standing.
Lorgar Aurelian saw none of this.
No blinding golden light. No deafening psychic roar.
He saw six figures standing in unity, five of whom he did not recognise, and one he did. Behind them, the Ultramarines – not afflicted as his warriors were – were on their knees in an orderly display. Only Guilliman and the Sigillite remained standing.
Lorgar looked back to the six. The five ringed the familiar figure, and though the primarch did not know them by name, he knew their creed. Achingly elaborate armour of rich gold. Cloaks of royal scarlet draped from their shoulders. Long halberds topped by weighty silver blades, gripped in hands that would never tremble.
Custodians. The Emperor’s guardians.
Lorgar looked to the sixth figure, who was just a man. Despite the vigour of youth, age lines showed time’s tracks across features that were both stern and gentle, all at once. The man’s appearance depended entirely on which facet of his face one focused upon. He was a tired, ageing man, and a heroic statue immortalised in life’s prime. He was a young, grimacing warlord with cold eyes, and a confused elder on the edge of weeping.
Lorgar focused on those eyes now, seeing the warmth of love within the benevolence of trust. The man blinked slowly, and as his eyes opened again, they were cold with the frigid touch of disappointment blending into the ice of disgust.
‘Lorgar,’ the man said. His voice was quiet but strong, lost in the indecipherable vista between hatred and kindness.
‘Father,’ Lorgar said to the Emperor of Mankind.
FOUR
A Legion Kneels
If Ultramar Burns
Grey
Sight returned, banishing the grotesque feeling of helplessness. Such emotion was anathema, prickling at Argel Tal’s skin with a thousand insect legs.
He managed to look through his dimmed visor, seeing a towering figure deep in a corona of agonising white light. Around the figure, cloaked and gold-armoured warriors hefted unique spears with practiced ease. Each one was the size of an Astartes, and no Astartes could fail to recognise them.
‘Custodes,’ he managed to speak through teeth gritted at the light’s intensity.
‘It’s...’ Xaphen stammered. ‘It’s the...’
‘I know who it is,’ Argel Tal exhaled the words through clenched teeth. And that’s when the voice hit him, hit them all, in a wave of invisible force.
+Kneel+ it whispered with the power of a hammer to the forehead. There was no resisting. Muscles acted instantly, no matter that many hearts fought not to obey. Argel Tal was one of them. This was not fealty, nor worship, nor service. This was slavery, and his instincts rebelled at the enforced devotion even as he obeyed it.
One hundred thousand Word Bearers kneeled in the dust of the perfect city, rendered prone by Imperial decree.
A Legion was on its knees.
Lorgar looked over his shoulder, taking in the seascape of his kneeling warriors. Fire flickered in his eyes when he returned his gaze to the Emperor.
‘Father–’ Lorgar began, but the man shook his head.
‘Kneel,’ he said. His timeless face was framed by dark hair the same colour as Lorgar’s facial stubble; like father, like son.
‘What?’ the primarch asked. He looked past the Emperor to Guilliman, straight-backed and proud. When he returned his gaze to his father, he wiped his eyes with his soft fingertips, as if to clear some lingering phantasm. ‘Father?’
‘Kneel, Lorgar.’
Argel Tal watched with clenched teeth as Lorgar lowered himself to one knee.
His first instincts were fading now, replaced by reason and the comfort of faith. It was only right to kneel before the God-Emperor. He willed his hearts to slow, despite the implied insult of his deity impelling him to abase himself.
The rebellious anger resurfaced in a stinging adrenal flood only a moment later, as he watched the Ultramarines rise to their feet at Guilliman’s command. He could see them watching, feel their eyes boring into him as he knelt before them. One Legion’s warriors stood in the Emperor’s presence with a primarch’s blessing, while another was on its knees in the bones of a dead city.
It was a moment that cast a dozen reflections, for the Word Bearers had mirrored this action many times before, under alien skies. Legions laying claim to less discipline or grace might beat their chests and howl at the moon upon achieving compliance, but among the sons of Lorgar, victory was to be cherished in reverence and dignity. The triumphant warriors would kneel in the heart of the fallen city, and heed the words of their Chaplains.
The Rite of Remembrance. A time to recall the sacrifices of lost brothers, and reflect upon one’s place in the Word.
Argel Tal felt sweat painting cold trails down his temples and cheeks. Trembling threatened to take hold as his traitorous muscles bunched, locking in painful cramps. The joints of his armour thrummed with unreleased strength, forcing him to endure this perversion of the Legion’s most sacred ritual.
The voice returned. This time, it gave the answers that the XVII Legion so craved.
