‘Few resisted...’ An uncomfortable thought climbed Argel Tal’s spine with prickling fingers. ‘Was there a purge? A purge of our own ranks?’
Erebus weighed his answer before giving it voice. ‘Not all wished to turn on the Imperium. They believed that stagnancy was strength, that stasis was preservation. No such reluctance remains in the Legion now.’
So Word Bearer had slain Word Bearer, unseen by the eyes of other Legions. Argel Tal breathed slowly, not wishing to ask yet unable to resist. ‘How many died?’
‘Enough.’ Erebus took no joy in confessing it. ‘Not many – nothing like the numbers of those who were culled from the faithless Legions – but enough.’
They moved around the charred hull of a Sons of Horus Rhino. The armoured personnel carrier’s tracks were shattered and scattered like teeth punched from a jaw, while the sloped green hull was pockmarked with bolter fire. Erebus glanced inside. The driver was dead, slain by the shell that destroyed the tank’s front plating, his sea-green ceramite ruptured with shrapnel as he lay slack in his seat.
‘Why do I sense that was not your only question,’ he muttered.
Argel Tal scratched his cheek, and the motion turned into a subtle check, feeling his face for any further changes. He was himself again, at least for now. The mutations were locked inside his genetic code as the daemon slumbered. He knew they’d return soon enough. Just dwelling on the thought was enough to set Raum stirring, the daemon slowly writhing in its repose, like a creature shifting in its sleep.
‘The Custodes,’ he said. ‘We have suffered a long exile to keep them alive. Xaphen’s ritual kept them silenced. Tell me why, Erebus. We have ached to be by the primarch’s side.’
‘So has every Word Bearer in every one of the Legion’s fleets.’
‘We are the Gal Vorbak.’ Argel Tal crashed a fist into the Rhino’s flank, denting the armour plating.
‘Temper, Argel Tal.’
‘We,’ the commander repeated, ‘are the Gal Vorbak. We brought the truth to the primarch at the cost of our own souls. I am not demanding glorification. I am asking for a reason why we were kept in exile.’
Erebus walked on, leaving the tank, and the two Salamanders warriors it had crushed, behind. ‘You came to reflect a side of the primarch’s doubts, until Kor Phaeron and I were able to reignite his conviction. We travelled to those first worlds we conquered – the ones that we’d allowed the Old Ways to in secret remain out of respect. On those worlds, Lorgar’s passion to enlighten the Imperium was reforged anew.’
‘So why were we not recalled? Xaphen’s ritual to silence the Custodes–’
‘I know the ritual,’ Erebus snapped. ‘I wrote the ritual myself, after weeks of communion. Only then did I provide it to Xaphen, and it has been refined each time the invocation was cast.’
The invocation. A spell. Sorcery. Argel Tal shuddered. The word alone was enough to make his skin crawl. On the hillside, the first construction work was beginning on a towering funeral pyre, and a platform for the Sons of Horus to aggrandise themselves above the ‘lesser’ Legions. Argel Tal and Erebus paid the work little heed.
‘I can read the reluctance in your voice, Argel Tal. You do not burn with fervour to kill them, and I will see through any lies you tell me otherwise.’
‘I have no desire to slay them. We have grown closer over time, bonding through battle. But I must know why they were ordered to be spared.’
‘I need them alive,’ the Chaplain admitted at last.
‘Obviously,’ Argel Tal snorted. ‘But why?’
‘Because of what they are. Imagine a life form that cannot reproduce. Imagine it self-replicates instead, but the process is not perfect. It only achieves immortality for its species by creating weaker versions of itself down the generations. We are an example of this. From the Emperor came the primarchs, from the primarchs came the true Astartes. We are a species that names the Emperor not only as our inceptor, but our grandfather.’
Argel Tal nodded, waiting for Erebus to continue. He felt the threat of a smile as he recalled their lessons just like this, back in the days of tutor and student, master and acolyte.
‘We are the third generation of this genetic line. But what if our fleshworkers, our Apothecaries, and our psychically-gifted warriors could use our link to the Emperor as a weapon against him? Should we not capitalise on that possibility?’
Argel Tal shrugged a shoulder. ‘I do not see how we could.’
Erebus chuckled. ‘Think back to the Old Ways, and the lore you know of that faith from archives. Think back to the superstition and dogma that the Emperor has sought to banish from the sphere of human knowledge in his precious “Great Crusade”. How much of humanity’s clearest, core beliefs centred around sacrifice and spells fuelled by blood? Blood is life. Blood is the focus of a million magics, linking invoker and victim, or serving as an offering to reach the higher powers within the warp. If you have a being’s blood, you can tailor a poison to slay them and no other – a venom bred to end a single life, but to spare all others.’
‘And our blood is the blood of the Emperor,’ Argel Tal finished for him.
‘Yes. But it is thinned and filtered by mass production, with too many artificial chemical components, making it too weak to use in either alchemy or sorcery. The link to our grandsire is far too tenuous.’
Alchemy. Sorcery. Argel Tal found it starkly ironic that even with a daemon in his heart, he hated to hear of these words spoken so lightly. Truly, the winds of change had blown hard in the four decades of his unofficial exile.
Erebus looked across the battlefield, where the Iron Warriors were gathering bodies with the blunt efficiency so typical of the Legion’s attitude to warfare. Tanks fitted with great plough blades heaved through piles of the slain, sending the bodies tumbling along towards the funeral pyre.
‘Do you understand?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from the funerary work.
‘You believe the Custodes offer a closer link to the Emperor.’
‘I do. They are born from the same genetic code, though ours was filtered for mass production. They are purer for their rarity, if not their quality.’
It was an old assumption, and one with no proof, to claim that the Emperor was a primarch to the Custodian Guard. Argel Tal shook his head.
‘You need living Custodes for their blood,’ he said, ‘in the hopes of chasing what may well be a myth.’
‘All weapons must be considered.’ Erebus was composed. ‘No one but the Emperor has ever had the chance to study the Custodes, and knowledge is power. It must be guarded well. We have tried rituals with the blood of eleven Legions now, and all results met with disaster. What if we master the secrets of the Custodian genus? We could harness that lore to strengthen ourselves, not simply harm our foes. The Custodians in the main fleet, led by Iacus, were killed in battle long ago. Aquillon and his minions present one of the few remaining opportunities. Their blood must be borne from a beating heart for the rituals to have any hope of success.’
Another thought occurred, and Argel Tal spoke before considering it. ‘Are not the primarchs closest to the Emperor? You could use their blood for these... rituals.’
Erebus laughed. For the first time in Argel Tal’s life, he heard the First Chaplain really, honestly laughing. ‘Truth,’ Erebus smiled, ‘from the mouths of babes. Do you see any willing primarchs? We failed to capture any of the Emperor’s sons here, and you will not find Horus or even Aurelian eager to let their blood be manipulated in such a way.’
Argel Tal hesitated. In his hand, his helm emitted a vox-crackle.
‘My lord?’ came the voice of Fleetmaster Torvus. The Word Bearer replaced his helm with a deep sigh of reluctance. His clear vision was immediately stained dark and flickered with targeting markers.
‘This is Argel Tal.’
‘Sir, our final four ships have broken from the warp. The Occuli Imperator is demanding to board De Profundis immediately.’
‘Allow it.
It no longer matters. They will have their suspicions, but only evidence would rouse them to fury. We are returning to orbit within the hour, and will deal with them then. Has the ship sustained damage?’
‘A great deal, but we’ve held it together through spit, grit and prayer. The only damage you will consider vital was taken on the Legion’s sanctum deck. Several breaches, but all hull wounds are isolated and secured.’
Argel Tal swallowed. ‘The Blessed Lady?’
‘Secure and well. A Euchar force investigated not thirty minutes ago. The enemy fleet is dust and wreckage in orbit. How fares the surface battle?’
Argel Tal scanned the devastation for several moments before answering. ‘We won, Baloc. That’s enough for now.’
Aquillon walked from the eagle-winged shuttle and onto the empty hangar deck. He’d never seen it so quiet: a hollow space of silent, waiting cranes and idle servitors standing by their wall-stations. The Legion was deployed, and everything the Word Bearers commanded had been committed to the world below.
At the base of the ramp, several figures were waiting for him. Sythran inclined his head in silence. Kalhin and Nirallus likewise didn’t salute – it wasn’t their custom to show obeisance to anyone but the Emperor, beloved by all. The three warriors held their guardian spears in loose grips, but their body language and postures suggested restraint, rather than simply remaining casual. He could read the telltale tension in their muscles, even beneath their golden armour.
The other two figures drew Aquillon’s attention. The first was Cartik, who offered a deep bow. The old man was sweating in the cold hangar, and his ageing heart beat in an accelerated, irregular rhythm. The second was unknown to him. Dusky-skinned and keen of eye, daunted by nothing he bore witness to. A brave soul, this one. Or reckless.
‘A curious welcome,’ the Occuli Imperator said softly. He was not angry – not yet, at least – but his patience had bled dry many hours before. The loss of contact with the Word Bearers fleet left him rattled, and this was indeed an unusual welcome. He knew something was wrong the moment he saw his brothers waiting for him below.
‘Your ships were “delayed” as well,’ Aquillon surmised. ‘You were prevented from reaching the battle at all.’ All three warriors nodded.
‘I was first to arrive,’ Nirallus said. ‘Less than ten minutes ago. The approach to the fleet was a nightmare, and the auspex chimed out with hundreds of dead ships in the upper atmosphere. It will rain steel on Isstvan V for decades to come.’
‘I saw the same,’ admitted Aquillon. ‘No sign of any vessels bearing the traitors’ colours, but the loyal Legions have suffered horrendous losses themselves. And the wreckage patterns did not suggest accurate numbers. It seems two Legions have been annihilated. Others who were supposed to be present were simply never here.’
‘I have not been able to reach Argel Tal,’ said Kalhin. ‘Or anyone else on the surface.’
Aquillon looked down at the two humans. ‘Explain their presence.’
Sythran stepped forward, and offered Aquillon a bulky plastek picter rod. The imagifier was of expensive make, that much was clear. Aquillon took it, but didn’t look at the viewscreen.
‘You are an imagist?’ he asked the human.
‘Ishaq Kadeen,’ the man replied. ‘Yes, I’m an imagist. You activate the–’
‘I know how it works, Ishaq Kadeen.’ Aquillon thumbed the activation setting along the haft, and the small screen blinked into life.
Aquillon processed what he was seeing. His education and training at the Emperor’s side allowed him a broad view of human capability, and the possibilities of technology in union with living beings. He had never seen anything quite like this before, but he knew immediately what it had to be.
The Occuli Imperator handed the picter to Ishaq, who took with a mutter of gratitude. ‘You found this on the sanctum deck, I assume?’ Aquillon enquired.
‘The monastic deck? Yes.’
‘Of course.’ And then, with infinite dignity, Aquillon reached to unsheathe his blade. ‘My brothers,’ he said. ‘We are betrayed.’
‘I do not much like our chances against an entire vessel’s crew, even with the Legion off-ship. What do you suggest?’ asked Kalhin.
‘First, we find the depths of this betrayal. I must see this madness for myself, and tear the truth from the lips of those that keep it. Before we can even consider cutting out the cancer at this rebellion’s heart, we must secure passage to Terra and relay every detail to the Emperor.’
‘Beloved by all,’ said Kalhin and Nirallus at once. Sythran tapped his knuckles to his chestplate, over his heart. Ishaq’s own ‘beloved by all’ came a couple of awkward seconds later, though none of the others were paying him any attention anymore.
‘This will be a great deal of work,’ Kalhin grunted.
‘Who do we interrogate?’ asked Nirallus. There was no doubt in his voice – he didn’t ask because he had no idea of an answer, he asked because there were too many possible names and the decision ultimately rested with Aquillon. ‘The fleetmaster? The general?’
‘There’s one soul on this ship that has listened to the Word Bearers whisper their secrets for half a century. We will find this precious soul not far from where you found the evidence of their treachery. Come with me.’
‘H-how will you get onto the monastic deck?’ Cartik was already falling behind, practically ignored by the Custodes.
‘We will kill everyone that stands in our way,’ Nirallus replied as if the answer were obvious. ‘Return to your room, old one. It will not be safe at our side.’
The Custodes moved forward, blades drawn. Aquillon let emotion curl his lip into an ugly snarl. ‘Cyrene,’ he hissed. ‘Their “Blessed lady”.’
TWENTY-NINE
Cyrene
Never Human
A Completed Vow
She lifted her head at the sound of blades against her door, though of course, she saw nothing. Heat came at her in a breathy wave, emanating in her direction from the thudding steel portal. Power weapons, then. They were cutting through with power weapons.
Cyrene typed as fast as she could, her fingertips dancing over the familiar keypad, but her efforts ended mid-sentence. The door slammed to the floor, and the thrum of live power armour filled the room. Joints whirred. False fibre-bundle muscles purred.
‘Aquillon. I knew you would c–’
‘Be silent, traitorous whore. The Word Bearers are gone, and you will answer to the authority of the Emperor. Order your maids to flee, or they will suffer alongside you.’
Cyrene inclined her head in a slight nod. The two older women fled the room barely short of a run.
‘Brother...’ began Kalhin, turning to the secondary chamber and the open door leading into it. Another figure had appeared there, doubtless hiding in wait.
‘The Word Bearers,’ it said, ‘are not all gone.’
‘You have no place here, tech-adept,’ Aquillon gestured with the point of his sword.
‘Correct.’ Xi-Nu 73 applied an exact amount of pressure on the trigger of the signum control in his left hand, and a massive figure made of gears and armour plating moved into view behind him. It took up the entire door arch as it gave a mechanical growl of warning. Xi-Nu 73 steeled himself to finish speaking. ‘I have no place here. But he does.’
The robot’s arms, both mounted with heavy bolter cannons, were preloaded and cycled live – they’d been powered up for hours, ready for this worst of possible moments. Cyrene hurled herself off the bed, seeking all the distance she could put between herself and Aquillon.
‘For the Legion.’ The voice was like steel bars tumbling over rock.
The Custodes were already moving, their halberds spinning, when Incarnadine opened up at them with a horrendous storm of fire.
Argel Tal sprinted up the gunship’s ramp, his boots clanging all the way into the troop bay. He was the last aboard. The vox was a hive of conflicting voices as the Gal Vorbak snapped at him to hurry. Oth
er Thunderhawks, proud in the Legion’s grey, were already lifting off.
‘Take off,’ he ordered the pilot over the vox, unashamed by the threat of panic in his voice. ‘Get us back to the ship.’
Rising Sun shivered as its claws left the parched soil.
Argel Tal switched vox-channels. ‘Jesmetine. General, are you there?’
Distortion.
‘Answer me, Arric.’
‘Lord.’ The general was breathless. ‘Lord, they are loose.’
‘We just received the warning. Tell me exactly what has happened.’
‘They landed. The Custodes landed. They stormed the monastic deck soon after. Something has enraged them. They must have discovered the truth, though I’ve no idea how. All Euchar forces there are out of contact or already confirmed dead. One of them, one of them, is holding the corridor leading to Cyrene’s chamber. Blood of the gods, Argel Tal... he has a barricade made from the bodies of my men. Every charge sees more cut down. We cannot overwhelm one of them, let alone four.’
The Word Bearer felt the gunship lurch beneath his feet. ‘We have started primus burn, and are en route. What of Xi-Nu 73?’ Across the vox, he could hear the snap-crack of lasguns barking their payloads. More Euchar engaging in futility.
‘No word,’ the elder general replied. ‘Not a damn word. Where the hell are you?’
‘We are on our way.’ Raum? he quested.
Weak. The link was sluggish and feeble. Slumber.
The gunship climbed, its engines exhaling smoke and flame as it left the killing fields far below.
The First Heretic Page 40