Aquillon and the Custodians broke away as Argel Tal and his brothers began to form ranks.
‘Be well, captain,’ said the leader, and offered another salute.
Argel Tal acknowledged the warrior with a nod. ‘And you, Occuli Imperator.’
With that, the Custodes made their way through the gathered Legion to stand apart in a small cluster. Hundreds of grey helms followed the warriors’ movements, watching, judging, hating.
Argel Tal and Xaphen moved to the front ranks alongside Chapter Master Deumos and the other commanders of the Serrated Sun. Considering their victory here, the greetings were oddly subdued. It took a moment for Argel Tal to realise why.
‘How long were you with them?’ Deumos asked, just short of a demand.
Argel Tal glanced at the chron display counting up on the edge of his visor display. ‘Eight hours, forty-one minutes.’
Deumos was bareheaded, and his time-cracked face was set in an expectant glower.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ asked Argel Tal. ‘Have I erred?’
‘Of course not. You have nothing to report?’
‘I do, sir.’ Argel Tal faced forward. ‘But it can wait.’
‘Look at them, brother.’ Deumos was too careful to gesture, but his meaning was clear nevertheless. ‘See how they stand away from us, yet still expect to hear the primarch’s words.’
The Custodes stood spear-straight in two lines of ten, horsehair crests blowing in the wind. Halberds held at attention, just as they would be in the Emperor’s presence. Products of a refined process, where the Astartes were mass-produced – it was easy to imagine these gilded knights hailed as humanity’s finest, beneath only the primarchs themselves in grandeur. It was the natural instinct of the untrained and inexperienced to presume such a thing. For those who perceived their flaws, matters were less cut and dried.
Argel Tal still hadn’t decided how he felt about them. They were stunning in battle, yet deeply flawed. Aquillon was appointed to watch over the Legion and report its actions to the Emperor, yet he had – irritatingly enough – been likable during the hours they’d battled together, and a demonstrably focused warrior.
The Word Bearers stood beneath the scripture-laden banner of Seventh Company and the icon of the serrated sun, as they waited for their brothers to take position.
‘Carthage stands apart from us, yet they will hear the primarch,’ said Argel Tal.
‘That’s different,’ Deumos growled. ‘The Carthage Primacy was signed and oathed over a century ago. Almost a dozen of their war machines have been inducted as honorary Legionnaires since then. Aurelian will order them to leave, mark my words, but at least they have earned the right to stand with us.’
‘Given time, Aquillon might earn the same.’
Deumos laughed, the sudden sound turning nearby heads in his direction. ‘Do you actually believe that, captain?’
Argel Tal tore his gaze from the clustered Custodians. ‘No, lord. Not for a moment.’
Even in the scalding flare of teleportation’s aftermath, every warrior noticed the same thing. Lorgar manifested not in the armour of the Word Bearers’ warlord, but in the robes of an archpriest of their home world.
Kor Phaeron and Erebus stood at the primarch’s side, as all had expected, and as tradition dictated. Yet they too wore the cowled robes of the Colchisian priesthood, their genhanced physiques draped in layered cloth the colour of ashen earth.
Oath papers pinned to the captains’ armour flapped and curled with the breath of displaced air. Rank by rank, from first to last, a hundred thousand warriors went to one knee. Each lowering rank gave a united thud of ceramite on soil as they knelt. Only the banners remained held high above an ocean of granite grey.
Lorgar carried his crozius over his shoulder, mirroring the posture of every Chaplain in the Legion standing before him. Despite its savagery, the ritual weapon wasn’t out of place in the primarch’s more peaceful aspect.
Without his armour, he couldn’t speak across the vox. To compensate, Legion serfs deployed servo-skulls – the skinned, bleached, augmented skulls of former Legion servants who were chosen to continue serving the Word Bearers even in death. The skulls hovered on humming anti-grav suspensors, their eye sockets containing pict-imagers, their grinning jaws replaced by vox-speakers.
One of them bobbed past Argel Tal in its leisurely pathfinding, and a disquieting thought was dredged up in the skull’s passing. This might be Cyrene’s fate one day. If she got her wish to serve the Legion in the decades to come... Argel Tal turned to watch the servo-skull, curious at his own sudden discomfort. Most mortal serfs relished the promise that they might be granted immortality in even this stunted way. But Cyrene–
‘What are you doing?’ Xaphen hissed. ‘Focus.’
Argel Tal snapped back to attention, facing the primarch. Lorgar had chosen his arrival point with great care, standing atop a natural rise in the land before the orderly ranks of warriors sworn to his name.
Before speaking, the cowl came down, pulled back with sublime patience to reveal his strong, handsome features – the features of his father, but inked gold, with his eyes ringed by kohl. He was the very image of a hierophant preacher in Ancient Gyptus: a faroah’s high priest, ministering to the faithful.
‘My loyal sons. In the past, you have kneeled for each Rite of Remembrance, as you kneel even now. But no more. Word Bearers... Rise.’
Discipline be damned, the Astartes began to glance at one another, taken aback by their lord’s words. This was already unprecedented, and it had barely begun. Surprise and confusion actually had most of the Astartes defying their primarch’s order.
‘Rise,’ Lorgar said, a gentle laugh edging into his speech. ‘Rise, all of you. Now is not the time for obeisance.’
Xaphen rose immediately. All of the Chaplains did. Argel Tal stood slower, looking at his friend.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see,’ said Xaphen.
Lorgar’s next words weren’t for his sons. He gestured with his free hand, the skin gold in the dawn, taking in the small phalanx of warriors at the edge of the sprawling conclave.
‘And what have we here?’ he asked. The servo-skulls projected his words to the thousands gathered, preserving the gentle voice even through crackling vox. ‘Our appointed overseers. I give you the thanks of the Seventeenth Legion for your aid in bringing this heretic world into compliance.’
The twenty Custodes bowed, not quite in unison.
Argel Tal was too far distant to hear Aquillon’s words, but the Custodes commander bowed lower than his comrades, and gestured to the gathered Legion.
Lorgar’s reply was delivered with the same gentle diplomacy as his gratitude.
‘You are correct, Custodian Aquillon. Your tenure with the Seventeenth Legion began under dark skies. However, I must beg your indulgence this once. The words I wish to share with my sons are not for the ears of others.’
Again, Argel Tal had no hope of hearing Aquillon’s reply. Lorgar smiled in response, making the sign of the aquila. When the primarch formed the symbol over his grey robe, the gold hands became an aquila akin to those that marked the breastplates of the Emperor’s own guardians. Argel Tal doubted any present could miss the gesture’s symbolic nature.
‘My sons have been shamed, and endured the shattering of their beliefs. I brought them to this world not simply to reforge them in battle, but to speak of the future. And that will be with my sons, and my sons alone. Look to the south, where even our Mechanicum allies withdraw out of respect.’
Argel Tal looked over his shoulder guard, seeing the primarch’s words taking shape as the Mechanicum withdrew. Only the few robots granted honorary Legion inductance were remaining. Incarnadine stood motionless, the Word Bearers banner draped over its shoulders like a cloak of royalty.
Lorgar smiled his father’s smile, cutting off Aquillon’s reply. ‘Every Legion has its rites and observations, Aquillon. The Rite of Remembrance is one of ours. Would you impose upon the Wolves of Russ when they howl around the stone cairns of their fallen? Would you intrude upon the Sons of Prospero as they meditate on the perfection of human potential?’
Aquillon stepped forward now. A floating servo-skull picked up his reply and broadcast the words across to the gathered Legion.
‘If the Emperor, beloved by all, ordered me to watch over those Legions...’
Lorgar clasped his hands together, his smile of indulgence so earnest that it bordered on mockery.