The Sands of Time
In aeons past, the world that the humans called Ederron's Reach had bustled with life. Once, it had been one of the coreworlds of the necrontyr empire; Ankharis, they had called it. Once, it had been a heavily populated Tomb World, a glittering jewel of the necron dynasties. Now, the world was dead, a cold and barren rock, orphaned from its parent star in a time beyond living memory, and cursed to wander the void as a near-airless rogue world. None had set foot upon its surface for more than five millennia. Until now...
Farseer Quilindras stood alone and motionless, musing upon the history of the tomb he now inhabited; he could feel it pressing down upon him, and it almost felt as though the silent voices of unquiet spirits were singing to him of the horrors that had once been born here. The air was silent and still, the last staccato reports of shuriken fire having ended almost ten minutes before. There had been some resistance to the presence of the eldar, but just as Quilindras had foreseen only a few of the tomb world's guardians were fully active, the rest long-since fallen into disrepair.
The silence of the tomb surrounded Quilindras like a cloak, thick and oppressive, made worse by the all-pervading gloom that held court this deep in the complex of tunnels and chambers. The only source of illumination was an overhead shaft that filtered in thin, waxy light from a distant, dying star, and as the farseer watched he found that he could make out specks of dust dancing in the pale beam, disturbed by his passing. The thought that his actions would soon awaken more than dust occurred to the eldar, and he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid tomb above and around him.
With a slow, graceful movement, Quilindras reached into a leather pouch at his belt, and withdrew a small, wraithbone marker. It was a delicate thing, warm to the touch and intricately shaped and carved; its surface seemed to move in spiral patterns, capturing the eye. The farseer took a step toward the shaft of light, and the first of a series of alcoves that began to line the wall just past the light's edge. Within, a silent, metallic figure stood, grim and resolute as the ages, sightless eyes seeming to stare down in judgement of the eldar seer. Facing the dormant necron, Quilindras stepped forward and reached up, placing the rune-marker against its forehead.
At first, nothing happened; then he began to feel the wraithbone shifting in his grip, as though fighting against the cold touch of the necron's metal skin. The farseer applied a little pressure, both physical and psychic, and with a faint hiss the wraithbone finally bonded to the necron warrior, glowing almost sullenly in silent rebuke. Quilindras moved down the row of alcoves, repeating the ritual in silence, each necron being gifted with a marker of their own.
The end of the corridor opened out into a wide cross-junction, and as the farseer stepped out into it, he felt that he was being watched. Recognising the essence of the mind watching him, Quilindras assumed a posture of annoyance at having been disturbed, and waited for the exarch to reveal himself. He didn't have to wait long.
"I apologise for disturbing you, mor'fessa." The voice was quiet and polite, after a fashion, but at the same time carried a depth of unbridled menace and promises of death. Such was the way with the acolytes of Khaine.
"'Wise teacher', is it?" Quilindras replied, his body language a study in quiet reprimand. "You haven't called me that in more than five centuries. Speak plainly, Sirillien, or leave me to my work."
"I would know the shadows that lie upon your mind, Farseer. I would know why we are here."
The pretence of polite enquiry was gone, now. A tall, broad-shouldered figure stalked into the room with feline grace, his dark blue armour made almost black by the shadows. Heavily built by eldar standards, Sirillien cut an imposing figure, made even more so by the traditional tall helm of his order. The Dire Avenger's diresword was sheathed at his waist, but his wrist-mounted shuriken pistol was still active; like all of his kind, The Crystal Shard was ever ready to display his skill at blade-craft.
"We are here," Quilindras said slowly, weighing his words, "because I believe. That should be enough for you, for now." Dark, hollow laughter was Sirillien's first response. There was no humour there, simply derision.
"I always wondered how you got your title, Farseer," he said, barely checked aggression roiling around the words like a bow wave. "'Shadeweave' is such an appropriate term. I know why you believe we are here. I saw, through the eternal circuit. I felt the Council of Seers turn down your plan. So, why are we here? Speak plainly, mor'fessa, if you know how."
"They were blind," Quilindras said after a moment, bitterness staining his voice. "They refused to see the possibilities. With these necrons at our command, we can avert so much death for our kind, so much suffering. We can start a civil war amongst them that will cripple two whole dynasties of their kindred, and divert many threats to us in the future."
"True, we can avoid much death."
A third voice, deep and smoky, coiled from the shadows behind Quilindras, and with a start he realised that he hadn't felt the newcomer approach. A moment later, the owner of the voice followed it into the room at a sedate pace, his armour the colours of freshly lit fires, his firepike slung lazily over his right shoulder. Exarch Morthaniel was a creature of contradiction; violently loud and bombastic in the heat of battle, The Vorpal Lance was capable of great subtlety, when he chose to be. This was one of those times.
"Yet if we fail," the Fire Dragon continued, "we may not be able to avoid our own dooms. Is it worth the risk? Should we leave now, before it is too late?"
"Life is risk," Quilindras stated, calming his posture and placating the two warriors. "Some possibilities are worth that risk, though. I called in the favours from you both, asked the same from our brother Wraithlord, because I hoped you would be brave enough to take this risk with me. If we can convince our ancient enemy that we are of their kind, convince them to fight for us, we can do much good. Was I wrong in my hope?"
"No," answered Sirillien. "We will fight for you, as you have asked."
"No," answered Morthaniel, "we too shall fight. But should this venture fail..."
"If this fails," Sirillien finished, "we will kill you ourselves."
With no more word on the matter, both exarchs turned and walked into the shadows, leaving no trace that they were ever there. Quilindras let out a shuddering breath, releasing the tension of the conversation in a long, wavering release of air. He knew the risks, he had read the skein, and he knew the outcomes, both good and ill. All he really had was his belief.
Around him, the necrons lay dormant, lifeless eyes threatening him with the carnage they might wreak if his plan to use them went wrong.
Around him, beyond the sight of all but a few, the sands of time marched inexorably onward, flowing to a point where success and failure stood but a hair's breadth apart.
"If this fails, my friends," the farseer whispered, as he turned to continue his work in the shadowed depths of the tomb, "I fear that your retribution will be the least of my concerns...
This was a fun one to write... how do you justify eldar and necrons fighting together for a doubles tournament? You hijack them :) As ever, all thoughts welcome