DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  “And I mean them for a human,” Lady Dasslerond interrupted. “Have we not discussed this? The child will be all that his father was and all that his mother once was. We will teach him the sword and the magic.”

  Juraviel thought back to that fateful day. Brother Francis had been the first one into the room, he remembered; but if Francis had found the stones, he would have turned them over to the Church immediately and so they would not still be missing. But there was another in the area of the battle, according to the version of the tale Juraviel had heard, another human with a reputation for light fingers. He looked at Dasslerond, and she nodded and walked away. She had a pretty good idea that he could locate the missing gemstones, Juraviel knew.

  Yes, Juraviel had a good idea who had the stones.

  Eager to see his old friends again, the elf was out of Andur’Blough Inninness that very night.

  Chapter 8

  Diplomacy

  ABBOT AGRONGUERRE HELD HIS BREATH AS HIS GUESTS AT ST. BELFOUR—PRINCE Midalis and the two barbarians Andacanavar and Bruinhelde—entered the study. The abbot had purposely removed the room’s normally comfortable chairs, replacing them with five straight, hard-backed seats arranged in a circle with no apparent “head” position. Brother Haney would be the fifth in attendance, seated away from Agronguerre—again purposefully, for the abbot wanted his guests to feel as if this was a meeting of comrades and friends and not a drawing of lines between Vanguard and Alpinador, between Church and barbarian.

  He watched the expressions of the two Alpinadorans carefully, nodding his agreement when Prince Midalis quickly took the seat to Brother Haney’s right, thus leaving the chairs on either side of the abbot for their guests. Bruinhelde seemed to bristle a bit, but Andacanavar calmed him with a pat on the shoulder, motioning for him to take the seat to Agronguerre’s left, while the ranger slid easily into the seat to the abbot’s right.

  That scene fit in well with what Midalis had told him about the Alpinadoran leaders, Agronguerre realized. The Prince had indicated that the ranger Andacanavar was by far the more worldly and friendly of the pair; and that Bruinhelde, though obviously an ally, was more set in the ways of his northern people and far more suspicious of the Vanguardsmen, and particularly of the Church, whose precepts were not in any way in accord with the Alpinadoran perception of God—or, in their case, of the gods, for their pantheon of deities was quite extensive.

  When the pair were seated, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Prince Midalis began to speak, but Agronguerre, as the host, interrupted him immediately.

  “A glorious victory on the field this morning,” the abbot said, nodding in turn to each of his guests, “though we grieve for your losses, as we grieve for our own.”

  “Temorstaad died bravely,” the stern Bruinhelde answered, his voice halting and accented, revealing his lack of command of the language. “I hope I may die as well.”

  Agronguerre widened his eyes at that for just a moment, until he realized that Bruinhelde wasn’t calling for his own death, but was merely indicating that he hoped he would die as honorably as had Temorstaad.

  “We do not grieve for those killed in battle as you might,” Andacanavar tried to explain.

  “We, too, pray that we might die honorably,” Midalis put in.

  “Though we surely pray that more of our enemies will find such a fate,” Abbot Agronguerre dared to chime in, somewhat lightheartedly. He thought he had just committed his first blunder of the meeting when Bruinhelde fixed him with a confused stare, but then the barbarian leader chuckled and nodded.

  With the tension alleviated, for the moment at least, Agronguerre bade Andacanavar and Midalis to lead them to the purpose for the meeting, a discussion concerning their continued alliance in the effort to rid the region of the minions of the demon dactyl. It went well for some time, rolling along, with plans for future tactics interspersed with reminders of the victory that day on the field, and even a remark from Bruinhelde that he thought Midalis and his riders had performed bravely and honorably.

  It didn’t slip past Agronguerre, though, that the barbarian seemed reluctant to offer any thanks or praise for the efforts of the monks; and that, the wise abbot feared, would be the true test of the depth of this unlikely alliance.

  “With strength of sword and strength of magic, we will sweep the land of the goblins,” the excited Brother Haney remarked at one point. The room fell silent, and Agronguerre could sense Bruinhelde tightening at his side. He turned slowly and deliberately to face the proud Alpinadoran, held up his hand to ward off attempts by both Andacanavar and Midalis to try to deflect the conversation back to more common ground.

  “You mistrust my Church and our use of the gemstone magic,” he said bluntly to Bruinhelde. Before the barbarian could respond, he added, “As we, who do not know of or understand the ways of the folk of Alpinador, mistrust many of your traditions and beliefs. That is ignorance, on both our parts, and it is something, I fear, that neither of us will be able to overcome at a meeting or in any short amount of time.”

  Bruinhelde’s expression became more curious than angry, and he looked past Agronguerre to Andacanavar, who immediately translated the abbot’s words and sentiments into the Alpinadoran language.

  “Given that, we both must put our suspicions and even our anger aside,” the abbot went on. “You need not trust our techniques, as we do not trust yours, but trust only that our goal is the same as your own: to rid the region of goblins and powries and giants. Take faith, my ally, that our magic and our ways will not be turned against you, that we are your allies in this and that we truly value that alliance.”

  He paused and let Andacanavar translate again, just to make sure that there would be no misunderstanding between them on this most crucial point, and he took some hope as Bruinhelde nodded, his stern expression beginning to brighten.

  “I know that I overstepped my bounds as an ally when I tried to use the gemstone magic on your fallen companion,” the abbot said. “And I do not agree with your decision to refuse such treatment for Temorstaad.” Brother Haney gasped at the admission, Prince Midalis widened his eyes in surprise that Agronguerre would even bring up such a difficult subject, and Bruinhelde surely tightened once again at the mention.

  The abbot, though, pressed ahead. “But I respect your decision and assure you that neither I nor any of my brethren will make such an intrusion against your ways as that again,” he said. The ranger beside him was quick to translate. “However, Bruinhelde, my ally, should you see a different course as time goes along, as we each become more used to the other’s ways, I, and all of my brethren, would accept any change of mind on your part. If you come to believe that the gemstone magic is a valuable tool for healing the wounded, as it is a tool for battling our common enemies, then I will work tirelessly to alleviate the suffering of Alpinadorans, as I try now to do for the men of Vanguard, the men who claim allegiance to my Church.”

  “And you expect that we, too, will make such a claim of allegiance?” Andacanavar interjected before Bruinhelde could.

  “I do not,” the abbot answered sincerely. “I expect, and have seen, that your people will battle for the sake of my own, as my own will battle for the sake of yours. I ask no concessions, no abandonment of ways or traditions, no premise that the Abellican Church is superior and correct.”

  “Abbot!” Brother Haney blurted, but Agronguerre merely laughed.

  “Of course, I view the Abellican Church as the true way to paradise, and hope that everyone in all the world will come to see the same light of truth as I,” Agronguerre admitted, his tone lighthearted and not in the least intimidating. “But that, I fear, is a personal decision, a choice that must come from within, and not through any pressure applied by brothers. Missionaries should spread their views with tolerance of difference, my friend.”

  “And they should listen as often as they speak,” the ranger replied.

  “Indeed,” agreed Agronguerre. “And even more than t
hat, I assure you that in this common cause, the brothers of St. Belfour are not missionaries. Certainly not! We believe that the joining of our forces against the common enemy will be to the betterment of both Vanguardsmen and Alpinadorans. This is not about who serves the correct God.”

  Andacanavar looked past the abbot to Bruinhelde, and Agronguerre, too, turned to regard the pivotal leader.

  “You will use no magic to tend my wounded,” Bruinhelde said determinedly, “not even if one is near death, as was Temorstaad. And take care that none of your magical attacks falls over my brethren!” he warned.

  “But you do not wish us to stop throwing lightning and fire at the goblins,” Abbot Agronguerre reasoned.

  “Gilnegist clokclok gilnegist beyaggen inder fleequelt bene duGodder,” Bruinhelde replied, settling back in his chair and crossing his huge arms over his chest, his expression contented.

  Agronguerre immediately turned back to the smiling Andacanavar.

  “ ‘Demon battling demon brings joy to the godly man,’ ” the ranger translated.

  Brother Haney seemed as if he would jump up and shout out against the obvious insult, but the abbot of St. Belfour gave a great belly laugh and turned back to Bruinhelde. “Exactly!” he said with obvious irony. “Exactly!” He laughed some more, and Bruinhelde joined in and then the others, somewhat more tentatively, and it ended when Abbot Agronguerre, in all seriousness, extended his hand to the barbarian leader. Bruinhelde stared at the man and the gesture for a moment, then clasped Agronguerre’s wrist firmly.

  And so the alliance was sealed, with a mutual understanding of common benefit if not friendship. The rest of the meeting went beautifully, mostly rallying cheers designed to bring up the level of excitement for the battles that lay ahead and the shared confidence that, joined as one, the humans would drive out the minions of evil Bestesbulzibar.

  Prince Midalis lingered behind when Brother Haney led the two Alpinadorans back to the gate of St. Belfour. “I had feared that you would hold to your anger from the events on the field concerning Temorstaad,” he admitted to Agronguerre as soon as they were alone. “To press your opinion on that matter would have proven disastrous.”

  “It took me a long while to purge my heart of that anger,” Agronguerre admitted, “but I recognize the greater good and understand that all of your work in bringing the barbarians to our cause has been nothing short of miraculous, my friend. I would not destroy those efforts for the sake of my own pride. And I know, too, that with or without the gemstone magic, Temorstaad will not be the only man to die in this campaign.”

  “True enough,” Midalis solemnly agreed. “But now, at least, we can look forward to the war with true hope.” He paused and gave Agronguerre a sly look. “And when it is finished, perhaps you can begin the task of converting Bruinhelde and his brethren.”

  That brought laughter from both, which increased when Agronguerre, in all seriousness, replied, “Perhaps I would rather try to sway Bestesbulzibar and his minions.”

  If the specter of death itself had walked into his office, Abbot Braumin Herde’s expression would have been no less incredulous and no less horrified.

  De’Unnero came swaggering in, walking with confidence—with a smile, even—right up to the new abbot’s desk. He bent low, placing his hands upon the lacquered wood, staring down at Braumin Herde. His eyes sparkled with the same intensity Braumin remembered from their days together at St.-Mere-Abelle, the fire that always had the younger monks on edge whenever Master De’Unnero was around, the same fire that had made the dangerous man a legend among the younger brothers.

  “You seem surprised to see me,” De’Unnero said innocently.

  Abbot Braumin couldn’t even begin to respond, had no words to convey the astonishment and trepidation churning within him.

  “You believed me dead?” De’Unnero asked, as if the thought were absurd.

  “The fight at Chasewind Manor …” Abbot Braumin began, but he just ended up shaking his head. He was still sitting, wasn’t even sure if his legs would support him if he tried to stand. And all the while, the monk was well aware that Marcalo De’Unnero, perhaps the most dangerous monk to ever walk out of St.-Mere-Abelle, could reach across the desk and kill him quickly and easily.

  “I was there,” De’Unnero confirmed. “I tried to defend Father Abbot Markwart, as was my solemn duty.”

  “Markwart is dead and buried,” Braumin said, growing a bit more confident as he considered the events and the fact that De’Unnero was without allies within Palmaris. “Buried and discredited.”

  If De’Unnero was surprised, he hid it well.

  “Elbryan the Nightbird, too, died in the battle,” Abbot Braumin went on, and he thought he saw a hint of a smile touch De’Unnero’s face. “A great loss to all the world.”

  De’Unnero nodded, though his expression hardly revealed any agreement with the sentiment, more an acknowledgment of Braumin’s opinion.

  Finally, the abbot did manage to stand up and face De’Unnero squarely. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “We have just passed through our darkest and most confused days—we nearly lost all to King Danube—and we are not even certain of where we now stand within the kingdom or among the populace. And yet, where is Abbot De’Unnero during all of this? Where is the man who will reveal the truth of Father Abbot Markwart’s fall?”

  “Perhaps it is a truth I did not believe the Church was ready to hear,” De’Unnero replied forcefully. He stood back, though, and chuckled. “Markwart erred,” he admitted, and those two words coming from the mouth of this man nearly knocked Abbot Braumin off his feet. “As did De’Unnero in trusting him.”

  “He was possessed by Bestesbulzibar,” Abbot Braumin dared to remark. That proclamation brought De’Unnero back to his fine edge of anger, eyes shining dangerously.

  “How dare you make such a claim?”

  “You just said—”

  “That he erred,” said De’Unnero. “And so I believe he did. He erred in his obsession with the followers of Avelyn Desbris. Better to let the lot of you play out your philosophies, that your own errors might be laid bare for all to see.”

  “You come back here to speak such nonsense?” Abbot Braumin asked, walking around the desk, for he did not like the way that De’Unnero was using it as a prop to gain a physical advantage. “If you are of Markwart’s mind, then know that your ideas have been discredited.”

  “Because Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by Bestesbulzibar?” De’Unnero asked skeptically.

  “Yes!” the abbot of St. Precious snapped. “By the words of Jilseponie herself!” He didn’t miss the flash of anger that crossed De’Unnero’s face at the mention of the woman. “She, who survived the fight with Markwart, who went to him spiritually to do battle, saw the truth of the man, saw the alliance he had made with the most foul demon.”

  De’Unnero began laughing before Braumin finished the sentence. “And you would expect her to say differently?” he asked. “Would she admit, then, that Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by angels?”

  “You have missed so much,” Braumin replied.

  “I have witnessed more than you believe from afar.”

  “Then where have you been?” the abbot demanded. “As we passed our trials with King Danube and Duke Kalas—now Baron of Palmaris—where was Marcalo De’Unnero? As we began our inquisition into the disposition of Father Abbot Markwart, where was De’Unnero? Did you fear, perhaps, that you would be brought to answer for your crimes?”

  “Fear?” echoed the former abbot, the former bishop of Palmaris. “And pray tell me what crimes I might have to answer for, good Abbot. Aloysius Crump?” he asked, referring to a merchant whom he, acting as bishop, had arrested and subsequently executed. “Tried and convicted of hiding gemstones, when the edict of the Father Abbot was that I should confiscate every one. What then have I done to deserve such words as these? I stood by Father Abbot Markwart, as I was trained to do at St.-Mere-Abelle, as you were trained to do
before Master Jojonah poisoned your heart with his silly beliefs. Yes, my friend, I will speak honestly with you and will not begin to pretend that I mourn the death of the heretic Jojonah. And, yes, I freely admit that I acted the part of Father Abbot Markwart’s second and followed his commands, the orders of the rightful leader of the Abellican Church, as any soldier would follow the orders of King Danube. Am I to be called to account for that? Will Braumin Herde place me under arrest and try me publicly? Who next, then, fool? Will you find those who came with Father Abbot Markwart to St. Precious on his first visit and try them for their actions in taking the centaur, Bradwarden, prisoner? But wait, was not your own dear friend, Brother Dellman, among that group? What of the guards in St.-Mere-Abelle who watched over Bradwarden and the doomed Chilichunks in the dungeons of our home abbey? Tell me, abbot of St. Precious, if you mean to punish them as well.” De’Unnero shook his head and laughed wickedly, then came forward to stand face-to-face with the abbot, his eyes locked in a fanatical glare. “Pray tell me, abbot reformer, what you will do with all those brothers and all the townsfolk who dragged your precious Master Jojonah through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle town and tortured him and burned him at the stake. Are they all guilty, as you hint that I am? Shall we build rows of stakes to satiate your lust for revenge?”

  “Markwart has been discredited,” Abbot Braumin said grimly and determinedly. “He was wrong, Brother De’Unnero, as were you in following him blindly.”

  De’Unnero backed off a step, though he continued to hold fast that wicked grin of his, the look he had perfected years before, that made it seem as if he held the upper hand in every confrontation, as if he, De’Unnero, somehow knew more than his opponents could begin to understand. “Even if what you say is true, I expect to be formally welcomed back into the Church,” he said.

  “You must account for the last months,” Abbot Braumin declared, but De’Unnero was shaking his head even as the words came out.