The First Heretic

‘There’s nothing left for us out here. Once Cadia is purged, we press on as part of the 1,301st, returning to more promising territory. I believe the primarch will rejoin the main crusade fleet, with Erebus and Kor Phaeron. He will be done with these provincial conquests. I suspect he also wishes to speak with several of his brothers.’

Aquillon nodded, and returned his practice sword to the weapon rack. His white robe was unmarked, while Argel Tal’s was bathed in sweat stains down the spine and around the collar.

The Custodian saluted, making the sign of the aquila over his chest. Argel Tal returned it, as he always did in his friend’s presence.

‘One last thing,’ the Custodian remarked.

The Word Bearer raised an eyebrow. ‘Speak.’

‘Congratulations, Chapter Master.’

Argel Tal couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I wasn’t aware it was public knowledge. Will you be at the ceremony?’

‘Without a doubt.’ In a moment of rare fellowship, Aquillon rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I wish you well on your return to health. I am glad that, at the end, Vendatha stood with a friend.’

An image of Ven’s last moments flashed through Argel Tal’s mind: the naked Custodian twitching, gagging, being dragged down and impaled upon the wooden spear.

Unable to speak another lie, the Word Bearer merely nodded.

The ceremony was attended by every officer of significant rank, as well as the remaining Word Bearers of the Serrated Sun, including the robed ranks of their Acolyte Auxiliary – many of whom would be elevated into the three shattered companies with the Legion’s losses in recent months.

Such a gathering required use of De Profundis’s primary hangar deck, which in turn offered a stunning, disquieting backdrop through the open bay doors’ shimmering force field. Through the haze of thin energies, the storm beyond was a swirling mess of psychic vitriol. The ship creaked and whined around them as they stood in orderly rows, facing Lorgar.

At the primarch’s side, the Blessed Lady carried a rolled scroll on a plain, white cushion. She stared blindly over the ranks of Word Bearers, occasionally glancing to the towering primarch as if she could somehow see him. On Lorgar’s left, Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus stood tall and proud in his ceremonial grey and white uniform, a fur cloak – once the skin of some immense arctic beast that the officer had never even seen, let alone killed himself – draped over one side of his body. None present could actually recall the last time Torvus had set foot on a planet; the man clearly treasured his place among the stars.

Fully a third of the Legion warriors were wasted husks in their half-repaired armour. These were the survivors of the Eye, standing in rows ahead of their hundred remaining brethren.

The Mechanicum contingent had manifested in full strength as well, though only one of their robotic charges was present. To no one’s surprise, Incarnadine was among the Word Bearers ranks, the scarlet war machine bedecked in honour scrolls and towering above its living kinsmen. Despite bearing the scarlet armour of Carthage, it was a welcome presence among the Legion’s grey.

Standing aside from all the others, four golden figures watched from a gantry above. Aquillon and his Custodians were resplendent in their armoured finery – the gold surfaces playing host to flickering reflections from the storm outside.

The primarch, clad in a shirt of fine silver mail, raised his hands for silence. All whispers died down immediately.

‘I have brought this expeditionary fleet far from the heart of my father’s kingdom. Every fleet with a Word Bearer presence has done the same, sailing far from beloved Terra, into the cold, away from the cradle of our species. We are far from our brothers and will hear tell of their travels and conquests in time, but I say this with confidence: none of my Legion has endured what you have. None have stared into the madness at the edge of the universe, as you have done. And you survived. You returned.’

Lorgar inclined his head at his warriors before continuing. ‘This Legion, more than any other, has suffered through change and evolution since its inception. But each phase exalts us, improves us and brings us closer to fulfilling our potential. The Emperor bred this Legion from his biological barracks on distant Terra, and for many years only Terrans filled its ranks. A more innocent age, an age when the Legion bore a different name, and today we begin to leave the last vestiges of those days behind. The Imperial Heralds became the Word Bearers, and the Word Bearers were shown the error of their ways in worshipping the Emperor. Change upon change, all leading towards this moment.’

The primarch gestured a gloved hand to a bulkhead in the closest wall, and spoke a single word. ‘Enter.’