The First Heretic

He chuckled again. ‘No. By my father, and the brothers he can trust. Some will be brought to his side by deception, if they are too dull-minded to come in perfect faith. But we are a populous Legion, and our conquests are many, with many more to come. Much of the Imperium’s border worlds will answer to the warriors of Aurelian first, and the Emperor second.’

‘You... you’re planning this, already?’

‘It may not come to war,’ he said. ‘The primarch is venturing into the Great Eye to witness his own revelations. Evidently, the lives of the Serrated Sun were spent and warped in what was merely truth’s prelude.’

Cyrene could hear the discomfort in his voice. He was making no move to hide it.

‘Do you believe the primarch sent you in first out of... fear?’

Argel Tal didn’t answer that.

‘Tell me one more thing before you leave, captain.’

‘Ask.’

‘Why did you believe all of this? Hell-worlds. Souls. Humanity’s slow extinction, and these... monsters... that call themselves daemons. What convinced you that it was more than some alien trick?’

‘Such creatures are no different from the gods of countless faiths that have risen and fallen over the millennia. Few gods were benevolent creators to any culture.’

‘But what if we’re being lied to?’

It would have been easy to say that the faith was its own sustenance and that humanity always reached for religion; that almost every rediscovered human culture clung to their own belief in the infinite and the divine; and that here was a realm of prophecy – where beings with the power of gods had proved beyond doubt that they’d summoned the Lord of the Seventeenth Legion, shaping fate to make these events unfold.

Whether they were benevolent creator gods from mythology or mere manifestations of mortal emotion was irrelevant. Here was the divine force in a galaxy of lost souls. On the edge of the physical universe, gods and mortals had finally met, and mankind would fall without their masters.

But Argel Tal said none of this. He was weary of such explanation.

‘I remember your words after Monarchia died in the Emperor’s fire. You told me it was the day you truly began to believe that gods were real, once you had seen such power unleashed. I felt the same when I saw the power at work in this storm. Can you understand that, Cyrene?’

‘I understand.’

‘I thought you would.’

And with those words spoken, he walked from her room.

Aquillon found him in the practice cages.

Both warriors were aware of each other long before either said a word. Aquillon watched in silence, respectfully waiting until Argel Tal finished his round of exercises, while the Word Bearer graced the Custodian with a perfunctory nod, saying nothing as he worked through his sword work routines. Finding balance in his weakened physique was a torturous affair. The deactivated sparring blades cut the air in dull sweeps – a poor shadow of the lost swords of red iron – and he was breathless with exertion as his hearts thudded to keep up with the demands he placed upon his emaciated physique.

At last, Argel Tal lowered the blades. His muscles ached from only two hours of training. Before his journey into the Eye, such a poor performance would see him doing penance for a ritual ninety-nine nights.

‘Aquillon,’ he greeted his friend.

‘You look as though you died and forgot to lie down.’

The Word Bearer snorted. ‘I feel like it.’

‘A shame. You’d managed to last almost four minutes against me last time we stepped into these cages together.’

‘I see you are not in a merciful mood.’ In better times, this banter would have come easily to Argel Tal. ‘Did you come to speak of Ven?’

Aquillon opened the force cage and took up a practice blade twin to the one Argel Tal still held. The sparring cage’s hemispheres closed around them both. Both warriors wore robes: one, the white of Terra’s palace servants, one, the grey of the XVII Legion.

‘I wanted to hear it from you.’ He raised the blade in a two-handed grip, mimicking his favoured weapon. His warriors carried the traditional glaives, but Aquillon’s antique bidenhander broadsword was a blade apart. He carried this blade as he wielded his own sword: with a confident, effortless grip.

Argel Tal raised his own swords in a defensive cross, feeling the burn of lactic acid in his muscles. The two warriors tended to play to their strengths in the past: Aquillon was ferociously offensive in his blade work; Argel Tal remained consummately defensive.

‘So will you tell me what happened?’

Aquillon was indeed not in a merciful mood. Before the Word Bearer could even answer, Argel Tal’s blades were knocked from his hands and the captain found himself on the floor, breathing against the Custodian’s sword point. It scratched the dirty skin of his throat, and Aquillon shook his head.

‘Pathetic.’ He offered his hand to help Argel Tal rise. ‘Try again.’

The Word Bearer rose without the offered hand, retrieving his blades. ‘I do not like the pity in your voice.’

‘Then do something to get rid of it. But at least answer my question.’