DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (199 page)

And now he wanted to see those friends again, wanted to tell the ranger all that he knew and show Nightbird the man he had become. He wanted to see Juraviel again, for he knew that the elf, too, would approve of him, and Roger desperately wanted that approval.

But most of all, Roger wanted to see Pony again, the flash of her blue eyes, the flash of her beautiful smile. He wanted to watch the hair bounce about her shoulders and to bask in the flowery smell of that lustrous mane. Roger knew that he could not have her as his own. Her love was for Elbryan, and for Roger she held only true friendship. But that didn't matter to Roger somehow. He wasn't jealous —not anymore—of Elbryan, and took deep pleasure merely in being around Pony, in speaking to her or watching her graceful movements.

He lay on that boulder for a long time, staring absently up at the stars, but seeing only beautiful Pony. Yes, Pony and the others would help Roger put the world, or at least their little corner of it, aright.

He took comfort in that notion, in the belief that he would be among powerful friends soon enough, but then he remembered his present responsibilities. He sat up on the boulder and looked back to the distant hillock. All seemed quiet and calm, so Roger started off at a casual pace.

Just a few steps along the path back, though, Roger stopped and glanced all around, an uneasy feeling creeping over him. Perfectly still, perfectly quiet, the alert man shifted his eyes slowly, moving from shadow to shadow, trying to pick up some sign of movement.

Somehow he knew that something was out there, watching him.

Roger could feel his muscles tightening, could feel his heart beating faster suddenly. He couldn't shake the image of Baron Bildeborough's slaughter, and feared that the same great tiger was watching him now, poised behind a bush or up in a tree.

It took Roger a long time to take another step. He eased his toe down and gently shifted his weight, trying to make not a whisper of noise. Satisfied, he took another step.

A movement at the side caught his attention, some creature swift and stealthy.

Despite his intentions, Roger let out a cry and sprinted away.

Something shot past him, startling him, making him stumble. He didn't fall, though, for a slender but strong, sticky line held taut before him, supporting him. Another dart shot past, then one across his back. Roger was spun around frantically, trying to make some sense of it as more and more filaments crossed him from every conceivable angle. His movements only tangled him all the more, and soon he was hopelessly stuck.

Now Roger's training came into play, that cool and clear thinking in an apparently desperate situation. He righted himself and set his feet firmly, then sorted out one filament and started to tug.

Even as he began, there came a movement from the side and above. Roger froze, expecting an enemy to jump down. After a few seconds passed, the young man dared to look back over his shoulder, and he nearly slumped with relief to see —not a tiger or some giant spider—but a familiar form, sitting on a branch, looking down at him.

"Juraviel," he breathed.

"Where is he?" asked the elf. From the voice —a female voice—Roger realized that this was not his elven friend but another of the Touel'alfar.

"W-where is who?" he stammered. Then he turned and stumbled as more elves appeared all around him, some on the ground, some on branches.

"You just named him," the elf said impatiently. "Belli'mar Juraviel."

"I —I do not know," Roger stammered, overwhelmed and more than a bit fearful, for these elves did not seem friendly, and every one of them held a small bow. Roger knew better than to take any comfort in the size of those bows, for he had many times seen Juraviel put one to deadly use.

"You are Roger Billingsbury," another elf stated. "Roger Lockless."

The young man started to respond, but was cut short by another elf. "And you search for your friends, our brethren Juraviel and Nightbird the ranger."

Again Roger started to reply, but another of the elves interrupted. "And the woman Jilseponie Ault."

"Yes, yes, and yes!" Roger cried. "Why do you ask if you do not want —"

"We do not ask," the first elf remarked. "We state what we know."

Roger didn't try to respond, expecting that the elf, or another, would interrupt him.

"We suspect that Belli'mar Juraviel went to the east," the elf on the branch added, her voice the most melodic of all, "to the great monastery."

"To St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger agreed. "I mean, I do not know if Juraviel was there, but Nightbird and Pony —"

"Tell us all of it," another elf said curtly.

"Everything you know," another chirped in.

"I am trying to do just that!" Roger cried in exasperation.

The elf on the branch called for quiet, from him and from all the other elves. "Pray tell us the complete tale, Roger Lockless," she bade calmly. "It is very important."

Roger looked down skeptically at the practically invisible strands, then held up his hands helplessly.

On a nod from the elf on the branch, apparently the leader, several others scrambled to Roger's side and helped free him.

Then Roger was more than happy to comply with the request for the story. He knew from his dealings with Juraviel that the Touel'alfar were not his enemies, and could certainly be powerful allies. He relayed everything he had learned during his time in the abbey: how Bradwarden the centaur had apparently been rescued in the bowels of the blasted mountain home of the dactyl demon and then taken prisoner; how the ranger and Pony, and possibly Juraviel, had later slipped into the great abbey and rescued the centaur. Then he told of Jojonah, a monk who had helped the rescuers, and the grim fate his actions had brought upon him.

"Who are your companions?" the elf asked him. "They are also of St.-Mere-Abelle, are they not?"

"Disciples of Jojonah," Roger explained, "and of another monk, a Brother Avelyn, before him. Avelyn was a great hero, a friend of Nightbird and Jura —"

"We know of Brother Avelyn Desbris," the elf assured him. "Another of our brethren journeyed with him to Aida and willingly sacrificed her life that Nightbird and Avelyn and the others might destroy the demon dactyl."

"Tuntun," Roger exclaimed, for Pony had told him the entire tale. His smile went away at once, though, seeing the grim expressions of the elves.

"Your friend's assessment may prove painfully accurate," the elf went on gravely.

Roger looked at him curiously.

"The monk," the elf explained, "Brother Dellman —his assessment of the dark road may prove prophetic, for the events in Palmaris are unsettling."

"How do you know about Dellman?" Roger asked, but when he thought about it, when he considered the scouting prowess of the Touel'alfar, as exemplified by Belli'mar Juraviel, he realized that he should not have been surprised to learn that the elves had been watching him. "You know of the changes in Palmaris?" Roger asked.

"We know much, Roger Lockless," the elf explained. "We know of your fateful ride south with Baron Bildeborough, and we know of De'Unnero, who is now bishop of Palmaris. The Touel'alfar do not often concern themselves with the affairs of humans; but when we do, I assure you, we have the means to learn what we desire."

Roger didn't doubt that for a minute.

"Go back to your friends," the elf instructed. "You are heading north to find Nightbird?"

"I believe that he will be somewhere around Caer Tinella," Roger replied.

"And what of our brethren Juraviel? "

"As far as I know, he is with Nightbird," Roger answered.

The elf looked around at his companions, all of them responding with an assenting nod.

"Travel with the knowledge that the Touel'alfar are not far away, Roger Lockless," the female elf on the branch finished.

Roger watched as several of the elves silently faded into the shadows. One by one, they simply disappeared, and then Roger was alone. He went back to the encampment, to find Brother Dellman sitting in the same position as when Roger had left, except that his eyes were closed.

Roger moved to wake him, but then changed his mind. He had felt secure before, enough so to wander out into the forest. Now, knowing that the Touel'alfar were near, Roger understood that there was no need for any watch. He moved to an empty spot near to the fire, lay down with his hands behind his head, stared up at the stars, and did not try to resist when sleep beckoned.

"I'll not tolerate your lies," the spirit of Markwart stated bluntly, his expression menacing. Both Markwart and De'Unnero were amazed by the completeness of the communication. No telepathic messages this time, not even in the initial greeting. Markwart's spirit, seeming tangible, almost physical, had merely walked into De'Unnero's private room and struck up a conversation with the Bishop!

Despite the imposing presence, the confident Marcalo De'Unnero only smiled and rested back calmly in his comfortable chair.

"Do not doubt that I can reach you," Markwart warned.

"Oh, but I do not, Father Abbot," the Bishop replied. "I only doubt that you would desire to strike out against me, since our goals are the same and I am no threat to you. Perhaps it is merely my methods that anger you."

"It is your lies," Markwart growled.

De'Unnero held up his hands innocently, as if he didn't understand what Markwart was talking about.

"The gemstone confiscation," Markwart clarified, "the pretense of it. I do not disapprove of your handling of the merchants —they are not men of the Church and thus should not be in possession of the sacred stones. We agree on this point."

De'Unnero studied the man closely. He knew they were both pleased by the prospect of strengthening the Church's hold and power over the kingdom, but he thought and was keen enough to understand that the Father Abbot shared this view —that his and Markwart's motives might not be similar.

"Do not pretend that your work in Palmaris is directly related to the friends of Avelyn Debris," Markwart went on. "You are well aware that they are not in your city."

De'Unnero conceded the point with a nod. "My focus will change as I learn more about their whereabouts," he promised.

"Your focus will remain on Palmaris," Markwart instructed. "Your work here is even more important than capture of the fugitives."

De'Unnero's expression went suddenly grim; Markwart's last edict had obviously caught him off guard. "Father Abbot," he said deliberately, "even while I strengthen my —our—hold over Palmaris, I have been collecting information concerning the fugitives. They are north of the city but not beyond my reach."

"Your
reach?" Markwart echoed. "Are we back to that, Master De'Unnero?"

De'Unnero lowered his eyes, not wanting the man to see the boiling rage reflected there.
Master
De'Unnero? The word simmered in the bile at the back of his throat. How crude a reminder of who was the leader here and who the servant. In the Abellican Order, referring to a man by his previous title was considered among the most pointed of insults.

"How many times must we wage this battle?" Markwart asked. "How many times must I tell you that others will manage the business of the legacy of Avelyn Desbris and that the business of Marcalo De'Unnero is of a higher matter?"

"And how many others must fail before you allow me to finish this business of Avelyn's legacy?" De'Unnero dared to reply. "First Quintal, then the fools Youseff and Dandelion."

"Fools trained by De'Unnero," Markwart reminded.

"And De'Unnero told you that they would fail," the Bishop retorted. "These friends of Avelyn have proven themselves resourceful and dangerous foes. They have survived, not merely by running and hiding, but by confronting and defeating everything we have sent their way. And let us not forget our strong belief that these fugitives journeyed to Mount Aida, confronted Bestesbulzibar, and won!"

Markwart emitted a low, feral growl.

"We cannot underestimate them," De'Unnero countered. "By all accounts, the woman is proficient with the gemstones, hugely powerful, and the man —"

Markwart's sudden laugh stopped the Bishop short, and De'Unnero realized he was being mocked.

"I do so enjoy the hunger in your eyes as you speak of worthy opponents," Markwart explained, finally catching on to the Bishop's real meaning.

"They command our respect," De'Unnero insisted.

"They intrigue you," Markwart corrected. "You have come to view this man Nightbird as a personal challenge. Is it possible that Marcalo De'Unnero is not the greatest warrior in the world?"

"Are we not to retrieve the stolen gemstones?" De'Unnero said dryly, trying to change the focus, which of course only confirmed Markwart's suspicions.

"Of course, Bishop," the Father Abbot purred. "Yet it seems to me as if the stolen gemstones are not your primary motivation where the one called Nightbird is concerned.

"Be assured that I am not chastising you," Markwart added as De'Unnero leaned forward to protest. "Indeed, I admire your aspiration. Ever since you first came to St.-Mere-Abelle, you have been determined to prove your supremacy in the fighting skills. You heard the whispers that you are the finest warrior ever to come forth from the Abellican Order, and those whispers bother you profoundly."

"How so?" De'Unnero asked. "If I am as full of vanity as you seem to believe, then should not those whispers thrill me?"

"No," Markwart answered bluntly, "because they are just whispers, and because not everyone agrees. And because, most of all, they speak of you as the greatest of the
Abellican
warriors. You would not limit your reputation so."

"Pride," De'Unnero replied. "The deadliest sin of all."

Again Markwart laughed. "The man who is without pride is without ambition, and the man who is without ambition is no better than a beast of burden. No, Marcalo De'Unnero, bishop of Palmaris, the world holds greater conquests for you. Perhaps Nightbird is among those challenges. But only —" the Father Abbot paused, holding a skinny finger out threateningly "—only if your contest is waged in the natural course of other, more important events. The world is changing, and we are the harbingers of that change. I'll not risk my legacy and the potential dominance of the Abellican Church for the sake of my underling's pride."

"But how much stronger will we be when Nightbird is no more?" De'Unnero protested loudly. "I know where to find the thieves; destroying them and retrieving that which was stolen will prove but a minor task."

"No!" Markwart retorted sharply, and there was power in his voice that put De'Unnero back in his seat, silent, staring at the specter.

"No," Markwart said again. "There is no need to take such a chance now. Your focus must remain the vital work in Palmaris."

"But —"

"Plot carefully, my friend," Markwart continued. "There are better ways to proceed. Gain the trust of Nightbird and the woman that we might catch them off their guard."

"I doubt the disciples of Avelyn Desbris would ever trust the Abellican Church of Dalebert Markwart," De'Unnero replied bluntly.

"You are fortunate, my servant," Markwart answered, "for I know that you are wiser than your words would indicate. There are better ways for you to encompass the demise of Avelyn's followers. You will discover them, if only you care to look." With those teasing words echoing in the darkened room, the spirit of Markwart faded.

De'Unnero sat in his chair, his hands up before him, fingers tapping together as he considered his options. The meeting hadn't gone as he had hoped, for Markwart was proving himself far more astute than the Bishop would ever have believed. De'Unnero had thought that his assignment to Palmaris, and particularly his elevation to bishop, would bring him some autonomy, but Markwart's newfound tricks with the soul stone had put him more under the thumb of the Father Abbot than he had been at St.-Mere-Abelle.

That truth only made him angrier, and he leaped up from his chair and stormed about the room. He almost took up his tiger's paw and fell into its magic, fantasizing about running hard to the north as a great cat. If he killed the two prime enemies of the Church, could Markwart remain angry with him?

But if he failed, if his attempt only warned Nightbird that the Church was still watching —only forced him into deeper hiding—then, De'Unnero realized, he would be better off if the dangerous warrior slew him in the forest.

Better that than face the wrath of Markwart.

And who was this man? the Bishop wondered, and he wasn't thinking about Nightbird. De'Unnero had known Dalebert Markwart for more than a decade and had been one of his advisers for several years, ever since he had trained the first brother justice, Quintal, to go after Avelyn Desbris. Yet now, speaking with this spirit, feeling the deeper power within the will of the Father Abbot, De'Unnero felt as if he didn't know the man at all... or at least, as if he had underestimated him all these years.

That alone made him consider carefully the advice Markwart had given to him, and led him, after a sleepless night of pacing his room, to an alternative plan.

Markwart soared back to his waiting corporeal form, lying on his bed in St.-Mere-Abelle. He was pleased as he crossed through his outer room, noting that no one had disturbed the place.

His body shuddered as his spirit entered, and then the Father Abbot, though it was very late, climbed out of bed. Yes, it was good that St.-Mere-Abelle was now free of Brother Braumin and his followers, he mused, for so many pressing issues beckoned, from both Ursal and Palmaris.

Without even noticing, the Father Abbot went to his desk and took out a small ruby and hematite, then wandered into the summoning chamber with its pentagram. He walked around the pentagram, bending at each point and, with a thought sent into the ruby, produced a small flame to light each candle. Then he moved to the very middle of the pentagram and sat on the floor cross-legged, his usual place and position for deep meditation.

The voice in his head had taught him this. At first Markwart had resisted. Nothing he had ever read, even in
The Incantations Sorcerous,
had mentioned sitting
within
the pentagram. Such a design was normally scribed for the purpose of summoning and confining extraplanar creatures —indeed, Markwart had used it for just that purpose, bringing up a pair of minor demons to inhabit the corpses of the Chilichunks.

But now, with his new insight, Markwart had found a second, and perhaps even more important use for the pentagram. He used the soul stone to fall within himself, into the deepest recesses of his own mind, the highest level of contemplation.

For with this combination of stones and position Father Abbot Markwart could find answers to the greatest mysteries of the universe, to personal dilemmas and grand events that would shake the foundation of both Church and kingdom. Deep within the gemstones, he found such a level of solitude that all the distractions of the material world were left far behind, and within that solitude Markwart found God.

The voice tonight was stronger than before, even as his connection to De'Unnero had tonight achieved a new level of completeness. Markwart pondered the questions that disturbed him, and the voice, as always, gave him the answers. He must get Brother Francis to work even harder now. He must solidify his base of power at St.-Mere-Abelle, bring all the monks into a tight line behind him, so that when he stretched out his arms to engulf the rest of the kingdom, he need not worry about treachery from within. The other abbeys, though they might question or even verbally oppose his policies, would not openly go against him without some hint that there might be allies within St.-Mere-Abelle —greatest of all the abbeys, greater than all the other abbeys combined—to lend them support.

And his principal opponent would no doubt be St. Honce, the abbey most tied to the secular powers of the kingdom.

Yes, now that he and De'Unnero had come to a proper understanding, now that Palmaris was coming under Church control, Markwart would have to be ready to meet the predictable outrage from Ursal —if not from the King, then surely from Danube's advisers.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. Trust De'Unnero, for the man spoke truthfully when he had declared that his goals and Markwart's were one and the same. And get Brother Francis working hard to uncover any dissent, any complaining at all, from those here.

Markwart's eyes closed and he swayed softly, deep in meditation. His thoughts kept drifting back to De'Unnero, the eager warrior. He began to understand then that perhaps the man was in the wrong position. A bishop had to be a subtle, cunning politician, not a straightforward warrior. But Markwart was far from discouraged by this realization, and he began to shape a new role for his appointed bishop.

Does not the sun shine brighter after the darkest night?
came the voice from within his head.

Might De'Unnero, so imposing, so brutal, prove to be that night?

And does not the warrior hunger for battle all the more when his enemies stand facing him, yet out of reach?
the voice asked.

He could hold De'Unnero back, like drawing back on a Y-bow, the deadly weapon employed by the To-gai nomads of western Behren. Dangling Nightbird before him would draw those bands all the farther, Markwart knew, and when at last he released the Bishop, the man would shoot out swift as an arrow.