the galaxy and as such； they were borne with reverential care。 They lay upon black cushions； and
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were carried upon the backs of creatures whose flesh was completely swathed in black cloth to hide
their obscene forms。
Marduk picked up his customised bolt pistol； its squat barrel protruding from the carved maw of
a daemon。 It felt natural and light in his hand； though a mere mortal would struggle to bear its
weight； and he rammed a sickle…shaped clip into place before holstering it at his hip。
Even in times of relative peace the brothers of the Host bore live weapons； for though they were
disciples and custodians of the Dark Creed； they were holy warriors first and foremost； and it was
part of their tenets to be always reminded of the Long War against the cursed Imperium； to be ever
in readiness for holy battle。 Bitterness fuelled their beliefs and passion； and the holy bolter and
chainsword were the tools with which the proper order of the galaxy would be instated。 No warrior
could forget the betrayals of the Corpse Emperor； or the fallacy of his church； while they held their
sacred weapons。
Next； he lifted his archaic chainsword from its cushion。 His grip closed around the hilt of the
weapon； and he felt the familiar rush as it bonded with him； barbs piercing the flesh of his palm。 The
power and rage of Borhg’ash； the daemon eternally bound within the chainsword； surged through
him； and he restrained the urge to lash out； to feed the beast’s hunger。 The blood of thousands had
been shed beneath its biting teeth； and it was with some reluctance that he sheathed it； allowing the
locking clamps to secure it at his waist。
“Soon you shall feed； dear one；” said Marduk to appease the daemon； and he felt a twinge of
unease as his bond with the daemon weapon was severed； as if a part of his body had been cut from
him。
Marduk dismissed his servants with a wave of his gauntleted hand。 They retreated into the dark
recess…hollows in the chamber walls； disappearing from mortal sight。
Whispering a prayer； he turned and walked across the chamber。 The great doors reared up before
him； intricately carved into a representation of the maelstrom； replete with daemonic forms and the
souls of mortals writhing in agony。 The amorphous carving shifted maddeningly； souls screaming
out in silent torment as flames consumed them and devils cavorted。
Pressing his palms against the doors； Marduk pushed them open； and they swung aside
soundlessly。
An entourage of twelve chosen warriors knelt upon the flagstones beyond the doors； their heads
bowed low。 At their fore was the icon bearer； Burias； his head lowered to the ground before his
master。
“Arise； my brothers；” said Marduk。
The devotional ceremony lasted for twelve hours； and the mournful voices of the Host rose and fell
as they intoned their hymnal responses。 The morbid peal of bells echoed out across the cavernous
expanse of the cavaedium； signalling the end of the communal worship of the gods。 Marduk’s throat
was raw from his elocutions and recitals from the books of Lorgar； but he felt refreshed and
invigorated by the communion with the great powers of the ether。 It was always this way for him。
For three months it had been this way； with prayers； sermons and services dominating the lives
of the Word Bearers as their ship； the Infidus Diabolus； ploughed its way through the roiling sea that
was the warp。 The Host was eager for battle； for the fields of war were the truest halls of worship to
the gods； but these hymnal services served their needs； while not engaged against the enemy； and
they fuelled the hatred and stoked the fires of vengeance that burnt within the breast of every
warrior brother。
Warp travel allowed the Infidus Diabolus to travel vast distances in months or years rather than
decades or more； but Marduk would allow none of his battle…brothers to enter stasis while on these
journeys； for these times were important lulls during which affirmations could be renewed and
dedications and oaths of servitude to the great gods blooded anew。
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As the Host filed away； returning to their cells for individual； silent communion； reading of
scripture； the blessings and refitting of holy bolters and other daily rituals； Marduk found himself
gazing upon the blessed crozius arcanum； lying dormant upon a plinth at the front of the alter
overlooking the nave where the Host had gathered。
The crozius arcanum was the hallowed staff of office of the Dark Apostles； the bearers of the
true faith。 Once it had symbolised belief in the Great Crusade； in the Imperium of Man and the
optimism of the Crusade bringing enlightenment to the galaxy； but the Emperor’s lies had long been
revealed。
The Emperor had claimed that gods did not exist； that they were merely the creations of weak
minds。
Hypocritically； it was this same Emperor； though his body was now a mere rotting corpse； that
the Imperium prayed to as their patron deity。 The fallacy of the lie and its hypocrisy filled Marduk
with bitterness and rage。 In truth； that anger had not waned with time； but rather had grown stronger
and deeper。
In ignorance； blindness or perhaps fear； the Emperor had proclaimed that there were no great
godly powers in the universe； but he had been wrong。 He had lied。 There were deities in the depths
of the warp； tangible and very real； and they were more powerful than anyone could have imagined。
It was to these ancient gods that the Word Bearers had pledged their allegiance； and it was the faith
in them that they sought to bring to the universe。
Once the Great Truth had been revealed； the Legion had thrown off the repressive； enslaving
beliefs of the Imperium and dedicated themselves fully to their holy cause。
The crozius arcanum had been sanctified to the true gods； and it was a potent symbol of the Dark
Creed and faith。 It had been purified in the blood of millions； and countless unbelievers had been
smitten beneath it。
Its haft was as black as ebony and studded with spikes。 Marduk longingly traced the blood…red
veins that ran up its length with a finger； marvelling at the workmanship。 The hilt of the crozius was
bound in the tanned skin of a cursed unbeliever； the Chaplain Atreus of the cursed Ultramarines
legion； who had been flayed alive on Calth by Lord Kor Phaeron。 The head of the holy weapon was
like a flanged mace or power maul； eight raised； spiked wedges forming its shape。 When activated；
the spiked head was wreathed in energy； and it would sunder the foes of Lorgar with the selfsame
potency of a power talon。
Marduk longed to lift the weapon up in both hands。 Only two Dark Apostles had wielded this
mighty weapon： the ancient Warmonger； long since interred in the sarcophagus of his mighty
dreadnought； whose sanity was only barely kept in check； and Jarulek： Jarulek the Blessed； Jarulek
the Glorified； beloved of the gods。
Not anymore； thought Marduk with savage relish。 This was his time。 His star was in the
ascendant； and once he had faced the Council of Sicarus； he would be allowed to wield this potent
artefact himself。 As it was； he had held it in his hands once； when he had rescued it from oblivion
within the xenos pyramid； but even he was loathe to break the taboos and traditions of his order by
bearing the holy weapon into battle before he had been fully embraced into the fold by the council。
He felt the approach of his underlings behind him； and his eyes narrowed。 Running his hands
lingeringly over the crozius； he left them waiting for a moment； to reinforce their place； and his。
At last； he turned towards them。 They stood at the foot of the raised platform； and with a gesture；
he beckoned them closer。
They ascended the steps side…by…side； and though they both bore the hallmarks of Lord Lorgar’s
gene…seed； they were as different in appearance as night and day。
Kol Badar was ancient； having been a captain of one of the great battle companies of the XVII
Legion long before the great Warmaster Horus had aligned himself with the true powers of the
universe。 His face was broad and bullish； though his flesh was wasted almost to the point of
emaciation； and creases so deep they looked as if they had been carved with knives lined his face。
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His head was bald； and pipes and cables sank into his cranium； connecting him to his immense
battle suit。 He wore archaic； age…old Terminator armour and towered over Marduk by half a metre。
He walked with heavy steps； his every movement filled with power and weight。
Kol Badar was the Host’s Coryphaus： strategos； war leader； and the voice of the battle…brothers。
It was his role to lead the chorus of hymnal responses in prayer； and to art as the link between the
Host’s Dark Apostle and his warriors。 At his side； dwarfed by his sheer bulk； swaggered the Host’s
icon bearer； Burias。
Where Kol Badar was all brute power and smouldering anger； Burias walked with a warrior’s
subtle grace； his movements relaxed and fluid。 He was wolf…lean and darkly handsome； his full head
of pitch black； waist…length hair oiled and scented。 His pale face encapsulated all the noble bearing
of his heritage； and it was said that he resembled Lorgar； before he had ascended to daemonhood。
Burias was the epitome of the warrior ideal： a consummate； balanced warrior。 His body was as
proud and strong as his faith； and though he was young in comparison to Kol Badar； he had been
blooded in battle across a thousand ile； though there was a lingering；
dangerous intensity in his wide eyes； just a hint of the power lurking within； straining to be released。
Burias was one of the possessed； and though he kept the daemon Drak’shal at bay with sheer force
of will； he willingly gave way to the beast once the fires of battle were met； and the results were
invariably bloody。
Burias bowed low； dipping his tall； eight…pointed icon before him； and Marduk acknowledged
him with an incline of his chin。 Kol Badar bowed his head； carefully measuring the movement to be
at once mildly insulting； yet not overtly disrespectful。
“The Enslaved one is requesting that he be allowed to reconstruct his armature arrays； that he
may continue his work upon the Nexus Arrangement； lord；” said Burias； his voice neutral。
“It is foolishness to allow it such privileges；” said Kol Badar。
“Walk with me；” ordered Marduk； turning on his heel and striding away。 He did not speak as
they exited the cavaedium by a side portal within the sacristy； walking up corridors lined with
skulls。
One of the kathartes； skinless daemonic furies that inhabited the Infidus Diabolus； perched upon
the shoulders of a winged angel of death statue above them； baring its teeth at their passing。 Marduk
flicked his gaze up towards the daemon； and it lowered its head； whimpering like a dog beneath the
switch。 Blood glistened across its exposed musculature； and it shimmered like a distorted pirt image
before disappearing once more into the sea of souls that was the warp。 Immersed in the tides of the
ether buffeting the Infidus Diabolus； the katharte would take on its truer form； that of an angelic
maiden； as dangerous as it was alluring； propelling itself through the formless other world upon
feathered wings； its siren call signalling the death of those of weak min