Darkness is his friend; it has always been his friend, the one true friend he could always count on. His home world is a world of darkness, a world that he has tamed with his own bare hands. Yet his achievement was not without its consequences. Unlike some of his brothers, he does not make friendships easily; and sometimes, he loathes himself more than he loathes even their weaknesses. And all those issues are why he is so perfect for the job his father has given him. The ability to sow terror in the hearts of others, and unease even in his brothers', is at the best of times a delicious feeling for him; yes, he is a monster, and he not only accepts but embraces that.
Yet, yet there is a part of him he himself fears: the visions. They are his weakness, always images of a dramatic and violent future. In some he sees his own death, and thought it is never exactly the same, when those visions plague him, it leaves him weak as a child. He remains in seclusion until the visions pass. Sometimes it is minutes, sometimes hours, sometimes days. Always, what remains is the afterimage and the taste of foul destinies.
Sometimes it is also his own blood, but that only tells him that he is still alive.
His only cause is justice - justice brought to those who deserve a peaceful, law-abiding life, and justice brought to those who think they can escape the Emperor's laws. Such is the fear he sows, it has been known for entire systems to surrender when they hear the whisper that he and his sons are coming. Such is their reputation that he does not even need to show in those cases. Fear is enough, in his view, to keep them on the right path. Other times he does not appear when they expect him, yes, but when he says the words, 'we have come for you', there is nothing left for the enemy, not even a quick death.
But now, as his mind clears, the vision gone, something is different. The Stygian darkness of his quarters, while no less total, seems less imposing, more welcoming, as he bathes in his true love, feeling it caress him.
And in that caress, Konrad Curze relieves his mission briefing.
The throne room was magnificent, there was no other word for it, and in truth no book could suffice to describe it. No matter how many times he had been here, it had never ceased to amaze him with its grandeur. He did not know how the Custodes saw the master of mankind, but as he approached the seated figure, he saw a judge - not just a bureaucrat of the old judiciary from Nostramo's or Terra's ancient past but a warrior judge, dressed head to toe in the colours of darkness, his features unforgiving and unreadable, resolute and stern. He bent his knee and, as soon as the Custode left, the mirage was gone and once more the Emperor appeared in all his glory. But he did not wear his golden armour, having forsaken it for the finest robes and a cloak of wolf fur around his shoulders.
The Emperor motioned for him to stand and, standing with him, stepped down and removed the skull-shaped helm from his son's head.
Konrad Curze, whilst well-built, was pale and drawn. His eyes still glazed from his waking vision and blood trickled down his pale, thin lips where he had bitten them in his frenzy. Without a word, the Emperor guided his son to the seat beside him and poured him some wine. Handing him it, the Emperor waited until his son was back to his senses completely.
"I wish you would let me help you be at peace, Konrad," he finally spoke.
Curze said nothing and in essence the Emperor did not expect him to. Despite all that had happened recently, the Night Haunter was still a silent and guarded individual. He had, however, seemed to come alive at his new post, satisfied with the recognition for what he and his sons did best and being allowed to do it in the name of the Emperor's Justice.
"I was looking over your recommendation for a universal police force. You believe this would work?"
"Yes, father. Judicial forces that are loyal to you and you alone, their rule absolute in the eyes of the law, with the remit to punish lawbreakers to the fullest extent acceptable, while also having been trained in combat and military tactics."
"Oh?"
"Should the need arise to impose martial law, then they will be equipped to do so."
"And where do you propose the first schools for these Arbites be built?"
"Terra and Nostramo, father."
The Emperor turned his head as if to refill his goblet; in reality he was hiding a slight smile that had started to appear. He had already worked out that Curze would propose his home as a school for future keepers of justice.
"So be it, son, I will allow you to shape this as you see fit. But delegate: I have a different plan for you at the moment, something that I want you and you alone to carry out, in case your rather unique skills are needed."
That piqued the Dark King's interest. The Emperor rose to his feet and beckoned his son to follow him. Curze remained silent but, when he passed the new statue afforded to Lorgar, he could not stop the sneer twisting his features. His father did not fail to notice it.
"You still do not care for Lorgar, do you?" It was not a question.
"I find him insufferable," Curze replied, never one to mince his words. "Father, if mankind wishes to see you as a god, then that is their right and one I will agree with. However, I am not about to pledge my allegiance to faceless entities in the Warp that have nothing but games on their mind. I have instructed my Legion as such. We shall use Chaos to meet our ends if need be, but these things are not gods and therefore should not be venerated as such.
"You are the only one they should follow to that end, for you are a being we can see, talk to, and touch. I would rather see my gods then have daemons speak for them. I am a being of terror and justice, I am a scion of battle and the master of the dark - I am not like Aurelian, and I do not seek faith when there are other answers. However, that being said, he proved himself a Primarch when he got rid of that blasted Kor Phaeron."
The Emperor nodded. "Each of you have to find your own path to mix the warrior with the diplomat. Lorgar has done that and I feel that you have yet to."
"I am not a diplomat," Curze corrected. "There are only two, maybe three brothers that I can think of that have fused the two, and none of them are on our side."
He saw his father's expression and yet did not regret what he had said; it was, after all, the truth. He followed the Emperor in silence through to the Emperor's own hall of remembrance. He did not fail to notice the black shroud covering the statue of the Khan.
"How is Vulkan?" he finally asked.
"He is recovering. For the moment I am keeping him here; he will rejoin his sons when I deem him fit enough."
"And what are you going to do about Angron?"
The Emperor stopped and shot his son a quizzical look. "Do what about Angron?"
"Father, he crippled Magnus and destroyed Prospero. Those actions alone sent Magnus into the renegades' hands."
The Emperor said nothing and Curze decided that it was best left alone, the subject hardly being his concern anyhow. Eventually they came to a stop between two statues that had been covered for decades. The Emperor looked up at them and Curze had an eerie feeling creep over him.
"They are….."
"I know who they are, just as you do and all your brothers."
The Night Haunter stared at the nearly forgotten faces as his father pulled the covers off. He did not know why the Rout had been sent against them, he did not even know what they had actually done to deserve such extreme censure; but the events had sent a stark warning to the other Primarchs, one that they did not speak about, ever.
"They are dead, father, you sent the Wolf King after them. Why show me this now?"
"Did I say that?" the Emperor asked.
"We all know that, spoken or no. Their statues were removed and their sons were given to the Ultramarines."
"Not all their sons," the Emperor corrected.
"Enough to make Guilliman master of the largest Legion."
"Touché." The Emperor smiled. "Now, come with me; I have a job that is better suited to one of your skills and talents."
"What is it you want me to do? And what has it got to do with…..them?"
The Emperor turned and his eyes darkened. Once more he looked like the shadow warrior that Konrad sometimes saw him as. His heart soared as he felt the Emperor's Justice persona enter his own.
"You are to find them." He pointed. "Their bodies were never recovered and not all their sons were divided between the Legions. If any are still alive, then it is time to bring them home, Konrad. One way or another."
As rarely as he showed any emotion, the Night Haunter's jaw still dropped; and if his face could have become any paler, it would have. His father walked ahead, leaving his son for a moment to stare up at the effigies for a long moment or two.
It was not merely the assignment he had been shocked at, but the expression on his father's face.
For the first time, he saw fear and hope warring in an uncertain way across the Emperor's features. Curze knew that look, for all that he rarely wore it.
It was the face of a father looking at a beloved son that he might never see again.
The Night Haunter makes his way to the room where the artist has been quartered; the two Terminators of the Talonmaster's company salute him as he appears. He ignores them and walks into the room.
"Now, Garvan, let us talk."
He paced his strategium, restless and out of balance with his humours. He could not believe, did not want to believe, that his father, the master of mankind himself, the mightiest being to have ever lived, had suddenly turned everything upside down, that the one he had thought above all temptation had thrown all he had taught his sons to believe away. That he had decided to not only validate the bloody Prophet's absurd claims, but to give himself the power of long forgotten gods.
Corvus Corax had been a loyal son, following the course of history that his father had set out, and he been true to his word, for when he took over as Primarch of the Raven Guard his father had helped bring peace to his moon and his world. He had trusted in his father's honour, had assumed that the dishonour of his past would no longer be necessary in the Imperium's benevolent light. But it seemed that an emperor's honour could be traded when needs be.
To think that he now had to accept that what Horus and Magnus had said was true gnawed at him. He wanted to prove them wrong, to go to his father and see for himself what had happened, but he knew there was no chance of those tales being lies. The death of an entire company of Raven Guard at the hands of the Night Lords, all of them brought back to the Ravenspire by the Alpha Legion. Prospero gone, wiped from the star charts like she had never existed, Magnus crippled. The Great Khan dead at the hands of his brother Vulkan. Vulkan of all people…it beggared belief; the whole universe had gone mad.
He heaved a heavy sigh. Malcador was dead, as were his sympathizers in the Custodes, including Valdor. He had just been informed that Amon Teutomach Leng had been given safe haven aboard the Indomitable Will. At least with Mortarion watching over him the Last Lion, as he was being tagged, had found a sort of safe harbour.
He stopped by his window and gazed out at the starfield beyond. For countless generations, mankind had believed there were other forces working among those stars, be they alien or deity. They had certainly been right about the former, but now, it seemed, after a war that had almost destroyed Terra to rid it of religion and superstition, the latter had returned as well. But beyond that grand betrayal, vengeance burnt at his heart, vengeance for his lost sons and vengeance for the disgrace of believing a lie. Corvus Corax felt the dishonour of having a father and brothers gone mad keenly. And while the Raven Guard would side with Horus's Coalition, he knew that the path they would walk would ultimately be their own.
"My lord, there is a message from Lord Guilliman for you, private."
Corax acknowledged the vox operator's message and read what had been put through to his office. He ran a hand down his face as he read the contents. Once again, trouble rested on the Ravenlord's shoulders, and he did not know whether to provoke it. He needed a battle, something to take his mind off this bizarre point in history.
He got his wish. Twelve days later, the Raven Guard came down on the planet designated 27-143.
The inhabitants of 27-143 were not expecting anything like the Raven Guard; in fact they were not expecting anything like the Astartes. They were brutal and violent, but they did not have the knowledge of how to effectively stall Space Marines. No matter how many battles the inhabitants fought, they had lost the moment the wrathful Primarch and his sons touched down.
As he looked over the bloody field of battle Corax began to wonder on who he was taking his frustrations out on. Was it the Emperor and his loyal Primarchs, who had turned their back on all that had been gene-written into them? Was it Guilliman for asking his aid in building a second Imperium? Or was it the old rivalry with Horus? Things had never been easy between him and the Luna…no, not the Luna Wolves anymore, the Sons of Horus. He had always believed that Horus had used him and his sons to further his own glories, and at Gate One-Forty-Two that had been confirmed, so much so that the two Primarchs had almost come to blows.
Corax did not want to be under Horus's leadership again, but the Warmaster had closed the rift between them and he was not about to open that wound again over ego. Horus had been the natural choice for Warmaster: he was the Emperor's chosen heir, after all. He even agreed that Horus was the natural choice for - dare he say it - Emperor. That the choice was natural, however, did not mean that Corax liked it.
Or was it just the war? The danger to, for instance, their own homeworlds? If the Emperor was going to send Angron to do the job that the Space Wolves had done in times before, how long would it be before Cthonia, Baal, or even Deliverance fell to the same fate as Prospero?
He accepted the surrender with only a nod of the head, his thoughts flying in distant regions, and let the Imperial Army take over the compliance. Corax was about to return to his vessel when one of his sons, a young Astarte by the name of Halan Gre, knelt before him.
"My apologies, my lord, but both Captain Nevs require your presence in the Hall of Wonders."
Corax caught himself before he could laugh at the way young Gre had relayed his message. Nevertheless his mood lifted and, clapping his hand on his son's shoulder, walked with him towards the Hall of Wonders.
He found the brothers in the darkened collection. The hall had been spared most of the damage from the Titans' and Astartes' firepower, but there were areas that would need to be rebuilt. Walking through it, Corax had been amazed at the amount of history that was here. The Remembrancers that had accompanied him would find this place a fountain of knowledge, one for the future generations of the Imperium of Man to appreciate.
If those generations are ever born. That melancholic voice spoke in him, but he dismissed it angrily. He joined his captains and looked around, wondering what had caught their attention with such a mix of sorrow, horror , and intrigue.
"Well?" he asked them.
It was Branne Nev who pointed; Agapito was too stunned to even make any gesture. Corax followed his sons' gazes and the colour drained from his already pale features. Primarchs were not meant to feel such emotions as sorrow or shock, not in the way that humans did, but it was close enough now.
Encased in a stasis chamber was a suit of power armour. It was a dull red, but had once been a brilliant bronze sheen, with silver edging and black trim. On the left pauldron, Corax could make out a faded animal, a three-headed dog.
"Corax." Agapito finally found his voice. "The human here said this was found three years ago, right here."
"The Sons of Hades," Branne finally whispered with an unconscious sign of warding that Corax couldn't bring himself to comment on.
The Second Legion were all believed wiped out, the survivors assimilated into the other Legions. Corax did not say anything for a long time, and when he did, he ordered the armour taken down and brought with them to the Shadow of the Raven - Corax having renamed his flagship, unable to bear it being called the Shadow of the Emperor for much longer.
"I want to see the man or woman that runs this place and I want to see them now!" he ordered, and the brothers knew that he was not to be kept waiting.
Curze shifted uncomfortably as he waited to board the War Beast, a vessel that belonged to Angron. He had been summoned by Lorgar and Dorn to attend a council of the chosen. His Stormbird touched down in the giant hangar bay and as he descended with his equerry Captain Sheng and his First Captain Jago Sevatarion on either side of him, the crews in the hangar abased themselves before the master of the night.
He was met by Kharn, the equerry of the Red Angel himself, and Curze could not help but notice the checked violent emotions that, more than ever, surrounded the vaunted 8th Captain. Kharn bowed his head and led them to where the others had already arrived and were seated.
At the head of the table sat Angron, and he seemed different from how Curze remembered him. It was not only the scar across his face that he did not speak about - given either by Magnus on Prospero, or by the Emperor after for failing to bring the Cyclops back to Terra - but also his demeanor. His breathing was harsh, harsher than the Night Haunter had ever heard it before, and as ever he was a barely restrained killer; yet at the same time he seemed uncertain, wary even, in a way Curze was surprised he had the intellect for.
Beside him sat the Regent of Terra, his gold armour and red cloak fitting him like a glove. Upon his forehead sat a gold Diadem that signified his new position but, as ever, Dorn also remained the Praetorian and the Emperor's Champion, and his stone features betrayed nothing of what he thought about what was going on around him.
Opposite him sat Lorgar, resplendent in his armour with a cloak of the finest ermine dyed black around his shoulders, his eyes lined with kohl, his golden skin tattooed with the scriptures from his own written works made Curze sneer inside. Upon his bare head sat the papal crown but, for the sake of equality, he removed it and set it before him. Curze looked around him.
"Where are Manus, el'Jonson, and Fulgrim?" he asked. He did not mention Vulkan, knowing that at the moment the Salamanders' Primarch was unable to travel too far, and that his father wanted to control Vulkan's recovery. And, perhaps, to tell him lore of the Warp, the sort of lore the Night Haunter had rejected.
"Ferrus is dealing with things on Mars," Dorn quietly said, "Fulgrim is currently waging war against Ultramar, and el'Jonson… well, I am not sure what the Lion is doing."
"Consolidating his system, I expect," Angron snarled. His voice always held a hint of threat, but right now it was a deep snarl. "Or waiting to see how else he can piss off Perturabo."
"Someone needs to remind him that playing games with the Lord of Iron is not how to unman Perturabo." Lorgar sighed.
"He is acting like a petulant child," Angron snorted. "Ferrus is starting to ensure our sons have their armour and weapons, denying Horus and his warriors theirs. The Phoenician and his cross-dressing sons are at least doing something worthwhile. And meanwhile, the Lion is smarting over his personal honour because Perturabo kicked him off his LZ." Angron shook his head. "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
He raised his head and arched an eyebrow at the shocked expressions on his three brothers' faces. He allowed himself a smug smile: they always thought he was the animal, the one that was worse than Russ and his Rout, but the Night Haunter knew that they sometimes forgot that he had a brilliant mind too, even if it was getting harder and harder to resist the voice that was baying for blood that the Butcher's Nails brought forth. It took all his will to suppress it and keep it in check, and the pain eternal from the Nails did not make it any easier.
"And we are convened here because?" Curze asked, anxious to get on with what his father wanted of him, and aware that he was to keep it to himself.
"We need to act against the renegades." Lorgar sat forward. "They are making great gains as well as losses, in the war they are waging across the galaxy. Half the surviving Mechanicum from Ferrus's cull have ended up alongside Horus and our misguided brothers."
"Then they will not be without their armour and arms for long," Dorn mused.
"No. And I have recently heard of strange events going on around Cadia, although I cannot be specific as I do not have the information. Typhon informed us that Horus asked for one psychic son from each of six renegade Legions, for some grand project, though even he does not know what."
"I expect we will find out when Horus and Magnus are ready to tell us," Angron snarled.
No one disagreed with that. At the end of the day Horus was still the Warmaster, still the one that was deemed to be the perfect Primarch. The first amongst them all... that made him more dangerous than any thought possible.
"Way I hear it, Gulliman wants to make an Imperium Secundus." Angron yawned, a sign he was getting bored. "Already the renegades are split. There are those that will follow Guilliman, like Russ and Corax, and those that will follow Horus like Mortarion and Sanguinius."
"So let them have their civil war and destroy each other." Curze sat back. "Either they will see sense and join Father in the spreading of his word or they won't, but should the unimaginable happen and Horus win, I cannot see them accepting him as Emperor, so that will ever hold them back from cooperation." Curze narrowed his eyes. "I am more concerned with the Alpha Legion. We do not know what they are doing, and that worries me greatly."
"No need, brother." Dorn motioned towards the door, and as it opened, a figure in pale blue power armour with green trim walked in.
They all stood as the figure removed his helm to show a bald, copper-skinned warrior with a horrific scar down the left side of his face, one that even his healing evidently could not cover.
"I am Alpharius," he spoke, "and I have come to pledge my allegiance to the Emperor."
Sevatar walked with his father along the corridors of the Nightfall. He had not said much since returning from the War Beast, as seeing Alpharius come in declaring his allegiance to the Emperor was indeed a surprise too far. Still, he had turned up with only one battle-barge, and of the larger Legion there was no sign. That was to be expected with the hydra, and yet...
Finally, Sevatar broke the silence. "What did you make of it, father?"
Curze shrugged but said nothing. Either he was mulling it over in his mind, or he just didn't care. Sevatar thought it might have been a bit of both.
"I suppose the Emperor will deal with it, but from what was said... could there have been a schism in the ranks of the Alpha Legion?"
Again Curze shrugged, but the slight furrow of his brow confirmed to the First Captain that that was what his father had thought. He stopped by his quarters and, as the First Captain took a closer look, he could make out the tell-tale signs that his father was about to experience his curse once more. Sheng was gone, so Sevatar quickly guided his father into his quarters and locked the door behind him.
He guided him to the centre of the room as he sat down, then took a place beside the doorway, guarding his father and watching over him as the waking vision took hold of him once more…..
It was always the same. The time he did not know, the place he did not know, but the scene was the same. He was on Nostramo, his world, a world fit as a vision of justice. One of his rare trips home had let him oversee the next recruits for the Astartes and the intake of Arbites, his dream of an ordered universe coming to fruition.
Suddenly, the silence of the cheering crowds became as deafening as their roars of adulation, the crowds looking up to see the skies turn black. Astartes with jump packs, drop pods and Stormbirds started to fall towards his world. Before he could react one giant amongst them landed before him, his talons as silver as the moon of Terra.
He moved out of the shadows like he belonged there, his breathing measured. He had come to deal death, he had come to restore the balance, and he had come for the Night Haunter. As they fought, he could not see the face of the Primarch he was battling, but he knew who it was. He unsheathed his own claws. Two Primarchs guided by the dictates of the night, both the best at what they did, alike and yet so different.
The Raven's talon struck and cut the Night Haunter deep, deeper than even his healing could deal with, as blow after blow was rained upon him; he slashed at his enemy with the barest facade of control, cutting flesh and bone, snarling his hatred, blood and spittle flying in equal measure.
His world was already dead, and his sons were dying around him: Sevatarwas cut in two as he came to his father's defence, sliced from sternum to abdomen, a wound his body could not recover from. Sheng, Zaal, Krieg, they all fell under a Primarch's wrath, and the wrath of his black-clad Legion.
For there was only one Primarch who would know how to turn the Night Lords greatest strength upon themselves; and as the Talons dug into his chest and ripped his beating hearts from his body, the last of his sons taking a final breath in a world tearing itself apart, the face of the Raven looked down upon him with hate…..
His world. His Legion. And then, his life.
He woke trembling violently. He was helped by a pair of strong hands and water was given to him to ease his dry throat. Once the trembling had subsided, he allowed his helper to guide him to a seat; in the dim light of his own quarters he saw the concerned features of his First Captain. Nodding slightly to signify he was well, no matter that the vision was so much more taxing than usual, he saw Sevatar step back. The Night Lord bowed his head and left the Primarch to his privacy.
He got up and lay down, closed his eyes; the headache beginning at the base of his temples soon became a horrendous throb. It would not last, but for the duration he practised the techniques his father had taught him, and his memory drifted back.
"Are you going to tell me what is going on here, father?"
They were now in the Leng Hall, the images of his two lost brothers burnt into his memory like a poker. He knew the story: the Emperor, for reasons of his own that had likely involved treason, had sent the Wolves of Fenris after the two Legions. Their Primarchs were gone, their sons either dead, scattered or amalgamated into the other Legions… mainly the Ultramarines.
It was something that had caused concern amongst the other Legions, including Horus and Sanguinius. Curze, for his part, did not doubt Guilliman's staunch reputation nor his loyalty; the latter was predictable, if occasionally sickening to one who lived on his wits. Of course, now all three of those Primarchs were renegades and he, somehow, was not...
The Emperor had allowed no further details to be revealed, not even to Horus, which had puzzled the first among them greatly. Of course the rumours had flown around as so often they did: their gene-seed had been tainted, they had committed some atrocity in the name of other beings, they had defied the Emperor's edicts. But whatever the reason for the secrecy, all those rumours remained rumours alone.
Curze had wondered why his father was giving him this top-secret mission with one hand, while keeping the details of it hidden with the other. As good as he was, he was no mind-reader, and he needed more information to complete his task.
"Do you remember their homeworlds, Konrad?" His father never called him the Night Haunter, and whilst it had been a source of irritation for him, he had grown to accept the fact that his father was being….well, fatherly to him. For the first time in centuries Konrad Curze finally felt like he had a father.
"One was a world that some might have put to the ancient descriptions of Hell, as far as I recall," he had said. "The other a forested planet of raging storms and eternal rain."
They stood on the balcony, the Emperor watching his changing world. Mighty cathedrals were being raised in his name, and pilgrims from across Terra were making the journey to see him or at least to touch the walls of the holy palace. On Nostramo, the populace avoided Curze's residence, as if even coming near the hallowed walls of the Night Haunter would bring his curse upon them all. Stories were told to the children by their parents: behave and do as the law says, or the Night Haunter will come for you.
It worked. Crime was almost non-existent on his world now. Of course he knew what he would do should that ever change, every one of his brothers knew what he would do, as did his people. While he had taken their children, it had been not to maim or kill for their own ideals of justice, but to serve as his sons. The Night Haunter was above all feared... but he was also respected. It was all to add to the mystery of the Night Haunter and the Night Lords.
The Emperor caught the eye of a child, nine or maybe ten, and raised his hand in greeting; almost immediately, the child was swamped by the faithful. Curze saw a Word Bearer amongst them, and taking an oath of moment attached to his armour, he gave it to the mother of the child. Almost immediately the child was taken.
The Emperor smiled a little. "Another son for Lorgar," he indulged. "Go to that world of storms," he suddenly said. "Let no one stop you, let no one know what you are doing, but find me any Astartes still alive, or what they have left behind, and bring them here."
"And if their fathers still live?"
"Them too, but after the Rout's visit, I doubt it very much."
"If anyone else finds out about this on the renegades' side, then we will have a battle on our hands."
"Then do not let them find out, Konrad, and if they do, well, you know what to do."
Konrad Curze bowed his head and walked away. He stopped to look in on Vulkan and exchange pleasantries with the quiet Primarch. While Vulkan may have been soft-hearted in the past, he had certainly accepted the Legions' place now; and in truth Curze had never had a problem with Vulkan, only the reverse. In fact he admired some of Nocturne's cult practises. And if Vulkan dealt justice only reluctantly...
Well, the same had once been true of Curze.
The headache receding, the Night Haunter fell into a sleep with the exhaustion of the vision, but not before telling the master of his vessel where to go. There was to be no questions and no debate: these were his orders, as given him by the Emperor.