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The Painted Count – Guy Haley

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A Black Library Publication

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The Painted Count

Guy Haley

There was the sword, and there was the ship. Those two things alone occupied all of Gendor Skraivok’s thoughts.

At that moment, the sword was preeminent. Skraivok lay sprawled on the large bed in the centre of the chamber, his back against the headboard. The bed was comfortable, more than most Skraivok had known since his days as a mortal lordling. The headboard was not, being cast alloy depicting a fussy pattern of interlinked ribs, spines and howling skulls. Skraivok had always been fond of comfort. He had never completely accepted the idea of the warrior aesthete. Let others prove their worth with coarse clothes and uncomfortable furniture. A soft bed did not make him any less of a killer.

He let the metal nodules of the bedhead compress the skin over his black carapace. He was too preoccupied to notice. Lately, comfort had ceased to matter.

It was dark in the chamber, Nostraman dark, the lumens modified to burn low. Ersatz flames danced in electro-flambeaux set against the walls, causing the many shadows to shiver and dance.

They were grand chambers, as befitted his rank. Orlon had stupidly suggested he take Curze’s as a show of strength. Skraivok had declined. That would be a provocation too far to those opposing him.

Besides, only an insane man would wish to dwell in the primarch’s sanctum, and any sane man that took up abode there would not long remain so.

On the far side the room was the sword. It was propped in its scabbard against the backrest of a chair that matched the bedhead, and so he could not see the dull, weirdly non-reflective metal of its black blade… but he could feel it. The weapon tugged at invisible hooks sunk deep into his soul. Not so much a call as a demand that he take it into his hand.

It was not a sword. It looked to all intents like a sword, its well made if scuffed belt of alien-looking skin wrapped around the quillons and the length of the scabbard – the sort of battered but favoured weapon a warrior like him might have owned for a lifetime.

Only it was not. Before Sotha he had not had the weapon. It had not, by any objective standards, even existed.

At least, not as a sword.

Its appearances might fool everyone else, but Gendor Skraivok knew what it was, and it was most assuredly not a mundane blade.

He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. The room reverberated to the muffled sounds of repair. They went on night and day, a constant backdrop of banging, heavy tools and screams that, outside the soundproofing of his quarters, rose to a cacophonous din. Multiple, maddening sources of vibration that managed to drown out the pulse of the ship’s reactor.

‘I cannot think!’ he shouted at the ceiling. The racket pounded on uninterrupted, and Skraivok groaned. ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’

The ship was the other thing. The ship, and the fleet, and the Legion. He should be leading it – not that morose fool Shang. The primarch’s equerry was a knotty problem, one that could not be solved with that damnable sword poking into his mind.

His bare feet whispered over the human-skin divan as he swung them off the bed.

He hung his head a moment, teeth clenched. He made a strangled noise and propelled himself upright.

‘You will not win,’ he said to the sword.

He spoke to it often, but the sword never replied.

Sooner or later he would talk to it in front of the others. That would not be a good thing.

Skraivok blinked stupidly at the mess in the chamber, as if returning home to find it plundered. Food mouldered on fine plates. The stuffing of furniture gathered in drifts in the corners. Ewers of wine lay on their sides, their contents gone all to vinegar. Pieces of his armour were scattered where he had thrown them. A mirror showed a wild-haired, hollow-faced thing. It took a moment for Skraivok to recognise himself. The black streaks he painted over his eyes that gave him his cognomen of the Painted Count were smudged across his face.

He curled his lip at his appearance. That needed fixing too. Everything would be better when he was rid of the sword.

Once that was gone, he would feel more like himself again.

‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let us get this over with.’

Slowly, he gathered up the pieces of his wargear and struggled into them. Then, forcing himself not to pause, he grabbed the sword about its middle and roughly picked it up.

He opened the door to his chambers. Of course, Phy Orlon was waiting outside, with that sickening, sycophantic expression plastered across his narrow face.

‘Ah! Lord Skraivok, it is good you emerge. Are you well rested?’

It astounded Skraivok how such a vulpine little thing had made it through the selection process. Even bulked by legionary gifts, Orlon still managed to convey the impression of feebleness. Towards the end, Nostramo had been providing only the dregs of the dregs. No wonder Curze had levelled the place.

Weakness was like the scent of blood in the water to the Night Lords. Legionaries like Orlon would always attach themselves to those they deemed powerful, for protection. That explained the ridiculous batwings welded to the top of his helm in emulation of Sevatar, and why he had appointed himself as Skraivok’s adjutant.

‘Do I look well rested, Orlon?’ Skraivok replied.

‘Well, no,’ Orlon said apologetically.

As Skraivok walked, Orlon dogged his footsteps and began to prattle. ‘There is the issue of Captain Shang to address, my lord. He has rallied a large contingent of the other captains to his side and is calling for your removal from the Nightfall forthwith. I am afraid you do not have long to act before the situation becomes untenable. Already Claw Masters Alvar, Tjock and Denbis are considering changing their allegiance from you to he.’ Orlon laughed modestly. ‘Of course, they do not know that I have this information, but my sources are reliable. I can only assume that–’

‘What about the others?’ Skraivok interrupted him.

‘They remain unmoved by Shang, but events are moving fast.’

Skraivok rounded on the smaller Space Marine and jabbed a finger in his face. ‘Then get back to the “Kyropteran Vicaria” and keep the rest of them from drifting towards Shang, understood? The vote is tomorrow. Surely we can keep this contained until it is done and I am officially appointed commander of the fleet.’

‘My lord, I–’

‘Do you understand, Orlon. Yes or no?’ said Skraivok loudly and slowly.

Orlon nodded emphatically. ‘Of course. Whatever you wish, my lord. I shall see it done.’

Skraivok snorted. ‘Kyropteran Vicaria. How dare they set themselves so high. They have no right to decide who shall be Kyroptera and who shall not. There was one Kyroptera on this vessel, only because I brought him here. And then I killed him. By right of conquest, I am ranking captain. That is the law.’

Orlon nodded again, but his words belied his apparent agreement. ‘It will not be easy. Shang is against your plan. He believes the primarch dead and has grown sour. He wishes to hunt down the Lion and make him pay. He is obsessed.’

‘Terra is our ultimate destination. Curze lives. Sevatar lives. Pursuing petty vengeance will bring no victory. We must go to the Warmaster.’

‘How could you know the First Captain and our father are alive? The council might believe that the xenos device of the Ultramarines could show you such a thing, but you have no way of proving it – nor will you reveal exactly where either of them are.’

‘I have seen Sevatar with my own eyes. If they have the information, I am more vulnerable,’ said Skraivok tiredly. ‘As long as it stays in my head, my head stays on my shoulders.’

He looked at the sword – not his sword, one could never own anything like that. Indeed, in the question of ownership, such artefacts usually went the other way.

‘All this can wait, Orlon. I have something else I need to deal with.’

‘Orlon, tell me, where is the nearest voidlock?’

‘There are the lighter bays two decks down from here, my lord. They offer the easiest transit. Do you wish to leave the ship?’

‘I said a voidlock!’ snapped Skraivok. ‘Not a transit route.’

‘Why, it is not far...’ Orlon’s voice trailed off in puzzlement.

‘Then show me. Now.’

Orlon led Skraivok through the battered corridors of the Nightfall. The ship had been heavily damaged in its encounter with the Invincible Reason. Whole decks had been lost to fire and evacuation into the void. The resources of a conquered planet had been put into repairing it, but it would take years to get things right, at this rate of progress. Under Shang’s order, they were attempting to repair the ship in memory of their primarch. It was typical of certain of his brothers, thought Skraivok, that they worked so hard for the approval of a being who did not care if they lived or died.

Shang loved Curze, completely, but Skraivok did not think that Shang really understood their father. The Painted Count had had little direct contact with their lord in the past. Perhaps this detachment from his influence had allowed his growing understanding of Curze’s character.

There were those in the Legion who wished to go their own way and reave, and those who wanted to reunite the scattered elements and hunt for their father. Skraivok favoured the latter. He did not particularly care for Horus’ ambitions, seeing them as vain and self-serving as the Great Crusade, but he did want to hurt the Emperor.

The Master of Mankind could have redeemed all the sons of Nostramo, Skraivok was sure of that. But he had chosen not to.

That was what tormented Curze. The callous damning of them all to monstrousness.

A man should be most wary of the monsters he creates.

They negotiated corridors thick with scaffolding, Mechanicum priests, servitors, machinery and exhausted slave workers. Lighting and gravity were patchy. Plasma torches illuminated hellish scenes in phosphorescent clarity.

Skraivok pushed past, working his way methodically toward the outer hull. The voidlock emerged from the gloom of a transverse corridor as a fitfully blinking view port and green indicator lights. Skraivok went to the hatch and looked inside. The lumens were malfunctioning, flickering on and off. Mortal-sized void suits hung out of their lockers, tools were scattered on the floor, but the panel readings on the internal and external doorways shone true.

‘Go,’ he told Orlon.

The other warrior frowned. ‘My lord? What do you intend?’

‘Freedom,’ said Skraivok. He slammed his palm onto the door switch. The door wheezed open. Stale air blew outwards and he went inside.

Orlon remained. No matter.

‘My lord! Gendor!’ bleated Orlon, as Skraivok’s purpose became clear. ‘Your helmet!’

The door slid shut behind Skraivok. He inputted the codes to override the safeties. A warning tocsin began to honk, and a red light strobed against the dark. Orlon’s face still floated in the window. He looked alarmed, and was talking, as usual, but Skraivok could not hear a word he said.

It was blissful.

The look on Orlon’s face amused Skraivok. The ordinary situation of torturer and tortured on the Nightfall was turned about. Skraivok did so enjoy irony.

He smiled at Orlon and went to the exterior door. He mag-locked his boots to the floor, filled his multilung with air and, with one, careful finger, keyed the door open.

The atmospheric contents of the voidlock slammed him in the back as they were sucked out into space. An empty suit wrapped itself around his legs, the reinforced fabric flapping madly in the brief gale, then fell limp in the dead silence of the vacuum.

Skraivok stared out into the void. Deep cold bit at his flesh, blistering it.

Below the Nightfall, the dirty world of Argosi was late into its own night. A billion lights twinkled over a continent-sized city. Brown clouds of pollutants streaked the atmosphere. Orbital shipyards hung motionless in space, their long void docks encasing the worst damaged vessels of the Night Lords fleet. Above them, at high anchor, a dozen more void-worthy ships hung as unspoken threats in the sky.

Skraivok grinned with cracking lips, and his spittle froze on his teeth as he hurled the sword out into the void. He struggled to hold onto his breath, but he stood there for a full ten seconds, watching the sword with slowly freezing eyes until it had tumbled out of sight in the darkness.

He shut the door. Air flooded the chamber, bringing the temperature back to tolerable levels. Then the pain began in earnest, as a terrible scalding upon his face. He felt like his skin was being scorched off with a torture mask studded with hot needles.

But Skraivok enjoyed it. It sharpened his mind.

The pain receded quickly. The damage was superficial. His body worked fast to put it right.

The inner hatch window was covered in melting frost, and so he did not notice Captain Shang until he opened it.

Skraivok had not known him before he had arrived on the Nightfall. It was said that he had been Curze’s closest confidant, once, and Skraivok could well believe it. Wild eyes and a face lined with internal pain hinted at a mind almost as crazed as the primarch’s. Shang had a reputation of being strong.

But grief, thought Skraivok, has undone you. Shang was another weakling, and affection was his vice.

‘Brother,’ said Skraivok pleasantly. Two hulking Atramentar Terminators flanked the captain.

‘He... He threw his sword out!’ Orlon yammered. ‘He looked out into the void! Without his helmet!’

‘You are insane,’ said Shang, flatly. His augmetic fist clenched.

‘I am not,’ said Skraivok, wondering why no one could see that he was the only sane one left.

‘I will not argue with a madman. You are not fit to lead.’

‘I have the strongest claim,’ said Skraivok. His eyes were clearing. ‘That is obvious, since by right of combat I have won my place on the Kyroptera.’

‘You executed a blind man. Your claim is weak. The Kyropteran Vicaria shall decide who will lead us.’

‘They will choose me. I earned it the same way that wretched Terran Krukesh earned his captaincy. There is no argument.’

‘Then we shall remove you from the considerations of the council,’ said Shang. He smiled coldly as the Atramentar moved on Skraivok. ‘You should have kept your sword. You are going somewhere very special. It has only held one prisoner before. You should feel honoured.’

The Terminators held Skraivok in their iron grip. A Legion thrall came forwards. Teeth clenched in determination, he jabbed Skraivok with a needle, and the Painted Count left the waking world.

The prisoner that the maze had been built for must have been important, and dangerous, to justify all this effort.

Frankly, he did not know why he was still alive. Maybe the existence of the labyrinth had tempted Shang, for the torment that Skraivok would endure within. Maybe Shang was genuinely afraid of the Kyropteran Vicaria’s response should he kill Skraivok openly. Either his actions were born of unnecessary cruelty, or of fear. It was to Shang’s benefit if he vanished, Skraivok supposed, rather than his bloody corpse be uncovered somewhere.

Nevertheless, keeping him alive suggested more weaknesses. That was Shang’s mistake. Skraivok would deal with him presently.

When he did, he would not be so timid.

First, Skraivok had to escape. He knew he was in some sort of maze, because the moment he had regained consciousness he had approached the open door of the chamber and looked out. Three passages branched away. He had taken off his gauntlet and tossed it over the threshold, certain of traps. Nothing happened, so Skraivok had scraped a cross into the wall of his cell and ventured forth. For the first twenty or so doors and forks in the corridor, Skraivok had been cautious, each time throwing forward his gauntlet. The result was the same every time, and so he gave up.

After hours of walking, Skraivok found himself back in the starting chamber. Everything was as he left it, with the mark he had left on the wall and the metal scrapings on the floor from its fashioning.

The only difference was the sword. That stood on its point, sheathed and wrapped in its worn belt, directly opposite the door as if waiting for him.

As if, thought Skraivok. Not as if. It is waiting for me.

He walked over and looked down at it as he thought over his predicament. It was prudent to assume that this maze would defeat even the mind of a legionary, otherwise Shang would not have placed him there. His initial foray certainly suggested that was the case. Without his helmet, he could not check his armour’s status, but providing Shang had not emptied his nutrient reservoir and pharmocopia, Skraivok could count on around three weeks nourishment, if he were careful. His body and armour combined could keep liquid wastage to a minimum. After food and latterly water were exhausted, there was the option of the death-sleep and encystment in a mucranoid sheath of his own making. In such a state he could survive almost indefinitely.

That took him out of the succession for good, since he might very well remain there forever. Wherever he was.

He needed to get out, and soon. The Kyropteran Vicaria, the temporary council that had installed itself to choose a leader, would soon make their decision. Shang had been among the lead candidates until Skraivok had arrived with Krukesh the Pale, so he had some sympathy for the former equerry’s uncompromising attitude towards him.

‘There obviously is a way in, and therefore at least one way out, or how would I come to be here?’ he murmured. He looked all around himself. ‘And yet, there is some art at work here that is beyond me. Technology?’ He looked back at the sword. ‘Warp-craft?’

The sword said nothing.

‘If I take you up, will you offer me the route?’ he asked. He expected the silence it offered by way of reply. The strange thing was, he knew that it was listening to him.

He had never dared wield it. Only once had he held the hilt in his hand, the first time he tried to destroy it. He could still feel the unearthly taint of it on his palm – though it had been inside his gauntlet at the time – like his hand were smeared with an oil that would not wash off. Not painful, but certainly unpleasant.

When he had slept since, he dreamed of that taint spreading up his arm and into his hearts.

Before that one mistake, he had avoided touching it himself entirely, even gifting it to his headsman Kellenkir to be rid of it. Apparently, that was not what the weapon wanted, for it had returned to him. Since his arrival on the Nightfall, he had given it away a second time, tossed it into the ship’s bilges, melted it in the furnaces of the forge, dropped it into a plasma field and, most recently, thrown it out of the voidlock.

Every time, it had returned. The sword wanted him.

Skraivok reached out a hand, hesitated, and drew it back. To pick it up freely was to seal a bargain that could not be broken. He knew that as well as if he had been told.

It was also a chance at freedom from the maze, and at true power. He could reunite what was left of the VIII Legion and lead them to Terra, there to spit in the Emperor’s eye for his lack of mercy and compassion.

But at what cost? Death, or damnation.

He chided himself inwardly for this superstition, though only half-heartedly. They had moved far beyond the Imperial Truth, now.

There was no choice. He reached out for the sword quickly, before he could start his vacillations afresh. He picked it up by the sheath, as had been his habit, but this time he undid the belt and fastened it around his waist.

Then he drew the weapon.

His arm tingled. That sense of uncleanliness came to him again, and this time it was accompanied by a sensation of weight settling onto his back – insubstantial as breath, but just as real. He felt a sense of triumph that was not his own.

That was it, he knew. The beginning of something unholy.

It was the last truly independent thought he ever had.

‘Show me the way,’ he said to the sword.

And for the second time, Skraivok departed the room.

Turn by turn, he passed through the labyrinth. This time, they did not return to the first chamber. He discovered that there were whole sections filled with laser grids, flamer emplacements, deadfalls, spikes that shot up from the floor and swinging blades. Before the deadly traps were triggered, the sword thrummed in his hand, imparting the knowledge somehow as to where the danger would come from, and where exactly he should move to.

In the darkest places, the edges of its blade glowed an eerie colour for which Skraivok had no name. It did not penetrate the darkness, but made it somehow deeper. Still Skraivok was led unerringly on. The sword tugged in his hand, drawing him down tunnels that he would never have thought to take, or that he would not even have identified as such. More than once he was sure it was making him double back, or return to the maze’s maddening heart along paths he could have sworn he had already trodden.

But he had no other choice, and so he allowed the sword to guide him.

The workmanship of the labyrinth was exquisite, with gears and mechanisms subtly concealed behind every surface. Occasionally he would halt at the sound of distant tremors, as though portions of the structure might be moving around him.

Unlocking, perhaps?

For hours he walked until, unexpectedly, he came to a forgotten chamber larger than all the rest. In the centre of the unlit room was a podium, and what looked like a weapon rest when he regarded it more closely, surrounded by battered suits of power armour. Around the suits were dark stains, and inside were the remains of legionaries.

Skraivok walked around the bodies. Their flesh had mummified in the ship’s arid air, turning obsidian black skin a dusty grey.

‘Salamanders,’ he whispered.

Skraivok thought then that he could guess who had been imprisoned in the labyrinth. He lifted the sword. ‘Are you showing me this so that I am more grateful? So that I realise I have no hope of escape without your guidance?’

He smiled. The weapon felt better in his hand than it had. Comfortable, almost.

He did not tarry long. He strode on, allowing himself to be guided by the subtle shifts in the weight of the sword.

Eventually, he found himself before a round vault door fashioned from gleaming adamantium, locked by eight bolt bars radiating from a massive wheel hub. Six skull-faced cogitator units ran in serial along the centre of the door, and a long array of illuminated red numbers were displayed in the view slots to their fronts. All were set to nought.

‘Locked, of course,’ he said. He looked down at the sword. Its sickly sheen no longer hurt his eyes so much. ‘I do not suppose you know the code, do you?’

The sword said nothing.

Skraivok stared at the lock. The cogitator housings were incorporated into the door itself seamlessly. There was no input device that he could see and, even if there were, he calculated the number of possible combinations. ‘Were I to key them all in the individually,’ he said to the sword, ‘I would be here, well…’ He laughed. ‘Forever.’

And that was only if the first failure did not come with a nasty surprise.

The lock was probably there to breed hope in a bed of despair. Skraivok was well versed in those arts, and refused to play Shang’s – or Curze’s? – game. It occurred to him that there might be more of this labyrinth beyond the door, and no exit.

One thing at a time. He must get through.

‘I wonder,’ he murmured, hefting the sword.

He prodded it against the adamantium. The point skidded off without leaving so much as a scratch. He frowned. The sword was powerful. If it could return mysteriously from destruction, who knew what else it could do?

With great care he balanced the sword point in the angle where the left-hand bolt went from door to lock. It was difficult to keep it there without the point biting into the metal, but he managed. He placed both hands on the pommel of the sword.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Get me out of here,’ he said aloud.

Nothing happened. He opened one eye then the other. The door remained unmarked. Skraivok maintained his temper well, having discovered in his early years that, in a world of murderers, a cool head and a charming manner opened many doors.

But they were not opening this one.

His concentration slipped, his mind replaying all the difficulties of the last six months through his perfect legionary memory. He grew despondent, but when Shang’s face emerged from the past his temper broke.

‘I am going to kill you, Shang,’ he growled. ‘I am going to use this sword to open you up from groin to throat, and I am going to make you dance in your own entrails! I am not going to rot down here. You will pay! You will suffer!’

The sword blazed with its unholy light. The adamantium parted under its point. With a grunt of effort, Skraivok levered it down, shearing through the bar. The resistance gone, he overbalanced and went down to his knees.

A mechanism deep inside the workings of the door made an angry beeping. Smoke curled from metal surfaces that bubbled and ran, though they remained cold.

Skraivok remained kneeling, the point of the blade resting on the floor. He stood. Had Kellenkir learned the depths of power that this sword offered? He suspected not, or they would all still be on Sotha.

He lifted the blade. Seven more bolts to go. He cut the lower four easily enough, but the three at the top were hard to reach. Only by removing his pauldrons and standing on their unsteady surfaces did he have enough height to cut them. His anger grew as he worked, crystallising in his heart until it was as hard and solid as the blade itself.

A last effort saw the final bolt sheer through. He sheathed the sword and stepped back from the scarred metal. He kept his eyes on it as he carefully replaced his armour. When he pushed on the door he was surprised to find it swung open easily.

On the other side was a narrow access way. He saw that it was formed by the outer edge of the labyrinth and the wall of a hold. He turned back and looked upwards at the soaring reaches of the space. The Nightfall’s lower holds were huge, capable of housing entire Titan maniples on the Great Crusade. This structure must have been immense to fill one so completely. As austere as this small, secondary hatchway was, this was a creation of staggering genius, and had been signed by its maker.

The outer wall was plain, but for a single, grille-mouthed, helmeted skull stamped into the metal. The sigil of the IV Legion.

Skraivok looked either way down the gap. No alarms sounded at his escape.

A few lumen work lamps hung along the way, casting pools of weak light. The spaces in between were thick with shadow. Skraivok could practically smell his primarch’s touch. This had all been of his devising, at some time or another.

Skraivok drew the sword and advanced cautiously. The lumens and shadows alternated to a vanishing point, and for a while he thought he might still be trapped, and this place a part of the labyrinth’s cruel trickery, until the bulkhead wall of the hold came into view, where was set a single door. He opened this quietly.

Two legionary sentries lounged at their posts. They were facing away from the door, and were probably intended to maintain the secrecy of the labyrinth rather than guarding against escape.

The first died in ignorance, Skraivok’s warp-given blade bursting through his chest. The second whirled around, boltgun coming up. Skraivok cut through the barrel as it fired, and the weapon burst into flame. The warrior threw it aside in shock, conveniently opening the way to his chest.

Skraivok ran one heart through first, then the other. The sword granted him great speed, and the edge cut through ceramite as if it were paper.

He grinned as the death croak of his foe sounded metallically from his vox-grille. It seemed absurd to him now that he had feared taking up the sword.

He waited a moment, ears straining for the sounds of alarm. The area was deserted. If the warriors had managed to alert their superiors – and that meant Shang – then they would likely be a long while coming.

There was time.

Skraivok dragged the bodies back into the hold. He looted the pauldrons from one, replacing his own livery. From the second he took the helmet and covered his face.

So disguised, he set off at a run.

Just to be sure, Skraivok killed the Atramentar warrior outside the Hall of Judgement. There was only one, and his lumbering, clumsy movements had no chance of catching the Painted Count. He pushed the dying veteran off the point of his blade with one foot, then kicked the copper doors wide and stepped over the sparking corpse of the Terminator into the room.

At the centre of the large chamber, thirteen captains and claw lords sat at a crescent table of black stone. They were each illuminated by a cone of soft light, set for Nostraman eyes. The rest of the room was in darkness. Visor lenses gleamed in the dark like the eyes of nocturnal predators. Skraivok unfastened his stolen helm and threw it down.

‘My brothers!’ he said. ‘I trust I am not too late for the vote?’

‘Skraivok!’ said the Exalted Terror Master Thandamell, coming to his feet. Half the others followed, some drawing their weapons, though Shang alone remained seated at the table, his fists clenched.

‘Yes!’ replied Skraivok, mimicking Thandamell’s surprise. ‘Are you not expecting me? I was supposed to be here, was I not?’

A number of guns were pointing at him. Skraivok was too light-headed with the mischief he was causing to care.

‘Or were you part of Shang’s little conspiracy?’ He levelled his sword. ‘I see he is sat right at the centre of your little gathering. That rather speaks to me of a foregone conclusion.’

‘Shut your mouth, Painted Count,’ said Thandamell, coming around the table and walking into the wide marble area where Skraivok stood. ‘If you were ever a contender for leadership, you no longer are. What kind of a man kills the sentry of the meeting he is to join?’

‘I can think of a few,’ said Skraivok.

‘Just… Just, take him,’ said Thandamell, gesturing to his warriors stationed around the room. ‘I knew we should never have released you after your initial confinement, Skraivok.’

‘It appears I cannot stay caught, eh?’ he replied, lifting the sword smoothly to Thandamell’s throat. ‘You meddle in the affairs of your betters, Terror Master. You are no claw leader. Order your men to stand down, or your head will be the first I remove.’

Skraivok took a step to the left, scoring the edge of Thandamell’s breastplate with the supernaturally keen edge of the blade. In this new position, he could not easily be hit without Thandamell being caught in the crossfire.

‘You cannot kill me with that sword. It has no power field. It is a relic.’

Skraivok glanced at the slumped, hulking Terminator outside. ‘Huh. It must be newer than it looks.’

Thandamell eyes twitched. He raised his hands slowly in surrender.

‘Now, I demand that my claim to the Kyroptera be recognised,’ said Skraivok.

‘Enough!’ shouted Shang. He slammed his hands down flat on the table and stood. ‘Skraivok, you are not fit to lead.’

‘But you are?’ laughed Skraivok. ‘You would have us throw our lives away chasing vengeance. Krukesh was actually right about one thing – if the Night Haunter were dead, we would know.’

‘Then we should find him.’

‘But you do not believe that he lives.’

‘Whereas you would have us attack Terra, leaderless.’

Skraivok smiled. ‘Not leaderless. Horus himself moves on the Throneworld. If Curze is alive, he will be there. We should gather all of the Legion that we can, and strike out immediately for the Segmentum Solar.’

‘And you would lead us in the interim?’

‘You would prefer that our Legion is left as nothing but a footnote in history? More than half of the warriors in this room supported my claim before you arranged my disappearance. You will not win by election. If you are so sure that I cannot lead the Night Lords, and that you should, your only course is to fight me. Take my right, by my death.’

‘Skraivok, I do not want to kill you. You would already be dead. I have had ample opportunity,’ said Shang.

‘No, you merely put me out of the way for a while. Or forever. Fight me!’ he shouted.

Shang’s body language changed. ‘You forget, I fought against the Lion and his best warriors alongside our father, and I lived.’

‘Yes, you did. How’s the hand?’ laughed Skraivok. ‘Have no doubt, Shang – I may not possess their power or their pride, but I have no fear of death, and that makes me more dangerous than any primarch.’

‘You think they will be afraid of you? You are insane.’

Skraivok grinned. ‘I keep telling you, I am not. I do not care if you live or die. Relinquish your claim, or I will kill you. You can be certain of that.’

Shang jerked his head. Thandamell backed away slowly. Skraivok let his sword follow him for a couple of feet – he was exposed, but he was confident that Shang would not order him shot. The others would never trust him again after so blatant an assassination.

Shang drew his own blade as he came out from behind the table. It emitted a sharp crack as he ignited the disruption field.

‘Think again, Painted Count,’ said Shang. ‘This is your last chance.’

‘I have no second thoughts,’ Skraivok replied.

‘So be it.’

Shang came at him fast, his sword held in a double-handed grip.

Time slowed. Skraivok saw the blow coming before Shang had finished formulating his attack. As Shang swung at him, Skraivok stepped out, round, and spun, his sword skimming over the top of the captain’s backpack, and cutting neatly through the skull.

Shang stumbled. His mouth gaped and went slack. His knees gave out, and he collapsed, the upper half of his head sliding free as he fell, spilling his brains across the floor.

A stunned quiet gripped the room.

‘Did you see how fast he moved...?’ someone whispered.

‘None of you understand anything,’ Skraivok called out. ‘You are arrogant and narrow-minded. You think you know power. You think power is invested in the here and now – that it can only be won through violence, terror and cruelty, the dominance of your will over the flesh of others. That is not power...’

He brandished the sword.

‘We look down upon Horus’ allies that court the services of the warp, seeing them as feeble idolators. But there is power in the empyrean, there to be seized by those who are strong!’ The words came from his mouth, and in his voice, but he could not be sure they were entirely his own. ‘This is true power, far above anything in the material realm. You disdain what you do not understand.’

He sheathed the weapon. Despite its recent employment, it was bloodless. ‘Are there any more objections to my command? I have proved myself twice now. I will not hesitate to do so again.’

The others looked back at him. No one said anything. Thandamell took a step forwards.

‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords,’ he said flatly.

‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords!’ the others echoed, tentatively at first, but with growing conviction. ‘Hail Skraivok, first among claw lords!’

‘Congratulations,’ said Thandamell. The Terror Master wore an insolent look on his face and kept his eyes locked with Skraivok’s, but he still knelt before him.

Skraivok looked at them all. The sensation of weight on his back grew noticeable for a moment, then faded from his notice.

‘There are those among us who think the Legion is done,’ he said. ‘That stops now. We are not finished. Krukesh had a sizeable fleet, and he said more of our brothers survived Thramas. We here at Argosi represent a sizeable force, but we will find more. We are still a Legion! I give you twenty days to finish the repairs to the Nightfall. Redouble all efforts. Strip the planet bare if need be, and oil the work with the blood of its people. In twenty days we shall depart, and we shall be ready to strike for Terra.’

About the Author

Guy Haley is the author of the Space Marine Battles novel Death of Integrity, the Warhammer 40,000 novels Valedor and Baneblade, and the novellas The Eternal Crusader, The Last Days of Ector and Broken Sword, for Damocles. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in Warstorm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

The light of Imperium Secundus is threatened as night falls on Sotha – is this the end for Guilliman’s new empire?

A Black Library Publication

Published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Painted Count © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Painted Count, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-274-5

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