Read Online Steelheart by William C. Dietz - Free Book Online

Holy City's hungry silos.
    The Church had a large hierarchy, so even though his flock would bring close to eight tol worth of grain in from the countryside, it would require countless columns to meet the overall need. But it was written that "from many drops a mighty river will flow," a quotation that suited the moment and sent a smile down Crono's lips.
    The priest stood to one side and urged his flock to be careful as they made their way along the length of mist-slicked path and around the lake beyond. Harmony, like dozens of communities visited during the pilgrimage, would be expected to house the pilgrims in huts maintained for that purpose, add one kol to the weight of each bag, and provide each traveler with two meals.
    It was a marvelous system that enabled the Church to monitor activities in the hinterlands, exercise control over the vast network of resident monks, and move food all at the same time. Crono took pride in the system—and dreaded the day when they would force him to retire.
    The priest waited until everyone had passed through the gap, urged the stragglers to greater speed, and hurried to the front of the column. He had a long, lean body, legs like tree trunks, and heavily muscled arms. Female eyes watched the priest stride by. There had been hundreds of attempts to seduce him over the years, but none had succeeded. Crono was proud of that—and determined to defend his virtue.
    The pilgrims had become accustomed to the chink, chink, chink sound that Crono's staff made as it hit the ground, and knew when he was approaching from behind. They also knew that any attempt to shirk, to lighten the weight of their sacks, or to victimize other members of the procession would bring a quick flurry of expertly delivered blows. Still, everyone knew the underpriest was fair, and took three steps for each of theirs.
    The fields were more tan than the beautiful green they should have been, and patches of unmelted slush marked the places where the seldom seen sun failed to reach.
    On the other hand, the huts, which were laid out according to the God-inspired grid, were well maintained and, in at least three or four cases, as large as the law permitted. One of these, the Orlow residence, held special interest for the priest. He came abreast of a reliable male, issued the necessary instructions, and left the column.
    The ensuing session would be somewhat tedious, and more than a little distorted by Mother Orlow's lack of objectivity, but interesting nonetheless. In a drol, two at most, he would hear the latest news, receive some input regarding Brother Parly's performance, and ingest the best sweet cakes west of the Righteous Mountain Range. Other opinions, harvested during the evening meal, would complete the picture. A farmer waved, and Crono waved back. Life was hard—but undeniably good.
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    The monk's hut was small and carefully spartan. The furnishings consisted of a table, two chairs, and a cot. The fire, carefully banked to maximize the heat it generated, crackled and jumped.
    Breakfast was something of a tradition, not to mention a trial, since neither male enjoyed the other's company. Crono saw Parly as soft, self-indulgent, and morally weak. Parly regarded Crono as hard, unnecessarily strict, and self-righteous.
    Making the occasion even less appealing, especially from Parly's perspective, was the thin, watery gruel mat Crono favored, rather than the considerably heartier fare to which the monk had accustomed himself. Still, Parly mused to himself, the verse-spouting maniac will be gone soon, and a mid-morning snack will set me right.
    Crono emptied his bowl, used a crust of bread to wipe it clean, and popped the morsel in his mouth. Parly had already completed his meal, and hurried the prayer. "Thank you, God, for the bounty placed before us. May we grow stronger in mind, body, and soul."
    "Words to live by," Crono said comfortably, as if hearing them for the very first time. "Words to live by. So,