Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

‘Clear,’ he called, in the same moment Alajos called the same.

The Lion moved to one of the black rock pillars, stroking a gauntleted hand down its sculpted side. Corswain doubted it escaped the primarch’s notice that the stone was clearly quarried off-world and brought here for use.

‘Do you hear something?’ he asked.

Alajos turned to the primarch. ‘The wind, my liege.’

Corswain didn’t answer at first. Could he hear something beneath the wind clawing at his helm’s receptors? Something beyond his own slow breathing and the machine-beat of his pulse tracker at the left edge of his retinal display? With a blink-click, he disabled his active retinal screen.

The world’s breath howled on.

‘Just the wind, sire.’

‘Very well,’ the Lion replied. ‘Now we wait.’

VII

ON THE STRIKE of the third minute, a second sonic boom of displaced air heralded the enemy’s arrival. Corswain looked into the nexus of spreading mist as the ship’s atmosphere teleported down with the enemy dissipated into the wind. His lenses didn’t filter out the light fast enough, and in the wake of the transition flare, Corswain had to blink to clear his aching eyes. Tears came unbidden, not from pain or torment, but as the biological response to soothe the irritation.

The Lion anticipated his movements, for he said ‘Weapons down, little brothers,’ as soon as the knight felt his muscles bunch.

‘Yes, my liege,’ Alajos murmured, displeasure raw in his tone.

Corswain swallowed his awe at what stood before him. A cadaverous god, in midnight clad, each armoured finger ending in a charged blade the length of a scythe. Black hair at the mercy of the world’s winds streamed back from a corpse’s face. Chained skulls rattled against war plate etched with runic writing rejoicing in past massacres and celebrating atrocity against the empire of humanity. This husk of nobility, this emaciated wraith now no more than the shadow of a prince, bared teeth filed to fangs as he opened his arms to the Lion, offering a welcoming embrace.

‘My brother,’ hissed Konrad Curze, Lord of the VIII Legion. His was a viper’s smile, just as predatory, just as brazen in its hunger. ‘I have missed you.’

The Lion hesitated. He raised his hands to his collar, unlocking the helm’s seals hidden there, and pulled the helmet free. An expression of naked surprise marked his features, yet his face was still an angel’s countenance – not the beatific, handsome lies of ancient religious myth, but rather the truth of Terran artistry: a face that could’ve been shaped from tanned marble, emerald eyes with soulful depths, contrasted by a mouth that would forever struggle to show emotion.

To Corswain’s eyes, Curze was pathetic, ghoulish, in comparison. A wretched husk facing a knight-lord, claws against a prince’s sword.

‘Curze?’ The Lion asked, his resonant voice softened by disbelief. ‘What has happened to you?’

The Night Lord ignored the question, speaking with insincerity rich enough to make Corswain’s teeth ache. ‘Thank you for coming. How it warms my heart to see you.’

The Lion drew his blade in a slow, clean movement. He neither brought it en garde, nor threatened the other primarch. Instead, he clutched it in both black gauntlets, the crosspiece hilt before his face as he stared at Curze above the quillions.

‘I will ask you this once and once only: Why did you betray our father?’

‘I would ask you something in return, brother,’ Curze answered with a grin, his filed teeth on display. The clawed primarch’s eyes were unhealthily bright, rich with a secret sickness. ‘Why did you not?’

The Lion lowered his blade to end the salute, knightly respects now paid. ‘Our father has charged me to take your head back to Terra.’

‘Our father said nothing, for he hides within his dungeons, collecting the secrets of the universe and sharing them with no one. Lorgar and Magnus have seen everything our father sought to hide, so do not carry a precious little lie as your shield, Lion. You are Dorn’s hound, running here to the Eastern Fringe because he ordered you.’ Curze licked his filed teeth. ‘Come, brother. Let us at least do one another the service of being honest. I know Dorn.’ Here, the Night Lord gave his cadaverous smile again. ‘He sent you to do that which he feared to try himself.’

‘I did not come to duel with words, Konrad. I came to end this crusade.’

The Night Lord shook his head, his pallid face grey in the weak moonlight. His lips were the only colour on his visage, and even they were a bloodless blue. ‘Speak with me, brother. Listen, reply in kind, and then decide if we must continue this war.’

‘You will not sway me with your traitor’s tongue.’

Curze nodded, utterly unsurprised. His vile facade cracked for a moment, revealing the warrior he’d once been – perhaps never pure, never free of torment, but capable of emotion beyond this condescending bitterness. The strain lines of pain faded from his brow, and the serpent’s sneer left his lips. His voice was still raw, still ruined, but now carried an edge of sorrow. ‘I know. So what harm is there in speaking together, this one last time?’

The Lion nodded. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered his sons. ‘I will return soon.’

VIII

THE TWO NIGHT Lords had no need to introduce themselves, for their identities were known throughout the million-strong ranks of the Legiones Astartes. Both wore helms with painted-skull faceplates; both bore armour trophies of oversized skulls and Dark Angel helms hanging from their war plate on bronze chains; and both stood at ease, watching the warriors from the First Legion through red eye lenses. One of them leaned on the haft of a long halberd, a weapon he was renowned for. The other held a bolter at rest, a cloak of black weave draped over one shoulder and down his back.

‘You look familiar,’ the first warrior spoke. He nodded his head towards Alajos. ‘We met at Kruun, did we not?’

Alajos’s voice barely rose above a growl. ‘Aye. We did.’

‘Yes, I recall the moment now.’ The Night Lord chuckled whisper-soft, and mimed a two-handed chop with his halberd. The deactivated chainblade atop the spear’s haft was over a metre long, grinning with its stilled teeth. ‘I’m surprised you survived, Angel. It was careless of me to allow that. How is the face?’

Corswain moved to rest his hand on his brother’s bolter. He spoke over their helm-vox, so the Night Lords wouldn’t hear. ‘Be calm, captain. Don’t let him wound you with childish words.’

Alajos nodded. He spoke as Corswain moved away. ‘It has healed well. Your flawed carving did sting for several minutes afterwards, though.’

‘That’s good news. It is wise of you to wear the helm this time, cousin. The last time I saw your face, most of it was a wet ribbon of flayed flesh stuck to the ground by my feet. My brothers in the First Company enjoy the tale, for it was the first time I’ve ever started to skin an Angel while he was still alive.’

Alajos grunted in reply, his hands fairly twitching with the need to raise his bolter and open fire. ‘I will kill you, Sevatar. On my life, I swear it.’

‘Cousin, cousin, cousin… I outrank you, do I not? That’s First Captain Sevatarto you, little Angel.’

‘Peace,’ Corswain voxed. ‘Peace, brother. Vengeance will come, and be all the sweeter for this moment.’

This time, the cloaked warrior spoke. ‘You. Angel in the fur. Do you know me?’

Corswain turned to them both. He felt the wind pick up, ruffling the white fur cloak around his shoulders. ‘Yes, Sheng. I know you.’

‘The skinned animal you wear as a trophy. I’ve never seen such a thing. What manner of creature is that?’

Corswain grinned. ‘It’s the beast that never dies in my dreams.’