He too was glowing, for he had initiated the enchantment, after all, from the serpentine he held in his upraised palm, its texture blurred by the blue-white shield.
The other gem he held, though, the mighty ruby, was not so dulled, for it was outside the shield.
It glowed fiercely — Father Abbot Braumin had promised Thaddius that this stone would hold all that he could put into it and more.
And so it had.
And so Brother Thaddius lived up to his reputation with the Ring Stones, for from that ruby came a tremendous burst of fire, a blast that roll about the four monks and the five powries, that rushed out to the trees and into the boughs, and despite the dreary rain and sleet, set them ablaze.
And set the powries ablaze!
But not the sisters and Thaddius, no, for the serpentine shield held strong.
Elysant felt the warmth in her face, but the biting fires could not get through the shield and could not curl her skin.
The fireball lasted only an instant, and when the immediate flames rolled to nothingness, the three sisters went at the dwarves with fury, for the stubborn beasts had not fallen.
But the fight had turned, and the dwarves, wounded, horribly burned and dazed, could not get their bearings, could not mount any defense against the staff of Elysant, the pounding fists of Victoria, and the deadly tiger’s paw of Diamanda.
One of the dwarves did get out of the immediate area, fleeing through the trees.
“Sister, your bow!” Elysant cried to Victoria.
They both realized that wouldn’t work when they glanced at the bow on the ground behind them, its string melted by the fireball, its wood smoking.
“Catch him!” Diamanda cried.
“Hold!” said Thaddius, stepping toward Victoria with an outstretched hand.
All three women looked at him curiously for a moment, but then Victoria grinned and brought forth a gemstone, pressing it in Thaddius’s palm. He took it and clenched his fist up before his eyes, sending his power into the gem.
Clever Diamanda removed her cat’s eye circlet and placed it over Thaddius’s head, and his vision shifted with the magic, turning night into day, showing him the fleeing powrie clearly.
He didn’t even need to see the dwarf, though, for he could feel it. He could feel the metal rivets in its leather armor, and could feel keenly the long metal knife it held tight against its chest.
Ah, that knife!
Brother Thaddius thrust his hand forward and opened his fingers and the lodestone shot forth, speeding until it clanged against that blade.
Of course, to reach the blade, it had to first drive right through the dwarf.
The powrie fell to its knees, then toppled to its face.
The arguments raged day and night, one issue after another.
“The Church has been through terrible times, Father Abbot,” Haney kept reminding Braumin Herde.
Braumin nodded each time, and tried to offer a smile, truly appreciating Abbot Haney’s attempts to keep perspective on this trying College of Abbots.
This late afternoon, the argument centered on the southern city of Entel, the only city in Honce-the-Bear serving as home to two separate abbeys. With Dusibol ascending to the rank of Abbot of St. Bondabruce and St. Rontlemore in chaos, the idea had been floated to give the man the lead of both abbeys until the situation could be better sorted.
Of the seven major abbeys of Honce-the-Bear, St.-Mere-Abelle, St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea, St. Honce, St. Belfour, St. Precious, and the pair in Entel, no two were more ferocious rivals than Bondabruce and Rontlemore! St. Bondabruce was the larger, and had prospered greatly because of the Duke of Entel’s affinity toward the southern Kingdom of Behren. Many of Bondabruce’s monks claimed Behrenese heritage — Blessed St. Bruce himself was dark skinned, and claimed ancestry in the fierce Chezhou-Lei warrior class of the Behrenese city of Jacintha.
St. Rontlemore, on the other hand, had ever stayed faithful to the line of Ursal, and indeed had been built by one of the former kings who was angered by the Abbot of St. Bondabruce and the man’s overt love and loyalty to Jacintha. In the De’Unneran Heresy, Bondabruce had sided with the powers of Ursal, with De’Unnero and King Aydrian.
St. Rontlemore had been routed.
And now, with the smell of blood still lingering in the heavy air about the mother abbey, the upstart new Abbot of St. Bondabruce was trying to spread his covetous wing over St. Rontlemore!
The volume in the great hall reached new heights that day, a volume not seen since the battle in that very room. A weary Father Abbot Bruamin hadn’t even lifted the gavel, and could only shake his head, knowing that this had to play out, however it might.
“Dusibol will challenge you if all of Entel falls under his domain,” Viscenti warned Braumin and Haney at one point. “Entel is strong, very strong.”
Braumin Herde merely nodded and rubbed his weary face, with so many trials hovering about him. Given his bold moves, all controversial even among his supporters, he knew that he was not strong here, certainly not strong enough to determine the situation in Entel, which, with its proximity and strong ties to Jacintha, had always been a trouble spot for the Abellican Church.
And so the arguing continued.
“Vespers cannot be called soon enough,” Braumin lamented to Haney and Viscenti. He perked up even as he spoke, seeing the room’s outer door swinging open and a young brother rushing in, perhaps to call that very hour.
Braumin’s excitement turned to curiosity when he noted that the clearly agitated young monk was rushing his way and holding a very wet sack.
The man dared approach the Father Abbot directly, ignoring the stares of many in the room who were beginning to catch on that something must be amiss.
“From legionem in primo, Father Abbot,” the young brother explained, handing him the sack, along with a rolled parchment. “It was brought in by a peasant rider. The man was nearly dead from starvation, as was his horse, for he had not stopped for many hours.”
Braumin stared at him, unsure of what to make of the curious turn of the phrase describing the band sent to St. Gwendolyn, a playful name that had been no more than a private joke among Braumin’s inner circle, Brother Thaddius, and the three sisters who had gone off to St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.
Braumin unrolled the parchment, his eyes widening with every word.
“Brothers,” he cried, rising from his seat. “Brothers! Sisters!”
Now he did reach for the gavel, but he didn’t need it, for his tone had demanded and received the attention of all.
“What news, Father Abbot?” Abbot Dusibol called — for no better reason than to inject himself into what seemed an important moment, Braumin recognized.
Braumin could hardly read, for his hands began to tremble, and as he digested the text scrawled before him, he realized that he might have erred in calling attention to it before he fully understood its contents.
He looked up, the blood drained from his face, and he knew it was too late.
“Our dear sisters and brother bound for St. Gwendolyn were waylaid on the road by bloody cap dwarves,” he stated.
A collective gasp was followed by more than a little grumbling and smug proclamations of some variation of “I told you so.”
Father Abbot Braumin handed the parchment to Viscenti and grabbed up the sack, pulling it open.
His eyes lit up as he stared into the bag. He looked up at the crowd, leaning forward as one in anticipation.
With a knowing smile — knowing that Pagonel’s band had, for the second time, bolstered his position, Father Abbot Braumin reached into the sack, and very deliberately began removing the contents.
One powrie beret at a time.
The cheers grew and grew and grew.
Father Abbot Braumin knew then that he would indeed have a great voice over the events in Entel.