DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  "When winter breaks, my road will take me from this place for some weeks," the ranger said bluntly. "I will travel to the north with some men."

  "North?" asked a surprised Shamus. "But our duty is here, rebuilding the Timberlands."

  "I will not go until I have been assured that the region is secured," the ranger replied. "And I will not be gone for long —a month at the most. Also, I leave Tomas Gingerwart and his fellows in the capable hands of Captain Shamus Kilronney and a contingent of the King's own soldiers. What role can I fill with such capable companions all about?"

  "You flatter me, ranger," Shamus said with a disarming grin. "But if the region is secure, as you state, then perhaps I can accompany you."

  "Not necessary," Elbryan replied, his tone showing Shamus that there was no room for debate.

  "What business could these men possibly have in the northlands?" Shamus inquired. "This is the land rich in valued timber, and surely there are ample trees here to supply the masts of a thousand thousand great sailing ships."

  "They will go north in search of riches of a different sort," Elbryan replied cryptically, "and I believe they might just find what they are seeking."

  "So Nightbird plans to get rich?" Shamus asked with a chuckle.

  "Perhaps," the ranger replied in all seriousness, his tone taking the mirth from the other man.

  "Your road is your own to choose," the captain said somberly, sounding very much like the detached Tiel'marawee at that moment. "I only hope that you will not be gone from us for long —and that you will reconsider my offer to journey along with you."

  "I will, to both," said Elbryan and he bid the captain a good night and moved back into the forest.

  Shamus stayed outside for a long while after Elbryan had departed, considering carefully the words and their implications. The captain was more than a little unsettled by the sight of Bradwarden the fugitive, and by his realization that Nightbird meant to accompany the six men who had recently joined the settlers. More than a few hints had indicated to Shamus that these men were, or had been, Abellican monks, including one quiet, and quickly corrected, reference one had made to another as "brother."

  Had Nightbird perhaps figured out that Shamus was acting as an agent of De'Unnero?

  As he stood musing over that possibility and coming to the conclusion that such could not be the case, Shamus heard the approach of the little man, smallest of the group of six.

  Roger walked by swiftly, nodding only slightly to acknowledge the captain.

  "Nightbird told me that he will accompany your group to the north," Shamus said behind him, stopping him in his tracks. Roger swung about, eyeing the captain —surprised but not suspicious, for by Roger's understanding, the soldiers of the Baron, and thus the soldiers of the King, were on his side against the Church.

  "And so he will," Roger replied. "And glad are we six for the company."

  "A valuable ally on so dangerous a journey," Shamus said.

  "The first part will likely be the worst," said Roger. "If the rumors of the extent of the catastrophe at Mount Aida prove true, it is doubtful that any monsters have returned to that blasted place."

  Shamus did well to hide his surprise. They were going to the Barbacan!

  "Still, I do not understand," he said. "Why would you venture to such a forlorn place as that? "

  Now Roger went on the alert. He didn't mistrust the captain, but he understood the monks' need for secrecy and feared that he might already have said too much —though he assumed Elbryan had already told Shamus at least as much. "Who can rightly say?" Roger replied. "There are many places in the world that I have not seen and that I wish to see. Some are merely more convenient than others." Hoping he had covered his tracks, Roger gave a great yawn and explained that it was past time for him to retire.

  Shortly thereafter, Shamus Kilronney handed a rolled parchment to his most trusted rider and ordered the man to ride south, braving the weather and snow-blocked road, to get to Palmaris and Bishop De'Unnero. Shamus understood that he was only doing his duty as a sworn officer of the King —and he told himself that repeatedly—but he felt uneasy about betraying Nightbird, even if the man was in the presence of a known criminal.

  P A R T F O U R

  The Heart and Soul of Corona

  I never thought of it before, Uncle Mather, because it never seemed an issue and, truly, never seemed to matter. And, perhaps more to the point, because no one had ever before asked. Is Danube Brock Ursal not Nightbird's king? is what Shamus inquired of me, a simple question to the ears, but one that caught me so off guard that I knew not what to answer. I offered some words in response, but I still have not sorted out the answer that is in my heart.

  Am I a homeless rogue? I spent my childhood in Dundalis, but that place is no more, even if new buildings are constructed on its ruins. I grew to manhood in Andur'Blough Inninness, among the elves, whom I consider the dearest of friends.

  But family?

  No, I cannot rightly call Belli'mar Juraviel my brother, nor Lady Dasslerond my queen. I love Juraviel as I would a sibling, to be sure, and would heed the commands of Lady Dasslerond, but it is a simple fact of our physical beings that we cannot view the world in the same manner. Elven eyes perceive a different hue of truth and meaning than those of humans.

  So Andur'Blough Inninness is not, cannot be, my home, however I might wish it to be. Upon my return to the elven valley, I was not even allowed entrance. Juraviel once labeled me as n'Touel'alfar, and though I argued it with him, even convinced him of my way of thinking, we both understand the truth of those words: Elbryan — Nightbird—for all his training and all the love, is not of the people of Caer'alfar.

  Lady Dasslerond is not my queen; does that, by default, leave Danube as my king?

  No, Uncle Mather, and I understand now that his father before him was no king to you. Homeless rogues, we two? Hardly. For my home is here, in the forests of the Timberlands, in the Wilderlands, in the fields of northern Honce-the-Bear, or in the steep and rocky slopes of southern Alpinador, if I so choose. This is yet another aspect of the life of a ranger that has only recently come clear to me. Home is a feeling, not a place; and that feeling, for a ranger, is a portable thing, a matter of terrain, perhaps, but never of walls. I am home here in the forests of the Timberlands because of the feeling in my heart whenever I return to this place.

  So speak not to me of kings and queens, tell me not of empires and kingdoms. Whichever ruler extends his boundaries to cross over this land is unimportant and irrelevant, for boundaries are an invisible thing, a mark on a map and not on the land. They are an extension of ego, a claim to power, a means to wealth. Yet that ego is a lie, that power more a trap than a freedom, and that wealth a facade.

  A facade, yes, Uncle Mather, and nothing more valuable than a way for one man to feel superior to another. Avelyn once told me a tale of a tower on the outskirts of Ursal. The place served as a prison for those who spoke ill of the King, and, usually, the door would open for such a pitiful man in only one direction. Decades after this place was built, another prison was constructed, and thus this tower had no more official use. The King, in a generous gesture, awarded the structure to an enterprising Duke. For many years, the man knew not what to do with the structure, for though it was comfortable enough, now that it had been cleaned of all implements of torture and all shackles, it was too far from the grounds of Ursal Castle, where the Duke liked to court the ladies.

  But he was an enterprising man, Uncle Mather, and so, when among the nobles of Ursal, he spoke often of the "grand views" afforded him in his country estate. Such beauty, this Duke claimed, must remain the province of the wealthy, and, since he could not spend enough time at his tower to see to its upkeep, he would offer a lease, and at the enormous, even outrageous, price of five hundred gol' bears a season. The price alone brought many curious nobles out to see the tower, and whenever they gathered the Duke was crafty in keeping the conversation about the views.

&nbs
p; The views! He played on their vanity, and the expense itself became a reason for purchase. To hear Avelyn speak of it, the argument over who would lease the tower flowered into bloody duels — and nearly into a minor war between three separate provinces. Ladies begged their noble husbands for residence in the tower; single courtiers desired the place that they might entice desirable ladies to come and experience the view.

  In the end, the Queen of Honce-the-Bear demanded of her husband that he take back the tower; but the King, being a man of honor, would not go back on his word to the Duke. Instead, the King rented the tower for a mere one thousand gol' bears a season.

  And thus the Queen got her desired view, the same view that had been, for decades, afforded enemies of the crown for free.

  What is wealth, Uncle Mather, but a matter of perception? And the burning need to be better than others is nothing more than a weakness in one's self. And the King is trapped, I say, in the formalities of his office, by the dangers of the envy of his inferiors, and by the very real possibility of attempted revenge by his enemies.

  I will keep my freedom, Uncle Mather, and my love, Jilseponie, and we will carry our home with us, wherever we choose to go and be wealthier by far in matters of the heart and the spirit.

  And those two treasures, in the greatest measure, are all that truly matter.

  —ELBRYAN WYNDON

  CHAPTER 22

  Seeds

  They called it the "Progos thaw," and though it seemed to occur at the turn of each year, it always had the folk out and about, shaking their heads and mumbling about the strange weather. And this year, for the first time in many years, the folk did have something to mumble about. Spring weather came on suddenly in Palmaris, with several storms in succession starting out with threatening heavy snow but producing only cold rain before the second month had even begun.

  The winter, among the mildest that even the oldest folk could remember, was fast ending, and Pony's belly was becoming noticeable. Thus, she made it a point to keep her bar apron around her waist even when she was not working in the Way, even when she was going out at night, as she was this evening, to meet with one or another of her fellow conspirators.

  The base of resistance was solidifying, she reminded herself hopefully as she brushed past Belster and out of the inn. Between Belster's many friends, Colleen's information from inside the enemy camp, and Al'u'met's Behrenese and sailor comrades, those opposed to Bishop De'Unnero controlled much of the street and dock talk in the city. Not that they were open in their complaints and resistance; it had not come to that.

  Not yet. No, they were planting the seeds of rebellion, fostering a different viewpoint concerning the manner in which the Church was ruling the city. If it came to a fight —and a large part of Pony dearly hoped that it would—the Bishop and his minions would be surprised indeed at the scope of the resistance.

  That notion of an open battle against the Church prodded Pony to step more quickly as she headed for her appointed meeting with Colleen Kilronney. The fires of vengeance had not cooled within Pony, and if it came to blows, she remained determined that she would use her magic, Avelyn's magic, to wreak devastation on the leaders of that accursed Church that had murdered her parents and her friends.

  She was surprised indeed when she turned into the alley and saw that Colleen was not alone, and her surprise became amazement at the sight of Colleen's companion. A monk! A monk wearing the robes of St. Precious!

  She came forward cautiously.

  He leaped at her, hands grasping for her throat. Like all Abellicans, the man had been trained in the fighting arts, and so his attack came swift and sure.

  Pony fell back under his weight. Her hands grabbed at his wrists, trying to pull his fingers from her throat. She fell quickly into the trained warrior mode, and even as a stunned Colleen rushed in from behind, Pony hooked her thumbs under the monk's, then bent her legs and fell to her knees, bringing the man down with her. Now leverage became Pony's ally, and a simple twist broke the monk's hold —and she could have twisted farther and shattered his thumb bones altogether.

  But she did not —in deference to Colleen, who had brought this monk to her. She stood up quickly, sweeping her hands under the monk's forearms, then yanking his arms out wide. Using her momentum, she turned one palm out, curled her fingers tightly in, and drove the heel of her hand under the monk's chin. The blow lifted him from his feet and shoved him several inches back.

  Up came his arms in desperate defense, but Pony was already moving like a striking serpent straight ahead. She connected again, this time with a stunning blow to the bridge of his nose, and then again as blood began pouring from both his nostrils.

  Colleen caught the monk as he fell and offered him support, but also neatly immobilized him, slipping one arm under his shoulder, then around the back of his neck, and hooking her other hand, pulling the monk's other arm back at the elbow.

  "I see you have brought your friends," Pony remarked sarcastically, straightening her clothes and eyeing the man dangerously. She had done well to control her mounting, boiling anger —anytime a man wearing the robes of that Church offered her an excuse, she meant to punish him terribly—but resolved that if he came at her again, he would not leave this alley alive.

  "She is the one," the monk tried to explain to Colleen, spitting blood with every word.

  "The one who'll be breakin' yer stupid neck?" Colleen retorted.

  "T-the companion of N-Nightbird," the monk stammered.

  "I telled ye that much," said Colleen.

  "The friend of Avelyn the heretic, the thief of the sacred stones, the ally of the demon dactyl," said the monk.

  "Seems like every time I'm hearin' it, yer reputation for troublemakin' grows," Colleen said to Pony. "I'm likin' ye all the better, girl!"

  "You do not understand," the monk cried.

  "I understand that I could be lettin' ye go now, and lettin' ye get yerself killed," Colleen shot back; as she said it, she did release the man. "Go on then, I'll be enjoyin' the sight o' me friend kickin' the life from yer robed body."

  The man hesitated, glancing nervously from Colleen to Pony. He reached up to wipe the blood from his nose with his sleeve.

  "A friend of Avelyn, yes," Pony admitted. She reached into her apron and tossed the man a rag. "A friend of Avelyn, the same Avelyn who destroyed the demon dactyl, despite what your masters have told you."

  The man continued to stand his ground, continued to look all about.

  "Why did you bring him?" Pony asked.

  "He's no friend to De'Unnero," said Colleen. "I was thinkin' that a common enemy might be a good place for startin' an alliance. And can ye doubt how valuable a man inside St. Precious might prove to be?

  "And I didn't know," Colleen added, giving the monk a kick as she spoke the words. "I telled him about ye and he seemed friendly enough."

  "A ruse so he could get at me," Pony remarked.

  "We could just kill 'im," Colleen replied, and as she did, she slid a dagger from the back of her belt and put it firmly against the monk's back, forcing him to arch his shoulders.

  "I am no friend of Bishop De'Unnero," the man said.

  "Thought ye'd be seein' it that way," said Colleen, but she didn't remove the dagger.

  "Then you are no friend of Father Abbot Markwart and no friend of the Abellican Church," Pony replied. "And closer in mind to Avelyn Desbris than you believe."

  "The college branded him heretic and murderer."

  "To the dactyl's own home with your college!" Pony retorted. "I've not the time to teach you the truth, Brother —"

  "Brother Talumus," Colleen explained, "one I thought a friend."

  The monk half turned and glowered at her. "That was before I knew you conspired with outlaws."

  "One who came out here to plot against De'Unnero has a strange way of defining that term," Pony remarked.

  "Are we to convince him or kill him?" asked the brutal Colleen. Both Pony and Brother Talumus unders
tood that she was not kidding.

  "Not kill him," Pony replied immediately.

  "Are ye ready to be convinced, then?" Colleen asked him in his ear.

  Talumus did not reply, but neither did he turn away or give any clue that he would not be receptive.

  "Did you revere your former abbot?" Pony asked.

  "Speak no ill of Abbot Dobrinion!" Talumus replied, his tone more forceful even than when he had attacked Pony.

  "Never that," said Pony, "for Dobrinion was a good man, a great man, and more akin to Avelyn Desbris than you know. That is why Father Abbot Markwart had him murdered."

  The monk stammered a syllable, then chewed his lip.

  "Colleen brought you here, and so I assume she has judged your character correctly," said Pony. "Though she has erred before on such measures," she added, tossing a disarming smile at the woman soldier. "I will tell you the truth, plainly, and then let you judge my veracity. Be convinced or not, as you judge."

  "But if ye're not. . ." Colleen said, prodding him with the dagger.

  "If you are not, then we have a place to put you until this distasteful business is complete," Pony put in. "And you shall not be mistreated, in any case."

  "Abbot Dobrinion was slain by a powrie," Talumus said. "We found the wretched creature dead on the abbot's bedroom floor. And I know of no powries in St. Precious."

  "Slain by the same powrie that did not take the time to open a cut on Keleigh Leigh and dip its beret in her blood?" Pony asked. That had caught Talumus by surprise, she realized by his expression.

  The monk thought to respond that perhaps the creature had not the time, but changed his mind and asked bluntly, "How do you know this?"

  "Because Connor Bildeborough told it to me."

  "Connor, who annulled your marriage," said the unconvinced monk.