The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 102
Elbryan could have stepped ahead then, and with a short stroke ended the fight. He started to make that exact move, but remembered Juraviel’s warning and stepped back instead.
On came Roger, not even realizing that he had already lost the contest. The young man’s sword work this time was more deceptive, Tempest stabbing for Elbryan up high, then down low, then low again, and, after a feint up high, low a third time in succession.
Elbryan simply moved his head to avoid the first attack, slapped at the blade once and again to defeat the next two, then hopped the last. Now the ranger did counter, coming forward suddenly as soon as he landed from his slight jump and swinging at Roger in a wide arc, allowing the young man the time to get Tempest in the way to parry.
Elbryan worked furiously, in widely exaggerated and clearly revealed moves, and nimble Roger easily picked off each attack, even managed to counter on two occasions, the first surprising Elbryan and almost slipping through his defenses. The ranger recovered quickly, though, slapping his free hand against the flat of Tempest’s blade, though he did get a slight nick on the side of his hand in the process.
“In a contest of first blood, I already won,” Roger bragged.
The ranger sublimated his pride and let the insult pass. He had no time nor desire for such taunting games, for he had to focus on the challenge of this particular fight—not concerning whether he would win or lose, but to make sure that neither he nor Roger was injured in the process. Elbryan had to choreograph this one perfectly.
Another flurry ensued, the two men slapping their swords repeatedly in the air between them, picking off each other’s blows, with Roger gradually gaining an advantage, the ranger backing steadily. Spurred by the gain, Roger pressed onward even more forcefully, launching Tempest in mighty swings, inadvertently opening his defenses.
Elbryan did not take any of those openings, just continued to back, and to bend a bit, allowing the smaller man to rise above him.
Roger yelped with satisfaction and came on hard, slashing Tempest in a downward, diagonal manner.
Up came the ranger, flipping his sword to his left hand and parrying strong, then, in the blink of an eye, turning the blade right over Roger’s halted sword, then driving the tip back under, and whipping the blades out wide so forcefully that Tempest flew from Roger’s grasp. Elbryan let his own blade fall free, as well.
The young man dove for the sword; Elbryan dove right in front of him, rolling a somersault, pivoting as he landed and coming right back in. As Roger reached for the sword, his right arm was jerked back, bent at the elbow, Elbryan’s right arm sliding under it. Before the young man could react with his free left arm, Elbryan’s left slipped under his armpit, then up and around the back of Roger’s neck. At the same time, the ranger stepped one leg past Roger and jerked him to the side, over his knee. They went down hard, Elbryan on top of Roger, the young man’s arms helplessly pinned behind his back.
“Yield,” the ranger instructed.
“Not fair,” Roger complained.
Elbryan stood up, hauling Roger to his feet with him, then released him, shoving him forward. Roger immediately went for Tempest.
Elbryan started a silent call to the sword, which would have floated it back to his hand, but decided against the move, letting Roger retrieve the blade, then spin, facing him squarely.
“Not fair,” Roger gasped again. “This is a sword fight, not a contest of wrestling strength.”
“The hold was merely a continuation of the swordplay,” Elbryan replied. “Would you have preferred getting stuck with a sword?”
“You could not!” Roger argued. “Your parry cost us both our weapons!”
Elbryan turned to Juraviel, and saw that the elf recognized the truth of the situation, that he had fairly won. But the elf said, “The lad is correct,” and Elbryan, seeing that Roger had learned no lesson here, understood and approved. “Thus the fight is not ended.”
“Go and retrieve your sword,” Roger said to Elbryan.
“No need,” Juraviel interjected, and his tone was a bit too jovial for Elbryan’s liking. “The swords were dropped and you were the first to retrieve. Take the advantage, young Roger!”
Elbryan glared at Juraviel, thinking the elf might be pushing things a bit.
Roger came ahead three steps, sword raised in line with Elbryan’s face. “Yield,” the young man said, smiling widely.
“Because you have the advantage?” Elbryan replied. “As you had with the dagger?”
The poignant reminder sent Roger leaping ahead, but the ranger sprang out, too, soaring in a dive right past Roger, spinning up to his feet and scrambling to his sword before the young man could reverse direction and catch up.
Roger charged right in, though, furious at his own mistake, swinging wildly. Metal rang against metal many, many times, Elbryan neatly picking off every blow.
Fast tiring, Roger tried one of the ranger’s tricks, flipping Tempest to his left hand and slashing in.
Elbryan’s backhand parry nearly knocked him in a complete circle, and when Roger recovered, raising Tempest defensively before him, he found that the ranger was not there.
And then he felt the tip of a sword against the back of his neck.
“Yield,” Elbryan instructed.
Roger tensed, calculating a move, but Elbryan only dug the tip in a bit deeper, ending any such thoughts.
Roger threw Tempest to the ground and stepped away, turning an angry glare on the ranger—a look that grew even darker when Elbryan unexpectedly started laughing.
“Well fought!” the ranger congratulated. “I did not think you would be so strong with the blade. It seems that you are a man of many talents, Roger Lockless.”
“You easily defeated me,” the young man spat back.
Elbryan’s smile was unrelenting. “Not as easily as you might believe,” he said, and he looked to Juraviel. “The shadow dive,” he explained.
“Indeed,” replied the elf, cuing in to the ranger’s reference, remembering when he had seen Elbryan beaten on the sparring field by Tallareyish Issinshine, the elf using just such a move. “It is a move that will work two out of three times,” Juraviel went on, speaking to Roger. “Or at least, in two out of three attempts, it will not bring absolute disaster.”
Juraviel turned back to Elbryan. “It does not do my old heart well to see you, Nightbird, whom we elves trained to the highest levels, forced to resort to such a desperate maneuver to save defeat at the hands of a mere child!” he scolded.
Elbryan and the elf looked to Roger, both thinking they had done well here, that the issue about the towns, and the pecking order between the two of them, had been settled.
Roger glowered at the ranger and the elf for a few moments, then spat on the ground at Elbryan’s feet, turned and stormed away.
Elbryan gave a great sigh. “He is not an easy one to convince,” he said.
“Perhaps he recognized your deception as easily as did I,” Juraviel reasoned.
“What deception?”
“You could have beaten him at any time, in any manner,” the elf stated bluntly.
“Two out of three,” the ranger corrected.
“When you fought Tallareyish, perhaps,” Juraviel was quick to answer. “In that instance, however, Tallareyish’s maneuver had been wrought purely of desperation, for you had clearly gained the upper hand.”
“And this time?”
“This time the shadow dive was used for no better reason than to save some of Roger’s dignity, a tactic I am not certain will prove effective.”
“But—” Elbryan started to protest, for Juraviel had bade him do just that before the fight began.
“Just take care that your ‘lesson’ doesn’t impart a false sense of ability in Roger,” the elf warned. “If he goes into battle against a powrie, he’ll not likely come out of it alive.”
Elbryan conceded that point, looking to the place where Roger had exited the field. That seemed the least of their troubles, however, for, given Roger’s attitude, it seemed it would not be easy to convince the folk to go around the two occupied towns.
“Go and give Pony back her blade,” Juraviel instructed.
Too caught up in the moment, trying to figure out how he might better correct this situation with Roger, Elbryan didn’t even reply, just retrieved and sheathed Tempest and walked off into the night.
“While I go and have a talk with Roger Lockless,” Juraviel finished under his breath when the ranger had walked away.
The elf caught up with Roger soon after, in a root-strewn clearing beneath the heavy boughs of a wide-spreading elm tree.
“Etiquette and simple good manners would have demanded that you congratulate the winner,” Juraviel explained, lighting on a branch right above the young man.
“Be gone, elf,” Roger replied.
Juraviel hopped down to the ground right in front of the young man. “Be gone?” he echoed incredulously.
“Now!”
“Save your threats, Roger Lockless,” the elf answered calmly. “I have seen you fight and am not impressed.”
“I brought your wonderful Nightbird to a near standstill.”
“He could have beaten you at any time,” the elf interrupted. “You know that.”
Roger straightened up, and though he was not tall by human standards, he still towered over the elf.
“Nightbird is as strong as any man alive,” the elf went on. “And, trained by the Touel’alfar, he is as nimble with the blade as any. He is the complete warrior, and could have turned your own blade back in your face, had he so chosen. Or he might have simply caught your arm and crushed it in his iron grasp.”
“So says his lackey elf!” Roger cried.
Juraviel scoffed at the absurdity of the statement. “Have you already forgotten your first fight?”
Roger’s expression screwed up with curiosity.
“What happened when you went at Nightbird with the dagger?” the elf asked. “Is that not proof enough?”
A thoroughly frustrated Roger punched out at Juraviel. The elf stepped inside the blow, caught Roger by the wrist, then went right behind the young man, turning Roger’s arm behind his back and grabbing him by the hair with his free hand. A tug on both arm and hair had Roger turning about, and Juraviel promptly slammed his face into the trunk of the elm.
“I am not Nightbird,” Juraviel warned. “I am not human, and hold little compassion for fools!” With that, Juraviel slammed Roger into the tree once more, then spun the man about and hit him with a backhand that sat him on the ground.
“You know the truth, Roger Lockless,” he scolded. “You know that Nightbird is your better in these matters, and that his judgment concerning our course should be heeded. Yet you are so blinded by your own foolish pride that you will doom your own people before admitting it!”
“Pride?” Roger yelled back “Was it not Roger Lockless who went into Caer Tinella to rescue—”
“And why did Roger Lockless go into Caer Tinella?” Juraviel interrupted. “On both occasions. For the sake of the poor prisoners, or out of fear that he would be upstaged by this new hero?”
Roger stuttered over a response, but Juraviel wasn’t listening anyway. “He could have beaten you at any moment, in any manner,” the elf said again, and then he turned and walked away, leaving battered Roger sitting under the elm tree.
CHAPTER 16
To the Father Abbot’s Amusement
“Abbot Dobrinion grows increasingly uneasy,” Brother Francis offered to Father Abbot Markwart. The younger monk was obviously agitated; every word that came from him was strained, for in speaking them, Brother Francis was caught somewhere between fear and horror. Of course Abbot Dobrinion was uneasy, he realized, for they were torturing the abbot’s subjects in the very dungeons of this holy place!
“It is not my place to say, perhaps,” Francis went on, pausing often, trying to gauge impassive Markwart’s reaction, “but I fear—”
“That St. Precious is not friendly to our cause,” the Father Abbot finished for him.
“Forgive me,” Brother Francis humbly said.
“Forgive?” Markwart echoed incredulously. “Forgive your perceptiveness? Your wariness? We are at war, my young fool. Have you not yet realized that?”
“Of course, Father Abbot,” Francis said, bowing his head. “The powries and goblins—”
“Forget them!” Markwart interrupted. “And forget the giants, and the dactyl demon, as well. This war has become much more dangerous than any matter concerning mere monsters.”
Brother Francis lifted his head and stared long and hard at Markwart.
“This is a war for the heart of the Abellican Church,” Markwart went on. “I have explained this over and over to you, and yet you still do not understand. This is a war between traditions which have stood for millennia, and usurpous ideas, petty contemporary beliefs concerning the nature of good and the nature of evil.”
“Are those not timeless concepts?” a very confused Brother Francis dared to ask
“Of course,” Markwart replied with a disarming chuckle. “But some, Master Jojonah among them, seem to believe they can redefine the terms to fit their own perceptions.”
“And what of Abbot Dobrinion?”
“You tell me of Abbot Dobrinion,” Markwart instructed.
Brother Francis paused, contemplating the implications. He wasn’t quite sure how the Father Abbot viewed Dobrinion, or anyone else, for that matter. Back at St.-Mere-Abelle, Markwart had argued often with Master De’Unnero, and often violently, and yet, despite their differences, it was no secret that De’Unnero was the Father Abbot’s closest adviser, next to Francis himself.
“Brother Avelyn the heretic used to analyze every question,” Father Abbot Markwart remarked. “He could not simply speak what was in his heart, and that, I fear, was his undoing.”
“Abbot Dobrinion will fight us,” Brother Francis blurted. “I do not trust him, and think him more akin to Master Jojonah’s definitions of good and evil than to yours . . . ours.”
“Strong words,” Markwart said slyly.
Brother Francis paled.
“But not wholly untrue,” Markwart went on, and Francis breathed easier. “Abbot Dobrinion has ever been an idealist, even when those ideals fly in the face of pragmatism. I thought that his craving for the sainthood of Brother Allabarnet would allow me to keep him in line, but apparently he is possessed of greater weakness than I believed.”
“He will fight us,” Brother Francis said more firmly.
“Even as we speak, Abbot Dobrinion petitions for the release of the Chilichunks,” Markwart explained. “He will go to the Baron of Palmaris, likely to the King himself, and of course, to the other abbots.”
“Have we a right to hold them?” Brother Francis dared to ask
“Is the Abellican Order more important than the fate of three people?” came the curt response.
“Yes, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis replied, bowing his head once more. When Markwart put it that simple way, it was easy for Francis to put aside his private feelings about the treatment of the prisoners. Indeed the stakes were high here, too high for him to let foolish compassion get in the way.
“And what, then, shall we do?” the Father Abbot asked, though it was obvious to Brother Francis that the old man had already made up his mind.
Again Brother Francis hesitated, thinking through the problem. “An Abbot College,” he began, referring to the gathering of all the Church hierarchy, a process necessary if the Father Abbot meant to remove Abbot Dobrinion.
“There will indeed be such a gathering,” Markwart replied. “But it will not convene until mid-Calember.”
Brother Francis considered the words. Calember was the eleventh month, still more than four months away. “Then we must leave St. Precious at once,” he reasoned at length, guessing, correctly, that the Father Abbot was fast running out of patience with him. “We must take our prisoners to St.-Mere-Abelle, where Abbot Dobrinion shall have no say in their treatment.”
“Well spoken,” Markwart congratulated. “Indeed, we must be gone from St. Precious tomorrow, the centaur and the Chilichunks in tow. See to the arrangements, and plot our paths.”
“A straight run,” Brother Francis assured him.
“And make it public, very much so, that we are leaving,” the Father Abbot went on. “And see to it that Connor Bildeborough is taken, as well, for that is news which will spread wide.”
Brother Francis wore a doubting expression. “That may invite trouble from the crown,” he warned.
“And if so, we will release him,” Markwart replied. “Until that happens, the gossip may reach the ears of the woman we seek.”
“But may not care about Bildeborough,” Brother Francis reasoned. “Their union was short, and unpleasant, so it is said.”
“But she will come for the Chilichunks,” Markwart explained. “And for that ugly half-horse creature. The arrest of Master Bildeborough will only serve to publicize our other prisoners.”
Brother Francis considered the reasoning for a moment, then nodded. “And what of Abbot Dobrinion?” he asked.
“A smaller thorn than you would believe,” Markwart replied quickly, and it seemed to Francis that the man already had a plan in mind for the venerable abbot of St. Precious.
Connor Bildeborough paced the small room—a rented flat in the lower section of Palmaris. Though the man was of noble blood, he preferred the excitement of the docks and the rougher taverns. The only adventure he found at his uncle’s palace was the occasional fox hunt, and those he considered foolish, an ego-propping exercise that did not even qualify, in his mind, as sport. No, Connor, quick with his wits and quick with his sword, preferred a good fight in a tavern, or a brush with would-be muggers in a dark alleyway.
To that end, he had been spending a considerable amount of time in the fields north of Palmaris, trying to earn a warrior’s reputation in skirmishes with the many monsters to be found up there. His uncle had presented him with a magnificent gift at the outset of the war, a slender sword of unmatched craftsmanship. Its blade gleamed of some silvery metal that could not be identified, and inset along its golden basket pommel were several tiny magical magnetites so the weapon could be used beautifully for parrying, practically attracting an opponent’s blade. Its name was Defender, and where his uncle had ever found such a blade, Connor could not know. The rumors about the sword were many, and impossible to confirm. Most agreed it had been forged in the smithies of the first King of Honce-the-Bear—some said by a cunning powrie who had deserted its kindred on the Weathered Isles. Other tales claimed that the mysterious Touel’alfar had helped in its creation, and still others claimed that both races had played a role, along with the best human weaponsmiths of the day.
