The First Heretic

I write these words as quickly as I can, hearing the crashing of blades getting closer with each moment. I could try to hide, but I won’t. The answer is obvious: they will find me no matter where I am, and I cannot outrun such enemies. They will find me if I cower in the cargo holds, or sit comfortably in my own chamber. The secrets I hold mean they have no choice but to come for me, and though you have left these breathless guardians, I am under no illusions. They will come and they will find me. When I die, I will die without betraying my Legion. I promise you that.

My life has been long, and I have no regrets. Few can say such a thing, and even fewer can do so with sincerity. Even you cannot make that claim, Argel Tal.

When you read these words, please know I wish you all the fortune in the world. I have heard the way you speak of Calth and the wars to come, and I trust in your vision and passion for the righteous crusade our Legion will lead. You will bring enlightenment to the galaxy. I have faith in that, never doubting it for a single moment.

Stand with Xaphen, as he stands by you. You are the sons of a demigod, and the chosen avatars of the true deities. No one can take that from you.

I hear blades against my door please remember th

Epilogue

The Crimson Lord

Calth.

A bountiful, beautiful world, a world under the aegis of the XIII Legion, as Khur had once been claimed by the XVII.

Calth. A name on the lips of every Word Bearer. Calth, where Guilliman’s Legion gathered for war.

Lorgar’s Legion sailed almost in its entirety. Enough warships to blockade the beloved kingdom of Ultramar, and burn the face of every world black. Enough warriors to drive the Ultramarines to their knees. Isstvan had been forced into history at the point of a traitor’s sword. Soon there would come another massacre to fit into Imperial archives alongside it.

Calth.

Argel Tal remained alone for now. He had no patience for the cries of praise his brethren kept offering in his presence. He had no desire for their regard or worship.

Instead, he sealed himself away from his own Legion, kept company only by the regrets he’d accrued over half a century of treachery.

Across his lap lay a golden blade of exquisite manufacture, etched and engraved for the hand of a master swordsman, gene-coded to activate only for the man it was made for. It was the weapon of one he had called brother, taken from Aquillon’s body in the light of an unforgettable sunrise.

In his hands was a digital data-slate, sized for human fingers. A cursor blinked halfway down the screen, waiting for words that would never be entered. An unfinished sentence ended the text. Argel Tal had read it more times than he cared to recall, each time hoping that he’d see the intent, the meaning, that never made it onto the page.

The ship shivered as it sailed through the underworld of human myth. They would reach Calth soon.

Aquillon. Xaphen. His brothers were gone.

Argel Tal put the sword aside, and left the data-slate on the modest table by his pallet. He rose to his feet, knowing it would soon be time to end this isolation. The Legion called. The Legion needed him. The primarch himself had asked if he would to stand with Kor Phaeron, leading the assault on Calth.

He would obey, even if he stood alone.

My brothers are dead.

No, the voice rose from within. I am your brother.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS