DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (23 page)

He had made the seventy-or-so-mile journey from St.-Mere-Abelle to St. Precious in a couple of days, with magical assistance, but the return trip had been marked by one problem after another. With his escorts, Francis had stopped in Amvoy on the Masur Delaval to gather supplies; but in that small sister city of Palmaris, they had encountered too much misery to ignore, including a group of people wounded in a skirmish with a band of goblins still running wild in the eastern reaches, as well as a little boy who had been kicked by a horse. At Francis’ insistence, and over the protests of a couple of the older brothers, the group had spent nearly two weeks in Amvoy, working with their few hematite soul stones to aid anyone in need—and it seemed as if the entire town had come to them!

Now, finally, they were on the road again, but not on a direct route toward St.-Mere-Abelle but rather heading southeast, toward a small hamlet named Davon Dinnishire—a settlement of hardy people who had come south from Vanguard. The remnants of a goblin band had been spotted lurking in the forests near the place, and, though word had gone out to those soldiers hunting the monsters, Francis had learned that none were available to go to the support of Davon Dinnishire.

“It is not our affair,” one young brother, Julius, argued. “We have been entrusted with coordinating the College of Abbots at St.-Mere-Abelle, yet we tarry with the business of the military.”

Master Francis fixed Brother Julius with a sympathetic expression, and a helpless smile. “Once I walked as you now walk,” he said to the young brother, loudly enough for all of those near to him to hear. “Once I walked with the pride that I—that the Church and thus anyone associated with it—was somehow above the common man.”

Julius seemed perplexed by the statement and completely off his guard.

“It took the death of Father Abbot Markwart, the destruction of the evil that the man had become—”

“Master Francis!” another of the group interrupted.

Francis smiled again and held up his hand to silence the murmuring of the astonished brothers.

“To go now straight to St.-Mere-Abelle, though we know Davon Dinnishire is in dire need, would be an act of sin, plain and without argument,” Francis stated. “It would be a course that the younger and less wise Francis Dellacourt, betrayed by the edicts of Father Abbot Markwart, would surely have followed.

“I am wiser now, my young friend,” Francis finished. “I do not speak with God, but I believe now that I better understand the path our faith asks us to walk. And that path now is to Davon Dinnishire.” Another of the group started to question that, but Francis cut him short. “I am the only master in the group,” he reminded them. “I have served as bishop of Palmaris and as abbot of St. Precious. I walked beside the Father Abbot for many months. This is not an issue I plan to debate with you, Brother Julius, or with any of you,” he said, glancing around at all the monks.

There was only a bit of grumbling behind him as he started down the southeastern road once more.

Master Francis walked with honest convictions and a purposeful stride. He did wince once, though, when he heard Brother Julius whisper to another brother that Francis was only delaying because he feared to return to St.-Mere-Abelle and face stern Master Bou-raiy, who would not be pleased at all about the events in Palmaris from the fall of Father Abbot Markwart to the present. There was a grain of truth in that statement, Francis had to admit.

Soon enough, the monks came to the walled village of Davon Dinnishire, running the last mile, using a rising plume of black smoke to guide them. They were somewhat relieved to find that the village had not been completely destroyed. The villagers were forming bucket lines to try to put out the flames.

“Who leads here?” Francis demanded of the first woman he could stop.

The old peasant pointed to a young, strong man of about thirty winters, with reddish brown hair and a full beard, thick arms and a barrel chest, and intense gray eyes that flashed like embers flaring to life every time he barked an order at one of the nearby villagers.

Francis hurried over to him. The villager’s gray eyes widened when he recognized the approaching man as an Abellican monk. “I am Master Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle,” he introduced himself. “We will help where we may.”

“A pity ye wasn’t here this morn,” the man replied. “If ye’d helped our fight with them goblins, we’d not have so many squirming with pain, and not so many fires to douse. Laird Dinnishire, I am—Maladance Dinnishire o’ the Davon Dinnishire clan.” He held out his hand, and Francis took it and shook it firmly, but turned back as he did and ordered his monks to get to work.

“The wounded first,” Francis instructed, “then go and help with the fires.”

“Did ye see the goblins?” Maladance Dinnishire asked. “Somewhere between two and three score run off, by last count.”

“And how many came against you?” asked Francis.

“Not many more than that,” the laird admitted. “We weren’t to run out after them, and they stayed back, throwing fiery arrows and running up to launch their
spears. We killed a few, and hurt a few more, but they were just testing our mettle, so to speak.”

“They will return,” Francis reasoned.

“Likely this same night,” Maladance agreed. “Goblins’re likin’ the dark. But don’t ye worry, Master Francis. If they’re tryin’ to get over our wall, they’re dyin’ tryin’!”

Francis didn’t doubt the town’s resolve or strength, for he understood that many of the towns in this region had been badly set upon during the months of the demon war. Many enemy forces had landed along the gulf coast, part of an assault force that had set its eyes upon the greatest prize in all the kingdom: St.-Mere-Abelle. But then the demon dactyl had been destroyed and the monstrous army had lost its coordination. The attack upon St.-Mere-Abelle had utterly failed and, since the powrie fleet had been mostly destroyed and the rest had sailed off, those goblins and powries already on the land had been left with no escape from the region, running off in small marauding bands.

So these townsfolk, farmers mostly, had seen some fighting, he knew. But he knew, too, that even if they fought valiantly, they would suffer further losses, perhaps heavy losses, against so many goblin warriors.

Francis went to work, helping the wounded and fighting the fires. When he was done, some three hours later, the sun was beginning its western descent. He called together those of his brethren he could find, all but a couple still tending the wounded and the ill. All of the monks were drenched in sweat and covered in soot, eyes red from smoke and hands blistered from running with heavy, water-filled buckets.

“Gather your strength, both physical and magical,” Master Francis bade them. “The goblins mean to return this night, but we will go out and find them where they camp.”

That widened some eyes!

“We are eighteen brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, trained in fighting and in magic,” Francis said.

“We’ve one offensive gemstone,” Brother Julius, who had become somewhat of a spokesman for the rest of the group, interjected, “a single graphite.”

“Enough to blind and confuse our enemies that we might spring upon them,” Francis remarked with a sly grin.

“You are beginning to sound much like Master De’Unnero,” Brother Julius remarked, and his tone showed that he spoke somewhat in jest. But Francis didn’t take the comparison that way at all and scowled fiercely at the younger man.

“We have a responsibility to these people,” he declared, “to all people who are in need.”

As he finished, there came a tumult from down the lane. The brothers turned and saw a monk crashing out of the door of a peasant hovel, stripping off his robes as he ran full speed for the group. “Master Francis!” he called repeatedly. By the time he reached the group, he was wearing only his short cotton underclothing,
and to the amazement of the other monks, he grabbed up one bucket of water and doused himself.

“Brother Cranston!” Francis scolded. “We are all uncomfortable in the heat—”

“Rosy plague!” Cranston replied desperately. “In that house … a woman … already dead.”

Francis rushed over and grabbed the man, shaking him. “Rosy plague?” he asked breathlessly. “Are you sure, brother?”

“Red spots with white rings all about her body,” Brother Cranston replied. “Her eyes were sunken and bruised, and she had bled from her gums and her eyes, I could see. Oh, but she rotted away!”

Brother Julius came up to Francis and dropped a heavy hand on the master’s shoulder. “We must be far from this place at once,” he said gravely. Behind him, Francis heard another mutter, “Better that the goblins come back and burn the whole town to the ground.”

Francis wanted to shout at the brother, to shove Julius and his words far aside. But he could not dismiss any of the remarks. The rosy plague! The scourge of Honce-the-Bear. Francis’ primary duties at St.-Mere-Abelle for years had been as a historian, and so he knew, better than any, the truth of the rosy plague. It had first occurred in God’s Year 412, devastating the southern reaches of the kingdom. One in seven had died, according to the records. One in seven. And in Yorkey that number had been closer to one in four.

And yet the plague that had occurred the following century, from 517 to 529, had been even more virulent, devastating the Mantis Arm and spreading across the Gulf of Corona to Vanguard. Ursal had been particularly hard hit. Afterward the record keepers of the day, Abellican monks mostly, had put the death toll at one in three—some had even claimed that half the population of Honce-the-Bear had fallen.

The rosy plague!

How vulnerable Honce-the-Bear would have been then to invasion by Behren, to the south, except that Behren had not been spared either. Francis, of course, had no records of the death toll in that southern kingdom, but many of the accounts he had read had claimed that the Behrenese had suffered even more than the folk of Honce-the-Bear. Now the kingdom was even more thickly populated than it had been before the 517 plague, Francis knew. And now, given the war, the kingdom was even less prepared to handle such a disaster.

So even though Master Francis Dellacourt—the enlightened monk who had learned the truth of Father Abbot Markwart and of the heroes he had once considered enemies, had turned his life down a different road, a road of compassion and of service—wanted to yell against the callous remarks of his brethren, he could not find the strength to do so. Not in that terribly shocking moment, not in the face of the threat of the rosy plague!

But first he had to go and see. He had read the descriptions of the disease, had seen artists’ renderings of the victims. Several times since 529, there had been reports
of the plague, but they had proven either to be minor outbreaks or simply the mistaken claims of desperate people. He bade his brethren to stay there, except for a pair he sent in search of the three still-missing brethren, and then Master Francis gathered up his strength and strode determinedly toward the hovel at the end of the lane.

He heard weeping and found a pair of children within, looking haggard and afraid. He brushed past them and through a curtain, and there she lay.

It was the first verse of an old children’s song, a poem that had been penned sometime around God’s Year 412, a song of the attempts to ward off the killer plague by diminishing the rotting stench of its victims with flowers, a song that told the honest truth for those who contracted the illness. “ ‘And cover us with dirt,’ ” Francis whispered.

“Get out! Get out!” he yelled at the children. “Out and far away from here. You can do nothing for your mother now. Get out!” He chased the weeping children out before him into the lane; and several townsfolk, Laird Dinnishire among them, came over.

“My brethren and I will go out after the goblins,” Francis explained to him. “With luck, they will not return to your town.”

“What’s wrong in the house?” the concerned laird asked.

Francis looked at the hovel. “Burn it,” he instructed.

“What?”

“Burn it to the ground,” Francis declared, fixing the man with a determined stare, “at once.”

“Ye canno—”

“Burn it!” Francis interrupted. “You must trust me, Laird Dinnishire, I beg of you. No one is to enter.”

The laird stared at him incredulously, and those behind Dinnishire shook their heads and mumbled.

Francis took the laird by the arm and pulled him aside. And then he explained to the man, plainly and honestly, that the goblins were not the worst of their troubles this hot summer day.

“Ye canno’ be sure,” Dinnishire protested.

“I am not,” Francis lied, for he did not want to start a panic, and forewarning, beyond burning the house, would do the folk of Davon Dinnishire little good. “But are we to risk the chance that I am right? The woman is dead, and her husband and children—”

“Husband’s been dead two years now,” Laird Dinnishire explained. “Killed in a powrie fight.”

“Then the children must be taken in elsewhere. Burn the house to its foundation, and then you, and another one or two you can trust, must go and clear the remains of the house and of the dead woman.”

Laird Dinnishire stared at him.

“I beg of you, Laird Dinnishire,” Francis said solemnly.

“Ye’ll keep them goblins off us?” the man asked.

Francis nodded, then went back and gathered up his brethren; and out they went, on the hunt for goblins.

As soon as they reached the trees beyond the farms immediately surrounding Davon Dinnishire, Francis set the group into a defensive formation. Not wanting to diminish his own magical energies any more than he already had done with his efforts in healing the injured townsfolk, he gave the finest hematite to Brother Julius and bade the monk to spirit-walk to search for the goblins.

Julius was dumbfounded. He had attempted only one spirit-walk in his years at St.-Mere-Abelle, and that had not gone well—the monk unintentionally had tried to inhabit the body of another nearby student. “I am not so good at such a task,” he admitted.