Black Legion
Page 31
The demigod chuckled. It sounded like thunderheads colliding. Septimus had a momentary trickle of nostalgia; he’d not seen a storm – not even stood under a real sky – in years now.
‘Careful with your language, vassal,’ the demigod said. ‘To name it an affliction implies a curse. My brother, your master, is blessed. He sees as a god sees.’
‘Forgive me, great one.’ Septimus was already on his knees, head bowed, knowing that the demigod could see his supplication clearly in the pitch darkness. ‘I use only the words my master uses.’
There was a long pause.
‘Septimus. Stand. You are fearful, and it is affecting your judgement. I will do you no harm. Do you not know me?’
‘No, great lord.’ This was true. The slave could never tell the difference in the demigods’ voices. Each one spoke like a predator cat’s low snarls. Only his master sounded different, an edge of softness rounding out the lion-like growls. He knew this recognition was due to familiarity, rather than any true difference in the master’s tone, but it never helped in telling the others apart. ‘I might guess if told to do so.’
There was the sound of the demigod shifting his stance, and the accompanying whisper of his clothing.
‘Indulge me.’
‘I believe you are Lord Cyrion.’
Another pause. ‘How did you know, vassal?’
‘Because you laughed, lord.’
In the silence that followed those words, even in the darkness, Septimus was certain the demigod was smiling.
‘Tell me,’ the Astartes finally spoke, ‘have the others come today?’
The slave swallowed. ‘Lord Uzas was here three hours ago, Lord Cyrion.’
‘I imagine that was unpleasant.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘What did my beloved brother Uzas do when he came?’ The edge of sarcasm in Cyrion’s voice was unmistakable.
‘He listened to the master’s words, but said none of his own.’ Septimus recalled the chill in the blackness as he stood in the hallway with Uzas, hearing the demigod breathe in harsh grunts, listening to the thrum of his primed battle armour. ‘He wore his war-plate, lord. I do not know why.’
‘That’s no mystery,’ Cyrion replied. ‘Your master is still in his own war armour. The latest “affliction” took hold while we were embattled, and to remove the armour would risk waking him from the vision.’
‘I do not understand, lord.’
‘Don’t you? Think, Septimus. You can hear my brother’s cries now, but they are muffled, filtered through his helm’s speakers and further constrained by the metal of his cell. But if one wished to hear him with a degree of clarity… He is screaming his prophecies into the vox-network. Everyone wearing their armour can hear him crying out across the communication frequencies.’
The thought made Septimus’s blood run cold. The ship’s demigod crew, hearing his master cry out in agony for hours on end. His skin prickled as if stroked by the darkness. This discomfort – was it jealousy? Helplessness? Septimus wasn’t sure.
‘What is he saying, lord? What does my master dream?’
Cyrion rested his palm against the door again, and his voice was devoid of the humour he’d hinted at before.
‘He dreams what our primarch dreamed,’ the Astartes said in a low tone. ‘Of sacrifice and battle. Of war without end.’
Cyrion was not entirely correct.
He spoke with the assurance of knowledge, for he was all too experienced with his brother’s visions. Yet this time, a new facet was threaded through the stricken warrior’s prophecies. This came to light some nine hours later when, at last, the door opened.
The demigod staggered into the hallway, fully armoured, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor. His muscles were like cables of fire around molten bones, but the pain wasn’t the worst part. He could manage pain, and had done so countless times before. It was the weakness. The vulnerability. These things unnerved him, made him bare his teeth in a feral snarl at the sheer unfamiliarity of the sensation.
Movement. The god’s son sensed movement to his left. Still pain-blind from the wracking headache brought on by his seizures, he turned his head towards the source of the motion. His ability to smell prey, as enhanced as every sense he possessed, registered familiar scents: the smoky touch of cloying incense, the musk of sweat, and the metallic tang of concealed weaponry.
‘Septimus,’ the god’s son spoke. The sound of his own voice was alien; scratchy and whispered even through the helmet’s vox speakers.
‘I am here, master.’ The slave’s relief was shattered when he saw how weak his lord was. This was new to them both. ‘You were lost to us for exactly ninety-one hours and seventeen minutes,’ the slave said, apprising his master in the way he always did after the seizures struck.
‘A long time,’ the demigod said, drawing himself up to his full height. Septimus watched his master stand tall, and was careful to angle away the dim beam from his lamp pack, casting its weak illumination onto the floor. It still provided enough light to see by, bringing a reassuring gloom to the hallway.
‘Yes, lord. A long time. The afflictions are getting longer.’
‘They are. Who was the last to come to me?’
‘Lord Cyrion, seven hours ago. I thought you were going to die.’
‘For a while, so did I.’ There was the serpentine hiss of venting air pressure as the demigod removed his helm. In the low light, Septimus could just make out his master’s smooth features, and the eyes as black as pools of tar.
‘What did you dream?’ the slave asked.
‘Dark omens and a dead world. Make your way to my arming chambers and make preparations. I must speak with the Exalted.’
‘Preparations?’ Septimus hesitated. ‘Another war?’
‘There is always another war. But first, we must meet someone. Someone who will prove vital to our survival. We must go on a journey.’
‘To where, lord?’
The demigod gave a rare smile. ‘Home.’
Click here to buy Night Lords: The Omnibus.
Peter Jackson once said: ‘We all felt like Luke, but we all wanted to be Han.’ This one’s for Gav Thorpe and Andy Chambers. We all felt like Gav, but we all wanted to be Andy.
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