DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (191 page)

Four ranks of five soldiers each, including most of Colleen Kilronney's warriors, came next, all alert and looking for signs of danger. It struck Pony that none of them, not even the two leaders, seemed splendid in the morning light. They didn't resemble the knights of the famed Allheart Brigade, whom Pony had seen thundering about in their shining armor during her time in the King's army; rather, they were capable, battle-hardened warriors, a bit weary but ready for any foe.

Behind them, tied together waist to waist and each laden with a huge pack of supplies or a tied stack of firewood, came the score and seven powrie prisoners. Despite the load, the powries, prodded by soldiers, rolled along at a tremendous pace. Powries were legendary for their endurance —the dangerous powrie barrelboats had no sail and were propelled by pedaling dwarves, yet these ships traveled the rough waters of the open Mirianic and had been known to overtake sailing ships in a stiff wind! And now the powries lived up to that reputation, stepping to keep pace with the trotting horses without a grumble or complaint.

The whole group moved down the road, around a bend, and out of sight, save the telltale cloud rising up above the trees. Familiar with Captain Kilronney's tactics, Pony knew to wait a bit longer, and sure enough, the trailing pair of scouts came by.

The woman jiggled Greystone's reins and the horse started out of the copse.

"And still you did not tell him," came a familiar voice.

Pony turned the horse to the side and scanned the trees, finally picking out Juraviel sitting calmly on a branch some ten feet from the ground.

"Are we to have this fight again?" she asked indignantly.

"I only fear —"

"I know what you fear," Pony interrupted. "And I fear it as well. If Elbryan is killed up north, then he will die without ever knowing that he has fathered a child."

Juraviel, obviously agitated, hopped down to a lower branch. "How cold are your words," he remarked.

"How true are my words," she corrected. "Both Elbryan and I have been living with the shadow of death looming over us since before we journeyed to Aida."

"Thus I would think that you would wish to tell him."

Pony shrugged. "I do wish to tell him," she said, "but I know that to be the wrong course. If he knew, then he would not go north —or not without me, at least. And I am not going to Dundalis."

"Never?"

"Of course I will return to my home, and Dundalis is my home," she was quick to reply. "But not now. And Elbryan would not go without me if he knew that I was with child."

She paused. "And that would be to the detriment of us all," Pony went on. "The Timberlands must be reclaimed, and none will do that better than Nightbird."

Juraviel nodded.

"So, no, Belli'mar Juraviel, I did not tell Elbryan," she said bluntly. "But I will promise you this: I plan to raise my child in Dundalis, and will rejoin Elbryan before the babe is born."

"If we get into a situation from which I can see no escape," Juraviel said quietly, "or if Elbryan is grievously wounded and near death, I will tell him the truth."

Pony smiled and nodded. "I would expect nothing less from you, my friend," she said.

"One more promise and I shall be satisfied," Juraviel said after another pause. "I will have your word that you will always remember the life that is within your womb," he said firmly. "Promise me that you will keep safe, and that you will not go in search of a fight and will avoid any which find you."

Pony eyed him sternly, indignantly.

"The child within you is the child of Nightbird," the elf said, not backing down. "Thus, the safety of the babe is of great interest to the Touel'alfar."

"Of course my concern is for my child," Pony retorted. "Need you ask —"

"Need I remind you of the powries in the cave? " Juraviel interrupted just as forcefully. Then he did back down, though, offering a disarming, sincere smile. "The child within you is more than the child of Nightbird," he explained. "It is the child of Elbryan and Jilseponie. Thus, the safety of the babe is of great interest to Belli'mar Juraviel."

Pony could take no more. The elf had her trapped by the honest concern of friendship. "I surrender," she said with a laugh. "And I promise."

"Farewell then," Juraviel said somberly. "And hold to that promise. You cannot begin to understand the importance of the life that grows within you."

"What do you know?" Pony asked with concern, for Juraviel's words and tone hinted at something larger.

"I know the beauty of a child," the elf replied.

It seemed to Pony that he was being evasive, but she knew the ways of the Touel'alfar well enough to understand that she could not coerce anything from one of them.

"I am to meet Elbryan and mid-spring's day in Caer Tinella," she explained. "I expect that Belli'mar Juraviel will see him there safely."

Juraviel did a silent count of the months. He knew from Pony's words that the child had been conceived on the road to St.-Mere-Abelle in late summer. Juraviel thought to comment that Pony would meet Elbryan only if she was still fit to travel then, but he kept quiet. She knew the timing better than he, he assured himself.

Pony paused and reached into her pouch, producing a smooth gray stone, the soul stone. "Perhaps you should take this," she offered. "It is the stone of healing and you may well find use for it."

Juraviel shook his head. "We have the magical armband Bradwarden wears," he said. "You keep the gemstone." His gaze drifted down to her belly and she understood that he feared she might need it even more.

Pony pocketed the gem. "Mid-spring's day," she said.

"Fare you well, Jilseponie Wyndon," Juraviel replied.

The elf nodded. Pony offered a last smile, kicked Greystone into a brisk walk out of the copse, then trotted off down the south road.

Juraviel watched her ride out of sight, honestly wondering if he would ever see her again. He hoped that she would hold to that last, all-important promise to keep out of harm's way, but he recognized the pain and rage within her and understood her need for action. The powrie fight had sated that need, had brought a measure of calm, but only temporarily, Juraviel knew.

Like the smiles Pony had shown him in this meeting. They were not lasting things, not signals of true contentment. Pony's mood had shifted dramatically in the course of seconds, at the prompting of only a few words. Watching her go, Juraviel could only hope that no trouble found her among the dangerous streets of Palmaris.

And even if Pony did get to Caer Tinella for mid-spring's day, Juraviel doubted that he would be there to greet her. It was nearing time for him to go home, back to Andur'Blough Inninness. Lady Dasslerond needed to know about the babe, the child of Nightbird, who was, in effect, the child of Caer'alfar.

Pony soon had the trailing riders in sight. She took care to stay back, but the group was focused on the road ahead so she had little trouble shadowing them all day.

They set camp among a group of deserted farmhouses, one of many such settlements that had not yet been reclaimed.

Pony set her small camp in sight of the soldiers, taking comfort in the warm lights that shone through the windows and in the silhouetted forms of men walking about the blazing fire set on the common ground between the houses. They were confident, obviously so, that there were no sizable groups of monsters in the area —none that would challenge them, at least— and Pony knew that their confidence was well placed. Still, she thought it foolish for Captain Kilronney to advertise his position, especially with more than a score of dangerous powrie prisoners in tow.

So Pony did more than rest that night; she went out with her soul stone, keeping a silent and vigilant watch over the troop.

As much a ranger as her husband.

At the same time, Elbryan, Juraviel, and Bradwarden reclined comfortably on a bare hillock some distance north of Caer Tinella. The ranger lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, eyes staring up at the starry sky. Bradwarden was similarly at ease, plopped on the ground, his front horse legs crossed before him. Even in his reclining posture, his human torso remained upright. "Hard on the breathin' if I lay on me side," he explained to his friends.

Juraviel was the most agitated of the three, looking as much at Elbryan as at the skies above, though any elf would surely enjoy the quiet splendor of the sky this clear, crisp evening. Juraviel's concern was for Elbryan, for the ranger was obviously sad, and his posture spoke more of resignation than of serenity.

Bradwarden saw it, too. "She'll be back," the centaur offered. "Ye know she's not to leave ye for long, and know, too, that there's no other man for her heart."

"Of course," Elbryan replied with a chuckle that turned into a sigh.

"Ah, but for the ladies," Bradwarden lamented dramatically. "Oft times I'm glad indeed that I've seen none o' me own kind o' the fair sex."

"Sounds a bit lonely," said Elbryan. He managed a wry smile and looked at Juraviel. "And frustrating."

"Ah, but there's the beauty in being a centaur," Bradwarden interjected with a mischievous wink. "I'll be takin' a ride on a dumb horse, with no questions to be answered and no explanations to be given!"

Elbryan pulled his hands out from behind his head and covered his face, groaning, left speechless by the crude centaur and not wanting to conjure such a picture in his mind.

"Just be glad that Symphony is a stallion," Juraviel put in, and the ranger groaned again.

Bradwarden only laughed harder.

Then it went quiet on the hillock, the three friends each alone and yet sharing the splendor of night sky. Some time later, Bradwarden took up his bagpipes and started playing a haunting melody that drifted through the trees like an evening mist, unobtrusive and adding to the mystical qualities of the night.

Roger Lockless thought himself foolish. He scolded himself that his judgment was distorted by desperation and loneliness. But stubbornly he kept moving along the corridor outside Father Abbot Markwart's quarters, broom in hand, trying very hard —too hard?—to look as if he was on some cleaning duty.

He paused outside the Father Abbot's door, looking both ways along the quiet corridor, even sweeping a bit.

"An hour," he whispered to himself to bolster his confidence. The monks were gathering for vespers, and none would likely come this way for at least an hour. Roger had studied the routine carefully, night after night, for he knew that one mistake now would get him tortured to death. He thought of Elbryan and Pony and the heroic centaur he had never met, and found his resolve. With a final glance each way, he went right to the door, falling to one knee.

True to his surname, Roger had the simple lock opened in a matter of seconds. Surprised by how easy it had been to break into the quarters of the highest-ranking Abellican monk in the world, he paused, fearing suddenly that there might be some magical or mechanical trap set about the door. He gave a thorough inspection of the seams on the jamb, but found nothing; then he hesitated again, looked both ways, and took a deep breath, reminding himself that a magical trap would likely offer no physical signs.

Except for the ashes —his ashes—left behind after it was sprung.

With a growl, the stubborn young man pushed open the door.

Nothing happened, and then he was inside, falling to one knee again to relock the door. Leaning against it, catching his breath and his resolve, Roger scanned the suite. Markwart's quarters consisted of four rooms. This office, the largest, was the hub, with a door —closed—to the left, another across the room behind the great desk partly open to reveal a corner of the Father Abbot's bed. A third door, to the right, was open wide, revealing a group of four comfortable chairs set on a rug before a smoldering hearth.

Roger went through that open door first, into the study, but returned to the office in a short while, having found nothing of any importance, not a single clue concerning his missing friends. He moved into the bedroom next, and found Markwart's journal on a night table. Roger wasn't much of a reader, though a kindly woman in Caer Tinella, Mrs. Kelso, had taken him in and taught him. Markwart's writing was stylish and quite legible; Roger could understand quite a bit of the script —an amazing feat for one who had lived the life of a common peasant in Honce-the-Bear. The monks could read and write, as could the majority of the nobility, the elven-trained Nightbird, Pony, and other exceptional individuals. But less than two in thirty of those who called themselves subjects of King Danube Brock Ursal could understand simple letters.

By that standard, Roger Lockless was an amazing reader. Still, he found many words that he did not know, and sometimes he could not discern the logical connection between the sentences. A quick perusal of the journal showed him nothing of value. Self-serving philosophical musings mostly, the Father Abbot writing his thoughts about the importance of the Church above the importance of the common folk, and above the secular leaders, even the King. Roger winced at the words, recalling all too clearly the murder of one of those secular leaders, Baron Bildeborough, the man who had taken him in and joined in his cause against the Church.

Roger continued to scan the book, and though he had little luck with its finer points, he did come to believe that it had been penned by two different men —one hand, perhaps, had done the actual writing, but a large part of it must have been dictated, Roger believed. It wasn't so much the wording of the text but rather a difference in tone.

Either two men had done the writing, or Father Abbot Markwart was a man in serious emotional turmoil!

Now Roger wondered if he might find some way to use this journal against Markwart. Perhaps he could go to the King and present this book, along with his claims that a monk, and no powrie, had murdered Abbot Dobrinion of St. Precious, and that an agent of the Church, and not a wild animal, had killed Baron Bildeborough.

He would be treated like a blithering idiot, Roger realized, even with the journal as evidence. He read again all the entries he could find about the King and recognized that the author, Father Abbot Markwart, had been quite careful not to cross over the line into treason, spouting merely about philosophical differences, but writing of no actions against the Crown. This was gossip, not evidence.

One other thing caught Roger's attention: Markwart's repeated references to a new insight, a voice inside his head, guiding his hand. The Father Abbot clearly thought himself speaking directly to God, acting as the single agent of the Supreme Being.

Roger shuddered at that thought, seeing the split personality within the writing in a new light and understanding that no man was more dangerous than one believing himself to be the agent of God.

He put the book back on the table and left the room.

Thinking to leave the office for the last and most thorough inspection, Roger went to the closed door next. His suspicions heightened when he found it secured with not one, but three separate locks. Even more intriguing, the young thief found an even greater protection, a needle-and-spring trap, on two of the locks.

Roger spent a long time studying those traps, then went to work with nimble fingers and delicate picks, disabling them but in a manner that would allow him to easily rearm them upon his exit. Roger groaned as minutes slipped by and he realized how much time he was losing at this door, but still he took the time to inspect it once more for further traps before going at the locks, popping all three open, considering again the possibility of a deadly magical trap before pushing open the heavy door.

The room was empty except for a few candlesticks, a large book lying open, and a curious design cut into the floor, but Roger's heart started beating quickly, his blood racing, his breath coming in gasps. A tangible aura, a coldness that seeped right into his spine, assailed him, a darkness of spirit, a sense of profound hopelessness. He stayed only long enough to glance at the title of the great tome,
The Incantations Sorcerous,
and then he left the room in a hurry, leaning again against the closed door for several long minutes while he steadied his trembling hands enough to reset the locks and traps.

All that remained was the office and the great desk, with many drawers showing, and, likely, many more concealed.

"He should be here, brother," Master Machuso, a round little man with red cheeks that seemed to envelop his tiny nose, said apologetically when he led Brother Francis into the larders only to find that the young man in question was nowhere to be seen. The master had been on his way to vespers when Francis had intercepted him, claiming a most urgent necessity. "Roger Billingsbury has been assigned to the larders all the week."

"Your pardon, Master Machuso," Francis said with a polite bow and smile, "but it seems that he is not here."

"Obviously!" Machuso agreed with an embarrassed burst of laughter. "Oh, I do try to keep them in line, you see," he explained, "but most of those who come here for work will not stay long. Only long enough to earn a bit for the drink or pipe weed, I'm afraid to say. All the villagers know our generous nature and know that no harm will come to them if they run off. I will even hire them back, if they come 'round in a few weeks begging again for work." The cheery master laughed again. "If men of God cannot forgive human foibles, then who can?"

Francis managed a strained smile. "Villagers, you said," he remarked. "This Roger Billingsbury is of St.-Mere-Abelle village, then? Are you familiar with his family?"

"No to the second question," replied Machuso. "And likely no to the first. I know most of the townsfolk —certainly every leading family—and know no Billingsburys. Well, none but the young Roger, of course. A fine lad. Good worker and quick with his hands—and with his wits, so they say."

"Did he claim that he was from the village?" Francis pressed.

Machuso gave a noncommittal shrug. "He might have," he replied. "In honesty, I pay little attention to such details. Many have been displaced by the war. Entire villages that once were, simply are no more. So if our young Roger claimed that he was of St.-Mere-Abelle, why would I question him?"

"You would not, of course," Brother Francis answered, bowing once more. "And I do not question your procedure, Master Machuso. If all of us at St.-Mere-Abelle could attend our duties as well as Master Golvae Machuso, then surely the Father Abbot's life would be much easier."

That brought another laugh bubbling from the jovial Machuso.

"Is there anywhere else that the young Billingsbury might have gone?" Francis asked.

Machuso's face scrunched up in thought, but he was soon shaking his head and holding his hands up helplessly. " If he has not left the abbey, then I am sure he will return to the larders," he offered. "A good worker, that young man."

Francis worked hard to hide his frustration. He hoped that Roger had not left St.-Mere-Abelle, for if his suspicions about the young hireling were correct, then Roger could help rid him of some very troubling issues. He said a quick farewell to Machuso and rushed away, back to his private quarters, back to the soul stone the Father Abbot had allowed him to procure from the private collection. He had to do his own searching, and fast.

The hints were sparse: a crumpled piece of paper, apparently a first draft of the edict that had condemned Master Jojonah, which spoke of some mysterious "intrusion and escape" at St.-Mere-Abelle, and another paper concerning a continuing conspiracy at the abbey. To add to Roger's frustration, he had not found a single secret compartment in the great desk, though he was certain that there had to be many. Still, he had counted carefully the minutes and knew that he was fast running out of time. He went back to the door, glanced about the room one last time to make sure that all was as he had found it, then quietly went back out into the hall.

"You should reset the lock," came a voice from the shadows, even as Roger turned to do just that.

The young man froze in place as if turned to stone. Only his eyes moved, darting to and fro, looking for some way out. Waves of panic rushed through him, and he tried to concoct some believable story. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and straightened suddenly to face the man, broomstick in hand.

"An odd tool for the larders, Roger Billingsbury," Brother Francis said calmly.

Roger recognized from the white rope binding the dark robes that this was a higher-ranking monk, an immaculate brother, perhaps. "I was told to come up here and clean —"

"You were told to work in the larders," Brother Francis interrupted, having no time or patience for such foolishness. With his soul stone, Francis' spirit had soared about the corridors of the abbey, and chance alone had brought him to the office of his superior, only to find, to his absolute amazement, the young kitchen helper bending over the great desk.

"Ah, y-yes," Roger stuttered, "but Brother Jhimelde —"

"Enough!" Francis growled, silencing the man. "You are Roger Billingsbury?"

Roger nodded slightly as he considered his options. He might strike the monk with his broom and dart away, he thought, for though the monk was larger than he, the man did not appear strong.

"And where are you from?" Francis asked.

"St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger replied without hesitation.

"You are not from St.-Mere-Abelle," Francis stated coldly.

"The v-village, not the abbey," Roger stuttered.

"No!"

Roger stood straight and gripped the broom all the tighter. He had killed a monk before, a brother justice. It was an experience he'd hoped he would never have to repeat.

"There are no Billingsburys in St.-Mere-Abelle village," Brother Francis insisted.

"New to the region," Roger replied. "Our homes were burned —"

"And where were those homes? " Francis asked.

"A small village —"

"Where?" Francis demanded, and added in rapid succession, his voice wickedly sharp and intimidating. "What was its name? How many people lived there? What other family names?"

"To the south," Roger started, but his mind was whirling.

"You are from a village somewhere north of Palmaris," Brother Francis put in, "unless I miss my guess —and that is not likely, I assure you. I recognize your accent."

Roger straightened and stared hard at the man, but Francis' next words nearly knocked him over.

"You are a friend of those who knew Avelyn Desbris," the monk announced. "Perhaps a friend of the heretic yourself."

Roger's jaw hung slack.

"But no matter," Brother Francis went on. "You are a friend of the woman, Pony by name, and of her companion, the one called Nightbird."