Night Lords Omnibus

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  As they waited, the archregent watched his city die.

  The enemy lord, the one naming himself Talos, stood by the edge of the observation dome, in constant communication with his brethren across Sanctuary. His voice was a low, feral murmur, updating squads on each others’ positions and mapping their progress. Every few minutes he would fall silent for a time, and simply watch the fires spread.

  One of the other warriors, the one with the bulky heavy bolter slung on his back, activated a handheld hololithic emitter. He altered the scene it displayed each time Talos ordered him to focus upon the pict-feeds from a different squad.

  Abettor Muvo had fallen silent. The archregent had closed his friend’s eyes, choking on the smell rising from the split corpse.

  ‘You get used to it,’ one of the warriors had said with a black laugh.

  The archregent watched the hololithic feed, seeing Sanctuary’s death playing out clearly enough despite the visual distortion. The armoured warriors projected before him, silent in their hololithic incarnation, tore through shelter bulkheads and ripped through the huddled masses within. He watched them drag men, women and children by the hair out into the street, to be skinned and carried away by servitors, or crucified on the side of buildings, to mark that the closest shelter had been raided and cleaned out of all life. He saw the bodies hauled into the skinning pits; great mounds of flayed corpses stacked higher and higher – monuments of raw flesh in honour of nothing more than suffering and pain.

  He saw one of the legionaries catch an infant by the leg and swing it against a building wall. Hunched, clawed warriors with thruster packs on their backs fought over the broken remains, though the image cut to another squad just as the victor began to devour his prize.

  ‘Why?’ he whispered, without realising he’d spoken aloud.

  Talos didn’t turn from watching the city burn. ‘Some of us do it because we enjoy it. Some of us do it simply because we can. Some of us do it because this is our empire, and you do not deserve to live within it, enslaved to a lie.’

  The slaughter didn’t cease when the sun rose. Some primitive, foolish part of the archregent’s hindbrain had hoped against hope that these creatures would vanish with the coming of the light.

  ‘Do you have communication with the other cities?’ Talos asked.

  The archregent gave a weak nod. ‘But it is infrequent at best. The astropaths sometimes manage to communicate with other guild members in the other cities. But even that is rare enough.’

  ‘It is rare because they have no focus. I will deal with that. We have Mechanicum adepts among our crew – they will make planetfall and attend to your flawed equipment. We will then broadcast these images to the other cities, as a sign of what comes for them.’

  The archregent’s mouth was dry. ‘You will give them time to organise resistance?’ There was no hiding the hope in his voice.

  ‘Nothing on this world is capable of resisting us,’ answered Talos. ‘They are free to prepare however they wish.’

  ‘What is the Mechanicum?’

  ‘You would know it by their slave-name: the Adeptus Mechanicus.’ Talos fairly spat the cult’s Imperial title. ‘Cy?’

  Cyrion walked over, his eyes never leaving the burning city. He hungered to be down there – they all did – and it showed in the movement of every muscle.

  ‘You are enjoying this,’ he said, seeing no need to make it a question.

  Talos’s nod was subtle enough to almost go unseen. ‘It reminds me of the days before the Great Betrayal.’

  And that was true enough. In that age, in the farthest, shadowed reaches of the Emperor’s Light, the Eighth Legion had slaughtered whole cities to ‘inspire’ the other settlements across a given world into obedience of Imperial Law. ‘Peace through justice,’ Talos said. ‘And justice through fear of punishment.’

  ‘Aye. It reminds me of the same. But most of our brothers down there are doing it for the thrill of the hunt, and the pleasure of slaughtering terrified mortals. Remember that, before you graft a false layer of high ideals over what we do here.’

  ‘I am no longer so deluded,’ Talos admitted. ‘I know what we are. But they do not need to share my ideals for my plan to work.’

  ‘Will this work?’ Cyrion asked. ‘We are on the wrong side of the Imperium’s border. They may never know what we do here.’

  ‘They will know,’ said Talos. ‘Trust me, they will hear this, and come running.’

  ‘Then my advice is this: we should not be here when they arrive. We are down to four Claws, brother. After this, we have to return to the Eye, and link up with whatever Legion forces we can ally with there.’

  Talos nodded again, but said nothing.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Cyrion asked.

  ‘Just get me the astropaths.’

  They numbered one hundred and thirty-eight in total. The astropaths marched in as a disorderly pack, dressed in the same ragged clothing so typical of Sanctuary’s citizens and the detritus caste of humanity found on frontier worlds across the Imperium’s edges.

  Yuris of the newly-organised Second Claw led them in. Blood marked his armour in dry splotches.

  ‘There was a struggle,’ he admitted. ‘We tore our way into their guild shelter, and seven of them died. The rest of them came without a fight.’

  ‘A ragged conclave,’ Talos noted, walking around the prisoners. An equal mix of men and women; most of them were filthy. Several were children. Most interesting of all, none of them were blind.

  ‘They still have their eyes,’ Yuris said, noting Talos’s stare. ‘Will they still be of use to us if they’ve not been soul-bound to the False Emperor’s Throne?’

  ‘I believe so. They are not a true choir, and enslavement to the Golden Throne has not refined their power. In truth, they are barely worthy of the name astropaths. These are closer to telepaths, dabblers, witches and wyrds. But I can still make their powers work as we require.’

  ‘We will return to the city,’ Yuris said.

  ‘As you will. My thanks, brother.’

  ‘Good fortune, Talos. Ave dominus nox.’

  Second Claw left the chamber in a loose pack, no more organised than the prisoners they’d brought in.

  Talos faced the wretches, his targeting reticule flicking from face to face.

  ‘Who leads you?’ he asked. One woman stepped forward, her ragged robe seeming no different to any of the others.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘My name is Talos of the Eighth Legion.’

  Confusion momentarily shone through the dullness of her eyes. ‘What is the Eighth Legion?’

  Talos’s black eyes burned. He inclined his head, as if she had somehow proved a point.

  ‘I am in no frame of mind to provide a lesson in history and myth,’ he said, ‘so let us simply say that I am one of the original architects of the Imperium. I hold to its founding ideal: that the species must know peace through obedience. I aim to bring the Imperium back into these skies. A lesson was once learned on this world. I find an amusing poetry in using this world to teach a lesson in return.’

  ‘What lesson?’ she asked. Unlike many of the others, she showed little overt fear. On the cusp of middle-age, she was likely at the height of her powers, not yet bled dry by them. Perhaps that was why she led them all. Talos didn’t care, either way.

  ‘Seal the doors,’ he voxed to First Claw. Uzas, Cyrion, Mercutian and Variel moved to guard the chamber’s two exits, their weapons clutched in loose fists.

  ‘Do you know of the warp?’ he asked the leader.

  ‘We have stories, and the city’s archives.’

  ‘Allow me to guess. To you, the warp is the afterlife; a sunless underworld where those disloyal to the Emperor are punished for their faithless ways.’

  ‘This is what we believe. All the archives state–’

  ‘I do not care how you have misinterpreted your records. You are the strongest of your guild, are you not?’

  ‘I a
m.’

  ‘Good.’

  Her head burst in a rupture of blood and bone. Talos lowered his bolter.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said. ‘All of you.’

  They didn’t obey. The children drew close to their parents, and panicked murmurs broke out, as did intermittent weeping. The guild mistress’s body hit the decking with a bony clang.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Talos repeated. ‘Commune with your power in whatever way works best. Reach out now, and feel for the soul of your dead leader. All who can hear her spirit still shrieking in the air around us, step forward.’

  Three of them stepped forward, their eyes uncertain, their limbs quivering.

  ‘Only three?’ Talos asked. ‘How very disappointing. I would hate to have to start shooting again.’

  Another dozen stepped forward. Another handful followed.

  ‘That is better. Tell me when she falls silent.’

  He waited in silence, watching the faces of those who claimed to hear their dead mistress. One woman in particular winced and cringed as if suffering tics. When all others claimed to hear her no longer, she only relaxed a full minute afterwards.

  ‘Now she is gone,’ she said, scratching her thin, lank hair. ‘Thank the Throne.’

  Talos drew his gladius, tossing it and catching it three times. As it smacked into his palm on the last catch, he turned and hurled it across the chamber. One of the men who’d stepped forward sank to the deck, gasping soundlessly, his eyes wide and his mouth working like a fish deprived of air. The sword impaling through his chest made a gentle, tinny sound as it tapped on the deck with each spasm.

  At last, he lay still.

  ‘He was lying,’ Talos told the rest. ‘I saw it in his eyes. He could not hear her, and I do not like being lied to.’

  The air around the crowded guilders was charged now, alive with overlapping tiers of ripe tension.

  ‘The warp is nothing so mundane. Beneath what we see of the universe is a layer we do not. Through this unseen Sea of Souls, an infinity of daemons swim. They are, even now, digesting the spirits of your murdered kin. The warp is not sentient, neither is it malicious. It simply is, and it responds to human emotion. Most of all, it responds to suffering, to fear, to hatred, for in such moments humanity is at its strongest and most honest. Suffering colours the warp, and the suffering of psychic souls is like a beacon. Your Emperor uses that suffering as fuel for his Golden Throne, to project the Astronomican.’

  Talos could see few of them followed his words. Ignorance stunted their intellects, and fear blinded them to the nuance of his explanation. This, too, he found grimly amusing, as his red eye lenses drifted from face to face.

  ‘I will use your suffering to breed a beacon of my own. The slaughter and torture of this city’s people is merely the beginning. You can already feel the pain and death pressing against your minds. I know you can. Do not resist it. Let it saturate you. Listen to the screaming of souls as they dissolve from this realm into the next. Let their torment ripen within you. Carry it with you as an honour, for together you will become an instrument no different from your beloved, distant Emperor. You, like he, will become beacons in the endless night, bred from agony.

  ‘To do that, I will break each one of you. Slowly, so very slowly, so that madness breeds within the pain. I will take you up into our warship, and over the course of the coming weeks, I will have you crippled, flayed, excoriated and excruciated. I will consign your ruined, pained forms – kept alive by our expert grace – to prison-laboratories where your only company will be the skinned carcasses of your children, your parents, and the corpses of others from your dead world.

  ‘With the pain I give you, with your prolonged agonies, I will choke the warp at the Imperium’s edge. Fleets will come to investigate, fearing nearby worlds may succumb to daemonic intrusion. Mankind’s empire will ignore Tsagualsa no longer, and will learn an old lesson. It is not enough to force criminals and sinners into exile. You must make an example of them, and crush them utterly. Leniency, mercy, trust – these are weaknesses that the Imperium must pay for. The Imperium should have destroyed us here when it had the chance. Let them learn that once more.

  ‘Your lives are over, but in death you will achieve something almost divine. You have prayed for so long to leave this world. Be pleased, for I am granting you that wish.’

  As he fell silent, he watched the dawn of horrified disbelief on their faces. They could scarcely imagine what he was saying, but no matter. They’d understand soon enough.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ came a voice from behind.

  Talos turned to face the archregent. ‘No? Why should I not?’

  ‘It… I…’ the old man trailed off.

  ‘Strange.’ Talos shook his head. ‘Your kind never has an answer to that question.’

  XVI

  SCREAMING

  Septimus made his way through the dark corridors without any obvious effort. His pistols were holstered at his thighs, and his repaired facial bionics no longer clicked each time he blinked, smiled, or spoke. He could see clearly enough with his augmetic eye piercing the gloom, and a photo-contact lens over the iris of the other – yet another perk of being one of the more valuable slaves on board.

  His hands ached though, right to the knuckles. Nine hours of armour maintenance would do that. In the three weeks since Talos had returned from Tsagualsa, he’d managed to repair most of the damage to First Claw’s armour. A treasure trove of salvage and spare parts from the Genesis Space Marines and slain Night Lords left the artificer spoiled for choice. Trading with artificers who served the other claws had never been easier, nor as fruitful.

  An hour ago, Iruk, one of Second Claw’s slaves, had spat something brown between his blackening teeth while they’d traded for torso cabling.

  ‘The warband’s dying, Septimus. You feel that? That’s the wind of change, boy.’

  Septimus had tried to avoid the conversation, but Iruk wouldn’t be swayed. Second Claw’s arming chamber was on the same deck as First Claw’s, and just as chaotic with all the junked armour and weapon parts lying everywhere.

  ‘They’re still following Talos,’ Septimus said at last, looking for a way out of the discussion.

  Iruk had spat again. ‘Your master makes them crazy. You should hear Lord Yuris and the others speak about him. Lord Talos is… They know he’s not a leader, but they follow him. They know he’s losing his mind, but they listen to every word he speaks. They say the same things about him and the primarch: broken, flawed, but… inspiring. Makes them think of a better time.’

  ‘My thanks for the trading,’ said Septimus. ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you do.’

  He didn’t like the amused glint in Iruk’s eye. ‘You have something to say?’

  ‘Nothing that needs speaking out loud.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to your work,’ Septimus said. ‘I’m sure you have as much to do as I have.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Iruk replied. ‘But my “work” doesn’t involve stroking that three-eyed witch’s pale arse.’

  Septimus made eye contact for the first time in several minutes. The kit bag full of spare parts slung over his shoulder suddenly felt heavier – as weighty as a weapon.

  ‘She isn’t a witch.’

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Iruk smiled, showing several missing teeth among the darkened ones remaining. ‘Navigator spit is supposed to be poisonous, they say. Must be a lie though, eh? You’re still breathing.’

  He turned from Second Claw’s crew, moving away and hitting the door release.

  ‘Don’t take it so hard, boy. She’s lovely to look at, for a mutant. Has your master allowed you to start sniffing around her heels again?’

  He genuinely considered braining Iruk with the sack and drawing his pistols to shoot the older man on the floor. Worse, it felt like the easiest, most satisfying answer to the man’s idiotic barbs.

  With teeth clenched, he walked from the chamber, wonde
ring at what point in his life murdering someone became the easiest solution to a moment’s discomfort.

  ‘I’ve been with the Legion too long,’ he’d said to the darkness.

  An hour later, with servitors left to deal with the final work on Lord Mercutian’s chestplate, Septimus was drawing close to what Octavia unsmilingly called her ‘suite’ of chambers. He could hear screaming from some directionless distance. The Echo of Damnation was named well: its halls and decks rang with faint screams, generated from mortal mouths elsewhere on the ship and carried wherever the Echo’s steel bones and cold air willed.

  He shivered at the sound, still not used to its infrequent rise from nowhere. He had no desire to be illuminated on whatever the Legion was doing to those astropaths, or what they were inflicting on the countless other people brought up from the cities.

  Rats, or things like them that he felt no need to examine closer, scampered off ahead of him through the darkness, skittering into side passages and maintenance ducts.

  ‘You again,’ said a voice ahead, by the main bulkhead leading into Octavia’s chambers.

  ‘Vularai,’ Septimus greeted her. ‘Herac, Lylaras,’ he greeted the other two figures. All three were wrapped in filthy bandaging, clutching weapons. Vularai held her Legion gladius resting on one cloaked shoulder.

  ‘Not supposed to come anymore,’ the shortest of the figures hissed.

  ‘And yet, Herac, here I am. Move aside.’

  Octavia slept in her throne, curled up in the huge seat and blanketed against the chill. She awoke at the sound of bootsteps approaching, instinctively reaching to check her bandana hadn’t slipped.

  It had. She adjusted it quickly.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said to her visitor.

  Septimus didn’t answer at once. He looked at her, seeing the bandana over her third eye; seeing her reclining in a throne made for its mistress to use in sailing the Sea of Souls. Her clothes were filthy, her pale skin unwashed, and she’d aged a year for every month she’d been on board the Echo and the Covenant before it. The dark rings of sleep debt decorated her eyes, and her hair – once a cascade of black silk – was bound back in a straggly and frayed rat’s tail.