Lord of the Night

He paused, and in his mind he saw a snow-white baby, rushing through tortured skies, black eyes squinting against clouds and wind, before being swallowed — consumed whole — by the dark.

There was one who fell further, and deeper, than the rest. He came to a world without daylight, where cruelty abounded above compassion, where the only honour was a precarious thing shared amongst thieves and murderers. This child, this feral thing, was raised by no man. No human kindness ever taught him mercy, no mother ever shushed his sleeping terrors. And alone of all the scattered primarchs, all those lost babes, no one taught him wrong from right. Justice from injustice.

'Oh, the beliefs of the other primarchs varied, of course. What is "wrong", or "right", after all? Points of view. As each child grew their sense of righteousness solidified, their concept of what to punish and what to encourage took form, guided by the morality of their tutors or brothers-at-arms. Ultimately the conclusion they drew, whatever their circumstance, was the same: that "right" was whatever they said was right. That "wrong" was whatever they decided to punish.

'Just children, priestess, but already gods to be loved and feared.'

Chia

'And the feral child? What of him?'

Sahaal smiled again, warmth flourishing in his chest. Ah, my master...

'He had no tutors. No one would take him in, so he grew wild and independent. No one would feed him, so he learned to hunt and feed himself. No one would comfort him when he was taken by the nightmares in his sleep, or by the visions that plagued his waking hours, or by the fits that wracked his body — so he grew strong and wily, and overcame the nightmares, and deciphered the visions, and repressed the fits.

'No one would teach him what justice was, and so — like no child had ever done before, and no child has ever done since — he taught himself. He saw callousness and cruelty, and recognised them. He saw strength being abused, productivity and peace being surrendered to terror and violence. And do you know what he learned, child?'

'N-no, my lord.'

'He learned that justice is strength. He learned that if he wished to overcome the predators that haunted the darkness, he need only become the strongest predator of them all. He learned that if he wished to punish a murderer, it required only that he be a more accomplished killer. He learned that if he wished to bring peace and equality to his world — and oh, he wanted that so much — he must hunt down those filth that stood in its way and use their weapons against them.

'And he learned that there is only one weapon. Stronger than any gun. Sharper than any blade.' Sahaal leaned close to the priestess, her ashen face reflected with bulbous distortion in the crimson windows of his eyes. 'That weapon is fear, child.'

She swallowed, eyes not leaving him for an instant.

Sahaal went on, quieter than before, voice no more than a whisper. The thugs and the thieves, the rapists and the murderers: they gripped that world tight in their hands because every man and woman was afraid of them. And so the feral warrior became the one thing that would stop them:

'Something that even they would learn to fear. He became the Night Haunter.

'He taught them justice through terror. He led that world into peace and efficiency, where before only violence and anarchy had reigned, and he did so unaided, alone in the dark, for the good of them all.

'His name was Konrad Curze, and he was my master.'

He leaned away from the priestess and watched her closely, gauging her response. She struggled, of course — who would not? — but again the curiosity at her core overcame the awe, an addict demanding more before even the drug-rush has faded.

'Your master...' she breathed. 'What happened to him?'

'His father found him. The Emperor came to him and embraced him, and they went into the stars to lead the mightiest crusade that ever was.'

'S-so he lives? He lives still?'

A bleak tableau erupted behind Sahaal's eyes: a scene he had revisited in his dreams a million times over, each one cutting him deeper than the last.

A pale face, awaiting the killer. Black eyes — bottomless, pouring with angst — staring from the shadows of the writhing room. Its fleshwalls and limb carpets shift underfoot... and the hitch draws near.

Sahaal had been there. He had seen it, hiding in the shadows like some child at play, honouring his vow with tears upon his cheeks. He would not intervene. He would not stop her. He would watch and nothing more: and it hurt him like a cold fire in his guts that could never be doused.

She steps close, horrified at her surroundings, entranced by the target's naked form.

He has been expecting her. He has foreseen this moment.

She sweeps towards him and is surprised. She has been expecting guards. She has anticipated violence. Instead the Haunter smiles and beckons her close, and he speaks.

Oh, by the dark, his voice...

Such words of venom and vengeance he spoke, such heartbroken sentiments.

He smiles throughout, and even as his voice breaks and the tears puncture their inertia and gather in streams along his pallid cheeks, he is welcoming. He is warm. He is calm.

'Death is nothing compared to vindication,' he finishes, sitting forwards on his mighty throne, 'Now do your job and be done with it!'

And her hand rises, and the thing in her grip flickers bile-green, and...

And...

Sahaal stared down at the priestess, blinking through a film of water, and gathered himself.

'No,' he said. 'He is dead. He was betrayed by one who should have loved him.'

The effect of this upon Chia

Sahaal was unsurprised. To him, a veteran of the Horus Heresy, the idea that the gods and angels of the Imperium might be capable of betrayal was nothing new. But to the peasants amongst whom he walked — people like this woman — he was less a living being than a myth made solid. Little wonder their minds rebelled against his words. And little wonder the priestess's nausea: it is not often one is told their gods are just as capable of misery, flaw and evil as any other being.

'Restrain yourself,' he said, tiring of her fit. 'You questioned me regarding my master's legacy, not the reason for his death.'

She recovered her dignity by degrees, straightening into her seat and smoothing her tangled hair. 'Aapologies, lord,' she choked, wiping her face. 'I... I had no idea...'

'He is dead,' Sahaal repeated, eager to return to the story, flushed with a gratification at speaking it aloud that he hadn't expected. It was as if the mille

'T-then this treasure is-?'

'Is the item I seek on this world.' He clenched his jaw, remembering. 'It was stolen from me before I could even claim it.'

The Haunter's head, so placid in its aspect, tumbles to the floor and rolls. There is no blood.