DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (123 page)

“Where is the centaur?” Master Jojonah asked.

“Resting, and more comfortable than we might have hoped,” Brother Francis replied. “We fed him—tentatively at first, but then he ate pounds of meat, half our store of venison, and drank gallons of water. Strong indeed must be the magic of that armband, for already he seems more solid.”

Master Jojonah nodded, sincerely relieved.

“And we have found a way up the mountain,” Brother Francis added.

“Is there still a need?”

“You will be interested in what we have there discovered among the ashes,” Brother Francis said sternly.

Master Jojonah held his next question, instead pausing to take a measure of the man. Whatever progress Francis might have made seemed to have been erased now—probably by the visit of Father Abbot Markwart. The man’s expression was cold again; the laughter in his eyes was no more. All business.

“I need to rest, I fear,” Master Jojonah said at length. “I will talk to Bradwarden this day; we can climb Aida tomorrow.”

“No time,” Brother Francis replied. “And none are to speak to the centaur until we return to St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Master Jojonah didn’t even need to ask where that order had come from. And he came to understand more clearly Brother Francis’ shift of mood. When they had first viewed the blasted Barbacan, Francis had proclaimed that the devastation was either the work of a godly man or an overextension of the demon dactyl’s magic. Now it seemed clear that Brother Avelyn had indeed been involved, and Master Jojonah did not doubt for a second that the Father Abbot had made it clear to Francis that Brother Avelyn was no godly man.

“We go up the mountain this day,” Brother Francis went on. “If you cannot make it, then Brother Braumin will go in your stead. When that duty is finished, we are back on the road.”

“It will be dark before you get back down,” Brother Braumin said.

“We will ride day and night until we are returned to St.-Mere-Abelle,” Brother Francis answered.

The course seemed quite silly to Master Jojonah. The answers were here, of course, or perhaps nearby. To go all the way back to St.-Mere-Abelle made no sense—unless he factored in Father Abbot Markwart’s profound distrust of him. The discovery of an eyewitness had changed everything, and Markwart wasn’t about to let him take control of this very delicate situation. Jojonah looked to Braumin then, both men wondering if the time had come to make a stand against the Father Abbot, against the Church itself.

Master Jojonah shook his head slightly. They could not win.

He was not surprised, but was surely pained, when he returned to the wagons to find Bradwarden in chains. Still, the centaur’s renewed vigor surprised him and gave him hope.

“Ye might at least let them give me me pipes,” the centaur begged.

Master Jojonah followed Bradwarden’s longing gaze to a set of dusty bagpipes lying on the seat of a nearby wagon. He started to say something, but Brother Francis cut him short.

“He will have food, and he will have healing, and nothing more,” the monk explained. “And as soon as he seems fully recovered, the armband will be taken.”

“Ah, but Avelyn was a far better man than the lot o’ ye put together,” Bradwarden remarked, and he closed his eyes and began humming a quiet tune, pausing once to offer a sly look and mutter, “Thieves.”

Master Jojonah, eyeing Brother Francis all the while, walked over and took up the bagpipes, then handed them to the centaur.

Bradwarden returned a respectful look and a nod, then took to playing, hauntingly beautiful music that had all the monks, except stubborn Francis, listening intently.

Master Jojonah somehow found the strength to accompany Francis and six others up Aida that afternoon. The top of the mountain was now a wide black bowl, but the ash and molten stone had hardened enough for the monks to walk across it without much difficulty.

Brother Francis led them directly to the spot: a petrified arm sticking from the black ground, fingers clutched as though they had held something.

Master Jojonah bent low and examined the arm and hand. He knew them! Somehow, he knew who this was, somehow he felt the goodness of this place, an aura of peace and godly strength.

“Brother Avelyn,” he gasped.

Behind him the others, except for Francis, nearly fell over.

“That is our guess,” Brother Francis replied. “It would seem that Avelyn was in league with the dactyl, and was destroyed when the demon was destroyed.”

The obvious falsehood overwhelmed Master Jojonah. He rose and spun on Brother Francis powerfully, and nearly struck the man.

But Jojonah held his blow. Father Abbot Markwart would persist with a campaign of lies against Avelyn, he realized, for if it was discovered that Avelyn had given his life in destroying the dactyl, as Jojonah knew to be true, then Markwart’s many claims and position in the Church might be in jeopardy. That was why, Jojonah realized, conversations with the centaur were to be limited until the creature was safely back at St.-Mere-Abelle, under Markwart’s control.

Master Jojonah forced himself to calm down. This fight was only beginning; now was not the time to wage the battle openly.

“What do you think he was holding?” Brother Francis asked.

Jojonah looked back to the arm and shrugged.

“There is little magic about this man,” Brother Francis explained. “A couple of stones, perhaps—we will know that when we exhume the body—but not enough strength to account for the hoard that Avelyn stole.”

Exhume the body.The notion screamed out at Jojonah as simply wrong. This place should be marked as a holy shrine, a place of renewing faith and finding character. He wanted to scream out at Francis, to punch the man in the mouth for even uttering such a blasphemous thought. But again he reminded himself that this was not the time to wage the battle, not that way.

“The stone about the arm is solid,” he reasoned. “Blasting it will prove no easy task.”

“We have graphite,” Brother Francis reminded him.

“And if there is a crevice or chasm beneath the body, such violent intrusion will likely drop all the stones away from us forever.”

A panicked expression crossed Brother Francis’ face. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked sharply.

“Search with the hematite and the garnet,” Master Jojonah replied. “It should be no difficult task in determining if there are any stones about this man, and what they might be. Put a brilliant diamond light into the crack about the arm, then let your spirit enter that place.”

Brother Francis, not recognizing the larger reasons Father Abbot Markwart might have for destroying this potential shrine, thought about it for a few moments, then agreed.

He also agreed to let Master Jojonah spiritually accompany him into the crevice, since the Father Abbot was too weary to return to his body anytime soon, and Jojonah was the only one who could identify Brother Avelyn; Francis had only seen the man a couple of times, for Avelyn had deserted the abbey shortly after Francis had entered it.

Soon after, the identity was confirmed, along with the knowledge that only one stone, a sunstone, was anywhere near the man, though Master Jojonah sensed the residual magical emanations of another stone, the giant amethyst. The master said nothing of the amethyst to Francis, and had no trouble convincing the younger monk that a simple sunstone, which were already in abundance at St.-Mere-Abelle, was not worth the trouble, risk, and lost time of exhuming the body.

With Francis leading, they left Avelyn then.

Master Jojonah was the last to turn to go, pausing at the sight, reflecting on his own faith and remembering the young monk who had inadvertently taught him so very much.

When they got back to camp, Jojonah pressed a diamond into Brother Braumin’s hand, whispered directions to him, and bade him go and see the sacred place. “I will delay Brother Francis long enough for you to return,” he promised.

Brother Braumin, not quite understanding, but recognizing from Jojonah’s tone the importance of the journey, nodded and turned to go.

“And Brother Braumin,” the master said, turning the man about. “Take Brother Dellman with you. He, too, should see this man, and this place.”

Brother Francis was in a foul mood indeed when he learned they would be delayed in leaving, for a wagon had somehow broken a wheel.

Still, they were on the move before the dawn. The centaur, seeming fit again—though Francis hadn’t yet dared to remove the armband—and playing his pipes, trotted behind Brother Francis’ wagon, chained to the frame and with several monks keeping close guard on him.

Neither Brother Braumin, Master Jojonah, nor Brother Dellman spoke a word that night and all the next day, their voices stolen by an image they would carry for the rest of their lives, and by a barrage of profound reflections on their purpose and their faith.

Wincing in agony, Roger bit hard on the piece of wood he had stuck between his teeth. He had torn a sleeve from his shirt, tied it tight about his leg, just below the knee, and knotted it about a second piece of wood. Now he turned that wood, tightening the tourniquet.

He nearly swooned more than once, flitting in and out of consciousness. If he passed out now, he would surely bleed to death, he reminded himself, for the bite of the Craggoth hound was deep, the blood spurting.

Finally, mercifully, the blood flow stemmed, and Roger, cold and clammy, sweating profusely, slumped back against the earthen wall of his cell. He knew this place well, a root cellar close to the town center, and knew there was only one way in or out: a trapdoor at the top of a rickety wooden ladder. Roger stared at it now, lines of meager daylight streaming through. The late afternoon sun, he realized, and he thought that he should try to make his break when the light was gone, under cover of night.

He recognized immediately the foolishness of that notion. He wasn’t going anywhere this night, could hardly find the strength to pull himself away from the wall. Chuckling at the futility of it all, he slumped down to the floor, and then he slept all the night through, and would have remained asleep for many, many more hours if the door to his jail had not banged open and the dawn’s light poured in.

Roger groaned and tried to straighten himself.

A powrie appeared on the ladder, followed by another, Kos-kosio Begulne himself. The dwarf in front went right to Roger and pulled him up to his feet, slamming him hard against the wall.

Roger teetered, but managed to hold his balance, realizing that if he fell over, the dwarf would just hoist him up again, probably even more roughly.

“Who uses the magic?” Kos-kosio Begulne asked, coming up to Roger, grabbing him by the front of his torn and bloody shirt and pulling him low, so his face was barely an inch from the leathery, wrinkled, imposing visage of the dwarf, close enough that Kos-kosio’s foul breath was hot in Roger’s face.

“Magic?” Roger replied.

“Get the hounds!” Kos-kosio Begulne cried.

Roger groaned again at the sound of barking.

“Who uses the magic?” the powrie leader demanded. “How many, and how many stones?”

“Stones?” Roger echoed. “I know of no stones, nor of any magic.”

Another bark came from above.

“I promise,” Roger added, his tone frantic. “I could just lie and give you a name, any name, and you would not know if I spoke truly until, or unless, you found that person. But I do not know of any magic. None!”

Kos-kosio Begulne held Roger close a bit longer, the dwarf growling low—and Roger feared that the fierce powrie would bite his nose off. But then Kos-kosio shoved him back hard against the wall and spun toward the stairs, convinced by the simple logic of Roger’s defense. “Ye tie him up!” the leader barked at the other powrie. “Strangle knot. We wants to make our guest comfortable.”

Roger wasn’t quite sure what Kos-kosio Begulne had in mind, but the other powrie’s grin, wide with evil glee, was not promising. The dwarf produced a thin, rough-edged rope and advanced on him.

Roger slumped to the floor. The dwarf kicked him over onto his belly, then yanked his arms roughly behind his back.

“Nah, put the damned hounds away,” Kos-kosio Begulne commanded yet another powrie who had come to the top of the root cellar’s ladder, leading a Craggoth hound on a short leash. “He’s just a weak human, and won’t be living through much more pain.” Kos-kosio looked back from his perch on the lower rungs, meeting Roger’s glare. “I’m wanting to find a bit more fun with this one before I let him die.”

“Lucky me,” Roger muttered under his breath, and that only got him an even harder tug from the dwarf with the rope.

The “strangle knot,” as Kos-kosio Begulne had called it, proved to be a devilish twist of the rope. Roger’s arms were bound tightly behind his back, bent at the elbow so his hands nearly touched the back of his neck. The nasty cord then looped over both his shoulders and down the front of his body, wrapping painfully underneath his groin and then up his back once more, finally looping about Roger’s throat. So expertly was he tied, and so tightly, that the slightest shift of his arms not only sent waves of pain into his groin, but cut off his air supply, as well.