The First Heretic

The sonic boom of teleportation faded, as did the rush of displaced air.

In the wake of Magnus’s thunderous departure, Lorgar stood unfazed. His robe fluttered in the evening wind, and he spared a moment’s consideration for his scripture scrolls and parchment notes blowing out into the city. His crystal glasses were as annihilated as the reinforced glass dome, and his writing desk was stained by an expanding pool of bitter wine.

After an unknowable time of staring down at Vharadesh, he became aware of a pounding on the iron door set in the only remaining wall. Distracted, he paid the sound only a little heed.

‘Enter,’ he said.

Ascending the spire temple had been an exercise in frustration, with Covenant priests frantic about both the Blessed Lady’s presence and the explosion almost ten minutes before, in the master’s observatory. On several occasions, the Word Bearers had threatened panicking clergymen, forcing them aside to clear the way.

‘He will not open the doors!’ one wailed with a flagellant’s desperation.

‘We will speak with the primarch,’ Xaphen assured the Covenant ministers. ‘He sent for the Blessed Lady, and our lord will open the door for us.’

‘What if he is wounded?’ one of them whined, an obese creature with shaking jowls in the layered white and grey robes of a deacon. ‘We must attend to the Urizen!’

‘Control your emotions, and move aside,’ Argel Tal growled, ‘or I will kill you.’

‘You cannot mean that, lord!’

Faster than human eyes could follow, the swords of red iron came free in hissing rasps. The tips of both blades rested against the fat priest’s three chins before he’d even had time to blink. Apparently, the lord did mean it.

‘Yes,’ the deacon stammered. ‘Yes, I...’

‘Just move,’ Argel Tal suggested. The priest took the suggestion, trying not to burst into tears. As he moved, an animal scent tainted the air; stronger than the fear-sweat and sour breath from the priests around them.

‘Sir,’ Torgal switched to vox, rather than speaking aloud. ‘The priest pissed in his robes.’

Argel Tal grunted, and lifted Cyrene over the warm puddle on the wooden stairs.

With the last of the clergy sent scurrying, the warriors ascended the wide, spiralling stairway with their ward guarded between them.

‘Enter,’ the voice called.

Argel Tal hadn’t sheathed his swords. He led the group into the primarch’s observatory, which was now little more than a stone platform exposed to the night’s breeze. Scrolls and books lay scattered across the floor, the former gently nudged by the wind, the latter having their pages turned by it.

The primarch stood by the platform’s edge, staring down at the city below. His shaven, tattooed head was bare, seemingly unmarked by injury, and the grey-white robe of Covenant hierarchs was free of bloodstains.

‘Sire?’ said Argel Tal. ‘What happened here?’

Lorgar turned slowly. Faint confusion marred his features, as if he’d expected someone else.

‘Argel Tal,’ he said, his voice rumbling. ‘Captain of the Seventh Assault Company, Subcommander of the Chapter of the Serrated Sun.’

‘Yes, lord. It is I.’

‘Greetings, my son.’

The captain fought to keep the unease from his voice as he replied. ‘Sire, the vox-network is aflame. May I inform the Legion that all is well?’

‘Why would all not be well?’ the primarch asked, his face still unresolved from distracted confusion.

‘The explosion, sire,’ said Argel Tal. ‘Nine minutes ago.’ He gestured around. ‘The dome,’ he added lamely.

‘Ah,’ Lorgar smiled. It was a magnanimous and entertained smile, crooked as if sharing a joke. ‘I will have to discuss the matter of teleportation inside sensitive structures with my beloved brother in the future. Captain, do you intend to murder me?’

Argel Tal lowered his blades, only then realising he held them en garde.

‘Forgive me, sire.’

Lorgar laughed, the feyness dissipating completely. ‘Please inform the Legion I am well, and apologise

for my lack of contact. I was quite lost in thought.’

On shrieking engines, two gunships drifted out of the night, hovering close to the tower-top. Their engine wash sent the remaining scrolls scattering off the edges, and spotlights stabbed down to illuminate the primarch with Argel Tal’s coterie.

Argel Tal blinked at a flashing icon on his retinal display. ‘This is the Seventh Captain. Stand down, stand down. False alarm.’

The tower-top fell dark as the stab-lights cut out.

‘By your word,’ one of the pilots said. ‘Disengaging.’

Lorgar watched the gunships cruise away, back to their landing pads on the city’s outskirts. All sky-freight – most notably the Legion’s own military outposts – were situated in the desert outside the city walls. Vharadesh would not be defiled by warfare. Never again. Not after the civil war that crushed the Old Ways and brought the planet under Lorgar’s rule so long ago.

‘My lord,’ Argel Tal ventured. ‘You requested the presence of Cyrene, the Monarchian.’

Lorgar seemed to notice the others for the first time. A warm smile lit his features, and he stepped closer.