Night had come. Smoke from Captain Tyrassius' funeral pyre rose into a tortured sky already thick and choking with the fumes of hundreds of ongoing conflagrations raging throughout the once-proud city. The most impressive lightshow dominated the skyline to the east. There, vast swathes of the temple district were ablaze as ravenous tongues of fire licked up to devour the cracked domes and shattered spires of bombed-out Imperial cathedrals and alms-houses. Six hours had passed since Garrick Rivenstone the Second, lord-governor of Sychanthis III, had openly broadcast his personalized message of unconditional surrender across the single planet-wide vox-band intentionally left under his control, yet still the capital burned, the blood of its citizens ran through its death-haunted streets and the screams of mortal terror and agony went on and on. For the few humans destined to survive, it was a night that would never truly end, a night that held no promise of a dawn, a night that would live on in their souls and minds long after the invaders had left their world – a night that would claim them as inevitably as the monsters who had unleashed it had claimed their loved ones and murdered all hope.
Yet on this night Telid Zvakka had distanced himself from the labors and indulgences of his brethren. Shrouded in shadow the legionary stood sentinel downwind of the pyre, his menacing bat-winged skull-visored helmet clutched reverently in the hands of Shaza, his favored thrall, the corpse-white skin of his cadaverous face glowing a sinister orange in the light of the fire. He gazed into the dancing flames like a man hypnotized, his void-black eyes fixated on the power-armored body being consumed, indifferent to the stench of roasting flesh, silent and immovable. He had kept this lonesome vigil for over two hours and none had disturbed his watch. Shaza, sitting cross-legged beside him, stifled a cough as she dutifully wiped the ash-flecks from the pitted ceramite surface of the Night Lord's helm.
"It was a good fight then, lord?" she rasped quizzically, her voice rendered brittle and harsh by age and privation. Curiosity had gotten the better of her. The midnight-clad demigod towering above her nodded faintly, his unblinking eyes never leaving the smoking pyre.
"Yes. He was a worthy opponent – likely the last I'll ever face." Zvakka's voice was deceptively soft, his words carefully measured, yet his tone was laced with a cold undercurrent of bitter fury that never failed to send shivers down Shaza's spine each time he spoke. Before them the mortal remains of Captain Tyrassius of the Howling Griffons Chapter burned, just as the world he and his battle-brothers had failed to protect now burned. This was a puzzling new development to Shaza, for as far as she knew Zvakka had never treated a defeated foe – living or dead – with anything approximating respect. Still, she was wise enough not to inquire into the matter. Though Zvakka treated her far better then her former master she feared one question too many might kindle his ire so she lapsed back into a respectful silence, grateful of the heat warming her weary bones and deeply honored the solitary legionary had permitted her to keep this unusual vigil alongside him.
Such a prolonged stretch of peaceful contemplation was not fated to last. Zvakka sensed the other Night Lord's approach long before he stepped openly into the pyre-light. His brother's soiled power-armor reeked of the fresh blood and viscera of his most recent victims and the lingering psychic residue of their collective suffering clung like a miasmic cloak about his body. Zvakka remained motionless, his gauntleted hands resting upon the gold-gilded cross-guard of the master-crafted broadsword set upright before him. He waited. Let them come for him, if they dared. Though unhelmed, Zvakka's enhanced senses were hyper-attuned to his surroundings at all times and even those within the warband whose stealth abilities had been honed or elevated to preternatural levels knew well to tread warily when his back was turned. Still, many of his brethren – particularly the ambitious newbloods – would covet Captain Tyrassius' magnificent blade. A few might even attempt to steal it from him. Zvakka mused briefly on whom amongst them had any hope of succeeding, then smiled in mirthless welcome as Talonmaster Vath separated himself from the shadows and paced up to the pyre, his Eviscerater chainsword resting casually over one studded pauldron. Blood dripped like crimson tears from the blade's jagged teeth to spatter in dark blooms across the white marble flagstones. The laurelled helmet of a Howling Griffons veteran sergeant now held pride of place at the Night Lord's trophy-belt and his fresh mantle of flayed human skins flapped wetly in the ashen breeze. Shuddering, Shaza lowered her head and pulled her cowl down over her face in an effort to appear as nonthreatening and inconspicuous as possible.
"Ah, so this is where you've been lurking," Vath chuckled dryly, his sardonic vox-distorted voice poisoning the relative silence of the courtyard. "How considerate of you to cut off all communication; tracking you down proved an irksome diversion, though doubtless my presence here comes as no surprise." The Night Lord cocked his head to one side like a raptor as he made a show of analyzing the pyre Zvakka had built and the body burning upon it before snorting in bemusement. "Tell me you at least had the decency to feast on his gene-seed before consigning his flesh to the flames."
Zvakka ignored the jibe. "You appear to have hunted well, brother, in spite of the diversion," he said quietly, drawing attention to Vath's newly-acquired trophies. "Has your Talon suffered any losses?"
Vath tapped the Howling Griffon helmet with an armored forefinger. "This bastard slew Nerx and the newblood Rzaand by the time I pounced on him – he'd already been wounded, so overpowering him was easy. It always gives me such pleasure to reduce Guilliman's oh-so-noble sons to the level of butchered swine. In the end his courage did not serve him nor did his honor shield him," Vath paused abruptly and glowered at Zvakka across the pyre-flames, the eye-lenzes of his snarling jackal-skull helm glowing a malevolent crimson. "Why have you done this, Telid? Lord Thalac is displeased – and because he is displeased I have come for you. Captain Tyrassius was supposed to be taken alive."
Unperturbed, Zvakka sneered, exposing his filed bloodstained teeth. "I fought Tyrassius blade-to-blade, Vath, not Thalac. I defeated Tyrassius in open combat before the Halicon Gate, not Thalac – the Howling Griffons' commander was mine, to do with as I pleased. To the victor goeth the spoils – that has ever been the warband's way. Besides, he was a masterful opponent; his sword-skills were exquisite – he tested my prowess as it had not been tested in decades. I almost felt like a true legionary again. Granting him a swift death was the sincerest show of gratitude I could bestow, given the circumstances."
"That may be true," Vath conceded begrudgingly, "though Thalac might be inclined to see otherwise – but this?" The Night Lord swept a hand over the blazing pyre in a theatrical motion. "Slinking off to burn the body when it aught to have been flayed and crucified to the gateway to further demoralize the populace and magnify our might? It's almost as if you're ashamed you killed him – it's almost as if you're trying to…honor him." The Talonmaster shook his head, as if unable to even entertain the thought. "You must answer for this, Telid. The capital belongs to us now; the last of the Imperial defenders have been routed. Thalac has set up court in Governor Rivenstone's palace and soon the judgments and executions will begin. I've been sent to bring you in. You should also know that Haraan Zarr wishes to…speak with you."
Haraan Zarr. At the mention of the Chaos Sorcerer's name the blood seethed like boiling acid through Zvakka's veins and his hearts quickened in bitter hatred. "Haraan Zarr…" he snarled contemptuously, fixing Vath with a stare so blackly murderous it would have caused an entire slaughter-host of the Lost and the Damned to fall to their knees and plead for mercy. "Haraan Zarr, who leads the warband from the shadows behind Thalac's throne; Haraan Zarr, the fanatical proselytizer of the thirsting gods; Haraan Zarr, whose gene-line is not that of the Eighth Legion; Haraan Zarr, the rogue Librarian who seeks to subvert our brotherhood and remake it in his image…"
"Enough of this tirade," Vath growled, raising the bloodied Eviscerater and caressing the activation-rune with his thumb. "Come with us quietly, brother. Thalac is waiting. The situation can still be salvaged if you are willing to swallow your pride..."
"…Haraan Zarr, who wanted Tyrassius captured alive so he could subject the loyal captain to ritual torment and defilement upon a desecrated Imperial alter for the continued blessings of his daemonic patrons – just as he did with that Black Templar Chaplain at Helskensburg Keep and those two Lamenters following the massacre at Kandor's Point…"
"…don't make this more difficult then it needs to be…"
"Behold, I have deprived that conniving sorcerous dog of his prize sacrifice," Zvakka spat in bitter triumph as he gripped the hilt of the Howling Griffon's broadsword and swept the gleaming blade skyward. "I ripped Tyrassius' hearts apart with my claws after triumphing over him in mortal combat and I have consigned his remains to the consuming flames so that none might lay claim to them. Such is my right. I respected and honored Thalac – before he allowed Zarr's stratagems to take precedence over the counsels of his own veteran warriors. I'll not abase myself at his feet and entreat his leniency for refusing to cater to the whims of a Chaos-enthralled witch-blood who would manipulate us all for his own self-serving ends. Go and tell that to our illustrious captain, Vath – if you dare."
The Night Lord shook his head, barely-restrained violence tainting his each word. "No – as Lord Thalac's champion you can inform him of these grievances yourself. Will you heed his summons or must we drag you back to the palace with all the courtesy afforded to a disgraced traitor?"
Zvakka grinned without humor and shrugged, his abyssal eyes bottomless pits of derision. "The night is still young, brother. Do you like my beautiful new broadsword? Fight me and it shall be yours – if you emerge victorious." Vath stared at him for a long moment, his true expression unreadable behind his helm. "Curze's claws, Telid – do you have a death-wish? Or do you simply not give a damn anymore?"
Zvakka brandished Tyrassius' blade at the Talonmaster as something that might have been grief contorted his face. "I am the only legionary who gives a damn, Vath!" he snarled between clenched teeth. "Are we the sons of the Night Haunter or are we the playthings of capricious gods? Do you not see what is happening to us? Are you completely blind as to how far we've strayed from the primarch's ideals? Thalac once prosecuted the Long War in a manner befitting a true Astartes of the Eighth Legion: now he consorts openly with a sorcerer not of our heritage and partakes in profane rituals for the sake of greater power and infamy, and the newbloods – the young milksop heirs of Curze in this decrepit age – will seek to follow his example. Our warband is dying, Vath – like the False Emperor's Imperium it rots away from within. Zarr is a cancer that must be excised, if we are to remain true to the spirit of our brotherhood and to our Father's last wishes."
The Talonmaster shifted his stance slightly, like a long-extinct Nostraman saber-toothed lion preparing to spring. "You truly are an arrogant cur if you honestly think you're the only legionary who –"
A wet gargling roar of rage burst out of nowhere and everywhere as a sudden wave of frigid air blasted across the courtyard. The shadows twisted and writhed like living things in torment. The pyre-flames wavered and waned as if fear-stricken. The seven remaining Night Lords of Vath's Talon stood revealed in all their nightmarish splendor, their stilled chainblades running with gore, their helms' eye-lenzes blazing to blood-red life as they were stripped of their preternatural concealment. Shaza cried out in alarm, her voice shrill and piercing. Swifter then the human eye could follow Zvakka whirled about, igniting the broadsword's disrupter-field and extending the serrated blades of his lightening-claw gauntlet. He was not fast enough. The unnatural cold stabbed into the Night Lord's body as if his armor did not exist, chilling his blood and deadening his limbs. Hoarfrost spread across the flagstones beneath his feet and rimed the contours of his war-plate.
His skin crawling in revulsion at the psychic contact, Zvakka strained with every ounce of his gene-forged strength to fall upon the monstrous figure now standing revealed before him: a tall figure clad in onyx-black power-armor devoid of all insignia or allegiance save for the sigil of the eight-fold star emblazoned upon his chest-plate. Haraan Zarr's multihued eyes shone like dying stars in a skinless bestial face utterly bereft of any semblance of humanity; malformed fangs and curving tusks jutted from his elongated jaws and a pair of curling rune-engraved horns crowned his misshapen head. The Chaos Space Marine stank of aeons-old blood and the ruination of worlds. His bandolier of Astartes skulls rattled against his armor and at his hip was shackled Soulreaver, his accursed daemonsword. Zvakka's hearts clenched in disgust as Zarr brought his mutated visage within inches of his own, strings of bloody saliva drooling from his lacerated tongue. Zvakka could not strike at the sorcerer, for the penetrating cold constrained him as effectively as any physical binding. Despite the mental barriers he had raised Zarr's words slid into his mind with all the ease of a flensing knife slicing into naked flesh.
+You dare. You dare defy my will and deny me my prey? Captain Tyrassius was supposed to be taken alive! +
Zvakka struggled to draw in breath; his lungs felt full of razored ice-shards. Speaking took monumental effort. "Perhaps…if you spent less time whispering the dubious promises of the Neverborn into Thalac's ears…and more time fighting in the vanguard like a true warrior… you would have reached Tyrassius…before I did…"
Zarr snarled like a carnodon and raised his right hand. The psy-reactive blades of his force-talons were wreathed in a pale blue balefire that bedazzled the unwary eye. The corrupted Librarian rested the tines upon Zvakka's breastplate, pressing them against the leering bat-winged skull-motif that had served as the Night Lords' primary emblem since before the Great Betrayal. Zarr did not drive the claws in; there was no need. Malignant energies coursed across the battle-worn surface of Zvakka's ancient Mark IV war-plate; searing agony flooded into the Night Lord's body, channeled directly into his nervous-system via the neural ports linking his armor's fiber-bundles to his black carapace. The legionary's body spasmed uncontrollably and his mouth jerked open in a soundless scream; blood streamed from his nose and eyes as Zarr spoke within the depths of his mind.
+You have deprived the Primordial Pantheon of their rightful due, Telid Zvakka; your life and soul are forfeit. You should rejoice that your lord seeks to expand his horizons beyond the petty reaving and raiding your ilk are so infamous for. The limitless majesty of the warp shall fill Thalac and he will come to the knowledge of true power. I desire only to illuminate him and to guide him further along the path of his ascension – yet you would have him remain as he has been for millennia: a mere legionary, his desires trammeled, his ambitions stymied. Why? Why fight against the inevitable? The final triumph of Chaos cannot be stopped. You, too, could have been great – a true lord of terror and a worthy champion of the gods. Instead you would rather abide by the twisted ideals of a broken primarch who loathed his own gene-sons. What wasted potential! Yet you can still serve; you shall take Captain Tyrassius' place. The Pantheon will have their sacrifice – I will ensure it.+
"Enough!" Vath sounded distant, as if he was speaking from across the other end of the galaxy. With visible reluctance, Zarr withdrew his force-talons and stepped back. The phantom pain dissipated and the deadly cold bled away from Zvakka's stiffened limbs, leaving behind only an aching emptiness. Swiftly he steadied himself and rallied, his weapons held at the ready. Vath's Night Lords swept in and surrounded him like dark specters culled from a child's nightmare. Shaza began to weep piteously. The Talonmaster strode around the pyre and interposed himself between his men and the Librarian.
"Lord Thalac has commanded me to fetch his wayward champion, Zarr. I let you have your say, but I will not allow you to subject Zvakka to any ritualistic obscenities until he has pronounced his judgment upon him."
+A pointless gesture – Thalac will hand him over to me regardless,+ the Chaos Marine insisted, pointedly caressing Soulreaver's pommel with his left hand. +I am owed his life at the very least; I will make him suffer a hundred-fold for his impudence – otherwise the gods will be displeased and may withdraw their favor from us.+
"The fickleness of your gods does not concern me, sorcerer," Vath spat, his contempt for the psyker evident. "My Talon will be escorting Zvakka back to Governor Rivenstone's palace, as per Thalac's orders. You may ride along with us in our Rhino, if walking holds no appeal."
Zarr gnashed his fangs and stamped a clawed foot down into the ground with enough force to splinter the stonework. +Zvakka is mine, Vath – mine to do with as I please! Stand aside! The gods will not be denied!+
"Then duel me, Zarr," Zvakka said quietly. The Night Lords about him tensed as one, as if collectively catching the scent of freshly-spilled blood. Zvakka continued: "You accuse me of stealing your prey, and perhaps I did – but you yourself did nothing to make such a claim upon Tyrassius legitimate. I am the one who challenged the Howling Griffon captain and I am the one who slew him. If you wish for me to take his place then you must fight me as I fought him: blade-to-blade, eye-to-eye. If you best me then I'll be completely at your mercy and none of my brothers will stay your hand – but only if you prove yourself the superior swordsman."
Unable to smile, Zarr licked his mangled lips in eager anticipation. +I accept your challenge gladly, Zvakka. Humbling you will be my pleasure. It is one thing for the blind slaves of the False Emperor to resist the revelations and gifts of the Pantheon – but for a legionary such as you, one who has borne witness to the glories wrought by the gods and the myriad blessings they can bestow, the impiety and lack of reverence you display is intolerable. After I've torn the flesh from your bones and offered up your wretched soul for the Neverborn to feast upon, I will lay your helmet at the foot of Thalac's throne and he will rejoice that one less obstacle stands between him and the path to daemonhood.+
"So be it – but first you must defeat me." Zvakka replied coldly as his brethren withdrew back into the shadows at a private vox-command from the Talonmaster. Tears still streaming down her face, Shaza crawled forward on her knees and proffered Zvakka his helmet. The Night Lord shook his head and waved her away; he did not fully trust his helm's auto-senses when it came to analyzing and targeting warp-empowered creatures such as Zarr who could mangle and twist reality as they wished. His own genhanced eyes would serve him well enough for this engagement.
"No psyker tricks," he warned as the sorcerer drew Soulreaver from its Aeldari-skin scabbard, the air around the daemonsword shimmering as if in pain as it came into contact with the possessed blade. "This shall be decided by blades alone." +Of course,+ the Librarian responded with a condescending bow. +You did not overcome Tyrassius by immaterial means, after all. It is only fitting that I refrain, though it shall not avail you.+
Zvakka knew he could not hold Zarr to any promise, even though, for all his potent psychic abilities, the Chaos Marine was a ferocious close-quarters combatant when it suited him. As they began to slowly circle one another Zvakka allowed himself a second to consider Vath's unanswered question: did he have a death-wish? Perhaps; bitterness and ennui had become closer companions then his own battle-brothers; nothing he did brought him any lasting satisfaction – he hunted, he slaughtered and he tortured with all the passion of a servitor. Only his hatred of the Librarian had sustained him over the past century. Now Zarr intended to sacrifice him to the denizens of the warp; Zvakka knew no fear – this was a confrontation that should have taken place decades ago, death-wish or no. The infection Zarr had become needed to be purged if the warband was to have a future, even if liberating Thalac's mind from the sorcerer's enticements was to be his final act of service to the Eighth Legion. The Night Lord licked his own lips as his anticipation rose to the fore – he would not fail, not in this, not when the very soul of his brotherhood hung in the balance.
"Ave dominus nox!" Telid Zvakka roared, and charged.