DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (305 page)

Some of those defenders, Abellican monks, tried to respond to the charge with gemstone magic, but anticipating as much, Pony was more than up to the task of countering. With sunstone in hand, she quieted the lightning blasts, then she responded with her own stunning bursts from a graphite, shattering stone and throwing down the defenders.

Andacanavar and Bruinhelde led the main charge to the gates of the abbey proper, and the sheer weight of the Alpinadoran press sundered those gates and sent the few defenders behind them fleeing in terror for the deeper holes in the abbey’s substructure. Yet even there, they found no place to hide.

When Belli’mar Juraviel returned to Prince Midalis as promised later that same night, St. Gwendolyn had been taken.

“The news from the south is promising, as well,” the elf told them. “Brynn has routed the army surrounding Dharyan-Dharielle.”

“She does seem to do that quite a bit, from the tales you tell,” Pony remarked.

“There is little unity among her enemies,” Juraviel replied. “And Brynn has learned to exploit that well. She is well-advised, and wise in her understanding of the motivations of men.”

“What then will she make of young Aydrian?” Prince Midalis asked.

Juraviel had no answer to that.

“We have sent out runners to the nearby towns, to tell them of the return of Prince Midalis,” Pony explained. “To let the people know that there is indeed opposition to Aydrian and to give them hope that the kingdom will be restored.”

Juraviel watched Pony closely as she made her remarks, recognizing that there was an undercurrent of turmoil behind the stated determination. “Or to warn them, perhaps, that there will be warfare raging all about them?” the elf asked.

“That, too,” Pony admitted, after a pause and a long sigh.

To her side, Prince Midalis put on a curious expression, the man obviously a bit taken aback.

“I fear that you place too much hope in the common people of Honce-the-Bear,” Juraviel said bluntly to the prince. “Most of this is far beyond them, I would guess. Above all else, they desire peace and stability.”

“Your own reports to me show that many have flocked to the side of Duke Kalas,” Midalis replied.

“True enough,” said Juraviel. “And yes, you must offer them an alternative to
King Aydrian. The folk of this kingdom are unlike our friends from Alpinador.” He gave a deferential nod to Bruinhelde and Andacanavar. “Unlike the To-gai-ru now led by Brynn, and unlike the folk of Behren, even. Honce-the-Bear has been a singular kingdom for many centuries—that unity and stability is all that the folk know. They look to Ursal and St.-Mere-Abelle for protection and guidance. With the emergence of Brynn, the To-gai-ru are beginning to experience this for the first time. With the fall of the Chezru Chieftain in Behren, the folk there are in disarray, but not as much so as would be the folk of Honce-the-Bear should the crown diminish. Despite centuries of central guidance from the Chezru Chieftain, Behren’s ties remain strong to individual tribes. Only in Honce-the-Bear have the common folk so blended as to become truly one people.

“And so they are unsettled, and so they are scared,” Juraviel went on. “And you do well in assuring them that the line of Ursal remains vital. But I warn you now, from all that I have learned, from all that my many scouts have shown to me and told to me, do not expect the common man of Honce-the-Bear to rise up against King Aydrian when he, flanked by Allheart Knights and legions of Kingsmen, seems so unbeatable.”

Prince Midalis nodded his agreement. “That is why we strike wherever the opportunity allows,” he said. “We will build support slowly, and wear away at the edges of Aydrian’s seemingly impregnable hold.”

“And that is why you must return to your boats at once,” said Juraviel. “That is why you must sail to the south, to Jacintha, and help Brynn deal Aydrian his greatest defeat yet.”

All eyes turned to Prince Midalis and his skeptical expression. “You ask me to go to war with the Behrenese and To-gai-ru against my own people,” he said.

“Against King Aydrian,” Juraviel replied. “Is that not what you do even now? Is that not what you did in taking Pireth Dancard? Pireth Tulme? St. Gwendolyn?”

“You ask me to join a foreign country against Honce-the-Bear,” Midalis clarified, and it seemed as if he was gaining some confidence here. “There is a difference, and one that the people of Honce-the-Bear will understand distinctly, even if you do not.”

The group grew silent then, for a long while, and Juraviel looked to Pony directly.

“Perhaps you should look beyond the sensibilities of Honce-the-Bear to find your answers here,” she said to Midalis, and she took the man’s hand and moved in front of him.

“Those sensibilities will be poignant when news of the war in the south drifts over the mountains,” Midalis countered. “What will the mothers and children think when they are told that their husbands and fathers, their brothers and sons, are dead, and at my hands?”

Pony squared her shoulders and didn’t blink. “What leader of Honce-the-Bear do you presume yourself to be if you would allow our kingdom to unlawfully invade another?” she said bluntly. “What leader of Honce-the-Bear do you presume
yourself to be if you would allow Aydrian, through Abbot Olin, to prosecute a war that will leave hundreds, if not thousands, of your own people dead? To say nothing of the innocents of Behren and the brave warriors of To-gai who rise to their cause.”

Prince Midalis seemed to shrink back then. He shook his head and looked all around at the surprised expressions worn by those around him.

“Go and turn Duke Bretherford back to that which he, too, knows is right,” Pony begged the man. “Go and stop Abbot Olin.”

Prince Midalis mulled over the words for a while, then gave a helpless chuckle. “To the boats, then,” he said, still shaking his head.

Chapter 38
 

B
RAUMIN
H
ERDE FELT BETTER
,
PHYSICALLY
,
BUT HARDLY SO EMOTIONALLY
,
GIVEN
all the news filtering in from the surrounding countryside, of the securing of Palmaris in the name of King Aydrian and the triumphant march of Duke Kalas. The former bishop stood in the great audience hall of St.-Mere-Abelle, to the side of the wide staircase, staring up at the huge stained-glass window that bore the image of the upraised arm of Avelyn.

In that miraculous arm lay the promise of eternal life, and it was one that Braumin Herde needed to hear in his mind clearly now, with his own mortality looming so close. For the armies were coming, there could be no doubt, and resistance to King Aydrian seemed practically nonexistent. Staring up at the image brought Braumin back across the years, the long years, to his days huddled in the catacombs of this very abbey, listening to kind old Master Jojonah recount the tales of Avelyn and Elbryan and the coming of the demon dactyl. He remembered his flight from St.-Mere-Abelle and the deranged Father Abbot Markwart, alongside Brothers Viscenti and Castinagis, and Dellman. Yes, Brother Dellman! Braumin Herde hoped that the man fared well up in cold St. Belfour of Vanguard. Loyal Brother Dellman would stand with Prince Midalis, Braumin knew, all the way to his death beside the nobleman, if need be.

The distinct clicking of heels on the hard floor caught Braumin’s attention. He knew from the cadence and steadiness of the footfalls that it was Father Abbot Bou-raiy crossing the floor before the man even sidled up to him.

“You approve?” Bou-raiy asked, and like Braumin, he was staring up at the great window.

Braumin Herde considered the question and the man’s distinctly defensive tone. For up in that depiction of the Miracle of Avelyn loomed another figure, a one-armed Abellican. “No tribute might we offer to Brother Avelyn to fully appreciate his worth,” Braumin replied. He noted that Fio Bou-raiy shuffled a bit, seeming uncomfortable.

“I came to see the truth of that, you know,” the Father Abbot said after a long pause.

“I know.” Braumin turned to the man and stared at him until that gaze brought Fio Bou-raiy’s attention from the window. “The piece is beautiful,” Braumin stated. “The artisans have outdone themselves, which is only fitting since they depicted perhaps the greatest miracle in the history of mankind. And fitting, too,” he added, because he knew that Bou-raiy needed to hear it in this desperate time, “that the image of the Father Abbot possessed of the foresight to so magnificently illustrate the beauty of St. Avelyn is depicted, as well. I can see the doubt on your face in that
depiction, Father Abbot, and your reluctance to travel to the Barbacan to partake of the miracle only makes the image all the more powerful.”

“You are too kind,” the Father Abbot replied.

Braumin Herde looked back at the window. “We all live with our doubts, every day,” he said quietly. “We all question our faith, and when our lives are imperiled, we question the worth of our principles, as well. Certainly that was true of St. Avelyn. Did you know that he was a drunkard when Jilseponie found him?”

Fio Bou-raiy gave a little laugh—something so uncharacteristic from the always-serious man.

“The true miracle of Avelyn is his gift to us of insight,” Braumin Herde went on. “He understood that the Abellican Church must be for all people, or it is for none. He understood that the powers of the sacred gemstones must not be hoarded for personal or institutional gain, but must be wisely and discreetly used to better the lives of all the people.

“He was terrified when he faced the demon dactyl,” Braumin reasoned. “I know that he was. For a moment, at least. He knew that he was facing his own death. He was terrified.”

“But he persevered, to the benefit of all the world,” said Father Abbot Bou-raiy.

“As shall we, brother,” Braumin Herde assured him.

“One of our couriers returned this morning,” the Father Abbot said. “Bearing, intact and still with seal, the declaration of Avelyn as saint. I was too late. I should have completed the process long ago—or certainly with greater haste once I learned of the rise of King Aydrian and the return of Marcalo De’Unnero. Many of my couriers have been captured, I fear, or have fled back in terror before the darkness that is Aydrian. The people will not know.”

“The people will know,” Braumin replied, and he looked again at the older man. “The truth cannot be buried, not for long. Do you not remember Master Jojonah and his fellow conspirators, myself among them?”

“I remember,” Fio Bou-raiy replied, his voice growing gravelly, his tone husky.

Braumin watched the man wince, more than once, and suspected that he was remembering the execution of Master Jojonah, a sentence that Bou-raiy had approved of, like so many of the other followers of Father Abbot Markwart.

“Perhaps that is the second true miracle of Avelyn,” Braumin offered. “That we all err—terribly so. Avelyn was a sinner and surely played a role in the death of Master Siherton. Yet he was forgiven, obviously, for how else might one explain the Covenant? We are the children of a merciful God.”

“De’Unnero does not understand that,” said Bou-raiy. “His is the God of fire and vengeance.”

“Then let us hope that our merciful God is also a God of justice.”

That brought a smile back to the tortured face of Father Abbot Bou-raiy.

“The defensive preparations continue?” Braumin asked.

“Night and day. More than a thousand able commoners have flocked in to St.-Mere-Abelle since the onset of the march of Duke Kalas, and all are being trained
to fight, or to man the engines of war, thus freeing up more brothers to do battle with the sacred stones.”

“I remind you that St.-Mere-Abelle has never fallen,” said Braumin. “Not to any enemy. Not to the great powrie fleet that attacked us in the time of the demon. Not to the goblin hordes that descended upon the civilized lands in the time of Father Abbot Des’Coute. Not to the errant judgments of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart. Not to the plague, in all its incarnations. Our walls are strong, though not nearly as strong as the faith that truly holds us firm.”

“Fine words, brother,” said Bou-raiy. “We will speak them together, and loudly, for all to hear, when King Aydrian comes knocking.”

Bou-raiy offered a slight bow to Braumin and left the room.

Braumin remained there for a long while, staring up at the grand depiction of the arm of Avelyn, considering the implications of the many pivotal decisions of his life.

He believed that St.-Mere-Abelle and the entire Abellican Order was now facing its greatest challenge in the history of the Church. He doubted that the abbey walls would hold back the tempest that was Aydrian and fully expected that he would be dead before the turn of the autumn season.

But he was at peace.

“P
ireth Tulme and now St. Gwendolyn,” Duke Kalas fumed, crumpling the parchment. He took a step forward and the runner who had arrived with the disturbing news of Prince Midalis’ victory blanched and seemed ready to faint dead away. “I knew that we should have left greater forces to defend each.”

“Prince Midalis’ army was not that powerful, by all reports,” said Sir Blaxson Tre’felois, one of Kalas’ finest commanders, the field general of the Allheart Brigade’s most dependable company. “We could arrive at St. Gwendolyn within three days.”