01 - Path of the Warrior Read online

  “I have no doubt that your methods have been successful in bringing many on to the path of the Striking Scorpion, exarch,” Korlandril said quietly, barely moving his lips for fear of upsetting his delicate state of balance. “Yet I have not yet seen a weapon nor a scrap of armour. I am quite sure I have no idea how this teaches me how to control my anger.”

  “Are you angry now, my young warrior-to-be, standing in the mud?” the exarch replied, his voice a slight relief to Korlandril who thought that perhaps he had been left alone as some kind of mockery. “Are you frustrated, to be treated in this way, dirty and downcast?”

  Korlandril thought about this for a moment and realised that he wasn’t angry, nor was he particularly frustrated; not in the same way that thoughts of Aradryan and Thirianna frustrated him. If anything, he was bored. The physical exertion was considerable—a reminder that even the eldar body had its limits of endurance, speed and strength—but the mental occupation was non-existent. Kenainath had forbidden his student from entering a memedream or any other distraction, insisting that Korlandril be fully attentive to every part of his body and surroundings.

  “You wish to have peace, to escape the rage and hate, yet also crave it,” said Kenainath, without waiting for an answer from Korlandril. “You must learn two ways, the paths to both war and peace, in equal measure. That which we unleash, the face of battle we wear, is as a war-mask. You must put it on, within your spirit alone, and then take it off. Peace must be the goal, war helps us achieve this peace, and then balance comes. It must be a choice, shunning war and death and blood, choosing life and hope. You must make that choice, in every part of life, so that you are free. War is a not a state, it is an absence of peace, a passing nightmare. We awake from it, not remembering its curse, divorced from its taint. We must become death, to protect and to survive, but do not love death.”

  Korlandril allowed the words to resonate through his thoughts, glad of something to occupy himself. Something occurred to him, a question, but he was hesitant to ask. The exarch must have sensed something of Korlandril’s unease.

  “We are here for truth, to find the answer you seek, no question is wrong.”

  “You speak of peace, yet you are an exarch. What can you know of peace, who cannot leave Khaine’s embrace?”

  There was a slight creak and a subtle swish of leaves as Kenainath shifted his weight on the branch above. Korlandril wondered if his question had been inappropriate.

  “Freedom is not mine, to wander from this temple, out with the others,” the exarch said quietly. “You do not see me, singing and dancing outside, writing poetry. I stay in this shrine, where my curse cannot harm you, forever trapped here. Though I wear no paint, my war-mask remains inside, clouding all my thoughts. Had you angered me, that first day you came to me, I might have killed you. Even now I hate, filled with my anger always, but I do not strike. It is not madness, not uncontrollable ire, which my war-mask brings. It is an urging, to release what is inside, fighting to get out. I struggle with it, but I am its true master, exerting my will. It is no frenzy, no bloodlust that would swamp me, but a perspective. I see things unseen, pain and misery beneath, which others hide from. It is my duty, the covenant of exarchs, to prepare your mind. You will see horror, witness death and agony, and must confront it. This is my calling, to lead you on that dark path, where others recoil.”

  Korlandril’s limbs were trembling from fatigue and he fought to remain balanced. The thought of falling into the mud, humiliated in front of Kenainath, stiffened his resolve and he dug deeper into his spirit for strength.

  “It is very good, my young but keen disciple, that you do not fall. Look into yourself, tell me what it is you see, what you used to see.”

  Korlandril sifted his thoughts, parting a section of his consciousness to keep himself balanced while he danced through his mind. He set aside the physical discomfort and examined his emotional state. He was calm. He hadn’t been this calm since…

  As soon as Korlandril’s thoughts turned to Thirianna, the serpent of jealousy reared, spitting and hissing. For an instant Korlandril’s whole body was on fire. Every nerve tingled with vibrant life. He saw the colours of the swamp with a clarity he had not witnessed even as an Artist. Every ripple shone in his mind; every chirrup, scratch and burr of insect sounded distinct in his ears. The faintest breeze on his flesh, the feel of the mud between his toes and the coolness of the water on his skin. His waystone was like a white-hot coal over his heart. Everything stood out in sharp contrast and for that moment Korlandril felt an urge to destroy it all. The need to wreak havoc, shed blood, take life, was overwhelming. He could not take another breath without striking out.

  He fell splashing into the muddy pool, his loss of balance so unexpected that he landed face first, unable to break his fall. Spluttering, he rose from the murk, filth dripping from hair, brow and chin.

  “A trick?” he snarled, whirling around, still awash with after-eddies from the wave of perfect anger that had swept across him.

  The exarch was no longer on the branch. Korlandril cast around for a sign of him but saw nothing, heard nothing. But he could sense the exarch’s presence close at hand, subtly mingled with the essence of the swamp. With a shock, Korlandril realised how attuned he had become to his surroundings, unconsciously absorbing its presence, analysing every smell and sound and sight without effort. There was the slightest of disturbances to his left and he turned sharply.

  There was nothing; no movement, not even a flicker of shadow.

  “Where is your anger, where is the rage from within, which you felt just now?” Kenainath’s voice was a distant, echoing whisper, seeming to come from every direction and none, like several voices speaking at once. Korlandril calmed, every fibre relaxing, even his heart quietening as he made himself silent in an effort to attain the sensory state he had briefly achieved.

  “It was your anger, bringing heightened awareness, which you felt just now. Our hate is our strength, not some weakness to be purged, if we use it well.”

  Korlandril understood the exarch and tried to bring back the moment of pure rage he had experienced after falling, but all he felt was frustration.

  “Do not have outbursts, letting your anger fly wild, an unfettered beast. You must learn control, to strike like the scorpion, not the fire dragon. When you can do that, when your anger serves your will, you have your war-mask.”

  Slowly, cycle-by-cycle, Korlandril exerted ever greater control over his mind and body. The two became as one; the physical effort of maintaining the strenuous Striking Scorpion fighting poses narrowed his focus, concentrating his thoughts to a single point. Whenever he deviated from the routines set for him by Kenainath, Korlandril struggled and lost his balance, physically and mentally.

  For all that he understood Kenainath’s teachings, Korlandril became ever more frustrated by his inability to unleash that moment of primal rage he had felt earlier. He feared that all he was doing was suppressing further and further the anger that had first propelled him towards the shrine.

  For forty cycles Kenainath kept Korlandril apart from the other Striking Scorpions, training him alone within the gloom of the shrine and its dismal surrounds. Korlandril longed to see the rest of Alaitoc again. Though it pained him every time he thought of Thirianna, he could not suppress his curiosity and longed to know how she fared. Had she started upon the Path of the Seer? Did she even know what had become of him? How did she feel about her part in his decision to take the Path of Khaine?

  As the first glimmer of the forty-first cycle crept through the narrow windows of the upper levels of the shrine, Kenainath appeared as usual. The exarch was clad in his dark green robe, sleeveless, open at the front, a deep yellow bodysuit beneath, his dark red waystone fixed to the centre of his chest. Korlandril looked at the oval of the waystone, noticing the shimmering of its colour, a flickering in its depths as of many lights far away.

  “It is time again, to learn the Falling Storm pose, come outside with
me,” said Kenainath.

  “No.” Korlandril crossed his arms, legs braced apart. “I do not want to train today. I’m sick of this gloomy swamp. I want to see Thirianna.”

  Moving so swiftly that Korlandril barely saw him, Kenainath stepped forward and flicked a hand towards Korlandril’s ear. The blow was light enough, but stung quickly. Korlandril lunged, aiming the tips of his fingers knife-like towards the exarch’s throat, finishing in the stance known as Sting From Shadow. Kenainath swayed away and retreated with several quick steps.

  “It will not be safe, you cannot yet control the hate, and could blindly strike out.”

  Korlandril shuddered with the shock of realisation. He had tried to harm Kenainath. He had wanted to cause him injury. Even kill him. He had acted without conscious thought, but he could feel the desire to inflict hurt that had driven the reflex. If he had done such a thing to anyone but another warrior, he would have murdered them.

  “Now you understand, that which we are creating, safe here in the shrine,” Kenainath said softly.

  “Why would you do this to me?” demanded Korlandril. “Why turn me into this before I can control it?”

  “This is your war-mask, expanding from within you, consuming your mind.” The exarch’s tone was unforgiving, with no hint of shame or comfort. “It is for battle, where you cannot hesitate, but act or react. Do not be worried, you will learn to remove the mask, I will teach you how.”

  “You have done this to trap me here, because you cannot leave,” said Korlandril.

  “Until you wear it, you cannot remove the mask, it is still hidden. In time you will learn, be free of the mask’s control, and then you can leave.” There was no sympathy in Kenainath’s voice, but his determined tone eased Korlandril’s fears a little. “Now you have a goal, to leave behind your war-mask, to gain your freedom.”

  Korlandril did not know whether it was the mental forces being unleashed by the exarch’s training, or the exarch himself, but he despised Kenainath even more. He allowed his anger to simmer inside as he followed the exarch out into the swamp once again. The prospect of finishing his training seemed a distant dream. Yet the exarch’s words had struck a chord. If Korlandril truly wanted to be free of this place, he had to rid himself of the cause for his being here—his anger. Kenainath’s methods seemed counterproductive, but he had trained many Striking Scorpions and Korlandril had to put his trust in that.

  Resigned more than hopeful, Korlandril trailed after Kenainath into the gloom.

  “Peace is as it is, unwavering and endless, a constant of life.” The exarch’s words were hushed. “Anger is fleeting, a momentary relapse, when will slips away.”

  Korlandril barely heard Kenainath, a whisper on the edge of consciousness. He stood upon a branch of a stooping tree, a greenish pool below him mottled with leaves and algae. A moment’s loss of concentration and he would fall into the water.

  “The Whisper of Death, and then into Surging Wave, end with Rising Claw,” instructed Kenainath.

  Korlandril shifted position with controlled slowness, bending almost double while he eased his left foot forward yet kept his weight on his back leg, left arm raised above his head, right arm crooked by his side. Taking a pace forward, he shifted his balance, thrusting forward with his right arm, sweeping outwards with the left hand. To finish, he straightened, left arm curving up in front of him, right arm held back.

  The exarch continued and Korlandril obeyed, moving forwards and backwards along the branch as dictated by Kenainath, making mock strikes and defences as he did so. The motions were effortless, remembered by instinct rather than conscious thought. Korlandril moved gracefully through all twenty-seven basic poses. The branch buckled and swayed beneath him, but his balance remained perfect.

  Even as his body moved, Korlandril’s mind was still. Seventy cycles now had passed and Korlandril could barely recall his life before coming to the shrine. He knew there were memories inside somewhere, but no longer knew where to look for them. He was little more than a physical vessel moving along a branch, waiting to be filled by something else.

  When the exercise was complete, Kenainath signalled for Korlandril to follow him. Korlandril hid his surprise as he leapt lithely down to the path beside the pool. It was early yet in the cycle and it was unexpected to take a break so early.

  Kenainath offered no explanation as he turned back up the creeper-crossed path and headed towards the shrine. Korlandril followed close behind, intrigued by this change of routine. The pair plunged into the cool shadows of the temple and then took a turn to the left, down a passage Korlandril had never trod before. It brought them into a long gallery, high and narrow. Along each wall stood five suits of aspect armour, fashioned from many overlapping plates of deep green edged with gold, the red lenses of the helmets dull and lifeless.

  Beside four of the suits stood the other warriors of the shrine.

  Korlandril recognised Elissanadrin and she smiled in reply to his quizzical glance. The others he had seen around the craftworld, but did not know their names.

  “Now to make your choice, to meet your companions, Striking Scorpion,” Kenainath intoned solemnly, taking his place at the far end of the gallery in front of the much heavier exarch armour he had been wearing when Korlandril had first arrived.

  Korlandril looked around, wondering which suit to pick. At first they seemed identical, but there were subtle differences; in the placement of gems, the hang of the hair-like sensory antenna-crests of the helmets, the brightly coloured ribbons tied about the armoured limbs.

  His first instinct was to stand beside Elissanadrin, seeking the familiar, but he dismissed the urge. It was change and renewal that he needed, not the comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, Korlandril thought he saw a momentary glitter in the eyes of one suit. He turned towards it. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others, but something about it tugged at Korlandril.

  “This one,” he said, striding towards the armour. He stood beside it and turned to face the exarch.

  “That is a wise choice, a noble suit you have picked, which has served us well,” said Kenainath. “You are now ready, in body if not in mind, to don your armour.”

  A thrill of elation shivered through Korlandril. For the first time since coming to the shrine he sensed a moment of achievement. He had been dimly aware of the progress he had been making, so subtle had been the changes wrought in him by Kenainath. Now that he was stood beside his armour, Korlandril looked on what had passed with fresh eyes. Just as he had learned to control the ghost stone as a sculptor, now he controlled every muscle and fibre of his body. It was an instrument wholly subservient to his will and whim.

  The donning of his armour was not as straightforward as Korlandril had imagined it might be. Just as with the fighting poses, every stage of armouring was precise, each stance and movement strictly defined by Kenainath. With each stage came a mantra from the exarch, which resounded in Korlandril’s mind as the Striking Scorpions repeated the words.

  First he stripped naked, casting his robe aside as if throwing away a part of himself. He took his waystone on its silver chain and placed it carefully in a niche in the wall. He felt a quiver of fear at being separated from his spirit-saviour. It was perhaps his imagining, but Korlandril felt a moment of scrutiny, as if detecting eyes suddenly upon him, regarding him from a great distance. He dismissed his unease, knowing that nothing could befall him in the shrine.

  “The peace is broken, harmony falls to discord, only war remains.”

  Korlandril followed the lead of the others, taking the bodysuit that was folded on a small ledge behind the armour.

  “Now we clothe ourselves, with bloody Khaine’s own raiment, as a warrior.”

  Korlandril stepped into the legs of the bodysuit. It was large and sagged on his limbs and gathered in unsightly bulges between his legs and under his arms, its fingertips dangling uselessly.

  “In Khaine’s iron skin, we clad ourselves for battle, while fire
burns within.”

  Korlandril’s heart quickened. In his gut, the serpent of his anger stretched slowly. He placed his palms together in front of his face, copying the movements of the other Aspect Warriors. In response, the body suit tightened. As the fabric of the suit shrank against his taut muscles, dormant pads began to thicken, forming rigid areas across his chest and stomach and along the bulge of his thighs, stiffening along his spine.

  “The spirit of Khaine, from which we draw our resolve, strengthens within us.”

  Korlandril kept his eye on Elissanadrin, following her motions. Reaching behind the armour, he undid the fastenings along its back, letting the lower portion of the torso fall free in his hands. Wrapping it about his stomach and lower back, his nimble fingers worked the fastenings back into place. Its stiff presence around his midsection was reassuring, supporting his back, squeezing against his sides in a firm embrace.

  “War comes upon us, we must bear its dark burden, upon our shoulders.”

  Following the lead of the others, Korlandril undid the clasps fixing the upper part of the armour to its stand. He lifted it above his head, solid but not heavy. With careful movements he lowered it onto his shoulders. The plates gripped the surface of the undersuit, extending down his upper arms; the rounded bulge of the power generator slipped easily across his shoulder blades. As before, he returned to a stance of repose and the suit shifted slightly with a life of its own, adjusting itself to his body. When it had stopped moving, he tightened the clasps, fixing the armour in place. He felt top-heavy and adjusted his back to stand straighter.

  A moment of fear made Korlandril tremble as the bodysuit extended up towards his face, enclosing his throat and neck, the touch of rippling ridges insistent but gentle. The moment passed as soon as it stopped just below his chin. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

  “We stand before Khaine, unyielding in our calling, free of doubt and fear.”