‘The choice you offer is no choice at all,’ Vendatha said.
Argel Tal moved first, launching forward as the cavern echoed with bolter fire.
Vendatha was not a fool. He knew the odds of surviving the next few moments were slim, and he knew a primarch’s reflexes were the peak of biological possibility, faster than even his own, which bordered on the preternatural.
But Lorgar was at ease, his muscles loose. He actually expected his offer of truce to hold some weight, and that lapse in judgement was enough for Vendatha to take the chance. He pulled the haft-trigger, and his spear’s underslung bolter cracked off a stream of rounds on full-auto.
Argel Tal saw it coming. The swords of red iron smashed the first three bolts aside, their power fields strong enough to detonate the shells as they streaked towards the primarch’s heart. The explosions threw the captain to the ground, his grey armour scraping along the stone with the shriek of offended ceramite.
Vendatha was already in motion. The golden warrior leapt at the primarch, guardian spear spinning in his fists, an oath to the Emperor on his lips. Four Word Bearers blocked his path, and those four Word Bearers had to die.
Rikus was the first to fall. The Custodian’s blade crunched into the soft, jointed armour at the Chaplain’s throat, punching from the back of his neck. Tsar Quorel died next, decapitated with a buzzing sweep of the energised blade, dead before he’d pulled his trigger.
Deumos managed to fire a stream of bolt shells, none of which connected. Vendatha weaved left, thudded the base of his spear into the Chapter Master’s bolter, knocking it aside, and followed with a cutting swing that sheared both the Word Bearer’s hands from his body, severing them at the forearms. Deumos had a scarce moment to draw in a stunned gasp before the spear sliced again, this time cleaving through his collarbone and spine, ripping his head free.
Vendatha span the blade in his hands, letting it come to rest with the tip and gun barrel aimed at Lorgar’s heart again. Behind the Custodian, the bodies crashed to the ground in slow succession. Three seconds had passed.
Argel Tal was picking himself off the floor. Only Xaphen stood between the primarch and his attacker, but the Chaplain had used the scant, precious seconds to draw his bolter, which he aimed squarely at Vendatha’s faceplate.
‘Hold,’ he warned.
‘Lorgar, Seventeenth Son of the Emperor, surrender yourself into my custody at once.’
‘You killed my sons,’ Lorgar covered his mouth with a hand. ‘They had never wronged you. Not once. Is this what my father’s mandate allows you to do? To slaughter my sons if I do not dance to his ignorant tune?’
‘Surrender yourself,’ the Custodian repeated.
Vendatha had fought at the Emperor’s side many times before. Always writ upon the Lord of Man’s face was an unbreakable defiance, all emotion suppressed beneath the mask of stoic perfection.
Lorgar didn’t share his father’s capacity to conceal emotion. Hate bleached his features, and white teeth showed in a skull’s grin.
‘You dare threaten me? You murdered my sons, you soulless, worthless husk of genetic overspill.’
Vendatha squeezed the trigger again, but it was too late. Xaphen fired first.
Bolt rounds hammered into the Custodian’s golden armour, beating the faceplate and chest out of shape, tearing chunks of plating away as they detonated. Each suit of battle armour was individually wrought for the Custodian granted the honour to wear it, and despite their finery, Custodes armour was a step beyond the mass-produced wargear used by the Astartes Legions.
Even so, the burst of bolter shells to the head and upper torso was almost enough to kill the warrior outright.
Vendatha staggered back, the guardian spear falling from slack fingers and crashing to the stone. Even with his face a burned and bleeding ruin, even with his helm wrecked and its twisted metal digging into his broken skull, he stared through the one eye that still worked.
Xaphen reloaded. The primarch did nothing. The naked maiden tugged at Lorgar’s robe sleeve, imploring him to continue with the heathen rite, warning of the gods’ anger if he didn’t.
Vendatha reached for his fallen spear.
Wait. Where is Argel T–
The sword of red iron flew like a javelin, cracking Vendatha’s remaining teeth into porcelain chips as it smashed into his closed mouth. Two metres of shimmering blade lanced from the back of the Custodian’s head, while most of the warrior’s ruined face was covered by the hilt and handle protruding from his open jaws.
As Rikus, Tsar Quorel and Deumos had done only moments before, Vendatha crashed to the ground, felled by an Imperial blade.
Xaphen released a breath. ‘Nicely done, brother.’
The Chaplain had no warning, for Argel Tal struck without any. The captain’s fist crashed into Xaphen’s jaw, throwing him to the ground.
‘Brother?’ from his place on the stone floor, the Chaplain stared up at Argel Tal’s fury.
‘We have just killed one of the Emperor’s own guardians, and your eulogy in this moment is “Nicely done, brother”? Are you insane? We stand upon the edge of heresy against the Imperium. Sire, we have to leave this place. We must speak with Aquillon, and–’
‘Retrieve your blade,’ ordered the primarch. Lorgar stared into the middle distance, paying little heed to what unfolded before his eyes. His voice barely lifted above a whisper.
Argel Tal approached with slow steps, taking his second sword back without gentleness, yanking it from the corpse’s jaws. He froze as Vendatha’s remaining eye followed him, and the body’s fingers twitched.
‘Blood of the... Sire, he’s still alive,’ Argel Tal called back.
‘There is no virtue in cruelty,’ murmured Lorgar. ‘I wrote that once. In my book. I remember doing so. I remember the scratch of quill upon parchment, and the way the words looked on the page...’
‘Sire?’
Lorgar stirred, focused. ‘End his suffering, Argel Tal.’
All heads turned towards Ingethel as she cried out – wordless defiance, in a keening wail.
‘This was ordained by the gods.’ She gestured her tattooed hand to Vendatha’s ravaged form. ‘Lorgar is the seeker, the Favoured Son of the Great Powers, and he has provided the tenth sacrifice. Consecration may begin.’
A pack of Cadians came forward, their dirty hands pulling at Vendatha’s golden armour, stripping it from his dying body. Argel Tal kicked one of the jackals off the fallen Custodian and levelled his blades at the rest. They scattered; carrion-feeders disturbed from a meal at the last moment.
‘This was not a sacrifice for your blood magic,’ the captain said. ‘He aimed a weapon at the Emperor’s son, and he will die for the sin. That is all.’ Argel Tal looked over his shoulder. ‘Sire, we have to leave. No answer is worth this.’
Lorgar lowered his hood, looking at neither Argel Tal nor Ingethel. His gaze rested on a far wall, and a faint scowl creased his lips.
‘What’s that sound?’ the primarch asked.
‘I hear nothing but the drums, sire. Please, we must leave at once.’
‘You don’t hear that?’ Lorgar glanced at his two remaining sons. ‘Neither of you?’ Their silence answered for them, and Lorgar reached a hand to his forehead. ‘Is that... laughter?’
Ingethel was on her knees now, dragging at his robes, weeping in her worship. ‘The ritual... The gods come... It is not complete...’
Lorgar paid her heed at last, though the distant look never left his eyes. ‘I hear them. I hear them all. Like the memory of laughter. The forgotten faces of distant kin when one struggles to recall them.’
Argel Tal clashed the swords of red iron together; the skish-skash of metal on metal loud enough to draw the primarch’s attention.
‘Sire,’ he growled, ‘we must leave.’