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 went 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, were—are—the 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 him—he had known that even as he spoke falsely to excuse himself—but he simply hadn't felt like 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?
Loathing? Repulsion?
Markwart had no practical answers, but he trusted in his instincts completely. There was a perversion, a weakness, growing within the Order, he realized. Avelyn—always it was that foul Avelyn!—had begun the rot, and now, it seemed, it was a more general thing than even he had believed.
Yes, that was it, the Father Abbot understood. They were growing weak and so full of compassion that they could no longer recognize and properly deal with true evil. Like Jojonah and his foolish sympathy for the peasant whose sacrifice had saved so many lives.
But not De'Unnero, Markwart thought, and he managed a smile. The man was strong, and brilliant. Perhaps he should concede to the man's wishes and let him be the one to hunt down Avelyn and the gemstones; with Marcalo De'Unnero set to the task, success would almost be assured.
The Father Abbot shook his head, reminding himself that he had other plans for the master. De'Unnero would be moved high in line as his success
or, the Father Abbot silently vowed. As soon as he had seen De'Unnero's wounds, Markwart had desired to heal them, as though the sacred soul stone had called to him to act, had shown him the truth.
It was all sorting out neatly for Father Abbot Markwart. He made a mental note to properly eulogize the fireballing peasant, perhaps even to erect a statue in the man's honor, and then he went to bed.
He slept soundly.
Scouts went out from St.-Mere-Abelle the next day, scouring the countryside and then returning to report that no sign of monsters was to be found anywhere near the abbey. Within a week the situation was made clear: the powrie invasion force had gone back to their ships and departed—for where, no one knew. The goblin army, and indeed there was a huge force in the region, had fractured, with rogue bands running haphazard, sacking towns.
The Kingsmen, Honce-the-Bear's army, were tracking down the rogue bands one at a time and destroying them.
At St.-Mere-Abelle, the implications of this seemingly good news went far deeper.
"We must look to the source of our enemy's disarray," Father Abbot Markwart told his senior monks. "To the Barbacan and this rumored explosion."
"You believe that the demon dactyl has been destroyed," Master Jojonah reasoned.
"I believe that our enemy has been decapitated," Markwart replied. "But we must know the truth of it."
"An expedition," Master Engress stated plainly.
Brother Francis was the first out of the room, eager to put together the plans for a trip to the Barbacan, eager, as always, to please the Father Abbot.
CHAPTER 3
Roger Lockless
"He's in there," the old woman groaned. "I know he be! Oh, the poor child."
"Might be that he's dead already," said another, a man of about thirty winters. "That would be the most merciful. Poor child."
A group of a dozen villagers crouched on a bluff a quarter mile north of their old home, Caer Tinella, watching the powries and the goblins. A pair of fomorian giants had also been in the town earlier that day, but were out now, probably hunting refugees.
"He should not have gone down there, and I told him so," the old woman asserted. "Too many, too many."
Off to the side, Tomas Gingerwart gave a knowing smile. These people didn't understand the lad named Roger. To them he was Roger Billingsbury, an orphan boy who had been taken in by the town. When Roger's parents had both died, the common thinking was to send him south to Palmaris, perhaps to the monks of St. Precious. But the folk of Caer Tinella, truly a bonded community, decided to keep Roger with them, with all of them helping him get through the trials of grief and sickness.
For Roger was a poor, skinny waif, so obviously frail. His physical development had been stunted at the age of eleven, stolen by the same fever that killed his parents, and his two sisters, as well.
That was several years ago, but to these worried townsfolk, Roger, who looked much the same, was still that little lost boy.
Tomas knew better. The lad's name was no longer Billingsbury, but Lockless, Roger Lockless, a tag given him for good reason indeed. There was nothing Roger couldn't open, or slip through, or sneak around. Tomas reminded himself of that often as he looked to Caer Tinella, for in truth, he was also a bit worried. But only a bit.
"A line o' them," the old woman cackled, pointing emphatically toward the town. Her eyes were sharp, for indeed a group of goblins moved across the town square, escorting a line of ragged-looking human prisoners—those people of Caer Tinella and the neighboring community of Landsdown who had not been quick enough or hidden deep enough in the woods. Now the monsters were using the towns as encampments, and the captured humans as slaves.
All of the refugees understood what grim fate would befall those captives when they were no longer useful to the powries and goblins.
"You should not be looking upon them," came a voice, and the group turned as one to see the approach of a portly man, Belster O'Comely. "And we are all too close to the towns, I fear. Would you have us all captured?" Despite his best efforts, Belster, the jovial innkeeper who used to run the very respectable Howling Sheila in Dundalis, could not manage too sharp an edge to his voice. He had come south with the refugees from the three towns of the Timberlands: Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o'-the-World. Belster's companions from the northland were a far different group, though, quite unlike the more recently displaced people of Caer Tinella and Landsdown, and those of the handful of other smaller communities along the road south to the great port city of Palmaris. Belster's group, trained by the mysterious ranger known as Nightbird, were far from pitiful and far from afraid. They hid from the goblins, to be sure, but when they found the terms favorable, they became the hunters, with goblins, powries, even giants, their prey.
"We will make a try for them, as I promised," Belster continued. "But not so soon. Oh no. We'll be no good to our fellows dead! Now come along."
"Is there nothing to be done?" the old woman said angrily.
"Pray, dear lady," Belster replied in all sincerity. "Pray for them all."
Tomas Gingerwart nodded his agreement. And pray for the goblins, he silently added, thinking that Roger must be having a grand time of it by now.
Belster didn't miss the smirk, and moved to speak with Tomas alone.
"You wish that I would do more," the portly innkeeper said quietly, misinterpreting Tomas' look. "And so do I, my friend. But I have a hundred and fifty under my care."
"Closer to a hundred and eighty, counting those from Caer Tinella and about," Tomas corrected.
"And only two score and ten fit for fighting, to guard them all with," Belster remarked. "How might I risk my warriors on a raid against the town with so many lives at stake?"
"I do not doubt your wisdom, Master O'Comely," Tomas said sincerely. "You vow to raid the town when the time is right, but I fear that you will find no such time. The goblins are lax, but the powries not so. A cunning lot, well trained for war. Their guard will not drop."
"Then what am I to do?" asked a distressed Belster.
"Keep to your duty," Tomas replied. "And that duty is to the hundred and eighty, not to those already in powrie clutches."
Belster eyed the man unblinkingly for a long while, and Tomas could see the pain in the gentle man's eyes. The innkeeper did not want to let a single human slip through his protective web.
"You cannot save them all," Tomas said simply.
"But I must try."
Tomas was shaking his head before Belster finished. "Do not play the fool's game," he scolded, and Belster realized for the first time that Tomas' earlier smirk was not derisive, was not in response to his hesitance in going into Caer Tinella. "If you attack openly," Tomas continued, "then expect to be routed. And I fear that our powrie and goblin friends would not be satisfied with that, but would expand their search of the forest until all of us were hunted down and taken prisoner—or slain, in the case of many, the older folk and children too young to be of any use."
"So you agree with my decision to hold? Even to retreat our line?"
"Reluctantly," Tomas replied. "As reluctantly as do you. You are a man of conscience, Belster O'Comely, and fortunate are we of Caer Tinella that you and yours have come south."
Belster took the compliment in stride, needing the support. He couldn't help another glance in the direction of the occupied town, though, his heart breaking at the thought of the torment those poor prisoners must now be experiencing.
Another curious onlooker was watching the procession of slaves as the goblins led them to the dark forest on the edge of Caer Tinella. Roger Lockless knew the workings of the town better than any other. Ever since the invasion, he had been in Caer Tinella nearly every night, moving from shadow to shadow, listening to the goblins and powries lay their plans for the area, or overhearing talk of the greater war being waged not so far to the south. More than anything else, the crafty Roger Lockless knew his enemy, and knew where they were vulnerable. When he left t
he town before dawn each day, his slight frame was usually laden with goods for the refugees in the nearby woods. And so careful was he in his stealing that the monsters rarely realized they were being robbed.
His work three nights previous remained his shining achievement to date. He had stolen a pony, the boss powrie's favorite mount, and taken it in such a way as to implicate a pair of goblin sentries, who, as Roger had previously discovered through some fine spying, happened by coincidence to be feasting that very night on a horse.
Both were hanged in the town square the next morning—Roger watched that, too.
The young man, barely more than a boy, knew that today was different. Today the goblins meant to kill one of their prisoners; he had heard them talking about it before dawn, which prompted him to stay around as the day brightened. The goblins had caught Mrs. Kelso stuffing her mouth with an extra biscuit, and the powrie boss, a thoroughly disagreeable fellow named Kos-kosio Begulne, ordered her slain in the morning as an example to the others.
She was out there, chopping at the trees with the rest of the poor prisoners, oblivious to the fact that she had only hours left to live.
Roger had witnessed much cruelty in the last few weeks, had seen several people butchered for no better reason than the fact that a goblin or powrie didn't like the way they looked. Always, the pragmatic young thief would shake his head and look the other way. "Not my business," he often reminded himself.
This was different. Mrs. Kelso was a friend, a dear friend who had often fed him when he was younger, an orphaned waif running the streets of Caer Tinella. He had spent years sleeping in her barn, for though her husband had little use for him and kept telling him to get away, gentle Mrs. Kelso usually ushered the man aside, glancing back and winking at Roger, then nodding toward the barn.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 5