by Guy Haley
Some energy fled him along with the words. He turned from his sons then. Elver unwittingly caught his gaze, and, perhaps due to Elver’s hidden gift, a flash of understanding passed between them. Elver drank in knowledge unfiltered, comprehending suddenly and completely that Curze only half-believed what he said.
‘You… you fear you are wrong,’ whispered Elver. He couldn’t help himself. He knew the moment he said it, he was doomed.
Curze’s body language became dangerous, prompting a question from one of his men.
‘What of him, my lord? What of your slave?’
Curze held Elver’s eye. Black, pointed teeth showed between Curze’s parted lips.
‘I am done with him, Captain Vandred. Dispose of him as you wish.’
Dozens of pairs of slanted ruby eyes shone their malevolence upon Elver.
‘My lord!’ Elver cried.
An armoured hand reached for him.
ELEVEN
THE CURSE OF FORESIGHT
‘The warriors that came to Tsagualsa were debased. The best of them were deluded, the worst simply murderous fiends,’ said Curze into the cold darkness of the tower room. ‘I do not know when my Legion began its fall from grace, only that by the time I noticed, it was too late.’ He scratched under ribs made prominent by inconstant eating habits. A gobbet of human flesh, dried hard upon his skin, fell away. ‘In my own defence, I will say I do find it exceedingly hard to concentrate upon the present when the future is a constant, unwelcome guest. How was I supposed to pay attention to the evils of Nostramo when my days filled, drip by poisonous drip, with the torments of the future? You failed again, father, in giving me the power of foresight. Justice is an absolute, and thanks to you I knew very early in my life that I would fall far short of its standards, and become a perpetrator of crimes that deserved no other punishment than death.’ He laughed insipidly. ‘Can you imagine? To be made to perform a certain function, and in performing it, discover that you yourself are inimical to that function, seeing every day your death at the command of your own father as punishment?’ His voice rose. ‘Punishment for no more than following the path laid out for you by that father? You made me as an arbitrator of justice. You also made me a monster. Reconciliation of the two is impossible. Is it any wonder at all that I am insane?’ he hissed through sharpened teeth, his words cold with hate. ‘None of this is my fault. All of it is yours. The blood of billions of innocents is on your hands, not mine.’
He became morose, and adopted a wheedling tone. ‘Why did you make me? Why did I have to do it? All the blood, the death, the torture… Those things I can understand, but one act I performed, though righteous, haunts me yet. It should not,’ he said angrily. ‘No, no.’ He shook his head, arguing quietly with himself. ‘It does not. It had to be done. We were right, you and I. It could not have been any different.’ His head twitched, and he rocked upon his haunches.
‘I am speaking, of course, of the burning of Nostramo.’
‘Play it again.’ Soft menace carried Curze’s words across the assembled captains of the Legion. All Talon and Claw-Masters in the fleet were there, no exceptions permitted.
‘As you command, my lord.’ Captain Shang, equerry to the primarch, could not meet his gene-father’s eyes. None of them could. They watched the footage grimly, many of them ashamed by what they saw.
Many, but not all.
Sevatar, stationed at the right hand of the primarch, watched his brothers’ discomfort with great interest, and those who exhibited no shame with more. The captains crowded the strategium closely. A good proportion of them had come armoured, and the combined hum of their power plants played at irritating levels.
‘Can you not increase the resolution of this imagery?’ asked Malcharion of the Tenth.
The menial communications officer manning the projection equipment shook his head. Shang, who was in charge of the serfs serving the gathering, spoke for him.
‘It was captured by a simple augur lens, deep below decks. There is little light for it to see by, and it is primitive.’ He was tense. Too many eyes were on him. ‘As I have said before.’
‘There’s enough for us to see what is happening,’ said Var Jahan, Lord Regent of the Twenty-Seventh Talon, sharply.
‘Can we be quiet? I am trying to think this through,’ said Cel Harec. As one of the Kyroptera, his words should have carried weight, but many of his fellows smirked and aped his manner, to his fury.
Sevatar marked all these interactions well. There were certainly captains in that room who were complicit in these crimes, and maybe some who were responsible for them. The Legion was changing for the worse. Curze was paying insufficient attention to his war machine.
The angle of the image was high and distorted by the wide angle lens. Menials hurried past, swelling as they approached, then diminishing to near-human shape, before bloating again, seeming to curve around and walk on up a parabolic floor. The corridor was empty of movement for a few moments, until another figure emerged. Retinal shine revealed him, his dark-adapted eyes bobbing towards the camera like will-o’-the-wisps. Only when he was halfway across the field of view did he resolve into a legionary, stripped to the waist, his pale skin shockingly white in the dark. In his hand he wielded a broad, flat-headed skinning knife. He moved off stealthily, tracking the menials into the darkness.
‘Who is it?’ asked Zso Sahaal.
‘We have no identification as yet,’ said Shang, too quickly, exposing his nervousness at the warrior’s actions. He felt responsible, and he was acting as if he were responsible, to the relief of the others. It took the pressure of the primarch’s attention from them. Sevatar ignored him, and continued to watch the crowd.
‘But it is imagery from Malithos’ ship,’ Sahaal lifted a hand in Kuln’s direction without looking at him, his eyes instead imploring the primarch to action. ‘Surely he must know.’
‘There are no bio-augurs of sufficient accuracy installed on those decks to discern who it was,’ said Malithos Kuln.
‘Then you must recognise the perpetrator!’
‘Can you recognise him?’ Kuln growled. ‘He is a shape in the dark.’
Sevatar observed in silence.
The angle of the footage changed. A new view was brought onto the hololithic display. Though from a two-dimensional image, the machinery allowed everyone present to see it as if looking directly at it. Curze was relentless. This was the fourth time they had viewed the vid, but even so the shock of what happened next could not be lessened by repetition.
The ghostly warrior crept with gathering speed after the two menials. His knives flashed, slipping under clothing and skin, lifting both high into tented peaks from under which ventured trickles then floods of blood. The first menial thrashed and clawed at his back. His companion spun around, saw what attacked them, and ran. The warrior cast the first victim down and ran to catch the second. He was cornered under the gaze of a third augur lens, and there he died slowly.
‘There are customs among some Claws of hunting in the lower decks,’ said Krieg Acerbus, the savage giant. He shrugged. ‘It has always been so. It is the mark of a warrior to hone his skill through stalking live prey.’
‘Only to cull the deck gangs who terrorise the menials between shifts. Only to punish the guilty. These were officers,’ said Tovac Tor, the lackhand. ‘They were valuable.’ His bionic hand hitched and clicked as he gestured.
‘They are still of standard human stock, and not to be mourned. What does it matter if the cattle fear the herdsman?’ hissed Krukesh the Pale. A network of dark veins pulsed under his milky skin with each sibiliant word.
‘What do you know of our customs, Terran?’ said Tor. ‘Their subtleties are beyond you. These men were Nostramans. They are our servants, not our enemy.’
‘I know more than you,’ said Krukesh.
‘You speak challengingly to us, pale one. Very well, you may challenge my axe,’ said Acerbus. He hefted his oversized blade, leading some to snigger at him.
‘Could we cease this pointless bickering?’ snapped Terrormaster Thandamell. His high rank curbed the sniping for a moment.
‘This is not an isolated incident. It is happening everywhere,’ said Vyridium Salvadi, Curze’s Lord of the Fleet. His anger accused the others of being at fault. He glowered at many he thought particularly responsible. ‘The problem is growing worse.’
‘Not on my ship,’ Kheron Ophion insisted stubbornly.
‘Not on my ship,’ Halasker of Third Talon impersonated him cruelly. ‘Listen to the Coward, so brave, so noble, so sure of the great moral integrity of his warriors. The great leader and fighter. No ganger he. “Not on my ship!”’ he mocked again.
‘It is true! My men are bringers of justice, not thugs,’ said Ophion. ‘You speak of your own Claws, you have no right to comment on mine.’
‘And how can you be sure of every one of them?’ said Krukesh. ‘The Legion is large, they are killers to a soul – whatever their reasons to slay, they will slay. You cannot know every one of your men, not truly.’
‘I will not believe it,’ said Ophion uncomfortably. ‘Not my men.’
‘Denial does not make it true,’ added Tovac Tor thoughtfully.
‘How can we judge anything of what this shows us?’ said Zho Sahaal. ‘These menials may have erred, or committed a crime. This punishment could be just!’
‘It is not punishment,’ said Curze. ‘It is murder. Murder of valuable Legion assets. Murder for murder’s sake, and that I will not allow.’
The primarch leaned into the projection field, sending dancing motes of light across the image. He peered into the uncertain picture. His superior eyes could find no additional information, and he stood erect, turning his head about. The odour of unwashed skin wafted over his captains. Distracted by the problems growing in his Legion, Curze was becoming increasingly dishevelled.
‘Malithos Kuln, you will find this warrior, and you will bring him to me,’ said Curze. ‘I shall pass judgement on him, so that all know no one may kill without my command.’
‘And what of the others, on other ships?’ said Kuln angrily. ‘I am being scapegoated!’
‘Your anger is a clear sign of your guilt,’ said Krukesh. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘That is my impression.’
‘It is the warrior guilty of the crime I can see here that I will pass sentence on,’ Curze said softly. ‘Unless you would prefer if I took the issue higher up the chain of command?’ He stroked the leather case at his waist holding his cartomancy deck, implying the decision was already made, and Kuln’s head was already severed.
Kuln glowered, but Curze’s return glare silenced him, and his mouth shut with a click.
‘It is the fault of the recruits. We have too many dead, too many holes in our ranks to fill with fresh blood. The procedures of selection and blooding are undermined or done away with,’ said Fal Kata.
‘Then reintroduce them,’ said Curze angrily. ‘Be vigilant, all of you. What we see here is a sign of the poison in the veins of our Legion. If poison reaches the heart, or the head,’ he touched his chest gently, ‘the greater organism dies. Redouble patrols below decks. Remove from authority those you do not trust, replace the sergeants of your new Claws with veterans of proven worth. Have them bring the Emperor’s judgement on those who show the merest sign of disobedience. Make them know fear!’
‘But they cannot know fear,’ objected Kata.
‘They shall!’ snarled Curze. ‘All men know fear, even the Legiones Astartes, and you shall make them! I do not care how it is done, only that you do it! I will not allow this to continue. I will not see our Legion fall to… to…’
Curze groaned. Sevatar glanced up to see the primarch’s eyelids flutter, and take an unsteady step back, signs the First Captain knew only too well. Shang looked up in dismay.
Sevatar stepped forwards in front of his genesire. ‘Clear the room!’ he commanded. ‘This audience is over.’
‘The Kyroptera should remain, to see what we can glean from Lord Curze’s vision,’ said Malithos Kuln.
‘You will all leave,’ said Sevatar. Curze’s visions had been worsening, a fact he deemed wise to keep from his treacherous brethren. ‘You too, Shang,’ said Sevatar to the equerry. Shang’s face set hard at the command.
To underline his words, huge shapes stepped from alcoves by the door, warriors of the Atramentar of the First Talon, armoured in bulky Terminator plate. They raised their weapons to cover the crowd. There were but two of them, but they were threat enough to disperse the meeting. The doors opened, and the captains filed out, arguing loudly with one another.
Curze remained standing until the last had departed. He fell into his chair before Sevatar could reach his side, where he lolled heavily, gripping one armrest, unable to raise his head.
‘My lord…’ Sevatar said.
‘Get out, Sev,’ said Curze weakly.
‘I shall fetch the Apothecaries,’ said Sevatar.
‘No,’ said Curze.
‘But my lord…’
Black hair parted enough to reveal one blazing black eye.
‘Get out!’ Curze snarled.
Sevatar took a second to obey, before departing without bowing or saluting. His Atramentar followed him from the room.
Unobserved, Konrad Curze allowed himself to collapse.
He suffered an hour of muscle-locked pain that took forever to end. When he came round, he was alone, light-headed and plagued with an aggressive sadness. The future bubbled with painful clarity beneath the present. Soon, it would return.
Not for the first time recently, he hid himself in the shadows, and skulked his way to his quarters, unseen, in time for the visions to assail him again.
A world of black sands burned. With murderous hatred, armies of brothers turned upon one another, unleashing the greatest weapons of mankind on their friends and allies.
A series of scenes ran through the primarch’s mind, all dark, all horrifying. Ferrus Manus struck down, Perturabo’s sullen nature pushed to breaking point. Angron’s fury unleashed against his allies. On and on it went, small betrayals, petty rivalries, insignificant hurts, wounded pride, all bent and twisted and thrown upon the fires of hubris where, stoked hotter, and hotter, a conflagration of a scale the galaxy had not witnessed in long aeons tore across the firmament to reduce all the Emperor held dear to ash. Curze howled at the horrors he saw. He raged against the betrayal of all he had fought for. Order and justice were cast down in favour of chaos and lawlessness. Through all the fire and the blood, he saw a shadow dancing, claws red with blood and gore, his face twisted with insane rage and abominable pleasure.
In blood, fire and madness, Konrad Curze saw his own fate.
Curze came round gasping. The whole effort of the crusade struck him as laughable in light of his visions, and so he began to laugh. Fevered thoughts boiled from the depths of his mind. His hands clutched, his fingers ripping up slivers of metal from the deck.
‘I will not,’ he gasped, his body convulsing with laughter he could not stop even while he shouted in horror. ‘I will not become that creature!’
Slowly, painfully, his mind cleared. The spasms of unwanted mirth subsided.
Drained, Curze lifted himself from the ground. The effort to move a mountain would have been less. He looked with dawning disbelief around his chamber. Everything was smashed. The great meeting table was upended and cracked down the middle. The decorations on the pillars of the instrument cloister fringing the room had been ripped free, and the machines it housed smashed beyond repair. On the walls and broken furniture were the deep marks of raking fingers. He smelled blood everywhere. It was then that he looked at his hands and found them slippery red. Some of the blood was his own, the rich, thick smell of primarch vitae spiced with arcane genotech, crusted around his fingertips where he had torn out his nails in his frenzy. But much of it was not. He looked around, his keen eyes piercing the darkest parts of the chamber. A pair of legs poked out from under a fallen dr
ape. The man’s torso was on the other side of the room, his guts spread like a skirt around his waist.
A small sound had Curze whipping around, serpent-fast.
A single one of his sons was watching him from the open door. The smell of him was unmistakeable. Armoured, his sons smelled broadly the same. The same oil, the same lapping powder, the same electric buzz of ozone wisping from their cooling vents. But despite their battleplate’s hermetic seals, Curze could scent the men beneath, all of them tainted with his gene-seed, but individuals still.
‘Shang,’ said Curze.
Armoured or not, Shang smelled weak. The strong features of his heavy jaw and hooked nose lied. A physically imposing body harboured an indecisive soul. Shang did not fully grasp the severity of the VIII’s mission. Relying too much on sentiment, his devotion to justice wavered. He hid a further flaw greater than even that: more than any of his captains, Shang idolised the primarch.
Curze had chosen Shang for that reason. A man with love in his heart could not betray that which he loved. Curze had chosen Shang to exploit this weakness. It was ironic, therefore, that Curze had found reciprocal affection for Shang in his black soul. Dogged, narrow-minded, utterly loyal, Shang was one of the few Night Lords Curze did not hate.
Shang stood a moment, trapped in a moment of indecision between drawing his weapons and speaking. That was Shang to the core, caution leading him always to the cliff edge of uncertainty, whence misplaced courage urged him to rashly leap. He never did. He would jump only once, when grief had him in its claws, and he would die because of it.
Shang reached up and removed his helmet. His scent hissed into the room more strongly with the escaping air.
‘My lord,’ he said. He licked dry lips, eyes flicking about the scene of ruin. ‘They are getting worse. Your visions.’