Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“I followed Father Abbot Markwart.”
“Who is discredited,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “Both you and Francis found your zenith under Markwart’s rule, that is true. But now he is gone, and will soon enough be forgotten.” He paused and shook his head. “Offer me not that scowl, Marcalo De’Unnero. There was once a day when you outranked me here at St.-Mere-Abelle, but only because of Father Abbot Markwart. You will find few allies among the remaining masters, I assure you, even with Master Francis, if what I have heard about his admission of error is true. No, you have returned to find a new Church in the place of the old—the old that so welcomed a man of your … talents.”
“I’ll not defend my actions, nor recount my deeds, for the likes of Fio Bou-raiy,” De’Unnero retorted.
“Deeds inflated in your recounting, no doubt.”
That statement stopped De’Unnero cold, and he stared hard at the man, felt the primal urges of the tiger welling inside him. How he wanted to give in to that darker side, to become the great cat and leap across the desk, tearing this wretch
apart! How he wanted to taste Fio Bou-raiy’s blood!
The volatile master fought hard to keep his breathing steady, to restrain those brutal urges. What would be left for him if he gave in to them now? He would have to flee St.-Mere-Abelle and his cherished Order for all time, would have to run and exist on the borderlands of civilization, as he had done over the last months. No, he didn’t want that again, not at all, and so he fought with all his willpower, closing off his mind to Bou-raiy’s continuing stream of sarcastic comments. The man was a gnat, De’Unnero reminded himself constantly, an insignificant pest feeling the seeds of power for the first time in his miserable life.
“You are nearly ten years my junior,” Bou-raiy was saying. “Ten years! A full decade, I have studied the ancient texts and the ways of man and God longer than you. So know your place now, and know that your place is beneath me.”
“And how many years more than Master Bou-raiy have Masters Timminey and Baldmir so studied the ways of man and God?” De’Unnero asked with sincere calm, for he was back in control again, suppressing the predator urge. “By your own logic, you place yourself below them, and below Machuso and several others as well, and, yet, it is Bou-raiy, and none of the others, who now sits in the office of the Father Abbot.”
Bou-raiy leaned back in his chair, his smile widening on his strong-featured face. “We both understand the difference between men like Machuso and Baldmir and men like us,” he said. “Some were born to lead, and others to serve. Some were born for greatness, and others … well, you understand my meaning.”
“Your arrogance, you mean,” De’Unnero replied. “You separate brothers along whatever lines suit your needs. You claim ascendance above me because of experience, yet rebuff the notion in those who would so claim ascendance over you.”
“They would not even want the responsibility of the position,” Bou-raiy replied, coming forward suddenly, and again, De’Unnero had to hold fast against his surprise and the sudden killer urge it produced.
“And do you intend to have your stooge, Glendenhook, nominate you for father abbot formally at the College of Abbots?” De’Unnero asked bluntly. “They will destroy you if you so try, you know—Braumin Herde and Francis, and the newest master, Viscenti,” he said with a derisive chortle. “Je’howith and Olin, and Olin’s lackey, Abbess Delenia. They will all stand against you.” He paused for dramatic effect, though he realized there would be little surprise in his proclamation. “As will I.”
Bou-raiy sat back in his chair again, obviously deep in thought for a long, long while. De’Unnero thought he understood where the man’s line of reasoning might be leading, and his suspicions were confirmed when Bou-raiy announced, rather abruptly, “They will back Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour, as will I.”
Yes, it made perfect sense to De’Unnero. Bou-raiy knew that he’d never defeat Agronguerre, and so he would throw all his influence behind the gentle Vanguardsman, the
old
Vanguardsman, in the hopes that Agronguerre would do for him what Markwart had done for De’Unnero and Francis. The difference, though,
was that Bou-raiy was much older than either Francis or De’Unnero had been when Markwart had taken them firmly under his black wing. Thus, when old Agronguerre died—likely within a few years—Bou-raiy would be right there, the heir apparent, and with all the experience and credentials to step in virtually uncontested.
“Abbot Agronguerre is a kind man of generous nature,” Bou-raiy said unconvincingly, for though the words were accurate, De’Unnero understood that those qualities of which Bou-raiy now spoke so highly were not admirable in his eyes. “Perhaps our Church is in need of exactly that at this troubled time: a man of years and wisdom to come into St.-Mere-Abelle and begin the healing.”
Marcalo De’Unnero knew this game, and knew it well. He almost admired Master Bou-raiy’s patience and foresight, and would have said as much to him—except that he hated Bou-raiy.
D
e’Unnero went about his business acclimating himself to the daily workings of St.-Mere-Abelle. Bou-raiy didn’t oppose him at all, to his initial surprise, and even allowed him to step back in as the master in charge of training the younger brothers in the arts martial.
“Your left arm!” De’Unnero cried at a second-year brother, Tellarese, at training one damp morning. The master stormed up to him and grabbed his left arm forcefully, yanking it up into the proper blocking position. “How do you propose to deflect my punch if your arm hovers about your chest?”
As he finished, the obviously weak man’s arm slipped down again, and De’Unnero wasted not a second in a snapped jab over that forearm and into Tellarese’s face, knocking the man to the ground.
With a frustrated growl, the master turned about and stalked away. “Idiot!” he muttered, and he motioned for another of his students, a first-year brother who showed some promise, to go against Tellarese.
The two squared off and exchanged a couple of halfhearted punches, more to measure each other than to attempt any real offense, while the other ten brothers at the training exercise tightened their circle around the combatants, keeping them close together.
When Tellarese’s arm came down yet again and the first-year brother scored a slight slap across his face, De’Unnero stormed back in and tossed the first-year brother aside, taking his place.
“I th-thought to counter,” Tellarese stuttered.
“You offered him the punch in the hope that you might then find an opening in his defenses?”
“Yes.”
De’Unnero snorted incredulously. “You would trade your opponent a clear shot at your face? For what? What better counter might you find than that?”
“I only thought—”
“You did not think!” the frustrated De’Unnero yelled. Once, he had been the
Bishop of Palmaris, a great man with a great responsibility, one that he had performed to perfection. Had Markwart defeated Elbryan and Jilseponie on that fateful day in Chasewind Manor, then he, De’Unnero, would have been in line to become the next father abbot. Once, he had hunted Nightbird, the famed ranger, perhaps the greatest warrior in all the world. He had faced off against the man squarely and fairly, and, to his thinking, had bested him.
Once, he had known all of that glory, and now, now he was teaching idiots who would never, ever, be able to defend themselves against an ugly little goblin, let alone a real opponent.
All that frustration rolled out of Marcalo De’Unnero as he slapped Tellarese across the face with his right hand, and then, when the man put his hand up to block that hand, De’Unnero hit him harder across the face with the left, an obvious and easy response.
And when pitiful Tellarese, always a step behind, brought his other arm up to block, dropping his first guard, De’Unnero slapped him hard again with his right hand.
“If I had a dagger, would you let me stick it deep into your belly in the hope that you would then find an opening to slap me?” De’Unnero asked, and he hit Tellarese again, and then again, and when the man finally put both his hands up to protect his head, De’Unnero punched him in the belly. When his hands came instinctively down as he doubled up a bit, De’Unnero slapped him once and again across the face.
He heard the other students groaning and gasping in sympathy for poor Tellarese, but that support for the weakling only spurred the angry De’Unnero on even more. His blows came harder, and more rapidly, and then, suddenly, he stopped.
It took Tellarese a long time to even peek out from behind his raised arms, and then, slowly, slowly, he uncoiled.
“I did not understand,” he said quietly.
“And do you now?” De’Unnero asked him, and his voice seemed to the others to carry a strange, almost feral quality.
“I do.”
“Then defend!” he said, leaping into a fighting stance.
Tellarese’s arms came up into proper position, and De’Unnero rolled his shoulder, several times, feigning punch after punch.
To his surprise, Tellarese launched a punch of his own, a left jab, that somehow got through and clipped De’Unnero’s face. The younger brothers encircling the pair, though they tried to hold it back, gave the beginnings of a cheer.
De’Unnero’s arm came forward with blinding speed, swiping hard across Tellarese’s face, and—to Tellarese’s horror, to the horror of those looking on, to the horror of De’Unnero himself—leaving four distinct gashes across the young brother’s face.
De’Unnero immediately dropped his arm to his side, letting his voluminous sleeve fall back over his feline limb. How had that happened? How, when, had he
lost control?
And over this!
“There are times when you allow a strike to gain a strike,” he growled at the stumbling, dazed Tellarese, spinning to take in the whole group. “When I know that my strike will be decisive, I might allow a minor hit,” he improvised; for in truth, Tellarese’s lucky punch had surprised De’Unnero almost as much as learning that his arm had transformed into a tiger’s paw. “But beware! When you employ such a strategy, there is no room for error. You must be certain of your opponent’s weakness and of your own ability to deliver the final blow. Your lesson is ended this day. Perform the course of obstacles a dozen times, each of you, then run the length of the abbey wall three times. Then retire and consider this lesson!”
He started away, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his room and hide for the remainder of the day, but he stopped, seeing the expressions of stunned horror on the faces of the other students. He turned back to see Tellarese down on one knee, holding his face, but hardly stemming the dripping blood flow.
“You two,” De’Unnero said to the two nearest brothers. “See to his wounds or take him to Master Machuso, if necessary. And when he is bandaged, the three of you complete the lesson.”
And with that, Marcalo De’Unnero went back to his small room, closed the door tightly, and wondered, wondered, how this thing had happened. So distressed was he that he missed the vespers.
“A
llies?” De’Unnero asked Master Francis doubtfully later that evening, when Francis arrived uninvited at his door.
“We once served the same Father Abbot,” was all that Francis would admit.
“The man who fell,” De’Unnero replied. “And now are we to fall with him? Or are we to stand together, my
friend
, Master Francis?” His tone showed his words to be obviously a jest. “You and me against all the rest of the Church?”
“You make light of this, which tells me clearly that you underestimate the danger to us, and to any others who stood with Markwart,” Francis replied coldly. “The Church has changed, Master De’Unnero, has shifted away from Markwart and his heavy-handed tactics. I suspect that Marcalo De’Unnero, whose primary fame stems from his ability to train brothers in the arts martial, will either change his mannerisms or find his role greatly diminished in the new Abellican Church.”
“Would you have me suckle at Fio Bou-raiy’s teat?” De’Unnero snapped back.
“Master Bou-raiy will not lead the Church,” Francis answered. “But do not underestimate his influence within St.-Mere-Abelle. When I returned from Palmaris, I, too, was surprised by how deeply he had entrenched himself. To go looking for a fight with the man is not wise.”
“Why did you come to me?” De’Unnero demanded. “When has Francis called De’Unnero a friend?” It was true enough; even in the days of Markwart, Francis and De’Unnero had not been close, not at all. If anything, they’d been rivals, vying for whatever positions came open as Markwart ran roughshod through the
Church hierarchy.
“I came here only to advise,” Francis replied calmly. “Whether you take that advice or not is within your province. This is not Markwart’s Church any longer. I expect that Braumin Herde and the other followers of Avelyn and Jojonah will have their day now.”
De’Unnero snorted at the absurdity.
“Even Father Abbot Markwart admitted his failure concerning Avelyn Desbris,” Francis explained.
“His failure in not bringing the man, and the man’s followers, to swifter and more severe justice,” De’Unnero interjected.
“His failure in admitting the truth,” Francis went on determinedly. “The tale that is widely accepted by the people of Honce-the-Bear is that Avelyn—with help from Jilseponie and Elbryan; the centaur, Bradwarden; and the Touel’alfar—destroyed the demon dactyl.”
“And how has this tale been proven?” De’Unnero asked. “By the words of outlaws?”
“Outlaws no longer,” Francis reminded. “And the story is confirmed by the presence of Avelyn’s mummified arm, protruding from the rock at blasted Mount Aida. You have, perhaps, heard of the miracle at Aida?”
“The silly tale of goblins reduced to mere skeletons when they tried to approach those huddled at the all-powerful hand?”
Now it was Francis’ turn to chortle. “Not so silly when spoken by an abbot who witnessed the event,” he said; for, indeed, Abbot Braumin had been among those saved by the miracle at Aida.
“This is foolishness and nothing more,” De’Unnero said with a sigh, “mere fantasy, put forth to further the ambitions of eager young men.”