The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 100
“Whenever the business gets unpleasant, all you need do is think of the greater good,” he quietly instructed.
“But if they are telling the truth . . .” Francis dared to argue.
“A pity, then,” Markwart admitted. “But not so much a pity as the consequences if they are lying and we do not probe deeper. The greater truth, Brother Francis. The greater good.”
Still, Francis was having a hard time reconciling his heart with the spectacle. He said no more about it, though, but produced the soul stone and dutifully followed his superior to the next cell in line.
More than an hour later, a painful hour for Grady and Graevis, Francis and Markwart exited the heavy door leading to the narrow stone stairway to the abbey’s chapel. They found Abbot Dobrinion waiting for them on the top step.
“I demand to know what you are doing down there,” the abbot fumed. “These are my subjects, and loyal to the Church.”
“Loyal?” Markwart spat at him. “They harbor fugitives.”
“If they knew—”
“They do know!” Markwart yelled in his face. “And they will tell me, do not doubt!”
The sheer intensity, the sheer wildness, of his tone sent Dobrinion back a couple of steps. He stood staring at Markwart for a long while, trying to get a reading of the man, trying to find out just how far this all had gone. “Father Abbot,” he said quietly at length, once he was back in control of his own bubbling anger, “I do not doubt the importance of your quest, but I’ll not stand idly by while you—”
“While I begin the canonization process for our dear Allabarnet of St. Precious?” Markwart finished.
Again Dobrinion paused, his thoughts whirling. No, he decided, he could not let Father Abbot use that as leverage against him, not in a matter as important as this. “Brother Allabarnet is deserving—” he started to protest.
“As if that matters,” Markwart spat. “How many hundreds are deserving, Abbot Dobrinion? And yet only those chosen few ever even get nominated.”
Dobrinion shook his head in defiance to every word. “No more,” he said. “No more. Choose your course concerning Brother Allabarnet based on the work and life of Brother Allabarnet, not on whether or not the present abbot of St Precious agrees with your campaign of terror! These are good people, good in heart and in deed.”
“What do you know of it?” Markwart exploded. “When enemies of the Church bring St. Precious down around you, or the rot within the Church brings you down inside the walls you thought sacred, or when goblins freely roam the streets of Palmaris, will Abbot Dobrinion then wish he had let Father Abbot Markwart conduct the matters with a just, but iron, hand? Do you even begin to understand the implications of the cache of stolen stones? Do you even begin to understand the power they might bring to our foes?” The Father Abbot shook his head and waved disgustedly at the man.
“I grow weary of trying to educate you, foolish Abbot Dobrinion,” he said. “Let me warn you instead. This matter is too important for your meddling. Your actions will not go unnoticed.”
Abbot Dobrinion squared his shoulders and eyed the old man directly. Truly, some of Markwart’s claims of the potential calamity had shaken a bit of his confidence, but still, his heart told him that this inquisition of the Chilichunks, and of the centaur, could not be a righteous thing. He had no arguments that would stand against Markwart at that time, though. The hierarchy of the Abellican Church did not allow him, as a mere abbot, to seriously question the authority of the Father Abbot, even within the walls of his own abbey. He gave a curt bow, then turned and walked far, far away.
“Who is Dobrinion’s second at St Precious?” Father Abbot Markwart asked Brother Francis as soon as the other man was gone.
“In line for the position of abbot?” Francis reasoned, and then, when Markwart confirmed that to be what he had in mind, Francis shook his head and shrugged. “No one of any consequence, certainly,” he explained. “There is not even a master now in service at St. Precious.”
Markwart’s face screwed up with curiosity.
“They had two masters,” Brother Francis explained. “One was killed on the battlefield to the north; the other died of the red fever just a few months ago.”
“An interesting void,” Father Abbot Markwart remarked.
“In truth, there is no one in St. Precious ready for such a succession,” Brother Francis went on.
Father Abbot smiled wickedly at the thought. He had a master at St-Mere-Abelle who might be ready for such a position, a man whose hand was no less iron than his own.
“Impeaching him of his title will thus prove all the more difficult,” Brother Francis reasoned, thinking he saw where Markwart’s thoughts were leading him.
“What?” Markwart asked incredulously, as though the idea never crossed his mind.
“The College will never strip Abbot Dobrinion of his abbey, given that there is no logical successor at St Precious,” Brother Francis reasoned.
“There are plenty of masters at St-Mere-Abelle ready to assume the role of abbot,” Father Abbot Markwart replied. “And at St. Honce.”
“But history tells us clearly that the College would not strip an abbey of its abbot without another within the abbey ready to assume the title,” Brother Francis argued. “The Twelfth College of St. Argraine was faced with just that prospect, concerning an abbot whose crimes were clearly more egregious than Abbot Dobrinion’s.”
“Yes yes, I do not doubt your understanding of the matter,” Father Abbot Markwart interrupted, somewhat impatiently. He looked in the direction in which Abbot Dobrinion had departed, still showing that smile. “A pity,” he muttered.
Then he started away, but, as in the dungeon, Brother Francis paused before following, surprised, when he considered it more closely, that Father Abbot Markwart would even entertain such thoughts. The impeachment of an abbot was no light matter, most decidedly not! It had only been attempted a half-dozen times in the thousand-year history of the Church, and two of those were prompted by the fact that the abbot in question had been proven guilty of serious crimes, one a series of rapes, including the assault on the female abbess of St Gwendolyn, and the other a murder. Furthermore, the other four impeachment attempts had been in the very early days of the Abellican Order, when the position of abbot was often for sale or an appointment made as a matter of political gain.
Brother Francis gave a deep sigh to steady his nerves and dutifully followed his superior once more, reminding himself that the Church, indeed all the kingdom, was at war, after all, and that these were indeed desperate times.
Brother Braumin Herde was not in good spirits. He knew what was going on in the dungeons of the abbey, though he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the lower levels. And even worse, he knew he was now alone in his stance, should he choose to take one against the Father Abbot. Master Jojonah was long gone, taken from him as his old mentor had warned might happen. Father Abbot Markwart knew his enemies and had the upper hand, a position he had no intention of relinquishing.
So Brother Braumin, avoiding monks of his own abbey for fear that they would run to Markwart to report any discussion, spent his hours among the brothers of St. Precious. They were a more jovial bunch than the serious students of St-Mere-Abelle, he discovered, despite the fact that they had been hearing the sounds of battle not too far to the north for many weeks now. Still, on the whole, St. Precious was a brighter place. Perhaps it was the weather, Brother Braumin thought, for Palmaris was normally much more sunny than All Saints Bay, or perhaps it was the fact that St. Precious was built more aboveground than the larger St.-Mere-Abelle, with more windows and breezy balconies. Or maybe it was the fact that these monks were less secluded, being housed, as they were, in the midst of a huge city.
Or maybe, Brother Braumin mused—and he thought this to be the most likely explanation—the fact that St. Precious was lighter of heart than St.-Mere-Abelle was a reflection of the mood of the respective abbots. Dobrinion Calislas, by all accounts, was a man not unaccustomed to smiling; his great belly laugh was well-reported in Palmaris, as was his love of the wine—elvish boggle, some said—his penchant for games of chance—among friends only—and his love of officiating a grand wedding where no expenses had been spared.
Father Abbot Markwart didn’t smile much, Braumin knew, and on those occasions when he did, those not in his favor grew very ill at ease.
Late that afternoon, Braumin stood in the carpeted hallway outside the door of Abbot Dobrinion’s private quarters. Many times he lifted his hand to knock on the door, only to let it fall silently by his side. Braumin understood the chance he would be taking if he went in to speak with the man now, if he told Abbot Dobrinion of his fears concerning Markwart and of the quiet alliance that had been forged against the Father Abbot. On the one hand, Braumin felt he had little choice in the matter. With Master Jojonah gone, and on a long road that would keep him out of Braumin’s life for years, it appeared, Braumin was powerless to make any moves against Father Abbot Markwart’s decisions, particularly the decision that had sent Jojonah away in the first place. Making an ally of Abbot Dobrinion, who by all indications was not having a good time of it on his own against the Father Abbot, might greatly strengthen the cause for both men.
But on the other hand, Braumin Herde had to admit that he really didn’t know Abbot Dobrinion very well, particularly the man’s politics. Perhaps Abbot Dobrinion and Father Abbot Markwart were bickering over control of the prisoners simply because each wanted the glory of recovering the stones. Or perhaps Abbot Dobrinion’s objections were borne on the wings of simple anger that Markwart had come into St. Precious and usurped a good deal of his power.
Brother Braumin spent nearly half an hour standing in that hall, contemplating his course. In the end Master Jojonah’s words of wisdom proved the deciding component “Quietly spread the word,” his beloved mentor had bade him, “not against Father Abbot or any others, but in favor of Avelyn and those of like heart.”
Patience, Brother Braumin decided. This was the long war of Mankind, he knew, the internal struggle of good and evil, and his side, the side of true goodness and godliness, would win out in the end. He had to believe that.
Now he was miserable and feeling so very alone, but that was the burden the truth in his heart forced upon him, and going to Abbot Dobrinion at this dangerous time was not the proper course.
As it played out in the weeks ahead, Brother Braumin Herde would come to regret this moment when he walked away from Abbot Dobrinion’s door.
CHAPTER 15
Pride
“Maiyer Dek and the powrie, Kos-kosio,” Pony said, feeling very pleased at the out come in Caer Tinella. She, Elbryan, Tomas Gingerwart, and Belster O’Comely were sitting about a campfire in the refugee encampment, eagerly awaiting the return of Roger Lockless and the other scouts, trying to get a full measure of the impact of this night’s raid on the monsters. The news would be good, all of them fully suspected. Several other monsters in addition to the two leaders had been slain, but they, even the three giants, were not overly important, not compared to the giant leader and the powrie leader—and especially given the fact that Maiyer Dek had been the one to kill Kos-kosio, and in full view of many powrie allies! Before the coming of the demon dactyl, giants and powries had rarely allied, indeed had hated each other as much as each hated the humans. Bestesbulzibar had halted that feud, and with the fall of the demon, the alliance had only continued out of necessity, since both armies were deep into the human lands.
But it was a strained thing, an alliance waiting for an excuse that it might turn into a feud.
“If we had convinced Maiyer Dek to join with us, we could not have gotten him to aid us any more than he did,” Elbryan remarked with a chuckle. “My hopes soared when I saw him throw the powrie leader into the fire.”
“And with Maiyer Dek and three of his giant kin dead,” Pony added, “we can expect that the powries, angry at the giants, now have the clear upper hand.”
“Except that goblins are more friendly to giants than to the wicked dwarves,” Tomas Gingerwart noted. “Even though giants often eat them!”
“True enough,” Elbryan admitted. “Perhaps the sides are fairly equal, then, for Caer Tinella was swarming with the wretched goblins. But unless one of great charm can be found among the ranks, and quickly, I suspect the fighting in the town has only just begun.”
“Here’s hoping they kill each other to the last,” Belster O’Comely said, lifting a mug of ale—compliments of Roger Lockless—into the air, then taking a tremendous swallow, draining the mug.
“So they are weaker, and our force has grown by a score ready to fight,” Tomas put in.
“A score ready to help the others get past the towns and to the southland,” Elbryan corrected. “We, all of us, have seen enough battle.”
“To Palmaris!” Belster roared, finishing with aloud belch.
Tomas Gingerwart was not amused. “A month ago, even a week ago, even two days ago, I would have been satisfied with that,” he explained. “But Caer Tinella is our home, and if our enemies are truly weakened, it may be time for us to reclaim the town. That was the plan, was it not? To wait until we took a measure of our enemies and then strike?”
Elbryan and Pony exchanged nervous glances, then looked back to the resolute man, truly empathizing with his desires.
“This is a discussion for later,” the ranger said calmly. “We do not know how strongly the monsters remain entrenched in Caer Tinella.”
Tomas snorted. “You got in,” he said. “How much more devastating might the raid have been if all of our warriors were there to fight beside you?”
“Devastating to both sides, I fear,” Pony replied. “We stung the monsters and freed the prisoners only because of the element of surprise. If Maiyer Dek had seen a greater force approaching, he would have ordered every one of the captured men slain, and the defense of Caer Tinella would have been more stubborn by far.”
Tomas snorted again, not wanting to hear the negative posturing. By his thinking, if Elbryan and Pony, their little unseen friend Juraviel and Roger Lockless, could exact such a toll, then he and his warriors could finish the task
Elbryan and Pony looked to each other again, and silently agreed to let it go at that. They understood Tomas’s feelings, recognized that he had to believe that his home was not lost to him, and they both trusted that the man was sensible enough to listen to their argument if skirting the town and running to the south seemed the more prudent move.
Belster O’Comely, fearing mounting tension, led the discussion in another direction then, pondering the fate of the monstrous army across all the lands. “If we’ve been hitting at them so hard here, then it seems to me that others are taking them down, as well,” he said. “Ho, but I’ll be back in the Howling Sheila in Dundalis in the next spring, I’m betting!” he finished, then filled and drained his mug once again.
“It is possible,” the ranger said earnestly, his optimism surprising Pony. “If the monstrous army disintegrates, the King will wish the Timberlands quickly reclaimed.”
“And Sheila will howl again!” Belster roared, for in his drink-induced state, he had forgotten all pledges to live out his life quietly in the safety of Palmaris. His excitement brought others over to the campfire, most bearing foodstuffs and beverages.
The conversation took a lighthearted turn then, became the retelling of anecdotes from happier times, before the monstrous invasion, and what had started as a serious wait for important information became a sort of victory celebration. Elbryan and Pony said little, preferring to sit back and listen to the chatter of the others, often looking to each other and nodding. They had already arranged a meeting with Juraviel at the break of dawn in the meadow by the pines, and after they heard what the elf had to say, after they came to understand the truth of their enemy’s strength in the two towns, they could make their decisions.
The night deepened, the fires burned low, and most of the folk retired to their bedrolls. Finally, only an hour before the dawn, the scouts returned, led by an exuberant Roger Lockless. “All the giants are gone,” the young man proclaimed. “Every one! Driven off by the powries—and they hardly even put up a fight!”
“They did not want to be here in the first place,” Pony reasoned. “They prefer their holes in the steep mountains of the Wilderlands.”
Tomas Gingerwart gave a shout of victory.
“And what of the goblins?” Elbryan asked calmly, interrupting the celebration before it could begin. He didn’t want Roger’s excitement to steal the moment and lead Tomas and all the refugees down a course to absolute destruction. Even without giants, the remaining powries might prove too formidable.
“There was a fight and some were killed,” Roger replied, not missing a beat. “Others went scattering into the forest.”
“And still others remained with the powries,” Elbryan reasoned.
“Yes, but—”
“And few, very few, powries were killed?” the ranger pressed.
“The goblins who remained will flee at first sign of battle,” Roger said confidently. “They only stay because they’re afraid of the bloody caps.”
“Armies have won great victories inspired purely by fear,” Pony said dryly.
Roger glared at her. “They are ready to be taken,” he said evenly.
“We are a long way from making such a claim,” the ranger was quick to reply, pointedly cutting off Tomas Gingerwart with an upraised hand as he spoke. Elbryan rose to stand before Roger. “Our responsibilities are too great to make such a quick judgment.”
“As you made when you went into Caer Tinella alone?” the young man spat back.
“I did what I thought necessary,” Elbryan replied quietly, calmly. He could feel the gazes of many people settling on him and Roger, and any conflict between them would obviously prove a source of great discomfort. These people had come to trust and love Roger Lockless, and he had truly done much for them in the weeks of their exile. But if he was wrong now, if he was letting his desire to lead the folk to victory overrule good sense, then all of his previous exploits would be for naught, for all of the refugees would likely soon be dead.
