by Gav Thorpe
Tradition held that none passed into the Low Barrens after the Feast of Lamentation, yet it had been three days since that observance and still Kor Phaeron, determined to avoid the slightest contact with any others that might relay the secret of Lorgar to the cities, pressed his caravan along the remains of the old highways into the continent-spanning desolation.
None dared voice their dismay, for to raise complaint against the messenger of the Powers in such a terrible place was to invite disaster. Sacrifices and prayers were conducted with greater zeal than at any previous time in Kor Phaeron's exile, with preacher, acolyte, converts and slaves all bending both their will and their faith to surviving the trials the elements threw against them.
And it seemed as though such dedication was rewarded. For wake-rise after wake-rise, rest-eve after rest-eve, the storms held abated, as though allowing the followers of Kor Phaeron to progress. Even the weathered desert-veterans amongst Axata's warriors, those from the Declined tribes of the Inner Ranges, remarked at this incredible progress. Surely it was a mark of their master's favour in the eyes of the Powers that his people traversed the worst of Colchis' wilds unmolested.
Still they did not take their duties lightly and so it was that when on a terrible Mornday the tempests finally fell upon the sands and engulfed the temple-rig and its escorts, the crews and slaves were well prepared. Sand-shields and windbreaks were erected swiftly. Knowing that any desultory response could prove fatal for them all, Kor Phaeron relented in his prohibition to Lorgar not to labour. With the aid of the extraordinary youth the defences were erected in half the time of any previous attempt. Kor Phaeron joined the work gangs in person, pulling at cables and lifting beams with the others, in what seemed a selfless act for the group.
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Nairo was not so convinced of the master's altruism and after all was made ready and the congregation assembled below decks and under their storm shelters, he confided his worries to Lorgar.
'He sees how easy you are with others and is jealous,' Nairo told the boy when they settled below for the wake-main break, when the heat was at its most vicious and even one's soul was scorched despite the shade above. He knew he had to speak carefully, for as much as Lorgar was comfortable among the converts and slaves he was still the acolyte of the master. To speak of Kor Phaeron's tyranny, to lament his beliefs directly would be to speak against the Word and the Truth - concepts in which Lorgar was fully invested despite his suffering under those convictions. 'He worries that you are too popular and tries to usurp some of your manner to himself. He saw how we regarded you when you worked alongside us and stoops to emulate your labours.'
'I would think you had a point,' replied Lorgar, only the glint of his eyes visible in the dark confines of the below deck, 'if you had argued that he laboured for self-preservation.'
'I do, but not against the storms,' said Nairo. He caught the sharp intake of breath from Lorgar and thought he had perhaps dared too much. He took a subtler route to his point than he had intended. 'I remember, 'The works of the acolyte lift up the master,' so it is said in the Revelations.'
'A rejoinder to the accusation that Narag adorned her own reputation with the efforts of Dia Marda and Callipa, meaning that it is to the credit of the master that a pupil achieves high renown.' Nairo could feel the satisfaction emanating from Lorgar. Not smugness, simply a gladness that radiated whenever the youth engaged in theological and scriptural debate. 'Kor Phaeron's elevation by my efforts in no way diminishes my achievements.'
'If he builds upon them as a foundation, you are right,' countered Nairo. He licked his lips. Even in the depths of the temple-rig the dust and grains penetrated, and all was coated with a fine layer of red and grey. 'If he seeks to name your tower as his home, it is a theft. All people should own what they create, to their credit or downfall equally.'
Lorgar did not reply at first and Nairo took heart that the acolyte was turning proper thought upon the subject rather than reeling off some trite counterpoint from the texts. He could feel the boy shift his bulk. He had grown almost as tall as the slave, his rapid growth showing no sign of abating. The meagre rations afforded to even a convert were no match for an appetite that could fuel such development, and Kor Phaeron had demanded that the crew and slaves give up a portion of their own meals to supplement the boy's allotment.
It was a testament to Lorgar's character that such donations were given without resentment, even if it left many hungry. In truth, the slaves had already been on such short rations that they had managed their meals, ensuring that none among their number went too hungry and that each had equal time without.
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'Am I not a creation of Kor Phaeron?' Lorgar said eventually. With his growing size his voice had deepened and become richer, and it was clear he was passing through his adolescence even though twenty days earlier he had been no more than an infant. 'His wisdom, zeal and teachings have made me.'
'It is equally a crime to attribute to a mortal that which has been rendered by the Powers,' Nairo stated firmly, pleased to be able to quote Kor Phaeron's doctrines against the master's good. 'You have unique gifts, we all know this. The Powers instilled in you some fate greater than that of any mortal. Many will try to turn you into their tool, for their own ends, but you must stay true to the Will of the Powers. In that, only you can be the arbiter of the Truth.'
Lorgar's reply was softly spoken but even in his quiet tone there was hidden a barb of interrogation.
'And what would the end be, Nairo, to which you would turn me?'
The slave felt stripped bare by the question, any accusation unspoken but no less penetrating for it. Such was the irrepressible nature of Lorgar that he could not avoid the question, nor lie in answer to it.
'I would have all men and women on Colchis be free, Lorgar,' he said, the words dragged forth from his lips. He quickly added, 'If the Powers desire it.'
For what seemed an eternity Lorgar did not reply, and had it not been for his slow breathing Nairo would have thought the youth had slipped away. It made the slave flinch when finally Lorgar laid a broad hand on his leg and spoke.
'I hear you,' he said simply. 'We shall learn if the Powers hear you also.'
And from this Nairo took comfort, until he later thought about the words some more; then he did not, for in his mind only a fool willingly drew the attention of the Powers.
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The journey across the Low Barrens became a toil for all, a struggle against an increasingly fierce environment. A few of the smaller vehicles could not withstand the sand-gales and were swallowed or destroyed, several others abandoned or pulled apart for spares, their precious materials and tech reclaimed for future use.
Kor Phaeron pushed them on, extracting every last effort from his followers. He reminded them of the sacrifices of the prophets to bring the Word of the Powers to the cities of Colchis Past.
Survival depended upon their continued crawl across the desert, for if they remained in the heart of the Low Barrens too long they would be swallowed entire by the coming hurricane known as the Godrage, which legend told swept the innermost desert every winter. Each wake-main they had to make progress or suffer even more delays, and so through the fiercest winds, through the skin-shredding tempests and the furnace heat they continued. Like Kap Baha in the Parable of the Skywhale, Kor Phaeron was a man possessed, though rather than vengeance he pursued a purer goal - righteous wisdom. And through such perseverance and the protection of the Powers, there came a time when the storms abated and Kor Phaeron looked out onto the white peaks of the Razors. Beyond the treacherous passes of the mountains lay the dead city known as the Last Haven, Sarragen in the tongue of its long-dead people. Kor Phaeron had not confided the nature of their destination to others, for Sarragen above all the ancient dues was ill-fated in the legends and folklore of the deserts, save for the menace of the Kingwyrm. None returned, it was claimed, and the ghosts of the damned roamed the streets and broken palaces.
Heartened by their victory over the Godrage, the caravan hurried onwards over the plains - a desolation as arid as any on the Periphery but placid and fruitful in comparison to the latter days of their journey.
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More and more the converts and slaves looked to Lorgar, if not for leadership, then for physical assistance. Kor Phaeron had allowed his ward to help through the storms and it was now impossible to revoke that permission, even though they had entered tamer dimes. Though only half a Colchisian year had passed since Kor Phaeron had plucked Lorgar from the savage Declined, the boy might have been more rightfully called a man, at least in physique He stood as tall as the preacher and far broader, a match for the burliest guards save for Axata, who towered over all others.
Yet in mind he was not yet mature, despite his evidently colossal intellect, faultless memory and unprecedented language skills. In matters of emotion and reasoning he was still an innocent in many ways, isolated from the experiences and relationships that would have shaped a normal child of the cities or the desert.
He was singularly Kor Phaeron's charge, placed into his care by the Powers. Despite this great responsibility, and the knowledge that he performed a sacred duty, the preacher found himself looking on the youth as more than just an acolyte. Against all effort to remain aloof and scholarly, a teacher not a parent, Kor Phaeron could not restrain the growing paternal instincts that Lorgar aroused in him.
Knowing that he could not allow any familial bond to distract him from the proper education of Lorgar, Kor Phaeron dedicated himself afresh to instilling the virtues of the Word and the Truth into his adopted son. Every moment Lorgar was not needed seeing to the working and safety of the temple-rig, or catching a brief sleep, Kor Phaeron filled with lessons.
Yet even this was not enough to sate Lorgar's thirst for knowledge, nor remove the seemingly persistent crease of a forthcoming question from his forehead.
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'Let me read the books, my master,' Lorgar pleaded one rest-eve after prayers, when the two of them had retired to Kor Phaeron's chambers for the customary study of the Book of Kairad, their current occupation. The wind howled outside the shuttered window, scouring paint from the hull with rattles of grit and sand.
'Is not my reading to your liking?' retorted Kor Phaeron. 'Has the sound of my voice become so tiresome?'
'Not these books, my master,' said Lorgar. He pointed to the shelf where Kor Phaeron kept the oldest volumes and those from the most distant cities. Written in foreign and ancient tongues, their tides were a mystery to the preacher, even more so their contents. He had spent much time in contemplation of the illumination, diagrams and illustrations, marvelling at the indecipherable runes and strange figures depicted, but could make no more sense of them than he could the bone-tossing of a Declined soothsayer.
'Those books. The ones you cannot read.'
'You think to pluck their meaning from the Empyrean itself?' said Kor Phaeron scornfully.
'I would like to try to read them.' Lorgar leaned forwards in earnest petition and laid a hand on Kor Phaeron's knee. 'Please… Father?'
The word struck Kor Phaeron like a thunderbolt, sending a shock of equal revelation and revulsion through his body. For an instant the uttering of that title filled him with such profound pride and pleasure that he was giddy with the thought of it. That his feelings for Lorgar were reciprocated, that the child deemed him more than simply an instructor was a vindication and affirmation that Kor Phaeron had never felt before.
Then the reality of the statement turned that joy to bitterness. He slapped away Lorgar's hand and stood up, a heat of embarrassment that turned to anger flushing through him. Kor Phaeron could not look at Lorgar, wrathful and ashamed at the same time.
'Do not use that term again! In all things I am your master, Lorgar, while you are my acolyte.' The circumstance of this change in attitude struck Kor Phaeron as particularly manipulative. The preacher's resentment bested his shame and he turned on Lorgar with damning words flowing unbidden from his lips. 'You think that I would give in to such flattery? That I would allow a son liberties I would not extend to a pupil?'
'No.' Lorgar looked fearfully at the priest, hands held up in supplication. 'I meant no ruse by it, my master.'
'A cheap trick, to sway me to fresh lassitude in my discipline! Close confines in these storms have distracted me, and it seems we have both forgotten hard-learnt lessons of the past.' Kor Phaeron strode to the door and wrenched it open to bellow along the companion way. 'Axata, attend me!'
He glared silently at his ward, daring him to make further excuse for his contemptible behaviour.
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Kor Phaeron felt his anger dissipating as he waited for the leader of the converts to attend to his call. Though his ire waned, he knew that he could not relent in seeing through his course of action. If Lorgar was to learn anything from the day it would be strength of purpose - that one's words and deeds have consequence for good or ill, but once set upon a course one had to navigate it to the end.
'Equivocation is for cowards, Lorgar,' he told his pupil. 'Never forget that. Your allies will weaken your resolve with their lack of conviction, and your enemies will seek to undermine your purpose. Be inured to such erosion in all that you do.'
'I will remember that, my master,' said Lorgar, with a quiet vehemence that set a flutter of agitation in Kor Phaeron's chest. He ignored the unsettling sensation, glad of the distraction from Lorgar's fierce gaze that came when Axata arrived.
'Fetch your strongest, Axata,' said Kor Phaeron, his meaning well established by previous such demands.
The convert waited at the door, hands clenched. For several heartbeats he did not meet his master's gaze but then looked directly at him, unspoken apology written in his features.
'They are unwilling, master. Reluctant.' He looked at Lorgar and then back to the preacher, the apology turning to pleading. 'They are afraid to raise rod or whip against the boy.'
'Grown men afraid of a child?' Kor Phaeron curled his lip. 'He grows swiftly but do not forget that he is still a child.'
'I would not hurt you, Axata,' Lorgar said quietly, 'nor hold you responsible for doing the Will of the Powers.'
'That is what worries them.' Axata again moved his gaze quickly between the two of them, nervous and fidgeting. 'Perhaps we could speak away from the boy?'
'Say what needs to be said here,' snapped Kor Phaeron, such little patience as he had quickly worn thin by the giant's hesitancy.
Axata gave a slight shake of the head, fearful but also resolute.
'Come with me,' the priest declared, stomping past Axata, beckoning with an imperious finger. 'We shall settle this.'
He stormed along the companionway and down into the converts' quarters rather than up to the deck. Here he found many of them in their berths, some practising their writing and reading, others discussing scripture, a few in thought or prayer.
There was much rousing at the unexpected arrival of the master, and immediately it was obvious they understood the purpose of his visit. The converts gathered in a group, facing Kor Phaeron, as a herd of goats might confront a stalking sand lion. In truth, physically it was a pride of sand lions confronting a solitary goat, though the priest would never admit it out loud.
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Some would later say that arrogance ruled Kor Phaeron's heart, but only those who had not known him. He stood in the light of the Powers and knew nothing of cowardice, only righteousness and the need to spread the Truth. That he took this as his sole duty he would argue was not arrogance but a mere admittance of the burden that had been placed upon his shoulders.
So it was that when he looked upon the converts and sensed their imminent rebellion, the thought of them
turning from the Word pained him more than any threat to his well-being.
'You refuse my design,' he said to them, jabbing a finger like a duellist's blade. He named many of them in turn, fierce eyes catching them like the rays of the sun, searing in their intensity. 'Boparus, Kor Alladin, Nomas, Fadau… You, Kaitha? You would deny me?'
Axata intervened, speaking where the others were struck dumb.
'He - Lorgar - is a child of the Powers, master. We all see it, you have spoken of it. He has been sent to us from the Empyrean. The converts have…' He took a breath and straightened, committed to their shared argument. 'We have decided we will not strike one who has been chosen by the Powers. It will damn us, master, we are sure of it. Our souls - we will not risk our souls by beating him again.'
Fury boiled up inside Kor Phaeron, the insolence and assumption of the converts like sparks on tinder. He mastered the rage, enough to form words through gritted teeth.
'I am the Bearer of the Word, I speak the Truth from the Powers. The Powers act through me, Axata!' He could contain it no more and let the flood of his righteous ire break free. 'Have you read the books? Have you studied the stars and the signs? Ignorant fool! I am the master, the teacher, the Bearer of the Word! I am the Lore and the Law! If you are not fit to enact my command then another will be found. I demand the hands of the next man or woman to refuse me!'
'Then that will be mine,' said Axata, offering his wrists as though Kor Phaeron would sever them there and then. There was no confrontation in his tone, and his manner remained polite and formal. 'Master, we have spoken on this and there is not one among us who will raise a hand against the boy. We ask that you consult with the Powers, master, and seek another way.'
Faced with this naked opposition, Kor Phaeron retained enough presence of mind to realise that he hurtled towards a precipice. In the edge of the Low Barrens he could not countenance a mutiny amongst his caravan, yet his authority had been challenged, his position tarnished.
