Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“And so they are going, all of them?” Shamus asked.
“All of them and all the world,” Jilseponie answered.
“But how do you know?” the man pressed. “The blood? Will it continue? Will it truly heal?”
Jilseponie fixed him with a perfectly contented and confident smile. “I know,” was all that she answered, and she went back to her work, brushing her hand over the feverish forehead of the woman patiently waiting, then lifting the soul stone to her lips.
“We must talk later,” Shamus said. Jilseponie gave a slight nod, then fell into the magic of the stone.
A very shaken Shamus Kilronney walked out of the tent, straight to the tavern across the way. The place was empty, but Shamus went to the bar and poured himself a very potent drink.
Jilseponie joined him there later, looking quite exhausted but quite relaxed.
“They should all survive the journey,” she explained, “or at least, the plague will not take any of them on the road to Aida.” She turned down her eyes. “Except for one,” she admitted. “He is too thick with the plague, and even if I were to work with him all the way to Aida, which I cannot do, he could not possibly survive.”
Shamus stared at her, shaking his head. “You seem to have figured it all out,” he remarked.
“I was told,” Jilseponie corrected. “The spirit of Avelyn, through the ghost of Romeo Mullahy, showed me the truth.”
Shamus hardly seemed convinced, but Jilseponie only shrugged, too tired to argue.
“So, you can now help to heal the people?” Shamus asked. “Because you tasted the blood and are now impervious to the plague?”
Jilseponie nodded. “I can help them,” she said, accepting the glass Shamus handed her. “Some of them, at least. But so could any other brother who has kissed Avelyn’s hand. I need not fear the plague anymore, and that freedom allows me to fight it back in most people.”
“But not in those terribly afflicted,” Shamus reasoned.
Jilseponie shook her head and swallowed the drink. “For many it is too late, I fear,” she explained, “and every day I tarry, more will die.”
Shamus’ expression turned to one of horror. “You accept that responsibility?” he asked.
“If not me, then who?”
He still just stared at her.
“I will not go north with them—they leave in the morning,” she went on. “But you should go. Indeed, you must—both to help protect them and to kiss the hand yourself.” She looked deeply into Shamus’ eyes, her pleading expression reminding him of who she was and of all that they had gone through together. “Bradwarden leads the Timberland folk. Shamus should help lead the folk of these two towns.
“And Shamus should remain in the northland,” Jilseponie continued. It was
clear to him that she was making up plans as she went. “To stand guard with whatever force he can muster. To keep the road to the Barbacan clear for those who must make the pilgrimage.”
Shamus Kilronney, who had traveled the long, long road to the Barbacan, scoffed at the notion. “You will need the King’s army for that!” he insisted.
“I intend to enlist the King’s army,” Jilseponie answered, her tone so strong and grim that Shamus rocked back in his chair and found, to his absolute surprise, that he did not doubt her for a second. But that only reminded him of another pressing problem.
“Palmaris,” he said gravely. “The people are rioting, and Duke Tetrafel encourages it. For he, too, has contracted the plague, and Abbot Braumin can do nothing to help him.”
Jilseponie nodded, seeming hardly surprised, and not overconcerned.
“The folk are being prodded, too, by the Brothers Repentant,” Shamus explained, “a group of wayward monks claiming that the plague is a result of the Church going astray, away from Markwart and toward Avelyn.”
Jilseponie did wince a bit at that information.
“They are led by Marcalo De’Unnero, so I have been told,” Shamus went on. He poured another strong drink, for he could see, without doubt, from her stunned expression and from the way the blood drained from her face, that she surely needed one.
S
tone after stone slammed against the wall or soared over it, making those few monks on the outside parapet duck for cover.
Down in the square below, De’Unnero and his black-and-red-robed brethren ran all about, urging the rabble on.
And on they came, shouting curses, throwing stones, and hoisting makeshift ladders up against the abbey walls. Another group charged the front gates, a huge battering ram rolling along between their two lines.
“Abbot Braumin!” Castinagis cried from up front, for the abbot had bidden the monks to use all restraint. With that battering ram rolling at them, though, they had to act fast.
“Defend the abbey,” Braumin agreed, his voice a harsh whisper, and he turned and walked away.
He heard the sharp retort of a lightning stroke behind him, heard the cries of pain and of outrage, heard the continuing rain of stones, and heard, above all else, the voice of Marcalo De’Unnero, rousing the crowd to new heights of frenzy.
For hours they assaulted the abbey; for hours, the monks drove them away. Wherever a ladder went up, a brother was on the spot, pushing it away; while others launched magic crossbow bolts, even hot oil, at the would-be invaders. Dozens died at the base of St. Precious’ ancient stone wall, while scores more were wounded.
The next day, they were back again, even more of them, it seemed; and this time
another force accompanied the Brothers Repentant and the angry peasants. The sound of great horns heralded the arrival of Duke Tetrafel and his soldiers, all of them outfitted for battle.
Abbot Braumin was on his way to the front wall even before the messenger came running for him. “It is the Duke,” the younger brother tried to explain as they hurried along. “He has brought an army and claims that we must surrender our abbey!”
Braumin didn’t answer, just hurried on his way, arriving at the parapet above the front gate tower beside his three closest advisers.
“Abbot Braumin!” came the cry from the herald standing at Tetrafel’s side.
“I am here,” Braumin replied, stepping forward into plain view—and well aware that many of Tetrafel’s archers had likely just trained their arrows on him.
The herald cleared his throat and unrolled a parchment. “By order of Duke Timian Tetrafel, Baron of Palmaris, you and your brethren now secluded within the abbey are declared outlaws in the city of Palmaris and are ordered to vacate St. Precious posthaste. Because Duke Tetrafel is a generous and noble man, you will not be prosecuted, as long as you depart the city this very day and promise not to return!”
Abbot Braumin stared hard at Tetrafel all through the reading, purposely keeping all emotion off his face.
“We have spoken of going to Caer Tinella to open the chapel of Avelyn,” Viscenti remarked.
Braumin turned and stared at him, but shook his head determinedly. “Duke Tetrafel!” he cried out powerfully. “You have no jurisdiction here and no power to make such demands.”
The herald started to respond, but Tetrafel, obviously still possessed of some amount of vigor, grabbed the man and pulled him back. “All the city has come out against you!” he yelled at Braumin. “How can you claim the rights of a Church when you have no followers?”
“We did not give you the plague, Duke Tetrafel,” Abbot Braumin bluntly answered.
“But you did!” came a cry from the side, from De’Unnero. He ran out before the gathering, waving his arms at the crowd. “They did! Their sacrilege has brought the vengeance of God upon us all! Unseat them and He will be contented, and the plague will lift from our lands and our homes!”
“Duke Tetrafel!” Braumin called out. “We did not give you the plague, nor have we the power to cure your sickness. But how many times have the brothers of St. Precious—”
“Out!” the Duke interrupted, leaping out of his carriage and stumbling forward. “Out, I say! Get you gone from that building and from my city!”
Abbot Braumin stared down at him; his cold expression gave the frightened and angry man all the answer that he needed.
“Then you are besieged, I say!” Duke Tetrafel declared. “If the night has passed
and you have not fled the abbey and the city, then know that you leave your walls at your own great peril. Besieged! And know that our patience is not great. Your terms of surrender worsen with each passing hour!”
Braumin turned and walked away. “If they come on again, defend the abbey with all necessary force,” he told his friends. “And, please, for my own peace of mind, if the opportunity presents itself, strike Marcalo De’Unnero dead.”
Castinagis and Talumus nodded grimly at the request, but Viscenti, more familiar with De’Unnero’s reputation, blanched at the mere thought of it. He watched Braumin go back into the abbey and wondered if he had been foolish to talk his friend out of going to Duke Tetrafel’s aid, wondered if they should not take the offer and vacate Palmaris at once. All of them, every one.
Viscenti looked back to the courtyard, to see De’Unnero leading a prayer session with hundreds—no, thousands!—of folk gathering about the square, lifting their voices in response to his own. The Brothers Repentant filtered through the crowd, enlisting allies.
No, this would be no traditional siege, Viscenti knew. The outraged peasants would come at them again and then again, until St. Precious was no more than a burned-out husk of broken stone. And what would happen to the brothers? he wondered. Would they be dragged through the streets and tortured to death? Burned at the stake, perhaps, like poor Master Jojonah?
He heard the prayers and, more clearly, the words of anger, the promises that the brothers of St. Precious would pay for bringing the plague upon them.
A shudder coursed down Viscenti’s spine. He did not sleep at all that night.
“H
ere they come,” Brother Talumus said grimly to the monks standing at his side between the outer wall parapets a few mornings later. He knew, and so did the others, that this would be the worst assault yet. Duke Tetrafel had declared a siege, but in truth, the actual attacks against the abbey had increased daily, for the common folk, roused by De’Unnero and with many of them plague-ridden and thus short of time, had no patience for any lengthy siege.
A hail of stones led the way, followed by the ladder bearers and many with makeshift grapnels attached to long lengths of rope. A group stubbornly picked up the battering ram, which had been repelled three times already—the last time with a dozen peasants toting it slain—and started toward the main gate, cheering with each grunting stride.
Monks scrambled along the outer wall, some with gemstones, some with crossbows, some with heavy clubs or knives. They threw lightning and shot quarrels, pushed aside ladders and slashed ropes.
A hail of arrows soared in just above the wall. Several brothers dropped, some groaning, some lying very still.
“Tetrafel’s archers!” Brother Talumus cried, scrambling in a defensive crouch. “Lightning to the back! Lightning to the back!”
Abbot Braumin rose up bravely down the line, graphite in hand. He brought
forth a streaking white bolt, slamming into the archer line, scattering men. He started to duck back for cover, but saw a figure he could not ignore: De’Unnero, rushing madly among the charging peasants, cheering them on to certain death.
A second bolt, much weaker in intensity, erupted from Braumin’s hand, but De’Unnero saw it coming, and with the reflexes of a cat, he skipped aside, just getting clipped on one leg.
With a yell that sounded more like a feral growl, the wild monk charged the abbey.
Braumin glanced all about, seeking the rope or ladder that De’Unnero might use, and in his distraction, he did not note that the monk’s strides resembled more the gallop of a tiger than the run of a man. Hardly missing a step, De’Unnero came to the base of the wall and leaped up, up, clearing the twenty-five-foot height, catching hold of the crenellated wall and pulling himself up with frightening agility and ease right before the stunned Braumin.
He hit the abbot with a blow that dropped him to the stone. A pair of brothers rushed De’Unnero, but he dipped, thrust one leg out and tripped one, then pushed the tumbling man off the parapet and down to the courtyard; then he rolled under the lunge of the second, catching the scrambling man on his shoulder. De’Unnero’s left hand snapped in with a sharp blow to the monk’s throat and then, with hardly an effort, he flung the man right over the wall.
The unfortunate monk was still alive when he hit the ground outside the abbey. The peasants fell over him like a flock of ravenous carrion birds.
A third brother approached De’Unnero, loaded crossbow out before him.
De’Unnero locked his gaze, studied his eyes, and anticipated every movement, and even as the man squeezed the trigger, the powerful tiger legs twitched, launching De’Unnero skyward. The bolt crossed harmlessly beneath him.
De’Unnero came down, exploding into a charge that had the crossbowman helpless. He hit the man repeatedly, his fists smashing bone, and this monk was dead before he ever went over the wall.
Still more monks charged the savage warrior, heedless of their doom, thinking only to protect their fallen abbot. De’Unnero went for Braumin and rolled him over as he raised his fist for the killing blow, wanting Braumin to see it coming.
A lightning bolt hit the weretiger in midchest, sending him rolling over the wall. He landed lightly—miraculously to the stunned peasants!—and shook away the stinging pain.
He could not go right back up, for many monks had then converged on the area, many of them with crossbows and all of them aiming his way.
De’Unnero quickly melted back into the crowd.
Despite that setback, the rabble came on furiously, scaling the walls, pounding at the doors. The brothers responded with everything they possessed, but their magic was fast weakening and their numbers, though they took care to stay protected, continued to dwindle under the rain of arrows from Tetrafel’s archers.
Abbot Braumin, dazed from the punch and bleeding from the nose—but refusing
any help from a brother with a soul stone—looked around at the confusion, at the sheer mass of people coming at the abbey, at Tetrafel’s deadly archers raining death from the back of the square, and he knew.