The Painted Count

by Guy Haley

  The sword said nothing.

  ‘If I take you up, will you offer me the route?’ he asked. He expected the silence it offered by way of reply. The strange thing was, he knew that it was listening to him.

  He had never dared wield it. Only once had he held the hilt in his hand, the first time he tried to destroy it. He could still feel the unearthly taint of it on his palm – though it had been inside his gauntlet at the time – like his hand were smeared with an oil that would not wash off. Not painful, but certainly unpleasant.

  When he had slept since, he dreamed of that taint spreading up his arm and into his hearts.

  Before that one mistake, he had avoided touching it himself entirely, even gifting it to his headsman Kellenkir to be rid of it. Apparently, that was not what the weapon wanted, for it had returned to him. Since his arrival on the Nightfall, he had given it away a second time, tossed it into the ship’s bilges, melted it in the furnaces of the forge, dropped it into a plasma field and, most recently, thrown it out of the voidlock.

  Every time, it had returned. The sword wanted him.

  Skraivok reached out a hand, hesitated, and drew it back. To pick it up freely was to seal a bargain that could not be broken. He knew that as well as if he had been told.

  It was also a chance at freedom from the maze, and at true power. He could reunite what was left of the VIII Legion and lead them to Terra, there to spit in the Emperor’s eye for his lack of mercy and compassion.

  But at what cost? Death, or damnation.

  He chided himself inwardly for this superstition, though only half-heartedly. They had moved far beyond the Imperial Truth, now.

  There was no choice. He reached out for the sword quickly, before he could start his vacillations afresh. He picked it up by the sheath, as had been his habit, but this time he undid the belt and fastened it around his waist.

  Then he drew the weapon.

  His arm tingled. That sense of uncleanliness came to him again, and this time it was accompanied by a sensation of weight settling onto his back – insubstantial as breath, but just as real. He felt a sense of triumph that was not his own.

  That was it, he knew. The beginning of something unholy.

  It was the last truly independent thought he ever had.

  ‘Show me the way,’ he said to the sword.

  And for the second time, Skraivok departed the room.

  Turn by turn, he passed through the labyrinth. This time, they did not return to the first chamber. He discovered that there were whole sections filled with laser grids, flamer emplacements, deadfalls, spikes that shot up from the floor and swinging blades. Before the deadly traps were triggered, the sword thrummed in his hand, imparting the knowledge somehow as to where the danger would come from, and where exactly he should move to.

  In the darkest places, the edges of its blade glowed an eerie colour for which Skraivok had no name. It did not penetrate the darkness, but made it somehow deeper. Still Skraivok was led unerringly on. The sword tugged in his hand, drawing him down tunnels that he would never have thought to take, or that he would not even have identified as such. More than once he was sure it was making him double back, or return to the maze’s maddening heart along paths he could have sworn he had already trodden.

  But he had no other choice, and so he allowed the sword to guide him.

  The workmanship of the labyrinth was exquisite, with gears and mechanisms subtly concealed behind every surface. Occasionally he would halt at the sound of distant tremors, as though portions of the structure might be moving around him.

  Unlocking, perhaps?

  For hours he walked until, unexpectedly, he came to a forgotten chamber larger than all the rest. In the centre of the unlit room was a podium, and what looked like a weapon rest when he regarded it more closely, surrounded by battered suits of power armour. Around the suits were dark stains, and inside were the remains of legionaries.

  Skraivok walked around the bodies. Their flesh had mummified in the ship’s arid air, turning obsidian black skin a dusty grey.

  ‘Salamanders,’ he whispered.

  Skraivok thought then that he could guess who had been imprisoned in the labyrinth. He lifted the sword. ‘Are you showing me this so that I am more grateful? So that I realise I have no hope of escape without your guidance?’

  He smiled. The weapon felt better in his hand than it had. Comfortable, almost.

  He did not tarry long. He strode on, allowing himself to be guided by the subtle shifts in the weight of the sword.

  Eventually, he found himself before a round vault door fashioned from gleaming adamantium, locked by eight bolt bars radiating from a massive wheel hub. Six skull-faced cogitator units ran in serial along the centre of the door, and a long array of illuminated red numbers were displayed in the view slots to their fronts. All were set to nought.

  ‘Locked, of course,’ he said. He looked down at the sword. Its sickly sheen no longer hurt his eyes so much. ‘I do not suppose you know the code, do you?’

  The sword said nothing.

  Skraivok stared at the lock. The cogitator housings were incorporated into the door itself seamlessly. There was no input device that he could see and, even if there were, he calculated the number of possible combinations. ‘Were I to key them all in the individually,’ he said to the sword, ‘I would be here, well…’ He laughed. ‘Forever.’

  And that was only if the first failure did not come with a nasty surprise.

  The lock was probably there to breed hope in a bed of despair. Skraivok was well versed in those arts, and refused to play Shang’s – or Curze’s? – game. It occurred to him that there might be more of this labyrinth beyond the door, and no exit.

  One thing at a time. He must get through.

  ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, hefting the sword.

  He prodded it against the adamantium. The point skidded off without leaving so much as a scratch. He frowned. The sword was powerful. If it could return mysteriously from destruction, who knew what else it could do?

  With great care he balanced the sword point in the angle where the left-hand bolt went from door to lock. It was difficult to keep it there without the point biting into the metal, but he managed. He placed both hands on the pommel of the sword.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Get me out of here,’ he said aloud.

  Nothing happened. He opened one eye then the other. The door remained unmarked. Skraivok maintained his temper well, having discovered in his early years that, in a world of murderers, a cool head and a charming manner opened many doors.

  But they were not opening this one.

  His concentration slipped, his mind replaying all the difficulties of the last six months through his perfect legionary memory. He grew despondent, but when Shang’s face emerged from the past his temper broke.

  ‘I am going to kill you, Shang,’ he growled. ‘I am going to use this sword to open you up from groin to throat, and I am going to make you dance in your own entrails! I am not going to rot down here. You will pay! You will suffer!’

  The sword blazed with its unholy light. The adamantium parted under its point. With a grunt of effort, Skraivok levered it down, shearing through the bar. The resistance gone, he overbalanced and went down to his knees.

  A mechanism deep inside the workings of the door made an angry beeping. Smoke curled from metal surfaces that bubbled and ran, though they remained cold.

  Skraivok remained kneeling, the point of the blade resting on the floor. He stood. Had Kellenkir learned the depths of power that this sword offered? He suspected not, or they would all still be on Sotha.

  He lifted the blade. Seven more bolts to go. He cut the lower four easily enough, but the three at the top were hard to reach. Only by removing his pauldrons and standing on their unsteady surfaces did he have enough height to cut them. His anger gre
w as he worked, crystallising in his heart until it was as hard and solid as the blade itself.

  A last effort saw the final bolt sheer through. He sheathed the sword and stepped back from the scarred metal. He kept his eyes on it as he carefully replaced his armour. When he pushed on the door he was surprised to find it swung open easily.

  On the other side was a narrow access way. He saw that it was formed by the outer edge of the labyrinth and the wall of a hold. He turned back and looked upwards at the soaring reaches of the space. The Nightfall’s lower holds were huge, capable of housing entire Titan maniples on the Great Crusade. This structure must have been immense to fill one so completely. As austere as this small, secondary hatchway was, this was a creation of staggering genius, and had been signed by its maker.

  The outer wall was plain, but for a single, grille-mouthed, helmeted skull stamped into the metal. The sigil of the IV Legion.

  Skraivok looked either way down the gap. No alarms sounded at his escape.

  A few lumen work lamps hung along the way, casting pools of weak light. The spaces in between were thick with shadow. Skraivok could practically smell his primarch’s touch. This had all been of his devising, at some time or another.

  Skraivok drew the sword and advanced cautiously. The lumens and shadows alternated to a vanishing point, and for a while he thought he might still be trapped, and this place a part of the labyrinth’s cruel trickery, until the bulkhead wall of the hold came into view, where was set a single door. He opened this quietly.

  Two legionary sentries lounged at their posts. They were facing away from the door, and were probably intended to maintain the secrecy of the labyrinth rather than guarding against escape.

  The first died in ignorance, Skraivok’s warp-given blade bursting through his chest. The second whirled around, boltgun coming up. Skraivok cut through the barrel as it fired, and the weapon burst into flame. The warrior threw it aside in shock, conveniently opening the way to his chest.

  Skraivok ran one heart through first, then the other. The sword granted him great speed, and the edge cut through ceramite as if it were paper.

  He grinned as the death croak of his foe sounded metallically from his vox-grille. It seemed absurd to him now that he had feared taking up the sword.

  He waited a moment, ears straining for the sounds of alarm. The area was deserted. If the warriors had managed to alert their superiors – and that meant Shang – then they would likely be a long while coming.

  There was time.

  Skraivok dragged the bodies back into the hold. He looted the pauldrons from one, replacing his own livery. From the second he took the helmet and covered his face.

  So disguised, he set off at a run.

  Just to be sure, Skraivok killed the Atramentar warrior outside the Hall of Judgement. There was only one, and his lumbering, clumsy movements had no chance of catching the Painted Count. He pushed the dying veteran off the point of his blade with one foot, then kicked the copper doors wide and stepped over the sparking corpse of the Terminator into the room.

  At the centre of the large chamber, thirteen captains and claw lords sat at a crescent table of black stone. They were each illuminated by a cone of soft light, set for Nostraman eyes. The rest of the room was in darkness. Visor lenses gleamed in the dark like the eyes of nocturnal predators. Skraivok unfastened his stolen helm and threw it down.

  ‘My brothers!’ he said. ‘I trust I am not too late for the vote?’

  ‘Skraivok!’ said the Exalted Terror Master Thandamell, coming to his feet. Half the others followed, some drawing their weapons, though Shang alone remained seated at the table, his fists clenched.

  ‘Yes!’ replied Skraivok, mimicking Thandamell’s surprise. ‘Are you not expecting me? I was supposed to be here, was I not?’

  A number of guns were pointing at him. Skraivok was too light-headed with the mischief he was causing to care.

  ‘Or were you part of Shang’s little conspiracy?’ He levelled his sword. ‘I see he is sat right at the centre of your little gathering. That rather speaks to me of a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Painted Count,’ said Thandamell, coming around the table and walking into the wide marble area where Skraivok stood. ‘If you were ever a contender for leadership, you no longer are. What kind of a man kills the sentry of the meeting he is to join?’

  ‘I can think of a few,’ said Skraivok.

  ‘Just… Just, take him,’ said Thandamell, gesturing to his warriors stationed around the room. ‘I knew we should never have released you after your initial confinement, Skraivok.’

  ‘It appears I cannot stay caught, eh?’ he replied, lifting the sword smoothly to Thandamell’s throat. ‘You meddle in the affairs of your betters, Terror Master. You are no claw leader. Order your men to stand down, or your head will be the first I remove.’

  Skraivok took a step to the left, scoring the edge of Thandamell’s breastplate with the supernaturally keen edge of the blade. In this new position, he could not easily be hit without Thandamell being caught in the crossfire.

  ‘You cannot kill me with that sword. It has no power field. It is a relic.’

  Skraivok glanced at the slumped, hulking Terminator outside. ‘Huh. It must be newer than it looks.’

  Thandamell eyes twitched. He raised his hands slowly in surrender.

  ‘Now, I demand that my claim to the Kyroptera be recognised,’ said Skraivok.

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Shang. He slammed his hands down flat on the table and stood. ‘Skraivok, you are not fit to lead.’

  ‘But you are?’ laughed Skraivok. ‘You would have us throw our lives away chasing vengeance. Krukesh was actually right about one thing – if the Night Haunter were dead, we would know.’

  ‘Then we should find him.’

  ‘But you do not believe that he lives.’

  ‘Whereas you would have us attack Terra, leaderless.’

  Skraivok smiled. ‘Not leaderless. Horus himself moves on the Throneworld. If Curze is alive, he will be there. We should gather all of the Legion that we can, and strike out immediately for the Segmentum Solar.’

  ‘And you would lead us in the interim?’

  ‘You would prefer that our Legion is left as nothing but a footnote in history? More than half of the warriors in this room supported my claim before you arranged my disappearance. You will not win by election. If you are so sure that I cannot lead the Night Lords, and that you should, your only course is to fight me. Take my right, by my death.’

  ‘Skraivok, I do not want to kill you. You would already be dead. I have had ample opportunity,’ said Shang.

  ‘No, you merely put me out of the way for a while. Or forever. Fight me!’ he shouted.

  Shang’s body language changed. ‘You forget, I fought against the Lion and his best warriors alongside our father, and I lived.’

  ‘Yes, you did. How’s the hand?’ laughed Skraivok. ‘Have no doubt, Shang – I may not possess their power or their pride, but I have no fear of death, and that makes me more dangerous than any primarch.’

  ‘You think they will be afraid of you? You are insane.’

  Skraivok grinned. ‘I keep telling you, I am not. I do not care if you live or die. Relinquish your claim, or I will kill you. You can be certain of that.’

  Shang jerked his head. Thandamell backed away slowly. Skraivok let his sword follow him for a couple of feet – he was exposed, but he was confident that Shang would not order him shot. The others would never trust him again after so blatant an assassination.

  Shang drew his own blade as he came out from behind the table. It emitted a sharp crack as he ignited the disruption field.

  ‘Think again, Painted Count,’ said Shang. ‘This is your last chance.’

  ‘I have no second thoughts,’ Skraivok replied.

  ‘So be it.�
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  Shang came at him fast, his sword held in a double-handed grip.

  Time slowed. Skraivok saw the blow coming before Shang had finished formulating his attack. As Shang swung at him, Skraivok stepped out, round, and spun, his sword skimming over the top of the captain’s backpack, and cutting neatly through the skull.

  Shang stumbled. His mouth gaped and went slack. His knees gave out, and he collapsed, the upper half of his head sliding free as he fell, spilling his brains across the floor.

  A stunned quiet gripped the room.

  ‘Did you see how fast he moved...?’ someone whispered.

  ‘None of you understand anything,’ Skraivok called out. ‘You are arrogant and narrow-minded. You think you know power. You think power is invested in the here and now – that it can only be won through violence, terror and cruelty, the dominance of your will over the flesh of others. That is not power...’

  He brandished the sword.

  ‘We look down upon Horus’ allies that court the services of the warp, seeing them as feeble idolators. But there is power in the empyrean, there to be seized by those who are strong!’ The words came from his mouth, and in his voice, but he could not be sure they were entirely his own. ‘This is true power, far above anything in the material realm. You disdain what you do not understand.’

  He sheathed the weapon. Despite its recent employment, it was bloodless. ‘Are there any more objections to my command? I have proved myself twice now. I will not hesitate to do so again.’

  The others looked back at him. No one said anything. Thandamell took a step forwards.

  ‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords!’ the others echoed, tentatively at first, but with growing conviction. ‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords!’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Thandamell. The Terror Master wore an insolent look on his face and kept his eyes locked with Skraivok’s, but he still knelt before him.

  Skraivok looked at them all. The sensation of weight on his back grew noticeable for a moment, then faded from his notice.