The First Heretic

The fleet’s return had an uncomfortable gravity about it, for despite the population’s joy, the whole thing reeked of so much more than a simple homecoming.

And then there was the matter of Monarchia’s survivors. The Legion had encountered few living souls in the ruined city, and Cyrene was one of only seven people taken from the devastation. Word of these holy refugees flashed through Colchisian society. Here were living martyrs, drawn from the ashes of the Legion’s shame. The Covenant sent entreaties to the Legion fleet, pleading with the primarch to allow the refugees to set foot on Colchis, perhaps even to be inducted into the holy order itself.

The seven names were already being spoken with all the reverence of saints’ titles, added into daily prayers. It was difficult to explain this, because Argel Tal had only learned the extent of the refugees’ fame an hour before. The Chapter of the Osseous Throne made planetfall shortly after the primarch, and the four refugees with them were mobbed by adoring crowds. Their every word was recorded, their names were chanted in the streets, while people sought to touch their skin in the hope of gaining some of their divine fortune.

Vox-reports immediately stabbed back to the ships in orbit, warning the other Chapters harbouring refugees that the City of Grey Flowers was as eager to see the Monarchians as it was to welcome the primarch home.

‘You have to be careful because there may be some people on the surface who seek your blessing, and approach you without warning. It might be disorienting.’

Her serf’s robe was a simple affair, but she smoothed it carefully against her returning figure. ‘I still don’t understand. Why would they want to see us?’

‘You are an icon,’ he said. ‘A living icon, a martyr in life rather than death. You paid the price for Colchisian ignorance, and in doing so, earned great respect from us all. I’m told they are saying the seven of you are tied to the Legion’s destiny. A reflection of failure, a hope for the future. Your life is a lesson, and one we must all learn.’

She faced him, without seeing him. ‘That’s very poetic for you, captain.’

‘It is the best way I can describe it.’

‘I’m an icon to them?’

He donned his helm, staining his sight blue and adding a layer of targeting information to his vision. His voice emerged as vox-growl.

‘Not just to them.’

The journey down to Colchis lasted twenty minutes.

In the Thunderhawk’s cockpit, Argel Tal stood behind Malnor, the pilot. They came in low over the parched earth, approaching the mud-brick city walls as the desert sliced past beneath. The city’s skyline showed a breathtaking view of tan buildings, brick spires as far as the eye could see. To the south, the great River Phranes flowed past – a wide road of sapphire glinting in the sunlight. River barges and bulk freight carriers crossed on the wide waters.

‘Legion gunship Rising Sun, this is western district control. Please respond.’

Argel Tal scowled behind his faceplate. This didn’t bode well.

‘They’re keen,’ said Malnor, and reached to activate the console’s voxsponder. ‘This is the Rising Sun, inbound.’

‘Rising Sun, please confirm you have the Blessed Lady aboard.’

‘The what?’ He deactivated the channel and looked over his shoulder. ‘Captain?’

Argel Tal swore in breathless Colchisian. ‘I think they mean–’

‘This must be a joke,’ Malnor muttered.

‘My blood’s running cold,’ said Argel Tal. ‘This is no joke.’

‘This is the Rising Sun,’ Malnor voxed again. ‘Repeat, please.’

‘Rising Sun, this is western district control. Please confirm you have the Blessed Lady aboard.’

‘I don’t know,’ the sergeant grumbled. ‘That depends on what you’re talking about.’

The voice on the other end of the vox-channel explained, and assigned landing coordinates accordingly.

‘This,’ Malnor said to Argel Tal, ‘is getting out of hand.’

The captain nodded. ‘Be ready. You’ve just volunteered to join the escort detail.’

‘By your word.’

The Thunderhawk shuddered as it graced the landing platform.

‘I hear something,’ Cyrene said. She stood in the gunship’s loading bay, flanked by Xaphen and Torgal.

‘It’s the engines cycling down,’ said Torgal, knowing full well it wasn’t. He’d seen the view from the cockpit window as they came in on approach, and like the other Astartes, his enhanced hearing could clearly differentiate between engine whine-down and the sounds outside the hull.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it’s voices. I can hear voices.’

Argel Tal stood ahead of them, ready to hit the door release and lower the gang ramp. Malnor came from the cockpit, thudding his way down the crew ladder. He saluted Argel Tal as he took up position behind the Monarchian.