It was with equal determination that Roger and Connor strode toward Palmaris. Connor held great faith in his uncle Rochefort. Ever since he was a child, Connor had looked up to the man as someone who could get things done, a great man who shaped life in the city. All the many times Connor had gotten himself into trouble, his uncle Rochefort had taken care of things quietly and effectively.
Brother Youseff recognized that confidence in the man, both from his boasts of what his uncle would now accomplish and the swaggering manner in which he sat in his saddle.
"You should understand, Master Bildeborough, the ramifications of being in league with those two," the monk taunted.
"If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you," Connor promised.
"But the embarrassment to your uncle!" Youseff pressed. "What fun it shall be when the King learns that Baron Bildeborough's nephew is traveling with outlaws."
"I am indeed," Connor said, looking down at the man. "Now."
Brother Youseff was not amused. "Your accusation is ridiculous, of course," he said. "And your uncle will recognize that fact and apologize profusely to the Church—and perchance the Church could be persuaded to accept the apology and not excommunicate him."
Connor scoffed openly, not really impressed, and certainly not believing this dangerous monk's words. Fear did lick at Connor's thoughts, though, for himself and for his uncle. He tried to hold fast to his confidence in the great man, the Baron of Palmaris, but reminded himself repeatedly not to underestimate the power of the Church.
"Perhaps even you two could be forgiven," Youseff went on slyly.
"Forgiven for defending ourselves?" Roger quipped.
"Neither of you was involved," Youseff replied. "Only the girl and the other one. And perhaps the elf—no such creature was known to us, and thus his fate is yet to be determined."
Again Connor scoffed. For this man who had stalked him at the Way, who had tried to catch him to kill him, to insist that he wasn't involved was purely ridiculous.
"Ah yes, the girl," Brother Youseff went on, changing his tone, looking up out of the corner of his eye to measure Connor's response. "How sweet that capture will prove," he said lewdly. "Perhaps I might find time to take pleasure with her before I present her to my superiors."
The monk saw the strike coming—indeed he had invited it!— and he didn't waver now, but let Connor smack him across the back of his head. It wasn't a hard blow, but one that Youseff could convincingly use as he dove down to the ground, slamming his left shoulder squarely and pushing through the blow. He heard the popping sound as the bone dislocated, felt the waves of pain washing over him, and he cried out, seemingly from the pain, but really to cover the movements as he brought his arms closer together behind his back, changing the angle of the bindings.
"We are almost to the city!" Roger scolded. "Why did you hit him?"
"Did you not want to do exactly the same thing?" Connor replied, and Roger had no answer. Roger went for the fallen monk then, as did Connor, sliding down from Greystone.
The security of Youseff's ties depended on not being able to bring his arms farther back behind him, but now, with the shoulder popped out of place, that was no longer true. He got his left hand free in moments, but held his position, keeping his hands close together, ignoring the numbing pain in his left shoulder.
Roger was beside him first, stooping to put his arms around the man.
Youseff bided his time—this one was not the most dangerous of the pair.
Then Connor was there, helping Roger hoist the monk back to his feet.
Faster than either of them could realize, Brother Youseff tucked his feet under him and came up straight. The binding ropes flew wide as his right arm swung about, fingers and thumb locked in a rigid C position. That deadly hook drove right into Connor's throat, stunning the man, smashing against his exposed flesh, then driving right through so that Youseff held Connor's windpipe in his hand.
He looked the nobleman right in the eye, unblinking, uncaring, then tore out Connor's throat.
Connor Bildeborough fell away, clutching at his mortal wound, gasping for breath that would not come, trying futilely to stem the explosion of blood that rose about him in a crimson mist, that backed down his open windpipe into heaving lungs.
Youseff spun and struck, knocking stunned Roger to the ground.
The young man wisely discerned that he could do nothing for Connor and little against the powerful monk. He was moving as soon as he hit the ground, and while Youseff turned back to taunt the dying Connor, Roger managed to get to the horse.
"I think I will go and kill your uncle next," Youseff said with an evil grin.
Connor heard him, but only from far, far away. He was falling, he felt, slipping deeper and deeper into a blackness, deeper within himself. He felt cold and alone, all noises diminishing to nothingness. His vision narrowed, became points of light.
Bright and warm.
He found one place of great comfort, one place of hope: he had made his peace with Jill.
Everything was gone now, except the light, the warmth. Connor's spirit walked toward it.
Roger held on dearly to one stirrup as Connor's frightened horse bolted, dragging him along. Behind him he heard the monk coming hard; Youseff had taken up the chase.
Growling against the pain, Roger pulled himself closer to the horse as he ran alongside it. He strengthened his grasp on the saddle, then reached back and slapped Greystone hard, spurring the horse on. He managed to glance back as he did, and saw Youseff, running fast, closing ground.
Using all of his agility, every ounce of his strength, Roger pulled himself up, up. He somehow got his feet off the ground, and with the drag gone, the horse put some ground between itself and the running monk.
Roger didn't even try to gain a proper seat, but just pulled himself over the saddle sidelong, hanging head down, grimacing with each painful jolt.
The fine horse left the monk behind.
A frustrated Brother Youseff kicked hard at the ground. He glanced up and down the road, both ways, wondering which course he should take. He could go back to Palmaris—with Connor dead, there would likely be no accusations raised against him concerning the murdered abbot. Certainly the word of the rogues in the north would not be sufficient to bring such charges against the Abellican Church.
But while he didn't fear the Baron of Palmaris or the monks of St. Precious, the thought of reporting back to Father Abbot Markwart with news of the disaster made the hairs on the back of Youseff's neck stand up. Dandelion was dead, but so was the troublesome Master Bildeborough.
Youseff looked the way Roger had gone, to the north. He had to get to him before Roger could rendezvous with the others, had to ensure complete surprise when he sprang back upon the woman. And Youseff knew he would indeed go back after her, and her two companions. They had only beaten him the first time because they knew he was coming, but now...
Then he could report back to the Father Abbot.
Brother Youseff started to run, legs pumping tirelessly, carrying him over the miles.
Roger was riding easily, but quickly. The monk hadn't given up, he suspected, for they both knew that Roger meant to get back to Elbryan and Pony, which Youseff could not allow. Still, Roger was not too worried, for with the horse he could keep ahead.
But barely, he saw when he climbed the side of one hillock, looking back down the road to see the monk, far in the distance, but still running!
"Impossible," Roger muttered, for they must have covered more than five miles by then. Yet the monk's speed seemed as great as if he had just taken up the chase!
Roger climbed back on the horse and started away at a faster pace. He could tell that the mount was tired—sweat glistened on the golden coat—but he couldn't afford to let Greystone slow down. He glanced back many times, hoping, praying, that the monk could not outlast his mount. On and on he went, staying to the road, more concerned with speed than stealth, knowing that th
e monk, incredible as the man was, could not match his horse's pace.
He was riding easily again soon after, confident that he had left his pursuer far behind, and plotting the best course to find his friends; they had arranged to meet at an abandoned farmhouse no more than ten miles farther.
The horse stumbled, and Roger's eyes went wide when he saw the gleam of metal to the side of the road. Greystone was limping now, having thrown a shoe.
Roger was down to the ground in an instant, running to retrieve the shoe, then back to the horse to see what leg it had come from. The answer was obvious before he even approached, for the horse was limping badly now, favoring its rear left leg. Gingerly, Roger hooked his arm about that limb and bent it up at the knee.
The hoof was in bad shape. Roger didn't know much about horses, but realized that this one couldn't go on unless that shoe was replaced. And there was no way he could do that.
"Bloody powrie luck," the young man cursed, glancing back nervously down the road. It took all of Roger's willpower to control his mounting fears, to force himself to think clearly, to reason through the problem. First he considered running, but he dismissed that thought, sensing that the monk would find and catch him long before he got to Elbryan and the others. He then wondered if any houses this far north were inhabited once more, thinking he might find someone to replace the shoe, but again he understood that he had not the time.
"The fight is mine," Roger said aloud, needing to hear the words as he continued to gaze back down the road. He went to the saddlebags then, for he and Connor had collected many items on the journey south, looking for something—anything!—that might help him now.
Most of the items were simply general supplies for the road: ropes and a grapnel, a small shovel, pots and pans, extra clothing and the like. One item caught his attention, though. At the last stop, at the very farm where Elbryan and the others would wait, Roger had taken a come-along, a small block-and-tackle unit favored by farmers for hoisting bales, or even for pulling in stubborn bulls.
Roger held the item in his hand, studying it, trying to find some way to put it to use. Several images flashed in his mind, and he focused at last on one in particular, one that utilized his abilities. He couldn't outfight the monk, he knew, but he might be able to outwit the man.
By the time Brother Youseff got to that spot, Roger and the horse were gone, but the horseshoe remained, right in the middle of the road. The monk stopped and examined the shoe, then stood and glanced all about curiously. He couldn't imagine that the young man had been so foolish as to leave the telltale item behind.
Youseff searched ahead on the road and saw no fresh tracks beyond a dozen or so feet. To the side of the trail, he easily found signs of the limping horse's passage, and on the other side, a spot of blood and a lighter set of tracks, the footprints of a light man. Now it made sense to the monk. The horse had thrown the shoe and had then thrown the young man. Smiling widely, the monk started down the sloping ground, toward a copse of trees, in which, he suspected, he would find his second victim.
From high in one of those trees, Roger Lockless, rope, grapnel, and come-along in hand, watched the monk's confident approach. Youseff slowed as he neared the trees, moving with more caution, darting from cover to cover.
Roger lost sight of the monk when he entered the copse. Again he was amazed when Youseff emerged at another point, quite far into the trees, for the man had traveled many yards without even stirring the thick underbrush. Roger looked to his items, to the finger he had purposely pricked to leave a blood trail, and wondered if his wits would be enough.
It was too late to change his mind about his plans, though, for Youseff was right at the base of the tree now and had spotted the last drop of blood.
The monk's head slowly turned up, staring through the leafy shadows, his gaze at last settling on the dark shape high among the branches, hugging tight to the trunk.
"If you come down, I will spare your life," the monk called.
Roger doubted that, but still, he almost began a negotiation.
"If you make me climb all the way up there to drag you out, then know that your death will be most unpleasant," Youseff went on.
"I never did anything against your Church!" Roger replied, playing the part of a frightened child, which at that moment did not seem to him to be too much of a stretch.
"And thus I will spare your life," Youseff repeated. "Now come down."
"Go away," Roger cried.
"Come down!" Youseff yelled. "I give you one last chance."
Roger didn't reply, other than to whimper loudly enough for the monk to hear him.
As Youseff started to climb, following a predictable course among the branches, Roger watched the monk closely. He tugged on one rope for the hundredth time, testing it. One end was tied fast to the tree, the other secured to one end of the come-along. A second rope, fastened to the grapnel, was tied to the come-along's other end.
The knots were secure and the ropes were the right length, Roger reminded himself, but still, when he considered the enormity of his plan, the need for perfect timing and more than a bit of luck, he nearly swooned.
Youseff was more than halfway up now, fully twenty feet from the ground.
"One more branch," Roger muttered.
Up came the monk, planting his feet on the last solid limb of the lower trunk. He would have to pause there, Roger knew, and map out the rest of the climb, for he was in an open area that afforded no ready branches.
As soon as Youseff was in place, Roger Lockless took his rope firmly in hand and leaped out. He plummeted between a pair of branches, getting a few nasty scratches in the process. Then, some feet out from the trunk, he hit another branch, as he had planned, and kicked out, launching himself on a circuitous route about the tree. He crashed and bounced repeatedly but held fast to his circular, descending course, passing the startled Youseff barely an arm's length away.
How Roger breathed easier as he continued around, for Brother Youseff had been too surprised to leap out at him.
"Damn you!" the monk cried. Youseff had at first thought that Roger was using the rope to get ahead of him to the ground, but suddenly, as the loop tightened about him, pinning him to the trunk, as Roger swung around and below, he understood.
On the last turn, Roger, holding the rope in only one hand now, took up the other rope and launched the grapnel at a cluster of white birch. Then, hoping it would catch, Roger braced his feet as he came around the base of the trunk, the first length of rope playing out to the end. He dug in then, pulling with all his strength to keep the rope taut about Youseff.
He knew he didn't have long, for with the many branches interfering with the pull, the rope was not tight enough to hold the agile and strong monk for long.
Not yet.
Roger pulled on the rope in the birch trees with one hand, using the other to crank the come-along and take up some slack. He groaned aloud as he felt the grapnel slipping through tangle. Finally, though, it caught fast.
Up above, Youseff was laughing and trying to extricate himself. He had the rope up above his elbows now and would soon slip under it.
Roger gave one final tug, and then, seeing that the slack was nearly gone, he dove for the come-along, cranking hard and fast with both hands.
Youseff had just started to lift the rope over his head when it snapped taut, slamming him back against the tree trunk. "What?" he asked, for he knew that the skinny little man couldn't pull so powerfully. He could see well enough below to know that no horse had come into the area, and so he stubbornly pushed back against the rope.
He heard the crack of a branch below, breaking under the strain, and was loose for just an instant before the rope pulled hard again, squeezing him against the trunk. Youseff's left arm was free and under the rope now, but the binding crossed diagonally down his shoulder, right under his other arm, pinning him tightly. He continued his stubborn fight as the rope tightened even more.
Roger wasn't looking up, was just pulling on the come-along's crank with all his strength. The rope was no longer even vibrating, was out straight and tight, and so Roger finally stopped, fearing he would pull one of the birch trees right out of the ground.
He stepped out from under the tree and looked up to see the squirming, helplessly pinned monk. Now he did smile, with absolute relief. "I will return," he promised. "With friends. It seems that you now have two murders to answer for!" And he turned and ran off.
Youseff paid the words little heed, just continued struggling against the impossibly tight binding. He squirmed and shifted, thought to try and slip out under the rope.
He realized that to be a foolish move almost immediately—but too late—as the rope slipped up an inch, creasing the side of his neck.
* * *
Belli'mar Juraviel was first into the copse, moving ahead of Elbryan, Pony, and Roger. The sun was low in the sky now, its bottom edge dipping below the horizon. The group had hurried back to the spot as soon as Roger had come to them, wanting to capture and secure the dangerous monk before nightfall.
Elbryan and the others waited outside the cluster of trees, the ranger watching Pony closely. She had been silent all the way back to this place; the news of Connor's death had hit her hard.
Strangely, her mourning did not incite any jealous feelings within Elbryan, only an empathy for her. He understood, truly understood, the relationship between Pony and the nobleman, and he knew now that with Connor's death, the woman had lost a part of herself, had lost that time of healing in her life. So Elbryan vowed silently to keep his own negative feelings private, to focus on Pony's needs.
She sat straight and tall on Symphony now, cutting a stoic and strong figure in the fading light. She would get through this, as she had come through the first massacre at Dundalis, as she had come through the bitter war and all the losses, particularly the death of Avelyn. Once again the ranger found himself marveling at the woman's strength and courage.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 48