Chapter 280: Mortarion and Curze Could Have Been Friends
Death Guard—no, Night Lords—no, Death Guard and Night Lords? No, no, no.
Having just finished a bitter quarrel with Curze, Horus felt weary. His brother still clung to absolute pessimism about the entire Great Crusade and refused to believe in any legitimacy within it.
Horus did not think he could persuade Curze—after all, even Vulkan had failed at that.
So he resorted to the cruder method, because some of his brothers only understood and accepted authority when it was backed by force.
And throughout their exchange, Mortarion remained an oddly interested bystander. The Lord of Death seemed to deliberately detach himself from involvement, a stance that left Horus faintly displeased.
He recalled Mortarion at the banquet, and again when he had first encountered the Death Guard.
Still, the value of the Death Guard was undeniable. They were not a small legion, and they excelled at grinding frontal assaults.
Perhaps he could attempt to win over the upper command of the Death Guard instead, building his authority and securing the Luna Wolves's friendship that way—rather than trying to anchor it on a brother who was not quite… stable.
As for Konrad Curze: according to what Horus had learned, compared to the Death Guard's flatter system of governance, the Night Lords were far more convoluted inside. They seemed not yet to have formed any strong, effective leadership.
But regardless of how many thoughts tangled in Horus's mind, today's discussion ended abruptly. None had convinced the other. Horus forced the decision in his usual manner.
After all, Curze's seniority was insufficient. That was reality. Among the Primarchs, the earlier one returned to the fold, the more glorious the record of his legion, and the greater his claim to leadership.
It was an unspoken rule among brothers—one that generally served Horus well.
The Lupercal rubbed his temples. He looked tired, though within that room, the only two who might have noticed kept their silence.
"Both of you should return. Regarding this civilization, we still need a more cautious plan."
Horus issued his dismissal. Normally, he would escort them personally, but today he did not.
The relief was visible. Curze almost leapt to his feet, while Mortarion rose with all the slowness of a corpse.
Yet, since Mortarion at least offered a farewell before leaving, Horus decided in his heart to let them both go without further bitterness.
And so Mortarion and Curze followed one of the Luna Wolves' servitors out, leaving Horus behind in his gilded chamber.
They resolved to first seek out the diplomat-warriors they had brought, then depart. Thanks to the design of the Vengeful Spirit, another large reception hall waited at the far end of the corridor.
The servitor marched on in silence, and the two Primarchs trailed it wordlessly. Curze hugged the wall as though he might vanish at any moment, while Mortarion strode boldly down the middle of the passage.
On the wall, the clock's hand ticked forward a single notch.
For a Primarch, that span of silence was already intolerably long. Unsurprisingly, Mortarion "won" the little game of whoever speaks first loses.
Curze's light, rasping voice broke the stillness. His High Gothic still bore a heavy accent. Yet in Mortarion, Konrad Curze saw a certain possibility, and so—uncharacteristically—he spoke.
At the very least, Mortarion was different. Different from Vulkan. Different from Dorn. Different from Horus, Guilliman, Magnus.
"My brother… what judgment do you believe this human civilization deserves?"
It was, for him, a greeting.
Mortarion kept striding forward. If Horus and Curze were set aside, the Lord of Death would simply seize air superiority around the capital with his aerial units—and then launch a direct, uncompromising assault.
Although this human civilization was formidable, in the tangled complexity of urban environments, the Adeptus Astartes—highly mobile and deadly as individual warriors—held the clear advantage. The enemy's heavy armor could not fully deploy.
But the prerequisite was that the Death Guard had to seize air superiority.
They could launch a surprise attack, much like at Galaspar: strike before the enemy's main force could react, take control of the key cities, and use the captured officials there to force a surrender.
Of course, what those cities would look like afterward—especially under the tender mercies of the Death Guard's specialized weaponry—and whether civilians would be harmed in the process, was another matter entirely.
Horus's proposal was not without merit, yet Mortarion still judged its likelihood slim. He wanted the foe shattered completely, not gently told that the Imperium had arrived.
Beneath his hood, Mortarion's amber eyes slid briefly toward Curze. In the quarrel with Horus earlier, he had gained a clear picture of this brother's way of war.
Truthfully, the Lord of Death had little respect for such ambushes and "clever" little tricks. The enemy ought to be crushed beneath the full, unstoppable weight of a Legion—not whittled away by some sleight of hand.
Still, it was a workable plan. Just as Horus's was.
For Mortarion, though, it was all irrelevant. The choice was not his to make, and so he quickly lost interest in discussing tactics further.
Mortarion rolled his eyes silently. He longed for a campaign, just once in a while, where he was the one allowed to lead.
But though he thought so, he gave a different answer aloud. Because apart from strategy he could not dictate, he realized there might be some common ground with Curze—at least in attitude toward the world.
Mortarion finally spoke, his words muffled and indistinct:
"They must be broken utterly. Not given time to recover."
Curze's laughter rang out again. He seemed delighted; as if the quarrel with Horus had left no shadow on him.
Mortarion had no idea how his brother managed that.
"Tell me more about the virus you mentioned earlier."
It was a clear gesture of goodwill—an opening toward some bond between them.
Mortarion kept his guard up, but began listing for Curze the charming and deadly little creations that filled his apothecarium.
Curze listened with great interest, occasionally suggesting new and inventive uses for the concoctions. Mortarion quickly realized this brother's imagination in the realm of torture and cruelty far surpassed the ordinary.
The Lord of Death, however, remained unmoved. To him, death was punishment enough. Why flay a man before killing him? Such methods were fussy, inefficient, and unnecessary.
Mortarion could scarcely picture his Death Guard flaying anyone. The thought simply did not fit.
But since Curze was so fascinated by his brews, Mortarion set his distaste aside.
"If you want," Mortarion said, "I have three different concoctions, each offering its own interpretation of fear. I think you would enjoy them."
They heightened the victim's sensitivity to terror while making the limbs weak and the heart race. They had no effect on the Death Guard, not even on the Hadeshound unit.
They are nothing but little curiosities. After all, the Death Guard would never waste them on the battlefield. Their true arsenal included agents that melted bone and boiled flesh—why bother with toys like these?
Curze's voice grew visibly brighter with joy. His suspicion had been confirmed: at last, a brother who could tolerate, perhaps even understand, the things he did.
Mortarion was not like Vulkan—perfect, elegant.
"Thank you, my brother. Fear is a cure, a medicine for the plague of disorder," Curze murmured.
Suddenly, Mortarion heard a sharp crack beside him. He blinked in confusion, catching Curze in the corner of his vision.
Curze still looked the same—or perhaps more wretched?
No. No, no… Every time Curze tried to step forward, the nightmares closed in on him. They were the future. They were inevitability.
Curze gazed at Mortarion with sorrow. The Lord of Death looked back with scorn. Then Mortarion's form wavered, distorted. Behind him, vast, soft, damp moth-wings twitched faintly.
A heavy, clammy mist wrapped him, swelling his flesh, bloating him—making him more… abundant.
That was Mortarion's end. He betrayed. He fell. He plunged into the abyss, never to return.
Curze's breath grew ragged.
The future was doomed to darkness. Humanity would spend millennia tearing itself apart in chaos. Their father was a liar, a fraud who had deceived an entire civilization.
Ominous black motes swarmed around Mortarion, shrieking like tinnitus at his side. Curze ignored them. Compared to the screams that drove him mad, these shadows were only fleeting glimpses of a dream.
Mortarion hesitated, tempted to ask if Curze was well. But he knew such words would be an insult—at least to himself.
Would Curze feel the same?
The Night Haunter struggled to speak. His pale, bloodless face twisted in agony.
"Mortarion… do you want to know your future?"
In an instant, Mortarion raised his scythe. The massive blade came down between them, a barrier carved into the air.
"What are you talking about, Konrad?"
Curze flinched at the sudden move. He thrashed his head violently, clawing at his matted hair until blood seeped between his fingers.
The black motes thickened, swarming like the static of a broken vid-screen. The tinnitus screamed.
"Do you believe in the Great Crusade?"
Curze's voice was ragged with pain.
"I do not believe."
Mortarion answered cautiously:
"The future is pale suffering. But… what has happened to you, my brother?"
He picked each word with care. The Lord of Death realized Curze knew something.
Could it be… he had seen it too?
"My future? I have heard some among us have the gift of foresight. Is that your ability, Konrad?"
But when Mortarion admitted to a painful future, Curze only sighed, long and deep. It was the howl of a beast, and the resignation of a man.
"I am sorry," Curze whispered. The monster of Nostramo let out a thunderous breath, spreading his huge, blade-like hands. "We cannot change anything."
The feeling was uncanny—like lightning ripping across a midnight wasteland, striking Mortarion squarely.
He lowered his scythe. The blade's butt hit the floor of the Vengeful Spirit with a dull clang. Mortarion looked at Konrad Curze, and the rasp of Barbarus roughened his voice.
"No," Mortarion said, very carefully. "At least I will never accept that."
But Curze did not hear. The tinnitus roared louder. Darkness. Not the night's darkness—something harsher, more brutal, beyond words.
Curze forced his eyes wide open. Mortarion's body was now wholly swallowed by the black static, buzzing, clamoring, howling.
The Night Haunter strained to glimpse through the chaos for any trace of meaning.
He saw. He saw—
No. No no no no no no no—
Konrad Curze jerked his head away—
Sevatar!
No. No, his fate was not to end here!
The moment Curze suddenly vanished before his eyes, Mortarion froze in shock for an instant.
A wave of dread clamped Mortarion's heart. His blood boiled in his veins.
Without hesitation, he charged toward the great conference chamber at the end of the hall.
The next moment, a familiar, suffocating void washed over his soul, and his vision went black.
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