DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (164 page)

“They are gone?” Father Abbot Markwart asked Brother Francis later that same afternoon, the old man remaining in his private room for most of the day, not wanting any confrontations with Master Jojonah, whom he suspected was on the very edge of explosiveness. He had pushed Jojonah right to that edge purposely, and then pushed him out of the way, for Markwart feared that the old master had some fight left in him, a public brawl Markwart did not want. Let Jojonah go to Palmaris and do battle with De’Unnero!

“Master… Abbot De’Unnero led them away,” Brother Francis explained.

“Now the interrogation of the prisoners might commence in full,” Markwart said, with such coldness that Brother Francis felt a shiver run along his spine. “Have you the enchanted armband that was taken from the centaur?”

Brother Francis reached into a pocket and produced the elvish item.

“Good,” Markwart said with a nod. “He will need it to survive this day.” He started for the door, Francis scurrying to keep up.

“I fear that the other prisoners will need it more,” the young monk explained. “The woman, in particular, is looking gravely ill.”

“They need it, but we do not need them,” Markwart said ferociously, turning on the younger man.

“Perhaps someone could tend them with the soul stone, then,” Francis stuttered.

Markwart’s laugh pierced him to the heart. “Did you not hear me?” he asked. “We do not need them.”

“Yet we’ll not let them go,” Brother Francis reasoned.

“Indeed we will,” Markwart corrected, and before the smile could widen on the younger man’s face, he added, “We’ll let them go to face the wrath of God. Leave them alone in their dark holes.”

“But Father Abbot—”

Markwart’s stare silenced him. “You worry about individuals when all the Church is at stake,” the old man scolded.

“If we do not need them, then why keep them imprisoned?”

“Because if the woman we seek thinks we have them, she may walk right into our grasp,” Markwart replied. “It matters little whether they are alive or dead, as long as she thinks they are alive.”

“Then why not keep them that way?”

“Because they can bear witness!” the Father Abbot growled, moving his wrinkled old visage right up to Brother Francis, nose-to-nose. “How might their tale be received? Will those listening understand the greater good served by their suffering? And what of the fate of the woman’s son? Would you desire to answer to those charges?”

Brother Francis took a deep breath and steadied himself, reminded once again of the depth of the old Father Abbot’s obsession, and of his own deep involvement. Again the young monk found himself at a crossroads, for in his heart, despite what his obedience to the Father Abbot and the Church might be telling him, he knew that this torture of the Chilichunks and the centaur was a wicked thing. Yet he, too, was inescapably a part of that wicked thing, and unless Markwart prevailed, his complicity would be revealed for all the world to see. The woman was sickly because her heart had broken on the road when her son had died.

“The woman’s perception is everything,” Markwart went on. “It matters not whether her parents are truly alive or dead.”

“Whether they are alive or have been killed,” Francis corrected aloud, though muttering it under his breath too low for the Father Abbot, who was stalking toward the stairs once more, to hear. The young monk took another deep breath, but when he blew it out, the flickering flame of compassion in his heart went dark yet again. This was a tasteless, nasty business, he decided, but it was all for the good, and he was following the edicts of the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, the man closest to God in all the world.

Brother Francis picked up his pace, rushing past Markwart to open the doors to the stairwell.

“Pettibwa? Oh, Pettibwa, why don’t ye answer?” Graevis Chilichunk called repeatedly. The night before, he had been talking to his wife through the walls of their adjoining cells, and though he couldn’t see her, for the darkness was absolute, the sound of her voice had been comforting indeed.

Not that Pettibwa had offered much comfort with the content of her words. Grady’s death had grown like a canker in the woman’s heart and soul, Graevis knew, and though he had taken the brunt of the punishment, was battered and half starved, his old bones protesting his every movement—and with more than a few of them broken, he was sure—his wife was in worse shape by far.

He called out again and again, pleading with her.

Pettibwa couldn’t hear him, for her thoughts and all her sensibilities were turned inward, were locked in the image of a long tunnel and a bright light at its end, in the image of Grady standing at the exit of that tunnel, holding his hand out to her.

“I see him!” she cried. ” ‘Tis Grady, me boy.”

“Pettibwa?” came Graevis’ call.

“He’s showing me the way!” Pettibwa exclaimed, with more strength than she had shown in many, many days.

Graevis understood what was happening here, and his eyes widened in panic. Pettibwa was dying, was willingly leaving him and all this horrid world! His first instinct was to scream out to her, to bring her back to him, to plead with her not to leave him.

He remained silent; he caught himself in time to realize how selfish such a course would be. Pettibwa was ready to go, and so she should, for surely the next life would be a better place than this.

“Go to him, Pettibwa,” the old man called with a trembling voice, tears streaming from his dull eyes. “Go to Grady and hug him, and tell him that I love him, too.”

He went quiet then, all the world seemed to hush, so much so that Graevis could hear the rhythmic breathing of the woman in the adjoining cell. “Grady,” she muttered once or twice, and then there came a great sigh, and then…

Silence.

Sobs shook the old man’s broken body. He pulled against his chains with all his strength until one of his wrists popped out of joint and waves of pain made him lean back against the wall. He brought one hand in close to wipe the tears and snot from his face, and then, with strength that he didn’t believe he still possessed, Graevis stood straight and tall. This would be his last act of defiance, he understood.

Concentrating, conjuring images of his dead wife to bolster his courage, Graevis tugged with all his might against the shackle holding that injured hand. He ignored the pain, pulling the hand tight into the shackle, and then on some more. He didn’t even hear the crack of bone, but just pulled on, like a wild animal, tearing his skin, crushing his hand into the shackle.

Finally, after minutes of agony, the hand pulled free and Graevis’ legs went weak beneath him.

“No ye don’t,” he scolded, lifting himself straight and turning for the remaining length of chain. In one movement Graevis leaped up over his extended hand, twisted and turned and threw that shackled arm up over his head so that when he came back down, the chain was looped about his neck. He was up on his tiptoes and could relieve the choking pressure.

But not for long, he knew as his legs began to weaken and his body slumped, the chain pulling tight about his throat.

He wanted to find that tunnel, wanted to see Pettibwa and Grady beckoning to him.

“I told you he was evil!” Father Abbot Markwart roared at Brother Francis when they came upon the hanging man. “But even I did not understand the depth of it, apparently. To take his own life! What cowardice!”

Brother Francis wanted to agree wholeheartedly, but a nagging part of his conscience would not let him dismiss it that easily. They had found the woman, Pettibwa, in the adjoining cell, dead, and not by her own hand. Francis could only assume that Graevis knew she had died, and that had been the final burden, the one that pushed the battered old man past all sanity.

“It does not matter,” Markwart said dismissively, calming somewhat now that the shock of it all had worn off a bit. Hadn’t he and Francis just discussed this very probability? “As I explained to you upstairs, neither of them had anything valuable left to tell us.”

“How can you be certain?” Francis dared to ask.

“Because they were weak,” Markwart snapped at him. “As this—” He waved his hand at the limp form hanging against thewall. “—only proves. Weak, and if they had anything else to tell us, they would have broken under the strain of our questioning long ago.”

“And now they are dead, all three, the family the woman Pony once knew,” Brother Francis said somberly.

“But as long as she does not know they are dead, they remain useful to us,” the Father Abbot said callously. “You will tell no one of their demise.”

“No one?” Francis echoed skeptically. “Am I to bury them alone? As I did with Grady on the road?”

“Grady Chilichunk was your responsibility by your own actions,” Markwart snapped at him.

Brother Francis stuttered, searching for a reply but finding none.

“Leave them where they are,” Markwart added, after he believed that the younger monk had squirmed long enough. “The worms can eat them in here as well as if they are buried in the ground.”

Francis started to argue, tentatively this time, to point out the problem of the stench, but he stopped short as he considered his surroundings. In these untended dungeons the smell of a couple of rotting corpses would hardly be noticeable, and would certainly not change the nasty aura of the place. Still, to leave these two unburied without proper ceremony, particularly the woman, who had done nothing to facilitate her death, struck Francis hard.

But he, too, was no longer on that holy pedestal, Francis reminded himself. His hands were not clean, and so, like all the other inconsistencies that assaulted the man who would be Markwart’s protege, Brother Francis shrugged it away, put it completely out of mind, blew out the candle of compassion yet again.

Markwart motioned to the door, and Francis noted the nervous edge of the movement. They had come to the Chilichunks first, and had yet to establish whether or not Bradwarden, who by Markwart’s estimation was the more important prisoner, was still alive. Francis hustled out of the cell and down the smoky dirt and stone corridor, fumbling with his keys as he led the way to Bradwarden’s cell.

“Be gone, ye dog! I got nothing to tell ye!” came the defiant call from inside as Francis, a very relieved Francis, put the key in the lock.

“We shall see, centaur,” Markwart muttered quietly, wickedly. Then of Francis he asked, “Did you bring the armband?”

Francis started to pull the item from his pocket, then hesitated.

But too late, for Markwart saw the movement and reached over and took the armband. “Let us go to our duty,” the Father Abbot said, seeming quite amused.

His lighthearted tone sent a shudder along the spine of Brother Francis, for he knew that with the enchanted band secured about his arm, the centaur was in for a long and terrible episode.

The wind was brisk across the wide waters of the Masur Delaval as Elbryan, Pony, and the disguised Juraviel boarded the ferry in Palmaris, with Juraviel getting more than a few curious looks. Pony held him close, though, pretending he was her son—her ailing son, and since disease was a too common and much feared event in Honce-the-Bear, no one dared move too close.

In truth, Juraviel’s moans held more than a little touch of realism, for the heavy blanket wrapped about him was sorely bending his wings.

The huge sails unfurled and the square-decked ship eased out of Palmaris harbor, wood creaking and waves snapping sharply against her low sides. There were more than fifty passengers standing about the wide and flat deck, with the crew of seven working methodically, lazily, having made this passage twice every day, when the weather permitted, for years.

“They say the ferry is a good place to gather information,” Juraviel whispered to Elbryan and Pony. “People crossing the river are often afraid, and frightened people often echo aloud their own fears in the hope that another will speak comfort.”