#31 The Repentance of the Glymmsmen
“Repent!” cried the Revivalist with each tract she handed out. “There is hope in the Way of the Rose!” The ancient missionary's voice quavered, but there was no weakness in her conviction.
Anya Liedl examined the hand-written scrap of paper that had been thrust between her fingers. A few seasons ago, when she was a mere mortal, the letters would have meant nothing to her but she could read them now. There were a lot of things she could do now. Now that Lady Beauvoir had blessed her with the Soulblight kiss.
Emblazoned across the top of the tract were the words ‘The Reformed Society of the Sanguine Rose’ followed by a verbose theological treatise and, at the bottom, details of a forthcoming rally. This frail creature was indeed the misguided old fool whom Beauvoir had asked her to locate.
But just as she was about to return to her mistress, she heard shouts. A group of Glymmsmen were sauntering down the street towards the Revivalist. One of the soldiers looked very familiar. Instinctively, Anya melted into the shadows to observe their discourse.
* * *
Corporal Liedl flinched at the elderly preacher’s mantra. ‘There is hope in the Way of the Rose’ were also the last words his mother had uttered before her final descent into flesh-eating madness, followed swiftly by his sister’s disappearance. He had thought they would be the last words he would ever hear his mother say, but they hadn’t been. He shivered again as he recalled seeing her eyes in the face of that crypt ghoul; hearing her - hearing it - screaming his name...
The rest of his squad were more antipathetic towards the old Revivalist: His best friend Moritz Onz was showing some restraint, but Private Koh was loudly and cheerfully mocking the old woman, while Dhar snatched the bundle of tracts from her hands and threw them into the open sewer that ran down the side of the street. Markz and Spentzer giggled stupidly, ensuring that any passers-by skirted even further away from the street preacher than before.
“That’s enough Tess!” called Dieter. Private Koh fluttered her eyelashes at him but left the old woman alone nonetheless. “Ash - you lot go on ahead, I’ll deal with her.”
“Really Corporal?” smirked Private Dhar, “You’ve been trying to shut her up for weeks now, it ain’t gonna work!”
“I have to try,” he muttered as he drew towards her.
The Revivalist handed him a tract. “Ah Corporal Liedl, we meet again. There is hope in the Way of -“
Dieter interrupted to avoid hearing those words again. “I apologise for my troops’ behaviour.”
The Revivalist’s smile was pained. “Ever do the Glymmsmen persecute the servants of the Rose.” Her rheumy eyes lit up with religious fervour. “But revival will come even to your ranks!”
“Madam, as I have warned you many times before, your preaching is a danger to the free people of Glymmsforge! You are leading innocent folk down the darkest of paths -“
“No my child, there is hope in -“
“Please madam. My own mother...” Dieter’s voice trailed off, he did not want to speak of her.
He sighed and walked away, even as she called after him, “I pray for you my child!”
He broke into a jog to catch up with his squad. Why was he so concerned about the Revivalist? The old crone was an utter failure as an evangelist. Her attempts to convert the free people of the city were notoriously dull, roundly ridiculed and by all accounts, completely ineffective.
Just as he rejoined the others, a teenage girl suddenly stepped out of the alleyway they were passing. Startled, the squad halted, guard up. But the Corporal's arms were slack in astonishment. Her face could not have been more familiar, though it was both too young and somehow too old, and her elegant attire was like nothing he had ever seen her wear before.
“Anya?!”
She smiled, revealing pearly white teeth. “Dieter my dear brother, it has been too long.”
* * *
Lady Beauvoir approached the Revivalist where she leaned wearily on her lectern. The ancient woman was surely close to the end of her mortal days. Her face was pale and haggard, yet her purple habit, though worn, had been lovingly maintained. She had managed to arrange rows of makeshift benches either side of an aisle, enough to seat perhaps a hundred at most, although they were the only two souls present.
The evangelist’s head was bowed in prayer. When she raised it, Beauvoir could sense the woman was delusional yet not a full-blown mordant. Rather, she was as Marchioness Weiß had once been: a mortal utterly and unreasoningly convinced by her beliefs. Beliefs in which she had long ago been indoctrinated by the False Apostle. She should be easy enough to manipulate by judicious suggestion.
“Am I your only flock today, preacher?” she asked.
The Revivalist smiled her pained grin. “At the moment my daughter, yes. Sadly, the mortal souls of Glymmsforge are hardened to the Way of the Rose, but I believe revival will come if we pray! Tell me, do you follow the Rose?”
“Why yes, preacher, of course I do!” Beauvoir reinforced her lie with her most ingratiating smile. “And I too believe revival is coming. Why look - here come some souls in want of saving!”
Right on cue Anya appeared, leading a group dressed in the black and mauve uniforms of the Glymmsmen who sat down stiffly on the back row. The elderly Revivalist’s eyes lit up, unable to disguise her astonishment at suddenly having a congregation. Lady Beauvoir sat down on the front row and encouraged the preacher to begin her sermon.
Beauvoir endured the evangelist’s rantings for some time, partly out of amusement, and partly to get a better feel for what she was dealing with. Before long she had had enough - even for an immortal such as her, this sermon felt interminable - but eventually the old woman reached the end of her address.
“… So, if you would be saved, turn to the Way of the Rose! I want to invite you to come up to the front so I may pray with you. Come on now, don’t be shy - there is hope in the Way of the Rose!”
Immediately, all of the Glymmsmen seated at the back with Anya stood up, shambled out into the aisle and plodded forward in single file. The figure at the front of the line bore the rank markings of a corporal and an unmistakable likeness to Anya’s features. The girl's own twin! Beauvoir had never doubted Anya, but she still smiled with pride at her young protege. She was doing an excellent job even now - the new converts were most believable. Beauvoir studied the Revivalist’s reaction; her delusion was clearly reinforcing the illusion.
The preacher excitedly raised trembling arms and quavering voice: “Praise be! Revival is surely coming! Welcome all! Corporal Liedl, if a sceptic such as you can turn, anyone can! And you soldiers who were my persecutors, fear not for you are all forgiven! There is hope in the Way of the Rose!”
The Revivalist beamed with joyful hope, tears rolling from her shining eyes. Eyes that saw what her delusion dictated: happy converts with smiling countenances; the beginnings of the long-awaited revival. Eyes that did not notice Dieter’s shambling gait, his expressionless face, or his pallid skin. Nor even the gaping wound at his neck that had long since bled dry.
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