“Let’s get this over quickly,” Talos cut in. No one argued.
The prison looked to be in a riot.
As they descended, the lift’s windows revealed floor after floor of expansive red chambers flooded with howling, screaming, fighting, running prisoners. On one floor, the windows showed a yelling man’s face, his fists beating on the glass and leaving bloody stains. He fled as soon as he saw what occupied the interior, which was lucky for him, as Uzas had been about to fire his bolter and end the fool’s life.
“These will all be rounded up by our slaver ships, ready for the war against the forge world,” the cannon-bearing Legionnaire growled in his guttural cant. “For now, we are letting them enjoy their first taste of blood-lust since they were incarcerated.”
“We freed them,” the leader, Falkus, said. “We deactivated their restraining cells and granted them their liberty. They are using their first acts of freedom to butcher the internment guards that still live.” He sounded both proud and amused.
Muted through the lift shaft walls, gunshots could sometimes be made out amongst the howls. Evidently, not all the guards were going down easily.
The lift trembled once as it came to a halt on a floor that looked no different than any other. A horde of prisoners, many bare-chested and armed with cutlery or chunks of furniture as weapons, seemed to be beating each other to death with great enthusiasm.
Until the doors opened.
Of all the founding Legions to turn from the light of the False Emperor, Talos most despised the Black Legion, the Sons of Horus, for how far they had fallen in the years since their primarch father’s death. In his eyes, they were an amalgamation of every sin and deviation across the sphere of mortal experience, armed and armoured as Astartes without a shred of the nobility that they once possessed. They consorted with daemons en masse, fighting beside them and listening to their warp-whispers for shards of wisdom. Just as the Exalted, daemon-corrupt and a shadow of the man he once was, revolted Talos—so too did the Black Legion in their wanton embrace of the Ruinous Powers.
But as the lift doors opened, he felt, just for a moment, a glimmer of why they lived as they did.
The floor before them was a long chamber with a central corridor and walls consisting of cells on both sides, looking across at one another. All the cell doors stood open. Smeared here and there were the remains of guards slaughtered by the newly-freed prisoners. And the prisoners themselves—perhaps three hundred gangers, murderers and violent criminals—were all suddenly silent.
Silent and kneeling, their heads bowed towards the lift.
The Black Legion Terminators heaved their spiked bulks from the lift, tramping down the central corridor without paying any attention to their worshipful supplicants. Their power was obvious. They did not live in restraint, suffering through a lack of slaves, taking pains not to reveal themselves to an enraged Imperium. And that, just for a moment, spoke to Talos. He understood them, even though he hated them.
The Night Lords followed, and Talos suspected the others were as eager to reach for their sheathed weapons as he was. Humans brought to obedience through fear; that he was used to. But this… this reeked of something else. The sense of something sulphurous was in the air, not entirely drowned out by his breathing filters. Something sorcerous or daemonic, perhaps, to inspire such terrible reverence in such a short time.
At the end of the corridor, another set of doors led into a square chamber, the lights dimmed almost to nothingness. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Talos heard the melee in the prison block begin once more. Somehow, that sound was more reassuring than the silence.
The chamber they had arrived at had been a mess hall. In the initial riots following their freedom, the prisoners had devastated it utterly, and what remained was a junkyard of broken tables, stools and the corpses of twenty-two guards and inmates in varying states of dismemberment. Several other doors led deeper into the internment complex, but Talos would never see any more of the prison than this.
“What a creature Man is…” said a figure in the centre of the wrecked room, “…to spend its first moments of freedom destroying its own lair.”
The Black Legion warriors knelt, their joints emitting low snarls at the unfamiliar movements. Terminator armour was not designed to pay reverence to others. It was designed to kill without end, without mercy, without respite. Talos’ jaw clenched at the sight of the Warmaster’s elite bowing down. Even the Atramentar, 10th Company’s finest, never knelt before the Exalted.
The figure in the centre of the room turned, and Talos met the eyes of the most powerful, most feared being in the galaxy. The figure smiled warmly.
“Talos,” said Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos. “We must speak, you and I.”
VIII
WARMASTER
“When in the heart of the foe, show only your strength.
Never bare your throat, never sheathe your sword.
We are Astartes. Not diplomats. Not ambassadors. We are warriors all.
If you are within the enemy’s fortress, you have already breached his best defences.
You hold all the advantages.
Use them.”
—The war-sage Malcharion
Excerpted from his work, The Tenebrous Path
Abaddon smiled as he spoke.
A smile was the last thing Talos had been expecting.
In his own suit of Terminator war-plate, the Warmaster dwarfed his men and the Atramentar alike, and the consummately crafted black ceramite he wore was bedecked in ornate finery, emblazoned with brass and bronze edges, and bearing the glaring, slitted, fire-orange Eye of Horus on the centre of his chestplate. A cloak of grey-white fur, the hide of some huge wolf-beast, was draped across his massive shoulders. As with his elite warriors, his back sported spear-like trophy racks, each of them impaling a clutch of Astartes helms. Several of them were at the right angle to stare lifelessly at Talos, their dead gaze an unsubtle reminder of the millions of lives lost to the Warmaster’s machinations in ten thousand years of rebellion and heresy.
His right hand ended in a vicious power claw of archaic, unique design. The bladed talons, as long as an Astartes’ arm, curved and glinted in the half-light of the flickering wall lamps. Horus, favoured son of the Emperor, had worn that gauntlet in the Great Crusade and the Heresy that followed. He’d used it to slay the angel Sanguinius, and wound the Emperor unto the edge of death. Now the dread weapon graced the fist of his gene-son, the leader of his fallen Legion.
That weapon alone almost brought about the urge to kneel, to show respect to the one who carried the blades of ultimate heresy.
But it was the Warmaster’s face that drew Talos’ attention above all else. Abaddon would never be considered handsome, and the regal lethality emanating from him was nothing a human could project. His face was lined and scarred from centuries of battle, the marks across his pale skin speaking of a thousand battles on a thousand worlds. His head was shaven but for a topknot of his blue-black hair.
In his eyes, Talos saw the death of the galaxy. They burned with inner light, made bright by the dreams of conquest that infested his every waking moment, yet tinged with desperate fury, a longing to inflict vengeance upon the heart of the Imperium.
Like Chaos itself, Abaddon was a clash of contradictions.
And Talos hated his warm, welcoming smile. He could almost smell the corruption beneath the man’s skin, a rank scent of charred metal and polluted flesh that teased the edges of Talos’ senses.
“You smell that?” he voxed to First Claw.
“Yes,” from Xarl. “I smell spoiled meat and… something more. They are ripe with corruption, all of them. The Terminators are likely mutated under their armour.”
From there, their replies deteriorated in usefulness.
“The Warmaster smells like he’s been boiling human flesh in engine oil,” Cyrion ventured, slightly less helpfully.
All Talos got back from Uzas was an acknowledgement blip—a single
burst of quiet static indicating an affirmation.
“I thank you for coming to meet me, brother,” the Warmaster said, his words graceful where his voice was not. It rambled from his throat, guttural and feral, another contradiction to add to the growing list. Talos wondered how much of this was intentional, designed to throw supplicants off-guard when they came before the great Despoiler.
“I have come, Warmaster,” Talos said, and his targeting reticule locked onto the Black Legion commander, flashing white as it registered the weapons on his person. The Talon of Horus. The storm bolter attached to the great lightning claw. The blade at the Warmaster’s hip.
Threat, a Nostraman warning rune flickered across his retinal display. Talos didn’t dismiss it from view.
“And you do not kneel,” Abaddon said, his growl not quite letting the words become a question.
“I kneel only before my primarch, Warmaster. Since his death, I kneel before no one. I mean no disrespect.”
“I see.” Talos’ attention was drawn to the Talon of Horus for a moment as the Warmaster gestured with the scythe-like claws to the door. “My brothers, and honoured Night Lord guests… Leave us. The prophet and I have much to discuss.”
Talos’ vox-link clicked live. “We’ll be nearby,” Cyrion said.
“We will remain with the Justaerin,” Malek grunted. Talos could hear his eagerness with troubling clarity.
Cyrion had picked up on it, too. “You sound like you want them to start something.” Neither of the Atramentar replied, though the others could make out muted vox clicks as the two Terminators shared private communication.
Once they were alone in the ruined mess hall, Talos scanned the room, his eyes panning over the wreckage.
“This is not the kind of place I had expected to find you, sir.”
“No?” Abaddon stalked closer, his movements lumbering in the heavy plate, yet somehow more threatening than other Terminators. It was the economy of his movement, Talos realised. The Warmaster’s every movement was precise, measured and exact. He wore the armour like a second skin.
“A destroyed mess hall in an internment spire. Hardly the place to find the one who once led us all.”
“I still lead you all, Talos.”
“From a certain point of view,” the Night Lord allowed.
“I wanted to walk the halls of this prison spire myself, and I have neither the time nor the desire to stand upon worthless ceremony. I was here, and I demanded your presence. So it is here that we meet.”
Talos felt his skin crawl at the superiority in the commander’s tone. Who was he to speak to one of the sons of Konrad Curze in this way? A captain in a broken Legion, now twisted by the favour of daemons. He deserved respect for his might, but not obeisance. Not fealty or subservience. “I am here, Warmaster. Now tell me why.”
“So I might meet you, face to face. The Black Legion has its share of sorcerers and prophets, Talos.”
“So I have heard.”
“They are precious to me, and vital to my plans. I take great heed of their words.”
“So I have also heard.”
“Indeed.” The hateful smile came again. “I wonder to myself, where do you fit in? Are you content with the existence your Legion offers you? Do they respect your gift for what it is?”
And then it was clear: he knew what this was about. How alarmingly unsubtle…
The Night Lord suppressed a growl of anger, eyes narrowed on the flickering threat rune that still played across his visor display. His armour’s systems tracked his rising heartbeat and, suspecting battle, flooded his veins with potent chemical stimulants. It took several moments for Talos to exhale a shivering breath and speak, ignoring the burn of his energised muscles.
“I am a breed apart from the creatures you call sorcerers, sir.”
Abaddon ceased his vague pacing, looking at his reflection in the silver sheen of his claws. “You think I do not detect the disapproval in your tone?”
“Evidently not, my lord. It is disgust, not merely disapproval.”
Now Abaddon looked to him, the claws of his relic Talon slicing the air in silent, slow strokes by his side. It almost seemed a habit of his, the way a bored man might crack his knuckles. The Despoiler’s claws were always in motion, always cutting, even if it was just air.
“You insult me, Night Lord,” Abaddon mused, still smiling.
“I cannot change the heart of my Legion, Warmaster. I am as you name me: a Night Lord. I am no warp-touched sorcerer, or fallen weaver of spells. I share the gene-seed of the Night Haunter. From my father—not the Ruinous Powers—did I inherit this… gift.”
“Your honesty is refreshing.”
“I am surprised you think so, Warmaster.”
“Talos,” Abaddon said, facing the Night Lord once more. “Another Black Crusade is in the making.” Here he paused, holding up his claw, and Talos was forcibly reminded of a painting he had once seen of Horus, clutching a burning world in that same gauntlet. He’d assumed, at the time, the world was supposed to be Terra. Ironic then that the painting depicted Horus’ ultimate failure—in his grip burned the one world he couldn’t conquer.
“This time…” the Warmaster closed his unnatural eyes, and the silver talons trembled, “…this time, the fortress worlds around the Cadian Gate will burn until their surface is nothing but an ashen memory. This time, Cadia itself will die.”
Talos watched the Warmaster, saying nothing, until his self-absorbed ecstasy faded and he opened his eyes once more. The Night Lord broke the silence that stretched between them by walking to the corpse of an inmate and kneeling by the body. The man had bled a great deal across the remains of the table he lay upon, but had died from the intense blunt trauma to the side of his head. Talos dipped his first two fingers in the congealing puddle of the mortal’s blood, raising them to his speaker grille in order to inhale the coppery scent.
He hungered to taste it, to let the life matter flow through his gene-enhanced form and absorb it into his veins, so he might sense a ghostly echo of the man’s dreams, his fears, his desires and terrors.
The wonders of Astartes physiology—to taste the life of those whose blood you have shed. Truly, a hunter’s gift.
“You seem unimpressed by my assurance,” the Warmaster said.
“With respect, sir, all of your previous crusades have failed.”
“Is that so? Are you one of my inner circle, to judge whether my plans came to pass and my objectives were met?”
Talos flexed his hand, the gauntlet that would soon be replaced by sections from Faroven’s armour. “You do harm to the Imperium, but never truly advance our cause. Are you asking if the Night Lords will stand with you as you attack Cadia? I cannot speak for my Legion in its entirety. The Exalted will follow you, as he always does. I’m sure many more of our leaders will do the same.”
Abaddon nodded as if this confirmed his point, the veins under his cheeks darkening as he grinned.
“You speak of disunity. Your Legion lacks a figurehead.”
“Many claim to be the Night Haunter’s heir. The Talonmaster has vanished, but his claim was no stronger than any other, even with his possession of one of our symbolic relics. Too many other leaders have similar items once carried by our father. Captain Acerbus leads the largest coalition of companies, but again, his insistence reeks of desperation and need. No true claimant has come forth, as you did with your Legion. Our father’s throne sits empty.”
“Again, I hear the disquiet in your words.”
“I am not hiding it, Warmaster.”
“Admirable. So tell me: does your heart not cry out to take that throne yourself?”
Talos froze. He hadn’t expected this. He’d suspected the Warmaster would seek to use his curse in some way, perhaps even drawing him into the ranks of the Black Legion as a pet advisor. But this…
This was new. And, he suspected, it was a bluff designed to throw his thoughts into disparity.
“No,” he replied.<
br />
“You hesitated.”
“You asked a difficult question.”
Abaddon walked closer to Talos, his boots crushing debris beneath each thundering tread. The helms and human skulls impaled upon the trophy racks rattled together, birthing a clacking melody like some barbarous musical instrument.
Threat, the rune flickered, and the Night Lord looked through his red vision at the Warmaster no more than ten metres distant. He couldn’t help but compare him to the original bearer of the title. Horus, beloved son of the Emperor, Lord of the Eighteen Legions. Talos had only seen the First Warmaster once, but it was a moment of devastating potency in the storm of his memory.
“I saw the First Warmaster once,” he voiced aloud, without meaning to.
Abaddon chuckled, a series of throaty, predatory grunts. “Where?”
“Darrowmar. We fought alongside the Luna Wolves in the capital city.”
“The Luna Wolves.” Abaddon openly sneered at the use of his Legion’s first name, before they’d become the Sons of Horus in honour of their primarch, and long before they’d become the Black Legion to expunge the shame of their father’s failure. “Days of blindness and war based upon the darkest of lies.”
“True. But they were days of unity,” Talos said, recalling the majesty of Horus at the head of his Legion, his armour of grey-white polished to a finish of ivory and pearl. He was human, but… more. Astartes… but more. Contained within the First Primarch was all that was great and glorious within humanity, distilled to perfection by the fleshsmiths and geneweavers of the Emperor’s hidden fortress-laboratories.
To stand within his sight was to bathe in light, to be flooded by inspiration more vital and real than the stinging chemicals pumping through Astartes blood. In his eye-aching brilliance, Horus drew everything to him—merely by taking the field, he ensured he was the fulcrum upon which everything spun. He became the heart of the battle, a maelstrom of slaughter, untouched by the mud and the blood of the battlefield even as he reaped the lives of the foe.
[Night Lords 01] - Soul Hunter Page 13
