DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  And then, in even more somber tones, Brother Braumin recounted the journey home, the near mutiny that ended with Brother Quintal tearing apart the leader of the mutineers. Then, his voice rising in anger, he told of the phony payment to the Windrunner —an illusion of gold crafted through use of the sacred gemstones—and of the final insult to everything holy, detailing graphically the ultimate destruction of the Windrunner and her crew.

  When it was over, the five men sat in stunned, exhausted silence for a long while.

  In the hallway beyond the room's door, Brother Francis could hardly keep still. He wanted to kick in the door, run up to Braumin, and scream in the man's face! To shake the man and tell him that he would be tortured and executed for his foolish words, and that he would bring about the horrible deaths of the other four, as well.

  And Francis wanted to argue the truth of the story, to reveal it as a complete distortion of the real events —events of which he admittedly had very little knowledge.

  He did not go in, though, but stood at the door, his hands sweaty, fighting to keep his breath steady and quiet that he might hear the rest of the conversation, that he might bear witness for Father Abbot Markwart when these men were brought to trial.

  "This book," Brother Braumin began again, pulling the ancient text out from a fold in his voluminous robes, "this book was found by Master Jojonah in the ancient library, not far from where we now gather. I believe that Master Jojonah knew that he had little time left in this world, and so he searched desperately among the recorded histories, seeking his answer.

  "And he found it!" Braumin said dramatically. "For within this book, as detailed by Brother Francis —"

  "Francis? " Brother Viscenti piped up, his voice nearly hysterical.

  "A different Francis," Brother Braumin assured him, "a man who lived several centuries ago."

  "I knew it could not be the same one," Brother Viscenti said with a chuckle.

  "Doubtful that our dear brother Francis would write anything that Master Jojonah would find enlightening," Brother Anders Castinagis said with a laugh.

  "Unless it was a suicide note," Brother Dellman added, and they all had a good laugh.

  Brother Braumin calmed it quickly, though, getting back to the point and to the book, showing them that in ages past, the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle crewed their own ship to Pimaninicuit and spoke of the island openly, reverently. And there were no murders, no mutinies. The journey was an open celebration of the highest joy, not a covert mission of avarice and murder.

  All four listening in the room sighed and smiled warmly, to know that the precepts on which the Abellican Church was founded were true and holy, if the modern practices were not.

  Brother Francis didn't share that view or that warmth, and he could hold his peace no longer. He pushed open the door and strode into their midst. All four jumped up to surround the intruder as he stalked right up to confront Brother Braumin, their faces barely an inch apart.

  "Foul words," Francis growled. "You speak heresy with the accent of reverence."

  "Heresy?" Braumin echoed, his fists clenched at his sides as if he meant to strike the man. He motioned to Brother Viscenti, and the nervous monk, after inspecting the corridor beyond, gently closed the door.

  "Heresy," Francis said again determinedly. "Merely speaking such lies could get a man burned. Merely hearing such lies —"

  "Lies? " Dellman cried, forcing his way between the principals. "Brother Braumin's tales ring of more truth than anything I have heard spoken by the Father Abbot or any of the masters!"

  "Tainted words," Francis spat right back. "Half-truths, concealed in a cocoon of blessed events."

  "Then you deny the truth of the Windrunner's fate?" Brother Braumin asked.

  "I deny everything you have said," Francis retorted. "You are a fool, Brother Braumin, as are your lackeys, and you play games more dangerous than anything you could ever imagine."

  "It would surprise you to learn that which we, who witnessed the execution of Master Jojonah, might imagine," said Brother Castinagis. That statement, loaded with the image of the murdered man, seemed to sting Francis profoundly.

  "Why have you come here?" Brother Braumin demanded.

  "To call a fool a fool," Francis replied, "and to warn the fool that his words are not as secret as he might have hoped. To warn you all," Francis said dramatically, stepping back from Braumin. "Your actions shout of heresy, and many ears are turning your way. Remember well that image of Mas —of Jojonah, Brother Anders Castinagis, and replace his defeated visage with your own." Francis turned back for the door, but he hesitated, the others freezing in place, wondering if Brother Braumin would let him leave the room.

  On a nod from Braumin, the others parted, leaving the way open to the door, and Francis calmly departed.

  "I would assume that our meeting is at its end," Brother Castinagis said dryly.

  Brother Braumin looked at the man, then at all the others. He wanted to comfort them, to reassure them that their beliefs in him and in this cause that Master Jojonah had passed along to him were not misplaced.

  He could not, though. He had nothing to tell them that would cleanse the image of Jojonah's last moments from their minds, nothing to assure them that they would not soon find a similar fate. Braumin honestly wondered then, for a moment, if he should have allowed Brother Francis to walk away. But what might they have done? Killed the man? Or captured him, and held him prisoner in the lower levels of St.-Mere-Abelle?

  Brother Braumin closed his eyes and shook his head. Their secret was discovered, and the only way they might have preserved it would have been to murder Brother Francis. And that, the gentle monk knew in his heart, they could not have done.

  "Brother Braumin was not in his room after vespers last night," Father Abbot Markwart stated bluntly.

  Brother Francis nodded, trying to appear surprised.

  "You knew this?"

  "You instructed me to watch him closely," Francis replied.

  The Father Abbot waited a long moment for Francis to elaborate, then blew a long, frustrated sigh and prompted, "And where did he go?"

  "To the lower levels," Francis explained, and he continued when he saw that the Father Abbot's face was turning sour again. "Brother Braumin has been going down there regularly, usually to the library wherein the heretic Jojonah did his last work."

  "And so he, too, is on the path of damnation," Markwart remarked.

  Brother Francis almost told Markwart everything he had discovered about Braumin's little group. Let their own words damn them! But Francis had to admit to himself that he wanted to confront Markwart openly about the Windrunner and be reassured of the truth.

  Francis held his tongue. He considered all that had happened over the last few months —the taking of the Chilichunks, the cold manner in which Markwart had dismissed Francis' killing of Grady, the execution of Jojonah—and he knew that he was not ready to learn the true story of the Windrunner, or of anything else for that matter. And he realized, too, that he was not ready to deal with his own conscience if he revealed all he knew of Braumin and the others, if he had to stand in the square of the village of St.-Mere-Abelle and watch Braumin and his friends be put to the flames.

  "Who was with Brother Braumin?" Markwart asked suddenly.

  Francis started to say that the man was alone, but he was caught too much off his guard, was too afraid that Markwart already knew the truth. "Brother Viscenti," he blurted.

  "Of course, that one," Markwart mused. "A nervous little wretch. I do not know how I ever let that one into St.-Mere-Abelle. And Brother Dellman, of course. Ah, the pity there. I recognized great potential in Dellman —that is why I added his name to the list of monks who traveled to Aida."

  "Perhaps that was our mistake," Francis dared to say. "Perhaps Jojonah corrupted Brother Dellman on the journey."

  "Were you not along on that same journey? " Markwart asked sarcastically.

  Francis held up his hands helplessly. />
  "And who else?" Markwart went on. "Castinagis?"

  "Perhaps," Francis replied. "I could not get too close, for the lower corridors echo with the slightest footsteps."

  "Speaking heresy in the bowels of my abbey," Markwart remarked, moving back to sit behind his desk, shaking his head in disgust. "How deep are the roots of Jojonah's conspiracy? But no matter," he said, his tone changing from sadness to the easy voice of resolution. He pulled clean parchment from a drawer and reached for his quill. "Brother Braumin and his cohorts are a minor nuisance and nothing more. One that I might sweep away with a letter —"

  "Your pardon, Father Abbot," Francis interrupted, putting a hand on the parchment.

  The old monk looked up, his expression incredulous.

  "I am not certain of their words or intent," Francis quickly explained.

  "After all this, it is not obvious to you?" Markwart replied.

  "I believe that they are simply trying to come to terms with the ..." Francis hesitated, trying to find just the right phrase. "With the death of Jojonah," he said. "Brother Braumin and the others only knew the good side of the man. He was their mentor."

  "In many things, it would seem," came the dry reply.

  "Perhaps," Francis agreed. "But more likely, they are merely trying to sort through the troubles of their souls."

  Father Abbot Markwart slid his chair back from the desk and leaned back, staring hard at Francis. "I find your sympathy uncharacteristic," he warned, "and misplaced."

  "Not sympathy," Francis replied, "but pragmatism. Brother Braumin is well known among the other abbots and immaculates, and well liked. Everyone knows that he was close to Jojonah. Did you not admit as much in our last discussion, when you mentioned that you meant to promote him to master? "

  "I cannot promote a heretic, though I can surely send one to his demon god," said Markwart.

  "But perhaps Brother Braumin only needs a bit of time to recognize the truth," Francis improvised, hardly believing his own words.

  Markwart laughed. "Brother Braumin needs to recognize the truth soon," the Father Abbot said, his tone deathly cold. "Very soon."

  Brother Francis straightened and took a step back from the desk. "Of course, Father Abbot. And I will continue to monitor his every movement."

  "From a distance," Markwart instructed, "inconspicuously. Let the heretics bring more of their own into our web. I wish to sweep this stain from St.-Mere-Abelle in one action, one display of the true power of the true God."

  Francis nodded, bowed, then turned and walked from the room, thoroughly shaken. He had no idea why he had not betrayed Braumin and his conspirators. Certainly he hadn't believed a word they had said. They were on the path to heresy, as straight and damning a trail as had led Jojonah to his fiery death.

  Francis held that thought solidly, repeating it over and over in his mind as a litany against one other pervasive memory.

  Master Jojonah had forgiven him.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Proper Good-bye

  Elbryan and Pony helped Captain Kilronney secure his prisoners in a barn in Caer Tinella. Though it didn't seem as if any of the powries would try to escape, the captain set a score of guards in the place and separated the dangerous dwarves into groups of three.

  Satisfied that there would be no trouble, the ranger took Greystone and Symphony away, while his exhausted companion went back to their lodging. Elbryan expected to find Pony asleep when he returned half an hour later, but she was standing at a window, staring into the forest, still wearing her drenched clothing.

  "You'll rot the wood under your feet," Elbryan said with a smile.

  Pony looked at him long enough to show him her own smile, then turned back to the forest.

  "We should speak about last night," Elbryan remarked. He was upset that Pony had acted without his knowledge or help.

  "Bradwarden and I eliminated a problem, nothing more," Pony replied.

  "A problem that would have been eliminated anyway," the ranger said, "with less risk."

  Now Pony turned to face him, her expression severe. "To whom?" she asked. "You could not have had a cleaner fight if all the Palmaris garrison had come north to join you. Not a single man or woman was scratched, and the threat is ended."

  Elbryan held up his hands defensively halfway through her retort. "I only fear —" he started to respond.

  "That I might have been injured?" Pony interrupted. "Or killed? Do not presume to protect me."

  "Never that," Elbryan said, "no more than you presume to protect me. But I fear the wisdom of your actions." He hesitated, expecting Pony to strike back, but she stared at him, even cocked her head to the side, her look pensive.

  "Obviously it was no random lightning strike that took down the front of the cave," Elbryan said.

  "You think that only because you know of my power with the gemstones."

  "But still, the magical energy was considerable," Elbryan went on. "I fear that there might be monks in the area once more, searching for us and for Bradwarden. They might have detected the stone use."

  Pony's admission that the reasoning might be sound came in the form of a nod.

  "And what of the powrie prisoners?" the ranger asked. "What strange tales of your powers might they tell?"

  "Most who saw anything worth reporting are dead," Pony replied grimly.

  "But I understand," Elbryan was quick to add. "It has been difficult for you, and for Bradwarden. Both of you are full of justifiable anger, and yet you two, above all others, have been relegated to a passive role."

  At that moment, Pony almost told him that she was carrying his child. She wanted to explain that this one outburst against the powries was the only revenge she would allow herself during her pregnancy, that she meant to move far from danger for the sake of the unborn babe. She hesitated, staring long and hard as Elbryan went on, talking about the trip to the Timberlands and how both Pony, should she decide to go north, and Bradwarden would have more opportunities to join in the battles when the soldiers had departed.

  Pony hardly heard a word of it. Her concentration was on Elbryan, this man she loved. She moved toward him slowly, lifted her finger to her pursed lips, and then, when she got close enough, put it up to his lips, silencing him.

  She moved her hand from his lips to brush his cheek, rising on tiptoe to kiss him gently.

  She felt Elbryan go tense —he was remembering their frantic encounter in the woods, she realized. She held the kiss for a long while, keeping it soft and tender, then stepped back, her hand still gently brushing his cheek.

  The quiet moment was stolen as a drop of water rolled from Elbryan's hair to land with a plop in the puddle at his feet. Both looked down and giggled, as much from nervousness as from amusement. Then they looked into each other's eyes, remembering the experiences they had shared, remembering why they had fallen in love. Pony kissed him again, once, twice, each one tender but more passionate.

  Then she stepped back and unclasped her cloak, letting it drop to the floor. Without a word, she unlaced her tunic and pulled it over her head, and stood, bare to the waist again staring at her lover.

  He wasn't sure, she realized. She had shaken him with her aggressive, even angry, approach in the forest, and now her demeanor had him off balance.

  She went back to him again, smiling wistfully, then kissing him, and his arms came about her, roaming softly over her wet body.

  They made love, but it was not like the frantic encounter in the forest. It was warm and gentle, full of tender words and tender caresses.

  Afterward, they lay cuddled in each other's arms. Pony had made no further mention of her intentions, but they both knew that, with the morning light, they would be separated, one riding south, the other north.

  Again Pony considered telling Elbryan the truth of her condition, and again she realized, for his peace of mind, that this was not the time. His road lay north, to Dundalis, which would one day be their home. If he was to make that journey safely and
help secure that region, his concentration would have to be complete.

  They spent the rest of that day and all night alone together in the small house, speaking little, just enjoying each other's presence.

  The morning dawned bright and clear, and the pair went out together, sharing one last sword dance. All too soon after that, Pony had Greystone saddled and packed with supplies.

  "We will meet back here at the spring equinox," Elbryan said to her.

  "Just over three months," Pony remarked. "Will that be enough time?"

  "I will not be able to hold Shamus back much longer than that," the ranger explained. "He is eager for the Timberlands, and, if the weather stays mild, he'll likely want to set out before then."

  "Then go," Pony replied, thinking that her lover had meant to go north all along. "Leave as early as the weather allows, and return as early as you can. I will be here waiting for you."

  The ranger sighed.

  "Mid-spring's day, then," Pony said. "That should give you near to eight weeks to go and secure the Timberlands."

  "Too much time away from you," said the ranger, flashing his boyish smile, his green eyes sparkling in the morning light.

  "Caer Tinella on mid-spring's day," Pony agreed. "And I will come back to you with my grief put to rest, ready to look to the road ahead."

  "A quiet road," Elbryan said.

  Pony chuckled. She knew, and so did Elbryan, that no road would be quiet for an elven-trained ranger. They would live on the edge of the Wilderlands, protecting three towns from goblins and powries, giants and wild animals. They would work with Bradwarden to protect the animals and the forest from careless and callous humans.