Глава VII.
‘You name me the Arch-Heretic of Angelus Porphyra. Yet I have never looked upon that world, even once. You name me Zaraphiston, as if I should be awed at your insight, but Zaraphiston is not a name given at birth. It is a title later grafted over an identity. And you name me Ygethmor, yet Ygethmor is not even a name. It’s an expression in a forgotten language, from a dead world. It means “weaver” or “threader” of the warp. And I am not the only warrior to bear that title, as it happens. It seems to be a name applied, at will and on whim, to whomever the Imperium is hunting at the time. Do you begin to see what I mean?’
Но хуже всего:
‘It is written by Scryer Dianthon: “And thus, driven from Holy Terra and reigning forevermore in the underworld, the Sons of Horus, the treacherous Sixteenth, became the Black Legion.”’ Ah. Suddenly it all made sense. ‘From shame and shadow recast,’ I said softly, the words for myself alone. ‘In black and gold reborn.’ ‘What?’ ‘I told you – before the beginning, there was an end. The Sons of Horus never reigned in the Eye. Their ghosts commanded nothing but graveyards of their own warships. Their shades ruled over fallen fortresses. The Sons of Horus died ten thousand of your years ago. I know. I watched it happen. They were the Sixteenth Legion. But the Black Legion was not founded by the Emperor and never fought in his name. It bears no number. Numbers were only bestowed upon the Legions of the Great Crusade, and we, my Imperial friends, are the Legion of the Long War.’