by Gav Thorpe
'Perhaps it is time that we show a little faith?'
'That the Powers protect Lorgar?'
'I do not doubt that, but that wasn't my meaning. We should show faith in each other.'
'I can't, Nairo. The master's mood is as unpredictable as ever. The Powers move him in strange ways and can you tell me what he is thinking now, after everything that has just happened?'
'No,' admitted Nairo. 'This treachery - your treachery - could send him beyond the edge of reason.'
'A precipice we can both agree he walks along at the best of times.'
Nairo could not ignore this plain fact. If he examined his heart he could not in conscience assure the safety of the priest, from himself or any of the other slaves.
'We must leave it to the Powers,' Axata declared suddenly. 'Their design will come to pass. It is not for mortals to judge.'
'I have always found that fatalistic, Axata,' said Nairo.
'I don't mean that we'll do nothing - quite the opposite. I will take the converts at dawn tomorrow, but I will not arm you in our stead. If the mutineers come back and not us… Well, either we'll already be dead or I promise I'll do my best to avenge you and the master. And if you think to attack Kor Phaeron, know that the wrath of the Powers will be unrelenting in vengeance for the Bearer of their Word.'
Nairo saw that the giant had made up his mind, and thought that perhaps the absence of the guards would provide some opportunity yet to be seen.
He did not tell the others, lest they fell to unnecessary scheming before the converts left, which might reach the ear of Axata.
The rest-eve of Duskeve arrived, bringing its cold touch. Though tired, Nairo slept fitfully, agitated by the prospect of what Coldfall might bring.
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He turned the old pages again. Each leaf of the wafer-thin plastek curved without creasing, its sheer surface untouched by the ravages of time. Kor Phaeron ran a dirty finger along the inked lines, marvelling at the fluidity of the script, not seeing the ragged nail chewed to the skin. It was unlike the cuneiform that dominated the modem languages of Colchis, more akin to a flowing river of thought than isolated word-forms. He looked at the beautiful illustrations, full of vibrant colour even centuries, perhaps millennia after they had been crafted. The slender figures who represented the various rituals and prayer positions with their knowing eyes, superbly captured by crystalline threads of miraculous ink.
The book was remarkably light in his hands. It was thin compared to the many weighty volumes that sat on the makeshift shelves, so that it felt as though he held no more than a feather.
Kor Phaeron had often wondered what knowledge lay in the pages of the book, tantalisingly just out of reach. Was the answer he sought right here, hidden behind the words he could not read? Was it part of the Powers' cosmic joke that they had given him the key to the Truth, placed it right before his eyes, but blinded him to its presence?
He cursed his own ineptitude, and cursed again the mania that fuelled his mind. The fervour of faith burned so brightly, so hotly in his soul that it was impossible to resist. It was the fuel to his zeal, but it had a price, and now he had paid that account in terrible dues.
A wavering hand wiped away the sweat from his brow, then moved to the moisture that wet his cheeks.
He had sent away his son, sent him to his death most likely.
More than that, he had deprived the world of the Powers' great gift.
Kor Phaeron hated that the Powers had made him the Bearer of the Word. He thought of the tide and laughed, but in bitterness not humour. The appellation had occurred to him in a fevered sleep, ten days into his exile, burning in the desert. The books he had stolen from the temple had been his salvation, the shield against attack, the proof of his identity.
He let the book fall from shivering fingers and he stood up, reaching towards the other indecipherable tomes held on the wall. He pulled out one at random, its leather cover inlaid with the spotted remains of gold leaf, the tide as distant from him as the Empyrean itself.
Kor Phaeron threw it on the floor, and grabbed another, and this volume he let fall from numb fingers also. And the others, with sudden craving, he pulled from the chest-shelf, toppling the books about his feet.
The piles of bent pages and cracked spines reminded him of the old etchings, of heretics and martyrs bound to the stake, firewood around them, the flames scorching the sin from their flesh.
He looked at the lantern, reached a trembling hand towards the oil-fuelled light. Forlorn, he gazed down upon the works of the unknown authors and felt all purpose ebb from his body.
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Shouts on the deck above dimly penetrated Kor Phaeron's consciousness. He ignored them, as he had ignored all other outside stimulus in his days of isolation. Let the slaves and converts do as they wished; it would be in the lap of the Powers, just as he had set Lorgar free into the wilds to whatever unkind fate awaited him.
The thought of Lorgar doubled his grief, for he had lost not only his faith but the only one who had shown him the truest passion and understanding. Never now would those books be read, for in his pride and vanity he had thrown away the key given to him by the Powers.
He had failed. He had failed his congregation and the Powers, and he had failed their chosen messenger, Lorgar.
There came a furious knocking at the cabin door but he ignored it, stepping to grab the lantern from its hook in the ceiling.
The door rattled and shivered as those outside threw their weight against it.
The slaves, he suspected. Finally the converts had abandoned him and now the slaves would have their vengeance. He would deny them that injustice, for he had been only the vessel.
Against the assault the feeble lock could not hold and the door flew open with a crash, revealing Axata and Nairo, with others clustered into the companionway behind them.
'Master!' The chief convert shouldered aside the wreckage of the door.
'It is all lost, Axata. The Powers have abandoned me.'
'Lorgar lives, my master,' said Nairo, the words reluctantly shared. 'The lookouts have spied him returning. He lives.'
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Never before had Nairo seen such fluctuating emotions on a man's face. Kor Phaeron had been the picture of despair when they had broken open the door - a course of action that Axata had insisted upon, for Nairo would have been happy to leave Kor Phaeron to whatever darkness of the soul had taken him. The preacher's grimed face was streaked with the tracks of tears, eyes raw and red. His robes were in disarray, revealing ragged scratch marks on the chest and shoulders where he had clawed at himself. His face was similarly criss-crossed with marks.
Disbelief quickly replaced the grief, and then confusion. For just an instant Nairo saw happiness, unparalleled joy in fact, before Kor Phaeron's demeanour reverted to that which the congregation knew so well. Scorn.
'You speak as if surprised,' snapped the Bearer of the Word. 'Is he not the gift of the Powers? This is vindication, that he has been returned to me Blessed are we that the Powers turn their gaze upon us.'
Axata and Nairo exchanged a look at this rapid reversal, taken aback by the sudden emergence of the old Kor Phaeron. Nairo thought to mention that the priest seemed similarly on the verge of giving up, but had no opportunity. Kor Phaeron strode towards them, adjusting his robe as he crossed the cabin, forcing Axata to step aside. It was as if nothing had happened, that they had come upon him studying his books and writing his observations as they had done a thousand times before.
'Out of the way,' Kor Phaeron snapped, when Nairo was tardy in moving from the door.
The companionway was narrow and the cluster of converts and slaves was forced to retreat up the steps, spilling onto the illuminated deck like water forced by a pump, with Kor Phaeron advancing implacably after them. Axata emerged a step behind and pointed over the preacher's shoulder, to the figure in the starlit distance.
A wagon had been sent out to fetch him and they coul
d see Lorgar taken on board. They waited in silence as the vehicle turned and headed back towards the temple-rig, thick wheels churning the ceaselessly moving sand.
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They crowded the rail as the wagon neared, though a respectful empty space remained around Kor Phaeron. Nairo studied the preacher's expression, seeking some sign of his intent. The Bearer of the Word stared into the distance, following the course of the wagon without reaction. Yet when the vehicle came alongside and Lorgar could be seen, there was the merest hint of something, but it chilled Nairo to see it: triumph.
Nairo could feel his world slipping away again. Kor Phaeron would emerge from the mutiny stronger and more zealous than ever. It mattered not that Axata and his converts were much diminished; with Lorgar returned Kor Phaeron would be all-powerful again. Yet the slave could not resent the youth's survival. He looked down at the wagon and saw the boy, skin darkened by the sun but not reddened or blistered as it should have been after such exposure the unrelenting elements. The sight of Lorgar filled him with joy, an elevation of the spirit beyond the simple pleasure of seeing an ally returned.
With easy movements, Lorgar jumped from the wagon to the ladder up the side of the temple-rig. In one hand he held his mace, its head and shaft dark with dried blood, as was the youth's arm. His chest was splashed with the same, though run through with tributaries of sweat across his golden skin. He hauled himself to the deck and stood before Kor Phaeron, head slightly bowed.
'It is done, my master,' said Lorgar. 'None were spared.'
The converts and slaves lifted their voices in praise and gave wordless cheer to this pronouncement. Kor Phaeron matched the youth's look, fixing him with his gaze. Nairo saw a flicker of something in Lorgar's face, just the smallest of changes. A subtle challenge, perhaps, as he held the priest's stare rather than looking away in deferment. In Kor Phaeron's eye he saw something of recognition too. He gave the slightest of nods and stepped back.
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As he did so, Kor Phaeron seemed to notice the book in his hand. Nairo had not paid it any heed, but it seemed the preacher had been holding it when they had broken into his cabin. Now he recognised it, just as Kor Phaeron looked down and saw it also. The Revelations of the Prophets. The holiest book on Colchis.
'Kor Phaeron held it up like a banner, for all on the temple-rig and beyond to see The Powers have made their Will known to me!' he declared. 'The Truth is revealed and their blessings laid upon our cause. Lorgar is returned to us, one of the Faithful, a servant to the Word.'
'A servant, my master? Not a slave?' Had he not been so close, Nairo might have missed Lorgar's whispered question.
The youth looked at Kor Phaeron and then at the book in the preacher's hand, his meaning pointed but lost on the slave. Kor Phaeron seemed to understand the intent and paused in his delivery to spend a heartbeat evaluating Lorgar's stare. The priest nodded, a little reluctantly at first but again with more vehemence while whatever thoughts that uncoiled inside his brain took form. When he spoke it was with slow deliberation, which might have been taken for emphasis but Nairo could see that it was simply a mask for a lingering uncertainty. The priest's gaze did not move from Lorgar even though it seemed his words addressed them all.
'A time of testing, I have said before. All of us must undergo it, be it as master or slave or convert. Or acolyte. Our doubts made manifest, our enemies both real and phantasmal laid before us. The Powers have no need of the weak. They reward the strong. As I was shown the path to the Truth while I wandered the unforgiving sands, so Lorgar has placed himself before their immortal gaze, proving his worth and writing his faith with the blood of our foes.' Kor Phaeron's hesitancy had gone, his voice now strident once more. He thrust the book towards Lorgar, who looked at it with surprise and bafflement for a moment before he took it.
'It has been made clear to me that I tread a different path from now. My present course is run. Though I shall remain your guide in all matters of faith, a new messenger has been delivered to us.' Kor Phaeron smiled at Lorgar and, anticipating what was to come, Lorgar beamed back, his joy infectious. His excitement seeped into Nairo to the delight of the slave, even as the rational part of his mind screamed in despair as Kor Phaeron's grip on the boy took a new and even more dangerous turn.
The priest stepped back and bent one knee before Lorgar, eliciting gasps from the converts and slaves together.
'Behold our new Bearer of the Word!'
AFTER MONARCHIA
963.M30
The Fidelitas Lex, Over Khur
Before he even set foot inside the chamber of his primarch Kor Phaeron could smell the stench of sweat, burned flesh and pungent blood through the swirl of spicy incense. The crack of a flail startled the Keeper of Faith and he stepped swiftly inside.
Lorgar sat cross-legged upon the bare floor, a seven-tailed scourge in one hand. His other lay in his lap, as though in quiet repose. With serpent-quick vehemence the primarch lashed the scourge across his shoulder and back, laying the knotted tails upon his flesh with a drawn-out slap. The blow would have crippled lesser beings but the primarch's only reaction was a twitch of the lip.
Through a layered daub of grey ash his skin was in tatters. A remarkably disturbing achievement given his Emperor-gifted physiology. Testament to the viciousness and persistence of Lorgar's self-flagellation for the last three days.
At his side was a gold-rimmed bowl of white clay - a font from one of the many chapels of the Fidelitas Lex. Within the metre-broad dish were ashes and charred remnants. Lorgar noticed the perplexed look of the Keeper of Faith.
'All that is left of proud Monarchia,' the primarch said quietly, his expression haunted. He dipped his hand into the ashen mess and let pieces fall through his fingers. 'Buildings. People. A lifetime of endeavour. My foolish pride.'
'None should be prouder,' declared Kor Phaeron. The door whispered shut behind him. He spied a brazier in the adjoining room, its coals now embers, the heat of it glimmering on the wall where a tapestry of the Emperor had once hung, now tom down to reveal bare wall.
In the brazier he saw several irons, their heads shaped as the various runes of Colchis - sigils Lorgar himself had created to represent the new faith he had ushered in. Signs of the One, of the Truth and the Word.
He saw burn marks upon the flesh of Lorgar, branding fit for a sternback that would have overcome a mortal with pain. 'How…?'
'A servitor of the Mechanicum makes a useful unthinking factotum on occasion. Devoid of conscience, they will happily perform any instruction for days on end. No remorse, no hesitation. An instrument of succour in these dark times.'
It was a delicate moment and Kor Phaeron judged that Lorgar did not need instruction as much as guidance, to be returned to the path he sought. He affected his most fatherly demeanour. 'You asked for me. You wish to talk, my son?'
'And Erebus, though I have allowed us a brief time to converse before he arrives. There is a matter that we must discuss and it is not for his ears. Not yet, I would say.'
'This scourging, it is because of Monarchia,' said Kor Phaeron. 'The crime is not yours.'
'It was and remains so. There is not an accusation levelled against us that we can defend. What we sought to create in purity was a distortion of the Truth. The Emperor cares not for these worlds, save as numbers in a ledger on Terra. We thought we crafted jewels for the Imperial crown, but all we have been doing is wasting our time polishing worthless lumps of earth.'
'Not worthless, for our faith is our meaning, whether the Emperor requires it or not.'
'He does not, and we will comply.' The word brought a twist of disgust to the primarch's lips. 'Compliance. A word that sounds so innocent yet we now know to be so loaded with meaning.'
'We cannot abandon who we are, Urizen.' Kor Phaeron struggled to think how he might lift Lorgar from his malaise. The blow to his beliefs, to his core of being - to his soul, though the Emperor denied such a thing existed - had been catastrophic. As one
father had turned the Golden One's works to nought, the other would have to raise him from the ruins of their destruction.
'There is another way,' the Keeper of Faith suggested.
'You saw what happened to Monarchia. My father's judgement is absolute. We must dissolve all accoutrements of our beliefs, become the exterminators He built us to be.'
'This could break our Legion apart,' warned Kor Phaeron. 'Faith holds us together. For many it is what binds them to you, to the Imperium. They follow the prophet of a god, not a warlord of an Emperor.'
'It is not the first time my authority has been tested.'
'It is not.'
'And before there was a Brotherhood of like-minded souls prepared to defend the Truth.'
'There was.' Kor Phaeron knew well to which organisation Lorgar referred - if it could even be called an organisation. A movement, of dedicated followers willing to protect the Faith at all costs.
Was Lorgar really asking Kor Phaeron to do it again? The primarch would never say as much, perhaps could never bring himself to do so. He knew little enough of the Dark Heart and the Brotherhood that had defended the Truth on Colchis.
Kor Phaeron had to be sure; a misstep now, when the Legion's morale and his primarch's conviction were so broken, would prove fatal for the Word Bearer and his position.
'What point in being the Keeper of Faith when there is no faith to keep?' he asked quietly.
'You are my First Captain still,' Lorgar assured him. 'Your rank, our history, cannot be so easily undone. Our bond is stronger even than the foundations of a city.'
'You wish to expunge all evidence of our faith from the Legion?'
'None must espouse the Emperor as a god.'
And there it was, the deceleration that Kor Phaeron needed. Strange and circuitous were the ways of the Powers sometimes, yet one could see the slow flowing of their course from the correct perspective.
