The change in the room was subtle, but impossible for Astartes senses to miss. Every warrior stood taller, straighter, their hands resting upon the hilts and handles of sheathed weapons.
‘The Emperor believes us loyal. Our four Legions were ordered here on that misguided conviction alone. But our coalition here and now is the fruit of decades’ worth of planning. It was ordained, and brought about according to ancient prophecy. No more hiding in the shadows. No more manipulating fleet movements and falsifying expeditionary data. From this day forward, the Alpha Legion, the Word Bearers, the Iron Warriors and the Night Lords stand together – bloodied but unbowed beneath the flag of Warmaster Horus, the second Emperor. The true Emperor.’
The Astartes stared, none of them moving a muscle. The primarch could have been addressing an army of statues.
‘I see your eyes,’ Lorgar’s smile took in the room, ‘even behind your helms. I see the hesitation, the unease, the mistrust of the very brothers by your side. We are not friends, are we? We have never been allies. Our Legions are kin by bloodline, yet not brought together in proven, chosen brotherhood. But remember this, as you look upon the shades of armour so different to your own. You are united by righteousness. You are unified in revenge. Every weapon in this room is wielded for the same cause. And that, my sons, brothers and cousins... That is all the strength we need. After today, we will be brothers. The forge of war will see to that.’
Silence reigned in the wake of Lorgar’s words. The primarch turned back to the hololithic table, already entering the codes necessary to activate the image generator, when several muted clanks sounded behind him.
Lorgar looked over his shoulder, seeking the sounds’ sources. Several Word Bearer captains were shaking hands with their counterparts in the other Legions, with more joining in every moment. They gripped wrist-to-wrist, a traditional warrior gesture to seal a pact.
Argel Tal offered his hand to Sevatar. The Night Lord gripped the Word Bearer’s wrist as their emotionless faceplates met each other’s eyes.
‘Death to the False Emperor,’ said Sevatar, becoming the first living soul to utter the words that would echo through the millennia.
The curse was taken up by other voices, and soon it was being cried in full-throated roars.
Death to the False Emperor. Death to the False Emperor. Death. Death. Death.
At the heart of the cheering, the four primarchs smiled. Each curl to their lips was variously cold, ugly, mocking or indulgent, but it was as close as they’d come to showing any emotion so far.
Lorgar keyed in the last command code. The hololithic table rumbled into life, its internal generators cycling up to project a flickering image of the surface tundra. A grainy view, flawed by patches of static distortion, hovered in the air above the table. Helms of dark iron, midnight, sea-green, crimson and grey lifted to regard the holo image. It showed a ravine, gouged with tectonic ambivalence, running for several kilometres through the landscape.
‘The Urgall Depression,’ said one of Lorgar’s brothers in a rumbling baritone. ‘Our hunting ground.’
Konrad Curze had once, perhaps, been a majestic creature. Everything in his bearing spoke of a regal nature now shattered, all grace and grandeur cast aside to leave a warrior-prince skinned down to a core of lethal, cadaverous nobility. In black armour edged by unpolished bronze, the primarch of the Night Lords gestured to the ravine with a power claw of four curving blades. ‘Enhance the image.’
Unseen servitors did exactly that. The three-dimensional hololith blurred momentarily, before refocusing on a more detailed landscape. At one end of the ravine was a fortress of plasteel, ceramite and rockcrete, rendered indistinct by the haze of void shields protecting it from orbital bombardment. A massive panorama of bulwarks, barricades, trenches and earthworks stood implacable guard around it. Every warrior present could see it for what it was: a defensive masterpiece, constructed to repel tens of thousands of enemy troops.
At the other end of the canyon, a literal fleet of gunships and drop-pods lay in wait, but it was what turned the canyon’s centre dark that drew all eyes in the chamber.
Two armies were locked in pitched conflict, two greyish masses of grinding battle lines, reduced to an amalgamated horde.
‘Enhance central sector,’ ordered Primarch Curze.
The image blurred and refocused again, showing a flawed image, disturbed by interference, of...
‘Civil war,’ Konrad Curze smiled, all teeth and bright eyes. ‘The two sides are matched, with our brothers in the Death Guard, World Eaters, Sons of Horus and Emperor’s Children holding superior ground, and the Iron Hands, Salamanders and Raven Guard maintaining numerical superiority.’
Argel Tal growled as he breathed, feeling his lips moistened by bile. Nearby heads turned to him, but he ignored their watchful eyes.
‘Brother?’ Erebus voxed from his place at the primarch’s side.
‘I thirst,’ Argel Tal smiled as he spoke into the private channel.
‘You... thirst?’
‘I have tasted Astartes blood, Erebus. It is rich enough to never fade from memory, and its genetic holiness stings the tongue. I will taste it again, on Isstvan V.’
The Chaplain didn’t reply, but Argel Tal saw Erebus turn to Kor Phaeron, and knew all too well that they were conversing over a secure channel. The thought made him smirk. Silly little creatures. So precious in their meagre ambitions. So feverishly hungry for temporal power. He felt a moment’s pity for the primarch, to have spent the last four decades guided by their insipid scheming.
That thought cooled his condescending wrath, though. What had they done in all this time? Kor Phaeron’s remark about Argel Tal nursemaiding the Custodes away from the ‘true Legion’ had bitten deeper than he wished to confess.
The growl grew faint in his throat, taking on a bestial whine.
‘Be silent,’ grunted Sevatar.
Argel Tal tensed, holding his breath, suppressing the rush of anger he felt at being spoken to in such a way. Whatever was bonded to him truly loathed being pushed into situations of submission.
Raum.
What?
I am Raum.
Argel Tal felt his heart beat in time to the whispered syllables. The bile at his lips bubbled as it boiled, and his hands ached to the bone with merciless ferocity.
You are the second soul my father saw so long ago.
Yes.
You twist my thoughts. I am forever on the edge of rage, or speaking bladed words to my brothers.
I bring out only what is already present within you.
I will not let you claim me.
I will not try. We are one. I have slept long enough to drip into every cell within your body. It is your flesh, and it is my flesh. It will change soon. We are Argel Tal, and we are Raum.
Your voice is the same as mine.
It is how my soul speaks to yours, and how our shared flesh translates it into mortal meaning. I have no voice, except for the roars we will shout when we shed blood.
Argel Tal felt burning wetness around his gauntleted fingers. I am in pain. I cannot move my hands.
Symbiosis. Union. Balance. There will be times when you rise to the fore. There will be times when I am in ascendance.
Then what is this pain?
It is all a prelude for the changes to come.
The gods have already sent their call. The ordained time has come... I am faster, stronger, more vital than before. And I cannot remove my armour, nor take off my helm.
Yes. This is our new skin.
What more changes can there be?
Raum laughed, whisper-faint and teasingly distant. You will hear the gods many times in your life. The ordained time has not truly come. You heard the call to begin the Long War, but the gods have not screamed yet. This is the prelude.
But I heard them. We heard them.
You will know the scream when you truly hear it. This, I promise.
‘...the Gal Vorbak will stand with the I
ron Warriors, forming the anvil,’ concluded Lorgar.
Argel Tal refocused on his surroundings. The pain in his hands faded once more. Not knowing what he should say, he nodded his head in the primarch’s direction, agreeing with Lorgar’s words without knowing what they were. The primarch offered a kindly smile, seeming to sense his son’s distraction.
Lord Curze turned his sleepless eyes upon his own Astartes. ‘Then we stand ready. My First Company will also join the Iron Warriors for the initial strike.’
‘Dath sethicara tash dasovallian,’ the Nostraman language hissed off his tongue. ‘Solruthis veh za jass.’
The Night Lord captains banged dark gauntlets against their chestplates. ‘In midnight clad,’ they chorused.
‘Iron within,’ Perturabo spoke gruffly, and hefted his massive warhammer over his shoulder. ‘Iron without.’ In response, his men thudded the hafts of their axes and hammers on the decking.
The warriors of the Alpha Legion, and their primarch himself, remained silent.
It fell to Lorgar, as Argel Tal had known it would, to finish the gathering.
‘The forces on the surface have been embattled for almost three hours with no clear victor emerging. Even now, the loyalists wait for us to make planetfall, believing we will reinforce their final advance. We all know our parts to play in this performance. We are all aware of the blood we must shed to spare our species from destruction, and install Horus as the Master of Mankind.
‘Brothers,’ the primarch bowed his head in reverence. ‘Today we take the first step towards forging a greater kingdom. May the gods go with you.’
As Argel Tal made to move from the chamber, he saw his former mentor beckon him closer. Erebus was handsome only in the way a weapon could be called such: a cold blade, dangerous no matter who holds it, reflecting the light while producing none of its own. The Gal Vorbak leader stalked closer, ululating a quiet growl in his throat, nursing it there and enjoying the feel of his rage.
Erebus wished to speak with him, and Kor Phaeron would almost certainly remain. That in itself was cause for disquiet. What ambitions had they fed to the primarch in four long decades? What had they seen, and what had they learned?
His growl grew louder.
Hate him, but do not strike him. He is chosen. Just like you.
Will I always hear your voice?
No. Our end is fated. We will be destroyed in the shadow of great wings. Then you will hear my voice no more.
Argel Tal felt his blood run cold, and knew that this feeling, at least, was not part of the promised changes to his body.
‘Erebus,’ he greeted the First Chaplain. ‘I am in no mind to argue.’
‘Nor I,’ the older warrior said. ‘Much has happened since we last spoke. We have both seen many things, and made difficult choices to bring us to this moment in time.’ Erebus met Argel Tal’s eye lenses with his own stony, solemn gaze. It was hard not to admire the Chaplain’s composure at all times, and his great patience.
It was also hard to forget his great disappointment, once it was earned.
‘I have heard of all you witnessed, and went through,’ Erebus continued. ‘Xaphen has kept me appraised.’
‘Do you have a point?’ Argel Tal murmured, and even to his own ears his words sounded puerile.
‘I am proud of you.’ Erebus briefly rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I simply wished to say that.’
Without another word, Erebus moved away, following the primarch. Kor Phaeron gave a wet, burbling chuckle, and stalked off in slower pursuit, Terminator joints grinding.
TWENTY-FIVE
Second Wave
Changes
Betrayal
It was the battle to begin the war.
The Urgall Depression was churned to ruination beneath the boots and tank treads of countless thousands of Astartes warriors and their Legion’s armour divisions. The loyal primarchs could be found where the fighting was thickest: Corax of the Raven Guard, borne aloft on black wings bound to a fire-breathing flight pack; Lord Ferrus of the Iron Hands at the heart of the battlefield, his silver hands crushing any traitors that came within reach, while he pursued and dragged back those who sought to withdraw; and lastly, Vulkan of the Salamanders, armoured in overlapping artificer plating, thunder clapping from his warhammer as it pounded into yielding armour, shattering it like porcelain.
The traitorous primarchs slew in mirror image to their brothers: Angron of the World Eaters hewing with wild abandon as he raked his chainblades left and right, barely cognizant of who fell before him; Fulgrim of the lamentably-named Emperor’s Children, laughing as he deflected the clumsy sweeps of Iron Hands warriors, never stopping in his graceful movements for even a moment; Mortarion of the Death Guard, in disgusting echo of ancient Terran myth, harvesting life with each reaving sweep of his scythe.
And Horus, Warmaster of the Imperium, the brightest star and greatest of the Emperor’s sons. He stood watching the destruction while his Legions took to the field, their liege lord content in his fortress rising from the far edge of the ravine. Shielded and unseen by his brothers still waging war in the Emperor’s name, Horus’s lips were never still – he spoke continuous orders to his aides, who transmitted them across to the embattled warriors. His eyes remained narrowed as he watched the carnage playing out on the stage below, orchestrated and guided by his own will.
At last, above this maelstrom of grinding ceramite, booming tank cannons and chattering bolters – the gunships, drop-pods and assault landers of the second wave burned through the atmosphere on screaming thrusters. The sky fell dark with the weak sun eclipsed by ten thousand avian shadows, and the cheering roar sent up by the loyalists was loud enough to shake the air itself.
The traitors, the bloodied and battered Legions loyal to Horus, fell into a fighting withdrawal without hesitation.
Argel Tal watched all of this from the cockpit of Rising Sun as the Thunderhawk swooped low, engines howling as they carried it over the warring armies. A host of Word Bearer’s landing craft, the colour of their hulls matching the bleak weather of this cold world, headed for the ravine’s edges.
‘This is far enough. Set down,’ he ordered Malnor, who was piloting.
‘By your word.’
The two crimson gunships among the leaders of the grey pack began their downward drift. The Word Bearers, chosen landing site was close to the spread of terrain used by the Raven Guard in the initial assault, and the flock of regal, granite-grey aircraft touched down alongside their charcoal-black twins.
Affirmation pulses chimed across the beleaguered vox-network as the four Legions’ landers hit their marks. The tide was turned at the eleventh hour. Horus and his rebels broke into full retreat, fleeing back to their fortress.
Argel Tal walked down the gang ramp and into his first filtered breath of Isstvan V’s air. It was cold, cold and coppery, with the rich, earthy smell of churned mud and the ever-present smog of thruster exhaust. A quick scan through his eye lenses showed the panoramic view of the unfolding battle, where the Night Lords corvidish gunships were coming down on one flank, and the Alpha Legion’s war machines on the other. The main Word Bearer force bolstered both of their brother Legions on the Depression’s sides, and for a brief, uplifting moment, Argel Tal saw the flash of grey, ivory and gold that marked out Lorgar among the exalted First Company.
Then the primarch was gone, stolen by distance, smoke and the press of too many gunships between here and there.
The Iron Warriors had claimed the highest ground, taking the loyalist landing site with all the appearance of reinforcing it through the erection of prefabricated plasteel bunkers. Bulk landers dropped the battlefield architecture: dense metal frames fell from the cargo claws of carrier ships at low altitude, and as the platforms crashed and embedded themselves in the ground, the craftsmen-warriors of the IV Legion worked, affixed, bolted and constructed them into hastily-rising firebases. Turrets rose from their protective housing in the hundreds, while hor
des of lobotomised servitors trundled from the holds of Iron Warriors troopships, single-minded in their intent to link with the weapons systems’ interfaces.
All the while, Perturabo, Primarch of the IV Legion, watched with passionless pride. He wore layered ceramite that would have looked at home as a tank’s armour plating, and clicking, crunching servos in his joints announced even the smallest shift in his stature.
Occasionally, he would spare a moment’s glance for the representatives from the other Legions among his number: nodding acknowledgement to the Word Bearers and Night Lords captains sharing his defensive bastions. The nod spoke volumes when coupled with the primarch’s bitter eyes: without even the pretence of respect, he acknowledged their presence and warned them to be about their business. Let them remain here as their primarchs had ordered, so long as they did not interfere. The Iron Warriors did not need them getting in the way. All the while, the sounds of warfare’s industry rattled and ground on, and the firebase structures lifted higher, their battlements forming and defensive cannons whirring as they took aim down at the central plain.
Argel Tal and Xaphen led the Gal Vorbak away from their Thunderhawks, through the statuary of landed gunships, and through to the barricades being raised by the metallic forms of the Iron Warriors. The ground trembled gently with the tread of Astartes boots as the Word Bearers seconded to Argel Tal’s command closed ranks and followed. Thousands of warriors awaited his signal, their companies and Chapters marked by banners raised high.
Down the line, past the mounting masses of Iron Warriors battle tanks and assembling Astartes, Argel Tal could make out the cloaked form of First Captain Sevatar and his First Company elite, the Atramentar. Bronze chains wrapped their armour, leashing weapons to fists, as the Night Lords made ready for the coming signal.
The First Heretic Page 35