The First Heretic

Imperial Personae

Cyrene Valantion, Confessor of the Word

Ishaq Kadeen, Official remembrancer, imagist

Absolom Cartik, Personal astropath to the Occuli Imperator

Legio Cybernetica

Incaradine, Conqueror Primus of the 9th Maniple, Carthage Cohort

Xi-Nu 73, Tech-Adept of the 9th Maniple, Carthage Cohort

Non-Imperial Personae

Ingethel, Emissary of the Primordial Truth

PART ONE

GREY

Forty-three years before the events of Isstvan V

‘Kill me then, “Emperor”. Better to die in freedom’s twilight than draw breath at the dawn of tyranny. May the gods grant me my last wish: that my spirit lingers long enough to laugh when your faithless kingdom at last falls apart.’

– Daival Shan, Terran separatist

warlord, at his execution.

‘If a man gathers ten thousand suns in his hands... If a man seeds a hundred thousand worlds with his sons and daughters, granting them custody of the galaxy itself... If a man guides a million vessels between the infinite stars with a mere thought... Then I pray you tell me, if you are able, how such a man is anything less than a god.’

– Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch

of the Word Bearers

‘There is no surer sign of decay in a country than to see the rites of religion held in contempt.’

– Nikollo Makiavelli, Ancient

Eurasian philosopher

Prologue

The Grey Warrior

His sisters wept when the Legion came for him. At the time, he couldn’t understand why. There was no greater honour than to be chosen, so their sorrow made no sense.

The grey warrior’s voice was a machine’s rasp, deep and laden with static as he spoke from behind a death mask. He demanded to know the boy’s name.

Before the mother answered him, she asked a question of her own. It was her way to stand straight and strong, never to be bowed by the things she saw. It was a strength she had passed on to her son, and would stay in his blood despite the many changes to come.

She asked the question with a smile. ‘I will tell you his name, warrior. But first, will you tell me yours?’

The grey warrior looked down upon the family, meeting the eyes of the parents only once before he stole their child.

‘Erebus,’ he intoned. ‘My name is Erebus.’

‘Thank you, Lord Erebus. This is my son,’ she gestured to her boy. ‘Argel Tal.’

I

False Angels

I remember the Day of Judgement.

Can you imagine looking up and seeing the stars fall from the sky? Can you imagine the heavens themselves raining fire upon the world below?

You say you can picture it. I don’t believe you. I’m not speaking of war. I’m not speaking of promethium’s stinging oil-scent, or the burning chemical reek of flames born from missile fire. Forget battle’s crude pains and the sensory assault of orbital bombardment. I am not speaking of mundane savagery – the incendiary ills men inflict upon other men.

I speak of judgement. Divine judgement.

The wrath of a god who looks upon the works of an entire world, and what he sees turns his heart sour. In his disgust, he sends flights of angels to deliver damnation. In his rage, he seeds the skies with fire and rains destruction upon the upturned faces of six billion worshippers.

Now tell me again. Tell me again that you can imagine seeing the stars fall from the sky. Tell me you can imagine heaven weeping fire upon the land below, and a city burning so bright that all sight is scorched from your eyes as you watch it die.

The Day of Judgement stole my eyes, but I can still illuminate you. I remember it all, and why wouldn’t I? It was the last thing I ever saw.

They came to us in skyborne vultures of blue iron and white fire.

And they called themselves the XIII Legion. The Warrior-Kings of Ultramar.