The First Heretic

‘Deumos,’ he said. ‘It was not easy to see him die.’

The primarch’s quill stopped scratching at the parchment. ‘Do you mourn him?’

‘I did for a time, sire. But he has been dead over half a year to me. What I’ve seen since has made all previous revelations seem trivial.’

‘You are snarling again.’

Argel Tal grunted acknowledgement, but had no desire to speak of it. ‘The consecration,’ he said instead.

The captain was surprised when he first entered the main cavern, which wasn’t quite the same as being impressed.

It was certainly of considerable size, and given that the Cadians’ technology was somewhere in the region of Terra’s long-forgotten Age of Stone, it had likely taken years to carve out the subterranean chamber and etch the murals, symbols and verses upon the walls and floors.

An underground river ran in a rushing torrent below dozens upon dozens of arched stone bridges. The curving walls were lit by more smoky torches, casting myriad silhouettes across the cavern that danced in frantic abandon to the sound of the drums.

A central island formed a hub for the bridges to meet in the middle. Here, naked in the firelight, her pale skin painted with twisted runes, was Ingethel. For the ghost of a moment, the symbols tattooed on her body drew Argel Tal’s eyes. He recognised them all immediately, for each sigil was a stylised representation of a constellation drawn right from the night skies of Colchis. The Serrated Sun encircled the girl’s navel in blue ink.

Drummers surrounded her in a ring, beating leathery skins with animal bones. Thirty in all – their harmonic pounding like the world’s own beating heart. Hundreds and hundreds of Cadians lined the outer walls and walkways, all watching the performance as it was underway. Many chanted in praise of their heathen gods.

The alkaline smells of pure water, human sweat and ancient stone were almost overpowering, but Argel Tal still scented blood before he saw its source. Sensing his urgency, his visor tracked and zoomed across the scene. In the shadowed edge of the central ring, ten spears reached up from the ground.

The bases of nine of the wooden spears were streaked with blood and shit, forming sick pools on the stone. The spears themselves bore human fruit: each of the nine stakes played host to a tribesman – all impaled, all dead. The speartips thrust up through the dead men’s open mouths.

‘This cannot be allowed to continue,’ said Vendatha. Disbelief softened his voice.

And this time, Argel Tal agreed with him.

Ingethel danced on, her lithe figure silhouetted into blackness by the bright fires behind her. At the heart of it all, not far from the maiden’s undulating form, Lorgar towered above every other living being. He watched in silence with his arms crossed over his chest, his features masked by a raised hood.

Deumos stood by the robed primarch’s side, sweating in full battle armour. Captain Tsar Quorel and his Chaplain, Rikus, stood way behind. Both wore their helms. Both were watching the impaling spears, rather than the dancing human girl.

‘Brother,’ Argel Tal voxed to his fellow captain, ‘what blasphemy have we intruded upon?’

Tsar Quorel’s tone betrayed his own unease. ‘When we arrived, the woman was as you see her, and the primarch stood here watching. The atrocities on the spears were already committed. We saw as you see now.’

Argel Tal led Xaphen and Vendatha over a stone walkway, approaching the primarch. Cadians scattered like vermin before a pack of hunting dogs, bowing, scraping, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch the Colchisian runes engraved on their armour.

‘Sire?’ Argel Tal asked. ‘What is all this?’

Lorgar didn’t look away from Ingethel. Her dance seemed carnal to Argel Tal’s inexpert eyes, as if the maiden was mating with some unseen creature as part of her performance.

‘Sire?’ Argel Tal repeated, and the primarch glanced his way at last. Ingethel’s shadow danced across his eyes, reflected there by the firelight.

‘The Cadians believe this ritual will allow their gods to manifest among us.’ His voice was as low as the drums.

‘You allowed them to do this?’ He stepped closer, showing more disrespect to his gene-sire than he ever had in his life, for his hands fell to rest upon his sheathed swords. ‘You watched them commit human sacrifice?’

The primarch took no offence at his son’s boldness. In truth, he seemed not to notice it. ‘The blood offerings were made before I was invited into the sacred chamber.’

‘Yet you are still taking part. You tolerate this. Your silence endorses this barbarism.’