The Sword of the Lady

THE WILD LANDS (FORMERLY ILLINOIS) NEAR THE RUINS OF CAIRO OCTOBER

?Like a golden chain, girdling the Earth,

Is the Unseen Hierarchy of the Ascended Lords…? ?High Seeker? Master Dalan?? Major Peter Graber said, as the chanting faded.

He was glad he?d waited until after the evening prayer to talk to the priest; the sun was down beyond the trees in the west, and it would make their conversation more private. The morale of the Sword of the Prophet was like iron, the men were ready to die as they were commanded… but even iron had flaws.

And I always liked this time of day, he thought inconsequentially.

The magic blue and green of it, and the slight hush that fell as the breeze died and the birds sang their last, and then the first stars blossoming in the east. Today there was a thin crescent of moon as well, high and ghost-pale southwards. It was a moment when the spirit could fly free. He sighed and returned to the business of the Church… which was also the business of the spirit, after all.

The man who called himself High Seeker Dalan had always been a little more solid-seeming than the most of his kind, who usually looked gaunt and scrawny. Right after the fight in Dubuque this one had been like a ghost for days, eating and drinking if you put food in his hands, but otherwise motionless.

Now he just looks like he?s dying, instead of already dead, Graber thought.

He fought down resentment at how many of his men had died on this trip; he?d crossed the border into the Sioux territories with two hundred effectives. Currently he had eighty-four… and that included two men who probably wouldn?t recover.

The burden he bears for the Ascended Masters is far higher than mine. ?We must consult,? he went on.

A jerky nod.?Yes. Come.?

The bitter smoke of the burnt ship drifted this far, but he didn?t think the crews of the Iowan warships would pursue; the ruins of Cairo weren?t far away, and they?d already had a brush with an Eater band. They?d also shot several deer, fat with autumn, and a wild pig, and the carcasses of the beasts were roasting and stewing with foraged herbs and roots as the leaders talked. He judged the men were cheerful enough, except for the handful of Iowan converts; the Sword of the Prophet was always tasked with the most difficult missions, including the ones where death was almost certain. They knew as well as he that their lifestreams would be bright among the Ascending Hierarchy if they fell in the Church?s service.

His stomach rumbled at the smell of the meat, and the scent of wheat cakes cooking on the griddles, but he ignored it; a man of the CUT learned to command the flesh by the power of the atman, though only the adepts had the ultimate mastery. The soulless were the slaves of their Sthula-Sarira, the gross and merely material body, which meant they were little more than walking corpses. One more sign that their only reason for existence was to serve the True Spirit and the community of believers. ?Hail Maitreya!? he began, when they?d walked a little way from the fires-but well within his perimeter of hidden scouts.

The blessing was always a safe opening gambit with the clergy. ?Master Dalan?? he went on. ?Hail… to the Youth of Sixteen Summers.?

The priest made the proper reply, his voice starting out rusty, as if he was remembering how to speak. ?We have to decide what to do, High Seeker,? Graber said carefully.?Should we try to push through to this Nantucket place and wait for the soulless misbelieving sons of the Nephilim? Or should we try to intercept the enemy again??

They?d tried that and failed repeatedly, though by narrow margins. Graber wasn?t particularly disturbed; if you kept trying, eventually you either succeeded or died. He hadn?t died yet. The High Seeker?s head turned to the north, as if his bruised-looking eyes were probing through the substance of the densely wooded hills. ?They may try to take the northern route,? he said.?They will not come up the Ohio, not when we might be waiting for them.?

Graber waited. That was a military judgment, and as such it was his to make. As it happened, he agreed. Catching Artos has been like trying to grab an oiled rattlesnake with his bare hands; nearly impossible, and deadly dangerous when you finally did it. And the others with him were nearly as bad. Not least, they all had a damnable talent for getting locals to fight for them. ?Bring me a prisoner,? Dalan said.

The officer turned his head and barked a command. Soon two of his troopers frog-marched one of the Eater captives between them. He had his hands tied before him, and a sheathed shete thrust through between his elbows and back; they steered him with it. Graber?s nose wrinkled; everyone smelled after a while in the field-this was the first opportunity they?d had to boil water in some time-but the savage was rank even by the standards a soldier learned. Worse than a High Line cowboy in midwinter.

A crude loincloth and the leggings held to it by thongs were his only clothing. For the rest he was an unexceptional man, perhaps in his twenties though looking older with his shaggy hairiness and ground-in dirt; the hair and beard were brown, the eyes a hazel green. Scrawny and not very tall, but that was to be expected.

The High Seeker held up his personal amulet, worn on his left wrist and studded with amethyst, symbol of the Seventh Ray. He murmured something: Graber caught the name of Djwal Khul, a great lord of the Ascending Hierarchy who dealt with communication and knowledge. ?Possibilities increase exponentially,? the High Seeker said… in a normal conversational tone, but as if to himself.?Capacity to affect foam linkages and tap base energy is greater but so is need.?

Good that he is not talking to me, Graber thought. I do not understand and do not wish to. Hail Serapis Bey! I serve the Fourth Ray. The Church also needs those who can deal with the material. ?But amplification and modulation are necessary. Interaction requires perception. Contaminated. So many possibilities.?

He smiled at the prisoner, and the man screeched like some small animal caught in a trapper?s toothed steel. His hands went out to grip either side of the captive?s face, forcing him to meet his eyes, and the troopers stepped away. ?I… see… you… forever,? he said.

The prisoner screamed again, and the guards stepped back farther in involuntary recoil, like men who find themselves clutching something in the dark and feel the wriggling of too many legs. After a moment Dalan screamed back at his victim, in the same pitch of hopeless pain. Graber swallowed as trails of blood started from the corners of the Eater?s eyes, trickling like red tears into the scabrous beard, glittering in the firelight. After a time that seemed to last forever Dalan?s sound became words: ?Bitch! Bitch! Deva, die without dying! You and your he-whore! And the One who sent you!?

He released the prisoner and staggered away, moaning, clenched fists slapping at the sides of his head; yet he was grinning, licking his lips. When the shuddering ceased he straightened. ?They are traveling north. Water. Intention is to the east. I see forests, ice, wolves. Beasts. Beasts. We will pursue. Now it must rest. There is no replacement and it must not be stressed beyond failure point.?

The High Seeker turned and lay down on his bedroll, and closed his eyes. What followed did not look like sleep; it was more as if the adept had been suspended, somehow. The troopers remained shock-still, because the captive was moving now. Not trying to escape; instead he knelt by a stretch of frost-heaved concrete and began to beat his head against it. The tock… tock… tock sound was like a hammer on hard wood, as regular as a carpenter?s. Graber made a gesture with one hand; the man who?d used his shete to control the prisoner stepped forward, set his hand to the hilt and stripped the steel free of the leather. It swung in a brief glinting arc, and there was a final sound-heavier and wetter than bone on stone. ?Get rid of this carrion,? Graber snapped.?Vender, Roberts,? he went on to his two chief surviving lieutenants.?The maps.?

They joined him where he sat on a log; a trooper brought them plates of stew and wheat cakes as they discussed distances and times. ?We?ll need horses,? Roberts said, tracing the length of what had once been Illinois from south to north.?It?s an impossible distance to cover on foot in any useful time.? ?It could be done,? Graber said; though few men from the High West would think so.?But the tribes around here have some mounts and those in the prairies to the north have more. Say a week to accumulate what we need to start with…?

He paused.?What is the date?? ?October first, sir.? ?Ah.? He smiled, an expression that softened the iron slab-and-angle of his face for an instant.

The other two men looked at him, puzzled. He explained briefly: ?My eldest son?s birthday. He will be ten today, in Corwin.?

They nodded.?Old enough to begin training in the House of the Prophetic Guard, as we all did, if he?s found worthy,? Roberts said.

His voice was a little wistful. He had nothing but daughters, and all those were very young. ?He will be. My wives are women of excellent character, and Peter studies hard,? Graber said firmly.?Now, if we can acquire two remounts per man, we can begin. The horses will be of low quality.?

TheSwordoftheLady