“We have no options,” Markwart said to the young monk. “That group of ships must be dealt with, and immediately, or our walls will be lost!”
Even as he spoke, a pair of powries came over the wall to the side. The immaculates fell over them at once, beating them down before they could get in defensive posture and then cutting free the ropes in the area. But still, Markwart’s point had been clearly reinforced.
“They’ll not notice you coming, except to think you were thrown over by one of their own,” he explained. “By the time they realize the truth, they will be burning and you will be ascending.”
The monk nodded, clutched the stones tightly and leaped up to the top of the wall. With a look back, he jumped far and high, plummeting down the cliff face. Markwart, Jojonah, and several others rushed to the wall to watch his descent, and the Father Abbot cursed loudly when the malachite turned that plummet into the gentle fall of a feather in a stiff breezewith the monk still many yards above the deck level.
“Fool!” Markwart roared as the powries focused on the man, throwing spears and hammers, raising their small crossbows. To the young monk’s creditor perhaps because of his sudden terror, or perhaps because he simply did not possess the magical knowledge and strengthhe did not reverse direction and begin floating back up the cliff, but continued down, down.
A crossbow bolt dove into his arm; a stone tumbled from his hand.
“The serpentine!” Jojonah cried.
The young monk, clutching his arm, twitching and turning in a futile effort to dodge the growing barrage, was obviously trying to float back up.
“No!” Markwart yelled at him.
“He has no shield against the fireball!” Jojonah yelled at the Father Abbot.
The young monk jerked spasmodically, hit by a crossbow bolt, then another, men a third, in rapid succession. His magical energy left him along with his life force, and his limp body dropped the rest of the way, bouncing off a powrie barge and into the dark waters of All Saints Bay.
“Fetch me one of our peasant guests!” Markwart yelled at Brother Francis.
“He was not strong enough,” Jojonah said to the Father Abbot. “That was no task for a mere novice. An immaculate might not complete such a feat!”
“I would send you, and be glad to be rid of you,” Markwart screamed in his face, stunning him into silence. “But you are needed.”
Brother Francis returned with a young villager, a man of about twenty, looking sheepish. “I can use a bow,” the man said, trying to appear brave. “I have hunted deer”
“Take this instead,” Father Abbot Markwart instructed, handing him a ruby.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight and smooth feel of the sacred stone. “I cannot…” he stammered, not understanding.
“But I can,” snarled Markwart, and he held forth another stone, his mighty hematite, the soul stone.
The man looked at him blankly; Brother Francis, understanding enough to know that he should distract the peasant, smacked him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground.
Master Jojonah looked away.
Francis closed on the man, meaning to strike him again.
“It is done,” the man announced, and Francis held back the blow and reverently helped him to his feet.
“Possession,” Jojonah spat distastefully. He could hardly believe that Markwart had done this wicked thing, which was normally considered the absolute darkest side of the hematite. By all edicts, possessing another’s body was an act to be avoidedindeed, an act that monks spirit-walking with hematite often guarded against by preparing other protective stones. And when he thought about what he had just seen, Jojonah could hardly believe that the possession, perhaps the most difficult of any known task for the gemstones, had been completed so easily!
The Father Abbot in the peasant’s body walked calmly to the wall, glanced out over the edge to locate the greatest tangle of powrie vessels, then, without a moment’s hesitation, calmly leaped over the side. No malachite this time, no screaming, no fear. The Father Abbot focused on the ruby as he plunged the hundred feet, bringing the stone’s energy to a peak and loosing a tremendous, concussive fireball just before he slammed the deck. His spirit deserted the peasant body immediately, flying through the flames, away from the agony and back to his own waiting form atop the seawall.
He blinked his tired old eyes open, acclimating to his own body and fighting past that instant of sheer terror when he had neared the powrie decks, when he consumed his own borrowed form in magical fires. All the monks around him, with the notable exception of Master Jojonah, were cheering wildly, many looking over the wall at the burning mass of powrie vessels, uttering praises of disbelief that anyone could ignite so tremendous a fireball.
“It had to be done,” Markwart said curtly to Jojonah.
The master didn’t blink.
“To sacrifice one for the sake of others is the highest precept of our Order,” Markwart reminded.
“To sacrifice oneself,” Master Jojonah corrected.
“Go from this place, to the catapult crews,” a disgusted Markwart ordered dismissively.
Though Jojonah realized that his stone skills were still needed up on the roof, he was glad to comply. He glanced back at Markwart many times as he departed, for while others were purely awestruck by the magical display, Jojonah, who had known Markwart for more than forty years, was simply confused, and more than a little suspicious.
There was one entrance to St.-Mere-Abelle from the wharf area at the level of All Saints Bay, but so great were the doors down thereoak wood, two feet thick and reinforced with metal banding, backed by a portcullis with pegs as thick as a man’s thigh, and that backed by another falling wall, as thick and strong as the outer doorsthat no powries, not even the huge fomorian giants, could have broken through them if they had spent a week at it.
That was assuming, however, that the doors were closed.
If they could have seen over the cliff well enough to spot the doors, neither Father Abbot Markwart nor Master Jojonah would have been surprised to see those great portals swing open in invitation to the groups of powries that had managed to escape the blast and drag themselves onto the rocky shore. In fact, both men had expected this very thing when Master De’Unnero had volunteered, indeed insisted, that he be the one heading the contingent of twelve at the low station guard post. That group had two ballistae, one on either side of the great doors, but their firing range was severely limited by the narrow scope of their shooting slits, and Markwart had known full well that De’Unnero would never be satisfied with launching a few, usually ineffective bolts.
So the young and fiery master had opened the doors, and now he stood exposed in the corridor just inside, laughing hysterically, daring the powries to enter.
A group of nearly a score of the bloody caps, battered already but never afraid, did come roaring in, brandishing hammers and axes and cruel short swords.
As the last of them passed under the portcullis, it fell with a resounding crash, its vibrations reaching all through the abbey, all the way up to the seawall.
Startled but not stopped, the bloody caps yelled all the louder and charged on. A dozen crossbow bolts whipped out into their ranks, taking down a few but hardly slowing the charge.
There stood De’Unnero, alone, laughing, his honed muscles straining so tightly against his skin that it seemed they might tear right through. Other monks, principally Master Jojonah, had often voiced their belief that De’Unnero’s heart would simply explode, for the young master was too intense for the wrappings of any human coil. He seemed to fit that image now, verily trembling with inner energy. He held no weapon that the powries could see, only a single stone, a tiger’s paw, smooth brown and with black streaks.
Now he brought forth the magic of that stone, and as the first powrie neared, De’Unnero’s arms were transformed, taking the shape of the mighty forelegs of a tiger.
“Yach!“the lead powrie cried, lifting
its weapon defensively.
De’Unnero was too quick for that, springing ahead like a hunting cat, slashing his right arm down across the powrie’s face, tearing away its features.
The master seemed to go into a frenzy then, but in truth, he was in perfect control, springing from side to side to prevent any powries from getting past him, though a dozen other monks stood in the corridor to meet their charge. The stone had stayed with his transformed paw, melding to the skin, and De’Unnero fell deeper into its grasp now, and though his outward appearance changed no more, his inner muscles became those of the cat.
A swipe of his tiger arm sent one of the powries flying; with a flick of his leg muscles, he darted to the side, avoiding a smash from a hammer. Then a second muscular twitch brought him back in front of the attacking powrie before the startled dwarf had even lifted its hammer.
The claws raked viciously, and that powrie’s face disappeared, too.
Those powries behind were giving ground now, but De’Unnero’s battle lust was far from sated. His legs twitched, launching him fully twenty-five feet ahead, landing in the midst of the dwarves. He became a whirlwind of flailing claws and kicking feet. Powries were no minor enemy, but though they outnumbered this creature nine to one, they wanted nothing to do with him. They scrambled and rushed. Two went back for the portcullis, crying to their comrades who were still outside, while several others staggered past the fighting De’Unnero, stumbling down the corridor, where they were met by a second volley of crossbow quarrels.
All but one of the monks dropped their crossbows and drew weapons for close melee, though a handful rushed forward to finish the dwarves with only their bare hands.
Farther down the corridor, De’Unnero held the last powrie standing before him by the head, between his great paws. His claws had dug right through the powrie’s skull, and he whipped the creature back and forth now as easily as if it was a down-filled child’s doll. Then he threw it aside and started an advance on the two at the portcullis.
Beyond them, a powrie leveled a blowgun and let fly, scoring a hit on De’Unnero’s belly, just below his rib cage.
The monk roared, a tiger’s roar, and tore the dart free, along with a considerable amount of flesh, continuing his determined advance. The powrie gunner popped another dart into place; the two dwarves at the portcullis screamed and tried to squeeze through.
Then the inner sliding door fell, snapping the blowgun and squashing the two powries flat.
De’Unnero skidded to a stop as a spray of blood washed over him. He turned about and roared again, a battle cry that became a call of frustration as he realized that his soldiers had efficiently dealt with the remaining dwarves. The fight was over.
The fierce master came back fully to his human form, exhausted by the effort both physical and magical. He felt the profound sting in his belly then, a burning, washing sensation, and realized he had been poisoned. Most of that poison, a paralyzing and painful concoction, had been defeated by the sheer energy of the magical transformations, but enough remained to bring such a fit of trembling to the monk that he was soon down on one knee.
His soldiers crowded around him, concerned.
“Man the ballistae!” he growled at them, and though De’Unnero was fully human once more, his voice was as ferocious as the roar of the hunting tiger. The younger monks obeyed, and by sheer determination Master De’Unnero soon joined them, directing their shots.
With the main tangle of powrie vessels burning and out of the fight, the watching monks dispersed from that area, running to bolster the wall defenses wherever necessary. Many powries gained the wall through that long and vicious morning, but none found a lasting hold, and by midday, with still no sign of any approaching ground force, the outcome was no longer in doubt. The powries fought on, as powries always will, and more than fifty monks were slain, and several times that number injured, but the powrie losses were staggering, with more than half the thousand vessel fleet going to the bottom of All Saints Bay, and the hundreds that escaped slipping out into deeper waters, manned by only skeleton crews.
By mid-afternoon Master Jojonah had joined with the other older monks proficient in stone use in tending the many wounded, while younger brothers had already organized burial detail for those beyond the help of the soul stones. The battle had slipped into its last stage, the cleanup, as the chaos of fighting died away. Soon the discipline of the brothers put the duties into order, pragmatic and efficient. One thing did strike Master Jojonah as curious, though. The Father Abbot, who had in his possession, Jojonah knew, the most powerful soul stone in all St.-Mere-Abelle, walked among the wounded and offered hopeful words, but seemed to be tending none. The concussive fireball, and a couple of other lightning blasts that Markwart had screeched along the wall top, were hours old now, and so Markwart’s remarks that he had no magical energy left made little sense.
The portly master could only shrug helplessly and shake his head, then, when Master De’Unnero arrived at the wall, his side torn open wide, though the fierce man was hardly limping or showing any sign that he felt any pain at all. Still, Markwart moved near and promptly sealed the wound with the soul stone. Jojonah had known that the bond between these two was tight, as tight as the one between the Father Abbot and Brother Francis.
He went about his work quietly, digesting it all, filing it away until he could find enough private time to properly reason it through.
“You insist upon thrusting yourself in danger’s way,” Markwart scolded De’Unnero as the gaping wound sealed under the influence of the hematite.
“A man must find his enjoyment,” the master replied with a mischievous grin. “Enjoyment you continue to deny me.”
Markwart stepped back and looked harshly at him, understanding the complaint all too well. “How goes the training?” he asked sharply.
“Youseff shows promise,” De’Unnero admitted. “He is cunning and will use any weapon and any tactic to find victory.”
“And Brother Dandelion?”
“A mighty bear, strong of arm but weak of mind,” said De’Unnero. “He will serve our purposes well, as long as Youseff guides his actions.”
The Father Abbot nodded, seeming pleased.
“I could defeat them both together,” De’Unnero asserted, stealing his superior’s smug look. “They will hold the title of Brothers Justice, yet I could crush them both, and easily. And I could go and retrieve Avelyn and the gemstones.”
Markwart had no practical argument against the claim. “You are a master, and have other duties,” he said.
“More important than the hunt for Avelyn?”
“Equally important,” Markwart said with a tone of finality. “Youseff and Dandelion will serve this purpose, if Master Marcalo De’Unnero properly trains them.”
De’Unnero’s face crinkled severely, his eyes narrowing, throwing imaginary daggers at the Father Abbot. He did not like to be questioned, not at all.
Markwart recognized the look, for he had seen it often. He knew, though, that De’Unnero would not cross him, and given that, such intensity could be put to good use.
“Let me go hunting,” De’Unnero said plainly.
“You train the hunters,” Markwart shot back. “Trust me, you will find rewards for your efforts.” With that, the Father Abbot walked away.
“We were valiant this day,” Master De’Unnero proudly offered to Markwart and the other masters at their summary meeting after vespers.
“But also fortunate,” Master Jojonah reminded them all. “For neither the powrie ground force nor the goblin army that has been oft sighted in the region made its appearance.”
“More than luck, I would reason,” Francis piped in, though it was not the man’s place to speak at such a meeting. Francis wasn’t even an immaculate yet, after all, and was only at the meeting as an attendant of the Father Abbot. Still, Markwart made no move to silence him, and the other masters afforded him the floor. “This is uncharacteristic of our enemy,” Francis we
nt on. “Every tale from the battle lines north of Palmaris indicate that our monstrous foes fight with cohesion and guidance, and it is obvious from the success of our ruse that those powrie ships were indeed waiting for the ground army to engage.”
“Where, then, werearethe enemy, ground armies?” Markwart asked impatiently. “Will we awake on the morrow to find that we are besieged once again?”
“The fleet will not return,” another master responded immediately. “And if the monsters come at us from the ground, they will find our fortifications even more formidable than those that protected us by sea.”
Master Jojonah happened to be looking at De’Unnero when these words were spoken, and was disgusted to see the man’s almost feral smile, a grin truly unbefitting a master of the Abellican Order.
“Triple the guard along the walls this night, land and sea,” the Father Abbot decided.
“Many are weary from the fighting,” said Master Engress, a gentle man and a friend of Jojonah’s.
“Then use the peasants,” Markwart snapped at him abruptly. “They have come in to eat our food and hide behind the shelter of abbey walls and brother flesh. Let them earn their keep at watch, this night and every night.”
Engress looked at Jojonah and at several other masters, but none dared question Markwart’s tone. “It will be done, Father Abbot,” Master Engress said humbly.
The Father Abbot pushed his chair back forcefully, the legs screeching on the wooden floor. He rose and waved his hand dismissively, then walked out of the room, the meeting at its end.
By Markwart’s reasoning, all important business had been concluded. The man wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and with his emotions, some of which were troubling indeed. He had sent a man flying to his death this day, an act that still required a bit of rationalization, and he was also conscious of the fact that he had not been greatly involved in the healing process after the fight. There had remained magical energy within himhe had known that even as he spoke falsely to excuse himselfbut he simply hadn’tfeltlike helping out. He had gone to one injured monk, a man sitting against the seawall, his arm badly torn from a sliding powrie grapnel, but when he moved to heal the man with the hematite, an action that required an intimate connection, he recoiled, feeling… what?
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 72