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  The Painted Count – Guy Haley

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  The Painted Count

  Guy Haley

  There was the sword, and there was the ship. Those two things alone occupied all of Gendor Skraivok’s thoughts.

  At that moment, the sword was preeminent. Skraivok lay sprawled on the large bed in the centre of the chamber, his back against the headboard. The bed was comfortable, more than most Skraivok had known since his days as a mortal lordling. The headboard was not, being cast alloy depicting a fussy pattern of interlinked ribs, spines and howling skulls. Skraivok had always been fond of comfort. He had never completely accepted the idea of the warrior aesthete. Let others prove their worth with coarse clothes and uncomfortable furniture. A soft bed did not make him any less of a killer.

  He let the metal nodules of the bedhead compress the skin over his black carapace. He was too preoccupied to notice. Lately, comfort had ceased to matter.

  It was dark in the chamber, Nostraman dark, the lumens modified to burn low. Ersatz flames danced in electro-flambeaux set against the walls, causing the many shadows to shiver and dance.

  They were grand chambers, as befitted his rank. Orlon had stupidly suggested he take Curze’s as a show of strength. Skraivok had declined. That would be a provocation too far to those opposing him.

  Besides, only an insane man would wish to dwell in the primarch’s sanctum, and any sane man that took up abode there would not long remain so.

  On the far side the room was the sword. It was propped in its scabbard against the backrest of a chair that matched the bedhead, and so he could not see the dull, weirdly non-reflective metal of its black blade… but he could feel it. The weapon tugged at invisible hooks sunk deep into his soul. Not so much a call as a demand that he take it into his hand.

  It was not a sword. It looked to all intents like a sword, its well made if scuffed belt of alien-looking skin wrapped around the quillons and the length of the scabbard – the sort of battered but favoured weapon a warrior like him might have owned for a lifetime.

  Only it was not. Before Sotha he had not had the weapon. It had not, by any objective standards, even existed.

  At least, not as a sword.

  Its appearances might fool everyone else, but Gendor Skraivok knew what it was, and it was most assuredly not a mundane blade.

  He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. The room reverberated to the muffled sounds of repair. They went on night and day, a constant backdrop of banging, heavy tools and screams that, outside the soundproofing of his quarters, rose to a cacophonous din. Multiple, maddening sources of vibration that managed to drown out the pulse of the ship’s reactor.

  ‘I cannot think!’ he shouted at the ceiling. The racket pounded on uninterrupted, and Skraivok groaned. ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’

  The ship was the other thing. The ship, and the fleet, and the Legion. He should be leading it – not that morose fool Shang. The primarch’s equerry was a knotty problem, one that could not be solved with that damnable sword poking into his mind.

  His bare feet whispered over the human-skin divan as he swung them off the bed.

  He hung his head a moment, teeth clenched. He made a strangled noise and propelled himself upright.

  ‘You will not win,’ he said to the sword.

  He spoke to it often, but the sword never replied.

  Sooner or later he would talk to it in front of the others. That would not be a good thing.

  Skraivok blinked stupidly at the mess in the chamber, as if returning home to find it plundered. Food mouldered on fine plates. The stuffing of furniture gathered in drifts in the corners. Ewers of wine lay on their sides, their contents gone all to vinegar. Pieces of his armour were scattered where he had thrown them. A mirror showed a wild-haired, hollow-faced thing. It took a moment for Skraivok to recognise himself. The black streaks he painted over his eyes that gave him his cognomen of the Painted Count were smudged across his face.

  He curled his lip at his appearance. That needed fixing too. Everything would be better when he was rid of the sword.

  Once that was gone, he would feel more like himself again.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let us get this over with.’

  Slowly, he gathered up the pieces of his wargear and struggled into them. Then, forcing himself not to pause, he grabbed the sword about its middle and roughly picked it up.

  He opened the door to his chambers. Of course, Phy Orlon was waiting outside, with that sickening, sycophantic expression plastered across his narrow face.

  ‘Ah! Lord Skraivok, it is good you emerge. Are you well rested?’

  It astounded Skraivok how such a vulpine little thing had made it through the selection process. Even bulked by legionary gifts, Orlon still managed to convey the impression of feebleness. Towards the end, Nostramo had been providing only the dregs of the dregs. No wonder Curze had levelled the place.

  Weakness was like the scent of blood in the water to the Night Lords. Legionaries like Orlon would always attach themselves to those they deemed powerful, for protection. That explained the ridiculous batwings welded to the top of his helm in emulation of Sevatar, and why he had appointed himself as Skraivok’s adjutant.

  ‘Do I look well rested, Orlon?’ Skraivok replied.

  ‘Well, no,’ Orlon said apologetically.

  As Skraivok walked, Orlon dogged his footsteps and began to prattle. ‘There is the issue of Captain Shang to address, my lord. He has rallied a large contingent of the other captains to his side and is calling for your removal from the Nightfall forthwith. I am afraid you do not have long to act before the situation becomes untenable. Already Claw Masters Alvar, Tjock and Denbis are considering changing their allegiance from you to he.’ Orlon laughed modestly. ‘Of course, they do not know that I have this information, but my sources are reliable. I can only assume that–’

  ‘What about the others?’ Skraivok interrupted him.

  ‘They remain unmoved by Shang, but events are moving fast.’

  Skraivok rounded on the smaller Space Marine and jabbed a finger in his face. ‘Then get back to the “Kyropteran Vicaria” and keep the rest of them from drifting towards Shang, understood? The vote is tomorrow. Surely we can keep this contained until it is done and I am officially appointed commander of the fleet.’

  ‘My lord, I–’

  ‘Do you understand, Orlon. Yes or no?’ said Skraivok loudly and slowly.

  Orlon nodded emphatically. ‘Of course. Whatever you wish, my lord. I shall see it done.’

  Skraivok snorted. ‘Kyropteran Vicaria. How dare they set themselves so high. They have no right to decide who shall be Kyroptera and who shall not. There was one Kyroptera on this vessel, only because I brought him here. And then I killed him. By right of conquest, I am ranking captain. That is the law.’

  Orlon nodded again, but his words belied his apparent agreement. ‘It will not be easy. Shang is against your plan. He believes the primarch dead and has grown sour. He wishes to hunt down the Lion and make him pay. He is obsessed.’

  ‘Terra is our ultimate destination. Curze lives. Sevatar lives. Pursuing petty vengeance will bring no victory. We must go to the Warmaster.’

  ‘How could you know the First Captain and our father are alive? The council might believe that the xenos device of the Ultramarines could show you such a thing, but you have no way of proving it – nor will you reveal exactly where either of them are.’

  ‘I have seen Sevatar w
ith my own eyes. If they have the information, I am more vulnerable,’ said Skraivok tiredly. ‘As long as it stays in my head, my head stays on my shoulders.’

  He looked at the sword – not his sword, one could never own anything like that. Indeed, in the question of ownership, such artefacts usually went the other way.

  ‘All this can wait, Orlon. I have something else I need to deal with.’

  ‘Orlon, tell me, where is the nearest voidlock?’

  ‘There are the lighter bays two decks down from here, my lord. They offer the easiest transit. Do you wish to leave the ship?’

  ‘I said a voidlock!’ snapped Skraivok. ‘Not a transit route.’

  ‘Why, it is not far...’ Orlon’s voice trailed off in puzzlement.

  ‘Then show me. Now.’

  Orlon led Skraivok through the battered corridors of the Nightfall. The ship had been heavily damaged in its encounter with the Invincible Reason. Whole decks had been lost to fire and evacuation into the void. The resources of a conquered planet had been put into repairing it, but it would take years to get things right, at this rate of progress. Under Shang’s order, they were attempting to repair the ship in memory of their primarch. It was typical of certain of his brothers, thought Skraivok, that they worked so hard for the approval of a being who did not care if they lived or died.

  Shang loved Curze, completely, but Skraivok did not think that Shang really understood their father. The Painted Count had had little direct contact with their lord in the past. Perhaps this detachment from his influence had allowed his growing understanding of Curze’s character.

  There were those in the Legion who wished to go their own way and reave, and those who wanted to reunite the scattered elements and hunt for their father. Skraivok favoured the latter. He did not particularly care for Horus’ ambitions, seeing them as vain and self-serving as the Great Crusade, but he did want to hurt the Emperor.

  The Master of Mankind could have redeemed all the sons of Nostramo, Skraivok was sure of that. But he had chosen not to.

  That was what tormented Curze. The callous damning of them all to monstrousness.

  A man should be most wary of the monsters he creates.

  They negotiated corridors thick with scaffolding, Mechanicum priests, servitors, machinery and exhausted slave workers. Lighting and gravity were patchy. Plasma torches illuminated hellish scenes in phosphorescent clarity.

  Skraivok pushed past, working his way methodically toward the outer hull. The voidlock emerged from the gloom of a transverse corridor as a fitfully blinking view port and green indicator lights. Skraivok went to the hatch and looked inside. The lumens were malfunctioning, flickering on and off. Mortal-sized void suits hung out of their lockers, tools were scattered on the floor, but the panel readings on the internal and external doorways shone true.

  ‘Go,’ he told Orlon.

  The other warrior frowned. ‘My lord? What do you intend?’

  ‘Freedom,’ said Skraivok. He slammed his palm onto the door switch. The door wheezed open. Stale air blew outwards and he went inside.

  Orlon remained. No matter.

  ‘My lord! Gendor!’ bleated Orlon, as Skraivok’s purpose became clear. ‘Your helmet!’

  The door slid shut behind Skraivok. He inputted the codes to override the safeties. A warning tocsin began to honk, and a red light strobed against the dark. Orlon’s face still floated in the window. He looked alarmed, and was talking, as usual, but Skraivok could not hear a word he said.

  It was blissful.

  The look on Orlon’s face amused Skraivok. The ordinary situation of torturer and tortured on the Nightfall was turned about. Skraivok did so enjoy irony.

  He smiled at Orlon and went to the exterior door. He mag-locked his boots to the floor, filled his multilung with air and, with one, careful finger, keyed the door open.

  The atmospheric contents of the voidlock slammed him in the back as they were sucked out into space. An empty suit wrapped itself around his legs, the reinforced fabric flapping madly in the brief gale, then fell limp in the dead silence of the vacuum.

  Skraivok stared out into the void. Deep cold bit at his flesh, blistering it.

  Below the Nightfall, the dirty world of Argosi was late into its own night. A billion lights twinkled over a continent-sized city. Brown clouds of pollutants streaked the atmosphere. Orbital shipyards hung motionless in space, their long void docks encasing the worst damaged vessels of the Night Lords fleet. Above them, at high anchor, a dozen more void-worthy ships hung as unspoken threats in the sky.

  Skraivok grinned with cracking lips, and his spittle froze on his teeth as he hurled the sword out into the void. He struggled to hold onto his breath, but he stood there for a full ten seconds, watching the sword with slowly freezing eyes until it had tumbled out of sight in the darkness.

  He shut the door. Air flooded the chamber, bringing the temperature back to tolerable levels. Then the pain began in earnest, as a terrible scalding upon his face. He felt like his skin was being scorched off with a torture mask studded with hot needles.

  But Skraivok enjoyed it. It sharpened his mind.

  The pain receded quickly. The damage was superficial. His body worked fast to put it right.

  The inner hatch window was covered in melting frost, and so he did not notice Captain Shang until he opened it.

  Skraivok had not known him before he had arrived on the Nightfall. It was said that he had been Curze’s closest confidant, once, and Skraivok could well believe it. Wild eyes and a face lined with internal pain hinted at a mind almost as crazed as the primarch’s. Shang had a reputation of being strong.

  But grief, thought Skraivok, has undone you. Shang was another weakling, and affection was his vice.

  ‘Brother,’ said Skraivok pleasantly. Two hulking Atramentar Terminators flanked the captain.

  ‘He... He threw his sword out!’ Orlon yammered. ‘He looked out into the void! Without his helmet!’

  ‘You are insane,’ said Shang, flatly. His augmetic fist clenched.

  ‘I am not,’ said Skraivok, wondering why no one could see that he was the only sane one left.

  ‘I will not argue with a madman. You are not fit to lead.’

  ‘I have the strongest claim,’ said Skraivok. His eyes were clearing. ‘That is obvious, since by right of combat I have won my place on the Kyroptera.’

  ‘You executed a blind man. Your claim is weak. The Kyropteran Vicaria shall decide who will lead us.’

  ‘They will choose me. I earned it the same way that wretched Terran Krukesh earned his captaincy. There is no argument.’

  ‘Then we shall remove you from the considerations of the council,’ said Shang. He smiled coldly as the Atramentar moved on Skraivok. ‘You should have kept your sword. You are going somewhere very special. It has only held one prisoner before. You should feel honoured.’

  The Terminators held Skraivok in their iron grip. A Legion thrall came forwards. Teeth clenched in determination, he jabbed Skraivok with a needle, and the Painted Count left the waking world.

  The prisoner that the maze had been built for must have been important, and dangerous, to justify all this effort.

  Frankly, he did not know why he was still alive. Maybe the existence of the labyrinth had tempted Shang, for the torment that Skraivok would endure within. Maybe Shang was genuinely afraid of the Kyropteran Vicaria’s response should he kill Skraivok openly. Either his actions were born of unnecessary cruelty, or of fear. It was to Shang’s benefit if he vanished, Skraivok supposed, rather than his bloody corpse be uncovered somewhere.

  Nevertheless, keeping him alive suggested more weaknesses. That was Shang’s mistake. Skraivok would deal with him presently.

  When he did, he would not be so timid.

  First, Skraivok had to escape. He knew he was in some sort of maze, because
the moment he had regained consciousness he had approached the open door of the chamber and looked out. Three passages branched away. He had taken off his gauntlet and tossed it over the threshold, certain of traps. Nothing happened, so Skraivok had scraped a cross into the wall of his cell and ventured forth. For the first twenty or so doors and forks in the corridor, Skraivok had been cautious, each time throwing forward his gauntlet. The result was the same every time, and so he gave up.

  After hours of walking, Skraivok found himself back in the starting chamber. Everything was as he left it, with the mark he had left on the wall and the metal scrapings on the floor from its fashioning.

  The only difference was the sword. That stood on its point, sheathed and wrapped in its worn belt, directly opposite the door as if waiting for him.

  As if, thought Skraivok. Not as if. It is waiting for me.

  He walked over and looked down at it as he thought over his predicament. It was prudent to assume that this maze would defeat even the mind of a legionary, otherwise Shang would not have placed him there. His initial foray certainly suggested that was the case. Without his helmet, he could not check his armour’s status, but providing Shang had not emptied his nutrient reservoir and pharmocopia, Skraivok could count on around three weeks nourishment, if he were careful. His body and armour combined could keep liquid wastage to a minimum. After food and latterly water were exhausted, there was the option of the death-sleep and encystment in a mucranoid sheath of his own making. In such a state he could survive almost indefinitely.

  That took him out of the succession for good, since he might very well remain there forever. Wherever he was.

  He needed to get out, and soon. The Kyropteran Vicaria, the temporary council that had installed itself to choose a leader, would soon make their decision. Shang had been among the lead candidates until Skraivok had arrived with Krukesh the Pale, so he had some sympathy for the former equerry’s uncompromising attitude towards him.

  ‘There obviously is a way in, and therefore at least one way out, or how would I come to be here?’ he murmured. He looked all around himself. ‘And yet, there is some art at work here that is beyond me. Technology?’ He looked back at the sword. ‘Warp-craft?’