Facing him, Fulgrim stood with anxiety on his face.
"What happened?" Ferrus asked calmly.
"And Konrad?"
The Iron Hand stepped aside so that Fulgrim could see Konrad Curze. He stood with knives in his hands, doubt etched on his face:
"Fulgrim? What's wrong?"
"Faster, Konrad… And you too, Ferrus. Come with me. Rogal is already there."
Fulgrim turned sharply, and his silver-white hair swirled in the majestic corridor of the "Emperor Sovnium." The gilded details of the interior reflected the light, but now no one, not even he himself, paid attention to its beauty.
Ferrus frowned and, turning, let Konrad Curze exit first. The latter nodded gratefully and quickly left. The Iron Hand quickly closed the door and caught up with his brothers.
Except for Konrad Curze, the other demigods were already well acquainted with their father's flagship.
Fulgrim could say without exaggeration that in the entire current Imperium there was no ship that could compare to the "Emperor Sovnium." No ship could withstand such a comparison, even in the smallest details.
But it was precisely because of this that their journey stretched out for a painfully long time. The reason was simple: the "Emperor Sovnium" was too huge.
"So what happened?" Ferrus asked quietly. "Where did Rogal go? Is it Lorgar again?"
"No, no, Lorgar has nothing to do with it. It's Father, Ferrus!"
"What about Father?"
Fulgrim turned, cast a quick glance at Konrad Curze, and only then answered quietly:
"...Adeptus Custodes. They have gone to Nostramo in full battle regalia."
The pale giant stopped abruptly.
"Konrad?" Ferrus's voice rang out.
But his brother paid no attention to him.
Konrad Curze's eyes widened, the hair on his body stood on end. The familiar icy cold and tremor returned, crushing all his senses, enclosing him in a waking nightmare.
Time slowed down. He had already managed to erect an unbreakable wall between his mind and the ghosts of the past, but at this moment they climbed over it.
"He cannot escape."
A low voice echoed in the darkness, and the sharp smell of blood hit his nose.
Konrad Curze stood frozen, ignoring the shouts and pushes of his brothers.
His right hand clenched the blade so tightly that the inlaid stones on the handle began to crackle.
"He is killing… he is winning… he craves the burning flame of wrath!"
The voice suddenly turned into a roar.
"Killing will bring victory, only killing will bring victory, and no one will escape it! Even a traitor must accept it!"
The grinding of blades. Warriors in golden armor let out a furious cry, death screams of despair, the roar of war drums, a howl, piercing sounds of horns, blood-soaked dark red sand kicked up by the storm…
And then the rain.
Blood rain.
It poured from the black skies of Nostramo, coloring everything around, coloring the sand that shouldn't have been there, soaking the earth with blood.
From behind the curtain of rain, a figure emerged, pale, with scarlet eyes.
"Good evening, Ghost," he grinned.
"No!" Konrad Curze roared and collapsed to the floor, and the blade in his right hand flashed with a bright light. The icy cold emanating from it enveloped his palm, and the wall of his mind became higher again.
The darkness receded, but the fear remained. He breathed heavily, trembling on the floor.
"Konrad!" Fulgrim grabbed his shoulders so hard it hurt.
The Chemosian's voice echoed through the corridor:
"Calm down!"
Ferrus Manus squinted, silently looking at the blade. A moment later, he extended his right hand to Konrad Curze.
"Get up," he said sternly. "Konrad, I don't know what just happened, and I don't know what you're going to do, but whatever you intend, you must get up."
"Yes… I must get up."
Gritting his teeth, Konrad Curze slowly stood up. His muscles were still cramping, his body ached, but this could not break his will.
He got up himself. The blade in his right hand turned into a shadow the next second and disappeared into his sleeve with such astonishing agility that neither Fulgrim nor Ferrus Manus could discern the details.
"I must see him… immediately," he said hoarsely.
Fulgrim paused for a moment, then nodded.
"Come with me," he said seriously. "In the Children of the Emperor's quarters, there is a 'Thunderhawk,' I will order Aquilon to take you down."
"Thank you…"
"...Don't thank me, Konrad."
Fulgrim took a deep breath, not apologizing for interrupting Curze. He simply looked into his brother's dark eyes and slowly uttered the last phrase:
"Promise me you'll be alright."
"...I promise."
"Repeat."
"I promise."
"Good, let's go. Ferrus, you go ahead, Father is in the study."
The Iron Hand nodded slowly and watched them go.
…
Kariél clenched his right hand, turning the skull into bloody meat paste. A scream erupted behind him, someone ran away with a cry, but bullets caught him.
Guard automatons – a type of Iron Men, lower class, from the Prime…
The armor is strong, but not enough.
Kariél turned, ducked, and, like a hunting falcon, swept over the ground.
Bullets whistled past, not hitting him, and half a second later, covering a hundred meters, he broke six guard automatons with his bare hands.
Blue-gray smoke billowed from them, their internal electronics completely destroyed. The chandelier overhead swayed, casting dappled shadows on the floor. Kariél closed his eyes and slowly stretched his shoulders.
He no longer needed to check if his shoulder hurt, he did it out of old habit.
This is not enough.
He opened his eyes – not enough, far from enough.
He had already killed many, but it was still not enough… Why not enough?
Why… not enough?
There was no answer.
Tilting his head, Kariél looked at his hands. Blood and flesh had caked on them, like a thick, uneven glove. Bone fragments mixed with the meat, making his hands monstrously ugly.
Proof of slaughter.
A deep breath.
He ran again, rushing through the narrow streets, breaking through the curtain of rain, and the congealed blood dripped from his wrists. Half a minute later, fresh, warm meat warmed his hands again.
"Kh-h…"
A pained sigh came from his feet. Kariél looked at him indifferently, the fingertips of his right hand trembling slightly.
There was a heart in his palm. Its owner knelt, pained, ragged gasps escaping his throat. He looked pleadingly at the giant standing before him, but Kariél remained indifferent.
He watched him die – a painful death, without noticing the subtle differences in what was happening.
How many of them already?
Which one is this?
He threw the heart, slowly inhaled the damp, foul air. The suggestion he had given himself had worked – a number popped into his head.
Eighty-eighth.
The eighty-eighth gang, yes, but how many people have I killed? Five hundred, six hundred, a thousand… The number of gang members is constantly changing…
How many people have I killed?
Standing in the rain, Kariél found that he could not answer this question.
He stopped remembering numbers and sequences, which was extremely unusual for him, even impossible. But Kariél noticed nothing strange – just as he didn't notice all the previous minor details.
He was still cautious, but compared to what he had encountered, any caution was insufficient.
Under the curtain of rain, he turned. His tall figure, like another silent tower, froze on the narrow street, but he did not move.
Kariél narrowed his eyes.
"...You shouldn't have come here," he said slowly.
"An order from the Lord," a low, hoarse voice replied from the darkness.
The voice was strange and distorted, inhuman, more like the roar of some monster. But Kariél caught the true meaning beneath that mask and frowned.
"Constantin Valdor…"
As he spoke the name, a giant in golden armor slowly emerged from the darkness. The eagle with spread wings on his pauldrons glared forward, his armor humming.
"Yes," he nodded. "It is I."
"...Why?"
"You cannot continue, Kariél Lohars. You are not just fighting these scum.
Constantin spoke slowly and seriously: "You are fighting something you cannot yet understand. It has no body, no form, but it can cause you real harm…"
"I haven't seen monsters matching your description in the database. And besides, this is Nostramo."
Kariél frowned.
"There is only one kind of monster on Nostramo."
Constantin slowly shook his head and sincerely advised: "There is no information about them in the database…"
"They should not be mentioned, they should be buried… Stop, Kariél Lohars. If you wish, the Auxilia, the Astartes, and even we will help Nostramo. You no longer need to kill."
"If it is his will, why did he send you?"
Kariél slowly clenched his fists.
"He could have spoken to me directly, couldn't he?"
"He cannot now, Kariél Lohars…"
The Captain-General slowly clenched the hilt of the long sword at his belt, drew it from its scabbard. A cold gleam flashed for a moment, and more golden shadows surrounded the narrow street in the surrounding darkness.
"Why can't he?" Kariél asked briefly. "He cannot be incapable of such a thing, his ship is directly above Nostramo… unless…"
He exhaled.
"Unless what?" the Captain-General asked quietly.
"An illusion," Kariél replied in the same quiet voice. "Thank you for talking to me, monster pretending to be Constantin. Otherwise, I wouldn't have realized what I just did."
He raised his hands, looked at those scarlet, ugly brushes with disgust, and slowly shook his head.
The Captain-General let out a quiet sigh involuntarily.
"The Lord never makes mistakes, even in his assumptions."
He raised his sword. Acid rain dripped onto his armor and immediately evaporated.
"They always find a way to seep through."
"I will return those words to you."
"Words are superfluous."
Standing opposite Kariél, Constantin Valdor gripped his power sword.
"Forward," the Captain-General squinted. "S
survive, Kariél Lohars. You must wake up.
In response to his words, Kariél merely sneered, and for a moment, a dim red light flashed in the depths of his extinguished eyes.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan