DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  More lights appeared in the dark harbor, a reminder to Jojonah to stay focused on the grim situation at hand. Avelyn was an issue for another day; the morning light would bring the full fury of war to St.-Mere-Abelle.

  The two monks retired then, seeking to gather all of their strength.

  “Sleep well in God’s bosom,” Master Jojonah said to Markwart, the proper and traditional nighttime parting.

  Markwart waved a hand absently over his shoulder and walked away, grumbling something about the wretch Avelyn under his breath.

  Master Jojonah recognized a growing problem here, an obsession that could only bring ill to St.-Mere-Abelle and all the Order. But there was little he could do about it, he reminded himself, and he went to his private room. He added many lines about Avelyn Desbris, words of hope for the man’s soul, and of forgiveness, to his evening prayers, then rolled onto his bed, knowing he would not sleep well.

  Father Abbot Markwart, too, was speaking words about Avelyn when he entered his lavish quarters, four rooms sectioned off near the middle of the massive abbey’s ground-level floor. The old man, consumed with anger, muttered curse after curse, spat Avelyn’s name in succession with the names of the greatest traitors and heretics in the history of the Church, and vowed again to see the man tortured to death before he, himself, went to view the face of God.

  His reign at St.-Mere-Abelle had been unblemished, and having been fortunate enough to preside over the Order in the generation of the stone showers, the tremendous haul of stones—the greatest ever taken from Pimaninicuit—seemed to solidify his place among the most revered Father Abbots of history. But then the wretch Avelyn changed that, brought a black mark to his reputation: as the first father abbot to ever suffer the absolute indignity of losing some of the sacred stones.

  It was with these dark thoughts, and none for the invasion fleet that had entered All Saints Bay, that Father Abbot Markwart at last drifted off to sleep.

  His dreams were as razor-edged as his anger, showing stark, clear images of a faraway land that he did not know. He saw Avelyn, thick and fat and haggard, snarling orders to goblins and powries. He saw the man fell a giant with a streak of searing lightning, not out of any hatred for the evil race, but because this one had not obeyed him without question.

  In the background an angelic figure appeared, a winged man, large and terrible. The personification of the wrath of God.

  Then Markwart understood.

  A demon dactyl had been the source of the war? No, this disaster had been caused by something greater even than that dark power. The true guiding force of evil was Avelyn, the heretic!

  The Father Abbot sat bolt upright in bed, sweating and trembling. It was only a dream, he reminded himself.

  But had there not been some shred of truth buried within those visions? It came as a great epiphany to the tired old man, an awakening call as clear as the loudest bell ever chimed. For years he had been proclaiming Avelyn as the root source of all the problems, but much of that had been merely a self-defense technique aimed at deflecting his own errors. He had always known that hidden truth… until now.

  Now Markwart realized that it had indeed been Avelyn, beyond any doubt. He knew that the man had unraveled all that was holy, perverted the stones to his own wicked use, worked against the Church and all of Mankind.

  Markwart knew, without doubt, and in that profound knowledge he was at last able to dismiss all of his own guilt.

  The old man pulled himself from his bed and ambled over to his desk, lighting a lamp. He fell into his chair, exhausted, overcome, and absently took a key from a secret compartment in one drawer and used it to open the lock on a secret compartment in yet another, revealing his private cache of stones: ruby, graphite, malachite, serpentine, a tiger’s paw, a lodestone, and his most precious of all, the strongest hematite, the soul stone, at St.-Mere-Abelle. With this heavy gray stone Markwart could send his spirit across the miles, could even contact associates though they were separated by half a continent. He had used this stone to make contact with Brother Justice—no easy task since Quintall was not proficient in use of the stones, and since his single-minded training had given him a level of mental discipline that was hard to penetrate.

  Markwart had used this stone to contact a friend in Amvoy, across the Masur Delaval from Palmaris, and that friend had discovered the truth of Brother Justice’s failed quest.

  How precious these sacred stones were—to the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, there was no greater treasure—and it was more than Markwart could stand to know that he had let some get away.

  He looked at the handful of stones now as if they were his children, then sat up straighter, blinking quizzically. For he saw them now more clearly than ever before, as if a great truth had been revealed to him. He saw the powers buried within each stone, and knew he could reach them with a mere thought, hardly an effort at all. And some of them seemed almost to blend together, as the old man recognized new and more powerful combinations for various stones.

  The Father Abbot fell back and even cried out, tears of joy dripping from his eyes. He was free of Avelyn’s dark grip, he suddenly believed, for now he understood, beyond doubt. And with his revelations had come a greater knowledge, a deeper understanding. It was always a sharp thorn in Markwart’s side that Avelyn, this supposed heretic, had been the most powerful stone user in the history of the Church. If the stones came from God, it followed that their power was a blessing, yet how could that be so if Avelyn Desbris, the thief, was so proficient with them?

  The demon dactyl had given Avelyn the power! The demon dactyl had perverted the stones in Avelyn’s hands, allowing him the insight to use them.

  Markwart clutched his stones tightly and moved back to his bed, thinking that God had answered the dactyl by showing him equal—no, greater—insights. This time he would find no sleep, too consumed with anticipation for the morning’s fight.

  Dalebert Markwart, the Father Abbot, the highest-ranking member of the Abellican Church, had it all exactly backward, a thought that pleased the spirit of the demon dactyl immensely. How easily Bestesbulzibar had linked with this craven old man, how easily it had perverted Markwart’s assumed truths!

  Nearly all of St.-Mere-Abelle’s more than seven hundred monks turned out on the seawall before the dawn, preparing for the approach of the powrie fleet. With two notable exceptions, Master Jojonah realized, for Brothers Youseff and Dandelion were nowhere to be found. Markwart had put them safely away for what he considered their more important task.

  Most of the monks manned the abbey’s long parapets, but others moved to their strategic positions in rooms below the level of the wall top. Two dozen catapults were readied as the vast powrie fleet made its way in toward the rocky cliff. Even more deadly, the older and more powerful monks, the masters and immaculates, monks who had studied for ten years and more, prepared their respective stones, and among them was the Father Abbot, with his new insights and heightened power.

  Markwart kept most of the monks in position on the seaward side of the structure, though he had to place more than a score of brothers on the opposite wall, watching the many approaches for the expected land attack. Then all of St.-Mere-Abelle hushed and waited as score after score of powrie vessels rounded the rocky spur and moved in line with the great abbey, most resembling a nearly submerged barrel, but others with flat, open decks set with catapults.

  A catapult let fly from one of the rooms just below the Father Abbot’s position, its pitch ball sailing high and far, but well short of the nearest vessel.

  “Hold!” Markwart yelled down angrily. “Would you show them our range, then?”

  Master Jojonah put a hand on the Father Abbot’s shoulder. “They are nervous,” he offered as an excuse for the premature firing.

  “They are foolish!” the Father Abbot snapped back at him, pulling from his gentle grasp. “Find the one who fired that catapult and replace him on the line—and bring him up to me.”

  Jojonah started t
o protest, but quickly realized that to be a fool’s course. If he angered the Father Abbot any more—and he saw no way he could even speak with the man without doing that—then Markwart’s punishment of the young monk would only be more severe. With one of his customary sighs, a helpless expression that he thought he seemed to be making far too often these days, the portly master moved off to find the errant artillerist, taking with him a second-year student to replace the man.

  More and more powrie ships came into view, but those closest did not move into catapult range, or stone magic range.

  “They await the ground assault,” remarked Brother Francis Dellacourt, a ninth-year monk known for his sharp tongue and severe discipline of the younger students, attributes that had made him a favorite with Markwart.

  “What news from the western walls?” Markwart asked.

  Francis immediately motioned for two younger monks to run off for information. “They will hit us harder from the ground at first,” Francis then offered to Markwart.

  “The reasoning that led you to such a conclusion?”

  “The sea cliff is a hundred feet, at least, and that at its shortest juncture,” Francis reasoned. “Those powries in the boats will have little chance of gaining our walls unless we are sorely taxed in the west. They will hit us hard by ground, and then, with our numbers thinned on this wall, their fleet will strike.”

  “What do you know of powrie tactics?” Markwart said loudly, drawing all of those nearby, including the returning Master Jojonah and the errant artillerist, into the conversation. Markwart knew what Francis would say, for he, like all of the older monks, had studied the records of previous powrie assaults, but he thought that a dissertation by the efficient Francis would be a prudent reminder.

  “We have few examples of a powrie dual strike,” Francis admitted. “They usually attack primarily from the sea, with incredible speed and ferocity. But I suspect that St.-Mere-Abelle is too formidable for that, and they know it. They will thin our line by attacking from the west, by ground, and then their catapults will put their strong lines up over our wall.”

  “How high will any climb with us standing defense at the top of those ropes?” one monk asked impertinently. “We’ll cut them down, or shoot arrows or magics at the climbing powries.”

  Master Jojonah started to respond, but Markwart, preferring to hear from Francis on this matter, stopped him with an upraised hand, then motioned for the ninth-year monk to proceed.

  “Do not underestimate them!” Francis fumed, and Jojonah noted that Markwart cracked his first smile in many weeks. “Only months ago the powries struck at Pireth Tulme, a fortress on a cliff no less high than our own. In this manner they gained the courtyard before the majority of the garrison had even arrived at the walls to offer defense. And as for those who were in place along Pireth Tulme’s seemingly defensible walls…”

  Francis let the thought hang. It was common knowledge that no survivors had been found among Pireth Tulme’s elite Coastpoint Guards, and also that those remains found had been horribly mutilated.

  “Do not underestimate them!” Francis yelled again, turning as he spoke to ensure that every monk in the area was paying attention.

  Master Jojonah watched Francis closely. He didn’t like the man, not at all. Brother Francis’ ambition was obviously large, as was his ability to take every word muttered by Father Abbot Markwart as though it had come straight from God. Jojonah did not believe that piety was the guiding force behind Brother Francis’ devotion to Markwart, though, but rather, pragmatic ambition. Watching the man reveling in the attention now only reinforced that belief.

  The two monks returned from the western wall, trotting, but with no apparent sense of urgency. “Nothing,” each reported. “No signs of any gathering army.”

  “Several villagers came in just minutes ago,” one of them added, “reporting that a large force of powries was spotted moving west of St.-Mere-Abelle village, heading west.”

  Jojonah and Markwart exchanged curious looks.

  “A ruse,” Brother Francis warned. “Moving west, away from us, that we might not be prepared for the sudden assault over land.”

  “Your reasoning is sound,” Master Jojonah offered. “But I wonder if we might not turn their ruse, if that is what it is, back against them.”

  “Explain,” said an intrigued Markwart.

  “The fleet might indeed be waiting for the ground assault,” Jojonah said. “And that assault might indeed be delayed so that we might lower our guard. But our powrie friends in the harbor cannot see St.-Mere-Abelle’s western walls, nor the grounds beyond them.”

  “They will hear the sounds of battle,” another monk reasoned.

  “Or they will hear what they believe to be the sounds of battle,” Master Jojonah replied slyly.

  “I will see to it!” cried Brother Francis, running off even before the Father Abbot gave his consent

  Markwart ordered every second man off the wall and out of sight.

  Moments later the commotion began, with cries of “Attack! Attack!” and the swooshing sound of ballistae firing. Then a tremendous explosion shook the ground and a fireball rose into the air, the magical blast of a ruby.

  “Authentic,” Master Jojonah said dryly. “But our exuberant Francis should conserve his magical energy.”

  “He has powries to convince,” Markwart retorted sharply.

  “Here they come,” came a call before Jojonah could reply, and sure enough the powrie craft began gliding across the bay, right on schedule. The tumult continued in the west, the cries, the ballistae firing, even another fireball from excited Francis. The powries, spurred on by the sight and sound, came in hard, their barrelboats bobbing.

  Markwart passed the word to let them in close, though more than one catapult let fly its payload prematurely. But the ships came on fast and were soon in range, and with the Father Abbot’s eager blessing, the monastery’s two dozen seaward catapults began their barrage, throwing stones and pitch. One powrie catapult barge went up in flames; a barrelboat got hit on its rounded side, the force of the boulder rolling the craft right over in the water. Another barrelboat took a hit squarely on its prow, the heavy stone driving the front of the craft under the water, its stern reaching skyward, its pedal-driven propeller spinning uselessly in the empty air. Soon many of the evil dwarves were in the water, screaming, thrashing.

  But the cheering on the abbey’s wall did not hold, for soon enough the lead powrie ships were right below the Father Abbot’s position, right at the base of the seawall, and now their catapults went into action, launching dozens of weighted, knotted ropes tipped with cunning, many-pronged grapnels. The hooked instruments came down on targeted areas as thick as hail, sending the monks scrambling. Several monks were caught by a hooked tip, then pulled in screaming to the wall, the grapnel digging right through an arm or shoulder.

  A group of seven immaculates stood in a circle to Jojonah’s right, chanting in unison, joining their power, six with their hands locked, the seventh in their center, holding forth a piece of graphite. A sheet of blue electricity crackled over the bay, sparking off the metallic cranks of powrie catapults, laying low the dozens of exposed powries on the barge decks.

  But the burst lasted only a split second, and dozens more powries rushed to take the places of the fallen. Up the ropes they came, hanging under, climbing hand over hand with tremendous speed.

  Monks attacked with conventional bows and with gemstones, loosing lightning bolts, springing fire from their fingertips to burn the ropes, while others went at the grapnels with heavy hammers or at the ropes with swords. Dozens of ropes went down, sending powries diving into the bay, but scores more came flying up as more craft crowded into the base of the cliff.

  With still no sign of any approaching ground force, all of the monks came to the seawall, all of St.-Mere-Abelle’s power focused on the thousand powrie vessels that had swarmed into All Saints Bay. The air came alive with the tingling of magical energy, with
the stench of burning pitch, with the screams of freezing, drowning powries. And with the screams of dying monks, for as soon as all the ropes were up, the powrie catapult barges began hurling huge baskets of pinballs, wooden balls an inch in diameter set with a multitude of metal, often poison-tipped needles.

  Despite all the talk of Pireth Tulme, all the warnings of the older, more studied monks, the defenders of St.-Mere-Abelle were indeed taken aback at the sheer ferocity and boldness of the assault. And of the skill, for the powries were as efficient and disciplined a fighting army as any in all the world. Not a monk, not even stubborn Brother Francis, doubted for a moment that ifthe enemy ground force had made its appearance then, St.-Mere-Abelle, the most ancient and defensible bastion in all of Honce-the-Bear, would have fallen.

  Even without that ground force, Father Abbot Markwart appreciated the danger of the situation.

  “You!” he called to the monk who had fired the first catapult shot. “Now is the chance to redeem yourself!”

  The young brother, eager to regain the Father Abbot’s favor, rushed to Markwart’s side and was presented with three stones: a malachite, a ruby, and a serpentine.

  “Do not use the malachite until you descend near to the ship,” the Father Abbot explained hastily.

  The young monk’s eyes went wide as he discerned the intent. The Father Abbot wanted him to leap from the cliff, plummet to one particularly large tangle of powrie ships, enact the levitational malachite and the fire-shield serpentine, and then loose a fireball across the vessels.

  “He’ll not get close,” Jojonah started to protest, but Markwart turned on him with such ferocity that the portly master abruptly backed away. Markwart was wrong in sending this young monk, Jojonah maintained privately, for the three-stone usage was more suited to an older and more experienced monk, an immaculate at least, or even a master. Even ifthe young man managed the difficult feat, the explosion would not be extreme, a puff of flame, perhaps, and nothing to deter the powries.