DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Again Markwart's spirit was set back a bit.

  It is not without precedent, De'Unnero insisted. Palmaris has no baron, and few with credentials to hold such a title would desire to leave Ursal for the less luxurious existence in Palmaris, especially considering the whispers of conspiracies and the potential danger.

  Markwart could not believe the man's nerve! De'Unnero was trying to make gains from every possible pitfall, turning the suspicions about Church involvement in the deaths into a positive thing!

  Go to Je'howith as you have come to me, De'Unnero begged. Let us force the King into an alliance that will expand Church power.

  That will expand your power, Markwart corrected.

  And I serve you, father Abbot. De'Unnero was answering before Markwart ever finished the thought. The King will not choose to go against us now, not when the easier course is to let us help him through this chaotic aftermath of war.

  It made sense, Markwart had to admit. I will go to Je'howith this very night, he agreed, but then his tone changed. You are to take no decisive actions on any matter without my permission, he warned. The times are too dangerous, and our positions too tentative for me to trust the judgment of one as inexperienced as Marcalo De'Unnero.

  But concerning Baron Bildeborough, De'Unnero responded, am I to assume that you approve?

  Markwart broke the connection immediately, his spirit flying from that place. He came back into his body in a few minutes, wearing a wide smile. He should have gone to bed then, for such a long use of the soul stone was terribly draining, but strangely, the Father Abbot felt rejuvenated, hungry for more information.

  Instead, he sent his spirit west and south to the one city in all Honce-the-Bear that was larger than Palmaris.

  St. Honce in Ursal was the second largest Abellican abbey, smaller only than St.-Mere-Abelle. It was joined to the palace of the King by a long, narrow hall known as the bridge. The abbot of St. Honce traditionally served as spiritual adviser to the King and his court. Markwart knew the place well. Here, he had been anointed as Father Abbot of the Order by Abbot Sherman, who had been succeeded by Abbot Dellahunt, who had been succeeded by Je'howith. The ceremony had been formalized by King Danube Cole Ursal, the father of the present king. Markwart had little trouble finding the private rooms of the abbot.

  Je'howith's response to the spiritual intrusion, once he had gathered up his soul stone and gone out of body, was absolute delight. What wonders such quick communication might bring to the world! his spirit exclaimed. Think of the gains to warfare if captains could so communicate with their field commanders! Think of- —

  Enough, Markwart's spirit interrupted, knowing the man's hopes to be nothing more than illusions. None but he could so powerfully spirit-walk —no abbot, no master, and surely no secular soldier! I have a task for you. You have heard of the death of Baron Bildeborough, and that he was without heir?

  Word reached us just this day, Je'howith replied somberly. Truth, father Abbot, I have barely found a moment's rest. I only returned to Ursal this week, and now —

  Then you know of the vacancy in Palmaris, Markwart interrupted, having no time for Je'howith's blabbering.

  A problem that King Danube considers wearily, Je'howith answered. The poor man is near to breaking, I fear, though the war is finally won. He has faced so many problems these last few months, after years of peace.

  Then let us lessen his troubles, Markwart offered. Convince him to give the barony to Abbot De'Unnero and let the Church handle the troubles of Palmaris.

  The abbot's surprise was evident in the posture of his spirit form. King Danube does not even know this Marcalo De'Unnero. Nor do I, if the truth be told, except we met once at the College of Abbots.

  Take my word as recommendation of his character and his ability to rule Palmaris, Markwart instructed. And understand that even in the combined position of baron and abbot, called bishop in past days, Marcalo De'Unnero will answer to me — and to you, if you do not fail me in this.

  That last thought was too much bait to be ignored.

  You do remember that the Church once ruled beside the King, Markwart went on. Je'howith's spirit was nodding and smiling. Convince the King.

  Perhaps I could go and meet Abbot De'Unnero through the soul stone, much as you— Je'howith began, but Markwart cut him short.

  You could not attain this level of clarity, the Father Abbot explained honestly —and angrily—for he did not believe that Je'howith could perform this level of magic. This is my magic, and mine alone. It is not to be discussed, nor initiated, by you, though I may come to you often in the future.

  The humility and submission that came back from Je'howith satisfied the Father Abbot, and so he soared back across the miles to St.-Mere-Abelle. There, despite his tremendous expenditure of magical energy, he was still restless. He paced for more than an hour, trying to gain perspective on the new routes of power that suddenly seemed open to him. Just that morning, Markwart had thought his reputation in Church history settled, the only possibility of elevating it being the retrieval of the stolen gemstones. But now the issue of the stones seemed almost trivial. De'Unnero's claim that the Church had once played a more active role in governing was true enough: a king of Honce-the-Bear, in ages long past, had actually been anointed as Father Abbot of the Abellican Order. But for hundreds of years, the balance of power in the kingdom had held relatively stable between Church and state: separate, but powerful, entities. The king saw to the secular activities of his subjects, managed the standing army, and handled disputes with the neighboring kingdoms of Behren and Alpinador, but claimed little lordship over the powers of the Church. In many reaches of the kingdom, particularly the smaller villages, the Church was far more influential than the distant King, whose full name many of the subjects did not even know.

  But now, because of Markwart's wise and prudent actions in Palmaris, the elimination of Connor Bildeborough and Abbot Dobrinion, and because of the subsequent death of the Baron, the balance of power in the kingdom might be shifted in favor of the Church. Danube Brock Ursal was weary, by Je'howith's own words. If Je'howith managed to wrest Palmaris from him ...

  Obviously, neither Markwart nor Je'howith had many years left to live — they were both in their seventies. Suddenly the Father Abbot wasn't satisfied with that place he had secured in Church history. Suddenly his ambition went far higher —and so had Je'howith's, he believed. Together they could use men like De'Unnero to change the world.

  Father Abbot Markwart was immensely pleased by such a prospect.

  Not far from the quarters of the Father Abbot, Brother Francis Dellacourt stood in his candlelit room, staring at his reflection in a mirror. The dark shadows about him seemed a fitting frame to the beleaguered man.

  For most of his life, Francis had placed himself on a secret pedestal, above the average man —above any man. He never consciously told himself that he was the chosen of God, but he had believed it, as if all the world were merely a dream played out for his personal benefit. Francis had believed himself without sin, the perfect reflection of the perfect God.

  But then he had killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris.

  It had been an accident, Francis knew, for his blow to Grady's head was only supposed to stun the man and prevent him from continuing his disrespect for the Father Abbot. But Grady had not awoken the next day, and the image of dirt falling on Grady's lifeless, bloated face as Francis had buried him had haunted the monk ever since, and had kicked the secret pedestal out from beneath his feet.

  All the events of the world had swirled about Francis since that fateful day. He had watched Father Abbot Markwart order the torture and execution of Master Jojonah, and while he had never actually cared for Jojonah, Francis could hardly believe the punishment fitting.

  But Francis had gone along with it, had served the Father Abbot slavishly, for the leader of the Abellican Order had placed no blame on Francis, had insisted that Francis had acted appropriately and that th
e fate of Grady —and the fate of Grady's parents—had been caused by their own sacrilege. Thus Francis had become even more devoted to Markwart, had come to believe that his only chance of reclaiming his pedestal was to follow in the shadow of the great leader.

  And then Markwart had ordered Jojonah dragged from the hall at the College of Abbots. The soldiers pulling the master had taken him right by Francis, and Francis had looked into Jojonah's doomed eyes.

  And the doomed master, who had learned the truth about Grady's death and who understood that Francis had been responsible, had forgiven Francis.

  Now the young monk could only stare at the dark shadows surrounding his mortal form like stains on his eternal soul, and battle futilely with the confusing jumble of remorse and guilt that swirled in his thoughts.

  His pedestal was gone, his innocence lost.

  Another man was awake in St.-Mere-Abelle at that late hour, washing the dishes, a task that he should have completed much earlier that evening. But other duties —the planning of his next, and boldest, scouting mission—had delayed Roger Lockless that night. Roger had come to this place after witnessing the murder of Baron Bildeborough on the road south of Palmaris. He had run to St.-Mere-Abelle in the hopes of finding Elbryan and Pony; and in the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland from the great abbey, he had witnessed yet another murder, the execution of a man named Jojonah.

  Roger was a slight man, barely over five feet tall and weighing no more than the average fifteen-year-old boy. His growth had been stunted by a disease —the same illness that had taken his parents. He was quite familiar with the ways of street beggars and knew how to play the "pitiful waif" to perfection. He had found little trouble securing a job from the generous Master Machuso of St.-Mere-Abelle, and had worked in the abbey for the last three weeks. In that time, Roger had heard many rumors, garnering enough confirmation to believe that Master Jojonah had aided some intruders who rescued Bradwarden from the Father Abbot's dungeons. But then the story got confusing, full of conflicting rumors, and Roger wasn't certain if these intruders—whom he knew were Elbryan, Pony, and Belli'mar Juraviel—had gotten away, though he did know that Bradwarden was no longer in the abbey. He believed that his friends had also escaped, but before he would leave his job at the abbey, Roger had to make certain.

  He thought he knew where he would find his answers, though the notion of going into the private quarters of a man as powerful as Dalebert Markwart was unnerving even to the man who had taunted powries in their encampment at Caer Tinella; defeated a brother justice of the Abellican Church; earned "Lockless" as his surname; and, most significantly of all, earned the respect of Nightbird.

  CHAPTER 3

  Private Fun

  "You did not tell him," Belli'mar Juraviel said to Pony.

  "There is a time and place, and I do not think the eve of a battle is it," Pony replied harshly, though Juraviel had only stated a fact and there had been no hint of accusation in his tone.

  Pony meant to go on, mostly to tell the elf that this issue was none of his affair, but lightning split the overcast sky, startling her. A late autumn storm churned in the dark clouds overhead.

  "The child is Elbryan's as much as yours," the elf said calmly as the thunder rumbled. "He has a right to know before the battle is fought."

  "I will tell him when and where I choose," Pony retorted.

  "You did let him know that you mean to go to Palmaris, not to Dundalis?" Juraviel inquired.

  Pony nodded and closed her eyes. When Juraviel had left her with Elbryan earlier that day, she had explained to the ranger that she needed to return to Palmaris, to try to learn of Roger's fate and to check on Belster at Fellowship Way. She had told Elbryan that she needed to put her grief to rest, and only a visit to those surroundings, she believed, could accomplish the task.

  Elbryan had not responded well. Conjuring his image now —his eyes so full of confusion, hurt, and fear for her—pained her greatly.

  "And you will tell him about the child before you leave?" Juraviel pressed.

  "And then he will abandon the caravan to Dundalis," Pony replied sarcastically. "He will forget the task at hand and spend his days instead at my side, tending to needs I do not have."

  Juraviel backed off a bit and wrapped his slender chin with delicate fingers, studying her.

  "Elbryan and I will be back together soon enough," Pony explained, her voice now calm and reassuring. She understood the elf's concern for her and for her relationship with Elbryan. Juraviel was their good friend, and seeing him so troubled only reminded Pony that she must carefully examine these most important decisions.

  "The child will not be born until the turn of spring to summer," Pony went on. "That will give Elbryan plenty of time —"

  "More time if he was told now," Juraviel interrupted.

  "I do not know if the child will survive," Pony said.

  "Considering your power with the gemstones, it is unlikely that any harm will come to the babe," Juraviel replied.

  "Power," Pony scoffed. "Yes, the power to keep me at the top of the ridge, watching others fight the battles."

  "Do not lessen the credit deserved by a healer," Juraviel started to argue.

  But Pony had turned away, hardly listening. She and Elbryan had to keep her use of the magic stones secret, especially now that Palmaris garrison soldiers had arrived. Even though the secular-serving Kingsmen were the only state force in the region, Pony had wisely limited her public use of the stones. Sooner or later, word would reach this far north that she and Elbryan were fugitives of the Church. Pony used the stones only to heal those wounded in battle; even then, she disguised her gemstone work by also applying healing salves and bandages, secretly finishing the task with hematite. Ironically, that healing proficiency had trapped Pony behind the melee during the fighting; Captain Kilronney was convinced she was too valuable to risk. Given Pony's surly mood, her almost-desperate hunger for revenge, she wasn't pleased with her role.

  "Is my own role any greater?" the elf asked. "I cannot show myself before the Kingsmen, and am thus relegated to the position of private pre-battle scout for Nightbird."

  "And you have been saying ever since we left the mountains around Andur'Blough Inninness that this war was not the business of the Touel'alfar," Pony shot back angrily.

  "Ah, but the little ones're always sayin' such things," came a familiar voice from the shadows. Bradwarden, the huge centaur, trotted into the small clearing beside the pair. "Never meanin' it, for the elves're really thinkin' that everythin' in all the world is their business!"

  Pony couldn't help but smile back at the grinning centaur. Though Bradwarden could be a fierce foe, his face always seemed to beam within that bushy ring of curly black hair and beard.

  "Ah, me little Pony," the centaur went on, "suren that I'm hearin' yer words o' frustration. I been watchin' fight after fight against the stinkin' dwarfs and goblins, and canno' even lift me club to help!"

  "You wear a distinctive mantle," Juraviel said dryly.

  "One ye're wishin' yerself might wear," the centaur replied.

  Juraviel laughed in response, and then he bid farewell to the pair, explaining that he had to report to Elbryan on the final movements of the powrie band.

  "The dwarves're makin' it easy this time," the centaur said to Pony when they were alone.

  "You have seen them? "

  "In a cave in a rocky dell, not two miles west o' Caer Tinella," Bradwarden explained. "I'm knowin' the place well, and knowin' that there's only one entrance to their chosen ground. I'm thinkin' that the dwarves haven't decided which way they mean to go. Some're lookin' for a fight, no doubt, since powries're almost always lookin' for a fight. But most're likely thinkin' that it's past time to go home."

  "How defensible is the cave?" Pony asked, her gaze inadvertently turning west.

  "Not so, if Nightbird catches 'em in there," the centaur replied. "The dwarves'd hold for some time against a siege, dependin' on how much fo
od they brought with 'em, but they'd not be gettin' out o' there if Nightbird and the soldiers set themselves in front o' the damn hole. Me thinkin's that the dwarves're not plannin' to stay in there for long, and have no idea that they been seen. Juraviel will tell Nightbird to hit at them before dawn."

  "Dawn is still many hours away," Pony remarked slyly, grinning at Bradwarden.

  The centaur matched Pony's smile. "Seems the least we can do is seal the ugly dwarves up in their hole," he agreed.

  The storm broke soon after dusk, a wind-driven rain lifting a swirling fog about the skeletal trees, a preternatural scene brilliantly lit by every bolt of lightning. Pony's spirit moved easily through this storm, a mere swirl in the fog, invisible to the eyes of any mortal creature. She did several circuits of the dell Bradwarden had indicated, even went inside the cave to count forty-three powries —a larger group than the scouts had indicated—and to confirm Bradwarden's claim that there was indeed only one way out of the place. That single entrance intrigued her, and she lingered beneath the arch for quite a while, studying the heavy outcropping of loose-fitting stones above. Then she went back into the forest. She found only five powries outside, but was not surprised at the meager guard. The dwarves could not have expected that any army would come against them in this wild storm.

  Her spirit drifted back to her waiting body, seated in another cave some miles distant. Bradwarden stood patient sentry in the doorway, while Greystone, Pony's beautiful, well-muscled horse, stood very still inside the cave, ears flattened.

  "We can get right to the cave entrance with only minimal resistance," she announced.

  Bradwarden turned at the sound of her voice. A bolt of lightning hit in the distance behind him, momentarily outlining his large, powerful frame. Greystone nickered and shifted nervously.

  "Ye might want to be leavin' yer horse," the centaur remarked. "He's findin' the night a bit too fitful for his likin'."

  Pony rose and went to the stallion, stroking his muscled neck and trying to calm him. "Not so long a walk," she said.