‘I will ask you this once and once only: Why did you betray our father?’
‘I would ask you something in return, brother,’ Curze answered with a grin, his filed teeth on display. The clawed primarch’s eyes were unhealthily bright, rich with a secret sickness. ‘Why did you not?’
The Lion lowered his blade to end the salute, knightly respects now paid. ‘Our father has charged me to take your head back to Terra.’
‘Our father said nothing, for he hides within his dungeons, collecting the secrets of the universe and sharing them with no one. Lorgar and Magnus have seen everything our father sought to hide, so do not carry a precious little lie as your shield, Lion. You are Dorn’s hound, running here to the Eastern Fringe because he ordered you.’ Curze licked his filed teeth. ‘Come, brother. Let us at least do one another the service of being honest. I know Dorn.’ Here, the Night Lord gave his cadaverous smile again. ‘He sent you to do that which he feared to try himself.’
‘I did not come to duel with words, Konrad. I came to end this crusade.’
The Night Lord shook his head, his pallid face grey in the weak moonlight. His lips were the only colour on his visage, and even they were a bloodless blue. ‘Speak with me, brother. Listen, reply in kind, and then decide if we must continue this war.’
‘You will not sway me with your traitor’s tongue.’
Curze nodded, utterly unsurprised. His vile facade cracked for a moment, revealing the warrior he’d once been – perhaps never pure, never free of torment, but capable of emotion beyond this condescending bitterness. The strain lines of pain faded from his brow, and the serpent’s sneer left his lips. His voice was still raw, still ruined, but now carried an edge of sorrow. ‘I know. So what harm is there in speaking together, this one last time?’
The Lion nodded. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered his sons. ‘I will return soon.’
VIII
THE TWO NIGHT Lords had no need to introduce themselves, for their identities were known throughout the million-strong ranks of the Legiones Astartes. Both wore helms with painted-skull faceplates; both bore armour trophies of oversized skulls and Dark Angel helms hanging from their war plate on bronze chains; and both stood at ease, watching the warriors from the First Legion through red eye lenses. One of them leaned on the haft of a long halberd, a weapon he was renowned for. The other held a bolter at rest, a cloak of black weave draped over one shoulder and down his back.
‘You look familiar,’ the first warrior spoke. He nodded his head towards Alajos. ‘We met at Kruun, did we not?’
Alajos’s voice barely rose above a growl. ‘Aye. We did.’
‘Yes, I recall the moment now.’ The Night Lord chuckled whisper-soft, and mimed a two-handed chop with his halberd. The deactivated chainblade atop the spear’s haft was over a metre long, grinning with its stilled teeth. ‘I’m surprised you survived, Angel. It was careless of me to allow that. How is the face?’
Corswain moved to rest his hand on his brother’s bolter. He spoke over their helm-vox, so the Night Lords wouldn’t hear. ‘Be calm, captain. Don’t let him wound you with childish words.’
Alajos nodded. He spoke as Corswain moved away. ‘It has healed well. Your flawed carving did sting for several minutes afterwards, though.’
‘That’s good news. It is wise of you to wear the helm this time, cousin. The last time I saw your face, most of it was a wet ribbon of flayed flesh stuck to the ground by my feet. My brothers in the First Company enjoy the tale, for it was the first time I’ve ever started to skin an Angel while he was still alive.’
Alajos grunted in reply, his hands fairly twitching with the need to raise his bolter and open fire. ‘I will kill you, Sevatar. On my life, I swear it.’
‘Cousin, cousin, cousin… I outrank you, do I not? That’s First Captain Sevatarto you, little Angel.’
‘Peace,’ Corswain voxed. ‘Peace, brother. Vengeance will come, and be all the sweeter for this moment.’
This time, the cloaked warrior spoke. ‘You. Angel in the fur. Do you know me?’
Corswain turned to them both. He felt the wind pick up, ruffling the white fur cloak around his shoulders. ‘Yes, Sheng. I know you.’
‘The skinned animal you wear as a trophy. I’ve never seen such a thing. What manner of creature is that?’
Corswain grinned. ‘It’s the beast that never dies in my dreams.’
‘Is that some crude Calibanite poetry? We had few poets on our home world, but their works would have made you weep. Our tongue lends itself to melodic prose very gracefully.’
‘Nath sihll shah, vor’vorran kalshiel,’Corswain said, in fluent Nostraman. Sheng and Sevatar shared another laugh.
‘Your accent is brutal,’ Sevatar admitted, ‘but that was nicely done. It will be a shame to kill you both when the time comes. You have my oath here, on VIII Legion soil, that we will make trophies from your helms. You deserve nothing less.’
‘How comforting,’ Corswain chuckled with them. ‘I have a question of my own.’
Sevatar performed a mocking little bow. ‘We are at your service, cousins.’
‘Your gauntlets,’ Corswain said, and left it at that.
Sevatar held up his free hand, as he continued to lean on the halberd with the other. The gauntlet was at odds with his midnight armour – where the war plate was deep, dark blue and marked by streaks of lightning, his gauntlets were painted arterial red.
‘A mark of shame in our Legion,’ the Night Lord’s voice still betrayed more amusement than regret. ‘A warrior’s gauntlets are marked this way when he has failed the primarch gravely enough to warrant death. He will wear the stain of failure on his hands until his execution, at the hour of the primarch’s choosing.’
Corswain watched the enemy captain through the filter of retinal target locks. ‘A curious custom.’
‘Perhaps. But so is hiding your armour beneath cloth robes.’
Corswain felt himself grinning again. ‘A knightly tradition from our home world.’
Sevatar nodded. ‘This is a gang tradition from ours. The hands of traitors and fools were tattooed red by their families to show them as deathmarked. A sign that no gang or family would tolerate grave failure, but that the condemned still had labours to perform before they were allowed to die.’
‘So which are you, a traitor or a fool?’
The Night Lord’s voice revealed his own smile, even if his soulless helm did not. ‘Both.’
Alajos was losing his patience. ‘Why do you revel with these wretches, brother? And what did you say in their snake-tongue?’
‘I told them that I knew they mated with pigs.’
‘Madness. Do they have no honour? Why would they laugh at such an insult?’
‘Because they are not knights. They possess honour of a kind, it is simply different to ours.’
‘Perhaps you should spend less time in the archives learning the tongues and traditions of murderers.’ Alajos’s tone carried more than a hint of reprimand. It was almost an accusation.
‘And what of “knowing one’s enemy”? Balance your humours, I am on your side, remember.’ Corswain turned to the west as the primarchs stalked back, moving slowly, still speaking in low voices. ‘The Lion returns. Be ready.’
Alajos grunted again, his mood too sour to bother with words.
IX
THE WARRIORS FELL silent as their lords returned – still distant, but close enough to be heard. The Lion acknowledged his warriors with a curt nod. They responded with salutes, forming the sign of the aquila over their tabards. Curze ignored his sons, still addressing his brother.
‘Horus himself charged me to speak those words to you,’ he said. If the Night Lord had seemed cadaverous before, now he was practically exhumed. The primarch’s eyes, with what little white actually showed around the black pupils, were inhumanly bloodshot. His gaunt features were dusted with a faint sheen of cold sweat, and a trickle of dark blood ran from his nose. He wiped it away on the back of his gauntlet. ‘Savage weapons, one and all, too dangerous to be wielded without cost. That is all history will see of us. Even you, Lion. Even you.’