“Today, I, Orana Niel, dedicate myself to the works of Heaven in my efforts to defend and cleanse this world of evil.”
“Today, I, Alonnen Tallnose, dedicate myself . . .” he recited along with the other mages accompanying them into town, just as he had recited every other line given to them. They hit a pothole, and he almost lost the last two brass capsules. Catching them against the felted-wool coat of the man seated on the floor between his feet at the back of the wagon, he muttered an apology and pushed the little brass cylinders into the holes in the firing cogwheel.
Orana paused, squinting a little at each man and woman crowded into the back of the wagon, then nodded. “Good. Your auras are suitably sanctified. Keep this feeling in mind, and remember to focus your thoughts upon Guildra as you enter the former temple. Picture the various guild symbols, and imagine a woman whom you trust, respect, and think of as strong marching in there beside you, ready to help you kick out all that is evil. Remember: What we think, our Gods become.
“True, you lost control of the previous one, and you sank into hopelessness and despair as the priests seized control and power. That weight is gone. You face priest-mages who are still somewhat strong, but who are no longer backed by a False God who fed upon stolen powers. You have your own powers, and you know how to shield each other. More than that, it is you who have the power of the Heavens on your side this time. You are free to worship again . . . and you know what your Guilds honor, what cornerstones and foundation blocks underlie your best way of life.
“Put those feelings into your Goddess, and She will manifest in ways both subtle and sublime.”
The motorwagon swayed around a corner and lurched to a stop with a yelp from the driver, who had stomped on the stopper pedal. “Oy! Grinding idiots! They blocked the road.”
Craning his neck, Alonnen stared at the scene. Several other motorcarts, motorwagons, and motorhorses blocked the street, all of them marked with the hammer-on-shield of the Precinct militia. Whoever had parked them here had turned this well-traveled thoroughfare into one long, open-air parking stall, with no regard for how anyone else would get through.
When he realized there wasn’t even foot traffic in sight, Alonnen felt a stab of alarm. Scrambling out of the back of the wagon, he muttered a spell-ward around his hand-cannon before shoving it through his belt. The ward would keep it from discharging into his leg, or worse, but would only take the briefest of thought to dispell. Hopefully . . . hopefully his brother and the other officers in the Precinct militia had not just ordered their men to charge into the temple without waiting for magical protection.
Behind him, he heard a few mutterings of confusion, then the sounds of the others dropping out of the vehicle. The air was crisp and cold, and it reeked slightly of motorcart fuel and cooling metal. They were still two blocks and a side street from the temple, but it looked like the Militia had arrived in full force. That also explained why no one else was moving by vehicle in this part of town; no one could remember the last time Captain Torhammer had mobilized so much of the Precinct’s forces outside of the old parade days.
“Oy! Tall! Over here,” a voice called out from a shop door, speaking just loud enough to get Alonnen’s attention.
Glancing that way, Alonnen frowned, then widened his eyes, recognizing one of his brother’s under-officers. The man beckoned Alonnen over, then pulled back into the shop, giving him room to step inside. Yet more leather-and-metal clad bodies shifted and shuffled, giving him room to work his way deeper into the shop.
“There you are, Master Tall,” Rogen said, working his way through what had been a textiles shop. At the moment the bolts of fabric on the tables were covered with what looked like maps of the temple. Alonnen hadn’t even known such maps existed.
Gathering his wits, he addressed his brother. “I’ve brought fifteen mages with me. Including our champion.”
Turning, Alonnen looked toward the shop windows, only to see Orana right behind him. She smiled slightly, her robe pulled fully shut. Her frame looked a little odd, shoulders wider and bulkier than usual. Alonnen didn’t know what to make of that, since on the ride to the city she had seemed slender and normal.
“Ahh . . . right. Leftenant Rogen Tallnose, this is Witch-Knight Orana Niel,” he introduced politely.
His introduction immediately stirred a flurry of whispers around the men crowded into the shop. “Orana Niel!”
“Orana . . .”
“The Holy Knight is here?”
“Praise the Gods!”
“I got my cousin back, thanks to her!”
“Enough!” Rogen called out as a few started to shift forward. “You can thank her later. We have the new Guild Master of the Holy Guild to rescue, and we need to do it before these bastard ex-priests sacrifice Master Longshanks to some dredged-up demon from the Netherhells. Master Tall, I’ve a portable talker-box operator coordinating with Captain Torhammer on the other side of town. What in the way of illusions can your people cast around the temple so that they don’t see us coming?”
“Not many. I’m . . . not in charge of the main source for such things at the moment,” Alonnen was forced to admit. He had the unique experience of watching his unflappable brother’s jaw drop, and Alonnen quickly held up a hand. “It’s being used for the far greater need of sealing off the entire region from the ability to create cross-universe Portals, which will prevent more demons from being summoned. What we can do is shield you and your men. The rest will be up to Witch Orana.”
“I can toss up a static illusion if all the streets are empty of people,” Orana offered. “But there cannot be any people moving around, if you want my attention free to be able to go with you into the temple itself.”
“I vote bringing the only highly trained mage we have in the area into the temple with us,” Alonnen interjected before his eldest brother could do more than open his mouth to speak. “But what do I know? I’m just the Guild Master.”
“Don’t be a piston,” Rogen muttered back, giving him a dark look. “I’d agree to the same. What I was about to say is that we’ve already sent out an order to clear the streets. You can cast the spell as soon as you’ve ascertained it’s clear. I’ll assign you a squad to move you around between the shops and streets unseen.”
“No need. I have a scrying mirror with me.” Pulling it out of her copious sleeves, Ora moved over to the table with the maps.
Rogen leaned in close to his brother, speaking under his breath. “How did she get here just when we needed her?”
“My guild has its ways,” Alonnen murmured back. “Now that Mekha is gone, we can import teachers across the borders by land as well as other means . . . if we have stable borders. There’s peace around Heiastowne and some of its immediate neighbors, but not everyone has it or wants it.” He shifted, impatient with the preparations despite knowing they were necessary. “I don’t like waiting. I want to go in now.”
“You never served in the Militia,” Rogen reminded his brother. “Far more battles are lost through lack of care and planning than are won. What seems like a sudden ambush is often the product of hours and days, even weeks of preparation.”
“We don’t have hours, never mind days and weeks,” Alonnen countered.
“We’ll do our best,” Rogen said. “But I will not send my people into a slaughter, and I will not send yours, either.”
“And I don’t want to send them, either,” Alonnen agreed. “I’m just . . . I’m afraid they’ll interrogate her,” he muttered. “If they do . . . she’ll forget everything about the guild. She’ll forget me.”