by Gav Thorpe
His mind raced as he sought the means to concede to the fears of the converts whilst retaining mastery of his crew and slaves.
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Hearing raised voices, Nairo was drawn to the bulkhead between the slaves' quarters and the more spacious dorms of the converts. He put his ear to the metal, breath still as he listened to the ongoing exchange.
'What's happening?' asked Parentha, creeping up beside him.
'Something about Lorgar. Hush, I'm listening.'
Though he could only hear two words out of every three, it was obvious that the argument was not turning in Kor Phaeron's favour.
'Times are changing,' he told the small group that gathered close by. 'Axata is saying that he will not serve a man who does not acknowledge Lorgar as a new prophet.'
This elicited gasps and exclamations from the nearby slaves. Such a declaration was unheard of - it went against the very founding of the Covenant and the beliefs of Kor Phaeron.
'He'll not agree,' said L'sai. In the gloom of the slave quarters his ebon-skinned companion was barely visible. She cracked her knuckles in agitation, perhaps anticipation, and licked her lips.
'Let's hope he doesn't,' said Nairo. He drew a finger across his throat as though it were a dagger. 'Perhaps Axata will finally do what we have all craved.'
'The converts are as bad as Kor Phaeron,' muttered Parentha. 'You've said that a hundred times.'
'But Lorgar is not,' Nairo assured them. 'If Axata were to swear his loyalty to the boy… Perhaps…'
'You think—' Aladas' protest was cut short by Nairo raising a silencing finger with a glare and a shocked expression.
'Axata just declared that the Powers sent Lorgar to replace Kor Phaeron, that the master has fulfilled his role in finding Lorgar.'
'They'll do it,' whispered L'sai, baring her teeth in a grin. 'Kor Phaeron is too arrogant to step back. He'll have to be cast out.'
'Or more,' suggested Koa No, his enthusiasm for the idea raising the pitch of his voice.
'They've grabbed him!' announced Nairo, hearing angry shouts and the rush of feet. 'They're going to take him on deck!'
The hold suddenly erupted in movement as though filled with swarming rats, as the slaves headed towards the steps below the hatch. Nairo pushed his way to the front, blinking in the sunshine that lit a cloud of dust from above.
Suddenly a hush rippled out through the crowd as a large figure emerged from the shadows, violet eyes catching the shaft of sun through the opening above. He moved quickly, silently. Nairo shrank back from Lorgar as the youth set a foot upon the steps, head bowed under the beams.
'Wait here,' Lorgar told them, face impassive. The words rooted Nairo to the spot, demanding instant compliance though softly spoken.
The acolyte ascended and Nairo watched him go. Only when Lorgar was out of sight was the slave free to move again and he followed cautiously, skulking up the steps a short distance behind, to peek over the edge of the hatchway.
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Trembling with equal fear and excitement, Nairo saw that a handful of the converts had Kor Phaeron in their grasp, while two others were fashioning a noose from cable brought up from below. They had armed themselves from the weapons store - as well as mauls and whips, they carried an assortment of fusils, pistols, bows and blades.
'Exile, I said.' Axata stood a little apart from most, a dozen converts at his back. 'The Powers will decide if he lives or dies.'
'I'll not risk this serpent lying in wait in the sands,' spat back Toreja, her fingers continuing to knot the thick red wire. The Cthollian pulled down her porcelain mask, hiding her expression behind a painted visage of a scowling bat-like apparition. Her voice was muted as she continued, 'We'll send him to the Powers and if they don't want him they can send him back.'
'You will burn for eternity for this heresy!' roared Kor Phaeron. He wrestled an arm free and thrust his hand into the air. 'This night the Powers shall strike you down for laying hands upon the Bearer of the Word. It is not for mortals to defame the flesh of the chosen!'
'You were thrown out of the Covenant for your mad schemes, Kor Phaeron,' laughed Ahengi, one of those holding the preacher. 'Do you not always say that nothing passes but for that within the design of the Powers? If the Powers deign that your unworthy existence should continue, why have they not intervened? We stand beneath their gaze, but where is their hand? What saviour will they send you?'
'They have sent me.'
All eyes turned at Lorgar's quiet pronouncement. Many of the converts shuffled uncomfortably, several brought up their weapons. Axata stepped forwards, hands raised, one to Lorgar and the other to the rest of the converts as though holding back two pugilists.
Others had come aboard, bringing their vehicles in either at some prearranged signal or simply noticing that all was not well on the temple-rig. The deck was becoming quite crowded and Nairo could see other slaves peering up through the gratings and from the companionway stair beyond the confrontation.
'Let us not do anything hasty, brethren and sistren,' the chief convert said forcefully. 'Lorgar, this is for the best. Kor Phaeron has been poisoning your mind.'
'Unhand my father.' Lorgar took a step, and there was nothing aggressive in his demeanour, but the converts retreated from him as though he pushed them back with his presence.
'Your father?' Torsja grabbed hold of Kor Phaeron and forced the noose over his shaven head. 'If you have a father, we left his corpse in that mongrel nomad camp.'
'Leave him be,' insisted Lorgar, taking another step.
'Do as he says,' said Axata, turning fully towards the other converts. 'As we agreed, we shall send him into the desert to seek his fate.'
'You will not,' said Lorgar. 'You will take your hands from the Bearer of the Word.'
'Do as he says.' Axata recoiled from Lorgar as the youth approached, as if pained by the youngster's presence. 'We will find another way. The prophet has spoken.'
'He is no prophet,' snarled Ahengi, the white tattoos on his dark flesh twisting in grotesque curls as he bared sharpened teeth. 'Look at him - he is an abomination. A sand-born mutant. The Powers have cursed him, not gifted him.'
Witnessing this, Nairo realised how divisive Lorgar's presence had become. To each member of the caravan he was now a powerful symbol, but none were agreed on what he represented. The hatred on Ahengi's face, repeated on others, betrayed a counter-cult within the converts, fuelled not by Kor Phaeron or Axata, but the jealous words of Ahengi.
'We must cast out those who would bring the curses of the Powers upon us,' the would-be demagogue continued. Axata shook his head in disbelief, confused by the subversion of his own play for power. Where moments before there had been Kor Phaeron against a single faction, now the converts split into smaller groups as other allegiances and agendas were revealed.
The priest's expression was unreadable, a complex and changing mix of anger, fear, loathing and surprise at each new development. The edifice of his power had fallen apart in just moments, though the foundations had slowly been eroding from the moment he had brought Lorgar into his congregation.
'Slay the body and release the tainted soul - it is the only way to save ourselves,' declared Torsja, yanking on the noose about Kor Phaeron's neck.
'If you insist,' said Lorgar, bunching his long fingers into fists.
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When later asked to describe those following moments, Nairo was at a loss to relate them. His first response was one of despair, that the creed of Kor Phaeron had been so inculcated into Lorgar's mind that he would save the preacher from his just demise at the hands of those he had consistently bullied and degraded. In that instant Nairo thought all his hopes for Lorgar were rendered broken, scattered to the winds like the ashes of the nomad camp in which the boy had been found.
This despair became horror quite swiftly, at the thought that Lorgar would give up his life in that unworthy cause. As fusils hummed into life and feyblades crackled, the old slave w
as certain that Ahengi and his companions would execute the son as they would the father.
After that, the incident became a blur. Nairo would later recall the snap of gunfire and the hiss of arrows, the shouts of anger that soon became cries of agony and panic. Where Lorgar had been was empty air, and where the converts had stood became a stack of broken bodies, bones snapped, limbs wrenched from their sockets, organs tom bloodily from the carcasses.
In just half a dozen heartbeats Lorgar stood among the ruin of his work, the blood of Torsja and several others spattered across his acolyte robe and face. His hands dripped with crimson, the blood pooling on the metal deck at his feet.
Kor Phaeron stood with mouth agape at the carnage, in the centre of mangled corpses with Lorgar by his side.
Nairo wept, the sudden violence more grotesque than anything he had seen before. He saw tears in the eyes of Kor Phaeron also, a distinct memory of them glittering in the light of a fallen fey-blade, for the sun that burned bright above was shrouded by the shade of the awnings. Yet there was triumph in the eyes of the preacher too, a pride in his gaze as he looked upon the death wrought by his acolyte.
The whine of a fusil shot broke the scene, hitting Lorgar in the shoulder. The youth went down to one knee, flesh burning with the gleam of the energy impact. Seeing that the chosen of the Powers still lived despite this wound, Ahengi and the others fled, firing wild shots with their pistols and fusils to cover their flight into the sands.
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The stench of blood and charred flesh was strong in Kor Phaeron's nostrils. The bulk of Lorgar close at hand was dominating but reassuring, the drip of fluid from his fingers a faint drumbeat on the deck.
'My son…' whispered the priest overcome with emotion. He placed his splayed fingers upon the wound in Lorgar's shoulder, but the youth did not flinch from the touch. Already the tissue was healing, the raw edges of the cauterisation softening into fresh muscle and skin.
'It will pass, my master.' Lorgar turned his gaze over the rail, to the cloud of dust that marked the passage of the mutineers. 'We are well rid of them.'
Kor Phaeron's heart hardened again.
'Foolish Lorgar,' he said. 'Torsja was correct - one does not leave an enemy to recover. When one strikes, one must do so to the fullest extent of power, to leave no foe remaining that might challenge the victor.'
'They will not return,' Lorgar replied. 'No water, no food. The sunwolves will be picking their bones within days.'
Kor Phaeron chose not to admonish Lorgar for omitting his title, judging the moment too precarious to waste on such trivialities. As always, his view was from a loftier position, seeing further than those around him. The only thing he believed in more than the Word and the Truth was the persistence of enemies.
'It takes only one to bring word of your existence to Vharadesh,' he explained slowly, as though Lorgar were an infant again. His ward thought too well of people and circumstance; it left him vulnerable to the vicissitudes of the Powers' arcane plans and the petty ambitions of mortals who would deny that design. Kor Phaeron wafted a hand towards the dead traitors around them. 'If any doubted your origins in the Empyrean before this day, none do so now. All will desire to court you or destroy you if they hear of what you can do.'
He grabbed Lorgar's bloodied hand in his fingers, clutching it tightly, earnestly. Kor Phaeron did not fear death or indignation or any of the petty tremors in other men's hearts - righteousness put right any dread of such mortal concerns - but he was not carved from rock.
'You have been led to me, son, and I to you. The Powers have willed this to be, and thus shall it be. But there are those who would not have it so, who would allow their vanity to overturn the Will of the Powers. The Covenant is the strongest church of Colchis and by whatever means, they will learn of you, Lorgar. If just one of those faithless dogs brings word to another, as the cold of the night follows the heat of the day we can be sure that tribe by tribe, trader by trader, city by city, the news of your being shall reach Vharadesh. And when it does, the despots of that city, the tyrants who chain the Faithful to the drudgery of recitations and empty ceremony, will see you dead. Or worse, your glory bent beneath the yoke of their empty worship, for they will suffer no other, not even the Powers, to eclipse them in praise.'
As was his way, Kor Phaeron did not have to specify his desire, for it was plain from circumstance what needed to be done. Through him the Truth was known even though he did not have to give voice to the Word.
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'Say no,' whispered Nairo, barely breathing the words, remembering the keen hearing of Lorgar.
The boy made no indication that he had heard the slave, and for a moment did not respond to the emotional petition of Kor Phaeron.
'I will come,' said Axata, bending a knee to the master and acolyte. 'To atone for the mistake, and the peril I unleashed upon this blessed congregation.'
The offer was repeated by the guards who had remained with the leader of the converts, and they bowed to the deck before Lorgar.
'No.' The youth spoke but one word, giving no further argument - yet it was absolute, as final as the sound of a tomb lid falling into place. He started towards the side of the deck, heading for the ladder.
'They will be prepared this time,' Axata warned, rising.
'Perhaps,' said Lorgar, not looking back.
'They have weapons.' Axata proffered his pistol to the youth. 'You should take something too.'
Lorgar considered this, looking at the gun.
'Weapons are a falsehood, giving the weak the illusion that they are strong.' He smiled at Axata, and it seemed as though the sun penetrated the shade for a heartbeat. 'But I take your point.'
Lorgar paced the deck, looking around the temple-rig. In the aft section had been stored the remains of several of the vehicles broken apart during the crossing of the Low Barrens. The youth rifled through the parts for a short while and then turned, the axle of a cart in one hand, the heavy head of a mast-censer in the other. He pushed the spiked iron globe onto the shaft, his fingers bending the metal into place.
In one hand he raised the mace, a weapon heavier than anything Axata could have carried.
'Wait for me here,' said Lorgar, and there was no arguing with his command, even from Kor Phaeron, whose nature made him oppose on instinct any who tried to instruct him.
'Stay safe,' said Nairo, the sentiment echoed by a few other slaves as the youth climbed onto the ladder.
His last glance was for Kor Phaeron. The priest returned the look with customary indifference.
'Make me proud, child,' said the preacher. 'Spare none.'
And with that Lorgar descended. Nairo, Axata and many others crowded the rail, watching the boy stride across the sands. Kor Phaeron gave a contemptuous snort and headed to his cabin.
'It is in the hands of the Powers now,' he declared before descending below deck.
The slaves and remaining converts stayed watching until long after Lorgar had been swallowed by the haze of distance and the wind had erased his footprints.
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Following Lorgar's departure a strange mood fell upon the caravan. Kor Phaeron did not emerge from isolation, occasionally shouting demands for fresh water and food, but communicating no more than that. The slaves performed such duties as necessary for the bare minimum requirements of hygiene and sustenance. The guards - barely a quarter of their number remained I were reluctant to enforce any further labour upon those below them, now outnumbered a further threefold by the departure of the mutineers.
There remained a possibility that the heretics who had turned away from the Truth might return, but to patrol and post sentries would leave the converts with barely a handful of warriors to act as wardens on the temple-rig.
Some of the slaves, L'sai acting as spokesperson, demanded that they be armed from the lockers, arguing that the converts who remained would be no match for those who had been chased away. To the converts this was not only a practic
al nightmare, but also an injunction against all they had been taught by Kor Phaeron.
Axata and Nairo came to a quick arrangement that the guards would not administer any punishments whilst the slaves would make no attempt to harm either the converts or Kor Phaeron. Neither group could exist without the other for the time being nor was willing to challenge the quickly established status quo.
To cement this agreement the two factions prayed together, asking the Powers for guidance and protection and strength in the trying times. They cursed the mutineers as faithless and implored the Powers to strike down those who had turned from the Truth.
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The wake-main of Long Noon passed without incident, and rest-eve. Wake-rise came without sight or sound of Lorgar or the mutineers returning. Kor Phaeron did not emerge from his prayers, studies or whatever activity kept him in his quarters, which suited both the converts and the slaves well. The truce that had been established continued through three more meals and prayer sessions, and endured into Duskeve also.
At the crest of wake-main on Duskeve, as twilight hastened towards Coldfall, Axata approached Nairo.
'I have a fear,' he confessed to the old slave. 'The deniers had little time gained on Lorgar before he left. It would not have taken this long for him to catch up with them.'
'I agree He would outpace them and his endurance is endless,' said Nairo. 'He would have returned by now if he could.'
'We must accept that he is lost to us.' Axata's dark eyes glittered with moisture at the thought, and the declaration caught Nairo's breath in his throat and constricted about his heart. 'Lorgar has become a martyr. Too young, he has been taken from us.'
'I'll not give up hope,' Nairo argued, fighting back the sadness that had seeped into his soul. 'He might have prevailed and now, injured, lies waiting for us in the sands.'
'It is no comfort that he will die a slow death instead,' moaned Axata.
'You misunderstand. We should send out a party to search for Lorgar.'
'Such a group would have to be armed,' Axata replied, eyes narrowing with suspicion. 'If converts leave, the caravan would be defenceless if the mutineers return. Unless you think I would arm the slaves. Is that your intent?'