Chapter 278: Nightfall Approaches
The galaxy was too vast, and the Imperium vaster still. Its Legions were condemned to chase war across the tides of the warp, forever battered and shaken by that storm in order to reach yet another battlefield.
At last, the Death Guard fleet tore free from countless jumps and emerged into the material realm. From the viewport, Hades glimpsed the silhouettes of other fleets waiting in the distance, and finally let out a long breath.
They had arrived.
He felt as though the warp's turbulence had nearly killed him; at times he swore he could see the phantasms of its denizens dry-heaving in his direction.
Hades was certain of it now—the warp hated him.
During those long, idle stretches of transit, he had at least managed one thing: as Master of the Forge, he formally took in Pasteur as his first apprentice. Pasteur's social death had been so spectacular that it nearly dragged Hades down with him.
Korklan objected, of course. His objection was crushed.
Not that Hades supervised the fool much. His preferred method was simply to toss Pasteur into the Armoury and let him blunder about; if problems arose, the boy was free to come knocking at his office.
Which meant that whenever Hades opened his office door, he usually found Pasteur and Aubrey—another inquisitive talent from the Administratum—locked in some bizarre staring contest.
Hades could not fathom it. One was pathologically silent, the other pathologically talkative. Their companies, cultures, and fields of expertise couldn't be further apart. And yet, somehow, they argued.
At least when it escalated, Vorx was usually there to scold them for brawling outside the Master of the Forge's office.
But all that was behind them now. With the fleet anchored once more in realspace, the Death Guard snapped back into high readiness. Their scythes were poised to fall again, prepared to bring ruin upon the disobedient—
—after the officers sat down with other Legions' officers, of course, and agreed on a strategy.
This time, the names blinking on Hades' screen gave him pause.
The Luna Wolves. And the Night Lords.
If it were only the Luna Wolves, that would be excellent. Horus was both glorious and pragmatic, and, almost uniquely among the Primarchs, capable of true empathy for his brothers. The Death Guard had even fought beside them once before. Setting aside the gnawing worry that Horus might yet steal Mortarion away, the unfallen Luna Wolves were superb allies on the battlefield.
But… this time there were also the Night Lords.
The Eighth Legion.
If the Death Guard's reputation was poor, then the Night Lords' was outright toxic. Hades honestly couldn't decide which name drew more loathing.
Their Primarch was Konrad Curze of Nostramo—a world every bit as foul as Barbarus. The difference was simply this: Barbarus was poisoned by everything but humanity, while Nostramo was rotted through by humanity.
One might call it Gotham City, on a supercharged multiplier.
And of course, every Primarch bore the indelible mark of his world. Raised in such a cesspit, Curze displayed behaviors no one else could understand—
For example, the Night Lords' favored stratagem was to torture a few captives to death, then dump their mangled corpses where the survivors could see. Terror would do the rest, and the enemy would collapse without a fight.
Konrad Curze called his methods efficient and necessary crimes. The Night Lords, he claimed, shouldered the burdensome sins the Imperium demanded of them. Through their fear tactics, they could conquer a world with minimal losses, leaving its infrastructure intact and ready for immediate use.
From a purely pragmatic standpoint, their doctrine worked.
Of course, that hardly mattered to the men who returned home to find the flayed corpses of their wives and daughters strung up as a "lesson."
It was no surprise, then, that many of the other Primarchs condemned Curze's approach. Guilliman—fresh from his collaboration with the Death Guard—had once denounced the Night Haunter in words that still echoed:
"Mercy is the sibling of Justice. Without mercy, Justice becomes cruelty, pitiless and profane!"
Guilliman believed Curze lacked the mercy necessary to balance judgment.
Hades himself, however, felt little outrage. Under the Imperium's banner, atrocities were countless and unending. Curze had simply dragged those shadows into the open, painting them in blood for all to see. His methods were… more vivid, nothing more.
The Death Guard's style was no gentler. Hades recalled the shattered husk of Galaspar, the mid-tier administrators hanging from gallows, the experimental weapons unleashed without restraint. He forced himself to stop there—if not for the last campaign being against psykers, Guilliman would no doubt have found ample reason to lecture Mortarion on the Death Guard's own cruelty.
Still, Hades couldn't help but wonder: if the Night Lords were ever pitted against the xenos horrors, would their fear tactics hold?
His musings ended as the vox crackled to life. The summons had come. The war council would be held aboard the Vengeful Spirit—Horus' flagship—as was custom. Among the three Primarchs present, Horus was the most esteemed, and so his ship served as neutral ground. Mortarion, of course, had already ordered the Death Guard fleet to remain on high alert.
Hades had little expectation for the council's outcome. If anything, Horus would likely spend more effort smoothing over introductions than finalizing strategies. He always enjoyed weaving bonds between brothers.
Curiously enough, in the "original" flow of history, Mortarion and Curze maintained an oddly close rapport. That much, Hades could understand. Both legions thrived on cruelty—not as indulgence, but as a weapon sharpened for war.
Still, for the actual logistics of the campaign, Hades had already decided he'd prefer dealing with someone far more competent than Curze himself. Someone like Sevatar. Or Sevatar. Or—yes—Sevatar.
Just as Calas Typhon was half-jokingly called the true commander of the Death Guard, so too was Sevatar the de facto master of the Night Lords. Unlike Calas Typhon, though, Sevatar had earned it.
Expressionless, Hades stood within the Stormbird. Same transport. Same formation. The indicator light over the hatch flicked green. A white seam of brilliance split the dark interior, and instinctively, Hades closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was met with the same sight as last time: Horus Lupercal, radiant and smiling with open warmth.
And at his side…
A gaunt, towering figure, hunched and skeletal, draped in shadows—Konrad Curze.
Hades heard it then—the sharp hiss of breath drawn through Mortarion's respirator.
It was fitting, in its way. Mortarion was often likened to the grim reaper itself, a thing of death and corpses. Curze was something far darker: a living nightmare given flesh.
Mortarion loathed brothers who wrapped themselves in hollow nobility and radiant virtue. But would this time be different? Would the Lord of Death find kinship with the Lord of Night?
Hades had no interest in the answer. Nor was it his place to decide. As with the farcical banquet before, his role remained unchanged: to make sure the Death Guard didn't lose their collective sanity just because their Primarch did.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the chamber. He wasn't here for the theatre of gods. He was here for familiar faces.
And, of course, the first one he found was Abaddon.
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