I crouched behind a pile of rubble, my breath shallow and measured. The ruined streets were narrow and cluttered with debris, but we remained unseen.
+A task for Scorpions, not us,+ Elain projected, taking her position.
+Embrace the challenge, sister. Unless it's too much for you?+ Cailyth mocked her.
A guttural shriek came from just around the corner, echoing through the streets. I could sense the creature's bestial contentment, fulfillment of its animalistic desires.
+It's distracted with its own prey, move,+ I responded, and the three of us sprang to action in unison.
With wind drowning sounds of our footsteps, we were upon the creature. It wasn't until Cailyth's blade bit deep into its leathery, veined wing that it raised its bestial snout from a mangled corpse of a mutant it feasted upon. With agility and speed unbefitting its grotesque shape, it pounced at me, jaws wide full of razor-sharp teeth. I sidestepped to its wounded side, decapitating the creature with a single strike.
Killing those beasts wasn't hard; the challenge was not spooking them so they wouldn't get airborne and flee.
"Well done, we're one step closer to our true goal," Rhiel said, clapping.
"Like a thief, he sweeps the streets, keeping to the shadows where he ought proudly walk in the daylight. For he knows, his people now serve another, his claim irrelevant to them," I said, letting my displeasure be known through my stance.
"Even Amireth wouldn't have said it better!"
Doubtful, given that I parroted the shadowseer's words from the time we entered the ruined metropolis. Our expedition split there; Varael and his corsairs continued the hunt for spirit stones, some of the harlequins remaining to guide them. But most of the Troupe entered the city, requesting assistance of the Aspect Warriors in their enactment. They wanted to retrieve something from the city, so we were stuck creeping through it on foot, trying to remain hidden from the wildlife and mutants making it their nest… either by avoiding or eliminating them quietly.
Rhiel picked up the head of the beast we have just killed, raising it up so that it almost touched his masked face. There was something disturbing in its elongated, batlike visage.
"Oh, you poor little thing! The life you were forced to live, forgotten by the Universe in this hellhole! Elsewhere, you could be great! Scourges of Commorragh would have envied you, for being born with the gifts they had to pay for dearly. What a pity!" he cast one last glance at the head before throwing it away.
"Are you implying that those... shriekers were once eldar?" I asked, but my once-friend ignored me.
It could explain why my senses of the thought-talker registered their emotions with such clarity. Back on the craftworld, I would have found the thought disturbing… but here, I only shrugged. Even if they had been the eldar once, all that mattered was it gave us an advantage now.
"This is it," Rhiel said as we stepped into the dark and dusty building.
Before us extended rows upon rows of the massive shelves, some of them reaching all the way to the ceiling, but most collapsed, barely standing supported on each other, or already turned into piles of rubble and debris.
The air was thick with dust and mold, the smell of centuries of decay mixed with the one left by the creatures that made the building their nest.
Still, Rhiel's excitement was palpable; the feelings mirrored by other harlequins who reached the place before us.
"A pity we've arrived so late," Cailyth said.
"Has the bloodlust blinded you to our purpose?" I asked. "Il'sariadh required us to retrieve the spirit stones, not merely slaughter these wretched creatures."
"Which, as it turned out, won't be our task either. I'd have gladly delivered Khaine's wrath to those that dared to defile ruins of our civilization. A consolation prize."
Corpses of the mutants dwelling inside were scattered on the floor. Their bodies, clad in primitive leathers and salvaged pieces of armor, bore marks of Aeldari weapons. Most were seemingly brought down by Striking Scorpions, yet some had more grotesque wounds, a result of harlequins' weapons.
"The New Men, they're called, one of the earlier breeds," Amireth emerged from one of the ruined alcoves. "If you deem mon-keigh brute and vicious, woe the day they mingle into the Imperial population. As for defiling the ruins, they needn't to. This building has been desecrated long ago, even before the Fall of Dominion. Would you guess its purpose?"
The shadowseer motioned for us to follow her. I walked carefully, placing my steps to avoid fresh corpses as well as remnants of much older ones. The mutants might have used the area to dispose of their deceased; or maybe stored the corpses here to be eaten later; I doubted the creatures were above cannibalism. However, the bones weren't the only thing laying on the floor; there were pieces of glass and pottery, as well as remnants of other objects, some barely recognizable due to wear of ages. Shattered tablets and statues, decayed weapons and tools. A handful of them still bore distinguishable inscriptions and runes, and even through my War Mask I felt a pang of disappointment at my inability to comprehend most of them.
Here I was, on the world belonging to my ancestors, and a part of me felt like a savage unable to witness more than a bare glimpse of their culture. Of course, I understood the reasons for our departure from utilizing the ancient Aeldari script, the danger inevitably associated with continued usage of psychic infused writing for mundane missives after the Fall. But maybe I could take back just one of the more intact tablets, and ask scholars for help in decrypting its contents?
"Don't dare to take anything from there; those treasures have already been claimed by another long ago," the shadowseer warned, doubtlessly aware of my impulse thought.
I quashed the desire, and remembered the question she posed earlier.
"It was a warehouse."
She nodded.
"A result of one of numerous sacrileges committed in the waning years of the Dominion. A repository of knowledge repurposed to a mere warehouse. And now we're entering the temple's main complex, stripped bare and turned into a marketplace."
The room we entered dwarfed the previous by the order of magnitude. Groups of Aspect Warriors and harlequins were milling between what remained of mutants' crude dwellings. While the warriors were sweeping the area in search for eventual survivors of the inhabitants, the harlequins were obviously more interested in the building itself, carefully investigating its columns and alcoves.
As we entered the hall, I had no problems imagining the dwellings to be spacious stalls where merchants of old could have presented their wares. A constant background noise of Belial has grown stronger, emulating the racket of the crowded plaza. I momentarily turned to my left, for a heartbeat certain there were two Aeldari haggling over a piece of delicate pottery. A second later, Cailyth flourished her blade to the right, startled by the ephemeral silhouette of a merchant lauding miraculous properties of a freshly gathered skin of some xeno species, before fading to nothingness.
"The Time of Witch is approaching, the Trapped stir to relive the torment of the Birth once again. Maybe you too will be given the opportunity to gather the Tears of Goddess' Mercy, but for that we must be swift with our task. The story always continues."
Within the hall, damned Aeldari were occasionally flickering in and out of existence, vying for attention of the mortals. Some were still presenting their wares, others were pleading us to join them in secluded alcoves, or hissed and snarled in response to harlequins' mockeries.
"For the heir knows that reclaiming the lands of his forefathers is naught but a distant dream. He had returned with a different purpose. A part of his heritage awaited, untainted still. There was still a way to retrieve it."
"What Amireth is implying," Lirelle approached us, "is that those still following the True Gods had gone into hiding even before the temple was... repurposed. The harlequins believe the faithful still conducted the rites here, and the entrance to the hidden complex is there."
"Miss warlock, she just said the exact same thing, whose attention are you vying for?" Rhiel asked, assisted by the mock outrage of the shadowseer.
Lirelle sighed, "Anyways, you were the last Il'sariadhians to rejoin us. Your exarch searches the northern section of the building, you should head…"
"To the south section!"
"...to your sisters," the warlock finished, her posture full of annoyance directed at the shadowseer.
"You know, if we wanted them to search the same spot, we wouldn't have been splitting their squad earlier…"
"I enjoyed your antics far more when they were directed at Varael," Lirelle muttered silently.
"What are we even looking for? Surely not something as crude as a trapdoor?" I said with annoyance as we continued our search.
We decided to follow through with the harlequin's wishes and split into smaller groups. I was paired with Elain, who was also growing vexed. None of us seemed to have any idea what to search for, a fact of which the harlequins must have been aware, but simply not concerned.
"It's the act of searching that is important. Play it, and trust the Laughing God," Elain mocked. One of the nearby troupers turned towards her and clapped, before returning to whatever he was doing before. "Let's check another alcove, Lirelle is already investigating this one."
I ignored her suggestion and stepped inside anyway.
"I doubt it'll make any difference. We can as well contribute to the harlequins' play here. It's not like they can't tell us if they disagree."
Most of the sections we checked so far were full of rubble and mutants' excrements. This one at least seemed interesting. Describing it merely as an alcove was giving it a disservice.
The rectangular room was vast and empty, save for a raised stone dias in its center. The light was seeping inside it through cracked walls, covering the massive archway standing upon it with a dim, flickering light. The wraithbone forming it looked so ancient and filigree I was amazed it still hadn't collapsed.
"Is it still operational?" I asked the warlock inspecting the structure. "It would have saved us much trouble had we made the planetfall through here."
Lirelle cocked her head slightly.
"It is. But we couldn't have used it; the gateway has been closed, making it possible to open it only from this side. Curiously, the seals themselves are a fairly recent addition."
"How recent?" Elain asked.
"Definitely created millennia after the Fall."
"There are paths within the Webway that even our kind avoids," one of the harlequins must have taken interest in our conversation. I turned towards the voice, and noticed it was the Troupe Master himself. "Someone must have marked this entrance as such."
"So the day has come when a follower of the Laughing God admits he fears something. I doubt any of the farseers could have predicted such an occurrence."
Cirith expressed a hurt posture, "Should a play required us to brave these paths, we would have done so. Yet, it is our responsibility to seal the passages we deem unfit for living. You should know that, warlock."
"Peace, Troupe Master, was it a slight any larger than those you share aplenty around? In this world, the threads of fate are tangled and uncertain. I am no farseer, and even as a one, I wouldn't dare to scry the future here. Yet, with each passing heartbeat, I feel a growing certainty that our paths are getting further intertwined with this gate. The question is, would you be able to guide us safely through it?"
"If Cegorach wills it," he shrugged noncommittally.
"Maybe the path leads not through this gate, but through here?" Elain suddenly called, her voice coming from the inside of the column.
We circled around the archway, finding the banshee waving toward us from a barely visible crack at the back of the pillar.
"Come, there is enough space inside," she said.
Without her hand marking the position, I had difficulty focusing on the position of the entrance, the crack she disappeared into appearing to be just another decorative motif. Yet the opening was there, large enough for an Aeldari to easily fit into it. If it had been additionally covered by the holo-field in the past, I doubt someone unaware of it could have spotted it.
Elain was right; most of the pillar supporting the archway have been hollowed, making its insides spacious.
"It's empty," I stated the obvious.
"It is. But my brother is a wayseer, and he once mentioned it was not unheard of for a smaller Webway Gate to be incorporated into a larger access point. He claimed they were often connected to entirely different or even isolated sections of the Webway."
"And if someone were to try to divine the location of the entrance, they would be confused by the shadow of the main gate," Cirith mused. "It is possible… if the gate is really here and if it can be opened."
"If the main gate is sealed shut, this one must be completely inert," Lirelle said, focusing intently on the section of the wall. "And yet…" she drawled, and I had an impression that for a heartbeat it flickered with patterns formed with light. "The wisdom of blood shall open the way."
The warlock stepped back and turned towards the Troupe Master, "If your quest is a futile errand, I'll be the first to be damned," she said, her posture devoid of emotions.
She sat down and addressed me before reaching for her rune pouch, "summon everyone and tell them to get ready. I need a moment to prepare."
Her meditative trance lasted just long enough for the whole expedition to gather around the archway. Outside, sightings of damned Aeldari were getting more frequent, yet curiously we saw none of them inside the archway's pillar.
Lirelle took a deep breath and stood up, runes snapping into an array around her. At the same moment the shadowseer swept her mistave, and a cloud of billowing fog engulfed the warlock. She flickered in and out of focus, Lirelle's movements more akin to a series of distorted photographs than anything fluid, as she drew her blood and directed its flow towards the wall, creating a complex pattern of sigils on it. The symbols flashed brightly for a moment, but quickly dimmed, as if some invisible hand was trying to erase them. Lirelle staggered, and repeated the motions, this time Amireth directing the mist to cover the writings.
For a painfully long second nothing happened.
Then, with a barely audible crunch the wraithbone shifted, the living material trying to repeat a long forgotten movement.
Lirelle faltered and swayed, but Amireth supported her before the warlock fell. She gently seated the woman on the floor. Where there was a wall before, now a gentle haze of an open Webway glowed.
Cirith and Amireth bowed to the warlock, their gesture for the first time lacking mockery and exaggeration.
"Only a follower of Crone could have opened the passage, and we are sworn to another," the Troupe Master said.
"The Troupe and Shrine of Echoing Silence shall be enough to conclude the Act," Amireth added. "Take a moment to rest, before gathering your host to collect the Tears. Not much time remains, and you've earned them."
The transition through the Webway was swift and barely noticeable.
The passage we found ourselves was damp and narrow, the corridors echoing with the sound of dipping water. The Troupe Master led us through a twisting maze of tunnels, barely slowing whenever he needed to pick a fork to continue.
"The story yearns for a conclusion," Cirith explained. "Cegorach leads us now."
His certainty was reflected by other harlequins, and we quickly pressed deeper into the labyrinth. Finally, with another turn, worn and crumbling walls ended abruptly, giving way to a pristine doorway.
"A stasis field, activated from the inside," he said. "And a riddle one needs to solve to open the door, or risk the wrath of guardians. Amireth, would you lend me your hand?"
The harlequins spent a while playing with the mechanism of the doorway, which soon opened with a soft hiss.
Despite the Troupe Master's assurances that it was absolutely safe to enter, we carefully followed Rhiodhna maintaining a combat formation.
Cirith shrugged mockingly and quickly overtook us without looking back.
On the other side of the doorway laid a spacious, circular room, illuminated by a distant star captured in the picturesque sky. Was it some clever usage of holo-technology, which hid the ceiling under a layer of illusion, or some other marvel of engineering that remained functional up to this day?
The walls made of exquisite wraithbone were adorned with carvings and paintings of gods and goddesses, heroes and mythical creatures. These depictions, each a masterpiece in its own rights, all paled in comparison to the statues set in the center of the room. Two deities stood facing each other; Khaine, the bloody-handed, his visage captured in a rare moment of contemplation and sadness as he gazed onto a mangled hand of his blind consort. Morai-heg, raising said bleeding arm triumphantly, the Crone's mouths already opened, hungry for knowledge her life-fluid contained. An altar was placed between the sculptures, a single blade lying on it, and a crystallized corpse of an Aeldari was kneeling in front of it.
"Oh, last caretaker of the doomed world, know your sacrifice was not in vain," Cirith said solemnly, bowing towards the figure and taking a position just a few steps from the altar.
Colorful mosaic tiles covered the floor, not even a speck of dust polluted the pristine hall. I was painfully aware of dirt and grime left in our wake and muttered a silent plea for forgiveness directed at the temple's caretaker and patrons.
The harlequins spreaded around the hall, humming and dancing to an otherworldly tune. Each of them brimmed with barely contained excitement. In stark contrast to their relaxed attitude, our Shrine remained near the entrance at the ready, gathered around Rhiodhna.
"The heir approaches, no longer one of the many, but first amongst his entourage," the shadowseer intoned.
On cue, Rhiel - who must have waited outside of the chamber so far - stepped inside.
"Daughters and sons of Cegorach, bear witness to the heir reclaiming his ancestry!" the Troupe Master called from his position near the altar.
"We bear witness!" the Troupe answered.
The harlequins encircled Rhiel, each of Cegorach's followers congratulating him, either hugging or clapping, before letting him continue his march towards the altar. The motley clothes he wore seemed to lose their colors with each step he took.
"Daughters and sons of Khaine and Morai-heg, bear witness to the heir reclaiming his ancestry!" Cirith called again moments before Rhiel reached him.
"All bear witness!" the remaining harlequins chanted a heartbeat later, probably not counting on our continued active participation in their spectacle.
Rhiel hesitated for an instant a step away from the altar, but reached for the sword nonetheless. With a swift motion he turned back towards us, blade held high, accompanied by cheers of the harlequins.
But I saw that something about him changed the moment he picked the weapon; as if an incredible burden was placed on his shoulders. I wasn't the only one who noticed the change; my feelings were mirrored by the harlequins and their deliberate shift in attitude.
"The past and future weighs heavily even on the mightiest of us. In claiming the ancestry, the heir sacrificed a part of that which was him. But what has been lost in the past, won't be stolen in the future."
As the shadowseer narrated, stances of other harlequins were changing; they expressed fellowship no longer, turning it into distanced regard and deference, sometimes mixed with shunning in equal measures. Rhiel, moving with a confident, regal grace, left the hall alone. Truely, the time of the heir stepping amongst them as an equal was over, and I suspected that the separation would remain even after their spectacle reached its end.
I felt the gaze of the mirror mask upon myself.
+You are right, but your perception is lacking. There is no ending to the spectacle, no separation between the story and life. When one concludes, another begins. Until the End. Rhana Dandra. We don't act our roles, but live them to the bitter end. And so do you, whether you accept it or not.+
Having Amireth's attention upon myself, I decided to sate my curiosity, +What is this sword?+
+Just a relic of the past, a part of an obscure myth. The source of great hope and even greater woe in the future… if the threads align correctly.+
I'd probably spend cycles trying to solve the riddles deliberately left by the harlequins as soon as we return to the craftworld.
"Your quest is complete, it's time we head back now," Rhiodhna said.
"Fear not, Exarch, we won't tarry needlessly," the shadowseer answered, but made no intention to leave the temple.
Gazes of all harlequins were focused on Cirith. The Troupe Master still remained by the altar, circling around and occasionally probing it, sometimes suddenly freezing in place as if in deep thought. Finally, he tilted his head as if asking 'why not?' and gestured for one of the harlequins to approach. The trouper passed him an artfully crafted ornate sword, which Cirith delicately placed on the altar.
"Know, my friend, we're neither thieves nor graverobbers. Your watch continues," he said to the crystallized Aeldari, before motioning for us to head outside.
By the time we emerged back from the Webway, something changed.
Screams of countless throats battered at my mind at once, unearthly and distant, full of terror mingled with ecstasy.
Our weapons drawn, we rushed out from the archway, greeted by the sight of throngs of auric silhouettes. The flickering ghosts from before had grown in numbers, and were all collapsing to the ground, wailing with pleas for mercy. The inner light they now all glowed with seemed to burn them, and first specters were already writhing on the ground, curled in fetal position, their hands scratching their faces frantically in a frenzied delirious trance.
Some of the figures disappeared, the process beginning a heartbeat later. Others shrank and folded, losing their shapes, consolidating into tiny, iridescent gems.
+Make haste, join your compatriots, the opportunity is passing,+ the shadowseer urged us.
Between collapsing figures Aspect Warriors were dashing, each aiming to collect the newly formed gems. Dozens were picked every second, however I also keenly sensed warriors' frustration whenever a stone shimmered and disappeared inches away from their touch.
I sprang forward, throwing myself towards the closest one. Despite my gauntlets, it felt warm to the touch, and the crystal resonated with the waystone embedded within my armor. I ran towards another one, trying to pick as many as possible.
That was how the spirit stones were coming into being.
I knew that a part of me felt revolted and shaken by the discovery. Knowledge of waystones' origins was common, but I didn't remember even learning how they were created. There was a leap between knowing they were being gathered on the Crone Worlds and learning they were being formed from the spirits of those who had been consumed by the Fall.
But that part of me could voice his revulsion after returning back to Il'sariadh. Feelings of me who was collecting the stones could be described more along the lines of a vengeful satisfaction.
Wasn't it fitting that through reliving the torment of the Fall, those who brought the doom upon our race, had a chance to achieve a redemption, safeguarding spirits of the generations to come?
"They are here, as I told you, brother. You should have listened to my advice and brought more forces with us."
The speaker was clad in a crimson power armor that had seen better times. Its plates were almost completely covered with lines of cramped, curling scripts, and where they were not, blasphemous iconography adorned them. Attached to it were peculiar containers and vials made from various materials, each sealed with vax and warded with ominous sigils. Unwary observer could have lost his mind if he as much as glanced at them, for within hazy forms of enslaved Neverborns stirred restlessly, yearning for release.
"And leave the facility even more understaffed?" another marine snickered. His scarred face might have been handsome once, but eternity of combat and influence of the Eye left a permanent mark on his visage. "It was you who convinced Savona to take her merry warband on the fool's errand Jihar pathetically calls his crusade. Had the 12th Millennial remained here, we'd have arrived in strength."
Even if both of them cast away their allegiance to the Corpse Emperor when he still walked amongst mortals, they could not be more dissimilar. The second warrior was easily a head taller than his companion, ceramite plates of his armor almost completely uniform, washed gray, with only a handful of dull, reddish accents. Only a small part of his chest-plate retained its original white and blue paint, barely noticeable under a sextet of cracked skulls wreathed in chains that hung from it. Similar chains climbed around his torso and arms, practically intertwined with an ancient narthecium signifying his rank. Two falax blades rested magnetically clamped to his hips.
"Had they remained here, the timing of the attacks would have changed. It's the way those xenos operate. They would have arranged for the events to happen when we are stretched thin for some other reason. Nonetheless, you are playing into their hands by not bringing enough forces here."
Arrian knew that the Word Bearer was right. The eldar were distracted; that the shrieker he sent into the ruined building survived so long convinced him of that. Many of his fellow apothecaries disregarded those beasts, but he knew that with conditioning and proper augmentation they could be made into useful scouts or spies. Every member of the Consortium had their speciality, and performing alterations to cerebral pathways were his. After all, that was how he was keeping himself mostly sane over the centuries, despite the influence of the Nails.
With each passing second they were losing an opportunity to surprise them. Had he taken a dozen more brothers, they could have considered spearheading the assault immediately. However, with the forces they had at hand, he deemed it better to finish their preparations.
"Would you rather explain to the Chief Apothecary that his new facility was overrun by our milk-blooded brethren while we were doing the bidding of the whispers you are hearing?"
"Arrian, Arrian, surely you are not the one to talk about speaking to the voices," the Word Bearer gestured towards the tabard of cracked skulls the other marine wore.
"If you deem our forces insufficient to deal with those xenos, be my guest to employ your little pets to help us, Saqqara. But keep them on a tight leash, I'd like to take a few of those eldar alive for research."
The vials the Word Bearer carried jiggled with anticipation.
Both Astartes knew Arrian's jibe was hollow; Saqqara had to call upon the pacts he made if they wanted to wipe the eldar.
The diabolist looked at the forces they had gathered with distaste.
A handful of Emperor's Children, so far gone in their insanity that even Skalagrim deemed them of no use in defending the outpost. Two Castellax Battle Automatas; those engines would actually prove useful, their vicious slave-brains conditioned to pursue revenge for the death of their creator.
And this marked the end of the short list of their notable assets.
Most of their forces were composed from pitiful, discarded creations of Fabius. They were equipped slightly better than most of the other tribes roaming the wilderness, but still, in Saqqara's eyes, amounting to nothing more than cannon fodder.
"Better worry about the capacities and willingness to fight the rabble you decided to bring has. Keeping eldar alive should be doable, if you don't demand taking too many. What do you even need them for? Haven't you and Fabius already researched everything you wanted to know about them after the Lugganath?"
"So I thought. And yet, according to data gathered by my scout, there is something new to investigate. This phenomenon, eldar echoes, it's not the first time I've seen them. But never before were those phantasms leaving anything behind. Is the presence of living eldar necessary to trigger this reaction? I'll find out."