Chad Perturabo

Down the slope, the shepherds were under attack by a feathered serpent fifteen metres long. Its body was thick, coming up to the human waist. Its fanged maw was wide enough to swallow a man whole. The mouth was closed protectively around a bundle. Its neck was distended. Curious, Perturabo waited until the snake swung around so he could see what it had, and glimpsed the head and shoulders of a boy protruding from the mouth. He was being drawn inch by inch down into the snake's gullet and would soon be swallowed. The other shepherds beat the snake with sticks and stabbed hopelessly at it with their long knives.

They were agitated, upset. The serpent would not release the boy.

Why did they not retreat? The creature had its meal. It would not give it up, and while it had the boy, it would not eat them. They had no weapons that could hurt it, but continued their fruitless attacks regardless, putting themselves in harm's way. It was illogical.

Perturabo intended to go. To his surprise he found he, too, wished to stop the beast and save the boy. He wondered at this instinct to go to the shepherds' aid.

He began to descend, then stopped. His rapidly maturing brain calculated the likelihood of victory. He did not find the result to his liking.

The serpent rippled, putting on a startling turn of speed and outpacing the shepherds. The brush of its hide knocked the men down, and it was away over the rocks.

One shepherd wailed louder than the rest as the beast carried off its prize. He caught sight of the young primarch, and cried out in a language Perturabo had never learned, but which he understood.

'Help us!' he wailed. 'Help us!'

Perturabo's half-formed mind judged the shepherd. Was he weak, or was he deserving of help?

He thought on this for a full minute.

Perturabo turned away, and headed back for the ridge.
...
	Perturabo walked into the shepherds' farmstead carrying the head of the serpent in his arms like an infant. A collection of crude huts and broken-down fencing, the farm made the village with the forge seem grand.

The primarch was covered in blood, and the sword swung naked at his hip. The shepherds had seen him coming. They waited inside, peering fearfully from glassless windows.

Perturabo threw the head down onto the dusty ground outside the main dwelling, and waited.

The door creaked open. A man came out. Perturabo thought he was the shepherd who had cried out for his aid. He could not be sure. His memories would not settle; they were in constant competition with the knowledge swimming around in his mind and were unseated by it before they could take root. The knowledge was an affliction as much as it was a gift. He hoped the shepherd was the right man. The head was for him.

The shepherd looked at the trophy.

'You killed the jalpida.'

'I did,' said Perturabo.

'You have taken seven of my flock.'

Perturabo stared at him impassively.

Emperor's Architect