‘Rise, my son,’ said a voice spoken with quiet, understated authority that nevertheless made a shudder of unaccountable panic ripple through Sor Talgron. It was not an experience common for an Astartes.
Pushing himself to his feet, Sor Talgron lifted his gaze and looked upon the shadowed face of a demigod.
Lorgar was as magnificent and terrible to behold as ever. His scalp was completely hairless, and every inch of exposed flesh was caked in gold leaf, so that he gleamed like a statue of living metal. The sockets of his soulful, impossibly intense eyes were blackened with kohl, and Sor Talgron was, as ever, unable to hold the Urizen’s gaze for more than a fraction of second.
There was such vitality, such depth of pain, such intensity and yes, such suppressed violence in Lorgar’s eyes that surely only another primarch could hope to stare into them without breaking down weeping before this living god.
He stood a head taller than Sor Talgron, and his slender physique was encased within a magnificent suit of armour. Each overlapping plate was the colour of granite and inscribed with the intricate cuneiform of Colchis. Over this he wore an opulent robe the exact shade of congealed blood, the fabric heavy with gold stitching.
The Urizen, the Golden One, the Anointed; the primarch of the XVII Legion had many names. To those whom he deemed heretic, he was death incarnate; to his faithful, he was everything.
‘We are pleased with your success, brother-captain,’ said a smooth voice. Almost gratefully, Sor Talgron turned his gaze towards the figure that accompanied the primarch. Erebus. Who else would dare answer for the primarch?
‘Thank you, First Chaplain,’ said Sor Talgron, bowing his head respectfully.
‘This is the one?’ said Lorgar, his intense gaze fixing upon the figure of the old priest, who stood transfixed at Sor Talgron’s side. The captain of Thirty-fourth Company had all but forgotten about him. The elderly hierarch leant heavily on his staff, his eyes wide with horror. He was shaking his head slightly from side to side, moaning wordlessly.
‘This is he, my lord,’ replied Sor Talgron. ‘This is the one I believe to be the leader of this world’s cult of Emperor-worship.’
Erebus smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes. Sor Talgron knew that look well, and his blood turned to ice.
‘I gave my word that no further harm would befall his people,’ insisted Sor Talgron. ‘Don’t make a liar of me, Erebus.’
‘You’re going soft, brother,’ said Erebus.
‘It is my belief,’ Sor Talgron said, looking towards Lorgar, ‘that a race memory of the God-Emperor lingers in the subconscious of the inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen. They are devout, and worship Him faithfully, albeit as a crude, elemental force. It would be an easy thing to direct them towards the Imperial Truth, my lord. I feel that had such knowledge been known beforehand, the war on Forty-seven Sixteen would have been deemed unnecessary and inappropriate.’
Erebus craned his neck to look up at the statue of the storm-god above them. He raised an eyebrow and exchanged an amused glance with his primarch before looking Sor Talgron in the eye once more.
‘You’ve done your duty, captain,’ said Erebus, stalking around behind the old priest like a wolf circling its prey. ‘And you’ve saved the lives of many of our brothers. For that, you are to be commended.’
‘There is more,’ insisted Sor Talgron. ‘I believe that they have been… picking up our signals, my lord. I saw a copy of…’
His voice faltered as the Urizen turned his gaze towards him once more, and he felt a shudder of unease beneath the power of the primarch’s gaze.
‘A copy of what, captain?’
‘The Lectitio Divinitatus, lord,’ said Sor Talgron.
‘Really?’ said Lorgar, clearly surprised.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Sor Talgron.
‘Walk with me,’ said Lorgar. Sor Talgron found himself responding instantly. Such was the power and control in the primarch’s voice that he would not have been able to resist had he any wish to.
‘Bring him,’ the Urizen said over his shoulder, and Erebus guided the old priest, gently but firmly, in their wake. Squad Helikon fell in behind them at a nod from the First Chaplain, leaving the dais empty.
The primarch stepped off the dais and strode towards the steep, tiered stairway that would take them up to the ring of Kor Phaeron’s First Company, standing motionless around the circumference of the arena above. Sor Talgron had to hurry to keep pace. Abruptly, the primarch came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face the captain of Thirty-fourth Company, a rare, sardonic smile curling the corners of his lips.
‘It was a lifetime ago when I wrote the Lectitio Divinitatus,’ said Lorgar.
‘It is the greatest literary work ever to have been conceived,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘It is your masterpiece.’
Erebus laughed lightly at that, and Sor Talgron felt his choler rise. Lorgar broke into motion once more, taking the stairs four at a time, and he struggled to keep up. Of the thousands of people who stared open-mouthed at this golden, living god walking among them, the Urizen paid no notice.
‘Much has happened these past months,’ the primarch said. ‘My eyes have been opened.’
‘My lord?’ said Sor Talgron.
‘The Lectitio Divinitatus is nothing,’ said the primarch. There was a quiet but forceful vehemence to his voice. ‘Nothing.’
Sor Talgron could not comprehend what he was hearing, and he furrowed his brow. Was this some test of his faith and devotion?
‘I am composing a new work,’ declared Lorgar, favouring Sor Talgron with a conspiratorial glance. They were almost at the top of the tiered steps. ‘It is almost complete. It is to be my opus, Talgron, something with true meaning. It will make you forget the Lectitio Divinitatus.’
‘What is it, lord?’ said Sor Talgron, though he immediately feared he had overstepped his mark.
‘Something special,’ said the Urizen, tantalisingly.
They reached the top of the tiered amphitheatre, where they were greeted by Kor Phaeron, who dropped to one knee before his lord primarch. When he stood, his eyes were burning hot with the flames of fanaticism. He licked his lips as he stared at the old priest, who was being helped up the final stairs by an attentive and gentle Erebus.
‘My lord,’ said Sor Talgron, his mouth dry. He felt the gaze of the priest upon him, but avoided it. ‘Are we to condemn these people for… for merely being cut off from Terra?’
Stony silence greeted Sor Talgron’s words, broken finally by Kor Phaeron.
‘Ignorance is no excuse for blasphemy, brother,’ he said.
Lorgar glared at his First Captain, who backed away, dropping his gaze and visibly paling.
Then the primarch put his arm around Sor Talgron’s shoulder, and drew him away from the others. At such close proximity, he smelt of rich oils and incense. The scent was intoxicating.
‘Sometimes,’ said Lorgar, his tone one of regret, ‘sacrifices must be made.’
He turned Sor Talgron around. The priest was still looking at him, eyes filled with dread. Out of the corner of his vision, Sor Talgron saw the primarch’s almost imperceptible nod.
A knife, its blade curved like the body of a serpent, was suddenly in Erebus’s hand. Sor Talgron cried out, but Lorgar’s grip around his shoulders was crushing, and he could do nothing as the blade was plunged into the old priest’s neck.
Holding the old man upright with one hand, Erebus ripped his knife free and a fountain of blood spurted from the fatal wound. Hot arterial blood splashed across the plates of Erebus’s blessed armour, staining it dark red.