C. Goto - Dawn of War

“As I recall, sorcerer, you once told me that we could leave these Marines to the orks-you were wrong then. What makes you think that the eldar will fare any better against these Blood Ravens?” asked Bale, spinning his scythe with slow menace.

“The eldar are entirely a different matter,” answered Sindri, shrinking slightly from the scythe and dismissing the question of the orks quickly. “They are an ancient and formidable force, my lord. And they know why they are here. Their farseer will ensure their effectiveness. They do not go to war for fun, my lord, but with the determination of an ageless purpose.”

“It sounds as though they are a foe worthy of the Alpha Legion, sorcerer. So why must we sit and watch these Blood Ravens steal our glory?” said Bale, bringing the debate into a vicious circle that was echoed by his spinning scythe.

“My lord, we will have our chance to fight-have no fear of that. We must merely seek to apply our force at the most advantageous moment. Alpharius himself taught that the enemy is humiliated most when they are defeated with the least effort. Let us humiliate these Blood Ravens completely,” responded Sindri, finding his escape route at last.

“If you fail me in this-” began Bale, a hint of acceptance in his voice.

“-yes, then I will suffer greatly… and gladly. I understand,” interrupted Sindri, recovering the initiative. “Just be ready to move when I instruct.”

A rocket whined overhead, crashing into one of the once grand buildings at the back of the plaza. The formerly smooth masonry was already a ruin of pits and pock-marks, and tendrils of smoke had stained the once pristine white surfaces. The rocket punched through the outer wall of the building and detonated inside, blowing a section of the wall out into the plaza in a shower of debris.

Macha didn’t even flinch as the ordnance flashed over the monument in the centre of the plaza. She stood calmly in its long shadow, watching the sun dip down towards the horizon as the daylight started to die. The Blood Ravens’ rockets seemed to slip directly out of the red sun as they strafed across the city from the launchers outside the gates.

The city was crumbling all around her, and Macha shook her head in amazement as she watched the mon-keigh bring destruction to this monument of their own magnificence. How much more impressive is their ability to destroy than their ability to build, thought the farseer.

The Striking Scorpions were darting around the statue of Lloovre Marr, erecting a ring of barricades and defences in case the Space Marines broke through the city wall. The Scorpions were perfectly adapted for this kind of close-combat-their temple prided itself on a matchless reputation for proximal fighting. Their helmets integrated the notorious mandiblaster arrays-a pair of weapon pods positioned on either side of the warrior’s face. This Sting of the Scorpion could fire bursts of laser-accelerated plasma into the body of a close-range opponent, lacerating their armour in advance of a strike from the Scorpion’s chainsword.

In the midst of these Aspect Warriors stood Jaerielle, issuing directions and manoeuvring great lumps of masonry into position as though they were weightless. The Striking Scorpions obeyed their exarch without question, transforming piles of debris into elaborate barricades that rivalled the surrounding buildings in their elegance-giving off the sense that they had been there for as long as the city itself. For the exarch, war was the highest form of art.

Farseer Macha watched the symphony of preparation with a mixture of admiration and terror. She realised that she was in awe of this exarch-the eldar warrior, once known as Jaerielle, who had lost himself to the temptations of Khaine. And in that moment, she also realised that his transformation was not yet complete. He was destined to be both more and less than an exarch.

Flickering visions burned themselves into her mind, and Macha slumped towards the ground, unable to sustain the barrage of images that pummelled against her consciousness. The eruption was unbidden and powerful, shaking the farseer to her soul. The pictures flashed and spiralled through her mind, sizzling with potency and branding their images into the backs of her eye-lids.

Seeing the farseer waver and stumble, Jaerielle vaulted over the barricades and sped to her side, catching her falling form an instant before her head crashed into the flagstones. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her over the barriers, climbing up the steps at the foot of the grand statue, where he placed her gently onto the ground. She sat, propped up against the figure of Lloovre Marr, staring at Jaerielle with her eyes wide.

“What do you see, farseer?” asked the exarch, searching Macha’s face for a sign.

“The past and the future coalesce in the present, exarch, and the dizzying confusions of temporal distance are focussed only momentarily,” said Macha, conscious that there was no time to explain properly. She started again. “I see the past and the future as one, Jaerielle, and I see you in both. You are the same, and yet you are different, as though transfigured by some greater power. You are fighting everything, and overcoming all, and yet you are dead to yourself.”

Macha’s head was jittering spasmodically from side to side, and her body seemed to have lost all of its strength. She slumped over to one side, and Jaerielle caught her again before she fell.

“They are calling for you, Jaerielle. Their voices run through my mind, like beams of light falling into a warp-hole. They are reaching for you, trying to pull your soul back to them. You have been chosen, Jaerielle-and now that you are chosen, you have always been so. The future loops back through itself, touching your soul and setting you apart from the beginning. You were here before, and now you are here again. This is your place-it is where you are, and where you cannot be otherwise. You were here on Tartarus three thousand years ago-and you watched yourself die then. Now you must be reborn.” Macha’s voice was rasping and low, as though she was struggling for enough air to give sound to her words.

Jaerielle peered uncertainly into the farseer’s fathomless eyes, uncomprehending but feeling the truth of her rambling words.

“Farseer, you cannot ask for anything that I do not willingly give,” he said, bowing his head even as he held Macha by her shoulders.

“It is already given, yet the souls of the Biel-Tan already sing with praise for the sacrifice that you are about to make. The blood of many foes stains our hands, and there will be more to come before this war is over. Your hands drip with the blood of the mon-keigh and the ancient daemons of this world, as though today’s battles and those of long ago were one and the same. Your soul cries out to Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God, and demands union with his substance, just as the souls of all those who have gone before you call out to you.”

“Yes, farseer, I can feel the truth of it,” replied Jaerielle, his own eyes burning with certainty and excitement.

“The other exarchs and the seers of the Court of Biel-Tan are calling for you, Jaerielle. I can feel the touch of their voices, icy with the depths of space. The shrine of the avatar is aching for you. You must go to them-you, who are the best and the worst of us all. You must go to them now, so that you may return to us in our time of greatest need-returning as the very incarnation of Khaine himself.”

Macha drew herself up onto her feet, supporting herself against the statue behind her. She held out one arm, pointing into the flagstones on the ground nearby. As she muttered some inaudible sounds, a translucent haze jetted out of her fingertips, pouring onto the stone tiles, where it pooled and shimmered.