Lord of the Night

Zso Sahaal

In the final analysis, it had been easier than stealing fruit from a child.

All had gone as pla

Offerings, even.

He had the support of the Dark Gods, whether he cherished it or not.

Standing there on the edge of the launchpad, he'd felt the witch's scrying eyes like a whisper at the rear of his mind. And, as if in reply, the certainty that the warp stood at his shoulder, regarding his enemy with boundless hunger, had gripped him. It had flexed, swarmed at the forefront of his soul, and consumed her.

She would not be eavesdropping on him again.

So, he had the patronage of Chaos itself.

Before his aeons of dormancy, Sahaal's regard for the Ruinous Ones had matched that of his Legion: Chaos was as capricious a force as it was almighty, they understood that, and Konrad Curze had spent too long overcoming insanity and terror to lie so easily in the Dark Gods' bed.

But still, but still... It was an... intoxicating sensation, to have guardians so mighty.

So let the casualties be offerings. Let the Shadowkin dead, with all the civilians and vindictors who had perished alongside, bleed upon the altar of Chaos Undivided. Let the hungry gods have their repast of souls, and let him return to his tasks unhindered. It was a worthy transaction.

Seated upon his throne, slouched with claws steepled and a blanket of shadows covering his unhel-meted face, he ignored the sounds of mourning throughout the encampment and struggled for calm.

He must be patient. The venom that the Shadowkin had smeared upon their darts was a potent substance, and the... prizes would be asleep a while longer.

Patience.

Focus.

The assault had succeeded. The starport had been breached and his ragtag army had allowed him all the time he had required to steal what he had come for. The prizes — captives, of a kind — couldn't be allowed to see him, not yet, and so a team of handpicked warriors had accompanied him, blowpipes brandished, to anaesthetise the fools before they could react.

Carrying them down into the dark — two limp shapes, withered and malnourished, slung upon each shoulder — he had felt in his heart like a warrior king, returning to his tribe with the bounties of conquered realms.

And yes, the Shadowkin had rejoiced in his victory. They'd cheered and feasted on what pitiful foods their dreary territory offered, and praised his name for such a daring raid. But as they consigned their dead to the Emperor's grace there was melancholia in their eyes.

So many had not returned.

And maddeningly, inmriatingly, Sahaal found himself troubled by their disquiet. Oh, they remained worms — less than worms! — but he confessed that as his reliance upon them grew he was encumbered by the distraction of pride.

This was his empire. His tribe. And he could not escape their reflected grief.

He wondered, distantly, whether this was how his master had felt. The mighty primarch of the Night Lords Legion had grown to manhood as a feral creature, a solitary hunter in the shadows of Nostramo Quintus, a vigilante without friend or peer. Only when his reign of terror had swollen to infect the entire city, when the law was his law and the streets were his streets, only then was he given governance of the populace.

Had he, too, resented the responsibility? Had he yearned to rely upon none but himself, to dispense with counsellors and soldiers and assistants? Had it sat heavily upon his heart that even he could not rule a world unaided?

And had he learned, by degrees, to value those at his command?

Had it hurt him when they perished?

Draped in shadow, Zso Sahaal brooded upon his throne at the heart of a web of confusions and distractions, and waited with crumbling patience for the two men that he had stolen to awake from their poisoned sleep.

So it was, with his attention elsewhere, that the burning drive to locate the Corona Nox had relented to a simmering pain in his guts, an unspoken knot of loss that his present concerns had eclipsed.

And so it was that the issue chose that very moment to resurface, interrupting his meditation with shouts, cheers, and song.

The scouts had found Slake.

'He was in Sewersump,' the man said, voice quavering with a soup of pride and nerves. He was young: still a novice, in tribal terms, but sturdily built and confident nonetheless. A find such as this would secure for him unlimited respect, and it was clear even to Sahaal that the youth intended to savour his moment. 'There's a guild there,' he added, 'does nothing but broker sales for kutroach shells.'

The youngster had chosen to address his report — without instruction — to Condemnitor Chia

'Kutroach?' he hissed, drawing startled glances from the crowd. He supposed that it was easier for them to think of him as some throned idol, so perfect was his stillness. Every time he moved or spoke it was a chilling reminder that their magnificent, terrible lord was as real, and as alive, as they.

Humans, Sahaal was observing, preferred to keep their gods at arms' length.

Thankfully Chia

'Beasts of the underhive,' she explained. 'Beetle creatures with leather wings and bladed tails. Very dangerous. Their husks are perfect for ornaments and bowls, so the guilds often sell them uphive. The other gangs collect shell bounties whenever they can.'

'But not you?'

She seemed briefly affronted. 'Money is the foodstuff of corruption, my lord...'

'Of course,' he rumbled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 'Continue.'

Chia

'W-well... I know the guilds sometimes use middlemen, so I thought it would be worth checking...'

Chia

The boy beamed. 'I found him speaking with two others, a-another man and a woman. A guilder came over — handfuls of credits, he had — and called out to him. He called him Slake, I'm certain of it.'

Sahaal's fingers tightened on the skull-pommels of his throne.

'You did well,' Chia

The morsel that was pushed into the light, bound at its hands and ankles, shrieking like a stuck pig, was not what Sahaal had imagined.

It was a small man — if not genetically stunted then at least abnormal in his build, features prematurely wizened, scalp clinging to a few last scraps of hair. His simple clothes were stained and dirty and his face was marked with fresh bruises: evidence of the scouting party's rough treatment. Most notable however, were the twin sockets set high on his hydrocephalic forehead, one above each eye: ugly irises that extruded long cable-bundle umbilici, dangling to his shoulders like metallic dreadlocks.