War flowed over the surface of Talamire like a tide born from the very bowels of hell. They came in great waves, gibbering beasts with leering eyes, gaping mouths, and laughter that grated on the ears. They moved with an unholy grace, their flesh a multitude of pastels as they danced through death and reveled in the bloodshed. And there was much bloodshed. The ground was sodden with it, and covered in pieces of flesh of all kinds as the daemons lay into their victims with indiscrimination.
Her spear flashed in the chaos, impaling a twittering daemon through the chest. The creature snapped its claws at her, smiling with abundant pleasure as the life ebbed from its eyes. She withdrew the blade from the daemon's body and swung it back, decapitating yet another warp creature. It was not supposed to be like this. Farseer Erylla Lythowyn reached out, the fingers on her hand splayed, and unleashed a storm of lightning into the advancing tide of warp spawn. Those that were struck danced like puppets as the electricity coursed through their foul nervous systems before they disintegrated to ash.
Behind her Ialyn fell, buried beneath a mountain of daemonic flesh. The creatures laughed and capered as they tore the Eldar limb from limb, stripping the flesh from his bones with their claws. Ialyn died silently but Lythowyn felt his soul scream as it was cast into the warp and swallowed. There was a dull whoosh and suddenly Belthorn was there, flamer in hand, casting the fire over the pile that covered Ialyn's corpse. The daemons died in ecstasy.
No, it was not supposed to be like this. Talamire was a Maiden World, preserved for recolonization by the Eldar race. In the years since the Fall, the world had become inhabited by a species of subhumans. That much had been expected. The Maiden Worlds commonly became settled by other species. When the time came for the Eldar to return, those species were given the option to leave or be destroyed. But that was not why Lythowyn was on Talamire.
Vasilla Tenroth had once been a magnificent warrior, one of the craftworld's most revered autarchs. He had knowledge of war on an almost divine level and practiced it with such grace to say he turned it into an art form would be a gross understatement. He had trod the many paths offered by the Aspect Temples, including that of the Striking Scorpion, Fire Dragon, Dire Avenger, and Swooping Hawk. He studied and learned destruction in all its forms, and those paths he did not take personally he studied from the outside, surrounding himself with those that would teach him. He had been a hero to the craftworld and his death was a terrible blow.
As befitting of such a hero, Vasilla Tenroth had been buried on a Maiden World, his spirit stone interred within an ornate mausoleum. If the craftworld ever needed Tenroth's skills again, his spirit stone could be retrieved and placed within the wraithbone hull of a revered Wraithlord. Lythowyn had been tasked by the High Council to retrieve Tenroth's spirit stone. It was supposed to be an easy task. The humans of Talamire were primitive, even by Imperial standards. This should have been simple.
And yet Lythwoyn had watched in stunned horror as over three million people committed simultaneous suicide. She had watched as the warp portal opened and the first of the daemons poured forth to lay claim to the desecrated bodies. And she had watched in disturbed understanding as the warp undulated and let forth one of She Who Thirst's most vile and devious servants.
Norgavalia, Prince of the Forbidden Ecstasy, Bearer of the Primal Flame, Lady of the Taunting Pain, and Slaanesh's chosen Keeper of Secrets, stepped through the portal and the whole of Talamire exhaled in pleasure, pain, and dread. Right then and there, Lythowyn's mission had become twofold, and she knew it would most likely kill her.
A daemon leaped through the air, pirouetting as it did so. It held its claws forward, aiming for her throat. Her spear was down, and even she was not fast enough to bring it up to parry. There was as hiss of displaced air and the daemon suddenly fell back, purple ichor blossoming from half a dozen wounds as tiny blades found their mark.
"Farseer, we must fall back. There are simply too many." Arlas fired another burst from his rifle, sending the monomolecular shuriken slicing through unnatural flesh and bone.
Lythowyn knew the Dire Avenger was right. The daemon host had arrived too suddenly and in far too great a number for the tiny Eldar war band to do much of anything from their current location. "Fall back to the mausoleum," Lythowyn instructed. "We make our stand there." She watched as her soldiers obeyed, each moving with the peerless grace of their race. A sadness gripped her as she watched. She had arrived on Talamire with thirty of them, all Dire Avengers, all noble warriors. Now she had fewer than half that number. Though she had Vasilla Tenroth's spirit stone, Lythowyn could not help but sense deep failure within her. Behind her Norgavalia laughed, a deep, throaty rumble that was eerily pleasant on the ear.
It was not supposed to be like this.
The strike cruiser hung in orbit like a great omen of destruction. It's hull was dull gunmetal grey with red detail along the aft sponsons. The only identifying marks were a stylized "I" on either side of the bridge wing and a sword overlaid by an open book halfway down the hull. She was the Fire of Perdition, and she had come here for a holy purpose.
Interrogator Gabriel Radcliffe stood on the observation deck, regarding the planet below with a pensive stare. Local star charts called it Talamire. It was on the very fringes of the Calaxis Cluster. According to Imperial records, it was inhabited by a race of primitive humans, but for the most part, for whatever reason, the planet had managed to remain outside the attention of Imperial ministrations. But recent events had changed all of that.
Talamire was a beautiful world. Oceans of blue flowed seamlessly around continents that ranged in color from the lush green of fields, to the blue-grey of steely mountains, to the pale yellow of desert ranges. As Radcliffe thought to himself how nice it would have been to visit on a more joyous occasion, his eyes drifted over a dark stain in Talamire's atmosphere. A storm, a vortex of grey swirling clouds, dominated the planet's central continent. Lightning sparked and cracked through the clouds, so bright Radcliffe could make out the individual bolts from space.
The door to the observation deck opened behind Radcliffe with a hiss. Great boot steps echoed through the chamber, pausing just feet behind the interrogator. "Master Radcliffe," a deep booming voice said. "All is in readiness. We make planetfall at your discretion."
"Thank you, Captain Vorganor," Radcliffe said, turning to face the Grey Knight. Vorganor nodded and left. Radcliffe turned back to Talamire. He understood why he was here, but not fully. His master, Inquisitor Corrus Valerian, seemed especially keen that Radcliffe perform this undertaking. Purging a warp incursion was a necessity, even on a world far from the eyes of Terra. But Valerian had given Radcliffe cryptic instructions to save everyone he could, even if they did not seem to deserve it. Radcliffe shook his head. Valerian was one of the best practitioners of divination on Imperial record, able to see the future clearer than anyone else, but the man still worked in riddles and concealed truths. Radcliffe had always accepted it as Valerian's way of testing him, preparing him to become a full Inquisitor, but it still maddened him sometimes.
Something tugged on his mind and drew him from his musings. It was a large presence in the warp, one that Radcliffe felt was no longer bound by the immaterium. It seemed to emanate from the center of the storm raging below. Radcliffe closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, tentatively probing through the clouds below.
What he saw was horrific. There was destruction on a massive scale. He could feel the psychic feedback of so many souls dying. The sensation clawed at his mind and ripped at his heart. And at the center of it all was something wholly inhuman. A towering presence that laughed in mockery of everything around it, extorting those who would listen to boundless acts of excess. As Radcliffe floated there in the clouds that entity turned towards him, grinning malevolently. It spoke and when it did Radcliffe's mind shuddered. Come down and play.
Radcliffe recoiled, returning to his body with a gasp. This was far beyond anything he expected. The power rolling from the greater daemon was astonishing. He would need something more than faith and a good blade to defeat it. He resolved to search the Perdition's library before initiating planetfall. He wanted to know what he could about this particular Keeper of Secrets.
Radcliffe turned to leave the observatory but as he did so his brow furrowed. His mind twitched, though not from the corrupting touch of Chaos. There was something else down there on Talamire, something alien, though with the daemon's interference he could not place it.
Radcliffe shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. He had more important things to attend to.
The gates of the mausoleum would not hold forever, but they would grant the Eldar enough of a respite to lick their wounds and gather themselves. Arlas walked amongst his warriors, tending to their needs and forgoing his own wounds in favor of theirs. Lythowyn admired Arlas for his dedication to them. The Dire Avengers represented the noblest aspects of Khaine, and Arlas was the noblest of them all.
Lythowyn sat apart from them. She needed time to collect her thoughts. Outside she could feel he daemonic tide grow nearer. She could not help but feel that Norgavalia knew where she was. All Eldar were psychic in some respect. Most were latent psykers, able to do little more than feel the emotions of those around them. But those with more advanced gifts, like Lythowyn, trod the path of the Seer. To an Eldar a century was like a single year to a human. Their lifespans stretched thousands of years. During that time an Eldar might walk several paths. But Farseers like Lythowyn were lost upon the Path of the Seer. They were the most potent pskyers a craftworld had to offer. Consequently, they burned bright in the warp, and Lythowyn was sure she was nothing more than a beacon to Norgavalia, guiding the greater daemon to her kin.
"Farseer?" Lythowyn looked up. Fanlin stood before her, a medkit under his arm. "How are your wounds?" he asked.
"Negligible," Lythowyn said. "Thank you, Fanlin. See to the others." Fanlin nodded and moved off. Lythowyn winced as she pressed a hand to the gash along her left side. She would need to tend to it eventually, but her psychic abilities stemmed the blood flow for now. There were others suffering worse.
"Where do we go from here?" Lythowyn looked up again, quickly removing her hand from under her robes. Arlas stood in front of her this time. He had his helmet off, carrying it in his hand, and Lyhtowyn could see the doubt and uncertainty on his sharp features. It was all the worse because she had no answer for him.
"I don't know," she admitted with a sigh. "I cannot see the future now. It is clouded."
Arlas thought for a moment. Then his face hardened in resolve. "Then we create our own future," he said. "I for one know there is a certain daemon that needs slaying."
"It will likely lead us to our doom."
"Our race has been running from its doom for centuries," Arlas hissed, failing to contain the venom in his voice as he spoke his true feelings. "I am a warrior of Kaela Mensha Khaine, and I am tired of running. If my death waits for me at the hands of that beast, so be it. I will die standing, not running like a coward."
Lythowyn looked into Arlas' face. There was resolution there, but also uncertainty. There was courage but also a hint of fear. "Do the others feel the same?" she asked.
"They do."
"Then so be it. We shall go to our doom."
The interior of the drop-pod was cramped and bathed in the deep red of emergency lighting. Outside there was nothing but the dull roar of engines as the pod accelerated into Talamire's atmosphere. Radcliffe sat back in his harness. He was dressed in black power armor, trimmed in silver and decorated with various symbols of the Inquisition. Nine Grey Knights sat with him, their armor gunmetal grey and decorated with the sigils of their Chapter. Two more drop pods, each filled with ten Grey Knights, were close by, descending on the same target.
The Space Marines checked and rechecked their weapons. One, Brother Asphel, carried with him an ornate piece of machinery that looked like a radio receiver. It was in fact a homing device. In the thick of combat it would be Asphel's duty to activate it and give the Perdition something to target. With any luck Captain Vorganor and his Paladins would then teleport straight into the heart of the conflict.
"Ninety seconds," said Sergeant Praphis. Radcliffe nodded his understanding.
Suddenly his mind twitched again, the same sensation as before only stronger. He looked around the tiny cabin. None of the Grey Knights, psykers though they all were, seemed to notice anything. "Sergeant," Radcliffe said slowly. "Do you feel that?"
"Xenos," Praphis said, his voice a low rumble.
"Can you get a fix?" Radcliffe continued.
"Possible." Praphis entered a series of numbers into a keypad. After a moment Radcliffe was staring at a tactical display of the surrounding area on his helmet's display. "Ruins here," Praphis said as a red circle highlighted the indicated area. "Not of human origin."
"They are Eldar," Radcliffe mused. Save everyone, even those you think might not deserve it. The words of Corrus Valerian rolled through his head. "Sergeant, can we alter our course slightly?" Radcliffe asked.
"Yes."
"Good. I want to land here. Inform the others once we land only to engage the daemons. Leave the xenos to me."
The mausoleum gates caved in with a mighty crack of wraithbone before they crashed to the ground. The first daemons were in within seconds, and dead just as quickly as Arlas and his Dire Avengers shredded them with disciplined fire from their shuriken catapults. But they were the first wave to crash on the beach, and there was an entire ocean behind them. Kalesh lost an arm just above the elbow to a snapping claw. The offender paid with its life. Kalesh continued fighting, firing his catapult with one hand.
Lythowyn noted with mild disgust the daemons assaulting them were taking a more humanoid form. The servants of Slaanesh always had an otherworldly beauty about them but they were still recognizable for what they were. Those daemons that pressed through the mausoleum now carried swords instead of pinching claws, though their skins were still pastel pink. Lythowyn immolated one with a bolt of lightning. "Forward," she shouted. "Drive them out of this place!"
The Dire Avengers reacted as best they could. Their numbers were lacking. Barely a dozen still survived to take up their arms. Nevertheless, they formed a line and began firing methodically into the advancing horde. Daemons screamed and cried as their flesh was butchered by scores of tiny shards of metal. Slowly, paying for every inch they took in blood, the Eldar forced their way out of the mausoleum and onto the grounds.
She felt them coming before she saw them. A sudden pressure wave in the warp indicated their presence. So many psykers in a confined location was something that would attract attention. Lythowyn looked up and saw them, riding down from the sky on giant trails of fire. The drop pods struck the earth with the speed of a lightning bolt and the sound of screaming thunder. They broke the incoming wave of daemons with the sheer ferocity of their arrival, crushing bodies and pulping flesh and bone beneath them.
Mon'keigh.
The Eldar barely had time to register the new arrivals before the assault ramps blew from their restraints and crashed open like giant metal flowers. Lythowyn immediately became aware of an angry chattering. Daemons began to jerk and twist as the psybolts from each pod's storm bolter found their mark. Each storm bolter provided cover for thirty figures clad in armor as they disembarked.
Each warrior rushed from the drop pods and immediately began laying into the pastel pink tide that assaulted them. They wore armor of silver and grey, trimmed with red. Most wielded long halberds, the blade of each glowing a faint blue color. Others swung long swords or shorter falchions, but in each case the blade still glowed.
There was one warrior not like the rest. His armor was black, trimmed in silver, and covered by a flowing red cloak. He did not rush from his drop pod, but instead stalked ponderously down the ramp in the wake of his compatriots. He wielded a halberd like the rest, but there was something different about its make. The blade was longer, narrower, and the power flowing through it was so great electricity would arc across it. He paused momentarily, gesturing, and Lythowyn could only assume he was giving commands.
Then he turned and looked over his shoulder. Lyhtowyn could see the red glint of the eye pieces on the warrior's helmet and she suddenly became acutely aware he was looking at her, looking into her.
Can you hear me, witch?
Lythowyn started as the human's voice invaded her mind, but she regrouped and sent a short, terse reply. Yes.
I do not know what your intentions on this world are. The human glanced at the surviving Eldar, indicating he referred to them as a whole. But you are not my enemy this day, so I will make mine known to you. He pointed towards the daemon Norgavalia and the warp portal behind it. I seek to destroy that monstrosity, and close the gate to its damnable realm. I have given instructions to my men not to engage your forces unless provoked.
Lythowyn nodded. Neither could see the other's face behind their masks but Lythowyn was certain the mon'keigh talking to her was smiling. They both knew that even if the Eldar did turn on the humans, they stood little chance of success in their current state. We were dying just fine before you arrived.
The human quivered, and though she could not hear him, she knew he was laughing. If you are already resigned to your doom, perhaps you will at least make it one worth remembering. He again gestured to Norgavalia. I will not blame you if you chose to run, but here is a chance to make your lifes, your deaths, worth while. We do not fight for the same ideals, witch, but today we fight for the same reason.
Lythowyn frowned. And what would that be?
Survival. Should you choose to do so, fall in behind us. We will cut a path to the daemon.
You would trust one not of your own kind?
No. Trust is earned, and we have only just met. But I have never fought beside and Eldar before and I have a feeling I will need all the allies I can accumulate before I am done here.
The warrior turned away and began to follow his compatriots. Lythowyn watched as his halberd rose, fell, stabbed, and cut. She could not help but be impressed by the skill these mon'keigh possessed. She had seen humans fight before. Most were laughable. Some, those they called Space Marines, were worthy opponents. But these, though they looked as Space Marines, were on another level entirely.
"What in the name of Khaine is going on?" Lythowyn turned and met Arlas' gaze. "What are the mon'keigh here for? Do they not wish to harm us?"
"Not today, Arlas," Lythowyn said. "Today, we count them as friends."
He was pleased to note she followed. The Eldar had already sustained a beating that would have caused any Guard unit to turn and flee or break down with insanity. But to their credit, the xenos dove back into the fight with a renewed vigor. They trailed in the wake of the Grey Knights, picking off anything left alive after their passing and keeping the daemons from surrounding the humans.
Radcliffe swung his halberd and pierced a daemon through the throat. The beast was a grotesque parody of a human woman, completely naked with too many breasts. The majority of its skin was bright pink, but turned to purple at the ends of its limbs. In one hand it wielded a finely curved blade, which clattered to the earth as it was released from the dying thing's grip. Radcliffe withdrew his halberd, jerking it back and smashing the pommel into the nose of yet another daemonette. It reeled from the blow and Radcliffe easily decapitated it with a simple rotating swing.
They were getting closer, making progress through the tide of bodies. Norgavalia loomed large in front of him, taller than a hab block, and nearly as wide. It would take great strength to bring the daemon down. Radcliffe was ambitious. He wanted to kill it for daring to trespass in the mortal plane. He wanted to do more than simply banish it back to the warp. He wanted it to suffer. He would make it fear before this battle was over. He only hoped his tentative ally would be willing to help him do it.
Something moved in the corner of Radcliffe's vision. It was a daemon, moving lightning quick through the masses. No, more than one, a herd. They had the body and legs of a featherless bird, though they did not possess any wings or upper appendages. Their necks were elongated and their tubular snouts ended in gnashing jaws filled with needle-sharp teeth. Their eyes were dark and bulbous. Fiends.
One flashed around the Grey Knight's left flank and sank its teeth into Brother Usures shoulder. It dragged him from his feet and the demonettes around him set upon the space marine. But Ursures would not die without a fight. He gripped the fiend by its long neck and jerked hard. It snapped and the beast's head lolled around lifeless. Ursures lashed out with his sword, impaling a daemonette, then dragged it free, slicing through a second. But there were too many for him to cope with.
Radcliffe through punch in Ursures' direction. Though his gauntleted fist met only air a force wave flowed forward from it, crashing into the daemons around Ursures. They flew through the air, lifted by the force of the kinetic blow. Some screamed as bones were pulped. Others landed haphazardly, breaking necks and spines. Ursures was free. The Grey Knight stood and returned to the fight.
Norgavalia was enjoying itself immensely. Over three million souls had sacrificed themselves for its pleasure. The overwhelming excess provided by such an action was enough to allow Norgavalia to open a warp portal and thank the citizens of Talamire for there services by flooding the planet with its own followers, so those daemons could better show the human scum how to best enjoy all life and death had to offer.
Norgavalia's face twisted into a horrific visage of mirth as it watched its children caper and dance at its feet. This was their world now, and they would help Norgavalia shape it into a bastion of excesses, a tribute to the Prince of Pleasure in the mortal plane. Norgavalia would be elevated for this. Slaanesh would grant it power beyond that of a mere greater daemon. Norgovalia would become one of Slaanesh's chosen princes, more than a simple Keeper of Secrets.
Still, something was not right. Norgavalia could hear some of its children screaming. Their screams were pleasurable while they lasted, but they were continually cut short time and again. Norgavalia turned its gaze east. That way lay an elegant construct of what looked like bone. Norgavalia smiled. It recognized the work of the Eldar when it saw it. The Eldar were the favored delicacy of Slaanesh. But there was something moving in front of the construct, something moving towards Norgavalia, something that was most definitely not Eldar.
They burned in the warp, their minds like flames pressing closer and closer. One burned brighter than all the others. They were human. Norgavalia could taste them on the air. There was also the scent of Eldar, but the flavor of humanity dominated it. The charged through his servants like a dark arrow flying ever closer. Norgavalia was not stupid. It had attained its position in the warp through cunning and no shortage of brute force when it was necessary. He knew a challenge when it saw it.
Let them come, Norgavalia thought. It's about time someone came to play.
The daemon drew closer, slow and ponderous but no less graceful in all its twisted beauty. Radcliffe grit his teeth and looked for Brother Asphel. He found him in the thick of things, his twin falchions rising and falling, thrusting and parrying, as daemons died all around him. The homing beacon was still strapped to his back.
Radcliffe sidestepped a falling blade, granted the wielder a quick death, then moved to close with Asphel. His halberd came up, parrying a snapping claw. Radcliffe sent a mental cue to Asphel as he disarmed his new opponent, sending the daemon's left forearm sailing through the air before skewering it through the throat. Asphel, to me. It is nearly time.
The Grey Knight acknowledged with the briefest of nods in Radcliffe direction. His arms swung wide, twin blades having no trouble biting into flesh, such was the press of bodies against the marine. The two converged and fought back to back, trying to create some space within the swirling melee for them to work. Radcliffe swung his halberd wide, gripping the base of the haft and extending his reach as far as possible. Then he closed his eyes and summoned and energy within him. His weapon came up so that it was vertical, the blade pointed to the sky, the pommel at his waist. Then with two hands he brought it straight down, slamming the base of the haft against the earth while at the same time channeling the energy stored within his body through the weapon.
The earth heaved as a kinetic wave screamed outwards. Daemons were hurled through the air like rag dolls. Others were pulped where they stood, the only thing hitting the ground a mess of bone and ichor. When Radcliffe opened his eyes again he and Asphel stood at the center of a clearing twenty feet wide.
Radcliffe did not pause to appreciate his handiwork. He turned to Asphel and removed the homing beacon from his back. Placing it on the ground, Radcliffe opened the control panel. Asphel guarded him while he worked, keeping the daemon horde at bay with blade and wrist-mounted storm bolter. Radcliffe punched in a series of coordinates on the key pad then hit enter. The beacon hummed to life, the light on top of the antennae blinking rapidly. Radcliffe stood and pressed the vox bead in his ear. "Five minutes," he said.
Lythowyn was losing herself in the whirl of the melee. The daemons were all around her, cackling and laughing as they competed to be the one who killed her. She wouldn't let them. Her spear was a constant blur of motion. A parry here, a stab there, a slash, a hack, a thrust. Every now and then she would draw her blade back and punctuate her attacks with a bolt of lightning from her fingers. The energy seared through daemonic flesh and exploded bodies like overripe fruit.
Suddenly there were no more daemons. Lythowyn found herself in a clearing. The sudden lack of opponents stunned her momentarily. Something laughed overhead. I have found you witch. Norgavalia looked down on Lyhtowyn as if the farseer was nothing more than an insect. Your soul will taste delicious.
A great clawed hand descended from the heavens, fingers splayed with the intent to pick Lythowyn off the ground. She jabbed up on instinct, the tip of her spear piercing the flesh of the palm. Focusing her mind, she unleashed a burst of energy through the blade. Norgovalia reared back, shaking out its wounded hand. The greater daemon roared its anger, a deafening shriek that pierced the ears.
Radcliffe watched the farseer engaged the daemon. First blood was hers, but there would be more before the day was over. As if to prove the point, Norgavalia suddenly lashed out at Lythowyn, striking her with the back of its hand. She crashed to the ground, and skidded head over heels as her momentum carried her away. Norgavalia raised its hands and clapped. When it drew its hand apart again the daemon held a long curved blade. Purple lighting wickered down its length. Norgavalia smiled as it prepared to strike.
For Lythowyn the world was black. The daemon's blow had momentarily knocked her unconsious. She had her senses now but her vision was still dark. Her helmet had been knocked askew she realized, turned by the force of the strike landed on her. She was lucky her neck was not broken. Lythowyn reached up, her hands releasing the seal at her neck, and pulled her helmet off. The battle around her immediately assaulted her senses. The sickly sweet smell of the warp, the cries of the wounded and dying, the cackling of the daemon hordes, the metallic tang of blood on the air, all vied for her attention without her helmet to filter them out.
Such a sensory overload was disorienting. Lythwoyn tried to push herself to her feet, but she grew dizzy and fell back to her knees. She looked up, her flame-red hair framing her pale face, and beheld Norgavalia and her destruction.
The blade fell in slow motion, purple energy trailing off its wake. Lythowyn tried to react but her limbs moved too slowly to bring her spear up and parry. Instead she let her body do what it screamed at her to do. She fell to the ground, rolling to avoid the strike. Sudden pain flared in her left side as the tip of the daemon's weapon seared through her armor and pierced her flesh. The pain blossomed, driven to the rest of her body as the blade's energy expanded through her. She screamed. She did not want to give the daemon the satisfaction of hearing her suffer but the pain was too much. Her body reacted involuntarily.
Norgavalia laughed as the Eldar at its feet writhed in agony. Her spirit burned, the daemon could feel it in the warp. She was one of her people's psykers. Her soul would please Slaanesh greatly. Norgavalia pulled its blade back, and prepared the killing blow.
Lythowyn watched as the greater daemon raised its sword again to finish her. There would be no avoiding it this time. Her body was paralyzed, her nervous system still reeling from the electric shock that thundered through it. She was going to die, and the whole warp knew it. Norgavalia laughed, the notes deep but somehow pleasing to hear. It brought its blade down in an arc to sunder the farseer's body in two. It grinned, thinking of the rewards it would receive for such a prize. Lythowyn closed her eyes.
There was a sharp clang as steel greeted steel, followed by the electric hiss of energy dissipating. Lythwoyn opened her eyes. Before her was a scene she wouldn't have dreamed in ten thousand years. The black-armored mon'keigh stood over her, his halberd held aloft. The weapon trembled slightly as Radcliffe resisted the force Norgavalia applied.
Your death does not yet serve me purpose, witch Racliffe said, placing the words directly into Lythowyn's mind.
You will kill us both she replied.
Radcliffe's face was hidden behind the impassive, almost angry scowl of his helmet but when his voice entered her head again it carried a faint smile. I think not.
There was a sudden burst of light and the smell of ozone as a thunderclap rolled across the battlefield. The light had barely begun to fade when Captain Vorganor and his Paladins charged into battle. Their sudden arrival put Norgavalia on the back foot. Suddenly the daemon found itself under attack by ten well armed and armored humans. They stood a full head taller than their already fighting counterparts, and their armor was much bulkier, though decorated in a similar fashion. The Paladins set into Norgavalia with an enthusiasm that bordered on enjoyment.
Lythowyn tried to stand again but her legs were still shaky. She felt a someone slip an arm around her waist and pull up, helping her to her feet. Lythowyn looked up and blinked in surprise. It was the mon'keigh. His helmet was gone. He had removed it from his head and placed it on a clip at his belt. His face, now revealed for her to see, was kinder than she imagined. His head was crowned by a crop of short but unkempt brown hair. His eyes were hazel in color, their gaze hard but fair. He offered her a small smile, a gesture of goodwill, and, though it was fleeting, it carried an immense warmth. "Can you fight?" he asked.
Lythowyn placed a hand over her wound but nodded. "It is not life threatening," she said. "I can fight."
"Good."
Arlas was beside himself. He struggled to understand. He wanted to understand. But there was no time to think about it. He was fighting back to back with a mon'keigh against hordes of daemons and that was just the way it was. The human, a massive man in grey armor, was a surprisingly skilled warrior. Arlas had fought humans before. Most were pitiful excuses for warriors, just as likely to break and flee as they were to stand and fight. Space Marines, humanity's elite, were a different story. They were respectable warriors and in the handful of times Arlas had gone against them he had been impressed. But these marines, these Grey Knights, were even better than that.
Arlas swung his blade. His shuriken catapult had run out of ammunition a long time ago. Now Arlas laid into the foe with his power sword. The mon'keigh also swung a sword, but where Arlas' blade was light and quick, able to be held in a single hand, the Grey Knight's sword was massive, and he swung it in both hands, cleaving through bone as easily as flesh. At first glance his swings were brutish and Arlas half expected an errant blow to take his head off, but the longer he fought next to the Grey Knight, the more he realized each swing was completely deliberate. Every time Arlas thought the mon'keigh was going to swing too far and cut him, the blade stopped just short of doing damage.
Arlas ducked as a claw snapped shut where his neck had been a moment before. He rolled, coming up behind the daemonette. He reached to grab the back of the thing's head, to pull it back, and draw its blade across its exposed throat, but Arlas' fingers closed on empty air. The daemonette collapsed to the ground dead. The Grey Knight stood in its place, holding the daemon's head in his hand. Arlas scowled, robbed of a kill.
Suddenly the Grey Knight's arm shot forward, his sword passing so close to Arlas the Dire Avenger could hear the whistle of displaced air. He froze, believing the Knight had betrayed him. He waited for the familiar sense of pain to well from where he was struck. Instead all he heard was a gurgle. Arlas looked over his shoulder. Standing there was a particularly tall daemontte, her hands clasped around the hilt of a sword that was raised to take Arlas' own head. The Grey Knight's sword was firmly lodged in the beast's mouth, passing up through its head and out the back. The daemon gurgled again as blood flowed from its mouth. Then the Knight drew back and the thing flopped to the ground. Arlas watched the daemon hit the ground. Turning to the Grey Knight, he nodded his thanks. The Knight grunted a response before striding back into the fray.
Arlas followed him in.
Captain Vorganor was laughing. This was what he lived for. His hammer fell left and right, smashing skulls and breaking bones with every swing. The foe died before him, broke and ran, then regrouped and came at him again to repeat the cycle. He and his Paladins cut a bloody swathe through the horde, enjoying every moment of it.
Vorganor, we must push forward.
Vorganor didn't need to give Radcliffe a response. His Paladins, all having received a similar mental cue, formed up and pushed forward as one, driving for Norgavalia, who had retreated towards the warp portal. Now the Grey Knights and their alien allies seized their advantage. Paladins are the martial core of the Grey Knights. There are none superior to them in combat. As Arlas watched waves of daemons break on them like waves on a rock, he was grateful he did not have to learn that lesson first hand.
Radcliffe was right behind them, with Farseer Lythowyn doing her best not to lag too far behind. Her wound was beginning to fester but she did her best to ignore it. The humans were fleet, more so than normal. She had never seen any mon'keigh move as quickly or as skillfully as these Grey Knights and their leader. It was as if they had been bred for nothing but war, nothing but the utter destruction of the warp.
Norgavalia saw them coming and it reached a hand out, manifesting a long whip of energy that snapped and curled with a life of its own. The daemon flicked its wrist, and the whip moved like lightning. The earth was torn up with the sound of a thunderclap. Norgavalia jerked back and the whip ripped through one of Arlas' Dire Avengers. The Eldar soared through the air in two pieces, shorn through at the waist.
The Paladins reached the daemon first but they did not engage. Instead Vorganor ordered his soldiers into a ring around Norgavalia. The other Grey Knights joined, and began to clear space for Radcliffe to work. After several brutal minutes, during which Brother Valnos lost an arm and Sergeant Gygus was run through by Norgavalia's own blade, the Grey Knights had succeeded in separating the greater daemon from his minions.
Radcliffe stood alone in the ring with Norgavalia. Lythowyn's wound had finally caught up with her and several Dire Avengers had to keep her moving. Radcliffe could feel the taint spreading through the witch's body, even from this distance. Whatever poisons Norgavalia anointed its blades with, they were crashing through the farseer now.
The greater daemon looked down on the tiny man standing before it and laughed. No mortal can hurt me it boasted. "We'll see about that," Radcliffe said. He launched himself forward, helberd held back, ready to strike. The daemon was agile, but large, and it could not move its bulk out of the way. The interrogator's blade whistled in, carving deep gashes along the monster's legs. Norgavalia roared with every blow landed, but through they caused it pain, they did little else. I am tired of playing with insects Norgavalia hissed. The whip lashed out again, and struck Radcliffe in the chest. He landed hard on his back, carving a great wound in the earth as he slid. Norgavalia advanced, whip and blade held ready.
A cascade of lightning suddenly flowed over the daemon. Lythowyn, barely able to stand on her own, held both arms aloft. Wait human, she sent to Radcliffe. Your death does not yet serve me purpose. Lythowyn's eyes glowed with eldritch energy as she channeled her powers. They lit her face with eerie shadows and the light turned her red hair a deep purple. "I am no insect," she said aloud as she hurled another bolt. It struck Norgavalia on the shoulder and the daemon lurched back, and grinned. No it said. You are not even that much to me.
The whip lashed forward yet again, striking the ground in front of Lythowyn. The farseer was crushed, thrown backwards like Radcliffe. Her body, already wounded, smacked sickly on the ground as she rolled over and over. Something fell from her belt as she landed. It was small, and shimmered blue in the light. The stone skittered away from the farseer, bumping and jumping over the uneven ground until it came to rest at the feet of Captain Vorganor.
The Paladin bent to pick it up. It was just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He knew not where it came from, just that it was suddenly there. He studied it, and felt power come from within. But the situation prevented him from fully understanding it. Radcliffe was calling him. Over the din it sounded like the interrogator was saying "Holocaust". Vorganor placed the stone in a pouch on his thigh and strode forward.
If you can clear at least most of them away I can do the rest. Give me the Holocaust.
Vorganor nodded, and each Paladin shut his eyes and began to focus. The battle raging around them faded away as they turned their minds inwards. There, in each man's mind, was a fire. It burned white, pure and with a purpose. Vorganor nurtured that fire, willing it to grow larger, to begin to spread. The power building around his flame increased exponentially. His mind was an inferno of roaring white flame. Then, when there was nowhere else for the fire to go, Vorganor and his Paladins released it.
The fire boiled from their minds into the material realm, sparking into being as if from nowhere. The flame flowed forth like a tide, crashing against the earth and flowing over everything before it. Daemons howled. Their cries, normally filled with pleasure as much as pain, were cries of genuine agony and horror. The Holocaust, the physical manifestation of the combined power of a Paladin squad, did more than destroy a daemon's physical form. It destroyed its essence. There would be no return to the warp for those consumed by the fire. They would simply cease to exist.
The Eldar froze, their hearts gripped with fear as the flames flowed around them. They were used to the powers of the warp but those few Dire Avengers that remained had never seen anything like this. The Eldar practiced subtlety, and their powers that were aimed at pure destruction were controlled. But as the fire washed over them they discovered it had as much effect on them as water. Their souls pure, free of the touch of Chaos, the fire left them alone.
Norgavalia stepped back as the white flames licked around its legs. They scorched the daemon's skin, causing it the roar in pain and anger. But Norgavalia was made of tougher material than its servants. It would not be destroyed so easily. Norgavalia brought its fist down and smashed the ground, sending a shock wave out that disrupted the circle of Paladins around it. With their focus broken, the fire the Grey Knights conjured flickered and died. Norgavalia laughed. I will not be destroyed by mere parlor tricks. Norgavalia regarded the men scrambling below. Its gaze fell again on the one in black. I will show you the power of my master it sneered.
Norgavalia curled its whip, the energy around it fading slightly. It no longer trailed lighting as it moved, but instead glowed a subdued pink hue. Norgavalia flicked it, not down at the ground but up into the sky, breaking the clouds overhead. A torrent of rain began to fall, and where it struck the ground a golden mist rose. The rain was beautiful, composed of light that shimmered dozens of different colors. Norgavalia basked in it, relishing the feeling as the water flowed over its skin.
Radcliffe flinched. He felt a pressure building inside his head, causing him to stagger. He knew it was a trick, a ploy by the daemon to knock him off guard. The rain was enchanting. Radcliffe began to lose focus. He needed to kill the daemon, but the rain was just too gorgeous. The light, was it light? It flowed over him like water but it glowed like light. His mind melted.
Arlas was gone. He was a drooling idiot babbling to himself in tongues he shouldn't have known. Lythowyn was beside herself. She couldn't move. Pain flared through her body, starting in her chest and radiating out. Her breaths came long and ragged. She felt the rain fall, saw the light, but it was dim. Her soul was trying to leave her body. It cared not for the magics of the warp anymore. But she would not let it. She would not roll over and give up while she still drew breath.
Her body strained as she tried to sit up, to kneel, and the pain pushed her to her limits. Her vision tunneled, and she nearly blacked out, but she succeeded. The Eldar around her were useless. Norgavalia's spell had them enthralled in various sensations from extreme pain to excessive pleasure. The Grey Knights seemed to be faring better. Their minds were warded against such predations through decades of training and even longer service against he warp. They retained their senses enough to continue fighting.
The same could not be said for the interrogator. He was fighting, but the battlefield was in his mind. He was on his knees, bowed forward, hands clasped to his head. Lythowyn could feel the forces raging within him. One struggled to gain control, while the other stubbornly refused to be turned into a puppet. That side wasn't losing, but it wasn't gaining ground either. Radcliffe's mind was stalemated. That was all Norgavalia needed to win. The daemon stood above everything, the rain washing over it in great rivers of luminescence. It was proud of its spell, gleeful at how low it had brought the human groveling below. Norgavalia would end this now, and complete its consumption of this world.
No, Lythowyn thought. It would not end like this. The mon'keigh had the power to stop this. But he could not do it alone. Lythowyn gathered what little strength she had left and focused. The air rumbled and a bolt of energy split the sky. It smashed to the ground, blowing away a horde of yammering daemons. The wind picked up and the glowing rain began to fall sideways.
Norgavalia looked up as the storm grew in intensity. This was not of its own doing. Something was interfering with Slaanesh's storm, some other cosmic wind coming in to blow it away. Another blast of lightning clipped the greater daemon on the shoulder and drove it to the ground. The rain began to falter, the golden mist dissipated. Lythowyn pressed on, her mind howling at her to stop, but she persisted. Another crash of thunder, another bolt of lightning. Norgavalia was struck and laid on the ground. The rain stopped.
Radcliffe woke up.
It was like waking from a dream. The nightmares melted away only to be replaced with the old horrors. But Radcliffe preferred the old horrors to those that had just tried to usurp his free will. He could do something about the old horrors. Radcliffe looked up. The storm had changed. The rain was gone. In its place was thunder and lightning. The air was charged with electricity. Radcliffe could feel it as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. More warpcraft, but not from the daemon. Norgavalia was on its knees, grasping at a massive scorch mark, a black crater on its shoulder. Some distance off to his left Radcliffe could see the witch. She was lying on her back. She wasn't moving. The Eldar around her were in a similar state as they shook of the effects of Norgavalia's spell. They bore signs of life though. The farseer remained still.
"You are still with us." Radcliffe looked up into the helmeted face of Captain Vorganor. The Paladin captain grabbed Radcliffe's arm in his giant hand and hauled the interrogator to his feet. "Good. This fight is not yet done."
"It never is," Radcliffe said with a grimace. He took stock of the situation. Norgavalia was recovering. The warp portal was still open. The Eldar were out of the game. The solution was simple. "Captain, rally the remaining Knights and make for the warp portal. Close it at all cost."
"And what of you?"
"The daemon and I have unfinished business I would like to settle."
"In your condition," Vorganor began. Radcliffe cut him off.
"I know what I must do."
Vorganor stared at the interrogator. "In you condition," he said again. "Using it could kill you."
"If I don't we are all dead and this planet is forfeit."
"I will pray to the Emperor for you."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not dead yet."
Vorganor extended his hand. He and Radcliffe shook in the manner of warriors who would likely only see each other again in death. "For the Throne, then," the Grey Knight said.
"For the Throne."
Vorganor charged off, marshaling his Knights for the final charge. Radcliffe stood alone, amidst the turmoil of battle, collecting his thoughts as Norgavalia stood over him. You are stubborn it said. But it matters not. You will die in the end. You will all die. Norgavalia charged forward suddenly, picking Radcliffe up in one massive clawed hand and raising him off the ground. I want to look into your eyes when you die. So I can treasure every precious moment of fear in them. Radcliffe struggled but the daemon's strength was too great. He looked into Norgavalia's eyes, great black pits of dispair, creased with the daemon's mirth. Any last words?
"Em'bkthar'okt," Radcliffe spat.
If a daemon ever felt anything akin to horror, the look that passed over Norgavalia's face at that moment certainly suggested they were able to. The daemon dropped Radcliffe, staggering back as if it had just been struck by a prize fighter's haymaker. What did you just say? Norgavalia was down on a knee, reeling from shock.
"You heard me warp scum," Radcliffe roared. "Em'bkthar'okt. Your true name."
How? How did you know?
"I am an interrogator of the Emperor's Holy Inquisition. It is my job to know. And it is my job to destroy." The wind shifted. Power began to build around Radcliffe, his eyes glowing with white fire. "You have felt the Holocaust," he said, his voice laboring with the psychic potential welling up within his body. "Now feel something far worse." The wind was a howling gale now, billowing around Radcliffe as if he were the eye of a great storm. "My soul is pure," the interrogator intoned. "My soul is a weapon. My soul is fire!"
With the last word Radcliffe unleashed the energy within him. Boiling waves of white fire exploded into being, carried on the wind in a great storm of flame. It was not mere fire that consumed the air around him, nor was it a trick of the warp. It was Radcliffe's soul, pure and untainted, unleashed against the dark forces that sought to destroy the galaxy. It was the Soul Storm.
Norgavalia screamed. All that heard it forever remembered it as one of the worst sounds ever to pass over their ears. It was the sound of a thousand suns dying, entire planetary systems crumbling away to dust, the death scream of the very warp itself. The soulfire roasted Norgavalia's flesh, turned the daemon's skin black, and scorched its very essence of being. Norgavalia slapped at the fire trying to extinguish it, but it was no good. Where its hands landed the flame sprang anew, until the Keeper of Secrets was nothing but a towering inferno of white fire.
Radcliffe kept the fire burning, using all his remaining strength to ensure Norgavalia was not just banished back to the warp, but was destroyed forever. The soulfire burned through Norgavalia's essence. Its body began to turn to ash, to dissipate on the air. There would be no homecoming for Slaanesh's chosen one. There would be only oblivion.
Finally the fire died, Norgavalia was gone, and Radcliffe permitted himself to black out.
Talamire would take decades to heal. The wounds scarred the landscape, and the people would not soon forget what had happened. Rebuilding would take time, both physically and mentally. But there was at least hope for the planet's future, for both mankind and the Eldar.
Arlas found himself thinking of these things as he bounced back and forth in the passenger compartment of a silver and grey Rhino. The restraints built into the hull of the armored personnel carrier were made for space marines, and did not fit over his, nor any of the Dire Avengers' frames. The Eldar had to weather the trip unsecured, something they were used to doing in their grav tanks, but not the bumbling, ground jumping mon'keigh tank.
The Eldar did not endure the ride alone. There were only eight of them left, seven Avengers plus the fareer. Lythowyn was comatose. Her wounds had been tended to as best as the medics could perform on the battlefield but she needed urgent treatment. She was on a stretcher in the center aisle of the compartment. Arlas kept checking for the reassuring movement of her chest rising and falling as they sped towards the Webway Gate.
The interrogator was with them as well. Radcliffe's face was drawn and gaunt, and he looked as if he would be sick at any moment, and his eyes were always focused on some distant location. He was quiet, keeping to himself and saying nothing, not even to the one Grey Knight that continued to fuss over him like a worried mother. That was Sergeant Praphis, Arlas understood. Besides Praphis and the interrogator, there were four other space marines, plus the two drivers, escorting what was left of the Eldar warband home.
The Webway Gate was hidden deep in the jungles of Talamire's southern continent, away from the centers of civilization that had sprung up over the centuries. It was an arc of white bone decorated with stones of varying colors and covered in growing vines. As the rhino swerved to a halt in front of it, the gate remained silent and inert.
The back ramp opened with the controlled his of hydraulic servos. The Grey Knights exited first, securing the surrounding area. Radcliffe came next, leaning heavily on the rhino for support. Arlas felt as if the man should have been in bed somewhere. The Dire Avenger did not understand why he insisted on coming to see them off.
"Clear!" came the call from outside. As the Eldar descended the ramp Brother Zerphas situated himself in the transport's bolter mount and began panning the jungle just in case. Lythowyn was carried gently out, still on the stretcher.
"How does it open?" Arlas turned to face Radcliffe. The interrogator fixed the Eldar with a weak stare as he waited for Arlas to answer.
"It is psycho-sensitive," Arlas began slowly. "It reacts when an Eldar asks it to open." Radcliffe nodded and Arlas stepped onto the gate's podium. The stones began to glow and hum as an energy filled the air. There was a great crack and the air around the gate was suddenly split by a beam of light that stretched from the ground to the top of the gate's arch. The light began to widen, until finally it was a complete circle, and opening into the Webway.
Figures moved on the other side of the light, shadows shifting, becoming larger, growing nearer. Then they passed through and into reality. They were more Eldar, about two dozen of them. They were dressed similarly to the Dire Avengers, though their armor was not nearly as ornate. Instead of the blue and white Arlas and his warrior wore these Eldar were decorated in deep purple accented by a bone white. They were Guardians, the militia of Craftworld Ha'al-fynn. They saw the Grey Knights, they saw the wounded Dire Avengers, and they leveled their weapons appropriately.
"What is the meaning of this?" The Guardian leader was a tall female who brandished a pistol and a chainsword. She advanced on Arlas, fury written in her every movement. "You dare lead the mon'keigh here? Do you betray us, Arlas?" The hostility was not lost on the Grey Knights, who leveled their own weapons, preparing for the worst. Zerphas swung the rhino's storm bolter around and took aim at the female Guardian.
"Ease yourself, Auren," Arlas said, exhaustion thick in his voice. "It is because of the mon-, the humans, that we are even having this discussion right now." Auren stepped back, suddenly aware of the condition the Dire Avengers were in. "If you saw what happened, you would understand," Arlas continued. "Now stand down. We have more pressing matters to attend to." He gestured to the stretcher where Farseer Lythowyn lay.
Auren seemed to gain control of herself. She gestured for two of her guardians to take the stretcher and bear it through the Webway gate. "There will be questions, Arlas," she said slowly.
"There will always be questions. The mission was a success. We did what we had to do."
Auren nodded but cast a mistrusting eye over the Grey Knights. "We should not tarry."
"No, we shouldn't." Arlas waved a hand and his Dire Avengers disappeared into the gate behind the Guardians. Arlas was the last to enter, turning on his heel suddenly and approaching Radcliffe. Zerphas swung his storm bolter in Arlas' direction but Radcliffe waved him off. Arlas held out his hand, and he and Radcliffe shook as warriors who, though they respected each other, would one day find themselves pitted against the other on the battlefield. The gesture complete, Arlas too passed through the webway, and the gate hissed shut behind him.
The room was dark, the glow globes turned down so they emitted just the barest fraction of light. Wisps of smoke snaked through the air and the scent of incense hung heavy. Radcliffe sat in the center of the room on a floor mat, legs crossed, arms out, eyes shut. He wore only a loose pair of trousers. The scars of battle were still evident on his bare torso. His mind was heavy and he needed to cleanse it. Norgavalia's spell had taken too much of an effect on him for his liking. He needed to be stronger. A knock on the door drew Radcliffe from his meditation. He heaved a sigh and stood to investigate.
The door slid open revealing Captain Vorganor. He was bereft of his armor, dressed only in a loose fitting tunic the color of cream. A red sash was tied at his waist. His face was chiseled, his jawline square, and a scar ran from his left temple, across his eye, left milky white, and down to just above his lip. His head was shaved bare. Even without his Terminator armor, Vorganor still stood a full two heads taller than Radcliffe.
"I would speak with you," Vorganor said.
"Yes," Radcliffe said, biting back a snide remark about the obvious. "Please come in." Vorganor had to duck to pass through the door but once inside there was enough headroom for him to stand comfortably. "What is it?" Radcliffe asked, doing his best to hide his irritation at having been interrupted. Vorganor picked up on the cues though, the candles, the incense still burning.
"I apologize if I am interrupting something," he said. "But this matter could not wait." Vorganore reached for a pouch on his sash and handed it to Radcliffe. "This fell off the witch during the battle with the daemon. I… retrieved it. In case it proved useful."
Radcliffe took the pouch. It was red satin with a gilded drawstring. He pulled the string open and dumped the contents into his palm. It was a single blue stone, emblazoned with what was clearly and Eldar rune, though not one Radcliffe was familiar with. The stone was warm to the touch, and a light pulsed from within, almost like a heartbeat.
"Thank you, Captain," Radcliffe said, studying the stone. "I shall see this is dealt with properly."
Vorganor nodded and left the room. Radcliffe returned to his meditation, this time with much more to think about.
Farseer Erylla Lythowyn was in the middle of a panic attack. She had woken from her coma several days before, after doctors told her she'd been unresponsive for the better part of two weeks. Her wounds were still not fully healed. Her abdomen was wrapped in so much gauze Lythowyn could not bend at the waist. She had to stoop to reach anything below arms length. Her right arm was still fractured and kept in a sling and a gash in her thigh required stitches and almost as much gauze as her stomach.
But Lythowyn did not care.
After her release from the healers she had immediately set about to find where the spirit stone of Vasilla Tenroth was. She remembered placing it on her person after her warband arrived at Tenroth's tomb on Talamire. But then the daemon Norgavalia had arrived, along with the mon'keigh, and everything had descended into chaos after that. Now the farseer tore her chambers apart, trying to locate the object of her primary mission.
Her chamber was dark, the only light filtering in through the dark curtains on the far side of the room. Lythowyn's wardrobe lay strewn across the floor. Great cushions that were meant as seats for guests were upturned, and the lone table that graced the center of the room was now askew against the far wall. It was not here. Lythowyn fell to her knees and fought back tears.
So much had been lost in pursuit of Vasilla Tenroth's spirit stone. So many had lost their own lives to return the once great warrior to the craftworld. Her failure meant their sacrifice had been in vain. The High Council would not look upon this kindly. Their craftworld was a minor one compared to the likes of Ulthwe and Biel-tan. When one thought about how the Eldar race was moving closer and closer to extinction, any loss suffered by a minor craftworld was grievous indeed.
A soft knock at her door startled the farseer. It came again, this time more assertive. Lythowyn took a moment to compose herself. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and smoothed the folds of her blue dress. Her red hair was loose, and cascaded down over her shoulders like water. Lythowyn pulled it back into a simple ponytail. She searched for slippers to hide her bare feet but they were lost in the chaos she had created. The farseer took a deep breath. When she opened the door she made sure to position herself so whoever was waiting could not see into her chambers and bear witness to her breakdown.
A page stood before her, dressed in a simple tunic and carrying a box wrapped in brown celephin paper. "Forgive the intrusion, my lady," he said bowing deep. "But this came for you."
Lythowyn took the box, curiosity written on her face. She was not expecting a parcel. "Thank you," she said. "That will be all." The page bowed again and departed. Lythwoyn locked the door after him.
She crossed her room, bare feet padding on the carpet, and righted the table before setting the package down on it. She stared at it, trying to examine it and imagine what could be inside. But there was nothing on the outside save the paper, no name save her own. She would have to open it to find out what it contained.
Lythowyn took the paper off, revealing a simple metal box. There was no decoration on the box either. The lid was held in place by a small clasp. She undid the clasp and pushed the lid back. The interior of the box was lined in purple and gold silk. The first thing she noticed was a letter. She unfolded it. The letter was written on pale parchment with blue ink. The words were distinctly High Gothic and the top of the letter bore the motif of the Imperial Aquila. Lythowyn began to read.
Farseer
It only occurs to me now that I never got your name. For that I apologize. I also hope that won't prevent this from reaching the correct destination. When we first met I told you I did not know your intentions on Talamire. That has changed. I know what you sought and why you paid such a high price to reclaim it. I can understand and respect what you and your fellow Eldar tried to do.
Before I go any further I must stress that you cannot under any circumstances relay this story to anyone else. I have done my best to ensure this package will reach your hands. As such, it was necessary to send it through less than lawful means. If it is ever traced back to me that I willingly consorted with a xenos outside the realm of dire necessity, it could mean my career and most likely my life. I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.
That being said, something was given to me in the aftermath of the events on Talamire. At first I didn't know what to do with it. Keeping it would have undoubtedly provided the Inquisition with an opportunity for greater knowledge. The questions into how I obtained it would have been easy enough to answer. But then I thought about you and what you went through. I also considered the fact you willingly fought by my side when it was far easier for you to run. You had what you wanted. You were not obligated to stay and fight with, what's the word your people use? Mon'keigh? In light of this I have decided there is only one appropriate course of action.
I hope this makes up for everything that has transpired. Perhaps, if fate sees fit to cross our paths again, we will meet under more favorable circumstances.
Yours in service to the Emperor,
Interrogator Gabriel Radcliffe, Ordos Malleus
Did she dare to hope? Was this Gabriel Radcliffe doing what she would never expect any human to ever do? Lythowyn tossed the letter aside and reached back into the box. What came out next was a pouch of red satan with a gilded drawstring. Lythowyn opened it and poured the contents into her palm. It was a single stone, as blue as the sky and decorated with a single rune. It was the spirit stone of Vasilla Tenroth.
The owl flew in lazy circles around the ceiling. Gabriel Radcliffe leaned on the wall, watching it pass overhead as he conversed with it.
The mission was a success then? the owl asked, sending the words straight into Radcliffe's mind.
Yes, Master Valerian. Talamire was saved and the daemon Norgavalia was destroyed.
You banished it? The owl, a manifestation of Inquisitor Corrus Valerian's mind, swooped down and perched on a dresser. It cocked its head to the side inquisitively and stared at Radcliffe.
Destroyed Radcliffe repeated. Norgavalia no longer exists within the warp.
The owl blinked. Truly a remarkable feat. I shall have to write a commendation to the High Lords. Perhaps your promotion to full Inquisitor will follow. They will not be able to overlook the destruction of a Keeper of Secrets. You performed this on your own?
Radcliffe shifted his weight and shrugged. The Grey Knights were there. As well as some unexpected allies.
You found the Eldar then. The owl shuffled back and forth on its perch. Though its face betrayed no emotion there was clearly a smile in its words. I was hoping you would.
You knew I would, didn't you? Radcliffe frowned. Save those who do not appear to deserve saving. That's what you told me. You knew they'd be there. You could have just told me that.
But then I wouldn't have seen you make the choice on your own. I just gave you a hint. The way you interpreted it reflects your character, and your character alone.
Radcliffe shook his head. You deal in riddles, old man. But Valerian was no longer there. The owl was gone and Radcliffe was left with only a fleeting message.
You have another visitor.
Radcliffe looked up. The owl was gone but in its place was a great bird of red and gold. It's wings were splayed gracefully and its tail was nearly as long as its body. The phoenix swooped down and passed over Radcliffe before slowly settling onto Radcliffe's bed. "What's with all the birds?" Radcliffe muttered to himself. The phoenix spread its wings and began to glow. Radcliffe stepped back as it transformed into a familiar figure. Farseer Erylla Lythowyn sat before him.
"You're not really here, right?" Radcliffe said, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
No Lythowyn began before pausing. How would you like me to address you?
Radcliffe dropped his arms at the question and began to laugh. Lythowyn frowned. Forgive me he said. That was not a question I was completely prepared for. He smiled. You may call me Gabriel if you wish.
Very well, Gabriel. I am not here. This is just a projection.
I know what it is. I was just making sure. I'm not overly familiar with your race's abilities, uh… and your name is?
Erylla. Erylla Lythowyn.
"Erylla," Radcliffe said aloud, testing the foreign name on his tongue. Lythowyn blinked, surprised at how well he spoke it. "I am surprised, Erylla, to see you again on such short notice. Your people are often reclusive, are they not? I have never before heard of an Eldar seeking out a mon'keigh before."
Lythowyn frowned at Radcliffe's use of the slur. It is not everyday that a human displays such great understanding and respect to my people.
So what brings you here then? Radcliffe moved across the room to sit at his desk, keeping Lythowyn in view the entire time.
I came to offer my thanks.
For returning the stone? It was the only moral recourse.
That may be, but there are most likely billions of others who, had they been in your place, would not have done the same.
Please think nothing of it. As I told you on Talamire, our people may not see eye to eye on many things but when it comes down to it, we both fight for survival in a galaxy that would consume us without a second thought. In my opinion, any ally I can make in that endeavor is worth while, even if they are not conventional.
Lythowyn stood from the bed and walked over to stand in front of Radcliffe. She studied him and after several minutes he began to grow uneasy. She smiled, and placed a hand on his cheek. He could not feel it, her being little more than an apparition, but the gesture spoke volumes. You are a kind soul Gabriel Radcliffe she said. There are too few like you in this galaxy.
I took an oath to protect and serve, to fight against the warp for those who cannot fight against it themselves. My oath did not specify race, color, or creed. Those decisions I make on my own.
Perhaps then, we can continue this relationship? Radcliffe raised a questioning eyebrow. I would gladly count you among my allies Lythowyn continued. Perhaps in time I will be able to count you among my friends.
Radcliffe smiled. Yes, perhaps. He paused. Should he tell her about Valerian? Should she know who had truly orchestrated the Talamire rescue. He decided now. If Valerian wanted himself to be known he would not have fled when Lythowyn appeared. It must be between us though Radcliffe said.
Naturally. Lythowyn smiled. Radcliffe caught himself thinking how radiant she looked. He stood.
Well then, Erylla Lythowyn. May we meet again under more favorable circumstances.
Until then, Gabriel. Lythowyn offered Radcliffe a small bow. There was a flash of light and when it faded she was gone. Radcliffe was left alone in his quarters to contemplate what had just happened. The thought of allying oneself with any xenos, much less an Eldar who were known for their trickery and deceitful ways, should have set his hair on edge. But it didn't. For some reason, Radcliffe felt as though Lythowyn had been genuine. He had taken a risk returning the spirit stone to her. That risk seemed to be paying off.
Radcliffe smiled. He had come a long way since Valerian had found him. Perhaps this was the next step. He still had a long way to go.