‘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.
Fully a third of the Legion warriors were wasted husks in their half-repaired armour. These were the survivors of the Eye, standing in rows ahead of their hundred remaining brethren.
The Mechanicum contingent had manifested in full strength as well, though only one of their robotic charges was present. To no one’s surprise, Incarnadine was among the Word Bearers ranks, the scarlet war machine bedecked in honour scrolls and towering above its living kinsmen. Despite bearing the scarlet armour of Carthage, it was a welcome presence among the Legion’s grey.
Standing aside from all the others, four golden figures watched from a gantry above. Aquillon and his Custodians were resplendent in their armoured finery – the gold surfaces playing host to flickering reflections from the storm outside.
The primarch, clad in a shirt of fine silver mail, raised his hands for silence. All whispers died down immediately.
‘I have brought this expeditionary fleet far from the heart of my father’s kingdom. Every fleet with a Word Bearer presence has done the same, sailing far from beloved Terra, into the cold, away from the cradle of our species. We are far from our brothers and will hear tell of their travels and conquests in time, but I say this with confidence: none of my Legion has endured what you have. None have stared into the madness at the edge of the universe, as you have done. And you survived. You returned.’
Lorgar inclined his head at his warriors before continuing. ‘This Legion, more than any other, has suffered through change and evolution since its inception. But each phase exalts us, improves us and brings us closer to fulfilling our potential. The Emperor bred this Legion from his biological barracks on distant Terra, and for many years only Terrans filled its ranks. A more innocent age, an age when the Legion bore a different name, and today we begin to leave the last vestiges of those days behind. The Imperial Heralds became the Word Bearers, and the Word Bearers were shown the error of their ways in worshipping the Emperor. Change upon change, all leading towards this moment.’
The primarch gestured a gloved hand to a bulkhead in the closest wall, and spoke a single word. ‘Enter.’
The bulkhead opened to reveal two figures – both armoured in crimson ceramite – walking towards the primarch. The first bore a black helm with eye lenses of crystal blue. One eye was ringed by the golden Serrated Sun, and his power armour was edged in polished silver. The second carried a familiar crozius of black iron, with its armour trimmings formed of bronze and bone. Thick, ornamental chains rattled around their waists and wrists as both warriors moved. Prayer scrolls were bound to shin-guards and pauldrons, the parchment showing the primarch’s own flowing script.
‘Warriors of the Serrated Sun,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘Kneel before your new commanders.’
Every Word Bearer went to their knees. Incarnadine took several seconds longer to complete its obeisance, lowering itself on grinding hydraulics.
The first crimson warrior removed his helm. Argel Tal looked upon the gathered Legion, and called out across the deck.
‘Survivors of the Orfeo’s Lament, rise and step forward.’
They did as they were ordered. Behind Argel Tal, Xaphen removed his own skulled helm, remaining by the primarch’s side.
The new Chapter Master was still gaunt, as were the warriors he surveyed with a calm gaze. ‘Our sire has ordered we rebuild the Serrated Sun far beyond its former strength. We obey his word, as we have always obeyed. But he has offered more. You, the survivors of the Orfeo’s Lament, are to be honoured for your sacrifices.’
Argel Tal nodded to Xaphen, who took the scroll from Cyrene’s cushion and brought it to the Chapter Master.
‘This scroll is bare, but for two names. My own, and Chaplain Xaphen’s. If you accept the honour of joining us as the primarch’s chosen elite, then you will kneel before the Blessed Lady in this very hangar, and you will speak your name to her. It will be written upon this parchment, and stored in the vaults aboard De Profundis.’
Argel Tal looked each of the survivors in the eyes, one after the other. ‘We will be the Gal Vorbak, armoured in black and crimson, the elite of the Serrated Sun and the chosen of Lorgar Aurelian.’
Lorgar chuckled, light and pleasant, as he stepped forward to rest a hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder-guard.
On the gantry above, Kalhin let his glance flicker to Aquillon. His voice was low, despite the fact he wore his helm and none would overhear them speaking over the inter-squad vox.
‘Gal Vorbak. I did not study their culture as you did. Is that Colchisian?’
Aquillon nodded. ‘It means “Blessed Sons”.’
‘I am pleased for Argel Tal. He is healing well, and it will be good to turn back into fairer territory after this failed madness. Deumos was always cancerous, so I will shed no tears at his tenure coming to an end.’
That statement met with grunts of agreement from the others.
‘When Lorgar returns to the 47th Expedition, should we accompany him?’
Aquillon had been dwelling on that very thought. ‘Our mandate is to stand vigil over the Legion itself. Four Custodian teams, bound to four fleets. Iacus already claims the 47th, and I trust him as I trust any one of you. Let him play watchdog over this weakling primarch for a while. Our duties will keep us with the 1,301st, and the compliances to come.’
Kalhin released a slow breath. ‘I would pay dearly to set eyes on Terra’s skylines once more.’
‘You will,’ said Aquillon.
‘In forty-seven years,’ the other Custodian scoffed. ‘Remember the terms of our oath. Five decades among the stars. Fifty long, tedious years away from Terra.’
‘It beats the endless blood games,’ Nirallus shrugged.
‘You only say that,’ Kalhin pointed out, ‘because you are so awful at them.’
Aquillon heard the tension in his brothers’ voices. ‘The Word Bearers will not languish under suspicion forever. In three years, have you seen evidence that they still worship the Emperor? And look at them now: already their rites are growing closer to the traditions of the other Legions. This is almost like Sigismund knighting one of his templars at a gathering of the Imperial Fists.’