by Nick Kyme
‘I am plagued by them, Vulkan.’ Curze was no longer looking at me. He regarded his reflection in the obsidian instead. It appeared to be something he had done before, and I imagined him then, screaming in the darkness with no one to hear his terror.
The Lord of Fear was afraid. It was an irony I thought Fulgrim would appreciate, twisted as he was.
‘How can I escape the dark if the dark is part of what I am?’
‘Konrad,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘I am Night Haunter. The death that haunts the darkness…’ he answered, though his voice and mind were far away. ‘Konrad Curze is dead.’
‘He stands before me,’ I pressed. ‘What do you see?’
‘Darkness. Unending and eternal. It’s all for nothing, brother. Everything we do, everything that has been done or will be done… It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I fear. I am fear. What kind of a knife-edge is that to balance on, I ask?’
‘You have a choice,’ I said, hoping that some fraternal bond, some vestige of reason still existed in my brother. It would be buried deep, but I could unearth it.
He turned his gaze upon me – so lost, so bereft of hope. Curze was a mangy hound that had been kicked too many times.
‘Don’t you see, Vulkan? There are no choices. It is determined for us, my fate and yours. So I make the only choice I can. Anarchy and terror.’
I saw it then, what had broken inside my brother. His tactics, his erratic moods, were all caused by this flaw. It had led him to destroy his home world.
Dorn had seen the madness lurking within him. I suppose I had known it was there too, back on Kharaatan.
‘Let me help you, Konrad…’ I began.
Pale like alabaster, eyes dark like chips of jet with about as much warmth, Curze’s face changed. As the thin, viper’s smile crawled over his lips, I knew that I had lost him and my chance of appealing to what little humanity still remained.
‘You would like that, I think. A chance to prove your nobility. Vulkan, champion of the common man, most grounded of us all. But you’re not on the ground, are you brother? You are far from your beloved earth. Is it colder, here with me in the dark?’ he asked, bitterly. ‘You are no better than me, Vulkan. You’re a killer just the same. Remember Kharaatan?’ he goaded.
I remembered, and lowered my head at the memory of what I had done, what I nearly did.
‘You weren’t yourself, brother,’ hissed Ferrus, his graveyard breath whistling through skeletal cheeks. ‘You had a backbone.’
Curze seemed not to notice.
‘Our father’s gifts are wasted on you,’ he said. ‘Eternal life, and what would you do with it? Till a field, raise a crop, build a forge to make ploughshares and hoes. Vulkan the farmer! You sicken me! Guilliman is dull, but at least he has ambition. At least he had an empire.’
‘Had?’
‘Oh,’ Curze smiled, ‘you don’t know, do you?’
‘What has happened to Ultramar?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see it.’
I suddenly feared for Roboute and all my loyal brothers that fell beneath Curze’s notice. If he had done this to me, then what could he have done to the rest of them?
‘Nemetor…’ I said, as parts of my most recent ordeal came back to me, including the appearance of a son I had thought dead. ‘Was he…?’
‘Real?’ Curze suggested, grinning.
‘Did you kill him?’ I pressed.
‘You’re dying to know aren’t you, brother?’ He held up his hand. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words. You’ll see him again, before the end.’
‘So, this will end then?’
‘One way or another, Vulkan. Yes, I sincerely hope it will end.’
He left me then, backing off into the shadows. I watched him all the way to the cell door. As it was opened, I saw the slightest shaft of light and wondered how deep my prison went. I also half caught a hurried conversation and got the sense of a commotion outside. Though I didn’t hear his muttered words, Curze seemed irritated in his curt responses. Booted footsteps moved quickly, hammering the deck, before they were cut off by the cell door shutting.
Lumen-globes burning in the alcoves in the flanking walls died, darkness returned and with it the faint, mocking laughter of my dead brother.
‘Shut up, Ferrus,’ I said.
But it only made him laugh louder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Egress
The north-facing aspect of the manufactorum was a broken ruin. Outside, the dead and injured littered the streets.
Narek had lost eight legionaries in the frontal assault, not including Amaresh, who had been cut down by their sniper. Despite the losses, he appreciated the symmetry of that, one hunter pitched against the other. He decided that he would have a reckoning with this warrior – see how sharp his own edge was and if, despite his grievous injuries, he could still consider himself worthy. It was an honourable contest, not like the bloodbath he had left behind.
Distasteful and profligate as it was, it was also necessary. Discovered in the midst of stealthing to their gate, Narek had no other choice but to push down the throat of the loyalists, knowing full well that they had a track-mounted cannon and a defensible position. Admittedly, he hadn’t predicted they would open fire straight away – the bulk of his troops were still vaulting barricades and running stooped-over to the next scrap of cover when the world lit up in actinic blue – but it had served its intended purpose. Dagon, Narlech and Infrik had circled around the rear egress. That left Melach, Saarsk, Vogel and himself skirting the flanks; two on the right, two on the left.
Head down, hugging the edge of the street as the gun battle to the front of the manufactorum raged, Narek hissed down the vox to his elite, ‘Close the trap, find the human and bring him to me alive.’
‘And the rest?’ Narlech voxed back.
Narek could already hear the bloodlust in his voice. ‘Kill anyone that gets in your way. I don’t want prisoners, give me corpses.’ He cut the feed.
Nearby he could hear that his enemies had broken out of the back of the building.
‘How did they find us?’ Leodrakk had to shout to be heard, bolt shells and chips of rockcrete from the manufactorum’s slowly disintegrating structure raining all around them.
Numeon shook his head. ‘Could’ve been the pyre smoke or we may have been under watch already.’
‘But why come at us like this, straight at us?’
‘Pergellen forced their hand.’
‘Doesn’t make sense. They would have hunkered down, circled us and called in reinforcements.’
Numeon paused, eyeing the gloom beyond the walls. Behind him, he heard Domadus shouting orders between the percussive reports of his heavy bolter. As soon as word came from Pergellen that the XVII had found them, all legionaries inside the manufactorum had formed up into a firing line. Only Numeon, Leodrakk and two in raven’s black moved through the back of the building to the manufactorum’s rear exit. It was no fortress, and they couldn’t stay here, but what Leodrakk was saying made sense. Why not lay siege and wait until they could storm the barricades in force?
‘It’s a distraction,’ he decided. ‘Keeping our attention front.’
The rear exit to the manufactorum was a depot strewn with the half-blasted carcasses of freight-haulers. Lots of cover, lots of places to hide.
‘You see that?’ said Numeon, crouching down by the rear door and gesturing outside.
‘There are three of them,’ whispered Hriak, his hand firmly gripping the human’s shoulder.
‘You aren’t seriously considering going out there?’ asked Grammaticus.
Numeon ignored him. He caught the slight movement again. Whoever they were, they were using the haulers to get close.
‘They’re after the human,’ he said. ‘Capture, not kil
l, this time.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Leodrakk.
‘The frontal assault was to flush us out. They knew we’d try and bolt with the human. Because if they have been watching us, it’s likely they saw what we saw.’
Hriak looked down at Grammaticus. ‘Your apotheosis…’
‘No explanation was needed,’ Grammaticus replied snidely. ‘It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to carry on blindly like this, regardless of consequence, aren’t you? You’ve lost your faith in everything.’
Leodrakk snarled. ‘We’ve lost much more than that.’
‘Be calm,’ Numeon told him, giving Grammaticus a quick glance to shut him up before going on. ‘We’re wasting time. Get him out of here. We can draw these three off.’
He looked at Avus crouching next to him, the foils of his jump pack folded back for now. The legionary had kept his own counsel until that moment.
‘I’ll have weregeld for Shaka, measured in blood. And when my corvidae hangs in memory of the sacrifice I made, and I become part of the raven’s feast, only then shall I know peace,’ he vowed. ‘Victorus aut Mortis.’
Hriak bowed his head in solemn respect. ‘Victorus aut Mortis, brother.’
Numeon nodded to all three.
‘We’ll rendezvous in the tunnels. All of us. May the Emperor go with you.’
Elias felt restive, and not only because of the dull agony in his arm. Outside the tent, the sacrificial pit was quiet, though the air still trembled with the urgent fury of the Neverborn. He could sense their anger. It mirrored his own. To be thwarted so close to his goal, and for what? Some human he had let slip through his grasp.
The overeager hand snatches air, where the considered one holds on to substance.
He had heard Erebus use these words before. They echoed mockingly back at him through the years.
Ranos was dead. His Word Bearers had effectively denuded the city of all life and now only these loyalist dregs and their prisoner remained. But still he was denied the prize he so coveted. Weapons, Erebus had told him. Half dead, his face a bloody ruin, he had uttered this truth. Elias was certain that the spearhead was one such weapon of which his master had spoken. It was raw power incarnated in a fulgurite. Any doubts he may have had about that died along with his arm and the seven acolytes that had burned to ash earlier.
Warily he reached out to touch the spear. It was surprisingly cool and certainly inert, whatever past reaction it may have undergone now dormant but not yet spent. It hummed with a faint vibration, and the blade still threw off a lambent light that suggested its godlike provenance.
Monarchia… Yes, Elias remembered it well, too. He had wept that day, first tears of zealous joy as the cathedra had risen to the sky then righteous anger when the XIII had shamed his Legion and his primarch. He scarcely remembered the human dead, and felt the Emperor’s snub more keenly. Erebus had counselled him that day. He had counselled many. His master had seemed oddly sanguine, as if he knew some measure of what was going to happen before it had actually transpired. That was power. To see fates, to bend and shape them to your will and benefit. Why Erebus had always skulked in the shadows, the power behind the throne instead of its incumbent king, Elias would never understand.
‘What does Erebus know that I–’
The thought was interrupted by the activation of his warp-flask.
Even in the eldritch fire of the flask, Erebus looked crooked and broken. He was dressed in dark robes with a deep cowl hiding his face and head.
Elias bowed at once. ‘Master… you are recovered?’
‘Evidently not,’ said Erebus, gesturing to his bent-backed form, ‘but I am healing.’
‘It is glorious to behold, my lord. When I left you in the apothecarion–’
Erebus interrupted. ‘Tell me what is happening on Ranos.’
‘Of course,’ said Elias, bowing again so he could unclench his teeth without his anger being seen. He held up the spear. ‘The weapon,’ he announced proudly, ‘is in my possession.’
Erebus looked at him in silent incredulity.
Elias could not hide his confusion and said, ‘To win the war. Your last words to me before I left with my warriors.’
‘Your warriors, Elias?’
‘Yours, my lord, humbly appropriated for the task you gave me.’
‘You have nothing but a spear, Elias. I mean weapons. That with which we shall win this war for Horus and the Pantheon.’ There was a slight angry tremor in Erebus’s voice when he mentioned the Warmaster’s name, and Elias briefly wondered what had happened between them. ‘Sharpen our own, blunt theirs,’ Erebus told him. ‘Whoever has the most weapons wins. Don’t you understand that yet?’
Elias was confused. He had done all that was asked of him and yet his master was obviously displeased. Erebus had also neglected to mention his injury, as if perhaps he already knew of it…
‘I… My lord?’ Elias began.
Erebus didn’t answer at first. He was muttering something as if speaking to someone Elias could not see, but the image in the flask showed a chamber that was empty save for Erebus.
‘Where is John Grammaticus?’ he said at last.
‘Who? The human, you mean?’
‘Where is he, Elias? You need him.’
‘I have men hunting for him as we speak. They are bringing him to me.’
‘No,’ said Erebus. ‘Do it yourself. Find John Grammaticus and hold him for me. Do not sully him in any way, that is my only warning to you.’
Elias raised an eyebrow, and tried to keep the fear out of his voice. ‘You are coming here?’
Erebus nodded. ‘I have seen the mess you have made on Ranos.’
Fear turned to anger in Elias. ‘I could not have predicted the other legionaries’ presence here. Nor can I leave the ritual site. The Neverborn are–’
Erebus cut him off for the third time with a swipe of his hand. Elias noticed that it was a bionic and appended to his master’s severed wrist stump. ‘As usual you have failed to grasp the subtleties of the warp. No more blood or further entreaties will get you what you want, Elias.’
‘I only serve you, my lord.’
Erebus chuckled. It was an unpleasant, throaty sound, like he was the victim of some pervasive cancer with only hours to live.
‘I have matters to attend to here, but be ready for my coming. Be sure that Grammaticus is in your hands by the time that I arrive, or a fire-blackened limb will be the least of your concerns…’
The warp flame evaporated as quickly as it had manifested, leaving Elias alone. Despite the pain in his arm, his entire body tensed with barely contained anger.
‘I am your disciple…’ he gasped at the uncaring air. ‘Your follower. I saved you, took you from that chamber where you would have died without my help.’ His jaw clenched, so tightly that he could no longer utter words. All that came from Elias’s mouth was a spitting, frothing snarl. He fought for calm, found it in the dark pit of his rotten soul.
Elias called out to summon his equerry. ‘Jadrekk…’
The warrior appeared at the tent mouth almost immediately, bowing low.
‘We are leaving. Gather everyone, but leave two squads to maintain vigil over the pit. We are rejoining Narek and the others.’
Jadrekk bowed again and went to carry out his orders.
Thirty-seven legionaries awaited Elias beyond the confines of his sanctum. Twenty of those would stay behind, whilst the rest would reinforce Narek. It had never been intended as a battle force. It was an honour guard, Elias’s own personal cult. Mortals were but lambs to slaughter in the Pantheon’s name. Legionaries demanded sterner attention. Elias had thought the loyalists nothing more than an inconvenience, sustenance for the Neverborn when he unleashed them upon this world and forever tainted it for Chaos. Now they stood in the path of his deser
ved glory. They had proven resourceful so far, but their resistance was at an end. Sheathing the fulgurite spear in his scabbard, he lifted his mace with his good arm. It was heavy, but it felt good to wrap his fist around the skin-bound haft.
It would feel even better when it was cracking skulls, every blow a step towards his eventual apotheosis.
Erebus severed the psychic communion to his disciple and staggered. Reaching out, he supported himself against the wall of his cell and exhaled a shuddering breath. Even imbued by the power of the warp, his regeneration was slow. He looked down upon the bare metal of his bionic hand. It was already clenched in a fist, as if his will alone could sustain and restore him. The grimace on Erebus’s face was transformed into a smile. He saw it reflected in the metal floor of his sanctum, just as he saw the slow creeping of flesh that had begun to colonise his flayed visage. It was harder, darker than before. Tiny bone nubs protruded from his skull. His eyes took on a visceral cast. It was the favour of the gods, Erebus knew it. Lorgar and Horus might have forsaken him for now, but the Pantheon had not. He could feel their restlessness, however. Despite the Dark Apostle’s knowledge and manipulation of the fates, Horus was not the pawn that Erebus had claimed him to be.
In the earliest days, when sedition was muttered in whispers and the warrior lodges were in their infancy, there had been other choices. It need not have been Horus. None of that mattered now. Erebus was, above all, a survivor. His ravaged face and body bore testament to that.
‘I am still the architect of this heresy…’ he hissed to the darkness, which had been listening eagerly ever since he arrived.
His mistake was at Signus. Had he known, had he caught the slightest inkling of Horus’s jealousy… Sanguinius was supposed to have turned and become a Red Angel. Instead, he lived, and neither Horus nor Erebus had got what they wanted. He would be subtler next time. But he needed answers. The Angel and the Warmaster were not his concern now. Erebus’s eye had fallen upon another.
