"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.
" Must 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."
"About the third battalion of the Sword you have on the, ah, special task, my lord. They're sorely missed in the pacification program. If I could have them back, or at least part of them-"
"No," Sethaz said flatly.
Walker shivered. So did the Prophet, in some inner core of his being. The word sounded odd, somehow hot and dark at once, as if it had been carved out of burning ash, like a glow of deepest black. Sethaz had not spoken so before his stepfather died. He pushed inwardly, something possible only if he was doing as… instructed. It was a little like arguing, but without words, and without any possibility of deception.
"They must be found," he said, in his own voice. "Found and destroyed if they cannot be taken captive. This has absolute priority. They must not reach the East."
He shivered again. The shining future of the Dictations stretched ahead of him, a world at peace and united on Corwin, obedient to the Ascending Hierarchy. But a shadow fell across it.
The shadow of a Bear; the beating of a Raven's wings.
"Send in the others," he said, in words that were dismissal.
Peter Graber stood respectfully aside and saluted as General Walker left the room, then marched in and went to one knee, the upright scabbard of his shete held in his left hand and his head bowed. His right fist thumped against his armor.
"Hail to the Prophet! Hail to the Youth of Sixteen Summers!"
The younger ones do it naturally, Sethaz thought. For their elders, there will always be an awkwardness.
Graber had an excellent record, stretching back to his childhood in the House. His appearance pleased Sethaz as well; he was a man of medium height, wiry save for the broad shoulders of a bowman, a little bandy-legged as you'd expect from one who'd spent much of his life on horseback, dark gray eyes steady. A healing scar marked his nose.
Beside him Seeker Twain prostrated himself in his dull-red robe; there was a different etiquette for the Church's spiritual hierarchy. Neither man looked at the other, though they were strangers and had been summoned to the Prophet's presence together. Instead they waited with disciplined silence while the head of the Church Universal and Triumphant paced like one of the leopards that had drifted up to contest the mountain forests with the native cougars.
"Captain Graber, what is the status of the Third Battalion of the Sword of the Prophet?"
"My lord Prophet, we are short two hundred effectives, leaving only two hundred and thirty-two men fit for duty. Another forty-eight are expected to recover sufficiently to return to frontline service in the next few months. Major Andrews lost his right hand and will be on light duties for some time. I am the senior officer at present."
"You suffered heavily at Wendell," the Prophet acknowledged. "But you fulfilled your orders, both your battalion and yourself… Major Graber."
Graber blinked, but his face might have been chiseled from birch-wood as he ducked his head in acknowledgment of the promotion.
"Is the Third fit for duty?"
"To the death, my lord Prophet," he said promptly. "We are rested and have fresh horses; the weapons are clean and the men are ready to fight. However, we are at barely half-strength."
"Sufficient for the purpose." He turned to the desk and handed over a folder. "After Wendell, certain prisoners and bandits escaped and are at large behind our lines. They are believed to be headed East-"
He finished the briefing. "Familiarize yourself with these files. Your command will leave tomorrow morning. The file contains your written orders and a first-priority authorization to commandeer supplies and assistance as needed."
This time the pupils of Graber's eyes flared involuntarily in surprise. Sethaz nodded somberly.
"Yes, this is no ordinary band of fugitives. May the Unseen Hierarchy be with you, Major. You will be accompanied by High Seeker Twain; wait for him without."
"Hail Maitreya!"
He raised his hand in benediction as the soldier rose and left, then signaled the priest-scholar to his feet. The man stood with his arms crossed and eyes bent down, that his superior might study his face without being appraised in return.