The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Forgive me, my brother," De'Unnero said insincerely. "You are the only one appearing infirm enough to so lure the goblins. The whole troupe of them might have fled from a younger, sturdier man, like myself."

  Jojonah went quiet, staring hard at this man, his nemesis.

  Such an action, such a deception upon an Abellican master, could be brought before higher authorities, with the likely result that De'Unnero would be severely punished for his presumption and for so embarrassing him. But to what higher authorities might he appeal? Master Jojonah wondered. To Father Abbot Markwart? Hardly.

  De'Unnero had won this day, Jojonah accepted, but he also de­termined then and there that this personal fight would be a long, long battle.

  "The hematite, if you please," he said to De'Unnero. "We have wounded in need of assistance."

  De'Unnero glanced around, seemed less than impressed by the severity of any wounds, then tossed the stone to Jojonah. "Again you prove that you have some value," he said.

  Jojonah just turned away.

  "You taught her," Juraviel, sitting in a tree, stated accusingly when Elbryan came back to the ridge, his hunting successfully completed.

  The ranger didn't have to ask what the elf was talking about, for he knew that Juraviel had watched his dance with Pony, and that no two humans could ever find that level of grace and harmony without bi'nelle dasada. Without retort, Elbryan ignored the accu­sation. He looked down to the circled wagons, to see Pony moving among the merchants, helping out.

  Juraviel gave a great sigh and rested back against the trunk. "You cannot even admit it?" he asked.

  Now the ranger did snap a glare over the elf. "Admit it?" he echoed incredulously. "You speak as though it was a crime."

  "And is it not?"

  "Is she not worthy?" Elbryan shot right back, waving his arm out toward the wagons and Pony.

  That somewhat deflated the elf's anger, but still he pressed on. "And is Elbryan to be the judge of who is worthy and who is not?" he argued. "Is Elbryan, then, to become the instructor in place of the Touel'alfar, who perfected bi'nelle dasada when the world it­self was young?"

  "No," the ranger said grimly. "Not Elbryan, but Nightbird."

  "You presume much," said Juraviel.

  "You gave me the title."

  "We gave you your life and more," the elf retorted. "Take care that you do not abuse the gifts, Nightbird. Lady Dasslerond would never suffer such an insult."

  "Insult?" the ranger echoed, as though the whole notion was ridiculous. "Consider the situation that I, that we, were put in. Pony and I had just destroyed the dactyl, and now had to fight our way through hordes of monsters, and that just to reach Dundalis. And so, yes, I shared my gift with her, for both our sakes, as she shared the gift that Avelyn had given to her, for both our sakes."

  "She taught you to use the stones," Juraviel reasoned.

  "I am nowhere near her level of power with them," the ranger admitted.

  "Nor is she near to your fighting prowess," said the elf.

  Elbryan was about to offer a stinging retort, for he wouldn't suffer such an insult to Pony, especially one so obviously ridicu­lous, but Juraviel kept on talking.

  "And yet, a human who can move with such grace, who can complement one trained by the Touel'alfar so very beautifully, is a rare find indeed," the elf went on. "Jilseponie dances as though she had spent years in Caer'alfar."

  That brought a smile to Elbryan's face. "She was trained by the master," he said with a grin.

  Juraviel didn't even challenge the joking boast. "You did well," the elf decided. "And yes, Jilseponie is worthy of the dance, as worthy as any human has ever been."

  Satisfied with that, the ranger looked down the dale and out to the east. "A large group went out that way," he remarked.

  "Likely they ran right into the approaching monks."

  "Unless the monks chose to hide and let the goblins pass," Elbryan said.

  Juraviel understood his cue. "Go to your companion and see to the merchants," he offered. "I will scout to the east and find out what has become of our goblin friends."

  The ranger walked Symphony down the slope to the wagons. One frightened man raised a weapon as if to fend the newcomer away, but another nearby boxed him on the ear.

  "Ye fool!" the second man said. "He's just saved yer stinking life. Killed half the goblins by himself!"

  The other man dropped his weapon to the ground and began dip­ping a series of ridiculous bows. Elbryan only smiled and walked Symphony past, right into the ring, He spotted Pony at once and slipped down from the horse, handing the reins to a young woman, barely more than a girl, who rushed over to help him.

  "They have many sorely wounded," Pony explained, and in­deed at the time she was tending to one man who it seemed would not survive. "From the earlier fight, not the last one."

  Elbryan looked up, turning his nervous gaze to the east. "The monks are not far, I fear," he said quietly. When he looked back down, he found Pony staring up at him, chewing her thick upper lip, her blue eyes wide, questioning. He knew what she meant to do, whether he argued against it or not, and realized she was only waiting for him to explain where he stood on the issue.

  "Be quiet with the soul stone," he bade her. "Wrap the wound as though you were tending it more conventionally. And use the gem only—" He stopped, seeing the transformation in Pony's expres­sion. She had wanted his opinion, out of respect, but she did not need his commandments. The ranger went silent then, nodding to show that he trusted her judgment.

  He watched as she drew out the gray stone from her pouch, clutching it close and bending over the man. Elbryan, too, went down low, taking a bandage and beginning to wrap it about the man's wound, a slash in the right side of his chest, through the ribs and quite deep, perhaps even through a lung. The ranger wrapped the wound, and tightly—he didn't want to bring the man any more pain, but he needed him to cry out a bit to cover Pony's secret work.

  The man gasped, Elbryan offered words of comfort, and then, in mere seconds, the man relaxed, looking up at the ranger quizzi­cally. "How?" he asked breathlessly.

  "Your wound was not nearly as bad as it looked," Elbryan lied. "The blade did not get past your rib bone."

  The man's look was doubtful, but he let it go at that, just relieved that the pain was gone now, or nearly so, and that his breath was coming to him easily once more.

  Elbryan and Pony made their way about the camp then, searching out any too injured for conventional methods. They found only one more, an older woman who had been hit in the head, whose eyes stared vacantly across the way, drool running freely from her mouth.

  "Senseless," a man attending her said. "I seen it before. The goblin club breaked her head. She'll die tonight, in her sleep."

  Pony bent low, examining the wound. "Not so," she replied. "Not if she's properly wrapped."

  "What?" the man asked skeptically, but fell silent as Elbryan and Pony went to work, the ranger putting bandages about the old woman's head, while Pony, the soul stone tucked under one palm, put her hands near the wound as if to hold the head together while it was being wrapped.

  Pony closed her eyes and fell into the stone, sent the healing magic through her fingers. She felt stings of pain, the tenderness and swelling, but she had tended far worse in the battles of the northland.

  She came out of her trance a moment later, the wound reduced so as to not be life-threatening, to the cries of "Approach! From the east!"

  "Goblins!" one frightened merchant yelled.

  "No!" another cried. "Brothers! St.-Mere-Abelle has come to our aid!"

  Elbryan cast a nervous glance at Pony, who quickly pocketed the gemstone.

  "I don't know how ye did it, but ye suren saved Timmy's life," said a woman, rushing up behind Elbryan. Both Elbryan and Pony followed her gaze across the way, to the man with the chest wound, who was standing now and talking easily, even managing a laugh.

  "It was not so bad," Pony offered.

>   "It was to the lung," the woman insisted. "Checked it meself, and thought he'd be dead afore the dinner bell."

  "You were nervous and shaken," Pony offered. "And rushed, for you knew that the goblins were coming back."

  The woman's face brightened with a disarming grin. She was older than the two, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with the worn but pleasant demeanor of an honest worker who had known a hard but satisfying life. She glanced by the pair, to the wounded old woman sitting on the ground, her eyes already showing signs of life once more.

  "Not so shaken," she said softly. "I seen much in the battles these last weeks, and lost a son, though me other five children are safe, God be praised. They only asked me along on the caravan to Amvoy because of me reputation for putting broken people back together."

  The ranger and Pony exchanged a serious look, something the woman didn't miss.

  "I'm not knowing what ye're hiding," she said quietly. "But I'm not for talking. I seen ye up on the hill, fighting for us, though ye know not a one in the group, from what I'm hearing. I'll not betray ye." She finished with a wink and turned away to join the commo­tion as the procession of monks approached along the eastern road.

  "Where is our son?" Pony asked Elbryan with a smirk.

  The ranger looked around, though of course Juraviel was no­where in sight. "Probably behind the monks," he answered dryly. "Or under one of their robes."

  Pony, nervous that her use of the stones might have drawn these brothers in and that the quest might soon be over, appreciated the levity. She hooked her arm inside her lover's and led him toward the gathering.

  "I am Abbot De'Unnero, departing St.-Mere-Abelle for St. Pre­cious," they heard the lead monk, a man full of so much energy that his eyes verily glowed. "Who is the leader here?" Before any­one could answer, De'Unnero's discerning eye settled on the pair, Elbryan and Pony. Their stride and the weapons they carried dis­tinguished them.

  The would-be abbot walked up to them, looking hard.

  "We are as new to the group as are you, good friar," the ranger said humbly.

  "And you happened upon them by mere chance?" De'Unnero asked suspiciously.

  "We saw the smoke rising, as you must have in the east," Pony answered, her tone sharp and showing clearly that she was not in­timidated. "And being folk of goodly heart, we rushed to see if we might help. When we arrived, the second fight was brewing, so we made it our own."

  De'Unnero's dark eyes flashed, and it seemed to both Elbryan and Pony that he wanted to strike out at her for the implied accusa­tion. She had, for all intents and purposes, just asked the monk why he and his fellows had not hustled to join in.

  "Nesk Reaches," came a call from a heavy man in bright clothing, the same man Pony had spoken with when she had first approached the caravan before the fight. The merchant hustled for­ward, extending his left hand, for his right was bandaged. "Nesk Reaches of Dillaman Township," he said, " 'Tis my caravan, and glad we are to see you."

  De'Unnero ignored the man's offered hand, his sharp gaze still scrutinizing Elbryan and Pony.

  "Master De'Unnero," a portly old friar interrupted, moving forward to stand beside the forceful man. "They have wounded. Pray give me the soul stone that I might tend them."

  Elbryan and Pony didn't miss the flash of outrage crossing De'Unnero's angular face, the man obviously not pleased that this other monk had so openly offered help, and magical help at that. Still, he had been put on the spot, in front of all the merchants and all his own procession, and so De'Unnero reached into his pouch and produced a hematite, handing it over.

  "Abbot De'Unnero," he corrected.

  The portly monk bowed and walked past him, offering a glance and a smile at Elbryan and Pony as he moved into the group.

  Predictably to Pony, for she had already made an accurate assess­ment of the man, Nesk Reaches started for the portly friar, holding up his slightly injured hand, playing the wound for all it was worth.

  De'Unnero wouldn't let the merchant leader go that easily, though. The monk grabbed Reaches roughly by the shoulder and turned him about. "You admit that this is your caravan?" he asked.

  The merchant humbly nodded.

  "What fool are you to be bringing people out in this danger?" De'Unnero scolded. "Monsters are thick in the region, and are hungry and hunting. The warning has been given across the land, yet here you are, out alone and hardly guarded."

  "Please, good friar," Nesk Reaches stammered. "We were in need of provisions. We had little choice."

  "In need of good profits, more likely," De'Unnero snapped. "Thinking to turn a few pieces of gold at a time when few caravans are running and goods are more valuable."

  Grumbles from the crowd told Elbryan and Pony, and De'Un­nero, that the reasoning was sound.

  De'Unnero let Nesk Reaches go then, and called out to the portly monk. "Be quick about it! We have been delayed too long al­ready." To Reaches, he added, "Where are you headed?"

  "Amvoy," the thoroughly intimidated merchant stammered.

  "I will soon be sanctified as abbot of St. Precious," De'Unnero explained loudly.

  "St. Precious?" Nesk Reaches echoed. "But Abbot Dobrinion—"

  "Abbot Dobrinion is dead," De'Unnero callously stated. "And I will replace him. And, merchant Reaches, I expect that you and your caravan, owing a debt to me, will attend the ceremony. In fact, I insist upon it. And I remind you that you would be wise to be gen­erous in your offerings."

  He turned away then to his procession, motioning the monks out of the wagon circle. "Be quick," he called to Master Jojonah, spin­ning about. "I'll not waste our entire day at this business."

  Elbryan used the distraction to slip away to the horses, remem­bering that Symphony carried a gemstone in his breast which might be quite significant and telling to monks of St.-Mere-Abelle.

  Pony, meanwhile, kept her eyes on the portly monk tenderly at­tending the many wounded. When De'Unnero's group was safely away, she went up to the man, offering to help with conventional healing, tearing bandages and the like.

  The monk looked at her sword, at the blood spattered on her pants and boots. "Perhaps you should rest," he said. "You and your companion have done quite enough this day, from what I have heard."

  "I am not tired," Pony said with a smile, taking as much of an initial liking to this man as she had a disliking to the other, De'Un­nero. She couldn't help but measure that man against Abbot Dobrin­ion, whom he would apparently replace, and the contrast sent a shudder along her spine. This monk, though, so sincerely at work to relieve the suffering, seemed more like the former abbot of St. Precious, whom Pony had met on a couple of occasions. She bent low and held the hand of the man the friar was attending, applying pressure in just the right spot to slow the bleeding of his torn hand.

  She noticed then that the monk was not looking at her, or at the wounded man, but had settled his gaze on Elbryan and the horses.

  "What is your name?" he asked Pony, his eyes drifting to study her.

  "Carralee," Pony lied, using the name of her infant cousin who had been killed in the first goblin raid on Dundalis.

  "I am Master Jojonah," the monk replied. "Well met, I would say, and fortunate for these poor folk that we—particularly you and your companion—came along when we did!"

  Pony hardly heard the last few words. She stared hard at the portly man. Jojonah. She knew that name, the name of the one master of whom Avelyn had spoken fondly, the one man at St.-Mere-Abelle, Avelyn had believed, who had understood him. Avelyn hadn't talked much with Pony about his colleagues during his days at the abbey, but he made it a point one night after too many "potions of courage," as Avelyn called his liquor, to tell her about Jojonah. That fact alone relayed to the woman just how dear this old man had been to Avelyn.

  "Your work is truly amazing, Father," she remarked as Master Jojonah put a soul stone to use on the injured man. In truth, Pony soon realized that she was more powerful with the gemstones than this master of the abbey
, a fact that pointedly reminded her of just how powerful Avelyn Desbris had been.

  "It is a minor thing," Master Jojonah replied when the man's gash was mended.

  "Not minor to me," the man said, and gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

  "But what a good man you are to do such work," Pony said en­thusiastically. She was acting purely on instinct now, following her heart, though her thoughts, were screaming at her to be cautious and shut up. She gave one nervous glance around, to make sure that no other monks had wandered back into the wagon circle, then con­tinued quietly, "I once met another of your Church—St.-Mere-Abelle, is it not?"

  "Indeed it is," Master Jojonah replied absently, looking around for any others who might need his healing talents.

  "A good man was he," Pony continued. "Oh, such a good man."

  Master Jojonah smiled politely, but started to walk off.

  "His name was Aberly, I believe," Pony said.

  The monk stopped abruptly and turned on her, his expression shifting from polite tolerance to sincere intrigue.

  "No, Avenbrook," Pony bluffed. "Oh, I cannot remember his name quite right, I fear. It was years ago, you see. And though I cannot remember the name, I'll never forget the monk. I came upon him when he was helping a poor street beggar in Palmaris, much as you just helped that man. And when the poor man offered to pay him, fishing a few coins out of his raggedy pocket, Aberly, or Avenbrook, or whatever his name might have been, accepted graciously, but then arranged for the coins, along with more than a few of his own, to be returned to the poor man inconspicuously."

  "Indeed," Jojonah muttered, nodding his head with her every word.

  "I asked him why he did that—with the coins, I mean," Pony went on. "He could have just refused them, after all. He told me that it was just as important to protect the poor man's sense of pride as his health." She finished with a broad smile. The story was true, though it had happened in a tiny village far to the south and not in Palmaris.