The First Heretic

vertebrae. ‘He never sent us into the storm. I volunteered. We lacked standard Mechanicum explorator vessels, so we used the smallest warship in the fleet.’

The two warriors circled one another, blades half a metre apart. ‘You volunteered?’

‘It was a last attempt to salvage some worth from the journey. One last venture beyond Imperial borders, before we turn around and make for new space. Aquillon... there is nothing out here. Do you think we wish to heap further shame upon ourselves by admitting that? Plenty of expeditionary fleets take months, even years, to find a world worthy of conquest – but this is our primarch’s fleet, even if only temporarily. Desperation drove us to try one last time. Don’t hate us for doing our sworn duty.’

The Custodian attacked, his blade lashing one of Argel Tal’s blades out of the captain’s grip, while a kick smashed the other aside.

The Word Bearer smiled through a face streaked with sweat, and went to recover his blades yet again.

‘And Vendatha?’ Aquillon asked.

Argel Tal’s smile faded, wiped from his face. ‘Ven died with my brothers. Deumos fell first, then Rikus and Tsar Quorel. Ven was last.’ The Word Bearer met the Custodian’s eyes, letting his sincerity show. ‘He was my friend, Aquillon. I mourn him as you do.’

‘And this... riot... on the planet that killed three Astartes and a Custodes?’

‘When the primarch renounced the barbarians and refused to draw them into the Imperium, they rose up in anger. What could we do? Their rituals are too far from the Imperial Truth. Never will they accept the Emperor’s rule.’

‘Invasion?’

‘The planet is sparsely populated, and much of it is a paradise despite its proximity to the hellish storm. Cyclonic torpedoes will annihilate the tribes, and leave the planet free for future colonisation – if the Emperor wills it.’

Aquillon released a pent-up breath. There was something unarguably youthful about the warrior, despite his ageless, regenerative immortality. ‘I commend Lorgar’s actions in rejecting the primitives on the world below. I have seen compliance after compliance executed to perfection for three years, and I do not judge his actions as flawed now. It’s difficult to believe Ven is dead, that’s all. He’d earned twenty-seven names in the Emperor’s service over a century of immaculate duty. The same mentor taught us both to wield a blade. Amon will grieve to learn of his fate.’

‘He died in the Emperor’s service, defending a primarch from the rebellion of heathen culture. You may not respect my sire, but he is still a son of the Emperor. If I could choose my hour of death, it would be in battle at Lorgar’s side.’

Aquillon raised his sword en garde, speaking with a curious formality. ‘Thank you for your candour, Argel Tal. Our presence is loathed by your Legion, but the Custodes have always appreciated your friendship.’

The Word Bearer didn’t answer. His next attack was deflected and beaten back within a matter of moments.

Aquillon offered a hand again, and this time, Argel Tal took it as he rose.

‘What now for the Serrated Sun?’ asked the Custodian.

‘There’s nothing left for us out here. Once Cadia is purged, we press on as part of the 1,301st, returning to more promising territory. I believe the primarch will rejoin the main crusade fleet, with Erebus and Kor Phaeron. He will be done with these provincial conquests. I suspect he also wishes to speak with several of his brothers.’

Aquillon nodded, and returned his practice sword to the weapon rack. His white robe was unmarked, while Argel Tal’s was bathed in sweat stains down the spine and around the collar.

The Custodian saluted, making the sign of the aquila over his chest. Argel Tal returned it, as he always did in his friend’s presence.

‘One last thing,’ the Custodian remarked.

The Word Bearer raised an eyebrow. ‘Speak.’

‘Congratulations, Chapter Master.’

Argel Tal couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I wasn’t aware it was public knowledge. Will you be at the ceremony?’

‘Without a doubt.’ In a moment of rare fellowship, Aquillon rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I wish you well on your return to health. I am glad that, at the end, Vendatha stood with a friend.’

An image of Ven’s last moments flashed through Argel Tal’s mind: the naked Custodian twitching, gagging, being dragged down and impaled upon the wooden spear.

Unable to speak another lie, the Word Bearer merely nodded.

The ceremony was attended by every officer of significant rank, as well as the remaining Word Bearers of the Serrated Sun, including the robed ranks of their Acolyte Auxiliary – many of whom would be elevated into the three shattered companies with the Legion’s losses in recent months.

Such a gathering required use of De Profundis’s primary hangar deck, which in turn offered a stunning, disquieting backdrop through the open bay doors’ shimmering force field. Through the haze of thin energies, the storm beyond was a swirling mess of psychic vitriol. The ship creaked and whined around them as they stood in orderly rows, facing Lorgar.

At the primarch’s side, the Blessed Lady carried a rolled scroll on a plain, white cushion. She stared blindly over the ranks of Word Bearers, occasionally glancing to the towering primarch as if she could somehow see him. On Lorgar’s left, Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus stood tall and proud in his ceremonial grey and white uniform, a fur cloak – once the skin of some immense arctic beast that the officer had never even seen, let alone killed himself – draped over one side of his body. None present could actually recall the last time Torvus had set foot on a planet; the man clearly treasured his place among the stars.