them quite a while to reach their destination, but the day was pleasant, the sky clear and the sun warm, and so Illiawe did not mind.

The vines at the entrance of the dome within which the Conclave gathered moved aside for them and they entered without breaking stride. The farseers of the Conclave were seated row upon row along the tiered seats, their attention fixed upon one of their number standing in the center of the floor. The farseer’s face was set carefully in an expression of indignation. Illiawe did not take that to be a good sign.

“Perhaps some of us here require reminding of the behavior of the Commorrites,” he was saying as they walked in. “What have the Commorrites ever brought us? All of us know that they do not fight alongside even us without some ulterior motive or to satisfy their own perverted desires. Why then would they fight with us now? We have all looked into the skeins, and there are few threads that say the Commorrites will stay with us to the end. We are farseers, and the eldar look to us to guide them to the best possible future. Must we go now to them and inform them that some among us are children? Why, if not childishness, would the farseers before me even seek to consider the possibility that the Commorrites might have a change of heart when they lack any? Why else would we be entertaining the idea that the remotest of threads amongst a million other dooms could come to pass, and cling on to that hope to the exclusion of all else? I refuse to consign our race to a course of action with an improbable outcome. We must retain our rationality even when some among us are too delusional to do so, and I shall pursue only those threads that we could with great plausibility make come about. I shall not chase fantasies, appealing though they may be.”

A psychic wave rolled out from the gathered farseers, heavy with approval.

Then another farseer stood, and Illiawe recognized her as Elbera, the farseer of the craftworld that had close ties to the Commorrites. Her crimson and silver robes were pulled tight around her, as though it could protect her from the opposition that she quite obviously expected to face. “I wonder if I have to remind the farseer of Melaeyn that the manipulation of events is not beyond our power. I daresay that I am not the only one who had on occasion caused the improbable to become certainty. Chance obeys our touch, and not the other way around. It is true that the task that lies before us is greater than anything we have each individually done, but is not the outcome worth the effort? You know as well as I that the rewards are plenty should we secure the loyalty of the Commorrites. Is this not worth the dedication of some small amount of effort to?”

The Melaeynian farseer gazed flatly at her. “It is no secret that your craftworld consorts with Commorrites, farseer. Your impartiality in this matter is suspect. You speak of the advantages that an alliance would provide, but you speak not of the woes that will befall us should the Commorrites turn away from us as they are wont to do. You can secure their allegiance no more than any of us here could, and I refuse to place Melaeyn upon a course over which the Commorrites have more control than we do. It is perhaps true that the Commorrites hate the gods of the Othersea greatly, but they will fight not for our cause or our survival, but their own. Deal with the Commorrites if you must, but expect no aid from Melaeyn should they turn their backs on you.”

There was a slight disturbance at the back of the dome, and Ethorach made his way down the steps. He stepped out onto the central floor, ignoring the farseer there. The Conclave was silent, waiting to hear what he was going to say.

“The points of the farseer of Melaeyn is well taken,” he started slowly. “And were this any other situation, I would agree with him. But this is not a matter that the farseer councils can decide. The fates will it, and you can fight, but you cannot win. Why then would you waste time dwelling upon this matter when we could be planning for the coming war? Would you squander eldar lives in the coming battles by acting as you do now? Would it not be simpler to save yourselves anguish both now and later, and do as the fates decree?”

“I have seen no such decree,” the Melaeyn farseer said from beside him.

“Then you have been struck blind. The portents are many and not hidden. If you do not think that fate has a hand in this matter, then look to the gods. The harlequins have mobilized. Even now they sweep toward the first battlegrounds of the Rhana Dandra.”

“The gods?” the farseer sneered. “The gods have fallen silent millennia ago. Those of us who are old enough have grown weary of waiting for them to speak again.”

The Conclave grew still. Illiawe looked covertly around. More than a few farseers were shifting uneasily, and a few had expressions of shock or outrage on their faces. The eldar gods no longer walked among Their children, but Their names still carried weight upon the craftworlds.

“Do you truly have so little faith in the gods?” Ethorach asked softly.

“Only in the patron of the harlequins,” the farseer replied. “Khaine watches our battles, and Isha watches our souls, though They are both unable to aid us to Their fullest. But what of Cegorach? He is whole, but He hides and refuses to speak.”

“You go too far!” an eldar shouted. “Do you seek to bring a calamity upon us by thus insulting the Laughing God?”

“Why would He care for words if He had not cared when our lives were lost?” the farseer retorted.

“Do not tempt the gods!” another farseer shouted. He looked slowly at those around him. “The point of the chief farseer of Melaeyn is well-taken, however. The difference between the demands of fate and the gods and the path that we think is the demand of fate is great indeed. Perhaps the gods demand that we seek an alliance with the Commorrites, but if they indeed do, such an alliance will come about no matter what we do to prevent it. But I shall not accept such a course of action if the possibility remains that this is not the choice of fate but simply what we think fate requires of us.”

There was a general murmur of approval.

“Enough!” Ethorach thundered. He looked slowly around him, and there was a look upon his face that Illiawe had never seen before, a look that was almost contemptuous. “Do you find yourselves so great that you could go against fate? Do you think yourselves so powerful that you could do as you pleased? Do you think that you could go against fate if it brings you into an alliance with the Commorrites? You will join with them in this war, whether you do so willingly or not. Must you throw away eldar lives before you realize this?”

“And you, then,” the Melaeyn farseer asked in an insulting tone, “do you think yourself above us? The Commorrites no longer hold morals. We will suffer more greatly if we ally with them than we will if we do not. You know this to be true.”

“And you know that this can be changed.”

“And why is that, farseer? Do you know something that we do not? Did the gods, perhaps, speak to you while you were asleep and showed you the paths with which to take? You consort with harlequins, but their goals are unknown to us. They have always been close to the Commorrites, however, and I am inclined not to believe that they lack an ulterior motive in this proposal of an alliance.”

“The goals of the harlequins are unknown, and therefore you are afraid of it,” Ethorach said quietly.

“That may be true, Ethorach, but my mind on the matter is made up.” He looked around him. “My craftworld will fight the Rhana Dandra, but we will not do it alongside the Commorrites. Those of you who agree with Ethorach and Elbera can join them in talking to the Commorrites, but only the gods can change my mind.” He looked slyly at Ethorach. “You don’t happen to have the Phoenix King up your sleeve, do you?”

Ethorach gave him then a look that was almost sad. “If it is the orders of a god you wish, farseer, then it is the order of a god that you shall receive.”

At first it seemed as though the shimmer was a trick of the light, but it grew quickly more and more pronounced, the air wavering around Ethorach, rolling out along the ground like a wave of heat, until the walls of the dome seemed to move. Like shadows rearing up out of the vines a darkness fell across the Fields, and the light of the vines overhead grew dark and faded away. The Conclave had fallen silent and now sat still, the air growing tense. Illiawe tore her eyes away from the walls and looked back to Ethorach, but the farseer was there no longer. The shadows moved then, growing larger, pressing in upon the Conclave. The farseers shrank back, apprehension rippling through their ranks. All around her Illiawe could feel the farseers drawing upon the energies of the Othersea, but the skeins moved and shifted around them and the energies eluded their grasp. The collective psychic feedback of the farseers became tinged with a hint of fear.

“Thou callest for the instruction of the gods,” a voice came then from some unknown source. It was not a singular sound but a chorus of millions upon millions of voices, reverberating through the dome. “Thus, then, sayeth the gods. Go thou unto Commorragh and seek there the aid of thy kin that dwelleth within, for it is by this, and only this, that the Rhana Dandra shall be won.”

“Very impressive, Ethorach,” the Melaeyn farseer said dryly, “but do you really think me gullible enough to believe some cheap illusion?”

The shadows moved then, contorting, seeming almost to grow, and what little light that remained went out, as though suddenly obscured. Something in the center of the Fields of Meeting moved, and then the light came back, dimly illuminating the dome. A single figure stood there next to the farseer of Melaeyn. He was barely more than a silhouette, untouched by the flecks of rainbow light that swirled erratically around Him. A mask covered His face, fixed in an exaggerated grin. His eyes were bright and wise, and Illiawe wondered how she had never noticed them before. As though He knew what she was thinking, He looked up at her, His eye closing slowly in a sly wink. Illiawe swallowed. There seemed to be knowledge without limit within those eyes, a wealth of wisdom and lessons told from the foolishness of mortals and gods alike.

The Conclave had fallen silent, the air thick with their psychic emanation of awe and an ancient reverence.

Slowly, Cegorach turned to look at the farseer standing trembling before Him. “Look upon Me, then, with thine eyes and thy mind and thy soul, and call Me again a conjuration.” Even as He spoke, His presence grew, spreading heavily upon all within the dome.

The farseer of Melaeyn groaned and clasped his arms before him, his head bowed. “Forgive me, Cegorach.”

“Nay, son of Isha. I have given little guidance thee and thine, but thou speekest of things that thou knowest naught of. There is reason most good for Mine absence. The harlequins have served Me most faithfully, and it is from them that Mine instructions are given. It would behoove thee to do as they sayeth.” Cegorach straightened, and the lights around Him spun dazzlingly. “Asked thou of the instructions of the gods. I tell thee now to go unto Commorragh and make alliance with thy kin. The time will surely come when thou wouldst be most grateful that thou hast done so.” Cegorach’s form wavered then, becoming fuzzy and indistinct, and then He was gone.

A stunned silence filled the dome at His departure.

“I take it you’ve had a change of heart?” Ethorach asked. He stood once again by the farseer of Melaeyn. Illiawe had not seen him return there.

The farseer nodded. “If the gods want this to come about, then it shall. I shall pick out a suitable emissary to Commorragh.”

“Don’t bother. I have a candidate in mind. In an action that was strangely reminiscent of Cegorach, he looked directly to where Illiawe sat with Taeryn. “You will talk to them, won’t you?”

Taeryn nodded wordlessly.

Ethorach smiled beatifically around him. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, why don’t we move on to something a little more useful?” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “The forces of the Othersea Gods will come out through the rift, but it is likely that Chaos cults will summon daemons into this realm. The humans are well aware of the threat from the rift, but it is the summoning of daemons that they cannot anticipate. We must make this our priority. The autarchs are able enough to direct the opposition to the forces that will come through the rift. We must turn our attention to the skeins and discover from whence the daemons will enter this realm so that we may strike before the threat arises.”

“The humans will oppose us,” a farseer pointed out.

“Undoubtedly,” Ethorach agreed. “Just as we must work with the Commorrites, so too must we work with the humans. The humans have a method for dealing with the threat of Chaos, cruder than ours. Their discipline is not that of willingness, but of imposition. There are forces within their midst that watch for the threat of Chaos. We will inform these forces of our findings.”

“It is unlikely that they will listen to us.”

“Then their worlds will fall to Chaos, and they will soon enough learn.”

“And how long will we have to wait while they learn? How many worlds must fall to Chaos before the humans lumber into action?”

Ethorach smiled. “We will have to put our faith in Cegorach, then, wouldn’t we?” He pursed his lips. “I am well aware that not every craftworld here wants to dedicate a warhost to the aid of the region around the rift to the Othersea. To these craftworlds I charge with the care of daemonic incursion into this plane. Should the humans fail to contain in any timely manner the daemons that will undoubtedly be called upon, we must respond with the desolation of corrupted worlds before the Othersea gods gain any foothold in this realm.”

“Come on, Illiawe,” Taeryn said. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

“All right.” Illiawe stood. “Come on, then.” She started off toward the entrance of the dome.

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“I’m not, Taeryn.”

“Would you care to share what’s bothering you?”

“No, Taeryn. It’s most likely silly and irrational anyway.”

“Illiawe,” Taeryn said seriously, “I have probably seen a great deal more irrational things than you have ever imagined.” She stopped just outside the entrance to the Fields of Meeting and turned to look at Illiawe, her lips pursed. “Is this about Cegorach?”

“No. At least, not entirely. How was Ethorach able to call upon Cegorach so quickly?”

“What makes you think Cegorach was called upon? He wants the alliance between the Commorrites and those of the craftworlds to come about just as much as we do, and Ethorach gave Him a very convenient opening.” She smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Cegorach has a flair for the dramatic.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

“Of course it does, Illiawe. But you suspect that there’s more to it than that, and I suspect that you know the real reason to what you saw in there.” She tilted her head to the dome in a light gesture, but her gaze was piercing as she looked at Illiawe.

Illiawe chewed upon her lip. A great number of things fell into place, and her suspicion seemed more and more plausible. “He’s the Laughing God, isn’t he?” she asked softly, hesitantly.

“You know that that’s the truth,” Taeryn said, smiling.

“How long have you known that for?”

“Not very.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Illiawe demanded.

“It never came up. Besides, it’s more fun this way. The joy of discovery is nice, and I am too good a friend to deny that to you.”

Illiawe glared at her, and Taeryn grinned impudently back.

“Cegorach had better have a very good explanation the next time I see him,” Illiawe muttered darkly.

“An explanation for what?”

“All of it, Taeryn. Why would He want to pretend to be a farseer?”

“He explained that to me once. Apparently, you are something in the way of an experiment.”

Illiawe stared at her in bafflement.

“Cegorach had an idea, and He picked a number of farseers to train. You are one of them. I’ll explain it later, if you want.”

“I would like that, yes.”

Taeryn placed a hand upon Illiawe’s arm. “Come on, Illiawe. Let’s go for a ride to take your mind off this matter.”

“A ride?” Illiawe echoed, baffled.

Taeryn winked slyly. “I was gifted one of the lizards that the Exodites use,” she explained, her tone nonchalant. “I’m sure we could find one for you as well.”

“I don’t think that I know how to ride a lizard, Taeryn.”

“It’s not too much different from a skyrunner, Illiawe.” She made a face. “That isn’t quite true. It is very different from a skyrunner, but I’m sure that you’d pick it up in fairly short order.”

The lizard that Taeryn acquired for Illiawe was a placid beast, sleek and powerfully muscled. She was a little smaller than Taeryn’s steed, with an intricate saddle upon her back. Taeryn would not tell her how she came by the lizard, and Illiawe was not sure if she wanted to know. The lizard reared up as Illiawe approached, looking at the farseer with one large eye, her head cocked curiously to one side. Illiawe reached out with her mind, touching that of the lizard. Her thoughts were at first curious as she probed Illiawe’s memories in turn, testing her allegiance, and eventually grew accepting. She made a small clicking sound and stretched her neck out, her head forming a nearly perfect horizontal line to the tip of her tail, patiently waiting for Illiawe to mount. Somewhat nervously, Illiawe slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung herself up, shifting for a while in an attempt to make herself comfortable. The Exodite saddle was well made, sturdy and well-padded, and when the lizard moved, her gait was steady and smooth, and Illiawe grew a little more confident.

Taeryn led them out of the west gate of Mar-Kenaleith at a leisurely walk. The day was a beautiful one. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and the air pleasantly warm. Large shapes moved in the distance, giant beasts the size of small mountains that lumbered around, their heads barely distinguishable upon their long serpentine necks.

“Come on, Illiawe,” Taeryn said, laying a hand upon the neck of her lizard. “Kaleer wants to run.”

“Kaleer?” Illiawe asked in amusement.

“That’s his name.”

“Did he tell you that?” Illiawe teased.

“Yes, actually, he did,” Taeryn replied without any hint of irony. She gestured with a flick of her eyes at the lizard Illiawe was on. “Her name’s Maer, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

Taeryn shrugged. “It’s a good thing to know.” She pointed with her chin. “I’ll race you to that hill.” And she bent low in her saddle and sped off.

A single pulse of thought sent Maer in pursuit of the laughing harlequin. The lizard was fast, her muscles bunching powerfully under Illiawe, and they kept perfect pace with Taeryn. Side by side they raced, the wind whipping their hair back. All at once a great sense of freedom descended upon Illiawe and she laughed for sheer joy. They went effortlessly up the side of the hill and stopped at its crest. Illiawe was breathing heavily, and she was grinning. Taeryn grinned back at her.

“Invigorating, isn’t it?” her friend asked.

Illiawe nodded. “I suppose that the emphasis craftworld life places on restraint has taken root a little too deeply in me.”

“Stuffy,” Taeryn corrected. “The word that you’re looking for is “stuffy”. If you think that ride felt great, wait a little while longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil it,” Taeryn said, winking. She nudged her lizard into a walk, going down the other side of the hill. Illiawe followed, curiosity nagging at her. She cast a sidelong glance at Taeryn and gathered the energies of the Othersea to cast her mind into the skeins. Her thread lay out before her, clear and unclouded save for a single length in the thread of her immediate future. She pushed against that barrier for a while, but it refused to relent. She moved then on to Taeryn’s threads, and that, too, was clouded.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Taeryn asked pleasantly.

“Stop that, Taeryn.”

“No. You’d just have to be patient, Illiawe.” She turned away to admire the scenery around her, seemingly oblivious to the glare that Illiawe levelled at the back of her head.

They came eventually to a lush valley with a crystal stream flowing merrily down its center. Taeryn led her some distance along the stream, then she turned and disappeared into a hidden path at the foot of the mountains. Illiawe followed her, her curiosity growing stronger. Then there before her was a grove with a single tree in its middle. Gathered there was the light troupe of the Darkened Moon. Troupe Master Esarlyth stood beneath the tree, with a harlequin in a mask in the shape of a skull on his left. Before Esarlyth were gathered the rest of the troupe. They stood in two rows, forming a path that stretched out toward Esarlyth. The harlequins wore their full costumes, their masks blank, serene.

“What’s this?” Illiawe asked Taeryn.

“A formality. Every new harlequin is welcomed into their troupe in a certain manner. We usually hold this sort of event in someplace a little more formal. You aren’t replacing anyone, so we can be a bit more lax with the observance.” She smiled slyly at Illiawe. “We are harlequins, after all, and you didn’t think that you were going to join our troupe without ceremony, did you?” Taeryn’s face was calm, though there was a small smile upon her lips, and her eyes glittered. “Stay here,” she instructed before moving away to stand by Esarlyth’s side.

The song of the harlequins began softly, almost too soft to hear. The words were strange – not the eldar tongue, certainly, but it was nonetheless tantalizingly familiar. The song quickly grew in strength as each harlequin, his face upraised, added a different tone, until the song was a complex harmony of two dozen different melodies and ranges.

Without knowing how she knew to do so, Illiawe stepped forward, moving between the troupe toward Esarlyth. Taeryn caught her eye and smiled a mischievous little smile. She stretched her arm out. Held in her hand was a featureless silver mask. Within its depths Illiawe could make out shifting colors and hazy images. Illiawe recognized the psychic imprint of the mask. It was the one that she had worn while masquerading as a shadowseer. It seemed to her as though that fact was somehow important, significant, even. Some small part at the back of her mind nagged at her, presenting a simple and obvious answer, but Illiawe found that she neither comprehended it, nor did she really care. She took the mask from Taeryn and, as though the gesture was in itself symbolic, the vast presence of Cegorach welled up within her. The harlequin song stopped abruptly and Illiawe was left alone with the presence of the Laughing God. There was wisdom there, and an eternal watchfulness, and love and guidance. There was also an unspoken question, and so Illiawe gave her reply with neither word nor thought. She took up the Paths that the eldar of the craftworlds followed and in a moment forsook them. And all at once the Paths that she had walked before, Paths that she had kept separate all her years as she had been taught to do, came together, and in their coming together so too came the memories and the individuality of those Paths. The memories of the warrior mingled with that of the healer, the seer with the emissary, the carer of the craftworld’s animals with the record keeper. On instinct, Illiawe fought the merging of the thoughts. The eldar of the craftworld kept their civilian lives from their warrior lives with good reason. She clenched her jaw and did her best to ignore the teachings that had been instilled into her dozens of centuries before, letting her memories merge into each other. As she did so, a sense of wholeness settled over her, and with it came vulnerability from the mixing of the raw emotions that all eldar had the potential to feel. Then Cegorach’s presence was there around her, as were the presence of the harlequins, providing security and assurance.

“Hence is Illiawe of Ulthwé no more,” Taeryn intoned to Esarlyth.

“Welcome, then, Illiawe of the Darkened Moon,” he replied formally.

At that the harlequins burst once more into song, filling the grove with the sound of their chorus.

Taeryn grinned at Illiawe. “And now are you truly one of us.” Her eyes flicked to a spot somewhere behind Illiawe and she smiled.

Illiawe did not have to turn to know who was there. His presence was very familiar. But she turned anyway. Ethorach stood almost hidden in an unusually dark part of the grove, his lined face as serene as Taeryn’s had been, but it was not exactly the face that Illiawe knew. The age seemed to have gone out of his face, and his lips were curled in a roguish little smile. His eyes twinkled, as though there was some vast joke that only he knew and understood. He did not move or speak, only stood, and then his eye closed in a sly wink. Something flickered at the edge of Illiawe’s vision and she turned for just a fraction of a second. When she looked back, her former mentor, and now a lot more than simply that, was gone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 34

The troupe took their time to leave. The Rhana Dandra was fast approaching, and perhaps their time should be better spent elsewhere, and yet they still lingered, as though reluctant to take their leave. Illiawe spent the time getting used to her memories. The coming together of so many vastly different lives was jarring. Her time as a warrior of Khaine was particularly problematic. The bloodlust of battle had always been kept behind her war mask, and now the memories came flooding back to Illiawe, tainting the peace and beauty of her other memories with an insistence for killing and maiming and demands for slights to be paid for in blood.

“Having trouble?” It was Taeryn. The shadowseer sat cross-legged on the grass next to Illiawe.

“The bloodlust of Khaine does not fit well with the purpose of the other Paths,” Illiawe murmured.

“I’ve never had that problem,” Taeryn admitted. “Of course, war had a very different meaning for me than it had for you. Perhaps that’s what you should try. The harlequins view war and a performance as one and the same. War isn’t something that should be separated from the healer or the emissary or the artist. It is something that is part of all lives, and do not really have to be shunned by all eldar not on the Warrior Paths.”

“The bloodlust of Khaine is dangerous, though,” Illiawe reminded her. “Violence is inherently excessive, and attracts the attention of Slaanesh.”

“Yes, but you have Cegorach to shield you from that now, so you can let go of your war mask.”

It became easier after that. She was going to have to get used to her singular memory, Illiawe knew, but it was a start.

They stayed a while more after the troupe had departed, and when the sun was going down, they remounted and went out of that grove.

The world around Illiawe now seemed suddenly alive, vibrant even, more than it used to be. In an epiphany, she realized that the restraint that those of the craftworld placed upon themselves had limited not only their emotions but their senses as well. Furthermore, the restraint that had been so fundamental to the craftworld method of avoiding the attention of Slaanesh in some measure limited the senses of the eldar. The restraint was no longer needed, however, and, slowly, gradually, Illiawe began to experience the world as only an eldar could. Even more than her ride with Taeryn before had, when they pushed their lizards into brief sprints, the wind sweeping at Illiawe was liberating, the rush that ran through Illiawe more thrilling each time.

This was not to say that Illiawe grew to lose herself in abandon. Some small part of her doubted the absoluteness of Cegorach’s protection, and so she kept some semblance of restraint upon herself. She decided that it was probably better this way anyway. While Cegorach might be able to protect her from the gaze of Slaanesh, there was little that He could do to keep her from the paths of the Commorrites and the eldar of the old empire before them, the gradual malicious indulgence that leads only to ruination.

When they reached the gates of Mar-Kenaleith, however, Illiawe was in high spirits. Somewhat regretfully, she reined Maer in. “This was an awfully good idea, Taeryn.”

“I know,” Taeryn replied with a flippant toss of her head. “My ideas are always good ones.”

“I don’t know if I will go quite that far.”

“I would,” Taeryn grinned.

The psychic presence of the Troupe of the Darkened Moon was a familiar one. Always before, however, it had lain in the back of her mind. Illiawe was sure that the harlequins were more aware of their link than she had been, but Illiawe had never given it much thought. Now that she was officially part of the troupe, the emotions and thoughts of the other harlequins nagged at her, and memories that were not her own came floating to the surface of her mind. In the days that followed, Illiawe grew to rely greatly upon all the psychic training that she had accumulated throughout her life to keep some semblance of control over the swelter of thoughts. Taeryn watched her closely, but she did not intervene.

Taeryn put off their trip to the heart of Commorragh while Illiawe adjusted to her role as a harlequin. Illiawe thought that it was rather nice of her to do so. They spent the days riding. The city of Mar-Kenaleith was surrounded by lush plains and gentle hills and white-topped mountains with sparkling rivers. Ferocious predators roamed the land, from shaggy beats that barely came up to Illiawe’s knees to scaly winged birds as large as houses, and Illiawe soon learned how best to avoid them. Taeryn, however, appeared to prefer the solitude of the grove to riding out across the lands of Kenaleith, and more and more they gravitated toward the peaceful mountain valley where the grove lay hidden where they would lie down on the grass under the tree that grew in solitary splendor in the center of the grove where the sounds of the world around them became muffled and faint. And when the sun dipped low in the sky and painted it a fiery orange they would regretfully climb onto the backs of their mounts and turn back to face the city of Mar-Kenaleith and the calling of war that lay within.

He had tracked it to a desolate planet, where it had wandered around for a while before disappearing underground. Then the Gray Knights had arrived with the inquisitor. It had been obvious that the inquisitor had need of the witch, and so the Raziel of the Vindicare temple had waited. His sloop had been made for such tasks, and so he had not been as worried as he might have been. From Imperial world to Imperial world he had tracked them, waiting for the inquisitor to conclude his business. And now the inquisitor has.

He took a sphere from his hip. It was slightly larger than his fist, carved into the shape of a grinning skull. He pressed a button at its base and its empty eye sockets flickered once as the device came alive. He held it out and the skull went floating up into the air. With a thought Raziel changed the visual feed of his helmet and he was flying over the lush plains of the planet, heading toward the fairy-tale city a dozen miles from where he was. He turned the servitor around, circling the city, looking past its walls and scanning the many eldar that dwelt within. It was not going to be easy. The picture that he had been provided of his mark had been taken by the equipment of the Adeptus Astartes. If he had been so inclined, Raziel could see every individual strand of hair upon the xenos’ head. The sensors of his servitor were varied and powerful enough that the thick foliage of the city’s trees could not shield the eldar down below from scrutiny. But there were many eldar within the city. Raziel, however, was patient. He placed his rifle by his side, settled down against a tree, and waited as the servitor continued scanning the likeness of the unwitting eldar down below.

The feed from the servitor beeped once, a high-pitched urgent sound. Raziel sat up, looking through its eyes. The pic-feed drew closer to his target. A strobe of green flashed across his vision as the servitor verified the facial pattern, build, and gait of the xenos with those that he had been provided with. He tracked them as they went toward the west gate of the city. He was already moving, his rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way to the vintage point that he had previously marked out, all the while keeping a close watch on the feed from the machine as it followed his target. When the xenos came out of the gate, Raziel had long since settled himself behind the rise of a distant hill. His target was not alone. There was another with it, both riding swift reptilian beasts. Raziel shifted, taking into account the speed, gait, and movements of the mounts.

Time slowed for him and the riders grew still, seemingly frozen in place. On any other target, Raziel would have dialed the velocity of the shot down to subsonic levels. He did not for this target. Farseers were notoriously hard to kill, and it had to be done swiftly. There was a sharp crack, not from the rifle itself, but from the round as it crossed the intervening distance at near the speed of light.

The shot should have taken the xenos’ head off. There was no factor that could have altered that. But the beast under his mark reared up just as Raziel pulled the trigger. He tried to adjust his aim even as the rifle kicked, but the shot went a fraction of an inch over the target’s head. He fired again, the second crack of the rifle melding into the first. He tracked the projectile to his target, already picturing the path that it would take, burying into the brain of the witch as its lizard completed its rearing motion.

And then the round stopped moving. It hung there in the air, held impossibly aloft. There was neither a quickening of the breath nor the furrowing or raising of its brows that Raziel could see. But its lips did move, the subtlety of the eldar body language failing to contain the instinctive gasp that escaped its lips. His target’s gaze shifted from the projectile before it, seeming to look directly at him. Its irises were dilated, its eyes widened just a fraction as it realized the situation that it was in. But it remained composed, its instincts leading it not into the fearful frenzy that others would have fallen into.

Raziel was already on the move, sprinting back toward his shuttle. The improbability of what he had just witnessed nagged at him, but he pushed it out of his thoughts. The witch was aware of his presence now. He would just have to come up with a better plan for the next time. He scrambled into the pilot’s seat of his shuttle, placing his rifle by his side, igniting the engines and settling down while the cockpit hissed shut over his head. He aimed the shuttle upward and shot off into the sky, the craft trembling all around him as he left the xenos planet behind, heading for the stealth ship at the edge of the system. His mind raced. How best to tell those who awaited aboard the ship that he had failed? He ran through the failed assassination again and again in his head, and each time he thought he detected a factor that contributed to his failure. When he reached the ship, he had a response prepared for any of the questions that he might be asked. But he would leave his handler with the answer that she would want to hear. He was going to wait once more for the witch, and he was going to complete his mission.

Lord High Inquisitor Arvor of the Ordo Xenos was an ancient man. He carried his age in his deeply lined face and snowy hair, a heavy squint, and an angry purple scar that ran from his left jaw down the side of his neck. His posture and attire, however, belied his seeming age. His back was straight, his eyes piercing, and his face stern and proud. At some point in the past he had lost his left arm and replaced it with a powerful looking cybernetic limb. A heavy ornate bolter hung from his belt and the gold bound pommel of a power sword peeked out from under his inquisitorial coat, the Imperial Aquila glinting in the light whenever he moved. He clutched a sheaf of documents in his hand, his lips twitching as he read through them. There was an air of enormous dignity about the man that was not lost even in the simple act. Volorus found that he was rather filled with awe at the mere presence of the other inquisitor, and so, while Arvor had taken a good part of an hour perusing the documents, Volorus did not interrupt him. Instead he slouched in a chair in a corner of his office with a glass of wine in his hand and a decanter on a low table nearby, watching the other inquisitor quietly, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, Arvor grunted and delicately placed the documents back on Volorus’ desk. “I believe that the contents of these documents fall more within the area of expertise of the Ordo Malleus, my lord Volorus.” His voice was low, his words slow, clear, and impeccably enunciated.

“Indeed they do, my lord,” Volorus returned, refilling his glass. “I figured, however, that you should have an understanding of the crisis that we are all about to face.”

“Then you have succeeded, Volorus. The matter of the thirteenth Black Crusade, however, is the responsibility of the inquisitors of the Ordo Malleus, as is all things Chaos.”

“You are right, Arvor, but that is not the aid that I am requesting for. The information contained within those documents have already been presented to the High Lords of Terra themselves.” He scratched his cheek. “I have recently had an encounter with a few xenos, my lord. A couple of eldar. We worked together for a while toward a common goal, and I must say that I rather liked her when we parted ways.”

“I am in no position to give you a pardon, Volorus,” Arvor said with a perfectly straight face.

“No, Arvor. I learned much in those few weeks. The eldar are working toward the same goal that we are, my lord. The destruction of Chaos.”

“Ah,” Arvor said delicately. “You want to work together with them.”

“I do. And so do the High Lords of Terra. You and I both know that Chaos is the greater enemy of the two.”

“Now I understand. You want the inquisitors of the Ordo Xenos to cease the hunt of eldar.”

“And not only cessation, Arvor. Cooperation.”

“You overestimate the influence that I have over my colleagues, Volorus. What makes you think that I can control their actions?”

“Uriel assured me that you hold enormous authority among the Ordo Xenos, my lord.”

Arvor’s lips twitched. “I would not be so quick to take Uriel’s word for it, however. He sometimes overstate things.”

“I have never noticed that.”

“No, I don’t think that you might have.” He leaned back in his seat. “Assume that the inquisitors agree to cooperate with the eldar, Volorus. How far should they take things?”

“That is their prerogative. All I am looking for is a situation where we aren’t fighting each other. The war with Chaos is likely to be difficult enough without that getting in our way.”

“Old grudges and slights do not go away overnight, Volorus.”

“No, but we can at least try. My most recent encounter with an Ordo Xenos inquisitor wasn’t exactly pleasant. He bordered on the fanatic. Reigning these individuals in would go a long way to fighting this war.”

“Of course. What will you be doing, then?”

Volorus smiled. “I think that I would like to make more eldar friends. Make sure that no inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos tries to stop me, will you?”

Estoris did not much like the forgemaster of Karis. He was a stuffy man with what some would call an attention to detail. Estoris thought it just made him picky to the point of being obtrusive. Estoris did not like such people. They got in the way of things and usually let minute details cloud their good judgement. Normally, Estoris would leave the task of procurement to the non-militant branches of the Adepta Sororitas. The matter that was at hand, however, was one of certain delicacy.

The forgemaster lived on the moon of Karis III. It was a barren rock, the thrum of the atmospheric generators all throughout the moon the only sound that there was. There was only a single building on the moon, a large structure that was almost a palace. Its lord was the forgemaster, its servants the many great machines that whirred and groaned in construction of various tools. Its knights and guards were legions of automatons and servitors and turrets that tracked her as she moved, and its wings were not long empty halls but shipyards that stretched out all over the planet and orbited the space around the moon, some with ships that were ready to sail the stars and others with nothing more than their ribs laid down.

Through the front gates of the palace the battle sister went, where she was met immediately by chittering robots that scurried upon four heavy legs and trained upon her each with the barrels of a dozen different guns. Estoris took her Sororitas rosary from under a red sash tied around her hip and held it out. The servitors took a moment to scan the rosary and finally stepped aside, their weapons breaking their lock upon her. Estoris tucked the seal back under the sash and went through the ranks of the servitor guards, heading directly for the office of the forgemaster.

She found him hunched behind a bench prodding at a machine of some kind and jotting in a tightly rolled scroll. He scowled when he saw her and put his pen and scroll down, grumbling under his breath.

“Am I disturbing you?” Estoris asked politely.

“No,” the forgemaster replied with obviously feigned enthusiasm. “I am always eager to be given the honor of serving a member of the clergy.”

“Good,” Estoris said briskly, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. “I am here to talk to you about the procurement of certain resources for the order.”

The forgemaster’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The ammunition and bolters of the last shipment have been properly blessed and the machine spirits of the vehicles were content when they were sent to your order. I checked all of it myself, so any problems has to do with the lack of care from your order’s tech-priests.”

“It’s not about the last shipment,” Estoris said quickly. “The order has need of more ships.”

“More?” the forgemaster echoed, his expression incredulous. “Forgive me, my lady, but the Order of the Martyred Saints has already too many naval assets.”

“‘Naval assets’? The order does not own any naval assets, forgemaster, only space-borne chapels. As a loyal and faithful servant of the Holy Emperor, you would not deny the construction of more chapels, would you?”

“I am a devout man, my lady, but I have trouble believing that any single order of the ecclesiarch requires so many chapels. The militant branch of your order alone already owns more ships than some sector fleets.”

“My sisters are very devoted, forgemaster. Apparently, the same could not be said for you.”

The forgemaster’s lips thinned. “I know full well what your so-called chapels are, Estoris. They are warships, with the armaments and defenses of warships. You know as well as I do that the Adepta Sororitas is not allowed to possess ships of war.”

“But they are not ships of war, forgemaster. They are chapels that sail the stars so that the Adepta Sororitas may give prayers up to the Emperor even when away from their monasteries. I am sure that you understand that.”

“And the weapons and void shields and combat-grade hulls?”

“Simple protection, forgemaster. The journeys through space and the Warp are filled with danger. Surely you would agree that we need to defend ourselves in these circumstances. Surely a pious servant of the Emperor such as yourself would not wish to see any of His chapels destroyed.”

“You could make all the excuses you want, my lady, but the purpose of the ships are very clear.”

“Forgemaster,” Estoris said in a formal tone, drawing her sword and leaning upon it, “are you attempting to prevent the construction of the Emperor’s chapels? That is the work of heretics, and heretics are judged most harshly.”

“Are you threatening me?” the forgemaster asked, his eyes bulging.

“No, good forgemaster,” Estoris replied pleasantly, “only describing what I see.”

The forgemaster spluttered in outrage, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly a few times. Estoris let him do so for a while, then hefted her sword meaningfully.

“Well?” she asked.

“You will have two dozen space-borne chapels by the end of the week,” he said shortly.

“Don’t forget the defenses, forgemaster,” Estoris said sweetly. “We would not want to see His holy sanctuaries destroyed, would we?”

“No,” came the grudging reply. “Of course not.”

“It is always good to see one repent and return to the holy fold of the Emperor.”

The shuttle carrying Inquisitor Uriel swooped down onto Cephanos V like a hawk that had caught sight of its prey. At least, that was how Uriel envisioned it. In truth, that was probably a reasonably accurate assessment of the situation. Governor Sagard’s message had been rather urgent. Uriel did not normally take the request of governors for his services whenever they were called for. Indeed, he quite frequently preferred to show up unannounced and do the Emperor’s work, usually to the unanimous and short-lived protests of any locals who might be present. In this instance, however, he felt that his intervention was really quite necessary.

His pilot put the shuttle down on the landing pad at the top of the main building. The governor was waiting for him. The young man had changed quite a bit since the last time Uriel had seen him. His shoulders were straighter, his countenance less unsure, and there was just a hint of sternness on his boyish face.

“My lord,” he called as Uriel stepped out of the shuttle with his guard forming up behind him. “I am honored that you have taken the time to aid me.”

“Save that for the Imperium’s officials, governor,” Uriel said briskly. “Let’s get down to business. What’s the problem here, exactly? Your message wasn’t very detailed.”

“I was a little pressed for time,” the young governor replied, abashed. “I am having some trouble with the local nobility.”

“I gathered that much.” Uriel cast his eyes meaningfully around them. “I think that this conversation might be better held someplace else, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, my lord. I should’ve thought of that myself.”

“Let’s not waste any time then.”

They went to Sagard’s sparse office. Uriel’s guards checked the room for threats and devices that should not be there. They carefully inspected its walls for spies. They checked the furniture for hidden dangers. They looked out its windows at length for signs of potential threats. When they were finally satisfied, they withdrew to stand guard outside the door of the office. Without invitation, Uriel drew up a chair and sat himself.

“All right,” he said when he had made himself comfortable, “why don’t you start your account?”

Sagard nodded. “Well, my lord, when you left, I began changing a few policies. I started small, like you suggested – rebuilding the palace, strengthening its defenses, that sort of thing. The nobles weren’t too happy about it, but they weren’t too vocal at first. I guess your last visit was still fresh on their minds.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Uriel sighed. “When did the open protests start, and what was the catalyst?”

“It’s not quite that bad yet, my lord,” Sagard responded quickly, flushing. “I thought that my position is secure enough, so about a week ago I introduced a tax increase. As it turns out, the nobility, traders, and assorted wealthy families weren’t too happy about it. A couple of days ago I discovered that a few of the most powerful families are plotting a coup.”

“A coup?” Uriel straightened. He pushed himself to his feet. “Excuse me for one moment, governor.” He moved some way off, pulling his vox unit from under his coat. It crackled for an instant, then the voice of the admiral of his fleet in orbit came over the line.

“My lord?” she asked crisply.

“Sephon, the nobles are not revolting. They are plotting a coup.”

“That doesn’t sound good. I take it that you’ll want me to halt the armored drops, then?”

“Actually, I was thinking of the exact opposite. I think that we should create an impression in the nobles. I wouldn’t want to have to come back again a few months from now.”

“Understood, my lord. Would you want to deploy all battlegroups, then?”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

“I’ll pass word to the captains. Do you need the vehicles urgently? I could send in the vehicles that are already ready to be deployed.”

“No, I can wait. We want to make a show of force, and dribbling in our forces a few dozen at a time doesn’t make for a very impressive showing.”

“Understood. Is there anything else that you’ll need?”

“Send Noshan and his entourage down. Volorus would probably be insulted if we don’t make use of their talents, wouldn’t you say?”

“Would you like me to send the rest of your honor guard down as well?”

Uriel pursed his lips. “I don’t see why not. Let me know when the tanks are on their way.”

“I know what to do, my lord.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Noshan arrived fifteen minutes later, and with him were his psyker entourage and a score of red-liveried soldiers in heavy carapace armor. The psykers were all robed and hooded, and the soldiers kept a wary distance between themselves and the cowled figures. The psykers moved in a strange swaying, stately walk, their arms clasped before them, buried in the wide sleeves of their garments. The psykers chanted as they marched, not in High nor Low Gothic, but in a meaningless tongue that was designed with the sole purpose of sounding impressive. The soldiers, unused to the antics of Volorus’ psykers, cast frequent uncomfortable glances at them as they walked.

Uriel was notified of the psykers’ arrival by one of the guards stationed at the door to Sagard’s office. For some reason, the man seemed a little nervous. Governor Sagard was in no better condition when the soldier left the room.

“They’re not going to be too much of a danger, are they?” he asked as they sat waiting.

“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I’ve heard some strange things about psykers,” Sagard said defensively. “They’re all supposed to be crazy or something, and blast apart anything around them if they get too excited.”

“Do you really think that I would have someone like that in my entourage?” Uriel asked, amused.

“I don’t know, my lord. I heard there are machines that sort of keep that all locked up until they are needed in combat, then…” He clasped his hands together, then pulled them apart in a quick gesture.

“You might want to read up on the subject, Sagard. Sanctioned psykers are a lot more reliable, and I only hire the best.”

“That’s a relief.” A small frown creased his brow. “They are going to be wearing cowls, aren’t they? I’ve heard that psykers are all incredibly ugly and deformed.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that, Sagard.” Uriel tapped his fingers on the governor’s desk. “You’ve met Noshan before, and a couple of eldar – they’re psykers too, you know. You should know that the deformity’s not synonymous with psychic power.”

“Oh. I guess I never thought of that.”

“It’s the unsanctioned psykers that you have to watch out for,” Uriel said solemnly. “Those have trouble controlling their psychic power, which tends to overflow if they aren’t in a specific emotional balance, which is where the rumors of psykers creating earthquakes and firestorms when they get angry come from. Unfortunately, the psychic power dribbles out of their ears if they don’t let it out once in a while, so their faces start getting blotted and splotchy, and since all that psychic power gets very heavy, they are all horribly hunched and need walking sticks.”

“Is that what those are?” Sagard exclaimed. “I’d always thought they were magic staffs.”

Uriel sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “You really have to get a few books on psykers, Sagard. There are a lot of things that you don’t seem to know. For example, do you know why psykers squint so much?”

“That’s because a lot of them are really old, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but they can cure their poor eyesight anytime they want. No, the real reason is because, if they open their eyes too wide, their psychic power will come flowing out in the form of lasers and obliterate anything they look at.”

Sagard grew pale, then his eyes narrowed. “Hang it all, my lord. If they can cure their eyesight, why can’t they cure their bodies?”

“Who knows why psykers do anything, Sagard? Half of them are crazy, the other half have their brains squashed so much by the psychic power in their head they can’t think straight.”

Then the door opened and Noshan strode into the room. Behind him came his entourage. They had not lowered their hoods and were still assuming their strange swaying gait, and Sagard visibly shrank back in his seat.

“Shut the door,” Uriel instructed the psykers, beckoning them to seat themselves.

“Your admiral told me that the governor here’s staring in the face of a coup?” Noshan asked, lowering his cowl and sitting himself on the seat next to Uriel.

“That’s right. How is the deployment of the vehicles coming along?”

“It seems to be going quite well, as closely as I can determine. Your admiral and captains seem to know what they’re doing. I’d say that they should be done in a couple of hours.”

Uriel rubbed at his chin. “That’ll make it about noon.” He turned to Sagard. “Give me a map of Cephanos V, and point out where all the ringleaders of the pro-coup faction are.”

“You’re not going to attack them, are you?” Sagard asked, aghast.

“Of course not. I’m just going to invite them all to the palace. I figured that I’ll parade a few tanks in front of their mansions, though, sort of to help them decide if they are going to come along to the party. We want all of our guests to be here, after all.”

Noshan nodded. “What do you want us to do, then?” he asked, gesturing at the robed and hooded figures around him.

Uriel smiled slyly. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out when the time comes.”

Sagard placed a cogitator on his desk. Above it hovered a holographic projection of Cephanos V. A dozen estates, scattered all around the planet, had been highlighted in red. Uriel absently noted that they all appeared to be disproportionally large compared to the structures and compounds around them.

“Are these all the ringleaders, then?” Uriel asked, studying the hologram.

“The ones that I have discovered, anyway. At least, the ones that are still alive. The Adeptus Arbites have recently established a Courthouse here, and they have sentenced a few of the nobles already.”

Uriel nodded. “I sent a request to the Arbites after my last visit. I figured that this planet could do with some of the Imperium’s enforcers. I am guessing that the Arbites do not yet have quite a large enough force to really make an impression on the nobility. My troops will round the nobility up. I want you to send your soldiers out to the districts closest to the palace in force. I think it’s time to take power back from the nobles and merchants. A sufficient show of force should be enough to cow any troops in the employ of the nobility to give up. Volorus ran into some of them the last time he was here, and they appear to be nothing more than bully-boys. I don’t expect that they would hold up under the threat of force very well.” He sighed. “If the nobles put up any resistance, we might not be able to keep casualties down.”

“Don’t concern yourself so much with that,” Noshan said. “The nobles might be reveling in their power just a little too much, but openly opposing the forces of an inquisitor is quite another matter.”

“You would think that, but they don’t appear to be taking the Adeptus Arbites very seriously.”

“The Adeptus Arbites do not keep a force anywhere near the size of ours, my lord,” one of Noshan’s entourage, a woman named Sylana, noted.

“It is this that I’m worried about. When you get right down to it, there’s not much difference between the Inquisition and the Adeptus Arbites except for our field of work. The nobles could very well have grown too confident of their own abilities, and these things have a tendency to get ugly. I’d rather not lose any troops if I can avoid it.”

“We’ll send word to the local Courthouse,” Sylana suggested. “You could request the Arbites turn their police force out in full. If the nobles see an army of arbitrators and another belonging to an inquisitor marching through their streets, they might just be cowed into submission.” Then she looked at Sagard in irritation. “Why do you keep staring at my ears?” she asked the governor crossly.

“Nothing,” Sagard replied quickly, flushing and lowering his eyes.

“Are you telling stories about unsanctioned psykers again, my lord?” Noshan asked in an exasperated tone.

“We have more pressing matters to attend to, Noshan,” Uriel replied quickly.

One of Noshan’s eyebrows raised curiously, but he let the matter drop.

Uriel’s forces started their drop only a little more than an hour later. Thousands upon thousands of gunships and interceptors came flying through the atmosphere like a million little comets. Behind them came the transports, filled with everything from squads of red-liveried soldiers to Baneblades and assorted other super-heavy tanks. The collective growling of their engines sent tremors through the ground and left a sense of elation and pride in Uriel’s breast. With their customary efficiency soldiers of the Second Fleet spread out across the labyrinthine hive city. Tanks rumbled through its streets and soldiers marched in lockstep, loudly proclaiming the will of the Ordo Hereticus inquisitor. The common citizenry of Cephanos V took one look at the red-liveried troops which had only so recently visited and fled. Shutters and doors banged shut all up and down the hastily emptied streets, and there were few obstructions as Uriel’s troops went by. Some few of the nobility and traders, unfortunately, attempted to do the same. The soldiers of the Second Fleet did not take too kindly to that. They turned the guns of their tanks upon the estates of those that sought to hide away. It was a crude method of persuasion, but one that has proven effective in the past.

Having thus secured the attention of the lords and ladies of Cephanos V, Uriel’s invitations were personally delivered to each family. The elite of Cephanos V were told in no uncertain terms to make their way to the square before the governor’s palace. Some few of the more obstinate individuals protested just a little too loudly, until Uriel’s tanks drowned them out with cannon fire. One particular fellow, far gone in drink and assorted exotic substances, actually kept protesting even when three Leman Russes had reduced his beautiful manor to no more than rubble and dust. It was only when he was staring down the barrel of a Baneblade’s main gun that the light of understanding dawned ever so slowly in his eyes and his screeching abruptly stopped. It is a little hard to keep objecting when one is staring down the barrel of a gun that could level entire city blocks. With the Baneblade rumbling ominously behind him, the noble was bundled up to join his friends before the palace. Grimly, Uriel’s troops herded the nobles and merchants to the grounds before the palace gates.

Uriel stood waiting for them on a platform that had been hastily erected. In a moment of inspiration, a podium had been placed prominently upon the stage, and displayed proudly at the front of the podium was the red, white, and black seal of the Holy Inquisition. Noshan and his psykers stood flanking Uriel, their heads bowed, cowls pulled low over their faces, chanting in their strange tongue.

As Uriel had anticipated, the carefully staged display greatly awed the elite of Cephanos V. They mingled around before the platform, warily eyeing te seal of the Inquisition. The tension was almost palpable. The ring of tanks that surrounded the area where the crowd was probably did little to help ease the mood. Uriel waited for a few minutes to allow the nobles before him grow apprehensive, then stepped up to the podium. Instantly the crowd grew still.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uriel began, his voice artfully absent, almost bored, “only a couple of Terran months ago, I visited your city. What transpired should be still fresh in your minds, so I shall be brief. I had hoped that the incident would have placed the fear of the Inquisition and the seat of Terra within you. It appears now that I have been overly optimistic in my assumption. I believe, then, that further instruction is needed.” He tilted his head slightly and, at the prearranged signal, a score of richly dressed men and women were escorted onto the platform by three squads of Uriel’s grim faced soldiers. The gasp that rose from the watching crowd was plainly audible. The individuals were all of notable repute, and there were shackles around their wrists and ankles. Uriel carefully surveyed the crowd. They wore stricken expressions, and some few were outraged, but none of them dared to openly object. Uriel took that to be a good sign. He levelled his hand at the prisoners beside him. “You see before you traitors to the Imperium, guilty of plotting against the governor of Cephanos V without good cause. The Imperium does not tolerate he who seeks only to serve his own interests.” Turning to the prisoners, he said, “with the power vested in me by the ancient and esteemed order of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition, I find you, one and all, guilty of the obstruction of the Emperor’s will and the Imperium’s purpose, and hereby charge and condemn you as traitors, your souls forfeit, your titles and assets revoked, and your minds no longer yours to claim.” He waved an arm, and the soldiers standing by the prisoners levelled their lasguns. The condemned nobles barely had time to cry out before they were rather messily executed.

Uriel turned calmly back to the shocked crowd before him. “You forget that there is a government greater than yours, and titles far nobler and weightier than those that you hold. It is a greater throne that bestowed you your titles, and you serve at its pleasure. There are grander things afoot than the scheming of this world. You will turn your attention and your efforts to greater events, or you will be branded traitor also. My psykers shall look now into your minds. Any treachery that you have wrought or seek to wreak shall not go unpunished. Imperial justice shall account in all things, and not even you, great as you deem yourself to be, shall evade it.” He turned on his heels then and walked away from the platform, leaving Noshan and his entourage to move among the crows and pronounce their judgement.

Sagard’s expression was faintly elated as the two of them made their way back to his office. “That was great!” he exclaimed enthusiastically as soon as they were out of sight of the nobles, his young face coming alight.

“I know, Sagard,” Uriel said absently. Then he grinned tightly. “If the Emperor wills it, the rest of the nobility will fall in line after this.” Then his expression grew serious. “Listen closely, Sagard. You’ll have a lot of work ahead of you. The families of those we killed are going to be very upset with you after this.”

“You killed them,” Sagard objected.

“Don’t be naïve, governor. You are a much easier target than I am, and angry people aren’t too rational. The Adeptus Arbites will probably help you with keeping order. The nobles are as unlikely to cross them as they are the Inquisition. The next thing that you’ll need to do is to fill up the places within the nobility.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Give titles to a few sensible people from the lower class.”

“I don’t think the nobles will like that very much.”

“That’s just too bad for them, then, isn’t it? If they have any objections, they could take that up with the Adeptus Arbites. I am sure their Judges could find precedent for this somewhere. Failing that, great troubles are upon us, and we cannot afford political unrest on even a single world. This I am sure the Judges can find precedent for. Now, this is the important part. As soon as the Arbitrators have beat some sense into the nobility, you have to raise taxes and increase training of your troops. I will ensure that you will have the full support of the Adeptus Arbites in getting your planet up to Imperial standards. Do this well, Sagard, and do it quickly. The Imperium would soon have need of every resource you could muster, so let none of it go to waste.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 35

“Vect would not agree,” Archon Iruthan said, sinking lower into his chair.

They were gathered in Iruthan’s quarters, a richly furnished room that contained elegant and delicate furniture that contrasted heavily with the hooks and chains that hung along the walls, most with dried blood and strips of shriveled flesh still hanging from them. Ezarvyn was stretched out on the large upholstered bed at the far end of the room, holding up a vial filled with a deep blue liquid to the light. Taeryn was sitting near a window that looked out through a shimmering force field onto the rest of the archon’s territory. Illiawe studiously avoided the window, sitting instead with her back toward a wall some feet away from her friend. Ever since the attempt on her life on Kenaleith, Illiawe had become, in Taeryn’s words, overly cautious. The wall that she hid behind, of course, would not have been much of an obstacle to a determined assassin, but it provided a false sense of security that somewhat eased Illiawe’s fears, though she knew that it was silly to think so. Her faith, however, was placed in her rune armor, which she wore everywhere now; and though the Commorrites frowned at having so obvious a psychic manifestation within their city, Illiawe’s relationship to Taeryn warded off most of the hostilities.

The archon himself sat in a plump armchair near the center of the room, his back toward the door and one leg cocked over the side of his chair. There was a bowl filled with a silvery viscous liquid on a low table by his side, and he dipped his fingers now and then into the bowl, swirling the liquid with his fingertips. A vast range of emotions came from the bowl – fear, pain, horror. Illiawe clenched her teeth, trying to suppress the disgust that rose involuntarily within her. The archon was hospitable enough, Illiawe supposed, but he made no effort to conceal his pleasures. Taeryn, however, had assured her that they would require the cooperation of the archon, and so Illiawe kept her opinions to herself and her revulsion in check.

“That is unacceptable, Iruthan,” Ezarvyn said lazily from where he lay. “You have got to return to Vect and try again. This alliance with the craftworlds needs to go through, and the leaders of Commorragh have to all agree in this matter, whether willingly or unwillingly.”

“Go back to Vect?” Iruthan asked, frowning. “With the exact same request? Are you insane?”

“Word your request differently, Iruthan."

“That is easy for you to say,” the archon grumbled. “You aren’t the one who has to talk to him.”

Ezarvyn pushed himself into a sitting position. “If that’s all there is to your objections, Iruthan, it is easily solved. Introduce me to our mighty Supreme Overlord, and I will negotiate with him.”

“You sound confident, Ezarvyn. Why’s that?” Iruthan asked curiously.

Ezarvyn grinned tightly. “I have a little toxin, Iruthan. It reduces those affected into a little puddle, a tiny enough amount to fit into a small vial. The body, however, is not actually dead, merely… transformed. The soul of the afflicted stays in the liquid. The toxin does various things to the unfortunate one. It inflicts extreme pain, horror, guilt, remorse, every emotion you could think of. It also keeps the afflicted alive for a very long time. Millennia, at least.”

“But the economy of Commorragh relies almost entirely on captures and skilled torturers. Such a supply of suffering without raids will eliminate the need for any of that! It will destroy the haemonculi!” Iruthan’s already pallid complexion paled even more. “It will destroy the power balance of every kabal!”

“Not all, Iruthan,” Ezarvyn said lazily, lying back down. “I have a special little button that controls the lifespan of every one of those toxins. It will destroy almost all of Commorragh, but I think that I will be fine. I will be the most important eldar in Commorragh, and all the other eldar can’t even remove me in the usual fashion, just in case I have the button set to my continued wellbeing.” He winked slyly at Iruthan. “Aren’t you glad that I am in your service?”

Iruthan, however, was too preoccupied to respond. If anything, his face paled even further as a realization dawned on him. “You’re going to blackmail Vect!”

“Can’t you select a nicer word, old boy?” Ezarvyn drawled.

“You are insane!”

“Life is more interesting this way, Iruthan.”

“I refuse to let you drag me into this, Ezarvyn! Do you realize what Vect would do to me if you fail to convince him?”

“Iruthan, dear,” Taeryn said lightly then, not turning away from her admiration of the stark scenery outside the window, “I am sure that you are well aware that shadowseers possess much greater psychic abilities than the Commorrites, aren’t you? I can see right past your glamor if I have to, and I am sure that you do not want me to share it with you.”

“Are you threatening me?” Iruthan asked in an outraged tone.

Taeryn shrugged. “Pay Vect another call or I will remind you what you look like without the essence of your victims preserving you. I don’t particularly want to see what you really look like, so why don’t you save us both the distress?”

“No one speaks to me like that, Ezarvyn,” Iruthan said flatly. “I’d have to kill her.”

“Go on right ahead, Iruthan,” Ezarvyn replied coolly. “I will be sure to give you a discount when I revive you. I think I’d take your temperament as payment this time. It would save you from getting yourself into more trouble.”

Iruthan looked at him helplessly. “You know, Bazeqar was a lot more respectful.”

“He was also a lot less talented. Are you going to talk to Vect, or do I need to prepare the tools to capture your horror when Taeryn here shows you your reflection?”

“You’re not leaving me with a lot of options,” Iruthan grumbled.

“That is the idea,” Taeryn replied lightly.

An eldar woman came in through the door. She was tall and strikingly beautiful, her shiny black hair tumbling down her back in loose curls. She wore a dress that reached down to her ankles and which clung tightly to her body, the material whispering as she moved. The garment was sheer, leaving very little to the imagination, proudly displaying her unscarred skin, a source of pride for the wyches and a testament to their skill in combat. It also displayed the jeweled handles of a dozen daggers strapped to various parts of her body. Two long curved swords lay in a twin scabbard at her hip. She came up behind Iruthan, taking in at a glance his disgruntled mood.

“Is Ezarvyn bullying you again?” she asked, her rich voice slightly wicked.

“He’s teaming up with these other two now, Merihira.” He waved an arm at Illiawe and Taeryn.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the archon’s consort said in a heavily pouty tone. She brushed her fingertips across Iruthan’s shoulders and looked at Taeryn and Illiawe. Her eye closed in a slow wink. “The bath’s ready, if you ladies would like to join me. It’ll be a pleasant experience, I promise.”

Taeryn stood. “I’ll have my mask on when I get back, Iruthan, so don’t take too long to make a decision.”

The palace where Vect lived was defiantly unconcealed. It was lit starkly by scores of captured suns hanging far overhead that gave off light but no heat, and which glowed so brightly that even the black material that the Commorrites used in all their constructions appeared to glow and glimmer, the phantom shadows that crept forever just under their surfaces banished all at once by the brilliant light of the suns.

Vect’s abode was tastelessly large, stretching, though the skimmer that they rode in was not flying anywhere close to the sparsely populated lower air lanes, further than Illiawe could see. Spires and towers brooded down at them from behind a shimmering wall of dark purple energy that thrashed and roiled angrily within its invisible confines. Behind the energy barrier was an archaic wall that was kept, it seemed, not for the purpose of defense but for intimidation. Assorted jagged spikes and cruel looking hooks studded the wall from one end to the other, bearing the still writhing forms of Vect’s object lessons. Some of them had been flayed and skinned, others lay dissected and meticulously and carefully held open, yet others lay in separate pieces like some unfinished puzzle. Illiawe fought down a wave of revulsion, quickly blocking out the moans of the unfortunate individuals from her mind.

The pilot directed their skimmer downward to stop before a grandiose gatehouse. The gesture was only a formality, of course. None who approached the dwelling of Vect did so unobserved nor kept their identity a secret for very long. The heavily armed and impressively armored guards, eldar with haughty expressions upon their faces and gazed with hard-eyed suspicion at all around them, made a great show of inspecting their skimmer. Illiawe was sure that a few dozen different scanners had already done the task before they had even come in sight of the palace, and when one of the guards bent over to look at length at the underside of their skimmer, her suspicions were confirmed. At last a small section in the shield wavered and melted away, and the guards waved them through impatiently.

The main building of the palace where Vect lorded over the rest of Commorragh rose loftily from the center of the complex, separated from it all by walls built taller than any mountain and shimmering force fields and by swarms of airborne troops and jetbikes and assault crafts that danced in the air and wove complex patterns that had neither rhythm nor purpose. A single spire rose up from the main building, so high that even the light of the suns could not reach its top, holding itself aloof from the lesser palaces of the other nobles of his kabal down below. They went through a dozen more shields and past defenses that pulled their craft this way and that and which shook its hull down to its very core, through areas of sky where time went forward and backward in a disoriented manner and where their destination was at one moment very near and at another out of sight, where the very laws of the world around them shifted and changed and ceased to exist. At each of these guards let them through, until they disembarked at last outside a particular door at that main building where Vect dwelled, and from there a hunched eldar slave, his body ridden with sores and ugly wounds where whips had ripped open the flesh down to the bone and where blood lay in clotted pools over his pallid skin and dirty rags, led them through long, empty, hallways, all brightly lit so as to emphasize the highly vaulted ceilings and instill a sense of smallness into all who visited. He left them without a word in a similarly furnished waiting room, tottering back the way that they had come from. Illiawe glanced around the room, noting tiny gaps in the walls where, she was sure, guards were observing them, doubtlessly with guns in their hands.

“Now, then, let us see Vect,” Ezarvyn said. If he was at all apprehensive, he did not show it. “My archon, you first.” He bowed mockingly, sweeping his arm out grandly toward a set of tall double doors at the other end of the room.

Iruthan scowled at him, shifting his ornate armor upon his shoulders before starting toward the door.

Ezarvyn grinned at Illiawe and Taeryn. “Excuse me,” he said politely, starting off after his patron.

Illiawe was sweating and shivering simultaneously. The eldar had a rather high tolerance for temperatures at either end of the spectrum, which indicated louder than anything the extreme temperatures in the room. The air was uncomfortably warm, almost close to boiling, which made the ice forming in Illiawe’s hair and heavy robes all the more astounding.

“This is getting stupid,” Illiawe muttered to Taeryn, wiping her brow with a wispy handkerchief. Briefly the thought of gathering her powers to banish the strange climate in the air around her crossed her mind, but a quick warning look from Taeryn stopped her.

“That’s not a good idea,” her friend said, looking meaningfully at the walls around them. “The Commorrites don’t like the use of psychic powers in their city.” The dichotomy in the room’s temperature did not seem to bother Taeryn, who sat delicately upon the couch that had been provided for them, her hands placed daintily upon her knees, barely moving. Her thoughts were calm, her expression almost dreamy.

“That’s not my problem,” Illiawe muttered. Taeryn’s composed manner irritated Illiawe, for some reason, seeming almost to worsen her predicament. “If they’d just follow the Paths, they would not have to worry about that.”

“Please don’t tempt them.”

“You do know that they are deliberately making us uncomfortable, don’t you?”

“Of course, Illiawe. That’s a standard tactic for demonstrating power.”

“I think it goes further than that. I wouldn’t put it past the Commorrites to take pleasure in our discomfort.”

“Your prejudice is showing again, Illiawe.” She sank lower into the couch. “If it’s any comfort, think of how Ezarvyn must be feeling right about now. Talking to Vect for such a long while cannot be pleasant. That reminds me of something. When we go in there, let me do the talking.”

“Gladly. Commorrites make my teeth ache.”

“I think I’ve figured that out.”

Illiawe huffed in irritation, settling back down and trying to ignore the discomfort that the Commorrites had placed her in, until a pair of guards came through the double doors and announced in peremptory tones that the overlord of Commorragh was prepared to see them.

Vect sat magnificently upon a large and impressive throne at the end of a pointlessly long hall, resplendent in a heavy cloak and an imposing suit of armor and surrounded by eldar women in revealing outfits who lounged indolently around his throne. Interspersed among the usual hooks and chains that lined both walls were heavily armed Incubi, all standing unmoving, their faces concealed beneath heavy elongated helmets and their hands lightly resting upon the hilts of cruel looking swords. Ezarvyn and Iruthan stood alone before Vect’s throne, and they did not look too worried. Illiawe took that to be a rather good sign. She drew herself up to her full height and walked down the hall, her head held high, ignoring the distrustful stares of Vect’s incubi guard. She did not, however, ignore the gaze of the self-proclaimed Supreme Overlord of Commorragh. Instead she looked him full in the eye as she approached his throne. His returning gaze was almost bored. Vect had a long narrow face with dead looking eyes and sallow cheeks, an appearance that was quite obviously a predilection designed to emphasize his age in relation to all the Commorrites around him. His crown was a heavy helmet with a couple of foot long spikes on either side of its base that curved upward like horns. His expression was unreadable as Illiawe approached, and she hoped that the slight apprehension that rose involuntarily up within her did not show upon her face.

“You chose a poor emissary to bring your proposition to me, craftworlder,” Vect said in a slow and dry voice as Illiawe came to a stop before his throne. “Threats do not make for a very good start to negotiations.”

“Would you have been willing to listen to us otherwise?”

Vect smiled thinly. “And you, harlequin,” he said, his eyes flickering to Taeryn, “I thought the harlequins more shrewd than this.”

“We did not mean to offend,” Taeryn said obsequiously.

“Of course you did not. The very idea itself is unthinkable.” His tone was filled with irony. Vect paused, eyeing them with dull eyed interest, his fingers drumming idly on the arm of his throne. “So, tell me this. Why is one of my archons running as a messenger for a harlequin and a craftworld farseer on an errand that scarcely benefits any Commorrite? Why should I not have the both of you killed for daring to come here and blackmail me?”

“You can order your guards to attack us whenever you wish, Vect,” Taeryn said, a light smile touching her lips, “but I think that you might want to first take note of current events. It would prove to be most relevant to you and those you rule.”

“That would be for me to decide.”

“No, Vect. That has already been decided. Whether or not you choose to heed the Fates and the gods, however, is up to you.”

“Fate?” Vect asked with disinterest. “The gods? What have either of them ever done for us?”

“Perhaps more than you would care to admit, but that is not what we came here to discuss. The Rhana Dandra is come.”

“The Rhana Dandra is nothing more than a vain hope that the craftworlds cling to,” Vect said dismissively. “I am not a child to place my hopes in such idle fantasy.”

“Perhaps you may be right, but would you wager your soul on the possibility?”

“I have been wagering my soul on all kinds of possibilities for a very long time, harlequin. I don’t see how one more will make any difference.”

“Does the Overlord of Commorragh speak, or does his pride?”

“His prudence speaks,” Vect replied, his tone rising just a little, the first sign of interest that he had thus far displayed. “Even were I to accept this request of yours, the nobility will not. We do not need to rely on any of our eldar cousins. None of you see the things that need to be done for the eldar race to once again rise. We did not come to rule the stars by cowering behind ideas or holding on to past glories. We did not forge our civilization by shrinking away from those who seek to destroy us or by basking in infantile naivety and tender-heartedness.”

“And where is that civilization now?”

“Our only mistake, harlequin,” Vect said, his bored tone contrasting heavily with the flash that came to his eyes, “was that we did not – we chose not to – confront the one who destroyed our empire. We ran, and there lies our mistake.”

“Aren’t you now choosing to hide away by avoiding our call to arms?”

Vect laughed shortly, a brief barking sound utterly devoid of humor. “Do not conflate refusing your proposal with a preference for avoiding combat. When the daemons come again, Commorragh will take up arms. There are those who will rather not do so, but I fear that many of their more vocal and influential members have fallen strangely silent lately.” His thin lips twitched and he bowed his head mockingly at Ezarvyn. “I will not forget the service that you did me in removing Bazeqar and his followers.”

“Oh?” Ezarvyn asked.

“It left their patrons absolutely vulnerable to a few opportunists,” Vect explained. “Incidentally, the new archons who took over for them are rather clever eldar – that is to say they hold quite nearly similar views as I do.” He turned back to Taeryn. “When Commorragh fights, we will do it on our terms. The preferred style of combat that the harlequins and the craftworlds prefer is too restrictive.” His eyes flickered then to Illiawe. “You have been strangely quiet, my craftworld cousin. What are your thoughts on this matter?”

“Choose your words carefully, Illiawe,” Taeryn’s thoughts came to her.

“The Fates and the gods have both decreed that an alliance be made between us if we are to survive this war,” Illiawe said stiffly.

“So your harlequin friend has said. I would like to know if you agree.”

“I will work toward this goal if it is necessary, willingly or not.”

“Ah. And I hope that you seek this alliance willingly?”

“Your way of life is revolting,” Illiawe said bluntly, ignoring Taeryn’s sigh.

Vect, however, smiled thinly. “And I find yours just as repulsive. On this, at least, we agree.” The smile dropped from his face. “This, however, is where it ends. I understand that the humans” – he said the word with a sneer – “are seeking a pact of mutual defense with you. This would not do. If we war, we will do so as efficiently as possible, even if it means the destruction of a hundred human worlds to halt our foe. The humans do not understand this. Thus this is my condition – you will forsake the humans should you seek an alliance with us, or else be content only that we will both be fighting against the same enemy, however we each choose to do so.”

Illiawe was muttering angrily to herself as they made their way back toward Iruthan’s part of Commorragh. She supposed that Vect’s non-committal response should not have surprised her. It did not mean, however, that she did not reserve the right to grumble about it. And grumble Illiawe did, filling the air with quiet complaints and blistering remonstrance.

Oddly, Taeryn did not seem to mind Vect’s response. Indeed, she appeared strangely satisfied with it, and that made Illiawe tense. She had thought that Taeryn’s goal had been an alliance with the Commorrites. The thought that Taeryn would take Vect up on his proposal occurred to Illiawe, and she rather hoped that her friend did not really intend to forego an alliance with the humans. She did not, however, broach the subject to Taeryn.

Iruthan had a worried look on his face as their skimmer made its way back to his manor, tapping a finger nervously upon his armored knee. After a few minutes of that, Ezarvyn turned toward him.

“What’s bothering you, old boy?” the haemonculi drawled.

“If Vect does not restrain the Commorrites, raids will likely be called upon human worlds. The humans will need every resource they could muster for this upcoming war. If they have to fend off Commorrite raiding parties at the same time, they will quite likely fall in a relatively short time.”

“I’m sure that the humans appreciate your concern for their wellbeing.”

Iruthan cast him an irritated look. “That’s beside the point, Ezarvyn. If the humans fall, there’d be nothing left between the daemons and us but a whole lot of space and a few forced open wraithgates.” He shuddered. “There’d be no more slaves for us, either. The daemons are likely to just gorge themselves on everything they see.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it, my archon. I’m sure Vect has taken that into account. He’s no fool.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

“No, of course not. Some reassurance is the best that I can provide, so you’ll just have to settle for that.”

“It is scant comfort, Ezarvyn,” Iruthan replied tartly. “Cegorach can promise to protect my soul all He wants, but I’d much rather we win this fight.”

“Why am I surrounded by pessimists?” Ezarvyn complained, sighing and sinking lower into his seat. “You can’t do anything to change Vect’s mind, so why bother worrying about it?”

“It’s the principle of it, Ezarvyn. I didn’t stay archon for so long by hoping everything will work out fine.”

“No, you’ve stayed archon for so long because you have my services. Do you remember the Fifth Blood Rose War or the Beastmasters’ Coup? Have my advice let you down in either of those?”

“As I remember it, you had a lot to gain from both of those events. I seem to recall waves of prisoners from rival kabals being brought into your laboratories after the war, and, funnily enough, those same slaves clearing out the beastmasters’ grounds when my warriors had put their little revolution down.”

“Are you implying that my advice is only reliable when it affects me, my archon?”

“I am not implying. I am saying so.”

“I’m hurt,” Ezarvyn said in an exaggerated mournful tone, then he laughed. “I have a lot to lose in this, Iruthan. By your logic, I may not lead you astray.”

Iruthan grunted sourly. “When we get back, I’ll be going with you to your laboratory. If Vect is going to call us to war, I’d like my army’s ranks bolstered by as many war beasts as I can get my hands on.”

At that, Ezarvyn’s eyes lit up and his face broke into a huge grin, his thin face making the gesture seem almost malevolent. “I have some new designs that I think you may like, Iruthan.” His voice was not the lazy drawl that Illiawe was so used to, but was rather brimming with barely concealed excitement. “And after that, perhaps we could stop by to have a look at a few plagues and toxins that I have come up with. I might even give you a discount – as a token of my appreciation for your patronage, of course.”

Illiawe and Taeryn returned thereafter to the material world. They went neither to Kenaleith nor Ulthwé, instead taking the webway from craftworld to craftworld, seeking council with the farseers and autarchs of each. Illiawe had heard of some few of those craftworlds; most she did not recognize. Some of those ships orbited stars, others moved through the void between the stars, far enough away that the light of the nearest few were barely more than specks of golden dust littering the vaults of the heavens above. Some were densely populated, others housed no more than a few million living souls. Regardless of their exact circumstances, however, the signs of war lay plainly evident upon each ship. Aspect Warriors trained within their shrines, scarcely leaving to walk the streets of the craftworld. Guardians, when their civilian tasks were complete, took up arms and trained with them. Swarms of jetbikes and larger craft, grav-tanks and sleek aircraft, filled the skies overhead, the roars of their sonic booms creating a near constant rumble in the air. The souls of long dead eldar were captured within soulstones and placed into wraithbone shells, and the dead stalked silently among the great halls near the heart of the craftworlds or gathered in soundless communion in unmoving groups in the gardens and domes and forests of the craftworlds. The psychic projections of the eldar hung heavy throughout the great ships, an unconscious rally for war that left a fiery taste in Illiawe’s mouth. Yet there was also an unmistakable emptiness to it all, a void central to the eldar preparations for war normally filled by Khaine. Illiawe studiously ignored the unwelcome thought. Now was not the time to dwell upon recent unpleasantness.

Yet, for all the preparations of the craftworlds, Illiawe was rather conscious of the fact that some few of them adamantly refused to come out of hiding, keeping their craftworlds far from the prying eyes of all in the galaxy, even as they readied their warhosts. Illiawe certainly did not begrudge them their measure of safety as long as their warhosts arrived upon the fields of the Rhana Dandra. Most of these craftworlds, at least, had the courtesy to make their location known to the leaders of the other craftworlds. There were a number, however – Illiawe noted the historically secretive Iluthan and Eliansar chief among them – that stayed far away from their kin, refusing to heed their summons or to gather their autarchs with those from other craftworlds to make their battle plans. Yet other craftworlds proved already to be too eager, frequently deploying dozens of starships to the void around the rift to the Othersea on what was ostensibly nothing more than patrol missions. Increasingly, more and more corsair bands made their presence known, hiring their ships out to human governors in need of their swift vessels. And the humans brought ships by the dozens and the hundreds to the worlds in that region of the void, and built grand weapons that hung still in the darkness among the stars, waiting to lend their fire fully to any defending fleet should the forces of Chaos come through the rift in force.

And all the while Vect sat still in his palace that rose above those of all the lesser archons and Commorrite nobility, and the Commorrites continued their petty raids.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 36

It was Volorus, surprisingly, who made the first official contact between the humans and the eldar of the craftworlds. He arrived in an unassuming vessel with the insignia of the Inquisition and the Imperium prominently displayed on its sides and not much else. The heavily armored wedge that served as the prow for most human ships was glaringly absent on his vessel, and the guns that lined the sides of all human ships were just as absent. Unfortunately for Volorus, the pains that the humans had taken to make the ship look as peaceable as possible proved to have been in waste. The ship exited the Othersea a million miles from Ulthwé. The eldar of the craftworld did not seem to take too kindly to the fact that they had exited so close to the craftworld. Within half a minute a dozen of the craftworld’s escorts had broken away from the craftworld and surrounded the human ship, moving until there was only ten thousand miles between them and the human ship. The humans got the point rather quickly and, at that close distance, the eldar ships rather unceremoniously herded them into one of the docks of the craftworld – a dock that was, incidentally, filled with numerous Aspect Warriors and with grav-tanks hovering nearby, all waiting for the humans to exit.

Illiawe was talking with Taeryn and one of the craftworld’s spiritseers when she felt a tug upon her mind, a psychic summon from somewhere near the prow of the craftworld.

“Go on ahead,” Taeryn told her, evidently having felt the summons. “I want to have a few words with the other spiritseers anyway.”

It took barely a second for Illiawe to translocate to the dock from which the summons came, but the situation had already devolved into something that was far from cordial. A firefight had not yet broken out, however, and that, at least, was a small token of relief. Illiawe made her way to the front of the small eldar army gathered there behind makeshift walls of wraithbone that the bonesingers had conjured up.

“What’s going on?” Illiawe asked one of the exarchs near her. Quickly, he explained the situation to her, and Illiawe grunted. She stretched her mind out toward the ship. Its crew was a small one, barely a hundred in total, and three quarters of them were soldiers. There was a single presence there, however, that Illiawe recognized. “Stand down,” she sent the thought to the eldar around her. Unhesitatingly, they complied, though Illiawe caught more than a few apprehensive feedback. Psychically amplifying her voice, she spoke then in a normal voice, “you can come on out, Volorus. I’m here.”

There was a brief pause, then a small door at the side of the ship opened. Volorus had aged in the few months since Illiawe had last seen him, an age born of weariness more than anything else. There were dark circles under his eyes, a few more lines upon his brow, and there was a new scar upon the left side of his neck that had not been there before. His shoulders, however, remained unbowed and his eyes piercing. He came walking down the walkway toward them at a crisp pace with four soldiers marching behind him, keeping a respectful distance between him and themselves.

“Volorus,” Illiawe said, an unexpected smile coming to her lips.

“Illiawe,” the inquisitor replied warmly, the corners of his lips curling. He took her by the elbow and she returned the gesture before quickly waving for the warhost around her to disperse.

“What are you doing here, Volorus?”

“I have to talk to the craftworld eldar. This is the one of the largest of the craftworlds that the Imperium knows of, and it’s conveniently close to the Eye of Terror and the worlds of the Imperium, so this is the craftworld that I chose to give my message to.”

“Where’s Noshan?” Illiawe asked curiously, glancing back toward Volorus’ ship. “I could not detect him anywhere on board.”

“He’s been with Uriel for nearly a dozen weeks now. Apparently Uriel needed his abilities more than I do.” He sighed dramatically. “Apparently he’s not very interested in the politics of the inquisition or the planning of battles.”

“Politics?” Illiawe echoed.

Volorus nodded. “The information that I provided the various organizations that watch for the threat of Chaos – including the Ordo Malleus – upset quite a lot of people. We’ve been scrambling to get all our forces into position. People like Uriel are running all over the Imperium doing just that. Sometimes other people start to get stubborn, which is where the politicking comes into play.”

“Are you sure his actions could really be called politics?” Illiawe asked suspiciously.

“There are many forms of politics.” He scratched at his cheek. “It goes a little further than convincing rivals to set aside their grudges or persuading army leaders to move to where they will be needed most, however. From what I understand, one of the High Lords of Terra suggested that we should make an official alliance with your people.”

“That has happened before, you know.”

“Yes, but it’s always involved only individual organizations and never the whole of humanity. Now the High Lords have decreed otherwise, the option’s right out in the open. It’s part of the reason that I’m here, actually. Anyway, that suggestion ruffled more than a few feathers. I hear that some inquisitors – mostly from the Ordo Xenos – were planning on arresting all the High Lords. Naturally, those of us who are more pragmatic opposed them. We came very close to another civil war there, actually.”

“You humans are walking a very fine line,” Illiawe sighed. “Can’t you ever have an argument without drawing arms on each other?”

“You make us sound like children,” Volorus said reproachfully.

“You are children, Volorus.”

The inquisitor laughed easily. “Anyway, I went to some of the less radical of the Ordo Xenos inquisitors and suggested that it would be more beneficial to the Imperium if the threat of Chaos was halted, and they agreed. At the same time, Uriel and his friends went around directing everyone’s attention to the Chaos threat, from planetary governors to the sector leaders. To cut things short, my Ordo Xenos inquisitors called upon the troops that the Ordo Xenos usually calls upon – the Deathwatch and the Ordo Xenos Guard battalions, primarily. Then the Ordo Hereticus inquisitors charged those radical inquisitors with trying to start a civil war and the Ordo Malleus inquisitors charged them with almost weakening the Imperium for Chaos. When that happened, those inquisitors found themselves left with only their own armies and retinues. The rest of the Ordo Xenos refused to help them, and since everyone’s attention’s focused upon the Chaos threat, they couldn’t really find many willing to help them. From there it was easy, really. All the so-called puritans are getting judged. You may like to know that our friend Chiro happens to be one of them.”

Illiawe smiled shortly. “Wouldn’t this raise support from others for those inquisitors?”

“What are they going to do? Declare war upon us?” He shrugged. “Actually, that’s one of the reasons that Noshan’s with Uriel. If he happens to find anyone so much as thinking about vindicating the puritan inquisitors, Uriel’s right there to judge them.”

“It looks like all this playing’s taken its toll on you.”

“I am a little tired,” Volorus admitted. “Between running around purging those inquisitors and planning for the war, I have been run into the ground for quite a while.”

“You are welcome to stay in some few of our gardens when your business here is done. They are quite relaxing.”

Volorus smiled gratefully at her. “I will take you up on that offer.” Then his expression became serious. “I have to talk with your leaders, Illiawe. The inquisitors of the Ordo Xenos tell me that farseers lead most of the craftworlds, which is why I am rather pleased that you are here.”

“You’ll only be able to meet with one farseer besides me, I’m afraid. The rest are off on their own tasks.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Illiawe. To be honest, I’d just as rather tell you what I am here to say, but I figured that some other farseer would like to hear this, too.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Come on, Ethorach’s house is not far away.”

The eldar whom they passed cast curious looks at Volorus as they went about their business. The inquisitor’s gait was stiff, as though self-conscious, and Illiawe turned her head to hide her smile.

They took a skimmer to Ethorach’s house. As he always did, the old farseer appeared to have been well aware of their approach, and he greeted them with no particular surprise, sparing Volorus only a single glance before returning to his contemplation of a sliver of psychoplastic that he held in his hand.

“Volorus has something to say,” Illiawe said in the human language when it became obvious that Ethorach was not going to pay them any more attention.

“I know, Illiawe,” Ethorach replied, also speaking in the human tongue. “You forget that the skeins and I are very close. I know what he wants.”

“Ethorach,” Illiawe said icily, “could you at least spare some time to do this properly?”

Ethorach sighed in exasperation, but he dutifully put the psychoplastic sliver down and turned to face them. “All right, Illiawe. If this will make you happy, go right ahead.”

Volorus cleared his throat, fidgeting slightly. The callous nature of Ethorach had quite obviously taken him by surprise. “Esteemed farseer,” he started tentatively.

“Get on with it, Volorus,” Ethorach growled.

Volorus glanced uncertainly at Illiawe and nodded. “I’ll be brief, then. The High Lords of Terra seeks to form an alliance with the eldar of the craftworlds.”

“Very well. Let them know that they’ll hear from us shortly.” He started to turn away, then caught Illiawe’s glare, and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh?” he said in heavily exaggerated surprise. “Why would an inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus be sent, then? Is this not a field more suited to one of the Ordo Xenos?”

Illiawe blinked. She had not considered that. Ethorach turned to her and his eye closed slowly in a sly wink.

“We thought it best if this matter, which, after all, concerns Chaos quite heavily, was discussed with the eldar by inquisitors who have more years of experience in the field of combatting Chaos. Besides, the majority of the Ordo Xenos is rather preoccupied at the moment.”

Ethorach grunted. “Why don’t you go ahead and just tell me what you came here to say, Volorus?” he asked impatiently.

“All right. The Imperium seeks two clauses in our alliance. The first is a guarantee of safe passage of both eldar and human forces in both our territories until the threat of Chaos is dealt with.”

“That could be arranged,” Ethorach replied. “You will have to stress to your superiors that this clause could only extend to the eldar of the craftworlds and the corsair fleets, however. We have no command over the actions of the Exodite eldar, and the Commorrites will do what they have always been doing. I trust that the craftworld eldar will not be held accountable for the actions of Commorrite raiders any more than the Imperium will be held accountable for the actions of human pirates and renegades.”

Volorus nodded. “Of course. The second clause will be to coordinate our intelligence and troops. If the eldar would allow it, the Imperium would like to send some few of its emissaries to the craftworlds.”

Ethorach nodded. “That’s reasonable enough.”

“Are you sure?” Illiawe asked him silently. “What intelligence can the humans provide us that we cannot ourselves obtain?”

“It is not the intelligence that they will provide us, my daughter, but the information that we will provide them – or not provide them. As much as the idea of fighting alongside the humans intrigues me, there is great benefit to having them in a position so that we may better destroy the forces of the Othersea while keeping eldar deaths down.”

“The details could be finalized in the coming weeks,” Volorus said. “I’d just like to ensure that word of this gets around first. We don’t have a lot of time, and there are a great many things that we’ll have to work out. The sooner we can get the idea of working together with the eldar out to human commanders, the better. Something tells me that they will need a lot of time to get used to the idea.”

“Very well,” Ethorach said. “I will pass your proposal on to the other craftworlds. I am certain that they will see the benefits to this proposal.” He leaned back in his chair. “There is one problem, however. In recent weeks, our farseers have foreseen a number of human worlds where daemonic rituals will be performed in the months to come. These worlds will fall, their populations converted to service of the Othersea gods. The autarchs think it best to raze them before such a thing could happen.”

Volorus’ face became grim. “Let’s do this officially. If you can give me the names of these worlds, the Ordo Malleus would start smiting them.”

“Some of these worlds will not yet see the corruption of the Othersea gods for a while yet.”

“That’s perfectly all right. The inquisitors of the Ordo Malleus are most patient.”

“Good. Now that we’ve got that all sorted out, would the both of you kindly leave me alone?”

“One more thing. I was told to inform you that the Adeptus Terra is willing to open further dialogue with the craftworld eldar in the future.”

“Did they really say that?” Ethorach asked, one of his eyebrows cocked.

Volorus coughed in embarrassment. “No, not really. But I’m sure that’s what they are thinking – considering our current circumstances.”

“I am sure that Illiawe would not mind further talks with you, Volorus, but we really should not extend that to your government or the assorted craftworld leaderships, should we?”

Volorus shrugged. “I was just trying to get your hopes up. It’s hard to come by these days, so take what you can get.”

They went then to a garden near Ethorach’s house. The garden was empty except for a pair of eldar who ceaselessly tended to it and the creatures that dwelt within, a task perhaps more important even than the preparations for war. A thin layer of fog hung low over the ground, swirling slowly in the light breeze. A strange expression had come over Volorus’ face, one that was almost indulgent. The furrows in his brow relaxed, and a faint smile came over his lips. They lay for a while on the grass by a lake that shimmered in the sun, passing the time talking about inconsequential things and watching the play of the light across the surface of the water.

“So,” Volorus asked after a while, “has anything interesting happened recently?”

Illiawe shrugged. “I’ve mostly been going to all the craftworlds and sitting in on the war councils.”

Volorus chuckled. “Are you having any more fun doing that than I am?”

“It’s not so bad. The differing opinions of the craftworlds’ councils regarding warfare keep the discussions very interesting.”

“Now’s really not the time to have extended debates on strategy, Illiawe.”

“The autarchs and farseers know that. We’ve already gotten past that point. I think they’re only arguing for the principle of it more than anything else.”

“At least your meetings are interesting. We’re still trying to work out the logistics of bring everything we can get our hands on to the Eye.” Volorus shook his head. “No matter. That is the problem of the Munitorum. What else has been going on?”

Illiawe hesitated before she spoke again. “An assassin tried to kill me,” she finally blurted, as though afraid that, if she were to consider it, she might have kept it from Volorus. “A human assassin.”

Volorus immediately sat upright, his eyes narrowed. “Do you know what this assassin looks like?”

Illiawe shook her head. “I only caught a glimpse of his mind. It was an unusual mind, void of thought and emotion. I did, however, discover that he came from a Vindicare Temple.”

“A vindicare assassin?” Volorus mused, frowning. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, I think I know who he is.” He coughed uncomfortably. “I sent him after you.”

Illiawe gave him a steely look. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was some time ago, you understand,” Volorus said quickly. “That was right after you boarded the Regina Umbrae and took that Chaos artifact away.”

“Taeryn did that, not me.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Volorus asked plaintively. “I forgot all about that order in all the things that we were caught up in.” He stood hurriedly. “I think I’ll head back to the ship and rescind that order. I’ll have to visit a scribe of the Officio Assassinorum for that. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

“Won’t you stay a while longer? I like the anticipation of not knowing where or when the next attempt on my life will come.”

Volorus gave her a hard look, and Illiawe laughed.

“I am just teasing, Volorus.” She took his hand. “It was nice to see you again.”

Volorus smiled. “Likewise, Illiawe. Maybe when we next meet, things will have quietened down.”

“Perhaps,” Illiawe laughed. “Perhaps.”

Volorus stood, laying a hand briefly upon her shoulder, and went off in the direction of the docks.

Illiawe watched him leave, then stretched out upon the grass, watching the light of the star above and absently toying with her seer stones. The skeins ebbed and flowed around her, moving over and through her rune armor. The constant shift was lulling, and Illiawe let it draw her into a reverie.

The change in the skeins was subtle, but it was noticeable enough. Illiawe was on her feet in an instant, gathering her will and reaching out with her mind to locate the threat, already erecting barriers around her. A small silver flash streaked past her vision. She did not so much see as she did feel the pulse of a detonation wash over her. The skeins shifted, grew turbulent, and the sense of the Othersea fell away. Illiawe barely had time to register the cause of the abrupt disruption of her connection to the energies of the Othersea before her rune armor shifted and diverted the projectile that had been travelling until that moment toward her head. The projectile was large and without finesse, a weapon made with no regard for the intricacies or subtleties of warfare, one that was designed to end combat as quickly as possible rather than in the right manner. Instinctively Illiawe scanned the area around her for the human assassin that she knew must be somewhere aboard Ulthwé, though she knew that the action was futile without the aid of her psychic abilities. She did not have the time to ponder as to how he got on the ship without alerting the eldar or the ship itself, however. Pieces of metal flew through the air all around her, coming close but failing to cause harm as her rune armor deflected each shot.

Illiawe ran. There was little else that she could do. She had no particular destination in mind, except to perhaps evade her attacker for long enough until her connection to the energies of the Othersea returned. Spiteful buzzes filled her ears, projectiles whizzing angrily as each lethal shot failed time and again to overpower the protection of her rune armor. The high arched gate that led out of the garden loomed large before her. Beyond that lay the streets of Ulthwé and the relative safety that its cover could provide. Illiawe hesitated, however. There lay also the civilian eldar of the craftworld. But among them were also the Aspect Warriors and, more importantly, the spiritseers and the bonesingers, both of whom could alter the structure and the infinity circuit of the craftworld to rid her of the assassin. The moment of hesitation proved fatal. The ground under Illiawe’s feet exploded.

Her rune armor glowed a bright red, the effort of protecting her from the blast finally pushing it beyond its capabilities. Illiawe bit back a curse even as she vaulted over the rim of the crater that had quite suddenly materialized under her. Then something caught her in her back. A great number of seconds passed, then a searing pain ripped through her torso. She gasped, not quite daring to look down. Her knees felt suddenly weak and her hands seemed to have gone very cold. She did not know quite exactly when she fell to the ground.

Then there was an eldar by her side, gently supporting her. Illiawe’s vision was a little fuzzy, but she thought she could just make out an expression of concern upon his face. Her breath came in ragged bursts, there were spots before her eyes, and her head was swimming. Faintly she felt fingers brush her shoulders, and the spots faded, her vision cleared and came into focus. Her torso tingled, and, though she was not too certain, she thought the pain somewhat abated. Yet she was getting weaker as the seconds passed, the strength seeming to sap out of her body. Then her vision grew dark.

She awoke in a place devoid of light. With the exception of her robes, she had nothing else on her, not even her rune armor. A moment of panic gripped her, but Illiawe quickly suppressed it. Surprisingly, she was on her feet, standing without any assistance. Gingerly, she placed a hand flat against her chest, running her palm down along the front of her robes, but there was no sign of the wound that had earlier caused her so much pain. Frowning, Illiawe took a step forward in that total darkness. Her step was steady, her head not even swimming nor her gait unsteady. Even more puzzled now, though not entirely displeased, she warily took another step forward. There seemed to be a tug upon her mind, drawing her in a certain direction in that absolute darkness. Not really seeing any alternative, Illiawe moved toward the source of that unknown call, a hand held out before her, groping blindly in the darkness. Though she did not know what awaited her, she found herself pressing eagerly forward, if only to get away from the blind isolation of the place that she found herself in. She stumbled once when her foot caught on something on the ground, and she stretched out a hand to catch herself. The ground was smooth, almost like marble, yet strangely warm to the touch and resonating with latent psychic energy. Illiawe moved more carefully after that, feeling the ground before her with her feet before moving forward. The call upon her mind grew stronger, as though she was nearing her unknown destination.

Then up ahead before her there appeared a single speck of yellow light. Eagerly, Illiawe picked up her pace, heading toward it. As she drew closer, she realized that the light came from a single figure, an eldar woman standing with her back turned toward Illiawe. Though Illiawe was still yet some way off, the figure’s features were very distinct. Dark hair tumbled down her back, the curls caught in a plain wraithbone band at the base of her neck. She wore a loose fitting robe, and there was a serene look upon her face. A vast presence emanated from the figure, yet what would normally have been overpowering or overwhelming was instead gentle, seeming less like an oppressive weight but rather some great blanket that provided only security. Illiawe started. She recognized the figure, though she had never seen the eldar before.

“Isha?” she whispered.

Isha turned and She smiled, and Illiawe was filled with a sense of vast warmth and love.

“Illiawe,” said She who was the mother of all eldar, Her voice rich and vibrant.

Illiawe frowned, most perplexed. “How are You -” Her voice trailed off.

“Alive?” Isha asked.

Illiawe swallowed, not daring to think what might happen if her words had offended the goddess.

But Isha smiled. “You broke apart Slaanesh, Illiawe. Do you not remember that? You have set the gods of the eldar free.”

“The gods of the eldar? Are the rest of our pantheon here too, then?”

“Here,” Isha nodded, “but also not here. This place that Cegorach conceived of is most clever.” And she smiled slyly. “You could keep a secret, couldn’t you? No one else may know of this.”

“Of course,” Illiawe said absently, still trying to come to terms with what she now saw and the implications of the words of the goddess before her. Her mind was racing now, her thoughts quite incoherent. “Why have You not returned to us? And Khaine, where is Khaine? His avatars have abandoned us.”

Isha continued to smile, and most gentle was Her smile. “So many questions, Illiawe.” And Her tone was that like a rebuke, and Illiawe flushed. But Isha was already continuing. “There are many things that have to first be done, Illiawe, before We can show Ourselves to the eyes of all the universe. Khaine’s absence is one of those things. You would not have been here either, talking now to Me, if We had not given you gratitude for freeing Us. As I have before said, you must not speak of this to anyone.” She made a face. “It was Asuryan’s idea, really. He’s very noble, you know.”

A sudden hope swelled up within Illiawe. As all the world knew, there were very few things beyond the abilities of the gods. “Couldn’t You at least lend some aid to the eldar, then? With Your assitance, we have a greater chance at winning this war!”

 “You do not know what you ask for, Illiawe,” and Isha’s voice was all the more dreadful because it was not raised. “We may surely lend Our children aid, but there is only one way in which to do this, and the price of it is most heavy indeed.”

Illiawe frowned, hoping to prompt Isha to elaborate, but She had already turned away.

“Now it is time for you to leave, Illiawe,” Isha said.

Illiawe’s thoughts were very clear when she next spoke. “No,” she said firmly, almost without thinking about it. Illiawe would not have openly defied a god of the eldar, but her response felt strangely right.

Isha’s face stiffened at the unspoken implication in Illiawe’s response. She was silent for a while, and then She nodded, a barely perceptible movement of her head. “All right, Illiawe.” She turned to look at a spot to Illiawe’s right. “Take a seat.”

Illiawe turned. There was a bench there, plain and unfinished looking, almost entirely hidden in the shadows. Hesitantly she moved toward it, perching at one end. Isha joined her, Her face reflective.

“This war that you are preparing for is not one which victory will result in the death of the Othersea gods, Illiawe. They, like Us, cannot be killed. Even Slaanesh was unable to truly kill Us, only to make Our souls Hers. This is something that you have to understand.”

“We are not seeking the death of Slaanesh, then? But that is what the myths of the eldar talk about!”

“There are many forms of death, Illiawe. The destruction of someone is a form, but to peel away the identity of an enemy, that is perhaps the more terrible death to inflict.” Seeing Illiawe’s bemused expression, Isha smiled, but it was a sad and humorless smile. “Perhaps you might understand better if you knew about the origins of the Othersea gods. Slaanesh’s birth you know, yet there is more to the emergence of the Prince of Excess than the tales of the eldar – or even the tales of the harlequins – speak of.

“Millions of years ago there were only the gods of the eldar dwelling within the Othersea. There were other creatures of that place, too, but few that could challenge Our might. Then we warred with the necrons and their star gods, and the Othersea was greatly churned by the weapons that were brought to bear and the great distress and violence of battle. Not even Lileath or Morai-Heg were able to foresee the great turmoil that the war has caused, and the storms that came suddenly down upon Us within the Othersea caught Us quite unprepared. Some few of Us escaped, but most of Us were caught up within the storms.” Her voice trailed off then and Her eyes were suddenly very distant, an expression of pain coming over Her ageless face. “The turbulence caught Us up within it and Our awareness were overwhelmed all at once by the rage of battle, and We were rent apart, and each of Us who were caught in the turbulence that swept across the Othersea were from then on split in two.”

“I do not understand.”

Isha pursed Her lips. “The cause of Our rending was twofold. We were young then, in mind if not body, and We did not know the consequences of the ferocity with which We fought. The energies of the Othersea reflects and magnifies a hundredfold all the things in the material world, and, since during that time there was no decree of Asuryan to separate the Othersea from the material world, what you now call the fabric of the Othersea enveloped both realms, and the rage of battle was too much for even Us. The Othersea was greatly churned by the weapons that We harnessed from its energies. Our souls were caught up within the storms that quickly grew from Our struggle and, because Our attention was turned toward the Yngir, We were caught unprepared and Our beings were split.

“Our minds were similarly sundered. All beings are made of two facets, Illiawe. The urge for war is always balanced by the need for peace, wisdom by rashness and idiocy; beauty is marred by unseemliness just as foulness is a needed aspect of grace. The rage and bloodlust of the war that We witnessed and which came over Our minds became too much for Us, casting a blight over the gentler sides of Our nature, and so to protect Ourselves We took the emotions that came from the war and cast it out of Us, and in doing so cast out a portion of Our minds. We eventually learned to shield Ourselves from such happenings, but I fear that it was too late.

“In time the part of Our minds that We cast out and the part of Our being that was taken from Us came together and formed new beings. Just as the rage of the war was before reflected upon Us, so it was now reflected upon these new beings. They grew, feeding upon the many passions of war, and matured. And since They did not know how to shield Themselves as We now did, They took into Themselves the evils that were reflected from the material world. And because They were born from evil and grew on evil and glutted Themselves on the evils of the world, They turned into cruel beings. And since the kill and the bloodlust, the decay and the rot, and the scheming are the primary facets of war, the beings who represented these three domains grew to be the most powerful.”

“Do You mean to say that the war with the old enemy split the eldar gods and created the Othersea gods?” Illiawe asked incredulously. It was an inconceivable revelation, and Illiawe did not really want to accept the implications present in Isha’s words, yet to reject the tale was to doubt the goddess before her. Illiawe frowned, her mind racing, not quite knowing what to think.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I have left out quite a lot of details, but those are not important for our discussion. Only three of the great four of the gods of the Othersea were created from this event. Slaanesh was born not from war but from the decadence of the eldar. Yet They are all, the great four and the lesser Othersea gods both, given form through Us. Even if We had the power to kill Them, Illiawe, We would be loath to do so.”

“So how do we win this war?”

“When We realized the birth of the Othersea gods, We sought to balance out the aspects that They brought into the world, and so We created and nurtured beings with the same domain as Us and the Othersea being that was born from Us. Tzeentch was born of Cegorach, and Their domains are both sides of cunning and sly manipulation. We created Morai-Heg to stand against the former, hoping that Her wisdom will provide a counterpoint to His cunning. Lileath, dear Lileath, gave rise to Nurgle, and They both represented gaiety and insouciant natures, and to Them We gave Asuryan, so that His discipline and rigidity may in some measure dampen Nurgle’s affections. Khaine is the twin of Khorne, and to Them We gave Vaul, whose domain is the creation that warfare could bring. For the lesser gods We did the same, and Our scheme eventually bore fruit, and the power of the Othersea gods were checked. But there was yet one more being born of Us that We have not thus opposed.”

“Slaanesh,” Illiawe whispered.

Isha nodded almost imperceptibly. “She was born of Me, and Her domain was joy and gratification, just as Mine is. But because Asuryan decreed that the gods shall not remain in this world was His barrier placed, and the Othersea forever split from this world. And because We were not there to guide the eldar you grew decadent, and this twisted the purpose of Slaanesh, and She grew to seek indulgence.” Isha paused. “Have you not wondered why Slaanesh hates the eldar so much? Of all the Othersea gods, She was the one who remained untouched by the evils of the material world for the longest, and She is well aware of what the dissipation of the eldar had done to Her.”

Illiawe flushed at Isha’s rebuke. “And the opposite to Slaanesh?”

“I think that you know.”

“Ynnead?” Illiawe asked tentatively.

Isha nodded. “Ynnead, the eternal sorrow, the mother’s vengeance. She would have been created sooner, but Asuryan placed a barrier between the Othersea and the material world. It was this barrier that prevented the Othersea gods from consuming all in the universe, but this same barrier also prevented Us from guiding Our children, and also prevented Ynnead from being created through the raw emotions of the beings of the material world. There is another way to bring about Ynnead, but I was unwilling to do so, for it would require the deaths of far too many of My children.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “It is a cruel fate that requires the desolation of the eldar to bring about their salvation. Then came the Fall, when Slaanesh came into Her own and struck back in an act of vindication at the eldar and tore down all that had been created by you. Slaanesh came to possess those souls, and Ynnead was never awoken.”

“But those souls are no longer in the possession of Slaanesh!”

Isha nodded. “You are right, Illiawe, and Ynnead could now be awoken, but to do so would rob them of their being. They will be Ynnead, just as they were Slaanesh, and no longer the eldar that they are.” Her face contorted in anguish. “I wouldn’t allow that. I can’t!”

Illiawe lowered her eyes, not really knowing how to comfort the goddess. Isha’s emotions brushed at the fringes of her thoughts, Her despair quite nearly overwhelming Illiawe’s mind. The silence between them grew awkward, and Illiawe was acutely aware of the tension that hung heavy in the air.

“How do we destroy Slaanesh, then?” Illiawe finally asked softly, hoping that the question might draw Isha’s mind away from Her thoughts.

“With Spiorad, Illiawe. The Othersea gods have to all be rid of the emotions that They have fed upon all these eons.”

“And then You can take Their being back into Yourselves?”

Isha shook Her head. “No, Illiawe. They have become too distinct for that. There are little similarities between Us and Them now, apart from Our domains. The Othersea gods have come into Their own right. By stripping away all that They now are, They will return to the single soul that They were before consuming overmuch of the evils of the universe. From there, perhaps, We might be able to nurture Them in the right way.” She bowed Her head and sighed. “This is not a simple task, however. Slaanesh is weakened, but the other three are not, and They are mighty. Millennia upon millennia of hatred and warfare have given Them nourishment enough. I fear that We may not be powerful enough, unless…” Her voice faltered. “Unless Ynnead lends Us Her aid.” Then Isha shook Her head, as though shaking off Her reverie, and Her countenance grew bright as She forced a smile. It was a smile like the sun coming up, but to Illiawe, having only just witnessed Her glum mood, the tightness around Her eyes and the sad twist of Her lips were unmistakable. “This is of no concern to you, however. Leave the details to Us, Illiawe. As for you, gather the humans and the Commorrites and the Exodites. Their assistance is crucial for the coming battle. Now you must leave, Illiawe. The acolytes of Mine should have tended to your body well enough, and I cannot hold you here for any longer time. The decree of Asuryan cannot be broken, and I have not yet learnt of all of Cegorach’s tricks on how to circumvent it. Farewell, My daughter, and go with My blessing.”

Illiawe opened her mouth, wanting to give voice to the questions that came to her lips, but something flickered in the darkness at the edge of her vision, catching her eye momentarily, and when she looked back to where Isha had sat, the goddess was gone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 37

The light above her was dim and of a soothing hue. She forced her eyes open as best she could, but her eyelids were unusually heavy and she could manage no more than a narrow slit to peer out of. Her vision was blurred, her senses seemed somehow dulled, the sounds that came to her ears muffled and indistinct. Through the murmuring that was all around her Illiawe thought she heard a silvery sound like a note left behind after the ringing of a bell, though she could not pinpoint its source. Something pulsed beneath her robes against her heart, a warm feeling emanating from it, moving like tendrils through her veins and down to the very ends of her fingers and toes and sending tingles along her body. Yet that sensation was all that she felt; it was as though the rest of her body had gone quite suddenly numb and unfeeling, though she was sure that she could move her limbs if she wanted to.

There was a movement beside her, and the vague shape of an eldar face peered down at her. “You’re spending a great deal of time recovering these days, Illiawe,” Taeryn’s voice came to her, quiet and indistinct, as though from very far away.

“You’re exaggerating,” Illiawe managed to croak.

“But not by much. How are you feeling?”

“I can’t feel anything,” Illiawe complained.

“You shouldn’t, and I don’t think you’ll want to. You had a fist sized hole in your chest before the Acolytes of Isha mended your body, and you were bleeding from a dozen different places. You quite nearly resembled Khaine’s own left hand. The acolytes aren’t even sure how you managed to survive.”

“It was the strangest thing,” Illiawe replied laconically.

“That explanation didn’t take long.”

Illiawe’s thoughts raced. Part of her wanted to tell her friend about Isha, but the goddess’ instructions not to talk about the encounter came to her and stayed her tongue. “I guess my soulstone took my soul in and returned it when my body was mended.” It was not a complete lie. According to eldar legend, the soulstones of the craftworlds originated from Isha’s tears, after all.

“I suppose that may be possible.” Taeryn’s tone indicated that she was unconvinced with Illiawe’s explanation, but she did not press the issue.

“How long was I out?”

“About an hour,” Taeryn replied.

“Did we ever catch the assassin?”

“No. You should have gone after him when you had the chance back on Kenaleith, Illiawe.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now. Besides, Volorus said that he would be sending out the order to recall the assassin. What I really want to know, though, is how he managed to sneak aboard Ulthwé without anyone being alerted.”

“Perhaps we may never find out. Speaking of Volorus, the autarchs have detained him.”

“Did they find out that the assassin is a human?” Illiawe asked, her blood running cold.

“I don’t think so, Illiawe. There was no evidence left behind by the assassin, but Volorus is the only outsider in the vicinity.”

“What about the rest of his crew? The warriors are not fighting them, are they?”

Taeryn laughed. “No. Volorus was quick enough to order his crew not to put up any resistance. I managed to convince the warriors to in turn not to board the human ship and wave their guns in the face of the crew.”

“That’s something, anyway. Where is Volorus now?”

“In the Hold of the Forsaken.”

“The Hold of the Forsaken?” Illiawe exclaimed. “I will have to get him out of there!”

“You’ll have to do so psychically, Illiawe. The acolytes will not allow you to get up, and you are in no condition to do so anyway.”

“That’s not a problem, Taeryn. You will have to get them to stop whatever it is they are doing to me first, though. I can hardly think straight, let alone harness the energies of the Othersea.”

“I will fetch one of the acolytes. I will be back in a moment.” She turned on her heels and walked away, returning a few minutes later with an eldar in a gleaming white robe tied at the waist with a loose sash. Pouches and vials hung from that sash, and in its center was a score of gemstones and wraithbone pieces laid into a plate of intricately woven psychoplastic, forming a simple rune of Isha. Orbiting him were half a dozen runes, all variants of the one on his belt. Their psychic presence was soft and comforting.

He came to a stop beside the bed on which Illiawe lay and ducked his head perfunctorily, his fingers brushing against his chest. “Are you certain of your request, farseer?” he asked. “Your physical wounds may have healed, but not well enough yet that you will not feel anything.”

“I am sure that I am strong enough to bear it,” Illiawe assured him.

“No offense, esteemed farseer,” the acolyte said deferently, “but I doubt that. Your injuries were most severe.”

“Your duty to Isha is most commendable, acolyte, but I must insist. A few moments of agony is a fair price for avoiding the calamity that will fall upon us should the emissary of Man come into harm.”

The acolyte frowned, not understanding, then he shook his head slightly, as though to dismiss the reason for her request from his thoughts. “Very well, farseer. I shall do as you say, though neither I nor my path condones this.”

“I am sure that Isha will forgive you, acolyte. She is a most gentle goddess.”

“You must not speak so familiarly of Her, farseer,” the healer said reproachfully. Her vision cleared immediately, and the world became sharp, focused. The warmth that she felt retreated, leaving behind a coldness in Illiawe’s limbs. Then the pain hit her. It started deep within her breast, like a fist had been closed around her heart. A searing fire spread through her body, joined quickly by a throbbing pain. Illiawe quickly clenched her jaw, biting back the scream that rose to her lips.

“Perhaps you don’t have to remove all of whatever it is,” she managed to gasp, “just enough that I can think clearly.”

The acolyte raised his hands again, the pain subsided, and Illiawe’s thoughts grew clouded once more. He pursed his lips. “Perhaps I can dull your nerves, disconnect your mind from your body. You should be able to think clearly without being affected by the pain.”

Illiawe stared at him. “Then why have you not done that before?”

The acolyte coughed in embarrassment. “I have not walked this path for long, farseer, and this is quite beyond my ability to perform. I would have called for the one who instructs me in Isha’s art, but I’m afraid that your friend was quite insistent.” At this he cast a reproachful look at Taeryn.

Taeryn shrugged. “You did say that you could do what I wanted you to do.”

“I did, but the farseer now needs arts that I have not the confidence enough to perform.” His eyes grew distant for a moment. “Perhaps my mentor can assist you, however.”

Illiawe huffed in irritation. “How long will this take?”

“Be patient, Illiawe,” Taeryn murmured.

“Every moment that Volorus stays in the Hold increases the likelihood of the eldar coming into conflict with the humans, Taeryn.”

“I can always get the acolyte over here to remove the anesthetic, if you are in such a rush,” her friend replied sweetly. “Don’t worry, Illiawe. Volorus is a lot more understanding than you think.”

“Taeryn,” Illiawe said in a pained tone, “It was not too long ago that he was trying to have me killed.”

“You worry too much,” Taeryn said flippantly. She turned to look behind her. “Ah, here comes the other acolyte.”

The second acolyte looked to be about the same age as the first, and he too wore a similar attire. Apparently having been briefed by the first acolyte of Illiawe’s request, he came immediately to where she lay, holding a hand out to Illiawe, palm facing outward. A couple of runes orbited his fingers, and Illiawe clearly felt the moment when the acolyte released his will. Her vision darkened, then her mind cleared as it had before. This time, however, she felt no pain. Indeed, she felt nothing at all, not even the warmth that the device pressed against her heart radiated throughout her body. Her vision remained dark. She tried to open her mouth to voice her concern, but found that she was unable to do so. It seemed as though she was disembodied, floating in an emptiness devoid of all the things of the world.

“Is the procedure done?” she projected the thought to the eldar around her.

“It is,” came the reply. “Let me know when you wish to return your body to your mind.”

Illiawe pushed her mind out toward the infinity circuit of the craftworld, moving through it to the Hold of the Forsaken located at the stern of the ship, searching for the presence of Inquisitor Volorus’ mind. The Hold was a place seldom used by the eldar of Ulthwé. It was a heavily fortified place liberally decorated with wards and seals and assorted runes, built for the sole purpose of sealing beings of immense power away before the eldar decided on the way in which to dispose of their captive. It was also the craftworld’s only structure that could qualify as a permanent prison, however, and so the captives that resided within it were usually eldar who awaited ostracism, usually Commorrite spies, and the occasional Corsair or outcast too far gone on drink and exotic substances needing some place quiet to recuperate. The visits to the Hold from either factions were few and far between, however, and Illiawe found Volorus to be the only person within the Hold, save for a bored looking guard and a snoring Corsair navigator whose face bore the signs of having been recently involved in a brawl of some kind. The inquisitor sat in the corner of a dimly lit cell, his back set solidly against the wall, idly flipping through the pages of a thin book with the seal of the Inquisition stamped on its front cover. Surprisingly, Volorus did not appear to be too adversely affected by his predicament.

Illiawe reached out into his mind with her thoughts. “Volorus,” she called.

“Illiawe?” The inquisitor sounded surprised, and he looked around, peering into the corners of his cell as though he might be able to find her with his eyes.

“Don’t bother with that,” Illiawe informed him. “How are you doing?”

“Funny you should ask that. I was about to ask you the same thing.” He closed his book and laid it on the ground by his side. “Your kinsmen have been the absolute soul of courtesy, Illiawe.”

“Have they really?”

Volorus laughed. “Indeed they have – considering the less than cordial relations between the both of our races and our current circumstances, anyway. But you haven’t told me how you are feeling. From what I have heard, the eldar did not find you in the best condition.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll talk to the guards and get you released.”

“And here I was just planning a breakout.”

“Please don’t joke about that,” Illiawe replied in a pained tone. “Just hold still for a little while longer.”

“Were you expecting me to go somewhere?”

“Don’t be clever, or I’ll leave you in there.”

“I am hurt.” Then he laughed. “I think I can wait a little while longer. I got myself into this mess, after all.”

“I wouldn’t hold that against you,” Illiawe assured him sweetly. She withdrew her mind from him, turning to the guard nearby. “I am Farseer Illiawe,” she sent the thought to him. “Release the human, if you would.”

The guard exclaimed in surprise and jumped to his feet, looking around wildly, his hand going for the pistol by his side.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Illiawe told him disgustedly.

“Show yourself,” he commanded.

Illiawe sighed. This was going to be one of those encounters. She cast her mind about the room, searching with her psychic sight for a suitable spot. Eventually she found a corner shrouded in relative darkness, and this she pushed her mind out toward. And then she stepped out of the darkness of the corner, her eyes glinting with psychic fire and her robes swirling around her ankles in unseen winds. At least, that was what the guard saw. Rather unsurprisingly, the need for melodrama came without thinking to Illiawe, and she even found that she rather enjoyed it.

“Are you satisfied?”

The guard looked at her projection and hesitated. “Pardon my caution, farseer, but another farseer was assassinated by the humans not a day ago.”

“That is perfectly understandable,” Illiawe forgave him. “Could you free the human now? He’s not responsible for the shooting, and it would be rather poor form to keep him in detention, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“You do realize whom you are talking to, don’t you?”

The guard flushed. “Oh, of course.” He fumbled for a slate in the wall by his side, pressing the rune in its center. The wall of Volorus’ cell shimmered and slid away into the floor. The inquisitor looked up incuriously, and rather leisurely pushed himself to his feet, tucking his book back under his coat.

“That was quick,” he noted, straightening the front of his coat.

“Being a farseer has its perks.”

Volorus smiled slightly and walked out of the Hold, peering at her projection. “This is very convincing.”

“Very good, Volorus. You have very sharp eyes.”

“Not really. I simply know the work of the temple assassins. They are very thorough. Very few survive them, let alone are able to recover quickly enough to move about in so short a time.” He looked back at the rune studded walls of the Hold. “I don’t think you’ll need that anymore, however.”

Illiawe smiled. “I do not think that you will be able to find your way back to your ship without my guidance, do you?”

“And just what am I supposed to do there?”

“Don’t you have to return to the Imperium?”

“Something tells me that your kinsmen are highly unlikely to let me just go free. Aren’t you afraid of the taint that letting me just walk free is going to have on your image?”

Illiawe laughed. “The words of a farseer hold a lot of weight with the eldar of Ulthwé, fortunately. They may not always understand our reasons, but they know that we do not act without good reason.”

“It must be nice to hold so much trust,” Volorus said, just a little wistfully.

“One would think that your position holds similar levels of respect.”

“Respect and trust are two very different things, Illiawe.”

“Don’t get caught up on such trivialities, Volorus. There are bigger things to attend to, after all.”

Volorus smiled. “It’s probably just as well that my vacation here was so relaxing, then, isn’t it?”

“What is the matter with you today, Volorus?” Illiawe asked irritably. “You’re sounding more like Uriel.”

“Pardon me, esteemed farseer,” Volorus said expansively. “It’s not every day that a human is captured by the eldar and lives.”

“If you keep this up, I will have you thrown back in there,” Illiawe returned darkly.

Volorus chuckled. “It gives me hope, Illiawe. Maybe it’s a result of the looming threat of Chaos, or maybe it’s the lenient nature of the eldar of Ulthwé, but it does bode well for both our races working together.”

“Do not list that as an inevitable eventuality, Volorus.”

The inquisitor smiled. “One can hope, can one not? I’ll try and get word back to the Officio Assassinorum. Perhaps I will be able to do so this time without being interrupted.”

The Acolytes of Isha, Illiawe found, were stern and unyielding, especially when it came to their duty. Despite her protests to the contrary and the glaring absence of even the slightest hint of pain in her body, the acolytes tending to Illiawe insisted that she was yet unfit for even the most menial of tasks, and kept her confined to the bed over the next few days. The acolyte in charge of her recovery, an elderly eldar woman with a no nonsense demeanor, even went so far as to suggest that Illiawe should not use her psychic abilities. Illiawe firmly held her ground on that score, until the acolyte finally and grudgingly gave in – not due to Illiawe’s persuasive abilities, she suspected, but rather out of a fear that Illiawe would impede her recovery through the simple act of arguing with her.

Illiawe spent her days entertaining herself by moving through the craftworld with her mind, going through the familiar motions of her station. She tended meticulously to the ship’s solar sails, adjusted the facing of its prow with great care, attended to a thousand minute details in its hull and in the energy moving through its infinity circuit. Perhaps fortunately, the state of the craftworld ensured that Illiawe was not confined to such trivialities. She guided the fleets of the craftworld and the corsairs, she consulted with visiting farseers and autarchs, and now and then she sent her mind out into the void to probe for potential dangers.

Taeryn visited quite frequently, breaking the monotony of Illiawe’s duties with idle chatter. Balelath, too, also made sure to stop by whenever his duties would allow him to do so, and with him came Isenran. The two brought with them graver conversation than Taeryn did, usually concentrating upon the progress of this or that skirmish or the details of a particular conference or the state of a craftworld or Exodite world, but Illiawe appreciated the gesture all the same. The elderly acolyte tending to Illiawe did not appreciate these visits. After a particularly long and somewhat loud conversation between Illiawe and all three eldar, she came up to them and, in her crisp manner, demanded that Illiawe’s friends cease their visitations. Taeryn, of course, brushed her request off with an airy laugh and vague promises, until the acolyte eventually left in a huff, whereupon the conversation of the unruly eldar crowded around Illiawe’s bed picked up again. For some reason, however, their voices were far more moderated than before.

Ethorach did not give the acolyte such headaches. Indeed, Illiawe’s former mentor was conspicuously absent for the length of her recuperation, though Illiawe knew for a fact that he visited the craftworld. His seeming disregard for her wellbeing would normally have bothered Illiawe, but there was something in the harlequin consciousness that was not there before. She quickly amended that thought. It had been there, just not to the degree that it now was. Even without probing as to the exact nature of the presence, she knew, on an instinctual level, the owner of that mind, even if its vastness and ancient and ageless wisdom had not quickly given it away. A great comfort seemed to descend upon Illiawe, not out of any active action on the part of the Laughing God, but rather it was comfort taken from simple proximity, an assurance like that of what a child might experience through the mere knowledge that its parent was near. There was with Him another presence too, this one more fleeting but no less instantly recognizable. It bore the delight of all the things of the world and the pleasures of more abstract concepts, and though it brushed only briefly at any one time against Illiawe’s mind, it was on a far deeper level that Cegorach’s touch. And since the second presence reached out to her, so too did Illiawe reach out to it.

“Should I be honored by this visit, dear mother?” she asked slyly.

“Probably not,” came Isha’s reply. “I will not be much of a god if I could not spare all My children some attention, will I?”

“Pardon me, Isha, but are You not trying to keep Your presence a secret?”

“Do you have so little faith in My ability to remain hidden from all the beings of the world, Illiawe?”

Illiawe flushed. “Your acolytes are a little too overprotective, Isha. Do You think You could do something about it?” Then Illiawe caught herself. Given the circumstances, it was probably not the best topic for a subject change. She caught her breath, anticipating anger from the goddess.

Isha, however, was far from offended. “They are just conscientious, Illiawe,” She laughed. “My apostles have very good judgement when it comes to the healing arts,” She continued in a tender, matronly tone. “They just want to make sure you get better, you know. There is really no reason to fight them. Do as they say. It’ll make the life of everyone a lot simpler.”

“It shall be as You command,” Illiawe replied just a little snippily.

Illiawe, however, did not follow Isha’s instructions. It was only a day after her talk with the goddess that Illiawe decided that she was really well enough to move about and that further confinement to the bed would only result in her entropy. Strangely enough, the acolytes did not so much as object when she left the room that she had been resting in and made her way to the exit of the shrine of Isha. A sliver of suspicion began to form in her mind, and when the elderly acolyte who tended to Illiawe passed her by with only the mildest display of annoyance, her suspicions were confirmed. She scowled darkly at the acolyte, but the other eldar paid her obvious irritation no heed.

“Be well, farseer,” she said by way of farewell and walked away to tend to other eldar in need of her attention.

Scowling, Illiawe went out of the shrine, tracking Taeryn’s thoughts through the infinity circuit. She found her friend in one of Ulthwé’s repositories, a large highly vaulted structure lined from wall to wall with dainty looking shelves filled with tomes and scrolls and wraithbone slates and crystals. The light of the sun streamed in through the stained glass high in the walls, lacing the air at the top of the repository with sheets of wavering rainbows.

Taeryn was slouched low in a chair before a table, an ancient scroll of some crackling, long obsolete psychoplastic in her hands. She looked up as Illiawe approached.

“You are looking a lot better,” her friend noted with a sly smile.

“I suppose,” Illiawe replied shortly, sourly.

“Aren’t we grumpy today? You’ve just been let out of the shrine. You should be more cheerful than this.”

“It was a waste of time,” Illiawe fumed.

“How do you mean?”

“I suspect that the acolytes were deliberately coddling me to force me out of bed. I could have walked out of the shrine days ago if I wanted to.”

Taeryn flashed her a large grin.

“I don’t see how it’s all that funny,” Illiawe muttered darkly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just looking through some of Ulthwé’s records. Did you know that there are hundreds of theories regarding the Rhana Dandra?”

“I think I’ve heard a few of them. Most farseers don’t believe in it, though, and I’ve never really had the incentive to pursue all of them.”

“Well, the farseers certainly believe in it now. Anyway, ever since the first visions of the Rhana Dandra, those farseers of Ulthwé who had them have been compiling their visions and interpretations. Most of those compilations ended up here.” She waved an arm in a vague gesture all around her. “There are all sorts of speculation as to what the Rhana Dandra would be like.”

“My visions regarding it are usually of a large battlefield, and of the Phoenix Lords and of Khaine’s avatar.”

Taeryn nodded. “That seems to be one of the most common visions. I guess it says something about the craftworlds’ fixation on the heroes of the eldar. But there are others. Naval battles, endless skirmishes, a single battle against Chaos spanning millennia and more, a duel between the greatest champions of both sides, even a few where the eldar invade the Othersea. The one I found most interesting, though, was that the Rhana Dandra is not a battle fought, but rather an act of defiance – a decision, if you will.”

“What sort of decision?” Illiawe asked dryly. “Whether we are going to fight or to wait for Slaanesh to claim our souls? That is a tough decision indeed.”

“Don’t be snide.”

“What sort of good is all of this going to be?” Illiawe asked irritably.

“Nothing,” Taeryn returned mildly. “I thought it was interesting, that is all.”

Illiawe scowled at her, and Taeryn smiled, standing and rolling the scroll back up, dropping it negligently onto the floor. Rather than falling, however, the scroll floated upward, returning to its original place on a nearby shelf. “Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested. “You seem like you need it.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know, Illiawe. I thought that I would let you decide.”

Illiawe paused. “I think that I’ll like to go to the Hall of the Autarchs.”

“That is a strange place to go to relax.”

“I am not looking to relax, Taeryn. I’ve had enough of that when the Acolytes of Isha decided that it’d be funny to confine me to a bed for the last few days. There should be autarchs from the other craftworlds meeting there. Perhaps they might have come up with something interesting. I think that I would like to find some of the outcasts afterwards – perhaps a pathfinder or a captain of a corsair fleet. They might have interesting news.”

“I thought that you didn’t like talking to the corsair captains. You were certainly grumbling about them a lot the last time the subject came up.”

“As long as they don’t try to exaggerate their sacrifices for hiring their services to the humans, I wouldn’t mind.”

As it turned out, Illiawe did not have to wait to talk to the outcasts. As she made her way to the open field of the Hall of the Autarchs, she saw a group of the brightly dressed commanders, all from different craftworlds, speaking animatedly to each other. With them was a corsair captain, his hard face and more flamboyant armor instantly marking him out as a member of one of the outcast fleets. Her curiosity aroused, Illiawe made her way toward the group with Taeryn in tow. The autarchs nodded perfunctorily at them as they neared. The captain’s acknowledgement of their presence was much less formal. Outcasts as a whole tended to be rather uncaring of the niceties of society, and he barely glanced at Illiawe and Taeryn. He did, however, flash them a quick smile, which Illiawe thought was rather nice of him.

“It is a perfect opportunity for a show of unity,” one of the autarchs was saying. “This skirmish would be a hint at what the forces of the Othersea gods will have to face when they come into the galaxy.”

“I fear that would just spur them onward,” a second autarch noted quietly. “The worshippers of Khorne will be pleased at having so many enemies to fight, and their reasons are the easiest to fathom. The worshippers of She Who Thirsts will be glad, I am sure, at the promise of having so many eldar souls to consume.”

“And yet we cannot ignore the fact that the forces of the Othersea will come against us regardless. This, at least, will provide an opportunity for us to solidify the image of our alliance. If nothing else, a victory here might boost morale, of eldar and humans both, and perhaps grant us some confidence in this alliance.”

“Is there a battle going on somewhere?” Illiawe asked curiously.

“Isn’t there always a battle going on somewhere?” the corsair captain asked sagely.

Illiawe scowled at him.

Taeryn laughed, quickly interjecting before the situation could deteriorate. “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive our dear farseer here, good autarchs. She’s been a little out of sorts in the last few days.”

“Ah,” the first autarch said delicately. He paused. “The captain here has brought word of a small Chaos fleet exiting the rift to the Othersea only a few minutes ago. A few of his ships are moving to intercept, and Ulthwé’s sensors have picked up the closest of the human fleets doing the same. From the looks of things, the Chaos fleet is headed toward the human world of Cadia.”

Illiawe frowned. “Cadia?” She found that she was suddenly quite apprehensive. The human world was home to ancient pylons that kept the rift to the Othersea in check. For millennia any invasion by the forces of Chaos had been effectively bottlenecked by the mere presence of the pylons. “Well, it looks as though the Rhana Dandra has started,” she observed softly.

The autarch nodded. “We think that this Chaos fleet has been sent merely to test any changes in our defenses. A large scale assault is undoubtedly imminent, probably with the goal of destroying the pylons so that the rift may expand.”

“We can’t let that happen, now, can we?”

Another of the autarchs smiled. “Since Ulthwé is the closest to Cadia, the captain here has brought this information to us. The other autarchs and I were discussing whether it is a good idea for us to send a small fleet to aid them in repelling the attackers, but I figure that you have already gathered as much. We are currently split on the issue. Perhaps the advice of a farseer may aid us in our decision.”

“The pylons at Cadia hold back the ceaseless expansion of the rift and keeps the forces of Chaos from pouring unopposed into this world,” Illiawe muttered absently. “Even if we do not lend aid out of geniality, it seems to me that defending Cadia serves our cause just as much as it serves the cause of the humans, and for that we shall not shy away from making the necessary sacrifices if need be.”

“Spoken like a true farseer,” the corsair captain drawled. Some of the autarchs laughed openly at that, others sought to hide their amusement, and yet others scowled and glared at the captain. The outcast, however, ignored all the looks that were thrown his way. He gazed steadily instead at Illiawe, the piercing look that all corsairs seemed to bear that bore into Illiawe. After a while he nodded. “I think that I’ll be heading back to my ship now. I wouldn’t want to miss any part of the battle.” He looked around him, eyeing one of the smaller webway gates of Ulthwé nestled in an alcove some way off. “I’ll use your gate, if you don’t mind.” With a polite nod by way of farewell he strode off.

The first autarch tapped at his chin. “I think that the farseer’s words are well heeded,” he spoke slowly. “It does not really matter if a combined force will draw the hunger of the daemons of the Othersea.” He smiled wryly. “They already thirst for our souls, and I do not see them coming after us at a saunter. If we are to be locked in a war against all the daemons of the Othersea gods, then, we should preserve as best we could all our resources now; the ships of that captain could be saved if we fall upon the Chaos fleet with all the might we could muster.”

“Ulthwé has few ships not already tasked with duties of their own,” an autarch wearing the black and bone-white liveries of Ulthwé said somberly. “A dozen or two at the very most, barely enough to lend any sort of meaningful aid to the corsair fleet. We cannot afford to weaken ourselves, however, by pulling away any other ships from their duties.”

“Melanhae has many available ships, however,” responded another, “and we are not far from Ulthwé. Our escorts could be here in a matter of minutes, and the wraithships not far behind. Surely Ulthwé will not miss some small portion of her escort for a while.”

The Ulthwéan autarch nodded. “There is no help for it.” He raised his face to the sky, and, a moment later, two scores of Shadowhunter escorts pulled away from the craftworld to disappear into the darkness of the void. Behind the small vessels followed the larger frigates, the light of the sun glinting briefly off their finlike solar sails before they, too, quickly disappeared from sight.

The Ulthwéan autarch drew in a deep breath. “Perhaps now is a good time to think further upon the coordination of our warhosts that we were discussing earlier,” he said to his colleagues. “I fear that we do not have much time left.”

With polite nods the autarchs went off deeper into the Hall of the Autarchs. Illiawe frowned as she watched them leave.

“I was hoping to get a word with them.”

“About what?” Taeryn asked with a shrug.

“Well…”

Taeryn squinted at her. “Do you really believe that the autarchs will have something interesting to say, Illiawe, or are you looking to be involved in something of immediate importance again?”

Illiawe flushed. “You did not have to say that.”

“Oh, I think that I did. If you are looking for something to do that feels important, why not come with me to Kenaleith? Last I heard, Balelath was there, and he might have the gossip that you crave.”

“Gossip?” Illiawe protested.

“Isn’t that what it is?”

“Well, I suppose so, but you don’t have to say it like that.”

Balelath, however, only had one thing on his mind when they tracked him down to a sparsely furnished house in the city of Mar-Kenaleith. He was at a plain table, his fingertips pressed lightly to a wraithbone slate.

“What is it now?” he asked in irritation when they entered.

“Should we come back?” Illiawe asked, an eyebrow raised inquiringly.

“No,” Balelath replied with a short laugh. “I’m just a little out of sorts, is all.”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“I’ve had some problems with a few Exodites.” Balelath’s tone was just a little surly.

“The craftworlds should be protecting the Exodites, Balelath, not picking fights with them,” Taeryn suggested dryly.

Balelath shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. There is an eldar of Mar-Kenaleith, Laenel, a Keeper of Kenaleith.”

“Ah,” Taeryn said delicately. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“What’s a Keeper of Kenaleith?” Illiawe asked curiously.

“Every Exodite city has a keeper,” Taeryn explained. “Each of them is connected by mind and soul to the trees. They are priests, representatives, and physical manifestation of the trees all rolled into one. Their primary duty is to protect the Exodites, the worlds, and the creatures of the worlds from any harm. In return, the trees allow them to draw on its power, and they can exert almost any kind of control over the planets of the Exodites. Understandably, they hold quite a lot of respect among the Exodites. They aren’t really the Exodites’ leaders, but it’s about as close as the Exodites will get to having one.” She turned back to Balelath. “What’s the problem with Laenel?”

“She wants to join in the fight against Chaos. Most of the keepers do, even the ones not on Kenaleith.”

“I still don’t see a problem.”

Balelath’s expression grew pained. “Taeryn, the Exodites refuse to use anything but the most rudimentary of technologies. They are still using animals to get around.”

“The trees provide very good substitutes for the technologies of the craftworlds, Balelath. They may not have void ships, but their understanding of the psychic arts far surpasses even those of the farseers or the harlequins.”

“Taeryn, from what I’ve been told, the keepers can’t draw their powers if they stray too far from the trees. How are they going to be of use in a battle far from the light of the stars?”

“The trees’ power stretches far, Balelath. But there are many things that their knowledge of the psychic arts can provide apart from those on the battlefield.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why don’t you wait and find out?” Taeryn replied with a little smirk.

Balelath sighed. “How are they going to defend themselves if the forces of Chaos attack? From what I hear, they had a lot of trouble defending Kenaleith the last time a daemon showed up.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Taeryn said softly. “There was something wrong with that incident. I caught a few pulses of some psychic struggle before the daemon showed up. It was very faint, but it was definitely there. Thinking about it now, I am certain that there were originally many more daemons, but the Exodites managed to keep most of them out. I think that the keepers were responsible.”

“You don’t sound very certain, Taeryn.”

“Is my word not good enough for you?”

“No,” Balelath replied shortly. “I am sorry, Taeryn, but I cannot rely upon speculation on the capabilities of the Exodites. If nothing else, I need to know exactly what kind of defense they could mount.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Balelath?” Taeryn asked irritably.

“This is my business, Taeryn. The defense of all the eldar worlds are the duty of the autarchs.”

“Come with me, then,” Taeryn said shortly, as though Balelath’s words had offended her.

“Where are we going?”

“We are going for a ride,” Taeryn replied tartly. “If you want to see the defenses that Kenaleith could mount, I am sure that it would be more than happy to give you a little demonstration.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 38

They fetched Maer and Kaleer from the Exodite garden where they had left them. Rather churlishly, Illiawe thought, Taeryn provided Balelath with a feisty quadrupedal creature with heavy, scaled eye ridges and twin tusks on either side of its flat head that gave it a rather angry look. Next to the other two lizards, its steps seemed heavy and slow. Taeryn had provided only a rudimentary saddle, and Balelath looked rather miserable as he bounced up and down upon his mount’s broad back.

“There must be a better way to travel,” the autarch complained as they made their way toward the east gate.

“Oh, quit complaining,” Taeryn told him. “If you want to see Kenaleith as it is, you’ll have to do so without a skimmer.”

“I’m not the one who suggested this excursion,” Balelath muttered, just loudly enough for Taeryn to hear. “Why is it that your mounts look a lot more comfortable than mine?”

“He was the best that I could obtain on such short notice. He was never meant for riding.”

Illiawe fell in beside Taeryn. “There’s something that I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why do the names of your lizard and mine sound similar? Is that a coincidence?”

“Do you really think that it is a coincidence?” Taeryn asked in amusement. “You are a harlequin. Think about it for a moment.”

Illiawe frowned. “Are they related to each other?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. They belong to the same pack, and that means they share the same minds. Your inclusion into the troupe altered your mind a little, if you haven’t noticed. You are a part of something greater, and your thoughts are a part of a greater thought. The Exodites have a similar structure, as do the creatures of the Exodite worlds. Unlike eldar twins or the harlequin troupes, though, the pack is more than the sharing of thoughts or emotions or identity. All the life of the Exodite worlds are a part of the world spirit of the trees, but among packs, the bond goes deeper. For all intents and purposes, Maer is Kaleer, in mind as well as soul.”

“That would explain a lot.” Illiawe glanced back at Balelath, who was grumbling to himself as he rode. “What about that lizard? Where is its pack?”

“That one is not a pack animal. It’s about the only reason Balelath is able to ride him.”

“That one went by a little fast.”

Taeryn pursed her lips. “The eldar of the craftworlds, with the exception of those born with a twin, lack the same structure that the troupes, the Exodites, even the creatures possess. Their thoughts are not the thoughts of packs, and their individuality hardly help put them in the proper state of mind to join with pack lizards like Kaleer the way you and I do.”

“You seem to know a lot about this, Taeryn.”

The other shadowseer shrugged. “The principle’s the same as that of the harlequins. It’s not difficult to understand.”

“I was referring to the Exodites, Taeryn,” Illiawe said with a gentle smile. “You know an awful lot about them.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to learn while you were off with Volorus and Uriel. There was really not much else to do.”

The air was unusually cool and the sky overcast that day. Large swathes of dirty clouds moved laboriously across the sky, blotting out the sunlight but for a few persistent rays that made their way down to the ground, the color sickly and washed out. The leaves of the vast forest to their left rustled in the stiff breeze.

“Where to now?” Taeryn asked Balelath.

“I don’t know,” he retorted just a little sourly. “You were the one who dragged me along to this.”

“Why, so I was!” Taeryn replied enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the autarch’s testy mood. “I think we will go into the forest. There are usually some interesting things roaming around there, and it’s much safer than the mountains.”

The familiar trees of the forest seemed that day to be somewhat forbidding. The scant rays of sunlight that usually pierced through the thick canopy to dimly light the sparse undergrowth of the forest floor was almost non-existent that day, and shadows lay ominously everywhere Illiawe looked. The wind drifted mournfully down through the great trunks of the ancient forest, wailing for times lost and never to again return. Even Maer, who enjoyed these rides, was skittish, and she walked close to Kaleer with her lips pulled away from her fangs. Their path was lit by golden flecks of dust that swirled lazily in the breeze among the trunks of the trees, spiraling upward to be lost in the branches and leaves above.

“Are we really going to be riding around doing nothing but look at the scenery?” Illiawe asked Taeryn.

“Of course not. If Balelath realizes that Kenaleith’s defenses are more substantial than he realizes, that would be a blessing, but there is something else I had in mind that the Exodites could provide.”

“That does not sound promising.”

“Trust me, Illiawe.”

“Do I have a choice?”

They rode for some time more in silence. A herd of grazing reptilian creatures watched them pass with dull-eyed curiosity. Their bodies were sleek and powerful, and they had long claws on their feet. One of their numbers raised its head and snarled threateningly at them, a frill of rainbow spines unfolding from the side of its head. Its eyes narrowed and its claws unsheathed, digging into the sod, but it made no move to attack. Taeryn prudently kept as far a distance from the creatures as possible, riding slowly and unthreateningly.

Then before them there was a single glade with grass and not even a single bush in sight. A single beam of sunlight came through a gap in the thick canopy of the surrounding trees, falling in the exact center of the glade. A lone eldar woman reclined there with her back against a rock. She wore a simple and coarse smock, and her eyes were closed, her fingers absently stroking the bowed neck of a silvery scaled lizard, softly singing an ancient tune. As they neared she cracked open an eye and looked steadily at them.

“What took you so long?” She jumped to her feet and stretched, shaking out the yellow hair that tumbled in curls down her back. “Lauvan’s starting to get impatient.” She made a face. “Of course, he’s always impatient.”

“How’s the forest, Laenel?” Taeryn asked with a little smile, climbing down from Maleer.

“Well, the trees have been telling me that one of your party doubts the capabilities of Kenaleith,” she responded with a sidelong look at Balelath, who simply grunted and refused to look at her. She turned to look quizzically at Illiawe.

“Oh, yes, this is Illiawe of Ulthwé,” Taeryn introduced her.

Laenel smiled. “I see Taeryn got her claws on you too, shadowseer. She tends to be a little zealous in preaching the words of the Laughing God.”

“Well, that’s not quite true,” Taeryn muttered, sounding a little offended, and Laenel laughed.

Balelath had a bemused look on his face. “Shadowseer?” he asked Illiawe.

“It’s a long story,” Illiawe told him. “I will tell you all about it later.” She turned back to Laenel. “You know about that?”

“Of course I do,” the Exodite replied flippantly. “It is rather obvious.”

Illiawe looked closely at Laenel. The Keeper of Kenaleith was young in both appearance and demeanor. Illiawe judged that she could not have been more than half a millennia old. Her light laugh, open face, and the brown curls that tumbled whimsically down over one shoulder did little to belie her youthful appearance. She flicked her head at them. “Come on, them. We must not keep Lauvan waiting.”

“That would not be a good idea,” Taeryn agreed.

They remounted and followed the keeper away from that glade. Laenel rode daintily, her posture relaxed and seemingly inattentive. Taeryn rode by her side, and they chatted easily and animatedly about inconsequential things, as though they had known each other for centuries.

The forest was dense, but their mounts were agile, and they made good time. After a few hours of riding, they neared the northern edge of the forest. Surprisingly, Laenel did not lead them out of the forest, instead turning west.

“How far away’s our destination?” Balelath asked.

“I’m not sure,” Laenel replied. “All that other Exodite cities move around quite a lot. It’s somewhere off that way.” She waved her arm in a general northwesterly direction.

“I don’t suppose you could be a little more specific?” Balelath asked a little testily.

“I know its approximate location. We’ll be able to find it once we’re near.” She turned to cast an arch look at Balelath. “Does my poor sense of direction bode poorly for Kenaleith’s ability to defend itself?”

“I suppose that if you are unable to find the moving cities, no resource that our enemies have will be able to locate them,” Balelath said dryly.

“What an astute observation!” Laenel exclaimed with exaggerated childish delight. From somewhere far back in the forest there was a deep toned bellow, hoarse, long, and loud, the throaty sound reverberating through the trunks of the trees all around them. Laenel paled and straightened in her saddle. “Let’s move along,” she suggested, clicking her tongue. “Come on, Melneth. Maybe we can outrun the forwyn.” Her lizard chittered skeptically, but picked up its pace.

“What are the forwyn?” Illiawe asked with trepidation.

Another bellow came drifting out of the forest, closer this time.

“That,” Laenel replied laconically. “They usually roam the plains of Kenaleith. I was hoping that they would not have strayed so far into the forest.” A series of bellows rose up around them.

“There’s one,” Taeryn muttered, glancing someway off into the shadows of the trees to their right.

Illiawe followed her gaze. A dark shape flittered through the shadows a couple of hundred feet back, disturbing the golden dust that hung still in the air there, briefly blocking out the meager light streaming down through the canopy. “How big are these creatures?” Illiawe demanded.

“Big enough,” Taeryn replied. “There’s another to our other side. They’re closing in, Laenel.”

“That’s how the packs hunt. They aren’t quite ready to pounce yet, fortunately.”

“When will they do that?” Illiawe asked.

“When they stop howling. Let’s just keep moving. There is not much that we could do.”

“There is not?” Balelath asked skeptically. “You are a Keeper of Kenaleith, Laenel.”

“I am not going to interfere in the hunting of the creatures of Kenaleith, Balelath,” Laenel replied primly.

“Even when we are the prey?”

“Our best chance to keep ahead of the pack is to stay within the forest. We can’t outrun them on the plains.”

“Wouldn’t we have to go out onto the plains eventually?”

“We will just have to make a break for it, but we’ll worry about that when we have to. For now, just keep moving.” And she pushed Melneth into a sprint.

The hunting calls of the forwyn grew steadily more frenzied, their chorus growing in size as more joined in the chase. Their lizards were quick, darting through the undergrowth and around the trunks of trees, covering as much distance as they would have been able to on open ground, but the forwyn easily kept pace, relying just as much on their brute strength as they did on pure speed, bulling aside any low hanging branches and whole trees that got in their way.

One of the forwyn drew nearer alongside them, coming out of the shadows of the forest. The ghostly flickers that Illiawe had glimpsed of the creatures had indicated that the forwyn were large, but the shadows had prevented Illiawe from gauging their exact size. The forwyn that had drawn close towered easily twice as tall as Illiawe was upon Maer. It was a shaggy creature with beady eyes and a short snout that was open in a snarl, with beads of spittle dripping from its jaws. Its paws thudded heavily on the forest ground, and the frills upon its head and along its spine were flared wide. On instinct, Illiawe lashed her arm out, sending lightning arcing out from her fingertips. The energy struck the forwyn, in a single moment burning away its hide and filling the air with the smell of burnt fur. The forwyn, however, appeared unfazed, its pace uninterrupted. Illiawe risked a closer look at the creature. There was a patch of charred flesh above its shoulder where her lightning had struck it, revealing a layer of shiny black chitin hide.

“Don’t bother,” Taeryn shouted back at her over the wounded forwyn’s enraged bellow. “It would take half a dozen bright lances to properly put one of them down.”

“Either of us could likely match that.”

“Don’t bother,” Taeryn repeated. “There are too many of them for us to fight.”

Then, abruptly, the chorus around them ceased, leaving only the footfalls of their lizards and the forwyn in the sudden ominous silence of the forest.

“Here they come,” Laenel cautioned. “Keep moving.”

A snarling forwyn, evidently having grown bored of the chase, came pouncing out from the surrounding trees, its paws stretched hungrily toward Melneth, a deep growl coming from its throat. Without looking, Laenel raised an arm and clenched her fist. A nearby tree bent backward, seemingly of its own accord, the impossible contortion of its trunk sending dried bark flying. The tree snapped back along the ground like a springy sapling might, catching the leaping forwayn in the side of its head. The unfortunate creature was sent flying through the air, until its flight was suddenly interrupted by the trunk of another tree. There was the plainly audible sound of breaking bones and the forwyn screeching in pain. The spot where it had landed grew quickly obscured as they rode, and Illiawe was not sure if it got up again. She smiled grimly. Apparently, the keeper was perfectly willing to harm the creatures of Kenaleith when the situation demanded it.

Then there was a sudden growling from before them, and a couple of forwyn came leaping out, jaws snapping savagely at the air. With a startled chitter their lizards turned without prompting to go around the creatures, but a deep rumbling growl from the side of the forwyn caused them to abruptly stop. The surrounding forest seemed suddenly alive with forwyn as they stalked steadily closer, their steps perfectly silent. Laenel flicked a hand irritably and the ground around them heaved and shifted. A formation of rock rose up around them, forming a high wall that completely encircled them. From the other side there was the sound of scrabbling, but the forwyn appeared, for the moment at least, deterred.

“Is the plan to wait for those creatures to get bored and leave?” Balelath asked dryly.

“No,” Laenel replied calmly. “They will figure out how to scale or bypass the wall – eventually.”

“You know,” Illiawe said, “you are travelling with two shadowseers. Since you are so set on not harming the forwyn, Taeryn and I can make us invisible, and we can just ride out of here.”

“That’s not going to work,” Laenel objected, shaking her head slightly. “We will still leave tracks.”

“The forwyn can track us that way?” Balelath asked incredulously.

“Did you think they were just simple creatures?”

“You can conceal our tracks by bringing up the ground,” Taeryn pointed out.

“The window to do so is very small. That is going to be rather inconvenient.”

“Is getting eaten more convenient?”

“It is not going to work anyway, unless you can also cover up our scent.”

“I think that’s possible.”

Laenel shook her head. “The forwyn have very sensitive noses. About the only way that you are going to do that is to cut off the air altogether.”

“I think that you are over-exaggerating,” Balelath scoffed.

“Would you like to confirm things for yourself?” Laenel challenged. She pursed her lips. “Perhaps I could convince the trees to spread some false scents about. That might confuse the forwyn for long enough.”

Taeryn nodded. “It’s worth a try, anyway. Come on, Illiawe. You conceal Balelath, and I’ll conceal Laenel.”

Illiawe nodded, reaching for the energies of the Othersea. “Just follow my lead, Balelath. You wouldn’t be able to see once we’ve started.”

Laenel took a quick look about her and flicked a finger. The walls around them sank back into the ground. The forwyn pressed on eagerly, barking excitedly, until the calls faded into confused sounds as they realized that their prey had vanished. Their nostrils flared as they sniffed at the air. Illiawe held her breath. The forwyn pack quickly grew restless and, after a few moments, one of them let out an enraged snarl and swiped in frustration at a nearby unoffending tree, reducing a portion of it to splinters and leaving behind a foot deep gouge in the ancient trunk.

They rode carefully around the forwyn pack and went away at a walk, moving slowly to allow Laenel the time to get accustomed to her task. Slowly they picked up the pace, pushing their lizards forward impatiently, yet nervously keeping a tight hold on their mounts. It was a tense ride, caution conflicting with the need to get as far away from the forwyn as possible.

Illiawe glanced behind her. “It looks like the pack is spreading out.”

Laenel nodded. “It’s a nasty habit of theirs. They are very persistent.”

“How long will they keep this up?”

“A few hours, at the very least.”

“Hours?” Illiawe exclaimed. “Wouldn’t they search for easier prey?”

Laenel’s thought was amused. “No. They still have our scent. They are only unable to pinpoint it. They will hound us for a while more yet. Let’s pick the pace up a little. I think that I’ve got the hand of this.”

They continued at a healthy lope, frequently doubling back and making periodic turns among the trees in an attempt to throw off the pursuing forwyn. Now and again one of the creatures came close enough that the eldar could have reached out and brushed their fingers across the creatures’ fur and hear the heavy breathing of the towering animals. Then, rather abruptly, the barking of the pack stopped and turned into frightened yelps. Within a dozen seconds, they had melted back into the trees and the forest grew silent once again.

“That does not bode well,” Taeryn observed dryly.

“No,” Laenel replied. “There’s a score of enair nearby.”

“Are they going to start chasing us as well?” Balelath asked.

“Let us hope not. The enair feed on the souls of their victims rather than the flesh.”

“We could still sneak by them, I suppose,” Illiawe mused.

“There’s no point. They sense psychic use, so you might as well go around with bells and trumpets if you plan on drawing on the energies of the Othersea.”

Regrettably, Illiawe pulled her mind away from her runes and allowed the cloak around them to fall away. Laenel was looking fearfully around her as she came back into view.

“There’s one now,” the keeper said, her expression surprisingly calm.

Illiawe turned in her saddle. Somewhere back among the trees there was movement, brief flickers of creatures no larger than Illiawe’s palm darting among the bark of the trees and beneath the undergrowth and up among the leaves of the lower branches of the trees.

“They aren’t very large, are they?” Illiawe asked.

“They don’t have to be. Well, there’s only one thing to do.” Without a second word she laid her fingers upon Melneth’s bowed neck and took off at a sprint.

“Keeper,” Balelath called out nervously as he drew along behind her, “I would appreciate it if you will set aside your personal inhibitions and order those creatures away. I don’t think that you’ll find the idea of having your soul consumed any more pleasing than I do.”

“Oh, very well.” She raised her face to the sky. There was neither sound nor visible indication of her spell, but the shapes darting about through the leaves before them turned aside and vanished.

“I have cleared them out of that path,” Laenel called back.

“Is there nothing else that you could do?” Balelath asked incredulously.

“There is no need for anything else. Ride!” She leaned forward in her saddle and her lizard sprang forward with a sudden burst of renewed energy.

Their tireless lizards bore them through the forest until they neared its northern edge. Laenel raised the ground and turned the trees and vegetation aside and even altered the air around them, creating areas of vacuum and conjuring gales out from the tops of the trees, sending the wind howling through the trunks around them and whipping up a veritable storm of leaves and branches. Yet the enair continued to pursue them.

“The creatures of Kenaleith are very persistent, aren’t they?” Illiawe shouted sourly. Her words were instantly whipped away by the wind.

Then before them there was the golden light of the sun streaming in between the trunks of the trees. In a single stride they crossed that boundary of the forest, where the trees grew distinctively thinner and fewer, until they broke out of the tree line into an open field. The light of the sun struck them fully, the sudden brightness catching Illiawe unprepared and forcing her to squint. It took her a single second to adjust to the light, and there upon the field before them stood a single eldar. He was clad in a simple smock, and his hands were clasped calmly before him. The light of the afternoon sun framed his silvery hair in a golden aura, and his lined face was cast in shadows. They rode around him, Laenel reined Melneth in, and they followed suit. The lone eldar had not moved, even when the enair came scuttling out of the shadows of the forest. They were worm-like creatures with rubbery skin and featureless heads, and their movement was erratic as they moved upon spindly segmented blade-like legs. The eldar spoke then a single word, and though his voice was soft, there was an unmistakable authority within it. The enair abruptly stopped in their tracks, seeming to gaze at him, though they had no eyes. Then, as one, they turned and disappeared back into the forest.

“Still as soft-hearted as usual, Laenel,” the eldar said by way of greeting, turning toward them. His speech was measured, his words spoken with gravity. Unconsciously, a peculiar sense of reverence came over Illiawe, not for the eldar’s station or for who he was, but rather for the obvious wisdom that he exhibited and the way in which he carried himself.

Laenel showed him no such respect. “Arnyl!” she exclaimed delightedly, sliding off Melneth’s back to wrap her arms around the eldar’s neck. Then she turned to them. “This is Arnyl, the Keeper of the city of Eniel.” Quickly she introduced them to him, and he greeted each of them in turn with a nod and a few polite words. “What are you doing here?” she asked him when that was done.

“I have heard that Lauvan wanted to open the rootways to the craftworlds. I was in the area anyway, so I figured that I would stop by.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about that now, Arnyl,” Laenel protested, stamping her foot.

“Am I ever so sorry,” Arnyl apologized mournfully.

“What’s this?” Taeryn asked, her eyes alight. “The rootways, Laenel? You mean to tell me they exist?”

“Look what you’ve gone and done,” Laenel chided Arnyl, turning to remount Melneth. “It’s nothing, Taeryn.”

Arnyl smiled and raised his arm, and a great raptor came dropping out of the sky. It was as large as a house, and its feathers had a deep crimson cast to it that gave it the impression of being on fire. It landed softly, flaring its wings at the last moment, lowering its head for Arnyl and gazing at them with fierce black eyes. Arnyl climbed upon it to seat between its wings.

“Come on,” he called to them, “I’ll guide you to Lenea.” With a single soft flap of its wings the bird took off into the sky, spiraling upward into the clouds.

They followed Arnyl for the better part of an hour, until eventually there appeared on the horizon a dozen oblong shapes that bobbed back and forth along the ground. As they continued to ride, each of the shapes sprouted a thin stalk at one end. Then they crested a hill, and there below them a dozen of great creatures came striding majestically out of a saddle between two mountain ranges. The shapes that they had seen were the heads of those creatures, and they had long serpentine necks and great tails that swung lazily behind them. The broad backs of the creatures were like leathery hills, brown and draped with great lengths of cloths and the pelts of the lesser creatures of Kenaleith. Upon the backs of each reptile was a wide pan, and upon the pans sat what could only be described as small towns.

“And there lies Lenea,” Laenel intoned softly, stopping Melneth with a light touch upon his neck. She lowered her head for a moment, as though praying, then led them down the side of the hill to approach the mobile city. The tremors of the footfalls of the bearers of Lenea ran through the ground, growing heavier as they neared. “Be careful when you are talking,” Laenel cautioned them. “The Exodites who live in the moving cities are a standoffish lot. Some of them, like our dear Lauvan, harbor a hatred of humans, so try not to make any untoward suggestions in that direction.”

A couple of Exodites on flat, stout lizards came riding out to escort them to the largest of the bearers of Lenea, where a cradle floated alongside the massive creature on twin anti-gravitic engines. Without prompting, Maer stepped onto the platform and stood there expectantly. Balelath was the last to board; as soon as he had done so, the platform rose without the faintest hint of a shiver into the air, borne aloft on its engines. The ground fell quickly away, and above them loomed the great armored underbelly of the gargantuan creature that bore the central town of Lenea, looming closer with each passing second. The outriders that had escorted them became little specks on the ground. A flight of winged reptiles winged their way between the backs of their bearer and another that walked beside it, looking for all the world as though they were navigating a valley nestled in a mountain range. The lead rider bowed his head respectfully at Laenel as he passed, then his mount dipped its wings and he veered away.

The beat of soft wings drifted down from above and Arnyl’s raptor drifted down some distance from them, hovering on silent wings. “Welcome!” he announced grandly. “Welcome to Lanea-Mas!”

“Lenea-Mas?” Illiawe asked Taeryn softly.

“Lenea is the name of the city – the whole herd of bearers,” Taeryn explained. “This bearer carries the town of Lenea-Mas. The other towns have variations of the same name.”

“Where’s Lauvan?” Laenel called to Arnyl, squinting against the glare of the sun.

“He’s waiting at his house,” Arnyl replied, gesturing toward the head of the bearer.

Laenel nodded and slid off Melneth. “I’m going to talk to him,” she informed the rest of them. “If I’m not back before you reach the top, just go along the spine of the bearer. We’ll be waiting at the house nearest to its head.” She gave Melneth a final pat and, taking two quick steps, sprang lightly off the edge of the platform. With a startled shout Balelath reached for her, followed shortly by Illiawe, but the keeper of Mar-Kenaleith was too quick for even the autarch. Then, with a carefree laugh she rose once more into view upon the back of a winged reptile.

"Show off," Balelath muttered, straightening in his saddle. He had a faintly offended expression upon his face, and Illiawe turned her head so that he would not catch her smile.

The cradle eventually slowed as they approached the pan set upon the back of the bearer and a small gap that had been set into the edge of the structure. Then before them rose the buildings of Lenea-Mas. They had emerged, Illiawe saw, on a faintly dock-like structure, a reasonably empty area backed by high railings and framed on both sides with shelves stacked high with machines. The houses before them were much like the houses of Mar-Kenaleith, sturdy, plain, and strictly utilitarian affairs laid out in neatly on both sides of Lenea-Mas’ single spiral street. More structures had been stacked atop them, forming a ragged cone, connected by swaying walkways. Despite the precarious nature of the town, the pan upon which they stood seemed barely to move, not even swaying with each step that the bearer of Lenea-Mas took.

The streets of Lenea-Mas were sparsely populated, most of the Exodites living there having gone out with this or that hunting or scouting party, and they were able to move up it two abreast without causing too much fuss.

The bottom of the pan that held the town had been lined with a silvery coat, and the sunlight reflected off the streets in a dazzle of rainbow light. Cutting along the spiral street running down along the spine of the bearer was a single boulevard, and this they turned onto, the lizard’s head bobbing before them past the rim of the pan between the walls of the houses rising up on either side leading them onward. The Exodites that lived in Lenea were wild looking with heads that were shaved, leaving only a single scalp lock tied back with bits of leather or stone rings. Their faces were set and hard, and they gazed at all around them with flat looks. Many had war paints adorning their cheeks and foreheads, and the runes of Lenea and Lenea-Mas seemed to be a standard feature of their garments. In many ways they reminded Illiawe of the eldar of the corsair fleets, something that she had not expected after her stay in Mar-Kenaleith. She was not sure if she appreciated the change all that much.

Above them circled flocks of raptors and reptiles, unusually silent save for the occasional cry that drifted mournfully down to the streets. A group of children ran across the street, playing a game that appeared to involve a lot of giggling. From somewhere up the street an animal howled, and snatches of an ancient tune sung by an eldar with a clear, rich voice drifted upon the breeze in the almost silent air, as though she had not a care in the world. Mingled with the voice raised in song were deep, barbaric tones of the horns of the Exodite outrider parties ranging far to the fore and the rear of Lenea.

Once a hunting party rode by, bearing with them the spoils of their hunt, and they were forced to wait by the side of the street as the group went past. Eventually they reached the outermost street of Lenea-Mas, where the houses rising on both sides ended. There was only a single structure there, a two-storied house with long curving wings at its side, a tall spire at its back, and twin banners, one of Lenea and one of Lenea-Mas, framing its entrance. Laenel was there waiting, as was Arnyl, and with them was a third eldar whom Illiawe did not recognize. The keeper of Lenea had a grim, long face and an even longer chin. Like the other two keepers he wore plain clothing that gave no indication of his station, and hanging loosely open from his shoulders was a heavy cloak that flapped around his ankles. He regarded them silently as they approached, his face giving no indication of his thoughts.

“I am honored by the appearance of so many august visitors,” he said, bowing deeply at the waist. “The keepers of Kenaleith welcome our brethren of the craftworlds and the daughters of the Laughing God.”

“And the Laughing God acknowledges the kind hospitality of the will manifest of the world spirits,” Taeryn replied immediately with no hint of embarrassment at her rather specious statement, dipping her head in a graceful stage bow with her hands outstretched by her side.

Laenel giggled, a surprisingly childish sound, and came forward to clasp Taeryn’s hand, tugging her toward the house. Lauvan’s face took on a pained look. “Please, keeper. There are certain formalities involved in a situation such as this.”

“You’re such a bore,” Laenel brushed him off. “We’re all friends here, so you can put away your ceremonies. Let these people in so you can show them the rootway.”

Lauvan sighed, giving Taeryn an apologetic look. “The Keeper of Mar-Kenaleith is, I am afraid, rather enthusiastic.”

Taeryn smiled back at him. “That is quite all right, Lauvan. We can do this twice next time.”

Lauvan smiled briefly, standing aside, inviting them to enter the house.

Like the houses of Mar-Kenaleith, Lauvan’s abode had none of the interior walls that gave a house the final sense of completion, not even to separate the wings of the house from the center building. The sole exception to that rule was a single empty doorway at the far wall connected to the base of the tower that Illiawe had seen from the outside. This Lauvan led them through, up a flight of spiral stairs to a single room at its top. The room was bare save for a single tall window looking out toward the head of the bearer-lizard.

Lauvan moved to stand in the center of the room. He gave them a grave look and raised his hand, palm facing outward. The air in the room shimmered and grew heavy, and a portal opened a foot away from him. It was not the shimmering pool of light that the portals to the webway were, but was rather a doorway that stood without support, lending full view into all that lay beyond it.

“What is that?” Illiawe asked, inching closer to peer into the portal.

“That is the rootway,” Laenel explained. “When the Fall shattered the webway and the craftworlds further reduced it by using sections of it as prisons, the Exodites sought to create our own system using the old knowledge on the creation of the webway. The result was this, a dimension split from this world and the Othersea by the link of the trees.”

“Does it function in the same way as the webway, then?”

“Not quite. The webway is more or less a rather mundane place, a somewhat tangible dimension. The rootway’s passageways are quite a bit more abstract than that. They are a manifestation of the power of the trees given form and purpose.”

Illiawe frowned. “Anyone who traverse the rootway travels through the raw psychic power of the trees? But that’s impossible!”

“Obviously it’s not impossible,” Laenel pointed out flippantly. She caught Illiawe’s expectant look and made a face. “I don’t think I can explain it to you. I don’t quite understand how it works.”

Beside her, Arnyl sighed. “In time, keeper, perhaps you might.” He turned to Illiawe, his brow creased in thought. “The trees gather the energies of the Othersea, and this it uses to create another form of energy. Some of that goes into the rootway, giving it form in a place away from this reality, the Othersea, or even the webway, while the psychic roots of the trees that link the Exodite worlds give the rootway purpose.”

“One cannot journey without vehicles on something as intangible as energy!” Illiawe asserted.

“You translocate yourself by manipulating the energies of the Othersea, do you not?”

“That’s different,” Illiawe protested.

“Is it really? How is the rootway any different from your method of traverse?”

“Do you really expect me to believe that the trees refine the energies of the Othersea and use the result to create its own dimension?”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” Arnyl mused. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“This is just absurd,” Illiawe flared. Though she knew that the Exodites possessed knowledge of the world that the craftworlds did not, she had harbored the hope that their ability to apply the understanding was undeveloped; the flagrant display of their scientific prowess, the knowledge that the Exodites did not need the protection of the craftworlds if they so desired, greatly insulted her. It was irrational and quite childish, but Illiawe did not really care. “Are there any advantages that the rootway has over the webway, then?” she challenged.

“The fact that it is not a physical construct makes it a lot less susceptible to daemonic incursion,” Arnyl said blandly.

Illiawe narrowed her eyes, trying to find something offensive in his words. “Why have the eldar not done this before, then?”

“The webway was constructed and refined in the early days of the eldar civilization with only the most rudimentary knowledge of the world around us, and it was barely worked upon from then on. Our ancestors thought that the webway gave them advantage enough over the other races, and they grew complacent, as they did in many things. The shattering of the webway during the Fall proved their folly.”

“All right, Arnyl,” Laenel interjected, pushing past him, “enough with your ruminations. Let us do what we all came here to do and show them the rootway.” And with that she stepped through the portal.

The tunnels of the rootway were different from those of the webway. Where the webway was lit by rainbow light that swirled under the very fabric of its walls, the structures here were cast in a perpetual state of dusk, a dim light that, though intense, was ironically barely bright enough to stretch to the walls on either side of them, seeming to leech all color from everything within it. Even the brilliant diamonds of Taeryn’s suit appeared dull and off-color. The walls and the ground themselves felt insubstantial, as though Illiawe walked on clouds, or perhaps the air, though it was inarguably firm beneath her steps and her touch. There were other differences, too. The tunnels of the webway were filled with runes and structures of obviously eldar construct, all laid out with a precise design in mind, as were the paths that the webway took. Here the tunnels were meandering and asymmetrical. The walls and the ceiling curved sometimes inwards and sometimes outwards, forming strange protuberances, bubbles, depressions, and troughs. On the rare occasion these deformities aligned opposite each other, and impromptu bottlenecks and caverns were formed. Now and then, when Illiawe looked back at where they had come from, she saw depressions and bubbles that she was sure had not been there before. Once, she was sure that there appeared behind them a bend in the tunnel far closer than Illiawe remembered. She swallowed and looked resolutely ahead. The webway shifted and changed according to its will or the desire of the eldar, but at least it had the courtesy to feign immobility when the eldar were within sight of its walls. In this place that was obviously not born of any living thing, mortals and immortals alike were intruders, trespassers merely seeking passage from one place to another.

“Where are we going?” Balelath asked, his tone hushed, obviously uneasy in the unfamiliar place.

“Nowhere,” Laenel replied. “You are here only to observe.”

“What are we supposed to be observing?”

“The safety that the rootway could provide,” she replied simply.

Balelath stared blankly at her.

“The war is begun,” Lauvan elaborated. “This war we fight to preserve our civilization, yet it is also a war that will consume the galaxy and beyond. The risks are obvious. Even the webway is not safe from invasion from the Othersea, and we fear that this war will bring about a calamity like that of the Fall; the webway is vulnerable. We do not wish to take this risk. We offer the rootway to the harlequins and the craftworlds, so that the remnants of our civilization could be preserved.”

“The craftworlds protect the past of our race,” Balelath said stiffly. “They have done so for the past ten millennia, and will continue to do so.”

“Yes,” Lauvan said softly, nodding. “But if the craftworlds are destroyed, what then? Will our history perish with the ships? You know as well as I that, once the fighting starts in earnest, no place in the galaxy is safe. And what of those eldar too young to fight? Will you submit them to the ravages of daemons?”

Balelath scowled darkly, the carefully worded question leaving him no room to protest. “I suppose that the craftworlds’ fleets and warhosts could be used more efficiently if there was no need to defend the craftworlds,” he said grudgingly.

Laenel grinned at him. “Was that really so difficult to admit?”

“Yes, it was.” He looked around him, his brow furrowed in thought, and Illiawe could almost hear his mind working. “How far does this stretch?” he asked curiously.

“As far as the trees do. That is to say, far enough.”

“That’s not very specific,” Balelath complained.

“No one really knows how far the trees’ presence stretches,” Laenel explained. “None of us have been able to discover its limits yet, though.”

“I suppose that would have to suffice,” Balelath said dubiously. “Perhaps I have misjudged the capabilities of the Exodites.”

“I knew that you would come around eventually,” Laenel said, smiling.

Balelath flashed her a disingenuous smile. “I will talk to the other autarchs. If the history of our race is to be moved here, the caretakers and the bonesingers will have to put down the mantle of Khaine. We will have to revise our strategies until they return to the ranks of our Guardians.”

“Perhaps the Exodites could assist in that matter,” Arnyl suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Illiawe quickly interjected. “The Exodites cannot replace the Guardians.”

“They have the weapons and the skills to do so,” Taeryn disagreed.

“It is not their skill that I am concerned about, Taeryn. The Exodites have to rebuild the eldar civilization, and it is a task too important to risk their lives upon.”

“Illiawe, we all have to fight eventually.”

“Not if I had a say in it.”

Arnyl coughed delicately. “Actually, I had a different idea in mind. We Exodites are rather skilled at taking care of plants and animals. It is a large part of our life, after all. They will be able to assist in moving them from the craftworlds, and your Guardian ranks will not be quite so diminished.”

Balelath nodded. “That might work, at that.”

Laenel smiled, clasping her hands together delightedly. “Oh, good! Now that that’s been settled, perhaps we can show you around Lenea.”

News of the naval action that the eldar had taken against the Chaos vanguard came the next day. Its source was not one of the many autarchs upon Kenaleith, but rather a gathering of three corsair captains within one of Mar-Kenaleith's taverns. The captains were a rowdy bunch who spoke and laughed freely and unconsciously, and they ate and drank without reservation.

"Now," one of the captains was saying to a group of young Exodites when Illiawe and Taeryn entered the establishment, "the Chaos ships were firing back at us, three dozen on our left and three dozen on our right. But they were slow, and we easily dodged their fire. They had come within three hundred thousand miles of us, but thirty ships faced them, and we knew that they were already doomed. When one gets down to it, we did not really need the craftworlds' assistance."

"There were a hundred Chaos ships," another of the captain, an eldar with silvery hair, corrected. "We had only half a dozen ships. We were outnumbered, but we persisted, harassing the enemy and moving so quickly that not one of our ships were lost. There we tied the Chaos fleet until the ships of the craftworlds arrived. It was a great act of heroism, and our corsairs will be remembered for facing such a daunting challenge with such tenacity."

Illiawe rolled her eyes. "I am sure that both your tales will be found worthy of the harlequins' tomes," she murmured, and the captains laughed raucously.

Illiawe fixed her eyes upon the third captain and flicked her head, beckoning him to one side. "What really happened out there, captain?"

“Well,” the captain said, his young face creased in thought. “The Chaos fleet was headed toward a human colonized system. We intercepted them and, with aid from the craftworlds and, after a while, the humans, we halted the attack.”

Illiawe stared at him. “I want details, captain. How many ships were there? Which of the other captains’ stories was more accurate?”

The young captain shrugged. “Are those details really important?”

“Most would find them so, yes, particularly since they tell us just how serious the enemy is and what to expect.”

“Well, that’s your area of expertise, farseer. I prefer only to bother myself with tales, and the important part is that we utterly annihilated the Chaos fleet.” He held up a finger, pusing mysteriously. “The Chaos fleet did manage one last desperate act, though, and they destroyed about a dozen of the humans’ defense installations around the Cadia system.”

“You’re not a very good storyteller either,” Illiawe said pointedly, folding her arms.

“It is a common failing among the corsairs.” The captain laughed easily and offered her his cup. "Would you like a drink?”

Illiawe took it with a little smile and sniffed suspiciously at its contents. The overpowering tangy smell hit her and she wrinkled her nose, fighting back a sneeze. "What is this?"

"Something that I traded for. I've got barrels of the stuff aboard my ship. It does not taste as good as craftworld wine, but it's very good for washing down wild game.”

Illiawe squinted at him and took a tentative sip. The drink tasted bitter, nothing at all like the piquant fruity flavor of craftworld wine, and the burning sensation as it went down her throat left her gasping. Laughing merrily, the young captain traded her cup for a glass of water, and Illiawe gratefully downed its contents.

“What is that?” she demanded angrily when she had composed herself enough to speak again.

The captain wiped a tear away. “Vostroyan fire,” he replied, taking a swig of the fatal liquid. “One of the finest drinks in the Imperium. The humans of that planet entertain themselves by setting fire in each other’s bellies during the long winter days – which happen more frequently there than one might imagine.”

“How can you drink that stuff?”

“It is not so bad once you get used to it. It gets rid of the taste of foul tasting game that we come across in our voyages. My crew likes to try new creatures whenever possible, and some of them do not taste very good. It is also very useful when negotiating with the humans. Most of them simply cannot resist it - the price, you understand – and negotiating is a lot easier when the other party's a little tipsy.”

“I am surprised that the humans would accept a drink from an eldar.”

The captain touched his nose slyly and held out his cup. “Would you like another sip?”

The forces of Chaos came upon them in a great storm, and the warhosts of the eldar met them in battle, the warriors of the craftworlds and harlequins of the Laughing God’s troupes alike crossing swords with the fell warriors of the Othersea, and cast they their spite into the teeth of the gods of the Othersea. But lo, brought the warriors of Chaos with them daemons of their patron gods that sought to lay waste to all around them. But presently passed dark shapes over the red light of dusk and came swooping down upon all below. And now were the eldar much afeared, for their brethren of the dark city were ever fickle. But the eldar of the place that was called Commorragh turned not their guns upon their eldar kin, and the armies of Chaos were thrown into disarray.

But now came another daemon host, and the fell forces came on ahead anew, and came yet another host, and yet another again. And the warhosts of the eldar were sorely pressed.

Now came the hand of fate, passing over the eldar that stood as one, and the leaders and mighty heroes fell before the baleful fury of the pawns of the Othersea gods. And the warhosts of the eldar were sorely pressed, and grew beset by foes.

And now rallied the last of the heroes of yore, the most glorious of the exarchs and the greatest of the farseers and the wisest of the great harlequins, and with them were the mightiest of the craftworlds’ warriors felled in millennia past, and the cruelest of Commorrites’ archons and swiftest of its wyches and oldest and most devious of its haemonculi. And against the enemy stood the eldar as one, incubi lending his blade to autarch, shadowseer turning aside blows aimed at archon, and the forces of Chaos trembled at their joint might. With them the Phoenix Lords valiantly fought, and sought only to do the bidding of Khaine, though their warriors were felled all around them.

But the fiery form of Khaine was not with them, and even the greatest of the heroes could stand not against the tide of eternal malice.

But there came now lighting from the stars and fire from across the mountains, and there came the warriors of Man, and seared they a path through the fell horde, and all eldar beheld that day how their heroes yet stood.

And now came the lords of the human host, figures towering in stature and name, and stood they by the side of the Phoenix Lords, and though the laugh of cruel gods mocked them and chilled their bones, they flinched not away from their stern duty and resolute defiance, and thus faced man and eldar their entwined doom.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 39

There were a dozen more Chaos attacks over the next few months. Though they were repelled each time by eldar and human ships, each attack grew larger than the last and took a greater toll upon Cadia’s defenses. Yet the autarchs were certain that the attacks were designed not to inflict damage but to probe for weaknesses, and they were run ragged attempting to bolster the defenses around the rift; the autarchs went for whole weeks without sleep laying down and perfecting their plans, and those farseers who had few vital tasks retreated into their chambers and did not come out again, their instructions to mount an expedition or to prevent a certain disaster relayed only through the infinity circuit and psychic means. More and more often human ships drew boldly near the craftworlds bearing emissaries and commanders to coordinate their efforts with those of the eldar, and their own worlds were in turn more openly graced by the craftworlds’ autarchs and corsair captains, all in their own way contributing to the fight against their common foe.

Lauvan appeared to hold just as much authority among the Exodite houses on other worlds, and soon the Exodite worldsingers and handlers moved from garden to garden upon all the craftworlds, leading animals and moving bushes and shrubbery and whole trees into the rootway.

With the Exodites came the harlequins bearing strange devices as large as the grav-shuttles of the craftworld, exquisitely crafted and impossibly light. Their intention was not the moving of plants and animals and pieces of art, but rather of souls. It was a difficult process. Almost unilaterally, every soul aboard the craftworlds wanted to fight but, illuminated by the perception that was bestowed upon the dead that the living did not possess, all knew that only a few of them must, and, indeed, should. And so, in a great surge, the souls of eldar past took to the devices that the harlequins brought with them and, all aboard the craftworlds, halls that were once vibrant and ablaze with the combined psychic might of the souls growing dark and dreary as the eldar left the infinity circuit, leaving behind an air of melancholy and somber gravity that suited the tides of change that flowed all around them. Only the great guns of the craftworlds remained operational, its defense networks still pulsing with the murmur of psychic energy, and with those souls remained only the souls of the eldar who had in life chosen to give themselves to their warrior shrines and who remained obstinate and refused to leave the sides of the yet living warriors of Khaine.

The rest of the troupes of the harlequins ceased their performances of the old tales, taking instead to the stage of war. As the Exodites did, so too did the harlequins, and ancient vaults of knowledge and weaponry, long concealed from the eyes and the minds of the eldar, were unsealed. Even the city of Mar-Kenaleith was not untouched by the heightened state of preparedness that the galaxy had been plunged into. Its walls were decked with weapon platforms, and slight shimmers in the air on the plains and hills and the mountainsides around the cities spoke of larger platforms for use against an incursion from the void above. Only the Commorrites remained aloof, continuing as they always had, concerning themselves only with their own affairs.

It was some weeks later that the assault upon Cadia came. Illiawe and Taeryn were on Ulthwé when the psychic call throbbed through the infinity circuit of the craftworld. They were at the craftworld’s prow docks in an instant. The ships of the craftworld were already preparing to leave, peeling away from the craftworld to join a fleet of corsair ships that waited far above Ulthwé like a thousand predators waiting to be unleashed, the fins of their solar sails glinting in the light of Ulthwé’s star. There was a slight pull upon Illiawe’s mind, and she turned. A Vampire gunship came plunging out of the sky, pulling up at the last instant to hover a foot over the ground. Illiawe and Taeryn got in, and the plane went shooting away from the craftworld, heading toward a waiting dragonship. The corsair ships were already moving, slipping quickly through the glowing surface of wraithgates that had opened where there was nothing before, and the craftworld fleet followed them.

Their Vampire landed in the hangar of the dragonship just as the cruiser was turning to enter a wraithgate of its own, and they made their way toward its bridge. There were only a handful of eldar there, stern faced voyagers in mesh armor, all of whom wore blank and detached expressions under the effect of their war mask. The captain of the ship came forward to greet them.

“Farseer,” he said, his head dipping politely in a slight gesture, “and disciple of the Laughing God. I am Amlath. Welcome aboard the Roselight, flagship of this Ulthwéan fleet.”

Illiawe inclined her head politely in return. “I will stay here and provide as much support as I could. Send some few of the more diplomatic members of your crew ahead of us to the humans, if you will. Let them know that the eldar have come to lend them aid. We will not want to frighten them with the appearance of so many of our ships, will we?”

The captain nodded with a small smile and returned his attention to his tasks.

The trip through the webway was short, and Illiawe made use of it by searching through the skeins for disasters in the battle that they were headed toward. They emerged some distance from the Cadia system. The ships of the Imperium were there waiting, and there, far away at the edge of the rift, were the ships of Chaos hurtling toward them on brightly burning plasma drives. The Roselight’s sensors picked them all up, listing everything from size and class to weaponry and trajectory. The crew linked their minds with the Roselight, and, on an impulse, Illiawe did the same. Immediately data of thousands of ships filled her mind, the Roselight’s systems forming an illustration of the movements of the Chaos ships in her mind.

At the edge of her mind, Illiawe felt the other systems of the dragonship – the way the holofields warped around the Roselight and lighting the area around the ship with afterimages, the way the weapons hummed and strained with power, the joining of the ship’s crew, both live and dead, in adjusting systems just so to ensure efficiency. A rock striking the ship’s energy shield and bouncing away made her skin prickle, and the wash of Cadia’s star over the Roselight’s solar sails sent a warm tingle down her spine. Within the ship’s infinity circuit, souls of the ship’s former crew still served, assisting their still living counterparts, lending their wisdom and experience and maintaining the systems that the living had no time to pay heed to. Within the infinity circuit also roamed insectile creatures, ceaselessly moving, purging malevolent spirits from the ship.

The ships of the eldar spread out across the void without command with practiced ease, the ships of the craftworld taking their place near the humans and the corsairs scattering away into the darkness of the void.

The ships of Chaos wasted little time. Still moving at more than half the speed of light they advanced, spreading out as they sailed. The corsairs allowed them to do so for almost a whole minute before they made a move, striking from the sides and from above and underneath the Chaos fleet, the pinpoint strikes of their pulsar lances leaving the outermost ships adrift, torpedoes blasting great gaping holes in their hulls, and volleys of starcannon fire, glowing like miniature stars as they crossed the empty gulf of the void to reduce ships to bits of twisted metal and vapor. The ships along the Chaos flank returned fire, every volley filling the void with thousands of shells and lance fire, but the corsairs had already turned away, within seconds disappearing out far beyond the range of the Chaos guns.

Then the swiftest of the eldar ships, craftworld and corsair alike, came unnoticed from behind the Chaos fleet, swooping down like a flock of predators, their holofields rendering them nearly invisible even to the Roselight’s sensors. Occupied by the harrying attacks of the other corsairs and unalerted by the masking of the holofields, the Chaos fleet failed to notice the strike until it was too late. Then, perhaps on instinct or some unseen prearranged signal, the eldar ships burst all at once into life. Holofields were reversed, sending false images and signatures flickering across the void and the Roselight’s sensors. Weapon batteries and pulsar lances came alive, destroying with precise fire the plasma drives of the unprepared Chaos ships arrayed before them. Desperately the ships in the Chaos rear line turned to bring their broadside guns to bear, but the eldar ships merrily stayed out of reach, dipping and turning deftly, the speed of their maneuvers such that the Chaos guns and sensor systems, already confounded by the holofields of the eldar ships, were left to fire blindly into the void, filling the darkness with mile wide detonations of plasma and otherworldly energy.

Grimly the Chaos fleet pressed onward, leaving behind hundreds of ships every time the corsairs struck. The human fleet moved forward to intercept them, and the space between the two fleets became filled with ordnance. Torpedoes went one way and lance and macrobattery shots went the other, and nova cannon shells went first this way, then that. Starfighters and bombers were launched in droves, dipping and weaving as their pilots attempted to avoid the fire of the ships and the guns of the enemy’s fighters all at once in an elaborate dance. The sturdier ships of the craftworld weaved in and out of the battle, striking with precise fire at the most crucial targets among the Chaos fleet. The Roselight dived into battle with an escort of wraithships, targeting the largest of the Chaos ships. Out along the flank the corsair ships, lighter armored but swifter than the craftworld’s vessels, dove in and out, peeling away at the ponderous bulk of the Chaos fleet. Finally, pressed into action, a score of Chaos ships broke away from the main Chaos force to pursue the elusive corsairs. Their guns fired, but the holofields of the corsair ships confounded their aim and their shots went wide, lancing through false signatures, and few shots found their mark. Those that did splashed off the shields of the eldar ships. Not discouraged, the Chaos ships continued to give chase.

A dozen Hellebore frigates awaited them. The first volley of their pulsar lances tore apart the four Chaos cruisers interspersed among the squadron. Then, flipping about in a maneuver that no starship should have the right to perform, the fleeing corsair ships bore down upon their pursuers. Torpedoes and starcannons were fired, catching the Chaos ships amidships.

The combined strategies of both eldar and human fleets appeared at first to work remarkably well. When the ships of Chaos attempted to fire their guns, whether broadside or prow, at the Imperium ships, their plasma drives or their sides were exposed to the darting strikes of the eldar. When the Chaos ships turned to fire at the eldar ships, they were blasted by the human ships and the weapon platforms of Cadia’s outer defense lines. Few places in the vast Chaos armada was safe from attack, and for a moment it seemed that it might be possible to force the Chaos fleet into a retreat, but then came new shapes from the rift to the Othersea. They were shaped like the other Chaos ships and bore the same iconology, but there was something gravely wrong about them. Then the Roselight interpreted the information that its sensors had received, feeding it to the crew. There was very little metal, no matter how corrupted, in the hulls. Instead the ship was made of – or, more likely, had been taken over by – a substance much like flesh but taken from the energies of the Othersea. Along the skeins, too, the waves of corrupted power from the ships were plainly evident, clawing at Illiawe’s defenses, demanding to be let in.

“Daemonship!” one of the crew said silently, his thoughts travelling to the whole eldar armada.

The eldar did not need telling. Many of them had already adjusted their course to target the new threats. The humans did the same, their guns firing in renewed vigor in the face of the danger. The daemonships, however, were sturdier affairs than the unpossessed Chaos ships. Space warped around them, shots that should have struck instead flying wide, lasers abruptly changing course before they struck. For all their effort, the allied fleet made little progress against the forces of Chaos.

Strangely, however, the Chaos armada, though reinforced, did not press their advantage, choosing instead to linger half a million miles away to trade fire with the Imperial fleet. Yet, despite that fact, it was obvious that the humans could not hold the line for very long. Already weakened by the first Chaos fleet, every ship that was lost brought the human defenses closer to collapse. The eldar fleets did not fare much better. Though they took far fewer losses, their fleet was also many times smaller than that of the humans and each loss bore heavily upon the eldar’s souls. Finally, driven beyond their ability to bear, the allied armada grudgingly withdrew outside the ranges of the Chaos guns, behind the inner defenses of Cadia, leaving the broken remains of the outer defenses to the guns of the enemy.

Yet the Chaos armada did not advance, even after the last of the outer guns had fallen silent.

“Why do they not attack?” Amlath asked tersely.

“Perhaps they are not confident about facing the inner guns,” Illiawe muttered unconvincingly. “They are much greater in number, after all.”

“Amlath has a point,” Taeryn said. “There is no reason that the Chaos ships - the ones with warp engines, anyway - could not come at us from the other side of the system. And why would they exit the rift and not somewhere closer to Cadia?”

Illiawe frowned and sunk her mind into the skeins. She had looked into the skeins only a few hours before, but the threads had changed entirely. Immediately she was struck by the weight of a billion deaths, a billion souls dragged screaming to eternal torment. She gasped, quickly pulling her mind away from the skeins.

"What is it?" Taeryn asked tersely.

“Great destruction,” Illiawe replied, paling. “A greater daemon approaches. The fleets are doomed, and those who remain on the planet will perish this day.”

“Is there nothing that we can do to stop it?” Amlath asked quickly, horror creeping into his voice.

Illiawe shook her head. “All threads converge upon this eventuality.

“Then the eldar must flee!” Amlath exclaimed.

“We cannot.”

"But why?" Amlath asked, his tone anguished. "If we act now, all these eldar could be saved!"

"We have already lost a quarter of our fleet," Illiawe said bluntly. "What more is the rest of it?"

Amlath paled, and his expression grew horrified.

"Perhaps, in staying, we may weaken this threat, so that when we next face it, we shall triumph. Is it not better to give up some few thousand lives so that many more may live?"

"That is not your decision to make. What if your judgement errs?"

"That is my decision, as it is my burden."

"And what of the humans?" Taeryn added. "If we flee now, they will think us cowardly and untrustworthy. They will never fight by our side again, and this alliance we cannot lose."

Amlath stared helplessly from one of them to the other, then he turned on his heels and returned to the Roselight. After a few moments, the ship turned away from the Chaos fleet, quickly gathering speed and leaving the planet far behind.

“What are you doing?” Illiawe demanded. “Stay with the rest of the fleet!”

Amlath shook his head. "I was entrusted with you. We may have lost our fleet, but you the eldar will not lose this day." His voice was firm, just on the verge of an order.

“Let it go,” Taeryn muttered, taking Illiawe’s arm. “Letting the fleet perish is hard enough for him as it is.”

The greater daemon that Illiawe had foreseen took its time. The Chaos fleet milled about, slowly encircling the system. The humans, of course, refused to leave Cadia’s defense. Indeed, a second fleet arrived, formed in part from the Imperial Navy and in part from the naval assets of various Adeptus Astartes chapters and Adepta Sororitas convents. A few inquisitors had even arrived, bearing with them various superbly equipped fleets of different sizes. Yet the skeins did not change, and Illiawe could do nothing as the humans futilely expended their assets.

Now reinforced, the humans grew bold once again. A running battle started to prevent the fleets of Chaos from slipping around the system to wander deeper into the territories of the Imperium, and here and there various captains and admirals launched sorties against the forces of Chaos arrayed before them, with varying degrees of success. Yet Illiawe was acutely aware of the true usefulness of these victories, and so while the corsairs, ever excitable and unrestrained, sallied out alongside the humans to wreak havoc upon the ships of Chaos, the captains of the craftworlds hung back and simply waited.

When the ship arrived, it did so alone and without ceremony. Its unassuming entrance was heavily contrasted by the heavy aura of twisted energy that exuded from it, causing the skeins to tremble and casting a shadow over Illiawe’s mind.

“Seek protection with the Darkened Moon,” Taeryn muttered, drawing Illiawe’s mind into the combined thoughts of the masque. Illiawe let her do so, and it was like submerging into a crystal lake. Instantly her mind cleared and her thoughts became focused again. Taeryn smiled encouragingly at her and turned her attention back to the Roselight’s systems.

The new Chaos vessel was large, easily twice the size of any ship in the area. Its hull, much like the daemon-possessed ships, was made of warped and twisted daemonflesh, constantly shifting and changing, covered with claws and undulating tentacles and diseased looking bulbous warts. A miasma surrounded it, a plague or disease of some kind, though none of the sensors could identify it. The fleshy hull was seared with the foul iconology of the vilest of the Othersea beings, and affixed to the top of the ship was a great symbol of an eight pointed star, carved from gold and glinting with the light of distant stars, and next to it, similarly crafted, was a sideways crescent above a full moon.

The icon of Slaanesh sent a cold shiver up Illiawe’s spine. There was no mistaking the purpose of the ship. It was not a vessel of war, but one that brought war in its wake. Even as the ship came forward, Illiawe could already feel the taint of the daemonic ritual that emanated from it, though it was still many systems away.

“Ritual ship,” Taeryn said in a low voice. “Here the daemon comes.”

The captains of the other ships have also noted the new arrival. A squadron of three corsair ships, materializing from the darkness of the void, came at the ritual ship from beneath, their starcannons firing, quickly battering down the shields of their target and boiling away great portions of its hull and searing away the iconology pockmarked over it. The ship did not so much as move, not bothering to turn its few guns away from the human fleet half a million miles to its prow. The eldar ships came back for another run, their starcannons already firing. The ritual ship seemed almost to lurch strangely. The outburst of ethereal energy seared upon Illiawe’s mind.

The corsair ships simply crumpled in upon themselves, their holofields unable to defend them from the indiscriminate sphere of unseen energy that plumed outward. The energy washed over the Chaos ships, leaving them unharmed, but where it caught the ships of the eldar, they were crushed as though by some unseen hand, wraithbone hulls cracking and deforming. Others were simply pulled apart, the souls within their infinity circuits screaming as their bodies were rent asunder. The rest of the corsair ships, now made wary, turned away, melting into the star-filled backdrop.

It was the humans that fired next upon the ritual ship. Perhaps recognizing it for the threat that it posed, or perhaps acting upon their customary zealous bravery, they fired their prow guns, plasma drives flaring into life, pushing the ships onward to bring the their faster firing broadside weapons to bear upon the enemy. The Chaos ships banked and rolled, at this range easily avoiding the fire, but the lesser ships of the Chaos fleet were not the target of the humans. A number of second passed, then the space around the ship erupted in fire, balls of plasma many miles wide swallowing the ritual ship. When the fire of the plasma finally died down, however, the ritual ship was still there, seemingly untouched by the weapons that could scour entire worlds down to the bedrock.

Undaunted, the humans fired again, but it was already too late. A great psychic roar of a culminating ritual came from the ship, and a dread filled Illiawe's mind, blocking out all thought. She sensed rather than saw the very fabric of the universe buckle a thousand miles to the starboard of that ritual ship, and all at once reality was torn apart.

"Daemon prince!" someone on the bridge cried out, his voice fearful.

The presence of the daemon was familiar, and Illiawe’s thoughts drifted briefly back to the planet of Gadevar II and the encounter that they had with the daemon of Slaanesh. But Malenesh’s presence was different now than it had been before – not a good sign, Illiawe wagered.

Malenesh did not emerge from the rift that had been made in space. Rather, she was simply there in its place. She had not chosen a form, but rather remained an ever shifting entity, a mile tall with no determinate shape. A great psychic scream tore through Illiawe’s mind as a trillion humans and eldar recoiled, and the shape of Malenesh undulated to and fro, lapping up the fear with almost childish delight.

There was no opening of the Othersea. One moment she was by the side of the ship, and the next she was over Cadia, and the ships by her twisted and turned in upon themselves. Others turned to dust, fell apart, or simply vanished from existence. The machines of war and the towering fortresses of the humans on the planet down below crumbled away as the years came suddenly upon them, and even the mighty titans became beset by rust and turned to dust. Human and eldar opened fire, but their shots went wide and through the daemon and failed to find their mark.

Malenesh laughed, a cruel mocking sound, and her thoughts came into the minds of all the defenders of Cadia.

“Why do you fight?” she asked disingenuously, emphasizing her words by crushing a few nearby ships. “The mistress’ favor falls on me, and now I will give Her vengeance.” A series of explosions raked across the void, and the signatures of a dozen ships went out. Then, as if sensing something untoward, she twisted about in the void before them, and Illiawe clearly felt her vast presence reaching out, probing the ships before her. All at once her gaze fell upon the Roselight, and her thoughts resounded within Illiawe’s mind like a great gale. “You have something that belongs to my mistress.”

Illiawe’s mind was very clear when she sent the thought back. “The souls were never Hers.”

The daemon’s laughter howled through Illiawe’s mind and there was a tug upon the back of her head, running down to the base of her spine. A dull throbbing started at the base of her skull and her vision grew dim and blurry as Malenesh tugged upon her soul. Something, however, stood between the daemon and Illiawe, and she paused as her attempt to rip away Illiawe’s soul failed. She pulled again, more insistently this time, and once again her grip upon Illiawe’s soul slipped away. Then the full force of Malenesh’s mind descended upon Illiawe, shattering her barriers and twisting at her thoughts. Illiawe grunted in pain as the claws of the daemon dug into her thoughts.

But then the presence of the Masque of the Darkened Moon was there with her, their thoughts and their very beings merging with hers. And with them was the vast presence of the Laughing God, subverting the deathly grip of Malenesh again and again. With an enraged howl of frustration the daemon of Slaanesh swatted at the ships around it, reducing them to dust. Her indistinct form wavered with uncertainty for a moment as she cast her gaze from the Roselight to Cadia and back again in indecision. With a final scream of fury she turned toward Cadia. The space around her wavered with her anger as she lashed out with, methodically dismantling with lightning and warpfire the fleet that opposed her. Human and eldar both attempted to fight back, but it was as though Malenesh was not really there. No fire found its mark, and explosions that completely engulfed the daemon appeared to do little more than amuse her.

The humans, finally comprehending the situation that they were in, finally acted upon their doom. Upon the planet of Cadia the troops were packed into billions of transport crafts, troop carriers and cargo aircraft both, and the more valuable of the ground vehicles that were unable to fit into waiting dropships were hastily hooked up to scrambled transports. Like a swarm of insects abandoning a doomed nest the transports rose into the sky, their progress painfully slow in the face of Malenesh’s inexorable advance. The orbiting fleet continued to fire upon the daemon, hoping to divert her attention from the frigates and destroyers that turned to pick the fleeing transports that were quickly leaving Cadia’s orbit. There was, however, little that the humans or the eldar could do.

But Malenesh’s attention was focused now entirely upon the planet of Cadia, the ships around her momentarily forgotten. She circled the planet once in the manner of a predator stalking its intended prey. She was half a million kilometers above Cadia, and the system’s sun was not on this side of the planet, but where she moved, a great shadow seemed to move over the lands and the seas beneath her, and where the shadow touched a vast cloud of dust, shimmering gold and moving in mesmerizing patterns. Though the swirling cloud was bright, it seemed to leech all light from its surroundings, and Cadia became a planet of only black and gold.

Then Malenesh stopped altogether, hovering over the planet, twitching in anticipation. In a moment she froze, and Illiawe plainly felt a great psychic wave roll out across the void, targeted only at a single point. The skin of Cadia split and the waves retreated into the oceans and the waters slipped back into the bowels of the planet. The lands shifted and churned, great cliffs of jagged rock appearing in one moment and crumbling in the next. The mighty fortresses of the humans tumbled and collapsed as the very land tipped them over, and whole regiments of infantry and vehicles were swallowed up as the ground gave under their feet. The few mighty machines of war that still remained upon Cadia plunged into great yawning chasms that stretched all across the continents of Cadia.

And from deep within the chasms that had claimed the machines of war fire came spewing out, and for a single moment the world was wreathed in flame. Then the world came ponderously apart in Malenesh’s grip, pulled into a dozen pieces at an agonizingly slow pace. Cruel laughter howled through Illiawe’s mind as the daemon relished in the death of the world.

Wisely, the humans took advantage of the opportunity to retreat, fleeing into the Othersea. With an amused shriek that was all the more horrible because of how eldar it sounded Malenesh jerked the ruins of Cadia apart in a single final moment and sent them hurtling through the void after the disappearing ships. The Roselight did not stay long enough for Illiawe to see the extent of the destruction that the remains of the broken planet wreaked upon the human fleet, nor hear the mocking laughter of Malenesh trail after them as they fled.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 40

The meeting upon Kenaleith was unusually somber. They were not gathered in the Fields of Meeting in Mar-Kenaleith, for that place was too small for such a crowd, but rather a similarly crafted dome of vines that had been quickly erected by a couple of worldsingers upon a grassy plain a mile south of Mar-Kenaleith. The gathering included farseers and autarchs of the craftworlds, Exodite keepers and chiefs, harlequins, and, surprisingly, even a few archons and their various allies from the wych cults and haemonculi covens. The Commorrites had given few reasons for their attendance, and that made Illiawe rather nervous.

“You’re too suspicious,” Taeryn brushed her off when Illiawe broached her concern.

“I don’t think so,” Illiawe disagreed. “Why else would they show interest only now?”

“Perhaps the destruction of Cadia has shaken their confidence enough that they are willing to join with us – militarily, at least – and would that really be such a terrible thing?”

Illiawe pursed her lips. “Could these archons have come here of their own accord? The Commorrite kabals have never been exactly united in purpose.”

“Most likely, but they would not have come here if it runs in direct contradiction to Vect’s will – unless they have grown tired of living. The fact that they are here is rather indicative of Vect’s stance regarding where the Commorrites should be in the Rhana Dandra. Let us not do anything to jeopardize that, shall we?”

Along with Illiawe and Taeryn were Ethorach, Balelath, Isenran, and a couple of autarchs that Illiawe did not recognize. Like the other eldar they sat according to their craftworlds for the sake of propriety, but, for once, there were no glares traded between longtime rivals. Even the Commorrites received only the occasional curious glance, and they in turn were unusually placid. With them was Laenel, who sat in on behalf of Kenaleith, and who had studiously refused to sit with the other Exodites, instead choosing to watch the proceedings beside Taeryn.

The start of the proceedings was announced by a high shadowseer, and that, too, came as a surprise. The high harlequins went very seldomly out of the webway, and their presence usually indicated grave times.

The high shadowseer stepped into the center of the dome and stood, neither speaking nor gesturing. The assorted eldar leaders, however, quickly fell silent.

“The implications of the events that have occurred in the past days do not need bear repeating,” the high shadowseer started, “but I shall regardless. The destruction of the planet Cadia and its gate is more than a simple herald of the state of this war. Always before we have sought to remain behind the humans against Chaos, thinking that perhaps they might provide the numbers that we cannot provide ourselves, and in this manner wear the forces of Chaos down. The gates of Cadia could no longer keep the forces of the Othersea in check. The eldar must now fight, and do so as one with the humans, or else give the forces of the Othersea free reign to traverse the galaxy.” He turned upon his heels, casting his gaze upon all in the dome. “All eldar must put aside our differences until the Rhana Dandra is over. It is foolish in the utmost to think that any one of us could find salvation without effort.”

“Overlord Vect has made his position clear,” one of the archone spoke up. “The Commorrites will fight the forces of the Othersea.”

“It is not enough,” replied the harlequin, his voice steady, his gaze, though concealed by his featureless mask, boring intensely into the archon. “To think that we can fight without cooperation with the humans is naïve and fatally prideful.” He turned away from the archon. “To fight, all of us must make our strategies clear. It is for this reason that the harlequins have called you here today.”

An autarch from a craftworld that Illiawe did not recognize stood. “Any one of us knows of the greatest threat to our warhosts. We must find some way to destroy the daemon Malenesh.”

“This would not be possible,” Ethorach objected. “Some time ago an event occurred that stripped Slaanesh of most of Her power. She has grown desperate and given Malenesh a great portion of her remaining might, so that Malenesh may reap souls and nourish Slaanesh. For every soul that is consumed, Slaanesh’s power grows, as does Malenesh’s. Now nothing that any of us could bring to bear would be able to strike her down. Divert your attention elsewhere. You are only wasting your time trying to banish Malenesh.”

“Surely we cannot give Malenesh free reign!” a farseer exclaimed.

The autarch shook his head. “If the farseer of Ulthwé is right, then we do not have a choice in the matter. Better to withdraw from Malenesh’s path than to expand unnecessary lives trying to accomplish nothing.”

The farseer nodded reluctantly. “We will look for a solution. I suppose that it is wise to concentrate our efforts upon defending against the more conventional forces of Chaos in the meantime.”

“I am glad that we are in agreement,” the autarch said approvingly. “There are a number of options that we could take.”

Another autarch, this one from Biel-Tan, spoke. “Defending the humans should be our priority. There are very few ways that we could win this war without their support until the end.”

Illiawe tilted her head. She had not expected that stance from the Bel-Tani. Illiawe, it appeared, was not the only one to notice. The mood in the room became suddenly grave as the gravity of the situation they were in that was implicit in the autarch’s words sank in.

The autarch was already continuing. He produced a thumb-sized piece of psychoplastic from under his armor and activated it, lighting up the middle floor with a holographic projection. “There are human worlds between Cadia and Terra, but none of their fortifications have the benefit of eons of constant addition. There are also great stretches of empty void. Our primary goal should be defending the human seat of power from serious Chaos incursions. Some few of the craftworlds are already working in concert with the humans, but this needs to be increased to mount an effective defense.” He paused. “We all have our grievances with the humans; Biel-Tan hates the obstacles to the eldar civilization that their presence and actions creates, but, as the high shadowseer pointed out, now is not the time to dwell upon such slights.”

“We will send some of our troupes to lead the fleets of the eldar,” the high shadowseer said quietly. “There are many ways that not even the outcasts know of. Since we are all making sacrifices, perhaps these secrets will be revealed.”

Then one of the archons stood. “Ships alone are not enough to win this war,” she said. “All of you know that. With the aid of the humans or without, eventually the daemons will overwhelm us.”

“We eagerly await the suggestions of our Commorrite cousins,” the Biel-Tani autarch said grandly.

“You’re too kind,” the archon muttered. She looked around at them. “Malenesh takes the souls of the humans to revitalize her mistress. The logical solution would be to deny Malenesh this.”

“We are not going to kill the humans,” a farseer said firmly. “They tend to disapprove of that sort of thing.”

The archon tapped her chin. “I do wish you craftworlders weren’t such prudes. Evacuating the humans constantly is not entirely sustainable. Can we all agree on that?” She looked around at them, then continued. “If we destroy any system that the forces of Chaos visit – after evacuating the humans, of course – perhaps they might give up after a while. Perhaps irritation might drive them off where casualties would not.” Her voice, however, was dubious.

“The humans would probably not like that, either.”

“That’s just too bad, isn’t it?” the archon asked bluntly.

The Biel-Tani autarch cleared his throat to head off an imminent argument. “This is all very well and good, but the primary problem that we face has not yet been solved. There are still many worlds in the human Imperium that are not suited as fortresses – systems dedicated to farming, manufacturing, mining, and other such functions. The fall of most of these worlds would either empower She Who Thirsts or cripple the warmaking capabilities of the humans. We must find some way to defend them from threats.”

“There is an obvious solution,” Balelath said. “Few here will like the idea, but we already have in our possession thousands of void-borne fortresses, all capable of acting as staging grounds for conflict and as dumps to aid the humans in their warmaking. The ships that I am referring to are the craftworlds.” A collective gasp rose from the gathered craftworld eldar. Balelath held up a hand imploringly. “The harlequins have taken almost all the souls of our dead, and the Exodites have taken those remnants of our past civilization that we stood watch over. There is nothing left on the craftworlds that have to be protected. Each ship, moreover, is outfitted for defense against fleets. I ask that all my brethren of the craftworlds put aside our idea that the craftworlds are in some way sacred, for they are not. It was – and still is – the things that they once bore that were precious, and these things are now all in places much safer. The reality is that the craftworlds have become assets of war with no greater purpose, and all of you know that war assets are best used as a part of a larger strategy. The craftworlds, because of their size, are ill suited for void engagements. It occurs therefore to me that we could best use the craftworlds as bulwarks against the forces of Chaos.”

“Even if we agreed upon that course of action,” a farseer said dubiously, “how do you propose we get the craftworlds there? With the souls gone from the infinity circuit, the power required to open a wraithgate will have to be provided almost completely by rituals. Few craftworlds have seers enough to provide that kind of power, and gathering seers to open wraithgates for each craftworld would take too long.”

“Our time would be better served reading the skeins, too,” another farseer said dryly.

Ethorach had been conversing with Laenel, and she cleared her throat diffidently. “I believe that we can assist you in this matter. We know of a way that the craftworlds could utilize in order to travel to the places where they are needed most.”

All within the room eldar sat up straighter, suddenly interested. “Oh?” one of the haemonculi asked, his dead looking eyes alert. “What is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Laenel asked teasingly.

The haemonculi smiled thinly. “That’s quite all right,” he assured her. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

Laenel returned the smile with an impish one. “Go right ahead,” she said sweetly. “I am sure that you will find what you are looking for – eventually.”

“Have you been talking to her, Taeryn?” Illiawe asked suspiciously. “That sounded a lot like something you would say.”

Laenel flashed her a quick grin.

The Bel-Tani autarch nodded. “Very well. I am not sure what this method is that the keeper speak of, but I suppose that we will just have to trust her on this. Now we come to the discussion regarding the defenders of the craftworlds. There must be warriors and ships, of course, but the more pressing issue is that of weapon batteries. I have been in contact with the autarchs of Iyanden. They have agreed to send their bonesingers to the other craftworlds and aid in strengthening the defenses of the craftworlds. I would ask that other craftworlds, if they are able, also make certain contributions in this regard.”

“The harlequins have opened our vaults,” the high shadowseer said gravely. “I don’t doubt that many craftworlds have their own secrets, and the Commorrite kabals certainly do. I ask that these secrets be shared, so that we may have a greater chance at survival.” His tone was level as usual, but there was a hint of steel in his voice that brooked no opposition. Beside her, Taeryn had a confident smile upon her lips, but Illiawe was not sure that she had quite the same level of faith in the authority of the high shadowseer.

The talks moved on to tedious little details then, and after a while the congregation broke up into smaller groups to discuss specifics.

Ethorach, who had wandered off with a couple of farseers to discuss a number of things, came back. “Come with me,” he said to Illiawe and Taeryn. Curious, Illiawe followed him.

Ethorach led them out of the dome and some distance out until they were quite nearly on the edge of the plain and the dome was nothing more than a tiny speck far behind them. Laenel was waiting there for them, and only then did Ethorach stop and turn to them.

“I am going to speak plainly,” he said, looking intently at each of them in turn. “What we discuss here must not be spoken of to other eldar.” Her curiosity now truly piqued, Illiawe nodded, as did Taeryn.

Ethorach rubbed the side of his face. “I must admit that I may have spoken untruthfully in the dome,” he admitted. “There is one method to deal with Malenesh.”

“I knew that you had something planned,” Illiawe smiled.

“I prefer running to fighting,” Ethorach said blandly. “It has always served me rather well in the past. On this occasion, however, I am afraid that there is no help for it. Banishing Malenesh would be quite useless, since she would simply return. Destroying her is quite beyond even me given the decree of the Phoenix King. If I were to break past the barrier that He placed between this world and the Othersea all those eons ago, I would be too weak to fight Malenesh, as Slaanesh found out in that cave upon Gadevar II. Therefore, I suggest that we seal Malenesh away.”

Illiawe frowned. “How could we do that?”

“The webway has always been used by the craftworlds as prisons by breaking off sections of it and trapping daemons within. We are going to do something similar. Of course, because Malenesh is so powerful, a large part of the webway will have to be broken off and wrapped within itself – layers upon layers of the webway, so that if she does somehow manage to break free, she will still have to contend with another prison, and yet another."

"The power required for such a ritual would be tremendous!" Illiawe exclaimed.

Ethorach nodded. "You will also have to do so without my aid or the aid of the farseers.”

Illiawe quailed as the thought of the amount of exertion came to her, but she pushed the thought aside. "But why?" she demanded.

"I will be too busy, I expect, to lend aid, and the souls of the farseers are not protected as yours are. If Malenesh should lash out in pure fury, you will be safe from harm."

"But what about the webway? To lose even a portion of it at this time is disastrous.”

Ethorach chuckled. "It would not be quite so bad," he disagreed. “This is what Laenel wants to talk to us about. The keepers have agreed to allow us to use the rootway for those regions that the webway has to be altered to reach.”

“That is very generous of you, Laenel.”

The keeper of Mar-Kenaleith shrugged. “Malenesh threatens the Exodites too. We figured that if our craftworld cousins are willing to make sacrifices, so should we.”

"Even if this were to work,” Illiawe said, “there will still need to be some way to lure Malenesh into the prison. I doubt that we will be able to create a seal powerful enough to force her into the prison - at least, not without losing many shadowseers."

"Weren't you listening, Illiawe? I did say that I much prefer running to fighting, did I not? I will be able to circumvent Asuryan's decree for only a short while, so you do not have very long to seal off the prison. If you'll excuse me, I'll have to pass the word on to the other harlequins. Now, go and join the other shadowseers within the webway and get the ritual ready.”

It seemed as though every one of Cegorach’s masques had gathered within the webway, at ancient, long sealed-away breaches in the labyrinthine corridors, and at a million different places within the material world that bore even the remotest of possibilities that daemons may utilize to enter the webway. Those unnecessary webway portals and wraithgates that led to the portion of the webway that was to be Malenesh’s prison were shut down and, just to be safe, harlequin troupes stood guard over the lifeless entryways.

The webway portion that the shadowseers gathered in had been altered by the harlequins so that the shadowseers could fit within its corridors. The light of the webway was muted and dim, so that even the shadowseers by Illiawe's side were no more than silhouettes with the usually radiant colors of their holosuits only occasionally flashing in the darkness. With Taeryn by her side, Illiawe waited tersely. The splitting of the webway was not something that was very often done, and Illiawe only had the faintest of ideas on the procedure. Illiawe glanced at Taeryn. Like the others around them, Taeryn stood almost motionless, her hands clasped serenely before her. Illiawe scowled.

"How can you be so calm?" she demanded in a strained whisper.

"Stressing about it is hardly going to help, is it?" Taeryn reached up and pulled her polished mask down just enough so that her eyes peered at Illiawe from beneath her cowl. "Join your mind with mine, Illiawe - but keep the rest of the masque out of this. They have their own preparations to make."

Taeryn's mind tickled the edge of Illiawe's, prompting, and she smiled and touched her thoughts with Taeryn's. Instantly a great sense of serenity settled over Illiawe, and it seemed to her that her apprehension was unfounded, foolish even. Surely the other shadowseers would be there to guide her, and, if not them, then the high shadowseers, whose knowledge of the webway was second only to Cegorach Himself, would do so. It seemed strange that such ideas had not occurred to her before, obvious though they were, and Illiawe felt suddenly rather abashed at not having thought of them.

"Don't worry," Taeryn's thought came teasingly to her. "We still love you anyway, even if you are a little silly at times."

Illiawe flushed. "What are the rest of the masque doing anyway?" she asked, more out of a desire to change the subject than any real curiosity.

"It is likely that the daemons of Slaanesh will attack and attempt to free Malenesh before we have sealed her away. They are going to make sure that we are not disturbed."

"Slaanesh has invested a great deal into Malenesh," Illiawe noted. "The troupes are probably not going to be able to hold them off for very long."

"Then we had better work quickly, hadn't we?"

"I would rather take the time to ensure that everything is done perfectly, Taeryn," Illiawe said tartly.

"So would I, Illiawe. So would I."

Half a dozen shadowseers, their minds joined under Cegorach’s embrace, stretched their invitation out toward the other harlequins. At Taeryn’s prompting Illiawe pulled away from the Darkened Moon and sunk her mind into the depths of the harlequin consciousness. Immediately she was joined by the minds of the shadowseers around her. Quickly the combined consciousness grew as more shadowseers brought their thoughts together, but where previously the thoughts of the Darkened Moon had been lively and open, here every thought was controlled, the combined presence nothing less than grave, all focused not on the candid sharing of each harlequin’s being but rather turned only toward a single task. In many ways it greatly reminded Illiawe of the rituals of the craftworld seers, though the deeper joining of minds characteristic of the harlequins was unmistakable.

At an unspoken signal Illiawe gathered the energies of the Othersea within her, building it up according to instructions that surfaced within her thoughts. The light of the webway vanished for a single instant and everything was plunged into complete darkness, and a single throb ran through the floor beneath Illiawe’s feet, heavy and slow, almost as though the webway was pained. Within the single mind of the shadowseers Illiawe felt the high shadowseers hold the piece of the webway within her thoughts, completely sealed off from the rest of the dimension save for a single portal that led into the material world, and it seemed as though Illiawe too held it within the grip of her own mind.

The command of the high shadowseers changed then, and, as one, the shadowseers turned their thoughts toward crafting the sealing wards.

“Work as one,” the thought of one of the high shadowseers came to Illiawe. “It all has to fit just so. Let there not be a single thread out of place.”

Working with Taeryn and, to a certain extent, the other shadowseers of the Light Troupes were quite easy. The Twilight and Dark shadowseers, however, were quite another matter. Their thoughts were strange, almost foreign. The power of the shadowseers of the Dark Troupes were almost unnoticeable as they set about their work, even on the most complex of wards, forming them from angles that Illiawe had never considered before. Those of the Twilight flitted one moment in the style of the shadowseers of the Dark and at another joining those of the light in construction, and yet others working in a style that at once brought together the methods of the Light and the Dark. There were other differences as well, subtle nuances in thought that were not of the individual harlequin but rather of the role upon the stage that they embodied. Illiawe, having only so recently joined wholly with the harlequins and not having spent any time with the thoughts of the harlequins of the other troupes of the Darkened Moon, floundered embarrassingly even as the other shadowseers attempted to pin her thoughts down. After a while, however, the minute differences of the troupes came to her, and things became vastly easier. Beside her Taeryn’s mind brushed against hers approvingly before returning to the task at hand. After what seemed a very long time, though in actuality was probably no more than a few minutes, the chains of wards were completed, and the guidance of the high shadowseers changed once more.

Illiawe took again the energies of the Othersea within her mind, turning it this time toward creating the runes of warding and sealing. First one rune, then two, then a dozen materialized before her, glowing a soft blue, all runes of her own creation. All around her the shadowseers too had runes orbiting or floating in the air before them, each unique and individualized, geared toward a different goal that had occurred to the one who had created it. Yet, as diverse as the runes were, they were all filled with a single purpose.

The high shadowseers then reached out with their combined thought, and the runes went rising up to disappear through the roof of the webway.

The first layer of the prison now complete, the high shadowseers turned their attention toward breaking away yet another section of the webway to place around the first.

The ritual, Illiawe found grew steadily easier as it went on. This was not to say that it was not a painstaking process. Every bit of the prison had to be perfect. The shadowseers, fully aware of the consequences of even the tiniest flaw within the prison’s defenses, took no risks, and so every ward and every shaping of the webway walls were excruciatingly and painstakingly molded and perfected. The concentration required was immense, and Illiawe soon found that she was trembling from the exertion. Soon, however, their efforts brought into being half a dozen webway sections, and yet the high shadowseers did not stop.

Then at the edge of the joint minds of the harlequins there came the familiar and comforting presence of Cegorach, His mocking laughter trailing along in His wake. Behind Him came another familiar presence, though this one was far from comforting. Quickly the two presences drew closer to the waiting prison, the one before always staying just out of reach of the one behind. As they drew near there was a sudden surge of psychic energy that came from the twin presences that caused all around it to be blotted out, the pair abruptly vanishing. Tense moments passed, the struggle of god and daemon utterly invisible to the shadowseers. Yet still the shadowseers remained wholly calm, their faith in their patron god overcoming the uncertainty of the situation.

Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the fog was gone, and the twin presence were within the webway prison. The light of the webway grew, if anything, even dimmer as Malenesh entered the prison. Cegorach stayed for a few moments more, then His presence, too, was gone.

“The runes of sealing!” the high shadowseers ordered. “Lend us your power. Quickly!”

The surge of will from the surrounding shadowseers quite nearly drove Illiawe to her knees, even as she poured all her will into the high shadowseers. Azure tongues of flame licking out from under their masks the high shadowseers gathered more and more of the power into themselves. The air around them grew thick and heavy, ethereal lightning crackled faintly in the air, tingling upon Illiawe’s skin even beneath her robes, and there seemed to be a soft shimmering sound in the air like the fading note of a silvery bell. In the combined eye of the shadowseers Illiawe saw Malenesh thrash around in panic, realizing too late the trap that had been set for her. But the high shadowseers were working too quickly, millennia of experience and accumulated knowledge each coming together, setting off wards and seals with the psychic might gathered within them, entrapping Malenesh so that she could only scream in frustration as the wards that the shadowseers had crafted earlier flared into life, the walls of the carefully crafted prison melting close. In desperation she expanded her psychic might in a mindless outburst of raw power, an act formed just as much from instinct as it was from intent. But the shadowseers spoke a single word, and the wards whispered, and Malenesh’s outburst washed harmlessly out of the prison. Then the shadowseers spoke again, and the single portal that led out of the innermost prison dimed and died, forever entrapping Malenesh within.

“Thus it is done,” the high shadowseers said simply. The gathered shadowseers did not speak as they dispersed to return to their troupes.

The days that followed were filled with something that was very close to languor as the eldar continued waging their war. Ethorach returned to Ulthwé, and Taeryn and Illiawe went with him. The craftworld was nothing more than a shell now, its gardens bare, its domes empty, the familiar pulsing of its heart under Illiawe’s feet hollow and tiny. Gone were the endless murmur of the dead that lay within its infinity circuit, and a vast sense of dread hung in the air. To put it out of her thoughts Illiawe turned her mind toward the skeins. The imprisonment of Malenesh had given the combined forces of human and eldar certain respite, though only the shadowseers of Cegorach and some few others knew of the true reason of her disappearance. True to their word, the Exodites allowed their eldar cousins of the craftworlds and of Commorragh access to the rootway, of which the questions and fascination of the craftworld and Commorrite leaders were met with stone-face stoicism. Occasionally Taeryn stayed by her side, but, for the most part, her friend wandered the webway, aiding the harlequins in their battles and perusing the ancient vaults of the harlequins for knowledge, and now and then she went to the human worlds and the shadowy streets of Commorragh on diplomatic missions. Rather unsurprisingly, Taeryn was a very good diplomat. She was, very rarely among the eldar, totally devoid of bias toward the humans or any of the eldar factions, and she would just as happily assist a human governor in brokering a peace as she would bargain for a Commorrite archon or a corsair captain. Her dealings were astonishingly cordial regardless of who it was with, and she went from world to world and webway segment to webway segment, leaving in her wake alliances, truces, and agreements crucial to the successes of the war. Her tone as she came into Illiawe's house that day, however, was anything but cordial. Illiawe had been meditating in a spot of sunlight at a wide window near the back of her house when Taeryn entered.

"We have to go, Illiawe!" she barked uncharacteristically even as she stepped through the door. "Don't you pay attention to the consciousness of the Darkened Moon?"

"What's the matter?" Illiawe asked, jumping to her feet.

"What have you been concentrating on in the skeins?" Taeryn demanded.

"The wars of the Rhana Dandra, of course."

"There are other battles being fought that do not relate so closely to that, you know. The daemons of Slaanesh are attempting to breach the webway. Daemons have turned up in droves upon the world where the webway gates are. I guess that their intention is to break the seals of Malenesh's prison from within the webway itself."

"Would that even work?" Illiawe asked even as she pulled on her farseer robes and gathered her wargear. "They wouldn't even be able to find the prison."

"They seem to think that it is possible. The craftworlds are already gathering their warhosts, and the troupes are already fighting on the planets."

"The troupes are not enough to repel the daemons if they show up in force. They are not numerous enough to defend places like this."

"We know that," Taeryn said testily. "The Commorrites have turned their haemonculi beasts out in force, and their war parties are on the way. This threatens Commorragh too."

"That's something, anyway," Illiawe grunted.

"I wouldn't be too sure," Taeryn disagreed. "From what I understand, not even the Commorrites' clone warriors and bred beasts will be able to match the daemons in number. I doubt that even orks could do so.”

Illiawe paled. "How?"

"It seems that Slaanesh really wants to set Malenesh free. Come on, Illiawe. We really must get going."

They found Esarlyth and the rest of the Darkened Moon crouched within the ruins of some long-vanished civilization upon a bone dry world with hills and plains of sand stretching out in all directions as far as Illiawe could see. There was not a cloud in the sky nor breeze upon the air, which wavered before them in the blistering heat. Around them were vast ruins of sun baked stone the same color as the sand that swirled around them. Great pillars rose up out of the desert, backed by broken arches and crumbled walls. Towers that must have once rose majestically lay in nothing but crumbled heaps of rock worn smooth by millennia of exposure to the elements, half swallowed by the sand. Before them only a cluster of buildings lay around what was once a grand hall with high ceilings and impressively arched roofs, the sole testament to the admittedly primitive grandeur of the civilization of its mysterious builders. Faded murals covered those walls, depicting, Illiawe saw upon closer examination, hunchbacked bipedal beings with round, flat snouts and eyes that lay beneath the carapaces atop their heads. It was not too long ago that Illiawe would have simply brushed the drawings aside, especially given their present circumstances. Now, however, though the tale had nothing to do with the eldar, Illiawe allowed her gaze to sweep over the drawings. Involuntarily details seemed to jump out at her, and in only a few moments the short history of the forgotten race was spread out before her. There they scampered with spears, and there lay a crude village, and over there it seemed there was the script of a rudimentary language. The murals depicted then the millennia of development of the civilization, of wars and works and great rulers and heroes and acts. And there came the time when weapons of science far too advanced for the race was found, and there at last was the race laid waste by their own hand under clouds of fire and ailments that the forgotten people could neither see nor understand. Suddenly overcome with great sobriety Illiawe clenched her jaw and turned away from the images.

Taeryn had also been studying their surroundings. “Well,” she grunted with some satisfaction, “at least the daemons haven’t yet entered the webway.”

“Which world is this?” Illiawe asked softly, her mind still distracted by the race’s history.

“Does it really matter?”

“No,” Illiawe muttered. “I suppose not.”

The look that Taeryn gave her was understanding. “Come on,” she said gently. “Esarlyth is not far away.”

The Light Troupe of the Darkened Moon crouched hidden with the Twilight Troupe atop a half-collapsed wall, the shadowseer of Twilight shielding their minds from hostile probing. Quickly, Illiawe and Taeryn moved to join them.

“What are you doing here?” Esarlyth hissed as they neared, the blank eyes of his mask glinting in the light of the sun.

“We are here to help defend the webway, of course,” Taeryn replied innocently.

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cegorach has shared with me a sense of the future. You – and certainly Illiawe – are necessary to His plans. I don’t know why, exactly, but you must survive.”

“You speak as though we are all going to die here,” Taeryn scoffed. “I know for a fact that is not true.”

Then the Death Jester of the Light Troupe landed softly near them, the three bone chimes upon his wide collar clattering softly, his long-barreled cannon held loosely in his hands. “There is no time for this,” he said, his voice made hollow by his mask. He turned his head, and Illiawe followed his sight. There across the sand came a bank of inky clouds, a seething darkness of rolling purple. Lightning flashed angrily beneath its roiling surface, and a hot wind blew out before it, whipping up storms of sand and dust.

"I suppose that it's too much to hope that's just a normal storm?" Esarlyth asked lightly, gazing out toward the endless sea of sunbaked sand and up at the cloudless sky.

Beside Illiawe, Taeryn was already drawing in the energies of the Othersea. She raised her right arm, her staff held loosely in her hand, the crystal at its tip levelled at the encroaching clouds. When her power had built to a crescendo she brought the staff down sharply in a slicing motion. The cloud recoiled, shrinking back upon itself as Taeryn deftly punched a hole in its fabric. The underside of the cloud grew tattered and broke away, and there was a sudden vast roar, drawing nearer at alarming speeds.

“Well, they know we’re here,” the Death Jester said.

“That’s the plan,” Esarlyth replied calmly. “Taeryn, you and Illiawe are to leave before they get here.”

“Don’t disturb me,” Taeryn returned flippantly.

Then the first of the daemons came over the rise of a sand dune, and there behind it was revealed a horde of daemons thousands strong, advancing behind the cloudbank.

"By Cegorach!" Esarlyth exclaimed. "And to think that this is only a small force that had been directed toward us."

"To be fair," the Death Jester replied dryly, "there are troupes a thousand times our number facing the main horde on the other side of the planet." He hefted his shrieker cannon, crouched, and, like a tightly coiled spring, leapt upward, his flip belt carrying him effortlessly a hundred feet into the air.

Taeryn had been carefully working her power on the cloud, and under her surgical ministrations the back of the clouds were broken apart, and the storm was unleashed full in the face of the daemons. The full force of the eldritch gale that had been pent up by the daemon host went spilling out the back of the cloud, picking daemons up like rag dolls into the air and ripping them limb from limb. The sand that had been picked up by the howling winds thankfully concealed the worst of the carnage, though the screams of daemons and warpbeasts were testament enough to the damage that was being wrought upon the host. Even as the winds were unleashed the fingers of lightning roiling within the cloud came lashing down upon the ground, igniting balls of fire and blasting the sand into glass as forks stalked their way through rank upon rank of daemons. Yet the daemons came implacably onward, heedless of the casualties that they were sustaining, ignoring the flames that burst out of the ground all around them.

Then came the ice, sheets of sleet that fell thickly upon the daemons, reducing all beneath them into so many ribbons of flesh. And under the grip of lightning, wind, and ice the ranks of daemons wavered, quailed, the charge not so much faltering as it did disintegrate. Up high upon a broken spar the Death Jester of Light stood alone, chin lifted bravely and resplendent in his bone-lined cloak, powerful arms hefting his long-barreled cannon, disposing of the remaining daemons with single, precise shots even as they scrabbled and attempted to close in.

Taeryn lowered her staff, and the sand settled back onto the ground with an outward rush of air, revealing at last the devastation wrought by the storm. The crimson decorative sashes of daemon-beasts and worse lay strewn all upon the blackened sand, where great smoldering craters had been blasted by lightning and where there were deep rivulets from where the knives of ice had struck and been buried.

"Well, isn't that something?" Taeryn asked nonchalantly.

"We are not done," the Light Death Jester called from above. "Here comes more Slaaneshi daemons."

The daemonhost before had been small, more akin to the stragglers of an army than its main body. The one that now came over the top of the sand dune was very much unlike the previous host. It quite easily numbered in the tens of thousands, and with it walked the larger daemons of Slaanesh, lips stretched in mirthless grins as they stalked silently behind the snapping and growling of the smaller minions running out before them. The bellows of the daemonhost were like the distant rumbling of some vast thunder, and their screeches drove chills into Illiawe's heart.

Esarlyth turned to Illiawe. "It is time for you to leave, for my sake if nothing else. I will not tempt Cegorach's wrath by letting you get yourself killed." Though he did not raise his voice, he spoke with a hint of steel that Illiawe had never before heard him use. It was a voice that demanded absolute authority, bearing with it the Laughing God's own voice. Illiawe hesitated for only a moment as she rather instinctively fought it, but she was of the Darkened Moon now, and the single moment soon passed. She nodded once.

"I will stay here, then," Taeryn declared.

"No. Go with Illiawe."

"You will not survive without my aid," Taeryn insisted.

Esarlyth made a rueful face. "I doubt that we would survive even with your aid. The shadowseers of the other troupes could lend the Darkened Moon support." Taeryn started to protest, but Esarlyth silenced her with a raised hand. "This direction I give as your troupe master." And again there was that steely note in his voice.

Taeryn stiffened. "Very well," she said curtly. "I will do as you have commanded."

Esarlyth sighed. "Please don't do that, Taeryn. Now go, before this place becomes too dangerous." He gestured, and a shimmering portal opened some distance away. "May Cegorach watch over you.”

"And you," Taeryn replied. "All of you."

Esarlyth did not appear to have heard her. With a grand flourish he drew his sword. The daemons were only half a mile away now, advancing under a hail of shuriken fire and warpfire. Esarlyth flashed them a final commanding glance then, raising his sword and with the troupe by his side, he gazed resolutely past the broken walls of that lost civilization and the certain doom that lay beyond.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41

Illiawe paid little attention to where she ran; all that mattered was that she did. Beside and above her flashed the rainbow structure of the webway, all of it a great blur as Esarlyth's final compulsion drove her onward. She shook her head as the thought crossed her mind. However certain the fate of the Darkened Moon seemed, Esarlyth and the rest of the troupes were still alive yet. She could feel their thoughts in her mind, separated though they were. After all, wasn't she a shadowseer? Surely there existed a skein that bore what she sought? Quickly she banished her qualms. Of course there was. Ethorach had always stressed that all threads existed, whether or not they were plausible enough. The more she thought about it, the more certain Illiawe became. She looked about her, for the first time taking in her surroundings, suddenly impatient to reach Kenaleith so that she may look into the skeins.

As she ran, however, a thought occurred to her. On an impulse, she threw her thoughts out, letting the tunnels of the webway carry them along to the one she sought. "Cegorach!" she called, again and again. Surely if the Laughing God were to only manifest even for a moment upon the world that the Darkened Moon fought upon, the daemons may be driven off. Again and again she threw the thought out, repeating the name of the Laughing God, but He did not reply.

“That’s insulting, Illiawe,” Taeryn observed as she ran.

“What is?”

“The gods do not exist for us to call upon Them to solve our problems for us.”

“Surely Cegorach would consent to saving His troupes.”

“He’s never done so before – not in the manner that you are suggesting, anyway. Relax, Illiawe. There’s really nothing that fretting does. Have some faith that the Darkened Moon would survive.”

“Against a daemonhost of that size?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Don’t you care about the Darkened Moon at all?” Illiawe asked crossly.

“Like a querulous mother, you mean?” Taeryn asked archly.

“You are simply infuriating sometimes, do you know that?”

“So you’ve said before. Are you planning on running all day long?”

“We could slow down, if you’d prefer. I think that we have come far enough for Esarlyth anyway.”

The trip back to Kenaleith did not take long. The craftworld eldar and the Commorrites were, for the most part, now dispersed, and only some few remained now, discussing in grave tones and somber manners the various tedious details of this or that strategy.

Taeryn removed her mask and clipped it upon her hip, lowering her cowl to allow the soft breeze of Kenaleith to blow through her hair. Her eyes were distant and her actions somewhat absent.

Illiawe looked closely at her friend. “What are you concentrating so hard on?” she asked curiously.

“The Darkened Moon. They aren’t doing too badly, actually.”

“Are they even making a dent in the daemonhost?”

“No,” Taeryn admitted candidly. “It isn’t for a lack of trying, though. Why don’t you join us?”

The daemons had by now crossed the intervening gap between the sand dune and the ruined hall where the harlequins awaited, the fastest of the host already moving past the ancient stone walls and out of the sun. The Death Jester awaited them atop a broken column, his cannon throwing the daemon horde into confusion with toxin-fueled eruptions. The players of the Darkened Moon flowed then around him with Esarlyth leading the charge. They fell upon the daemons in a whirlwind of color and flashing swords, and the daemon ranks recoiled and folded in upon itself. Behind them came the twilight troupe, hacking at the flanks and rear of the daemon vanguard. Then came the dark troupe when battle was fully joined, with the unflinching gaze of predators marking out those that were to fall before darting in and then back away, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.

All at once it seemed that Illiawe stood upon the familiar stage of the masque's battleground. Death's Shadow, wearing the familiar mind of Esarlyth the master of the light, stood boldly, facing all before him. His actions found counterpart in the Starlight and the Dusk Flower, the master of the dark stalking around the edges of the enemy, while the mistress of the twilight weaved a frenzied pattern all about the room, at one moment boldly striking from the fore and the next stalking, waiting for an opportunity to arise. Illiawe recognized the other players atop the stage, too. The mighty heroes, valiant and undaunted, were a shimmering mist of swirling colors and streaking light. The villains and those who would bring the eldar down were clearly visible, but those who would strike at them found that their shots only dissipated the images of the players into spiraling funnels of light as the players of the dark, the echo of their laughter mocking, came from behind, blades flashing, before disappearing again into nothingness. The dance was familiar, though not one that Illiawe had seen before, yet she found that she knew the actions of the other players before they made it.

As well as the masque fought, however, the press of daemons grew ever increasing, and slowly the harlequins were forced on the defensive, giving up boldness for striking only those daemons at the edge of the horde and seeking to delay more than disperse. It was plainly evident, however, that the struggle was hopeless. Then the ancient wall at the end of the hall where the daemons were streaming past buckled and, with a thunderous sound of stone striking stone, it buckled inward and ponderously collapsed. A great shape rose up out of the demolished wall, a vaguely feminine daemon that weaved sinuously as it approached, shrugging dust and debris off its vast shoulders. The troupes of the Darkened Moon took one look at it and fled.

A vast triumphant roar rose from the daemonhost and they surged forward in pursuit, baying loudly and mindlessly. Yet, unexpectedly, the harlequins were not the primary concern of the daemons. Like a flowing tide the horde broke out of the ruins and around it, flowing steadily across the sun scorched sand in the general direction of the webway portal that the harlequins upon this planet guarded. The players of the Darkened Moon moved to intercept, all at once caught up in staying alive and slowing the relentless advance of the daemons as they drove onward. The harlequins each were faster, but their task was not one that could be completed by fleeing. The troupes, too, knew of that fact, and, even as they fled, they fired their weapons, filling the air with shuriken discs, clouds of lashing monofilament wire, and laser fire. Illiawe reached her mind out, touching that of the troupe. Instantly Esarlyth’s thoughts came to her.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

“Helping you. Just because Taeryn and I could not remain there does not mean that we could not assist you. Now be quiet. I’ll have to share the skeins with the rest of the troupe.”

With the aid of the skeins the harlequins were able to move without the need of unnecessary weaving and leaping, letting Othersea lightning and streams of energy go over their head and around them without so much as a flinch. Illiawe tugged at the skeins even as she did so, turning the shots of the Darkened Moon so that they struck the most fearsome members of the daemonhost. Yet even that was not enough to slow for more than a few moments the baying daemons that pursued them.

But now from the sky descended a dozen jetbikes, the designs of the Darkened Moon patterned upon their elongated noses, the mimes of the Darkened Moon behind their handlebars. Down upon the daemons they swooped, filling the air with thousands of whistling shuriken discs, and the tightly packed ranks of daemons melted away before them. Down below the daemons hissed and snarled up at them. The harlequins responded with a prolonged hiss of their own from the shuriken catapults mounted below the elongated noses of their jetbikes, turning ranks of daemons into bloody ribbons and crimson mist before rising back up into the arid sky again. The sky was clear, there were no winged daemons about, and for a while it seemed as though the harlequins would be able to grind the daemonhost down while the minions of Slaanesh snarled futilely up at them. The greater daemon came along behind them, pushing them on with high pitched wails that dug painfully into Illiawe’s mind. Immediately the mimes turned the guns of their jetbikes upon it, the initial volley causing the daemon to flinch away. But with an enraged screech it stooped slightly, and the flesh upon its back writhed and shifted, lumps appearing to move agitatedly beneath its scaly hide. The flesh upon its back ripped, sending scraps of scaly hide flying out behind it. From its back emerged a pair of membranous wings. With a few ponderous flaps it clawed its way up into the sky, its eyes burning with an intense hatred. With a few final bursts of shuriken fire the mimes pointed their bikes skyward and shot away from the ground, their speed enabling them to pull quickly away. With a furious screech and heavy flaps of its wings the daemon gave chase, and they vanished into the sky.

The daemon was surprisingly fast despite its bulk and useless looking wings, and it moved with an agility that belied its size. Even as it flew the daemon screamed. Its voice was quickly snatched away by the wind that howled in the wake of their speedy passage, but the warpfire that it unleashed was not. The still air was pushed sluggishly aside before the daemon's fire, carrying with it a faint smell of sulphur and ozone, and the sweltering air grew unbearably hot. The jetbikes of the Darkened Moon weaved about, narrowly avoiding the flames and the worst of the radiating heat, keeping as much distance between themselves and the daemon as they could. Even as the daemon hounded first one then another jetbike the others came behind it, weapons firing. So tough was the hide of the daemon, however, that streams of shurikens simply bounced off its flesh to plummet to the sand far below, and though its hide sizzled under the scatter lasers of the jetbikes, the daemon ignored it and continued onward unscathed. Plasma and bright lance fire scoured great holes into its flesh, but still the daemon came onward, returning the fire of the harlequins with its own scorching heat. Finally a voidweaver came angling down from the sky like a bird of prey, and from the turret mounted behind the cockpit came a high pitched whine that rose sharply until it was beyond hearing. There was a steely whistle as the weapon discharged, and the air before it rippled perceptibly, marking the path that the psychosonic projection took. Had the daemon been any lesser, it would have simply been blasted to atoms. But the daemon was not a lesser being, and it bore the shot without the slightest falter. A hint of wariness, however, had begun to show upon its hideous face.

The pilot of the voidweaver tilted the gunship to one side and allowed it to spiral downward back toward the ground, and once again the gun fired before the pilot pushed the craft again back up into the sky in an almost vertical climb. This time the daemon flinched, the steady beat of its wings quickening to regain its balance. The energy of the Othersea was unleashed before it in a spell of complex weave, a great stream of golden light that could have been a beam of sunlight but for its luminescence that was far more brilliant than the light of any star. Illiawe, who looked through the minds of the harlequins, was unaffected by the glare, and the harlequins' masks saved them from being struck blind, but it was not simple light that the spell created. Even assisted by Illiawe's prescience, the voidweaver just barely avoided the beam as it pulled up from its dive, and down below them the sand of the desert was instantly vaporized, the sheer force of the spell blasting aside the resulting dust that rose into the air and revealing a great crater of iridescent glass dozens of feet across. The mimes did not allow the daemon more time to let loose another spell, discharging their weapons once more into its form, a rapid volley of starcannon and bright lance fire followed quickly by the sonic lance that appeared to be the only effective weapon among the jetbikes. The daemon staggered, its wings for a moment failing, and it plummeted down like a rock. It was a hundred yards before it got its wings back under control again.

In desperation the daemon screamed, setting the air all about it suddenly ablaze with black fire. Great gouts of flame went billowing out from the daemon, and, unexpectedly, it turned, its wings held close behind it, and dived back toward the ground. Headed for the shimmering webway gate.

So outmatched was the defense of the Darkened Moon without the support of their jetbikes that the press of lesser warp beasts had already gotten to within a thousand yards of the webway gate by the time the jetbikes had beaten the greater daemon back. A great chorus of eager barks rose from the tightly parked daemons and they leapt forward with renewed vigor, and within only a couple of minutes they had covered half the distance to the webway gate.

“This is it,” came the grim thought of the troupe master of twilight. “No more running. The daemons must not breach the webway.”

“Illiawe,” came Esarlyth’s thoughts. “Could you shut this gate down?”

“Not from all the way over here,” she replied.

“Then I suppose that there’s no help for it.”

“Are you sure that you do not want us to return there?”

“No.” Esarlyth’s tone was firm. “The Commorrites and harlequins on other parts of the planet are already on their way here. We will just have to hold out until they fight their way through to us.” Then his presence was gone.

The light troupe, in their roles of heroes one and all, gathered before the shimmering webway gate, their weapons readied and their heads held high as they watched the approach of the daemonhost. The dark and twilight troupes, not being held to the nobility of their roles, simply vanished, though their defense was no less staunch. Where the harlequins of the light filled the air with shurikens and laser and fusion fire, theirs took the form of blades descending out of thin air, clouds of monofilament wire, and sudden eruptions of fire that had no discernible source. Small pellets no larger than the tip of Illiawe’s thumb were sent hurtling into the midst of the daemons by the shadowseers of the twilight and the dark, exploding in clouds of psychic turmoil. Daemons screamed and thrashed upon the ground, and then they turned and tore into each other in mindless frenzy. Yet the daemons drew nearer and nearer, heedless of the casualties that they were sustaining. Indeed, so large was the daemonhost that what casualties that were inflicted upon them did little, if at all, to slow them down.

But, unexpectedly, the daemons did not divert their attention to pursue the elusive troupes savaging their flanks. Instead, all their attention was focused upon the webway gate and the light troupe that stood before it. Yet, even as the first of the daemons reached Illiawe’s troupe, they did not so much engage the harlequins as they did shoulder them aside before leaping into the shimmering surface of the portal. A wave of dismay rose within the masque’s consciousness, but it was quickly suppressed and the troupe continued their fight.

Even Illiawe, however, could see that it was a hopeless one. More and more of the daemons had broken in and, when the greater daemons loomed up over them, Esarlyth finally and grudgingly sent a single command, and the harlequins abandoned the fight before the webway gate to pursue the daemons through the shimmering portal.

At the edge of Illiawe’s consciousness now rose a presence that had not been there before. The shrill scream that Illiawe felt more than heard was dreadfully familiar. As one the daemons within the webway raised their muzzles and returned Malenesh’s cry with an answering howl. A shiver ran down Illiawe’s spine.

“That did not sound too good,” Illiawe muttered.

“Please don’t state the obvious.”

Malenesh’s screams grew louder as the harlequins and the Commorrites fought back the intruders, resounding impossibly out of her prison and through the corridors of the webway. The psychic screams of her vexation grew louder with every daemon slain, until it seemed almost to blot the world around her out.

Taeryn grimaced. “Vocal, isn’t she?”

Illiawe nodded absently, wincing as a particularly piercing screech clawed its way across her mind. And yet the Darkened Moon continued to fight, their blades flashing as they cut down daemons by the score, seemingly oblivious to the aggravation of the imprisoned handmaiden of Slaanesh. A greater daemon that moved upon a muscular serpentine body came slithering out of the shadows of the webway, lunging at the light troupe where they fenced with Slaanesh’s lesser minions, its six arms a blur of blades and whips and shifting golden light. Without hesitation Esarlyth leapt at it, his sword moving so quickly that it was nothing but a solid-looking barrier of soft blue light around him. He leapt and ducked and weaved, his athletic body contorting from one impossible form to another, dodging the strikes of the daemon. His holosuit too served him well, and one moment the troupe master of the light was a swirling mist of color and the next surrounded by perfect copies of himself that flickered and shifted around confusingly so that he appeared to be in a hundred places all at once, and sometimes he vanished entirely, his location only announced by the flicking point of his blade as it opened the flesh of the daemon.

Finally the daemon snarled and threw caution to the wind, lunging toward Esarlyth, its weapons a blur before it. Forewarned by Illiawe the troupe master leapt backward. The daemon’s arm lashed out and a pair of whips whistled through the air. In the middle of his jump Esarlyth twisted and flipped, letting the whips pass above and below him. The skeins shifted and, alarmed, Illiawe sent him a pulse of thought, but it was too late. The daemon thrust one of its swords forward and a beam of light was flung out of its point. Not even Esarlyth could avoid that. It struck his side and he was sent flying to crash into the far wall of the webway corridor. The agony that came over Illiawe caused her to yelp in surprise, for it was not particularly painful, nor was it a physical wound. The cumulative training that she had picked up and which now existed together took over then and she pushed aside all thought of the phantom wound.

The light troupe of the Darkened Moon had converged upon the daemon, darting in and out, probing for an opening as the Death Jester's shuriken cannon unleashed hundreds of screaming discs at it. But a new figure was already there. The troupe master of the dark, concealed under a cloak of shadows, had, all unseen, crept up behind the daemon. Even as the serpentine creature reared up, preparing to strike the light troupe from the realm of the living, the troupe master pounced. His left fist, enveloped in a gauntlet of swirling psychic energy, caught the daemon in its back where the body of the serpent morphed into the twisted mockery of the eldar form. The psychic energy in the gauntlet lashed down into the creature. It did not even have time to scream as the psychic force tore its soul from its mortal flesh. Instead of the fading scream that indicated its return to the Othersea and the realm of its mistress, however, there was only silence, even as the daemon's soul disappeared deep into the webway realm. Malenesh screamed again, a psychic sound greater than any she had created before.

Illiawe, all bemused, tilted her head. Then, in a sudden moment of epiphany that usually preceded understanding, the purpose of the daemons dawned upon Illiawe. “Stop!” she cried, her thoughts going through the harlequin consciousness not only to the Darkened Moon but also to all the children of Cegorach who vied with the daemons within the webway and all across the galaxy. “Turn away from the daemons and put up your swords!”

“What are you doing?” Taeryn demanded from beside her.

“Can’t you see?” Illiawe asked, her voice shrill in her ears with something very close to hysteria. “These daemons aren’t here to break our seals. They have been bonded to Malenesh. Every one that we kill within the webway feeds Malenesh with more of Slaanesh’s might.”

Taeryn’s eyes widened as the full impact of Illiawe’s words dawned upon her. When she next spoke, her words did not come from her lips for the speed of ideas exchanged by thought. “But the daemons have already dispersed too much. If the webway expels them, they will simply return, and if we cannot kill them, then they will forever infest the webway.”

“Then we will have to seal them off.”

“We cannot afford to lose any more of the webway! We cannot fight the Rhana Dandra so crippled.”

“We have already expanded too much of it sealing Malenesh off. If she breaks free, the sacrifice would have been for nothing.”

Taeryn nodded, sucking in a deep breath. “You’re right. That must not be allowed to go to waste.” Illiawe felt her reaching out her mind to the eldar of both the masques and of Commorragh, explaining with great urgency the situation to them. It seemed to Illiawe to take far too long, and the moments that passed seemed eternal. Then, almost as one, the masques of the Laughing God broke away from where they vied with the daemons of Slaanesh and melted back into the webway. After a while the warriors of the kabals, too, turned and retreated into the rainbow tunnels. For a while the daemons continued upon their paths, moving through the corridors of the webway unopposed. Then, unexpectedly, the daemons stopped and, as Illiawe watched in horror, they fell upon each other, ripping one into another with tooth and claw. The greater daemons of Slaanesh whirled and pirouetted amongst the ranks of the lesser daemons, felling dozens of the smaller creatures with every swing of their blades. The sacrificial slaughter was more devastating than the attacks of the harlequins before had been, and with every passing second the wails of Malenesh grew louder.

“Push the daemons out!” Taeryn cried, but even as Illiawe merged her mind with the webway to do so, she knew that it was futile. The daemons within the webway numbered easily in the millions, and all the while more daemons streamed further into the webway through breached gates to hurl themselves unthinkingly onto the blades of the greater daemons of Slaanesh.

Malenesh's screams grew louder and, with a shock, Illiawe realized that her screams no longer existed only within her mind, and Illiawe stiffened with fear. And Malenesh continued to scream, but it was now not a sound filled with affront but with triumph and anticipation, and her screams resounded all throughout the corridors of the webway as the carefully laid seals of her prison began to break and fall away.

“Where is Ethorach?” Illiawe demanded.

“If he wanted to aid us, he would have already done so.”

Illiawe ignored her and turned her mind away from the webway, probing the minds of the eldar of Kenaleith until she found the thoughts of her mentor. He was seated comfortably on a plump armchair before an antiquated fireplace in the house that the Exodites had provided him with when she translocated herself into his presence. As always, there was an ancient scroll within his hands and a goblet of wine by her side.

“Ethorach!” Illiawe shouted as soon as the energies of the Othersea dissipated.

“Please don’t do that, Illiawe,” he replied calmly, not taking his eyes off his scroll. “It is terribly impolite.”

“We don’t have time for that, Ethorach. Malenesh has broken free.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Ethorach muttered.

“Yes, it is,” Illiawe replied icily. “But you can put her back into the prison.”

“Weren’t you listening before, Illiawe? I do not fight. Khaine and Asuryan do. I simply do not have the physique for it.”

“That’s factitious,” Illiawe’s scoffed. “You still have the power of a god, and Malenesh is only the shadow of one.”

“I am very flattered, Illiawe, but I think that I will have to stay out of this.”

“But Malenesh is going to claim the souls of the eldar for Slaanesh. You have to fight her!”

"I must not," he repeated callously. "To so will jeopardize all that We have planned."

"How could you do that?"

"Even if I win, it would weaken Malenesh, and therefore weaken the souls of the eldar within Her. Moreover, to fight her would be to split the souls of the eldar off from her, and a time is coming when the souls of the eldar within her need to be very strong."

Illiawe narrowed her eyes. "You aren't telling me something."

“No,” Ethorach admitted. “It is also none of your business. You are very demanding of the gods, Illiawe. Most eldar show a little more respect.” There was a steely rebuke in his tone that Illiawe had never heard there before. Illiawe froze, not really sure how to act next. Ethorach let her flounder embarrassingly for a few moments, then a sly smile evaporated his disapproving look. “Don’t fret so much. Unlike Asuryan, I think that a bit of disrespect now and then is good. We tend to keep overblown opinions of Our own abilities after a while. Now, if there is nothing else, I would like to return to my scroll.”

Grumbling, Illiawe gathered her will and returned to Taeryn’s side.

“I take it that it didn’t go so well?” he friend asked, taking in at a glance Illiawe’s countenance.

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I could say the same thing for you,” Taeryn said smugly. “I told you that he’s not going to help.”

“Taeryn,” Illiawe said pointedly, “don’t you have something better to attend to?”

“Not really. There is really nothing that we can do.” She turned to look despairingly back out through the consciousness of the Darkened Moon. The harlequins were fleeing now, retreating to the closest of their cities, taking with them those Commorrites closer to the dwellings of the harlequins than the Dark City. The Commorrites closer to Commorragh, too, gathered up those eldar around them, harlequin and Commorrite alike, and retreated through the portals that led to Commorragh. The gates that led into the cities within the webway were quickly shut down, sealing the cities away from the rest of the dimension as the eldar within prepared to sit out the collapse of Malenesh’s prison.

“At least this might be indicative of Slaanesh’s current might,” Taeryn noted.

“What?”

“That Slaanesh would go to all this trouble to free Malenesh gives quite an insight into just how much power Slaanesh could spare right now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Isn’t this a little morbid, Taeryn?” Illiawe asked her acidly.

Taeryn shrugged. “Just trying to keep the mood up.”

“Do you mind doing so in a different way?”

Malenesh continued to scream even as more of the lesser daemons continued to tear into each other. Then her screams rose to a crescendo, and abruptly the daemons stopped grappling with each other, raising their muzzles to bay and howl, their cries mingling with those of Malenesh in a harsh and discordant sound. A hollow wail came then, howling mournfully through the corridors of the webway, and even on Kenaleith the change in the air was unmistakable, growing suddenly thick. A sickeningly sweet smell filled the air. Then a vast sense of stillness came over everything, as if the universe had been suddenly frozen. From somewhere deep within the webway there was a quiet detonation, and the skeins shook and trembled and the flow of the Othersea around Illiawe rippled and grew agitated. Then the prison that the shadowseers had so carefully crafted splintered and cracked and came all at once down.

And Malenesh, rising dreadfully up, burst out, laughing with childlike glee, and her form within the skeins was like a vast shadow. Then she was within the corridors of the webway. Warpfire spewed from her, rushing through the webway corridors, and daemons were reduced to dust and lesser than dust before her flames, and within the skeins the shadow of Malenesh swelled as she claimed the power that Slaanesh had placed into the lesser daemons and that was her patron’s gift to her. And all throughout the corridors the warpfire blazed, spreading far throughout the labyrinthine place, and all the daemons of Slaanesh were given over to Malenesh.

The light of the webway pulsed and grew brighter, and once more the skeins shifted, this time from the webway as it strove to turn the daemon out of its corridors. Malenesh rose up, her dreadful eyes flashing, and brought the full force of her will upon the webway. The collision of the wills of the webway and the handmaiden of Slaanesh shook the very fabric of the dimension, and the walls of the webway trembled with the contest.

The light of the webway blazed with iridescent brilliance and the psychic force of the webway built up heavily within it and an ethereal wind went howling through its corridors, and for a moment it seemed as though the webway might be successful in banishing the daemon from within its tunnels, but the certainty within the skeins spoke otherwise. There was little chance that the webway could resist. Malenesh had grown simply too powerful, and with every spell a little more of the webway crumbled and fell away. Again and again the handmaiden of Slaanesh directed the force of her will against the walls of the webway. As Illiawe looked on in morbid fascination, the walls of the webway groaned and shuddered and, finally, it cracked and gave, and the tunnels splintered and came ponderously apart, a billion pieces spinning and falling away into nothingness.

And, howling vindictively, Malenesh turned away from the broken webway and went out into the material world, and a great cloud of golden dust trailed in her wake like the tail of a raging comet, and where it touched worlds were reduced to dust and stars dimmed and were extinguished. And far into the blackness of the void Malenesh went, until only the chilling sound of her mockery and the low creaking of the fragmented webway remained.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 42

Now in the place where neither mortals nor gods knew came together Asuryan and Cegorach, and discussed They the birth of Ynnead, for, indeed, even the legends of the eldar spoke of the birth of Ynnead that heralds the end of the power of the Othersea gods over the mortals of the world. And lo, Cegorach spoke of the need of Isha, mother of the eldar, and of Khaine, the Bloody-Handed god of war.

“Isha and Khaine?” presently Asuryan queried, and His timeless face did grow perplexed.

“Consider this, My king,” replied Cegorach, “among all the gods of the eldar, it is Isha who loves Our children the most. Should matters require, She will stop at naught to protect them. The Bloody-Handed Khaine is, as all doth know, the very embodiment of war. Should things come to pass, it is He who shall wage bloody war against those who stand against Our children.”

“This I know,” said Asuryan, most annoyed at the simple words of Cegorach – for, indeed, hoped He that the elucidation of the Laughing God shall be of incomprehensible complexity.

“As You wonder,” did Cegorach continue in tones of respect, “wherefore do the twin need of Khaine and Isha be of necessity? If You would only consider it in the light of Their domains, Their role in the creation of Ynnead shall not elude You. Truly, just as Isha deals in love and war is the domain of Khaine, so does Ynnead deal in death. But this death is, for certs, not the death of the eldar, for the souls of Our children are timeless. Long have I gave this much thought, and I have come upon but a single conclusion. Ynnead doth deal in the death of the enemies of the eldar. But this is no simple killing as Khaine does, for Khaine killeth out of anger and rage, and out of a need for protection ‘gainst the eldar’s foes. But Ynnead killeth out of vengeance and out of love, for, indeed, Ynnead’s role has always been thus. Where Khaine reaps for righteous fury, Ynnead reaps without fury, for She reapeth for love.”

And the light of comprehension came to the eyes of Asuryan. “And thus is both the love of Isha and the combat prowess of Khaine needed, for though Ynnead shall be born of the souls of the eldar, the domains of Isha and Khaine will have to be brought together to give Her purpose.”

And Cegorach did grin, and mirthless was His grin. “And that, My lord, is the reason for My proposition.”

Then did the face of Asuryan grow troubled, for the proposition of Cegorach was fraught with peril. “Khaine is a creature of strife, and strife shall give Ynnead focus, for this strife shall place the entirety of Our children in grave threat. Surely, it is a great sacrifice, and its outcome is not certain.”

“Perhaps it is not,” said Cegorach, “but since the outcome is not yet certain, We must join this battle with a hearty spirit.”

“This cheer suits the situation most poorly,” Asuryan did rebuke, and Cegorach bowed most mockingly.

“I shall strive to magnify the scant solemnity within Mine innermost thoughts.”

And did Asuryan inhale deeply, for many and grave were the troubles that weighed down upon His mind. “Perhaps there are things that could be done,” mused He. “Should the other gods of Chaos be distracted, Our task could move with much greater ease.”

“And what, pray tell, dost Thou consider?”

“Remain with Thy plans, Cegorach, and allow Me to concentrate on Mine.”

And did Cegorach scowl most furiously, for, though great was His wit, could He think of no retort to the jest of the Phoenix King.

If ever there was one thing that Warboss Ghahzlay hated, it was the dilemma of choosing a fight to attend. Such a choice was even worse than the prospect of a fight that he could not participate in, for it bore with it not a sense of helplessness, but rather the knowledge that, though a fight was well within his reach, he was unable to participate in it. Such a situation presented the possibility of his klan being too small in size and warmaking ability, and it was a difficult revelation to come to terms with, no matter how many times it happened. Ghahzlay hated the fact that, no matter how hard he tried, he was never quite good enough.

The fights that bothered the warboss to such an extent both took place in roughly the same portion of the galaxy, quite close, in Ghahzlay’s mind, to each other, which made his klan’s inability to fight both at once all the more frustrating. The first of the fights was one that Ghahzlay had been invited to by the pointy-ear with the difficult to remember name. It was against the forces of Chaos, and Ghahzlay thought that it might be a rather fun fight. Indeed, the only thought that he gave to the entire affair was why the pointy-ear had not gotten a name that was easier to remember. She was certainly a capable fighter, and that made her name all the more puzzling.

The second fight was one that Ghahzlay’s klan had been clamoring for. It would certainly be a very profitable fight, since it was against Ghazghkull himself, the most powerful warboss in the galaxy. Defeating him in battle would prove once and for all that Ghahzlay was the toughest warboss in the galaxy, and the prospect was rather pleasing to him. The problem, of course, lay in the fact that Ghazghkull had drawn about him dozens of klans from all corners of the galaxy, and while Ghahzlay was sure that his klan would eventually triumph, he preferred a little more certainty. Ghahzlay was, after all, an ork and not a squig. He liked to think that he was clever and quite more cunning than a squig, and, he was sure, he had not fallen too far off the mark.

A little tingle started then at the base of his skull, and Ghahzlay pounded upon the side of his head, establishing the mental link. The technology, reverse engineered from the remnants of the psychic link that the pointy-ear had left in his head before Ghahzlay had become warboss, was the pride of Klan Bad Parnz’s top thinkers. Created from a piece of his head – the part that the pointy-ear had touched – it was quite a new technology, and was not without its flaws. Sometimes the connection was disrupted, other times the piece of metal that the meks had stuck in his brain to replace the piece that the doks had taken grew so hot that its glow shone right through even the respectable thickness of Ghahzlay’s skull like a frightening third eye, and the orks at the other end of the line frequently noted that he sounded strange and unlike an ork during their silent conversations. It was the tingle, however, that most annoyed Ghahzlay. How was an ork supposed to concentrate upon the deep ideas of the universe when his head developed an unreliable itch every time someone attempted to talk to him? The disruptions were very irritating indeed, and since Ghahzlay could not see or touch them, he was unable to make his displeasure known in the customary manner.

It was therefore understandable that he was in a foul mood when he sent his thoughts to the ork on the other end. “What is it?”

“Boss,” came the thought of Graht, a brute of an ork and, consequently, one of the most respected in the klan. “Da boyz wantz ta know ‘oo’z we gonna klomp.”

“That’s not really their business. I am the boss. All they need to do is go where I tell them to go.”

Graht grunted. “Aye, boss. But ya gotz a plan?”

“Of course I got a plan. Who’s the boss, you or me? We are going to fight the spiky boys. They were a good fight last time, and I ain’t done with them yet.”

“Ya gotz it, boss. Do ya want me ta fetch da boyz so ya can speak ta dem all enouragin’ like?”

“Do that, and make sure the whole klan could hear me.”

“Aye, boss.” There was a pause, then there was a string of curses that sounded like someone bawling profanities from somewhere far away. That was another problem with the new communication devices. No one really knew how to turn them off, because they were inside the heads of the orks, and the usual method of pounding on them until they stopped working was not very possible.

“’Old ya ‘ead still,” came a voice from the other end, and Graht grunted. There was the sound of some large piece of metal striking bone, and the tingle in Ghahzlay’s head abruptly vanished. It was not possible to turn the devices off directly, but Ghahzlay’s boys were imaginative, and they found ways around problems. With the annoying tingling gone, Ghahzlay settled back down to finish his thought. Ghazaghkull, he decided, could wait. The old ork was probably having fun ravaging the planets of the Imperium anyway, and Ghahzlay did not want to interrupt his entertainment. Ghahzlay was a well-mannered ork.

The more Ghahzlay thought about it, the better this course of action seemed to him. Both he and Ghazaghkull will have ample entertainment, and he would be able to prove himself just a little more worthy of the title of the toughest warboss in the galaxy before he faced Ghazaghkull. More importantly, helping the pointy-ear would mean getting more of those strange teeth that did not decay, and Ghahzlay was not one to turn down easy wealth.

With the monumental decision now settled, Ghahzlay stood and made his preparations to appear before the klan. The rich crimson cape, now made from the banner of a rival klan that had put up an impressive resistance, went about his bulging shoulders, and the crown, repainted in accordance to a painting he had seen in a human palace and which he thought looked very fine, went atop his head. His regalia now set, he pulled his lips back in a fearsome scowl and stormed out of his hall aboard his ship.

The corridors of the Gorksmasha were dark and narrow, barely allowing for orks to walk through two abreast. The indecently sized passageways were a necessity, since any space that they took up was space that could be better used for weapon batteries and ammunition storage. The orks that he passed on the way through the corridors were quick to get out of his way. They had learned early on, much to their approval, that their warboss tended not to wait for orks to get out of his way, a lesson that was quickly demonstrated as Ghahzlay, without moving so much as a muscle in his arms, quite simply bowled over with his broad shoulders those orks who were still in his path. Unfortunately, Ghahzlay was quite a bit larger than most orks, and the narrow corridor meant that most of the orks who had not vacated the immediate area were in Ghahzlay’s way. As the warboss made his way to the Gorksmasha’s bridge, he left in his wake a string of orks picking themselves up off their feet and gazing at his receding back with newfound respect and admiration.

The bridge of the Gorksmasha took the shape of a grinning ork at the very top of the ship, and it bristled with clanking and whirring machinery that spat out long series of strange noises and the occasional piece of loose metal that ricocheted around the room. Armies of gretchins scampered here and there along the walls, tinkering with the machines in areas that the larger orks were unable to reach, chittering excitedly all the while.

Ghahzlay made his way to the central communications desk manned by a single ork in a squig hide vest that was spotted with burn marks. Upon his head was a pair of grimy goggles, and one of his tusks was missing.

“Bagtur!” Ghahzlay hollered as he stepped onto the bridge. “Let da klan know we’z gonna klomp da spiky boyz.”

Bagtur grunted. “Ya talky fink iz glowin’ again,” he said, gesturing at his forehead.

“I jus’ talked to Graht.”

“I don’ trust dem wierdboyz,” he growled. “It ain’t nachural fer orks ta glow.”

“It iz fasta dis way,” Ghahzlay pointed out.

“Me an’ me meks kin make ya a talky fink as well, and ya don’ need ta glow ta use it.”

“It iz fasta dis way,” Ghahzlay repeated.

“Whateva ya say, boss,” Bagtur shrugged, picking up a dented speaker to give the orks of the klan their orders. “Oh,” he added, “Nodbrog wantz ta speak ta ya.”

“What’z ‘e wan’?”

“’E din say.”

Ghahzlay grunted sourly and turned to make his way into the lower decks of Gorksmasha, where the self-proclaimed greatest mechanic in orkoid history made his laboratories. Nodbrog was not an ork that Ghahzlay particularly liked. He was large and old and too clever for his own good, but he had not once attempted to claim the title of warboss from Ghahzlay. Ghahzlay found that lack of ambition to be very suspicious indeed.

Ghahzlay had come across Nodbrog during one of his expeditions against rival ork klans. The ork had been rather uncaring of the open battle that raged all around him, even as the Bad Parnz had spewed into his klan’s stronghold. The only concession that he had provided to the whole affair had been when the orks of the Bad Parnz had poured into his decidedly small laboratory. Nodbrog was a large ork, and the weapons that he wielded were a good deal larger. Ghahzlay had lost many orks that day. In exchange, however, he had gained the service of Nodbrog – as long as he kept the supplies for the mek’s countless experiments coming. For his part, Nodbrog had not really appeared to notice that his warboss was different to the one whom he had previously served. As long as he got no ideas of challenging Ghahzlay to his title, Ghahzlay supposed that he did not really mind.

As far as Ghahzlay could tell, his knowledge of science was unsurpassed, greatly dwarfing that of the klan’s brightest orks. As it were, he was a dok and a mek rolled into one. When he had first joined them, Nodbrog had pondered at those two titles that the orks had given him for a few moments, and he had shrugged his broad shoulders in an entirely uncaring manner.

“I suppose that my weapons could both welcome and chase away anyone trying to enter our strongholds,” he had mused.

Ghahzlay still did not understand the meaning of his words, but that had only served to strengthen the idea of Nodbrog’s brilliance.

“Oi, Nodbrog!” Ghahzlay bellowed as he neared the door to the mek’s laboratory. It was a good idea to give Nodbrog plenty of warning before entering his laboratory. “It’z me, Ghahzlay.” Without waiting for a reply – he was the warboss, after all – Ghahzlay slammed the door open and stormed in.

Nodbrog’s laboratory could be generously described as cluttered. Strange machines lay all around the room, seemingly with no particular order. In the exact center of the laboratory was a rusty machine that stretched up to the ceiling, covered in glass tubes that were filled with green and blue liquids. Nodbrog, stooped to almost half his height, was puttering around the machine amidst showers of white sparks that spewed constantly from various parts of the contraption. He looked up only briefly as Ghahzlay entered.

“What do you want?” he asked in that strange dialect of his – the language, he had explained before, of his old klan.

“Da klan iz gonna fight da Chaos boyz now,” Ghahzlay announced. “’Ave ya got anyfink ta ‘elp uz?”

“Many things,” Nodbrog growled. “Most of which you will not understand anyway, so why bother showing them to you?”

“I needz ta know wat ya ‘ave.”

Nodbrog pulled his lips back irritably. “They kill people. Do you really need to know more?” His expression grew for a moment derisive, but he turned away from the machine and went to a small table tucked away in one corner of the room and pulled out a neatly rolled piece of parchment. He carefully unrolled it with his large hands and laid it flat upon the table. Curiously, Ghahzlay went to his side and peered at it.

“Dat’s not a weapon,” he objected after a cursory glance.

“It’s a drawing of one,” Nodbrog explained in the tone one adopted when speaking to a small child. “It tells us how to build something.”

Ghahzlay shrugged. “Why boder? Jus’ build it, don’t draw it. Dat’s what ya ‘ead iz fer. Put da pictures in dere.” He turned back to the parchment. The drawings appeared to be that of some large cannon, but other than that it did not really make much sense to him. “What’z it do?” he asked.