That thought cooled his condescending wrath, though. What had they done in all this time? Kor Phaeron’s remark about Argel Tal nursemaiding the Custodes away from the ‘true Legion’ had bitten deeper than he wished to confess.
The growl grew faint in his throat, taking on a bestial whine.
‘Be silent,’ grunted Sevatar.
Argel Tal tensed, holding his breath, suppressing the rush of anger he felt at being spoken to in such a way. Whatever was bonded to him truly loathed being pushed into situations of submission.
Raum.
What?
I am Raum.
Argel Tal felt his heart beat in time to the whispered syllables. The bile at his lips bubbled as it boiled, and his hands ached to the bone with merciless ferocity.
You are the second soul my father saw so long ago.
Yes.
You twist my thoughts. I am forever on the edge of rage, or speaking bladed words to my brothers.
I bring out only what is already present within you.
I will not let you claim me.
I will not try. We are one. I have slept long enough to drip into every cell within your body. It is your flesh, and it is my flesh. It will change soon. We are Argel Tal, and we are Raum.
Your voice is the same as mine.
It is how my soul speaks to yours, and how our shared flesh translates it into mortal meaning. I have no voice, except for the roars we will shout when we shed blood.
Argel Tal felt burning wetness around his gauntleted fingers. I am in pain. I cannot move my hands.
Symbiosis. Union. Balance. There will be times when you rise to the fore. There will be times when I am in ascendance.
Then what is this pain?
It is all a prelude for the changes to come.
The gods have already sent their call. The ordained time has come... I am faster, stronger, more vital than before. And I cannot remove my armour, nor take off my helm.
Yes. This is our new skin.
What more changes can there be?
Raum laughed, whisper-faint and teasingly distant. You will hear the gods many times in your life. The ordained time has not truly come. You heard the call to begin the Long War, but the gods have not screamed yet. This is the prelude.
But I heard them. We heard them.
You will know the scream when you truly hear it. This, I promise.
‘...the Gal Vorbak will stand with the Iron Warriors, forming the anvil,’ concluded Lorgar.
Argel Tal refocused on his surroundings. The pain in his hands faded once more. Not knowing what he should say, he nodded his head in the primarch’s direction, agreeing with Lorgar’s words without knowing what they were. The primarch offered a kindly smile, seeming to sense his son’s distraction.
Lord Curze turned his sleepless eyes upon his own Astartes. ‘Then we stand ready. My First Company will also join the Iron Warriors for the initial strike.’
‘Dath sethicara tash dasovallian,’ the Nostraman language hissed off his tongue. ‘Solruthis veh za jass.’
The Night Lord captains banged dark gauntlets against their chestplates. ‘In midnight clad,’ they chorused.
‘Iron within,’ Perturabo spoke gruffly, and hefted his massive warhammer over his shoulder. ‘Iron without.’ In response, his men thudded the hafts of their axes and hammers on the decking.
The warriors of the Alpha Legion, and their primarch himself, remained silent.
It fell to Lorgar, as Argel Tal had known it would, to finish the gathering.
‘The forces on the surface have been embattled for almost three hours with no clear victor emerging. Even now, the loyalists wait for us to make planetfall, believing we will reinforce their final advance. We all know our parts to play in this performance. We are all aware of the blood we must shed to spare our species from destruction, and install Horus as the Master of Mankind.
‘Brothers,’ the primarch bowed his head in reverence. ‘Today we take the first step towards forging a greater kingdom. May the gods go with you.’
As Argel Tal made to move from the chamber, he saw his former mentor beckon him closer. Erebus was handsome only in the way a weapon could be called such: a cold blade, dangerous no matter who holds it, reflecting the light while producing none of its own. The Gal Vorbak leader stalked closer, ululating a quiet growl in his throat, nursing it there and enjoying the feel of his rage.
Erebus wished to speak with him, and Kor Phaeron would almost certainly remain. That in itself was cause for disquiet. What ambitions had they fed to the primarch in four long decades? What had they seen, and what had they learned?
His growl grew louder.
Hate him, but do not strike him. He is chosen. Just like you.
Will I always hear your voice?
No. Our end is fated. We will be destroyed in the shadow of great wings. Then you will hear my voice no more.
Argel Tal felt his blood run cold, and knew that this feeling, at least, was not part of the promised changes to his body.
‘Erebus,’ he greeted the First Chaplain. ‘I am in no mind to argue.’
‘Nor I,’ the older warrior said. ‘Much has happened since we last spoke. We have both seen many things, and made difficult choices to bring us to this moment in time.’ Erebus met Argel Tal’s eye lenses with his own stony, solemn gaze. It was hard not to admire the Chaplain’s composure at all times, and his great patience.
It was also hard to forget his great disappointment, once it was earned.
‘I have heard of all you witnessed, and went through,’ Erebus continued. ‘Xaphen has kept me appraised.’
‘Do you have a point?’ Argel Tal murmured, and even to his own ears his words sounded puerile.
‘I am proud of you.’ Erebus briefly rested his hand on Argel Tal’s shoulder. ‘I simply wished to say that.’
Without another word, Erebus moved away, following the primarch. Kor Phaeron gave a wet, burbling chuckle, and stalked off in slower pursuit, Terminator joints grinding.
TWENTY-FIVE
Second Wave
Changes
Betrayal
It was the battle to begin the war.
The Urgall Depression was churned to ruination beneath the boots and tank treads of countless thousands of Astartes warriors and their Legion’s armour divisions. The loyal primarchs could be found where the fighting was thickest: Corax of the Raven Guard, borne aloft on black wings bound to a fire-breathing flight pack; Lord Ferrus of the Iron Hands at the heart of the battlefield, his silver hands crushing any traitors that came within reach, while he pursued and dragged back those who sought to withdraw; and lastly, Vulkan of the Salamanders, armoured in overlapping artificer plating, thunder clapping from his warhammer as it pounded into yielding armour, shattering it like porcelain.
The traitorous primarchs slew in mirror image to their brothers: Angron of the World Eaters hewing with wild abandon as he raked his chainblades left and right, barely cognizant of who fell before him; Fulgrim of the lamentably-named Emperor’s Children, laughing as he deflected the clumsy sweeps of Iron Hands warriors, never stopping in his graceful movements for even a moment; Mortarion of the Death Guard, in disgusting echo of ancient Terran myth, harvesting life with each reaving sweep of his scythe.