The First Heretic

Where Lorgar’s regalia hid his flesh, the writing continued over the golden plates of armour, acid-etched into the shining surfaces. Yet for all his majesty, the Seventeenth Primarch did not display his grandeur by ceremonial wargear. His armour may have been gold, but it was no more ornate than the Mark III plate worn by his captains. The oath papers and scrolls of scripture pinned to his breastplate and pauldrons told not of the primarch’s own glory, but his vows to his father, and his devotion to serve the people of the Imperium.

‘And so we come to this,’ the primarch said, his voice never rising far above a whisper, because it never needed to. It reached the ears of his closest sons, and translated smoothly across the vox for the rear ranks.

‘And so we come to this, yet still they make us wait for the answers we deserve.’

Human linguistics couldn’t convey the fierce, soulful confidence Lorgar exuded. His slender lips were curled into the crooked half-smile of an impassioned poet, despite standing in the grave of his greatest achievement. In his gauntleted hands, clutched in gold fists that seemed reluctant to raise the weapon, was a crozius the height of an Astartes warrior.

Illuminarum was the primarch’s one concession to grandeur. The weapon’s haft was the cream of ivory, reinforced by a grip of black iron. Its head was an orb of adamantium, stained black through a forgemaster’s touch and decorated with silver-leafed runes. Evenly-spaced spikes the length of human forearms projected from its outer edges, lending the mace a brutish air almost at odds with the philosophical seeker who carried it across the stars.

Despite the immense craftsmanship in its forging, Lorgar’s crozius was ostentation utterly without beauty. Entire worlds had been put to the flame by its bearer, while every Chaplain of the Word Bearers Legion wielded its lesser reflection.

None of Lorgar’s sons, even those who had spent years from his side, were blind to their father’s unease. The primarch cast glances back at the grounded Ultramarines Thunderhawks, waiting for any signs of emergence. Around his poet’s smile was the faint suggestion of black stubble, something Argel Tal had never seen before on his meticulous primarch.

Lorgar turned away from his sons, now staring down at the impassive gunships. His whisper carried to the entire Legion.

‘Guilliman, brother of my blood, if not my heart. Come to me and answer for your madness.’

In theatrical unity, the gunships’ ramps began to lower. The Legion heard their father’s last whisper, as the Ultramarines showed themselves at last.

‘Bearers of the Word,’ he murmured the warning, soft as snakeskin on silk. ‘Stand ready, and watch for the first sign of treachery.’

A mere hundred warriors stood opposed to one hundred thousand. Facing an ocean of grey armour, a single company of Ultramarines had made planetfall with their primarch. Even in the gravity of the moment, Argel Tal wasn’t sure whether to be mystified at this display, or insulted by it. He settled for both, his irritation rising all the while.

‘The 19th Company,’ Xaphen voxed, watching the Ultramarines banner waving in the gentle wind. It depicted a rearing white horse with a mane of fire, over a series of numerals. ‘Intriguing.’

Argel Tal watched the white horse rippling in the wind, trying to discern some significance in the 19th’s presence. The creature seemed in motion, the flames of its mane real and burning. Aethon Company, the Ultramarines 19th, was well-known to many outside Guilliman’s Legion. Aethon himself commanded an entire Imperial Expedition away from his primarch, and was rumoured to be a stern ambassador and a shrewd diplomat. Whatever the truth, the captain was trusted with a great deal more responsibility and independence than most other Astartes could ever claim.

‘They are named,’ Xaphen said, ‘for a fire-breathing horse, in ancient Macraggian mythology. Aethon was the name of a horse that pulled the sun-god’s chariot across the sky.’

Argel Tal resisted the urge to shake his head. ‘With the greatest respect, brother, I couldn’t care less.’

‘Knowledge is power,’ the Chaplain replied.

‘Focus,’ the captain snapped back. ‘You heard the primarch.’

Xaphen sent an acknowledgement chime across the vox – a single static buzz.

The final gunship ramp lowered on steam-venting pistons. Argel Tal remained still, his muscles locked tense, as the Thirteenth Primarch descended with his honour guard, followed by...

‘No,’ he said, shock stealing his breath.

‘Blood of the God-Emperor,’ Xaphen whispered.

Ahead of them, Lorgar watched with a viper’s smile. ‘Malcador the Sigillite.’

Next to the primarch armoured in battleplate of pearl and cerulean walked a slender figure in unassuming, plain robes. Human, utterly frail in Gulliman’s massive shadow, the First Lord of Terra clutched a staff of dark metal and rattling chains, topped by a twin-headed eagle.