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Dark Son – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Dark Son

Gav Thorpe

A giant of iron and fire lit the shrine, bathing the walls with flickers of orange and red. Its eyes were dark embers, its flesh flame beneath cracked metal skin. Seven figures stood bathed in the light; armoured in plates of dark blue and black, heads covered with ornately horned helms. In gauntleted hands they held their long, broad blades, the edges of their klaives gleaming in the ruddy glare. Behind them in the shadows lurked others, pale flesh and flashing eyes half-glimpsed in the darkness.

Another entered. She was clad as the others, though her armour was more ornate, her chosen weapons a pair of curving demi-klaives that glittered with energy.

‘Fear,’ said the klaivex, her voice issuing as a low whisper from her helm.

The word hung in the air as she paced back and forth in front of the immobile warriors. Seven pairs of eyes followed the klaivex as she strode from one end of the line to the other. They watched for any pause, for any moment of hesitation, fingers curling on the hafts of their weapons.

‘Fear drives us. Our entire existence is now predicated on a dread so utterly damning that we cannot name it. Our scattered kindred, each are driven by this fear, even those who live in the dark city below.’

The klaivex, Naremun, stopped at the centre of the line, three strides away from seven deadly fighters seeking the merest moment of weakness. She was directly in front of Kolidaran, staring straight at him. Her words seem directed at him and he wondered if she knew of the ambition in his heart. Of course she knew, for it had been her own ambition and was shared by any that became incubi.

‘We do not refuse fear. We cannot forget our fear any more than we can forget to breathe the air. It is part of us.’

Naremun started to pace again, almost but not quite turning her back on her incubi followers. Kolidaran sensed Jurathi beside him tense but the warrior made no move. Like Kolidaran, Jurathi knew that the time was not yet right. Naremun was not truly unaware; she was simply testing them, teasing them. Three strides was a short distance, but not great enough to attack and strike a clean blow uncontested.

And it would take a single killing blow to defeat Naremun.

Kolidaran had seen her fight, as had the others. He had seen the way she had cut down Siamnath and Laghinuir and Norrianar. He had seen the klaivex butcher her way through orks and humans and fellow eldar.

There would be no second strike.

He could wait. Life amongst the incubi taught nothing if not patience. The time would come when Naremun was truly vulnerable and then he would make his move. Not before.

‘To face fear is true strength.’ The klaivex faced her followers once more, her tone conveying disappointment at their inaction. ‘We must embrace the fear and become one with it. An age ago our ancestors created a terror so profound the galaxy still shakes in dread. The faithless, the cowards, ran from that terror and hid themselves away on their craftworlds. Our kin in the dark city cower no less, using the pain and dread of others to mask their own.’

She paused again, silhouetted against the burning idol of Khaine. For a moment her dark outline was swallowed up by the flames and smoke, seeming to become invested with the image of the war-god.

‘We do not shirk from our fear. Let the misguided seek to shackle the gifts Khaine gave to us. We do not shy away from our fear; the fear that we are creatures of deep hate and irresistible anger. This is not our dread. Our dread is to be meaningless. What we fear is the passing of a life without achievement, without import. To die and be consumed by that terror we created, without first making a mark upon the universe, that is failure. That is fear.’

Naremun stepped away from the idol, her demi-klaives still raised to the guard position.

‘None of you are worthy,’ she snapped. ‘None of you dare to challenge me. Your fear of death overpowers you. It makes you weak.’

‘To die on your blades is failure,’ said Aneathuin. ‘Wasteful.’

‘Yet if you are to succeed, if you are to become klaivex and gain your place and glory, you must dare it. Success cannot be gained without risking failure. Victory is the twin maiden of defeat. Death is the father of life.’

The klaivex shook her head and her blades lowered a fraction. When she spoke again, Kolidaran thought she sounded tired but knew this was also a ruse, a feigned show of weakness.

‘Is there none who would dare to step forward? Do you not feel the hunger?’ Her voice became a rasping shout. ‘Do you not hate me enough?’

Empty questions, Kolidaran knew. They all wanted to be klaivex. They all felt the hunger gnawing inside them, the source of that existential fear that Naremun spoke of. And they certainly hated her. Her berating, her bullying, her sarcasm and loathing were enough to wake hatred hot enough to burn like the idol of Khaine. Her barbs to the pride of her warriors were a constant agony. But as the deaths of Siamnath and Laghinuir and Norrianar had demonstrated, Khaine did not reward those who struck out in blind fury.

Amongst the flame and smoke, Khaine’s heart was ice. The Bloody-Handed demanded the slaying to be cold and calculating. Kolidaran would die no other way.

‘Embrace the fear and make it your own. Become the terror. Step into th–’

Something struck Kolidaran in the back of the head.

He rolled with the blow, tumbling forward and turning at the same time. His attacker leapt forward and Kolidaran caught a glimpse of Khissareth’s face beneath the hood of his acolyte’s cowl, the fire lighting up his snarling face and wide eyes. Khissareth kicked out, aiming not for Kolidaran but the haft of his klaive.

The weapon flew from the incubi’s grasp and spun above his head. Kolidaran jumped to his feet, but too slow. The acolyte snatched the spinning blade out of the air. With quick steps Kolidaran retreated a few paces, staying on the balls of his feet, ready to move again.

‘I have your weapon,’ crowed Khissareth. He brought the klaive up to the attack position, elbows out, right foot forward. ‘Now I am incubi.’

‘You have it,’ said Kolidaran. ‘Can you keep it?’

Incensed, Khissareth lashed out: a wild blow that Kolidaran easily ducked. The acolyte stabbed towards Kolidaran’s midriff but the veteran warrior had expected the attack and sidestepped with a laugh.

‘You should not have wasted your victory with gloating,’ said the incubi.

‘I shall be the last who laughs,’ snapped Khissareth, lunging again.

Kolidaran backtracked, dodging the tip of the klaive by a hair’s breadth. He cartwheeled to his left as Khissareth came again. Stab and sweep and thrust all missed their mark by the finest margins, Kolidaran always a moment ahead of his attacker. The clatter of Kolidaran’s boots and Khissareth’s grunts were the only sounds to break the stillness.

Eyes fixed on his opponent, the incubi lowered his left shoulder as if about to move in that direction. A momentary look of triumph gleamed in Khissareth’s gaze as he swung the klaive to intercept the dodge. It was a feint, a simple one at that, and Kolidaran shifted his weight and span to the right, moving past the end of the blade.

He arrowed his straightened fingers into Khissareth’s throat. As the acolyte gave a choked cry and stepped back, Kolidaran followed, grabbing hold of the klaive’s haft in his left hand. The incubi drove an armoured knee into Khissareth’s gut and brought his foot down into the side of his foe’s knee in one motion, wrenching the klaive from Khissareth’s grasp as he fell.

Another kick sent the would-be-incubi sprawling to his back.

‘Fear drove you to act in haste,’ said Kolidaran. He relaxed, the klaive held to one side. ‘The fear that no opportunity would come forced your hand too early. The klaivex’s words bit deep, did they not?’

‘I regret nothing,’ said Khissareth but his expression made his defiant words hollow. His eyes shone with tears as they fixed on Kolidaran’s blade and his jaw trembled as he spoke. ‘No success without failure. Just end it.’

‘Not so easy, not for you,’ said Kolidaran. ‘You are the first to try to take my klaive since I pulled it from Nathrikh’s dead hands. May you be the last.’

He looked at the other acolytes who were still hiding in the shadows. Turning, he handed Jurathi the klaive – there was no incentive for his fellow incubi to take advantage of his disarmed state, the klaivex was the object of their ambitions.

Further words would only cheapen the lesson, so Kolidaran advanced on Khissareth in silence. The acolyte tried to turn and run but his shattered knee failed him. Kolidaran stooped over his fallen foe, driving his fists into the acolyte’s back, breaking ribs and bruising organs.

Snatching up Khissareth by his robe, Kolidaran turned the youth to face him. With a few simple moves the challenger was sent to the floor again, wailing, his broken arms trembling uselessly. Another flash of hands and Khissareth’s right eye was gone, a bloody hole in its place.

The acolyte’s screams echoed harshly around the chamber.

‘Take him,’ snarled Kolidaran, pointing towards the door. His anger was not directed at Khissareth, not now that he had been punished. Kolidaran’s ire was reserved for himself; for appearing vulnerable to the acolyte. ‘Dump him in the undercity where the ur-ghuls will make sport of his flesh.’

A trio of acolytes emerged from the darkness and dragged away the screaming youth.

Kolidaran retrieved his klaive and turned to Naremun. He raised the blade briefly to his face and then bowed. As he straightened up he did not raise the tip of his klaive, but left it pointing at Naremun.

He looked straight at her and though it was impossible to see his expression his intent was clear enough. She knew open challenge would never be made, and because he had stated his purpose – though the statement was silently made – she would have to be on her guard. It could be so tiring, waiting for that moment when another’s ambition overcame fear, and she would make a mistake.

Kolidaran was patient. He could wait.

‘Apologies for the interruption, klaivex. You were labouring some point about fear, I believe. Please feel free to continue.’

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A Black Library Publication

Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Original Incubus illustration by Kevin Chin.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-715-3

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