Mortalis dw-4

by Robert Salvatore

  De'Unnero continued to smile, but slowed his approach. "Avelyn is a lie," he said.

  "Says Marcalo De'Unnero, former bishop of Palmaris," Jilseponie returned. Many in the crowd gasped, telling her that she had guessed correctly: not many in attendance knew the true identity of the man.

  "The same Marcalo De'Unnero who murdered Baron Rochefort Bildeborough, and his nephew, Connor," Pony declared. This time, the gasps were even louder.

  "Lies, all!" Brother Truth cried, holding his outward calm. "Baron Bildeborough was killed by a great cat, so say the witnesses and all those who investigated his death."

  "A creature that can be replicated through use of the gemstones."

  "No!" De'Unnero yelled back before that thought could gain any momentum. "The gemstone may replicate but a limb of the cat, perhaps two if the wielder is strong enough. But that is not the tale told by the scene of Baron Bildeborough's death, and so your claim is the preposterous lie of a desperate fool!"

  Pony looked around at the crowd, the uncertain and very afraid peasants. She could not begin any trial here, she realized, could not possibly slow all this down enough to turn the tide against De'Unnero.

  "Let them decide their course later," she said to the man. "Let us finish our private business here and now." And she waved Defender before her, a motion for the dangerous monk to be on his guard.

  With a laugh most sinister, De'Unnero shrugged off his robes and fell into a fighting stance, circling, circling to Pony's left.

  "Do not!" Jilseponie heard Abbot Braumin cry from behind. "You do not know the power of-" She held up her hand to silence the man; nothing would deter her from this fight. Not now. This was the man who had wounded Elbryan, who had, in fact, brought about his death in his subsequent battle with Markwart. This was the man who had brought the crowd against St. Precious, without doubt, the symbol of all that Jilseponie despised. This was the man, and no doubt, Jilseponie meant to wage this fight.

  Quicker than she could believe, De'Unnero leaped forward, his left arm going under Defender, then coming up and out to keep the sword wide, while his other hand came straight in, a heavy punch aimed for Jilseponie's face. She thought that he would measure her, would take some feinting strides and punches, and so she was caught somewhat off guard, and had to skitter back defensively, taking a clip on the face as he followed the punch through to the end.

  The fight would have been over, then and there, for De'Unnero continued ahead, launching another right, then a straight left, then another right.

  But Jilseponie knew bi'nelle dasada, had mastered much of the danceparticularly the straightforward charge-and-retreat routines-perfectly, and she managed to elude the charging monk long enough to get her sword in line and force him back.

  Now she came forward, a sudden charge and thrust; but De'Unnero, so agile-too agile! — leaped into a sidelong roll that forced Jilseponie to turn. By the time she had, he had already come inside her sword reach, and she had to skitter into another desperate retreat.

  Only for a moment, though, for she slid down to one knee, under a wild right hook, disengaging Defender from the blocking arm, then slashed the sword across.

  Up went De'Unnero, tucking his legs. Jilseponie stopped and pulled the sword in, then thrust straight out, and De'Unnero had to throw his hips to the side to dodge.

  He rolled right about that pivot, lifting one leg high, then stomping down; Pony threw her free arm out to block-and then fell back, tucking the bruised limb in against her side.

  She didn't let the pain deter her and retreated only a couple of steps before reversing and thrusting, charging ahead several fast strides, angled to keep up with De'Unnero, and thrusting again. Then it was the monk's turn to clutch a wounded limb, a torn forearm.

  But if Jilseponie thought that she had any advantage, then she didn't understand the fiber of Marcalo De'Unnero. With a feral growl, he came on, his hands working a blur of circles in the air before him-a blur that Jilseponie didn't dare thrust her sword into, for if she missed any mark, he would certainly disarm her or at least deflect Defender out too far to the side. On he came, hands working a defensive frenzy and every so often launching a straight jab; legs working furiously, keeping perfect balance, and every so often launching a kick for her face.

  And Jilseponie was backing, backing, trying to sort out the blur, trying to find some opening. She called to Elbryan then, to guide her.

  But he was not there or could not answer. It was only herself against this man, this monster, and she understood clearly at that moment that she was badly overmatched. How she wished she hadn't so depleted her magical energies! How she wished she could activate serpentine and ruby and burn the skin from De'Unnero's bones!

  Out came a jab, and she had to slash Defender to turn the punch away, and only then did Jilseponie realize that she had been duped. Down went De'Unnero, throwing his leg out wide, sweeping it forward, catching the retreating woman on the ankle and tripping her.

  She fell with enough balance to prevent any real injury, but again, the monk leaped ahead too quickly and stood towering over her.

  She couldn't get Defender in line this time. She noted then that the man's arm had become that of a great tiger.

  For Marcalo De'Unnero, this was the moment of complete triumph, of full circle. Jilseponie would die, there and then, and all threat that the followers of Avelyn would somehow push back his brethren would die with her.

  For he was the victor, he was the one who would stand among the masses, sending them with renewed fury against the diminishing defenses of St. Precious Abbey.

  He had sensed that, had sensed the kill, even as his foot connected with her ankle, sending her tumbling to the cobblestones. He had smelled her blood, had felt the tiger awakening within him. The woman was goodvery good-and he knew that he would get only one strike in before she managed to come back on the defensive. But he had the great beast within him; his paw carried lethal claws.

  He would need only one strike.

  He started his swipe, her neck open to him. She could not possibly bring her sword in line, could not begin to roll out of death's way.

  But she opened her other hand and a missile fired out, a small gemstone homing in on the metal in the one piece of jewelry Brother Truth wore: an earring dangling the evergreen symbol of the Abellican Church.

  The magic stone drove up against the side of De'Unnero's head, tearing away his ear. His attack became a shriek as he brought his arm in reflexively to grab at the wound.

  Jilseponie rolled back, setting her feet under her and coming up; and De'Unnero, too, retreated, howling with pain and outrage.

  "Deceiver!" he cried.

  "Tell me when I claimed to fight you fairly," she spat back.

  "Deceiver!" he cried again.

  "I did not use magic until you did!" Jilseponie yelled back. She came forward with a thrust, and De'Unnero leaped aside.

  It churned in him, boiling, boiling, the primal rage, the primal beast. His head burned with pain; his brain swirled with red rage. He had won! He had victory right in his grasp, his clawed, tiger's grasp!

  He hardly felt the transformation, the crackling and reshaping of bone, the beast overwhelming his control. He knew that he should not, must not, allow this! Not out here, in front of all the folk, not so soon after Jilseponie had just declared him the murderer of Baron Bildeborough!

  But he couldn't stop it, not with the blur of pain, the red wall of outrage. His senses heightened; he saw Jilseponie, her horse behind her, rearing and neighing.

  He heard them, all of them, gasping, and then crying out against him.

  Desperation had given her the strength to launch the lodestone, but only luck had brought it into such a sensitive area as his ear. She produced another stone now, a graphite, but Jilseponie knew that the thunderbolt she brought forth from it would be of little real effect. Her magical energies were now depleted to the point where she doubted that her bolt would even slow the charge of this terrifying, tr
emendous cat.

  She would have to use Defender alone to stop him; and when she considered the sword, magnificent as it was, Jilseponie realized that she was in dire trouble.

  But De'Unnero didn't charge; and suddenly, she realized that their personal battle had come to an abrupt end. Tetrafel's archers had their bows low and level but not aiming at her; the cries from the peasants all about her did not call for her death.

  No, De'Unnero had revealed the truth of himself to the folk of Palmaris, had shown them that he had been the murderer of their beloved Baron Bildeborough.

  They knew now the truth of Brother Truth.

  The great cat sprang-not at Jilseponie, but by her, breaking into a sprint. A volley of arrows followed, some hitting the mark; but on De'Unnero ran, away he leaped, clearing the dodging and ducking peasants, breaking for the city's outer wall with a host of arrows, of crossbow bolts from St. Precious, of charging horsemen, right behind.

  Jilseponie stood calm through the storm, held her ground, and turned her attention away from the fleeing tiger toward the more important adversary.

  Duke Tetrafel was there, staring back at her from the window of his decorated coach.

  Pain and rage, primal hunger and blind hatred all swirled in his mind, along with abject despair at the deep-buried but deep-seated realization that he had failed. He had gone from victory to complete defeat in the blink of an eye, and now he was revealed and banished forevermore.

  He charged for the wall, hearing the pursuit, feeling the pain of a dozen stinging arrows that had burrowed under his black-striped orange coat. Fear and rage alone kept him moving, running, running, for the northern gate.

  He saw a woman on a familiar horse, but he couldn't stop to tear out her throat, to feast upon her warm blood. He had to get to the gate-and through the gate.

  No, the great cat realized, and he quickly turned down a side alley. Not to the gate. The horsemen could follow him through the gate, and he was fast tiring. He was a predator, built for short bursts of speed, and he was sorely wounded, but those horses could run and run.

  He headed for the wall again, but not near any gate. The pursuit closed, closed, but De'Unnero used his last remaining strength to get to the base of the wall and to leap high and far.

  Another arrow caught him in midnight.

  He landed heavily on the field outside, slumping to the ground, but then pulling himself back up and dragging his punctured body away into hiding.

  He felt the darkness closing all about him, could hear the rasp of death and feel the cold and merciless hand closing in.

  Chapter 40

  Cynicism Laid Bare

  They stood in the square, watching the soldiers galloping in pursuit of the fleeing monster. Jilseponie didn't follow. She just stood there, beside Symphony, open and exposed and vulnerable, out of magic and exhausted. She looked across the way to the remaining Brothers Repentant and the hordes they held back, to the line of soldiers still sitting ominously on their chargers, to Duke Tetrafel, staring at her from the window of his coach, his expression indecipherable.

  Slowly, she dared to glance back at St. Precious, to see the monks holding stoic vigil, some with gemstones, some with crossbows, some flanking a great black kettle steaming with hot oil. There stood her friend Braumin Herde staring back at her with a mixture of respect and love, gratitude and fear.

  For she was out there, in the calm valley between two great waves; and those waves, despite what she had just done, despite that she had shown the folk of Palmaris the truth of Marcalo De'Unnero, seemed destined to crash together one more time.

  By the time Jilseponie looked back across the way, Duke Tetrafel had stepped out of his carriage. She could see the slump of his shoulders, the dark blue under his eyes. Yes, he had the plague; she could smell it thick about him even this far away.

  "The brothers of St. Precious did not cause this," Jilseponie said loudly, sweeping her gaze quickly about all the crowd, but then quickly refocusing it on Tetrafel. "The plague is not the work of men, nor is it the scourge of an angry God."

  "So you claim!" shouted one of the Brothers Repentant from the side. "So you must, for you have led the way against God!" He came forward as he spoke, prodding his finger at Jilseponie. Her responding look was one of perfect calm and confidence, and perfectly cold; and the man, who had just seen his adored leader beaten away by this dangerous woman, gradually calmed and slowed.

  "They are innocent," Jilseponie said to Tetrafel when the threat of the irate brother had passed.

  "They hide while the people suffer and die!" the Duke came back.

  "As did you, until you learned that the plague was within your own body," she replied. "I do not judge you, Duke," she quickly added, seeing the soldiers all about him bristle at the accusation. "Nor can I, can any of us, judge all the folk who so hide from the plague-monk or soldier, brother or even father-who out of fear for the rest of his family must put a victim out of his house."

  "But you never hid from it!" came one cry from the crowd; and Jilseponie recognized the speaker as one of the attendants at the house where Colleen had died.

  "But that was my choice to make," Jilseponie quickly answered, before any negative comparisons could be drawn concerning the brothers of St. Precious. "As it was yours, Duke Tetrafel."

  The clump of hooves to the side alerted Pony that Dainsey Aucomb and Greystone had at last arrived at the square.

  "But take heart!" Jilseponie cried. "For our salvation is upon us, and there is the proof!" She pointed at Dainsey as she finished, then looked back to the crowd to see a great mixture of expressions, and many of them verging on uncontrollable excitement.

  "Duke Tetrafel, will you come with me inside the abbey, to meet with Abbot Braumin, that I might explain my revelations to you? "

  The sick man stared at her hard.

  "A trick!" cried another of the troublesome Brothers Repentant. "A deception to take the heart from our fight!"

  Jilseponie didn't even glance the man's way. "You have the plague and will die," she said bluntly to the Duke. "I cannot help you, nor can the brothers within the abbey. But there is an answer, a cure for your sickness, and I know how to reach it."

  " Then tell us!" came a cry from the crowd, a plea echoed many times over.

  Jilseponie held up her hand. "It will take all of us to do this thing," she shouted back, "It will only work if Duke Tetrafel agrees." And she settled her gaze upon him again as she finished, putting the weight of a thousand desperate prayers squarely on his sickly shoulders. "Will you come in with me?" she asked again. "On my word, you'll not be harmed nor detained."

  "Your word? " Duke Tetrafel echoed skeptically, glancing past her to the brothers of the abbey.

  "Mine as well," said Abbot Braumin.

  The monks about him shifted nervously, staring at him with disbelief. Jilseponie could not enter the abbey, by his own words, unless she submitted to thorough inspection to ensure that she was not afflicted, and Duke Tetrafel, of course, could not be admitted at all, for he was obviously ill with plague.

  "We will meet at the gate," the abbot clarified, "on opposite sides of a tussie-mussie bed we will lay out within the tower antechamber."

  "A hero to the end," Duke Tetrafel muttered, loudly enough for Jilseponie to hear, but in truth, that arrangement seemed perfectly suited to her needs.

  "All of you stay back," Tetrafel said to his soldiers and to the common people. He sucked in his breath and strode forward, then walked with Jilseponie and Dainsey to St. Precious' front gates. It was some time before the monks had the flowers in place within the gatehouse, but soon after, the doors swung open.

  Abbot Braumin and his advisers, Viscenti, Talumus, and Castinagis, stood across the flower bed from the trio.

  Now it was Jilseponie's turn to take a deep breath. This was her moment, a critical one for the fate of all the world.

  She told them the story, all of it, of Dainsey and Roger, of her trip to the Barbacan with Bradwa
rden and Dainsey, of the ghost of Romeo Mullahywhich made Master Viscenti gasp fearfully-and of the second miracle of Aida.

  "I, too, have kissed the hand of Avelyn," Jilseponie finished. "Thus, the rosy plague cannot touch me."

  The expressions coming back at her from across the tussie-mussie bed ranged from joyful Master Viscenti, hopeful Brother Talumus, skeptical Brother Castinagis, and, even worse than that, something beyond skeptical, sympathetic Abbot Braumin. Beside Jilseponie, Tetrafel was more animated, was grabbing at the hope she had just offered to him.

  "Then you are my angel," he said, taking Jilseponie's hand in his own. "You will take this wretched disease from my body!"

  Jilseponie turned to him, trying to find the words to explain to him that, while there was indeed an answer, a true hope, she was not the source of his, or anyone else's, cure.

  "The plague is not always fatal," Abbot Braumin interrupted. Jilseponie and Tetrafel both turned to regard him, for the manner in which he had spoken those words showed that he believed Jilseponie's "revelation" to be nothing so spectacular. "People have been cured, though it is rare," the abbot went on.

  "Then why do you hide behind your walls? " Duke Tetrafel demanded.

  "One in twenty, so say the old songs," the abbot calmly replied. "One in twenty might be helped, but one in seven will afflict the helping brother. We hide because those numbers, learned through bitter experience, demand that we hide."

  Tetrafel trembled and seemed on the verge of an explosion. "This is different," Jilseponie put in. "Dainsey was not helped by meindeed, I tried and was repulsed, again and again."

  "Perhaps you had more success than you believed," suggested Braumin.

  Jilseponie was shaking her head before he ever finished the words. "I had no effect, and was, in fact, afflicted by my efforts. Yet the plague is not within me any longer and cannot enter this, my body purified by the blood of Avelyn. It is real, Ab-Braumin. It is real and it is up there, at the Barbacan, the cure for the plague for those who can make the journey, the armor that can turn it aside without fail."