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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Off ye go,” the centaur announced, skidding to a stop when they arrived at the last expanse. Pony brought Dainsey around, and Bradwarden hoisted her seemingly lifeless form up over the short rise, laying her atop the flat plateau, then helping Pony up beside her.

  “I will get you up with malachite,” the woman started to say, but Bradwarden waved the notion away.

  “I’ll be joinin’ ye soon enough,” he explained. “Ye save yer strength for Dainsey’s last fight.” And he turned and thundered away, along the trails that would bring him to the other side of the plateau and an easier route to the top.

  Pony turned and stared at the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris, standing strong out of the very rock of the blasted mountain. In the final explosion that had destroyed the mountaintop and the physical form of Bestesbulzibar, Avelyn had thrust that arm skyward, holding Tempest and the bag of gemstones for his friends to find. For some reason that Pony did not understand, that arm had not rotted, nor had the continual wind worn it away. It appeared just as she had found it those years before, without the sword or the stones, and she couldn’t deny the comfort she felt in merely viewing it.

  She gathered up Dainsey in her arms and walked over to the arm, laying the woman on the ground gently before it.

  Now what?

  Pony knelt before the arm and began to pray, to Avelyn, to Elbryan, to anyone who would give her the answers. Before her, Dainsey continued to squirm uncomfortably, fighting against the seemingly inevitable end.

  Pony prayed harder. She took out her soul stone and fell into its magic, then soared boldly into the rot that was Dainsey Aucomb. Might she find better results here, in this sacred place?

  Pony attacked.

  And was beaten back.

  “No!” she cried when she came out of the gemstone trance, sitting on the ground helplessly before Dainsey, who was now writhing in the very last moments of her life. “No! It cannot have been a lie!”

  “This is my covenant with you,” came a voice behind her, and Pony whirled about—to see a young monk, Romeo Mullahy, standing behind her.

  But he was dead! Had died in this very place, throwing himself from the rocks rather than accept capture at the hands of Father Abbot Markwart.

  Pony stammered a few incomprehensible syllables.

  “Whosoever tastes the blood of my palm shall know no fear from the rosy plague,” Mullahy said.

  Pony reached for the man—and her hand went right through him! It was Romeo Mullahy, his ghost at least, and he was far less than corporeal!

  Pony played back his words desperately.

  “But ye’re dead!” came a cry from farther back, Bradwarden climbing onto the plateau.

  Pony looked at Mullahy’s insubstantial hands for the blood.

  “I spoke for Avelyn,” he explained. “This is the covenant of Avelyn.”

  Pony snapped her gaze back to the mummified hand, to see, to her surprise and her delight, that there was indeed a reddish liquid upon the palm.

  Dainsey cried out then, as Death reached for her. Pony reacted faster, reaching down and lifting her face to Avelyn’s hand, pressing Dainsey’s lips against the palm.

  The effect was immediate and stunning, for Dainsey went limp but not in death. No, far from that, Pony knew; Dainsey was—so suddenly—more comfortable than she had been in many days!

  Pony laid her down gently before the arm, then she, too, leaned in and kissed the bloody palm—and that blood seemed not to diminish in the least.

  She felt the warmth all through her body, and knew then for certain that she had contracted the plague from her work with Dainsey, that it was within her, beginning to gather strength.

  But no longer. Pony felt that implicitly.

  Whosoever tastes the blood of my palm shall know no fear from the rosy plague.

  Pony looked down at Dainsey, who was resting and breathing easily. She glanced back to Romeo Mullahy, but the ghost was already gone, its message delivered.

  Bradwarden came up to her.

  “Ye got blood on yer lips,” he remarked.

  “Avelyn’s,” Pony tried to explain, shaking her head. “The taste of his blood grants freedom from the plague, so said—”

  “The ghost of Mullahy,” the centaur finished. “I seen him jump meself, back then when Markwart and King Danube came to catch us. Hit them rocks hard.”

  “How can it be?” Pony asked.

  Bradwarden laughed aloud, shaking his head with every rolling bellow. “I’m not for disbelievin’ anythin’ comin’ out o’ that arm,” he said, and then he paused for a moment, staring from Pony to the still-bloody hand. “Are ye goin’ to take some with ye, then?”

  Pony, too, looked at the hand. “I cannot,” she explained, and indeed, in her heart, she knew. She understood all of it now. “It is the blood and it is this place.”

  “What’re ye thinkin’?” Bradwarden asked suspiciously. “We’re a long way from yer homeland.”

  Pony just turned a determined look his way.

  “That Mullahy ghost tell ye that?”

  “No,” Pony answered with perfect calm. “The spirit of Avelyn did, just now.”

  Bradwarden and Pony stared at each other for a long while, then the centaur came in low and kissed the bloody hand.

  Chapter 37

  The Vision

  SYMPHONY RAN AS NEVER BEFORE, BEARING PONY STRAIGHT TO THE SOUTH, thundering down the roads to Dundalis. Bradwarden carried Dainsey now, who was recovering with each passing minute, but the centaur couldn’t begin to pace Symphony and Pony. Even when Symphony had been carrying both women on the trip to the Barbacan, Bradwarden had to run on much longer each night to keep up.

  But Pony couldn’t wait for her two friends. Now that she knew Dainsey to be out of danger and was confident that no goblins would surprise the cunning centaur, her purpose shifted to the wider world, to all the plague victims who had to know the truth of Avelyn’s arm. A thousand variables rolled about in Pony’s head. Would her newfound immunity against the plague allow her to begin a general healing process throughout the southland? Would plague sufferers begin to make the pilgrimage to the wild Barbacan? How would Pony protect them from monsters and animals, from the weather as the season turned to winter? And what of food? Would she offer blind hope to thousands only to have them starve on the road to the north?

  Too many questions, too many dire possibilities. But none, Pony pointedly and repeatedly reminded herself on that wild run to the south, were nearly as dire as the reality that the folk of the kingdom now knew, the reality of the rosy plague and so many dying with each passing day.

  With each passing minute, she told herself; and she used the malachite as much as she could to lighten Symphony’s load; and she used the soul stone to catch some of the strength from nearby deer and other animals, giving it to Symphony; and she used the cat’s-eye circlet to see in the dark, then transferred those images to Symphony so that the run could continue long after sunset.

  On one such night, in the light of Sheila, Pony found a solitary form standing vigil on the ridge north of Dundalis; and she was not surprised, but her heart was warmed.

  “Greetings, Roger,” she called, urging Symphony ahead.

  The man nearly fell over trying to get to her. “Tell me!” he cried. “Where is Dainsey?”

  “With Bradwarden, some miles behind.”

  “Did you get to the B-Barbacan?” Roger stuttered, hardly able to speak the question. “Did Avelyn …”

  Pony slipped down from Symphony’s back, and when she turned, her beaming smile was all the answer Roger Lockless needed. He exploded into motion, wrapping Pony in the tightest hug she had ever felt, his shoulders shaking with sobs of joy.

  They were in Dundalis soon after; and there Pony, strengthened by the miracle of Avelyn’s blood, fought the rosy plague.

  Her spirit entered the body of an afflicted man. But now she held no fear of it at all. None. It could not latch on to her spiritual arms as she attack
ed the disease, scraping it from bone and organ, her healing spiritual touch dissipating the greenish disease.

  She stayed with the afflicted man for a long time, moving to every edge of his being, fighting and fighting wherever she found sickness.

  Finally, exhausted but satisfied, Pony made her way to her own body. She sat back, her eyes closed, reorienting herself to her corporeal form.

  “I am healed!” she heard the man cry, and then came a host of responding cheers.

  Pony blinked open her eyes, to find Roger and Belster and Tomas Gingerwart and many, many other folk of Dundalis gathered in the room or just outside the window. And all of them were cheering for her, for her healing of this man.

  But Pony knew the truth of it. “You are not cured,” she told the man bluntly. The cheering stopped immediately, and the man seemed as if he would topple out of his bed. “I have granted you time, a temporary reprieve, but there is only one way for you to be truly cured.”

  She paused and looked around, to find them all, every man and every woman, hanging on her every word.

  “You said that Dainsey was cured,” Roger dared to remark.

  “You must travel to the Barbacan,” she explained, “to the flattened top of Mount Aida and the arm of Avelyn Desbris. You will see blood in his palm. Kiss it, taste it, and you need not fear the rosy plague anymore.”

  “The Barbacan?” the man replied, his face bloodless. All about him, people began repeating that question, that name.

  Pony understood their terror. Along with the fact that the Barbacan was a place of legendary evil that had been home of the latest incarnation of the demon dactyl, the difficulty of that northern, wild road gave them all pause. Again that tumult of questions, simple logistical problems, assaulted her thoughts. They had to go to the Barbacan, everyone afflicted—and even those who were not yet caught in the grasp of the plague would do well to make the journey.

  But how?

  Pony went back to Fellowship Way soon after, needing rest. The townsfolk had asked her to lead them to the Barbacan, and she had told them that she would answer them in the morning, but in truth, she had known her answer all along. She could not go back now. No, her road must continue to the south, to Caer Tinella and to Palmaris, at least. The word had to be spread far and wide.

  She knew the only hope for making this miracle known to the whole land: she would have to enlist the aid of the King’s soldiers and the Abellican brothers. All of them.

  Even if she accomplished such a thing, though, how could she secure the northern road so that the pilgrimages could begin at once?

  For every passing minute brought pain and grief, every passing day made the pile of corpses grow larger.

  Pony fell asleep with those disturbing thoughts in mind, trying to work out the speech she would make to Braumin and the others, to King Danube and Duke Kalas, trying to figure out some way that Bradwarden and Belster could find aid to begin the first pilgrimages. She woke up sometime later, the night still dark, the dawn still far away.

  She had her answer.

  Pony fell into the soul stone once more, freeing her spirit from its corporeal bonds, then flying, flying across the miles to the west.

  Soon after, she came to a place where she knew that she was not welcome, but she called out anyway for the lady of the land.

  A few minutes passed; Pony considered plunging through the misty veil that covered Andur’Blough Inninness, invading the elven homeland with her spirit. But then, suddenly, she felt a pull and recognized that Lady Dasslerond was using the magic of her emerald gemstone to bring more of Pony’s corporeal form to the place, that they might speak more clearly.

  And then the lady of Caer’alfar was before her, glaring at her dangerously. Pony noted that many other Touel’alfar were about, and that those she caught sight of were carrying their deadly little bows. Instinctively, she reached down and felt her own body, recognizing that she was solid enough for Dasslerond’s archers to truly harm her.

  “We have already had this discussion,” the lady said sternly. “Our borders are closed, Jilseponie, to you and to all others of your race.”

  “The situation has changed,” Pony started to say.

  “No, it has not!” Lady Dasslerond insisted, narrowing her golden eyes. “The plague is a problem for the human kingdoms. We’ll not let it, or you, touch Andur’Blough Inninness. Now begone from this place—I will release your body and I expect your spirit to follow. On pain of death, Jilseponie, your spirit must follow.”

  “I have found a cure!” Pony yelled at her, and that did cause the lady’s eyes to open wide.

  “At the Barbacan, the arm of Avelyn,” Pony began to explain, “the same arm that brought forth the miracle and killed the goblins. The palm bleeds, Lady Dasslerond, and that blood, the blood of Avelyn, confers immunity to the plague.”

  “Our community has not been touched by the plague,” Dasslerond replied. “Why, then, do you come to tell us?”

  “Because you must know, for if the plague does find your valley, you can survive,” Pony replied.

  Lady Dasslerond thought for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps we misjudged your return,” she admitted. “You have our gratitude for this information. Should we find that we need it, we will heed your words.”

  “But I need your help,” Pony boldly went on. “The folk will begin their march to the Barbacan, by the dozens, the score, the hundreds. Until King Danube and the Abellican monks get their people in place, that will be a road fraught with danger, I fear. With goblins and starvation.”

  “What do you expect of the Touel’alfar?” Dasslerond asked, a tightness coming back to her voice.

  “I expect nothing,” Pony replied, “but I beg of you that you lend aid in this time of our need. A host of elves would greatly aid that necessary journey. Your people could chase away the goblins, even could leave food along the road, and would never have to make contact with the pilgrims. You could—”

  “Enough!” Dasslerond interrupted. “Your point is made.”

  “And is my plea heard?”

  The lady made no movement, no shake of the head and no confirming nod.

  “Begone from this place, Jilseponie,” she ordered after a short while.

  Pony started to argue, but she felt a sudden tug as her body separated yet again from her spirit and sped back to her room in Dundalis. She blinked her spirit eyes open to find that Dasslerond had already receded into the misty blanket of fog. She thought to follow, to demand an answer, but Pony understood it all too clearly: if she did go down there, Lady Dasslerond would use her emerald to bring her body back, and then she would be killed.

  Bradwarden and Dainsey arrived in Dundalis the next morning, to find the folk already preparing to make a pilgrimage to the north. How they cheered Dainsey, many running over to give the miraculously cured woman a big hug, though it was obvious that Roger didn’t want to share her with anyone!

  “I’m going to need you to lead them back to the Barbacan,” Pony said to Bradwarden when she found her way to him.

  “Bradwarden and Roger and me,” Dainsey said, her eyes sparkling.

  Pony shook her head. “I need you,” she explained to the woman. “We must go south, to Palmaris, perhaps farther, to show them the miracle, to begin the pilgrimages.”

  “South, then,” Roger said.

  “But north for you,” Pony said to Roger. He started to protest, but her simple logic cut him short. “You have not yet entered the covenant of Avelyn,” she reminded.

  “I do not want to be away from Dainsey,” said Roger, and he and his wife stared lovingly at each other.

  “You will have your time together,” Pony promised, “but not now.” She grabbed Dainsey by the arm and pulled her away from the man. “You ride Greystone, and I, Symphony.”

  “Now?” Roger asked. “This very minute? She has just returned, weary already from the road. And we have not even found the chance to—”

  “And every minute we wait m
eans that another person will die,” Pony said. “That is the truth, is it not? And measured against that truth, does Roger still believe that we should tarry here in Dundalis?”

  The man looked at her plaintively, then turned his loving gaze back to Dainsey. But then he sighed and kissed his wife. “You and Pony go with all speed,” he said.

  “Not Pony,” Jilseponie stated, more out of reflex than any conscious thought. Both Roger and Dainsey looked at her curiously, wondering if she had changed her mind, if she had decided that Dainsey must go south alone while she went back to the Barbacan. Pony looked up at them, her expression as determined as any either of them had ever seen.

  “Jilseponie,” she declared, “not Pony. Pony was a woman who lived quietly in Dundalis. I go south as Jilseponie.”

  Roger thought about that for a long moment, then nodded. “A fine road and a fast horse to both Dainsey and Jilseponie, then,” he said. “Go with all speed.”

  They did just that, riding out of Dundalis only a few minutes later.

  “I telled ye she’d find her heart,” Bradwarden remarked to Roger as they watched the pair gallop away.

  “Off to save the world,” the dejected man said with more than a little sarcasm.

  “She lit her fires.” The centaur laughed. “Now she’s ready to go and fight, beside Braumin, against the plague. Against the Duke, if he’s not hearin’ her, and against the King himself, if she has to. Ye remember her walk across Palmaris when she had enough o’ the fool Markwart?” Bradwarden said with a laugh.

  Roger stared hard at the centaur. He did indeed remember that journey Jilseponie had made across the city. All who witnessed the bared power of the angry woman remembered it well, and would not soon forget.

  “Why’re ye lookin’ so wounded?” Bradwarden asked, clapping Roger hard on the shoulder. “Weren’t ye the one complainin’ when she came back to us after refusin’ both city and Church? Well, boy, ye got what ye wanted!”

  “Maybe she can make a difference,” Roger admitted.

  “To herself, at least,” said the centaur, and Roger looked at him curiously. “Ye need yer purpose in life, lad,” Bradwarden explained. “Without it, ye got nothin’. She’s seein’ her power now, and clearly, and knowin’ the responsibility that power’s bringin’ to her. If she doesn’t use it, or at least try, then she’ll be failin’ her very purpose, and that’s a wound ye canno’ heal.”