The Emperor’s golden son stared at the surrounding city as if he recognised none of it, with no idea how he had reached this place. Dead eyes too cold to cry looked out upon his shamed Legion, and the rubble of the lesson they needed to learn.
Argel Tal reached him first. Instinct compelled him to remove his own helm, and he disengaged the seals in his armoured collar, standing unmasked before his primarch.
‘Aurelian,’ he said.
For the first time, Argel Tal breathed the scorched air of Monarchia, unaltered by merciful filters. It reeked of the oil burned in a thousand years of industry. Xaphen’s earlier comment was haunting in its truth: it smelled like they’d lost a war.
He didn’t dare touch Lorgar. With his hand outstretched, just short of resting on his primarch’s shoulder, he whispered his father’s name.
Lorgar turned to regard him, his eyes lacking even a shadow of recognition.
‘Aurelian,’ Argel Tal said again. He glanced at the staring figures of Guilliman and the Custodians. ‘My primarch, come, we must return to our ships.’
For the first time, his hand rested on Lorgar’s armoured shoulder, where a scroll of scripture had once hung. Ignoring his touch, Lorgar threw his head back and roared. The captain gripped the primarch’s golden pauldron, doing all he could to keep the demigod steady.
Lorgar screamed, deep and low and long, at the uncaring sky. It lasted longer than mortal lungs would allow.
When the anguished cry finally faltered, he ran his bare fingers along the broken ground. With a shaking hand, the primarch smeared black ash across his face, tarnishing his features with the powdered bones of the perfect city.
Xaphen’s voice was low and urgent. ‘The Ultramarines are bearing witness to this. We must get him to safety.’
Lorgar’s mask of ashes was already streaked with tears that cut trails in the dust. The two warriors renewed their grips, trying to bring the golden giant to his feet. For a wonder, instead of the expected slackness in his limbs, Lorgar spat onto the ground and rose with their aid. Both of them felt the trembling in Lorgar’s limbs. Neither of them spoke of it.
‘Guilliman,’ the primarch spoke his brother’s name with an envenomed tongue. A shrug of his shoulders pushed Argel Tal and Xaphen aside, immediately forgotten.
Emotion flooded back into Lorgar’s eyes. His gaze was locked on Guilliman, who returned it – passionless where Lorgar was inflamed.
‘Does it please you,’ the Word Bearer lord sneered, ‘to witness my shame?’
Guilliman didn’t answer, but Lorgar wouldn’t back down.
‘Does it please you?’ he pressed. ‘Do you enjoy seeing my efforts reduced to ashes while our father favours you?’
Guilliman breathed slowly, utterly unfazed. He spoke as if no question had been asked.
‘Our father entrusted me to inform you of one last matter.’
‘Then speak it and begone.’ Lorgar reached for his crozius on the ground, and dragged it up from the ash. Dust rained from its spiked head.
‘These five warriors of the Legiones Custodes,’ the Ultramarines’ primarch inclined his head to them. ‘They are not alone. Fifteen more remain on my flagship. Our father has ordered them to accompany you, brother.’
Argel Tal closed his eyes at this final indignity. After kneeling in the ashes of failure, after being told by the Emperor that all their achievements were worthless... Now
Lorgar laughed, the sound ripe with derision. His face was still smeared with dust.
‘I refuse. They are not needed.’
‘Our father believes otherwise,’ Guilliman said. ‘These warriors are to be his eyes as your Legion rejoins the Great Crusade.’
‘And does our father set hounds to watch over you? Do they reside in your precious empire of Ultramar, whispering of your every move? I see the shadow of a smile on your lips. These others do not know you as I do, brother. Our sons may not see the amusement in your eyes, but I am not blind to such nuance.’
‘You have always possessed an active imagination. Today has proven that.’
‘My devotion is my strength.’ Lorgar clenched his perfect teeth. ‘You have no heart, and no soul.’ A snort blackened his angelic features with a disgusted twist. ‘I pray that one day, you feel as I feel. Would you smile if one of Ultramar’s worlds died in fire? Tarentus? Espandor? Calth?’
‘You should return to your fleet, brother.’ Guilliman uncrossed his arms, revealing the golden aquila emblazoned across his chest. The eagle’s spread wings glinted with reflected sunlight. ‘You have much work to do.’
The blow came from nowhere. In its wake, the air rang with the echo of metal on metal, the clashing chime of a great cathedral bell. It was almost beautiful.
A primarch lay in the dust, surrounded by his warriors. None present had ever witnessed such a thing. Argel Tal’s bolter was raised, aimed at the ranks of Ultramarines who mirrored the gesture in kind. A hundred gun barrels levelled at a hundred thousand. The Seventh Captain needed three attempts to form words.
‘Hold your fire,’ he whispered into the general vox-channel. ‘Do not fire unless fired upon.’
Lorgar rested the immense crozius mace on his golden shoulder. His grey eyes flickered with uncertain emotion as he bared his teeth at the fallen Lord of Macragge.
