DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (106 page)

Brother Francis looked from Master Jojonah to the Father Abbot, to the other seven masters in attendance, all of them eyeing him expectantly. How could he refuse such a proposal? His angry gaze fell back over Jojonah, the younger monk staring unblinkingly at the master even as he mouthed, through gritted teeth, “Of course it would be the highest honor that any brother could expect or desire.”

“Well done, then,” the victorious Jojonah said, clapping his hands. In one fell swoop he had prevented Markwart from leading the caravan and had put the too-ambitious Brother Francis in his place. It wasn’t that Jojonah wanted to protect Markwart from any perils; far from that. It was simply that he feared the mischief Markwart might cause if the journey proved successful. More than a few speculations placed Avelyn Desbris at the scene of devastation in the north, and Jojonah feared that Markwart might cover whatever truth was to be found there with calculated tales that fell more in line with his hatred of Avelyn. If Markwart was in control of the caravan that reached the Barbacan, then Markwart would determine what had happened there.

“I do fear, though, that my work will have then been wasted,” Brother Francis added suddenly, even as Father Abbot Markwart started to speak.

All eyes turned to the young brother.

“I have planned the trip,” Francis explained—improvising, Jojonah and several others realized. “I am familiar with the course we must take and the amounts of supplies that should be remaining at each stop. Also, I am well-versed and, by all accounts, proficient with the stones, a necessary ingredient if we are to meet the timetable of three weeks offered in the guide tomes.”

“Twelve days,” Father Abbot Markwart said, drawing looks from all, and a gasp of disbelief from Brother Francis. “Our timetable will be twelve days,” the Father Abbot clarified.

“But…” Brother Francis started to respond, but if the old man’s tone left little room for debate, his glare left none, and the young monk wisely fell silent.

“And Master Jojonah is correct, and his suggestion is accepted as the wiser course,” Markwart went on. “Thus I will not go, but will look in on the expedition on a regular basis, through the willing eyes of Brother Francis.”

Jojonah was pleased by that announcement; he had feared that stubborn Markwart would hold out longer. He wasn’t surprised that his recommendation of Francis as the vessel had been accepted, though. The ambitious brother was one of the few in St.-Mere-Abelle trusted by the old Father Abbot, who had grown increasingly paranoid ever since Avelyn Desbris absconded with the gemstones.

“Since I will not personally, or at least not physically, lead the quest,” Markwart went on, “one of you masters must go.” His gaze drifted about the room, settling for a moment on eager De’Unnero before falling fully over Jojonah.

The portly old master returned that look with an incredulous expression. Surely Markwart would not choose him, he prayed. He was among the oldest of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, and was easily the least physically prepared for any long and hard road.

But Markwart did not back down from that gaze. “Master Jojonah, the senior master of St.-Mere-Abelle, is the logical choice,” he said aloud. “With an immaculate to serve as his second, Brother Francis to serve as his third, and twenty-two others working the wagons and the horse teams.”

Jojonah stared long and hard at the Father Abbot as Markwart and the other masters began discussing which of the younger and stronger brothers would be best suited for the road. Jojonah offered no input into the selection process, just sat staring and thinking, and hating the man. Markwart had chosen him for no practical reason, he knew. He was being punished by the old man for his friendship and mentoring of Avelyn and for his continued arguments against so many of Markwart’s decisions on every issue, from the abbey’s role in the larger community to philosophical discussions about the true value of the gemstones and the true meaning of their faith. Markwart had voiced his displeasure with Jojonah on more than one occasion, had even once threatened a College of Abbots gathering to discuss, as he had put it, “Jojonah’s increasingly heretical way of thinking.”

Jojonah had almost hoped for that meeting, for he was convinced that many of the other abbots of the Abellican Church would see things his way. He saw the bluff for what it was, for he knew that Markwart probably feared the same judgments. Over the last few years, Markwart had purposefully lessened St.-Mere-Abelle’s contact with the other abbeys, and the last thing the old Father Abbot wanted was a showdown with the rest of the Church over philosophical matters.

Despite that, Master Jojonah had feared that Markwart would find a way to get back at him, and so, it seemed, it had come to pass. Twelve hundred miles in twelve days, with much of that time, no doubt, spent dodging disaster in the form of powries, goblins, and giants. And then the troupe would spend weeks, perhaps months, trying to decipher the riddles left behind in the inhospitable wasteland of the Barbacan, tormented by a climate, according to the tomes, where water might freeze even on a summer night, and surrounded by vast hosts of their enemies, perhaps even including the demon dactyl itself. They did not know, after all, whether the fiend had really been destroyed. It was all speculation.

Ambitious Brother Francis desperately wanted to make this journey—though with his own spirit inhabiting his own body—but for Master Jojonah, having passed the mark of his sixth decade and with no further aspirations for power or for glory, and certainly not for adventure, this was indeed a punishment, and quite possibly a death sentence.

There would be no debate, however. The twenty-two were selected quickly, based on their strengths both magical and physical. Most were fifth-or sixth-year students, men in the prime of their physical life, though a pair of immaculates, a tenth-year and a twelfth-year student, had been included.

“And your selection for your second?” the Father Abbot asked Jojonah.

The master took his time considering his options. The obvious choice, from a purely selfish point of view, would have been Brother Braumin Herde, a close friend and often a confidant. But Jojonah had to consider the wider picture. If this caravan met with disaster, a very real possibility, and both he and Braumin Herde were killed, that would leave Markwart virtually unopposed. The other masters, with the possible exception of Master Engress, were too entrenched in their trappings of power and wealth to even argue with the Father Abbot, and the other immaculates and even ninth-year students were too ambitious, too much like Brother Francis.

Except for one, Jojonah mused.

“Must it be an immaculate? ” he asked.

“I’ll not spare another master,” Father Abbot Markwart was quick to reply. His tone, full of surprise and with an edge of anger, revealed to Jojonah that he had expected and hoped that Jojonah would select Braumin Herde.

“I was thinking of one of Brother Francis’ peers,” Master Jojonah explained.

“Another ninth-year student?” Markwart asked skeptically.

“But we have selected two immaculates among the twenty-two,” Master Engress pointed out. “They may not take kindly to the fact that a ninth-year student has already been appointed as the third in rank.”

“Though they will accept it, since said ninth-year student is serving as the vessel for the Father Abbot,” another of the masters quickly and reverently put in, bowing his head in deference to Markwart.

Master Jojonah resisted the urge to run over and punch the man.

“But to give them a ninth-year student as a second, as well,” Master Engress continued, not to be argumentative, for that was not his nature, but only to play a necessary dissenting voice here.

Markwart looked at the master, who had stood up for the decision to name Francis as third, and gave a slight nod, one that Jojonah was sure the old man wasn’t even aware of doing, which tipped Jojonah off to the coming decision.

“Who did you plan to name?” Father Abbot Markwart asked.

Master Jojonah shrugged noncommittally. It was a moot point, as far as his journey was concerned, he realized, for Markwart had already made up his mind that no ninth-year student would serve as second. The Father Abbot was merely fishing now, he realized, trying to find out if there were any other potential troublemakers among the underlings at St.-Mere-Abelle, any other conspirators in Master Jojonah’s little gang.

“I only hoped that Brother Braumin Herde might accompany me,” Jojonah remarked offhandedly. “He is a friend, and one I consider a bit of a protege.”

The Father Abbot’s face screwed up with confusion, his smug expression disappearing.

“Then what—” one of the masters started to ask.

“Brother Herde is no peer of mine,” Brother Francis interrupted. “He is an immaculate.”

Jojonah put on his best confused look. “Is he?”

Several masters began speaking all at once, most voicing their fears that their portly fellow might be going soft in more than the belly.

“You wanted Herde?” Father Abbot Markwart said loudly, calming the din.

Jojonah grinned and nodded sheepishly. “So he is a tenth-year student,” the master answered, feigning embarrassment. “The years do pass so quickly, and they all seem to blend together.”

The nods and chuckles about the table told Jojonah that he had managed to wriggle out of that tight spot. Still, he wasn’t thrilled about the fact that both he and Braumin Herde were going off together so far from St.-Mere-Abelle and so near to mortal danger.

Brother Braumin Herde was a handsome man with short black, curly hair and strong features, including dark, penetrating eyes and a face that was always shadowed by hair, no matter how often the man shaved it clean. He was not tall, but his shoulders were broad and his posture straight, giving him a solid appearance. He was into his early thirties, having spent more than a third of his life at St.-Mere-Abelle, and since his first love was for his God, many of the women in the area surely lamented that decision and devotion.

He glanced both ways along the corridor in the upper level of the abbey, then backed into the room, softly closing the door behind him. “I should be going on this journey,” he said in his rich and resonating voice, turning to face Master Jojonah. “Through my years of work, I have earned a place on the caravan to the Barbacan.”

“A place with me, or with Markwart?” Master Jojonah replied.

“You were given the pick of a second, and that after the others, not including me, had been selected,” Braumin Herde was quick to reply. “And you chose me, though I know that you meant to choose otherwise.”

Jojonah looked at him quizzically.

“I heard the story. You could not have forgotten that I was an immaculate, since you yourself presented me the scroll of honor,” Braumin reasoned. “You meant to choose Brother Viscenti.”

Jojonah rocked back on his heels, surprised that such detailed information concerning the meeting had already spread. He studied Brother Braumin carefully, and had never seen such pain and anger on the man’s face. Braumin Herde was a forceful and physically imposing man, all hair and muscle, and with a huge square jaw. His broad chest angled down in a V to a narrow waist, for there was nothing soft about him; it seemed as if he had been cut from stone, and there were few in all of St.-Mere-Abelle who could match him in feats of sheer strength. Master Jojonah knew him well, though, his inner being, his compassionate heart, and understood that the man was not a fighter. For all his great strength, Brother Braumin had never been anything exceptional in the martial training, a fact that had so often frustrated Master De’Unnero, who saw such potential in the man. To De’Unnero’s dismay, Brother Braumin was a gentle soul, and Jojonah was not worried that he might act out his anger now.

“You would have been my first choice,” the master answered honestly. “But I had to consider the implications of naming you. The road to the Barbacan is fraught with peril, and we have no idea what we might find when—if—we do get there.”

Braumin gave a deep sigh and his shoulders slumped a bit. “I am not afraid,” he replied.

“But I am,” said Jojonah. “What we two have come to believe must not die with us on a road to the Wilderlands.”

Braumin Herde’s disappointment could not hold against the logical reasoning and Jojonah’s clear concern. “We have to make certain that Brother Viscenti and the others understand,” he agreed.

Jojonah nodded, and the two stood silent for a long while, each considering the dangerous course they had taken. If Father Abbot Markwart came to know the level of what was in their hearts, if he came to realize that these two above all others in St.-Mere-Abelle saw his leadership as errant, and had even begun to question the entire direction of the Abellican Church, then he would likely, without hesitation, brand them as heretics and have them publicly tortured to death—an act not without precedent in the often brutal history of the Abellican Church.

“What if it is Brother Avelyn?” Braumin Herde asked at length. “What if we find him there alive?”

Master Jojonah gave a helpless chuckle. “No doubt, our orders will be to bring him back in chains,” he replied. “The Father Abbot will not suffer Avelyn to live, I fear, and will not rest easy until the gemstones Avelyn took are returned to St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“And will we bring him back?”

Again the helpless chuckle. “I do not know if we could restrain Brother Avelyn if we wanted to,” Jojonah replied. “You never had the pleasure of seeing Brother Avelyn at work with the magic stones. If we find that it was indeed he who caused the explosion in the north, if Avelyn destroyed the dactyl and is still alive, then pity us if we try to wage battle against him.”

“Twenty-five monks?” Braumin Herde asked skeptically.

“Never underestimate Brother Avelyn,” came the curt reply. “But it would not come to that, in any case,” Jojonah was quick to add. “I pray that we do find Brother Avelyn; oh, how I would love to see him again!”