Lorgar stood on the bridge, hands resting on the warp drive flickered in red runic warnings, engine shrieks echoing through the corridors. Crew-serfs moved in hushed urgency, checking gauges that glowed in the dim half-light. A faint tang of ozone drifted, joined by the slow pop and hiss from failing warp coils. The Primarch's gaze fixed on the readouts, his face a set mask.
Lorgar breathed in. What an annoying set of events. Several of his sons had awakened Jujutsu and thought it a good idea to experiment with the usage of their newfound gifts while they were in warp transit. If his memory of jujutsu terms remained accurate, then a 'Domain' was opened and unknown powers were unleashed upon the ship, which caused more damage than anyone would've liked. Several servitors and dozens of aspirants were killed.
He said nothing for a time. The proper punishments were already given to those who deserved it.
The hum of the warp ebbed around them, a trembling in the vessel's skeleton. One of the navigators muttered about anomalies. Lord Lorgar straightened, turning to the nearest Word Bearer officer.
"Draw us out," he said quietly. "Find realspace. We will not risk a deeper tear."
The officer bowed, helm clutched to his side, voice subdued. "At once, my lord."
The warp shimmer that surrounded them for days peeled away in a chaotic swirl. A rush of realspace claimed the vessel, the abrupt shift rattling the hull. Lorgar felt the rumble pass through his bones. The ancient battle-barge, with its forging icons and tattered parchments pinned to the bulkheads, emerged from the empyrean into the black void.
Alarms blared as the fleet behind them drifted in, sub-light engines firing to maintain cohesion. Crew voices overlapped in tension. On the main screen, a single planetary sphere loomed in dull, pale gold, its surface swirling with storms. The planetary scans sputtered to life, charting harsh desert terrains.
Lorgar paced to the console. "Report."
An adepts' chorus replied in mechanical sequence. The planet was designated an M-class environment, with habitable oxygen levels. No signs of civilizations–primitive or otherwise. No orbital platforms or stations. The surface read as sands… endless seas of dunes, rocky shelves, no major oceans. A pocket atmosphere thick enough to breathe, but blistering in temperature. How that was possible without oceans or greenery was a mystery.
He stared at the readout. Something in that barren face called to him, a whisper in the data. He parted his lips, exhaled, then turned to his subordinate. "We make repairs in orbit. Engines require it. Let the Legion stand by for instructions."
A slight exchange of glances passed among the Word Bearers, uncertain. Lorgar's command was absolute, so they would not question. The engine crews labored to quell the meltdown in the warp coils. Meanwhile, the Primarch studied star-charts, verifying no immediate threat lurked near. The name of this planet, or so the old data suggested, was unknown.
After some hours of frenetic repairs, the cluster of Word Bearer ships settled into stable orbit. Lorgar assembled his senior officers in a silent corridor. Incense braziers flickered along the walls. He gave them curt instructions: "I will descend alone. No party, no guard. You remain in geosynchronous position. Conduct your maintenance. Receive no one from the surface except me. I need to think."
A handful of officers dared to meet his gaze, confusion swirling in their eyes. One parted his lips, perhaps about to protest. Lorgar's expression forbade it.
He stepped away, cloak brushing the cold deck. The officers saluted, uneasy, but they held their tongues.
Soon, a lone shuttle detached from the flagship. Its engines blazed faintly, carrying the Primarch down through the planet's atmosphere. The hull rattled with friction. Outside the viewports, golden clouds parted, revealing a sun-bleached desert. He glimpsed wave upon wave of dunes, arranged in endless ridges. Over the horizon, stark ridges of rock jutted like broken teeth. Wind shear battered the shuttle, making it lurch. Lorgar flicked the controls, eyes fixed on the sensor reading: negligible life, no signs of civilization.
He set the craft down on a flat span of hardened sand. He rose from the pilot's seat. He took a breath, stepping into the hold. There, he slid on a light environment suit with integrated temperature control. He left heavier wargear behind, along with his crozius. A single sidearm, for caution, strapped to his thigh. Then he lowered the ramp, letting the searing brightness flood in.
A wave of heat battered him the moment he emerged. Grains of sand scoured the ramp, swirling in devils. The sky stood a bleached white, with no cloud cover to soften the glare. Lorgar stepped down, boots pressing footprints into the dust. The air was unexpectedly rich in oxygen, as the scans had shown. He removed his helm. Dry wind tugged at his hair. He tasted scorching dryness on his tongue.
He started walking. No real direction, only a slow trek. The sand crunched under each step. The heat pressed on him like a living thing, but his gene-forged resilience endured. He kept his pace methodical, each footfall placed in a deliberate offset. The scans he reviewed upon descent indicated large subterranean life, though ephemeral. The planet gave no other sign of life. No birds overhead. No scuttling reptiles. Only that emptiness and the spiking temperature that shimmered in the distance.
Was this planet a part of his pilgrimage, Lorgar wondered. Or were the events aboard his vessel truly just an accident? He didn't know. Dark thoughts lingered in his mind as of late. And Lorgar found himself distracted more and more–confused. The destruction of Monarchia, which was decades ago, felt fresh in his thoughts. And he often pondered his father's words and the nature of the Imperial Truth.
What even was his purpose in this galaxy?
After an hour or more of aimless wandering, he found a slight depression in the terrain. Wind had carved it into a shallow bowl. He paused, scanning the ground. Fine dust drifted, swirling with each subtle breeze. He bent low, letting a handful sift through his fingertips. The color was pale gold, shimmering with tiny flecks. A bizarre substance. Possibly the planet's sand carried elements unknown or rarely encountered.
A sudden gust rose, snapping across his face. The dust whipped upward, pelting his eyes, nose, mouth. He turned his head, raising an arm to shield himself. Yet he inhaled some of it—gritty, acrid. He coughed, bracing himself. The swirl cut off as fast as it came, leaving him blinking in the sudden stillness.
His vision blurred. A hush enveloped him, deeper than before. A raven cawed overhead. Then the visions struck.
He saw a war across the galaxy, legions tearing into each other. Vivid images came to life of a treachery beyond name: void battles, planet-wide bombardments, the Emperor's throne overshadowed by betrayal. Familiar faces turned in half-light: Horus with eyes of wrath, Mortarion carrying a plague, Perturabo forging iron walls of defiance. He saw a figure in spiked black armor—himself, leading the Word Bearers in a war against his own kin. Erebus at his side, chanting devotions to monstrous gods. Kor Phaeron twisting the legion into cultic madness. A swirl of blood, daemons, the Imperium burning. The Emperor laid low on a golden throne, silent in unending torment. It came like a torrent, hammered into Lorgar's mind.
He lurched, falling to one knee. Sand spilled around him, raspy in his ears. His mouth parted, no sound emerging. The desert bled away from his perception, replaced by that horrifying mosaic of future events. He saw entire worlds scoured, faith undone, monstrous abominations feeding on the souls of men. He saw the corridor aboard the Vengeful Spirit, bright with the Emperor's final confrontation and yet darkened by the blood of an Angel, saw the broken legion banners drifting in zero gravity. Then he saw the final betrayal, Erebus leading the legion deeper into the arms of the warp, and Kor Phaeron presiding over a black mass of corruption.
With a jolt, he recognized his own face in those visions—his expression twisted in religious fervor, worshiping the very powers he once sought to understand. A flash of madness flicked across that phantom image. A tear of energy or a rift of chaos erupted behind him. The sense of doom was absolute.
Lorgar gasped, staggering to his feet. The images still flickered. He felt tears on his cheeks, though the scorching wind quickly dried them. Another wave of images: a sudden shift, a glimpse of a different path. White deserts, the allied primarchs standing together. A golden swirl of possibility. He perceived the path as though it were a narrow line of light through a sea of darkness. And it began here, on this desert world, whose name was once lost to time–Arrakis.
A name came to him and he suddenly knew it as the Golden Path. A fleeting sense that if they follow it, a different future might unfold. But it would not be a future free of pain. He saw the Imperium splinter, worlds at odds, but not devoured by the dark powers. The Golden Path was narrow and fragile, requiring the most intricate execution of the most intricate plans and it was possible only by the aid of a chosen few, the ones who would–by his side–lay the foundations of a plan that was ten thousand years in the making. And at the end of it was a flash of white, of cerulean eyes that held the cosmos in them–of a man, not an Astartes or a Primarch, but a human, who walked between two worlds and beheld all of creation with six eyes, heralding the end of the Dark Powers and the beginning of a new age for humanity.
So much sacrifice–so much left to chance. But there was only one way out of the darkness…
The Golden Path beckoned…
He coughed, blinking to clear the haze. The desert returned. Harsh sunlight, endless dunes. The swirling dust had settled. The horrifying vision lingered at the edge of his mind, lodged like a shard of broken glass. Lorgar clenched his fists. A faint roar in the distance caught his attention. He turned, seeing the sands shift on a far dune, a shape sliding beneath the surface. The worm. Possibly attracted to the noise of his stumbling. He froze, controlling his steps, letting the gale carry the faint vibrations away. The shape passed, swirling ridges of sand in its wake. Then it vanished into the deeper desert, leaving only the faint tremor.
Lorgar exhaled. He had no time to fight a behemoth of that scale. He listened to his heart pounding. The last vestiges of the vision still danced behind his eyelids. He felt anger at seeing Erebus's face among the betrayers, a savage betrayal from Kor Phaeron, the father figure who guided him once. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the desert hush cradle him. Then he opened them, scanning the horizon. Nothing but ridges of dunes and the pale sky.
Hours later, he caught sight of his shuttle, a dark speck on the desert's flat. Relief rose in him, unspoken. He trudged across the final stretch, cloak dragging in the sand. The ramp lowered at his approach, pneumatic hiss. He stepped within. The interior felt cool by comparison. He sealed the hatch, removing his environment helm, letting dust cascade off. Freed from the scorching glare, he stood in the cramped hold, shoulders slumping a fraction.
He set about powering the shuttle's engines, his face still drawn. The moment the engines cycled up, a hum reverberated through the bulkhead. Lorgar strapped himself into the pilot seat. Through the forward window, the bleak dunes stretched in every direction. He tapped the console, lifting off in a swirl of dust that parted beneath the thrusters. The craft rose, climbing the sky. In moments, the horizon broadened, revealing the curve of the planet.
From orbit, Arrakis looked no different than it had at first glance: a swirl of dunes and brassy plains, silent beneath a white sun. Lorgar guided the shuttle to the flagship's hangar bay. Servitors rushed to secure the docking clamps. A small coterie of Word Bearers officers waited, tension etched in their stance. None dared speak when Lorgar emerged from the cockpit. He waved them aside, gaze distant.
His pilgrimage could wait. He needed to speak with his brothers.
AN: Chapter 61 is out on (Pat)reon!