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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “We cannot end their suffering,” Fio Bou-raiy stated flatly, moving to stand right before Francis, “and all that we might accomplish in trying would be to destroy the last bastions of security against the rosy plague. In this time, God alone will choose who is to live and who is to die. Our duty, brother, is to ensure that those who die do not do so without hope; to ensure that those unfortunate victims understand the truth of what awaits them beyond this life; for in that hope, they can come to accept their mortality.”

  “ ‘So tell me not of eternal soul that flees my coil through worm-bit hole,’ ” Francis replied.

  “Master Francis,” said Agronguerre, having heard enough. He, too, walked over, pushing past Bou-raiy. “I warn you in all sincerity and in all generosity, as your father abbot and as your friend, to guard well your words. Master Bou-raiy speaks realistically of our role against the rosy plague. We are the caretakers of souls more than of bodies.”

  “And the caretakers of hope, perhaps?” Francis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And when do we stop asking the question of what the populace might believe and begin asking the question of what we, honestly, believe?” Francis asked.

  The two brothers looked at him curiously.

  “I know when, and so do you,” Francis went on. “It will happen to each of us in turn, as we contract the plague, perhaps, or come to sense, whatever the cause, that our personal end is near. Only then will we, each of us, honestly confront that greatest of mysteries. Only then will we hear the words of Calvin of Bri’Onnaire, or like words.”

  “You seem to be confronting them right now,” Master Bou-raiy observed.

  “Because I look out at them,” said Francis, turning back to the small window, “and I wonder at my place in all this. I wonder at the morality of hiding behind our walls and flower beds. We, the possessors of the sacred stones—of hematite, the soul stone of healing. There lies an incongruity, brother, of which I cannot make sense.”

  Father Abbot Agronguerre patted Francis’ shoulder comfortingly, but Fio Bou-raiy’s face screwed up with a jumble of emotions, disgust mostly, and he turned away with a snort.

  Pony, Roger, and Dainsey arrived in Caer Tinella amid a mélange of late-spring scents, with mountain laurel and other flowers blooming bright and thick. A cruel irony, Pony thought, for in Palmaris, in all the cities of Honce-the-Bear to the south, the plague grew thicker by the day, the vibrancy of life dulling under the dark pall, the springtime scents overcome by the smell of rot.

  All three had been invited by Abbot Braumin to stay within St. Precious, and Pony most of all had understood the generosity of that gesture. St. Precious was a veritable fortress now, and not even the new baron of Palmaris, an arrogant duke named Tetrafel, had been allowed entrance when he had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin. But Braumin did not forget his friends.

  Pony believed that Roger and Dainsey would accept the offer—certainly Dainsey had shown great excitement when Braumin had called it out to them through the newly constructed portcullis backing St. Precious’ main gate. And, in fact, Pony had hoped that her friends would accept: that they, at least, would become insulated, somewhat, against the darkness. For her, it was never a question. Something within her recoiled against the thought; she could not run and hide in the abbey while so many suffered and died.

  And yet, there was nothing she could do to help them, she had come to painfully realize over the few months she had spent in Palmaris. First Colleen and then a succession of others had died in her arms; and so many times Pony knew that she had barely escaped her encounters with the plague with her health intact. After one devastating defeat after another, she wanted only to go back home, to Dundalis.

  She felt a combination of pleasant surprise and trepidation when Roger and Dainsey had opted to go north, though only as far as Caer Tinella, rather than retreating into the abbey.

  They found that the plague had not come strong into Caer Tinella, though one man had contracted it and had died out in the forest somewhere, for he’d understood his responsibility to the community when the rosy spots appeared and had walked away into the wilderness to die alone.

  Colleen’s house was still deserted, and so Roger and Dainsey, with the blessing of Janine of the Lake and the other town leaders, claimed it as their own.

  “You are certain you will not come to Dundalis with me?” Pony asked them soon after they had settled into the place, with Pony getting restless for the road home.

  “Dainsey has friends here and so do I,” Roger answered, and he wrapped Pony in a great hug. “This was my home, and I feel the need to be home, as do you.”

  She pushed him back to arm’s length and looked him over. “But promise that you will return and visit me and Bradwarden,” she said.

  Roger smiled. “We’ll both go north,” he answered, “perhaps before the end of the season, and in the fall, surely, if not before!”

  They shared another hug and Pony kissed him on the cheek. That very night, under the cover of darkness, she rode out of Caer Tinella on Greystone, with Symphony trotting along beside them.

  She made Dundalis in five days, on Greystone, for Symphony had run off into the forest to rejoin his herd. His departure reminded Pony of how extraordinary the stallion’s arrival beside her on the road south had been. What had brought him to her? How could a horse so perfectly understand the needs of a human being?

  Perhaps it had something to do with the turquoise gemstone Avelyn had put into the horse’s breast as a gift to both Elbryan and Symphony, she mused, or perhaps there had been something special and extraordinary about Symphony even before that. Whatever the case, Pony knew well that had it not been for the stallion, she and Colleen and likely Greystone, as well, would have died on the road between Caer Tinella and Palmaris in the snowstorm.

  Word had reached Dundalis of the rosy plague, Pony discovered as soon as she rode in, for she found herself assaulted by anxious questions from every corner, a group of men rushing out to meet her.

  “Yes,” she told them all. “The plague is thick in Palmaris.”

  They all backed away from her at that answer, and Pony merely shrugged and rode to Fellowship Way and Belster O’Comely. Other than the growing fear of the plague, Pony found that things had not changed much in Dundalis. She found Belster busily wiping the bar, and how his smile widened when he saw her!

  He rushed around the edge of the bar and wrapped her in a great hug and bade her to tell him of all her adventures.

  His smile disappeared, of course, when Pony told him of Colleen, but he managed another smile at the thought of Roger and Dainsey together, for Belster loved both of them dearly.

  “I thought ye dead, girl,” the innkeeper admitted, “when the season turned and ye did not return.” He shook his head, a tear growing in his eye. “I feared the weather or the plague.”

  “Fear the plague,” Pony admitted, “for it grows thicker with each passing day, and none of us, even up here in the Timberlands, is safe from it. And once it has you …” Now it was Pony’s turn to shake her head helplessly. “I could do nothing for Colleen but hold her while she died.”

  Belster reached back over the bar and brought out a bottle of his strongest liquor, and poured Pony a large shot. The woman didn’t normally drink anything stronger than wine, but she took the glass and swallowed its contents in one gulp.

  It was going to be a long and difficult time.

  Pony went out to the grove that night, to be with Elbryan, to wonder if he would be there for her when death called to her. After her encounters with the rosy plague, Pony was feeling quite vulnerable, and she honestly doubted that she’d find her way through this plague alive.

  Those grim thoughts held her fast through most of the quiet night, until a familiar song drifted on the evening breeze: the harmony of Bradwarden.

  So familiar with the forest about Dundalis, so at home out here on a warm night, Pony found her way toward the centaur easily enough—until the music
abruptly stopped.

  “Bradwarden?” she called, for she knew she was close to him.

  She waited a few moments but received no answer. She reached into her pouch and sifted through the gemstones Braumin had given her, finding a multifaceted, perfectly cut diamond. She called out the centaur’s name again and brought up a tremendous light, filling all the area.

  “Ow!” came a yell from the brush to the side. “Well, there’s a good one for me eyes, now ain’t it?” Bradwarden added.

  Pony focused on the voice, and finally managed to sort out the silhouette of the centaur’s human torso lurking in the shadows.

  Pony smiled and decreased the light, and started to move toward Bradwarden. But so too did the centaur move, one step away for every one Pony took toward him, and she sensed immediately that there was something terribly wrong here.

  “What is it?” she asked, and she stopped, turning to get a better angle to see her friend.

  “Twenty strides away, that’s the rule,” Bradwarden remarked, “centaur strides and not yer little baby human steps.”

  Pony considered the words for just a moment, her face screwed up in confusion, but then she got it. “The plague,” she said evenly.

  “Thick in the south, I’m hearin’,” Bradwarden confirmed.

  Pony nodded. “Palmaris is in turmoil,” she explained. “So is Ursal, by all reports.”

  “Dark days,” the centaur remarked. “Can’t be runnin’ to Aida to blow up this enemy.”

  Pony increased the diamond’s light again subtly, trying to get a better view, concerned suddenly that her friend might not be well.

  “The plague’s not found me,” Bradwarden explained, catching on.

  “I do not know that it can affect a centaur,” Pony said.

  “Oh, but it can!” Bradwarden replied. “Nearly wiped away me folk time before last, and so we found the rule: twenty strides and not a step closer.”

  “From anyone who has the plague,” Pony finished.

  “To anyone at all,” the centaur corrected firmly, “except the horse, o’ course. Horses can’t catch the damned thing and can’t give it to others.”

  “But if someone is not afflicted—” Pony started to say.

  “How’re ye to know?” the centaur demanded. “Ye can’t know, ye know. Ye might have it, or ye might not. Ye’ll not know for sure until ye sicken or ye don’t.”

  Pony paused, sorting it all out. “So you are saying that you will not come within twenty centaur strides of anyone at all?” she asked. “Of me?”

  “It’s the way it’s got to be,” the centaur answered. Pony caught the slight quaver in his voice, but just a slight one, and one that did little to diminish his firm resolve.

  “Have you joined the Abellican Church, then?” Pony asked sarcastically. “They lock their doors and hide in their abbeys while the world outside dies.”

  “And if one o’ their own gets it, they send him out, not to doubt,” the centaur added.

  “They do,” Pony answered. “Cowards all!”

  “No!”

  Bradwarden’s tone surprised her, as straightforward and determined as she had ever heard from the typically blunt centaur.

  “Ye call ’em cowards, but I’m thinkin’ them wise indeed,” Bradwarden said after a short pause. “What’re they to do, then? Come out and die? Wallow in the misery until the misery grows in them?”

  “They could try something!” Pony insisted. “Anything! What right have they to hide themselves away?”

  “Not a right, but a responsibility, I’m guessin’,” said the centaur. “Ye don’t know, me friend—ye can’t know, for yer type o’ folks don’t keep so long a memory. Not long enough, anyway. Do ye know the tidin’s the plague will bring? Do ye know the riotin’ and the fightin’ and the dyin’?”

  Pony straightened and stared at him, but had no answer.

  “Yer friends open their abbeys and half o’ them’ll die from the plague, and doin’ no good in the process,” Bradwarden remarked. “And the other half’ll likely die in the fightin’, for the folk’ll blame them monks afore long, don’t ye doubt! Happened before and will happen again! They’ll blame ’em and they’ll burn down their abbeys and they’ll stake ’em up. God’s not with them now, they know, and so they’ll blame them who think they speak to God.”

  That set Pony back on her heels a bit, for she realized that she hadn’t really considered all the implications here. She hated Braumin’s choice, the Church’s choice, but was there a logical, even necessary reason behind their seeming cowardice?

  Suddenly Pony felt very much alone in a very large and dangerous world, a place that had grown beyond her ability to manipulate, even to understand. She looked at her distant friend plaintively. “Play for me,” she bade him, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Aye, that I can do,” the centaur replied quietly, and he took up his pipes and began a soulful melody, a quiet, melancholy tune that seemed to Pony to cry for all the world.

  Braumin heard the rumble of thunder, and thought it curious, for the sky beyond his little window seemed bright and sunny. Even as he began to catch on to the truth, he heard the cries from a brother in the corridor.

  Braumin rushed out, nearly colliding with the man.

  “Fighting in the streets!” the young brother cried. “Brothers and peasants! Call out the guard! Call out the guard!”

  Braumin rushed by the frightened young brother, through the corridors of St. Precious, across the inner courtyard and to the front wall, where he found Talumus and Castinagis on the ramparts, gemstones in hand. Flanking the two were several other brothers, all holding crossbows.

  Braumin Herde scrambled up the ladder to join his friends. He heard another thunderstroke before he even got up there, followed by screams, both angry and agonized.

  “There!” Brother Talumus cried, pointing down a long avenue to a group of about a score of robed brothers hustling toward St. Precious, waving gemstones, a host of peasants pursuing them and flanking them along other avenues.

  “From St.-Mere-Abelle?” Brother Castinagis asked, for none of St. Precious’ brethren were out of the abbey at that time.

  “Raise your crossbows!” Talumus cried, the running brothers and the pursuing throng closing in.

  “No!” said Abbot Braumin, and all eyes turned upon him. “We’ll not kill the folk of Palmaris,” he declared.

  “They will overrun the brothers!” Talumus argued.

  But Braumin remained adamant. He noted that Talumus held a graphite gemstone, and he took it from the man and marked the approach. “Open the portcullis and have brothers ready to swing wide the gates,” he ordered Talumus.

  Master Viscenti joined them then, carrying an assortment of stones, graphite among them.

  “We have to defeat the flanks,” Braumin explained, pointing to the avenue that ended in the courtyard to the left of the abbey. “Kill none, but strike the ground before them to hold them back.”

  “Run, brothers!” Castinagis cried to the approaching group. Both Braumin and Viscenti began falling into their gemstones then, exciting the magical energy. Three lines of people came rushing toward the abbey: the central, led by the running brothers, and ones on either side, curling in to seal off their escape into St. Precious. Those flanking lines turned the last corner and began the last run to spill into the courtyard before the gates.

  Abbot Braumin loosed his lightning bolt to the right, followed by Viscenti’s lesser strike to the left. Braumin’s bolt struck a building, a farrier’s shop, rattling the windows and sending several horseshoes flying wildly. Viscenti’s bolt hit the cobblestones of the road and ricocheted up, catching the leading peasants squarely in the face and hurling them to the ground. Viscenti could only pray that he hadn’t harmed any too badly.

  “The doors! The doors!” Castinagis screamed a moment later. St. Precious’ front gates swung wide, and Brother Talumus and a dozen other brothers rushed out to escort the line of running brothers int
o the abbey.

  They didn’t get in easily, though—Talumus and the others had to kick and punch through a group of stubborn peasants, swatting them away. Finally, with several people down and wounded before the gates, and two brothers bleeding badly, St. Precious was secured.

  From the rampart, Abbot Braumin could only watch and shake his head helplessly. He noted a group of city soldiers along the avenue to the right, making no move at all to secure the situation.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  Braumin went down to the inner courtyard then, to greet his unexpected visitors. By the time he arrived, they had pulled back their hoods. Some were being tended for minor wounds, others were simply bent over, trying to catch their breath.

  Braumin looked them over curiously, for though many were not young men, he didn’t recognize any of them—except one.

  “Master Glendenhook?” he asked, moving near to the man.

  “Greetings, Abbot Braumin,” Glendenhook replied.

  “Why are you out of St.-Mere-Abelle?” Braumin asked incredulously. “Why are you here?”

  “We are the brothers inquisitor,” another monk answered in the thick accent of southeastern Honce-the-Bear—from Entel, likely. “We’ve come to investigate claims of a miracle at Mount Aida performed by Avelyn Desbris.”

  Abbot Braumin swayed as if a slight wind could have knocked him over. “The building of the chapel of Avelyn was halted,” he replied, “by order of Father Abbot Agronguerre.”