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。
21
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 mind that heard it。
They passed dozens of dark arches； each leading off into different areas of the labyrinthine ship。
Warrior brothers stood aside； their heads lowered； as they passed。 Black…cloaked slave…creatures
scurried out of their path； while others prostrated themselves pathetically； faces pressed to the floor。
Moans and tortured cries came from darkness beneath the walkways； and wasted； skeletal fingers
extended through the metal grids in appeal。 Thousands of wretched slaves were kept aboard the
Infidus Diabolus； existing in the darkness and squalid conditions below deck in order to perform all
the horrific and mundane jobs required to keep the ship running。 They were condemned to a lifetime
of servitude； and they cried out for death。
“The priest…magos of the Machine…God is necessary；” said Marduk finally； as the trio walked the
musty halls of the strike cruiser。 “The Nexus Arrangement will never be unlocked without him； he is
the Key…master；” he said； referring to a prophecy that told of one； the Enslaved； who would unlock
the potent device that the Host had uncovered from a xenos pyramid upon the shattered Imperial
world of Tanakreg。 It would be a powerful weapon in the arsenal of the Word Bearers； and much
favour would be granted to he who controlled it。
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“The Key…master？” scoffed Kol Badar。 “The wretch has proven useless in unlocking the device
thus far。 He cannot be trusted。”
“The magos is mine；” said Marduk。 “He is my puppet； and will do exactly what I want。”
Magos Darioq was changing。 At first； the effects on his body had been subtle； barely noticeable； but；
as the daemon took further control of his purged system； the change was coming on with alarming；
exponential swiftness。
Stripped of his robes and chained to the wall of his cell； he shuddered in torment as the carefully
cultured daemon essence writhed within him。 He opened his mouth soundlessly； exposing a
secondary set of teeth； thick and sharp； pushing up through his bleeding gums behind his own。
His flesh was wasted and pallid； though most of his body had long been replaced with
mechanical augmentations。 His entire lower body had been replaced with heavy…duty bionic
replacements； immensely powerful leg…units with inbuilt gyro…stabilisers that enabled the magos to
bear almost two metric tonnes of weight upon his frame。 This was necessary； for with a fully
activated servo…harness； the magos weighed as much as a small tank。 Black tendrils crawled and
pulsed beneath his skin； and his flesh rippled from within as the daemon made its claim on him。
Augmetic telescopic braces were fused to his spine for stability and strength； but the distinction
between mechanical augmentation and flesh was blurring。 Blood dripped from rents in the metal。
The heavy bulk of Darioq’s servo…harness was clamped between his hips and his shoulders； and
again； the hybrid amalgamation of fusing metal and flesh could be seen。 Fleshy muscles had grown
over several of the pistons； enhancing their mechanical strength with that of the daemon and giving
the corrupted magos an even more hunched appearance。 The four servo…arms of his harness had
been sheared away； along with half a dozen mechadendrites that plugged into the nerve endings of
his spinal column； and they wept blood and ichor as their stubby remnants twitched and jerked
spasmodically。 Two of the severed mechadendrites had already re…sprouted； fleshy tentacles of
glistening muscle growing from his spine。 Plugs and sockets covered his wasted skin； and from
some of these leaked a milky ichor that hissed as it hit the floor。
With his hood and robes stripped away； Darioq’s head was laid bare。 Only a fraction of his
original face remained； the rest encased in mechanics。 A grilled voice box was implanted in his
throat； and his left eye was an impressive display of sensors and optical arrays。
The distinction between the mechanical and the human was blurring all over the corrupted
magos’s body。 Even as the trio of Word Bearers watched； the metal cranium of the magos swelled
and rippled like water； and a curvin