Mortalis dw-4 Page 10

  Midalis looked around the field, taking note of the scores of goblin dead, and he smiled and nodded.

  He noted, too, that Abbot Agronguerre and several brothers were fast approaching, the abbot looking somewhat tentative.

  "You have wounded," the Prince said to Bruinhelde. "My friends are skilled in the healing arts."

  Bruinhelde, his expression unyielding, glanced over at Andacanavar; and the ranger moved past Midalis, sweeping the Prince and Bruinhelde into his wake, heading quickly for the nearest fallen Alpinadorans.

  "Bandages alone," the worldly ranger said quietly to Abbot Agronguerre. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, and then the abbot nodded, Agronguerre turned and motioned to his brethren, assigning each a fallen Alpinadoran, and then moved for the most grievously wounded man, who already had a couple of Alpinadoran women working hard to stem the flow of his lifeblood.

  Andacanavar, Midalis, and Bruinhelde met him there, the Prince bending low beside the abbot.

  "They are leery of magic," he whispered to his monk friend. "Better that we use conventional dressings."

  "So said the large one," Abbot Agronguerre replied, indicating Andacanavar. He ended his sentence with a grunt as he pulled tight the bandage crossing the man's chest, shoulder to rib cage, trying hard to stop the crimson flow. "For the others, perhaps, but this one will not live the hour without the use of the soul stone, and may not live even if I employ one."

  Both Vanguardsmen looked up then to see Andacanavar and Bruinhelde looking down at them, the ranger seeming somewhat unsure but Bruins; hddewith a determined stare upon his face.

  | "The bandage will not stem the blood," Abbot Agronguerre remarked | calmly, and he reached into his belt pouch and produced the gray soul s Stone, the hematite, and held it up for the two Alpinadorans to see. "But I | have magic that-" " No!" Bruinhelde interrupted firmly.

  "He will die without-"

  "No," the barbarian leader said again, and his look grew ever more dangerous-so much so that Midalis grabbed Agronguerre by the wrist and gently pushed his hand down. The abbot looked to his Prince, dumfounded, and Midalis merely shook his head slowly.

  "He will die," Agronguerre insisted to Midalis.

  "Warriors die," was all that Bruinhelde replied; and he walked away, but not before bringing over two of his other warriors and issuing instructions to them in the Alpinadoran tongue.

  Midalis understood enough of the words to know that Bruinhelde would not bend on this matter, for he told his two warriors to stop Agronguerre, by whatever means, if the monk tried to use the devil magic on their fallen comrade. The Prince fixed Agronguerre with a solid look then, and, though it pained Midalis as much as it pained Agronguerre to let a man die in this manner, he shook his head again slowly and deliberately.

  The abbot pulled away, glanced once at the two imposing barbarian guards, then pocketed the gemstone and went back to work with conventional means upon the fallen warrior,

  The man was dead within a few minutes.

  Abbot Agronguerre wiped his bloody hands, then rubbed them across his cheek, brushing away his tears, unintentionally leaving light bloody smears on his face. He rose in a huff and stormed away, to the next brother in line working upon a wounded Alpinadoran, and then the next. Midalis and Andacanavar, and the sentries, followed him all the way.

  Without a word to his unwelcome entourage and growling with every step, Abbot Agronguerre stalked across the field back toward the fallen Vanguardsmen, pulling out his soul stone as he went, showing it, as an act of defiance, to the Alpinadoran guards.

  The barbarian warriors bristled, and Prince Midalis worried that his friend's anger might be starting even more trouble this dark morning; but Andacanavar dismissed the two others with a wave of his hand, then motioned for Midalis to wait with him.

  "The monk errs," the ranger remarked quietly.

  "It does not set well with Abbot Agronguerre to watch a man die," Prince Midalis replied, a harsh edge to his voice, "especially when he believes that he might have saved that man's life."

  "At the expense of his soul? " Andacanavar asked in all seriousness.

  Midalis blinked and backed off a step, surprised by the stark question. He studied the ranger for a long while, trying to get a measure of the man. "Do you truly believe that?" he asked.

  Andacanavar shrugged his huge shoulders, his expression vague. "I have lived for many years," he began. "I have seen much that I would not have believed possible. Monsters, magic, and, yes, the demon dactyl. I have learned of several religions, your Abellican one included, and I know well the premise of the Abellican Church that the gemstones are the gifts of their god."

  "But your people do not view them that way," Midalis reasoned. Andacanavar chuckled, showing the Prince that his words were a bit of an understatement. "My people do not believe in magic," he said. "Those practices that transcend the bonds of the elements-the magic of Abellicans and of elves, of demons and of yatol priests-are all the same to us, all wrought in the mystical world of illusion and deceit."

  "And how does worldly Andacanavar view the use of such gemstones? " Prince Midalis dared to ask.

  "I was raised outside of Alpinador," the man answered. "I understand the differences between the various forms of magic."

  "And yet you let the man die," the Prince remarked, his words an accusation though his tone surely was not.

  "Had your Abbot Agronguerre tried to use the soul stone upon fallen Temorstaad, Bruinhelde and his warriors would have stopped him, and violently, do not doubt," the ranger explained. "They are a simple folk, a people of honor and resolute principles. They do not fear death, but they do fear the realm of the mystical. To them, it was a choice of Temorstaad's body against the price of his soul, and to them, that is not so difficult a choice."

  Prince Midalis shook his head and sighed, showing that he was not impressed.

  "Understand that this alliance is a tentative one yet," Andacanavar warned him. "Your fears that Bruinhelde and his people would not come to the field this day were justified-for, indeed, had the majority of his warriors been given the choice, they would have turned north for their homes, trying to beat the onset of the winter winds. But Bruinhelde is a wise leader, a man looking past the immediate comforts and to the future welfare of his people. He desires this alliance, though he'll hardly admit it openly. Yet if you or your Abellican companions try to force your ways upon us, if you insist upon foisting the realm of the mystical upon Bruinhelde's warriorseven if you believe you are doing so for the good of those warriors-then know that the goblins will become the least of your troubles."

  "It pained me to watch a man die," Midalis replied, "a man who could have been saved." Andacanavar nodded, not disagreeing.

  "And it pained Abbot Agronguerre," Midalis went on. "He is a good and gentle man, who battles suffering." "But does he fear suffering? " Midalis shook his head. "And does he fear death?"

  Midalis snorted incredulously. " If he does, then his title of abbot of the Abellican Church is misplaced, I would say."

  "Neither Bruinhelde nor any of his warriors fear death," Andacanavar explained, "as long as they die honorably, in battle."

  Prince Midalis considered the words for a long while, even glanced back over his shoulder to the fallen Temorstaad. The Alpinadoran women were working on him now, taking his valuables and wrapping him in a shroud. Midalis wasn't thrilled with Andacanavar's explanation or the reality of the situation, but he knew that he had to accept it. This alliance with the Alpinadoran barbarians wasn't going to be easy, he recognized. Their customs and those of the Vanguardsmen were too disparate. Midalis' gaze drifted about the field to the slaughtered, hacked goblins, to those Alpinadoran women walking among the goblin bodies, mercilessly slashing any that moved, even sticking knives into a few that did not move, just to be sure. A shudder coursed down the Prince's spine. Not an easy alliance but a necessary one, he realized. He certainly didn't want Bruinhelde and his bunch as enemies! c
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  "And you brought your womenfolk along for battle," Andacanavar remarked, noting that many women were also among Midalis' ranks. "Never would Bruinhelde accept women as warriors. Their tasks are to comfort the warriors, to tend the wounded, and to kill the fallen enemies."

  Prince Midalis couldn't hide the grin finding its way onto his face. "And does Andacanavar believe this as well? " he asked slyly, for, while the ranger had made another good point concerning the differences between the two peoples, he had pointedly spoken for Bruinhelde and not for Andacanavar.

  "I was raised among the Touel'alfar, and had more than one of the diminutive creatures-females and males alike-put me to the ground," the ranger replied, and he returned the smile. "I speak for Bruinhelde and his followers because I understand them. Whether I agree with them or not, whether you agree with them or not, is not important, because they are as they are, and you'll not change that. Nor will your Abellican companions, and woe to them if they try."

  Midalis nodded, and was glad for these few moments alone with the insightful ranger. He knew well the story of Fuldebarrow, where an Abellican church, established to convert Alpinadorans to the faith, had been burned to the ground and all of the missionary brothers slaughtered.

  "It might be that I can get them to look past your faults-and that you can get your friends to look past theirs-long enough for the two sides to see the common ground instead of the differences," Andacanavar said. Then he patted Midalis on the shoulder and headed back for the Alpinadoran lines.

  Midalis watched him for a moment, further digesting the words-wise words, he understood. Then he turned to find Abbot Agronguerre hard at work over one of the fallen archers, and he went to speak with the man, to smooth the hard feelings from the morning's disagreements, to remind the abbot that he and his brethren would still be besieged within the abbeyand that Midalis and his followers would be trapped in there as well, if they had been lucky this morning-had not Bruinhelde and his proud warriors come to their aid.

  Yes, it would be a difficult alliance, but the ranger's observations gave Prince Midalis hope that Vanguard and Alpinador might use this time of war to begin a lasting understanding.

  "Common ground," he whispered, reminding himself.

  "I trust that your day was enjoyable," Abbot Je'howith remarked to Constance Pemblebury when he found the woman again standing alone at the taffrail, gazing wistfully at the waters of the great Masur Delaval.

  Constance turned a sour look upon him, not appreciating his off-color attempt at humor.

  "So do tell me," the abbot pressed, "did King Danube remember your name?"

  Constance stared at him hard.

  "In his moments of passion, I mean," the surprising old abbot continued. "Did he call out 'Constance'? "

  "Or 'Jilseponie'?" the woman finished sarcastically and bluntly, wanting Je'howith to understand in no uncertain terms that he was not catching her by surprise.

  "Ah, yes, Jilseponie," Je'howith said, rolling his eyes and sighing in a mock gesture of swooning. "Heroine of the north. Would any title do justice to her actions? Baroness? Duchess? Abbess? "

  Constance gave him a skeptical look and stared back out at the waters.

  "Mother abbess?" the old man continued. "Or queen, perhaps? Yes, there would be a title befitting that one!"

  Je'howith's wrinkled face erupted in a wide grin when Constance snapped a glare over him. "Have I hit a nerve? " he asked.

  Constance didn't blink.

  "You saw the way King Danube looked at her," Je'howith continued. "You know as well as I that Jilseponie could find her way to his bed, and to the throne beside his own in Ursal, if she pursued such a course."

  "She would not even accept the barony of Palmaris," Constance reminded him, but her words sounded feeble even in her own ears.

  Now it was Je'howith's turn to stare skeptically.

  "She grieves for the loss of Nightbird, a wound that may never heal," Constance said.

  "Not completely, perhaps," Je'howith agreed, "but enough so that she will move on with her life. Where will she choose to go? I wonder. There is no road she cannot walk. To the Wilderlands, to St.-Mere-Abelle, to Ursal. Who in all the world would refuse Jilseponie? "

  Constance looked back at the water, and she feltJe'howith's gaze studying her, measuring her.

  "I know what you desire," the old abbot said.

  "Do you speak your words to wound me? " Constance asked.

  "Am I your enemy or perhaps your ally? "

  Constance started to laugh. She knew the truth, all of it, and understood that old Je'howith was taking great amusement from this posturing because he figured that he could win in any event. If Danube married Constance, or at least sired her children and put them in line for the throne, then Je'howith would be there, ever attentive. That did not make him an ally, though, Constance realized, for Je'howith's greatest concern was to keep Jilseponie out of his Church, away from the coveted position of mother abbess; and what better manner for doing that than to have her marry the King?

  "Jilseponie intrigued Danube," she admitted, "as her beauty and strength have intrigued every man who has gazed upon her, I would guess." She turned and fixed the old abbot with a cold and determined stare.

  "Beautiful indeed," Je'howith remarked.

  "But she is a long way from Ursal, do not doubt," Constance went on, "a long way, down a road more perilous than you can imagine."

  Old Je'howith returned her stare for a long moment, then nodded and bowed slightly, and walked away.

  Constance watched him go, replaying his words, trying to find his intent. Obviously, the wretch did not want her to fall under Jilseponie's charm and ally with the woman. Je'howith was trying to sow the seeds of enmity against Jilseponie, and she had readily fallen into his plan.

  That bothered Constance Pemblebury profoundly as she stood there at the taffrail, staring at the dark water. She had liked Jilseponie when first she had learned of the woman's adventures, had admired her and had cheered her in her efforts against Markwart's foul Church. In Constance's eyes, Jilseponie had been an ally-unwitting, perhaps, but an ally nonethelessof the Crown, of her beloved King Danube. But now things had changed. Nightbird was dead, and Danube was smitten. Jilseponie had gone from ally to rival. Constance didn't like that fact, but neither could she deny it. Whatever her feelings for Jilseponie Wyndon, the woman had become a danger to her plans for herself and, more important, for her children.

  Constance didn't like herself very much at that moment, wasn't proud of the thoughts she was harboring.

  But neither could she dismiss them.

  Chapter 6

  Season's Turn

  Abbot Braumin walked through the great gates of Chasewind Manor humbly, his brown hood pulled low to protect him from the light rain, his arms crossed over his chest, hands buried in the folds of his sleeves. He didn't glance up at the imposing row of Allheart knights lining both sides of the walk, with their exquisite armor, so polished that it gleamed even on this gray day, and their huge poleaxes angled out before them.

  He understood the meaning of it all, that Duke Targon Bree Kalas had offered to meet him on the Duke's terms and in the presence of his power. The battle between the two was just beginning, for the city hadn't really settled down after the fall of Markwart until after King Danube had departed. Then winter weather had minimized the duties of both Church and Crown. Now, the King was back in Ursal and most of the brethren from St.-Mere-Abelle had returned, or soon would, to that distant abbey. For the first time in more than a year-indeed, for the first time since the coming of the demon dactyl and its monstrous minions-the common folk of Palmaris were settling back into their normal routines.

  He was let in immediately, but then he spent more than an hour in the antechamber of Kalas' office, waiting, waiting while it was reported to him several times that Kalas was attending to more pressing matters.

  Abbot Braumin recited his prayers quietly, praying mostly for the patience he would
need to get through these trying times. He wished again that Jilseponie had agreed to accompany him-Kalas would never have kept her waiting! — but she would hear none of it, claiming that her days of meetings and political intrigue had reached their end.

  Finally, the attendant came out and called for the abbot to follow him. Braumin noted immediately upon entering Kalas' office that several other men stood about-bureaucrats, mostly-shuffling papers and talking in whispered, urgent tones as if their business were of the utmost importance. Duke Kalas, Baron of Palmaris, sat at his desk, hunched over a parchment, quill in hand.

  "Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious," the attendant announced.

  Kalas didn't even look up. "It has come to my attention that you have put out a call for craftsmen, masons, and carpenters," he remarked.

  "I have," Braumin agreed.

  "To what end?"

  "To whatever end I desire, I suppose," the abbot replied-and that brought Kalas' eyes up, and halted every other conversation in the room.

  Kalas stared hard at him for a long and uncomfortable moment. "Indeed," he said at length, "and might those desires entail the expansion of St. Precious Abbey, as I have been told? "

  "Perhaps."

  "Then save time," Kalas said sternly, "both for yourself and for the craftsmen. There will be no such expansion."

  Now it was Braumin's turn to put on a steely expression. "The land about the abbey is Church owned."

  "And no structures may be built within the city walls, Church or otherwise, without the express consent of its baron," Kalas reminded him. He looked to one of the bureaucrats at the side of the room, and the mousy man rushed over, presenting Abbot Braumin with a parchment, signed and sealed by Baron Rochefort Bildeborough and by Abbot Dobrinion Calislas, that seemed to back up Kalas' claims.