Lorgar: Bearer of the Word

by Gav Thorpe

  'I think his purpose is not for us to divine, but to define, Axata. See how eager he is to learn? He is a mould into which we must pour our faith and our wisdom, to create something beautiful and holy.'

  Axata nodded slowly and scratched broken nails across his stubbled chin. He narrowed his eyes.

  'But what purpose do you have for him? You teach him like an acolyte, but beat him like a slave.'

  'There is greatness in Lorgar, that is plain to see. It must be founded upon humility if it is to be of worth to the Powers. We must put it foremost in his mind that he serves the design of the Powers, not any mortal ambition.'

  Again Axata showed his understanding but betrayed further thought with his disturbed expression.

  'And what does it mean for us, in particular?'

  'For us?' Kor Phaeron chose his next words with care. 'An ending and a beginning, Axata. Lorgar is a sign from the Powers that they have noted our labours. Our exile will end, our time in the wilderness, both literal and figurative, shall one day cease. Lorgar is the key to that future.'

  'You intend to destroy the Covenant?'

  'I like your quick wit, Axata - that is why you are my right hand. But in this you are wrong. The Covenant is the Church of Colchis, the rightful institution of the Powers. The Covenant is more than the priests and priestesses, the choruses and choirs, the temples and cloisters. The Covenant must endure, but to do so it must also be changed. We shall be that change, Axata, you and I and the others of the true passion. Lorgar has been delivered to us for that end. If you wish to know his purpose, look no further than the walls and spires of Vharadesh. Praise the Powers.'

  'Praise the Prophets,' replied Axata. Heartened by these words, he left Kor Phaeron, who was also invigorated by the exchange.

  The Truth was simple and Kor Phaeron chided himself for not seeing it earlier. Lorgar's arrival was not a test, it was an opportunity.

  1 7 1

  High Night came, bitter and clear, when the stars were full-bright. Nairo and the other slaves dismounted from the temple-rig in preparation for the observations, bringing mats and telescopes for the master.

  It was cold beneath the cloudless skies, and the slaves pulled tight such rags and cloaks as they had while they waited. Nairo looked up at the constellations. He knew a few, the majors, like any child of Colchis. The Opening Eye, with the red star of Valak as its pupil. The Rising Stair, which looked more like a waterfall to Nairo but who was he to doubt the judgement of the ancients? The Serrated Sun, just above the horizon, called by some the Iron Halo of Khaane.

  Almost directly overhead shone the Exalted Gates, through which could be seen the smudge that scholars testified to be the clouds surrounding the mountain of the Empyrean - the Godpeak to which the prophets had conducted the Pilgrimage, whose precipitous and unwelcoming flanks they had ascended into the mists of the Powers.

  Nairo had once stolen a look through his master's viewing scope, when Kor Phaeron had been studying the Exalted Gates. He had seen the distant swirl that concealed the Godpeak and, for a moment, had felt a connection to the Powers. He had known in that moment what Kor Phaeron meant when he said that they dwelt beneath their immortal gaze.

  But it was impossible to reconcile that moment with the nature of his existence, nor accept on faith alone that his slavery, that the subjugation of millions, was an intended part of the Powers' design.

  'Maska!' His voice was a sharp whisper, his eyes constantly roving back to the rig and the guards upon the masts and at the rail. Not that they were bothered about the slaves trying to escape; any fool who wanted to dare the wilderness alone would shortly be joining the Powers. The deadly desert was more surety against escape than any patrols or fences. Nairo looked for a sign of their master appearing, for he desired no one to overhear his conversation and was reminded of Lorgar's claims of extraordinary hearing.

  Maska approached at his furtive but insistent gesturing. Lorra, Baphae and Kal Dekka responded to similarly clandestine summoning, congregating beside the main observational array. They pretended to examine the spokes and gears as they conversed, lips almost motionless, their voices barely audible over the night breeze and flap of cloaks.

  'I overheard the master speaking to Axata,' Nairo told the others. 'They intend to raise the boy in the teachings of the Truth, and to return to Vharadesh to use him against the archpriests of the Covenant.'

  'Dangerous,' said Baphae, wiping a hand across his beard to obscure his mouth as he spoke. 'If the Covenant hear anything of that they'll hunt us down.'

  'There's nothing we can do about it,' said Maska, moving to step away Nairo caught the hem of her cloak and gently tugged her back.

  'You mistake my meaning. Kor Phaeron is to fill Lorgar's head with the Word and the Truth, but perhaps that is not the only thing the boy will learn.'

  Lorra darted him a look and then quickly concealed her concern by bending to the mechanism of the main telescope. 'Then it's not the Covenant who'll flay us, but the master.'

  'Not if we're careful,' said Baphae. 'Just a lesson here, a lesson there. A bit of compassion maybe.'

  'More than that,' whispered Nairo. He took a moment, judging his audience. If he confided his full beliefs they might think him mad, but he could not let the opportunity pass. 'Lorgar could be our saviour. All of us, all Colchisians. Kor Phaeron sort of believes it, though he thinks he will be the vessel of the Powers' return. He'll try to use Lorgar, whatever the boy turns out to be What if Lorgar really is a fifth prophet? We cannot let Kor Phaeron control that sort of power.'

  'Control?' Kal Dekka scoffed. He buffed the barrel of the 'scope with the corner of his tunic. 'If Lorgar is a prophet, nobody will control him, none but the Powers.'

  'I can't believe that,' replied Nairo. 'He is just a child at the moment, and a child can be taught, no matter what destiny the Powers have set in store for him. He could be the liberation of us all, the saviour of the slaves.'

  'I'd settle for a less lofty goal,' said Maska. 'If he just makes our lives a little easier, I'd be…'

  She trailed off, flicking a glance towards the temple-rig before she moved away, attending to other tasks. Nairo glanced over his shoulder to see that Kor Phaeron had emerged onto the deck, bathed in the reflected silvery glow of the stars. He gazed up at the Empyrean and there was an unfamiliar smile upon his face.

  Nairo caught Baphae's look, a warning glance. He returned a reassuring wink and hurried back to the shrine wagon to attend to the master's wishes.

  1 7 2

  And so the rhythm of the caravan continued, changed in some ways, the status quo retained in others. Each wake-day they traversed the dunes of the great wilderness, guided by the observations of the Coldfall and High Night before. Consulting the stars and the Book of Heavenly Scripts, Kor Phaeron divined the Will of the Powers. Where before they had sought out other caravans, heading for the camps of the Declined, oases and wadis, now the master of the temple eschewed his missionary goal, declaring that they must remain hidden from the prying eyes of those who would see the Truth silenced.

  Kor Phaeron led the slaves and converts in their prayers and dedications - before breakfast on the cusp of wake-rise, and again before the meal that heralded the transition to wake-main. They gathered, wearing prayer shawls to protect from sun or cold, during the last hour before rest-eve and for brief invocations at the time of sleeping. He spent much time with Lorgar, reading from the texts and instilling his own thoughts into the boy. Lorgar had learned well the lesson of his beating and paid more attention to the substance of the tracts as well as their detail.

  He tried hard to keep his questions to himself, but his curiosity was boundless and occasionally his inquisitive nature got the better of his discipline. Sometimes Kor Phaeron indulged these queries if the subject pleased him; other times he called for Axata to apply a short flogging for wasting the master's precious time.

  As attested to by the Declined, Lorgar's growth was considerable, so that it seemed each
Mornday the fresh sunlight fell upon a youth who was noticeably taller and broader. For one so young he possessed a bulk that would rival Axata one day; his young skin bulged with latent muscle.

  His thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and he absorbed all that was passed to him as the sands of the White Plains soak up every drop of rain that falls upon their barren expanse. Lorgar learned quickly, with a fierce appetite not just to understand the texts of the ancients but to hear more of the Age Before: of Colchis, of the Prophets, of the caravans and trade routes. Most of all, though, he longed for stories of the great cities.

  It was in this capacity that Nairo and his companions were able to furnish a more rounded education than that provided by Kor Phaeron. Whilst they prepared food, split and spliced cables, cleaned and polished, sawed and hammered, the slaves talked to Lorgar, telling him their tales, sometimes singing the songs of their peoples or sharing the folklore of the desert tribes. While everybody spoke the waterwords as the prescribed cant of the caravan, they each had their own dialects and doggerel. These Lorgar quickly assimilated, and was keen to demonstrate to Kor Phaeron but Nairo warned him not to reveal this to the master. Though dismayed by the thought of subterfuge, Lorgar seemed wary enough of his beatings that he held his tongue and shared his linguistic skills only with the slaves.

  At times Nairo spied the youngster listening intently at the hatches or at the base of a mast beneath a guard nest, no doubt paying close attention to the languages of the guards too. Sure enough, after brief study he displayed a remarkable breadth of curses and swear words from three dozen different regions and cities. While this caused a certain amount of hilarity among the converts, who had also secretly started to share their own tales with the boy, it brought swift vocal and physical retribution from the master.

  1 7 3

  Forty wake-rises and rest-eves passed, by which time Lorgar was almost as tall as Nairo's shoulder, and easily more broad and heavyset. The acolyte frequently engaged in semantic debates with Kor Phaeron, who tested his abilities by hurling doubts and questions that would be used by unbelievers, assuring himself that the child knew the responses to accusations of blasphemy and heresy, to specific arguments against the faith. The boy joked with the converts and slaves, and constructed elaborate fables from their histories, spinning truth into fanciful adventures through the divine realms of the Empyrean.

  For Nairo it was a time as back-breaking as ever, but the presence of Lorgar alleviated some of the spiritual pain that he endured. When he saw the boy at prayer he was reminded that hope had returned. Every Dawnaway brought with it the promise of a new future.

  Though they did their best to avoid the traders and nomads, eventually their supplies ran low enough to force them back to the more populated tracts of the desert. On the sixth Coldfall after Lorgar's discovery Kor Phaeron consulted the heavenly messengers and asked them to provide guidance. Interpreting the movements above, the master declared that they would head to Ad Drazonu, a nearby oasis.

  They set course according to the observations and expected to reach the oasis by wake-main of the coming Mornday. The crew brought up empty water barrels ready for filling before the freeze of High Night made extended labour impossible. Beneath the flickering lumen glare Nairo and others struggled at a pulley and line above the main hatch. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder moving him aside. Lorgar stepped up to the opening and hauled out the keg one-handed, unhooking it from the cable with the other. With ease he stacked it upon the few that had already been raised, and returned to the hatch to send the cable down again. He jumped down into the darkness, where Maska and others fumbled to drag the heavy barrels in the gloom, to hook them up to the winch. Lorgar seemed as keen-sighted as the rats that dwelt in the storage decks, and heaved the barrels to the opening two at a time, before he pulled himself up to the main deck and instructed those below to hang them on the line.

  With metronomic repetition the boy laboured, tirelessly and with barely a sweat sheen on his golden skin. Not more than an hour had passed and all of the barrels were stacked along the gunwales.

  'What next?' he asked Nairo, clearly invigorated not only by the physical exercise but the practical nature of the task. 'It is rewarding, is it not, to sometimes labour at something measurable? It frees the mind to ponder the greater things. For instance, it has occurred to me whilst I stacked these last dozen barrels that we might consider it a metaphor for our spiritual labours. We can each work as hard as we are able, but only together can we achieve our ends, and as the barrels must be ordered, so too must our thoughts and prayers. The Truth is that we each have a purpose, but it goes beyond that. Not just us, but all things are part of the order of the Powers, to be set aright according to their plan.'

  The slave was unsure what to make of it, worried that Lorgar had absorbed too much of the master's demands for hierarchy and subjugation to the will of the Impassioned, as he referred to those who had heeded the Word and allowed the Truth to enter their souls.

  'Salting kegs,' Nairo replied after a moment's thought, pointing to the aft hatch. 'We'll be bringing aboard meat.'

  Lorgar set to this task with equal vigour, singing hymns that Nairo recognised from Verbal Offerings in the Temple, though with extra verses of his own invention. As he rolled the large salting kegs across the deck he regaled his growing audience with 'Glory to the Ascended', but each verse and chorus rendered into a different tongue, effortlessly translated on the fly by the youth as several of the slaves and guards called out for him to use their native dialects next.

  1 7 4

  It was thus caught up in the festive air that Nairo and the others did not see or hear Kor Phaeron rise from his cabin. The first they realised of his coming was a thunderous bellow as he came into view up the steps from the below deck.

  'What is this clownish mockery?'

  Converts and slaves scattered like vermin before the lantern, suddenly occupied with tasks in the holds, or engine rooms, or at the far ends of the temple-rig. Lorgar stopped in his tracks, the barrel he had been kicking across the decking rolling to a halt against the gunwale Nairo stayed close, unable to abandon the boy to face the master's displeasure alone. To his credit, Axata remained also, suddenly hanging his head in shame where moments before he had been cheerfully banging out the beat of the hymn with a fist on the rail.

  'You!' Kor Phaeron jabbed a finger towards the guard captain, who flinched as though the accusing digit was the barrel of a fusil. 'Ready your whip!'

  The master rounded on the other converts, hectoring and snarling at them to drag forth the slaves who had shirked their duties. They complied quickly, fearing his wrath and that the scorn of the Powers would fall upon them instead. It seemed that it took only moments to round up the thirty-eight men and women, forced to their knees on the deck with Nairo.

  'The Powers set us in motion upon the face of the world,' Kor Phaeron spat. 'Unto each of us they have poured their purpose and into their great design they have woven us. If they had desired you to be idle, to giggle and cavort like cliff monkeys, they would not have seen fit to cast you into slavery! Six lashes each.'

  1 7 5

  Kor Phaeron turned from the slaves having pronounced his judgement, focusing his scorn upon Lorgar. Though almost as big as the master, he quailed from Kor Phaeron's approach as if the Powers themselves had sent an avatar of admonition against him.

  'I sought only to help, my master,' the boy explained weakly, all strength and music robbed from his voice.

  'It is not your place to help,' Kor Phaeron replied quietly.

  The first crack of the whip and yelp heralded the beginning of the punishment for the slaves, but Nairo and those not yet taken in the rough hands of the guards had eyes only for their master and Lorgar. Kor Phaeron spoke calmly, with none of his customary snarling and raging. He seemed disappointed by the boy, genuinely hurt that his acolyte had been so foolish.

  'Would you do all of their labours, Lorgar?' Kor Phaeron asked. 'Wo
uld you strip the meat from the bones? Stoke the fires? Oil the gears? Wash the clothes? Varnish and paint the temple? Sew the pennants? Sift the sand for landcrabs and beetles and scorpions to cook?'

  Lorgar stood dumbfounded, hands gripping each other in front of him, confusion written across his features.

  'What of the other slaves, Lorgar?' Kor Phaeron waved a hand past the rail to the darkness of the night. 'Not just those of this caravan, but the others of a hundred traders, a thousand merchants, and the millions in the cities? Would you take all of their labours away? Who would nurse the children? Who would set stone upon stone to erect the monuments to the Powers? Who would stoke the furnaces and polish the lecterns, and inscribe new copies of the texts? Would you do all of that for them?'

  The boy shook his head, shoulders slumped, not looking at his master. The wails of the beaten slaves grew in volume as their punishment continued, the guards working their way towards Nairo. Still he could not turn his gaze from the pair.

  'No. No, my master,' Lorgar mumbled.

  'No.' Kor Phaeron approached his acolyte, stood a little more than arm's length away. 'So you would decide those you would relinquish of their duties and those who must labour still. You, a mortal, would be the arbiter of who is to slave for others.'

  'I…' Lorgar had no reply to this argument. His lip trembled and he glanced at Nairo. His eyes were filled with apology and resignation as Nairo felt unruly fingers clamp on to his shoulder. He looked up to see Carad, one of the Archer Brethren. There was no such pity in her eyes as she pulled the slave to his feet and dragged him towards Axata's waiting lash. Nairo glanced back, imploring Lorgar with a glance, but the boy's expression hardened and he looked back to Kor Phaeron.