[Night Lords 01] - Soul Hunter

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden - (ebook by Undead)

  “What is wrong? What happened next?”

  “The sun,” Talos said. “The…”

  …sun has died.

  He raises his head to the sky, all thoughts of seeking his bolter forgotten. A moment before it was high noon, now the sky is dark as dusk. An eclipse. It must be an eclipse.

  And it is.

  In a way, it is.

  Targeting reticules lock on the behemoth that swallowed the sun. Information Talos doesn’t see slides in jerky lines across his retinas, beamed into his eyes from his helmet’s sensor interface.

  Alarms chime in time to the warning runes’ flickering, and as he looks up, he recalls why the explosion had levelled this part of the city. He looks up at the explosion’s cause.

  Warlord-class. His sensors flicker the words over and over, the alarm chimes becoming screams in his ears, as if he doesn’t know what he is seeing. As if he needs to be warned that it’s death itself. Over forty metres of Mechanicus vengeance has come to destroy them all. It’s taller than any buildings that remain standing.

  Its gargantuan weapons pan and aim, tracking the antlike forms of the Astartes below. Its arms—cannons the length of trains—split the sky with the sound of a thousand gears grinding—just aiming, not even firing yet. Lower, they aim. Lower.

  The city shakes again, even before the Titan fires, purely because the iron god is moving. The vox fires into life, voices bellowing in anger as the Imperial war machine strides closer.

  “Heavy weapons!” he roars into the vox general channel. “Land Raiders and Predators, all guns on the Titan!” He doesn’t even know if there are any of the Legion’s vehicles left in one piece, but if they don’t form a response of some kind, the Titan will end them all.

  With the sound of habitation towers falling, the Titan takes another step.

  And with the sound of a world dying, it fires again.

  Talos…

  …opened his eyes, only then realising they’d been closed.

  The Exalted had come closer while Talos was in the grip of the vision. “Titans are no surprise,” the creature said. “A forge world is the Warmaster’s priority target within the Crythe Cluster.”

  Talos shook his head, his lip curling slightly as he made out the edges of the Exalted’s horned visage in the dark.

  “We are going to be slaughtered. We will stand in the path of the Mechanicus’ god-machines, and our eyes will burn in the light of their fire.”

  “And what of the Warmaster’s own forces?” the Exalted pressed, his eagerness lending an edge of impatience to his burbling tone. Talos was reminded of a deep cauldron brought to the boil. “What of them, sir?”

  “My prophet,” the Exalted drawled, with an unfamiliar hint of kindness. Talos tilted his head to regard his leader, suppressing a growl. The Exalted was trying to mask his irritation, most likely, to keep his pet seer from losing his own temper at the questioning. “Talos, my brother, you see so much, yet so little.”

  The Exalted smiled—a portrait of too many fangs and acidic drool. Talos glared into his lord’s black eyes, and the twisted face of a man he’d once admired.

  “That is my question,” the Exalted leered. “Where are they? Do you see them? Do you see the Black Legion?”

  “I can’t…”

  …see them. Anywhere.

  Above, the metallic gods make war. Titan against Titan in the ruins of a shattered city. The air is a solid storm of cannonfire bursts and thunderous grinding as war machines loose their wrath upon one another. The Titans have forgotten that battle playing out around their feet now, and the Night Lords—those that remain—regroup in their towering shadows.

  Talos reaches his transport, the Land Raider’s sloped, dark hull like a beacon in the maelstrom around. And that’s when he sees Cyrion, still half-buried in rubble, almost a thousand metres away.

  It’s not a clean sight, nor an instant identification. The distance is significant, and at first Talos just sees a struggling figure emerging from stone wreckage, the minute movement catching his eye purely by chance.

  He blink-clicks the visor’s zoom symbol. A name rune flashes up on his retinal display—Cyrion—as his targeting systems lock onto his brother as an invalid target.

  He breaks into a run.

  Another target—Uzas, Invalid Target—flashes up in runic code. Uzas reaches Cyrion first, climbing down the rubble behind the staggering, wounded Astartes. Talos runs harder, faster, somehow knowing what’s coming.

  Uzas raises his axe and…

  “…and what?”

  “And nothing,” Talos replied. “It’s as I’ve said. The Warmaster will send us against the Titan Legion of Crythe, and we will suffer severe casualties.”

  The Exalted let the silence extend for several moments, letting his voiceless displeasure speak for him.

  “Am I dismissed, lord?” Talos asked.

  “I am far from satisfied with this meagre recollection, my brother.”

  Talos’ smile was crooked and genuine. “I will endeavour to please my commander next time. As I understand it, prophecy is not an exact science.”

  “Talos,” the Exalted drawled. “You are not as amusing as you think you are.”

  “Cyrion says the same, sir.”

  “You are dismissed. We draw near to Crythe, so make final preparations. Ensure your squad is in midnight clad within the hour. We strike at the Crythe Cluster’s penal world first, then move on to the forge world.”

  “It will be done, sir.” Talos was already leaving when the Exalted cleared his throat. It sounded like he was gargling something that was still alive.

  “My dear prophet,” the Exalted grinned. “How is the prisoner?”

  III

  THE WARMASTER CALLS

  “Nostramo has died, and with it, our past.

  The Imperium burns, promising a future of ash.

  Horus failed, because his plans grew from seeds of corruption—not wisdom.

  And we failed because we followed him.

  We do not do well when leashed to the wills of others,

  And when bound by the words of leaders that do not share our blood.

  We must choose our wars with more care in the centuries to come.”

  —The war-sage Malcharion

  Excerpted from his work, The Tenebrous Path

  Eurydice awoke to a darkness so deep she feared she’d been blinded. She sat up, her shaking hands feeling the relative softness of a cot bed beneath her. The smell around her was a strong mix of copper and machine oil, and the only sound apart from her breathing was a distant but ever-present background hum.

  She knew that sound. It was a ship’s drive. Somewhere, on a distant deck, this vessel’s great engines were propelling it through the warp.

  The image of a skullish helm leering at her with crimson eyes drifted through her returning memory. The Astartes had taken her.

  Talos.

  Eurydice moved her hands to her throat, feeling the tenderness there, aching to the touch, hurting to breathe. A moment later, she reached for her forehead. Cold metal met her questing fingers. A small, thin band of iron or steel… fastened to her forehead. It covered her third eye. She felt the tiny rivets where the plate was drilled and fixed to her skull, just the right size to imprison her genetic gift.

  There was the sudden clank of a bulkhead door opening whining open on old hinges. A blade of light, muted and yellow, stabbed into the room. Eurydice drew back from the painful brightness, squinting to make out the source.

  A lamp pack. A lamp pack in someone’s hand.

  “Rise and shine,” the figure said. He entered the room, still nothing more than a silhouette, and seemed to be adjusting the lamp pack in his hands. For a moment, everything went black again.

  “May the Powers take this bastard thing,” the man grumbled. Eurydice wasn’t sure what to think. She was tempted to fly at him blindly, lashing out to knock him down and flee. She would have, she was sure of it, if her head would just stop s
pinning. With the return of vision, even for a moment, came the realisation that she was sickly dizzy, right to her stomach. She doubted she could even stand up.

  Light was restored when the man switched the lamp pack to a general glare instead of a focused beam. Still very dim, the cone of light projecting from the pack spread across the ceiling and illuminated the cell-like room with a glow almost reminiscent of candlelight.

  Her dizziness peaked as her returning vision swam again. Eurydice threw up the remains of her last meal aboard the Maiden of the Stars. Tore had cooked. Catching her breath, she spoke in ragged gasps.

  “Throne… that tasted bad enough going in.” The sound of her own voice shocked her. It was as muted and weak as the light from the lamp pack. That Astartes, Talos… he’d half-strangled her. Even the memory made her blood ran cold. His eyes, drilling into her own, red and soulless and devoid of humanity.

  “Don’t say that word,” the man’s voice was soft.

  She looked up at him now, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and blinking exertion tears from her eyes. He looked about thirty, thirty-five. Scruffy hair hung in ash-blond locks to his shoulders, and silvery yellow stubble showed he’d not shaved for several days. Even in the darkness, with his pupils enlarged to see in the gloom, she saw his irises were the green of royal jade. He’d be attractive if he wasn’t a kidnapping son of a bitch.

  “What word?” she asked, touching her sore neck.

  “That word. Do not use Imperial curses or oaths on this ship. It will offend the demigods.”

  She didn’t recognise his accent, but it sounded strange. He also pronounced every word carefully, taking care to form his sentences.

  “And why should I care about that?”

  She was proud of the defiance she forced into her voice. Don’t let them know you’re scared. Show your teeth, girl.

  The man spoke again, his soft voice a contrast to her scathing demands.

  “Because they have little patience at the best of times,” he said. “If you anger them, they will kill you.”

  “My head hurts,” she said, gripping the edge of her cot. Her throat tensed and saliva thickened on her mouth. Throne, she was going to be sick again.

  She was. He stepped back a little, avoiding the ground zero site of her messy purging.

  “My head is on fire,” she said afterwards, and spat to clear her mouth of the last traces.

  “Yes, from the surgery. My masters did not want you killing me when you awoke.”

  Again she felt the metal plating covering her forehead, blinding her third eye. The panic she thought she was hiding so well pushed that worry aside in favour of another. Through the murk of her thoughts, she voiced the first of a thousand questions she desperately needed answered.

  “Why am I here?”

  He smiled at that, a warm and honest smile that Eurydice could have gladly punched off his handsome face. “What the hell is so funny?” she snapped.

  “Nothing.” His smile faded, but remained in his eyes. “Forgive me. I was told that was the first thing everyone asks when they are brought aboard. It was the first thing I asked, as well.”

  “So why is that funny?”

  “It isn’t. I just realised that with you among us, I am no longer the newest in our masters’ service.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Eight standard hours.” Septimus had counted the exact minutes, but doubted she’d care about that level of detail.

  “And you are?”

  “Septimus. I am the servant of Lord Talos. His artificer and vassal.”

  He was annoying her now. “You speak strangely. Slow, like an idiot.”

  He nodded, his face set in calm agreement. “Yes. Forgive me, I am used to speaking Nostraman. I have not spoken much Low Gothic in…” he paused to recall, “…eleven years. And it was never my first language, anyway.”

  “What’s Nostraman?”

  “A dead language. The demigods speak it.”

  “The… the Astartes?”

  “Yes.”

  “They brought me here.”

  “I helped bring you aboard, but yes, they did.”

  “Why?”

  Septimus cleared his throat and sat down, his back to the wall. He looked like he was settling to get comfortable. “Understand something. There is only one way off this vessel, and that is to die. You are here to be offered a choice. It will be simple: life or death.”

  “How is that a choice?”

  “Live to serve, or die to escape.”

  The truth surfaces, she thought with a bitter smile. She could feel the fragility of her grin, like all her fear was trapped behind clenched teeth. It turned her tongue cold.

  “I’m not a fool, and I know my mythology. These Astartes are traitors. They betrayed the God-Emperor. You think I’ll serve them? Throne, no. Never.”

  Septimus winced. “Be careful with that word.”

  “To hell with you. And to hell with serving your masters.”

  “Life in their service,” Septimus said in a musing tone, “is not what you might expect.”

  “Just tell me what they want from me,” she demanded, a shake in her voice now. She gritted her teeth again to stop it.

  “You are gifted.” Septimus tapped his forehead. “You see into the immaterium.”

  “This can’t be happening,” she said, and at last her voice was as soft as his. “This cannot be happening.”

  “My master foresaw your presence on that world,” the slave pressed. “He knew you would be there, and knew you would be of use to the Legion.”

  “What world? It was just an asteroid.”

  “Not always. Once, it was part of a world. Their home world. But that’s not important now. You can navigate the Sea of Souls, and that is why you are here. The Legion is not what it once was. Their flight from the Emperor’s light happened many centuries ago. Their… what is the word? Inf… Infra… Damn it. Their resources are running out. Their relics and machines of war are eroding without maintenance. Their mortal attendants are succumbing to age.”

  Eurydice didn’t resist the urge to smirk. “Good. They’re traitors to the God-Emperor.” She felt a little of her spirit returning, and risked another smirk. “Like I care if their guns don’t fire.”

  “It is not that simple. Their inf… infra—”

  “Infrastructure.” Throne, what a simpleton.

  “Yes. That’s the word. The Legion’s infrastructure is shattered. Much knowledge has been lost, and many loyal souls; first in the Great Heresy, and then in the wars since.”

  She almost, almost said, “My heart bleeds”, but settled for a silent smile, hoping her discomfort didn’t show through it.

  Septimus watched her, sharing the silence for several moments.

  “Was your life before coming here really so wondrous,” he said, “that this opportunity has no value to you?”

  Eurydice snorted. That question wasn’t even worth answering. Being kidnapped and enslaved by mutants and heretics wasn’t a step up from anywhere. She was just surprised they weren’t torturing her yet.

  “You are not thinking clearly,” Septimus smiled, rising to his feet. She realised with an uncomfortable swallow that he was carrying two holstered pistols at his sides, and a hacking machete the length of her forearm strapped to his lower leg.

  “You will witness sights no other mortals ever have the chance to see.”

  Does he think that’s supposed to be tempting?

  “I’d rather not damn my eternal soul just to learn a few secrets.” She hesitated, watching him carefully, the smile in his eyes and the way he lounged comfortably against the wall. His easy grace unnerved her. He was hardly a lunacy-driven heretic, like she’d expected to find in a vessel of the Archenemy.

  “Why are you here?” she snapped. “Why did they send you?”

  “You are afraid, and it’s making you angry. I can understand that, but it would be better for you if you kept your temper. I must report every wo
rd of this to my master.”

  She hesitated at that, but wouldn’t be cowed. “Why did they send you?”

  “Acclimatisation,” he smiled again. “Easier on you to speak with another human, than one of the Astartes.”

  “How did you come to be here?” she asked. “Were you kidnapped?”

  He shrugged a shoulder, and his jacket whispered with a rustle of smooth material. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  Without warning, the ship shuddered violently, shaking to the sounds of the hull straining. Septimus braced himself by gripping the wheel-lock of the bulkhead door. Eurydice swore as the back of her head smacked against the wall with bruising force. For a few seconds she saw nothing but dancing colours.

  “No,” Septimus said, raising his voice over the shaking of the ship. “Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

  Eurydice blinked annoying tears of pain from her eyes, listening to the protesting hull as metal squealed and screamed. She knew this sound, too. The vessel was falling out of warp, breaking into realspace.

  In a hurry.

  “Where are we?” she yelled.

  Her answer was a shipwide vox message, crackling with distortion, echoing from thousands of speakers across the myriad decks of the Covenant.

  “Viris colratha dath sethicara tesh dasovallian. Solruthis veh za jass.”

  “And that means what exactly?” she shouted at Septimus.

  “It… doesn’t translate well,” he called back, already working the wheel-lock.

  “Throne of God,” she muttered, the words swallowed by the shaking all around her. “At least try!”

  Sons of our father, stand in midnight clad. We bring the night.

  “It means,” he looked back over his shoulder, “‘Brothers, wear your armour. We are going to war.’ But as I said, it doesn’t translate smoothly.”

  “War? Where are we?”

  Septimus dragged the door open and moved through the oval portal. “Crythe. The Warmaster, blessings upon his name, has summoned us to Crythe.”

  Septimus stood in the doorway. Waiting.