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Path of Grief – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Path of Grief

by Adrian Southin

The singing spear set before Itheíul had belonged to her brother, Arsan. When her fingers drew near the haft, she could still feel the wisps of his soul imprint.

She hesitated, and pulled back her hand. Other imprints lingered, those who had wielded the weapon in the name of the serpent of Saim-Hann before Arsan. So too could she sense those the spear had brought death upon. Some, by her brother’s hand, she had witnessed personally: the choirmaster of the Glittering Host, the crude ork engineers of Galthakka, the Imperial commander on Perinese. Many more she had not. The countless deaths the weapon had delivered reverberated through its wraithbone surface.

The Path of Grief does not suit you.

The voice echoed, grounded not in the chamber, but both near and impossibly distant, like a song carried over a still lake.

Itheíul knelt alone in the small, oval chamber. The chill of the floor bit through her ash-grey robe, a simple garment devoid of ornamentation. Other than the spear and the deep-green spirit stone placed in front of her, the chamber was bare. A taper of incense suffused the room with the earthy scents of far-off maiden worlds; the thin line of smoke gently twisted about the dark walls to stretch to some unseen height. Only the soft luminescence from the infinity circuit core beyond an archway lit the room. The wraithbone in the Halls of Whispered Lament was charged. It resonated with the energy of millions of whispering aeldari souls. The voices wove into an indecipherable and unpredictable melody, notes balanced on the edge of recognition.

Hunter. Warrior. Artisan. These are what you were known to be. Always in motion. The psychic presence seemed to circle Itheíul, like a hawk judging its prey. Now you are caught in stasis, adrift in the void. You mourn that which you do nothing to prevent. To what end?

Itheíul said nothing. She brought her thumbs and forefingers together into a triangle on her lap, and began to mentally recite the Elegies of Caoinath the Lost. It was not uncommon for the spirits of seers to reach out to those on the Path. Those formerly on the Path of the Witch retained greater consciousness in the infinity circuit and, as in life, they sought to advise and guide, especially when unsolicited. Yet the Mourners were cautioned against prolonged communions. It was unsafe for the living to engage with the dead, lest they be drawn too far from the material world.

When did you last leave these halls? The question was rhetorical, an attempt to goad her to lower her guard. Even the Aspect Warriors leave their shrine and remove their masks between battles.

For all its dangers, the Path of Grief was a necessary one. The anguish of a loved one’s death could overcome any aeldari, and such unchecked emotion presented an ever greater risk. Conducting funerary rites was a small facet of the Path. The Mourners acted as a conduit for the anguish of the entire craftworld. Though loss would still keen in the hearts of those close to the fallen, the burden borne by the disciples allowed the greater whole to carry on.

Why does the spear bring you such trepidation? The spirit pressed nearer.

‘It is but a weapon. Only the enemies of Saim-Hann need fear it,’ Itheíul spoke aloud, although she knew there was no need. Thoughts and emotions were as tangible to the spirit as the walls of the chamber were to her. Her voice was soft, uncertain, the words the first she had spoken in several cycles.

Yet you refuse to even touch it.

Itheíul craned her neck upwards to stare into the dark expanse. ‘What right do I have? It belongs in the hands of a seer.’ For a brief moment she thought she saw a glimmer of golden flame far above her, though she knew there was no source for the light.

Why do you not claim such a destiny? Take the mantle upon yourself, and lead the craftworld through these troubled times.

The light beyond the chamber dimmed, the voices hushed as their attention turned elsewhere. Perhaps a seer conclave had come to seek the circuit’s counsel, or to reanimate a host of wraith constructs from the spirit stones of the craftworld’s fallen warriors, a practice that had become disturbingly more frequent. The calls for Saim-Hann’s aid grew with each passing cycle, and the Wild Host was stretched thin. But the presence’s attention on Itheíul did not waver.

‘Is that to be my fate, then?’ Itheíul eyed the tip of the spear. A soft, emerald light played at the edge of the blade. ‘To direct our kin to further death? To expend their lives against a galaxy that has already doomed our people?’

We fight so there may yet be those who live. There was a time when such fervour burned in your every step. The presence felt incredibly close now, as if hovering right behind Itheíul’s ear. No longer echoing, the words stilled in the air. What of Deniadol?

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustrations by Adrian Smith and Rafael Teruel.

Path of Grief © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Path of Grief, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78999-793-4

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