gistfile1.txt

'You have betrayed me,’ said Rogal Dorn. Sigismund staggered. He felt as if the words had flayed away all his conditioning and control. If Dorn noticed the effect of his words he did not pause. ‘We are made to serve. That is our purpose.’ Dorn’s voice echoed off the raked stone tiers of the amphitheatre. He was shaking as if huge forces were straining inside him. It was the most terrifying thing Sigismund had ever seen. ‘Every primarch, every son of a primarch exists to serve the Imperium. Our existence has no other meaning.’ Dorn took a step forwards, his presence seeming to tower taller than the statues of his brothers. ‘Our choices are not our own, our fate is not ours to choose. Your will is mine, and through me the Emperor’s. I trusted you and you squandered that trust on pride and superstition.

Sigismund found his voice.

‘I stand with you.’ His voice was raw and unfamiliar, a stranger’s words coming from his mouth. ‘I will stand against the enemies of the Imperium until I die.’

‘You believed the lies of a charlatan, a demagogue who pretends to powers we fought to free humanity from. I gave you a duty and you turned away from it. Your duty is not here; it was out amongst the stars.

'I serve the Imperium,’ he said, and his voice was shaking.

‘You serve your own pride,’ spat Dorn. Sigismund swayed but caught himself. He felt hollow, his mind empty of all of the surety and fire that had defined him. Keeler was wrong, he thought. This was the choice of death alone and unremembered. There is only one path open to me now.

‘My lord.’ Sigismund began to kneel.

‘You will stand,’ roared Dorn. ‘You have no right to kneel before me.’

Sigismund drew his sword, its gleaming length coal-black in the failing light.

‘My life is yours, my lord,’ he said, and turned the sword hilt to Dorn, and bowed his head, the flesh of his neck exposed above the collar of his armour. ‘Take it.’ Dorn reached out and took the sword. His eyes glinted down its length, hard, dangerous, the eyes of death itself.

Dorn spun the blade, a movement so fast that Sigismund saw it only as a blur. He had an instant to think, to remember the smells of a lost home carried on a dry wind. His father brought the sword down.

The tip of the sword punched through smooth marble and buried itself a foot deep in stone. Dorn took his hand from the hilt, leaving the blade quivering in front of Sigismund.

‘No,’ said Dorn, a low growl. ‘No. The Imperium will endure. But you, you have made your decision. There will be no easy end for you. None will ever know of what you have done. I will not allow your fear and pride to sow doubt in our ranks. Your shame will be yours to bear alone.”

Sigismund felt as if the Investiary’s vast circumference had closed to a tight circle around him. His body felt distant, the touch of his armour uncomfortable against his skin.

‘You will continue in rank and position as you have, and you will never speak to any other of this. The Legion and the Imperium will never know of my judgement. Your duty will be to never let your weakness taint those who have more strength and honour than you.’ Sigismund felt his hearts beating. His mouth was dust dry.

‘As you will, father.’

‘I AM NOT YOUR FATHER’ roared Dorn, his anger suddenly filling the air and echoing from the amphitheatre walls. Sigismund fell to the floor. He could feel nothing. A ringing filled his head. It was a scream, he realised. A forgotten scream of loss and pain, mute inside his soul that was no longer human. Dorn looked down at him, his face swallowed by dusk shadows. ‘You are not my son,’ he said quietly. ‘And no matter what your future holds, you never will be.’ Dorn turned and walked away.

Sigismund watched Rogal Dorn until his outline vanished into the gloom. Alone he knelt, gripping the hilt of the sword with both hands. He breathed slowly, resting his forehead on his gauntlets. The darkness of the Investiary surrounded him. His pulse slowed. He thought of all the battles he had fought, all the enemies cut down by the sword he knelt before. The restless ferocity, the focus of complete certainty guiding his every blow; all gone, all wiped away by his choice on the Phalanx.

The sword felt unfamiliar in his grip, as if the weapon that he had borne for decades was his no longer.

He raised his head. Above him the stars were crystal fragments against sable.

I am still alive, he thought, and I still serve.

He stood, pulling the sword from the stone floor; its edges glittered like sharpened obsidian.

‘I will not fail,’ he said. In the quiet of Terran night the words sounded like a vow.