The angel chuckled. ‘Let me finish.’
‘Forgive me, Chaplain.’
‘Several other Chapters encountered lost souls in Monarchia’s graveyard. You were not the only Khurian to join the Legion when we left, but you were the only one taken in by the Chapter of the Serrated Sun. You ask how you could serve us. I would argue that you already do. Argel Tal is my brother, and I know the paths his thoughts take. He brought you as a reminder, a symbol of the past. You are the living memorial of our Legion’s greatest failure.’
‘The perfect city was no den of sin.’ She tried to keep the offence from her voice. ‘Why do you always speak of it so?’
A pause. The slow release of a deep breath. ‘The city itself was not the sin. It was what the city represented. I have told you what the God-Emperor decreed that day. You have a keen mind, girl. Do not ask for answers you can shape yourself. Now, this desire to serve the Legion: tell me why it matters to you.’
She’d not really considered it before. It seemed the only course to walk, given her presence here. Yet there was a deeper reason, a desire that pulled at her in the uncountable hours she sat in silence.
‘I owe my life to the Legion,’ she said, ‘and I wish to serve because it feels right that I should. It would be fair.’
‘Is that all?’
She shook his head, with no idea if Xaphen was even looking at her. ‘No. I confess I am also lonely, and very bored.’
Xaphen chuckled again. ‘Then we will deal with that. Were you one of the faithful on Khur?’
Cyrene hesitated, and moistened dry lips with a nervous tongue. ‘I listened to the Speakers of the Word preaching in the plazas, and the daily prayers echoing across the city. Nothing stirred my heart. I believed, and I knew the scriptures, but I did not...’
‘Care.’
Cyrene nodded. Her throat gave a sticky click as she took a breath. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. She couldn’t help the twitch when Xaphen’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said, ‘for my lack of faith.’
‘Don’t be. You were right, Cyrene.’
‘I... what?’
‘You showed insight, and the strength to doubt conventional belief. Over countless centuries, humanity has achieved great things in the name of faith. History teaches us this. Faith is the fuel for the soul’s journey. Without belief in greater ideals, we are incomplete – the union of the spirit with the flesh is what raises us above beasts and inhumans. But misplaced worship? To bow down before an unworthy idol? This is a sin of the gravest ignorance. And that is a sin you’ve never been guilty of. Be proud of that, lady.’
Warmth flooded through her, to earn the respect of an angel like this. Fervour filled her voice for the first time since the death of her city.
‘How could anyone bow before an unworthy idol?’
Another pause. A hesitation, before sighing out the words. ‘Perhaps they were deceived. Perhaps they saw divinity and believed it was worthy of worship purely because it was divine.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Her eyebrows met in confusion above unseeing eyes. ‘There’s nothing else to worship but the divine. There are no gods but the Emperor.’
She heard Xaphen take a breath. When the Chaplain spoke again, his voice was softer still.
‘Are you so certain, Cyrene?’
SEVEN
Compliance
Swords of Red Iron
Carthage
The world had two names, only one of which mattered. The first was used by the native population – a name that would soon be lost in history’s pages. The second was the name imposed by its conquerors, which would hold for centuries, branding an Imperial identity upon a dead planet.
The globe span in the void with an orbit of slow grace comparable to distant Terra, and its blue-green surface marked it as a younger sibling of that most venerated world. Where Terra’s seas were burned dry from centuries of war and tectonic upheaval, the oceans of Forty-Seven Sixteen were rich with salt-surviving life, and deep beyond poetic imagining. Perhaps the future would bring a need for this world to be a bastion-metropolis akin to Terra, where the buried earth choked beneath palaces and castles and dense hive towers. For now, its landmasses wore the green and brown of unspoiled wilderness, the white and grey of mountain ranges. Cities of crystal and silver, spires that speared the sky from almost laughably fragile foundations, dotted the continents. Each city was linked by well-worn trade roads – freight veins with traffic for blood.
This was Forty-Seven Sixteen, the sixteenth world ready to be brought to compliance by the 47th Expedition.
Four weeks after the Word Bearers fleet sailed from the ruin of Khur, they translated in-system here, prowling around Forty-Seven Sixteen with the predatory promise of ancient seaborne raiders.
The grey warships remained in orbit for eight hours, engines dead, doing nothing at all.
At the ninth hour, cheers echoed throughout every vessel in the fleet. The primarch appeared on the command deck of Fidelitas Lex, flanked by Erebus and Kor Phaeron. Both Astartes wore their battle armour – the former in the grey of the Legion, the latter in his brutal warplate of the Terminator elite.
A live pict-feed carried the image to the bridge of every warship bearing Legion colours, as thousands upon thousands of warriors watched their primarch return.
Clad in sleek armour of granite grey, somehow all the more regal for the lack of ostentation, Lorgar’s crooked smile spoke of some hidden amusement he ached to share with his sons.
‘I hope you will all forgive my absence,’ the words melted into a chuckle. ‘And I trust you have enjoyed this time of contemplation and respite.’
Around him, Astartes warriors broke into laughter. Kor Phaeron lowered his hollow eyes, giving a bleak smirk. Even Erebus smiled.
‘My sons, the past is the past and we look now to the future.’ In Lorgar’s grey fist was his crozius mace. He carried it over his shoulder with casual ease. ‘Those of you assigned to other expedition fleets will be granted leave to return to them shortly, but first, we will renew our bonds of brotherhood as a united Legion.’
Another cheer rang out across the decks of over a hundred of ships.
‘This is Forty-Seven Sixteen,’ Lorgar’s contemplative smile remained, though melancholy robbed it of some conviction. ‘A world of such great beauty.’
With his free hand, he smoothed his fingertips around his short brown beard, little more than neat stubble along his jawline. ‘I do not believe the people of this world to be irrevocably corrupt, but as we have seen, my judgement has its critics.’
More laughter. Kor Phaeron and Erebus met each other’s eyes, their chuckles joining the Legion’s. This levity was nothing less than an exorcism – a shedding of humiliation’s clinging stink – and both warriors sensed it clearly.
‘You have all seen the briefing details,’ said the primarch. ‘The First Chaplain and First Captain inform me that the Chapter leaders gathered this morning to discuss objectives and landing zones, so I will not waste your precious time.’ His dry smile bore little humour now, yet still it remained. ‘The Emperor wishes the XVII Legion to conquer with greater alacrity. If a world cannot be brought to compliance with haste, then it must be purged to its core. So we come to this.’
In unison, Erebus drew his crozius and lightning rippled in a jagged flow down the claws of Kor Phaeron’s gauntlets.
‘My sons.’ Their master’s smile died fast enough for many to doubt it had ever been there. ‘Forgive me for the words duty forces me to speak.’
Lorgar raised his maul of black iron, aiming it at the planet slowly spinning on the occulus viewscreen. Storms formed in a crawling, meteorological ballet as the Legion stood witness – the fleet’s low orbit was curdling the planet’s skies.
‘Word Bearers,’ said the primarch. ‘Kill every man, woman and child on that heretic world.’
Cyrene waited until she realised Argel Tal wasn’t going to continue. Only then did she speak.
‘And did you?’ she asked. ‘Did you do it?’