The First Heretic

Hate him, but do not strike him. He is chosen. Just like you.

Will I always hear your voice?

No. Our end is fated. We will be destroyed in the shadow of great wings. Then you will hear my voice no more.

Argel Tal felt his blood run cold, and knew that this feeling, at least, was not part of the promised changes to his body.

‘Erebus,’ he greeted the First Chaplain. ‘I am in no mind to argue.’

‘Nor I,’ the older warrior said. ‘Much has happened since we last spoke. We have both seen many things, and made difficult choices to bring us to this moment in time.’ Erebus met Argel Tal’s eye lenses with his own stony, solemn gaze. It was hard not to admire the Chaplain’s composure at all times, and his great patience.

It was also hard to forget his great disappointment, once it was earned.

‘I have heard of all you witnessed, and went through,’ Erebus continued. ‘Xaphen has kept me appraised.’

‘Do you have a point?’ Argel Tal murmured, and even to his own ears his words sounded puerile.

‘I am proud of you.’ Erebus briefly rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I simply wished to say that.’

Without another word, Erebus moved away, following the primarch. Kor Phaeron gave a wet, burbling chuckle, and stalked off in slower pursuit, Terminator joints grinding.

TWENTY-FIVE

Second Wave

Changes

Betrayal

It was the battle to begin the war.

The Urgall Depression was churned to ruination beneath the boots and tank treads of countless thousands of Astartes warriors and their Legion’s armour divisions. The loyal primarchs could be found where the fighting was thickest: Corax of the Raven Guard, borne aloft on black wings bound to a fire-breathing flight pack; Lord Ferrus of the Iron Hands at the heart of the battlefield, his silver hands crushing any traitors that came within reach, while he pursued and dragged back those who sought to withdraw; and lastly, Vulkan of the Salamanders, armoured in overlapping artificer plating, thunder clapping from his warhammer as it pounded into yielding armour, shattering it like porcelain.

The traitorous primarchs slew in mirror image to their brothers: Angron of the World Eaters hewing with wild abandon as he raked his chainblades left and right, barely cognizant of who fell before him; Fulgrim of the lamentably-named Emperor’s Children, laughing as he deflected the clumsy sweeps of Iron Hands warriors, never stopping in his graceful movements for even a moment; Mortarion of the Death Guard, in disgusting echo of ancient Terran myth, harvesting life with each reaving sweep of his scythe.

And Horus, Warmaster of the Imperium, the brightest star and greatest of the Emperor’s sons. He stood watching the destruction while his Legions took to the field, their liege lord content in his fortress rising from the far edge of the ravine. Shielded and unseen by his brothers still waging war in the Emperor’s name, Horus’s lips were never still – he spoke continuous orders to his aides, who transmitted them across to the embattled warriors. His eyes remained narrowed as he watched the carnage playing out on the stage below, orchestrated and guided by his own will.

At last, above this maelstrom of grinding ceramite, booming tank cannons and chattering bolters – the gunships, drop-pods and assault landers of the second wave burned through the atmosphere on screaming thrusters. The sky fell dark with the weak sun eclipsed by ten thousand avian shadows, and the cheering roar sent up by the loyalists was loud enough to shake the air itself.

The traitors, the bloodied and battered Legions loyal to Horus, fell into a fighting withdrawal without hesitation.

Argel Tal watched all of this from the cockpit of Rising Sun as the Thunderhawk swooped low, engines howling as they carried it over the warring armies. A host of Word Bearer’s landing craft, the colour of their hulls matching the bleak weather of this cold world, headed for the ravine’s edges.

‘This is far enough. Set down,’ he ordered Malnor, who was piloting.

‘By your word.’

The two crimson gunships among the leaders of the grey pack began their downward drift. The Word Bearers, chosen landing site was close to the spread of terrain used by the Raven Guard in the initial assault, and the flock of regal, granite-grey aircraft touched down alongside their charcoal-black twins.

Affirmation pulses chimed across the beleaguered vox-network as the four Legions’ landers hit their marks. The tide was turned at the eleventh hour. Horus and his rebels broke into full retreat, fleeing back to their fortress.