Night Lords Omnibus

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  ‘Fight them,’ Xarl voxed. ‘Kill them all.’

  ‘Blood and skulls and souls,’ Uzas sounded like he was drooling again. ‘We must fight.’

  ‘Keep your damn heads, you fools.’ This from Garadon, Hammer of the Exalted. ‘Even we would be overwhelmed in this place.’

  ‘Aye,’ Cyrion nodded. ‘We find answers first, then take whatever vengeance is deserved.’

  ‘Fight,’ stressed Xarl. The ignominy of being marched out of here was clearly too much for him. ‘We can’t leave Talos here.’

  ‘The Legions stand on the precipice of battle with what happens in this moment,’ Garadon’s gruff voice cut into Xarl’s threatened raving. ‘And they outnumber us in orbit as well as on the surface. Bide your time, and strike when the prey is weakest.’

  ‘You are a coward, Garadon,’ Xarl snarled.

  ‘And you will answer for that slur,’ the Hammer of the Exalted replied. ‘But lower your bolter. This is not a fight we can win.’

  The Night Lords lowered their weapons and allowed themselves to be escorted from the hall. Jeers and laughter followed them as the prisoners rose to their feet. Several hurled bottles or fired stolen shotguns into the air, triggering alert runes across the Night Lords’ visors.

  ‘Every single one of these wretches will bleed for this,’ Xarl promised. Affirmation blips came back from every member of the squad. A bottle struck Uzas on the side of the helm, and the others heard him laughing.

  ‘What the hell is so funny?’ Xarl snapped.

  ‘They played us for fools,’ Uzas was grinning. ‘Killed Talos. Killed Thunderhawk crew. Captured our gunship. Clever moves. Is it wrong to be impressed that they outplayed us so easily?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Xarl said. ‘They didn’t kill Talos. His life rune’s still live.’

  ‘Same difference. He’s theirs now. Good riddance.’

  Cyrion ignored their bickering. Surrounded as they were by kneeling mortals, his secret sense was afire with sensation. Every one of these humans was afraid beneath their masks of worship. Their fears bled into his consciousness in trickling spurts of conflicting voices.

  …don’t want to die…

  …freedom, at last, will they let us go…

  …a trick, they’ll kill us…

  Cyrion closed his eyes, feeling their mass fear threatening to overwhelm his own thoughts in a sickening blur of barely-understood emotion. As a child, he had fallen into the sump-lake in the depths of Joria Hive’s underhive foundations. Unable to swim, in the endless seconds before his father had saved him, he’d been sinking slowly into the black, staring up at the fire-lit lightness rippling on the water’s surface above. Being around too many humans always reminded him of that one moment, when he’d felt himself fading, swallowed whole and forgotten by some vast extraneous, remorseless force. He’d known he was dying, staring up at the dimming half-light above, feeling everything within his mind slipping from his grasp.

  He knew the same now. The feeling was the same, coming with the familiar cold, dull realisation of inevitability. It was just taking much longer to happen.

  Cyrion’s vision focused as he concentrated on the voices in his vox instead of the whispers within his head. He switched to helm speakers again, letting some of his anger bleed into his tone.

  ‘You. Son of Horus.’

  One of the Black Legion Terminators turned, still lumbering forwards. ‘Night Lord?’

  ‘What, exactly, has occurred to our Thunderhawk?’

  ‘An event of the most terrible misfortune,’ he said, and Cyrion picked up the muted vox clicks as the Black Legionnaires laughed over their internal squad channel. ‘As a courtesy, we will return you to orbit with one of our own transports,’ Falkus said.

  At the end of the hallway, the lift doors rumbled open again. An Astartes in black power armour walked towards them, a smile on his pale features and a glint in his dark eyes.

  Cyrion voxed to the others as soon as the newcomer began walking towards them. ‘You were right after all, Uzas.’

  The Night Lords watched the approaching figure, each one recognising him, each one resisting the urge to aim their weapons and open fire.

  Uzas nodded, still amused. ‘I told you it was a trap.’

  ‘My brothers, my brothers,’ the newcomer said. The oily pools of his eyes drank them in one at a time. ‘How it pleases me,’ he spoke in fluent Nostraman, ‘to see you all again.’

  Septimus and Eurydice were still in the cockpit.

  Septimus was both annoyed and worried, though he tried to let neither of these emotions show. In fairness, he wasn’t doing a tremendous job of it. Eurydice could tell the words he occasionally muttered in Nostraman were curses. She was doing an equally poor job of seeming unafraid, but the Astartes had been gone for long enough to set Septimus’s teeth on edge and she found herself infected by his worry.

  The vox had died almost an hour before, as soon as the Astartes had descended into the prison spire. With a sudden, sharp crack of feedback, connection had been lost and static was all he’d heard from any of the Astartes since then. That in itself didn’t worry him. He doubted there was anything here that could do the demigods any real harm. He was, however, worried about himself and Eurydice.

  To no avail, Septimus had been trying the vox once every five minutes since it failed. He could reach neither First Claw in the complex below, nor the Covenant of Blood in orbit, and this was starting to smell suspiciously like a trap.

  It was time to consider his options.

  He’d briefly considered taking off and staying on-station by keeping the gunship in hover a few dozen metres above the platform. That, unfortunately, wasn’t viable for two reasons. Firstly, his orders had been to stay where he was. Secondly, even had he broken his orders to take off, Blackened didn’t have the fuel for sustained hovering on its atmospheric thrusters – at least, not if it wanted to break orbit and return to its waiting strike cruiser. The fuel readouts showed, at his best estimate, that he could burn the engines for perhaps fifteen minutes before he would need to return to the Covenant. If his master emerged and needed immediate extraction while he was away, or even while he was burning fuel in an unnecessary hover, they might not make it back into the void.

  No. It wasn’t even worth considering. So with the doors sealed, the gang ramp closed and the weapon turrets trained on the lift building, Septimus waited, eyes narrowed to slits, watching the ship’s sensors and deluding himself into thinking he didn’t look as worried as he was.

  ‘Will you relax?’ Eurydice asked, shattering his self-deception.

  Her boots were up on the control console, and she leaned back into the oversized co-pilot’s chair with creaking squeal of leather. Septimus, by comparison, was arched forward over the auspex display, watching the green pulse sweep over the screen every six seconds. It pulsed outwards from an icon of Blackened in the centre of the screen.

  She made a noncommittal grunt, trying to get his attention.

  ‘What?’ he said without looking. Another pulse.

  ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘When will they get back?’ Another pulse, still nothing.

  ‘Do I look like they involve me in their plans?’ he laughed, though the sound was forced.

  ‘Just asking. What are you worried about, anyway?’

  ‘The prison below us. Specifically, the inmates.’ He nodded to the data-slate resting on the arm of his chair. Its display screen listed a screed of information in tiny green letters. ‘This is Internment Spire Delta-Two,’ Septimus explained. ‘The prisoners kept here are awaiting execution, though they are kept alive to serve a span of years in deep tunnel mining operations as slave labour. These aren’t recidivists or minor criminals. They’re murderers, rapists and heretics.’

  ‘But the doors are sealed.’ An edge of hesitancy crept into her voice now, just a thin suggestion of doubt.

  ‘No door is invulnerable. The flank bulkh
eads would stop anything I can imagine, but the main gang ramp works through regular hydraulics. It’s sealed and locked, but… Look, I’m not worried. Just being prepared.’

  ‘Prepared for what, exactly? Why would anyone rush an Astartes gunship? Talk about a death wish.’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect most wouldn’t come near us. If they did? Well, maybe some might want to try and flee the planet by stealing the ship. Or maybe, given their incarceration here, they’re not all that sane to begin with. Or…’ he trailed off.

  ‘Or what? Don’t just start a sentence like that and leave it hanging.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe if they had learned there was a woman on board…’

  She nodded, but he could see she was struggling to maintain her bravado. ‘This gunship has, well, guns, right?’

  ‘It… does.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you said that.’

  ‘Half of the weapons are inactive, including the main battle cannon. Ammunition is low, and the heavy bolters on the gunship’s flanks are no longer slaved to servitors.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Another pulse. Another blank screen. ‘Because the servitors are dead. They have been for years, and I was the one tasked with dragging the bodies from their ports.’

  After several moments of silent staring, another console screen chimed. Septimus turned in his throne, leaning forward to examine the readout.

  ‘Well, well, well…’

  ‘More bad news?’ she asked him, not sure she really wanted an answer.

  ‘Not exactly. Another ship just took off – and not one of the bulk landers down there on the plains. This ship was a Thunderhawk-class vessel. Black Legion identification signals.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The auspex chimed because it registered First Claw on board the ship as it headed into orbit.’

  ‘What? They left us here?’

  Septimus was still watching the screen. ‘Not all of them. No signal from Talos. He’s still in the prison complex.’

  He was not a man who enjoyed these kinds of mysteries. Septimus turned from the screen to hit a few console keys. Doors: Secured, a flashing icon on the console read. It was the third time he’d checked the doors in the past hour.

  As Eurydice drew breath to ask another question, the auspex chimed again. There was nothing foreboding in the sound. It was almost melodic.

  ‘Damn it,’ said Septimus, rising from his throne.

  Eurydice sat up. The auspex was singing now, tinny chime after tinny chime. ‘Are we in trouble?’ she asked.

  Septimus was staring out of the forward window, at the open elevator doors, and what came spilling out of them.

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said, drawing both of his pistols.

  ‘Then give me one of those,’ she said as she stood, following his gaze.

  ‘Take them both,’ he said, handing them to her before leaning over the control console. ‘And don’t think about shooting me.’

  She gave him a withering look that he never saw. Septimus hit a long sequence of console keys, his fingers a blur.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘This,’ he said, and the gunship’s functioning heavy bolter turrets lit up with fire as they unleashed their rage.

  Jerl Maddox couldn’t believe his luck. Freedom.

  Freedom.

  Freedom after eight years in this damn hellhole. Eight years of eating the cold, bitter grey paste that passed as food, morning, afternoon and night. Eight years of fourteen-hour shifts under the earth of this accursed rock, digging and digging and digging in the vain hope of striking a handful of ore. Eight years of backaches, blurred vision, gums burning from infection, and pissing blood after every beating from the guards.

  Yeah, well, payback had come sure enough. He clutched the shotgun to his chest, racking the slide just to enjoy the feeling. Click-chunk. Oh, hell yes. This was something else. He’d taken the weapon from Laffian, but that was all good because Laffian had been one of the worst guards in R Sector.

  R Sector – ‘Omega Level Transgressions Only’ – was home no longer for Maddox, and the fact he could still feel Laffian’s blood on his face was just that little extra touch of victory.

  That was payback, too. Payback for the time Laffian had smacked Jesper around so bad the poor fool’s eye had popped out from his broken head. Maddox grinned, the stench of his teeth making his eyes water. Laffian hadn’t looked so cocksure with his chest blown open and his leg hacked off at the knee.

  He’d screamed about his kids, too. Yeah, like that would make a difference. Maddox’s grin became a snigger.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Blackjaw,’ someone next to him said. Maddox swallowed, pressing his lips together. In the close confines of the lift car, which was an uncomfortable fit for almost fifty of them, several of the men curled their lips or swore at him in grunting monotone.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, but that just got them complaining again. It wasn’t his fault. His gums were infected. His teeth were black and loose in his jaws – the few that remained, anyway. Wasn’t like they had access to a doctor in R Sector, was it? And they smelled just as bad, anyway. Fifty of them all sweating and bloody in their white overalls…

  ‘You stink, too,’ he muttered. Bodies started to move, to turn in his direction. Maddox lowered his head a little, avoiding all eye contact as the man ahead turned around.

  ‘What’s that, Blackjaw?’ It was Indriga, a solid two metres of tattooed muscle and knife scars. He’d been stuck on R Sector for killing and eating some poor hab-wife.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing, Indriga.’

  ‘Damn right, nothing. Now shut your mouth before we all throw up.’

  He kept his head down, doing his best not to smile. He couldn’t help it, though. He kept seeing Laffian howling and thrashing around with no leg… And the trembling smile became a blurted cough of a snigger. A droplet of warm, thick saliva plopped onto the stock of his stolen shotgun. Laffian’s gun. He laughed again.

  The men around him turned away, swearing. He likely would have died then and there had the lift not ground to a halt and the doors opened. The thin, ash-tasting air floated in to meet them as the prisoners looked out onto the landing platform.

  ‘There it is,’ Indriga said, already walking out.

  It was a ship – a small vessel by troopship standards, and that was about the only frame of reference Maddox had; he’d been Imperial Guard before his arrest for… whatever they’d said he’d done. He hadn’t done anything, and he knew it. No way. Not him. He was Guard, through and through. Damned if he could even remember what they’d insisted he’d done wrong, now…

  Someone shoving him forward jolted his senses back to the present.

  ‘Let’s take it,’ one of them said.

  It was vaguely hawkish, with downswept wings, and it was dark blue, like the colour of the deepest oceans. The thought of that made Maddox’s stomach quiver and bunch. He hated the sea. He couldn’t put his head below the surface without imagining something deep down there, looking back at him.

  He was one of the stragglers, while most of his fellow prisoners ran forwards with their stolen clubs and guns held high. Their saviours – the god-warriors in black – had chosen some of the strongest and fittest inmates in R Sector to come up here and perform this sacred duty. There were people in this ship, and they had to die. The gods had spoken.

  And, hell yes, one of them was supposed to be a woman.

  It was good to be free. It was good to be the chosen champion of the gods that had bestowed upon him the freedom he so richly deserved. Even the awful air tasted better than usual.

  These were the thoughts swirling around Jerl ‘Blackjaw’ Maddox’s mind as he died. When he went down, he was still too lost in his thoughts of freedom to really comprehend what was happening to him, and he died with his body in pieces, still smiling, and still smelling terrible as he laughed without any sound leaving his lips.

  The turret cannons on the gunsh
ip blazed away, bolt rounds streaming out to thump home into yielding flesh only to detonate a moment after impact. Inmates were reduced to shattered husks of meat and bone, thrown across the landing platform in ugly smears. From the vox speakers mounted on the Thunderhawk’s exterior, a voice spoke calmly in heavily-accented Gothic.

  ‘Welcome, all of you,’ Septimus said. ‘Please enjoy the last mistake you’ll ever make.’

  Cyrion checked his bolter again, then clamped it once more to his thigh armour.

  ‘Stop that,’ voxed Malek. ‘You look irritated.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ Cyrion sneered.

  First Claw and their Atramentar escorts sat in the restraint thrones of a Black Legion gunship, their surroundings vibrating as the Thunderhawk juddered through the atmosphere.

  ‘Will they take Blackened?’ Cyrion asked. ‘It would be a foolish error if they tried.’

  ‘They just wanted Talos,’ Xarl said. He clicked the blinking rune that confirmed a private channel with Cyrion. ‘And the Atramentar knew it would happen. They were here to ensure we did not step out of line, and backed down at the first need to shed blood. The Exalted planned this.’

  Cyrion’s voice was tired. The weight of the prisoners’ fears, although faded now, still rested heavily on his mind. ‘I grow weary of this, Xarl.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The treachery. The death of trust. Of my mind aching from the silent weeping terror of mortals.’

  Xarl said nothing at first. Sympathy was not in his blood. ‘You are tainted, Cyrion,’ he said at last.

  ‘Something like that,’ Cyrion replied. He took a breath. ‘The Exalted has always resented Talos’s position in the Legion, as a favoured son of our father, but this was a step too far. To attempt to kill him? Is Vandred insane?’

  Xarl’s response came after a bitter laugh. ‘What makes you so sure he wanted Talos dead? Out of the way, certainly. Perhaps among the ranks of the Black Legion. A gain for both Abaddon and the Exalted.’

  ‘Like Ruven,’ Cyrion said.

  ‘Yes, brother,’ Xarl said, his voice lower now. ‘Like Ruven.’

  Eurydice swore with feeling as the Thunderhawk shook again.