DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (198 page)

"But true only if the empathy is placed upon one deserving," Markwart went on. "Would you offer leniency to a goblin? To a powrie?"

"But they are not human," Francis started to argue, his voice rising at first, but falling off weakly as Markwart began to laugh at him.

"Nor are heretics human," Markwart retorted suddenly, angrily, but again he calmed quickly and continued in a cool, controlled manner. "Indeed, heretics are less than goblins and powries because they, formerly being human and thus possessed of a soul, have thrown aside the gift of God, have insulted the One who created them. Pity the powries before the heretics, I say, for powries are devoid of this gift, are wretched creatures indeed. Powries and goblins are evil, because evil is their nature; but the true heretic, the one who turns his back on God, is evil by choice. That, my brother, is the epitome of sin."

"But if one is lost, Father Abbot, can we not rescue that soul?" Francis reasoned.

This time, the Father Abbot didn't mock the notion with laughter but rather silenced Francis with a stern and uncompromising glare. "Take care, Brother Francis," he warned gravely. "You are bordering on the very tenets that brought about the downfall of Jojonah, and of Avelyn before him, the very idealistic and foolish notions that forced Braumin Herde and his fellow conspirators out of St.-Mere-Abelle."

"By the words of St. Gwendolyn, does not love beget love?" Francis replied, taking great care to control his tone so that he sounded as if he was merely asking for clarification and guidance, not disagreeing with the Father Abbot.

"St. Gwendolyn was a fool," Markwart said casually.

Francis fought hard to control his expression, but his eyes did widen and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from gasping. No words of insult were permitted against saints —that much Francis knew clearly from his years of study, a tenet that was spelled out again and again in Church canon.

"Do not seem so surprised," Markwart said. "You are soon to be a master ... perhaps," he added slyly, casting a sidelong glance at him. "And as a master, you must understand and admit the truth. Gwendolyn was a fool; most of my colleagues know that beyond doubt."

"The process of her canonization was without protest," Francis argued.

"Again, out of pragmatism," Markwart explained. "Gwendolyn was the only potential candidate among the women of the Church, and if you carefully read the history of that troubled time, you will understand that it was necessary to placate the women. Thus, a saint was born. Do not misunderstand me, my young student, Gwendolyn was possessed of a generous heart and a warm nature. But she never —as Jojonah never—appreciated the larger truth of our purpose.

"Take care," Markwart said again. "Fear that you might become a humanist."

"I do not know the term," Francis admitted.

"Fear that you might place the rights of the individual above the greater good," Markwart explained. "I thought that I had dispelled this weakness in you during our dealings with the Chilichunks, but apparently it is rooted deep. And so I make it clear to you now, the last warning I shall ever offer you. There are those, Avelyn and Jojonah among them —and this was their biggest sin—who believe the Abellican Church should be the caretaker of the flock, the healer of all wounds, spiritual and physical. They would have us live as paupers, and walk among the peasants with the sacred stones, bettering the lives of all."

Francis cocked his head curiously, for that did not sound very much like sin.

"Fools!" Markwart snapped sharply. "It is not the place of the Church to cure the ills of the world; it is the responsibility of the Church to offer a greater hope of a world beyond this world. Would St.-Mere-Abelle inspire anyone if it became nothing more than a collection of hovels? Of course not! It is our splendor, our glory, our power that offers hope to the rabble. It is the simple fear of us, the emissaries of a vengeful God, that keeps them walking the true path of enlightenment. I cannot stress this truth to you enough, and I warn you never to let it out of your thoughts. Are we to open the doors of our abbey? Are we to hand out gemstones to peasants? Where, then, will be the mystery, young brother? And without the mystery, where, then, will be the hope?"

Francis was trying desperately to digest this surprising speech; and surely some of Markwart's argument resonated profoundly. But Francis could not help but see some inconsistencies. "But we
do
hand out gemstones, Father Abbot," he dared to remind him, "to merchants and nobles."

"It is a balance," Markwart admitted. "We do sell, and even give away, some of the stones, but only in exchange for greater wealth and power. Again, we have a standing to support that the peasants might look to us for hope. It is our solemn duty to maintain the Church above the common rabble, and sometimes, sadly, that forces us to work beside the secular powers of state and the merchant class." Markwart chuckled ironically then, but he sounded somewhat sinister to Brother Francis.

"But fear not, young brother," the Father Abbot finished, leading Francis to the door, "for now the Abellican Order is blessed with a leader who has both will and way to correct some of the more distasteful necessities of the past."

Overwhelmed, Brother Francis bowed to his superior and walked off in a stupor. He was honestly afraid for Brother Braumin and the others, but he was more afraid that he would have to witness their eventual punishment —was even more afraid that Braumin, or more likely one of his weaker cohorts, would be brought back to St.-Mere-Abelle and would break under the inevitable torture and name Francis as the one who had ushered them out of the abbey.

Would Father Abbot Markwart consider the loyalty Francis had always shown him and be lenient, or would the "greater good" dictate a very different course of action?

The Masur Delaval was exceptionally bright this day under a gentle sun. Whenever a puffy cloud covered that sun, Roger and his five companions were reminded that winter had just begun. The air was not warm —and neither was the spray kicked up by the huge ferry, its square front slapping hard against the waves.

The group had taken a roundabout route to get to this point, fearing pursuit from St.-Mere-Abelle, and also wanting to change their appearances —grow some facial hair and acquire clothes other than their telltale brown robes. Now, finally, they had Palmaris in sight, and it was with more than a little trepidation that they approached the city of Marcalo De'Unnero. No doubt the abbot of St. Precious had been informed of their desertion by now, and despite their best efforts at disguise, Braumin and the others did not doubt that the dangerous man would recognize them if he saw them.

So, despite Roger's desire to look in on some of the companions he had known in the northland who were still, presumably, in Palmaris, the group came off the ferry on the Palmaris wharf intent on moving straight out to the north. They found little trouble navigating the quiet streets, having only occasionally to turn down an alleyway to avoid some marching soldiers.

After less than half an hour, in sight of one of the northern gates, they found another problem, though, for no one was getting in or out of the city without a complete inspection by the grim-faced city guard.

"Perhaps we should have taken a stone or two," Brother Castinagis offered, "amber, at least, that we might have walked across the river north of the city."

A couple of the others —most vigorously, Brother Viscenti—nodded their heads in agreement.

"Any theft of stones would have ensured that Markwart would have hunted us relentlessly," Brother Braumin reminded them. Viscenti's bobbing head immediately started shaking side to side.

"Then how are we to get out of here?" Castinagis asked.

Braumin had no answer, and so he looked at Roger.

Roger accepted the responsibility without complaint; in fact, he took it as a great compliment. Now that his reputation had been put on the line, the young man began to assess the problem. In the end, his plan was really very simple. Since the weather had held fairly mild, many wagons were rolling out of the gates. Farmers from south of the city were rushing through Palmaris northward, bearing hay and other supplies to farmers who had recently reclaimed their lands from the monsters.

Roger guided the five monks along to a street lined with taverns —and filled with the wagons of farmers who were inside, getting one last drink before heading north.

Into the hay they went, two men to a wagon. It was stuffy, damp, and uncomfortable; but soon enough the wagons were rolling along, and they were safe from any casual inspection. They heard the guards at the gate questioning the farmers, but they were interrogated perfunctorily.

The first wagon out on the road north of the city held Brothers Castinagis and Mullahy. They crawled from under the hay as the oblivious farmer drove along, and they dropped out of the wagon and trotted behind it for some distance, then moved to the side of the road and waited.

Several wagons rolled by, some going north, some back to the city. Then the pair spotted Brothers Dellman and Viscenti walking quickly down the road, and soon after, the four met with Roger and Braumin Herde.

"Once again you have proven your resourcefulness," Brother Dellman congratulated Roger.

"Not so much, really," Roger replied, though he was thrilled by the compliment. "The road should be easier the rest of the way. The first few miles will have the eyes of many farmers upon us, I am sure, but after that, the houses are sparse and widely spaced, and we should be able to get all the way to Caer Tinella without answering too many questions."

"And there we will find the friends of Avelyn?" Braumin asked.

It was a question Roger had heard a hundred times since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that he had not been able to answer. He could guess that Pony and Elbryan had gone back to Caer Tinella, especially since they had Bradwarden in tow, but he couldn't be certain. He looked around at the five monks, every one of them hanging hopefully on his answer, as they always were when this question was posed. Their expressions reminded Roger of just how desperate these men had become. They were intelligent, and every one of them had lived for at least twenty years, Braumin Herde for more than thirty. Yet on this issue, they seemed almost like children, needing the guidance of a parent —in this case, Roger.

"We will find them, or we will find the way to them," Roger offered. The monks' smiles widened. Brother Viscenti immediately began spouting hopeful possibilities, surmising how the friends of Avelyn might help put the world in order.

Roger allowed him his ridiculous fantasies without question. He pitied this man, and all of them, or at least sympathized with them. They had thrown away everything, had branded themselves heretics —and they all knew the punishment for that! All they had now were their principles. No small thing, Roger knew.

But you couldn't eat principles.

And principles wouldn't stop the thrust of a sword. Or cool the heat of a burning pyre.

They walked until late that night, putting as much ground between them and Palmaris as possible. Still, when they set their camp on a quiet and lonely hillock, the lights of Palmaris remained in sight, across the miles.

Roger stood looking southward at the last few of those lights, late in the night, when Braumin Herde joined him. The two stood silently for some time, two lonely figures in a world gone crazy.

"Perhaps we should have chanced a stay in Palmaris," Braumin offered. "You might have found some of your friends."

Roger was shaking his head before the man even finished. "It would have been a pleasure to see some of them again," he said, "but I approve of the decision to strike out of the city immediately. I do not trust that place."

"You mean that you do not trust those who rule that place," Braumin said with a chuckle. "Yet they are the same as those who rule St.-Mere-Abelle."

"I was with Baron Bildeborough when he was murdered," Roger admitted, staring at the distant lights, not even turning to face Braumin when he heard the monk gasp.

"We were going south to Ursal to speak with King Danube about the murder of Abbot Dobrinion," Roger explained.

"Murdered by a powrie," Braumin said, repeating the commonly accepted story.

"Murdered by a monk," Roger retorted gravely. Now he did turn to face Braumin. "It was no powrie, but a monk —a pair of monks, actually, men your Church name brothers justice—who murdered Dobrinion." Roger watched Braumin's expression shift from bewilderment to denial to something bordering on anger.

"You cannot be certain of this," Braumin said, obviously fighting hard to sound as if he was speaking with conviction.

"Connor Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron, discovered the truth," Roger replied, turning back to the distant lights.

"But young Bildeborough was taken and questioned by Father Abbot Markwart," Braumin reasoned. "He had reason to hate the Church."

"His evidence was firm," Roger answered calmly. "And to lend it credence, those same two brothers justice chased him out of Palmaris, intent on murdering him. That was where they met me and Nightbird and Pony, and that was where they both met their end, though not before one managed to murder Connor."

"Describe them," Braumin Herde bade him, a distinct tremor in his voice.

"One was a huge and strong man," Roger replied, "and the other, by far the more dangerous, by my estimation, was small of frame but quick and deadly."

Braumin Herde rocked back on his heels at this confirmation, for he had been with the caravan when it had met Markwart in Palmaris, when Connor had been taken prisoner, and then subsequently released. Along with Markwart were two very dangerous men, Brothers Youseff and Dandelion, and those two had left the caravan on the road east of Palmaris and had not been seen since.

"Connor's evidence was enough to convince the Baron," Roger went on, "and when Rochefort Bildeborough could not gain any satisfaction from the new leader of St. Precious, he decided to take his case, with me as his witness, to the court of King Danube Brock Ursal. On our first night out, the carriage was attacked, and all were killed except for me."

"And how were you so fortunate?"

"I was out in the woods at the time the great cat attacked," Roger explained. "I saw only the end of the fight —more a slaughter than a fight, actually."

"Describe the cat," Braumin prompted, a sinking feeling washing over him.

"Not so large," Roger replied, "but fast and vicious. And moving with a purpose —of that I am sure."

"You do not believe it to be the random attack of a wild animal?"

Roger shrugged, having no practical response. "It seemed more than that," he tried to explain, "and I am familiar with the great cats of this region —tawny panthers mostly. But this cat was orange with black stripes. A tiger, I believe, though I have never seen such a cat, and have only heard of it from travelers who dared the western Wilderlands." Roger stopped abruptly as he looked over at Braumin, for the man stood with eyes closed and fists balled by his side, trembling.

For it all made sense to Braumin Herde now: terrible, brutal sense. He knew well the new abbot of St. Precious, the new bishop of Palmaris, and knew the man's favored stone, the tiger's paw, with which he could transform parts of his body into those of the great cat.

"There is a great darkness settling on the world," Braumin remarked finally.

"I had thought one just lifted," Roger replied.

"This one may be darker yet."

Roger, who had witnessed the murders of Connor Bildeborough, Baron Bildeborough, and Jojonah, could not find any logical argument against the reasoning.

The fire had burned to embers. The wind blew cold, and the four sleeping monks were huddled close to the fire, wrapped tightly in blankets. Brother Dellman sat a short distance away, quiet and calm, with Roger, for it was their turn on watch.

Several times, Roger tried to strike up a conversation with the earnest, sensible young monk, but it was obvious that Dellman wasn't in the mood for talking. Roger understood the man's turbulent feelings, and so did not press him. But sitting there quietly as the minutes turned into an hour, and that to two, had Roger fighting to keep his eyes open.

"I'll not last the watch," he announced, pulling himself to his feet and briskly rubbing his arms and legs. "The fire invites me to sleep. A walk will help."

"In the forest?" Dellman asked skeptically.

Roger waved the monk's concern away. "I spent months in these forests," he boasted. "And at that time they were thick with powries and goblins, and huge giants." He was hoping to see some hint that his words had impressed the young monk, but Dellman only nodded.

"Do not go too far," he bade Roger. "We share the watch, and thus, share responsibility."

"I will find no trouble in the open forest," Roger replied.

"I do not doubt your abilities, Master Billingsbury," Dellman answered. "I only fear that I might fall asleep, and that Brother Braumin will waken and find me such." He ended with a smile, and Roger returned it.

"Not far," Roger promised as he moved down the side of the hill, pausing as soon as he was out of the direct light of the low fire to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he pressed down into the shadows, for Roger did indeed feel safe out here. He trusted his senses, and he was confident that he could blend into the shadows and avoid any enemies.

Except Craggoth hounds, he quietly reminded himself, remembering the huge, terrible dogs the powries sometimes kept, the wicked creatures that had tracked him on one excursion through powrie-occupied Caer Tinella. Roger still carried many scars from that capture and imprisonment, mostly from the bites of the savage hounds.

Still, he felt safe as he made his way from the hillock into the forest. He was in his element out here, a part of the landscape. Within a matter of a few minutes, the distant campfire seemed but a spot of light. Roger finally settled on a large boulder, staring up at the stars. He wondered about Elbryan and Juraviel, and mostly about Pony. How he missed those special friends, the first real friends he had ever known. Not only did they support him when he needed them but also they were not afraid to point out his faults and to help him learn to overcome them. Because of those three, Roger had learned to truly survive, had learned to temper his anger and his pride, to keep a clear head no matter how desperate the situation seemed.

A shudder coursed through him as he considered how he might have acted when Bildeborough was being murdered if he had not learned so much from Nightbird and his friends. His pride might have drawn him in, and then the cat would surely have killed him. Or, if he had run away, he would have likely gone to Palmaris, screaming his wild tale, making enemies far too powerful for him to defeat. Yes, because of the work of his dear friends, Roger had learned to consider the greater good before acting.