The First Heretic

Argel Tal stepped closer, only to have his attention stolen by a blur of scarlet in the glass reflection. It was his helm, his chestplate, but warped by ivory protrusions – a twisted, gothic bio-architecture formed from ceramite and bone. The face that looked back was a tusked rendition of his war helm, painted crimson and black but for the golden star around his right eye lens.

He–

–opened his eyes.

The observation deck, on board the Orfeo’s Lament. The sky beyond the dome was full of thrashing chaos.

The daemon remained exactly where it had been, its muscled form never completely still, forever swaying side to side, its claws flicker-twitching in the air. Xaphen, Torgal, Malnor, Dagotal – all were exactly as they had been before.

The outrider sergeant checked his retinal chron. Three seconds had passed. Four. Five.

They’d been gone no time at all.

‘Was any of that real?’ he asked.

Ingethel the Ascended gestured with two of its spindly arms, the talons pointing to the ground behind the Word Bearers. There, on the decking, were the swords of red iron: broken beyond repair, the shards darkened by scorch markings from the detonation that ruined them.

‘That looks real to me,’ Xaphen chuckled.

You have seen much, and learned more. One matter remains. The daemon slithered around the Astartes, circling them with slow relish. Something akin to amusement glinted in its ugly eyes as it watched Argel Tal.

‘What remains?’

A leap of faith.

Xaphen’s eyes met Argel Tal’s. ‘We’ve come this far. We stand united.’

The captain nodded.

A choice must be made. You have witnessed the truth of the gods. You have seen the Emperor’s own lies laid bare, and you know the slow extinction that awaits humanity if the species remains blind to the Primordial Truth.

So choose.

‘Choose what?’ Argel Tal narrowed his eyes. Unwilling to tolerate the creature’s stench any longer, he put on his helm, breathing easier as the collar seals hissed and locked.

To lower this vessel’s Geller Field. Ingethel stroked a claw down the dome’s side. On the other side of the dense glass, screaming faces and frantic talons pressed against the daemon’s hand. Lower the Geller Field. Become the architects of humanity’s destiny, and the weapons Lorgar needs to wield against the Empire of Lies.

The Word Bearers didn’t all react alike. Xaphen closed his eyes with a knowing smile, as if this confirmed something he’d been waiting to hear. Torgal rested his hands on his holstered pistol and sheathed blade, while Malnor placed his grey gauntlet on the stocks of the two bolt pistols mag-locked to his thighs. Dagotal stepped back from the group, his body language betraying his unease even though his eye lenses gave no emotion away.

Argel Tal didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he laughed.

‘You are insane, creature.’

This is the respect you show to a messenger of the gods?

‘What did you expect? That the Word Bearers would kneel and accept everything you said as a divine mandate? We are done with kneeling, Ingethel.’

The daemon’s maw quivered as it offered a rattish hiss. Lower the Geller Field and you will taste the last promise of proof.

‘We must heed the messenger’s words,’ said the Chaplain.

‘Enough, Xaphen.’

‘Aurelian demanded this of us! We were ordered to follow the guide, no matter where he led us. How can you baulk at the final moment of truth?’

‘Enough. We are not risking the ship in this storm. We already lost the Shield of Scarus. A hundred brothers lost in this sector of space, and you smile when it comes to losing a hundred more.’

They were not chosen, Argel Tal. You are. It was their time to meet destruction. They lacked the strength of will to endure what you are being offered.

The captain rounded on the daemon. ‘What will happen if we lower the field? Will we be at the mercy of the storm? Pulled apart like every other Imperial vessel that lost Geller stability during warp flight?’

No. Lower the anathemic skin, and my kin will come to join us. To share the final revelation with the gods’ chosen warriors.