‘Can you truly reach into Schlee’s picture of the ground and pick the wicked ones out of the real world?’ Ulath asked in astonishment.
‘It is easy,’ Khwaj shrugged.
Tynian was shaking his head vigorously.
‘What?’ Schlee demanded.
‘The one called Zalasta can also come into the time which does not move. We have seen him do this.’
‘It will not matter,’ Khwaj told him. ‘The one called Zalasta is one of the wicked ones. I will make him into a fire which will never go out as well. I will let him burn forever in the time which does not move. The fire will be just as hot there as it will be here.’
The snow was heavier—and wetter—after they crossed the rocky spine that divided the rivers flowing west from those that flowed east. The huge cloud of humid air that hung perpetually above the Astel Marshes lapped against the eastern slopes of the Mountains of Zemoch, unloosing phenomenal snowfalls that buried the forests and clogged the passes. The Church Knights grimly forced their way through sodden drifts as they followed the valley of the south fork of the River Esos toward the Zemoch town of Basne.
Patriarch Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights had begun this campaign with a certain sense of well-being. His health was good, and a lifetime of military training had kept him in peak physical condition. He was, however, fast approaching his seventieth year and he found that starting out each morning was growing harder and harder, though he would never have admitted it.
About mid-morning on a snowy day, one of the scouting parties ranging ahead returned with three goatskin-clad Zemochs. The men were thin and dirty, and they had terrified expressions on their faces. Patriarch Bergsten rode on ahead to question them. When the rest of them caught up to the gigantic churchman, he was having a rather heated discussion with an Arcian Knight. ‘But they’re Zemochs, your Grace,’ the knight protested.
‘Our quarrel was with Otha, Sir Knight,’ Bergsten said coldly, ‘not with these poor, superstitious devils. Give them some food and warm clothing and let them go.’
‘But—’
‘We’re not going to have trouble about this, are we, Sir Knight?’ Bergsten asked in an ominous tone, swelling even larger. The knight seemed to consider his situation. He backed up a few paces. ‘Ah—no, your Grace,’ he replied, ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Our Holy Mother appreciates your obedience, my son,’ Bergsten told him.
‘Did those three have anything useful for us?’ Komier asked.
‘Not much,’ Bergsten replied, hauling himself back up into his saddle. ‘There’s an army of some kind moving into place somewhere to the east of Argoch. There was a lot of superstition mixed up in what they told me, so I couldn’t get anything very accurate out of them.’
‘A fight then,’ Komier said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
‘I sort of doubt that,’ Bergsten disagreed. ‘As closely as I could make out from all the gibberish, the force up ahead is composed largely of irregulars—religious fanatics of some kind. Our Holy Mother in Chyrellos didn’t make many friends in this part of the world when she tried to re-assimilate herself with the branches of Elene faith in western Daresia during the ninth century.’
‘That was almost two thousand years ago, Bergsten,’ Komier objected. ‘That’s a long time to hold a grudge.’
Bergsten shrugged. ‘The old ones are the best. Send your scouts out a little further, Komier. Let’s see if we can get some kind of coherent report on the welcoming committee. A few prisoners might be useful.’
‘I know how to do this, Bergsten.’
‘Do it then. Don’t just sit there talking about it.’
They passed Argoch, and Komier’s scouts brought in several prisoners. Patriarch Bergsten interrogated the poorly clad and ignorant Elene captives briefly, and then he ordered them released.
‘Your Grace,’ Darellon protested, ‘that was very unwise. Those men will run back to their commanders and report everything they’ve seen.’
‘Yes,’ Bergsten replied, ‘I know. I want them to do that. I also want them to tell all their friends that they’ve seen a hundred thousand Church Knights coming down out of the mountains. I’m encouraging defections, Darellon. We don’t want to kill those poor misguided heretics, we just want them to get out of our way.’
‘I still think it’s strategically unsound, your Grace.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion, my son,’ Bergsten said. ‘This isn’t an article of the faith, so our Holy Mother encourages disagreement and discussion.’
‘There isn’t much point to discussion after you’ve already let them go, your Grace.’
‘You know, that very same thought occurred to me.’
They encountered the opposing force in the broad valley of the River esos just to the south of the Zemoch town of Basne thirty leagues or so to the west of the Astellian border. The reports of the scouts and the information gleaned from the captives proved to be accurate. What faced them was not so much an army as it was a mob, poorly armed and undisciplined.
The preceptors of the Four Orders gathered around Patriarch Bergsten to consider options. ‘They’re members of our own faith,’ Bergsten told them. ‘Our disagreements with them lie in the area of Church Government, not in the substance of our common beliefs. Those matters aren’t settled on the battlefield, so I don’t want too many of those people killed.’
‘I don’t see much danger of that, your Grace,’ Preceptor Abriel said.
‘They outnumber us about two to one, Lord Abriel,’ Sir Heldin pointed out.
‘One charge should even things out, Heldin,’ Abriel replied. ‘Those people are amateurs, enthusiastic but untrained, and about half of them are only armed with pitchforks. If we all drop our visors, level our lances and charge them en masse, most of them will still be running a week from now.’
And that was the last mistake the venerable Lord Abriel was ever to make. The mounted knights fanned out with crisp precision to form up on a broad front stretching across the entire valley. Rank after rank of Cyrinics, Pandions, Genidians, and Alciones, all clad in steel and mounted on belligerent horses, lined up in what was probably one of the more intimidating displays of organized unfriendliness in the known world. The preceptors waited in the very center of the front rank as their subalterns formed up the rear ranks and the messengers galloped forward to declare that all was in readiness.
‘That should be enough,’ Komier said impatiently. ‘I don’t think the supply wagons will have to charge too.’ he looked around at his friends. ‘Shall we get started, gentlemen? Let’s show that rabble out there how real soldiers mount an attack.’
He made a curt signal to a hulking Genidian Knight, and the huge blond man blew a shattering blast on his Ogre-horn trumpet. The front rank of the knights clapped down their visors and spurred their horses forward. The perfectly disciplined knights and horses galloped forward in an absolutely straight line like a moving wall of steel.
Midway through the charge the forest of upraised lances came down like a breaking wave, and the defections in the opposing army began. The ill-trained serfs and peasants broke and ran, throwing away their weapons and squealing in terror. Here and there were some better-trained units that held their ground, but the flight of their allies from either side left their flanks dangerously exposed.
The knights struck those few units with a great, resounding crash. Once more Abriel felt the old exulting satisfaction of battle. His lance shattered against a hastily raised shield, and he discarded the broken weapon and drew his sword. He looked around and saw that there were other forces massed behind the wall of peasants that had concealed them from view, and that army was like none Abriel had ever seen before. The soldiers were huge, larger than even the Thalesians. They wore breastplates and mail, but their cuirasses were more closely moulded to their bodies than was normal. Every muscle seemed starkly outlined under the gleaming steel. Their helmets were exotic steel re-creations of the heads of improbable beasts, and they did not have visors as such but steel masks instead, masks which had been sculpted to bear individualized features, the features, Abriel thought, of the warriors who wore them. The Cyrinic Preceptor was suddenly chilled. The features the masks revealed were not human.