he screamed as if he had suddenly become privy to the greatest secrets of life and death. He threw open his arms in an extravagant gesture of welcome and flung his head back. “Blessed Lord!”
My good, true son.
“Oh!” Gilbert could not believe himself to be so utterly blessed.
Artor halted His team not four or five paces from the ecstatic Gilbert and stepped out from behind the plough, appearing as He had before Jayme – a huge man muscled and scarred from a lifetime behind the plough. He pushed back His hood so that Gilbert might the more easily see the face of his god.
His muscles bunched and rolled as He strode forth, the goad still clasped in one hand.
Who is that who huddles in the dirt?
“It is but Moryson, Blessed Lord, a poor man who has been all but broken by the events of the past months,” Gilbert said.
Fool, fool, fool, fool, Moryson droned over and over to himself, and somewhere in his terror-riddled mind he knew that he meant himself with that word. Fool to be here at this moment!
Artor had laid the blame for the Seneschal’s loss squarely at Jayme’s feet, and He lost interest in Moryson immediately. Snivelling cowards He had seen a-plenty. What Artor needed now was a man who had soul and courage enough to restore Artor to His rightful place as supreme god of Achar. He seethed. Why, the viper had even changed the name of the land from the blessed Achar to the ancient and cursed Tencendor.
He turned His eyes back to Gilbert. You are a man of true spirit. A man whom I can lean on. A man who can rebuild the Seneschal for Me.
Gilbert fell to his knees and clasped his hands to his breast in adoration, tears in his eyes. At least Artor recognised his true worth.
For centuries Achar lay safe and pristine under My benevolence. Now it is befouled by the footsteps of the Forbidden and by worship of their frightful interstellar gods.
Artor did not like competition; the Seneschal had always disposed quickly and harshly of any who spoke of other ways and other gods.
The Way of the Plough sickens nigh unto death, and the Seneschal is grievously wounded. It will take commitment to ensure its survival and ultimate resurrection to all-consuming power. Are you committed, Gilbert?
“Yes,” Gilbert all but shouted in an effort to convince his god.
I have a task for you, Gilbert.
“Anything!”
You know of this Faraday?
Gilbert blinked. Faraday? What could Artor want with –
DO YOU KNOW OF THIS FARADAY? Artor roared through his mind.
Gilbert cursed his hesitation. “Yes! Yes! I know her! She is married to Borneheld. Was, I suppose, if Borneheld is dead.”
She is dangerous.
“She is but a woman.”
Fool! Think not to contradict Me!
“She is dangerous, oh Blessed One.”
Yes. She is dangerous. She must be found and she must be stopped.
“You have only to say the word, Lord, and she will die.”
Artor laughed, and it was a terrible sound. She will not be that easy, Gilbert, but she will be a good test of your commitment. She means to ride east, but her evil enchantments cloud my senses and I know not where she is. Your task is to find her and to stop her before she can replant the forests across good plough-land. If she completes that task then I … I …
Gilbert sensed the god’s fear. He did not know what Artor was talking about, and he could not see how Faraday could wield evil enchantments or why she was so dangerous. But that must be part of the test.
Then I am lost, the god whispered. Then I am lost with that single act. It worried Him greatly that He could not spy out Faraday with His power. It meant that the power of the Mother, which Faraday drew on, was growing stronger day by day.
The forest is evil, and it must be destroyed, never to rise again. Now Artor spoke from the Book of Field and Furrow, the holy text that He had given to mankind thousands of years ago. Wood exists only to serve man, and it must never be allowed to grow wild and unrestrained, free to shelter dark spirits and wicked sprites.
Gilbert experienced a rare flash of insight. “It is why we took the axe to the dark forest a thousand years ago, Blessed One. Should it spring to life again then the Way of the Plough will be strangled among its roots.”
Yes. Yes, you will do well, good Gilbert. Make sure that you do well, Gilbert, for My wrath is a terrible thing.
Gilbert had every intention of doing well. How hard could it be to find Faraday and dispose of her? “I shall gather the remaining Plough-Keepers and Brothers together, Great Lord, all that I can find. The more eyes I have at my command the more likely it is that I can find the woman. And then when I find her, I will kill her.”
Artor smiled. The fool had a lot to learn, but what he lost in naivety, he made up for in commitment and a singular adoration for Artor. There were not many like him left.
Good. I will direct homeless Brothers who still have the faith into your path. They will be your servants.
He touched Gilbert’s forehead in benediction.
You will do well, Brother-Leader Gilbert. You have embarked on a Holy Crusade for My sake. Do well.
Then he vanished.
Moryson remained curled in a ball for almost an hour before he dared stand up. He could hardly believe that Artor had let him live. In his long, long life, this was the closest that Moryson had come to personal disaster. He looked around for the younger man.
Gilbert sat by the now dead fire, fervour shining bright in his eyes, planning his divine mission.
WolfStar huddled deep within the dark, dark night. Everything was going wrong. Gorgrael promised to fill the skies with everincreasing numbers of Gryphon, and now Artor, curse His ravening immortal soul, walked Tencendor seeking vengeance. Had either of these two events been foreseen by prophecy? No, and no again.
“I must think,” he muttered to himself. “I must think.”
After some time the thought came to him. Azhure. Stars, but he needed Azhure. Tencendor needed Azhure.
Axis rubbed his tired eyes and consciously worked to keep the deep uneasiness from showing on his face. He remembered Priam sitting in this very Privy Chamber, ragged lines of worry etching his face, as he shared his bad news with his commanders.
In
