Robert Salvatore - Mortalis

"Follow Francis, all of us, to the fields and to the grave? " he asked dramatically. "Aye, and then, in our weakness, do we plunge the future world of Corona into complete and utter darkness!"

His departure was not less forceful or dramatic than Agronguerre's.

Master Glendenhook, along with everyone else, watched Bou-raiy storm away. He had just witnessed the prelude to a titanic struggle, Glendenhook believed, for it seemed obvious to him then that his friend Fio Bou-raiy would not back down, would fight Agronguerre to the very end if the sight of fallen Francis began to weaken the old Father Abbot's resolve.

An image of Agronguerre lying on the field in place of Francis came to Glendenhook's mind then, and with new Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy watching the spectacle from the security of St.-Mere-Abelle.

At that particular moment, it seemed quite plausible.

Brother Francis awakened to what he thought was the sound of angels singing, a chorus of joyous and beautiful harmonies fitting of heaven. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was indeed.

Scores of pitiful plague-ridden peasants ringed him, their hands joined together, their voices blended in chanting prayer. He recognized some who had been too weak even to stand earlier the previous night; but with the support of their neighbors, they were standing now and smiling, every one, despite their pain.

Francis rolled to his side and with great effort managed to stand up, turning slowly, slowly, looking into the eyes of his angels, sharing their love and returning it with all his heart.

A fit of panic hit him then suddenly, as he realized that he did not have his precious soul stone. He glanced all around at the ground, hoping that someone from St.-Mere-Abelle had not sneaked out and stolen away with it.

But then, as if in answer to the plaintive expression upon his face, a frail and scarred, one-eyed little woman shuffled toward him with her hand extended, the gray stone upon her upraised palm.

"Thank you, Merry," Francis whispered, taking the stone. "My work is not yet done." "They're praying for yerself, Brother Francis," Merry replied. "Every one's sending ye his heart. Ye take yer stone and work upon yer own troubles."

Francis smiled, but knew that was impossible, even if he had been so inclined, which he was not. He knew that he had the plague, and understood that it was growing ravenously within him, but Brother Francis was not bothered terribly by that harsh reality.

"We're all singing for ye, Brother Francis," Merry Cowsenfed went on. When he looked more closely at her, Francis realized that she had tears rimming her eye.

Tears for him! Francis had a hard time catching his breath. He could not believe how profoundly he had touched these poor people, could not believe that they so cared for him. He looked at them, looked at the dying, at people he could not save, at people who knew that he could not save them. And they were crying, for him! And they were praying, for him!

"We're not to let the rosy plague take ye, Brother Francis," Merry Cowsenfed said determinedly. "We'll pray to God, we'll yell at God! He's not to be takin' ye from us! Don't ye fear, we'll get ye yer miracle!"

Francis looked at her and offered the most sincere and warm smile that had ever found its way onto his often troubled face. No, they would not save him, he knew beyond doubt. He felt the sickness in him, bubbling and boiling. He could do nothing against it, even with his soul stone, and neither could they. It would take him, he knew, and deliver him to the feet of God for judgment.

For the first time in a long, long while, Brother Francis Dellacourt did not fear that judgment.

"We'll get ye yer miracle!" Merry Cowsenfed said again loudly, and many people joined in that cheer.

They didn't understand, Francis realized. They would indeed give him his miracle, but not the one for which they were now praying.

They would indeed give him his miracle-they already had.

He heard the cries, the angry shouts, and the sound only spurred him on. As he approached the abbey, he heard the rattle of armor and the clatter of horses.

Marcalo De'Unnero slowed his pace, and so, too, did the Brothers Repentant behind him, figuring that the soldiers of the Duke Tetrafel had come to restore order yet again. Still, he continued toward the abbey, hoping that he might find some opportunity to make life a little more miserable for Braumin Herde and the other heretics who had stolen St. Precious.

Turning into the square, De'Unnero's eyes brightened considerably, for he saw that the soldiers-and it seemed as if the entire city guard had turned out-were not impeding the peasants in any way. In fact, many were cheering on the ragged rabble as they, one after another, charged the abbey and launched stones at its unyielding walls.

It was a situation that seemed to De'Unnero to be on the verge of severe escalation.

He turned to his fanatical brethren. "Our call has been heard at last," he said eagerly. "The hour of our glory is upon us. Let us go to them, our flock, and lead them against the heretics!"

The Brothers Repentant squealed as one, raising fists into the air and charging out onto the courtyard before St. Precious, their red hoods over their heads, their black robes flying out behind them.

De'Unnero was taking a chance, and he knew it. The soldiers, he believed, would not stop him and his followers. Not this time.

"The Brothers Repentant," Anders Castinagis said with a growl. "Marcalo De'Unnero."

Braumin Herde watched the mounting insanity, the growing riot. "Duke Tetrafel is over there," he said, motioning across the way, to where a decorated coach could be seen behind the line of stern-faced soldiers. "He allows this."

"He is angry and afraid," Brother Talumus remarked.

"He is a fool," Castinagis added.

"Can we not just reveal him?" Brother Viscenti asked nervously. "De'Unnero, I mean. They hate him. Surely they'll not follow him if they know…"

"They fear the plague more than they hate De'Unnero," Abbot Braumin reasoned, shaking his head. "We can reveal him, and likely that will weaken his hold over some. But it will do little to help us in the end, for this riot was incited not by the Brothers Repentant but by Duke Tetrafel."

The blunt inference, though it made perfect sense, unnerved them all.

"I told you before that we had lost the city," Braumin went on. "Now, before us, we have the proof."

"They'll not get through our walls," Brother Castinagis said determinedly. "Not if all the Duke's soldiers charge our gates."

"We will beat them back," Viscenti started to agree.

"No," said Braumin Herde. "No, I will not have the walls of St. Precious stained with the blood of terrified peasants."

"Then how?" Brother Castinagis asked above the tumult that ensued from the abbot's surprising statement. Had not Braumin, after all, already determined that St. Precious would defend itself against all attacks?

Abbot Braumin nodded, his expression showing the other monks that he knew something they did not-that he, perhaps, had found an answer. "Restraint, brothers," he finished and he left them, walking briskly down the corridor leading toward his private chambers. After a confused look at the others, Marlboro Viscenti quickly followed his old friend.

He caught up to the abbot inside the private antechamber, finding Braumin fumbling with the keys to his desk drawer-the one containing most of St. Precious' gemstone stash.

"So you will arm the brothers," Viscenti reasoned as his abbot slid open the all-important drawer. "But you just said-"

"No," Braumin corrected. "I will not have the blood of innocents staining our walls."

"But then…" Viscenti started to ask, but he stopped short as he saw the abbot take only a single stone from the desk, a gray stone.