Marsh Silas turned the key and the growling motorbike engine grew silent. Propping up the kickstand and gently leaning it to the side, he pulled his scarf down and inhaled. Kasr Sonnen’s chilly night air was delicious to breathe. Despite his heavy officer’s coat, the familiar cold still stung. Hyram, dismounting behind him, was worse off, as he lacked a scarf. The executive officer’s teeth chattered as he removed his goggles. Travel bags slung over their shoulders, they loped up the short path from the snowy street to the front door of the Hyram Manse, a fortified house in the eastern officer’s borough. It was a robust two-story dwelling, with blast windows on either side of the entrance, and two above it. A small balcony between them served as a view and as a gun position.

  Hyram removed his gloves and knocked on the heavy, adamantium door. Standing behind him, Marsh Silas frowned. “It’s your own house, mate,” he scoffed.

  “I enjoy surprising them” Hyram rocked back and forth on his feet. Marsh turned and gazed at the kasr. Bastion towers, flak spires, and demi-fortresses loomed over reinforced rockcrete dwellings and numerous facilities. Sentries patrolled the jagged, twisting streets under the barrels of vigilant gun teams. At junctions, tanks and armored personnel carriers waited in redoubts their hot engines casting steam into the air. Searchlights sliced through the overcast sky and highlighted buildings as they passed. Lights burned in countless, countless windows.

  He heard Hyram walk off the step. “How do I look?” he asked, sniffing heavily to suck a thread of mucus threatening to seep down his face. His cheeks, nose, and ears were quite pink and although his plump, blonde locks were neat, his thick sideburns were quite disheveled. Chuckling, Marsh tugged at Hyram’s collar.

  “Not much we can do about these ol’ windswept whiskers and that scar will have to stay.” He traced the brownish, vertical mark which ran from Hyram’s left jawline all the way up to his left eye socket, where a ricochet once struck him. “What can I say? You just can’t fix ugly, I’m afraid.”

  Hyram socked Marsh in the chest and the two snickered. As he backed away, Hyram swiped a handful of snow off the railing of the steps, packed it, and lobbed it at Marsh Silas. The shot struck true and flakes covered Marsh’s coat. “Really?”

  “Come on then!” The officer swiftly collected his own ammunition and heaved the snow at Hyram without balling it up. The pale mist dusted his shoulders, scarf, and scruff. Together, they both turned back and regarded Kasr Sonnen. “Don’t ye want to move them to Kasr Proelium? Be closer to Fort Carmine?”

  “It is an attractive prospect. But I suppose I am of the sentimental variety. We made many good memories here, you, me, Lilias, Bloody Platoon. It keeps us close to the schola, Ghent, and Army’s Meadow. Is that not why you agreed to make a home with us here?” This made Marsh Silas smile and nod. Just then, the door opened and they were bathed in radiant light.

  Isabella Hyram gasped, covered her mouth with both hands, and bounced excitedly on her bare feet. She was a slender woman, slim but soft in her face, with handsome, tepid brown eyes and equally warm brown hair. Marsh Silas was accustomed to seeing her voluminous, curly hair tied back with a curtain of ringlets veiling the sides of her face, but tonight they all hung loosely. Instead of a fine dress with lace fringes, she was clad in a simple white blouse and khaki skirt.

  “Deceiver! You did not tell me you were coming when you rang!” she exclaimed as happy tears rolled down her cheeks. Hyram smiled fondly, embraced his wife, and kissed the top of her head. They held one another dearly for some time, illuminated in the golden light emanating from within the home. Then, they shared a kiss and she shivered. “Hurry inside, you two, come on, come on! Oh Silas, isn’t it lovely to see you as well?”

  “It is a delight to see you, dear sister,” replied Marsh, who kicked the snow off his boots before passing the threshold. As soon as the door shut behind him, Isabella embraced him as well and planted a kiss on either cheek.

  “Seathan told me you’ve already put in the transfer request for your mother!”

  “Very true. It will not be for another two weeks, but thankfully an old friend is pulling an administrative liaison detail now; Lauraine will expedite the transfer. Seathan volunteered to join me when it came time to visit Kasr Polaris. I wondered if you would—”

  “Of course I want to come! It’ll be a lovely little celebration. Why, let’s celebrate tonight! I know you Cadians aren’t used to fine dining but I’ll certainly whip something hearty up.” In a flash, she raced by Seathan who had yet to remove his jacket and hurried into the kitchen. Moments later, they heard a number of metallic bangs and gongs as she assembled her own arsenal of pans and pots.

  The two friends hung up their coats and shivered as the chill filtered from their backs. The short foyer led to a junction of halls. To their left was a sitting room of finely carved wooden furniture, plush cushions, and a cozy hearth. The right led to several other rooms; a study, a washroom, a citadel in case of planetary invasion, and a staircase to the second floor. Forward was the kitchen and dining room.

  Just as Hyram and Marsh passed, there was a gleeful squeal from the staircase. Feet pounded down the steps and a scrappy lad in night clothes came bounding down the hall. Although Sydney’s dusty hair was a mop and there was crust at the corners of his shining violet eyes, the boy’s big toothy grin and glowing, freckled face could have lit the entire house. Hyram dropped to his knees and held out his arms. His son ran into his chest and Hyram grasped him tightly. Each breath was a relieved, joyous breath as he cradled his boy. Isabella peeked from the kitchen; her sweet smile could have melted even the stoutest heart.

  Hyram nearly had to tear his son off him. When he did, he stroked his messy hair and sniffed back his tears. “Are you not getting a little too big to hug your old man this way?”

  “Even when I grow up and I’m taller than you, I’ll still hug you like this!”

  “Ah, what a good lad!” Hyram laughed. “Say hello to your uncle!” Sydney detached from his father and jumped at Marsh Silas. With a hoot, Marsh hooked his hands under the boy’s arms and spun him once before embracing him.

  “Hey there, fella,” greeted Marsh. “How’s the little soldier?”

  “I’m mad these days, uncle! I want to go to the Month of Making but mama says I can’t go!”

  “She’s smart; I was dropped on a barren island with nary a scrap of cloth in winter!”

  “A month in the Caducades Sea might not be a bad experience all the same,” joked Hyram as he walked into the kitchen. “Isebella—alright, I know that face. Before you say anything…” As the couple argued playfully, Marsh Silas laughed and set Sydney down. The moment he did, the lad tugged at his sleeve. His face appeared quite grave. Curiously, the officer knelt down and Sydney cupped his hand around Marsh’s ear.

  “Mama and papa have been up to schemes, uncle. I saw the letters and heard them on the long-distance vox. They’re seeking a match for you, they are.”

  “Are they now?” grumbled Marsh, who gazed apathetically at the couple through the door.

  “A proper and fitting wife, they said.”

  “Well, you ought to join intelligence, you little spy,” teased Marsh before he tapped Sydney on his shoulder and ushered him into the kitchen. Isabella was already stirring vegetables into a broth while Hyram, his sleeves rolled up, diced up a cutlet of grox. Both of them smiled as they talked over their shoulders. Theirs was the conversation of two old friends and it was certainly a great cheer. But their tones grew all the more elated as Sydney trotted into the kitchen, though neither noticed as he helped himself to an iced bun waiting in the icebox.

  Leaning in the doorway, Marsh smiled at the little family. Sydney happily raced between his parents, clinging to their legs or arms and walking over their feet. Hyram bustled over to Isabella, playfully shouldered her aside as he would any of the men in Bloody Platoon, and dropped the chunks into the pot. Isabella, just as mischievously, shouldered him out of the way, continued stirring, and scolded him. Hyram laughed, washed his hands, and then sneakily swiped an iced bun as well which he promptly shared with his son. Of course, Isabella noticed and feigned greater irritation until Hyram popped the remnants of his slice up to her lips. She huffed, wiped the frosting from the corner of her mouth, and dabbed Sydney on the nose which made him giggle.

  Marsh Silas’s smile slowly faded and his features fell. He found he could no longer watch. Turning towards the dark hall and running his hand through his blonde locks, he inhaled sadly. A shimmer of movement at the foot of the distant staircase caught his attention. A faded figure donned a wide-brimmed cap and then, his pale hand gliding on the railing, disappeared up the stairs.

  “Brother, there’s still a little time,” said Hyram. “Why don’t you wash up and then join us?”

  “A kindness indeed, Seathan, but I’m quite tired from the journey. I think I shall retire for the evening.” Marsh Silas managed a smirk despite his family’s disappointed expressions. “Worry not, with this long furlough, there shall be plenty of feasts to be had.” He bade them goodnight, then turned and drifted towards the stairs, leaving the kitchen light and the cries of joy behind him.

  He tramped up those stairs, his footfalls heavy and slow. A turn on the landing and he was in his room. There were no paintings, or tapestries. Rather than an ornate full bed, there was a simple soldier’s cot. A desk sat by the window adorned only by a few framed picts from the old days, a lamp, a vox-link, quill, ink, parchment, and several bottles of prized raenka. Marsh dropped his coat and tunic on the chair, uncorked one of the bottles, and took a long drink.

  He untied and removed his boots, sat down, and with bottle in hand, stared at the picts which were bathed in rays of moonlight which beamed through the window. In them was a red-haired Commissar with a puglist’s nose. Her gaze was determined and heroic, and Marsh Silas stared back until the bottle was finished and sleep overtook him like a warm embrace.

  Like every Void Stalker battleship, the Sandstorm was an instrument to reave and destroy. An outsider may have considered such a massive craft too sleek and from its incredible, stern-mounted, glittering solar sails, too much of an artistic masterpiece to be worthwhile in a fight. Yet its nimble sifting among the stars and suite of decimating firepower would humble any opponent who dismissed it as such.

  However, it was the personal property of a Corsair lord, and with that came a particular flare reflective of their personality. Trophy rooms, banquet halls, private chambers of worship, these were many of the intimate intricacies such captains constructed on their ships. But on the Sandstorm, there was a lodge in the ship’s bowels which the crew referred to as the ‘Chamber of Summits.’ It was there that Dryane, High Count of Stars and Sands, conducted diplomacy with anyone who would treat with him. For the pirate prince appreciated himself not only as a daring raider, erstwhile hunter, roving explorer, and decadent collector, but as a shrewd delicatesse.

  Standing in the Chamber of Summits, Maerys could not help but reflect and reconcile that her hand helped lay a cornerstone of the hall’s foundation. A century ago, Dryane could not have cared less for artful negotiation lest he were standing behind his shuriken pistol. It was Maerys who recommended that he might gain more from his acts if only he were to offer trades and exchanges rather than make war on other Corsairs or any reasonable peoples. In that way, perhaps, less innocents would die. Since then, he was quite keen on the matter. Or at least, he tried to be.

  It was a massive, circular room with a fa?ade of smooth, jade stone paneling over the Wraithbone bulkheads. Columns along the sides bore an inscription of the rune worn by King Asuryan. The Phoenix King’s mark consisted of two adjacent halves, one white, one black, flowing in different directions though reciprocating one another’s shape. A single dot, bearing the opposite’s color, resided in the main body of the other. Atop these columns, these circular panels gently spun Beneath them were further marks of the Pantheon, such as Vaul, God of the Forges, Kurnous, the Hunter, Hoec, Webway wanderer, and rune-skin pouch of the Crone, Morai-Heg.

  Along the deck were great, granite boxes filled with earth. Growing from them were small trees, all of different species and origin. There were gnarly ones with needles, wide-trunked specimens, those with bristles and thorns, others which bore yellow, green, and red fruits, some with purple, pink, yellow, green, or orange leaves. They created color in a room so devoid of it.

  A round table permeated the middle of the long, angular hall. Many runes were carved into the granite, though most depicted were scenes of Aeldari feats. Great beasts punctured by the spears of ancient warriors. The first ships took flight to the stars. Planets torn asunder, people cast about space and time. In the very center, sand swirled within a glass orb, as if being stirred by the ladle of some unseen overlord. Overhead, teardrop vessels like those of the ship’s library hovered, though the fluid lights did not teem with life, maintaining the essence of a cold blue flame.

  Although it was quiet in the chamber, it was nonetheless full. Maerys stood with the Corsair congregation, clad in various colors, some simple, others gaudy and colorful, while a few nobles bore esoteric symbols of personal exploits. Golden and silver necklaces hung from their necks and dresses. Gems studded and hung from their ears. Teeth plucked from the maws of prized monsters decorated collars and fur mantles. Felarch Forromare, one of Dryane’s chief officers, stood with her. Roguish, simple in his outfit with a brown suit and blue mantle, his brown hair shaggy, he was missing his left eye though chose not to cover it, leaving a grisly gash.

  Across the table was the Biel-Tan mission. Autarch Yltra Vass stood at the forefront, her hands braced against the edge of the table. Her elegant brow furrowed over her deep, green eyes. Her golden hair fell loosely in contrast to her strong but intensely sharp features. Her lips drew into a natural scowl made all the more sinister by a jagged scar running from her right eye all the way to the corner of her mouth.

  Alongside her were a number of Warlocks and Exarchs. Like them, she wore her armor instead of any traditional dress. It was to be expected of the Biel-Tan, one of the martial races. All wore white and green variations, the color of their Craftworld, save for a Swooping Hawk Exarch who bore a medley of pale whites and bright blues. He had long black hair, tanned skin, and hazel eyes studded with shards of emerald. Unlike his compatriots, he appeared quite youthful and even excited, judging from his smile.

  They were not the only warriors present. A troop from Saim-Hann, all clad in red and white robes, was present and there were quite a number of them. Chief Oromas Freeshield of the Clan Bri-Seori had brought many of his family members with him. Even for the Asuryani, he was quite tall, and rather robust in his body. His long black hair, now graying, fell all the way to his waist. Many scars, fresh and aged, decorated his hard face. He maintained a subdued yet prideful presence.

  With him was his daughter and heir, the energetic Kelriel. She had very short raven hair; the locks barely touched her ears. The slender warrior princess held herself nobly and proudly and with a great deal of strength, though it possessed an awareness that her composed father forewent. Next to her was Arganel the Striker, her cousin. He chose a white tunic and trousers as well as a red mantle instead of traditional robes. His hair was dyed purple and his face was mature and intelligent. He was surprisingly thin but there was a confident air about him. Why he was not the heir remained a mystery to Maerys, though the Saim-Hann warriors were a people she was unaccustomed to.

  Finally, there were some familiar faces from the Ulthwé delegation. She had met Autarch Caergan Amondeer decades earlier and they had fought side by side before. Lithe but strong, dark-skinned, his hair coarse and black, clad in flowing white clothes and black waistbands, he possessed an insightful quality. He studied the carvings of the table with great interest. The auburn-haired Wayseer Elamlion, ever mystical, did not seem to notice the images. Neither did any of the seers gathered around him.

  The Asuryani stared at the Corsairs. Absent from their own delegation was Dryane. Nervously, Maerys glanced at the empty space beside Forromare. Across from them, Yltra’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. Oromas kept his arms folded across his chest and his eyes shut. Caergan finally looked up. “Dear Maerys, the High Count’s absence is indeed conspicuous.”

  “The High Count will make himself known in due course, Autarch,” responded Forromare.

  “I believe the question was directed to the Pathfinder,” said Oromas without opening his eyes. Maerys felt the Felarch’s glare rest upon her.

  “Dryane is undoubtedly finishing his preparations. This council has been long-anticipated with desire, yet, he is meticulous and methodical. He will take great pains to ensure he entreats you all properly with the respect due your stations and the information necessary for this event.” Caergan bowed his head, Yltra scoffed, as did many of the Exarchs and warlocks in her company, and the Saim-Hann warriors remained silent. Maerys bowed her head and walked backwards. “I will ensure that he makes haste. Forgive my departure.”

  Gracefully, she retreated to the door. When it shut behind her, she hurried down the long corridors and descended to the cabin deck, home ship’s Felarchs and nobles owned lavish suites. At the very end was a wide, circular door. Cast in white lights among the silver and blue bulkheads, Maerys marched right up and pounded her fist on the entrance. “What keeps you?”

  “I am awake,” came a sleepy reply. Maerys knocked again. “...go away.” Maerys permitted herself an aggravated groan. Turning the mechanism, the door slid open and she slipped inside.

  Dryane’s bedchamber was a moderate affair, with the heads of many hunted beasts lining the walls and paintings of himself and ship lining the hexagonal walls. Furnishings of lavish, animal-coat rugs, gold-trimmed and plush red-cushioned armchairs, and an ornate silver throne which took the wings of an eagle, stolen from an Imperial governor, decorated the room. Massive wardrobes and dressers overlooked it all as well as countless Wraithbone sculptures depicting none other than Dryane himself in different suits and regalia. A large bed with shimmering purple sheets waited at the other end of the room. Maerys stood at the foot, where the exposed feet of Dryane, Elsarsys, and Caellatela hung. Submerged in a sea of blankets and pillows, the three Corsairs draped across one another, their hair askew, skin bare, eyes shut. Dryane’s face was partially hidden by his long locks and he looked quite blissful as his toned, thin chest rose and fell.

  Maerys grabbed the blanket and whisked it off. Both Elsarsys and Caellatela groaned and curled up against the High Count. Dryane did not open his eyes nor did he make any move to bring the covers back over him. “Have you finally considered the offer I made to you one hundred fifty one years ago?” he asked absently.

  “I will not entertain such an impertinent question with a response. Rouse yourself, the Autarchs are here.” The Pathfinder folded her arms across her chest and turned away. Dryane sat up so suddenly he nearly threw his partners off him. He pushed his locks back, revealing an incredulous expression.

  “They have truly come?” he gasped. Maerys nodded. “Isha! I thought either the Biel-Tan or the Saim-Hann would beg off at the last moment. Come, my loves, we must make ready!” Dryane climbed off the bed and scampered nimbly to his wardrobe, his bare feet padding across the deck. But Elsarsys and Caellatela were in no hurry and elegantly stretched on the mattress.

  “You should have stirred us earlier, Maerys,” said the latter.

  “I had thought the High Count would not need to be mothered on matters of diplomacy,” replied Maerys. She went to a folding curtain beside the open closet. Behind it, Dryane’s skinny shadow moved hastily. “For one who deigns to take matters of diplomacy so passionately, you do not act the part so well.”

  “It is in my experience the Asuryani are not so willing to share the same table with a Corsair, let alone each other. Go now, tell them I shall appear with all haste.”

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  Maerys needed no further command. She walked briskly back up, her hands curled into fists. Corsairs walking to their posts or back to their cabins parted to let her pass. Stopping at the door to the Chamber of Summits, she drew breath, smoothed out her jacket, and closed her eyes. Perhaps, she pondered, there might be some amicable conversation, or at the very least, a curious query.

  The door opened. No one had stirred and the room remained silent. Her footsteps were so loud they unnerved her. Approaching the edge of the table, she gazed at the stern eyes glaring back at her. “The High Count wishes me to inform you that he will join us shortly,” she said.

  “He was the one who called this and yet he stalls us?” sniffed Yltra. She pushed up from the table and shook her head. “If this matter were so urgent as to merit the immediacy of no less than three Craftworlds, I would expect the illustrious leader of this roving band to be ready to greet us. More the fool, I, for believing a mere thief capable of gravitas.”

  “I share in your reservation for the delay,” said Oromas. “Yet, I would speak more softly if I were you. Among the Saim-Hann, and my clan in particular, such public recriminations would be enough to call for a duel of honor.”

  “I was not aware that courtesy was taken so seriously among your people,” Caergan mused. Oromos opened a single eye at the Ulthwé Autarch, who smiled back at him. He tilted his head to the side, casting a lock of his hair astray. “I imagined it was a matter of blades first and conversation later, if both parties happened to survive, that is.”

  Kelriel’s grip on her sheathed sword tightened. She took a step forward and raised her hand, but it was quickly snatched by her brother. Oromas separated his children and smiled pleasantly.

  “Our customs are a source of amusement for you and though these children feel bound to defend our people, I do not. For you hail from a different Craftworld and are uncultured in our ways; how can I challenge one to a duel when he does not know what is and is not proper?” The Chief’s smile widened. “Besides, if we were to battle, it would hardly be considered a duel, would it?”

  Caergan’s smirk disappeared. Seers and warlocks shifted. Such a bristle was hardly discernible. A turn of the head, a lock of the shoulders, the feet braced. Subtle, swift, and easily mistaken for banality. Maerys raised her hands.

  “Chief Oromas, Autarch Caergan, you are leaders and warriors of esteem and respect, though I remind you that you are guests upon a lord’s ship. I ask only for patience and respect, not just for this host and one another, but this event as well.”

  Oromas studied Maerys momentarily, then bowed his head curtly. Caergan tidied his robes and nodded. With composure, he turned back to Yltra.

  “Autarch of Biel-Tan, it was indeed the High Count Dryane who called this summit, though it was only at Maerys and mine’s insistence that he did so. We have many matters to discuss.”

  Yltra’s eyebrow raised, not in curiosity or surprise. Rather, a lack thereof. She accepted his words coolly though Maerys detected it was not shocking news to the likes of her. There was a discord of culture between the clever Ulthwé and warlike Biel-Tan. Maerys knew it, and so did the two Autarchs.

  “Esteemable guests!” All turned as Dryane entered with Elsarsys and Caellatela. All were richly clad in elegant, purple robes with golden sashes. Rings decorated every long finger, cords of silver spun around their waists. Dryane’s hourglasses turned calmly in its ring. Rubies hung from golden chains laced in his pointed ears.

  He stood next to Maerys and bowed courteously. When he rose, he extended his arms. “Blessings of Isha be upon all who stand within this hall. It is with gratitude I thank thee for joining one another here upon the Sandstorm. To be in the presence of Autarchs hailing from Ulthwé, Saim-Hann, and Biel-Tan, humble and enrich my spirit.”

  Again, he bowed. “It is a custom upon my vessel to dine together and lavish gifts upon the guests. Alas, I must postpone such occasions, for the matters we shall discuss are of such import that I dare not waste any more of your valuable time than I already have. So lost, I was, in my preparations for this affair that I inflicted upon you such tardiness.” Elsarsys’s eyes flitted to the High Count, her eyelids heavy, while Caellatela maintained her stony, exacting demeanor. Maerys remained as still and composed as possible.

  Dryane waved his hand and the sand within the table’s globe shifted so as to fill it. Then, the brown texture changed, blossoming into greens and grays. It was an image of Gaoth trí-na Crainn, the planet below the fleet of Aeldari ships. The Autarchs and their retinues studied it intensely. “An Exodite World that appears undisturbed, no? Let not this beautiful visage beguile you. It is a planet beset with troubles innumerable and they come in the shape of an old yet determined foe: Orks.”

  “We are aware of these Orks,” said Chief Oromas. “They have intensified their raids against both Exodite, Asuryani, and the humans throughout countless clusters and systems. Such thrusts are blunted, though they make off with slaves and war machines. Even my own people have come to blows with the Orks but we have yet to find their haven.”

  Again, Dryane waved his hand at the glass globe. The greens and blues fell away and the sand took a pure white form, with brown ridges, spines, and veins splitting across the orb. Across some segments were blurry expanses of dusty gray. “They come from Pail Shil-ocht, a planet which the humans entitled Mare Album in a distant system,” he said.

  Elsarsys removed a cylindrical jade tube from her waistband and removed the obsidian cap. Without so much as a twitch of her finger, three manuscripts flowed out, unfurled, and each one fluttered in front of the Autarchs. Each took hold, their eyes gliding across the page.

  Dryane grew mystic, his gaze falling and his expression sobering. “Once, there were dreams of a bountiful world; boundless tides of gardens rolling like the waves of a great ocean. It was not to be had. Our empire vanished as a warm breath in cool wind, our people reduced to a few embers of a dying fire, and we all awoke from our dreams only to find nightmares.”

  Maerys slipped her hand into her coat and clutched her Spirit Stone. The stone was smooth in her palm. She felt the energy within, not a vibration nor a heartbeat, but a gentle humming. As she clutched it, she shut her eyes and let the hymn of an ancient voice pass through her. How it filled her, caressed her, conveyed her back, back, back. The singer’s melody grew louder, the voice more impassioned, yet retaining its intimacy. In the darkness, forge fires flowed and hallowed hammers harried metals. Among these forges, she was led, hand in hand, safe and comforted.

  She let go. Maerys blinked. Every member of the opposite delegations grasped their own Spirit Stones, worn on necklaces, cords, and medallions upon their chests. All appeared far away, thoughtful, morose, sorrowful, longing. Only the Swooping Hawk Exarch from Biel-Tan appeared unaffected. He gazed curiously at Maerys and he maintained a faint, gentle smile. Maerys met his eyes, but not for long.

  The High Count eventually roused himself from his stupor. “Pail Shil-ocht is naught but a desert, devoid of natural life, befit only for the Ork, the hardy, and the foolish. Decades ago, humans attempted to colonize the world. In such efforts, they may have succeeded, were it not for these Orks. Those humans who did not flee are now a slave army, toiling in the few foundries festering on the surface.”

  “Then, it is straightforward,” said Yltra, confidently. “We make planetfall and decimate the horde so their ilk will no longer beleaguer the Exodites.

  “Were life so simple to understand,” Caergan ventured, “perhaps, the universe would not be in such turmoil.”

  Oromas and Yltra frowned, taking issue with the Ulthwé Autarch’s condescending tone. Dryane raised his hands to catch the others’ attention. Maerys knew that, with any interruption, there would be a refreshed bout of petty insults.

  “Caergan speaks true. It is only due to the foresight of Ulthwé’s Farseers that the location of these Orks have come to light. There are graver threats, not to any single Craftworld nor the Exodites of the planet beneath us.”

  “The Farseers have ruminated and dwelled long on this matter,” said Caergan. “They came to me with their visions, illuminated the mounting perils, and elected that I bring about a force to combat it. Upon this world, hidden in mountains monumental and abysmal caverns, is a dormant nexus of Webway Gates. Their dormancy, not activation, is vital to the protection of many Exodite Worlds throughout this range of space which the humans doth declare Segmentum Pacificus.”

  The other Autarchs exchanged a grave glance. Oromas set the manuscript down and gripped the edge of the table. “I do not wish to dismiss the magnitude of such a development. Yet, if they are dormant, and the Orks are incapable of opening the Webway, what fear is there?”

  “No fear, Chief Oromas,” Yltra boasted. “Opportunity. To awaken these Gates would be a boon to the Aeldari. A nexus linking countless worlds of our people? It could very well be the bedrock of a new empire. All that stands between us and that rebirth are some Orks.”

  “No, there is much to be afraid of,” warned Caergan. “For the Farseers saw a vestige of madness. A fragmented soul in tumult, crashing into itself. A Wayseer, driven insane by what they could not decipher, has made his way to the planet. If he is to reactivate the nexus, and then it is to be seized by some other force, the Farseers predict there will be great carnage inflicted upon many hundreds and thousands of lives.”

  For the first time, Yltra grew contemplative. She paced back and forth, though she never took her gaze off the representation of the planet in the orb. “Does this Wayseer style himself as Hoec? What troubles will he create?” she asked aloud. “This deep in Imperial space, close to their systems, the Ork threat growing, it would only be a matter of time until the mon-keigh would respond. If there were to be a protracted conflict, then the forces of Chaos might take notice and seize the opportunity to strike at their nemesis. Not even a seer is needed for that, I see it now.”

  “Is your council certain of this?” Chief Oromas asked Caergan. The Ulthwé Autarch suddenly grew tense and he pressed his hands on the table.

  “It is but one potential future among many and the risk it poses is enough to require action on our part. Perhaps, you would understand this if you were to obey the words of your own seer council over the selfish prattling of clan leaders.”

  Arganel, Kelriel, and a great many of the warriors assembled behind Oromas bristled. The princess herself even bared her teeth. Hands went to pommels and grips.

  “My lords!” Maerys yelled. “I ask for calm!”

  “Ask, ask, ask,” derided Yltra before she pointed an accusatory finger at the Pathfinder. “The Outcast may ask nothing of the Asuryani.”

  “Autarch, please, to insult our hosts would be an indignity upon ourselves as much as them,” the Swooping Hawk Exarch beside her pleaded.

  Yltra shared a terse but hushed word with the Exarch, who continued to implore her. Meanwhile, Oromas issued a subdued yet nonetheless stern lecture to his family members and subordinates. Others hissed back at him but were swiftly silenced. Caergan, his seers, and the warlocks around him remained still and quiet, though their faces were an image of disgust.

  Maerys looked to Dryane. The High Count’s lips pursed and his eyes glinted curiously, but the effect steadily dimmed. Many of the other Corsairs appeared to have lost interest. They spoke casually to one another, as if there were no council occurring before them.

  The Pathfinder swallowed as she listened to the bustle and murmur of the crowd. Her hands tightened into fists and her brow furrowed. “My lords, though we are disparate and divided from one another, though we bear titles different and unique, we are nonetheless Aeldari!” The muttering stopped. Every eye turned on her. Maerys strode closer to the table, placed a hand upon the edge, and then motioned to Caergan. “A threat has been recognized by the Farseers of Ulthwé, Caergan asked me to broker an alliance between his host and High Count Dryane’s fleet. The warriors and seers of Ulthwé are indeed powerful, and the Corsairs of the Scattered Sands of Heaven are intrepid, but we know we are not enough to see this task through.”

  She held up her hands and gestured towards the Biel-Tan and Saim-Hann Autarchs. “Thus, we have sought you. Not just for your prowess and ferocity, but because we trust that, in times of strife, our bonds of blood and past shall reunite us to save lives.”

  The Autarchs and their retinues remained silent for a time, then spoke among themselves. Maerys stepped away from the table, clasped her hands, and bowed her head. She was not sure if she should have spoken no matter how sorely she wished to. Dryane’s hand on her shoulder, though acknowledging, was not reassuring.

  Chief Oromas stepped forward. He gazed at Maerys, his eyes narrowed and combative. But then he issued a quick nod. Swiftly, he drew a dagger from his waistband, and placed it on the stone table. “I was elected by the other chieftains to represent Saim-Hann at this summit, though they empowered me only to bring about my own clan’s army if called to war. It is with this power that I pledge a warhost to partake in this campaign. Clan Bri-Seori shall aid Ulthwé and the Scattered Sands to defend the Exodites and the Webway.”

  “Biel-Tan has fought alongside the armies of Saim-Hann in defense of the Exodites before and it shall do so again,” Yltra Vass turned towards Caergan. “Although I have my reservations towards Ulthwé, I recall times when we have allied before, and in that spirit of cooperation, I agree to commit a warhost also.”

  Smiling, Maerys placed her hand over her Spirit Stone once more and bowed. Dryane, too, dipped his head courteously. Those around him mirrored the gesture, as did the Asuryani of Ulthwé. Those of Biel-Tan raised their fists and pounded them against their chests in a unified salute. The Saim-Hann drew their swords, held them high, and placed them on either side of the dagger left by Oromas.

  “With humble gratitude, I thank you all,” said Dryane. “Although, there remains a matter for us to discuss before we craft our battle plans and assemble our forces. It is an issue of command. Before me are three Autarchs, each bringing their own warhost and fleet. I stand with my own ships and warriors. United, we will make a large host, and for such an army, we must agree on a leader.”

  “It is with honor that I would accept the command of the entire host,” Autarch Yltra claimed immediately. “My life has been spent in leading the warriors of Biel-Tan on many daring campaigns, some swift, others protracted, yet all in success.”

  “How swiftly you rise to accept an offer that has not been extended,” said Caergan. “I recovered the venerated Witch Staff during the Desecration of the Moon of Sapphires, preserved the endangered artefacts during the Pyre of Killiak’s Bane, and aided in the protection of Craftworld Idaharae when the Beast roared. I have turned many foes against one another and overcome them in battle, I’ve even raided the surface of the fortress Cadia, and fought side by side with Farseer Taldeer at Lorn V and defeated the Necrons.”

  Maerys turned away from Caergan then and folded her arms across her chest. It was not in defiance. To hear the words made her feel as though she were struck by a blast of icy wind. All the warmth was snatched from her body. Left behind was a freezing void, its chill stark and gnawing, just like on that accursed ice world. It took more than one breath to clear her mind. Again, she avoided the eyes of the Swooping Hawk across from her.

  Caergan turned his shoulder to the other congregations and confidently clutched his collar. “If this is not enough, then, I ask you, to recall it is Ulthwé that has brought to you this prophecy. As their representative, it is I who cradles this vision.”

  “Visions and wiles are not the only merits of command,” countered Chief Oromas. “We of Saim-Hann respect ingenuity but we value ferocity as well. A true leader needs to be ruthless and courageous. Though I do not wish to cast doubt upon Autarch Yltra’s long war record, I have succeeded in over one hundred duels of honor, have fought Orks, humans, Drukhari, the warbands of the Ruinous Powers, and I too have defeated the dreaded old enemy.”

  He then gestured to Dryane. “High Count, I remind you, my people have fought alongside Outcasts and Corsairs before, and the dreaded Wild Riders of my home find common cause with your designs.”

  “As the host of this diplomatic event,” began Caellatela. “It is only reasonable that the High Count be permitted to lead this mission. It is upon his battleship you stand and his fleet is larger than the paltry flotillas you have arrived with.”

  “You would be so quick to speak for your master,” said a warlock standing beside Yltra. His ebony hair was short and severe, as was his gaunt face. His eyes, though a beautiful hazel, were domineering and defiant. Much of his neck was crossed by various scars. Whatever wounds he sustained had left his voice a grating rasp. “Though perhaps, you would claim it for yourself, so you place him forward first, to maintain his graces until the day you may supplant his throne.” Caellatela shifted arrogantly on her feet and she scoffed at the warlock.

  “Who are you to speak so brazenly to me, the Illustrious Countess of Dunes and Tides?”

  “I am Celasho, though my people call me the Singer.”

  “In jest, I assume, as I dread whatever performance you may deliver to us.”

  But Celasho did not meet the snide remark. Tall, thin, yet strong, he appeared entirely unaffected. There seemed to be a darkness around him, an aura that grew and grew, encompassing the air so completely it blotted out his colleagues. Maerys watched it trepidatiously, though she was more unnerved by the apparent lack of reaction by the rest of the congregation. It was as if they were completely blind to it. Was it her? Had she gone mad? The onset of her own, personal, great fall—her time had come?

  “Petty.” Celasho’s air changed and in a moment the veil was gone. His gritted teeth released and his dagger gaze faded, leaving him placid. Without much care, he adjusted his green robes and held his white waistband. “Illustrious Countess of Dunes and Tides? A haughty title dreamed up by a reaver who accrued enough spoils and followers to consider herself important. A noble ascension in name only, made all the more expeditious by the prostitution of your flesh to a rogue who abandoned his people. Your appellations are hollow, your regality inefficacious; you are so gluttonous, having become subservient to stolen wealth and meaningless trinkets. Yes, I am Celasho the Singer, bereft of my melody, but you are a lie; greater still and all the more, a baseless whore.”

  Caellatela opened her robes and drew her sword in blur. She pointed it directly at Celasho, her eyes aflame and teeth bared. Sickly green energy coated the blade and amalgamations of the power crackled and shimmered. In turn, the warlock drew his Witchblade, a sword with a mirror-finish as blue as the deepest ocean. Sapphires studded its hilt and a ruby in the pommel glowed like a sinister eye.

  The Swooping Hawk grabbed Celasho’s wrist. “Unhand me, Dochariel,” said the Warlock.

  “We have just given this alliance life and your acts will snatch it away before it can draw its first, deep breath. I do not ask you to forgo your anger but to contain it.”

  Maerys swiftly held her arm in front of Caellatela. She offered as stern a gaze as she could muster. But the Countess, some of her errant locks loosened by her swift movement, looked past her. Dryane put his hand on her wrist and forced the sword down.

  “Dochariel speaks true. We shall not let petty insults divide us in this hour. Yes, we are in want of leadership, and all parties have spoken true to their abilities. Yet, why bestow the mantle upon one, when we may all lead?” As Caellatela and Celasho sheathed their blades, Dryane stepped forward and extended his arms. “A coalition. Together, we devise our strategy and agree on how to proceed, as the Saim-Hann chiefs do. None shall hold greater power over the other.”

  “High Count, though I am partial to this prospect,” said Caergan, “I feel compelled to point out that with four leaders, the potential for deadlock may hamper our coordination. If a matter results in two votes against two, then we shall have to further deliberate and delay.”

  “Indeed. Thus, we must nominate a fifth.” Dryane immediately spun and placed his hand on Maerys’s shoulder. “I name Pathfinder Maerys Desrigale.” The Ranger hardly had time to make a sound as the High Count ushered her forward. “Maerys is youthful but she has walked the Path of the Outcast for most of her life. She leads a group of Rangers known as the Band of Kurnous, and together they have aided the Craftworlds Iyanden and Varantha. She has done much to expedite and maintain this council already, being one of its originators, and I know her to be a silent and deadly warrior,” he said.

  “One who was restrained by the clutches of the mon-keigh,” Celasho said without venom or sympathy. “Though, you were clever enough to escape, were you not?”

  “A motley assortment of Rangers is hardly a command worthy of a vote,” said Yltra.

  “Nonsense, my fabled Autarch!” Dochariel exclaimed. “Even though they have left the Craftworlds, many a Ranger will respond to the call. Some have already joined our ranks. Together, they may form an echelon of scouts. They will need a leader to organize them. The Pathfinder, Maerys, is the natural selection.”

  “Seconded,” said Chief Oromas, earning sharp, surprised glances throughout the chamber. Dryane smiled and raised his own hand in agreement. Caergan, also content, bowed his head.

  “She and the Band of Kurnous were invaluable to Farseer Taldeer on Lorn V. Upon my life, I would always share a battlefield with her.”

  Yltra huffed and folded her arms against her chest. She studied Maerys, her eyes ascending and descending. It was not so much an appraisal of her personage as it was a warrior preparing to engage a foe. But finally, the Biel-Tan Autarch closed her eyes, drew breath, and held up her hand.

  “I am honored to accept the command,” was all Maerys managed to say.

  Dryane clapped his hands twice and the sand in the glass orb glittered like amethysts. “I hereby declare this summit resolved, and from this resolution yields, the Host of Gea. Together, we shall destroy the Ork plague, apprehend the Mad Wayseer, and preserve the Webway!”