Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

Argel Tal tore his gaze from the clustered Custodians. ‘No, lord. Not for a moment.’

Even in the scalding flare of teleportation’s aftermath, every warrior noticed the same thing. Lorgar manifested not in the armour of the Word Bearers’ warlord, but in the robes of an archpriest of their home world.

Kor Phaeron and Erebus stood at the primarch’s side, as all had expected, and as tradition dictated. Yet they too wore the cowled robes of the Colchisian priesthood, their genhanced physiques draped in layered cloth the colour of ashen earth.

Oath papers pinned to the captains’ armour flapped and curled with the breath of displaced air. Rank by rank, from first to last, a hundred thousand warriors went to one knee. Each lowering rank gave a united thud of ceramite on soil as they knelt. Only the banners remained held high above an ocean of granite grey.

Lorgar carried his crozius over his shoulder, mirroring the posture of every Chaplain in the Legion standing before him. Despite its savagery, the ritual weapon wasn’t out of place in the primarch’s more peaceful aspect.

Without his armour, he couldn’t speak across the vox. To compensate, Legion serfs deployed servo-skulls – the skinned, bleached, augmented skulls of former Legion servants who were chosen to continue serving the Word Bearers even in death. The skulls hovered on humming anti-grav suspensors, their eye sockets containing pict-imagers, their grinning jaws replaced by vox-speakers.

One of them bobbed past Argel Tal in its leisurely pathfinding, and a disquieting thought was dredged up in the skull’s passing. This might be Cyrene’s fate one day. If she got her wish to serve the Legion in the decades to come... Argel Tal turned to watch the servo-skull, curious at his own sudden discomfort. Most mortal serfs relished the promise that they might be granted immortality in even this stunted way. But Cyrene–

‘What are you doing?’ Xaphen hissed. ‘Focus.’

Argel Tal snapped back to attention, facing the primarch. Lorgar had chosen his arrival point with great care, standing atop a natural rise in the land before the orderly ranks of warriors sworn to his name.

Before speaking, the cowl came down, pulled back with sublime patience to reveal his strong, handsome features – the features of his father, but inked gold, with his eyes ringed by kohl. He was the very image of a hierophant preacher in Ancient Gyptus: a faroah’s high priest, ministering to the faithful.

‘My loyal sons. In the past, you have kneeled for each Rite of Remembrance, as you kneel even now. But no more. Word Bearers... Rise.’

Discipline be damned, the Astartes began to glance at one another, taken aback by their lord’s words. This was already unprecedented, and it had barely begun. Surprise and confusion actually had most of the Astartes defying their primarch’s order.

‘Rise,’ Lorgar said, a gentle laugh edging into his speech. ‘Rise, all of you. Now is not the time for obeisance.’

Xaphen rose immediately. All of the Chaplains did. Argel Tal stood slower, looking at his friend.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘You’ll see,’ said Xaphen.

Lorgar’s next words weren’t for his sons. He gestured with his free hand, the skin gold in the dawn, taking in the small phalanx of warriors at the edge of the sprawling conclave.

‘And what have we here?’ he asked. The servo-skulls projected his words to the thousands gathered, preserving the gentle voice even through crackling vox. ‘Our appointed overseers. I give you the thanks of the Seventeenth Legion for your aid in bringing this heretic world into compliance.’

The twenty Custodes bowed, not quite in unison.

Argel Tal was too far distant to hear Aquillon’s words, but the Custodes commander bowed lower than his comrades, and gestured to the gathered Legion.

Lorgar’s reply was delivered with the same gentle diplomacy as his gratitude.

‘You are correct, Custodian Aquillon. Your tenure with the Seventeenth Legion began under dark skies. However, I must beg your indulgence this once. The words I wish to share with my sons are not for the ears of others.’

Again, Argel Tal had no hope of hearing Aquillon’s reply. Lorgar smiled in response, making the sign of the aquila. When the primarch formed the symbol over his grey robe, the gold hands became an aquila akin to those that marked the breastplates of the Emperor’s own guardians. Argel Tal doubted any present could miss the gesture’s symbolic nature.

‘My sons have been shamed, and endured the shattering of their beliefs. I brought them to this world not simply to reforge them in battle, but to speak of the future. And that will be with my sons, and my sons alone. Look to the south, where even our Mechanicum allies withdraw out of respect.’

Argel Tal looked over his shoulder guard, seeing the primarch’s words taking shape as the Mechanicum withdrew. Only the few robots granted honorary Legion inductance were remaining. Incarnadine stood motionless, the Word Bearers banner draped over its shoulders like a cloak of royalty.

Lorgar smiled his father’s smile, cutting off Aquillon’s reply. ‘Every Legion has its rites and observations, Aquillon. The Rite of Remembrance is one of ours. Would you impose upon the Wolves of Russ when they howl around the stone cairns of their fallen? Would you intrude upon the Sons of Prospero as they meditate on the perfection of human potential?’

Aquillon stepped forward now. A floating servo-skull picked up his reply and broadcast the words across to the gathered Legion.

‘If the Emperor, beloved by all, ordered me to watch over those Legions...’

Lorgar clasped his hands together, his smile of indulgence so earnest that it bordered on mockery.

‘I was there when my brother Guilliman gave you your orders, Aquillon. You are to ensure the Word Bearers apply themselves wholeheartedly to the Great Crusade. And I – we, all of us – thank you for your presence. But you are breaching decorum now. You are showing us disrespect, and violating our traditions.’

‘I mean no offence,’ said Aquillon, ‘but my duty is clear.’

Lorgar nodded, feigning sympathy for their intentions. It was a sour display, and Argel Tal wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel shamed by it.

‘But let us not exceed your mandate,’ the primarch said. ‘You are not entitled to watch over me like a pack of prison wardens. I am the Emperor’s son, formed by his mastery in order to carry out his will. You are a flock of genetic toys pieced together in a laboratory from vials of biological scrap. You are so far beneath me that I wouldn’t piss on your bodies even if you were aflame. So... let me be clear, in the spirit of preventing future misunderstandings.’

Aquillon stepped forward, but Lorgar halted him in his tracks with a single name.

‘Kor Phaeron.’

As soon as the name was spoken, the First Captain’s voice rasped across the vox. ‘All Word Bearers, take aim at the Custodes.’

Unlike the order to rise, this one brought no hesitation. The ranks of Word Bearers raised their bolters or gunned chainswords into life.

‘Farewell,’ said Lorgar, still wearing his father’s smile. ‘We will see you in orbit soon.’

Two servitors shared the weight of a bulky teleportation beacon the size and shape of a reinforced oil drum. The bionic slaves trundled from the Astartes’ front ranks, unceremoniously dumping the bronze and black iron marvel of engineering on the ground. As Aquillon stood unmoving, staring up at Lorgar, the beacon toppled and clanked onto the grass.

‘You may use this to return to the Fidelitas Lex,’ the primarch said. ‘Go in peace.’

‘Very well,’ Aquillon hesitated before reaching down to set the beacon right. ‘By your word.’