The First Heretic

‘They are impure.’

‘I am not slaughtering the population of an entire world because my father’s war hound whined at the colour of their eyes.’

‘The Occuli Imperator will hear of this,’ Vendatha promised. ‘As will the Emperor, beloved by all.’

The primarch took a last look at the blazing sky. ‘Neither the Emperor, nor the Imperium, will ever forget what we learn here. You have my word on that, Custodian Vendatha.’

The first of the barbarians approached.

Draped around her shoulders was a cloak of discoloured peach-brown, heavy like bad leather, bound by crude black stitching. Her eyes, that beautiful and disquieting violet, were ringed by white paint, daubed in tribal runes over her face. The symbols meant nothing to Vendatha.

But the cloak did.

‘Degenerates...’ the Custodian hissed over a closed vox-channel. ‘That is human skin. Dried, cured, worn like a cloak of honour.’

‘I know,’ Argel Tal replied. ‘Lower your weapon, Ven.’

‘How can Lorgar deal with these creatures? Flayers. Primitives. Mutants. They coat their skin in meaningless hieroglyphs.’

‘They’re not meaningless,’ said the captain.

‘You can read those runes?’

‘Of course,’ Argel Tal sounded distracted. ‘It’s Colchisian.’

‘What? What does it say?’

The Word Bearer didn’t answer.

Lorgar inclined his head in respectful greeting.

The barbarian leader, at the head of over a hundred ragged people dressed in similar rags and armour of disquieting ‘leather’, showed no trepidation at all. More tribes were still converging from across the plainsland, but they held back, perhaps in deference to the young woman with the raven hair.

Skulls tied to her belt rattled as she moved. Despite reaching the primarch’s waist, she seemed utterly at ease as she lifted her mutated eyes to meet the giant’s own.

When she spoke, a heavy accent and clipped syllables couldn’t disguise the language completely. It had come far from its proto-Gothic roots, but the Imperials recognised it, some with greater ease than others.

‘Greetings,’ the primitive said. ‘We have been waiting for you, Lorgar Aurelian.’

The primarch let none of his surprise show. ‘You know my name, and you speak Colchisian.’

The young woman nodded, seeming to muse on the primarch’s deep intonation, rather than agreeing with Lorgar’s words. ‘We have waited many years. Now you walk upon our soil at last. This night was foretold. Look west and east and south and north. The tribes come. Our god-talkers demanded it, and the warchiefs obeyed. Warchiefs always heed the shaman-kind. Their voices are the voices of the gods.’

The primarch watched the crowd for signs of such respected tribal elders. ‘How is it that you speak the tongue of my home world?’ he asked their leader.

‘I speak the tongue of my home world,’ the woman replied. ‘You speak it, also.’

Despite the burning skies and the surprises the girl brought, Lorgar smiled at the stalemate.

‘I am Lorgar, as you foresaw, though only my sons call me Aurelian.’

‘Lorgar. A blessed name. The favoured son of the True Pantheon.’

Through great effort, the primarch kept his voice light. No stray nuance could allow this first contact to go wrong. Control was everything, all that mattered.

‘I do not have four fathers, my friend, and I am not of woman born. I am a son to the Emperor of Man, and no other.’

She laughed, the melody of the sound stolen by the blowing wind.

‘Sons can be adopted, not merely born. Sons can be raised, not merely bred. You are the favoured son of the Four. Your first father scorned you, but your four fathers are proud. So very proud. The god-talkers tell us this, and they only speak truths.’

Lorgar’s casual facade was close to cracking now. The Word Bearers sensed it, even if the humans did not.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I am Ingethel the Chosen,’ she smiled, all innocence and kindness. ‘Soon, Ingethel the Ascended. I am your guide, anointed by the gods.’ The barbarian woman gestured at the plain, as if it encapsulated the world itself. More tellingly, she gestured to the warp-wracked void above.

‘And this world,’ she spread her painted hands in benevolence, ‘is Cadia.’

It was something of a unique first contact.

Never before had the Imperials been expected like this. Never before had they been greeted by a primitive culture that not only welcomed them, its people showed no fear at all in the face of giant armoured warriors striding through their midst. The Thunderhawk attracted some curiosity, though the primarch had warned Ingethel that the vehicle’s weapons were active, manned by Legion servitors who would open fire if the Cadians drew too close.

Ingethel waved the curious men and women away from the Word Bearers gunship. The language she spoke was quick and flourishing, with a wealth of unnecessary words bolstering every sentence. Only when she addressed Lorgar and his retinue did she seem to strip the language down to its core, striving for brevity and clarity, evidently speaking Colchisian rather than Cadian.