“Twenty-seven.”
“Are they included in your count, Berholt?”
“No,” the nobleman said
“Why not?”
“They bloody can’t fight!” came an angry reply.
“Then we will have them set up wards and see to healing only,” Ugoth decreed. He turned back to the priest. “You will not be called to work with the white witches, Bishop, and so long as your people keep away from them and don’t harass any, I will permit you to do your part fighting Marun’s forces. Is that understood?”
Petrin bowed in acquiescence.
“You will see Brother Herfod concerning the disposition of your men,” Ugoth directed and received another calm bow.
“I have Carmet monks with the army,” Berholt said. “Unfortunately, most of them are aging men. The younger ones were sent to the front. I am uncertain how many survived.”
“How many do you have with you?” Ugoth asked.
“Fifty-two and they are included in my count.”
“Tell them to see Brother Herfod. He’ll organize them from now on.”
“Abbot Vehre might give trouble over that,” Berholt said. “He’s somewhat ill-tempered when it comes to taking orders from another—”
“Abbot Vehre?” Herfod thumped closer to confront the young nobleman. “He’s in charge of this group?”
“Yes,” the Omeran answered. “Do you know him?” He peered down at the Turamen monk curiously, his gaze fixing on blood red hair.
“I know him,” Herfod said. Plainly irritated, he retreated to his place.
Ugoth frowned. Herfod appeared fit to kill someone, and Ugoth guessed it must be this Vehre. Here was another story not told. These continued surprises immensely annoyed him. Determined to look into the mystery later, he faced the sandy-haired nobleman, who gazed in bemusement at Herfod. “Berholt, do you need seasoned men to head your troops?”
“I could use a good dozen,” he said, looking away from the odd monk.
“Fine. Go see Captain Derell. He will let you know which he can spare. They will be under your command and will report only to you for the duration.”
“Yes, Sire.”
This dispensation seemed to please the nobleman. Ugoth hoped the Omeran had the skill to make good use of the loan.
“I ask leave to see to the encampment of my men,” Berholt uttered politely. Ugoth nodded. Berholt bowed and exited the tent.
Ugoth turned to Olent. “So. What shall we do with you in the meantime? Are you good for anything?”
“I will do whatever you think nethcessary,” King Olent said stiffly.
“Then write to the remains of your army in Skryrock and tell them to head for Forge Mount. That is where this battle will be joined.”
“Forge Mount? Why there? Our forthces here can head further north than that before the Shadow Mathster getsth to it.”
“Forge Mount has a temple of the ancient worship on its crown,” Ugoth informed him. “The Shadow Master will head there. He might even try to go around us while we fight elsewhere. We must hold the mount.”
“And destroy the temple if possible,” Brother Herfod added from beyond the chairs. “Marun gathers power from such places. Destroying this one will cripple his advance.”
“Write to your people, King Olent,” Ugoth said. “I have already ordered my vanguard to withdraw to that point. You may listen to Lord General’s Dals’ reports and to our discussion of battle strategies later tonight.”
“Your Dalsth is already through the Esthter Pass and in my land?” Olent said in surprise.
“He’s already moving back to Forge Mount from further east,” Ugoth corrected. “When I learned of the rout of your army, I ordered him to entrench on the mount. Come back tonight after you have rested and review his reports.”
Olent nodded coolly and quit the pavilion, escorted by the remaining noblemen. The priest, however, remained behind, an impenetrable gaze fixed on Herfod. “Are you Brother Herfod?” he asked. “Are you the one I see about our duties?”
“That’s right. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Uh, no,” the priest said, but somewhat hesitantly. “I’m just surprised at your youth.” And the distasteful red hair. “Is not a more senior monk in charge of you?”
“Yes, that would be Brother Samel. Go see him if you like, Father Petrin, but he’ll tell you to come back to me.”
Petrin bowed, again with the fingers pressed together in a flat point. “I will visit Brother Samel, but only to introduce myself to a fellow worshipper of the heavenly gods.” And to ask why a junior holy brother was permitted to dye his hair such an unseemly colour.
“I’ll take you,” Ufrid offered.
“I thank you, Highness,” the bishop said. He bowed to Ufrid.
Ufrid nodded regally. “I’m interesting in hearing why you think white witches are evil. You can tell me as we walk.” The bishop smiled hopefully. Ufrid withdrew from the tent, followed by the eager priest.
Grinning, Herfod shouted after them. “Good luck with the attempted conversion!”
Ugoth laughed. “You’re a nasty fellow, Herfod.”
“Nasty?” Herfod retorted. “Nasty is what you did before Olent arrived. And you call me a tease.”
“Here. Let me make it better,” Ugoth offered, stepping closer.
Herfod retreated. “Leave off, man! I have Carmet monks about to show up asking questions.”
“What is between you and this Abbot Vehre?” Ugoth demanded, reminded just then.
“Before Marun had the Winfellan aristocracy entirely in control, Vehre helped organize a plot against his supporters,” Herfod said tightly. “On the same night that Vehre’s brethren attacked Marun’s coven, Vehre’s allies butchered my mother and strangled my sister. More caught my father elsewhere and chopped his arms off before killing him, and others murdered my brother Wilf, his wife and children.”
Oh.
“Are you going to kill him?”
“That used to be the plan,” Herfod admitted.
“But not now?”
“Shit! He’s on the same side as me now! And I hate him!” Herfod spun away and stalked off.
His anger was palpable. Ugoth could swear he sensed it smouldering beneath the man’s skin, barely under control. “What else haven’t you told me?” he demanded. There was always something.
“He knows about me,” Herfod spat. “He’s allowed rumours to spread in Omera. There’s a legend going about even now, about Marun’s lost red-haired boy who killed with bloody grace.” He threw up both arms in disgust.
“Well, at least the description is correct,” Ugoth said.
Herfod scowled and stomped past.
“So kill him.”
“That will just upset all the monks,” Herfod said.
“So act like a cold prick and make him feel stupid.” Ugoth snatched Herfod before he passed again and ground him up against his hips.
“Gods! The armour!” Herfod protested for the umpteenth time.
“Help me take it off,” Ugoth whispered.
“You think of nothing else lately.”
“You know why,” Ugoth said, expression darkening with the horrible foreknowledge Nicky had given him.
Herfod cried his soul’s pain. He kissed Ugoth, a short, desperate embrace, and pulled away to unbuckle plate mail from Ugoth’s shoulders and arms and to lift the heavy chain mail off. When the under padding had been tossed aside, Ugoth tugged his lover’s habit up and reached into the black trousers. Herfod hissed with pleasure. “The gods cussed Carmet abbot can wait!”
Ugoth smiled agreement. If he did this right, he’d get that unendurably exquisite azure to sweat off Herfod’s skin. The azure was the only thing that made him feel right anymore.
***
Ugoth, properly dressed but no longer fully geared for war, observed from a small hillock when the Carmet abbot at last approached the training grounds. The king noticed the arrivals first and watched keenly as t
he small party of five marched toward Brother Samel. The Carmet delegation was dressed for war, chain mail over brown clerical robes, maces at the hips. Just as with their Turamen counterparts, the Carmet brothers preferred heavy bludgeoning instruments over edged weaponry. Both factions honoured Saint Turamen, who had defeated a marauding earth dragon with a ball mace. Saint Carmet had been Turamen’s junior and had started his own monastery years after his mentor’s death.
Examining Abbot Vehre, Ugoth thought the man unlikely to achieve the same sanctity as either saint. He seemed an aging, bald and angry boar possessed of a bristly grey beard and belligerent eyes. Ugoth was a little shocked by the sight of him; this abbot wasn’t at all like Abbot Anselm. There appeared nothing calming to his character, and Ugoth had to wonder how he had managed to become the leader of his order.
Vehre halted before Brother Samel and nodded in recognition. “Brother Samel,” he said, his voice roughened by age. His Winfellan accent was heavy. “You are in charge of the Saint Turamen monks?”
“Yes, Abbot. I am,” Samel replied complacently. He bowed and did homage to the man’s office, kissing the holy artefact that dangled from Vehre’s chain. The seal of Saint Carmet was purportedly created of dragon tooth. Rather than having an ivory coloration, the seal was the steely grey of earth dragon hide. Unless dragon teeth were a slate hue, Ugoth suspected the legends concerning the holy relic might have gotten a bit muffed.
“I was told some Brother Herfod was in charge of the disposition of our combined forces,” the abbot said as Brother Samel rose.
“That is the case.”
“And why not you?”
“Brother Herfod has a natural gift for organizing the co-operative efforts of monks and witches. He is a very useful young man.”
“Young? You set a young man in charge of training? Where is he, then?”
“Oh, he’s over near King Ugoth,” Samel said with a blandness that masked irritation. Knowing Samel as well as he did, Ugoth recognised the small signs: a slight thinning of the lips and a tighter clasp of the folded hands. “I shall lead you,” Samel offered politely.
Ugoth didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. He openly scrutinized the abbot as they approached. Vehre bowed like an old warrior, stiffly and reluctantly. “Majesty,” he greeted.
Ugoth nodded coolly.
“And this monk, then?” Vehre pressed.
“Just there,” Samel said, pointing.
Vehre followed the indication and startled. It was him! The abomination!
He stood with a witch and a monk and spoke firmly to both. Vehre recognised him despite his maturity. The aquiline nose had not changed, nor the odd burnished hair, nor the curve of those arrogant lips. “You made him a monk? You were fool enough to do it?”
“But you knew that was what the gods wanted,” Samel reminded. “I pray my thanks each day for having been permitted to find him.”
“You pray for an abomination!” Vehre spat. “You let a vile thing into your order!”
Samel remarked Ugoth’s eyes frosting with ire and lifted a pleading hand.
Vehre saw the gesture and turned. He blustered despite the threatening expression. “Majesty, you must command this fool monk to send the creature away. It will betray you.”
“It is a man,” Ugoth uttered. “He has proven his trustworthiness to me, Abbot. You have not.”
“It is not a man. It is some vile thing that eats the power of the gods.”
“Well, there’s an interesting theory,” Herfod’s sardonic voice interjected. “As good a one as any, I suppose.”
Vehre whirled. The abomination was there, just five feet away and looking at him with a contemptuous expression. Vehre grabbed his mace. A singing scraping noise arrested the attack. A sword halted an inch from his throat. His gaze travelled the blade to the hand that held it. “King Ugoth? You must understand! It is evil! It admits as much!”
“He admitted nothing of the sort,” Ugoth snarled. “Drop your mace to the ground. For the duration of this war, you will not be permitted it.”
“But I need to fight!”
“You will fight like a priest, with wards only. I trust you not at all. Do it or let your monks find another abbot.”
Vehre undid his belt. The mace thudded to the ground. Ugoth lowered his weapon.
“I implore you to listen to reason, Majesty. We monks of Carmet have seen the work this creature wrought. He broke a warded wall with nothing but his bare hands. He soaks up divine power and spews it out again in unholy fury. He has killed Carmet monks in this manner.”
“Really? Why the hells didn’t you tell me about that, Herfod?” Ugoth demanded, put out over yet another bit of unexpected history.
“Shit!” Herfod said and stomped closer. “As if I want to admit to exploding every time some self-righteous idiot attacks me with divine power.”
“And the wall?”
“I used the power in the ward to break the wall, not my hands. I’m not a battering ram. Don’t think it’ll work on Marun’s forces. His power will just freeze me where I stand.”
“Which proves that you aren’t of Marun’s lot.” Ugoth scowled at Vehre. “Are you an idiot that you can’t see the gods won’t have this man hurt? He doesn’t soak up their power. He reflects it when it is misused.”
Vehre’s old lips thinned in a grim line of disapproval. He opened them unwisely. “You must not take this thing into your confidences. He is perverted. Twisted! He will seduce you.”
Ugoth laughed at him. “I take what I want, Abbot. I don’t need to be seduced.”
Vehre stared uncomprehendingly, but then he flushed beneath Ugoth’s predatory eyes. His gaze flashed toward Samel. “You let a king use one of your own?” he reproached.
Ugoth drew the abbot’s attention back. “Now he’s an innocent monk who must not be molested? Make up your damned mind, Abbot. He’s either a monk by the gods’ will or he isn’t.”
Vehre looked from him to Samel and at the man in question. Herfod stared back coldly. Vehre’s eyes fixed on the weapon strapped to his back. “He wears a sword!” he said accusingly.
“He has the abbot’s dispensation,” Samel said. “He was a monk of Amut before he came to us, Vehre. He has the right to keep his training.”
“Amut? What is Amut?”
“A very revered holy man from out of Ysep,” Ugoth answered. “You could use some of his teachings. Your order is sadly lacking in the skills of gentle guidance, something all monks should excel at.” He thrust his sword back into his scabbard. “Get off this field if you have nothing but trouble and objections in you. We have a war to fight. If you aren’t helping, then you’re one of the enemy.”
“I will do my part!” Vehre hurried to assert, yet dared to glare at the crimson-haired enigma. “So, then? What do you want of my monks, fiend?”
“I need to look them over and see if any are suitable to team with a witch,” Herfod said flatly. “Unless your order has taken to disapproving of them like the Heavenly Lighters?”
“We will do our part as I said,” Vehre said. “Come and look them over if you want.”
“You send them to me,” Herfod replied. “I have no time to waste stomping after your sorry butt.” He strode back to the team who had been waiting for him.
Vehre scowled. He glanced at the Ulmeniran monarch and found him watching with cold intent. With a subdued voice, Vehre ordered one of his juniors to fetch the rest of their brethren, but then stomped down after the red-topped enigma. Herfod stood to the rear of a Turamen monk and a white witch. The monk chanted an illumination prayer; he and the witch clasped hands with their arms raised in the air. Her right hand pointed at a nearby target, a pile of logs that lay several yards off.
“What are you doing exactly?” Vehre demanded.
“These two are having trouble staying co-ordinated,” Herfod said. “Be quiet. I’m monitoring.”
Vehre opened his mouth again, but a firm hand slapped down on his shoulder. He sta
rted. The king was at his side, even now fixing him with cold intent. Vehre perforce shut up. He observed the practicing pair. The Turamen monk finished the chant and lowered the clasped hands. The witch spoke her curse. These combined actions resulted in a slight smouldering at the base of the pile of logs.
“See!” the woman cried, waving accusingly toward the meagre puff of smoke rising off the target. “He’s doing something wrong! It should have turned into a fireball if that chant was right. I can get that going without him.”
“The chant was right,” Brother Herfod said. “His timing is off.”
“My timing?” the monk in training protested. “It was a perfectly good illumination chant. I saw a flash of blue for a moment.”
“You saw it a moment before you lowered your hand. You spike prior to finishing the chant. If you don’t do this synchronously, your powers cancel each other out. Get with it, man! I told you how to spot this before.”
The monk flushed uncomfortably.
“Try again,” Herfod directed. “Pay attention to how you feel, not the cussed chant. The chant is merely a means to implore power from the gods. Obviously you can hold a sufficient heavenly charge well in advance of the chant’s end. Either shorten the chant or shove the power out before the end of the prayer.”
“Yes, Brother Herfod,” the monk responded dutifully, both reproved and lauded. He looked at the witch. “Ready?”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
“Why is he using an illumination chant?” Vehre interrupted. “Wouldn’t an aura blast do better?”
“I’m not so good at those,” the Turamen brother said.
“Shut up, Vehre!” Herfod snapped. “Thali is the tosser in this set.”
“I was only asking!”
“Shut up, Vehre,” Ugoth said with a too soft tone. Vehre felt the king’s frost might be melting toward a massive volcanic upheaval and decided to shut up.
The procedure was repeated. Just before the Turamen monk finished the illumination chant, Herfod poked the man in the back. The monk lowered his hand, the witch cursed, and the pile of sticks exploded into an impressive and dangerous fireball, blue and red flames lashing outward in combination. Logs flew at them. Herfod knocked the witch aside as one whizzed straight at her. He diverted a second spinning missile with his hand. Abbot Vehre fell on his back avoiding another.
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