screams.
Eight immense gehemahnet towers surrounded the monstrous temple, and the doleful tolling of
their bells resounded across the hellish landscape. Hundreds of thousands of rapturous voices rose in
glorifying chants as the colossal bells pealed, the sound torn from raw throats.
For as far as the eye could see, from horizon to horizon, towering shrines and temples to the dark
gods rose from the blood soaked earth of Sicarus, daemon home world of the XVII Legion and seat
of power of the Primarch Lorgar. Kilometre-high obelisks hanging with thousands of lifeless bodies
and daubed with infernal runes had been erected in every quarter, and grand mausoleums,
cathedrals, and giant statues surrounded by squares teeming with worshippers spread out around the
basilica.
Spider-legged cranes picked their way across the horizon, each one accompanied by half a
million slave-workers that toiled to raise ever more impressive structures of devotion and worship to
the gods of Chaos, constructing new temples, fanes and sacrariums atop older, crumbling edifices
and cathedrals. The work was constant, level built upon level, so that the majority of the buildings
were subterranean, an impossibly deep, labyrinthine warren of interconnected structures, all devoted
to the worship of Chaos in all its guises. Indeed, millions of slaves toiled below ground, never
seeing the surface at all, carving out more caverns of worship, crypts and deep, hidden sanctums
many kilometres beneath the surface of the daemon world.
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The rogue trader, Ikorus Baranov, was down there somewhere, thought Marduk in amusement,
if he was not already dead. He had enjoyed the look of horror and betrayal on the weakling mortal’s
face when he had ordered him to be taken into the slave gangs. The human had served its purpose,
and was less than nothing to Marduk.
Two moons hung low in the burning skies, their jet-black surfaces wreathed in hellfire, like the
eyes of the gods staring down upon Marduk.
He stood on a high balcony constructed from human bones, staring down upon the glory of the
Host, arrayed below him on one of the immense terraces that extended down the sides of the
basilica: his Host.
It was gathered in all its might, standing in serried ranks, and Marduk felt pride as he looked
upon them. Pennants of flayed human flesh fluttered from back-banners, and all within the Host had
repainted their left shoulder pads, the ones that had previously been stained black in mourning for
Jarulek, Dark Apostle of the Host. They were no longer in mourning, Marduk thought with a smile.
At the front of the power armoured bulk of the warrior brethren stood the Anointed, the warrior
elite of the Host, and armoured divisions interspersed the ranks. Rhinos, Land Raiders, Predators,
Vindicators, all had had their battle-scarred hulls repainted, and fresh sigils to the ruinous powers
and litanies of the true word had been daubed and inscribed upon their ancient, armoured skins.
Hundreds of slaves and chirumeks worked upon the hulls of these armoured divisions, patching
damage and sanctifying their hulls anew in the blood of unbelievers.
Daemon engines and Dreadnoughts clawed at the flagstones of the terrace to the side of the bulk
of the Host, each titanic amalgamation of machine and daemon kept in place by chains held in the
hands of hundreds of straining slave-proselytes.
This is my Host, thought Marduk with pride and satisfaction. Mine.
Marduk stood with his eyes lowered as he awaited the judgement of the Council. None but the Dark
Apostles were allowed to look upon the sacred members of the Council when it was in session, and
he kept his eyes dutifully cast down as he awaited the outcome that would determine his fate, for
now and forever.
The wounds he had suffered under the knives of the eldar haemonculus had long since healed,
leaving just faint scars upon his flesh, joining those that he had earned from fighting on a thousand
worlds. His body was armoured in archaic plate, a holy relic that had been chosen from the armoury
of the Infidus Diabolus. Marduk had spent long hours in solitude scrimshawing the litanies of
Lorgar upon their surfaces.
He held his skull-faced helmet under one arm, the helm that had been worn by the blessed
Warmonger before him, and over his armour he wore an unadorned robe the colour of bone, as the
ritual required. His face was sunken and pale, for he had partaken of neither food nor water for a
month, just one part of the arduous tests that he had been subjected to in order to prove his
suitability.
He had been on Sicarus for almost three months, and since the commencement of the rituals of
testing and purification, he had not spoken to a living soul, though his days were filled with acts of
penitence, recitation of the Great Works and communion. He had endured all manner of ritual
debasement, as his soul was stripped bare and he was reborn into the dark faith.
He was subjected to solitary confinement for weeks on end, sealed within the ossuary sepulchre
deep beneath the Basilica of the Word, interred within a crawl-space little larger than his body,
walled in with bricks and blood mortar. Hallucinogenic smoke coiled around him in the tomb, and
as he breathed the fumes in deeply and his body passed into a catatonic state nearing death, his spirit
had soared free. Garbing himself in armour of the soul, he had fought an endless army of daemons
that sought to test his resolve, armed with a gleaming sword in one ethereal hand, a shield of
darkness strapped across his other. How long the infernal gods had directed their minions against
him he knew not, but finally he was brought back to the land of the living, his imprisonment
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shattered. He awoke a new warrior, weak in the body from his confinement, but strong in faith and
spirit.
Endless days of ritual torment and study followed, when every aspect of his mind, faith and
body were tested to breaking point, but through it all Marduk remained strong, refusing to succumb
to the daemonic whispers that taunted him, telling him that he had already failed, that his soul would
be consumed by the ether and his name forgotten by history.
All that was behind him, and he stood before the Council, proud and noble, as he awaited their
final word.
“Kneel,” came a growled command, and Marduk fell to the ground, impelled by the sheer
dominance of the voice.
A figure moved before him, and a hand was placed upon the crown of his head, pushing it
backwards to expose his throat.
I have failed, thought Marduk, though he could not believe it.
A serrated khantanka knife was drawn and its cold blade placed against the carotid artery of his
neck, but he did not flinch. He would face death with pride, though still he refused to believe that
such was his fate.
The knife slashed the artery, and Marduk gasped as blood fountained from his neck. Bright
blood pumped from the wound, spraying out around him. It gushed over his breastplate, running
down over his torso and onto the floor, pooling around his knees.
Marduk swayed, still shocked that it had come to this, and all colour drained from his face as the
pool around his knees spread outwards.
His pristine skull helmet dropped from numb fingers, splashing into the pool of warm blood, and
he fell forwards. He threw a hand out to catch himself, but his strength was fading, and it was all he
could do to stop himself from sprawling face-first into the already congealing pool of his lifeblood.
Anger swept through him.
Marduk used the anger swelling through him to give him strength, and he pushed himself up off
the floor. If he was to die, he would not die scrabbling on the floor like a dog. Even as more blood
pumped from his neck, he retrieved his blood-smeared helmet from the floor and shoved it back
under his arm.
He blinked, staring at the pool of blood in which he kneeled. There was so much blood that he
was amazed that there was any within him at all, and his vision wavered.
This is the end, he thought.
The mark of Lorgar on his forehead began to burn, smoke rising from his skin as the searing
rune blistered his flesh.
A hand was placed against his neck, and the wound was closed as warmth suffused him.
“Arise, Marduk,” said the domineering voice, and Marduk felt hands on his shoulders, helping
him to his feet. He was weak with loss of blood, and did not realise that he had passed the final test,
and had received Lorgar’s blessing.
Lifting his gaze, he stared into the impossibly dark eyes of none other than Erebus, he who had
been first Chaplain of the Word Bearers when Horus had lived, he who had brought the true faith to
so many.
“Welcome, brother,” said Erebus.
Other than Lorgar, and arguably the Keeper of the Faith, Kor Phaeron, Erebus was the most
powerful, revered and influential member of the XVII Legion, and at his word countless millions
had perished.
Erebus’s head was shaved smooth, and covered in intricate script, his flesh a living Book of
Lorgar, and Marduk stared at him in confusion and wonder, still not understanding what was taking
place.
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The other seven Council members stepped forwards, surrounding Marduk, and he gazed around
at their hallowed, revered faces in awe. He knew them all by name and reputation: the Dark Apostle
Ekodas, the craggy-faced holy leader of the 7th Company Host, who had led a holy crusade of
retribution upon the Black Consuls, almost wiping the Cursed Chapter, a successor of the hated
Ultramarines, from the galaxy; at his side was the Dark Apostle Paristur, shrewd and savage, who
had killed the Blood Angels Chaplain Aristedes in single combat on the walls of the Emperor’s
palace. Mighty heroes of legend all, the Council members closed ranks around Marduk, touching
their fingertips upon the already congealing blood and daubing unholy symbols upon his armoured
plates. Erebus dipped his thumb in the blood and marked Marduk’s cheek, and he felt his skin
blistering beneath the touch.
One of the Dark Apostles, Mothac, encased in ensorcelled daemon armour, a gift from Lorgar,
held a thick book in his arms, its weight immense. The book was bound in the skin of Ultramarines,
and Marduk gasped as he looked upon it.
“The Dark Creed,” he murmured, overcome with awe. These were the holy writings of the
daemon primarch of the Legion.
Finally, realisation dawned on him. He had succeeded!
Mothac’s face was solemn, and the Dark Apostles gave him some room as he hefted it before
him.
“Swear your undying allegiance upon the Dark Creed and you will be one with us, Brother
Marduk,” said Erebus.
Marduk placed a bloody hand upon the hallowed book, his eyes blazing with faith.
“I swear it,” he intoned.
“Dark apostle,” said Burias, and Marduk, standing on the balcony overlooking his Host, turned
towards his icon bearer with a smile.
The newly appointed Dark Apostle wore a cloak of flayed flesh, and his right hand leant upon
the butt of the mighty crozius arcanum that had been wielded by Jarulek before him. It felt good to
wear the deadly weapon, the icon that represented his new-found position.
“That will take some getting used to,” he said.
Burias smiled savagely at Marduk, and inclined his head towards the archway leading from the
bone balcony.
“The sorcerer comes,” said Burias, a note of distaste in his voice.
The archway led into his private shrine within the immensity of the Bastion of the Word. All
Dark Apostles had their own quarters within the immense structure. This one had belonged to
Jarulek, and it now belonged to him.
With a glare of warning to Burias, Marduk turned to receive the Black Legion sorcerer.
Kol Badar stood by Marduk’s side, immense and strong, his face unreadable. Only the clenching
and unclenching of his mighty power talons gave away a hint of the Coryphaus’s thoughts, and
Marduk smiled. Kol Badar had not taken Marduk’s ascension well, but he had knelt before Marduk,
as had all of the Host, and sworn his life and soul to him.
Darioq-Grendh’al stood at his other side, garbed in robes of black, his face hidden beneath a
deep cowl. The fallen magos was still changing, though his corruption was all but complete, and
Marduk marvelled at how far he had fallen. He was truly a creature of Chaos, both in body and in
spirit, and his mighty servo-limbs quivered as if beneath a mirage, their form subtly changing from
one second to the next.
Burias stood alongside the champions Sabtec and Khalaxis. Burias was tense and eager to be
away, and Marduk sensed too that Khalaxis was yearning to battle once more. Soon, he thought.
Sabtec’s face was set in his usual stoic expression. Marduk had been impressed by his skill, and
knew that he would achieve great victories in his name.
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To the side, dwarfing them all, was the immense bulk of the Warmonger, standing immobile, his
heavy weaponry held at the ready.
These are my warrior faithful, thought Marduk, my officers and advisors. He knew they would
serve him well, and if they didn’t, he would sacrifice them, and none would be able to question his
actions, for he was their Dark Apostle and he held their lives in the palm of his hand.
Marduk turned his attention to the new arrival, Inshabael Kharesh, sorcerer of the Black Legion.
His gaze met piercing blue eyes that glinted with hidden secrets and knowledge, and Marduk
affected a feigned smile of welcome. The Dark Apostle did not like the man, for he saw sorcery as a
weakness—the only true power lay in faith, not conjurer’s tricks and magic—but he was not one to
argue with the will of the Council.
“You will extend him all the courtesies that such an esteemed envoy demands in the coming
crusade,” Lord Erebus had said. “He is the emissary of the Warmaster, and though Abaddon is but a
pale shadow of Horus, we must show the requisite respect. This sorcerer could be a great ally for the
XVII Legion. See that he is treated with courtesy.”
“It will be as the Council demands, my lord,” Marduk had replied, bowing.
“The… artefact is ready to be tested upon the warriors of the false Emperor?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Do not fail me, Marduk. Should this crusade falter I will be most displeased,” said Erebus, his
voice soft, yet carrying a potent weight of menace.
The sorcerer nodded his head in respect to Marduk, dipping his staff, which bore the unblinking
