#33 The Reformation of the Rose

Anya lounged on her pew at the back of the mission hall while the old woman wittered on from her lectern. The row in front of her was filled with figures dressed in the black and mauve uniforms of the Glymmsmen. Mainly for her own entertainment, Anya made one of them nod its head as if in agreement with the preacher's sentiments. The movement was jerky and not particularly lifelike. She frowned, concentrated harder and tried again. This time the action was smoother but it still moved like a marionette. She shrugged. It mattered not, the Revivalist's delusion had become so comprehensive, there was no danger of her perceiving reality. Out of boredom, Anya made the Glymmsman nod more vigorously. And more. Suddenly, with a delectable splintering noise, the figure's head flopped backwards between its shoulder blades, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

"Ooops!" giggled Anya.

Controlling deadwalkers was an essential skill for a vampire, although it wasn't especially rewarding. For a few weeks now she had been killing Glymmsmen, reanimating them, and bringing them to the Revivalist's little mission meetings. Lady Beauvoir's plan was to continually reinforce the old preacher's delusion that revival had come to the Freeguilders of Glymmsforge, and it was working. They had also amassed the beginning of a small army of zombies. 

Absentmindedly, Anya suddenly realised The Revivalist has stopped talking. Surely her sermon wasn't over already; she was barely an hour in? She looked up to the front of the hall. The ancient woman had slumped forward onto her lectern, clearly dead.

Anya smiled. Lady Beauvoir would be pleased. She had explained that on this occasion, a natural death could reinforce the crone's delusions in undeath. Anya stood and walked towards her fresh corpse, gathering her concentration for the rites involved in raising the Revivalist. Around her, the Glymmsmen zombies suddenly slackened and slid off their pews like puppets whose strings had been cut.

* * *

The Hermit of Barfunweltz emerged into the pale mauve light. Such was the depth of darkness in his hermitage that even this faint glow would have dazzled his eyes if he still had them. But he had long ago plucked them out in devotion to the Way of the Rose. Blind though he was, he perceived that the vampire Lady Beauvoir stood before him. He suspected she was a devious and manipulative creature, yet he believed she was the best hope for the reunification of the Servants of the Rose. 

"Brother Hermit," she said. Her tone was respectful though her heart was not. "We have found the Revivalist you spoke of, and have been assisting her mission. The Reformed Society of the Sanguine Rose is finally seeing revival among the Glymmsmen!"

"Praise be," replied the Hermit. "I take it your assistance involved granting new life to the mortals. I imagine deadwalkers make for exceptionally dutiful disciples of the Rose, but I thought the Revivalist was only interested in the conversion of the living?"

"Well," Lady Beauvoir couldn't help grinning, "she sees things differently now."

"Good, good." mused the Hermit.

"As you know," the vampire continued, "if we are to succeed in reviving the Empty Hearse again, we need an army of faithful Servants of the Rose. I am loathed to rely solely on the Procession of the Foolish Martyrs for I do not wish to raise Olynder's interest. And the Raptured Court's arrogance renders them most uncooperative. But if we can build the Reformed Society into a decent force, that should suffice. It may even help our relations with the Archbishop of Barfunweltz too." 

"A fine aspiration my Lady," replied the Hermit, "How may I further the glory of the Rose?"

"Our new members are somewhat lacking in, um... 'zeal'. Do you possess, or could you build some artefact to assist us?"

The Hermit was silent for moment. "Yes, I think I know just the thing."

* * *

"Repent! Repent!” cried the Revivalist. “There is hope in the Way of the Rose!” 

The ancient missionary's voice was strong and sonorous, and her conviction overwhelming. All around her, the members of Reformed Society of the Sanguine Rose were invigorated by her exhortation. Lady Beauvoir could sense that she was even stirring the winds of Shyish.

"Undeath becomes her," she commented to the Hermit, "and your device does indeed appear to enhance her homilies."

The Revivalist smiled down at them from atop her new wagon, to which were yoked four of her most faithful 'converts', the shambling carcasses of reanimated Glymmsmen. At her feet was a pile of cadavers writhing as if in religious ecstasy as one by one they rose to new unlife.

"Yes my lady," cried the mad Hermit, "behold the Reformation of the Rose!"

#34 THE ANVILS OF THE HELDENHAMMER