The Hidden City

do this.’
    ‘It speaks well,’ Zoka told the other Troll-Gods. ‘Its thought is good. Let us help it and the other one—but let us not permit it to kill the wicked ones. Killing them is not enough. The thought of Khwaj is better. Let Khwaj make them into fires that will never go out instead. Let them burn always. That will be better.’
    ‘I will put these man-things into the time which does not move,’ Ghnomb said. ‘We will watch them in Schlee’s picture of the ground as they go to the place Sepal while the world stands still.’
    ‘Can you truly see something as small as a man-thing in Schlee’s picture of the ground?’ Ulath asked the God of Eat with some surprise.
    ‘Can you not?’ Ghnomb seemed even more surprised. ‘We will send Bhlokw with you to help you, and we will watch you in Schlee’s picture of the ground. Then, when the wicked ones show her to the one called Berit to prove to him that they truly have her, you and Tynian-from-Deira will step out of the time which does not move and take her away from them.’
    ‘Then I will reach into Schlee’s picture of the ground and take them up in my hands,’ Khwaj added grimly. ‘I will bring them here and make them into fires that will never go out.’
    ‘Can you truly reach into Schlee’s picture of the ground and pick the wicked ones out of the real world?’ Ulath asked in astonishment.
    ‘It is easy,’ Khwaj shrugged.
    Tynian was shaking his head vigorously.
    ‘What?’ Schlee demanded.
    ‘The one called Zalasta can also come into the time which does not move. We have seen him do this.’
    ‘It will not matter,’ Khwaj told him. ‘The one called Zalasta is one of the wicked ones. I will make him into a fire which will never go out as well. I will let him burn forever in the time which does not move. The fire will be just as hot there as it will be here.’
    The snow was heavier—and wetter—after they crossed the rocky spine that divided the rivers flowing west from those that flowed east. The huge cloud of humid air that hung perpetually above the Astel Marshes lapped against the eastern slopes of the Mountains of Zemoch, unloosing phenomenal snowfalls that buried the forests and clogged the passes. The Church Knights grimly forced their way through sodden drifts as they followed the valley of the south fork of the River Esos toward the Zemoch town of Basne.
    Patriarch Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights had begun this campaign with a certain sense of well-being. His health was good, and a lifetime of military training had kept him in peak physical condition. He was, however, fast approaching his seventieth year and he found that starting out each morning was growing harder and harder, though he would never have admitted it.
    About mid-morning on a snowy day, one of the scouting parties ranging ahead returned with three goatskin-clad Zemochs. The men were thin and dirty, and they had terrified expressions on their faces. Patriarch Bergsten rode on ahead to question them. When the rest of them caught up to the gigantic churchman, he was having a rather heated discussion with an Arcian Knight. ‘But they’re Zemochs, your Grace,’ the knight protested.
    ‘Our quarrel was with Otha, Sir Knight,’ Bergsten said coldly, ‘not with these poor, superstitious devils. Give them some food and warm clothing and let them go.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘We’re not going to have trouble about this, are we, Sir Knight?’ Bergsten asked in an ominous tone, swelling even larger. The knight seemed to consider his situation. He backed up a few paces. ‘Ah—no, your Grace,’ he replied, ‘I don’t believe so.’
    ‘Our Holy Mother appreciates your obedience, my son,’ Bergsten told him.
    ‘Did those three have anything useful for us?’ Komier asked.
    ‘Not much,’ Bergsten replied, hauling himself back up into his saddle. ‘There’s an army of some kind moving into place somewhere to the east of Argoch. There was a lot of superstition mixed up in what they told me, so I couldn’t get anything very accurate out of them.’
    ‘A fight then,’ Komier said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
    ‘I sort of doubt that,’ Bergsten disagreed. ‘As closely as I could make out from all the gibberish, the force up ahead is composed largely of irregulars—religious fanatics of some kind. Our Holy Mother in Chyrellos didn’t make many friends in this part of the world when she tried to re-assimilate herself with the branches of Elene