West Wheel: The Twin Machines Chapter 9: Interview By: Joel 'Cop' Furches “My name will come to sing!”   Preacher came in on Sunday And spoke that holy word People went out on Monday Never minding what they heard Devil came in on Tuesday And brought them people low Preacher went out on Wednesday Said, “Devil, just you go!” Devil came in on Thursday And made them people sin Preacher went out on Friday Said, “Why you back a’gin?” Devil came back the next day Smilin’ like he done to Eve Said, “Preacher, les’n they hear your words, I ain’t never going to leave.”

            As Timothy mounted the expansive marble steps, he checked his grandfather’s watch.  It was 0915 hours.  He did not immediately replace the watch.  Something compelled him to hold it out, letting it spin lazily on its cord in view of the massive entrance-way to the Quillan Library.  Here, the simple bronze machine hovered in white light.  The quartz pillars of the library were hewn in ancient fashion, supporting a grand archway that read Quillen Bibliocassa, Monded MDCCLV.

            Timothy was struck with a twinge of jealousy.  The watch was the only finery his family had ever had.  It was bronze, and engraved, and it kept excellent time, thanks in part to Timothy’s care to have it disassembled, cleaned, and maintained on a regular basis.  On it was engraved the name of its creator, Virgil Conrad, along with his grandfather’s name, and his father’s name.  He fully intended to pass the watch along to his own son, someday, should he be so blessed, however he had to admit it was running short of space to have his name engraved.

            He carefully pushed the watch between the tin buttons on his wool uniform, found the inner pocket, and tucked it away, just beneath his heart.  In his mind, he decided the watch was a more valuable accomplishment than the Library.  It was, after all, the painstaking work of a single, master craftsman.  The Library was the combined work of thousands of laborers and dozens of architects.  It was impersonal.

            He dismissed these thoughts from his mind, as he continued in curt, military fashion to navigate his way through the building.  He had a schedule to keep, and finding the unpredictable General Master in these endless halls was not going to be easy.

            The lobby seemed like a deep canyon, architecture spiraling upward toward the skylight, some thirty stories overhead.  He could see the clouds drifting lazily by through the intricate latticework of the building’s ceiling.  Beneath the clouds he could see floor upon floor of tall, beautifully stained and polished wood that must have been hewn from trees on the valley floor over a century ago.  This place was once bustling with the Librarians, an order of scholars with a religious fervor for their duty of maintaining the knowledge storehouses of the Western Wheel.

            Timothy struck out toward the Eastern wing, where the nearest stairs, constructed of broad, marble slabs, stretching like plateaus across the stairwell, curved in a gentle upward spiral.  They seemed as if they had been made for giants, or more likely, large groups.  Timothy could easily see hundreds of people ascending and descending this staircase for the last hundred years.

            The beauty of the library had not been entirely untouched by the battle that had preceded, a fact that gave Timothy a certain guilty pleasure.  He was not in any way fond of these Librarians and their self-proclaimed guardianship of all knowledge, and the fact that they had coldly distanced themselves from the Baron as he had wrested control of the Wheel from that ancient cuss, Jack Rider, made it all the more satisfying that the Library was now under Riflemen control.

            The first two floors in the west wing of the building had been burnt to a cinder.  This was the work of the Librarians themselves, not the Riflemen.  This also irritated Timothy.  They had sat at the doorstep, sieging the Library for nearly two months because they had direct orders to await the arrival of the General Master, and under no circumstances were they to use their cannons on the Library.  When the General Master arrived, he led a manned attack on the library.  They had been allowed to shell the outer walls, enough to give them a corridor of attack for the soldiers.  This had resulted in a bottleneck which was responsible for heavy losses among his troops.  As far as Timothy was concerned, they should have just fired mortars at the place for two months solid, then swept in and cleaned up the pieces.

            However, the higher command seemed concerned that as little damage be done to the Library as possible, elevating this damned building and all its twice-damned books above the lives of his men.  And what was the end result?  As soon as the Librarians realized they would lose the battle, they started torching their own archives, the very resource they were sworn to protect!  His men ended up having to run buckets across to the west wing to stop the spread of the fire while the battle was still going on.  Timothy would have been happy to see the whole place burn.

            He finally found the General Master on the twenty-second floor, nesting in a corner like a particularly hungry spider.  The General Master’s lean form was spread out in a window seat with his long legs digging their spurs into a beautifully stained mahogany table top which was, in all likelihood, brought over from the Old World a century ago.  The window stretched floor to ceiling, almost twenty feet, with a stained glass image of someone historical and important that Timothy did not know, and it provided a breathtaking view of the Library courtyard, still busy with Riflemen soldiers, as well as the valley stretching to the remarkable city beyond.

            General Master Jared Mann sat wrapped around an enormous tome that he was tooling through with his long, agile fingers.  As always, the first thing to strike Timothy about him was the heir of restlessness he had outside the field of battle.  Timothy had never known another man of such high rank who would always throw himself headlong into battle along with his troops.

            The second thing to strike Timothy was just how in awe of this man he remained.  Every time they met, Timothy felt as if he was sixteen again, as this very same man had personally placed a rifle in his hand and told him to guard the Pylons while the Riflemen led the charge on Stella-Terra.  Timothy had been crushed that he was not allowed to ride with the rest of the Riflemen, but at the same time he had been overwhelmed by the presence of the man who had told him to guard the valley wall. 

            There was another man here, too.  He leaned in the corner looking like a scarecrow held together by waist belts.  They wound around his arms, his torso, and his legs.  The belts were cracked and dusty from the trail, in contrast to the General Master, whose clothes looked clean and pressed.  The Riflemen had a joke that the so-called “Dust Devil” was the one man among them that was always free of dust.

            Timothy shot a disapproving look at the belted man, whose fingers had been playing the hilt of his sword ever since Timothy entered the room.  The General Master looked up from his book and nodded.

            “Lieutenant Wescott.”

Timothy saluted.

            “At ease,” the General Master responded.  “You’ve met my new friend, Rando?”

            “I haven’t had the pleasure, Sir.”  Timothy had, of course, seen Rando when the General Master had come riding in on his buckboard a week ago.  Rando was a mercenary the General Master seemed to have developed a fondness for.  He was even credited with the decisive play in the battle against Quillan.  Rumor had it that the night before the battle began, General Master Jared Mann had given private instructions to Rando telling him to sneak into the Library, locate the Master Librarian, and assassinate him.  One of the men had told Timothy that on the final surge, he had found Rando leaning in a doorway on the upper floors of the Library calmly wiping blood from his sword.

            There were few things Timothy liked less than Mercenaries.  They reminded him of the Gunslingers from the valley, who had, throughout history, been at odds with the Riflemen.  Before they were ever called Gunslingers, they were the Muskethom, the bodyguards and assassins for royalty in the Old World.  While the Riflemen had descended from the foot soldiers, grunts on the lines of battle, Muskethom had always received special treatment, better pay, and had been asked to put less on the line than the foot soldiers.  The ancient animosity that had festered between them had found its outpouring on the day the Riflemen rode in and razed Stella-Terra, the last holdout of the hated Gunslingers. 

            If the General Master noticed Timothy’s disapproval of Rando, he made no indication of it. 

            “Rando will be working directly for me for a little while, Lieutenant.”

            “Just as you say, Sir.”

            “I have to congratulate you, Mr. Wescott.  Your offensive here was an astounding success.”

            “I’m sure the credit belongs to you, Sir.”

Jared waived this away.  “What is being done with the prisoners?”

            “We’ve taken over the local constabulary in town and converted it into a prison camp, Sir.  The men are displaying a certain lack of self-control, and several of the prisoners have died due to rough treatment.”

            A scowl crept across General Master Mann’s face, and Timothy had to fight to keep from fidgeting.

            “Mr. Wescott, I need those prisoners alive until I say so.  I would appreciate it if you would make this clear to the men.  There will be discipline if I find myself unsatisfied that my orders are being carried out.”

            Timothy knew what this meant: summary execution of all offending officers and their superiors without trial.  Probably without warning.  Jared Mann had a reputation for strolling in, quick drawing, and killing someone who had displeased him, then leaving without a word.

            “I will make certain that your orders are clear.”

Jared smiled.  “Good, Timothy, good.  I know I can count on you.  Now while you’re over there telling them what I said, I need you to find the highest ranking Librarian you can and bring him up here.  You can take a small detail to escort him.”

            Timothy saluted, turned on his heal, and left.

            “Why,” The man known as the Dust Devil idly pondered aloud, “would a group of men who spent their entire lives raised to protect the written word begin to systematically destroy those same texts when invasion was threatened?”

            Rando stood mutely in the corner, the bandana covering his mouth and throat fluttering and the belts at his chest creaking as testimony to his breathing.  Jared Mann smiled and produced three books, face down on the table.

            “Take a look at these three books.  One is ostentatiously titled ‘The Holy Bible,’ the second ‘The Genesis of Life,’ and the third ‘The Collected Mythos of the Western Wheel.’  Aside from the use of the word ‘The’ in the title of each, do you notice any immediate similarities?  Anything stand out to you?”

            Rando breathed.

            “This small golden logo in the lower left corner of each book cover.  Pull out any book in this Library, and I guarantee you will find this same imprint.  And do you recognize it from anywhere?  You should.  It’s the same image of a golden tree that you’ve seen all the Librarians wear around their neck.  Interesting little fact is, this tree is represented in some way by each of these three books.  It’s the tree of Knowledge, or as the Holy Bible calls it ‘The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.’

            “It is the sacred object of the Librarians, and the only thing they worship.  So, of course, it’s reasonable to say that it is the symbol they would choose to represent those things they print themselves.  You see, Rando, or perhaps you do not, it doesn’t greatly matter to me, but the Librarians have a full, working printing press somewhere in this building.  Each of the books in the main building of the library is simply a copy of the original text.  Meaning the original texts must be hidden in a secure place that fire could never reach.  Why else would they choose to use the weapons they do?”

            Rando began to walk away.  Jared held up a hand.  “No, my friend, don’t go troubling yourself to search for their storehouse of knowledge.  With a little persuasion, I am sure our literary friend will provide us that information without the trouble of searching.  Besides, I want you here for the interview.  There’s another matter involved that I believe is MUCH more suited to your talents.”

            Rando breathed.

Lieutenant Timothy Wescott rode into town shotgun on a military buckboard.  This model was called the Rolling Fort due to the heavy iron plates that had been bolted to the sides, interrupted by regular slots for rifle-rests around the sides.  Some of these wagons even had Gatling guns sticking off the backside, but not the one Timothy chose.  Of course, this wagon also needed a whole team of horses to pull, and it was slow, which irritated Timothy, but his horse was stabled up in town, and this was the only wagon headed into Quillen this morning.  Besides, he would need the wagon to transport the prisoner back.

The town of Quillen was descended from one of the first colonies to be established on these shores, and had been built with the architecture of the old world very much in mind all red brick with white trim, flagstone on roof and street.  It all seemed helplessly out-of-date to Timothy.  He had been raised in Flagland, on the outskirts of the city of New Landam, a place that was always changing.  Timothy was used to change, embraced it.  He would not be working for the Baron if that weren’t the case.  Well, that was not true.  The Baron had forced many young men into service with the Riflemen since the fall of Stella-Terra to support his ongoing campaigns against the Scraelings. 

The cart jostled past the hill where the Riflemen were constructing a Courthouse.  It had been a while since they had had to do this.  Most towns had received their Baron-appointed Judge a decade ago.  Quillen was one of the last holdouts still espousing loyalty to the old flag of The Republic.  Now it was under martial law until the Judge and his Bloodhounds were in place.  The local lawmen had already been dismissed from duty, and the local jail was housing the Librarians who had not died in the attack on Quillen.

The jailhouse was a two-story rectangular building.  It had a nodding acquaintance with architectural flair, having the same brick structure, modestly arched main entrance, and white molding between the floors.  Inside there was a lobby office and doors opening to rows upon rows of jail cells. 

            Timothy had a hard time believing the proud town of Quillen had ever needed this much jail space.  There couldn’t have been more than a half-dozen offenders on any given day.  But the town had a history descending from uptight religious zealots who had been kicked out of their own country for their religious practices, and he imagined they must have locked up any number of men found drinking on Sundays or saying curse words in the presence of ladies. 

The lobby of the jailhouse was crowded with Riflemen.  Most of them seemed to be moving around long, brass staffs with ornate scrollwork ascending them, ending in a stylized carving of a tree on top.

            There was a man sitting behind what probably used to be a Sheriff’s desk lazily calling orders to no one in particular.

“Watch that you don’t push them plungers, men, you’ve seen what these gidgets is capable of!  Don’t drop ‘em so hard!  You’ll spurt th’ whole place an THEN where will you be?  I said CAREFUL, gal-dang-it!”

All the while he sat carelessly sawing away at the end of one of these staffs, not even looking at the men he was bossing.  The staff itself was about 77 inches long, Timothy estimated, or had been before the man behind the desk began sawing at it.  Shiny little curls of bronze fell away from the end of the staff, piling up on the floor carelessly.

            All at once, the end of the staff burst like a spigot, and a clear liquid reeking like rotting eggs spurted onto the floor.

“Get a bucket!” the grisley Rifleman behind the desk shouted.  But there was no bucket to be had, and the rotten-smelling liquid ran over the floor fizzing and then settling into pools lined with a yellowish scum.

            “Great,” the Rifleman grumbled, “now I will have to start all over again.  There’s got to be a town well or a smithy out there somewhere that will have a galdurn bucket.” He grabbed the jacket-cuff of the unfortunate young Infantryman that happened to be closest the desk, “Go fetch it, Soldier!”

            The young man saluted, then headed out the door with the expression of a schoolboy that had just escaped school early.  Timothy watched the entire affair with distaste.  The man at the desk was a grissly older Rifleman, probably in his fifties, now, with iron grey hair running down into his unseemly muttonchops.  Timothy had been a Rifleman as long as this man, and they were the same rank, or Timothy would have given him a dressing down for his careless handling of the dangerous staffs they had gathered up from the Librarians after they had surrendered.

            The Librarians had an affinity for unusual weapons.  During the siege, several of the Riflemen’s artillery wagons had suddenly burst into flame, causing the powder charges to explode.  This had caused several casualties and a heavy loss of equipment.  Later they had found devices mounted to the higher towers of the Library that were made of concave mirrors and magnifying lenses.

            When they had finally breached the wall, the first line of troops had run in, and then frozen, undulating on their feet as their arms flailed and their heads whipped around, blue flames flickering from their eyes. 

The General Master had heaved a weary sigh and grabbed Timothy’s rifle from him.  Taking aim, he fired a single shot, and something like a telegraph wire inside the wall whipped around and came to rest jerkily on the courtyard floor.  At once the dancing Riflemen collapsed, their dead bodies smoking.  The General Maser smirked and dropped the rifle back into Timothy’s hands.

“Charge on,” he said, making a shooing gesture with his long, pale fingers.

            The Riflemen had been equal to the challenge of the sentries with rifles that had tried to assail them from the windows and walls of the Library.  The Librarians may have been many things, but no one could match the Riflemen at the art of sharpshooting, and many sentries fell from the wall before the Librarians gave up that tactic and resumed their attacks of unexpected wizardry. 

            Their next tactic was the most devastating of all.  When the Riflemen had set dynamite charges on the heavy, bronzed doors leading into the library proper, they had breached it with relative ease.  The plunger was pushed and a clap of thunder rolled and reverberated off the walls of the Library Court.  The doors sagged inward as if they had given up their will to resist the oncoming Riflemen.

            They had expected the Librarians to be gathered in the main lobby ready to make a last ditch effort to defend their treasures.  Instead, there had been nobody apparent inside the door.  Timothy issued the command for a few men to advance while the rest remained to cover them against any attacks from within.  The men had entered the lobby, Rifles drawn, searching in all directions for where the attack might come.  The men had advanced maybe twelve yards past the doors when the streams of liquid fire shot from between the pillars, turning the men into short lived pyres that disintegrated into flaming skeletons.  These bones quickly fell to the ground, but the burning went on.

            This was the worst part of the assault.  The Librarians all carried bronze staffs, this was a well known fact, but no one had ever suspected that these staves had plungers that could be pressed on the top shooting out a liquid that would burn with unbelievable heat and could not be put out.  In fact, water seemed to make it burn higher and hotter.

            Fortunately, each staff had only one really good stream of fire in it.  Of course after they had issued their burning charge, the Librarians would turn the staves themselves into weapons, fighting with skill and ferocity.  This was not a large obstacle for the Riflemen, who had been taught to turn their rifles into hand-to-hand weapons in close quarters.  The Riflemen also had the advantage of the large, knife-like bayonets on the end of their Rifles.   

            Nevertheless, the casualties during the battle had been much larger than anyone could have predicted.  Timothy felt a certain grudge toward the General Master on this point.  He had seen the General in combat, and it was a breathtaking affair.  The General fought with a seemingly supernatural speed and precision.  He had been on the frontlines many times and Timothy had never seen him so much as grazed after a battle.  Timothy was certain that if the General Master had deemed to fight alongside the troops, the casualties would have been minimized.

            But for some reason, the General Master had chosen to sit this battle out, and largely let Timothy take command.

            It had been like that more and more in the past few years.  Timothy had first caught the General Masters eye on the day of the assault on Stella Terra.  There he had manage to capture alive a young Gunslinger, about his age at the time.  He had found the boy attempting to escape the valley, and had brought him down with a well-placed shot.  Bringing this boy before the General Master, Timothy was shocked to learn he had been one of Jack Rider’s own sons.

            There was some nasty business that ensued where the boy had challenged the General Master to a duel, but after this unfortunate affair was dealt with, the General Master turned his attention for perhaps the first time on young Timothy.

            “Well done,” he had said, sincerely.  Since that time he had taken Timothy with him in most battles, instructing him personally in the technique of warfare.  This had caused a lot of resentment among the ranks, especially considering Timothy’s youth.

            Lately, though, the Master General had been handing very important assignments over to Timothy personally, and either allowing Timothy to see to them without the General Master’s involvement, or if he DID attend, the General Master would sit aside and watch Timothy work without comment.

            Timothy turned back to the matter at hand.  Snagging the sleeve of the closest rifleman, a Sergeant by his rank insignia, Timothy said, “Bring me the highest ranking Librarian you can find in the cells.  Make it quick!”

            “Yes Lieutenant,” he snapped a salute and hurried off.

The man that they brought out to Timothy was bordering on elderly.  Stripped of the burgundy robes with their golden embroidery, and his bronze staff, he was a short, pitiable figure in an unremarkable and stained-grey wool prison uniform.  Next to Timothy he seemed like a child in stature, but his eyes held a quiet dignity above his hooked nose which stood out under his combed back and thinning grey hair.

            “You’re coming with me,” Timothy addressed him coldly, “The General Master wants to ask you a few questions.”

            “Would that be the character they call the Dust Devil?” the Librarian replied with genuine curiosity.  Timothy glared at him.

            “What is your name, Librarian?”

            “I am Chief Archivist Madison.”

            “Well, Archivist, you will be referred to by your rank and your name.  I would recommend highly that you treat the General Master with the same respect and avoid using colloquial names in his presence.  His patience and time are limited, as are mine,” and then, signaling to the two Corporals that were to serve as his escort squadron, Timothy marched out with the Archivist in tow.

            It was an hour and forty five minutes later when they finally found themselves back in the corner the General Master chose as his reading nook.  The man was much the way Timothy had left him.  He had his feet up, still, and a pair of bifocals perched on his nose.  He was casually perusing a book titled The Genesis of Life.  He hovered over the page he was reading, finishing it before he looked up.  As he did, he directed his gaze at the two Corporals. 

            “Dismissed.”

Timothy turned to go with them. 

            “Not you, Lieutenant.  I want you to stay for this.”  His expression became playful and he flicked a finger at the large iron shackles that were hanging heavily from the Librarians thin, frail hands.

            “I think we can do without those.  I’m going to take a risk and say that if he breaks free the three of us will be able to handle any violence that might ensue.”

            Timothy scowled at Rando as he jingled the key into the irons.  The man had not moved so far as Timothy could tell.

            “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

Without looking at Timothy the General said evenly, “Rando stays, Lieutenant.  With any luck his next job will come from our discussion.”

            “If I may say something?” the Librarian spoke up.  Everyone’s heads turned toward him.

            “I don’t see any point in avoiding cooperation with you,” the Librarian continued, “We gambled to protect our hold on the Library and lost.  However, I must insist that we discuss arrangements for freeing the remaining Librarians.  We can’t be held as prisoners of war.  There’s no war left to fight.  Stella-Terra and Jack Rider fell ten years ago. And you simply can not execute us all for protecting that which belonged to us!”  The Librarian was working up quite a righteous ire, and Timothy winced.  One of the bywords of the General Master was unpredictability.  The man was just as likely to engage the Archivist in word games as he was to pull out his great, blackiron pistol and kill the man in cold blood for his insolence.  It suddenly occurred to Timothy that he should have brought several Librarians in one go, or he was likely to end up carting in new ones all day.

            Instead, however, the Commander simply ignored the question entirely.  Removing his feet from the table, he leaned forward, starring intensely at the Librarian for a few moments.

            “What was so important to you about this Library that you would give your life for it?”

The Librarian looked puzzled for a moment, as if he had just been asked why the sky was blue.

            “This Library represents the most complete collection of knowledge in the known world. Why would you invest so much time in taking this Library from us by force if it was not valuable?”

            “So it is your assertion, then, that knowledge represents power?”

            “Why do I get the sense you are baiting me?  I would say the perception of knowledge is power.  People are likely to believe you and to follow you if they think you know more than they do.”

            “So it has nothing to do with truth?”

The Librarian issued a tired sigh.  “Was there some reason you brought me here?”

Timothy saw the Master General’s look of irritation that the Librarian was not accepting the challenge to a philosophical debate, but he was not on the verge of shooting the man.

            “Before our men took the Library, your people set fire to the first two levels of the Library.  These sections contained, among other things, a complete collection of government records.  Am I correct?”

            “You are.”

            “One of the chief reasons I oversaw this coup personally was to obtain certain of these government records.  It would appear that even in defeat, you have succeeded in robbing me of my prize.”

A small look of satisfaction flitted momentarily across the Librarians face.  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t apologize.”

            “Oh, there’s no need to apologize.  Because I believe the record I was primarily concerned with left this Library before I ever arrived.”

            “I don’t take your meaning.”

At that moment the General Master leaned further forward.  All pretense of friendly banter or quiet amusement left his face and he was transformed into the man people called the Dust Devil.  Gooseflesh crawled up and down Timothy’s backbone.

            “I need to know what happened to the journal of the last President of the West Wheel, and you had better be able to answer my question, because there may not be any Librarians left to set free if I cannot be satisfied.”  He paused a moment to let the threat settle in.  “Tell me,” he continued, “About the Rider.”

            Ezekiel Taft was a man who talked with God.  He asked God for things, as most men will do.  He also complained to God, as most men will do.  He would whine to God, argue with God, and shout at God.  He would also apologize to God, thank God, praise God for His many virtues, and, very frequently, listen to God.  In other words, he had a relationship with God.

            Ezekiel was a man of about Fifty with wild grey hair that swept back from his temples and plunged into sideburns threatening to become a full beard.  He was broad-shouldered and hardened from a life of labor.

He had set out that morning to preach against the city.  It was high time someone did, and soon, very soon, it would fall if it did not humble itself before God and repent of its sins.  Already the Riflemen had gathered around the walls of the Library, and the city was filled with fear.

He wore his best, grey Sunday suit with the string tie, and carried his large Bible with the leather cover worn from so many years of use, a decorative cross standing in relief from its front cover.

Ezekiel always considered a matter of divine prophecy (and this not surprising, God is the motivator of all things) that his mother had chosen to name him after the so-called mad prophet. 

            “Your ways and thoughts are higher than ours, Lord,” Ezekiel reminded God of that which he already knew, “And You have chosen madmen and fools to confound the wise,” Ezekiel finished the thought, more free-associating than anything.

            He had risen this morning rolling off the left side of his bed.  He had been doing that for the better part of a year now.  The year before it had been the right side of the bed.  His side would grow stiff, and he would have difficulty sleeping some nights, but he did not complain.  This was a ritual, and he would maintain it to uncover the mystery that lay at the end of the ritual.

            He had dressed and descended from his little parish atop the hill, so situated because the city zoning committee had decided that the town already had “A Church on every corner, and these run by ministers with actual degrees in doctrine,” and threw him out on his ear.  Ezekiel could not deny the plain facts of the matter.  Quillen was firmly situated in the southern regions of the Wheel, an area so entrenched in religiosity and church-a-hism that there was, quite literally, a church on ever corner.  Sometimes two.  And yet, for all this, the city had sinned in the eyes of God and was nigh unto destruction.

            Ezekial was not so arrogant as to assume that he would be able to turn the tide for a city so festering with religion it was immune to it.  But all praise to God whose power to change is unlimited.  And that was really the problem, when you got down to it.  Those arrogant children in the valley were all too cock-sure of themselves without ever acknowledging that their intellect or their wealth, or their prosperity, or whatsoever else they put their faith in were all gifts from God: gifts as easily taken as given.  And if credit was not given where it was due, God was sure going to start taking things away until they showed a little appreciation for his power and grace, Praise the Lord and Amen.

            And so it was this message he had set off to give: praise God… or get ready for a healthy heaping of his chastisement. 

            Ezekial had chosen to walk down, and so was forced to make his trip on the little foot-trail that had been worn along the main road by deer and the Scraeling hunters that followed them long before horses were ever introduced to the Wheel. 

As he walked down the mountain, his hand reached out absently to the side of the road where the trees and brush grew among the broken granite and quarts covered with dead leaves.  He snagged a long, straight oaken branch that lay drying on the rocks, and slammed it firmly into the dark, leaf-fed dirt.  He grunted at the good, solid feeling it had, and continued on his way.

            “Pride.  That’s what it all boils down to, God.  Not to make a sermon of it, but in eating from the tree of Knowledge, Adam told you to go away and ever since you’ve been easily ignorable for those who don’t actively seek your face.  ‘Course the result is that we spend so much dang time staring in the mirror, the only face we see is ours.”  Preaching to God was a bad habit, and Ezekiel knew it.  But preaching was how he drew out his thoughts, and God was always a willing audience.  During this little speech to the sky, Ezekiel had not noticed the shadow that had fallen over him.  He looked up to see the source.  It was a tattered young man just barely fitting his legs over an enormous horse that was clearly not intended for riding.  He was not remarkable from any other saddle-tramp that frequented these roads, but Ezekiel was startled by the dead look in his face.  His first thought was not of the Biblical tales of Adam being formed from clay or of Lazarus summoned forth from the grave, but of the stories of the golem, clay statues formed by Hebrew mystics, waiting to be summoned forth into life by The Word.  He was a man who looked not quite alive.  Yet.

            The old familiar difficulty settled over Ezekiel.  Here was a young man who might well need a listening ear, or a word of encouragement.  But he’d been called a meddler before, and rightly so.  Still, what harm in introducing himself to the young man?  He was headed down to preach against a city, Mercy Be!  If that wasn’t meddling what was?  And what was so wrong with meddling, anyway, if it saved a few souls?  The problem was, it so seldom did.

            They had fallen into a quiet stride, side-by-side.  Ezekial had unconsciously quickened his step to keep up with the rider, while the man himself seemed so lost in intense meditation that he was not goading on his ride.  As a result, the horse was meandering along at a pace that could not rightly be called a canter.

            “Right pretty day,” Ezekiel offered by way of introduction.  The young man didn’t seem aware that Ezekiel was talking to him, though the horse looked at the Minister with an unsettling intelligence in his eye.  Ezekiel tried a different approach, “This is a dim time to be entering the town of Quillen, young man.”

            This caused the young man to look up.  “It always is,” he replied simply.

            “My name is Ezekiel.  Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The young man looked unhappy to have been trapped in a conversation, but Ezekiel didn’t mind.  People need people, and creating community was part of his business.  This boy looked like he needed a lesson in appreciating company.

            “I’m Eric.”

            “That’s a fine old world name, Friend.  And what business brings you to Quillen?”

            “I need to get a book from the Library.”

Ezekiel shook his head and clicked his tongue in pity.

            “Might as well turn back now, Eric.  The Library is surrounded by Riflemen placing a siege on the place.  They say the very Dust Devil himself is coming to town, and then,” he snapped his fingers, “Stella-Terra all over again.”

Eric’s look shifted slightly to one of resignation.  Ezekiel felt his disappointment.

            “Was it a very important book?” he asked.

            “It is.  Tell me, I hear that Quillen Library has pools and fountains running around the gardens inside its walls.  Where does the water come from?”

This was an odd question, and Ezekiel puzzled it over before answering.

            “There’s a water table under Quillen that is fed by the nearby Aganani River.  A windmill draws the water up from the table and pumps it into a water tower that feeds the cisterns around Quillen.  Why do you ask?”

Eric considered this, and then absently responded, “No, that won’t work.  They will already have disabled the water system as part of the siege.”

Ezekiel started.  “You’re trying to figure a way to break through the siege and enter the Library by yourself!  Young man, I’ve told you, its impossible!”

The boy shrugged as if to say it didn’t greatly concern him if he were to live or die.

            “Why,” Ezekiel asked, trying another tactic entirely, “is it so mortally important that you get this book?”

            Eric seemed to consider this as if for the first time.  A look passed over his face that told Ezekiel that he was groping for a lie, a line, to tell this meddling stranger so that he would go away.  At last there seemed to be a defeat in this internal battle, and the boy replied.

            “Because it’s all I’ve got.” 

The kid said it, but there was no passion in his voice.  As if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was Ezekiel.  The older man looked down at his Bible and thought about those words.  Because it’s all I’ve got.  So similar and yet so different from his own feelings.  It’s everything I need, he thought.

            “What book is this?”

            “It’s my father’s personal journal.”

            “The Quillen Library holds many rare books, but I’ve never heard it having people’s diaries sitting around in it.”

            “My father was someone… special.”  Like a forsaken boy or an adopted child talking about a man he had never met, there was a foreign sound in his voice.  Pride, perhaps, but also distance, as if he could not claim his father as his own.  Or like his father never claimed him.  Ezekiel looked hard at the boy.

            “A man’s heritage is important, son.  But it ain’t worth the cost of your life.”

            “My life ain’t worth much, Mister.”

            “That’s where your wrong, son.  In God’s eyes, every soul is priceless.”

The boy’s eyes said that this was not a point he cared to argue.  Still, he didn’t seem much swayed. Every man’s ways seem right in his own eyes, the Reverend thought.

A roar of reverberating thunder rolled down the long mountain passes, growling and snarling with an awesome voice.  Ezekiel lost whatever contemplation he was involved in.  A frown creased his face as he saw for the first time the low, dark clouds that were gathering just over the hills like an army on the verge of a surprise onslaught.

But his voice was not in the thunder, Ezekiel thought.  He looked at the ratty and disparaged man sitting on top of the mount that seemed to mock his moth-eaten status and thought, out of weakness, strength.  The great joke of the cosmos, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.  Maybe this young man WILL break through the ranks of Riflemen, scale the walls of the Library, and steal away with his father’s book, just to spit in the eye of the mighty Baron.  Why not?  Strength through weakness, right?

            Ezekiel felt a blanket of depression descend slowly over him.  Rain.  He was going to preach against the city, and a storm was coming.  How would he be heard over the commotion of the storm?  Who would be in the streets to hear his message?

            The boy, he noticed, had had the opposite reaction to the rolling thunder.  His head had perked up, and a look of interested calculation had reached his face.  He almost smiled.

            It was nearly summer, and the storm was liable to be quick, sudden, and torrential.

            “Son…” Ezekiel began to address the boy.

            “No time,” the boy responded, and dug his spurs into his horses sides.  The horse hunched up, almost grinning with the opportunity to exercise its awesome muscles, massed around each of its thick legs.  And just like that the boy was off over the hillside that looked over the vast encampment of Riflemen gathered around the broad walls of Quillen Library.

            Ezekiel was alone again.  “Dear Father in Heaven,” he prayed, “What the hell was that?”

            Eric’s face was flushed as much with frustration as with excitement.  Frustration seemed to be the fuel that drove him.  He found that he was either frustrated, or he was depressed.  Of the two, he preferred the frustration.

            His perfect opportunity, perhaps his ONLY opportunity, was approaching much too quickly, and he had yet to form a decent plan. 

            The spring was melting into summer, and he knew very well the type of weather that was fast approaching from the hills.  In minutes, a wall of water would be visible at the crest of the mountain.  In an eye-blink, it would sweep downward into the valley, and for a few precious minutes, the rain would be a hard, driving force that would blind the eyes of everyone in the valley.  And that was his opportunity.  During the few minutes that no one could see (including himself, let’s not forget that) he would have to somehow slip through the barrier of Riflemen and into the heavily fortified walls of the Library.  And the worst part was, he had no plan! 

            The horse beneath him seemed in quite the opposite mood.  It was Eric’s experience that thunderstorms made animals nervous, anxious, and frightened.  Not this beast, though.  This one seemed to be grinning at the prospect, and Eric could not seem to keep the excited animal down to the trot he needed to observe the walls of the Library.

            Eric had never actually settled on a name to call the animal.  He never had a mind for names.  He could barely remember the names of his eleven brothers, and had never managed to name any of his pets as a child.  Sometimes, though, he called the horse “Ghost” in honor of Meadow and her “Ghost Herd.”

            Ignoring all this, Eric strained his eyes, desperately memorizing the Library wall and the surrounding army.  And just like that he saw his opportunity.  It wasn’t perfect—nowhere near, in fact, but it was the only opportunity that presented itself, and he could not wait for the army to invade and burn the contents of the Library.  He had come too far to lose the information he sought when it was right in front of him.

            At a corner of the Library wall stood a turret with columns of white brick that had grooves about two feet deep and three feet wide running all the way to the top.  Eric knew of such grooves, had an intimate knowledge of them one might say.  He couldn’t speak to their architectural purpose, but he had used them before, when a slightly younger man, to climb the side of the capitol building, a building of about four stories, and much the same color as the wall of the Library. 

            It was actually quite simple.  His brother Andrew had shown him how.  You placed your back against one wall, and then put your boot-heel to the opposite wall.  Locking your knee, you put your other foot under you, touching the wall behind you, and pushed up.  Then you switched legs and pushed up again.  It had taken maybe ten minutes, and a few rest stops, to climb the capitol building.  By the second story, Eric recalled, he had been feeling his heart fluttering like a sheet in a storm as the ground wheeled beneath him, knowing that one small slip would send him plummeting to a couple of broken legs or worse.

            The Library wall made the capitol building seem about as tall as a sheet of paper is thick.  And, of course, there were many more factors to consider than just the height and whether or not he would have the energy to complete the climb.  Assuming he could work his way through the crowd of soldiers during the rains and be high up the wall by the time the water cleared, there was still the chance that the wall would be slick with rain, that the groove on the wall would channel the torrent of cold rain in a flood directly down on him, and, his favorite chance, the one that an observant rifleman might happen to glance above during the hour or more it would take him to climb to the top, and casually snipe him down from the wall.

            His imagination wheeling with nasty possibilities, he began to search about for some other option, some route hidden in plain sight.  At that moment, the rains hit, and hit hard.

            Abandoning his horse was not something Eric was happy about, but to be fair, he had found very little to be happy about in his life.  And it wouldn’t be the first time he had left the mount behind.  It always seemed to find its way.

            He flung himself from the saddle into the wall of rain, finding his footing from the picture in his mind’s eye of how the hill leading down to the wall looked.  The time for thinking was over.  Thinking at this point could get him killed.  Another lecture from Mr. Stephens: “Before acting, think.  When action is called for, act.  Confuse the two and you may as well go dancing on a snake-bed.”

            This was formulaic of Mr. Stephens’ advice: do this or that, or you’ll wind up dead.  Yeah?  Well where are you NOW Mr. Stephens?  Pretty dead your own self.  Maybe the Gunslingers should have taken advantage of a forty-year siege and launched a counter-offensive thirty or so years before the Dust Devil happened along.

            Thoughts like this were frequent in Rider’s head when he decided he needed anger to fuel his actions.  He tore through the sheets of rain like a salmon swims upstream.  A bleary mass approached in his sight, and he checked his mental map.  He was approaching the perimeter of the Riflemen’s camp.  As hard as it was to do, he slowed himself to a stroll.  Calling attention to himself now would end his little quest pretty neatly. 

            He could see no better than the Riflemen themselves through the great streams of water running down from the sky.  The Scraeling girl who cleaned his father’s house used to talk of such rain as Coyote’s tears, crying for the loneliness he felt in his heart since the Isreen were cast off Heaven’s Mountain.  She told of a time when the whole world was filled with such water, and still the rains came down.  The great warrior slew the white buffalo, and as its skin stretched and stretched from the moisture it absorbed; he stretched it out over the whole Plainlands tying one corner at each of the Great Pillars until his people were protected from the flood that destroyed all the world.  At last, when God saw that the people had learned to respect the Buffalo and Salmon, the Bear and Elk, then Coyote’s tears were dried and God’s smile became a rainbow for all the people to gaze upon in wonder.

            Picking his way carefully through the Riflemen’s camp was a tricky affair.  He was not dressed as one of them, but they were not paying a great amount of attention to what was going on WITHIN the camp, most of them were simply hunkering down under whatever comfort they could find, or just huddling miserably in the rain, waiting for it to pass.

            There was a moment when he bumped into a Rifleman and his heart stopped.  The other man simply grunted a “Watch where you’re going!” without actually looking at him, and the affair was over.

            Finally, with an audible gasp, Eric reached the wall.  It was only then that he realized he had been holding his breath.

            He squeezed into the recess of the massive support column, and immediately realized that, far from channeling the rain down the wall, the groove actually shielded him from rain.  Looking up at the groove rising above him like a highway to the angry sky far, far above him, Eric’s head swam.  How did he ever think this would work?  He was almost ready to give up, when another, more terrible thought passed through his head.  In a moment very soon, the downpour would stop, and then all the Riflemen would be staring directly at him, with those angry, monstrous black rifles that he still saw in his nightmares.

            By the time his heart had stopped drumming in his chest from the thought of the army of Riflemen, he was already high off the ground.

            The trick, Eric discovered entirely by accident, was to stare directly at the wall in front of him.  He had been doing it for several minutes of the climb, and when he chanced a look beneath him, all the terror from what he was doing struck.  So he kept looking at the wall ahead of him, and he was able to recapture the safe feeling again. 

Climbing a wall was not the kind of danger he had been trained for his entire life.  That kind of danger lasted and instant, and you emerged alive or not at all.  This was a slow struggle.  Locking his legs and resting his back against the wall afforded him with plenty of opportunities to rest whenever he felt he needed it.  If he looked up at how far he had to go, or down at the swarm of Riflemen, like black ants in a furious anthill, then the fear alone might cause him to plummet to his death.

            Even with the frequent rests, his legs had begun to burn.  He tried to distract himself from this burning feeling.  He thought about how every crisis he had ever faced seemed to end with him climbing.  Buildings, trees, walls… pylons.  It didn’t seem to matter.  He was forever climbing.

            The rain downpour lasted a total of eleven minutes.  This turned out to be enough time for him to work his way through the army and make a good headway on the climb before visibility returned to the atmosphere.  Even then, the dark clouds continued to loom overhead, just as Eric was hoping they would.  Without the light of the sun, there was more of a chance he would be obscured in the shadows of the turret. 

An hour or so into the climb, or at least it felt that long, Eric chanced a glance above, and growled a curse.  The tunnel that the groove created in the wall made an optical illusion out of the channel.  It seemed to stretch on skyward no matter what kind of progress he made.  Looking down was a better way to judge how high he had climbed, but that was a bit too dangerous to try.  His legs, which had ached dully when he was thirty or so feet off the ground were now searing with fire.  Resting them against the wall only did so much.  The fire in his legs would fade some, but his back would begin to burn with the tension of pushing him up against the wall.  The notion of rest crossed his mind, then crossed it again, and finally became an obsession.  Beyond the thought of rest was the looming terror of knowing that rest would certainly mean death.  Chills ran through his body, goaded on by the wind whipping across the rain-water, but mostly from the spine-crushing feeling that he had committed himself to a course of action that was actually remarkably stupid.

            And then another thought struck him and only after all this time.  Climbing up this way was fairly easy, but it was next to impossible to descend the same way.  That was almost comforting.  He had no choice but to go all the way up. 

            In a slow panic, he carefully reached upwards, grabbing at his hat in a creep and pulling down with the same slow pressure to keep it from flying off his head.  It had only just occurred to him that if the wind up here swept his father’s hat off his head, he would never see it again.

            Beyond his little alcove the entire world spread.  The alcove faced north and east, showing him the plains with their long grass turning into squat bushes and finally into tall trees, already finished their pale, budding leaves and now spreading their dark greenery all up the mountain to the rocky peaks above that wouldn’t grow anything at all.  He saw all this in the dark angry gray light of the storm, sweeping and whipping the mountainside like a mad dungeon master. 

It occurred to Eric that this was the highest he had ever climbed in his life.  This wasn’t actually true, but Eric believed it, and certainly this was the most precarious perch he ever had.  One other thing that Rider was not aware of was the fact that just beneath him, an old acquaintance was looking up at him right then.

            This was the part of the story that Jared Mann, the Tenten Twister Man, had already heard.  It was an episode that Timothy had related in a report he delivered immediately upon the Commander’s arrival before the dust from Rando’s cart had settled.

            “Tell me everything of importance that has happened here during your siege, Lieutenant,” Jared issued in a brisk order, waving away Timothy’s salute, and handing the reigns of the cart to Rando.  Timothy saw that Rando had, in fact, been in the driver’s spot, but the General was not a man to easily give control of anything away.  Rando had born all this out in a brooding silence, as he did everything.  Even then, without knowing who this man was, Timothy felt a pang of… what?  Was it jealousy, perhaps?  That a man he considered a mentor had enjoyed the intimacy of a long trail-trek with this strange and unfamiliar man?

            Whatever the case, Timothy related the enemy activity, the ammunition situation and the overall spirit of the men, and of course, the strategies he had been employing in the siege.  Then he paused.

            “There was one other peculiar event that occurred, about a week back.”

The Captain turned his head.  “I’m listening.”

            Timothy stuck his head cautiously out of the tent.  He had gotten fairly drenched before he managed to grope his way to a tent, and wait the miserable few minutes for the squall to pass.  It didn’t really occur to Timothy at the time except as perhaps a very peripheral thought how dangerous the loss of visibility these rain-storms caused might be.  Armies had been dealing with bad weather conditions for thousands of years.  Weather was weather, and what could you do?  What Timothy had done was to stare bleakly from the tent door watching with passive distaste as the rain dripped from the brim of his hat.

But the rain passed, as rain always does, or at least the worst of it had passed.  Looking at the sky, Timothy was convinced that they were due for a drizzle for the rest of the day.  Oh well.  All the more reason to remain alert.  With the kind of devious wizardry the Librarians had displayed, who knew how they would use rain to their advantage?  Timothy already knew they could use sunlight to devastating effect, and as a result had had to place their artillery and supplies out of direct sight of the Library’s towers.

“Corporal,” Timothy called, prompting a tired salute from the man he was addressing, “Have each of the Point Commanders send a runner with a full report,

and I want all the sharp-shooters to scan the wall.  Stay extra sharp, that rain-storm put us at a disadvantage, and I’ll be damned if I let those crafty Librarians get the best of us again!”

          The Corporal threw off another salute and turned to report to the post.  Timothy took a moment to break open the chamber on his rifle and ensure that it had remained dry.  He replaced the round within the chamber just to be safe, then expertly ran the barrel on the underside of his uniform jacket to make certain that it was dried.  Later, he promised himself, he would oil it down.

          When he was finished with the rifle maintenance he sighted along the barrel and began scanning the wall.  Once he had completed a quick up/down/side-to-side sweep, he switched to sighting with the scope and began to scan the top of the Library wall.  This was no medieval fortress, of course.  There were no archers on the walls or sharpshooters, for that matter, as in some of the western forts.  But the Librarians had their secrets, and there was no telling from what quarter a surprise might come.

            Something caught Timothy’s eye.  He had to pull his eye back from the scope and find his place on the wall.  Only then did he see it.

            High on the wall, creeping up one seam in the turret was what appeared to be a man, wedged bodily into the crack.  Timothy gawked.  He put the eyepiece back to his face and frowned into it running it up the seam until he found the man again.  The man in the crack appeared to be laboriously pushing himself up with his legs, then drawing his legs up beneath him, one at a time, and then pushing up again.  As Timothy watched, the man did this three times, each time, gaining a good yard on his progress.  He would be to the top of the wall before very long, Timothy thought.  Absurd sums ran through Timothy’s head.  The wall was about 300 feet tall.  The climber was making about three feet every time he pushed up with his legs.  He would have to do it 100 times to climb all the way to the top.  Or thereabouts.  It was quite a workout, Timothy thought.  He would hate to have to do that himself.

            Timothy grabbed the nearest Rifleman, a Private soldier he had never spoken to before, and pointed at the wall.

            “Do you see that?”

            “Do I see what, Sir?” the Private asked, clearly shaken by the sudden attention from a senior officer.

            “Right there, near the top of that turret!”

The Private maintained a frantic look as his eyes shot all over the wall trying to see what Timothy was indicating.  Impatient, Timothy took the soldier’s head in between his hands and forced it to the position where it should be pointing right at the climber.

            “Right… THERE!” Timothy exclaimed.  For a moment the glazed look of incomprehension remained fixed on the soldiers face.  Then a dawning look of discovery erupted in its place.

            “I see it, Sir!  There’s a man on the wall!  How is he DOING that?”

            “Never mind, Soldier.  He won’t be doing it for much longer.”

Timothy raised his rifle, black iron casing with blackwood hilt, to his eye, sighted through the scope, and fired.

            There is a story that Jared Mann would be very familiar with.  It involves one of the last battles fought between the Scraelings and the white man before Jack Rider sealed the truce between the two people groups.

            In this battle, the white men had entrenched their forces at the top of a small hill that swept down into a rolling, grassy plain before rising to another small hill on which the Scraeling forces were gathered. 

            There was an intense crossfire between the two sides, the whites loading and firing their musket rifles as quickly as possible, and the reds firing off long-volleys of arrows that arched high overhead before plummeting down into the white encampment. 

            To the wondering eyes of both sides, Choquatta, then a younger War Chief, came strolling out into the valley between the crossfire.  Immediately the whites re-aimed their rifles and began firing directly at the unguarded Scraeling Brave.

            Heedless of the patches of dirt exploding all around him, Choquatta removed his blanket from his waist, rolled it out into the air and settled it to the ground as if he were preparing for a picnic lunch.  The frustrated whites continued to fire at the stationary target, not 50 yards away, but no musket-ball touched him.  To the amazed eyes of both sides, the War Chief sat down Indian-style, pulled out his pipe, and enjoyed a lengthy smoke, while the whites fairly exhausted their ammunition trying to hit him.

            By the time he stood again, the ground around him was a chewed up patch of dirt, deep bullet holes marking the place where grass once grew.  He stood, re-rolled his blanket and replaced it, and then signaled his Braves to charge.  The whites, running low on ammunition, were forced to retreat from the onslaught of Scraelings, screaming a triumphant war-cry.

            This is a property that the Scraelings called “Strong Medicine.”  It is a test of wills between warriors.  The Scraelings believed, and so did the Dust Devil, that the warrior with the strongest will and the greatest strength of character would be invincible before the weapons of a weaker-willed enemy.

            Eric gathered his legs under him painfully.  He had preformed this exercise countless times now, and had stopped looking towards the top, because he was afraid the distance might cause him to despair, weaken, and fall.

            Instead, he removed all thoughts from his head, as Mr. Stephens had instructed him to do so long ago. 

            “Focus on the goal.  Find the sweet-spot, and aim at it with your mind before your gun ever touches your palm.  A single shot fired with focus is worth a sky full of lead that’s been fired in a panic.”

            So Rider was focusing, aiming at the top of the wall with his mind and shutting out all other thoughts.

            He pushed up with his burning legs.  There was a loud ‘PANG’ and he felt fragments of brick cut into his body.  A second later he heard the distant rolling of a rifle-report.  His concentration was broken.  He opened his eyes and saw the spot, inches from his body, where a bullet had struck the wall.  If he had not pushed up at that moment, it would have struck his heart.  Out of instinct, he scanned the valley below for the wisp of smoke that would indicate where the shot had come from.  He saw it, but it didn’t matter.  If one Rifleman had seen him and fired at him, hundreds more were about to follow.  Now the concentration and calm he had felt were all gone, and panic, his old enemy, had set in.  He began climbing like a mad man, not bothering to gather his legs and push up, but rather walking up the crevice with his legs and hands, scraping his back painfully against the wall behind him.

            Timothy cursed loudly.  The shot he had fired had been perfect; aimed directly at the heart of the climber.  How could he have missed?

            “Riflemen!” Timothy bellowed, “North Wall! Twelve o’clock!  We have a climber!  Aim and fire!”

The order was passed along the wall in regular shouts, this was what the Riflemen were trained for.  There was some confusion as soldiers scanned for the climber, but soon Rifles were being drawn to shoulders and before long an eruption of shots rang against the wall and reverberated across the valley.  Before long the air was thick with smoke, and Timothy called a cease-fire, letting the smoke blow away.

            When the air cleared, there was no more climber on the wall.

            Ezekiel had preached against the city, and oh how he had railed!  God’s vengeance was descending upon them!  Even now, the thunder of his wrath was in the hills!  If they could not repent and turn from their sinful ways, then the chariots of the Lord of Hosts would roll their righteous judgment down through the valley like a plow cutting a fresh furrow through the churned dirt of a stubborn and weedy field.

            The response that Ezekiel received was predictably unfavorable.  He had expected no less.  Persecution was part of telling people things they did not want to hear, think about, or believe.

            Ezekiel had not always been the stolid and ill-tempered old fossil he now felt like.  Once he had been young and like most young men, in love.  After admiring the girl from afar, he had worked up the courage to ask her father for permission to court her.  Ezekiel was son of the town Postal Courier.  It was not a wealthy line of work, but it did have its prestige.  Milly’s father was the town minister, wonder of wonders back then the town only had one minister.

            Milly’s father didn’t object to Ezekiel in principle, but he was protective of his daughter, and did not want her associating with a boy that was not devoted to the Lord Jesus Christ.

            At that time in his life, Ezekiel didn’t give two shakes of a dead rat’s tail about the Lord Jesus Christ, but he would say nigh unto anything to get a chance to be with the girl he adored.

            Ezekiel never made any claims to artistry, but he had spent plenty of time trying to capture Milly’s beauty with a stub of pencil and some paper he had swiped from his father.  The results were not spectacular.  Ezekiel kept the best ones in a collection that he was deathly afraid of someone discovering.

            Milly eventually conceded to court Ezekiel, mostly away from the prying eyes of her father.  Her earthly father, anyway.

            Milly.  The name still jumped to mind almost automatically whenever Ezekiel felt lonely, forsaken, forlorn.  She had been the only girl he had ever courted, ever gotten close to, and his heart still regarded her as his true love, his soul mate.  He would curse himself for such foolish sentiments after so many years.  He would growl at God for refusing him the companionship he still yearned for.  But he would also admit, grudgingly, that it was for the best, if not for him, at least for Milly. 

            Times like this reminded him strongly of that girl.  She loved so much about him, but that was one of his traits she could not stand: his constant pessimism.  Had she been here now, she would have cried, “Don’t say that!  If God truly called you to preach against the city, you need to have faith in his ability to use your words!  Don’t curse God’s work even as you do it!”

            This was not the thing that tore them apart, well, not the worst thing, anyway, but it was a constant problem.

            Something nudged Ezekiel’s shoulder.  The large minister jerked around in surprise.  Standing there looking natural as ever was the large, dark horse that the rider he had spoken with this morning was riding.  Ezekiel frowned.

            “Hey fella’, where’s your rider?”

The horse continued to regard him calmly, however there was a restrained wildness in the beasts eyes, as if it was just barely repressing its urge to gallop.

Ezekiel gently took the reigns.  “Now I have never known a horse that would pass up a carrot and it just so happens that my little garden has produced a nice big crop of just that,” Ezekiel smiled as he spoke in a gentle manner so different from the harsh, sermonizing tones he had just been using.  One other thing about his character that had always bothered Milly is how much he focused on the negative aspects of God’s nature, his wrath and his judgment, and not on the gentle side of God, his fatherhood, his nurture, his love, and his mercy.  But in many ways, God’s mercy is what had brought him to this spot today.  An unmerciful God would not warn those wretched sinners who had so instigated his ire; he would simply smite them in all his anger.  It was evidence of God’s continual yearning for a reunion with his fallen children that he offered them so many opportunities for repentance.

            Ezekiel knew that if this horse was roaming free, then its rider was probably engaged in a fool’s mission to somehow break into a doomed fortress.  Shortly the storm would break, a battle of smoke and thunderous explosions would ensue: a brief thing that shook the valley like the recent thunderstorm, intense, then over.  When the smoke had cleared and the bodies were carried away, Ezekiel might just take a little trip down to say a blessing over the dead.  Perhaps he would see this fine horse’s owner.  If he did, he would set the horse free.  He had no need for a labor horse, and it wasn’t his beast to sell.

            But for now, he would take the horse home, care for it, brush it, and whisper comforting things into its ear.  He had preached against the city, and he had done a fine job.  But unlike Jonah, he would not just sit atop his hill and wait for the city’s destruction.  God had given him new work to do.

            And speaking of the coming storm, even now the hills were rumbling.  And the rain followed soon.

            Rudolph Midas had been a Librarian for his entire adult life.  He had been chosen at an early age as an exceptional scholar among his peers.  He and a few others like him were sent to the Library to be tutored under the Librarians.  The study had been intense and unforgiving.  Each year a test was held, and those children that did not excel were dismissed from the program.  Year after year, he saw his fellow students go home while he continued to hold to the course.  It wasn’t easy, but he had learned to take immense pride in his quick mind and vast knowledge. 

            At age 16 he had been inducted as a Librarian Apprentice and had begun teaching the young children that were just coming in.  He had also been given his bronze staff, and begun learning how to use it as a weapon.  Most people in Quillen knew that the Librarians practiced a form of martial fighting using the copper staves, but none of them knew of the ‘Fire of the Ancients,’ the secret weapon concealed within the staves themselves. 

            Very few would expect a Librarian to use fire as a weapon, and that was the beauty of the system.  The entire point of using the Fire of the Ancients WAS to catch the books on fire.  Rather than have the control of the knowledge fall to some other force, better to let it burn.  And, of course, there was the Vault. 

            Deep beneath the Library in a special chamber Rudolph himself had never even seen was a vast room.  He was told that this room contained long, brass shelves, containing thousands of rows of bell jars.  The bell jars had had all the air sucked out of them creating a perfect vacuum in each one.  Contained within the vacuum was an original manuscript, one per jar, and one jar for each book the library held.

            So if this entire fortress were to burn to the ground, the knowledge would not be lost, simply saved from those who would seek to control it.

The storm outside had grown fierce once again as night had come on.  Rudolph was in the main lobby of the Library, a chamber that had often been compared by breathless visitors to the sanctuary of a church: vast and somehow holy.  Rudolph found the comparison to be apt.  A church, after all, was a building that had been built to house a single book.  How much more awesome was the responsibility of housing ALL books?

Tonight, Rudolph’s task was to light the hundreds of candles that spread around the lobby.  He was by no means alone, but he might as well have been.  The crimson guard that had been assigned to the lobby were still and quiet as statues.  Rudolph appreciated the solitude, artificial or not.  It seemed to be a common trait among Librarians: most enjoyed the company of the others, but all of them craved a certain amount of solitude that they must have daily.  Rudolph had been in meetings all day discussing strategies and enemy movements with the Library’s High Counsel.  The discussion had been focused on when the siege broke and how they were each expected to act when their lives would probably end.  It was the same grim talk Rudolph had been hearing since the siege began.  Even with their clever tricks and superior knowledge, nobody in the Library really expected to be able to hold off the Baron’s forces forever.  He had, after all, won.  He had trampled Stella-Terra and the mighty Gunslingers that defended that valley.  For a time, the Librarians hoped to weather the change of power without being forced to take a political stand.  The Baron did not appreciate their neutral position, though, and made demands that they allow his delegates to seize the reigns of the Library.  When they refused to bow to his demands the Black Riflemen came storming into the valley like so many locusts.

The discussion had broken up when a number of the Riflemen had begun firing upon the North wall and then stopped.  There was some discussion as to what this action could mean, and then Rudolph had dismissed himself to do his duties.

Rudolph’s musings were broken when suddenly the front door of the Library chamber burst open sending a mighty wind whipping around the chamber extinguishing most of the candles Rudolph had succeeded in lighting and spraying in a burst of rain so intense that Rudolph felt its spray even where he stood far back from the door.

Lightning forked down from the sky illuminating the man who stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched against the rain.  Even the diligent guards were startled into hesitance.  When the Riflemen came, they had expected them to storm the walls, batter them with cannon fire, tear the enormous gates from their hinges, and come in force.  The Librarians had not yet bothered to barricade the door of the Library against intruders because their wall hadn’t even been breached.

The man who stood in the doorway did not look like a Rifleman, Rudolph realized.  He was dressed in a wide brimmed hat similar to those worn by the cowpokes except for the nickel emblems around its brim.  Sagging under the rainwater, his outer coat was a battered black trail-coat.  He held no visible weapon, but this did not stop the Crimson Guard from clenching their bronze staves and charging him. 

The first guard to approach him was twirling his staff in a pattern designed to confuse the opponent.  There was no way of telling where the first strike would be aimed.  The dark man in the doorway stood his ground watching the on-comer with quick eyes.  At the last moment, the guard brought the staff down in an arching blow aimed to crush the skull of the opponent.  The stranger swayed back, just narrowly dodging the blow, and then stepped down on the end of the staff as it hit the floor, spinning and stomping down on the center of the staff with his other foot.  The stupefied guard watched as his staff was torn from his hand.  He never saw the tip of the stranger’s boot as it connected with his chin.

The intruder hooked a toe under the fallen bronze staff and flipped it up into the air, catching it in his hands.  Rudolph could see he was struggling with the object, trying to grip it in the stance a swordfighter might take rather than a warrior trained for the staff.  And it was at that moment that Rudolph recognized the stranger.

Two more guards approached the opponent, a little more wary now that their foe was armed and had shown his skill.  They took the classic two-on-one approach, striking both high and low so that the man would have to fall to one or other attack.  The intruder did something very clever at this point.  Rudolph was not surprised, recognizing who they were dealing with.  He slammed the staff straight down onto the marble floor so that both the high and low blow struck the staff instead of him.  The guards responded by spinning around and bringing the other end of their staves in at him very quickly.  The stranger backpedaled quickly, parrying blows as he went.

Several more guards had circled around behind him, and as Rudolph watched, the stranger took a blow to the backs of his legs, tripped, and went down.  Three staves began to whistle down onto the stranger’s prone form.  They never connected. 

Rudolph stood there panting, his own staff blocking the blows that never landed on the intruder, the great ringing of bronze on bronze still stinging his ears.

“Stop,” he said.  The guards stared at him in confusion and anger.  How dare an Archivist tell them how to do their job?  “This man is a Gunslinger,” Rudolph spoke in response to their glares.  “Did any of you notice his stance as he took the staff?  This is a man who has been trained for a sword stance, the same stance that the Gunslingers style descended from.  Remember that before firearms were created, the ancestors of the Muskethom defended kings with their swords.”

Rudolph could see that the guards were beginning now to realize the same thing he had: that the man’s dress and mannerisms were the same as the Gunslingers of old.  They began to cautiously withdraw, one of them heading off to secure the doors being knocked around in the wind.  Rudolph offered his hand to the stranger.  The man took it with his own gloved hand, and Rudolph was surprised to feel how weak his grip was.

“My name is Rudolph Midas.  I’m the Chief Archivist.  Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I’m Eric.”

“Not… Eric Rider?”

The young man was startled by his own name.  Rudolph could understand why.  Jack Rider had had his first two sons, Jean and Marc, before the siege.  Eric, the last of the Rider brothers, had been born years after the siege had begun, when Jack was in his sixties.  While Jean and Marc Rider were on the history books, the world was in the dark about the goings on in Stella-Terra during the years of siege.  And ten years ago, this had still been true.  However, a delegation of Librarians had since traveled to the ruins of Stella-Terra and shifted through the rubble, looking for any salvageable texts.  They had found very little that was still intact, but they had managed to recover a few journals that Jack Rider had hidden in the foundation of his mansion.  Eric’s name was plastered throughout these texts.  These journals had been studied very exhaustively by certain sections of the Library staff.  Jack Rider’s foresight was extraordinary, even in his old age.  The Librarians had been awaiting the arrival of the son of Rider for years now.  Most believed he had probably died in the slaughter in Stella-Terra.  Old Rider himself could never have foreseen how bloody and thorough that particular battle would be.  Yet here he was, in the eleventh hour, presumably come for his father’s Peace Journal.

            “We knew you would be coming, Eric.  Come with me, please.”

            The main conference chamber of the Library, like everything else about the enormous structure, was a vast room with a great pine table at its center.  The table itself was a curiosity, a cross-section of the enormous sequoia trees that grew in the far western Plainslands before they dropped off into the Great Chasm.  This table had been a gift from the Mountain Men, whose giant stature was still dwarfed by the vast sequoia. 

            The lacquered and finished cross-section of tree still showed the hundreds of rings that ran outward from the center beneath the fine, dark stain.  It was easily large enough to support the dozens of crimson-clad librarians that stood grimly around its edge.  Eric felt a sense of intimidation from the situation, far more than he felt when the strange guards had rushed him swinging their ornate bronze staves.  He was startled to discover he feared these men more as allies than he did as enemies.  Somehow he had fully expected to have to storm the Library and steal what he wanted rather than have it handed to him. 

            As he was entering the conference room, Eric noticed that the several dozen men gathered around the table were all standing except for one old man.  Immediately Eric’s mind strayed back to images of his father.  Elderly, yet powerful and respected.  This man gave off the same air of power and confidence… and sorrow.  Eric felt the old familiar sense of intimidation and disconnection he had always felt around his father.  He had seen the man often, but spoken to him rarely.

            “This is Eric Rider, son of Jack Rider, last of the Gunslingers of the Valley,” the Archivist named Rudolph spoke as Eric entered the room.  “He has come for…”  The Elderly man seated at the table waived away the rest of the explanation impatiently.  “We all know why he’s come, the question is HOW did he come?  Young man,” the old Librarian addressed Rider directly, “How did you get past the Riflemen and our wall?”

            Rider knew immediately why he was asking.  He was concerned about a possible breach.  Eric shrugged.  “I climbed.”

            The men standing around the table gawked at him.  The elderly Librarian at the table’s end shot back impatiently, “I don’t understand, what did you climb?”

            “I climbed the wall.”

            “Impossible!”

Eric shrugged again.  “If you say so.”

            “And this side?  How did you get down?”

            “You have some sort of line running from the Library to the outer wall and then down the side.  I shimmied down the line.  It was much easier than climbing the outside.”

            An awkward silence followed the frank announcement from the young Gunslinger.  This was finally broken by Rudolph who politely cleared his throat and said, “Well I don’t think the Riflemen will be getting in THAT way.”  There was some suppressed chuckling that passed around the table, and the room settled back into seriousness.

            “Very well,” the Elder Librarian spoke, “Bring out Jack Rider’s ‘Peace Journal.’”

There really was very little bringing to be done.  One of the Librarians standing in the back of the room away from the table stepped forward cradling a cloth wrapped around something large.  He placed it reverently on the table and stepped back.  The Archivist that Eric had already met stepped forward and pushed the bundle to the center of the table before unwrapping it.  Beneath the cloth lay an old leather-bound journal with a portion of the leather crumbling.

            “This,” the Elder Librarian spoke, “Is the famous ‘Peace Journal’ that you have no doubt heard of.”

Rider was at a loss.  He had certainly heard a lot of discussion around dinner tables from his brothers, his father, and any number of other older adults in the valley about past events, things that happened before the siege.  These discussions had always been murmured when he was around, and if he had walked into the room while a conversation was happening, the conversation would be shushed.  It was symptomatic of his childhood that he always felt he was on the outside of a horrible secret that everyone knew but him, and that he was purposefully being left in the dark.  And now he was the last one.

            “I’m looking for the Twin Machines, Gwendolyn and Merle,” Eric replied.  Clearly these Librarians had some ideas about what he wanted already, but he didn’t have the time for any more idealistic quests for others.  It was high time he resumed the responsibility his father had laid on his shoulder all those years ago.

            The elder Librarian regarded his comment with amusement.

            “You’re young, Eric Rider, is it possible your father never told you about the world before the Revolution?”

            “Do you have information about where the Machines are or not?”

            “Young sir, this IS the information you seek.  Time is short, but I see I need to give you a brief history lesson.  The first thing your father did when he assumed the position of President was to open peace negotiations between himself and Chaquotta, the Chief of the Bennaquin people. 

            “Your father had seen a great deal of violence perpetrated against the Isreen in his time as leader of the Spade Riders.  He saw this ongoing war as tearing apart the West Wheel. 

            “The immediate difficulty that your father faced was that for generations before him, white men had been making treaties of peace with the Isreen and ignoring the terms of the treaty.  The Isreen hold honor to be very important, and when they make promises, they rarely break them, but the Stella-Terra political ideal is to hold to a promise until that promise becomes inconvenient.  Knowing this, the Isreen were not inclined to trust Jack Rider.

            “So your father made three important policy changes to ensure that there could be peace between the two peoples.  The first was that, rather than sending a delegate or a Scraeling Agent, your father went personally to meet with Chaquotta.  When he was no longer the distant ‘White Father in Stella-Terra,’ but a person that could be seen and touched, the Isreen finally knew there was some even footing.

            “The second thing your father did was to shorten the terms of the agreement.  He knew that his term was limited to a decade at most, and after that, the political winds might change.  He explained this to Chaquotta.  The arrangement that they reached was that every five years, a peace counsel would have to be called between the current President and the current Chief, and that the peace treaty would have to be reviewed at that time and re-established.  If one or the other party did not show at this meeting, the terms of the treaty were considered to be broken by that party.

            “The third thing that Jack Rider did was perhaps his most controversial decision.  He had to give a token of regard to prove how serious he was over his intentions of peace. 

“It was your father’s decision to offer to Choquatta the two items most precious to the heritage of the Muskethom, symbol of both the battles they fought and the peace they attempted to keep.  He offered Choquatta the Twin Machines, those creations of the master craftsman Virgil Conrad which were forged of the meteoric iron that formed the valley of Stella Terra and engraved with the seal of the Muskethom.  I don’t mean to become overly dramatic, but it is important that you understand the heritage of these machines so that you realize how great a sacrifice it was not just to your father, but to the entire nation that these symbols of freedom were given as a good-will gesture toward the Isreen.  Many called your father a fool for doing this, but it did have the effect of causing the nation to take the Isreen more seriously, regarding them as a nation rather than a group of troublesome savages that needed to be exterminated.”

            “And what did the Scraeling Chief offer in return?” Eric asked, interested in spite of himself.  He had heard of the treaty his father had formed with the Scraelings, of course, but never the details.

            The older librarian responded to the question with a small grimace. 

“A flower.”

Rider kept an even stare on the Librarian, waiting for more explanation.  Sighing, the Librarian continued.

“According to the Peace Journal, Choquatta awarded Jack Rider with ‘The Lilly of Fo-rem-pie-tie Valley.’  The reference is brief and enigmatic.  Fo-rem-pie-tie is the valley that the Lilliquoi occupy, and they are the spiritual leaders that most Isreen defer to in matters of religion and their ‘medicine.’ Naturally we assume that this was not a literal flower, but rather an item of value to the Isreen.  Unfortunately there are no other references to this in our collections of Isreen history, mythology, or legend, so the best we have is idle speculation.  I take it you remember nothing from your childhood that might have been this ‘Lilly?’”

Eric shook his head.

“Then that remains a mystery for now, and an unimportant one at that.  Recovering the Twin Machines is the important thing now.”  Eric did not miss the mummers echoing around the room when the Old Librarian made this statement.  He caught snatches of “Ridiculous,” “Waste of time,” and “Symbols of the Republic.”  He also heard the old familiar protest, “They say a hero will save us.”

            “Your father’s journal indicates that the Machines never did stay with Choquotta himself, but as to where they went, the Peace Journal is unclear.  It simply tells us that the meeting place where the treaty was formed holds the answer.”

            “And where is that?” Eric asked.  He was not surprised in the least that the answer was not a clear one.  Somewhere in his mind he fully expected the Twin Machines to remain a distant mirage, always enticingly out of reach.

            “The Journal says that the meeting place was on Isreen Holy Ground within the Badlands.  Ordinarily this would be an impossible location to pin down from such a vague description.  However, the Badlands are the natural homeland of the Dan, not the Benaquinn, so there really is only one location within the Badlands that the Benaquinn would hold sacred, and it’s the perfect neutral spot for a treaty.”

The Librarian paused, waiting for Rider to ask the obvious question.  Rider did not take the bait.

“Are you listening to me, young Rider?” the Librarian grunted impatiently.

“I am.  I’m not one of your pupils.  If you want to tell me something, just spit it out, don’t waive it in front of my face like a piece of meat.”

The Librarian sighed.  “Noted.  I apologize.  A lifetime spent among books may have hindered my ability to deal with people outside these walls. 

            “Now then, the only place that makes sense as a meeting place between your father and his delegates and Choquotta is the ancient Graveyard of Serpent’s Tears, sight of the long-ago battle between the Benaquinn and the lost tribe of the Ashoni.  Once every seven years the Benaquinn send a warparty on a long trek across the plains and the Wyrdelands to this site in order to decorate and honor the death-place of their ancient heroes.”

            “And when I get there, there will be some clue as to where Choquotta took the Twin Machines?”

            “Your father says that the Isreen spent the celebration after the signing of the treaty painting a mural of the event on the walls.  The Twin Machines would be displayed prominently in that mural.  It is our belief that this painting will point the way to the place the Twin Machines were laid.”

            “Great.  Give me the journal and a map to this place and I’ll stop troubling you.”

            “That’s an amusing proposition, Mr. Rider.  We would love to do nothing more, but how do you intend to make your way past the vast army sitting outside our walls?”

There was a long pause before Eric responded.  Finally, he mumbled, “I don’t know.”

            “I didn’t think so.  There’s no shame in that, Mr. Rider.  It’s nothing short of extraordinary that you were able to make it in here in the first place.  My suggestion is that you allow us to provide you with food and shelter, at least for the night, and then tackle the problem again in the morning.  You look utterly exhausted.”

            “No,” Eric shot back automatically.

            “Mr. Rider, remember that you are among friends here.  Some of the very few friends, I daresay, that you will encounter in this world.  Please try and let us help you.”

Like a stubborn kid that won’t admit he’s wrong, Rider said nothing.  But it was clear the battle was over.  The Elder Librarian issued a few directions and soon Rider was being escorted to quarters. The room they lead him to was small, but luxurious to Rider’s eyes.  Not since childhood had he seen rooms furnished with down mattresses, paintings on the walls, bookcases sitting in the corners, and oak paneling.  The bed was fit for a single person, but it was enormous in comparison to his bedroll.  Eric remembered the day he had finally struck out from Stella-Terra, now one enormous graveyard.  He had been living among the scavengers, laying the decaying husks of his friends and family (he knew every face) to rest, while all around him others grubbed and raped the dead for their treasures.  More than once, a roving gang of filthy men had knocked him over and he dragged a body toward a shallow grave, and then vigorously tore at the clothes on the body, searching for anything of value.

            Most of the scavengers proudly sported a Gunslinger’s plow handle on their hip or shoved in their belt.  These were guns that were generations old, and Eric could not hold one in his shaking hands.

            During that time, he had managed to make a space for himself at night, protected by bailing twine strapped to cans that would rattle as they tripped any intruder.  This had been in the house of Mr. Stephens.  The bed there had been comfortable, and when he finally left the valley, taking with him a simple bedroll, he had spent many sleepless nights, tossing about on the cold, hard ground.

            But he had aged several years since then, and those years had been spent on the road.  His bones were used to the cold ground thinly shielded by the well-worn canvas of his trail-coat and the threadbare wool of his bedroll.  Sinking into the soft, down mattress was somehow strange and uncomfortable. 

            The Librarians, studied as they were, were right.  Rider was exhausted.  Had been all his life, it seemed.  Yet his mind was the villain in this tale, because it, more than cold or discomfort, was responsible for his many nights of poor sleep.  Tonight was no exception.

            It was the librarians, rattling on and on about his father as if the man had been a prophet or the Christ himself.  That man, whom the librarians kept calling “Your Father,” as if there had been some sort of special relationship between the two of them.  The man had been no father to him.  It wasn’t until close to the end that the man even spoke to him.

            This attitude of reverence the librarians had at his name was not unusual.  It seemed that across the great Western Wheel, people either worshiped or spat upon the name of Jack Rider.  At times, Eric counted himself among those that hated his father.  And yet his quest for the Twin Machines was entirely the directive his father had given him, his sad attempt to gain the approval of a dead man.  And with this thought, Rider fell to fitful sleep.

Ezekiel was awoken from his sleep by the tinkling of shattered glass.  He rolled off the left side of his bed more out of instinct than desire, and already everything about the atmosphere of the room was wrong.  Heat was gnawing at the flesh on his face, and he was finding it difficult to breath.  It was also far too bright in the little room. 

            Looking back at the bed, it was not difficult to discover what was wrong.  Someone had lobbed a torch through the window just right of his mattress.  Had he not been sleeping on his left side, he might have been scorched beyond healing, and cut with glass.

            It was, of course, someone from the town.  His speech of the day had poked a few rotten nerves, and now they were here to ensure their ears were never more assaulted with the truth from this particular mouth. 

Over the increasingly enthusiastic roar of the growing fire in his parish, Ezekiel could hear the maddened shouts of the faceless tormentors outside.  Curiosity dug at his mind.  Who were they?  Did he know any of them?  Were some of them his own parishioners?

Whatever the answer, the more immediate concern was his life.  Ezekiel respected the martyrs of ages past, and he knew how powerful a message a martyr could send, but he wasn’t prepared to become one. 

The church was likely surrounded, and running out was a good way to get shot at, but of course staying inside meant cooking alive.  Ezekiel muttered a prayer that made no sense, something like “Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for the life that I am about to lose.”

His heavenly obligations fulfilled, he scampered across the floor on his palms and knees toward the southeast corner of the room.  As soon as he reached the corner, he scooped up the hemp rug that lay there, and pulled on the rope-handle to the root cellar that ran under the church foundation.  He had no sooner ducked down the hole then he heard the burning beams above creak as they were weakened by the fire. 

His entire life’s work disappearing behind him, Ezekiel groped through the darkness.

In some way, Ezekiel thought, he had expected this.  When he was inspired to preach the end unto the valley, he felt in some way that this was the end for him as well.  Not of his life, but of the life he knew.  Despite the fact that he had build the church with his bare hands, and that his life had been threatened from an unknown tormentor, he felt at peace.  The Lord no longer spoke with words to people, but his message was still clear to those who would listen.  “Your work here is done,” seemed to be his message, “time to do my will elsewhere.”

The question was, where did the Lord want him to go next?  Perhaps the answer was already in his lap. 

The root cellar emerged in a shack in the back of the parish.  Earlier in the evening, Ezekiel had stabled the massive stallion in the modest shack.  The horse’s body did not entirely fit inside the shack, and the majestic beast was left with its hindquarters sticking out comically from the open door of the building.  The horse did not seem to mind this, and was left comfortably wrapping its gums around the feed Ezekiel had taken care to store up in an improvised loft.  The feed was a bit rich for a regular diet, but he had no hay lying around, and he decided this particular horse deserved a treat tonight, something to remember the minister by.  Let it never be said that Ezekiel did not dole out in measure kindness to all God’s creatures.

The horse nickered as Ezekiel made his subterranean entrance to the shed.  The creature was casting its head about as the heavy smell of smoke and the noise of an angry crowd drifted over the shed.  The Minister lifted his hand to sooth the beast, but was surprised to note that the look in the horse’s eye was not one of fear, but excitement.  The steed seemed to be awaiting its opportunity to ride into the fray and stir things up.  Ezekiel was surprised a second time to realize that this is just what he was going to let the great creature do.  Certainly he was going to leave the valley, but not without leaving an impression.

Gertrude was a comfortable citizen of Quillen.  Like many residents of the valley, she had been born on the cusp of the Revolution, and grown up in a time when the Baron was more or less considered to be the leader of the West Wheel.  Throughout her upbringing there was talk about when the Baron would ever get around to establishing a senate.  Some people still whispered their secret hope that the Gunslingers would rise up against the siege being conducted on their valley.  Most had supported the Baron when he spoke out against the uncomfortable policies Jack Rider had instituted against slavery and the Scraeling Wars, but the war became long and unpopular.

The West Wheel was now ten years post-Stella-Terra and the only sort of government the Baron had instituted was tyrannical.  The Riflemen had been so caught up fighting the Scraelings, though, that many states were happily ruled by local government without much fear from the military state.  For ages, Quillen had been one of the untouchables, and living there, Gertrude, like most, had become complacent.

With its wealth and power, many other states and towns had come to Quillen to request aid financially and otherwise against the crippling poverty, crime, and starvation that was gripping vast sections of the Wheel.  Quillen was governed by a democratic majority, and Gertrude herself had been to many of the town meetings.  She was a woman, and not allowed to vote, but she had cheered the vote against aiding the other cities.  Quillen had not seen a single black-coat since the war began, and messing in other state’s affairs was a sure-fire way to call down the full attention of the Baron and his Riflemen.  Besides, they needed to horde their resources against the possible invasion.  Not that anyone here ever thought they would be invaded.  They had the Library, and that made them important.  More important than any other town on the map.  The Library gave them a negotiation point with the Baron, and it insured them against invasion, so long as the Librarians remained friendly to the Baron.

Now the end had come.  The Riflemen were here on their very footstep.  Some of them still feel that perhaps the Librarians will be able to hold off the Riflemen, but realistically things were coming to an end, and all their greed had paid them nothing.  No one would come to their aid, not even the Buffalo Soldiers who were still rumored to be running sabotage and gorilla warfare against the Riflemen.

All of Gertrude’s fears and shame came to a head this morning when she was in town looking for a shop that still dared to open its doors in this time of war.  Standing in the town square, pretty as you please, was the preacher from the hilltop.  Gertrude had never heard of him before today.  She went to a good, traditional church.  Still people told her he had a reputation for being off his nut. 

He sure SOUNDED off his nut!  Preaching all manner of blasphemy about God’s anger with the people of Quillen and a need to repent or be overrun.  At first Gertrude stood agape, unable to believe what she was hearing.  Finally, her face burning with indignation, she marched home in a red haze.  She quickly looked up some of her friends from church, and they had the same story to tell.  Annabel leaned in at one point and said, “Some of the men are getting together later tonight.  They want to go up to that hilltop church of his tonight and give him a piece of our minds.  I don’t see why some of us ladies shouldn’t go with!”  Gertrude voiced her agreement and said she would attend.

The gathering was larger than Gertrude had imagined it would be.  She recognized most of the faces in the crowd, but only a few of them were from her church.  There were people from ever corner of the town turned out to talk to the preacher.  She felt a savage kind of vindication at this spectacle.  That preacher would get what was coming!  Calling them all sinners, poised for God’s wrath.  The very idea! 

Still, some of the men had powder rifles and largish knives.  Gertrude was uncomfortable with this, but too angry to really care.

It took several hours for the large group to make its way to the top of the hill.  Groups of men and women went ahead of the walkers on horses and wagons.  Gertrude had not brought her husband, Francis, into this; and was sorry as the climb began to cause her corns to ache.  

When she finally arrived at the church at the very back of the walking pack, she was a bit shocked to see that heavy, black smoke was pouring out of the bell-tower of the church as if it was a chimney, while flames licked at the soot-blackened windows of what used to be a white-washed church.

Annabel was their and grabbed Gertrude, telling her that before they had gotten a chance to barge into the doors of the church, one of the men had lobbed his lantern through a window and started the whole place burning.  Annabel seemed swept up in the ecstasy of the mob when she said this, for her voice screeched several times during the telling, and her eyes were alight with passion.  Gertrude, however, was a bit shocked at the turn of events.  They were supposed to be good Christians, these people of Quillen.  Was this how far they had sunken, or had this sort of savagery always lurked beneath the surface?

She did not have much time to contemplate this question, for it was just at that moment that the large, black horse came rushing through the crowd with the sound of its breath making a heavy “chuff, chuff” sound like a cannonball rushing through the atmosphere, and its hooves pounding like small meteorites on the dew-moistened earth.  Perched atop the steed sat the crazy preacher-man looking both frightened and exhilarated. 

Timothy was yanked from a surprisingly sound sleep by the candid voice from above his field-cot.

“Sir.”

Timothy struggled up from the fog of sleep, and had enough time to be embarrassed by the string of half-asleep gibberish that poured out of his mouth.  Generally he was a light sleeper, another gift of his long military career, but there was a certain point during sleep when he found it was nearly impossible to arise easily.

            “You had better come and see this.”

            The air was chilly and full of drizzle when Timothy struggled out of his tent door, covering his naked upper body with a heavy wool overcoat.  The reason the officer had awakened him was immediately obvious.  On the highest pinnacle of the Library there shown a steady, cool-white light, reflecting off the low-hanging rain clouds. 

            “What IS that, Lieutenant?” the officer asked, a hint of fear creeping into his voice.  Timothy considered rebuking the man for cowardice, but decided to let the issue slide.  He really couldn’t blame the man.  This bright and steady light standing forth in the darkness was so very alien and eerie. 

            “It’s an electric light, Colonel.  They have a few of these up north in Flagland.  I’ve heard the entire city of New Landam is being converted over to electric lights.  I’ve never seen one so large and bright before, though.”

            “Could it be a signal, Sir?”

            “Of course it’s a signal.  The question is, to whom?  As far as our spy’s information goes, the Buffalo Soldiers won’t come close to Quillen.  The Library may have kept its distance from the Baron, but it seems as if the town has been trying to cozy up to the Baron for quite some time now.”

            “If not the Buffalo Soldiers, then who?”

Timothy shrugged evenly, but inside he felt worried.  The General Master was due to come any day now.  If the Librarians had formed some secret alliance with one of the rebel groups on the outside, a night attack could take a heavy toll on his men.  Too many losses and the Librarians might be able to mount an offensive, forcing a retreat. 

            But still, who could they signal?  There were no major Scraeling tribes left in this area since the Torakit were marched out fifty years ago.  And anyway, no Red in his right mind would lift a hand to help a white after the merciless slaughters the Riflemen had been enacting on them over the last decade.  No, an arrangement between the Scraelings and the Librarians was out of the question.

            Timothy shouldered his rifle and gauged the distance to the signal.  Theoretically, the light was outside of rifle range, although a good sharpshooter had been known to make a killing shot over the distance of a mile.  These shots were the stuff of legends, and the light, although bright enough to blind him through the rifle scope, was deceptively small.  His confidence was still a bit shaken from missing his clear shot to the climber hours ago.  The wind was blowing enough to throw the shot off, and he didn’t like the angle of the shot, either. 

            Breathing out slowly, Timothy sighted along the barrel and focused his whole soul on the shot at hand, just as the General Master had taught them.  As always happened when he did this, the Rifle seemed to settle into his shoulder and arms as if it were becoming another organ in his body.

            He squeezed off the shot.

            There was an eye-blink of a moment when Timothy was certain he had missed the shot, and then the whole sky darkened and the young Lieutenant was left blinking against the after-image of the light in the black and rainy skies. 

            Swinging the rifle back onto his shoulder, Timothy turned and began issuing commands.

“Wake all of the field commanders!  Tell them to build up the watch-fires on the parameter. All the men need to be ready for an attack on our flanks, but continue to watch that wall!  This may be a trick to throw us off our guard.”

Timothy turned to walk back to his tent, his polished boots already streaked with mud.  He turned suddenly to the courier who was already running down the line of tents and shouted, “And keep those rifles dry!”  Muttering to himself, he continued, “This is going to be a long night.”

            Eric had been going to bed with problems on his mind for years.  Most of these were problems for which there was no solution.  However, his experience had been that he did some of his best problem solving in his sleep.

            The time at which he awoke was 3:15, and it was his bladder that did the awakening.  Before they had put him to bed, the Librarians were kind enough to provide Eric with a much-needed meal.  He had been living off trail rations and rain-water for weeks now, and the meal the Librarians were able to muster in time of siege would shame a king.

            Now, however, Rider’s need to make water was undeniable, and he realized that he had no idea where the Librarians did that within this megaplex.  The first place he looked, of course, was under the bed for a chamber pot.  There was no such item to be found in the room, so in desperation, he left the room and was immediately confronted by an acolyte in the hallway.

            “Where do you people go to piss?” Eric asked groggily.  The crimson-clad student had apparently been put on duty specifically to watch Eric’s room.  It was apparent from his reaction that he had never expected Rider to actually emerge during the night.  The young student, probably not healthily within his twenties, just stared at Rider with a panicked expression on his face.  Having made his question, Rider waited for the young Librarian to respond.  Finally the boy seemed to pull himself together enough to say, “We… we have an indoor water closet.  Just down this hall,” the student paused, and then on some consideration, he performed a small bow.  “Follow me,” he said.

            Eric had to admit that the indoor outhouse, as he thought of the small, closet-like room, was very impressive.  Previous to discovering this room, Rider had always found relieving himself to be an uncomfortable annoyance.  However, in their customary way, the Librarians had found a way to make even the dirtiest of activities comfortable and luxurious to the point that Eric found himself lingering.  The principle of the thing became apparent to him fairly easily.  The water tower they drew their water supply from provided the pressure in the copper pipes.  When he pulled the chain hanging from the tank high on the wall, the water in the tank ran into the bowl and evacuated the bowl of whatever he had put into it.  Then the water in the pipes ran in to fill the vacancy in the tank.  Meanwhile, the dirty water ran… where? 

            Eric’s head jerked up.  He suddenly had a very clear idea of how to leave the Library without having to face the rifle wielding troops at the gate.  Hurriedly buttoning up his trousers, he shouldered his way out of the water closet and shouted at the acolyte in the hallway, “I need to speak to someone in charge!”

            Rider was not a man predisposed to placing himself in another’s boots, but even he was uncomfortably aware of the thinning patience in the eyes of the three men gathered together with him in the hallway. 

            The Chief Librarian was there, along with the Archivist that he had met before, and another Librarian that he remembered being together at the table with them, but could not place.  The acolyte had tried to linger but had been shooed away with no tolerance for nosey underlings.

            “The house of Rider does not rest well,” the Chief Librarian said, cocking a judgmental eyebrow in Eric’s direction.  The older man was wearing an outfit that Rider could only imagine was some sort of traditional sleeping garment for the head of the great library.  Rider already thought the robes they wore as their uniform were ridiculous enough, but it seemed that the meaningless layers of cloth, embroidery and tassels just increased along with rank.  The same, he guessed, could be said of the Gunslingers, but they, at least, had uniforms which met the needs of the field.  What about sitting at desks and organizing books necessitated so many clothes?

            “To what do we owe the honor of our late rising?” the old man was saying.

            “I know how I can leave without meeting up with the Riflemen.”

            “Oh?” a quiet smile of amusement seemed to pass between the Librarians present, and Rider gritted his teeth.  These men had not scaled the wall or come through all that he had so far on this quest.  What right did they have to scoff his ideas before they even heard them?

            “You have an underground river of sewage that runs out beneath the wall, and empties into the river a mile west of here.”

A startled look passed over the men’s faces.

            “You aren’t suggesting,” the Archivist gapped, “that you would pass out of the city along with the waste!”

Rider nodded grimly.  “The way I figure it, I could wrap some supplies up in a few layers of rawhide.  That should protect them from the worst of the sewage and keep them afloat.  Then I strip down to my under-things and rub my body with grease.  I figure I might nearly freeze to death, but otherwise I could keep my head above until I am dumped out into the river.”

            Rider was gratified to see that the Librarians seemed impressed.  There was a pause, then the Archivist said, “It makes a certain amount of sense.  The Riflemen would never suspect it.”

            “Yes,” the Chief Librarian said meaningfully, “But unfortunately for all involved, we have already provided you with a way out.”

Now it was Eric’s turn to raise an eyebrow in surprise.  The old Librarian clapped Eric on the shoulder with a warm, gnarled hand.

            “Get what rest you can.  You will have to be ready to leave in a few hours.”

            True to the words of the Librarian, Rider found himself, exhausted and chilled to the bones, standing on the roof mere hours later.  He had tried to sleep in that time, and had just succeeded, when he was awakened.  Wrapping himself in clothing that had somehow been washed, dried, pressed, and significantly patched and repaired while he had slept, Rider grabbed his war-bag, now somewhat heavier with the weight of his father’s journal, and was bustled up flight after flight of stairs.

            Now he stood staring up at a miserable, cloudy sky not yet lit with the rays of the rising sun, and wondering what the Librarians could possibly have in store for him at the highest point on their palace. 

            All at once Rider was struck with a strangely familiar feeling of the winds whipping around his head, and