But Brother Braumin, Pony realized within her darkened perception, was possessed of something she could no longer claim.
Hope.
“Brennilee! Ye’ve not fed the chickens, ye silly lass!” Merry Cowsenfed called out the front door of her small house. “Oh, Brennilee, where’ve ye got yerself to, girl?” She shook her head and grumbled. Truly Brennilee, her youngest child, was the most troublesome seven-year-old Merry had ever heard of, always running across the rocky cliffs and the dunes below, sometimes daring the brutal tidewaters of Falidean Bay—which could bring twenty feet of water rushing across the muddy ground in a matter of a few running strides—in her endless quest for adventure and enjoyment.
And always, always, did Brennilee forget her chores before she went on her wild runs. Every morning, Merry Cowsenfed heard those chickens complaining, and every morning, the woman had to go to her door and call out.
“I’m here, Mum,” came a quiet voice behind her, a voice Merry hardly recognized as that of her spirited daughter.
“Ye missed yer breakfast,” Merry replied, turning, “and so’ve the chickens.”
“I’ll feed ’em,” Brennilee said quietly, too quietly. Merry Cowsenfed quickly closed the distance to her unexpectedly fragile-looking daughter and brought her palm up against Brennilee’s forehead, feeling for fever.
“Are ye all right, girl?” she asked, and then her eyes widened, for Brennilee was warm to the touch.
“I’m not feelin’ good, Mum,” the girl admitted.
“Come on, then. I’ll get ye to bed and get ye some soup to warm ye,” the woman said, taking Brennilee by the wrist.
“But the chickens …”
“The chickens’ll get theirs after ye’re warm in yer bed,” Merry Cowsenfed started to say, turning back with a wide, warm smile for her daughter.
Her smile evaporated when she saw on the little girl’s arm a rosy spot encircled by a white ring.
Merry Cowsenfed composed herself quickly for her daughter’s sake, and brought the arm up for closer inspection. “Did ye hurt yerself, then?” she asked the girl, and there was no mistaking the hopeful tone of her question.
“No,” Brennilee replied, and she moved her face closer, too, to see what was so interesting to her mother.
Merry studied the rosy spot for just a moment. “Ye go to bed now,” she instructed. “Ye pull only the one sheet over ye, so that ye’re not overheatin’ with the little fever ye got.”
“Am I going to get sicker?” Brennilee asked innocently.
Merry painted a smile on her face. “No, ye’ll be fine, me girl,” she lied, and she knew indeed how great a lie it was! “Now get ye to bed and I’ll be bringing ye yer soup.”
Brennilee smiled. As soon as she was out of the room, Merry Cowsenfed collapsed into a great sobbing ball of fear.
She’d have to get the Falidean town healer to come quickly and see the girl. She reminded herself repeatedly that she’d need a wiser person than she to confirm her suspicion, that it might be something altogether different: a spider bite or a bruise from one of the sharp rocks that Brennilee was forever scrambling across. It was too soon for such terror, Merry Cowsenfed told herself repeatedly.
Ring around the rosy.
It was an old song in Falidean town, as in most of the towns of Honce-the-Bear.
It was a song about the plague.
Was the victory worth the cost?
It pains me even to speak those words aloud, and, in truth, the question seems to reflect a selfishness, an attitude disrespectful to the memory of all those who gave their lives battling the darkness that had come to Corona. If I wish Elbryan back alive—and Avelyn and so many others—am I diminishing their sacrifice? I was there with Elbryan, joined in spirit, bonded to stand united against the demon dactyl that had come to reside in the corporeal form of Father Abbot Markwart. I watched and felt Elbryan’s spirit diminish and dissipate into nothingness even as I witnessed the breaking of the blackness, the destruction of Bestesbulzibar.
And I felt, too, Elbryan’s willingness to make the sacrifice, his desire to see the battle through to the only acceptable conclusion, even though that victory, he knew, would take his life. He was a ranger, trained by the Touel’alfar, a servant and protector of mankind, and those tenets demanded of him responsibility and the greatest altruism.
And so he died contented, in the knowledge that he had lifted the blackness from the Church and the land.
All our lives together, since I had returned to Dundalis and found Elbryan, had been lives of willing sacrifice, of risk taking. How many battles did we fight, even though we might have avoided them? We walked to the heart of the dactyl, to Mount Aida in the Barbacan, though we truly believed that to be a hopeless road, though we fully expected that all of us would die, and likely in vain, in our attempt to battle an evil that seemed so very far beyond us. And yet we went. Willingly. With hope, and with the understanding that we had to do this thing, whatever the cost, for the betterment of the world.
It came full circle that day in Chasewind Manor, when finally, finally, we caught, not the physical manifestation of Bestesbulzibar, but rather the demon’s spirit, the very essence of evil. We won the day, shattering that evil.
But was the victory worth the cost?
I look back on the last few years of my life, and I cannot discount that question. I remember all the good people, all the great people, who passed from this world in the course of the journey that led me to this point, and, at times, it seems to me to be a great and worthless waste.
I know that I dishonor Elbryan and likely anger his ghost with these emotions, but they are very real.
We battled, we fought, we gave of ourselves all that we could and more. Most of all, though, it seems to me as if we’ve spent the bulk of time burying our dead. Even that cost, I had hoped, would prove worthwhile in those few shining moments after I awakened from my battle with the demon spirit, in the proclamations of Brother Francis, of Brother Braumin, and of the King himself that Elbryan had not died in vain, that the world, because of our actions, would be a better place. I dared to hope that my love’s sacrifice, that our sacrifice, would be enough, would turn the tide of humankind and better the world for all.
Is Honce-the-Bear better off for the fall of Markwart?
With sudden response, the answer seems obvious; in that shining moment of clarity and hope, the answer seemed obvious.
That moment, I fear, has passed. In the fog of confusion, in the shifting and shoving for personal gain, in the politics of court and Church, that moment of glory, of sadness, and of hope has diminished into bickering.
Like Elbryan’s spirit, it becomes something less than substantial and drifts away on unseen winds.
And I am left alone in Palmaris, watching the world descend into chaos. Demon inspired? Perhaps, or perhaps—and this is my greatest fear—this confusion is merely the nature of humankind, as eternal as the human spirit, an unending cycle of pain and sacrifice, a series of brilliant, twinkling hopes that fade as surely as do the stars at dawn. Did I, and Elbryan, bring the world through its darkness, or did we merely guide it safely through one long night, with another sure to follow?
That is my fear and my belief. When I sit and remember all those who gave their lives so that we could walk this road to its end, I fear that we have merely returned to the beginning of that same path.
In light of that understanding, I say with conviction that the victory was not worth the cost.
—JILSEPONIE WYNDON
Chapter 1
The Show of Strength
THE MUD SUCKED AT HIS BOOTS AS HE WALKED ALONG THE NARROW, SMOKY CORRIDOR, a procession of armored soldiers in step behind him. The conditions were not to his liking—he didn’t want his “prisoners” growing obstinate, after all.
Around a bend in the tunnel the light increased and the air cleared, and before Duke Targon Bree Kalas loomed a wider and higher chamber, its one entrance securely barred. Kalas motion
ed to a soldier behind him, and the man hustled forward, fumbling with keys and hastily unlocking the cell door. Other soldiers tried to slip by, to enter the cell protectively before their leader, but Kalas slapped them back and strode in.
A score of dwarvish faces turned his way, the normally ruddy-complexioned powries seeming a bit paler after months imprisoned underground.
Kalas studied those faces carefully, noting the narrowing of eyes, a reflection, he knew, of seething hatred. It wasn’t that the powries hated him particularly, but rather that they merely hated any human.
Again, almost as one, the dwarves turned away from him, back to their conversations and myriad games they had invented to pass the tedious hours.
One of the soldiers began calling them to attention, but Duke Kalas cut him short and waved him and the others back. Then he stood by the door, calmly, patiently letting them come to him.
“Yach, it’s to wait all the damned day if we isn’t to spake with it,” one powrie said at last. The creature removed its red beret—a cap shining bright with the blood of its victims—and scratched its itchy, lice-filled hair, then replaced the cap and hopped up, striding to stand before the Duke.
“Ye comin’ down to see our partyin’?” the dwarf asked.
Kalas didn’t blink, staring at the powrie sternly. This dwarf, the leader, was always the sarcastic one, and he always seemed to need a reminder that he had been captured while waging war on the kingdom, that he and his wretched little fellows were alive only by the grace of Duke Kalas.
“Well?” the dwarf, Dalump Keedump by name, went on obstinately.
“I told you that I would require your services at the turn of the season,” Duke Kalas stated quietly.
“And we’re to be knowin’ that the season’s turned?” Keedump asked sarcastically. He turned to his fellows. “Are ye thinkin’ the sun to be ridin’ lower in the sky these days?” he asked with a wicked little laugh.
“Would you like to see the sun again?” Duke Kalas asked him in all seriousness.
Dalump Keedump eyed him long and hard. “Ye think ye’re to break us, then?” the dwarf asked. “We spent more time in a barrelboat, tighter and dirtier than this, ye fool.”
Kalas let a long moment slip past, staring at the dwarf, not daring to blink. Then he nodded slightly and turned, leaving the cell, pulling its door closed behind him as he returned to the muddy corridor with his soldiers. “Very well, then,” he said. “Perhaps I will return in a few days—the first face you will see, I assure you. Perhaps after you have murdered some of your companions for food, you will better hear my propositions.” And he walked away, as did his men, having every intention of carrying through with his threat.
He had gone several steps before Dalump called out to him. “Ye came all the way down here. Ye might as well be tellin’ us what ye gots in mind.”
Kalas smiled and moved back to the cell door. Now the other dwarves, suddenly interested in the conversation, crowded behind Dalump.
“Extra rations and more comfortable bedding,” the Duke teased.
“Yach, but ye said we’d be walkin’ free!” Dalump Keedump protested. “Or sailin’ free, on a boat back to our homes.”
“In time, my little friend, in time,” Kalas replied. “I am in need of an enemy, that I might show the rabble the strength of the Allhearts and thus bring them the security they desperately need. Assist me in this, and the arrangements will be made for your release soon enough.”
Another of the dwarves, his face a mask of frustration, rushed forward, shouldering past Dalump. “And if we doesn’t?” he asked angrily.
Duke Kalas’ fine sword was out in the blink of a powrie eye, its point snapping against the obstinate fellow’s throat, pressing firmly. “If you do not, then so be it,” Kalas said calmly, turning to eye Dalump directly as he spoke. “From our first meeting, I have been clear in my intentions and honest in our dealings. Choose your course, Dalump Keedump, and accept the consequences.”
The powrie leader glared at his upstart second.
“Fairly caught,” Duke Kalas reminded, rather poignantly, considering that his sword was still out and the statement was true enough. Dalump and his group had been fairly caught on the field of battle, as they had attacked this city. Duke Kalas was bound by no codes or rules in dealing with the powries. He could execute them openly and horribly in Palmaris’ largest square, or he could let them starve to death down here in the dungeons beneath Chasewind Manor, forgotten by all.
Dalump shifted his gaze back and forth between Kalas and the upstart powrie, his expression hinting that he wanted to choke them both—wanted to choke anybody or anything—just to relieve the mounting frustration accompanying this wretched situation. “Tell me yer stinkin’ plan,” he reluctantly agreed.
Duke Kalas nodded and smiled again.
Duke Kalas walked onto the rear balcony of Chasewind Manor early in the morning a few days later. The air was heavy with fog and drizzle, a perfectly miserable day, but one to Kalas’ liking. It had turned warmer again, though they still had more than a month before the winter solstice. The remnants of the previous blizzard, winter’s first blast, were fast melting, and the reports Kalas had received the day before indicated that grass was showing again on the windblown western fields.
That fact, plus the gathering storm clouds in the west threatening a second storm, had prompted the Duke’s action, and now, with the poor visibility, he could not have asked for a better morning. He heard the door open behind him, and he turned to see King Danube Brock Ursal step out to join him.
He was a few years older than his dear friend Kalas, and rounder in the middle, but his hair remained thick and black, and his beard, a new addition, showed no signs of graying.
“I hope to sail within the week,” Danube remarked. Kalas was not surprised, since Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic and commander of the King’s navy, had indicated as much to him the previous evening.
“You will have favorable weather all the way back to Ursal,” Duke Kalas assured his beloved king, though he feared the decision to travel. If winter weather came on again with the fleet still in the northern waters of the Masur Delaval, the result could be catastrophic.
“So Bretherford believes,” said Danube. “In truth, I am more concerned about the situation I leave behind.”
Kalas looked at him, his expression wounded.
“Brother Braumin seems formidable and, to the common man, likable,” Danube elaborated. “And if the woman Jilseponie stands by him—along with Markwart’s former lackey Francis—then their appeal to the folk of Palmaris will be considerable. I remind you that Brother Francis endeared himself to the people in the last days of Markwart, when he served the city as bishop.”
Kalas could find little to dispute, for he and Danube had discussed the situation at length many times since the fall of Markwart and the hero, Elbryan, in this very house.
“Jilseponie has formally refused your offer, then?” Kalas asked.
“I will speak with her one last time,” King Danube replied, “but I doubt that she will comply. Old Je’howith has spent much time in St. Precious, and has indicated to me that the woman is truly broken and without ambition.”
The mere mention of Je’howith, the abbot of Ursal’s St. Honce and a close adviser to Danube, made Kalas narrow his eyes suspiciously. It was no secret among the court that Je’howith hated Jilseponie above all others. He had been Markwart’s man, and she and her dead lover had killed Markwart, had turned his secure little church world upside down. Je’howith had pushed King Danube to raise the woman to the position of baroness. With Pony in secular circles, answerable to the King, her influence on the Church would come from outside, far less dangerous, to Je’howith’s thinking, than from inside.
“Abbot Je’howith favors the appointment of Jilseponie as baroness,” Danube pointedly reminded Kalas.
“Abbot Je’howith would more favor her execution,” Kalas replied.
Danube gave a
laugh at the irony. At one point, both Pony and Elbryan, imprisoned in St. Precious, had been slated for execution by Father Abbot Markwart.
Their conversation was interrupted by a tumult in the grand house behind them.
“Reports of a powrie force outside the western wall,” Duke Kalas explained with a wry grin.
“You play a dangerous game,” the King returned, then he nodded, for he did not disagree with the necessity of the ruse. “I will not go to the wall,” he decided, though he and Kalas had previously spoken of his attendance. “Thus will suspicions of any conspiracy be lessened.”
Duke Kalas paused, staring thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
The King’s other close adviser—but one who was unaware of Kalas’ strategem, a lady of the court named Constance Pemblebury—came through the balcony doors, her face flushed. “Bloody cap powries,” she said breathlessly. “There are reports that they are attacking the western gate!”
Kalas put on an alarmed expression. “I’ll rouse the Allhearts,” he said, and he rushed from the balcony.
Constance moved beside the King, who draped an arm casually about her and kissed her cheek. “Fear not, dear Constance,” he said. “Duke Kalas and his charges will more than meet the attack.”
Constance nodded and seemed to calm a bit. She knew the proud Allheart Brigade well, had seen their splendor on the field many times. Besides, how could she be afraid, up here on the balcony of the magnificent Chasewind Manor, in the arms of the man she adored?
She woke to the sounds of shouting, lifted her head from her pillow just as a brown-robed monk ran by her small room, crying, “Powries! Powries at the western gate!”
Pony’s eyes popped open and she scrambled out of her bed. Not much could rouse her from her grieving lethargy, but the cry “Powries,” those wretched and tough murderous dwarves, made her blood boil with rage. She was dressed and out the door in moments, rushing along the dim corridors of St. Precious, finally finding brothers Braumin Herde, Francis, Anders Castinagis, and Marlboro Viscenti gathered together in the nave of the abbey’s large chapel—the same chapel wherein Pony had married Connor Bildeborough all those years ago.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 2
