The First Heretic

no hesitation. Simply respect. Care.

The captain stood in full armour but for his helm, leaving his head bare, so the voice she heard was his own, not his helm’s. Cyrene was slowly learning to differentiate his voice from Xaphen’s, mostly through their accents. Argel Tal had a rough, almost impolite edge to his guttural intonation, whereas Xaphen – born in the Urals on Terra – had a clipped tendency to turn S’s into Z’s. The Chaplain spoke like a foreign diplomat. The captain like a ganger, or a boy living on the streets.

‘What don’t you understand?’ he asked her.

She toyed with a lock of hair as it lay against her cheek. ‘I don’t understand why I have to be careful.’

This was a difficult subject. Word from the Legion fleet was constantly cycled back to Colchis, for the people of the home world took great interest, and great pride, in the conquests of their chosen champions. Mothers and fathers listened in the hope some chronicle would detail the glory of a son taken from them in childhood and reshaped as one of the Astartes. Covenant clergy listened for inspiration to preach of the primarch’s righteousness.

This network was maintained by astropaths, sending short psychic pulses of information back to their counterparts on the home world. Several times a week, broadcast from speaker towers across the Holy City, updates of the Legion’s progress drew flocks of listeners. City-wide celebrations were declared by the Covenant each time a Legion expedition reached compliance.

Everyone – everyone – had listened to the reports of Monarchia. The Legion’s humiliation. The Word Bearers kneeling. The Emperor destroying the Imperial Creed forever.

The fleet’s return had an uncomfortable gravity about it, for despite the population’s joy, the whole thing reeked of so much more than a simple homecoming.

And then there was the matter of Monarchia’s survivors. The Legion had encountered few living souls in the ruined city, and Cyrene was one of only seven people taken from the devastation. Word of these holy refugees flashed through Colchisian society. Here were living martyrs, drawn from the ashes of the Legion’s shame. The Covenant sent entreaties to the Legion fleet, pleading with the primarch to allow the refugees to set foot on Colchis, perhaps even to be inducted into the holy order itself.

The seven names were already being spoken with all the reverence of saints’ titles, added into daily prayers. It was difficult to explain this, because Argel Tal had only learned the extent of the refugees’ fame an hour before. The Chapter of the Osseous Throne made planetfall shortly after the primarch, and the four refugees with them were mobbed by adoring crowds. Their every word was recorded, their names were chanted in the streets, while people sought to touch their skin in the hope of gaining some of their divine fortune.

Vox-reports immediately stabbed back to the ships in orbit, warning the other Chapters harbouring refugees that the City of Grey Flowers was as eager to see the Monarchians as it was to welcome the primarch home.

‘You have to be careful because there may be some people on the surface who seek your blessing, and approach you without warning. It might be disorienting.’

Her serf’s robe was a simple affair, but she smoothed it carefully against her returning figure. ‘I still don’t understand. Why would they want to see us?’

‘You are an icon,’ he said. ‘A living icon, a martyr in life rather than death. You paid the price for Colchisian ignorance, and in doing so, earned great respect from us all. I’m told they are saying the seven of you are tied to the Legion’s destiny. A reflection of failure, a hope for the future. Your life is a lesson, and one we must all learn.’

She faced him, without seeing him. ‘That’s very poetic for you, captain.’

‘It is the best way I can describe it.’

‘I’m an icon to them?’

He donned his helm, staining his sight blue and adding a layer of targeting information to his vision. His voice emerged as vox-growl.

‘Not just to them.’

The journey down to Colchis lasted twenty minutes.

In the Thunderhawk’s cockpit, Argel Tal stood behind Malnor, the pilot. They came in low over the parched earth, approaching the mud-brick city walls as the desert sliced past beneath. The city’s skyline showed a breathtaking view of tan buildings, brick spires as far as the eye could see. To the south, the great River Phranes flowed past – a wide road of sapphire glinting in the sunlight. River barges and bulk freight carriers crossed on the wide waters.

‘Legion gunship Rising Sun, this is western district control. Please respond.’

Argel Tal scowled behind his faceplate. This didn’t bode well.

‘They’re keen,’ said Malnor, and reached to activate the console’s voxsponder. ‘This is the Rising Sun, inbound.’

‘Rising Sun, please confirm you have the Blessed Lady aboard.’

‘The what?’ He deactivated the channel and looked over his shoulder. ‘Captain?’

Argel Tal swore in breathless Colchisian. ‘I think they mean–’

‘This must be a joke,’ Malnor muttered.

‘My blood’s running cold,’ said Argel Tal. ‘This is no joke.’

‘This is the Rising Sun,’ Malnor voxed again. ‘Repeat, please.’

‘Rising Sun, this is western district control. Please confirm you have the Blessed Lady aboard.’

‘I don’t know,’ the sergeant grumbled. ‘That depends on what you’re talking about.’

The voice on the other end of the vox-channel explained, and assigned landing coordinates accordingly.