The Savior

by David Drake

  No, he would be Joab Dashian’s sword.

  PART ELEVEN

  The Fuse

  The Present

  1

  Low Pass

  Treville District

  Spring

  477 Post Tercium

  Ruslan Kerensky stood at the low pass and looked to the east. It was a glorious sight. A miracle, really. And he had made it happen.

  He was surrounded by the Council of Law-givers, now his council. His men, carefully chosen for their purity, their steadfastness, their devotion to him as a leader touched by a god.

  Such devotion was justified. The tribes were united under the Blaskoye—at least as united as they’d ever been. It wasn’t a unity based on martial drum banging, either. It was a unity based on belief. Belief in Taub’s promise. Believe in Taub’s voice, Law-giver Kerensky, to make that promise real.

  Always before there was doubt, division. Mere men at war.

  And what was Taub’s promise? It was that the Farmers would be crushed, and the Land would be theirs.

  No more scrounging for a living in the desert. No more herding, trading, fighting for water rights, daks, and women.

  Now each man would have all the water and women he could desire. The Land would belong to the People of Taub, and they would be the Farmers’ masters. The voice of Taub had foretold it. He, Kerensky, had foretold it.

  He’d been laughed at by some—laughed at until they choked on that laughter.

  No one doubted his ferocity now.

  He needed to share this moment with someone beyond his circle of disciples, however. They, of course, already venerated him. Nor could he gloat to his gathered sheiks.

  The voice in his mind—the voice of Taub in his myriad forms—had made Kerensky a special promise. Command over the life and death of all was to be given to him. The Law-giver had hardly believed it when the voice had spoken. He’d longed for such power since . . . since his childhood, his childhood of being the studious outcast. The runt.

  The voice said that he was to rule the Guardians themselves. They would be made to surrender to his will.

  All he had to do was follow the sacred commands, and all would be his.

  He felt very alone. This must be how a god feels.

  “We are to make for Lindron as a vanguard,” he told his sheiks. “They will pretend to ask for our alliance, but truly it will be a capitulation.”

  “Surrender? Without a fight?”

  “It will be like Orash.” Kerensky pointed to the Land before them. “Look at what Taub has done yet again. Where is the army of Treville? Where is this Dashian you fear? Where is his son? Taub has destroyed them! The mighty hand of Taub is with us!”

  “Yet the Guardians have returned to the city. It will not be like Orash.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” The pass was hot and nearly windless today, but Kerensky found himself screaming to be heard, to somehow get the point through their stubborn heads. “It doesn’t matter in the least! You’ll get your fight, but not with the Guardians of Lindron. They are Taub’s now.”

  “But Law-giver, we are no more than fifty sheiks here. Surely they will slaughter us and spread our entrails upon the walls of the city in warning. Should we not wait for the ten thousand behind us to cross the pass? We have a mighty force gathered. We should use them.”

  “We shall not wait at all,” Kerensky replied. “We have something better than a horde.”

  They looked at him in shock. What could be better than a horde?

  “Taub has already taken the Tabernacle. He has cast out the false god Zentrum, and it is his now.”

  He smiled a toothy smile at the sheiks.

  “Isn’t this glorious news?”

  There was worry on their faces.

  Kerensky shook his head. “Oh, you of little faith,” he said. He considered them benignly, as an adult might his wayward children. “Taub will provide.”

  Dust take them! He’d given them Orash with barely a fight, hadn’t he?

  “Taub has given you each, down to the lowliest lord, a twelve hand of slaves.”

  “But slaves that are children yet!”

  “Yes. Petulant Farmer children.”

  “They must be beaten daily.”

  Fools, thought Kerensky. He’d led them here and was prepared to give them that jewel of the Land, Lindron. What did he have to do to convince them? To follow Ruslan Kerensky was to follow the will of a god. Of all gods.

  The fools must be shown.

  “You herd of geldings. You don’t deserve this prize, yet you will have it. I will present it to you, with Taub’s help. I will go into the city ahead of you. I will go with only my Council, and I tell you that we will not be molested. Instead, we’ll be met by a guard of honor and escorted in as lords of the city.”

  “But Master Kerensky, going there with your thirteen will be suicide.”

  Kerensky smiled. “For another man, yes. But for the Voice of Taub? I don’t think so. You remain here, cowards, until I return and fetch you. You will be made to witness and proclaim.”

  “How long shall we wait, master? The men have gathered to attack. They will be restive.”

  “Ten days. Set up camp. Surely you can keep them at the ready for ten days?”

  “We can, master.”

  “Then so be it.”

  Kerensky climbed onto his dont—a smallish, easily managed animal—and bowed the shallow bow of departure to the sheiks. With a motion of his hand he summoned his Councilmen to ride behind him.

  Then Kerensky did something curious. This was noted by the sheiks. The Councilmen had seen it before. He placed a thumb into his mouth and pushed upward on his palate. There was a flash of whiteness within his mouth that wasn’t teeth, but something behind his top set of teeth. Did he have a second set growing there like the sea beasts that sometimes fed on the Flanagans?

  “Taub is strong. The Land is ours. He will give the Land to me, and I will give it to you. I am the River of my people.”

  Kerensky spat a trail of nesh juice to the ground when he was done speaking. He then spun his dont and tore down the trail from the pass into the Land. His sheiks watched him in wonder. If what he said was true, then the promise of the centuries would be true: the Land would belong to the Blaskoye.

  But who could believe such a spineless runt?

  He was also a madman.

  But even if he was, they had confidence in the horde, the mighty horde gathered to the east. He was useful in this regard. Give the common warrior belief in a prophesy to fight for. As for themselves, they would take numbers and gunpowder. That was the wind: the horde, not Kerensky. A wind bringing blood and tears to the Farmers. A wind carrying the true promise of Taub: that for every man strong enough to grasp them, there would be limitless herds of donts and daks for the taking.

  Herds. Gunpowder. Women. Slaves.

  What else should a true man want? For what other treasures did a real man live?

  Let the runt go and die. He had served his purpose.

  * * *

  Kerensky smiled as the wind whipped past his face. He knew something the sheiks did not, a secret that would make all the difference.

  Taub and Zentrum were one.

  The Blaskoye were meant to ride down the Valley from the north, but the crushing victory of the Guardians in Progar had plugged the Valley and made that impossible.

  An attack from the east would do just as well.

  Zentrum and Taub. Taub and Zentrum.

  What did it matter?

  They were all going to be taught a lesson. The sheiks, the Farmers. They all would bow down.

  They may call him the runt. Did they think he didn’t know? Let them say it, for now.

  This runt was about to rule the world.

  2

  The Present

  Lindron

  477 Post Tercium

  Timon Athanaskew waited outside the Inner Sanctum as General Zachary von Hoff, now officially confirmed as commandant
of the Guardian Corps, received his instruction at the Eye of Zentrum.

  As von Hoff’s aide and next in command, he was required to present himself for instruction after von Hoff’s audience was complete.

  The process was taking much longer than it should. Most meetings with Zentrum were over very quickly, although those who experienced them reported that it seemed to them they’d been communing with Zentrum for several watches, even days. Timon had never had an audience, and wasn’t looking forward to this one, yet he’d stood by at guard many times. He wondered how Zentrum would react to the fact that Timon no longer believed Zentrum was God.

  He’d thought about lying or at least holding back the whole truth, but he knew from Abel’s experience with Zentrum that this was not possible. Zentrum would plumb the depths of the mind, and if you hid your thoughts you risked going insane as Zentrum dug them out.

  Timon was willing to undergo whatever chastisement he had to. Let Zentrum punish him. All he really wanted was to retain his command staff position—for it was from this position that he hoped to launch the “special project” he’d been conceiving since the day the Corps had marched into Progar and found it devoid of children.

  He’d sought and received von Hoff’s approval. If and when the Blaskoye were defeated and the capital secure, he would allow Timon to take a brigade-strength unit into the Redlands to seek the Progar child slaves, and to punish those who had taken them away in bondage.

  He’d held on to that promise for months, through it all: the devastation of the soul he’d felt when he entered Orash and saw what had happened. The agony of losing his arm after he’d believed it was healing. And the extreme discomfort he felt in fighting for a military whose goals he no longer believed in.

  I will endure this, he told himself time and again, to have a real chance to carry out my oath. I will seek them. I will find them. I will free them.

  But to go into the Redlands unprepared and without a substantial fighting force would be to concede defeat before he even got started.

  Timon’s brother Reis stood with him nearby. They had greeted one another warmly enough when Timon returned, but Timon had immediately noticed that there was something different about his brother. Reis seemed to be going to seed. His curly hair had grown long and unkempt. Reis had preferred a cut close to the skull since he was young. And he was putting on fat. It wasn’t that much yet, but there was an unhealthiness to Reis’s skin color that accompanied the new pudginess.

  He’s given up exercising, Timon had immediately thought. He’d given his brother the benefit of the doubt. Maybe his duties in the Tabernacle didn’t permit time for physical workouts. Too bad, then. Reis had been fanatical about them for years.

  “Have you been in yet—in there, I mean?” Timon whispered to Reis and nodded toward the entranceway. There was no specific injunction against talking in the hall outside the Inner Sanctum, but Timon got the feeling that it might be frowned upon.

  Reis nodded. “Last month,” he said. “After my promotion to chief of staff to his holiness the Abbot.”

  “And?”

  “It’s overwhelming,” Reis said. “I was given to see . . . I shared the mind of Zentrum and understood him, if only for the blink of eye. He showed me his worry over mankind. He showed me his plans to keep us safe from our own worst nature.”

  “I see,” Timon answered. “And you accept those plans, whatever the cost?”

  “I am Zentrum’s priest. I must.”

  “Do you approve of them?”

  “What has that got to do with it?” Reis answered. There was disconnection, even fear, in Reis’s eyes.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” Timon said. “I suppose I’ll find out what he wants me to know soon enough.”

  Reis shot Timon a troubled glance. “This kind of talk is not good, brother, especially here.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “I’m merely concerned for your safety.”

  “Thanks.”

  At that moment, there were footsteps from within, and von Hoff emerged. Von Hoff walked several steps toward the exitway without looking to left or right. Then he stopped, seemingly unable to figure out what to do next. Timon went to stand beside him.

  “How did it go, General?” he asked.

  Von Hoff turned toward Timon, a bewildered look on his face. “Who the cold hell are you?” he demanded.

  Timon was taken aback. “Major Timon Athanaskew, your XO, sir.”

  Von Hoff stared at Timon several eyeblinks longer. Finally, he nodded and said. “Of course. Now I remember. Major Athanaskew.” Von Hoff smiled, but his gaze remained fixed like a hawk on Timon.

  His pupils, Timon thought. They are pinpricks. And yet this hallway is shadowy, only lit by torch. What has happened to the general?

  Von Hoff pointed toward the door. “You’re next, Major Athanaskew.” When he saw Timon hesitate, he added jauntily, “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. You’ll enjoy it, Major.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hope so.”

  There’s something wrong. Something very wrong here. This is not the Zachary von Hoff I know. He’s a brooding bringer of gloom. I don’t know who this happy warrior is, but it can’t be my commander.

  Suddenly von Hoff shuddered, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He coughed and doubled over, his hands on his knees. He trembled, as if every muscle in his body were tensed. Then he covered his mouth in another cough. After another moment, he rose, and when he did Timon saw that he had a spatter of blood on his hand.

  “General, perhaps it would be better if I accompany you back to headquarters. I can return here as soon as possible and—”

  “Run!” von Hoff whispered hoarsely, wiping his lips clean of blood. “Run, Athanaskew!”

  He looked up. “It’s too late for me,” he said. Then von Hoff shook violently again, as if he were shivering in cold air. He colored, pointing angrily toward the Inner Sanctum entranceway. “I order you to go for your interview, Major,” he said hotly. “Law-giver Athanaskew, speak with your brother.”

  “Best do as he says,” Reis said. Reis held out his hands imploringly. “It’s for the best, Timon. You’ll see.”

  Timon turned and stared at the entrance to the Inner Sanctum a moment longer.

  “I will not enter,” he said.

  “Brother, you cannot stand against the will of God.”

  Timon looked back to Reis. His brother’s reasonable demeanor had turned sour. His arms were crossed, and he was scowling.

  “This is wrong, Reis.”

  “It’s all sunlight or darkness for you, isn’t it? Like always.” Reis hook his head sadly, then motioned to the two guards. “Help the major in.”

  One of the men unshouldered his musket. Both advanced on Timon.

  Timon hardly noticed them. He stared at his brother. “I won’t forget, Reis,” he said. “Now you are nothing to me.”

  A guard took him by the elbow while the other pointed a musket at Timon. Timon shook off the hand.

  “All right,” he said. He looked at the man with the musket. He was trembling, his lip quivering. “Put that away before you shoot yourself. I’ll go.”

  Timon stared at Reis and von Hoff a moment longer, then spun on his heels. He walked quickly to the Inner Sanctum entrance. The two guards there—Timon recognized them. Both had served under him in Tabernacle Security as sergeants—backed away warily. Timon moved past them and into the room.

  A figure in white robes stood at the crystalline rear wall. His hand was touching the wall, the Eye of Zentrum, as if he were in communion. He moved to the side quickly when he saw Timon enter, and placed himself behind an oil lamp dais to one side.

  Timon barely got a glimpse of twinkling eyes and a bearded face.

  What he did see—saw without a doubt—was the edge of the white robe.

  A blue hem. A double blue hem on the robe.

  Timon stood still a moment as his brain assimilated what it had observed.

  Bla
skoye.

  Twin blue lines.

  Blaskoye nobility. But here?

  The answer came to Timon as soon as he’d formed the question.

  Cutting a deal.

  Cutting a deal, just like with Orash.

  If he still believed in Zentrum’s divinity, he supposed the shock would have stunned him into passivity.

  Now it made him wonder that he hadn’t seen it all before.

  Now it made him angry.

  Enter into my presence, Timon Athanaskew. Know the mind of Zentrum.

  Timon turned and did as von Hoff had urged him. He ran. He blew past the guards, the startled priests, and commanders.

  “Stop him,” shouted von Hoff—or the man who had once been von Hoff.

  Another man might not have made it out of the Tabernacle alive. But Timon had lived, studied, and served here most of his life. There wasn’t a passageway in the enormous complex he didn’t know.

  Besides, he had no intention of getting out, at least not yet.

  The hunt was thorough, but no one expected to find Timon where he had gone: Guardian Corps staff headquarters. Men looked up when their sweating, panting, newly minted colonel erupted into the room. He quickly gathered the officers who were there.

  “Listen to me quickly. We are in a devil’s bargain with the Blaskoye. I do not know why, but I cannot support it. I’m leaving now. I must flee the city. But if any of you wish to join me, take to the Giants and I will find you. Bring as many of the men as will join you. You have three days, and then I will leave. Do you understand? The Giants.” He looked to Bunch. “Give me your pistol, Major.” Bunch, startled, handed the weapon over. Timon stuffed it into his waistband. “Three days,” he repeated, then left as quickly as he’d entered.

  He left behind a stunned crew of majors and captains, each weighing what he’d been told with what a man they had reason to trust their lives with had just said.

  Crazy. The colonel had stones loose in his head.

  When the armed search party finally thought to check in Corps headquarters, Timon was long on his way out of the city.

  And although they had high regard for him, most of the staff officers were convinced Timon was quite insane.