DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (160 page)

With some difficulty, for the night was quite dark, they at last found the man.

Pony went to him first, and gently closed his eyes. Then she walked away, far away.

“Go to her,” Juraviel said to Elbryan.

“You know what to do with him,” the ranger replied, and the elf nodded. Then, to Roger, Elbryan added, “Be strong and be sure. Your role is perhaps the most important of all now.”

And then he walked away, leaving Roger staring at Juraviel for an explanation.

“You are to take Connor, the monk, and the horse and head straight out to Palmaris,” the elf explained.

Roger inadvertently glanced at the dead monk, at the image that so shook his self-perception.

“Go to the Baron, not the abbey,” the elf explained. “Tell him what has happened. Tell him of Connor’s belief that these monks, and not any powrie, murdered Abbot Dobrinion, and that they chased Connor out of Palmaris, for he, too, had unwittingly become an enemy of the wicked Church leaders.”

“And then what for me?” the young man asked, wondering if this was the last time he would see these three.

Juraviel glanced around. “We could use another horse—another two,” he added, “if you plan to ride with us.”

“Does he want me to?” Roger asked, nodding toward the distant Elbryan.

“Would he have told you the truth if he did not?” Juraviel replied.

“And what of you, then?” Roger quickly asked. “Why did you lie to me? Do you think me a foolish young boy, unable to take responsibility?”

“I think you a man who has grown much in the last weeks,” the elf replied honestly. “I did not tell you because I was not sure of what Nightbird—and do not doubt that he is the leader of this group—had planned for you. If we meant to leave you in Palmaris, in safety with Tomas and Belster, if we had determined that your role in this fight was at its end, then what good would it have done you to let you know that you had the blood of a dead man on your hands?”

“Is the truth not absolute?” Roger asked. “Do you play God, elf?”

“If the truth is not in any way constructive, then it can wait for a better time,” Juraviel replied. “But since your course is yours to determine, then you needed to know now. Our road will be dark, my young friend, and I do not doubt that we will find other Brother Justices in our path, perhaps for years to come.”

“And each successive kill gets easier?” Roger asked sarcastically.

“Pray that is not the case,” Juraviel replied in a severe tone, eyeing Roger unblinkingly.

That demeanor set the young man back on his heels.

“Nightbird thought that you were emotionally strong enough to know the truth,” the elf added. “Take it as a compliment.”

Juraviel started to walk away.

“I do not know if he was right,” Roger admitted suddenly.

The elf turned about to see Roger, head down, shoulders bobbing in sobs. He went to stand beside him, put his hand on the small of Roger’s back. “The other monk was only the second man Nightbird ever killed,” he said. “He did not cry this time because he shed all those tears after killing the first, the first Brother Justice.”

The notion that this stoic and powerful ranger had been equally shaken hit Roger profoundly. He wiped his eyes and stood straight, looked to Juraviel and nodded grimly.

Then Roger was on the road south, too agitated to sit and wait out the remainder of the night. He had to move quite slowly, for the injured Greystone carried both bodies, but he was determined to speak with Baron Bildeborough before the midday meal.

By the time he neared the northern gate of Palmaris city proper, Roger Lockless and his grim luggage had attracted more than a little attention. Several farmers and their families, alert to anything moving in the area in these dangerous times, had noted the man’s passage, and many even came out to follow him, pestering him with questions.

He offered few explanations all the way to the gate, grunting his answers to general questions, such as, “Did you come from the north?” or “Any goblins up there?” The farmers accepted the vague answers without complaint, but the guards at the gate proved much more insistent. As soon as Roger drew near and it became apparent he had two human bodies strapped across his hobbled horse, one of the two great city gates cracked open and a pair of armored soldiers rushed out to intercept him.

Roger was very much aware of the fact that other guards watching from the walls had their bows drawn and ready, and aimed at his head.

“Your doing?” one of the soldiers snapped, moving to inspect the bodies.

“Not that one,” Roger quickly replied as the man lifted Connor’s head, his eyes widening in recognition and horror.

The other soldier was at Roger’s side in an instant, sword drawn and brought level with the man’s neck.

“Do you think I would walk openly into Palmaris bearing the body of the Baron’s nephew if I had killed the man?” Roger calmly asked, wanting these soldiers to understand that he knew the identity of the nobleman. “I have been called many things, but I do not number ‘fool’ among them. And besides, I considered Connor Bildeborough a friend. That is why, though I have other pressing business, I could not leave him on the road for the goblins and buzzards to pick over his corpse.”

“What about this one?” snapped the soldier standing beside the horse. “He is from the abbey, is he not?”

“Not from St. Precious, no,” Roger replied. “He is from St.-Mere-Abelle.”

The two soldiers looked to each other with trepidation; neither of them had been among those sent to St. Precious when the trouble with the Father Abbot had begun, but both had heard well the stories, and that put a sinister spin indeed on their suspicions when viewing the two bodies draped across Roger’s horse.

“You killed this one?” the soldier asked.

“I did,” Roger replied without pause.

“An admission of guilt?” the other soldier was quick to interrupt.

“For if I did not, then he surely would have killed me,” Roger finished calmly, looking the accusing soldier right in the eye. “I should think that, given the identity of these two, this conversation would be better served in the home of the Baron.”

The soldiers looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed.

“Unless you think it better to have the common folk pawing over Connor Bildeborough,” Roger added, a sharp edge to his tone. “Perhaps one will find proper use for Defender, or it might be that their rumors will reach the Baron, or the abbot of St. Precious, and who can tell what intrigue that might bring?”