When Xaphen joined him at last, Argel Tal had a hard time meeting his brother’s eyes. He placed his armoured boot on one of the swollen, twelve-legged beetles that scurried over the wastelands, killing it with a moist, crackling crunch.
‘What lies did you weave for the Eyes of the Emperor?’ asked the Chaplain.
‘A long and detailed tale that tasted foul to even speak. A Cadian sect attacked us out of bitterness, and Ven was lost with Deumos, Tsar Quorel and Rikus.’
‘Did they die like heroes?’
‘Oh, undoubtedly. Songs will be sung and legends forever told of their most noble ends.’ He spat acid onto the ground.
Xaphen gave a mirthless snort, and they fell silent.
The two Astartes watched the stained sky, neither wishing to be the first to broach the next subject. Ultimately, it was Argel Tal that ventured there first.
‘We’ve split the Legion and sailed to the galaxy’s edges, only to find... this. The Old Ways of Colchis were right. Daemons. Blood sacrifice. Spirits made flesh. All of it is real. Now Aurelian lingers in the darkness, sharing words with that creature, deciding whether to sell our souls for even uglier answers. If this is enlightenment, brother... perhaps ignorance is bliss.’
Xaphen turned from the burning sky. ‘We have defied the Emperor to find these truths – defied the spirit of his decrees, even if we obeyed the letter of the law. Now a Custodian lies dead, and Imperial blades have shed Imperial blood. There can be no going back from this. You know what the primarch will decide.’
Argel Tal thought back to Vendatha’s words: ‘The choice you offer is no choice at all.’
‘It will break his heart to do it,’ the captain said, ‘but he will send us into the Eye.’
SIXTEEN
Orfeo’s Lament
The Storm Beyond the Glass
Chaos
The vessel chosen was Orfeo’s Lament. A sleek, vicious light cruiser captained most ably by the famously tenacious Janus Sylamor. When the primarch’s decree had reached the 1,301st, Sylamor had volunteered the Lament before Lorgar’s vox-distorted voice had even finished the traditional blessings that ended his fleet-wide addresses.
Her first officer took a dimmer view of her eagerness, pointing out that this was the largest, most devastating warp storm ever recorded in the history of the species. Here was an anomaly with all the force of the legendary storms that severed humanity’s worlds from one another in the centuries before the Great Crusade.
Sylamor had clicked her tongue – a habit of hers that always showed her impatience – and told him to shut up. The smile she gave him would only be considered sweet by people that didn’t know her very well.
The departure window was set for sunrise over the wastelands, which left practically no time for preparation beyond the core necessities. Grey gunships graced the Lament’s modest landing bay, delivering squad after squad of dark-armoured Astartes. Storage chambers were cleared to house the Word Bearers, their ammunition crates, their maintenance servitors, as well as the contingent from the Legio Cybernetica that accompanied Seventh Company, led by an irritable tech-adept calling himself Xi-Nu 73.
Introductions were brief. Five Astartes marched onto the bridge, and Sylamor rose from her throne to greet them. Each spoke their name and rank – one captain, one Chaplain, three sergeants – and each saluted her in turn. She responded accordingly, introducing her own command crew.
It was polite but cold, and over in a matter of minutes.
Only when the Astartes remained on the bridge did Sylamor sense a breach in decorum. Unperturbed, the captain continued her final checks, pointing her silver-topped cane to each console station in turn.
‘Propulsion.’
‘Engines,’ replied the first officer, ‘aye.’
‘Auspex.’
‘Aye, ma’am.’
‘Void shields.’
‘Shields ready.’
‘Weapons.’
‘Weapons, aye.’
‘Geller field.’
‘Geller field, aye.’
‘Helm.’
‘Helm standing ready, ma’am.’
‘All stations report full readiness,’ she said to the Word Bearers captain. This was something of a lie, and Sylamor hoped her tone didn’t betray it. All stations had reported readiness, true, but the last hour had also seen reports of insurrection in the lower decks, put down by lethal force, and one suicide. The ship’s astropath had requested to be assigned to another vessel (‘Request denied’, Sylamor had frowned. ‘Who in the Emperor’s name does he think he is to even ask such a thing?’) and the Navigator was engaged in what he referred to as ‘intensive mental barricading so as to preserve one’s fundamental quintessence’, which Sylamor was fairly sure she didn’t even want to understand.
So instead of relaying all of this to the towering warlord standing next to her throne, she simply gave him a curt nod and said, ‘all stations report readiness’.
The Astartes turned his helm’s slanted blue eyes upon her, and nodded.
‘There will be one last vessel docking soon. Ensure all of your crew are removed from the bay once it arrives.’
Her raised eyebrow conveyed just what she thought of this unorthodox demand. And in case it didn’t, she added her own spice to it. ‘Very well. Now tell me why.’
‘No,’ said one of the other Astartes. He’d named himself as Malnor, a sergeant. ‘Just obey the order.’
The captain, Argel Tal, gestured for his brother to remain silent.
‘The last gunship will be bringing a creature on board. The fewer of your crew that are exposed to it, the better it will be for all of us.’
The first officer pointedly cleared his throat. Crew members turned in their seats. Sylamor blinked twice. ‘I will suffer no xenos presence on board the Lament,’ she stated.
‘I did not say it was an alien,’ said Argel Tal. ‘I said it was a creature. My warriors will escort it to the bridge. Do not look at it once we are underway. Focus on your duties, all of you. I have my men in the starboard docking bay, and will inform you when the gunship reaches us.’
‘Incoming hail from De Profundis,’ called an officer from the vox-console.
The Word Bearers went to their knees, heads lowered.
‘Accept the hail,’ Sylamor said. Without realising, she lifted a hand to check her hair was in neat order, and straightened her uniform. Around her, officers did the same, brushing epaulettes and standing straighter.
The occulus tuned into a view of De Profundis’s command deck, where the primarch and Fleetmaster Torvus stood in pride of place.
‘This is the flagship,’ Torvus said, ‘Good hunting, Lament.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sylamor replied.
An awkward silence reached between both bridge crews, broken by Argel Tal.
‘Sire?’
‘Yes, my son?’ Lorgar’s smile was sincere, though vox-crackle ruined his smooth voice.
‘We will return with the answers the Legion needs. You have my word,’ he gestured to the parchment bound to his shoulder guard, ‘and my oath of moment’.
The smile remained upon the primarch’s painted lips. ‘I know, Argel Tal. Please, rise. I cannot abide you kneeling before me in this moment of moments.’
The Word Bearers rose as ordered, and Argel Tal nodded to Captain Sylamor.
‘The last vessel has docked and my warriors are leading the creature to the bridge. Take us in, captain.’
The ship trembled as its engines came alive, and Orfeo’s Lament speared away from the planet, cutting through the void towards the storm’s distant edges.
‘Three hours until we reach the storm’s outermost border,’ one of the helmsmen called.