by Nick Kyme
And Typhon found himself knowing that truth, fully and completely. He was Death Guard, and had always been so. Alive but forever dead. Moving and never halting. Held in abeyance between the pulse of life and the cold embrace of the grave. Others would see this as contradictory, but not he, not now.
They are the same, he told himself. Until Zaramund, I lacked the perspective to see it. Now he was beyond the moment, it seemed odd to think of any other state of mind.
It was as if he had always known.
Typhon removed seven baroque steel bowls from a compartment in the cabinet and counted them out. As he did so, his free hand drifted to the place where Vastobal’s broken longsword had penetrated his armour. He paused, glancing down. The ceramite there was soft, like new flesh, but the rent in the plate was gone. Healing, like an extension of the body beneath.
A single black fly crawled across the surface of his wargear, but he paid it no mind. There was a brief flicker of concern that died out almost as quickly. When was the last time I took off my armour? He dismissed the question. It was unimportant.
From the flasks, he poured measures of poisons and toxins that swirled around the bowls to become powerful, lethal brews. Vapours that would kill on contact coiled in the air, and the First Captain drew them in like they were fine perfume.
Lord Typhus.
He heard the voice behind him and turned. Vioss stood in the hatchway that opened onto the anteroom beyond. ‘What did you say?’ Typhon asked him.
‘Lord Typhon,’ Vioss repeated, his helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. ‘I have assembled the senior officers as requested. Your Grave Wardens await you.’
He beckoned with one armoured gauntlet. ‘Bring them in. I would speak with my kindred.’
Vioss gave a shallow bow, and presently he returned with a cohort of five more legionaries, each one a battle-tested veteran of countless wars throughout the Great Crusade.
Typhon knew them all, knew the colour of their hearts and the secrets of their souls. He wanted to show them the truth that he knew, and in time he would. But for now, for today, he would help them take the first step.
‘I have considered much in our time on Zaramund,’ he began, ‘and I believe we have reached the end of this chapter.’ Typhon bade them take up the stance of the Seven, each warrior falling into rote positions from the old Dusk Raiders battle formation. They left a place for him in the middle of the group, waiting patiently and silently for the First Captain to continue. ‘Brothers, today we end this journey as a splinter fleet of the Fourteenth. I know now we must reunite with our Legion and our primarch.’
He saw some of the Grave Wardens exchange wary glances, but none of them dared speak out at his words.
‘We are stronger in union,’ Typhon went on. ‘Unbreakable.’ He looked away, turning his back on them to make the last preparations for the Cups. ‘There is much we can give to our kinsmen. I know that now. I needed distance from our gene-father to see that. So we will reunite. This will be my order.’
Unseen by the others, Typhon reached up to the mark that Vastobal had given him upon his chin. He reopened the wound and it slowly wept fluid into the matt of his thick beard. The First Captain allowed the cut to leak into the palm of his gauntlet. Black, oily liquid gathered there.
‘We are to return to the main body of the Legion, then?’ Vioss ventured the question. ‘We will stand beneath Lord Mortarion’s standard?’
‘Aye. I wish it.’ Typhon let his gauntlet pass over each metal bowl, allowing a single drop of his dark and tainted blood to fall into the infusion. ‘Join me now, brothers. Take the Cups with me, and seal our intent.’
He stepped aside, and each warrior came forward to take his offering before returning to his assigned place. Vioss was last, and he hesitated before picking up the vessel. Typhon took the last one and saluted him with it.
Something uncertain flickered in the Grave Warden’s eyes, but then it was gone. Vioss walked back to his position, and Typhon stepped into the space that had been left for him.
‘Drink with me,’ he said. ‘Join me.’ Typhon raised the cup to his mouth and drained the contents in one single draught.
At his sides, his men did the same, opening themselves to change and to truth.
THE PAINTED COUNT
Guy Haley
There was the sword, and there was the ship. Those two things alone occupied all of Gendor Skraivok’s thoughts.
At that moment, the sword was pre-eminent. Skraivok lay sprawled on the large bed in the centre of the chamber, his back against the headboard. The bed was comfortable, more than most Skraivok had known since his days as a mortal lordling. The headboard was not, being cast alloy depicting a fussy pattern of interlinked ribs, spines and howling skulls. Skraivok had always been fond of comfort. He had never completely accepted the idea of the warrior aesthete. Let others prove their worth with coarse clothes and uncomfortable furniture. A soft bed did not make him any less of a killer.
He let the metal nodules of the bedhead compress the skin over his black carapace. He was too preoccupied to notice. Lately, comfort had ceased to matter.
It was dark in the chamber, Nostraman dark, the lumens modified to burn low. Ersatz flames danced in electro-flambeaux set against the walls, causing the many shadows to shiver and dance.
They were grand chambers, as befitted his rank. Orlon had stupidly suggested he take Curze’s as a show of strength. Skraivok had declined. That would be a provocation too far to those opposing him.
Besides, only an insane man would wish to dwell in the primarch’s sanctum, and any sane man that took up abode there would not long remain so.
On the far side the room was the sword. It was propped in its scabbard against the backrest of a chair that matched the bedhead, and so he could not see the dull, weirdly non-reflective metal of its black blade… But he could feel it. The weapon tugged at invisible hooks sunk deep into his soul. Not so much a call as a demand that he take it into his hand.
It was not a sword. It looked to all intents like a sword, its well-made if scuffed belt of alien-looking skin wrapped around the quillons and the length of the scabbard – the sort of battered but favoured weapon a warrior like him might have owned for a lifetime.
Only it was not. Before Sotha he had not had the weapon. It had not, by any objective standards, even existed.
At least, not as a sword.
Its appearances might fool everyone else, but Gendor Skraivok knew what it was, and it was most assuredly not a mundane blade.
He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. The room reverberated to the muffled sounds of repair. They went on night and day, a constant backdrop of banging, heavy tools and screams that, outside the soundproofing of his quarters, rose to a cacophonous din. Multiple, maddening sources of vibration that managed to drown out the pulse of the ship’s reactor.
‘I cannot think!’ he shouted at the ceiling. The racket pounded on uninterrupted, and Skraivok groaned. ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’
The ship was the other thing. The ship, and the fleet, and the Legion. He should be leading it – not that morose fool Shang. The primarch’s equerry was a knotty problem, one that could not be solved with that damnable sword poking into his mind.
His bare feet whispered over the human-skin divan as he swung them off the bed.
He hung his head a moment, teeth clenched. He made a strangled noise and propelled himself upright.
‘You will not win,’ he said to the sword.
He spoke to it often, but the sword never replied.
Sooner or later he would talk to it in front of the others. That would not be a good thing.
Skraivok blinked stupidly at the mess in the chamber, as if returning home to find it plundered. Food mouldered on fine plates. The stuffing of furniture gathered in drifts in the corners. Ewers of wine lay on their sides, their contents gone all to vinegar. Pieces of his armour were scattered where he had thrown them. A mirror showed a wild-haired, holl
ow-faced thing. It took a moment for Skraivok to recognise himself. The black streaks he painted over his eyes that gave him his cognomen of the Painted Count were smudged across his face.
He curled his lip at his appearance. That needed fixing too. Everything would be better when he was rid of the sword.
Once that was gone, he would feel more like himself again.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let us get this over with.’
Slowly, he gathered up the pieces of his wargear and struggled into them. Then, forcing himself not to pause, he grabbed the sword about its middle and roughly picked it up.
He opened the door to his chambers. Of course, Phy Orlon was waiting outside, with that sickening, sycophantic expression plastered across his narrow face.
‘Ah! Lord Skraivok, it is good you emerge. Are you well rested?’
It astounded Skraivok how such a vulpine little thing had made it through the selection process. Even bulked by legionary gifts, Orlon still managed to convey the impression of feebleness. Towards the end, Nostramo had been providing only the dregs of the dregs. No wonder Curze had levelled the place.
Weakness was like the scent of blood in the water to the Night Lords. Legionaries like Orlon would always attach themselves to those they deemed powerful, for protection. That explained the ridiculous batwings welded to the top of his helm in emulation of Sevatar, and why he had appointed himself as Skraivok’s adjutant.
‘Do I look well rested, Orlon?’ Skraivok replied.
‘Well, no,’ Orlon said apologetically.
As Skraivok walked, Orlon dogged his footsteps and began to prattle. ‘There is the issue of Captain Shang to address, my lord. He has rallied a large contingent of the other captains to his side and is calling for your removal from the Nightfall forthwith. I am afraid you do not have long to act before the situation becomes untenable. Already Claw Masters Alvar, Tjock and Denbis are considering changing their allegiance from you to he.’ Orlon laughed modestly. ‘Of course, they do not know that I have this information, but my sources are reliable. I can only assume that–’
‘What about the others?’ Skraivok interrupted him.
‘They remain unmoved by Shang, but events are moving fast.’
Skraivok rounded on the smaller Space Marine and jabbed a finger in his face. ‘Then get back to the “Kyropteran Vicaria” and keep the rest of them from drifting towards Shang, understood? The vote is tomorrow. Surely we can keep this contained until it is done and I am officially appointed commander of the fleet.’
‘My lord, I–’
‘Do you understand, Orlon. Yes or no?’ said Skraivok loudly and slowly.
Orlon nodded emphatically. ‘Of course. Whatever you wish, my lord. I shall see it done.’
Skraivok snorted. ‘Kyropteran Vicaria. How dare they set themselves so high. They have no right to decide who shall be Kyroptera and who shall not. There was one Kyroptera on this vessel, only because I brought him here. And then I killed him. By right of conquest, I am ranking captain. That is the law.’
Orlon nodded again, but his words belied his apparent agreement. ‘It will not be easy. Shang is against your plan. He believes the primarch dead and has grown sour. He wishes to hunt down the Lion and make him pay. He is obsessed.’
‘Terra is our ultimate destination. Curze lives. Sevatar lives. Pursuing petty vengeance will bring no victory. We must go to the Warmaster.’
‘How could you know the First Captain and our father are alive? The council might believe that the xenos device of the Ultramarines could show you such a thing, but you have no way of proving it – nor will you reveal exactly where either of them are.’
‘I have seen Sevatar with my own eyes. If they have the information, I am more vulnerable,’ said Skraivok tiredly. ‘As long as it stays in my head, my head stays on my shoulders.’
He looked at the sword – not his sword, one could never own anything like that. Indeed, in the question of ownership, such artefacts usually went the other way.
‘All this can wait, Orlon. I have something else I need to deal with. Tell me, where is the nearest voidlock?’
‘There are the lighter bays two decks down from here, my lord. They offer the easiest transit. Do you wish to leave the ship?’
‘I said a voidlock!’ snapped Skraivok. ‘Not a transit route.’
‘Why, it is not far...’ Orlon’s voice trailed off in puzzlement.
‘Then show me. Now.’
Orlon led Skraivok through the battered corridors of the Nightfall. The ship had been heavily damaged in its encounter with the Invincible Reason. Whole decks had been lost to fire and evacuation into the void. The resources of a conquered planet had been put into repairing it, but it would take years to get things right, at this rate of progress. Under Shang’s order, they were attempting to repair the ship in memory of their primarch. It was typical of certain of his brothers, thought Skraivok, that they worked so hard for the approval of a being who did not care if they lived or died.
Shang loved Curze, completely, but Skraivok did not think that Shang really understood their father. The Painted Count had had little direct contact with their lord in the past. Perhaps this detachment from his influence had allowed his growing understanding of Curze’s character.
There were those in the Legion who wished to go their own way and reave, and those who wanted to reunite the scattered elements and hunt for their father. Skraivok favoured the latter. He did not particularly care for Horus’ ambitions, seeing them as vain and self-serving as the Great Crusade, but he did want to hurt the Emperor.
The Master of Mankind could have redeemed all the sons of Nostramo, Skraivok was sure of that. But he had chosen not to.
That was what tormented Curze. The callous damning of them all to monstrousness.
A man should be most wary of the monsters he creates.
They negotiated corridors thick with scaffolding, Mechanicum priests, servitors, machinery and exhausted slave workers. Lighting and gravity were patchy. Plasma torches illuminated hellish scenes in phosphorescent clarity.
Skraivok pushed past, working his way methodically towards the outer hull. The voidlock emerged from the gloom of a transverse corridor as a fitfully blinking viewport and green indicator lights. Skraivok went to the hatch and looked inside. The lumens were malfunctioning, flickering on and off. Mortal-sized void suits hung out of their lockers, tools were scattered on the floor, but the panel readings on the internal and external doorways shone true.
‘Go,’ he told Orlon.
The other warrior frowned. ‘My lord? What do you intend?’
‘Freedom,’ said Skraivok. He slammed his palm onto the door switch. The door wheezed open. Stale air blew outwards and he went inside.
Orlon remained. No matter.
‘My lord! Gendor!’ bleated Orlon, as Skraivok’s purpose became clear. ‘Your helmet!’
The door slid shut behind Skraivok. He inputted the codes to override the safeties. A warning tocsin began to honk, and a red light strobed against the dark. Orlon’s face still floated in the window. He looked alarmed, and was talking, as usual, but Skraivok could not hear a word he said.
It was blissful.
The look on Orlon’s face amused Skraivok. The ordinary situation of torturer and tortured on the Nightfall was turned about. Skraivok did so enjoy irony.
He smiled at Orlon and went to the exterior door. He mag-locked his boots to the floor, filled his multi-lung with air and, with one, careful finger, keyed the door open.
The atmospheric contents of the voidlock slammed him in the back as they were sucked out into space. An empty suit wrapped itself around his legs, the reinforced fabric flapping madly in the brief gale, then fell limp in the dead silence of the vacuum.
Skraivok stared out into the void. Deep cold bit at his flesh, blistering it.
Below the Nightfall, the dirty world of Argosi was late into its own night. A billion lights twinkled over a continent-sized city. Brown clouds
of pollutants streaked the atmosphere. Orbital shipyards hung motionless in space, their long void docks encasing the worst-damaged vessels of the Night Lords fleet. Above them, at high anchor, a dozen more void-worthy ships hung as unspoken threats in the sky.
Skraivok grinned with cracking lips, and his spittle froze on his teeth as he hurled the sword out into the void. He struggled to hold on to his breath, but he stood there for a full ten seconds, watching the sword with slowly freezing eyes until it had tumbled out of sight in the darkness.
He shut the door. Air flooded the chamber, bringing the temperature back to tolerable levels. Then the pain began in earnest, as a terrible scalding upon his face. He felt as if his skin was being scorched off with a torture mask studded with hot needles.
But Skraivok enjoyed it. It sharpened his mind.
The pain receded quickly. The damage was superficial. His body worked fast to put it right.
The inner hatch window was covered in melting frost, and so he did not notice Captain Shang until he opened it.
Skraivok had not known him before he had arrived on the Nightfall. It was said that he had been Curze’s closest confidant, once, and Skraivok could well believe it. Wild eyes and a face lined with internal pain hinted at a mind almost as crazed as the primarch’s. Shang had a reputation of being strong.
But grief, thought Skraivok, has undone you. Shang was another weakling, and affection was his vice.
‘Brother,’ said Skraivok pleasantly. Two hulking Atramentar Terminators flanked the captain.
‘He... he threw his sword out!’ Orlon yammered. ‘He looked out into the void! Without his helmet!’
‘You are insane,’ said Shang, flatly. His augmetic fist clenched.
‘I am not,’ said Skraivok, wondering why no one could see that he was the only sane one left.
‘I will not argue with a madman. You are not fit to lead.’
‘I have the strongest claim,’ said Skraivok. His eyes were clearing. ‘That is obvious, since by right of combat I have won my place on the Kyroptera.’
