DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (55 page)

“Bring him,” he instructed his Brothers Repentant, and the Behrenese man was dragged away. On went the procession, through the night, torches in hand. They encircled the large farmhouse and saw the frightened faces—old folks and children included—peering out at them through the windows.

De’Unnero ordered the Behrenese out of the house, but they refused.

“Who is your God?” he called to them. “Do you serve the Abellican Church or the Chezru chieftain of your homeland?”

No reply.

De’Unnero signaled to two brothers flanking him, each brandishing blazing torches, to approach the house.

“You will answer me or we will burn your house down around you!” De’Unnero roared. “Which Church do you serve?”

The door slid open and an old, weathered, dark-skinned man walked out, moving slowly but steadily toward the volatile monk.

He looked to the Brothers Repentant holding the other Behrenese. “Let him go,” he demanded.

They ignored him, and he followed their gazes to the ringmaster.

“Begone from here,” the old man said to De’Unnero. “Our home is this, fairly taken and rebuilt. No explanations do we owe you.”

“You are yatol,” De’Unnero accused, for that was the religion of the southern country, and he knew from the dark-skinned man’s accent and inflection that he had not been long in Honce-the-Bear.

The old man squared his shoulders.

“Name the Abellican Church as your Church,” De’Unnero demanded. “Accept St. Abelle as your savior and our God as your God!”

“Our faith we will not renounce,” the man said proudly, lifting his gaze so that he could address the crowd. But then he was down on the ground, suddenly dropped by a heavy punch delivered expertly by Marcalo De’Unnero. And then he and the other man were sent running, chased by Brothers Repentant brandishing whips. Those angry monks chased the two Behrenese right up to the house, cracking their whips, forcing the dark-skinned men to seek refuge inside.

“Burn them in their house,” De’Unnero instructed, and the rest of the Brothers Repentant surged forward with their torches, setting the house ablaze on all sides, taking care to quickly engulf any potential exits.

The screams soon followed, pleading and begging, but the Brothers Repentant did not heed those cries and shed no tears for the heathen Behrenese, for they, like the followers of Avelyn, were to blame for delivering the rosy plague upon the land. They, with their sacrilegious rituals—which De’Unnero insisted included the sacrifice of kidnapped fair-skinned babies—were not innocent. Nay, by the cries of De’Unnero, whipping all the gathering, even the secular peasants, into a fury and a frenzy: the Behrenese were akin to minions of the demon dactyl.

De’Unnero called up all the rumors of Behrenese horrors, relentlessly condemning the dark-skinned southerners. His moment of highest triumph came shortly thereafter—the house burning wildly, smoke billowing into the nighttime sky—when one Behrenese woman somehow managed to elude the fire and run out, only to be hunted down by the folk of Juniper, the crowd stirred by De’Unnero’s tirade. They caught her and dragged her down, beat her and kicked her, and carried her back to the inferno. Howling with rage and glee, ignoring her pitiful screams, they threw her back into the fire to be consumed.

The Brothers Repentant left Juniper a torn and battered place the next day, moving out across the rolling fields of southern Honce-the-Bear. Behind them, they left fifteen dead and scores maimed and scarred. And yet, to some at least, they left as heroes, as the holy brothers who would defeat the rosy plague. Indeed, the number of Brothers Repentant grew by four that day, young, strong men of Juniper wanting to join in the war against sin, against the plague. Men willing to accept the responsibilities of mankind’s sins onto their own shoulders.

Men willing to suffer.

And to kill.

“S
he is with child again,” Abbot Je’howith announced to King Danube and Duke Kalas on the day after the autumn equinox, after his examination of Constance Pemblebury. “Another son.”

King Danube smiled; Kalas laughed out loud. “Thus the heir and the spare,” the Duke said.

Danube looked at him directly. His first instinct was to lash out at his rather callous and blunt friend, but he held the words in check. Duke Kalas had a right to be questioning the status of the children, Danube realized, given that he had not yet publicly announced the Denial of Privilege for Merwick, his first son with Constance, now nearly seven months old.

“We will see if that is to be,” the King replied, and calmly.

Kalas paused, and pondered the reply carefully. “You have invoked Refusal of Acceptance before,” he reasoned, “but not with one as close as Constance. Do you plan to marry her?”

Now it was Abbot Je’howith’s turn to laugh, a cackling sound that turned both
sets of eyes upon him. “Indeed, my sovereign,” he said, “do you plan to marry Lady Pemblebury? As your adviser in matters spiritual, I have to inform you that these conceptions, unless immaculate, do not set such a fine example for the rabble.”

All three had a good laugh at that, and Danube was glad for the dodge. He knew that he had to make some serious decisions, and soon, but truly he was torn. He did care for Constance, and dearly, and did not want to bring her pain in any way. But still, that image of another beautiful and spirited woman stayed bright in his mind.

They let it go at that for the time being, and Je’howith skulked back to his abbey, while Kalas escorted Danube on their daily ride across the fields, enjoying the luxuries his by birthright, the pleasures that accompanied exalted station.

Those pleasures would prove short-lived.

The news of the summer riot in the hamlet of Juniper and of similar outbursts along the farmlands between Ursal and Entel didn’t reach Castle Ursal until the next week, ironically, the very same day that the first victim of the rosy plague was confirmed within the city.

The mood in Danube’s audience hall—where Danube, Duke Kalas, Constance, and the baby Merwick awaited the arrival of Duke Tetrafel and Abbot Je’howith—was somber, a far shift from the carefree revelry among the nobles throughout the previous season. Suddenly the world seemed a darker place, and whatever reprieve the nobles of Danube’s court had experienced after the fall of the dactyl and its minions and the shake-up within the Abellican Church, seemed fast diminishing. None of them had experienced the rosy plague before, of course, but they knew well the histories, the devastation the sickness had wrought upon their kingdom on several occasions in centuries past.

“It is the plague!” came the cry, and Duke Tetrafel entered the room, out of breath from his long run through Castle Ursal. “It is confirmed, my King. The rosy plague!”

King Danube motioned for the man to calm down and take one of the seats that had been placed about before the throne. With a glance to the side, to see young Merwick at play with some game pieces, Tetrafel seated himself right before Danube.

“I have just spoken with one of the brothers of St. Honce,” Tetrafel started to explain, but Danube raised his hand to cut the man short.

“We have already been informed,” the King explained. “I spoke with Abbot Je’howith earlier this morn.”

“The rosy plague!” Tetrafel said, shaking his head. “What are we to do?”

“What can we do?” Duke Kalas answered. “Lock our doors fast and tight.”

“And continue with the business of ruling,” King Danube added. “For you, Duke Tetrafel, that means completing your reconstruction of your lost diary. All that you and your team toiled for in the west must not be lost to the ages.”

Duke Tetrafel winced, obviously pained by the memory. “Even the Doc’alfar?” he asked quietly.

“Especially the Doc’alfar,” King Danube answered. “These are potential enemies, and I plan to know about them, all about them.”

Duke Tetrafel nodded.

“But you’ll not continue your work here,” the King went on. “I need you to serve as my eyes and ears and mouth in Palmaris.”

Tetrafel winced again. “But the plague, my King,” he protested.

“Chasewind Manor is secure,” Duke Kalas added, “and comfortable. You will find all that you need there, and as much security from the plague as can be found here—as can be found anywhere in all the world, I fear.”

“Duke Tetrafel,” King Danube started formally, seeing that the man remained unconvinced, “I have great plans for the north, for the wild lands north of Palmaris, many of which fall within your province. We will delay those plans, no doubt, while the rosy plague runs its devastating course, but when the sickness has passed—and always, it passes—I intend to turn my eyes northward, to Palmaris and beyond. To Caer Tinella and all the way to the Timberlands.

“It will be the greatest expansion of Honce-the-Bear since the conquest of Vanguard, and I will need you, the greatest explorer of our day, to lead the way. So go to Palmaris with all haste. Duke Kalas has prepared his journal from his months there. Rule wisely and always with an eye toward the glorious future that you and I will find.”

The appeal proved more than successful. Duke Tetrafel rolled forward off his chair, to one knee before Danube. “I will not fail in this, my King,” he said, bowing his head. Then he came up, saluted, and left the room in a hurry, nearly running over Abbot Je’howith in the process.

“One so old as that should not be so excitable,” Je’howith remarked, walking in, the others noticed, with a more pronounced limp this day.

Je’howith took Tetrafel’s vacated seat and leaned back, though he didn’t seem as if he could get comfortable at all. The old abbot’s sullen expression was as clear an answer to the intended first question as Danube needed.

“It is true then,” the King stated. “The rosy plague has descended upon Ursal.”

“And with more vigor to the east,” Je’howith replied.

“A minor outbreak?” Constance spoke hopefully, her gaze going to her child as she asked the question.

“Who can tell?” Je’howith answered. “There have been occasions when the plague has appeared, but quickly dissipated, and others …” He let it end there, with a shake of his head.

“And in either case, what good is your Church, Abbot Je’howith?” Duke Kalas put in, the enmity between the two wasting no time in rearing up, as it did at every council session. “Will your abbots close their abbey doors, that they do not hear the pleas of the dying? Will they block their tiny windows, that they do not see the suffering of the people they pretend to lead to God?”

Abbot Je’howith perked up at those remarks, sat up straight and tall and narrowed his eyes. “We will indeed bolt our doors against the populace,” he admitted.
“And so shall you, Duke Kalas, and you, King Danube. We cannot battle the plague; and so we must, all of us, try to hide from it as we may.”

“And what of the peasants out in the streets?” Duke Kalas went on dramatically, though it was obvious that he had no logical side in this debate, for even Danube was nodding his agreement with Je’howith’s words.

“They will try to hide, as well,” Je’howith answered, “and many will be caught and will die, and horribly, because that is God’s will.”

Duke Kalas stood up so forcefully at that proclamation, at the notion that any god might be involved in the rosy plague, that his chair went flying behind him.

“Anything that you cannot explain or control you claim as God’s will,” he accused.

“Everything in all the world is God’s will,” Je’howith retorted.

“Like the coming of the demon dactyl?” Kalas asked slyly, sarcastically, given the accepted theory that the previous Father Abbot of the Abellican Church had fallen under the spell of the demon Bestesbulzibar.

Je’howith only shrugged and turned away from the Duke, facing the King instead. That action surprised Kalas—and Danube and Constance as well—for usually the old abbot seemed to enjoy the verbal sparring with Kalas as much as the Duke did.

“There are other issues we must discuss,” Danube said gravely, “concerning your Church. Have you heard anything of these so-named Brothers Repentant?”

“Only as much as yourself, my King,” Je’howith answered. “A rogue band, and not sanctioned by Father Abbot Agronguerre.”

“And their leader?” Danube asked. “This Brother Truth?”

Kalas snorted at the ridiculous title.

“I know nothing of him,” Je’howith replied.

“They travel from town to town,” Duke Kalas remarked angrily, moving beside Danube. “They decry the sins of man and beat each other senseless—no difficult feat, I would guess, for ones so fanatically committed to the Abellican Church.”

“Spare me your foolish comments,” Je’howith said dryly.

“Would that it ended there,” said King Danube. “They seem to be seeking enemies of the Church, or, at least, of their version of the Church. On two occasions, they have persecuted Behrenese.”

“I have heard as much.”

“And does this alarm you?” King Danube baited, for he knew that Je’howith, like most Abellicans, held little love for the heathen southerners.

“What would you have me say?” the old monk replied.

“Do you understand that Honce-the-Bear trades with Behren?” King Danube said. He, too, stood up, and motioned for Duke Kalas to move aside. “Have you so quickly forgotten the turmoil caused by Bishop De’Unnero, when he began a similar persecution of the Behrenese in Palmaris? Ambassador Rahib Daibe nearly suspended trade, and threatened war. Perhaps your Church considers the persecution of heathens no matter of import, my old friend, but I do not desire to thrust
my kingdom into another war!”

His voice rose with his ire. All in the room—Constance and Kalas and Je’howith, and even his infant son—looked at him incredulously. Rarely had they seen King Danube Brock Ursal, as even-tempered as any man alive, so animated and flustered.

“My Church is not to blame for the rosy plague,” Abbot Je’howith said quietly.

“But if your Church complicates the trouble—” Duke Kalas started to warn, but Danube cut him off with a sharp wave.

“I warned you and the others in Palmaris to put your house in order,” Danube said.

“As we have!” Je’howith protested. Now he, too, rose from his seat, though shakily, to get on even footing with his adversaries. “Father Abbot Agronguerre is a fine man; and despite the words of Duke Kalas here, you cannot dispute that Abbot Braumin Herde has done a fine job in bringing order to the devastated city of Palmaris.”