Chapter 24
The Theology of War
The bell that hung above the doorway of the healing house clattered as Porterhouse walked through and held it open for the Amazons. They marched in and deposited the table, with the scorched Orc on it. The General gave them a quick salute and they quickly returned outside.
“Is someone dying or can it wait a minute?” came a voice from the rear.
Porterhouse looked down at the wounded soldier. “I think he still breathe.”
Demara bustled up from the back dusting flour off on her apron. Her brown hair was pinned back with clips fashioned in the shape of sheaves of grain. “Well let’s see if we can keep him that way, shall we?” She looked briefly over him. “God's above. What happened to him?”
“We try out new mage weapons,” explained Porterhouse. “Not all worked.”
“I'd scold you for being reckless with your troops. But judging by what's left of your eyebrows you've learned your lesson,” she said. He assisted as she field stripped his armor.
“Save medal,” said Porterhouse, rescuing it from the breastplate. “Good brave warrior.”
“Anyone serving you has got to have more bravery than brains,” said Demara.
“Thank you!” said Porterhouse, radiant.
“That's not quite how I meant it” said Demara as she started sponging the wounds. Consciousness had returned to the Orc and he bit his lip as she worked on him. “One thing about your machismo, though: at least you don't squirm when I clean your wounds.” She sniffed the air and looked up in alarm. “Oh, hells. The scones!” She looked from the wounded Orc to her ovens and back. “Be a dear, Porterhouse. Can you pull the sheets out of the oven?”
“Oh!” he cried. “I cannot handle your holy hot buns!”
“Damn straight. I may worship a fertility goddess, but there are limits,” she swore. “Fortunately they are scones, and they are in the oven. And they will burn if you do not get them now.” He moved quickly to obey. “And this is not a test of your Orcish manhood!” she called after him. “Use the oven mitts!”
Demara shook her head and pulled some healing salve from a shelf. “At the rate we're clocking up peacetime injuries, I'm going to have to make more of this,” she muttered to herself. Nevertheless, she applied it liberally on all surfaces. “Now the hard part.”
She fished inside her tunic and brought out a medallion. The sides were made of sheaves of wheat and a gentle woman's face in cameo. “I pray to rich-haired Grania, lady of the golden sword and glorious fruits. Bringing of seasons and giver of good gifts, grant to your devout worshiper your blessing and heal this man.” She placed her hands upon the soldier. There was a soft glow, the salve disappeared, and the blisters on his flesh faded. “Well,” said Demara quietly. “She's still listening.”
The trooper sat up at Porterhouse came up, taking off the oven mitts. “Good Grania! I thank you!” he said to Demara.
“Grania's blessing on you,” she said, putting away the medallion.
Porterhouse handed him the cut up armor. “Go. Get fixed,” he said. Then handed him his medal. “Take care this too” He looked up at the General, misty eyes, then went to duck out.
“Wait,” said Demara. He turned and she tossed him a scone.
“I thank Grania for fixing soldier,” said Porterhouse.
“Don't count on it for too much longer,” said Demara, shaking her head.
“Oh. You leave when war starts?” asked Porterhouse.
“No,” said Demara. “Not as long as the Queen stands by her agreement. But I'm not sure Grania will work her magic through me after the fighting breaks out.”
“Ah,” said Porterhouse. “When happens, we pray to you then.”
She looked at him, long suffering. “You know, it would be a lot easier and faster for you if you just used your magic thingies to heal your troops instead of dragging them here. I'm really just here to bake.” She handed him a scone.
With great joy he delicately bit off a small piece with his wide teeth. “It was magic thingies put him here,” pointed out Porterhouse.
Demara pursed her lips and nodded. She didn't really mind healing the Orcs. Or the Amazons. She just rued the day when it didn't work, and didn't want to tempt fate.
“Troops like you,” said Porterhouse. “Elders teach that holy war band had Grun-ya to make food for war march. Same important as Clan Father and War Lord. Each has place. Many stories of holy war band and how each helps win great battle.”
Demara couldn't stop herself laughing. “I'm sorry. I know it is not very culturally sensitive of me.” Porterhouse did not look offended. “I guess it serves us right. The First Empire of Romitu invaded you, converted you to our gods, and then collapsed, leaving you on your own. It's not surprising that you made our gods your own.”
“So you see then?” said Porterhouse. “We make you our own. You are our strong armed Grun-ya.”
“Yes, yes,” said Demara, rolling her eyes. “Provider of the blessed beer and pretzels.”
“Best food for march!” said Porterhouse. “Easy to carry. Keeps well.” He watched her collect the scones from the sheets, pile them in a basket and toss the sheets into the sink. “Troops understand you,” he said, more quietly. “Crazy mages have wild magic. Makes our hands strong, but sometimes blows up. Your magic not so boom-woosh, but reliable.”
Demara shrugged. “For as long as it works.”
“Do not worry, my Grun-ya,” said Porterhouse, leaning against the counter and finishing his scone. “I see many fights. War Lord, he talk tough. Send out champions. Many chest beat on both sides. But once nose bloody, Clan Father say stop. Then new line gets drawn. Territory changes. Both go home.”
“What if Clan Father goes to war himself?” asked Demara. “I can't see Sky Father sitting this one out and sending in Martius, who you call War Lord”
“War Lord job to lead war. If Clan Father go, Clan Father die,” said Porterhouse simply. “New line is drawn. They find new Clan Father who not so stupid.”
“I'm not so sure this is as simple as a territorial dispute,” said Demara.
“Fight never for territory,” said Porterhouse. “Fight happens when too many people with no future.” Demara looked at him quizzically. “Sons follow fathers. Daughters follow mothers. When times good and many sons and many daughters, what they do? Join army! See world. Some win new land. Some die.”
“But that's not exactly how the gods operate,” argued Demara.
“Oh?” asked Porterhouse. “You have Sky Father. We have Clan Father. One god or two?”
“Hmm,” said Demara. “That is a delicate theological question. There has definitely been some divergence in dogma. The philosophers are not sure if there has been a split, but if things keep going they figure one is inevitable.”
“Yes,” said Porterhouse. “And Grun-ya. She new god. Not old god. Not one of One Hundred Forty Four.”
“True, true,” said Demara.
“So gods same. They have new sons and daughters,” said Porterhouse.
“Yes, but the only reason there are new gods is when there are new needs to be fulfilled,” said Demara. “As agriculture became more important Hearth Mother's duties as Sky Father's consort didn't leave her enough time. So Grania was accepted into the pantheon to take on those duties.”
Porterhouse shrugged. “If Sky Father goes to battle, will War Lord be happy? I think not. There is overlap. So there is tension. I think with fewer gods, they have no problem with duties. Not real reason.”
“If true, that's depressing,” said Demara. “The thought that war is the inevitable consequence to plenty.”
“Not if you see glory in war” said Porterhouse. “Then it happy thing!”
“I'm not sure I can ever see war as a happy thing,” said Demara. “I'd rather try to avoid it.”
“Do not worry my Grun-ya,” said Porterhouse. “There will not be many more wars.”
She looked at him askance. “I thought you
just said you thought war was always unavoidable?”
“This war. It too soon. Not stop.” He tapped his head, more serious now. “Crazy mages not always crazy. They say no one die. Resurrections for all. OK. What they eat? Oops. We got make deserts bloom. Make all outer waste into garden. Then OK.” He waved his finger. “If we can kill Death by making so much life, then many sons many daughters no problem. That small problem, then no war.”
“I have to say,” said Demara. “That's probably the most cogent argument I've heard so far for greening the waste.”
Porterhouse gave her a casual salute. “You think argument good enough for Grun-ya?”
Demara sighed deeply. “I have no idea. Nothing I've said so far seems to have been of any use.”
“Ah, but you tough Grun-ya,” said Porterhouse, rocking her with a punch to the shoulder. “You like champion fighting up blood slicked hill. You try. You try. You try.”
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Demara. “Honestly, though, you are the last person on earth I would have figured discussing theology with.”
“Ah,” laughed Porterhouse. “This Orc full of surprises! War Lord say, best if enemy thinks you less than you are.”
Demara laughed back, nodding. “Well I feel better. Get back to your troops. I need to make several more batches of scones before evening mess.”