DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (118 page)

The terrain became more difficult by noon on the day after the fight in the valley. Master Jojonah tried to keep the spirits of his comrades high, reminding them of the good they had done, of the suffering they had prevented by intervening. But all of the monks were tired from their nighttime trials, particularly concerning the further use of magic, and, given the rough terrain, magic this day would have proven a great help.

One thing that neither Jojonah nor Brother Francis would compromise on, though, was the use of the quartz gemstones for scouting. Exhausted as they were, the monks simply could not afford to let down their guard, not in this wild region. Master Jojonah did end the ride early, before the sun had set, and called for his brothers to sleep well and long, to gather their strength that they might attack the road more vigorously the next day.

“We would have had the strength to travel much later,” Brother Francis pointedly told the master, as usual, planting himself by Jojonah’s side as if keeping a wary eye on the older man, “had we not engaged in an affair that was not our own.”

“It seems to me that you enjoyed the rout of the monstrous force as much as any, brother,” the Master responded. “How can you doubt the wisdom of our actions?”

“I’ll not deny the pleasure I garner in destroying enemies of my God,” Brother Francis replied.

That high-browed proclamation raised Jojonah’s eyebrows.

“Yet,” Brother Francis went on before the portly monk could reply, “I know what Father Abbot Markwart dictated.”

“And that is all that matters?”

“Yes.”

Master Jojonah silently groaned over the brother’s blind faith, a fault so prevalent in the Abellican Order these days, a fault that he, too, had been guilty of for so many years. Master Jojonah, like all the masters and immaculates of St.-Mere-Abelle, had known that the ship hired to carry the brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit would never be allowed to leave the harbor at All Saints Bay, and that all aboard her would be killed. Like all the others—all except for Avelyn Desbris—Jojonah had accepted that grim outcome as the lesser of two evils, for the monks simply could not have allowed any with such knowledge as the location of Pimaninicuit to sail away. Similarly, Jojonah knew that Brother Pellimar had been allowed to die of an infection from a wound he had suffered on the voyage to that island—though hard work by the older monks with a soul stone certainly could have saved him—because the man could not keep his mouth shut concerning that all-important voyage. But again, at the time, Pellimar’s demise had seemed to Jojonah the lesser of two evils.

In reflecting on his own decision, Master Jojonah could not fully blame the zealous Brother Francis now. “We saved many families last night,” he reminded. “And for that, I cannot be sorry. Our mission has not been compromised.”

“Your pardon, Master Jojonah,” came a call from the side of the wagon.

Both men turned to see a trio of younger monks, Brother Dellman among them, cautiously approaching.

“I have detected a presence in the area,” Brother Dellman explained. “Not a goblin, not a monster at all,” the young monk quickly added, seeing the sudden and frantic reaction. “A man, shadowing our every move.”

Master Jojonah sat back, not too concerned, and more interested at that moment in studying the young man who had delivered the news. Brother Dellman was going out of his way to make himself quite useful of late, was working harder than any other in the caravan. Jojonah liked the potential he saw there, in the young man’s eyes, in the idealistic attitude.

“A man?” Brother Francis echoed, seeing that Master Jojonah was making no move to reply. “Of the Church? Of Palmaris? Of the village?” he snapped impatiently. Francis, too, had noticed Dellman’s work of late, but he wasn’t sure of the young monk’s motives. “Who is it, and where has he come from?”

“Alpinadoran, obviously,” Brother Dellman replied. “A huge man, with long flaxen hair.”

“From the village, no doubt,” Brother Francis said with a huff aimed directly at the master. “Perhaps you spoke too soon, Master Jojonah,” he added curtly.

“He is a man,” the older monk argued. “Just a man. Probably trying to find out who we are and why we saved his village. We will send him away and that will be the end of it.”

“And is he a precursor?” Brother Francis said. “A spy sent to unveil our weaknesses? Never has Alpinador called itself an ally of the Abellican Church. Need I remind you of the tragedy at Fuldebarrow?”

“You need remind me of nothing,” Master Jojonah replied sternly, but Brother Francis’ point was well-taken. Fuldebarrow was an Alpinadoran town, larger than the one from the previous night, wherein the Church, the Abbey of St. Precious of Palmaris, had tried to establish a mission. All had gone well for nearly a year, but then, apparently, the Abellican missionaries had said or done something to offend the Alpinadoran barbarians, probably some insult to the god-figure of the northern people. None of the monks were ever found—physically at least. St. Precious had turned to St.-Mere-Abelle for help in the investigation, and using their magical talents, soul stones to locate the spirits of the dead, the masters of the larger abbey discovered that the missionaries had been brutally executed.

But that incident was nearly a hundred years old, and sending missionaries into any heathen territory was ever a dangerous course.

“Let us be rid of this spy efficiently,” Brother Francis said, rising to his feet. “I will—”

“You will do nothing,” Master Jojonah interrupted.

Brother Francis straightened as if slapped. “It is curious that I was not able to contact Father Abbot Markwart before the fight at the village,” he remarked, the implications obvious, given his sly look Jojonah’s way. “Distance is supposed to be irrelevant where hematite is concerned.”

“Perhaps you are not as powerful with the stones as you believe,” Master Jojonah said dryly. Both men knew better, though. Both knew that Master Jojonah, who possessed a small but effective sunstone, the stone of antimagic, had interfered with Brother Francis’ attempt to enlist the Father Abbot against the notion that they would defend the Alpinadoran village from the monsters.

“What are we to do with this troublesome shadow, then?” Francis demanded.

“What indeed?” was all Master Jojonah could answer.

“He knows of us, and thus he looms as a threat,” Brother Francis pressed. “If he is a spy, as I believe, then he will likely send a powerful force against us, and letting him live now will not seem so merciful in light of the dozens of men who will pay for our generosity with their lives.” He paused, and it seemed to Jojonah that he was almost pleased by that prospect, as if he had just convinced himself that it would be better to let the man live.

It was a passing thought for Brother Francis, though. “Or even if he is not a spy,” the fiery monk went on, “he remains a threat. Suppose he is captured by the powries. Do you doubt that he will divulge information about us to the monsters in the false hope of mercy?”

Master Jojonah looked to the three younger monks, all of them wearing startled expressions at the increasingly heated exchange. “Perhaps it would be better if you left us now,” the master bade them. “And you, Brother Dellman, well done. Back to the gems with you, the soul stone this time, that you might watch our uninvited guest more closely.”

“Uninvited and unwanted,” Brother Francis said under his breath as the three younger monks moved away, passing Braumin Herde, who was coming to join Francis and Jojonah.

“Do not underestimate this Alpinadoran,” Brother Braumin remarked as he neared. “Were it not for the soul stone, we would never have known he was shadowing our every move, though even as we speak he is less than fifty yards from our encampment.”

“Spies are practiced at such tactics,” Brother Francis remarked, drawing a sour expression from both Jojonah and Braumin.

“What do you believe?” Master Jojonah asked of Braumin.

“He is from the village, I would guess,” the immaculate replied, “though I place less sinister value on that notion than does my brother.”

“Our mission is too vital for us to let down our guard,” Francis argued.