"Are you trying to tell me that anyone with a Christian belief will be affected by the newborn god?"

Ken nodded. "I don't dare to limit it to Christianity though. Any expansionist belief could suffice for all I know."

Heinrich shivered despite the heat. "That's a lot of people."

Ken stared back and offered him a quizzical glance. "I think I was unclear," he said. "Only those with a belief in their right to force their religion onto others are affected. Seems they all become holy warriors of one kind or another."

"No, you were clear enough. Wallman's a newscaster. Or was. He made a living from casting news, not debates."

"Now it's I who don't understand."

Heinrich leaned back. "What I'm trying to say is that there's very little money in reminding people of just how many religious lunatics there are out there."

Ken grinned. "Bigots," he said. "It's called bigots. Lunatic is a bit strong, won't you say?"

Heinrich didn't answer. He just pointed south toward where they had fought a battle less than a week earlier. If the taleweaver didn't get the idea then he was an ass.

***

Ken found to his own surprise that he didn't feel any regret over his involvement. It had been necessary, but he had still expected to feel ashamed afterwards.

Now he only revelled in the satisfaction of a job well done. The outworlder maniacs had died to a man, taking with them the equally fanatical officers from Chach. Nominally from Chach. It had been orchestrated by the papacy, of that Ken was certain.

The Holy Inquisition slaughtering every battlemage they could lay their hands on sickened him a little, but this was the northern empire. It was supposed to be a sanctuary. Besides the mages had fought back. Not everyone in the red and black was a staff master, and the witch hunter soldiers died just like any other. Red and Black linen and leather might drive holy fear into someone's mind, but it offered no protection against a fire lance or ice bolt.

The problems with holy warriors of a missionary religion wasn't over, far from it, but for the moment things would quiet down. Maybe in the future there would be a conflict between the church and Kordar. Cor had his own group of champions, and even though theirs was an exclusive belief those warriors were just as fanatical in their devotion to their god as any he'd seen during the last campaign.

That was another day, if it ever came. He firmly shoved a problem that might never arise into the confines of his mind and concentrated on happier things at hand. In that case, at least, Arthur was right.

***

And still it didn't work as expected. He'd tried rhythm, rhymes and imagined filters, but nothing worked. He found it impossible to seamlessly glide in and out the Weave without losing either his or his audience's concentration.

Six times now he'd gathered soldiers from Keen around him with the promise of a Weave. Six times they'd arrived with eyes shining with awe and gleeful eagerness, and six times he'd bid farewell to men carefully hiding their disappointment.

It was simply maddening, but he was determined to continue until he got it right. For the challenge if not for any other reason. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be bested at conveying a message to an audience, and he loved the feeling of fighting to catch up, to become better, and ultimately to become the master himself.

He stifled a yawn and left the tent. Outside, he knew, Granita waited with the surviving members of her team. They followed him doggedly. No personal tragedy kept them from their fly cams, and he had promised them an interview. After that they'd hound down General de Laiden and leave him alone for a day or two.

***

Men still died from their wounds two full eightdays after the battle. Outworlder medics worked wonders, and still it wasn't enough.

Trindai couldn't have hoped for a braver team of men and women following him into battle with only surgeon's equipment, and now they looked more like a ragtag band of beggars than the skilled professionals they were. And a few were unconscious from fatigue.

So he had to order the deaths of even more of his men. A few had to die now so that most of them would live to see Verd again, and to that end he had to order the medics to rest.

How had he become an executioner? When did he cross the line between hardened soldier and cold-blooded murderer? Had he? As unthinkable as the idea was he needed to pick it up, examine it, turn it over to see it in a different light and learn. Because if he didn't he wasn't certain he would want to live with himself. This wasn't the kind of suspicion someone left unattended, at least not anyone who intended to get old and look back at his life with satisfaction.

So he rode on, eyes half closed, and he wondered how many of the men he passed thought him asleep. They would want him to. In their eyes he was close to a god, but they didn't have to carry his doubts, and he wouldn't load them with that burden. For their way back home he would be their hero.

For all they cared they had massacred the enemy in one decisive battle. Later some of them were bound to understand just how bad their own losses had been. He would be criticized then and questioned, but he didn't care. No one would question him the way he did himself.

He grinned despite the dark thoughts he nurtured. One might. Walking Talking was perpetually moody. From what de Markand had said he'd held on to a nightmare for over a greatyear.

***

Ken whistled as he rode past a tent. Less than an eightday ago he'd convinced General de Markand to give up on the idiocy of moving badly wounded soldiers north. To stay behind with the outworlder medics, a company's worth of the Imperial Guard and Juanita from the news team was not even a decision that required a thought.

This was something he'd done countless times before. Stay behind and help care for the wounded.

He wasn't a magehealer by any account, but he'd learned that Weaving helped the body to heal itself, and what was more important, he could give those helping a night of deep sleep. No nightmares stalked those he covered in the Weave.

The difference this time was the presence of modern medical equipment, or futuristic as far as he was concerned. And the mental mindset of those using it. More crafter than artisan, and that set them apart from magehealers. They weren't gifted. Hard work and solid knowledge should be enough to handle a body no longer working properly, at least with the right equipment handy. It was a way of thinking much closer to his own than the one he'd grown accustomed to here since that day an eternity ago when his life changed and he no longer walked the daily life of a normal human.

Magehealers were mages, with the mind of mages, the gift of mages and the limitations of mages. The only reason for them to stop and rest would be if one of their own was disabled as a result of transferring whatever their patient suffered from. The idea of proper training, proper methods and proper environment was simply not central to them.

He shrugged the thought away and continued in his pursuit of Juanita. One of the ugliest women he'd ever had the honour to know, but by all gods unholy, there wasn't a vehicle she didn't master.

He was learning a new skill. When she deemed him fit enough to drive a hovercraft on his own he intended to help with the transports between the field hospital and Verd. Someone in that council of theirs had agreed to help sustain the hospital, but there were simply not enough drivers to keep the supplies coming.

***

When the first hovercraft, and the news with it, arrived a few eightdays earlier Mairild almost collapsed from the relief.

It was one thing to see the outworlder moving pictures and a totally different thing to be able to speak with a real person who had been there and seen what happened.

When one's job was to gather, spread and withhold information then something tangible was sometimes a must, and she'd had little enough to show for the reports about their steady progress far, far south of the capital.

Then one hovercraft arrived with a few medics so tired they had to be carried to their waiting beds and one member from that outworlder group of tale tellers. He'd barely taken the time for a proper greeting before he vanished to the rooms they'd rented before the madness began for real.

Asked about the reason for the hurry he only answered with a cryptic string of words even the interpreter found hard to understand and even harder to convey. From what Mairild could discern he planned to enhance an eye's reception to put the audience in awe. She knew it had something to do with those flying cams of theirs, and the moving pictures they captured, but she didn't understand exactly, and as a trader of news that grated on her.

By now it was clear they had taken a severe beating, but it was a victory nonetheless. A costly one.

Sects of devoted sprung up all across Keen and her client states. It would take years to put them down, but that was a minor concern of hers. Hepaten fumed and planned. As soon as he deemed his forces strong enough he'd send them out on their ugly work. Mairild didn't agree, but that was a thought she kept close to herself.

Far worse was the loss of Mintosa. The Termus gorge was one of the few ways down from the plains to the Narrow Sea, and from what Olvar said Count Friedhafen could defend Mintosa with a minimum of men from any attack Keen could launch. With the port firmly in his hands Mintosa was all but impenetrable.

If they were to retake her Keen needed to send her forces almost to Erkateren and fortify small fishing villages in order to build a fleet with which to attack Mintosa from the sea. It would be a bloodbath, but one they had to accept.

First Erkateren needed to be bribed though. The punitive expedition Keen sent east hadn't won her any favours there. At least that expedition had reached the Sea of Grass and its commander was no longer in any position to make an ass of himself on this side of the mountains. What he did closer to Gaz Mairild didn't care. Gaz lay at the end of the world.

There were good news as well. The plague was in control. Outworlder medics and magehealers from Ri Khi had put a stop to it unknown to each other. Mairild planned to keep them in the dark indefinitely. Anything else was a threat to her own health, but she suspected she'd let slip too far this time. When things calmed down some of her mistakes would come back to haunt her, and in their wake Magehunting with the Inquisition squadrons.

Her life was forfeit. It was only a matter of time. It was, strangely enough, something she didn't worry overly much about. She had served Keen to the utmost of her ability, and that was what counted.

The sky port prospered once more. Outworlder sky ships came and went. That the people in control called themselves New Sweden instead of the Terran Federation didn't bother her at all. Outworlders were outworlders. As long as the metal and mechanical wonders arrived in a timely fashion to be traded for clothes, art and other seemingly worthless objects she was happy.

Which reminded her that she had a meeting with Anita Kirchenstein-Yui. The sky kingdom wanted to erect houses close to the sky port, and even though Mairild planned to drive as hard a bargain as possible she saw an increased presence of armed outworlders as a benefit. Soldiers thought of the world in one way, but traders, artists and craftsmen wanted little more than to live a pleasant life, and that made them share her own personal view of what mattered.

An eightday or two would see Trindai back with the bulk of the army. One regiment stayed behind. They guarded the northern end of the Termus gorge. If Keen couldn't retake Mintosa because of it at least neither was Count Friedhafen able to push north for the very same reason. Keeping that regiment fed and happy would be expensive, but most of those problems belonged with Tenanrild.

***

Trindai smiled and waved. The last day he'd seen anticipation rise among his men. They were coming back home and while disciplined enough to march on in good order most of them grinned like children before a festival. When he finally gave them free reins to celebrate a successful campaign things would get, well, festive.

He expected to handle an endless string of tavern owners demanding restitution for broken furniture come tomorrow. With a bit of luck he would be among the guilty—if the evening's reports allowed him any time to carouse around the city.

He turned in his saddle and waved again. Then he had to bend sideways to accept a few flowers from a girl. Her mother stood a bit away blushing furiously and around her the rest of her family laughed at her temporary discomfort.

Right now it was a good time to be a general, and Trindai knew de Markand enjoyed a similar attention elsewhere along the column of returning soldiers.

Flowers in hand he picked up speed raising his fragrant sword to the sky and listening to the cheers of uniformed men and expectant audience alike. They'd come back. Now it was time to give the people, and themselves, a good show.

At the head of the column he rode past the Krante gates and entered the boulevard. Due west he saw the great stables and the surrounding barracks. He'd return there later, but first they'd march through the streets where people stood waiting to cheer on their heroes.

To the north west he noticed the ruins of several blocks of buildings, but the sight didn't fill him with dread as he had expected. Scaffolding climbed the surviving walls, and even though he didn't see anyone working on them it was clear the citizens of Verd had already started to rebuild their homes, and that thought itself was enough to gift him with a feeling of gratitude.

That feeling was soon accompanied by one of warmth as roars of appreciation rolled over him from the cheering people. He wished the outworlder soldiers had joined them for the celebration. They had deserved every bit of it.