The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 104
“Brother Dandelion has all the caravan loaded and readied in the back courtyard,” Youseff replied. “But Abbot Dobrinion, before he went down into the dungeons, set many guards about that yard.”
“They will not battle us,” Markwart assured him.
The soldier groaned and tried to stand as the Father Abbot retrieved the lodestone, but Youseff, the alert watchdog, was right there, launching a series of vicious, snapping blows to the man’s face that laid him low on the floor.
Markwart looked to Brother Francis, who stood staring at Connor but apparently taking no action. “Brother Francis,” the Father Abbot prompted sternly.
“I did get into his thoughts,” Brother Francis explained. “And learned some things which might prove valuable.”
“But . . .” Markwart prompted, recognizing the hesitant tone.
“But only when he was caught unawares,” Brother Francis admitted. “And only for a second. He is strong of will and readily expelled me, though he knew not the nature of the attack.”
Father Abbot Markwart nodded, then stepped closer to the still-dazed Connor. Out shot the old man’s fist, brutally snapping Connor’s head to the side, and he crumbled to the floor. “Now possess him,” the Father Abbot said impatiently. “It should not prove too difficult!”
“But I will learn nothing when he is in this state,” Brother Francis argued. It was true enough; an unconscious or dazed man might be relatively easily possessed, but of body only, with no invasion of memory or desire. When consciousness returned, the fight for control would begin anew.
“We need nothing more of this one’s mind,” Markwart explained. “We need only his body and his voice.”
“Evil doings,” Brother Braumin whispered to Brother Dellman as the two stood solemnly in the courtyard of St. Precious, surrounded by their brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, and with the four prisoners close by. Brother Braumin was not surprised by the sudden order to ready the wagons, for he had been watching the Father Abbot and his lackey Francis closely in their interactions with Abbot Dobrinion, and knew their welcome at St. Precious was wearing quite thin.
What did surprise the monk, though, was the presence of armed soldiers at all of the abbey’s gates, a force sent to contain them, he realized, and particularly to contain their prisoners. Whispers among the ranks had spoken of a new captive, a nobleman, though none save Markwart, Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot’s two personal bodyguards had been allowed anywhere near the man. Still, given the appearance and the demeanor of the soldiers, it wasn’t hard to understand that the Father Abbot might have overstepped his bounds here.
“Why have they come?” Brother Dellman whispered back.
“I do not know,” Braumin replied, not wanting to involve this promising young monk too deeply in the intrigue. Brother Braumin feared that he and his brothers would be leaving, and if the soldiers tried to stop them, Palmaris would see a display of magical devastation heretofore unknown in the city.
What should I do? the gentle Brother Braumin wondered. If the order came from Father Abbot Markwart to battle the soldiers, what course should he follow?
“You seem distressed, brother,” Dellman remarked. “Do you fear that these soldiers will attack us?”
“Exactly the opposite,” Brother Braumin replied in exasperation. He growled and smacked his hand against the wagon. How he wished that Master Jojonah were here to guide him!
“Brother,” Dellman said, putting a hand on Braumin’s shoulder to calm him.
Braumin turned to face the younger monk squarely, took him by the shoulders and locked his gaze. “Watch closely the coming events, Brother Dellman,” he bade the man.
Dellman stared at him quizzically.
Braumin Herde sighed and turned away. He wouldn’t openly accuse the Father Abbot to this young man. Not yet. Not until the evidence was overwhelming. Such an accusation, such a declaration that so much of what Dellman thought holy was a lie, might break the man, or send him running to Father Abbot Markwart for comfort.
Then Braumin Herde’s heart would be known, and he, like Master Jojonah, would quickly be neutralized.
The monk knew then what he would do if the order came. He would fight with his brothers, or at least would give the appearance of fighting. He could not reveal his heart, not yet.
“Forgive me, Master Jojonah,” he mumbled under his breath, and then, on impulse, he added, “Forgive me, Brother Avelyn.”
Soon after, the grim-faced guards of Baron Bildeborough stood aside, on orders from the man they had come to rescue, as the caravan from St.-Mere-Abelle rolled out of the abbey’s back gate. The three Chilichunks were bound and gagged in the back of one wagon, with Brother Youseff standing dangerous guard over them, while Brother Dandelion sat atop the back of battered Bradwarden, the centaur’s upper, human torso covered in blankets. The monks had tied Bradwarden close to the wagon in front of him, and brutal Dandelion forced the centaur to bow low and forward, so that nearly all of that telltale human torso was inside the leading wagon.
Father Abbot Markwart and Brother Francis were likewise hidden from sight, the Church leader not wishing to be bothered with common soldiers, and Brother Francis deep in the throes of maintaining his possession of Connor. When the caravan was safely away, moving steadily to the eastern dock area of the city, then turning north, Francis walked Connor’s body back into the abbey and relinquished control, and the man, still dazed from the pounding Markwart had given him, slumped to the floor. The caravan encountered no resistance as it exited the city altogether, moving through the north, and not the east gate. Markwart turned them east almost immediately, and soon they were running clear of Baron Bildeborough’s domain. Again the monks used their levitating malachite to cross the strong flowing waters of the Masur Delaval, avoiding any possible trouble at the well-guarded ferry.
From the moment he reached the lower dungeons, to find that Bradwarden had been removed by Markwart’s men more than an hour before, Abbot Dobrinion knew that trouble was brewing up above. His first instincts started him running back for the stone stair, crying for guards.
Pragmatic Dobrinion calmed and slowed, though. What could he do? he asked himself honestly. If he even managed to get to the courtyard before the caravan’s departure, would he lead the fight against Markwart’s men?
“Yes, my Abbot!” a young monk, a man barely more than a boy, whom Dobrinion recognized as a newcomer to St. Precious, cried enthusiastically, skidding to a stop right before the tired old abbot. “At your bidding.”
Dobrinion pictured this young man as a smoking husk, a charred corpse left in the wake of a magical fireball. Markwart carried such stones, he knew, and so did Brother Francis. And those two younger men, Youseff and Dandelion, were trained killers, or, as the Church called such assassins, Brothers Justice.
How many dozens of Dobrinion’s flock would be slaughtered this day if he went above and refused to allow Markwart to leave? And even if they proved successful in defeating the monks from St.-Mere-Abelle, then what?
Dalebert Markwart was the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order. “There is no reason to guard these empty cells,” Dobrinion said quietly to the young monk. “Go and find some rest.”
“I am not weary,” the monk replied, wearing a wide and innocent smile.
“Then rest for me,” Dobrinion said in all seriousness, and he started a long and slow walk up the stone stairs.
CHAPTER 17
Edicts from on High
Elbryan blew a long sigh and looked helplessly to Pony. He knew that Juraviel, too, was watching him, though the elf remained far from the firelight where the leaders of the band had gathered.
“Once Caer Tinella and Landsdown are secured,” Tomas Gingerwart said, obviously trying to placate the adamant ranger, “we will follow your lead to the south, those of us who are not fit to remain and defend our homes, at least.”
Elbryan wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him hard, wanted to yell into his face that even if the two towns were taken, there would likely be few remaining to stand in defense. He wanted to remind Tomas and all the others that if they went after the towns and failed, and the powries then pursued them, it was likely that all would be lost: all the fighters, all the elderly, and all the children. But the ranger kept silent, he had made the argument over and over, had spoken it in every manner he could think of, and every time, it had fallen on deaf ears. How bitter this impotence was for Elbryan, to think that all of his efforts to ensure that the fate that befell his own home and his own family would not be repeated here, might prove to be in vain because of foolish pride. They wanted to save their homes, they claimed, but if there could be no security in a place, how could it be called home?
His frustration now was not lost on one of the men sitting nearby. “Are ye not to argue with him, then?” Belster O’Comely asked.
The ranger looked at his old friend and merely threw up his hands.
“Then you will join us in our fight,” Tomas reasoned, and that notion brought a cheer from the gathering.
“No,” Pony said sternly, and unexpectedly. All eyes, even Elbryan’s, turned to regard her.
“I’ll not go,” the woman said firmly.
Surprised gasps turned to angry whispers.
“I’ve never shied from a fight, you know that,” Pony went on, crossing her arms resolutely. “But to agree to go and do battle for the two towns would only bolster your belief that you are following the correct course. And you are not. I know this, and Nightbird knows it. I am not going to now make the same arguments that you have ignored for the last days, but neither will I fall in line for the slaughter. I wish you well in your folly, but I will remain with the infirm, trying somehow to usher them to safety when the powries roll out of Caer Tinella into the forest, hunting, and with no one to stand against their hordes.”
It seemed to Elbryan that Pony might be exaggerating just a bit, but her strong words prompted many whispered conversations, some angry but others doubting the course of attack. The ranger had thought to go along for the attack, and thought Pony would surely stand outside the town proper, launching devastating magical attacks. Her resolve not to participate—and he knew this to be no bluff—had caught him by surprise. As he considered it over the next few seconds, though, he came to understand her point.
“Nor will I join you,” the ranger said, drawing more comments, angry and astonished. “I cannot condone this course, Master Gingerwart. I will remain with Jilseponie and the infirm, and if the powries come out, I, we, will do what we may to hold them at bay and get the infirm to safety.”
Tomas Gingerwart verily trembled as he looked to Belster O’Comely, his expression openly accusatory.
“Reconsider, I beg,” Belster said to Elbryan. “I, too, have seen too much of this war, my friend, and would prefer a course around the powries to Palmaris. But the decision is made, fairly and by vote. The warriors will go after their homes, and we, as allies, have a responsibility to aid in that fight.”
“Even if it is folly?” Pony asked.
“Who is to say?” Belster replied. “Many thought your own attack on the towns to be folly, yet it turned out for the better, by far.”
Elbryan and Pony locked stares, the ranger drawing strength from the resolute woman. Pony had made up her mind and it would not be changed, and so Elbryan, too, decided to stay the course.
“I cannot participate in this,” he said calmly. “When I went into Caer Tinella, my actions brought no threat to those who could not fight.” Belster looked to Tomas and shrugged, having no practical argument against that simple logic.
Roger Lockless, looking bedraggled, walked into the camp then. He stared at Elbryan for a long while, and all in attendance, the ranger included, thought he would seize the moment to paint Elbryan as the coward, or as the traitor.
“Nightbird is right,” the young man said suddenly. He stepped past a stunned Elbryan and Pony to address the whole gathering. “I have just returned from Caer Tinella,” he said loudly. “We cannot attack.”
“Roger—” Tomas started to protest.
“The powries have reinforced,” Roger went on. “They outnumber us, perhaps two or three to one, and they are entrenched in strong defensible positions. Also, they have great spear-throwing contraptions hidden among the walls. If we attack, even if Nightbird and Pony join with us, we will be slaughtered.”
The grim news quieted the gathering for a while, then inspired many more whispered conversations, though these were neither agitated nor angry, but rather subdued. Gradually, the looks from every man and woman fell onto the shoulders of Tomas Gingerwart.
“Our scouts said nothing of this,” the man explained to Roger.
“Were your scouts, before me, within the town?” Roger replied.
Tomas looked to Belster and to the other leaders of the band for some help, but all of them just shook their heads helplessly.
“If you decide to go to battle, then I, too, will remain with Nightbird and Pony,” Roger finished, stepping back to stand at the ranger’s side.
That was enough, for Tomas and for all the proud and stubborn folk.
“Get us to Palmaris,” Tomas said grudgingly to Elbryan.
“We break camp at first light,” the ranger replied, then looked to Roger, nodding his approval as the gathering dispersed. Roger didn’t return the look with a smile or a nod; he had done what he had to do, and nothing more. Without meeting the ranger’s stare, without a word to either Elbryan or Pony, the young man walked away.
Soon Elbryan and Pony were alone at the fire, and Juraviel came down from the trees behind to join them.
“What did you say to him?” the ranger asked, guessing that the elf had spent some private time with the surprising Roger Lockless.
“The same thing I said to you at the milking trough when you were blinded by pride,” Juraviel replied with a sly look.
Elbryan blushed deeply and looked away from Pony and the elf, remembering all too clearly that embarrassing moment. He had just fought with Tuntun—a real fight and not a planned sparring match—accusing the female elf of cheating at a contest that left him with a cold meal. Tuntun had summarily battered him, but the young Elbryan, blinded by anger and pride, had not accepted the defeat well, had spouted foolish words and idle threats.
Belli’mar Juraviel, his mentor, and the closest thing he could then call a friend in all of Andur’Blough Inninness, had promptly thrashed him, putting him into the cold water of the trough several times.
“A painful lesson,” Juraviel said at length. “But one that stayed with you all these years.”
Elbryan couldn’t deny the truth of that.
“This young Roger has promise,” the elf went on. “It was no small matter for him to come in here and side with you, even though he knew that you were right.”
“He is maturing,” Pony agreed.
Juraviel nodded. “I will begin scouting our path this night,” he explained.
“A wide berth of the powries,” Pony said.
The elf nodded again.
“One last question,” Elbryan begged as ever-elusive Juraviel started back to the trees. The elf turned to regard him. “Have the powries really reinforced?”
“Would it make a difference in your choice?” the elf asked.
“None.”
Juraviel smiled. “To my knowledge—and that knowledge is great concerning this matter, do not doubt—Roger Lockless has been nowhere near Caer Tinella this night.”
The ranger had suspected as much, and the confirmation made him admire Roger’s choice all the more.
There was no sign of pursuit; as Father Abbot Markwart had figured, Baron Bildeborough, Abbot Dobrinion, and indeed all of Palmaris, were simply glad to be rid of the monks from St.-Mere-Abelle. They set camp that night across the Masur Delaval, the lights of Palmaris clear in the distance.
After conferring with Brother Francis and learning of the man’s discoveries from his brief time inside the thoughts of Connor Bildeborough, the Father Abbot spent a lot of time alone, pacing, fighting hard to control his mounting anxiety. Just a score of feet away, inside the ring of wagons, the firelight blazed and the monks talked happily of returning to their home. The Father Abbot blocked it all out, had no time for such petty matters. Connor Bildeborough knew of the search for the woman, and furthermore, he believed the woman to be operating, with the magical stones, not too far away in the battleground north of Palmaris. Francis had caught the name Caer Tinella in that brief invasion of Connor’s thoughts, and a quick look at his maps confirmed that to be a town along the road to the Timberlands, a town Francis and the caravan had passed on their wild run to Palmaris.
The goal was close, so close, the end of the troubles of Avelyn Desbris, the restoration of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart’s good name in the annals of the Abellican Church. Youseff and Dandelion would complete the task and retrieve the stones, and then all that would be left for Markwart would be the complete denunciation of the heretic Avelyn. He would destroy the legend as the explosion at Aida had destroyed the body.
Then all would be well, would be as it had been before.
“Or will it?” the Father Abbot asked himself aloud. He sighed deeply and considered the potential trail of problems his expedition had set for him. Jojonah was no ally and would likely oppose him, perhaps even going so far as to speak positively and publicly concerning dead Avelyn! And Abbot Dobrinion was no longer even neutral on the matter. The abbot of St. Precious was surely outraged at the abduction of the Chilichunks, and at his own treatment by the contingent from St.-Mere-Abelle. Particularly the latter, the Father Abbot mused, thinking that the abbot was more concerned with his wounded pride than his tortured subjects.
And what of Baron Bildeborough, who was already prepared to do battle with the Church for the sake of his nephew?
