"The Abellican Church will realize almost absolute control over the city now," Dasslerond went on. "And they will orchestrate every movement of King Danube, using security as an excuse. Your friend has cost us much. How am I to arrange a meeting with Danube Brock Ursal? And certainly we cannot reveal ourselves to the Church. It was a foolish choice she made, Belli'mar Juraviel, the choice of a human, of n'Touel'alfar, which Jilseponie surely is."
In her frustrated sigh, Juraviel heard clearly Dasslerond's further dismay that this same woman was also a keeper of the secret of bi'nelle dasada. It would take Pony a long string of good decisions to make up the lost ground in Dasslerond's eyes, and the lady's feelings toward Pony would go far in determining her patience with Nightbird.
But Juraviel could do nothing about it all —not now. Pony was a pawn in the great game being played out in Corona, and pawns were often sacrificed.
The three patrons staying at the Way joined Belster and his four helpers —for Pony had come out of the back room and Prim O'Bryen had managed to slip into the Way—but other than that, only two brave patrons dared the patrols to come into the tavern. All ten looked up with startlement and concern when the door to the common room burst open and a host of soldiers strode in.
Pony's hand went to her pouch of gemstones, while her other moved near Defender, lying on a shelf behind the bar. She relaxed, though, and so did Belster and Dainsey, when they took note of the woman leading the soldiers: Colleen Kilronney.
"Master O'Comely," she said, motioning her dozen companions —some town guard, some King's soldiers—to a pair of nearby tables. "Mugs o' ale for all me friends."
"At your command, good soldier," the innkeeper replied, hustling to the bar and filling mug after mug, then handing each tray to Dainsey and Mallory.
Colleen wandered over while Belster was at his work, calling back to her companions that she would see to it that the innkeeper was properly paid —though more than one of the other soldiers, Kingsmen, called out that he should not be compensated, that he should be thrilled at the chance to serve soldiers of the crown.
Colleen waved their words away and came up to the bar, producing a purse fat with coins. Belster started to tell her not to bother, but her look explained to the man, and to Pony standing next to him, that Colleen had used this as a pretense to speak with them away from her fellows.
"They said it was magic that felled the Father Abbot," she whispered, "magic more powerful than any o' them ever seen."
Belster glanced at Pony, a look Colleen did not miss.
"So it was ye," she said with a grin. "Well, a fine shot, by me thinkin'."
"And one that made the world a better place," Pony replied determinedly. "Better are all the folk of Honce-the-Bear, of all Corona, without Father Abbot Markwart."
"Without?" Colleen asked skeptically.
That took the smile from Pony's face.
"He's living? " Belster asked.
"Fine and well," Colleen replied. "The monks with him when he got hit thought he'd die, thought he had died; but the stubborn old dog held on, somehow, and when them monks at St. Precious got at him with their healing stones, they took fine care o' him. Still, they're callin' it a miracle, ye know, and some're even sayin' that God would not let the Father Abbot die at this critical time."
Belster groaned and slumped. Though he was angry with Pony, he, too, had hoped that her rash action had at least rid the world of Markwart.
Pony was devastated. "I hit him too hard," she said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she could not draw breath. "I saw his head explode, and no soul stone could put that back together. I killed him. The power of that gemstone would have killed a king of giants."
"Ye didn't kill him, though I wish ye had," Colleen replied. She gave Pony a bright smile then, and an affirming nod. "Ye got the belly for it, girl," she said with obvious respect.
"Belly of stone," Belster complained, "and a head to match."
Colleen's smile disappeared as another soldier, a Kingsman, walked over to join her. "Haggling the price?" he asked.
"The good Belster's givin' it to us for free," Colleen replied. "And he's askin' when folks'll be able to walk on the streets again, when they might wander into his tavern."
"That will be for Father Abbot Markwart to determine," the Kingsman replied, "or for King Danube, if the ban has not been lifted before his arrival." The man offered a stern look at Belster and Pony; Pony held her breath, for she knew this one from the campaign at Caer Tinella and could only hope that he wouldn't recognize her through her disguise. She wondered if her eyepatch was on the appropriate eye, if her hair was well powdered.
He started away —but he kept glancing back suspiciously.
"He's always like that," Colleen explained.
"You are certain that the Father Abbot is alive?" Pony asked quietly.
Colleen nodded. "Seen him meself, orderin' monks around at St. Precious," she said. "His talkin's a bit crooked, if ye get me understandin', but he's up and about, and brimmin' mad, don't ye doubt!"
"Damn him," Pony muttered, and she looked down at the floor, full of rage, full of frustration. How could it be? How could any man, any giant even, have survived the strike of that lodestone with the amount of energy she had put into it? Pony knew then that this man was an even more formidable enemy than she had believed. But still, she meant to kill him.
Indeed she did.
"The gemstone was found deep into the metal side of the carriage," Tallareyish explained when he returned again to Dasslerond. The lady was alone this time, for Juraviel was out among the shadows of the streets, watching the soldiers and monks on their rounds, taking a measure of the security curtain that had been dropped over Palmaris. He also meant to speak with Pony, if he found the chance, and with Dasslerond's blessings, though the lady had limited what Juraviel might tell his human friend.
"In the carriage after blasting through his hard head," the lady said. "And yet he lives?"
"He does," Tallareyish confirmed. "And those monks who attended him are now pacing the corridors of St. Precious, loudly praying to their God, speaking of miracles and of the glory revealed in their Father Abbot."
"His wounds were grievous then?"
"Our scouts insist that none of the monks thought he had a chance of living, even when they began their work with the soul stones," Tallareyish explained. "Some even called for funeral preparations. The lower half of his face was torn away and smashed apart. But now, mere hours later, the man is up and about, seeming strong and angry, with no more than a lisp and a swollen bottom jaw to show for the attack."
Lady Dasslerond kept those words, that description of the recovered Markwart, in her thoughts as she finished with Tallareyish, dismissing him to his scouting duties, asking him to keep watch over Juraviel. Then she went alone to a quiet corner of the roof that was serving as her temporary base.
Though her people did not use many gemstones, Lady Dasslerond, above all others of the Touel'alfar, understood the power of the gems and she could hardly believe that Markwart —that any man, let alone an old one—could have survived that attack. And yet he had, and had thrived!
Dasslerond, knowledgeable in the ways of the world, in the legends of all the races and all the dactyl demons, feared the implications.
CHAPTER 29
The Guest of Bi'nelle Dasada
"Are ye to go out again, then, ye stubborn boy? " Bradwarden asked before the dawn of the second day of their forced halt. Elbryan had awakened a short time before and, after a check on Tiel'marawee —who was resting more comfortably but did not yet seem ready to be moved—the young man began stripping off his clothing.
"Every day," the ranger replied. "The sword dance is where I find my center of balance, where I clear my thoughts in preparation for the trials of the day."
"More likely that ye'll find a trial at the damned dance, if the Bishop's anywhere about," said the centaur.
Elbryan's answer came in the form of a grin and
an eager stride as he moved out of the camp. "You keep a watch over our friends," he called back from forest's edge; and then he was gone, leaving Bradwarden alone with the seven sleeping forms.
He went to the same clearing beside the small lake, stripped off the remainder of his clothing, and came out to the center with a deep and steadying breath, clearing his thoughts, dismissing his fears for Tiel'marawee, for his other companions, for himself, and for Pony —who was more and more in his thoughts. With all the tumult moved aside, he became Nightbird, the elven-trained ranger, attuned to his surroundings. He felt the ice-crusted grass beneath his feet, saw the shimmer of the morning sun on the thinly glazed surface of the pond. Despite his concentration, Nightbird couldn't help considering the strangeness of the scene. In a normal year at this season, he might have found several feet of snow beneath his feet, and the pond would have been white with drifting snow and thick with gray ice instead of this meager coating. Now only part of the lake was iced over; the rest, near where the stream exited on the far bank, remained open water.
It was indeed a strange winter, but that, Nightbird pointedly reminded himself, was something to ponder at another time, in another place. He had to get moving, had to get the blood flowing, for the icy grass was beginning to numb his feet.
And so he fell into bi'nelle dasada, the movements perfect in harmony and perfect in balance. He flowed with grace and precision, muscles interacting through balanced turns and balanced cuts of mighty Tempest. He did not think of the coming movement —did not have to, for bi'nelle dasada was so familiar to his body, so embedded in his muscles and nerves, that every following movement came naturally and easily, twist and thrust following rolling parry, leaps ending in sudden rushes, his legs and feet in the exact position to launch him forward as his feet gently touched the ground. The dance was not the same each day, far from it, for at Nightbird's level of mastery, he constantly improvised.
Truly he was a beautiful sight, and to Bishop De'Unnero, watching from the bushes and knowing this time that Nightbird had no allies in the immediate area, the ranger's dance only heightened his intrigue. This one would be a challenge, the monk knew, perhaps the greatest challenge he could possibly find.
"Without any armor, I see," De'Unnero remarked, striding out into the open field. The Bishop wore only the simple brown robes of his Order, a white rope belt interwoven with strands of gold, and plain soft boots. A ring adorned one finger, but he showed no other jewelry, no gemstones.
"As are you," the ranger said calmly, not surprised at all, for the forest had told him of the man's presence; in truth, he had come here specifically hoping that De'Unnero would show up.
"Yet I never fight in armor," De'Unnero remarked, circling to the right. And the ranger, too, slowly took up a circular walk. "Not even the leather jerkin worn by Nightbird, nor the heavy boots. It hardly seems fair."
"Fully clothed, I wear nothing that would stop the thrust of even a goblin's crude spear," Nightbird replied.
"So you do not admit disadvantage?" De'Unnero asked, for he wanted there to be no excuses later on. For the challenge to be proper, and the victory to be savored, the fight had to be on even terms.
"Fair enough," the ranger replied with a wry smile, "though you seem to have forgotten your weapon."
De'Unnero laughed, and as he did, he lifted his arm, his hand emerging from his voluminous sleeve and transforming into the tiger's paw. "I carry my weapons closer to the skin, that is all," the Bishop explained. He gave a chuckle, not at the expression Nightbird then wore, but because of the ease with which he had enacted the transformation —the gemstone in his pouch and not even in his hand! Father Abbot Markwart had shown him something wonderful, a newer and greater level of power.
"Continue," Nightbird bade him, "all the way, into the form you used when you murdered the elf, when you murdered Baron Bildeborough and his entourage."
Now De'Unnero laughed louder. He considered the offer for just a moment, but shook his head. He wanted to beat Nightbird on even terms; by his estimation, his tiger arm was the equivalent of the beautiful sword the man carried.
"You know why I have come?" he asked.
"I know that your Church can invent whatever excuse is convenient," the ranger replied.
De'Unnero was shaking his head. "Not the Church, Nightbird," he explained. "I come to you as Marcalo De'Unnero, not as Bishop De'Unnero. Were you to offer your surrender now, Marcalo De'Unnero would not want it, though Bishop De'Unnero would have no choice but to accept it."
The ranger cocked his head, not really understanding.
"I have come for you, De'Unnero against Nightbird," the monk went on, "as it has to be."
Now the ranger laughed, catching onto the absurdity of it all. "This is about pride, then, and not your twisted vision of justice," he reasoned. "This is about who is the finer warrior."
"The finest warrior," De'Unnero corrected. "I have come to settle the issue."
"And then?"
"And then, when I have torn out your heart and eaten it, I will settle with your friends," the Bishop promised, for he guessed correctly that the ranger would never allow him his pleasure for the sake of a mere challenge. "I will kill the centaur first, and then the small, sneaky man. And then I will see to the monks. Perhaps I will offer them the chance to surrender, to return and face the charge of heresy, in their foolish hopes of finding mercy before Father Abbot Markwart. Or perhaps I will slaughter them, every one, and tear off their heads. Those trophies alone would satisfy my master."
Nightbird stopped his circling; De'Unnero did likewise.
"Do you have a God that you must pray to?" De'Unnero asked.
"My dance was my prayer," the ranger replied. "A prayer that God will have mercy on the souls of those I am forced to kill."
With a howl, the Bishop came on in a fury, knowing that his advantage lay in getting inside the long, deadly reach of the ranger's sword.
Nightbird knew it, too, and though he was surprised by the agility and speed of the other man, he spun away, leaving Tempest's tip in line, forcing the Bishop to twist aside or impale himself.
But, as soon as he passed beside that tip, De'Unnero quickly slid low, then leaped high above the stabbing blade, kicking with one foot, connecting glancingly on the ranger's shoulder.
Again they faced off, but without words this time, just the intense stares of the purest and most hated rivals.
The ranger silently debated whether he should give the deceptively quick man the offensive, or try to back him off with sudden and powerful straightforward attacks. The point became moot in the blink of an eye, for De'Unnero leaped straight ahead, then landed with his legs in perfect order to propel him suddenly to the right. He spun in a circle, coming out of it with that deadly tiger's paw swiping for the ranger's head.
Tempest missed on the thrust, but the ranger swung the blade about in time to partially deflect the sweeping arm, inflicting a nasty gash on the side of the tiger wrist, but taking a deep cut across his own left shoulder. The Bishop ignored the pain and continued forward, demanding a desperate and off-balance retreat from the ranger.
Nightbird went ahead, dropping Tempest to the ground and leading with a heavy punch that caught the surprised De'Unnero on the chin and buckled his knees. More for support than to attack, the Bishop wrapped his tiger's paw arm around the ranger and dug his claws in, trying to bring his other arm up to block the sudden flurry of left and right blows.
Nightbird felt the burning pain just to the side of his spine. He knew that if he gave De'Unnero any room, the man would tear half his back off. So he bore in harder, launching a short, heavy right punch to the man's ribs, then a sudden left hook to the chin that snapped De'Unnero's head to the side. He felt the pull on his back as the stubborn Bishop started to turn away, so he hooked his right arm over the tiger limb, holding the man fast, more than willing to trade bare-fisted blows.
Or so he thought. Marcalo De'Unnero was the finest fighter ever to walk through
the doors of St.-Mere-Abelle, the man who trained brothers justice, none of whom had ever been more than a shadow of his martial arts brilliance. Nightbird had surprised him, had landed some stunningly powerful blows, but now De'Unnero went to work, sending a series of short, sharp jabs to the ranger's chin —and to the chin only because Nightbird was smart enough to understand that the man was trying for his throat and that if De'Unnero ever connected solidly there, the fight would be over.
Even with the successful dodge, the ranger tasted blood. He traded another series of hits, then changed tactics, clamping his large hand over the Bishop's face and squeezing with all his strength. Immediately, the Bishop groaned and stopped punching, grasping desperately instead for the too-powerful arm.
Nightbird thought the fight at its end, saw welcome victory before him. He continued the bear hug, keeping that deadly tiger paw in place as the muscles on his right arm flexed tighter, iron cords taut, driving his fingers into the man's flesh with such power that both of them thought the Bishop's head would explode under the pressure.
De'Unnero grabbed and pulled, but he was no match in strength for the powerful ranger.
Nightbird growled in victory.
But then he felt a sudden sharp pain in the center of his wrist, just under his palm, as De'Unnero worked the tip of his thumb perfectly into the pressure point. To the ranger's amazement, his index and little fingers weakened; to his horror, De'Unnero wrenched his head away from the ranger's grasp and yanked the ranger's arm away.
Instinct sent Nightbird's head forward, as De'Unnero snapped his head forward; only luck brought the ranger's forehead lower than the Bishop's, the two heads connecting with devastating force. Both men staggered, but De'Unnero had taken the brunt of the blow. Clearly dazed, the Bishop lifted his knee quickly, aiming for the ranger's groin, but Nightbird turned his leg, accepting the hit on the thigh. The movement cost the ranger some measure of balance, and he had no choice but to go along when De'Unnero suddenly launched himself backward and to the ground, the pair landing and rolling down the short slope right into the cold lake. They rested for just an instant on the ice, but then broke through into the icy water.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 175