Lord of the Night

He alone had collated information on all twelve of Sahaal's slayings. He alone noted the spiral scars cut into each corpse. He alone recognised the power, the lethality, of the killer on the loose. He alone had compiled maps and behavioural patterns, identifying the point central to each murder. He alone had found Sahaal's lair.

And he alone was bold enough to come looking for him, seeking influence and opportunity over whatever force of destruction had entered his territory.

And he alone was fortunate enough to be in a position to achieve both.

Sahaal cursed his name again, flexed his claws impotently, and prepared to cut him free.

Mita Ashyn

The knocking at her cell door, which she had been expecting, came in the evening of the third day. The cowled acolyte responsible sniggered as she read the summons he delivered.

Her master demanded an audience.

Having failed utterly to distinguish herself at the crash site of the Umbrea Insidior — its name being the only detail she remembered from her trance and subsequent blackout — she expected the summons to herald a formal discharge. The Inquisition was ruthless in defending its obscurity, and if that required ineffectual personnel to be cerebrally cleansed or, worse, culled, then so be it.

She had spent the intervening days meditating — neither scrying nor dreaming, but basking in the Emperor's light — and when the summons arrived she had prepared herself for death, or at least lobotomisation, as best she could.

Kaustus received her alone — that was the first of her surprises, she'd assumed the retinue would turn out in force to witness the spectacle of its newest member being cast aside.

'Interrogator,' Kaustus greeted her, not looking up. He sat at a simple desk in the centre of his suite, engrossed in a bundle of parchments and auspex pads, and delicately laid down his writing stylus as she dipped her head in return.

'My lord.'

The second shock, and one for which she was utterly unprepared, was that he had removed his mask. His face was unremarkable — somewhat gaunt, perhaps, bordering on the aquiline — and his hair, tied in a tall black tower that crested his head like a topknot, could hardly be described as outlandish amongst the clashing fashions of the upper hive. But it was his teeth that stood out. Two of them, at any rate.

Inquisitor Kaustus had tusks.

'Orkish,' he said, without prompt.

Mita realised she'd been staring and lowered her eyes, brows furrowing in uncertainty. He hadn't even looked up.

'For three days I stalked the bastard through the tar pits on Phyrra. We'd freed his slaves, wiped out his war-band, crippled his fleet and filled his green flesh with more lead than a target range, but the brute wouldn't give in. Warlords are like that. Proud. Stubborn.'

Mita fidgeted, wondering if this was some perverse treat the inquisitor reserved for the condemned: a story from his own lips, a glimpse of his secret features, then a bullet between the eyes. If Kaustus noted her tension, he gave little sign.

'We caught up with him on the edge of a volcano,' he continued, turning a page of parchment before him, 'and after he'd hacked his way through my men I fought that piece of xeno filth for two hours. The way I saw it, if he'd killed me he would have taken my head as a trophy.' He twanged a tusk with a gloved finger, finally looking up with a smirk. 'This seemed an appropriate measure.'

Mita wondered if she should comment. As ever, the inquisitor sent her confidence crashing around her, robbing her of any certainty. A wrong word, a misplaced facial expression: in a man as unreadable as this, such things could be disastrous.

On the other hand, if she was here to die anyway...

'I imagine, my lord,' she said carefully, 'they come in useful.'

He nodded, smiling at her boldness.

'Indeed they do. To the ork, symbols of status are vital. I've seen the vermin retreat rather than face a human with tusks greater than their own. I've seen them turn on their own lords when their enemy's fangs are taller or sharper than his. A simple thing, but so very effective.'

Mita's resignation to her fate lent her a dangerous bravery. Go outfighting, she thought.

'Though I imagine they make eating difficult.'

There was a cold, uncomfortable silence. Kaustus's eyes burnt a hole through her.

And then he began to laugh.

'It depends,' he said, when the chuckles subsided, 'what it is you're trying to eat.'

'Am I to be discharged?' Mita said, tiring of the niceties. If she was here to die she'd rather skip the preamble.

For the first time she felt as though she had Kaustus's full attention, and she met his gaze openly. He steepled his fingers.

'No,' he said, finally, 'though the idea was... considered.'

Something like relief, mixed with a perverse portion of disappointment, filtered through Mita's mind.

'You gave us the name of the vessel, interrogator,' Kaustus said, 'which is in itself a revealing detail. That you were so... affected... speaks volumes.'