Chapter 59: Night Haunter Versus Blood Reaver
Konrad Curze stalked through the bone-wrought corridors of the xenos vessel, his lightning claws weeping crimson in the perpetual twilight, like death incarnate.
The Drukhari patrol he had encountered upon translation had provided brief entertainment; their screams of terror as he dismembered them had been particularly melodious.
The warriors of the Eighth Legion surrounded their gene-father in perfect formation, moving with the practiced silence of apex predators.
Captain Taxxor, a Terran veteran bearing the first-generation gene-template modifications, commanded this strike force with the cold efficiency expected of the Night Lords.
They advanced through corridors of crystal and soul-bone, past twisted sculptures that defied sanity's grasp. The air hung thick with the copper tang of spilled blood, while unknown fluids made the deck plates treacherous beneath one's feet.
From the vaulted ceiling, flayed creatures dangled on hooks and chains, their torment preserved in unending agony.
"The stench is overwhelming," muttered one of the Legionaries. "This vessel is naught but a charnel house given form."
"Exquisite depravity," Curze whispered, his voice carrying undertones of dark pleasure. "As my father ordained, such abominations have no rightful place within His galaxy."
"What are your orders, my lord?" Taxxor inquired.
Although Primarchs held no formal command authority over the Legions, the gene bond between father and son created ties that transcended the military hierarchy. Taxxor, despite his rank, deferred instinctively to the Night Haunter's will.
"Exterminate all who would resist us," Curze commanded. "Leave none alive save those we require."
"Shall we take prisoners for interrogation?"
The Primarch nodded slowly, his pale features touched by an expression of grim satisfaction. "Indeed. They shall serve as laborers upon the ice-worlds, tending to agricultural installations."
Taxxor's brow furrowed in confusion. "Agricultural installations, my lord? Upon frozen worlds?"
Curze halted mid-stride, his obsidian eyes growing distant. "The specifics elude me, yet something within my mind insists this is of paramount importance, more vital even than capturing this vessel."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Perhaps the harsh conditions will enhance the nutritional value of their crops."
"An... unusual strategy, but we shall execute your will," Taxxor replied, though uncertainty colored his tone.
The Night Haunter issued his final commands to his gene-sons. "Advance to the lower decks. Destroy their reactor core and defensive systems. I shall proceed to the command bridge and claim their leader."
"Operating alone carries significant risk," Taxxor observed.
"I have always hunted in solitude, captain. Execute your orders."
Though Taxxor might have questioned the authority of others, he found himself nodding in acknowledgment of his Primarch's will. "It shall be done, my lord."
The forces separated, Taxxor leading his warriors toward the vessel's vital systems while Curze ascended to spread terror through the upper levels.
The Night Haunter moved through the bone-ship like a living nightmare, occasionally accessing the vessel's communication arrays to broadcast whispered threats: "The hour of judgment approaches," his voice would echo through the corridors, each word calculated to breed paranoia and dread.
When direct confrontation would not serve, he laid cunning snares throughout the vessel's arteries.
Conspiracy warriors sent to locate the intruder would either trigger carefully placed explosives or round a corner to find themselves face-to-face with death itself, a pale specter whose smile promised eternal suffering.
Fear spread like contagion through the Thorn of Agony. Every shadow might conceal the Haunter; every sound could herald doom.
Blood Reaver Master Rakarth, typically composed in his ancient malice, found his eternal calm fracturing.
The mon-keigh intruders possessed capabilities far beyond their species' typical limitations.
In the void beyond, his fleet was being systematically destroyed, their death-screams transmitted across all frequencies.
From the vessel's lower reaches came reports of crimson-eyed giants conducting methodical slaughter, while above, an entity calling itself the Night Haunter was weaving a tapestry of terror.
"We are the masters of darkness and despair! Night Haunter! I shall find you!" the voice echoed through the ship's bone corridors.
Rakarth resolved to abandon passive defense. He assembled his finest killers, not merely Conspiracy elites, but several Mandrakes, shadow-wraiths whose skills commanded premium rates throughout Commorragh.
Each was a master assassin capable of depopulating entire hab-blocks through stealth and savagery alone.
Yet the Blood Reaver's decision proved catastrophically premature.
The moment his hunting party departed the command bridge, Rakarth sensed malevolent observation, eyes tracking his every movement from the darkness beyond perception.
His bodyguards employed every detection method at their disposal, yet the watcher remained hidden.
A scream rent the air as one warrior was dragged into the shadows. The Mandrakes responded with inhuman speed, their forms blurring as they pursued, only to find emptiness where their quarry should have been.
Seconds later, dismembered remains tumbled before Rakarth's feet. The lifeless eyes still held echoes of the exquisite agony their owner had endured before release.
"Enough!" Rakarth snarled, his ancient composure finally shattering.
For the first time in millennia, he was prey rather than predator.
"The hour of judgment approaches, Rakarth." The voice emerged from the corridor's end, where a towering silhouette observed them with predatory patience.
Two Mandrakes launched themselves forward with blinding velocity, their passage leaving afterimages in the stale air. Poisoned blades carved through their target, bisecting the figure cleanly.
Yet neither assassin celebrated; both recognized the trap too late.
The explosion scattered their remains across the corridor, painting bone-white walls with alien vitae.
"The hour of judgment approaches, Rakarth." The voice seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere, a curse given audible form.
The Blood Reaver stared at the Mandrakes' mutilated corpses, feeling an emotion he had not experienced since the Fall itself: genuine fear.
"I shall remember this insult," he hissed.
"Withdraw. Now."
Rakarth turned and fled, abandoning his hunt. The void battle was lost, his fleet dying ship by ship. He could not afford to continue this deadly game with the shadow-stalker.
Recognizing tactical futility, the ancient xenos chose discretion over valor, retreating toward the vessel's launch bays.
Curze followed like death's shadow, observing his prey's desperate flight with cold satisfaction.
The surviving Conspiracy warriors formed a protective cordon around their master, racing through the flagship toward the hangar decks where Raven fighters waited beneath cloaking fields.
If they could reach the craft and escape into the void, the webway would carry them safely back to Commorragh's depths.
Rakarth swore vengeance upon this Night Haunter. One day, he would repay this humiliation with interest; the mon-keigh would learn why the Blood Reavers were feared throughout the galaxy.
The corridors through which they fled had grown eerily silent, filled only with the mechanical harmonies of ship systems.
Crew and slaves lay scattered where the human specter had found them, some dismembered, others flayed and suspended from overhead cables in grotesque displays.
Throughout their retreat, Rakarth's force continued to diminish. Whenever they passed through particularly shadowed areas or regions where lumens flickered, the darkness would claim another victim.
Each loss fed the growing terror that consumed his survivors' minds.
Just as the launch bay came into sight, a blinding flash and thunderous detonation hurled them to the deck plating.
"Let us conclude this dance."
Footsteps accompanied the voice as a shadow detached itself from the darkness. Silver lightning claws caught the dim illumination, revealing a figure of magnificent and terrible bearing.
When the Night Haunter stepped fully into the light, Rakarth beheld a face pale as bleached bone and eyes like chips of midnight stone.
"Kill him!" the surviving Conspiracy warriors screamed.
Neuro-toxin rounds and monomolecular blades descended like a metallic storm upon the Primarch.
The engagement lasted mere heartbeats.
When silence returned, only Blood Reaver Master Rakarth remained standing among the scattered corpses, his left arm severed at the shoulder, alien blood pooling beneath him.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Blood Reaver Master," Curze said, approaching his wounded prey with predatory grace. That terrible, bloody smile spread across his features once more.
The consumption of the first victim's brain had revealed everything he needed to know about Rakarth, his crimes, his fears, his weaknesses. The hunt was complete.
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