The cave was comfortable, with enough ventilation for several small fires, though the only exit large enough for a person was through water. Those fires were needed, to take the chill out of bones and the wetness from clothes soaked in the cold waters of the Masur Delaval.
Elbryan huddled under a blanket with Pony all through the night, holding her, reminding her how much he loved her, and trying with all his heart to make her understand that he held no anger toward her for her decision to leave him, and certainly did not blame her for the loss of their child.
Every time he mentioned that child, he felt Pony stiffen, felt tension surge through her otherwise weary limbs.
None in the cave got much sleep, though they had no way of knowing what time of day or night it was. For light, they remained wholly dependent on the fires - which were burning low since they had not much fuel and had to conserve it. They did not know how long they would have to remain in the cave.
Elbryan woke first and lay still, staring at Pony. She seemed so gentle in slumber, the beautiful young woman he had first kissed on the north slope of Dundalis, on the day the goblins had come, the day that both of them had been orphaned. He remembered the first time he had seen her again after their long separation, when she had gone with Avelyn back to Dundalis.
She seemed no less beautiful to him now, and that amazed him when he considered all the trials and tragedy they had witnessed, all the losses that Pony, in particular, had suffered. He reached to stroke that smooth face, and Pony opened a sleepy eye to regard him. Elbryan rolled toward her, meaning to embrace her, but she sat up suddenly and Elbryan felt her arm muscles tighten.
"Let go of your anger," he bade her softly.
Pony looked at him as if he had just betrayed her.
"The fight is ended for this day," the ranger tried to explain. "We will steal away - "
"No," Pony interrupted, shaking her head.
"We cannot possibly win."
"Perhaps I do not need to win," Pony replied with such coldness as to give the ranger pause. He shook his head and moved to hug her once more, but again she pushed him away.
"I had a child within me," she explained. "Your child, our child. And he took it. Markwart murdered our child, as he murdered my parents."
Brother Braumin crawled over to the couple then, and Elbryan and Pony realized that the others had been listening.
"Come with me," Braumin offered to Pony, holding out his hand. "I will bestow upon you the blessing of Communal Prayer, that you might find contentment."
Pony shrank from that offered hand and stared at the monk incredu-lously. "Markwart," she said, "the Father Abbot of your Church murdered my baby, my innocent child, within my womb."
"He is not my Father Abbot," Brother Braumin tried to explain, but Pony, so full of venom, wasn't listening.
"You do not understand the depth of his evil," she went on. "I have felt such a presence once before, in the bowels of a mountain far to the north, the same mountain where Markwart took you all as his prisoners."
She looked at Elbryan, who seemed surprised. "Yes," she said, nodding. "He is as strong and as wicked as ever was Bestesbulzibar."
"He is a man," Brother Braumin reasoned.
"Much more than a man!" Pony snapped back. "Much more, I say. And as Avelyn went into the darkness of Aida to battle the demon dactyl, though he believed that he could not win, so shall I battle Markwart once more, to repay him for his crimes against my child and to rid the world of his vile presence."
"But another day," the ranger insisted, "a day when he is not prepared to battle against us. When he is not surrounded by De'Unnero and the host of monks, by the King and the Allheart Brigade."
Pony eyed him unblinking, but did not respond. The group all sat quiet as the morning - if it was morning - passed. Elbryan stayed near Pony, but he did not question her further. He had never seen her this angry, not even after the rescue of Bradwarden at the end of the last summer, when she had tried to turn back and storm into St.-Mere-Abelle. All he could do to help her now was to support and to trust her, and to try, desperately, to keep her as far away as possible from the unbeatable enemies they had made.
That task seemed more difficult when a Behrenese man surfaced in the cave later that morning. "They are tearing the city apart," he gasped, crawling out of the cold water to the stone floor. "TheSaudi Jacintha fled from port, but a host of warships overtook her and destroyed her sails, then dragged her back in. Captain Al'u'met and many of my people have been taken prisoner."
"By King or Church?" Elbryan asked, and the dark-skinned man stared at him as if he did not understand the significance of the question.
"The warships were of King Danube's fleet," the man replied. "But the monks, too, have dragged many from the streets. And it was a host of monks ..." The man paused and turned a sympathetic look over Pony, something that the others did not miss.
"Your little friend told us," the man stammered.
"Told you what?" Pony demanded angrily.
"The tavern where you lived," the Behrenese man explained. "It was burned to the ground. Even now they sift through its ashes."
Pony closed her eyes, a low sound - both growl and groan - escaping her lips.
"What of Belster?" Elbryan asked with concern.
"He is in hiding," the man replied, "beside the others from the place. But they fear, we all fear, that they will soon be caught."
"Bring him here," Brother Braumin said, trying hard to help.
"We cannot," the dark-skinned man explained. "It was dangerous even for me to come to you, for the soldiers and monks are everywhere. We must advise you to flee, however you may. They have taken many folk, and it is rumored that the secret of the caves may have already been given to one of the interrogating jailors. Beware of visitors," he added grimly. "And not just visitors in the flesh, for the monks with their evil magic are sending theirchezchus ..." He paused, searching for the right translation of the yatol term. "Their spirits?" he asked.
Pony nodded. "They are spirit-walking," she explained.
"Through walls," the Behrenese man explained. "No one is safe!"
"We must get out," Brother Castinagis reasoned.
"But the city is no doubt buttoned down," Brother Dellman replied.
"All the wall is patrolled by monks and soldiers, hundreds of soldiers," the Behrenese man agreed.
"The river then," the ranger remarked. "In the dark of night, we will leave the cave, but stay in the water, floating, swimming, downstream, and hope to climb to a bank far to the south of Palmaris."
"The river, too, is heavily guarded," the Behrenese man warned. "The King's warships are all about."
"They'll not see a head bobbing in the nighttime water," Elbryan replied. "And what of you? Are you to leave us again? Do you have anywhere to run?"
The man bowed, recognizing and appreciating the ranger's offer that he remain with them. "My duty is to my people," he explained. "I came only to warn you. The sun is past its zenith, though not yet halfway to the west. May Chezru go with you."
Even the Abellican monks, men who denied the yatol interpretation of Chezru as God, accepted the spirit of that blessing with gratitude.
"Tell Belster of our plan," Elbryan instructed the man, "and inform our friends, the small man and his smaller companion, if you can get word to them."
The man nodded, and dove back into the water.
If the mood in the cave that morning had been somber, it was worse now, with hope fading fast. Now they had to accept, every one of them, that their defiance of Markwart was costing many other citizens of Palmaris dearly.
Elbryan kept watch over Pony, who would not sit still. She reached for the pouch of gemstones; the ranger moved to intercept, but the glare Pony put over him backed his hand away.
Pony pulled open the pouch and dumped the stones on the blanket in front of her. They were all there, she recognized soon enough - even the magnetite she had fired through Markwart's ugly face. As Roger had said, they had kept all the evidence together.
She scooped the soul stone into her hand, clenching her fist tight as the ranger's hand came over to grab at it. He got her by the wrist instead, holding her firmly and moving around to face her directly.
"Where do you intend to fly?" he asked.
"Where is the dog Markwart?" she replied coldly.
"You would go to him now, with all of us trapped in this place?" the ranger asked. "If he follows you back, then the rest of us will pay for your risk."
Pony unclenched her fist and let the stone fall to the blanket, defeated. "I could go out carefully and scout," she offered as Elbryan began scooping the stones back into the pouch, the ranger shaking his head before she finished.
So they sat quietly. The monks formed a circle and began to pray, and asked if Elbryan and Pony wanted to join. The ranger turned a hopeful look over Pony, thinking that prayer might be just what she needed, but she shook her head and turned away.
Elbryan waited a while, let the rhythmic, soothing chanting fill the small cave, then moved again in front of his wife, drawing her gaze with an unthreatening, disarming, and amazingly peaceful grin. "Have I told you of Avelyn's miracle?" he asked calmly.
The woman nodded; it had been all the talk along their corridor of cells.
"Not just what happened," the ranger explained, "but how it happened. How the spirit of our dear friend came to me on that plateau, bringing comfort and peace."
Pony matched his smile with a wry grin. "Where was he when Markwart came?" she asked sarcastically.
Elbryan let it roll off his strong shoulders, reminding himself of the depth of her pain. He started to recount the story of the goblin fight again, offering insights at every critical point, and hinting that those insights had been inspired by Avelyn. He knew that any reminder of the times before their first journey to Mount Aida, when their lives seemed so much simpler, their common purpose so visible, would help to bring her to a better emo-tional place.
It seemed to be working, and Pony even managed a smile, but then the water churned and Roger Lockless appeared.
"You should not be here!" the ranger scolded, moving to pull his friend from the water. "I told you to distance yourself - "
"At the price of friendship, I had to come," Roger retorted. "For Juraviel told me that you are found, that Markwart knows of the caves, and even as we speak, a force begins its march to the Masur Delaval!"
Everyone in the cave started scrambling, gathering their belongings, stripping their clothes and tying them in tight bundles.
"Get out! Get out!" Roger cried frantically. "And be quick!"
"The path leads to the north, but that is not our course," Elbryan instructed them all. "Stay low in the water and go the other way, along the bank to the south. Hug the rocks, use them to hide, and be quiet!"
Into the water went Braumin, then, one after another, Viscenti, Casti-nagis, and Dellman. In went Roger, after grabbing Elbryan's wrist and squeezing tightly.
"I love you," Elbryan said to Pony as she moved by him to the water's edge.
She looked back at him and managed a warm smile. "I know," she replied, and in she went.
Following the guide ropes set by the Behrenese, the seven had no trouble navigating the cave entrance and getting out into the open waters of the Masur Delaval. The first out, Braumin and Viscenti, started south as the ranger had instructed, with the other two monks and Roger following closely.
When Pony surfaced, however, she did not stop at the water's edge, but continued up, moving right out of the water, floating up the side of the cliff face, using her free hand to guide her.
As soon as Elbryan broke the surface, he understood. The woman had called upon her malachite gemstone. The woman was going after Markwart!
"Pony!" he called, but she did not look back.
Elbryan scrambled for the bank and pulled himself from the water, rushing to dress. Roger and the monks came out behind him.
"Go, go!" Elbryan bade them. "Flee to safety and bear witness."
But none of them listened. The ranger had to go after Pony out of love, and the others were similarly bound to both of them.
Pony got to the cliff top, in almost exactly the same spot along the fence where she had battled the Behrenese scouts. She paused long enough to dress, to sort through her gemstones, and to consider the daunting road before her. She knew that Markwart would be at Chasewind Manor - the man hadn't gone to St. Precious in all the time Pony had been in Palmaris - and she knew the way to the Bildeborough house. But it was evident, even from this remote corner of the city, that her path would not be clear. She could hear the commotion in the town, the thunder of hooves, the screams, and she saw plumes of black smoke wafting in the evening air.
Pony looked west across the town, to the sun hanging low in the sky. Dusk was settling over the city, but it was still too light for her to pass unseen. Yet she could not wait for night.
But how? she wondered, looking again to her gemstones. Perhaps she should go after Markwart spiritually, with the hematite.
Pony glanced back down the cliff, to see Elbryan and the others already moving off the riverbank, and knew that she could not leave her corporeal form so vulnerable to friend and foe alike. Her gaze focused on the lode-stone, the magnetite, the stone she had used against Markwart, the damning piece of evidence that would surely seal her doom should she ever go to trial.
She remembered what Bradwarden had hinted about that particular gem, about another use for its metal-attracting properties. She considered her diamond, which she could use to bring forth brilliant light, but could also use, she had learned in a battle at Caer Tinella, to create an absence of light.
The woman clenched the lodestone in one hand, ruby, serpentine, graphite, malachite, and hematite in the other and began her determined march, not moving from shadow to shadow, behind the cover of buildings, but walking straight and proud in open defiance.
The path was not straight for Elbryan and the others, for the streets, right down to the wharves, bustled with mounted soldiers, and more than two dozen Ursal warships, fully crewed, were tied to the piers.
They went from shadow to shadow, as swiftly as the ranger could manage. Roger rushed out to the side, motioning to Elbryan that he would scout the flank, and on they ran. They found allies, Prim O'Bryen among them, who bade Elbryan follow him to a safe place, but the ranger ran on, and the monks did not hesitate to follow.
Soon others were running, too, in the same general direction. Belster, and Prim, Heathcomb Mallory and Dainsey Aucomb, and many others, allies of Elbryan and Pony, or allies of Markwart, and even those neutral in the war who were, merely curious about the moving crowd.
As soon as she came into the city, just west of the docks, Pony found All-heart soldiers all about her. She kept her determined course, trying to appear inconspicuous, for, given the chaos of the day, the burning of build-ings and the rousting of innocents from their homes, the streets were fairly packed with peasants rushing this way and that.
But she was seen and recognized, and the call went up.
Pony found her concentration, found her rage, and launched it furiously into the lodestone.
She reversed the magic, as she had done with the diamond in Caer Tinella that night long ago, thus instead of focusing the attraction powers of the stone upon a single item, as she had done with Markwart's tooth, she sent out a general repellent power. Though she understood the magnitude of the energy she was sending into the stone, she had no idea of how strong the force might be until a pair of Allheart riders charged to block her path. Twenty feet away, their horses started to skitter and buck, then began sliding backward! The riders, eyes wide with confusion, jerked weirdly, grabbing tightly to the reins before they went flying away. Vendors' carts uprighted, metal-handled doors flew open - flew in, even if they were hinged to open out - and within the houses she heard the sur-prised cries of women, their pans flying about wildly.
It became insane, out of control. More soldiers approached, some run-ning, others riding. More soldiers went flying away. More horses skidded backward, some falling over, then sliding away on their sides.
Pony held to her focus, thought of her dead parents, of her dead child. She started to run, bowing her head, watching only the clearing path before her and trying hard to block out the sounds of confusion and destruction behind.
"Chaos, my King! Chaos!" the soldier cried, stumbling into the room where Danube and Constance quietly talked.
Duke Kalas rushed in on the messenger's heels.
"It is the woman, Jilseponie," the frantic soldier explained. "She moves openly through the streets with a power we do not understand, throwing us away before we can get near her!"
"Through the streets?" the King echoed. "Heading where?"
"Across the city to the west," the man cried. "Toward you, my King!"
Kalas started to cry out, but Danube cut him short, holding up his hand and shaking his head.
"To Chasewind Manor, more likely," Constance reasoned.
"She is after Markwart," the King agreed. "Prepare my carriage."
Constance tried to tell the King that he should remain protected. But Danube, like so many others in Palmaris that late afternoon, recognized that something momentous had begun here, and he would not be denied.
From the high wall encircling St. Precious' roof, Brother Talumus watched the commotion with mounting horror. He spotted Jilseponie moving determinedly along a distant street; he saw a pair of soldiers, and then a monk, go flying away from her as if they had stepped into a hurricane.
The level of magic awed him. He wondered what he had done in going to Master Engress, in beginning the course that had led to freedom for this one and her dangerous companions. They were supposed to run away, into hiding in deep mountain holes, never to be seen again.
But Talumus recognized that Jilseponie was not running away now, and knew instinctively where she was going.
Out from the abbey went Talumus and many other monks, running to the side of their Father Abbot.
In a darkened room deep within St. Precious, Belli'mar Juraviel kept his head down and waited for the tumult to subside. He had come in secretly, down an unused chimney, immediately after instructing Roger to go and warn their friends, thinking to rescue Tempest and Hawkwing, the elven weapons that did not belong in the hands of Markwart's Abellican Church.
He had hoped to meet his friends again, on the quiet fields north of the city. But in listening to the words of the scrambling monks that rushed out-side the door of the small room, the elf knew that he would find no such enjoyment.
And now, worst of all, Juraviel had to sit quietly and wait until he could make his escape from the fortified abbey.
At an intersection not far from the abbey, Brother Talumus and his group found another band of monks running their way. De'Unnero and some of the monks from St.-Mere-Abelle had gone out to the fields north of Palmaris to search for signs of the escaped prisoners, and they, like everyone else in the city, it seemed, had come to learn of the brewing disaster.
"It is the woman," Talumus explained as the abbot ran to him.
De'Unnero considered the commotion all about him, the pointing fin-gers, the rushing soldiers and peasants, and turned west, toward the wealthier section of Palmaris, toward Chasewind Manor, and ran off at full speed.
And all the city swirled behind him, behind Pony, moving to converge on the great manor that used to house their beloved Baron and now held the dignitaries of the Abellican Church.
Too many soldiers and too many monks. They had not even reached the merchant section when a cry rang out and a host of monks charged at them. The group split apart on the ranger's orders. Brother Castinagis was caught almost immediately, though he put up a terrific fight and managed to drop two monks to the ground before being pulled down.
Brother Viscenti, surrounded, weapons leveled his way, threw up his hands in surrender, and then Braumin went down, offering no resistance other than begging his fellow monks to bear witness to this, to learn the truth of Markwart.
A monk leaped in front of Nightbird, dropping into a sudden crouch and spinning, leg flying high.
The ranger ducked and hit the foolish monk with a punch in the chest that seemed almost to break the man in half, and sent him shuddering down to the ground.
Another monk leaped in from the side, flying for the ranger's head. Nightbird caught him in midair and used his momentum to throw him far to the side, crashing into a vendor's cart of fish.
On ran the ranger, pained to see his friends pulled down behind him. Only Dellman was still running, and then he, too, was stopped, surren-dering at the point of an Allheart soldier's spear.
Nightbird heard the clamor of horses coming down a side street and, fearing a patrol of soldiers, swerved aside down an alley.
But then he heard Roger's cry for him to come back, and he spotted his friend waving to him from a rooftop.
The horses were riderless, a stampede that seemed almost fitting in the wildness of the moment. Nightbird motioned to Roger, then ran to catch a horse.
"Oh, but I'd be a better ride than that old nag!" came a familiar, most- welcomed voice, and Nightbird focused on the sound just as Bradwarden threw the blanket from his telltale human torso, revealing himself.
He thundered by, and the ranger leaped atop his back.
"Chasewind Manor!" the ranger yelled.
"Ye think I'm not knowin'?" the centaur yelled back. "Even the damned horses knew!"
The gates of Chasewind Manor were closed and chained - the great metal gates of Chasewind Manor.
Pony winced, for a monk moved right behind them as she neared, and when her repelling magic blew the gates wide, snapping the chain, the poor man got smashed hard and thrown backward.
He lay on the ground, groaning, as Pony strode by.
Three others came out to face her. The first held a metal-tipped spear, which promptly snapped back into his face, dropping him straight to the ground, and then flying away as if it had been launched by the mightiest of ballistae. The second monk, having the misfortune of wearing a metal ring, assumed a fighting stance, then flailed wildly as he followed the spear.
But the third carried no metal and held his ground - until grim-faced Pony calmly held out her other hand and laid him low with a stroke of lightning.
Inside the great house, Bishop Francis and Abbot Je'howith scrambled to warn the Father Abbot. They found him sitting comfortably in his throne in the great audience hall.
They tried to tell him to flee.
Markwart, who wanted this confrontation as much as Pony wanted it, laughed at them. "Hinder her not," he instructed. "And know that when this day is through, our power will be even greater in Honce-the-Bear. Begone!"
The two monks, confused and frightened, glanced nervously at each other and ran off.
The King's carriage, surrounded by Allheart horsemen, thundered through the blasted gate just as Pony entered the house.
"There!" Duke Kalas cried to his soldiers, pointing to the woman. "Stop her!"
"No!" the King countermanded, and then he motioned for Kalas to sit beside him. "Let us see how this plays out," Danube explained to the sur-prised Duke. "This has been Markwart's fight from the beginning."
More soldiers, more monks, and even common folk, rushed into the courtyard.
"To the wall!" came the cry of a soldier, and all eyes turned to see the huge centaur crash through the hedge at the top of the eight-foot wall. Bradwarden could not make the leap cleanly, though he managed to get his forelegs and the bulk of his torso over the barrier before crashing. Then he and his rider rolled over, falling to the ground, Nightbird kicking far away from the tumbling centaur.
"Oh, but that hurt," Bradwarden groaned, struggling to rise. Nightbird started for him, but the centaur, seeing soldiers and monks closing fast, waved him away. "Go to her!" he cried.
Nightbird turned to face a soldier charging in with sword raised over-head, meaning to cleave the ranger's head in half.
Up came Nightbird's crossed arms, and he stepped forward, catching the man's hands on the downswing. He let the sword descend a bit lower, then threw it up high, punching the soldier in the face. Then he grabbed the man's arms and pulled the sword down again, knifing his hand between the sol-dier's hands, taking his sword. In the same devastating, brutally efficient movement, the ranger's free hand smashed the man on the side of the face and launched him sidelong to the ground.
Now Nightbird had a sword, and the door of the great house was in sight. But a dozen soldiers and twice that number of monks moved to block his path.
"Let him pass!" King Danube cried, standing tall in his carriage. Neither monk nor soldier dared to go against the man, their ranks parting as the ranger charged.
"Only him!" Danube called. "Ring the house and let no others enter!"
"You take a great chance," Constance remarked.
The look Danube gave her and Kalas was one of the coldest either of them had ever seen. "Damn Markwart," Danube quietly spat. "May Night-bird and Pony emerge as victors with the Father Abbot's head in hand."
Constance's eyes widened at the bold declaration, but Duke Kalas smiled and had to fight hard to stop himself from wrapping his King in a great hug.
Nightbird reached the door just as Je'howith and Francis came out. Francis moved to grab the ranger - and was promptly launched aside by a mighty punch, one that put him on his back on the grass.
Old Abbot Je'howith put up his hands and stepped aside.
"Ever the diplomat," King Danube remarked dryly.
The crowd converged on Chasewind Manor from every section of Pal-maris, wealthy merchants and lowly peasants; a crowd of St. Precious' monks, confused and some crying; even a gathering of Behrenese, chanting loudly for the release of Captain Al'u'met.
Duke Kalas moved his forces, soldiers and monks alike, into defensive formations, holding back the crowd. The Duke understood that this whole situation could explode into a riot. In that case, he informed his soldiers, the safety of the King was paramount, no matter who had to be trampled into the dirt.
For the most part, the crowd stayed back, though the yells intensified. One man, an Abellican monk, did run through the line of soldiers, sprint-ing for the manor house.
The soldiers stopped him before he reached the doors.
"Do you know who I am?" the monk cried
The nervous soldiers did indeed recognize the former bishop, and they glanced nervously at Kalas, who was far to the side. Despite De'Unnero's insistence and bullying, though, the Duke shook his head and the soldiers held their ground.
De'Unnero turned toward the King's carriage. "I demand - " he began.
"You demand nothing of me," King Danube cut him short. "Hold the house secure!" he cried to the soldiers. "None are to enter!"
De'Unnero broke away, sprinting for the door. When soldiers beat him to the mark, he continued his run around the front of the house, then along the side.
Duke Kalas instructed several men to follow, but he wasn't concerned, for Chasewind Manor had only two doors, the great front entrance and a smaller way in, also heavily guarded, on the side of the house opposite where the former Bishop had run.
Frustrated, De'Unnero ran frantically around to the back. Then he skidded to a stop looking up at the one window large enough to accommo-date a man.
But that window was thirty feet off the ground.
In front of the house, Brother Braumin and the other three monk prisoners were dragged through the gates by Allheart soldiers. Kalas ordered the men to take them away to a prison, but Danube overruled him.
"Let them stay," the King decided. "This may well determine their fate. Keep them secure, but allow them to bear witness."
Another man slipped onto the lawn as well, easily blending in with the crowd. Roger spotted Bradwarden immediately, the centaur standing but obviously wounded, held steady between two mounted Allheart soldiers.
Roger felt as trapped as his friend, for there seemed no way in. All he could do was stand and watch.
Once inside the manor house, the ranger had little trouble following Pony, for she had left a trail of devastation: twisted metal, blasted doors, shattered glass, and more than one groaning monk.
He went down the corridor into a great, pillared hall and up a wide, sweeping staircase. Then down another narrow hall and into the most deco-rated corridor in all the house. And at the far end of the long corridor, he spied a door, carved and decorated, and he knew without doubt that Pony was behind that portal.
And so was Markwart.
The soldiers came around the back corner, calling to the monk to stand his ground.
De'Unnero ignored them, and transformed his lower torso into the shape of the tiger. He glanced at the soldiers and snarled, and the men fell all over one another trying to keep back.
De'Unnero looked to the window. "You cannot escape," he heard one soldier say, and then he was flying, up, up.
On Nightbird ran, along the huge, decorated window overlooking the back gardens, thinking to put his shoulder down and barrel right into the room. But then he fell aside with a surprised cry as the window crashed in, De'Unnero, bursting into the hall.
In the blink of an eye, the two men faced off.
"So I get my wish," the former Bishop purred.
There he sat, so smug in his great chair, the embodiment of everything Pony hated, of everything she considered evil in humankind.
"Clever of you to get out of St. Precious," Markwart congratulated. "Master Engress died for that."
"You intend to kill everybody who opposes you," she replied, "destroy them all."
"If I must," said Markwart, leaning forward suddenly in his chair. "Because I am right, you fool. I speak to God."
"You speak to Bestesbulzibar, none other!" Pony snapped back, advancing undaunted. She lifted her arm, hematite in hand, and went into the stone eagerly, all her hatred leading the way.
But the spirit of Markwart was waiting for her, and though she hit it with all the momentum of her emotions behind her, managed to push the spirit back toward the physical form, it was but a temporary advantage.
Markwart, so powerful, held her at bay, retaliating with the power of a demon.
Nightbird knew the danger of De'Unnero, knew that he had to fight a long and progressive dance, gaining one tiny advantage at a time. From their previous battle, he understood that De'Unnero was his equal, or near it, and that every movement must lead to something stronger, for this was a game of strategy, not a test of speed.
One tiny advantage gained, leading to the next.
And yet, how could the ranger endure such a prolonged, calculating dance when that ornate door at the end of the hall beckoned to him, when he knew Pony was beyond that portal, facing Markwart, a foe who had beaten her before? How could he wait?
He charged powerfully at De'Unnero, closing ground and thrusting ahead with the unbalanced sword he had taken from the guard outside.
De'Unnero leapt above and to the side, and came back at once, forcing the ranger to dodge, throwing himself against the wall for balance and swiping the sword harmlessly across.
"He is torturing her," the monk teased, coming at the ranger, then sliding to the side, keeping between Nightbird and the door.
Nightbird didn't take the bait. He came off the wall calmly, in full bal-ance and control, reminding himself that he would do no good for Pony if he was lying dead out here. He skipped forward and stabbed, then fell back as De'Unnero, one arm now the arm of a tiger, countered with a sudden rush and swipe.
Forward came the ranger, but the monk had measured Nightbird's reach and was retreating cautiously before the sword could get anywhere near the mark.
And so it went, back and forth, with neither making any brazen offensive attacks and neither giving the other any opening.
But then, from within the room, Pony cried out.
De'Unnero's smile was wide as he turned his gaze from the ranger to consider the door.
Nightbird charged, stabbing and slashing.
And De'Unnero charged, feinting a leap then diving to the ground, a more comfortable approach for his tiger legs, skittering under the extended sword and smashing the side of the ranger's knee, claws hooking and tearing and throwing the man to the ground.
Nightbird rolled on his back and brought his sword up, forcing De'Unnero to skid to a sudden stop. The ranger used that break to roll backward, landing lightly on his feet and coming forward with two quick steps and a thrust to De'Unnero's shoulder. Had it been Tempest in the ranger's hand, the blade would have slashed right through, tearing muscle and splitting bone. But this sword nicked away.
Still, the monk reeled with the pain and fell back, clutching at his human arm with his tiger paw.
On came Nightbird, perfectly balanced. But he did not appreciate the true power of those feline legs. De'Unnero stumbled backward, then dug in his claws quickly - and launched himself at the ranger. He caught him between sword thrusts, slapped the blade aside, and drove on, slamming into him, locking Nightbird's arms at his sides in a powerful hug.
And that hug was all the more deadly since one of the monk's hands car-ried the daggerlike claws of a great cat.
Nightbird felt those claws digging into his back, near his kidney. With a great burst of strength, he believed that he could break the hold, but he rec-ognized that in doing so, De'Unnero's tiger paw would tear half his back away! He dropped his sword and squirmed to get one hand up under the tight hold.
De'Unnero clenched all the tighter, claws extending, stabbing deep holes.
But Nightbird had his right arm under the tiger paw, and worked slowly with his superior strength to throw the monk off balance, to force De'Un-nero to exert energy to keep his footing as well as his tight hold.
Now the ranger flexed his shoulders, weakening the monk's grasp. Iron- corded muscles stretched and pushed, the ranger moving himself so that his back followed the monk's tiger paw, while the human hand slipped farther and farther away.
Then he saw a change coming over the man's face, the transformation of his mouth into a great fanged maw.
Nightbird snapped his head forward suddenly, brutally smashing the monk's nose even as it elongated. He hammered his forehead in again, and then, knowing he was out of time, feeling the monk's other hand, too, becoming a clawed paw, he roared and threw his arms wide, accepting the agony as De'Unnero's claws scored deep lines across the side of his lower back, slashing all the way around to the side of Nightbird's rib cage.
The ranger's right hand slapped the changing face, while his other came in hard against De'Unnero's crotch. Grabbing a tight hold with both, screaming with every movement, the ranger spun, lifting De'Unnero from the ground, then slamming him hard against the wall. He pulled the monk back and slammed him again, and then a third time, despite De'Unnero's wildly slashing paws, one swipe of which caught the ranger on the side of the face, digging a line beside his eye.
Nightbird let the monk go with the third slam and launched a flurry of heavy punches, right and left repeatedly, to the monk's face and upper chest. Then he leaped back, paused, and lunged, forehead first, squarely into the middle of the monk's disfigured face.
De'Unnero's legs buckled, but the ranger wouldn't let it end so easily. One of his hands caught the chin, one the crotch, and up went the monk, high into the air. The ranger turned and rushed across the corridor, pur-posely aiming for a part of the great window the monk had not already broken, then heaved the dazed man through the glass to fall the thirty feet to the ground.
Lurching with pain, feeling his guts spilling out his side, Nightbird looked out the window and was satisfied when he saw that the dangerous creature lay still on the lawn, broken and bloody atop the sharp shards of glass.
Not even bothering to retrieve the sword, for he knew that such a weapon would be useless against Markwart - and knew, too, that his own strength was fast fading - Nightbird went for the door.
Their struggle, greater than on the darkened Palmaris field that terrible night, now became so intense that it transcended the spiritual, spilling over into the physical.
Outside the manor house, the crowd gasped as one and fell back, for the house thrummed with energy, lights flashing black and white, windows blowing out of their casings.
"Pray that Markwart does not emerge victorious," King Danube whispered to his two friends, and to Je'howith, who had moved near the carriage.
Kalas and Constance were already doing just that, and the old abbot, horrified by the spectacle before him, did not chastise the King.
Even Brother Francis, standing on the lawn, the closest man to the house, could only stare helplessly.
The door flew open and a pair of young monks staggered out, falling to the grass and crawling away, crying for mercy from God.
The stunned Francis did not dare to enter the place.
She had no child within her, no vulnerability, and so she fought with all her strength and all her rage.
But she could not win. Pony knew that. The spirit within Markwart was too strong, impossibly strong, and darker than anything she had ever known. She struggled valiantly, hit him with every ounce of energy and willpower she could muster, and held her ground as minute after minute slipped past.
The force of Markwart, surprised by the strength of the woman, came on and on, grew larger to tower over the woman's spirit, to engulf her as if to swallow her. Yet he could not, and so they struggled, and both of them knew that time worked against Pony, that she would tire first, despite her rage.
But then the woman felt a touch on her physical shoulder - and the tem-porary distraction sent Markwart's spirit driving her backward. It was a gentle touch, though, the stroke of a friend, of a lover, and then, somehow, a third spirit joined the pair, the specter of Nightbird, come to Pony's aid.
Both together then!Markwart telepathically imparted.Better to be done with both of you, to be rid of the troublesome pair. On he came, great bat-like wings sprouting from his spiritual shadow, rising up and towering over them.
Elbryan's spirit fell against Pony's, touching her, bonding in an embrace as intimate as any the couple had ever known.
On came Markwart. But now the two were one, linked spiritually as they had often usedbi'nelle dasada to link physically. Together they stopped the progress of the Father Abbot, together they pushed the dark spirit back toward its host. Each inch of ground cost them dearly, ate at their life forces, drained energy.
They pushed on, the ranger taking the lead, putting his spirit against the strikes of Markwart, accepting the punishment, for Elbryan knew some-thing that Pony did not, knew that his physical form was fast fading, his guts spilling, blood running. If he told her, or even let her know, she would rush from the fight and turn her attention with hematite to his wounds.
But Elbryan had known the sacrifice needed in coming into this battle, and he understood, too, that Pony could not afford such a retreat, that if she went to tend him, Markwart would destroy them both.
They were near Markwart now, and all three knew that to push the spirit back into its host, and then to follow it, meant victory. The Father Abbot dug in, roared at them telepathically and fought back.
Coldness engulfed the ranger's physical form. He felt it and understood what it foretold. This was the test of his faith, he knew, the test of all his training. This, the ultimate sacrifice, was what it meant to be a ranger.
By every instinct within him, he had to stop, had to tell Pony, had to live.
He drove on instead.
Markwart screamed, telepathically and physically. Elbryan heard it, but it seemed distant.
All the world seemed distant.
To those outside, it ended as a great burst of black light, a great dark flash, and then the house went quiet. Francis rushed in, as did Danube and his advisers, Roger and Bradwarden, and none moved to stop them. Almost as an afterthought, standing at the entryway, King Danube looked back and called to his soldiers to bring the prisoner monks. "For their lives surely hang in the balance," he explained.
At the back of the house, Belli'mar Juraviel paused only for a moment to consider the broken form of De'Unnero, then flew up to the window and the great hallway.
Pony felt the spirit of Markwart break apart and knew the man was defeated. Her joy became quickly tempered, though, as she felt another spirit diminish, as she watched Elbryan's life force fade fast before her. The woman came from her trance, back to her corporeal form, to see Markwart standing on shaky legs, staring at her in disbelief, to see Elbryan lying next to her, his body very still and very pale, surrounded by blood.
The woman fell over her lover, called to him desperately, tried to reach out for him with the hematite. But as she went down, all of her energy gone, she felt the floor come up after her, swallowing her in a profound blackness.
Markwart watched with horror. They had beaten him - no, not just him, but also that inner voice that had guided him for so long, a voice that he recognized now not as insight, but as a separate being! For now the Father Abbot knew the truth of it, and knew his life to be a lie, his course to be one of darkness and not redemption.
He could have killed them both, but that was the furthest thought from his mind at that terrible moment. He went to them, confused, and when he realized the man to be beyond his help and heard the noise of rushing feet down below in the house, he scooped the woman in his arms and moved, stiff-legged, to the door.
He came through, not even noticing the small form of the elf standing right beside it.
Poor Juraviel didn't know what to make of it. He heard Pony groan and sensed that the old man - and how old and battered Markwart appeared! - would not, could not, harm her further. No, something had happened to Markwart; the elf understood that the man would not live for long, that he had been beaten. He thought to put his sword into the man's back anyway, and refrained only because he realized the terrible conse-quences such an action might have for his folk. He started to go to Pony, thinking to take her away from the horrid wretch who had brought her so much pain, but then he saw his friend, who had been as his son, lying still on the floor.
Juraviel rushed to Elbryan's side. He tried to tuck the spilling guts back with his bare hands.
But it was too late, he knew.
The ranger opened his green eyes.
"Pony lives," Juraviel said, moving very close to the ranger's ashen face.
"She won," the ranger gasped. "The demon is purged." His eyes rolled back and closed and he drew in a deep breath.
"Your son!" Juraviel said to him, made him hear in the very last instants of his life. "Your son lives, in Andur'Blough Inninness, under the care of Lady Dasslerond!"
Elbryan's eyes opened, his grip tightening on the elf's arm, and he man-aged a smile.
And then he died.
Bishop Francis, first up the stairs and first into the grand corridor, came upon Markwart, walking stiffly, bearing Pony in his arms. The younger monk grabbed his mentor and took the burden, laying Pony gently on the floor, then catching the falling Markwart and easing his way down.
The others crashed into the hall behind him, Roger yelling out for Pony.
"I chose wrong," Markwart said to Francis, managing a weak smile. "With Jojonah, with Avelyn. Yes, with Avelyn. I should have recognized the truth."
"No, Father," Francis started to say.
Markwart's dark eyes opened wide and he grabbed Francis tightly, with strength beyond his broken frame. "Yes!" he hissed. "Yes! I chose wrong. See to my Church, dear Francis. Become the shepherd of the flock and not the dictator. But beware - " A convulsion hit the man hard, knocking him from Francis' grasp to fall back to the floor. The younger monk moved over him immediately, propping his head up.
"Beware!" Markwart said again. "Beware that in your quest for human-ism you do not steal the mystery of spiritualism."
Another convulsion wracked the man, and when it ended, the Abellican Church had no leader.
"She is alive!" Bishop Francis heard Roger cry behind him. He turned to see Roger working furiously over the woman - and to see Roger quietly pocket her gemstones in the process.
Behind the man and the prone woman stood King Danube and his advisers, with soldiers behind them keeping the monks at bay. But not Bradwarden. The centaur, wounded though he was, pushed through the Allheart line and past the King, heading for the room at the end of the hall. Some soldiers moved to pursue, but Danube motioned them back.
"The Father Abbot!" old Je'howith cried, coming through the door.
"Is dead," Bishop Francis answered softly.
"Assassin!" Je'howith shrieked. "The Father Abbot's blood demands justice! Guards!"
"Shut your mouth!" Brother Braumin insisted, pulling free of the soldier holding him - and King Danube motioned for the Allheart knight to step back and let the monk free. "If Dalebert Markwart is dead, it is because of the dark road he chose to walk!" Braumin declared openly.
"Sacrilege!" Je'howith yelled in the man's face, but the next order to shut up came from a most unexpected source.
"You heard the man tell you to be quiet, good abbot," Bishop Francis insisted. "We will discuss this matter at length among are own - at a college that we must quickly convene."
"Brother Francis!" Je'howith started to protest.
"But I warn you," Francis went on, ignoring the man, "if you side with dead Markwart against Brother Braumin and the others, I will go against you."
Je'howith stammered and stuttered, and had no reply. He looked to the King, but Danube offered no support.
Francis turned to Pony, and to Roger, who nodded that he believed the woman would live. "By the Father Abbot's own dying words," said Francis, "the time has come for change in the Church. Look at her, the disciple of Avelyn, named as an outlaw. And yet, I will nominate her as the Mother Abbess of the new Church."
"What foolishness is this?" Je'howith demanded.
"At the same time I nominate Brother Avelyn Desbris as a candidate for canonization," the surprising Bishop Francis added.
"St. Avelyn!" Brother Viscenti cried.
"Impossible!" shouted Je'howith.
"Why do we tolerate them, my King?" asked a disgusted Duke Kalas.
Danube managed a chuckle, for in truth, he had heard enough from the troublesome Abellican Church. "I hereby dismiss the office of bishop of Palmaris," he said, his tone leaving little room for debate. "And I warn you all. Put your house in order, else I shall do it for you. If a monk can assume the role of bishop, then similar precedents can place the King in the role of Father Abbot!"
Francis looked to Braumin and nodded determinedly.
Je'howith, catching the signal, wondered if he would survive with his position of abbot intact.
Bradwarden came out of the room then, bearing the body of Elbryan, and there would be no time of celebration for those who had known the man as friend and companion.
Brother Braumin and the other monks bowed their heads in respect. Roger fell over Pony, sobbing for himself and for her.
Outside the manor house, standing in the glass from the smashed window, Belli'mar Juraviel looked up one last time, his heart broken. He understood that it was time for him to return to Andur'Blough Inninness, time for him to run away from the humans and their foolish battles.
What he could not understand, though, was how the body of Marcalo De'Unnero had disappeared.
