For the next ten years, Rahkaak bided her time.
That time was not spent being completely idle, however. The systems of the tomb world were revitalized, maintenance scarabs lovingly fixed before being sent to clean the filth off the walls. All the tombs were straightened, the inhabitants placed gently back in their sarcophagi, as though they would someday wake. When they were done the world was a mausoleum, but a well maintained, respectful one. If Rahkaak could have, she would have wept.
During the time she waited for word from the rest of her small Empire, the Phaeron observed the humans closely. Industrious creatures, for organics. Fairly advanced, given their humble origins on a broken ship, they had space barges working day and night to ferry raw materials from the asteroid belt that encircled the system. Their cities took those raw materials and built things, machines that coursed like hunting hounds and looked reasonably impressive. She saw images of human warriors drilling with grim determination, and more powerful warriors, ones she guessed were equivalent to Immortals, practicing more individual duels. Human snipers, the inferior equivalent to Deathmarks, striving to hit hard targets.
And then the Drukhari came.
The humans knew it was going to happen, of course. It was what they'd been preparing for, above all else. And they fought very well, but their technology and resources were just not enough. Rahkaak felt nothing for them as she watched their doomed battles, fought over several days. The lucky human warriors died and the unlucky were seized to be taken away for purposes she could not even guess at. Most of her attention was on the Drukhari.
"What has happened to the aeldari?" Rahkaak wondered aloud as she watched the beautiful and the grotesque inflict massive death. "Everything about them is odd." The beautiful ones that danced were familiar enough, but beyond that, everything was wrong.
"They appear to have undergone some form of cultural devolution," Nuhkes stated and Rahkaak hummed softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. It was hard for them to be sure of anything from mere images of a battle. "What I find curious is that they have not used a shred of warp witchery, even when the humans use it against them." Yes, she'd noticed that the humans possessed a few touched by that forbidden knowledge. "Also, their technology is clearly degraded from the time of the War in Heaven."
"Yes." Normally Rahkaak would have sought advice from her greatest nemesor, but Med'hek would never waken again. All she had was herself and her crypteks. "I believe that even with the small force at our command, if we had joined with the humans, we would have defeated this invasion." They had tracked the incoming vessels, three of them, and Rahkaak thought the invasion force was contemptuously small.
"I believe so as well. Although we must assume this is only a raiding force, a small part of their true might." Yes. "Oh, that's interesting," Nuhkes muttered and Rahkaak turned her attention back to the battlefield.
A single human warrior, bulky yet nimble, was clashing with a single Drukhari warrior. She was no expert on combat, but slowing her chronosense let her examine it thoroughly and commit it to engram for later. Perhaps one of the Immortals could give her an evaluation. The weapon the human was using was unusual, a polearm that burned with a cold light. The Drukhari fought with a sword and shield, moving with the beauty and grace that was typical of his breed.
The duel took a decent amount of time, as both sides seemed to pause by mutual accord, watching their champions. The victory was a near thing, Rahkaak could see that, but the human prevailed as the Drukhari fell for a very cunning feint within a feint. The polearm sliced through armor like it was not even there, and a head bounced free of shoulders in a fountain of blood. Then, to her surprise, the Drukhari erupted in cheers and hoots.
"They are…" Nuhkes faltered for a moment, as the debased aeldari yelled at the human. "They are insulting him, reminding him that he is mortal and they are not. They are telling him he may keep the weapon for now, but they will be back for it and someday he will falter." Nuhkes paused a moment before continuing. "They are also telling him that they have taken enough of his warriors to… gorge upon. That he has sacrificed enough to them." How arrogant and how humiliating. Yet, one aspect about it caught her attention.
"The weapon?" Rahkaak zoomed in on the polearm the human held and examined it, interested. Ah, it was indeed aeldari make, no doubt a spoil of war. Beautifully made and graceful, the runes carved into it were what glowed with a pale radiance.
"I cannot decipher those runes, but they are in the style of the ones the aeldari use to control the warp." So that was what powered the weapon. It was only surprising a human could use such power. The Drukhari were leaving now and as she pulled back her vision, Rahkaak caught sight of the human's face. It was so still it could have been carved from klath wood, as he stared after the departing invaders. But Rahkaak fancied she knew what lay behind that still mask.
That was the face of rage.
hr
Manric Duleth planted his spear into the soil of the garden and stretched.
Rid of his armor, the sweat of battle washed away, and clothed in soft linen, every inch of his body hurt. It felt like he'd been beaten with switches like a rebellious boy. Glancing down, he could see the ugly lines of the bruises he'd taken, darker lines on already dark skin. They were nothing really, mere annoyances, but piled one on top of each other. Seeking to distract himself for a moment, he glanced around the gardens.
Beautiful. The gardeners are doing excellent work. This small meditation garden was his greatest indulgence. Many of the plants in it were from ancient Terra, starting with the plush footing of grass. It was soft and pleasant on the feet, unlike the cutting native grasses. Small stone pathways wound through the gardens, and tiny bridges crossed tinkling water features that added moisture to the air. Ancient cherry trees spread their branches, harmonizing well with the native near-kiwi's that were just starting to fruit.
Dropping to his knees before the spear, Manric sighed as he truly allowed himself to relax. It was done, yet again. His men had suffered, bled and sacrificed more than just their lives, but it was done. The true continuance of their colony, the women and children, had been preserved unscathed. Not all visits were this lucky.
Luck, Manric rolled the thought around his mind. This is good luck? But it was, he knew it was. Bad years had seen screaming women dragged off by their hair. But he wasn't to dwell on that. He'd come to these gardens to find peace.
Peace was slow in finding him, though. It was hard to give up his anger, harder still to put aside the men he'd lost. Yet it was needful and Manric found his gaze caught by the soft patterns of light in the spear he'd taken from a dead Drukhari, so long ago. They eased his mind and gradually, he slipped into a peaceful meditation.
It was a magical state of mind. Manric knew he was no witch, gifted with the perilous yet wondrous touch of the other side. Yet, when he meditated on the spear, he thought he had just a touch of the gift, enough for the spear to coax into a gentle flame.
His mind slipped sideways, though the cracks of the world and into the other side. As he dreamed, he saw the faces of those who had gone before. The new dead and the long dead, the lost but not forgotten, they whispered gentle words of encouragement in his ears before vanishing in the gentle tides. Sometimes he saw faces like yet unlike the drukhari, gazing at him like an upstart intruder… but then nodding, acknowledging his right to be there, before they vanished away.
Then came something stranger, yet hauntingly familiar. It had been filling his visions for years, now. Manric wasn't sure what it was. A very slender man in silver armor? A man of iron? The faceplate was fashioned in the shape of a skull and the eye sockets glowed with green fire. He reached out a hand and the vision mimicked the gesture as their fingers almost touched –
Then the moment blew away with the sound of a clearing throat.
"Manric." He stood and pulled the spear free of the earth, shifting it to carrying stance before he turned around. That was not because he sensed any threat, but because he knew better than to leave his weapon where small hands could reach it.
"Eloise," he responded with a nod, regarding his wife. She was a plain woman with dark skin and black hair, typical of most of their population. It pained him to admit but even after many years of marriage and three children, they were practically strangers. There was simply… no time, for much more. And, he hated to admit, no will to find the time on either end. "The children?" They both understood the importance of the children. That had been hammered into their heads from an early age.
"Of course," she said before stepping aside and the children rushed in. Rather, the two younger ones did. His oldest was proudly wearing his brand new uniform, which hurt Manric's heart to see. But as a young man, he was destined to join the never-ending war.
"Daddy!" "Daddy!" "Father." Manric smiled at the two excited cries of the younger, and the more measured greeting from his oldest. Resting his spear securely on his shoulder, he opened his arms to embrace the younger ones as his wife left to return to her own duties. That made his heart ache, but he could take comfort in one thing.
He might be a terrible husband, but he was a good father.