Night Lords Omnibus

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  Talos didn’t bother to draw weapons to heighten the threat. He merely stared down. ‘I own you, Septimus. I have afforded you many freedoms in the past because of your usefulness, but I can always train other slaves. You are only human. Defy me again, and you will live just long enough to beg for death.’

  With those words, he left in a thrum of whirring armour joints. In the sudden silence, Septimus dragged in a wracking breath and began to crawl across the deck of his chamber. Only one thing would have roused his master’s ire like that. The very thing he and Octavia had feared had evidently come to pass, and the Night Lords had sensed the changes in her biology. The revelation wasn’t quite drowned in the sea of pain from the beating he’d received.

  Septimus spat out two of his back teeth, and the man who would soon be a father promptly lost consciousness.

  Talos gathered the Claws in the war room around the long hololithic council table. Eighty-one warriors in total, each standing in midnight clad. Many were bloodied, or yet bore armour scars from the purgation duties still taking place in the bowels of the Echo of Damnation. Stealing the ship back from the Red Corsairs had only been the first step. Cleansing a warship of this size would take years, with flamer teams incinerating the worst touches of Chaos taint – where the hull was corroded with foulness, or worse, where the metal had mutated into living tissue.

  The Echo of Damnation, much like the Covenant of Blood before it, was essentially a city in space, carrying a crew of over fifty thousand souls. She was, in all ways, a grander beast and a greater beauty than the Standard Template Construct cruisers and barges of the Adeptus Astartes that patrolled the heavens of the modern Imperium. The Echo had first tasted the void in the Great Crusade ten thousand years before, when the warriors of the Legiones Astartes claimed the finest vessels for themselves, and sailed their warships at the vanguard of expansionist fleets. A strike cruiser of yesteryear wasn’t always equal to its Imperial counterpart, and the Echo showed how they often eclipsed their newer cousins in size and firepower.

  Fifty thousand souls. Talos had never grown used to the number, even as they toiled for decades below his boots. His life was among the ever-diminishing elite, and their most favoured slaves.

  On the rare occasions he descended into the ship’s dank reaches, it was for the duty of purging any insidious taint that threatened the ship’s optimal function, or for the more plebeian desire for murder. Most of the slave-caste workers dwelled in the deepest reaches and lowest bowel-decks of the immense warship, toiling their lives away in the darkness, working as engine crews and the other menial tasks suitable for human cattle. Hunting for skulls and screams among the mortal chattel was merely one of the traditional paths of training. It was undeniably the most pleasurable.

  Talos regarded his brothers, the eighty-one warriors pulled together by fate into a fragile alliance, drawn from the remnants of the Night Lords’ Tenth and Eleventh Companies. However he’d intended to begin the war council was discarded once he saw them all gathered. One thing was abundantly clear from their ragged ranks, with some squads reduced to two or three surviving members.

  ‘We must restructure the claws,’ he said to them.

  The warriors shared glances. Neck joints hummed as they turned to one another.

  ‘The infighting ends here, brothers. First Claw will remain six-strong. The other claws will reform as close to full strength as they are able.’

  Xeverine, a warrior never without his ornate chainglaive, raised his voice to speak. ‘And who leads these new claws, Soul Hunter?’

  ‘Honour duels,’ answered Faroven, wearing a similar ceremonial helm to Xarl. The winged crest dipped as he nodded. ‘We should commit to honour duels. The victors lead the seven new Claws.’

  ‘Honour duels are for the weak and fearful,’ said one of the scarred veterans nearby. ‘Murder duels should settle an issue of leadership.’

  ‘We do not have the numbers to bleed away in murder duels,’ replied Carahd, leader of Faroven’s claw.

  Arguments broke out among the gathered squads, each seeking to shout the others down.

  ‘No one is reaching for a weapon yet,’ Xarl said quietly, ‘but give it time, and we’ll be wading through a bloodbath.’

  Talos nodded. This had gone on long enough.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said. He kept his voice coloured by nothing but patience. Sure enough, one by one they fell silent. Eighty helms regarded him, variously painted with skulls, Nostraman runes, crested with high wings, or darkened by battle damage. To First Claw’s left, the five remaining Bleeding Eyes vox-buzzed and hissed amongst themselves, but Lucoryphus favoured the prophet with his full attention. The Raptor lord was even standing up, his foot-claws unsuited to the posture, watching Talos with his sloped daemon-mask.

  ‘Brothers,’ Talos said again. ‘We have eleven squad leaders, with enough warriors to make seven full claws. All who wish an honour duel to claim leadership are free to do so.’

  ‘And murder duels?’ asked Ulris.

  ‘Murder duels will be fought against Xarl. Anyone who wishes to kill a brother for the honour of leading a claw is free to challenge him. I will grant a full claw to anyone that slays him.’

  Grumbling simmered between several of the claws.

  ‘Yes,’ said Talos, ‘that is what I thought you would say. Now enough of this, we have gathered for a reason.’

  ‘Why did you bring us back to Tsagualsa?’ one of the warriors called out.

  ‘Because I am such a sentimental soul.’ Bitter, mirthless laughter broke out across the chamber in answer. ‘For those of you that have not heard, the planetary sweeps have detected cities capable of housing a population of over twenty-five million, principally spread across six major cities.’

  Talos gestured to a tech-adept, who stepped forward to the table. Deltrian, his skeletal form robed as always, deployed a plethora of micro-tools through the tips of his fingers. One of them, a neural interface trident-pin, clicked within the table console’s manual socket. A sizeable hololithic image of the grey world appeared in the air above the table, fraught with eye-watering flickers.

  ‘I am operating under the primary hypothesis that the world’s past requires no explanation to the legionaries of the Eighth.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ muttered one of the Night Lords.

  Such disrespect. It galled Deltrian to think of the ancient bonds of allegiance between the Martian Mechanicum and the Legiones Astartes, now degraded to this degree. All the oaths that had been sworn, and all the rituals of respect – reduced to ashes.

  ‘Honoured adept,’ said Talos. ‘Please continue.’

  Deltrian hesitated, fixing the prophet with his dilating eye lenses. Without realising he still possessed such a curiously human habit, Deltrian reached up to adjust his hood, and sank his metallic features deeper into shadow.

  ‘I will vocalise the principal factors in the defence array. First, the–’

  The Night Lords were already speaking over one another. Several shouted their objections.

  ‘We cannot attack Tsagualsa,’ said Carahd. ‘We cannot set foot upon that world. It is cursed.’ Murmurs of agreement grew in chorus.

  Talos gave a short bark of a laugh, the sound shaped for mockery. ‘Is this really the time for idiotic superstition?’

  ‘It is cursed, Soul Hunter,’ Carahd protested. ‘All know it.’ But the agreeing mutters were fainter this time.

  Talos leaned his knuckles on the desk, watching the gathered warriors. ‘I am willing to allow this world to rot, forgotten on the edge of space. But I am not willing to walk away when the world we called home for so many decades is infested with Imperial filth. You may run from this, Carahd. You may weep over a curse ten thousand years old, and long grown cold. I am taking First Claw down to the surface. I will show these intruders the unforgiving nature of the Eighth Legion. Twenty-five million souls, Carahd. Twenty-five million mouths to scream, and twenty-five million hearts to burst in our hands. You truly wish to
remain in orbit while we bring this planet to its knees?’

  Carahd smiled at that. ‘Twenty-five million souls.’ The prophet could already see the glint of avarice in the warrior’s eyes.

  ‘Is a world cursed simply because we left it in a moment of indignity? Or is the curse a beautifully convenient masquerade to conceal our shame at running from our second home world?’

  Carahd didn’t answer, but the answer was clear in his colourless eyes.

  ‘I am pleased that we understand one another,’ finished Talos. ‘Now, Deltrian, please continue.’

  Deltrian reactivated the hololithic image. It bred a ghostly gleam across the dark armour-plating of the gathered warriors. ‘Tsagualsa is as lightly defended as most Imperial frontier worlds. We have no data on the frequency or size of Naval patrols in the subsector, but given the location, viable projections indicate minimal and irregular presence of the Imperial war machine. Three Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes are known to hold protectorates in approximate regions. Each of these claims descent from Thirteenth Legion gene stock. Each of these was also present in the year–’

  Talos cleared his throat. ‘The vital details, please, honoured adept.’

  Deltrian repressed a blurt of irritated binary. ‘The world is undefended from orbit, as is common among frontier worlds, with the exception of any Imperial void patrols that are willing to risk venturing this far from the Astronomican. Without the Emperor’s warp beacon to guide their Navigators, destruction within the Sea of Souls is a significant threat. I struggle to process the reasons the Imperium would even establish a colony this far into the Eastern Fringe. The cities on the surface are likely to be self-sustaining society-states, almost certainly adapted to depend on global resources rather than the infrequent imports from the wider Imperium.’

  ‘What of military movements upon the surface?’ asked one of the warriors.

  ‘Analysing,’ Deltrian said. He turned his hand as though turning a key in a lock. The neural interface link clicked in the console, and the hololithic stuttered, several sections of the world now flashing red. ‘We have monitored satellite vox-traffic for the last sixteen hours, since arrival. It was initially remarkable in that so little communication takes place at all. The world is almost silent, suggesting devolution and/or a primitive grasp of technology.’

  ‘Easy prey,’ another Legionary grinned across the chamber.

  Cease interrupting, Deltrian thought. ‘Three point one per cent of planetary vox communication was military in nature – or could be interpreted as such, in matters of city-state security and law enforcement – suggesting two things: firstly, that this world maintains a minor – perhaps infinitesimal – garrison of conscripts for planetary defence. Secondly, it suggests that despite its reasonable population statistics by the standards of Apex Degree frontier worlds, it levies no regiments for service in the Imperial Guard.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’ asked Xarl.

  Cyrion chuckled. ‘What does he look like, an Imperial recruiter?’

  Deltrian ignored the misguided attempt at wit. ‘Twenty-five million souls could sustain an Imperial Guard Founding, but frontier worlds seem to be marked for other tithes. The remote location of Tsagualsa makes it increasingly unfavourable and unlikely for Guard recruitment. It should be noted that the planet’s inhospitability renders it detrimental – almost hostile – to human life. Auspex readings indicate settlements capable of sustaining the stated numbers, but actual populations are likely to be lower.’

  ‘How much lower?’ another warrior asked.

  ‘Conjecture is useless. We will see for ourselves soon enough. The world is undefended.’

  ‘In short,’ Talos said, ‘this world is ours, brothers. We need only to reach out our claws and take it. We will divide before planetfall,’ Talos explained. ‘Each Claw will take a section of the city, to do with as they please.’

  ‘Why?’

  All eyes turned to Deltrian. ‘You have something to say?’ Talos asked him.

  The tech-adept took a fraction of a second to frame his thoughts into a verbal formation and tone calculated to offer the least offence.

  ‘I would ask, lord, why you seek to make planetfall here at all. What does this defenceless world offer us?’

  Talos didn’t look away. His black eyes drilled into the tech-adept’s cowl, locking to the glimmering lenses therein.

  ‘This is no different to any other raid, honoured adept. We are raiders. We raid. This is what we do, is it not?’

  ‘Then I would form a further query. Why did we travel across a quarter of the galaxy to reach this location? I suspect I need not process the number of worlds in the Imperium and calculate the percentage that offer potential raid targets. So I would phrase my query thusly: Why did we come to Tsagualsa?’

  The Night Lords fell silent again. They watched the prophet in wordless patience, for once.

  ‘I want answers,’ Talos said. ‘I believe I will find them here.’

  ‘Answers to what, Soul Hunter?’ one of the warriors asked. He could see the question mirrored in many of their eyes.

  ‘To why we are still fighting this war.’

  As expected, his answer was met with laughter, with the answers ‘To win it’ and ‘To survive’ mixed in with the amusement. That suited Talos well enough. Let them believe it was a veteran’s joke, shared with his kindred.

  It took three hours for Xarl to speak the words Talos had been expecting.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that.’

  The arming chamber was a hive of industry, as Septimus and several servitors machined First Claw’s war plate onto their bodies.

  Cyrion glanced at the human serf helping to drill his shin guard into its locking position.

  ‘You look like death,’ he pointed out. Septimus forced a smile, but said nothing. His face was a palette of bruised swelling.

  ‘Talos,’ Xarl said, ‘you shouldn’t have said that in the war council.’

  Talos closed and opened his fist, testing the workings of his gauntlet. It purred in a muted orchestra of smooth servos.

  ‘What, exactly, should I not have said?’ he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  Xarl shrugged his left shoulder as a servitor drilled the pauldron into place. ‘No one respects a maudlin leader. You are too thoughtful, too introspective. They considered your words to be a jest, and that was a saving grace. But trust me, brother, none of the Claws would wish to descend onto that cursed world purely to satisfy your desire for soul-searching.’

  Talos nodded, agreeing easily while checking his bolter. ‘True. Their only reason for making planetfall is to spread terror through the population, is it not? There’s no place for nuance or deeper emotion in such shallow, worthless psyches.’

  First Claw looked at their leader in silence for several moments.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Xarl asked. ‘What bitterness grips you these nights? You were speaking like this before you fell into the long dream, and have been twice as bad since awakening. You cannot keep shouting out against the Legion. We are what we are.’

  The prophet locked his bolter to his thigh plating along the magnetic seal. ‘I am tired of merely surviving this war. I want to win it. I want there to be meaning behind fighting it.’

  ‘We are what we are, Talos.’

  ‘Then we must be better. We must change and evolve, because this stasis is worthless.’

  ‘You sound like Ruven before he left us.’

  The prophet’s lips curled in a snide sneer. ‘I have carried this bitterness for a long time, Xarl. The only difference is that now I wish to speak of it. And I do not regret it. To speak of these flaws is like lancing a boil. I already feel the poison bleeding from me. It is no sin to wish to live a life that matters. We are supposed to be fighting a war and inflicting fear in the name of our father. We are sworn to bear his vengeance.’

  Xarl didn’t hide the confusion taking hold of his pale features. ‘Are you insane? How many among
the Legion truly paid heed to the rantings of a mad primarch spoken so long ago?’

  ‘I am not saying the Legion has heeded those words,’ Talos narrowed his eyes. ‘I am saying that we should heed them. If we did, our lives would be worth more.’

  ‘The Legion’s lesson is taught. It was taught when he died. All that remains is to survive as best we can, and wait for the Imperium to fall.’

  ‘And what happens when it falls? What then?’

  Xarl looked at Talos for a moment. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘No. That is not enough. Not for me.’ His muscles bunched as he clenched his teeth.

  ‘Be calm, brother.’

  Talos moved forward, immediately restrained by Mercutian and Cyrion, who struggled to hold him back.

  ‘It is not enough, Xarl.’

  ‘Talos…’ Cyrion grunted, seeking to drag the prophet back with both arms.

  Xarl watched with wide eyes, unsure whether to reach for his weapon. Talos still sought to throw his brothers free. Fire danced in his dark eyes.

  ‘It is not enough. We stand in the dust at the end of centuries of useless sin and endless failure. The Legion was poisoned, and we sacrificed an entire world to cleanse it. We failed. We are the sons of the only primarch to hate his own Legion. There, again, we failed. We swore vengeance on the Imperium, yet we run from every battle where we don’t possess overwhelming force over a crippled enemy. We fail, again and again and again. Have you ever fought a battle you’d struggle to win, with no hope of running away? Have any of us? Have you ever, since the Siege of Terra itself, drawn a weapon with the knowledge you might die?’