The First Heretic

‘I know who you are,’ the golden primarch says through his dignified tears. ‘I have dreamed of you for years, foreseeing this moment. Father, Emperor, my lord... We are the Covenant of Colchis, and we have won this world through your worship, for the glory of your name.’

Lorgar turned to meet Kor Phaeron’s eyes.

‘That morning. As I knelt before the Emperor, with the home world’s holy caste chanting... With the red rock domes of Vharadesh made amber by the rising dawn. Did you see as I saw?’

Kor Phaeron looked away. ‘You will not like the answer, Lorgar.’

‘I have liked nothing of late, yet I still wish to know.’ He laughed suddenly, softly. ‘Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.’

‘I saw a god in golden armour,’ Kor Phaeron said. ‘The very image of you, but aged in ways I couldn’t grasp. I never saw the figure as a benevolent one. His psychic presence pained my eyes, and he smelled of bloodshed, domination, and the many worlds already burned to ash in his wake. Even then, I feared we’d waged six years of war in error, butchering a true faith to replace it with a false one. In his eyes – eyes so like yours – I saw the promise of avarice, the hunger of greed. Everyone else saw nothing but hope. Even you... So I thought, perhaps, I had seen wrong. I trusted your heart, Lorgar. Not my own.’

Lorgar nodded, his contemplative eyes turning away again. Erebus listened in silence, for rare were the moments that any Word Bearer received insight into the primarch’s life before the Legion.

‘Of all the Emperor’s sons,’ Kor Phaeron said, ‘you are the one that most resembles your father in face and form. But you could never commit acts of cruelty and destruction while wearing a smile. The others, your brothers, can do this. They take after the Emperor in that way, where you do not.’

Lorgar lowered his gaze.

‘Even Magnus?’ he asked.

A giant stands with the Emperor – a figure robed in the azure of off-world oceans. One eye stares down at the kneeling figure. The other eye is lost, a scarred crater marking its lack.

‘Greetings, Lorgar,’ says the muscled giant. He is taller even than the God in Gold, and his long hair is styled in a scarlet mane, like that of a prideland lion. ‘I am Magnus. Your brother.’

‘Even Magnus.’ Kor Phaeron seemed reluctant to admit it. His features remained tense. ‘Though I respect him greatly, there is a deep cruelty, born of impatience, threaded through his core. I saw it in his face that day, and each meeting since.’

Lorgar looked down at his hands, ash-stained with crescent moons of blood beneath the fingernails.

‘We are all our father’s sons,’ he said.

‘You are all facets of the Emperor,’ Kor Phaeron amended. ‘You are aspects pulled from a genetic primer. The Lion is your father’s rationality – his analytical skill – unburdened by conscience. Magnus is his psychic potential and eager mind, unrestrained by patience. Russ is his ferocity, untempered by reason. Even Horus...’

‘Go on,’ Lorgar said, looking up now. ‘What of Horus?’

‘The Emperor’s ambition, unshaped by humility. Think of all the worlds where our Legion waged war alongside the Luna Wolves. You’ve seen it as well as I have. Horus hides his arrogance, but it is there – a layer beneath his skin, a shroud around his soul. Pride beats through his body like blood.’

‘And Guilliman?’ Lorgar let his hands rest on his knees again. A smile inched across his features.

‘Guilliman.’ Kor Phaeron’s narrow lips moulded into a grimace, opposing his primarch’s smirk. ‘Guilliman is your father’s echo, heart and soul. If all else went wrong, he would be heir to the empire. Horus is the brightest star and you carry your father’s face, but Guilliman’s heart and soul are cast in the Emperor’s image.’

Lorgar nodded, still smiling to see his advisor’s bitterness. ‘My Macraggian brother is as easy to read as an open book,’ he said. ‘But what of me, Kor Phaeron? Surely I bear more than my father’s features. What aspect of the Imperial avatar have I inherited?’

‘Sire?’ interrupted Erebus. ‘If I may?’

Lorgar granted permission with a tilt of his head. Ever the statesman, Erebus needed no time to compose himself, or his answer.