Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

Wait. Where is Argel T –

The sword of red iron flew like a javelin, cracking Vendatha’s remaining teeth into porcelain chips as it smashed into his closed mouth. Two metres of shimmering blade lanced from the back of the Custodian’s head, while most of the warrior’s ruined face was covered by the hilt and handle protruding from his open jaws.

As Rikus, Tsar Quorel and Deumos had done only moments before, Vendatha crashed to the ground, felled by an Imperial blade.

Xaphen released a breath. ‘Nicely done, brother.’

The Chaplain had no warning, for Argel Tal struck without any. The captain’s fist crashed into Xaphen’s jaw, throwing him to the ground.

‘Brother?’ from his place on the stone floor, the Chaplain stared up at Argel Tal’s fury.

‘We have just killed one of the Emperor’s own guardians, and your eulogy in this moment is “Nicely done, brother”? Are you insane? We stand upon the edge of heresy against the Imperium. Sire, we have to leave this place. We must speak with Aquillon, and–’

‘Retrieve your blade,’ ordered the primarch. Lorgar stared into the middle distance, paying little heed to what unfolded before his eyes. His voice barely lifted above a whisper.

Argel Tal approached with slow steps, taking his second sword back without gentleness, yanking it from the corpse’s jaws. He froze as Vendatha’s remaining eye followed him, and the body’s fingers twitched.

‘Blood of the... Sire, he’s still alive,’ Argel Tal called back.

‘There is no virtue in cruelty,’ murmured Lorgar. ‘I wrote that once. In my book. I remember doing so. I remember the scratch of quill upon parchment, and the way the words looked on the page...’

‘Sire?’

Lorgar stirred, focused. ‘End his suffering, Argel Tal.’

All heads turned towards Ingethel as she cried out – wordless defiance, in a keening wail.

‘This was ordained by the gods.’ She gestured her tattooed hand to Vendatha’s ravaged form. ‘Lorgar is the seeker, the Favoured Son of the Great Powers, and he has provided the tenth sacrifice. Consecration may begin.’

A pack of Cadians came forward, their dirty hands pulling at Vendatha’s golden armour, stripping it from his dying body. Argel Tal kicked one of the jackals off the fallen Custodian and levelled his blades at the rest. They scattered; carrion-feeders disturbed from a meal at the last moment.

‘This was not a sacrifice for your blood magic,’ the captain said. ‘He aimed a weapon at the Emperor’s son, and he will die for the sin. That is all.’ Argel Tal looked over his shoulder. ‘Sire, we have to leave. No answer is worth this.’

Lorgar lowered his hood, looking at neither Argel Tal nor Ingethel. His gaze rested on a far wall, and a faint scowl creased his lips.

‘What’s that sound?’ the primarch asked.

‘I hear nothing but the drums, sire. Please, we must leave at once.’

‘You don’t hear that?’ Lorgar glanced at his two remaining sons. ‘Neither of you?’ Their silence answered for them, and Lorgar reached a hand to his forehead. ‘Is that... laughter?’

Ingethel was on her knees now, dragging at his robes, weeping in her worship. ‘The ritual... The gods come... It is not complete...’

Lorgar paid her heed at last, though the distant look never left his eyes. ‘I hear them. I hear them all. Like the memory of laughter. The forgotten faces of distant kin when one struggles to recall them.’

Argel Tal clashed the swords of red iron together; the skish-skash of metal on metal loud enough to draw the primarch’s attention.

‘Sire,’ he growled, ‘we must leave.’

Lorgar shook his head, infinitely patient, infinitely calm. ‘It is no longer our choice to make. Events are in motion. Stand away from the Custodian, my son.’

‘But sire...’

‘Ingethel speaks the truth. This was all ordained. The storm that stranded us. The screams that summoned us. The fear that led Vendatha to betray us. All part of a... a plan. It’s so clear to me. The dreams. The whispers. Decade after decade after decade of...’

‘Sire, please. ’

Lorgar’s statuesque features were warped by a sudden rush of fury. ‘Stand away from that treacherous dog before you join him on an eleventh spear. Do you understand me? This moment is a crucible upon which all else spins. Obey me, or I will kill you where you stand.’

A shadow passed over Argel Tal’s sight – something terrible in aspect, something winged and wrathful beyond mortal imagining.

The moment passed. The darkness receded. Argel Tal did as Lorgar commanded, stepping away from the body and sheathing the swords of red iron.

‘No answers are worth this,’ the captain said.

Neither Xaphen nor Lorgar met his glare. With keen eyes, both watched the ritual proceeding again.

Here, Lorgar stopped writing. His smile was enriched by melancholy.

‘Do you believe I sinned in that moment?’

Argel Tal laughed, the sound black and bitter. ‘A sin is decided when mortal morality meets a code of ethics. Did you sin against a faith? No. Did you stain your soul? Perhaps.’

‘But you hate me, my son. I hear it in your voice.’

‘I think desperation blinded you, father. You may take no joy in sadism, but your need for the truth drove you to viciousness.’

‘And for this, you hate me.’ Lorgar was no longer smiling. His tone was low and barbed, while his eyes had all the warmth of a body on the battlefield.

‘I hate what you’ve forced me to see. I hate the truth we must bring to the Imperium of Man. Above all, I hate what I’ve become in service to your vision.’

Argel Tal grinned the grin that wasn’t his own. ‘But we could never hate you, Lorgar.’

Vendatha was still alive when they impaled him alongside the other nine sacrifices.

But, mercifully, not for long.

He never saw the consecration bought with his blood. He never saw what breached the barrier between the realm of spirit and the world of flesh.

Ingethel’s writhing dance came to an end. The maiden was bathed in sweat, her hair in greasy ringlets and her body shining in the firelight as if beaded with pearls. In her hands, she still gripped her wooden staff, the head carved in a curving crescent moon.

A tattooed god-talker stood before each of the occupied spears, blood from the slaughtered victims gathered into crude clay bowls that were clutched in white-knuckled hands. As Ingethel approached each in turn, the shaman would mark her flesh with a spiralling symbol, tracing blood onto her body with a fingertip.

It was impossible to miss the significance. They were drawing the Eye on her.

‘Incredible,’ said Lorgar. He looked pained – the veins in his temples swollen and pulsing.

‘I know this ritual,’ Xaphen said. ‘I know it from the old books.’

‘Yes,’ the primarch gave a strained smile. ‘This is an echo of an ancient Colchisian ceremony. Kingpriests – the rulers of old – were appointed like this. The maiden’s dance; the blood sacrifices; the constellations inked upon her flesh... All of it. Kor Phaeron would know it, as would Erebus. Both of them will have seen it before, with their own eyes, performed by the Covenant in the years before my arrival on Colchis.’

Argel Tal had considered their culture far beyond such decadence. Lorgar must have picked up on his disgusted thought, because the primarch turned to him with a sharp glance.

‘I do not perceive this as beautiful, Argel Tal. Merely necessary. You believe we have progressed past such superstition? I remind you that not all change is for the better. Buildings erode. Flesh weakens. Memories fade. These are all part of time’s progression, and all would be reversed, if a way could be found to do so.’