The First Heretic

TWENTY-NINE

Cyrene

Never Human

A Completed Vow

She lifted her head at the sound of blades against her door, though of course, she saw nothing. Heat came at her in a breathy wave, emanating in her direction from the thudding steel portal. Power weapons, then. They were cutting through with power weapons.

Cyrene typed as fast as she could, her fingertips dancing over the familiar keypad, but her efforts ended mid- sentence. The door slammed to the floor, and the thrum of live power armour filled the room. Joints whirred. False fibre-bundle muscles purred.

‘Aquillon. I knew you would c–’

‘Be silent, traitorous whore. The Word Bearers are gone, and you will answer to the authority of the Emperor. Order your maids to flee, or they will suffer alongside you.’

Cyrene inclined her head in a slight nod. The two older women fled the room barely short of a run.

‘Brother...’ began Kalhin, turning to the secondary chamber and the open door leading into it. Another figure had appeared there, doubtless hiding in wait.

‘The Word Bearers,’ it said, ‘are not all gone.’

‘You have no place here, tech-adept,’ Aquillon gestured with the point of his sword.

‘Correct.’ Xi-Nu 73 applied an exact amount of pressure on the trigger of the signum control in his left hand, and a massive figure made of gears and armour plating moved into view behind him. It took up the entire door arch as it gave a mechanical growl of warning. Xi-Nu 73 steeled himself to finish speaking. ‘I have no place here. But he does.’

The robot’s arms, both mounted with heavy bolter cannons, were preloaded and cycled live – they’d been powered up for hours, ready for this worst of possible moments. Cyrene hurled herself off the bed, seeking all the distance she could put between herself and Aquillon.

‘For the Legion.’ The voice was like steel bars tumbling over rock.

The Custodes were already moving, their halberds spinning, when Incarnadine opened up at them with a horrendous storm of fire.

Argel Tal sprinted up the gunship’s ramp, his boots clanging all the way into the troop bay. He was the last aboard. The vox was a hive of conflicting voices as the Gal Vorbak snapped at him to hurry. Other Thunderhawks, proud in the Legion’s grey, were already lifting off.

‘Take off,’ he ordered the pilot over the vox, unashamed by the threat of panic in his voice. ‘Get us back to the ship.’

Rising Sun shivered as its claws left the parched soil.

Argel Tal switched vox-channels. ‘Jesmetine. General, are you there?’

Distortion.

‘Answer me, Arric.’

‘Lord.’ The general was breathless. ‘Lord, they are loose.’

‘We just received the warning. Tell me exactly what has happened.’

‘They landed. The Custodes landed. They stormed the monastic deck soon after. Something has enraged them. They must have discovered the truth, though I’ve no idea how. All Euchar forces there are out of contact or already confirmed dead. One of them, one of them, is holding the corridor leading to Cyrene’s chamber. Blood of the gods, Argel Tal... he has a barricade made from the bodies of my men. Every charge sees more cut down. We cannot overwhelm one of them, let alone four.’

The Word Bearer felt the gunship lurch beneath his feet. ‘We have started primus burn, and are en route. What of Xi-Nu 73?’ Across the vox, he could hear the snap-crack of lasguns barking their payloads. More Euchar engaging in futility.

‘No word,’ the elder general replied. ‘Not a damn word. Where the hell are you?’

‘We are on our way.’ Raum? he quested.

Weak. The link was sluggish and feeble. Slumber.

The gunship climbed, its engines exhaling smoke and flame as it left the killing fields far below.

Sythran fought as he always fought: in the perfection of silence and solitude. Everything was in motion to an exacting standard – each twist of the spear haft brought the blade up to block las-fire or down to cut flesh, while each weave and duck was performed with the necessary vigour to keep him unwounded, but never left him overbalanced or needing to reposition himself. His footwork was stoic and rigid only long enough to kill the nearest soldier, before blending back into the dance of movement.

They fell back again. No, they fled.

Behind his faceplate, Sythran smiled. The bolter on his spear juddered with its release, punching explosive shells into the spines of all who were cowardly enough to turn their backs on him. The rhythmic pound of detonation after detonation made an abattoir of the hallway. Sythran went prone behind a mound of the dead, spinning his spear to hold the blade end. A clunk, a click, and the weapon was reloaded. Sythran rose again, already cutting the air with grand sweeps, batting aside the streaking laser fire.

‘Syth,’ crackled Aquillon’s voice. ‘We move.’

Sythran returned an acknowledgement blip by blinking at the affirmation rune on his retinal display. More Euchar, so very proud in their dull orange fatigues, came charging down the corridor. Sythran leapt his cadaver barricade and met them head on. They fell in pieces, and beyond a las-burn along his shoulder guard, the blood on his blade was the only evidence he’d even been fighting. The corridor was clear for now, populated by dead