DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

Pony struggled to her feet and moved her good arm to her pouch of stones.

  And then he was there —not in physical form but in spectral—so clearly that Pony could make out every detail of his features. "Running away?" Markwart said to her. "Coward. From all that I had heard concerning the mighty Jilseponie, I would have thought you would have welcomed the chance to test your strength against me."

  "No coward, Markwart the murderer," Pony answered with as much courage as she could muster. Indeed, in another time and place, she would have welcomed this fight. Now she could not forget the promise she had made to Juraviel before she had left the northland —the promise she had made, in effect, to her unborn child.

  "How your names do hurt me," the Father Abbot teased.

  To Pony's amazement, the image strengthened then, seemed to grow solid, as if Markwart had just stepped through the connection between body and spirit!

  "If you surrender to me, I promise you a quick death," the Father Abbot remarked, "a merciful one, so long as you publicly disavow the heretic Avelyn."

  Pony laughed.

  "Otherwise, I promise only that I will torture you until you disavow Avelyn," the Father Abbot added, "and then I will kill you slowly, savoring every moment. But you will accept even that, do not doubt, for any course leading to death will seem preferable to the life I offer you."

  "The life you offer all your subjects," Pony retorted. "How far from God you have fallen! You cannot begin to understand the truth of Avelyn, the light that shone about him. You cannot —"

  The words caught in her throat as Markwart grabbed her —not physically but with some mental connection that choked her as surely as his hands might have. Pony clutched her hematite, not leaving her body, but focusing her thoughts into the spirit realm. There she saw the shadow of Markwart's spirit, a tangible thing, standing right before her, hands out and about her throat. Black shadow arms came up from Pony's side as well, grabbing at Markwart's spirit image, and she pushed with all her strength, backing Markwart until their two battling spirit images stood halfway between their bodies.

  "You are strong!" she heard Markwart say, surprisingly with glee in his voice. "Too long have I waited for this challenge!"

  Pony growled again and grabbed harder, driving his shadow back a bit more and rising over it, pushing it down. Her spirit seemed to thicken, to grow darker and stronger, while Markwart's diminished, fading to gray.

  Then Markwart came back at her, tenfold in strength, pushing her, then forcing her spirit back, back toward her waiting form. And somehow she knew that if he got her spirit back into her physical body, with his spirit still clenching and pushing, she would be destroyed.

  She fought back with all her strength, and her spirit held her ground. But she could make no progress, could push Markwart back not another step.

  And the Father Abbot was laughing at her.

  When the elves arrived at the point along the wall where Pony had crossed, they found several town guards searching that area.

  But Dasslerond wouldn't be slowed, not now. She motioned to her elves, and over they went, quickly, their wings fluttering. Soldiers yelled and scrambled, trying to get at the rushing creatures, but the elves were over and out into the night before the guards ever came close, leaving them confused and whispering.

  Dasslerond and her band rejoined in the field on the other side and started north immediately, but then the lady stopped suddenly, turning to stare curiously at her companions.

  "What is it?" Belli'mar Juraviel prompted.

  The lady of Andur'Blough Inninness wasn't sure. Something magical had passed them by, some disturbance in the very fabric of space. The elves possessed three separate forms of magic. First was their song that could lull a man to sleep and could part the perpetual mists that covered Andur'Blough Inninness each night and coax them back with the rise of the sun. Then —most crucial to the Touel'alfar—came the second magic, that of the plants. The elves knew every medicinal, nutritional, or other use of every plant. They could make healing salves, or even concoctions that could allow one to live without air to breathe for a long, long while. They could speak with the plants to learn of the passage of friend or enemy, or to learn the recent history of any place.

  And the third magic had been given to them from a human, from a great hero, a man possessed of elvish and human blood —a rare combination indeed! Terranen Dinoniel was his name, and in the first great battle of the elves and humans against the minions of Bestesbulzibar, Dinoniel had given the emerald gemstone, among the most powerful magical stones in all the world, to the Touel'alfar. This was the stone of the earth, the gem that heightened Lady Dasslerond's awareness of the living things about her and her connection to them. This was the stone that helped support Andur'Blough Inninness in its preternatural beauty and brought security to the elven valley; for with it, Dasslerond could alter the trails surrounding the valley, could shift the directions of paths so that any would-be intruders would find themselves walking in circles.

  Now that stone told her that some creature had magically walked right by her band.

  She knew the source, and so when she came out of her meditation, she prodded her companions on even faster.

  They held in a state of balance, fighting hard. Pony tried to conjure all her rage, her memories of Dundalis destroyed and, more particularly, of her murdered parents, of the demon-filled corpses that had arisen against her in the bowels of this wicked man's home. That rage seemed to be working for a moment, as her shadow grew darker and stronger, forcing Markwart's back another step.

  But then came the waves of despair, the fear for the child in her womb, the desperation that she had stolen from Elbryan the most precious thing of all: his son.

  Pony tried to focus, fought with all her will to quickly build a wall of rage, but it was too late. The spirit of Markwart came powerfully —and it seemed to Pony as if the shadow had grown huge, batlike wings!

  Now she was back in her body and she felt the presence of those hands around her throat —icy cold and choking the life from her.

  Darkness crept around the edges of her vision.

  Markwart had her! He would defeat her, he decided, but not destroy her. Not yet. How sweet this would be!

  The spirit drove Pony down to her knees, and Markwart watched with glee as the woman's physical hands came up to her throat, clawing and scratching —with no effect whatsoever on his shadow arms. No, he couldn't hold back, the Father Abbot realized. This moment was too powerful, filled with ecstasy as he destroyed his greatest enemy in all the world!

  He saw the blood dripping from Pony's throat, heard her dying gasp.

  But then he felt something else, another presence. At first he glanced about, thinking that some third party had joined against him.

  A jumble of confusion, and then glee, overwhelmed him as he recognized the source of that little spirit, that infant spirit, as he looked down more carefully at the woman's swollen belly.

  The darkness closed in about her, leaving her looking at the world as if through a long and dark tunnel. She could not draw breath, could not feel her fingers clawing into her throat, though she knew somewhere deep in her mind that she was digging deep lines there. But, even consciously knowing that her physical hands were having no effect on the shadowy arms, she could not stop, could not overcome her instincts for survival.

  The shadow's grip suddenly lessened, and Pony felt a stab in her belly.

  Horrified as she recognized the sudden danger to her baby, she released all her magical energy in one sudden, brutal burst, one spiritual scream that flung the Father Abbot away from her.

  And then the ground rushed up as if to swallow her, and she lay on her back, completely exhausted, panting, dying. And he was there standing above her, looking down at her. The victor.

  He reached down as if to scoop her broken body into his arms.

  She could not resist.

  But then there came a tremendous shaking of the ground and the spirit of Mark
wart glanced around in surprise. "Wretched elf!" Pony heard him shout —and even as he finished, his voice and form faded away.

  But Pony was falling into a blackness more profound than anything she had ever felt before.

  Lady Dasslerond had little energy left to give to the mortally wounded woman, for it had taken every ounce of her power to force the spirit of Markwart back into his physical body. Every ounce of her considerable power and every bit of power the mighty emerald could offer had barely been enough —and she had caught him by surprise! The implications of the Father Abbot's surprising strength horrified her.

  And now the elves flocked about Pony, Belli'mar Juraviel leading the effort to minister to her wounds using the second elven magic, the healing salves of plants. Some of the wounds, like the scratches on the neck, were easily tended, but others went very deep, wounds to the soul. Despite all their efforts, when Belli'mar Juraviel reported to Lady Dasslerond, he had to shake his head.

  "What of the child?" Dasslerond asked him.

  Juraviel shrugged, for he did not know. "It may be the child that is killing her," he reasoned. "Perhaps Jilseponie hasn't the strength for both of them."

  Another elf rushed over to inform the lady that the northern gates of Palmaris were open, soldiers and monks streaming through.

  Lady Dasslerond knew then what they had to do.

  CHAPTER 31

  The House of the Holy

  "Ah, but ye'd be the fool to go back," Bradwarden said to Shamus some hours later, after the group had returned to the camp to find Tiel'marawee resting easily. The captain had insisted that he and his men were going to return to Palmaris and openly oppose Bishop De'Unnero in a court convened by the King. "He'll not let ye even get word to the King afore he has ye killed in the public square."

  "The Church does not rule in Honce-the-Bear," Shamus Kilronney asserted with as much determination as he could muster. But even that pitiful attempt showed that the man was losing this battle, was losing the foundation upon which his entire world had been built.

  "Bradwarden speaks the truth," Elbryan added. "We'll not catch De'Unnero before he returns to Palmaris. Once he is there, he will surround himself with too great a force. We cannot fight him —not there."

  "Then how? " Shamus asked. "The King must learn of these events!"

  "The same King that made the man bishop?" Bradwarden asked dryly.

  "He did not know ..." Shamus started to argue, but he stopped, shook his head, and gave a frustrated growl. Shamus now had to face the obvious facts. The Bishop of Palmaris, appointed by both the King and the Father Abbot, held all the power in Palmaris, and thus, in all the northern reaches of Honce-the-Bear.

  "King Danube might not understand the truth of the man," Elbryan replied calmly, trying to ease his friend's pain. "And when he learns that truth, perhaps we can return to Palmaris and throw ourselves on the mercy of an open and just court. But that day has not yet arrived —far from it!"

  "Then we must tell the King," Shamus reasoned.

  "Ye've got to get through De'Unnero to do that," Bradwarden reminded him.

  Elbryan was shaking his head even as the centaur spoke. "We have an ally who means to do just that," he explained. "Though I am not certain King Danube would listen to her words. The easier course for him might be to go along with the Father Abbot and his lackey the Bishop."

  "And then?" Shamus asked.

  "And then we are outlaws forever more," Elbryan replied. "And then we shall spend our days in the northland, in the deep forests of the Timberlands, perhaps, and oppose any who come in the name of Church or state."

  "Not a promising position," Brother Braumin piped in, but he was smiling, for Braumin and his monk companions had already come to the same conclusions as the ranger.

  "What ally?" Shamus asked.

  "Pony," the ranger replied immediately. "She is in Palmaris, working secretly with those who oppose De'Unnero. Do not underestimate her!" he added when he saw Shamus and several others frown.

  "And are we to hide and wait, then?" one of the other soldiers remarked.

  "We are going north, to the Barbacan," Elbryan explained. That brought gasps of astonishment.

  "It was my wish," Brother Braumin explained. "For there, at the grave of Brother Avelyn, we will find our peace and our purpose. I know this from a vision, Captain Kilronney. My place is there, and glory to those who accompany me!"

  The grand proclamation brought wide smiles, even cheers, from the four other monks. But while Elbryan, Roger, and Bradwarden all managed meager smiles, it seemed obvious to them that the soldiers did not hold hopes quite so high.

  A moment later, Shamus motioned his men to mount up. "We will go and talk privately about these events," he informed the others. "This is too big a decision to be made without the consent of all involved." He climbed on his own horse then, and walked past his soldiers, leading them away.

  "Suren that there's some tellin' yer captain friend to come and get us," Bradwarden reasoned after several minutes of heated debate within the group of soldiers —though they were too far away for the ranger or the centaur to make out more than a few words. "Now that they're knowin' the truth o' their plight, De'Unnero's offer's likely seemin' the better course."

  "I trust Shamus," the ranger replied. "Some may choose to leave, but the captain will not go against us, nor will he allow any of the others to do so."

  "And I'm trustin' yerself," the centaur agreed. "But be knowin', me friend, that if yer captain friend turns on us, I'll take him down afore he yells out for the charge."

  Elbryan saw that Bradwarden had set another arrow to his great bow, and, given the size and tremendous poundage of that weapon, the ranger had little doubt that a single shot would be more than enough.

  It didn't come to that, for Shamus Kilronney trotted his mount over to them a few moments later and dismounted to stand before the ranger and the centaur. "A few do not wish to make the journey, I admit," he said, "but the rest are going. Even those doubters have decided to follow, seeing few options."

  Elbryan gave a grim nod, too understanding of the road ahead to be thrilled by the captain's decision. "Tiel'marawee will be able to travel in the morning, perhaps," he replied. "Until then, let us be extra vigilant. We do not know if De'Unnero has decided to turn about, looking to strike at us once again."

  The rest of the day, and that night, passed uneventfully. Tiel'marawee was feeling stronger the next day, and Brother Braumin determined that she could travel, as long as the pace was not too fast.

  They set off, hoping that no late winter storms would arise before them.

  "You know," the melodic voice said calmly, the slender figure moving into full view.

  King Danube gasped and, clutching the candlestick he had picked up as an impromptu weapon, took a step back.

  "You are of the noble line," Lady Dasslerond scolded, "from your father, to his before him, to his before him. You were told the truth of the Touel'alfar from your childhood days, unless your family has become greater fools than I believe."

  "Fairy tales," King Danube said weakly.

  "And you know the truth of Questel ni'touel, which you call boggle," Dasslerond went on, advancing calmly. "You know, King Danube, so find your heart and your composure. My time grows short in this place and there are things I must tell you."

  He was the King of Honce-the-Bear, greatest kingdom in the known world, and he was descended from a long line of royalty. Now he was unnerved by this tiny winged creature, a fairy tale come to life. But Dasslerond had spoken truly —he had indeed been told stories of the Touel'alfar many times during his childhood—and Danube managed to regain his composure.

  She left him some time later, via the secret entry her scouts had created by cleaning out an unused chimney in the mansion.

  Danube had learned the elves' opinion of the overwhelming events that had occurred in Palmaris, a judgment that did not favor Father Abbot Markwart and the Abellican Church. But Danube still saw clea
rly the specter of Markwart, the nighttime visitor, a vision that all his years of training and all his years of ruling could not overcome.

  Lady Dasslerond motioned to Belli'mar Juraviel and he handed the gemstone pouch, holding every one of Pony's stones, to Belster O'Comely.

  That innkeeper held them in trembling hands. "What if she does not recover?" he asked, looking at Pony, who lay, looking fragile, on a padded cot next to the side wall of the basement.

  "That is for you to decide," Lady Dasslerond replied. "We have entrusted Jilseponie to your care, and the responsibility for the gemstones rests with her. It is not a matter for the Touel'alfar, nor is she."

  Belli'mar Juraviel winced when he heard those words. He could not come to terms with Dasslerond's brutal decision out on the field when Pony lay near death, but he knew that he had to accept that decision.

  "W-we have friends," Belster stuttered. "The Behrenese sailor —"

  "I care not," Lady Dasslerond said coldly, stopping him short. "You humans have chosen this fight amongst yourselves, so fight well, I offer —and know that my goodwill is more than any of you deserve. Do what you will with the woman. By bringing the fight at this time to Father Abbot Markwart, she chose her course—and chose wrongly, I say, though I wish her no ill."

  Belster started to reply, but Dasslerond turned away and, gathering up her elven companions, left the cellar of the Fellowship Way. Belster followed them up the stairs, nodding to the frightened Dainsey and handing her the gemstones as they passed on the top landing. The woman glanced nervously at the unexpected nonhuman guests, then rushed down to be at Pony's side.

  "There is nothing I can say to change your mind?" Belster tried one last time as Dasslerond and several of the elves paused —only long enough for one of them to go to the open window and look out to a companion scouting the alley, to make sure that the area was clear of soldiers.

  "You should take her from this place," Dasslerond replied. "The Father Abbot found her here, and here he will look again. Take her, and be gone yourself. That is my counsel."