DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Brother Francis flipped through the various rolls, finally settling on one and pulling it forth. He unrolled it gingerly, spreading it on a tree stump as Master Jojonah, Brother Braumin, and Friar Pembleton huddled around him.

  “Our path was right through Weedy Meadow,” Brother Francis remarked, tracing the line on the map with his finger.

  “Then expect to be fighting every step of the way,” Friar Pembleton answered sincerely. “And Weedy Meadow, by all accounts, is now a powrie outpost. Lots of giants up there, too.”

  “Where is this more eastern road?” Master Jojonah asked.

  The friar moved in close to the map, studied it for just a moment, then ran his finger to the east of their present position, and then north, cutting through the narrower region of the eastern Timberlands and right into southern Alpinador. “Of course, you can turn back to the west before you get through the Timberlands, circling north of the three Timberland towns.”

  “What terrain might we find?” Master Jojonah asked. “Have you ever been up there?”

  “Once,” the friar replied. “When they first rebuilt Dundalis after the goblin raid—that was several years ago, of course. It’s all forest, settled on the hillsides, hence the name of the region.”

  “All forest, and thus not well-suited for wagon travel,” Brother Braumin put in.

  “Not so bad,” the friar replied. “It’s old forest, with great and dark trees, but not much undergrowth. Except of course for the caribou moss; you will encounter more than a bit of that.”

  “Caribou moss?” All eyes turned to the questioner, Brother Francis, his fellow monks surprised indeed that he did not recognize the name. Francis met Jojonah’s curious gaze head-on, the younger man again narrowing his eyes threateningly. “No tomes told of it,” he answered the master’s unspoken question.

  “A shrub, white and low to the ground,” Friar Pembleton explained. “Your horses should have no trouble pushing through, though it will grab at your wheels. Other than that, the canopy is too dark for much undergrowth. You will get through, no matter where you turn to the west.”

  “We will get through along the original course,” Brother Francis replied sternly.

  “I beg your pardon, good brother,” Friar Pembleton said with a gracious bow. “I never said that you would not. I only warned you—”

  “And for that, we are truly grateful,” Master Jojonah said to the man, though he was looking directly at Francis as he spoke. “I ask you now, in good faith, which road would you, who are more familiar with this terrain, select?”

  Pembleton scratched his thick beard, mulling over the options. “I would go east,” he said. “And then north, right up into Alpinador. The land is sparsely populated, but you’ll find the barbarians living along the route to be cordial enough, though probably of not much assistance.”

  Master Jojonah nodded; Brother Francis started to protest.

  “Will you go and speak with the drivers now, that you might guide them to the entrance of this eastern road?” Jojonah bade the friar. “We must be back on the trail at once.”

  The friar bowed again and walked away, glancing back several times.

  “Father Abbot—” Brother Francis began.

  “Is not here,” Master Jojonah promptly interrupted. “And if he were here, he would agree with this new course. Sublimate your pride, brother. It is unfitting to one of your training and station.”

  Brother Francis started to argue, but the words were lost in a swirl of absolute rage before they ever got out of his mouth. He quickly gathered up the parchment, creasing it in many places with his rough handling—the first time the others had seen him treat one of the maps in that manner—and stormed away.

  “He goes to contact Father Abbot,” Brother Braumin reasoned.

  Master Jojonah chuckled at the thought, confident that his choice was the correct one and that Francis was simply too blinded by his anger and wounded pride to see past the inconvenience.

  The caravan was on its way soon after, moving onto the eastern road without incident. Brother Francis did not emerge from the back of his wagon all that day, though the monks riding with him were quick to get out and away from him. He was pouting, by their accounts.

  “In some situations, Father Abbot Markwart can be counted on,” Master Jojonah whispered to Brother Braumin, offering a sly wink.

  The younger monk smiled widely, always thrilled to see the ambitious Francis put in his proper place.

  As Friar Pembleton had told them, the road was easy and clear. Those monks searching the area with the quartz reported no monstrous activity at all, just the wild forest. Master Jojonah set the pace at steady and smooth. They couldn’t afford to drive these horses beyond their limits, for they expected no replacements the rest of the way to the Barbacan and all the way back again, until they met with Friar Pembleton in the very same field they had just left behind, swapping these horses for the ones they had given into the man’s care.

  Of course, that was assuming that Pembleton’s little hamlet would survive over the next few weeks, and given the reports of monsters just a score of miles away, the monks could only pray that would be the case.

  They traveled late into the night, with Master Jojonah even daring to put up substantial diamond light to guide their way. They camped right on the road, circling the wagons for protection. Great care was given to the precious horses, with hooves cleaned and shoes carefully inspected. The animals were toweled down and brought to graze in a nearby meadow, and more guards were posted about them than about the wagon ring.

  The going was easy again the next day, but their new track would be much longer, and there was no way they could meet the timetable without pushing the horses. Brother Francis ran up behind Master Jojonah’s wagon and climbed in precisely to make that point.

  “And if we drive them so hard that they cannot continue?” the master argued.

  “There is a way,” Brother Francis said evenly.

  Master Jojonah knew what he was talking about: in the old tomes, Francis had stumbled upon a formula, a combination of magic stones, that could steal the life force from one animal and give it to another. Master Jojonah thought the process truly barbaric, and had hoped they would find no cause to even discuss the matter. Or at least, he had hoped he could keep the caravan on schedule, thus giving him the ability to deny Francis, for he knew that the eager and ambitious brother would surely want to try this new combination of magics, if only to add a major footnote to his account of the journey. Now, facing the reality of a longer road, the master glanced to Brother Braumin, who could only shrug, for he, too, had no practical answers. Finally, Jojonah threw up his hands in defeat. “See to it,” he instructed Brother Francis.

  The monk nodded, couldn’t hide his smile, and was gone.

  Using turquoise and hematite, the monks under Brother Francis’ charge brought the first few deer to the wagons within the hour. The unfortunate wild animals were lashed beside the horses, and again the hematite and turquoise combination was used upon them, this time to draw their very life force from them, transferring their strength and energy to the horse teams.

  The deer were soon left behind in the road, two of them dead, the other three too exhausted to even stand. Master Jojonah looked back at them with sincere sympathy. He had to keep reminding himself of the urgency of the mission, of the fact that many, many more animals and people would suffer greatly if the answers were not found and the monsters not turned back.

  Still, the sight of the drained animals on the road saddened him greatly. The Abellican Order should not be about such dark things as this, he thought.

  More deer were brought in, and even, at one point, a large bear, the creature posing no threat, for it was overwhelmed by telepathic intrusions. Continually refreshed by the stolen energy, the horses crossed more than sixty miles before the sun was down, and again the caravan rolled on long into the night.

  With the abundance of wildlife and absence of monsters, neither J
ojonah nor Francis doubted they would be back on schedule within a couple of days, despite the roundabout detour.

  “Just goblins!” one man declared, slamming his mug of ale down on the oaken table so forcefully that the metal handle broke apart at its top brace, sending the golden liquid flying about. The man was huge and powerful, with bulging arms and chest, thick hair and beard. He hardly stood out in this gathering of thirty adult men of Tol Hengor, hardy folk all, tall and strong from a life in the harsh climate of southern Alpinador.

  “A hundred goblins, at the least,” another man put in. “And with a giant or two, do not doubt.”

  “And them stupid little dwarf things,” added another. “Ugly as an old dog’s arse, but tougher than stewed boot!”

  “Bah! But we’ll smash them down, every one!” the first man promised, growling with every word.

  The door to the town’s mead hall opened then, and all eyes turned to see a man, tall even by Alpinadoran standards, enter. He had seen more than sixty winters, but stood as straight as any twenty-year-old, and there was nothing slack about his muscles or his posture. About the town, about all of Alpinador, it was often whispered that this one had been touched by “faerie magic,” and in a sense, that was true enough. His hair was flaxen and long, well below his shoulders, and his face adorned with a well-trimmed golden beard, accentuating his eyes, which remained as sparkling and blue as a clear northern sky. All boasts ended at that moment, in deference to the great man.

  “You have seen them?” one man asked, a perfectly silly question in the minds of all who knew this man, the ranger Andacanavar.

  He walked up to the long table and nodded, then pulled his tremendous claymore over his shoulder and laid its bloodstained blade across the table.

  “But is there any sport remaining for us?” a man said with a burst of laughter, which was joined by all in attendance.

  All except for one.

  “Too much sport,” Andacanavar said grimly, and the room went silent.

  “Just goblins!” the man who had spilled his mead repeated determinedly.

  “Goblins and giants and powries,” the ranger corrected.

  “How many giants?” came a call from the far end of the great table.

  “There were seven,” the ranger replied, lifting his gleaming blade up before their eyes. “Now there are five.”

  “Bah, not so many,” two men said in unison.

  “Too many,” Andacanavar said again, more forcefully. “With their smaller allies holding our warriors at bay, the five giants will destroy Tol Hengor.”

  Nervous glances met angry glares, the proud northlanders not knowing how to respond. They held Andacanavar in the greatest respect—never before had he led them astray. Over the last few months, with the invasion by sea and by land, all the towns of Alpinador had been sorely pressed, and many overrun. Whenever tireless Andacanavar was about, though, the odds were more even, and the Alpinadorans had fared well.

  “What are we to do, then?” a bear of a man named Bruinhelde, the chieftain of Tol Hengor, asked, leaning forward over the table to stare the ranger in the eye. He motioned to a woman standing in waiting at the side of the tent, and she took up a cloth and approached the great ranger.

  “You will take your people out to the west,” Andacanavar explained, handing his claymore to the woman, who reverently began to clean it.

  “And hide in the woods like women and children?” the ale-spiller roared, leaping up from his seat. Having had too many drinks, he wobbled on unsteady feet, and the man next to him promptly shoved him back down.

  “I will try to keep striking at the giants,” the ranger explained. “If I can defeat them, or lead them away, you and your warriors can strike back at the rest and reclaim Tol Hengor.”

  “I do not wish to leave my home,” Bruinhelde replied, and then paused, and all the room hushed. Bruinhelde was the leader, a title won in battle, and the tribe would follow his words, whatever Andacanavar might suggest. “But I trust in you, my friend.” he added, and reached out and dropped his hand on the ranger’s shoulder. “Strike fast and strike hard. It would be better if these filthy creatures did not set foot in Tol Hengor. And if they do, I wish to have them out quickly. I do not enjoy weathering the open forest at my age.” He said the last with a wink, for he was more than fifteen years Andacanavar’s junior, and it was well-known that the nomadic ranger lived almost exclusively in the deep forest.

  The ranger nodded to the chieftain, then to all gathered. He took the cloth from the woman and finished wiping the giant blood from his blade, then lifted it up, gleaming for all to see. It was an elvish blade, Icebreaker by name, the largest item ever constructed of silverel. Icebreaker did not nick and did not dull, and in Andacanavar’s strong arms, it could cleave down small trees in a single swipe. The ranger slid the blade back into its sheath over his shoulder, nodded to Bruinhelde, and was gone.

  Master Jojonah and Braumin Herde stood on the edge of a high ridge, looking down upon a small village of stone houses set in a wide and shallow vale. The sun was low in the west, sending long shadows along the valley.

  “We have come farther than we believed,” the brother reasoned.

  “Alpinadoran,” Master Jojonah agreed. “Either we have crossed through the Timberlands or these barbarians have settled beyond their accepted southern border.”

  “The former, I would guess,” Brother Braumin replied. “Brother Baijuis, skilled in use of the sextant, agrees.”

  “The magic used on the wild animals is effective, however immoral,” the master said dryly.

  Brother Braumin glanced sidelong, studying his companion. He, too, had not been thrilled by the life-draining of innocent wild animals, though it seemed he was not nearly as distressed by it as Jojonah.

  “Even stubborn Francis agrees that we have made up the time lost by the detour,” Master Jojonah went on. “Though he had little argument against us when Father Abbot Markwart agreed with our choice of the eastern road.”

  “Brother Francis rarely needs support, or even logic, when disagreeing,” Braumin remarked, drawing a concurring chuckle from his superior. “He is plotting our new course now, and surprisingly, with the same fervor that he plotted our original course.”

  “Not so surprising,” Master Jojonah replied, lowering his voice to a whisper when he noticed the approach of two younger monks. “Brother Francis will do anything to impress the Father Abbot.”

  Brother Braumin snickered, but lost his smile when he turned to regard the newcomers, their expressions grave.

  “Pray you forgive our intrusion, Master Jojonah,” said one of them, Brother Dellman. Both young monks began bowing repeatedly.

  “Yes yes,” the master prompted impatiently, for it was obvious to Jojonah, too, that something must be terribly wrong. “What is it?”

  “A group of monsters,” Brother Dellman explained. “Moving from the west, toward that village.”

  “Brother Francis insists that we can easily avoid them,” the other monk interjected. “And so we can, but are we to let those villagers be slaughtered?”

  Master Jojonah turned to Braumin, who was shaking his head slowly, as if the very movement pained him profoundly. “Father Abbot Markwart’s instructions were clear and uncompromising,” the immaculate said uncomfortably. “We are not to engage any, enemy or friend, at least until we have completed our task at the Barbacan.”

  Jojonah looked down at the village, at the plumes of gray smoke drifting lazily from the chimneys. He imagined how dark that cloud might soon be, black smoke billowing from burning houses; people, children, running about, screaming, in terror and in pain.

  And then dying, horribly.

  “What is in your heart, Brother Dellman?” the master asked unexpectedly.

  “I am loyal to Father Abbot Markwart,” the young monk replied without hesitation, straightening his shoulders resolutely.

  “I did not ask how you would proceed were the decision yours,” Master Jojonah
explained to him. “I only asked what was in your heart. What should the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle do when they come upon a situation such as the one before us?”

  Dellman started to answer in favor of fighting beside the folk of the village, but stopped, confused. Then he started again, his reasoning moving in a different direction, speaking of the larger goal, the greater good to all the world. But then he stopped again, grunting in frustration.

  “The Abellican Order has a long tradition of defending those who cannot defend themselves,” the other young monk put in. “In our own region, we have oft welcomed the townsfolk into the safety of our abbey in times of peril, be it powrie invasion or impending storms.”

  “But what of the greater good?” Master Jojonah asked, stopping the young monk before he could gain too much momentum.

  With no answer forthcoming, Jojonah took a different tack. “How many people do you estimate are down there?” he asked.

  “Thirty,” Brother Braumin replied. “Perhaps as many as fifty.”

  “And are fifty lives worth the price of defeating our most important mission, a risk that we surely assume if we intervene?”

  Again there was only silence, with the two younger monks glancing repeatedly at each other, each wanting the other to seek out the proper answer.

  “We know Father Abbot Markwart’s position on that,” Brother Braumin remarked.

  “Father Abbot would insist that they are not worth the potential cost,” Master Jojonah said bluntly. “And he would make a strong case for his point.”

  “And we are loyal to Father Abbot Markwart,” Brother Dellman said, as though that simple fact ended the debate.

  But Master Jojonah wasn’t going to let him off that easily, wasn’t going to let Dellman or any of the others hand off the responsibility of this decision; a decision, he believed, that went to the very core of the Abellican Order, and to the very heart of his dispute with Markwart. “We are loyal to the tenets of the Church,” he corrected. “Not to people.”