DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (143 page)

Brother Francis was not so easily calmed. He could understand the logic of Markwart’s argument—the man had, after all, spat in the face of the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church. But while Francis could logically argue that this had indeed been an unfortunate accident, his own actions justified, the rationalization could not take root in his heart. The pedestal had been knocked out from under him, that pervasive self-belief that he was above all other men. Francis had made mistakes before, of course, and he knew it, but not to this extreme. He remembered all the times of his life when he had imagined that he was the only real person, and that everyone else, and everything else, was merely a part of his dream of consciousness.

Now, suddenly, he felt as if he was just another man, a very small player in a very large script.

Later that morning, as the caravan moved far away, Brother Francis pushed the dirt on the pale face of Grady Chilichunk. In one blackened corner of his heart, Francis knew then that he was a damned thing.

Subconsciously that heart and soul ran to the Father Abbot then, for in that man’s eyes, there had been no crime, no sin. In that man’s view of the world, Brother Francis could hold his illusions.

The only magic they carried was a garnet, for detecting the use of the enchanted gemstones, and a sunstone, the antimagic stone. In truth, neither of the pair was very proficient with gemstones, having spent the bulk of their short years in St.-Mere-Abelle in rigorous physical training and in the mental incapacitation necessary for one to truly claim the title of Brother Justice.

The caravan had gone back to the east that morning, while the two monks, changing out of their robes to appear as common peasants, had gone south, to the Palmaris ferry, catching the first of its three daily journeys across the Masur Delaval at the break of dawn. They were in the city by mid-afternoon, and wasted no time in going out to the north, over the wall and not through the gate. By the time the sun was low on the western horizon, Youseff and Dandelion had spotted their first prey, a band of four monsters—three powries and a goblin—setting camp amidst a tumble of boulders less than ten miles from Palmaris. It quickly became obvious to the monks that the goblin was the slave here, for it was doing most of the work, and whenever it slowed in its movements, one of the powries would give it a sharp slap on the back of the head, spurring it to motion. Even more important, the monks noted that the goblin had a rope, a leash, tied about its ankle.

Youseff turned to Dandelion and nodded; they would be able to take advantage of this arrangement.

As the sun was slipping below the horizon, the goblin exited the camp, followed closely by a powrie holding the other end of the rope. In the forest, the goblin began foraging for firewood, while the powrie stood quietly nearby. Youseff and Dandelion, silent as the lengthening shadows, moved into position, the slender monk going up a tree, the heavier Dandelion slipping from trunk to trunk, to close ground on the powrie.

“Yach, hurry it up, ye fool thing!” the powrie scolded, kicking at the leaves and dirt. “Me friends’ll eat all the coney, and there’ll be nothing but bones for me to gnaw!”

The goblin, a truly beleaguered creature, glanced back briefly, then scooped another piece of kindling. “Please, master,” it whined. “Me arms is full and me back is hurtin’ so.”

“Yach, shut yer mouth!” the powrie growled.“Ye’re thinkin’ ye got all ye can carry, but it’s not enough for the night fire. Ye’re wanting me to come all the way back out here? I’ll flog yer skin red, ye smelly wretch!”

Youseff hit the ground right beside the startled powrie, plopping a heavy bag over its head in the blink of a surprised eye. A moment later Dandelion, in full run, slammed the dwarf from behind, hoisting it in a bear hug and taking it on a fast run, face first into the trunk of the nearest tree.

Still the tough powrie struggled, throwing back an elbow into Dandelion’s throat. The big monk hardly noticed, just pressed all the harder, and then, when he saw his companion’s approach, he hooked his arm under the powrie’s and lifted the dwarf’s arm up high, exposing ribs.

Youseff’s dagger thrust was perfectly aimed, sliding between two ribs to pierce the stubborn dwarf’s heart. Dandelion, holding fast the thrashing powrie, managed to free one hand so he could wrap the wound, not wanting too much blood to spill.

Not here.

Youseff, meanwhile, turned to the goblin. “Freedom,” he whispered excitedly, waving his hand for the creature to run away.

The goblin, on the verge of a scream, looked curiously at the human, then at its armload of wood. Shaking from excitement, it tossed the wood to the ground, slipped the rope from its ankle and sped off into the darkening forest.

“Dead?” Youseff asked as Dandelion let the limp powrie slump to the ground.

The big man nodded, then went to tighten the bindings on the wound. It was imperative that no blood would be spilling when the pair returned to Palmaris, and particularly not when they entered St. Precious. Youseff removed the powrie’s weapon, a cruel-looking serrated and hooked blade as long and thick as his forearm, and Dandelion put the dwarf in a heavy, lined sack. With a glance about to make sure the other powries had not caught on to the ambush, they went on their way, running south, the load proving hardly a burden to the powerful Dandelion.

“Should we not have taken the goblin for Connor Bildeborough?” Dandelion asked as they slowed their pace, nearing the city’s north wall.

Youseff considered the question a moment, trying hard not to laugh at the fact that his dim-witted friend had only mentioned it now, more than an hour after they told the goblin to run away. “We need only one,” Youseff assured him. The Father Abbot had made his needs quite clear to Brother Youseff. Any action against Abbot Dobrinion had to either appear as simply an accident or lead suspicion in a direction far removed from Markwart; the implications within the Church should St.-Mere-Abelle seem connected in any way, after all, could prove grave. Connor Bildeborough, though, was not such a problem. If his uncle, the Baron of Palmaris, even suspected the Church in Connor’s demise, he, in his ignorance of the rivalries between the abbeys, would be as likely to blame St. Precious as St.-Mere-Abelle, and even if he did turn his attention to the abbey on All Saints Bay, there would be little, very little, he could do.