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

by R. A. Salvatore

  And what a rout it seemed, with goblins falling, scrambling, shrieking, and ducking! For a moment, Francis thought the day would be won without damage to his brethren. And indeed, before the first two minutes of fighting had passed, a score and more of the goblins were down, with another score running haphazardly into the cover of the forest.

  Francis called out rudimentary commands—cheers more than orders—and he leaped about, graphite in hand, his blood coursing fiercely, his heart pumping furiously, and in that heightened state of energy, confident that he could loose another equally powerful blast of lightning.

  Maybe he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, or perhaps it was just a result of his heightened sense of awareness, but he sensed a movement behind him and spun about, just as the goblin who had earlier passed this spot thrust its spear at his chest. Francis gave a cry of surprise and fear and had no time to do anything but dive aside. He felt the spear tip slash, slip in, and bang against his rib. Had the goblin been carrying a better weapon, that would have been the sudden end of Master Francis Dellacourt. But the meager spear deflected off the rib and tore a longer but more superficial line as it came out along the side of Francis’ chest, lodging in the folds of his thick robe instead of in his flesh.

  Francis staggered to his feet, aware that the spear was at his side and that the goblin was no longer holding it. But the vicious little creature was coming fast in pursuit, yellow teeth bared.

  Francis didn’t try to extract the spear, but shrugged off his robe, dropping it—the weapon with it—to the ground. He brought his left arm into a defensive position before him, then drove his right arm to block and push aside the goblin’s first attack. The wretched little creature snarled and drooled, its tongue hanging out of its mouth; and it hardly reacted to the sudden movement as Francis snap-kicked it under the chin, driving its jaws together and nipping off the tip of that pointy little tongue.

  The dazed creature staggered backward two steps, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial at St.-Mere-Abelle, came on to take the advantage, pushing aside the skinny goblin’s arms, then snapping off a left jab into the creature’s face, once and then again. The goblin staggered backward, and Francis fell over it, bearing it heavily to the ground beneath him.

  The goblin bit hard into his shoulder, but Francis got his hands around the thing’s neck and squeezed with all his strength. It seemed to Francis to last an hour—an hour of fiery pain from the goblin’s bite and of horror as the thing squirmed pitifully in his unyielding grasp, arms flailing.

  And then it lay still, very still; and even in the moonlight, Francis could see the blackness of death that had come over its face.

  Reminding himself that there was still a battle being waged behind him, that other goblins even then might be running at him with cruel spears, Francis wrenched himself away and staggered to his feet.

  He saw then that his brethren had performed well, that many goblins were down, and that any of those still near the monks, who had formed into a tight defensive circle, had no chance of gaining any advantage.

  But those goblins who had run off had not gone far, Francis saw to his horror. At the left flank, a substantial group of goblins was approaching, spears up and ready to fly.

  Francis dove down for his robe, scrambling for the pocket. A moment later, he lifted his hand and reached into the graphite gemstone, calling forth its power. The volley of spears flew in—he heard the cries of his brethren—and the lightning stroke fired off, dropping several more goblins, stunning several others.

  On came the Abellican monks, leaping into the goblin ranks, punishing them in close combat with strength and skills no goblin could match.

  Francis moved to join the fighting, but found his legs weak beneath him, and when he reached down to feel his chest, his hand came back covered in blood. He was on the ground then, suddenly, alone and vulnerable and expecting another goblin to come up and skewer him.

  But then he heard Brother Julius call out his name; and a horde of monks gathered about him, defending him.

  Francis reached up and gave Julius the graphite. “Crossbows,” he managed to gasp.

  The remaining goblins regrouped and came back at the defending monks, but their barrage of spears was met by another blast of lightning and by a volley of more deadly crossbow quarrels. Those surviving goblins ran, scattered, into the forest night.

  “How many?” Francis demanded of Julius shortly after.

  “Rest, master,” Julius replied. “You will be tended by bandage and by gemstone, and will feel stronger in the morning.”

  “How many?” came the determined question a second time.

  “We have downed nearly two score,” Julius answered. “They will all be killed, and those remaining have fled without organization and should pose no further threat to Davon Dinnishire.”

  Francis grabbed Julius by the front of his robe and pulled himself up, so that their faces nearly touched. “How many?” Francis growled.

  “Six,” Brother Julius replied gravely. “Six are dead, master, and several wounded. We must begin the healing at once.”

  Francis held the grip for a moment longer, then sank back to the ground. Six brothers killed in a battle that he could have avoided. Master Francis felt breathless, and it had nothing to do with the wound in his side.

  He spent a long while—perhaps an hour, perhaps two—lying there, in and out of consciousness, as the other brothers tended his wound with bandages and soul stones. When finally he awoke fully, he learned that another brother had died.

  More than a third of his force.

  Francis took little comfort in the fact that the number of goblin dead was much more substantial, being consoled only because he knew that he and his brethren had saved Davon Dinnishire from any further attacks—had, for the most part, put an end to this rogue band’s troublemaking. He made his slow way about the impromptu encampment, checking on the wounded. Though no anger seemed to be directed specifically his way, he was perceptive enough to understand that more than a few brothers were questioning his wisdom in pursuing this goblin band—queries that, Francis suspected, would be repeated, more forcefully, once he and his companions reached St.-Mere-Abelle.

  “Prepare for the road, and we take the dead with us,” Francis instructed Brother Julius.

  “Straight to St.-Mere-Abelle this time?” Julius asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

  Francis glared at him and nodded. “Have you searched the goblins?”

  Julius looked at him incredulously. “You expect that they carry treasure?” he asked with a snort. “Their boots were falling off their feet, so worn and decrepit were they.”

  “I want to know why they were still here,” Francis clarified.

  “Because they found no escape from the kingdom,” Brother Julius replied, rather loudly and sharply. “They, like all the bands still roving this region, were trapped here when the powrie fleet that initially brought them to these shores east of Palmaris was crushed at St.-Mere-Abelle. Where were they to run?”

  Francis stared hard at the man. He wasn’t sure if Julius was openly second-guessing his decision to fight the monsters, or if the man was simply reeling from the losses. It didn’t matter, Francis decided. Though his enemies within the Church might use this incident against him politically once he returned to St.-Mere-Abelle, he knew in his heart he had done right. As Master Jojonah had taken the all-important Barbacan caravan off its course to attack an even more substantial group of monsters for the sake of an Alpinadoran town, so Francis was bound to try to protect Davon Dinnishire.

  “Prepare them all for the road,” Francis said evenly, not blinking and not backing down an inch. “To St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  Julius matched the master’s stare for a long moment, but then nodded and began calling the camp to order.

  Francis, meanwhile, gathered up a burning branch from the small fire the brothers had built, and headed for the pile of goblin bodies. What was he expecting to find
? he asked himself repeatedly. Treasure or information that would help him to justify his actions in pursuing this band? Some reward great enough to justify seven dead Abellican brothers?

  With anger wrought of guilt, Master Francis pushed among the lice-ridden corpses, kicking them aside. He found a few coins—a pair of gol’bears and some smaller coins—but nothing, as Julius had predicted, that seemed worth the effort of searching the creatures, let alone battling them in the first place. With a helpless sigh, Francis confirmed that the boots of those goblins who were wearing any were ragged things, likely stolen from humans but now worn to shabby pieces. He kicked at one boot, and it fell away, and Francis started to turn back toward his brothers.

  But then he noticed something on the goblin’s now-exposed foot, and though the coloration was surely wrong—a yellowish blotch inside a circular scar—he recognized the pattern clearly.

  Francis bent down low, bringing his torch in for a closer look.

  “By God’s good graces,” he whispered, for he had just seen this same pattern, the pattern of the rosy plague, on the woman in the village. Only on this goblin, the scars seemed healed, as if the creature had overcome the disease. Francis checked the rest of the goblin’s body—finding more such scars—then he searched others. To his astonishment, nearly half of the creatures showed remnants of what looked to him like the rosy plague. He would have to research this more closely when he returned to St.-Mere-Abelle, he told himself, to learn if these strange scars were similar to the marks the disease had left on the few human survivors of the plague.

  But Francis already had his answer, he believed, and as he followed his assumption along a logical path, he came to understand that the demon dactyl might now be waging another war upon the humans of Honce-the-Bear, a more subtle and more deadly war. Had the demon’s minions brought with them the plague?

  Francis paused and took a deep and steadying breath, considering his next move carefully. Should he bring one of the infected goblins back to St.-Mere-Abelle? No, he decided almost immediately, fearing the consequences to his precious home if the creature was still spreading the plague. That same thought led him to an even more disturbing possibility: had he and the other brothers contracted the plague by battling the goblins?

  “We can check, with hematite,” Francis muttered, needing to hear the reassuring words aloud. “We … no, the more powerful masters will search for signs when we return.”

  “What is it, Master Francis?” he heard Brother Julius ask from not so far away.

  Francis turned and faced the man squarely, but decided that sharing his disturbing fears at that moment might not be so wise a thing to do. “It is time, past time, for us to return to St.-Mere-Abelle,” he answered.

  The younger brother nodded and turned away. “We are ready for the road,” he announced.

  “Brother Julius,” Francis called, and the monk turned back to look at him. “Your plan was an excellent one. Without it, the goblins would have overwhelmed us, or, had we left them, would have overwhelmed Davon Dinnishire. The blood of our dead brethren is not on your hands. I thought you should know that.”

  “I do, Master Francis,” Julius replied in a more accusatory tone. “I do.”

  The monk turned and walked away, and for a moment, Francis entertained the thought of scolding him publicly for such impertinence. Just for a moment, though. Francis glanced back at the pile of diseased goblins and understood that he had more important issues to attend.

  Chapter 10

  Denial of Privilege

  ABBOT JE’HOWITH FELL DEEPER, DEEPER INTO THE GEMSTONE, FELL INTO THE swirl of its magic and down, down, into its depths. There his spirit found release from the confines of his aged body. To the old abbot, this was the epitome of grace, the closest state one might attain to God while still physically maintaining one’s mortal coil. Now he was free of earthly bonds, spirit-walking without physical ailments and limitations, without boundaries.

  He saw the woman reclining patiently before him, her hand clutching a sunstone brooch, as he had instructed. Constance Pemblebury was no master of gemstone magic, surely, but with this particular item, she did not have to be. If she felt the battle of wills begin between her and Je’howith, she was to pinch her skin with the enchanted brooch’s pin, nothing more, and the antimagic wave would wash the old abbot’s intruding spirit out of her.

  Je’howith moved closer, fighting the urge to go into her being, to take over her body. That was the danger of spirit-walking—the instinctual desire of the spirit to find a corporeal body, even at the expense of another’s spirit.

  Je’howith was right beside her now. He reached out his insubstantial hand toward her naked belly—and how he wished he were still of the flesh that he might feel Constance’s smooth and delicate skin.

  The old abbot washed that impure thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand. He moved even closer, right up to the woman, right into the woman. Now it took all his willpower not to try to possess her immediately. He pushed ahead, searching, searching.

  And then he felt it, undeniably: another life, another soul stirring within the woman’s womb. Je’howith could no longer resist—his spirit went for the child, joining with the child. It would be so easy to expel this tiny, undeveloped, and unknowing soul! To take the corporeal form! To begin life anew, from the womb, but with the understanding of a previous lifetime’s experience!

  And then, suddenly, the old abbot was thrown out, expelled so fully that before he even comprehended the change, he was back in his own body, corporeal again, staring, blinking in disbelief as Constance sat up.

  “What did you do?” she demanded sharply.

  “I—I did as you asked me,” Je’howith stammered in reply, and he closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to orient himself.

  “You went further,” Constance accused, but even as she spoke the words, her expression became perplexed. “You tried …” she started to say, but she paused and looked up at Je’howith, and a wry smile came over her.

  “Yes, dear Constance,” the abbot confirmed. “Your alluring wiles have worked their magic. You carry King Danube’s child.”

  Constance clapped her hands together, then brought them up to cover her mouth, gasping with joy. “It is true,” she dared to say.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Je’howith asked sarcastically. “Is this not what you wanted? Was this not your purpose ever since you saw your beloved Danube’s eye wander the way of Jilseponie Wyndon?”

  Constance’s expression changed to sternness. “And do you disapprove?” she asked, an accusation as much as a question. “For if you did, then why did you not warn King Danube of my intent?”

  Je’howith merely chuckled.

  “I fear Jilseponie, but you despise her,” Constance went on. “I bear her no ill will, yet you would pay the headsman handsomely to take her pretty head from her shoulders.”

  Je’howith bowed to her, an admission that her reasoning was sound. “I fear her more than you ever could,” he explained. “You fear that she will threaten your little place at Danube’s side. I fear that she will topple the world of the Abellican Church.”

  “And what better way to keep her out of the Church than to involve her in the affairs of the Crown?” reasoned Constance, again in that accusatory tone. “Perhaps Je’howith whispers of Jilseponie in King Danube’s ear.”

  The monk laughed. “Because I would be better off by far if Jilseponie came to Ursal as queen of Honce-the-Bear?” he asked incredulously. “No, my dear Constance, never would I desire that. I am glad that the woman has gone north, far out of the way, and is not meddling in the affairs of either Church or Crown.”

  “And what of Constance, then, and her condition?” she asked.

  Again the old abbot chuckled, belittling the whole thing. “This will not be Danube’s first child. Nor, I doubt, will it be his last.”

  “It?” Constance echoed. “Boy or girl?”

  “Most mothers do not wish t
o be told.”

  Constance fixed the old man with a devastating glower.

  “Boy,” Je’howith answered, and Constance clenched her fist with absolute glee. “You assume much if you think this will greatly alter your standing,” Je’howith said.

  “You know nothing of my relationship with King Danube,” Constance replied. “You, not I, assume much.”

  Je’howith draped his arm about the woman, fixing her with a disarming smile. “Listen to us,” he bade her. “We sound as if we are against each other in this matter, when, truthfully, we both share similar goals. The health of King Danube and his kingdom is to our mutual liking, is it not?”

  “And how does my situation affect that health, in Abbot Je’howith’s thinking?” Constance asked bluntly.

  The old man’s smile seemed genuine. “Why, Milady Pemblebury, it would not pain me to call you my queen.”

  Constance returned the smile and nodded, then dressed and took her leave.

  Abbot Je’howith, whose world had just been turned upside down in Palmaris, whose position in his beloved Church had been severely strained by his association with the man who lost the battle for the Church, watched her every step. Was she carrying the future King of Honce-the-Bear? Or—even more relevant to old Je’howith, who would not likely outlive young King Danube, would this situation elevate Constance to her coveted position as queen?

  “So be it,” the old abbot said aloud, and he nodded, unconcerned. He had never truly been at odds with Constance—often he had considered her as Danube’s most reasonable secular adviser. He didn’t think it likely that Danube would take her as his wife anyway—if he meant to do that, he would have done so long ago.