Night Lords Omnibus Read online

  ‘Why am I here?’

  He smiled at that, a warm and honest smile that Eurydice could have gladly punched off his handsome face. ‘What the hell is so funny?’ she snapped.

  ‘Nothing.’ His smile faded, but remained in his eyes. ‘Forgive me. I was told that was the first thing everyone asks when they are brought aboard. It was the first thing I asked, as well.’

  ‘So why is that funny?’

  ‘It isn’t. I just realised that with you among us, I am no longer the newest in our masters’ service.’

  ‘How long was I out?’

  ‘Eight standard hours.’ Septimus had counted the exact minutes, but doubted she’d care about that level of detail.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Septimus. I am the servant of Lord Talos. His artificer and vassal.’

  He was annoying her now. ‘You speak strangely. Slow, like an idiot.’

  He nodded, his face set in calm agreement. ‘Yes. Forgive me, I am used to speaking Nostraman. I have not spoken much Low Gothic in…’ he paused to recall, ‘…eleven years. And it was never my first language, anyway.’

  ‘What’s Nostraman?’

  ‘A dead language. The demigods speak it.’

  ‘The… the Astartes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They brought me here.’

  ‘I helped bring you aboard, but yes, they did.’

  ‘Why?’

  Septimus cleared his throat and sat down, his back to the wall. He looked like he was settling to get comfortable. ‘Understand something. There is only one way off this vessel, and that is to die. You are here to be offered a choice. It will be simple: life or death.’

  ‘How is that a choice?’

  ‘Live to serve, or die to escape.’

  The truth surfaces, she thought with a bitter smile. She could feel the fragility of her grin, like all her fear was trapped behind clenched teeth. It turned her tongue cold.

  ‘I’m not a fool, and I know my mythology. These Astartes are traitors. They betrayed the God-Emperor. You think I’ll serve them? Throne, no. Never.’

  Septimus winced. ‘Be careful with that word.’

  ‘To hell with you. And to hell with serving your masters.’

  ‘Life in their service,’ Septimus said in a musing tone, ‘is not what you might expect.’

  ‘Just tell me what they want from me,’ she demanded, a shake in her voice now. She gritted her teeth again to stop it.

  ‘You are gifted.’ Septimus tapped his forehead. ‘You see into the immaterium.’

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ she said, and at last her voice was as soft as his. ‘This cannot be happening.’

  ‘My master foresaw your presence on that world,’ the slave pressed. ‘He knew you would be there, and knew you would be of use to the Legion.’

  ‘What world? It was just an asteroid.’

  ‘Not always. Once, it was part of a world. Their home world. But that’s not important now. You can navigate the Sea of Souls, and that is why you are here. The Legion is not what it once was. Their flight from the Emperor’s light happened many centuries ago. Their… what is the word? Inf… Infra… Damn it. Their resources are running out. Their relics and machines of war are eroding without maintenance. Their mortal attendants are succumbing to age.’

  Eurydice didn’t resist the urge to smirk. ‘Good. They’re traitors to the God-Emperor.’ She felt a little of her spirit returning, and risked another smirk. ‘Like I care if their guns don’t fire.’

  ‘It is not that simple. Their inf… infra–’

  ‘Infrastructure.’ Throne, what a simpleton.

  ‘Yes. That’s the word. The Legion’s infrastructure is shattered. Much knowledge has been lost, and many loyal souls; first in the Great Heresy, and then in the wars since.’

  She almost, almost said, ‘My heart bleeds’, but settled for a silent smile, hoping her discomfort didn’t show through it.

  Septimus watched her, sharing the silence for several moments.

  ‘Was your life before coming here really so wondrous,’ he said, ‘that this opportunity has no value to you?’

  Eurydice snorted. That question wasn’t even worth answering. Being kidnapped and enslaved by mutants and heretics wasn’t a step up from anywhere. She was just surprised they weren’t torturing her yet.

  ‘You are not thinking clearly,’ Septimus smiled, rising to his feet. She realised with an uncomfortable swallow that he was carrying two holstered pistols at his sides, and a hacking machete the length of her forearm strapped to his lower leg.

  ‘You will witness sights no other mortals ever have the chance to see.’

  Does he think that’s supposed to be tempting?

  ‘I’d rather not damn my eternal soul just to learn a few secrets.’ She hesitated, watching him carefully, the smile in his eyes and the way he lounged comfortably against the wall. His easy grace unnerved her. He was hardly a lunacy-driven heretic, like she’d expected to find in a vessel of the Archenemy.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she snapped. ‘Why did they send you?’

  ‘You are afraid, and it’s making you angry. I can understand that, but it would be better for you if you kept your temper. I must report every word of this to my master.’

  She hesitated at that, but wouldn’t be cowed. ‘Why did they send you?’

  ‘Acclimatisation,’ he smiled again. ‘Easier on you to speak with another human, than one of the Astartes.’

  ‘How did you come to be here?’ she asked. ‘Were you kidnapped?’

  He shrugged a shoulder, and his jacket whispered with a rustle of smooth material. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  Without warning, the ship shuddered violently, shaking to the sounds of the hull straining. Septimus braced himself by gripping the wheel-lock of the bulkhead door. Eurydice swore as the back of her head smacked against the wall with bruising force. For a few seconds she saw nothing but dancing colours.

  ‘No,’ Septimus said, raising his voice over the shaking of the ship. ‘Time is the one thing we don’t have.’

  Eurydice blinked annoying tears of pain from her eyes, listening to the protesting hull as metal squealed and screamed. She knew this sound, too. The vessel was falling out of warp, breaking into realspace.

  In a hurry.

  ‘Where are we?’ she yelled.

  Her answer was a shipwide vox message, crackling with distortion, echoing from thousands of speakers across the myriad decks of the Covenant.

  ‘Viris colratha dath sethicara tesh dasovallian. Solruthis veh za jass.’

  ‘And that means what exactly?’ she shouted at Septimus.

  ‘It… doesn’t translate well,’ he called back, already working the wheel-lock.

  ‘Throne of God,’ she muttered, the words swallowed by the shaking all around her. ‘At least try!’

  Sons of our father, stand in midnight clad. We bring the night.

  ‘It means,’ he looked back over his shoulder, ‘“Brothers, wear your armour. We are going to war”. But as I said, it doesn’t translate smoothly.’

  ‘War? Where are we?’

  Septimus dragged the door open and moved through the oval portal. ‘Crythe. The Warmaster, blessings upon his name, has summoned us to Crythe.’

  Septimus stood in the doorway. Waiting.

  ‘Crythe was days away…’ she said. ‘Weeks, even.’

  ‘My masters know many secrets. They know the warp and the pathways through, in the shadows away from the False Emperor’s light. These will be the paths you will also learn to walk.’ He paused, as if considering her. ‘Are you coming?’

  Eurydice watched him for several moments. Was that a joke?

  He didn’t look like he was joking.

  She rose on unsteady legs, hesitantly taking his offered hand. The ship juddered again and she knew that, at least, was not the warp drive catching its breath.

  Septimus led her from the room, his lamp p
ack beaming the way. He noticed the look on her face as the ship rattled and shook.

  ‘It is weapons fire,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘We are under attack.’

  She nodded, but had absolutely no idea why he seemed so calm about it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘My master told me of the Legion’s attack plan.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we are going to be ready in case that plan goes wrong. Do you know what a Thunderhawk is?’

  Ringing a world called Solace, the vessels of Battlefleet Crythe were stalwart in their defence, punishing the invaders for daring to assault an Imperial planet. It would be recorded as the largest void engagement ever to occur in the sector, with casualties in the millions.

  The Covenant of Blood had torn back into realspace in the middle of an orbital war.

  The Crythe Cluster.

  Five worlds, spread across five solar systems, allied in profit and a shared defence. Brought into the Imperium of Man during the Great Crusade ten thousand years before, it was an empire within the Imperium – a lesser reflection of fair Ultramar in the galactic east.

  Hercas and Nashramar: two hive-worlds with productive, stable, sprawling populations forming the core of the star cluster. These were supplied in turn by Palas, an agri-world with a climate so ideal and harvest potential so rich it exported enough resources to feed the entire cluster.

  The fourth world was Crythe Prime itself, named for the Imperial commander responsible for bringing the region into compliance with the Emperor’s will after the decadent years of Old Night. Once, it had been a populous hive-world – the third of the trinity: Crythe Prime, Hercas and Nashramar. Several thousand years ago, its mineral deposits were exhausted by the ceaseless efforts of the Mechanicus and the planetary economy collapsed. Refugee transports left the world in increasing numbers over a number of decades, and rather than leave the barren world alone, a recolonisation was undertaken by the Adeptus Mechanicus itself.

  The Crythe Prime of late M41 was an industrious forge world, equipping the sizeable and well-trained Crythe Highborn regiments of the Imperial Guard, and serving as the manufactorum home world of the Titan Legion, the Legio Maledictis.

  The fifth and final world was Solace. Here, based around an orbital shipyard fortress, was the heart of Imperial strength.

  The planet below the starfort was a third populated world, though unlike Crythe Prime, Solace had always been devoid of mineral worth and natural resources. The world was a barren rock, empty but for the hive-like prison complexes rising from its surface, home to hundreds of thousands of criminals drawn from across neighbouring sectors and the hives of the Crythe Cluster. A penal world, guarded by the might of the Imperium, used as a base for Imperial Navy and Astartes counter-piracy efforts in the star cluster. Only Crythe Prime, in the augmetic grip of the Mechanicus, was a stronger target.

  Lord Admiral Valiance Arventaur commanded the unbreakable might of Battlefleet Crythe. Countless escorts, dozens of cruisers, all led by the jewel in the battlefleet’s crown: the colossal Avenger-class grand cruiser, Sword of the God-Emperor, a city of cathedrals running down the ship’s spine, home to thousands of souls.

  Had this been the entirety of the Throne’s might in the sector, still it would have stood as a defiant and implacable foe, but the lord admiral could also count on the support of a garrison of the noble Astartes Chapter, the Marines Errant, who were permanently on deployment to crush the piracy rife within the sector. Their vessel, the Gladius-class frigate Severance, was a lethal blade used against the heretics that dared prey upon the trade routes of the Emperor’s loyal subjects.

  It was to Solace that the Warmaster first brought his wrath. Break the defences of this fiercely guarded world, tear the strength from the Holy Fleet, annihilate the Astartes presence here… and the Crythe Cluster would surely fall. So went the great Despoiler’s plan.

  The Exalted’s plan fit neatly within this framework. To succeed before the Warmaster’s eyes, he would call upon his calculating, tactical genius.

  Talos viewed the interior of the pod through the ruby hue of his helm’s eye lenses. His squad didn’t even take up half of the twelve thrones within the confines of the pod. They needed to recruit soon. The losses incurred the past few decades had hurt the remnants of the VIII Legion’s 10th Company to the point where – at best – the Exalted could raise no more than fifty Astartes.

  The process to engineer new warriors was painstaking and slow, and the Legion’s forces aboard the Covenant of Blood were severely lacking in fleshsmiths and technicians capable of gene-forging children into Astartes over the course of a decade.

  Xarl always commented on the empty thrones. Every time the squad came together in a drop-pod, a Thunderhawk, a boarding pod, their Land Raider… anywhere they stood ready in the moments before an engagement, he would bring it up.

  ‘Four of us,’ he grunted, right on schedule. ‘This is bad comedy.’

  ‘I’m just aggravated it was Uzas that survived on Venrygar,’ Cyrion said back over the vox. ‘I miss Sar Zell. You hear me, Uzas? It’s a shame you made it instead of him.’

  ‘Cyrion, my beloved brother,’ Uzas growled in reply, ‘watch your mouth.’

  For a moment, Talos was back in his vision, seeing Uzas’s axe rise as he approached from the rubble behind Cyrion…

  ‘Sixty seconds,’ a mechanical voice blared over the pod’s speakers. It jolted Talos back to the present with a sickening lurch of perception.

  ‘I’d like to state,’ Cyrion said, ‘that this is the most foolish use of our forces I can recall.’

  ‘Noted,’ Talos said softly. It wasn’t his idea to use a pod deployment, but complaining about it now wasn’t going to change a thing. ‘Stay focused.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ Cyrion ignored his brother’s reprimanding tone, ‘this will see us all dead. I guarantee it.’

  ‘Be silent.’ Talos turned in his throne, making his restraint harnesses pull tight over his bulky war-plate as he faced his squadmate. ‘Enough, Cyrion. The Exalted gave us our orders. Now sound off.’

  ‘Uzas, aye.’

  ‘Xarl, ready.’

  ‘Cyrion, aye.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ Talos finished. ‘In midnight clad, on my mark. Three, two, one. Mark.’

  All four back-mounted power generators clicked live, feeding artificial strength through their suits of armour, boosting their physical levels far beyond even the inhuman power already within their gene-engineered bodies. Talos’s visor display powered up, filtering his crimson vision with scrolling white status text, ammunition counters and dozens of stylised icon runes scattered at the edges of his sight. He blink-clicked three specifically, frowning as one of them kept flickering in and out of focus.

  ‘Uzas,’ he said, ‘your identification rune is still unstable. You said you’d get that fixed.’

  ‘My artificer… suddenly died.’

  Talos clenched his jaw. Uzas had always been murderous with his slaves, be they Legion serfs or augmented servitors. He treated them like worthless playthings, toying with them to sate his own private amusements, and the only reason his armour was even sustainable was because he plundered his fallen brothers with a diligence few other Night Lords adhered to.

  ‘We do not have the resources for you to entertain your bloodlust with the murder of slaves, brother.’

  ‘Maybe I can borrow Septimus to repair my armour.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ Talos said. Not a chance, he thought.

  ‘Forty-five seconds,’ the launch servitor’s voice crackled.

  ‘Stow weapons for transit,’ Talos ordered.

  He checked his bolter one last time, turning it over in his fists. A beautiful weapon, and one that had served him well since before the Great Betrayal. He’d fired the weapon on Isstvan V, and scythed down countless numbers of the Salamanders Legion as part of that fateful battle. Just holding the boltgun in his gauntlets was enough to give him a thrill of pleasure, as re
al and tactile as a flooding rush of combat stimulants from his armour’s drug infusion ports in his spine and wrists.

  It was called Anathema. The name, in flowing Nostraman script, was embossed along the side in black iron. Talos held the weapon lengthways against his right thigh, as if holstering a pistol. He blinked at a small icon on the edge of his display, and the thick electromagnetic strip along the firearm’s edge went live. With a clank of metal on metal, the bolter clamped to his leg, waiting to be drawn in battle once the release icon was confirmed with another blink.

  With his bolter secured, he checked the sheathed blade – too long to be tied to his hip while he was seated – secured to the pod’s sloping wall by strips of magnetic coupling. The angel wings of the crosspiece hilt were the white of fine marble. The ruby teardrop between the wings glittered in the red gloom, darker than its surroundings, a drop of blood on blood.

  Aurum and Anathema, the tools of his trade, his relics of war. His lip curled as his heart started to beat faster.

  ‘Death to the False Emperor,’ he breathed the words like a whispered curse.

  ‘What was that?’ voxed Xarl.

  ‘Nothing,’ Talos replied. ‘Confirm weapon check.’

  ‘Weapons stowed.’

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘Weapons, aye.’

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ the voice issued forth again. The Dreadclaw-class pod began to shake as its thrusters cycled up to full power. Although it would be fired from its socket, the pod’s attitude thrusters still needed to be burning hot to guide them on target.

  ‘10th Company, First Claw,’ Talos spoke into the general vox-channel. ‘Primed for deployment.’

  ‘Acknowledged, First Claw.’ The voice that replied was low, too low for even an Astartes. The Exalted was on the bridge, speaking to the squads preparing for battle. Talos listened to the other squads sounding off as the pod started to shake with increasing violence.

  ‘Second Claw, ready.’

  ‘Fifth Claw, ready.’

  ‘Sixth Claw, aye.’