"Do you know who I am?" the monk cried
The nervous soldiers did indeed recognize the former bishop, and they glanced nervously at Kalas, who was far to the side. Despite De'Unnero's insistence and bullying, though, the Duke shook his head and the soldiers held their ground.
De'Unnero turned toward the King's carriage. "I demand —" he began.
"You demand nothing of me," King Danube cut him short. "Hold the house secure!" he cried to the soldiers. "None are to enter!"
De'Unnero broke away, sprinting for the door. When soldiers beat him to the mark, he continued his run around the front of the house, then along the side.
Duke Kalas instructed several men to follow, but he wasn't concerned, for Chasewind Manor had only two doors, the great front entrance and a smaller way in, also heavily guarded, on the side of the house opposite where the former Bishop had run.
Frustrated, De'Unnero ran frantically around to the back. Then he skidded to a stop looking up at the one window large enough to accommodate a man.
But that window was thirty feet off the ground.
In front of the house, Brother Braumin and the other three monk prisoners were dragged through the gates by Allheart soldiers. Kalas ordered the men to take them away to a prison, but Danube overruled him.
"Let them stay," the King decided. "This may well determine their fate. Keep them secure, but allow them to bear witness."
Another man slipped onto the lawn as well, easily blending in with the crowd. Roger spotted Bradwarden immediately, the centaur standing but obviously wounded, held steady between two mounted Allheart soldiers.
Roger felt as trapped as his friend, for there seemed no way in. All he could do was stand and watch.
Once inside the manor house, the ranger had little trouble following Pony, for she had left a trail of devastation: twisted metal, blasted doors, shattered glass, and more than one groaning monk.
He went down the corridor into a great, pillared hall and up a wide, sweeping staircase. Then down another narrow hall and into the most decorated corridor in all the house. And at the far end of the long corridor, he spied a door, carved and decorated, and he knew without doubt that Pony was behind that portal.
And so was Markwart.
The soldiers came around the back corner, calling to the monk to stand his ground.
De'Unnero ignored them, and transformed his lower torso into the shape of the tiger. He glanced at the soldiers and snarled, and the men fell all over one another trying to keep back.
De'Unnero looked to the window. "You cannot escape," he heard one soldier say, and then he was flying, up, up.
On Nightbird ran, along the huge, decorated window overlooking the back gardens, thinking to put his shoulder down and barrel right into the room. But then he fell aside with a surprised cry as the window crashed in, De'Unnero, bursting into the hall.
In the blink of an eye, the two men faced off.
"So I get my wish," the former Bishop purred.
There he sat, so smug in his great chair, the embodiment of everything Pony hated, of everything she considered evil in humankind.
"Clever of you to get out of St. Precious," Markwart congratulated. "Master Engress died for that."
"You intend to kill everybody who opposes you," she replied, "destroy them all."
"If I must," said Markwart, leaning forward suddenly in his chair. "Because I am right, you fool. I speak to God."
"You speak to Bestesbulzibar, none other!" Pony snapped back, advancing undaunted. She lifted her arm, hematite in hand, and went into the stone eagerly, all her hatred leading the way.
But the spirit of Markwart was waiting for her, and though she hit it with all the momentum of her emotions behind her, managed to push the spirit back toward the physical form, it was but a temporary advantage.
Markwart, so powerful, held her at bay, retaliating with the power of a demon.
Nightbird knew the danger of De'Unnero, knew that he had to fight a long and progressive dance, gaining one tiny advantage at a time. From their previous battle, he understood that De'Unnero was his equal, or near it, and that every movement must lead to something stronger, for this was a game of strategy, not a test of speed.
One tiny advantage gained, leading to the next.
And yet, how could the ranger endure such a prolonged, calculating dance when that ornate door at the end of the hall beckoned to him, when he knew Pony was beyond that portal, facing Markwart, a foe who had beaten her before? How could he wait?
He charged powerfully at De'Unnero, closing ground and thrusting ahead with the unbalanced sword he had taken from the guard outside.
De'Unnero leapt above and to the side, and came back at once, forcing the ranger to dodge, throwing himself against the wall for balance and swiping the sword harmlessly across.
"He is torturing her," the monk teased, coming at the ranger, then sliding to the side, keeping between Nightbird and the door.
Nightbird didn't take the bait. He came off the wall calmly, in full balance and control, reminding himself that he would do no good for Pony if he was lying dead out here. He skipped forward and stabbed, then fell back as De'Unnero, one arm now the arm of a tiger, countered with a sudden rush and swipe.
Forward came the ranger, but the monk had measured Nightbird's reach and was retreating cautiously before the sword could get anywhere near the mark.
And so it went, back and forth, with neither making any brazen offensive attacks and neither giving the other any opening.
But then, from within the room, Pony cried out.
De'Unnero's smile was wide as he turned his gaze from the ranger to consider the door.
Nightbird charged, stabbing and slashing.
And De'Unnero charged, feinting a leap then diving to the ground, a more comfortable approach for his tiger legs, skittering under the extended sword and smashing the side of the ranger's knee, claws hooking and tearing and throwing the man to the ground.
Nightbird rolled on his back and brought his sword up, forcing De'Unnero to skid to a sudden stop. The ranger used that break to roll backward, landing lightly on his feet and coming forward with two quick steps and a thrust to De'Unnero's shoulder. Had it been Tempest in the ranger's hand, the blade would have slashed right through, tearing muscle and splitting bone. But this sword nicked away.
Still, the monk reeled with the pain and fell back, clutching at his human arm with his tiger paw.
On came Nightbird, perfectly balanced. But he did not appreciate the true power of those feline legs. De'Unnero stumbled backward, then dug in his claws quickly —and launched himself at the ranger. He caught him between sword thrusts, slapped the blade aside, and drove on, slamming into him, locking Nightbird's arms at his sides in a powerful hug.
And that hug was all the more deadly since one of the monk's hands carried the daggerlike claws of a great cat.
Nightbird felt those claws digging into his back, near his kidney. With a great burst of strength, he believed that he could break the hold, but he recognized that in doing so, De'Unnero's tiger paw would tear half his back away! He dropped his sword and squirmed to get one hand up under the tight hold.
De'Unnero clenched all the tighter, claws extending, stabbing deep holes.
But Nightbird had his right arm under the tiger paw, and worked slowly with his superior strength to throw the monk off balance, to force De'Unnero to exert energy to keep his footing as well as his tight hold.
Now the ranger flexed his shoulders, weakening the monk's grasp. Iron-corded muscles stretched and pushed, the ranger moving himself so that his back followed the monk's tiger paw, while the human hand slipped farther and farther away.
Then he saw a change coming over the man's face, the transformation of his mouth into a great fanged maw.
Nightbird snapped his head forward suddenly, brutally smashing the monk's nose even as it elongated. He hammered his forehead in again, and then, knowing he was out of time, feeling the monk's other hand, too, becoming a clawed paw, he roared and threw his arms wide, accepting the agony as De'Unnero's claws scored deep lines across the side of his lower back, slashing all the way around to the side of Nightbird's rib cage.
The ranger's right hand slapped the changing face, while his other came in hard against De'Unnero's crotch. Grabbing a tight hold with both, screaming with every movement, the ranger spun, lifting De'Unnero from the ground, then slamming him hard against the wall. He pulled the monk back and slammed him again, and then a third time, despite De'Unnero's wildly slashing paws, one swipe of which caught the ranger on the side of the face, digging a line beside his eye.
Nightbird let the monk go with the third slam and launched a flurry of heavy punches, right and left repeatedly, to the monk's face and upper chest. Then he leaped back, paused, and lunged, forehead first, squarely into the middle of the monk's disfigured face.
De'Unnero's legs buckled, but the ranger wouldn't let it end so easily. One of his hands caught the chin, one the crotch, and up went the monk, high into the air. The ranger turned and rushed across the corridor, purposely aiming for a part of the great window the monk had not already broken, then heaved the dazed man through the glass to fall the thirty feet to the ground.
Lurching with pain, feeling his guts spilling out his side, Nightbird looked out the window and was satisfied when he saw that the dangerous creature lay still on the lawn, broken and bloody atop the sharp shards of glass.
Not even bothering to retrieve the sword, for he knew that such a weapon would be useless against Markwart —and knew, too, that his own strength was fast fading—Nightbird went for the door.
Their struggle, greater than on the darkened Palmaris field that terrible night, now became so intense that it transcended the spiritual, spilling over into the physical.
Outside the manor house, the crowd gasped as one and fell back, for the house thrummed with energy, lights flashing black and white, windows blowing out of their casings.
"Pray that Markwart does not emerge victorious," King Danube whispered to his two friends, and to Je'howith, who had moved near the carriage.
Kalas and Constance were already doing just that, and the old abbot, horrified by the spectacle before him, did not chastise the King.
Even Brother Francis, standing on the lawn, the closest man to the house, could only stare helplessly.
The door flew open and a pair of young monks staggered out, falling to the grass and crawling away, crying for mercy from God.
The stunned Francis did not dare to enter the place.
She had no child within her, no vulnerability, and so she fought with all her strength and all her rage.
But she could not win. Pony knew that. The spirit within Markwart was too strong, impossibly strong, and darker than anything she had ever known. She struggled valiantly, hit him with every ounce of energy and willpower she could muster, and held her ground as minute after minute slipped past.
The force of Markwart, surprised by the strength of the woman, came on and on, grew larger to tower over the woman's spirit, to engulf her as if to swallow her. Yet he could not, and so they struggled, and both of them knew that time worked against Pony, that she would tire first, despite her rage.
But then the woman felt a touch on her physical shoulder —and the temporary distraction sent Markwart's spirit driving her backward. It was a gentle touch, though, the stroke of a friend, of a lover, and then, somehow, a third spirit joined the pair, the specter of Nightbird, come to Pony's aid.
Both together then!
Markwart telepathically imparted.
Better to be done with both of you, to be rid of the troublesome pair.
On he came, great bat-like wings sprouting from his spiritual shadow, rising up and towering over them.
Elbryan's spirit fell against Pony's, touching her, bonding in an embrace as intimate as any the couple had ever known.
On came Markwart. But now the two were one, linked spiritually as they had often used
bi'nelle dasada
to link physically. Together they stopped the progress of the Father Abbot, together they pushed the dark spirit back toward its host. Each inch of ground cost them dearly, ate at their life forces, drained energy.
They pushed on, the ranger taking the lead, putting his spirit against the strikes of Markwart, accepting the punishment, for Elbryan knew something that Pony did not, knew that his physical form was fast fading, his guts spilling, blood running. If he told her, or even let her know, she would rush from the fight and turn her attention with hematite to his wounds.
But Elbryan had known the sacrifice needed in coming into this battle, and he understood, too, that Pony could not afford such a retreat, that if she went to tend him, Markwart would destroy them both.
They were near Markwart now, and all three knew that to push the spirit back into its host, and then to follow it, meant victory. The Father Abbot dug in, roared at them telepathically and fought back.
Coldness engulfed the ranger's physical form. He felt it and understood what it foretold. This was the test of his faith, he knew, the test of all his training. This, the ultimate sacrifice, was what it meant to be a ranger.
By every instinct within him, he had to stop, had to tell Pony, had to live.
He drove on instead.
Markwart screamed, telepathically and physically. Elbryan heard it, but it seemed distant.
All the world seemed distant.
To those outside, it ended as a great burst of black light, a great dark flash, and then the house went quiet. Francis rushed in, as did Danube and his advisers, Roger and Bradwarden, and none moved to stop them. Almost as an afterthought, standing at the entryway, King Danube looked back and called to his soldiers to bring the prisoner monks. "For their lives surely hang in the balance," he explained.