Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

Lorgar knew them both, though never as well as he’d wanted to. His approaches to Fulgrim had always been rebuffed with diplomatic grace, but his brother’s ire was clear: Lorgar, among all of the Emperor’s sons, was the failure that just wouldn’t remain silent. Even in the fifty years since his humiliation in Monarchia, as the Word Bearers had conquered more than any other Legion, desperate to match the tallies of the Sons of Horus and the Ultramarines. Fulgrim still wished nothing to do with him. The Lord of the Emperor’s Children – and oh, how proud he was that his sons alone among the Astartes could wear the Emperor’s aquila on their armour – had never voiced his distaste in express terms, but Fulgrim’s feelings were transparent enough. He was a being that valued nothing but perfection, and Lorgar was irrevocably stained by his flaws.

Ferrus, Lord of the Iron Hands, was an open book where Fulgrim was a closed one. Lorgar’s passion was ever on the surface, as was the passion of his Legion on the battlefield. Ferrus contained his wrath beneath a dignified facade but never buried it, and asked the same of his warriors. While Ferrus treasured those times on Terra he had spent working at the forge, shaping metal into weapons worthy of gifting to his demigod brothers, Lorgar had sequestered himself in the palace itself, debating philosophy, ancient history and human nature with Magnus and the Emperor’s more cerebral courtiers, advisers and viziers.

The closest they’d come to an accord was still a memory barely worthy of any family. Lorgar had come to find Ferrus in his forge, working at the construction of something molten, dangerous and undoubtedly destined to be a weapon of war. It seemed all the Iron Hands primarch was capable of.

Knowing the spiteful thought was petty, Lorgar had sought to temper it. ‘One wonders if you are capable of making anything that creates, rather than destroys.’ He tried to smile, hoping it would rob the accusation of any venom as he stood uncomfortably in the heat blaring from the open furnace.

Ferrus had cast a glance over his dark-skinned shoulder and watched his fey brother for a moment, not returning the smile. ‘One wonders if you are capable of creating anything worthwhile at all.’

Lorgar’s golden features had tightened, the smile now etched on rather than worn with any sincerity. ‘You summoned me?’

‘That I did.’ Ferrus stepped away from the anvil. His bare chest was flecked with miniscule marks of burn tissue, hundreds of them pockmarking his dark skin from stray sparks and spatters of molten metal. A lifetime of forge-work, worn like a coat of medals that scarred the flesh. ‘I made something for you,’ he said, his voice as low and rumbling as ever.

‘What? Why?’

‘I won’t call it a rescue,’ said Ferrus, ‘for my warriors wouldn’t stand for that. But I owe you thanks for the “reinforcement” at Galadon Secondus.’

‘You owe me nothing, brother. I live to serve.’

Ferrus grunted, as if doubting even that. ‘Be that as it may, here is a token of my appreciation.’

Ferrus’s Legion was named for the primarch himself. His arms were metallic, but not robotic, as if formed from some alien compound of organic silver. Lorgar had never asked about his brother’s unique biology, knowing that Ferrus would never explain it to him.

As he reached a nearby table, he lifted a long weapon with a sure grip. Without a word, he tossed it to Lorgar. The Word Bearer caught it neatly with one hand, though it was heavier than he’d expected and he winced under its sudden weight.

‘It’s called Illuminarum,’ Ferrus was already working back at his anvil. ‘Try not to break it.’

‘I... I do not know what to say.’

‘Say nothing.’ Already, the falling ring of hammer-hand upon yielding steel. Clang, clang, clang. ‘Say nothing, and leave me be. That will spare us any halting attempts at conversation when we agree on

nothing, and have nothing but awkwardness to share.’

‘As you wish.’ Lorgar had forced a smile to his brother’s back, and left in silence. Such was the extent of his closeness to Fulgrim and Ferrus.

Lorgar stared at the two of them now, awe paling his features as their weapons cracked off each other, shedding sprays of power-field lightning.

‘What have we done?’ he whispered. ‘These are my brothers.’

Kor Phaeron grunted in wordless disapproval. ‘Boy, order the attack. We must support Argel Tal and the Iron Warriors.’

‘But what are we doing? Why have we done it this way?’

Erebus didn’t scowl, he was far too composed for that, but Kor Phaeron wore his human emotion with greater ease. He fairly snarled the words, leeching them of kindness.

‘We are bringing enlightenment to the galaxy, Lorgar. This is what you were born for.’

Erebus turned to regard his primarch. ‘Is it not a grand sensation, sire? To be the architect of all this? To see your designs reach fruition?’

Lorgar would not, could not, look away from his duelling kin. ‘This was not my design, and you know it as well as I. Let us not pretend I have any skill at orchestrating bloodshed and betrayal on this scale.’

Kor Phaeron’s lips twisted as close as they ever came to a smile. ‘You give me far too much credit.’

‘It is well-earned.’ The primarch’s gauntleted fist was tight around Illuminarum’s haft, and minute tremors narrowed his eyes with each blow that rained upon Ferrus’s black armour. ‘Ferrus is tiring. Fulgrim is going kill him.’

With a grinding purr of servos, Kor Phaeron came forward to rest a clawed hand on his foster son’s arm. ‘Do not let it grieve you. What must be, must be.’

Lorgar didn’t shake the hand off, which both Erebus and Kor Phaeron counted as enough of a triumph. Lorgar’s feyness had worn on them both, and it took great patience and subtlety to incite him to violence. This battle had been years in the planning, and they would not allow him to foul it now with misplaced compassion. Emboldened, Kor Phaeron continued. ‘The truth is ugly, boy, but it is all we have.’

‘Boy.’ Mirth had no place in Lorgar’s smile. ‘I am over two centuries old, and I am dragging my father’s empire to its knees. Yet you still call me boy. Sometimes I find that a comfort. Other times, a weight around my shoulders.’

‘You are my son, Lorgar. Not the Emperor’s. And you are bringing hope to mankind.’

‘Enough,’ said the primarch, and now he did shake his foster father’s hand loose. ‘Come. Let us get this day done with.’ Lorgar raised his crozius maul to the sky.

It was all the signal they needed. Thousands of Word Bearers roared their approval behind him, as their liege lord led them to war.

The war on the surface was of no concern to him anymore.

Staying alive was, but then, that was always a concern. He was forever aware of that fact, which was why he was so good at it. Still, he had to admit it had become a more pressing matter, and a more difficult aim to reach.

Ishaq had never been in a void battle before, and it wasn’t something he hoped to get into again. The ship shook as if in a storm’s grip, shuddering with a belligerent aggression that defied all expectation. Every two dozen steps he took found him thrown to the floor with knee-aching violence, and resulted in hisses of pain along with the creation of new swear words – the latter usually by melding three existing curses together in a stream of invective. When Ishaq Kadeen swore, he swore with feeling, even if not with sense.

Half of the problem was that he was lost, and the other half of the problem was that he was lost on what was jokingly-referred to as the monastic deck, where the Word Bearers and their Legion serfs went about the business of being heroes (and the slaves of heroes). Sneaking onto the deck had seemed a good idea at the time; he’d hoped for some panoramic views of Astartes training chambers, or discarded suits of armour awaiting repair, or immense weapon racks to show the scale of war waged by the Emperor’s Legions. All of these would have made for fine, private and personal images very rarely seen from the Great Crusade, and would have bolstered his portfolio immeasurably. Stealing the grey, hooded Legion robe had been no trouble at all. Even slaves with vows of silence had to do their laundry.