he added, 'nor should ye be bringin' Symphony-he'll slow ye down more than help ye.'
'Wait here, then,' Pony replied, 'with Symphony. I'll take Dainsey alone tomorrow.'
'Long way for carrying,' Bradwarden remarked.
Pony nodded. So be it. They were long gone before first light, earlier than Pony had planned, for the night had been difficult on poor Dainsey. She was restless now, clawing at her clothing as if trying to escape somehow from that which she knew was coming.
And coming fast, Pony understood. She had seen people die-far too many people-and she realized after the turn of midnight that Death had come calling for Dainsey. And so she had set out, first on Symphony and then, when the trails became too difficult for the horse to serve any purpose, Pony turned him loose. She hoisted the woman onto her back and trudged on, forcing step after step as the minutes became an hour.
On she went stubbornly, pausing only for short rests. On one such break, she lay Dainsey down gently, thinking the woman asleep.
But then Dainsey's eyes opened wide.
'Dainsey? ' Pony asked, moving close, and she realized that Dainsey was not hearing her, was not seeing her. She waved her hand right before those eyes-oh, those eyes!
Nothing. Dainsey did not see her at all.
The woman began to thrash about, her arms waving.
'No, no,' Pony said. 'No, damn you, Death, you cannot have her! Not now! Not after all this way!'
But she knew. The end was upon Dainsey. Pony glanced all about desperately; small sounds escaped her throat, feral and angry, for they were but a hundred feet or so from the break in the mountain pass, and from that spot, she would be able to see Mount Aida and the plateau that held Avelyn's mummified arm. How could Death, how could God, have been so cruel as to let them get this close, a mile perhaps, from their goal?
'No, no,' Pony said over and over, and hardly thinking of the movement, the woman tore at her belt pouch violendy. Gemstones fell all about the ground, but one did not escape Pony's grasp. A gray stone, a soul stone.
She went into it, flew out of her own body, and charged into Dainsey's battered form. The plague was all about her, then, the stench and the images of rot.
Pony attacked, and viciously, her rage preventing her from even considering her own welfare. She tore at the soupy morass, slapped it down, scraped it from Dainsey's lungs. She fought and fought, throwing all her strength fully against the tiny demons.
And then she was done, sitting to the side, crying.
Dainsey was still alive-Pony had bought her some time, at least. But how much? And how could she hope to go on, for she could barely lift herself off the ground?
She did get up, though, and she went to Dainsey and, with a growl, lifted the woman into her arms, half carrying her and half dragging her, up, up, until she reached the summit of this pass, breaking through the ring of the Barbacan. There before her loomed Mount Aida, a mile perhaps to the plateau and Avelyn's arm. Only a mile! And with several hundred miles already behind her.
But she couldn't hope to make it, not now; and already Dainsey was showing signs that Death had come calling once more, that the reprieve was at its end.
'Malachite,' Pony whispered, and she looked all about, then realized that the gem must be on the ground with the others back down the path. She set Dainsey down again, and turned to get it, but stumbled, exhausted, and went down hard. She started to rise, so stubbornly, but understood that it was over, that even if she could find the gemstone quickly, she'd never find the strength to use it to any real effect.
It was over.
Chapter 36
They walked through the streets as unobtrusively as possible, making the daily run for supplies down to the dock section before the sunrise. This day, though, they had learned of the riot in that area, of many Behrenese beaten, even murdered, and all at the hands of this strange cult, the Brothers Repentant.
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.
