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Fireheart – Gav Thorpe

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Fireheart

Gav Thorpe

The Clan Council took place amongst the inverted forest of the Sighing Winds Dome. Extruded from the underside of Saim Hann Craftworld, the habitat was named well, for its hundreds of ancient trees grew downwards towards the glimmer of stars below from the fertile substrate of the craftworld’s foundation, while a constant breeze stirred the dark blue needle-leaves of the Skypines, white-blossomed Snowgiants and grey-barked Silver Queens. Every hillock and vale had its own voice, so that as the semi-random gusts flowed across the dome a chorus of tree-song filled the air. The Saim Hann eldar could navigate from one side to the other by sound alone, and indeed one of the greatest festivals of the Saim Hann calendar was the Race of the Night-shrouded in which blindfolded competitors sped upon their jetbikes along a treacherously winding course.

That cycle’s activity was more sedate though no less devoid of motion. Among the spreading branches floated elegant rafts upon which the delegations of the Clan Council assembled, each clan to its own platform. They drifted slowly among the upside-down boles, the root-scrawled ground seemingly above them, an endless gulf of stars below. Gaily coloured gonfalons and pennants fluttered around the rim of each cloud-barque, bearing the runes and motifs of the clan and the individual members of its entourage. The attendees were as brightly turned out as the anti-grav platforms, displaying all the finery of their position like extravagant show birds trying to attract their mates.

Allies gathered closer together where they could converse without need for artificial amplification, forming an instantly recognisable picture of changing allegiances, factions and sentiment. Ribbon-tailed messenger doves flitted from one platform to another to take greetings, promises and reminders of past oaths between attending parties further afield. It was not simply tradition that necessitated the use of such antiquated means of communication; the location of the dome placed it on the periphery of Saim Hann’s infinity circuit. With only the most residual background psychic activity to link them, the council members were required to use eloquence and presence to make their arguments rather than relying on the shared-mind empathy of the craftworld’s crystalline nervous system.

It was also, very deliberately, a means to curtail the influence of the seers, who were only one of the many factions represented at the Clan Council. Here their voice was no greater than any other – and in the regard of many present, somewhat less important, judging by the dearth of other cloud-rafts in their vicinity.

At the centre of the drifting constellation of delegates, one eldar stood alone upon an unadorned platform. The Saim Hann were noted among others of the Asuryani for their extravagance, but in the manner of her garb the visitor being scrutinised by the clan chiefs outdid all others present. Alone of those in the dome, Druthkhala Shadowspite was unarmed – the chieftains and their aids all proudly bore heirloom weapons even though some had not seen battle for a generation and more. Even so, her warrior nature was evident from the bladed, serrated armour she wore. It was of Commorraghan craft, the highly decorative pieces laced together with threads of alien sinew, the plates themselves covered in dark red lacquer shaped to accentuate her lean body as much as to protect her vital organs.

Much of her flesh was visible but the pale skin itself was obscured by bright tattoos that covered her arms, thighs and midriff, composed of hundreds of tiny vignettes of bloodshed – decapitations and eviscerations contorted as she bent a tautly muscled arm, while graphic depictions of even more brutal murders stretched across her stomach when she drew herself up to her full height. Her hair was the equal of any banner on display, a heaping crest of red and black that cascaded in complex braids almost to her ankles. Her face had not been spared ornamentation, marked by scarlet ink with an arachnid design across her cheeks and brow, her features bounded by a tiara of alternating spikes and skull-shaped gems.

Also uniquely she bore no spirit stone, for she had been raised among the drukhari of Commorragh, though of late the former Bloodbride’s mistress passed by another name – Yvraine of the Ynnari. Enmity between Saim Hann and the Dark City had existed for generations, but it was her role as herald for the Emissary of Ynnead that earned Druthkhala the antipathy of her current audience.

‘This world – Agarimethea – is of no value to Saim Hann,’ said one of the chieftains, Loirasai Bluewoven. With fists on hips, she turned her head left and right to address her words to the cluster of eldar about her, seeking to impress her view upon her ad-hoc coalition. ‘It is a maiden world, home to great beasts and verdant forest and little else. Not even the Exodites laid claim to it, and the Bluewoven clan have no desire to become colonists, and even less to be errand-runners for the Ynnari.’

‘If Yvraine so desires to know whether Agarimethea hides secrets from the Age of the Dominion we are happy for her to pass there herself,’ added Celidhi of the Mistwearers. He flourished an open palm towards Druthkhala as though offering a gift. ‘I am sure we can all agree that Saim Hann will hold no claim to this world.’

Druthkhala suppressed a sigh at the posturing of the clan leaders. Few had been more surprised than she when Yvraine had named her as a messenger for the Ynnari, but the Opener of the Seventh Way had acted out of keen insight and Druthkhala’s malicious patience in the Crucibael arena had indeed become a valuable diplomatic skill. While retaining a dispassionate air, in thought she painted gory pictures of the clan leaders dying at her hand as they continued to debate amongst themselves, a distraction from the meandering discussion. She caught a mention of her name and returned her attention to the council, reviewing the last few moments from her subconscious memory.

‘We know from others that an Exodite ship was bound for Agarimethea,’ Druthkhala told them. ‘It is very likely it arrived.’

‘There are no Exodites on Agarimethea,’ said Cuithella Frostwave.

‘Precisely,’ replied the Ynnari messenger, imagining Cuithella’s features contorting in shock as her lungs filled with blood. ‘The Exodite vessel might be there still. Or there are other secrets of the aeldari that have lain hidden by the forests since the demise of our civilisation. The Ynnari are embroiled fighting for our fate in several wars at present and call upon our friends in the craftworlds to assist us in the continuing hunt for the croneswords of Morai-Heg.’

‘And here you will find no favour, mistress of the dead,’ said Celidhi. ‘Your dread prophecies fall unheeded like the leaves of the deep forest. None here wish to usher in the doom of our people with the rise of Ynnead.’

‘Take care that you speak only for yourself, Mistwearer!’

A blur of red through the inverted canopy announced the arrival of a Vyper, its pilot deftly steering between the branches and boles while a passenger swayed and swung from a fighting platform at the back where usually a heavy weapon was mounted. The long carapace of the newcomer’s machine was adorned with a large rune of the World Serpent, the sigil of Saim Hann itself, a sparkling emerald for its eye. Black-and-scarlet pennons flew from the rail of the fighting platform, matching the flamboyantly styled armour of its rider and the streamers of the long-bladed lance he held. His helm was hung upon his belt, leaving bare the laughing face of a pale-maned lord, braids tied into the flowing locks with cords of more red and black.

‘Nuadhu!’ Celidhi and the others turned in the direction of the newcomer, some with smiles, others with frowns. The Vyper circled the gathering at speed, the wind of its passage fluttering clan pennants and delicately arranged hairstyles.

‘You do not speak for Clan Fireheart,’ declared Ameridath Frostwind. ‘You have no place at this council until you succeed your father.’

The Vyper slid to a halt between the Frostwind cloud-barque and Druthkhala, Nuadhu Fireheart’s expression hostile as he turned on Ameridath.

‘As well you know, coldheart, my father lies upon the brink of his ending and cannot answer any summons to council.’

‘A chieftain that cannot lead is no chieftain,’ Ameridath replied haughtily. ‘If you had any honour you would relieve Naiall of his duties as leader of your clan.’

‘The usurpation would break his heart and I do not wish him soon dead like some,’ snarled Nuadhu. His gaze moved to Druthkhala. Startling eyes that matched the green of his Vyper’s jewel and the spirit stone upon his chest fixed upon her. The Fireheart opened his mouth and then shut it without a word, eyes roaming up and down Druthkhala.

‘Have you something to say, lordling?’ said Druthkhala.

‘I do.’ He brandished his spear, its pennons caressing the plates of his armour. ‘I will lead an expedition to Agarimethea to seek the treasures of the dominion-now-lost.’ He stared at her unabashed for several heartbeats and then blinked self-consciously. ‘I assume you will accompany us.’

‘Clan Fireheart will support the Ynnari?’ The slightest of smiles passed across Druthkhala’s lips at the thought.

Nuadhu’s confident facade cracked slightly and he looked away for an instant. ‘Mostly.’

Her eyes narrowed but she nodded her acceptance even as the other clan leaders gave voice to their dissent.

Letting free a shout of exhilaration, Nuadhu slapped a hand to the shoulder of his pilot, B’sainnad, as the pair raced through the burgeoning maw of the webway delving. The swirl of an opening released them above the immense trees of Agarimethea’s world-forest, the virgin expanse spread without interruption to the horizon. The sky was a crystal-clear azure, the only clouds streaming like pennants from the mountain peaks in the distance. Nuadhu had never tasted air so clear nor seen a sight so pristine. He urged B’sainnad on, his thoughts mingling with his pilot’s over the spirit connection of the Vyper. Sharing the same desire, B’sainnad guided them down, swooping towards the verdant canopy.

After them came a trio of jetbikes. The first was ridden by Alyasa, windweaver of the Firehearts. It had been his psychic mastery that had forged the webway branch from the starship in orbit. A moment later Caelledhin Icewhisper punched through the veil between the real and unreal, the pale blue of her armour starkly different to the scarlet of her companions. At her shoulder rode Druthkhala Shadowspite, mounted not upon a craftworld jetbike but the serrated, bladed skimmer of a Commorraghan reaver; a thorn of dark blue contrasted with the Saim Hann machines that followed, jetbikes and Vypers spilling from the void-path like blood in the wake of a shark.

A delighted laugh escaped Yvraine’s herald as she accelerated alongside Nuadhu.

‘Is there anything better than a swift steed and an open sky?’ said the heir to the Firehearts.

‘The touch of blade on flesh and dance of blood on the air,’ Druthkhala replied with a savage grin. Nuadhu fixed his smile upon his lips though he felt his heart race at the sentiment, reminded that the beautiful warrior was not born of the Asuryani.

‘I am no stranger to the taking of life,’ he told her, lifting his spear. ‘This is Drake’s Fang, the bane of many foes since the time of the Fall.’

Druthkhala said nothing, her eyes fixed ahead as they dipped to the level of the highest branches, conjoined jet stream cutting a furrow through the leaves beneath them.

‘I ride upon Alean,’ Nuadhu continued. ‘Named for the steed of Kaela Mensha Khaine.’

‘How sentimental,’ Druthkhala replied. She let one hand rise from the handlebars to point ahead. ‘What is that?’

She drew his attention to a sparkle from a valley ahead. Nuadhu judged it the glint of water, a river or lake, and was about to say as much. The thought evaporated as he spied a slender object rising a little higher than the surrounding trees, the sparkle of sunshine flashing from its summit.

He pulsed a thought to B’sainnad, slowing them so that Alyasa and Caelledhin caught up, the seer to his left, half-sister to the right. Druthkhala looped overhead to draw alongside Caelledhin, her dark stare directed at Nuadhu.

‘I see it,’ said Caelledhin before he said anything. ‘What has your rush of blood brought upon us now, I wonder.’

‘You recall that I detected a flux upon the veil between worlds,’ said Alyasa. ‘I believe we have discovered the source.’

In the short time that had passed since they had first seen something amiss, the rapid approach of the wild riders had revealed more of the half-hidden structure. The metal point was the tip of a needle-like monolith, one of seven that rose up from the valley floor. The lower slopes had been cleared of trees and the neat line of deforestation delineated a heptagonal gulf across the width of the valley. In between rose a single pyramid of gleaming metal, its flanks ornamented with geometric shapes interconnected with straight lines, which pulsed with a greenish hue.

As one, the eldar slowed and stopped, each feeling the same sense of shock that gripped Nuadhu’s heart. Caelledhin gave voice to the word that echoed through all of their thoughts.

‘Necrontyr.’

‘Now we know what happened to the Exodites.’

Druthkhala’s statement broke the spell that had captured the attention of the wild riders. Even so, Caelledhin thought it offhand, if not callous. Annoyance fuelled her retort.

‘And likewise ends our involvement here, Ynnari.’ She was about to turn her jetbike around when her half-brother stopped her.

‘Let us not choose our path hastily.’

‘You choose every path with haste, Nuadhu,’ Caelledhin said with a snort. ‘That is why we are here at all.’

‘I see no threat,’ the clan-heir asserted, though his eyes rested more upon Druthkhala and her bare thighs than the Necrontyr architecture in the distance. ‘We can investigate a little further.’

He couched his lance beneath his arm and raised a pair of magnifiers to his eyes, panning along the valley.

‘You stagger the credulity of even the most gullible fool.’ Caelledhin shook her head. ‘We owe Yvraine nothing more. Any promises made have been kept. We should return quickly so that Druthkhala can bear the disappointing news back to her mistress.’

‘During the ancient wars the Necrontyr seized the weapons of our people,’ Nuadhu said, though it was unclear for whom he made the commentary. ‘Our ancestors’ warp-wielding defied their abilities, and the enemy could not destroy them all but placed them into hidden vaults so that they could not be unleashed.’

‘And the aeldari did the same to theirs, placing them in the webway where the Necrontyr could not reach them.’ Caelledhin shrugged. ‘What prompts this unnecessary history lesson?’

‘Look at the pyramid,’ said Nuadhu, passing the magnifiers.

Caelledhin raised them to her eyes and focused on the Necrontyr settlement, their workings adjusting to her gaze to bring the central edifice into stark relief. The flanks were adorned with the same circuit-like decoration of all Necrontyr construction. Caelledhin was about to throw the magnifiers back when a sapphire glint caught her eye. The focus adjusted as she looked to the base of the pyramid, almost hidden behind the intervening tree canopy. Here the circuit-script turned into flowing runes and encircled an oval gem – judging by the rangefinder displayed by the device, the stone was easily as tall as her.

‘Aeldari runes…’ Her breath caught in her throat at the thought. For countless ages the tomb-precinct had stood, older than the craftworlds by aeons, long before the coming of She Who Thirsts. The runes themselves made when the aeldari dominion was itself newly birthed.

‘It could be a weapon we can use against the Dark Gods.’ Druthkhala turned a long stare upon Nuadhu, her eyes offering both a challenge and perhaps also a promise.

Nuadhu retrieved his magnifiers and stowed them away. ‘My heart tells me that this is a great opportunity to strike a blow in the eternal war.’

‘Then your heart is a fool, and you are a greater one for heeding its advice,’ said Caelledhin.

B’sainnad chuckled, earning a scowl from his lord.

‘Destiny lacks patience,’ Nuadhu retorted with a sneer. ‘When we return with Yvraine’s prize, the fortunes of Clan Fireheart will rise again. The indignities we have suffered during father’s indisposition will be swept aside.’

‘Ridiculous,’ growled Caelledhin. ‘We number only thirty but you would pitch us against a host of the Necrontyr.’

‘I see no host,’ Nuadhu said, a lopsided smile upon his lips, a flick of his gaze towards Druthkhala. ‘If we are swift – and none are swifter than the wild riders – we will take our prize and be away before these slumbering beauties even flutter a metal eyelid.’

Caelledhin’s protest went unheard, lost in the growing whine of Alean’s acceleration. A scarlet blur surrounded Caelledhin and the Ynnari herald, the wild riders behind their leader as surely as the tail follows a gyrinx. The child of the Icewhisper glared at the Ynnari beside her.

‘This is your fault,’ Caelledhin snapped.

‘You give me too much credit, daughter of Saim Hann,’ Druthkhala replied. ‘Your brother is capable of great acts of monumental stupidity without my help.’

And then she too was gone in a smudge of dark blue and a fading shriek of anti-grav engines.

They kept low, the uppermost leaves of the primordial forest whipping at the angled fins of their jetbikes. Following Nuadhu in single file, the wild riders curved across the woodlands towards the valley, its undulations like the World Serpent that was the totem of their craftworld. Nuadhu crouched low behind B’sainnad’s shoulder against the rail of his fighting platform to reduce the drag, hair tossed across his face as he craned for a look past his pilot.

It was impossible to be sure from the low angle of approach but it seemed that nothing stirred about the structures. The unworldly glimmer of the Necrontyr pilasters remained undimmed, neither strengthening nor waning in their intensity. The Fireheart heir took this as a good sign and signalled for his warriors to fan out behind him as they crested the last wooded ridge.

‘Sleep the long sleep, worry us not with your dead dreams,’ he whispered, eyes scanning the pyramid for any sign of activity. He spied no movement and with a flick of the wrist gestured for the squadrons to descend to the valley floor. The shadows of the wild riders flitted over the leaf canopy.

‘Eyeless are the guards that patrol such places,’ warned Morwedhi as they neared the alien structures. ‘Nothing passes unseen through the tomb-lands.’

Nuadhu’s skin prickled as they passed the boundary marked by the border needles but it was a trick of the mind rather than any real barrier. Diving steeply down the treeless slope he could see that not only had the forest been removed, all organic matter – undergrowth and soil – had been stripped away to the bedrock of the mountain. Into this bared grey was cut a concentric arrangement of trenches and furrows, the widest more than a dozen paces across, the narrowest channel no more than his spread fingers. So deep were these cuts that they swallowed all light, angular chasms that wrought a maze of interlocking shapes about the pyramid at their centre.

Meadhu pulled ahead for a few heartbeats and then dropped back alongside the lord of the wild riders.

‘Nothing lives here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This is no place for the living.’

‘Hush your woes, cousin,’ replied Nuadhu. ‘If you fear the grave then perhaps your time as a wild rider is coming to an end.’

‘Fear keeps the edge of the senses keen,’ the wild rider retorted. ‘And perhaps also the wits.’

Nuadhu ignored the criticism and angled their approach across the barren ground. The expanse directly around the main structure was devoid of crevices or any other mark, broad enough for three Vypers to comfortably land abreast. Nuadhu impulsed B’sainnad to stop and gestured for several others to do likewise while the rest of the wild riders took up patrols around the perimeter. Some ascended higher to keep watch further along the valley, silhouetted against the empty sky.

Nuadhu stowed Drake’s Fang and leapt over the rail, flashing a smile to Druthkhala mid-jump as she settled her reaver jetbike on the pale stone. Caelledhin landed between them, scowling, lips pursed.

‘See, half-sister? The ancient dwellers slumber still. They care not for our little excursion.’

He and the others approached the pyramid. There appeared to be no joins or entrances, the sheer surface marked only by the circuit-tracery and aeldari runes. Alyasa lifted a hand, fingers splayed as he neared the closest sloping wall.

‘These wards are strong, binding together a most puissant force,’ he declared. ‘Whatever is contained within emanates with a forceful spirit.’

‘I feel it too,’ confessed Caelledhin, and Nuadhu also felt the tremor of psychic power from within the vault-structure. Druthkhala looked from one companion to another, bemused, her own psychic sense stunted.

‘A weapon, perhaps, capable of slaying demigods,’ said Nuadhu, dragging his eyes away from the Commorraghan and back to the pyramid. ‘Such abounded during the Wars of the Old Ones.’

‘I see no way in,’ said Caelledhin.

‘Nor I,’ added Druthkhala. She looked at Alyasa. ‘Is there some craftworlder trick to open it?’

‘These bindings are as old as the seeding of this world,’ replied the windweaver. ‘Even if I were a seer, I do not think I would have the means to open this vault.’

‘It is not our concern,’ said Caelledhin, stepping back. She darted a glare at Druthkhala. ‘If the Ynnari want what is within, they can come and claim it.’

Nuadhu was about to concede the point, but it galled him to return to Saim Hann with only rumour, not proof. He was also keenly aware of the hot flush he felt whenever Druthkhala looked at him, and the desire to impress stirred him to one last effort.

‘There must be some way to get inside,’ he declared, striding up to the immense gem on the closest facing. It was just within reach, by far the largest gemstone he had ever seen.

‘It is bound in wraithbone,’ Alyasa exclaimed at his side, pointing to the swirled fitting around the immense jewel.

‘And through it perhaps we might learn more,’ announced Nuadhu. He laid his hand upon the closest spiral of the psycho-reactive substance.

There was an instant of connection, but it was followed not by recognition but a burst of rejection. Sparks erupted as the psychic pulse hurled him away, sending him clattering to the flat rock almost at Druthkhala’s feet. He sprang up, embarrassed and enraged. His anger drained, as did the warmth in his body as a flash of jade light drew his eye to the seven pilasters that bounded the Necrontyr complex. A matching hue blazed from the network of artificial chasms around them.

Nuadhu was no coward – in fact his foolhardiness overruled self-preservation on many occasions – but he was also not one slow of wit.

‘Run!’ he bellowed to the others as he started sprinting.

Ahead of him B’sainnad guided Alean off the ground and swooped close, allowing Nuadhu to spring upon the platform as it passed. Around them the mounts of the others rose up and darted to their riders, responding to their psychic calls as animal mounts might answer the whistle of a master or mistress. Druthkhala had no such advantage and was forced to dash all the way back to her reaver-steed, though it leapt into life at the moment of contact as she bounded into the long saddle.

‘The mountains are opening!’

Alyasa’s cry made no sense until Nuadhu looked around, to see that indeed the peaks of the surrounding mountains were peeling apart like the petals of immense flowers, green light gleaming from within. Above the roar of the rising windrush as B’sainnad guided them higher, he heard a chorus of skin-crawling howls echoing from the parted summits. Within the emerald glow crescent shapes turned, one at each of the seven surrounding peaks.

How had they not seen the number of mountains about the valley? Even as sickle-winged craft soared from within, landslides broke the slopes, sending plates of rock cascading into the valley to reveal gleaming metal inside.

Beams of green power lashed out as the crescent craft swept after the fleeing wild riders. Where the rays touched, riders and mounts were atomised. Within the space of ten heartbeats, three Vypers and four jetbikes had been obliterated. Teeth gritted, Nuadhu looked back to see the seven craft bank hard after the Saim Hann force, their crackling death rays readying to fire again.

Inspiration struck as they flashed across the boundary of the delving, once more flying over the greenery.

‘Beneath the leaves,’ he called to the others, pointing with Drake’s Fang. ‘They shall dare not follow us there.’

Two more wild riders succumbed to the lethal blasts before they plunged into the concealment of the forest. Branches lashed at Nuadhu but he ignored them, clinging hard to the rail as B’sainnad dodged them past the boles of ancient trees. All was lit like a green twilight, layers of thick canopy obscuring not only the sun but also the murderous attention of the Necrontyr pursuers.

Yet relief was short-lived. No sooner had they reached the sanctuary beneath the leaves than silvery shapes appeared in the murk – Necrontyr skimmers powering through the forest.

The landscape was a half-seen smear of browns and greens to either side, the light alternately blinding and dim as B’sainnad banked past soaring tree trunks and swooped through gaps in the foliage. The scream of Necrontyr fighter craft overhead was a constant companion, keeping the wild riders beneath the shield of the canopy, but there was no respite from the snap of deadly beams and crackling rays that chased them through the arboreal maze.

Nuadhu clung to the platform rail, hanging on tightly as Alean turned so sharply that they flew almost inverted for several thunderous heartbeats, the stabilising fins that extended to either side slashing bark from a towering bole. An instant later a green pulse of energy slashed past, ripping through the same tree, missing by the smallest of margins – had B’sainnad been even a heartbeat tardy in his manoeuvre the Vyper and its riders would have joined the trail of broken jetbikes and dead eldar scattered along the line of their retreat.

The heir of Clan Fireheart gritted his teeth, ducking to avoid decapitation by a branch, and glanced over his shoulder. Metallic gleams powered from light to shade, seeming to strobe in and out of existence as they hurtled through the dappled sunbeams.

Every now and then a gunner on one of the other Vypers would draw aim on their pursuers and let loose a volley of scattered laser fire or the scintillating beam of a bright lance.

A cry from ahead warned that the woodland was coming to an end. Nuadhu checked the pursuit again, confirming that the Necrontyr skimmers were also to the left and right. Any change of course would take the wild riders perpendicular to the chasing machines, and away from their goal of the webway gate.

‘Our course must be as serpentine as our totem,’ Nuadhu told them as the scarlet flock burst out into the bright sunshine of a bush-studded vale. ‘Present no easy target.’

B’sainnad complied immediately, jinking Alean first one way and then the other, following the slightest dip or rise in the ground. Around them the other riders swerved past each other in almost haphazard fashion, avoiding each other by a hair’s breadth on occasion. At their heart, Druthkhala struggled with her reaver jetbike, jerking at the controls to avoid collisions, lacking the instinct and swarm-empathy that allowed the wild riders to fly so close to each other without mishap.

A chilling howl descended on the group as the circling Necrontyr craft dived to attack once again. Fresh coruscations of lethal jade energy flared past as the pursuing pack broke from the tree line. Just a spear’s cast to Nuadhu’s right, his cousin Morwedhi disappeared amid exploding jetbike parts as a green beam bisected her steed from engine to prow.

Nuadhu had his first proper look at the foe. The lead line of Necrontyr were some form of centauroid construct, their upper halves humanoid in form, atop beetle-like anti-grav sleds kept aloft by banks of gleaming suspensor engines. With them came more Necrontyr warriors mounted in arc-shaped machines like flying wheels.

‘There!’ Nuadhu rose to his full height and pointed down the slope with Drake’s Fang. ‘Our next port of salvation.’

A herd of giant saurians plodded across the open lands, several dozen strong. The scaled beasts were the equal of a Phantom Titan in height, legs as long and thick as the trees just departed.

B’sainnad darted a questioning look back at his lord.

‘Under them and through them,’ Nuadhu insisted. ‘Use them as cover!’

The pilot shook his head doubtfully but did as commanded, angling the Vyper between the legs of the closest beast. The other wild riders split, each pilot choosing his or her own path through the moving limbs and swaying necks of the saurians.

Tails lashed and broad mouths snapped at the interlopers, sending two of Nuadhu’s companions crashing into the ground with their untimely sweeps. Jade beams flared down, the pained bellows of wounded saurians drowning out the whine of jetbikes as the flickering rays parted limbs and punched effortlessly through thick hide into monstrous organs.

Nostrils flaring, hooting bellows sounding their panic, the herd moved faster, their fear quickly creating a stampede. Ahead, two of the brutes collided, trapping Meadhu’s mount between their flanks. An explosion scattered sparks over Alean. Broken pieces of scarlet carapace and the crushed body flopped to the ground to be stomped into the unforgiving dirt by the monsters that followed.

Yet for all the danger posed, the stampede was also a blessing. Necrontyr engines suffered worse as they tried to follow the wild riders into the thrashing beasts. Flattened beneath descending feet and swept into the air by whipping club-tails, the alien skimmers broke off their pursuit, curving away to either side.

The wild riders throttled back their engines and kept station with their massive escorts, bobbing and weaving to avoid the press of bodies whilst maintaining position within the heaving masses. The route of the maddened herd took them down to the steep-sided river that cut along the bottom of the valley, almost directly towards the waiting webway gate.

‘One last dash,’ Nuadhu exhorted his followers, urging B’sainnad to steer out from the rampaging saurians and into the river canyon. Fresh bursts of aerial fire followed the flitting red craft into the defile, vapour clouds rising from the frothing waters where the high-energy beams struck them.

The crevasse was no less treacherous than negotiating the wayward saurians, but likewise shielded Nuadhu’s company from the murderous intent of the Necrontyr. Still some distance ahead and above, the purple swirl of the webway opening hung in the air like a sky-bound black hole.

Nuadhu spared a moment to look around, first to check on Caelledhin and Druthkhala, and then to appraise their other losses. His half-sister followed almost directly behind, darting through the spume left in the wake of the Vyper. The herald of Yvraine was a little further back in the group, her passage leaving vortices through the rainbow-threaded river mist.

Gladdened to see them alive, Nuadhu’s heart then sank. Less than half of those that had departed Saim Hann would return with their lord. Cousins and kin-bonded warriors he had known for a lifetime had been lost. He had led them into battle before but, as his eye roamed back to Druthkhala’s seemly appearance, he knew that a selfish motive had brought them here.

Noting his gaze upon her, the Ynnari messenger guided her bike alongside him. Moments later, Caelledhin joined them, glaring daggers at both her half-brother and the former arena fighter.

‘Counting the cost of your folly?’ Caelledhin snapped. ‘You should! Twenty of our kin dead. Their spirit stones lost. For what? For nothing!’

Nuadhu knew she was right. The truth of it burned at his heart. This was why he could not countenance his father dying, why he could not – dared not – take up the mantle of chieftain. He was not worthy, and even less qualified.

But he had to make amends. That was the true test of a leader, and he would not dare admit any concession to his half-sister. The merest hint of weakness would see the Firehearts subsumed into Clan Icewhisper.

‘We shall return,’ he declared. ‘Not lost are those that remain in our thoughts. Not wasted are those lives spent in achieving a later victory.’

‘Madness, to throw away more lives on your vanity.’

Ahead, the river turned away from their preferred course. They eyed the open stretch of sky between them and the webway, what seemed like an impossible gulf to cross as crescent attack craft soared back and forth against the clouds. The other wild riders gathered close, the hum of jetbikes and Vypers adding to the roar of the waters.

‘Not vanity,’ said Nuadhu. He matched the ire of her stare with grim determination and then looked to Druthkhala. He raised his voice so that all could hear. ‘Now we know for certain that the Necrontyr have something they want to keep from us. There is a prize on Agarimethea worth fighting for.’

At his command, B’sainnad gunned the engine and Alean leapt upwards from the cover of the river gorge, their sudden appearance answered by the scream of descending Necrontyr.

About the Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, as well as several audio dramas including the bestselling Raven’s Flight and The Thirteenth Wolf. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior, Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence and Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. In 2017, Gav was awarded the David Gemmell Legend award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

When the long-lost Craftworld Ziasuthra reappears, Iyanna Arienal and Yvraine of the Ynnari lead an expedition to it in hope of retrieving the last cronesword.

A Black Library Publication

Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Fireheart © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Fireheart, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-861-7

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