Phan thought about the revolvers hidden aboard the cart and wondered if it would have been better to dispose of them. But it was too late for that, so she brought her head up, and looked the rector in the eyes. “No, holy one.”
“We will see about that,” the rector replied cynically. “It has been my experience that members of your profession have a special affi?nity for proscribed technology—some of which is so cunningly disguised that only an extensive search will uncover it.”
Norr thought about the AI, as well as the vibro blade hidden inside her wooden staff, and wondered if the rector had the means to detect such things. The holy man clearly thought he did as he sent one of the acolytes to fetch “the diviner.” In the meantime the rector had transferred his attention to Norr. “You interest me,” the holy man said. “Why would a sensitive marry a norm?”
“I fell in love with the man,” Norr replied honestly. “Not the body. . . . Besides, sensitives are a moody lot, and one is enough for any household.”
The comment was intended as a joke, but the rector nodded, as if well aware of how moody sensitives could be, and was about to follow up on the matter when the diviner arrived. She was about eight years old, dressed in the remains of an expensive party dress, and armed with a forked stick. The rector’s hard, angular face softened at the sight of her.
“Hello, my dear,” he said softly. “How are you feeling? Better? That’s wonderful. . . . Now, if you’re up to it, please check to see if these people should be allowed to join our fl?ock.”
Of course none of the travelers wanted to join the rector’s shabby fl?ock, but couldn’t say so, as the serious- looking youngster waved the Y-shaped divining rod at them. “It will dip if one of you is carrying the pestilence,” the rector warned confi?dently, as the little girl pointed the tree branch at Norr.
Rebo had never been one to ignore the role that supernatural objects could play in everyday life, so when the stick came into alignment with the computer hidden beneath Norr’s cloak, the runner half expected the stick to dip. But it didn’t, and their luck held even as the child waved her stick at the cart and the weapons hidden on it. And, such was the rector’s trust in her that no further inspection was required. The holy man produced what might have been a smile. “Welcome to the Army of God!” he proclaimed enthusiastically, and sketched another “A” into the air. “Come, my dear . . . We must take our place at the head of the column lest progress be slowed.”
And with that the man with the bloody feet boosted the little girl up onto his broad shoulders and walked away. The acolytes and the cavalry followed. Rebo waited until the antitechnics were well out of earshot before shaking his head in amazement. “That is one crazy bastard.”
Norr discovered that she had been holding her breath. It felt good to let it go. “That’s an understatement. Something tells me that we were fortunate . . . But will our luck hold?”
The next thirty hours were like an episode in a surreal dream. Two hours after being absorbed by the Army of God, Rebo found himself slogging through the half-frozen muck while three raggedy moppets sat atop what had once been his angen. Meanwhile, about twenty feet to the rear, Norr had transformed the cart into an ambulance. Now, in addition to the group’s steadily dwindling supply of food, the conveyance carried a couple of stretchers and half a dozen children. As for the other angens, they were “on loan” to the rector’s cavalry, which was extremely unlikely to return them.
So, with no choice but to walk, time seemed to slow as the wintry landscape inched by. There weren’t many rest breaks, but when one was declared, the fl?ock was given only minutes in which to take care of their personal needs before the cudgel-carrying acolytes began to round them up. Then, with their knees buried in the cold-wet snow, the Army of God was required to listen as the rector read passages from a
“history” that described how the people of Old Wimmura worshiped technology during the reign of Emperor Hios and were subsequently punished by God’s righteous thunder. Lysander attempted to take over Norr’s body during one such episode so that he could counter what he saw as the rector’s lies. But rather than allow him to do so the sensitive removed her belt and proceeded to whip her back with it—
knowing that the pain would be suffi?cient to keep the entity at bay. The act caused some consternation at fi? rst, but was soon emulated by the more pious members of the assemblage, thereby adding still another element to the strange, half-real day.
Finally, exhausted by a fi?fteen-mile march under diffi?cult circumstances, the fl?ock descended upon an isolated house just before nightfall and “borrowed” everything the farm family had, including their food, animals, and personal possessions. The latter were of particular interest to the acolytes, who spent most of the evening squabbling over a few bits of gold.
Although Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan had been forced to surrender the cart by then, along with what remained of their food, the travelers had managed to recover their personal belongings, including Norr’s staff, plus all the fi?rearms, which were now kept wrapped within their bedrolls. That was the good news. The bad news was that each time the foursome attempted to meet, and thereby agree on an escape plan, an acolyte would materialize among them and call upon the group to pray, gather fi?rewood, or dig a latrine.
The result was that by the time the second day had dawned, and the bowls of watery porridge had been consumed, the off-worlders were still trapped within the Army of God. What comfort there was stemmed from the fact they remained on the road to Feda and were making progress toward their ultimate goal. By midmorning the sky had begun to darken, and snowfl?akes began to twirl down out of the heavens, as the fl?ock took temporary possession of a rocky promontory that looked out over a canyon and the white ribbon that twisted along the bottom of it. The army scattered as people sought to relieve themselves, or gnawed on cold rations, as Rebo peered down into the abyss. Would the ice-covered river take one to Feda? he wondered. If so, the runner thought that it might represent an alternative to the road, and the Army of God. Such were Rebo’s thoughts when, as if somehow drawn by the runner’s heretical intentions, the rector appeared at his side. “Look!” the holy man said, as he pointed a long grimy fi?nger down into the canyon. “Do you see the structures to either side of the river? There was a time when they were connected so as to block God’s river! Can you imagine such arrogance?”
Rebo looked, saw little more than a blur, and stuck his hand inside his jacket. The glasses were out, and already on his nose, before the runner realized his mistake. The runner glanced at the rector in hopes that the faux pas had gone unobserved, saw the expression of outraged astonishment on the holy man’s face, and knew he was in trouble. In spite of the fact that he had never read the Book of Abominations, it was clear from the rector’s expression that spectacles were on it. That left the off-worlder with no option but to turn and run. But the rector had recovered his voice by then, and Rebo hadn’t traveled more than thirty feet before a trio of acolytes cut the unbeliever off and began to beat him with their clubs. The runner’s spectacles fl?ew off as he took a blow to the head, and darkness rose to embrace him.
There were moments of consciousness during the long cold night that followed. Times when Rebo surfaced long enough to see the fi?res burning all around him, or to hear the sound of a rhythmic chant as the sleepless fl? ock prepared for the cleansing to come. But in spite of his best efforts to do so, the runner was unable to hold
