DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (146 page)

“My pardon,” the monk stammered as the man, a handsome fellow of about twenty years, splashed over to him. “I did not hear you in the rain.”

“No pardon’s needed,” the man said pleasantly, helping Jojonah to stand and brushing some of the mud from his soaked robes. “Sure that I been fearing that since I taked the road outta Palmaris.”

“Palmaris,” echoed Jojonah. “I, too, just came from the most excellent town.” The monk noted that the man’s expression soured at the mention of the word “excellent,” and so Jojonah quieted, thinking it prudent to listen and not to speak.

“Well, the quicker I’m coming from the same place,” the man replied, glancing back helplessly at his wagon. “Or was,” he added despondently.

“We will not easily extract it from the mud, I fear,” Jojonah agreed.

The man nodded. “But I’ll find villagers to help,” he said. “There be a town a three-mile back.”

“The folk are helpful,” Jojonah said hopefully. “Perhaps I shall accompany you; they would be quick to help a priest of the Church, after ail, and were quite kind to me last night, for that is where I slept. And then, after we have extracted your wagon, perhaps you’ll take me along. My destination is Ursal, and I’ve a long road ahead, I fear, and a body not taking well to the travel.”

“Ursal’s me own ending,” the man said. “And ye might help in me message, since it concerns yer own Church.”

Jojonah perked his ears up at that remark and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh,” he prompted.

“Truly ‘tis a sad day,” the man went on. “So sad a day that sees the death of Abbot Dobrinion.”

Jojonah’s eyes went wide and he staggered, catching hold of the man’s sleeve for support. “Dobrinion? How?”

“Powrie,” the man answered. “Little rat devil. Sneaked into the church and killed him to death.”

Jojonah could hardly digest the information. His mind started whirling, but he was too sickly and too confused. He sat down again, plop, onto the muddy road, and dropped his face into his hands, sobbing, and didn’t know if he was crying for Abbot Dobrinion or for himself and his beloved Order.

The driver put a comforting hand on his shoulder. They left together for the town, the man promising he would spend the night there even if the folk managed to clear his wagon of the mud. “And ye’ll be riding with me the rest o’ the way to Ursal,” he said with a hopeful smile. “We’ll get ye blankets to keep ye warm, Father, and good food, lots of good food, for the road.”

One of the families in the small town put Jojonah and the driver up for the night, giving him a warm bed. The monk retired early, but couldn’t immediately fall asleep, for a crowd was gathering in the house, with all the folk of the area coming to hear the driver’s sad tale of the death of Abbot Dobrinion. Jojonah lay quiet and listened to them for a long while, then finally, shivering and sweating, he drifted off to sleep.

Youseff and Dandelion did not make the return trip.

Master Jojonah awoke with a start. The house was quiet and, since the clouds hung low outside, dark. Jojonah looked all around, narrowing his eyes. “Who is there?” he asked.

Youseff and Dandelion did not make the return trip!he heard again, more emphatically.

No, not heard, Jojonah realized, for there was not a sound, save the pat of heavy raindrops on the roof. He felt the words, in his mind, and he recognized the man who was putting them there.

“Brother Braumin?” he asked.

I fear that the Father Abbot put them on your trail,the thoughts imparted.Run, my friend, my mentor. Flee back to Palmaris if you are not far away, to the court of Abbot Dobrinion, and do not allow Brothers Youseff and Dandelion entrance into St. Precious.

The communication was weak—which Jojonah understood, for Braumin wasn’t very practiced with the hematite, and likely theman was using it now under less than ideal circumstances.Where are you? he telepathically asked.St. -Mere-Abelle?

Please, Master Jojonah! You must hear my call. Youseff and Dandelion did not make the return trip!

The contact was lessening—Braumin was getting tired, Jojonah realized. Then, abruptly, it was gone altogether, and Jojonah feared that perhaps Markwart or Francis had happened upon Braumin.

If it really was Braumin, he had to remind himself. If it was anything at all beyond the delirium of his fever.

“They did not know,” the master whispered, for he realized only then that Braumin’s message had mentioned nothing about Dobrinion. Jojonah scrambled out of bed, groaning for the effort, and made his way quietly through the house. He startled the lady first, nearly tripping over her as she slept on a mattress of piled blankets on the common room floor. She had given up her own bed for him, he realized, and truly he did not wish to disturb her now. But some things simply couldn’t wait.

“The driver?” he asked. “Is he in the house, or did he take shelter with another family?”

“Oh, no,” the woman said as pleasantly as she could. “Sure that he’s sleeping in the room with me little boys. Snug as bugs in a rug, so the sayin’ goes.”

“Get him,” Master Jojonah instructed. “At once.”

“Yes, Father, whatever ye’re needing,” the woman replied, untangling herself from her bedroll and half walking, half crawling across the room. She returned in a few moments, the bleary-eyed driver at her side.

“Ye should be sleeping,” the man said. “Not good for yer fever, being up so late.”

“One question,” Jojonah prompted, waving his hands to quiet the man, to make sure he was paying close attention. “When Abbot Dobrinion was murdered, where was the caravan of St.-Mere-Abelle?”

The man cocked his head as if he didn’t understand.

“You know that monks of my abbey were visiting St. Precious,” Jojonah pressed.

“A bit more than visiting, by the trouble they bringed,” the man said with a snort.

“Indeed,” Jojonah conceded. “But where were they when the powrie killed Abbot Dobrinion?”

“Gone.”

“From the city?”

“Out to the north, some say, though I heared they crossed the river, and not on the ferry,” the driver replied. “They were out a day and more afore the abbot fell to the powrie.”

Master Jojonah rocked back on his heels, stroking his large chin. The driver started to elaborate, but the monk had heard enough and stopped him with an upraised palm. “Go back to bed,” he bade both the man and the lady of the house. “As will I.”

Back in the solitude of his dark room, Master Jojonah did not fall off to sleep. Far from it. Convinced now that the contact with Braumin was not a dreamy, imagined thing, Jojonah had too much to think about. He was not fearful, as Braumin had been, that Youseff and Dandelion had been set on his trail. Markwart was too close to his goal, or at least the obsessed man thought he was, to delay the killers. No, they would go north of Palmaris, not south, onto the battlefield in search of the stones.

But apparently they had made one brief stop on the way, long enough to fix a bit of Markwart’s trouble in Palmaris.

Master Jojonah rushed to the one window in the room, pushed open the shutters and vomited onto the grass outside, sickened by the mere thought that his Father Abbot had ordered the execution of another abbot!

It rang as preposterous! Yet, every detail that was filtering to Jojonah led him inescapably in that direction. Was he, perhaps, clouding those details with his own judgments? he had to wonder.Youseff and Dandelion did not make the return trip!

And Brother Braumin had no idea that Abbot Dobrinion had met such an untimely end.

Truly Master Jojonah hoped he was wrong, hoped that his fears and his feverish delirium were running wild, hoped that the leader of his Order could never have done such a thing. In any case, there seemed only one road ahead of him now, back to the north, and not south, back to St.-Mere-Abelle.

Finally all two hundred were on the move, swinging west and then south of the two towns still in powrie hands. Elbryan directed the march, keeping scouts well ahead of the caravan and holding his forty best warriors in a tight group. Of all the ragged caravan, only about half could fight even if pressed, the other half being simply too old or too young, or too ill. The general health of the group was good, though, thanks mostly to the tireless efforts of Pony and her precious soul stone.

No resistance came out at them from the two town’s, and as the afternoon of the fifth day began to wane, they were almost halfway to Palmaris.

“Farm and a barn,” Roger Lockless explained, coming back to meet with Elbryan. “Just a mile ahead. The well’s intact, and I heard chickens.”

Several of the people nearby groaned and cooed and smacked their lips at the thought of fresh eggs.

“But no one was about?” the ranger asked skeptically.

“None outside,” Roger replied, and he seemed a bit embarrassed that he couldn’t have discerned more. “But I was not far ahead of you,” he hastily explained. “I feared that if I tarried too long, you would get in sight of the structures, and any monsters inside, if there are any, would see you.”

Elbryan nodded and smiled. “You did well,” he said. “Hold the group in check here while Pony and I go in and see what we might learn.”

Roger nodded and helped Pony climb on Symphony’s back behind the ranger.

“Strengthen the perimeter, particularly in the north,” Elbryan instructed the young man. “And find Juraviel. Tell him where to find us.”

Roger accepted the orders with a nod. He slapped Symphony on the rump and the horse bounded away. Roger hardly watched the departure, was already moving to instruct the folk of the caravan to settle into a defensive posture.

The ranger found the structures easily enough, and then Pony went to work, using the soul stone to spirit-walk into first the barn and then the farmhouse.

“Powries in the house,” she explained when she came back into her own body. “Three, though one is sleeping in the back bedroom. Goblins hold the barn, but they are not alert.”

Elbryan closed his eyes, seeking a deep, meditative calm, transforming, almost visibly, into his elven-trained alter ego. He indicated a small copse of trees to the left of the barn, then slipped down from Symphony, helping Pony do the same. Leaving the horse, the pair moved cautiously to the shadows of the copse, and then the ranger went on alone, continuing his advance, moving to stumps, to a water trough, to anything that would conceal him.

Soon enough he was at the farmhouse, his back to the wall beside a window, Hawkwing in hand. He peered around, then looked back in Pony’s direction and nodded, fitting an arrow.

He turned abruptly and let fly, scoring a hit on the back of the head of a powrie as the unsuspecting dwarf cooked over a stove. The momentum drove the creature’s head forward, forcing its face right into the sizzling grease in the frying pan.

“What’re ye doing!” the dwarf’s companion howled, rushing to the stove.

That dwarf skidded to a stop, though, noting the quivering arrow shaft, then spun about to find Nightbird and Tempest waiting.

Down swept the mighty sword as the powrie reached for its weapon. As its arm fell free of its body, the howling dwarf tried instead to charge ahead, barreling into the ranger.

A sure thrust of Tempest skewered the creature right through the heart, the lunging ranger putting the blade in all the way to its hilt. After a couple of wild spasms, the powrie slid dead to the floor.

“Yach, ye’re waking me up!” came a roar from the bedroom.

Nightbird smiled, then waited a minute, slipping quietly to the door. He paused a few moments longer, making sure that the dwarf had settled down once more, then slowly pushed open the door.

There lay the powrie, on a bed, its back to him.

The ranger came out of the house soon after, giving a quick wave to Pony. He retrieved Hawkwing and began a cautious circuit of the barn. Of note was the hayloft, with one door cracked open and a rope hanging to the ground.

The ranger glanced all around, to see Pony moving to a new position, one that allowed her to view both the main door and the hayloft. He was truly blessed to have such a competent companion, he knew, for if he got into trouble, Pony would always be there.

And now, both of them understood the plan. Pony could have charged straight into the barn, of course, using serpentine and the explosive ruby to blow the place away, but the smoke of such a fire would not be a good thing. Instead she held her position, magnetite and graphite in hand, as Nightbird’s backup.

And the ranger did not underestimate the amount of discipline it took for her to accept that position. Every morning, she performed the sword-dance beside him, and her blade work was truly becoming magnificent. She wanted to fight, to stand beside Elbryan, to dance now for real. But Pony was truly disciplined and patient.

The ranger had assured her that she would get her chance to use the new techniques—both knew that she was almost ready.

But not yet.

Nightbird tested the rope to the hayloft, then began a cautious and quiet climb. He paused just below the door, listening, peeking in at the loft level, then waved one finger up in the air for Pony to see.

Up he went, level with the door, putting one foot gingerly in the small crack, though he had to continue to hold on to the rope. He had to move fast, he realized, and wouldn’t likely have time to draw any weapon.

Again the ranger took a deep, steadying breath, found his center and his necessary calm. Then he hooked his foot about the bottom of the door and yanked it out, hurling himself into the loft, into the surprised goblin standing a nonchalant guard within.

The goblin gave a cry, muffled almost immediately as the ranger clamped a strong hand over its mouth, his other arm wrapping tight around the goblin’s weapon hand. Nightbird clamped his hand over the creature’s face, squeezing hard, then turned his wrist and drove the goblin to its knees.