The First Heretic

‘You might be disoriented, Cyrene.’ Argel Tal’s vox-voice almost made the words a threat. ‘Do not fear, you will be between the four of us at all times. Malnor behind, Torgal to the left, Xaphen to the right. I will lead the way. It is only a short journey to the monastic spire where you will be staying.’

‘What’s happening?’ she asked. All four warriors could hear her heart beating faster now, a wet drum behind her ribcage. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Xaphen. They were the last words he spoke before donning his own helm. ‘We will be with you.’

‘But–’

‘You will be fine,’ Argel Tal said, and thumped the door release.

Sunlight flooded into the loading bay. As did thousands of cheering voices.

‘It’s going to be a long day,’ said Torgal.

Torgal’s prediction proved correct.

Cyrene was shaken by the day’s events, no doubt about it, but the Astartes believed she’d held up well. Colchis was a world of peace and law, and the City of Grey Flowers respected its holy leaders above all. On more barbarous worlds, the Monarchian refugees might have been besieged by adoring crowds in celebrations that bordered on riots, but here they were cheered from the side of roads, with the petals of moon lilies cast onto the ground before them.

Upon first leaving the gunship, Cyrene had lifted a hand to her mouth, almost staggered by the wall of sound that rose to meet her. Xaphen lightly rested his gauntlet on her shoulder in reassurance. She’d heard Argel Tal, a few steps ahead of her, swearing in a language she didn’t understand.

And then they were walking.

In the bellicose good cheer, she lost the second of her senses. After growing used to perceiving the world around her by sound, to have everything washed away in the crowd’s noise was a frightening loss. Several times she reached a hand out, her fingertips brushing the cold metal of Argel Tal’s back-mounted power pack.

‘Are they near?’ she asked. The crowd sounded close, so very close.

‘They won’t touch you.’ She thought it was Torgal’s voice, but through the helm filters, she couldn’t be sure. ‘We are between you and the crowd, little mistress.’

Definitely Torgal. Only he called her that.

‘Will they not touch your armour?’ she asked. ‘For good luck?’

‘No. It’s against tradition.’ She was certain that was Xaphen, but he said nothing more.

The crowd continued to chant. Sometimes, her name. Sometimes, her title.

‘How many are there?’ asked Cyrene, her voice small.

‘Thousands,’ one of the Word Bearers said. In the clash of noise, it was difficult to tell where their voices were coming from.

‘We’re almost there.’ That was definitely Argel Tal. She recognised his accent, despite the helm.

The captain couldn’t entirely swallow his unease. It lingered, coppery and unwelcome, on the underside of his tongue. Target locks flitted from peasant to peasant as he scanned the crowd. Row upon row of celebrants, lining the street. So much for a meditative homecoming.

‘Sir,’ Malnor voxed. ‘Oath papers?’

‘Permission granted.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Malnor broke ranks, walking towards the crowd. The closest citizens knelt as he approached, and averted their eyes. Without ceremony, though with obvious care, the sergeant untied the parchment scroll bound to his right pauldron. He rolled it up into a scroll, and offered it to one of the kneeling peasants. An old man took it in hands that trembled. Whether they shook with emotion or palsy wasn’t clear, but the silver wetness in his eyes was testament to his devotion.

‘Thank you, great lord,’ the elder said, and pressed the gift to his forehead in thanks.

Malnor had another oath paper bound to the shin of his armour. He removed this next, and offered it to a woman who quietly wept.

‘Bless you,’ she whispered, and touched the scroll to her forehead, just as the old man had done.

‘From the fires of righteousness,’ Malnor intoned, ‘unto the blood of purity. We bring the Word of Lorgar.’

‘By your word,’ the nearby peasants chorused.

Malnor nodded his helmed head in acknowledgement, and walked back to join his brothers.

‘What happened?’ Cyrene asked. ‘Why did we stop?’

‘It’s considered a blessing to be offered the oath papers from our armour,’ said Argel Tal. A few minutes later, Argel Tal paused the march again to give one of his parchments to a young mother holding a baby. She pressed the scroll to her infant’s forehead, then her own.

‘What is your name, warrior?’ she asked, needing to crane her neck to look up at him.

‘Argel Tal.’

‘Argel Tal,’ she repeated. ‘My son will carry that name from this day forward.’

Insofar as it was possible for a walking suit of battle armour to look humble, the captain did so now. ‘I’m honoured,’ he said, and added ‘Be well,’ before rejoining the march.

Torgal glanced down at the frail figure of Cyrene. ‘Would you like my oath scroll, little mistress?’ he offered.

‘I don’t read very much anymore,’ she smiled, bright and sincere. ‘But thank you, Torgal.’