MENSHAD KORUM
C.S. Goto

'Behind our consciousness lies a profound abyss, about which we riddle and dance through the paths of our kind. The Aspects of Khaine are sprinkled around the rim like garrisons of our sanity. The exarchs are the champions of our souls, keeping the darkness at bay. Beware the Menshad Korum, the hunter who stalks himself. Although trapped in the Path of the Warrior, this exarch owes his soul to no Aspect and knows not who he is. None is closer to Khaine than the Lost Warrior, none closer to the abyss in our souls.'

- On the Transfiguration of Exarchs,
Seer Calmainoc, Ulthw? craftworld


THE RICOCHET CAUGHT him in the back of his head. Surprise flickered over his face as the cacophony of battle was arrested by the shock. There was a sudden silence. Arbariar discarded her shuriken pistol and drew the crackling chainsword into both hands, holding it vertically at her right shoulder in the death-stance of the Striking Scorpions. Vlalmerch fell forward onto his knees, his eyes wide in disbelief and his mouth working silently. A trickle of blood snaked its way round his neck, hissing with toxicity. His fusion gun clattered onto the shimmering wraithbone deck as it dropped lifelessly from his hand. The exarch lifted his gaze into Arbariar's face as he collapsed to the ground at her feet, motionless.
That Soul is Mine. The voice oozed into Arbariar's mind, riddling her thoughts and curdling her intent. She paused, unsure.
Take the stone, and let's get out of here, came the voiceless words of Bureea. Arbariar could feel the urgency in her daughter's thoughts and she snapped out of her nauseous reverie, stooping quickly. Rolling Vlalmerch over onto his back, she pushed her delicate fingers under his armour, where they quested and danced.
They are coming.
I know. Arbariar worked quickly, teetering on the edge of composure like a feather falling onto a blade. She could hear the footfalls of Vlalmerch's Kinsmen, the Bloodguard of the House of Saeemrar. She could feel them getting closer, chipping away at the fabric of time in their burning haste. There was an electric panic in the air that made her fingers fumble and twist: where did he keep his stone... where is it?
It is Mine.
They will kill us. This will be the end of us all. Hurry. We must leave... now.

'ABH AHG VAKARUM!' Quereshir shouted the opening mantra as he raced down the corridor. He held a flamer in both hands, pumping it from side to side as he ran. The Kinsmen flooded out in his wake, like a blast of flame from an afterburner. Their golden helmets spiked into the air in front of them, splintering off a heartbeat of time and sending them roaring into the fractional future.
Quereshir was fastest, driven by fear and drawn by the silence that had suddenly befallen his father's thoughts. He was already through the great doors of Saeemrar's sanctum before their flaming, molten substance had fully withdrawn into the cold wraithbone walls.
The Kinsmen arrived only moments later, but Quereshir was already in a deathhaze, spinning in exquisite splendour, sending gyring flames into the hearts of each shadow that swam and flickered around the room. Using the momentum of his spin, he kicked into the air and spiralled over the prostrate corpse of his father, bathing the Kinsmen in fire before landing, kneeling next to his father's head. The flamer died in his hands and the Kinsmen each dropped to one knee, flames still licking at the fiery orange of their armour.
We come too late. Quereshir's thoughts were uneven, as though he were stifling each one, fearing that they were weapons. Lifting his fingers gently from the exposed skin on the front of his father's neck, he looked up at his Kinsmen. Lord Vlalmerch, Menshad Korum Exarch and chieftain of the Saeemrar Wild Riders was dead. The Kinsmen bowed their heads, transforming the scene into a sea of oranging golds. It was as though they were themselves the flames of this great House.
Quereshir glanced round the chamber. The shadows had returned, but nothing could have survived his cleansing. There were no traces of intruders, not even the psychic echo of their dark intent. The Kinsmen were forcing down their shame and anger, glaring into the dizzying sheen of the polished wraithbone at their feet. Finally, Lureeal, oldest of the Bloodguard lifted his head. Who is responsible for this?
Horror gripped Quereshir as he carefully removed his father's blood-red breastplate. I do not know but, by Khaine, they will pay for it with their souls.

'YOU'RE SURE?'
'Quite sure. This shape is little known and difficult to master. No other squadrons use it.'
Quereshir toyed with the microscopic disc under the closeseer, flipping and turning it so that light glinted from each of its venomous edges. Even he could see that the workmanship was truly breathtaking - the shuriken had been rendered into a tiny scorpion, its tail wrapped round into its chelicerae claws, leaving the pedipalps pincing outwards, forming a perfect barbed circle. He had found the tiniest of shards wedged into one of the pillars in his father's chamber and, sure enough, its exact inverse was missing from the sting of this micro-arachnid.
'A shuriken pistol would have to be fired at very dose range even to scratch a wraithbone pillar,' advised the wraithsmith.
Quereshir considered the ageing eldar in front of him. 'Are you suggesting that the ricochet was a deliberate tactic?'
'That would be my deduction, yes.'
Even without the wraithsmith's insight into the unique shape of the projectile, Quereshir would have recognised the assailant's tactical signature. Only the Striking Scorpion Aspect Warriors were adept enough at close quarter combat to bounce a shuriken off a pillar into the back of their adversary's head. But the Aspect temples had little time for the volatile politics of the Wild Rider clans. Only the Scorpionida Wild Riders of Saim-Hann, whose chieftain had mastered the Aspect Arts of the Striking Scorpions long years before during her time on the Path of the Warrior, stung their projectiles with mandiblaster psychotoxins.
He was taken in combat then, not shot in the back? Lureeal's question bolted into Quereshir's mind, forceful and relieved simultaneously. Quereshir turned to face the staunch Kinsman.
'Yes, my old friend, but there is more to this than a chieftain's honour-duel. We must speak privately.' The son of Vlalmerch had control of his rage now; his torrential emotions were focused into a fine stream of calculation. 'Follow me.'
The two clansmen bowed slightly to the wraithsmith, who nodded a gentle response, and took their leave. They walked soundlessly from the workshop, sharing neither words nor thoughts.
Quereshir could feel Lureeal's fierce resolve as it flooded the space around them, giving the two eldar extra gravity as they walked, slowing them almost to the loping pace of the mon-keigh. But Quereshir was distracted by his own private thoughts and even the power emanating from the Bloodguard captain could give him no reassurance, although he knew that the old eldar would sacrifice his very soul to avenge this evil.
As the flaming doors of the Saeemrar sanctum melded together behind them, the two clan-brothers folded themselves onto the reds and golds of the cushions that covered the council chamber. 'They took his waystone,' said Quereshir levelly. Lureeal nodded slowly, with repulsed understanding. They sat in silence for seven heartbeats, bringing themselves into synchronisation, intertwining their souls. They closed their eyes and called to the other Kinsmen.
Blood Runs,
Anger Rises,
Death Wakes,
War Calls!

SOMEWHERE IN THE lashes of the Eye of Terror, Lelith Hesperax flicked open her eyes with a slow smile, the serrated perfection of her teeth glinting lightlessly. The intricate blackness of the seer-amplification chamber wove itself back into reality around her, ripples of sha'iel dissipating and morphing into the calligraphic runes that settled into the pearlescent darkness of the walls. The chamber was never fully in a single reality, and the runes continued to slip, mingle and twine like snakes of oil, hungry to be released into the warp once again.
The wych queen rose from her meditation without a sound, her movements clothed in shadow and sickly grace. Echoing her motion, an imperceptible doorway fizzled into existence from the curving wall behind her. Light streamed in, silhouetting a tall, slim figure who knelt in wait. Lelith revolved to face the inquiries of her underling, but Yhuki knew better than to verbalise her questions before the great wych had already offered the answers.
The Soul has been Taken. It has Begun.
The subtle yet emphatic force of Lelith's thoughts made Yhuki reel. Very good, was all that she could manage in response, as Lelith glided through the space that separated the two wyches. Not Good, just Inevitable, as though common to all the Myriad Futures.
Lelith swept passed her servant, her long hair caressing Yhuki's naked shoulders and fanning into a wake behind her. Yhuki fought to resist the need to touch the queen's legs as they slid through the eddying air at her side. She knew that to do so would send her soul screaming into the abyss of sha'iel, where it would be consumed by daemons or perhaps by Slaanesh himself. She had heard the whispered rumours of the queen's pact with the Satin Throne.
But might it be worth it? Yhuki could not tell whether those were her own thoughts, and she left her hands clasped in front of her, right fist enveloped by left palm, in the traditional deference of the Hesperax Retinue of the dark eldar. Very Good, came the thoughts again, for there is a Fine Line between the Path of Damnation and the Road to Hell.

THE GOLD AND red armour of the exarch lay ceremoniously upon the altar, its arms pulled across its chest. The image was pregnant with echoes of the Fire Dragon Aspect, from which Vlalmerch had fled as a Lost Warrior, the Menshad Korum. During his time as an Aspect Warrior for the Dragons, Vlalmerch had embraced his fate as the perpetual warrior, trapped into the glorious path of Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God. But, bursting with the pride of his clan, his soul had not been at peace in the Temple of Fire and the exarch had fled the discipline of the flame, returning to his clan as the greatest warrior the House of Saeemrar had ever known. Many eldar in this proud house had walked the Path of the Warrior for various periods in their lives, but Vlalmerch was the first to return to the clan as an exarch. He was their natural leader, inspiring awe, fear, and respect in equal measures. And with him came the flaming signature of the Aspect that he left behind - the Saeemrar gloried in his fire.
'The Path of the Exarch is lonely and savage, but it brings greatness to our kin and might to our flames. It is the Unparalleled Path, striking with fear and awe at our very souls.' As she spoke, the clan's seer surveyed the assembled Saeemrar, each kneeling, fierce with injured pride. It was an inspiring vision, with hundreds of blood-red helmets bowed in honour, filling the glistening temple with visions of fire. At the very front of the congregation were the dazzling golds of the Kinsmen - the clan's Wild Riders and the chieftain's Bloodguard. Swirling in the air around them and seeping up the three steps towards the altar was the flow of shame and the passion for vengeance that these chosen few exuded. We were not there. The air was thick and syrupy, sick with muttered promises of death. And there, amidst the gyring soup of intense emotion, sending eddies and ripples into the psychic field that swamped them all, knelt Quereshir, resplendent in his golden battle-armour, blood red burning on his shoulder guards and in his eyes.
The seer considered Quereshir closely, reaching out with her thoughts and attempting to divine his intent. Never before had Ehliji seen such a maelstrom of emotion erupt from the bereaved. She could see that the son of Vlalmerch was struggling to maintain his composure, battling against his hateful anger, hammering his gaze into the gleaming floor of the temple as though fearing that it might annihilate anything else it touched.
'Because of the horror buried deep in the soul of the exarch, the seers of Saim-Hann have never permitted them access to the infinity circuit of our craftworld, wherein swim the souls of our ancestors, held from the grasp of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Precarious enough is the existence of the eldar. Instead, the fearsome power and ineffable wisdom etched into the exarch's waystone is added to those who were once the exarch before him. The armour of the exarch is justly exalted, for it bears within it the ageless might of eldar past; its breast is studded with the colours of their waystones. It contains its own infinity circuit, a spirit pool, a haven for the soul of Vlalmerch. Now, for the first time in our long history, the passing of an exarch is also the passing of our Saeemrar chieftain; our clan should be enshrined with him in the spirit pool of this armour, granting us immortality and honour immeasurable.'
A wave of imagery flooded into the minds of the congregation, erupting from the prone armour of the exarch like a psychic volcano. Flickering pictures flashed across their eyes, depicting the innumerable manifestations of this Menshad Korum exarch over the millennia. At first there was Vlalmerch towering over the sprawling figure of a Hesperax wych, and then the images whirred into the ancient past. The Fire Dragons watched their exarch lead them from their home world, as it became overwhelmed by the insanity of the Fall, forging a new future for the Saim-Hann aboard this immense craftworld. And then, in the dimness of a half-forgotten past, they watched the moment at which the first aspect warrior was transfigured into the exarch that would always infuse this armour, as he vanquished the necron lord Ardoth and his retinue of Pariahs. The soul of each great warrior, enwrapped in their waystones to hide them from the thirsty quest of Slaanesh, lay embedded in the ancient armour. The exarch was battle incarnate.
Ehliji could sense the pride swelling in the hearts of the clansmen and she muttered a silent prayer that it would overcome the anger in Quereshir. The sons of Saim-Hann were moved more easily by honour and pride than were any of the other eldar whom Ehliji had served. It had been amongst the first of the craftworlds to escape after the Fall, and it carried the legacy of that desperate flight in its very soul. But the son of the exarch showed no signs of movement, his gaze was held by something hidden deep within the wraithbone deck, as though he could see plans emerging out of its profound darkness. Ehliji looked directly at him, hoping to prize him out of his deathly trance, but he was as closed to her as he would have been to a mon-keigh. You are not alone. You must listen. There are things more important than the individual's loss. The eldar must be above such things. The future is splintered and unclear. We cannot afford needless bloodshed.
Tell that to the Scorpionidas! Quereshir's retort thundered into Ehiiji's mind, staggering her. She pushed out her left hand to steady herself against the altar as the blast threatened to throw her from her feet. Lureeal stole a glance up from his reverence, unable to ignore the immense exchange of energy that seered through unseen dimensions above his head. He caught a glimpse of horror on the seer's face before composure retook her and the ceremony continued.
'Lord Vlalmerch burned brightest of his generation, honouring his family and our clan as he took the tremendous burden of this armour. He left us and walked the Path of the Warrior for three hundred years, becoming master of the aspect arts of the Fire Dragons. We all gloried in his great victories,' Ehiiji's tone softened, 'but none more so than he. As the time for his transition to another of our great ways drew near, he lost himself, never to leave the warrior way, and we were saved for another generation. But he did leave the Fire Dragons - Vlalmerch grasped the hand of the Bloody-Handed God, bringing him into the heart of our house, and we lived our lives around his horror. There is no sacrifice greater or more terrifying than that made by our chieftain.'
'Who will wear the armour now?'
Hundreds of faces lifted their eyes from the ground, searching for the origin of that voice. The Kinsmen were on their feet, standing before the altar. Lureeal, the eldest and most venerated captain of the Bloodguard, who had once journeyed the Path of the Warrior for five hundred years, stood forward of the group, his armour shimmering with immaculate honour. 'Without our chieftain we are dishonoured. But without the exarch we are weak - we have grown dependent on his strength. Another must be found.' Murmurs of affirmation rippled through the congregation. Lureeal is right. He should take the armour.
'The armour of an exarch cannot be conferred according to the whims of a Wild Rider clan, but only by a seer of an aspect temple. In any case, none of you are on the Path. There is no one here who is ready. None of you are yet lost to yourselves.'
'Seer Ehliji, I am prepared,' answered Lureeal, meeting the seer's gaze so that she might see the fire in his eyes.
'There is no preparation, Captain Lureeal. There is no will. There is only the future, and this is not your path. Your offer does you great credit, but this is not a matter for a warrior to choose - such is the way of damnation. The exarch simply is, although he may not yet know it.'
Lureeal bowed his head, acknowledging the seer's wisdom.
I will take my father's armour!
Ehliji gasped as the thought struck her.
'I will take my father's armour,' came Quereshir's voice, gentle, firm and quiet.
The clansmen of the Saeemrar searched for this new voice with their eyes as the Kinsmen parted to reveal Quereshir still kneeling at the altar, his attention still caught in the depths of his thoughts, gazing into the wraithbone.
You must not. You are not on the path. You are not yet lost. Your future holds many paths and possibilities. You must not will yourself onto this path, or you will be as lost to us as you will be to yourself. It is not a question of choice.
'I am lost without him. His death has fixed my path. It is set. The armour is mine.' Rising to his feet, Quereshir climbed the steps to the altar, where he turned to address the congregation.
Ehliji stepped back, drawing in her breath, keeping a space between them, fighting to conceal her horror.
'My warrior brothers, Lord Vlalmerch was indeed the greatest of us and the most terrible. There was never one more deserving of this armour than he. Countless enemies have cowered before his flames. Entire planets were rent asunder and starships rendered to dust if they dared to oppose him. Behind him, the Saeemrar Wild Riders of Saim-Hann have bathed in the flames of glory and destruction.
'Kinsmen - my father's Bloodguard - there are none who know better than you the single-minded passion and art with which he flowed into battle, scything into combat on his ruby jetbike, dispensing melta and death to our enemies.
'Yet, my friends, it is true that the soul of Lord Vlalmerch cannot blend into the honour and glory of our craftworld's ancient infinity circuit. However, neither will it swim in the infinities of this armour's spirit pool. His waystone will not adorn the breast of the next exarch. For he is lost to us, as he was lost to himself.
'Our lord did not die in a chieftain's honour battle, as befits the traditions of Saim-Hann's Wild Riders. He was assassinated in his chamber within these temple walls, and his waystone stolen. I have taken the counsel of the wraithsmiths and of my soul, and I know that our chieftain was killed by another eldar of Saim-Hann.'
Quereshir paused to let the significance of this accusation hit home. Feuds between the Wild Rider squadrons were not unknown - the eldar of other craftworlds found the Saim-Hann barbaric because of them - but this was the first time that one had involved an exarch, for whom such games served no purpose. In general, the aspect temples kept out of such political machinations, although eldar new to the Path of the Warrior would sometimes indulge in petty rivalries or honour matches. These were calculated as tests of skill, as rites of passage on the road to mastery of the aspect arts. Such tests always remained behind the closed doors of the temple. But the Menshad Korum was not part of any temple.
Deaths were extremely rare, both within aspect temples and in the conflicts between Wild Rider clans; behind these apparently lethal competitions lay the unspoken unity of Saim-Hann and the profoundly protective angst of the eldar race itself, which balances on the edge of extinction. The squadrons from the Saeemrar and the Scorpionidas had been rivals for millennia, but they were also the closest of allies whenever the craftworld of Saim-Hann went to war. Together they had crushed the vile wyches of Hesperax and driven their remnants into the Eye of Terror. That had been Vlalmerch's finest hour, but it was more than a century ago.
'I am all that is left of Lord Vlalmerch. With my body, I will imbed his memory within the psychoplastic of the exarch's armour. His glories will live on through me and, at the time of my passing, through my own waystone. We may have lost his soul, but his memory will never die. He was our chieftain, and we should decide the fate of his armour - the Fire Dragons have no claim to him.'
A great cheer arose from the Wild Riders in the sanctum of the Saeemrar, ''SAEEMRAR!'', sending thunder stampeding through the corridors and passages that led from the great flaming gates. The sea of reds and golds pulsated with life, as though unified by a single organic purpose, the pride of the warriors whipped into a frenzy of proportions unique to the eldar race. The cheer went up again, ''SAEEMRAR!'', this time accompanied by jets of flame from the Kinsmen, who showered the congregation with hungry light. The conflagration throbbed with fire and with the rhythmic chanting of the Menshad Korum exarch's new name: ''SAEEMRAR!''.
'And now,' cried the voice of Quereshir over the tumultuous din, 'the Saeemrar exarch must prepare for craftwar!' With voices as one, the Wild Rider host began their chant to Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God.
'Blood Runs,
'Anger Rises,
'Death Wakes,
'War Calls!'

'WE MUST TAKE the waystone to the core.' Arbariar held Vlalmerch's soul in her hand, tightly gripped into a fist. She could feel its icy pulse repelling her fingers, as if disgusted by her touch. An intense wave of pity flooded into her as she considered what her great rival had denied himself, and she tightened her fist around him. The fool.
'There will be resistance. Not only the Saeemrar, but the whole of Saim-Hann will seek to prevent this.' As always, Bureea was right. It did not take the gifts of a seer to realise the peril of the Scorpionidas. They had murdered an exarch of their own craftworld, and now they sought to cast his soul into the infinity circuit, where his dark and deathly pollution might condemn the spirit pool to centuries of despair and bloody misdirection. The war-cries of an exarch, any exarch, fixated on death, amplified by the teeming millions of souls in the ancient circuit, risked flaring a beacon for the minions of the Satin Throne. The hint of such an awesome prize might even lure Slaanesh himself.
It was not for nothing that the Council of Seers had prevented the assimilation of the exarchs for millennia. The infinity circuit must be kept pure, for it was the last haven of a dying race, the only hope for the eldar's future. As each of the craftworlds navigated the distant stretches of the galaxy, they collected the souls of their dead into their hearts, keeping them from the clutches of the unspeakable daemons at their heels. Stealth and movement were vital to survival. The peripatetic craftworlds never came together for very long, fearing that the immense concentrations of eldar souls would lure Slaanesh out of sha'iel to consume them. The craftworlds could not risk anything that might endanger their spirit pools.
Arbariar looked into her daughter's eyes, momentary uncertainty flickering in her gaze.
Bureea saw her mother's hesitation, 'Yes, this deed is greater than us, greater even than Saim-Hann. Our action sends myriad new futures lancing into possibility, each one more glorious than the present, sickening pathways of our weak craftworld. We will bring the volcanic wrath of the Saeemrar upon us and suffer agonies of shame, but in the dimness of future realities they will sing of our virtue and truth. We will be exalted in our suffering.'
The seer's words soothed Arbariar's anxiety as she knelt before the Striking Scorpions altar, buried deep within the sanctum of the Scorpionidas. Arbariar had walked the Aspect Path of the Striking Scorpions for many long years before finally transcending the Path of the Warrior and returning to her clan. A fragment of her soul remained in that embattled past, and she devoted part of each day to the rites of the Striking Scorpions, just as other eldar might continue to practise sculpture or poetry even after having left the Path of the Artist. The altar was a reminder of an unforgettable past.
Intricate, artful red webs wove their way through the deep green of the steps beneath her, aspiring toward the altar where they congealed into a crescendo of arachnids, spilling over the magnificent scorpion throne, swamping its blood red form with the seductive threads of their genus. The patterns seemed to swim and float over the wraithbone, dancing and luring the eyes as though enchanted by some dark power. Arbariar had lost herself in this hypnotic web aeons ago, trapped by its apparent eternities. Now she contemplated its depth for a long moment everyday.
Climbing into the throne of the Scorpionidas chieftain, Arbariar turned to face her daughter. 'Lord Vlalmerch was once my honoured battle-brother, until, at the point of our powerblades, the Hesperax separated us, drawing us into her darkness, seducing us at the moment of our victory. That was long ago, but the darkness has grown powerful in Saim-Hann, and now is the time to act. The darkness draws us into war, and we will riddle it with shimmering flecks of death.'
Bureea bowed deeply to her mother, closed her eyes, and called for the Scorpionidas to assemble in the great hall of their sanctum. In the wraithbone of the craftworld infrastructure, she could feel the pounding of warriors responding to her voiceless call.

LELITH HESPERAX RECLINED into her throne, sending delicate jets of blood spraying into Yhuki's face. Bones in the throne creaked gently under her weight and the flesh shifted in desperate need to bring comfort. Lelith closed her eyes and pushed her arms above her head, stretching her tall, gracefully curving body, lying full length as the thronelings rushed to form a bed, aching for a touch of her skin. Yhuki knelt at her queen's feet, biting down on her own tongue with her filed and sharpened teeth. A trickle of blood seeped out from the corner of her mouth, and she cast her tongue around her lips lasciviously.
All is proceeding as you have foreseen it, my queen.
Of course.
The eldar are preparing for craftwar. There will be many souls to harvest. Should we prepare to depart?
No. The Time for Harvest has not yet Come - we are still sowing. Patience.
You do not inspire patience in me, thought Yhuki involuntarily, her tongue still poised with its tip on her upper lip.
Then do not be Patient. Yhuki shivered with shame and desire, searching her mind for the origins of that familiar voice. Her thoughts turned in on themselves, clouding her vision as she searched for herself, trying to steady her soul before it was lost. But it was too late. She could only watch in detached, horrified anticipation as her hand slid across the base of the throne and her fingers crawled onto the skin of Lelith's exquisite calf, picking their way between the complex straps of black psychoplastic that snaked their way up the queen's legs. Lelith let out a breath of pleasure and reached down to Yhuki, drawing her face up along her body, balancing her chin atop a single impossibly fine fingernail. Yhuki could feel a piercing pain where Lelith's nail touched her neck, but she was enraptured.
Look down. The thought appeared directly in the core of Yhuki's mind, and she obeyed without question or hesitation. She let her eyes caress the breathless contours of the queen's form as they extended their gaze down to her delicately barbed feet. There, lying across the base of the throne, blood gushing from an egregious wound on its neck, was her own decapitated body. Horror sprang from the depths of her soul, but she had no breath to scream. Her eyes widened in terror as she cast her gaze back into the infinite and irresistible darkness of the queen's face for the last time.
Lelith slowly withdrew her finger from within the sinewy mess of Yhuki's neck, and the last spark of light vanished from the eyes of her devoted servant. This soul she would offer to the Satin Throne, its twisted and unrestrained hedonism would please the dark lord of pleasure and fulfil the continuing terms of their ancient compact. There is a Fine Line between the Path of Damnation and the Road to Hell, repeated Lelith. Yhuki had just crossed it.
Lying back into her bloody throne, Lelith Hesperax lamented the weakness of her kind - so easily moved to emotion, so easily led astray and lost from their paths. Even the mon-keigh, a prey species, showed greater balance. A little over a century had passed since her mighty starship had been driven from the expanses of open space by the Wild Riders of Saim-Hann. It had been an epic battle, with the reds, greens and golds of the Saim-Hann dashing themselves against the immovable darkness of her wyches; jetbikes, vypers and riders screaming into insanity before they could even engage with the Forces of Strife. Her Reaver jetcycles, clothed in the blackness of space, had whipped Saim-Hann into a frenzy of death, as the craftworld's great guns gyrated and spun ineffectively, loosing volleys of death into their own warriors.
Then the tide turned; two squadrons had banded together to face the black mass of wyches and dark riders, and between them they had driven Lelith back into her own ship. They pursued her on their jetbikes, weaving through the corridors and passages of her flagship releasing bolts of melta and sprays of fire, showering shuriken and scything bladed slaughter as they flew. Hundreds of wyches had fallen. The souls of thousands of dark eldar warriors were lost into the sha'iel, as Slaanesh and his daemons gorged themselves. The Reavers were annihilated by the combined power of the Saeemrar and the Scorpionidas Wild Riders.
Lelith breathed a sickly and pungent laugh as she recalled the two chieftains who had towered over her on her own battle bridge, their bloody blades focused on her neck as she lay defeated on the floor, prostrate in ghastly submission. How Pathetic are the Eldar, she hissed into soundless dimensions. She had been defeated. The chieftains could have finished her with a single sting or burn. But one had turned to rejoin the fight in the ghostly labyrinth of her ship, lost in its single-minded pursuit of combat, leaving the other the honour of her soul. Lelith had squirmed and contorted her form, writhing on the shimmering command deck. The remaining chieftain had hesitated, something stirring deep within its sharply focussed and unbalanced soul. Lelith beckoned to its thoughts, seducing it with dances of blackness and promises of an infinity of battle and death. She had filled the warrior's soul with her darkness and watched the waystone on its colourful breastplate blink into a glistening black.
For a century, Lelith had waited patiently for the moment to come, relishing the inevitable determinism of her vision as though it were battle itself. Just as they had united to confront her, so she would divide them to confront each other. Craftwar would bring her thousands of souls; enough to placate the Satin Throne for centuries.

THE COLD PLATES felt uncomfortable against his skin, as though they had been specifically designed to cause irritation - a kind of ritual penance for the violence encased in their powerful forms. Quereshir rolled his shoulders, trying to adjust the fit of the gleaming psycho-plastic, but the armour seemed to resist his every movement.
The sanctum was fiercely hot, with flames dancing up the walls, defining a perimeter around the sacred space in the heart of the House of Saeemrar. Quereshir had attended his father here many times before. Now Lureeal attended him. Kneeling in deference at the feet of his new lord, Lureeal held up the magnificent golden helmet of the exarch's armour, the final piece in the intricate jigsaw. Reflections of flames flickered and sparkled off the perfectly smooth, curving surface.
Quereshir nodded his acknowledgement to the veteran captain and lifted the helmet from his hands, fitting it neatly over his own head and sealing it into the shoulders of the armour with a slight pressure. Immediately the suit began to shift and move. It twitched and thrashed, forcing Quereshir into impossible contortions, his flailing limbs smashing Lureeal from his delicate deference and sending him rolling across the floor into the flames against the wall.
The armour was sealing itself against the world, and Quereshir could feel the air being forced out of the pockets in the interior. It was shrinking, clinging to his body, wrapping itself around his face and suffocating him. All the time it forced him into random, energetic movements until he was gasping for breaths that he could not take. He tried to call out to Lureeal, but could make no sound. He reached out with his mind, but found his thoughts could not penetrate the psycho-plastics that enveloped him. He was utterly alone and completely imprisoned, dying desperately.
Lureeal watched in horror as Vlalmerch's son threw himself around the sanctum, smashing himself against the walls and the shimmering wraithbone pillars. He had been with Vlalmerch when he had first donned the armour of the exarch, and it had not been like this. The suit had just hissed into place - a perfect fit.
Quereshir could hear voices whispering in his mind and could feel the icy tendrils of the psycho-plastic reaching through his skin, piercing his suffocation with bright moments of pain. The whispering grew louder and the voices multiplied. He tried to shake his head, wanting to empty the voices from his ears, but he could not move. There was chanting: Saeemrar, Saeemrar, Saeemrar. And there were questions spinning around his head, stirring his mind into a nauseating vortex: What do you want? Who will you be? What do you want? Who will you be?
In a flash it was over. The destructive, erratic movements flowed into a graceful dance - an elegant and faultless training form from the repertoire of the most advanced Aspect Warriors. The armour hissed finally into perfect fit, clinging to every fraction of Quereshir's skin. The whispering voices in his mind continued, but they had retreated into the background and Quereshir found his own thoughts once again.
Lureeal looked on in relief and then stooped into a deep bow.
The exarch spoke. 'I am the Menshad Korum.'

QUERESHIR AND HIS Kinsmen folded themselves into the wall on either side of the emerald, crystalline shield-doors of the House of the Scorpionidas. The great gates danced with the blood-red veins of webbing that marked the arachnid clan. The awesome reputation of the Scorpionidas for close quarter combat had been hard won through blood and toil, so the Saeemrar deployed stealth and surprise as their first weapons.
The exarch raised his clenched fist above his head, indicating that his squad should hold its formation. The Bloodguard held fast, neither breathing nor thinking, permitting no trace of their presence to escape. They were motionless against the deepening greens of the house walls, the dirty reds of their armour hazing incredibly into camouflage. A vague sting flooded out through the gates, and the Saeemrar feared that they had been discovered already. But it was no psychotoxin, merely the seer-wave of Bureea searching for danger. It passed in an instant, sweeping along the access corridor with wisps of psychic tendrils questing for prey.
Quereshir opened his fist again, and Lureeal started to set the melta-bombs, fusing each into the fabric of the gates using the intense fire of his flamer at close range.
Set.
On three, captain.
Understood.
'One.'
The seer-wave at the end of the corridor visibly spun on its axis and came storming back towards the gates, seeking the voice.
'Two.'
The cloud started to darken as it drew closer, charging itself with venom, sprinkling tiny shards of psychoconductive crystal as it flew. Behind the gates, in the great hall of the Scorpionidas, the Saeemrar could hear barricades being thrown precisely into place amidst the muffled barking of orders.
'Three!'
The melta-charges exploded sending a superheated backblast of fire jetting along the corridor away from the gates. The mighty gates buckled under the prodigious blast, arching back into the temple before being ripped apart. Molten emerald sprayed out into the interior, sending the defenders diving for cover behind their hastily erected barricades.
Outside, the venom of the seer-wave was beginning to bite, its crystals wedging themselves into the armour of Saeemrar warriors before being triggered by a tremendous psychic blast from somewhere in the inner sanctum of the temple. Tiny strafes of pain erupted in their flesh as a dozen clansmen dropped to the ground, their limbs spontaneously ripped from their bodies as they struggled to rid their minds of the invading toxins.
Quereshir was inside the breach an instant after the melta had blown. For a moment the scene was motionless and he paused in disappointment, scanning the hall for the promise of battle. The magnificent visage of the golden exarch standing unflinchingly amidst the rain of debris, cast into glittering relief by the fire from the flamers of his Bloodguard as they sought to cleanse the hall from the outside, was chillingly beautiful. Then, from behind him, came the searing whine of a shuriken, shattering the aesthetic of the moment, and the melee began.
The exarch ducked into a roll, flipping forward as the shuriken zipped over his head. He stayed in his crouch searching for the gunner, as the ricochet bounced twice between pillars before its energy was spent. Quereshir released three fusion bolts from his gun, and the sniper behind the entrance was lifted off his feet into a staccato flight before crumpling to the ground in ashes.
Lureeal hoisted the red and gold banner of the Saeemrar, its serpentine dragon fluttering at the tip of his firepike as he led the charge into the great hall to support the exarch. 'SAEEMRAR!'
Quereshir realised too late that the hall was a deathtrap. As the Saeemrar flooded the chamber with melta and flame, creating a ring of death around the perimeter of the circular hall with the exarch resplendent at the centre, a hail of shuriken ripped through the burning air and tore into the rapidly diminishing squadron. Those shuriken that missed their mark ricocheted back from the pillars that punctuated the hall or from the giant curving walls, focussing the venomous projectiles back into the killing zone in the centre. The Scorpionidas themselves were tucked in behind their barricades, impervious to all but the most direct strike from a fusion gun.
In an instant, the hall was a dizzying mist of shuriken, as the Scorpionidas released thousands of the monomolecular projectiles each second. The Saeemrar were being ripped to pieces by the lacerations of the air itself, their flames obscuring their assailants rather than damaging them. With each passing moment a dozen or more warriors collapsed to the deck, their limbs, heads and abdomens serrated beyond hope, riddled with death.
This is not the end! Quereshir could feel the will of the ancient exarch reaching through the psycho-plastic of his armour, mocking his indecision, but he did not know what to do. Meanwhile, Lureeal stood with his back to Quereshir, projecting the intense melta-beam of his firepike directly into the barricade that blocked their advance into the inner sanctum. He stood his ground, daring the shuriken to sting him, knowing that his destiny would not end in this hall.
Kill them. Kill them all! The voice inside Quereshir's mind continued to taunt him, driving him insane with anger. Get out of my head!
This is your head. There is no escape from your path now. There is only escape from this hall. Kill them all. You are the Lost One.
Quereshir watched his mighty Bloodguard fall, following him with unquestioning loyalty to their deaths, fighting their brothers at his word. Khaine forgive me! The exarch launched himself into the air, fusion gun firing continuously as he leapt above the killing zone, like a fountain of fire erupting from the epicentre of battle. At the apex of his leap, he spun rapidly, extending his arms as stabilisers, like a gyroscope, hovering for a moment on sheer energy. His eyes dilated slightly, triggering the release of the melta-bombs that were fixed into constellations along the armour of his arms. They flew outwards, curving under the centrifugal forces of his spin, scattering themselves around the perimeter of the great hall.
The exarch landed lightly into a crouch in the centre of the chamber as his Kinsmen continued to blaze all around him. He rose to his feet and his melta-bombs exploded, incinerating huge chunks of wall and pillar, running cracks snaking into the ceiling, which collapsed, crushing those few Scorpionidas who had survived the blasts. The last ricochets of shuriken vanished, and the hall was cast into silence.
'Area secure,' reported Lureeal with laconic whit.
We will crush them like the insects they are! whispered the Menshad Korum, sending terrible chills into the souls of the remaining Saeemrar clansmen.

THEY ARE AT the gates.
I know.
You must leave. The exarch is with them.
Gather the Riders, we must get to the core before Quereshir finds us.
The explosion that breached the gates sent shivers through Bureea as she detonated the psychoconductive crystals embedded in the Saeemrar warriors and simultaneously called for the Scorpionida Rider Host to assemble in the sanctum. There Arbariar lay in her jetbike, waiting for her wing to fall in. Twelve riders came running in through the blast-shields of the sanctum an instant before they were automatically sealed, following the breach of the great hall. Their jetbikes were already in formation, poised ready for an instant strike at any time, and the riders slid into them as though into a second skin. Indeed, the deep green deflector armour, laced with trickles of blood-red webbing echoed the armour of the Scorpionida Warriors. The bikes sported red-black scorpion's tails at the rear, which encased a shuriken cannon, and two matching pedipalp pincers protruded from the front, which housed the venomous powerblades of jetbike scythes.
The engines fired up, temporarily obliterating the cacophonous chaos of battle in the outer chamber of the temple.
We must get this soul to the core.
In unison the Riders responded, Understood.
Arbariar turned her face to Bureea, though her elegant features were hidden behind the startling red of her helmet, Hide. Then, with a twitch of her right wrist, the engine roared into life and the jetbike parallaxed into a stream of greens and reds, searing through the escape tunnel that ran from the back of the sanctum and bursting out into the jungles of the life-dome of Saim-Hann, her Wild Riders in close pursuit.
Bureea felt the fatal silence fall in the great hall, and she climbed up the steps in front of the scorpion altar to face the enemy when they came through the blast-shields. The emerald doors to the sanctum began to glow with orange heat, radiating out from the centre where the melta-beam must have been concentrated on the other side. With a sudden roar and a deafening sonic blast, a golden figure burst through the molten ruins, tucked into a ball as though fired from a cannon. The Menshad Korum exarch rolled to his feet at the base of the stairs to the altar, and his Saeemrar Bloodguard climbed through the ruins of the blast-shields to fan out behind him.
Where is She? Where is She?
The question echoed powerfully in Bureea's mind, but she could not identify its psychic source. She considered Quereshir closely.
Again you come too late, son of Vlalmerch. Bureea held her ground in the face of the towering might of the exarch. She was a wych-seer of the Scorpionidas and would give nothing to this weak and deluded mind.
Where is She? The question returned, more powerful, more emphatic, and Bureea pushed her head into her hands in a vain attempt to shut out the voice.
Where is She? The question repeated itself over and over, beating against the inside of her skull, obliterating her own thoughts and yet compelling her to answer. In an instant, Quereshir knew Arbariar's plan, and he summoned his Wild Riders who lay in wait outside the temple.
Bureea slumped to her knees in front of the altar, her eyes bulging in their sockets under the pressure in her head, aghast at the single-minded power of the exarch before her. Was that really his psychic voice? Sharing her last moment of horror with her one-time ally, she asked, Did you ever see your father's waystone? Do you know why he hid it beneath that armour you wear?
By the time the Saeemrar Wild Riders arrived, Bureea was dead, and he who was once Quereshir slid easily into his jetcycle at the head of the squadron. The Saeemrar Riders shimmered in their bloodstained bikes, golden fins projecting on each side, bristling with fusion barrels. On the nose of every machine, enlivened by icons of twisting flames, protruded a rapier-like fire-lance.
'They are heading for the core,' hissed the voice of Quereshir through the bike's comm-channel. They seek to cast the soul of Vlalmerch into the infinity circuit and bring doom to Saim-Hann. Our ancient House shall not be implicated in this black treachery, this compart with the unspeakable ones.'
For Vengeance and Glory!
'For vengeance and glory!' cried the exarch as he kicked his jetcycle into gear and it rocketed forward into the escape tunnel.
'For the Saeemrar and Saim-Hann!' called Lureeal, as he powered after his lord.

ARBARIAR FLASHED THROUGH the jungle, the blurred greens of her bike blending incisively into the foliage. She wove urgently through the trees, scything down those that she could not avoid. Following in her jet-stream came the Scorpionida Riders, each willing themselves to greater and greater speeds, conscious of the plans that were unfolding amongst the leaves around them.
Second wing, fall back and provide cover.
Understood.
Six riders broke away from the pack, peeling off to the right in a delicate chain formation, curving back to retrace the vapour trails of the leading riders. They slowed to subsonic speeds as their seer-screens flickered into life, indicating twelve hostiles approaching hypersonically. The six Scorpionida Riders fanned out to form an offensive pincer, with the flanks twenty metres in advance of the centre.
'Accelerate to attack speed.'
'Understood.'
The Scorpionida Riders lay flat onto their bikes as they accelerated through the trees, heading directly for the advancing Saeemrar, who showed no sign of slowing.
'There, on the horizon.'
'Affirmative. Targets acquired.'
As one, the Scorpionida squadron banked slightly to their left, widening their formation to outflank the larger numbers of Saeemrar Riders who roared through the space that separated them. Scorpionidas and Saeemrar opened fire simultaneously, shuriken cannons and fusion bolters filling the rapidly diminishing space with horrifying noise and superheated shards of death. Two of the Saeemrar machines abruptly fell behind the attacking line before accelerating off into flanking arcs to each side. Two more coughed and plumed smoke into the air, losing their stabilisers in a hail of shuriken, spinning over and over before drilling into trees in javelins of fire.
Then the space was closed and the Wild Riders flashed past each other, weaving through a frenzy of lances and scythes. Four Saeemrar Riders slowed into a turn to continue the joust whilst the rest powered on after Arbariar, joined belatedly by the two flankers who had fled the fight. Three golden helmets rolled on the jungle floor, sliced from their bodies by the pincer scythes of the Scorpionida wing. Impaled on the lances of two of the turning Saeemrar, the surviving Scorpionidas could see two of their comrades, hanging limply. Balls of flame in the undergrowth indicating the fate of their bikes.
Lureeal released a blinding flash of fire from his lance, incinerating the eldar slumped over the nose of his machine, and gouging great chunks out of the attacking line of Scorpionidas. He kicked his bike into gear and charged back into the fray, fusion barrels glowing with discharge and his lance blazing a path before him. The two green bikes in the centre of the Scorpionida formation pulled up in flames before exploding in mid-air, sending burning shrapnel scattering into the foliage, igniting fires in the undergrowth wherever it landed.
The two remaining Scorpionida Riders had closed into proximal range, sliding their bikes sideways into the stampeding line of Saeemrar, twisting their pincer scythes and wrenching the firelances free from two of the blood-red machines, causing the bikes to destabilise and strafe with internal explosions.
Lureeal banked his machine sharply as he overshot the combat zone, and then accelerated back into the mangled mess of explosions and twisted chassis. He arrived with fusion flaring from his golden fins, catching the fuel cells of a Scorpionida bike which was struggling to free itself from the contorted remains of its prey. The bike bucked and exploded, obliterating a Saeemrar Rider who was blazing in from the rear.
Lureeal drew his powerblade as his guns overheated and launched himself from his bike onto the back of the remaining Scorpionida, sending his own jetcycle spiralling uncontrolled into a tree. Lureeal lifted his blade and plunged it vertically down through the back of the Wild Rider who lay beneath him, fighting desperately to keep control of his machine. The blade passed straight through the treacherous eldar, rupturing a clutch of fuel lines in the bike below, and the machine was transfigured into a sudden fireball. Lureeal, captain of the Saeemrar Bloodguard, grinned with the perfection of his end as the flames consumed him.

LELITH'S TEETH SHONE brilliantly in the intense darkness of her seer-chamber. Her lips were a breath apart, as she carelessly toyed around the point of an extended incisor with her tongue. The images cycling through her mind pleased her, and she was enjoying the delicate pleasure of picking between the various victories that were unfolding into her future. The seeds planted a century before were blossoming perfectly into barbed and poisonous fruits - she could taste their bitter delights in her own acidic saliva. The craftwar of Saim-Hann was underway.
A gentle breeze breathed into the chamber, swirling the cool air into a vapour that curdled around the wych queen like a cloak of mist. Lelith shrugged her sculpted shoulders, as though shaking free of an unwanted hand, sending her hair into cascades of shimmering blackness. The mist swirled into an eddy in the centre of the chamber, dragging its rejected tendrils across Lelith's skin, leaving tiny, reluctant silver trails drawn over her back.
The runes that swam over the iridescent walls of the chamber began to glow with a red so deep that it was almost imperceptible in real space. Waves of sha'iel pulsed through the calligraphy, rippling the colours and shapes between multiple realms of existence.
Lelith shivered slightly, disliking the moisture that was seeping into the atmosphere of her chamber from an infinitely fertile world. She narrowed her eyes, waiting for the messenger to take its chosen form, squinting her disdain into the shapeless mist that intruded in her space. The languorous fog offended her with its lack of urgency. The liberties it took with her skin would have damned any other being to exquisite heights of pain and suffering. But there was no threat that she could extend to this visitor, and that angered her even more.
Eventually, a shape began to form in the spiralling mist. It was hardly visible in the darkness of the seer-chamber, just the suggestion of vapour in the air. Lelith recognised the vague face at once. She had been expecting him. The under-determined figure in the mist suggested a staggering beauty, and even Lelith felt a smile fight for a brief moment on her face. In the air around the manifestation, a gorgeous scent started to disseminate into the chamber. Lelith noted it without any outward signs of recognition, allowing the rich stench of blood to flood in between her lips, leaving the tantalizing taste of death on her tongue. The cool of her seer-chamber was ruined by fecund moisture and, despite herself, Lelith loved it.
I have come to thank you, Lelith, for the morsel you sent to me.
Lelith watched in fascination as the figure's mouth formed the soundless words that eased into her mind with velvety smoothness. This thing was disgustingly impressive.
We have a bargain, she replied. There is no place for gratitude here.
Yes, we have a bargain, and morsels were not part of it, Lelith. I grow weary of waiting.
Lelith twitched at duplicity of the languid wretch, wrenching herself out of the nauseating reverie that had threatened to overcome her. Be gone, messenger! I am aware of our terms. My ways are more subtle than yours. My plan is underway and there will be thousands of souls ripe for our harvest soon.

THE BURNING WRECKAGE of two more Scorpionida Riders blurred past Quereshir, falling behind in plumes of smoke and flame. They tumbled into the oncoming rush of his wingmen, destroying the last of his squadron in an immense collision. The exarch's fusion guns fired continuously, sending molten volleys into the trails of the fleeing traitors. Bursting out of the jungle and into the wraithbone edifice of the craftworld itself, he wove through the narrow infrastructural corridors of Saim-Hann with consummate skill, anticipating the ventilation tubes or sudden corners before they appeared - as though guided by some external force. Not even Arbariar could match his skill. Despite the years she had spent mastering the Aspect Arts of the Striking Scorpions, she was no match for an exarch. He was gaining on her, drawing more speed from his hate and his desperate need not to be too late again. At last his bolts tore into the engine of the final Scorpionida Rider, sending it spiralling into the immovable wraithbone wall.
Now it is only us!
The two riders flashed through the labyrinth of tunnels that perforated the craftworld of Saim-Hann, heading deeper and deeper into its skeletal structure. Despite himself, Quereshir was impressed by the skill of his prey; he grinned in anticipation of the battle to come, clicking his fusion guns from automatic to manual.
This is not what you think. Quereshir squinted his eyes to shut out the thoughts of Arbariar, squeezing off a thread of light from his firelance to silence the voice in flame. The Scorpionida chieftain bobbed smoothly over the lancefire as it scored the underside of her bike, sending pulses of heat through the machine's chassis. Your father will be safe in our spirit pool, it is his only hope. He would bring doom to you, exarch.
There is No Hope, only Fate. A distant thought echoed into both of their minds.
Arbariar flicked on her guidance-seer and inhaled sharply when she saw how close she was; perhaps ten seconds separated her from the core. She moved her feet into the firing stirrups of the shuriken cannon and turned it through 180 degrees, facing back toward the hunter at her heels. Clicking the mechanism to automatic, she could hear the plasti-crystal generator whine into life, and the magnetic repulsor began to rattle off thousands of arbitrary shards into her wake.
The exarch watched the Scorpion's sting revolve to face him, jetting out showers of tiny shurikens, filling Arbariar's slipstream with a dark venomous cloud. He angled his jetcycle up to the ceiling of the passage, skimming over the lining of the fog and scraping all of the paint off the belly of his machine. From his new vantage point he rapidly squeezed off two fusion bolts, which flashed down into the coolant chambers on the Scorpionida's bike, pushing it towards the ground and disabling its thrusters.
Arbariar wrestled with the controls, but her bike was shaking violently. It ploughed into the wraithbone deck with a shrill scrape, sending sparks flying through the passage way. The machine skidded and tumbled along the corridor, but Arbariar leapt clear before it crashed into the apex of a vicious twist in the tunnel, rolling to her feet into readiness.
Quereshir dipped the nose of his bike and spun the rear through 180 degrees, sliding into a stationary hover as he overshot the wreckage on the deck beneath him. With only a fraction of hesitation, he clicked the fusion guns back onto automatic and fired up the lance, everything searing through the air toward his downed foe. Then he kicked the bike into motion and charged down at her.
Arbariar danced beautifully between the droplets in this rain of death, spinning and flipping her way through an invisible, safe path in the torrent. As Quereshir drew near, she powered up her Scorpion's Claw, releasing a tirade of shuriken from the cannon that ran from the gauntlet along her arm, and then forced the cleaving powerfist up into the weakened underbelly of Quereshir's machine. The jetcycle spluttered and then erupted, oozing flames through the passage and sending the exarch clattering to the ground.
Quereshir landed heavily, but was quickly on his feet, bathing in the flames that licked at his golden armour. Immediately he was charging at the Scorpionida chieftain, fusion pistol flaring and power sword circling with a lethal flourish. Arbariar dropped to one knee, perfectly placing a single shuriken into the left arm of the frenzied exarch.
Quereshir winced with the impact, and seethed in anger as the psychotoxins forced him to release his grip on the fusion gun. But then he was on her, his blade piercing her chest as she staggered to her feet. The mandiblasters in her helmet spat impotently as the exarch lifted her off her feet, draped over the blade of his sword.
'Give me my father's soul!'
That Soul is Mine. Arbariar had been nauseated by those voiceless words before, and they made her hesitate. Quereshir, wait...
With both hands, she clasped the blade that punctured her body, trying to relieve some of the weight that was slowly cutting her in two. 'You must not blend his soul into the spirit pool of the Menshad Korum,' she whispered, blood beginning to trickle from the corner of her mouth. 'It is too close to the abyss already. He will bring ruin to your Kin and darkness to our people. It is the worst of all possible futures. He will reap war on Saim-Hann. In craftwar only the unspeakable ones can win.'
Quereshir could not believe his ears, 'You dare to insult the honour of the Saeemrar! You who would commit us all to ages of war and destruction by casting the waystone into the core?'
'Perhaps, but that future is uncertain, and is a less bloody path in the end. We can protect him. Let the core cleanse his soul and intertwine him with the good. It is his only hope. Do it for him. For us there is only calculated risk.'
There is no Hope, only the Inevitable. The distant voice echoed into their minds again.
Quereshir could contain his fury no longer, and he ripped his blade from the body of Arbariar, splitting her in two and flicking her own pulsing emerald waystone from her breast. He stooped down to her body, watching the last remnants of her life blink silently out of her eyes. There, tightly gripped in the lifeless Scorpion Claw, was his father's soul, shimmering and utterly black.
The son of Vlalmerch stared wordlessly into the palm of his vanquished foe, and something deep within him stirred in revulsion, but it came too late. From somewhere outside, a voice oozed into his mind, That Soul is Mine, it was Pledged to Me Long Ago.
Quereshir could feel the voice seducing him, fragments of it already riddled the psycho-plastics of his armour, compelling his body. The Path of the Exarch is Lonely and Savage, Precarious. You are the Menshad Korum.
The son of Vlalmerch reached down for his father's waystone. Resigned, desperate and horrified, he pushed it into the breast-plate of his ancient armour, already studded with the souls of all of those who had worn it before. He could feel the icy chill spread out over the spirit pool, and he could sense the other souls reeling in anguish as the darkness descended upon them. Horror flooded into his blood as the spirit swam through his body, already irrevocably synthesised with the ancient armour. His own soul twisted in revulsion and withdrew into itself, petrified with shame and terror. It could do nothing as Quereshir's mind fell into the abyss and his intent became filled with darkness.
Far away, in the lashes of the Eye of Terror, he who was once Quereshir felt the motion of a giant starship entering the webways.
Sow the seeds, reap the harvest. Darkness comes for you.
Picking Arbariar's emerald waystone from the floor, the Lost Warrior turned to harvest more fruits before the arrival of his queen.