‘You don’t seem the merciless terror that the remembrancers have been told to fear.’
General Arric smiled, which made the slit in his face even less appealing. ‘That’s only because you’re not one of my men, Remembrancer Kadeen. Now get off the operations decks and back to the jury-rigged bar I know you little vermin are already setting up in the shadows of this blessed ship.’
‘It’s called the Cellar.’
‘How very apt,’ the old man huffed as he walked away.
So he’d waited eleven days, and true to both form and the general’s appraisal, he’d spent those eleven days in the bar.
Now he was here, after hauling his hungover carcass across to the main starboard hangar, waiting with the dregs and top brass alike for the Chaplain to arrive.
‘I thought the Crimson Lord was supposed to be here,’ he whispered to Marsin. The other remembrancer just shrugged, still taking notes and sketching vague figures.
The Astartes were here at least, though Ishaq took much less pleasure in their presence than he’d expected. Twenty of them in all: grey statues in two ranks of ten, not a ghost of movement between any of them. Immense bolt pistols were clutched to the Word Bearers’ chests, while unpowered chainswords were kept at their sides. Scrolls and iconography marked them as warriors from the 37th Assault Company.
Ishaq kept abreast of deployment chatter: most of 37th Company were engaged on the world below, waging a compliance war alongside General Arric’s Euchar regiments.
He snapped several images of the towering, silent Astartes, but his angle was far from perfect, and the edge of frame was ruined by servitors stumbling around in the background. He supposed there should be something glorious and inspiring about the warriors, but he found it hard to swallow if he looked too long in their direction. They weren’t inspiring at all. Just... imposing. Distant. Cold.
‘Attention!’ the general barked.
Ishaq conceded to this by standing slightly straighter. The Euchar officers went ramrod-straight. The Astartes still didn’t move.
The gunship came into the hangar on a sedate drift, guidance thrusters gushing pressurised air as it hovered down. Crimson armour plating coated the Thunderhawk in dry scales, while heavy bolter turrets panned left and right – the servitors slaved to the guns’ systems ever-alert to threats.
Landing claws kissed the decking. At last, the boarding ramp lowered on squealing hydraulics. Ishaq clicked a pict of the gunship’s yawning maw.
From the hangar’s edge, more Astartes entered – five warriors clad in armour of a newer, more streamlined design than their grey brethren, painted in scarlet and silver, with black helms staring ahead. The remembrancers turned as one, whispering and muttering, variously taking picts, making notes and sketching what they saw.
Gal Vorbak, came the whisper from many mouths.
Leading them was a warrior with a black cloak draped over his shoulders, and his Legion symbol hidden beneath yellowed parchment scrolls depicting his deeds. He stalked past the gathered remembrancers, the joints of his Mark IV battle armour humming a smooth hymn. Skulls of slain alien warlords rattled against his dark ceramite as they dangled from iron chains.
There he is, the whispers started up again. The Crimson Lord.
The warrior moved to the Blessed Lady’s side, whereupon he offered her a slight inclination of his head, and spoke the name ‘Cyrene’ with a growl of acknowledgement.
‘Hello, Argel Tal,’ she smiled without looking up at him. Her entourage of maids and advisors scattered back with dignified slowness as the Gal Vorbak took their places around their master.
Ishaq took another pict: the huge warrior in his snarling black helm, and the petite figure at his side, both surrounded by red-clad Astartes.
The figure that descended from the Thunderhawk onto the hangar deck wore armour to match his brothers in the Gal Vorbak, though his trimmings were reinforced bone and bronze, and his helm bore Colchisian runes painted in gold leaf.
Chaplain Xaphen walked down the gang ramp, briefly embracing Argel Tal at the bottom.
‘Cyrene,’ the Chaplain said afterwards.
‘Hello, Xaphen.’
‘You look younger.’
She blushed, and said nothing.
Argel Tal gestured to the Thunderhawk. ‘How were our brothers in the IV Legion?’
Xaphen’s rumbling voice was as vox-ruined as Argel Tal’s. ‘The Iron Warriors are well, but it is good to be back.’
‘I assume there’s much to discuss.’
‘Of course,’ the Chaplain replied.
‘Come, then. We’ll talk while the preparations are made for planetfall.’
The warriors walked past, and the orderly gathering began to dissolve into groups heading back to their duties. Just like that, it was over.
‘You coming?’ Marsin asked Ishaq.
Ishaq was looking down at his picter, intensifying the image on the small viewscreen. It showed the two commanders of the Gal Vorbak side by side, with the Blessed Lady nearby, her head tilted as she regarded them both with unseeing eyes – a look of adoring beneficence writ upon her lovely features. One of the Astartes carried his black crozius maul: the ornate weapon slung over his shoulder. The other, the cloaked Crimson Lord, sported deactivated claws of red iron, each oversized power fist ending in four talons the length of scythe blades.
Both suits of armour glinted with shards of yellow jade as they reflected the orange overhead lighting. Both helms had slanted, sapphire eye lenses that seemed to stare right into Ishaq’s viewfinder.
This, he thought to himself, might be another classic.
‘Are you coming?’ Marsin repeated.
‘What? Oh. Yes, sure.’
TWENTY-ONE
Machinations
A Curious Deception
Indulgence
‘These remembrancers,’ Xaphen said with an air of displeasure, ‘are everywhere.’
‘Ours arrived this month. It was not possible to deny them access to the fleet any longer.’
‘Horus’s flagship has had the little rats crawling over its decks for two years. Can you believe that?’
Argel Tal shrugged his shoulders, uncaring either way. ‘Three of the poets read to the Blessed Lady, for which Cyrene is monumentally grateful. And I have a beautiful pict of De Profundis that one of them took on his first day. It almost stopped my heart to see the ship looking so grand.’
Xaphen chuckled. ‘You are growing soft, brother.’
The two warriors had retired to Xaphen’s prayer room, which was a rather immodest chamber by Argel Tal’s standards. The Chapter Master preferred Spartan furnishings and a minimum of distraction, but Xaphen’s personal reflection room was decorated in a plethora of banners and old prayer scrolls cast across the table and floor. Many of the banners were from victories fought with other Legions – as they talked, the Chaplain added another to the hallowed ranks. This one sported the metallic skull of the Iron Warriors, emblazoned with runes around the central symbol.
Several of them resembled Colchisian constellations. Argel Tal examined them each in turn. ‘What are these?’
‘Symbols of the Iron Warrior circles. They do not name them “lodges”, as the Sons of Horus do.’
Argel Tal removed his helm with a click-hiss of air pressure. As always, the Chaplain’s festooned chamber had the lingering twin-scent of dried spices and old incense.
‘You were gone much longer than expected,’ he said. ‘Problems?’
‘Nothing worth doing is ever easy.’
Argel Tal flexed his hands, closing and opening them from fists. They ached. They’d ached for days now.
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘There were no problems,’ said Xaphen. ‘I stayed longer because it seemed prudent. Their circles are large, taking up the overwhelming majority of the Legion, but it was a critical phase. I was not the only Chaplain there.’
Argel Tal raised an eyebrow, not realising he w
as mimicking Cyrene’s bemused smirk out of habit. ‘Oh?’
‘Maloq Kartho was there to deal with another of the warrior circles, and I was treated to several of his sermons. The air fairly reeked of brimstone when he spoke. Var Valas was there, as well. Both were with the Iron Warriors after long tenures with the World Eaters.’ Xaphen sighed – a satisfied sound to match the brightness in his eyes. ‘The web is wide, brother. Lorgar’s conspiracy spans the stars themselves. At last count, there are over two hundred of our Chaplains seconded to other fleets. Erebus now stands at the Warmaster’s side. Can you give that countenance? Horus himself, heeding Erebus’s words.’
Xaphen laughed as he trailed off. ‘It begins, brother.’
Argel Tal didn’t share his brother’s relish. A scowl darkened features that had grown continually more scarred over the last half a century.
‘I do not like that word,’ he said, low and slow.
‘What word?’
‘The word you used. Conspiracy. It demeans the primarch’s vision. It demeans us all.’
Xaphen smoothed the black war banner against the wall before stepping back to admire it. ‘You are oversensitive,’ he muttered.
‘No, I am not. It is the wrong word, implying plotted schemes and ignoble secrecy.’
‘Dress it however you wish,’ the Chaplain said. ‘We are the architects of humanity’s ascension, and the web of necessary deceit is wide.’
‘I choose to see it in nobler terms. Now finish what you have to say. I am releasing the Gal Vorbak, and have final preparations to make.’
The Chaplain sensed Argel Tal’s recalcitrance. It was hard not to. ‘You are angry with me.’
‘Of course I am angry with you. I have five hundred warriors that haven’t seen a Chaplain from their own Legion in almost a year. You were many months overdue, fighting with the Iron Warriors. Oros, Damane and Malaki are also still with Perturabo’s lesser fleets, furthering the conspiracy.’ He sneered through the word.
‘What of Sar Fareth?’
‘Dead.’
‘What?’
‘Killed ten months ago, shortly after you left. Slain by a human, of all things. An unlucky thrust with a wooden spear.’ Argel Tal tapped two fingertips against his neck. ‘Tore out most of his throat, laid it bare to the bone. I’ve never seen anything like it. Blood of the gods, I’d have laughed if it hadn’t been so pathetically tragic. He bled out before the Apothecaries could reach him, still trying to shout the whole time.’
‘What happened to his killer?’
Argel Tal had seen it himself. Sar Fareth had gripped the human’s shoulder and leg, and pulled. The result came away in three bloody pieces before the Chaplain died.
‘Justice happened.’
Xaphen released a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. Sar Fareth had been one of his own: trained by his hand to wield a crozius in Lorgar’s name.
Argel Tal crossed his arms over his armoured chest. ‘Will the Iron Warriors join us?’
The Chaplain’s smile returned. ‘Will they? Perturabo’s Legion has already abandoned the Great Crusade. I was with them on Olympia.’
That couldn’t be. ‘Olympia?’ Argel Tal managed to speak. ‘So soon?’
‘All of the primarch’s plans are coming to fruition. That, in truth, is why I returned. Olympia was in open rebellion against the Imperium, and the Iron Warriors declared war against their own people in desperation to pacify their home world. Brother, you cannot imagine the sight. The skies were black with Perturabo’s gunships and landers, while the ground shook from dawn to dusk under the wrath of half a million war machines.’
Argel Tal took a slow breath, forcing an unwilling imagination to picture Xaphen’s words. ‘A primarch has lost control of his own home world.’
‘You speak as if you never believed this day would come.’
Argel Tal said nothing, motioning for the Chaplain to continue.
‘All of it was orchestrated to the very finest degree. The Iron Warriors’ wrath was a sight to behold. They have instigated genocide against their own people. What choice do they have now? The call will come soon: Horus is already gathering his forces, cleansing them of unworthy elements. The Emperor’s Children, the Death Guard and the World Eaters are with him. The bulk of each Legion gathers in the Isstvan system, while Perturabo has betrayed the Imperium in his need for vengeance. He will stand with us when Lorgar throws off the False Emperor’s shackles.’
The fervency in his voice wasn’t new to Argel Tal, but without the presence of a Chaplain for almost a year, Xaphen’s eager passion had faded from his memory. He found his brother’s enthusiasm more unnerving than anything else.
‘When do we travel to the primarch?’
‘Soon.’ The Chaplain met his brother’s eyes. ‘I told you, I returned because the time has come. Soon, the call will come from Terra.’
Xaphen activated the wall-screen, cycling through visuals of stellar cartography. He added layer upon layer of superimposed fleet markers. Argel Tal watched the display taking shape, so beautifully complex in its completion.
‘Tell me what you see,’ Xaphen said with a smile.
Argel Tal glanced at him. ‘I see the death of my patience. I see my anger rising at how you hold all these answers purely by virtue of your position in the Chaplain brotherhood. I see me walking from this room without a straight answer given immediately.’
‘Such vim,’ the Chaplain chuckled. ‘Very well. Here is the Isstvan system. Here, far across the western spiral arm, is Terra. Take note of the compliances being carried out in the subsectors closest to Isstvan. Now, humour me. What do you see?’
Argel Tal recognised symbolising runes from four Legions – and no others. It formed a curious pattern, notable for the lack of Imperial Army or Mechanicum battlefleets, as well as the total absence of many notable Legions.
‘I see the hand of the Warmaster at work,’ said Argel Tal. ‘He has positioned certain fleets closest to him at Isstvan. These fleets could reach the system within a matter of days. Those on the outer arc will take longer, but... This is an immense gathering of force.’ Argel Tal looked at Xaphen, reluctantly drawing his eyes from the twinkling stellar ballet. ‘Now tell me why.’
‘Forgive me, brother. Little did I realise the frustration of isolation you’ve suffered in a fleet burdened by Custodes presence. Your duty was to maintain the lie, and you’ve done so to perfection. But you are owed enlightenment.’
Xaphen cancelled the cartographic imagery and continued. ‘Horus and Lorgar are already moving against the Emperor. The Warmaster has sworn devotion to the Hidden Gods, and now walks in their light. For now, the warp is pregnant with unrest, leaving much of the Imperium blind. Many of the established warp-paths are severed from each other by aetheric storms. The tumult will only grow worse, giving us enough time to enact the primarch’s will without fear of Imperial retribution. Such is the influence of the true gods. The warp itself is their canvas, and they paint to please us.’
The Master of the Serrated Sun let his scowl speak for him. He took offence to the way Xaphen insinuated they were no longer Imperial, purely for contemplating regicide. We are overthrowing a stagnant and ignorant ruling order. We are bringing enlightenment to our people, not ending the empire.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘A call will reach us soon – a panicked plea that every astropath in the fleet will hear at once. A call from Terra. The Emperor will soon learn of Horus’s rebellion, and what choice does he have? He must order the closest Legions to destroy the Warmaster’s traitorous forces.’
Argel Tal pictured the Legion signifiers flashing closest to the sun named Isstvan.
‘Horus will be destroyed.’
The Chaplain laughed, relishing the moment. ‘He will be entrenched on an impregnable world, commanding four Legions. What could destroy him?’
‘The seven Legions tasked with doing so. Even with the Iron Warriors at our side, the other five Legions remain under the Emperor’
s aegis. Six against five. Our losses will be catastrophic. How can we illuminate Terra when the Legions sworn to Lorgar and Horus are bloodied and broken?’
Xaphen didn’t answer immediately. His brother recognised something in his face – some creeping disquiet, close to the bladed edge of mistrust.
‘Do you have such little trust in your own Legion’s Chaplains, that our work has failed to turn the Night Lords, or the Alpha Legion? Lorgar has worked for half a century to spread the truth to those ears worthy of hearing it. Every Legion we need will be at our side. The loyalists will find nothing but extinction waiting for them on the surface of Isstvan V. They will never leave their dropsites alive, Argel Tal. I promise you that.’
‘This conspiracy,’ said Argel Tal, ‘disgusts me.’
‘It is the primarch’s plan, brought into being by Horus himself.’
Argel Tal shook his head. ‘No. This is not Aurelian’s work. This is Erebus and Kor Phaeron’s doing. Their treacherous stink comes off this vision in waves. Lorgar is a golden soul, a being of light. This shadowplay comes from the dreams of much smaller, darker men. The primarch, blessings upon him, loves that foul wretch. He embraces a viper to his breast and names it father.’
‘You should not speak this way of the Master of the Faith.’
‘Master of the...’ Argel Tal laughed. ‘Kor Phaeron? “Master of the Faith”? He coats himself in titles the way a killer’s knife is laced with poison. Truly, I have been isolated from the Legion too long, if Kor Phaeron is now beloved of the masses. You of all people, Xaphen – you loathed him. An impure soul. A false Astartes. Your own words, brother.’
Xaphen looked away at last, unwilling or unable to hold the gaze any longer. Nothing broke eye contact like shame. ‘Times change,’ the Chaplain said.
‘So it seems.’ Argel Tal closed his hands into fists to ease the pain in his bones. It didn’t work. His knuckles went on throbbing. ‘Just get on with it. I have a world to bring to compliance.’
‘If you please, I have questions of my own.’
‘Ask,’ said Argel Tal, ‘and I will answer.’
‘Cyrene,’ Xaphen began. ‘She has undergone more rejuvenation treatment.’
The First Heretic Page 30