Chapter 97 - Curze's Cruel Joke
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Guilliman's steady voice had barely faded when Azrael's heart, suspended somewhere in his throat, finally dropped back into his chest.
He went to one knee, about to thank the Regent for his gracious permission and rise.
A teeth-grinding screech of ceramite tore through the brief quiet of the VIP chamber.
Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai, who had been dragged at the rear of the procession by the Deathwing Terminators like a sack of gravel, had chosen this exact, exquisitely terrible moment to regain consciousness.
His mind was still swimming. That did nothing to stop the dogma-crammed brain from rebooting. The instant his gaze, peering through the slits of his skull helm, focused on Kullen two paces away, Asmodai went berserk.
"Repent! Fallen Angel!"
The cracked roar detonated through the chamber.
Asmodai didn't spare a glance for anyone else in the room. He lunged straight for Kullen's throat.
"Damn it!" Cold sweat broke down Azrael's back in an instant.
The two Deathwing Terminator veterans at the rear reacted with lightning speed. Four thick arms locked around Asmodai's shoulders and hauled the raging bull back before he could take another step.
Azrael crossed the distance in three strides, raised his ceramite-gauntleted right fist, and drove it into Asmodai's skull mask with everything he had.
BOOM!
The dull crack made everyone in the room wince as if their own cheekbones had taken the hit.
"In the presence of these lords, your screaming and raving brings nothing but shame upon the Chapter and our Gene-Sire." Azrael dropped his voice to a low, grinding rasp. "My brother."
Asmodai's head snapped sideways from the blow. The obsession rooted in his bones ran too deep. He strained against the grip, neck rigid, still fighting. "But he is a Fallen Angel who must be captured! Unforgivable!"
"That is old, settled debt, Chaplain."
Kullen stood a few paces away. He showed none of the indignation a Great Crusade veteran might feel at being accosted by a junior. On the contrary, he folded his arms across his chest and let out a slow, deeply satisfied chuckle.
The old knight straightened his back. He lifted his chin just slightly and looked down at the frenzied Chaplain with the unhurried air of a man who had seen everything.
"I am an ancient Terran-born veteran of the Dark Angels Legion, personally pardoned by the Master of Mankind. Every charge you name against me," Kullen said, measured and deliberate, "is null and void."
"Utter nonsense!" Asmodai bellowed. "The lies of a traitor!"
Kullen gave a cold snort and took half a step forward.
"Now it is your turn to prove your innocence, Chaplain. I cannot find a shred of the reason, restraint, or knightly conduct befitting a warrior of the First Legion anywhere in you. This rabid display of yours, how does it resemble a Son of the Lion?"
"Mouth full of mad ravings, no decorum whatsoever, biting at anyone within reach. I even began to wonder, for a moment, whether you might be a spy from those scripture-clutching lunatics of the Word Bearers, secretly planted inside the Dark Angels Chapter."
The moment those words landed.
Kallen, leaning against the table and watching the show, couldn't hold it in. A sharp snort of laughter escaped him.
Well, damn. This rigid, buttoned-up old knight had been running with him long enough that not only had his tongue gotten sharper, he'd also mastered the fine art of flipping black into white and slapping outrageous labels on people right to their faces.
On the sofa, Horus cracked a grin too. The Warmaster's broad palm came down twice on Kallen's shoulder, heavy and deliberate. The meaning was obvious: look at the apprentice you made.
The Unforgiven froze the moment he heard mention of the Emperor's pardon. Azrael didn't hesitate. He raised his hand and delivered a sharp, crisp slap to the back of Asmodai's skull.
The Supreme Grand Master leaned close to the Chaplain's ear and spoke fast, his voice barely above a murmur.
"Use your brain and look around you. Lord Sanguinius and Lord Lupercal are both standing here, whole and unharmed." Azrael's grip tightened on the back of Asmodai's neck. "This is a signal. They have returned. That means our Lion — our Gene-Sire — may return before long as well."
"If you dare lose your mind again, my brother, when the Gene-Sire awakens, do you want the first impression you leave him to be that of a discipline-less lunatic?!"
A violent shudder ran through Asmodai's entire body.
The Gene-Sire. About to return.
Those words hit harder than a hundred bolters pressed against his skull.
The manic fervor drained out of him in an instant. He hung his head like an apprentice who had broken something expensive, no longer daring to act out in the presence of Primarchs.
His eyes, however, stayed locked on Kullen from the corner of his helm.
Kullen paid it no mind. He walked over to stand behind Kallen and Horus and fixed the junior with a look brimming with provocation.
Guilliman stepped forward two paces.
"Chapter Master. We should discuss the matter at hand."
"I am about to launch the Indomitus Crusade, to bring hope to the suffering worlds and peoples of the Imperium. I hope the Dark Angels Chapter will join us, as my brother Lion El'Jonson and the First Legion once demonstrated their loyalty to the Emperor and the Imperium."
"I will provide new, next-generation Astartes technology and recruits. Rest assured, these warriors are crafted entirely from the Lion's genetic template."
Guilliman paused, then added one more line.
"This is not a debt I am placing on you. It is a request. I hope, I ask, that you accept. Facing the dark age that is coming for the Imperium of Man, if you are willing, could I also ask you to lobby the other Founding Chapters within the Imperial Sanctum?"
A request from the Regent. Not a decree from on high.
Azrael furrowed his brow.
He had worried that accepting the new technology and recruits would leave him owing Guilliman an enormous favor. The Master of Ultramar was now Regent of the Imperium, holding supreme military and political authority. The Grand Master had instinctively assumed Guilliman would move to bring every force within the Imperium under his thumb.
But it seemed he had overthought it. Setting aside his own answer, Sanguinius sitting in this very room would certainly not simply defer to the Regent's wishes, unless the two Primarchs had already reached some private arrangement neither had mentioned.
Azrael gave his answer.
"For the future of the Imperium, Lord Guilliman."
Guilliman smiled, and the relief in it was genuine.
Azrael hesitated. The brothers behind him were watching him with expectant eyes. The Grand Master drew a slow breath and asked Guilliman the question that sat at the heart of every Dark Angel.
"Will the Lion... truly return?"
"He will return."
The answer did not come from Guilliman. It came from Curze, who had been silent in his corner the entire time.
The Night Haunter leaned out from the edge of the sofa and looked over at the small lions in their green armor.
No sign of that Corswain kid.
Curze's interest dimmed slightly.
Then the Night Haunter smiled. He reached back and scratched idly at his spine.
He had seen it. The visions of prophecy were real.
That detestable Lion would indeed return. The thought stirred something in Konrad, a mischievous, irresistible urge to twist the knife a little for Lion's descendants.
"Hmm. He will, of course, be accompanied by many veterans in black armor."
Curze's rasping, grating voice drifted across the room.
"Hehe. Not only will he accept those veterans, he will call them his sons with his own mouth. My estimate is that once he wakes up, he won't like any of you at all. You and he are complete strangers."
A deeply malicious grin spread across Curze's pale face.
"Just think about it. You proclaim yourselves the most loyal inheritors, yet the moment your Gene-Sire opens his eyes, he shields the 'traitors' you have hunted for ten thousand years behind his back." Curze let the last syllable drag. "How entertaining. I simply cannot wait to see the Lion draw his sword against you green-armored lot."
---
Bellies full of nagging unease and dread, Azrael and his party cut the audience short. They left Terra at something close to a run, bound for Mars to collect their Primaris Space Marines and technology before racing back to the Chapter.
"I thought you would ask them about Sevatar's whereabouts, Night Haunter."
Once the visitors had gone, Kallen straightened up from the table.
He, Horus, and Sanguinius were heading out. The time that followed belonged to Guilliman and Curze. The Master of Ultramar clearly had a private task to assign to the Night Haunter.
"Sev isn't with them. Sev got out long ago."
Konrad narrowed his eyes, studying the mortal who had beaten him bloody in the dreamscape.
That psychic field of vision was still empty.
No future to read. Just fog, with no trail to follow.
"Father told me to follow you."
Curze dropped the line without preamble, then let out a spine-crawling hehe that filled the silence.
"He said you will change me. I don't believe it. You can't change anything."
"I look forward to finding out, Night Haunter."
Kallen didn't flinch. He fired back without missing a beat.
Then he turned and walked out after Horus and Sanguinius.
The heavy metal door swung shut behind them.
The spacious VIP chamber fell quiet.
Only Guilliman and Curze remained, standing across from each other.
One was the Imperium's great mender, a man who believed in rules and reason. The other was a Midnight Wraith who had built his legend on absolute terror and merciless punishment.
Two gene-sires whose methods had never belonged in the same room, who carried old, personal grievances between them, were about to work together.
➤ Next: Guilliman's Request — Face to Face
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