DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  “My uncle knows of my arrival?” Connor asked the man.

  “He will join us presently,” the guard replied, his voice slurred, for his mouth, too, had been battered by the magnetite missile.

  Even as he finished speaking, Connor’s uncle entered the room through a side door, his face brightening as he gazed upon his nephew.

  “Thank God himself that you are alive and well,” the man said generously. Connor had always been Rochefort Bildeborough’s favorite relative, and since the man had no children, it was a common belief in Palmaris that Connor would inherit the title.

  “Should I not be?” Connor asked in his typically casual manner.

  “They got in to kill Abbot Dobrinion,” Rochefort replied, taking his seat opposite the desk from Connor.

  Connor did not miss the effort his uncle required for the simple action. Rochefort was overweight and suffered from severe pains in the joints. Until the previous summer, the man had ridden his fields every day, rain or shine, but this year he had been out only a couple of times, and never two days in succession. Rochefort’s eyes, too, showed the sudden aging. They had always been gray in hue, but they were dull now, filmed over.

  Connor had wanted the title of Baron of Palmaris since he was old enough to understand the prestige and entitlement that came with it, but now, as that moment seemed to be drawing near, he had discovered that he could wait—and many years. He would rather that he kept his present position, and that his dear uncle, the man who had been as a father to him, remained alive and well.

  “How would the monsters even know to look for me?” Connor replied calmly. “The abbot is a clear target for our enemies, but myself?”

  “The abbot and the Baron,” Rochefort reminded.

  “And indeed I am glad to see that you have taken all the proper precautions,” Connor said quickly. “You may be a target, but not I. To the knowledge of our enemies, I am nothing more than a common tavern-hunter.”

  Rochefort nodded, and seemed relieved by the logic of Connor’s reasoning. Like a protective father, he didn’t fear for himself half as much as he feared for Connor.

  Connor, though, was not really convinced by his own words. The powrie slipping into St. Precious at this tension-filled time, so soon after the horrible Father Abbot’s departure, seemed a bit too convenient to him, and he only grew more uneasy as he looked upon the broken face of his uncle’s principal guard.

  “I want you to stay at Chasewind Manor,” Rochefort said.

  Connor shook his head. “I have business in the city, Uncle,” he replied. “And I have been battling powries for months now. Fear not for me.” As he finished, he patted Defender, comfortably sheathed at his hip.

  Rochefort stared long and hard at the confident young man. That was what he liked about Connor, the confidence, the swagger. He had been so much like Connor in his own youth, bouncing from tavern to tavern, from brothel to brothel, living life so fully, taking each moment to the very limits, of life, of danger. How ironic, he thought, that now, growing older, and with less pleasure, less excitement, less life, ahead of him, he should be more protective of his life. Connor, indeed so much like a younger Rochefort, with so much more to lose, thought little of potential danger, felt immortal and invulnerable.

  The Baron laughed, and dismissed the thought of ordering Connor to stay at Chasewind Manor, for that, he realized, would steal all that he loved from the spirited young man. “Keep one of my soldiers beside you,” he offered in compromise.

  Again Connor resolutely shook his head. “That would only outline me as a potential target,” he reasoned. “I know the city, Uncle. Know where to garner information and where to hide.”

  “Go out! Go out!” the Baron cried in defeat, laughing all the while. “But know that you carry more than the responsibility of your own life with you.” He rose with considerably less trouble than he had found in sitting, and rushed about the desk, clapping Connor on the shoulder roughly a couple of times, then letting his big hand rest intimately about his nephew’s neck. “You carry my heart with you, boy,” he said solemnly. “If they find you as they found Dobrinion, then know that I will surely die of a broken heart.”

  Connor believed him, every word. He gave the man a hug and a pat, then strode confidently from the room.

  “He will soon be your baron,” Rochefort said to the soldier.

  The man snapped to attention and nodded, obviously approving of the choice.

  “Open it.”

  “But Master Bildeborough, I see no reason to disturb the sleep of the dead,” the monk replied. “The coffin has been blessed by Brother Talumus, our highest-ranking—”

  “Open it,” Connor repeated, locking the young man in his unrelenting glare.

  Still the young monk hesitated.

  “Should I bring my uncle?”

  The monk bit at his lip, but surrendered to the threat, bending low to grasp the wooden lid. With a look back to the resolute Connor, he slid the cover aside. There lay the woman, her complexion chalky blue in death.

  To the monk’s horror, Connor reached in and grabbed her by the shoulder, lifting and turning the corpse, his face low, impervious to the stench as he studied her intently. “Wounds?” he asked.

  “Just the drowning,” the monk replied. “In the sink. Hot water, too. Her face was all red at first, but now the blood, and all the life, is gone from it.”

  Connor gently shifted the body back into place and stood back, motioning to the monk that he could close the coffin. He put his hand to his mouth, running his thumbnail between his teeth, trying to make sense of it all. The monks of St. Precious had been very accommodating when he showed up at their gate. They were frightened and confused, he knew, and the presence of so important a representative of Baron Bildeborough had helped to settle them.

  In Abbot Dobrinion’s room Connor had found little in the way of clues. Both bodies were still there, the abbot’s cleaned and carefully placed in state on his bed, and the powrie’s right where the monks had found it. The blood of both corpses was liberal about the room, despite all efforts to clean the place. When Connor protested the changes in the room, the monks took great pains to describe the struggle, as they had interpreted it, in great detail: the abbot had been wounded first, and several times, probably taken by surprise while he lay asleep on his bed. One of the wounds was mortal, a slash across the throat, but still the brave Dobrinion had managed to struggle across the room to retrieve the small knife.

  How proud were the monks of St. Precious that their abbot had been able to take revenge on his killer!

  To Connor, who had battled the tough powries, it seemed unlikely at best that a single thrown dagger could have so perfectly taken one down, and that Dobrinion, given the viciousness of the slashed throat, could even have gotten to the desk. The scenario was not beyond belief, though, and so he kept his thoughts to himself, accepting the description with a noncommittal nod and a simple word of praise for gallant Dobrinion.

  When he subsequently inquired about how the powrie might have gained access, Connor learned of a second victim, a poor girl who had been ambushed and drowned in the kitchen. It remained a mystery to the monks as to how the powrie had gained entrance, for the door was magically sealed against being opened from the outside, and indeed it was little known, being invisible against the abbey’s bricked wall. The only explanation they could find was that the foolish girl had been in league with, or more likely, been duped by, the powrie and had let the dwarf in.

  That, too, seemed acceptable to Connor, though a bit of a stretch, but now, in looking at the girl, her skin unbroken, the young nobleman’s fears and suspicions rose high about him. Still he said nothing to the monks, understanding that without the guidance of the only man of any authority in all the abbey, they could do little.

  “Poor girl,” was all he muttered as the monk escorted him from the abbey’s cellar—just a pair of stairways up from where the Chilichunks had been held as prisoners, Connor continually re
minded himself.

  “Your uncle will help us to secure the abbey from further intrusion?” one of the monks waiting in the chapel for the pair inquired.

  Connor asked for parchment and quill, then scribbled out a request for such aid. “Take this to Chasewind Manor,” he instructed. “Of course the family Bildeborough will do all that we can for the security of St. Precious.”

  He bade the monks farewell then, and swept out into the streets of Palmaris, the place of whispers and rumors, the place where he might truly find his answers.

  Questions and images haunted him throughout the afternoon. Why would the powries go after Abbot Dobrinion, who had not been very much engaged in the fighting? Only a handful of monks had gone out from St. Precious to the fighting in the north, and they had been far from decisive in any battles. Given that, and the fact that St. Precious had played more of a healing role in the war, it seemed unlikely that any of Dobrinion’s actions would have spurred the powries to such a dramatic action.

  The only explanation Connor could think of was that the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, who had reportedly come in from the north, had skirmished with the monsters, probably destroying many, and thus inadvertently set up the abbot as a target for assassination.

  But after his experiences with Markwart, Connor didn’t believe that possible scenario. The words “too convenient” echoed in his mind whenever he considered every piece of evidence or any seemingly logical conclusions.

  That night, Connor found his way to Fellowship Way, which he had convinced Dainsey Aucomb to reopen the previous night, explaining to her that the Chilichunks would be in desperate straits indeed when they returned to Palmaris—even though Connor didnot believe they would ever return to Palmaris—if their business had not been maintained. The place was bustling, all the locals eager for gossip about what had happened to Abbot Dobrinion and to Keleigh Leigh, the poor drowned kitchen girl. Connor kept quiet through most of the discussion, more interested in listening than in speaking, trying to find someone who might have some important and valid information—no small matter in this sea of rumor. Though he worked hard to keep a low profile, he was approached often, the commoners suspecting that the nobleman would know more than they.

  Through all their inquiries, Connor only smiled and shook his head. “I know only what I have heard since entering the Way,” he’d reply.

  The night rolled on without progress; frustrated Connor put his back against the wall and closed his eyes. Only one fellow’s call of “newfolks,” the term commonly applied to visitors who had not been previously seen in the Way, stirred him from his respite.

  It took him a few moments to focus his vision, to shift his gaze through the crowd toward the door and the two men, one large, the other small and slender, but walking with the perfect balance and absolute alertness of a trained warrior. Connor’s eyes went wide. He knew these men, and knew that their present dress, that of common peasants, was not fitting.

  Where were their robes?

  The mere sight of Youseff brought back pain in Connor’s kidney, and given his last meeting with the two, the nobleman thought it wise to slip even further into the crowd. He motioned to Dainsey first, bringing her to the bar opposite him.

  “See what they want,” he instructed, indicating the two newfolks. “And tell them that I have not been in the Way all the week.”

  Dainsey nodded and slid back the other way, while Connor faded toward the back wall. He tried to stay close enough to catch any snatches of conversation between Dainsey and the two as they predictably approached the hostess, but the noise of the packed tavern allowed for very little eavesdropping.

  Until Dainsey—wonderful Dainsey!—raised her voice pointedly and called out, “Why, he’s not been in here all the week!”

  Connor’s suspicions were confirmed, the monks were looking for him—and he could guess why easily enough. And now he knew why Keleigh Leigh had not been cut, why no powrie had dipped its beret in her spilling blood, a tradition that, according toeverything Connor had ever heard about the cruel bloody caps, no powrie would ever forsake. He dared to turn about and steal a glance back toward Dainsey, and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, then “inadvertently” brushed her other hand down the front of her blouse, opening it wide, catching the attention of every man nearby, the two monks included.

  Good girl, Connor thought, and he used the distraction to make some ground, slipping, weaving, toward the door. It took him more than a minute to cover the twenty feet, so crowded was the Way, but then he was out in the salty air of the Palmaris night, the wide sky clear and crisp overhead.

  He glanced back into the tavern, to see the crowd jostling, as though someone was trying to get to the door.

  Connor didn’t wait to discern who that might be; if the monks recognized Dainsey’s move as a diversion, they would understand where to turn next. The nobleman rushed to the corner of the Way, then went around the corner, turning and peering back to the door.

  Sure enough, Youseff and Dandelion burst out onto the street.

  Down the alley went Connor, his thoughts spinning. He wasted no time, climbing the gutter work to the roof, then falling flat on his belly, shaking his head as the two monks came around the corner on his trail. He turned away, crawling quietly.

  Up here, with the sky seeming so close, the lights of the city night below him, Connor couldn’t help but fall back in time. This place had been Jill’s special spot, her hideaway from the world. She had come up here often, to be alone with her thoughts, to seek out past events too painful for her fragile mind to find.

  A metal scraping sound blew away those thoughts of Jill; one of the monks, Youseff likely, had started to climb.

  Connor was away in an instant, leaping the far alley to the roof of the next building, rushing over the peak and sliding down, turning, catching the lip of the roof as he went over, then dropping to the street. He went on in full flight, running scared, thinking of Jill, thinking of all the craziness that had come to his little world.

  Abbot Dobrinion was dead. Dead! And no powrie had done it.

  No, it was these two, the lackeys of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the leader of all the Abellican Church. Markwart had killed Dobrinion because of the abbot’s resistance, and now had set his assassins on him.

  The enormity of that line of reasoning at last hit Connor, and nearly laid him low. He considered his course—should he seek protection at Chasewind Manor?

  Connor dismissed that, fearing to implicate his uncle. If Markwart had gotten to Dobrinion, could anyone, even the Baron of Palmaris, be safe? These were powerful enemies, Connor understood; if all the legions of the King of Honce-the-Bear were turned against him, they would be no more dangerous enemies than the monks of the Abellican Church. Indeed, by many standards, not the least of which concerned those mysterious and little-understood magical powers, the Father Abbot was a more powerful man than the King.

  The scope of this all, the incredible idea that the Father Abbot would order—had ordered!—Dobrinion murdered, assaulted the nobleman’s sensibilities, kept his mind whirling as he vanished into the Palmaris night.

  But still, Connor knew that he would run out of places to hide. These two, and others, if there were more in the city, were professional assassins. They would find him and kill him.

  He needed answers, and he thought he knew where he might find them. Besides, someone else was in danger here, the real target of Markwart’s wrath. He did turn to Chasewind Manor then, crossing the gate into the courtyard, but veering from the main house to the stables. There he quickly saddled Greystone, his favorite hunting horse, a beautiful and thick-muscled palomino with a long blond mane. With eager Greystone under him, Connor rode out of Palmaris’ northern gate before the night had crossed its midpoint.

  CHAPTER 19

  Change in Direction

  The traveling was easy—or should have been, for the road stretching along the western bank of the Masur Delaval south of Palmaris was the fin
est causeway in all the world. And early on Jojonah found a ride with a caravan that traveled for two days,through both day and night. Master Jojonah, though, was not having a good time of it. His old bones ached badly, and some two hundred miles south of Palmaris he had taken ill, beset by terrible cramps and nausea, and by a low fever that kept him sweating continually.

  Bad food, he supposed, and hoped in all seriousness that this journey and illness would not be the end of him. He still had much he meant to do before he died, and in any case, dying alone on the road halfway between Ursal and Palmaris, two cities of which he had never been overly fond, was not appealing in the least. So with typical stoicism the old master staggered along from town to town, walking slowly, leaning heavily on a sturdy stick, and chastising himself for letting his belly grow so thick. “Piety, dignity, poverty,” he said sarcastically, for truly he felt less than dignified, and it seemed he was carrying this vow of poverty way too far. As for piety … Jojonah wasn’t sure what that word meant anymore. Did it mean following blindly the lead of Father Abbot Markwart? Or following his heart, using those insights that Avelyn, by example, had given to him?

  The latter, he decided, but in truth, that solved little, for Jojonah wasn’t sure exactly what course he might take to make any real difference in the world. Likely he’d just get himself demoted in Church rank, perhaps even banished, perhaps even burned as a heretic—the Church had a long history of turning like a ravenous animal on a proclaimed heretic, torturing such men to death. A shudder coursed Jojonah’s spine as he considered that thought, like some grim premonition. Yes, Father Abbot Markwart was in a foul mood of late, and the more foul it became by far if ever someone mentioned the name of Avelyn Desbris! Thus the master found a new enemy, despair, on that long road to Ursal. But he plodded on, putting one foot in front of the other.