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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Abbot Braumin stared hard at Tetrafel all through the reading, purposely keeping all emotion off his face.

  “We have spoken of going to Caer Tinella to open the chapel of Avelyn,” Viscenti remarked.

  Braumin turned and stared at him, but shook his head determinedly. “Duke Tetrafel!” he cried out powerfully. “You have no jurisdiction here and no power to make such demands.”

  The herald started to respond, but Tetrafel, obviously still possessed of some amount of vigor, grabbed the man and pulled him back. “All the city has come out against you!” he yelled at Braumin. “How can you claim the rights of a Church when you have no followers?”

  “We did not give you the plague, Duke Tetrafel,” Abbot Braumin bluntly answered.

  “But you did!” came a cry from the side, from De’Unnero. He ran out before the gathering, waving his arms at the crowd. “They did! Their sacrilege has brought the vengeance of God upon us all! Unseat them and He will be contented, and the plague will lift from our lands and our homes!”

  “Duke Tetrafel!” Braumin called out. “We did not give you the plague, nor have we the power to cure your sickness. But how many times have the brothers of St. Precious—”

  “Out!” the Duke interrupted, leaping out of his carriage and stumbling forward. “Out, I say! Get you gone from that building and from my city!”

  Abbot Braumin stared down at him; his cold expression gave the frightened and angry man all the answer that he needed.

  “Then you are besieged, I say!” Duke Tetrafel declared. “If the night has passed and you have not fled the abbey and the city, then know that you leave your walls at your own great peril. Besieged! And know that our patience is not great. Your terms of surrender worsen with each passing hour!”

  Braumin turned and walked away. “If they come on again, defend the abbey with all necessary force,” he told his friends. “And, please, for my own peace of mind, if the opportunity presents itself, strike Marcalo De’Unnero dead.”

  Castinagis and Talumus nodded grimly at the request, but Viscenti, more familiar with De’Unnero’s reputation, blanched at the mere thought of it. He watched Braumin go back into the abbey and wondered if he had been foolish to talk his friend out of going to Duke Tetrafel’s aid, wondered if they should not take the offer and vacate Palmaris at once. All of them, every one.

  Viscenti looked back to the courtyard, to see De’Unnero leading a prayer session with hundreds—no, thousands!—of folk gathering about the square, lifting their voices in response to his own. The Brothers Repentant filtered through the crowd, enlisting allies.

  No, this would be no traditional siege, Viscenti knew. The outraged peasants would come at them again and then again, until St. Precious was no more than a burned-out husk of broken stone. And what would happen to the brothers? he wondered. Would they be dragged through the streets and tortured to death? Burned at the stake, perhaps, like poor Master Jojonah?

  He heard the prayers and, more clearly, the words of anger, the promises that the brothers of St. Precious would pay for bringing the plague upon them.

  A shudder coursed down Viscenti’s spine. He did not sleep at all that night.

  “Here they come,” Brother Talumus said grimly to the monks standing at his side between the outer wall parapets a few mornings later. He knew, and so did the others, that this would be the worst assault yet. Duke Tetrafel had declared a siege, but in truth, the actual attacks against the abbey had increased daily, for the common folk, roused by De’Unnero and with many of them plague-ridden and thus short of time, had no patience for any lengthy siege.

  A hail of stones led the way, followed by the ladder bearers and many with makeshift grapnels attached to long lengths of rope. A group stubbornly picked up the battering ram, which had been repelled three times already—the last time with a dozen peasants toting it slain—and started toward the main gate, cheering with each grunting stride.

  Monks scrambled along the outer wall, some with gemstones, some with crossbows, some with heavy clubs or knives. They threw lightning and shot quarrels, pushed aside ladders and slashed ropes.

  A hail of arrows soared in just above the wall. Several brothers dropped, some groaning, some lying very still.

  “Tetrafel’s archers!” Brother Talumus cried, scrambling in a defensive crouch. “Lightning to the back! Lightning to the back!”

  Abbot Braumin rose up bravely down the line, graphite in hand. He brought forth a streaking white bolt, slamming into the archer line, scattering men. He started to duck back for cover, but saw a figure he could not ignore: De’Unnero, rushing madly among the charging peasants, cheering them on to certain death.

  A second bolt, much weaker in intensity, erupted from Braumin’s hand, but De’Unnero saw it coming, and with the reflexes of a cat, he skipped aside, just getting clipped on one leg.

  With a yell that sounded more like a feral growl, the wild monk charged the abbey.

  Braumin glanced all about, seeking the rope or ladder that De’Unnero might use, and in his distraction, he did not note that the monk’s strides resembled more the gallop of a tiger than the run of a man. Hardly missing a step, De’Unnero came to the base of the wall and leaped up, up, clearing the twenty-five-foot height, catching hold of the crenellated wall and pulling himself up with frightening agility and ease right before the stunned Braumin.

  He hit the abbot with a blow that dropped him to the stone. A pair of brothers rushed De’Unnero, but he dipped, thrust one leg out and tripped one, then pushed the tumbling man off the parapet and down to the courtyard; then he rolled under the lunge of the second, catching the scrambling man on his shoulder. De’Unnero’s left hand snapped in with a sharp blow to the monk’s throat and then, with hardly an effort, he flung the man right over the wall.

  The unfortunate monk was still alive when he hit the ground outside the abbey. The peasants fell over him like a flock of ravenous carrion birds.

  A third brother approached De’Unnero, loaded crossbow out before him.

  De’Unnero locked his gaze, studied his eyes, and anticipated every movement, and even as the man squeezed the trigger, the powerful tiger legs twitched, launching De’Unnero skyward. The bolt crossed harmlessly beneath him.

  De’Unnero came down, exploding into a charge that had the crossbowman helpless. He hit the man repeatedly, his fists smashing bone, and this monk was dead before he ever went over the wall.

  Still more monks charged the savage warrior, heedless of their doom, thinking only to protect their fallen abbot. De’Unnero went for Braumin and rolled him over as he raised his fist for the killing blow, wanting Braumin to see it coming.

  A lightning bolt hit the weretiger in midchest, sending him rolling over the wall. He landed lightly—miraculously to the stunned peasants!—and shook away the stinging pain.

  He could not go right back up, for many monks had then converged on the area, many of them with crossbows and all of them aiming his way.

  De’Unnero quickly melted back into the crowd.

  Despite that setback, the rabble came on furiously, scaling the walls, pounding at the doors. The brothers responded with everything they possessed, but their magic was fast weakening and their numbers, though they took care to stay protected, continued to dwindle under the rain of arrows from Tetrafel’s archers.

  Abbot Braumin, dazed from the punch and bleeding from the nose—but refusing any help from a brother with a soul stone—looked around at the confusion, at the sheer mass of people coming at the abbey, at Tetrafel’s deadly archers raining death from the back of the square, and he knew.

  St. Precious would fall this day, and he and all of his brethren would be executed.

  She heard the too-familiar sound of battle as she approached the northern wall of Palmaris, the cries of rage and of pain, the slash of steel, the thunder of magical lightning and a deeper, resonating sound: a battering ram thumping against a heavy gate.

  Jilseponie urged Symphony into a faster
trot, trying to get a bearing on it all. She noted that no soldiers manned the wall, that the gates were closed but apparently unguarded.

  “Open!” she cried, now urging Symphony into a canter. “Open for Jilseponie!”

  No response.

  She knew then that it was St. Precious under attack, and the absence of city soldiers made it apparent to her that Shamus’ warning about Duke Tetrafel was on the mark.

  “Come in with care, as you may,” she said to Dainsey, who rode Greystone beside her. Jilseponie slowed Symphony just enough so that she could fumble within her gemstone pouch, pulling forth several stones, and then she sent her thoughts to him, straight on, asking him for a full and flying gallop.

  And flying it was indeed, for as they approached—the horse not slowing at all but taking confidence in his rider—Jilseponie activated the malachite. Squeezing her legs and urging Symphony into a great leap, they went up, up, lifting nearly weightlessly into the air, their great momentum keeping them flying forward, rather than merely levitating.

  Over the wall they went, but Jilseponie didn’t then relinquish the magic. Her thoughts, her energy, flowed into the stone powerfully, keeping them aloft. She liked the vantage point, and the image she might bring this way to the battlefield.

  But how to steer? And how to maintain speed if Symphony’s strong legs couldn’t contact the ground?

  Another thought—Avelyn-inspired, she knew—came to her, and she reached into her pouch and took out another stone, a lodestone. Jilseponie fell into this one, as well, looking out across the city, to the raging battle she could now see over at St. Precious abbey. She focused on the abbey, on the great bell hanging in the central tower. She felt the metal distinctly through the stone, and while ordinarily she would have gathered that attraction into the lodestone, building energy until she could let it fly as a super-speeding missile, this time she used the attraction to bring the stone and the bell together; and as she was holding the stone, and she and her mount were nearly weightless, they flew off toward the tower.

  Jilseponie saw the insanity clearly, and the image nearly had her turning herself right around and running off to the sanctuary of the northland. A wild mob seethed about the base of the abbey walls. Up on the parapets, men were being hurled to their deaths, brothers pulled down and torn apart, lightning bolts and arrows and crossbow quarrels killing in numbers that would humble the total felled by the rosy plague!

  She brought up a third stone then, her energies not diminishing in the least as the rage rose within her. She was fully into the magic—levitating, magnetically “flying”—and now both she and her great horse were limned in a bluish white glow, a serpentine fire shield.

  Over the battleground she soared, reversing the lodestone energy to break her momentum to slow her, even to angle her out above the main square and the bulk of the fighting. Some heads turned up to regard her, but most, too engaged in the battle, didn’t notice.

  But then everyone noticed indeed! For Jilseponie brought forth the powers of the ruby: a tremendous, concussive fireball that rocked the ground beneath their feet, that shook the walls of St. Precious more violently than the battering ram ever could. Then she loosed a tremendous lightning strike, angling it for the bell tower, the great gong immediately following the thunderous report.

  Duke Tetrafel’s archers turned their bows toward her, but not one had the heart and courage to fire. On the abbey walls, the brothers of St. Precious stared in awe, knowing, as each came to recognize the rider, that their salvation was upon them.

  Down went Jilseponie and Symphony, onto the square, the horse neighing and stomping the ground.

  “What idiocy is this?” Jilseponie demanded, and the battlefield had gone so quiet that she was heard in every corner. “Is not the rosy plague a great enough enemy without us murdering each other? What fools are you who diminish yourselves to the level of powries and goblins?”

  Men about the square shied away from her, some ducking, some falling to their knees in fear.

  “They are to blame!” one of the Brothers Repentant cried.

  “Silence!” Jilseponie roared, and she lifted her handful of gemstones in the man’s direction and he scrambled away.

  But another brother did not similarly run, but rather came forward deliberately, slowly pulling back his hood, his intense gaze locked upon her. “They are to blame,” he said with perfect calm.

  Jilseponie had to fight hard to maintain her seat in that moment of recognition, of painful memories and the purest hatred. For she knew him, indeed she did. Despite the long hair and the beard, she recognized Marcalo De’Unnero as clearly as if they had both suddenly been transported back to that fateful day in Chasewind Manor.

  “They follow a demonic course,” De’Unnero added, still approaching.

  “They follow Avelyn,” Jilseponie replied.

  The man smiled and shrugged, as if she had just agreed with him.

  Jilseponie growled and pulled her gaze from the man. “Hear me, all of you!” she cried. “Avelyn was your savior in the time of Bestesbulzibar, and so he is again!”

  “Avelyn brought the plague,” the leader of the Brothers Repentant, the self-proclaimed Brother Truth, declared.

  Various shouts, of hope and of denial, came at her; but Jilseponie hardly heard them, as De’Unnero continued to approach. She understood then that she would not reach them with any effect as long as this figurehead stood before them, denying her every claim.

  And at that moment, Jilseponie hardly cared. Suddenly, at that moment, the scene about her mattered not at all. Not the fighting, not even the suffering. No, all that mattered to Jilseponie at that moment was this figure coming toward her, this murderous monster who had begun the ultimate downfall of her dear Elbryan. She swung down from Symphony, dropping all but one of her gemstones back into her pouch, and in the same movement, drew Defender.

  De’Unnero continued to smile, but slowed his approach. “Avelyn is a lie,” he said.

  “Says Marcalo De’Unnero, former bishop of Palmaris,” Jilseponie returned. Many in the crowd gasped, telling her that she had guessed correctly: not many in attendance knew the true identity of the man.

  “The same Marcalo De’Unnero who murdered Baron Rochefort Bildeborough, and his nephew, Connor,” Pony declared. This time, the gasps were even louder.

  “Lies, all!” Brother Truth cried, holding his outward calm. “Baron Bildeborough was killed by a great cat, so say the witnesses and all those who investigated his death.”

  “A creature that can be replicated through use of the gemstones.”

  “No!” De’Unnero yelled back before that thought could gain any momentum. “The gemstone may replicate but a limb of the cat, perhaps two if the wielder is strong enough. But that is not the tale told by the scene of Baron Bildeborough’s death, and so your claim is the preposterous lie of a desperate fool!”

  Pony looked around at the crowd, the uncertain and very afraid peasants. She could not begin any trial here, she realized, could not possibly slow all this down enough to turn the tide against De’Unnero.

  “Let them decide their course later,” she said to the man. “Let us finish our private business here and now.” And she waved Defender before her, a motion for the dangerous monk to be on his guard.

  With a laugh most sinister, De’Unnero shrugged off his robes and fell into a fighting stance, circling, circling to Pony’s left.

  “Do not!” Jilseponie heard Abbot Braumin cry from behind. “You do not know the power of—” She held up her hand to silence the man; nothing would deter her from this fight. Not now. This was the man who had wounded Elbryan, who had, in fact, brought about his death in his subsequent battle with Markwart. This was the man who had brought the crowd against St. Precious, without doubt, the symbol of all that Jilseponie despised. This was the man, and no doubt, Jilseponie meant to wage this fight.

  Quicker than she could believe, De’Unnero leaped forward, his left arm going under Defender, then
coming up and out to keep the sword wide, while his other hand came straight in, a heavy punch aimed for Jilseponie’s face. She thought that he would measure her, would take some feinting strides and punches, and so she was caught somewhat off guard, and had to skitter back defensively, taking a clip on the face as he followed the punch through to the end.

  The fight would have been over, then and there, for De’Unnero continued ahead, launching another right, then a straight left, then another right.

  But Jilseponie knew bi’nelle dasada, had mastered much of the dance—particularly the straightforward charge-and-retreat routines—perfectly, and she managed to elude the charging monk long enough to get her sword in line and force him back.

  Now she came forward, a sudden charge and thrust; but De’Unnero, so agile—too agile!—leaped into a sidelong roll that forced Jilseponie to turn. By the time she had, he had already come inside her sword reach, and she had to skitter into another desperate retreat.

  Only for a moment, though, for she slid down to one knee, under a wild right hook, disengaging Defender from the blocking arm, then slashed the sword across.

  Up went De’Unnero, tucking his legs. Jilseponie stopped and pulled the sword in, then thrust straight out, and De’Unnero had to throw his hips to the side to dodge.

  He rolled right about that pivot, lifting one leg high, then stomping down; Pony threw her free arm out to block—and then fell back, tucking the bruised limb in against her side.

  She didn’t let the pain deter her and retreated only a couple of steps before reversing and thrusting, charging ahead several fast strides, angled to keep up with De’Unnero, and thrusting again. Then it was the monk’s turn to clutch a wounded limb, a torn forearm.

  But if Jilseponie thought that she had any advantage, then she didn’t understand the fiber of Marcalo De’Unnero. With a feral growl, he came on, his hands working a blur of circles in the air before him—a blur that Jilseponie didn’t dare thrust her sword into, for if she missed any mark, he would certainly disarm her or at least deflect Defender out too far to the side. On he came, hands working a defensive frenzy and every so often launching a straight jab; legs working furiously, keeping perfect balance, and every so often launching a kick for her face.