Lord of the Night

But to sow terror without cause, to horrify without goal — that way lay corruption. The fear ceased to be a means to an end and became an end in itself: seeking dominance over others, seeking to terrify them into submission for the simple fact of their obeisance. Seeking carnage and fear with spite and pleasure.

That way lay megalomania.

That way lay the seduction of power, and it was the flaw in the blood of every Night Lord. It was the flaw he had spent his life struggling to defeat, bearing in its womb madness and venom, begetting the fits that had plagued his waking hours, taunting him with visions of his own end.

That way lay Chaos.

'It festers in our blood... It makes us fools, my heir...'

The Night Haunter would not allow his Legion to succumb so easily to the whispers of the Dark Gods. Chaos had served him well as an ally — as a deadly fire to be hurled at his enemies — but he would not countenance its digestion of his Legion.

Their leader must be strong. Not in arm or in courage — that was the remit of those like Krieg Acerbus — fine warriors, mighty heroes: but too burdened by pleasure at their dark acts to lead. Too joyous in their work. Too hungry for supremacy.

He had asked Sahaal if he had understood, therefore, why he alone had been chosen, and Sahaal had lied with a nod.

The Night Haunter said he had chosen Sahaal as his heir because his strength lay in that holiest of disciplines, that mightiest of fields:

Focus.

He would not waver from the Haunter's vision. A vision of a united Legion. A vision of focused hatred. A vision of blue-black ships assaulting Terra itself. A vision of Night Lord claws closing upon the withered neck of the Traitor Emperor.

Vengeance for the ultimate treachery. Vengeance for a Father's betrayal of his own son.

And then, peace. Efficiency and peace through obedience. The Imperium would prosper beneath nocturnal skies.

All in the Night Haunter's name.

That was the goal. That was the focus.

All this Konrad Curze imparted, and Sahaal left him with a storm of vows clouding his mind, awaiting the coming of the assassin with baited breath.

Sahaal awoke to the crisp bark of gunfire, the acrid stink of ozone, and the unexpected prickle of cold air against his face.

Someone had removed his helmet.

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 Chia

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 Chia

'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,' Chia

'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 Chia

'No!' Sahaal roared, adrenaline burning his brain, raising him to his feet, spi