Lord of the Night

She tried to shut out the whispers, the cruel inklings that spoke with her own voice, that stoked the fires of her paranoia, but they would not be silenced. They spread to overwhelm her, and in a panic she turned to the one glowing fragment of her soul which they could not penetrate: her faith.

In its glow, all her doubts were excised. By its light the whispering voices were silenced.

Had she been used? Had she been cruelly manipulated?

No, of course not. She fought not in the name of these people, but in the name of the Emperor! He did not hate her. Was it not through him that her powers were granted? Was it not through him that the future could be navigated, imparted through his tarot and the furor arcanum like seeds of prophecy?

He did not despise her. He would not use her so.

And yes, his agents were a teeming mass, contradictory and contemptible. Let them hate her, if they must. Let them pursue their own agendas, let them lock their horns together and schism like splintering ice. Let the Inquisition cast her out, let Orodai's black-suited worms despise her, let the whole of the universe rail against her if they must.

The Emperor loved her. She was certain.

Mollified, she rose to her feet. The vindictors had erected several small illuminator-tripods to allow the medics to work, and by their pale light she glanced around the room, sickened by the carnage. She wondered vaguely what to do next. Certainly her usefulness as a combatant had expired — she could barely stand, let alone fight — and at any rate the Night Lord was long gone. There would be no hope of catching it now.

Should she report, then, to Orodai? No doubt he would blame her for this calamity, and the curses of hateful men was something she could happily do without. No, she'd stay clear of Orodai, for now. He had more than enough to be getting along with.

Besides, there was one final strand to this vast, tangled investigation that remained un-plucked. One remaining clue to be pursued.

The package. That was why the Night Lord had come here in the first place. That was why he had entered the hive. That was why he had faced the Glacier Rats, captured Slake, ventured here to this blood-splattered room. All to retrieve the package that had been stolen from him.

So what was it? What item could possibly encourage a beast such as he to wreak such havoc in a hostile place? And who could have stolen it from him?

Mita pursued answers in the only way that she could. She stumbled into the open elevator from which the majordomo had been abducted, kicked aside a dissected limb from the door runnels, and watched the doors close before her.

As the elevator rumbled to life, she wondered whether the Night Lord had learned from his captive the identity of his target. She imagined its blue-black form slinking back to its lair, demanding answers from the cringing majordomo, hissing and spitting. Would it be that simple, she wondered? Would he find his thief quickly?

She guessed not. Commander Orodai was not stupid enough to commit all his resources to a single engagement.

The Night Lord would find little sanctuary in his lair.

Zso Sahaal

And then, like the end of a beautiful dream, everything fell apart.

Sahaal returned to his domain along dark and secret paths, slipping once more into the underhive through the abyssal rent in the earth that had first granted him entry. He'd been concerned, as he raced to cross the snowy expanse outside the Macharius gate, that his unconscious captive might freeze before he could even be interrogated. He needn't have worried: beneath the man's thick cloak he proved to be a porcine specimen, a healthy layer of fat providing adequate insulation from the cold. Just another decadent blob from a decadent world. Sahaal would enjoy getting answers out of this man.

He'd slipped down through the empty underhive like an eidolon, ghosting through settlements that had been decimated days before by the Preafect pogrom.

He sneaked through deserted villages and empty nomad-trains, musing upon their former inhabitants. All had either died or descended to join his army.

His Empire.

The mere thought of it cheered him, exorcising the insult of the gateroom ambush from his mind. His army. His children — ready to rise up at his command and wreak havoc wherever he desired.

Somewhere, in the quiet shadows at the rear of his mind, he reminded himself that they existed only to die. He would throw them into the jaws of their enemies to bring anarchy and madness to this fearful city, and in the crippled wake of their sacrifice his brothers of the Night Lords Legion would arrive to find their path open, their advance uncontested. But these were stifled thoughts, buried at the base of a mind revelling in its dominion. He admitted to himself that the very idea of sacrificing his children troubled him, filling him with an uncertain chagrin that he couldn't explain.