The Cursed King, Chapter 58

They stood beneath a blazing sun on a world without clouds. Heat shimmered in waves across the broken ground, and the distant dunes glowed with a pale radiance. A line of Word Bearers stood arrayed in crimson and black, each helm turned to the figure at their fore. At the center of their ranks, Lorgar held Erebus by the throat. The kneeling Chaplain’s gauntlets scrabbled at the Primarch’s vambrace, leaving scuffs on the ceramite. Lorgar’s bare hands, thick with gene-forged power, pressed tight around the traitor’s windpipe.

Erebus let out a sputtering, muffled rasp. The scorching wind kicked up thin columns of dust that curled around them both. Lorgar’s face was set, mouth drawn into a hard line. He said nothing. His eyes fixed on the Chaplain’s as though searching for some last sign of remorse. Erebus thrashed, planting boots in the cracked soil in a bid to force himself free. He found no purchase. All along the lines of assembled Astartes, the Word Bearers watched, still as the stones that dotted the desert. None moved to intervene.

Far behind them, whorls of sand rose, stirred by inbound transports. Their engines rumbled in the stifling air. White Scars outriders prowled near a high ridge, dust trailing behind their bikes. Luna Wolves formed ranks along a basin. Death Guard squads stepped down ramps, bolters in hand, scanning the horizon with practiced calm. Iron Warriors angled themselves in tight formations, mechanical precision in their stances. At the far end, the World Eaters waited with heavy chainaxes and a smoldering restlessness that pulsed in the dry wind. None among them advanced. They stood by at Lorgar’s request, an allied ring of steel and discipline around the desert plain.

Erebus’s lips bled. His eyes bulged. He tried to rasp out some plea, but Lorgar’s grip refused to relent. The Chaplain’s face darkened, veins standing out at his temples. Even the dunes seemed to hold their breath. A stifling silence hovered, broken only by the hiss of grit blowing underfoot.

At last, Lorgar tightened his hold. A loud pop echoed from Erebus’s neck. A wave of tension shuddered through the Chaplain’s body. Lorgar twisted, a single, terrible motion that caused the black helm to tilt at an impossible angle. Blood spurted from the gap in the armor’s collar ring. Erebus’s choking sounds pitched into a faint rattle. The Chaplain’s eyes rolled, wide with panic, though no words emerged. Lorgar raised him an inch higher. The entire assembly looked on in rigid silence, even as the desert wind whipped around them in swirling gusts.

A final snap reverberated. Then Erebus’s head burst beneath the pressure, a sickening, wet explosion of bone and gore. Red droplets misted across Lorgar’s armor and spattered the sand. The corpse slumped, limbs twitching. Lorgar let the ruin of a body drop. Dust swirled around the heap.

No voice spoke. The Word Bearers in the front line watched with hands clenched. Some stared at the Chaplain’s remains, jaws set in silent dread. Lorgar’s shoulders rose and fell, breath unsteady. He turned, a slow pivot to address the legion that had followed him for so long.

“In betrayal,” he said, voice low, “there is no absolution.”

He gestured at Erebus’s limp form, flung upon the dirt like refuse. “Thus ends the first among your false prophets. Let none doubt that this day has come by my order.”

At that sign, a line of White Scars advanced along the flank, their lean forms agile in the scorching light. Luna Wolves strode in ranks, bolters lifted, forming a second cordon. The Word Bearers stood in disarray, uncertain who might be condemned. Lorgar fixed them with a stare, words cold in the desert hush. “All who have bent their knees to the unclean powers—stand forth.”

Some in the Word Bearers tried to speak in protest. Some faltered. Others broke ranks, rushing to mount a last stand or to flee. Bolts rang out from the perimeter. The White Scars hammered the foe with controlled bursts of gunfire, while the Iron Warriors closed in with practiced discipline, forging steel lines that cut off any route of escape. Amid the churn of dust and muzzle flashes, the World Eaters roared and stormed forth, chainaxes growling. One by one, the corrupted Word Bearers fell, their cries lost in the crossfire.

Lorgar spoke into a vox-amplifier wired to his gorget. “Purge them,” he said, voice devoid of warmth. “Spare none who bear the mark of Chaos.”

A volley of explosions tore the stillness. A cluster of turncoats, cloaked in chaotic sigils, tried to hold position behind a half-buried ruin. The Death Guard advanced through the swirling dust, bolters thudding. Torsos erupted in sprays of blood. The hush of the desert gave way to a pitched cacophony of death. Shadows flickered as flames rose from the cracked earth, black smoke surging skyward.

Lorgar remained at the center, gaze distant, fulfilling the role of executioner. He lifted a crooked staff, its tip glowing with the slightest warp-luminescence, and leveled it toward a group of traitors cowering behind a rocky outcrop. A swirl of power coursed along that staff. The ground before them split, molten stone seeping upward. They screamed as the earth swallowed them, the smell of burnt flesh wafting on the wind. The Primarch lowered his weapon with no flicker of triumph.

From the southern flank, Kor Phaeron emerged, rage contorting his features. He led a cluster of Word Bearers who still clung to old rank. They advanced in a desperate push, voices raised in half-formed war cries. Lorgar saw them. A spasm rippled across his face. He stepped forward, staff raised. Kor Phaeron lunged with a crackling power maul, but the Primarch’s gauntlet seized the weapon mid-swing, crushing its head in a burst of sparks.

No words passed between them. The old father-figure of Lorgar stared in silent shock as Lorgar snapped the maul’s haft. Then Lorgar’s free hand closed on Kor Phaeron’s breastplate, twisting metal aside. The older man struggled, roared curses, but Lorgar’s strength was absolute. Without ceremony, the Primarch slammed the staff’s butt into Kor Phaeron’s midsection. The blow caved in the armor, sending him to his knees. Lorgar ground the staff forward. Blood sprayed from Kor Phaeron’s lips, a single bitter cough echoing in the gloom.

Lorgar’s eyes closed, tears wetting the corners. He drove the staff once more, pinning Kor Phaeron to the sand. Another cough, then the old warrior sagged, eyes rolling white. Lorgar released the staff, letting it stand upright in the corpse. A brief lull settled around them, broken by the distant gunfire. He pressed a hand to his eyes, moisture trailing down the side of his cheek. Chainsword growls and howls of the World Eaters’ fury lingered beyond, but he heard only his own ragged breathing.

All around, the purge continued. Word Bearers who professed innocence threw down arms and bowed to the loyalists, or they tried to. Some received a single nod from the White Scars, who herded them aside. Others turned out to be liars, brandishing hidden sigils at the last moment. Bolters spat vengeance at close range. Chaos worshipers found no quarter. The sands soaked with Astartes blood, forming dark stains that spread in rivulets down the gently sloping dunes.

Lorgar moved through the carnage like a specter, staff in one hand, chainsword sheathed at his hip. He stepped over corpses, tears unashamed on his face. Now and then, he slew a scattered group of traitors, voice locked in near silence. Iron Warriors hammered the final holdouts behind a ruined spire, plating them with heavy fire, and Lorgar assisted by conjuring a warp-blast that rent the rock asunder. The corrupted Word Bearers inside were exposed and promptly shot down.

Angron strode across the battlefield, chainaxes in both fists. His armor dripped red, though none of that blood was his. He joined Lorgar in the center, panting. No words were exchanged, only a momentary nod. Then Angron spun away to find fresh targets, though the day had almost been won. The final pockets of traitors died in short order, their dying screams buried under the thunder of the allied legions.

At last, silence returned. The winds carried only the crackle of scattered fires. The devoured hush weighed upon the desert. Lorgar halted in the midst of it all, gloom etched in every motion. His sons lay strewn about, many in twisted shapes. Some had died loyal, some had died traitors, all the same now.

He sank to his knees among the bodies and the dust. He pressed blood-slick hands to his face. It was the blood of his legion. A raw sound issued from his throat, a wordless cry that tore the hush. He trembled there, shoulders hitching, tears drawing faint lines through the grime on his cheeks.

Amid drifting embers, Horus approached. His storm-grey plate was stained from battle, a shallow dent on the left pauldron. He said nothing. He laid a gauntlet softly upon Lorgar’s pauldron, offering what little solace he could. Lorgar lowered his hands, expression hollow, tears still fresh. Horus reached down and helped him rise. The smell of gunpowder and spilt blood hung between them, sharp in the heated air.

From the smoking outskirts, Jaghatai Khan arrived on foot, helm at his side, black hair matted with dust. Mortarion trudged behind him, pale and silent, scythe caked in gore. Perturabo and Angron followed. They gathered around Lorgar and Horus, forming a ring of primarchs amid the dead. Flames guttered in half-ruined shells behind them, and the bodies of Word Bearers lay in broken lines across the sand.

Lorgar’s gaze lifted to each brother in turn. He steadied himself, though a tremor remained in his breath. He placed a hand on Horus’s arm, drawing calm from the Warmaster’s presence. His voice, though quiet, carried in the hush.

“This was the only way,” he said. “They would have turned upon us all. We all saw that… nightmare. We have cut out the corruption here, and so a greater war is averted.”

Jaghatai nodded, sweat shining on his brow. Mortarion kept his eyes on the sand, saying nothing, a slow exhalation through parted lips. Perturabo’s gauntlets were flecked with soot, and he nodded once in grim acceptance. Angron stood with chainaxes lowered, shoulders heaving.

Lorgar surveyed them, tears still clinging at the corners of his eyes. “I ask you, my brothers: do we remain true to our oath? That we will defend humanity, no matter the cost?”

Horus answered first with a firm nod. He laid a hand on Lorgar’s shoulder once more. Jaghatai followed suit, stepping closer, placing a hand on Lorgar’s forearm. His expression was resolute. Mortarion let out a faint grunt in agreement, scythe leaning against his thigh. Perturabo, battered from the fight, inclined his head in solemn unity. Angron’s gaze flickered across the carnage, and then he gave the barest gesture of assent.

Their circle enclosed Lorgar, each one reaffirming that vow. The desert stilled around them. The legionnaires who remained loyal or untainted watched from a distance, forming a loose perimeter. Smoke drifted in listless columns from the bodies and wreckage. The wind carried a stench of scorched blood.

Lorgar breathed, and the tears on his cheeks dried in the heat.

“We walk a narrow path,” he said, voice low, “a path to spare mankind a far darker fate. Let it be known: we stand united.”

His eyes flicked to Horus, who gave a slight nod, the mantle of leadership worn without need of words. Only one among them could be leader. And only one remained worthy. The gathered Primarchs turned from their circle, surveying the bleak ruin at their feet.

Out on the dunes, a tremor rippled beneath the sand. The ground shifted, grains sliding underfoot. Lorgar turned, tears still lining his cheeks, and saw the golden dunes part in the distance. A colossal shape emerged, a serpentine form rising in a cascade of dust. Sunlight glinted on the ridged segments of chitin or scale. The beast’s maw opened wide, revealing rows of jagged barbs.

A hush fell upon the assembled legions. Guns rose, but no shots were fired. The worm’s roar echoed across the desert, a long rumbling note that quaked the earth. Lorgar’s gaze locked upon it. He stood there, blood-spattered and weary, tears drying on his skin. Then he spoke, voice carried on a hush of wind.

“The Golden Path starts here,” he said, quiet but resolute. “In the dunes of Arrakis.”

No one questioned him. The worm loomed, a monument of the desert’s unforgiving secrets. The Primarchs remained still, the sand swirling around their boots. They had purged the corruption from their legion, and they had set themselves on a final course—one that would guard humanity against the horrors once prophesied. The desert swallowed all other sounds. And in that stark moment, the vow among these brothers stood firm, sealed by blood and tears.