the mistrust of the very brothers by your side. We are not friends, are we? We have never been allies. Our Legions are kin by bloodline, yet not brought together in proven, chosen brotherhood. But remember this, as you look upon the shades of armour so different to your own. You are united by righteousness. You are unified in revenge. Every weapon in this room is wielded for the same cause. And that, my sons, brothers and cousins... That is all the strength we need. After today, we will be brothers. The forge of war will see to that.’
Silence reigned in the wake of Lorgar’s words. The primarch turned back to the hololithic table, already entering the codes necessary to activate the image generator, when several muted clanks sounded behind him.
Lorgar looked over his shoulder, seeking the sounds’ sources. Several Word Bearer captains were shaking hands with their counterparts in the other Legions, with more joining in every moment. They gripped wrist-to- wrist, a traditional warrior gesture to seal a pact.
Argel Tal offered his hand to Sevatar. The Night Lord gripped the Word Bearer’s wrist as their emotionless faceplates met each other’s eyes.
‘Death to the False Emperor,’ said Sevatar, becoming the first living soul to utter the words that would echo through the millennia.
The curse was taken up by other voices, and soon it was being cried in full-throated roars.
At the heart of the cheering, the four primarchs smiled. Each curl to their lips was variously cold, ugly, mocking or indulgent, but it was as close as they’d come to showing any emotion so far.
Lorgar keyed in the last command code. The hololithic table rumbled into life, its internal generators cycling up to project a flickering image of the surface tundra. A grainy view, flawed by patches of static distortion, hovered in the air above the table. Helms of dark iron, midnight, sea-green, crimson and grey lifted to regard the holo image. It showed a ravine, gouged with tectonic ambivalence, running for several kilometres through the landscape.
‘The Urgall Depression,’ said one of Lorgar’s brothers in a rumbling baritone. ‘Our hunting ground.’
Konrad Curze had once, perhaps, been a majestic creature. Everything in his bearing spoke of a regal nature now shattered, all grace and grandeur cast aside to leave a warrior-prince skinned down to a core of lethal, cadaverous nobility. In black armour edged by unpolished bronze, the primarch of the Night Lords gestured to the ravine with a power claw of four curving blades. ‘Enhance the image.’
Unseen servitors did exactly that. The three-dimensional hololith blurred momentarily, before refocusing on a more detailed landscape. At one end of the ravine was a fortress of plasteel, ceramite and rockcrete, rendered indistinct by the haze of void shields protecting it from orbital bombardment. A massive panorama of bulwarks, barricades, trenches and earthworks stood implacable guard around it. Every warrior present could see it for what it was: a defensive masterpiece, constructed to repel tens of thousands of enemy troops.
At the other end of the canyon, a literal fleet of gunships and drop-pods lay in wait, but it was what turned the canyon’s centre dark that drew all eyes in the chamber.
Two armies were locked in pitched conflict, two greyish masses of grinding battle lines, reduced to an amalgamated horde.
‘Enhance central sector,’ ordered Primarch Curze.
The image blurred and refocused again, showing a flawed image, disturbed by interference, of...
‘Civil war,’ Konrad Curze smiled, all teeth and bright eyes. ‘The two sides are matched, with our brothers in the Death Guard, World Eaters, Sons of Horus and Emperor’s Children holding superior ground, and the Iron Hands, Salamanders and Raven Guard maintaining numerical superiority.’
Argel Tal growled as he breathed, feeling his lips moistened by bile. Nearby heads turned to him, but he ignored their watchful eyes.
‘Brother?’ Erebus voxed from his place at the primarch’s side.
‘I thirst,’ Argel Tal smiled as he spoke into the private channel.
‘You... thirst?’
‘I have tasted Astartes blood, Erebus. It is rich enough to never fade from memory, and its genetic holiness stings the tongue. I will taste it again, on Isstvan V.’
The Chaplain didn’t reply, but Argel Tal saw Erebus turn to Kor Phaeron, and knew all too well that they were conversing over a secure channel. The thought made him smirk. Silly little creatures. So precious in their meagre ambitions. So feverishly hungry for temporal power. He felt a moment’s pity for the primarch, to have spent the last four decades guided by their insipid scheming.
That thought cooled his condescending wrath, though. What
The growl grew faint in his throat, taking on a bestial whine.
‘Be silent,’ grunted Sevatar.
Argel Tal tensed, holding his breath, suppressing the rush of anger he felt at being spoken to in such a way. Whatever was bonded to him truly loathed being pushed into situations of submission.
Argel Tal felt his heart beat in time to the whispered syllables. The bile at his lips bubbled as it boiled, and his hands ached to the bone with merciless ferocity.
