DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (219 page)

Kalas ordered his oarsmen to bring him right up alongside the
Jacintha
to a jack ladder that had been dropped. He recognized the man standing at the rail as Captain Al'u'met.

"You have requested an audience with the King?" the Duke asked, accepting Al'u'met's extended hand to help him to the deck of the
Saudi Jacintha.

"Indeed, that was my sole purpose in sailing south," Al'u'met replied. "The rumors in Palmaris said that King Danube was on his way, and I know that it is not customary in this difficult season for the King to travel. I hoped he would choose the more comfortable way of the river over the roads."

Kalas glanced around at the warships. "You view this as a favorable situation?" he asked with obvious sarcasm.

"I could have asked for nothing less," Al'u'met replied. "And, truthfully, if I did not find my King so well guarded, it would have been cause for concern."

Kalas smiled at the fine answer, particularly at Al'u'met's reference to Danube as "my King."

"I pray that King Danube will hear me," Al'u'met went on. "Again, that is all that I could rightly ask, and more than I, a humble sailor, deserve. But there are problems in Palmaris that he must know of, and I, perhaps better than anyone, am in a position to explain them."

"From your own perspective," Kalas reasoned.

"An honest perspective," the tall black-skinned man replied, squaring his shoulders.

"And these problems concern the Behrenese of Palmaris?"

Al'u'met nodded. "They are being unfairly persecuted by a bishop out of control —" Kalas' smile and upraised hand stopped him.

"This is known to the King," the Duke explained. His mind was whirling at the possibilities here, for it was obvious that Al'u'met would prove to be another witness against the Bishop, and thus, against Church control. King Danube had set the terms of any meeting with the sailor —a meeting that would occur in Palmaris. But Kalas feared that Je'howith would find a way to deflect the situation by then; also, the Father Abbot might already be in Palmaris by the time the King arrived. "But perhaps it would be better if he heard them again, from a true witness," the Duke decided, and he turned aside. Al'u'met, after a cautionary glance around, led the way back into the rowboat.

Again Duke Kalas took the position in the prow, so he was the first to witness the incredulous look on the face of King Danube when they neared the
River Palace
and the King noted the new passenger.

"Pray you listen to this man here and now, my King," the Duke said, climbing over the rail and onto the deck of the ship before Danube, Constance Pemblebury, and the other nobles, including an obviously distressed Abbot Je'howith. "He has come from Palmaris with news of the most recent actions of our Bishop." He turned and grabbed Al'u'met's hand then, and hoisted the man up beside him.

King Danube spent a long and uncomfortable moment staring at the impertinent Duke; but at the same time, he would hear nothing of Je'howith's complaints, holding up his hand whenever the abbot of St. Honce started to speak.

"You have come to plead the cause of your people," the King said to Al'u'met.

"I have come to speak for citizens of Palmaris who are being treated badly in the name of their King," Al'u'met corrected.

"Behrenese citizens," one of the ladies at the side muttered distastefully, but then she looked away when all eyes turned toward her.

"Of Behrenese descent," Al'u'met conceded, "many whose families have resided in Palmaris for nearly a century. And, yes, some who have recently arrived from the southern kingdom. We look different, and so you are uncomfortable," he stated bluntly, "and our customs to you seem strange, as yours do to us. But we are not criminals, and we have settled in the city honestly. We do not deserve such treatment."

"Is this what your god teaches you?" Abbot Je'howith said sarcastically.

Duke Kalas bit his lip so as not to chuckle, for he knew that the abbot was treading on dangerous ground here —with Al'u'met the Abellican.

"My god is your god," the captain calmly explained. "And, yes, he does instruct us to treat each other with decency and respect, whatever the color of our skin. Abbot Dobrinion of Palmaris knew this."

"Abbot Dobrinion is dead," Je'howith said sharply, his tone giving away his frustration with this meeting.

"The city mourns," Al'u'met replied.

"Not so," said Je'howith. "Was not Dobrinion Abbot of St. Precious when the demon dactyl came awake, when war was brought to our land?"

"You imply that Abbot Dobrinion played a role —" Al'u'met started to vehemently protest, but Danube had heard enough.

"I do not mean to start a war here on the deck of my ship," the King said. "If you insist on arguing with this man, Abbot Je'howith, pray wait until we get to Palmaris, or take your fight back to his ship with him when we are finished here. Now," he said, turning to Al'u'met, "you came here to tell me a story, and I am ready to listen."

Duke Kalas wore a smug smile. Abbot Je'howith's embittered attitude was playing favorably for him, he knew, as would the story Al'u'met was about to tell. His hopes were high, then, that the Church rule in Palmaris would be short-lived.

Of course, Duke Kalas had no way of knowing of the private meeting between the King and the imposing specter of the Father Abbot.

Captain Al'u'met's long and detailed account of the events in Palmaris not only backed up the complaints the many merchants' representatives had been moaning to King Danube, and the protests of Ambassador Rahib Daibe, but took those problems to a new level and a new urgency. The captain's accounts of women and children and the elderly having to plunge into cold waters to avoid what could only be described as torture by the city soldiers had the ladies gasping, the nobles groaning and shaking their heads, and even the King casting angry sidelong glances at an increasingly frustrated Abbot Je'howith. It wasn't that any of the gentlefolk on the
River Palace
really cared about the commoners —except perhaps for Constance Pemblebury—especially the black-skinned Behrenese, but the personal accounts did strike a chord and somewhat shamed King Danube that some of his subjects were being so badly treated.

Certainly by the time Al'u'met finished, Abbot Je'howith was rightfully uncomfortable.

"I have heard these rumors," King Danube replied to the captain. "They, in fact, have precipitated my voyage to your city."

"And you plan to correct the injustice?" Al'u'met asked.

The King, not accustomed to such talk from commoners —Al'u'met had been given permission to tell his story, but that did not extend permission for him to question the King—turned a narrow gaze on the man. "I plan to view the situation," he responded somewhat coldly.

"I only hope that you will view Palmaris with the perspective of those who have felt the uninvited wrath of Bishop De'Unnero," Al'u'met replied. "If my accounting brings that result alone, I shall consider my journey down the river worthwhile."

Duke Kalas took his arm then, for both men understood that Al'u'met was wearing thin his welcome. "I thank you for hearing me, my King," he said, dipping a low bow. "Truly your repute as a great and honest man is not unearned." He bowed again and followed Duke Kalas back to the waiting rowboat.

"You did well for your people," the Duke whispered to him as they parted at the rail.

Back on the main deck, an uncomfortable silence surrounded the gathering, with many stares continuing to fall on Abbot Je'howith. No one spoke any complaints or angry words, though, all waiting for the King to take the lead.

But Danube Brock Ursal, remembering his nighttime encounter with Father Abbot Markwart, had little to say, though much to think about.

"As you wish, Master Francis," the brother said yet again. Though he liked hearing his name prefaced by that title, Francis was growing quite perturbed by this one's overeager attention.

"Abbot Dobrinion's old quarters will more than suit my needs," Francis explained.

"But Chasewind Manor —" Brother Talumus tried to argue again.

"Chasewind Manor is to be prepared for the visit of men greater than Master Francis," Francis replied.

"Headmaster Francis," the nervous Brother Talumus corrected.

"Headmaster of St. Precious, and so at St. Precious he should stay," Francis declared in no uncertain terms. "As Bishop De'Unnero will remain at St. Precious should he return before the Father Abbot and the King have left the city."

Brother Talumus' eyes widened in horror.

"Bishop De'Unnero will defer to the King and to the Father Abbot, certainly," Francis stated, understanding the source of that terror. Francis, too, would not wish to be the one telling De'Unnero that he had been removed from his palatial home!

"The issue is settled, brother," he said. "We have more important matters to discuss."

Talumus seemed to calm down at last. The man had been in a tizzy since that morning, when the wagon from St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived at the abbey bearing both the new headmaster and, according to the whispers, a king's treasure.

"I will begin meeting with the merchants this very day," Francis explained. "You have a list, of course."

"Detailing every gemstone surrendered, and by whom," Talumus assured him.

"I will see that at once," said Francis, "and then begin with the procession of merchants."

"One will not be able to attend," Brother Talumus remarked, lowering his voice. "He did not survive his disagreement with Bishop De'Unnero, and was executed in the public square the morning the Bishop departed."

Francis gasped; but when he thought about it, when he considered De'Unnero's vicious temperament, he was not surprised. "Invite the survivors of his house, then," he instructed.

"None, I fear," Talumus replied. "Aloysius Crump had no family. Many of the servants have stayed on at his house, I have heard."

Francis struck a pensive pose. His first instinct was to wait until Father Abbot Markwart arrived and then let the older and wiser man decide what to do about the house of Crump. But Francis overruled that instinct. He was a master now, he reminded himself, the headmaster of St. Precious, and soon, possibly, to be the bishop of Palmaris. He must be decisive and assertive, must act within the desires of Father Abbot Markwart and for the good of the Church in Palmaris. "Take his house for the Church," Francis said.

Brother Talumus' eyes widened. "T-the people are already angry about the fate of Master Crump," he stammered. "Are we to insult them?"

"Take his house for the Church," Francis said again, more determinedly. "Keep the staff, all of them, and pay them well."

"And what are we to use the house for?" Talumus asked. "Will you live there?"

"Did I not already instruct you that I will remain here?" Francis shot back, feigning anger. "No, we shall find a use for the house, one that will benefit the people of Palmaris. Perhaps we will distribute food from there, or dispense healing from gemstones."

Brother Talumus' defensive frown began, slightly, to turn up into a smile, and Francis knew that he had chosen correctly, that his action, while benefitting the Church with a valuable piece of property, would also aid the common folk.

"The list, brother," Francis instructed, motioning at the door. "And send our messengers out to the effected merchants. Tell them that they are to be compensated this very day."

The monk nearly tripped as he spun and rushed for the door.

"And Brother Talumus," Francis called, stopping him short just before he exited the room, "do instruct our messengers that they are not to be secretive about their message."

Talumus smiled and was gone, leaving a contented Francis alone. He could get used to this position of authority, the new master decided. The constant game of politics intrigued him.

He found Caer Tinella to be at peace. Fields were beginning to be plowed, and homes rebuilt and repaired, and new ones added. Though it had only been a matter of months since the town had been occupied by smelly goblins and powries, the stench of the creatures was gone now, De'Unnero knew, and all the folk had settled back into seemingly normal and peaceful routines.

And the Bishop meant to keep things that way. On the outskirts of the village, looking down from a hillock, he dismissed the magic of his tiger's paw, but with great reluctance. For the better part of five days, using his own inner hunger and what the spirit of Markwart had shown him, De'Unnero had been immersed in the gemstone, had been as much great cat as human being; and he liked the feeling, the power, and the freedom.

Too much, perhaps, the Bishop mused. He knew that traveling on the powerful legs of a tiger he could have covered the hundred and fifty miles from Palmaris to Caer Tinella in three days, perhaps two, since he had learned that he could use the soul stone of Aloysius Crump's ring on other animals nearby and literally feast on their life forces, a refined version of the life-stealing that monks had used on deer and the like to rejuvenate horses. Now, as a tiger, De'Unnero could go directly to the source, linking life forces with his intended prey using the soul stone and then literally eating the energies out of the creature. It was perfect, he believed: the ultimate transfer of energy; and after such a meal, De'Unnero the tiger was ready to run once more.

And yet, that beauty and strength had actually slowed him despite his urgency in dealing with the one called Nightbird. For in his travels, he had strayed from the path, and often, merely to partake of his feasts.

No matter, he believed, for he could move with all the swiftness he would need, and all the world wasn't large enough to keep Nightbird from his claws.

He went down into Caer Tinella in the simple robes of a monk, with a serene, disarming expression on his face.

"Good day, good father!" came the enthusiastic greetings from one farmer after another, the men and women hard at work repairing homes and —amazingly, for the turn of spring was still two weeks away—readying fields surprisingly free of snow. The last storm, a rainy washout, had melted all the snow along the level ground, and now the farmers were piling up stones, marking the new property lines drawn in the resettlement.

"And to you, my child," he always answered politely. "Pray tell me where I might speak with the governor of this village." The cooperative villagers spoke the name and pointed across the way to the northern reaches, fields bordered by the thick woods, where white traces of winter could still be seen, lining the edges, in the shadows of the trees.

The leader was not hard to find: a stocky woman of about forty winters, hard at work in her own field. She put up her hoe when De'Unnero approached, leaning on it with both hands atop its end and her chin on her hands.

"You are Janine o' the Lake?" De'Unnero asked cheerily, repeating the name the farmers had told him.

"That I be," she answered. "And yerself? A preacher come to start a church here in Caer Tinella, perhaps?"

"I am Brother Simple," De'Unnero lied, "passing through your humble community and nothing more. Though I do believe that the Church will send a minister as soon as the world is set aright."

"Well, we've got our Friar Pembleton," Janine o' the Lake replied, "not more than a day's ride to the east. 'Tis about all the preachin' the folk got belly for, by me own guess."

De'Unnero resisted the urge to punch her face.

"But ye're lookin' like yer own belly could use a bit of feedin'," the woman went on.

"Indeed," the monk replied, lowering his gaze humbly. "A bit of a meal and news of the road north, for I am bound for the Timberlands, where the folk have found no preaching of late."

"Nor ever, from what I heared o' that wild place," Janine said with a laugh. "Well, find a dark place and take some rest. I'll be done me work soon enough and then I'll fatten ye up for the road."

"Oh, but please, good lady," the charming monk replied, reaching for the hoe. "Do let me earn my food."

Janine seemed honestly surprised, but she did let go of the hoe. "I'm not for expectin' a monk o' St. Precious to be lookin' for work," she explained, "but I'll take the help, and be grateful for it!"

And De'Unnero did work in the field tirelessly: an effort, he presumed, that would never be expected from the Bishop of Palmaris, one that would be a stretch of expectation from the simplest of Abellican monks. Afterward, Janine o' the Lake treated him, and a select few others of the townsfolk, to a wonderful hot dinner, though De'Unnero found the food strangely dissatisfying after his wild meals.

The conversation was polite enough, and informative enough, with the Bishop being assured that the road north was safe, by all accounts, and that his journey to the Timberlands would be no more difficult than his journey from Palmaris had been thus far —unless, of course, winter made another appearance. The snow remained thicker up there, he was told.

After the meal, Brother Simple excused himself, accepting an invitation to sleep in Janine's barn and explaining that she would not likely see him in the morning, as he meant to get as early a start as possible.

In truth, the man was out of the barn and out of Caer Tinella within the hour, making his way north across the moonlit fields and falling deeper and deeper into the magic of his tiger's paw with every step. So complete was the process that his robes blended into skin, that the ring upon his finger became a band about one digit of a tiger's paw. By the time he had crossed the northernmost field, De'Unnero walked not with the comparatively clumsy stride of a man but on the padded feet of the tiger, and saw not through the daylight-attuned eyes of a human but through the keen night-senses of the great cat.

Now he was loping, front paws hitting the ground every so often for better balance or for quicker direction changes; and now, already, he smelled the presence of another animal. De'Unnero quickened his pace, following that scent, basking in it, for it wasn't the stool of an animal, wasn't even the musk of a wet pelt. It was fear, fear of him, and it came to him as something delicious, as something pure and natural.

And it was all around him. The tiger slowed, picking a careful, silent path, blending perfectly into the nighttime forest. Unseen and unheard, but his prey knew that he was coming.

That made it all the sweeter.

Keen ears caught a rustle to the side, and then he saw them: a pair of white-tailed deer, a buck and a doe, the male's antlers many pointed.

Softly the tiger moved in, one paw touching down, feeling the ground, smoothly settling.

The buck pawed the ground; the doe hopped as if to leap away.

But she didn't know which way to run, De'Unnero realized. He was close, very close, within range of a single tremendous spring. He'd go for the buck, the more difficult kill.

He leapt out with a startling, horrifying roar, claws extended, paws out wide, but the buck did not fly away and did not freeze. It came around to face the predator, head down, formidable antlers leading an answering charge. De'Unnero felt one prong sink into his chest as they crashed together, but he hardly cared, caught up in the sudden and desperate frenzy. With a second roar, the tiger's arm slashed down, slamming the buck on the head, hooking on an antler and turning the head to the side —a sudden violent jerk, the crack of bone, and then the buck was falling.

De'Unnero went right for the neck, tearing open the great veins, washing in the spouting blood. His thoughts went instinctively to the soul stone, capturing the buck's life force, feeding on every aspect of this creature.

And when he was done, he did not seek a quiet and dark place to retire, for all of the buck's energy had joined with his own. Now he was restless. He knew that he should go straight off to the north, toward Dundalis, running full speed, but the scent remained, the smell of fear.

Off he went in search of the doe; and when he found her, and caught her from behind, he feasted again.

"The road ahead is clear," Roger announced, coming back to Elbryan and Bradwarden, who had been searching east and west. Behind them in a clearing off to the side of the road —in truth no more than a path worn by the march of the demon dactyl's army—the five monks sat in a circle, huddled close to a blazing fire and eating the stew Viscenti had made from assorted roots.

"How far have they run?" the ranger asked, shaking his head incredulously. The group had traveled more than halfway to the Barbacan from Dundalis and had not encountered a single monster, nor any sign that giants, goblins, or powries were anywhere about.

"The Wilderlands 're a bigger place than ye know," Bradwarden explained, "bigger than all the kingdoms o' men put together. Far went the cry o' the demon dactyl, out to goblin holes and the shelf roosts o' giants in mountains unnamed by men. Out to powries, though them wicked creatures be living on lumps o' rock far out to sea."

"And so they have returned to their rocks and holes, it would seem," said the ranger. "And yet, I do not feel that the world is a safer place."

"Funny how men keep doin' that to themselves," Bradwarden said dryly.

Again the ranger shook his head, looking all around, seeking some sign.

"We should not complain, I would say," Roger cut in, misunderstanding the ranger's curiosity for a strange disappointment. "Better to find no enemies than too many."

"One would be too many," Elbryan replied.

"Unless ye're lookin' for somethin' better eatin' than stew." The centaur laughed. "Ho, ho, what!"

The Avelyn impression brought a wide grin to Elbryan's face. "Had to be done? " he asked.

The centaur nodded.

"Are we to go out scouting again?" Roger asked. The other two didn't miss that he was looking longingly at the warm fire as he spoke.

"No scouting," Elbryan decided, though he knew that he would be out late into the night, and that Bradwarden would pick up the patrol when he left off. "Go and join the brothers and sleep warm by the fire."

Roger nodded and rushed away, calling to Castinagis to leave him some of the stew.

When Elbryan looked at the centaur, he saw Bradwarden's expression had turned grim.

"He's not lyin' about the fire," the centaur said.

"A chill on the breeze," the ranger agreed.

"More than that, I'm fearin'," Bradwarden explained. "We been lucky, ranger. This far north, the wind can still freeze yer bones, and we could wake one morn to find snow piled deeper than a deer's antlers."

"We have come far to the north."

Bradwarden nodded. "And earlier than we should've, by me own figurin'. We're fast on to spring, to be sure, but spring at the Barbacan's not the same as spring in Dundalis. I'm thinkin', and hopin', that the blown mountain's mixed it all up, and dulled the winter. Might be that enough of it went into the sky to serve as a blanket. Ye seen the colors o' the sun settin' and risin'. The dust'd do that, and it might be that the dust'll keep the weather more to the middle, winter and summer, if ye get me guess."

Indeed, as Bradwarden spoke, the western sky began to turn a glowing shade of red, almost as if the clouds had been set on fire. The reasoning made sense to the ranger, and even if it didn't, he would have taken Bradwarden's word for it. The centaur was old, three times the age of the oldest man; and no creature, not even Lady Dasslerond of the Touel'alfar, was more attuned to the workings of nature. What the centaur had left unspoken, and what Elbryan could figure out for himself, was that if the air was cold now, it would only get worse as they continued north, and worse still as they climbed into the mountains ringing blasted Mount Aida. Had they been lulled by the unusual mildness of the Timberland winter? Might they find the high passes of the more northern stretches blocked by snow?

"Come," he bade the centaur. "Let us go and take our meal with our friends."

Bradwarden shook his head. "Ain't got the belly for it," he said. "Saw no monsters in me scoutin', but more than a few runnin' meals!" With another laugh, the centaur bounded away, pulling his great bow from his shoulder as he went.

"Stay close!" Elbryan called.

"Ye fearin' unseen monsters?" Bradwarden called back.

"Not at all," replied the ranger. "I am just of the mind to hear the piping of Bradwarden this cold night!"

"Oh, ye'll hear it," the centaur roared from the edge of some brush, and then he waded into the foliage, disappearing from sight so that only his thunderous voice remained. "Unless I get me lips frozen stuck to the damned pipes!"

From his perch in a branch overlooking the small community, De'Unnero noticed immediately that this place, Dundalis, differed greatly from Caer Tinella. It wasn't so much the size, though Dundalis in its present state was less than half the size of Caer Tinella, but more the attitude surrounding the towns. There were no large fields outlined here, no farmers working at ordinary tasks, preparing for spring planting. Dundalis had never been a farming community; but even the activities more typical of the place, tree-cutting and the like, were not evident now.