DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (36 page)

The next morning, the
Saudi Jacintha
floated beside the long wharf of the northernmost Honce-the-Bear fortress.

A
nother ship put in that morning as well, but into a sheltered bay some five miles north. The powries had pushed the old reme to her limits, and now she was badly in need of some repairs to oars and to mainmast. The bedraggled powries, rowing hard for a week and a half, needed the respite, as well, and more important, to Dalump Keedump’s thinking, needed some real weapons, something they could throw from a distance at the pursuing ship or any others they might find on the open Mirianic. Also, the Weathered Isles, the powries’ home and goal, were a long way away, and a few supplies would surely raise the morale of Dalump’s overworked and underfed crew.

Perhaps that pursuing ship would discover them here and come in for the kill. Dalump and his tough powries didn’t fear humans, not even the Allheart knights, and while they had no heart for fighting them out on the open water—not in this rickety and defenseless ship, at least—they’d be more than happy to do battle on land.

But for that, too, they’d need weapons, something Duke Kalas had flatly refused to provide—not even a spear for sticking fish. So now half the weary crew went to work with renewed vigor, cutting branches and fashioning crude bows and spears and clubs, while others worked to ready the ship, and still others went out to scout the region.

Dalump didn’t say it, but he and all the others were also hoping their scouts might happen upon a cluster of houses, scantily guarded, where the crew might find some fun at the expense of a few wretched humans.

T
he docks were quiet that morning; with the inclement weather and a few days of fine catches before it, the Vanguard fishing fleet had not ventured out in force.

The
Saudi Jacintha
had been guided in by a pair of soldiers, wearing the red uniforms of the famed Coastpoint Guards. The two started somewhat, seeing a Behrenese man piloting the craft, but their trepidation was tempered a bit when they noted an Abellican monk standing beside the captain, chatting easily.

As soon as the
Saudi Jacintha
was secured to the wharf and its gangplank lowered, the captain and Brother Dellman made ready to disembark. “Permission to go ashore?” Al’u’met asked.

“Granted, for yerself and the brother,” one of the soldiers answered. “Warder Presso will want to speak with ye before giving a general invitation.”

“Fair enough,” said Al’u’met, and he and Dellman moved off the ship and followed the pair up a long stairway carved out of the stone cliff, into Pireth Vanguard and to the office of Warder Constantine Presso.

“Al’u’met,” the warder said as soon as the pair entered. He rose and came around his desk, obviously familiar with the Behrenese captain. “How long has it been, my old friend?”

“Back in the days when you served at Pireth Tulme,” Al’u’met replied, “long before the war.”

They shook hands warmly, and Al’u’met introduced his old friend to Brother Dellman.

“I have brought him for a meeting with Abbot Agronguerre,” Al’u’met explained. “Many tidings from the south, some wondrous, some painful.”

“We have heard rumors, but nothing substantial,” Presso replied. “Know that, at last, and through the tireless work of our Prince Midalis, the goblin scum have been cleansed from our land.”

Al’u’met nodded. “We will tell our tale in full to Abbot Agronguerre,” he said. “I believe that Warder Presso would also be welcomed at that meeting, if he was so inclined.” He looked to Brother Dellman as he spoke, deferring to the man but making it quite clear that he trusted Presso implicitly.

“If he is a friend of Al’u’met, then welcome he is,” the monk said with a respectful bow.

“To St. Belfour, then,” Warder Presso said, and he led the way out of the office, giving orders to his men to make Al’u’met’s crew most welcome, and to get a detail inspecting the ship.

The trio rode comfortably in the warder’s carriage through the woodlands to the small clearing and the stone structure of St. Belfour. Abbot Agronguerre was quite busy this day, but he and Brother Haney made time for them.

“The College of Abbots will convene in Calember,” Brother Dellman explained
as soon as the formal introductions were ended. “We will take you there in the
Saudi Jacintha
, if you please.”

“Three months?” Agronguerre asked, looking mostly to Al’u’met. “That is a long time in a fine season for a trader to be tied up, is it not?”

“I am indebted to your—to my—Church, Abbot Agronguerre,” Al’u’met explained, “and mostly to those who bade me to bring Brother Dellman here and to deliver both of you to St.-Mere-Abelle. It is a service I, and my crew, willingly offer.”

“Most generous,” said Abbot Agronguerre. “But perhaps the second part will prove unnecessary. If I am to go to the College, as surely I am, then I will need transport back soon after, and better if it is a Vanguard ship, that it can dock the winter through at Pireth Vanguard.”

Al’u’met looked to Dellman, but the young brother wasn’t prepared to answer that logic at that time.

“We will discuss it at length,” Al’u’met said, “but no need for haste. Let us tell you of the events in Palmaris and in the southern part of the kingdom, momentous events indeed.”

“Father Abbot Markwart is dead,” Agronguerre remarked, “so said one trader who came through. Killed by a man named Nightbird and the woman Pony.”

“Jilseponie,” Brother Dellman corrected. “Elbryan Wyndon, known as Nightbird, and his wife, Jilseponie, who is often called Pony.”

“And they are outlaws?” asked the abbot.

“Nightbird was killed in the battle,” Dellman explained. “And far from an outlaw, Jilseponie is now hailed as the hero of the kingdom.”

Abbot Agronguerre wore a perplexed expression indeed!

Brother Dellman took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. He had to go back to the beginning, he realized, to bring this man through the last tumultuous year in the southern reaches of Honce-the-Bear, and the western stretch, all the way through the Timberlands and up to the Barbacan and the miracle at Mount Aida.

The three Vanguardsmen listened intently, leaning forward so far in their seats that they seemed as if they would topple onto the floor. Brother Haney repeatedly brought his right hand up before his face, making the gesture of the blessing of the evergreen, particularly when Dellman told of the events at Mount Aida, at Avelyn’s grave, when the blessed arm of the martyred brother shot forth waves of energy to utterly destroy the horde of goblins that had trapped Dellman and his companions on that forlorn plateau.

And Agronguerre, too, made the sign of the evergreen when Brother Dellman told of the final battle at Chasewind Manor, of the fall of Markwart—from grace and from life.

When he ended, the three Vanguardsmen sat there silently for a long, long time. Brother Haney looked to his abbot repeatedly, deferring to Agronguerre’s wisdom before he voiced his own thoughts.

“Where is this woman Jilseponie now?” the abbot asked.

“She went home—to the Timberlands and a town called Dundalis,” Al’u’met explained. “There lies her husband.”

“An impressive woman,” Agronguerre remarked.

“You cannot begin to understand the depth of her heroism,” Al’u’met was pleased to reply. “In the time of Bishop De’Unnero and the last days of Father Abbot Markwart, my people were being persecuted brutally in Palmaris, and Jilseponie stood strong beside us, risking all for folk she did not even know. There is a goodness there, and a strength.”

“None is stronger in the use of the sacred gemstones,” Brother Dellman remarked, and both Agronguerre and Haney gasped and made the evergreen sign.

“Both the Church and King Danube himself recognized it within her,” Al’u’met went on. “She was offered both the barony of Palmaris and a high position within your Church, as abbess of St. Precious, or even …” He paused and looked to Dellman.

“There was talk of nominating her as mother abbess of the Abellican Church,” Dellman admitted. “Proposed by Master Francis Dellacourt—”

“Markwart’s lackey,” Agronguerre interrupted. “Well I know Brother Francis from the last College of Abbots. I found him most disagreeable, to be honest.”

“Master Francis has seen the error of his ways,” Brother Dellman assured him. “He saw it on the face of his dying Father Abbot, and heard it in the last words, of repentance, that Markwart spoke to him.”

“It has been an interesting year,” Abbot Agronguerre said with a profound sigh.

“I should like to meet this Jilseponie,” Warder Presso remarked.

“She once served in your Coastpoint Guard,” Brother Dellman told him, and the Warder nodded appreciatively. “Indeed, she was at Pireth Tulme when the powries invaded, perhaps the only survivor of that massacre.”

That widened Presso’s eyes, and he stared hard at Dellman. “Describe her,” he demanded.

“Beauty incarnate,” Al’u’met said with a chuckle.

Dellman was more specific, holding up his hand to indicate that Pony was about five foot five. “Her eyes are blue and her hair golden,” he said.

“It could not be,” Warder Presso remarked.

“You know her?” Al’u’met asked him.

“There was a woman at Pireth Tulme who went by the name of Jill,” Presso explained. “She had been indentured into the King’s army—something about a failed marriage with a nobleman—and had worked her way into the Coastpoint Guard. But that was years ago.”

“A failed marriage to Connor Bildeborough, nephew of Baron Bildeborough of Palmaris,” Brother Dellman explained, smiling, for he knew that they were indeed speaking of the same remarkable woman. “A marriage that could only fail, since Jilseponie’s heart was ever for Elbryan.”

“Amazing,” Warder Presso breathed.

“You do know her, then,” said Agronguerre.

Presso nodded. “And even then, she was impressive, good Abbot. A woman of high moral character and strength of heart and of arm.”

“That would be her,” said a smiling Al’u’met.

“We can decide on your passage at a later date,” Brother Dellman said to Abbot Agronguerre. “In the meantime, I have been instructed to spend the summer in Vanguard, and truly, I do wish to see this wondrous land.”

“And you are most welcome, Brother Dellman,” said the congenial Agronguerre. “There is much room here at St. Belfour, and with so many brothers off in the north with Prince Midalis, an extra set of hands would greatly help.”

“And Captain Al’u’met and his crew will stay with me at Pireth Vanguard,” said Warder Presso. “I, too, find myself shorthanded, with many soldiers on the road with my Prince.”

“And when do you expect their return?” Al’u’met asked.

“We have heard rumors that it will be soon,” Presso replied. “They ventured to southern Alpinador with the barbarian leader Bruinhelde and the ranger Andacanavar, repaying the northmen for their aid in our struggles.”

“An alliance with Alpinador?” Captain Al’u’met asked skeptically.

Warder Presso shrugged. “That is a story for another day, I suspect,” he answered when there came a soft knock on Abbot Agronguerre’s door.

“Vespers,” the abbot explained, rising. “Perhaps you would lead us in our prayers this evening, Brother Dellman.”

Dellman rose from his chair and bowed respectfully. He stared at Agronguerre, continuing to take the measure of the man. If first impressions meant anything at all, though, Dellman suspected that he would indeed be recommending that Braumin Herde and the others nominate this man for the position of father abbot.

Chapter 16
 

“O
NE RETURNING BROTHER AFTER ANOTHER
,” M
ASTER
B
OU
-
RAIY SAID WITH OBVIOUS
sarcasm as Marcalo De’Unnero walked into his office in St.-Mere-Abelle. “First Brother—oh, do pardon me, it is Master Francis now—comes in unexpectedly, and now our pleasure is doubled.”

De’Unnero wore a smirk as he studied the man. Bou-raiy had never been a friend of his, had resented him; for, though younger, De’Unnero had been in greater favor of Father Abbot Markwart, and, through deed after deed, had elevated himself above Bou-raiy. Their rivalry had been evident to De’Unnero soon after the powrie fleet had come to St.-Mere-Abelle. De’Unnero had distinguished himself in that fight, while Bou-raiy had spent the bulk of it at the western wall, waiting for a ground invasion that had never come.

De’Unnero wasn’t surprised to find that Bou-raiy had used the power vacuum at St.-Mere-Abelle to further his own cause; who else was there, after all, to take up the lead at the great abbey? So now Bou-raiy, a man long buried under Markwart’s disdain, had stepped forward, with that lackey Glendenhook at his heels.

“Two masters—former bishops, former abbots, both—returned to bolster St.-Mere-Abelle in this time of trial,” De’Unnero said.

“Bolster?” Bou-raiy echoed skeptically, and he gave a sarcastic laugh. De’Unnero pictured how wide that smile might stretch if he drove his palm through Bou-raiy’s front teeth. “Bolster? Master De’Unnero, have you not listened to the whispers that hound your every step? Have you not heard the snickers?”