DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (108 page)

“Gone, yes,” Braumin conceded. “But for a month, two at the most.”

“If the Father Abbot has his way, you’ll not return,” Viscenti remarked, and he ducked low and spun about, and put a finger to his own pursed lips, as if speaking openly about Father Abbot Markwart would bring a host of guards bursting through his door.

Braumin Herde didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “If the Father Abbot wanted to move against us openly, he would have done so long before now,” he reasoned. “The hierarchy does not fear us.”

“They feared Avelyn,” Viscenti pointed out.

“They hated Avelyn because he stole the stones,” Braumin corrected. “To say nothing of his killing of Master Siherton. The Father Abbot despised Avelyn because in taking the stones, Avelyn took Markwart’s reputation, as well. If Father Abbot Markwart passes from this world with those stones unrecovered, then his time of leadership will be viewed by future Abellican monks as a failure. That is what the man fears, and no revolution because of Brother Avelyn.”

Brother Viscenti had heard it all before, of course, and he threw up his hands in surrender and shuffled across the floor, taking a seat at his desk.

“But I’ll not diminish the danger to myself and to Master Jojonah,” Braumin Herde said to him, taking a seat on the edge of Viscenti’s bed, a small and unremarkable cot. “Nor, in that event, should we diminish the responsibility that will fall upon your shoulders, my friend.”

Viscenti’s look was one of sheer terror.

“You have allies,” Braumin Herde reminded him.

Viscenti snorted. “A handful of first-and second-year novitiates?”

“Who will grow to ninth-and tenth-year students,” Braumin replied sternly. “Who will achieve their status as immaculates even as you, if you are wise enough, attain the rank of master.”

“Under the auspices of Father Abbot Markwart,” Brother Viscenti came back sarcastically, “who knows that I have befriended you and Master Jojonah.”

“The Father Abbot does not determine rank,” Brother Braumin replied. “Not alone. Your ascension, at least to master, is a foregone conclusion as long as you remain steadfast in your studies. If the Father Abbot went against that, he would be inviting whispers from every abbey, and from many of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle. No, he cannot deny you a position.”

“But he decides upon assignment,” Brother Viscenti argued. “He could send me to St. Rontelmore in the hot sands of Entel, or even worse, he might assign me as a chaplain to the Coastpoint Guards in lonely Pireth Dancard, in the middle of the Gulf!”

Braumin Herde did not blink, only shrugged as if such possibilities did not matter. “And there you will hold fast to your beliefs,” he explained quietly. “There, you will keep our hopes for the Abellican Order alive in your heart.”

Brother Viscenti wrung his hands again, got up and began pacing about the room. He had to be satisfied with his friend’s answer, he knew, for their fates were not their own to decide. Not now. But still, it seemed to Viscenti as if the whole world was suddenly moving too fast for him, as if events were sweeping him along without a moment to consider his next move.

“What do I do if you do not return?” he asked in all seriousness.

“You keep the truth in your heart,” Brother Braumin replied without hesitation. “You continue to speak with those younger monks who share our tenets, fight back in their minds against the pressures to conform that they will know as they move higher in the Order. That is all that Master Jojonah has ever asked of us; that is all that Brother Avelyn would ever ask of us.”

Brother Viscenti stopped his pacing and stared long and hard at Braumin Herde. The man was right, he believed with all confidence, for he, like Brother Braumin Herde, like Master Jojonah, and like several other younger monks, had Avelyn’s spirit within him.

“Piety, dignity, poverty,” Braumin Herde recited, his Abellican vows. When Brother Viscenti looked at him and nodded, he added the one word that Master Jojonah, in light of Avelyn’s work, had secretly tagged on: “Charity.”

There was no fanfare, no general announcement, as the caravan of six wagons rolled through the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle. Four of those wagons carried five monks each, while another, full of supplies, held only the two drivers. The second in line was also manned by two monks, and held Master Jojonah, the maps and the logs.

The three monks in the back of the fourth wagon, including Brother Braumin and another immaculate, worked continually with gemstones, quartz mostly, though the other immaculate also held a hematite. They used the quartz, a stone for distance sight, to scout out all the area around the caravan, and if anything looked the slightest bit suspicious, the immaculate would then use the hematite to project his spirit into the area to better discern the situation. These three were the eyes and ears of the caravan, the guides to keep the wagons away from trouble, and if they failed, the monks would surely see battle, perhaps long before they had even left the so-called civilized lands of Honce-the-Bear.

They rode throughout the morning, traveling the northwestern road toward Amvoy, the small port across the great Masur Delaval from Palmaris. Normally such a large caravan would travel southwest, to Ursal and the bridges over the great river, for there were no ferries large enough to get them across to Palmaris in one trip. But the monks had their own methods; their line to the Barbacan would be as near to straight as possible, and with the magic stones, quite a bit was possible.

The horses, two for each wagon, were soon exhausted, some drawing breath so forcefully that they seemed near to death, for each wore a bridle set with magical turquoise that allowed the drivers to communicate with the animal, to push the beast beyond its limits with mental intrusions. They took their first break at noon, in a field off to the side of the road, an appointed rendezvous. Half the monks went to work on wheels and undercarriages immediately, tightening, straightening, while others prepared a quick meal, and the three with the scouting stones sent their eyes out wide to make contact. The Church was well-prepared for such undertakings as this journey, for all along the roads of Honce-the-Bear were allies, pastors of small congregations, missionaries, and the like. The previous day, several of St.-Mere-Abelle’s masters, using the maps and logs provided by Brother Francis, had used hematite to make contact with these strategically placed allies, informing them of their duties.

Within an hour of their noontime break a dozen fresh horses were brought to the field. Master Jojonah recognized the friar leading the procession, a man who had gone out into the world after a dozen years at St.-Mere-Abelle. Jojonah watched him from the flaps of his wagon cover and did not go out to greet the man, for familiarity would breed questions, he knew, questions it was neither this friar’s place to ask nor Jojonah’s to answer.

To the friar’s credit, he stayed no longer than the couple of minutes it took him and his five helpers to make the exchange.

Soon the teams were yoked, the supplies repacked, and the caravan on its way, running hard across the miles. In mid-afternoon they veered from the road, turning more to the north, and soon thereafter, amazingly, the great Masur Delaval was in sight, with more than seventy miles already behind them. To the south lay Amvoy, and across the twenty miles of watery expanse, beyond their sight, was the city of Palmaris, the second largest city in all of Honce-the-Bear.

“Take good meals and gather your strength,” Master Jojonah instructed them all. The monks understood; this would likely be the most difficult and taxing part of their journey, at least until the Timberlands had been left behind.

An hour passed, and though Brother Francis’ detailed itinerary had only allowed for that much of a respite, Master Jojonah made no indication that he meant to get them going.

Brother Francis came to him in his wagon. “It is time,” the younger monk said quietly, though firmly.

“Another hour,” Master Jojonah replied.

Brother Francis shook his head and began to unroll a parchment. Jojonah stopped him.

“I know what it says,” the master assured.

“Then you know—”

“I know that if we get halfway across that water and any of us weaken, we will lose a wagon, or all the wagons,” Jojonah interrupted.

“The amber is not so taxing,” Brother Francis argued.

“Not for one to walk across the water,” Jojonah agreed. “But to carry such a load?”

“There are twenty-five of us.”

“And there will remain twenty-five of us when we exit onto the river’s western bank,” Jojonah said sternly.

Brother Francis gave a slight growl and spun on his heel, starting away.

“We will travel long into the night,” Jojonah said to him, “using diamonds to light the way, and thus make up the time lost resting here.”

“And drawing attention to us with our beacons?” Francis asked sourly.

“Perhaps,” Jojonah replied. “But that is less a risk, by my estimation, than is crossing the Masur Delaval with weary brothers.”

Brother Francis narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, then turned about and left in a huff, nearly running over Brother Braumin Herde, who was on his way up the few stairs at the back of the wagon.

“We are not on his schedule,” Jojonah explained dryly as his friend entered.

“He will report this to the Father Abbot, of course,” Brother Braumin reasoned.

“It is as if Father Abbot Markwart were right here beside us,” said Jojonah with a great sigh. “The joy of it all.”

His frown melted into a smile, though, and then that turned into a laugh when Braumin Herde gave a chuckle.

Outside the wagon, Brother Francis heard it all.

An hour later, with a proper landing found along the banks of the river, and the sun riding low in the western sky, they were on the move again. Now Master Jojonah, the most seasoned and most powerful with the magical stones, led the way, with two first-year novitiates beside him and only a single driver up front. Eighteen of the twenty-five monks, all except for the actual drivers and one whose duties remained scouting with the quartz, were divided equally among the six wagons, the three in each joining hands in a ring about a piece of enchanted amber. They pooled their powers, sent their energy into the stone, calling forth its magical properties. Amber was the stone used for walking on water, and as each wagon rolled off the landing and onto the river, it did not sink, horses’ hooves and the bottom of the wheels making only slight depressions on the liquid surface.

The eighteen monks fell deep into their meditative trance; the drivers worked hard, constantly angling their teams to compensate for the current. But this part of the journey proved easy going. The ride was so very smooth, a gentle reprieve on the wagons, on the horses, and on the monks.

Less than two hours later Jojonah’s driver, using diamonds to light the course ahead, found a smooth and easy slope along the western bank and put his wagon back on dry ground. He went back then to inform the master, and Jojonah came out of his trance and moved outside for a good stretch and to watch the other five wagons come ashore, one by one. To the south, a handful of miles in the distance, the lights of Palmaris could be seen; to the north and west was only the darkness of night.

“The line will be tightened for our evening drive,” Master Jojonah informed them, “with no more than a single horse’s length between the back of one wagon and the noses of the team of the next. Go easy on the turquoise intrusions and take your rest and your last meal in the seat. We will ride long into the night, as long as the horses can take it, but at a comfortable pace. I wish to put twenty more miles behind us before we set a proper camp.”

He dismissed the group then, except for Brother Francis. “When do we next exchange horses?” he asked the young monk.

“Not until late afternoon,” Francis replied. “We may be taking a dozen fresh ones in exchange for only six who will ever be able to pull a cart again.”

“As it must be, so it shall be,” Master Jojonah said, and headed back for his wagon, truly regretting having to work the poor animals so hard.

He thought it curious to find powrie sentries on the outskirts of Caer Tinella this late at night. Usually the dwarves and goblins moved back into the town proper soon after sunset. While the goblins, in particular, did favor the cover of night for their misdeeds, with the town secured, they normally used this active period to play their gambling games, drinking and shoving each other until fights inevitably broke out among them.

That was before Mrs. Kelso had supposedly been turned into a tree, though, an action the monsters attributed to their god figure, the demon dactyl. So now they apparently meant to be more vigilant, just in case the dactyl showed up to personally scrutinize their work.

Roger smiled; he was glad his little ruse had caused so much trouble for the wretches. As for the guards, he wasn’t overly concerned. He had come this way to go into Caer Tinella, and so into Caer Tinella he would go, whatever the powries might try to do to stop him. Oh yes, the guards would slow him down, he realized, but not in any manner they had foreseen.