“I fear that some amongst the Host feel I am not ready for such an exalted position, my lord,” he
said.
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“Tolerate no insubordination, First Acolyte,” boomed the Warmonger. “Crucify any who seed
dissent, for theirs are the voices of poison and doubt.”
“I shall heed your council in this matter, revered one,” said Marduk.
“You are walking the black path, Marduk,” said the Warmonger. “You are the dark disciple,
moving towards the light of truth, and you shall, in time, be granted enlightenment. You did not,
however, come here for my acceptance, for you already know that you have it. What is it you would
ask of me?”
“I had wished to descend on the Imperial world of Perdus Skylla with the full force of the Host,
laying waste to the world and claiming that which is needed. While it pleases me to see the
Imperium weakened in their battles with the xenos, for it will make our eventual victory in the Long
War come all the sooner, the size of the battlefleet here in this sector forces me to change my
intentions. Mighty as she is, the Infidus Diabolus would not survive long enough to get us to the
Imperial moon.”
“I say we abandon this fool’s errand here and now,” growled Kol Badar. “Let us return to
Sicarus and leave the Imperials to wage their war against the xenos hive-creatures. We will recoup
our strength in the Eye while the Imperium suffers.”
“Kol Badar speaks, as always, with wisdom,” said the Warmonger, and for a moment Marduk
thought he had horribly misjudged the way this conversation would go. He felt a flicker of unease at
having instigated it in the presence of the Coryphaus as Kol Badar flashed him a look of triumph.
“And yet,” continued the Warmonger, “Jarulek saw in the xenos device something of great
import. He was always a gifted zealot and the power of his gods-gifted dream visions were stronger
than my own. If he saw that the item was worth waging war for, then it is an artefact of great
importance, and is destined to further the spread of the holy Word of Truth.”
“We already have the device in our possession,” said Kol Badar. “We need not tarry here and
risk it further.”
“We have the device, that is true,” admitted Marduk, “but as it is, it is worthless to us; its secrets
are locked within it. It is nothing more than a xenos curio, an inert and useless sphere of metal.”
“The chirumeks of the Legion will unlock its secrets, whatever they may be,” said Kol Badar.
I will not return to Sicarus in anything but glory, thought Marduk fiercely, glaring at the
Coryphaus. Were he to return empty-handed, he feared that the council would not endorse his rise to
Dark Apostle. With the secrets of the Nexus Arrangement unlocked and his to command, they
would be forced to heap honour upon him.
“You know that the knowledge that will unlock the device will be attained upon this Imperial
world?” asked the Warmonger.
“I do,” said Marduk. “It is held within the mind of a servant of the false Machine-God.”
“You base that belief only on the word of another servant of the Machine-God,” snarled Kol
Badar. “The Enslaved’s loyalty does not lie with the Legion. For all you know, he may be leading us
into a trap, to deliver the device unto his Mechanicus brethren.”
“The Enslaved is mine,” growled Marduk. “It has no will of its own any more. It is not capable
of such duplicity.”
“Speak with respect to your First Acolyte, Kol Badar,” chided the Warmonger. “Marduk, if you
trust the knowledge you have, then the path is clear.”
“The Infidus Diabolus cannot approach Perdus Skylla,” said Kol Badar, changing tack. “If
anything, we should return to the Eye and gather the Hosts to our cause. Then we can return, and
take the moon by force.”
“The xenos threat will have obliterated it by then,” snapped Marduk. “We have both seen worlds
ravaged by their kind; nothing is left behind. The secrets will be lost forever.”
“You do not need my council, then, disciple Marduk. Kol Badar, if brute force will not suffice,
explore more subtle ways of gaining victory for your First Acolyte.”
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Marduk smiled as he saw Kol Badar’s jaw twitch in anger.
“As always, Warmonger, you are the voice of wisdom,” said Marduk, bowing. “My purpose is
clear; you have allayed my fears and stripped away the shadow of doubt. I am confident that my
loyal Coryphaus will find a way forward.”
“One last thing, Marduk. I am disturbed that there are those within the Legion who doubt your
holy right to lead them. I would have it known that I fully endorse your appointment.”
The Warmonger shifted its immense weight, servos and gyro-compensators hissing. It turned on
the spot, each step making the floor shudder, and reached out with its immense power-claw,
scooping something up in its grasp. Then it turned back towards Marduk, and the First Acolyte
strained to see what the Warmonger held.
The sickle-bladed talons of the Dreadnought’s power claw opened, and Marduk saw a gleaming
helmet, its porcelain features moulded into the form of a grimacing skull. An eight-pointed star of
Chaos was carved into its forehead, and its sharpened fangs were fixed in a grinning rictus. A crack,
not battle damage, but rather a carved affectation, ran across the left brow and continued below the
glimmering eye-piece onto the cheek.
It was a revered, ancient artefact of the Legion, and had been crafted by the finest artisans of
Mars in the years before the commencement of the Great War for the Warmonger himself.
Marduk stared at the sacred helmet with covetous eyes.
“I ordered my helmet removed from its stasis field within the bone-ossuary,” said the
Warmonger, “though at the time I did not understand what it was that urged me to do so. I see
clearly now that it was the will of the gods for you to have it, young Marduk.”
The First Acolyte stepped forwards and lifted the helmet from the Warmonger’s outstretched
claw, marvelling at the mastery with which it had been rendered. The morbid visage, a dark
reflection of the helmets worn by the chaplains of those blinded Legions that had not joined with the
Warmaster, was a potent symbol of death, the face of damnation for all those who refused to cow to
Lorgar’s word.
Marduk placed the helmet over his head, and he heard a mechanical whine as it adjusted to fit
his cranium. It fitted firmly in place, and there was a hiss as coupling links connected. Then all
sound was blanketed out, before the integrated auto-senses powered up and his hearing returned. He
breathed deeply, sucking in a lungful of recycled air, and registered the flickering array of sensory
information and integrity checks being relayed onto the front of his irises. Servos whined as he
stretched his neck from side to side, and an enticing targeting matrix appeared before him, locking
onto Kol Badar as he turned to look upon the Coryphaus. The towering war leader was scowling,
and Marduk grinned. He dismissed the targeting matrices, somewhat reluctantly, with a blink, and
dropped to one knee before the Warmonger.
“I have not the words to express the honour you do me, Warmonger,” he said, his voice
growling from the vox-grills cunningly concealed behind the fangs of the death mask.
“Leave me now, my captains,” said the Warmonger. “The preparations for the final push against
Terra must be made. Join your brothers, and rejoice in prayer and exaltation for within the month,
we shall assail the walls of the Emperor’s Palace.”
“Rest well, Warmonger,” said Marduk, and he and Kol Badar backed away from the towering
Dreadnought, recognising that the ancient one’s lucidity was slipping. Often it was this way, as the
Dreadnought relived battles of days past.
The pair left the crypt, leaving the Warmonger to relive his memories. Marduk strode out in
front, a triumphant strut to his walk. Kol Badar stalked behind, a deep scowl on his face as he glared
at the First Acolyte’s back.
Cowled slaves pushed the skull-inlaid doors wide, and Marduk stalked out into one of the expansive
docking bays of the Infidus Diabolus. The entire Host was gathered there, and, as one, the warrior
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brothers dropped to their knees as the First Acolyte strode through their serried ranks, heading
towards the stub-nosed transport ship, the Idolater.
Indentured workers, their bodies augmented with ensorcelled mechanics and their eyes and
mouths ritualistically sutured shut, hurried to ready the ship, pumping fuel into its gullet through
bulging intestine-hoses and daubing its armoured hull with sacred oils and unguents. Four Land
Raiders, massively armoured tanks that had borne the warriors of the Host into battle on a thousand
worlds, were moved into position beneath the stubby wings of the Idolater, and reinforced clamps
locked around them from above, securing them for transport.
Marduk was wearing the deaths-head helmet gifted to him by the Warmonger for the first time
in front of the Host, and he felt awe and reverence ripple out across the gathered warriors. Passages
freshly scribed upon the flayed flesh of slaves hung from devotional seals fixed to his armour, and
he felt savage pride as he looked upon the warriors of the Legion.
He stalked to the front of the assembly, where a group of thirty warrior brothers knelt facing the
rest of the Host. These warriors uniformly bowed their heads as Marduk came to a halt in front of
them, his gaze, hidden behind the inscrutable red lenses of his helmet, sweeping over them.
With a nod to Burias, the icon bearer stood to attention and slammed the butt of his heavy icon
into the floor. The sound echoed loudly, and with an imperious gesture, Marduk motioned for the
thirty warriors to stand. Kol Badar stepped out of their ranks and began to prowl along the lines,
inspecting them with a grim expression on his broad face.
The thirty warriors were gathered into four coteries and Marduk’s gaze travelled over the
waiting warrior brothers, reading their eagerness for the forthcoming descent towards the Imperial
planet in their faces and their stances.
Each holy Astartes warrior stood armed for war, his helmet held under his left arm, and weapons
readied. They stood motionless and attentive as they awaited Marduk’s word, their heads held high.
Each was fiercely proud to have been selected to accompany the First Acolyte.
Including Marduk, Burias and the enslaved daemon-symbiote Darioq, they would number thirtytwo.
It was an auspicious number that equalled the number of the sacred books penned by Lorgar. It
augured well. Marduk had read the sacred number in the entrails of the squealing slave-neophyte he
had butchered in the blooding chamber not an hour earlier, and he knew that the gods had blessed
his endeavour.
“Brothers of Lorgar,” said Marduk, addressing the thirty, though his voice was raised, so that it
carried to every member of the Host, “you are blessed, for amongst all the glorious Host you have
been chosen to be my honour guard, to accompany me in doing what must be done to ensure that
victory is ours, for the glory of blessed Lorgar.”
Marduk strode along the line of warriors, seeing the fire of religious fervour and devotion on
their faces. They stared at him passionately, fanaticism in their eyes.
Each member of the four coteries was a veteran of a thousand wars fought across a thousand
battlefields, and each had been tested and found worthy time and again in the forge of battle. These
were the most vicious, fanatical and devoted of all the vicious, fanatical and devoted warriors of the
Host. Each was a holy warrior, who would follow his word without question, for his was the voice
of the gods, and through him their infernal will would be enacted without question and without
remorse. Devout, holy warriors, they would not flinch in their duty, and their fervour lent them great
strength.
Each of the four coteries was led by a favoured warrior champion of the Host.
Kol Badar stood before four of his anointed brethren, each of them enormous in their heavy
Terminator armour. The other coteries consisted of eight warriors each. Towering Khalaxis, his
cheeks covered in ritual scars, stood before his 17th coterie, brutal warriors all. Namar-sin, shorter
than his brothers, though he made up for this deficiency with sheer bulk, stood before his warriors of
the 217th coterie, Havoc heavy weapon specialists. Last of the champions was Sabtec, who led the
highly decorated 13th coterie. Neither as tall as Khalaxis, nor as broad as Namar-sin, Sabtec was a
30
lean warrior whose tactical nuances had won countless glorious victories for the Host. A row of
horns protruded from the skin across his brow, a clear mark of the god’s favour upon him, and his
hand rested upon the hilt of his power sword, gifted to him by Erebus.
“Kneel,” commanded Marduk, and the gathered warriors dropped to their knees instantly. He
placed his fingertips upon the forehead of each champion in turn, murmuring a benediction. He felt
heat radiate beneath his fingers, and the smell of burning flesh rose. The imprint of his fingertips
remained on each champion’s brow, five searing points where the skin had blistered away to the
bone.
Having completed the ritual, Marduk turned towards the remainder of the Host, gathered in
silence as they witnessed the blessing. He saw yearning and jealousy in the eyes of the warrior
brothers who had not been chosen to accompany him. Their champions would castigate the coteries
not chosen, and when next they entered the field of war, they would fight with redoubled ferocity.
“Look upon your chosen brothers and feel pride, my brethren,” roared Marduk, spreading his
arms out to each side. “Glory in their successes as if they were your own, for they fight as
representatives of you all. Pray for them, that your strength may buoy them in the days to come, for
they will return victorious or not at all. In the true gods we place our trust.”
Burias slammed the butt of his icon onto the floor once more, and the Host as one hammered
their fists against their chests in response, the sound echoing through the docking bay.
Turning back towards the chosen thirty, Marduk dropped to one knee and drew forth his serrated
khantanka knife. Thirty other blades were drawn instantly. Each warrior of the Host carried a sacred
blade, and it was with his own khantanka knife that each warrior brother had been blooded when
first inducted into the Legion. Each khantanka blade was individual, fashioned by the warrior it
