The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series

by R. A. Salvatore

  Roger had come out from the small camp beside the wagon to relieve himself, but had stayed out as the minutes passed, alone with his thoughts and with the starry canopy. He tried not to think of his coming meeting with King Danube; he had rehearsed his speech many times already. He tried not to worry for his friends, though he suspected they would likely be approaching St.-Mere-Abelle by now, perhaps had already battled with the Church over the prisoners. For now, Roger wanted only rest, the calm peace of a summer's night.

  How many times had he reclined on a branch in the forest near Caer Tinella, alone in the quiet night? Most, if the weather was agreeable. Mrs. Kelso would see him for dinner, and then again for breakfast, and though the mothering woman believed him to be comfortably curled up in her barn, he was more often in the forest.

  Try as he may, Roger couldn't find that level of calm now, couldn't find that deep, introspective serenity. Too many worries crept into the corners of his consciousness; he had seen and experi­enced too much.

  He leaned heavily against a tree, staring up at the stars, lament­ing his loss of innocence. All during his time with Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel, they had applauded him for maturing, had nodded ap­provingly as his decisions became more based in responsibility. But accepting those responsibilities had taken a toll, Roger under­stood now, for the stars did not twinkle so brightly, for his heart was surely heavier.

  He sighed again and told himself that things would get better, that King Danube would put the world aright, that the monsters would be driven far away and he could return to his home and his previous life in Caer Tinella.

  But he didn't believe it. With a shrug, he started back for the wagon, back for discussions of important matters, back for responsibility.

  He paused, though, before he got near the campsite, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

  The forest had gone strangely, eerily, quiet.

  Then came a low, resonating growl, the likes of which Roger had never before heard. The young man froze in place, listening in­tently, trying to discern the direction, though the low roar seemed to fill all the air, as though it was coming from everywhere at once. Roger didn't move, didn't breathe.

  He heard the draw of sword, another roar, this one more em­phatic, and then the screams, sudden and horrible. Now he was moving, running blindly, stumbling on roots, taking more than one branch in the face. He saw the firelight from the camp, silhouettes darting back and forth before it.

  And the screams continued, cries of fear, and now of agony.

  Roger came in sight of the camp to see the guards, all three, lying about the fire, torn and broken. He hardly took note of them, though, for the Baron was halfway inside the carriage, struggling mightily to get all the way in that he might close the door.

  But even if he could have done so, Roger knew that the door would prove a meager barrier against the creature, a gigantic orange-and-black-striped cat that had a claw hooked about his boot.

  The Baron spun over and kicked out, and the tiger let go long enough for the man to get inside. But the man never got close to shutting the carriage door, for the cat had only let go that it might settle back on its haunches, and before Bildeborough had even cleared the line of the door, the tiger sprang into the carriage, atop him, claws raking.

  The carriage rocked violently, the Baron screamed, and Roger stared helplessly. He did have a weapon, a small sword, barely more than a dagger, but he knew that he couldn't possibly get to Bildeborough in time to save the man, and in any case couldn't possibly defeat, or even seriously injure, the great cat.

  He turned and ran, tears streaming down his face, his breath coming in labored, forced gasps. It had happened again! Just like the incident with Connor! Again he was no more than a helpless bystander, a witness to the death of a friend. He ran on blindly, stumbling, brush and limbs battering him as the minutes became an hour. He ran until he dropped from exhaustion, and even then he dragged himself on, too frightened to even look back to see if there was any pursuit.

  CHAPTER 31

  Alternate Routes

  Backlit by the rising sun, swathed in a veil of morning fog, the great fortress of St.-Mere-Abelle loomed in the distance, stretching far along the clifftop overlooking All Saints Bay. Only then, view­ing the sheer size and ancient strength of the place, did Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel truly come to appreciate the power of their ene­mies and the scope of their task. They had informed Jojonah of their course soon after he arrived at their campsite.

  And then he had told Pony of her brother's demise.

  The news hit her hard, for though she and Grady were never close friends, she had spent years beside him. She didn't sleep well the rest of that night, but was more than ready for the road before the dawn, a road that had led them here, to this seemingly inde­structible fortress that now served as prison to her parents and her centaur friend.

  The great gates were closed tight, the walls high and thick.

  "How many live here?" Pony asked Jojonah breathlessly.

  "The brothers alone number more than seven hundred," he replied. "And even the newest class, brought in last spring, have been trained to fight. You would not get into St.-Mere-Abelle through use of force, if the King's army stood behind you. In calmer times, you might find your way in posing as peasants, or as workers, perhaps, but now, that is not possible."

  "What do you plan?" the ranger asked, for it seemed obvious to all that if Master Jojonah could not get them in, their quest was hopeless. After their meeting in the wood, Jojonah had promised to do just that, assuring them that he was no enemy, but a very valu­able ally. The four of them had started off together the very next morning, Jojonah leading the way to the east, to this place he had known as his home for many decades.

  "Any structure this size has less noticeable ways to enter," Jojo­nah replied. "I know of one."

  The monk led them to the north then, a circuitous route that took them far around the northern tip of the great structure, then down a winding, rocky trail to the narrow beach. The water was right up to the rocks, waves licking against the base of the stone, a dance that had continued for centuries untold. Still, the beach was certainly passable, so the ranger plunked one foot in, testing the water.

  "Not now," the monk explained. "The tide is coming in, and though we'll get through before the water is too high, I doubt that we'll find the time to return. When the tide recedes later this day, we will be able to make our way along the shore to the dock area of the abbey, a place little used and little guarded."

  "Until then?" the elf asked.

  Jojonah motioned back up the trail, toward a hollow they had passed, and all agreed they could use the rest after their long day and night of hard travel. They set a small camp, sheltered from the chill sea breeze, and Juraviel prepared a meal, their first in many hours.

  The conversation was light at this time, with Pony doing most of the talking, telling the eager master of her travels with Avelyn, retelling parts over and over again at Jojonah's bidding. It seemed he couldn't get enough of her stories, that he hung on every little detail, probing the woman repeatedly to go into more depth, to add her feelings to her observations, to tell him everything about Avelyn Desbris. When Pony at last got to the point where she and Avelyn had met up with Elbryan, the ranger joined in with his own observations, and then Juraviel, too, found much to add as they de­tailed their efforts against the monsters in Dundalis, and the begin­ning of the trip to the Barbacan.

  Jojonah shuddered when the elf described his encounter with Bestesbulzibar, and then again when Pony and Elbryan told him of the battle outside Mount Aida, of the fall of Tuntun and the final, brutal confrontation with the dactyl demon.

  Then it was Jojonah's turn to speak—between bites, for the elf had prepared a wonderful meal. He told of the discovery of Bradwarden, of the centaur's pitiful condition, but one that healed re­markably under the influence of the elven armband.

  "Even I, even Lady Dasslerond, I suspect, did n
ot know the true depth of the item's powers," Juraviel admitted. "It is a rare bit of magic, else we would all wear one."

  "Like this?" Elbryan said, smiling, and turning his body so his left arm was showcased, the green elven band tight about his muscles.

  Juraviel only smiled in reply.

  "There is one thing which I have not yet seen," Jojonah inter­rupted, dropping his gaze over Pony. "Avelyn befriended you?"

  "As I have told you," she replied.

  "And at his demise, you took the gemstones?"

  Pony shifted uncomfortably and looked at Elbryan.

  "I know that the stones were taken from Avelyn," the monk went on. "When I searched his body—"

  "You exhumed him?" Elbryan asked in horror.

  "Never that!" Jojonah answered. "I searched with the soul stone, and with garnet."

  "To detect his magic," Pony reasoned.

  "And there was little about him," Jojonah said, "though I am certain—even more so from your descriptions of the journey— that he went to the place with a considerable cache. I know why his hand was extended upward, and I know who was first to find him."

  Again Pony looked over at Elbryan, and his expression was no less unsure than her own.

  "I would like to see them," Jojonah stated flatly. "Perhaps to wield them in the coming fight, if there is to be one. I have consid­erable talents with the gemstones and will put them to good use, I assure you."

  "Not so good as Pony," Elbryan remarked, drawing a surprised look from the monk.

  Despite that, Pony reached to her pouch and took the small satchel from it, opening it wide.

  Jojonah's eyes sparkled at the sight of the stones, the ruby, the graphite, garnet—taken from Brother Youseff—and serpentine, and all the others. He extended his arm toward them, but Pony shifted her hand away, out of his reach.

  "Avelyn gave these to me, and so they are my burden," the woman explained.

  "And if I might better use them in the coming fight?"

  "You cannot," Pony said calmly. "I have been trained by Avelyn himself."

  "I spent years—" Jojonah started to protest.

  "I saw your work with the merchant caravan," Pony reminded him. "The wounds were minor, yet they took you tremendous ef­fort to bind. I have measured your strength, Master Jojonah, and I speak now with no intent to insult, or to brag. But I am the stronger with the stones, do not doubt, for Avelyn and I found a connection, a joining of our spirits, and in that bond I came to understand."

  "Pony's use of magic has saved me and so many others time and time again," Elbryan added. "She does not boast, but merely speaks the truth."

  Jojonah looked from one to the other, then to Juraviel, who was also nodding.

  "I did not use them in the fight for the merchant caravan because we knew that monks were in the area, and I feared we would be de­tected," Pony explained.

  Jojonah put his hand up in front of him, a signal that no further explanation was needed; he had heard this same story before when he was spiritually scouting out the three. "Very well," he agreed. "But I do not believe that you should bring them into St.-Mere-Abelle—not all of them, at least."

  Pony looked to Elbryan again, and he shrugged and then nodded, thinking that the monk's reasoning, offering the same ar­gument that he and Juraviel had made to Pony earlier, might be sound.

  "We do not know if we will get back out," Juraviel reasoned. "But is it better," he asked Jojonah, "that the stones be hidden out here instead of back in the hands of the monks of your abbey?"

  Jojonah didn't even have to think about that one. "Yes," he said firmly. "Better that the stones are cast into the sea than to be given into the hands of Father Abbot Markwart. So I beg that you leave them out here, as we will leave these fine horses."

  "We shall see" was all that Pony would promise.

  The discussion then turned to more practical matters at hand, with the ranger asking what they might expect in the way of guards at this seaside door.

  "I doubt that any will be down there," Jojonah replied with con­fidence. He went on to describe the massive door, backed by the huge portcullis, backed by yet another massive door, though that inner one was likely left open.

  "That sounds little like any entrance for us," Juraviel remarked.

  "There may be smaller entrances nearby," Jojonah replied. "For that is a very ancient section of the abbey, and at one time the docks were used extensively. The great doors are fairly new, no more than two centuries old, but there once were many other ways into the structure from the docks."

  "And you hope to find one of these in the dark night," the elf said doubtfully.

  "It is possible that I could open the great doors with the gemstones," Jojonah said, glancing at Pony as he spoke. "St.-Mere-Abelle takes few precautions against magical attacks. If they are expecting a ship, the portcullis, the only obstacle against successful stone use, might be open."

  Pony didn't reply.

  "Our bellies are full, our fire warm," the ranger remarked. "Let us find some rest now, until the time is right."

  Jojonah looked up at Sheila, the bright moon, and tried to recall the latest he had heard concerning the tides. He rose and bade the ranger to accompany him back to the waterfront, and when they got down there, they saw that the water was much calmer and al­most back down to the base of the rocks.

  "Two hours," Jojonah reasoned. "And then we will have the time we need to get into St.-Mere-Abelle and complete our task."

  He made it all sound so easy, Elbryan noted.

  "You should not come here," Markwart told Brother Francis when the man arrived at the Father Abbot's private quarters, a place he had frequented often in the last few weeks. "Not yet."

  Brother Francis held his arms out wide, truly perplexed by the hostile attitude.

  "We must turn our attention wholly to the College of Abbots," Markwart explained. "You will be there, and so will the centaur, if we are successful."

  Brother Francis' face screwed up even more with confusion.

  "I?" he asked. "But I am not worthy, Father Abbot. I am not even an immaculate, and will not attain that title until next spring, when all of the abbots are back in their respective abbeys."

  The grin that splayed across the Father Abbot's wrinkled and withered face nearly took in his ears.

  "What is it?" Brother Francis asked, his tone edging on frantic.

  "You will be there," Markwart said again. "Immaculate Brother Francis will stand beside me."

  "But—But—" Francis stuttered, too overwhelmed. "But I have not reached my ten years. My preparations for promotion to im­maculate brother are in order, I assure you, but the rank cannot be attained by one who has not yet spent a full decade—"

  "As Master De'Unnero became the youngest abbot in the modern Church, so you will become the youngest immaculate brother," Markwart said matter-of-factly. "These are dangerous times, and sometimes the rules must be bent to accommodate the immediate needs of the Church."

  "What of the others of my class?" Francis asked. "What of Brother Viscenti?"

  Markwart laughed at the notion. "Many will attain their new rank in the spring, as scheduled. As for Brother Viscenti ..." He paused and grinned even wider. "Well, let us just say that the com­pany he keeps could well determine his future.

  "But for you," the Father Abbot went on, "there can be no de­lays. I must promote you to immaculate before I can then move you into the position of master. Church doctrine is unbending on that point, regardless of situation."

  Francis teetered and felt faint. Of course, he had predicted as much to Braumin Herde that day in the seawall corridor, but had no idea that his mentor would move so quickly. And now that he had heard the proclamation out loud, had heard firsthand that Father Abbot Markwart did indeed mean to promote him to one of the two vacant master positions, he was surely overwhelmed.

  Brother Francis felt as if he was rebuilding the pedestal of self-righteousness he had broken by killing Grady Chil
ichunk, as if, by mere fact of his ascension in the Order, he was redeeming himself, or even that he needed no redemption, that it had been, after all, merely an unfortunate accident.

  "But you must stay far from me until the promotion is final­ized," Markwart explained. "Better for protocol. I do have a most important job for you, in any case—that of breaking Bradwarden. The centaur will speak for us, against Avelyn and against this woman who now holds the gemstones."

  Brother Francis shook his head. "He thinks of them as kin," he dared to disagree.

  Markwart brushed the notion away. "Every man, every beast, has a breaking point," he insisted. "With the magical armband, you can inflict upon Bradwarden such horrors that he will beg for death, and that he will give up his friends as enemies of the Church merely on your promise to kill him quickly. Be inventive, immacu­late brother!"

  The title was indeed inviting, but Francis' face soured anyway at the thought of the distasteful job.

  "Do not fail me in this," Markwart said sternly. "That wretched beast may be the keystone of our declaration against Avelyn, and do not doubt that that declaration is vital to the survival of the Abellican Church."

  Francis bit his lip, his emotions obviously torn.

  "Without the centaur's confirmation against Avelyn, Master Jojonah and others will stand against us, and the very best we might hope for is that the labeling of Avelyn Desbris as a heretic will be taken under consideration," Markwart explained. "Such a 'consideration' process will take years to complete."

  "But if he truly was a heretic—and he was," Francis quickly added, seeing the Father Abbot's eyes going wide with rage, "then time is our ally. Avelyn's own actions will damn him, in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the Church."

  "Fool!" Markwart snapped at him, and the Father Abbot spun away, as if he couldn't stand the sight of Francis, a gesture that pro­foundly stung the younger monk. "Each passing day will count against us, against me, if the gemstones are not recovered. And if Avelyn is not openly declared a heretic, then the general populace and the King's army will not aid in our quest to find the woman and bring her to justice."