DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (197 page)

"Oh, don't ye be runnin', I'm tired o' runnin'!" Bradwarden wailed, and in frustration, the centaur threw his club at the closest fleeing creature. The weapon skipped past harmlessly, but the goblin did stop to notice, and then glanced back —noting that Nightbird had disappeared into the brush at the side, following the one Juraviel had crippled. Behind the goblin, Bradwarden's club settled into the brush.

An evil grin spread across the goblin's ugly face. "Now yous got no weapon," it reasoned, lifting its sword and charging back at Bradwarden.

"Dumb," the centaur mumbled. "Was that yer brother sittin' stupid on the horse?" With a great spinning leap, Bradwarden pivoted about, throwing his rump in line with the charging goblin. His hind legs touched down. Then he hopped and kicked, muscled legs shooting past the goblin's puny arm and puny weapon, one hoof catching the goblin's shoulder, the other its chest. Muscles extending, the centaur's kick hurled the goblin twenty feet backward, its arms and legs flailing wildly, to crash hard into the brush.

The centaur calmly walked past the broken, dazed creature, to retrieve his club. Then he came back, towering over the goblin. "Got no weapon, eh?" he taunted, and the cudgel came crashing down.

Back in the center of the bowl, Juraviel finished off those squirming on the ground, then moved out into the brush, to find the one he had hamstrung. It lay dead in a pool of blood, the result of a single, efficient sword thrust under the back of its skull.

"Where's the ranger?" the centaur asked when Juraviel emerged. Symphony, standing beside the centaur, stamped the ground hard.

"Hunting, I would guess," the elf replied casually.

Bradwarden looked at the misty forest and smiled.

The goblin leaned against a tree, slapping the side of its rump in a futile attempt to alleviate the pain, not daring to touch the arrow Juraviel had put into its butt. Then the creature froze at a nearby sound, eyes wide with terror, but it relaxed as two of its companions came skittering over.

One grasped the arrow shaft and started to extract the bolt, but the goblin cried out in pain, and the other stopped and slapped a hand over its mouth.

"Quiet!" said the third in a harsh whisper. "Yous wants to bring the Nightbird and the horse-man on us? Yous already left a line of blood...."

The goblin's voice trailed off, and all three looked down at the unmistakably clear trail of the wounded goblin's passage.

Three sets of eyes came up, the terrified goblins staring at each other, none daring to speak.

Nightbird dropped from a branch to land right in the midst of them. Out went his fist to strike one goblin, out went the pommel of his sword, then ahead came the flashing blade. A backhand strike took down the second goblin, slashing diagonally from shoulder to hip as it staggered from the force of the pommel, and then the ranger spun around, landing a powerful overhead chop on the first goblin as it tried to recover from the punch in the face and tried to bring its unwieldy spear to bear.

It took the ranger longer to extract Tempest from the goblin's split head than it had to kill all three.

Elbryan found his friends waiting for him back on the road a short while later, the two resting comfortably in the unseasonably warm sun, passing Bradwarden's heavy wineskin —which Elbryan knew to be filled with
Questel ni'touel,
the fine elvish wine more commonly known as boggle—back and forth.

"Am I to hunt alone then?" the ranger said with feigned anger. "Three escape us, with three of us to give chase, and yet I find myself out alone in the forest."

"And just how many did ye get, ranger?" the centaur asked.

"They were all together," Elbryan explained.

"Easy enough, then," reasoned Juraviel.

"And still ye're whinin'," Bradwarden remarked, taking another swig of the potent liquor, then lifting it toward the ranger.

Elbryan declined with a smile. "I do not drink much boggle," he said. "Every time I try to lift a flask of it to my lips, my arms ache with pain," he explained, an obvious reference to his early days of training with the Touel'alfar, when he had gone out to the bog every morning to collect the milk stones, then take them to the gathering trough where he had to squeeze the flavored juice out of them until his arms had ached.

It was said as a joke, of course, but Bradwarden was ever the master at turning a joke back on the speaker. "Whinin' again," he moaned. "Ye know, elf, yerself and yer kin'd be better takin' in me own folk for yer ranger trainin'."

"We have tried, good Bradwarden," said Juraviel, pulling back the wineskin. "And a fierce fighter indeed is an elven-trained centaur, though short on cunning, I fear."

Bradwarden gave a low growl. "Insultin' me even as he steals me boggle," he said to Elbryan as the ranger moved to slide his sword back into its sheath on Symphony's saddle. That done, Elbryan checked the horse carefully, noting one especially painful-looking scratch along the side of Symphony's strong neck. The wound had already been tended, he was glad to see, by gentle elven hands. "Is this how I am to spend the rest of my life?" he asked suddenly, his serious tone drawing the complete attention of both centaur and elf. "Traveling forest paths, hunting down rogue monsters?"

"At your present pace, you will clear all the region soon enough," Juraviel said with a smile, but those words brought a look of horror to the faces of the other two.

"I certainly hope not!" Elbryan replied with a laugh, walking over and pulling the wineskin from Juraviel's grasp.

The other two laughed as well, for when they thought about it, they understood the ranger's reasoning. The presence of goblins and giants and powries had certainly been a terrible thing for the folk of the region, a bitter war that had shattered homes and families, that had left many innocents dead. But there was something else that had come with the darkness and the tragedy, a sense of purpose and of camaraderie, a necessary joining of folk who might not even have been friends in peaceful circumstances. And also, undeniably, this phase of the war, the last hunting, the reclaiming of lands when all of the helpless, innocent folk were out of harm's way, proved truly exhilarating. Just as it had on that very morning, when riding point for Tomas Gingerwart's caravan, the three friends had spotted the encampment of a dozen or so goblins. They formed quick plans and the fight, and then the chase, was on.

Elbryan, by far the youngest of the three, felt the excitement most keenly. At those times when he could put his elven training to use and become this other persona, Nightbird, he was most alive.

"Gingerwart," Bradwarden remarked, seeing smoke rising down the road to the south. At last the fog was beginning to clear.

Elbryan regarded the distant sign of approach. The way was clear for another day's travel; they would be in Dundalis, or in what remained of the place, in a matter of two or three days.

"I will bring the city in line," the new bishop determinedly said —with his mouth and not through the telepathic communication of spirit! And Markwart heard him, and clearly, though the Father Abbot's corporeal form was resting a hundred miles away in his private quarters in St.-Mere-Abelle.

"I have already begun taking action in that very direction," De'Unnero went on, regaining the composure that had been shattered by the unexpected appearance of this so-solid apparition of the Father Abbot.

Markwart nodded —and how strange it seemed to him that even such nonverbal language was crystal clear through this spiritual communication. The last time he had come to De'Unnero by means of the soul stone, he had only been able to manage rudimentary communication, imparting to the abbot of St. Precious that he should go get his soul stone that they might meet more fully in the spiritual state. This time, though, that extra step had proven unnecessary, for Markwart had so fully transported his spirit to Chasewind Manor that he could speak directly to the physical De'Unnero, a level of communication far beyond what they had achieved before, even though De'Unnero now held no complementing soul stone. It almost felt to Markwart as if he could simply step his own physical form through the connection, could fully transport himself to this distant place!

And clearly De'Unnero, too, was impressed.

Markwart watched him closely, noting the hunger on his face. Always had Marcalo De'Unnero been an intense man, especially when some measure of power was at stake. Always, though, he had maintained self-control. Even when jumping into the middle of a group of goblins, he had always kept his head clear, had always let his mind guide his body.

"You must be careful not to overstep your bounds," Markwart explained. "The King will be watching closely, to see how well having a bishop replace one of his barons suits his needs."

"Then I am to pay special care to any emissaries from Ursal," De'Unnero replied. "And I assure you that the King's soldiers, led by Captain Kilronney, shall be excluded from many of the more distasteful duties I must carry out to meet my ends. The city guard will suffice.

"I intend to retrieve all the gemstones in the city," the Bishop explained, "and thus, if the friends of the heretic are about, I will have them."

"The merchants will complain to the King," Markwart warned. But the Father Abbot was thinking of something else —was concentrating on De'Unnero's last statement and the man's nonverbal cues as he had spoken. Markwart had gotten the impression that the Bishop was playing him for the fool now, for he perceived De'Unnero did not really believe that confiscating the gemstones in the city would lead to the capture of Avelyn's former companions. No, Markwart realized, De'Unnero had only said this to placate him. However, the deception pleased Markwart, for if De'Unnero knew better than his false claim, he likely had a good idea where the fugitives might be.

De'Unnero smiled widely, drawing the Father Abbot back into the present conversation. "The merchants will do as they are told," the Bishop explained. "They fear me too much already to plead to King Danube."

Markwart knew De'Unnero was playing a dangerous game. He could not keep track of all the merchants and the many guards and scouts they employed. News of the Bishop's actions against the merchant class would surely be open gossip in Ursal before much time had passed, if it wasn't already. But still, the Father Abbot hesitated in demanding that his pawn cease. The possibilities here intrigued him. Suppose the Church reclaimed all the sacred gemstones, claiming it to be the divine order of God himself? As long as the King didn't oppose the move, the merchants would be powerless to resist.

"And even if they do inform the King," De'Unnero went on, his smile wider than ever, "we have an excuse for the action. King Danube knows of the stolen stones —was it not his own troops who took the traitor Jojonah to the pyre? So if we present the missing gems as a threat to him and his kingdom ..." The Bishop stopped and let the enticing thought hang in the air.

And, indeed, it was enticing to Father Abbot Markwart. Perhaps it was time for the Abellican Church to repossess the gemstones,
all
the gemstones. Those taken back from the merchants would more than make up for the ones lost to the thief Avelyn. Perhaps it was time for the Church to assert itself, to follow the wake of war by again becoming the dominant force in the life of every person in the civilized world.

What legacy would Dalebert Markwart then leave behind?

"The Behrenese enclave in Palmaris is considerable," Markwart said on sudden inspiration.

"Down by the river," De'Unnero confirmed.

"Make life particularly difficult for them," Markwart instructed. "Let us create as many common enemies between Church and state as possible."

De'Unnero's smile showed that the prospect did not displease him at all. "And what of the gemstones?" he asked. "May I continue?"

Now it was Markwart's turn to smile, for he understood that the upstart Bishop would continue with or without his permission. "Yes, do," Markwart said. "But do not overstep. We can keep King Danube on our side, I am confident, but only if we do not anger the entire merchant class."

Markwart let the connection lapse then, his spirit flying fast from Chasewind Manor back to his waiting body in St.-Mere-Abelle. In truth, he wasn't too worried about angering the merchants, or even the King. Markwart was beginning to gain a sense of his true power now. The war had changed the balance within the kingdom, he believed, in favor of the Church. This appointment of De'Unnero as bishop had opened so many intriguing corridors for the Father Abbot.

Possibilities . . . possibilities. How far might he reach?

Back in his private room at St.-Mere-Abelle, the Father Abbot looked down at the hematite resting in his hand. He thought again of how complete this last spiritual journey had been, of how he felt as if he could actually pull his corporeal form along with him instead of sending his spirit back to it. What power that might bring! To be in any place at any time, and without leaving any hint of a trail.

Possibilities . . . possibilities. Perhaps he could reach all the way to Ursal, all the way to King Danube's court, all the way to the King himself.

Brother Francis had found the Father Abbot in fine spirits that day, and it had given him hope that his news concerning Braumin and the others would be received with some measure of tranquillity. And after a brief moment when Markwart's face had gone bright red and he'd seemed on the verge of an explosion, the Father Abbot had calmed considerably, had even managed a crooked grin.

"And they, all five, have run off?" Markwart asked calmly.

Francis nodded.

"You are certain of this —Braumin Herde and the other conspirators have left St.-Mere-Abelle?"

"They are gone, Father Abbot," Francis dutifully answered, lowering his gaze.

"St.-Mere-Abelle is a large place," Markwart remarked. "There are many shadows."

"I believe that they are gone," Francis replied, "out of the abbey altogether, and I doubt they mean to return."

"And what did they take with them?" Markwart asked, his voice a growl of rising rage.

Francis shrugged, surprised by the question.

"The gemstones," Markwart clarified, barking out the words. "Did they take any of the sacred stones? "

"No, Father Abbot," Francis blurted. "No, I am certain they did not."

"The words of a fool," Markwart retorted sharply. "Have a dozen brothers inventory the sacred stones at once."

"Yes, Father Abbot," Francis replied, turning to go, and thinking himself foolish for not anticipating that Markwart would fear another theft. Certainly news of more heretics fleeing the abbey would cause the Father Abbot to wonder if the curse of Avelyn Desbris had visited him again.

"Where are you going? " Markwart yelled as Francis took a step away.

"You said to see to the inventory," the flustered brother protested.

"When we are done!"

Francis rushed back to the desk, standing straight as if waiting for a judgment to be passed upon him.

Markwart paused for a long while, rubbing his wrinkled old face many times. As the seconds passed, and as he considered all the ramifications, his face seemed to brighten.

"And, Father Abbot, I fear that the kitchen boy, Roger Billingsbury by name," Francis went on, "has also fled the abbey."

"And I should care about this because ..." Markwart prompted.

Brother Francis stared long and hard at the surprising man. Was it not Markwart who had asked him to compile a list of workers at the abbey? And was it not Markwart who had told Francis that he believed there might be a spy working within the abbey? Suddenly Francis wondered if he had been wise to mention Roger. He had assumed that the Father Abbot had scrutinized his list, been led to the same conclusions that Francis had drawn; for, given the lack of other potential enemies, it had not been difficult for Francis to discern that Roger was the most likely prospect.

"The hired peasants often leave," Markwart reminded him, "by your own words. A complaint you had concerning compiling the list, if I recall."

Francis considered these words carefully, surprised that the Father Abbot was attempting to dispel the notion of a conspiracy between Braumin's group and the suspicious kitchen boy. Up to now, Markwart's suspicions had bordered on paranoia —or at least had seemed the result of a carefully constructed plan to divert all blame for everything that had happened at St.-Mere-Abelle over the last few years to Avelyn, Jojonah, and their followers.

"I do not understand, Father Abbot," Francis replied.

Markwart looked at him quizzically.

"Your present demeanor," Francis explained. "I had thought that you would be outraged by this desertion."

"Outraged?" Markwart echoed incredulously. "Outraged that our enemies would take an action so helpful to our cause? Do you not understand, young brother? Braumin Herde's desertion of the abbey spells the end of Jojonah's little conspiracy, as sure an admission of guilt as I have ever seen."

"Or an admission of fear, Father Abbot," Francis dared to say.

He backed off a step from Markwart's great desk as the Father Abbot stared at him. "They would have had nothing to fear if they had followed the rules of the Order," Markwart stated with a wry smile. "It brings me great pleasure to know that I inspire fear among heretics. Perhaps when they are caught —and they will be caught, do not doubt—we might study them closely, that we can measure and record their level of terror."

Francis shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he thought of the punishments Markwart might exact, as he considered the fate to which he might have inadvertently led Braumin and the others.

"You seem distressed, brother," Markwart remarked.

Francis felt as if he were withering under the old Father Abbot's scrutiny. "I only fear ..." he started to say but then paused, seeking a different, and better, direction for his argument. "That Brother Braumin has strayed, I do not doubt," he said at length, "as well as the others."

"But..." Markwart prompted.

"But there was once a true calling in their hearts —in Brother Braumin's, at least," said Francis.

"And you believe that we might help them to find their way back to the proper road?"

Francis nodded. "Perhaps with leniency," he said, "perhaps with generosity. Would it not be better for the Church, and for your legacy, if you could take the proteges of Jojonah and bring them back into the flock? Would it not serve our God better if someone of Brother Braumin's talent was brought back to the proper road? And then, in all likelihood, he would become a credible and fanatic critic of Jojonah and Avelyn, a prime example of one who had sunk to the darkness, but was climbing again into the light." Francis was desperately improvising here, for he did not want to see any more executions of brothers of the Order. But while he liked the simple logic and the sound of his words, the monk understood that he was chasing a shooting star. Even if Markwart agreed, would Braumin Herde? Francis doubted it. More likely, the stubbornly principled fool would denounce Markwart all the way to the stake. Still, Francis, more desperate about this matter than he would have previously guessed, pressed on. "I only wonder if we might not turn this situation into an even greater gain."

"No, Brother Francis, that is not what you wonder," Father Abbot Markwart said solemnly, standing up and walking around the desk. "No, what I recognize here is not pragmatism but compassion."

"And compassion is a virtue," Francis said quietly.

"True," Markwart agreed, draping his arm about Francis' shoulders, an unusual gesture for the normally detached man and one that made Francis more than a little uncomfortable.