Konrad Curze the Night Haunter

by Guy Haley

  That was exactly how Skraivok believed it should be. Honesty was overrated.

  The sunless world lived up to its name. Blackness outside turned the window into a huge mirror. Ghostly reflections distorted by the curve mocked the gathering. Beyond this court of phantoms, thick black clouds boiled over everything, the oppressiveness of Nostramo’s meteorology unobscured there at the very fringe of the city, where no buildings rose to block out the night. Electric glow shone from hundreds of towers along the coast, more from the greater spires set back from the water, and by the shore the clouds’ undersides shone with colourful light pollution, transforming them into a roiling lid for a world of gold, steel, and bronze. Further out, away over the rising chop of the black waves, the clouds ran free of human influence, and there they were blacker than the void – blackest at the horizon, where a sable band sutured sea and sky indivisibly together.

  Skraivok occupied the speaker’s podium where, since before compliance, the leader of the house had led the planetary lords in debate. A number of those planetary lords were present in the Sphericum now; a good many more had the sense to be elsewhere, watching closely from their estates or from safety off-world. Only three of the highest nine were in attendance, sweating in their ornate thrones in the mostly empty row in front of the podium. None of them mattered to Skraivok. All of them were too weak to make a difference, high or low, present or not.

  It was nearly time. The last of the true lords of Nostramo sauntered in, pointedly late. Judging the assembly complete, Skraivok tapped at the voxmitter mounted on the podium. An ear-splitting feedback squeal silenced the crowd.

  ‘Good ladies and gentlemen of Nostramo,’ Skraivok said, his voice booming round the room, reflected back onto his audience by the world’s dishonest history.

  The less composed of the audience laughed at that. They knew what they were.

  ‘I have brought you here today to tell you that the governor’s rule is at an end,’ said Skraivok. ‘Balthius has been encouraged to step down, and after something of an argument, he agreed. I think in his heart he saw I was correct. He did not put up much of a fight.’

  More laughter. The three members of the Council of Nine who attended watched grim-faced. Only one had any guts, Tothriar Gillaneish. His knuckles went white on the dark wood of his throne, and he half rose. He shook, not like the other pair who quaked in fear, but in fury.

  ‘This is illegal,’ Gillaneish said.

  That really set the crowd going.

  Gillaneish was not done. He stood slowly, very slowly, as if his anger weighed him down. He glared right into Skraivok’s face.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ he shouted over catcalls and laughter. ‘You turn your back on the primarch’s works. You turn your back on the Imperium!’

  ‘That is kind of the idea,’ said Skraivok, again to great approval. He allowed his fellows to vent their mirth for a few moments, then quieted them with four strikes from the governor’s gavel, an orb of black basalt quarried from the darkest point on the planet. ‘Quiet now,’ he said. ‘You have it wrong, councilman,’ Skraivok said. ‘We are not seceding from the Imperium. Why would we do that? Rebellion invites destruction!’ he said. ‘And why would we let ourselves be vulnerable in the lonely dark of this violent galaxy? The Imperium offers protection!’

  A lone gang lord, unused to refined company, barked out a cackle, causing the more sophisticated to scowl at him, and their guards to finger their weapons.

  Gillaneish shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You will bring disaster on us all.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I mean it. Compliance has brought many benefits to us, not least the opportunity to make plenty of money.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t want to leave this world vulnerable to attack, whether from xenos or Terran retribution fleets. That’s not what this assembly is about.’

  ‘What you have done is outright rebellion,’ said Gillaneish.

  ‘You’re incorrect there again, my lord. This isn’t rebellion,’ said Skraivok, wagging his finger. He stepped down from the podium, taking the orb of stone with him. ‘Compliance allows us to follow whichever system of governance our society deems fit. Civil wars have been fought and lost under the Imperium’s nose since the crusade began. The Emperor doesn’t give a damn, my friend, provided He gets His due in blood and adamantium, and I intend to ensure He does. This will be a smooth transition of power.’

  ‘What about the primarch? He will find out.’

  ‘Not until it is too late, and he won’t care anyway.’ Skraivok began tossing the basalt ball into the air and catching it. ‘The astropathic temple has been seized. Temporarily. We are already undergoing negotiations with all Imperial Adepta. This is an internal matter. Our tithes will be paid in full. The only difference here is who will be getting rich off it. You milk-blooded lordlings, you have no idea how to rule this world. None of you came from the old families. You’re all new.’ He wafted his hand in front of Gillaneish’s chest. ‘The smell of weakness still clings to you four generations on.’

  ‘Our ancestors were chosen for their ability,’ said Gillaneish, turning on the spot to follow Skraivok as he paced around him.

  ‘They were chosen because they were easy to control,’ said Skraivok dismissively. ‘The real rulers of this world are here, in this room.’ He extended a finger around the stone ball and pointed at the people filling the chamber. ‘The Night Haunter spent so much time beating us down, but we never went away. We were there, in the shadows, plying our trades, biding our time.’ He shrugged. ‘Now our time has come again.’

  Gillaneish watched with watery, yellowing eyes. His entrenched morality extended to refusing anti-agapic treatments. He wasn’t so many years older than Skraivok, but looked like his grandfather. ‘You don’t understand what you’re throwing away. The people–’

  ‘The people!’ Skraivok pinched his nose wearily. ‘Konrad Curze doesn’t remember the people. He doesn’t remember us either. We’re throwing nothing away but bureaucratic chains. We’ll obey Imperial writ, but we’re doing things our way again. It is time for the grand families to rise and reclaim their birthright.’

  ‘The Night Haunter will not allow this!’ said Gillaneish. ‘When he discovers what you have done, you will be punished. The Night Haunter sees all, punishes all!’

  ‘You’re wrong, old man. He’s already failed. Once he went, the fear went. Without that there was nothing to keep anarchy in check. Do you think you have done a good job, up here in your tower? You and your kind have presided over the collapse of order, hiding in these palaces, while the gangs came back. Have you been on the streets recently? The primarch cares for nothing and nobody. If he did, he would have left some of his warriors here to keep things in line. Whatever good he ever did this place is already gone. He’s taken all the best this planet has to offer, leaving us with the dregs. What way is that to build the Emperor’s paradise?’

  ‘The Great Crusade demands sacrifices,’ said Gillaneish.

  The crowd hooted derisively.

  ‘The Great Crusade!’ scoffed Skraivok. ‘The Great Crusade bleeds us. What do we get in return? A slow slide into anarchy.’

  ‘We were addressing the fall in standards. More prisons, more–’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ Skraivok interrupted. ‘You don’t understand this world, people like you. Do you think this is some sudden change? No! This has been happening for a long time.’ Skraivok grinned. His neck muscles bulged, forcing aside the collar of his shirt so that his gang tattoos poked out. He stepped closer to Gillaneish, getting into his personal space, their faces close enough to touch. ‘We need to take control. We need to be strong. I’ll not watch my family sink into poverty while open war between the cartels destroys the world. Anarchy is the natural state of Nostramo, but it need not be destructive. The Night Haunter only halted the normal run of business temporarily. Where is he now? Where?’

  Gillaneish stared at him in pure hatred.

  ‘Don’t stare at me like that. Look around
you, Lord Gillaneish. All these people here lost ancestors to the Night Haunter. They were scared, I’m sure they’ll all admit it. See? I was scared. I am not ashamed to say that I was terrified of that monster, though I was born years after he left. That’s what he relies on. Other worlds get enlightenment, and refined leaders. Not us, and do you know why, Gillaneish?’ Skraivok poked the lord hard in his chest. ‘It’s because we don’t deserve it. We made this place, and it made us. The Night Haunter, what was he? An intrusion from the outside. Someone else’s dream turned nightmare. No longer. We’ll stay part of the Imperium, but fear is done. Fear is rule of the weak, we in this chamber are the strong!’ He stepped back and held aloft his arms, encouraging cheers from the rest. ‘Anarchy stops. You worthless politicians have had your time. Without Curze, you’re nothing. We’ll carve it up, all of it, between us, the rightful lords and ladies of the sunless world. We’ll restore things to the way they should be, not the rule of fear, but the rule of might. It isn’t perfect, it is not good, but it is who we are. We deny Nostramo’s nature no longer. You cannot rule a planet through fear when there is nothing to be frightened of.’

  Skraivok gestured behind him. Veyshan Tul stepped up with a fat document. Skraivok took it in his open hand, and pushed it at Gillaneish.

  ‘This is the new constitution,’ he said. ‘You lords here will sign it. The governor’s days are done. From now on, Nostramo will be ruled for the benefit of the families who made it what it is. In the Emperor’s name, of course. A council of nine family heads to replace the nine sinecurists imposed by Curze, supported by a parliament of cartels.’

  ‘It’ll never work, violence is all you people understand.’

  ‘Violence?’ said Skraivok. ‘Do you think that’s what we want? War between families? It’s wasteful. We just want to make money. Sign it.’

  Gillaneish’s eyes flicked down. The new constitution was written in fine handwriting on creamy paper soft as water; Nostramo’s violent nature distilled into beauty. It was a planet of poets and killers with precious little between.

  ‘No,’ Gillaneish said.

  ‘Is the wrong answer,’ said Skraivok. ‘I want the record to reflect Lord Gillaneish refused to sign the papers, and was called to order.’ He tossed the stone gavel one more time in his hand, and with sudden and shocking violence slammed it into Gillaneish’s temple.

  The old man fell into a half crouch, eyes rolling, a mouth that could no longer speak moaning open. A round indentation in his head beckoned the sphere to nestle in it.

  The ball accepted the invitation. Blood oozed up through split skin at the second strike. The third blow shattered his skull, and Gillaneish dropped to the ground.

  ‘This could have been so easy,’ said Skraivok to the dead lord. He flicked blood off the paper. Spots lengthened into streaks and dripped to the floor, bringing out a grimace of annoyance from the aristocrat. He rounded on the other two Lords of the Nine, the constitution held out before him in accusation, placing blame for Gillaneish’s death on their intransigence. There was punishment in his eyes of the most final kind.

  ‘You two will sign it.’

  ‘But… but… we’re not quorate,’ stammered one.

  ‘Sign the damn paper,’ said Skraivok. ‘Or I’ll bring you to order too.’ He hefted the gavel. Slimy with blood, it slid in his fingers, threatening to escape and kill again.

  The two Lords of the Nine took the document, and signed with trembling hands.

  The embarkation deck of the Umber Prince heaved with activity. The largest hangar upon the cruiser possessed enough space to house dozens of ships. It was dark as the Night Lords preferred it, lumens dimmed so low the multitudes of serfs working there needed lamp packs to see. Upon the faces of their overseers and the deck officers, vision enhancement goggles glowed fuzzy green.

  If sight was starved, hearing was overwhelmed. The clangour of resupply made confusion of all sound. At a frantic pace the fleet repaired, refitted and restocked before their scheduled redeployment from Toza IV to the outward rim. Shuttles bellowed in to noisy landing. Ship impellers thrummed the grav-plating of the deck, the two opposing sources of artificial gravity setting up complex, competing waves that forced miniature tides in the fluids of the body. Those fresh to the workforce lost their balance and moved woozily under the influence.

  Cranes clanked and whined on rails, taking full cargo containers deep into the ship’s holds, and bringing empties out. Deck vehicles shrilled warning beeps, their dim, rotating lumens colouring all they passed a midwinter blue. Ground crews crowded passenger trucks, heaped cargoes secured by wide-meshed nets filled flatbed trailers. Men shouted through voxmitters to be heard. Orders blasted from speakers, their words incomprehensible, only adding to the volume of noise.

  There was not an object that did not in some way speak. They rumbled, roared, squeaked, shouted, whined, beeped, whistled, ground, growled and sang in a cacophony of machine voices.

  Among the bustle of lesser men sweating out their lives for the benefit of the Emperor’s war machine, one person awaited a delivery of special importance. He was Gendor Skraivok, called the Painted Count, Claw-Master of the 45th Company, and lord of the Umber Prince. Gendor Skraivok found the racket profoundly irritating, but was bareheaded nonetheless, standing in the shadows for there was nowhere else to stand. The twin black streaks that gave him his name cut slashes of dark over his eyes, so that he appeared to be some revenant roused from the pits of a heathen afterlife, come to glower at the noise.

  Despite his stern demeanour, Skraivok was eager, infused with energy, in marked contrast to the dour warrior who stood guard at his back.

  ‘This is a momentous day, Kellendvar, ripe with possibility.’ He sniffed deeply of the air. ‘I can smell the future! Opportunity approaches with its arms wide.’

  The company headsman shifted his hands on the counterweight of his upended giant chainaxe.

  Skraivok was a garrulous, self-congratulatory man, and not dissuaded by his headsman’s silence.

  ‘In the holds of the approaching vessel you see there is our Legion’s future. Its potential. The true face of the Eighth!’

  The Painted Count nodded to the void past the atmospheric retention field shining across the hangar slot, where a flat, dull transporter sailed between a thousand other vessels. Outside the Umber Prince the activity was every bit as frantic as within. Lines of lighters and cargo haulers filed up from the planet turning sleepily under the ships’ keels, splitting into a complex, dizzying braid of flightpaths that fed every warship and tender. More twists of light and steel descended, looping through and around the ascending vessels. Emptied of weapons, food, water, fuel and men, they returned to single files when past the pickets of the fleet, and flew back down to port to do it all again.

  But it was to that one ship alone that Gendor Skraivok referred, and he watched it with a joyful light in his eyes.

  ‘I have received this month notice from our home world that there has been a change of regime,’ said Skraivok. ‘From a relative of mine, actually, a cousin of third or fourth or who cares what degree.’ He waved his armoured hand dismissively, the growl of his armour joints vanishing into the echoing, noisy hangar. ‘Does it surprise you, Kellendvar, that I have contacts upon Nostramo?’

  Kellendvar didn’t care, and didn’t reply.

  ‘We Nostramans are creatures of gang and family,’ Skraivok continued. ‘I remember my people, royalty among underhive scum, and my obligations, though my memories are faint.’ He paused a moment as a thought occurred. ‘Do you think it is intentional, Kellendvar? Do they rob us of our past to make us more pliable to their rule? By them, I mean our overlords and masters from Terra. All praise be heaped upon them,’ he added with great sarcasm. ‘Why should I not remember who I am, and where I am from? The Legion is all, but it is not everything. A man cannot fight for an ideal alone. He must be motivated. Obedience to an ideal is a fine thing, but it does not guarantee commitment. Throughout history, men ha
ve fought for their families, to ensure the continuation of their line and their nation. To gather resources, to protect their loved ones, to further the goals of their tribe. Men rarely, if ever fought solely for someone else’s ideal.’ The last was delivered acidly, bleaching the cheer from the Painted Count’s voice.

  Kellendvar shifted. He was bored by Skraivok’s babbling. ‘Does it matter, Gendor?’

  ‘Matter? Does anything matter, really, Kellendvar?’ said Skraivok airily, managing to recapture only a portion of his earlier good spirits. ‘I can think of only one thing that does, and that is power. To deprive a man of who he was is a violation. Violation is the ultimate expression of power, as any poor waif on the streets of Nostramo comes to learn. As legionaries we are mighty, but we are not powerful. We live to serve. We have no choice how we apply our might. As every good gang understands, there is only so much power one man can wield. To take on too much is to risk failure. As the Imperium grows, this truth becomes ever more apparent. Power must be shared, Kellendvar, power must be devolved. Our culture recognises that. The Imperium does not. It is time to add our experience to the greater sum of Imperial knowledge, and hasten the progress of this Great Crusade towards a more realistic end – the establishment of the rule of the strong.’

  ‘What has this to do with that ship?’ asked Kellendvar, drawn in despite himself, if only to hurry Skraivok on to a conclusion.

  Skraivok grinned. ‘The ship,’ he said. The vessel was nearing the hangar now, the seams of its hull plates visible, running lights throwing flashes of colour into the Umber Prince’s stygian heart. ‘Ours is a Legion of terror. We were made to be the monsters no one else could be, and we have embraced our purpose. Who better to perform the role of terrorists than men lacking mercy? That is the nature of the communication from home. Of course, it is for my ears only, higher command need not hear of it – should not, in fact. This is our little secret. Who knows how Curze would react?’ One eye disappeared completely into his tattoo as he winked, the lid being darkly inked too. ‘The new regime deems it wasteful to send the best of Nostramo to the Legion. Our world cries out for good, strong men. Sending the most intelligent, the strongest, to be turned into tools of fear is an abomination. The activities of certain of the recruitment guilds have been adopted by all. The prisons will be emptied to fill the belly of our Legion.’