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

by R. A. Salvatore

  But still, Braumin was not surprised by this sudden turn, not at all. His quiet accusation against Kalas was no minor thing, after all!

  And so he was ready for this moment, had prepared himself extensively, and he stood perfectly still, hand up firm.

  “You play dangerous games, Abbot Braumin.”

  “Not so, Duke Kalas,” Braumin replied. “We each use whatever means we must to further that cause in which we believe. The revelation of a supposed dark secret, perhaps, or a battle on a foggy morning.”

  “And what cause will you further?” Kalas spat.

  “St. Precious will be expanded,” the monk replied. He lowered his hand as Kalas lowered his sword.

  “That is all?”

  “That is all.” Braumin Herde didn’t add “for now,” but he saw from Kalas’ sour expression that the Duke understood the implication well enough. Abbot Braumin had a heavy sword now, hanging in the air above the head of Duke Targon Bree Kalas, and Kalas’ own inability to dismiss the hints as preposterous were all the proof that Braumin needed to know that what Dellman suspected was true: Duke Kalas of Wester-Honce, perhaps the closest adviser in all the world to King Danube Brock Ursal himself, had utilized powries, wretched bloody caps, in his quest to strengthen the power of the Throne in Palmaris.

  Abbot Braumin’s step as he exited Chasewind Manor soon after was—surprisingly to him—not as boisterous as the ones that had brought him to the place, though he had the signed approval for St. Precious’ expansion tucked safely under one arm. No, Braumin found the whole business of coercing Duke Kalas a most distasteful affair, and he prayed that he would never, ever have to repeat it.

  But he would visit the man again, if need be, the abbot assured himself. His life had purpose and a direct path, and he swore then on the soul of Master Jojonah—his mentor, his dearest friend—that he would continue the good fight.

  “Lady Pemblebury approaches,” the sentry in the hall announced.

  Abbot Je’howith crinkled his old face at the proclamation, but King Danube couldn’t hold back a smile.

  “You have not made the open declaration yet,” Je’howith reminded him. “Whispers speak that the coming child is yours, of course, but word has not been sent, nor has your decision concerning the status of the child.”

  “I did not know that anything was required of me,” Danube replied sarcastically, for he was the king, after all, and his word, whatever that word might be, was law in Honce-the-Bear.

  “I only wonder what your brother might come to think if those whispers reach his ears,” Je’howith said; and that did indeed give Danube pause. “The new Father Abbot is of Vanguard, and a friend to Midalis. It seems likely that the region will be more closely tied to the rest of the kingdom now, with Agronguerre leading the Church.”

  “And perhaps those of your Church are not well versed in discretion,” Danube retorted.

  “The only brother who returned to Vanguard from the College of Abbots was young Dellman, no friend of mine, I assure you,” Je’howith came back. “If Brother Dellman has brought news of Constance Pemblebury’s condition, then he learned it from someone else.”

  “The same Dellman from Palmaris?” King Danube asked, for he remembered well Braumin Herde and his little group of imprisoned companions.

  Je’howith nodded.

  “The same Dellman who is friend to Jilseponie?” King Danube asked.

  Abbot Je’howith raised an eyebrow at that and at the way Danube spoke the woman’s name. Apparently, that little spark Je’howith and others had seen up in Palmaris continued to burn. Constance, beginning her eighth month of pregnancy, would not enjoy the sight of that simmering flame.

  Constance Pemblebury entered the room then, waddling more than walking, one hand supporting her lower back. Her look was not one of a woman in pain, though, but of a woman fulfilled and in bliss.

  King Danube went to her immediately and brushed aside her attendant, taking her by the arm and guiding her to a seat in the audience room’s only chair: the throne.

  How ironic, old Je’howith mused.

  “You do realize, my King,” the old monk said, grinning wryly, “that the Church must openly frown on our monarch producing a bastard child.”

  King Danube turned and scowled at Je’howith, but Constance laughed. “How unprecedented!” she said with complete sarcasm, and then she groaned and winced.

  Danube turned to her immediately, feeling her swollen belly, putting a gentle hand to her forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Je’howith studied the man, his movements, and the tone of his voice. Gentle, but not loving. He did care for Constance, but Abbot Je’howith recognized at that moment that Danube would not likely marry the woman, not while images of the fair Jilseponie danced in his head.

  Constance assured him that she was feeling quite well, and Je’howith seconded that sentiment, guiding the doting Danube away from her. “She has two months yet to go,” the old abbot reminded him.

  “And then comes our child,” Constance remarked.

  “My son,” Danube agreed, and again Constance beamed.

  To hear Danube speaking of the child with such obvious pride fostered her hopes, Je’howith realized. And what of those hopes? the cleric wondered. What course would King Danube take once the child, his son, was born? Would he employ the Denial of Privilege, as they had discussed, or would he be so overwhelmed by the birth of this child that he would accept it openly?

  Wouldn’t Prince Midalis be thrilled if that came to pass!

  Je’howith couldn’t contain a chuckle, though when Danube and Constance looked at him, he merely shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. In truth, the old abbot hardly cared which way King Danube chose to go concerning the child. Certainly, if he did not disavow the child’s bloodline rights, the kingdom could be in for a difficult and messy transition, but that would not likely affect Je’howith, who would probably be long dead by that time. And if King Danube did openly accept the child, keeping the babe, and thus, Constance, at his side, then the possibility of Jilseponie ever getting close to Je’howith’s beloved Ursal seemed even more remote.

  In either case, this situation could be getting all the more interesting in about two months’ time.

  Abbot Je’howith fought hard to contain another chuckle.

  Abbot Braumin was surprised and quite pleased to see the visitor to St. Precious that day. He was a handsome man of about Braumin’s age, with a slender but hardened frame and alert dark eyes that took in every detail of the room about him. He was a military man, obviously, trained in readiness.

  The snows had continued heavy that winter, but word had come to Abbot Braumin that Duke Kalas had left Chasewind Manor, and the city altogether, for a trip to the south. And now this, an old friend, the return of a good man who had shared some very important moments in Braumin Herde’s life. Yes, the year was off to a grand start.

  “Shamus Kilronney,” the abbot greeted him warmly. “I heard that you had resigned your post in the Kingsmen and traveled south.”

  “Not so far south, my friend, Brother—Abbot Braumin,” Shamus Kilronney replied. He looked around appreciatively. “You have done well, and are deserving of all that has befallen you of late.”

  Braumin accepted the kind words with a nod and a smile. Shamus had been with him on that journey to the Barbacan, when the goblins had encircled them, closing in. Shamus Kilronney had stood tall and proud, prepared to die, when the miracle of Avelyn’s upraised, mummified arm had sent forth waves of energy to destroy the goblin horde.

  Shamus had been beside Braumin again on a second occasion in that same place, when King Danube and Father Abbot Markwart had marched in with their respective armies to take them as prisoners.

  In truth, the two men hardly knew each other, and yet they had forged a deep bond in trials shared and miracles witnessed.

  “The sky is thick with snow,” Abbot Braumin remarked. “Why does Shamus Kilronney return to us at th
is unlikely time?”

  “Duke Kalas bade an Allheart knight named Mowin Satyr to serve in his stead while he returned to the court at Ursal at the summons of King Danube,” Shamus explained. “Satyr is an old friend of mine, and he knew that I have family within the city, so he bade me to come and aid him.”

  “Colleen?”

  “She is north, in Caer Tinella, I have heard,” Shamus replied.

  “Well, I am glad that you have returned,” Abbot Braumin said, motioning for the man to follow him to more comfortable quarters. “You may be aware that the relationship between Church and Crown in Palmaris has not been a good one since the events at Chasewind Manor.”

  “Duke Kalas has never been fond of the Church,” Shamus remarked, “at least not since Queen Vivian became ill and died, and the brothers of St. Honce could do nothing to save her. You will find Mowin Satyr more agreeable, I believe.”

  “For however long he might serve.”

  “It could be some time,” Shamus explained. “That is why I have come to you. Duke Kalas claimed that he was summoned to Ursal, but none of those remaining at Chasewind Manor know anything about that. Nor, according to Mowin Satyr, is he planning on returning to the city any time soon, perhaps never.”

  Abbot Braumin couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. He couldn’t believe how effective his hints concerning the powries had been, further confirmation to him that Kalas had indeed engaged in some sort of under-the-table dealings with the bloody caps. He poured himself a glass of wine and one for Shamus, then handed it over.

  “To a better relationship between Church and Crown,” he toasted, lifting his glass, and Shamus was quick to tap it with his own.

  “I wonder,” Abbot Braumin mused aloud a moment later. “Perhaps there is something more you might do for me, my friend, if you are willing.”

  “If I might,” Shamus said.

  “Inquire of your friend Mowin Satyr of a battle that was fought on the western fields before King Danube departed the city, around the Calember before last.”

  Shamus looked at him curiously.

  “He will know the fight,” Abbot Braumin assured the man, “a quick and easy victory over a powrie band.”

  “I will ask,” Shamus agreed, looking at the monk curiously. “But I say this now, my friend Abbot Braumin, I will not serve as a spy for St. Precious. I have come back to Palmaris because an old friend needed me, and I will do all that I can to bring a better peace between you and whoever is ruling at Chasewind Manor. But I will play no role in this continuing intrigue between St. Precious and Chasewind Manor.”

  “Fair enough,” Abbot Braumin replied. He lifted his glass in toast again, and again, Shamus Kilronney was quick to tap it with his own.

  Yes, God’s Year 828 was off to a grand start.

  Chapter 23

  Doc’alfar

  Too many wonders have I seen! THE MAN WROTE, THE EDGES OF MANY PARCHMENTS hanging raggedly about his open pack. Oh, for the eyes of one man to so engulf the splendor of the untainted world! What a true blessing God has bestowed upon me, humble Tetrafel, to grant me these visions. And the world will long remember me, I am sure, for when the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear engulfs these western Wilderlands, the wonders they will see—the gigantic waterfalls, the majestic mountain peaks, the forests so thick that beneath their canopy dwells eternal twilight—will be made all the more wondrous by their recollections of these, my words.

  The Duke of the Wilderlands glanced up from his parchment to scan the workings of his encampment, the many servants and soldiers going about their typical late-afternoon routines, preparing the tents and the meals, setting up the perimeter guard—and that line of sentries had proven most necessary in the three years Tetrafel and his fellow explorers had been out far to the west of Ursal, in untamed, unmapped lands, seeking a direct pass through the towering Belt-and-Buckle Mountains into the To-gai steppes of western Behren. King Danube desired a direct trading route with the To-gai clansmen, without the costly interference of the Behrenese merchants.

  The initial reluctance of Tetrafel, a man of nearly fifty years, who spent more time on a large pillow than on a horse, to accept the offered mission had been washed away by a grander vision that had come to him. He would be the explorer who opened up the vast western Wilderlands, a region known to be rich in natural resources, towering trees, and coveted peat. Once Danube had agreed to send along a large contingent of soldiers—nearly a score now traveled with the Duke—and a similar group of servants—several men and a few young women who would also see to other needs—Tetrafel had recognized the opportunity to bring himself a bit of immortality.

  Now, after three years, the man did not regret his decision, not on this particular day, at least, when he and his companions had easily traveled nearly twenty miles along a huge river—a river the Duke planned to name the Tetrafel—to find, at its end, the most tremendous, stupendous waterfall they had ever heard tell of: Tetrafel Falls, of course.

  There had been troubles in the three years, mostly in the form of huge bears, great cats, and other beasts. They had found one tribe of goblins, but their superior training and weaponry enabled them to summarily destroy the ugly creatures; and a fairly indelicate disease had caught up with them several times. But after three years, they had lost less than a handful of their band, including just two soldiers.

  All that they had to do now, Tetrafel realized, was find a pass through the mountains when spring opened the trails, and then return to Ursal, heralded as the greatest explorers of the modern age, their names, Duke Timian Tetrafel’s at least, etched in tomes and stamped indelibly upon natural and majestic wonders. And finding that pass did not seem like such an impossibility, now that they had gone even farther west, to a point, Tetrafel believed, where crossing the mountains would put them in western To-gai. The peaks were not nearly as towering here, and were wider spaced. The higher elevations still showed snowcaps, though down in the foothills, the winter here was no worse than in Ursal, with the occasional inch or two of snow, but inevitably followed by milder weather that soon cleared the ground.

  They were not in sight of the great River Tetrafel now, but they could hear the thunder of the distant falls. For their campsite, they had chosen a small clearing within a ring of towering pines, high natural walls so thick that they blocked out the light of Sheila completely as the moon rose in the east; and they knew that they would see only the slightest hints of the glowing orb until she climbed high in the sky, nearly directly overhead.

  The camp was quiet and organized, with the occasional bursts of laughter from one quarter or another, or more embarrassing sounds from under the boughs of a nearby pine, where a soldier and a servant had stolen off to pass the hours. Dinner was not an organized and set event in Tetrafel’s camp, but rather a personal option of wandering over to the large cook pots and scooping a bit of broth, or walking by one of the many spits and tearing a limb from whatever creatures the huntsmen had managed to bag that particular day.

  Secure in his sentries and satisfied that he had entered enough in his all-important diary that day, Duke Tetrafel headed for the cook fires. He started for one of the pots, but changed his mind and went to the roasting deer instead, tearing off a huge hunk of meat, dropping as much to the ground as found its way to his mouth.

  His actions were not unnoticed.

  In a tree not so far away, and well within the set perimeter of the encampment, a pair of slender, white-skinned, blue-eyed humanoids with hair the color of ravens’ wings, sat quietly—perfectly quietly—upon a pine branch, studying the scene before them.

  They care nothing for the creatures they slay, one of them motioned to the other in an intricate combination of hand gestures, eye movements, and facial and body expressions.

  Nor for the spirituality of the mating dance, the other, equally disgusted, returned, a point made even more acute by the grunting sounds from a copulating couple on the ground beneath them. They are killer animals and nothing more.
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  The other nodded his agreement. “Twick’a pwess fin,” he whispered in the tongue of the Doc’alfar, a language not unlike that of the Touel’alfar, distant, unknown cousins of the wingless, white-skinned elves.

  “Twick’a pwess fin,” the other echoed in agreement, which translated into “a fitting end.”

  Then they were gone, as silently as they had arrived, slipping past the lumbering sentries with no more noise than a shadow.

  “Curse the rotten luck,” one sentry muttered, for the wind shifted later that night, bringing the fine spray thrown high into the air by the distant falls over the field and the encampment.

  “Not so bad,” his companion replied from a short distance away. “Stay close to the pines; they’ll keep ye dry.”

  “A warm bed in Ursal’d keep me drier,” the first returned. “Are we ever to get back there?”

  “The Duke’s seeing a chance to put his name on mountains,” the second replied. “But we’re all to gain, and if we find the pass, Tetrafel’s promised us enough gol’bears to each buy a grand house.”

  The other nodded, and that promise did seem to warm his weathered bones. But the spray continued, filtering through the trees as a fine, cold mist. And then a foul, rotting odor accompanied it.

  “Now what’s bringing the stink?” the first sentry asked, crinkling his nose.

  “Smells like a carcass,” said the other. “Could be a great cat coming back from a hunt. Get on yer guard now!”

  And they both did, setting arrows to their bowstrings and peering into the gray, misty moonlight.

  The stench got worse, filling their nostrils, making their eyes run; and then they saw a shape, not of a great cat, but of a humanoid—a man, it seemed—walking stiff-legged through the mist and the sparse underbrush.