DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Master Jojonah bent low and examined the arm and hand. He knew them! Somehow, he knew who this was, somehow he felt the goodness of this place, an aura of peace and godly strength.

  “Brother Avelyn,” he gasped.

  Behind him the others, except for Francis, nearly fell over.

  “That is our guess,” Brother Francis replied. “It would seem that Avelyn was in league with the dactyl, and was destroyed when the demon was destroyed.”

  The obvious falsehood overwhelmed Master Jojonah. He rose and spun on Brother Francis powerfully, and nearly struck the man.

  But Jojonah held his blow. Father Abbot Markwart would persist with a campaign of lies against Avelyn, he realized, for if it was discovered that Avelyn had given his life in destroying the dactyl, as Jojonah knew to be true, then Markwart’s many claims and position in the Church might be in jeopardy. That was why, Jojonah realized, conversations with the centaur were to be limited until the creature was safely back at St.-Mere-Abelle, under Markwart’s control.

  Master Jojonah forced himself to calm down. This fight was only beginning; now was not the time to wage the battle openly.

  “What do you think he was holding?” Brother Francis asked.

  Jojonah looked back to the arm and shrugged.

  “There is little magic about this man,” Brother Francis explained. “A couple of stones, perhaps—we will know that when we exhume the body—but not enough strength to account for the hoard that Avelyn stole.”

  Exhume the body.The notion screamed out at Jojonah as simply wrong. This place should be marked as a holy shrine, a place of renewing faith and finding character. He wanted to scream out at Francis, to punch the man in the mouth for even uttering such a blasphemous thought. But again he reminded himself that this was not the time to wage the battle, not that way.

  “The stone about the arm is solid,” he reasoned. “Blasting it will prove no easy task.”

  “We have graphite,” Brother Francis reminded him.

  “And if there is a crevice or chasm beneath the body, such violent intrusion will likely drop all the stones away from us forever.”

  A panicked expression crossed Brother Francis’ face. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked sharply.

  “Search with the hematite and the garnet,” Master Jojonah replied. “It should be no difficult task in determining if there are any stones about this man, and what they might be. Put a brilliant diamond light into the crack about the arm, then let your spirit enter that place.”

  Brother Francis, not recognizing the larger reasons Father Abbot Markwart might have for destroying this potential shrine, thought about it for a few moments, then agreed.

  He also agreed to let Master Jojonah spiritually accompany him into the crevice, since the Father Abbot was too weary to return to his body anytime soon, and Jojonah was the only one who could identify Brother Avelyn; Francis had only seen the man a couple of times, for Avelyn had deserted the abbey shortly after Francis had entered it.

  Soon after, the identity was confirmed, along with the knowledge that only one stone, a sunstone, was anywhere near the man, though Master Jojonah sensed the residual magical emanations of another stone, the giant amethyst. The master said nothing of the amethyst to Francis, and had no trouble convincing the younger monk that a simple sunstone, which were already in abundance at St.-Mere-Abelle, was not worth the trouble, risk, and lost time of exhuming the body.

  With Francis leading, they left Avelyn then.

  Master Jojonah was the last to turn to go, pausing at the sight, reflecting on his own faith and remembering the young monk who had inadvertently taught him so very much.

  When they got back to camp, Jojonah pressed a diamond into Brother Braumin’s hand, whispered directions to him, and bade him go and see the sacred place. “I will delay Brother Francis long enough for you to return,” he promised.

  Brother Braumin, not quite understanding, but recognizing from Jojonah’s tone the importance of the journey, nodded and turned to go.

  “And Brother Braumin,” the master said, turning the man about. “Take Brother Dellman with you. He, too, should see this man, and this place.”

  Brother Francis was in a foul mood indeed when he learned they would be delayed in leaving, for a wagon had somehow broken a wheel.

  Still, they were on the move before the dawn. The centaur, seeming fit again—though Francis hadn’t yet dared to remove the armband—and playing his pipes, trotted behind Brother Francis’ wagon, chained to the frame and with several monks keeping close guard on him.

  Neither Brother Braumin, Master Jojonah, nor Brother Dellman spoke a word that night and all the next day, their voices stolen by an image they would carry for the rest of their lives, and by a barrage of profound reflections on their purpose and their faith.

  CHAPTER 11

  Roger Lockless, I Presume

  Wincing in agony, Roger bit hard on the piece of wood he had stuck between his teeth. He had torn a sleeve from his shirt, tied it tight about his leg, just below the knee, and knotted it about a second piece of wood. Now he turned that wood, tightening the tourniquet.

  He nearly swooned more than once, flitting in and out of consciousness. If he passed out now, he would surely bleed to death, he reminded himself, for the bite of the Craggoth hound was deep, the blood spurting.

  Finally, mercifully, the blood flow stemmed, and Roger, cold and clammy, sweating profusely, slumped back against the earthen wall of his cell. He knew this place well, a root cellar close to the town center, and knew there was only one way in or out: a trapdoor at the top of a rickety wooden ladder. Roger stared at it now, lines of meager daylight streaming through. The late afternoon sun, he realized, and he thought that he should try to make his break when the light was gone, under cover of night.

  He recognized immediately the foolishness of that notion. He wasn’t going anywhere this night, could hardly find the strength to pull himself away from the wall. Chuckling at the futility of it all, he slumped down to the floor, and then he slept all the night through, and would have remained asleep for many, many more hours if the door to his jail had not banged open and the dawn’s light poured in.

  Roger groaned and tried to straighten himself.

  A powrie appeared on the ladder, followed by another, Kos-kosio Begulne himself. The dwarf in front went right to Roger and pulled him up to his feet, slamming him hard against the wall.

  Roger teetered, but managed to hold his balance, realizing that if he fell over, the dwarf would just hoist him up again, probably even more roughly.

  “Who uses the magic?” Kos-kosio Begulne asked, coming up to Roger, grabbing him by the front of his torn and bloody shirt and pulling him low, so his face was barely an inch from the leathery, wrinkled, imposing visage of the dwarf, close enough that Kos-kosio’s foul breath was hot in Roger’s face.

  “Magic?” Roger replied.

  “Get the hounds!” Kos-kosio Begulne cried.

  Roger groaned again at the sound of barking.

  “Who uses the magic?” the powrie leader demanded. “How many, and how many stones?”

  “Stones?” Roger echoed. “I know of no stones, nor of any magic.”

  Another bark came from above.

  “I promise,” Roger added, his tone frantic. “I could just lie and give you a name, any name, and you would not know if I spoke truly until, or unless, you found that person. But I do not know of any magic. None!”

  Kos-kosio Begulne held Roger close a bit longer, the dwarf growling low—and Roger feared that the fierce powrie would bite his nose off. But then Kos-kosio shoved him back hard against the wall and spun toward the stairs, convinced by the simple logic of Roger’s defense. “Ye tie him up!” the leader barked at the other powrie. “Strangle knot. We wants to make our guest comfortable.”

  Roger wasn’t quite sure what Kos-kosio Begulne had in mind, but the other powrie’s grin, wide with evil glee, was not promising. The dwarf produced a thin, rough-edg
ed rope and advanced on him.

  Roger slumped to the floor. The dwarf kicked him over onto his belly, then yanked his arms roughly behind his back.

  “Nah, put the damned hounds away,” Kos-kosio Begulne commanded yet another powrie who had come to the top of the root cellar’s ladder, leading a Craggoth hound on a short leash. “He’s just a weak human, and won’t be living through much more pain.” Kos-kosio looked back from his perch on the lower rungs, meeting Roger’s glare. “I’m wanting to find a bit more fun with this one before I let him die.”

  “Lucky me,” Roger muttered under his breath, and that only got him an even harder tug from the dwarf with the rope.

  The “strangle knot,” as Kos-kosio Begulne had called it, proved to be a devilish twist of the rope. Roger’s arms were bound tightly behind his back, bent at the elbow so his hands nearly touched the back of his neck. The nasty cord then looped over both his shoulders and down the front of his body, wrapping painfully underneath his groin and then up his back once more, finally looping about Roger’s throat. So expertly was he tied, and so tightly, that the slightest shift of his arms not only sent waves of pain into his groin, but cut off his air supply, as well.

  “Well, human lockpicker, let’s be seeing if ye can get yer way outta this.” The powrie laughed, set a torch in a wall sconce, lit it, and went to the top of the ladder, calling out to some comrades. “Kos-kosio’s not wanting this one to get away!”

  “Double lock?” one of the dwarves up above asked.

  “Double lock,” the powrie on the stairs confirmed. “And then sit the damned hound on it! And ye get one to come and take me seat before the sun’s too low. I’m not wanting to miss me supper sitting with this smelly human.”

  “Quit yer bitching,” the other dwarf replied, and closed the heavy trapdoor with a resounding bang. Roger listened carefully as chains and locks were set in place on the door. He studied the powrie coming down the stairs.

  One mistake,the young man silently berated Kos-kosio Begulne.You let this one keep a weapon.

  The powrie made straight for Roger. “You just lie still,” the dwarf instructed, and then, to accentuate the point, the nasty creature kicked Roger hard in the ribs.

  Roger squirmed—and that only choked him all the more.

  Laughing, the dwarf moved across the way and sat down under the burning torch. The wicked creature took off its crimson beret, twirling it about with one finger, letting Roger see it clearly, as if to promise him that his blood, too, would soon enhance the hue. Then the powrie put its gnarly hands behind its head and leaned against the wall, closing its eyes.

  Roger spent a long, long while getting his bearings. He fought away the nausea and the pain, then tried to figure a way to get out of the ropes. That would be the easy part, he decided, because even if he got free, even if he then took the dwarf’s weapon and killed the creature, where might he go? The cellar bulkhead was locked and chained, and he didn’t have to be reminded of what lay in wait atop it.

  Truly, the task before him seemed daunting, but Roger forced himself to calm and to concentrate, trying to break things down one step at a time.

  Sometime in late afternoon the powries changed guards. The new one gave Roger a bit of food and a drink—nearly drowning him in the process—and then took a seat in much the same place as the previous sentry.

  Within an hour this one, too, was snoring contentedly.

  Determined not to spend another night as Kos-kosio Begulne’s guest, Roger decided that the time to act was upon him. One small step at a time, he reminded himself as he braced his shoulder against the hard wall. He had to angle himself just right, so his weight and not his strength would do most of the work. With a glance at his powrie jailor to make sure the creature was sleeping soundly, Roger closed his eyes and mustered his nerve.

  Then he dove against the wall, suddenly, powerfully, hitting with the front of his shoulder, the jolt driving his arm back. Roger’s muscles and weight worked in a coordinated manner then, driving him ahead.

  He heard a loud pop as his shoulder dislocated, and waves of pain rolled through his body, nearly laying him low. He fought them away, though, and with his arm thus contorted, the rope was loosened enough for him to slip it over the shoulder.

  In a matter of seconds he was lying on the floor, free of the rope, gasping for breath. Then, after a moment’s respite, he went back to work, jamming his shoulder the other way, popping it back in place—a useful little trick the thief had perfected over the years. Again he spent a moment letting the waves of pain subside, and then gathered up the rope and moved to the sleeping powrie.

  “Hey,” the dwarf protested a few minutes later, opening its sleepy eyes to see Roger standing before it, the dwarf’s short sword in hand. “And what’re ye meaning to do with that?” the powrie asked, climbing to its feet and drawing a dagger from its boot. Both the dwarf and Roger understood that even thus armed, the man was no match for the battle-seasoned powrie.

  Roger hopped backward on his good leg, falling against the far wall; the powrie growled and charged, raising its dagger before it.

  As that arm came up, the dwarf realized that a rope was looped about its wrist, a short leash fastened to a root sticking from the earthen wall near to where the dwarf had been sitting.

  “What?” the powrie said, even as the loop tightened and held, pulling the dwarf’s arm low, right between its legs, flipping the dwarf over to land heavily on its back.

  Roger came off the wall even as the dwarf began its somersault, sliding in beside the prone creature.

  “What?” the dwarf bellowed again, just before the pommel of its short sword smashed down on its hard head. The powrie thrashed, trying to pull its arm free, trying to grab at Roger with its other hand.

  Roger pounded away with the pommel again and again, until finally the stubborn dwarf lay still. The man nearly fell away from the pain then, and the exertion, flitting in and out of consciousness.

  “Not much time,” Roger reminded himself stubbornly, dragging himself to his feet.

  The powrie stirred; Roger slammed it again, and then once more.

  “Not much time,” he said again, more insistently, shaking his head at the sheer resilience of the hardy dwarf.

  Now things got more complicated; Roger played through the entire scenario, trying to figure every obstacle and every item he would need to overcome them. He took the dagger from the dwarf’s hand and the belt from around its waist, and reset the rope to better secure the creature. Then he moved to the ladder, trying to get a measure of the bulkhead’s strength. At the center of that trapdoor, on the inside, was a support beam, a strong log. Roger went at this first, or rather, at the wood above it, scraping a hollow area wide enough to loop the rope over the beam. Then he began an expert assault on the boards, whittling at their supports on either end. At one point he heard the growl of the wary Craggoth hound, and had to pause for a long while before the vicious dog would quiet down.

  One scratch at a time, one broken splinter, one loosened peg. Again Roger had to stop, this time because his leg was throbbing so badly he could not remain on the ladder. And then again he had to wait, for the powrie was coming back to consciousness and needed to be clunked on the head one more time. Stubbornly Roger went back to work, and finally the boards to either side of the central support were loosened.

  The moment was upon him; he hoped he wouldn’t faint away from the pain at a critical juncture.

  He went back to the dwarf and gathered more tools, then spent a long moment replaying the expected scenario. He checked his gear one final time—the short sword and the dagger, the post from the dwarf’s belt buckle, the leather laces from the dwarf’s boots, andfinally, one of those smelly boots—and then took a deep steadying breath and moved back to the ladder. He pressed slightly on each of the loosened bulkhead boards, trying to get a better feel of where the hound might be. Of course, if there was more than one dog, or if there were any powries in the immediate area up ab
ove, the game would end quickly, and likely, painfully, Roger realized, but he decided he had to take the chance. In his mind, he had nothing to lose, for Kos-kosio Begulne would never let him go, and Roger held no illusions about his captivity: as soon as the powrie leader decided he was no longer useful, he would be tortured to death.

  He had already looped the rope over the beam from right to left, but then, realizing that the hound was more to the left, he reversed the direction. Down the ladder Roger went, positioning the dazed powrie at the base and to the left-hand side.

  Back up on the ladder, in place below the trapdoor, Roger rubbed his hands anxiously, reminding himself over and over that his timing had to be perfect. Using splinters from the worked boards, he set the noose in place just under the right-hand board. Then he took up the boot in one hand and put his other hand firmly against the right board, up through the noose.

  A final deep breath and Roger pushed hard, partially dislodging the board, enough so he woke the hound fully and offered it an opening through which it could attack.

  And attack it did, jaws snapping right for the boot that Roger pushed up into its face. As soon as the dog latched on, Roger, holding the other end of the boot in both hands, jumped from the ladder, drawing the stubborn hound in through the opening, in through the noose.

  The snare worked perfectly, tightening about the hound as it came falling through, hooking about the dog’s neck and under one paw about the shoulder. Down they went, Roger in a tumble—a painful tumble!—and the hound dropping to the end of the rope length. The sudden jerk lifted the powrie at the rope’s other end to its knees and left the hound dangling, one of its back feet just brushing the floor.

  The Craggoth hound bit hard on the boot, shaking its head violently side to side, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was hanging. Roger was there in a split second, taking the opportunity to loop the leather shoelace about the creature’s closed jaws, wrapping it tightly many times and then tying it off.