Chapter 33
It seemed as though the rain would never dissipate. There were no downpours nor torrential overflows from the creeks and Serpent River. Rather, there was a constant drizzling haze. Sheens of fine drops clung to clothes, dampened hair, and caused skin to glisten. So fine was this rainfall, when a ranger pulled their hood over their head and a scarf over their lips, they would not notice it all. Nor did it come with terrible winds or biting cold; it brought only fog.
Banks of swirling mist trundled across the plains and engulfed the ridgebacks. Hills and entire mountain ranges disappeared. Sú-il Bhán became a much quieter world as the nebulous gloom overtook the land, isolating and softening every sound. Before, on quiet nights, orkish chanting and their clanking machines carried over the plateaus. Such noise was but a memory after so many days. It was as if all life were swallowed up by the murky mass.
Yet, every so often, there were breaks in the cloud barrier. Rays of light would briefly flood portions of the plains and illuminated the rippling expanses of fog. Such effects created pockets of pure gold, shining in the distance.
Upon the Band of Kurnous' hill, there stood two figures. Dochariel and Arganel the Striker faced one another, their weapons drawn. The Exarch's silver-bladed sword was wet from the rain and drops of water periodically dripped from the point. A steady trickle streamed across the emeralds of the cross-guard. Arganel's lance possessed a pale haft and an ebony blade; carved onto either side was the Serpent world-rune of Saim-Hann in crimson. Raindrops coated either side and ran over the wielder's hands.
Both aeldari were stripped to the waist and the mist coated their elongated, muscled torsos. Dochariel's dark hair clung to his neck and cheeks while Arganel's purple locks were pulled back into a long, heavy ponytail. Beads of water hung from their long eyelashes and ran along loose strands. Neither felt the rain, the breeze that pulled at the layers hanging from their waists, or the chill which caused some observing rangers to draw their hoods and tighten their collars.
Maerys' eyes drifted between the two opponents. Her smile was curious, although her pulse quickened as she waited, waited, waited for the blades to cross. All who watched felt the same. They leaned forward as Arganel shifted his foot and retracted the length of his lance. Dochariel responded in kind, changing his guard. A gentle breeze brushed over the hill, causing the tall grass to tremble and sway. It was just strong enough to pluck the stray locks of hair from their faces.
Steadily, the wind abated and the misty rain departed. The grass leaned further back, clothing settled, hair grew still. Another drop fell from Dochariel's sword, then one fell from Arganel's. Then, two drops fell from each point in unison. Arganel lunged and thrust his spear and Dochariel redirected the strike with the flat of his blade. The meeting of metal created a ringing that reverberated through the air. The Exarch sprang forward and slashed with his sword. But Arganel surged ahead as well, spinning and swinging the lance back towards Dochariel. It forced him to bring the sword up and defend. Again, the heads met and sang.
The two opponents backed away, creating distance between themselves, then rushed to close it. Aragnel planted the shaft of his lance into the soil and propelled himself forward, one leg raised. Dochariel rolled to avoid the kick and swung his sword backwards over his head. Leaning far back, the son of Saim-Hann tipped his spear back just in time to deflect it. Pirouetting, he faced the Exarch again and swept his lance back and forth just above the ground. Jumping back, Dochariel gave ground.
For a moment, he seemed perplexed and overwrought, aware that he could not get close enough. Each time he raised his sword, he was forced further backward. If he tried to go around Arganel's sweeping, the Striker simply widened his reach. Back and forth, the black and red blade glided, becoming a blur. Then, Dochariel jumped forward and brought his foot down.
The audience gasped as his boot landed on the flat of Aragnel's blade, bringing it to the ground. Then, with the poise of a Harlequin, he took another step on the shaft itself, and leaped towards Arganel. Dochariel tackled the Wild Rider to the ground and placed the edge of the blade to his throat. The jade earrings he wore fluttered and caught the fleeting sunlight so perfectly they created a sharp gleam of green that flowed over the eyes of the viewers.
As the two fighters caught their breath, they smiled. Dochariel stood, took Arganel by his arm, and pulled him to his feet. The Exarch planted his sword in the ground, placed a hand over the Striker's heart, and then covered his own with the other. His hands transitioned, bringing the one from Arganel to his own breast and carrying his other hand back to him. Arganel smiled, pressed his hand to his forehead, placed it over Dochariel's, then brought it back to his own.
"To control the battle is a true advantage, Maerys," said the Exarch, turning. "But to make your enemy believe he has it in his grip while you wait to execute your true move, that is the deciding factor in this fight. It is no mere feint, but a plan, crafted in seconds, and bought for by defense and speed. Truly, you are the one in control." He turned back to Arganel and touched him on the cheek. "Tell me, am I the first to beat you in a duel?" he asked, teasingly.
"Never would I expect an Exarch to be so jovial. Where does it come from, I wonder?" Arganel picked up his lance, wiped off the blade, then balanced it across his shoulders. "This was simply sparring."
"Sparring, he calls it!" exclaimed Kelriel. "Are you so concerned with losing face?"
She laughed, clearly pleased with herself as she rocked back and forth on the log beside Maerys. The princess tapped her shoulder jovially. "To study within one of the Aspect Shrines is to risk growing mighty serious. Life among the Wild Riders is loud and fast—to leave that for the temples is to enter a different world altogether. As a Howling Banshee, it was rare to hear a jest or witness a smile."
"Don't I know it," replied Maerys, politely. "It was difficult to speak to one another on equal terms. It was as if the screams we bellowed at our enemies deprived us of our true voices. I suppose it is a necessary sacrifice when it comes to the Path of the Warrior."
"You speak truly, Maerys of Yme-Loc," said Kelriel, putting her arm around her. Her dark green eyes grew sly and playful. "But I'll tell you this, Arganel was a quiet, sullen sort even before he joined the Shining Spears. To learn the true art of the Windrider is to open one's spirit. But him? No, no, he will keep his heart closed to the universe if he must!"
"I was a Striking Scorpion of the Shrine of the Melodious Ravager before joining the Storm of Clouds Shrine," said Aragnel, his voice even but his brow low in annoyance. "Both teach discipline, although it appears some do not learn the lessons." This made Kelriel snicker and wave him off. But the elder cousin turned back to Dochariel and smiled. "I have never lost a duel, although I have only fought one."
"That cannot be," said Meslith, sitting on Maerys' other side. Alimia sat at her feet, her head back and eyes closed as the Ulthwé Pathfinder weaved her long blonde locks into a series of strand-braids. "This one has told me that honor duels are as frequent as meal services on your craftworld. It seems as though honor must always be satisfied."
"Surely, our Shroud Runner has embellished to some degree," said Maerys, the corner of her lip tugging into a smile. "It appears the daughters of Saim-Hann enjoy lauding their customs."
"I did not say it was every day!" defended Alimia, holding up her hands. Meslith took her by her temples, shook her head slightly, and made her face forward again.
"Yes, you did!"
"There are times when there is little dispute between or within clans," said Kelriel. "On other occasions, such as festivals or summits with the other families, tempers may rise and words might be as sharp as a dagger. It is then that matters of pride and honor must be settled." She placed a hand on her chest, stood up, and planted a foot on the log. "I myself have fought in twelve duels and have succeeded in ten."
"As strange as the custom may sound," said Arganel, cautiously, "we still hold one another's souls dearly. Whomever draws first blood is the victor. Death is rare, even between clans."
"You must have earned your moniker by fighting the foes of Saim-Hann, then," said Maerys, rising and drawing her sword. She stood next to Dochariel, who pressed his shoulder to hers and adopted a guarded pose. As she mimicked him, she spoke over her shoulder. "Against whom?"
"Against me," answered Kaibrae, the Saim-Hann Vyper pilot. She stood with some of the other Wild Riders who had decided to watch. Stout and strong, she smiled viciously at Araganel. "When we were younger, I was very hot-tempered and I once criticized a decision made by Chief Oromas. Arganel challenged me to defend his uncle's honor but he decided to gain victory without drawing blood. He knew I spoke from youthfulness, not outright defiance. For three hours, he avoided my blade and attacked only with fists. Even though my skin was never opened, thus sparing me some humiliation, he was declared the victor. For such blows, we called him the Striker."
"I heard the true victor was decided later that night," taunted Kelriel. Many laughed, including Kaibrae, but Arganel blushed.
Still tittering, Dochariel demonstrated his rapid footwork, then pretended to advance on a foe, and slashed with his sword. When he finished, Maerys mirrored every act. As fast as she was, she felt sluggish by comparison. Even the smallest movement was effortless and precise. He flowed like water and struck like a gust of wind. Whatever true ability she had was gone. All that remained was vestigial and rudimentary.
"When one leaves the path, it is expected they do not remember the way," said Dochariel, walking back to her. "You are by no means inept with the sword, Maerys. It was a marvel to watch you fight before."
"It would be better to find him from afar and let the long rifle do the work," said Tirol. "No stranger am I to a blade but if I do not have to engage a foe with it, that is all the better. One clean shot through the head is enough." He then chuckled to himself, then tapped Amonthanil on the back of his head. "Or perhaps it would be better to shoot an ork through the chest. Not much up in their skull, is there?"
"But they haven't much of a heart either," replied the Starstrider, mustering only a slight chuckle. "I think of those small cages they placed our people and the humans in. The heavy irons around their ankles, the refuse they kept them in. However passionate the ork is for war, their cruelty is bottomless. Hack them apart, I say. It is a fitting end."
"Go-Klamma has evaded us and so has that rider, Skewer. Twice Nod-Slash has fought us and he has escaped on both occasions," said Maerys. She braced herself and exchanged a series of blows with Dochariel's sword. Her defense faltered, but did not break. "He knows how we rangers hunt and attack, now. Nod-Slash will not make himself an open target. Any being capable of such survival is to be treated with some wariness. "
She imagined the great green giant before her. Grisly, snarling, dwarfing her, cracking his whip at her as if she had become the slave. At that, she could see them, feel them around her. Pitiful humans and aeldari, shuffling, sliding, staggering under the weight of their chains. Beaten, tormented, starved, and devoured. How many had been lost before their arrival? How many died just before their liberation?
Maerys clenched her teeth and surged towards Dochariel. Their blades met many times and each blow was more ferocious than the last. So vigorously and savage were her attacks, she felt as though she had no control over her arms. Only when the Exarch caught her wrist and she found herself staring down the length of his sword did she realize her folly.
"A sword requires focus, not just force or energy," said Dochariel kindly. "Chain weapons require strength and savagery, the lance demands agility and precision, and the dagger thirsts for patience. Swords such as these must become a part of your mind, not your body. I look into your eyes Maerys and I see you searching. That is the marksman in you. It is good to find the energy within ourselves to hone our sight. But you can not remain there; grasp what you seek and return to the fight lest you squander it."
"Loose leaves may cause a fire to burn more ferociously than it needs," said Irlikae, opening a single eye as she meditated. "Such a flame can burn its creator as much as a foe. One must be cautious with their kindling."
"You would think me more patient after all these years of stalking and hiding," said Maerys, uncomfortably. "It has been so long since I have been in wars such as these. Lorn V and this conflict are strangers to me."
"Rangers we may be," started Kalvynn, "but the life of an Outcast is often one of passion. Without the path, control of the self is far more difficult. The Exodites make it look so simple, but toil is their true shaper." He stood up, drawing his own short sword. The lavender blade glistened in the rainwater. He approached Dochariel and extended his arm. The Exarch took it, laughed a little, then stood shoulder to shoulder with the Pathfinder of Varantha.
Maerys' eyes flitted between the two and breathed deeply. She refined the moment, honing in on them. The fog closed in, concealing the observers around her. Suddenly, it seemed familiar to her. Something cold and somber, yet it still brought her some comfort. On such a day, she departed Yme-Loc. Venturing from the dome that held her family's home, passing between the trees of the valley, there had been mist. She had been thankful for it, relieved that the familiar places she had grown up in were concealed. One glance and she might have decided to stay. Even hidden, they spoke to her, drew her back, nearly calling for her. But she had left, knowing she could not claim what she desired there.
She opened her eyes as Kalvynn rushed towards her. Maerys' first instinct was to retreat and gain ground to move. Instead, she darted forward, fast and low—she needed to defeat them together. She jammed the pommel of her sword into Kal's side, checking him. At the same time, she rose, catching Dochariel's downward slash with her blade. They did not pause; Maerys kicked at him and forced him to jump back. She swung her sword over her shoulder, knocking Kalvynn's sword back. Recovered, Dochariel poised to attack. Maerys read his movement; he bounced his feet, hunched his shoulders, and bared his teeth. He wished to come straight at her, treating his sword as a lance.
Kalvynn stirred behind her. He swept his sword high, almost at the same height of her neck. How fast he was! There would be no time for her to block now that she was poised to defend against Dochariel. Her old friend wanted to force her forward into his charge. But Maerys ducked, spun, extended her leg, and forced Kalvynn off his feet. As she stood back up, she caught his sword, crossed it with her own, and with growing momentum, slammed them down on top of Dochariel's incoming thrust. It drove the tip of his sword into the dirt. Before he extracted it, Maerys pressed the edge of her sword against his neck while she pointed Kalvynn's blade directly at his heart.
Nearly nose to nose with Dochariel, Maerys breathed and smiled. The Exarch's shock transitioned into delight. In turn, the Pathfinder handed him the swords, then hauled Kalvynn to his feet. She embraced him, and he her. "Well fought," he said.
"Even a honed blade requires further tempering," replied Maerys. She then smirked at Dochariel and confidently dusted off her shoulder. "Even if I am a sword of Yme-Loc, forged in Vaul's great crucible."
"A weapon with a fractured edge can still cut, and even if the point is severed, it may still pierce," said Araganel. He suddenly appeared somber. "There were rumors about you, Desrigale, about your captivity. Some thought your surrender to the humans made you weak, cowardly, and artless in your craft. I am sorry to say that I believed in them at one time."
Maerys remembered that snowy night, after the Cadians had cleared the village of the dreaded cultists. Part of her knew they were still there, lurking and hunting. Yet she had ambled back all the same, just to be sure of that boy, Galo. Although she had drawn blood against the Imperium before, it was the first time she had faced the warrior sons and daughters of Cadia. What a fight they gave her.
"I could not blame you for believing them," said Maerys as she adjusted her grip on the sword. Dochariel lifted his blade and demonstrated different guarding positions; some were familiar to her, others were foreign. "It is not easy to admit when you were bested."
"Least of all by humans," muttered Long Livae. The Fate Dealer laid across the top of another nearby log and rested one leg atop the other. As she bounced her foot, she smoked a long, ivory pipe. Tendrils of long, blue smoke rose from the bowl and filtered from her open mouth. Tilting her head back, she looked at Maerys, unimpressed. "If it were me, during my escape I would have killed my captors and returned to their camp to finish those who took me. You slayed no one."
"The Imperials took you and would have tortured you to death, and yet you endeavored to save their kind from the orks," said Aragnel. "How you did so eludes me."
"Even after you yourself committed to their liberation?" asked Maerys.
"Clan Bri-Seori has always stood for the freedom of aeldari in a galaxy that would wipe them out. We make enemies of orks and Drukhari for they would enslave those they would not slaughter. But I never thought to extend those beliefs to those who do not hark from the line of Asuyran. It has made me think a great deal."
"There is no great mystery to it," said Maerys. "It is the same reason why you chose not to draw blood from Kaibrae. It's the drive within Kalvynn, it's the spirit within Irlikae." She paused in her practice, rested the flat of her sword on her shoulder, and faced the Striker. Smiling kindly as another pocket opened over them, allowing brilliant sunlight to flood over the rangers and their compassion, she took him by his arm. "It is to think outside ourselves, to recognize there are core tenets we all share, despite different lives and different paths. To liberate those human slaves was to liberate ourselves from the traps we place ourselves in. The tenets we hold dear must be held for all. It is all empathy, even if they belong to one of our enemies."
Aragnel's gaze fell briefly, although he smiled softly. It was almost as if the warrior were self-conscious, just too shy to share any thought. Maerys felt the hesitance in him, the very same that radiated from him the night the council debated on Hoec's Perch. The Wild Rider looked up at her as the rainfall eased and the sun receded back into the fog.
"I thought I would grapple with some kind of shame," he said, "after we took the humans out of there. One of them placed a ruby spirit stone from Saim-Hann into my hands when we returned to our camps. He took me by the wrists and wept as he thanked me. To such emotions, I thought myself immune. But I stood him up and assured him all would be well. And there was no shame to be had, then. I feel no great victory, either, no great change, but some small satisfaction."
Maerys felt movement at the other side of the hill. For a time, she saw nothing in the banks of seething smoke. Then, from the mist appeared Chief Oromas, his crimson armor glistening like a garnet gemstone. His dark hair wreathed his face, accentuating the heaviness of his brow and the grim glare of his eye. At once, she felt a pulling, a calling to return. Sheathing her sword, he parted from Arganel and smiled.
"It begins there," she said to him, then she waved the other Pathfinders over. Dochariel, Aragnel, and Kelriel also assembled around the Autarch. The old warrior gazed at them sternly, then pointed to the south.
"It is time," he said. "Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass report another ork probe ventures forth. Fifty light and medium vehicles, doubly so in warbikes, and a dozen tanks. Clan Bri-Seori shall respond."
"As Irlikae and the seers saw," said Maerys. "We will ride you now. After the patrol is destroyed, the Band of Kurnous will go to the west."
Such had been seen many times in Irlikae's visions. The image of a fighter, striking at a dark foe. Although he hacked and slashed with a sword, sewn beneath his sleeve was a hidden dagger. In each battle, it was with this knife he felled the enemy. No further sign was needed. But then the wind blew and the fog thinned out. Rain fell anew, harder this time.
"Isha weeps hard," said Oromas, gazing upwards. "Yet in her pain she has provided a boon to us. Her agony is your veil."
"We will be like the mist itself," said Maerys. She turned to her Pathfinders and lifted her hand in an arc over her shoulder, as if reaching for her long rifle. They nodded and returned to their cohorts. All had kept their bundles close. Wordlessly, the Band of Kurnous arose. All had been prepared since the plan was approved by the council. They grabbed their bundles, stuffed with all the supplies they needed for the trek. Rangers needed little to disappear into a world's hinterland for long periods. Rationed pure water, preservable foods, medicine, a bedroll, and various survival tools. There was little space for mementos of a craftworld or for prizes that had been seized.
Lotien walked with Fyrdra at his arm. He carried Maerys' long rifle, Savior, with a priestly reverence. The bonesinger placed it into her hands, then drew from his satchel. The cracks in the visor were repaired and the blue lenses were as rich as gleaming sapphires. Maerys held his hands before she took the helmet, and Lotien bowed his head.
Dochariel armored himself and his fellow Swooping Hawks fell in with him. Instead of the typical sky-veil patterns they used to paint their armor, they instead adopted a dull gray. Already, they ventured in and out of the fog, becoming one with it. The Exarch pulled his hair back and caught Maerys' eye. He smiled warmly before he donned his curved helmet. Kelriel
The Rangers formed a line and trundled down the hill behind Maerys. Bands assembled behind their Pathfinders. No one spoke, yet there was not a resigned, deathly nature to their stoicism. Maerys felt each of their spirits as they drew near. There was determination there, but also a quiet excitement. It was the feeling that drew them out of their craftworlds decades and centuries ago. An urge to discover the unknown of the galaxy, to brave the perils and experience the beauties that it had to offer. This ranging was no different.
Down the hill, back through the valleys, past watchtowers, sentry temples, and grav-platform weaponry, the Band of Kurnous drifted into the main encampment. Seeing the various shrines and utilitarian structures crafted by the bonesingers reminded Maerys she had not been underneath a true rooftop since she meditated in the cavern at Hoec's Perch.
She noticed figures toiling in the field adjacent to the headquarters. Humans gathered chopped wood, tended campfires, and roasted meat over the flames. They had been given simple clothes to wear from Dryane's stores; his secret dealings with Imperial merchants had left him a healthy stock of their clothing. Aeldari raiments were too long and ill-fitting, and Maerys doubted they would have accepted such foreign garb.
It was good to see them in proper clothing instead of rags and chains. Emaciated though they were, they did not act haggard. Some of the women sang and a group of children laughed as they played a game of chase. Voidreavers assigned to protect them stood among their shelters. Although some appeared bored, a few watched the humans with curiosity. Maerys even spotted a man speaking to one of the guards.
Standing near the largest campfire was Vanna. Dryane had selected her to be the voice for the human contingent of freed slaves. Authority agreed with her, and she observed her compatriots with the vigilance of a doting mother. Maerys drifted to their camp and emerged in the orange aura of the fire. Vanna jumped in surprise, then smiled.
"Lady Maerys," she greeted and bowed her head.
"Your people look well," said Maerys, then added gravely, "as well as they can be."
"They are healing," said Vanna, tenderly. "Air tastes differently when the chains are on you. To breathe it now to drink a curative."
"There is no better remedy for the spirit," agreed Maerys. She adjusted her long rifle strap and glanced at the humans as they cooked their meals. "Is there anything you need? We depart in a few moments and I would know you are well before we do."
"Such xenos food is strange but it suffices," replied Vanna. "Your healers tend to us and we are guarded. It is enough." She gazed warily at one of the corsairs. "I pray we do not become captives once again."
"I swear to my gods that you will not become a slave again," promised Maerys. "None here will make you one. When our wars are finished here, you will be returned to the Imperium unharmed, no matter how difficult or dangerous such an endeavor may be."
It created a knot in Maerys' stomach. How she wished that these poor humans would not think of their saviors in such a way. But how could she be blamed for entertaining such fears? For all she knew, the aeldari were just as savage as the orks. What was one xenos next to another when the Imperium preached fear and hatred? Perhaps there was some credence; how times had the aeldari raided worlds and created conflicts in places where humans left them alone?
"Thank you," said Vanna. "I hear you tread closely to Ratta go-Klamma's domain. We were never brought there and I know not if you will find more of your kind or my own there. If you find any will you save them?"
"None shall be left in ork hands."
"That is good," said Vanna, mystically. "Nobody deserves such a fate. Not even xenos."
She bowed courteously; the human's face was grave but understanding. Maerys knew there was no comfort she could provide. Solemnly, she pulled away and rejoined the Band of Kurnous. The sooner the war ended, the better, and then these humans could go home.
The rangers and their comrades approached dozens upon dozens of Windrider hosts. Blazing red jetbikes hovered just above the ground, the golden glows of their hot engines emanating in the mirth. Saim-Hann Guardians in their crimson armor veiled themselves with helmets and cloaks bearing familial emblems. Many Wild Riders had attached flags bearing Craftworld Saim-Hann's worldrune, family crests, or bold displays of aeldari slaying monsters or daggers piercing orkish skulls. How ferocious and courageous they were. Maerys wished to have a fragment of their bravery.
Autarch Oromas approached his jetbike, surrounded by attendants, and then placed his helmet over his head. After bringing his fist against the side of his helm, he extended his arm to her.
"We shall not see you again for many days," he said. "But we are never truly far away. If you are in need of aid, call for us and we shall come."
"I am not worthy of such kindness, noble chieftain," said the Pathfinder as she put on her own helmet. She took his forearm and squeezed his vambrace.
"It is not kindness but fellowship. I've learned a great deal about it watching your band in its endeavors than I have from this damned council." He seated himself on his jetbike, activated it, and allowed it to rise in the air. "Come now, let's go ruin these bastard orks."
The chief moved to the head of the column as Maerys observed the Band of Kurnous. She observed rangers as they filled the compartments of Wave Serpents. Swooping Hawks ascended into the sky and disappeared into the clouds. One by one, the transports fell in line with a squadron of Vyper skimmers or lance-armed jetbikes. Another Vyper drew beside her and the pilot's hatch opened. Kelriel emerged and gestured to the empty gunner's seat.
"Ride with me, Maerys."
"Are such seats not occupied by one who is bound to the pilot?"
"It did not stop you from taking up the gun during our first offensive, did it?" Kelriel smirked confidently. "Nobody needs to be a seer to possess a mind with a strong link. Ride with me and let the orks feel our fury."
Maerys smiled, took her hand, and climbed onto the craft. She pressed the facial plate of her helmet against Kelriel's. This made the princess laugh boisterously. "Let's kill them all." The Pathfinder strapped herself into the gunner's seat and armed the starcannon. The massive laser weapon hummed and glowed with energy.
Oromas maneuvered his jetbike to the front of the host, nearly five hundred strong, and lifted his lance. The Wild Riders bellowed, whooped, and waved their own weapons over their heads. The chieftain and his nephew led the way. One squadron followed, then the next, and the third.
Maerys was in the fifth formation. Just as the fourth sped forward, a green and white jetbike surged in front of them. The rider whirled his vehicle around the Vyper and drew alongside. She recognized the white gems of Celasho's rune armor.
"What brings the Singer to us this day?" asked Maerys.
"In mist without sunlight rays, my blade has known only rain these past days. It is time it is soaked in ork blood once more and so redden this vile mud."
There was a firmness in his voice that felt earnest. But he was not a seer like Irlikae. She was too fond of people and the art of conversation to scry their minds. Celasho would not hesitate to intrude within her innermost sanctum. Common thought it was for aeldari to whisper through one another's senses, Maerys had never grown accustomed to it. She remembered how deeply he struck into her before. Someone like him who would so readily invade her being was not to be trusted.
She was sure at that very moment he was aware of her every thought. That was good. Maerys wanted him to know he did not have her belief nor her trust. Celasho unsheathed his witchblade and gestured to the west. "I will fight with ye, and accompany this ranging to the west. I will see this war from your eyes, then."
"I will never understand these seers," grumbled Kelriel as the warlock drew ahead of them. Their squadron picked up speed and followed the rest of the host.
"They speak a language neither you or I could truly comprehend unless we traveled down their path."
"Then it shall ever remain a cipher to me."
"It appears the Freeshield daughter has willfully chosen ignorance!" teased Maerys.
Kelriel's laughter was drowned out by the roar of hundreds of engines. As they drew past the hills and ridges into the open southern plains, they increased speed. The world became a dull gray blur. Raindrops slid down Maerys' visor. White side lights left streaks in the haze. Engines rippled and flickered within the receding fog. At times, the host shot through pockets in the fog banks. In these flashes, Maerys witnessed the red streaks of the Windriders. Wild Riders hunched over their controls as they prowled forward.
The princess guided the Vyper left, right, and over rocks and thickets. Other craft appeared, disappeared, and reappeared around them. Suddenly, the world shook as towering black legs emerged in the fog. As if casting the mist away, the Revenant titans appeared. They moved at a tremendous sprint, surging among the host. Jetbikes parted to allow Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass to take the lead.
Headlights emerged in the distance. First a few pairs, then dozens, and then dozens more. There were flashes and sparks of flames as engines backfired and roared. Flickering lights appeared around them. Over the scream of the engines and the howl of the wind, Maerys could not hear them, but she knew these were the ork riders firing their weapons in glee. Like so many shooting stars, red tracers raced from the fog. Bullets ripped past her head and glanced off her armor.
The entire host abandoned the column formation and drew abreast of one another in a series of wedges. Maerys' squadron drifted to the right flank, in between the fourth and sixth. All three fell in with the Revenant titans' right. Again, they were barraged with suppressing fire from the rapidly approaching orks.
Missiles rippled from the titans' launchers and smashed into the ork advance. Fireballs and explosions lit up the mist. Amid crashing hulks emerged an ork tank, its turret struggling to keep a target. Maerys shifted the turret, centered the vehicle in her sights, then squeezed the triggers. A massive, white lasbolt sliced through the tank. It was as if a knife had cut it, and the turret and upper armor slid away.
She shifted the cannon again and fired directly into the face of a wartruck. So thin was its metal plating that the blast went through the cab and out its back without causing an explosion. Yet, the truck shambled to a stop and proceeded to fall apart. As they passed it, the driver opened the door; his bottom half was gone. A slurry of bone, flesh, and blood flowed out from the cab.
Rounds struck Maerys' mesh armor and nearly forced her out of the turret. Panting, she turned around. A gun-wagon skidded around after them instead of continuing the joust. Multiple orks rode in the traded carriage, howling as they unleashed a high-caliber fusillade. It was much faster than the tank or truck. She narrowed her vision, drowning out the blur of other vehicles and arcs of fire. Not even the speed of the Vyper disturbed her then. Carefully, she led the target. The first shot missed! She led it again, farther this time. Another shot missed, took off the roof of the driver's cabin. Again, she trained her sights ahead of it and squeezed the trigger. The great lasbolt slammed into the side of the gun wagon and flipped it over itself several times. Orks spilled from the interior, broke upon the ground or were crushed by dismantled armor plates.
Kelriel fired the twin-linked shurikens mounted on the bow. Ork infantry were torn apart or run down by the Windriders. Swooping Hawks descended from above, diving right into the monsters with swords and daggers. Lances of energy soared from the fog banks above them; it was as if hundreds of vengeful spirits had descended from the heavens to wreck havoc on the wretches. Shurikens hissed through the air and from all directions. Their enemies shot and drove wildly—they grew so disorientated they fired into one another's vehicles. Jetbikes cut across their bows and lances broke through the primitive engines of the green ilk. Buggies were overturned from such impacts or simply fell to pieces.
"I can feel them drifting!" cried Kelriel. "There is a whirlwind upon us!"
She banked the craft and plunged ahead with a formation of other Vypers. Hundreds of enemy wartrikes and bikes, armed with flamers, autocannons, and heavy machine guns stormed towards the aeldari flank.
"We must hold them lest they roll up our line!" shouted Maerys. She felt the heat of Kelriel's spirit through their link and channeled it to her arms. As they charged the formation, Maerys gunned down the largest mounts, splitting them apart. Shurikens slashed the bikers from their mounts or reduced their vehicles to metallic chunks and ribbons. She cut a hole in their formation, drove through the center, and smashed her way through the other side. The other Vypers did the same; missile launchers and shuriken cannons decimated the remnants.
They turned and ripped through the force a second time, then repeated the maneuver again. The field was strewn with burning wrecks and corpses. None had survived. The sounds of battle behind them continued, so the Vypers slowed and began to turn back. One of the other Vypers drew ahead, ready to lead them on. But Maerys' heart suddenly seized. She felt the fog's ebb as it returned, felt a fury that rose from the carnage all around them.
A giant wartrike vomited forth from the fog bank beside them. It was the Skewer! He smashed into the side of the Vyper; the enormous front wheel crushed the driver while the red-painted ork cleaved the head of the gunner off with his ax. More ork riders followed and swarmed around the Vypers. But Kelriel and Maerys stayed with the Skewer. He piloted his trike with unimaginable grace and speed. Neither pilot nor gunner could train their sights on him long enough to gain the kill-shot.
"I'll bring you alongside!" shouted Kelriel. She boosted their speed and shot alongside the trike. Maerys turned the turret to fire but the Skewer slammed the blade, armored wheels of his craft against their own.
"It'll take more den dat! I ain't eva' lost a race an' I ain't about ter lost one now!" he shouted. He drew his pistol and fired at Kelriel's cockpit, riddled the fuselage, and then took a few shots at Maerys. When the magazine was empty, he whipped at her and she was forced to duck. Maerys recovered and shifted the starcannon back towards the ork rider. Just as she did, he lobbed a grenade at them. It exploded beside them, causing the Vyper to veer away. Shrapnel slashed Maerys' mesh armor and cut through her coat. The impact left her dizzy and she held onto the turret for balance. She regained the controls as Kelriel guided them back towards their opponent, but the starcannon's barrel was destroyed.
Suddenly, Maerys was bathed in golden sunlight. The fog lifted just as quickly as it came. The crumpled forms of dead Biel-Tan warriors flashed through her mind, followed by the collapsing mourners over their bodies. She saw Machthorn and Vanna in chains and the slave pits filled with bodies. Then, she thought of raindrops sliding down the edge of swords and flecking from the metal as they sang. She saw the Removing herself from the gunner's seat, she held onto the barrel with one hand. Skewer held up his ax and drew closer. He reared his arm back, ready to swipe at Maerys. She was exposed, unable to reach for her long rifle or pistol. Closer and closer he came, grinning.
Maerys drew her sapphire sword and leaped at the wartrike. As she soared through the air, she swept the blade at Skewer as he reached up with his ax. The tip scratched against her chestplate, but her sword cut through the thick muscle and sinew of his arm.
She rolled onto the ground. Kelriel's Vyper pulled away while Skewer's wartrike kept going. It disappeared into a thin fog bank, then its headlight wove back towards her. Maerys drew breath, guarded with her sword, activated its shimmering power cell, and emptied the world around her. There was only grass, mist, and the ork. Roaring out of the cloud, Skewer aimed the extended, armored prow right at her. It hurled towards her, a knife's edge of red and gray. The howling ork took up a gnarled shortsword, and forced the hilt into the exposed flesh of his arm. He leaned out of the cockpit and leveled the blade. The prow loomed larger, the headlight nearly blinded her, and the skull-shaped guards threatened to run her through.
Maerys darted out, then slid under Skewer's blade. In the same instant, she cleaved through the side of the wartrike with her sword all the way to the engine. The monstrosity spluttered and broke apart, ejecting its driver onto the ground. Walking briskly, illuminated from above by the sunlight and the ambiance of burning debris, Maerys stood over the bleeding, broken ork. She held her sword over his head, allowing a raindrop to fall from its point.
"I will spare no words for you, monster," she growled, and let the blade fall.