The old priest sighed, and nodded his head vaguely. With a gesture, he drew Sor Talgron’s attention towards a dark glass cube that was rising smoothly from the floor. Was it some form of weapon? His pistol was in his hand instantly.
There was something forming within the solid mass of the prism, and sensing no immediate danger, Sor Talgron stepped cautiously towards it. The perfect glass cube would have come up to the chest of a regular human, but Sor Talgron was forced to bend forwards to peer at the image taking shape within.
At first the object forming within was hazy and transparent, like a ghost-image, but within several heartbeats it solidified. It was somewhat like the three-dimensional representations that he had seen produced by advanced pict-devices, but those images were always poor representations of reality. This image looked real, a solid artefact, encased in the glass cube.
It was an open book, he saw, painstakingly illuminated with ink and gold leaf. The borders were replete with impossibly intricate, coiling designs and interweaving patterns. Sor Talgron saw that stylised figures and creatures were worked into these borders, hidden amidst the twisting patterns and coiling spirals. Each of the pages was covered in dense lines of script written in a firm, austere and vaguely familiar hand.
Every warrior-brother of the XVII Legion spent several hours every day engaged in solitary illumination, but never had he seen a work such as this. The penmanship and artistry was phenomenal, far beyond anything that Sor Talgron or any warrior-brother could ever hope to achieve. It was a work of undeniable genius – something that surely no mortal hand could ever hope to match. Indeed, the only illuminated works that he had ever seen that were even vaguely comparable was those penned by the Urizen himself, and he had only been allowed fragmentary glimpses of those great works…
He leaned in closer, eyes widening. The text was written in the variation of High Gothic utilised only by the religious elite of his homeworld, Colchis.
‘What is this?’ said Sor Talgron in shock, his mind whirling.
He threw a glance towards the priest, standing nearby, but it was impossible to read the expression in the old man’s eyes. He turned back towards the book seemingly trapped within the black cube.
‘…and in faith shall the universe be united…’ he said, reading aloud a line that leapt out from the dense script. His voice faltered. He knew these words. Indeed, he had memorised this work in its entirety. He swallowed heavily.
‘…united behind the… the God-Emperor of all mankind,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, completing the hallowed line.
He looked back at the old priest in confusion and shock.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘We are the Scions of the Storm,’ said the old man, gesturing with both arms to encapsulate all the people standing around the temple dais.
‘What in Lorgar’s name is that supposed to mean?’ growled Sor Talgron.
The old priest snorted, and shuffled past Sor Talgron. He leant forwards and brushed his fingertips across the smooth surface of the cube. The pages of the book within the glass prism turned in response, flicking rapidly. Each was intricately illuminated and covered in dense script. Sliding his fingertips more slowly across the surface of the cube, the old priest made the pages turn slower, flicking slowly until he came to the densely illuminated frontispiece of the holy text.
He flashed Sor Talgron a sad smile, pointing at the page.
The captain of Thirty-fourth Company stared wide-eyed at the full-page illumination. It showed a radiant figure bedecked in wondrously detailed armour, detailed in gold leaf. The divine figure’s head was thrown back, and surrounded by a golden halo.
The God-Emperor of Mankind.
Sor Talgron’s eye was drawn to the golden armour worn by the God-Emperor, to His ornate and ancient breastplate, the breastplate He was said to have worn while leading the ancient armies of unification across the ravaged surface of old Terra… the breastplate that bore the ancient symbols of His rulership, symbols that were recognised and rightfully feared before even the commencement of Old Night, the symbols mirrored on the golden armour of the Legio Custodes, the Emperor’s personal guard.
These symbols rose in bas-relief from the Emperor’s armour; they represented the Emperor’s wrath – thunder bolts.
Understanding dawned.
The inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen were worshipping the Emperor.
Sor Talgron swallowed thickly, still staring at the image of the Emperor.
Scions of the Storm, the old man had called his people; sons of the storm. They were worshipping the Emperor as a god, the personification of the storms that wracked their world.
‘Now you understand,’ said the priest. He tapped a finger onto the smooth surface of the cube, and the three-dimensional image of the holy work disappeared.
‘This war should never have been sanctioned,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘Your people are not heretics.’
‘No,’ said the old priest. ‘We wished to join your Imperium – long had we thought ourselves alone in the darkness.’
‘We can stop this,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘You must lower your shield – I cannot contact my commander while it is intact.’
How many people had already died here? And for what? Sor Talgron felt hollow inside. They had committed genocide because of a misunderstanding.
The Scion smiled sadly, and stepped towards Sor Talgron. He placed a wrinkled hand upon the captain’s chest plate, over his heart.
‘Give me your word that the last of my people will live, and the shield shall be lowered,’ the old man said.
‘I swear it,’ said Sor Talgron.
The shield-dome encasing the temple-palace of the Scions flickered and disappeared, and Sor Talgron hastily patched in to the Fidelitas Lex, speaking of what he had learnt.
‘Understood, Talgron,’ came Kor Phaeron’s muffled reply. ‘The Urizen has been informed. Hold position.’
The long-range vox-channel was cut off, and for long minutes Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon stood by uneasily, waiting for fresh orders. The squad still kept their weapons upon the crowd, and Sor Talgron stared up at the statue of the Emperor above.
Long minutes passed. Now that the shield-dome was down, vox-reports began to flood in – it appeared that all fighting across Forty-seven Sixteen had ceased.
‘Teleport signature,’ reported Arshaq finally.
‘This will all be over soon, old one,’ Sor Talgron said in a respectful tone. ‘The Urizen will be pleased to have learnt that you are believers.’
A moment later, scores of coalescing shapes began to appear around the circumference of the tiered prayer-levels above, teleporting in from the Fidelitas Lex in low orbit overhead. They appeared at first as little more than vague shimmers of light, then as more solid forms as realisation was completed.
One after another, a hundred Terminator-armoured Astartes materialised, weapons trained on the human worshippers of Forty-seven Sixteen. Sor Talgron raised an eyebrow.
‘A little dramatic, brother,’ he commented, under his breath. He raised a hand in greeting to his brother-captain. The distant figure of Kor Phaeron nodded curtly in response, though he made no move to descend the tiers.
Two more shapes began to coalesce, this time on the dais alongside Sor Talgron. His eyes widened as he saw who it was that was teleporting in, and he dropped to one knee, his head bowed and his heart hammering in his chest as the teleportation was completed.
A warm hand was placed upon the crown of his head, its pressure firm, yet nurturing.