Path of the Warrior by Gav Thorpe

suppressing further and further the anger that had first propelled him towards the shrine.
    For forty cycles Kenainath kept Korlandril apart from the other Striking Scorpions, training him alone within the gloom of the shrine and its dismal surrounds. Korlandril longed to see the rest of Alaitoc again. Though it pained him every time he thought of Thirianna, he could not suppress his curiosity and longed to know how she fared. Had she started upon the Path of the Seer? Did she even know what had become of him? How did she feel about her part in his decision to take the Path of Khaine?
    As the first glimmer of the forty-first cycle crept through the narrow windows of the upper levels of the shrine, Kenainath appeared as usual. The exarch was clad in his dark green robe, sleeveless, open at the front, a deep yellow bodysuit beneath, his dark red waystone fixed to the centre of his chest. Korlandril looked at the oval of the waystone, noticing the shimmering of its colour, a flickering in its depths as of many lights far away.
    “It is time again, to learn the Falling Storm pose, come outside with me,” said Kenainath.
    “No.” Korlandril crossed his arms, legs braced apart. “I do not want to train today. I’m sick of this gloomy swamp. I want to see Thirianna.”
    Moving so swiftly that Korlandril barely saw him, Kenainath stepped forward and flicked a hand towards Korlandril’s ear. The blow was light enough, but stung quickly. Korlandril lunged, aiming the tips of his fingers knife-like towards the exarch’s throat, finishing in the stance known as Sting From Shadow. Kenainath swayed away and retreated with several quick steps.
    “It will not be safe, you cannot yet control the hate, and could blindly strike out.”
    Korlandril shuddered with the shock of realisation. He had tried to harm Kenainath. He had wanted to cause him injury. Even kill him. He had acted without conscious thought, but he could feel the desire to inflict hurt that had driven the reflex. If he had done such a thing to anyone but another warrior, he would have murdered them.
    “Now you understand, that which we are creating, safe here in the shrine,” Kenainath said softly.
    “Why would you do this to me?” demanded Korlandril. “Why turn me into this before I can control it?”
    “This is your war-mask, expanding from within you, consuming your mind.” The exarch’s tone was unforgiving, with no hint of shame or comfort. “It is for battle, where you cannot hesitate, but act or react. Do not be worried, you will learn to remove the mask, I will teach you how.”
    “You have done this to trap me here, because you cannot leave,” said Korlandril.
    “Until you wear it, you cannot remove the mask, it is still hidden. In time you will learn, be free of the mask’s control, and then you can leave.” There was no sympathy in Kenainath’s voice, but his determined tone eased Korlandril’s fears a little. “Now you have a goal, to leave behind your war-mask, to gain your freedom.”
    Korlandril did not know whether it was the mental forces being unleashed by the exarch’s training, or the exarch himself, but he despised Kenainath even more. He allowed his anger to simmer inside as he followed the exarch out into the swamp once again. The prospect of finishing his training seemed a distant dream. Yet the exarch’s words had struck a chord. If Korlandril truly wanted to be free of this place, he had to rid himself of the cause for his being here—his anger. Kenainath’s methods seemed counterproductive, but he had trained many Striking Scorpions and Korlandril had to put his trust in that.
    Resigned more than hopeful, Korlandril trailed after Kenainath into the gloom.
     
    “Peace is as it is, unwavering and endless, a constant of life.” The exarch’s words were hushed. “Anger is fleeting, a momentary relapse, when will slips away.”
    Korlandril barely heard Kenainath, a whisper on the edge of consciousness. He stood upon a