The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War) (16 page)

“If I may speak.”

All eyes in the room turned to Morningham, all except
Trebor’s. He remained staring intently at the Council members. Morningham
stepped to the floor but didn’t approach the Council’s table.

“I’ve voiced my objections to this Council, but now I will
make them clear beyond all doubts,” he said, his voice characteristically
harsh. “If this Council goes through with this decision and ejects Trebor Dok,
I will immediately resign from my position as Training Master.”

Danner stared at Morningham in shock.

“Paladin Morningham, this Council is aware of your decision
to retire at the end of this training session,” the center-most Yellow paladin
said.

“I don’t mean at the end of the session, you addle-brained
twit,” Morningham growled. “Bart, you’re as thick-witted now as you were in
training. I mean this very minute. I’ll pack my belongings and be out of my
office before one of you can make it to a privy to unload all the crap you’re
lugging around inside you.”

“Now really, Morningham, you go too far!” a middle-aged
Violet said, half rising.

“Sit down,
Arren
!” Morningham
roared in the same tone that sent trainees scurrying for cover. Astonished, the
Violet paladin sat down.

“I’ve told some of you my full intentions, but apparently
you didn’t take me seriously,” Morningham said furiously. “I suggest you do so
this time. I will not retire cooperatively as I had intended, but rather leave
you holding your mother’s teats and hanging off her bloody apron strings as you
blunder about making asses of yourselves trying to reorganize and understand my
training process. Be assured, I will not go quietly, and by the time I’m done,
everyone in this order will know what I did and why, and every paladin from
Menka
to
Talla
will know what a
spineless bunch of bigoted dotards you are.”

Danner shifted his hand discreetly to his mouth to hide a
smile. Morningham’s sandpaper-like comments were much more fun to listen to
when you weren’t on the receiving end.

The Council members scowled fiercely and moved closer
together. They bent their heads in quiet conversation, occasionally looking up
for a quick glance at either Trebor or Morningham. Danner began to hope that
perhaps Morningham’s ultimatum had had some effect on them. Finally, they
nodded in satisfaction and parted. An older Red paladin spoke.

“The decision of this Council stands,” he said firmly.
“Moreover, Trebor Dok is directed…” he looked at the expression on Trebor’s
face. “Ahem, he is
encouraged
to meet with a contingent of several
hundred denarae that has recently appeared at the city gates and to join their
ranks. It has come to this Council’s attention that they have come in response
to an imminent threat to the city, and we shall not turn their help aside.”

Danner’s smile had long since disappeared. Morningham’s
threats had made no difference. On another level of his mind, he was wondering
at the Council’s authority to accept or decline military aid offered to the
city.

“In appreciation for his service here, and in recognition of
his training, whatever the circumstances,” the Red continued, “this Council
will recommend Dok receive the rank of lieutenant and be placed in a position
of authority in a regiment to be formed consisting of his fellow denarae. This
Council has plenary powers in all military matters regarding this city and the
safety of the Barrier, whether the danger comes from mortal or immortal
sources, and the required documents for just such a regiment have recently been
drawn up.”

Trebor’s face was stony, but he nodded.

“In response to Paladin Morningham’s rather forceful
commentary,” the Red said, now showing a trace of nervousness at addressing the
red-faced Morningham, who glared at him through storm clouds of fury, “this
Council orders him relieved of his position as Training Master…”

Danner slumped back in his chair.

“… and orders that he assume the rank of acting colonel in
command of the denarae unit previously mentioned. It is this Council’s
direction that he evaluate what training they may require and proceed as he
sees fit in carrying out their directives.”

Surprisingly, Morningham kept his peace. His fiery gaze was
locked on the Red council member, but it was clear he’d said his piece and was
through with words.

“Dismissed.”

With that, the members of the Prismatic Council stood and
left the room, none of them meeting the eyes of Trebor or Morningham. No one
said a word in protest. No one cried out in anger. They all just stood or sat
in silence.

- 2 -

Perklet stared in amazement at the trees around him as they
rowed up the river. After several days waiting on the ship, Maran had procured
a long, narrow boat they could use and a dozen elven rowers to help them. The
sleek vessel was barely the width of Birch’s broad shoulders, and it sliced
through the calm waters of the
El’sarar’no
River like
a knife. They were moving with incredible speed, even against the current, and
Perklet wondered if some sort of elven “magic” was making their boat move
faster. The trees were practically a blur, and he gave thanks that the river
had no real curves, else they might run aground before they knew what had
happened.

Despite the dazzling speed of their travel, the sheer beauty
of their surroundings was breathtaking. What truly amazed Perklet was that he
knew small communities dotted the woods around them, but he could barely see
them, even when their boat was moving slowly. The homes blended in perfectly
with the forest, which apparently covered almost the entire island. The elves
lived in such perfect harmony with nature that it seemed a sin to even think of
building an unnatural structure of any kind.

The few elves Perklet had gotten a clear look at were all stunningly
beautiful, regardless of their gender. Even Maran, for all his dark, brooding
atmosphere, was abnormally handsome as far as Perklet was concerned. The elves
moved with a grace that was almost magical, and their voices were the sweet
tones of lilting music. It was like walking through a fantastical dream of
poignant beauty, and Perklet wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up.

In the seat before him, Birch stared fixedly into the woods,
his burning eyes steady despite the swiftly passing landscape. Selti sat draped
over his shoulders, staring lazily about as though completely disinterested in
what might be happening around him. His only sign of interest was when Birch
reached up to hand him a few morsels of sausage.

Perklet noticed that Birch was wearing thick leather gloves,
and the Gray paladin began absently rubbing his hands together. Perklet had
seen him doing that quite often of late, as though he’d become suddenly
self-conscious about his hands. He wondered if perhaps Birch had hurt himself
and needed healing, which Perklet would happily provide. But if it was just his
hands, it couldn’t be a large wound, and Birch was surely accomplished enough
as a healer to deal with any healing necessary.

The Green paladin was almost disappointed at this thought. He
wanted some way to prove his usefulness to Birch, who quite probably didn’t
need or want any of the rest of them along. He’d gone to Hell and come back,
for San’s sake! What did he need any of them for? A man who’d conquered the
immortal plane could surely handle any problems the mortal world could throw at
him. He was so confident and self-assured. Certainly he’d gained the love of a
strong, beautiful woman. Moreen sat closer to the front of their narrow boat,
her eyes as eager as
Perklet’s
own as she drank in
the rich surroundings. Perklet saw that Birch was watching the trees speed by
without revealing any awe or wonder he might be feeling. His face was, as
always, impassive.

Perklet had taken to emulating Birch whenever possible, to
see if he could learn that confidence and presence the other wore so lightly.
Where Birch was quiet with a calm distinction, Perklet was quiet by nature and
shyness. Birch was strong and a capable fighter, but Perklet was only passably
decent with a sword. His strength lay in healing, for which there’d been
blessedly little need on their quest. The one major exception had been Birch’s
dakkan, Selti, and Perklet still glowed with a warm pride when he thought back
on his ability to help Birch’s mount after the fight with the demon. That once
he’d proven useful, at least, and Selti had made a complete recovery.

Healing was, in fact,
Perklet’s
one and only strength as a paladin. He had as much faith as the next man, and
while he didn’t consider himself stupid or ignorant, he was by no means as
learned as many paladins seemed to be, like Birch. In fact, were it not for his
astonishing ability to heal, Perklet wondered if he might not have been thrown
out of the Prism long before he’d finished his training. But his instructors,
now his peers, all agreed he was one of the best healers seen in a century or
more.

As a paladin, he’d found himself attached to a roving
medical unit that traversed the countryside offering aid and healing to any
they came upon. Sickness, physical injuries, and wounds to the soul were
cleansed and healed by careful hands and prayer, with no costs necessary by
those healed. Of course, they accepted any donations the people would offer
them ─ food, money, and other supplies ─ and units such as theirs
were an important source of income for the Prism, but no such thanks were
required.

Behind him, there was a brief exchange of low voices and a
muttered curse. Even elven curses sounded beautiful to
Perklet’s
ears. He turned at the disturbance and saw one of the elven rowers wincing in
pain.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. Maran was immediately
behind Perklet, and it was he who answered.

“One of the rowers was in a fight the other night and
injured himself without reporting it,” Maran answered, his quiet voice steely.
Maran turned and spoke to the other elf briefly in their musical language. The
rower nodded and stopped his work on the oars. Then Maran turned back to
Perklet. “If you can help him, I would appreciate it.”

“It would be my pleasure, but I can’t reach him in this
boat,” Perklet replied apologetically.

In reply, Maran stood in the boat and balanced himself by
placing one foot on each of the gunwales. He shuffled forward and indicated
Perklet should crawl backward to reach the other elf. The next rower back, who
sat between Perklet and the injured elf, imitated Maran’s motions, and then
Perklet was there. He examined the elf’s arm and, when he removed his tunic, he
saw an angry purple swelling from his left shoulder down to his elbow. Perklet
probed gently with his fingers, and the elf’s face tightened in pain, but he
made no outcry.

“You’ve got at least one minor fracture,” Perklet said
softly. “San knows how you’ve managed to row with it and stay conscious. Hold
still.”

Perklet wrapped his fingers around the elf’s narrow bicep
like he was gripping a wide sword hilt and closed his eyes. His lips moved
slightly as he whispered a prayer of healing, visualizing the injury and what
needed to happen to repair it. Almost immediately the swelling started to go
down and the purple color faded. In a few moments, his arm looked as healthy as
its twin, and the elf slipped peacefully into slumber.

“He’ll sleep for a while,” Perklet said. “Had he mentioned
it sooner, I might have healed him without the necessity for rest, but as it
is, we’re still short one rower.”

“I’ll row,” Birch said, turning about.

“You know the time and trade?” asked the elf standing with
Maran.

“I do.”

“Then take his place, for we’ll need a full complement when
we reach the current ahead.”

Without being asked, Perklet was hauled to his feet and into
the air while Birch slid back to take the empty bank of oars. The slumbering
elf was shifted back enough to make room for him. Selti squawked angrily at
being rudely displaced from his perch, and he promptly soared over to land on
Moreen’s shoulders, where he resumed his lazy napping. Birch stripped off his
leather armor and handed it to Perklet once he was seated, then took up the
oars. After a moment to study the timing and rhythm of the other oars, Birch joined
in smoothly and the boat sped forward.

After a few more hours of travel upstream, Nuse finally
asked Birch how he came to know about rowing.

“I used to row a boat across Lake Demar in my youth,” Birch
said. “Sometimes I’d join up with a few others to row a larger boat, and the
older men taught me the tricks of the trade.”

“Sounds like a better childhood than I had,” Nuse said. He
was now sitting where Birch had been before the boat’s occupants had shifted
and reseated themselves in a new arrangement. His remaining hair stirred in the
wind of their passing, and he brushed a stray leaf out of the aging strands.

“Where did you live?” Birch asked.

“In the slums of
Chake
. If there’s
a more miserable place in this world, I’ve yet to find it,” Nuse said, his
voice oddly sober. “I got out of there as soon as I had a place to go.”

“The Prism?” Birch guessed.

“Exactly. A Blue paladin took pity on me. He was nearby when
I tried to steal a handful of apples and argued for them not to hang me on the
spot,” Nuse said.

“You were a thief?” Hoil asked from ahead of them.
Professional curiosity.

“No, I was a poor, destitute boy who hadn’t eaten in three
days and was too weak to find and kill a dog or something, and stealing food
suddenly looked like a wonderful idea.” Perklet stared at the Blue paladin in
horror. “No one seemed to be watching, but the vender chose the wrong ─
or as it turned out, the right ─ moment to turn, and he saw me.” Nuse
shrugged. “I suppose if he hadn’t seen me I’d have spent the next several years
living in the slums; wandering the streets in search of food and money by day,
and huddled in potluck piles by night.”