The Scourge of God c-2 Page 7

  "Insane but dangerous," Tiphaine said; Juniper thought her eyes flickered to Astrid for a moment.

  "Which means we may be facing a coalition between Boise and Corwin," Nigel said. "If Martin conspired with them against his father

  …"

  "Boise has a damned good army," Tiphaine said. "Good infantry, and a good siege train. The Prophet has a hell of a lot of good, experienced light cavalry. Put them together…"

  "We have a problem," Juniper said.

  Almost enough of a problem to make me forget to worry about Rudi. Almost, but not quite.

  "We need to start positioning ourselves," Tiphaine said. "The interior didn't suffer nearly as badly as coastal Oregon did in the Change. Say a million each in the United States of Boise, the Prophet's bailiwick, and what's left of Deseret. Even with immigration and natural increase, they outnumber us heavily."

  A silence fell. Sandra struck into it:

  "We must hang together, or be hung separately, as Franklin said."

  "The Church Universal and Triumphant usually crucify people, but the principle's the same," Conrad added, in a voice like gravel in a bucket.

  Edward Finney of Corvallis spoke for the first time, running a hand over his iron-gray hair and scratching the back of his neck; it was a gesture his father, old Luther, had used too, though he'd been taller and skinnier than his son.

  "Look, I've got some pull in the Popular Assembly, well, a fair bit of pull. But I can't just tell them to do something. A lot of the farmers listen to me, but there's the Economics Faculty, the town unions… guilds, they're calling themselves now… and the Faculty Senate… and I'll be telling them things none of them want to hear, if we're talking about another big war."

  "You can give them a bit of a push," Juniper said.

  She looked over at Sandra's slight cat-smile. A white Persian jumped up on her lap, looking disgruntled from its days in a box on the way here. The Regent toyed with it and commented in a neutral voice:

  "We should, as my commander-in-chief says, position ourselves. Specifically, Pendleton needs to be brought into the Meeting. Then we'll hold the Columbia as far as the old Idaho border."

  " Wait a minute!" Finney said. "What's this we? You agreed not to meddle there after the War!"

  "And we're certainly not going to let you take it over again and divide it up into fiefs and build those goddamned castles there," Rancher Brown said. "That isn't right, not on free American ground. Those f-f-foolish things are like nails driven into the map."

  Sandra raised an ironic eyebrow. Juniper knew the thought behind it; if the interior Ranchers didn't build castles it was mainly because they couldn't afford it.

  "Pendleton's a bleeding sore, a disgrace," the Association's Regent said. "It has been since right after the Change. They harbor river-pirates and they let bandits and Rover gangs fence their loot there and sell them weapons and gear. And they're deep in the slave trade. Pardon me: that's compensated relocation of registered refugees. With accumulated welfare charges. "

  Brown shrugged, unable to contradict her. Astrid and her party nodded unwillingly; the Dunedain did caravan-guard work and bandit suppression far into the interior, and knew the truth of what Sandra had said.

  Edward Finney looked unconvinced; that was a long way from Corvallis, and he wasn't one of that city-state's far-traveling merchants.

  "They were unlucky," he said. "They had that civil war, right after the Change, and…"

  "No, they weren't unlucky," Sandra said. "They were very lucky indeed; they had more food than people to eat it, when the machines stopped."

  Most of the people around the table had been adults in that year of terror and famine and plague; and the others had been in their teens, old enough to remember much of it. A silence fell for an instant, as memories opened and bled.

  Sandra drove the point home: "Then they threw it away fighting one another. By now they've acquired any number of bad habits."

  But your arse is so sadly grimy and sooty, said the kettle to the pot, Juniper thought mordantly. Still, you have a point. The problem is, dear Sandra, that you always have at least three purposes behind any one statement.

  Aloud, the Mackenzie chieftain went on diplomatically: "They were unlucky in their lack of leadership." It was even true, if not very relevant. "Sure and it would be a good deed to clean it up… and Sandra has the right of it this far at least, that we can't let an invader from the East get their hands on it. The CUT have been active there; missionaries and such."

  Nigel nodded fractionally beside her; they'd talked that over last night.

  Signe Havel uncrossed her arms and leaned forward; if she and Juniper had never been friends, she'd always been a frank enemy to Sandra and the Association. Norman Arminger had killed her husband, Mike Havel; that he died first by about twenty minutes didn't reduce her personal dislike one little bit. Her voice was sharp.

  "But nobody else in the Meeting countries will let the Portland Protectorate Association annex the area again. Nobody liked you snaffling off the western half of the Palouse back three years ago, Lady Sandra. It gave you too much leverage on the Yakima towns. We're certainly not letting you get your hands on Pendleton."

  Sandra spread small, beautifully manicured fingers, silently letting everyone remember that the Palouse was in those hands. And that meant it was a buffer between the Meeting countries and the Prophet. Aloud she continued:

  "But Pendleton is defenseless to anyone above the twenty-thugs-on-horseback level, and if either Boise or Corwin take it, they'll have access to the navigable Columbia. Which leads to Portland, which is our collective doorstep, not merely my home."

  "And Corvallis isn't going to authorize the Protectorate to take the area," Finney snapped. "We host the Meeting and I don't think many would disagree with us."

  "It seems we're all forgetting that there is such a thing as the Meeting," Juniper said.

  Someone snorted. She nodded, conceding the point but not the argument; the Meeting was much better at stopping things happening-like wars or trade tariffs between its members, or forced labor or slaving-than at actually getting everyone who attended to do anything positive in concert. It was rather like the old UN that way, paralyzed by mutual jealousies and suspicions, although the Dunedain did enforce its resolutions when they could.

  "I don't think there would be an objection if someone other than the Portland Protective Association alone were to undertake the task of putting Pendleton in order," she said.

  Sandra's eyes narrowed. "We're the only ones with access and the necessary troops… except the CORA, and…"

  It was Brown's turn to wince. The Central Oregon Ranchers' Association was another organization that had a lot of trouble getting its members to do anything but defend themselves. Sometimes against one another, over stock or water rights or sheer cussedness. Each Rancher was the law on his own land, as long as he didn't make his cowboys want to pick up and leave.

  Tiphaine leaned forward to whisper in Sandra's ear again. Her murmur was very quiet, but Juniper's daughter Eilir had been deaf from birth. Lip-reading was a skill she'd learned in order to teach, like Sign.

  "My Lady Regent, I don't think this is the time to play Evil Bitch Deathmatch Hardball."

  Sandra shrugged. "I do tend to let the game of thrones become an end in itself," she said. With a little malice: "And so do you intend to have your archers leave their crofts and march two hundred miles over the mountains, Juniper dear? And to stay and rule badlands full of Rovers and Indians and Ranchers who are a great deal less civilized than our friends of the CORA?"

  That is a point, Juniper thought ruefully.

  Mackenzies had few full-time fighters, unlike the Protectorate. And the clansfolk had no desire at all for outland conquests; to start with, there was plenty of good land closer to home waiting for the plow.

  "I was thinking we'd all send troops," she said, feeling slightly sick at what necessity made her say.

  The waste of war; the
blood of our best, and crops not grown, cloth not woven, land not brought back under cultivation, and what we do grow and make taken and destroyed like some ancient sacrifice while our children go without. But it is necessary. And we've had twelve years of peace, more or less. Best not to ask too much of the Powers.

  Conrad snorted. "And who will run this collection of odds and sods we all contribute? The Meeting? An army run by a committee? A committee of… how many members does the Meeting have now? Sixteen? A committee of sixteen who have to agree unanimously before they wipe their… noses? Oh, please. Why not just have the troops cut their own throats? It would save time, trouble and expense."

  Signe made a small grunting noise of unwilling acknowledgment, and Eric Larsson laughed aloud. They both had the little scar between the brows that was the mark of the Bearkiller A-list; that elite required its members to study military history as well as mastering sword and lance, horse and bow. Nigel's face kept the relaxed calm he used as a mask in situations like this, but his wife could feel how he radiated motionless agreement.

  Juniper patted his knee under the table and went on: "And in command… the Dunedain Rangers. Everyone trusts them, and there aren't enough of them to get delusions of superpowerhood."

  Sandra looked blank for an instant, then gave Juniper a glance of coolly irritated respect. Juniper sighed as the Regent stroked the Persian cat. It was going to be a long evening.

  And Rudi… my son, my son, where are you now?

  TheScourgeofGod

  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

  TWIN FALLS, OCCUPIED NEW DESERET

  SNAKE RIVER PLAIN, IDAHO

  AUGUST 20, CY23/2021 AD

  "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.

  " M
ust 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."