Sú-il Bhán was such a bleak, windswept world. Night was oppressive and the days possessed a perpetual gray. Grassy valleys and ravines, scrub-covered hillocks and knobby ridges, even rock faces and tree bark, all seemed desaturated in their color. One could look out over those fields and distant mountains and see naught but lifelessness. A world without breath, without a heartbeat.
Nonetheless, Maerys found them enchanting. Even if it did not pulse in the same way as an Exodite World, there was still a somber charm to it, especially through Hoec’s Glimpse. More than illuminating the forms of faraway enemies and enhancing her vision many leagues beyond her already capable sight, it granted vividness to the land. As if Kurnous and Isha had returned and with one stroke of their hands, color flourished once more and the planet’s life essence blossomed.
She would have stared out at those plains all night if not for the hundreds of faces across the campfires. At a glance, an outsider might have thought them expressionless. But the subtle squints and deep stares, the wrinkled noses and the curls at their lips, unreadable to all but other aeldari, were plain to Maerys.
“We should not have risked so much to rescue the humans,” said Livae. “Dozens of this band were wounded. Why, the Bonesinger assigned to us, who repairs our armor and maintains our cloaks, was broken.”
“I was broken by the fall, not by Orkish arms,” said Lotien, reclining against a rock. Fyrdra knelt beside him and traced parallel lines over the Bonesinger’s legs. Her two rune stones followed, leaving trails of soothing golden light behind them.
“If Maerys had not acted, that Exodite would have been murdered,” said the Soul Weaver.
“It is not the Exodite I speak of but the mon’keigh slaves,” growled Livae.
“No seer is needed to know the truth of it,” said Amonthanil. “You would have had us rescue no slaves at all.”
“I dare not believe that is what she says,” said Alimia. Her orange eyes reflected the fire, and although she did not wear her people’s crimson, she still appeared as a daughter of Saim-Hann. She stood up, her glare deepening. “Aeldari, regardless of their flag and their blood, would not be as cruel as the dark ones. Merely, it was not the right time to make a rescue.”
“They almost killed that Exodite,” argued Maerys, standing up as well. “You did not see it.”
“Is it right to risk the lives of one hundred for one? And for humans also!?” yelled some of the other Rangers.
“Do you wish to leave them all to die!?” others cried in return.
“No one claims that we will forfeit their lives. Nor am I willing to give them up, Desrigale,” said Alimia, her voice rising over the others. “The humans are the true matter. To liberate the Exodites, I’ll gladly do it no matter the risk. But you ask of us to free humans as well? Their fates are not ours to decide.” Suddenly, Kalvynn shot to his feet beside Maerys. He drew so close to the fire that the flames nearly licked the tails of his long coat. The heat did not seem to bother him at all.
“Have you ever known chains?” he asked coldly. “Do you know what it is to have your soul bound? Nay, you’ve only known the wind of Saim-Hann as it passed through your hair. Never has your very spirit been imprisoned. You know not of such suffocation.”
All stared at the Pathfinder, bewildered, inquisitive, and chagrined. Alimia’s fire had not gone out, but it had dimmed. Maerys stood up and curled her fingers around Kalvynn’s wrist. There was his pulse, his heartbeat, quickly pounding. Threads and tethers, fraying and fracturing. She squeezed gently and led him back to his seat on the log. He drew his knees to his chest, lowered his head, and shut his eyes.
The silence persisted. Maerys’ eyes were drawn to Tirol. He was bare-chested and his slender but muscular frame was wrapped with bandages. The Pathfinder had remained silent since he sat, absently eating the buds of Soothing Limbs. All he did was mind a small clay bowl over the fire, brewing the leaves from the vine that hung from his neck with the water. Despite her unnerved, curious stare, which he undoubtedly sensed, he did not meet her eyes.
You must speak, Maerys. Irlikae’s voice came to her as a comfort, a cushion on the back of her head, neck, and shoulders. If she permitted herself a moment to relax, she might have drifted asleep on her feet. It cannot just be theirs. If you invite them to talk, you must also lend your voice. The sensation grew firm and colder, waking her. She looked back at the Void Dreamer, seated beside Kalvynn, expectant and hopeful, and nodded.
Maerys strode back towards the center of the circle. She gazed out at the many hooded faces, all unsure of what to say. Above them, the rangers who squatted on tree branches appeared as night birds, eyes aglow and vigilant. She drew breath. “I am for the rescue of those Exodites who have been imprisoned as well as the other slaves. Long have I wandered and long have I witnessed the countless, countless, countless terrible fates one can meet in this universe. Some deaths are lonesome, for to be forgotten and unsung is to be removed from the fabric of memory. Others are painful; whether they be short or long, the agony of having your body, mind, and soul ripped apart is unmatched. But to be a slave is to suffer both a torturous, lonely fate. Every moment of torment is matched by a moment of isolation, for you are partitioned from your home and your people.”
She gazed at Kalvynn. The Pathfinder of Varantha had bowed his head so it rested on his knees. His arms wrapped around his legs, making a cocoon of himself. Maerys knelt before him and brought his hands into her own. At once, she felt his aching, dull and meandering through every fiber. She saw the scars upon his flesh and felt the burning snap of a lash upon her own skin. Then, there was the pit within him, growing ever deeper and wider. Not just the cry of hunger, but the emptiness of a soul.
Kalvynn finally raised his face to reveal his tearful eyes. How fractured was his gaze, how broken was his smile. She touched his face, rubbing her thumb just below his eye. After a moment, he nodded, and Maerys stood back up. “I would spare anyone from this fate. Were I to ignore a slave, were I to forgo an attempt to save even one, I would be no better than the our fallen kin who fill the slave pits of their dark city with beasts and soul-bearers. They must be saved, and I will do it alone if I must.”
She let the words hang in the air. Someone fed the flames of the nearest campfire, sending sparks into the air and over the heads of her fellow rangers. The fire did not rage, but it grew stronger, brighter, and higher. Its image danced in the eyes of many of those around it, although Maerys saw an equal shining in the eyes of some who were distant from its edge.
“All who wish to speak will be heard,” said Maerys, allowing the moment to pass. “It is why I call on you all to raise your voices as peers. This may not be a council such as the one I share with the Autarchs and the High Count, but nonetheless, I ask you. For my voice alone cannot sway them to liberate all in the camps. I need all of your support.”
“But it is your council that has decided we will act to rescue these slaves,” said Long Livae. “Our purpose was singular: to find a way to undermine the Orks and hasten this campaign. Now you want us to stage this great raid to rescue not only Exodites but mon’keigh? How can you demand that of us? Already, we are heaped with the task of such a risky operation and you wish to complicate it further?”
“It was, but the mission has changed, as all missions do,” said Maerys. “War is not an agreed-upon arrangement made by dignitaries. It is a vile, wild thing, ever transforming and altering itself. We must adapt to such changes, even if that means saving those we would call our enemies.”
“What is gained by their rescue?” asked Alimia, though it was more curious than ardent.
“We do not measure acts by their gains,” grunted Amonthanil. “We gauge the acts alone.”
“Maerys, I wish to speak,” said Meslith quietly. The Ulthwé Pathfinder rose and drew breath. She wore a wide leather strap across her coat that carried many pouches. In its center was her spirit stone, a black agate. She ran her fingers over it and whispered to herself. With a somber smile, she gazed at the crowd. “What Maerys says is true. I fought beside her at Lorn V under the Farseer known as Taldeer. It was perceived that the ice would break and the monoliths of the ancient foe would rise. We were to stop it. To speak it is quite simple; to act it out by feat of arms is wholly different. We fought against the dark gods’ peons, the Orks, and though we made an alliance with mankind, we made war on them as well. I cannot say I felt satisfied and proud that we had.”
Her earthy locks flowed with the evening breeze and her pale skin was dazzled by the firelight. “Even then, we could not stop them alone. No war is ever simple nor is it ever truly swift, no matter the speed of our engines and the deftness of our arms. We must not lose sight of the goal ahead—the capture of this rogue Wayseer—yet, we cannot forgo the slave pits of our people.”
“Ah, the first mention in many cycles of this mysterious Wayseer whom we hunt,” groaned Livae. “The object which has brought us all together. Yet we play around on this moon. Have we forgotten our purpose? It is not the lives of a few hundred we seek to save but tens of thousands. We have lost hundreds already but those are the sacrifices required.”
“Do not pretend that you care for their lives or for this campaign’s goal. You see those enslaved aeldari as nothing more than casualties,” said Amonthanil. “Truly, you are born of and for the void, for you are just as cold and lifeless.”
Long Livae had a cup of mulled wine in her hand and she angrily tossed it aside. She jumped to her feet and clutched the hilt of her dagger. Other Fate Dealers, those who had joined the band from the beginning as well the most recent additions, followed. Amonthanil stood just as fast and placed his hand upon the grip of his shuriken pistol. The Rangers of Alaitoc as well as those from numerous other Craftworlds rose with him. Both parties advanced towards one another around the campfires, ignoring outstretched hands and protestations. It was not a bloodlust Maerys felt between them, but the fury appeared before her as sparks and tendrils of flame, whirling in the dark.
Before either could speak or draw, Oragroth emerged from the darkness beyond the fire’s light. Just as Livae raised her hand, ready to insult the Kurnite, he quickly grabbed her arm, pulled, and spun her around. In the same instant, he kicked out one of her knees, hobbling her, and trapped her arms beneath his own. When another of the Fate Dealers approached, he kicked him so hard he sent the Corsair onto his backside. Another raised his voice, but Oragroth’s reach was long. He slapped the sniper across his face, grabbed the collar of his coat, dragged him close, and headbutted him. When a third lunged, Crúba swept from above, slashing her across the cheek with his talons.
The anger still surged from Amonthanil. Maerys leaped across the fire, grabbed him by his waist, and threw him back into the crowd of other Rangers. Two of the Corsairs, sensing an opportunity, surged forward. She felt their battle lust, tasted it, and thought of the rift sharks of Necromunda. She had seen them smell blood in the water and swarm injured prey. Maerys threw her shoulder into him, grabbed his webbing, and threw him into his compatriot. As the latter fell, she grabbed the other one more and flipped him onto his back. When the other tried to rise, drawing a dagger, she pounced upon him. Snatching his wrist, she pointed the blade at her own chest.
“Never will you bare your fangs against another in this pack,” she growled. “Whether it is to kill, maim, or draw even a single drop of blood, it will not stand.”
“You will end this!” shouted Oragroth, his martial voice as commanding as an Exarch’s. “Continue on this path and it will lead to darkness! Are we not the blood of Kurnous?” The Rangers, cowed, slunk back to their respective camps. They remained bowed, appearing to glide across the ground, their boots hidden by their coats. Maerys removed herself from the Fate Dealer, taking his hand to pull him to his feet. As he drifted away, Oragroth shoved Long Livae away.
“How you’ve changed,” snarled Livae. She marched up to the Kurnite and swiftly swept her arm in front of him. “Once, we fought side by side, descending upon any planet worthy of plunder. Did you count the bodies beneath our feet? Were their lack of arms and shields ever a concern of yours? Nay! It was for loot, for wealth, for power. Are we now the deliverers of the downtrodden and makers of civilization? That is all a masquerade and we are the Harlequins to act it out.”
Livae snorted, turned towards Maerys, and covered her eyes with her hand briefly. “Your friendship with Dryane blinds you. He cares not for your ideals, he merely pays the notions service so long as he has enemies to fight and spoils to reap.” Turning back to Oragroth, she extended her arm towards him, her fingers flattened into a point, as if she had pierced him. “I see through you also. You do not adopt a cause, merely obey a command. You are a bootlick.”
Maerys recalled their conversation aboard the Sandstorm. Warrior to warrior they spoke, not as commander and subordinate, nor idealist to pragmatist. In his suddenly fractured expression, she knew he recalled the same. Then, the words they shared upon this very cliffside echoed in both their ears, and the tightened features of his narrow face softened.
“I am sworn to the High Count no matter my reservations,” whispered Oragroth. Then, his face hardened resolutely as the wind caught his many braids. “He found us enemies to conquer, worlds to pillage, and rewards to secure. All aeldari are born with an emptiness inside, for we are without a realm. Our lives are shaped by how we fill it. The Asuryani practice the Paths, the Exodites are shaped by hardship, Outcasts have the journey, and the Voidborn fight and seize. It was enough for me, until now.”
He gestured towards Maerys, lowered his hands in front of him, then cupped them together. Slowly, he raised them and separated them, arcing his arms, spreading his fingers in a kind of blossom. “Many suns and moons have risen and fallen by turns since we arrived here. You are a dreamer and a wanderer, but you are a leader and a warrior also. Not for gold, not for prizes, not for glory—tell them what you are fighting for.”
Hooded heads turned and gazes settled upon Maerys. How many times had she faced the snarling maw of a great beast, crossed blades with a duellist, and weathered storms that sundered worlds? These she thought of as her mouth suddenly felt dry. But there was a sudden warmth that resonated in her chest and it caused her to breathe in deeply. She looked down at Irlikae, who smiled not in confidence or in glee, but in hopefulness and comfort.
“I want to forge a new dominion for the Aeldari, a place among the stars where we may live and grow as a people, not as disparate, singularities. Aye, I have lived for the journey, but one day, I wish to travel no more. I do not wish to doff my cloak within a Craftworld or some havenspire tucked among dust and rock. Nor do I wish to confine myself to a single world in this vast galaxy.” This she said as she swept her arm up towards the purple swathe of the void. Her eyes lingered upon those distant stars, her fingers slowly grasping her spirit stone. “The galaxy is smaller than it once was, but there is still a place for us where we may live in peace. I know not how I may bring it about, but in my soul, I believe the journey begins here.”
There were whispers. Heads fell, eyes diverted. Her own eyes returned to the band, many gazes she met twinkled just as the stars did. Others remained shrouded and fouled by disdain, darkness, and doubt. From beneath countless cowls were many scowls still. But all turned when Oragroth brought his fist firmly to his chest. He extended out his arm towards Maerys, his fingers curled an object. Something living, something beating.
“It is so easy to dismiss it as whimsy,” he murmured. “But hearing it now? I do not believe the bounty of reaving can fill the hollow in my soul.”
“You speak as if it is decreed by the gods themselves,” said Lotien. He shifted on his side, as if he were making an attempt to stand. But Fyrdra drew him back with a gentle hand. Whether she intended to or not, the Bonesinger’s head rested upon her chest. “But nearly all our gods are gone.”
“We who are left must create our own causes and carry them out ourselves,” stated Kalvynn.
“Then, do you believe that saving these Exodites is part of that beginning, Maerys?” asked Alimia. For the first time since the Pathfinder had known her, the Shroud Runner sounded timid.
“They are wasted, half-dead, nearly gone,” grunted Livae. Her lethal, venomous tone from before was far more subdued. “You saw the one you saved. How could they be apart of any dream?”
“What’s his name?” asked Tirol. All stirred, surprised to hear the Biel-Tan Pathfinder’s first words of the evening. Nobody answered him and the tall, strong Ranger looked across the fires. “Irlikae, what is the Exodite’s name?” Irlikae blinked, surprised to be engaged by Tirol at all. After a moment of hesitation, she stood beside Maerys.
“In the scrying of his mind, I found his name to be Machthorn, a Dragon Knight.”
“Where is he from?” Tirol removed the bowl from beside the fire with a cloth and poured the contents into a cup.
“He whispered Gaoth trí-na Crainn to me,” said Maerys. “The very place we aim to defend.”
Tirol blew on the brew a few times, its steam swirling around his face. Carefully, he stood up and ventured deliberately through his fellow warriors. All watched him curiously and silently. The Pathfinder knelt on Lotien’s other side and offered him the cup. The Bonesinger glanced at Fyrdra, who glanced at the cup dubiously. Tirol’s blue, nearly purple eyes, met the Soul Weaver’s dark brown gaze. There was always strength to be found in the former’s stare, a domineering kind of courage characteristic of Biel-Tan. But from where Maerys stood, she saw the same gentle expression that Fyrdra did.
Fyrdra brushed her hand over Lotien’s hair, nodded reassuringly, and helped prop him up. Lotien reached for the cup but Tirol shook his head. He rested his hand on the back of Lotien’s head, his fingers disappearing in his orange locks. Tirol raised the cup to the younger aeldari’s lips and tipped it back. Warily, Lotien took a small, investigative sip, swallowed, and then drank the rest of the cup.
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“How soothing,” remarked the Bonesinger, his lids a bit heavier and the tension in his cheeks gone. He glanced at Tirol shyly. “What a wonder those leaves perform.” Tirol then produced a few fibrous sticks from his pouch. The bark had been removed with a knife’s edge, leaving the soft white flesh.
“Isha’s Fingers, another ancient plant,” he said. “I found these as we scouted down the Serpent. They grow as small bushes on embankments of rivers, creeks, and lakes. Chewing them can relieve rots and pains of the stomach, but they are good for sustenance also.”
“What a strange thing it is for a son of Biel-Tan to be so versed in the realms of nature,” said Fyrdra, her amused smile complementing her ever so slightly teasing tone. Tirol huffed and resisted a smile as he stroke Lotien’s hair.
“Our magics and sorceries are powerful indeed, but they need not always be relied upon. That is the way of the Ranger.”
Lotien gazed up sleepily at him and then touched Tirol’s face. With his forefinger he traced a symbol onto his cheek. Back and forth, back and forth, his finger weaved. Maerys watched the movement and recognized the rune: a declaration of companionship.
“I thank you, Tirol, friend of Lotien.” He closed his eyes as Fyrdra drew him closer and rested his head against her bosom. She brushed bright locks from his cheek, reached across him, and placed her hand on Tirol’s chest.
Tirol stood back up and ventured back to the fire. He let the long sleeves of his coat fall over his hands as he clasped them together. For a time, he stared into the flames, his gaze as dark as obsidian, but far less soft.
“Before we let the winds of the waterfall take us, it was I who said we should return to our camp to inform the council of our discovery. When we fled with the humans, it was I who said we should desert them so we may survive. I regret that I spoke the first, for had we retreated, we would have lost this Machthorn. I want to say I do not regret the second, for what love do I have for humans? Khaine is my patron—I have made war upon them before. I suspect it is not the last.”
He faced Maerys then. “But it was your action that saved both Machthorn and the humans. Perhaps, in saving their lives, we saved his, and in saving his, we saved theirs. You fought for them all and succeeded.”
“I could not have done so without all of you,” said Maerys.
“Your goals are lofty and I cannot say that I will make them my own, even if I have sworn to follow you. But your acts have reminded me of a choice I made long ago. Though there were many reasons to leave, I wished to protect my kindred how I see fit, no matter the cost and the circumstance. It was a vow I swore and I have not upheld it.”
He freed his massive ponytail from its binds, allowing his blonde hair to cascade over his shoulders. Then, he drew his elegant, curved dagger and cut one of his long locks. This he dropped into the fire, which sparked and grew larger than before. Twirling the knife between his fingers, Tirol then snatched it by the tip and threw it into the soil beside his feet. “No matter what must be done to save the lives of even one descendent of the great ancestor, Asuryan the Phoenix King, I will do it. If you believe in saving the lives of the humans means saving the lives of these Exodites, then I am with you.”
Oragroth stepped into the firelight, picked up Tirol’s dagger, and sliced off one of his own small braids. He dropped it into the fire as well and he met Maerys’ eyes. His own gaze was now afire. Kalvynn and Amonthanil rose to their feet, as did many other Rangers. Those of Varantha, those of Biel-Tan, and many other many other Craftwords, found their feet. Some were veterans from the Band of Kurnous’s inception, others from when the coalition was formed, and even a few of the newer arrivals. Even some of the Fate Dealers had risen. But it was Meslith who stood up next, her expression grave.
“I, too, will stand with you. Lorn V was a victory for Ulthwé yet it was not a moment that any should be proud of. It has been a trouble in my mind for years, wondering if we could have let them be, wondering if we could have kept our word. After all, what do Rangers have but their word? Perhaps, if we liberate the humans here, I might find some solace.” Then, the rangers of Ulthwé joined their Pathfinder.
“Who are we to make such a decision?” said Livae, angrily. “The Bonesinger has the right of it. The Pantheon is empty and we are not gods—we are not in control of their fates.”
“But we do have some control of our own fates,” whispered Lotien, his voice almost trance-like as he dozed in Fyrdra’s arms. “And they have decided their fate is to save those slaves. As it is mine.”
“You are still recovering, you cannot go anywhere,” said Fyrdra quietly.
“I suppose you will have to come with me,” said Lotien. The Soul Weaver chuckled and shook her head.
“If I must.” She looked to Maerys, touched her heart, and extended her arm out to her.
Maerys cast her eyes first to Alimia, and then to Livae. The former remained seated, whispering with her Saim-Hann kin. Livae did not confer with her loyal Fate Dealers and brooded silently instead. She thought of what to say, what gesture she could make, to bring them to her side. There was no offer to be made, no compromise or reward. No, there was nothing more to say. They had to make their choice on their own.
There was a rumble in the distance. Not thunder nor Ork artillery, but something so heavy as to shake the earth. Maerys and the Band of Kurnous faced the west, listening to the approaching clangor. Looming from the darkness, as if parting from the fabric of night itself, were the scout titans. Their holofields shimmered, revealing their elegant, obsidian armored frames and ghostly white accents. Nearly as tall as the band’s little mountain, they strode right up to the cliffside and halted. The yellow lenses of the titans’ helmets flared momentarily and the visors rose in unison. The cockpit interior was remarkably simple, with the control pedestals on either side of the seat. Both brothers rose and removed their helms. Taphelran threw his hair back and tied it into a tight knot. Booming with laughter, he slid down the shoulder and arm joints before leaping onto the cliff. He landed with the grace of a Harlequin, his arms out, his stance firm.
Throwing his hair back, he laughed once more. “I do so admire your perch, you must have quite the view when the sun breaks the clouds. Although, it is no match to the towering glimpse from the eyes of a titan.”
His brother Teltryan followed behind him, dismounting simply from his help and dropping onto the cliff. He strode up, unwrapping his waist-length braid from around his neck and torso. His glare at his twin, his brown eyes bright with indignation.
“That is no way to speak to our partners and one of the voice-bearers of this council,” he snapped. He bowed courteously before Maerys. “I apologize on behalf of my twin. His prowess on the battlefield is matched only by his foolhardy arrogance.”
“Arrogance, yes, foolhardy however, I am not,” remarked Taphelran casually, swiping his hand before him.
“Silence, brother,” seethed Teltryan. As Taphelran rolled his eyes and waved his twin away, Teltryan approached Maerys. “Pathfinder, I come as a herald for the council. They come to finalize this decision. But out of respect for you, I come to warn you that they seem resolute.”
“For me?”
“You stood your ground atop the hill and your band held their ground at the river. Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass admire any who dig their heels into the dirt and fight back against overwhelming odds. Your acts saved many lives.”
“I would have perished were it not for your intervention.” Teltryan started to speak but Taphelran strode up, pushed his brother aside, and thumped his chest twice.
“It is not a matter of receiving assistance. It matters not if reinforcements arrive, the enemy is defeated, or the defender falls—all that counts is that you stand.” Teltryan shoved his brother’s hand away and narrowed his gaze.
“Which you have, and which you must, if you wish to prevail in this debate.” He glanced at his brother and leaned closer. “We have fought on many battlefields and saved many lives. Were it just the Exodites, I would lend my voice to yours even if I am granted no place at this council. Although I have never battled against the Imperium, they are still our enemies.”
“Would you call a captive human, chained, starved, and brutalized by a mutual foe, an enemy?” asked Maerys. It was said without malice or judgement, yet Teltryan seemed tested by it all the same. She heard the steady hum of an approaching engine and spotted the lights of an approaching Vampire Raider and dozens of jetbikes. Passing him by, she touched his shoulder. “Some of the lives that were saved were humans. I upheld your ideals for them. Should a purpose be universal or acted out for the benefit of many? Can it be called a belief if you set conditions for it?”
She squeezed his shoulder and approached the edge of the cliff adjacent to the pair of titans. The transport pilot expertly spun his aircraft around and lowered the ramp so rested just on the edge of the rock. Dryane, Caergan, Yltra, and Celasho the Singer, all strutted down the ramp in immaculate robes and battle dress. Chief Oromas, Arganel the Striker, and Kelriel flew in on their jetbikes and dismounted. All stood before Maerys, who bowed courteously. “Please, join my band at our fire. There is food and drink for all.”
“Hold with your pleasantries, we are here to discuss the business of war,” said Yltra.
“We have developed further plans regarding this next stage,” said Caergan. “It is already agreed the Exodites must be saved. Yet, we cannot ignore the industrial capacity of the Go-Klamma’s factories and his access to the Imperial arsenal. It is a risky venture, but we must conduct the rescue in tandem with the facility’s destruction. This we have agreed upon.”
“We have.”
“Yet you hold us from acting by insisting that we free the humans as well,” growled Yltra. The Biel-Tan Autarch swept her arm to the west. “Victory will be swiftly won once we destroy this facility. Yet the vote to act is postponed and postponed again. It shall be postponed no longer.”
“It shan’t,” vowed Maerys.
“Maerys, I know you feel as though you have a debt to pay to the humans who helped you,” soothed Dryane. “You do not have the view of them many of our race do and I admire you for it. Truly. It is so easy to give into the innate malice of the universe and embrace its evil. Yet, you resist, and hold true to these values. But we cannot always be beholden to such values, not when we are pressed and short of time.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Do not jeopardize the coalition.”
“They cannot fight us, nor can they aid us,” said Caergan. He looked between her and Meslith. “You may be thinking of the Cadians we fought alongside at Lorn V. Do not misremember it as finding a common cause. Taldeer used them to our own ends; they were not allies but tools.”
“This vote does not have to be unanimous to succeed,” reminded Oromas, his arms folded across his chestplate. “Vote for the rescue of humans and you will find yourself outnumbered.”
“Outnumbered as a member of this council, I may be, but know I speak with the support of the Band of Kurnous. It is their courage, their strength, that gives me the power to make this choice. They stand with me.”
She looked back at the Rangers. Nearly all had stood. Irlikae, Oragroth, Fyrdra, and even a sleepy Lotien, had gathered just behind her. The other Pathfinders, Tirol, Meslith, Kalvynn, and Amonthanil, stood on either side. Hundreds of Rangers were illuminated in the glow of the fires.
Yet, Alimia and the Shroud Runners still sat. It was the gamble Maerys fear to make, but she would not renege. Alimia did not gaze at her or the Wild Riders of Saim-Hann. She merely stared into the flames of the nearest campfire, searching, searching, searching. One hand clenched into a fist and bounced on her knee. Then, she bit her lip, shook her head, and stood up.
“Chief Oromas, I beg you, hear me. I am of Saim-Hann, I see any who threaten my beloved Saim-Hann as my foe. But these humans? They are slaves, without arms and armor and hatred. All they dream of is what any slave would.” She glanced at Kalvynn briefly, then brought her arms together as if her wrists were chained. Then, she separated them over her head. “Freedom. It is in our power to give it to them.”
Maerys felt her heart swell as all the Saim-Hann Rangers joined their Pathfinder She instinctively touched her spirit stone and breathed easily. But the moment did not last. Livae and many of the Fate Dealers remained secluded. She passed her dagger between her hands, then hooked her finger through the ring on the hilt and spun it around. All the while, she shook her head, as if disgusted and annoyed. Of course, she felt all their eyes upon her.
Sheathing her knife, she took up her cup of mulled wine and gazed into it. Although her lips moved, as if muttering to herself, she made no sound. Eventually, she grunted, drank the entire cup in one gulp, and set it down hard on the log.
“Damn you all,” Maerys heard her say. Long Livae stood up with her Fate Dealers and folded her arms across her chest. “If getting the Exodites and the mon’keigh out of that terrible place means we can take one more step to finishing this war, then so be it. I suppose not even wild animals deserve to be caged.”
The Autarchs and High Count gazed at the Band of Kurnous, now all afoot, side by side, steadfastly behind Maerys. The Pathfinder allowed herself a smile before looking back at the council.
“They are with me.”
“In your multitude, you would all lay down your lives for some bound wretches?” sneered Yltra. “Where does your sympathy come from? What do you see in them?”
“To be a Ranger is to be an Outcast,” said Maerys. But, were any of us truly cast out? Nay. We elected to leave our homes for we desired independence from the confines of the paths. The risks of such liberty were made known to us and we left all the same. No one who carries the long rifle and bears our cloaks values freedom as we do. If we balk now, we violate our own convictions.”
Maerys gazed boldly at her counterparts. High Count Dryane, impressed, permitted himself a chuckle. Yet, the Autarchs remained undeterred. All remained fixed and stoic, as if bearing the searing wind of a storm. Yltra strode forward, her fists clenched and her gait lethal—the very same posture as when she entered battle.
“This changes nothing. This council is in command of this army; the army does not command us. I wish to respect you, for you prove to be a warrior, but you muddy and disrupt the order which we have created to conduct this great endeavor.” Yltra whirled around. “Hear me, Oromas of Saim-Hann, Caergan of Ulthwé, and Dryane of the Scattered Sands of Heaven: Maerys Desrigale of Yme-Loc has resisted the rules of this council and delayed our advance. Let us end this charade and make this decision!” She looked back venomously. “Even if they were not prisoners, those humans ought to be killed. They foul the soil of our old worlds.”
A deadly silence hung over the assembly. The Rangers drew closer together, forming ranks behind and alongside Maerys. Those guardians and aspect warriors who had arrived with the Autarchs tensed. Shock and agita washed through the faces of every single aeldari. Maerys could feel their emotions, could smell it like scents on the wind. Every rapid heartbeat was to be heard, an increasing rhythm that pulsed through the air.
Her own would have joined the rest but, without expression or word or breath, traveled deep within herself. She called upon the blood of her people, that inherent power of all Aeldari. This was the time for strength, for boldness. Steadily, her heartbeat slowed and she remained firm in front of the Autarchs.
“I spoke with those humans you freed for some time,” Dryane suddenly said, snapping all to attention. “Most of them were traders. When I mentioned Craftworld Varantha, their eyes glowed. They had met and traded with the people you and I admire so much we have become their forever-allies. Vanna told me some of those captured down there hail from there and some of her fellow captives keep Varantha spirit stones.” He smiled as he clutched the grip of his sword. The handsome corsair leader pondered and pondered, then laughed pleasantly. “Despite the rogue I may be, I know what my Varantha brothers and sisters would do here.”
He walked over to Maerys and stood beside her. “Autarch Yltra, no one has raised their voice to join yours, so I submit to this council we return to the true vote: to include the humans in our rescue. It stands now there are two votes in favor.”
“I am still against it,” snapped Yltra. She gazed between Caergan and Oromas, both of whom remained silent and thoughtful. But they were given little time, for Taphelran approached the party and dramatically planted his boot into a patch of soil.
“Autarch Caergan, Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass answered your request. It was not a command or payment, thus we were not bound to accept it. Nonetheless, we did, for our very purpose is to defend the lives of others.”
Taphelran looked over his shoulder and winked. Teltryan shut his eyes momentarily, then furrowed his brow and marched up beside his twin. He put a hand on his back and Maerys waited for him to correct Taphelran.
“You may pick and choose whom you save, but my brother and I will not. Make your choice, but know, we have ours also.”
It was not a threat, there was no malice in his voice. But Caergan recoiled all the same. Marys walked up beside the titan pilots. “Caergan, you are an aeldari of principle and I beseech you to understand ours. If you refuse, then allow me to speak to you in practicalities. If any humans survive the crossfire of this upcoming battle, they will wander these plateaus and stumble back into Ork hands. To take them would deprive our foe his labor forces. Surely, that speaks to you, who has enacted just as many ploys against our enemies as Taldeer did. In our care, they will stay out of our way, and what’s more, they possess spirit stones of departed Asuryani. Despite their conditions, they have clung to a hope that they will be freed and return these stones to our hands. Shall we just snatch them from their fingers!?”
“You act as though we must barter and plead for them,” said Oromas. “If they refuse to give them up, then fingers must break, wrists will be snapped, and if need be, blades will fall.”
“I have heard enough! The brave patriarch of Clan Bri-Seori would strike down half-starved slaves!?” mocked a voice from above. From the night sky descended Dochariel along with many Swooping Hawks of his temple. They landed gracefully, their wings billowing. The Exarch stormed up to Oromas and swept his arm before him, as if discarding refuse. “Where is such an illustrious Autarch’s honor?”
Arganel and Kelriel stepped forward, hands on their swords, but Dochariel ignored them with a wave of his hand. He walked up to Yltra without salute or gravitas. “I have followed you into war many times, my courageous Autarch. We have scoured many worlds that humans have settled upon but these unfortunates were brought against their will! But I am not compelled to follow you into such apathy, not just for these poor slaves, but your fellow aeldari.” He joined Maerys and took her hand in his. “I am with Maerys also.”
“Desrigale, I have a question for you, warrior to warrior,” said Arganel the Striker. “Were you unable to succeed in this vote, would you still act to save the humans?”
“The Saim-Hann value one’s word, so I shall not lie: I would save as many as I could and suffer your criticisms and punishments contentedly.” Arganel and his uncle both laughed.
“A Wild Rider can respect that,” said Oromas.
“That is what I am trying to tell you,” said Maerys, seizing the moment. “Oh grand chief, is your noble name not Freeshield? I need not listen to a song of lore to know what you stand for: to protect the will of the spirits of the many. Will you not honor your own name, family, and clan? Will you not honor the very nature of the Wild Rider? Alimia spoke truly: it is your power to free them.”
The faces of the Freeshield family grew grave. Neither nephew nor daughter, both contemplative, dared not look at Oromas. Their chieftain’s stern brow had settled deeply over his eyes. He appeared angry, but not wrathful. Despite the scars across his face, he did not seem fractured, and Maerys sensed no distress in his soul.
“It is audacious to confront an Autarch in so bold a manner, but both of you have done so in the Saim-Hann tradition. I admire words just as much as blades. I sense Princess Kelriel and my nephew Arganel desire to support you, and it appears they hold true to our beliefs more than I. Very well, Desrigale. I am in favor.”
“As am I,” said Caergan. “I think your altruism may one day serve you ill, but for now, we can spare time for the humans. Having them might prove a boon should any Imperials come sniffing about. An offering of freed slaves might send them away.”
“You are all fools,” said Yltra, bitterly. “You would save those who would prefer to see us all dead, even if…even if these ones pose no threat. Fine. I will not stall this council. I am for it. Dochariel, you may aid the Rangers, but Maerys, you will find the accommodations for them.”
“I promise I will.” The urge to indulge in her joy and pride, to embrace her comrades and share in their jubilance was nearly irresistible. But Maerys summoned her strength to tame her swelling heart and channeled it into her sinews. “Now, let us deliver salvation,” said Maerys to all.
