Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

‘It is time,’ she said to Lorgar in a hoarse, breathless voice. ‘It is time for the tenth sacrifice.’

The primarch tilted his head down at the girl, not quite a concession. ‘And what is the tenth sacrifice?’

‘The tenth sacrifice must come from the seeker. He chooses the slain. It is the final consecration.’

Lorgar drew breath to answer, but was denied the chance to speak.

A sinister crackle came into waspish life – all recognised the snapping buzz of a power weapon going live. Vendatha lowered his guardian spear, aiming the blade and bolter at Lorgar’s heart.

‘In the Emperor’s name,’ said the Custodian, ‘this ends now.’

FIFTEEN

Sacrifice

Baptism of Blood

Unworthy Truths

‘By the authority invested in me by the Emperor of Mankind, I do judge thee a traitor to the Imperium.’

Lorgar watched Vendatha, his benign expression unchanging all the while.

‘Is that so?’ asked the primarch.

‘Don’t do this,’ said Argel Tal. ‘Ven, please, do not do this.’

Vendatha didn’t take his eyes from Lorgar. The golden spire-helm faced forward, red eye lenses catching the flames’ reflection. Around them all, the drums were starting to slow and fall quiet.

‘If any of you reach for a weapon, this becomes an execution, not an arrest.’

The Word Bearers remained frozen. Some risks weren’t worth taking.

‘Lorgar,’ whispered Ingethel. ‘The ritual must not be interrupted. The wrath of the gods will–’

‘Be silent, witch,’ Vendatha said. ‘You have said enough already. Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, do you yield to righteous authority and give your oath to abandon this den of heathen belief? Do you vow to return at once to Terra and submit to the Emperor’s judgement?’

‘No,’ the primarch spoke softly. ‘I do not.’

‘Then you leave me no choice.’

‘There is always a choice,’ said Argel Tal.

Vendatha ignored the captain’s plea. He reached for the scrollwork etched into his ornate bracer, and pushed one of the mother-of-pearl buttons inlaid in the decoration.

Nothing happened.

He pressed the button again.

Nothing continued to happen.

The Custodian took a step backwards as the Word Bearers very, very slowly drew their weapons. The Chaplains unlimbered their crozius mauls. Tsar Quorel and Deumos raised their bolters, and Argel Tal unsheathed the swords of red iron.

‘I think you will find,’ the primarch smiled, ‘that your teleport signal has been blocked since you entered this chamber. Just a precautionary measure we took, you understand? Aquillon and your brothers will not be appearing to aid you. They will never even know you needed them.’

‘I confess I had not anticipated this,’ Vendatha said. ‘Well done, Lorgar.’

‘It’s not too late, Ven.’ Argel Tal raised his swords en garde . ‘Lower your weapon and we can end this without crossing the line.’

‘Great One...’ Ingethel whined. ‘The ritual...’

‘I said be silent, witch,’ snapped Vendatha.

Lorgar sighed, as if a great disappointment settled upon his shoulders. ‘Decide now, Custodian Vendatha, how best to serve my father’s Imperium. Do you flee, escaping this chamber, and bring a truth you don’t even understand to your brothers in orbit? Or do you shoot me now, and rid the galaxy of its only chance at enlightenment?’

‘The choice you offer is no choice at all,’ Vendatha said.

Argel Tal moved first, launching forward as the cavern echoed with bolter fire.

Vendatha was not a fool. He knew the odds of surviving the next few moments were slim, and he knew a primarch’s reflexes were the peak of biological possibility, faster than even his own, which bordered on the preternatural.

But Lorgar was at ease, his muscles loose. He actually expected his offer of truce to hold some weight, and that lapse in judgement was enough for Vendatha to take the chance. He pulled the haft-trigger, and his spear’s underslung bolter cracked off a stream of rounds on full-auto.

Argel Tal saw it coming. The swords of red iron smashed the first three bolts aside, their power fields strong enough to detonate the shells as they streaked towards the primarch’s heart. The explosions threw the captain to the ground, his grey armour scraping along the stone with the shriek of offended ceramite.

Vendatha was already in motion. The golden warrior leapt at the primarch, guardian spear spinning in his fists, an oath to the Emperor on his lips. Four Word Bearers blocked his path, and those four Word Bearers had to die.

Rikus was the first to fall. The Custodian’s blade crunched into the soft, jointed armour at the Chaplain’s throat, punching from the back of his neck. Tsar Quorel died next, decapitated with a buzzing sweep of the energised blade, dead before he’d pulled his trigger.

Deumos managed to fire a stream of bolt shells, none of which connected. Vendatha weaved left, thudded the base of his spear into the Chapter Master’s bolter, knocking it aside, and followed with a cutting swing that sheared both the Word Bearer’s hands from his body, severing them at the forearms. Deumos had a scarce moment to draw in a stunned gasp before the spear sliced again, this time cleaving through his collarbone and spine, ripping his head free.

Vendatha span the blade in his hands, letting it come to rest with the tip and gun barrel aimed at Lorgar’s heart again. Behind the Custodian, the bodies crashed to the ground in slow succession. Three seconds had passed.

Argel Tal was picking himself off the floor. Only Xaphen stood between the primarch and his attacker, but the Chaplain had used the scant, precious seconds to draw his bolter, which he aimed squarely at Vendatha’s faceplate.

‘Hold,’ he warned.

‘Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, surrender yourself into my custody at once.’

‘You killed my sons,’ Lorgar covered his mouth with a hand. ‘They had never wronged you. Not once. Is this what my father’s mandate allows you to do? To slaughter my sons if I do not dance to his ignorant tune?’

‘Surrender yourself,’ the Custodian repeated.

Vendatha had fought at the Emperor’s side many times before. Always writ upon the Lord of Man’s face was an unbreakable defiance, all emotion suppressed beneath the mask of stoic perfection.

Lorgar didn’t share his father’s capacity to conceal emotion. Hate bleached his features, and white teeth showed in a skull’s grin.

‘You dare threaten me? You murdered my sons, you soulless, worthless husk of genetic overspill .’

Vendatha squeezed the trigger again, but it was too late. Xaphen fired first.

Bolt rounds hammered into the Custodian’s golden armour, beating the faceplate and chest out of shape, tearing chunks of plating away as they detonated. Each suit of battle armour was individually wrought for the Custodian granted the honour to wear it, and despite their finery, Custodes armour was a step beyond the mass-produced wargear used by the Astartes Legions.

Even so, the burst of bolter shells to the head and upper torso was almost enough to kill the warrior outright.

Vendatha staggered back, the guardian spear falling from slack fingers and crashing to the stone. Even with his face a burned and bleeding ruin, even with his helm wrecked and its twisted metal digging into his broken skull, he stared through the one eye that still worked.

Xaphen reloaded. The primarch did nothing. The naked maiden tugged at Lorgar’s robe sleeve, imploring him to continue with the heathen rite, warning of the gods’ anger if he didn’t.

Vendatha reached for his fallen spear.