"Except the Touel'alfar," Brother Braumin said lightly with a wide grin, and the other monks brightened as well.
"Not even the Touel'alfar," Roger said grimly, wanting to show his rightfully nervous companions the true depth of his respect for the ranger.
"The sooner we sleep, the sooner we will be able to break camp," Brother Braumin remarked. He motioned to Dellman, who typically took the first watch with Roger —watching for humans and not monsters, as Lady Dasslerond had explained to them.
Four of the monks settled down, moving their bedrolls as near the fire as possible, for the air was growing colder with every passing minute, it seemed. Roger and Dellman settled near the fire, and remained quiet for a long while, until Roger realized that the rhythmic breathing of his sleeping companions was beginning to settle him into a dangerously deep relaxation.
He rose abruptly and began pacing, rubbing his arms briskly against the cold.
"Do you plan another venture into the forest?" Brother Dellman asked through a yawn.
Roger looked at him, smiled, and shook his head, as though the whole idea of venturing into the forest this far north was preposterous.
"Then you are more concerned than you admitted," the perceptive Dellman remarked.
"Concerned?" Roger echoed, his tone light. "Or merely cold? Surely I could freeze dead in the dark forest away from the fire."
"Concerned," Dellman said in all seriousness. "The night is cold, but with this wind, even the fire offers little protection. Yet you will not venture alone into these woods at night, nor have you done so since we left Caer Tinella more than a week ago."
Roger looked away, into the blackness of the forest. For many months after the powrie invasion, the young man had called the forest his home and had wandered through it alone on the darkest of nights without fear. But Dellman was perceptive, he had to admit. He did fear these woods. Roger could hardly believe how much darker they seemed than those just a couple score miles to the south. How much taller and thicker, and so filled with strange sounds! No, it wasn't fear, Roger decided, but respect, a healthy respect for a forest most deserving of it. Even if all the powries and giants and goblins were banished to the far ends of the world, the Timberlands was not a place to be taken lightly.
With that understanding, Roger's respect for Elbryan and Pony increased. Compared to the forests near Caer Tinella this place was untamed.
"Do you really believe that we are close?" Dellman asked.
"I do," Roger replied. "I know that the distance from Caer Tinella to Dundalis is roughly the same as the distance from Caer Tinella to Palmaris, and we have nearly covered that ground. And we cannot have strayed, for the road is too well marked. Indeed, we have even seen signs of the caravan's passage —deep ruts that can only have been made by the laden wagons Nightbird was to accompany."
"Well reasoned, Roger Lockless," came a voice from the side, a voice Roger recognized.
"Nightbird!" the young man cried, rushing to the edge of the firelight. He paused there to let his eyes adjust, and gradually he made out the shape of the large man, sitting comfortably on the lowest branch of a wide tree, barely fifteen feet from their encampment. It seemed apparent to Roger that he had been there for some time.
Behind Roger, Brother Dellman scrambled up, waking his brothers, whispering that Nightbird had come. Soon the five wide-eyed monks moved cautiously to stand beside Roger.
"He told you that I and Bradwarden would find you," the ranger explained. As he spoke, the centaur emerged from the darkness to stand beside the tree. The monks had seen Bradwarden before, of course, when he was taken to St.-Mere-Abelle, but that creature seemed a mere shell of the formidable centaur now before them, a thousand pounds of muscle and with fiery and intense eyes.
And of course Roger, who had only glimpsed Bradwarden before, was stunned. In boastful style, he had remarked to the monks that they would be amazed at the power of the centaur when he was fully healed, but Roger's words had been based on the stories told to him by Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel. Now he looked upon Bradwarden —an obviously healthy Bradwarden—for the first time, and those stories, however dramatic they had been, seemed to pale in comparison to the truth of the magnificent creature.
Nightbird jumped to the ground. He extended his hand to Roger, but the younger man leaped upon him, wrapping him in a hug. The ranger returned the hug, but he looked over Roger's shoulder and smiled at Braumin Herde.
Finally, Roger let go, jumping back a step and holding out his hand to Bradwarden.
"Excitable fellow," the centaur said to Elbryan.
"My road has been long and rilled with tragedy," Roger said seriously. "We came north to find you, and so we have, and now, only now, might I breathe more easily."
"We have been watching you for two days," the ranger explained.
Roger's eyes widened. "Two days?" he echoed, as if insulted. "Then why have you come to me only now? "
"Because yer companions are monks, whatever clothes they might now wear," the centaur remarked. "And me and them monks ain't been known to be the best o' friends."
"How could you know the truth of us?" Brother Braumin put in, glancing down at his ordinary peasant clothing, with certainly no telltale markings to distinguish him or his four companions as members of the Church. He and his fellows were growing tired of these meetings —first the elves and now these two—where the visitors apparently knew everything about them before the introductions had even begun!
"We said we been watchin' ye," Bradwarden replied, "and that means listenin' to ye, don't ye doubt, Brother Braumin Herde."
The monk's expression was incredulous.
"Oh, I heard yer name, and I know ye from the road out of Aida," the centaur remarked.
Suddenly Braumin seemed embarrassed, remembering the horrid treatment the centaur had received from his brethren on that march.
"But I travel with them openly," Roger protested. "Would I lead enemies to you?"
"We had to be certain," Elbryan explained. "We trust you; doubt that not at all! And yet, we have been dealing with the Abellican Church long enough to understand that they have ways of coercing allies from the ranks of enemies."
"I assure you —" Brother Castinagis started to protest.
"None needed," the ranger replied. "Bradwarden has spoken highly of Brother Braumin, remembering him well from that journey. He has named Braumin as friend of Jojonah, who was friend of Avelyn, who was friend of Elbryan and Bradwarden. And we know that you come in disguise, hiding from your Abellican brothers."
"A situation you have known before," Brother Braumin remarked, "with Avelyn Desbris, I mean."
"Ho, ho, what!" Bradwarden roared, imitating Avelyn's voice perfectly in his annoying trademark expression.
Elbryan glanced at him sidelong, seeming less than pleased.
"Had to be done," the centaur said dryly.
The ranger just sighed, praying that it wouldn't become a habit. Then he nodded back at Braumin. "Except that Avelyn never stopped wearing his robes," he replied, "even when all your Church was hunting for him."
Braumin smiled, but Castinagis puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders as if he considered the ranger's statement an insult. Overproud, Elbryan noted —a very dangerous trait. He walked up to the monk, extending his hand in formal introduction.
Remembering his manners then, Roger went around to the other four monks with the ranger and the centaur, introducing each.
"Another friend to Jojonah," Bradwarden remarked when they came to Dellman, for Dellman, too, was known to the centaur from their time together on the road. "And not a friend to the one called Francis, the lackey of Markwart."
"And yet it was Brother Francis who smuggled us out of St.-Mere-Abelle," Brother Braumin remarked, drawing curious stares from Elbryan and Bradwarden.
"I'm thinkin' it's past time we heard yer tale in full," the centaur said. He glanced at the campsite, more particularly at the remains of the food the monks had le
ft out near the fire. "After we take a bit o' supper, of course," he added and trotted to the fire.
The others were quick to join him there —if they hadn't been, the centaur wouldn't have left a scrap for them—and when they were finished eating, they all sat back and let Brother Braumin and Roger tell their tale. Roger began, detailing the murder of Baron Bildeborough; Brother Viscenti, finally finding his voice above his nervousness, explained their suspicions that Marcalo De'Unnero might have been involved.
Then Roger solemnly told of the end of Master Jojonah; both the centaur and Elbryan were as touched as the monks by that sobering story. When they had left St.-Mere-Abelle after rescuing Bradwarden, Elbryan had considered Jojonah as perhaps the greatest hope for justice within the Church. He wasn't surprised by the news of the execution, not at all, but he was profoundly saddened.
Then came the more immediate story —and the more relevant one—as Brother Braumin explained the events at the abbey that had led to the self-imposed exile of the five. He told again of how it was Francis who had smuggled them through Markwart's tightening fist, but he could not explain the man's motives, only his actions.
The other monks took turns telling of their adventures on the road, and the ranger and the centaur feigned interest in the unremarkable journey —though they were both more than a little concerned to learn of the continuing tightening of Church control in Palmaris, and were both surprised to hear that the Touel'alfar, including Lady Dasslerond herself, had been shadowing the band. Elbryan and Bradwarden exchanged confused stares; they found it strange that so large a contingent of elves would come into the region without contacting either of them. More than a dozen elves traveling together out of Andur'Blough Inninness was an exceptional tale indeed!
"And so we have come to your land, Nightbird," Brother Braumin finished, "in hopes that you will offer us sanctuary and friendship, as you once offered to our lost brother Avelyn in his time of need."
Elbryan sat back and considered the words carefully. "These are the Timberlands," he said at length, "a wild land, where men must band together to survive. All men of kindly disposition are welcomed."
"And more than a few not so kindly inclined," the centaur added with a burst of laughter that broke all tension.
"I will take you into Dundalis in the morning," Elbryan assured the group. "Tomas Gingerwart, who leads the settlers, will gladly accept six pairs of strong hands to aid in the rebuilding."
"Five builders," Roger corrected with a smile, "and a new scout to help Nightbird and Bradwarden."
"And then, perhaps, you and I can speak privately," Brother Braumin said to the ranger, ignoring Roger and drawing curious stares from all his companions, Roger most of all.
Elbryan recognized the intensity in the man's eyes and voice, and readily agreed.
Like the workings of a finely crafted Ursulan clock. Or so it seemed to Pony as she watched and marveled at the movements of the Behrenese as soon as their scouts spotted city guards turning down the main avenue that led to their enclave. Pony had been watching the southern folk very carefully over the last days. The Behrenese were no strangers to oppression in Honce-the-Bear, but now, under the added weight of Bishop De'Unnero's reign of terror, it seemed they had elevated their skill at quiet resistance to an art form.
Pony watched in awe as the word passed from mouth to mouth, as signals were knocked against walls, even the subtle drop of a flag on one of the nearby ships. Her respect for these people continued to grow with each observation.
Now a group went out to the south —the oldest and the youngest, a woman great with child and one man who had lost both arms.
Pony had seen this departure many times but had never been able to follow them to learn where they went. Every time the soldiers came to the Behrenese enclave near the docks, they found few targets for their abuse. Once a larger search had been organized, soldiers even inspecting every ship in the port, but they had found nothing.
Now, at last, after hours of searching, Pony thought she had the riddle solved. She made her way carefully along the alleys and rooftops, moving slowly south, letting the trailing line of Behrenese get ahead of her. Quietly, in the shadows of buildings, the procession moved past the docks; along the riverbank past long, low warehouses; around a bend in the Masur Delaval just north of the city's southernmost wall. There the riverbank was a bluff of white limestone. There were a few buildings overlooking the river; but they were invisible, Pony discovered, to anyone at the water's edge right below —a view further hindered by a long wooden fence constructed near the edge, most likely, to keep children from tumbling down to the river. Pony moved along that fence now, crawling between it and the cliff. Peering down, her suspicions were confirmed.
This near the Gulf of Corona, the Masur Delaval was strongly affected by the tides, with the water's depth varying as much as ten feet. At the lowest tides, dark cracks could be seen in the limestone just above the water: the mostly submerged entrances to caves.
Pony nodded as the Behrenese group went down to the water's edge and one by one, holding a guide rope, plunged into the frigid water, disappearing from sight.
Apparently those caves behind the entrances were not under water.
"Beautiful," she remarked, her voice full of respect. She was amazed by their resourcefulness; they had found a way to escape the persecution quietly and safely, and all at the cost of a cold dunking and a few hours in an uncomfortable cave.
Or was it even uncomfortable? Pony wondered. How well had the Behrenese outfitted their secret homes?
She wanted to go down there, then, to leap into the cold water and swim into the Behrenese private neighborhood. The thought of what these people had accomplished warmed her and gave her hope that the whole city would find a way to resist the wickedness of Bishop De'Unnero and his Church. The notion that the Behrenese —only one or two hundred strong and so clearly marked by their skin color—could so easily evade the persecution made Pony wonder what five thousand might do, standing behind her against De'Unnero. Yes, looking down the hundred feet to the water's edge, where the last of the group was even then disappearing, deeply inspired her.
The rustle of grass behind her warned her. She glanced back to see the approach of a Behrenese warrior: a small, wiry man armed with a scimitar, favored by the southern people. He came in without a word, without a hint of compromise on his dark face, his blade aimed straight at Pony.
Pony grabbed the hilt of her sword and, tucking her chin against her chest, launched into a forward roll, just ahead of the approaching warrior. She drew Defender, stabbing the sword above her as she landed on her back. The crosspiece of Defender's hilt was set with enchanted magnetites, and Pony called on their power fast, attracting her attacker's blade to her own as he rushed in.
Surprise showed clearly on the man's face as his blade inexplicably swerved down to slap Pony's; and that moment of confusion bought Pony all the time she needed to roll over, hop to her knees, then stand, evenly faced now against the attacker.
The Behrenese warrior tore his blade free and leaped back into a defensive crouch. When Pony didn't press the attack, he gradually stood, a bright smile widening across his black face. He began to swish his curved blade in balanced and harmonious circular movements, the movement of his arms perfectly complementing the graceful line of the scimitar.
On he came in a sudden rush —no novice, this one—his scimitar low, then high, then diagonally aimed at the side of Pony's neck.
He was clever, she realized, noting the angle of attack, recognizing that the usual parry to that maneuver —sword moving from across her chest to over her left shoulder—would not work. The curving blade would slide around the flat of her sword, driving it back over her shoulder, leaving the scimitar in line for a strike.
Instead, Pony thrust Defender up diagonally to meet the diving scimitar, pressing on so quickly that before the curved blade could expel her sword, it was against Defender's hilt. A sudden twist of Pony's wrist defle
cted the scimitar over her, the blade swooshing harmlessly short of the mark.
The Behrenese warrior tossed the scimitar to his left hand, turning it over, and cutting it back at Pony's midsection.
The woman sucked in her belly —she nearly swooned with terror for her child!—and leaped back, then slapped Defender behind the back curve of the passing blade and pushed it the other way. She quickly retreated a step, her mind whirling, sorting out her opponent's style, seeking its weaknesses. The Behrenese warrior whipped his blade across, then up high and down low, even behind him, to be caught by his right hand and come slashing out again from the opposite direction. The display was meant to impress, to demoralize his opponent, but for seasoned Pony, it served only to inform.
Now she understood. The man's style would prove undeniably effective against the typical sword-and-shield stance common in this country. But Pony didn't fight that way.
She fought the way Elbryan fought, the way the elves fought, and her confidence mounted as she considered that her style, bi'nelle dasada, would prove even more effective against a curved blade. She found her fighting stance, her center of balance, her left foot back, right foot forward, her knees bent, weight perfectly distributed over both feet. Elbow bent, wrist turned, she kept Defender pointed at the man, her back arm raised behind her as a counterbalance.
Now her biggest problem was figuring out how to win the fight without killing him, no easy task given the precarious perch they both held on the edge of the cliff.
On came the dark-skinned warrior, scimitar slashing furiously.
Pony kept Defender rolling over the swishing blade while she executed a perfect hopping retreat. That was the difference between them: the fighting style of the land, as well as that of the Behrenese, was one of side-to-side cuts and flowing movements, but bi'nelle dasada was far more efficient, a style of front-to-back attack and retreat.
The Behrenese man stepped back, lifting his blade up beside his face, peering at Pony from around it, as if with new respect, as if trying to take her measure.
She didn't give him the chance. She stepped forward and leaped up; out went the scimitar for a slashing defense. But Pony's feet were already moving into position. To the stunned Behrenese, it seemed as if she had hardly even touched the ground, but already she was advancing suddenly, too fast to comprehend, and his blade was still out far too wide.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 158
