Fel Jarost paused for about half a minute before, lowering his head, he answered his Primarch:
"They… uh… are dueling with Mr. Kariél Lohars."
Konrad Curze also paused for a moment, but his first action was not to ask for details, but to correct the captain.
"Do not call him 'Mister' and do not add any other titles to his name, Fel. Address him the same way I do: Kariél or Lohars. But not 'Mister'."
"Understood, Primarch," Fel nodded in bewilderment.
Curze took a deep breath and rose from his seat.
Forty minutes ago, he had kept his word and remembered the name of every warrior of the Eighth Legion. A feat that for ne
it was not difficult at all.
No one entered the door after that.
So, one might say, Konrad Curze was even a little glad when he saw Fell Jarost enter.
Only he did not expect that his joy would quickly turn to anxiety.
"A duel?"
Heading for the exit, he turned back to Fell. Curze had already studied the detailed map of the "Night Haunter" and memorized every detail, so he didn't need a guide.
"What exactly is happening there?" he asked.
The former captain of the Third Company hurried after his Primarch and began to explain in a low voice:
"They say it was Lord Kariel's own suggestion."
"At first, it was just a brawl, but it quickly escalated into a free-for-all with grappling. And now they're fighting with weapons, Primarch..."
"So it's not a duel after all?" Curze clarified, deciding to ignore "Lord" for now.
"I don't think there's much difference, Primarch."
"We all think it's a real duel," Fell replied, his face pale. His skin was now worse than some underhive mutants. "Lord Kariel has a blunted training sword, while the others have sharpened combat weapons."
"That's not a problem."
Hearing this, Konrad Curze, walking down the dark corridor, visibly relaxed his shoulders with relief.
"Kariel must have insisted on it himself... or perhaps even demanded it."
"Yes, Primarch, that's how it was," confirmed Fell Jarost. "Also, I would like to apologize to you."
"More precisely, we all would like to apologize," he added with a tremor in his voice. "All eight former company captains were there, but we didn't stop it in time..."
"The desire to see the truth is natural for a human. I don't blame you. As for the 'former captains'... I will reconsider this matter tomorrow and put it to a vote. Your decision to relinquish your authority is pure recklessness."
Curze frowned sternly and, quickening his pace but trying to maintain his dignity, addressed Fell in a tone close to a reprimand:
"This is proof of your past merits and honor. How could you give it up so easily?"
"Forgive me, Primarch."
"Don't apologize to me. Neither you nor the others are at fault with me. Now, let's go faster."
Konrad Curze sighed heavily. He wasn't worried about Kariel. He was worried about everyone else.
About each of them.
...
"I'm not a master swordsman after all," Kariel thought.
His opponent lunged, aiming directly for his heart. The blow was fast, precise, and furious.
But it was clear that the warrior was holding back. The reason was simple: his blade was a combat weapon, while Kariel held only a blunted training sword.
In response to this courtesy, Kariel swayed slightly to the side, and the point passed a millimeter from him. The opponent immediately changed tactics: the blade, like a living snake, darted towards his shoulder.
And again, he restrained the force of the blow.
Kariel couldn't help but smile.
His response was simple. He reversed his grip on the blunt sword – his most familiar way – shifting the center of gravity, and, like a short blade, with a precise movement, knocked the weapon from his opponent's hands.
"No need to hold back, Rikhtnal," he said quietly. "I told you: if we want to make this fight even a little fair, you should have more advantages."
"Is that an insult?"
The warrior, named Rikhtnal, replied sternly. His lips were tightly pressed in their usual grimace, making his face look carved from stone.
"Of course not."
"Then why are you saying that? You have a blunt blade, and I have a combat weapon that can kill. I have to hold back! This fight is unfair!"
"This fight was unfair from the very beginning."
"Perhaps, Kariel! Perhaps you are stronger than us in hand-to-hand combat, but sword fighting is a completely different matter! A sword doesn't care about height, strength, or anything else!"
Rikhtnal's words were met with a storm of approving shouts from the stands. The warriors of the Eighth Legion cheered his speech, encouraging their comrade.
Kariel sighed softly.
Rikhtnal assumed a combat stance: right foot forward, left foot back at an angle. He held the sword in one right hand and charged at Kariel.
And, as before, he held back.
The blade flickered in the air – lunges, slashes, thrusts... Rikhtnal moved so fast that the eyes couldn't keep up with him.
Simple and direct techniques followed one another, one hand on the hilt was replaced by two. It seemed that if the air were solid, it would have been chopped into fine dust.
Kariel frowned and began to dodge the continuous barrage of attacks.
He could, of course, parry them with his sword, but he understood perfectly: by recklessly blocking the blows of a master like Rikhtnal, one could easily fall into the trap of his style.
He couldn't let this duel, which had already lasted five hours, end in blood – neither his nor theirs. Otherwise, the consequences could be quite unpleasant.
Although what was happening was already out of his control.
"You can't win with dodges alone!" Rikhtnal shouted. "Come on! Defeat me in a fair fight or fall by my hand!"
He repeated his first wide lunge again, and the blade darted towards Kariel's throat with incredible speed. The most surprising thing was that even at such speed, he managed to hold back.
Kariel's observation allowed him to notice this. In the eyes of the warrior named Rikhtnal, besides the thirst for victory, there was a clear caution.
Such caution was not characteristic of someone obsessed only with winning.
"Interesting..."
At that moment, Kariel gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.
Yes, he was not a master of fencing, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn.
The foundation of any weapon combat is footwork. It is what allows one to unleash the full potential of the blade. And Rikhtnal's movements did not seem too difficult for him to remember.
He took a step to the left, raised his hands, and crossed his wrists. The next second, the clang of clashing blades echoed through the vast arena.
The sound bounced inside the black metal cage, growing and turning into a roar that drowned out even the crowd's cheers.
Rikhtnal froze in place, stunned, for a moment forgetting the attack.
"This... is my stance," the young sword master finally said.
"Yes."
"Do you wield a sword?"
"No."
"But... this is my stance."
"Exactly."
Silence. Silence again. A moment later, Rikhtnal lowered his sword.
The meaning of this gesture was obvious.
"I surrender," he said calmly, as if seeing no shame in it.
"If you are capable of such a thing, further combat would only be an humiliation for me."
"No, Rikhtnal."
Kariel shook his head and said sincerely, simultaneously lowering – or rather, throwing – his blunt sword to the floor:
"In fencing, I have already lost. I don't know a single move, and you could have noticed that from my previous movements."
"And you, in turn, never struck with full force. So, if anyone should surrender, it's me."
Rikhtnal frowned, showing a hint of irritation for the first time:
"How can you say that? If we continued the fight, I would definitely lose!"
"Does victory matter that much?"
Kariel smiled gently and shook his head.
"I didn't enter this arena to defeat you. I wanted to understand you. Just like Arresta, who fought me first, didn't fight for victory."
"You... remembered his name?"
"I remembered the names of everyone who told me them," Kariel nodded calmly. "It's not difficult, is it?"
Yes, it's not difficult. Rikhtnal nodded silently in agreement.
"Perhaps it's not difficult to remember," he said quietly. "But the attitude itself is valuable... Who are you, Kariel Lohars?"
He looked at him with bewilderment.
"Why are you... so calm?"
Kariel did not answer this question. He merely turned, as if foreseeing the future, towards the large door on the second level. The training hall was sunken into the floor, and there was only one entrance and exit.
And there stood a giant with a face as pale as a sheet.
The noise from below the arena instantly died down.
...
"Are you angry, Konrad?"
"No."
"You were silent before you answered. A very suspicious silence."
"I'm not angry."
"At least it ended well," Konrad Curze said calmly. "The moment you said you remembered everyone's name, their gazes changed."
"But that doesn't negate the fact that my origins still remain a mystery to them."
Kariel smiled and, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms.
"How are you going to explain everything to them?"
"I don't know."
After another pause, Konrad Curze replied. Suffering was reflected on his face, and at that moment, he finally looked like a child of only a year and a half.
"Tomorrow I have a troop review, Kariel... I understand the meaning of this word, but I don't understand why it's necessary. I already know everyone. Why a review? And also an official speech... How was today's speech, Kariel? Good enough?"
The giant, to whom he addressed, could not suppress a smile, shook his head, and quietly replied:
"How should I know? You are the Lord of the Eighth Legion here."
"But I don't understand speeches at all."
"And why do you think I do? On Nostramo, I didn't have the opportunity to hone this skill, Konrad. Or should I have read pompous tirades in High Gothic over the corpses of bandits and aristocrats?"
"Well, maybe you can give some advice?"
"You are the Lord of the Eighth Legion, Konrad Curze," Kariel shook his head gently. "Don't you still understand how much you mean to them? They obeyed you from the first day. And, by the way, your speech today was magnificent."
"Really?"
"Of course. Although it didn't have any loud battle cries, when you asked if they were ready to accept you, many were almost in tears."
"I didn't notice that."
"Because you yourself were on the verge of tears."
Kariel turned away so that Curze couldn't see his face, and only after a moment continued:
"So, shall we return to the main question?"
"Yes."
"How are you going to explain to them who I am?"
The Lord of the Eighth Legion was silent for a long time before answering. It was obvious that he had carefully considered his words, and therefore his answer greatly surprised Kariel.
"I won't tell them directly. There's no point. They will accept whatever I say. Even if I lie, they will believe this lie as truth."
"But I can't lie to them, Kariel. I can't. You yourself said it, didn't you? Good must be repaid with even greater good."
"That's why I want them to participate in the cleansing and restructuring of Nostramo... they will participate in it anyway. In the process, they will inevitably encounter the image you have created... they will understand who you are."
"Yes, they will understand. They will learn the legend of the avenging spirit... but that doesn't matter to me, child."
Kariel looked at him tenderly. The Lord of the Eighth Legion, with his head bowed, was writing and drawing something on the documents spread out before him.
They had been delivered by servitors, so Konrad Curze was very busy at the moment. He had no idea what complex feelings Kariel was experiencing at that time.
Fourteen days.
The giant, who had once been merely a ghost, slowly smiled.
"Fourteen days – and to mature so much?"
"I'm so proud of you."
"Kariel?" Konrad Curze raised his head. Not receiving an answer, he was forced to look directly at Kariel, but the latter merely smiled calmly.
"I have nothing to add, Konrad," Kariel replied with a chuckle. "Do as you decided. It's the perfect way to explain everything... However, I have one last question."
"What?"
"How will you explain to them why you didn't unite Nostramo? I mean... your age."
"I can just not talk about it."
"But you just said you didn't want to lie to them."
"To remain silent is not to lie."
"Is remaining silent better than lying?"
"You... you... you've been hiding a lot from me too!" hissed the Night Haunter. "Did you tell me everything?!"
Kariel laughed and raised his hands in a gesture of reconciliation.
His gaze was very warm – a ghost shouldn't look like that.
...
The next day, Kariel did not go to the troop review.
Of course, he didn't. Why would he?
Stand below with everyone else? Or stand next to Konrad Curze and review the Eighth Legion's parade?
Either of these options seemed unreasonable to him.
Konrad Curze was already mature enough to bear the burden of the title "Lord of the Eighth Legion" alone.
Kariel believed that he should not interfere too much in the internal affairs of the Legion.
Therefore, he did not intend to give any substantive advice and intended to avoid situations that could involve him in the legionaries' affairs with all his might.
Of course, whether he succeeded depended not on himself.
In the meantime, he was reading.
There were twenty thousand warriors in the Eighth Legion, and, of course, not all of them were obsessed with improving their combat skills like Siani or Rikhtnal.
Therefore, as strange as it may sound, there was a small library on board the "Night Haunter."
Kariel was now standing by the window, reading a book.
The furniture was clearly designed for Astartes, so he couldn't sit down, but standing was also fine.
He was reading a collection of poems. The ancient folio opened with a note in High Gothic.
It stated that this was a collection of poetry from Terra, with a very ancient history. Although the author was unknown, the compiler hoped that everyone would read this book with a feeling akin to a "pilgrimage."
After reading for fifteen minutes, Kariel chuckled, agreeing with the compiler.
"Indeed, a pilgrimage."
"Her burning face, like the night rain, troubles my dreams..." he muttered. "To read these lines again is truly like making a pilgrimage."
Putting the book aside, he chuckled, but this time the smile was bitter.
At that moment, two servitors passed down the corridor: one was sweeping, the other was washing the floor. Their work was clearly coordinated.
They cleaned the entire library in less than ten minutes. Kariel watched them silently, realizing that even servitors had work to do.
And he didn't.
"I need to find an opportunity to return to Nostramo earlier, even though the fear there hasn't reached its peak yet."
He squinted. Yes, in the following nine days, gangs searched for him like madmen, but found nothing but corpses, ruins, and blood-written inscriptions.
For all these nine days, Kariel almost coldly watched them descend into madness step by step, but it was not enough. He had to wait for the moment when this feeling reached its climax, because only then...
He raised his head. His thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps.
Steel trod on the wooden floor, and even the thick planks let out a protesting creak.
Kariel turned his head slightly and saw an Astartes in power armor of a cold blue color out of the corner of his eye. He was not wearing a helmet, which immediately identified him and allowed him to know how to behave.
"Siani of Terra..."
Kariel turned around with a smile:
"What wind brought you here?"
"Certainly not books," Siani replied with a grin. "I just wanted to ask why you weren't at the review."
Kariel slowly raised an eyebrow.
"And why should I have been there?"
"You are the adoptive father of our Primarch," Siani replied seriously. "Why didn't you come?"
The atmosphere of the conversation changed sharply, so suddenly that Kariel was even taken aback.
But noticing a cunning glint in Siani's eyes, he realized he had fallen into a trap. However, it wasn't just that.
He also realized that there was a degree of sincerity in Siani's question.
"Because the Lord of the Eighth Legion is him," Kariel replied with a slight smile, but despite the smile, his tone was not lighthearted.
Although he was much taller than Siani, his manner of speaking seemed very humble. If there had been an artist here, he probably would have drawn them the same height.
"Your words are true, but they haven't convinced me."
"Well, then, stick to your opinion," Kariel said lightheartedly. "It won't make me any worse, will it?"
"But it will make me worse."
Siani of Terra smiled again, revealing sharp teeth – a distinctive feature of all natives of Terra.
However, Kariel noticed other details: deathly pale skin, eyes darker than usual, a gaze that barely blinked, and a lack of body hair.
Signs of adaptation to the habitat were evident in everyone, even Astartes were no exception. They were still humans – or, at least, could be classified as the human species...
"And me?"
"So, is the review over?" Kariel asked, hiding all thoughts deep inside.
He didn't mind chatting with Siani. After all, there was nothing wrong with it, as long as the conversation didn't concern the internal affairs of the Eighth Legion.
Like yesterday's tournament in the ring. If nothing else, Kariel had to admit that he himself had a lot of fun.
"Yes, and it concluded brilliantly."
Siani proudly puffed out his chest.
Although he bore the name of Terra as a prefix and had been the Eighth Legion's hand-to-hand combat champion for five years, yesterday, when talking about it, he showed no pride.
Only now, talking about the perfectly conducted review, did he look truly proud and satisfied.
"How brilliantly?"
"Very brilliantly, Kariel Lohars. We even demonstrated to the Primarch everything we learned in the past: stealth movement, covert operations... By the way, since we're on the subject, how did you figure that out yesterday?"
"Figure out what?" Kariel asked impassively.
"Oh, come on!" Siani grinned and, pushing a chair aside, sat down.
The chair, made of composite materials, creaked mournfully under his weight, but Siani seemed not to notice.
Smiling, he raised his right hand and made some gesture.
"They got a good beating from us yesterday."
"You mean those five warriors led by Captain Ariel?"
"There are no captains now... but yes, those six."
"Just luck," Kariel replied quietly. "I've always been lucky."
Siani pursed his lips:
"If you don't want to say, then don't, Lord Kariel."
"Why all of a sudden such honors?"
"Our Primarch gave a new speech at the review today, at the end of which he specifically mentioned you. Your adoptive father, Kariel Lohars. He also asked us not to add titles to your name... Considering that our Primarch also dislikes it, I made a small assumption."
With an inscrutable face, Siani uttered a long tirade in a pompous style. And only at the very end, barely suppressing a smile, did he utter the last phrase, sharply raising his voice:
"I suppose you don't like this very much, do you, Lord Kariel?"
Kariel squinted impassively and did not answer immediately. A moment later, he chuckled softly.
"Call me whatever you want, Siani of Terra, five-time champion of the Eighth Legion in hand-to-hand combat. In a pinch, we can compete in the length of titles, how about that?"
Siani's face twitched noticeably.
"Consider me defeated."
"And who won then? It seems you don't really want to admit my victory," Kariel asked pointedly.
He had already understood something.
Of course, he understood.
"Well, language is clearly not my forte."
Siani stood up with annoyance. After a few seconds, his face changed, becoming serious and solemn, all previous casualness gone.
"Lord Kariel Lohars," he began quietly. "In the name of Konrad Curze, for the glory of the Eighth Legion, we have come to invite you to tonight's dinner."
Kariel squinted and turned around.
A shadow slowly deepened behind him.
The warriors of the Eighth Legion surrounded him in a tight circle. They were without helmets, their armor gleamed, and their chests bore battle orders and honor ribbons. Their faces were all extremely serious and sincere.
They looked at him with expectation.
"Good must be repaid with even greater good."
Taking a slow, deep breath, Kariel nodded with an inscrutable face.
"It is a great honor for me to accept your invitation, warriors of the Eighth Legion," he said loudly. "I will be at the dinner on time."
...
The Eighth Legion rarely held feasts – this was a fact that required no proof.
Most of the Legion were sullen and silent; people like Siani were more of an exception. But everything has its causes and consequences. The Eighth Legion's unfamiliarity with feasts led to the current predicament.
Fell Jarost, in despair, leaned towards one of the few mortals on board the "Night Haunter":
"What do you mean 'no ingredients'?"
"Exactly what it means, Master Fell," replied the man with a thick beard tiredly. He wore a white coat and a crookedly worn chef's hat.
"No ingredients – no food."
"How can there be none?!"
"My lord..." the head chef sighed. "The menu that you and the other lords compiled includes groth steaks, peach-apples, herbal tea, cream bread, as well as various dangerous seafood, fresh fruits, and red wine..."
"And what's wrong?"
"Everything is fine, of course, everything is fine. It's even a little lacking for a banquet."
"So why aren't you cooking?"
"Because in our warehouses, we only have six types of nutritious porridge for Astartes, individual rations, and regular beer, sir. Also, I wanted to ask, who among the lords ordered dried sand eel meat?"
"Keg, I think."
"The same Keg from the Sixth Company? Alright, sigh... Please tell him that he finished the dried sand eel meat a month and a half ago!"
Fell Jarost didn't remember how he returned to the huge banquet hall buzzing with voices. He seemed to be wandering in a dream.
Such confusion was written on the face of this steadfast warrior that anyone would have understood at first glance: something was wrong with him.
The sensible ones tried to avoid him, but there were those who were less sensible – or, rather, more courageous. They pushed forward.
For example, Adephiman Basli.
He walked straight towards Fell. Noticing him, Fell immediately snapped out of it and instinctively wanted to turn to consult with the other former captains.
After all, there was still time before the banquet. They could surely come up with something to fix the situation. But Adephiman Basli didn't give him that opportunity.
"Sir."
He stood in his way with an inscrutable face, blocking Fell's path.
"The banquet will begin in thirty-five minutes, but why is there no sound from the kitchen? I haven't seen a single dish from the menu appear in our hall."
"Let's not talk about it for now."
"Why?"
"Just don't, Adephiman. Go back to your seat. We'll figure something out."
Adephiman sighed deeply.
"Ten hours ago, I told you that holding a banquet wasn't the best idea. And you then confidently stated that tonight would be perfect. That the Eighth Legion would do everything to make the Primarch and Lord Kariel Lohars feel at home."
"And now I dare to assume: our warehouses don't have ingredients for the exquisite dishes on the menu? And even if they did, they probably wouldn't be enough for such a banquet, right?"
"Your intuition, damn it, is as sharp as ever," Fell Jarost said with a stony face. "So, my smart former deputy, do you have any ideas?"
"No."
Adephiman spread his hands with a grin.
"Not a single one, sir."
"I can't conjure ingredients out of thin air, and the supply fleet with officials will arrive in the Ghoul Stars sector from Segmentum Ultima in two months."
"So, if you don't go to the Primarch now and convince him to postpone the banquet for two months, then, in my opinion, our evening is doomed to failure."
"You're quite talkative, Adephiman," Fell squinted, his face becoming dangerous. "Since you're so smart, maybe you should go and report to the Primarch yourself?"
Fell watched with satisfaction as his former deputy's face contorted with horror in the next few seconds. Muttering some excuse, he quickly retreated.
Left alone, Fell pondered in irritation, then went to find the other seven former captains. After a short consultation, they unanimously decided to honestly report everything to the Primarch.
Of course, Fell had to go.
"Why me?!" Fell Jarost exclaimed indignantly. "Why me again?! You've already sent me with bad news to the Primarch once, there won't be a second time!"
"Because the banquet idea was yours, Fell," replied one of the captains.
He had a grim face, perfectly matching the stereotypical image of an Eighth Legion warrior: aquiline nose, high cheekbones, sharp chin. His entire appearance inspired fear, and his stern expression gave his words particular conviction.
"But you all agreed!" Fell tried to object, waving his hands. "Wasn't it our common decision?"
"The squad leaders from outside our companies didn't agree," the other retorted impassively. "So, maybe you should talk to them about it?"
"And what do they have to do with it?!"
"Exactly, they have nothing to do with it. But we do, and you most of all. So, Fell..."
He patted Fell sympathetically on the shoulder and pushed him towards the exit:
"Go."
Ten minutes later, Fell Jarost, tense, stood before his Primarch Konrad Curze, his head bowed.
He had no idea that ten minutes earlier, Konrad Curze had been no less nervous than him.
The Primarch couldn't choose a suitable outfit for the banquet and was completely bewildered. So Fell's appearance, in a sense, even resolved his dilemma.
He was now wearing an evening suit, made of black, blue, and silver fabric. This item was personally created by Fulgrim, and every detail was worked out by the hand of a Chemosian.
In those fourteen days, he had not only trained Konrad Curze but also sewn eight suits for his brother – exactly according to the number of the Eighth Legion.
"So, what's the matter, Fell?" he asked softly, and his voice in High Gothic echoed through the room.
"The matter is, Primarch... that the banquet may have to be canceled."
Fell Jarost uttered this phrase with the greatest courage he was capable of, and then bowed his head low, like a criminal awaiting a judge's sentence.
"Canceled?"
"Yes, we made a mistake. Our food supplies turned out to be extremely scarce. Almost none of the dishes on the menu can be prepared..."
Fell, with his head bowed, added explanations, expecting a severe reprimand. He was ready for it.
After all, it was a banquet attended by the Primarch and his adoptive father, the first banquet hosted by the Eighth Legion in honor of their lord's return – an event of great significance.
Therefore, even if his genetic father decided to punish him, he would accept it.
But he did not expect to hear a quiet, soft laugh.
"And that's all?"
Fell raised his head in confusion and saw a smiling face.
"It's just that the dishes on the menu cannot be served in full?"
"In fact, Primarch, none of them can be served," Fell said with difficulty.
"Hmm... that's not such a big problem," Konrad Curze nodded thoughtfully. "And what do we have in the warehouses?"
"Uh, six types of nutritious porridge for Astartes, individual rations, and regular beer..."
"So isn't that enough?" Konrad Curze tilted his head.
Fell stared at him in astonishment. Only after a moment did he realize that he had to object.
"But... but how... how can this befit your status?!"
"My status? And what status do I have, Fell?"
"You are our Primarch."
"You are the genetic Primarch of the Eighth Legion, you are the son of the Emperor, you are a noble demigod," Fell Jarost blurted out.
"Demigod?" Konrad Curze frowned. "The first three are facts, but where did this 'demigod' come from? The Imperial Truth clearly states that there are no gods."
"But your brother, Lorgar Aurelian..."
Fell only uttered the name, and nothing more. But that was enough for Konrad Curze to understand everything. He sighed and, shaking his head, said nothing more.
"I'm not a picky eater," he said calmly. "The pleasure of food, of course, is pleasant, but it's just a fleeting delight, Fell. Such things don't matter much to me."
"We are much stronger than ordinary people, Fell."
"In my opinion, the meaning of our existence is to be their shield and sword. We are the flame that incinerates darkness, the lightning that disperses ghosts."
"We fight not to live in luxury and enjoy delicacies every day. We fight so that all people in the galaxy can eat normally, dress normally, and sleep normally."
He raised his hand and placed it on Fell's shoulder, looking at him seriously. Or rather, it was no longer just a look, but a close examination.
"Do you understand, Fell?" Konrad Curze asked cautiously.
There was no coercion or demand in his tone. He asked with sincere concern, fearing that Fell Jarost would not grasp the meaning of his words.
The former captain of the Third Company and master of the Librarians felt a pang in his chest and almost shed a tear.
He nodded, then again, like a wind-up toy.
Konrad Curze smiled.
"Don't be like that, Fell. If you don't understand, it's okay. There's still plenty of time, I'll try to make sure you all understand my thoughts... But since there's no food on the 'Night Haunter,' maybe we should change the venue of the dinner a bit?"
The dinner took place as planned.
When the gong announcing the start of the banquet sounded, the Astartes of the Eighth Legion were surprised to find that servitors were serving not exquisite dishes from the pre-announced menu, but nutritious porridge, soldier rations, and regular beer.
The latter was not even considered a drink for them, more like water.
But...
"I am very sorry."
Konrad Curze's voice, amplified by a hastily found microphone, echoed through the vast banquet hall, capable of accommodating twenty thousand people and even more. Soft and solemn, it was forever etched in the memory of those who heard it.
"But there is nothing else left on the 'Night Haunter's' warehouses, warriors of the Eighth Legion. Oh, and also... who here is a former fighter of the Sixth Company named Keg?"
An Astartes in power armor, tense, stood up.
Konrad Curze smiled warmly at him:
"Chef Dorsto... I... told you to convey that the dried sand eel meat is finished."
"Yes, Primarch!" Keg answered loudly. "The dried sand eel meat is finished!"
His answer elicited a slight chuckle. The atmosphere in the Eighth Legion was precisely like this: respect was shown by few. Mockery was the most common form of greeting.
Konrad Curze also smiled, but there was no trace of mockery in his smile.
He gently gestured for Keg to sit down, and then slowly began to speak:
"I saw groth steaks on the menu. Can anyone explain to me what they taste like?"
"They are very tasty, Primarch," replied a young Astartes. Awe shone in his eyes. Kariel, standing in the shadows at the edge of the hall, found this scene quite amusing.
"Your Primarch, Astartes, is possibly younger than you are."
He chuckled silently.
"Tasty? Hmm, I can't imagine," Konrad Curze replied sincerely.
"My knowledge of food is limited to nutritious paste, rats, and exquisite dishes on board the 'Emperor Sovnium.' Honestly, when I discovered that there was no big difference between the latter and the former two for me, I even doubted my taste buds."
"But they are obviously fine, so I had nothing to say. And my imagination is poor, gentlemen. I cannot imagine the taste of groth steak, but I know that such
groth.
He smiled, but the warriors of the Eighth Legion remained serious. Their attention was fixed on the description of the food their Primarch had given. A silent, collective anger began to spread through the air.
"I know it's native to the Solomon system. It's an aggressive animal, but edible whole. Its meat is tasty, nutritious, easy to breed, and it can survive in quite harsh conditions."
"I read this description in my brother Fulgrim's notes, and, I must say, it reminded me of a beast that inhabits the wastelands of Nostramo."
"They also survive in harsh conditions, their meat is also tasty, and they are just as aggressive. Pilot-teeth, that's their name."
"Unlike the groth, their meat on Nostramo is a precious delicacy, available only to aristocrats. It doesn't reach thousands of homes like groth meat, which even shepherds on distant, backward planets can afford."
"On Nostramo, those who are like these shepherds do not eat pilot-teeth meat. They don't eat groth meat either."
"Do you know why?" Konrad Curze asked quietly.
No one answered.
Twenty thousand pairs of eyes silently watched him, waiting for him to continue. This scene had been repeated many times over the past two days. And Konrad Curze could never get used to it.
But each time, he forced himself to act as if he were used to it.
"Do you want to know the reason?"
Twenty thousand pairs of eyes silently nodded in response.
Konrad Curze smiled again, baring his teeth. His emotions were extremely restrained.
Among all those present, only one person could decipher his true feelings. He stood in the shadows and shook his head with an inscrutable face. He was proud, but at the same time, he felt a slight, almost imperceptible sadness.
"I want you to find the answer yourselves," Konrad Curze said softly. "And, besides, we can change locations for our banquet and try Nostramo's specialties. How about that?"
The clang of metal as helmets were put on was his answer.
...
Fell Jarost felt a slight tremor run through his fingertips, which was very unusual for him.
He was a balanced Astartes, a balanced man. And in his other role, he was one of the most stable.
Therefore, his tremor was not caused by physiological reasons.
"You, creature!"
His former deputy, Adephiman, roared and threw the aristocrat to the floor. The movement was rough, but he clearly held back. Otherwise, this vile creature would have been torn to pieces in an instant.
Fell turned away to avoid looking at him. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to restrain himself and would turn this Nostramo aristocrat into a headless corpse.
Emperor Almighty.
How could they have fallen so low?
Fell closed his eyes so as not to see the details, vaguely swaying in the darkness.
The Eighth Legion looked into the face of terrifying darkness.
They punished without delving into the subtleties of guilt and innocence. Before the Primarch's return, they obeyed only the Emperor's orders. Therefore, in every operation, they saw sins hidden in the darkness.
And Fell could swear by his name that the darkness of Nostramo was incomparable even to the horrors of the underground gene-labs of Seragon.
There, at least, the reason could be traced: the Seragonians were trying to breed psykers to cross the line drawn by the Emperor.
And here? Why would someone skin hundreds of people for no reason and hang them to bleed to death in the dark?
From the other side came Adephiman's grim roar:
"You, dirty monster, how dare you treat your own kind like this?! Who did you take them for?!"
The aristocrat replied in some hissing language, in which horror could be heard. Fell opened his eyes, looked at him impassively, and, raising his hand, stopped Adephiman.
"Remember what the Primarch told us before we left?" he asked quietly.
Adephiman turned around. His grim, iron face gleamed in the darkness, drops of blood left from the fight slowly trickled down it, making a winding path that was far from over.
"Justice," Adephiman replied quietly. "Justice for all of them."
"The Primarch, by the authority given to him by the Emperor, has granted us the rights of judges and executioners. But we cannot simply drown these vile creatures in the blood they themselves have shed."
Fell stared at the aristocrat, gasping in horror in a pool of blood. He was the last one left in this mansion.
"They must stand trial. And this trial must take place before the eyes of all their victims."
He repeated his Primarch's words in a steady voice, but the respirator grille turned his speech into a terrifying rasp.
The aristocrat screamed again. He did not understand the language of these giants who emerged from the darkness, and every pause in their speech seemed to him like a stab of a knife.
Fear.
"Take him away, Adephiman," Fell said. "To the center of this hive."
"And you, sir?"
"Don't call me 'sir.' I am no longer a captain or a master of librarians. Didn't you notice that at this 'banquet' we are all acting individually?"
Adephiman extended his hand and skillfully knocked the aristocrat unconscious, then slung him over his shoulder. At the same time, he did not forget to object to his former captain.
"The Primarch just said at the review that he wasn't going to strip you of your positions, my lord. Are you really going to nitpick about this right now?"
"Yes, I am going to nitpick right now."
Adephiman snorted coldly, turned, and walked out through the huge panoramic window. His silhouette dissolved among the dark, multi-tiered spires. Fell, looking through the night vision, followed him with his gaze.
Now he stood alone among many corpses and slowly removed his helmet.
For the trial, an accusation was necessary.
The thick smell of blood and the pervasive aroma of hallucinogens hit his nose. His physiology protected him from the latter, but there was no escape from the former.
Fell Jarost raised his head and met the gaze of a hundred hanging bodies.
The eyes of the victims, devoid of eyelids, stared blankly at him from their sockets. The wind blew, and the bodies swayed. The eyeballs turned slightly with this slow movement.
At that moment, Fell Jarost of the Eighth Legion felt his eyes sting.
He could understand the Seragonians. He knew their ambitions and the possible consequences of these ambitions. Therefore, the Eighth Legion quickly destroyed them.
But Nostramo? What was happening here?
He had no answer.
The wind swept past, from Prime to Quintus, from the Upper Hive to the Underhive, from the blue light strips in the luxurious mansions of the aristocrats to the dim yellow light in the shelters of the lower-level gangs...
It did not linger, it flew past.
Under its breath, under the gaze of eternal night, twenty thousand shadows brought to Nostramo today what had been missing here for a long time.
"Justice."
"Am I doing the right thing, Kariel?" Konrad Curze muttered, turning to another giant.
"You are the lord of the Eighth Legion," he replied with a smile. "Isn't that so?"
"But I want to know if I am right or not."
Konrad Curze insisted.
"I raised them all. Twenty thousand men, Kariel. Twenty thousand Astartes are now operating on Nostramo. Before, they were the Emperor's executioners, now they will be mine... but..."
"But what?"
"But I feel like this is wrong."
"The Emperor's punishment is ruthless and large-scale," said the pale giant. "I have studied the Legion's combat reports. Every sortie of theirs brought death to sinners. But they themselves remained indifferent to the crimes of those they judged..."
"And you think that's wrong?"
"I don't know," Konrad Curze said. "That's why I'm asking you."
"And why should I know?"
Kariel shook his head with a slight smirk.
"I know no more about the Imperium than you do, Konrad."
"But you don't need to know much about the Imperium to answer my question."
Konrad Curze stubbornly continued to probe. He had been like this before, and now digging to the truth had become his usual way of dialoguing.
Kariel was not annoyed by this. He perfectly understood what immense courage lay behind such behavior.
Too many in the world live by the principle of "good enough," like some in the Eighth Legion.
Others go with the flow, letting circumstances shape them, like others in the Eighth Legion.
And only a few dare to confront their surroundings.
He looked intently at the ghost he had created, then suddenly threw his head back, and his face relaxed.
"I cannot tell you whether this is right or wrong, Konrad," Kariel Lohars said quietly. "There is no definitive answer to this question yet. Discussing correctness in itself is meaningless."
"Meaningless?" Konrad Curze's eyes widened. "How can it be meaningless?"
"Because 'right' and 'wrong,' like 'justice,' have no meaning in themselves. What justice are you seeking, Konrad? The justice of a trial, the justice of punishment, or justice in a broad sense? This word is just as vague, Konrad."
Kariel smirked.
"In my opinion, justice as such does not exist."
Konrad Curze frowned slowly and objected to Kariel for the first time.
"Isn't what my Legion is doing now a just act?" he asked with slight indignation.
"Of course, it's just."
"Then why do you say it doesn't exist?"
"Because it's late," Kariel said. "And delayed justice is no longer justice."
"It's been too long. And neither you nor the Eighth Legion are to blame for this. The Nostramans themselves refused this justice; they had no ground for its birth."
"But can you blame them? These people with extinguished eyes... You can't blame them, Konrad. Just as you can't blame yourself."
Kariel stepped forward and lightly patted the Night Haunter on the shoulder, hissing:
"Don't blindly chase justice, 'right' and 'wrong.' Look at what's in front of you, Ghost. For example, at this trial you will hold tonight. Pay attention to the spectators, to these indifferent spectators..."
He sighed and lowered his hand. The Ghost replied only after a moment, his voice quiet, almost plaintive.
"But you lit the flame," he asked with annoyance. "I thought I could at least... fan it."
"The flame I lit is not the flame of justice," Kariel replied quietly. "And the image I created does not embody justice... Do what you must, do what you want. Don't imitate me, Ghost."
He paused, then jumped off the spire with a smile and disappeared into the darkness. The Ghost watched him go and, for the first time, did not follow.
***
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