DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Master Jojonah would not disagree with the simple logic of that statement. In the end, good and truth would prevail—he had to believe that, for it was the most basic tenet of his faith. How many centuries might it take to turn the Abellican Church back to its proper course, though, and how much suffering would the present course facilitate?

  “Keep true in your heart,” he said again to Braumin. “Quietly spread the word, not against the Father Abbot or any others, but in favor of Avelyn and those of like heart and generous spirit.”

  “With the centaur as prisoner, it may go beyond that,” Brother Braumin reasoned. “The Father Abbot might force our hand, to stand against him openly or to forever remain silent.”

  “There are degrees of silence, brother,” Master Jojonah replied. “To your room now, and fear not for me. I am at peace.”

  Brother Braumin spent a long while staring at this dear man, his mentor, then he bowed low, even moved to Jojonah’s hand and kissed it, then turned and left.

  Master Jojonah spent another hour and more up on that quiet triforium, looking at the statues of saints past, and at the newest construction, the likeness of Brother Allabarnet of St. Precious, who more than a century before had walked the wide land planting apple trees, that settlers might find abundance. The canonization process for Allabarnet was sponsored by Abbot Dobrinion, who dearly wanted to see it through before he died.

  Master Jojonah knew well the tales of kindly Allabarnet, and thought the man truly deserving. But given the current conditions of the Church, those stories of generosity and sacrifice would probably work against him.

  Master Jojonah’s fears about Bradwarden’s condition were all too true, for the centaur had been brought to the lower catacombs of St. Precious, and there, in the dark and damp, was shackled to the wall. Still dazed from his brutal experiences in the collapsed mountain, and thoroughly exhausted from the run south, during which the monks had enacted magic spells upon him to make him run faster, Bradwarden was in little condition to resist physically.

  And mentally; Bradwarden was caught exhausted and off his guard when Father Abbot Markwart, hematite in hand, came to him that very first night.

  Without a word to Bradwarden, the Father Abbot fell into the power of the soul stone, released his mind from its physical bonds and invaded the thoughts of the centaur.

  Bradwarden’s eyes went wide when he felt this most personal of intrusions. He struggled against the chains, but they would not yield. He fought back mentally—or at least he tried to, for he had no idea where to even begin.

  Markwart, this wretched old human, was there in his mind, probing his memories.

  “Tell me of Avelyn,” the Father Abbot prompted aloud, and though Bradwarden had no intention of offering any answers, the mere mention of Avelyn conjured images of the man, of the trip to Aida, of Pony and Elbryan, of Belli’mar Juraviel and Tuntun, of Symphony, and of all the others who had fought the monsters about Dundalis.

  Only gradually did Bradwarden begin to temper and control his thoughts, and by that time the Father Abbot had learned so very much. Avelyn was dead and the stones gone, but these other two, this Elbryan and Pony, had left the devastation of Aida, or at least had left the tunnel wherein the centaur had been trapped, very much alive. Markwart focused on these two as the inquisition continued, and discovered that they were both from a small Timberland town called Dundalis, but had both lived the bulk of their years outside of Dundalis.

  Pony, Jilseponie Ault, had lived in Palmaris.

  “Ye’re a wretch!” Bradwarden fumed when at long last the mental connection was broken.

  “You might have offered the information an easier way,” the Father Abbot replied.

  “To yerself ?” the centaur balked. “Ah, but Avelyn was right about ye, about all o’ yer stinkin’ Church, now wasn’t he?”

  “Where did this woman, Jilseponie, live when she was in Palmaris?”

  “Ye’re calling yerselves men o’ God, but no good God’d approve of yer works,” Bradwarden went on. “Ye took from me, ye thievin’ wretch, and for that I’ll see that ye pay.”

  “And what of these diminutive creatures?” Father Abbot Markwart calmly asked. “Touel’alfar?”

  Bradwarden spat at him.

  Markwart lifted another stone, a graphite, and slammed the bedraggled centaur against the stone wall with a burst of electricity. “There are easy ways, and there are difficult ways,” the Father Abbot said calmly. “I will take whatever path you open for me.”

  He started for the low, open archway that led to the main area of the catacombs. “You will speak with me again,” he threatened. Both Markwart and Bradwarden understood the limitations of that threat. The centaur was strong of will and would not be caught by surprise again, and Markwart would find no easy task in getting into his mind.

  But Bradwarden feared that he might have already surrendered too much information about his friends.

  “You cannot begin to comprehend the importance of this!” the Father Abbot roared at Abbot Dobrinion the next morning, the two men alone in Dobrinion’s study—though it was the Father Abbot who was sitting at Dobrinion’s large oak desk.

  “Palmaris is a large city,” Abbot Dobrinion said calmly, trying to appease the man. Markwart hadn’t told him much, just that he needed information on a young woman, perhaps twenty years of age, who went by the name of Pony, or Jilseponie. “I know of no one named Pony—except for one stableboy who earned that as a nickname.”

  “Jilseponie, then?”

  Abbot Dobrinion shrugged helplessly.

  “She came from the north,” Father Abbot Markwart pressed, though he hadn’t wanted to reveal even this much to the potentially dangerous Dobrinion. “An orphan.”

  That hit a chord with the Abbot. “And can you tell me what she looks like?” he asked, trying hard not to let on that he might know something.

  Markwart described the woman, for Bradwarden had unintentionally offered him a very clear picture of her, the thick golden hair, the blue eyes, the thick lips.

  “What is it?” Markwart demanded, seeing the recognition flash across Dobrinion’s chubby face.

  “Nothing, perhaps,” the abbot admitted. “There was a girl— Jill, she was called—who came from the north, orphaned in a goblin raid. But that was perhaps a decade ago, perhaps more.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I married her to Master Connor Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron of Palmaris,” Abbot Dobrinion explained. “But it did not consummate and the girl was declared an outlaw for her refusal. She was indentured to the Kingsmen,” Dobrinion declared, thinking that might be the end of it, and hoping it would be, for he was not pleased at all by the Father Abbot’s actions, nor by the man’s desperate and secretive attitude.

  The Father Abbot turned away and rubbed a hand across his pointy chin, only then noticing that he had not shaved in many, many days. The woman had been in the army—that, too, fit with the centaur’s recollections.

  The pieces were falling into place.

  Markwart, and not Dobrinion, remained in the abbot’s study after their discussion had ended. The next in line to see him was Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot’s orders to the monk were simple and to the point: keep everyone, even Abbot Dobrinion, away from the centaur, and keep Bradwarden exhausted. They would meet later that day in the dungeon, to continue the interrogation.

  When Francis left, Master Jojonah entered. “We must discuss your treatment of the centaur,” he said without even formally greeting his superior.

  Father Abbot Markwart snorted. “The centaur is none of your concern,” he replied casually.

  “It would seem that Bradwarden is a hero,” Master Jojonah dared to say. “He, along with Avelyn Desbris, saw to the destruction of the dactyl.”

  “You have it wrong,” the Father Abbot retorted, working hard to keep the anger from his voice. “Avelyn went to the dactyl, that much is true, and Bradwarden and these other two, Elbryan and Pony, ac
companied him. But they did not go there to do battle, but rather to form an alliance.”

  “So the destroyed mountain would indicate,” Master Jojonah said sarcastically.

  Again Markwart snorted. “They overstepped the bounds of magic and of reason,” he declared. “They reached into that crystal amethyst which Avelyn stole from St.-Mere-Abelle, and with it, combined with the hellish powers of the demon dactyl, they destroyed themselves.”

  Master Jojonah saw the lie for what it was. He knew Avelyn, perhaps better than anyone else at St.-Mere-Abelle, and knew that Avelyn would never have gone over to the side of evil. How he might convey that message over the ranting of the Father Abbot, he did not know.

  “I have a mission for you,” Markwart said.

  “You hinted that I would return to St.-Mere-Abelle ahead of the rest,” Master Jojonah replied bluntly.

  Markwart was shaking his head before the man finished. “You will leave ahead of us,” he explained. “But I doubt that you will see St.-Mere-Abelle before us. No, your course is south, to St. Honce in Ursal.”

  Master Jojonah was too surprised to even respond.

  “You are to meet with Abbot Je’howith to discuss the canonization of Allabarnet of St. Precious,” the Father Abbot explained.

  Master Jojonah’s expression was purely incredulous. Father Abbot Markwart had been the primary opponent of the process; were it not for his protests, Allabarnet would already be named a saint! Why the reversal? the master pondered, and it seemed to him that Markwart was trying to strengthen his ties with Dobrinion, and also to conveniently get him out of the way.

  “In these trying times, a new saint might be just what the Church needs to reinvigorate the masses,” the Father Abbot went on.

  Master Jojonah wanted to ask how any such process could be nearly as important as the very real issues before them, including the continuing war. He wanted to ask why a lesser monk couldn’t carry this message to Ursal. He wanted to ask why Markwart was reversing himself on this issue.

  But all of those questions ran into the same solid wall, Jojonah realized. Father Abbot Markwart was following his own agenda, one bent on retrieving the stones Avelyn had stolen and discrediting the renegade monk at any costs. As he looked at the man now, it seemed to him that Markwart was spiraling down, down, into depths of blackness, that every word the Father Abbot spoke carried him further from the path of God.

  “I will go and pack my belongings,” Master Jojonah said.

  “Already done,” Father Abbot Markwart replied as the man turned to leave. “They await you at the abbey’s back door.”

  “Then I will go and speak with—”

  “You will go straightaway to the back door,” the Father Abbot said calmly. “All the arrangements have been made, all the supplies secured.”

  “Magic stones?”

  “My friend,” Markwart said, standing and moving around the side of the desk, “you will be traveling through civilized lands. You will need no magical assistance.”

  Master Jojonah felt as though he was at a pivotal moment in his life. To go all the way to Ursal without any magical assistance, and on a mission that could become so very complicated, given the sheer paperwork of the canonization process, could keep him out of St.-Mere-Abelle, where he felt that he was desperately needed, for a year and more. Yet his only recourse would be to challenge Markwart here and now, perhaps to make it a public display, calling the man out concerning his beliefs, demanding proof that Brother Avelyn Desbris had gone to Aida to work with the dactyl demon.

  His allies would be few indeed, Master Jojonah realized. Brother Braumin would stand behind him, perhaps even young Dellman. But what of Abbot Dobrinion, and thus the hundred and fifty monks of St. Precious?

  No, Markwart had beaten him to that, Jojonah understood. He was leaving to discuss a situation near and dear to the heart of St. Precious, the sainthood of one of their own. Dobrinion wouldn’t go against Markwart, not now.

  Master Jojonah spent a long time staring at this wrinkled old man, his onetime mentor who had become his nemesis. But he had no answers and no recourse—or perhaps, he feared, it was just a lack of courage. How old he felt at that moment, how beyond his days of action!

  He went to the back door of the abbey, then walked, for Markwart had not even secured donkey or cart, down the roads of Palmaris, exiting by the southern gate.

  CHAPTER 13

  The New Enemy

  Late in the afternoon of his tenth day with the refugee band, Elbryan sought out Oracle for the first time in more than a week. The passing of the monkish caravan had unnerved him, but so had a new detail that was presented that very morning: Roger Lockless walking back into the refugee camp at the head of fifteen former prisoners of Kos-kosio Begulne. The young man, learning in his scouting that the prisoners had been moved from Caer Tinella to Landsdown, took the opportunity to slip into the less defended town and bring the men out.

  Still, despite the powrie leader’s error in moving the prisoners to the weaker community, disaster had almost found Roger in the woods, for another Craggoth hound remained with the prisoners and was hot on his trail, and only the arrival of Juraviel had allowed Roger and the fleeing prisoners to get away into safety.

  That was a detail Roger was quick to omit when he described the events of the previous night to an excited and thrilled gathering of refugees.

  The ranger saw a new problem here, a deeper and potentially more devastating problem, and so he went to his uncle Mather to sort things out.

  It is as I feared, Uncle Mather,he began when the image appeared to him in the mirror in the near dark gloom.The rivalry with Roger Lockless heads toward disaster. Just this morning he came into the camp at the head of fifteen people, prisoners of the powries whom he had freed the previous night. Of course we all rejoiced at their appearance, but in speaking with them afterward, I came to understand just how great a chance Roger had taken, with his life and with theirs, in going after them. For though we all desire to relieve the powries of their every prisoner, there seemed to be no pressing need for such a desperate act at this time. The prisoners were safe enough, by all indications, for the moment at least, and we might have formulated a wider-reaching plan that would have facilitated not only their escape, but the downfall of Kos-kosio Begulne and his evil brethren, as well.

  But I understand what drove Roger into the town last night, and so does Pony. By his erroneous thinking, he has lost his rank among his people. Where they used to look to him, he sees them looking to me.

  The ranger paused and contemplated that meeting when Roger had first returned. He considered the man’s bluster, the way Roger puffed out his chest when he spoke, the way he looked, particularly at Pony, when he recounted his daring efforts. “Pony,” Elbryan said with a great sigh.

  He looked back to the mirror, to the perceived ghostly image within its edges.Pony, he repeated.Roger has taken a fancy to her. Or perhaps he merely views her responses as the greatest indicator of his worth. Pony is my partner, as all know well, and if he can win her approval, then perhaps he believes they all will rank him above me.

  With the realization of Roger’s “crush” on Pony, the ranger saw just how dangerous the situation might soon become. Roger, with his obvious talents, could be an incredibly valuable addition to their group, but with his immaturity, he might bring disaster upon them all.

  “He and I will fight,” Elbryan said quietly, aloud. “I fear it will come to that.”

  The ranger left the room soon after, to see that night had come in, the fires of the encampment burning brightly not far away. He approached at once, and was accosted by loud voices before he drew near.

  “We should strike at them,” Tomas Gingerwart, full of fire, argued. “And hard! Drive them from our lands and back to their dark mountain holes.”

  Elbryan came into the ring of firelight to see most heads nodding agreement with Tomas’ assessment. He noted Pony, sitting to the side of Tomas, a distressed look on her
face.

  All the talk paused then, in deference to the ranger, all eyes turning his way, as if awaiting his judgment. As soon as Elbryan and Tomas locked stares, they both understood that they would be on opposite sides of the debate.

  “They are without prisoners,” Tomas said. “The time to strike is upon us.”

  Elbryan paused for a long while, truly sympathizing with the man, remembering his own feelings, that desperate need for revenge when his home of Dundalis had been burned to the ground. “I understand—” he started to say.

  “Then put the warriors in line,” Tomas growled back at him, a response echoed many times over throughout the group.

  “Yet I fear that you underestimate the strength of our enemies,” the ranger went on calmly. “How many of us, of our friends, will die in such a raid?”

  “Worth it,” cried one man, “if Caer Tinella is freed!”

  “And Landsdown!” cried another, a woman from that more southern settlement.

  “And if they are not?” the ranger calmly asked. “If, as I fear, we are repelled, slaughtered on the field?”

  “What then for those who cannot fight?” Pony added, and that simple logic, that reminder of the larger responsibility, defeated many retorts.

  Still, the argument went on and on, and ended out of exhaustion and not agreement. Elbryan and his side could claim a minor victory, though, for no battle plans were yet being drawn. They were all excited now, the ranger realized, about the arrival of three new powerful allies, the victory in the forest fight, the safe return of Roger Lockless, and Roger’s subsequent stealing of the rest of Kos-kosio’s prisoners. Now, in the security of these new developments, the folk dared to think of reclaiming their homes and punishing the murderous thieves who had come to Caer Tinella and Landsdown. Hopefully, as things settled down once more, logic would replace emotion.