DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (234 page)

"Master Engress will be your second," Markwart went on. "Expect little from him. He is old and weary of it all, it seems, and he would rather have stayed in St.-Mere-Abelle —where, in retrospect, I should have left him, bringing a younger and stronger man with me. He remains the ranking master, though; and since he is here, we must take care to treat him with respect. But not to fear, for the situation shall be remedied, our ranks strengthened at the lower levels. A contingent of six score brothers is already on its way from our abbey to reinforce your ranks."

"But I am to do nothing," Francis dared to remark.

"In the best case," Markwart reminded. "I desire to find the balance of power in Palmaris as it is now upon my return. If I return and find Palmaris as I left it, then know that you will have done me a great service. Yet I fear that such a task will not prove easy. It might be that King Danube will use my absence to further his own gains within the city, and that, you must not allow."

"How so?" Francis asked. "He will have little official voice, since he will be gone and there is no Baron in place."

"The battleground will be the hearts of the city soldiers," Markwart replied, "many of whom are already in the court of the King. You must hold fast those loyal to the Church."

"I will not fail you, Father Abbot," Francis said, his duty clear.

Markwart nodded and started away, but stopped; almost as an afterthought, he added, "And move your lodging to Chasewind Manor. Let Master Engress preside over St. Precious in Abbot De'Unnero's absence, along with Brother Talumus, who will placate the Palmaris monks. I do not wish to break the tradition of housing the Bishop in the great house."

Francis did not reply, but he could not hide his surprise at the use of the word
tradition.

"Every tradition must begin somewhere and at some time," the Father Abbot said slyly. "You will live there, from this day forward, and take those monks who arrive from St.-Mere-Abelle into the manor house instead of the abbey, as well. Also, retain many of the city guardsmen. Treat them well, build their confidence and their loyalty, but do not, under any circumstances, entrust them with anything important."

As Father Abbot Markwart left the room, and Francis stared out the window with the same determined expression Constance Pemblebury had worn that morning, his determination was no less than that of the ambitious woman.

They thundered out of the city's northern gate, King Danube and Duke Kalas and a hundred Allheart soldiers.

Flanking them came the Abellican entourage. In their middle was Father Abbot Markwart, riding in the horse-drawn carriage that still bore the hole where the gemstone had embedded itself, still, despite the best efforts of the brothers of St. Precious, stained by Markwart's dried blood. Abbot De'Unnero and a hundred monks, some from St.-Mere-Abelle, but the majority from St. Precious, walked beside the carriage, looking rather unremarkable in their brown robes.

Just outside the city gates, Duke Kalas stopped the brigade while the King moved to speak with Markwart.

"You had indicated that we would move with all speed," Danube remarked, giving a solid tug on the reins of his feisty To-gai-ru stallion, the eager horse obviously ready to gallop away.

"Indeed," replied the Father Abbot, shrugging as if to say that he did not understand why Danube would question him so.

The King looked around at the monks, replying with a shrug of his own. "They intend to keep pace with horses?" he asked.

"Only if my brethren choose an easy pace," Markwart replied.

King Danube cantered back to Kalas. "They think to pace us," he said to the Duke, smiling wryly. "Let us see about that."

Duke Kalas was more than happy to oblige, and away went the Allheart soldiers at a swift trot.

And away went the Abellican monks, superbly trained and conditioned, jogging easily. Amazingly, they did not fall behind after half an hour had passed. Amazingly, they kept up with impossibly long, loping strides.

The King turned an angry eye upon the Duke, but Kalas could only shrug helplessly. No man should have been able to maintain so swift a pace for so long a time! Duke Kalas figured that they would do more than thirty miles that day at their current rate, a brutal trek for a horse, a nearly impossible one for a man —and certainly one that could not be repeated by any man a second or third day in a row.

They broke for a midday meal, then trotted on; the monks, seeming hardly tired, easily kept up with the mounted Allheart soldiers.

When they camped that night, they had put more than thirty miles behind them, but it seemed to Kalas and Danube as if their soldiers and horses showed more wear than the monks.

"Not possible," the Duke remarked to the King. Though he wanted to argue that it was indeed, obviously so, King Danube could only sit and shake his head in disbelief.

For neither man understood the truth: Father Abbot Markwart, aided by his inner voice, had discovered a new use for malachite, the stone of levitation. Sitting comfortably in his carriage, the Father Abbot used a soul stone to make a mental connection with all his brethren. Then he, joined by several other monks, used the stone so that the monks ran almost without weight. Their feet, when they stopped to camp for the night, showed no blisters, their muscles no more weary than if they had merely taken a long walk.

The Father Abbot and De'Unnero sat together at the side of the encampment, both enjoying the obvious distress of the King and his men. Originally, Markwart had planned for his monks to ride, but Abellican monks, never known as horsemen, kept no stables. Markwart realized his group would never be able to keep up with the To-gai-ru horses and the superbly skilled riders of the Allheart Brigade. It had brought great distress to both Markwart and De'Unnero to think that the journey north would show the King's men as superior to their own.

But then came that inner voice, showing Markwart a new use for an old stone.

Now it was Danube and Kalas who were distressed. Though their men seemed so splendid and grand in their shining armor and atop their mighty steeds, the monks on foot had certainly humbled them.

"They are not so far behind," Pony remarked doubtfully, for she and Colleen had spotted the northward-bound forces of Markwart and King Danube two days before, many miles back at that time, but closer, it seemed, each day. The two women didn't know the disposition of the force, of course, but the mere fact that so large a contingent was outpacing them told them both that these were not ordinary folk, or even common Kingsmen.

"No choice for us," Colleen replied. "Ye've got that fine horse o' Connor's under ye, but me own poor nag's not for runnin' much longer. Besides, it might well be that yer Nightbird's in Caer Tinella."

Pony shook her head. Elbryan was long gone from the place, she knew, in Dundalis, at least, and probably even farther north. The blond woman glanced back over her shoulder, down the southern road. They were a few hours ahead of the moving force, no more, and the thought of stopping for Colleen to get a fresh horse, and of conversing with villagers, who would likely be interrogated afterward, bothered her. But seeing her companion's mount, the mare lathered in sweat and walking awkwardly, for she had thrown a shoe, Pony found that she could hardly disagree. They would get a new horse here, or Colleen would be walking very soon.

"Perhaps we can find someone on the outskirts," Pony suggested, "a farmer out readying fields or gathering firewood, who can help us."

Colleen nodded and Pony led on, circling the village of Landsdown, and then Caer Tinella, to the east. They did spot a couple of men out cutting wood, and spent some time watching the pair from the shadows of the forest's edge. But then they heard the rumble of a wagon and the neighing of a horse.

Moving through the trees, the women soon came to a hillock overlooking a trail heading east, and there, rumbling down the road, two horses drawing his wagon and another pair tied behind, came an enormous man with black, bushy hair, singing and laughing.

And wealing the robes of an Abellican monk.

"Don't ye even think o' killin' the man," Colleen whispered.

Pony turned an astonished glare at her. "Kill him?" she echoed. "I do not even know him!"

"Ye know his robes," Colleen said quietly.

Pony winced and lowered her gaze, sighing. She was no murderer; never would she strike one who did not deserve it. She wondered then if that was a distinction that she could morally make. Who was she, after all, to decide who deserved to live and who did not? Though her hatred for Markwart had not abated, though she believed that if he was in front of her, vulnerable, she would try to strike him down again, Pony worried that she was a lost soul.

She shook the troubling thoughts away. Now she had to get one of those horses, preferably without letting the monk know about it. But how? Pony considered her gemstones. She could use diamond, perhaps to bring a spot of darkness into the monk's eyes, blinding him, and then malachite to lift him high into the air. He might be oblivious of the theft until Pony let him back down and removed the blackness —perhaps even longer if he didn't immediately notice that a different horse had been tethered behind his wagon.

He would know that magic had been used against him, though, gemstone magic. He might even be able to identify the stones used, and wouldn't that be an easy trail for the minions of Markwart to follow?

No, she needed to be subtle. "Go down to the road a hundred yards ahead of him," she instructed Colleen. "Dismount and unsaddle your horse. When he passes, and becomes distracted, be quick and quiet in changing horses with one of those tethered to the back of his wagon."

"I'd rather have one from the front," the warrior woman replied, but when Pony turned to glare at her, she saw that Colleen was smiling.

"Just go," she said dryly.

Despite her mood, Pony did manage a slight smile as Colleen walked her mount away. The woman had become a true friend, a pleasure to be around, one who could read Pony's moods and say just the right things to bring her from darkness or to keep her focused on the present. Pony reached into her pouch and took out her soul stone, then reached into her mind and conjured an image, a reflection of herself standing by a lake after
bi'nelle dasada.
She burned that image into her mind, changing it so that she wouldn't be recognizable, and covering parts of her naked form with diaphanous veils.

Pony clutched the hematite tightly, wondering if she could really pull this off. She would have to be perfect, she realized. One slip would show the monk the truth of the contact, and then all would be lost.

She fell into the stone, again summoning that image and sending it into the mind of the monk.

Friar Pembleton whistled and sang, enjoying the fine weather, thinking that spring should begin any day.

"Any day!" he cried aloud. "Ha-ha!" He gave a click and shook the reins, urging his team faster. He wanted to make Caer Tinella before mid-morning; Janine o' the Lake had promised him a fine meal if he arrived before she had cleaned her table. He wanted . . .

It came to him suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed, an image alluring and amazing. The friar let up on urging the horses. The wagon slowed, nearly to a stop, but the befuddled man hardly noticed. He sat very still and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of this overwhelming image of a beautiful, tempting woman that had so unexpectedly flooded his thoughts.

He tried to wash it away, even mumbled the beginnings of a prayer.

But it was no use. There she was, so beautiful, and he couldn't dismiss her, and surely couldn't ignore her!

The wagon was hardly moving.

Colleen Kilronney came out of the brush behind it, leading her horse. She made the change, amazed and confused, wondering what Pony had done to the man!

When she rejoined Pony with her fresh horse a few minutes later, she found the woman still deep in concentration, still holding the soul stone in her hand. Colleen looked down the road and saw the wagon crawling along, the friar swaying.

"What did ye do to him, then?" the red-haired woman asked, drawing Pony from the stone magic.

"I gave him something better to watch," Pony replied cryptically.

Colleen looked at her, confused for just a moment, but then a wry smile spread over her face. "Ah, but ye're a wicked one!" she said with a laugh.

The two set off at once, moving down to the trail, then following it east, away from the still very distracted monk.

Friar Pembleton continued slowly on his way, trying to recapture the image all the way to Janine o' the Lake's farm. He never even noticed that one of the horses tied to the back of his wagon —one of the two he was planning to sell in the village—had changed until he moved to untie the beasts outside Janine's door.

They came through Caer Tinella and Landsdown with little fanfare, but surely the two hundred people who had resettled in the region were amazed by the splendor of the procession, by the fabulous Allheart Brigade, riding their famous To-gai-ru pintos.

The force put in at Caer Tinella that the soldiers could rest their horses, checking shoes and saddles, and could oil armor and weapons. Markwart and Danube agreed that they would not remain stationary for more than an hour, though they would only find another two hours on the road after that before sunset forced them to camp.

"Brother Simple!" Janine o' the Lake remarked, seeing De'Unnero among those leaders gathered in the common house of Caer Tinella. "Ye back in the south so soon? I'd thought ye going to Dundalis, to bring yer God to the Timberlands."

De'Unnero merely turned away, having no desire to speak with the peasant woman.

"Seems that many're heading north this season," Janine remarked, heading for the door.

Markwart caught the words, and promptly intercepted her. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Of whom do you speak?"

The woman shrugged. "A friend says he saw a pair riding north just this morning, not six hours before ye came into Caer Tinella, is all," she replied. "That and yer Brother Simple there, who came through a pair o' weeks ago."

"Two riders?" Markwart asked. "And was one of them, or both, perhaps, a woman?"

Again the shrug. "He just says he saw a pair. A long way off, so he's not for knowing. Been a curious day, is all. Friar Pembleton o' yer own came in this morning with horses to sell, and now he's spouting craziness that one of them he brought to sell wasn't his own, that the beast changed form during the trip, and was nearly lame, and missing a shoe —one he insists was on the beast that morning!"

"There is an Abellican friar in town?" Markwart asked. His inner voice prodded him that there might be something significant here.

"Just said there was," Janine replied. "He's all flustered, to be sure, at yer arrival. He's cleaning up and will be along presently, I'd be guessing."

Even as she spoke, Friar Pembleton bounded in, glancing about nervously and wringing his hands. He spotted the Father Abbot standing with Janine, De'Unnero not far away, and shuffled over, bowing with every step.

"I did not know ye were coming, Father Abbot," he sputtered. "Had I known ..."

Markwart raised a hand to calm the man. "You had problems with a horse, I am told," he said.

Friar Pembleton's eyes widened and he looked over at Janine, seeming horrified that the Father Abbot knew the tale. Would the great man think him crazy? "I —I was confused—am confused, I am sure," he stammered. "Surely it does not look like my horse, but I get so many—I traded many with the caravan you sent north from St.-Mere-Abelle just last year, Father Abbot."

Again Markwart patted his hand in the air to calm the man. "The horse has gone lame?"

Pembleton shrugged. "I know not how to even answer," he said. "I have no recollection. ..."

"Are you trying to cheat these people, good friar?" Markwart asked. De'Unnero walked over and stood by the man, and though Pembleton outweighed him by fifty pounds, the friar was unnerved by his powerful presence.

"No, Father Abbot, never that!" he cried. "I have been dealing with Caer Tinella for many years, and would never cheat —"

"A good man with honest prices for honest goods," Janine interjected.

"What is it, Pembleton? " Markwart asked calmly. "Is the horse the same one you left your chapel with?"

The friar seemed at a loss, and glanced around repeatedly. "Has to be," he mumbled. "Has to be. One cannot change a horse on the back of a wagon without the driver knowing it, after all! I just do not recognize ..."

"Is it the same horse?" Markwart pressed.

Pembleton glanced nervously around.

"Look at me!" Markwart demanded, locking the man's gaze with his own, "and answer honestly."

"It's not my horse," Pembleton replied.

Janine snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Truthfully, Father Abbot," the friar said frantically, "I have had every horse in my stable for months —since the caravan from St.-Mere-Abelle came through—and I know every one, and this is not one of them. I have shoed every horse in my care, yet this one wears shoes that I do not know."

Markwart looked at De'Unnero. "Take some of the St. Precious monks and go to this horse," he instructed. "See if they recognize the shoes." Then he turned back to Pembleton and took great care to calm the man, asking him to detail every part of the journey from his chapel to the town. Pembleton did just that, but stuttered at one point; again, Markwart's inner voice told him that might be significant.

He led the friar aside, and the man confessed his sin of the mind.

It was much more than that, Father Abbot Markwart realized, and that was confirmed when De'Unnero returned with news that one of the monks had recognized the shoes as the work of the former baron's own blacksmith, who marked all the shoes he made with a special brand, a combination of his initials.

The horse, who had so mysteriously replaced the one Friar Pembleton had hitched to the back of his wagon —a wagon he had not left, he insisted, all the way to Caer Tinella—had come from Palmaris, and, by De'Unnero's estimate, had been ridden hard recently.

Intrigued, Markwart said no more about it. Later, after the group camped two hours north of Caer Tinella, the Father Abbot returned to his tent and eagerly took up his soul stone. He went quickly north, scouring the region —and he found his quarry, camped beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient pine, their horses tethered nearby. Markwart recognized one of those horses—had seen it on the field outside Palmaris—and so he was not surprised when his spirit slipped through the pine boughs and found his archenemy resting with her back against the tree, with another woman, larger, and wearing the uniform of a Palmaris city guard, lying nearby.

Markwart considered moving right in. But she might be more prepared for him this time, he realized, and he did not have her unborn child this time to use against her undeniably strong will. And he could not be sure if Dasslerond was in the area.