At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  He led the way around the corner, turning into the avenue, and his jaw tightened as he saw the crowd standing around the message board outside St. Nysbet’s. That was where the parish priest posted the day’s scripture every morning, but that wasn’t what they were reading today, and he felt beads of sweat under his priest’s cap as he realized how big the crowd was. There had to be fifty or sixty men standing around the message board, voices raised in an indistinct but angry surf of sound, and even as he watched, more trotted down the street, heading for the crowd.

  Well, they couldn’t have that, now could they?

  “Follow me,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth and went striding towards the growing knot of men.

  “Here, now!” he shouted. “What’s all this, then?! You people know better than to believe the sorts of lies in those things!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at the broadsheets he could now see tacked to the message board. “Move along! Go about your business before I have to start taking names and—”

  “No more lies!”

  Makrakton’s head jerked up as the shout rang out. He didn’t know exactly where it had come from. It didn’t seem to have come from the men around the message board, but he couldn’t be certain. What he was certain of was that the entire crowd had turned to face him.

  “I said—” he began again.

  “No more lies and no more murders!” the same voice shouted. “The broadsheets are right, lads! Show Clyntahn what we really think of him!”

  Makrakton couldn’t believe his ears. Sheer shock held him motionless for a moment, and that was one moment too long.

  The crowd surged suddenly, but not to disperse. No, it surged towards Makrakton and his escort.

  “What do you think you’re—?” He heard Brother Riely begin, but then the lay brother’s voice chopped off as a hurled cobblestone struck him squarely in the face.

  Stahrns went down with a strangled scream, clutching at his ruined face, and the sergeant was suddenly shouting orders. The squad’s rifles came down, leveled, and a sheet of smoky fire lashed out across Zheppsyn Avenue. There were screams from the other side of that smoke, but the single, rushed volley didn’t stop the oncoming Zionites. They came out of the smoke, at least a quarter of them with cobblestones or other improvised weapons in their hands, and hurled themselves straight at the Guardsmen.

  “Kill the bastards!” someone bellowed.

  “No more murders!” someone else shouted, and then—

  “Death to the Grand Fornicator!”

  The enraged mob rolled over the Guard squad. Two or three of them went down on the Guardsmen’s bayonets, but the squad was too shaken, too taken aback. It wasn’t a disciplined force; it was simply a group of confused, disbelieving men with rifles in their hands, and they never had a chance.

  Makrakton had a momentary glimpse of a stolen rifle butt coming at his face, swung like a baseball bat by a burly civilian in a bricklayer’s apron. It was only a blur, then it smashed into his jaw and he went down, three-quarters stunned.

  The boots were waiting.

  * * *

  Zheppsyn Avenue was not unique.

  The broadsheets had, indeed, gone up again the night before, the way they always did. But these broadsheets were different. For months—years—they’d appeared, morning after morning, and all they’d ever done was to report news. At first, they’d been dismissed by every loyal son or daughter of Mother Church as the lies they obviously were. But over time, five-day-by-five-day, month-by-month, the citizens of Zion and the Temple Lands—of Harchong, and Desnair, and Dohlar—had realized they weren’t lies. They were truth, and yet that was all they’d been. They’d never called for action, never urged anyone to rebel. In fact, they’d gone out of their way to avoid anything of the sort.

  But these broadsheets weren’t like that. These broadsheets were written in fire and quenched in rage. They recounted the hideous casualty totals from the front. They enumerated the millions of Siddarmarkians who’d died in the Inquisition’s holding camps, listing the grim total camp-by-camp. They gave the totals for the numbers of Zionites who’d simply disappeared in every borough of the city … and broadsheets in each borough gave the names of the agents inquisitor responsible for that borough’s disappearances. The broadsheets nearest the Temple listed all of the vicars and bishops and priests Zhaspahr Clyntahn had purged. The broadsheets nearest the Plaza of Martyrs gave the numbers for how many people had been tortured and burned to death as the Punishment decreed. The broadsheets on individual church doors gave the names of Inquisition informants, parish-by-parish.

  And this time, they didn’t simply give information.

  Children of God!

  The day has come to retake God’s Church from the evil men who make a mockery of God’s law and His love for His children! Zhaspahr Clyntahn is no servant of God. He is evil and corruption, and he is death! Death for any who oppose him—who oppose him, not God! Death for your sons and fathers and brothers fighting not for God, but for Clyntahn the Corrupt! Death for children and infants in arms in the camps of Siddarmark! Death for your children, for anyone who dares to question the monster he’s made of the Inquisition! And death for Mother Church herself if no one stops him before he transforms her forever into an image of his own cruelty and vile ambition!

  Strike! Strike now! Strike hard! Take back your Church in the name of God and the Archangels!

  Death to the Inquisition! Death to Zhaspahr Clyntahn!

  And this time members of Helm Cleaver—and the hidden audio remotes of an electronic being named Owl—were scattered about the city in strategic locations to be the voices of rage … and the sparks of holocaust.

  * * *

  No one had seen it coming.

  Perhaps they should have, but they’d been the forces of Mother Church for so long, spoken with the full authority of the Holy Writ, of the Book of Schueler and the Proscriptions. They’d spoken for God, and who would dare to argue with Him?

  They’d never been able to eradicate the accursed broadsheets, but they’d become accustomed to them. They’d hated them, feared them, understood the way in which the truth they proclaimed gnawed away at the Inquisition’s narrative, but that was all they’d done. It had never occurred to them that one day that might change. Nor had they realized the way in which those broadsheets’ proven veracity, the fact that they’d never—not once—been caught in a lie, would validate them on the day they did change.

  A third of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s agents inquisitor disappeared in the first two hours. Most of them suffered the same fate as Elaiys Makrakton and Riely Stahrns. Some were less fortunate and spent far longer dying. And some—either out of simple prudence or because some deep-seated part of them had always known those broadsheets spoke the truth—simply stripped away the purple badges of the Order of Schueler, discarded their cassocks, and vanished into the streets of the city.

  * * *

  “What should we do, Father?”

  Father Zytan Kwill stood on the mounting block before the gate of the Hospice of the Holy Bédard, the largest homeless shelter in the city of Zion, and stared at the vast crowd filling the square before him.

  “What should we do, Father?!”

  The question went up again, and Kwill drew a deep breath. He would never see ninety again, and the frailty of age had wrapped itself about him, but in that moment, with every eye—every heart—in that enormous crowd focused upon him, he was a giant. A giant who knew at last exactly what to say.

  “My children—God’s children—you know what to do! The Writ itself tells you! Remember the words of the Archangel Chihiro!

  “‘In the day of wickedness, be not wanting. In the day of corruption, be not afraid. In the day of evil, stay not your hand. When Darkness comes before you, pretending to be Light, when those who should be your shepherds become slash lizards devouring the sheep, when darkest night consumes the sun, cling to God with all your might and all your strength, and know that He will send you
the true shepherd, the good shepherd! Find that shepherd. Seek him out, for you will know him by his works. Trust him who leads you to Light. Follow him, fight for him, bear him up and do not let him fail, for the good shepherd loves the flock. The good shepherd nurtures the flock. And the good shepherd dies for the flock. Be you also good shepherds. Face those who would do evil in God’s name, and cut them from you forever!’”

  There was silence for a moment—a moment in which he could hear the distant roar of the furious city. In which he could hear distance-faint screams, occasional shots, and over all of it the sigh of God’s own wind filled with the bright, clean sunlight of summer.

  “You know who the false shepherd is, my children,” Zytan Kwill said then. “You know him by his works, by his darkness, by his destruction. And you also know the good shepherd! The good shepherd who’s been here for you—for all of you—and who you know will lay down his life for you if God wills it! Go! Find him! Fight for him! Be you also good shepherds and do what God has called you to do this day!”

  Another moment of stillness, and then—

  “Death to the Inquisition!”

  * * *

  The column of dragoons trotted down the avenue. The horses seemed uneasy—probably from the smell of smoke—and their riders were grim faced. But they rode in disciplined silence, accompanied only by the sound of shod hooves on cobbles, the jingle and rattle of tack and weapons.

  “Thank God,” Father Zhordyn Rahlstyn murmured fervently.

  He and Brother Anthynee Ohrohrk crouched inside the deserted shopfront, peering through its windows into the street. They’d been fortunate Ohrohrk had remembered the shop had been closed ever since its owners had been taken into custody. They’d managed to get inside before anyone spotted them in the street, and they’d hidden there, wondering what to do next.

  Given what they’d seen happen to half a dozen of their fellow agents inquisitor—and, for that matter, to the squad of Temple Guardsmen who’d been assigned to support them that morning—wandering around the streets struck them as a very bad idea. They were fortunate their Guardsmen had lasted long enough, drawn enough of the mob’s attention, for them to run, but they couldn’t count on that sort of good fortune lasting forever.

  “I can’t believe this, Father,” Brother Anthynee said, hands still trembling as they watched the mounted column coming towards them. “I can’t believe it! How could they all turn on us like this?!”

  “When Shan-wei’s loose in the world, anything can happen, Anthynee,” Rahlstyn replied almost absently. “And those eternally damned and accursed broadsheets—that’s what set them off! But don’t think they’ve turned all of Zion against us. Against God, I mean.” He shook his head. “God and the Archangels don’t desert their own! That’s why They’ve sent us this cavalry, and in the fullness of time, They’ll take back control of God’s city for His rightful servants.”

  “Of course They will, Father.” Ohrohrk sounded less than totally convinced, but he nodded sharply when Rahlstyn looked at him.

  “Then let’s go out and greet our rescuers,” the upper-priest said.

  The two Schuelerites opened the shop’s front door and stepped out into the street as the front rank of the column drew even with it. The officer at its head touched his horse with a heel, and the big roan swung around, trotting over to where Rahlstyn stood.

  The upper-priest’s heart rose as he recognized the rider’s insignia. It was that of a full bishop militant, a division commander, and there must have been two thousand men in the column behind him.

  “Praise Langhorne and Schueler you’ve come, My Lord!” Rahlstyn cried. “May I ask your name?”

  “Kradahck,” the bishop militant said. “Dynnys Kradahck. And yours, Father?”

  “Zhordyn Rahlstyn, My Lord. And this is Brother Anthynee Ohrohrk.” Rahlstyn’s spirits rose still higher as he recognized the bishop militant’s name. He wasn’t “just” a division commander. Bishop Militant Dynnys Kradahck commanded the Holy Martyrs Training Camp, the main Army of God training facility twenty-two miles from the City of Zion. To have reached the city so soon he must have been summoned by semaphore—or perhaps messenger wyvern—almost the moment the outbreaks began. The proof that the Grand Inquisitor and Captain General had reacted so promptly and strongly was a tremendous relief.

  “I never thought I’d be so relieved to see the Army here in Zion,” he said frankly, “but some sort of madness seems to have seized the city! Thank God you’ve arrived! Are more troops on the way?”

  Kradahck looked down at him thoughtfully, and Rahlstyn suddenly found himself wondering if his anxiety—and his sudden relief—had betrayed him into what might be misconstrued as impertinence. He was an upper-priest of the Inquisition, of course, and Kradahck was only a bishop militant, which was just a military rank, really. He wasn’t certain, but he rather thought Kradahck had been a mere under-priest a few years earlier. For that matter, he might be one of the Army of God officers who’d been directly consecrated from the laity in answer to the desperate need for senior officers.

  “Yes, Father,” the bishop militant said after a moment. “There are quite a few additional troops en route. Infantry, for the most part, so they’ll be some few hours behind the mounted men.”

  “May I ask what your orders are?” Rydach asked in a deliberately more courteous tone, and Kradahck nodded.

  “I’m on my way to relieve the Temple Annex and restore order.”

  “May Brother Anthynee and I accompany you?”

  “Oh, I think that can be arranged, Father,” Kradahck replied, and looked over his shoulder at the youthful, brown-haired major who’d just cantered up to join him, accompanied by a quartet of noncoms. “Father Zhordyn, this is Major Sahndyrsyn, my aide.” Rahlstyn nodded to the major, and Kradahck waved a hand at him and Ohrohrk. “Hainryk, these are Father Zhordyn and Brother Anthynee. Arrest them.”

  Rahlstyn was still staring in goggle-eyed disbelief when four very tough-looking dragoons grabbed the agents inquisitor.

  They weren’t particularly gentle.

  * * *

  “What in Shan-wei’s name is happening?!” Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded furiously. “Wyllym! What’s the meaning of this?!”

  “Your Grace, it’s … it’s—”

  Rayno broke off, unable for once to find the words to answer the Grand Inquisitor.

  “Don’t just gobble, damn it!” Clyntahn snapped. “Why hasn’t this rabble already been dispersed!”

  He stabbed an angry finger at the sea of rioters crowding into the Plaza of Martyrs. Most wore civilian clothing, but here and there Rayno saw men in AOG uniform. The vast majority of them seemed to be armed only with improvised bludgeons, or paving stones, or even nothing at all, but there were dozens—possibly even scores—of rifles in that enormous crowd, and the rumbling snarl coming from it was enough to freeze a man’s blood.

  “Your Grace,” the archbishop said finally, taking his courage in both hands, “they haven’t been dispersed because the Army is supporting them.”

  “What?!” Clyntahn wheeled around, and Rayno shook his head.

  “Your Grace, this has to’ve been carefully planned, and the treason was spread more broadly than anyone could have imagined! Officers of the Temple Guard—our own officers!—opened the Guard arsenals and distributed weapons to the mob. Others actually led rioters into municipal and Church buildings! Many of the Guard remained loyal, I believe, but they had no more idea this was coming than we did. Most of them were seized before they could even begin to react, and every agent inquisitor we had in the street when this … this madness began had to run for his life. I’m afraid a great many of them couldn’t run fast enough, and the situation’s only continued to spiral farther and farther out of control. Vicar Rhobair’s occupied the Treasury and seized control of the semaphore office and the dock master’s offices, and it looks like Major Phandys is actually leading the mutineers who followed his orders to seize the buildings. As soon as I re
alized what was happening, I sent agents inquisitor to arrest Vicar Allayn, but none of them have returned, and Army troops—apparently under his personal command—have surrounded St. Thyrmyn. The prison is on fire—they’re using infantry angle-guns to drop shells into its courtyard!—and none of our brethren inside the facility have been able to escape.”

  “How the fuck did you let this happen?!” Clyntahn snarled.

  “Your Grace, even the Fist of Kau-Yung is involved in this!” Rayno snapped back. “Three quarters of my senior people—Wynchystair, Gahdarhd, Ohraily, Zhyngkwai, at least a dozen more—were assassinated almost simultaneously this morning. Nobody even saw whoever threw the grenade that killed Gahdarhd and his senior assistant!”

  Clyntahn stared at him speechlessly, and Rayno made himself draw a deep breath.

  “Your Grace, if it had been only Duchairn and Maigwair, or if it had been only the Fist of Kau-Yung—or even if it had been all of them, perhaps—we might have been able to retain control. I can’t say for certain; no one could! But I can tell you for certain that it was this—” it was his turn to jab his finger out the window “—this … this mob—that guaranteed we couldn’t control it.” He shook his head again. “The entire city caught fire, probably in the space of less than one hour. It certainly didn’t take more than two! How were my people supposed to deal with something that sudden, on that kind of scale? We simply couldn’t do it, Your Grace!”

  “My God,” Clyntahn whispered

  He looked back out at the Plaza of Martyrs and his face tightened as a straw-stuffed effigy in an orange cassock was dragged across the plaza to one of the charred posts to which so many heretics had been chained. The effigy was lashed to the post, and a torch flared.

  And over it all, he heard the shouts.

  “Death to the Inquisition! Death to the Grand Fornicator!”

  And, more terrifying—and far more infuriating—even than that, a single name, chanted over and over and over again.