It had not gone unnoticed in Ulthwe or amongst the eldar of the other peripatetic craftworlds that the eldar of Ulthwe showed a marked tendency to pursue the darkest aspects of their being. After millennia of skirting the lashes of the Eye of Terror, many had hypothesised that the Chaotic tears of the Eye itself had touched the very soul of the craftworld. In whispered tones, the eldar of Biel-Tan and even Saim-Hann would refer to Ulthwe as the Craftworld of the d.a.m.ned a implying that it might one day follow its sister Altansar and plunge into the Eye itself, never to be seen again.

The only thing that seemed to preserve Ulthwe from its doom was its simultaneous tendency to produce unusually high numbers of seers and warlocks. Led by the mighty Eldrad Ulthran himself, the Seer Council had continuously and successfully navigated a path through the tortuous, myriad futures that spiralled out of the Eye.

Guardian Dhrykna was not unaware of the various significances of the Aspect Temple in which she had trained for so many years. She had known even before that fateful day, long years before, when she had felt the pull of the b.l.o.o.d.y hand of Khaine, his ethereal fingers beckoning her into the light. The choice of warrior Aspect was a very personal one, and it was not something in which other eldar would interfere. However, Dhrykna had been aware, even then, that she was stepping out of the usual conventions of her society. At the time of her initiation into the sparkling temple of light, only four other aspirant warriors knelt at her side, waiting to take their first steps on the Shining Path. Meanwhile, in the cavernous and echoing halls of the Dark Reaper temple, high above them, numberless ranks of eldar knelt in obeisance and shadow before the altar of Maugan Ra.

Now, at the moment when Ulthwe most needed the lightning speed of Khaineas fabled spear, the Shining Spears were a tiny force, bereft of leadership and all but forgotten in the depths of the craftworld. They had fallen into the realm of rumour and myth. Instead, where Ulthwe needed speed it had the solid power of the Reapers, where it needed mobility it had ranged fire power.

Even the Black Guardians, the craftworldas princ.i.p.al force, were const.i.tuted mainly of warriors that had pa.s.sed a cycle of their lives in the service of the Dark Reapers. They were a small and dwindling presence on Ulthwe. The glory days of the Black Guardians, when they were known and feared throughout the Eye, were dwindling, and their training made them ill-suited to meet the challenges of the current threat.

As she casually tilted her black and silver jetbike around the last corner, almost laying the machine on its side in order to pull its nose around tightly enough, Dhryknaas pupils contracted suddenly, reacting to the flood of light that greeted her. Up ahead, half buried in the floor and half obscured by the low ceiling the glowing, crystalline structure of the Shining Temple burst into view. It was radiant, and Dhrykna caught her breath, always awe-struck when she saw the incredible architecture of the shrine building.

In these days of darkness and shadow, it seemed almost inconceivable that Ulthwe wraithsmiths had once been able and willing to engineer such incomparable light in the bowels of their world. No matter how many times she saw it, it took her breath away each time.

Almost involuntarily, Dhrykna slowed her approach, letting the nose of her bike drop and easing off the power. She just coasted in, keeping her eyes fixed on the radiant brightness as she emerged from the darkness of the craftworld beyond. After a few moments, her eyes began to adjust to the light and she could pick out the runic inscriptions that laced the great crystal archway. On the centrepiece was the ancient rune slavhreenur a salvation. It resembled an arrow striving for heaven, crossed through with doubts, leaving a serpentine ignorance squirming beneath it. Its likeness was branded into the skin of the forearm of each warrior who took steps along the Shining Path; it symbolised that the warrior was one who had emerged out of the darkness and into the light.

As she approached, the brand on Dhryknaas own arm started to throb. She could feel her blood drawing her onwards.

She had not been back to the temple for years, not since leaving it so hurriedly. In her memory, she had been expelled from the order, although in truth she had simply been refused ascension to the status of its exarch. She had left of her own volition. The sacred armour of the exarch had been vacant for decades, since none had pa.s.sed along the Shining Path and found themselves stuck on that road, unable to move on to one of the other myriad eldar ways. It seemed that the souls of the Ulthwe eldar were increasingly at variance with the spirit of the declining temple. Dhrykna had felt that she was different. Her heart ached for the eternal embrace of the ancient armour, in which writhed the souls of all the previous exarchs of that exalted temple, each absorbed into the spirit stone of the very first exarch of the Shining Spears on Ulthwe, the radiant Prothenulh, whose name would always be in the mind of any exarch who donned his armour. In her dreams, Dhrykna could sometimes hear his voice whispering to her.

The hour is dark at which Dhrykna of the Shining Path returns to the Temple of Light. The words entered her mind with familiar ease even before her bike pulled to a standstill and she dismounted before the great gates. The source of the thoughts was nowhere to be seen, but Dhrykna knew better than to expect the templeas guardians to show themselves so quickly.

aI return to you at the direction of the Emerald Seer,a said Dhrykna, standing before the gates and touching her right fist to her heart, displaying the brand on her arm. aUlthwe has need of the Shining Spears once again.a As she spoke, the runic brand on her arm crackled with light, like an intricate fuse. The great crystal gates before her sizzled in response, sending pulses of light lacing around their edges. After a second, the gates cracked open and slid back into the walls on either side, leaving a wide opening between. Beyond them, in the interior of the outer temple, Dhrykna could see the shimmering amethyst courtyard, radiant with a tranquil, lavender light. She sighed deeply. Having resigned herself to never seeing this sight again, Dhryknaas heart was flooded with competing emotions. In the end, however, it was a homecoming, and she gathered herself to enter.

Know this, Dhrykna, the Shining Path permits no shadows. There is nowhere for darkness to hide in the Crystal Temple. There is nothing but eternal light in the innermost sanctum, receding off to infinity through an endless regression of refractions and reflections. Do not enter willingly. Enter because there is no other way for you to go.

The Black Guardian stood on the threshold of the Temple of the Shining Spears for the second time in her life and gazed in at the ineffable beauty of the amethyst courtyard within. The first time that she had pa.s.sed through those gates, she had not known what to expect on the other side. She had only felt the inexplicable and implacable drive to enter. This time, she would take those steps onto the path in full knowledge, knowing that there was no way back into the ever-cycling life of the eldar way. These steps would condemn her to battle and bloodshed for the rest of her long life. Thaeaakzi had warned her that she was not the exarch yet, but her soul screamed at her that this was her destiny.

aI understand, and I take the light into my soul. I will become the spear of Khaine. Lightning flashes, blood falls, death pierces the darkness.a With that, Dhrykna the Black Guardian stepped back into the Aspect Temple and the crystal gates slid shut behind her, sealing her into the brightness within.

CHAPTER FOUR: GLADIATRIX.

The darkness was intense, burning down from the swirling sky like the light of a black star. Clouds formed and roiled high in the thick atmosphere, defined against the lightless stratosphere in crisp contrast, like whirling currents through oil, smothering the myriad, grotesque stars of the Eye of Terror beyond. Despite the profound darkness, the surface of planet Hesperax appeared to be bathed in a kind of eerie visibility. It was not a world from which light had been banished by the efforts of night. Rather, it was a world forever untouched by the flaming fingers of a sun. The jagged mountains, spiked with lethal rocks and cracked through by vicious ravines, had never been warmed by the light. They were ice to their core. Darkness streamed across the surface where light should have been, cutting the scene into relief through its own, distinct visual properties. This was not simply a world devoid of light, it was a world utterly alien to it. It was not a realm of shadows, it was a world on which light had no place at all. It was a world wrought in the very image of Commorragh itself.

Once, long ago, the barren and desolate summit of Sussarkhas Peak had been the highest on Hesperax a in the days before Lelith blew the top off it to excavate her grand amphitheatre. The peak had pierced the oily clouds themselves, rising out from a mighty range of mountains near the northern pole. From there, Lord Sussarkh had reigned over the wastelands as a king, filling his subjectsa hearts with fear and hatred, subjugating his dark eldar brethren just as he ruined the spirits of his foes.

The world teemed with death and its valleys ran slick with blood as Sussarkh twisted the will of his people and turned them against one another, stirring them into rebellions and counter rebellions, bringing the world to the brink of its own ruin. Meanwhile, Sussarkh the Kabal Slayer sat in mirth upon his mountain peak, watching the pretenders to his throne rip each other asunder.

It is said that the magnificent Sussarkh trusted n.o.body except his favoured consort, the breathtaking Lelith of the Wych Cult of Strife. One night, at the peak of his glory, even as the mountainsides were burning with the eternal flames of perpetual combat that Sussarkh himself had fanned into life, he called on his queen, the beautiful and terrible Lelith, to dance for him on the mountaintop. And she had danced.

The retinue of the Archon had arrayed itself around the rim of the summit, forming their eager eyes into the sweeping boundary of a makeshift amphitheatre, preparing a s.p.a.ce for the exquisite performance of the young wych. Legend says that a bolt of black lightning tore through the heavens as Lelith slid her shapely form between two of the incubi warriors and stepped into the ceremonial ring, letting her long black cloak fall into the dust around her ankles.

She stood into the centre of the circle, folding her pale-skinned arms around her scarcely clothed torso, clutching a single, elegantly curving blade in each of her delicate hands. As she started to move, the heavens opened and thick black rain fell from the sky, speckling her graceful form with dashes of oil, making her shimmer and flare as she danced, with her blades flashing into sweeps and whirls of motion. The dance was beautiful and terrifying to behold.

After half an hour, Lelithas movements slowed smoothly to a halt, her glistening body coated in a layer of viscous black rain, reflecting the dark lightning that lashed through the sky above the mountain peak. She dropped to her knees before the throne of the dark eldar lord who had subjugated the kabals and cults of Hesperax, bringing the planet under his power and will, proclaiming himself the first Archon Lord of Hesperax. With one knee on the soaked ground, Lelith bowed her head and extended her arms to each side, her curving blades extending her reach as though growing out of her hands. The line of her glistening and exposed shoulder blades is said to have transfixed the gaze of the entranced and lascivious Sussarkh.

Rising to her feet and folding her arms back around her body, as though suddenly coy now that her performance had ended, Lelith grinned at the lord as he lounged in his throne. She ran the tip of her tongue over the extended points of her incisors, tempting Sussarkh to rise to his feet and take a step towards her. As he did so, he must have noticed the glint of maniacal pa.s.sion that flashed in the wychas eyes, for he suddenly cast his gaze around the ring of his retinue, as though looking for rea.s.surance.

But something was wrong. Although the incubi warriors stood exactly as they had when Lelith had started her dance, they were drenched in the dark liquids that fell as rain, but were not moving. They were not even following the breathless motions of the exquisite young wych with their hungry eyes.

Looking more carefully through the rain, Sussarkh must have realised that the liquid that slicked the armour of his bodyguards was not just rain. Their eyes did not follow Lelith, because the glint of life had vanished from them. Even as he watched, the shapes of his most trusted warriors began to shift and deform as slices and cuts began to appear all over their bodies. Limbs came away from torsos and skulls parted through the middle, slipping and falling to the ground into neatly diced heaps of their own tissue.

With a sudden realisation, Sussarkh whipped his own blade from its holster by his side and spun to face the exquisite form of Lelith. She was no longer standing coyly before the throne, her feet being caressed by ripples in the pool of the incubi retinueas blood. Instead, she was reclining sensuously in the throne itself, the tip of one of her blades touched to her bottom lip as though she were slightly embarra.s.sed.

Sussarkh threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling cry, filling the rain drenched summit with the joyful agonies of threatened vengeance. Then he pulled his sword up to his shoulder and took a step towards the treacherous wych. But something was wrong. He tried again, his mind confused and rebelling against his apparent immobility. He remained motionless.

Horror sank slowly into the soul of the Archon Lord as he realised that his reign had finally been brought to a close. He looked down at his own chest and watched the intricate web of monomolecular cuts and slices that laced his body gradually expand as blood started to seep out of them. He watched his sword splash and clatter to the ground, his severed arms still clutching its hilt. The very last thing that the great Sussarkh saw was a puddle of his own blood lapping against the naked foot of Wych Queen Lelith of Hesperax as his head crashed down into the expanding pool before her throne.

Over the following decades and centuries, Lelith transformed the nature of Hesperax, forging it into the image of her own will. In the place of internecine civil war, Lelith inst.i.tuted the gladiatrix auditoriums where the wyches of her realm could exercise their grievances or simply indulge their pleasures. The greatest of the amphitheatres was cut into the summit of Sussarkhas peak itself, and it was there, overlooking the rocky steps to heaven themselves, that Lelith kept the throne. She even kept the mountainas name, letting it stand as an emblem of the folly of opposing her. Nonetheless, the kabals of Hesperax had not been disbanded, and the Cult of Strife was not the only wych coven; many voices whispered in the dark about how the wych queen could have maintained control for so long. Some of the voices even dared to suggest that her power was not entirely her own, and that the winding paths of the future might one day separate her from her mysterious, shadowy patron.

A different klaxon sounded, breaking through the dull, monotonous whine of the warp sensorsa continuous warning with a sharp, pulsing screech. At the same time, a blue light over the Lance of Darknessas main viewscreen started to flash.

aProximity warning?a asked Atreus, dragging his eyes away from the magnified image of the immense, distant craftworld. He was still struggling to believe that a s.p.a.ce vessel of that magnitude could really exist; knowing it in theory was no preparation for seeing it in reality. From a distance, it could easily be mistaken for a planet or even a star.

aNo,a replied Octavius, turning away from the screen and striding towards one of the nearby control consoles. As he approached, the serf instantly rose out of the chair and backed away from the monitor, making s.p.a.ce for the Deathwatch captain without needing to receive an order. aThis is a range warning. We donat have company yet, but itas on its way.a aUlthwe?a asked Atreus, his voice sceptical.

aNo,a replied Ashok, without having moved or even turned from his position at the main screen. aSomething else.a aHeas right,a said Octavius, staring into the green images that flickered across the terminal monitor. aSmall and fast, heading out of the Eye itself. Their signatures are inconstant, as though the ships themselves keep falling out of phase.a aShadowfields?a queried Atreus. He had never come across a dark eldar Corsair before, but he had done his research. In common with his brother librarians from the Blood Ravens, he never went into battle without a thorough knowledge of his potential foes. The deceptive device, codified as a shadowfield by Blood Ravens researchers, enabled the Corsair to pa.s.s in and out of sensor arrays with impunity. Sometimes, if used in combination with a mimic engine, even causing the escort ships to register on monitors as friendlies.

As far as Atreus was aware, no functioning examples had ever been seized by Imperial forces, and certainly not by the Blood Ravens. Of course, he was perfectly willing to concede the probability that the Ordo Xenos had more Corsairs holed up in research facilities somewhere, or even that other s.p.a.ce Marine Chapters might have captured one without reporting it. If it had taught him nothing else, his brief period of service in the Deathwatch had revealed to Atreus how little information was actually shared between the various inst.i.tutions of the Emperoras will.

aPossibly,a replied Octavius, well aware of the stories of such devices.

aAtreus is right a they are eldar raiders, or dark eldar,a confirmed Ashok, his eyes closed with concentration. aBut they are not welcome. Not Ulthwe. Ulthran is aware of them. The craftworld has launched gunships.a The Blood Ravens librarian nodded his silent affirmation.

aHeas right,a said Octavius, still gazing into the ghostly green screen. aSix Shadowhunter escorts have launched from Ulthwe and identified themselves to us as friendlies. But they do not appear to be intercepting theaa Octavius cut himself off. Suddenly the range warning stopped and the blue light faded.

aTheyare gone,a he said. aThey just blinked out a He was lost in thought for a moment. aThe Shadowhunters are closing on our position. They have come to escort us in.a He lifted his head from the monitor, the lines of concern that creased his face clear for everyone on the deck to see. aLibrarian Atreus, please ensure that the team is ready. It seems that we will be meeting our new friends rather sooner than we antic.i.p.ated.a Atreus nodded smartly to the captain and glanced over towards Ashok, whose broad, unarmoured back blocked much of the viewscreen. The Angel Sanguine showed no signs of turning, so Atreus strode directly out of the control room.

aAshok a began Octavius.

aI donat know, captain, but Iam sure that we will find out soon. It seems that there is more to this mission than Ulthwe. I suspect that the raiders were dark eldar. Atreus would appear to agree. We must be cautious,a answered Ashok, not waiting for the captain to vocalise the obvious question.

aWe are always cautious, Ashok,a nodded Octavius, smiling slightly. aAnd we were certainly planning on being extra careful in our dealings with the perfidious aliens.a Ashok nodded quietly. He had still not turned to face the captain, preferring instead to keep his eyes fixed on the image of the craftworld that was growing gradually larger as the Lance of Darkness closed on it. His dark eyes were half-closed in concentration, as though an effort of will was required to keep a pervasive and powerful presence at bay. After a few seconds, a series of flashes seared towards the screen and vanished behind the frigate. The Deathwatchas escorts had arrived.

aLibrarian,a said Octavius, his feeling of unease about the brooding Angel Sanguine having returned. aPlease prepare yourself for our rendezvous. I a.s.sume that you will want to wear your armour.a It was the closest thing to an order that he had ever uttered to Ashok.

aAs you wish, captain,a replied the librarian, turning smoothly and nodding a gracious bow from under his hood, where his eyes remained hidden in shadow. Without another word, Ashok strode out of the control room, his long cloak billowing slightly in his wake, leaving Octavius alone with the serfs on the control deck.

The events of the last few hours had unravelled faster than even he was accustomed to. In the service of the Deathwatch, Octavius was quite used to being despatched on short notice, but the incredible speed and extreme secrecy with which the current team had been a.s.sembled made him uncomfortable.

He had not had as much time as he might have liked to a.s.semble a team that would work well together; he had done his best, of course, and he was sure that he could rely on each and every Marine that was seconded into the Deathwatch. They wouldnat be there at all if they were not the very brightest stars of their Chapters. But then, even after he had made his choices, the inquisitor lords had thrown an extra piece into the mix without telling him.

It was true that he had worked successfully with Librarian Ashok before, but the role of the mysterious Angel Sanguine in the present affair was unclear to him. In addition, the sudden and unconfirmed appearance of dark eldar Corsairs in the system made the picture look even more complicated. No mention had been made of the utterly evil brethren of the enigmatic eldar during the mission briefing, and Octavius wondered whether Lord Vargas was even aware of their involvement, if indeed they were involved. The Imperial Fists captain was no stranger to the political intrigues of high command, and it occurred to him that his masters in the Ordo Xenos might not really understand what they were sending him into.

Looking up at the giant viewscreen, Octavius marvelled at the scale and elegance of the ma.s.sive craftworld as the Lance of Darkness drew closer to it, dwarfed like a fleck of dust next to a moon. The craftworld was as large as a planet, but beautiful like a work of artistry, more graceful than anything in nature. Despite his hardwired distrust and disdain for the aliens, Octavius could feel a sense of awe gnawing at his heart. He wondered how many humans had been this close to Ulthwe and lived to tell the tale. It was incredible.

As the gargantuan vessel filled the viewscreen, Octavius watched for the red proximity alarm to sound. But there was nothing. He waited a few more seconds, expecting the pilot-servitor to cut the engines and coast the last few thousand metres into the docking bay that had opened before them. However, the pilot showed no signs of slowing. Instead, his head was poring over a terminal, monitoring the proximity readings and trying to make sense of the docking instructions being supplied by the eldar. On the viewscreen, Ulthwe got closer and closer, until Octavius became certain that they would simply crash into it.

There was no crash.

aPilot?a queried Octavius, letting a note of concern enter his voice.

aCaptain. Eighty kilometres and closing. The engines will cut in seventy.a Still eighty kilometres? Octaviusa eyes widened slightly as he stared at the screen. He could see nothing except the glittering black and silver form of Ulthwe, completely obliterating the starscape ahead. How big was this craftworld? How many eldar survived in its ma.s.sive structure? Scale was difficult to judge in s.p.a.ce, but Octavius had never seen anything that appeared so huge even from so far away. Every instinct told him that the Lance of Darkness was about to crash into it.

The queenas podium was set into the sheer wall on the north of the great auditorium on Sussarkhas Peak. There was no path of approach, and the wall itself was immaculately smooth, almost frictionless. There was no way up. It was the only side of the auditorium that was not teeming with wyches or macabre ornamentation. The amphitheatre was a colossal testament to the power of the Cult of Strife, and its place of greatest honour was, naturally enough, reserved for their magnificent and terrible queen.

It was a luxurious platform, bedecked in lavish velvets and soaked through with rich, treacly blood. There was a series of gargoyles by the floor around the edge of the podium; their vomiting mouths served as inlets for the gallons of blood that were spilt into and drained from the main auditorium every day.

The ground was fecund with death, cushioning the delicate footfalls of the queen and her closest, most trusted succubi. On the most auspicious days, when the auditorium fighters were at their best, the flow of blood onto the platform would exceed the limits of comfort and it would gush out over the lip of the podium, cascading down the sheer wall like a waterfall of gore and glory, driving the wyches wild in the stands.

Lelith grinned, reclining into her throne and stretching out her long legs extravagantly. Beneath her, the bones and flesh of the throne groaned and moaned, as though pressed into a mixture of agony and ecstasy. The queen closed her eyes and smiled with the pleasure of power, feeling the teeming thronelings striving against each other for a touch of her perfect skin. The throne rippled with a kind of tortured rapture, and droplets of ruby blood oozed out from its writhing, organic structure.

A great roar erupted from the a.s.sembly, almost masking the gargled screams of the hapless victims in the arena. Quruel, the mistress of the beasts, was prowling around the perimeter of the arena like a beast herself. She was without weapons, except for the bladed gauntlets that were strapped to her forearms with threads of sinew and plaits of hair, and she patrolled the edge of the circular theatre proudly erect at one moment and then b.e.s.t.i.a.l on all fours the next.

Two warp beasts lurked and lashed around the open s.p.a.ce, pausing to feed on the flesh of the fallen corpses that were strewn haphazardly over the floor, but too nervous of Quruel to linger for long. They were new to the material realm of Hesperax, summoned out of the warp by Quruel to replace the dragonettes that she had lost in Ulthwe. Their wills were not yet entirely broken, and they were not yet wholly house-trained. But they were learning.

In the very centre of the auditorium, a small number of creatures were cl.u.s.tered together like cattle. They had their backs to each other and their petrified faces shone out towards the three prowling predators. Their numbers were dwindling and their bravery had evaporated long ago. A couple of the men still clutched weapons in their hands, although they appeared to be using them as crutches for their courage rather than as potential sources of their salvation. They had seen their comrades picked off by the warp beasts, one by one, and they had heard the curdling, shrieking agony of their deaths. The remaining men had lost all hope of life and their faces betrayed their forlorn souls, resigned absolutely to the horror of their fate.

The abject terror that flowed out of their human victims like the very stench of death was sweet as a rich perfume to the a.s.sembled wyches, who breathed it in thirstily as though it were a narcotic. They cheered and brayed, shrieking with exhilaration, and their excitement seemed to drive the beasts and their mistress to new frenzies of violence. The warp beasts roared, rearing and snarling before pouncing towards the humans for a last storm of teeth, talons and claws. The men offered no resistance. They simply sank to their knees, sliding down their swords and staffs until their hands and feet were soaked in the blood drenched earth. If it were not for the howls and the lashing of claws, the faint whisper of futile prayers would have escaped into the darkness.

Another great cheer erupted from the crowd as Quruel strode into the midst of the feeding frenzy, dragging the beasts back away from their carrion, throwing them aside with complete disregard for their size and bulk.

The beasts shrank back, snarling and cowering in equal measures. Their eyes blazed with a thirst for death and the flesh of the dying, but they were wary of the lithe warrior that stood defiantly before them, bathing in the blood of their quarry. They paced and drooled in a circle around her until she finally acknowledged them, demonstrating her power over them, making them hers. She reached down and ripped a limb from one of the broken bodies, tossing it out towards one of the beasts. Both dashed after the flesh, clashing with each other, lashing out with their filthy claws.

Thatas it. But thereas plenty more, hissed Quruel in a tongue that only they might understand. As her mind spoke to them, she threw a second slab of flesh and the fighting stopped. The weaker of the beasts broke away and dashed for the new sc.r.a.p, dropping to the ground and gnashing at it with glinting yellow teeth. Now, she muttered, to herself as much as to them. Now you are mine.

Very good, Quruel, Mistress of the Beasts. Very good. The thoughts belonged to Lelith, but they resonated throughout the amphitheatre as though amplified into the minds of everyone present. The a.s.sembly turned in unison to see their queen on her feet at the edge of her podium. Her feet were placed neatly together and her hands were clasped meekly in front of her, but her hair rippled out behind her as though caught in a gale that n.o.body else could feel. Those who looked more closely would have seen that her feet were not actually resting on the ground at all. It was as though she were held in a breathless aura of her own darkness.

A deathly silence descended on the mountaintop.

Enough of this training show a let the entertainment commence. Bring in the prisoners.

As the thoughts echoed around the summit, the floor of the arena cracked through the middle and the structure of the amphitheatre groaned. Slowly and with heavy deliberation, the ground started to open up, and the a.s.sembly of wyches started to chant, antic.i.p.ating what was to come. Their focus was intense and unbroken.

As the floor withdrew, the blood and flesh of the dead gushed into runnels around the perimeter, from whence they were channelled up onto Lelithas podium; a great red wave burst out over the edge of her platform, breaking around Lelith herself, coating her in a glistening second skin, and conjuring an ecstatic roar from the crowd.

A second floor arose to take the place of the first, clean and smooth as though having been specially cleaned and prepared for the carnage to come, ritually purified before being ritually sullied. In the very centre of the new floor a few pale and elegant figures were huddled. Their shapes were tall and graceful, not wholly dissimilar from the wyches that whooped and brayed as they came into view, yet they appeared profoundly out of place in the grand arena of Hesperax.

As the new floor finally filled the void left by the old one, clunking solidly into place, the features of the prisoners could be more clearly seen. They appeared to be eldar, although they were not attired in the psycho-plastic armour that characterised eldar warriors. Their long, flowing robes gave them a more aesthetic air, utterly incongruous in their current surroundings. Even their facial features seemed somehow strange, as though distorted or twisted out of alignment. They appeared damaged in indefinite ways. Despite the riotous noise that echoed around the arena, the eldar prisoners remained silent and still, as though their spirits were already broken and their souls were resigned to their doom.

Sighing in undisguised disappointment, Lelith dropped her feet back down into the spongy floor as the last waves of blood lapped past, dropping down the sheer face of the arena in a smooth cascade. She let her body fall backwards. In unseemly and hungry haste, the thronelings rushed to cushion her fall, forming spontaneously into a chaise-longue and capturing the queenas exquisitely discontented body.

Skazhrealh had clearly been unable to resist tampering with the lightlings, reflected Lelith in displeasure, ignoring the squirms and chuckles of the thronelings beneath her. She had not given the haemonculus permission to damage the captives, and her lip snarled at the implied defiance. Although she could understand how Skazhrealhas thirst for the infliction of agony on the fragile and pathetically beautiful lightling bodies might have made his defiance almost inevitable, Lelith also had a taste for these delicacies.

Not only that, but there was at least one other power on Hesperax who would be antic.i.p.ating indulging in the unblemished souls of the eldar, and it would not be wise to disappoint her. Lelith would not let this pa.s.s, and Skazhrealh would feel the sharp end of his own instruments of torture before the night was out a his apprentices would appreciate the practice, and even Skazhrealh would probably find some pleasure in the throes of his own agony. Lelith made a mental note to kill him before that happened.

The shouts from the a.s.sembled wyches had fallen into a rhythmic chant, gently lulling Lelith out of her tortuous reverie. She lay for a moment, enjoying the moisture and warmth of the throne against her skin, listening to the pulsing mantra that filled the auditorium, feeling it darkening her already pitch-black soul.

Reluctantly tensing the sculpted muscles of her abdomen, Lelith began to rise, but the thronelings chased after her, desperate not to lose contact with her shoulder blades or her long, black hair. The throne stretched, its bones creaking and streams of blood lubricating the joints, and Lelith smiled, shaking her head in disgust a she never felt pity for the thronelings or for anything else.

The honour of the sport should go to our young raiders, Kroulir of the Desperate Dark and Druqura of the forgotten strife.

The thoughts brought silence back to the dark amphitheatre, and then an eruption of cheers intermixed with sn.i.g.g.e.rs and whines of jealous disapproval and disappointment. Everyone wanted a chance to make the kills, and each resented the privileges of the others. In the midst of the din, Kroulir and Druqura vaulted down from the stands, turning deliberate somersaults as they sprang into the arena, landing softly with their blades already drawn and their eyes flashing.

Immediately, they started to patrol around the captives, keeping their distance at first as they weighed up the physiques of the lightlings, a.s.sessing the potential challenges a there wasnat much to speak of. The wychesa teeth glinted viciously in the dark light, but their eyes betrayed their disappointment. Their quarry showed almost no signs of noticing them. There were no screams, no wails of anguish, not even any futile posturing. The eldar prisoners were docile and emotionless. Hardly any sport at all. It wasnat just because they were broken; they were simply weak specimens a eldar who had never even placed a foot on that ridiculous cycle of the warrior.

As the crowdas interest started to wane, Kroulir licked her teeth and sprang forward, igniting another, weaker cheer from the watching wyches. In her mindas eye, she could still see the wretched face of the lightling warlock in the cursed craftworld; these prisoners may not be his equal, but they were still lightling aberrations and she would offer their souls to her queen. One day she would return for that warlock. An eldar waystone was a rare delicacy, even if ripped from the body of a vacuous artist such as these. It was not great sport, but there was still a worthy reward, and wrenching a soul from the wretched confines of its weak flesh was a type of reward in itself.

The light was brilliant and stunning, refracting into myriad colours and sparkling with a pristine purity that made Dhrykna feel transfigured as she walked the once familiar corridors of the Temple of Light. She had trodden these pa.s.sageways innumerable times in the past, transposing them into neural pathways in her brain so that she could find her way around in the dark if she needed to. But there was never even a hint of darkness in the temple, not even a single shadow sullied the crystalline walls. The light was pervasive, and even if Dhrykna were to close her eyes she would not be able to shut out the dazzling presence of the templeas spirit.

The temple appeared completely deserted. Dhrykna had been walking since the hour of Karandras and yet she had not seen another face in all that time. She was being watched; that much was clear to her from the tension in her mind. But the temple guardians remained hidden from her and not a single Aspect Warrior had shown himself in the sparkling maze. Had the numbers really grown so few, wondered the Black Guardian, her heart sinking at the thought.

As she approached the mirrored doors to the sanctum, Dhrykna paused. She could see herself clearly in the reflection, her black and silver armour heavy and incongruous in the dazzling surroundings. It was almost offensive to see herself in such a way. Had she really moved so far from the Shining Path? Had she really become so dark and so riddled with gravity? The spear of Khaine was almost unrecognisable in her visage, and she dropped to her knees before her own image, suddenly distraught and weeping at what she had become.

Her tears streamed down her cheeks like sparkling rivers, transforming her face into a reflective burst of light. They poured onto the ground, pooling around her knees. She had disfigured herself. The emotions of the eldar were violent and extreme, and for a moment Dhrykna could do nothing about her self-reproach and despair. As she knelt, wretched and distraught, she glanced up into the great mirrors of the outer sanctum once again and saw her face transformed a each tear glittering like a crystal jewel. Her eyes flashed with recognition and the doors slid open silently. Humility was a rare quality amongst the eldar, especially on Ulthwe.

Composing herself, Dhrykna rose to her feet and strode into the inner sanctum, feeling the light trickling over her face and infusing her with its own radiance. Once inside, the great mirrors slid back into place behind her, sealing her into an infinite regression of dazzling reflections. Laid out on a gla.s.s altar before her was a suit of pristine white armour. She recognised it at once as the very same suit that she had worn during her years of service in this hallowed temple. Its psycho-plastic was scarred here and there, where blades and las-fire had scuffed its surface, but otherwise it was immaculate.

Looking from side to side, expecting to see the temple guardians flanking her ready to make the presentation of her armour, she was startled to see an eternal row of Black Guardians gazing back at her, their eyes and face obliterated by dazzling lights. Their infinite line was akin to an aberration in the sanctum, heavy and black and ugly. With a start, she realised that they were all her. Her dismal and mundane existence was reflected back at her a million times, driving itself into her conscience and making her shrink back away from the horror of herself.

There was nowhere to hide in the sanctum of the temple of light. There were no shadows in which the unprepared or the cowardly could seek refuge. But Dhrykna required no shelter. She clenched her jaw in determination and turned back to the armour that awaited her on the altar. That was her. She had never been the same since removing those immaculate plates, but now she had returned to them, like a prodigal child.

As she took a step towards the altar, something else caught her eye in the far wall. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the intense light, but she could see a shallow alcove cut into the crystal structure of the wall. Inside the recess there were two shelves, each supporting the flawless visages of helmets a two entire rows of helmets, untouched and gleaming.

Distracted for a moment, Dhrykna skirted around the altar and approached the helmets, peering closely but not touching them. They were the helms of warlocks, reserved for those Aspect Warriors who left the Shining Path of their own volition, determined to make their journeys along the long and arduous road of the seer. In times of strife, such seers might return to the Temple of Light and offer themselves back to this aspect of Khaine, turning their hard-won psychic powers self-consciously towards the purposes of lightning death and prompt destruction. Such seers would become warlocks, creating a confluence of the dual ways of seer and warrior for themselves, forging their own b.l.o.o.d.y paths into a darkly glittering future of their own making.

Not a single helmet was missing, and Dhryknaas eyes widened as she realised what that meant. She knew that the Emerald Seer had spent one of her cycles in the service of the Shining Spears, and she had heard that the great seer had received a summons to the temple during a hard-fought conflict with some distorted mon-keigh from the Eye of Terror. She had also heard that Thaeaakzi had resisted the lure of the b.l.o.o.d.y-handed way and had emerged from the temple without adopting the visage of a warlock. However, it had never occurred to Dhrykna that there was not a single warlock on Ulthwe that drew their energy and inspiration from the Shining Path. The words of the temple guardian returned to her: the Shining Path permits no shadows.

Casting her mind back through the gleaming corridors of the temple, Dhrykna realised with horror what should have been obvious from the moment she entered through the great archway into the court of the amethysts: the Shining Spears were vanishing. The corridors and pa.s.sageways of the temple were empty because there were no warriors to fill them.

She had been so awe-struck by the glittering majesty of the place that she had failed to notice the most obvious thing. The light of the Spears was gradually being swamped by the heavy darkness of Ulthwe a the spirit of the craftworld itself was changing, darkening still further. In a moment of horror she realised that the Undercouncil of Warlocks must be comprised almost entirely of former Dark Reapers. The thought made her shiver.

Turning abruptly, Dhrykna gazed back at the pristine, white and silver armour that had been laid out for her. Despite its sudden agonies, her soul soared at the realisation that it belonged in this majestic sanctum. That armour was hers. The light of the Shining Path flowed through her, igniting her spirit and giving her life. For the glory of the Shining Spears and the security of Ulthwe, Dhrykna reached her hand out towards the armour. How could there be an exarch when there were not even any warriors? The temple itself cried out for salvation, for vindication and for blood. Thaeaakzi had been right to send her back to the temple a with her soul so transfigured, she would even stand shoulder to shoulder with the mon-keigh.

aLight flashes, blood falls, death pierces the darkness,a whispered Dhrykna, reaching for the armour.

As the last of the lightling victims collapsed to the ground, its throat slit neatly and its eyes bulging at the last, the a.s.sembly of wyches had fallen almost silent. In one or two sections of the amphitheatre wyches from the Cult of Vengeance actually jeered. Most were content to voice their disapproval through silence, fearing the wrath of Lelith and her Wyches of Strife should they speak out. But there was barely a single wych who was left satisfied by the spectacle. The pathetic lightlings had been no sport at all; Kroulir and Druqura had dispatched them with skill and grace, but there had been no thrill. Blood was not enough in itself. Even pain was insufficient. The wyches craved combat in their arena, not merely death. And these lightling artisans had provided no resistance at all. They were worse even than the decrepit humans that Quruel had used as game for her beasts.

The two young wyches snarled in dissatisfaction, frustrated that their moment of glory in the arena had been rendered so cheap by the inadequacy of their opponents. They wrenched the glittering way-stones from the corpses of the lightlings, hardly even giving them a second glance as they snapped the chains that held the spirit vessels around the necks of the fallen. In place of pride at her victory, Kroulir spat hateful phlegm into the faces of the dead. Rather than seeing their waystones as her prize, she saw only the fragile and contemptible weakness of the lightlings, who genuinely thought that their souls could escape the daemonic caresses of Slaanesh if only they were hidden in these tiny spirit stones. It was pathetic. Slaanesh was a worthy adversary, to be sure, but there were far better, more inventive and more interesting ways of dealing with it than continuously hiding. Of all the dark eldar, Lelith herself knew this better than anyone.

Cheers and jeers echoed around the auditorium as the atmosphere on the mountaintop curdled with sickly malediction. The two young wyches shrieked up into the stands, defying the crowd with the jagged points of their teeth and the tips of their blades, daring challengers to come forth, if they found the contest unworthy of a Hesperax wych. Although they snarled and screeched, none in the a.s.sembly responded and the mixture of rapture and disgust continued to be thrown out of the stands.

With the crowd unsilenced and the waystones held loosely in their hands, Kroulir and Druqura strode towards the base of the sheer wall in which was recessed Lelithas podium. They dropped to their knees before it, holding the tiny, glittering jewels above their heads for all to see.