Chapter 7: The Halberd
Erebus had underestimated Kor Phaeron's hold over Lorgar.
He should have finished it. When Kor Phaeron lay choking on the stone floor, eyes rolled back, breath rattling through a crushed throat, Erebus should have ended him. One more blow. One decisive act. The problem would have been solved forever.
Instead, something slammed into him from behind.
Lorgar.
The primarch's weight drove Erebus forward, and all three crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury.
"No!" Lorgar cried. "Brother—stop!"
Erebus struggled to rise, but Lorgar's arms locked around him with desperate strength. Even so, Erebus was no weakling, and Lorgar could barely restrain him.
Kor Phaeron crawled away, clutching his throat, gasping like a drowning man. Rage burned in his eyes—hot, animal, unrestrained.
He raised his head to glare at Erebus—
—and froze.
Erebus met his gaze.
There was nothing dramatic in that look—no overt threat. No hatred. Only cold understanding, sharp and precise, as if Erebus could see straight through Kor Phaeron's flesh and into the rot beneath.
Kor Phaeron looked away.
Fear crept into him then, uninvited and unwelcome.
This man must die.
Kor Phaeron understood it with absolute clarity. If Erebus remained, Lorgar would never again be fully under his control. The future would become uncertain, unstable—and Kor Phaeron could not tolerate that.
He forced himself upright, defying his terror.
At that moment, Erebus broke free.
His fist struck Kor Phaeron square in the face.
Bone cracked. Teeth shattered. Blood sprayed across the stone as the old priest collapsed again, his head striking the floor with a sickening sound.
Lorgar threw himself between them once more.
"Kor Phaeron means no harm!" Lorgar pleaded.
"He called me a heretic," Erebus snarled.
"He does not understand the Emperor's will!"
"Then he is mistaken—not evil!"
The words hung between them.
Lorgar would not move.
At last, Erebus exhaled sharply and stepped back.
"Tell me," he said, voice hard. "What must be done for you to let him live?"
Lorgar hesitated, then straightened. He picked up the scourge lying nearby and struck Kor Phaeron twice—lightly, almost ceremonially.
"That is enough," Lorgar said. "I ask this of you as my brother."
Erebus studied his face. He saw resolve there—not strength, but sincerity. Dangerous sincerity.
"You will bear his sins," Erebus said quietly.
"If that is required," Lorgar replied, "then take my life as well."
Erebus held his gaze for a long moment.
"Very well," he said at last. "Then let us speak alone."
The room Lorgar led him to was bare and undecorated. Erebus understood why at once.
This was where heretics were judged.
The reliefs of dark gods and ancient symbols had been left behind. Clean stone. Harsh light. Silence.
"My brother," Lorgar said, clasping his hands together, "what should we do?"
Erebus blinked.
"What?"
"If you ask me," Erebus snapped, "you are already lost. If I knew what to do, I would not be standing on this cursed world."
Lorgar flinched.
Erebus sighed and collected himself.
"Fine. Let us speak plainly. What do you believe your duty is?"
"To proclaim the truth," Lorgar said carefully.
"You said that?"
"Yes."
"No," Erebus replied. "You proclaimed yourself."
Lorgar stiffened.
"Then what should I do?"
"Carry a halberd," Erebus said.
The answer was blunt enough to stun him.
"What?"
"If a pagan comes to you preaching a false god, what do you do?"
"Refute him," Lorgar said.
Erebus snorted. "Your father would be dead already."
"That is unacceptable," Lorgar snapped—then stopped, realizing Erebus was smiling.
"You see?" Erebus said. "You understand me already."
He stepped closer.
"You shout him down. You strike him. You break his certainty before it spreads. If you cannot defeat him, then you were never fit to lead."
"That is uncivilized," Lorgar said quietly.
Erebus laughed—genuinely, sharply, dropping to one knee as the sound echoed through the chamber.
"Uncivilized?" he said. "You would rather be bound and forced to listen to blasphemy than bind the blasphemer and make him listen?"
Lorgar hesitated.
"A true god does not announce himself," Erebus continued. "Only liars need titles. You would not walk into a crowd shouting 'I am the Son of God,' would you?"
Silence.
Erebus noticed the look on Lorgar's face.
Slow realization. Shame.
Erebus reached for parchment and began writing.
"The Son of God proclaims his divinity—"
"Stop," Lorgar said urgently, gripping his wrist. "There is no need to record this."
"Oh, but there is," Erebus replied calmly, freeing his hand. Records reveal faith. And faith, my brother, reveals weakness."
He continued writing.
"Tell me," Erebus said without looking up, "what else did you say to them?"
Lorgar closed his eyes.
"Enough," he whispered. "Speak of the halberd."
Erebus smiled thinly.
A little more, and Lorgar would learn the most dangerous lesson of all:That belief without restraint was just another weapon.
And weapons, if mishandled, always drew blood.