‘I understand.’
‘I thought you would.’
And with those words spoken, he walked from her room.
Aquillon found him in the practice cages.
Both warriors were aware of each other long before either said a word. Aquillon watched in silence, respectfully waiting until Argel Tal finished his round of exercises, while the Word Bearer graced the Custodian with a perfunctory nod, saying nothing as he worked through his sword work routines. Finding balance in his weakened physique was a torturous affair. The deactivated sparring blades cut the air in dull sweeps – a poor shadow of the lost swords of red iron – and he was breathless with exertion as his hearts thudded to keep up with the demands he placed upon his emaciated physique.
At last, Argel Tal lowered the blades. His muscles ached from only two hours of training. Before his journey into the Eye, such a poor performance would see him doing penance for a ritual ninety-nine nights.
‘Aquillon,’ he greeted his friend.
‘You look as though you died and forgot to lie down.’
The Word Bearer snorted. ‘I feel like it.’
‘A shame. You’d managed to last almost four minutes against me last time we stepped into these cages together.’
‘I see you are not in a merciful mood.’ In better times, this banter would have come easily to Argel Tal. ‘Did you come to speak of Ven?’
Aquillon opened the force cage and took up a practice blade twin to the one Argel Tal still held. The sparring cage’s hemispheres closed around them both. Both warriors wore robes: one, the white of Terra’s palace servants, one, the grey of the XVII Legion.
‘I wanted to hear it from you.’ He raised the blade in a two-handed grip, mimicking his favoured weapon. His warriors carried the traditional glaives, but Aquillon’s antique bidenhander broadsword was a blade apart. He carried this blade as he wielded his own sword: with a confident, effortless grip.
Argel Tal raised his own swords in a defensive cross, feeling the burn of lactic acid in his muscles. The two warriors tended to play to their strengths in the past: Aquillon was ferociously offensive in his blade work; Argel Tal remained consummately defensive.
‘So will you tell me what happened?’
Aquillon was indeed not in a merciful mood. Before the Word Bearer could even answer, Argel Tal’s blades were knocked from his hands and the captain found himself on the floor, breathing against the Custodian’s sword point. It scratched the dirty skin of his throat, and Aquillon shook his head.
‘Pathetic.’ He offered his hand to help Argel Tal rise. ‘Try again.’
The Word Bearer rose without the offered hand, retrieving his blades. ‘I do not like the pity in your voice.’
‘Then do something to get rid of it. But at least answer my question.’
The next clash lasted several seconds, but ended the same way. The Word Bearer backhanded Aquillon’s sword away from his neck.
‘Have you read the reports?’ he asked the Custodian, again refusing his friend’s offered hand and rising unaided.
‘Yes. They are vague, and I am being generous when I say even that.’
Argel Tal had read them as well. The surface of Cadia... The journey into the Eye... The reports of each event were loose and evasive fictions that almost moved him to laughter. ‘They are vague,’ he conceded, raising his blades again. ‘But they are accurate. I will enlighten you where I can.’
This time, Argel Tal attacked. Aquillon disarmed him in two swings of his blade, and a boot to the solar plexus sent the Word Bearer back down to the floor.
‘Begin with Vendatha. He told me that Lorgar was attending a heathen ritual and several of the officers would be with him.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘You are still blocking the feinted thrust, by the way.’
‘I know.’
‘Good. Now speak.’
Something burned in his blood. Something reactive, unwilling to be dominated. Argel Tal bit back a sudden need to curse at the Custodian in a language that was and was not Colchisian.
‘It... was not a ritual in the sense that we feared it would be.’ He rose to his feet as he continued. ‘A tedious recital of ancient texts. Prayers to spirits of ancestors. Dances, drums and herbal narcotics.’
Blades in hands, Argel Tal attacked again. Another clash, clash, clash, and he was dumped back onto the floor – the back of his head perilously close to the buzzing bars of the force cage.
‘Lorgar sent you into the storm based on this? A... theatrical performance of old lies?’ This time, Aquillon didn’t offer to help Argel Tal stand. A doubting scowl passed over his features.
‘Don’t be foolish.’ The Word Bearer rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crackle of abused muscle and vertebrae. ‘He never sent us into the storm. I volunteered. We lacked standard Mechanicum explorator vessels, so we used the smallest warship in the fleet.’
The two warriors circled one another, blades half a metre apart. ‘You volunteered?’
‘It was a last attempt to salvage some worth from the journey. One last venture beyond Imperial borders, before we turn around and make for new space. Aquillon... there is nothing out here. Do you think we wish to heap further shame upon ourselves by admitting that? Plenty of expeditionary fleets take months, even years, to find a world worthy of conquest – but this is our primarch’s fleet, even if only temporarily. Desperation drove us to try one last time. Don’t hate us for doing our sworn duty.’
The Custodian attacked, his blade lashing one of Argel Tal’s blades out of the captain’s grip, while a kick smashed the other aside.
The Word Bearer smiled through a face streaked with sweat, and went to recover his blades yet again.
‘And Vendatha?’ Aquillon asked.
Argel Tal’s smile faded, wiped from his face. ‘Ven died with my brothers. Deumos fell first, then Rikus and Tsar Quorel. Ven was last.’ The Word Bearer met the Custodian’s eyes, letting his sincerity show. ‘He was my friend, Aquillon. I mourn him as you do.’
‘And this... riot... on the planet that killed three Astartes and a Custodes?’
‘When the primarch renounced the barbarians and refused to draw them into the Imperium, they rose up in anger. What could we do? Their rituals are too far from the Imperial Truth. Never will they accept the Emperor’s rule.’
‘Invasion?’
‘The planet is sparsely populated, and much of it is a paradise despite its proximity to the hellish storm. Cyclonic torpedoes will annihilate the tribes, and leave the planet free for future colonisation – if the Emperor wills it.’
Aquillon released a pent-up breath. There was something unarguably youthful about the warrior, despite his ageless, regenerative immortality. ‘I commend Lorgar’s actions in rejecting the primitives on the world below. I have seen compliance after compliance executed to perfection for three years, and I do not judge his actions as flawed now. It’s difficult to believe Ven is dead, that’s all. He’d earned twenty-seven names in the Emperor’s service over a century of immaculate duty. The same mentor taught us both to wield a blade. Amon will grieve to learn of his fate.’
‘He died in the Emperor’s service, defending a primarch from the rebellion of heathen culture. You may not respect my sire, but he is still a son of the Emperor. If I could choose my hour of death, it would be in battle at Lorgar’s side.’
Aquillon raised his sword en garde, speaking with a curious formality. ‘Thank you for your candour, Argel Tal. Our presence is loathed by your Legion, but the Custodes have always appreciated your friendship.’
The Word Bearer didn’t answer. His next attack was deflected and beaten back within a matter of moments.
Aquillon offered a hand again, and this time, Argel Tal took it as he rose.
‘What now for the Serrated Sun?’ asked the Custodian.
‘There’s nothing left for us out here. Once Cadia is purged, we press on as part of the 1,301st, returning to more promising ter
ritory. I believe the primarch will rejoin the main crusade fleet, with Erebus and Kor Phaeron. He will be done with these provincial conquests. I suspect he also wishes to speak with several of his brothers.’
Aquillon nodded, and returned his practice sword to the weapon rack. His white robe was unmarked, while Argel Tal’s was bathed in sweat stains down the spine and around the collar.
The Custodian saluted, making the sign of the aquila over his chest. Argel Tal returned it, as he always did in his friend’s presence.
‘One last thing,’ the Custodian remarked.
The Word Bearer raised an eyebrow. ‘Speak.’
‘Congratulations, Chapter Master.’
Argel Tal couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I wasn’t aware it was public knowledge. Will you be at the ceremony?’
‘Without a doubt.’ In a moment of rare fellowship, Aquillon rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I wish you well on your return to health. I am glad that, at the end, Vendatha stood with a friend.’
An image of Ven’s last moments flashed through Argel Tal’s mind: the naked Custodian twitching, gagging, being dragged down and impaled upon the wooden spear.
Unable to speak another lie, the Word Bearer merely nodded.
The ceremony was attended by every officer of significant rank, as well as the remaining Word Bearers of the Serrated Sun, including the robed ranks of their Acolyte Auxiliary – many of whom would be elevated into the three shattered companies with the Legion’s losses in recent months.
Such a gathering required use of De Profundis’s primary hangar deck, which in turn offered a stunning, disquieting backdrop through the open bay doors’ shimmering force field. Through the haze of thin energies, the storm beyond was a swirling mess of psychic vitriol. The ship creaked and whined around them as they stood in orderly rows, facing Lorgar.
At the primarch’s side, the Blessed Lady carried a rolled scroll on a plain, white cushion. She stared blindly over the ranks of Word Bearers, occasionally glancing to the towering primarch as if she could somehow see him. On Lorgar’s left, Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus stood tall and proud in his ceremonial grey and white uniform, a fur cloak – once the skin of some immense arctic beast that the officer had never even seen, let alone killed himself – draped over one side of his body. None present could actually recall the last time Torvus had set foot on a planet; the man clearly treasured his place among the stars.
Fully a third of the Legion warriors were wasted husks in their half-repaired armour. These were the survivors of the Eye, standing in rows ahead of their hundred remaining brethren.
The Mechanicum contingent had manifested in full strength as well, though only one of their robotic charges was present. To no one’s surprise, Incarnadine was among the Word Bearers ranks, the scarlet war machine bedecked in honour scrolls and towering above its living kinsmen. Despite bearing the scarlet armour of Carthage, it was a welcome presence among the Legion’s grey.
Standing aside from all the others, four golden figures watched from a gantry above. Aquillon and his Custodians were resplendent in their armoured finery – the gold surfaces playing host to flickering reflections from the storm outside.
The primarch, clad in a shirt of fine silver mail, raised his hands for silence. All whispers died down immediately.
‘I have brought this expeditionary fleet far from the heart of my father’s kingdom. Every fleet with a Word Bearer presence has done the same, sailing far from beloved Terra, into the cold, away from the cradle of our species. We are far from our brothers and will hear tell of their travels and conquests in time, but I say this with confidence: none of my Legion has endured what you have. None have stared into the madness at the edge of the universe, as you have done. And you survived. You returned.’
Lorgar inclined his head at his warriors before continuing. ‘This Legion, more than any other, has suffered through change and evolution since its inception. But each phase exalts us, improves us and brings us closer to fulfilling our potential. The Emperor bred this Legion from his biological barracks on distant Terra, and for many years only Terrans filled its ranks. A more innocent age, an age when the Legion bore a different name, and today we begin to leave the last vestiges of those days behind. The Imperial Heralds became the Word Bearers, and the Word Bearers were shown the error of their ways in worshipping the Emperor. Change upon change, all leading towards this moment.’
The primarch gestured a gloved hand to a bulkhead in the closest wall, and spoke a single word. ‘Enter.’
The bulkhead opened to reveal two figures – both armoured in crimson ceramite – walking towards the primarch. The first bore a black helm with eye lenses of crystal blue. One eye was ringed by the golden Serrated Sun, and his power armour was edged in polished silver. The second carried a familiar crozius of black iron, with its armour trimmings formed of bronze and bone. Thick, ornamental chains rattled around their waists and wrists as both warriors moved. Prayer scrolls were bound to shin-guards and pauldrons, the parchment showing the primarch’s own flowing script.
‘Warriors of the Serrated Sun,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘Kneel before your new commanders.’
Every Word Bearer went to their knees. Incarnadine took several seconds longer to complete its obeisance, lowering itself on grinding hydraulics.
The first crimson warrior removed his helm. Argel Tal looked upon the gathered Legion, and called out across the deck.
‘Survivors of the Orfeo’s Lament, rise and step forward.’
They did as they were ordered. Behind Argel Tal, Xaphen removed his own skulled helm, remaining by the primarch’s side.
The new Chapter Master was still gaunt, as were the warriors he surveyed with a calm gaze. ‘Our sire has ordered we rebuild the Serrated Sun far beyond its former strength. We obey his word, as we have always obeyed. But he has offered more. You, the survivors of the Orfeo’s Lament, are to be honoured for your sacrifices.’
Argel Tal nodded to Xaphen, who took the scroll from Cyrene’s cushion and brought it to the Chapter Master.
‘This scroll is bare, but for two names. My own, and Chaplain Xaphen’s. If you accept the honour of joining us as the primarch’s chosen elite, then you will kneel before the Blessed Lady in this very hangar, and you will speak your name to her. It will be written upon this parchment, and stored in the vaults aboard De Profundis.’
Argel Tal looked each of the survivors in the eyes, one after the other. ‘We will be the Gal Vorbak, armoured in black and crimson, the elite of the Serrated Sun and the chosen of Lorgar Aurelian.’
Lorgar chuckled, light and pleasant, as he stepped forward to rest a hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder-guard.
On the gantry above, Kalhin let his glance flicker to Aquillon. His voice was low, despite the fact he wore his helm and none would overhear them speaking over the inter-squad vox.
‘Gal Vorbak. I did not study their culture as you did. Is that Colchisian?’
Aquillon nodded. ‘It means “Blessed Sons”.’
‘I am pleased for Argel Tal. He is healing well, and it will be good to turn back into fairer territory after this failed madness. Deumos was always cancerous, so I will shed no tears at his tenure coming to an end.’
That statement met with grunts of agreement from the others.
‘When Lorgar returns to the 47th Expedition, should we accompany him?’
Aquillon had been dwelling on that very thought. ‘Our mandate is to stand vigil over the Legion itself. Four Custodian teams, bound to four fleets. Iacus already claims the 47th, and I trust him as I trust any one of you. Let him play watchdog over this weakling primarch for a while. Our duties will keep us with the 1,301st, and the compliances to come.’
Kalhin released a slow breath. ‘I would pay dearly to set eyes on Terra’s skylines once more.’
‘You will,’ said Aquillon.
‘In forty-seven years,’ the other Custodian scoffed. ‘Remember the terms of our oath. Five decades among the stars. Fifty long,
tedious years away from Terra.’
‘It beats the endless blood games,’ Nirallus shrugged.
‘You only say that,’ Kalhin pointed out, ‘because you are so awful at them.’
Aquillon heard the tension in his brothers’ voices. ‘The Word Bearers will not languish under suspicion forever. In three years, have you seen evidence that they still worship the Emperor? And look at them now: already their rites are growing closer to the traditions of the other Legions. This is almost like Sigismund knighting one of his templars at a gathering of the Imperial Fists.’
Kalhin shrugged. ‘Perhaps they have come a long way from the fanatics we joined, but the stink of desperation yet clings to their breath when they shout their battle cries. I still do not trust them.’
The Occuli Imperator didn’t take his eyes from the red-clad figure speaking with his new warriors as they knelt before the blind girl from the dead world.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Neither do I.’
‘Not even Argel Tal?’
‘One warrior in an entire Legion.’ Aquillon left the railing, turning back to his Custodians. ‘He is the only one I trust. That’s the problem.’
V
Smoke and Mirrors
It was a lie, of course.
Blessed Lorgar didn’t return to Imperial space right away. One of the fleet’s scout vessels was chosen to carry the primarch back to his main crusade fleet, and a grand event was held on every deck of De Profundis to honour the Urizen before he left.
And that was the lie.
I was there when the primarch bade farewell to his sons Xaphen and Argel Tal, and I travelled back to safer space with the new lords of the Gal Vorbak.
Lorgar, meanwhile, travelled the same path that the daemon Ingethel had chosen for his children.
With the Custodians blinded to his true destination, Lorgar went into the Eye.
His last words to Argel Tal will never leave me – not only for the events they set in motion, but for what they did to my friend, and how they changed him.
The First Heretic Page 28