Lord of the Night

Chianni stirred, throwing off her obvious awe to grasp at the loose end left flailing.

'And the feral child? What of him?'

Sahaal smiled again, warmth flourishing in his chest. Ah, my master...

'He had no tutors. No one would take him in, so he grew wild and independent. No one would feed him, so he learned to hunt and feed himself. No one would comfort him when he was taken by the nightmares in his sleep, or by the visions that plagued his waking hours, or by the fits that wracked his body — so he grew strong and wily, and overcame the nightmares, and deciphered the visions, and repressed the fits.

'No one would teach him what justice was, and so — like no child had ever done before, and no child has ever done since — he taught himself. He saw callousness and cruelty, and recognised them. He saw strength being abused, productivity and peace being surrendered to terror and violence. And do you know what he learned, child?'

'N-no, my lord.'

'He learned that justice is strength. He learned that if he wished to overcome the predators that haunted the darkness, he need only become the strongest predator of them all. He learned that if he wished to punish a murderer, it required only that he be a more accomplished killer. He learned that if he wished to bring peace and equality to his world — and oh, he wanted that so much — he must hunt down those filth that stood in its way and use their weapons against them.

'And he learned that there is only one weapon. Stronger than any gun. Sharper than any blade.' Sahaal leaned close to the priestess, her ashen face reflected with bulbous distortion in the crimson windows of his eyes. 'That weapon is fear, child.'

She swallowed, eyes not leaving him for an instant.

Sahaal went on, quieter than before, voice no more than a whisper. The thugs and the thieves, the rapists and the murderers: they gripped that world tight in their hands because every man and woman was afraid of them. And so the feral warrior became the one thing that would stop them:

'Something that even they would learn to fear. He became the Night Haunter.

'He taught them justice through terror. He led that world into peace and efficiency, where before only violence and anarchy had reigned, and he did so unaided, alone in the dark, for the good of them all.

'His name was Konrad Curze, and he was my master.'

He leaned away from the priestess and watched her closely, gauging her response. She struggled, of course — who would not? — but again the curiosity at her core overcame the awe, an addict demanding more before even the drug-rush has faded.

'Your master...' she breathed. 'What happened to him?'

'His father found him. The Emperor came to him and embraced him, and they went into the stars to lead the mightiest crusade that ever was.'

'S-so he lives? He lives still?'

A bleak tableau erupted behind Sahaal's eyes: a scene he had revisited in his dreams a million times over, each one cutting him deeper than the last.

A pale face, awaiting the killer. Black eyes — bottomless, pouring with angst — staring from the shadows of the writhing room. Its fleshwalls and limb carpets shift underfoot... and the hitch draws near.

Sahaal had been there. He had seen it, hiding in the shadows like some child at play, honouring his vow with tears upon his cheeks. He would not intervene. He would not stop her. He would watch and nothing more: and it hurt him like a cold fire in his guts that could never be doused.

She steps close, horrified at her surroundings, entranced by the target's naked form.

He has been expecting her. He has foreseen this moment.

She sweeps towards him and is surprised. She has been expecting guards. She has anticipated violence. Instead the Haunter smiles and beckons her close, and he speaks.

Oh, by the dark, his voice...

Such words of venom and vengeance he spoke, such heartbroken sentiments.

He smiles throughout, and even as his voice breaks and the tears puncture their inertia and gather in streams along his pallid cheeks, he is welcoming. He is warm. He is calm.