by Gav Thorpe
Nairo staggered to a stop a couple of metres from the Bearer of the Word. Lorgar winced as he tried to stand, crimson pumping from the lacerations across the blood vessels in his arms. He grimaced as he tried to flex fingers with frayed tendons. Nairo felt a stab of conscience at the sight of the youth in pain. For so long he had thought him impervious; had he really suffered through all of those whippings and beatings in silence whilst feeling every blow?
Lorgar held up his ruined hands towards Nairo, as if pleading for something. His mouth opened and closed with a wordless appeal.
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Nairo tore off such garments as he had, a short toga of dirty, poorly woven linen. He used the bandages to bind Lorgar's arms, while around them the battle continued to rage.
Lorgar nodded silently, focus returning to his gaze. Already the cuts across his chest and face were scabbed over, the stream of fluid from his arms stifled by his extraordinary body.
'Why?' Nairo asked. 'Why suffer so for me?'
Lorgar replied in a lilting tongue, perhaps not realising that he spoke some other language. It was impossible to read his expression, and before Nairo could ask again the Bearer of the Word surged up the dune, taking up a snapped stanchion, its sheared end as sharp as any spear. He stopped and looked back, fixing Nairo with his penetrating gaze, pinning him to the spot with its intensity.
'I might ask the same,' Lorgar said before breaking into a run, heading for the thickest fighting.
Nairo sat down, holding a hand to the wound below his ribs. It was not so severe as he had first feared; shock had wounded him more than the projectile itself. He then realised that the barb had been pulled free. He saw it lying among the other debris where the Bearer of the Word had come to a stop.
The only explanation was that Lorgar had removed it at some point even as Nairo had been helping the youth; so fast that the slave had neither seen nor felt the extraction, despite the obvious damage to the youth's hands and the pain he must have felt.
'That's why,' Nairo whispered to himself.
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Though there was little enough of Taranthis to be seen on the surface, the trio of armoured portals that broke the rocky promontory above the mines were imposing enough. Each was a keep, independent of the others above ground, a bastion of ruddy stone and dark metal built around a gate solid enough to withstand the simple weapons of the caravan.
The guards of the outer towers, having witnessed the victory of the Bearer of the Word over those who had moved against him, had withdrawn into their mother-town, locking down their fortifications to abandon the surface to the interlopers. The cost of the victory had been considerable, some forty slaves and half as many converts in all lost, several dozen of each injured, many unlikely to survive without expert attention and facilities. A price worth paying, in Kor Phaeron's view, to teach Lorgar the nature of the opposition he would now face if he wanted to confront the Covenant.
'What do we do now?' Axata asked as he, Lorgar and Kor Phaeron stood in the shade of the golden solar-sails of two wagons, about half a kilometre from the closest barbican. 'We cannot breach Taranthis with fusils and spear-hurlers.'
'One of the sentry posts might prove an easier lair to prise open,' said Kor Phaeron. 'We will find heavier weapons within.'
'And do we have the time?' the convert leader continued. 'The Covenant have the means to speak on the air - reinforcements from Vharadesh will be here within two days.'
To this Kor Phaeron had no answer save a glowering look.
Lorgar was deep in thought, one finger held to his lips in contemplation. Standing right next to Axata, it was obvious how large he had become - half a head taller than the chieftain, and still showing no signs of his extraordinary growth abating. The Bearer of the Word had torn away the rags the slave had bound around his arms, tatters of cloth still caught in the thick scabs of his Powers-gifted blood that sheathed his forearms. They fluttered in the wind like ribbons, flaking dried crimson like rust.
'We have all that we need already,' declared Lorgar. 'Bring forward the shrine.'
'We have nothing to break rock nor melt or crack thick metal,' argued Axata.
'Ramming the gate is pointless, if that is what you have in mind, and it would be folly to strand ourselves here in the attempt,' said Kor Phaeron.
'There is no need to breach a gate that is already open,' Lorgar said cryptically, raising a hand for the temple-rig to advance. He directed a meaningful look at Kor Phaeron as he continued. 'One voice shall suffice where the mightiest weapons falter.'
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Additional generators and speakers were brought aboard the great wagon of Kor Phaeron, to boost the amplification of the pulpit's address system. The hiss of static set the dunes vibrating and the rest of the caravan retreated a safe distance away in anticipation of Lorgar's booming address. Kor Phaeron and a handful of slaves remained, to oversee the technicalities of running the device. Nairo was among them.
He waylaid the Bearer of the Word as he approached the pulpit, while Kor Phaeron was still below. Laying a hand on Lorgar's immense bicep, he gave a nod.
'I haven't yet had time to thank you for saving my life.'
'I can recall everything,' Lorgar replied. He leaned close and dropped his voice. 'Everything you ever did and told me. Everything that passed on this rig from the moment I set foot upon it. The talk of the guards, the whispers of the slaves. Your past as a teacher, the things you taught me… I think I understand now what Kor Phaeron meant when he punished me for learning the words but not the meanings. I can recall everything anyone has said to me since I was found in the desert, but your words I choose to remember.'
Nairo was not sure how to reply to this, but was struck by sudden concern.
'I think Kor Phaeron would rather fight and fail, than seek victory in peace.' The slave looked over the rail to the citadel in the distance. 'And he may be right. I don't think even you could convince the guards to open the gates when they think on what we have just done to their companions.'
'You will see, Nairo, how well I remember, how well I have learned.' He patted the slave on the shoulder, the gesture gentle despite the huge hand that performed it. 'My words are not for the guards.'
Nairo watched Lorgar pull his bulk into the confines of the pulpit. Kor Phaeron emerged from below, sending Nairo sanding away with a snarl and scowl. Circling the deck, the preacher made his way to the rail behind the driver's cab and ascended in the shade of the compartment, to watch the gatehouse in the distance. The rest of those still aboard the temple-rig bound pads of rags over their ears.
With a crack like thunder and the hiss of a thousand serpents, Lorgar activated the address system.
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'Slaves of Taranthis, heed my words. I am Lorgar, the Bearer of the Word, messenger of the Powers, herald of the Truth. I come to you today with glad tidings, for the gaze of the Powers has fallen upon you. One is coming, one who shall set us all free from the bondage of ignorance.
'It is not the yokes and manacles that bind you to this place, it is the fear that has been set in your hearts by the doctrines of the Covenant. The mysteries of the Empyrean have been hidden from you, cloaked in ritual and obscure language. The Ecclesiarch and his priesthood have placed themselves between you and the Powers, denying you that which is in your own extent to achieve.
'I come not as one who will bring you to the Truth, for it is already in you. I, Lorgar, am not your saviour, for you do not need saving but from your own inhibitions. Each man and woman who hears these words knows of their righteousness and their own place in the gaze of the Powers. Be thankful then that into your hands have been placed the means for deliverance.
'Show now your faith, your dedication to His cause, and the One shall descend from the Empyrean to spread the light of the Truth upon us all. He does not see slaves and masters, for there is only the One above to serve, and all beneath are the servants. Not in your station shall you be judged but in your deeds
. Not for the weaknesses of the past shall you be abandoned, but accepted for the strength of the present and the promise of the future.
Vengeful we shall be against those who trespass against the One, but in love and benevolence shall He arrive, and garbed in the blazing glory of the Powers the One shall walk among us, bringing peace and purpose to our hollow existence.
'I do not call on you to do anything save that which the One has already placed in your hearts. The One demands nothing but your prayers and love. We shall rid ourselves of these odious sacrifices and free ourselves from the ignominy of false servitude. The church shall be reborn and the greatness of Colchis shall be restored, in the eyes of mortals and Powers alike.
'Strike, strike now, for eternity beckons. Be pure of faith and strong of heart, and trust your soul to the love of the One.
'We have nothing to lose but our chains!'
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For the remainder of Mornday and into Long Noon, until the rest-eve at the height of the sun's strength, Lorgar spoke, pausing for no rest, nor food, only to take an occasional mouthful from the water bottle he had with him. The others of the caravan dozed and attended to such duties as were absolutely necessary - the converts took shifts to keep watch for any movement of the Covenant soldiers, patrolling close to the highway that was now deserted so that they might see the first sign of a response from Vharadesh.
Wake-rise of Post-noon came, the sun bright and sharp in a cloudless sky, ready to burn through the will of the hardiest soul.
Lorgar stopped talking, rousing Nairo from a half-doze that had taken him as he sat with his back against the base of the pulpit tower, ears still bound against the deafening volume of the prayer hailers.
The Bearer of the Word held a hand above his eyes, peering against the glow of the rising sun. Nairo followed his gaze, likewise shielding himself from the brightness of the lowering orb, as though staring back into the gaze of the Powers themselves. There was something different about the nearest gatehouse, though the wall facing the caravan was still shrouded in shadow.
With an involuntary shout, Nairo realised that the silhouette had changed and there was movement in the shadow.
His call woke others, including Kor Phaeron, who dashed to the ladder that led to the roof of the driver's cabin, hauling himself on top with much flapping of robes. He pointed a spindly finger towards the gate of Taranthis.
'Praise the Powers!' the priest declared. 'See how the Truth knows no barriers!'
And it was so.
Across the sands poured a tide of ragged creatures, laughing and shouting with joy. Dressed in tatters, the men and women were skeletal-limbed and pot-bellied from malnourishment, but the energy of their escape was remarkable. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands burst forth from the mines. Many fell into the sands and lifted their hands up in supplication to the sun they had not seen for long years. Others wandered dazed over the wastes, unable to comprehend the nature of freedom.
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Kor Phaeron quickly identified a knot of the Taranthian slaves heading directly towards the temple-rig, fifty or sixty in number. He could see that they wore looted armour and bore weapons taken from their guards - ringleaders no doubt. Men and women likely to have their own agenda above the simple fact of freedom.
He called for Axata as he descended to the main deck of the rig, and then beckoned to Lorgar. The Bearer of the Word clambered down from the pulpit, weary in body from his oratory, his passion momentarily spent despite his superhuman stamina.
'Assemble a greeting party,' Kor Phaeron told Axata, directing the convert's attention to the incoming group. 'Take water and a little food. Say nothing of Lorgar, but bring them to me.'
Axata looked as though he would disagree, looking to Lorgar for support. Kor Phaeron bit back a remark, sure in the knowledge that this was no time to rile his second-in-command. Lorgar shook his head.
'Do as Kor Phaeron bids. Extend our welcome. Introduce them to him and keep my nature quiet. We do not yet know whether they will be allies or enemies.'
'Surely they have heard the Bearer of the Word and come to offer their service, as have we all?' said Axata.
'Perhaps,' Kor Phaeron answered quickly, before Lorgar, 'but they are desperate folk and who can say what drives a person in such circumstance. Go, bring them to us.'
When Axata had gathered the soldiers he needed and led them down to the sands, Kor Phaeron took Lorgar aside.
'Wise words,' he said. 'Our people must be united. We have seen first-hand the dangers of factions growing within our camp.'
'Indeed, and I will always stand by your shoulder,' replied Lorgar.
'We must do better than that, or what we have started today will become a tide that will wash us away. We are a movement now, growing in number, and others shall be jealous of that. They will try to divide us, you and I. They will take what we have built and pervert it to their mortal ends, and the Covenant will claim it for themselves - the foundations of a new tyranny in the name of a flawed Ecclesiarch.'
He could see his words sinking into the mind of Lorgar, and pushed home his message.
'We have one opportunity, just one chance to topple the corrupt church and we cannot let others take it from us. More blood will be spilt, but the Powers shall not allow such sacrifices to be in vain. Eternity is the reward for those who die in the name of the Truth.'
'So what do you propose we do?'
'We are as one. As the Ecclesiarch is the spiritual head of the Covenant, so he has the Archdeacon of Vharadesh to attend to the practical matters. You are the Bearer of the Word, the Ecclesiarch-to-be. I shall be your archdeacon. Axata is our gun-deacon prime. As such shall all newcomers know us. To me their bodies. To you, their souls. Inseparable. Indefatigable. Victorious.'
Lorgar smiled.
'In the name of the Truth and the One.'
Kor Phaeron fought back his instinctive deflection, even though he feared his adoptive son verged on blasphemy. The visions had continued, intensified, and Lorgar was convinced that a new Power was rising to sweep away the Covenant. Perhaps there was something to be learned still.
'For the Truth, and the One,' Kor Phaeron assured him.
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Nairo knocked on the door of Kor Phaeron's chamber and waited, casting a glance over his shoulder at his companion. Hu Osys was the appointed spokeswoman of the Taranthians, one of those who had roused the slaves at the dimly heard words of Lorgar, filled with a zealous fire by the oratory of the Bearer of the Word. Even now she had an agitated, wild manner about her as she gazed in awe at her surrounds.
'This is the sanctum,' Hu Osys whispered. 'Where Lorgar and Kor Phaeron commune.'
Nairo nodded, not sure whether to laugh at this or be afraid of the newcomers' fervour. A day and a half had passed since they had freed themselves from the mine. A wearying time in which they had trekked into the deserts to elude any potential pursuit from the forces of the Covenant. Dust caked the half-naked body of Hu Osys, her broken fingernails filled with dirt, hair matted with sweat and sand. Bathing was unthinkable; such water as they had was needed to drink.
Opening the door, Kor Phaeron was a picture of similar dishevelment. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, as was his head, and streaks of grime marked his hands and arms where he had washed in dirty water. He looked at Nairo as if noticing a bug crawling upon the deck and then turned his dismissive gaze to Hu Osys. 'Who is it?' Lorgar asked from within the chamber. 'Let them in.'
'Nairo and one of our new brethren,' Kor Phaeron said, stepping back, his irritation at playing the part of doorman to former slaves marked clearly in his expression. Lorgar was sat in a large chair, fashioned for his bulk, beside the cot that was serving as a desk for a variety of tomes and papers arranged carefully on the folded sheet. Nairo saw several parchments covered in the neat cuneiform he knew to be Lorgar's script. Looking to the shelf he saw more, several dozen in fact. At Kor Phaeron's insistence, Nairo and others had embroidered the glyp
hs of priesthood on the grey acolyte robes of Lorgar, to symbolise his rise to that rank, though no ordaining of the Covenant had occurred. In scarlet and cerulean, along hem and cuff and upon the chest, the symbols of the orthodoxy of Vharadesh had been replaced with symbols devised by Lorgar himself - declarations of the Truth, as the Prophet of the One, and the Bearer of the Word.
Nairo bowed his head in supplication while Hu Osys fell to her knees, forehead pressed to the flaking grey paint on the metal floor.
'Forgive this intrusion into your studies, Bearer of the Word,' began Hu Osys. Lorgar looked at Nairo with a questioning frown. Nairo shrugged in reply. The ways of the Taranthians were not his responsibility. 'We have a boon to ask of you, speaker of the Truth.'
'Ask it,' said Lorgar, setting aside his autostylus to put his hands in his lap. 'And please get up.'
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Hesitantly, Hu Osys regained her feet, hands clasped to the simple rope belt that held her skirt at the waist. The cudgel of a Covenant mineguard hung at her hip, carried more as a trophy than a weapon.
'There are five thousand of us that fled Taranthis, learned ones,' she said. 'Though we brought such water and rations as we were able in the time we had to depart, our supplies are perilously low. I wondered if you might tell us how long we must endure until we reach where we are going?'
Lorgar looked at Kor Phaeron to answer.
'Another two days, if you can keep up,' said the archdeacon of the Truth. 'We head for Meassin, where Covenant thugs oversee plantations of cotton and flax. Ten thousand labour beneath their whips in the fields and mills to spin yam and weave linen for the impious hypocrites of Vharadesh. A ripe harvest for the Bearer of the Word.'
At this Hu Osys looked dismayed and held her hands to her face.
'We have not the food nor water for such a journey, great leaders,' she said, looking imploringly from Kor Phaeron to Lorgar. 'The desert is no place to feed five thousand mouths.'
'What would you have us do?' snapped Kor Phaeron. He waved a hand towards the loaves and ewers set on a table beside Lorgar. 'Conjure food and wine from the meagre supplies we have for ourselves?'