Robert Salvatore - Mortalis

The five monks had lingered longer than they had planned and now understood, to their alarm, that they would not get back into St. Precious before daylight. They moved with all speed in their flower-sewn robes, like walking tussie-mussie beds. They moved to each street corner carefully, peeking around, making sure that they would not rush onto the next lane into a host of plague victims. Those folk of Palmaris weren't pleased with the Abellican Church at that time.

Brother Anders Castinagis, leading the group this morning, breathed a little easier when the wall containing the secret back entrance of St. Precious at last came into view. He could have brought his brethren around in a wide loop to avoid being seen by the host encamped before the abbey, but Castinagis figured that such a delay might prove even more dangerous. He led them, then, across the boulevards to the side of the square.

Cries rang out behind them, but Castinagis wasn't overconcerned, for he had known before this last expanse that they would not make the run without being spotted. But he was confident, too, that he and his four companions could get through the back door before any of the roused plague victims got anywhere near them.

They hustled off, trotting along the wall toward the door, glancing back confidently.

They should have looked ahead.

Coming around the corner at the back of the abbey, running fast and with obvious purpose, came a host of black-robed, red-hooded monks.

Castinagis skidded to a stop. He saw the crack of the concealed door-a portal that would not be noticed by anyone who didn't know it was thereand measured the distance immediately against the speed of the approaching band.

He dropped his supply-laden pack, crying for his brethren to do the same, and sprinted away, calling out for the door to be opened.

And it was, a crack, and Castinagis could have gotten there ahead of the approaching Brothers Repentant, but his companions could not, he recognized, and so he burst right by the door, meeting the charge of the leading red-hooded monk. "Get in!" he cried as he went.

Anders Castinagis was a fine fighter, a big and strong man with fists of stone and a jaw that could take a punch. He had trained well at St.-MereAbelle, was graduated from the lessons of arts martial near the top of his class.

He did not know that now he was about to battle his instructor.

He came in hard, thinking to knock the leading attacker back, hit him quickly a few times, then wheel back to join his brethren inside.

His surprise was complete when the first punch he threw, a straight right, got picked off cleanly, a hand snapping up under his wrist, catching hold and easily turning his arm over. Castinagis tried to ward with his free left hand as his opponent came forward, right hand positioned like a serpent's head aiming to strike his throat.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the red-hooded monk brought his straight-fingered hand out to the side, then kicked Castinagis' twisted elbow, shattering the bone. As Castinagis moved his free hand down to grasp at the pain, that serpentlike hand snapped in against his exposed throat.

He felt himself falling, but then he was caught, a strong hand clamping tightly over his face, and he knew no more.

Marcalo De'Unnero thought to drop his catch when he noted the fighting by the back door of St. Precious. His brethren had run past him and the monks from inside the abbey, knowing a brother to be trapped outside, had come pouring out to meet the charge.

Also, farther back but closing fast, came the angry mob, throwing stones and shouting curses. And behind them came the clatter ofhoofbeats, of city guardsmen, De'Unnero knew.

It was all too beautiful.

He hoisted the half-conscious monk up under his arm and dragged him down one side alley, and many of his brothers followed.

And so began the impromptu trial of Anders Castinagis, with De'Unnero, Brother Truth, holding him up as an example of the errors of the world, an Abellican monk who, like all the brown-robed churchmen, had fallen from the path of God and had thus brought the rosy plague down among them all. The plague victims wanted to believe those words-needed someone to blame-and they came at poor Castinagis viciously, spitting at him and kicking at him.

Over by the abbey, there came the sound of a lightning stroke, and even more general rioting.

That would have been the bitter end of Anders Castinagis, but then a contingent of horsemen, city guard, turned into the alleyway and came charging down, scattering plague-ridden peasants and Brothers Repentant alike.

De'Unnero thought to make a stand against them, thought to leap astride the nearest horse and kill the soldier, but he understood that this was not a fight he wanted. He wasn't personally afraid, of course, but thus far the soldiers of Palmaris-and thus, implicitly, the Duke serving as ruler of the city-had not hindered the Brothers Repentant from their orations and their occasional attacks on the Behrenese. Better not to make them an enemy, the cunning De'Unnero understood.

He leaped out of the way of the nearest approaching soldier and yelled for a general retreat. There was no pursuit, for the soldiers likewise did not wish to do battle with De'Unnero and his group. No, they were merely acting as the law required them, to protect an Abellican brother.

From the end of the alley, the fierce monk watched the soldiers scoop up the battered form of Anders Castinagis and turn back for St. Precious, forming a tight, defensive ring about the monk and warding the angry peasants away.

De'Unnero smiled at the sight. He knew that while many were dying each day of the plague, the numbers of the discontented, of the outraged, would continue to swell. He knew that he would find many allies in his war against the Abellican Church-no, not the Abellican Church, he mused, for it was his intent to reestablish that very body in proper form. No, this incarnation of his beloved Church more resembled a Church of Avelyn, or of Jojonah.

He would remedy that.

One abbey at a time.

One burned abbey at a time.

"It was De'Unnero," Castinagis, lisping badly from a lip swollen to three times its normal size, insisted. " No one else could move like that, with such speed and precision."

"Rumors have named him as the leader of the Brothers Repentant," Abbot Braumin replied with a sigh.

"Then we expose him to the people of Palmaris," Viscenti chimed in eagerly.

The door of the audience chamber banged open then, and a very angry Duke Tetrafel stormed into the room. "How did you-" Abbot Braumin started to ask.

"His soldiers had just helped us, abbot," came a nervous remark from behind the Duke, from the brother who had been charged with watching the gate that day.

Abbot Braumin understood immediately; Duke Tetrafel had used the leverage of his soldiers' intervention to bully his way into the abbey. So be it, Braumin thought, and he waved the nervous young sentry monk away.

"You submitted to the gemstone inspection, of course," Braumin remarked, though he knew well that the Duke most certainly had not.

Tetrafel scoffed at the absurd notion. "If your monks tried to come to me with that stone of possession, my soldiers would raze your abbey," he blustered.

"We are allowed our rules and our sanctuary," Braumin replied.

"And did my soldiers not just allow several of your monks to get back into that sanctuary?" Tetrafel asked. "Your friend Brother Castinagis among them? He would have been killed in the gutter. Yet this is how you greet me? "

Braumin paused for a long while to digest the words. "My pardon," he said, coming around the desk and offering a polite bow. "Of course we are in your debt. But do understand that we have set up St. Precious as a sanctuary against the rosy plague, and to ensure that we must spiritually inspect everyone who enters. Even the brothers are subjected to such inspections, myself included, if we venture out beyond the tussie-mussie bed."