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  Maireth Voidwalker strode the paths of the dead.

  Spirits surrounded her, clamouring for her attention. Some recently dead wished to pass a message or remembrance to those they had left behind. Some longer gone wondered if their names were remembered. Some of the very oldest, spirits who had wandered the infinity circuit for as long as it had existed, simply desired a moment of contact with a living soul, a reminder of what they had once been, millennia before. She was their conduit to the mortal world, a spiritseer, and she would do their bidding.

  But one spirit wanted more.

  The spirit of Mardorath Lifestone wanted to tell her that she was going to die.

  ‘I know this, Mardorath,’ she said, her soulvoice soft and ethereal, echoing through the unworld she inhabited. ‘Death comes to us all.’

  It comes to you soon, spiritseer. Very soon. I have seen it. On the world of Carnac, when the dead walk and the threads tangle. The unliving scythe will be sundered and your end will be at hand.

  The spirit faded away, rejoining the tumult of the infinity circuit, and Maireth Voidwalker put the strange prophecy from her mind and continued her work.

  Elarique fought his way through the throng, power sword flashing. He struck out at a necron warrior, removing its head. As it fell, another three fired their rifles and, with a cry, he beat his wings, flying above the streams of energy before throwing himself towards the necrons, mandiblasters peppering them with laser fire. His blade met their living metal forms, cutting through vital systems and ending the warriors, who phased out even as their skeletal remains crumpled to the ground.

  Even as he landed, Elarique was seeking another foe to kill. A bladed skimmer floated towards him, weapon barrels crackling with electrical energy. The Dire Avengers fired shurikens at it, but they did not even graze it. If it fired, they would all die. Elarique would not allow it. No more eldar would die if he could prevent it.

  Sheathing his sword, he pulled the fusion gun from his back and loosed nuclear fury at the vehicle. Parts of it turned molten and dripped from the craft, splattering the necrons below with boiling metal that burned through them, reducing them to scrap.

  The skimmer exploded and more necrons were destroyed, pierced by shards of spinning metal or consumed by the fiery blast. Elarique exulted at the carnage he had unleashed.

  But at the same time, he knew that his kills were as nothing compared to the sheer weight of the foe. He was the commander of this army, not a soldier, and he needed to look at the bigger picture. The necron numbers were fearsome and, around him, eldar died in droves. His Dire Avenger bodyguard dwindled, and each death stabbed at his heart like a cold blade.

  He remembered the words of Eldorath Starbane when he had sent Nightspear on his mission: Cut off the head and the body will die. A rudimentary tactic, but an effective one. Casting his gaze around, he saw his quarry – a leader of the souldark, its golden frame twice the size of even its heavily-armoured guards. It carried a great staff that crackled with eldritch energy, and the green balefire of its eyes was deeper and more disturbing than looking into the void at the heart of the galaxy.

  It saw him, and pointed its weapon in challenge. Elarique returned the gesture and inclined his head. One of the enemy commander’s bodyguards stepped forward, a huge shield clutched in one hand and a great crackling axe in the other. The overlord held out a hand and shook its head, cackling something in their ancient tongue. The praetorian took a step back and lowered its weapon, though its infernal gaze remained fixed upon the autarch.

  Elarique gestured for his remaining Dire Avengers to remain where they were, and leapt at his foe. His hissing blade was met by the enemy’s staff and, for a moment, the two weapons crackled together, energy fields clashing, before the necron pulled away and readdressed, swinging his weapon round in a blindingly fast arc and smashing the autarch’s flight pack. The sundered wings dropped to the ground and the necron barked what Elarique supposed to be laughter.

  ‘You like playing, do you?’ asked the autarch through gritted teeth, pain coursing down his spine. ‘I shall remember that when I carve you into a hundred pieces.’ He lunged low and his blade struck an armoured leg, carving a deep gash into the golden plate. Almost instantly, it closed and repaired, and in moments there was no sign that the necron had ever been struck.

  ‘Foolish mortal,’ grated his opponent in an approximation of the ancient eldar language, his clumsy mispronunciations stoking Elarique’s fury. ‘I am eternal. I cannot tire. I cannot slow. I cannot fail. You will do all of these, and you will die.’ It swung the staff in an overhead blow. Elarique threw himself to the side and barely avoided being gutted by the backswing. He rolled to his feet, under the necron’s guard, and battered its chest and shoulder with a flurry of blows. One of its arms fell limp, useless until it repaired. The autarch did not intend to give it the chance.

  Suddenly, the waystone on his chest flared with heat and he felt a presence, the warmth of another eldar soul sharing his form. He smiled as this interloper’s thoughts mingled with his and he understood what – who – she was. Then he returned his full focus to the battle before him.

  He swung his blade high, aiming directly for the grinning metal skull. The overlord moved faster than seemed possible for its bulky metal frame, and then Elarique was sprawled on his belly. He rolled and was up, shuriken pistol pulled from its holster and firing shots into the necron at the speed of thought. It staggered, projectiles jutting from its chest, vital systems sparking, and it slowed. Elarique pressed the attack, blade flashing as he forced it back step by step, its staff a blur as it parried every strike.

  Then Elarique dropped and drove his sword through the souldark’s leg, severing it. As it fell, as if in slow motion, he spun around and removed its head, which hit the hard earth and bounced, landing at the feet of its one remaining praetorian, the rest laid low by the Dire Avengers, who now cheered Elarique’s name.

  He paused, allowing himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He made to commune with the spirit that had entered his waystone, but she was gone. He wondered… But there was no time for that. The necron commander may have been defeated, but the battle was still in the balance.

  And then it no longer was.

  A crescent-shaped aircraft swooped down and opened fire, and Elarique Swiftblade rolled to avoid the deadly blasts from its weapons. He watched in horror as his remaining Dire Avengers were consumed by fire, and he screamed, a sound of rage and fury. So busy was he mourning that he never saw the necron overlord rise from where it had fallen, still headless, staff clutched in skeletal hands, raised to strike. So busy was Elarique Swiftblade screaming his grief to the heavens that he never felt the blow that killed him.

  Eldorath loosed his grip on the skeins and fell back into himself. His eyes snapped open.

  ‘Swiftblade!’

  ‘My lord Starbane?’

  Eldorath focused and saw a figure kneeling before him, camouflaged robes sweeping the floor and covering form-fitting blue armour. Grey hair was pulled into a tall topknot held with a golden band, and a long rifle, worked with an amethyst stone, was strapped across his back.

  ‘Illic,’ said the seer, his voice quavering with grief and fear. ‘My foresight has failed again. I have just seen… Lord Swiftblade…’

  ‘Aye, lord seer,’ whispered Illic Nightspear. ‘The situation on Carnac is graver than we thought.’

  Both eldar, seer and outcast, were silent for a moment. Eldorath calmed himself, immersed himself briefly in the infinity circuit, allowing the thoughts and perceptions of the long-dead to flow over, around, through him. The mood was mournful, and angry. Alaitocii were dead. Revenge must be had. Eldorath came back to himself.

  ‘The Avatar will not awaken,’ he murmured. ‘The Young King remains inviolate.’

  ‘Elarique?’

  ‘Will die,’ said Starbane, voice cracking.

  ‘This will not happen,’ said a third voice. Both seer and pathfinder turned to see a figure silh
ouetted in the light at the entrance to the sanctum. It moved towards them, resolving into a warrior in crimson aspect armour, crafted to appear as if it burned when the light caught it. Over the armour, the eldar wore robes of black in the style of archaic mourning garb. He was unhelmed; his face narrow and pale, with eyes of deep amber burning out from beneath long black hair. ‘This fate cannot come to pass. I will prevent it.’

  ‘Crimson Hunter…’ breathed Illic Nightspear, awe in his voice. Eldorath understood. It was only rarely that the Aspect Warriors of the Crimson Hunters came aboard the craftworld proper, preferring the sanctuary of their satellite and the kinship with their craft. For their exarch to venture into Alaitoc itself…

  ‘You know what is to come to pass, Keladry Ragefyre?’ asked Eldorath.

  The exarch nodded. ‘I offer my ships, and the lives of my pupils. And my own, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eldorath. ‘You can reach Carnac in time to stop the yngiract craft from distracting Swiftblade. Prevent his fall. Perhaps the world can still be saved, and revenge had.’ He paused. ‘Something comes to me. A scrap of prophecy, perhaps, or a dream. It is hard to tell in these days, but… “When the golden one falls beneath the swift blade, strike.” Pass this to all in the force, Ragefyre. It may be of use.’

  ‘I have something more,’ said Ragefyre, his lilting voice curiously hesitant. ‘The souls of those lost to me, pilots of great skill.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Illic said. ‘What use are souls–’

  ‘You propose to use wraithfighters, Ragefyre?’ Eldorath’s tone was sharp. He had never approved of the terror-weapon that was the Hemlock wraithfighter, or of the sacrifices required by those who piloted them. But still, the situation was desperate. He softened his voice. ‘I agree. I shall rouse the spritseers, and we will depart immediately.’

  ‘We, my lord Starbane?’ asked the exarch. ‘You will join us on Carnac, though you risk your life?’

  ‘Aye, exarch,’ said Eldorath, his eyes meeting Keladry’s amber orbs. ‘Through my errors, many eldar have fallen on that world, as Lord Nightspear knows. If any more are to die, I will see it happen with my own eyes. Or I will die with them.’

  Maireth Voidwalker rode the waystones of the warriors on Carnac, slipping from one to another, watching for the moment the dead had predicted. She needed to be careful though… If she lingered too long in any body, she risked losing herself, or dying if her host did. At least that would cheat her fate, though not in the way she would like…

  She darted across the battlefield clad in the blue armour of a Dire Avenger. She fired her shuriken catapult from the hip as she dove into cover behind a wrecked grav-tank, watching with satisfaction as the blade-edged projectiles slammed into warrior constructs, severing metal limbs and damaging vital systems. Several of the necrons fell, the viridian glow dimming from the eye sockets of their skull-like visages. Several other members of her squad joined her behind the downed Falcon, the exarch amongst them. He signalled to them in Alaitocii battle-sign to target a squad of heavier necrons, armed with great, double-barrelled weapons that glowed the same eldritch green as their eyes.

  Maireth exulted in this form of combat. It was alien to her, to be so close to the foe, to see the light bleed from their eyes as death claimed them. To be in this body, fighting in this way… And then, from her left, a great floating machine, long and lined with metal ribs, emerged from behind a cloud of drifting mist. It fired once and the world disappeared and–

  She was a Howling Banshee and parried blows from a necron’s blade, the energised sword gripped in her hand flashing faster than the eye could follow to deflect precise strikes that would have removed her arm or head. The shuriken pistol in her other hand whined and the immortal warrior, towering above her, raised its great coffin-shaped shield to deflect them. She ducked beneath the shield and screamed in rage, channeling all her emotions over her impending death into the shout. Her Banshee mask turned her fury into a monstrous howl that momentarily rocked her foe. She drove her power sword deep into her opponent’s body before spinning. The blade came free, bisecting the necron’s torso.

  Maireth barely felt the pain of the necron’s last blow as its hyperphase sword split her from groin to sternum and–

  She hunkered down atop the cliff-face, hidden from view by the cameleoline weave of her cloak, watching the battle unfold. Through the scope of her longrifle, she tracked a group of heavy warrior-forms wired into flying weapons platforms. She calmly followed one as it approached a knot of combatants, green-armoured Striking Scorpions who danced around a necron commander with a long-bladed scythe, trading blows in a blur of chainsword and scythe before darting back out of reach of the necron’s long sweeping strikes. She watched as the barrel of the Destroyer’s weapon glowed with viridian balefire and she breathed out, ordering the psychically-attuned rifle to fire.

  There was a soft pop and a laser-guided needle lanced from the barrel. The distance was huge, but in moments, the shot hit the necron construct’s weapon power cell, which exploded, consuming the Destroyer in green fire. Two more shots and the other two Destroyers were similarly disabled. Maireth turned her sights back to the combat, seeing that most of the Scorpions were down. Only the exarch remained standing, his heavy powered claw swinging to deflect the blows from the necron’s warscythe.

  She aimed for the lord’s eye socket, the baleful green glow the only thing in her consciousness… No, wait, there was a green light, but not from there. She looked up from her scope and saw that a viridian glow pulsed around her. Fear filled her and she turned, staring directly into the single pulsing eye of a necron carrying a long-barrelled weapon, which was pointed directly at her head. She raised her rifle quicker than thought, but it was too late. The necron fired and–

  She steadied the starcannon attached to the Vyper’s weapons platform. Her grip was tight on the gun as the pilot jinked and wove through the chaos of the battle. She saw a group of warriors below, exchanging shots with an entrenched guardian squad. She squeezed the trigger and reduced the necrons to molten slag in a stream of plasma fire, thrilling at the deadly potential of the weapon.

  The pilot veered towards a large, spider-like monstrosity that spewed forth swarms of tiny scarabs, and Maireth turned the weapon on it, smoothly loosing a blast of incandescent energy, vaporising it. But the minuscule creatures it had created came for her, taking to the sky on wings of metal. They landed on the Vyper and began eating away at it. Panic filled her as one quickly gnawed through the containment bottle for the starcannon. The Vyper exploded with the unleashed fury of a star gone nova and–

  She stalked through the carnage, turning her Reaper missile launcher left and right, releasing its explosive payload and turning away before the projectile even hit the target. She knew it would. It always did. She exulted in the destruction, in the ruin she brought to this ancient enemy. Her brothers and sisters did likewise, and as one, they sang a deep funereal dirge, a song from the Long Ago that praised the Bloody-Handed One and stirred Maireth’s blood even as their mighty weapons reaped a dreadful harvest in His name.

  A sound from behind drew Maireth’s attention and she turned, already firing. Her first missile went straight through her foe, its serpentine, metal form simply fading into nothingness as it glided towards her. A second shot missed, and then a third, as the creature evaded the missiles with sinuous movements. And then it was on her, physical again, wrapping itself around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs as its tail constricted. Its claws, great shimmering blades, flashed and–

  She was at the heart of the battle. She was sharing the body of the high autarch himself, Elarique Swiftblade and, unlike the others, he knew that she was with him. He laughed as he launched himself at the commander of the yngiract force.

  Maireth watched in detached awe as Elarique swung his blade high, bringing it crashing down towards the alien’s grinning gold skull in a graceful arc. The necron stepped to one side faster that she would have believed
possible and the blade sliced through empty air. The overlord’s staff struck the autarch across the back and he fell, sprawling on the hard earth. In a heartbeat, he was rolling and up, snap shots from his shuriken pistol causing it to stagger back as he came around and readdressed.

  A flurry of blows put it on the back foot, his sword impacting again and again against the ornate staff as the necron desperately parried every strike. Maireth remained in the autarch’s waystone, knowing that his skill at arms was greater than she could dream of. If she dared to try to control his body, it would mean his death. Briefly, she wondered if that had been true of the others she had puppeted, and the thought grieved her.

  Around them, a squad of Dire Avengers held off the warlord’s praetorian bodyguards, bursts of pinpoint shuriken fire keeping them away from the duel.

  Elarique struck low, his blade cutting through the leg of the enemy commander, and then spun and parted the necron’s head from its shoulders.

  It collapsed, and he turned to aid his warriors as an exultant cry of ‘Swiftblade!’ went up from the eldar who had witnessed the combat–

  When the golden one falls beneath the swift blade, strike…

  Maireth Voidwalker came back to herself. A spiritseer, she had flitted through the waystones of warriors in the battle, waiting for the moment that Eldorath Starbane had foreseen. The instructions had been given to all those joining the assault, and the golden one had now fallen. And now it was time.

  For a second, her body felt alien, other. For a second, she grieved for the deaths she had just witnessed, for the lives that had been sold in the name of stopping the ancient ones, though she also thanked the dead gods of her people that she had fled their waystones in time to allow their souls to be saved. If another’s soul were to be claimed by She Who Thirsts by her actions… The thought chilled her.

  She took a deep breath. If the prophecies of the dead were to believed – and the seers had informed her, sadness in their eyes, that they were, then her purple stone would be warm and filled by the end of this war. Her path, she had been told, would end here, on Carnac. This would be the last world that she would see with living eyes or touch with living flesh. Carnacian air would be the last to fill her lungs. And this would be her last battle, unless she assented to be placed in a wraith construct for some future conflict.