DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (227 page)

"At least he is running," said Roger.

Elbryan shook his head, not believing that for a moment. This man would not run; this man, dangerous enough to win out against them all, was far from finished.

"We can catch him then," Roger offered.

"But the elf's up for no run," Bradwarden reminded, "barely a walk, by me thinkin'."

"Whatever course we choose, we are better by far if we are all together," the ranger reminded, moving to his clothes and dressing quickly. The three set off for the camp then, and found Symphony on their way, the ranger having telepathically instructed the stallion to keep close.

Tiel'marawee was in better shape this day, but still far from being able to travel on her own. They felt that they could move her, though at a very slow pace. With De'Unnero near, Elbryan did not want to stay in one place. The man would likely find a way to strike hard at them. So they went on slowly and covered no more than three miles all through the day. Symphony and his rider ran a perimeter all the way, the ranger searching, hoping that he would find De'Unnero again. Whenever he got far enough from watchful Bradwarden, he shouted out challenges to the dark forest, hoping to lure the man, or tiger, out.

But he saw no sign of the Bishop that day nor the next, nor the next after that. And then they had to rest again, for Tiel'marawee could not continue. She begged them to leave her, asking only for supplies to see her through the week and assuring them that she would be able to survive on her own by that time.

Of course, not a one of them, not the ranger or centaur, not Roger Lockless or any of the five monks, paid the babbling elf any heed whatsoever. They set camp and they waited, as the next day slipped past and the next after that, and then, on the morning of the third day, Bradwarden galloped into the camp. "We got soldiers coming fast from the south," he explained. "And I'm bettin' that our friend the Bishop's ridin' with them."

Elbryan was up on Symphony in seconds, turning the stallion to follow Bradwarden's lead. "Secure the camp!" he called to Roger and Braumin. "Hold a tight group, with every back covered. The soldiers might have come against us, but even if that is not the case, the Bishop may well use this time to strike."

He gave the horse a telepathic call, and Symphony leaped away, easily pacing the centaur. By the time they reached the high bluff, the vantage point from which Bradwarden had spied the approaching troop, the soldiers were close enough to identify.

"Shamus Kilronney," the ranger muttered.

"And De'Unnero ridin' beside him," the centaur remarked. "And we're not for runnin', unless ye're thinkin' o' lettin' Tiel'marawee fend for herself."

"No running," Elbryan said firmly.

"More than a score o' them," the centaur pointed out. "Runnin's seemin' a good idea to me."

"We are not running," the ranger declared.

"I was talkin' about them," Bradwarden said dryly.

The ranger gave him an appreciative, sidelong glance.

"Should we be tellin' the others?" Bradwarden asked.

Elbryan considered that for a long while. "The monks have no offensive magic," he explained. "No magic at all, in fact. I do not know how they will fare against the likes of an armored horseman."

"Bah, ye're just lookin' to keep all the fun to yerself," the centaur replied.

"We'll send our companions into hiding," the ranger reasoned, "and then go to face Shamus and his men. If it comes to blows ..."

"Ye're thinkin' it won't?" Bradwarden asked incredulously. "De'Unnero's with them, and I'm not believin' for a blinkin' eye that he came all the way out here for talkin'!"

"Then we hit them from afar, and scatter into the forest," the ranger explained.

"Two ain't scatterin'," Bradwarden explained. "Two's just runnin'."

"Same thing," Elbryan replied. "We show them a mighty chase, firing back at them all the while, thinning their numbers until we think we can rush in and defeat those remaining."

"We could be doin' that now," the centaur insisted.

"Lead on, then," the ranger answered, calling his bluff.

Of course, they did it Elbryan's way, going back to the others and charging Roger and Brother Castinagis with hiding and securing the group.

Back on the main trail soon after, the pair had no trouble locating Shamus and the soldiers, the group coming straight up the one clear trail. The riders pulled up short some thirty yards from the ranger and the centaur, Shamus in the middle of the front line of three and De'Unnero, astride a horse —an uncommon seat for the monk—flanking him on the right.

"Pleased I am to see Shamus Kilronney again," the ranger called out, "or would be, if you had come to me in better company."

De'Unnero whispered something to the captain, and Shamus called out, "We have come to take you, Nightbird, and to take the centaur and your monk friends. You keep company with outlaws of the Abellican Church. Gather them; you will be treated fairly, I promise."

"Go kiss a —" Bradwarden started, but Elbryan cut him short.

"I
will be treated fairly?" the ranger asked, emphasizing the personal pronoun. "Would such treatment include the pleasure of watching my friends be hanged? Or burned at the stake, perhaps —I am told that is a favorite game for Abellican monks."

"We do not wish to fight you," Shamus explained.

"Ye're smarter than ye look, then," Bradwarden replied.

The captain glanced nervously at De'Unnero again. Shamus held a healthy respect for Nightbird, but he had no doubt that he and his soldiers could easily overpower the man and his few companions. That wasn't the problem, however.

A long, tense moment passed.

"Take them," De'Unnero said to Shamus. Then, when the captain made no move, he repeated the order to the soldiers. Several of the men started forward, but Shamus held up his arm, and they obediently stopped.

It was, perhaps, the most terrible moment in the life of Shamus Kilronney. Nightbird and he had sealed a friendship in short weeks, because they had found the trust necessary to battle as close allies. He knew this man, knew his heart, and did not believe for a moment that Nightbird had committed any real crimes against the Church, and certainly not against the state. And yet Shamus could not ignore the presence of the centaur, taken from the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle by Nightbird's own admission, nor the rogue monks, who would be tried and likely convicted of heresy and treason.

He looked down the path to Nightbird, locked the man's green eyes with his own stern gaze.

"Take them!" De'Unnero ordered. "And I shall lead!" With that, the Bishop lifted his arm, his great and deadly tiger's paw, and swept it forward in a powerful motion, leaping his horse ahead.

"Stop!" Shamus cried before soldiers began to follow. De'Unnero understood completely that he would be no match for the combined power of Elbryan and the mighty centaur.

De'Unnero tugged his horse around and sat staring at the captain in disbelief.

And Shamus was staring back —or more pointedly, he was staring at that tiger arm and remembering the fate of Baron Bildeborough.

"Now, Captain," De'Unnero growled at him, "I am the Bishop of Palmaris and I order you to arrest that man and that filthy creature beside him!"

Elbryan and Bradwarden exchanged knowing looks and smiles; Shamus Kilronney's expression spoke volumes.

Predictably, the captain shook his head. "I'll not go against Nightbird," he explained. "Nor will my men."

"Outlaws, then!" De'Unnero screamed. "All of you!" He waved his paw to encompass them all. "Any who do not follow me mark themselves as outlaws of the Abellican Church; and that, I promise you, is no enviable position!" He turned as if to charge at the ranger and the centaur then, and there came some uneasy movements from the soldiers behind him, but none would follow —none would ride past Shamus Kilronney, their trusted leader.

"Come on then yerself," Bradwarden bade the Bishop. "Ain't never ate a human, but for yerself, I might be makin' an exception."

"This is not settled," De'Unnero said to Nightbird. "You will not escape me this time."

"I am not even trying to run," the ranger said grimly.

De'Unnero stared at him hard, and at his mighty companion, then turned to study Shamus Kilronney and his foolish soldiers.

Elbryan understood what would happen then, and so he propelled his great horse ahead at a charge.

De'Unnero reacted quickly, turning his own horse and driving his heels into the creature's flanks, rushing past Shamus and the soldiers, down the southern road.

Bradwarden moved next, lifting his great bow and shooting a huge arrow, but the Bishop, anticipating such an attack, veered his horse left and then right, and the arrow whizzed past him harmlessly.

Up came Hawkwing, but before the ranger could let fly, Symphony gaining on the lesser horse with every tremendous stride, the Bishop surprised him by leaping from his mount, transforming immediately, robes and all, into the sleek form of the great tiger, and then darting to the side of the trail into the brush.

In charged Symphony, Nightbird slinging Hawkwing over his back, for he knew that he'd find no shot in here, then bending low and drawing out Tempest. He urged Symphony on, and the great horse thundered ahead at all possible speed.

But the horse was no match for the sleek, swift tiger in the thick brush, and when Nightbird broke out of the tangle in a clearing, he saw De'Unnero already bounding into the brush at the other side, in full flight to the south.

The ranger pulled Symphony up to a trot, realizing that he would not catch the man. He turned the horse, coming back to the others, to see the soldiers still shaking their heads and chattering in disbelief, for they had never seen such a thing as a man transforming into a great cat!

"And so we are outlaws," the ranger said to Shamus as he walked his mount back to the group, "declared so by the murderer of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough."

"Truly a miracle," Brother Francis mumbled in disbelief when he saw Father Abbot Markwart exiting his room at St. Precious, seemingly as fit and strong as he had been before the attempt on his life, walking with that same eager bounce that had so recently returned to his step. At the very least, Francis had expected some bitterness from the old man: outrage and uncertainty, and fear. But Markwart, from the first moment he had regained consciousness after being so brutally struck, had exhibited none of those negative attitudes. He had very publicly thanked God for saving his life —with a jaw that was working well, a jaw that had seemed all but gone only hours before!—and then had explained his sudden inspiration that this might provide an even deeper benefit. The recall Bishop De'Unnero had begun of the gemstones would be more welcomed by the doubting and tentative King Danube. To hear Markwart express it, the potential growth of power for the Abellican Church seemed perfectly astonishing.

And for Brother Francis, confused and still trying to shed that unbearable guilt, it rang out as proof that he had chosen right in believing in the Father Abbot.

He had to hustle to catch up to his mentor, and then had to continue a swift stride to pace the man. Danube Brock Ursal had come into St. Precious, surrounded by a host of guards, to offer comfort to the wounded Father Abbot. How surprised he was when Markwart strode confidently into the audience chamber, a wide, though somewhat crooked smile splayed on his old, leathery face. He took his seat opposite King Danube, while his escort scurried to place chairs respectfully behind him.

"Greetings, Father Abbot," Danube managed to say after the shock of Markwart's obvious health wore off. "I had heard that you were more seriously injured —some of your monks expressed their fears that you would not survive, even with their magical healing."

"And so I would not have," Markwart replied with a slight lisp, "had not God chosen to keep me in this place."

Duke Kalas, sitting behind the King, snorted, then tried, not so hard, to disguise it as a cough.

Markwart's glare cut off those impertinent sounds, the Father Abbot's dark eyes narrowing dangerously, the tension suddenly palpable. Kalas, normally so cocksure and determined, blanched at the sight, and so did King Danube, who had seen this old man before, during that terrible nighttime visit.

"He knows that I still have much to achieve," Markwart went on, letting it end at that.

"He?" Danube asked, losing track of the conversation, noticeably shaken by that imposing glare.

"God," Markwart explained.

"How often have men justified their actions by proclaiming the name of God," Kalas dared to utter.

"Not as often as doubters have come to know the truth too late in their miserable lives," Markwart replied. "Too many have prayed for forgiveness on their deathbeds, realizing at long last that, despite their doubts, God holds the only true meaning; for the only future that really matters is the future we find when we shake off this fragile and imperfect mortal coil."

Brother Francis locked stares with Constance Pemblebury then, the two of them sharing the same incredulous feelings about the less-than-civil undercurrent of the exchange. At that moment, it was not hard for either of them to understand who would walk out as victor should Kalas continue this fight with the Father Abbot.

Markwart would utterly destroy him.

King Danube saw it, too.

"Now you understand the recall of the gemstones," Markwart said to him. "These are tools not meant for the common man."

"I would hardly call the nobility of Honce-the-Bear 'common,' " Duke Kalas argued.

"Nor would I label them 'holy,' " Markwart replied calmly. "And that is the distinction I draw. The stones are the gifts of God, meant for the chosen of God."

"You and yours," Kalas said dryly.

"If you wish to join the Order, then prove yourself worthy of it and I will personally see to your admission," Markwart answered.

Kalas glared at him. "Why would I want to do such a thing?" he asked.

"Perhaps that question perfectly illustrates my point concerning the gemstones," said Markwart. "We of the Abellican Order preach emotional control before granting such power as is afforded by the gemstones. Without that safeguard, the potential for destruction is simply too great. Thus, the stones are to be recalled. Every one of them."

It came as a startling proclamation, one that had even Abbot Je'howith, who was standing dutifully behind Markwart, reeling. For Je'howith had assured King Danube that the program of recalling stones was confined to Palmaris and would not affect him and his court. Now Je'howith held his breath, expecting the King to explode with outrage.

But Markwart riveted him with his stare, reminding him silently of the nocturnal visit and of the power he should not oppose.

"I will need assurances that the power of the gemstones, when all are placed under Church control, will continue to be used in concert with the desires of the throne," King Danube replied, to the utter amazement of his secular advisers, even of Je'howith.

"The details will be negotiated," Markwart said, shifting his threatening stare to Kalas, for the man was obviously ready to cry out in protest.

The Father Abbot stood up then, signaling the end of the meeting without so much as an acknowledgment from the King. "I do hope you will find your stay in our accommodating quarters at the house of merchant Crump acceptable, King Danube," he said. Constance and Kalas both gasped, for from the tone of his voice it came clear that Markwart was not offering the words as a groveling kindness toward a superior, but rather as a condescending gesture toward one he would tolerate.

And even more startling came Danube's accepting nod.

Brother Francis was the last of the monks out of the room, glancing back once to see the ruffled King and his court still sitting in their assigned chairs, their impotence affirming yet again that Francis had thrown his loyalty behind the right faction.

Markwart's cheerful mood after the meeting with King Danube did not last the day. He had called for a second meeting that morning, one with the commanders of the soldiers and the higher-ranking brothers of St. Precious to determine the progress of the search for his attacker. Not one of them offered a plausible direction for the search or a hint of who might have been behind the attack. Most suspected the Behrenese, but Markwart didn't believe that for a moment: he knew the yatol religion's disdain of gemstone use and had never heard a single report of a Behrenese man or woman showing any proficiency with the magic. And whoever had attacked him, he knew without doubt, was proficient with the magic, was very powerful. The soldiers had located three suspected attack positions, all on rooftops far from the parade route. For someone to drive a lodestone such a distance with such force indicated a level of mastery and power that would outdo many, perhaps all, the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle —that would rival the power of Markwart himself!

That, along with the fact that a lodestone had been among the stones stolen by Avelyn Desbris, told the Father Abbot much about his attacker. The name "Jill" came to his mind often during the meeting.

One other clue struck him. One of the soldiers, a bristling red-haired woman named Colleen Kilronney, kept insisting that the attacker must have been a rogue merchant, or an assassin hired by a merchant. As Francis and the others questioned her more deeply, they found little practical basis for the claim, but still, Colleen Kilronney held stubbornly to it.

Too stubbornly, perhaps?

That was only one of many things on Markwart's mind when he walked from the meeting to his private chambers. He had no pentagram inscribed on the floor here, of course, but he cleared a place in one corner of the room and sat down facing the corner, washing his mind to find a deep state of meditation. That now-familiar voice followed him into the emptiness.

He tried to sort through the many differing opinions he had heard, bounced the notion of a Behrenese plot against the anger of a rogue merchant, perhaps one who had managed to hide a lodestone from the searches of Bishop De'Unnero. But while the attacker might have been a merchant, or, an assassin hired by merchants, that possibility did not stand up against Markwart's suspicions that his attacker really was Jill or some other disciple of Avelyn Desbris.

Through it all, the voice kept whispering about the red-haired soldier woman. Markwart argued, thinking the voice was trying to convince him of the plausibility of the woman's theory concerning merchants; but soon he realized that it was telling him something completely different, something about the source and not the information.

"A distraction," the Father Abbot whispered, and as he considered any possible reason the warrior woman might have for putting forth such a theory, he knew the direction of his personal search.

He stormed out of his quarters, ordering Brother Francis to bring Colleen Kilronney to him at once.

And then he waited, a spider at the center of its web.

Colleen came tentatively into the room, and Markwart recognized that she was on her guard —yet another sign that the voice had steered him correctly.

"You were adamant that the attacker was a merchant, or one hired by merchants," he said, getting right to the point and motioning for Colleen to take a seat opposite his desk, and then motioning for Brother Francis to leave them.

"Seemin' the obvious direction," she said.

"Is it?" The simplicity of the question made suspicious Colleen tilt her head to better study the old man, another movement that was not lost on perceptive Markwart.

"Yer Bishop's made a few enemies among them," Colleen explained, "mostly with the friends o' Aloysius Crump. Murdered him, ye know, and in a horrible way and in a public place."

Markwart held up his hand, not the least interested in pursuing any discussion with this inconsequential woman about Palmaris policy or De'Unnero's shortcomings.

"Might it not have been a friend of Avelyn Desbris?" he asked innocently.

"I'm not knowin' the name," Colleen insisted at once, but her body language told a different story altogether.

"Ah," Markwart said, nodding. "That would explain your insistence on the merchant theory." He stopped and tapped his lips with one finger, dismissively waving Colleen out of the room with his other hand. He called out to her as she opened the door, telling her to send Brother Francis back in immediately, and the confused woman merely nodded and grunted.

"Find me those who know her movements," Markwart ordered Francis a moment later, for he knew, and the voice was in full agreement, that Colleen Kilronney not only had recognized the name of Avelyn Desbris but also had been in recent contact —and knew it!—with one of the heretic's disciples.

Before the day was out, Father Abbot Markwart had discerned another spot for his personal search: Fellowship Way. His spirit walked out of St. Precious that stormy night.

With the rain and the wind and the brilliant strokes of lightning, few soldiers were out that night, and so the company-starved folk of Palmaris dared to slip out of their homes. Fellowship Way bustled with patrons, all talking excitedly, trying to catch up on the momentous events since their last meeting, before the attack on Father Abbot Markwart. Some chatted about seeing the King; others hoped that King Danube would put the city in proper order and lessen Church influence.

More than one patron argued against that, saying that the brutal assassination attempt on Markwart had sealed his position within the city, and that the King would never go against the Father Abbot so soon after the attack.

That line of reasoning, of course, hit Pony painfully hard as she moved from table to table. She still could hardly believe that the old man had survived, but now that it was obvious that Markwart was alive, even well, she thought herself incredibly foolish. She still wished that she had found a way to kill him, but having failed to eliminate the old wretch, she had, in fact, only strengthened his position!

Many times did she sigh helplessly during that long night.

While the human folk of Palmaris who dared the night storm hustled to their destinations, eager to get to shelter, the Touel'alfar didn't mind the rain in the least. So attuned to nature, the elves accepted whatever she gave them. Blizzards were a time for quiet respite near a cozy fire, but as soon as the dangerous wind and blinding snow died down, they would be out in force, frolicking about the drifts, engaging in snowball fights or tunnel digging. And so this late-winter rainstorm brought them little discomfort and only made easier their business of moving about Palmaris' streets.

Lady Dasslerond and Belli'mar Juraviel sat on the roof of Fellowship Way under an overhang, chatting calmly about recent events and their hoped-for course. Other elves moved about the house of Crump, seeking some way —a connection with an important soldier or noble, or even a secret passage into the King's private quarters—to find an audience for their lady with the King of Honce-the-Bear.