DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (266 page)

Abbot Olin merely bowed and lifted his glass of wine in a salute.

Sensing the sudden tension, Pechter Dan Turk ushered the pair along to the far end of the table and their two assigned seats.

The food was wonderful and plentiful, the drink potent and brilliant, and a constant stream of entertainment—singers, musicians, and amazing dancers and acrobats—came through the dining hall, but neither Brynn nor Pagonel ever really settled in comfortably. Around them, the talk centered mostly on the appropriate punishment for Yatol Peridan and his traitors, and for those Jacintha warriors,
many killed, some captured, and others fleeing across the desert, who had joined with Yatol Bardoh.

It struck Brynn as curious that Abbot Olin was participating so greatly in the discussion, and in what seemed to be more than just an advisory role.

Pagonel caught it, too. “It would seem that your friend Aydrian has forged a strong alliance here, one that goes beyond lending aid to Yatol Wadon in his time of desperation.”

Brynn didn’t like the tone of Pagonel’s voice, one full of concern, but she wasn’t really a part of the general discussion about the table, nor did she seem welcome to be. At one point, she did inquire of the man seated on her other side, a lesser Yatol, of the arrival of Abbot Olin, but he only replied cryptically that the Jacintha garrison was stronger than ever before, and that all of Behren would soon enough be put back in order.

When at last the feasting subsided, and the music went quiet, Brynn and Pagonel rose to leave. The mystic motioned Pechter Dan Turk to them, and the emissary, one of the few men in the room who had not passed out on the floor beneath the table, escorted them away.

First they went over to say their farewells to Yatol Wadon, who was standing off to the side, conversing with the trio from Honce-the-Bear.

It was Abbot Olin, though, and not Wadon, who stepped forward to greet Brynn and the Jhesta Tu, and it was obvious that the old man had indulged himself quite heavily that night. “Your action this day was that of a friend, and it will not be forgotten,” the abbot said to her, his voice slurred.

Brynn accepted his handshake, but looked past him to Wadon, who was smiling, surely, but in a manner that seemed somehow strained to her.

“I wish to meet with you again, good lady of To-gai,” Abbot Olin said with great enthusiasm. “I wish to learn more of your people, and of that curious mount of yours! Such a wonderful beast would be of great help to us as we secure the kingdom, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Brynn replied, and she gave a polite bow and went with Pagonel out of the room, passing through the two sentries—two Honce-the-Bear sentries—posted at the door.

“Great help to
us
?” Brynn whispered to the mystic. “As
we
secure the kingdom?”

“So Aydrian looks south,” Pagonel quietly replied. “With more than a passing interest. We might do well to learn more of him.”

Sometime later, as Brynn slept soundly by a fire on the darkened plain west of the city, Pagonel took Agradeleous on a ride back to the east. The pair flew past Jacintha, hugging the north to keep the dragon’s telltale silhouette hidden behind the line of dark mountains. They stayed near to the mountain range to its very end, settling at last upon a rocky embankment overlooking the Mirianic. Not far from the shore, a grouping of Honce-the-Bear warships was moored, and a line of smaller boats stretched out from them, gliding between them one at a time.

Every so often, a scream echoed over the dark waters of the Mirianic.

“The water about the boats is thrashing,” Agradeleous remarked.

Pagonel squinted, but his eyesight was no match for that of the dragon. He could barely distinguish the silhouettes of the great ships, let alone the water about them.

“It churns white,” the dragon explained. His sentence was punctuated by another shriek from the distant ships.

Pagonel sat on the stone and crossed his legs tightly before him. The mystic placed his hands on his thighs, palms upraised, and fell back into himself. He became aware of his mind-body connection, and consciously severed it.

His spirit stepped forth, a separation of mind and body much as the Abellicans could do with the soul stone, though to a much lesser extent. It was enough to get Pagonel’s consciousness over to those distant vessels, though, just briefly.

But long enough for him to sort it out.

The Honce-the-Bear ships had captured the force of Behrenese traitors who had not landed at the docks of Jacintha. Now the Bearmen were sorting their prisoners, likely interrogating them to find which had truly turned traitor to Yatol Wadon and Jacintha.

Many of them, their hands lashed behind their backs, were being thrown into the water between the boats.

There, the sharks feasted.

Chapter 18
 

P
ONY PULLED THE BLANKET MORE TIGHTLY ABOUT HER TO WARD OFF THE COLD
wind. It was wet, though, and the wind was damp, gathering moisture from the many pools and bogs that marked the Moorlands. Mud caked Pony’s shoulder-length blond hair, and it seemed as if it would never dry in the perpetual gloom of the area. Tired from her exertion against Dasslerond and from the emotional battering just seeing the treacherous elven lady had given to her, the woman could barely find the strength to move along. A big part of her simply wanted to slip down into the soft clay and die.

Dasslerond had told her to fight Aydrian, for the sake of them all, and Pony couldn’t rightly disagree with that assessment. But how could she bring herself to do something like that against her own son? And how could she—or anyone else for that matter—find a way around the power that was Aydrian? Pony had felt that power, all too clearly. Her son could bend the will of Symphony. Her son could reach into the realm of death itself and pull Constance Pemblebury back from the grave.

It all seemed moot to her anyway, that gloomy day wandering the Moorlands. She knew enough about the region to understand the depth of her peril there. Most of the water about her was fetid, and there was little food to be found. Winter was fast coming on in the more civilized lands to the east; on the moors, the damp wind already had the bite of that cold season. She needed shelter and a fire, but there was little to be found and no wood about to burn. And this forsaken place was the domain of goblin tribes and of darker things.

Pony still held her hematite gemstone, but it would do little, she knew, to warm her or put food in her growling belly, or turn the spear of a goblin warrior.

She wandered along, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, hoping against hope that Dasslerond’s gemstone throw had put her near the eastern edge of the Moorland wilderness.

When day turned to night, the woman huddled against the side of a clay overhang, shivering, as the Moorlands came alive about her.

The cry of a wolf was answered again and again, some of the howls uncomfortably close. Pony pulled her blanket up tighter about her, right over her head at one point in a futile effort to block it all out.

Eventually, she did fall into the inviting swirl of the hematite, at first thinking only to spirit-walk the area about her to see if any danger was closing in. But soon after, her spirit flying free of her body, she rushed back toward the east, seeking vicarious comfort in the warm fires burning in the countryside farmhouses.

And there, somewhere north of Palmaris, perhaps in the Caer Tinella region,
the woman felt a sudden and familiar connection. It was a fleeting thing, just a feeling, and nothing that she had the strength to locate specifically.

Her spirit cried out for help in that flash of recognition. She imparted images of her surroundings, trying to be as specific as possible, trying to remember exactly that last real landmark she had wandered past.

But then the woman knew she had to fly back to her body, and quickly!

She popped open her eyes and pulled aside the blanket.

And heard the goblins, snuffling in the dark, not so far away.

Frantically, Pony pulled herself from her hollow, gaining her feet and stumbling along the other way. She thought to discard the blanket, but immediately changed her mind, not wanting to leave a trail. Besides, that blanket was the only potential shield she possessed.

She came around the clay mound to find a pool blocking her way, the dark and still waters as murky as the sky above.

Pony glanced back, knowing that the creatures had caught her scent. But where to run? By all the old tales, some Moorland bogs were bottomless things; others served as home for creatures ancient and terrible.

With a steadying breath, the woman stepped ahead into the chilly water, moving slowly and smoothly to keep from splashing, and also so that she could test the ground before putting her foot down. Expecting to be swallowed up with every step, but knowing that certain danger was close behind, she pressed on.

She knew that she was making more noise then, splashing with every stride through the thigh-deep water, but she didn’t slow. For the goblins were there, on the bank behind her, their lamplight eyes scanning the darkness.

She heard a splash close behind her and glanced back to see a spear bobbing in the darkness. Now hoots and shrill calls echoed out at her, and from the continuing sound, she could tell that her enemies were fanning out, left and right, about the pool.

Pony ducked low and lifted her gemstone, falling into it once more, using the portal to break her spirit free. She flew across the night air to the southern bank of the pool, where a trio of goblins was running. Right for the middle beast she went, charging headlong, with all of her willpower, into its corporeal form.

And there she struggled, both against the spirit of the goblin and against her own revulsion at this horrible act. Of all the powers of the gemstones, none was darker than this.

She had caught the goblin by surprise, obviously, for the creature knew nothing of gemstone magic, knew nothing of disembodied spirits, and knew nothing of such spiritual battles. Still, sheer instinct had the wretched thing fighting back against Pony’s intrusion, immediately and desperately, struggling for its very life.

But Pony was still strong with the gemstones, and with the soul stone in particular. In her last weeks in Ursal, she had spent many hours tending the sick and the poor, using this same type of stone.

The goblin’s spirit was expelled.

It would be a temporary thing, Pony knew, as she came to see the world through the creature’s eyes. She stumbled and nearly toppled, for the balance of the body was very different from that of a human. Goblins were smaller and more wiry, and ran with a loping, low to the ground gait, often using their long arms to tap the ground for balance.

Still, despite that and despite the goblin’s spirit trying to fight its way back in, Pony managed to lift the creature’s crude spear and jab ahead, drawing a shriek from the goblin in front of her. When that creature pulled up, Pony jabbed it again, harder, right in the back. The goblin turned about, howling and lifting its own crude weapon.

Pony stabbed it again, and then again before it could settle into any kind of defensive posture. The creature spun desperately as it went down to the sand and Pony retracted to stab it yet again.

And then she felt a dull thud and then a burst of pain against her back and she was stumbling forward into the muck.

She managed to half turn as she fell, to see the third of the group bearing down on her, its cudgel lifted to smash her again.

At that moment, Pony relinquished her hold on the goblin’s body, her spirit flying free and the goblin’s disembodied spirit rushing back to reclaim its corporeal form.

It got there and blinked through its own physical eyes again, just in time to see the descending cudgel, just in time to feel the explosion as the crude club crushed in its forehead.

Pony didn’t see it, her spirit flying back fast across the lake, past her body and to the far bank, where another pair of creatures was moving swiftly.

She went at the trailing one, thinking to possess it similarly. She got the upper hand almost immediately, as she had with the first creature, and managed to wrestle some control of the beast.

But possession was the most difficult and taxing of the gemstone magics, and in her already weakened state, Pony could not maintain the hold. She did wrest control enough to launch the goblin at its leading partner, diving onto its ankles and tripping it down to the clay. As it turned to respond, and with the spirit of the possessed goblin frantically assailing her in an effort to regain its body, Pony managed to punch out with the possessed fist, smacking the confused creature before her right in the face.

It responded with a snarl, its arms flailing, its face coming forward to bite at her—at the goblin, rather, for Pony let go as that horrid sight approached, her spirit bursting free and rushing back to her waiting body with all the urgency of a surfacing man who has been under the water for too long.

The woman charged the rest of the way across the bog, abandoning all attempts at carefully feeling her way. She pitched forward onto the muddy bank and tumbled down to the clay. She scrambled to her feet, balling her blanket about one arm and digging her free hand into the clay to scoop up a ball.