A pale yellow sun cast its light onto four planets orbiting it in harmony. With none of them habitable nor rich in particularly valuable resources, this star system was a serene sight, seemingly left alone by sentient races of the galaxy.
Without interrupting its peace, from an unnoticeable fold within the realspace, a speck of dust - at least in comparison to the celestial bodies - emerged. It was a sleek voidship, a marvel of grace and elegance. Its wraithbone sails were spread wide open, allowing the frigate to gently drift in the void.
Time passed, and another vessel entered the system. It was a hulking behemoth of metal, blunt and angular, covered with typical Imperial ornamentation. With a grace unbecoming even a drunken Drukhari it ripped a hole in the veil, tearing the fabric of reality, maddening screams of the Warp heralding its arrival.
Abroad the Asuryani frigate, Lirelle winced in discomfort, her trance interrupted.
In the void and silence of space, psychic sensations were often amplified, with even the dullest Asuryani able to perceive stimuli from far away. Being a warlock, her senses were keener than of most, but she was also better suited to handle the perils they brought. Moreover, as unpleasant as perceiving the arrival of the human vessel was, it was naught, but a splinter compared to the constant agony she had endured during her expedition to Belial.
Lirelle centered her breath; the time for her test was nigh. She had been a warlock for a long time, but it was only recently since she began moving past the predictions of the immediate future. She wasn't yet determined to take up the mantle of a Farseer, but since the trials she had endured on Belial her capacity in reading the Skeins has been growing exceptionally.
A burden of responsibility was weighing on her shoulders. Had she interpreted portents correctly? The Council agreed with her vision, yet it was up to her to enact it. The lives of the warriors who heeded her call, trusting her to not spend them in vain, would be on her hands alone. Spiders, Banshees, Avengers and Scorpions, even the two Wraithguards that were left in her care; how many of them would return with her back to Il'sariadh? The fates could be so certain, and yet this fickle at the same time. Even if she had brought the full wrath of the craftworld it still wouldn't have been enough to assure everyone's survival.
For some the Path would end this cycle, of that Lirelle was certain. All because she decided the thread she had seen was worth pursuing. Important for the craftworld, for the galaxy… and for her.
As a warlock, she had never been forced to face such dilemmas so profoundly. As a Farseer, it would become her incessant for the rest of her life. And yet, the painter-she-had-been was stirring in the depths of her psyche, eager to paint reality with the colors of her dreams once again.
Lirelle exhaled, submerging herself into Khaine's embrace, ascertaining her War Mask. Time for philosophy was over.
The future, at least the immediate one, was set already. Their agents on the Imperial vessel would open thewraithgate. The wayseer from her own ship would chart the path. And her warriors would be ready.
By the time Lirelle left her chambers, there were no doubts within her. Only anticipation for the upcoming challenge was filling the void left in their absence.
Despite being fully insulated, the wraithbone armor didn't hinder sensations; to the point of allowing one to feel the wind on the skin, or smell the fragrance of the area, letting each warrior employ every sense in the battle.
I muttered a curse under my breath, assaulted by stale, noxious air that greeted us as soon as we emerged from the Webway. How could one stand journeying on the vessel which stank of mold, chemicals and organic waste? Cegorach save us, those xenos are really something else!
I joined my fellow warriors surveying the chamber we found ourselves in. Four Shrines stood ready to protect Il'sariadh once again.
I habitually trailed my spinner over two nervous humans but didn't shoot; we were told to expect them.
Lirelle approached the xenos and they bowed, returning the wraithgate.
"Your bravery shall be remembered," as a courtesy the warlock utilized their dialect of the Low Gothic, even if her words were meant for the inhabitant of the spirit stone which she retrieved from the device.
Our… allies - the thought felt dissonant through my War Mask, given my readiness to fight their kin - were psychically inert; if not for the presence of the fallen within the device they wouldn't have been able to operate it at all.
+Death is not the end of the seer's duty,+ I caught a faint echo of the thought directed back at the warlock as she passed the spirit stone to one of the guardians. +I leave the rest in your hands.+
Those of us who felt his presence solemnly nodded in acknowledgment of his deeds. Rousing a soul of a deceased to fight alongside the living could be viewed merely as an extension of Khaine's Path - even if most civilians found the usage of wraithkind distasteful. The fallen seer, however, had volunteered himself to be deployed alone, far behind the enemy lines, without even a vessel to act as his own - a task far beyond the scope of expectations one would have towards a regular Asuryani.
"You're welcome," one of the humans said, staring at the opened Webway with palpable relief. "Everything unfolded as you told us it would… It's a miracle! We're not stuck on this nightmarish ship anymore!"
"Of course it had. Have we ever given you reasons to doubt us?"
"Three decades have passed since the last time your kind tasked us with anything."
"It is one thing to read records, watch documentaries," the other agreed. "But without experiencing it all firsthand, one could still have hoped it is all exaggeration, propaganda created by the government. Both the extent of your people abilities… and this," he gestured around. "To think Iskander avoided turning into another twisted world solely by mere stroke of luck…"
Iskander. I vaguely remembered studying them during my time as a linguist. An offshoot of humanity that was refounded just before the Imperium plunged itself into civil war. As a result they've been brought to the brink of extinction and seemingly forgotten afterwards. Having only recently rediscovered crude methods of space flight, Iskander lacked means to effectively expand on their own. A long term partner of House Il'sari, who sometimes provided them access to the Webway as a get around for their problem. Lacking noticeable psykers of their own, their efforts at engineering warp drive varied between ineffective and disastrous, only deepening their dependency on Il'sari.
"Your race is one of fickle memories and fleeting lives. It seems that in our efforts to not become too overbearing, we were allowing the reasons for our cooperation to be forgotten. This ought to be rectified," Lirelle flexed her arm ponderously, conceding to the xenos' arguments. "Now, the guardians will lead you back to my vessel. You shall be transported to your planet soon."
As soon as the group left and the Webway entrance closed, Lirelle focused on us.
+We must act swiftly to retrieve what is ours.+
I immediately felt a strange tingling of the psychic sorcery enveloping every one of us.
+Distract the crew. Do not engage for long. Kill the navigator while he's still reeling from their transition,+ she addressed the Striking Scorpions.
+Mon-keigh shall find only fear in their final moments,+ I sensed rictus grin blossoming on the face of their exarch. In a moment his warriors blended with shadows, their stealth not hindered by heavy armors in the slightest.
Lirelle led the rest of us out of the chamber, the nearby corridor greeting us with the sight of the first victims of the scions of Karandras. The walls were splattered with blood, the air thick with the coppery scent. However, instead of following their trail, we were guided in another direction, the warlock leading us through the labyrinthine corridors of the vessel without an ounce of hesitation.
Inside a twisted maze, each turn was revealing more of the vessel's decrepit state. Chemical and electrical illumination cast fickle specks of light, barely capable of piercing thick shadows, a stench of decay and neglect permeating everything. Our path was almost devoid of xenos, senses of the few we've encountered along the way easily beguiled by Lirelle's powers. At times, she ordered us to fire at seemingly random parts of the vessel - sometimes it was a quick burst of shurikens, a swipe of banshee's sword, or a small discharge of the wraithguard's cannon.
Eventually, throughout the vessel, the sirens awoke with a scream. The xenos must have finally realized that something was amiss. However by then we've already moved into narrow, even more ramshackle passages, so horrendously maintained that I wouldn't have been surprised they had been simply forgotten by their owners.
Prepare yourselves, the warlock called, contradicting my assumption, her command akin to a fresh breath in the musty air.
At first they were scarce. Hunched, deformed beings, clad in mere scrapes of clothes, felled by our weapons before they had even awoken from their stupor. But with each turn we took, they were growing in numbers. No longer solely frail and old, left alone to die, but gathering in groups that coordinated with each other as they fruitlessly tried to hinder our path.
+What are those wretched things?+ One of the warriors asked. +I've never fought mon-keigh like them.+
+That is how most of the crew on Imperial vessels looks like,+ I answered. +I've read they keep them confined to the ship for generations, each tribe forever bound to the section they are responsible for. Forbidden to ever leave, only allowed to live from scraps and breed each other.+
+Distasteful. Death is mercy for those things.+
Incoherent screams were now a recurring motif for our passage, heralding another wave of the pitiful mutants ready to throw their lives against us. Echoes of vails followed us, jumbled with prayers asking the "upperdeckers" to assist them.
Blast doors were erased by wraithguards' vortex weaponry whenever they obstructed our path, the few functional turret emplacements gone before even becoming a threat thanks to the warlock's foresight.
+You seem to think that our work so far is not worthy of Khaine's recognition. It is true,+ Fintan announced. The exarch understood our desires well. How could he not, being the priest of the God of War himself? Compared to the challenges our Shrine faced on the Exodite World, it was a mockery for our skill. A sentiment shared also by warriors from other Shrines. +Remember; you are not fighting for your own gain, but for Il'sariadh.+
+You will find worthy enemies soon,+ Lirelle interjected, pointing at another seemingly random bit of the vessel.
As soon as it was destroyed, the human vails were drown in the mechanical voice proclaiming in High Gothic:
"Warning! General failure of electric grid. Rerouting power from redundant subroutines. Protocol gamma-d6 activated. Prioritizing weapon systems. Life support deactivated. All personnel should carry personal oxygen supplies."
The lights flickered and turned off, the gravity of the vessel itself has been reduced only to its fraction as the voice listed systems that it was shutting down.
We've been plunged into complete darkness, save for the runes summoned by Lirelle. The array she created began to grow. With the warlock's sign the wraithguards stepped forward, powering their weapons to their full capacity, and then overcharging them.
Lirelle stood frozen still, her body rigid in focus, waiting for the opportunity only she could perceive.
+Now,+ her thought-scream was drowned in the screech of Immaterium as the wraithguards opened fire. The floor of our corridor was torn apart and consumed by the ever hungry dimension, the rifts created by the Ghost Warriors guided and amplified with the warlock's power biting into further layers of the vessel. Numerous decks were left open and pierced-through before their weapons died down, leaving behind only flickering shadows and sinister whispers laughing just at the edge of the hearing.
Lirelle, sagged from exertion now, brandished her weapon with a slight aura of dissatisfaction. With grace only enchanted by the reduced gravity she jumped down. Urged by her promises of the battle to come, we followed.
Captain Otto Gerberg gazed with a scowl as servitors scurried around to prepare turret emplacements and heavy weaponry for his entourage. Years ago, he spent a small fortune to have them installed here - mostly because of the nagging of his Chief Enginseer about the importance of this section of the vessel, the only path leading to both the ship's generator and warp drive.
Now he was glad that he relented, even if he wasn't eager to see them in action - after all, he viewed himself as a man of culture and trade. Of course, it didn't mean he hesitated to use violence when it suited his needs - only that he had people to engage in it on his behalf, preferably out of his sight.
"Isolate those Emperor forsaken mutineers, Chief Enginseer," he addressed a Tech-priest fervently typing on the console with all four of his appendages. "Close the rebelling decks, my enforcers need time to sweep them!"
"Deck AS532 locked. Explosions in section A42. Locking down. Section B67 breached. Error404 - section B431 not found," the technician drooled in mechanical voice not even acknowledging him.
Moments later the ship blared with sirens, broadcasting an ominous message in High Gothic. The captain's grasp on the language was rudimentary at best, but the fragments he understood, about systems turned off-line, only deepened his scowl.
"Damn useless cog!" he muttered angrily, already feeling his movements getting awkward due to the reduced output of grav-plates.
Suddenly the blast door leading to the chamber opened, revealing five towering figures clad in black armors. Gerberg's men clumsily bowed in awe and terror at the sight of the arriving Adeptus Astartes. Otto himself thanked the Emperor that none of his men was foolish enough to try shooting blindly.
"It isn't mere unrest, captain."
Gerberg tried to suppress an instinctive shudder at being addressed directly. His act might have even fooled the regular humans around, but he doubted it would have convinced the Marines.
Before the captain got his bearings to answer, the Enginseer hunching over the console whirled his head 180 degrees to face the Astartes, his appendages still typing on it.
"The enemy performs targeted strikes at vulnerable sub-spirits, disturbing operations of Tenebrous. Extensive knowledge of the vessel required. Logical conclusion: crew rebellion. Possible involvement of Hereteks. Chosen solution: Objective 1 - manual direction and preservation of necessary functions utilizing direct mainframe access. Objective 2 - protection of the main generator and warp drive until expendable organics solve the problem. Do you possess data required to alter our chosen course of action?"
"Your vessel has been infiltrated by foul aliens," the leader of the Astartes stepped forward. His voice was silent, contrasting the cacophony of alarms, and yet his every word seemed to engrave itself into the hearts of every human present. "Now is the time for us all to do our duty. Suffer not the xeno to live! For the Emperor!"
"For the Emperor!" Gerberg hurriedly repeated, as did the crew of Tenebrae with varied degrees of enthusiasm.
"The spirits are growing restless, brothers," the strangest of the Astartes chose the moment to speak. With armor adorned with furs of dreadful beasts and strange runes, he was the only one in the group whose face was partially visible. Now, his eyes seemed to gleam with a milky-blue light from under the armored hood stylized in the depiction of a wolf. "Spread out, the xenos' sorcery is upon us!"
Suddenly, the corridor rumbled and, in a blink of an eye, a huge part of the ceiling disappeared, revealing baleful light descending from above, obliterating everything in its path. It spread down towards the console, hungrily swallowing it along with the Chief Enginseer of the Tenebrae - no, simply disintegrated them, as Gerberg tried to force his mind into denial, rejecting the impossibility and wrongness of what was peering from within it.
Focused into a foul orb, it moved on its own accord, swallowing turret emplacements one after another, barely giving the Tenebrae's crew time to heed the Astarte warning.
But the Rune Priest was ready.
Bracing his staff, the Space Wolf latched onto his connection to Fenris. Bone-totems tied to his belt clattered in unnatural wind, prideful predators from his homeworld eager for another hunt. With a hoarfrost evoking roar he set them loose. Two majestic, ethereal wolves sprang forward, their first howls already separating humans worthy of mentioning in his Saga from cowards not deserving even a footnote. Their claws and fangs ripped at the window to Warp, sealing it with blood borne of Fenris' world-soul.
"'till we hunt again," he whispered, recalling the spirits once their task was complete. It was a strenuous trial for his Thunderwolves, and it would take a while before they recuperated in the netherworld.
The Rune Priest felt another foul breath of the Warp closing in.
From the opening in the ceiling a figure of an Eldar emerged. With a minute surprise he identified the patterns on her regalia as that of a warlock, not a farseer, whom he assumed to fight during their brief skirmish. Her silhouette was immediately shredded by hail of bolter fire from his brothers and even two or three lasgun shots by crewmen with better reflexes.
He didn't even bother raising his bolter. Not yet.
"A decoy," he said, as the projection landed completely unbothered by the weapon fire directed at her. "What do you want, xeno?"
"Sometimes, when one reads the runes, they see all the portents, yet hope for another path forward. We can still leave peacefully, just return back what is ours."
The Rune Priest knew she must have spoken about an artifact which he carried, the one they had stumbled upon while scouring Durer out of invasive xeno species. The artifact that spirited them several sectors away in the manner of seconds, by means and for reasons unknown.
"What do you want back?" Gerberg asked. "Maybe we could come to an agreeme…"
His head disappeared in an explosion of blood and gore, a single shot from the Kill-team Commander relieving the Tenebrae captain from the burden of heretical brain. The spray of crimson painted the nearby bulkhead, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air.
"As I told you, you will do your duty to the Emperor," he reminded. "There will be no negotiating with xenos."
Even after serving for decades amongst the Deathwatch, he was still a Black Templar. He had little tolerance for xenos on his best days, especially nowadays, for the species that treacherously assassinated not one, but two of their High Marshals.
In a rare event that such tolerance served the Imperium he might have stayed his hand, but it wasn't such an occurrence. The xenotech they retrieved had to be investigated by the Deathwatch in search of countermeasures. The danger of such technology in the hands of heretics or xenos was immense.
"Now, begone with your tricks, witch."
"A waste of breath it was, then," the projection dissipated, her last words drowned in screams of charging xenos.
Predictably, the Eldar used the guise of negotiations to encircle them. The Black Templar sprang to action, drawing his power sword and charging into the thick of the melee. His brothers were prepared for the outcome, but the crew of the Tenebrae was caught flat-footed.
Howling Banshees were moving like blenders through the Tenebrae crew, their blades slicing through armor and flesh with macabre ease. The few crew members still manning heavy weaponry were picked apart by Warp Spiders materializing from nothingness and disappearing within the moments, leaving behind screams of dying and the faint smell of ozone. Dire Avengers circled around, releasing torrents of shurikens whenever other xenos needed support, or pitting their reflexes against his Ultramarine brother. They quickly learned the hard way that even hidden from his attacks, they remained wide open for the White Scar harassing them from above on his jump pack.
On the side, another proud son of Dorn, this one hailing from Imperial Fists, was standing strong against two necromantic constructs, denying the xenos support of their reality-rending weapons. His armor bore the marks of countless battles, unyielding like his resolve. He deflected their blows with his storm shield, his power fist crushing parts of the xenos' menaces with each strike.
"Know, Eldar, that I am Ulvald Blackhowl," the Rune Priest proclaimed, locking his staff against the xeno witch's blade. "Whom am I to remember in my Saga, as the one I fell in battle?"
"Lirelle Il'sari," the Eldar answered, releasing a wave of energy that pushed her opponent back a few meters. "But I must disappoint you. I saw hundreds of paths leading to my death, yet none of them was by your hand. Your Saga shall remain unsang, as did the songs of those whom your brethren have butchered onThuyelsa."
The warp energy swirled between the two, lashing out at those foolish enough to come too close. Their voices—or maybe their thoughts—were carried by the tides for all to hear, not hindering their ability to fight in the slightest. The air crackled with psychic energy, every strike and parry sending shockwaves through the corridor, rattling the bulkheads and causing the floor to tremble.
"Thuyelsa?"
"And you are the one amongst your kind who is expected to possess the knowledge? Truly, the ignorance of your kind knows no bounds…"
"Not every story is worth remembering," the air roared as Blackhowl struck the ground with his staff, an emerging thunderstorm pushing the xeno witch to defend. Lightning crackled around him, the air charged with raw power. Lirelle's eyes narrowed in concentration as her runes formed a shield of psychic energy, the force of the storm hammering against it.
Their battle was a clash of wills and power, each seeking to dominate the other. Around them, other skirmishes raged on, a symphony of death and destruction that played to the tune of their clash.
The Black Templar focused on his own fight. Equipped with a trinket he received from a Magos decades ago, a field was projected in his vicinity, rendering xenos' ranged attacks useless.
"Fight, and the Emperor will protect!" He shouted, giving the undisciplined rabble that was the Tenebrae crew another reminder. If they rallied around him, if they followed his pace, then they would be granted a chance to survive.
His trusty sword carved a bloody path through xenos, for every parry they managed, he scored one wound or kill, pushing them back. His power weapon cleaved through their armor, leaving behind sizzling wounds that gushed with alien blood. Each strike was executed without a spare movement, the hum of the power field mingling with the screams of the dying.
Or so the witch wanted him to think, for he knew it was not all true. A lesser Astarte might have been fooled by her, but he was experienced enough to know that during the fight the feedback from his blade was off, the resistance given by xenos' armor too small for his strikes to be this deadly. The witch wanted him to become overconfident. If he'd trusted only his eyes, he'd be slaying them in dozens, not fighting the same few over and over again.
But the Eldar lacked the tenacity the mankind were born with. Despite the trickery, they were making mistakes. He had already slain the first Banshee that day, and the further would soon follow.
He jerked his head upwards, notified by his armor auto-senses that one of his brothers was taking heavy damage. There, the White Scar was flying above, swarmed by a group of Warp Spiders. The xenos flickered around him, blinking in and out of existence, a cloud of monofilament wires constantly chipping at his armor from all directions.
With another blink of an eye the xenos were gone, save for the one piercing both the Astarte and his jet pack with his twin powerblades. The Exarch vanished in a haze of distortion, leaving behind a grenade that exploded soon afterward, engulfing the area with a light of newborn sun. Shrapnel and liquified ceramite rained down, scorching heat affecting everything within its vicinity.
The Black Templar's auto-senses were no longer detecting the life signs from his brother. With a scream of rage he dashed forward, breaking the encirclement of the Banshees, heading for an isolated Warp Spider to enact his vengeance. Even if he hadn't been the killer, he'd begin with him.
One of the Astartes focused on me, and the field projected around him rendered any support my fellow warriors could have provided from the distance useless. His figure seemed to radiate an aura of invincibility, his every step a deliberate move in the deadly dance we were engaged in.
Worse yet, I could only dodge his attacks using short warp-jumps, each one of them getting increasingly dangerous. Prolonged fight of the psykers, our continued ventures into the Immaterium, they were all attracting attention. The area was thick with psychic energy, the fabric of reality strained by the warlock's spells and the human psyker's brute force. After eliminating the White Scar we had to spread out to avoid the predators hunting for us in the Warp, and it still cost us the loss of one of the warriors. His harrowing screams still echoed in my mind, another reminder of the thin line we walked between life and oblivion.
Currently, trying to jump further than a meager meter would be a sure way to follow him into the loving embrace of Sai'lanthresh at best, also opening a path for the daemons to assault the rest in process at worst.
Another jump. Left. Uprights. Behind. Yet still, the Astarte was constantly upon me, his helmeted visage locking onto me as if predicting my movements. His blade whistled through the air, narrowly missing my head as I twisted away. One of the Banshees reached us, trying to exploit his newfound fervor and single mindedness in focusing on me, only for the human to shove her aside almost dismissively, but still with enough power to kill instantly. Her body crumpled to the floor, a lifeless husk, her war cry cut off in a grotesque gurgle.
I was readying myself for another short-dip into Immaterium when I sensed it. A glimpse of threads shown by Lirelle, a host of daemons waiting for me on the other side. It would have been my last jump.
Damned if I jumped, dead if I didn't. The choice was obvious.
If my life was already forfeit all that I could have done was to make it count. Snare the enemy, wound him, expose for long enough for other Banshees to reach and finish him off.
And maybe in the future, when the Ghost Warriors would be called, protect Il'sariadh once again.
A fitting end for a Warp Spider.
I turned towards the approaching Black Templar, this time not to evade his attack, but take it head-on. To strangle him with the webs of my Spinner point-blank, encumber him with my body, make him pay for taking my life with his own.
I took a step forward, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in my soul as something clawed against my War Mask in defiance.
The Warp Spider might have decided to thread the hopeless path, but another Warrior-that-I-had-been was awaking with fury for such bleak acceptance.
I did what any Warp Spider would have thought unthinkable. With a mental command I released my Death Spinner from the armor, immediately throwing it at the Marine.
A momentary distraction that he reflexively swatted aside with his sword, but the one that bought me just enough time before his blade would have fallen upon me.
I dived to the side.
The fallen Banshee laid here, her once elegant form now lifeless and broken. I was able to barely reach her sword, the cold hilt feeling both foreign and familiar in my grip. Just a single touch of the weapon was enough to remind me of all that I had learned in what felt like a lifetime ago.
The blade was single-edged and curved, just like my last one, yet slightly longer. Balanced differently than I was used to. But it would suffice. My first parry and counter took the opponent by surprise, the sound of our blades clashing adding to the symphony played throughout the corridor. Sparks flew as wraithbone met the alien alloy, both power fields sizzling against each other. But he was already adapting, his movements becoming more precise, more deadly.
The armor I wore wasn't sung for someone relying on melee, and I felt it with every move. Its strengthened joints might have helped when operating a spinner, but my strikes were just a tad too stiff, lacking fluidity. Each swing of my blade felt like a choreographed struggle against my own gear. In a straight-up fight, I'd have no chance against my opponent.
Another parry and sidestep. The Marine's power sword swung past me, the force of the strike stirring the air around us.
Oh, how I'd wished to take a step forward through the Warp, emerge behind the mon-keigh and strike him down. But it was still too risky to try to enter it again, with the Immaterium so alive with predatory eyes.
Still, as we engaged in another exchange, I decided to activate the jump generator. A tell-tale shimmer began to engulf me, and I could taste the smell of the Warp on my skin. I felt the growing pull of the impossible dimension, jubilant shouts of the creatures gathered there, waiting for me. The Astarte turned, his sword already slashing towards the area where I would have liked to emerge. His anticipation of my moves was near flawless.
In that moment I felt begrudging respect and astonishment at the skill of the fellow warrior. To read me with such ease, predict the movements I'd like to perform to this degree. It was a testament to his battle-hardened instincts. It was almost a pity that he couldn't have known that even if it had cost my life, I wouldn't have dared to enter the Warp right now.
I forcefully shut down the generator, not moving an inch from where I had been.
The shimmer dissipated instantly. Before the Astarte realized his mistake, my power sword slashed out, cutting through the vulnerable spot in his armor. His body convulsed as the blade pierced his flesh, leaving him just enough time to turn in disbelief when I cut him down.
Lirelle retracted her mind from another brave warrior doomed by her mission, finding solace in thought that his sacrifice would not be in vain. So far the battle progressed along the threads she had foreseen. With the imminent death of the second Astarte, it was now time to conclude her own battle.
The veil was already getting thin. Far too thin for her own comfort. But that too, could be exploited, the Farseers had taught her.
"Do you feel them, Blackhowl? Reaching for you, whispering promises, threats, secrets?" Lirelle's questions echoed, mingling with the whispers of the warp.
The Immaterium was thick with the presence of lesser daemons. Fickle things, revulsing, lazy, guided by their base instincts. So far, the wretched beings whose attention they caught were content to try their luck in catching the daring trespassers that entered their dimension physically. With the Warp Spiders no longer provoking them, they were forced to move on to a different prey. More appetizing, but also more dangerous. Better suited to protect themselves. And they were afraid, hesitating. Not willing to attack, not until they would have found a weakness, a crack in defenses.
"With each of your reckless sorceries you are bringing doom to those around you, xeno," Ulvald's voice was a growl, filled with icy disdain.
"It's the same for both of us. Focusing powers through runes, sheltering ourselves behind them," the warlock mocked, her stance gleaming with a mixture of amusement and ridicule. "Won't you agree with me?"
"We're nothing alike. Where you dabble in forces that should have been left alone, I call upon my connection with Fenris," Ulvald's runic staff crackled with raw, primal energy, as if to underline a stark contrast with the eldritch glow of the warlock's witchblade.
Lirelle laughed, a cold, mirthless sound that echoed through the warp-tainted air. "Have you ever wondered how your ancestors learned their craft? The pitifully crude rendition of what the Followers of the Crone used? Sometimes, I wonder what their goal was. Just a proof of concept? Or, mayhaps, they have foreseen you for the beasts that you would become?"
"You know nothing about Fenris and our traditions," the Astarte growled in anger, attacking her with renewed fury. His staff swung in a deadly arc, the air around it freezing and shattering. "Uttering naught but wicked lies, witch."
Lirelle parried the blow with her witchblade, the clash of their weapons sending sparks of psychic energy cascading around them.
"Were they afraid that without such measures you'd be swayed by the Great Enemy far easier? Of all creations of your venerated corpse, I find your kind the most revulsive, barely more than rabid animals."
Ulvald Blackhowl snarled, not even deigning to answer, the ice spiraling around him, adding to his attacks. His psychic energy surged, a freezing storm that clashed with Lirelle's ethereal flames, each strike causing the veil between realities to shimmer and quake.
"Survivors from Thuyelsa researched your kind well, finding some curious…aliments. This beast, lurking within you, waiting for an opportunity to change you… the Curse of Wulfen you call it. Oh, don't be surprised, Wolf, we gather knowledge where you chose to remain painfully ignorant and deluded…"
Lirelle's voice was a sinister purr, her words weaving through the psychic turmoil with surgical precision. The Skeins crackled with tension as her mind searched for the hidden fears within Ulvald Blackhowl's soul.
Outwardly, the Space Wolf might have still seemed dismissive, but Lirelle could feel it in his psychic attacks. They were becoming wilder, less controlled. She pressed on.
"But even your kind couldn't have been so blind to never consider the similarities between the mutations plaguing you and the one affecting some of your other brothers. And like them, despite the Seed warping your minds and bodies, you embrace its power wholeheartedly, believing you could master it.
"Wulfen. Flesh-change. Two sides of the same coin. Of a plaything only meant to be just another bound thrall to the will of the Primordial Annihilator."
Lirelle's eyes locked onto Ulvald's, watching as her words pierced through his facade. His psychic shield wavered, a flicker of doubt flashing across his mind. She saw it then. A flare of anger. A moment of hesitation. It was all it took to form a crack in the contempt and righteousness the Space Wolf clad himself with.
"No!" he shouted with rage, his full attention required to protect his soul from the sudden assault of the denizens of the Warp.
Just a minute lapse, in which he let his body be guided solely by his instincts, his focus required for a different battle. An opportunity to be exploited in the Materium.
Lirelle's movements became a blur, graceful and deadly. Her witchblade struck forward, piercing through the Astarte's neck. Then the warlock unleashed her own power, channeling it through the runes engraved on it, the psychic energy coursing through Ulvald's body and frying it from within.
"And that, mon-keigh is the difference between us. For us, anger, hatred, even fear, is but a weapon, embraced and thrown aside as we see it fit. For you, it is all that you are, and will ever be. Just a wild beast, from birth knowing only fury and contempt, with nothing else to keep it sane."
With a sweep of her blade, the warlock threw the limp body away.
A moment later she stumbled, feeling like throwing up. Words had power, especially those spoken between two psykers touching the Skeins. They brought attention and all it entails. This cycle she had danced on a thin line that could have made even a Solitaire fall to their damnation. A single misstep could have made her fate worse than the mercies offered by the wickedest Commorities.
A pass ago she would have called this course of action insane. But it was the thread she had foreseen, and the one she had followed until its very end.
She hadn't lied to the Space Wolf at the very beginning of their fight. There was no future in which she had died. At least not by his hand.
Still, despite her possible fate that had not come to pass, she couldn't help but also feel exhilarated. She could now better understand why those who stepped depper onto the Path of the Seer rarely - if ever - left it.
The rest of the Astartes perished not long after the Space Wolf. Their hulking silhouettes joined the litter covering the battlefield, lifeless and motionless, a stark contrast to their earlier ferocity.
The wraithguards lay in pieces, their once proud forms shattered. But their spirit stones still glowed faintly with the essence of their souls. These would be retrieved— and maybe this time, the grasp of Khaine would lessen, allowing them to truly reconnect with the craftworld's Infinity Circuit.
The few humans who survived ran away, broken, and Lirelle let them - their fate was set anyways.
The threads, unraveled and dispersed by the fickle nature of combat, became prominent once again.
"Gather the fallen, they shall return to Il'sariadh along with us, soul and body alike. Take the mon-keigh too, those on the Path of the Researcher would appreciate new materials."
Lirelle's voice was firm and authoritative, but tinged with a sadness that only those who understood the cost of war could recognize. She made sure that all Astartes were truly dead. It might have annoyed House Karesh, who would have gladly exchanged live specimens with their contacts within the Dark City, but the warlock found no benefit for the craftworld in entertaining their whims. Not only would it be needlessly dangerous, but there were fates she wished no one to endure, even the lowest of mon-keigh.
The warlock bent to retrieve the artifact that was the main reason for their presence here. It was only then, when the strained fabric of reality began to right itself in the aftermath of the battle, that she became aware of a continued presence of the thread of fate she had already thought extinguished.
I felt a sudden chill when the warlock glanced at me. Her gaze was not malevolent, but her posture was full of barely contained surprise, her fingers mooching over some of her runes as if they'd betrayed her.
I was about to ask about her erratic behavior when I felt the presence of the two Shrines gathering around me.
The Howling Banshees and the Warp Spiders encircled me, none of my fellow Shrine-brothers asking me to join along with them. They gathered there to stand witness as the two Exarchs stepped forward.
Fintan and the one leading the Howling Banshees stood side by side, their gazes boring heavily onto me, with judgment and appraisal that felt tangible.
"You have traversed the labyrinth of my Shrine, and now you tread a Path beyond my guidance," Fintan intoned, his voice echoing with the gravity of ages. "May the armor you don, forged and sung for the Skeinwalkers Shrine, the one worn by countless valiant warriors before you, serve you well in your future endeavors. Let your deeds bring honor to their legacy."
"You were not of my Shrine, but you have been mentored by Rhiodhna of Echoing Silence, who walks the same Path I tread," the Howling Banshee Exarch continued, her tone equally grave and resonant. "Remember her teachings and cherish the blade you have claimed, for it is now yours. It was sung for the Shrine of Wailing Whispers, last wielded by Iyia Eochon. Bear it with pride and do not sully the memory of the warriors who wielded it before you."
The atmosphere was thick with reverence, the air charged with the solemnity of the moment. The circle of warriors stood silent, their presence a testament to the weight of tradition and the honor of the ceremony. The shadows cast by the surrounding figures seemed to dance in rhythm as the ancient rite was performed.
"May another cycle see you among us again," they concluded in unison, their voices merging into a harmonious echo that reverberated through the chamber. "As a warrior, as an Autarch, or an Exarch of your own Path."
The words hung in the air, a solemn benediction that marked my passage onto the new Path. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken expectations for the journey ahead of me.
The Path of Menshad Korum was something I had yet to understand completely despite taking the first steps upon it. Among them, there were Aeldari who gathered together, operating in a fashion similar to Aspect Shrines. Others acted independently, more akin to corsairs or outcasts. Sometimes they simply moved on to master another Aspect, a stepping stone on the Path of the Autarch. There were also tales amongst scholars and warriors about those who established their own Shrines, theSlicing Orbsfrom distant Zandros the most known example.
I already felt the excitement of the Banshee-me, acting in tandem with the Warp Spider's eagerness for new avenues of exploration. Even the playwright-me was stirring with a long forgotten anticipation, sensing the opportunity to create once again.
The solemn mood was abruptly shattered by the arrival of the Striking Scorpions, their movements silent until the moment they've chosen to reveal their presence. Their Exarch stepped forward, raising a strange, misshaped head with three eyes high for all to see, its grotesque features a stark reminder of the place we still were. The head oozed a thick, black ichor, and its eyes, although lifeless, seemed to hold a lingering, malevolent gaze.
"Our task is done, the navigator is dead," the Exarch said, his voice dipping with a cold satisfaction.
"Good," Lirelle answered, reaching for the bizarre trophy, her fingers curling around the clammy, disfigured scalp. Its weight was both symbolic and physical, the final proof of the victory we had claimed. "I have already notified our wayseer. What is left now is to tow this vessel through the Webway."
"…the density of the alloys used is unbelievable. If not for its prior structural damage, we would have to spend days to even breach into this vessel."
"Yes, we were lucky. The superstructure must have been damaged on reentry. The ship was probably never meant to enter the gravity well of the planet, and parts of it collapsed under its own weight."
Shas'ui T'au Ko'vaal eavesdropped on the ceaseless murmur of the Earth Caste researchers, their voices echoing in the vast, dimly lit chamber. His eyes scanned the cavernous room, the oppressive darkness pressing against the faint beams of their torches. Now that the scientists said it, he could almost hear the metal walls groaning, straining under their own weight, waiting for an opportunity to swallow them all.
On the far end of the chamber, a group of workers operating heavy machinery dig through the debris blocking one of the bulkheads, their silhouettes flickering in and out of his sight.
Ko'vaal felt an unsettling twinge. The broadcast a fewRotaaprior had mentioned a routine geological survey onLu'valuncovering remnants of an ancient vessel. Yet, mobilizing the entirety of the homeworld's Shan'al to secure a perimeter for research seemed excessive. Even if this was T'au's first encounter with remnants of other sentient civilizations, the scale of this operation screamed overkill. Unless, of course, the vessel wasn't as ancient as the Ethereals claimed.
Ko'vaal had seen the perimeter beforehand. It hadn't resembled an excavation site; it looked more like a crash site, and a fairly recent one at that. When he had inquired about it to his Shas'vre, his superior had remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped.
With a deafening creak, the workers finally dislodged the last piece of debris blocking the bulkhead. Ko'vaal ordered his team to cover the newly opened entrance. They sent drones first. The Earth Caste technician meticulously mapped every inch of the next chamber, recording data and noting abnormalities.
"It's a corridor," Fio'la T'au Ob'va reported, his voice trembling slightly with a mix of awe and apprehension. "Debris is scattered everywhere, and… there might be bodies of the ship's owners in there," excitement wrestled with dread in his tone before he shifted back to a more measured demeanor, "But no life signs detected…"
"What were you expecting?" scoffed Shas'la T'au Alal. "Isn't this an ancient wreck? We're not in some holodrama to be afraid of the ghosts."
"How old is this ship, anyways?" Ko'vaal's inquiry broke through the banter. He'd be a fool to not use an opening provided by his warrior.
"It's still inconclusive," one of the researchers said. "We lack sufficient knowledge about most of the construction materials utilized here for radiometric dating, so our readings can only provide a rough estimate. But it might be older than five thousand Tau'cyr."
Alal whistled with marvel, "Then it's far older than our recorded history."
"It is a humbling thought, isn't it?" Fio'vre Lu'val Shaava approached them. The overseer's eyes glinted with reverence as he basked in the sight of the ancient remnant. "Just think of the wonders their civilization could have achieved ever since building it. Surely such enlightened beings would have recognized the merits of embracingTau'va…"
Ko'vaal's brow furrowed as he leaned towards him, fishing for more. "Those beings, were you able to learn anything more substantial about them?"
As the overseer responsible for researching this part of the vessel, Vre'Shaava was bound to possess insights the warrior lacked.
"Oh, we have many ongoing theories, yet most are mere speculation," Vre'Shaava replied, his excitement akin to a child's delight as he gestured animatedly. "You see, we suspect that this vessel underwent countless modifications throughout its lifecycle. Some may have been purely decorative, while others could have borne a ritualistic purpose. All those chandeliers, censers, remnants of incense... There are even many Fio'ur among us who theorize that the last owners of this craft were not its original creators, but rather another species that merely learned to operate it to a certain degree."
"So there might be not only one, but at least two other space faring civilizations somewhere out there?" Alal said with marvel in his voice.
"Wonderful, isn't it? If the next chamber truly holds the remains of the vessel's crew, we might be on the cusp of solving this mystery. I can't wait to see them!"
Just as this sentiment hung in the air, La'Ob'va cleared his throat, beckoning attention of his superiors. "We have compiled all the data from the untouched section. You are now cleared to secure the next perimeter, Shas'ui."
"Perfect! Hopefully, it won't be long before you deem it fit for us to enter, Ui'Ko'vaal," Vre'Shaava replied, beaming at the prospect of discovery. "The remains of aliens… we would be the first scientific team to make such a find!"
"Moving out," Ko'vaal commanded, gesturing for his La'rua to take positions.
Yet, even as they prepared to advance, an inexplicable chill swept through him. The newest corridor resembled those they'd traversed before, yet it bore a peculiar atmosphere that set it apart. An unsettling tapestry of what might have once been electrical conduits and fuel lines slithered through the broken sections of the walls. Strange protrusions jutted out like the skeletal fingers of long-dead giants, while chandeliers, grotesquely ornate yet obscured by dust hung from above, their glass glinting with an otherworldly sheen as it hungrily swallowed light from their torches.
Ko'vaal's gaze swept over the objects which might have held religious significance to the aliens.
The concept felt distant to him. A relic of a primitive past rightly replaced by irrefutable truths of Tau'va. While there were still scattered communities maintaining shrines in remembrance of T'au who passed away, even the most fervent groups wouldn't try to erect so many in such limited space.
He shuddered at the thought of an advanced civilization that could have remained so superstitious.
With each hooffall, the unease crept closer to Ko'vaal's heart. After what felt like an eternity to him, he reached the closest of the corpses marked by the drone's scanners. He knelt beside the remains of the creature, his heart pounding as he examined its disfigured likeness. Draped in tattered rags, the alien was unmistakably bipedal, yet its features were twisted and decayed into a grotesque parody of life, half-decomposed flesh fused repulsively with rusted machinery. Caught by a peculiar mixture of fascination and dread he stared at the repulsive amalgamation of metal and organic tissue until a question from one of his Shas'la broke his reverie.
Ko'vaal moved towards another corpse, this one half-buried beneath a mound of debris. Unlike the first, it lacked the mechanical enhancements, but its exposed flesh was marred by tumorous growths that festered like the blooms of a malignant flower. It brought back memories of a documentary he had seen once, showcasing Earth Caste members inadvertently exposed to intense bursts of radiation.
This xenos' torso was also bloated, a putrid reminder of nature's tendency to reclaim those who expired, and for once Ko'vaal was thankful for the rebreather built into his suit, shielding him from the stench of rot and decay that must have been filling the corridor.
"Five thousand Tau'cyr old, my ass," he cussed under his breath, bitterness coating his words like acid.
This creature, like the first, was preserved far too well to be ancient. Unless these xenos possessed an absurdly resilient biology, these bodies could not have possibly endured the ravages of time for so long.
Ko'vaal had enough. He wanted answers - immediately. Once they secured this area, he would demand information from the Earth Caste, his commander, even the Ethereal if necessary. Subtle inquiries had never been his forte; that strategy only proved effective for the Water Caste. If he was ordered to send his La'rua further into the bowels of the vessel, he needed to know more first.
His mind set, Ko'vaal straightened. "Move forward," he ordered.
As his team cautiously made their way down the darkened corridor, an uneasy feeling began to gnaw at Ko'vaal's stomach once again.
"Maintain loose formation," he reminded, scanning their surroundings.
He spotted a series of strange glyphs etched into the wall - another example of xenos' incomprehensible language.
Suddenly a loud creak echoed throughout the corridor.
"Wait- what is that?" Alal shouted pointing at a battered screen hanging from the ceiling.
It was no longer dormant, but flickered to life, bathing the corridor in a sickly red hue, endless lines of ominous xenos glyphs writhing through it.
"Retreat! Take cover!" Ko'vaal barked, but his warning came too late.
A deep rumble resonated through the corridor as hidden compartments within the walls sprung open. Immediately, laser beams sliced through the air, turning flesh into vapor.
Ko'vaal instinctively dove to the side, but half of his team was downed by the first salvo. Bullet fire drowned out their screams, the survivors immediately firing. Their weapons blazed defiantly in a futile attempt to fight back, for their shots ricocheted harmlessly off the armored turrets as the horrifying contraptions removed intruders one after another with ruthless efficiency.
Moments later Ko'vaal was thrown to the ground, a feeble gasp escaping his lips, feeling the searing heat of a laser cutting through him.
"If only they had told us more," his lips moved wordlessly, the last mantra of the Shas'ui repeated until the darkness closed in around him.