The First Heretic

‘And what have we here?’ he asked. The servo-skulls projected his words to the thousands gathered, preserving the gentle voice even through crackling vox. ‘Our appointed overseers. I give you the thanks of the Seventeenth Legion for your aid in bringing this heretic world into compliance.’

The twenty Custodes bowed, not quite in unison.

Argel Tal was too far distant to hear Aquillon’s words, but the Custodes commander bowed lower than his comrades, and gestured to the gathered Legion.

Lorgar’s reply was delivered with the same gentle diplomacy as his gratitude.

‘You are correct, Custodian Aquillon. Your tenure with the Seventeenth Legion began under dark skies. However, I must beg your indulgence this once. The words I wish to share with my sons are not for the ears of others.’

Again, Argel Tal had no hope of hearing Aquillon’s reply. Lorgar smiled in response, making the sign of the aquila. When the primarch formed the symbol over his grey robe, the gold hands became an aquila akin to those that marked the breastplates of the Emperor’s own guardians. Argel Tal doubted any present could miss the gesture’s symbolic nature.

‘My sons have been shamed, and endured the shattering of their beliefs. I brought them to this world not simply to reforge them in battle, but to speak of the future. And that will be with my sons, and my sons alone. Look to the south, where even our Mechanicum allies withdraw out of respect.’

Argel Tal looked over his shoulder guard, seeing the primarch’s words taking shape as the Mechanicum withdrew. Only the few robots granted honorary Legion inductance were remaining. Incarnadine stood motionless, the Word Bearers banner draped over its shoulders like a cloak of royalty.

Lorgar smiled his father’s smile, cutting off Aquillon’s reply. ‘Every Legion has its rites and observations, Aquillon. The Rite of Remembrance is one of ours. Would you impose upon the Wolves of Russ when they howl around the stone cairns of their fallen? Would you intrude upon the Sons of Prospero as they meditate on the perfection of human potential?’

Aquillon stepped forward now. A floating servo-skull picked up his reply and broadcast the words across to the gathered Legion.

‘If the Emperor, beloved by all, ordered me to watch over those Legions...’

Lorgar clasped his hands together, his smile of indulgence so earnest that it bordered on mockery.

‘I was there when my brother Guilliman gave you your orders, Aquillon. You are to ensure the Word Bearers apply themselves wholeheartedly to the Great Crusade. And I – we, all of us – thank you for your presence. But you are breaching decorum now. You are showing us disrespect, and violating our traditions.’

‘I mean no offence,’ said Aquillon, ‘but my duty is clear.’

Lorgar nodded, feigning sympathy for their intentions. It was a sour display, and Argel Tal wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel shamed by it.

‘But let us not exceed your mandate,’ the primarch said. ‘You are not entitled to watch over me like a pack of prison wardens. I am the Emperor’s son, formed by his mastery in order to carry out his will. You are a flock of genetic toys pieced together in a laboratory from vials of biological scrap. You are so far beneath me that I wouldn’t piss on your bodies even if you were aflame. So... let me be clear, in the spirit of preventing future misunderstandings.’

Aquillon stepped forward, but Lorgar halted him in his tracks with a single name.

‘Kor Phaeron.’

As soon as the name was spoken, the First Captain’s voice rasped across the vox. ‘All Word Bearers, take aim at the Custodes.’

Unlike the order to rise, this one brought no hesitation. The ranks of Word Bearers raised their bolters or gunned chainswords into life.

‘Farewell,’ said Lorgar, still wearing his father’s smile. ‘We will see you in orbit soon.’

Two servitors shared the weight of a bulky teleportation beacon the size and shape of a reinforced oil drum. The bionic slaves trundled from the Astartes’ front ranks, unceremoniously dumping the bronze and black iron marvel of engineering on the ground. As Aquillon stood unmoving, staring up at Lorgar, the beacon toppled and clanked onto the grass.

‘You may use this to return to the Fidelitas Lex,’ the primarch said. ‘Go in peace.’

‘Very well,’ Aquillon hesitated before reaching down to set the beacon right. ‘By your word.’

‘He just left?’ Cyrene asked. Her nose wrinkled, either in confusion or distaste, Argel Tal wasn’t sure which.

‘He had no choice,’ the captain replied.

‘And then what happened?’

‘And then... the primarch looked out over the Legion. He watched us for what felt like an age. And at last, just before speaking, he smiled.’

‘What did he speak of?’

‘Two things.’ Argel Tal looked away from her. ‘Firstly, an ancient belief called the Pilgrimage, to seek a place where gods and mortals meet. And then, he spoke of Colchis.’

‘Your home world?’ there was wonder in her voice. Colchis. The cradle of angels.