DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  By that standard, Roger Lockless was an amazing reader. Still, he found many words that he did not know, and sometimes he could not discern the logical connection between the sentences. A quick perusal of the journal showed him nothing of value. Self-serving philosophical musings mostly, the Father Abbot writing his thoughts about the importance of the Church above the importance of the common folk, and above the secular leaders, even the King. Roger winced at the words, recalling all too clearly the murder of one of those secular leaders, Baron Bildeborough, the man who had taken him in and joined in his cause against the Church.

  Roger continued to scan the book, and though he had little luck with its finer points, he did come to believe that it had been penned by two different men —one hand, perhaps, had done the actual writing, but a large part of it must have been dictated, Roger believed. It wasn't so much the wording of the text but rather a difference in tone.

  Either two men had done the writing, or Father Abbot Markwart was a man in serious emotional turmoil!

  Now Roger wondered if he might find some way to use this journal against Markwart. Perhaps he could go to the King and present this book, along with his claims that a monk, and no powrie, had murdered Abbot Dobrinion of St. Precious, and that an agent of the Church, and not a wild animal, had killed Baron Bildeborough.

  He would be treated like a blithering idiot, Roger realized, even with the journal as evidence. He read again all the entries he could find about the King and recognized that the author, Father Abbot Markwart, had been quite careful not to cross over the line into treason, spouting merely about philosophical differences, but writing of no actions against the Crown. This was gossip, not evidence.

  One other thing caught Roger's attention: Markwart's repeated references to a new insight, a voice inside his head, guiding his hand. The Father Abbot clearly thought himself speaking directly to God, acting as the single agent of the Supreme Being.

  Roger shuddered at that thought, seeing the split personality within the writing in a new light and understanding that no man was more dangerous than one believing himself to be the agent of God.

  He put the book back on the table and left the room.

  Thinking to leave the office for the last and most thorough inspection, Roger went to the closed door next. His suspicions heightened when he found it secured with not one, but three separate locks. Even more intriguing, the young thief found an even greater protection, a needle-and-spring trap, on two of the locks.

  Roger spent a long time studying those traps, then went to work with nimble fingers and delicate picks, disabling them but in a manner that would allow him to easily rearm them upon his exit. Roger groaned as minutes slipped by and he realized how much time he was losing at this door, but still he took the time to inspect it once more for further traps before going at the locks, popping all three open, considering again the possibility of a deadly magical trap before pushing open the heavy door.

  The room was empty except for a few candlesticks, a large book lying open, and a curious design cut into the floor, but Roger's heart started beating quickly, his blood racing, his breath coming in gasps. A tangible aura, a coldness that seeped right into his spine, assailed him, a darkness of spirit, a sense of profound hopelessness. He stayed only long enough to glance at the title of the great tome, The Incantations Sorcerous, and then he left the room in a hurry, leaning again against the closed door for several long minutes while he steadied his trembling hands enough to reset the locks and traps.

  All that remained was the office and the great desk, with many drawers showing, and, likely, many more concealed.

  "He should be here, brother," Master Machuso, a round little man with red cheeks that seemed to envelop his tiny nose, said apologetically when he led Brother Francis into the larders only to find that the young man in question was nowhere to be seen. The master had been on his way to vespers when Francis had intercepted him, claiming a most urgent necessity. "Roger Billingsbury has been assigned to the larders all the week."

  "Your pardon, Master Machuso," Francis said with a polite bow and smile, "but it seems that he is not here."

  "Obviously!" Machuso agreed with an embarrassed burst of laughter. "Oh, I do try to keep them in line, you see," he explained, "but most of those who come here for work will not stay long. Only long enough to earn a bit for the drink or pipe weed, I'm afraid to say. All the villagers know our generous nature and know that no harm will come to them if they run off. I will even hire them back, if they come 'round in a few weeks begging again for work." The cheery master laughed again. "If men of God cannot forgive human foibles, then who can?"

  Francis managed a strained smile. "Villagers, you said," he remarked. "This Roger Billingsbury is of St.-Mere-Abelle village, then? Are you familiar with his family?"

  "No to the second question," replied Machuso. "And likely no to the first. I know most of the townsfolk —certainly every leading family—and know no Billingsburys. Well, none but the young Roger, of course. A fine lad. Good worker and quick with his hands—and with his wits, so they say."

  "Did he claim that he was from the village?" Francis pressed.

  Machuso gave a noncommittal shrug. "He might have," he replied. "In honesty, I pay little attention to such details. Many have been displaced by the war. Entire villages that once were, simply are no more. So if our young Roger claimed that he was of St.-Mere-Abelle, why would I question him?"

  "You would not, of course," Brother Francis answered, bowing once more. "And I do not question your procedure, Master Machuso. If all of us at St.-Mere-Abelle could attend our duties as well as Master Golvae Machuso, then surely the Father Abbot's life would be much easier."

  That brought another laugh bubbling from the jovial Machuso.

  "Is there anywhere else that the young Billingsbury might have gone?" Francis asked.

  Machuso's face scrunched up in thought, but he was soon shaking his head and holding his hands up helplessly. " If he has not left the abbey, then I am sure he will return to the larders," he offered. "A good worker, that young man."

  Francis worked hard to hide his frustration. He hoped that Roger had not left St.-Mere-Abelle, for if his suspicions about the young hireling were correct, then Roger could help rid him of some very troubling issues. He said a quick farewell to Machuso and rushed away, back to his private quarters, back to the soul stone the Father Abbot had allowed him to procure from the private collection. He had to do his own searching, and fast.

  The hints were sparse: a crumpled piece of paper, apparently a first draft of the edict that had condemned Master Jojonah, which spoke of some mysterious "intrusion and escape" at St.-Mere-Abelle, and another paper concerning a continuing conspiracy at the abbey. To add to Roger's frustration, he had not found a single secret compartment in the great desk, though he was certain that there had to be many. Still, he had counted carefully the minutes and knew that he was fast running out of time. He went back to the door, glanced about the room one last time to make sure that all was as he had found it, then quietly went back out into the hall.

  "You should reset the lock," came a voice from the shadows, even as Roger turned to do just that.

  The young man froze in place as if turned to stone. Only his eyes moved, darting to and fro, looking for some way out. Waves of panic rushed through him, and he tried to concoct some believable story. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and straightened suddenly to face the man, broomstick in hand.

  "An odd tool for the larders, Roger Billingsbury," Brother Francis said calmly.

  Roger recognized from the white rope binding the dark robes that this was a higher-ranking monk, an immaculate brother, perhaps. "I was told to come up here and clean —"

  "You were told to work in the larders," Brother Francis interrupted, having no time or patience for such foolishness. With his soul stone, Francis' spirit had soared about the corridors of the abbey, and chance alone had brought him to the office of his super
ior, only to find, to his absolute amazement, the young kitchen helper bending over the great desk.

  "Ah, y-yes," Roger stuttered, "but Brother Jhimelde —"

  "Enough!" Francis growled, silencing the man. "You are Roger Billingsbury?"

  Roger nodded slightly as he considered his options. He might strike the monk with his broom and dart away, he thought, for though the monk was larger than he, the man did not appear strong.

  "And where are you from?" Francis asked.

  "St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger replied without hesitation.

  "You are not from St.-Mere-Abelle," Francis stated coldly.

  "The v-village, not the abbey," Roger stuttered.

  "No!"

  Roger stood straight and gripped the broom all the tighter. He had killed a monk before, a brother justice. It was an experience he'd hoped he would never have to repeat.

  "There are no Billingsburys in St.-Mere-Abelle village," Brother Francis insisted.

  "New to the region," Roger replied. "Our homes were burned —"

  "And where were those homes? " Francis asked.

  "A small village —"

  "Where?" Francis demanded, and added in rapid succession, his voice wickedly sharp and intimidating. "What was its name? How many people lived there? What other family names?"

  "To the south," Roger started, but his mind was whirling.

  "You are from a village somewhere north of Palmaris," Brother Francis put in, "unless I miss my guess —and that is not likely, I assure you. I recognize your accent."

  Roger straightened and stared hard at the man, but Francis' next words nearly knocked him over.

  "You are a friend of those who knew Avelyn Desbris," the monk announced. "Perhaps a friend of the heretic yourself."

  Roger's jaw hung slack.

  "But no matter," Brother Francis went on. "You are a friend of the woman, Pony by name, and of her companion, the one called Nightbird."

  Roger's knuckles whitened, so tight was his grip on the broom. Desperate, he started to move to strike, but Francis came against him hard, grabbing the broom handle with one hand, slapping Roger back with the other. "Fool," the monk said, pulling the broom free with a subtle twisting maneuver. "I am not your enemy. If I were, you would be in chains already, on your knees before the Father Abbot."

  "Then what?" Roger dared to ask, rubbing his sore cheek, surprised that this man, seeming so average, could have so easily disarmed and struck him.

  "Come along, and quickly," Francis instructed, turning and starting away. "Vespers is at its end and you would not be wise to let the Father Abbot find you loitering here.

  "What are we to do?" Brother Viscenti asked for perhaps the twentieth time, and, like all the other times before this, Brother Braumin offered no direct response.

  "When will Dellman join us?" the older monk asked.

  Viscenti glanced at the door of Braumin's room as if he expected Dellman to burst through it at any second. Then he twitched and turned his head quickly, eyes darting. "He will be here —he said he would," Viscenti insisted, his voice rising with his anxiety.

  Braumin patted a hand in the air to try to calm the man. In truth, though, Braumin understood the gravity of their situation. Brother Francis, perhaps the closest counsel of Father Abbot Markwart, had walked right in on their meeting!

  "We should go and beg the Father Abbot for forgiveness!" Viscenti said suddenly, frantically.

  Braumin turned a cold stare on the nervous man, angered that Viscenti would consider such a notion. Even if he was tied to the stake, the fires burning beneath his feet, Brother Braumin Herde would not beg for Markwart's forgiveness. And how, if he truly believed in the holiness of Avelyn and Jojonah, could Viscenti say such a thing?

  But Braumin calmed quickly, sympathizing with the man's fear. Viscenti was scared, and with good reason.

  "Better that we admit to wrongdoing against the Abellican Church," Braumin said in as calm a tone as he could manage. "We met for prayer, nothing more. Better that we craft our story —"

  He stopped as a quiet knock sounded; both men froze.

  "Brother Dellman?" Braumin whispered to Viscenti.

  "Or Brother Castinagis," the skinny man replied, his voice nasal even in a whisper.

  Braumin moved slowly and silently to the door, putting his ear up close, trying to get some hint of who it might be.

  Another knock sounded.

  Braumin looked back at Viscenti; the man was nearly chewing his bottom lip off. With a helpless shrug, Braumin gingerly grasped the handle and took a deep breath, his imagination conjuring images of Father Abbot Markwart and a host of angry, armed executioners come to cart him away. Finally he mustered the nerve and opened the door a crack, and though it was not Markwart and a mob, Brother Braumin's heart sank.

  "Let me in," Brother Francis said quietly.

  "I am busy," Braumin replied.

  Francis snorted. "And whatever you might be doing, I assure you that this takes precedence," he declared, putting a hand on the door and pushing.

  Braumin braced his shoulder against the wood and held the door steady. "I assure you that we have nothing to discuss, good brother," he said. He started to close the door, but Francis stuck his foot in the opening.

  "Good brother, I am terribly busy," Braumin said more insistently.

  "Preparing your next meeting?" Francis asked.

  "A prayer meeting, yes," Braumin replied.

  "Blasphemy, you mean," Francis said sternly. "If you prefer to air this argument with me in the corridor," he went on, raising his voice, "then so be it. You are the one in need of secrecy, not I."

  Braumin swung wide the door and stepped aside, and Brother Francis promptly entered the room. Braumin poked his head out into the corridor behind the man, then closed the door. He turned his attention back to the room to find Francis and Viscenti staring hard at each other. A wild look was in Viscenti's eye, the look of a timid animal caught in a corner; for a moment, Braumin thought the skinny man might pounce upon Francis. Viscenti couldn't hold the stare, though, and he turned away, hands twitching at his side.

  "You seem to be walking in on my every conversation," Brother Braumin said dryly, purposefully diverting Francis' attention from Viscenti. "Someone less trusting than I might believe that you were watching me."

  "Someone wiser than you would understand that you need watching," Brother Francis replied.

  "And you are that wiser man? "

  "I am wiser than to speak heresy in the cellars of St.-Mere-Abelle."

  "Only truth," Braumin said, and his lip turned up in a snarl and he advanced a step.

  "Only lies," Francis retorted, not backing away an inch.

  Brother Viscenti scrambled suddenly to stand right beside Francis, very close, so that he and Braumin had the man between them, the two conspirators holding a threatening posture.

  Still, Francis seemed totally unconcerned. "I did not come here to argue theology," he explained.

  "Then why did you come here?" Braumin demanded.

  "To warn you," Francis said bluntly. "I know of your group, dedicated to the memory of the heretic Jojonah and to Avelyn Desbris."

  "No heretic!" Viscenti squealed.

  Francis paid him no heed. "And the Father Abbot knows of you, too, and soon enough he will turn his attention to you and destroy you as he destroyed Jojonah."

  "No doubt using information that Brother Francis dutifully supplied," Braumin replied.

  Francis blew an exasperated sigh. "You cannot begin to understand his power," he said. "Do you really believe that Father Abbot Markwart needs anything at all from me?"

  "Why are you telling us this? " Braumin asked. "Why not just accompany the Father Abbot's guards when they take me? Perhaps Markwart will allow you to add the first flaming brand to the pyre beneath my feet."

  A strange expression came over Francis, one that gave Braumin pause. The man seemed wounded almost, or perplexed, a faraway look in his eyes.

  After s
ome time, Francis focused again on Brother Braumin, his look deadly serious. "The Father Abbot is closing in on you," he said earnestly. "Do not doubt this. He will prepare heresy hearings, and since none of you have attained the rank of master, they will be convened here at St.-Mere-Abelle with or without the blessings of the other abbots. You cannot hope to win."

  "We are not heretics," Braumin replied through gritted teeth.

  "That matters not at all," Francis replied. "The Father Abbot has all the evidence he will need against you. If he deems it necessary, he can manufacture any other crimes easily enough."

  "Do you hear your own words?" Braumin cried. "Is there no true justice in our Order?"

  Francis stared straight ahead, giving no signals.

  "Then we are doomed," Brother Viscenti wailed a moment later. He looked to Braumin for comfort, for some denial, but the man had nothing to offer.

  "Perhaps there is another way," Francis remarked.

  Brother Braumin's face went tight. He expected Francis to advise him to openly disavow the heretics Jojonah and Avelyn, to genuflect before the all-powerful Markwart and beg forgiveness. Viscenti might choose that course, Braumin realized, as might one or two of the others.

  Brother Braumin closed his eyes and pushed past the one moment of anger he held for his fellow conspirators. If they chose to beg for mercy, whatever they might say or do, even if their actions weighed heavily against him, he would not judge them.

  Nor would he join them. Brother Braumin determined then and there, with certain doom staring him right in the eye, that he would accept the punishment, the flames —but that he would not divorce himself from the tenets of Avelyn Desbris and would speak no ill of his mentor Jojonah.