Authors: R.A. Salvatore
Brother Dellman shrugged, having no practical answer and not wanting to get into the discussion at that time.
“You are a good and trusted friend of the new abbot of St. Precious,” Midalis observed.
“Abbot Braumin Herde,” Dellman replied. “I traveled with him across the land, running from Markwart and running toward Avelyn. I was beside him at the miracle of Aida, and again beside him when he was taken captive by Markwart, and by the King’s soldiers.”
“And now, with Markwart dead and discredited, the new abbot of St. Precious, your friend Braumin Herde, will have a strong voice at the College, yes?”
Brother Dellman considered the strange question for a moment, then just shrugged.
“The tide flows in his favor,” the Prince observed. “He who was instrumental in the fall of Father Abbot Markwart, he who leads those of the other philosophy, Avelyn’s philosophy, will certainly be heard clearly at the College of Abbots.”
“If the other abbots and masters are wise, they will listen to Abbot Braumin’s every word with great care,” Brother Dellman remarked.
“And does Abbot Braumin intend to try for the highest position in the Church?”
That set Dellman back on his heels. “Forgive me, my Prince, but it is not within my province to discuss such matters.”
“Of course,” said Midalis. “Yet you said that he was a young man—too young to be so nominated and elected, I would guess, given my understanding of your Church.”
“You know much of us,” replied Dellman, who was growing increasingly uneasy with this whole train of conversation.
“But perhaps Abbot Braumin has set his sights toward nominating another for the position of father abbot,” Prince Midalis said. “Perhaps he, like many others, no doubt, is seeking a person who will lead the Church in a better direction.”
“That would be his charge, my Prince,” Brother Dellman said, “as it is now the
charge of every abbot and every master.”
A wry smile came over the handsome young Prince’s face. “And so, given that, would not this young abbot send out his most trusted friends to study those likely candidates?” he asked.
“Again you ask of me that which I cannot answer,” Dellman replied, which, of course, was an answer in itself, and one that pleased Prince Midalis greatly.
“I will say this to you without any personal motives,” Midalis offered. “If you and your friend the abbot are indeed thinking that Abbot Agronguerre might be a proper selection for that most important position within your Church, then know that I second that nomination with all of my heart. He is a wonderful man, a man of diplomacy—his work in quelling the trepidations of the Alpinadoran leaders in our recent truce was marvelous and generous—and, foremost, a man of God. I have never truly considered myself overreligious, good Brother Dellman, but when I hear Abbot Agronguerre speaking—and always his words come from the truth that is in his heart—I know that I am hearing the will of God.”
“Strong words,” Brother Dellman gasped, for they were indeed, words that would border on heresy if Midalis were speaking them with any intent of personal gain! And yet, in looking at the man, in considering the situation faced by both Church and State, Dellman understood that the Prince was speaking from his heart.
“If you are considering Abbot Agronguerre for nomination, then look as deeply as you may,” Prince Midalis went on. “For surely, the more familiar you become with Abbot Agronguerre, the more firmly you will desire him as your new father abbot. This I know, Brother Dellman, for I have served beside the man for many years and have not once found error in his ways. Oh, I have not always agreed with his choices; but even for those over which we were at odds, I knew that his choice had come from a logical and consistent philosophy, one based on the highest and most noble traditions of your Church.”
“I will consider your words carefully, Prince Midalis,” Brother Dellman answered.
“Then you admit that you are here for more reasons than to deliver an invitation?” Midalis asked with that wry grin again.
Brother Dellman, too, couldn’t help but smile. “Forgive me, my Prince,” he answered yet again, “but it is not within my province to discuss such matters.”
Midalis laughed aloud and clapped Dellman on the shoulder as he walked past, collecting the man in his wake.
Dellman retired to his room soon after, but was far too excited to even think about sleep. He paced his small room, digesting all that he had learned, thinking that Abbot Braumin had been wise indeed to send him to this place, and that the Abellican Church might soon elect the leader it needed to get through this dark time.
A
bbot Agronguerre hustled down to the front courtyard of St. Belfour a couple of
days later, when he learned that a most unexpected visitor had arrived, seeking audience with him and with Prince Midalis, who was still within the abbey. Along the way, the abbot managed to find Haney and Dellman, and bade them accompany him, though he didn’t pause long enough to fill them in on the details.
As soon as they came in sight of the courtyard, the source of the abbot’s nervous excitement became clear—in the nearly seven-foot frame of mighty Andacanavar.
“Greetings, friend Andacanavar,” Agronguerre said, huffing and puffing to catch his breath. “Good tidings, I pray, bring you to us at this time. You remember Brother Haney, I am sure, and let me introduce to you a visitor from the south, Brother—”
“Holan Dellman,” Andacanavar interrupted, and both Haney and Agronguerre looked curiously from the ranger to their southern brother.
“Greetings again, Andacanavar of Alpinador,” Brother Dellman remarked, and Agronguerre detected a bit of nervousness along with the obvious familiarity.
“We have both walked a long road, it would seem, to come to the same place,” the ranger said with a grin. But it seemed to Agronguerre as if Andacanavar, too, was straining to be polite. These two had a history, he realized, and one that had not been without conflict.
Indeed, Dellman and the ranger had met first spiritually, and not physically. Dellman had gone along with Master Jojonah, then Brother Francis and other brothers from St.-Mere-Abelle on their caravan journey to the Barbacan to investigate the demise of the demon dactyl. Their road had taken them through Alpinador, and after a fight with monsters outside of one Alpinadoran village, Brother Dellman, scouting out of body, had found that they were being shadowed by Andacanavar. Master Jojonah had then sent Brother Braumin out to the man spiritually with soul stone magic, to quietly suggest that he should turn around and go home. Failing that, Braumin had been instructed to possess the man and walk his body back to the southland.
But Andacanavar, stronger of will than the monks could ever have expected, had turned the tables, had walked through the spiritual connection to possess Braumin, and then had used the monk’s physical body to go into the encampment and learn more about the brothers.
The two had come to terms over their misunderstanding, but still there remained some tension between them—and between the ranger and Braumin’s supporters, who had seen their leader magically and spiritually overwhelmed by the man. The act of possession was among the most distasteful products of gemstone magic, a rape of the spirit; and two who had known such intimate battle as that would never, ever forget it.
“I had thought you to be back in Alpinador, with Bruinhelde,” Abbot Agronguerre remarked.
“Bruinhelde is not back in Alpinador, either,” the ranger explained, slowly turning his gaze away from Brother Dellman. “We found the road clear.”
“We heard as much,” replied Agronguerre. “My brethren returned to us several
days ago, and glad we were to learn that Alpinador was spared the trials of the demon dactyl.”
“We fought our share,” Andacanavar informed him. “But good tidings indeed that the threat to our homeland had ended. And yet it was tidings of further war that brought us back to the south, soon after Prince Midalis and the others left us.”
A shadow crossed over Abbot Agronguerre’s chubby face.
“Prince Midalis is here, by the reports,” the ranger remarked. “Take me to him that I have to tell my tale but once.”
They found Midalis eating his breakfast on the flat top of the abbey’s northwestern tower. Predictably, Liam O’Blythe was there as well; and it occurred to everyone there, Liam included, how similar the man and his relationship to Prince Midalis was to that of Brother Haney and his relationship to Abbot Agronguerre. Both had been born peasants, and through deed alone had risen to important, if little recognized, positions, for both were sounding boards for their respective leaders, confidants who first heard the policies the men would institute. Both were younger than the men they followed, protégés of sorts: one the likely successor as abbot of St. Belfour, the other already appointed an earl, and likely in line for the duchy of Vanguard.
Midalis seemed no less surprised by the ranger’s appearance than Agronguerre had been. He wiped his mouth quickly and rose from the table, moving fast to greet the man away from the plates of half-eaten food, and subtly motioning for Liam to clear up the mess.
“Tidings of war, so says Andacanavar,” Abbot Agronguerre said immediately. “And Bruinhelde and some of his warriors have returned, as well.”
“Trouble?” Midalis asked the ranger.
“So says one of our scouts, who spoke with one of your own,” the ranger informed him. “To the east of here, in a rough bay. A boat put in, a boat full of powries.”
“Barrelboat,” Midalis reasoned.
“Not so,” Andacanavar replied. “A masted ship. They put in to the bay, but did not, it seems, know the waters well, for when the tide went out, their boat came down hard to the rocks and mud. So you have got powries again, my friend, and so we came down to join in the fun of being rid of the wretched bloody caps.”
They rode out in force from St. Belfour soon after, Abbot Agronguerre in his coach leading the same twenty brothers who had just returned from Alpinador, plus Dellman and Haney. Beside them went Midalis, Liam, and Andacanavar. Their numbers swelled five times over when they crossed through the town of Vanguard and the fortress, where Warder Presso and Al’u’met came out to meet them, along with many of the Pireth Vanguard soldiers. After a brief meeting to try to determine the exact location of this bay, Al’u’met returned to the
Saudi Jacintha
and, after bringing aboard some more of Warder Presso’s archers, put out, shadowing the marching army to the east.
With Bruinhelde and his warriors already in place in the east, and another two
towns to cross through, where more volunteers would join, it seemed as if this would be one battle where the odds, at last, favored Midalis’ side.
“P
rop it, pull it, and peg it!” Dalump Keedump roared at his crew, and the powries did just that, tugging the heavy lines, bringing the boat up the ramp an inch, and then pegging the crank to hold it in its new position. They had come in for repairs and supplies, and perhaps a bit of sport, but—curse their luck—the tide had dropped too low for the heavy boat, and had damaged the hull.
“Prop it, pull it, and peg it!” the powrie boss cried again enthusiastically, for they were making progress now in getting the ship repaired and in getting themselves on the way home. Dalump had led a raid upon a nearby village, a few farmhouses clustered together, and though—to the dismay of all the fierce bloody caps—there were no humans about to slaughter, they tore down the walls of the buildings and found enough rope and other supplies to come back and complete their repairs. Now, with the front half of the boat clear of the water, the crack in her hull visible and seeming not too severe, Dalump figured they could be back out to sea with the next high tide.
“Prop it, pull it, and peg it!” he cried again and again, the boat creaking out of the water more and more. “Yach, but we’ll be back to our home in short order, lads, and then we’ll turn about with another army to go and pay back the dog Kalas!”
And so it went, the growling, untiring powries bending their backs and pulling hard.
M
idalis was not surprised to see them, for his scouts had reported that about three families of refugees were on the road. Still, the image of his people being uprooted yet again by monsters brought a fire into the young Prince. He’d see them back to their homes and give them a few powrie heads to stake about the grounds for decorations.
“Me Prince!” cried the man trotting beside the lead wagon, a sturdy farmer of about forty winters, and he ran forward and fell to one knee before Midalis.
“Have powries so chased you from your homes?” Midalis asked.
“And would’ve burned us in our homes, don’t ye doubt, had not some o’ his kin—” he indicated Andacanavar “—come to rouse us.”
Midalis gave a resigned chuckle. “It would seem that I, and my people, are in Bruinhelde’s debt yet again,” he remarked to Andacanavar.
“Blood-brothering erases all debt,” the ranger replied with a wink.
“Come, and let us be quick,” Midalis said to his men, “before Bruinhelde and his men take all the fun from us.” He turned back to the farmer. “You need run no farther,” he explained. “I will leave some soldiers and brothers with you for your protection. Camp here and wait—and for not too long, I would guess—before we signal you that you may return to your homes.”
“If there’s anything left o’ them,” the man remarked.
“And if not, then we will help you to rebuild them!” Prince Midalis replied with
enthusiasm.
They picked up their pace after that, quick-marching all the way out to the east, to the bay. The Prince, who knew well the region, decided to take a northerly route and approach the bay heading south, where they would come in sight of the place high on a wooded cliff, overlooking the water.
“I will find you there,” Andacanavar promised; and the ranger ran off, seeking Bruinhelde and his kin so that the attack might be coordinated.
“There are the beasts, and what’s left of the houses,” Liam O’Blythe remarked when they got to the spot, to see the powries hard at work at their impromptu, but wonderfully constructed, dry dock.