This time, the two warriors were more evenly matched. Argel Tal’s strength lay in his awareness, not only of his own blade work but his enemy’s potential, betrayed by their own movements. It had always allowed him to stand his ground against superior weapon-masters, such as Aquillon, for a respectable amount of time before being unable to deflect the winning blow. Now he coupled that perceptive gift with speed to match the Custodian’s, and Aquillon was forced to bring desperate defensive strokes to bear for the first time in any of his duels with Argel Tal.
He gleaned the flaw in the Word Bearer’s sudden thrusts – that edge of indelicacy, the suggestion of imperfect balance – and struck out when the next opportunity presented itself. The flat of his blade crashed against Argel Tal’s breastplate, sending the Astartes stumbling back. Aquillon’s lips were already creasing into a smile as the crimson-clad warrior thudded to the deck.
‘There. The balance is restored. You are back where you belong: on the floor.’
Argel Tal’s voice told of the grin behind his faceplate. ‘I almost had you.’
‘Not a chance,’ the Custodian replied, wondering why it was suddenly true. ‘But you are different, brother. Energised. Vital.’
‘I feel different. Forgive me for now – I have duties to attend to.’
‘By your word,’ said the Custodian.
Both Aquillon and Sythran watched the Astartes leave. In the silence afterward, Aquillon said ‘Something has changed.’
Sythran, true to his vow of silence, merely nodded.
TWENTY-FOUR
Isstvan V
Traitors
In Midnight Clad
Isstvan – an unremarkable sun, far from Terra, precious Throneworld of the Imperium.
The system’s third world, comfortably close enough to the sun to support human life, was a virus-soaked mass grave marking the anger of Horus Lupercal. The world’s population was nothing more than contaminated ash scattered over lifeless continents, while the bones of their cities remained as blackened smears of burnt stone – a civilisation reduced to memory in a single day. The orbital bombardment from the Warmaster’s fleet, payloads of incendiary shells and virus-laden biological warfare pods, had seemingly spared nothing and no one anywhere in the world.
Isstvan III lingered now in silent orbit around its sun, almost grand in the extent of its absolute devastation, serving as the scarred tombstone for the death of an empire.
The system’s fifth planet was a colder globe, able to support only the most resistant and genetically valiant life. Its skies were thick with storms, its skin was scabbed by tundra, and nothing on the face of the world promised an easy life for any that would settle upon it.
Ringing Isstvan V was one of the largest fleets ever gathered in the history of the human species. Without a doubt, it was the most impressive coalition of Astartes vessels, with the scouts, cruisers, destroyers and command ships of seven entire Legions. The matt-black hulls of the Raven Guard’s vessels blended into the void around their flagship, the sleek, vast and vicious Shadow of the Emperor. In a tighter formation, the green armour-plated warships of the Salamanders clustered in orbit around their primarch’s vessel, the immense Flamewrought, its edges and battlements bedecked in leering, draconic gargoyles of burnished bronze.
A much smaller fleet hovered in the high atmosphere, comprised almost entirely of smaller escorts around the hulking capital ship Ferrum, marked the presence of the Iron Hands. The vessels were denser, their armour thicker, and their black hulls were trimmed with gunmetal grey and polished silver. The Iron Hands had sent their elite companies, while the bulk of the Legion’s fleet remained en route.
Of the enemy fleet, there was no sign at all. The vessels of the Death Guard, the Emperor’s Children, the World Eaters and the arch traitorous Sons of Horus were gone – hidden from Imperial eyes and the Emperor’s vengeance.
In preternatural concordance, hundreds of vessels drifted closer to the world from the system’s farthest reaches. Clad in armour of midnight-blue, the warships at the vanguard bore the skullish insignia and bronze statuary of the Night Lords Legion. The Iron Warriors drifted alongside their brothers, bastion-ships of composite metals and dull iron ceramite barely reflecting the stars. The vessels of the Alpha Legion formed the peripheries of the massed fleet, their sea-coloured hulls painted with stylised scales in honour of the reptilian beast they’d taken as their symbol. Embossed hydras snarled into space from their places along the ships’ hulls.
At the core of the approaching armada, with more warships than any of their brother Legions, came the stone-grey battlefleet of the Word Bearers. The XVII Legion flagship, Fidelitas Lex, carved its way closer to the world ahead, massive engines vibrating with the gentle power of an approach vector’s thrust.
So many vessels breaking from the warp at once should have been a maelstrom of colliding hulls and spinning junk, yet the armada coasted closer to Isstvan V with maddening calm, safe distances maintained between every craft, and the void shields of each ship never once coming into crackling contact.
With a precision that required mass calculation, the fleets of seven Astartes Legions hung in the skies above Isstvan V. Shuttles and gunships ferried between the heaviest cruisers, while the decks of every warship made ready to deploy their warriors in an unprecedented, unified planetfall.
Horus, traitorous son of the Emperor, was making his stand on the surface. The Imperium of Man had sent seven Legions to kill its wayward scion, little knowing four of them had already spat on their oaths of allegiance to the Throneworld.
The cellar was crowded with the remembrancers and off-duty Army grunts barred from the operations decks. Ishaq shouldered his way through to the bar, earning a score of annoyed grunts and tutted threats that he knew wouldn’t ever go anywhere near an actual confrontation.
He ordered a plastic beaker (no expenses spared here in the Cellar) of whatever engine grease had been recently brewed without being immediately fatal. In payment, he scattered a few coppers on the bar’s stained wooden surface. In their absence, his pockets were distinctly empty.
Around him, the conversations were all keyed to the same subject. The planetfall. The betrayal. Horus, Horus, Horus. What he found most interesting was the tone such discussion was taking. ‘The Emperor abandoned the Great Crusade.’ ‘Horus was betrayed by his father.’ ‘The rebellion is justified.’ It went on and on, just as it had been doing for over a month now, during the entire time the fleet had been in the warp.
Ishaq tapped one of the nearest drinkers on the shoulder. The man turned, showing a face with an interesting geography of scars. He wore Euchar fatigues, and a holstered sidearm.
‘Yes?’
‘So tell me why you think this is all justified,’ Ishaq said. ‘Because it just sounds like treason to me.’
The Euchar trooper sneered and turned back to his friends. Ishaq tapped him on the shoulder again.
‘No, really, I’m interested in your perspective.’
‘Piss off, boy.’
‘Just answer the question,’ Ishaq smiled.
The Euchar gave a grin that would have been more threatening if he didn’t have flakes of his last meal caught between his teeth. ‘The Warmaster conquered half the galaxy, didn’t he? The Emperor’s been hiding back on Terra for half a century.’
Typical soldier logic, Ishaq thought. While one man dealt with the incomparable scale of managing an entire interstellar empire, he was infinitely less respected than the man who waged war in the most simple, aggressive terms, and always from positions of tactical, numerical and materiel supremacy.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Ishaq feigned a thoughtful expression. ‘You admire the man who has armies large enough never to lose a single war, but loathe the man responsible for the vision and effort of actually maintaining the Imperium?’
The Euchar scoffed at Ishaq’s description, and turned his back on the remembrancer. For just a moment, the imagist wondered if he was missing so
me key point in all this. The Word Bearers were here under Imperial orders, summoned to help put down Horus’s rebellion. Yet here, the human staff and crews of the expeditionary fleet were practically united in favour of Horus’s actions.
He sipped the drink and immediately regretted it.
‘Delicious,’ he said to the girl behind the bar.
The talk rattled on around him. Ishaq let it filter in, as he did most nights, listening without speaking, eavesdropping without being brazen about it. He was a passive seeker of public opinion. Easier to avoid fights that way – the Cellar had become a little more ‘fisticuffy’ since the soldiers had started drinking here too.
‘The Word Bearers won’t attack Horus,’ one voice said with solemn surety.
‘It’s not a war. They’re here to negotiate.’
‘It’ll be a war if the negotiations fail.’
‘The Emperor is a relic of the Unification Wars. The Imperium needs more from its leaders now.’
‘Horus hasn’t even committed any crime. The Emperor is overreacting out of fear.’
‘It won’t come to battle. Lorgar will see to that.’
‘The Emperor won’t even leave Terra to deal with this?’
‘Does he even care about the Imperium?’
‘I heard Horus will lead the other primarchs to Terra.’
Ishaq left his drink unfinished as he headed back to his personal chamber on the communal civilian deck. He wanted to believe he had only so much stomach for bad beverages and seditionist ideology, but the truth was far more prosaic. He didn’t have much money left.
Halfway to his room, he decided to change his course. Sitting bored in his chamber yet again wouldn’t achieve anything, and even without the coin to get pleasantly drunk, he could do what he’d done back in those first nights after joining the Legion’s fleet. It was a duty that had, for better or worse, lapsed in recent weeks. His endless attempts to arrange a meeting with one of the Gal Vorbak were rebuffed each and every time. The crimson warriors’ seclusion was ironclad, and it was rumoured even the Custodes were barred from accessing their meditation chambers. The continuous refusals and lack of battle had dulled the remembrancer’s ambitious interest somewhat, but with nothing else to do, it was time to get back in the game.
Ishaq checked his picter’s battery cell, and went off in search of something that would make him famous.
The primarch was waiting for them.
As they disembarked from the Rising Sun and onto the main hangar platform of Fidelitas Lex, Lorgar stood in full warplate, the massive crozius maul Illuminarum in his grey fists. At his side, Erebus and Kor Phaeron wore their own granite-dark armour, the surfaces of each armour plate etched with invocations from the Word. Behind them, the entire First Company formed an imposing welcome in their overbearing suits of Terminator wargear, bearing double-barrelled bolters and long blades in brutish fists.
Lorgar’s benevolent countenance broke into a warm smile as the thirty-seven crimson warriors walked onto the hangar deck. As one, they went to their knees before their liege lord.
Lorgar gestured for them to rise. ‘Are your memories so short? My Gal Vorbak need never kneel before me.’
Argel Tal was the first back to his feet, noting the distaste upon Kor Phaeron’s aged features. He growled, baring his teeth at the first captain as his gauntlet claws extended.
Lorgar chuckled at the display. ‘My prayers are answered,’ the primarch continued, ‘for you have arrived.’
‘As ordered,’ said Argel Tal and Xaphen in the same moment.
The Gal Vorbak had little cohesion in their ranks. There was no pretence of standing at attention or gathering in orderly rows. They stood together but alone, each one remaining among their brothers yet guarding their personal space with narrowed eyes behind crystal blue helm lenses.
‘We make planetfall within the hour,’ Lorgar said. ‘Argel Tal, Xaphen, for now, I would have you come with us. You will rejoin your brothers before we commence the assault.’
‘Very well,’ said Argel Tal.
‘The Custodes?’ Lorgar asked. ‘Tell me they still live.’
‘They still live. We have them scattered on four separate vessels, assigned with “overseeing the defence” if the vessels are boarded in the coming battle.’
‘They know there will be a battle?’ Lorgar rounded on Argel Tal.
‘They are not fools, nor are they inured to news as it spreads from ship to ship. They are placed on four vessels that are... delayed... in the warp. Their Navigators and captains have been appraised of the situation’s delicacy, sire. The Custodes will not arrive until the Battle of Isstvan is won.’
Xaphen broke in. ‘They were spared, as you ordered.’ He ignored Argel Tal’s glare, feeling it despite the fact his brother still wore his helm.
‘It was not my order – at least not in recent years.’ The primarch gestured to Erebus, who inclined his head in turn. ‘The First Chaplain has demanded they remain alive all this time. He weaves the plans that require them alive.’
Argel Tal said nothing, though he openly radiated annoyance. Xaphen was less restrained. ‘Erebus?’ he asked, smiling behind his faceplate. ‘I have paid heed to every addendum and subscript in the Book of Lorgar, brother. I’ve used many of your new rituals myself. I would be keen to learn more of this one.’
‘In time, perhaps.’
Xaphen thanked the other Chaplain as the group moved on. Erebus remained closest to the primarch as they walked away – his stoic, tattooed features as stern and dignified as ever. Kor Phaeron stalked in their wake, the heavy gear-joints of his Terminator armour grinding with each step. Xaphen kept his actions the very mirror of Erebus’s, but Argel Tal glanced at the First Captain with a smile.
‘What amuses you, brother?’ the ageing half-Astartes asked.
‘You do, old one. You reek of fear. I pity you, that they never bred the human terror out of your bones.’
‘You think I feel fear?’ The scarred face twisted into something even sourer. ‘I have seen more than you know, Argel Tal. We have not been idle in the true Legion, while you danced at the galaxy’s edge, playing nursemaid to the Custodes.’
Argel Tal merely chuckled, the laugh leaving his helm in a low growl of crackling vox.
The Fidelitas Lex played host to a gathering of rare significance.
Upon entering the war room, Argel Tal couldn’t hold back an exhalation of awe. He’d been expecting a gathering of Word Bearer captains, Chaplains and Chapter Masters. He’d not anticipated the presence of commanders from the Night Lords, Alpha Legion and Iron Warriors, let alone the three figures that stood around the central hololithic table.
The crowds parted, allowing Lorgar to proceed to the centre, where he stood alongside his brothers. None of the three welcomed him, just as none of them seemed overly respectful to each other, either.
Argel Tal grunted acknowledgement of the two captains closest to him as he took his place at the front of the gathered Astartes. Their heraldry offered their identities in flowing Nostraman script: the first – a tall, austere warrior with bronze-plated skulls hanging from his pauldrons on iron chains, bore the numerals of 10th Company, and the name-etching Malcharion.
The second needed no declarations of identity, for everyone knew him as soon as their eyes rested upon him. His armour was wreathed in stretched, leathery patches of flayed flesh, and his helm’s faceplate was a skullish glare of bleached bone. His was a name spread across the Imperium, almost as notable as that of Abaddon of the Sons of Horus, Eidolon of the Emperor’s Children, Raldoron of the Blood Angels... or even the primarchs themselves. Argel Tal inclined his head in respect to Sevatar, First Captain of the Night Lords Legion. The warrior nodded in return.
‘You are late,’ his voice issued forth as a grinding snarl.
Argel Tal didn’t rise to the Night Lord’s bait. ‘How perceptive of you,’ he replied. ‘You can read a chronometer.’
A guttural grunt of amusement issu
ed from Sevatar’s skull-painted helm.
In the centre of the gathered leaders and lords, Lorgar raised his hands for silence. The baiting, grumbling and occasional laughter between the Astartes died down.
‘Time is short,’ said the golden primarch, ‘and events are already in motion. Those of us in this room are under no illusions as to what we face. Eight Legions, of which we are four, and countless worlds are rising in rebellion against the Imperium. If we are to march on Terra and take the throne, we must annihilate those Legions remaining loyal to the Emperor. And we must do so alone. No matter how loyal our Army regiments are, they will be devastated if they are committed to the surface of Isstvan. So we wage war without them: Astartes against Astartes, brother against brother. There is a poetry to that I am sure you will all appreciate.’
No one said a word. Lorgar continued.
‘You have all walked different paths, but together, we come to the same destination. The Emperor has failed us. The Imperium has failed us all.’
Here, Lorgar nodded to the largest gathering of Night Lords in their lightning-streaked warplate. ‘It has failed us by the laxity of its laws, the decadence of its culture, and in the injustices heaped upon those of us who served most loyally.’
He gestured to the bare metal ceramite of the Iron Warrior captains. ‘It has failed us by never recognising our virtues, never rewarding us for the blood we have shed in bringing about its ascendancy, and never providing unity when we needed it most.’
The Alpha Legion stood impassive and silent in their scaled armour. ‘It has failed us,’ Lorgar inclined his head to them, ‘by being flawed to its core, imperfect in its pursuit of a perfect culture, and in its weakness against the encroachment of xenos breeds that seek to twist humanity to alien ends.’
Finally, the primarch turned to his own captains, their grey armour decorated with prayer scrolls. ‘And it has failed us, most of all, by being founded upon lies. The Imperium is forged by a dangerous deceit, and erodes us all by demanding we sacrifice truth on the altar of necessity. This is an empire, propagated by sin, that deserves to die. And here, on Isstvan V, we begin the purge. From these ashes shall rise the new kingdom of mankind: an Imperium of justice, faith and enlightenment. An Imperium heralded, commanded and protected by the avatars of the gods themselves. An empire strong enough to stand through a future of blood and fire.’
The First Heretic Page 34