Eh, Curze was the Primarch of the Night Lords, who are all pathetic losers.
Raldoron attacked with greater ferocity. Skraivok’s arm was numb from deflecting the blows.
He forayed a few attacks, but they put him in more danger, as Raldoron caught and countered every one.
His latest riposte was turned away, and Raldoron’s power blade scraped sparks up the side of his breast-plate.
‘Atramentar!’ Skraivok called, his panic rising. ‘To me!’
If they heard, they could do nothing; they fought the Blood Angels Dreadnought still, their number reduced to three.
‘Night Lords! Help me!’
His power pack scraped on rockcrete. He had his back to the outer crenellations, and could retreat no further. Raldoron faced him. His sword energy field buzzed in the downpour.
‘Listen to you,’ Raldoron said. ‘The masters of fear. You are cowards, like all cruel men.’
‘You are and always were an evil Legion. You took the Emperor’s mission and twisted it. Selfish. Monstrous. Tormentors of the weak,’ snarled Raldoron. ‘If Horus had not turned, I would have gladly led the hunt for your kind myself. I thank you from my heart that you came to my sword and saved me the trouble of looking.’ He shifted the weight of his foot, bringing another cry from Skraivok. ‘Wait!’ the Painted Count said. ‘I give you my surrender. You beat me. I am your prisoner!’ ‘There can be no prisoners in this war,’ said Raldoron.
‘How much mercy have you shown to all those that you harmed? I have as much mercy for you as you had for them. Now get off my wall.’
He shoved hard with his foot, sending Skraivok skidding towards the drop.
Genuinely the best thing about Night Lords is how they always die in an entertaining way like the bitches they are when push comes to shove.