How appropriate. The army of god wept in pity and in joy as they released the sinners from a world of iniquity into the purity of the eternal darkness.
It would create a wonderful legend, and legends are always useful.
He tied a cloth around his own mouth and nose and walked slowly forward. His aides walked a half step behind him. The sunlight made the red-hand tattoos on their faces glow like freshly spilled blood.
The field was a mess, the grass withered and dead from the bleach, the soil muddy and cut with a thousand crisscrossing wheel ruts. Saint John recognized those signs too. In several towns—if there was enough advance warning—wagons filled with children, the elderly, and the infirm were sent away. To other towns or to some secure building. Sometimes wagons of treasure were carted off as well by people who did not understand the nature of the glory that awaited them. But once the town fell, there would be plenty of time to follow each set of wheel tracks to whatever “safe” place they led to. Knives would be drawn there as well, and the red mouths would cry out in joy at the release offered by the reapers of god.
It was always the same. Even the iterations and variations were becoming commonplace.
Saint John was content in that. With each mystery that became a known quantity, a known tactic, his army became more confident, and the end result of god’s total dominion over a silent earth became that much more assured.
With his Red Brothers in tow, Saint John walked half the distance between the trees and the fence line.
And there he stopped. His eyes did not burn as much as he’d expected, and that was good.
He waited for almost five full minutes. He was a patient man, and this was part of the drama. Part of the legend.
He also knew that the longer this part took—the longer the heretics in the town made him wait out here like a tradesman at a side door—the angrier his reapers became. Once, when he was made to wait for two hours, the killing in the town was particularly brutal. Perhaps it would be here as well. His men had marched long and hard through desert and drought-stricken lands to reach these towns. Every moment of privation, every aching muscle, every skipped meal stoked the fires in the hearts of the thousands of reapers who waited in the woods. The people in this town already had a terrible day ahead of them. But if they made him wait too long, they would learn that even a terrible day could get very much worse.
Finally the gate opened.
People began coming out. They did not advance toward him, but instead fanned out along the fence line. And except for one figure in the middle, all the others wore red sashes. Saint John wondered what the sash represented. Was it a variation of a white flag?
The figure without the sash glanced at the people on either side of him, and even from that distance Saint John could see him take a breath to steady himself. His shoulders rose and fell.
Then a small group began walking toward him.
Within a few paces it became apparent that these were not town elders. Not sheriffs or the leaders of a town watch.
They were children.
Teenagers.
One boy walked in front. His hair was clipped very short, and he had a vaguely Japanese cast to his eyes. To his left and slightly behind were two other boys—one Chinese and the other white; to his right were three girls—a tall girl with white hair, a very short girl with wild red curls, and a girl with no hair at all.
“Sister Margaret,” breathed one of his aides.
Saint John studied the teenagers. He did not know the Chinese boy or the large white boy, nor did he know the white-haired girl. But the red-haired girl he recognized. His lip curled back in anger. She and the half-Japanese boy had been in the forest near Sanctuary. The boy was nothing to the saint, but the girl had had the cosmic effrontery to call herself Nyx—the name of the mother of Thanatos, all praise to his darkness. At first Saint John had believed her to be an actual physical manifestation of the mother of his god, and thought she might have been clothed in flesh in order to provide some kind of spiritual test for him. But in the end she was nothing more than a sinner whose flesh cried out for the purification of pain.
Saint John caressed the handle of his favorite knife, which was hidden beneath the folds of his shirt. His aides sensed his mood and shifted restlessly.
When the heretics were ten feet away, Saint John pointed to the teen with the Japanese eyes. “I know you, boy.”
The teen stopped, and the
others stopped a few feet behind him. Except for the large white boy and Sister Margaret—the blasphemer who insisted on being called Riot—the others wore military-style bulletproof vests, with similar pads on their arms and legs. It made them look like black insects. Like cockroaches. However, they all had good knives strapped to their waists or thighs. The girls all wore gun belts. The Chinese boy had a compound bow and a quiver of arrows. The red-haired witch and the lead boy both wore katanas, positioned for fast draws. The Chinese boy carried something in his hand, an old-style megaphone, the kind that ran on batteries. Saint John was mildly impressed—working batteries were exceptionally rare.
“Show your manners,” said Saint John, pulling the cloth from his mouth. “Name yourselves.”
The boy cleared his throat. He gave a formal Asian-style bow, low and deferential.
“My name is Benjamin Imura,” he said. “Brother of Tom Imura, samurai of the Nine Towns.” He wiped away tears caused by the stinging chemical vapors.
The saint smiled and nodded. It was a very nice title and presentation.
“I am Saint John of the Knife, chief priest of the Night Church and sworn servant of the Lord Thanatos, all praise to his darkness.”
The boy bowed again in acknowledgment. The others took his cue and also bowed.