The Scourge of God

CHAPTER THREE

The Prophet's council was made that day

When he called to him warrior and sage

"The Lady's Sword travels to the East

The Sword itself to take in hand;

Against that blade we cannot stand

And on his path he saves the weak

Who we would break."

Counsel they took, evil in shadow

Against the hero, the Witch-Queen's son From: The Song of Bear and Raven

Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY

"No, we should Not kill them all, General Walker," Sethaz said, without looking away from the window.

Twin Falls had been the northern anchor of New Deseret, a rich city with many fine craftsmen, thrifty merchants, and surrounded by irrigated fields the Saints tilled with skill and ceaseless labor. Now

… from four stories up, he could still smell the cold ash and the bodies trapped under the rubble, or hanging from crosses outside the ruined walls. Survivors were rebuilding the fortifications.

Much had been lost in the sack. That had been regrettable but necessary; both as an example, and for the sake of the troops, who'd had a long frustrating campaign until then and needed to…

What did they say in the old days? Sethaz thought. Then: Ah, yes, "blow off steam."

He had no mental picture to go with the proverb. Supposedly certain types of low-pressure steam engines still functioned after the Change-the large, heavy ones they'd called atmospheric engines -but such were banned in the Church Universal and Triumphant's territories. He could feel a certain cold something moving at the back of his mind, a lowering rage at the very thought. With practiced ease, he forbade his mind to imagine the forbidden thing.

Odd, he thought. I don't remember what I did in the sack, either. Just… flashes and glimpses. Nobody else will talk about it unless I command them. That was right after the old Prophet died.

Something had happened to him then. He didn't like to think about that, either. Instead he looked at his triumphant soldiers in the avenue below. A caravan of loot was shaping up; the soldiers guarding it were a mixed lot, range-country levies equipped in everything from standard CUT lacquered-leather armor to mail-shirts to vests of boiled cowhide to simple sheepskin jackets sewn with a few washers. They were all well mounted and armed, though, and they seemed cheerful.

Cheerful enough to sing from the Dictations as they mounted up and got things going with a crackle of whips and waving lariats:

"Keepers of the Flame!

Sons of Dominion are we!

From before the crux of Time-"

"The men are in good spirits," he said calmly.

General Walker ducked his head; Sethaz could see the motion faintly reflected in the glass.

"My lord Prophet, that battalion's from Havre District-"

"The Runamuk, Rippling Waters and Sweetgrass levies? Rancher Smith commanding?"

"Yes, my lord Prophet," Walker said, blinking a little at the younger man's grasp of detail. He went on:

"And they're being released from active duty. Of course they're cheerful; they're going back to their home ranges and their herds, with a couple of girl-slaves each to screw and do the camp chores, and as much booty as their packhorses can carry. It's the ones who're stuck here I worry about."

The Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant was a man of medium height, sharp-featured, with a swordsman's wrists and a bowman's broad shoulders, his cropped hair and chin-beard brown and his eyes an unremarkable greenish hazel… until you looked deeply into them. He turned from the window and looked at him across the antique plainness of the room, which could have been pre-Change, down to the broadloom carpet and Home Depot office furniture.

The alien surroundings made Sethaz inclined to snap; he restrained himself with a practiced effort of will, pushing away the image of the soldier hanging by his ankles over a slow hot fire.

Walker was a little independent minded… but then, with slow communications, you didn't want a general who referred all his decisions to headquarters, either. His family had been among the first in the Bitterroot country to accept the Dictations, and they had prospered mightily.

And since the…

Since the old Prophet died, Sethaz thought, his mind shying away from the memory of that day. Since my stepfather's lifestream rejoined the Ascended Hierarchy.

… Since then he'd been more than properly respectful. There was even a little fear in the bony face with its close-cropped head and tuft of chin-beard, worn in imitation of Sethaz' own. And a film of sweat on his forehead, but it was summer and the man wore armor and padding.

"Oh Heir of Sanat Kumara-"

The Prophet made an impatient gesture. Walker shrugged and went on more naturally:

"The damned Mormons just aren't giving up, lord Prophet. We've beaten their field armies and formally speaking we occupy everything north of Salt Lake City, but we're getting constant harassment from guerillas and the remnants of their armies lurking in the mountains and deserts. We don't dare split our troops up into small enough parcels to plant a garrison in every hamlet, we'd get eaten alive in little pieces if we did. But their civilians are the guerillas' source of food, shelter and information. Our lines of communication are longer than I like, too."

"Granted," Sethaz said. "But the population here are a potentially valuable resource, far too valuable to kill off for the sake of mere convenience. As it is the Church's dominions include too much unpeopled wilderness, without creating more here. The so-called Saints add another million to our population, which about doubles it, and more than that to our cropland and weapons production. With them, we can really get the breeding program going too, the more so as they kept such careful records. Much easier to identify subaverage mentalities, the mark of the Nephilim's soulless minions, and set them aside to reconcentrate the strain in service to True Men."

"But I'm losing troops to pinpricks every day!" Walker cried. "And lord Prophet, we can't keep our men away from their homes and ranches forever. We can't keep the Sword of the Prophet concentrated here forever either, they're our full-time cadre and best striking force. We must-"

He halted, flushing in alarm, and carefully keeping his hand from going to the hilt of his shete in a reflex born of sudden fear. Sethaz smiled inwardly, keeping his face grave.

" Must is not a word used to the Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant," he said softly. "I am the viceroy of the Ascended Masters and the Secret Hierarchy."

The General started to drop to his knees, then froze at the Prophet's gesture.

"You're an intelligent man, brother Walker," Sethaz said, almost genially. "You know the standard tactics for counterinsurgency work. And we do have a lot more cavalry than they do; it's why we beat them, after all. Take hostages. For that matter, the ones we've shipped East as slaves can double as hostages; make plain that their safety depends on the obedience of their relatives. Patrol vigorously, use your scouts, use our spies and collaborators and informers, chase every group of bandit rabble into the ground; and by all means, crucify any village that can be shown to be supporting the enemy. Except for the children. In those cases, we'll transfer them East to be raised in the Church. Many of our best and fiercest come from the Houses of Refuge."

"I thought… lord Prophet, we could sequester all the food supplies, and the seed corn, and dole them out in strictly rationed allotments. That would help with our own logistics, too. Administratively complex, but worth it, if you'll authorize me."

Sethaz stepped forward and slapped the older man on one armored shoulder.

"See? The Ascended Ones will speak truth to your soul, if only you open yourself to the Dictations! We have the mobility and striking power-use it, and the last of the bandit gangs will be dead, or gelded and working in the salvage teams by this time next year."

"I'll begin at once, my lord. Although altogether too many of them are escaping over the border with Boise, as well. Could we induce the new ruler there to seal the frontier?"

"Not yet. That is a delicate situation, one which needs careful nurturing. We cannot afford to fight Boise seriously. Yet."

"I doubt he is loyal to the Dictations. Even if he claims he must be discreet at first."

"He isn't. He seeks to use us, as we will use him. And when his enemies are crushed, with our men in the forefront of the battle to suffer the most losses, he thinks he will deal with us in turn." Sethaz smiled. "In fact, of course, I will deal with him, by the Power of the Ancient of Days."

"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.