“And thus I will spare your life,” Youseff repeated. “Now come down.”
“Go away,” Roger cried.
“Come down!” Youseff yelled. “I give you one last chance.”
Roger didn’t reply, other than to whimper loudly enough for the monk to hear him.
As Youseff started to climb, following a predictable course among the branches, Roger watched the monk closely. He tugged on one rope for the hundredth time, testing it. One end was tied fast to the tree, the other secured to one end of the come-along. A second rope, fastened to the grapnel, was tied to the come-along’s other end.
The knots were secure and the ropes were the right length, Roger reminded himself, but still, when he considered the enormity of his plan, the need for perfect timing and more than a bit of luck, he nearly swooned.
Youseff was more than halfway up now, fully twenty feet from the ground.
“One more branch,” Roger muttered.
Up came the monk, planting his feet on the last solid limb of the lower trunk. He would have to pause there, Roger knew, and map out the rest of the climb, for he was in an open area that afforded no ready branches.
As soon as Youseff was in place, Roger Lockless took his rope firmly in hand and leaped out. He plummeted between a pair of branches, getting a few nasty scratches in the process. Then, some feet out from the trunk, he hit another branch, as he had planned, and kicked out, launching himself on a circuitous route about the tree. He crashed and bounced repeatedly but held fast to his circular, descending course, passing the startled Youseff barely an arm’s length away.
How Roger breathed easier as he continued around, for Brother Youseff had been too surprised to leap out at him.
“Damn you!” the monk cried. Youseff had at first thought that Roger was using the rope to get ahead of him to the ground, but suddenly, as the loop tightened about him, pinning him to the trunk, as Roger swung around and below, he understood.
On the last turn, Roger, holding the rope in only one hand now, took up the other rope and launched the grapnel at a cluster of white birch. Then, hoping it would catch, Roger braced his feet as he came around the base of the trunk, the first length of rope playing out to the end. He dug in then, pulling with all his strength to keep the rope taut about Youseff.
He knew he didn’t have long, for with the many branches interfering with the pull, the rope was not tight enough to hold the agile and strong monk for long.
Not yet.
Roger pulled on the rope in the birch trees with one hand, using the other to crank the come-along and take up some slack. He groaned aloud as he felt the grapnel slipping through tangle. Finally, though, it caught fast.
Up above, Youseff was laughing and trying to extricate himself. He had the rope up above his elbows now and would soon slip under it.
Roger gave one final tug, and then, seeing that the slack was nearly gone, he dove for the come-along, cranking hard and fast with both hands.
Youseff had just started to lift the rope over his head when it snapped taut, slamming him back against the tree trunk. “What?” he asked, for he knew that the skinny little man couldn’t pull so powerfully. He could see well enough below to know that no horse had come into the area, and so he stubbornly pushed back against the rope.
He heard the crack of a branch below, breaking under the strain, and was loose for just an instant before the rope pulled hard again, squeezing him against the trunk. Youseff’s left arm was free and under the rope now, but the binding crossed diagonally down his shoulder, right under his other arm, pinning him tightly. He continued his stubborn fight as the rope tightened even more.
Roger wasn’t looking up, was just pulling on the come-along’s crank with all his strength. The rope was no longer even vibrating, was out straight and tight, and so Roger finally stopped, fearing he would pull one of the birch trees right out of the ground.
He stepped out from under the tree and looked up to see the squirming, helplessly pinned monk. Now he did smile, with absolute relief. “I will return,” he promised. “With friends. It seems that you now have two murders to answer for!” And he turned and ran off.
Youseff paid the words little heed, just continued struggling against the impossibly tight binding. He squirmed and shifted, thought to try and slip out under the rope.
He realized that to be a foolish move almost immediatelybut too lateas the rope slipped up an inch, creasing the side of his neck.
*
Belli’mar Juraviel was first into the copse, moving ahead of Elbryan, Pony, and Roger. The sun was low in the sky now, its bottom edge dipping below the horizon. The group had hurried back to the spot as soon as Roger had come to them, wanting to capture and secure the dangerous monk before nightfall.
Elbryan and the others waited outside the cluster of trees, the ranger watching Pony closely. She had been silent all the way back to this place; the news of Connor’s death had hit her hard.
Strangely, her mourning did not incite any jealous feelings within Elbryan, only an empathy for her. He understood, truly understood, the relationship between Pony and the nobleman, and he knew now that with Connor’s death, the woman had lost a part of herself, had lost that time of healing in her life. So Elbryan vowed silently to keep his own negative feelings private, to focus on Pony’s needs.
She sat straight and tall on Symphony now, cutting a stoic and strong figure in the fading light. She would get through this, as she had come through the first massacre at Dundalis, as she had come through the bitter war and all the losses, particularly the death of Avelyn. Once again the ranger found himself marveling at the woman’s strength and courage.
He loved her all the more for it.
“He is dead,” came a call from the tall grass, Juraviel returning to the group. The elf cast a glance at Roger, one that perceptive Elbryan didn’t miss, and explained, “He was just about free when I came upon him, stuck in the tree just as you described. I had to cut him downit took several arrows.”
“You are sure he is dead?” Roger asked nervously, not wanting anything more to do with that one.
“He is dead,” Juraviel assured him. “And I believe that your horse, Connor’s horse, is just over there,” the elf added, pointing across the road.
“He threw a shoe,” Roger reminded.
“Which can be easily repaired,” Juraviel replied. “Go and get him.”
Roger nodded and started away, and Pony, on Elbryan’s signal, kicked Symphony into a trot after him.
“Your quiver is full,” the ranger noted when he and the elf were alone.
“I retrieved my arrows,” Juraviel replied.
“Elves do not retrieve arrows that have hit the mark,” the ranger replied. “Not unless the situation is desperate, which ours, now that the monks are both dead, is not.”
“Your point?” Juraviel asked dryly.
“The man was dead when you went into the copse,” Elbryan reasoned.
Juraviel agreed with a nod. “He apparently tried to get out of the bindings, choking himself,” he explained. “Our young Roger did well in tightening the bonds, and was quite clever in capturing the man in the first place. Too clever, perhaps.”
“I have battled with one called Brother Justice before,” Elbryan said. “And you saw the fanaticism at our ambush. Did you doubt that it must end like this, with the death of the monk?”
“I wish he had not died at young Roger’s hands,” Juraviel replied. “I do not believe that he is ready for that.”
Elbryan glanced to the road, to see Pony and Roger walking together, leading Symphony and Connor’s limping horse.
“He must be told the truth,” the ranger decided, and he looked to Juraviel, expecting an argument.
“He’ll not take it well” was all the elf warned, but Juraviel did not disagree with the ranger. The road ahead for all of them would be dark, no doubt, and perhaps it was better to get this unpleasantness over with here and now.
Whe
n the pair arrived with the horses, Juraviel took Greystone and, after examining the injured hoof, led the creature away, motioning for Pony to take Symphony and follow.
“Juraviel did not kill the monk,” Elbryan said to Roger as soon as the others were gone.
Roger’s eyes widened in panic and he glanced all around, as if expecting Brother Justice to leap out at him at any moment. The man had unnerved Roger more than any other foe, even Kos-kosio, ever had.
“You did,” Elbryan explained.
“You mean that I was the one who defeated him,” Roger corrected. “And that the kill by Juraviel was no large matter.”
“I mean that you killed him,” the ranger said firmly. “I mean that you tightened the rope and it somehow slipped about his neck, choking the life from him.”
Roger’s eyes widened again. “But Juraviel said” he started to protest.
“Juraviel feared for your sensibilities,” Elbryan bluntly replied. “He was not certain how you would accept such grim reality, and thus feared to speak plainly.”
Roger’s mouth moved but no words came forth. The weight of the truth was hitting him hard, Elbryan realized, and he could see that he was swaying.
“I had to tell you,” Elbryan said, softly now. “You deserve to know the truth, and must get beyond it if you are to handle the responsibilities that have now been put on your young shoulders.”
Roger was hardly listening, was swaying more pronouncedly now and seemed as if he might simply topple over.
“We will speak later,” Elbryan said to him, walking up to him and dropping a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then the ranger continued past, going to join Juraviel and Pony, leaving Roger alone with his thoughts.
And with his pain, for truly Roger Billingsburyand suddenly he craved for that title again and not the foolishly pretentious Roger Locklesshad never been hit by anything like this. He had known grief many times, too many times, in his young life, but that pain was different. That pain allowed him to keep himself up on a pedestal, to continue to view himself as the center of the universe, as somehow better than everyone else. In all the pain and all the many trials young Roger had ever known, he had been able to hold on to his somewhat childish Roger-centric view of the world.
Now, suddenly, that pedestal had been kicked out from under him. He had killed a man.
He had killed a man!
Without conscious choice, Roger was sitting in the grass. Desperately, his rational side battled against his conscience. True, he had killed a man, but what choice had the man given him? The monk was a killer, pure and simple. The monk had killed Connor right before his own eyes, brutally, evilly. The monk had murdered Abbot Dobrinion!
But even those truths did little to assuage Roger’s sudden sense of guilt. Whatever the justifications, and in spite of the fact that he had not intentionally killed Brother Justice, the man was dead, and the blood was on his hands.
He put his head down, laboring hard for breath. He craved all those things that had been torn from him at too young an age: family warmth and the reasonable, comforting words of adults he could look up to. With that thought, he looked over his shoulder to his three friends, to the ranger who had so bluntly told him of his crime and then left him alone.
For a moment Roger hated Elbryan for that. But it could not hold; soon enough he understood that the ranger had told him out of respect for him, out of confidence in him, and had then left him alone because an adultand he was an adult nowhad to work through such pain, at least in part, alone.
Pony came for him soon after, saying nothing of the monk’s death, but only informing him they were going to gather up the fallen monk and then go south to retrieve Connor’s body.
Silently, Roger fell into line, purposefully averting his eyes from the spectacle of Brother Justice, slung over Greystone’s back. The horse was walking better now, for Juraviel had shaved its hoof to level, but still the pace was slow. Night fell in full, and still they walked, determined to get to Connor’s body before he was torn apart by some scavenging creature.
With some difficulty, for the night was quite dark, they at last found the man.
Pony went to him first, and gently closed his eyes. Then she walked away, far away.
“Go to her,” Juraviel said to Elbryan.
“You know what to do with him,” the ranger replied, and the elf nodded. Then, to Roger, Elbryan added, “Be strong and be sure. Your role is perhaps the most important of all now.”
And then he walked away, leaving Roger staring at Juraviel for an explanation.
“You are to take Connor, the monk, and the horse and head straight out to Palmaris,” the elf explained.
Roger inadvertently glanced at the dead monk, at the image that so shook his self-perception.
“Go to the Baron, not the abbey,” the elf explained. “Tell him what has happened. Tell him of Connor’s belief that these monks, and not any powrie, murdered Abbot Dobrinion, and that they chased Connor out of Palmaris, for he, too, had unwittingly become an enemy of the wicked Church leaders.”
“And then what for me?” the young man asked, wondering if this was the last time he would see these three.
Juraviel glanced around. “We could use another horseanother two,” he added, “if you plan to ride with us.”
“Does he want me to?” Roger asked, nodding toward the distant Elbryan.
“Would he have told you the truth if he did not?” Juraviel replied.
“And what of you, then?” Roger quickly asked. “Why did you lie to me? Do you think me a foolish young boy, unable to take responsibility?”
“I think you a man who has grown much in the last weeks,” the elf replied honestly. “I did not tell you because I was not sure of what Nightbirdand do not doubt that he is the leader of this grouphad planned for you. If we meant to leave you in Palmaris, in safety with Tomas and Belster, if we had determined that your role in this fight was at its end, then what good would it have done you to let you know that you had the blood of a dead man on your hands?”
“Is the truth not absolute?” Roger asked. “Do you play God, elf?”
“If the truth is not in any way constructive, then it can wait for a better time,” Juraviel replied. “But since your course is yours to determine, then you needed to know now. Our road will be dark, my young friend, and I do not doubt that we will find other Brother Justices in our path, perhaps for years to come.”
“And each successive kill gets easier?” Roger asked sarcastically.
“Pray that is not the case,” Juraviel replied in a severe tone, eyeing Roger unblinkingly.
That demeanor set the young man back on his heels.
“Nightbird thought that you were emotionally strong enough to know the truth,” the elf added. “Take it as a compliment.”
Juraviel started to walk away.
“I do not know if he was right,” Roger admitted suddenly.
The elf turned about to see Roger, head down, shoulders bobbing in sobs. He went to stand beside him, put his hand on the small of Roger’s back. “The other monk was only the second man Nightbird ever killed,” he said. “He did not cry this time because he shed all those tears after killing the first, the first Brother Justice.”
The notion that this stoic and powerful ranger had been equally shaken hit Roger profoundly. He wiped his eyes and stood straight, looked to Juraviel and nodded grimly.
Then Roger was on the road south, too agitated to sit and wait out the remainder of the night. He had to move quite slowly, for the injured Greystone carried both bodies, but he was determined to speak with Baron Bildeborough before the midday meal.
P A R T F O U R
Down the Road of Shadows
As I learned more about the Church that Avelyn served, the Church of my parents and of every fellow human I have ever knownand as I met more of the Abellican monks, I began to recognize just how subtle the nature of evil might be. I had never spent time considering this before, b
ut is the evil man inherently evil? Is he even aware that his actions are evil? Does he believe them to be, or has he tainted his perspective so that he believes himself to be in the right?
In these times, when the dactyl awoke and the world knew chaos, many, it seems, have come to question the very essence of evil. Who am I, or who is anyone, they might say, to judge which man might be considered evil and which good? When I ask, is the evil man inherently evil, I am supposing an absolute distinction that many people refuse to acknowledge. Their concept of morality is relative, and while I’ll admit that the moral implications of many actions might be dependent upon a certain situation, the overall moral distinction is not.
For within that truth, I know a larger one. I know that there is indeed an absolute difference between good and evil, with individual perspective and justification notwithstanding. To the Touel’alfar, the common good is the measuring stickputting the good of the elven folk first, but considering the good of all others, as well. Though the elves desire little contact with humans, they have for centuries taken humans under their tutelage and trained them as rangers, not for any gains to Andur’Blough Inninness,for that place is beyond the influence of the rangers, but for the betterment of the world at large. The elven folk are not aggressors, never that. They fight when they must, in defense and against imperialism. Had the goblins not come to Dundalis, the elves would never have sought them out, for though they have no love of goblins or powries or giants, and indeed consider the three races to be a scourge upon the very world, the elves would suffer them to live. To go to the mountains and attack these monsters, by elven standards, would reduce the Touel’alfar to the level of that which they despise above all else.
Conversely, the powries and the goblins have shown themselves to be warring and wicked creatures. They attack whenever they find advantage, and it is little wonder that the demon dactyl sought out these races for its minions. I tend to view the giants a bit differently, and wonder if they are, by nature, evil, or if they simply look at the world in a different way. A giant may look at a human and, like a hungry hunting cat, see its next meal. Still, as with powries and goblins, I feel no remorse in killing giants.
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