The church was more like a cathedral, really. It was filled with those ornate decorations that Brynd couldn't stand. Why did Bohr and Astrid, the creator gods, those epitomes male and female… why did they need such excessive finery? It suggested that these priests and priestesses extorted a lot of money from their followers merely to spend on ornate fripperies. Candelabras and crest mirrors and console tables of such craftsmanship. A thick red carpet bisected the cavernous stone-built room, wooden benches ranged on either side of it, where men and women of the city would come and pray segregated in their allotted areas.
'Priest Pias, the honour is mine,' Brynd lied. He stood up to face the old man directly. Thick wrinkles in the priest's face contradicted the air of a peaceful existence. His nose was bird-like, over lips that were unusually small.
'How can I be of help to you?' Pias's voice was commanding in the stillness of the large chamber. They walked side by side to one of the front benches, where the priest gestured for the commander to sit down.
Light leaked from the hundreds of candles in the vast space, creating a warmth and peace that seemed unnaturally potent. Incense burned at the rear, sandalwood, the flakes of smoke catching the light.
'I'm here to ask a favour,' Brynd said. 'You already know of our current crisis, so I won't bore you with the details.'
'Indeed,' Pias sighed. 'This is a grave matter, isn't it? And how are you coping?'
Brynd related the grim information in its true and honest form. 'I wonder how long we can survive against such a scale of attack. We've decided to request the presence of a lot of cultists to aid us in preparation-'
'That way lies insanity, commander. Cultists are untrustworthy and unsavoury individuals.'
Brynd knew how much the church disapproved of cultists, but he'd not been aware of this degree of vitriol. Saying nothing, he waited for the priest to go on.
'They mess with the universe on unethical levels. Of course, Bohr would not approve of their techniques, but they continually perpetuate lies regarding the functioning of this world, commander. You'd do well not to listen to their seductive suggestions.'
'These are desperate times, I'm afraid. I'm even having to seek the support of some of the street gangs.'
'Really?' The priest licked his fingers to slick down some errant strands of thin grey hair. 'I would not think that such criminals are much use to anyone.'
'Admittedly, but these are unusual times. Those street men are tough, and they might find some way to redeem themselves… in the eyes of Bohr and Astrid.'
'This is true.' Priest Pias gave a philosophical shrug.
'But what I'm after,' Brynd said, 'what I need is some guidance. You deliver some enthusiastic sermons here, so they say.'
'Ah, it has been known, yes. I am passionate about our Jorsalir teachings.' The priest smiled. 'But how could this be of any help to a military man?'
'Inspiration, essentially. I wondered if there are any references in the scriptures to ways of fighting for great causes. Because if the intelligence brought to my attention is correct, we're dealing here with great evil. You might even say something otherworldly.'
'A military man wishes for spiritual guidance against the forces of evil?' Pias could hardly contain his amusement.
Smug fucker, Brynd thought. 'Not precisely, Priest Pias. But are there such references in the scriptures?'
'Yes, of course. Although it is not as black and white as one might think. Well, the teachings of… the Hunter Saint in particular. His sermons suggested that Bohr and Astrid have demanded such action of our citizens in the past. To protect the realms of yore, in our vast, vast history. Many scholars suggest that inactivity on the part of previous civilizations – the Shalafars in particular – in the names of our creators, led to their eradication. 'Because of Bohr's great mercy to us I appeal to you: offer yourselves as a living sacrifice to Bohr, dedicated to His service and pleasing to Him. This is the true worship that you should offer.' '
'I've no wish for our people to be eradicated.' Brynd's gaze was met by the priest's.
'Nor have I.'
'Here's how things stand,' Brynd continued. 'If our suspicions are correct, this city will most likely fall unless every man and woman wholeheartedly fights for its survival. My soldiers will do all we can to stop them, but I fear the worst. This…' – he sought the word again, for emphasis, no matter how inaccurate it was to how he really felt – '… evil. This evil will stop at nothing, so I want the people to be willing to fight for their homes – for their very survival. If not that, then for some greater spiritual cause. Perhaps for a rebirth in a new realm, something beyond their present everyday existence. They need' – he hated to use the words – 'hope and faith.'
'You refer to the intervention of Bohr and Astrid?' the priest offered.
'I do.' Brynd despised how low he was having to stoop. People did what they did because they believed in it or else, at a very basic level, believed it would make them happier. Motivations were simple affairs, and he needed to rouse the citizens of Villiren to fight for something greater than themselves. 'It might also reduce our reliance on external bodies… such as cultists and the like…'
Priest Pias leaned back on the bench and stretched his arm out to one side. For a moment there was perfect stillness in the room.
'Are you yourself a religious man, commander?' Priest Pias asked.
'I have my moments.' Another lie. How could he connect to a belief system that helped outlaw what he was in secret?
'I shall contemplate your words, commander,' the priest said. 'If some great evil, as you say, is coming to this city then I hear your concerns. I shall talk to some of the other priests, and see what they come up with regarding our scriptures. For a greater good, as you say.'
'For a greater good,' Brynd echoed.
*
A cold night, again, as horses belted through the dark, their hooves slipping on ice. Two fiacres clattered by, the riders barely looking his way. Thugs loitered wherever streets intersected, converging in the language of the streets, that queer Jamur-tribal hybrid. Amongst these nocturnal scenes, he wondered vaguely what had happened to Private Haust, the young blond man who had disappeared.
Brynd was wearing civilian clothing, thick cotton layers, of an earthy brown colour, a hood so that he could hide his face as he walked, so he would blend into Villiren, even, as on the night that saw the underground fights, using a paste to darken his exposed skin, to hide the fact he was albino. Nothing he could do about his red-tinted eyes though, so he had decided to wear a full-face gnaga mask.
Constant stress was crippling him and the logistics of the military operation were overwhelming. Night after night, the other soldiers could unwind in taverns all across the city while he imprisoned himself with charts and reports, saw to the needs of thousands of others who remained ignorant of how he was serving them. He had slept maybe eight hours only over the last three nights.
Well, not this evening. Tonight he sought relief.
After exploring a few tip-offs, he was striding towards a certain featureless building, with a facade that could be found in any city throughout the Boreal Archipelago. Anonymous-looking. There were two men standing behind the door leading to his destination, big guys with daggers ready at hand. Behind them lay a dark corridor. A few discreet words were exchanged, tentative and searching sentences, then they let him in.
The first room was lit by just two cressets, on opposite walls, and a couple of tea-light candles set on each of the tables. Always the same, these places. Dark enough for the hypocrites to escape into their fantasies without ever being caught – which annoyed Brynd, since these might be the very same men ready to label others as being 'abnormal'.
Bender, queer, faggot.
Words loaded with a pain that burned inside his head. In his darker moments he could hardly blame them – there were times he could hardly tolerate himself. But such words were spoken every day with a casual thoughtlessness, often issuing from the mouths of those he worked with and trusted.
How could the world be so consciously loathing of such a natural emotion, merely on the word of some very old text? Other cultures, Brynd was certain, would not forbid such desires.
Shirt-lifter, mincer, fairy.
Was he a weak man? Was he weak for wanting sex, wanting to pay for sex? No. It was safer that way, a
