Pony settled, then stepped ahead, one, two, sword going high and back, then rushing forward.
She stopped in mid-swing as Tempest stabbed past her, sticking deep into the branch. She had taken a full step before Elbryan had even started the movement, and yet he had beaten her to the mark easily.
"The lunge," he explained, holding the pose, his body fully extended, right arm out straight, left arm turned down behind his trailing shoulder. He retreated suddenly, settling back into a defensive posture in a mere second. "Your weaving and slashing maneuvers are excellent, but you must add the hinge, that sudden, swift stab that no powrie, no opponent, can expect or deflect;"
In response, Pony assumed the ranger's stance, balancing herself perfectly, knees out over her feet, legs angled perpendicular to each other. She stepped out suddenly with her right leg, left arm dropping, right arm extending, mimicking Elbryan's move almost perfectly.
The ranger didn't even try to hide his surprise, or his approval. "You have been studying me," he said.
"Forever," Pony answered, falling back to defensive posture.
"And you almost got it right," Elbryan remarked, deflating her obvious pride.
"Almost?"
"Your body led the way," the ranger explained. "And yet it is your sword which should pull you forward."
Pony looked down at her blade skeptically. "I do not understand."
"You will," Elbryan said with a grin. "Now come along. Let us find a better area where we might properly execute bi'nelle dasada."
They found a proper clearing soon after, Elbryan going off to the side to prepare himself, affording Pony some measure of modesty as she undressed. Then they met on the field with their weapons, the ranger leading the dance, Pony attuning herself to his every move.
For a long while Elbryan watched her, gauging her fluidity and grace, marveling at how easily she picked up the dance. Then he let himself fall into his own meditative trance, his own routine, let the song of bi'nelle dasada flow through his body.
For a short while Pony tried to keep up, but soon she was only watching, awestruck by the beauty, the interplay of muscle, the continually shifting but always perfect balance.
When he finished, he was covered in sweat, as was Pony, the gentle wind tickling their skin. They stood regarding each other for a long while, and it seemed to each of them as if they had just achieved a level of intimacy no less than lovemaking.
Elbryan reached up and tenderly stroked Pony's cheek. "Every morning," he said. "But take care that Belli'mar Juraviel does not learn of this."
"You fear his reaction?"
"I do not know if he would approve," the ranger admitted. "This is among the highest rituals of the Touel'alfar, and only they have the right to share it."
"Juraviel admitted that you were not n'Touel'alfar," Pony reminded him.
"And I feel no guilt," the ranger replied, somewhat convincingly. "I will teach you—I only wish the decision to be kept mine alone."
"To protect Juraviel," Pony reasoned.
"Go and dress," Elbryan said with a smile. "The day will be long and arduous, I fear."
Pony walked back to the brush at the side of the field, satisfied with her morning's work, though truly exhausted. For all these weeks she had desired to begin the sword-dance, and now that she had completed her first experience with it, she was surely not disappointed.
Somehow, the sword-dance felt to her like the training she had received with the magical stones, a gift, a growth, moving her to her potential, moving her closer to God.
PART TWO
THE PECKING ORDER
Once again, Uncle Mather, I am amazed by the resilience of people pushed into a desperate situation. As it was in Dundalis, I have found here a group willing to fight and to die—men and women, young children even, and older folks who should be spending their days telling stories of their long-past adventures. I have seen some terrible suffering, and yet have heard little in the way of complaint—other than the sounds of stomachs rumbling for lack of food.
And with the common suffering comes an altruism that is truly heartwarming and inspiring. As it was with Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk, who gave their lives for a battle that really wasn't for them to fight, as it was with gallant Bradwarden, who certainly could have chosen a different path, it is now with Belster and Tomas, Roger Lockless and all the others.
I have my fears, though, mostly for an unintentional rivalry that may spring up between myself and the leaders of this band. When I led the fighters in the forest back to the refugee encampment after our great victory, I sensed true tension with Tomas Gingerwart, who, until my arrival, acted as one of the leaders of the forest band, perhaps the strongest voice of all. A calm conversation quickly cured that potential ill, for Tomas has been seasoned by years and experience. As soon as he was assured that he and I both fought for the same goal—the benefit of the people under his care—the rivalry was no more.
But not so, I fear, with another of the band whom I have not yet even met, an impetuous young fellow named Roger. By Belster's words, Roger is young and proud, and has ever been insecure in his position among the refugees, even to the point that he considered Belster and the folk from the northland as potential rivals. What will he think when he meets Pony and me? How will he react when he sees the respect afforded us, particularly from those who knew us in the north, or from those who followed us in the battle in the forest?
In truth, Uncle Mather, I think it ironic that these displaced folk think of me as a hero. For when I see their faces, every one, the expressions of men and women put to the test for perhaps the first time, I see the truest heroism.
Because that is something that cannot be judged by the quality of training and the quality of weapons, Uncle Mather. Simply because I was trained by the Touel'alfar and carry with me weapons of great power, am I any more heroic than the woman who throws herself between danger and her children, or the farmer who trades plowshare for sword to defend his community? Am I more heroic because my chances of winning the battle are greater?
I think not, for heroism is measured in strength of heart, not strength of arm. It is a marker of the conscious decisions, the selflessness, the willingness, to sacrifice everything, in the knowledge that those who follow you will be better off for your efforts. Heroism is the ultimate act of community, I think, the sense of belonging to something bigger than one's own mortal coil. It is rooted in faith: in God, or even in the mere belief that the whole of the goodly folk is stronger when each individual part cares for the others.
It is an incredible thing to me, this resilience, this inner strength, this human spirit. And in admiring it, I realize that we cannot lose this war, that in the end, even if that end be a thousand years hence, we will triumph. Because they cannot kill us, Uncle Mather. They cannot kill the resilience. They cannot kill the inner strength.
They cannot kill the human spirit.
I look into the faces of the men and women, the children, too young for such trials, the aged, too old for such battle, and I know this to be true.
—elbryan wyndon
CHAPTER 10
The Holiest of Places
The terrain became more difficult by noon on the day after the fight in the valley. Master Jojonah tried to keep the spirits of his comrades high, reminding them of the good they had done, of the suffering they had prevented by intervening. But all of the monks were tired from their nighttime trials, particularly concerning the further use of magic, and, given the rough terrain, magic this day would have proven a great help.
One thing that neither Jojonah nor Brother Francis would compromise on, though, was the use of the quartz gemstones for scouting. Exhausted as they were, the monks simply could not afford to let down their guard, not in this wild region. Master Jojonah did end the ride early, before the sun had set, and called for his brothers to sleep well and long, to gather their strength that they might attack the road more vigorously the next day.
"We would have had the strength to travel much later," Brother Francis pointedly told the master, as usual, planting himself by Jojonah's side as if keeping a wary eye on the older man, "had we not engaged in an affair that was not our own."
"It seems to me that you enjoyed the rout of the monstrous force as much as any, brother," the Master responded. "How can you doubt the wisdom of our actions?"
"I'll not deny the pleasure I garner in destroying enemies of my God," Brother Francis replied.
That high-browed proclamation raised Jojonah's eyebrows.
"Yet," Brother Francis went on before the portly monk could reply, "I know what Father Abbot Markwart dictated."
"And that is all that matters?"
"Yes."
Master Jojonah silently groaned over the brother's blind faith, a fault so prevalent in the Abellican Order these days, a fault that he, too, had been guilty of for so many years. Master Jojonah, like all the masters and immaculates of St.-Mere-Abelle, had known that the ship hired to carry the brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit would never be allowed to leave the harbor at All Saints Bay, and that all aboard her would be killed. Like all the others—all except for Avelyn Desbris—Jojonah had accepted that grim outcome as the lesser of two evils, for the monks simply could not have allowed any with such knowledge as the location of Pimaninicuit to sail away. Similarly, Jojonah knew that Brother Pellimar had been allowed to die of an infection from a wound he had suffered on the voyage to that island—though hard work by the older monks with a soul stone certainly could have saved him—because the man could not keep his mouth shut concerning that all-important voyage. But again, at the time, Pellimar's demise had seemed to Jojonah the lesser of two evils.
In reflecting on his own decision, Master Jojonah could not fully blame the zealous Brother Francis now. "We saved many families last night," he reminded. "And for that, I cannot be sorry. Our mission has not been compromised."
"Your pardon, Master Jojonah," came a call from the side of the wagon.
Both men turned to see a trio of younger monks, Brother Dellman among them, cautiously approaching.
"I have detected a presence in the area," Brother Dellman explained. "Not a goblin, not a monster at all," the young monk quickly added, seeing the sudden and frantic reaction. "A man, shadowing our every move."
Master Jojonah sat back, not too concerned, and more interested at that moment in studying the young man who had delivered the news. Brother Dellman was going out of his way to make himself quite useful of late, was working harder than any other in the caravan. Jojonah liked the potential he saw there, in the young man's eyes, in the idealistic attitude.
"A man?" Brother Francis echoed, seeing that Master Jojonah was making no move to reply. "Of the Church? Of Palmaris? Of the village?" he snapped impatiently. Francis, too, had noticed Dellman's work of late, but he wasn't sure of the young monk's motives. "Who is it, and where has he come from?"
"Alpinadoran, obviously," Brother Dellman replied. "A huge man, with long flaxen hair."
"From the village, no doubt," Brother Francis said with a huff aimed directly at the master. "Perhaps you spoke too soon, Master Jojonah," he added curtly.
"He is a man," the older monk argued. "Just a man. Probably trying to find out who we are and why we saved his village. We will send him away and that will be the end of it."
"And is he a precursor?" Brother Francis said. "A spy sent to unveil our weaknesses? Never has Alpinador called itself an ally of the Abellican Church. Need I remind you of the tragedy at Fuldebarrow?"
"You need remind me of nothing," Master Jojonah replied sternly, but Brother Francis' point was well-taken. Fuldebarrow was an Alpinadoran town, larger than the one from the previous night, wherein the Church, the Abbey of St. Precious of Palmaris, had tried to establish a mission. All had gone well for nearly a year, but then, apparently, the Abellican missionaries had said or done something to offend the Alpinadoran barbarians, probably some insult to the god-figure of the northern people. None of the monks were ever found—physically at least. St. Precious had turned to St.-Mere-Abelle for help in the investigation, and using their magical talents, soul stones to locate the spirits of the dead, the masters of the larger abbey discovered that the missionaries had been brutally executed.
But that incident was nearly a hundred years old, and sending missionaries into any heathen territory was ever a dangerous course.
"Let us be rid of this spy efficiently," Brother Francis said, rising to his feet. "I will—"
"You will do nothing," Master Jojonah interrupted.
Brother Francis straightened as if slapped. "It is curious that I was not able to contact Father Abbot Markwart before the fight at the village," he remarked, the implications obvious, given his sly look Jojonah's way. "Distance is supposed to be irrelevant where hematite is concerned."
"Perhaps you are not as powerful with the stones as you believe," Master Jojonah said dryly. Both men knew better, though. Both knew that Master Jojonah, who possessed a small but effective sunstone, the stone of antimagic, had interfered with Brother Francis' attempt to enlist the Father Abbot against the notion that they would defend the Alpinadoran village from the monsters.
"What are we to do with this troublesome shadow, then?" Francis demanded.
"What indeed?" was all Master Jojonah could answer.
"He knows of us, and thus he looms as a threat," Brother Francis pressed. "If he is a spy, as I believe, then he will likely send a powerful force against us, and letting him live now will not seem so merciful in light of the dozens of men who will pay for our generosity with their lives." He paused, and it seemed to Jojonah that he was almost pleased by that prospect, as if he had just convinced himself that it would be better to let the man live.
It was a passing thought for Brother Francis, though. "Or even if he is not a spy," the fiery monk went on, "he remains a threat. Suppose he is captured by the powries. Do you doubt that he will divulge information about us to the monsters in the false hope of mercy?"
Master Jojonah looked to the three younger monks, all of them wearing startled expressions at the increasingly heated exchange. "Perhaps it would be better if you left us now," the master bade them. "And you, Brother Dellman, well done. Back to the gems with you, the soul stone this time, that you might watch our uninvited guest more closely."
"Uninvited and unwanted," Brother Francis said under his breath as the three younger monks moved away, passing Braumin Herde, who was coming to join Francis and Jojonah.
"Do not underestimate this Alpinadoran," Brother Braumin remarked as he neared. "Were it not for the soul stone, we would never have known he was shadowing our every move, though even as we speak he is less than fifty yards from our encampment."
"Spies are practiced at such tactics," Brother Francis remarked, drawing a sour expression from both Jojonah and Braumin.
"What do you believe?" Master Jojonah asked of Braumin.
"He is from the village, I would guess," the immaculate replied, "though I place less sinister value on that notion than does my brother."
"Our mission is too vital for us to let down our guard," Francis argued.
"Indeed it is," Master Jojonah agreed. He eyed Brother Braumin directly. "Possess the man," he instructed. "Convince him that he should be gone, or, if that should fail, use your power to walk his physical body far, far from here. Let him regain his physical consciousness back in the deep Timberlands, too exhausted to return anytime soon."
Brother Braumin bowed and started away, not thrilled by the prospect of possession, but relieved that Brother Francis did not get his way. He had not journeyed all these miles to play a role in the murder of a human.
Brother Braumin went to Dellman first, and bade the man to pass the word that all activity with quartz should cease, and that Dellman should forgo his searching with the soul stone— possession was tricky enough without the prospect of another disembodied spirit floating about! Then Br
aumin went to his wagon and prepared himself.
Andacanavar crouched low in the brush, confident that he was too well concealed for any of the nearby monks to locate him. Visually, at least, for the ranger had no experience with magic, other than that of the Touel'alfar, and did not know the potential of the ring stones.
But Andacanavar was sensitive to his environment, extremely so, and he did indeed sense the presence about him, an intangible presence, the feeling that he was being watched.
How strong that sensation became when Brother Braumin's spirit moved right up to the ranger, when Brother Braumin's spirit tried to move right into the man!
Andacanavar looked all about, eyes darting to every shadow, to every conceivable hiding place. He knew he was not alone, and yet all of his physical senses showed him nothing.
Nothing.
The intrusion grew stronger; the ranger almost cried out, despite his better judgment. That near outburst surprised him, and led him to the horrifying and inescapable conclusion that some other will was forcing itself over him.
Andacanavar had participated in the communal gatherings of the Touel'alfar, the joining of the entire elven community into a single harmony. That had been a beautiful thing, a mental sharing, a most intimate experience. But this...
Again the ranger almost cried out; but he stopped himself, understanding that the intruding will likely wanted him to yell out and surrender his position.
The ranger searched inside himself, tried to find something tangible, something identifiable. He recalled the communal elven song, a hundred voices joined as one, a hundred spirits blended in harmony. But this...
This was rape.
The ranger fell low to the ground, growling softly, fighting back in the only manner he understood. He put up a wall of sheer rage, a red barrier, denying all action. Andacanavar was completely in control of his will, on every level. He used the discipline of bi'nelle dasada, the sword-dance, used in his years of training in Caer'alfar. And through that grim determination, that sheer strength of will, the ranger identified his spiritual enemy, located the intruding will. A picture formed in Andacanavar's mind, a map of his own thought process, and he mentally placed an enemy marker whenever a trail on that map was accessed.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 18