DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Alas for Avelyn,” Elbryan said somberly. “Alas for Bradwarden.”

  “A good man was Avelyn Desbris,” Juraviel agreed. “And all the forest will mourn the passing of Bradwarden. Gentle was his song, and fierce his spirit. Often I would sit and listen to his piping, a melody so fitting to the forest.”

  Both Elbryan and Pony nodded at that notion. When they were children in Dundalis, in better, more innocent times, they had sometimes heard the melodious drift of Bradwarden’s piping, though at that time they had no idea who the piper might be. The people of the two Timberland towns, Dundalis and Weedy Meadow—for End-o’-the-World was not in existence then—called the unknown piper the Forest Ghost and did not fear him, for they understood that no creature capable of making such hauntingly beautiful music would pose any threat to them.

  “But enough of this,” Juraviel said suddenly, pulling the small pack from his back. “I have brought food—good food!—andQuestel ni’Touel.”

  “Boggle,” Elbryan translated, forQuestel ni’Touel was the elvish wine made from the water filtered through the milk stones. It was sometimes traded through secret channels to humans under the name of boggle, an elvish joke signifying both the bog from which the liquid originally came, and from the state of mind it readily produced in the humans.

  “Let us go and set a camp,” Juraviel offered. “Out of this wind and sheltered from the chill of the approaching night. Then we might eat and talk in a more comfortable manner.”

  The two friends readily agreed, and both realized then that their previous agitation had only been due to the search for the magical valley. Now that the issue of Andur’Blough Inninness was decided, they could both relax, for neither feared any goblin or powrie, or even giant-inspired trouble, this close to the borders of the elven home.

  When they sat down to eat, Elbryan and Pony found that Juraviel wasn’t exaggerating in the least concerning the quality of the food, he had brought: berries, plump and sweet, fruit fattened under the gentle boughs of Caer’alfar, and bread flavored with just a touch ofQuestel ni’Touel. Juraviel hadn’t brought much with him, but it was immensely satisfying, and truly this was the finest meal that either of the weary travelers had enjoyed for many, many months.

  The wine helped, too, taking the edge off the uncomfortable nature of their meeting, allowing Elbryan and Pony, and the elf, as well, to put aside the dangers of the continuing battle for just a while, to sit and relax and forget that their world was full of goblins and powries and giants. They spoke of times long past, of Elbryan’s training in the elvish valley, of Pony’s life in Palmaris and her time serving in the army of Honce-the-Bear’s King. They kept their chatter lighthearted, mostly relating amusing anecdotes, and many of Juraviel’s tales concerned Tuntun.

  “Yes, I will find quite a bit of material for the song I plan for her,” the elf said quietly.

  “A rousing war song?” Elbryan asked. “Or a song for a gentle soul?”

  The notion of Tuntun being described as a gentle soul brought laughter bubbling to Juraviel’s lips. “Oh, Tuntun!” he cried dramatically, leaping to his feet, throwing his arms heavenward and taking up an impromptu song:

  Oh gentle elf, what poems hast thee written

  To best describe thyself?

  What lyrics spring from thy lips to Nightbird’s waiting ears?

  But since you hold his head in the trough, ‘tis doubtful he can hear!

  Pony howled with laughter over that one, but Elbryan fixed a nasty stare over his friend.

  “What troubles you, my friend?” Juraviel prompted.

  “If I remember correctly, it was not Tuntun, but Belli’mar Juraviel, who put my head in the trough,” the ranger replied grimly.

  The elf shrugged and smiled. “I will have to write another song, I fear,” he said calmly.

  Elbryan couldn’t maintain the facade, and he, too, erupted in laughter.

  Their boggle-enhanced mirth rolled on for several minutes, finally dying away to quiet titters, the occasional chuckle. That was followed by simple, reflective silence, all three silling, none moving to be the first to speak.

  Finally Juraviel walked back over and plopped down across the small fire from Elbryan. “You should go to the south and east,” he explained. “To the towns halfway between Dundalis and Palmaris. There you are most needed, and there you will do the most good.”

  “That is the battle line?” Pony asked.

  “One of the battle lines,” Juraviel replied. “There is greater fighting raging in the far east, along the coast, and up north, in the cold land of Alpinador, where mighty Andacanavar holds the elven-bestowed banner as ranger. But I fear that Elbryan and Pony would be only minor players in those greater battles, whereas you two might turn the tide in the more immediate area.”

  “The area closer to the borders of Andur’Blough Inninness,” Elbryan said slyly, suspicious of the erf’s motives.

  “We do not fear any attacks from goblins or powries,” Juraviel was quick to reply. “Our borders are safe from that enemy. It is the deeper evil, the stain of the demon dactyl…” He paused, his voice trailing away, letting the dark thought hang in the air.

  “But you two should go to those towns,” he said at length. “Do for those folk what you did for the people of Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o’-the-World, and all the region might soon be freed of the legacy of the demon dactyl.”

  Elbryan looked to Pony, and both gave a nod to the elf. Elbryan studied his diminutive friend closely then, seeking unspoken signals that would clue him in to the importance of it all. He knew Juraviel well, and had a feeling that many things were not as set in stone as the elf had indicated.

  “You two are formally betrothed?” Juraviel asked suddenly, catching Elbryan off his guard.

  Pony and Elbryan looked to each other. “In our hearts,” the ranger explained.

  “There has not been time nor opportunity,” Pony said, and then with a great sigh she added, “We should have asked Avelyn to perform the ceremony. Could any have been more fitting to such a task than he?”

  “If you are married in your hearts, then married you are,” Juraviel decided. “But there should be a ceremony, a formal declaration made openly, to friend and to kin. It is more than a legality, and more than a celebration. It is a declaration, openly made, of fidelity and undying love, a proclamation to all the world that there is something higher than this corporeal form, and a love deeper than simple lust.”

  “Someday,” Elbryan promised, staring at Pony, the only woman he believed he could ever love, and understanding every word Juraviel had just said.

  “Two ceremonies!” Juraviel decided. “One for your human companions, one for the Touel’alfar.”

  “Why would the Touel’alfar care?” Elbryan said, a hint of anger in his tone, which surprised both his companions.

  “Why would we not?” Juraviel replied.

  “Because the Touel’alfar care only for the affairs of the Touel’alfar,” Elbryan reasoned.

  Juraviel started to protest, but saw where the trap was leading and only laughed instead.

  “You do care,” Elbryan said.

  “Of course,” Juraviel admitted. “And glad I am, and glad are all the elven folk of Caer’alfar, that Elbryan and Jilseponie survived the quest to Aida and have found each other. To us, your love is a shining light in a dark world.”

  “That is how I knew,” Elbryan said.

  “Knew what?” Juraviel and Pony asked together.

  “That I … we,” he corrected, indicating Pony, “are notn’Touel’alfar. Not in the eyes of Belli’mar Juraviel.”

  The elf gave a great, exaggerated sigh. “I admit it,” he said. “I surrender.”

  “And that is how I know the other thing, as well,” Elbryan said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “And what is that?” Juraviel asked, his tone one of feigned disinterest. “What else does the wise Nightbird know?”

  “That Belli’mar Juraviel intends to accom
pany us to the south and east,” Elbryan replied.

  That widened Juraviel’s eyes. “I had not considered that!”

  “Then do,” Elbryan instructed, “because we, all three, leave at first light.” He rolled back from the fire then, nestling into his bedroll. “Time for us to sleep,” he said to Pony. “And time for our friend to go back to his valley, that he might tell his Lady Dasslerond that he will be away for a while.”

  Pony, weary from the road and the wine, and content with the meal, was more than happy to fall back into her blankets.

  Juraviel said not a word and did not move for some time. Before him, both Elbryan and Pony were soon breathing in the rhythms of a deep and contented sleep, and behind him, Symphony nickered softly in the quiet night. Then the elf was gone, slipping away silently into the darkness, running with his thoughts and running to his lady.

  Quiet though he was, his departure woke Pony, whose sleep had become filled with troubling dreams. She felt the weight of Elbryan’s strong arm about her, felt the warmth of his body curled against her. All the world should have been warm and happy for her in that embrace.

  But it was not.

  She lay awake for a long while, and then Elbryan, too, as if sensing her anxiety, awoke.

  “What troubles you?” he asked softly, nuzzling closer and kissing the nape of her neck.

  Pony stiffened, and the ranger felt it. He pulled away and sat up, and she could see his dark silhouette against the starry sky. “I was only trying to be comforting,” he apologized.

  “I know,” she replied.

  “Then why are you angry?” he asked.

  Pony considered that for a long while. “I am not angry,” she decided. “I am only frightened.”

  Now it was the ranger’s turn to pause and reflect. He lay back down beside Pony, shifting to his back and looking up at the stars. He had never known Pony to be frightened—not since the day their homes were sacked, at least—and he was certain now that her fears were not based on any powries or giants, or even the demon dactyl. He considered her tenseness when he had touched her. She was not angry with him, he knew, but…

  “You were quiet when Juraviel spoke of marriage,” he said.

  “There was little you had not already said,” Pony replied, rolling over to face Elbryan. “We share hearts, and are of like mind.”

  “But?”

  Her face clouded over.

  “You are afraid of becoming with child,” Elbryan reasoned, and Pony’s expression shifted to one of wonderment.

  “How did you know?”

  “You just said that we were of like hearts,” the ranger replied with a slight chuckle.

  Pony sighed and draped her arm across Elbryan’s chest, kissing him softly on the cheek. “When we are together, I feel like all the world is wonderful,” she said. “I forget the loss at Dundalis, the loss of Avelyn and Bradwarden, of Tuntun. The world does not seem so terrible and dark, and all the monsters run away.”

  “But if you were to become with child now, out here,” Elbryan said, “then those monsters would become all too real again.”

  “We have a duty,” Pony explained. “With the gift the Touel’alfar gave to you, and the one Avelyn gave to me, we must be more to the folk than observers. How could I fight on if I become pregnant? And what life would our child know in these times?”

  “How could I fight on if you could not remain beside me?” Elbryan asked, running his fingertips across her face.

  “I do not wish to refuse you,” Pony said. “Ever.”

  “Then I shan’t ask,” Elbryan replied sincerely. “But you told me that there were times each month when it was not likely that we would conceive a child.”

  “Not likely?” Pony echoed skeptically. “What chance is acceptable?”

  Elbryan thought on that for just a moment. “None,” he decided. “The stakes are too high, the cost too great. We will make a pact, here and now. Let us finish this business at hand, and when the world is put aright, we will turn our attention to our own needs and our own family.”

  He said it with such simplicity, and such optimism that this pact would be a temporary thing, that the world would indeed be put aright, that a smile found its way across Pony’s troubled face. She snuggled closer then, wrapping herself around Elbryan, knowing in her heart that he would be true to his pact and that their lovemaking would wait until the time was right.

  Both of them slept soundly the rest of the night.

  Juraviel was back at the small camp when Pony awoke, to find their belongings already packed and in place atop Symphony. The sun was up, though still low in the eastern sky.

  “We should already be on the road,” a sleepy-eyed Pony said through a yawn and a stretch.

  “I gave you this one night of sleep,” Juraviel replied, “for I doubt you’ll find another anytime soon.”

  Pony looked to Elbryan, still sleeping contentedly. Long and restful sleep, like other pleasures, would be a rarity now.

  But only for a short while, she reminded herself determinedly.

  CHAPTER 5

  To Seek the Truth

  The mountainous ring surrounding the Barbacan was fully twelve hundred miles from the stone walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, and that as a bird might fly. By road, in those places where a traveler would be fortunate enough to even find a road, the distance was much closer to two thousand miles, a trek that would have taken a conventional caravan twelve weeks to traverse—and that, only if the caravan ran into no unforeseen problems and did not stop a single day for any respite. In truth, any merchant planning such a journey would allow for three months of travel, and would have carried enough gold to replace his horse team several times. And in truth, in these dangerous times, with goblin and powrie forces running wild even along the normally tame areas of Honce-the-Bear, no merchant, not even the soldiers of the famous elite Allheart Brigade, would have made the attempt.

  But the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were not merchants or soldiers, and were possessed of magics that could cut tremendous amounts of time from their journey and keep them well-hidden from the eyes of potential enemies. And if it so happened they were discovered by goblins or other monsters, those magics would make them a formidable force indeed. The planning for such a journey from the abbey had already been done, centuries before. The monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were the original cartographers of Honce-the-Bear, and even of the Timberlands, northern Behren, southern Alpinador, and a good deal of the western reaches of the Wilderlands, as well. In those long past times, journey logs had been turned into travel guides, detailing supplies needed, magic stones recommended, and fastest routes. Those guides, in turn, were updated on a regular basis, and so Brother Francis’ biggest task that day after the repulsion of the powrie attack was to find the proper guide tomes, and convert the recommended supply figures to accommodate a party of twenty-five, the number of brothers that Father Abbot Markwart had determined would make the journey.

  After vespers on only the second day, Brother Francis reported to the Father Abbot and the masters that the lists were complete and the route confirmed. All that needed to be done was rounding up the supplies—a task that Francis assured the Father Abbot could be done in a matter of two hours—and the naming of the journeying monks.

  “I will lead the team personally,” the Father Abbot informed them, drawing gasps from Francis and all the masters, except for Master Jojonah, who had suspected that all along. Markwart was obsessed, Jojonah understood, and in such a state, his decision-making was greatly flawed.

  “But Father Abbot,” one of the other masters argued, “this is unprecedented. You are the leader of St.-Mere-Abelle and all of the Abellican Church. To risk your safety on such a perilous trek—”

  “We would risk less by sending the King himself!” another master protested.

  Father Abbot Markwart held up his hand, silencing the men. “I have thought this through,” he replied. “It is fitting that I go—the greatest power of good sent to do battle with t
he greatest power of evil.”

  “But surely not in your own body,” offered Master Jojonah, who had also done quite a bit of thinking on this very subject. “Might I suggest Brother Francis as a suitable vessel for your inquiries as to the progress of the troupe?”

  Markwart looked long and hard at Jojonah, the Father Abbot obviously caught off his guard by the perfectly reasonable suggestion. With a telepathic connection between the two bodies, facilitated by a soul stone, physical distance would mean little. Father Abbot Markwart could make the trip, or could check in on its progress personally—in spirit—without ever leaving the comfort of the abbey.

  “You would be honored at such a position, would you not, Brother Francis?” Master Jojonah went on.

  Brother Francis’ eyes shot daggers at the sly master. Of course he would not be “honored” by such a position, something that he, and Jojonah, understood well. Possession was a horrible thing indeed, and nothing to ever be desired. Even worse, Francis knew that serving as a mere vessel for Markwart would reduce his role significantly, should he be chosen to go along on the journey. How could he be placed in any position of leadership, after all, if there was the possibility that he would not even be there, if his spirit and will were thrown out into empty limbo while Markwart used his body?

  Brother Francis looked from Master Jojonah to the Father Abbot, to the other seven masters in attendance, all of them eyeing him expectantly. How could he refuse such a proposal? His angry gaze fell back over Jojonah, the younger monk staring unblinkingly at the master even as he mouthed, through gritted teeth, “Of course it would be the highest honor that any brother could expect or desire.”

  “Well done, then,” the victorious Jojonah said, clapping his hands. In one fell swoop he had prevented Markwart from leading the caravan and had put the too-ambitious Brother Francis in his place. It wasn’t that Jojonah wanted to protect Markwart from any perils; far from that. It was simply that he feared the mischief Markwart might cause if the journey proved successful. More than a few speculations placed Avelyn Desbris at the scene of devastation in the north, and Jojonah feared that Markwart might cover whatever truth was to be found there with calculated tales that fell more in line with his hatred of Avelyn. If Markwart was in control of the caravan that reached the Barbacan, then Markwart would determine what had happened there.