DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (21 page)

Andacanavar looked past the abbot to Bruinhelde, and Agronguerre, too, turned to regard the pivotal leader.

“You will use no magic to tend my wounded,” Bruinhelde said determinedly, “not even if one is near death, as was Temorstaad. And take care that none of your magical attacks falls over my brethren!” he warned.

“But you do not wish us to stop throwing lightning and fire at the goblins,” Abbot Agronguerre reasoned.

“Gilnegist clokclok gilnegist beyaggen inder fleequelt bene duGodder,”
Bruinhelde replied, settling back in his chair and crossing his huge arms over his chest, his expression contented.

Agronguerre immediately turned back to the smiling Andacanavar.

“ ‘Demon battling demon brings joy to the godly man,’ ” the ranger translated.

Brother Haney seemed as if he would jump up and shout out against the obvious insult, but the abbot of St. Belfour gave a great belly laugh and turned back to Bruinhelde. “Exactly!” he said with obvious irony. “Exactly!” He laughed some
more, and Bruinhelde joined in and then the others, somewhat more tentatively, and it ended when Abbot Agronguerre, in all seriousness, extended his hand to the barbarian leader. Bruinhelde stared at the man and the gesture for a moment, then clasped Agronguerre’s wrist firmly.

And so the alliance was sealed, with a mutual understanding of common benefit if not friendship. The rest of the meeting went beautifully, mostly rallying cheers designed to bring up the level of excitement for the battles that lay ahead and the shared confidence that, joined as one, the humans would drive out the minions of evil Bestesbulzibar.

Prince Midalis lingered behind when Brother Haney led the two Alpinadorans back to the gate of St. Belfour. “I had feared that you would hold to your anger from the events on the field concerning Temorstaad,” he admitted to Agronguerre as soon as they were alone. “To press your opinion on that matter would have proven disastrous.”

“It took me a long while to purge my heart of that anger,” Agronguerre admitted, “but I recognize the greater good and understand that all of your work in bringing the barbarians to our cause has been nothing short of miraculous, my friend. I would not destroy those efforts for the sake of my own pride. And I know, too, that with or without the gemstone magic, Temorstaad will not be the only man to die in this campaign.”

“True enough,” Midalis solemnly agreed. “But now, at least, we can look forward to the war with true hope.” He paused and gave Agronguerre a sly look. “And when it is finished, perhaps you can begin the task of converting Bruinhelde and his brethren.”

That brought laughter from both, which increased when Agronguerre, in all seriousness, replied, “Perhaps I would rather try to sway Bestesbulzibar and his minions.”

I
f the specter of death itself had walked into his office, Abbot Braumin Herde’s expression would have been no less incredulous and no less horrified.

De’Unnero came swaggering in, walking with confidence—with a smile, even—right up to the new abbot’s desk. He bent low, placing his hands upon the lacquered wood, staring down at Braumin Herde. His eyes sparkled with the same intensity Braumin remembered from their days together at St.-Mere-Abelle, the fire that always had the younger monks on edge whenever Master De’Unnero was around, the same fire that had made the dangerous man a legend among the younger brothers.

“You seem surprised to see me,” De’Unnero said innocently.

Abbot Braumin couldn’t even begin to respond, had no words to convey the astonishment and trepidation churning within him.

“You believed me dead?” De’Unnero asked, as if the thought were absurd.

“The fight at Chasewind Manor …” Abbot Braumin began, but he just ended up shaking his head. He was still sitting, wasn’t even sure if his legs would support
him if he tried to stand. And all the while, the monk was well aware that Marcalo De’Unnero, perhaps the most dangerous monk to ever walk out of St.-Mere-Abelle, could reach across the desk and kill him quickly and easily.

“I was there,” De’Unnero confirmed. “I tried to defend Father Abbot Markwart, as was my solemn duty.”

“Markwart is dead and buried,” Braumin said, growing a bit more confident as he considered the events and the fact that De’Unnero was without allies within Palmaris. “Buried and discredited.”

If De’Unnero was surprised, he hid it well.

“Elbryan the Nightbird, too, died in the battle,” Abbot Braumin went on, and he thought he saw a hint of a smile touch De’Unnero’s face. “A great loss to all the world.”

De’Unnero nodded, though his expression hardly revealed any agreement with the sentiment, more an acknowledgment of Braumin’s opinion.

Finally, the abbot did manage to stand up and face De’Unnero squarely. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “We have just passed through our darkest and most confused days—we nearly lost all to King Danube—and we are not even certain of where we now stand within the kingdom or among the populace. And yet, where is Abbot De’Unnero during all of this? Where is the man who will reveal the truth of Father Abbot Markwart’s fall?”

“Perhaps it is a truth I did not believe the Church was ready to hear,” De’Unnero replied forcefully. He stood back, though, and chuckled. “Markwart erred,” he admitted, and those two words coming from the mouth of this man nearly knocked Abbot Braumin off his feet. “As did De’Unnero in trusting him.”

“He was possessed by Bestesbulzibar,” Abbot Braumin dared to remark. That proclamation brought De’Unnero back to his fine edge of anger, eyes shining dangerously.

“How dare you make such a claim?”

“You just said—”

“That he erred,” said De’Unnero. “And so I believe he did. He erred in his obsession with the followers of Avelyn Desbris. Better to let the lot of you play out your philosophies, that your own errors might be laid bare for all to see.”

“You come back here to speak such nonsense?” Abbot Braumin asked, walking around the desk, for he did not like the way that De’Unnero was using it as a prop to gain a physical advantage. “If you are of Markwart’s mind, then know that your ideas have been discredited.”

“Because Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by Bestesbulzibar?” De’Unnero asked skeptically.

“Yes!” the abbot of St. Precious snapped. “By the words of Jilseponie herself!” He didn’t miss the flash of anger that crossed De’Unnero’s face at the mention of the woman. “She, who survived the fight with Markwart, who went to him spiritually to do battle, saw the truth of the man, saw the alliance he had made with the most foul demon.”

De’Unnero began laughing before Braumin finished the sentence. “And you would expect her to say differently?” he asked. “Would she admit, then, that Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by angels?”

“You have missed so much,” Braumin replied.

“I have witnessed more than you believe from afar.”

“Then where have you been?” the abbot demanded. “As we passed our trials with King Danube and Duke Kalas—now Baron of Palmaris—where was Marcalo De’Unnero? As we began our inquisition into the disposition of Father Abbot Markwart, where was De’Unnero? Did you fear, perhaps, that you would be brought to answer for your crimes?”

“Fear?” echoed the former abbot, the former bishop of Palmaris. “And pray tell me what crimes I might have to answer for, good Abbot. Aloysius Crump?” he asked, referring to a merchant whom he, acting as bishop, had arrested and subsequently executed. “Tried and convicted of hiding gemstones, when the edict of the Father Abbot was that I should confiscate every one. What then have I done to deserve such words as these? I stood by Father Abbot Markwart, as I was trained to do at St.-Mere-Abelle, as you were trained to do before Master Jojonah poisoned your heart with his silly beliefs. Yes, my friend, I will speak honestly with you and will not begin to pretend that I mourn the death of the heretic Jojonah. And, yes, I freely admit that I acted the part of Father Abbot Markwart’s second and followed his commands, the orders of the rightful leader of the Abellican Church, as any soldier would follow the orders of King Danube. Am I to be called to account for that? Will Braumin Herde place me under arrest and try me publicly? Who next, then, fool? Will you find those who came with Father Abbot Markwart to St. Precious on his first visit and try them for their actions in taking the centaur, Bradwarden, prisoner? But wait, was not your own dear friend, Brother Dellman, among that group? What of the guards in St.-Mere-Abelle who watched over Bradwarden and the doomed Chilichunks in the dungeons of our home abbey? Tell me, abbot of St. Precious, if you mean to punish them as well.” De’Unnero shook his head and laughed wickedly, then came forward to stand face-to-face with the abbot, his eyes locked in a fanatical glare. “Pray tell me, abbot reformer, what you will do with all those brothers and all the townsfolk who dragged your precious Master Jojonah through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle town and tortured him and burned him at the stake. Are they all guilty, as you hint that I am? Shall we build rows of stakes to satiate your lust for revenge?”

“Markwart has been discredited,” Abbot Braumin said grimly and determinedly. “He was wrong, Brother De’Unnero, as were you in following him blindly.”

De’Unnero backed off a step, though he continued to hold fast that wicked grin of his, the look he had perfected years before, that made it seem as if he held the upper hand in every confrontation, as if he, De’Unnero, somehow knew more than his opponents could begin to understand. “Even if what you say is true, I expect to be formally welcomed back into the Church,” he said.

“You must account for the last months,” Abbot Braumin declared, but
De’Unnero was shaking his head even as the words came out.

“I must account for nothing,” he replied. “I needed time to sort through the tumultuous events, and so I left. Can less be said of Braumin and his cohorts and their flight to the Barbacan?”

Braumin’s expression turned incredulous.

“If I am called to account for my actions of the last year, dear Braumin Herde, then know that you and your friends will likewise face the inquisition,” De’Unnero said confidently. “Your side won the conflict in Palmaris, that much is obvious, and the victor might write the histories in his manner of choosing; but St. Precious is not so large and important a place when measured against St.-Mere-Abelle, and I, and Father Markwart, did not leave that place without allies.

“I have returned, brother,” De’Unnero finished, holding wide his arms. “Accept that as fact and think well before you choose to begin a war against me.”

Braumin winced and did indeed begin to reflect on the man’s words. He hated De’Unnero as much as he had hated Markwart, but did he really have any kind of a case for action against the man? There were rumors that De’Unnero had murdered Baron Bildeborough, rumors Abbot Braumin believed wholeheartedly. But they were just that, rumors, and if there was any evidence of the crime, Braumin hadn’t seen it. Marcalo De’Unnero had been Markwart’s principal bully, a brute who reveled in the fight, who punished mercilessly those who disagreed with him.

De’Unnero had viciously battled Elbryan, and the wound that had eventually brought down the ranger had been inflicted by a tiger’s paw, the favored weapon of this man.

But were De’Unnero’s actions in that last fight, when Jilseponie and Elbryan had invaded Chasewind Manor with the express purpose of killing the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, really a crime?

Braumin thought so, but had not Master Francis tried to stop the ranger from entering Chasewind Manor earlier? Did that make Francis a criminal as well? Braumin winced again and tried to find some answer. To him, De’Unnero was indeed a criminal, and he knew that he would not be the only one who saw the dangerous man that way. Certainly Jilseponie would do battle with De’Unnero if ever she saw him again—on sight and to the death.

Then it hit Braumin squarely, the realization that the timing of this meeting was much more than coincidence. How strange that De’Unnero had walked back into St. Precious on the same day Jilseponie had left Palmaris for the northland!

Bolstered by the notion that the dangerous man might harbor some fear of Jilseponie, Braumin Herde squared his shoulders. “I am the abbot of St. Precious,” he declared, “sanctioned by Church and Crown, by King Danube himself, and backed by Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce and by all the brethren of St. Precious. I’ll not relinquish the position.”

“And I am simply cast aside?”

“You left,” Braumin insisted, “without explanation, without, many would say, just cause.”

“That was my choice.”

“A choice that cost you your appointment at St. Precious,” said Braumin, and then he snorted. “Do you believe that the people of Palmaris or that Duke Kalas, who has publicly professed his hatred for you, will support your return to this position?”

“I believe that the choice is for the Church alone,” De’Unnero replied calmly, seeming entirely unshaken by Braumin’s blunt attacks. “But the point is irrelevant, because I have no further designs on St. Precious, or upon this wretched city at all. I only came here to fill a vacancy at the request of my Father Abbot. You see my loyalty to him as a crime, but given the doctrine of the Church, that is a ridiculous assertion. I am confident that if we battled for this position at the College of Abbots—which I assume will soon be called—I would prevail. My service to St.-Mere-Abelle cannot be undone by your passions, nor can it be twisted into something perverse and evil.

“But fear not, too-young abbot, for I am no threat to your coveted post,” De’Unnero went on. “Indeed, I am glad that you are here; I only hope that all of the other followers of Jojonah and Avelyn will flock here beside you. Better that you all fester in this place of minor importance, while I attend to the greater workings of the Church in St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Braumin Herde wanted to shout out at the man, to call for the guards and put this wretched criminal in prison, but when he considered it all, he knew that he could do little, really, and that any actions he took against De’Unnero now could have very serious implications at the forthcoming College of Abbots, repercussions that Braumin and his friends could ill afford. For De’Unnero, though his title as bishop had been revoked and his stewardship as abbot of St. Precious had been rightfully turned over to Braumin, was still a ranking master of the Abellican Order, a monk of many accomplishments, a strong leader with a place and a voice within the Church.