Chapter 284: An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth
Unexpectedly, the Death Guard displayed a near-cruel indifference.
From the porthole, Horus gazed outward. In the distance, the disciplined flotilla of the Death Guard floated silently, keeping a measured distance from the Night Lords—like wolves trailing a flock of sheep.
Their orderly formation stood in stark contrast to the obvious chaos of the Night Lords' ships, the juxtaposition striking in its clarity.
The memory came back to him, and Horus let out another deep sigh.
He tried to bring order to the jumble of impressions, but raw emotion always dragged him back to that day—Curze's shrieks, Mortarion's roars, the stench of blood, the terrified ship-servitors fleeing in panic.
And then a Night Lord. Sevatar. Horus knew him. He had stood there, gauntlets slick with blood, silent and trembling as he barred Horus' way.
Another deep breath, head lowered. He must have lost control then. All he could recall were his brothers' voices—one consumed by rage, the other hoarse with desperation.
His memory jolted. Then all at once, silence.
The empty corridor had become quiet again. Horus could hear the steady beeping of ship instruments, punctuated by dull thuds—the sounds of bodies collapsing, or dropping to their knees, bones striking metal decking.
And then—
That laughter. Terrible, drawn-out, inhuman. Rising with fresh screams, it echoed like the wailing of the dead clawing their way out of the grave.
Horus watched, helpless, as the horror played out. The sounds, the fear, the uncanny light spilled from a chamber at the corridor's end, casting a pale glow onto the carpet beneath his feet.
He gripped his sword tightly. He wanted—desperately—to push forward and see what was happening. But the crushing weight in the air told him that one more step would mean trespassing into a realm where life itself would be forfeit.
So he stood there. Helpless. Waiting. There was nothing else he could do.
Only when that beast of terror dragged its tail back into the chamber did the Lupercal surge forward.
He rushed in. Blood. Shattered fragments of armor scattered across the floor. He saw—he saw…
Horus stopped himself.
He began to understand. No, even to sympathize, with Russ.
Brother against brother, blades drawn, driven by murderous intent—it was unthinkable. No… no… it had been so close. Just one more instant, a single heartbeat late, and— No. No, no, no, no!
Horus forced his thoughts back from the abyss, but in the dark recess of the Lupercal's heart, a door had been opened.
Until now, that possibility had been buried—smothered by morality, by kinship, by ideals of justice and light. He had never considered it. Never dared.
He would not consider it now, either. And yet… he had witnessed it. Which meant something had begun. A new beginning, one that even the Lupercal himself would not recognize.
For now, he was simply ensnared by the chaos of the present.
The astropathic call to Terra had already been sent. But the relay of information, the mobilization of fleets—all of that required time. Horus did not believe Imperial reinforcements would arrive soon.
One thing was certain: Konrad Curze, his brother, had crossed the line. He had to be judged—or severed from his Legion entirely.
Horus could not decide the measure of punishment. He only knew this was not the first time. Curze had clashed with many of their brothers—Dorn, Guilliman, Magnus. Were those confrontations only arguments? Or had they turned violent? Horus did not know the details.
But this time—it was clear. Curze had gone too far.
The Night Haunter had crossed the line. Horus did not understand what Curze was truly doing, or why—but his actions had enraged the Lord of Death. And Horus knew Mortarion would make Curze pay the price.
The Lupercal felt the weight of it all. He was no cold, unfeeling Lion, nor the iron Gorgon who valued nothing but efficiency and results. In his own way, he still held onto a necessary bond of feeling for some of his brothers.
Up to this point, both the Death Guard and the Night Lords had contacted Horus separately—yet neither Legion's Primarch had spoken.
Garro, calm and deliberate, informed Horus that due to the condition of their Primarch, the Death Guard could not immediately participate in the joint operation.
At the same time, he requested that the Luna Wolves join the Death Guard in hemming in the Night Lords' fleet—to prevent them from doing anything further in their irrational state.
It was a reasonable request, and Horus naturally agreed.
On the other side, Sevatar spoke for the Night Lords, expressionless, delivering a one-sided apology to the Luna Wolves and the Death Guard alike.
He too claimed that the Primarch was in no state to respond to messages from the outside.
Both sides said they needed time to recover.
And so Horus found himself once again in that corridor.
He had no other recourse.
The Lupercal waited in despair—like a beast trapped in place, pacing in circles.
——————————————
The Death Guard had fallen quiet once more.
In the dim ship's chamber, silence and shadow hung heavy, enough to lull one into sleep.
Mortarion sat alone in the darkness, his armor battered and torn, blood still unwashed from its surface.
He spoke no word, refusing any approach from those who sought to aid or treat him.
For a full day and night, the Lord of Death sat hunched in silence before the apothecarion doors, his scythe resting across his knees.
On the second day, when the Apothecaries emerged after their unbroken labors, they found only dried blood upon the seat. Mortarion himself was gone.
On the third day, Mortarion reappeared, emerging from the apothecarion. Beneath his death-mask, his breath was heavy, ragged, his eyes hidden within the hood's shadow.
His first act was to summon Vorx, to whom he gave his orders.
Then, Mortarion went to Hades' office.
The once-lively room was now oppressively silent. Mortarion glanced briefly at the untouched food on the desk, then turned his gaze away.
Without hesitation, the Lord of Death opened Hades' administrative cabinet. With practiced familiarity, he drew out the necessary files, sat in Hades' chair, and began altering and signing documents.
Soon, he drew out blank parchment and began drafting new orders.
The work was immense—papers piled so high at his feet they reached his knees—yet Mortarion moved through them with grim efficiency.
Vorx entered quietly. The Son of Barbarus wordlessly gathered the signed papers, dutiful and steady.
Mortarion exhaled a long, weary sigh.
Looking up from Hades' chair, he fixed his eyes on the vast Macragge carpet, its gaudy blue glaring and bright.
He reached again for Hades' collection of fine stationery—blue-white sheets, already inscribed with recipients' addresses.
With a bitter, mocking chuckle, Mortarion set pen to paper and began writing to his brother, Guilliman.
Necessary instructions. Foolish hopes. But if Hades had placed such faith in Guilliman, then perhaps Mortarion could as well.
"My lord…"
At last, Vorx broke the silence.
"Do you truly mean to do this?"
Mortarion's hand paused. Ink bled into the page, a single black blot spreading at the end of a word.
"You cannot be allowed to fall."
He spoke briefly, curtly.
Vorx seemed to waver, though perhaps it was only an illusion. He still stood steady before Mortarion, clutching the signed papers.
Silently, he watched his father continue his work.
Before long, Mortarion finished the letter.
But he was not satisfied. Not yet.
The Lord of Death thought back on the brothers he had dealt with before…
Finally, he chose Horus.
This letter was different. Obfuscation, distortion, deceit, heartfelt words—whatever it took to ensure the Death Guard would have aid when the time came.
Two letters, finished with a speed even Mortarion himself had not expected.
Now, upon the desk lay two letters set neatly side by side—one blue, the other white edged in gold.
It is done.
Mortarion thought. Finished. Time to leave.
He rose without a trace of hesitation, and Vorx followed after him, carrying out his orders.
Along the way, they passed through the armory, where the chosen warriors awaited them. Their number was not great—
Nor did they need to be. Mortarion alone was enough.
They moved through the darkened halls, toward the docks. Beside the Endurance, the Fourth Horseman already awaited—the grey knight of death, kneeling silent and still at the great vessel's flank, waiting for his master.
Mortarion halted. He stared into the distance in silence, where starlight spilled through the corridor's end, cutting into the dark and faintly tracing the outline of armor.
[Garro. Leave.]
Garro knelt upon one knee. The battle-worn warrior, bare-headed, rested his heavy, blunted broadsword flat across the ground before him.
"Please reconsider, my lord Primarch."
Garro bowed his head. Rarely did the battle-captain kneel.
[No longer,]
Mortarion said, his tone edged with irritation.
[You are the acting Primarch now, Garro. If Hades does not wake… then it will be you.]
Still Garro kept his head low, unmoving.
"That is not realistic, my lord."
His cracked lips pressed tight.
"At the very least, think of the commander who's still unconscious. Lord Hades would never wish to see this."
Mortarion gave a sound like a dying man's rasping breath—he was laughing.
[I have thought of that, Garro.]
He said softly, with a mocking edge.
[Otherwise, you would now behold a galaxy aflame.]
The Lord of Death paused, and then spoke again in a tone rare for him—almost gentle.
[Garro. You have done well. That is why we chose you. You can carry a Legion, whatever shape it makes of you.]
[I admire that in you. I admire you greatly, Garro.]
[Now. Leave this place.]
Satisfied, Mortarion watched Garro move. The old warrior rose, lifting the greatsword from the ground—
And then he raised it.
Pointing it toward Mortarion.
"Forgive my disrespect… Father."
It was the first time Garro had ever spoken that word to him.
The Lord of Death laughed, the sound muffled and rasping beneath his toxin mask.
[You have great courage, Garro. I admire that as well.]
[What do you want? Beyond stopping me? For that courage, I commend you.]
Garro's voice was calm, steady.
"Can you truly be a worthy legion commander?"
The laughter died at once. Mortarion's breath sharpened into hissing rasps, his gaze fixed and burning upon Garro.
Yet Garro met his gene-father's stare without flinching, sword unwavering in his grip.
At last—Mortarion turned his eyes away.
[I will. I will.]
He muttered, low and grim. Then his voice rang high once more.
[Vorx.]
He called.
From Mortarion's side, Vorx stepped forward, scythe in hand.
The First Captain's skill had never equaled that of the battle-captain; in all his years, his mastery had been forged in endless beatings at Garro's hands.
Even now, Vorx had never once truly bested him.
Within the Death Guard, none but a Primarch could.
Yet Vorx did not flinch. Once a raw recruit shadowing behind Hades or Garro, he had long since honed his own edge upon the Legion's grindstone.
"Forgive me, senior."
Scythe and greatsword clashed, sparks bursting bright in the dark.
Garro roared his fury.
Garo was tangled up with Vorx, leaving Mortarion's group unimpeded. They boarded the ship, listening quietly to the rumble of the engines.
Mortarion opened a channel.
————————————
Horus received an urgent transmission from the Death Guard.
The Lupercal, who had not properly rested for several days, hurriedly opened the comms. Mortarion's pallid face flickered into view through the crackling interference.
"My brother, are you all right?"
Mortarion's gaze shifted emptily to the side. He did not answer Horus's question, but instead spoke on his own, "I need to go aboard the Nightfall to settle… a personal grudge."
Horus visibly froze.
"Now? We can wait for the Imperium's representatives. They will deliver a proper and just judgment for this unfortunate incident."
"I swear to you, Konrad Curze will be punished."
Horus's tone grew heavier. He spread both hands, striving to dissuade Mortarion.
"Konrad Curze will face the punishment he deserves, and it will be severe. You don't need to… to speak with him yourself."
Mortarion shook his head.
"For a criminal," he said softly, "the cruelest, most terrifying punishment must come from the victim's own kin and closest friend."
"He has committed his crime, and I am his punishment."
Mortarion fixed his eyes on Horus. He spoke the maddest words, yet in his gaze there was only a still, deathlike emptiness.
"I will make him taste despair, taste pain, taste… fear."
"I will make him feel the wounds he inflicted on me, returned to him a hundredfold, a thousandfold."
Calmly, like a corpse forcing out words in a hoarse rasp, he invoked the timeless truth of human history—
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
From the other end of the transmission came Horus's anxious voice.
"But how will you even reach him? The Night Lords' fleet is still on guard. They will not allow—"
"I am already here."
Mortarion's voice was steady.
Horus's eyes flew wide. He looked at the hololithic display. There, amid the cluster marked Night Lords, a single blip stood out—branded with the sigil of the Death Guard.
"Horus, my brother, this is merely a notification."
Mortarion spoke, "If the Night Lords' fleet tries to escape, or if they attempt to forcibly board the Nightfall, hold them down for me. The Death Guard will assist you as well."
"And one more thing,"
Mortarion paused. "Horus, you are a good man. You were the first brother to welcome me warmly into this Imperium. And for what is about to happen because of me… I am sorry."
"In you, I first glimpsed the possibility of brotherhood."
"None of this is your fault. You did your best to help us, but—"
"There are some who simply cannot be redeemed."
The transmission was cut off by force. Horus's body went limp, collapsing into his chair.
Silently, he covered his eyes with his hand.
None of this is your fault. Mortarion's final words still echoed in his ears.
——————————
Mortarion's face was cold as he stepped onto the Nightfall.
What few Night Lords were present stood at the port to greet—or perhaps to guard against—him.
Mortarion recognized them: they were Atramentar, the black-armored guard.
"Greetings, my lord."
Sevatar stood before him, helm on, the batlike wings of his war-helm flaring high at either side.
"If you wish to speak with Lord Curze, I will guide you there."
[Lead the way now.]
Mortarion said, [And no tricks, little bat.]
[If you keep quiet, then my wrath—the wrath of the Death Guard—will not fall upon the rest of you.]
He raised his voice, making sure even those hiding in the shadows could hear.
The Night Lords, of course, could detect it: the Fourth Horseman was already packed with explosives. More than enough explosives.
The kind that, if detonated at the critical points, could take with it an entire Gloriana-class battleship.
And the Fourth Horseman's unique design and engines ensured it could accelerate to its limit in an instant—after all, this was the ship that had once rammed through the fortress-hive of Galaspar itself.
Sevatar led him calmly into the pitch-black corridors.
"We too sincerely hope you merely wish to speak with our father, my lord. That is also our father's will."
"The Nightfall as well has been loaded with enough explosives. Its fuse… is our father's life."
Mortarion chuckled dryly, [But the fact you let me in, little bat, proves you think I cannot defeat him.]
Sevatar gave no reply.
The stench of blood thickened. The darkness followed them, and Mortarion felt the malice lurking within it.
Cowards. All cowards.
Only the weak cower in the dark, pretending at menace from the shadows. They dare not stand forth, dare not bare themselves before their enemy.
They stopped in a vast, empty hall of darkness. Mortarion could make out the massive torture devices scattered about, faint glimmers of light catching on cruel metal spikes.
A hiss came from the shadows.
Mortarion calmly reached for the alien pistol at his waist—the Lantern.
Sevatar spoke, his voice steady but deferential, "My lord, I still—"
In the next instant, the Lantern's searing light lanced through Sevatar's chest.
The brilliant flare lit up Sevatar's incredulous, turning face—and it lit up Curze's despairing expression.
Mortarion burst into laughter.
<+>
If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind paying $5 each month to read the latest posted chapter, please go to my Patreon [1]
Latest Posted Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 351: The Onlooker Sees More Clearly Than the Player[2]
Link to the latest posted chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520[3]
https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed[4]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[3] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[4] https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed