Now the ranger flexed his shoulders, weakening the monk's grasp. Iron-corded muscles stretched and pushed, the ranger moving himself so that his back followed the monk's tiger paw, while the human hand slipped farther and farther away.
Then he saw a change coming over the man's face, the transformation of his mouth into a great fanged maw.
Nightbird snapped his head forward suddenly, brutally smashing the monk's nose even as it elongated. He hammered his forehead in again, and then, knowing he was out of time, feeling the monk's other hand, too, becoming a clawed paw, he roared and threw his arms wide, accepting the agony as De'Unnero's claws scored deep lines across the side of his lower back, slashing all the way around to the side of Nightbird's rib cage.
The ranger's right hand slapped the changing face, while his other came in hard against De'Unnero's crotch. Grabbing a tight hold with both, screaming with every movement, the ranger spun, lifting De'Unnero from the ground, then slamming him hard against the wall. He pulled the monk back and slammed him again, and then a third time, despite De'Unnero's wildly slashing paws, one swipe of which caught the ranger on the side of the face, digging a line beside his eye.
Nightbird let the monk go with the third slam and launched a flurry of heavy punches, right and left repeatedly, to the monk's face and upper chest. Then he leaped back, paused, and lunged, forehead first, squarely into the middle of the monk's disfigured face.
De'Unnero's legs buckled, but the ranger wouldn't let it end so easily. One of his hands caught the chin, one the crotch, and up went the monk, high into the air. The ranger turned and rushed across the corridor, purposely aiming for a part of the great window the monk had not already broken, then heaved the dazed man through the glass to fall the thirty feet to the ground.
Lurching with pain, feeling his guts spilling out his side, Nightbird looked out the window and was satisfied when he saw that the dangerous creature lay still on the lawn, broken and bloody atop the sharp shards of glass.
Not even bothering to retrieve the sword, for he knew that such a weapon would be useless against Markwart —and knew, too, that his own strength was fast fading—Nightbird went for the door.
Their struggle, greater than on the darkened Palmaris field that terrible night, now became so intense that it transcended the spiritual, spilling over into the physical.
Outside the manor house, the crowd gasped as one and fell back, for the house thrummed with energy, lights flashing black and white, windows blowing out of their casings.
"Pray that Markwart does not emerge victorious," King Danube whispered to his two friends, and to Je'howith, who had moved near the carriage.
Kalas and Constance were already doing just that, and the old abbot, horrified by the spectacle before him, did not chastise the King.
Even Brother Francis, standing on the lawn, the closest man to the house, could only stare helplessly.
The door flew open and a pair of young monks staggered out, falling to the grass and crawling away, crying for mercy from God.
The stunned Francis did not dare to enter the place.
She had no child within her, no vulnerability, and so she fought with all her strength and all her rage.
But she could not win. Pony knew that. The spirit within Markwart was too strong, impossibly strong, and darker than anything she had ever known. She struggled valiantly, hit him with every ounce of energy and willpower she could muster, and held her ground as minute after minute slipped past.
The force of Markwart, surprised by the strength of the woman, came on and on, grew larger to tower over the woman's spirit, to engulf her as if to swallow her. Yet he could not, and so they struggled, and both of them knew that time worked against Pony, that she would tire first, despite her rage.
But then the woman felt a touch on her physical shoulder —and the temporary distraction sent Markwart's spirit driving her backward. It was a gentle touch, though, the stroke of a friend, of a lover, and then, somehow, a third spirit joined the pair, the specter of Nightbird, come to Pony's aid.
Both together then! Markwart telepathically imparted. Better to be done with both of you, to be rid of the troublesome pair. On he came, great bat-like wings sprouting from his spiritual shadow, rising up and towering over them.
Elbryan's spirit fell against Pony's, touching her, bonding in an embrace as intimate as any the couple had ever known.
On came Markwart. But now the two were one, linked spiritually as they had often used bi'nelle dasada to link physically. Together they stopped the progress of the Father Abbot, together they pushed the dark spirit back toward its host. Each inch of ground cost them dearly, ate at their life forces, drained energy.
They pushed on, the ranger taking the lead, putting his spirit against the strikes of Markwart, accepting the punishment, for Elbryan knew something that Pony did not, knew that his physical form was fast fading, his guts spilling, blood running. If he told her, or even let her know, she would rush from the fight and turn her attention with hematite to his wounds.
But Elbryan had known the sacrifice needed in coming into this battle, and he understood, too, that Pony could not afford such a retreat, that if she went to tend him, Markwart would destroy them both.
They were near Markwart now, and all three knew that to push the spirit back into its host, and then to follow it, meant victory. The Father Abbot dug in, roared at them telepathically and fought back.
Coldness engulfed the ranger's physical form. He felt it and understood what it foretold. This was the test of his faith, he knew, the test of all his training. This, the ultimate sacrifice, was what it meant to be a ranger.
By every instinct within him, he had to stop, had to tell Pony, had to live.
He drove on instead.
Markwart screamed, telepathically and physically. Elbryan heard it, but it seemed distant.
All the world seemed distant.
To those outside, it ended as a great burst of black light, a great dark flash, and then the house went quiet. Francis rushed in, as did Danube and his advisers, Roger and Bradwarden, and none moved to stop them. Almost as an afterthought, standing at the entryway, King Danube looked back and called to his soldiers to bring the prisoner monks. "For their lives surely hang in the balance," he explained.
At the back of the house, Belli'mar Juraviel paused only for a moment to consider the broken form of De'Unnero, then flew up to the window and the great hallway.
Pony felt the spirit of Markwart break apart and knew the man was defeated. Her joy became quickly tempered, though, as she felt another spirit diminish, as she watched Elbryan's life force fade fast before her. The woman came from her trance, back to her corporeal form, to see Markwart standing on shaky legs, staring at her in disbelief, to see Elbryan lying next to her, his body very still and very pale, surrounded by blood.
The woman fell over her lover, called to him desperately, tried to reach out for him with the hematite. But as she went down, all of her energy gone, she felt the floor come up after her, swallowing her in a profound blackness.
Markwart watched with horror. They had beaten him —no, not just him, but also that inner voice that had guided him for so long, a voice that he recognized now not as insight, but as a separate being! For now the Father Abbot knew the truth of it, and knew his life to be a lie, his course to be one of darkness and not redemption.
He could have killed them both, but that was the furthest thought from his mind at that terrible moment. He went to them, confused, and when he realized the man to be beyond his help and heard the noise of rushing feet down below in the house, he scooped the woman in his arms and moved, stiff-legged, to the door.
He came through, not even noticing the small form of the elf standing right beside it.
Poor Juraviel didn't know what to make of it. He heard Pony groan and sensed that the old man —and how old and battered Markwart appeared!—would not, could not, harm her further. No, something had happened to Markwart; the elf underst
ood that the man would not live for long, that he had been beaten. He thought to put his sword into the man's back anyway, and refrained only because he realized the terrible consequences such an action might have for his folk. He started to go to Pony, thinking to take her away from the horrid wretch who had brought her so much pain, but then he saw his friend, who had been as his son, lying still on the floor.
Juraviel rushed to Elbryan's side. He tried to tuck the spilling guts back with his bare hands.
But it was too late, he knew.
The ranger opened his green eyes.
"Pony lives," Juraviel said, moving very close to the ranger's ashen face.
"She won," the ranger gasped. "The demon is purged." His eyes rolled back and closed and he drew in a deep breath.
"Your son!" Juraviel said to him, made him hear in the very last instants of his life. "Your son lives, in Andur'Blough Inninness, under the care of Lady Dasslerond!"
Elbryan's eyes opened, his grip tightening on the elf's arm, and he managed a smile.
And then he died.
Bishop Francis, first up the stairs and first into the grand corridor, came upon Markwart, walking stiffly, bearing Pony in his arms. The younger monk grabbed his mentor and took the burden, laying Pony gently on the floor, then catching the falling Markwart and easing his way down.
The others crashed into the hall behind him, Roger yelling out for Pony.
"I chose wrong," Markwart said to Francis, managing a weak smile. "With Jojonah, with Avelyn. Yes, with Avelyn. I should have recognized the truth."
"No, Father," Francis started to say.
Markwart's dark eyes opened wide and he grabbed Francis tightly, with strength beyond his broken frame. "Yes!" he hissed. "Yes! I chose wrong. See to my Church, dear Francis. Become the shepherd of the flock and not the dictator. But beware —" A convulsion hit the man hard, knocking him from Francis' grasp to fall back to the floor. The younger monk moved over him immediately, propping his head up.
"Beware!" Markwart said again. "Beware that in your quest for humanism you do not steal the mystery of spiritualism."
Another convulsion wracked the man, and when it ended, the Abellican Church had no leader.
"She is alive!" Bishop Francis heard Roger cry behind him. He turned to see Roger working furiously over the woman —and to see Roger quietly pocket her gemstones in the process.
Behind the man and the prone woman stood King Danube and his advisers, with soldiers behind them keeping the monks at bay. But not Bradwarden. The centaur, wounded though he was, pushed through the Allheart line and past the King, heading for the room at the end of the hall. Some soldiers moved to pursue, but Danube motioned them back.
"The Father Abbot!" old Je'howith cried, coming through the door.
"Is dead," Bishop Francis answered softly.
"Assassin!" Je'howith shrieked. "The Father Abbot's blood demands justice! Guards!"
"Shut your mouth!" Brother Braumin insisted, pulling free of the soldier holding him —and King Danube motioned for the Allheart knight to step back and let the monk free. "If Dalebert Markwart is dead, it is because of the dark road he chose to walk!" Braumin declared openly.
"Sacrilege!" Je'howith yelled in the man's face, but the next order to shut up came from a most unexpected source.
"You heard the man tell you to be quiet, good abbot," Bishop Francis insisted. "We will discuss this matter at length among are own —at a college that we must quickly convene."
"Brother Francis!" Je'howith started to protest.
"But I warn you," Francis went on, ignoring the man, "if you side with dead Markwart against Brother Braumin and the others, I will go against you."
Je'howith stammered and stuttered, and had no reply. He looked to the King, but Danube offered no support.
Francis turned to Pony, and to Roger, who nodded that he believed the woman would live. "By the Father Abbot's own dying words," said Francis, "the time has come for change in the Church. Look at her, the disciple of Avelyn, named as an outlaw. And yet, I will nominate her as the Mother Abbess of the new Church."
"What foolishness is this?" Je'howith demanded.
"At the same time I nominate Brother Avelyn Desbris as a candidate for canonization," the surprising Bishop Francis added.
"St. Avelyn!" Brother Viscenti cried.
"Impossible!" shouted Je'howith.
"Why do we tolerate them, my King?" asked a disgusted Duke Kalas.
Danube managed a chuckle, for in truth, he had heard enough from the troublesome Abellican Church. "I hereby dismiss the office of bishop of Palmaris," he said, his tone leaving little room for debate. "And I warn you all. Put your house in order, else I shall do it for you. If a monk can assume the role of bishop, then similar precedents can place the King in the role of Father Abbot!"
Francis looked to Braumin and nodded determinedly.
Je'howith, catching the signal, wondered if he would survive with his position of abbot intact.
Bradwarden came out of the room then, bearing the body of Elbryan, and there would be no time of celebration for those who had known the man as friend and companion.
Brother Braumin and the other monks bowed their heads in respect. Roger fell over Pony, sobbing for himself and for her.
Outside the manor house, standing in the glass from the smashed window, Belli'mar Juraviel looked up one last time, his heart broken. He understood that it was time for him to return to Andur'Blough Inninness, time for him to run away from the humans and their foolish battles.
What he could not understand, though, was how the body of Marcalo De'Unnero had disappeared.
Epilogue
She heard them arguing in the house behind her, heard her own name spoken many times, but it was unimportant to Pony that gray and windy summer day. Everything seemed unimportant at that moment, save the two commemorative markers set in the garden of Chasewind Manor. One had been a gift from King Danube, a symbolic gesture as the man had reclaimed Chasewind Manor. The other had come from Brother Braumin and, surprisingly, from Brother Francis, to signify the support of the new Abellican Church.
Or was it still the Abellican Church? During the heated arguments, Brother Braumin had hinted that his group and any who would follow —and his opponent, Abbot Je'howith, had recognized that the list of followers might be long—might splinter from the Abellican Church to begin the Church of Avelyn.
"They love us now," the woman said to the marker. It was only a marker, for Elbryan's body wasn't interred there. Pony would not allow it. Her husband was to be buried in the grove beyond Dundalis, the place where he had found the grave of his uncle Mather and where he had earned Tempest. To that end, Bradwarden and Roger were leaving Palmaris that very day, the centaur pulling a caisson carrying Elbryan's casket.
Pony could hardly believe he was gone. She stood there, very still, trying to replay the events that had brought her to this terrible place. But she could not fathom it all. Half her soul had been torn away, and now she was empty.
They talked of making her the Mother Abbess, the leader of the Church. King Danube had promised her much, perhaps even the barony of Palmaris, in honor of her service to the kingdom —for the defeat of Markwart was now being heralded as a victory for the Crown. At that moment, despite her desire to do good, Pony hoped that none of it would come true, that they would all just leave her alone with her memories and her pain. Perhaps she could be a great leader for the Church, perhaps take it in the direction Avelyn had espoused.
She hardly cared.
For all she knew was emptiness and helplessness, a sense of unreality that this terrible thing could not have happened. When she thought back to the previous fall, pregnant in Caer Tinella, making love with Elbryan on the field, she nearly toppled over with weakness.
A gentle hand touched Pony's shoulder, and she turned to see Kalas, the interim baron of Palmaris, and Constance Pemblebury.
"Are you going with them to the north?" Constance asked.
They walked solemnly, staring straight ahead and not at the crowds gathered along the roads, many throwing flowers at the caisson. Elbryan, Nightbird, was fast becoming legend to the folk of Palmaris, something that both Roger and Bradwarden welcomed cautiously. For though they knew their friend was worthy of any honor bestowed him, they wanted to remember the truth of the man, and didn't want that truth, impressive enough of its own accord, blurred by ridiculously exaggerated legend.
This moment, Elbryan's moment, would live on in the memories of all who watched —and that audience included King Danube Brock Ursal himself.
A contingent of Allheart horsemen led the way, and would accompany the caisson all the way to Dundalis.
They came through the northern gate of Palmaris to find many more folk, all the farmers of the northern fields. Then another onlooker reared and cried out; mighty Symphony on a hillock not far away.
"He knows," Bradwarden assured Roger.
As if on cue, the great stallion charged down the hill to join them, cantering past the Allheart soldiers, who sat in silent awe of the magnificent steed, stronger and swifter than even their famed To-gai-ru horses.
Symphony pawed at the caisson, and Bradwarden, ever attuned to the desires of horses, pulled the harness from over his head and strapped it on the stallion.
On they went, quietly to the north.
From far away, Belli'mar Juraviel watched the procession, the last journey of his dear friend, then turned for home.
Unseen by the elf —though not so far away—Marcalo De'Unnero watched, too. His physical wounds were nearly healed by the power of his hematite ring, but his emotional scars ran deeper. The monk —former monk, it would seem—came to question so many things as he watched the outpouring for Nightbird, as he secretly listened to the conversations of farmers, damning Markwart, praising the ranger, and speaking in hopeful terms of a great and miraculous change within the Abellican Church.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 191
