by Gav Thorpe
The master pushed the child towards the ladder and bade him climb. Beyond, Kor Phaeron's guards now had blades and mauls in hands, hacking and dubbing down the last of the Dedined. Some were already dragging the nomads' belongings from the tents, setting fire to the emptied pavilions; others were leading the sternbacks and sunstriders out of their corral to be added to the beasts of the caravan.
It was not the first time Nairo had seen such acts and he knew that by the time rest-eve had passed the bodies would be buried by the sands, the ashes scattered by the winds, the smoke dispersed into the upper airs, and nothing would remain of Fan Morgai and his tribe. Their souls the Powers would reward or punish as they saw fit - likely subjected to everlasting torture in retribution for a lifetime of faithlessness if Kor Phaeron's lectures were to be believed.
Lorgar reached the top of the ladder and Nairo proffered a hand to help him through the gap in the gunwale. He hesitated, about to pull back his fingers before they touched the unnatural child. Their eyes met again and Nairo read curiosity in the violet gaze. He remembered it was a boy who ascended, not one of the Powers, and gripped his wrist to pull him over the threshold.
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The child, still swathed in his nomad clothing, almost fell onto the deck, righting himself at the last moment with a fierce grip on the shawl of Nairo. Kor Phaeron hauled himself through the opening just after, darting an irritated look at the slave.
'Water,' he snapped, flicking a finger towards the keg. 'I am as parched as the Lancaxa Sandstraits. Now!'
Nairo dipped the ladle into the water and filled a metal cup for his master, offering with eyes averted. He heard Kor Phaeron take three large gulps, droplets pattering to the deck, evaporating almost immediately despite the shade of the awning above. The cup was thrust back into his hand and Nairo looked up. He moved to fill it again, for the boy, but Kor Phaeron shook his head.
'He does not drink yet.'
'Who are these people?' Lorgar asked, looking at the slaves going about their various tasks.
'The forgotten, the unclean, the unworthy,' said Kor Phaeron. 'Slaves.'
'And what do they do?'
'Whatever I demand of them.'
Lorgar absorbed this information without gesture or comment, but his brow creased slightly beneath the ragged edge of his head scarf.
'And what did they do to deserve such treatment?'
Kor Phaeron grimaced and loomed over the child.
'Firstly, child, you will address me as 'my master', or 'Bearer of the Word'. Secondly, you will not ask questions until invited to do so. I will teach you the Truth - concern yourself only with such lessons as I deem right. I will indulge you a moment longer, as you are new to the path of enlightenment.' The preacher pointed at Nairo and swept his finger across the rig to encompass the others who had been made out-caste. 'They are slaves because they offended the Powers.'
'And who arbitrates such offences, my master?' Lorgar asked, innocence radiating from his face. 'For how long is the punishment administered?'
'You misunderstand, Lorgar. You must learn to pay more attention if you are to seek the Truth. They are slaves, a miserable position to be in, so one must conclude that in order to suffer such a fate the Powers must be punishing them. You heard my sermon. To each a path is shown by the Powers and each will walk it as the Powers desire. They are slaves because the Powers wish it to be so. If the Powers no longer desire them to be slaves, they will find fresh positions and freedom. It is not in the judgement of mortals to inflict or release such bondage.'
Lorgar accepted this wisdom with a thoughtful look. Nairo saw no compassion in the boy's strange eyes, but there was also none of the coldness and disdain of the guards, nor the venom and cruelty of Kor Phaeron.
'Master?' Nairo touched his fingertips to his eyes as apology for the interruption. 'Where is Lorgar to sleep? To eat? Will he stay with you? Or billeted with the guards?'
The master considered the question for a moment before a flicker of a sly smile twisted his lips.
'He will eat, sleep and pray with your kind, Nairo. He will attend higher lessons when I call for him, without delay. If he is tardy you will all be punished. And get him out of those stinking Dedined rags. I'll not have my pupil dressed as a faithless sand rat. You will find proper acolyte's garb in my largest chest.'
Nairo acknowledged his instructions with a nod and a knuckle to his forehead.
'Am I to be a slave, my master?' asked Lorgar. As with everything thus far, the wondrous child seemed intrigued rather than afraid, angered or perplexed.
'That is the first aspect of the Truth you must understand, Lorgar,' Kor Phaeron replied. He put two fingers together in the gesture of blessing but pointed them to the heavens, at the pale disc of the sun that could be seen through the weave of the awning. 'We are all slaves beneath the gaze of the Powers.'
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Kor Phaeron retired to his rooms to continue his studies while Axata and his warriors finished the cleansing of the Declined. Nairo, when his many labours gave him brief opportunity, observed Lorgar on a box at the rail watching the execution and dismantling. He seemed even younger dressed in the simple pale smock of a Covenant acolyte, the golden skin of his arms exposed. With headscarf removed his scalp was revealed, with not a single hair upon it. It glistened with sweat despite the shade of the awning.
Corpsehawks had started to descend from the high thermals and the sands shifted and bulged around the footprints of the mercenary Faithful as subterranean scavengers moved through the desert, both drawn by the blood leaking into the dunes. The boy seemed not to notice this activity, his gaze in constant motion, shifting from one person to the next, only briefly dwelling for any time on an individual.
Sanding brick in hand, Nairo made his way along the deck and started to work at the timbers near the boy, chafing away weathered paint with circular strokes. He kept his voice quiet when he spoke, though only a handful of the master's guards were on deck while the grim eradication of the Declined continued.
'What are you looking for, Lorgar?' Nairo asked.
'Everything, Nairo,' the child replied with a solemn expression, not turning around. 'I am trying to see it all but there is too much.'
'All of what? And how do you know my name? The master made no introductions.'
'I heard all of your chatter as you approached the camp, and everything that has been said since I came aboard. I know all of the names that have been spoken, though I cannot put them all to people yet. The one there…' He pointed to a Cathracian in the camp, wearing a tight-fitting purple jerkin and black leggings, her long hair tied with dozens of silk ribbons of the same colours, loading pillaged jewellery onto a sandsled. 'She is called Artharas. She curses frequently, and she looks many times at that one, the Cthollic female Corshad. She desires her more than the gems she collects. There is another called Fabbas who is also talking much about Corshad's body, but he is below decks and I have not yet seen him.'
'You see and hear all of that?' Nairo could not help but stare in wonder at Lorgar. 'It is as though you see their hearts. Their souls.'
'Is that possible?' Now the child glanced down at Nairo, excited. 'These are just the movements on the surface. Sounds and light. Can one really see a soul?'
'I think so,' said Nairo. 'What else of yours could it be that blinded us?'
'I do not know,' Lorgar replied sadly. 'The Declined said that I was a watergift, but Kor Phaeron believes I am from the Powers.'
'He does?'
'I hear him muttering to himself in his cabin below our feet,' said the boy. 'He has fallen silent, just breathing.'
'He is likely reading,' said Nairo. 'Searching the texts for inspiration.'
'Will the texts explain what I am? Kor Phaeron promised that I will learn the Truth. I think that means I will learn what it is I am. I know I am not a child of humans - I saw the infants of the Declined and they are not like me.'
'The Covenant has many lessons and prophecies,
and the stories of the prophets are full of messages from the Powers. If any man or woman can decipher their meaning it will be the Bearer of the Word.'
Lorgar said nothing else and returned his attention to the camp of the nomads, but Nairo noticed a small furrow in his brow as his eyes resumed searching the faces of the converts.
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They left the remnants of the Declined and continued into the desert, pressing on through rest-eve while Kor Phaeron spent time in his cabin, agitated by his discovery, attempting to divine its meaning with meditation and prayer. The relentless Long Noon heat dipped into wake-rise and wake-main of Post-noon, and when they had slept again the caravan began its preparations for Duskeve, heralded by a drop in the winds from the outlands that left the temple-rig's bunting lank and limp on the masts and rails.
At the very moment of the wind's last breath, almost to the horn call as wake-rise became wake-main, Kor Phaeron appeared at the gangway from the lower deck. He looked to the lowering sun, face shielded by one raised hand, a bronze-bound tome in the other. The lookouts at the mastheads signalled a clear horizon with pennants of red. Return flags of the same fluttered on the standard poles of the outriders.
At a nod from Kor Phaeron, the address system blared into life, a crackling note that summoned his Faithful to the dusk mass. With practised care, the land yachts tacked back towards the temple-rig while the great machine snarled and growled as brakes were applied, gears slipped and the engines forced into idleness. The other chariots, buggies and trikes of the caravan pulled alongside, forming an oval laager around the vehicle of their spiritual lord.
The crews drew out their prayer shawls of brightly dyed wool, and assembled on the deck of the shrine wagon and on the cooling sands around it. They drew the heavy shawls over their heads and shoulders and knelt, protected from the still considerable power of the sun.
Kor Phaeron ascended to the lectern pilaster and looked over his gathering, seeing them as a mass rather than as individual slaves and converts. His eye was drawn to the small form of Lorgar, knelt among the slaves at the back of the congregation. The child stared up at Kor Phaeron with his keen gaze, drinking in every detail, boyish features lit on one side by the slowly setting sun.
The preacher tried to push the youth from his thoughts, to bring forth the words with which he addressed the coming night.
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'Now the peace of the eve is upon us.' His words carried the length of the caravan via the speaker system. 'We are at transition.'
'Transition,' chorused the assembly, the higher pitched voice of Lorgar a heartbeat later than the others, as he copied their response at a nudge from Nairo on his left.
'This is the time of calm reflection. To consider the acts of the day and the duties of the night. The burning sun gives way to the cold stars. The Powers do not slumber though their blazing eye is turned elsewhere, for in the vaults of the Empyrean above they show us the path on which we must travel.'
Kor Phaeron turned towards the coming night and held out his open hand. A solitary light twinkled in the distance just above the horizon.
'Behold the First Star, night eye of the Powers, the guide.'
'The guide,' whispered the congregation, again with the jarring echo of Lorgar's late but enthusiastic intonation. Kor Phaeron pressed on despite the disruption.
'Across the Empyrean the Powers have scattered their messages.' He held up the heavy tome in his hands, the Book of Heavenly Scripts, proffering it to the invisible Powers above. 'As we transition from day to night, heat to chill, action to contemplation, I shall consult the oracles of the skies and seek the Truth.'
'The Truth.' This time Lorgar's timing was almost perfect, though whether out of instinct or earlier prompting by his companions, Kor Phaeron could not know. He placed the Book of Heavenly Scripts on the lectern and suppressed a sigh as he considered the day's events.
There was no point hiding from the fact that it had been a remarkable day. If he said nothing regarding Lorgar the converts and slaves would simply fill the void with their own superstitious musings. Better to set the tone from the outset and establish his authority.
'Today we have witnessed a marvel.' He motioned for Lorgar to rise. 'Stand up, child.'
Lorgar rose as commanded, swamped by the heavy shawl of many colours that one of the slaves had given to him. Even so, there was undeniable strength and dignity in his poise.
The Powers delivered unto us this boy. Lorgar. We saved him from a questionable fate at the hands of the desert savages. Do not be fooled by outward appearance. They are the Declined, unworthy to even set foot within the cities of Colchis. Their souls have been touched by faithlessness, their families and ancestors cursed to roam the wilderness for their sins.
'And that curse would have leaked into the soul of Lorgar had he remained with them. It is our turn - our right! - to raise him in the ways of the Truth. I shall be his master, but we must all be his teacher. I am the Bearer of the Word, but we all must bear the burden of his education.
Think on this for the hour of contemplation. Remember that the Powers have given us this time to ponder the mysteries of their universe, and one such mystery has entered our lives this day.
'Lorgar, you have many questions, but the answers you seek will only be found through study, obedience and adherence to the edicts of the Truth. Tonight I shall begin your instruction in astromancy so that in time you too shall discern the wisdom and missives of the Powers, but first you must learn the scriptures of our forebears.'
Kor Phaeron waved for Lorgar to kneel again and then raised his hands to the Empyrean, eyes closed. He took a moment to give silent thanks to the Powers for this boon, for though he had tried to remain strong after his castigation and exile, and though the light of the Powers fell upon him each day, he knew they could see the doubts that had assailed his thoughts of late.
Lorgar was reward for his perseverance, confirmation that he was still on the correct course across the wildlands of the Powers' arcane design. He needed no surer sign of his destiny than that which had been sent to him dad in the guise of a child: a pupil ready to be enriched with faith and the Truth. What else would better show the people of Colchis that a new age had dawned, an age with the Covenant broken down and rebuilt by the hand of the great Kor Phaeron?
He opened his eyes, feeling the strength of the Powers radiating afresh from his body, invigorated by their blessing. His followers looked to him, ready and willing to do his bidding, eyes bright and hungry for his Lore and his Law. Unto him they had placed their souls and he would not fail them.
Receiving his nod, as one they chanted together.
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Great Powers, dwellers in the Empyrean,
Hear today our thanks for thy creation,
And thy merciful aversion of thy divine wrath at our trespasses.
King of Storms, Lord of Blood,
Hear today our thanks for thy strength,
And thy protection from the conquests of the impure.
Queen of Mysteries, Lady of Fate,
Hear today our thanks for thy knowledge,
And thy watchfulness against the hazards of uncertainty.
Prince of Hearts, Sire of Dreams,
Hear today our thanks for thy inspiration,
And thy indulgences of our mortal ambitions.
Princess of Life, Mother of Hope,
Hear today our thanks for thy vigour,
And thy generosity in times of need and austerity.
Praise be to the prophets.
Praise Khaane!
Praise Tezen!
Praise Slanat!
Praise Narag!
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Kor Phaeron's cabin was sparsely furnished, more austere even than those of the senior converts. It was not that he considered it a moral choice to keep it so - he possessed a few luxuries such as the blanket of softest capricor wool and the stash of Nomorian
chocolate he had been eking out since his escape from that city - but more a matter of necessity and habit. He had possessed nothing but the rags on his back when he had been ejected from Vharadesh and the experience had taught him to travel lightly.
The books took pride of place in a cabinet that was in fact two travelling cases attached to the wall. If he was required to leave in haste they were all that he needed to take with him, assuming that he had opportunity to do so - he was not so admiring of the Powers that he would lay down his life for handwritten and printed pages and an old crystal reader.
The window and shutter were propped open by a forked branch from a woundbark tree, which had served as his rod of office for nearly half a year until a tribal leader had gifted him the old sceptre that hung over his bed. The haft of the rod was still lined with the thick red sap from which the tree's name was derived. Through the window, the twilight crept over the bare metal of the rig's underbelly and onto plain wooden walls. More light came from a small lumen cube on an upturned crate beside the cot, as well as primitive tallow-lights on other shelves.
The flickering gleam caught on old circuit boards and chipped reader gems. A few other ornaments of no particular physical value were stored in open boxes on the floor, mostly gifts from thankful audiences or offerings to the Powers that Kor Phaeron had intercepted before they had been thrown into burials, sacrifice pits or ritual furnaces.
Kor Phaeron sat on the cot with the Book of Heavenly Scripts open upon his lap, thumbing through the pages of the prophetic almanac until he found those that pertained to the current season.
'My master?'
Lorgar's inquiry made him flinch. The child had not made a sound as he had descended the steps.
'Knock upon the door!' snarled Kor Phaeron. 'Never enter my chamber unbidden.'