The First Heretic

When Xaphen joined him at last, Argel Tal had a hard time meeting his brother’s eyes. He placed his armoured boot on one of the swollen, twelve-legged beetles that scurried over the wastelands, killing it with a moist, crackling crunch.

‘What lies did you weave for the Eyes of the Emperor?’ asked the Chaplain.

‘A long and detailed tale that tasted foul to even speak. A Cadian sect attacked us out of bitterness, and Ven was lost with Deumos, Tsar Quorel and Rikus.’

‘Did they die like heroes?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly. Songs will be sung and legends forever told of their most noble ends.’ He spat acid onto the ground.

Xaphen gave a mirthless snort, and they fell silent.

The two Astartes watched the stained sky, neither wishing to be the first to broach the next subject. Ultimately, it was Argel Tal that ventured there first.

‘We’ve split the Legion and sailed to the galaxy’s edges, only to find... this. The Old Ways of Colchis were right. Daemons. Blood sacrifice. Spirits made flesh. All of it is real. Now Aurelian lingers in the darkness, sharing words with that creature, deciding whether to sell our souls for even uglier answers. If this is enlightenment, brother... perhaps ignorance is bliss.’

Xaphen turned from the burning sky. ‘We have defied the Emperor to find these truths – defied the spirit of his decrees, even if we obeyed the letter of the law. Now a Custodian lies dead, and Imperial blades have shed Imperial blood. There can be no going back from this. You know what the primarch will decide.’

Argel Tal thought back to Vendatha’s words: ‘The choice you offer is no choice at all.’

‘It will break his heart to do it,’ the captain said, ‘but he will send us into the Eye.’

SIXTEEN

Orfeo’s Lament

The Storm Beyond the Glass

Chaos

The vessel chosen was Orfeo’s Lament. A sleek, vicious light cruiser captained most ably by the famously tenacious Janus Sylamor. When the primarch’s decree had reached the 1,301st, Sylamor had volunteered the Lament before Lorgar’s vox-distorted voice had even finished the traditional blessings that ended his fleet-wide addresses.

Her first officer took a dimmer view of her eagerness, pointing out that this was the largest, most devastating warp storm ever recorded in the history of the species. Here was an anomaly with all the force of the legendary storms that severed humanity’s worlds from one another in the centuries before the Great Crusade.

Sylamor had clicked her tongue – a habit of hers that always showed her impatience – and told him to shut up. The smile she gave him would only be considered sweet by people that didn’t know her very well.

The departure window was set for sunrise over the wastelands, which left practically no time for preparation beyond the core necessities. Grey gunships graced the Lament’s modest landing bay, delivering squad after squad of dark-armoured Astartes. Storage chambers were cleared to house the Word Bearers, their ammunition crates, their maintenance servitors, as well as the contingent from the Legio Cybernetica that accompanied Seventh Company, led by an irritable tech-adept calling himself Xi-Nu 73.

Introductions were brief. Five Astartes marched onto the bridge, and Sylamor rose from her throne to greet them. Each spoke their name and rank – one captain, one Chaplain, three sergeants – and each saluted her in turn. She responded accordingly, introducing her own command crew.

It was polite but cold, and over in a matter of minutes.

Only when the Astartes remained on the bridge did Sylamor sense a breach in decorum. Unperturbed, the captain continued her final checks, pointing her silver-topped cane to each console station in turn.

‘Propulsion.’

‘Engines,’ replied the first officer, ‘aye.’

‘Auspex.’

‘Aye, ma’am.’

‘Void shields.’

‘Shields ready.’

‘Weapons.’

‘Weapons, aye.’

‘Geller field.’

‘Geller field, aye.’

‘Helm.’

‘Helm standing ready, ma’am.’

‘All stations report full readiness,’ she said to the Word Bearers captain. This was something of a lie, and Sylamor hoped her tone didn’t betray it. All stations had reported readiness, true, but the last hour had also seen reports of insurrection in the lower decks, put down by lethal force, and one suicide. The ship’s astropath had requested to be assigned to another vessel (‘Request denied’, Sylamor had frowned. ‘Who in the Emperor’s name does he think he is to even ask such a thing?’) and the Navigator was engaged in what he referred to as ‘intensive mental barricading so as to preserve one’s fundamental quintessence’, which Sylamor was fairly sure she didn’t even want to understand.

So instead of relaying all of this to the towering warlord standing next to her throne, she simply gave him a curt nod and said, ‘all stations report readiness’.

The Astartes turned his helm’s slanted blue eyes upon her, and nodded.