Roger stood looking southward at the last few of those lights, late in the night, when Braumin Herde joined him. The two stood silently for some time, two lonely figures in a world gone crazy.
"Perhaps we should have chanced a stay in Palmaris," Braumin offered. "You might have found some of your friends."
Roger was shaking his head before the man even finished. "It would have been a pleasure to see some of them again," he said, "but I approve of the decision to strike out of the city immediately. I do not trust that place."
"You mean that you do not trust those who rule that place," Braumin said with a chuckle. "Yet they are the same as those who rule St.-Mere-Abelle."
"I was with Baron Bildeborough when he was murdered," Roger admitted, staring at the distant lights, not even turning to face Braumin when he heard the monk gasp.
"We were going south to Ursal to speak with King Danube about the murder of Abbot Dobrinion," Roger explained.
"Murdered by a powrie," Braumin said, repeating the commonly accepted story.
"Murdered by a monk," Roger retorted gravely. Now he did turn to face Braumin. "It was no powrie, but a monk —a pair of monks, actually, men your Church name brothers justice—who murdered Dobrinion." Roger watched Braumin's expression shift from bewilderment to denial to something bordering on anger.
"You cannot be certain of this," Braumin said, obviously fighting hard to sound as if he was speaking with conviction.
"Connor Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron, discovered the truth," Roger replied, turning back to the distant lights.
"But young Bildeborough was taken and questioned by Father Abbot Markwart," Braumin reasoned. "He had reason to hate the Church."
"His evidence was firm," Roger answered calmly. "And to lend it credence, those same two brothers justice chased him out of Palmaris, intent on murdering him. That was where they met me and Nightbird and Pony, and that was where they both met their end, though not before one managed to murder Connor."
"Describe them," Braumin Herde bade him, a distinct tremor in his voice.
"One was a huge and strong man," Roger replied, "and the other, by far the more dangerous, by my estimation, was small of frame but quick and deadly."
Braumin Herde rocked back on his heels at this confirmation, for he had been with the caravan when it had met Markwart in Palmaris, when Connor had been taken prisoner, and then subsequently released. Along with Markwart were two very dangerous men, Brothers Youseff and Dandelion, and those two had left the caravan on the road east of Palmaris and had not been seen since.
"Connor's evidence was enough to convince the Baron," Roger went on, "and when Rochefort Bildeborough could not gain any satisfaction from the new leader of St. Precious, he decided to take his case, with me as his witness, to the court of King Danube Brock Ursal. On our first night out, the carriage was attacked, and all were killed except for me."
"And how were you so fortunate?"
"I was out in the woods at the time the great cat attacked," Roger explained. "I saw only the end of the fight —more a slaughter than a fight, actually."
"Describe the cat," Braumin prompted, a sinking feeling washing over him.
"Not so large," Roger replied, "but fast and vicious. And moving with a purpose —of that I am sure."
"You do not believe it to be the random attack of a wild animal?"
Roger shrugged, having no practical response. "It seemed more than that," he tried to explain, "and I am familiar with the great cats of this region —tawny panthers mostly. But this cat was orange with black stripes. A tiger, I believe, though I have never seen such a cat, and have only heard of it from travelers who dared the western Wilderlands." Roger stopped abruptly as he looked over at Braumin, for the man stood with eyes closed and fists balled by his side, trembling.
For it all made sense to Braumin Herde now: terrible, brutal sense. He knew well the new abbot of St. Precious, the new bishop of Palmaris, and knew the man's favored stone, the tiger's paw, with which he could transform parts of his body into those of the great cat.
"There is a great darkness settling on the world," Braumin remarked finally.
"I had thought one just lifted," Roger replied.
"This one may be darker yet."
Roger, who had witnessed the murders of Connor Bildeborough, Baron Bildeborough, and Jojonah, could not find any logical argument against the reasoning.
The fire had burned to embers. The wind blew cold, and the four sleeping monks were huddled close to the fire, wrapped tightly in blankets. Brother Dellman sat a short distance away, quiet and calm, with Roger, for it was their turn on watch.
Several times, Roger tried to strike up a conversation with the earnest, sensible young monk, but it was obvious that Dellman wasn't in the mood for talking. Roger understood the man's turbulent feelings, and so did not press him. But sitting there quietly as the minutes turned into an hour, and that to two, had Roger fighting to keep his eyes open.
"I'll not last the watch," he announced, pulling himself to his feet and briskly rubbing his arms and legs. "The fire invites me to sleep. A walk will help."
"In the forest?" Dellman asked skeptically.
Roger waved the monk's concern away. "I spent months in these forests," he boasted. "And at that time they were thick with powries and goblins, and huge giants." He was hoping to see some hint that his words had impressed the young monk, but Dellman only nodded.
"Do not go too far," he bade Roger. "We share the watch, and thus, share responsibility."
"I will find no trouble in the open forest," Roger replied.
"I do not doubt your abilities, Master Billingsbury," Dellman answered. "I only fear that I might fall asleep, and that Brother Braumin will waken and find me such." He ended with a smile, and Roger returned it.
"Not far," Roger promised as he moved down the side of the hill, pausing as soon as he was out of the direct light of the low fire to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he pressed down into the shadows, for Roger did indeed feel safe out here. He trusted his senses, and he was confident that he could blend into the shadows and avoid any enemies.
Except Craggoth hounds, he quietly reminded himself, remembering the huge, terrible dogs the powries sometimes kept, the wicked creatures that had tracked him on one excursion through powrie-occupied Caer Tinella. Roger still carried many scars from that capture and imprisonment, mostly from the bites of the savage hounds.
Still, he felt safe as he made his way from the hillock into the forest. He was in his element out here, a part of the landscape. Within a matter of a few minutes, the distant campfire seemed but a spot of light. Roger finally settled on a large boulder, staring up at the stars. He wondered about Elbryan and Juraviel, and mostly about Pony. How he missed those special friends, the first real friends he had ever known. Not only did they support him when he needed them but also they were not afraid to point out his faults and to help him learn to overcome them. Because of those three, Roger had learned to truly survive, had learned to temper his anger and his pride, to keep a clear head no matter how desperate the situation seemed.
A shudder coursed through him as he considered how he might have acted when Bildeborough was being murdered if he had not learned so much from Nightbird and his friends. His pride might have drawn him in, and then the cat would surely have killed him. Or, if he had run away, he would have likely gone to Palmaris, screaming his wild tale, making enemies far too powerful for him to defeat. Yes, because of the work of his dear friends, Roger had learned to consider the greater good before acting.
And now he wanted to see those friends again, wanted to tell the ranger all that he knew and show Nightbird the man he had become. He wanted to see Juraviel again, for he knew that the elf, too, would approve of him, and Roger desperately wanted that approval.
But most of all, Roger wanted to see Pony again, the flash of her blue eyes, the flash of her beautiful smile. He wanted to watch the hair bounce about her shoulders and to
bask in the flowery smell of that lustrous mane. Roger knew that he could not have her as his own. Her love was for Elbryan, and for Roger she held only true friendship. But that didn't matter to Roger somehow. He wasn't jealous —not anymore—of Elbryan, and took deep pleasure merely in being around Pony, in speaking to her or watching her graceful movements.
He lay on that boulder for a long time, staring absently up at the stars, but seeing only beautiful Pony. Yes, Pony and the others would help Roger put the world, or at least their little corner of it, aright.
He took comfort in that notion, in the belief that he would be among powerful friends soon enough, but then he remembered his present responsibilities. He sat up on the boulder and looked back to the distant hillock. All seemed quiet and calm, so Roger started off at a casual pace.
Just a few steps along the path back, though, Roger stopped and glanced all around, an uneasy feeling creeping over him. Perfectly still, perfectly quiet, the alert man shifted his eyes slowly, moving from shadow to shadow, trying to pick up some sign of movement.
Somehow he knew that something was out there, watching him.
Roger could feel his muscles tightening, could feel his heart beating faster suddenly. He couldn't shake the image of Baron Bildeborough's slaughter, and feared that the same great tiger was watching him now, poised behind a bush or up in a tree.
It took Roger a long time to take another step. He eased his toe down and gently shifted his weight, trying to make not a whisper of noise. Satisfied, he took another step.
A movement at the side caught his attention, some creature swift and stealthy.
Despite his intentions, Roger let out a cry and sprinted away.
Something shot past him, startling him, making him stumble. He didn't fall, though, for a slender but strong, sticky line held taut before him, supporting him. Another dart shot past, then one across his back. Roger was spun around frantically, trying to make some sense of it as more and more filaments crossed him from every conceivable angle. His movements only tangled him all the more, and soon he was hopelessly stuck.
Now Roger's training came into play, that cool and clear thinking in an apparently desperate situation. He righted himself and set his feet firmly, then sorted out one filament and started to tug.
Even as he began, there came a movement from the side and above. Roger froze, expecting an enemy to jump down. After a few seconds passed, the young man dared to look back over his shoulder, and he nearly slumped with relief to see —not a tiger or some giant spider—but a familiar form, sitting on a branch, looking down at him.
"Juraviel," he breathed.
"Where is he?" asked the elf. From the voice —a female voice—Roger realized that this was not his elven friend but another of the Touel'alfar.
"W-where is who?" he stammered. Then he turned and stumbled as more elves appeared all around him, some on the ground, some on branches.
"You just named him," the elf said impatiently. "Belli'mar Juraviel."
"I —I do not know," Roger stammered, overwhelmed and more than a bit fearful, for these elves did not seem friendly, and every one of them held a small bow. Roger knew better than to take any comfort in the size of those bows, for he had many times seen Juraviel put one to deadly use.
"You are Roger Billingsbury," another elf stated. "Roger Lockless."
The young man started to respond, but was cut short by another elf. "And you search for your friends, our brethren Juraviel and Nightbird the ranger."
Again Roger started to reply, but another of the elves interrupted. "And the woman Jilseponie Ault."
"Yes, yes, and yes!" Roger cried. "Why do you ask if you do not want —"
"We do not ask," the first elf remarked. "We state what we know."
Roger didn't try to respond, expecting that the elf, or another, would interrupt him.
"We suspect that Belli'mar Juraviel went to the east," the elf on the branch added, her voice the most melodic of all, "to the great monastery."
"To St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger agreed. "I mean, I do not know if Juraviel was there, but Nightbird and Pony —"
"Tell us all of it," another elf said curtly.
"Everything you know," another chirped in.
"I am trying to do just that!" Roger cried in exasperation.
The elf on the branch called for quiet, from him and from all the other elves. "Pray tell us the complete tale, Roger Lockless," she bade calmly. "It is very important."
Roger looked down skeptically at the practically invisible strands, then held up his hands helplessly.
On a nod from the elf on the branch, apparently the leader, several others scrambled to Roger's side and helped free him.
Then Roger was more than happy to comply with the request for the story. He knew from his dealings with Juraviel that the Touel'alfar were not his enemies, and could certainly be powerful allies. He relayed everything he had learned during his time in the abbey: how Bradwarden the centaur had apparently been rescued in the bowels of the blasted mountain home of the dactyl demon and then taken prisoner; how the ranger and Pony, and possibly Juraviel, had later slipped into the great abbey and rescued the centaur. Then he told of Jojonah, a monk who had helped the rescuers, and the grim fate his actions had brought upon him.
"Who are your companions?" the elf asked him. "They are also of St.-Mere-Abelle, are they not?"
"Disciples of Jojonah," Roger explained, "and of another monk, a Brother Avelyn, before him. Avelyn was a great hero, a friend of Nightbird and Jura —"
"We know of Brother Avelyn Desbris," the elf assured him. "Another of our brethren journeyed with him to Aida and willingly sacrificed her life that Nightbird and Avelyn and the others might destroy the demon dactyl."
"Tuntun," Roger exclaimed, for Pony had told him the entire tale. His smile went away at once, though, seeing the grim expressions of the elves.
"Your friend's assessment may prove painfully accurate," the elf went on gravely.
Roger looked at him curiously.
"The monk," the elf explained, "Brother Dellman —his assessment of the dark road may prove prophetic, for the events in Palmaris are unsettling."
"How do you know about Dellman?" Roger asked, but when he thought about it, when he considered the scouting prowess of the Touel'alfar, as exemplified by Belli'mar Juraviel, he realized that he should not have been surprised to learn that the elves had been watching him. "You know of the changes in Palmaris?" Roger asked.
"We know much, Roger Lockless," the elf explained. "We know of your fateful ride south with Baron Bildeborough, and we know of De'Unnero, who is now bishop of Palmaris. The Touel'alfar do not often concern themselves with the affairs of humans; but when we do, I assure you, we have the means to learn what we desire."
Roger didn't doubt that for a minute.
"Go back to your friends," the elf instructed. "You are heading north to find Nightbird?"
"I believe that he will be somewhere around Caer Tinella," Roger replied.
"And what of our brethren Juraviel? "
"As far as I know, he is with Nightbird," Roger answered.
The elf looked around at his companions, all of them responding with an assenting nod.
"Travel with the knowledge that the Touel'alfar are not far away, Roger Lockless," the female elf on the branch finished.
Roger watched as several of the elves silently faded into the shadows. One by one, they simply disappeared, and then Roger was alone. He went back to the encampment, to find Brother Dellman sitting in the same position as when Roger had left, except that his eyes were closed.
Roger moved to wake him, but then changed his mind. He had felt secure before, enough so to wander out into the forest. Now, knowing that the Touel'alfar were near, Roger understood that there was no need for any watch. He moved to an empty spot near to the fire, lay down with his hands behind his head, stared up at the stars, and did not try to resist when sleep beckoned.
CHAPTER 12
In Motion
"I'll not tolerate your lies," the spirit of Markwart stated bluntly, his expression menacing. Both Markwart and De'Unnero were amazed by the completeness of the communication. No telepathic messages this time, not even in the initial greeting. Markwart's spirit, seeming tangible, almost physical, had merely walked into De'Unnero's private room and struck up a conversation with the Bishop!
Despite the imposing presence, the confident Marcalo De'Unnero only smiled and rested back calmly in his comfortable chair.
"Do not doubt that I can reach you," Markwart warned.
"Oh, but I do not, Father Abbot," the Bishop replied. "I only doubt that you would desire to strike out against me, since our goals are the same and I am no threat to you. Perhaps it is merely my methods that anger you."
"It is your lies," Markwart growled.
De'Unnero held up his hands innocently, as if he didn't understand what Markwart was talking about.
"The gemstone confiscation," Markwart clarified, "the pretense of it. I do not disapprove of your handling of the merchants —they are not men of the Church and thus should not be in possession of the sacred stones. We agree on this point."
De'Unnero studied the man closely. He knew they were both pleased by the prospect of strengthening the Church's hold and power over the kingdom, but he thought and was keen enough to understand that the Father Abbot shared this view —that his and Markwart's motives might not be similar.
"Do not pretend that your work in Palmaris is directly related to the friends of Avelyn Debris," Markwart went on. "You are well aware that they are not in your city."
De'Unnero conceded the point with a nod. "My focus will change as I learn more about their whereabouts," he promised.
"Your focus will remain on Palmaris," Markwart instructed. "Your work here is even more important than capture of the fugitives."
De'Unnero's expression went suddenly grim; Markwart's last edict had obviously caught him off guard. "Father Abbot," he said deliberately, "even while I strengthen my —our—hold over Palmaris, I have been collecting information concerning the fugitives. They are north of the city but not beyond my reach."
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 150