"We came for you," Fell addressed the corpulent aristocrat. The lenses of his helmet glowed with a crimson light – a minor technical modification that provided great benefit.
The aristocrat, with a cry, opened fire in a language the Eighth Legion did not yet understand. Bullets flew from the high platform like a furious downpour.
But the fire of an automatic rifle was laughable for MK-II power armor. His death throes seemed ridiculously pathetic, but neither of the two warriors laughed.
They were simply silent. And in this silence, a chilling rage grew.
"Arresta," Fell said slowly.
"Yes, sir," a young voice replied, trembling with uncontrollable anger.
He rushed forward and two minutes later threw the fat, ugly creature at his captain's feet. But that wasn't enough for him. The young warrior raised his leg and furiously shattered the aristocrat's right shin.
The clear crack and dull crunch of bone merged into one almost unbearable, horrific sound.
"Enough, Arresta," Fell said quietly. "Tormenting him is pointless."
"Pain will teach him something," Arresta rumbled. "At least that children should live freely, not become... in his basement..."
He broke off in anger and raised his leg again.
"What can people like him learn from pain?"
Fell imperiously raised his right hand.
"Torture is only one of the permissible options during interrogation, Arresta. Do not take out your anger on him. He is not worthy of it."
After a few seconds, the young warrior nodded silently.
He was clad in MK-III power armor – such armor helped young and reckless Astartes like him survive well in the volatile conditions of war.
However, Fell did not consider recklessness a flaw. In his opinion, sometimes goals simply could not be achieved without impulsive actions.
"Take him. To the center of the city."
Fell gave a short order.
"Justice will be served in two hours. We still have time to find all these monsters trying to hide."
He lowered his head, looking at the howling aristocrat.
"Darkness belongs to us," Fell whispered. "They will find no refuge in it."
Arresta nodded, slung the creature over his shoulder, and quickly disappeared into the night.
Now only Fell remained in the courtyard of the luxurious mansion. A moment later, he called his adjutant via vox.
"Adephiman, where is the Primarch now?"
"Who is speaking?"
His adjutant's voice crackled over the comms.
"Captain of the Third Company Fell Jarost, or former Captain of the Third Company Fell Jarost?"
Fell swore in Terran slang. In response, a triumphant chuckle came from the vox.
Then Adephiman's voice sounded:
"The Primarch is on a tall tower in sector A-7, looking down. He wanted to go with us, but one captain dissuaded him."
"Who?"
"Who else, my captain? Besides Captain Vancliff of the First Company, who else would dare to tell the Primarch directly to enjoy this feast rather than participate in it, getting his hands dirty with blood?"
Vancliff...
Fell almost sighed – this was the same captain who had previously pushed him with sympathy to report bad news to the Primarch.
He had to admit that Vancliff's strange persistence at certain key moments always paid off.
"Understood," he said into the vox. "Continue, Adephiman. Make sure all sinners receive their just punishment tonight."
His adjutant did not answer, only let out a hoarse laugh.
Fell broke the connection, turned, jumped over the high wall of the mansion, and ran under the cover of night. His movements were smooth and natural, as if he knew this place like the back of his hand.
Eleven minutes later, he arrived precisely at the only tall tower in sector A-7.
They did not use local names but gave places cold codenames. This fully corresponded to the style of the Eighth Legion – efficient, ruthless, fast.
Fell climbed the tower and saw a tall figure. Their Primarch calmly and coldly surveyed everything happening below, taking in the entire Upper Hive Primus with his gaze.
"Primarch..." Fell bowed his head and asked quietly, "How do you like this feast?"
"I don't know how to answer your question, Fell."
Konrad Curze turned with a smile and shook his head.
His pale face seemed radiant and incomprehensible in the dim light. Calm reigned in his two pitch-black eyes. Fell suddenly felt a chill and some inexplicable, sudden sense of awe.
"I don't understand your words."
"Address," Curze said slowly. "Has my captain of the Third Company forgotten my words so quickly?"
Fell silently lowered his head.
"I feel good, Fell," Konrad Curze said calmly and quietly. "You don't know it, but I, like you, am in Primus for the first time. Before, I only operated in Quintus."
He shook his head with a smile.
"But I have known about Primus for a long time. The weapons produced here circulate throughout all the hives, sometimes even replacing money and becoming another form of currency. Amazing, isn't it?"
"I don't understand what's so amazing about that, Primarch."
"About the word itself."
Konrad Curze walked gently past Fell and, turning his back to him, began to observe what was happening from the other side of the spire. Shadows flickered in the darkness, lights flashed, screams did not cease. His smile grew wider.
"Amazing?"
"Yes, amazing. You see, Fell, on Nostramo there is only one order – that which is brought by violence. But even so, the aristocrats are used to dividing everything by profit."
"They don cloaks of warm and cozy innocence to dance in their dark palaces, they drink blood, but at the same time..."
pretend to be followers of order…
"Don't you think there's a strange absurdity to it?"
Fell Jarost didn't immediately answer his Primarch's words. He thought—thought with extreme seriousness.
Only after a long time did he slowly and deliberately reply to Curze.
"It truly is so, Primarch," he said solemnly. "But this only proves their ostentatious nature. They are simply monsters, not deserving of a single drop of sympathy."
"Aristocrats—yes, that is so."
The Lord of the Eighth Legion raised his head. An iron chain with a gilded pendant gleamed on his neck.
"But the gangs—no, Fell," Curze said in a low voice. "Gangs in the Underhive of Nostramo live for two to three years on average. Only the leaders live longer, but even they don't last more than twenty years."
"The gangs recruit new members in two ways: either they look for the children of workers, or they get the goods directly from laboratories where clones are grown… Of course, there is also a third way."
He turned with a smile.
"I'm sure you've already seen this third way."
Fell Jarost slowly clenched his right fist.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "Children under control…"
"Exactly, children… So the aristocrats are truly monsters, and the gangs are not."
"They are monsters created by circumstances. People whom suffering has forced to become monsters. Now they are emaciated, their faces distorted, but they weren't like this before…"
Fell glanced cautiously at his Primarch, waiting to see what Konrad Curze would say next.
But Konrad Curze said nothing.
He was simply silent.
The pale, tall giant stood at the top of the spire. His evening suit harmonized with the tower's reliefs, and nearby, a blood-stained statue stared at the sky with empty eye sockets.
He silently looked into the distance, and below, in the darkness, a multitude of shadows at that moment, as if on command, stopped and turned their gazes toward this tower.
After a long time, the lord of the Eighth Legion sighed.
"…but they can no longer be saved," he said sadly. "Or rather, there is only one way to save them."
Fell pursed his lips.
There is no true empathy in the world—yes, that is so, he agreed with that. But… why did he feel like crying now?
***
"We will hide nothing, Kariel," Anrek replied seriously.
This was not an empty promise. He had no intention of hiding anything, not even in the smallest detail.
He spoke these words from the bottom of his heart. Yes, for the current Eighth Legion, Kariel Lohars was still full of mysteries and aroused suspicion, but did that matter?
Konrad Curze trusted him, and so far, Kariel had justified that trust.
That was enough. Enough for Anrek to be honest with him.
"Don't strain yourself so much," Kariel said with a smile. "I'm not going to ask about anything that might concern the Legion's internal secrets. I just want to know what you think of Nostramo?"
Anrek was sure that his facial expression was now very eloquent, even without a mirror—fortunately, he was wearing a helmet.
"Nostramo… it's a planet that shouldn't exist."
So said his adjutant. His voice was low, and the timbre modulator built into his rebreather was turned off. Rithnal's own voice, clear and distinct, carried through the night mist, full of his characteristic seriousness and determination.
Of course, his words made Anrek almost draw his bolter.
Kariel nodded vaguely.
"And what else? I'm sure you won't end there, Rithnal? I'm waiting for a captivating story, even if it's a bit long."
"Kariel, maybe I can say it for him?"
The tall giant looked at him with a smirk, shaking his head. His relaxation almost stunned Anrek.
"Why are you so tense, Captain Barbatus?"
He blinked.
"I told you, I'm just asking questions."
Without waiting for Anrek's reply, Rithnal continued. He still held the hilt of his power sword in his right hand, his posture full of seriousness.
"Just two days ago, we knew nothing about this planet. We only knew that the Primarch had been found, and therefore we hurried here without stopping…"
"We were lucky that we didn't have any assignments, otherwise our meeting with the Primarch might have been postponed for a very long time."
"In the Imperium, most Legions have already met their gene-fathers. Except for the Twelfth Legion, the XIX Legion, and the Twentieth, only we remained."
"Unlike the disciplined War Hounds, we cooperate with almost no one. Unlike the XIX Legion, although we possess, like them, the art of infiltrating enemy rear areas and waging small wars, the sins we eradicate cannot be made public."
"Our honor is no less than theirs, but in the Imperium, no one will compare us to the XIX Legion."
"The Twentieth Legion is extremely mysterious; they answer practically only to the Emperor… We are almost unnecessary, Lord Kariel."
"We are loyal to the Emperor, we understand that sin must be eradicated… And, in fact, we like to hide in the darkness."
"But I cannot deny one thing. I am sure my captain will not be able to deny it either, and none of my brothers will be able to—when we hear news about our cousins from other Legions, we always envy."
"We didn't know where our Primarch was, we didn't know if he was healthy… We knew nothing about him, Lord Kariel."
"And now we are here, on our Primarch's homeworld—we stand on the soil of a living hell… Now we all understand what our Primarch went through."
"And you, as his adoptive father…"
Rithnal released the hilt of his sword, slowly raised his hand, and removed his helmet.
Two winding tracks gleamed on his face.
"We don't know how to thank you," Rithnal said hoarsely. "I know my words may be far from the answer you wanted to hear, but I can only say this. I am not good with speeches."
He closed his eyes, wiped away the tears with the cold metal of his gauntlet, and put his helmet back on.
Kariel nodded slowly and silently.
He remembered every word of Rithnal, every word that was blood, flowing from a sincere heart. If he had allowed them to spill into the cold rainy night, he would have hated himself.
"Your words… I hardly know what to answer you," Kariel said in a low voice.
"You thank me, but I did not raise Konrad Curze out of kindness. I had my own goals, Rithnal of the Eighth Legion. Do not consider me a noble saint; I am not. In fact…"
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, an icy chill descended in the next moment. The raindrops froze, the hum of power armor almost ceased. Anrek's eyes widened; one word flashed in his mind.
But the word spoken by Kariel Lohars was strikingly different from what was on his mind.
"I am he whom they call the 'Vengeful Spirit,'" he said calmly.
"I am the faith behind that cult. My hands are stained with blood up to the elbows; I have killed countless numbers. Rithnal of the Eighth Legion, Anrek Barbatus of the Eighth Legion, remember this…"
"And never forget."
Good night.
***
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