DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Markwart's spectral hand reached out for him more powerfully and clenched in the empty air. The command "Return!" pounded in Danube's head. Now his progress stopped, though he continued struggling against the tangible will of the Father Abbot. And then he took a step back and then another, and he turned and staggered to the side of the bed, falling over it.

  "I warn you," he gasped.

  "No, my King, I am the one who issues a warning," Markwart explained, his tone deadly calm and even. "The arrangement in Palmaris goes quite well. Bishop De'Unnero's work has been wondrous and the city is functioning more efficiently than even before the war. Whatever threats the Behrenese might spout, whatever the complaints of foolish merchants, the course of Palmaris has been determined. You will do nothing now to jeopardize that.

  "And indeed, my King," Markwart went on, changing his tone again to one of quiet obedience, "I beg you to meet me in Palmaris that you might learn the truth of the place, rather than listen to the ridiculous rumors uttered by those seeking to gain favor."

  King Danube stubbornly rolled back off the bed, to his feet, and turned to face the Father Abbot, determined to assert his rulership here. But when he turned, he found the room empty, the specter of Markwart gone. He glanced all around, even ran about the room in a frantic search, but could find no trace that the Father Abbot had ever been there. Had the Father Abbot really been there?

  He tried to tell himself it had all been a dream. After all, the situation in Palmaris had been troubling him deeply when he had gone to sleep that night.

  The King slid back onto his bed and eased himself under the thick comforter. But the ghastly feeling of Markwart invading his thoughts was impossible to ascribe to a dream, and it was a long time before King Danube dared to close his eyes and let sleep take him.

  Markwart walked out of his summoning room, exhausted but satisfied. He had planned to go next to De'Unnero, to warn the man again to slow down. He would go to Palmaris, as would the King, and it was important that Danube saw the city in good spirits.

  Or was it? Recalling the words of that inner voice, that the sun shone all the brighter after the dark of night, Markwart was no longer certain of that. Perhaps he should goad De'Unnero to an even darker place, let the man clench his fist tight, and then let him have his desire to go rushing out after Nightbird and Pony.

  Then he, the shining sun, would have so much more to rescue!

  Markwart climbed slowly into his own bed and rolled over with a groan. His journey to contact so fully a man not possessing a soul stone, and thus not reciprocating the contact, and one who was not even well-trained in any use of stone magic or mental meditation, had cost him great amounts of energy. He realized that he could not go to De'Unnero now even if he so desired. But no matter, the Father Abbot decided. Given the measure of terror he had exacted upon King Danube, such a step was no longer necessary. The King would not dare oppose him, no matter the situation in Palmaris.

  King Danube held his daily audience with his three primary advisers, secular and religious, in the small east garden of Castle Ursal that next sunny morning. This garden was sited below the castle on the high cliff wall overlooking the great city and was backed by the castle wall and surrounded by its own lower wall, secure because it had been built at the steepest face of the two-hundred-foot cliff.

  Abbot Je'howith shifted uneasily from foot to foot, swaying as he stared at the impressive city below, and carefully did not glance at Targon Bree Kalas. The Duke appeared very smug this morning, convinced that he had at last settled the fight with Je'howith, and despite the visit the previous night from the Father Abbot, Je'howith wasn't sure that the Duke's confidence was misplaced. Danube hadn't yet arrived, and Je'howith feared what might happen when he did.

  "So the war continued a bit longer than we had anticipated," Kalas was saying to Constance Pemblebury. "How were we to know that our enemies would come from within?"

  "You exaggerate, my friend," the calm woman replied. "No war, but merely a dispute between great leaders."

  Kalas snorted at the thought. "If we let the fool De'Unnero continue his policies in Palmaris, then we will know real war again, and soon, do not doubt," he declared. "By Yatol Rahib Daibe's own words."

  "Words you interpret to suit your own needs, Duke Kalas," Je'howith dared to say, had to say, turning to look directly at the man.

  "I foresee the logical implications," Kalas started to protest, but his ire washed away as the castle door creaked open and King Danube strode out into the garden, accompanied by a pair of soldiers. He took his seat at the shaded garden table and waited for the other three to join him.

  "We must consider carefully the works of Bishop De'Unnero," he said bluntly, getting right to the point. "The transition in Palmaris is not without pitfalls."

  "I have a list of candidates drawn for you, my King," Duke Kalas said, "each with his own strengths and advantages."

  "A list?" King Danube seemed genuinely surprised.

  "Candidates to assume the barony," Kalas explained.

  King Danube seemed more annoyed than intrigued, something that confused Kalas and Constance but not Je'howith, who began wondering just what might have occurred after Markwart had left his chambers.

  "Premature," King Danube decreed, waving his hand, ending any debate before stubborn Kalas could even begin. "No, we must first more honestly assess the work that Bishop De'Unnero has done."

  "Y-you have heard the reports," Kalas stammered.

  "I have heard what others have been saying," Danube replied coldly. "Others who no doubt have their own agendas concerning Palmaris. No, this matter is too important. I will go to Palmaris personally to assess the situation.

  "And only then," the King said sharply, cutting off Kalas' forthcoming protest, "and only if I am not satisfied, will I consider any talk of potential replacements."

  Kalas sputtered and simply turned away; the King's decision went completely against what Danube had decreed only the morning before.

  But he was the king, after all, and he could change his mind on a whim, if the fate of the whole kingdom weighed in the balance.

  Or, Je'howith understood, though the other two advisers did not, Father Abbot Markwart could change his mind for him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Allies of Choice and Necessity

  Elbryan sat astride Symphony at the edge of a tree line at the top slope of a wide field. He shaded his eyes from the grayish glare. A severe winter storm had hit the night before, blowing winds drifting the snow in places so that it stood higher than a tall man. The folk of Dundalis had fared well, though, since they had constructed an appropriate shelter; thankfully, the place had stood under the tremendous weight of the snow and the power of the wind.

  But now they had another problem, as Elbryan and Bradwarden had discovered the day before, right before the storm had broken. Many goblins were in the area, living in the ruins of Weedy Meadow, only a day's march to the west.

  "Glad I will be when Lady Dasslerond and the elves make their appearance," the ranger remarked. He could still hardly believe that a troop of so many elves —Roger had put their number at more than a dozen—would be operating in the area without contacting him.

  "Ye never can tell about them little folk," Bradwarden replied. "Could be in a tree right above us, and the best-trained human'd never know it."

  The ranger turned a sidelong glance at the centaur, recognizing a strange expression there, and then, at last picking up the cue, he did look up. There, perched upon a branch some twenty feet above his head, was the unmistakable winged form of an elf.

  "Greetings, ranger. Far too long has it been since we have shared a song," the elf called down.

  "Ni'estiel!" Elbryan called back up, recognizing the voice, though he could still make out little more than a silhouette against the somewhat brighter gray sky, and through the flakes that still drifted down. "Where is your lady, and Juraviel, and all the rest?"

  "About," Ni'estiel lied. "I hav
e come to tell you that the goblins are on the move."

  "Which way?" the ranger asked. "Further west, to End-o'-the-World, perhaps? Or to the east?"

  The elf shrugged. "They are not where they were, that is all I —we, have been able to discern thus far."

  "Roger's out scoutin'," Bradwarden reminded, sounding somewhat concerned for their friend.

  The ranger shared that concern; Roger was a cunning scout, adept at hiding, adept at running. But a deep snow could neutralize many of those abilities, could make him much easier to spot and much easier to catch.

  "And another force is on the move," Ni'estiel called from above, "closing on this very position from the south."

  The ranger started to ask the elf to elaborate, but the elf skittered off, rushing along the branches, then fluttering to another tree and running on.

  "Now who are ye supposin' that might be?" Bradwarden asked.

  It was all too much to digest for them both. Elbryan kicked Symphony into a trot along the wind-cleared ridgeline, then plowed down through the snow, working the horse hard to get to another ridge not far away that commanded a better view of the southern trails. As soon as he and Bradwarden arrived up there, they spotted the force, a group of soldiers, their glittering helms and spear tips marking them obviously as Kingsmen. They moved slowly through the snow, an obviously weary and battered group.

  "Out in the storm last night," Bradwarden remarked. "Oh, but I'm bettin' they're in a fine mood this day!"

  The ranger smiled and chuckled, but then his grin went away, replaced by intrigue as the band moved closer. "Shamus Kilronney!" Elbryan said happily. "I recognize the posture of the rider and the gait of his horse. It is Shamus at the head of the soldiers."

  "Oh, but blessed by the gods must we be," Bradwarden mumbled sarcastically under his breath, though certainly loud enough for Elbryan to hear.

  "A good man," the ranger replied.

  "And a man who might be lookin' for yer new monk friends," Bradwarden reminded.

  That took the smile from Elbryan's face, but for just a minute. Shamus and his soldiers would certainly prove to be of great assistance fighting the large goblin band they had found at Weedy Meadow.

  "He would not come hunting them," Elbryan said at length. "Or even if he has, we will discover that truth soon enough and easily slip the monks away into the forest."

  "I'll be lookin' forward to their company," Bradwarden said dryly, and then Elbryan understood that the centaur's dour mood had little to do with the plight of the five monks. Bradwarden had come into plain view of late, and was known and accepted without question by all the folk following Tomas Gingerwart. It would be harder, much harder, to explain the centaur to the King's soldiers, men who were probably, at least peripherally, allied with the Abellican Church. It wasn't that Bradwarden cared much for the company of humans anyway, with the possible exceptions of Elbryan and Pony, but he had long ago grown tired of having to hide from them.

  "They'll be seein' us soon," the centaur remarked, "so I'll be takin' me leave." He kicked the ground and swung his great body toward the deeper woods.

  "Shamus is a good man," Elbryan said before he had taken a single step away.

  Bradwarden stopped and looked back over his broad shoulder at his friend, looked into those honest green eyes.

  "He will accept you and not judge you," the ranger declared.

  "Ye'd be a fool to tell him," replied the centaur, "for then ye'd mark yerself as me rescuer. Pick yer own fights with the Church, boy, but I've no desire to see the inside o' St.-Mere-Abelle again."

  Elbryan had no practical response to that.

  "So go and make yer plans for the goblins," Bradwarden continued, "but be quick if ye're lookin' to kill any yerself. I'm on me own huntin' again, and got a bellyache for goblin meat." He gave a hearty laugh then and walked away into the shadows.

  Most of all, Elbryan heard the hollow resonance of that laugh. Bradwarden had aptly been named the forest ghost by the original settlers of Dundalis; and until Nightbird had returned, elven trained, to the region, the centaur had been a solitary figure. But Bradwarden had come to enjoy the company of Elbryan and the others over the past months; that much was obvious to the ranger more from the sound of that laugh than from the centaur's original dour mood at the sight of Shamus and the soldiers.

  Elbryan sighed and urged Symphony into a trot along the ridge, moving to intercept his Kingsman friend. It would be good fighting beside Shamus and the well-trained soldiers again, though better still would it be if the situation was not so complicated.

  Pony awoke in darkness and started to rise, only to slam her head against unyielding wood barely two inches above. In the stifling darkness, a surprised and panicked Pony reached up, hands striking wood, hard and solid, and finding no handle.

  A scream welled in her throat; she kicked up and bruised both knee and toe.

  And the wood seemed to close down on her.

  She was shut in, locked, buried alive. Desperately she reached for her pouch, but the gemstones had been taken from her, and her weapon was gone. Just this, in a coffin, in the darkness.

  Pony punched hard against the wood and yelled out as loudly as she could. Ignoring the pain, she punched again and again, and kicked and clawed. Maybe she would break through and the dirt would pour in on her, suffocating her, crushing her, but better that attempt at freedom, over a slow, lingering death. She screamed again, though she realized that she could hardly expect to be heard.

  But then ... a reply. And not from above, but from the side. And suddenly she was not in darkness anymore but bathed in the soft glow of a lantern —a lantern held in the doorway of the cabin. A cabin! And she lay not in a coffin, but in a bunk bed, in the top berth with her face close to the ceiling.

  Pony closed her eyes and breathed deeply, relief flooding through her. She recognized then that she was in the hold of a ship, could tell from the slight swaying movement that the river, and not hard earth, was below.

  Pony turned her attention to the man, a man she knew, a man who had once given her, Elbryan, Bradwarden, and Juraviel passage across the river with no questions asked.

  "Captain Al'u'met," she remarked. "It seems that fate has brought us together once more."

  Al'u'met looked at her curiously for just a moment, then recognition sparked in his dark eyes. "The friend of Jojonah," he said quietly, calmly. "Ah, but that alone explains so much."

  "I am no enemy of the Behrenese," Pony stated bluntly, "nor any friend of the Abellican Church."

  "Or of the city, then, since they, Church and city, are now one and the same."

  Pony nodded carefully —for her body ached from the beating she had received—slid her feet to the side, and extricated herself from the bunk, coming down shakily to the floor. Al'u'met was by her side in an instant, supporting her with his strong arm.

  "You speak ill of the union," Pony noted, "yet you are a friend of Master Jojonah of the Abellican Order."

  Al'u'met's smile only somewhat hid a wince, and Pony figured that he had seen her ruse for what it was. Only as Al'u'met replied did she realize that there was something much more terrible than that bothering the man.

  "Jojonah did not approve of this Church," he said confidently.

  Pony started to nod, but Al'u'met's use of tense suddenly intrigued her. Had Jojonah changed heart?

  "I met him only once," Al'u'met explained, moving to the side and hooking the lantern on a peg, "on a passage up the Masur Delaval to Amvoy, his return to St.-Mere-Abelle. He told me then to remember the name of Avelyn Desbris, and so I have, and now that I have heard that name openly blasphemed in the Church of Palmaris, I have come to understand Jojonah's concern. He cared for Avelyn deeply, I understand, and fears for the man's legacy."

  Again the past tense with reference to Jojonah, and Pony's expression reflected her growing fear.

  "Master Jojonah was executed as a heretic," Al'u'met explained, "for conspiring with intruders who stole away th
e Father Abbot's most precious prisoner, a centaur said to have witnessed the destruction of Mount Aida and the demon dactyl."

  Two steps back and Pony sat on the edge of the lower bunk.

  "Might you know anything of such a conspiracy?" Al'u'met asked coyly.

  A glare came back at him, Pony not appreciating the sentiment.

  Al'u'met offered a bow in return. "You confuse guilt with grief," he observed.

  "You saw my companions when we crossed the river."

  "I did indeed," said the captain, "and I hold no doubt that the conspiracy claim against Jojonah was true enough. As for the charge of heresy ..."

  "Jojonah was more attuned to the truth and goodness of the Church than any man I ever knew," Pony asserted, "except for Brother Avelyn Desbris."

  A second bow from Al'u'met came back to her in response. "What, then, of the centaur?"

  Pony studied him carefully for a moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. Was he, perhaps, an agent of the Church? As soon as she remembered the circumstances of her capture, she recognized that as improbable. Al'u'met and his dark-skinned southern brethren were obviously not her enemies.

  "Bradwarden runs free in the northland," she said frankly, showing her confidence in the man in offering both the information and the centaur's name, "a fitting reward for a hero."

  "And he was at Mount Aida, at the reputed end of the dactyl?"

  "More than reputed," Pony replied with a chuckle. She ran one hand through her thick blond mane, shaking away the last of her grogginess. "I was there when Brother Avelyn destroyed the demon and its home, as was my human companion on the journey with you across the Masur Delaval." She hesitated as she spoke, wondering if she might be giving too much away, but then decided, on pure instinct, that too much was at stake and that time was of the essence. If she was to take any stand against Bishop De'Unnero, then this man would have to be involved, she realized. "We thought Bradwarden had given his life to save us, and yet, by a stroke of good fortune and elvish magic, he did survive, only to be brought to the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle as a prisoner."