A central island formed a hub for the bridges to meet in the middle. Here, naked in the firelight, her pale skin painted with twisted runes, was Ingethel. For the ghost of a moment, the symbols tattooed on her body drew Argel Tal’s eyes. He recognised them all immediately, for each sigil was a stylised representation of a constellation drawn right from the night skies of Colchis. The Serrated Sun encircled the girl’s navel in blue ink.
Drummers surrounded her in a ring, beating leathery skins with animal bones. Thirty in all – their harmonic pounding like the world’s own beating heart. Hundreds and hundreds of Cadians lined the outer walls and walkways, all watching the performance as it was underway. Many chanted in praise of their heathen gods.
The alkaline smells of pure water, human sweat and ancient stone were almost overpowering, but Argel Tal still scented blood before he saw its source. Sensing his urgency, his visor tracked and zoomed across the scene. In the shadowed edge of the central ring, ten spears reached up from the ground.
The bases of nine of the wooden spears were streaked with blood and shit, forming sick pools on the stone. The spears themselves bore human fruit: each of the nine stakes played host to a tribesman – all impaled, all dead. The speartips thrust up through the dead men’s open mouths.
‘This cannot be allowed to continue,’ said Vendatha. Disbelief softened his voice.
And this time, Argel Tal agreed with him.
Ingethel danced on, her lithe figure silhouetted into blackness by the bright fires behind her. At the heart of it all, not far from the maiden’s undulating form, Lorgar towered above every other living being. He watched in silence with his arms crossed over his chest, his features masked by a raised hood.
Deumos stood by the robed primarch’s side, sweating in full battle armour. Captain Tsar Quorel and his Chaplain, Rikus, stood way behind. Both wore their helms. Both were watching the impaling spears, rather than the dancing human girl.
‘Brother,’ Argel Tal voxed to his fellow captain, ‘what blasphemy have we intruded upon?’
Tsar Quorel’s tone betrayed his own unease. ‘When we arrived, the woman was as you see her, and the primarch stood here watching. The atrocities on the spears were already committed. We saw as you see now.’
Argel Tal led Xaphen and Vendatha over a stone walkway, approaching the primarch. Cadians scattered like vermin before a pack of hunting dogs, bowing, scraping, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch the Colchisian runes engraved on their armour.
‘Sire?’ Argel Tal asked. ‘What is all this?’
Lorgar didn’t look away from Ingethel. Her dance seemed carnal to Argel Tal’s inexpert eyes, as if the maiden was mating with some unseen creature as part of her performance.
‘Sire?’ Argel Tal repeated, and the primarch glanced his way at last. Ingethel’s shadow danced across his eyes, reflected there by the firelight.
‘The Cadians believe this ritual will allow their gods to manifest among us.’ His voice was as low as the drums.
‘You allowed them to do this?’ He stepped closer, showing more disrespect to his gene-sire than he ever had in his life, for his hands fell to rest upon his sheathed swords. ‘You watched them commit human sacrifice?’
The primarch took no offence at his son’s boldness. In truth, he seemed not to notice it. ‘The blood offerings were made before I was invited into the sacred chamber.’
‘Yet you are still taking part. You tolerate this. Your silence endorses this barbarism.’
Lorgar turned back to watch the girl’s dance, which grew ever more frantic. Perhaps an edge of doubt marred his flawless features. Perhaps it was simply the maiden’s shadow flickering over the primarch’s face.
‘This is no different to the rituals practised on Colchis only decades before your birth, captain. This is the Old Faith in all its theatrical glory.’
‘This is an abomination,’ Argel Tal took another step closer.
‘All I want,’ Lorgar enunciated each word with patient care, ‘is an answer.’
Before them, Ingethel slowed in her whirling dance. Her tattooed skin was a living, sweating devotion to the Word Bearers’ Chapters and the Colchisian night skies from whence they drew their names.
‘It is time,’ she said to Lorgar in a hoarse, breathless voice. ‘It is time for the tenth sacrifice.’
The primarch tilted his head down at the girl, not quite a concession. ‘And what is the tenth sacrifice?’
‘The tenth sacrifice must come from the seeker. He chooses the slain. It is the final consecration.’
Lorgar drew breath to answer, but was denied the chance to speak.
A sinister crackle came into waspish life – all recognised the snapping buzz of a power weapon going live. Vendatha lowered his guardian spear, aiming the blade and bolter at Lorgar’s heart.
‘In the Emperor’s name,’ said the Custodian, ‘this ends now.’
FIFTEEN
Sacrifice
Baptism of Blood
Unworthy Truths
‘By the authority invested in me by the Emperor of Mankind, I do judge thee a traitor to the Imperium.’
Lorgar watched Vendatha, his benign expression unchanging all the while.
‘Is that so?’ asked the primarch.
‘Don’t do this,’ said Argel Tal. ‘Ven, please, do not do this.’
Vendatha didn’t take his eyes from Lorgar. The golden spire-helm faced forward, red eye lenses catching the flames’ reflection. Around them all, the drums were starting to slow and fall quiet.
‘If any of you reach for a weapon, this becomes an execution, not an arrest.’
The Word Bearers remained frozen. Some risks weren’t worth taking.
‘Lorgar,’ whispered Ingethel. ‘The ritual must not be interrupted. The wrath of the gods will–’
‘Be silent, witch,’ Vendatha said. ‘You have said enough already. Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, do you yield to righteous authority and give your oath to abandon this den of heathen belief? Do you vow to return at once to Terra and submit to the Emperor’s judgement?’
‘No,’ the primarch spoke softly. ‘I do not.’
‘Then you leave me no choice.’
‘There is always a choice,’ said Argel Tal.
Vendatha ignored the captain’s plea. He reached for the scrollwork etched into his ornate bracer, and pushed one of the mother-of-pearl buttons inlaid in the decoration.
Nothing happened.
He pressed the button again.
Nothing continued to happen.
The Custodian took a step backwards as the Word Bearers very, very slowly drew their weapons. The Chaplains unlimbered their crozius mauls. Tsar Quorel and Deumos raised their bolters, and Argel Tal unsheathed the swords of red iron.
‘I think you will find,’ the primarch smiled, ‘that your teleport signal has been blocked since you entered this chamber. Just a precautionary measure we took, you understand? Aquillon and your brothers will not be appearing to aid you. They will never even know you needed them.’
‘I confess I had not anticipated this,’ Vendatha said. ‘Well done, Lorgar.’
‘It’s not too late, Ven.’ Argel Tal raised his swords en garde. ‘Lower your weapon and we can end this without crossing the line.’
‘Great One...’ Ingethel whined. ‘The ritual...’
‘I said be silent, witch,’ snapped Vendatha.
Lorgar sighed, as if a great disappointment settled upon his shoulders. ‘Decide now, Custodian Vendatha, how best to serve my father’s Imperium. Do you flee, escaping this chamber, and bring a truth you don’t even understand to your brothers in orbit? Or do you shoot me now, and rid the galaxy of its only chance at enlightenment?’