DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (119 page)

“Indeed it is,” Master Jojonah agreed. He eyed Brother Braumin directly. “Possess the man,” he instructed. “Convince him that he should be gone, or, if that should fail, use your power to walk his physical body far, far from here. Let him regain his physical consciousness back in the deep Timberlands, too exhausted to return anytime soon.”

Brother Braumin bowed and started away, not thrilled by the prospect of possession, but relieved that Brother Francis did not get his way. He had not journeyed all these miles to play a role in the murder of a human.

Brother Braumin went to Dellman first, and bade the man to pass the word that all activity with quartz should cease, and that Dellman should forgo his searching with the soul stone— possession was tricky enough without the prospect of another disembodied spirit floating about! Then Braumin went to his wagon and prepared himself.

Andacanavar crouched low in the brush, confident that he was too well concealed for any of the nearby monks to locate him. Visually, at least, for the ranger had no experience with magic, other than that of the Touel’alfar, and did not know the potential of the ring stones.

But Andacanavar was sensitive to his environment, extremely so, and he did indeed sense the presence about him, an intangible presence, the feeling that he was being watched.

How strong that sensation became when Brother Braumin’s spirit moved right up to the ranger, when Brother Braumin’s spirit tried to move right into the man!

Andacanavar looked all about, eyes darting to every shadow, to every conceivable hiding place. He knew he was not alone, and yet all of his physical senses showed him nothing.

Nothing.

The intrusion grew stronger; the ranger almost cried out, despite his better judgment. That near outburst surprised him, and led him to the horrifying and inescapable conclusion that some other will was forcing itself over him.

Andacanavar had participated in the communal gatherings of the Touel’alfar, the joining of the entire elven community into a single harmony. That had been a beautiful thing, a mental sharing, a most intimate experience. But this…

Again the ranger almost cried out; but he stopped himself, understanding that the intruding will likely wanted him to yell out and surrender his position.

The ranger searched inside himself, tried to find something tangible, something identifiable. He recalled the communal elven song, a hundred voices joined as one, a hundred spirits blended in harmony. But this…

This was rape.

The ranger fell low to the ground, growling softly, fighting back in the only manner he understood. He put up a wall of sheer rage, a red barrier, denying all action. Andacanavar was completely in control of his will, on every level. He used the discipline ofbi’nelle dasada, the sword-dance, used in his years of training in Caer’alfar. And through that grim determination, that sheer strength of will, the ranger identified his spiritual enemy, located the intruding will. A picture formed in Andacanavar’s mind, a map of his own thought process, and he mentally placed an enemy marker whenever a trail on that map was accessed.

The enemy, the will of Brother Braumin, soon showed clear to the man, and then suddenly he and the monk were on equal footing, an open battle of wills, with the advantage of surprise no more. Brother Braumin, disciplined and trained in the stones, fought well, but the ranger was the stronger by far, and the monk was soon expelled, and soon in retreat.

Andacanavar was truly frightened by this strange experience, this unknown magic, but, with his typical courage, he would not let the opportunity pass. He felt a channel, a pathway left by the departing spirit, and he sent his thoughts along it, soaring free of his body.

Soon he was in the monk encampment, and then in one of the wagons. There sat the source of the intrusion, a man, a monk of about thirty winters, sitting cross-legged, deep in meditation.

Without hesitation, Andacanavar continued along the mental pathway, following the spirit right back into the monk’s body, resuming the battle. Now the battleground was more difficult, a terrain far more familiar to his enemy, but the ranger pressed on, focused his will. Only one thought slowed him, and that only temporarily: if he dominated this body, would it leave his own open to intrusion?

The ranger had no way of knowing, and the hesitation almost ended his fight.

But then, using the same determination that had sustained him through all these years and all these trials of the unforgiving land of Alpinador, Andacanavar pressed on tenfold, driving hard into the monk’s mind, pushing the monk away wherever he found him, pushing, pushing, stealing every pathway, every corner, every hope and every fear.

*

It was not a good feeling, was too strange and too out of place, and, for the noble ranger, was simply wrong. Despite any rationalization that he had been protecting his very soul, or any that reminded him of his duty to his fellow Alpinadorans, Andacanavar could not rid himself completely of the guilt. Possessing another’s body, whatever the reasons, assaulted the ranger’s sense of right and wrong profoundly.

But he persevered, and took some comfort in the small and smooth gray stone he held in his unfamiliar hand. This stone was the conduit, Andacanavar recognized, the pathway between the spirits, and with it in his possession, both physical and spiritual, he felt confident that the portal to his own corporeal body was closed to any others. Acclimating himself to the new coil, he dragged himself to the back of the wagon, peering out into the encampment, listening carefully to any passing conversations. He remained there for some time, was greeted by and returned the salutation of many other monks—and truly the ranger was glad that the elves had bothered to teach him the language of Honce-the-Bear! Then, gaining confidence, he dared to exit the wagon, walking openly in the midst of the foreigners.

He didn’t have a difficult time in determining rank; in this group, it was apparently based on age, and Andacanavar had always been good at determining a man’s years. Between these impressions and the respectful manner in which others greeted him, he confirmed his belief that he was in the body of one of high stature among the monks.

“Master Jojonah wishes to speak to you,” one young man offered and another later confirmed, but of course Andacanavar had no way of knowing who this mysterious Master Jojonah might be. So he continued to wander about the encampment, gathering what information he could find. He soon realized that he was being followed—not by any corporeal being, but by the displaced spirit. Again and again the disembodied spirit tried to get back in, and though Andacanavar repelled the assaults, the ranger understood that he was growing weary and would not be able to hold out for long.

He spotted a much older man then, and guessed him to be the leader of the group, perhaps the one the others had spoken of. Beside the man, wearing an angry expression, was another monk of about the same age as the one he had possessed.

“Finished already?” Master Jojonah asked, coming over to him.

“Yes, Master Jojonah,” Andacanavar answered respectfully, hoping that his tone, and his guess about the man’s identity, were correct.

“And are we rid of the spy?” the other monk asked sharply.

Andacanavar resisted the urge to punch the surly man in the face. He stared at the monk long and hard, purposefully ignoring the question in the hope that the pair would further elaborate.

“Brother Braumin?” Master Jojonah prompted. “The Alpinadoran is gone?”

“What would you have me do?” Andacanavar asked sternly, pointing his ire at the younger of the two, for it seemed obvious to him that this man and the one he had possessed were not on good terms.

“What I would have you do is irrelevant,” Brother Francis answered, casting a telltale sidelong glance at Master Jojonah.

“Since you have had no time to walk the Alpinadoran far away from here, I assume you imparted a convincing suggestion that he should depart,” Master Jojonah said calmly.

“Perhaps we should have invited him in,” Andacanavar dared to respond. “He knows the lay of the land, no doubt, and might have been able to better guide us.” The ranger eyed Brother Francis as he spoke, and recognized a budding suspicion there, for the man wore an expression now of total surprise and even of horror.

“I considered that course,” Master Jojonah admitted, defusing his hotheaded companion’s mounting rage. “But we must adhere to the Father Abbot’s decree.”

Brother Francis snorted.

“If we brought him in, he would ask questions,” Master Jojonah went on, ignoring Francis so completely that Andacanavar recognized that the older monk was quite used to this young monk’s impertinence.

“Questions we cannot afford to answer,” Jojonah continued. “We will pass through Alpinador quickly, and better not to involve any of the northmen in our quest. Better not to open any old wounds between our Church and the barbarians.”

Andacanavar didn’t press the issue, though he was indeed relieved to learn that this powerful contingent was not in the northland for any reasons hostile to Alpinador.

“Go back and look over our scouting friend,” Master Jojonah instructed, “and see that your suggestion is being followed.”

“I will do it,” Brother Francis interrupted.

The ranger wisely held back his initial reaction, for that reply would have been too sharp and insistent, even desperate. He had no desire to battle yet another spirit this day. “I am capable of finishing the task assigned to me, Master,” he said to the man.

The other monk’s expression showed the ranger his slip; that title was reserved, he realized now, for the older man alone. Brother Francis went from angry to suspicious to incredulous, staring hard through narrowed eyes at the ranger in the monk’s body. Andacanavar tried to cover his miscue, turning quickly to the older man, the true master, but he found Jojonah wearing a similar doubting expression.

“Pray give me the stone, brother,” Master Jojonah said.

Andacanavar hesitated, considering the implications. Could he get back to his own body without that stone? Would the master use it to discover the truth of the ruse?

As though it sensed the ranger’s sudden hesitance, the disembodied spirit took that opportunity to attack once more.

The ranger knew it was time to leave.

Master Jojonah and Brother Francis leaped forward to grab the body of faltering Brother Braumin as his eyes flickered and his legs buckled. Brother Francis went right for the hematite, pulling it free of the man’s hand.

But Andacanavar’s spirit had no trouble locating the ranger’s body, or in reentering. He was up and moving almost immediately, though he wondered where he might hide from probing spiritual eyes.

Back in the camp, Brother Braumin steadied himself, then bent over, hands on knees, gasping for his breath.

“What happened?” Master Jojonah asked.

“How did you fail against one who is not even trained—” Brother Francis started to demand, but Jojonah cut him short with a glare.

“Strong,” Brother Braumin remarked between gasps. “That one, that Alpinadoran, is strong of will and quick of thought.”

“You would have to say that,” Brother Francis said dryly.

“Go out yourself with the soul stone,” Brother Braumin snapped at him. “It would do you well to find humility.”

“Enough of this!” Master Jojonah demanded. He lowered his voice as he noticed that many others were gathering about. “What were you able to learn?” he asked Braumin.

The younger monk shrugged. “He learned from me, I fear, not the other way around.”

“Wonderful,” remarked a sarcastic Francis.

“What did he learn?” Master Jojonah demanded.

Again Brother Braumin could only shrug.

“Ready the teams,” Master Jojonah instructed. “We must be far from this place.”

“I will find the spy,” Brother Francis offered.

“We will search for him together,” Master Jojonah corrected. “If this man defeated Brother Braumin, hold no illusions that you are a match for him.”

Brother Francis fumed, trying to find some retort. He turned away, as if to depart.

“Shall you join in the search?” Master Jojonah asked bluntly.

“I am seeing no need for that,” came a resonating voice, and all the monks turned as one to see the giant Alpinadoran striding confidently into their camp, crossing through the ring of wagons without so much as a sidelong glance at those monks standing guard. “I am in no mood for any more of this spiritual dueling this day. Let us speak openly and plainly, as men.”

Master Jojonah exchanged incredulous looks with Brother Francis, but when they turned to Brother Braumin, the only one who had made any true contact with the ranger, they found that he was not surprised. Nor did he look overly pleased.

“He is a man of honor,” Master Jojonah said with some confidence. “Would you agree?”

Brother Braumin was too preoccupied to reply. He had locked stares with the Alpinadoran, the two sharing an almost primal hatred. They had battled intimately, seen each other’s soul bared in hatred. For Andacanavar, this man had tried to violate him; for Brother Braumin, this man had proven himself the stronger in a way so personal that it brought him shame.

So they stood and stared at each other, and all the others around them, even Brother Francis, let the moment linger, recognizing the need for it.

Then Brother Braumin moved past his turmoil, reminding himself that the man, after all, had only been defending himself. Gradually, the monk’s visage softened and he gave a slight nod. “My attempt to convince you seemed the safer way,” he apologized. “For you most of all.”

“I’d be finding a horde of giants less threatening than what you tried to do to me,” Andacanavar replied, but he, too, gave a nod, a forgiving gesture, and turned his attention to Master Jojonah.

“My name is Andacanavar,” he said. “And my land is beneath your boots. Many are my titles, but for your own purposes, you might be thinking of me as the protector of Alpinador.”