The Scourge of God c-2

by S. M. Stirling

  "About the third battalion of the Sword you have on the, ah, special task, my lord. They're sorely missed in the pacification program. If I could have them back, or at least part of them-"

  "No," Sethaz said flatly.

  Walker shivered. So did the Prophet, in some inner core of his being. The word sounded odd, somehow hot and dark at once, as if it had been carved out of burning ash, like a glow of deepest black. Sethaz had not spoken so before his stepfather died. He pushed inwardly, something possible only if he was doing as… instructed. It was a little like arguing, but without words, and without any possibility of deception.

  "They must be found," he said, in his own voice. "Found and destroyed if they cannot be taken captive. This has absolute priority. They must not reach the East."

  He shivered again. The shining future of the Dictations stretched ahead of him, a world at peace and united on Corwin, obedient to the Ascending Hierarchy. But a shadow fell across it.

  The shadow of a Bear; the beating of a Raven's wings.

  "Send in the others," he said, in words that were dismissal.

  Peter Graber stood respectfully aside and saluted as General Walker left the room, then marched in and went to one knee, the upright scabbard of his shete held in his left hand and his head bowed. His right fist thumped against his armor.

  "Hail to the Prophet! Hail to the Youth of Sixteen Summers!"

  The younger ones do it naturally, Sethaz thought. For their elders, there will always be an awkwardness.

  Graber had an excellent record, stretching back to his childhood in the House. His appearance pleased Sethaz as well; he was a man of medium height, wiry save for the broad shoulders of a bowman, a little bandy-legged as you'd expect from one who'd spent much of his life on horseback, dark gray eyes steady. A healing scar marked his nose.

  Beside him Seeker Twain prostrated himself in his dull-red robe; there was a different etiquette for the Church's spiritual hierarchy. Neither man looked at the other, though they were strangers and had been summoned to the Prophet's presence together. Instead they waited with disciplined silence while the head of the Church Universal and Triumphant paced like one of the leopards that had drifted up to contest the mountain forests with the native cougars.

  "Captain Graber, what is the status of the Third Battalion of the Sword of the Prophet?"

  "My lord Prophet, we are short two hundred effectives, leaving only two hundred and thirty-two men fit for duty. Another forty-eight are expected to recover sufficiently to return to frontline service in the next few months. Major Andrews lost his right hand and will be on light duties for some time. I am the senior officer at present."

  "You suffered heavily at Wendell," the Prophet acknowledged. "But you fulfilled your orders, both your battalion and yourself… Major Graber."

  Graber blinked, but his face might have been chiseled from birch-wood as he ducked his head in acknowledgment of the promotion.

  "Is the Third fit for duty?"

  "To the death, my lord Prophet," he said promptly. "We are rested and have fresh horses; the weapons are clean and the men are ready to fight. However, we are at barely half-strength."

  "Sufficient for the purpose." He turned to the desk and handed over a folder. "After Wendell, certain prisoners and bandits escaped and are at large behind our lines. They are believed to be headed East-"

  He finished the briefing. "Familiarize yourself with these files. Your command will leave tomorrow morning. The file contains your written orders and a first-priority authorization to commandeer supplies and assistance as needed."

  This time the pupils of Graber's eyes flared involuntarily in surprise. Sethaz nodded somberly.

  "Yes, this is no ordinary band of fugitives. May the Unseen Hierarchy be with you, Major. You will be accompanied by High Seeker Twain; wait for him without."

  "Hail Maitreya!"

  He raised his hand in benediction as the soldier rose and left, then signaled the priest-scholar to his feet. The man stood with his arms crossed and eyes bent down, that his superior might study his face without being appraised in return.

  "I am not worthy of this honor," he said neutrally.

  Sethaz smiled. "No, you are not," he said. "Not yet. It is our duty to clear our lifestreams by constantly increasing our understanding of the Ascended Masters and Their plans for our world. .. and the most holy secrets of Their natures."

  The other man nodded cautiously; Sethaz was repeating platitudes. .. and was also notoriously intolerant of sycophants.

  "They brought the Change to humble man's sinful pride, and destroyed the wicked arts that would otherwise have destroyed us," Sethaz went on. "But by that Change they have… opened certain possibilities which were… dormant before it. The light of the Seven Rays now shines more clearly."

  The priest's eyebrows went up. That last was not public doctrine.

  "And the Nephilim and their soulless servants also have… increased possibilities open to them; but the Masters are vigilant for us. I will now demonstrate Their gifts, which long study and discipline have fitted you to bear. Meet my eyes."

  Twain did.

  "Is your will your own?"

  "I have slain my will. The Ascended Masters play upon my lifestream as a man's hands play upon the strings of a harp."

  "Are you prepared to hear the voice of the One Initiator?"

  "I am."

  "It-see-you."

  Twain blinked, startled. Sethaz' powerful swordsman's hands flashed up to clamp his head on either side; the Prophet felt the action, but somehow as if he were observing it rather than willing his limbs to move. Their gazes locked, and there was a movement, a feeling as if the Prophet's skull were hollow, and something nested there.. . and now uncoiled to strike.

  Twain gave a muffled, choking sound. His hands scrabbled at Sethaz' wrists, more and more frantically, and his feet drummed on the carpet like a man hoisted aloft by a noose around his neck. The movements gradually ceased, until the only motion the priest made was his breath… and then his chest rose and fell in rhythm with Sethaz. Soon their pulses thundered in unison as well. Two small trickles of blood started from the corners of his eyes, and another two from his nostrils; by the time they ran to his lips, he was grinning.

  "Oh, now I understand!" he said thickly, licking the blood with relish. "Hail to the Regent Lord of This World!"

  Sethaz nodded, stepping back. "Go, and serve the Masters," he said. "The Solar Logos go with you."

  The High Seeker's grin was… disquieting somehow. Sethaz turned and looked out the window again, wondering why. The reflection prompted him.

  It is because I've seen it before. In my mirror.

  Then he shook his head; that made no sense, and there was much to do. He sat at his desk and took out the letter from Boise's new ruler, reading carefully once more. It was a tissue of lies, of course…

  But from the lies a man tells, you can read the truth of his soul, he thought. His eyes went to a map, then glazed over as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear. Yes, there's something in what he says. Pendleton does offer us an opportunity. But not quite what he thinks.

  LAVA BEDS

  NORTHEASTERN IDAHO

  SEPTEMBER 1, CY 23/2021 AD

  "From the hag and the hungry goblin

  That into rags would rend ye

  All the sprites that stand by the Horned Man

  In the Book of Moons defend ye-"

  The tune had a steady thumping beat; Mackenzies used it as a marching song, though Rudi's mother had come up with the words long ago, when she was a bard before the Change. Rudi and Edain sang it-but not too loudly. A human voice wouldn't carry far in country like this, but there wasn't any point in taking unnecessary risks.

  They were riding up a long open valley with a soil of something black, a coarse ashy stuff that crunched beneath the horses' hooves and raised a little dust with a strange taste, more bitter than the normal Snake River alkali. Small mountains or big hills showed h
ere and there about them, looking as if they'd been built out of cinders-which they were. Sparse straw-colored needle-grass was scattered across the flats, and some of the hills had thick sagebrush, or even quaking aspen on the northern slopes, and some yellow-flowered rabbitbrush swayed a little in the hot wind. Nothing else moved, except a violet-green thrush that snatched a beetle stirred up by his horse's hooves; native animals hereabouts had the good sense to stay inside in the daytime, in summer.

  "Ah, that was a bit of home," Edain said when they'd finished the song, and Rudi nodded. "I'll take a look at the pack-train."

  His half-mastiff bitch Garbh jumped down from where she'd been sitting behind him and trotted along at his stirrup as he rode back down the line, whistling.

  Edain could sing passably, which was a great deal more than his father could-Sam Aylward was longer on volume than anything else. Mackenzies generally could sing well, since it was an important part of their lives and they practiced hard, if not quite so hard as they did with the bow. Rudi had inherited a male version of his mother's talent, and she was first-rate; he sang very well indeed, and enjoyed it.

  He smiled wryly. Rumor in the Clan said that the fae had clustered around his cradle to give him all the good gifts of the Lord and Lady. There was something to it, he supposed. He hadn't had trouble with his wisdom teeth and he'd gotten over his few zits quickly, too.

  And all that makes my life so simple and satisfying, he thought sardonically. Which is why dead men try to squeeze my throat shut. Yes, it's just one long Beltane feast followed by a roll in the clover, if you're beloved of the Powers. They give… or sometimes, They just delay the stiff payment They ask.

  "Interesting song," Frederick Thurston said, pushing his horse up beside Rudi.

  "Heathen nonsense," Mathilda said, half joking, from his other side.

  She uncorked her canvas water-bag and handed it over. Rudi drank deeply and passed it on-the water was tepid and a bit brackish, but you had to take as much as you could in desert country. His stepfather, Sir Nigel, and honorary uncle Sam Aylward had taught him that. The sun was bright and hot today, though the air was thankfully dry. Sweat was running down his flanks under his brigandine; they were all still wearing light harness, torso-protection, just in case, and it was as well to keep yourself used to the weight and discomfort. Even Father Ignatius had put off most of his panoply, though, for his horse's sake if not his own.

  He's a hardy man, Rudi thought. Though I'll never understand why Christians think it pleases their God to be uncomfortable when it isn't necessary.

  "Time!" Odard called.

  He had a working windup watch, an heirloom. Everyone dismounted, unsaddled, let their mount roll, and began to put the tack on a remount.

  Epona came over and pushed at him; she'd never liked to see him riding another horse. The big black mare nudged again as he transferred his saddle and blanket to Macha Mongruad.

  "You're middle-aged!" Rudi said to Epona, touching a finger to her velvety nose. "You need the rest. And she's your own daughter!"

  He swore and lunged for Macha's bridle when her dam mooched off. .. then turned and nipped the younger mare on the haunch. A few seconds of work prevented an equine catfight, and they began leading their horses; Epona trotted off with her tail high, and her ears making a horse's equivalent of a smug smirk.

  "That's a fine horse," Fred said, as they started walking.

  They had a long way to go and even rotating the mounts and walking half the time as well it was going to wear the horses down.

  "I don't think I've ever seen better movement," Fred went on, looking admiringly where Epona seemed to float along, hooves barely touching down. "But isn't she around ten, or even twelve?"

  "Fifteen or sixteen," Rudi replied.

  A well-treated horse with a good deal of Arab in her breeding could be worked until she was past twenty, but it was true that if he could he'd rather have left her back in the home pasture, bullying the rest of the Dun Juniper horse-herd. Warmbloods tended to break down more easily, too.

  "Why did you bring her on a trip like this?"

  "She'd start killing people if I left her behind that long," Rudi said.

  Frederick laughed, then stopped when he saw nobody else was.

  "She's vicious?" he said incredulously. "But I saw you riding her without a bit! Bareback!"

  "Not vicious exactly; she just dislikes the most of humankind, the more so if I'm away for long. Which given the way she was treated as a filly isn't surprising. We've been together a long time, since I was about ten, and she still won't let anyone else ride her."

  Mathilda rolled her eyes again. "Rudi rode her when nobody else at the Sutterdown Horse Fair could," she said. "It's part of the Wondrous Legend of Rudi Mackenzie, back home." A sigh. "It's true, too. I was there. You wouldn't have any doubt she could be vicious if you'd seen her then."

  "Sure, and it's no miracle or magic, just that we're old souls to each other," Rudi said. At Frederick's look: "Knew each other in our past lives, so."

  "You, ah-"

  "Witches."

  "Witches believe we're reborn?"

  "Everything is," Rudi said. "How not?" He waved a hand around them. "And doesn't everything die and return; the grass, the trees, the fields? Why not us?"

  Mathilda sighed again. "These are people who apologize when they cut down a tree in case it's their long-lost Great-Aunt Gertrude they're planning on repairing the barn with," she said.

  "Well, now, no; it's just polite to be grateful," Rudi drawled, mock-aggrieved. "To the tree, for starters. And the fae don't like it if you're rude."

  "Well," one of the twins said, "Elves go wait in the Halls of Mandos, generally speaking. But that's not really relevant since there aren't any here in Middle-earth anymore."

  "And since the Straight Path is closed," the other went on. "Nowadays if you sail west, you just eventually hit yourself in the butt, coming from the east."

  "I've never been very religious," Fred mused. "My family aren't, you know… well, we're Methodists, sort of. I never really thought it was very important. I know that's sort of old-fashioned, but Mom and Dad are… Dad was…"

  He rubbed a hand across his face, smearing sweat and dust on his chocolate-colored skin.

  "But I think I'm going to have to change my mind, with all the stuff that's happened lately." A weary grin: "Though which type of religion should I start taking seriously?"

  "There are many paths and if you walk them rightly, they all go to the same place," Rudi said.

  Then he grinned himself: "To be sure, the sensible people go by the Old Religion's road. We have the best festivals, for starters! And the best music, though I grant"-he nodded to Ignatius-"that the Gregorian chant is fine stuff, but ours is merrier. And unlike Catholics we don't have to waste our time on guilt."

  Ignatius simply gave an ironic lift of the eyebrows; he wasn't the sort of man to rise to a bait like that. Mathilda glanced sidelong at Rudi and smiled.

  "Did he mention the way his mother magically struck a Methodist pastor dead once?"

  Well, your mother has struck a fair number of people dead, but by more conventional means, Rudi thought. It was hot and he itched in places he couldn't scratch because they were covered by two layers of leather with steel plates riveted between, and it was a bit of an effort to stay cheerful. INCLUDING your father's pet pope, I suspect. Not that he didn't deserve it, the creature…

  Aloud he went on: "She didn't. The Reverend Dixon just had a heart attack at a… a crucial moment, or so Aunt Judy tells me."

  As an aside he said to Frederick: "Aunt Judy's our chief healer, a friend of my mother's from when they were girls."

  Then he returned to the subject: "Matti, people do die now and then without someone killing them. Besides, it was before either of us was born. And he was a Baptist, not a Methodist. Or was it a Presbyterian? I've never really understood all the differences."

  " Some sort of heretic," Mathilda said.

&nbs
p; "Sure, you're bein' a bit narrow-minded there."

  "Just orthodox," she said with a sniff.

  "And isn't orthodoxy just one's own doxy, and heterodoxy another's doxy?"

  Father Ignatius walked on two paces, then choked with laughter and had to be thumped on the back, tried to be stern, and laughed again. Other people joined in at intervals as the ghastliness of the Latinate pun sank in, ending with Edain and Frederick and Ingolf, who had to have it explained since their schooling hadn't included the classics.

  Rudi considered making a more elaborate one about the Grand Constable Tiphaine being a very non-hetero-doxy, but decided not to-Ignatius was a bit of a damp blanket where bawdy was concerned. So was Matti, come to that, especially in a cleric's company.

  His mother had made a joke once about Tiphaine having an I won't tell, and I'll kill you if you ask policy. Older people seemed to find that funny, for some reason.

  "Ummm-" Frederick said.

  He's feeling a little like the new wolf in the pack, being a stranger and all, with us knowing one another most of our lives, Rudi thought. Or at least for a year, with Ingolf. He's lonely, too. I would be, in his place!

  The younger Thurston went on: "You know, Dad thought you guys, the Mackenzies, were, well, weird."

  "We're witches. We are weird," Rudi said. "Or so my mother always says. Meself, I think everyone else is weird, but then I wasn't raised all my younger years among cowans as she was, the sorrow and the pity of it."

  "What are cowans?"

  Mathilda chuckled, a gurgling sound like her mother's laugh, but warmer somehow; it lit up her tired, dusty face like a light from within.

  "Unbelievers," she said. "People with a distorted view of things. Dull, commonplace people with no magic in them who can't hear the music of the world. us, in other words, as far as the witches are concerned."

  Frederick gave her a glance and seemed to flush, then gathered himself.