Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

‘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.