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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Once, he had known all of that glory, and now, now he was teaching idiots who would never, ever, be able to defend themselves against an ugly little goblin, let alone a real opponent.

  All that frustration rolled out of Marcalo De’Unnero as he slapped Tellarese across the face with his right hand, and then, when the man put his hand up to block that hand, De’Unnero hit him harder across the face with the left, an obvious and easy response.

  And when pitiful Tellarese, always a step behind, brought his other arm up to block, dropping his first guard, De’Unnero slapped him hard again with his right hand.

  “If I had a dagger, would you let me stick it deep into your belly in the hope that you would then find an opening to slap me?” De’Unnero asked, and he hit Tellarese again, and then again, and when the man finally put both his hands up to protect his head, De’Unnero punched him in the belly. When his hands came instinctively down as he doubled up a bit, De’Unnero slapped him once and again across the face.

  He heard the other students groaning and gasping in sympathy for poor Tellarese, but that support for the weakling only spurred the angry De’Unnero on even more. His blows came harder, and more rapidly, and then, suddenly, he stopped.

  It took Tellarese a long time to even peek out from behind his raised arms, and then, slowly, slowly, he uncoiled.

  “I did not understand,” he said quietly.

  “And do you now?” De’Unnero asked him, and his voice seemed to the others to carry a strange, almost feral quality.

  “I do.”

  “Then defend!” he said, leaping into a fighting stance.

  Tellarese’s arms came up into proper position, and De’Unnero rolled his shoulder, several times, feigning punch after punch.

  To his surprise, Tellarese launched a punch of his own, a left jab, that somehow got through and clipped De’Unnero’s face. The younger brothers encircling the pair, though they tried to hold it back, gave the beginnings of a cheer.

  De’Unnero’s arm came forward with blinding speed, swiping hard across Tellarese’s face, and—to Tellarese’s horror, to the horror of those looking on, to the horror of De’Unnero himself—leaving four distinct gashes across the young brother’s face.

  De’Unnero immediately dropped his arm to his side, letting his voluminous sleeve fall back over his feline limb. How had that happened? How, when, had he lost control?

  And over this!

  “There are times when you allow a strike to gain a strike,” he growled at the stumbling, dazed Tellarese, spinning to take in the whole group. “When I know that my strike will be decisive, I might allow a minor hit,” he improvised; for in truth, Tellarese’s lucky punch had surprised De’Unnero almost as much as learning that his arm had transformed into a tiger’s paw. “But beware! When you employ such a strategy, there is no room for error. You must be certain of your opponent’s weakness and of your own ability to deliver the final blow. Your lesson is ended this day. Perform the course of obstacles a dozen times, each of you, then run the length of the abbey wall three times. Then retire and consider this lesson!”

  He started away, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his room and hide for the remainder of the day, but he stopped, seeing the expressions of stunned horror on the faces of the other students. He turned back to see Tellarese down on one knee, holding his face, but hardly stemming the dripping blood flow.

  “You two,” De’Unnero said to the two nearest brothers. “See to his wounds or take him to Master Machuso, if necessary. And when he is bandaged, the three of you complete the lesson.”

  And with that, Marcalo De’Unnero went back to his small room, closed the door tightly, and wondered, wondered, how this thing had happened. So distressed was he that he missed the vespers.

  “Allies?” De’Unnero asked Master Francis doubtfully later that evening, when Francis arrived uninvited at his door.

  “We once served the same Father Abbot,” was all that Francis would admit.

  “The man who fell,” De’Unnero replied. “And now are we to fall with him? Or are we to stand together, my friend, Master Francis?” His tone showed his words to be obviously a jest. “You and me against all the rest of the Church?”

  “You make light of this, which tells me clearly that you underestimate the danger to us, and to any others who stood with Markwart,” Francis replied coldly. “The Church has changed, Master De’Unnero, has shifted away from Markwart and his heavy-handed tactics. I suspect that Marcalo De’Unnero, whose primary fame stems from his ability to train brothers in the arts martial, will either change his mannerisms or find his role greatly diminished in the new Abellican Church.”

  “Would you have me suckle at Fio Bou-raiy’s teat?” De’Unnero snapped back.

  “Master Bou-raiy will not lead the Church,” Francis answered. “But do not underestimate his influence within St.-Mere-Abelle. When I returned from Palmaris, I, too, was surprised by how deeply he had entrenched himself. To go looking for a fight with the man is not wise.”

  “Why did you come to me?” De’Unnero demanded. “When has Francis called De’Unnero a friend?” It was true enough; even in the days of Markwart, Francis and De’Unnero had not been close, not at all. If anything, they’d been rivals, vying for whatever positions came open as Markwart ran roughshod through the Church hierarchy.

  “I came here only to advise,” Francis replied calmly. “Whether you take that advice or not is within your province. This is not Markwart’s Church any longer. I expect that Braumin Herde and the other followers of Avelyn and Jojonah will have their day now.”

  De’Unnero snorted at the absurdity.

  “Even Father Abbot Markwart admitted his failure concerning Avelyn Desbris,” Francis explained.

  “His failure in not bringing the man, and the man’s followers, to swifter and more severe justice,” De’Unnero interjected.

  “His failure in admitting the truth,” Francis went on determinedly. “The tale that is widely accepted by the people of Honce-the-Bear is that Avelyn—with help from Jilseponie and Elbryan; the centaur, Bradwarden; and the Touel’alfar—destroyed the demon dactyl.”

  “And how has this tale been proven?” De’Unnero asked. “By the words of outlaws?”

  “Outlaws no longer,” Francis reminded. “And the story is confirmed by the presence of Avelyn’s mummified arm, protruding from the rock at blasted Mount Aida. You have, perhaps, heard of the miracle at Aida?”

  “The silly tale of goblins reduced to mere skeletons when they tried to approach those huddled at the all-powerful hand?”

  Now it was Francis’ turn to chortle. “Not so silly when spoken by an abbot who witnessed the event,” he said; for, indeed, Abbot Braumin had been among those saved by the miracle at Aida.

  “This is foolishness and nothing more,” De’Unnero said with a sigh, “mere fantasy, put forth to further the ambitions of eager young men.”

  “Whatever you may think of it, whatever I may think of it, the people of the kingdom, and many of those within the Church, have decided in Braumin Herde’s favor,” Francis remarked.

  “And how does Master Francis view the exploits of Avelyn Desbris, and Master Jojonah after him?” De’Unnero asked, a sly edge creeping into his voice. “And how does Master Francis view the supposed miracle at Aida?”

  “Your test of me is irrelevant and foolish,” Francis answered.

  “Yet I would know the answer,” De’Unnero was quick to reply.

  “I have heard two sides of the story of Avelyn Desbris, and there is some truth in both versions, I would guess,” Francis said noncommittally. “As for Master Jojonah, I do not agree that he deserved his fate.”

  “You did not speak in his favor,” De’Unnero remarked.

  “I was only an immaculate brother then,” Francis reminded, “with no voice in the College of Abbots. But you are right in your accusation nonetheless, and my silence is something I will have to live with for the rest of my years.”

 
; “Have you, too, lost the belly for the fight?” De’Unnero asked.

  Francis didn’t justify that nonsense with an answer.

  “And what of the miracle, then,” De’Unnero pressed. “Does Francis believe that the ghost of Avelyn returned to slay goblins?”

  “Your sarcastic tone reveals that you have not been to Aida,” Francis answered. “I have. I have seen the grave, the mummified arm, and I have felt …” He paused and closed his eyes.

  “What, Master Francis?” De’Unnero pressed, his words sounding more like a sneer than a question. “What did you feel at Mount Aida? The presence of angels? God himself come down to bless you as you groveled before a fallen heretic?”

  “I went there with complete skepticism,” Francis shot back. “I went there hoping to find Avelyn Desbris alive, that I could drag him back to Father Abbot Markwart heavily chained! But I cannot deny that there was an aura about that grave site, a sense of peace and calm.”

  De’Unnero waved his hand dismissively. “Next you will be nominating Brother Avelyn for sainthood,” he scoffed.

  “Abbot Braumin will beat me to that, I would guess,” Francis said in all seriousness. De’Unnero nearly spat with disgust.

  “Oh, wondrous time!” the fierce monk said with absolute sarcasm. “To live in the age of miracles! What joy I have found!”

  Francis paused for a long time, staring at the man, nodding. “I came to you simply to explain what I have observed,” he said at length, “to warn you that the Church as you knew it no longer exists. To bid you to temper your fires, for in this Church such actions as your wounding Brother Tellarese will not be looked upon with favor. This is not Markwart’s time, nor are kingdom and Church under siege by the minions of the demon dactyl. Take heed, or do not. I felt obligated, for all that we went through side by side, to tell you these things, at least, but I’ll take no responsibility for your decisions.”

  De’Unnero was about to dismiss him, but Francis didn’t wait, just turned and stormed away.

  Despite De’Unnero’s flippant attitude, the words of Master Francis resonated deeply within the troubled man. He could scoff and spit and respond with sarcasm, but the simple truth of Francis’ observations cut deeply.

  He went to bed with those thoughts in mind and found little sleep—and certainly nothing restful—for his tossing and turning was filled with dreams of his slashing his way through lines of praying brothers with his tiger’s paws. Terrible dreams, with the blood of young brothers splattering him, covering him, while he yelled at them, telling them that they were wrong, that they were weak, and that their weakness would be the end of the Abellican Church. And when they wouldn’t listen, when they turned away from his ranting to continue their idiotic prayers, De’Unnero slashed them and tore them and felt their hot blood all over his neck and face.

  He awakened, covered in sweat, and on the floor, wrapped in his bedsheets, long before the dawn. Immediately he looked at his hands—and nearly fainted with relief to find that they were still hands and not feline paws. Then, his relief lasting only a split second, De’Unnero started patting himself and rubbing his neck and face, feeling for blood.

  “Just a dream,” he told himself, for he felt only sweat. He climbed back into his bed and started straightening the blankets, but before he had settled down, he realized that he would find no further sleep this night.

  He went to the abbey’s east wall instead, overlooking All Saints Bay, and there watched the sunrise, the slanting rays turning the dark Mirianic waters a shimmering red.

  He had thought that he was coming home when he had left Palmaris and the fools at St. Precious, but now he understood the painful truth. He hadn’t changed—at least, he didn’t believe that he had—but St.-Mere-Abelle surely had. This was not his home any longer, he knew, and he wasn’t even certain if this was truly still his Church or his Order. Marcalo De’Unnero had not been overly fond of Father Abbot Markwart. Certainly he hadn’t been the man’s willing lackey, as had Francis. No, he had argued with Markwart at many turns, and had followed his own course on occasion, to the frustration of the tyrannic Father Abbot. But at least with Markwart, the Church had known stability and a direct code of conduct. In his last days, Markwart had brought purpose to the Church, had aspired to bring the Abellican Order to new and greater heights of power—thus the appointment of a bishop in Palmaris, a move to take power for the Church from the King unknown in Honce-the-Bear in several centuries. Thus Markwart’s decree that only members of the Church could possess the sacred gemstones.

  Yes, for all the differences he might have had with Father Abbot Markwart, De’Unnero agreed in principle with the man’s policies. But what might he, and his Church, find now with Markwart gone, with no clear-cut and powerful leader to take his place? Even worse, how strong would the idiot Braumin Herde and his followers become, using the image of Jojonah burning at the stake to bolster their position among the more softhearted brothers, and proclaiming a “miracle” at Mount Aida?

  De’Unnero didn’t like the prospects, and honestly, given his inability to deal with Master Bou-raiy, didn’t see any way in which he could turn the tide.

  He leaned on the wall, staring at the sparkling red waters of All Saints Bay, and wondered how far his beloved Church would fall.

  The approach of footsteps some time later brought him from his contemplations, and he turned, and sighed, to see Francis and Bou-raiy marching his way.

  “Brother Tellarese will be some time in healing,” Bou-raiy announced.

  “It was but a minor wound,” De’Unnero replied, turning away from him.

  “Or would have been, had it not been inflicted by cat’s claws,” said Bou-raiy. “It is full of pus and required Machuso to work on the man with a soul stone for half the night.”

  “That is why we have soul stones,” De’Unnero dryly answered, never taking his gaze from the bay. To his surprise, Bou-raiy came up right beside him, leaning on the wall.

  “We have heard rumors of trouble in the south,” he said, his voice grim; but still De’Unnero did not look his way. “Rumors of the rosy plague.”

  Even the reference to that most dreaded disease didn’t stir De’Unnero. “Someone cries plague every few years,” he replied.

  “I have seen signs of it,” Francis interjected.

  “Signs that you compare with pictures in an old book?” came De’Unnero’s sarcastic response.

  “The other masters and I have decided that we must send someone to investigate these claims,” Bou-raiy explained.

  Now De’Unnero did look at the man, his eyes narrow and threatening. “All the other masters?” he asked. “Where, then, was I?”

  “We could not find you this morning,” Bou-raiy answered, not backing away from that threatening glare.

  De’Unnero turned it upon Francis. “Leave us,” he instructed.

  Francis made no move to go.

  “Pray, leave us, Brother Francis,” De’Unnero more politely requested, and Francis gave one concerned look to Bou-raiy, then walked off a bit.

  “And you have decided that I should be the one to go and investigate,” De’Unnero said quietly.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave the abbey for a while, yes,” Bou-raiy answered.

  “I am not bound by your edicts,” said De’Unnero, standing straight and, though he was not a tall man, thoroughly imposing.

  “It is a request backed by every master at St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “Francis?” De’Unnero asked, loudly enough so that the man could hear.

  “Yes,” Bou-raiy answered.

  That brought a chuckle from De’Unnero. He couldn’t believe how quickly Bou-raiy had acted, seizing upon the injury of Brother Tellarese to turn against him. He should have seen it coming, he realized. His climb to power had left many sour faces in its wake.

  “I can get the immaculate brothers also to agree with the request,” Bou-raiy said.

  “Now I am to take my orders from immacu
late brothers?” De’Unnero was quick to answer. “Or from troublesome and jealous masters who fear, perhaps, that I will shake their comfortable world?”

  Bou-raiy looked at him curiously.

  “Yes, Master Fio Bou-raiy has carved out a comfortable niche for himself in the absence of Markwart and others,” De’Unnero went on. “Master Fio Bou-raiy fears that I will come in and upset his coveted position.”

  “We have already had this argument,” Bou-raiy said dryly, obviously seeing where this was heading.

  “And we will have it again, and many times, I suspect,” said De’Unnero. “But not now. I was just thinking that perhaps it would be better if I left St.-Mere-Abelle for a while, and if the masters wish that course to be to the south, then so be it.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “But I will be back for the College of Abbots, of course, a loud voice indeed,” De’Unnero promised. Then more quietly, so that Francis could not hear, he added, “And I will watch the course of the nominating carefully, I assure you, and if Agronguerre of Belfour is to win, then I will back him as vehemently as Bou-raiy, and I will become indispensable to the man, as I was to Father Abbot Markwart.”

  “Abbot Agronguerre is no warrior,” Bou-raiy remarked.

  “Every father abbot is a warrior,” De’Unnero corrected, “or will be, as soon as he learns of the undercurrents among those he should most be able to trust. Oh, he will be glad of my assistance, do not doubt, and he is not a young man.”

  “Do you really believe that you could ever win the favor of enough in our Order to win a nomination as father abbot?” Bou-raiy said incredulously.

  “I believe that I could prevent Bou-raiy from achieving the position,” De’Unnero stated bluntly, and to his delight, his adversary’s lips grew very thin.