Lorgar: Bearer of the Word

by Gav Thorpe

  Thus moulded, armed and trained, these Faithful were dispatched back across the deserts to return their strength to the host of Lorgar so that for every servant to the One who fell conquering the recalcitrant, ten more eventually took their place.

  After nearly a whole turn about the sun of Colchis, near four years as the Terran adepts measure such things, the host of Lorgar was numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Mere rumour of their approach was enough to bring the surrender of all but the most zealously irreligious. Cities purged of the irredeemable were founded anew in the image of Vharadesh, where academies and seminaries staffed by Kor Phaeron's chosen continued to promulgate the message of the Covenant further and further.

  Missionaries moved even further afield into the deserts, bringing the Word of the Wyrmslayer to the tribes of the inner wastes, so that there was not a civilised person nor nomad upon the great continent who had not heard the name of Lorgar. The matriarchs of Tezenesh even dubbed Lorgar 'the Urizen', meaning the wisest of the wise, the Architect of Faith - a prophetic and loaded title that had only previously been held, legend claimed, by the Prophet Tezen himself.

  3 3 2

  On more than one occasion the Ecclesiarch voiced his confessions and doubts to Nairo, who became his confidante in the absence of Kor Phaeron, and witnessed the debilitation and exultation of Lorgar's visions. With each city that fell it seemed that the Ecclesiarch became both more determined and sickened by what he had unleashed. More fervent became his pleas to those who resisted, though the army at his back bayed for the blood of unbelievers and blasphemers.

  Several times splinter armies, led by overzealous gun-deacons or just wayward followers beset by the need to prove their faith, attacked wantonly, besieging and sacking towns and cities without the prior knowledge or authority of Lorgar.

  Nairo suspected the hand of Kor Phaeron in some of these pre-emptive assaults, for the archdeacon had always had a thirst for physical chastisement. If the effect had been intended to cow all resistance with these shows of force, the consequence was the opposite. Resistance to the rule of the Covenant hardened against Lorgar. Where at first some may have believed the Covenant not able to reach across the continent to them, the continued expansions and conversion of city after city threatened all.

  Nairo told Lorgar to sanction these offenders, but the Ecclesiarch could not chastise them for unruly faith - only make it known that he was displeased with any life taken without effort to convert beforehand.

  Coalitions between the remaining cities formed against the Bearer of the Word, yet none could match either the oratory or the military power of Lorgar. The Ecclesiarch himself was worth an army of mortal soldiers, at the forefront of every attack bellowing his prayers to the One even as he smote those who would defy him. Not on Colchis was born the warrior who could match him face to face, nor the demagogue who could quell the power of Lorgar's voice. Such had become his skill with languages and linguistics, the Ecclesiarch needed only to spend a day in the presence of a native, or to read a handful of the texts of the faithless, to understand their idioms and beliefs, their culture and morals. There was not a dialect or theological argument he could not overcome, and by such means even as his armies tore down walls and keeps, his words broke open entire denominations and belief systems. Sermonised in their own tongue, many were the potential foes persuaded to convert by this fact alone.

  Even those who had been raised in abject hatred of all that came from Vharadesh were reduced to tears and prayers when subjected to the love and testimony of the Bearer of the Word. Salvation at the hands of the One, acknowledgement of the benighted centuries that had beset Colchis, freed many from the shackles of disbelief that had held their opinion against the Holy City.

  Nairo saw Lorgar grieve for every life ended. Sometimes ten thousand or twenty thousand of the Faithful were sacrificed against the defences of the unholy, yet he remembered them in his speeches and his dreams were haunted by their deaths.

  'The price of the Truth,' he would tell Nairo with anguish, 'is too high.'

  Then he would order the next attack, knowing that he was set upon a course and to abandon his plan now would render everything undone, a failure to the One and the millions who now looked to him for spiritual guidance and leadership.

  3 3 3

  Nairo became increasingly worried by Lorgar. The closer the Ecclesiarch came to achieving his goals, the worse it seemed the visions assailed him. He tried his best to shelter Lorgar during these times, when madness and mania threatened and the Ecclesiarch was reduced to a mewling, frothing wreck in his grand pavilion. There were rumours, fiercely quenched by Nairo and others, that some other malaise afflicted the Bearer of the Word, some infection of the deep desert he had contracted - or that the spirit of the Kingwyrm had possessed him in vengeance for its destruction.

  His holy master was plagued by them, often through the dark hours of Coldfall, Long Night and Dawnaway, sometimes even longer. Nairo begged Lorgar to return to Vharadesh to seek the aid of the mentalists and physicians of the Holy City, but Lorgar would repeat his vow not to set foot in the City of Grey Flowers while the soul of Colchis remained threatened. Nairo even conspired with Axata to send secret missives to Kor Phaeron, imploring the archdeacon to come forth and see to the welfare of his adopted son. No reply came and Nairo was forced to conclude that Kor Phaeron no longer cared for the well-being of Lorgar.

  He did his best to provide such support and succour as he was able, but sometimes terror at what beset his lord unmanned him, sending Nairo scurrying for the shelter of his own companions while unearthly rages and depressions enveloped the Ecclesiarch.

  Despite this, or perhaps because of the obvious touch of the One's power upon their leader, the faith of those close to the Ecclesiarch never wavered during these episodes, and neither did Lorgar's. He emerged from each mania and stupor invigorated and enlightened, and made fresh proclamations about his beliefs and understanding of the ordering of the Empyrean.

  3 3 4

  Watching the thousands of dead piled onto the pyres outside the broken wall of Khathage, the sky a pall of black from the corpse fires already burning Nairo tasted bile in his throat. Every city that had resisted had suffered a similar fate - the cohorts of Axata had stormed the walls and butchered any who gave resistance. Those who laid down their arms, with the young and infirm, were brought before Lorgar to hear the Golden One speak. Few who survived to hear him continued in their faithless ways, but there were always some, buried deep in the blasphemies of their cults, who remained deaf to the truth.

  With scarves and masks to shield themselves from the smoke and stench, long columns of the Faithful laboured to pile the bodies on the scrub and sands. Ordained priests walked among them, the fume of their censers lost amongst the charnel smog. They prayed for the souls of the dead to be shown mercy by the One, for they did not understand the trespasses they had performed against the Truth. Even in the Empyrean Lorgar hoped to save their souls from the damnation of faithlessness.

  Doused in blessed oil, the timbers of the fresh pyres were lit I and greenish-blue flames consumed the last sons and daughters I of the Gods Path faith that had held sway over the Khathagians, I their remains and spirits carried to the sky among the stench of I burned flesh and perfume of thick incense.

  Nairo felt movement beside him and a slender Duskeve shadow I fell across the grey sand next to his own.

  'More infidels for the One,' said Castora.

  Always one of the most zealous, even enslaved by Kor Phaeron, I the former herald now sported the robes and faux crown of a I hierarch. She had prospered under the tutelage and patronage I of Lorgar, one of the handful of the original slaves of the caravan who still survived. L'sai had been spitted by a plasma lance at Kuldanesh. Parentha and Koa had both succumbed to sandlung, wasted away as they undertook the long march between Assakhor and Jo Burgesh. Kal Dekka was head of the tutelary that had set up in Nuresh Ab, known after its capitulation as the Repenta
nt City. Lorra had become a gun-deacon, charged with patrolling the highways between Golgora and Vharadesh. Other names and faces crowded Nairo's memories. Hu Osys, the leader of the Taranthians. She had died poorly, trampled during a sternback stampede. Declined tribespeople who had joined during the early months after the arrival of Lorgar, and converts who had flocked to the call of the Wyrmslayer. Most of them, hundreds with names he could not recall, now dead.

  Of the guards even fewer remained. Axata, gundeacon-prime under Kor Phaeron. A few others in positions of command, the former converts rewarded with battalions and cohorts to lead. Lorgar seemed not to care about this nepotism, his mind occupied by the 'symphonies of the Empyrean above' - the otherworldly choir that only he could hear.

  'Men and women,' Nairo corrected Castora. 'People.'

  'Ignorant savages,' said Castora.

  'We were ignorant once. The One does not desire sacrifice for its own sake, but in the labour of the One's works.'

  'The offering will be well sent, whatever the One desires.' Her exultation diminished as some fresh thought occurred to her.

  'What worries you?'

  'There is but one city left to bow to the Will of Lorgar.'

  'That concerns you, that this bloodletting will be over?' Nairo shook his head. 'I would end this purgation tomorrow.'

  'Many more will die before Colchis is united,' warned Castora. 'Gahevarla remains. The City of the Magisters.'

  'The Scourstorm,' whispered Nairo. 'Hurricane winds of dust and lightning that rage for days conjured by the rulers of the city. No foe has ever survived to reach the walls of Gahevarla…'

  Castora gave him a long look, no words needed to convey her bleak thoughts. Perhaps with good reason Lorgar had avoided confrontation with the magisters before now, yet the fate of the world would turn at Gahevarla, as unavoidable and deadly as the coming of the Long Noon and the freezing High Night.

  3 4 1

  'Sirash!' Kor Phaeron bellowed again for his aide. 'Sirash, I need more ink!'

  He would have the laggard priest flogged for his tardiness, the archdeacon vowed as he returned his attention to the pile of assorted materials on his desk - wafers and parchments, paper and autoscribed sheets, all covered with a plethora of text and handwriting.

  'I asked Sirash to step out for a while.'

  The voice caused Kor Phaeron's heart to hammer in his chest and he looked up with a gasp, scarce believing he'd heard it.

  At the grand doorway into the suite of chambers held by the archdeacon stood a figure swathed in dark hood and robe - an appalling disguise really for one who was nearly twice as tall as a normal man.

  'Lorgar!' Kor Phaeron shot to his feet, a flood of competing thoughts racing through his mind. Why had he returned? Was something amiss? Had he learned of Kor Phaeron's 'refugee relocation' activities with some of the survivors of the pro-Powers cults?

  Was the war over? This last question burned to the top of the list. 'Gahevarla has fallen?'

  'Is that the welcome you give me?' Lorgar pulled back his hood to reveal his naked scalp, much tanned by his long travels. 'It has been near a year and a half since I departed these walls. Have you no fondness at all for my return?'

  'You are Ecclesiarch, Lorgar, not a wayward child,' chided Kor Phaeron. 'When you departed you swore that you would not return until the One held dominion over all of Colchis. Is that so?'

  'Not yet,' confessed Lorgar. He cast about for somewhere to sit, but found nothing equal to his weight and bulk, and so sat on the floor in front of Kor Phaeron's desk, his head still level with the standing archdeacon. Kor Phaeron sat down in his ornate chair, somewhat grateful for the illusion of a barrier his desk provided. There was something different about his former acolyte.

  'You have seen much,' he said, drawing his own conclusion. 'The hidden nature of mortals and faith has been revealed to you. You see another Truth.'

  'I would not wish what I have witnessed on any mortal.'

  'But it was unavoidable. When there is only One, there can be no others. This is fundamental to your faith.'

  'Our faith. And I do not swerve from that course.'

  'For one so gifted with words and speech, you lie terribly, Lorgar. Your presence betrays a swerve.'

  'Not in my faith in the One. The visions are more powerful than ever. It is that which has brought me here. The golden figure and the one-eyed magister. What if it is a warning. Gahevarla is protected by arcane technosorceries. What if the magister I see in my dreams is one of them? Am I to make alliance not conquest?'

  'Have they shown themselves willing to listen to the Word?'

  'For a quarter of a year the Scourstorm has raged. None have entered or left Gahevarla in that time. I do not think they wish to parley.'

  'The very stones of the city are steeped in the blood of sacrifices to the Powers, as much as the Holy City. Are you willing to share authority with those who would continue to rip the hearts from their servants, to offer up the burned remains of their foes to the lords of the Empyrean?'

  'That is not the Lore and the Law of the One.'

  'And there is your answer, Lorgar. You have travelled for many days for nothing. As with all matters of faith, you had your answer already. Or was it something else that you wanted to share?'

  3 4 2

  Lorgar did not answer, but stood and paced for a while, head almost brushing the great chandeliers that hung from the dome of the office. Though his attention was elsewhere, Kor Phaeron did not think he was listening to the universal music that filled his thoughts.

  'What are you writing?' Lorgar asked suddenly, ignoring the archdeacon's earlier question.

  'Transcribing,' Kor Phaeron replied. He indicated the scraps and ragtag documents. 'Your words, actually. There are different versions all over Colchis, from every converted city and tribe and pilgrimage. Records of your sermons, transcripts of your conversations with converts and foes alike. Your story, your faith and your thoughts given form.'

  'Edited appropriately?' suggested Lorgar. Kor Phaeron felt himself flush at the gentle accusation, but could not deny it.

  'Only for brevity and clarity. You repeat yourself often. I will show it to no other until you have approved my work.'

  Lorgar nodded absentmindedly, not quite comprehending the importance of Kor Phaeron's literary endeavour.

  'It is to replace the Revelations of the Prophets.'

  This cold statement sank into Lorgar's thoughts and a fierce light burned in his eyes.

  'You worried once that I might be the Prophet of the Fifth Power, but I am more than that. I am the cleansing the purification of Colchis. All blasphemies shall be washed away to prepare for the arrival of the One.'

  Kor Phaeron let nothing of his unease show, though unseen beneath the desk his fingers made a swift sign of the Four, a brief assurance to the Powers that one of true faith remained and would return Colchis to them.

  'So now you have found that which you needed to confront the magisters?'

  'I have,' said Lorgar with a smile, but it soon faded and was replaced by an expression of fatigue. He looked through the door to the neighbouring bedchamber and its grand cot. 'Might I prevail upon your hospitality for rest-eve? I shall leave Vharadesh with the first light of Mornday to be back with my army by Dawnaway.'

  The archdeacon nodded, wondering how the Ecclesiarch might cross a continent so swiftly Lorgar ducked through the archway. It was only a matter of moments before the sonorous breathing of the giant sounded from the adjoining room. Kor Phaeron moved to the communications chamber, past the artifices that linked to the prayer-hailers in temples across the city, and opened the shutters to step out onto the balcony. Here trained messenger ravens were kept in an aviary, as sure a method of contact as the temperamental archeotech that the gun-deacons used to communicate over long distances.

  He retrieved a small slip of paper from a receptacle beside the cage and the pen beside it, and wrote quickly. Opening the aviary, he selected a bird
and slid the message into the tube on its leg. He released the raven, which swiftly disappeared into the night, heading for the waystation at Ouralto, and from there via other means to Silena.

  For good or ill, Lorgar's fate would be determined in the coming days, and with it the future of the Covenant. It was time for the Dark Heart to assemble and prepare for either eventuality.

  3 5 1

  Nairo watched with trepidation, his hands sweating despite the chill of Dawnaway. The lamps of vehicles cut through the twilight and the sea of lanterns carried by the cohorts of Axata manoeuvred across the wastes in pre-planned circuits and lines. Behind the former slave the camp was already alight and alive with other preparations, but the mood was uncertain. Nobody had seen Lorgar for the previous day, and Axata had been tight-lipped about their holy master's whereabouts and intentions. For all that Nairo knew, the Ecclesiarch was still in his pavilion writing and studying, or perhaps communing with the One in preparation for the coming assault.

  If he knew Lorgar, and he believed he did better than anyone, the Bearer of the Word was deep in contemplation of the carnage that was about to ensue from his next command.

  His attention was drawn to a movement at the far edge of the camp. People were surging from the mess tents and ablution quarters, abandoning their morning rituals as they crowded down the tented streets, the disturbance passing through the camp-city like a ripple. Shouts rang out, growing in volume, further clamour from bells and gongs added to the increasing noise.

  Nairo saw others nearby running from their tents and demanded to know what was happening.

  'The Golden One!' someone shouted. 'He has returned from the desert.'