P A R T T W O
The Pecking Order
Once again, Uncle Mather, I am amazed by the resilience of people pushed into a desperate situation. As it was in Dundalis, I have found here a group willing to fight and to diemen and women, young children even, and older folks who should be spending their days telling stories of their long-past adventures. I have seen some terrible suffering, and yet have heard little in the way of complaintother than the sounds of stomachs rumbling for lack of food.
And with the common suffering comes an altruism that is truly heartwarming and inspiring. As it was with Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk, who gave their lives for a battle that really wasn’t for them to fight, as it was with gallant Bradwarden, who certainly could have chosen a different path, it is now with Belster and Tomas, Roger Lockless and all the others.
I have my fears, though, mostly for an unintentional rivalry that may spring up between myself and the leaders of this band. When I led the fighters in the forest back to the refugee encampment after our great victory, I sensed true tension with Tomas Gingerwart, who, until my arrival, acted as one of the leaders of the forest band, perhaps the strongest voice of all. A calm conversation quickly cured that potential ill, for Tomas has been seasoned by years and experience. As soon as he was assured that he and I both fought for the same goalthe benefit of the people under his carethe rivalry was no more.
But not so, I fear, with another of the band whom I have not yet even met, an impetuous young fellow named Roger. By Belster’s words, Roger is young and proud, and has ever been insecure in his position among the refugees, even to the point that he considered Belster and the folk from the northland as potential rivals. What will he think when he meets Pony and me? How will he react when he sees the respect afforded us, particularly from those who knew us in the north, or from those who followed us in the battle in the forest?
In truth, Uncle Mather, I think it ironic that these displaced folk think of me as a hero. For when I see their faces, every one, the expressions of men and women put to the test for perhaps the first time, I see the truest heroism.
Because that is something that cannot be judged by the quality of training and the quality of weapons, Uncle Mather. Simply because I was trained by the Touel’alfar and carry with me weapons of great power, am I any more heroic than the woman who throws herself between danger and her children, or the farmer who trades plowshare for sword to defend his community? Am I more heroic because my chances of winning the battle are greater?
I think not, for heroism is measured in strength of heart, not strength of arm. It is a marker of the conscious decisions, the selflessness, the willingness, to sacrifice everything, in the knowledge that those who follow you will be better off for your efforts. Heroism is the ultimate act of community, I think, the sense of belonging to something bigger than one’s own mortal coil. It is rooted in faith: in God, or even in the mere belief that the whole of the goodly folk is stronger when each individual part cares for the others.
It is an incredible thing to me, this resilience, this inner strength, this human spirit. And in admiring it, I realize that we cannot lose this war, that in the end, even if that end be a thousand years hence, we will triumph. Because they cannot kill us, Uncle Mather. They cannot kill the resilience. They cannot kill the inner strength.
They cannot kill the human spirit.
I look into the faces of the men and women, the children, too young for such trials, the aged, too old for such battle, and I know this to be true.
—ELBRYAN WYNDON
CHAPTER 10
The Holiest of Places
The terrain became more difficult by noon on the day after the fight in the valley. Master Jojonah tried to keep the spirits of his comrades high, reminding them of the good they had done, of the suffering they had prevented by intervening. But all of the monks were tired from their nighttime trials, particularly concerning the further use of magic, and, given the rough terrain, magic this day would have proven a great help.
One thing that neither Jojonah nor Brother Francis would compromise on, though, was the use of the quartz gemstones for scouting. Exhausted as they were, the monks simply could not afford to let down their guard, not in this wild region. Master Jojonah did end the ride early, before the sun had set, and called for his brothers to sleep well and long, to gather their strength that they might attack the road more vigorously the next day.
“We would have had the strength to travel much later,” Brother Francis pointedly told the master, as usual, planting himself by Jojonah’s side as if keeping a wary eye on the older man, “had we not engaged in an affair that was not our own.”
“It seems to me that you enjoyed the rout of the monstrous force as much as any, brother,” the Master responded. “How can you doubt the wisdom of our actions?”
“I’ll not deny the pleasure I garner in destroying enemies of my God,” Brother Francis replied.
That high-browed proclamation raised Jojonah’s eyebrows.
“Yet,” Brother Francis went on before the portly monk could reply, “I know what Father Abbot Markwart dictated.”
“And that is all that matters?”
“Yes.”
Master Jojonah silently groaned over the brother’s blind faith, a fault so prevalent in the Abellican Order these days, a fault that he, too, had been guilty of for so many years. Master Jojonah, like all the masters and immaculates of St.-Mere-Abelle, had known that the ship hired to carry the brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit would never be allowed to leave the harbor at All Saints Bay, and that all aboard her would be killed. Like all the othersall except for Avelyn DesbrisJojonah had accepted that grim outcome as the lesser of two evils, for the monks simply could not have allowed any with such knowledge as the location of Pimaninicuit to sail away. Similarly, Jojonah knew that Brother Pellimar had been allowed to die of an infection from a wound he had suffered on the voyage to that islandthough hard work by the older monks with a soul stone certainly could have saved himbecause the man could not keep his mouth shut concerning that all-important voyage. But again, at the time, Pellimar’s demise had seemed to Jojonah the lesser of two evils.
In reflecting on his own decision, Master Jojonah could not fully blame the zealous Brother Francis now. “We saved many families last night,” he reminded. “And for that, I cannot be sorry. Our mission has not been compromised.”
“Your pardon, Master Jojonah,” came a call from the side of the wagon.
Both men turned to see a trio of younger monks, Brother Dellman among them, cautiously approaching.
“I have detected a presence in the area,” Brother Dellman explained. “Not a goblin, not a monster at all,” the young monk quickly added, seeing the sudden and frantic reaction. “A man, shadowing our every move.”
Master Jojonah sat back, not too concerned, and more interested at that moment in studying the young man who had delivered the news. Brother Dellman was going out of his way to make himself quite useful of late, was working harder than any other in the caravan. Jojonah liked the potential he saw there, in the young man’s eyes, in the idealistic attitude.
“A man?” Brother Francis echoed, seeing that Master Jojonah was making no move to reply. “Of the Church? Of Palmaris? Of the village?” he snapped impatiently. Francis, too, had noticed Dellman’s work of late, but he wasn’t sure of the young monk’s motives. “Who is it, and where has he come from?”
“Alpinadoran, obviously,” Brother Dellman replied. “A huge man, with long flaxen hair.”
“From the village, no doubt,” Brother Francis said with a huff aimed directly at the master. “Perhaps you spoke too soon, Master Jojonah,” he added curtly.
“He is a man,” the older monk argued. “Just a man. Probably trying to find out who we are and why we saved his village. We will send him away and that will be the end of it.”
“And is he a precursor?” Brother Francis said. “A spy sent to unveil our weaknesses? Nev
er has Alpinador called itself an ally of the Abellican Church. Need I remind you of the tragedy at Fuldebarrow?”
“You need remind me of nothing,” Master Jojonah replied sternly, but Brother Francis’ point was well-taken. Fuldebarrow was an Alpinadoran town, larger than the one from the previous night, wherein the Church, the Abbey of St. Precious of Palmaris, had tried to establish a mission. All had gone well for nearly a year, but then, apparently, the Abellican missionaries had said or done something to offend the Alpinadoran barbarians, probably some insult to the god-figure of the northern people. None of the monks were ever foundphysically at least. St. Precious had turned to St.-Mere-Abelle for help in the investigation, and using their magical talents, soul stones to locate the spirits of the dead, the masters of the larger abbey discovered that the missionaries had been brutally executed.
But that incident was nearly a hundred years old, and sending missionaries into any heathen territory was ever a dangerous course.
“Let us be rid of this spy efficiently,” Brother Francis said, rising to his feet. “I will”
“You will do nothing,” Master Jojonah interrupted.
Brother Francis straightened as if slapped. “It is curious that I was not able to contact Father Abbot Markwart before the fight at the village,” he remarked, the implications obvious, given his sly look Jojonah’s way. “Distance is supposed to be irrelevant where hematite is concerned.”
“Perhaps you are not as powerful with the stones as you believe,” Master Jojonah said dryly. Both men knew better, though. Both knew that Master Jojonah, who possessed a small but effective sunstone, the stone of antimagic, had interfered with Brother Francis’ attempt to enlist the Father Abbot against the notion that they would defend the Alpinadoran village from the monsters.
“What are we to do with this troublesome shadow, then?” Francis demanded.
“What indeed?” was all Master Jojonah could answer.
“He knows of us, and thus he looms as a threat,” Brother Francis pressed. “If he is a spy, as I believe, then he will likely send a powerful force against us, and letting him live now will not seem so merciful in light of the dozens of men who will pay for our generosity with their lives.” He paused, and it seemed to Jojonah that he was almost pleased by that prospect, as if he had just convinced himself that it would be better to let the man live.
It was a passing thought for Brother Francis, though. “Or even if he is not a spy,” the fiery monk went on, “he remains a threat. Suppose he is captured by the powries. Do you doubt that he will divulge information about us to the monsters in the false hope of mercy?”
Master Jojonah looked to the three younger monks, all of them wearing startled expressions at the increasingly heated exchange. “Perhaps it would be better if you left us now,” the master bade them. “And you, Brother Dellman, well done. Back to the gems with you, the soul stone this time, that you might watch our uninvited guest more closely.”
“Uninvited and unwanted,” Brother Francis said under his breath as the three younger monks moved away, passing Braumin Herde, who was coming to join Francis and Jojonah.
“Do not underestimate this Alpinadoran,” Brother Braumin remarked as he neared. “Were it not for the soul stone, we would never have known he was shadowing our every move, though even as we speak he is less than fifty yards from our encampment.”
“Spies are practiced at such tactics,” Brother Francis remarked, drawing a sour expression from both Jojonah and Braumin.
“What do you believe?” Master Jojonah asked of Braumin.
“He is from the village, I would guess,” the immaculate replied, “though I place less sinister value on that notion than does my brother.”
“Our mission is too vital for us to let down our guard,” Francis argued.
“Indeed it is,” Master Jojonah agreed. He eyed Brother Braumin directly. “Possess the man,” he instructed. “Convince him that he should be gone, or, if that should fail, use your power to walk his physical body far, far from here. Let him regain his physical consciousness back in the deep Timberlands, too exhausted to return anytime soon.”
Brother Braumin bowed and started away, not thrilled by the prospect of possession, but relieved that Brother Francis did not get his way. He had not journeyed all these miles to play a role in the murder of a human.
Brother Braumin went to Dellman first, and bade the man to pass the word that all activity with quartz should cease, and that Dellman should forgo his searching with the soul stone possession was tricky enough without the prospect of another disembodied spirit floating about! Then Braumin went to his wagon and prepared himself.
Andacanavar crouched low in the brush, confident that he was too well concealed for any of the nearby monks to locate him. Visually, at least, for the ranger had no experience with magic, other than that of the Touel’alfar, and did not know the potential of the ring stones.
But Andacanavar was sensitive to his environment, extremely so, and he did indeed sense the presence about him, an intangible presence, the feeling that he was being watched.
How strong that sensation became when Brother Braumin’s spirit moved right up to the ranger, when Brother Braumin’s spirit tried to move right into the man!
Andacanavar looked all about, eyes darting to every shadow, to every conceivable hiding place. He knew he was not alone, and yet all of his physical senses showed him nothing.
Nothing.
The intrusion grew stronger; the ranger almost cried out, despite his better judgment. That near outburst surprised him, and led him to the horrifying and inescapable conclusion that some other will was forcing itself over him.
Andacanavar had participated in the communal gatherings of the Touel’alfar, the joining of the entire elven community into a single harmony. That had been a beautiful thing, a mental sharing, a most intimate experience. But this…
Again the ranger almost cried out; but he stopped himself, understanding that the intruding will likely wanted him to yell out and surrender his position.
The ranger searched inside himself, tried to find something tangible, something identifiable. He recalled the communal elven song, a hundred voices joined as one, a hundred spirits blended in harmony. But this…
This was rape.
The ranger fell low to the ground, growling softly, fighting back in the only manner he understood. He put up a wall of sheer rage, a red barrier, denying all action. Andacanavar was completely in control of his will, on every level. He used the discipline ofbi’nelle dasada, the sword-dance, used in his years of training in Caer’alfar. And through that grim determination, that sheer strength of will, the ranger identified his spiritual enemy, located the intruding will. A picture formed in Andacanavar’s mind, a map of his own thought process, and he mentally placed an enemy marker whenever a trail on that map was accessed.
The enemy, the will of Brother Braumin, soon showed clear to the man, and then suddenly he and the monk were on equal footing, an open battle of wills, with the advantage of surprise no more. Brother Braumin, disciplined and trained in the stones, fought well, but the ranger was the stronger by far, and the monk was soon expelled, and soon in retreat.
Andacanavar was truly frightened by this strange experience, this unknown magic, but, with his typical courage, he would not let the opportunity pass. He felt a channel, a pathway left by the departing spirit, and he sent his thoughts along it, soaring free of his body.
Soon he was in the monk encampment, and then in one of the wagons. There sat the source of the intrusion, a man, a monk of about thirty winters, sitting cross-legged, deep in meditation.
Without hesitation, Andacanavar continued along the mental pathway, following the spirit right back into the monk’s body, resuming the battle. Now the battleground was more difficult, a terrain far more familiar to his enemy, but the ranger pressed on, focused his will. Only one thought slowed him, and that only temporarily: if he dominated this body, would it leave his own op
en to intrusion?
The ranger had no way of knowing, and the hesitation almost ended his fight.
But then, using the same determination that had sustained him through all these years and all these trials of the unforgiving land of Alpinador, Andacanavar pressed on tenfold, driving hard into the monk’s mind, pushing the monk away wherever he found him, pushing, pushing, stealing every pathway, every corner, every hope and every fear.
*
It was not a good feeling, was too strange and too out of place, and, for the noble ranger, was simply wrong. Despite any rationalization that he had been protecting his very soul, or any that reminded him of his duty to his fellow Alpinadorans, Andacanavar could not rid himself completely of the guilt. Possessing another’s body, whatever the reasons, assaulted the ranger’s sense of right and wrong profoundly.
But he persevered, and took some comfort in the small and smooth gray stone he held in his unfamiliar hand. This stone was the conduit, Andacanavar recognized, the pathway between the spirits, and with it in his possession, both physical and spiritual, he felt confident that the portal to his own corporeal body was closed to any others. Acclimating himself to the new coil, he dragged himself to the back of the wagon, peering out into the encampment, listening carefully to any passing conversations. He remained there for some time, was greeted by and returned the salutation of many other monksand truly the ranger was glad that the elves had bothered to teach him the language of Honce-the-Bear! Then, gaining confidence, he dared to exit the wagon, walking openly in the midst of the foreigners.
He didn’t have a difficult time in determining rank; in this group, it was apparently based on age, and Andacanavar had always been good at determining a man’s years. Between these impressions and the respectful manner in which others greeted him, he confirmed his belief that he was in the body of one of high stature among the monks.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 86
