‘You are snarling again.’
Argel Tal grunted acknowledgement, but had no desire to speak of it. ‘The consecration,’ he said instead.
The captain was surprised when he first entered the main cavern, which wasn’t quite the same as being impressed.
It was certainly of considerable size, and given that the Cadians’ technology was somewhere in the region of Terra’s long-forgotten Age of Stone, it had likely taken years to carve out the subterranean chamber and etch the murals, symbols and verses upon the walls and floors.
An underground river ran in a rushing torrent below dozens upon dozens of arched stone bridges. The curving walls were lit by more smoky torches, casting myriad silhouettes across the cavern that danced in frantic abandon to the sound of the drums.
A central island formed a hub for the bridges to meet in the middle. Here, naked in the firelight, her pale skin painted with twisted runes, was Ingethel. For the ghost of a moment, the symbols tattooed on her body drew Argel Tal’s eyes. He recognised them all immediately, for each sigil was a stylised representation of a constellation drawn right from the night skies of Colchis. The Serrated Sun encircled the girl’s navel in blue ink.
Drummers surrounded her in a ring, beating leathery skins with animal bones. Thirty in all – their harmonic pounding like the world’s own beating heart. Hundreds and hundreds of Cadians lined the outer walls and walkways, all watching the performance as it was underway. Many chanted in praise of their heathen gods.
The alkaline smells of pure water, human sweat and ancient stone were almost overpowering, but Argel Tal still scented blood before he saw its source. Sensing his urgency, his visor tracked and zoomed across the scene. In the shadowed edge of the central ring, ten spears reached up from the ground.
The bases of nine of the wooden spears were streaked with blood and shit, forming sick pools on the stone. The spears themselves bore human fruit: each of the nine stakes played host to a tribesman – all impaled, all dead. The speartips thrust up through the dead men’s open mouths.
‘This cannot be allowed to continue,’ said Vendatha. Disbelief softened his voice.
And this time, Argel Tal agreed with him.
Ingethel danced on, her lithe figure silhouetted into blackness by the bright fires behind her. At the heart of it all, not far from the maiden’s undulating form, Lorgar towered above every other living being. He watched in silence with his arms crossed over his chest, his features masked by a raised hood.
Deumos stood by the robed primarch’s side, sweating in full battle armour. Captain Tsar Quorel and his Chaplain, Rikus, stood way behind. Both wore their helms. Both were watching the impaling spears, rather than the dancing human girl.
‘Brother,’ Argel Tal voxed to his fellow captain, ‘what blasphemy have we intruded upon?’
Tsar Quorel’s tone betrayed his own unease. ‘When we arrived, the woman was as you see her, and the primarch stood here watching. The atrocities on the spears were already committed. We saw as you see now.’
Argel Tal led Xaphen and Vendatha over a stone walkway, approaching the primarch. Cadians scattered like vermin before a pack of hunting dogs, bowing, scraping, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch the Colchisian runes engraved on their armour.
‘Sire?’ Argel Tal asked. ‘What is all this?’
Lorgar didn’t look away from Ingethel. Her dance seemed carnal to Argel Tal’s inexpert eyes, as if the maiden was mating with some unseen creature as part of her performance.
‘Sire?’ Argel Tal repeated, and the primarch glanced his way at last. Ingethel’s shadow danced across his eyes, reflected there by the firelight.
‘The Cadians believe this ritual will allow their gods to manifest among us.’ His voice was as low as the drums.
‘You allowed them to do this?’ He stepped closer, showing more disrespect to his gene-sire than he ever had in his life, for his hands fell to rest upon his sheathed swords. ‘You watched them commit human sacrifice?’
The primarch took no offence at his son’s boldness. In truth, he seemed not to notice it. ‘The blood offerings were made before I was invited into the sacred chamber.’
‘Yet you are still taking part. You tolerate this. Your silence endorses this barbarism.’
Lorgar turned back to watch the girl’s dance, which grew ever more frantic. Perhaps an edge of doubt marred his flawless features. Perhaps it was simply the maiden’s shadow flickering over the primarch’s face.
‘This is no different to the rituals practised on Colchis only decades before your birth, captain. This is the Old Faith in all its theatrical glory.’
‘This is an abomination,’ Argel Tal took another step closer.
‘All I want,’ Lorgar enunciated each word with patient care, ‘is an answer.’
Before them, Ingethel slowed in her whirling dance. Her tattooed skin was a living, sweating devotion to the Word Bearers’ Chapters and the Colchisian night skies from whence they drew their names.
‘It is time,’ she said to Lorgar in a hoarse, breathless voice. ‘It is time for the tenth sacrifice.’
The primarch tilted his head down at the girl, not quite a concession. ‘And what is the tenth sacrifice?’
‘The tenth sacrifice must come from the seeker. He chooses the slain. It is the final consecration.’
Lorgar drew breath to answer, but was denied the chance to speak.
A sinister crackle came into waspish life – all recognised the snapping buzz of a power weapon going live. Vendatha lowered his guardian spear, aiming the blade and bolter at Lorgar’s heart.
‘In the Emperor’s name,’ said the Custodian, ‘this ends now.’
FIFTEEN
Sacrifice
Baptism of Blood
Unworthy Truths
‘By the authority invested in me by the Emperor of Mankind, I do judge thee a traitor to the Imperium.’
Lorgar watched Vendatha, his benign expression unchanging all the while.
‘Is that so?’ asked the primarch.
‘Don’t do this,’ said Argel Tal. ‘Ven, please, do not do this.’
Vendatha didn’t take his eyes from Lorgar. The golden spire-helm faced forward, red eye lenses catching the flames’ reflection. Around them all, the drums were starting to slow and fall quiet.
‘If any of you reach for a weapon, this becomes an execution, not an arrest.’
The Word Bearers remained frozen. Some risks weren’t worth taking.
‘Lorgar,’ whispered Ingethel. ‘The ritual must not be interrupted. The wrath of the gods will–’
‘Be silent, witch,’ Vendatha said. ‘You have said enough already. Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, do you yield to righteous authority and give your oath to abandon this den of heathen belief? Do you vow to return at once to Terra and submit to the Emperor’s judgement?’
‘No,’ the primarch spoke softly. ‘I do not.’
‘Then you leave me no choice.’
‘There is always a choice,’ said Argel Tal.
Vendatha ignored the captain’s plea. He reached for the scrollwork etched into his ornate bracer, and pushed one of the mother-of-pearl buttons inlaid in the decoration.
Nothing happened.
He pressed the button again.
Nothing continued to happen.
The Custodian took a step backwards as the Word Bearers very, very slowly drew their weapons. The Chaplains unlimbered their crozius mauls. Tsar Quorel and Deumos raised their bolters, and Argel Tal unsheathed the swords of red iron.
‘I think you will find,’ the primarch smiled, ‘that your teleport signal has been blocked since you entered this chamber. Just a precautionary measure we took, you understand? Aquillon and your brothers will not be appearing to aid you. They will never even know you needed them.’
‘I confess I had not anticipated this,’ Vendatha said. ‘Well done, Lorgar.’
‘It’s not too late, Ven.’ Argel Tal raised his swords en garde.
‘Lower your weapon and we can end this without crossing the line.’
‘Great One...’ Ingethel whined. ‘The ritual...’
‘I said be silent, witch,’ snapped Vendatha.
Lorgar sighed, as if a great disappointment settled upon his shoulders. ‘Decide now, Custodian Vendatha, how best to serve my father’s Imperium. Do you flee, escaping this chamber, and bring a truth you don’t even understand to your brothers in orbit? Or do you shoot me now, and rid the galaxy of its only chance at enlightenment?’
‘The choice you offer is no choice at all,’ Vendatha said.
Argel Tal moved first, launching forward as the cavern echoed with bolter fire.
Vendatha was not a fool. He knew the odds of surviving the next few moments were slim, and he knew a primarch’s reflexes were the peak of biological possibility, faster than even his own, which bordered on the preternatural.
But Lorgar was at ease, his muscles loose. He actually expected his offer of truce to hold some weight, and that lapse in judgement was enough for Vendatha to take the chance. He pulled the haft-trigger, and his spear’s underslung bolter cracked off a stream of rounds on full-auto.
Argel Tal saw it coming. The swords of red iron smashed the first three bolts aside, their power fields strong enough to detonate the shells as they streaked towards the primarch’s heart. The explosions threw the captain to the ground, his grey armour scraping along the stone with the shriek of offended ceramite.
Vendatha was already in motion. The golden warrior leapt at the primarch, guardian spear spinning in his fists, an oath to the Emperor on his lips. Four Word Bearers blocked his path, and those four Word Bearers had to die.
Rikus was the first to fall. The Custodian’s blade crunched into the soft, jointed armour at the Chaplain’s throat, punching from the back of his neck. Tsar Quorel died next, decapitated with a buzzing sweep of the energised blade, dead before he’d pulled his trigger.
Deumos managed to fire a stream of bolt shells, none of which connected. Vendatha weaved left, thudded the base of his spear into the Chapter Master’s bolter, knocking it aside, and followed with a cutting swing that sheared both the Word Bearer’s hands from his body, severing them at the forearms. Deumos had a scarce moment to draw in a stunned gasp before the spear sliced again, this time cleaving through his collarbone and spine, ripping his head free.
Vendatha span the blade in his hands, letting it come to rest with the tip and gun barrel aimed at Lorgar’s heart again. Behind the Custodian, the bodies crashed to the ground in slow succession. Three seconds had passed.
Argel Tal was picking himself off the floor. Only Xaphen stood between the primarch and his attacker, but the Chaplain had used the scant, precious seconds to draw his bolter, which he aimed squarely at Vendatha’s faceplate.
‘Hold,’ he warned.
‘Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, surrender yourself into my custody at once.’
‘You killed my sons,’ Lorgar covered his mouth with a hand. ‘They had never wronged you. Not once. Is this what my father’s mandate allows you to do? To slaughter my sons if I do not dance to his ignorant tune?’
‘Surrender yourself,’ the Custodian repeated.
Vendatha had fought at the Emperor’s side many times before. Always writ upon the Lord of Man’s face was an unbreakable defiance, all emotion suppressed beneath the mask of stoic perfection.
Lorgar didn’t share his father’s capacity to conceal emotion. Hate bleached his features, and white teeth showed in a skull’s grin.
‘You dare threaten me? You murdered my sons, you soulless, worthless husk of genetic overspill.’
Vendatha squeezed the trigger again, but it was too late. Xaphen fired first.
Bolt rounds hammered into the Custodian’s golden armour, beating the faceplate and chest out of shape, tearing chunks of plating away as they detonated. Each suit of battle armour was individually wrought for the Custodian granted the honour to wear it, and despite their finery, Custodes armour was a step beyond the mass-produced wargear used by the Astartes Legions.
Even so, the burst of bolter shells to the head and upper torso was almost enough to kill the warrior outright.
Vendatha staggered back, the guardian spear falling from slack fingers and crashing to the stone. Even with his face a burned and bleeding ruin, even with his helm wrecked and its twisted metal digging into his broken skull, he stared through the one eye that still worked.
Xaphen reloaded. The primarch did nothing. The naked maiden tugged at Lorgar’s robe sleeve, imploring him to continue with the heathen rite, warning of the gods’ anger if he didn’t.
Vendatha reached for his fallen spear.
Wait. Where is Argel T–
The sword of red iron flew like a javelin, cracking Vendatha’s remaining teeth into porcelain chips as it smashed into his closed mouth. Two metres of shimmering blade lanced from the back of the Custodian’s head, while most of the warrior’s ruined face was covered by the hilt and handle protruding from his open jaws.
As Rikus, Tsar Quorel and Deumos had done only moments before, Vendatha crashed to the ground, felled by an Imperial blade.
Xaphen released a breath. ‘Nicely done, brother.’
The Chaplain had no warning, for Argel Tal struck without any. The captain’s fist crashed into Xaphen’s jaw, throwing him to the ground.
‘Brother?’ from his place on the stone floor, the Chaplain stared up at Argel Tal’s fury.
‘We have just killed one of the Emperor’s own guardians, and your eulogy in this moment is “Nicely done, brother”? Are you insane? We stand upon the edge of heresy against the Imperium. Sire, we have to leave this place. We must speak with Aquillon, and–’
‘Retrieve your blade,’ ordered the primarch. Lorgar stared into the middle distance, paying little heed to what unfolded before his eyes. His voice barely lifted above a whisper.
Argel Tal approached with slow steps, taking his second sword back without gentleness, yanking it from the corpse’s jaws. He froze as Vendatha’s remaining eye followed him, and the body’s fingers twitched.
‘Blood of the... Sire, he’s still alive,’ Argel Tal called back.
‘There is no virtue in cruelty,’ murmured Lorgar. ‘I wrote that once. In my book. I remember doing so. I remember the scratch of quill upon parchment, and the way the words looked on the page...’
‘Sire?’
Lorgar stirred, focused. ‘End his suffering, Argel Tal.’
All heads turned towards Ingethel as she cried out – wordless defiance, in a keening wail.
‘This was ordained by the gods.’ She gestured her tattooed hand to Vendatha’s ravaged form. ‘Lorgar is the seeker, the Favoured Son of the Great Powers, and he has provided the tenth sacrifice. Consecration may begin.’
A pack of Cadians came forward, their dirty hands pulling at Vendatha’s golden armour, stripping it from his dying body. Argel Tal kicked one of the jackals off the fallen Custodian and levelled his blades at the rest. They scattered; carrion-feeders disturbed from a meal at the last moment.
‘This was not a sacrifice for your blood magic,’ the captain said. ‘He aimed a weapon at the Emperor’s son, and he will die for the sin. That is all.’ Argel Tal looked over his shoulder. ‘Sire, we have to leave. No answer is worth this.’
Lorgar lowered his hood, looking at neither Argel Tal nor Ingethel. His gaze rested on a far wall, and a faint scowl creased his lips.
‘What’s that sound?’ the primarch asked.
‘I hear nothing but the drums, sire. Please, we must leave at once.’
‘You don’t hear that?’ Lorgar glanced at his two remaining sons. ‘Neither of you?’ Their silence answered for them, and Lorgar reached a hand to his forehead. ‘Is that... laughter?’
Ingethel was on her knees now, dragging at his robes, weeping in her worship. ‘The ritual... The gods come... It is not complete...’
Lorgar paid her heed at last, though the distant
look never left his eyes. ‘I hear them. I hear them all. Like the memory of laughter. The forgotten faces of distant kin when one struggles to recall them.’
Argel Tal clashed the swords of red iron together; the skish-skash of metal on metal loud enough to draw the primarch’s attention.
‘Sire,’ he growled, ‘we must leave.’
Lorgar shook his head, infinitely patient, infinitely calm. ‘It is no longer our choice to make. Events are in motion. Stand away from the Custodian, my son.’
‘But sire...’
‘Ingethel speaks the truth. This was all ordained. The storm that stranded us. The screams that summoned us. The fear that led Vendatha to betray us. All part of a... a plan. It’s so clear to me. The dreams. The whispers. Decade after decade after decade of...’
‘Sire, please.’
Lorgar’s statuesque features were warped by a sudden rush of fury. ‘Stand away from that treacherous dog before you join him on an eleventh spear. Do you understand me? This moment is a crucible upon which all else spins. Obey me, or I will kill you where you stand.’
A shadow passed over Argel Tal’s sight – something terrible in aspect, something winged and wrathful beyond mortal imagining.
The moment passed. The darkness receded. Argel Tal did as Lorgar commanded, stepping away from the body and sheathing the swords of red iron.
‘No answers are worth this,’ the captain said.
Neither Xaphen nor Lorgar met his glare. With keen eyes, both watched the ritual proceeding again.
Here, Lorgar stopped writing. His smile was enriched by melancholy.
‘Do you believe I sinned in that moment?’
Argel Tal laughed, the sound black and bitter. ‘A sin is decided when mortal morality meets a code of ethics. Did you sin against a faith? No. Did you stain your soul? Perhaps.’
‘But you hate me, my son. I hear it in your voice.’
‘I think desperation blinded you, father. You may take no joy in sadism, but your need for the truth drove you to viciousness.’
‘And for this, you hate me.’ Lorgar was no longer smiling. His tone was low and barbed, while his eyes had all the warmth of a body on the battlefield.
The First Heretic Page 21