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Shadows of Heaven – Gav Thorpe

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A Black Library Publication

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Shadows of Heaven

Gav Thorpe

Aradryan looked at the bridge with distaste. A brutal span of partially corroded metal and pitted artificial stone substitute, erected by the humans in some distant era to cross the sluggish, oil-tainted waters of a broad river. A cold wind keened through the stanchions and spars. The vegetation around the crossing was near-dead, browned by the inclement season. In the shadows of the broken buildings that flanked both sides of the river, the remnants of night frost coated the ground.

The river snaked slowly between rolling plains, curving around steeper slopes on either side that rose from the undulating expanse. The highway the crossing served was little more than a path of broken paving that cut a darker line through the wilderness flanking the waterway. In many places it had been swallowed again by the grasses and bushes through which it had once mercilessly slashed.

It reminded Aradryan of the humans in so many ways. Transient, yet arrogant. Blindly resisting the elements rather than accommodating them. Stubborn but ultimately doomed to fade from existence and memory. Just as this latest alliance with the humans would fail in time. The galaxy had been sundered by warpcraft and battle, and there was a mutual need, greater than ever, that united the two races. That was all it was, an unspoken pact of survival, nothing more. The Imperium and the craftworlds were not friends. They would always be rivals even when they were not outright enemies. For now, he and the other Alaitocii who had travelled from the craftworld were aligned to the shared cause.

A short distance away, Diamedin sat in the pilot’s cradle of a large support weapon. Like Aradryan she wore a golden-yellow helm with a short crest of deep blue. Her armour was the same azure, as was the floating anti-grav platform of the weapon she rode. The vibro-cannon itself was encased in curved plates of matching yellow, banded with tiger stripes of black. From within gleamed the energy cell’s pale silver shimmer.

Aradryan and his companion were situated in the tumbled-down ruins of what might have been a toll station or perhaps a hostelry for travellers. It was impossible to tell the former function of the low building from the broken walls and scattered bricks. Twisted metal reinforcing rods jutted among the crawl of climbing plants, the bare stone-like floor patched with bright green lichen and criss-crossed with runners and tendrils from the questing vegetation.

Aspect Warriors and the larger war machines had already engaged the enemy over the preceding night, manoeuvring the foe into a killing position. The farseers had warned of a splinter force of warriors despatched by the enemy to break out over the river. They could not be allowed to cross lest the whole flank of the Alaitocii host was compromised. By standing in this place, alongside his fellow Guardians, he protected the lives of others.

So Aradryan told himself.

‘They are heading your way.’

The voice of Arhathain sounded directly in Aradryan’s ear. It came with a slight itch at the point between ear and jaw, caused by the microscopic messenger-wave implant that had been inserted there before the expeditionary force had left Alaitoc.

It felt strange, to hear the voice of the autarch yet sense nothing of his presence. In the slow turn of the latest arc of his life Aradryan had become reacquainted with the omnipresence of the infinity circuit aboard the craftworld. He had buried deep the memories of his wilder life as an Outcast, the remembrance of the time when he had been carefree but alone like a distant, half-heard echo. The ever-present sensation of the others on the Asuryani Path had been a backdrop of constant sound and movement in his thoughts.

So it was that he heard the words of Arhathain but caught nothing of the host commander’s thoughts or feelings on the pronouncement. It was a cold fact sent to the Alaitocii contingent stationed by the dilapidated bridge, devoid of emotional substance.

Aradryan’s thoughts were not totally isolated. Through the local spirit circuit of the vibro-cannon he could feel Diamedin. Though he could not see her face, Aradryan felt her reassuring smile through the interface of the weapon’s spirit stone.

She glanced down at him from her perch.

‘Worry not,’ she said. ‘No foe shall cross that bridge.’

His gaze moved to the rest of the small force that had been positioned to contest the crossing. Two more vibro-cannons flanked him and Diamedin, the targeting web that connected them currently focused on a point at the far end of the span. Like the gunner beside him, the other crews made only the faintest impression on his awareness, conjoined by the interlinked network of the battery, which was but a pale imitation of the infinity circuit of their home.

The half-felt distance put Aradryan in mind of the spirits of the departed when they were newly joined with the other souls of the craftworld. On the Path of Grieving he had dedicated himself to remembrance and commemoration of the dead. He was no Spiritseer, but in his role as Mourner he spent much time among those who shepherded the spirits into the post-mortal existence of the infinity circuit. In that capacity he had felt the fleeting loss and uncertainty of a spirit released from its stone into the endless maze of the psychic circuit.

Outside the local circuit other support weapon batteries were arranged: two more vibro-cannons on the shallow slope of a hill to the right, and a trio of distort-cannons covered the river from the left. In the thick foliage along the river bank nestled two squads of Guardians, their exact location obscured by the concealing power of a warlock, Hanlaishin.

‘If you are so concerned by danger, why did you answer the call to arms?’ asked Diamedin, sensing Aradryan’s unease as he scanned the horizon across the river and fidgeted with the shuriken catapult in his hands.

‘I am no stranger to bloodshed,’ Aradryan replied quietly. ‘I am not afraid of death.’

‘Then what is it that agitates you so?’

Aradryan thought not to answer. He owed her no explanation. Yet if he was to purge himself of his grief, if he was to connect with his people in a way he had not been able to do in living memory, he had to make the effort.

‘Death used to frighten me. The thought of being swallowed by the infinity circuit, of losing who I was, terrified my younger self. It drove me to flee the craftworld, seeking sensation and a meaning for life, though I found myself lost in the former and discovered nothing of the latter. And death followed me still, all the way back to Alaitoc.’

He paused, stunned by his unplanned confessional. It felt good to unburden himself.

‘And yet...?’ prompted Diamedin.

‘I took to the Path of Grieving, but even then I hid from life rather than death. I thought that perhaps battle might stir something of my old emotion.’ He sighed. ‘It scares me that I am not afraid to die…’

Any further chance to cast light upon the shadows in his soul was curtailed by a sudden heightening of tension across the Guardian force. Aradryan saw the cause at the same moment he felt it: a smudge of greyness past the ridge of a hill on the opposite side of the river.

Smoke from the exhausts of the renegade Space Marines’ vehicles.

Crouched in the ruins, Aradryan watched the drifting smog with narrowed eyes and a knot in his gut. The detached thought of battle had not stirred him, but it was a different matter to see the approach of an enemy. His biology reacted even though his thoughts had not, sending a shiver of apprehension through him. It was almost welcome, to feel a tingle of dread when he had known so little that had moved him in recent times.

A small squad of jetbike-piloting windriders and a larger Vyper speared over the hillside. Explosive projectiles tore past the rapidly approaching jetbikes from the foes they had lured towards the crossing. Jinking and weaving between the volleys, the pilots guided their craft directly towards the expanse of the river, the anti-grav engines of their vehicles negating any need for a bridge.

The enemy sped into view: a trio of lumbering troop carriers that churned the earth with broad tracks. Their top hatches were open so that the embarked warriors could fire their weapons at the evasive eldar that had drawn their wrath. The transports were blocky, dark machines that belched grey fume, engines snarling and tracks sliding as they negotiated the steep slope that led down to the remains of the roadway.

Aradryan found all human aesthetic to be crude and distasteful, but there was a deliberate brutality to the black paint and golden ornamentation of the renegades’ vehicles. Barbed spears and gilded chains hung with skulls decorated the flanks of the transports. The stacks of the exhausts and muzzles of the mounted weapons were fashioned in the likenesses of bestial and daemonic faces.

Augmented by the magnifying lenses of his Guardian helm, his keen alien gaze picked out detail against the expanse of the hillside. From one of the troop carriers flew a broad, long banner of dark cloth marked by the eight-pointed star with an eye at its centre. They wore their slavery to the Dark Gods like a badge of honour, the eightfold Cross of the Lost emblazoned not only on the transports but also the shoulder pads of their powered armour. As with the vehicles, so too the occupants – armoured in black and gold, adorned with spikes and blades, chains and skull-headed rivets.

‘Wait until they are committed to crossing the bridge,’ commanded Arhathain through the messenger-wave implant. ‘We need those forces diverted.’

With the jetbikes out of range, the renegade Space Marines ceased their firing. Their advance slowed as they neared the bridge. The jetbikes and Vyper circled back, swerving between the cables of the suspension bridge to unleash a long-range fusillade of shuriken cannon fire. The volley did little more than shred the paintwork of the transports, but its goading effect was near-instant. Engines roared. Fresh billows of oily smoke billowed and the transports thundered towards the bridge once more.

Aradryan swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He could feel the growing anticipation from Diamedin. A former Dire Avenger, she drew upon a war mask to shut off her thoughts, guarding herself against the lure of bloodshed and the fear of battle. It had the simultaneous effect of blanking her thoughts to the soul-circuit, leaving Aradryan feeling very much alone and impotent as he watched the three armoured behemoths clatter onto the bridge. He looked at the slab-sided war engines, and the shuriken catapult felt heavy in his grip, useless against such metal beasts. His fate was entirely entrusted to the accuracy and timing of the support weapon gunners.

While the windriders drew back, ready to spring forwards once the ambush was under way, the Vyper continued to harry the approaching vehicles. The sleek craft veered one way and then the other, like an insect darting over a pool. Its yellow-and-blue carapace glinted in the pale light of winter, reflecting the flash of bolts and the glint from the polluted waters gurgling between the steep river banks.

Nearly halfway across the span, the vehicles seemed larger than Aradryan remembered from the invasion of Alaitoc. He only dimly recalled the battles that had raged through the domes of his craftworld, though the memory of the Emperor’s Space Marines was far more distinct. Terrifying giants with war engines that had killed hundreds of his fellow eldar. He had brought that slaughter to his home and it had pushed him onto the Path of Grieving. To consider such brutal power married to the worship of the Dark Gods sent a fresh shiver of anxiety coursing through his body. All instinct told him that he should flee. Yet he refused, drawing on superior reason and intellect to overcome his biology. He peered through a crack in the masonry at the monstrous warriors. There was no possible way the Traitor Space Marines knew what awaited them.

His jaw itched again an instant before the voice of Hanlaishin sounded in his ear.

‘Do not engage them yet. Vibro-cannons target the rear vehicle. Heavy weapons and distort-crews disable the lead transport.’

Aradryan let go of the barrel of the shuriken catapult and flexed his fingers, his discomfort mirrored back at him by the tension of the other crews. The weapons were perfectly sited, their presence masked by devices augmented by the powers of the warlock and far more sophisticated than the technology of the renegades.

And yet the vehicles paused, a third of the way from the near end of the bridge.

A squad of armoured brutes disembarked from the lead transport and advanced on foot, the carriers following a score of paces behind.

‘Crone’s curse!’ exclaimed Hanlaishin, taken aback by the enemy’s action. ‘We have no choice. Open fire, now. Destroy the vehicles and then engage the foot troops.’

The mobile heavy weapons of the concealed Guardian Defenders fired first. The ruby pulse of a bright lance and a shimmering plasma burst from a starcannon slashed into the track guards of the closest transport. The starcannon shot burst ineffectually from the thick ceramic plates but the bright lance sliced through, splashing molten droplets. The wounded transport shed broken track links as it ground to a halt.

‘Our turn,’ said Diamedin, a flicker of anticipation leaking across the psychic link. Aradryan did not share her enthusiasm and swallowed hard.

The bulkier support weapons rose up from their hiding places under the guidance of their gunners. A few paces from Aradryan, Diamedin turned the vibro-cannon towards a break between two fallen walls. The ribbed muzzle of the sonic generator angled towards the black vehicles, the gleam of its powercells growing brighter.

A heartbeat later the distort-cannons burst into life.

A pair of dark vortices erupted around the front vehicle, swiftly expanding. Fronds of electrical discharge danced at the edge of the growing wounds in reality, flashing across the armoured hide of the troop carrier. The air twisted with agitated molecules, dragged into the warp rifts opened by the distort-cannons. Aradryan watched in awe while rivets popped and armoured plates distended as the rippling boundary between the material and immaterial expanded from the detonation. Track housings buckled, tearing free maintenance hatches and ripping road wheels from the flanks of the transport.

‘They shall suffer Khaine’s fury!’ Diamedin was excited now, gripped by war-fever left over from her Aspect Warrior past.

A sudden hum from the vibro-cannons escalated into a wailing screech. Aradryan followed the burst of sonic energy from Diamedin’s weapon as it tore a furrow along the ground like an invisible plough, scattering Traitor Space Marines as they disembarked. The beam thrummed through the lead vehicle, rocking the transport on its suspension, scattering flecks of paint and a cloud of dislodged dirt.

The sonic discharges of all five vibro-cannons came together at a point somewhere inside the second vehicle. Conflicting frequencies created an explosive resonance that literally shook the vehicle apart. Weak seams shattered and contorted splinters of metal flew in all directions. Dark flame gouted in odd spirals from the ruptured engine block while the occupants were thrown about like chaff in a tornado, slammed against the stanchions of the bridge and dragged violently across the cracked roadway.

A mixture of surprise and relief erupted from Aradryan as a short laugh. Ahead, from the riverbank, the Guardian Defenders erupted from their cover. The hiss of their shuriken catapults and cannons mingled with that of the returning Vyper and windriders, nearly lost among the clatter of falling debris and the crashing tread of the charging renegades.

A hail of mono-molecular discs slashed into the power-armoured warriors, striking sparks from the ceramic plates, leaving scars across the black paint and gilded decoration. Here and there one of the augmented humans fell or reeled back, an eye-lens shattered or a weaker seal in his war-plate ruptured by the stream of projectiles. Aradryan raised his own weapon but the enemy were not yet in range.

Into the teeth of the assault came the renegades, uncaring of the danger. Their bolters spat fire-trailing rounds, stitching small detonations across the walls and rocks that had concealed the ambushers.

Aradryan saw the muzzle of a boltgun turned in his direction. Propellant flickered in the chamber within as he threw himself flat.

Explosions tore at the wall where he had been crouched, turning bricks to shards and dust, the thunder of the detonations painful even through the dampening effect of his helm. Aradryan felt a stab of pain from Diamedin half a heartbeat before he heard the bolt impact and her cry.

He looked up in horror, just in time to see her chest-plate spraying shards, the mesh beneath a fountain of glittering scales mingled with droplets of bright blood. Armour lit by the deadly blossom of yellow and white in her chest, edged with dark fragments of shattered breast-plate, Diamedin was hurled out of the gunnery couch.

As he pushed himself harder into the cover of the wall, Aradryan’s gaze locked on to the unmoving remains of his companion. Among the fleshy ruin of her torso glittered a bluish gem – her waystone, now imbued with spirit energy. Its ghost-flicker entranced him, like so many other spirits whose internment into the infinity circuit he had attended. His own waystone was a cold dagger of ice in his heart. So long ago he had looked upon bodies returning from battle and the fear had been raised in him. It had driven him to flee into indulgence, and set him upon the course of terrible events that had eventually brought him here. And now Aradryan drifted alone, mesmerised by the mangled remains dappled in spirit light. Diamedin’s quietus severed what little contact there had been.

Another burst of enemy fire raked the ruins of the human building. Teeth gritted, he pictured himself standing and returning fire with the shuriken catapult, but his body did not respond.

A cycle. Never-ending. Even in death there was no escape.

Through the clamour of battle – a thunder of guns, crack of shattering ceramic, the patter of brick shards on his armour and the heavy footfalls of the approaching Space Marines – Aradryan felt the buzz of the messenger-bead again. The insistent tone of Arhathain cut into his numbed thoughts.

‘Hold your ground! More enemy forces are diverting to your position. Keep them back as long as you can.’

It felt as though the words were meant for him, and it took a short while for Aradryan to realise that the autarch had addressed the whole Guardian host.

He dimly noted that the wall was no longer exploding around him and slowly pushed up from his belly. Five fist-sized holes had been punched through the bricks where he had squatted and the entire top course had been turned to a cloud of dust. His blood chilled at the realisation of how close his death had been. The prison of the infinity circuit still awaited him.

The sensation spurred him into action. Self-disgust at his body’s cowardice overcame natural responses.

He risked a glance through one of the holes and saw half a dozen enemy bodies strewn on the grass just a few strides away. Their armour was mangled, limbs bent awkwardly, indicating a cross-fire from the other vibro-cannons. More corpses, like black-carapaced beetles, were strewn along the line of the assault, leading back to flashes of gunfire sparkling from where the survivors still fought out of the cover of their broken vehicles.

He looked at the seat on the vibro-cannon, the morphic cushion spattered with Diamedin’s blood. Swallowing hard, he edged closer, still keeping below the wall as though it were the parapet of a fortress rather than a flimsy domestic construction. He dropped down and advanced on elbows and knees, the shuriken catapult in his grasp, until he reached the breach in the building. The vibro-cannon was still three strides away, floating in place as serenely as a grav-barge in a parade.

Aradryan considered his options, and his chances. He was fast, a gift of his species, but so too were the artificially crafted reactions of the Space Marines. He would probably be able to reach the support weapon before they registered his presence, but would he be able to set a target and open fire?

He waited, the fingers of his free hand pressed against the wall, shuriken catapult still in the other, attuning himself to the rhythms of gunfire. He drew up a foot beneath him, ready to run. The snap of bolters and subsequent growl of the rounds was short, targeted close to the bridge. Most likely at the Guardian Defenders. Aradryan heard the crackle of the warlock’s singing spear impacting against plates of armour.

An instant later he leapt from the cover of the wall, one hand reaching for the back of the vibro-cannon. He vaulted into the gunnery seat and slapped his weapon against a grip pad. Aradryan snapped his attention towards the bridge even as his fingers curled about the controls. The platform tilted slightly on its suspensor field as he steered right, a small screen in front of him dancing with images until it settled on the shape of a helmed head poking out from behind the broken track housing of the closest enemy vehicle.

The first Aradryan knew of the still-functioning mounted weapon on the lead vehicle was a spark of bolt detonations tearing up the sloped shell of the vibro-cannon. He flung himself sideways as the support weapon disintegrated. Tucking his head down, he rolled as he hit the ground, pieces of shrapnel slicing into the dirt around him.

A shard of broken plating pierced the back of his leg, ripping a pained yelp from his lips as he slithered back to the comparative safety of the wall. Blood leaking from the flesh wound, he continued on, pushing himself across the dry grass until his back found the angle of the other wall.

Through the pounding of his own heart and the continued fusillades from both sides, Aradryan picked out a deeper boom – the sound of larger cannons. Panicked shouts from his companions preceded the whine of falling shells and a ground-shaking eruption close at hand. Dirt showered down on Aradryan over the top of the broken wall. A blinding flash of laser light scorched not far overhead, from somewhere across the river.

The enemy reinforcements had arrived.

‘Five enemy tanks have peeled away from the main attack to reinforce the flanking manoeuvre across the bridge,’ reported Arhathain, as dispassionately as if he were passing on a weather report. ‘Hold your ground.’

Aradryan risked a second glance over the wall. The initial probing force had been reduced to a few Chaos Space Marines, stubbornly sniping out from among the wreckage of their transports, but the Alaitocii had not fared well in the exchange. The wreckage of several support weapons littered the buildings beside the road, the bodies of their crews draped over brick and rock. The vibro-cannon beside Aradryan was a pile of psychoplastic splinters and molten metal, his shuriken catapult somewhere in the mess that remained.

Sporadic distort-cannon fire and the continuing fusillades of the Guardian Defenders kept the Chaos Space Marines at bay for the moment, but it was only a matter of time before they crushed the remnants of the ambush force. Shells burst from across the river while harsh lascannon blasts scoured through the crumbling ruins.

The surge of confidence that had spurred him swiftly abated, replace by grim reality. Arhathain’s exhortation notwithstanding, as far as Aradryan was concerned he had played his part, but without a weapon and faced with a company of tanks there was nothing more he could do.

There certainly was little point to staying where he was. Even now, just a few moments since the first shell had exploded, the sound of fire from surviving support weapons had lessened, targeted by the newly arrived enemy tanks.

His options were limited. Arhathain had picked the battle site carefully, denying the enemy much in the way of shelter as they approached but that also meant there was little to retreat through. There were a few scattered patches of cover before the land dropped down into a ravine about a hundred strides behind the outpost where he hid. If he set off now he might just make the dip before the enemy saw him. For a moment he was possessed by a wild thought, of sprinting towards the enemy to throw himself in the waters below the bridge, and thus escape downriver. Or he could remain where he was, hoping that whatever relief force Arhathain would certainly dispatch arrived before the bulk of the enemy had pushed across the bridge.

Guilt needled him at the thought of retreating. The force had been placed to counter just this type of flanking attack. If the bridge fell it could cost countless more Alaitocii lives. It was almost enough to make him break from cover and seek a weapon.

Almost.

Aradryan remained where he was, pushed up against the protective wall like a limpet on a rock, wondering how it was that fate had chosen to put him in this situation. There seemed little enough worth dying for on the forsaken human world. He was not sure of the grander scheme, but knew it involved the primarch, the Ynnari and the greater war against the minions of the Dark Gods. Farseers, Eldrad Ulthran included, had insisted that the warriors of the Black Legion could not be allowed to expand into this star system.

The messenger waves burst into renewed activity, pulsing into Aradryan’s whirling thoughts.

‘The enemy are amassing for another push,’ warned Hanlaishin.

‘Movement into the river, armoured infantry,’ reported one of the other Guardians.

‘Some kind of mobile artillery taking position on the hill.’

‘Concentrated fire coming fr–’

‘Something else, coming through the smoke. Khaine’s blood!’

A burst of acute paranoia rather than bravery pushed Aradryan to dart a look around the barrier – more than enough time to take stock of the changing situation.

Armoured walkers, each three times the height of the renegade Space Marines, stomped down the road towards the river. A multiple-rocket launcher was moving into position on a ridge overlooking the attack site, its turret-pods laden with warheads. Several squads of the Black Legionnaires had forced their way onto the bridge to bolster the infantry already there, bolt-rounds whickering across the divide to keep the eldar pinned down in their scattered clumps of cover.

Everything was building for a fresh and final assault on the gun batteries.

A dread-inspiring roar echoed across the river valley – artificially modulated, a half-mechanical bellow that emanated from the address systems of several dozen Traitor Space Marines. The war cry rolled over the bridge and river like an ocean wave, heralding devastation.

If Aradryan was to die here, what would happen next? As Mourner he had watched spirit after spirit guided into the relative sanctuary of the infinity circuit. A resting place, of sorts, far from the gaze of the Great Enemy. A reward for adhering to the pains and structures of the Asuryani Path. But what if his spirit stone fell into the hands of the depraved followers of Chaos? Were there acolytes of She Who Thirsts among their ranks?

The snarl of engines grew louder accompanied by the pounding of feet on artificial stone as the Chaos renegades thrust across the bridge.

Not for him, that semi-slumber of bare consciousness. All would be for nothing, his spirit stone broken open by the daemons of the Perfect Prince, his soul endlessly devoured.

And for what? To deny the Black Legion an abandoned world? To protect the Imperium of the humans?

It was all too grand to deal with, too far above Aradryan’s concerns. He understood the need for greater alliance with the humans – temporarily – but his own experience with the servants of the Emperor had shown that they were self-serving and weak. He had no doubts they would put themselves before any concern for the craftworlds. He had dedicated himself to serving Alaitoc, not the Emperor.

The enemy on the bridge burst from cover, supported by the scathing fire of their brothers-in-damnation. In just a few heartbeats they would be on the near side, falling upon the Guardians holding the riverbank.

Aradryan was just about to make a run for it when he felt something stir in his breast. It was faint, just a warmth where before there had been emptiness. It reminded him of the infinity circuit, though more diffuse. A nascent connection, growing stronger.

In its midst he heard the echoes of the thoughts of others around him. Nothing specific, just vague notions of hope and fear, longing and dread like a refracted beam of light.

A whisper in his mind.

Invigoration pushed aside loneliness. His mind pulsed with a feeling of belonging he had not felt for a long time. He held his breath, heart like a drum in his ears. Many had died already. Who was he to judge his life worth more than theirs?

Aradryan darted to the remnants of the vibro-cannon and snatched up his shuriken catapult before leaping back to the shelter of the wall. Letting out an explosive exhalation, Aradryan stood up, ready to vault the wall. He did not fight for the humans, but for his companions.

If he was to die, it would not be alone.

Twin blasts of ruby light seared past his hiding place. Not from the Black Legionnaires, but towards them. A few heartbeats later a shadow passed over him. Aradryan looked up and saw the underside of a Wave Serpent, silhouetted against the bright sky. As it moved away, firing again towards the bridge, its colours were unfamiliar. He had thought it part of a reinforcement sent by the autarch, but instead of the blue and yellow of the Alaitoc warhost, the transport was coloured a dark grey with haphazard slashes of black and dark red across it.

Other vehicles arrived, speeding across the low hills, some in similar livery, others marked as coming from Saim-Hann, Biel-Tan and other craftworlds. And with them, warriors and vehicles not even of the craftworlds – blade-like drukhari Raiders packed with baying kabalite warriors, alongside swooping Reaver jetbikes ridden by shrieking wyches.

The Ynnari!

A Raider transport swept into view even as the Black Legion warriors burst onto the near bank. It gleamed with a white aura, emanating from the figure who stood upon the serrated prow. She was garbed in finery, like a lady of the old dominions captured in stasis, her gown and cloaks streaming in the wind of the skimmer’s passage. The cold light left motes of frost on the air, a sparkling wake like glittering dew on a fresh morning.

Aradryan knew her instantly.

Yvraine, Emissary of Ynnead, Bride of the God-Dead.

He had heard many tales of the Ynnari figurehead, more than a few sinister whispers between followers of the Path of Grieving. The craftworlds and their reliance on spirit technology had always skirted on the edges of necromancy, but it was claimed that Yvraine could conjure the spirit from a waystone and leech the power of the departing.

Yet Aradryan did not feel coldness as he watched the majestic Daughter of Shades. Hope bristled in him, sharp and unfamiliar. Though she seemed cast from unfeeling ceramic the sensation that washed from her passing was uplifting.

A crimson-armoured figure stood just behind her, a shimmering blade bare in his hand. The Visarch, Sword of Ynnead, as deadly a warrior as any from the legends of old. As the Raider swept over the support battery, the Visarch leapt from the speeding transport, plunging into the midst of the Chaos Space Marines charging across the bridge. More heavily armoured aeldari followed – former incubi of Commorragh, the infamous Coiled Blade that served the Queen of the Reborn. Powered blades flashing, they slashed into the traitorous Space Marines while Yvraine led the counter-attack across to the other side of the river.

Scattering clouds of dust from their anti-grav downdraught, two more Raiders sped past. He saw the heavy weapons fire of a Falcon and two Ravagers converge on the bridge, raking across advancing squads. As missiles spat forth from the Space Marines, the swift-moving grav-tanks curved away over the river to target the heavy vehicles and Dreadnoughts approaching on the far side.

A Wave Serpent settled beyond the ruin of the vibro-cannon, its back ramp lowering as it drifted to a halt. The eldar who descended was garbed in elaborate, stark blue armour, the sigil on his white helm a variation of the Dire Avengers rune.

‘Time to leave, Alaitocii!’ the Aspect Warrior called out. ‘Fate has favoured you this time.’

‘Who are you?’ Aradryan started towards the other eldar and then stopped. His gaze fell upon the mangled remains of Diamedin and he almost lost his footing. The flicker of Diamedin’s infused spirit stone drew his eye. ‘Wait!’

‘Hurry now or we will leave you,’ called the Ynnari Dire Avenger.

Aradryan plucked the sparkling soulgem from its mounting. He sprinted over to the transport, which lifted up even as he jumped for the ramp. He slipped inside as the access-way closed behind him.

Eight Dire Avengers waited in the Wave Serpent, their bright armour gleaming in the lights of the transport compartment. Aradryan felt the Wave Serpent accelerate, banking to the left, back towards the main host.

‘What has happened?’ he asked.

‘Yvraine learned of what Alaitoc ventured here on our behalf,’ replied the Dire Avenger who had ushered him aboard. ‘We came to help.’

Aradryan nodded, not quite sure what to think of this. Sat among these blooded warriors he should have felt alone as he had when Diamedin had assumed her war mask, but instead their presence suffused him with a sense of belonging.

‘You hear it, don’t you?’ said the Dire Avenger. ‘The voice of Ynnead.’

‘We call it the Whisper,’ said another.

‘I… I hear it,’ admitted Aradryan. ‘It is growing stronger.’

‘Fuelled by the departed souls,’ another of the squad told him. ‘In their deaths, Ynnead draws strength, as do we all.’

The thought should have been horrific. Aradryan had never been comfortable with the thought of eternities spent in the infinity circuit. Bodiless but vaguely aware. As prone to the vicissitudes of fate as any mortal. But he felt peace.

He listened to the Whisper, a wordless but understandable swell of power.

‘You have an aeldari soul,’ said his new companion. ‘In the time of the dominion, before the Fall, all our people were reborn into new bodies. When She Who Thirsts swallowed our people our spirits were forfeit. Now Ynnead fights for them, and in time the aeldari will emerge from Her awful shadow.’

‘But if I understand your creed, we must all die to live again?’

The Dire Avenger nodded. ‘In time, we all die. Ynnead gives us the chance to return. We are the Reborn. Better to die in hope than dread, yes?’

Aradryan stood a little apart from the other rescued Guardians, feeling confused.

Like many who had been swept up by the arrival of the Ynnari, he had been deposited close to the fighting, though he had not participated any further. Now, with the battle won, he was at a loss. Many around him were weeping for the slain, while healers tended to those who could benefit from their ministrations.

Alausha, one of the Guardian leaders, addressed them.

‘The fighting is almost over. The Black Legionnaires are being pushed back to their landing craft. Our swiftest warriors hunt down those yet to depart. The Black Legion’s attempt to seize this world has been thwarted.’

Aradryan heard the words but they carried little meaning. He did not share any sense of victory. There was only one certainty. He would live, when he had come so close to death.

He usually felt grief for the lost; that was his role as Mourner. This time he looked upon the white-shrouded dead and felt... angry. Not at those who had slain them, for they had already been punished. His anger was at the waste. What now for the departed? Their spirits would mingle with the infinity circuit, just motes of energy to power the craftworld. Was that salvation or simply delaying the inevitable?

Someone approached from behind, and he turned. The new arrival was a seer, clad in robes of purple, blue and yellow, her face hidden inside a gem-crusted ghosthelm. A dozen runes circled the farseer, playing intertwining orbits about her head and outstretched hand.

‘Your powers continue to grow, Thirianna,’ he said, smiling at his old friend. Her expression was hidden but warmth flowed in return.

‘You stand upon the blade of a choice, Aradryan,’ she told him. ‘Though both options lead to death.’

‘Have you been skein-stalking me again?’ he asked with a quiet laugh.

‘I still take an interest in your affairs,’ she admitted, her tone serious. ‘As when you left to become an Outcast, there is great uncertainty in your future.’

‘No, you are wrong. There is only certainty for us all.’ Aradryan lifted up Diamedin’s spirit stone. ‘This. This is our future, until there are none left to hide us away.’

‘I see. Ynnead. Now I understand the branch of fate I foresaw.’ Thirianna’s gaze turned towards the Ynnari, who were mustering around Yvraine on the scorched and cratered plain. Overhead, launches and other craft descended from orbit to take them back to their ships. ‘You think she has the answer? To doom all of our remaining people to Ynnead’s embrace?’

‘To release us from the grip of the Great Enemy. To become Reborn.’

‘It is self-murder.’

‘It is hope.’

Thirianna said nothing for several heartbeats and then, much to his surprise, stepped forwards and embraced him. He returned the gesture, feeling the flickering heat of her runes as they circled about both of them.

‘We will not part in anger,’ said the farseer. She stepped back, a hand outstretched. ‘I will take care of your companion’s spirit stone.’

‘I did not really know her,’ said Aradryan. He moved to hand over Diamedin and then withdrew. ‘No. No, I shall not. She will be better with me. Among the living.’

The pair remained silent, looking at each other. There seemed nothing else to say, so Aradryan turned away and started towards the Ynnari.

In his thoughts, the Whisper of Ynnead grew louder.

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 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.

Jain Zar, the first of the Howling Banshees, travels to Craftworld Ulthwé to help avert disaster – but Eldrad Ulthran opposes her plans.

A Black Library Publication

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

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Shadows of Heaven © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Shadows of Heaven, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-813-6

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