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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “You are an abbot,” Bou-raiy reminded.

  “I am a friend first, an abbot second,” Braumin said quietly. He turned and walked away, very conscious that Fio Bou-raiy was not following.

  Chapter 9

  The Revelry Trap

  DE’UNNERO KNEW THAT SOMETHING WAS AFOOT AS SOON AS MICKAEL AND JOELLUS entered the common room at Micklin’s Village. All the huntsmen were together with him, a rare occasion since the season had begun to wane and all fifteen were often out setting their trap lines in preparation for their autumn hundred-mile pilgrimage to Tyankin’s Corner, the town that held the market for the huntsmen of the region.

  But they were all here this evening, even surly Micklin, though the stars were out and shining and the wind was not too chill—a perfect evening for setting trap lines.

  The talk in the common room was light, mostly concerning the impending journey and the expected takes on the fur piles—and on the amount of booze, food, and women that take might buy. De’Unnero hardly listened, for he hardly cared, and soon enough he started for the door, thinking to get a good night’s sleep.

  “Where’re ye going, Bertram?” came Micklin’s voice behind him before he neared the door.

  De’Unnero paused to consider that unexpected call, yet another confirmation to him that something was out of the ordinary this evening—for Micklin rarely noticed him, unless the burly man had some chore needing to be done. And Micklin never, ever, used De’Unnero’s assumed name, at least not in any way that was not derisive.

  “I hope to complete the second woodpile tomorrow,” De’Unnero explained, turning. He saw that every man in the room was staring at him, and that several were grinning. “The day may yet be warm, and I hope to be done before the sun is high in the sky.”

  “I’m thinkin’ that ye won’t be working much tomorrow,” Mickael put in from the side of the room, and he ended with a snort and a chuckle.

  “Sleepin’, most o’ the day,” another man, Jedidie, agreed. “Pukin’ after that!”

  That brought a roar and a nod from Micklin. Another of the men moved toward De’Unnero, pulling a silver cup out from behind him with one hand and an ornate, decorated bottle out with the other.

  De’Unnero caught on immediately; the huntsmen hadn’t made too big a deal about his efforts to secure their village against the band of rogues. He had received a few pats on the back, to be sure, and many offers of splitting gol’bears once the furs were sold, but now it seemed obvious to him that the men wanted to more deeply show their appreciation. And why not? De’Unnero’s efforts had saved them more than half a season’s catch, several horses, and most of their precious belongings. De’Unnero’s amazing defense of Micklin’s Village had likely saved a couple of them, at least, their very lives, for if the thieves had been about when the first of the hunters had returned …

  But the former monk didn’t want the accolades or the cheers and most assuredly did not want the potent drink. He didn’t want any reminders of that defense of Micklin’s Village, what he still considered a horrible failure on his part for letting loose the deadly weretiger.

  They were all cheering then, calling out the name Bertram Dale with enthusiasm, and the man before him thumbed the cork out of the bottle, the forceful popping alone telling De’Unnero that it was elvish boggle, a rare and extraordinarily priced drink. Grinning wide enough to show all six of his teeth, the man half filled the silver cup, handing it over.

  “For savin’ me the trouble o’ killing the fools meself,” said Micklin, holding his own cup up in toast, and every other cup in the room went up except for one.

  Marcalo De’Unnero stood staring at the pale, bubbling boggle, sniffing the delicate bouquet and coming to terms with the fact that he owed these men their moment of celebration. He considered the boggle—boggle!—and reminded himself that his drink alone was worth a small pouch of gol’bears, perhaps a large pouch in regions where boggle was more rare.

  After a few moments, the former monk glanced up, to see that every cup was still raised, all eyes upon him, waiting patiently.

  “Take yer drink and give yer speech!” one of the men shouted from the side, and the room broke up in laughter.

  Despite himself, Marcalo De’Unnero gave a laugh as well. “I did what needed to be done, nothing more,” he said.

  “Drink first, speak later!” came a shout, and all the room took up the cheer, “Hear, hear for Bertram Dale!” and all began to drink.

  De’Unnero did as well, slowly and carefully, feeling the slight burn, mixed with the tingling and deceivingly delicate aroma. He knew the power of boggle, a thoroughly overpowering drink, though not from any firsthand experience. For Marcalo De’Unnero had ever been a creature of discipline and control, and he knew that such liquors defeated both. He had seen his share of drunks, mostly begging at the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, and he had no sympathy and no use for such weak individuals.

  But he did drink the boggle this one time, letting all of it flow down his throat in one long, slow swallow. Then he straightened and wiped his lips, and had to take a long moment reorienting himself, for even that small cup of the potent liquid had sent his mind into a bit of a spin.

  “Speech! Speech!” some men yelled, but others chimed in even more loudly, “Food! Food!” To De’Unnero’s relief, that second call quickly won out, as several men ran back behind tables and brought forth trays laden with meats and berries and cakes—so many cakes! More cakes than Marcalo De’Unnero had ever before seen!

  And he was glad of the feast, because it had gotten him out of giving a speech and because he felt like he needed some food to steady the spinning in his head.

  They all sat down and the talk began anew, as trays made their way about the tables, with bottles inevitably following. Questions came at De’Unnero from every corner, with the men wanting to know how he had taken out three armed men in the compound, then had chased another down on the road and slain him, as well.

  Bertram Dale recounted his tale as modestly as possible, crediting a good deal of luck for his victories more than any amazing skill, for the last thing that De’Unnero wanted was to call attention to his fighting prowess, which, in this wild town, would most certainly invite challenges.

  Other conversations inevitably died away, as all came to listen intently.

  One man near De’Unnero did move, though, lifting a bottle of boggle as if to fill the talking man’s cup again.

  Without missing a word in his mostly fabricated recounting, De’Unnero moved his hand to cover the cup. He knew better than to partake of any more of the potent drink.

  “Bah, the cakes’re dry,” the man with the bottle protested. “How’re ye to eat ’em without something to wash ’em down?” Laughing, he brought his other hand forward, as if to move De’Unnero’s hand away, but with a sudden twist and hardly any interruption in his story, De’Unnero flipped his hand over the grabbing man’s hand and slammed it down on the table.

  Not much of a move, really, but one executed so perfectly that many eyes widened; and many, De’Unnero knew, had just gained further insight into how this quiet and humble man might have so fended off the raid on their village.

  “No more drink,” he said to the man calmly, releasing him and then putting his hand back over the cup. “Just blueberry juice, if we’ve any.”

  A wineskin was soon passed along and De’Unnero’s cup was filled with juice. De’Unnero quickly concluded his tale.

  The former monk tried to excuse himself again after the meal, but the huntsmen would hear nothing of it, claiming that the party was just getting started. They all milled about, falling back to their minor conversations, though many kept at De’Unnero, begging him to recount his story again and again.

  The former monk played along, and soon admitted to himself that he was enjoying this attention. Perhaps it was the boggle, perhaps the mere fact that for so long he had been forced to hide his identity and his exploits. One day long ago—so very long ago it seemed
!—he had enjoyed talking, particularly if he was the subject of the conversation. During his days at St. Mere-Abelle, De’Unnero had earned his reputation as a self-promoter, a bit of a braggart, except that he had never, ever said anything about his abilities that he could not prove.

  So now he was enjoying the night with his … his friends, he supposed, for these men of Micklin’s Village were as close to being his friends as he expected anyone would ever again be. There was a simple charm to this gathering and this night, boisterous, lighthearted, and without implications beyond the headaches that most of his fellows would awake to in the morning.

  Soon enough, Marcalo De’Unnero stopped trying to leave.

  “He’s a bit too tight in the arse, by me thinkin’,” Mickael said mischievously to Joellus sometime later. The grubby Mickael tossed his long and stringy hair from his patchy face and gave a wink, then slithered over behind Bertram Dale and waited patiently as the hero took a sip from his mug of berry juice, then set the cup down on the small table and continued with his conversation.

  Mickael tipped his own cup to pour just a bit of his drink into that cup, then moved back beside Joellus.

  “I’ll get the others to take turns,” Joellus said, catching on and grinning widely, his misshapen, grayish teeth sporting blue stains from the mixture of boggle and juice in his glass. “Just a bit at a time,” Mickael explained. “Don’t want him tasting it and getting all ferocious on us.”

  They both laughed at that, and Joellus moved across the room, to the same spot Mickael had just occupied behind Bertram Dale. After similarly tipping his cup over Bertram’s, then topping off Bertram’s drink with berry juice, Joellus moved away to find another conspirator.

  With each refill, the group found that they could safely put more of the potent whiskey into Bertram Dale’s drink, and it soon became obvious to all that the normally introverted man was beginning to loosen up. He was laughing and talking, and he even, at one point, mentioned something that would indicate that he had spent some time serving in the Abellican Church, at the great Abbey of St.-Mere-Abelle, no less!

  Mickael watched it all with growing amusement, thinking it perfectly harmless.

  “Ye was in the Church?” Jedidie said to Bertram Dale.

  The surprised tone of the man’s voice reminded Marcalo De’Unnero that he should be careful of what he said—when he thought about it, he could hardly believe that he had mentioned his involvement with the Abellicans in any way at all.

  “No,” he answered, scouring his thoughts—his surprisingly fuzzy recollections—to try to find some way to undo the potential damage.

  “You just said that you worked at St.-Mere-Abelle, out in the east, a monk’s place if e’er there was one,” another of the nearby huntsmen argued. The man’s more educated accent told De’Unnero that he was somewhat more sophisticated than his companions, and the manner in which he spoke of St.-Mere-Abelle suggested that he knew much of the place. “You even spoke of working on the wall, and that’s work for monks alone,” the man went on, confirming De’Unnero’s fears. “So when were you talking to both sides, Bertram Dale? When you said you did work on the seawall of St.-Mere-Abelle Abbey or now when you’re denying it?”

  De’Unnero settled back, trying to recall his every word, trying to find some middle ground here.

  “What’re ye saying?” Jedidie asked the other huntsman.

  “I lived in the area for a bit,” the man answered. “I’m knowing that you can’t be having it both ways.” He looked at De’Unnero’s obviously perplexed expression and added with a grin, “You were wearing the robes, weren’t you?”

  “Briefly,” De’Unnero answered. “Very briefly. It took little time for me to learn that I was not of heart compatible with today’s Abellican Church.”

  “It must have been some time ago,” the huntsman pressed. “You go into the order at twenty years, correct?”

  De’Unnero nodded slightly in response, and turned to the side to retrieve his cup, lifting and draining it in one huge swallow.

  He noted the burn as the liquid flowed down his throat. That meant nothing to him immediately, but then his eyes widened as he came to realize the truth, came to understand the reason behind the fuzziness of his recollections, the reason behind his, albeit minor, error here with this little group.

  “It is not a time I wish to recount,” he said, and he stood up and bowed, somewhat ungracefully, and started away, unintentionally veering as he walked toward the door. Cold air would do him some good right then, he realized, and he wanted nothing more than to be out in the late summer night.

  But others, wanting to hear again the tale of how Bertram had saved their village, had different ideas, and they corralled him before he got near the door, the press of their bodies bearing De’Unnero halfway across the room, where he fell into a comfortable chair.

  He noted that another one, Mickael, was there almost immediately, placing his mug down on the nearest table and dragging it over so that it abutted the chair.

  De’Unnero’s unhappy gaze went from that mug to the eyes of Mickael, but the man only snickered and melted into the tumult of the room.

  Questions came at him from several angles, but De’Unnero hardly heard them, so intent was he on the internal workings of his being. This was not a situation with which he was at all familiar or comfortable. He was physically relaxed, whether he wanted to be or not, and mentally foggy and light-headed. He knew what he should or should not say, but he realized that he was answering questions too openly again even as he came to realize that he was talking at all!

  “I’m wantin’ to hear more o’ St.-Mere-Abelle,” Jedidie said determinedly, pushing through to the front of the group standing before De’Unnero, practically falling into De’Unnero’s lap in the process.

  The former monk felt a deep and primal stirring then, and had to consciously fight back against releasing the feral growl that had risen in his throat. Yes, the weretiger was right there with him, gaining strength as the human’s focus weakened.

  Still, the man De’Unnero knew he could defeat the tiger. He could sit here and hold the weretiger in check as long as he could keep the foolish huntsmen back from his immediate space and from pressing any questions that became too uncomfortable.

  “I’m goin’ to go there one day, I am!” Jedidie remarked, spraying De’Unnero with each slobbering word and staggering as he spoke so that he spilled some of his drink on De’Unnero’s pants leg.

  The former monk closed his eyes and fought back with all of his shaky willpower, holding the beast at bay.

  Another drink was shoved into his hand, accompanied by cries of, “Drink! Drink!” from many men. De’Unnero tried to resist and wound up with more than half the cup’s contents spilled onto his lap. He leaped up and felt the beast keenly, then slowed and pushed back with all his strength and focus, hardly paying attention as someone forced his arm up so that the cup tilted at his mouth, spilling the rest of its contents.

  Hardly realizing the motion, De’Unnero drank some of the liquid and felt the sharp burn, realizing then that they were no longer even pretending to be giving him berry juice.

  He couldn’t yell at them, though, for he had to keep his focus inward. Another drink was shoved up to his mouth, and then another, and he slapped at them and staggered away, yelling at them, pleading with them to leave him alone.

  To their credit, they did let him go, and he veered and staggered across the room to slam heavily against the wall. Leaning on it for support, he managed to turn, then took many, many deep breaths, fighting the weretiger with every one, forcing himself into a mental place of calm.

  He had it beaten, he believed, if only he could just stand there for a long while, with no drink and no talk.

  No anything. Just calm.

  With his eyes barely open and his thoughts turned inward, Marcalo De’Unnero didn’t even see the approach of burly Micklin, the man, obviously drunk, staggering right up to stand before him.


  “How’d ye do it?” the big man asked, poking De’Unnero hard in the shoulder.

  Grimacing more against the internal turmoil than against Micklin’s rude poke, De’Unnero opened his eyes and stared questioningly at the big man—and at the few others who stood behind Micklin, grinning.

  “Eh, Mr. Bertram Dale?” Micklin pressed, poking hard again. “How’d the likes o’ skinny yerself take down the bandits? Ye got friends about that we’re not knowin’ of?” And he poked again, and De’Unnero understood that the man might well be directly jabbing the tiger at that point.

  For there it was again, that terrible beast, using Micklin’s prodding finger like a beacon to get around the edges of Marcalo De’Unnero’s alcohol-weakened control.

  “When did ye become so great a fighter?” asked Micklin, putting his face very close to De’Unnero’s, spitting at him with every word. “And might ye want to be showing us yer mighty techniques? Bah, pulling down three armed men!” Micklin turned and smiled at the onlookers. “Bah, but he’s had a hard time beatin’ up stubborn logs!”

  That brought a laugh, and that, in turn, brought more people in to watch the growing spectacle. Those immediately behind Micklin grinned all the wider, knowingly.

  Or so they thought, De’Unnero realized, for could they really know that which Micklin was now prodding? Could any man who had not seen the weretiger, or felt the beast within him, truly understand the level of primal rage and power?

  De’Unnero came away from the wall then, determinedly standing straight.

  “Bah, three men!” Micklin howled and he turned back and shoved De’Unnero hard against the wall.

  “Four,” the former monk calmly corrected. “Do not forget the one on the road. I killed his horse, as well.”