“He warned me!” Baron Bildeborough fumed. “Me! The Baron of Palmaris, friend of Danube Brock Ursal himself!”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, it started well enough,” Bildeborough explained, slapping his hands together. “All polite, with this De’Unnero creature hopeful that the transition would be smooth as he took his place in St. Precious. He said that we might work together” Bildeborough paused and Roger sucked in his breath, recognizing that some important declaration was forthcoming. “despite the apparent shortcomings and criminal behavior of my nephew!” the Baronexploded, Stomping his feet and punching at the air. The exertion overwhelmed him almost immediately, and Roger was quick to his side, helping him into the comfortable chair.
“The dog!” Bildeborough went on. “He does not know of Connor’s death, I am sure, though he will certainly learn of it soon. He offered to pardon Connor, on my word that Connor would be more careful of his behavior in the future. Pardon him!”
Roger worked hard to keep the man calm then, fearing that he would simply die of his rage. His face was puffy and bloodred, his eyes wide.
“The best thing that we can do is to go to the King,” Roger calmly said. “We have allies that the new abbot cannot overcome. We can clear Connor’s nameindeed, we can put all the blame for these troubles where it rightly belongs.”
The reminder did calm the Baron considerably. “Off we go,” he said. “To the south, with all speed. Tell my attendants to prepare my coach.”
De’Unnero had not underestimated Baron Bildeborough in the least. His forceful demeanor at their meeting had been purposefully designed to garner both information from the man and understanding of the Baron’s political leaning, and in De’Unnero’s sharp eyes, their conversation had been extremely successful on both counts. Bildeborough’s outrage showed that he, too, might prove an open enemy of the Church, more troublesome than either his nephew or Abbot Dobrinion.
And De’Unnero was smart enough to understand the true culprit behind the removal of those troubles.
For, despite his words at the meeting, De’Unnero did indeed know of the death of Connor Bildeborough, and he knew, too, that a young man had brought the body back to Palmaris, along with the body of a man dressed in the robes of an Abellican monk. Again the angry abbot lamented that Father Abbot Markwart had erred in not sending him on the most important mission to retrieve the stones. Had he gone in search of Avelyn, this issue would have been settled long ago, with the gemstones returned and Avelyn and all of his friends dead. How much less a problem Bildeborough would be to him, and to the Church!
For now Markwart and the Church had a problem, a big one, De’Unnero believed. According to those monks of St. Precious whom De’Unnero had already interviewed, and those of St.-Mere-Abelle who had witnessed the near battle in St. Precious’ courtyard, Baron Bildeborough had thought of Connor as a son. The accusation of murder had no doubt been laid at the Church’s door, and Bildeborough, whose influence went out far from Palmaris, would not be silent on this matter.
The new abbot was not surprised, then, when one of his flock, a fellow monk who had made the journey with De’Unnero from St.-Mere-Abelle, returned from his assigned scouting post to report that a carriage had left Chasewind Manor, riding south, right out of Palmaris, along the river road.
The new abbot’s other spies soon returned, confirming the story, one of them insisting that Baron Bildeborough himself was in that coach.
De’Unnero did not betray his emotions, remained calm and went through the few remaining evening rituals as though nothing was amiss. He went to his room early, explaining that he was weary from the ride, a perfectly plausible excuse.
“This is where I hold advantage even over you, Father Abbot,” the abbot of St. Precious remarked as he looked out his window to the Palmaris night. “I need no lackeys for my dark business.”
He pulled off his telltale robes and dressed in a loose-fitting suit of black material, then pushed open the grate on the window and climbed out, disappearing into the shadows. Moments later he crouched in an alleyway, his favorite gemstone in hand.
De’Unnero fell into the stone, felt the exquisite pain as the bones in his hands and arms began to reshape and twist. And then, spurred by the sheer excitement of the coming hunt, the sheer ecstasy that he could finally act, he fell deeper, and quickly kicked off his shoes as his legs and feet, too, transformed into the hind legs and paws of a tiger. He felt as if he was losing himself in the magic, becoming one with the stone. All his body jerked and spasmed. He raked a paw across his chest, tearing wide his clothing.
Then he was on all fours, and when he tried to protest, a great growl came out of his feline maw.
Never had he gone this far!
But it was wonderful!
The power, oh, the power! He was the hunting tiger now, in body, and all of that sheer power was under his absolute control. Soon he was running swiftly and silently on padded feet, bounding over the high Palmaris wall with ease and charging off down the southern road.
*
On the very first pages, the general description of the tome, the Father Abbot understood. Only a few months before, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart would have been horrified at the thought.
But that was before he had found the “inner guidance” of Bestesbulzibar.
He reverently placed the book away in the lowest drawer of his desk, locking it tight.
“First business at hand,” he said aloud, drawing clean parchment and a vial of black ink from another drawer. He unrolled the parchment and secured its ends with weights, then stared at it for a long time, trying to determine the best manner of wording. With a nod, he titled the paper:
Promotion of Brother Francis Dellacourt to Immaculate Brother
The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle
Markwart spent a long time preparing that important document, though the final draft was no more than three hundred words. By the time he finished, the day was nearing its end, the other monks gathering for dinner. Markwart swept out of his office, to the wing of St.-Mere-Abelle serving as residence for the newest students. He found the three he wanted and called them off to a private room.
“You will each provide me with five copies of this document,” he explained. One of the young brothers shifted nervously.
“Speak your mind,” Markwart demanded of him.
“I am not well-versed, nor very skilled, in illumination, Father Abbot,” the man stuttered, head bowed. In truth, all three were overwhelmed by the demand. St.-Mere-Abelle boasted of many of the finest scribes in all the world. Most of the immaculates who would never attain the rank of master had chosen the vocation of scribener.
“I did not ask if you were skilled,” Markwart replied to the man, to them all. “You can read and write?”
“Of course, Father Abbot,” all three confirmed.
“Then do as I asked,” the old man said. “Without question.”
“Yes, Father Abbot.”
Markwart let his dangerous stare linger on each of them individually, then, after what seemed like minutes of silence, threatened, “If any of you speak a word of this, if any of you give anyone else even a hint of the contents of this paper, you will, all three, be burned at the stake.”
Again came the silence, Markwart studying the young monks intently. He had decided to use first-year students, and these three in particular, because he was certain that such a threat would carry great influence. He left them, then, confident that they would not dare fail the commandment of their Father Abbot.
Markwart’s next stop was the room of Brother Francis. The man had already gone to dinner, but the old monk wasn’t deterred, sliding his instructions concerning Bradwarden under the door.
Soon after, back in his private quarters, in a little-used room to the side of his bedroom, the Father Abbot set about his next preparation. First he removed all items, even furniture, from the room. Then, with the ancient book, a knife, and colored candles in ha
nd, he went back in and began tracing a very specific pattern, described in great detail in the tome, in the wooden floor.
The forest seemed a quiet place to Roger, full of peace and calm. Something about the very air was different here than in the northland, some serenity, as though all the woodland animals, all the trees and flowers, knew that no monsters were about.
Roger had come out from the small camp beside the wagon to relieve himself, but had stayed out as the minutes passed, alone with his thoughts and with the starry canopy. He tried not to think of his coming meeting with King Danube; he had rehearsed his speech many times already. He tried not to worry for his friends, though he suspected they would likely be approaching St.-Mere-Abelle by now, perhaps had already battled with the Church over the prisoners. For now, Roger wanted only rest, the calm peace of a summer’s night.
How many times had he reclined on a branch in the forest near Caer Tinella, alone in the quiet night? Most, if the weather was agreeable. Mrs. Kelso would see him for dinner, and then again for breakfast, and though the mothering woman believed him to be comfortably curled up in her barn, he was more often in the forest.
Try as he may, Roger couldn’t find that level of calm now, couldn’t find that deep, introspective serenity. Too many worries crept into the corners of his consciousness; he had seen and experienced too much.
He leaned heavily against a tree, staring up at the stars, lamenting his loss of innocence. All during his time with Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel, they had applauded him for maturing, had nodded approvingly as his decisions became more based in responsibility. But accepting those responsibilities had taken a toll, Roger understood now, for the stars did not twinkle so brightly, for his heart was surely heavier.
He sighed again and told himself that things would get better, that King Danube would put the world aright, that the monsters would be driven far away and he could return to his home and his previous life in Caer Tinella.
But he didn’t believe it. With a shrug, he started back for the wagon, back for discussions of important matters, back for responsibility.
He paused, though, before he got near the campsite, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.
The forest had gone strangely, eerily, quiet.
Then came a low, resonating growl, the likes of which Roger had never before heard. The young man froze in place, listening intently, trying to discern the direction, though the low roar seemed to fill all the air, as though it was coming from everywhere at once. Roger didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
He heard the draw of sword, another roar, this one more emphatic, and then the screams, sudden and horrible. Now he was moving, running blindly, stumbling on roots, taking more than one branch in the face. He saw the firelight from the camp, silhouettes darting back and forth before it.
And the screams continued, cries of fear, and now of agony.
Roger came in sight of the camp to see the guards, all three, lying about the fire, torn and broken. He hardly took note of them, though, for the Baron was halfway inside the carriage, struggling mightily to get all the way in that he might close the door.
But even if he could have done so, Roger knew that the door would prove a meager barrier against the creature, a gigantic orange-and-black-striped cat that had a claw hooked about his boot.
The Baron spun over and kicked out, and the tiger let go long enough for the man to get inside. But the man never got close to shutting the carriage door, for the cat had only let go that it might settle back on its haunches, and before Bildeborough had even cleared the line of the door, the tiger sprang into the carriage, atop him, claws raking.
The carriage rocked violently, the Baron screamed, and Roger stared helplessly. He did have a weapon, a small sword, barely more than a dagger, but he knew that he couldn’t possibly get to Bildeborough in time to save the man, and in any case couldn’t possibly defeat, or even seriously injure, the great cat.
He turned and ran, tears streaming down his face, his breath coming in labored, forced gasps. It had happened again! Just like the incident with Connor! Again he was no more than a helpless bystander, a witness to the death of a friend. He ran on blindly, stumbling, brush and limbs battering him as the minutes became an hour. He ran until he dropped from exhaustion, and even then he dragged himself on, too frightened to even look back to see if there was any pursuit.
CHAPTER 31
Alternate Routes
Backlit by the rising sun, swathed in a veil of morning fog, the great fortress of St.-Mere-Abelle loomed in the distance, stretching far along the clifftop overlooking All Saints Bay. Only then, viewing the sheer size and ancient strength of the place, did Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel truly come to appreciate the power of their enemies and the scope of their task. They had informed Jojonah of their course soon after he arrived at their campsite.
And then he had told Pony of her brother’s demise.
The news hit her hard, for though she and Grady were never close friends, she had spent years beside him. She didn’t sleep well the rest of that night, but was more than ready for the road before the dawn, a road that had led them here, to this seemingly indestructible fortress that now served as prison to her parents and her centaur friend.
The great gates were closed tight, the walls high and thick.
“How many live here?” Pony asked Jojonah breathlessly.
“The brothers alone number more than seven hundred,” he replied. “And even the newest class, brought in last spring, have been trained to fight. You would not get into St.-Mere-Abelle through use of force, if the King’s army stood behind you. In calmer times, you might find your way in posing as peasants, or as workers, perhaps, but now, that is not possible.”
“What do you plan?” the ranger asked, for it seemed obvious to all that if Master Jojonah could not get them in, their quest was hopeless. After their meeting in the wood, Jojonah had promised to do just that, assuring them that he was no enemy, but a very valuable ally. The four of them had started off together the very next morning, Jojonah leading the way to the east, to this place he had known as his home for many decades.
“Any structure this size has less noticeable ways to enter,” Jojonah replied. “I know of one.”
The monk led them to the north then, a circuitous route that took them far around the northern tip of the great structure, then down a winding, rocky trail to the narrow beach. The water was right up to the rocks, waves licking against the base of the stone, a dance that had continued for centuries untold. Still, the beach was certainly passable, so the ranger plunked one foot in, testing the water.
“Not now,” the monk explained. “The tide is coming in, and though we’ll get through before the water is too high, I doubt that we’ll find the time to return. When the tide recedes later this day, we will be able to make our way along the shore to the dock area of the abbey, a place little used and little guarded.”
“Until then?” the elf asked.
Jojonah motioned back up the trail, toward a hollow they had passed, and all agreed they could use the rest after their long day and night of hard travel. They set a small camp, sheltered from the chill sea breeze, and Juraviel prepared a meal, their first in many hours.
The conversation was light at this time, with Pony doing most of the talking, telling the eager master of her travels with Avelyn, retelling parts over and over again at Jojonah’s bidding. It seemed he couldn’t get enough of her stories, that he hung on every little detail, probing the woman repeatedly to go into more depth, to add her feelings to her observations, to tell him everything about Avelyn Desbris. When Pony at last got to the point where she and Avelyn had met up with Elbryan, the ranger joined in with his own observations, and then Juraviel, too, found much to add as they detailed their efforts against the monsters in Dundalis, and the beginning of the trip to the Barbacan.
Jojonah shuddered when the elf described his encounter with Bestesbulzibar, and then again when Pony and Elbryan told him of the battle out
side Mount Aida, of the fall of Tuntun and the final, brutal confrontation with the dactyl demon.
Then it was Jojonah’s turn to speakbetween bites, for the elf had prepared a wonderful meal. He told of the discovery of Bradwarden, of the centaur’s pitiful condition, but one that healed remarkably under the influence of the elven armband.
“Even I, even Lady Dasslerond, I suspect, did not know the true depth of the item’s powers,” Juraviel admitted. “It is a rare bit of magic, else we would all wear one.”
“Like this?” Elbryan said, smiling, and turning his body so his left arm was showcased, the green elven band tight about his muscles.
Juraviel only smiled in reply.
“There is one thing which I have not yet seen,” Jojonah interrupted, dropping his gaze over Pony. “Avelyn befriended you?”
“As I have told you,” she replied.
“And at his demise, you took the gemstones?”
Pony shifted uncomfortably and looked at Elbryan.
“I know that the stones were taken from Avelyn,” the monk went on. “When I searched his body”
“You exhumed him?” Elbryan asked in horror.
“Never that!” Jojonah answered. “I searched with the soul stone, and with garnet.”
“To detect his magic,” Pony reasoned.
“And there was little about him,” Jojonah said, “though I am certaineven more so from your descriptions of the journey that he went to the place with a considerable cache. I know why his hand was extended upward, and I know who was first to find him.”
Again Pony looked over at Elbryan, and his expression was no less unsure than her own.
“I would like to see them,” Jojonah stated flatly. “Perhaps to wield them in the coming fight, if there is to be one. I have considerable talents with the gemstones and will put them to good use, I assure you.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 127
