DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (158 page)

The man shrugged noncommittally. “It is painful to see her,” he admitted. “Painful and wonderful all at once. I have not yet decided which is the more prominent emotion.”

“Farewell,” Elbryan replied.

“And to you,” said Connor. He looked again to Pony. “May I say my good-byes to her privately?” he asked.

Elbryan offered a consenting smile—not that he considered this in any way his decision. If Pony wanted to speak privately with Connor, then she would do so, whatever he, Elbryan, might think of it. He made things easier for Connor, feeling some honest sympathy for the man, by walking back to Pony and delivering the message. After waiting for Juraviel to slip down from Symphony, the woman urged the horse out to join the man.

“I may not return,” Connor explained.

Pony nodded, still unsure why Connor had come out in the first place.

“I had to see you again,” he went on, understanding her unspoken question. “I had to know that you were well. I had to…” He paused and sighed deeply.

“What do you need from me?” Pony asked bluntly. “What can we say that has not been said?”

“You can forgive me,” Connor blurted, and then tried desperately to explain. “I was hurt… my pride. I did not want to send you away, but could not stand to see you, to know that you did not love me…”

Pony’s smile silenced him. “I never blamed you, so there is nothing for me to forgive,” she replied quietly. “I find what happened between us to be tragic, for both of us. We had a special friendship, and I shall always treasure that.”

“But what I did, on our wedding night…” Connor protested.

“It is what you did not do that allowed me to place no blame,” said Pony. “You could have taken me, and if you had, I would never have forgiven you—indeed, I might have used my magic to cut you down on the field when first I saw you again!” She knew that to be a lie as soon as she heard the words come out of her mouth. Whatever her feelings toward Connor, she could not use the gemstones, the sacred gifts of God, in such a vengeful way.

“I am sorry,” Connor said sincerely.

“As am I,” Pony replied. She leaned over and kissed the man on the cheek. “Farewell, Connor Bildeborough,” she said. “You see the enemy plainly now. Fight well.” And she turned her horse about and walked back to Elbryan.

Soon after, Pony, Elbryan, and Juraviel were heading back to the north, full of hope, but making plans for a journey that they knew might be as dark as their trip to Aida to face the demon dactyl. They hoped Connor’s mission would be fruitful, and quickly, and that the King, and the sensible and godly members of the Abellican Order, if there were any left, would turn against this wicked Father Abbot who had so wrongly imprisoned Bradwarden and the Chilichunks. They hoped, too, to find their friends healthy and free before they ever entered St.-Mere-Abelle.

But practicality told them otherwise, for such political actions might take months, even years. Bradwarden and the Chilichunks could not wait, did not deserve to wait, and so the three planned to set off for the abbey on All Saints Bay as soon as Roger, and perhaps Connor, returned to them.

It was with equal determination that Roger and Connor strode toward Palmaris. Connor held great faith in his uncle Rochefort. Ever since he was a child, Connor had looked up to the man as someone who could get things done, a great man who shaped life in the city. All the many times Connor had gotten himself into trouble, his uncle Rochefort had taken care of things quietly and effectively.

Brother Youseff recognized that confidence in the man, both from his boasts of what his uncle would now accomplish and the swaggering manner in which he sat in his saddle.

“You should understand, Master Bildeborough, the ramifications of being in league with those two,” the monk taunted.

“If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you,” Connor promised.

“But the embarrassment to your uncle!” Youseff pressed. “What fun it shall be when the King learns that Baron Bildeborough’s nephew is traveling with outlaws.”

“I am indeed,” Connor said, looking down at the man. “Now.”

Brother Youseff was not amused. “Your accusation is ridiculous, of course,” he said. “And your uncle will recognize that fact and apologize profusely to the Church—and perchance the Church could be persuaded to accept the apology and not excommunicate him.”

Connor scoffed openly, not really impressed, and certainly not believing this dangerous monk’s words. Fear did lick at Connor’s thoughts, though, for himself and for his uncle. He tried to hold fast to his confidence in the great man, the Baron of Palmaris, but reminded himself repeatedly not to underestimate the power of the Church.

“Perhaps even you two could be forgiven,” Youseff went on slyly.

“Forgiven for defending ourselves?” Roger quipped.

“Neither of you was involved,” Youseff replied. “Only the girl and the other one. And perhaps the elf—no such creature was known to us, and thus his fate is yet to be determined.”

Again Connor scoffed. For this man who had stalked him at the Way, who had tried to catch him to kill him, to insist that he wasn’t involved was purely ridiculous.

“Ah yes, the girl,” Brother Youseff went on, changing his tone, looking up out of the corner of his eye to measure Connor’s response. “How sweet that capture will prove,” he said lewdly. “Perhaps I might find time to take pleasure with her before I present her to my superiors.”

The monk saw the strike coming—indeed he had invited it!— and he didn’t waver now, but let Connor smack him across the back of his head. It wasn’t a hard blow, but one that Youseff could convincingly use as he dove down to the ground, slamming his left shoulder squarely and pushing through the blow. He heard the popping sound as the bone dislocated, felt the waves of pain washing over him, and he cried out, seemingly from the pain, but really to cover the movements as he brought his arms closer together behind his back, changing the angle of the bindings.

“We are almost to the city!” Roger scolded. “Why did you hit him?”

“Did you not want to do exactly the same thing?” Connor replied, and Roger had no answer. Roger went for the fallen monk then, as did Connor, sliding down from Greystone.

The security of Youseff’s ties depended on not being able to bring his arms farther back behind him, but now, with the shoulder popped out of place, that was no longer true. He got his left hand free in moments, but held his position, keeping his hands close together, ignoring the numbing pain in his left shoulder.

Roger was beside him first, stooping to put his arms around the man.

Youseff bided his time—this one was not the most dangerous of the pair.

Then Connor was there, helping Roger hoist the monk back to his feet.

Faster than either of them could realize, Brother Youseff tucked his feet under him and came up straight. The binding ropes flew wide as his right arm swung about, fingers and thumb locked in a rigid C position. That deadly hook drove right into Connor’s throat, stunning the man, smashing against his exposed flesh, then driving right through so that Youseff held Connor’s windpipe in his hand.

He looked the nobleman right in the eye, unblinking, uncaring, then tore out Connor’s throat.

Connor Bildeborough fell away, clutching at his mortal wound, gasping for breath that would not come, trying futilely to stem the explosion of blood that rose about him in a crimson mist, that backed down his open windpipe into heaving lungs.

Youseff spun and struck, knocking stunned Roger to the ground.

The young man wisely discerned that he could do nothing for Connor and little against the powerful monk. He was moving as soon as he hit the ground, and while Youseff turned back to taunt the dying Connor, Roger managed to get to the horse.

“I think I will go and kill your uncle next,” Youseff said with an evil grin.

Connor heard him, but only from far, far away. He was falling, he felt, slipping deeper and deeper into a blackness, deeper within himself. He felt cold and alone, all noises diminishing to nothingness. His vision narrowed, became points of light.

Bright and warm.

He found one place of great comfort, one place of hope: he had made his peace with Jill.

Everything was gone now, except the light, the warmth. Connor’s spirit walked toward it.

Roger held on dearly to one stirrup as Connor’s frightened horse bolted, dragging him along. Behind him he heard the monk coming hard; Youseff had taken up the chase.

Growling against the pain, Roger pulled himself closer to the horse as he ran alongside it. He strengthened his grasp on the saddle, then reached back and slapped Greystone hard, spurring the horse on. He managed to glance back as he did, and saw Youseff, running fast, closing ground.

Using all of his agility, every ounce of his strength, Roger pulled himself up, up. He somehow got his feet off the ground, and with the drag gone, the horse put some ground between itself and the running monk.

Roger didn’t even try to gain a proper seat, but just pulled himself over the saddle sidelong, hanging head down, grimacing with each painful jolt.

The fine horse left the monk behind.

A frustrated Brother Youseff kicked hard at the ground. He glanced up and down the road, both ways, wondering which course he should take. He could go back to Palmaris—with Connor dead, there would likely be no accusations raised against him concerning the murdered abbot. Certainly the word of the rogues in the north would not be sufficient to bring such charges against the Abellican Church.

But while he didn’t fear the Baron of Palmaris or the monks of St. Precious, the thought of reporting back to Father Abbot Markwart with news of the disaster made the hairs on the back of Youseff’s neck stand up. Dandelion was dead, but so was the troublesome Master Bildeborough.

Youseff looked the way Roger had gone, to the north. He had to get to him before Roger could rendezvous with the others, had to ensure complete surprise when he sprang back upon the woman. And Youseff knew he would indeed go back after her, and her two companions. They had only beaten him the first time because they knew he was coming, but now…

Then he could report back to the Father Abbot.

Brother Youseff started to run, legs pumping tirelessly, carrying him over the miles.

Roger was riding easily, but quickly. The monk hadn’t given up, he suspected, for they both knew that Roger meant to get back to Elbryan and Pony, which Youseff could not allow. Still, Roger was not too worried, for with the horse he could keep ahead.

But barely, he saw when he climbed the side of one hillock, looking back down the road to see the monk, far in the distance, but still running!

“Impossible,” Roger muttered, for they must have covered more than five miles by then. Yet the monk’s speed seemed as great as if he had just taken up the chase!

Roger climbed back on the horse and started away at a faster pace. He could tell that the mount was tired—sweat glistened onthe golden coat—but he couldn’t afford to let Greystone slow down. He glanced back many times, hoping, praying, that the monk could not outlast his mount. On and on he went, staying to the road, more concerned with speed than stealth, knowing that the monk, incredible as the man was, could not match his horse’s pace.

He was riding easily again soon after, confident that he had left his pursuer far behind, and plotting the best course to find his friends; they had arranged to meet at an abandoned farmhouse no more than ten miles farther.

The horse stumbled, and Roger’s eyes went wide when he saw the gleam of metal to the side of the road. Greystone was limping now, having thrown a shoe.

Roger was down to the ground in an instant, running to retrieve the shoe, then back to the horse to see what leg it had come from. The answer was obvious before he even approached, for the horse was limping badly now, favoring its rear left leg. Gingerly, Roger hooked his arm about that limb and bent it up at the knee.

The hoof was in bad shape. Roger didn’t know much about horses, but realized that this one couldn’t go on unless that shoe was replaced. And there was no way he could do that.

“Bloody powrie luck,” the young man cursed, glancing back nervously down the road. It took all of Roger’s willpower to control his mounting fears, to force himself to think clearly, to reason through the problem. First he considered running, but he dismissed that thought, sensing that the monk would find and catch him long before he got to Elbryan and the others. He then wondered if any houses this far north were inhabited once more, thinking he might find someone to replace the shoe, but again he understood that he had not the time.

“The fight is mine,” Roger said aloud, needing to hear the words as he continued to gaze back down the road. He went to the saddlebags then, for he and Connor had collected many items on the journey south, looking for something—anything!—that might help him now.

Most of the items were simply general supplies for the road: ropes and a grapnel, a small shovel, pots and pans, extra clothing and the like. One item caught his attention, though. At the last stop, at the very farm where Elbryan and the others would wait, Roger had taken a come-along, a small block-and-tackle unit favored by farmers for hoisting bales, or even for pulling in stubborn bulls.

Roger held the item in his hand, studying it, trying to find some way to put it to use. Several images flashed in his mind, and he focused at last on one in particular, one that utilized his abilities. He couldn’t outfight the monk, he knew, but he might be able to outwit the man.

By the time Brother Youseff got to that spot, Roger and the horse were gone, but the horseshoe remained, right in the middle of the road. The monk stopped and examined the shoe, then stood and glanced all about curiously. He couldn’t imagine that the young man had been so foolish as to leave the telltale item behind.