The Demon Awakens (32 page)

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CHAPTER 25

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Brother Justice

Master Jojonah looked down from an inconspicuous balcony at the large chamber, bare of any furnishing but for a few practice riggings sitting against the far wall. In the center of the room stood the stocky young man, his face haggard from lack of sleep. He wore only a loincloth and stood defensively, shoulders hunched, arms crossed to cover his belly, and loins. Even his head was bare, for his superiors had shaved it. He uttered a chant repeatedly, using it to bolster his failing strength, and De’Unnero, the new master who had taken Siherton’s place, stalked about him, occasionally stinging him with a riding crop. Behind Quintall stood a tenth-year immaculate.

“You are weak and useless!” De’Unnero screamed, smacking Quintall across the shoulder blades. “And you were part of the conspiracy!”

Quintall’s mouth moved to form the word “no,” but no sound came forth, managing only a pitiful shake of his head.

“You were!” De’Unnero roared, and he whipped Quintall again.

Master Jojonah could hardly bear to watch. Quintall’s “training” had been going on for more than a month now, ever since Father Abbot Markwart, looking old and tired indeed, had seen a vision of Avelyn alive.

Avelyn! The very thought of the young brother sent shivers along Jojonah’s spine. Avelyn had killed Siherton—the body, or what remained of it, had been found only late that spring, almost a year to the day since the tragedy. And worse, if Markwart’s vision was true, Avelyn had survived and had run off with a substantial supply of the sacred stones.

Jojonah closed his eyes and remembered all the times Siherton had warned him about Avelyn’s almost inhuman dedication.

Avelyn would be trouble, Siherton had promised, and the master’s words had proven true. But why? Jojonah had to wonder. What had precipitated the trouble, a fault of Avelyn’s or the man’s lack of fault in an order grown perverse? Indeed, Brother Avelyn Desbris was trouble, a dark mirror that the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle could not bear to gaze into. Avelyn, by any measure that Jojonah could discern, was what a monk was supposed to be, the truest of the true, and yet his manner could not agree with the increasingly secular ways of the monastery. That the Order should be threatened by the piety of a young monk was something Master Jojonah could not come to terms with.

And yet, the master was too tired, too wrapped up in a sense of loss, both for Siherton and Avelyn—and for himself—to try to make some peace within the monastery. Markwart had become almost feverish in his desire to see Avelyn and, more particularly, the sacred stones, brought back, and the Father Abbot’s word was sacrosanct.

The crack of the crop brought Jojonah’s attention back to the scene at hand. He had never held any love for brutish Quintall, but still he pitied the man. The conditioning ranged from sleep deprivation to long periods of hunger. Quintall’s strength, both physical and mental, would be torn away piece by piece and then brought back under the guidance and control of the training masters. The man would be reduced to an instrument of destruction, Avelyn’s destruction. Quintall’s every thought would be focused on that singular purpose; Avelyn Desbris would become the source of all his ills, the most-hated threat to St.-Mere-Abelle.

Jojonah shuddered and walked away, trying hard not to picture the scene when Quintall finally caught up to Avelyn.

The cave seemed a gigantic caricature of a king’s throne room. A huge dais, three steps up, centered the back wall, sporting a single obsidian throne that two large men could sit in together without touching each other. Twin rows of massive columns, each carved into the likeness of a giant warrior, lined the room. Like the throne, they were formed of obsidian, with graceful but somehow discordant lines swirling about them like the fibers of interlocking muscles. The floor and walls were clear of the black rock, showing the normal dullish gray of Aida’s stone, and the single set of doors was made of bronze.

No torches burned within, the room’s light coming from either side of the great dais where a continual flow of lava issued from the back corner of the wall and descended through holes in the floor, diving down into the tunnels of Aida, then reaching out along the mountain’s black arms, engulfing more and more of the Barbacan.

Small indeed did Ubba Banrock and Ulg Tik’narn, powrie chieftains from the distant Julianthes, and Gothra, the goblin king, seem in that tremendous room. Even Maiyer Dek of the fomorian giants felt small and insignificant, eyeing the statue-columns as if they would come alive and surround him, dwarfing his sixteen-foot height. And Maiyer Dek, among the largest of his giant kind, was not accustomed to being dwarfed.

Still, even if all twenty of the columns, and a dozen more besides, surrounded the giant, it would not have been more imposing than the single creature reclining on the throne. All four of the dactyl’s guests felt that imposing weight keenly. They were each among the most powerful of their respective races, leaders of armies that numbered in the hundreds for the giant, in the thousands for each of the powries, and in the tens of thousands for the goblin. They were the darkness of Corona, the bringers of misery, and yet, they seemed pitiful, groveling things before the great dactyl, mere shadows of this infinitely darker being.

Goblins and giants often aligned, but both races traditionally hated the powries almost as much as they hated the humans.

Except on those occasions when the dactyl was awake. Except at those times when the darker forces bound them together in singular purpose. There could be no struggles for power among the mortal leaders of the various races when the dactyl sat on its obsidian throne.

“We are not four armies,” the dactyl roared at them suddenly, and Gothra nearly fell over from the sheer weight of the resonating voice. “Nor three, if the powries consider their respective forces to be allied. We are one army, one force, one purpose!” The demon leaped from its throne and tossed a small item, a fabric patch, gray in color and with the black image of the dactyl sewn in. “Go out and begin the work on these,” the demon ordered.

Maiyer Dek was first to inspect the patch. “My warriors are not stitch women,” the fomorian leader began, but as soon as the words left Maiyer Dek’s mouth, the dactyl leaped down to stand before the giant, and seemed to grow. A feral growl escaped the demon’s lips as its hand shot out, slapping the behemoth across the face with enough force to knock Maiyer Dek to the floor. Then the dactyl began a more insidious attack, a mental barrage of images of torture and agony, and Maiyer Dek, the proud and strong leader, the strongest mortal creature in all the Barbacan, whimpered pitifully and squirmed about on the floor, begging for mercy.

“Every soldier in my army shall wear such an emblem,” the dactyl decreed. “In
my
army! And you,” the beast said to Maiyer Dek, reaching down and easily lifting the massive giant to its feet. “Bring to me a score and four of your finest warriors to serve as my house guard.”

And so the meetings went, through the days. The demon dactyl had been awake for several years, watching, feeling every slaughter of humans in the Wilderlands, tasting the blood of every corpse into which a powrie dipped its infamous cap, hearing the screams of sailors and passengers as each scuttled ship went under the swells of the merciless Mirianic. The darkness had grown; the humans had become ever weaker. Now the creature saw the time to organize its forces fully, to begin its unified attacks.

Terranen Dinoniel was dust in the earth; the dactyl meant to win this time.

To the twenty-four giants Maiyer Dek brought in, the dactyl presented suits of armor, demon-forged in the twin lava flows of the throne room, full plated, thick and strong. And the dactyl made even finer protection for its four chieftains, great magical bracers, studded with spikes, that would protect the wearer from the blows of any weapon. Among the three evil races, none had earned any reputation of loyalty or honor, but now, with the bracers, the dactyl could hold faith that its four chosen generals would survive the not-unexpected treachery of their underlings.

And those ranks were considerable indeed. Outside the cave, on the tree-covered slopes of Aida, thousands of goblins, powries, and giants milled about their respective camps, glancing up the southern face to the gaping hole that marked the main entrance to the demon’s lair. All three camps were between the mountain’s newest “arms,” two black streaks of cooling lava, red-tipped as the stuff continued its slow roll from the bowels of the mountain, reaching out, southeast and southwest, as if they were extensions of the demon’s own reach. There was no sign of tree or brush within those black lines; all life had been snuffed out beneath the darkness, burned away by the fires, and covered by the cooling lava. Even those creatures closest to the center of the area between the arms felt the residual heat, and on that shimmering air was brought the tingles of promised power, the itchy anxiety to go out and kill.

All for the dactyl.

“What is your name?”

“Quintall.”

The man groaned as the whip struck him again, tearing a red line across his back.

“Your name?”

“Quintall!”

The whip cracked.

“You are not Quintall!” De’Unnero screamed in his face. “What is your name?”

“Quin—” He hadn’t even gotten the word out before the whip, handled expertly by the tenth-year immaculate, ripped all sounds from his body.

Up on the balcony, unseen by the victim and his pair of torturers, Master Jojonah sighed and shook his head. This man was tough, admirably so, and Jojonah feared he would die from the beatings before he would relinquish his identity.

“Fear not,” came a voice behind him, that of Father Abbot Markwart, “The treatises do not lie. The technique is proven.”

Jojonah didn’t really doubt that—he just wondered why in the name of God such a technique had ever been developed!

“Desperation breeds dark work,” the Father Abbot remarked, coming to Jojonah’s side just as the whip cracked again. “I find this as distasteful as do you, but what are we to do? Master Siherton’s body confirms our fears. We know the tricks Avelyn used to escape, and his cache of magic stones is considerable. Are we to allow him to run free to the detriment, perhaps even the downfall, of our Order?”

“Of course not, Father Abbot,” Master Jojonah replied.

“No living monk in St.-Mere-Abelle knows Avelyn Desbris better than Quintall,” Father Abbot Markwart continued. “He is the perfect choice.”

As executioner, Jojonah thought.

“As the retriever of what is rightfully ours,” the Father Abbot said, reading Jojonah’s thoughts so clearly that the master turned to regard him closely, Jojonah honestly wondering if Markwart was using some magic to peek into his mind.

“Quintall will serve as an extension of the church, an instrument of our justice,” Father Abbot Markwart said grimly, more determination in his normally quivering old voice than Jojonah had ever heard before. The master understood the man’s desperation, despite the fact that Avelyn’s crimes and subsequent desertion were not without precedent. Nor did the stolen stones present any real danger to the Abellican Order; Jojonah knew that twice the number Avelyn had taken were sold at fairly regular auctions, that the powers of those stones possessed by merchants and noblemen far outweighed the cache Avelyn held. The only concern any in St.-Mere-Abelle’s hierarchy held about the stolen stones was for the giant amethyst crystal, and that only because it was a stone whose magic they had not yet deciphered. So foolish Avelyn wasn’t really any serious threat to the abbey or to the Order. But that wasn’t the point, wasn’t the source of the Father Abbot’s desperation. Markwart would be dead soon, taken by that greatest enemy: time. And he did not desire to leave behind any legacy of failure—including the existence of the renegade Avelyn.

“We will put him on Avelyn’s trail very soon,” the Father Abbot remarked.

“Unless he continues to resist,” Master Jojonah dared to say.

Markwart issued a coughing laugh. “The techniques are proven: the lack of sleep, of food, the rewards and punishments exerted by the eager young masters. Quintall’s concepts of right and wrong, of duty and punishment, have been systematically replaced by the tenets given him at times of reward. He is a creature of singular purpose. Pity him, but pity Avelyn Desbris even more.” With that, Markwart walked away.

Jojonah watched him go, shuddering at the sheer coldness of the man’s aura. His attention was caught by yet another crack of the whip.

“What is your name?” De’Unnero demanded.

“Quin . . .”

The man hesitated; even from the balcony, Master Jojonah sensed they were near a breakthrough.

De’Unnero started to prompt the tortured man again, but he stopped, and Jojonah recognized that the young master had seen a change in Quintall’s demeanor, a strange light in the man’s eyes, perhaps. Jojonah leaned over the rail, listening to every inflection, every whisper.

“Brother Justice,” the battered man replied.

Master Jojonah settled back on his heels. He still wasn’t wholly convinced that he agreed with the technique—or the purpose—of Quintall’s training, but he had to admit that it seemed effective.

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CHAPTER 26

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Bradwarden

“Is it fear that inspires them? Is it jealousy? Or is it something more sublime, some inner voice telling them that they and I are not of similar ilk? They do not know, of course, of my days with the Touel’alfar, but certainly it is evident to them, as it is to me, that they and I do not share the same perspective.”

Elbryan slumped back in the chair, musing over his own words. He put the tips of his fingers together and shifted his hands in front of his face, allowing his gaze to drift from the mirror.

When he looked back, the specter of Uncle Mather remained, passively and patiently standing in the mirror’s depths.

“Belli’mar Juraviel warned me that it would be like this,” Elbryan went on. “And, in truth, it seems perfectly logical. The folk of the Wilderlands frontier necessarily huddle together. Their fear isolates them, and they often cannot distinguish friend from foe.

“So it is concerning me whenever I venture into the Howling Sheila. They do not understand me—my ways and my knowledge, and most of all, my duty—and thus they fear me. Yes, Uncle Mather, it must be fear, for what have I that the folk of Dundalis should envy? By their measures, I am poorer by far.”

The young man chuckled and ran his hand through his light brown hair. “Their measures,” he muttered again, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the folk of Dundalis, of Weedy Meadow and End-o’-the-World, huddled ever in their cabins. It was true enough that they enjoyed some amenities Elbryan did not: soft bedding, solid water basins, stored food. But the ranger had two things far more valuable, by his way of thinking, two things that he would not trade for all the treasures of all the kingdoms of Corona.

“Freedom and duty, Uncle Mather,” he said firmly. “I draw no lines of property, because those lines serve as barriers both ways. And, in the end, it is a sense of accomplishment, of purpose, and not the wealth attained by such accomplishment, that equates to fulfillment and happiness.

“And so I walk my watch. And so I accept the barbs and open chiding. I take faith in what I am doing, in my sense of purpose, for I, above all others, understand the consequence of failure.”

But I am alone, the young man thought privately, not yet ready to admit the truth aloud. He sat back again for a long moment, then braced his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing to leave.

He felt a soft and subtle vibration. Music?

He knew it was music, though it seemed too soft, too much in the background for him to actually hear it. Rather, Elbryan felt it in his bones, a gentle, delicate sound, sweet as an elvish harp, melodic as Lady Dasslerond’s voice.

He looked at the mirror, at the distant image, and sensed a calm there.

Elbryan went outside his cave immediately, expecting the music to be louder. It wasn’t; it hovered on the edge of his perceptions, whatever way he turned. But it was there. Something was there.

And Uncle Mather wanted him to find it.

He had planned to go to Weedy Meadow that day, then move on with the setting sun to the west, a circuit of End-o’-the-World. Now he could not go, for this subtle music, though Elbryan sensed it was not threatening, was surely intriguing. Had the elves come to visit? Then another thought nagged at the young man, a notion that he had heard this song before, though he could not place it.

The ranger spent the better part of the morning searching out the direction of the quiet notes. He used all his training, all his tools, focusing his senses one at a time in each direction, on every plant and every animal, seeking some hint of the source. Finally, he came upon a set of tracks.

A single large horse, he decided, unshod and walking at an easy pace. There were indeed wild horses in the area, some perhaps that had escaped the tragedy at Dundalis, others that had run off from caravans, and still others whose roots in the region were older than those of the human settlers. They were not numerous, and surely skittish, though Elbryan had entertained the notion of breaking one.

He soon came to believe that this would not be his chance, though, for as he followed the clear trail, he came to the conclusion that he was following, too, the source of the music. Thus, Elbryan believed, the horse was obviously ridden.

That thought didn’t slow the ranger; it only intrigued him even more. Someone had come into his domain, someone not of the villages, for if it was one of the villagers, then this horse would likely have been shod.

Elbryan skipped down one tree-covered hillside, into a narrow vale and to the edge of a rushing river. He crossed with some difficulty, but had no trouble regaining the trail on the other side, for the rider was making no effort to conceal his tracks. Elbryan closed steadily. Soon he could make out the actual notes—of a wind instrument, he noted, and he searched his memory once again, for he was certain that he had heard that peculiar, haunting sound before. He remembered, then, the instrument, piped by a merchant on the occasion of Elbryan’s tenth birthday, a curious thing, a leather bag and a series of pipes—a bagpipe, it was appropriately named.

The ranger moved swiftly and silently over a series of rolling hills. Then he stopped, suddenly, as the music stopped. Elbryan peered out around a tree. There, standing higher on the hill amidst a tangled grove of birch and low brush, stood a tall man, much taller than Elbryan, even considering the ranger’s deceivingly low perspective. He had black, bushy hair and a tight beard. He was naked, at least from the belly up, with a powerful upper body, muscles clearly defined, and an arched back. He held the pipes under one arm, down low, his song finished.

“Well, ranger, are ye liking the way I fill me chanter and drones?” he asked, a wide, white smile across his face.

Elbryan crouched lower, though he was obviously seen. He could hardly believe that this man had noted his approach or that this man knew his title!

“And it took ye long enough to find me,” the man bellowed. “Not that ye would have had I not piped for yer tracking!”

“And who are you?” the ranger called.

“Bradwarden the Piper,” the man answered proudly. “Bradwarden the Woodsman. Bradwarden the Pine Father. Bradwarden the Horse Tender. Bradwarden the . . .”

He stopped as Elbryan came out from behind the tree, the ranger rightly sensing that this introduction could go on for some time. “I am called Nightbird,” he said, though he figured that this man somehow already knew that.

The tall man nodded, smiling still. “Elbryan Wyndon,” he added, and Elbryan nodded, then stared dumbfoundedly when he considered the implications of that long-lost name. To everyone in Dundalis with the exception of Belster O’Comely, Elbryan was known only by the name the elves had given to him.

“Might be that the animals telled me,” Bradwarden remarked. “I’m smarter than I look, not to doubt, and older than ye’d guess. Might be the animals, might be the plants.” Bradwarden stopped and offered an exaggerated wink that Elbryan, still a fair distance down the hill, saw clearly. “Might be yer uncle.”

The ranger rocked back on his heels, unable to find even the words to ask the obvious questions. He was wary, though not afraid, and he continued up the hill, testing every step before he shifted his weight, as if he expected the place to be trapped.

“Ye should’ve killed the three,” the piper went on.

Elbryan shrugged, not understanding.

“Paulson and his cronies,” the tall man went on. “Nothing but trouble. I’d been thinking o’ killing them meself, when I seen an animal chewing off its leg in one o’ their wicked catchers.”

Elbryan started to respond that he had eliminated the cruel traps, but the words were stuck in his throat. As he came around the low brush, he noted the hind quarters of a horse, noted that the man was mounted. As he came around another step, he saw that that was not the case, that the man, and no mount, had been the source of the tracks.

For Elbryan, Nightbird, who had battled fomorian giants and goblins, who had lived with the elves, the sight of a centaur was not completely unsettling. It brought many questions, though, too many for poor Elbryan to begin to sort out. And it brought, too, a memory of a piping song while he and Pony had stood quiet on the slope outside of Dundalis, and he recalled, too, the stories of the Forest Ghost, half man and half horse, that he had enjoyed as a child.

“They be nothing but trouble,” Bradwarden remarked distastefully. “And I’ll kill them if one more scream of me animal friends reaches me ears!”

Elbryan didn’t doubt the claim for a minute. There was something too matter-of-fact about the centaur’s tone, something dispassionate, removed from humanity. A shudder coursed the ranger’s spine as he imagined what this powerful beast, easily eight hundred pounds and cunning enough to completely avoid the ranger for all these weeks, might do to Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk.

“Well, Elbryan the Nightbird, have ye an instrument to join with me pipes?”

“How do you know of me?” the ranger demanded.

“Now if we’re both for asking questions, then we’re neither to be getting any answers,” Bradwarden scolded.

“Then you answer mine,” the ranger demanded.

“But I already did,” Bradwarden insisted. “Might be—”

“Might be that you are avoiding an answer,” Elbryan interrupted.

“Ah, me little human laddie,” Bradwarden said with that disarming smile, though it surely seemed condescending coming from so far on high, “ye’d not be wanting me to give up me secrets, now would ye? What fun would ye have then?”

Elbryan relaxed and let down his guard. One of his friends had told Bradwarden of him, he figured, one of the elves, most likely Juraviel. Either that, Elbryan decided, or the centaur had eavesdropped when the young man was at Oracle, for Bradwarden knew of Uncle Mather, and of the “little cave.” In any case, Elbryan felt in his heart that this was no enemy standing before him, and he thought it more than mere coincidence that this very day, for the first time since he had come to the region, he had hinted openly of his feelings of loneliness.

“I trampled me a deer this morning,” the centaur said suddenly. “Come along for a meal then; I’ll even let ye cook yer part!” With that, the centaur took up his pipes and started a rousing military march, thundering away on powerful legs. Elbryan ran full out, constantly seeking out shortcuts in the thick underbrush, just to keep pace.

They were not alike, very different in so many ways. True to his words, Bradwarden allowed Elbryan to start a fire and cook his venison, while the centaur ate his portion, nearly a quarter of the deer, raw.

“I do hate killing the damn things,” the centaur said, ending his sentence with a resounding belch. “So cute they be, and appealing to one of me body in more ways than ye’d know. But fruits and berries are naught but ticklings. I’m needing meat to fill me belly.” He rubbed a hand across his stomach, at the point where his human torso connected with the equine bottom half. “And I’ve considerable belly to fill!”

Elbryan shook his head and smiled—all the wider when Bradwarden belched again, a great, thunderous burp.

“You have been in the region all the while?” Elbryan asked. “And I never spotted you nor found any sign.”

“Don’t ye be too hard on yerself,” the centaur replied. “I been in the region longer than yer father’s father was alive. And what might ye spot? A hoofprint or me droppings? Ye’d think them both that of a horse, though if ye inspected the droppings a bit more, ye’d find that me diet’s not quite the same as me horsie friends.”

“And why would I look closer?” Elbryan asked, a sour expression on his face.

“Dirty business, that,” Bradwarden agreed.

The ranger nodded, forgiving himself for missing the signs.

“Besides,” Bradwarden went on, “I knew ye were coming, and ye didn’t know I was here. Unfair advantage, I’d call it, so don’t ye go chastising yerself.”

“How did ye—you know?”

“A little birdie telled me,” the centaur replied. “Sweet little thing that says her name twice in a row.”

Elbryan’s face crinkled at the cryptic statement, but he just shook his head, thinking that it really wasn’t that important. Even as he started to ask a question in a completely different direction, he remembered a certain friend who fit the description. “Tuntun,” he stated more than asked.

“Aye, that’s the one.” Bradwarden laughed. “She warned me not to expect too much from ye.”

“Indeed,” the ranger said dryly.

“So I telled her that I’d be watching over ye,” the centaur went on. “Though I’ve come to know that ye don’t need much watching.”

“Then you are elf-friend,” Elbryan said, hoping to find some common ground.

“Elf-acquaintance, I’d be calling it,” the centaur replied. “They’re a good sort for the wine, and they respect the animals and the trees, but they’re too much for giggling and too long on manners!” To accentuate his point, he let fly the loudest belch Elbryan had ever heard. “Never heared an elf’s belly-thunder!”

Bradwarden laughed riotously, then hoisted a huge skin and poured an amber-colored liquid—Elbryan recognized it as boggle—into his mouth, a considerable amount splashing over his bearded face.

“Ye should’ve killed them,” the centaur said suddenly, spraying more than a little wine with each word.

Elbryan, thinking Bradwarden to be referring to the elves, crinkled his brow incredulously.

“The three men, I mean,” the centaur clarified. “Paulson, Cric, and . . . what’s the third, then? Weasel?”

“Chipmunk.”

The centaur snorted. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Ye should’ve killed them, all three. No respect, I say, and nothing but trouble.”

“Then why has Bradwarden tolerated them?” Elbryan asked. “They have been in the area for some time, I would guess, considering their lodgings, and obviously you knew of them.”

The centaur nodded at the simple logic. “I been thinking of it,” he admitted. “But they didn’t give me an excuse. And,” he paused and offered a sly wink, “don’t ye fear, for I’m not overly fond o’ human flesh.”

“You have tasted it then?” Elbryan reasoned, not taking the bait.