DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Youseff felt his feet slip out from under him, not to fall, but rather to rise, harmlessly, into the air. His momentum continued to carry him forward, toward Pony, but when he reached for her in this unfamiliar weightless state, he tumbled headlong, turning a half somersault. Then he felt the sudden sting in his back as Pony rolled over and kicked out, both feet landing squarely, propelling Youseff back the way he had come, back out over the cliff to dangle helplessly in midair.

  Overwhelmed by the charge, Roger was in no position to counter as Dandelion swung back the other way, again smashing Connor as the man tried to rise, then falling down atop him, pinning him to the ground. Up came the big man’s arm, fingers stiff and straight, poised for the killing slash into defenseless Connor’s exposed neck.

  Connor growled and tried to cry out, tried to wriggle free. He closed his eyes for just an instant.

  The blow did not fall. Connor opened his eyes to see Dandelion still poised above him, struggling to drop the punch, a look of absolute incredulity on his face that anything could so hold back his powerful arm.

  Nightbird held him fast by the wrist.

  Dandelion spun with amazing agility for one so large, turning and putting his feet under him, at the same time dipping his shoulder to bowl the ranger over. But Elbryan, too, was moving, spinning right under Dandelion’s arm, turning about with a vicious jerk that popped the man’s elbow out of joint.

  Howling with pain, Dandelion spun about and launched a heavy punch—which never came near to hitting Nightbird, the ranger sidestepping, then wading right back in with a powerful combination of blows on Dandelion’s face and chest.

  On came the big monk, growling past the pain in his arm, accepting more punches, that he could get close enough to wrap Elbryan in a tight hug.

  The ranger cupped Dandelion’s chin with one hand, grabbed the back of the man’s hair with the other, meaning to turn him aside. He stopped, though, feeling a curious prodding in his chest. At first he thought Dandelion had somehow deceived him and brought a dagger to bear, but when he looked past the man, to Connor Bildeborough standing behind him, the ranger understood.

  Dandelion, Connor’s sword right through his back and chest, slumped in the ranger’s arms.

  “Bastard,” Connor muttered grimly, shifting to keep his hold on the sword as dead Dandelion rolled to the ground.

  Nightbird let the man fall free, then went to Symphony and took up Hawkwing, fitting an arrow and turning his attention to Youseff. He leveled and drew back.

  But the threat was ended, the monks obviously defeated, and Elbryan could not simply kill this man.

  “Do not,” Pony said, in full agreement as the ranger eased his bowstring back to rest.

  “I will kill him,” Connor said grimly, finally extracting his sword from the heavy corpse.

  “As he hangs there helpless?” Pony asked skeptically.

  Connor kicked at the ground. “Drop him to the rocks, then,” he said, but he wasn’t serious; he could no more kill this helpless man than could Elbryan.

  Pony was glad for that.

  “We are going to find our friends,” the ranger said to Youseff, “whom your Father Abbot has unjustly imprisoned.”

  Youseff scoffed at the sheer folly of such a claim.

  “And you will lead us, every step,” the ranger finished.

  “To St.-Mere-Abelle?” the monk replied incredulously. “Fool. You cannot begin to comprehend the power of such a fortress.”

  “As you could not comprehend the force prepared against you in this place,” Elbryan calmly replied.

  That hit Youseff hard. He narrowed his eyes dangerously and glared at Elbryan. “How long can you hold me here?” he asked, his voice even and deathly calm. “Kill me now, fools, else I promise to avenge—”

  His bluster was lost suddenly as a small form rushed past him, spinning him over in the air. He flailed and tried to respond, and realized that he had lost his grip on the sunstone. When he finally straightened out again, Youseff saw the winged elf land easily on the ledge beside the others.

  “Sunstone, as you guessed, Nightbird,” Juraviel said, displaying the pilfered stone. “I suspect the garnet is in his belt pouch, if not on the dead man.”

  Elbryan watched Youseff closely as Juraviel spoke, and saw that the elf’s words, too, were unnerving the man.

  “He may have a soul stone, as well,” Pony interjected. “Some way to keep in contact with his leaders.”

  “Of course, we’ll not let him use that,” Connor said with a chuckle. “But I must disagree with your decision,” he said to the ranger. “He’ll not lead us to St.-Mere-Abelle, but will be returned to St. Precious, where he can answer for the murder of Abbot Dobrinion. I will take him myself, with Roger Lockless beside me, and let the Church learn the truth of its Father Abbot!”

  Elbryan looked long and hard at Connor, considering for just a moment the implications of his actions, which had saved the man’s life. If he had hesitated for just an instant, then Connor Bildeborough, this man who had so wronged Pony, would also be dead.

  The ranger would tolerate no such weakness within himself, and so he dismissed those dark thoughts out of hand, and knew in his heart that he would have thrown himself in the way of the deadly monk’s strike if that was the only way to save Connor, or any of his companions.

  He looked back to Youseff then, and considered the truth of Connor’s words. He remembered the fervor of the first Brother Justice, and understood that Youseff would be no willing guide, no matter the threats. But if they did as Connor suggested, then perhaps they would not be alone in their quest to free their friends.

  Would not the Church have to admit its complicity, thus discrediting the Father Abbot?

  It seemed plausible. “Bring him in,” the ranger instructed.

  Belli’mar Juraviel flew out from the ledge, moving behind the dangling Youseff. Using his bow as a pole, the elf prodded the man toward the ledge. At first Youseff offered no resistance, but then, as he neared the lip, as the drop beneath him became not so far, he spun suddenly, grabbed at the elf and caught hold of the bow as Juraviel wisely let it go. The monk had no way to stop his momentum, though, and so he continued to rotate right around.

  To see Elbryan at the edge of the lip, fist cocked.

  The blow sent Brother Youseff spinning head over heels away from the ledge, and sent the man’s mind flying into unconsciousness.

  Juraviel, laughing at the outrageous sight, retrieved his bow and prodded the now limp monk to the ledge.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Other Brother Francis

  Of all the duties for the young monks at St.-Mere-Abelle, Brother Dellman found this one the most painful. He and two other monks were braced against spokes on a giant wheel crank, bending their backs to turn the thing, grunting and groaning, digging in their heels, but slipping often against the tremendous weight.

  Down below, far, far below, supported by heavy chains—which themselves weighed more than a thousand pounds—was a great block of stone. Good stone, solid, taken from an underground quarry just inside the southernmost courtyard of St.-Mere-Abelle. The wide expanse of that quarry was reached through the lower tunnels of the original abbey—in fact, Master Jojonah, huddled in the lower libraries, could sometimes hear the chipping of the stones—but the best way to bring stones needed for the upper walls of the abbey was by use of this crank.

  The pain and the struggle were good for the young monks, in the eyes of the masters and the Father Abbot.

  Another day, Brother Dellman might have agreed with that. Physical exhaustion was good for the soul. But not today, not so soon after his return from a long and difficult journey. He wanted nothing more than to go to his eight-foot-square chamber and curl up on his cot.

  “Push on, Brother Dellman,” scolded Master De’Unnero in his sharp voice. “Would you force brothers Callan and Seumo to do all the work?”

  “No, Master De’Unnero,” Brother Dellman grunted, bending his shoulder
to press harder against the spoke and driving on, the muscles in his legs and back straining and aching. He closed his eyes and issued a long and low groan.

  But then the weight seemed to grow suddenly, the wheel pushing back. Dellman’s eyes popped open wide.

  “Hold it fast, brother!” Dellman heard Callan cry. He saw the man, lying on the ground, then noted Seumo skittering, off-balance, to the side.

  “Peg it!” Master De’Unnero shouted, meaning that someone, anyone, should drive the locking peg back into the crank.

  Poor Dellman fought with all his strength, pressed as hard as he could against the wheel. But his feet were inevitably beginning to slide. Why wasn’t Callan back at the wheel? he wondered. And why wouldn’t Seumo get up? Why were they moving so slowly?

  He thought to let go and spring out of harm’s way, but knew that to be impossible. With no one bracing the wheel, the spin would be too fast, too sudden, and he would be smashed and thrown.

  “Peg it!” he heard De’Unnero cry again, but everyone seemed to be moving in so slowly!

  And the wheel was winning now, Dellman’s muscles strained past their breaking point.

  Then he was moving backward, bending over, all his joints seeming to go the wrong way. He heard the sudden snap, like a whip, as one of his legs exploded in pain, and then he was rolled over backward. One of his arms was hooked, though, and the spinning wheel took him on a wild ride, finally throwing him far and wide, to smash hard against a water trough, shattering its side, and his shoulder.

  He lay there, barely conscious, drenched and covered with mud and blood.

  “Carry him to my private chambers,” he heard a voice, De’Unnero’s, he thought.

  Then the master was right before him, leaning over, seeming truly concerned. “Fear not, young Brother Dellman,” De’Unnero said, and though it appeared he was trying to be comforting, his voice still held that wicked edge. “God is with me, and by His power I will help to mend that broken body.”

  The pain grew more intense suddenly as Callan and Seumo took the battered young monk by the arms and lifted him. Waves of agony rolled over poor Brother Dellman, fires ignited within every muscle of his body. And then he was sinking, sinking, into a profound blackness.

  The days blended into one, for he did not notice their passing. Time held no meaning for Master Jojonah now. He left the lower library only when the physical needs of his body forced him out, and returned as soon as possible. He had found nothing useful among the stacks and stacks of tomes and parchments, but knew he was close. He felt it, in his heart and soul.

  He glanced often at the shelf of forbidden books, wondering if, perhaps, they had been placed off-limits not because of any evil penning, but because they held a truth that would prove damning to the present leaders of the Abellican Order. After many such musings, even one point where he rose and took a few steps for the shelf, Master Jojonah laughed aloud at his own paranoia. He knew those books, for he had helped to inventory them as one of his requirements before he attained the rank of immaculate. There were no hidden truths there; those were the books of evil, of dactyl earth-magic and of perverting the powers of the sacred stones for evil purposes, for summoning demons or animating corpses, for causing plague or withering crops—unacceptable practices even in times of war. From a private Masters’ Gathering, Jojonah knew that one of the books, in fact, described a massive crop destruction the Church leveled on the southern kingdom of Behren in God’s Year 67, when Behren and Honce-the-Bear had been embroiled in a bitter war for control of the passes through the Belt-and-Buckle mountain range. The famine had turned the tide of battle, but the cost in terms of innocent lives and lasting enmities had not, in retrospect, been worth the gain.

  No, those books shelved in the dark corner of the lower library held no measure of justice and truth, unless that was in the lessons to be learned from terrible past mistakes.

  But Jojonah had to remind himself of that quite often as the days wound on without any dramatic success. And one other thing began to nag at the sensibilities of the gentle master, growing in him until it proved a tremendous distraction: the plight of Markwart’s prisoners. They were paying dearly, perhaps had already paid the supreme price, for the sake of his delay here. A large part of Jojonah’s conscience screamed at him to go and see to those poor people and to the centaur, who, if he had been with Avelyn when the dactyl demon was defeated, was indeed heroic.

  But Jojonah could not pull himself away, not yet, and so he had to sublimate his worries about the prisoners. Perhaps his work here would save them, he told himself, or perhaps it would prevent any such atrocities from being committed by the Church in the future.

  He was beginning to make some progress, at least. The library was not as haphazardly laid out as he had first believed. It was divided into sections, and those, roughly, were set out chronologically, dating from the very earliest days of the Church to the time less than two centuries before, when the newer libraries were constructed and this place became a vault and not a working area. Fortunately for Jojonah, most of the writings of the time in which Brother Allabarnet lived, at least those collected from outside St.-Mere-Abelle, were stored down here.

  As soon as he discovered the general layout, Master Jojonah began his search among the very earliest tomes, those dating back before God’s Year 1, the Great Epiphany, the Renewal, which separated the Church, Old Canon and New Canon. Jojonah figured that his answers might lie in the time before the Renewal, at the very inception of the organized Church, the time of Saint Abelle.

  He found no answers there; what few pieces remained—and fewer still that remained legible—were decorous works, songs mostly, exalting the glory of God. Many were written on parchments so brittle that Jojonah did not dare to even handle them, and others were carved on tablets of stone. The writings of Saint Abelle were not down here, of course, but were on display in the higher library. Jojonah knew them by heart, and remembered nothing about them that would help in his quest. The teachings were general mostly, wise words about common decency, and open to many interpretations. Still, the master vowed to go and view them again, when the time presented, to see if he might read them in a new lightwith his new insights, to see if they might afford him some hint of the true precepts of his Church.

  What Jojonah most wanted down here was to find the Abbot’s Doctrine of that momentous year of the Great Epiphany, but he knew that to be impossible. It was one of the great travesties of the Abellican Order that the original Abbot’s Doctrine had been lost, centuries before.

  So the master went on with what was available, moving to the writings immediately following the creation of the New Canon. Jojonah found nothing. Nothing.

  A man of lesser heart would have surrendered to the daunting task, but the thought of quitting never entered Jojonah’s mind. He continued his chronological scan, found some promising hints among the writings of the early Father Abbots, a turn of a phrase, for instance, that he could never imagine Markwart saying.

  And then he found a most interesting tome indeed, a small book, bound in red cloth, and penned by a young monk, Brother Francis Gouliard in God’s Year 130, the year after the first journey to Pimaninicuit following the Great Epiphany.

  Jojonah’s hands trembled as he gingerly turned the pages. Brother Francis—and how ironic that name seemed!—had been one of the Preparers on that journey, and he had returned and penned his story!

  That alone hit Jojonah profoundly; monks returning from Pimaninicuit now were discouraged, indeed even prohibited, from ever speaking of the place. Brother Pellimar had come back wagging his tongue, and not coincidentally, he had not survived for long. Yet back in Francis Gouliard’s time, the Preparers were encouraged, according to the text, to detail their accounts of the journey!

  Though it was cool in the dark room, Jojonah felt sweat beading on his forehead, and he took care so that it did not drop on the delicate pages. Fingers trembling, he gingerly turned the page and read on:

  to fi
nde thee thy smallst stones of greye and redde, that thee may prepare ample to bringe Godly healing to all the knowne worlde.

  Master Jojonah sat back and took a deep and steadying breath. Now he understood why the abbey held such a huge cache of small hematites, the small stones of gray and red! The next passage, in which Brother Francis Gouliard wrote of his fellow voyagers, struck the master even more profoundly:

  Thirty-and-three brothers did crewe the Sea Abelle, men younge and strange, trained well and trusted well to bringe we two Preparers to Pimaninicuit and back And then did all thirty-and-one (for two had died on the voyage) join in the final cataloguing and preparing.

  “Brothers,” Jojonah mouthed softly. “On theSea Abelle. They used monks.” The master found it hard to speak through breath that would not come. A flood of tears streamed down his face as he recalled the fate of theWindrunner and her unfortunate crew, hired men, and one woman, and not brothers. It took him a long time to compose himself and read on. Brother Francis Gouliard’s style was difficult, many of the words too arcane for Jojonah to decipher, and the man tended to pen in a stream-of-consciousness manner, instead of purely chronologically. A few pages on and Francis was describing the departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, the beginning of the voyage.

  And there it was before Jojonah, an edict from Father Abbot Benuto Concarron in his farewell speech to the good ship and crew, demanding that the Abellican Order spread the wealth of God, the gemstones, along with the word of God.

  Piety, dignity, poverty.

  The tears came freely; this was the Church that Jojonah could believe in, the Church that had coaxed in a man as pure of heart as Avelyn Desbris. But what had happened to so alter this apparent course? Why were thestones of greye and redde still within St.-Mere-Abelle? Where went the charity?

  “And where is it now?” he asked aloud, thinking again of the poor prisoners. Where had the Church of Brother Francis Gouliard and Father Abbot Benuto Concarron gone?