Pagonel hit the ground softly, his legs buckling under him as he fell sidelong to the sand. He reversed his momentum completely and rolled back under the wagon, coming to his belly directly beneath it. He pushed up hard with his hands, lifting himself right from the ground to slam up against the undercarriage of the wagon. Out snapped his hands and feet, pressing out against the frame and locking the mystic in place.
Soldiers swept by the wagon, scrambling all about to catch up to him. A couple were even cunning enough to fall and glance under the wagon, but none moved under enough and turned his eyes up to see the splayed mystic in his perch.
Gradually, the tide of soldiers swept away, but Pagonel had to hold his position much longer, he knew.
He heard a commotion over by the area where he had engaged the three men, heard a familiar voice pleading for mercy.
“I warned you!” Moripicus begged. “I told you he was Jhesta Tu, yes?”
“And how did you know?” an angry soldier demanded.
Pagonel took a deep breath. He could tell from the soldier’s tone that this was not going to go well for Moripicus. The mystic dropped to the sand, landing on hands and knees and looking out toward the voices.
Just in time to see Moripicus forced down to his knees, his head pulled forward forcefully by a soldier tugging his hair, while two others held his arms back.
Pagonel was about to shout out, and to roll out from under the wagon, but it was too late, and all he could do was avert his eyes as another soldier brought his great khopesh swinging down to behead the man.
Tellingly, the executioner invoked the name of “Chezru Tohen Bardoh” as he carried out the death sentence.
Pagonel gave a quick scan of the area, trying to sort out the other two Jacintha emissaries, but neither was to be found. With great regret, the mystic went back up tight under the wagon and waited for the cover of darkness.
Pechter Dan Turk crouched behind a dune, shivering in the cold night air and terrified that pursuit would come out from that now-distant oasis. He knew Moripicus was dead, though he had already been out and running to the west before the execution, and knew, too, that he would also be killed if the soldiers caught up to him.
What to do?
He thought that he should return to Jacintha to report this tragedy to Yatol Wadon, though he didn’t like the prospects of trying to slip past the legion.
What then? Was he to go on to Dharyan-Dharielle? The man had been uneasy with the prospects of dealing with the foreign To-gai-ru all along, but now the thought of going in there alone positively terrified him. At that time, though, huddled in the cold desert sand, the sounds of the night about him, the fires of the legion glowing in the black sky to the east, Pechter Dan Turk would have been relieved indeed to see the gates of the city of the Dragon of To-gai.
A noise to the side startled him, and he snapped his gaze that way, his eyes wide. He trembled and huddled, trying to stay lower in the sand.
A pair of pale eyes stared back at him for a moment, and then the creature, a small, doglike lupina, wandered away, skittering fast and looking back at him. A single lupina didn’t seem much of a threat, but Pechter Dan Turk knew enough about the open desert to realize that where there was one lupina, there were usually a dozen more.
He knew that he had to move, had to find some defensible ground where a host of lupinas couldn’t come at him all at once. He wanted to go, he consciously willed his arms and legs to unfold and to start away, but he simply couldn’t begin.
And then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.
Pechter Dan Turk locked in place, a silent scream reverberating throughout his tense body. His leg felt warm from his own release.
“One of your companions is dead,” Pagonel said softly. “The soldiers killed Moripicus in the name of Chezru Bardoh.”
So relieved was Pechter Dan Turk to hear the familiar voice of the mystic that he hardly registered the significance of the words Pagonel spoke. He managed to turn his head to regard the man in the dim starlight. He smiled widely and nodded stupidly, and managed to begin breathing again, in short gasps.
Pagonel took him under the arm and helped him up. “We must be on the move throughout the night,” the mystic explained. “Where is Paroud?”
“He ran back to the east,” Pechter Dan Turk replied unsteadily. “He was gone, poof, at the first sign of trouble.”
“That is good,” the mystic said. “Let us hope that he got safely away. Yatol Mado Wadon must be informed that his suspicions are sadly proven true. Yatol Bardoh is gathering his strength and taking considerable strength from Jacintha in that process.”
Pechter Dan Turk looked at him as if he did not understand.
“Your companion was executed in the name of Chezru Bardoh,” Pagonel said again, emphasizing the stolen title.
Pechter Dan Turk shuddered so tightly that it seemed as if he was about to explode. “This is very bad,” he said. “Very bad. Yatol Bardoh is not a kind man!”
“I know him all too well,” Pagonel replied. “Fortunately for any hopes Jacintha has of forming an alliance with the To-gai-ru, Brynn Dharielle knows him well, too.”
Pechter Dan Turk nodded nervously, and Pagonel led him off at a swift pace across the darkened sands.
Chapter 9
The Second Prize
“TWENTY THOUSAND?” MARLBORO VISCENTI ASKED BISHOP BRAUMIN. THE TWO of them stood at Palmaris’ southern wall, looking out over the farmlands and the many campfires that had sprung up this night, the fires of King Aydrian’s army.
“Perhaps,” Braumin replied, as if it did not matter. Indeed, the numbers seemed hardly to matter, for the bishop had taken Jilseponie’s advice and had built a soft wall of resistance. Most of Palmaris’ garrison was gone now, along with a large percentage of St. Precious’ hundred brothers, slipping out to the north in the hopes of catching up to Prince Midalis as he executed his inevitable march out of Vanguard.
What a difficult decision that had been for Braumin! To surrender Palmaris, with hardly a fight.
He looked around inside the city walls, to see the bustle of preparations. He had given the remaining residents the option of joining in the resistance to the new king and his march, or of simply hiding in their homes, with no repercussions and no recriminations. He was surprised at how many had chosen the way of resistance.
Surprised, and a bit saddened, for he knew that the armies of Ursal would run them over.
Led in spirit and resolve by the five thousand Behrenese of Palmaris—most of whom had come to the city only recently, in the years since the plague—the remaining citizens had decided to lock the gates and offer no hospitality to this usurper named Aydrian. The depth of their commitment to stand beside the line of Ursal and the Abellican Church of Bishop Braumin made Braumin wonder if he had chosen correctly in sending nearly a thousand warriors away.
Or perhaps he should have sent all the soldiers away, and all the citizens who would join them, as well. Leave Palmaris deserted before the advance of the usurper and the wretched De’Unnero!
The bishop chuckled at the impracticality of it all. The fall would soon enough come on in full, and winter arrived early in those areas north of Palmaris, the only escape route from the advance of Aydrian. If Braumin had led the folk of Palmaris into self-imposed exile, he would have been sentencing a good number of them—the majority, even—to certain starvation and death from exposure on the harsh road. And those who did get to Prince Midalis would hardly have bolstered the prince’s cause, but would have dragged him down beneath their dependent weight.
So a partial withdrawal and a partial defense.
For Braumin, there would be no withdrawal. He meant to fight Aydrian—or more pointedly, fight De’Unnero—to the bitter end. Before sunset, word had come that the Ursal fleet was shadowing the army up the Masur Delaval, and would likely seal off the river before the morning.
“You need to leave once more,” Braumin said to Viscenti.
The s
kinny man turned sharply toward him. “I stand with you!” he insisted.
“You stand as witness,” Braumin corrected. “From across the river. You will bear witness of the fate of Palmaris and St. Precious to our brethren in St.-Mere-Abelle.”
Viscenti seemed to be trembling more than usual. “That is the duty of Bishop Braumin. You, and not lowly Master Viscenti, can go to St.-Mere-Abelle and force Father Abbot Bou-raiy to strong action against De’Unnero.”
“Father Abbot Bou-raiy will need little prodding in that direction,” Braumin assured his friend. “My duty is here, to the people of Palmaris.”
“Palmaris will not stand long against King Aydrian.”
“But Bishop Braumin will hold true to the end,” Braumin explained. “I will serve as a symbol of hope and defiance for the common folk of Palmaris, and for my brethren as they prepare for the long struggle against Marcalo De’Unnero. As Master Jojonah led the way for us, so I shall take up that beacon and help to guide our people through the long night of Aydrian.”
Viscenti shook his head through every word of the dark and prophetic speech. Jojonah was a martyr, having been burned at the stake by Father Abbot Markwart. The image of Jojonah had indeed led the way for many of the younger brothers of the Abellican Church: the way to Avelyn, the way to the Miracle of Aida.
But that didn’t change the fact that Jojonah was dead.
“You go and I will stay,” Viscenti insisted.
Braumin turned his gaze over the man, the bishop looking every bit of his fifty years. “I am not just the abbot of St. Precious,” he quietly and calmly explained. “I am the bishop of Palmaris. As such, I have sworn my loyalty to Father Abbot Bou-raiy and to King Danube and Queen Jilseponie. And mostly, to the common folk of Palmaris, Abellican, and Chezru. I am staying, Master Viscenti, and I am ordering you across the river, this night, before the fleet can close the way. You will bear witness to the fall of Palmaris, the fall of St. Precious, and the fall of Bishop Braumin. You will go to St.-Mere-Abelle and tell them, and you will hold strong the course against Marcalo De’Unnero above all else. There are few I would trust with this most important mission, my friend, my ally. Only because I know that you will carry on do I have the strength within me to do as I know I must do.”
Viscenti started to argue but Braumin draped his hands over the man’s shoulders and held him firm.
“Go,” he bade the diminutive master.
Tears welled in Master Marlboro Viscenti’s eyes as he crept out the back door of St. Precious soon after, rushing with his escorts to the Palmaris long dock, where a group of Behrenese fishermen were waiting to ferry them across the great river.
As dawn broke across the eastern horizon, the spectacle of the force that had come against Palmaris was revealed to the townsfolk in all its splendid glory. A line of soldiers stretched the length of Palmaris’ southern wall and more! Their banners waved in the morning breeze, showing their various legions, or, for the Allhearts, their noble family crests, and one design flew above all others: the bear and tiger rampant, facing each other above a triangular evergreen. How significant that banner seemed to Bishop Braumin, a perversion of Danube’s own and the Abellicans’ own! Danube had ridden under the bear rampant. The Abellican evergreen flew above the guard towers of St.-Mere-Abelle. Aydrian had taken both as his mantle, and had added the tiger—the tiger for De’Unnero, Braumin understood.
The Allheart Knights centered that line of Kingsmen, in their gleaming magnificent armor, the best in all the world, and astride their solid and unshakable To-gai pinto ponies. And in their center sat the grandest spectacle of all: young King Aydrian in his shining gold-lined armor, sitting astride the legendary Symphony, the horse of Elbryan the Nightbird. That stallion, draped in armor plating and a red-trimmed black blanket, seemed on edge, stomping the ground repeatedly.
Trumpets announced the dawn and the arrival of the young king of Honce-the-Bear.
To Braumin Herde, standing on the parapets near to the city’s southern gate, those trumpets heralded naught but doom.
A trio of riders came out from the line, trotting their muscular ponies toward Herde and the southern gate. When they stopped before the gate, the rider in the center took off his great plumed helm and shook out his curly black hair.
“I am Targon Bree Kalas, Duke of Wester-Honce, former Baron of Palmaris,” he announced.
“You are well known to me and to the people of Palmaris,” came Braumin’s reply, and only then did Kalas seem to take note of the bishop. “Under King Danube, we were allies, Church and State joined in harmony for the good of the folk of Honce-the-Bear.”
“Bishop Herde! I bring you greetings and great tidings!” Kalas said with sudden enthusiasm.
“That King Danube is dead,” said Braumin.
“Rest his soul, and long live the king!” Duke Kalas responded, and he swept his arm out to the side and behind him, back toward Aydrian.
“Why do you come to the gates of my city with such an army, Duke Kalas?” Braumin Herde asked, his tone suddenly a bit more demanding.
“We are the escort of the new king, the rightful king by Danube’s own proclamation on that day when he wed Jilseponie,” the duke explained. “Behold Aydrian, the son of Elbryan, the son of Jilseponie! Behold Aydrian, the king of Honce-the-Bear!”
Braumin Herde glanced up and down the line at the puzzled expressions worn by the defenders of Palmaris. This was a bit much to ask of them, the bishop felt at that moment. Kalas was speaking truthfully, and yet Braumin was asking the folk of Palmaris to deny this heir of their two greatest heroes. And that, on top of asking these folk, these brave folk, to stand strong against a trained and outfitted army without the bulk of their own garrison to support them.
And yet, here they were, shoulder to shoulder, manning every spot on the wall.
“Tell me, Duke Kalas,” Bishop Braumin began slowly and deliberately, “what words from Prince Midalis on the ascension of this new king? From obscurity has he risen, a name that few north of Ursal had ever heard mentioned, I would guess. He is the child of Jilseponie and Elbryan, and yet, Jilseponie had no idea that he existed before the fall of King Danube.”
“Then we should be glad that God has given us this gift that is Aydrian,” Duke Kalas replied. “To lead us through the dark times.”
“And upon whose wisdom does this young king rely?” asked the bishop. “On yours, of course, and rightly so. And pray tell us, who else? Who is it that sits astride his horse right behind the young king?”
Even from this distance, Braumin Herde could see Duke Kalas’ face grow very tight.
“Might it be Marcalo De’Unnero, Duke Kalas?” Braumin Herde pressed, slamming home the critical point to the assembled Palmaris folk, and indeed, he heard De’Unnero’s cursed name being whispered up and down the wall. “The same De’Unnero who once ruled Palmaris? The same tyrant who terrorized the folk of Palmaris in the name of Father Abbot Markwart?”
Those questions brought murmurs and shouts of discontent all along the city wall.
“King Aydrian’s ascent was the doing of King Danube, who in his wisdom—” Duke Kalas began.
“Who in his ignorance that Jilseponie had ever given birth, errantly referred to a child of his own loins with his new queen, should that event ever come to pass!” Bishop Braumin interrupted. There, he had said it: an outright denial of Aydrian’s claim; an obvious, intended resistance to this march of the young would-be king.
Bolstered by his own recognition that now it was out there openly, Braumin Herde plowed ahead. “We of Palmaris will accept the sovereignty of King Aydrian when and only when Prince Midalis of Vanguard offers his blessing. We bid you return to Ursal now, with no threat from us, until such time as Prince Midalis, the brother of King Danube who had long been named as rightful heir, can come south from Pireth Vanguard to place his claim to the throne or to condone the ascent of Aydrian. Only then will we of Palmaris swear fealty to the crown.”
“I, we, di
d not ride here to secure an alliance, Bishop Braumin Herde!” Duke Kalas roared back. “You …” He swept his arm out dramatically to encompass all of those listening. “You all have sworn fealty to the crown of Honce-the-Bear. We have ridden north in a time of great celebration, in announcement that the crown has passed, in accordance with King Danube Brock Ursal’s own wishes and words, to King Aydrian Boudabras. Open wide your gates, Bishop Braumin, and cease your treasonous proclamations. Your king has come to visit!”
“Go home, Duke Kalas,” Braumin Herde replied without the slightest hesitation. “We have heard your words, and Aydrian’s claim to the throne, and we are not moved. Especially so when we consider the theft of the Abellican Church that is even now commencing.”
“Open wide your gates and greet your new king with proper respect,” Duke Kalas warned.
“When Prince Midalis arrives, he will be greeted accordingly,” Braumin replied.
Duke Kalas stared hard at the man for a long while, then scanned the length of the wall, his eyes narrow and threatening. “Is this the decision of Palmaris, then?” he asked, and his reply came forth as a volley of jeers, telling him to go away.
“So be it,” Duke Kalas said to Bishop Braumin. “Do tell your gravediggers to stock up on extra shovels.” He replaced his great plumed helm on his head, then brought his horse about suddenly and galloped back to the Ursal line, the other two Allheart Knights in tow.
“Ye did well,” the man standing next to the bishop of Palmaris remarked, and he patted Braumin on the shoulder.
Braumin offered a grateful nod in reply. He wondered, though, if that man would feel the same way when Palmaris’ walls came tumbling down.
“Jilseponie is behind this treason,” Duke Kalas spat when he returned to his place beside King Aydrian. “You underestimated the power of the witch, and now before us, the gates are closed!”
“Perhaps we should thank her, then,” Marcalo De’Unnero remarked, and the duke and the others stared at him curiously.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 186
