Lord of the Night (warhammer 40,000)

by Саймон Спуриэр

  And then their warrior-angel, their black/blue lord, their benighted messiah, dropped like a stone from above, plunging bright claws into its ablative sides and rising up its flanks: a hawk taking a dove.

  This close, beyond the smoke and dust, Sahaal could finally see what manner of beast manned the autocannon.

  It was a giant.

  It raised its arms as he slunk near and clenched iron fists, face contorting with a challenge-roar. Sahaal extended his claws and laughed, gratified at the prospect of a worthy opponent. He would enjoy killing this mutant, he decided, this ape-faced freak, and in so doing would secure the loyalty of his xenophobic little slaves forever. He imagined himself surging forwards, claws snickering, blood raining around him.

  And then a head appeared at the hatch into the tank's interior: an unarmoured female, as lowly an opponent as he could imagine. She was beneath his attention — unworthy — and he returned his focus to the hulk, claws flexing.

  'I know what you are,' the woman said, startling him. Her eyes were wide and her skin bleached with fear, but her voice sounded strong and certain, resonating somewhere deep, transcending his ears. 'Go back to the shadows,' she hissed, lips curling. 'Go back to the warp, Night Lord!'

  And then a great dagger punctured his mind: an inelegant swipe of immaterial force that took him by surprise and detonated a bomb within his skull, and he slipped from the Salamander's back onto the floor.

  Darkness swallowed him up like an old friend — like the mother whose face he could no longer recall — and it was only on the very edge of his consciousness that he could hear the sound of heavy tracks clawing at soft earth and an engine, dwindling away into the distance.

  The witch and her pet giant were gone, and as unconsciousness clouded around him he recalled her words with a start.

  Go back to the warp, Night Lord!

  She knew what he was.

  She had recognised his heraldry.

  She had spoken his Legion's name.

  In that instant, on the cusp of waking reality, galvanised by his own discovery, he reached a decision: secrecy was futile. He would summon his brethren. No matter what had happened to them, no matter what glories and solemnities ten thousand years had inflicted upon them, he would summon them to his side, and he would greet them with the Corona in his possession, so that they would know, without doubt — Zso Sahaal, Captain of the Night Lords Legion, chosen heir of the Primarch Konrad Curze, had returned from his slumber to claim his throne.

  Ave Dominus Nox!

  Mita Ashyn

  He — the great, the holier-than-thou, the Scourge of Namiito Ophidius, Deliverer of the Claviculus Ultimatum, lord high-and-fragging-mighty Inquisitor Ipoqr Kaustus — was waiting.

  Mita half expected a red carpet.

  That he had deigned to leave the crystal towers of Steepletown and the comfortable decadence of the governor's palace, that he (and his retinue, of course) had swarmed to the unfashionable depths of Cuspseal, was an indication, she reflected, of just how much trouble she was in.

  He received her in Commander Orodai's quarters, and where before she had faced him with the retinue circling behind, now they stood arranged around her, glaring as she entered.

  It was a little like stepping onto a stage.

  She noted without much surprise that Sergeant Varitens was standing to the left of Orodai's desk. Of the nineteen vindictors and two staff-drivers who had failed to return from the Steel Forest, she found it particularly galling that he hadn't been amongst them. Doubtiess he'd filled Orodai's head with tales of his own heroism and her — Mita's — mistakes, leading his men into a massacre. She could imagine the bureaucratic paper trail that followed: from here all the way up to the inquisitor himself—

  Who, she had very little doubt, had lost his temper.

  Mita had been back in Cuspseal for ten hours — much of which had been dedicated to a futile attempt to sleep — and with exhaustion clinging to every fibre she was in no mood for yet another dressing down.

  'Get it over with,' she said, not waiting to be addressed.

  Several of the retinue exchanged glances. She'd be damned if she'd treat them to another dewy-eyed performance of apology and supplication.

  'I beg your pardon?' said Kaustus, fingers steepled. His features were once again concealed within his mask, its gloss accentuated by his exquisite gown of red webbing, and Mita met her own reflected gaze and held it, chin jutting proudly.

  'The execution, inquisitor,' she said, refusing to be cowed. 'I've failed you twice. I went against your orders. I'm responsible for the deaths of twenty-one of the Emperor's loyal Preafects and I haven't any wish to be kept waiting for summary exe—'

  'Sergeant Varitens tells me that you have identified the killer.'

  The defiant bite-back she'd been preparing died in her mouth.

  'W... what?'

  Kaustus leaned forwards. 'He speaks of an armoured warrior, interrogator. He suggests there is a... how did he put it?... A living blasphemy at large.'

  Something a little like triumph planted tenuous roots in her belly.

  'I-is that so, my lord?'

  'It is. What do you say to that, interrogator?'

  She glanced at Varitens, seeking confirmation of his collusion. The man's eyes seemed fixated on the floor, wide with child-like fascination. Like a sword of Damocles, descending to puncture her scant shred of victory, a long cord of spittle parted company with his lip and spattered to the floor. Mita's heart sunk.

  'As you can see,' Kaustus added, interrupting her before she could answer, 'the good sergeant required some... calming. He was almost ranting, the poor beast.'

  'He's been dragged?'

  Kaustus's eyes glimmered within the narrow slats of his mask.

  'Not quite. We thought it best to cleanse his mind — and that of the surviving driver — using a more...' he waved a thoughtful hand, '...permanent method.'

  Lobotomisation. With such impunity could an inquisitor wipe away a man's thoughts and memories.

  'Is that to be my fate, my lord?' she scowled, prideful rebellion sputtering in her belly. 'And Cog's? Our minds stripped away because you refuse to believe the truth?'

  For an instant, there was silence.

  Then Kaustus moved faster than her eye could follow, and with barely a hiss registering in her ears she found herself spinning in her place, the floor rising to meet her, cheek stinging. When the lights cleared from her eyes she found the inquisitor stood over her and she realised with a thrill that he'd struck her.

  So much for the cool, collected Inquisitor Kaustus.

  'Your insolence stops here, interrogator,' he said, breathing hard. 'And should I wish it I can command far worse fates than mere lobotomy. This is your last warning.'

  'B-but why h—'

  'Why have I erased the testimonies of the sergeant and the driver? Use your brain, child! If what they say — if what you say — is correct, then the taint is abroad.'

  'So you believe me n—'

  'I will not tolerate panic and rumour-mongering, is that clear? This is damage limitation, interrogator. Be grateful I consider you capable of keeping secrets.' He returned to his seat, eyes lowered, adding quietly, 'and yes. Yes, I believe you.'

  Mita tottered to her feet, dizzied. Such an uncharacteristic performance from the inquisitor had prompted a chorus of astonished thought from the retinue, and Mita struggled to shut out the psionic clamour.

  'So,' Kaustus intoned, returning to his brooding position with fingers toying at his pendant. 'Tell me. What manner of corruption draws me so successfully from my Holy Work?' The boredom in his voice was as theatrical as it was palpable. 'A cult of the Dark Powers? Some mutant animal, perhaps? Or some tainted aristocrat, seeking thrills and kills in the underhive?' He folded his arms. 'Speak, child — I would know the agent of this... distraction.'

  Mita squared her shoulders.

  'It is a Traitor Space Marine, my lord.'

  Uproar.

 
The retinue dissolved in a froth of gabbled prayers and startled exchanges — outrage clamouring with denial and anger.

  Only Kaustus remained silent, and it was only Mita — who regarded his reaction scrupulously — that noted the tightening of his knuckles and the stiffening of his spine.

  His eyes burned into her, betraying nothing.

  'Impossible!' It was Commander Orodai who first summoned the ire required to speak out, rising to his feet and stabbing an infuriated finger at the floor. The venom in his voice astonished even Mita.

  'I won't listen to this!' the commander stormed, arms waving. 'No warpshit daemon ever set foot inside my city, and I won't have some slip of a witch suggesting otherw—'

  'It's no daemon!' Mita interrupted, gorge rising. 'It's a Space Marine, you fool! One of our own, fallen from the light. It's more cunning than any daemon!'

  'This is intolerable...' Orodai turned to Kaustus with his cheeks burning. 'Are we to listen to these heresies all day?' he snarled. 'Silence your brat before I do it myself!'

  He drew his pistol.

  Mita's heart skipped.

  In the mist of her senses the psychic nebula of Orodai's mind turned black and red, an ugly bruise of murderous intent. She staggered away, a warding hand raised. Her eyes tracked the commander's fist with morbid absorption, every centimetre of the gun's slow ascension like a countdown to thick, endless night.

  'Have a care, Orodai.'

  The voice seemed to come from far away, and it took Mita's revolving senses an eternity to stabilise, to draw her eyes away from the rising gun, and to note the tip of a sword, paused centimetres short of pricking at Orodai's skin.

  'It is unwise to issue orders to an inquisitor,' said Kaustus tiredly, 'or to threaten his flock.'

  Mita hadn't even seen him draw the blade.

  'I... I...' Orodai seemed torn between outrage and self-preservation, anger and terror jockeying on the surface of his thoughts. Mita allowed herself a tiny smirk, enjoying his dilemma.

  'One cannot trust the testimony of a mutant,' the commander said carefully, tone levelled to be as reasonable as possible. The sword did not waver. 'She's probably in league with whatever "taint" she's uncovered, by the Throne!'

  'A grave allegation,' Kaustus said. The blade stayed where it was.

  Orodai eyed the inquisitor along the sword's edge, lip curling, and abruptly he seemed to sag, shoulders drooping. 'She'd bring down the wrath of the Inquisition on my world...' he said softly, his voice almost plaintive.

  'Aaah...' Kaustus lowered the sword with a chuckle, sliding it into its sheath. 'Suddenly it all becomes clear.' His voice was thick with amusement. 'Your objection has more to do with your fear of me than of whatever bogeyman my interrogator has exposed.'

  Orodai rallied with the look of man determined to preserve as much dignity as he could, though there was precious little to salvage.

  'Your organisation's reputation precedes it,' he snapped, fingers questing for blemishes at his throat. 'I've heard the stories. Worlds virus-bombed on the strength of a single rumour. Whole populations wiped out for fear of one heretic.' His jaw tightened. 'I won't trust the fate of my city to the word of... of...' he glanced across at Mita, searching for some sufficiently derogatory term, settling finally for a derisive: 'that!'

  'Nor,' said Kaustus, enjoying every moment, 'would I'

  And right on cue the retinue chuckled its vicious amusement. Orodai re-holstered his gun, mollified by the shared ridicule of the psyker, the mutant, the wretched interrogator.

  Mita bowed her head and thought: In shared cruelty lies acceptance — her own lesson, recalled time and time again.

  The Emperor loves me. The Emperor loves me. The Emperor loves me.

  Bitter comfort.

  She acknowledge with a start that she despised them all, every last one.

  'So you don't believe me,' she said, doing her best to ignore the laughter.

  Kaustus seated himself again and waved an untroubled hand.

  'Spare me your damaged pride,' he said. 'I've already told you I believe you. Something is loose in the underhive and it must be brought to heel. There's no question of that.' He fixed her with a pointed look. 'Whatever that "something" might be.'

  'My lord! I recognised the traitor's heraldry!' Her voice came almost as a whimper. 'A fanged skull, leather-winged and homed, rampant against a field of lightning.'

  Kaustus's casual posture did not change.

  'The mark of the Night Lords!' she shouted, furious at his tranquillity. 'I would not mistake it! I've studied the Insignium Tratoris! I was zealous in memorising such th—'

  'Your schooling is of no consequence, interrogator. If reading ancient texts is the full measure of your wisdom then I suspect your tenure with my retinue shall be very short.'

  Another guffaw from the mob, another burning moment of shame and hatred.

  'My lord...' her voice was quiet, almost plaintive. 'You must believe me.'

  'Child.' Kaustus preened at the sleeves of his robe, voice sceptical, 'if a heretic Marine is indeed at large, perhaps you could account for how it is that you — a mere interrogator — were able to escape him?'

  Mita opened her mouth.

  And closed it again.

  In truth, she had barely been able to believe it herself. She had lashed out at the monster with an impetuous psychic strike, a panicky assault without measure or hope of success. It was as if the Night Lord had been utterly unprepared, not just lacking in psychic defence but unaware that such a thing even existed. His mind had been like that of a child, as if the very last thing he had expected to face was a psyker.

  Not the type of vulnerability one identified with the Traitor Legions.

  'I... I don't know my lord,' she muttered, beaten, 'but I'm certain of the identifica—'

  Kaustus silenced her with a sigh.

  'That is beyond the point, interrogator,' he growled, looking away with a dismissive wave. 'We thank you for your report nonetheless. It shall be dealt with.'

  She opened her mouth to remonstrate, to make him see sense, to scream and shout and vent her frustration until her throat bled, but Kaustus cut her short with a raised palm and a glare.

  'It shall be dealt with,' he repeated. 'But not by you.' He turned to face the retinue, crooking a finger to beckon forth a solitary member. 'Dissimulus!'

  A man, whose name Mita did not know, stepped from the throng and turned to face him, dipping his head. Mita instinctively dipped inside his mind, tasting the surface of his thoughts. Visually he seemed unremarkable, what few features his robe betrayed were average — his age was indeterminate, his hair cut to a medium length, physically neither tall nor short. Little wonder, Mita reflected, that she'd paid so little attention to him: amongst the menagerie of personalities comprising the retinue he was positively mundane.

  In the boiling ocean of his mind, however, he was unique.

  Never before had Mita encountered such an indistinct anima. In a typical personality the fronds and tentacles of outward thought clustered at their roots around a solid core of ego, that diamond-hard seed of identity that informed all else, as a bitter stone informs the growth of a peach. Not so here. In the tormented mindscape of this plain man no such centre existed, no nucleus of 'this-is-me' presented itself, and the one uniformity she could identify was a lust, a desire, a craving: though for what she could not say.

  She withdrew with less information than she'd held before, and regarded the uninteresting figure with a new sense of caution. What manner of human was unaware even of its own personality, its own gender, its own name?

  'Approach, child...' Kaustus said, and the man stepped forwards until he all but touched his master. Kaustus leaned down towards him, and for one surreal instant Mita wondered if the inquisitor planned to kiss him, irrespective of his mask. At the last instant he diverted his face towards the figure's ear and there, looming over like some ancient ogre, he whispered his secret plans.

  If the rest of his acoly
tes felt any jealousy at this preferential treatment, or frustration at being so excluded, even their thoughts failed to betray them. Mita alone struggled with her annoyance, consumed by something that bore all the ugly hallmarks of envy.

  She was the interrogator. She was the inquisitor's second. She had found the enemy, and this was her reward — to be ridiculed and excluded? This was the glory she'd pursued?

  And then the nameless man broke away from Kaustus's clinch and was gone, walking from Orodai's office without a backward glance. The inquisitor glanced at his remaining disciples and barked a surly ''dismissed'', and Mita imagined that he paused as his eyes passed hers and something dark, some shadow of malice, shifted minutely in the lagoons of his irises.

  She left Cuspseal alongside the rest of the retinue, returning to Steepletown with resentment clouding her mind, and with every breath she cursed her master's name for not believing her, for not taking her seriously, for not seeming troubled. There was a Chaos Marine loose in the hive, by the Emperor's tears, and he seemed no more bothered than had he found a fly in his drinking grail.

  Mita watched him, and brooded and seethed, and did nothing.

  The next morning, installed once more in the drab envelope of her meditation cell, she awoke to the knocking of a servitor-herald, pompously dressed in ermine and satin. She received its monotone message half awake, unashamed of her nakedness before a creature so devoid of emotion, and slammed the door just a little too loudly as it left.

  Kaustus had once more requested her presence.

  She prepared to join him with all the usual surges of apprehension and frustration that his beckons always entailed, and spent several flustered minutes considering what to wear. It was as if the turmoil of the previous days had never occurred and she was reduced once more to panicking over how best to secure his respect. She hated herself for such meaningless exactitude as fussily choosing her costume, but was enslaved to it nonetheless.

  Cog slept on the floor beside her simple palette, and she stepped over him to rummage in her luggage without even attempting stealth. Having noted her dismal mood, he'd come to her cell the night before with child-like words of comfort, and she'd allowed him to sleep on the floor beside her palette with guilty gratitude — there was someone in the galaxy, at least, who liked her. She knew from past experience that nothing short of a blow to the head would wake him from his contented slumber, so she left him to it and got on with the business of dressing. She began by shrugging on a scarlet robe with white and gold filigree at its seams: nothing too ostentatious, but fittingly colourful for the hive's upper tiers. In these decorous corridors and it was the gaudiest and most patterned who went unnoticed, and the drab who attracted the most attention.