‘Aquillon,’ said Argel Tal from his vantage point above the carnage. He shook his head as he spoke the name. Unfeigned awe softened his voice. ‘I’ve never seen a Custodian fight.’
Several Word Bearers crouched at the lip of a roof overlooking the street. Argel Tal, Torgal, and the sergeant’s assault squad. The golden warriors moved ahead with consummate grace, the dance of their blades eclipsing anything a mortal could perform.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Torgal said. ‘Should we join them?’
From below, a shout rose above the butchery. For the Emperor – a battlecry that hadn’t left a Word Bearer’s lips since Monarchia. Strange, how it sounded almost alien to Argel Tal’s ears.
‘No,’ the captain replied. ‘Not yet.’
Torgal watched for several more moments, one finger idly stroking his chainword’s trigger. ‘There’s something about the way they fight,’ he said. ‘Some flaw that I can’t make out.’
Argel Tal watched Aquillon, the Custodian’s blade reaving its way through countless lives, and saw nothing of the kind. He said so.
Torgal shook his head, still watching. ‘I can’t form the thought. They lack... something. They’re fighting... wrong.’
And this time, as soon as Argel Tal returned his gaze to the battle in the street, he saw it instantly. The way the Custodes fought seemed almost identical to the Astartes; it took a trained eye to see the subtle differences. The captain had missed it first by focusing on a single warrior. The moment he took in the full view...
‘There,’ said Argel Tal. ‘I see it, too.’
Was it a flaw? Perhaps by the standards of the Astartes, who waged war and lived life with brotherhood etched into their genetic codes. But Custodes were the sons of a more rarefied and time-consuming process – the biological manipulation that gave birth to the Emperor’s guardians bred warriors who weren’t shackled by bonds of loyalty to anyone except their Imperial overlord.
‘They’re not brothers,’ Argel Tal said. ‘Watch how they move. See how each one fights his own war, alone, unsupported by the others. They’re not like us. These are warriors, not soldiers.’
The thought made his skin crawl. It must have had the same effect on Torgal, for he voiced the words on his captain’s mind.
‘Lions,’ the sergeant said. ‘They’re lions, not wolves, hunting alone instead of as a pack. Gold,’ he added, and tapped the chestplate of his armour, ‘not grey.’
‘Good eyes, brother.’ Argel Tal still stared intently. Now he was aware of the disunity, it was all he could focus on. Here was a weakness, a savage one, masked only by the heroic skills of each warrior and the worthlessness of the enemies they faced.
A ripple of unease shivered through him as he bore witness. Those ancient words of the Emperor came to him, that first creed of the Legiones Astartes: And they shall know no fear.
Argel Tal was one of those who took the creed in its most literal sense, believing the sensitivity to feel fear was rewritten out of him at the genetic level. But even so, watching these brotherless cousins fight chilled him to his core. They lacked so much, despite their individual perfection.
‘In standing free of brotherhood,’ he said, ‘they also sacrifice its strengths. The tactics of a pack. The trust in those who fight by your side. I suspect the secrets woven into their body and blood gene-bind them to a higher loyalty – perhaps their only brother is the Emperor himself.’
Torgal was as perceptive as ever. ‘You no longer admire them,’ he said. ‘I hear it in your voice.’
Argel Tal smiled, choosing to let his silence answer for him.
Beneath them, the Custodians fought on. ‘That looks like trouble,’ one of the assault squad gestured down the road. They watched as a glass construct stalked into the avenue from a side street, and began to make its way down the thoroughfare towards the golden warriors.
Now Argel Tal rose to his feet. ‘Come, brothers. Let’s see how the wolves hunt with the lions.’
‘By your word,’ they chorused in perfect unity, and ten sets of thrusters howled as one.
Aquillon’s greeting was cautious. He made the sign of the aquila across his breastplate, where the Emperor’s two-headed eagle symbol was already in ornate evidence.
‘Hail, captain.’
Argel Tal returned the salute, crashing a fist against his chestpiece over his heart – the sign of Imperial allegiance in the Terran Unification Wars.
‘Custodian. A pleasure to be of service,’ Argel Tal gestured one of his blades at the ruined construct. It lay dead in the road, cut and battered, surrounded by slain militia.
‘A curious greeting, captain, to use a salute that fell out of favour before the Great Crusade even began.’
The Word Bearers formed up behind and around Argel Tal, just as the Custodians came to Aquillon’s side. It wasn’t quite a standoff, but none of the warriors were blind to the spectre of tension between them.
Argel Tal didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You seemed to need the help. I’m just glad we were here to assist you.’
Aquillon chuckled and walked away, saying nothing more. The Custodes formed up in imprecise formation and marched ahead. Evidently, their leader wasn’t rising to any bait, either.
‘Sir?’ asked Torgal. ‘Should we go with them?’
Argel Tal was smiling despite himself.
‘Yes. For what little there is left to do, we’ll fight with them.’
By dawn, the glass city’s death-throes were over.
The place chosen for the Legion’s gathering was expansive out of necessity, but still deep within the urban sprawl. Crystal towers, purged of life by the Terminator elite, stood unburned around an immense park. The earth was soon churned to mud under the grinding treads of tanks and the boots of a hundred thousand Astartes. The park itself reached for kilometres in all directions. In better times, it had served as a place of peace and celebration for the people of the city; now it was being used to celebrate their annihilation, and Argel Tal found a quiet pleasure in that little slice of irony.
Seventh Company trickled in – not first, but far from last – and took their appointed places. Xi-Nu 73 and his four robotic warriors knew their place, and made no attempt to approach the assembling rows of Word Bearers. The captain and his squad leaders bid the tech-adept farewell at the edges of the Legion’s formation, and the last sight Argel Tal had of the Mechanicum priest was with Incarnadine, the Conqueror Primus. The robot stood slightly hunched at its master’s side, still towering above the augmetic human, its unliving eye lenses tracking left and right with a camera’s patience. Xi-Nu 73 absently stroked its armour plating, as if it were a pet to have its fur patted.
While they stood separate from the Astartes, they were far from alone. Carthage Cohort was comprised of dozens of maniples, of which Xi-Nu’s four wards were just one. It looked as though many advancing squads had summoned aid from the Legio Cybernetica forces allied to the XVII Legion, for over a hundred robots stood proud in their black and scarlet livery.
A few rare units had oath parchments and scrolls of scripture bound to their armour plating, marking them as particularly accomplished in battle. These robots, from a variety of classes and designs, were enrolled in the Fidelitas Lex’s archives as honorary members of the Word Bearers Legion.
Incarnadine was one of them. The robot bore the serrated sun icon, plated in gold upon its forehead.
Aquillon and the Custodians broke away as Argel Tal and his brothers began to form ranks.
‘Be well, captain,’ said the leader, and offered another salute.
Argel Tal acknowledged the warrior with a nod. ‘And you, Occuli Imperator.’
With that, the Custodes made their way through the gathered Legion to stand apart in a small cluster. Hundreds of grey helms followed the warriors’ movements, watching, judging, hating.
Argel Tal and Xaphen moved to the front ranks alongside Chapter Master Deumos and the other commanders of the Serrated Sun. Considering
their victory here, the greetings were oddly subdued. It took a moment for Argel Tal to realise why.
‘How long were you with them?’ Deumos asked, just short of a demand.
Argel Tal glanced at the chron display counting up on the edge of his visor display. ‘Eight hours, forty-one minutes.’
Deumos was bareheaded, and his time-cracked face was set in an expectant glower.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ asked Argel Tal. ‘Have I erred?’
‘Of course not. You have nothing to report?’
‘I do, sir.’ Argel Tal faced forward. ‘But it can wait.’
‘Look at them, brother.’ Deumos was too careful to gesture, but his meaning was clear nevertheless. ‘See how they stand away from us, yet still expect to hear the primarch’s words.’
The Custodes stood spear-straight in two lines of ten, horsehair crests blowing in the wind. Halberds held at attention, just as they would be in the Emperor’s presence. Products of a refined process, where the Astartes were mass-produced – it was easy to imagine these gilded knights hailed as humanity’s finest, beneath only the primarchs themselves in grandeur. It was the natural instinct of the untrained and inexperienced to presume such a thing. For those who perceived their flaws, matters were less cut and dried.
Argel Tal still hadn’t decided how he felt about them. They were stunning in battle, yet deeply flawed. Aquillon was appointed to watch over the Legion and report its actions to the Emperor, yet he had – irritatingly enough – been likable during the hours they’d battled together, and a demonstrably focused warrior.
The Word Bearers stood beneath the scripture-laden banner of Seventh Company and the icon of the serrated sun, as they waited for their brothers to take position.
‘Carthage stands apart from us, yet they will hear the primarch,’ said Argel Tal.
‘That’s different,’ Deumos growled. ‘The Carthage Primacy was signed and oathed over a century ago. Almost a dozen of their war machines have been inducted as honorary Legionnaires since then. Aurelian will order them to leave, mark my words, but at least they have earned the right to stand with us.’
‘Given time, Aquillon might earn the same.’
Deumos laughed, the sudden sound turning nearby heads in his direction. ‘Do you actually believe that, captain?’
Argel Tal tore his gaze from the clustered Custodians. ‘No, lord. Not for a moment.’
Even in the scalding flare of teleportation’s aftermath, every warrior noticed the same thing. Lorgar manifested not in the armour of the Word Bearers’ warlord, but in the robes of an archpriest of their home world.
Kor Phaeron and Erebus stood at the primarch’s side, as all had expected, and as tradition dictated. Yet they too wore the cowled robes of the Colchisian priesthood, their genhanced physiques draped in layered cloth the colour of ashen earth.
Oath papers pinned to the captains’ armour flapped and curled with the breath of displaced air. Rank by rank, from first to last, a hundred thousand warriors went to one knee. Each lowering rank gave a united thud of ceramite on soil as they knelt. Only the banners remained held high above an ocean of granite grey.
Lorgar carried his crozius over his shoulder, mirroring the posture of every Chaplain in the Legion standing before him. Despite its savagery, the ritual weapon wasn’t out of place in the primarch’s more peaceful aspect.
Without his armour, he couldn’t speak across the vox. To compensate, Legion serfs deployed servo-skulls – the skinned, bleached, augmented skulls of former Legion servants who were chosen to continue serving the Word Bearers even in death. The skulls hovered on humming anti-grav suspensors, their eye sockets containing pict-imagers, their grinning jaws replaced by vox-speakers.
One of them bobbed past Argel Tal in its leisurely pathfinding, and a disquieting thought was dredged up in the skull’s passing. This might be Cyrene’s fate one day. If she got her wish to serve the Legion in the decades to come... Argel Tal turned to watch the servo-skull, curious at his own sudden discomfort. Most mortal serfs relished the promise that they might be granted immortality in even this stunted way. But Cyrene–
‘What are you doing?’ Xaphen hissed. ‘Focus.’
Argel Tal snapped back to attention, facing the primarch. Lorgar had chosen his arrival point with great care, standing atop a natural rise in the land before the orderly ranks of warriors sworn to his name.
Before speaking, the cowl came down, pulled back with sublime patience to reveal his strong, handsome features – the features of his father, but inked gold, with his eyes ringed by kohl. He was the very image of a hierophant preacher in Ancient Gyptus: a faroah’s high priest, ministering to the faithful.
‘My loyal sons. In the past, you have kneeled for each Rite of Remembrance, as you kneel even now. But no more. Word Bearers... Rise.’
Discipline be damned, the Astartes began to glance at one another, taken aback by their lord’s words. This was already unprecedented, and it had barely begun. Surprise and confusion actually had most of the Astartes defying their primarch’s order.
‘Rise,’ Lorgar said, a gentle laugh edging into his speech. ‘Rise, all of you. Now is not the time for obeisance.’
Xaphen rose immediately. All of the Chaplains did. Argel Tal stood slower, looking at his friend.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see,’ said Xaphen.
Lorgar’s next words weren’t for his sons. He gestured with his free hand, the skin gold in the dawn, taking in the small phalanx of warriors at the edge of the sprawling conclave.
‘And what have we here?’ he asked. The servo-skulls projected his words to the thousands gathered, preserving the gentle voice even through crackling vox. ‘Our appointed overseers. I give you the thanks of the Seventeenth Legion for your aid in bringing this heretic world into compliance.’
The twenty Custodes bowed, not quite in unison.
Argel Tal was too far distant to hear Aquillon’s words, but the Custodes commander bowed lower than his comrades, and gestured to the gathered Legion.
Lorgar’s reply was delivered with the same gentle diplomacy as his gratitude.
‘You are correct, Custodian Aquillon. Your tenure with the Seventeenth Legion began under dark skies. However, I must beg your indulgence this once. The words I wish to share with my sons are not for the ears of others.’
Again, Argel Tal had no hope of hearing Aquillon’s reply. Lorgar smiled in response, making the sign of the aquila. When the primarch formed the symbol over his grey robe, the gold hands became an aquila akin to those that marked the breastplates of the Emperor’s own guardians. Argel Tal doubted any present could miss the gesture’s symbolic nature.
‘My sons have been shamed, and endured the shattering of their beliefs. I brought them to this world not simply to reforge them in battle, but to speak of the future. And that will be with my sons, and my sons alone. Look to the south, where even our Mechanicum allies withdraw out of respect.’
Argel Tal looked over his shoulder guard, seeing the primarch’s words taking shape as the Mechanicum withdrew. Only the few robots granted honorary Legion inductance were remaining. Incarnadine stood motionless, the Word Bearers banner draped over its shoulders like a cloak of royalty.
Lorgar smiled his father’s smile, cutting off Aquillon’s reply. ‘Every Legion has its rites and observations, Aquillon. The Rite of Remembrance is one of ours. Would you impose upon the Wolves of Russ when they howl around the stone cairns of their fallen? Would you intrude upon the Sons of Prospero as they meditate on the perfection of human potential?’
Aquillon stepped forward now. A floating servo-skull picked up his reply and broadcast the words across to the gathered Legion.
‘If the Emperor, beloved by all, ordered me to watch over those Legions...’
Lorgar clasped his hands together, his smile of indulgence so earnest that it bordered on mockery.
‘I was there when my brother Guillim
an gave you your orders, Aquillon. You are to ensure the Word Bearers apply themselves wholeheartedly to the Great Crusade. And I – we, all of us – thank you for your presence. But you are breaching decorum now. You are showing us disrespect, and violating our traditions.’
‘I mean no offence,’ said Aquillon, ‘but my duty is clear.’
Lorgar nodded, feigning sympathy for their intentions. It was a sour display, and Argel Tal wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel shamed by it.
‘But let us not exceed your mandate,’ the primarch said. ‘You are not entitled to watch over me like a pack of prison wardens. I am the Emperor’s son, formed by his mastery in order to carry out his will. You are a flock of genetic toys pieced together in a laboratory from vials of biological scrap. You are so far beneath me that I wouldn’t piss on your bodies even if you were aflame. So... let me be clear, in the spirit of preventing future misunderstandings.’
Aquillon stepped forward, but Lorgar halted him in his tracks with a single name.
‘Kor Phaeron.’
As soon as the name was spoken, the First Captain’s voice rasped across the vox. ‘All Word Bearers, take aim at the Custodes.’
Unlike the order to rise, this one brought no hesitation. The ranks of Word Bearers raised their bolters or gunned chainswords into life.
‘Farewell,’ said Lorgar, still wearing his father’s smile. ‘We will see you in orbit soon.’
Two servitors shared the weight of a bulky teleportation beacon the size and shape of a reinforced oil drum. The bionic slaves trundled from the Astartes’ front ranks, unceremoniously dumping the bronze and black iron marvel of engineering on the ground. As Aquillon stood unmoving, staring up at Lorgar, the beacon toppled and clanked onto the grass.
‘You may use this to return to the Fidelitas Lex,’ the primarch said. ‘Go in peace.’
‘Very well,’ Aquillon hesitated before reaching down to set the beacon right. ‘By your word.’
The First Heretic Page 11