Heretic
Part Two
Chapter 11
Kierna stopped on her way to the commander’s tent to see the new troop be sanctified. They had already received their arms and armor, having spent the last three weeks drilling on the packed-earth parade ground beyond lake Thelta across from the city. They came wearing their proud uniforms of quilted white-and-gold cloth, with iron greaves for their feet, lobstered gauntlets for their hands, and mirror-polished half-helms topped with a foot long plume of indigo cloth. Each of them carried an eight-foot long spear at their side and a good steel dagger at their belt. Most of them were boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, city-bred youths who’d grown up on epic tales of glorious crusades against the cruel tyrant gods of the hinterlands to east or west or north. They came smiling and straight-backed, tired but proud of the exhausting training that had beaten them into some semblance of soldiery. One in ten of them was a girl, most of them older, and most of them had expressions that were more apprehensive than excited. Or perhaps that was only Kierna’s demeanor, projected onto the girls she saw before her.
Jayna the Winged Spear had set precedent two-hundred years ago, when she’d formed her famous company of Battle Maidens, a two-thousand strong unit made up of women who had marched in the Six Season Crusade. Since then, women were accepted in the united armies of Ethka, though few chose to exercise that right. Most city women dreamed of marriage and a comfy home full of children. Kierna wondered if she had ever had such dreams herself. Perhaps, back in her grasslands village before its destruction, before she became an apostate. On the few occasions she thought of that time, the memories were blurry and ill-fitting, like something that had happened to someone else.
The soldiers marched three-at-a-time up to the junior clerics assigned to the task, each standing before an altar where a white-furred oxen was butchered. As each man stepped up before them, they would exchange a few ceremonial words, the questions that should have been profound and thought-provoking delivered with a mechanical monotony, any gravity they might have held lost after the hundreds of repetitions with which they were delivered. The oaths of the soldiers were rushed and faltering, words swiftly memorized days or only hours before. Then the clerics would reach down into the slit throat of the oxen before them, dip their fingers into the blood, then raise it and dab each soldier across the forehead, along with a blessing of their chosen god or goddess. Thus did the soldiers become dealta suantu, the little saints.
Kierna remembered her own sanctification. She’d spent a sleepless night on her knees in the chapel of the Sword Monastery, mentally reciting each of the fourteen Conundrums written centuries ago by Sword-Priest Malachard, ruminating on each of them until she’d come up with her own answer for the ethical questions they posed. Some had taken mere minutes to answer, others more than an hour. She still remembered the Conundrum that had taken her three hours to complete, the parable of the Blasphemer, a city man who sacrificed his wife, daughter, and son to three separate gods he did not worship in order to forge a peace between them, ending a war that could have killed thousands.
Afterwards, she had climbed alone the Shattered Stair, a mountain pass so steep that it was more of a ladder than a stair, leaving spots of blood from her torn palms on the cliff in her wake. Third Sword Kenly had awaited him in the Cave of Blind Justice with a barred blade, and they had fought one last time, ending when Kierna managed to draw a blood from a shallow cut on his temple. She had knelt, his blood wet with her own blood passing from shoulder to shoulder, and then he had transformed, his eyes seeming to deepen as the God of Justice took hold of him. Jehx himself had declared Kierna his chosen paladin, Fourteenth Sword of the Tyre Ettha, the Just Servants.
“Three weeks of drills and lectures does not make a soldier,” Hamaara said from her place at Kierna’s side. The old woman had come to the war-camp in a simple dress of woven grass, traditional garb from the tribe she’d been born into hundreds of miles to the south. The choice of clothing was in blatant contrast to the ornate armor of the paladins and the rough uniforms of the soldiers all around them, but Hamaara was too old to care what they thought of her. If questioned, she was like to respond by asking what enemy they expected to ambush them here within sight of the holy city itself.
“War will make them soldiers,” Kierna said. “Or it will break them. Preparation would help shore them up, fill them with resolve, but the clerics are too impatient to take the time. I wonder if they know what they’re getting themselves into.”
“The Warana tribes have poor resources. Their warriors will be fighting with iron and stone and wood, with little in the way of armor. They will be disorganized and squabbling amongst themselves, divided by their feuds, with no central leadership. It will be more a slaughter than a campaign,” Hamaara said, sadly.
“Exactly. These men think they’re marching off to bravely fight against blasphemous enemies. I wonder how brave they’ll feel sacking villages and putting unarmed women to the sword. There is more than one way to be broken by war. They will leave hordes of starving refugees in their wake, and otherwise decent men will return with stained souls and bloody hands.” Kierna hesitated, but she’d been taught to speak her mind. “This crusade is a mistake.”
Hamaara was not shocked by her disapproval. “Will you tell them?”
“Master Kenly will,” Kierna said. The Third Sword was already at the commander’s tent, having stayed the night conferring with other paladins and clerics, drawing up the plans for marching and supply lines, objectives and foreseen difficulties.
“I suspect he will, but two voices are louder than one, and it will take a loud voice indeed to sway the likes of Everrek and Hyress. The high clerics see only the glory and profit, and the commander… well, he’s a decent man, a good man to follow, but he lives for war.” Hamaara spoke with the certainty of a woman who had marched in time and time again in armies just like this one. Kierna had met her at the Sword Monastery, but she knew Hamaara had spent decades as a soldier before being recruited by Mareth Kenly.
“I’ll add my voice to his. If it doesn’t sway them, perhaps some of the others will listen. We’d best go. The meeting starts at noon.”
The war camp was a second city, thrown up on the opposite bank of the long lake that separated Ethka from the foothills of the Throne Mountains. Long rows of canvas tents stretched off beyond sight, with wide avenues between them, the soft valley grass turned to mud by the thousands of feet trodding through them. Huge barracks tents where a hundred men slept stood beside open-sided mess tents with cook-fires at the centers. Messenger girls with tall boots and short trousers ran by with scrolls clenched in their fists, paladins in polished plate or beautiful silk robes strode through the crowd, parting the press with the force of their presence, and carts pulled by fierce birds six feet tall rumbled along filled with provisions to be delivered to one unit or another. The ring of iron and steel filled the air from the blacksmiths tents nearby.
Godsworn soldiers from a hundred different deities all crowded together to make the Heavenly Host. The largest company was Everekk’s own Mercy Men, four-thousand strong and armed with scythe-like glaives behind a double-line of tower shields, with longbows firing from the rear. Their goddess Mei-altha advocated mercy, so each soldier who joined the host was required to swear a solemn oath that they would only fight if abstaining would cause more harm than otherwise. Each of them carried a long thin dirk at their sides, a mercy blade meant to execute any foe suffering from their wounds.
Aside from them were lancers mounted on slyzeer, giant eel-like lizards, archers firing from elephant-mounted towers, fierce god Tyrathek’s crossbowmen, mute swordsmen bound to the goddess of Penitence Reilla, wild Quarez’s beast-masters, Boramin’s heavily armored sentinels, Kyoso’s supply wagons escorted by slingers and spear-throwers. And many, many more. Most gods or goddesses commanded only a few hundred men, perhaps a thousand, but there were over a hundred of them, and they added up to an enormous host more than one-hundred-thousand strong. Jehx’s levies were small by comparison, consisting of Third Sword Kenly, Kierna of the Fourteenth, and three-dozen sword-monks from all walks of life. Kierna had heard more than one soldier jest that for an order with such a martial name the sword-monks were a remarkably peaceful people.
The command tent was a massive pavilion of pure white silk, topped with golden pennants wafting in the breeze. It was large enough that several city houses could have fit comfortably inside of it. The space around it was cleared for a hundred feet in every direction, with ten-foot high towers set up at each corner. A pair of crossbowmen kept watch from the top of them. The pavilion’s entrance was guarded by four soldiers in heavy plate armor armed with long-axes. Kierna sized them up as she approached. Each of them was close to seven feet tall, and when she blinked her Godseye she saw the unmistakable glow of active miracles around them. They carried no shields, but their armor looked to be several inches thick, which would make it far too heavy to be carried by ordinary men. They stood as still as statues, but one of them turned his head and eyed her as she closed, a pair of pale blue eyes visible within the shadow of his round steel helm. The helm was shaped in the shape of a bird of prey, with a beak enclosing the soldiers face, though a mask of steel within it protected the rest of the face. Tall silvery wings rose off their backs, adding several feet to their height, and swept to the sides.
“Blessed Kierna, welcome to the command tent,” one of the winged soldiers said, his voice echoing within his mask. “Does this woman accompany you?”
“Yes, Hamaara is a trusted adviser, and a friend,” Kierna answered.
“Then be welcome. Be advised; this tent is blessed by a miracle of the Watchful Eryss, the Protector. Any weapon drawn within will explode, taking your hand with it. Be careful you do not forget.”
“I’ll try not to lose my temper then,” Kierna said with a smile. The soldier did not respond, and she had no inkling of how he took her jest, but they did shuffle aside a bit to let her and Hamaara through. She noticed how easily they moved in their heavy plate. I would not like to fight one of them.
The pavilion was large, but at least three hundred men and women filled it. Numerous large tables were set out, most with maps placed on them larger than the hut in which Kierna had been born. Two-thirds of the people wore armor or martial garb; the rest were in cleric attire. Kierna spotted clerics Everret and Gramasta speaking with a large group near the entrance, and made her way wide around them. She was looking for Master Kenly when a man stepped up to her and offered her a chalice of wine.
“No thank you,” she said, then realized the man she had taken for a servant was a fellow paladin, one she’d met on a handful of occasions.
Banfus was not an especially martial looking man. Rather than armor, he wore a collection of thick robes dyed in deep colors of plum and sangria, which strained at his ample belly. He was shorter than her by half-a-foot, with a round shaven head and a deepset eyes lost in the shadow of his brow. A long pair of matched curved blades hung from the same side of his hip. His countenance was pleasant enough though, always smiling and nodding along with enthusiasm. He was nodding and smiling now, as he pressed the wine on her.
“Please, blessed, you really must try it. The wine came all the way from Mauwe, with me, and I will swear you have never tasted such a perfect vintage. Come now, are you afraid to drink? We’re not like to be attacked just outside the city gates? Loosen yourself up, all this standing around is grinding away at you, don’t think I can’t see it.”
She had to admit the wine was magnificent, so dark a red it was almost purple, a rich, deep-bodied flavor that lingered long on the tongue. Hamaara accepted some as well, with less prompting.
“I’d not have expected to see a paladin all the way from Mauwe her,” Kierna said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” Banfus said. “Kyoso the Nurturer does so despise to see such horrid hardships as will occur after the crusade, with all Warana in ruins and so many refugees on the move. She will want me and mine there to give them a helping hand up, to aid in the restoration.”
“But first you’ll assist in the battles that will cause all this destruction?”
“Why, blessed, I think you sound a bit disapproving! Yes, the war will be a horror, as wars always are. But I will be there to ensure things do not get out of hand, and afterward, things will be better. You and your friend Hamaara are both from the south, are you not? Surely you know how things stand there.”
“Tyrant gods spend their subjects’ lives on a whim, blood-feuds and genocidal wars are commonplace, and human sacrifice is widespread,” Kierna conceded. “I do not know that this will change for the better once it is all razed to the ground. The gods will still be there, only now the people will be apostates with no homes or fields to tend.”
“The council has decreed that this is a true Crusade. As such, all apostates within the war-zone will be free to chose new gods from those who have conquered them. The only apostates will be those too stubborn or wicked to change their ways. As for the fighting, I will not be taking part, per say. I have come from Mauwe with a great caravan of foodstuffs and supplies. Me and mine will have the baggage train to protect. The only fighting I’ll do is fending off bandits and saboteurs. I leave the warfare to those with the stomach for it. Like our friend Sawndor here.”
Kierna looked at his gesture to see a brawny man stepping towards them, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword like a lifeline. He was not partaking of any food or drink. Kierna had met Sawndor before, a hulking, powerful man with surprising quickness and a silent tenacity on the battlefield. The light skin of his arms and neck was crisscrossed with old brown scars. He kept his hair in a short buzz with a prominent widow’s peak, above dark eyes that looked black in the tent’s light. He was wearing a jet-black surcoat over steel plate enameled white, with a pattern of black and white squares set out in precise patterns. He nodded to Kierna respectfully, his eyes as sharp and focused as a hawk in flight.
“Blessings, Kierna. I’m glad you’re here. There are too many false-faced politicians here for my liking. This is meant to be a war-council, not a society ball.” Sawndor was blunt-spoken and slightly too loud, but he said what he meant.
“Banfus was just telling me how Warana will be all for the better once this war is over,” Kierna said. “Is that your stance as well?”
“For the better? No. It will be a scorched wasteland, and half of its people will be dead,” Sawndor replied. Then he shrugged. “And so it will remain, for a time. But new towns will be raised by our soldiers, and the peace of the allied gods will spread. The survivors’ children will grow up and struggle to survive, and perhaps their children too, but the next generation will be born into peace and prosperity. The gods don’t see things as simply as we do. A man’s life is short, but the death we bring to Warana will eventually lead to improvement. Just look at Ethka. Seven hundred years ago it was nothing but a war-lord’s fortress, a heretic who preyed on the people for hundreds of miles around and forced them to name him a god. A limb that is rotting must be cut off. It is not a pleasant experience, but the body survives. What we do is the same.”
“Holy Boramin has ordered you to take part in this crusade, then?” Kierna asked.
“It will bring order to a land of chaos. Boramin’s will is clear.”
Suddenly the wine tasted like blood and ashes to Kierna. She could not argue with either of them. Warana was no land of peace, but a place where men and women were slaughtered daily and children were raised as slaves or put down as a nuisance. Ethka had its problems, but it was a paradise by comparison. Nor could she say that the crusade would fail. Similar campaigns had been carried out a dozen times in Ethka’s history, and while many of them had failed, the now prosperous regions of Italus, Tarro-toh, and Mauwe had been created as a result of succesful crusades. And yet-
“Tens of thousands will die, and many more in the aftermath. Ours and theirs. How long do you suppose it will be until that stain is washed out. How long until it is worth it? A hundred years, a thousand?”
“Those who die will be taken up into the Churn and spun out as new souls,” Banfus said. “Death is unpleasant, to be sure, but remember it is only temporary.”
“Farmers everywhere go hungry through the winter, but then comes spring, and all is well again. This is no different,” Sawndor said.
Kierna was saved from making a response to that by a general call to attention. The crowds were gathering around the board that had been set up on one side of the tent, with a great map nailed upon it. Half a dozen men, including high clerics Everrek and Gramasta, were gathered before it, ready to speak. The crowd began to draw in, arranged in a crescent about the board. Kierna spotted Lector Kenly across the room, instantly recognizable by his snowy white braid of hair. But the crowd was too thick to make it too him, so she remained where she was with paladins Banfus and Sawndor, Hamaara at her side.
A man stood out from the clerics and generals at his side. He did not loom like Sawndor, and was dressed simply in a well-cut soldier’s coat of deep green wool, belted in black leather with a long curved sword tilted so its end did not drag on the floor. Yet every eye was drawn to him immediately. He took two precise steps forward, as perfect as on the parade ground, then snapped to attention and slammed his right fist against his chest as his left was held at the small of his back. All soldiers in the room responded with a salute in kind, though Kierna’s was hesitant.
Hyress Omdra, the Divine General of the Heavenly Host, was a man in his late years still blessed with an unlined face and a strong, straight back. He had a thin aquiline face with a pointed chin and a long slender neck, with swept-back ears and hair. The hair was feathery, a mix of dappled black and brown, with thin sharp brows. His eyes were small but piercing, brown flecked with gold. Neither paladin nor cleric, general known to some as Death’s Angel had followed an odd path in Ethka, rising through the ranks as a common soldier, purely by the merits of his abilities. He was sworn to the Goddess of Ends, Maltaya, though it was rumored that he was not particularly devout. But he’d risen to prominence in campaign after campaign, always fighting on the side of Ethka or her allies, and there was no one left to deny his skills. The soldiers claimed he was wise and fair, ruthless to his foes, considerate to his men as far as the situation allowed him to be, and never showed any hesitation or uncertainty once he’d made a decision. Even his failures were colored with excellence. At the battle of Loradeth Pass, six years past, after his vanguard was ambushed while he was riding with the rear guard, he’d managed to halt an all-out route and retreat in order, preventing a slaughter and holding the bottom of the pass until reinforcements arrived.
“Welcome, sons and daughters of Ethka, and our allies from afar. May the gods and goddesses of the Heavenly Coterie look down on us and grant us wisdom as we do their will.” Hyress’ voice was soft, but as loud as it needed to be to reach everyone listening. Without ado, he turned to the map behind him, where a number of routes had already been drawn from Ethka, striking south. Though the routes were varied, they all ended at the same location: a city nestled in a crescent harbor at the southern end of the continent, labeled Yrkhaz. The greatest city of the south, a great city of trade, derided by the high clerics as a cesspool of heresy and cruelty, ruled by a tripartite of tyrannical gods who demanded all manner of debauchery and butchery in their name.
“I have spoken with the generals, and listened closely to the advice of our holy clerics. Some few of the Coterie have passed down their own commandments that we as their servants must obey, and their orders have been incorporated into my plans. As you can see here, I have a number varying options. This will allow us to alter the plan accordingly, based on the resistance we encounter and any other pertinent issues.”
Hyress swiftly ran through his plans, specifying the dozens of gods of Warana its hinterlands, along with their warriors and what sort of armies they could expect to encounter. Kierna found herself watching Kenly, who stood quietly with a hand on his chin, his eyes watching the map intently. She had expected him to say something, hoped that he would speak out against this campaign, but he seemed to have no intention of doing so.
“I plan to strike first and foremost for Kelylla, seen here,” Hyress was saying, pointing out a river city north of Warana. “Kelylla is a major trade city, and its clerics have always garnered close relations with the city of Ethka. Still, there is certain to be those within the city who will resist us, but I plan to make it our army’s base of operations for the rest of the crusade. The clerics have received troubling reports of a widespread organization of heretics calling themselves the Cousinhood of Free Souls. These “cousins” are said to have root in Kelylla. We will take the city, appoint our own clerics, and tear up the roots of these heretics-”
“Why?”
Kierna’s voice cut through the quiet chatter of the war-meeting, shocking everyone but Hyress into silence. Her stomach roiled at the attention, but she forced herself to look Hyress in the eye and hold her composure.
The commander did appear concerned. “Kelylla sits on verdant land, and the river gives it access to much trade, as well as ample fish. We should be able to keep the army well-supplied there. From the city, I mean to split the army into several smaller bands, to strike swiftly, preventing the warbands across the region from combining their forces-”
“I do not doubt your tactics, Divine General,” Kierna said. “It is the aims of this crusade I feel I must question. When I left Ethka less than six months ago, there was no word of war, yet I returned to find the city in arms. Clearly, the decision has been made, but I wonder at how many here were included in the discussion. The Heavenly Host is an alliance of free men and women. Those who stand to march and kill and die have the right to make the decision.”
“Hranis is in chaos, its gods and rulers cruel and destructive,” Hyress answered. If he was upset at how she balked him, he showed no sign. “Would you prefer they be left to continue as they are?”
“No. It is as you say. I’ve seen the destruction firsthand, the slaughters and blood-feuds. But it seems to me that there are more varied options than doing nothing or wiping it all out. The army should march. Take Kelylla, make it a staunch ally, a protected haven for those who would serve kinder gods. Kelylla’s fall will put fear into the hearts of every villain of the grasslands. Envoys can be sent out from there, declarations made. These gods have nothing that can match the might of the Heavenly Host. Surely they will agree to our terms-”
“Our terms?” High cleric Everett sneered at her from his spot next to the Divine General. “These gods spit on the pact they have signed. They foment cruelty and terror, leading their people from grace with their own example. Terms were already sent forth, by the Holy Coterie itself, hundreds of years ago on the founding of Ethka. Humans might forget, but to these gods that was only yesterday. Why bother speaking with them now? What could come from treating with these tyrants?”
“Justice,” Kierna said, then stepped forward, feeling as though she were lunging with sword in hand. “And perhaps, mercy.”
Everett purpled at that, and voices began to roar back and forth. Once Kierna had opened the gates, she heard other voices speaking up, advocating diplomacy. Not all of the high clerics were in agreement, it seemed, and she saw numerous paladins resisting as well. But Kenly-
Kenly remained silent, watching. When she caught his eye, he turned towards her and gave her a sad smile… and a slight shake of his head.
“These matters have been decided,” Hyress Omdra said, his voice calming the crowd. “Sixty-three of the high clerics have put their seal to the plan, along with all their followers. Those who have abstained have every right to withdraw their soldiers from the Host. But the crusade has been declared, as you all know. Any who withdraws will lose their place in the Host. You have that right, to be sure. Whether you agree to support us or not, let us return to the plan-”
Kierna knew the rest would go unsaid. Abandoning the mission during the crusade was political suicide, and at crusade’s end, when the spoils were doled out, the clerics would remember. Few clerics could resist the opportunity to accrue power and favor in the eyes of the divines… but she would not have thought Mareth Kenly to be so inclined.
Heretic 