The First Heretic Read online

  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.

  Lorgar looked into his father’s unknowable face as the Emperor spoke.

  ‘You are a general, my son. Not a high priest. You were created for war, for conquest, to reunite the human race under the aegis of truth.’

  ‘I–’

  ‘No.’ The Emperor closed his eyes, and an image of Monarchia as it had been, bright and glorious, filled Lorgar’s mind. ‘This is worship,’ the Emperor said. ‘This is a poison to truth. You speak of me as a god, and forge worlds that suffer under the one lie that has brought humanity to the edge of extinction time and time again.’

  ‘The people are joyous–’

  ‘The people are deceived. The people will burn when their faith is proven false.’

  ‘My worlds are loyal.’ Lorgar was no longer kneeling. He rose to his feet, his voice rising with him. ‘My Legion shapes the most fiercely loyal worlds in your Imperium.’

  +It is not my Imperium+

  The words thudded into Argel Tal’s mind like a stream of bolter shells. For a brief, hateful moment, he glanced at his retinal display to check his life signs. He was certain he was dying, and had he not already been on his knees, he would’ve fallen to them now.

  +It is the Imperium of Man. The empire of humanity, enlightened and saved by the truth+

  He heard Lorgar’s reply this time.

  ‘I speak no lies. You are a god.’

  +Lorgar+

  ‘I will not be silenced because you do not like the melody of one single word. In your grip, a thousand worlds turn! By your will, a million vessels sail the void. You are immortal, undying, seeing all and knowing all that transpires across creation. Father, you are a god in all but name. All that remains is to confess to it.’

  +LORGAR+

  The voice came with a wall of pressure now, dense and all too tactile. It pounded into Argel Tal like a miasma of engine wash, heating his armour and throwing him to the ground. Around him, he could see his brothers sent sprawling, their armour skidding across the dust.

  Defiant in the cyclone of unseen energy, scrolls of scripture ripping from his armour, Lorgar raised his hand to point at his father.

  ‘You are a god. Say the words and end the lie.’

  The Emperor shook his head, not in defeat, but calm defiance.

  ‘You are blind, my son. You cling to ancient perceptions, and endanger us all with them. Let this end, Lorgar. Let this end with you heeding my words.’

  The psychic wind died with a peal of thunder.

  Lorgar stood where he was, trembling for reasons his warriors couldn’t discern. Blood ran from one ear, running in a slow trail down his tattooed neck.

  ‘I am listening, father,’ he said.

  The Seventh Captain hauled himself back to his feet, stumbling once and righting himself before his armour’s stabilisers needed to compensate. He was one of the first Word Bearers to rise. The others still struggled, shivering on hands and knees, or were locked in muscle spasms, their twitching limbs disturbing the dust.

  Argel Tal helped Xaphen up, receiving a grunt of thanks.

  +Word Bearers, hear me well. You, among all my Legions, are guilty of failure. You number more warriors than any other, excepting the XIII. Yet your conquests are the slowest, and your victories ring hollow+

  It hurt too much to look directly at the figure of white-gold light, haloed by coruscating psychic fire, telling them with words of thunder that all their lives had been wasted.

  +You linger on compliant worlds for years after final victory, driving the populace into the worship of false faith, seeding cults of the naive and the deceived, erecting monuments to lies. All you have done in the Great Crus
ade is for naught. While all others succeed and bring prosperity to the Imperium, you alone have failed me+

  Lorgar stepped back from the figure, only now raising his arms to ward off its radiance.

  +Wage war as you were created to do. Serve the Imperium as you were born to do. Take with you the lesson learned here this day. You kneel in the ruination found at the end of a false path. Let this be your Legion’s rebirth+

  The primarch managed a weak ‘Father...’ but it was spoken to emptiness. Another sonic boom of displacing air heralded the Emperor’s return to orbit.

  The Ultramarines remained, watching the kneeling, trembling Word Bearers in absolute silence. The Custodians stood alongside Guilliman, while the primarch conferred with their apparent leader, whose helm bore a red crest to match his cloak.

  Argel Tal saw Kor Phaeron rising with painful slowness, despite his Terminator armour making the task easier with dense joints of snarling servos. Neither Argel Tal nor Xaphen offered to help. Both of them made for the primarch.

  While the Word Bearers struggled to their feet, Lorgar crashed to his knees at last.

  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 this.

  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.

  ‘You will never mock me again, brother. Is that understood?’

  Guilliman’s rise was slow, almost hesitant. The golden eagle on his breastplate was split, a valley-crack running through its body.

  ‘You go too far,’ a softer voice said. Malcador, First Lord of Terra, still clutched his staff. It was all that kept him standing. ‘You go too far.’

  ‘Be silent, worm. The next time you bleed my patience dry, I will do more than slap you aside.’

  Guilliman was on his feet now. He turned an expressionless face back to his brother.

  ‘Is your tantrum concluded, Lorgar? I must return to the Crusade.’

  ‘Come, my son,’ Kor Phaeron’s corpse-sneer was directed at Guilliman even as his words were meant for his primarch. ‘Come. We have much to discuss.’

  Lorgar exhaled, and nodded once. The anger was fading, and no longer offered a shield against shame. ‘Yes. Back to the ships.’

  ‘All companies,’ Kor Phaeron spat across the vox, ‘return to orbit.’

  ‘Yes, First Captain,’ Argel Tal replied with the others. ‘By your word.’

  Argel Tal’s Thunderhawk nestled in the shadow cast by a ruined wall. This blasted slice of architecture stood almost alone in the ash desert, the last lingering piece of a building that would never rise again. The captain walked with Xaphen and his subcommanders, Brother-Sergeants Malnor and Torgal. Squads embarked aboard their own gunships, despondent gatherings of warriors walking in near-silence.

  ‘There will be no resettlement,’ Torgal said. ‘The city is a tomb. There is nothin
g left to rebuild.’

  ‘It is noted in many historical archives,’ said Xaphen, ‘that even the most enlightened primitive cultures on pre-Imperial Terra would salt the earth after razing a city to the ground. Nothing would grow for generations. The people of the defeated city had no choice but to leave and begin new lives elsewhere, rather than rebuild.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Malnor.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Torgal grunted. ‘Please continue, Chaplain.’

  ‘I am sure none of us are blind to the echoes of those ancient events taking place here. How many orbital bombardments have we prosecuted ourselves? How many times have we battled in the ruins of a sky-blasted city? This was more than simple destruction. This was eradication. The Ultramarines did as they meant to do, and wiped every significant remnant of Khur’s culture from the face of the planet. A lesson for us, and a lesson for the people.’

  Argel Tal led the group into the Thunderhawk’s open cargo bay. Their boots clanged up the ramp.

  ‘I had my bolter aimed at one of the XIII Legion,’ he said at last. ‘Aimed at his throat.’ He tapped the softer fibre bundle cabling in his own armour’s flexible layered collar. ‘If I’d pulled the trigger, he would be dead.’

  ‘You didn’t pull the trigger,’ Torgal said. ‘None of us did. That’s what matters.’

  Argel Tal nodded to a squad of Seventh Company as they moved past, and punched the sealant plate, activating the ramps’ pistons. The hydraulics compacted, lifting the gangway back up in a slow machine-grind.

  ‘I didn’t,’ the captain said. ‘But I wanted to. After what they did to our city. After they saw us kneel in false shame. I wanted to, and I almost did. I gave the order to hold fire, while silently hoping someone would break it.’

  Malnor didn’t move. Xaphen said nothing. After several seconds, Torgal offered an unsure ‘Sir?’

  Argel Tal stared through the diminishing slit of daylight allowed by the rising ramp. Without a word, he thudded a fist onto the control plate, halting the seal. The captain moved to the gang ramp as it made its shuddering descent again.

  ‘Sir?’ Torgal tried again.

  ‘I saw something. Movement, in the distance, at the edge of the northern craters.’