CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Prophecy
SAMATH (fl. c. C.Y. 85)….The conventional story of Samath as an evil traitor has been challenged by modern scholars of myth, such as Anne Reckland (q.v.), who believe that much of the "heroic legend of the Journeymen" is made out of whole cloth. According to her, its historical kernel was merely a group of mages competing for power and glory, with Samath as the eponym of the losing faction or group. The strongest evidence in support of Reckland's thesis is the large number of glaring omissions in the traditional account. If Samath was the Journeymen's next designated leader ("Grand Master"), why was his candidacy handled in such a cloak-and-dagger fashion? What is the mysterious "secret" that he accuses Kaleb of in the Nealus Hessen manuscript, "A Hero's Tale"? How did Kaleb – who allegedly sacrificed his life to seal the demon of Koroth – manage to return, complete his journal down to the smallest detail, and then conveniently die?
- ENCYCLOPEDIA GALVENICA, 24th Edition, C.Y. 347
As the winter grew darker and colder, a subtle change came over Pope Pious XXI – installed comfortably enough with Mother Anna at the court of King Arlbert. Always a cheerful soul, he grew troubled and worried, and when called upon to deliver a homily on the occasion of Saint Mikhail's Day, his tone was so somber that the King complained that it had affected his digestion.
"Saint Mikhail was no soldier," Pious had said, "but he knew why and how to die. How many of us can say this today? The day is coming – no, it is already upon us – when people will ask for death because life has become unbearable for them. But there is worse, children of Galvenia. A day will come when life and death will cease to mean what they once did – when you will look around in confusion, unsure about the very meanings of right and wrong, cursing your liberator and envying your oppressor. And all this is inevitable – it must come to pass, because of the wickedness of men. God is merciful, but those who presume upon His mercy will draw the sternest judgement upon themselves. Good men will do terrible things, all because we were blind to the evil amidst us."
"By Saint Geraud," Lady Rochelle Anton had dared to say, shivering, "far be it from me to criticize the Pontiff, but he is growing as melancholy as Thomssen these days."
The snow had turned to frost, and both armies were forced to wait. On the whole, the Galvenians had the honours, though the fighting was limited to the odd skirmish. Their efforts to ensure a supply of food to civilians in the villages they had captured – an endeavour in which both the Rough Riders and Ryan's assult corps played a part – earned them praise at the Commonwealth, while the Zion fumed and threatened reprisals. The ice made it impossible for Ryan to carry out Schenk's enigmatic mission, and he chafed inwardly, but kept silent.
Finally, Pious XXI acted, and informed the King and Queen that, as soon as the snows began to melt, he would return to Itaria, where an official cease-fire was finally declared after a few further abortive raids from Zion ships had run into the ice-floes of the Itarian sea.
It was a chill January night, the day before Pious' ship was about to set sail, that he retired to his chamber. Mother Anna, whose lungs were still feeling the cold, would remain behind, and Viola had returned to the Palace to help escort her back to King's College. Henrik – still attached to the Pontiff's guard – was escorting him, and left him near his door when the Pontiff suddenly raised his hand.
"Private Spenson," he said, "would you grant me the favour of a few moments' conversation? I need the opinion of an open mind."
Henrik blushed. "Th – the honour would be mine, Holy Father," he stammered.
"Oh, put yourself at ease, my son," Pious replied, switching on the lights and pointing to a chair beside his sofa. His eyes fastened on the medallion around Henrik's neck, and he smiled. "I see you belong to the Faith, my son."
"My whole family does," Henrik replied, "though my father has his own interesting additions to it."
Pious laughed. "Ah, one of those," he said. "As long as he does not set himself up as another anti-Pontiff, I have no complaints. I must confess that King's College does play host to some fine souls. The young girl who is caring for Mother Anna – the one named after those purple flowers you have in Galvenia – is one of them, and so are you."
"Viola's a wonderful person, Holy Father," Henrik said enthusiastically.
"Don't let that stop you, my boy," Pious said affectionately, noting Henrik's flush. "Even wonderful persons have to marry, and to bring forth new generations that will undo the crimes of their fathers. It is left for those who are not so wonderful to become Pontiffs."
Henrik chuckled. "That's a good one," he said.
"Now, let us move on to more serious matters," Pious XXI said. "As a college student, I presume you are trained to think logically and ethically."
"I guess so," Henrik said shyly.
"Then consider the following situation. A man is faced with two choices of action. The first will also allow many of his fellow men to lead peaceful, happy lives, much like the ones you knew before this war began. The second will lead to death, pain, and the rise of a world order that entails the death of what you Galvenians would call 'the good old days'. And yet…"
Henrik said nothing, but looked with amazement at the Pontiff's face, which seemed ageless, as if he was merely the mouthpiece of a higher power.
"And yet – the first is a cruel lie. It cannot last, and it must lead to an even bleaker and more horrendous future. The second, though painful, is the truth – the truth that hides no ugly fact, but that brings it out, screaming, into the light. It will heal, but it will heal painfully, like a surgeon's knife. Now tell me, Private. Which would you choose?"
"Hmm," Henrik replied, "that's quite a question. Being Galvenian, I'd say: look for a third alternative." He smiled. "But if the man could be sure that those two alternatives were the only option, he would have to choose the second, as difficult as it seems."
"Thank you, Private," the Pontiff said, placing his hand over Henrik's head and blessing him. "Thank you for confirming my intentions. It is true that I ought not seek such foolish forms of reassurance, but the flesh is weak. Go with God, Private, and may you and the woman be preserved through the trials that must come."
"Thank you, Holy Father," Henrik replied, kneeling before him and kissing his ring. As he rose to leave, a woman entered the room.
"Your Holiness!" Lady Rochelle Anton said, surprised. "Are you still awake?"
"I was merely talking to my young friend here," he said, indicating Henrik, who saluted them both and then left. "At my age, the companionship of the young is always welcome."
"You should rest, Holy Father," she admonished him. "Your ship will set sail tomorrow evening."
"Oh, do not worry about me, my lady," the Pontiff replied. "Worry about the fine ladies and gentlemen of your court – those who proclaim their patriotism or loudly, but who lack the will to amend their ways. It takes courage to change, Lady Anton – a courage that even the most battle-hardened soldier sometimes lacks." He looked at her appraisingly. "But I do not think you lack courage, my lady."
"Your Holiness, I am flattered and humbled by your kind words," Lady Anton replied, blushing.
"Good night, then, my lady," he said. "Courage."
xxx
"I don't like it, Sir Prescott," Major Rawley – formerly Captain Rawley - protested. "What good could come of such an expedition?"
"Rawley," Sir Prescott replied, "as a soldier, I have learned to back my intuition. I am not a friend of Eramond's, and I personally know next to nothing about magic. But somehow, I feel that this is important. I have long heard, from my father and grandfather, that those hills around Victoria hold some of the Zion's dark secrets. And if Eramond wishes to uncover them, who am I to stop him?"
"Still, Sir Prescott, he is one of our best men. He is able to command the respect of his troop, and leaders are always valuable during a war. It is true that the Zion have been silent, but if they hear that we have been interfering with their arms caches…."
"Who will tell them, Rawley? I have read the documents Eramond gave me, and have spoken to Headquarters about the intelligence they contain. They cannot confirm every detail, but there is good reason to believe that those papers tell a true story."
"Very well," Rawley said reluctantly.
"Now, we need not risk lives unnecessarily. We will hold our positions. Ask Eramond to take ten men with him, and use the new recruits to guide the hill passes. Give him a day to complete his mission. If he finds anything valuable, it is to our credit, and a bleeding nose for Hunermann and his lick-spittle Council. If not, it is merely a day of wasted time, and we will 'reward' him by sending him back to hold the line in front of Ismar. Is that satisfactory?"
"Yes, sir," Rawley replied stiffly.
And so it was that Ryan – accompanied by a team of ten of his best men – headed for the location that was indicated on the map Jason Schenk had given him. He felt strangely light-hearted, even euphoric. Even the letter he had received from his mother, earlier that day, failed to dampen his enthusiasm.
Your father has been quite unwell of late, Ryan, she had written near the end of the missive, her pen suddenly growing unsteady. He has been worried about business, and has been having attacks of chest pain and faintness. The doctor says his heart is affected by the strain, but even his medicines don't seem to help much. I hope you will be with us soon, Ryan. He misses you, as I do, but we are both very proud of you.
Forget Dad, Ryan thought, impatient to go where the statues were leading him. Let him squirm a little. He deserves it.
As he reached the spot indicated, he was greeted by a familiar face, at the head of a troop of regular infantrymen.
"Henrik?" He frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"Captain Rawley asked us to guard your back, just in case it's a trap," Henrik explained. "There are twenty of us, so don't worry."
"I'm not worried," Ryan said, with a laugh. "We'll be done before you even know it." He and his men began to climb from hill to hill, heading for a particular cavern. As he disappeared out of their sight, one of the soldiers walked up to Henrik.
"This is a trap, Spenson," Juno said. "This is surely a trick from that renegade, Jason Schenk. He is playing on Eramond's feelings, as he is on mine."
"I have to agree with you," Henrik admitted. "Look, Juno, why don't we move closer? Ten of us can remain down here and raise the alarm. If Ryan does anything silly, or gets into trouble, we'll move in."
Juno smiled. "An excellent idea," he said. Moving quietly, anxious not to alarm Ryan, they followed him until he and the men with him disappeared into a cave, whose mouth was framed by decaying logs of wood.
"It looks like an old mine," Henrik said. "Let's wait and watch."
Ryan, in the meantime, had headed inside. Following a straight path, it was not long before he found himself in a larger cave, in front of a door. The walls of the cave glowed red, and there was an unnatural heat in the room.
"I didn't know they had a hot spring down here," Sean Wilson joked. "Maybe this was the Zion's treasure – a health cure for old geezers."
"Very amusing," Ryan said, a broad smile on his face. "Now, let's get that door open."
"Did you see that?" one of the privates said nervously.
"See what?" Ryan replied.
"A white figure, like a woman with wings," he said. "I saw it for a moment, and it was gone."
"I'll give you credit for coming up with something more interesting than pink elephants, Young," Ryan replied. Opening his haversack, he extracted the three statues from it, and placed them in the slots near the door.
"What are you doing, Ryan?" Wilson said, looking at him with alarm.
"Getting the door open," Ryan replied, and burst into laughter. "Every lock needs a key, right?"
"Ryan," he said, softly, "do you realize that this could be dangerous? What if there are mages hiding in there?"
"Then we take them down, old bean," Ryan retorted.
There was silence for a moment, then the ground shook, bringing all of them to their knees – all except Ryan.
"Yes," he said, in a harsh voice quite unlike his own. "Yes, I give you what is mine, that you may give me what is yours."
"This is giving me the creeps," another of the soldiers said, looking at the exit nervously.
The door slowly slid open, and a warm wind emerged from it.
"Captain, be careful," Wilson said.
"You don't get it, do you, Sean?" Ryan replied, an expression of happiness and relief on his face. "This was supposed to happen. Follow me!"
Reluctantly, the other men entered the passage that had just opened up. They found themselves looking at another cave, which glittered and sparkled with hundreds of colours. The floor of the cave was covered with minerals and crystals of various kinds, which had clearly been mined, and stacks of swords and shields lay next to them in profusion. Behind this treasure trove was what nowlooked like a landfill, but must have been – judging by the walls – a sheer drop into a lower cave.
"Glorious," Ryan said, raising his arms. "Minerals, weapons, shields – and, finally, home. Where I belong."
"Ryan?" Sean stared at him in horror.
"What's the matter?" Ryan said, looking at him with a puzzled expression. "Did you see a pink elephant too?"
"Ryan, there's something wrong here," he said. "Let's leave."
"Leave? First, let's evacuate all this stuff, or at least the weapons. We can come back for the minerals later, if you want. Just imagine how much this is going to hurt the Zion," Ryan gloated.
"Ryan…"
"Orders are orders, Sean," he said firmly, picking up an arm guard and strapping it onto his arm. "Get to it, men! Ask those outside to stand near the entrance, and carry these things out. This room must not be too crowded. It is of the utmost importance!"
Slowly, Sean and the rest of the men began carrying the weapons out of the small cave, while Private Young sent a radio message to those waiting outside.
You see, don't you? I have been waiting for you.
"I see," Ryan replied. "I was blind, but now I can see clearly."
Welcome, son of Kaleb, and son of Samath. Welcome, Grand Master of the Order of the Journeymen. In you, the old wound will be healed. The Zion would not accept us, so let them be accursed. It is Galvenia who shall receive our favours.
"Who are you?" he said softly.
"Captain?" one of the soldiers said nervously. "Who are you speaking to?"
"Silence!" Ryan said firmly. "This must be handled delicately."
The soldier was silenced, but continued to look at Ryan with fear and dismay.
My name is not important. It was a gentle, female voice – much like that of the Princess. He could see her – he could almost touch her. What matters is that you, Ryan Aramondrius, are here today. Hold out your sword.
He drew it, and a flash of brilliant white light illuminated the cave.
Now leave, Ryan Aramondrius, the voice said calmly. Do not return until I call you. It will be long before we can meet again, but do not be afraid. And do not worry about the Princess, either. I can help you, but I cannot come into the open.
"I understand," Ryan said, bowing his head and smiling. "Thank you."
Behind him, just out of his line of sight, Henrik and Juno – who, with their comrades, had been pressed into duty – watched, shock on their faces.
"What happened, Spenson?" Juno muttered, fear in his eyes. "Is he insane?"
"That would actually comfort me," Henrik said, closing his eyes and praying silently. "I'm afraid it's something far worse."
xxx
"Gentlemen," Commissioner Jansen said, red-eyed and somber, "as repugnant as it is for me to announce this to you, Director Russell Kievan has authorized me to inform you that, given the heavy losses of life occasioned by the second wave of the plague – a sickness that has now struck not only our nation, but Itaria and the Fulton Republic – it is impossible for us to continue this war without spreading this disease to the rest of Terra. He has authorized me to begin negotiations for a cease-fire."
"Jansen crying?" Lord Lucan whispered. "What next, Archbishop? Will a stone bleed?"
"The Varald are men, Lucan,"Mazarus admonished him. "Jansen's own mother and father have succumbed to the plague, and his sister is desperately ill. Even members of Kievan's household are affected. After an apparent lull, the microbes have returned with a vengeance. God help us all."
"You are fortunate, Mazarus," Jedda retorted. "If this disease had struck your country a little earlier, the Commonwealth's efforts at liberation would have been futile."
"At any rate, the men of Arlia seem immune," Mazarus said gloomily.
President Hipper, looking uneasy himself, raised his hand to request silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, "in view of Commissioner Jansen's offer of a cease-fire, I vote that the proposal from Director Kievan be read before the Council. As this directly concerns his country, Viceroy Kanoi will retain his voting privileges. Commissioner, please be brief."
Jansen read the Director's missive in a low tone, hesitating over many lines as if choking down his own objections. It was close to abject capitulation as could be expected from a hard man like Kievan, and it was nearly unconditional despite its harsh language. The Varald agreed to cede several disputed villages on the border, and agreed to withdraw all their troops from the front-line, in exchange for the return of all Varald prisoners of war and the use of a Commonwealth border patrol to prevent treaty violations.
Kanoi, clearly pleased, rubbed his hands together and beamed at Jansen. "I never expected such sturdy common sense from a Varaldian," he said, chuckling to himself. "I do not know if the Commonwealth has men to spare, but tell your Kievan that we accept, with one condition."
Jansen frowned. "A condition?"
"We do not wish to be infected by the disease that has overtaken you," Kanoi said smugly. "We request the Commonwealth patrol to screen all people crossing the border for signs of disease, and to prevent any perishable goods from crossing as well, at least until this pandemic is under control."
Jansen glared at him. "Is that your game, Kanoi? Not content with seeing us suffer through disease, you wish to clamp down on trade and attempt to starve us? I can see through you."
"I commend you on your eyesight," Kanoi replied, "but what can you do about it? If you refuse our conditions, we will merely continue with our campaign, and you will be taught a lesson that is long overdue." He laughed.
"For Heaven's sake, Kanoi," Mazarus pleaded. "Have they not suffered enough?"
"Attend to your affairs, you follower of a false Pontiff, and I shall attend to mine," Kanoi said scornfully.
Jansen rose from the table, trying to preserve whatever dignity he still had. "I will inform the Director of your disgraceful offer," he said stiffly. "He will know how to respond."
But he knew – and the others, including Hipper, also knew – that this was a hollow boast. The Zion had his nation by the throat, thanks to this damnable disease, and he would be forced by the Director to yield, even if under protest.
xxx
Winter went, and spring began to make itself felt, leading to a renewal of hostilities between the Zion and Galvenia. Realizing that their position was desperate – and strengthened by reinforcements from the Varald, after a cease-fire was established by Commonwealth Resolution 45 of the year C.Y. 302 – the Zion began to fight back. With a strong frontal attack, they recaptured Ismar, but could go no further, as the Galvenians continued to hold down the entire line from Darington to Victoria. Casualties on both sides began to mount, and the women of Galvenia, including Ryan's mother and the girls at King's College, volunteered for hospital duty.
The Pontiff, after an uneventful journey back to his homeland, was greeted enthusiastically by his people, and began – with his characteristic lack of fuss – to organize relief work for the sick, the wounded, and the hungry. Aided by his non-violent armies of monks and nuns, and by the Commonwealth forces that still remained – fearing a second Zion assault – Itaria slowly began to recover, and the plague remained confined to its coasts, sparing the capital and its dependencies.
In between all this, he somehow found time to indulge his writing talent – he issued a stern Pontifical Letter, Requiem Aeternam, in which he offered his prayers for the people of Terra, for an end to the plague, a cease-fire in Galvenia, and for the conversion of the Zion people and "the man who, impudently and blasphemously, continues to call himself Pontiff." Count Hunermann ordered the letter burned, but copies of it were widely circulated in Zion churches that still remained loyal to the Pontiff, and the Zion Territorial Army soon found itself overwhelmed by riots in several villages, especially those close to the Itarian Sea.
But all these things seemed far away at the Royal Hospital for Women and Children in Lorean, half of which had been hastily converted into a military facility. An island of tranquility in the midst of a busy city, it had recently been strengthened by a number of volunteers from King's College, who tended the men, comforted their wives and families, and generally made themselves useful.
"Is she better, Doctor?" Augusta Bradley said. "She didn't sleep too well last night, poor dear."
Doctor Sherman shook his head and looked grave. "This isn't a disease we've seen before, Mrs. Bradley," he replied. "There is inflammation of the brain, and even with high doses of medication, she still has convulsions. I will try my best."
"Please," Augusta pleaded. "Do whatever you can, but please cure Michelle. The doctors at Davenport couldn't do anything for her."
"We will try to drain some fluid from the canal around her brain, to see if we can achieve a clearer diagnosis," Sherman replied. "Please wait outside for a few moments, Mrs. Bradley. It won't hurt her much." He looked with compassion at Michelle, who tossed and turned in her tiny bed, a grimace on her face.
Slowly, Augusta Bradley walked out of the room. Tears in her eyes, she collided with a young woman in a nurse's uniform, who was carrying a tray.
"I'm sorry," she said absently.
"Mrs. Bradley?" The woman looked at her with concern. "What's the matter? Is Terrence wounded?"
"Viola?" Augusta dried her eyes and looked at the girl in front of her. "No, Terrence is all right – though I'm afraid he's leading quite a boisterous life at Checkpoint Alpha," she replied. "It's Michelle. She fell ill two days ago, and the doctors at home were baffled. They asked me to bring her here, but she's not getting better."
"Goodness," Viola said anxiously, "I think I'm on my way to see her, actually. Doctor Sherman wanted a volunteer to help him with the procedure, as the regular nurses are all in the soldier's wing. I do hope she'll be all right."
"Do your best, Viola," Augusta Bradley replied with a sniff, as Viola entered the room.
"Ah, a rookie," Doctor Sherman said, with a laugh. "Are you fond of children, young lady?"
"Yes," Viola replied simply. "Here's the tray that Sister Spence asked me to bring you."
Sherman removed the lid of the tray and examined its contents. "Excellent," he said. "Now, just hold her the way I'm going show you. She's quite drowsy, poor thing, so she won't kick much, but you need to keep her steady."
After a little explanation, Viola held Michelle firmly, curled up into a ball. She cried out feebly as the needle pierced her back, and then was silent. A few minutes later, Sherman withdrew his needle, and Viola quickly dressed the site of the tiny prick.
"What does it say, Doctor?" she asked curiously.
Doctor Sherman remained silent for a few minutes, then looked at the test-tube in which the fluid had collected. "Turbid," he said, tapping it with his finger. "We can try some of that new drug they've just developed at your college, young woman, and pray that it will work. I need to look at this under the microscope, so stay with her for a while, and keep an eye on her vital signs. If anything is out of kilter, call me immediately."
"I will, Doctor," Viola said, as she sat down by Michelle's bedside. "Is it contagious? Not that I'm afraid, but her mother might want to know. I'm a Davenport girl too, so I know them a little."
"Davenport, is it?" Sherman smiled. "Well, Davenport's a port town, and where there are sailors, there are rare diseases. This could just be the bite of a stray bug at the beach or near the docks. I hope that's all it is. Because if it isn't…" He shook his head. "I have friends in the Varald Directorate. I hope this isn't anything of that sort. The symptoms are different, but young children always tend to have different symptoms from adults."
"You mean the plague in the Directorate?" Viola said with alarm.
"Ah, that's what you laymen call it," Sherman said indulgently. "Something of that sort. We don't have a test for it yet, but my microscope can give me some of the answers."
He left the room. Viola checked Michelle's temperature, then frowned. She moistened a towel, placed it on the little girl's forehead, and sat down quietly, waiting.
xxx
Spring had returned in full force – and for the Itarians, it was a spring of hope, despite the many deaths from the plague. Even the most meek and charitable of them could not suppress a laugh on seeing the discomfiture that Reqiuem Aeternam had caused, and the Feast of Saint Geraud – one of the greatest solemnities of the Itarian Church – was being celebrated that day in Saint Hermanus' Plaza.
In King's College, a radio set was being tuned by arthritic, fumbling fingers, and an elderly woman began to breathe rapidly.
Pontiff Pious XXI – looking none the worse for his ordeal, and dressed in full regalia – emerged on the balcony, accompanied by his right-hand men, Diaz and Meissner. After blessing the assembled gathering, he descended the steps of the Castle, and under the ascending sun, celebrated the traditional Liturgy of the Saints. In his sermon, the Pontiff repeated the themes of his now-famous letter, condemning all forms of unjust violence and warfare, and calling on the Zion to seek peace with their neighbours before it was too late. He offered his prayers to those affected by the war and by the growing pandemic that threatened to engulf all of Terra, calling on doctors and nurses to work tirelessly for the welfare of those affected. He called on the Council of Viceroys to repent, to make amends, and to prove themselves worthy of being the descendants of Saint Geraud.
As the liturgy ended, Meissner handed the Pontiff a scroll sealed with a large signet ring – the ring of his predecessor, Augustus VIII. There was silence in the square as the Pontiff, raising his hand, broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.
"My dear brothers and sisters," he said, "this entire war began because – thinking themselves superior to God – the Zion sought to unveil a prophecy whose time has not yet come. Today, after much prayer and penance, I will give the Zion what they thought they wanted – the Prophecy of Saint Geraud, as he appeared to a pair of innocent young children in their very own country. O Zion, listen to the words of your founding father, and mourn, for they will bring you no joy."
In Caledonia, Hunermann and his fellow Viceroys stared at the advanced radio receiver in the Council's conference room – which, like thousands of radios in Zion, was tuned to Radio Itaria – and frowned. Pontiff Maximillian I, wringing his hands, glared at him.
"What is he doing?" he wailed. "Hunermann, this is dangerous."
"He is merely throwing himself on his sword," Hunermann replied. "Trust me."
Unaware of this discussion, the Pontiff went on in a clear, pleasant voice.
"I shall now read the words, as dictated by Mother Anna to her spiritual director, the late Monsignor Alois Loranger. These words were verified by me, your Pontiff, when I was fortunate enough to meet her in Lorean, in the land of Galvenia. She has sworn by the tombs of Saint Geraud and Saint Hermanus that every word is accurate."
In an Army camp at Darington, fresh from a skirmish with the Zion that had ended in a partial victory and a weakening of the Zion hold on Ismar, Sir Prescott and the two officers under him – Ryan and Major Rawley – listened carefully to the radio.
"The words of Saint Geraud, my brothers!" the Pontiff exclaimed. "Three hundred years after my Commonwealth was born, its unity shall be threatened by the men and women of my own continent. False preachers will emerge, teaching a new religion that had nothing to do with mine. There will be war, famine, pestilence, and wild beasts, and men all over Terra will tremble and call upon their Maker. A false leader will lead many into war. But when three and a half times have passed, he shall be defeated – along with his false prophet and his consort – and return to the depths of hell, where his plan was forged. The apostates shall be struck by a man after my own heart, a man who was hidden until the right moment arrived. His noble bloodline shall prevail. He shall face trials, but he will conquer them. When he has defeated the false leader, the Faith will be restored, and Terra will once again know peace. Justice and mercy shall embrace each other." He paused over the last few words, then raised his hands again. "That is the prophecy, my friends, and that is the promise. It is what we must hope for. We denounce the false leader Hunermann, his false prophet Maximillian I, and his consort – the puppet monarchy of Zion. Evil shall not triumph."
Deafening roars of cheering and applause greeted this announcement, and many of the crowd burst into hymns of praise.
"The fool," Hunermann said sharply. "He has defeated himself. He little knows that the gun he has loaded is actually pointing at him."
"Are you sure?" Maximillian I said nervously.
"Do not be a fool, Pontiff," Hunermann rebuked him. "Where is your faith? After the euphoria caused by his obscure words has died down, and the Itarians still have to contend with plague and famine, people will see who the true leader and his noble bloodline are. Who can it be, but Emperor Charlemagne of Zion, who grows stronger every day, even as the plague decimates the Varald? And who can the false leader be, except the godless Arlbert of Galvenia? His consort is his queen, of course, and the false prophet is Pious, whom he sheltered."
Maximillian brightened a little. "If that interpretation is true, then – Hunermann, what prevents me from endorsing it? Let me issue a Pontifical Letter of my own, and we shall see if Pious' friends still cheer him!"
"Now you are speaking like a true Pontiff," Hunermann said approvingly. "Do not waste any time. Victory is still in our hands. If the Infinity himself has declared for us, who can oppose Him?"
In the Galvenian camp, however, the message brought neither joy nor sorrow.
"That's all?" Ryan said, looking disappointed. "The Zion went to war over a silly thing like that? I don't get it, Sir."
"By King Richard, Eramond," Sir Prescott replied with a faint smile, "I dare say you are right. It seems to be much ado over theological minutiae. Hardly the sort of thing worth going to war over."
"But then, Eramond," Rawley said quietly, "what would be worth going to war over? Remember the old classic, Krieg der Gotter, in which three powerful Gods – symbolizing us, the Zion and the Varald – fought over a simple bow. At heart, every war is either futile or exalted depending on one's point of view."
"A bow?" Ryan laughed. "That sounds like an old acquaintance of mine, Sir. But I'll take the liberty of disagreeing with you. There are some things – and some persons – who are worth fighting for, even if it means battle or war." His expression hardened.
Sir Prescott's eyebrows drew closer together, and he looked at Ryan, surprised by the vehemence of his words. "By the Infinity, Captain," he replied, "today is a strange day, for I find myself agreeing with you not once, but twice. Any more of this, and I will probably become a democrat."
Ryan laughed. "With all due respect, Sir," he quipped, "that seems unlikely to me."
xxx
"It's absurd," Sir Cornelius said, as he looked at the two men in white coats who stood opposite him. "There must be some mistake."
A month had passed since the Pontiff's announcement had taken place. The Zion had reacted quickly with a condemnatory letter from Maximillian, entitled On the False Prophet and His Lies, but even the optimistic Hunermann was soon forced to acknowledge that it was too little and too late. The Territorial Army and the police were overwhelmed by frequent local uprisings and riots, and there was even talk of recalling men from the front to quell them, now that the Varald cease-fire was official. Perhaps spurred on by adversity, their army fought harder, and Ismar was still contested, though an attempt to recapture Darington had ended in their being repulsed by the Rough Riders. However, Galvenia was now facing another problem.
"I'm afraid I've checked all the samples several times, and I must thank Sherman for bringing it to my notice, despite my cynicism," Professor Geller of King's College replied, tugging at his beard. He was Galvenia's foremost authority on biology, especially microscopic biology as it related to disease. A cheerful man given to frequent jests about his microscopic specimens, he immensely disliked being the bearer of evil tidings – and especially when the receiver of his message was the Interior Minister of Galvenia.
"It was the strangest thing," Sherman went on, noticing his eminent colleague's unease. "I had just collected a sample of spinal fluid from our first patient – God rest her soul – and went to my lab to examine it. What I found was a simple organism of type Nympha, except for one strange thing: it glowed red."
"Don't some organisms give off light naturally?" Sir Cornelius replied slowly. "Fish, insects…I've heard of such things."
"They certainly do – there are even microbes that fluoresce – but this particular type isn't known for that. It's a harmless little thing that grows in the soil, and that has never been known to cause disease. All of us are probably carrying thousands of them on our shoes, Sir Cornelius."
The Interior Minister looked at his shoes with dismay. "You mean I'm infected?" he said sharply.
"Not at all," Geller replied. "Sherman will explain things."
"I thought it was a trick of the light, so I asked the young volunteer with me to look into the microscope – she also saw the red glow, and found it quite unsettling, poor child. Even then, I assumed – as you did, Sir Cornelius – that it was just a freak of nature. But when more cases – especially women and children – started pouring into my wards, I ran further tests. The symptoms were the same in all cases – a high fever, signs of brain inflammation, convulsions, and finally failure of the heart. Some of the patients recovered before this final stage – especially the older children and the hardier women – but out of seventy-nine cases I have seen so far, there have been sixty-six fatalities. Wherever I could obtain a blood or spinal fluid sample, I did. All of them had the same red glow."
"So you're dealing with a new bug which looks like a Nympha, whatever that may be," Fairfax said sharply. "Do the usual drugs work against it?"
"That's the strange thing, Sir Cornelius," Geller replied. "As soon as Sherman got wind of this, he badgered me until I suspended my work on the molds of Lorean Glade, and took this up." He smiled. "Now, as you may already know, microbes are fragile things – a wide range of chemicals, including ordinary alcohol, can dispose of them in the lab. But these little rascals are quite different. I tried cyclic carbon derivatives, pure alcohol, even the latest moss secretions – but they had no effect. Intense heat – I went up to two hundred degrees – had some effect, but even that was inconsistent. Electricity slowed them, but only partly. They do not multiply rapidly – they divide at the same speed as ordinary Nymphae – but they are harder to kill than a troop of Rough Riders."
"But – that doesn't make sense," Sir Cornelius said. "You're saying that these creatures cannot be killed by natural means?"
"To cut a long story short, yes," Geller replied. "The critters lead a charmed life. I'm not quite sure they're not tiny Zion mages sent to plague us."
"This is no time for joking!" Sir Cornelius retorted. "How is the disease spread?"
"We have no idea," Sherman admitted. "We've tried infecting animals using wounds, aerosols and skin contact, but they don't fall ill. A direct injection into the bloodstream does work."
"We still need to conclude tests on insects, such as mites, ticks and flies," Geller added. "We are working as fast as we can."
"Institute an immediate policy of isolation and containment, nevertheless," Sir Cornelius said firmly. "Geller, you will be assigned to finding a solution to this sickness, and you can forget about Lorean Glade until you have done so. As for you, Sherman, keep up the good work. This could not have happened at a worse time."
"If the troops are affected…" Sherman began.
"You don't have to tell me that, Sherman," Sir Cornelius replied ruefully. "War and pestilence – that old Pontiff was certainly no liar."
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