DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (274 page)

De’Unnero was out of the abbey in moments, and given the movements of those watched monks over the previous days, he had a fairly good idea of where to look.

All the city was coming alive by then, with soldiers running about the streets and others riding hard to and fro, calling out.

De’Unnero ignored the clamor and moved into the shadows of an alleyway. He felt the beast rising within him, and he did not try to fight it.

A great cat came out of that alleyway, speeding for the riverbank area where Brothers Hoyet and Destou had been spotted two nights earlier. He knew that they would try to get Braumin out of the city as quickly as possible, across the river and on his way to St.-Mere-Abelle.

Along the bank, the tiger slipped into the shadows and noted the approach of a small craft. The part of him that was still a reasoning being resisted the urge to leap out into the water and overtake the small boat, slaughtering the boatmen. His caution was rewarded a few moments later when three forms came scrambling down the bank, two pulling the third along.

They splashed into the water and toward the boat, then cried out in terror as the great cat charged toward them, leaping for the haggard form in the middle of the trio.

Without the slightest hesitation, the other two, Hoyet and Destou, shifted to intercept, pushing Bishop Braumin away. The pair of younger monks lifted weapons
to defend, but the weretiger crashed in hard, sending all into the river.

“Run on!” Hoyet cried.

Bishop Braumin eyed the approaching boat, but hesitated, looking back at the pair, who were struggling wildly to keep the tiger engaged.

“Make not my death irrelevant!” Destou cried, and his last word was jumbled as the cat reared before him and swatted him across the chest with its killing claws.

Braumin cried out and staggered ahead, crashing against the boat, which started away before he had even managed to scramble aboard, one man grabbing him to hold him fast against the hull, the other working the oars furiously to get the craft out into the faster current.

Bishop Braumin looked back to see one man, Hoyet, standing before the cat, a small sword flashing before him frantically.

And then he was down, the tiger leaping atop him and bearing him beneath the dark water. All was quiet for just a moment, then there came another splash as Brother Hoyet’s lifeless body bobbed up suddenly, then settled, floating on the current.

The tiger leaped forth right after, hitting the river with a rush and swimming powerfully out toward the small boat. But they were in the currents now, being swept along more quickly than the cat could hope to swim.

Braumin was free.

But he felt trapped, surely, as he looked back at the river’s western bank, as he imagined the waters running red with the blood of Hoyet and Destou, and he imagined the torn bodies of the two loyal men bobbing along. He thought of Roger, too, and knew the man had not escaped.

So many had died for him this night.

A large part of Bishop Braumin wanted just to let go of the boat and slide back into the water, letting the river take him.

But another part would not let him dishonor the heroic sacrifices of the brave men who had rescued him. They had freed him because they knew that as a prisoner of King Aydrian, he was unwittingly working against the cause of justice. A captured Braumin was a mouthpiece for a usurper king. A freed Braumin could speak against that imposter king and help rally men to the cause of Prince Midalis.

Braumin knew all of that logically, and he hoped that if faced with a similar situation, he would have found it within himself to act as bravely as Roger and Hoyet and Destou and all the others had this night.

But that didn’t make their deaths hurt any less. Hanging on to the side of the boat, no longer even trying to scramble in despite the numbness that was creeping into his body, the former bishop of Palmaris lowered his head and wept.

Chapter 22
 

“Y
ATOL
W
ADON
! B
Y GREAT
C
HEZRU HIMSELF
,
WE ARE MOST FORTUNATE TO HAVE
you in control of Jacintha at this most troublesome hour!” Yatol De Hamman cried, clapping his hands together and leaping and skipping across the great audience hall in Chom Deiru.

Across the way, a very dour-looking Yatol Mado Wadon sat in the throne normally reserved for the Chezru Chieftain of Behren. The old holy man was slumped forward, his wrinkled head in his hand, his eyes unblinking, and his stare more downward than at the bounding man heading his way.

Yatol De Hamman, so excited at the news that Yatol Peridan had surrendered, with his forces crushed, didn’t even notice the confusing expression. “I have the most promising young apprentice ready to step into Peridan’s place, after we execute the dog, of course,” De Hamman explained, slowing as he approached the raised platform that held the throne of the Chezru Church, and thus the throne of Behren itself. Only then did he notice another figure, that of Abbot Olin of Entel, standing just off to the side. Flanked by Honce-the-Bear soldiers, the man seemed almost amused by De Hamman’s approach, and that curious expression, combined with the look De Hamman then noticed upon the Jacintha Yatol, set off alarms within the excited man.

“You need not trouble yourself with replacements for Yatol Peridan,” Abbot Olin explained in perfect Behrenese, with an accent befitting a man who had spent his life in Jacintha rather than in Entel. His hands folded before him, invisible within the wide sleeves of his brown robe, Abbot Olin moved forward to De Hamman’s side.

“Surely we will not let him continue his rule,” De Hamman replied, looking to Yatol Wadon. “He is not to be trusted.”

“Yatol Peridan will be properly punished, fear not,” said Abbot Olin. “And no, he will not be allowed to continue his rule in any manner. Should he be spared his life, he will then live out his days here, at Chom Deiru, under the watchful eye of Yatol Wadon and the palace guards.”

Yatol De Hamman was more confused by the speaker than by the actual reasoning. Why was a priest of the Abellican Church relaying plans for a traitorous Yatol, especially with the serving leader of Behren seated right before them?

“We have already selected a replacement for Yatol Peridan,” Abbot Olin went on. “A man of proper temperament and loyalties.”

“We?” De Hamman asked, looking from Wadon to Olin and back again. “What business is this of an Abellican abbot?”

“Perhaps you did not notice that the soldiers who fought back the legions of
Yatol Peridan and Yatol Bardoh wore the uniform of Honce-the-Bear,” Abbot Olin answered. “Perhaps it missed your perceptive eye that the soldiers who moved to the south to expel Peridan from your lands wore that same uniform, and that they were accompanied by warships flying the flag not of Behren, but of your northern neighbor.”

“And thus you have earned our friendship,” De Hamman reasoned. “That does not equate to a voice—”

“Everything I relate to you, I say with the blessing of Yatol Wadon,” Abbot Olin interrupted, and the two men stared at each other for a long, long while, with De Hamman trying to get a full measure of this foreigner.

“We cannot dismiss, nor should we, the friendship that Abbot Olin has shown to us, nor the aid that he has offered in our time of direst need,” Yatol Wadon said, somewhat diffusing the tension—at least enough to turn De Hamman’s focus back to him. “And it is strength we will continue to need, my friend, if we are to have any hope of restoring Behren to a singular and strong nation.”

“A nation?” De Hamman dared to say, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Or a province of our northern neighbor?”

Abbot Olin burst into laughter. “We are your friends, Yatol De Hamman,” he said. “Can you not see that? King Aydrian has taken a great risk in sending so many warriors to your aid at this desperate time, when his own kingdom is not yet secured. But he felt that a secure Behren was necessary for the safety not only of you and your fellow Yatols, but for Entel and all the Honce-the-Bear cities who regularly trade with Jacintha.”

“And your assistance was appreciated,” De Hamman said, somewhat dismissively, and he turned back to Yatol Wadon.

“And it came with a price,” Abbot Olin assured him. At that De Hamman’s eyes popped open wide and he slowly turned back to face the man.

“A price?”

“If I were to leave today, with all of my soldiers and my fleet, do you really believe that you and Yatol Wadon could hold Behren together?” Abbot Olin asked.

“Peridan is defeated, as is Bardoh.”

“And Avrou Eesa has been secured? And Pruda? And Yatol Peridan’s territory is in the hands of one loyal to Jacintha?”

Yatol De Hamman winced with each stinging question.

“The price of keeping the warriors of Honce-the-Bear is suffering the advice of an old Abellican priest,” Abbot Olin explained. “Yatol Wadon understands our new arrangement, and accepts my counsel, and you would be wise to follow suit.”

De Hamman bristled but offered no overt response.

“Who is to become the new Yatol of the province to my south?” De Hamman asked.

“Paroud, my trusted advisor,” Yatol Wadon answered. “His loyalty cannot be questioned, and with him ruling below you, and answering to Jacintha, your province is more secure than it has ever been.”

“Particularly true if you consider that Honce-the-Bear warships will continue to patrol your coast,” Abbot Olin added. “As well as the pirate fleet, once loyal to Peridan, but now convinced that they would be a healthier lot if they served the Yatol of Jacintha.”

Yatol De Hamman was not an inexperienced leader, and he knew a power play when he saw one. He knew, beyond any doubt, that Abbot Olin’s price for the assistance of Honce-the-Bear was far greater than an advisory role to Yatol Wadon. But he knew, too, that there was nothing he could do about that. Wadon had all but lost the kingdom to Yatol Bardoh—and such an event would have precipitated a swift beheading of Yatol De Hamman, to be sure!—and only through the efforts of Abbot Olin had the present power structure within the tumultuous kingdom been somewhat secured. Yatol Wadon had accepted the price demanded by Abbot Olin of Entel because he had been given no practical alternative.

Could Yatol De Hamman say otherwise?

“You are surrounded,” Abbot Olin said to the man, whose excitement had been dissipated by the unexpected turn of events. De Hamman straightened, wondering if he should meet the challenge in those words, when Olin added, “by friends.”

De Hamman didn’t know how to respond. Surely he was better off than he would have been had not Olin and his soldiers arrived to rescue the hierarchy in Jacintha. But the situation ground at his sensibilities. He understood the damage Chezru Douan had done to the order when he had been secretly using the magical gemstone, long considered the greatest of heresies by the Yatol priests of Chezru. Worse still was the design and manner of Douan’s usage, to steal the bodies of babies in the womb to use as his own, becoming God-Voice over and over again through the last centuries. Douan’s indiscretions had shattered the order and the faith of so many. The immediate problem was to hold the kingdom intact, and in that, Abbot Olin had surely helped.

But Yatol De Hamman understood, if Yatol Mado Wadon apparently did not, that the challenge immediately following the securing of the kingdom’s body would be the securing of the kingdom’s soul, and if that return to faith was to bear any resemblance to the ancient tenets of Chezru, then the presence of an Abellican priest might not prove such a beneficial thing.

The Yatol reminded himself that he had regained control of his province, that the threat of Peridan and Bardoh was no more.

Now they might move forward, wherever that road would lead.

With many pressing duties ahead of him, not the least of which was reorganizing his garrison from the scattered remnants, the man offered a gracious bow to Yatol Mado Wadon and a nod to Abbot Olin and took his leave.

F
rom the side of the great audience hall, Pechter Dan Turk watched the proceedings with growing concern. At first glance, it had surprised the man that the often contentious Yatol De Hamman had so readily accepted the presence of the Abellican abbot, but as he considered the situation, he came to understand, as De Hamman
had, that there was really very little that could be done to correct the situation at that time. Without Olin and the Honce-the-Bear soldiers, Yatol Mado Wadon’s edicts held little bite.

Pechter Dan Turk moved a bit closer to the raised platform and perked up his ears as Yatol De Hamman made his way out of the great room. As an advisor, as with the soldiers in the room, he was considered a nonentity, and thus, Yatol Wadon and Abbot Olin could speak freely in his presence about the ramifications of the words with De Hamman.

“You were a bit abrupt with him,” Yatol Wadon remarked.

“He annoys me,” Abbot Olin admitted. “His life would have been forfeit had I not arrived. A bit of gratitude would not have been out of line.”

“And a bit of respect from you would carry us a long way at present,” said Yatol Wadon. “We will need Yatol De Hamman now. Tremendously so.”