Spring 52 – Fourteen days before the reckoning

Despite constabulary gains, the Sevensborough Rebellion still controlled half its borough on its fourth official day of insurrection. Low on ammo and manpower, the final defenders held the warren by punishing every constable who dared peek around the next corner. With every shot of dwindling ammo, they prayed for the next truck out.

The eastern highway remained open, but only because Briarwood dawdled.

To their relief, the constabulary broke under the pressure first. Trained to crack the occasional head, the coneheads reached the limit of their bravery in those nightmare alleys. Faced with another day of traps and surprises, the constable rank and file refused to leave Woodhaven with the morning light.

While the Rebellion celebrated another day, the rags roared into overdrive.

Red runs the river in our fair city!

Heretics string the fallen from posts covered in scrawled blasphemies!

Witchcraft and orgies reported by the terrified survivors within the borough!

When will someone do something?!

Sevensborough was at last the star of Mel.

***

Meanwhile, the crowd around the Conclave swelled into the thousands.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Sensing a moment to regain initiative, several Houses sent stewards or even the Lords themselves to speak on the steps. Surely the crowds would hew to the august stewards of Ruhum’s future!

It was a rather rude awakening for these men to arrive and find their pulpits already filled.

Deacons, arrayed on the steps and preaching peace and restraint in this time of turmoil.

Peace, tolerance, and – if must come to must – merciless retribution.

The radios hauled equipment to the square, the better to send every word nation-wide, and the Lords were never asked for comment.

One leading question led one deacon to puff his chest. “Of course, should it be known that Waves has supported and even funded this foul insurrection, that would be provocation! Casus belli most clear!”

The reporter helpfully added, “Forgive our erudite friend. Casus belli means an occasion for war.”

A thousand patriarchs around the country nodded their heads. Of course! Casus belli!

The deacon preened. He had struck the perfect note: aggrieved, but only the anger of the slighted! In his heart, he longed for peace, and how unfortunate should others force his hand!

Confident in his popularity, the deacon retreated to argue against his fellows. After all, there was the Keeper’s robes to clean and the Holy Receivership to wrangle…

A pity there was only one of each.

Eager to sharpen their plans, all the deacons but one departed the stage.

Father Maxwell barely noticed. He preached as he always had: the purity, the sacrifice, the purpose that filled him.

Words that found more and more waiting ears every day.

Exultant, Maxwell shouted, sweat, and tore at his breast. He mingled his private frustrations with the Catechisms. He voiced words that would have merited him a visit from Margaret Dune.

He cast aspersions on the negligence of the Conclave to roaring applause. Then, drunk on his audience, he dared implicate deacons!

For one dizzying moment, he realized the peril of taunting his fellows on the eve of their ascension…but then the crowd roared his name.

They begged him for revelations.

The deacon looked to the Conclave – its eastern halls covered in tightly winched tarps. So strong were the prohibitions around the Conclave that even this crowd of thousand left the tarps alone, touching only the familiar statues and stairs…

“Yes!” he murmured to himself. “Let the truth light our fire all the brighter!”

A thousand men before him had sought the center from which to command the storm. Reed had tried; Charlotte Broadleaf had tried; the deacons gathered their knives to try. Most more handsome and better spoken than the scruffy deacon now atop the steps.

Regardless, though, here Maxwell stood.

He laid one trembling hand on the sheet of history.

“We will be pure again!” he prayed.

Maxwell pulled.