Clyntahn’s jaw muscles bunched. Then they relaxed once more, and he nodded slowly.
“Makes sense,” he acknowledged. “And it probably explains the name’s outlandishness, too. It’s made-up nonsense.”
“Almost certainly, Your Grace.”
“I don’t care whether or not he’s in our records, though.” Clyntahn’s voice sounded as if he were chewing granite boulders. “I want him found. I want him identified. And I want him dead. Here—right here in Zion, that’s where I want him, Wyllym!”
“I’ve already issued instructions to accomplish just that, Your Grace. The task will be … difficult, however. We have no idea what he looks like or where to find him, and you know the handicaps under which we operate in lands controlled by the heretics. We’ve begun the hunt, yet I’d be less than truthful if I told Your Grace I anticipate bringing our quarry to bay anytime soon.”
The archbishop braced for a fresh outburst, but Clyntahn only jerked a short, choppy nod. His unhappiness was evident, but his brain seemed to be once more functioning well enough to recognize the inescapable truth.
Or, at least, to recognize an inescapable truth, Rayno amended silently. The Grand Inquisitor was quite capable of ignoring other inescapable truths, and the archbishop devoutly prayed he wasn’t going to ignore sanity when the time came to hear it.
“In the meantime, we have to decide how to respond,” Clyntahn growled. “I don’t have any doubt the son-of-a-bitch’s letter will start turning up on walls all over both Havens soon enough.”
“I fear you’re correct, Your Grace.”
Rayno had considered pointing out that they had no evidence that whoever continued to post those mysterious broadsheets had ever heard of a man named Dialydd Mab. Experience, however, had taught him it was always safer to anticipate the worst. And “the worst” in this case was going to be very bad indeed.
The archbishop closed his eyes briefly, recalling his own feelings when the bloodsoaked envelope addressed in a clear strong hand to “Zhaspahr Clyntahn, Grand Fornicator” had been delivered to his office. He’d stared at it, listening to the report of where and how it had been found. About the only thing he’d wanted less than to open it was to deliver it to Clyntahn, yet he’d realized as the report rolled over him that withholding information he knew would enrage the Grand Inquisitor wasn’t an option this time. Whoever this Mab was, he intended to make his point brutally and completely clear. The information would reach Clyntahn one way or another, and if the Grand Inquisitor learned about it some other way and then discovered Rayno had attempted to keep him in the dark.…
So he’d gone ahead and opened it, and his face had gone white as he read it.
To Zhaspahr Clyntahn, greetings.
I have no intention of wasting invective upon you. First, because no invective could be adequate. Second, because others might equate it to the same baseless vituperation you spew forth daily.
The entire world has learned how fearless you are when you need not face your foes. There is no realm where the truth of your butcheries, your tortures, is unknown. Yet you have never once ventured out from behind the protection of the Inquisition and the Temple Guard. You lack the courage even to walk the streets of Mother Church’s own city, be you ever so surrounded by bodyguards, far less to risk your own precious blood in what you claim to be “the service of God.” Others may die in their millions in the Jihad you proclaimed; you have no intention of doing so yourself.
Yet you and I both know—as the rest of the world is coming to learn—that what you do, what you are, has nothing to do with “the service of God.” You worship not Him but the pleasures of the flesh, wealth, luxury, the power of life and death. You glory not in God, but in the terror you have made of your office and the Inquisition as you and your servants torture, maim, and kill anyone who dares to defy not God, but you.
You have made it abundantly clear that no amount of innocent blood, no amount of agony, will sway you from your vile ambition to turn the Church herself into no more than a shadow of your own corruption. And in the filth you recruit to serve the Office of Inquisition, you have found apt tools. Tools such as Vyktyr Tahrlsahn and Hahskyll Seegairs.
The time has come to deprive you of those tools.
There were those warriors in the War Against the Fallen who did what others could not. Mortal men called them seijins, and many thought their powers were supernatural, gifts bestowed upon them by God. Whatever the men who thought that might have believed, however, the seijins were not angels, nor were they demons.
Nor are they extinct.
You have proclaimed Merlin Athrawes a demon. As in so many other things, you have lied. Yet this much, at least, is truth—he is but one of many, and you do not know where the others of us may be or what we may accomplish. We claim no special divinity, but we are determined that you and the corruption you spawn will not succeed, and so we have given our service to Charis and the Church of Charis and sworn that the day will come when you answer for your crimes and render your account to God.
As Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan have proclaimed, your Inquisitors stand condemned wherever they may be taken. Know, now, that they stand condemned wherever they may be found, as well. We will not be able to reach all of them; but we will be able to slay any of them we can reach, and those who lend themselves to special foulness, like Tahrlsahn and Seegairs, will be sought out. We will find them, and they will die. We do not torture for the sake of torture as they—and you—delight in doing, but they will find no more mercy at our hands than their victims have found at theirs.
You—and they—may choose to ignore this letter. You may continue to butcher prisoners of war, to send thousands of innocent men, women, and children to concentration camps and to the Punishment. You may continue to torture and terrify. In the fullness of time, all of you will face the penalty appointed by God for your crimes. We are not Him, but be aware—all of you, from this moment on—that whatever He may hold in store for your souls, your lives are already forfeit and we will claim them where, as, how, and when we choose.
Dialydd Mab
“This can’t go unanswered,” Clyntahn grated. “Bad enough when that bastard Eastshare massacres consecrated priests on the field of battle. We cannot allow the murder of our special Inquisitors so far from the battlefront to pass without consequences.”
“What … consequences do you have in mind, Your Grace?”
The Grand Inquisitor scowled at the diffident question, and Rayno folded his hands in the sleeves of his cassock, bracing himself to deliver another of those inescapable truths.
“We start by returning to this Sarkyn place and completing its cleansing. Let’s see how this bastard Mab feels about that!”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but that might be … ill-advised.”
“What?!”
Despite decades of experience, Rayno flinched as Clyntahn exploded out of his chair, hands braced on his desktop, leaning across it with fiery eyes. The archbishop made himself sit motionless, looking back at his superior. Silence crackled and then, ever so slowly, Clyntahn sank back into his chair.
“Explain yourself.”
The two words came out like Zion icicles, and Rayno inhaled as unobtrusively as possible. He spent one precious moment praying that what he was about to say could somehow reach through Clyntahn’s fury. Frankly, he wasn’t prepared to offer odds that it would, yet he had to try.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I anticipated your likely reaction. Indeed, my own initial response was exactly the same. But before I brought this letter to you, I thought it best to send inquiries back up the canal as far as Sarkyn to determine what else might have transpired along the barge’s route. I have the responses to those inquiries in my office, but to summarize what I discovered, the commander of the Sarkyn garrison is dead. His second-in-command is dead. His third-in-command is dead. The commanders of the infantry companies assigned to cleanse Sarkyn at Father Hahskyll’s direction are dead—all of
them—picked off by marksmen at extreme range. The commander of the detail which escorted the suspected heretics from Sarkyn to Camp Fyrmahn is dead, picked off by a marksman as he exercised his horse. All of the lay brothers assigned to assist Father Hahskyll were aboard the barge with him and are also dead, as is their entire Army escort … who’d also assisted at Sarkyn. And I’ve discovered that four additional noncommissioned officers and eleven privates who particularly distinguished themselves in cleansing Sarkyn are now dead, as well. Most of them were killed when a single patrol was ambushed; two of the noncommissioned officers, including a company first sergeant, were found in their own quarters—in their own beds—with their throats cut, however. No one has been able to explain how their assassins penetrated their barracks without a single sentry noticing a single thing.”
Clyntahn’s expression had gone very still as he listened. Now Rayno paused, letting silence refill the office.
“Your Grace,” he said at last, “I agree that these murders represent a very dangerous challenge. Yet whoever this ‘Seijin Dialydd’ may actually be, it seems clear that he does represent a major organization with frightening capabilities. He denies demonhood, and perhaps he’s telling the truth—certainly, we found where the assassins who murdered Father Vyktyr and Father Hahskyll had camped waiting for their opportunity, and one doubts demons would require campfires or lean-tos. But however that may be, he and his … allies have demonstrated a very long reach. Whatever we do, news of what happened to Father Vyktyr and Father Hahskyll—and to the soldiers who assisted them at Sarkyn—will spread. My agents inquisitor will do all we can to at least slow the telling and retelling, but it would be folly for us to pretend we could actually stop it. No doubt we would be able to complete the cleansing of Sarkyn as you desire, yet if we do that, and if this so-called seijin and his allies then succeed in killing only one or two of the Inquisitors and soldiers who carry out that task, what happens when that story begins to spread, as well?”
It was very, very quiet in Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s office for a very, very long time.
.XIII.
Fort Tairys, Shiloh Province, Republic of Siddarmark
“Charisians? Charisians?!” General Lairays Walkyr stared at Colonel Syngyltyn’s messenger in horror. “They’re Charisians?”
“Yes, Sir,” the lieutenant, who’d been a corporal before the Rising, seemed a bit taken aback by Walkyr’s reaction.
“I see.” The general made himself inhale deeply and nodded. “I see,” he repeated. “Tell Colonel Syngyltyn I’d like to see him here as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Sir.” The lieutenant touched his breastplate and withdrew, and Walkyr shoved up out of his chair, walked to the window, and stared blindly out across the fortifications he’d spent the last ten months building.
He’d been anxious enough when forces loyal to the apostate Stohnar were reported within a single day’s march of Fort Tairys from the east, but that hadn’t been totally unexpected. Obviously it would have been better if the Faithful had managed to seize control of all of Shiloh, but they hadn’t, so it was only reasonable for Stohnar and his heretical allies to seek to reclaim the western portion of the province as soon as they thought they could. The fact that they clearly felt that time had come said things Walkyr didn’t really want to consider about how the Jihad was going elsewhere, yet his best estimate indicated that they couldn’t have much over seven or eight thousand men. He’d made provision to hold Fort Tairys indefinitely against an attack from the interior of the Republic in far greater strength than that. And even more to the point, the messages he’d received from Duke Harless before saboteurs destroyed the semaphore somewhere between the fort and the town of Kharmych had reassured him that the duke’s huge army would arrive to relieve him shortly.
No one had warned him to expect enemy forces—and especially not Charisian forces—from the west, however. Worse, he hadn’t had even a whisper of warning until yesterday evening, when he’d ordered Syngyltyn to send out scouts to identify the unknown interlopers reported at Kharmych. He’d hoped—or allowed himself to hope—that it might be Duke Harless’ vanguard, although the timing had been against it. His next preferred outcome would have been for the report to prove an unfounded rumor. His least preferred outcome was for it to turn out to be the enemy, instead.
He wasn’t any too happy that they’d gotten this far south before anyone even noticed them, either. Still, the territory west of Fort Tairys had been virtually depopulated in the Rising, so it probably shouldn’t be too surprising that the heretics hadn’t been spotted sooner. But Charisians? Reliable news had been hard to come by from the beginning, yet nothing he’d heard had suggested the heretics might dare to withdraw troops from the outnumbered blocking force facing Bishop Militant Cahnyr along the Daivyn.
But where else could they have come from, assuming Syngyltyn’s cavalry had identified them properly? The only way they could have gotten here was down the Branath Canal, and Walkyr drummed nervously on the windowsill as he considered that. Father Naiklos Vahnhain, the Schuelerite under-priest who’d joined Walkyr in his seizure of Fort Tairys, had been confirmed as his special intendant as soon as they’d been able to communicate with Mother Church. And they’d received the Inquisitor General’s authorization to destroy canal locks if the Jihad required it three months ago. In fact, Colonel Mhartyn, commanding the 6th Infantry Regiment, had urged Walkyr to destroy or disable the Branath Canal locks at least as far as the point at which it crossed the Kharmych-Fort St. Klair High Road. He’d wanted to go further than that, in fact, and put the entire southernmost three or four hundred miles of the canal completely out of service.
Colonel Zahmsyn, commanding the 15th Infantry Regiment, had agreed with Mhartyn, and Walkyr had been torn between agreeing with them and preserving a vital resource.
His decision has been complicated by the need to assert his authority. Mhartyn and Zahmsyn were both regulars, just as Walkyr had been. But whereas Zahmsyn and Walkyr had been captains before the Rising, Mhartyn had been a major. Walkyr’s present rank had been self-granted, with Father Naiklos’ strong backing, on the basis that the man who’d successfully seized Fort Tairys from its garrison was the logical officer to command its defense. His promotion had been confirmed by the Office of the Inquisition, and Mhartyn and Zahmsyn had accepted it, however grudgingly.
Despite that, Mhartyn—as the officer who’d brought sixty percent of his regiment over to the Faithful intact—clearly resented his subordination. Zahmsyn might, as well, but if so, he concealed it better. However obediently Mhartyn accepted Walkyr’s orders, it was obvious he felt he ought to have been placed in command. That created certain problems where it came to taking Mhartyn’s advice, since it was vital to avoid the appearance that Walkyr was dancing to the colonel’s direction. Despite that, Walkyr had been inclined to go along with him, at least as far as disabling the locks between Kharmych and the fort. His earlier orders from Mother Church, however, had stressed the importance of preserving the canal so that the forces advancing out of Desnair would be able to move rapidly into the rear of the heretics facing the Army of Glacierheart if that proved necessary. No one had changed those orders, and Father Naiklos had argued vehemently that destroying locks when there weren’t even any enemy troops in the vicinity would run directly counter to Mother Church’s overall strategy.
And he was right, Walkyr thought now, glumly. But I thought we’d know when the heretics headed this way—that there’d be time to do something about the canal before they actually got here!
Unfortunately, he’d been wrong.
Maybe it’s going to turn out to be a good thing all those damned militia turned up, after all. Walkyr’s lips twitched humorlessly. If Syngyltyn’s right, figuring out how to feed them over the winter’s likely to be the least of my problems.
He inhaled again, deeply, then returned to his desk and rang the handbell. The office door popped open almost instantly.
“Yes, Sir?”
r /> “Meeting here in my office in twenty minutes,” Walkyr said, rather more crisply than he actually felt. “All regimental commanders.”
“Yes, Sir!”
The orderly saluted and disappeared once more, and Walkyr seated himself back behind his desk and put his head in his hands as the door closed.
* * *
“Don’t we have any better idea of the numbers?” Major Bryahn Kyrbysh asked.
Kyrbysh commanded the 3rd Maidynberg Militia, the most recently formed of Walkyr’s original regiments. He was also the youngest of the general’s regimental commanders—a black-haired, brown-eyed, intensely focused young man with a manner which fringed on the abrupt as often as not.