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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Bah, who’s carin’ about ye, anyway, Brother Francis the saint,” she said with sincere disgust. “Ye’re soon to catch the rosies, if ye ain’t already, and soon to be put in the ground.”

  Far from disputing her or yelling at her, Francis stood there and accepted the judgment and the looks of all those who had turned from St.-Mere-Abelle’s fortified gate.

  And he accepted, too, the old crone’s prediction, for Francis honestly believed that the last one he had tried to cure had beaten him back, and more.

  Francis was fairly convinced that the plague was growing within him.

  “Perhaps our dear Brother Francis serves a purpose after all,” Fio Bou-raiy said to Father Abbot Agronguerre, the pair watching the spectacle from the wall. “For them, I mean,” Bou-raiy elaborated with a slight snicker. “A pity if they came against us.”

  “You sound as if you would enjoy such a sight,” the Father Abbot observed. Fio Bou-raiy shuffled nervously, reminding himself that he and this Father Abbot he so desperately wanted to impress were not often of like mind.

  “Not so,” he replied. “And forgive me, Father Abbot. It is only that I feel so helpless in these circumstances. There are times when I wonder if God has deserted the world.”

  “Indeed,” said an obviously unconvinced Agronguerre, raising an eyebrow. “Take care, for you are spouting words akin to that of our dear misguided Brother De’Unnero.”

  “I only mean—”

  “I know what you mean, and what you meant,” Agronguerre interrupted.

  A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

  “How fare the brothers working on the herbal poultices and syrups that Brother Francis bade us to make?” Agronguerre asked at length. “The ones that came down from the Timberlands—from Jilseponie, we believe?”

  “They had all the ingredients available,” Bou-raiy answered. “I suspect that the compounding is nearly complete.”

  “If it is not, then add brothers to the work,” the Father Abbot instructed, “as many as it takes to get those concoctions out to the desperate people.”

  “They will not cure, by Abbot Braumin’s own words, relayed to us directly from St. Precious, and to him from the very source of the recipes: the woman Jilseponie, so he said.”

  “But they will help,” Agronguerre tartly replied. “And they will help to make the people understand that we are doing all that we can. Brother Francis stopped their charge this time. Next time, I fear, we will be forced to use more drastic measures, and that I do not desire.

  “And your observation concerning Brother Francis was quite correct,” Agronguerre went on. “He does play an important role—more so than you apparently recognize. Look upon him and be glad for him. His choice in this has been a blessing to the Abellican Church as much as to the peasants he so magnificently serves.”

  “Surely you do not agree with him,” Master Bou-raiy snapped back without hesitation.

  Father Abbot Agronguerre turned away from the man without answering, looking back over the desolate field and the wretched refugees, clearly torn by the sight.

  “Father Abbot!”

  “Fear not, for I am not intending to open St.-Mere-Abelle to the plague victims,” Agronguerre replied solemnly, “nor have I any designs of walking out of our gates to join dear Francis on the field. But neither can I find fault with the man for his choices. No, I admire him, and fear that the only reason I am not out there beside him is because …” He paused and turned back to face Fio Bou-raiy squarely. “Because I am afraid, brother. I am old and have not many years left and am not afraid of death. No, not that. But I am afraid of the rosy plague.”

  Fio Bou-raiy thought to argue strongly against Francis, to label the man a fool and his course one of disaster for the Church if his example was held up in a positive light, but he wisely bit back the words. He held no fears that Abbot Agronguerre would prod others to follow Brother Francis, nor that the man would go out on the field himself; and though he didn’t want Francis praised in any way for his foolish actions, he recognized that to be a small price to pay. For Brother Francis would be dead soon enough, Fio Bou-raiy believed, yet another example of the folly of trying to do battle with the rosy plague.

  “It is pragmatism that keeps you here, Father Abbot,” he did say quietly.

  “Is it?” Agronguerre asked with a snort, and he turned and walked away.

  A frustrated Fio Bou-raiy turned back to face the field and leaned heavily on the wall. He spotted Francis then, again at work with his soul stone on some unfortunate victim. Bou-raiy shook his head in disgust, and he did not agree with Father Abbot Agronguerre at all on this point. No, he saw Francis as setting a bad example for the Church, reinforcing the belief of the ignorant peasants that the Church should be more active in this time of desperation.

  Fio Bou-raiy slapped his hand against the thick stone wall. They would get the poultices and syrup out soon, but he almost hoped that it would not be soon enough, that the peasants would come at St.-Mere-Abelle wildly. No, he didn’t really want to kill any of them, though he figured that to do so would actually prove a blessing to the poor, unfortunate wretches. But if it did happen, Fio Bou-raiy decided that his first shot, with lightning or with crossbow, would not be aimed at any ignorant peasant. No, he would target a certain troublemaking Abellican brother.

  “Do it!” King Danube demanded, as harsh a command as he had ever given to Duke Kalas.

  “You would jeopardize the goodwill toward the Throne for the sake of—” Kalas tried to argue.

  “Do it, and now!” King Danube interrupted. There was no room in his tone for any debate. “With all speed.”

  Kalas glanced to the side, to Constance Pemblebury.

  “With all speed and with all heart,” King Danube said.

  Kalas saluted his King with a thump to his chest, a formal acceptance of command that did not often occur between the two friends, then turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the room, his boots clacking loudly with every step.

  King Danube looked over at Constance and sighed.

  “It pains Duke Kalas greatly to do anything of benefit to the Abellican Church,” she said, trying to calm him.

  King Danube nodded and closed his eyes, remembering all too well the source of Kalas’ pain and resentment, remembering Vivian, his queen. But then, before he could fall too deeply into the trance of long-ago memories, he blinked his eyes and shook his head resolutely. His duty as king now was clear to him: to protect St. Honce as strongly as he would protect Castle Ursal, and though the brothers within the abbey might be able to contain the peasant horde now threatening riot at their gates, it was incumbent upon the Crown to make a strong showing of support for the Church.

  There was no room for argument, and no time for debate.

  He and Constance sat quietly for a few minutes, each digesting the sudden but not unexpected turn of events.

  And then came the cries of outrage, the explosion of the mob, and then a crackle of thunder.

  “They are going against the abbey,” Constance observed.

  And then they heard a different sort of thunder, the rumble of horses’ pounding hooves, and the peasants’ cries of anger soon shifted to wails of pain and terror.

  The pair in the throne room understood well enough that the Allheart knights had charged out with their typical, brutal efficiency, understood that the threat to St. Honce had just come to an abrupt end.

  King Danube glanced over at Constance and saw the pained, weary look upon her face. This was taking such a toll on all of them. The seclusion, the helplessness, the necessary and exhausting shows of strength.

  “You should go and spend some time with Merwick and Torrence,” Danube offered.

  “Duke Kalas will soon return, and his mood will be all the more foul,” Constance replied.

  Danube nodded, knowing the truth of that observation. “Go and play,” he insisted. “Duke Kalas is a member of the court and the appointed leader of the All
heart knights. He will do as I instruct, and do so properly, or he will be relieved of his command.”

  Constance raised her eyebrows, her expression skeptical.

  And that, too, Danube understood all too well. In this time of great discontent and frustration, replacing Duke Kalas would not sit well with the Allheart knights, who truly loved the man. But Danube knew, as well, that it would never come to that. Kalas was stubborn and his hatred of the Abellican Church could not be underestimated, but in the end and above all else, he was Danube’s man, a true friend. He and his knights had performed beautifully outside St. Honce, no doubt; and he and Danube could quickly put that distasteful errand behind them.

  Constance, after a moment, seemed to come to the same conclusion, for she rose from her seat and walked past King Danube, giving him a kiss on the cheek, and then made her way out of the room.

  Duke Kalas appeared within minutes.

  “Near to fifty dead,” he announced grimly, “trampled on the streets.”

  “And your knights?” Danube asked.

  Kalas scoffed, as if at the notion that any of his magnificent Allhearts could even be wounded by the likes of a mere peasant.

  “Then we did as we had to,” the King went on. “We defended St. Honce, as our agreement with the Abellican Church demands, and we reminded the peasants that even in a time of plague the laws must be obeyed.”

  If only it were that simple! Danube silently added, for though he remained stern and solid, and though he believed in his proclamation, the reality that his prized Allheart knights had just slaughtered fifty of his own people offended him profoundly.

  And offended Kalas, too, Danube noted, as the man walked past him and took the seat Constance had vacated, dropping his chin to his palm and staring blankly ahead.

  Outside, on the streets, occasional cries of outage, of betrayal—by both the monks and the peasants—resonated grimly in their ears.

  The rallying shouts ended abruptly as Marcalo De’Unnero, the self-titled Brother Truth, shoved through the ranks of the Brothers Repentant and the gathered peasants of Palmaris, and charged down the lane the short distance to where the Behrenese had gathered.

  The dark-skinned southerners had come out in response to the shouts of anger, a group of men and women asking for nothing but to be left alone at their dockside homes in peace. But Brother Truth had spoken, had proclaimed the mere presence of the Behrenese as a source of God’s anger, as a source of the rosy plague.

  The nearest Behrenese man lifted a weapon, a gaff, at the charging monk, but De’Unnero skidded to an abrupt stop and snap-kicked the underside of the shaft, launching it far and wide. In the same motion, the expert fighting monk brought his leg down and to the side, caving in the knee of the next closest southerner. Then, still without ever bringing his foot back to the ground, De’Unnero brought his leg back, kicking his first opponent in the gut, doubling the man over.

  De’Unnero dropped his foot and pivoted it, lifting his other foot as he turned, angling it to slam the Behrenese in the chin, snapping his head violently to the side and dropping him facedown on the stone.

  Then he felt the weretiger roaring within him, screaming to be let loose that he might devour and destroy all who stood before him. He almost complied, almost fell into the beast, but then his consciousness screamed out even louder that to reveal that side of himself in this city—this city that had lost its beloved Baron Bildeborough to such a cat!—would surely spell his defeat. He fought with all his willpower, concentrating, concentrating, and actually took a slight hit from one of his pitiful opponents, so distracted was he.

  But then he had the urges put down, and he leaped ahead, spinning and kicking. He landed right before one man, who, apparently thinking he had the monk vulnerable, brought a huge axe straight up over his head. De’Unnero hit him with a left, right, left, right, left, right, square in the face, and the axe fell to the ground behind the stunned man. He started to drift down, but vicious De’Unnero hit him again in the face—left, right, left, right, left, right—all the way down to his knees. There the Behrenese remained, kneeling and beyond dazed, and De’Unnero leaped in the air and came down with a double stomp on the top of the man’s chest.

  He heard the crack of backbone.

  De’Unnero threw his arms up high, fists clenched, and roared in victory; and then he looked around and saw the hundred Brothers Repentant and twice that many common Palmaris citizens driving hard against the Behrenese, overwhelming them with sheer numbers, dragging them down and beating them to death.

  But even more satisfying to Brother Truth was the spectacle of the Palmaris city guard, sitting astride their horses down at the end of a lane, a force large enough to successfully intervene. They did not; they sat and they watched, and the Brothers Repentant swept the Behrenese enclave away, killing those they could catch and burning down every structure that had housed any of the dark-skinned folk.

  Chapter 35

  Borne on Wings of Desperation

  “IT’S ROGER!” PONY SAID HAPPILY TO BELSTER, WHEN SHE RECOGNIZED THE MAN driving the wagon that was rolling into the southern end of Dundalis. Her smile disappeared almost as soon as it began to spread, though, as she took note of the form beside her friend, slumped and huddled under a heavy cloak, though the day was quite warm.

  It was Dainsey, Pony knew, and she could guess easily enough why the woman was so postured.

  “She’s got the plague,” Belster remarked, obviously deducing the same thing. “Why’d the fool bring her here, then?”

  That uncharacteristically bitter statement brought a scowl to Pony’s face, and she showed it to Belster directly.

  He shook his head, showing embarrassment for the callous remark but also holding fast to his anger. Pony could understand that well enough; Dundalis had remained relatively free of the dreaded disease thus far, but one victim could change all that, could send the rosy plague rushing through the town like a fire. Those who knew the oral histories of the plague had claimed that entire villages, even fair-sized towns had simply disappeared under the deadly sweep of the disease.

  But, without even talking to Roger, Pony also understood why he had come. She could see the look on his face as the wagon approached, an expression sad and panicked, a desperate and hopeless plea.

  Some people went out to Roger, calling greetings, but he waved them back from the wagon. “A safe distance!” he cried, and every one of those villagers wore at first a perplexed expression but one that inevitably fast turned to horror.

  They knew; everyone in the kingdom knew.

  Then Roger spotted his dear friend, the last hope of his beloved Dainsey. “Pony,” he called weakly.

  She rushed up to the wagon and grabbed the bridle of the draft horse, stopping the beast.

  “Stay back,” Roger warned. “Oh, Pony, it is Dainsey, sick with the rosy plague!”

  She nodded grimly and continued past the horse and onto the wagon’s bench. She gently lifted the edge of Dainsey’s hood, reaching in to feel her forehead.

  Dainsey’s teeth were chattering, but she was hot to the touch.

  Pony sighed. “You’ve tried your best, but you are tending her in the wrong manner,” she explained, pushing back the hood, untying the cloak, and pulling it off Dainsey’s frail-looking shoulders.

  “I tried.…” Roger started to reply. “I went to Palmaris, to Braumin, but he …”

  “He turned you away,” Pony finished grimly.

  Roger just nodded his head.

  “Well, you will not be turned away here,” Pony promised, and she gently lifted Dainsey into her arms—and how light she was! “Follow me to Fellowship Way,” she instructed.

  “You can cure her?” Roger asked.

  Pony couldn’t ignore the flicker of hope that came into his voice, the light that suddenly brightened his face. She wanted to say that she could—how she wanted to tell Roger that!—but she knew that false hope could be a more devastating thing than no hope at all, and she
could not lie to Roger.

  “I will try,” she promised, turning to slip down the side of the wagon.

  Roger grabbed her by the arm, and she turned to see his desperately pleading face.

  “This is the rosy plague, Roger,” she said softly. “I have had no luck at all in battling it thus far. None. Everyone I have attempted to heal is dead. But I will try.”

  Roger sucked in his breath and stood, wavering, for a long moment. Then he collected himself and nodded.

  True to her promise, Pony brought Dainsey into her private room above Fellowship Way, gathered her hematite, and went at the disease with all her strength and determination. As soon as her disembodied spirit entered Dainsey’s battered body, though, she knew that she had no chance. The plague was thick in the woman, thicker than Pony had ever seen it before, a great green morass of disease.

  She tried and she tried, but inevitably wound up fighting the wretched stuff away from herself and gaining no ground at all in actually helping Dainsey.

  She came out of the gemstone trance a long while later and slipped off the side of the bed. Her legs wouldn’t hold her, so exhausted had the battle made her, and she slumped heavily against the wall, then slid down with a thump to the floor. She heard Roger call out to her, and then he was there, beside her.

  “What happened?” he asked repeatedly. “Did you defeat it?”

  Pony’s expression spoke volumes. Roger slumped to the floor, fighting hard against the sobs.

  Pony gathered her own strength—she had to, for Roger—and went to him, dropping her hand on his heaving shoulder.

  “We do not surrender,” she assured him. “We will use the herbal poultices and syrups on her, as many as we can make. And I will go back to her with the gemstone. I promise I will.”

  Roger looked at her squarely. “You will not save her,” he said.

  Pony could not rightfully disagree.

  They huddled on the field before St. Belfour as they huddled before all the other abbeys in Honce-the-Bear, the pitiful plague victims praying for help that would not come. For the rosy plague, in all its fury, in all its indifference to the screams of the suffering, had come to Vanguard.