He paused again, and again Vroxhan nodded, this time impatiently.
“The only practical routes for armies into or out of Malagor are the Thirgan Gap and the Keldark Valley. The gap is broader, but its approaches are dotted with powerful fortresses which the heretics may well secure before we can move. Given those facts and our weakness in the west, I would recommend massing the western Guard south of the Cherist Mountains around Vral. In that position, they can both seal the Thirgan Gap and maintain civil control.”
Rokas began to pace, tugging at his jaw as he marshaled words like companies of pikes.
“Our major strength lies in the east, and with the gap secured we may concentrate in Keldark, using the Guardsmen of Keldark to block the valley against heretical sorties until we’re ready. The valley is bad terrain and even narrower than the gap, but most of its fortresses were razed after the Schismatic Wars. There are perhaps three places the heretics might choose to stand: Yortown, Erastor, and Baricon. All are powerful defensive positions; the cost of taking any of them will be high.”
He made a wry face. “There won’t be much strategy involved until we actually break into Malagor, Holiness, not with such limited approach routes, but the same applies to the heretics. And, unlike us, they must equip and train their forces. If we strike quickly, we may well clear the entire valley before they can prepare.”
“I agree,” Vroxhan said after a moment’s thought. “And it will, indeed, be best to move from the east. If they can strike before we prepare, they’ll move east, directly for the Temple.”
“That was my own thought,” Rokas agreed.
“In the meantime,” Vroxhan returned to Frenaur, “I see no choice but to place Malagor under Interdict. Please see to the proclamation.”
“I will,” Frenaur agreed unhappily. What must be must be.
“Understand me, Brothers,” Vroxhan said very quietly. “There will be no compromise with heresy. Mother Church’s sword has been drawn; it will not be sheathed while a single heretic lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Robert Stevens—no longer “the Reverend”—watched the broadcast with hating eyes. Bishop Francine Hilgemann stared out over her congregation from a carven pulpit, and her soft, clear voice was passionate.
“Brothers and sisters, violence is no answer to fear. Perhaps some souls are mistaken, but the Church cannot and will not condone those who defy a loving God’s will by striking out in unreasoning hatred. God’s people do not stain their hands with blood, nor is it fitting that the death of any human should be wreaked in anger. Those who style themselves ‘The Sword of God’ are not His servants, but destroyers of all He teaches, and their—”
Stevens snarled and killed the HD, sickened that he’d once respected that … that— He couldn’t think of a foul enough word.
He paced slowly, and his eyes warmed with an ugly light. Disgust and revulsion had driven him from the Church, but Hilgemann and those like her could never weaken God’s Sword. Their corruption only filled the true faithful with determination, and the Sword struck deeper every day.
As he had struck. The most terrifying—and satisfying—day of his life had been the one in which he realized why his cell had been sent against Vincente Cruz. The deaths of Cruz’s wife and children had bothered some of his people, yet God’s work required sacrifices, and if innocents perished, God would receive them as the martyrs they’d become. But that he had been the instrument which destroyed the heirs—heirs so corrupt they’d claimed a Narhani as a friend—had filled Stevens with exaltation.
There’d been other missions, but none so satisfying as that … or as the one he now looked forward to. It was time Francine Hilgemann learned God’s true chosen rejected her self-damning compromises with the Anti-Christ.
Sergeant Graywolf was calm-eyed and relaxed, for he knew how to wait. Especially when he awaited something so satisfying.
He didn’t know how the analysts had developed the intel. From the briefing, he suspected they’d intercepted a courier, but all that mattered was that they knew. With luck, they might even take one of the bastards alive. Daniel Graywolf was a professional, and he knew how valuable that could be … yet deep down inside, he hoped they wouldn’t be quite that lucky.
Stevens gave thanks for the rainy night. Its wet blackness wouldn’t bother Imperial surveillance systems, but the people behind those systems were only human. The dreary winter rain would have its effect where it mattered, dulling and slowing their minds.
Alice Hughes and Tom Mason walked arm-in-arm behind him like lovers, weapons hidden by their raincoats. Stevens carried his own weapon in a shoulder holster: an old-style automatic with ten-millimeter “slugs” of the same explosive used in grav guns. He didn’t see Yance or Pete, but they’d close in at the proper moment. He knew that, just as he knew Wanda Curry would bring their escape flyer in at precisely the right second. They’d practiced the operation for days, and their timing was exact.
His pulse ticked faster as he reached the high-rise. It was of Pre-Siege construction, but it had been modernized, and he paused under the force field roof protecting the front entrance. He wiped rain from his face with just the right gratitude for the respite while Alice and Tom closed up on his heels, and the corner of his eye saw Yance and Pete arriving from the opposite direction. The five of them came together by obvious coincidence, and then all of them turned and stepped through the entrance as one.
There were no security personnel in the lobby, only the automated systems he’d been briefed upon, and he paused in the entry, head bent to hide his features, shielding Yance and Pete as they reached under their coats. Then he stepped aside, and their suppressors rose with practiced precision and burned each scan point into useless junk with pulses of focused energy.
Stevens grunted, jerked the ski mask over his face, and snatched out his own weapon, and the well-drilled quintet raced for the transit shafts.
Graywolf stiffened at the implant signal. Clumsy, he thought with a hungry smile. Obviously their information had been less complete than they’d thought, for they’d missed three separate sensors.
Nine more Security Ministry agents stood as one behind nine closed doors as Graywolf cradled his hyper rifle and moved to the window.
Stevens led his followers from the transit shaft, and they spread out behind him, hugging the walls, weapons poised. His own eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the corridor, yet his attention roamed all about him, acute as a panther’s after so many months at the guerrilla’s trade.
They were half way down the hall when nine doors opened as one.
“Lay down your weapons!” a voice shouted. “You’re all under arr—”
Stevens spun like a cat. He heard Yance’s enraged bellow even as he tried to line up on the uniformed woman in the doorway, but his people’s reactions didn’t match their murderousness, for none were enhanced. His barking automatic blasted a chunk from the wall beside the door, and then a hurricane of grav gun darts blew all five terrorists into bloody meat.
Graywolf heard the thunder and shrugged. They’d had their chance.
He held his own position and watched the getaway flyer slide to a neat halt. It was right on the tick, and he aligned his hyper rifle on the drive housing before he triggered his com.