The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series

by R. A. Salvatore

  He was surprised when he awoke, before the dawn, to find that both Elbryan and Pony were already awake and gone from the camp.

  The elf gave a smile, thinking that they needed some time alone with each other, a respite for lovers.

  He wasn't far from the truth, for Elbryan and Pony were indeed intimate that morning—but not in the way Juraviel imagined. They were out in a secret clearing, performing bi'nelle dasada.

  That morning, and every morning thereafter, and each time they danced, Pony followed Nightbird's movements a bit longer. It would be years before she could find his level of perfection, if ever, she knew, but she took heart, for each day brought improvement— each day her lunge went a bit faster and a bit farther, her aim a bit more sure.

  As the days passed, the ranger noted a change in the dance, subtle but definite. At first he worried that taking Pony under his guidance was perverting this very special gift of the Touel'alfar, but then he realized that the shift, far from undesirable, was a wonderful thing. For each day, he and his companion grew a bit more in tune with each other, each sensing the other's movements, learning to supplement and compliment every routine with the proper support.

  Indeed their dance was beautiful, a sharing of heart and soul and, mostly, of trust.

  CHAPTER 12

  Unexpected Guests

  This cannot be! It makes no sense whatsoever, Abbot Dobrinion Calislas of St. Precious Abbey in Palmaris kept telling himself, trying to convince himself through logic, despite the very real re­ports from reliable monks, that Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the leader of the Abellican Church, was waiting for him in the chapel of his abbey.

  "Markwart is too old to be traveling to Palmaris," Abbot Dobrinion said aloud, though no one was nearby to hear. He fumbled with his robes as he stumbled down the circular stairs from his private quarters. "And surely he would have given notice of his visit long in advance. Such men do not move helter-skelter about the countryside!

  "And such men should not come unannounced!" Dobrinion added. He was no fan of Father Abbot Markwart; the two had been at odds for several years concerning the canonization process of one of St. Precious' former monks. Though it was the second oldest abbey in all the order, behind St.-Mere-Abelle, St. Precious boasted of no saints from its order, a tragic oversight that Abbot Dobrinion was working hard to correct—and one that Father Abbot Markwart had opposed from the very moment Brother Allabarnet's name had been entered.

  Dobrinion's voice rose as he finished the frantic thought, the abbot opening the heavy door of the chapel at the same time. His round cheeks flushed, for he feared that the man standing before him, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, had heard him.

  And it was indeed Markwart, Abbot Dobrinion knew without doubt. He had met the man on more than a dozen occasions, and though he had not seen Markwart in more than a decade, he recog­nized him now. He glanced around at Markwart's entourage, trying to make some sense of it all. Only three other monks were in the chapel, and one of them was of St. Precious. The other two, both young, one slender and nervous, the other barrel-chested and obvi­ously strong, stood near the Father Abbot in similar poses, their arms crossed in front of them, one hand clasping the other wrist. A defensive position, Dobrinion noted, and it seemed to him that these two were more like bodyguards than escorts. On previous oc­casions when the Father Abbot had traveled, whether it was Mark­wart or any of his predecessors, the entourage was huge, no less than fifty monks, and a fair number of them masters, or even abbots. These two were neither, Dobrinion knew, for they were hardly old enough to even have attained half the years of an immaculate.

  "Father Abbot," he said solemnly, dipping a respectful bow.

  "My greetings, Abbot Dobrinion," Father Abbot Markwart replied in his nasal voice. "Forgive my intrusion into your excel­lent abbey."

  "Indeed," was all that the sputtering, flustered abbot could reply.

  "It was necessary," Markwart went on. "In these times... well, you understand that we must often improvise with an enemy army marching about our lands."

  "Indeed," Dobrinion said again, and he wanted to pinch himself, thinking that he sounded incredibly stupid.

  "I am to be met here by a caravan," the Father Abbot explained, "which I diverted on its return to St.-Mere-Abelle, for there is little time."

  A caravan from St.-Mere-Abelle this far out? Dobrinion thought. And I knew nothing about it!

  "Master Jojonah leads it," Father Abbot Markwart said. "You re­member Jojonah; you and he went through your training together."

  "He was two or three years my junior, I believe," Abbot Dobrinion replied. He had met Jojonah subsequently at Church gatherings, and had once spent a night drinking heavily with the man, and with a hawkish master by the name of Siherton.

  "Are any other masters with this caravan?" he asked. "Siherton, perhaps?"

  "Master Siherton is dead," Father Abbot Markwart said evenly. "He was murdered."

  "Powries?" Dobrinion dared to ask, though it seemed from Markwart's tone that the man did not want to elaborate.

  "No," Father Abbot said curtly. "But enough of that unpleasant situation; it was a long time ago. Jojonah is the only master on the caravan, though he has a trio of immaculates beside him. They are twenty-five strong, and have with them a most extraordinary pris­oner. What I require from you is privacy, for myself, for my fellows of St.-Mere-Abelle, and most of all, for the prisoner."

  "I will do all that I can—" Abbot Dobrinion began to respond.

  "I am sure that you will," Markwart cut him off. "Have one of your trusted lessers instruct these two—" He indicated the young monks flanking him. "—concerning our accommodations. We will not likely be here for long. No more than a week, I should guess." His face grew very serious and he advanced on Dobrinion, speaking in low, even threatening, tones. "I will have your assur­ances that there will be no interference," he said.

  Abbot Dobrinion rocked back on his heels, studying the old man, surprised by all of this. For St.-Mere-Abelle to even be oper­ating in this region without Dobrinion's knowledge and approval was contrary to Church etiquette. What was this mysterious mis­sion all about, and why hadn't he been informed? And what of this prisoner? With hematite, the Father Abbot surely could have con­tacted him sooner!

  Abbot Dobrinion did well to sublimate his anger. This was the Father Abbot, after all, and Honce-the-Bear was embroiled in a desperate war. "We will do as we are instructed," he assured his superior, bowing his head respectfully. "St. Precious is yours to command."

  "I will take your quarters for the duration of my stay," Father Abbot Markwart said. "My lessers will help you to move your nec­essary items to other accommodations."

  Dobrinion felt as though he had been slapped in the face. He had been the abbot of St. Precious for three decades, and that was no small position. St. Precious was the third largest abbey in the Abel­lican Church, behind St.-Mere-Abelle and St. Honce of Ursal. And because Palmaris was on the edge of the true civilized lands, there was perhaps no abbey more influential to its congregation. For the thirty years of his rule, Abbot Dobrinion had been pretty much left alone—St.-Mere-Abelle was too concerned with the Ring Stones and with general Church doctrine, and St. Honce too embroiled in politics with the King. Thus, Abbot Dobrinion's only rival for power in all the wide northern reaches of Honce-the-Bear was Baron Rochefort Bildeborough of Palmaris, and that man, like his predecessor, in addition to being a close friend to Dobrinion, was quiet and unassuming. Rochefort Bildeborough was a man easily appeased as long as his personal luxuries were secured. Even in the matter of this war that had come to Palmaris, he had turned over de­fense of the city to the captain of the city guard, instructing that man to report to Abbot Dobrinion, while he kept himself secure in his palace-fortress, Chasewind Manor.

  Thus Abbot Dobrinion was not used to being talked to in such superior tones. But again, he remembered his place in the Abel­lican hierarchy, a pyramid that placed the Father Abbot at its pin­nacl
e. "As you say," he replied humbly, bowing one last time and starting away.

  "And perhaps we will have time to discuss the matter of Brother Allabarnet," the Father Abbot said just before Abbot Dobrinion crossed out of the room.

  Dobrinion stopped, realizing that he had just been thrown a morsel, a teasing carrot dependent upon his cooperation. His ini­tial thought was to throw that carrot back at the Father Abbot, but he quickly pushed that notion away. Abbot Dobrinion was an old man, and though he was not as old as Markwart, he feared that Markwart would outlive him. By his own estimation, all that he had left to accomplish in his life was to see Brother Allabarnet, a monk of St. Precious, sainted, and that feat would not be easy, perhaps not even possible, without the help of Father Abbot Markwart.

  "St. Precious?" Brother Braumin's incredulous tone echoed the emotions of Master Jojonah when Brother Francis announced the new destination.

  "The Father Abbot does not wish to lose any time in speaking with the centaur," Brother Francis went on. "He will meet us in Palmaris. In fact, he was on his way to that place when he contacted me, and I suspect that he is already settled in St. Precious."

  "Are you certain of this?" Master Jojonah asked calmly. "Was it truly Father Abbot Markwart who told you of this change?"

  "You imply that others might somehow get into my mind?" the younger monk retorted.

  "I recognize that we have been to the lair of the demon," Master Jojonah explained, again taking pains so that his voice was not ac­cusing. If Father Abbot Markwart had indeed come to Brother Francis with new orders, then Jojonah and all the others had no practical choice but to go along.

  "It was the Father Abbot," Brother Francis said firmly. "Would it appease you if I contacted him again? Perhaps I could loan him my body that he tell you personally."

  "Enough, brother," Master Jojonah said, waving his hand in sur­render. "I do not question your judgment; I only thought it prudent to make certain."

  "I am certain."

  "So you have said," Master Jojonah replied. "And so our desti­nation shall be St. Precious. Have you determined our course?"

  "I have others working with the maps even now," Brother Francis replied. "It is not too far, and once we have crossed the Timberlands, we should find a fairly easy road."

  "A road choked with monsters," Brother Braumin put in dryly. "The reports from this area have spoken of abundant fighting."

  "We will move too quickly and quietly for them to ever engage us," Brother Francis said.

  Master Jojonah only nodded. If the Father Abbot wanted them in Palmaris, then to Palmaris they would go, whatever the obstacles. For Jojonah, though, the greatest obstacle of all would likely find them at the end of the trail, in the person of Dalebert Markwart.

  With typical efficiency, Brother Francis completed the plotting and the caravan adjusted its course, wheels humming. They were past the Timberland towns in a couple of days, and though they did indeed find monsters along the way, the creatures never knew of their passage, or realized it too late to possibly catch up to the speeding procession.

  "A caravan of monks," Roger Lockless explained. The young man was feeling well again, for Pony had used the hematite exten­sively on his dog bites and other wounds. He had hardly thanked the woman, though, had just grunted and walked away after their two-hour session. Neither Pony nor Elbryan had seen Roger in the four days since that occasion, until now. "I know monks, and am certain!"

  Elbryan and Pony exchanged grim looks, both suspecting that Brother Avelyn might have something to do with this, that these monks might be in search of the stones the companions now held.

  "Moving swiftly, so swiftly," Roger went on, sincerely awed. "I doubt that Kos-kosio Begulne even knew they were in the area—or, if the powrie did learn of their passing, they were too far gone by that point for him to do anything about it. They must be halfway to Palmaris by now."

  Elbryan started to question that, for Roger had only seen this caravan a couple of hours before. The ranger held the thought quiet, though, for he knew that, whether the estimate of the speed was accurate or not, Roger believed what he was saying.

  "A pity that we did not learn of this sooner," Belster O'Comely put in. "What aid might these men of God have given us? What comfort? At the very least, they might have taken our most infirm with them to the safer lands in the south."

  "You would not even have learned of them at all had I not been so vigilant," Roger replied angrily, defensively, taking Belster's comment as an insult to his scouting prowess. "How come the great Nightbird knew nothing about them? Or the woman who pro­claims to be a great wizardess?"

  "Enough, Roger," Elbryan bade him. "Belster was lamenting the reality, not placing blame. It is indeed a pity that we could not enlist the aid of such powerful allies, for if they were moving as swiftly as you say—and I do not doubt that they were," he added quickly, seeing Roger's expression go sour, "then they are likely strong with magic." The ranger was only half serious, though, for while he would have liked to facilitate the passage of their infirm members to Palmaris, he wasn't so sure that these monks would have proven themselves allies—at least not for him and Pony.

  "They were moving even faster than you believe," Roger replied. "I cannot describe their true speed. Their horses' legs were but a blur; one rider at the back of the wagon moved so fast that to my eyes he seemed to be a blend of horse and man."

  That perked up the ears of all the folk of the Dundalis region, all the folk who knew of the Forest Ghost, who had fought beside Bradwarden and taken comfort in his hauntingly beautiful piping. Elbryan and Pony deflated their brightening expressions, though, shaking their heads at the thought. They had seen the end of Bradwarden, so they both believed.

  "You are certain that the caravan kept moving?" the ranger asked Roger.

  "Halfway to Palmaris by now," the man replied.

  "Then they are no concern of ours," Elbryan reasoned, though silently he vowed to keep an eye out for the monks. If this caravan had come to the north searching for Avelyn and the stones, and if they had garnered some answers through the use of magic, he and Pony might already be considered outlaws.

  * * *

  The caravan arrived at St. Precious with no fanfare, no recogni­tion; Abbot Dobrinion wasn't even there to greet them. That was Father Abbot Markwart's pleasure, along with his pair of body­guards, quietly meeting the brothers from St.-Mere-Abelle at the abbey's back gate.

  Master Jojonah wasn't surprised by Markwart's choice of trav­eling companions, Brothers Youseff and Dandelion, the two monks in training to replace the late Brother Quintall as Brother Justice. Of all the lesser students in St.-Mere-Abelle, Jojonah had come to like these two the least. Brother Youseff, a third-year stu­dent, was from Youmaneff, Avelyn's hometown, but there the similarity ended. He was a small and slender man, a vicious fighter who found every advantage in the training arena, no matter how deceptive and unpleasant. His companion, Brother Dandelion, who had only been at the monastery for two years, was physically the opposite of the small man, a huge bear with arms the size of a meaty thigh. Brother Dandelion often had to be restrained in the sparring matches, for once he gained an advantage, he continued to press it to the point of injuring his opponent. In the days of sanity at the monastery, such action might have led to dismissal, but in these dark times, the Father Abbot only chuckled at the man's enthu­siasm. Markwart had many times dismissed Jojonah's complaints about Brother Dandelion, assuring Jojonah they would find a fit­ting place for the savage man.

  Brother Jojonah often wondered how Dandelion, or Youseff, for that matter, had even passed the grueling process of elimination to get into the monastery. Every class was whittled down from one or two thousand to twenty-five, and it seemed obvious to Jojonah that there had to be many among those other hundreds more fitting in temperament, intelligence, and piety.

  But both these young monks had been sponsored by the Father Abbot himself. "The son of a dear friend," Markwart had said of Dande
lion. Master Jojonah knew better. Brother Dandelion had been brought in for his unparalleled physical prowess and for no other reason. He was Markwart's replacement for Quintall, one of the personal bodyguards surrounding the Father Abbot.

  As for Youseff, Markwart had explained that Youmaneff, with the loss of Avelyn, was not represented at all in St.-Mere-Abelle, an oversight that had to be corrected if the abbey meant to retain tight control over the small town.

  Master Jojonah could only shake his head and sigh; it was all moving beyond his control.

  The caravan was put up in the courtyard, with all the monks shown to their quarters, conveniently separated from the brothers of St. Precious. Master Jojonah found himself in a quiet room in a far corner of the great structure, removed from all the others of his troupe, particularly Brother Braumin, who was all the way to the other side of the abbey. The closest to Jojonah was Francis—to keep an eye on him, the master knew.

  Still, that very night, Jojonah managed to slip away, meeting quietly with Brother Braumin on the triforium, a decorated ledge twenty feet above the floor of the abbey's great chapel.

  "I suspect he is in the lower dungeons," Master Jojonah ex­plained, running his hands over the details of a statue of Brother Allabarnet, whom the monks here called Brother Appleseed. Jo­jonah could feel the love that had gone into this artwork, and that, he subconsciously understood, was the true work of God.

  "In chains, no doubt," agreed Brother Braumin. "A great sin rests on the shoulders of the Father Abbot if his treatment of the heroic centaur is ill."

  Master Jojonah quieted the man with a waving hand. They could not afford to be caught speaking against the Father Abbot, no matter how great their ire.