Саймон Спуриэр - Lord of the Night

A metallic chime peeled-out in the darkness nearby — a knife being dropped? — and with it came the sluggish retort of a body, toppling to its knees and then collapsing to the ground.

Someone with a knife, shot dead.

A voice gibbered in the dark. 'He was about... oh, God-Emperor... he was about to cut your throat, my lord.'

Sahaal opened his eyes and levered himself upright, muscles bunched and ready for combat, and the figure that stood over him with earnest concern written across every centimetre of her face took him by surprise. It was Condemnitor Chianni.

Beyond her, like the plateau of hell, the swamps surged and boiled and flamed. The tanks were stationary now, their crews clambering from pinde nests and embarkation ramps to poke at the dead bodies with power mauls and blades, checking for signs of life. On the distant northern shore, through a haze of smog and sulphur, the tail end of the fleeing refugees slipped around the pathway's corner and up, to begin the long climb to the safety of the underhive. There was nothing left for them here.

Sahaal blinked, his mind drawing itself sluggishly back to comprehension.

The memory of his master had absolved him of insanity. He had awoken refreshed, untroubled by the tentacles of corruption, released from chains that he had not even known existed. He understood now that he had been on the verge of succumbing to the seductions his master had warned him of, all those centuries ago. He had been tempted by the trappings of power. He had discovered within himself a love for Empire-building an unconstructive regard for the plebeians he had ruled.

He had lost his focus. He had pursued only his own aggrandisement.

Chaos, whispering in his ear.

He realised with sudden clarity that it had been there all along. Since he awoke in the Umbrea Insidior , a voice in his mind, counselling him in rage and fury and power.

Well, he was free of it now. His master's words had cleansed him from beyond the veil of time and death. He had lost the patronage of Chaos, he had lost the swarming warp-things that buzzed and tickled his mind, and he felt more alive than he had since his arrival.

Ave Dominus Nox!

He breathed his gratitude without sound, overcome by the strength of the Night Haunter's wisdom.

No longer for him the weakness of rulership. No longer the enjoyment of devotion. No longer did he crave the worship of his underlings, or the obeisance of those who thought him holy.

He had rediscovered his focus. The Corona Nox would be his, and damn his crumbled Empire for the sham that it was!

He returned his mind to reality, making sense of his surroundings. Somewhere out across the fiery territory, the body-checking Preafects stumbled ever closer. He looked up at Chianni and blinked, confused. 'You should be dead,' he said, aiming a wavering finger.

'I... I heard you, lord.' She bit her lip, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the vindictors, prodding and kicking at charred bodies.

'Heard me?'

'Y-yes... I was on the far shore, overseeing the returning strike-groups. When the tanks came I...' Her head dipped, ears reddening. 'I confess that I thought you lost to us. They said you'd been killed. My lord, I was... oh, forgive me, I was fleeing .' She tumbled forwards with a sob and locked trembling fingers around his clawed feet, prostrating herself. 'I have dishonoured, you! Forgive m—'

He waved the rant away, impatient. 'Never mind that! What happened?'

'I...oh, Terra's blood, I heard your cry. A shriek of hate from the south.'

He remembered. He remembered the rage and the fury, the last insidious surge of Chaos, frying his mind, claiming him for its own, before the breakdown occurred and his tortured brain rolled over upon itself. 'The others thought I was mad,' Chianni burbled. 'They said I was hearing what I wanted to hear, but... I couldn't just run! Not without checking'

'So you came?'

'Y-yes. And just in time, lord.' Her face contorted with anger. 'The... the warpfilth had your helmet off. He had a knife, lord. I didn't know if you were alive or dead, b-but...' Her voice tailed off, Sahaal could see she was in shock, face pale. She stabbed a pointed finger to one side, gesturing for his attention.

A dreadful suspicion arose in his reeling mind.

He followed her gesture and settled his eyes upon the figure sprawled at his side, a smoking laswound singeing the colourful fabric of its robes, the shieldlike designs woven across its surface now stained by blood and grime. The body's podgy hands clutched — even in death — for the discarded dagger it had dropped.

The majordomo. He had awoken whilst Sahaal slept. He had prised off the Night Lord's helmet with clumsy twists of his blade, and then he had drawn back his hand to slice the monster's exposed skin.

And then Chianni had shot him.

'No!' Sahaal roared, adrenaline burning his brain, raising him to his feet, spinning him towards Chianni. He snatched her up in one gauntleted fist with a feral snarl, ready to sink his claws through her face, red fires burning in his guts. 'You killed him!' he cried. 'You killed him, warp take you!'

'L-lord! lord, he was going to kill you!'

'I needed him! I needed the name of his master! You killed him!'

The claws of his free hand ripped forth, light motes scattering across them. He pulled them back from Chianni's shrieking face, preparing to punch through her wide eyes and shred her pitiful brain, exploding bone and gore across the burning swamplands. No matter that she had acted in his interests. No matter that she had spared his life.

The Corona Nox. That was all that mattered. And she had taken it from him once more!

'I know his master!' she screamed, eyes rolling, spittle flecking her lips. 'I know his master!'

Sahaal paused, eyes narrowing. He wondered how he must look without his helm, how his sallow countenance must horrify her, and indeed her bugging stare roved across his face with disgusted fascination.

Look upon your so-called 'angel', little human...

'You lie,' he hissed, unimpressed. ' You lie to save your life.'

'No! No, look at him! Look at the robes!'

'What of them?'

'The crest! The coat of arms!'

'Explain!'

'My lord... it's the heraldry of the hive itself! The Noble House Zagrif! This man was in the employ of the governor!'

The elevator seemed to ascend forever. Mita settled herself into a corner, cross-legged with her back pressed against the bronzed interior. It could hardly be likened to the comfort of her old meditation cell on Safaur-Inquis, nor even to the ascetic simplicity of the chamber the governor had granted her here on Equixus, but she was too exhausted to crave the comfort of fine things. The ability merely to sit, to close her eyes, to not spend her life glancing over her shoulder, that was enough.

As the minutes dragged on and a modicum of her energy returned, she found her mind wandering, rising on wings of thought, and a strange sense of prescient pressure — like a slowly building mass of water filling the spaces of her head — came over her. She recognised it, of course. It was the preamble to the furor arcanum : her senses' crude way of letting her know that a prophesying trance was forthcoming, should she choose to indulge it.

At first she resisted, choosing to take the time to settle her mind, to restore her strength, to prepare herself for whatever tests and feats awaited her at the apex of the elevator shaft. But the uncertainties that clouded her thoughts could not be so easily placated, heir exhaustion had become a curious constant that required no salving nor assuagement, and how could she prepare herself for the unknown? Indeed, only by accepting the visions that the trance offered could she have any hope of anticipating what lay before her.