DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (35 page)

The big man howled, throwing his shield aside and falling to his knees, clutching his wrist, trying to stop the spurting blood.

After the instant of shock, Pony knew that she could not pay him any heed. She turned and started to sprint toward the spot where the archers had been, but she hadn’t gone two strides before the pair reappeared, bows drawn and ready.

Pony slowed, staring hard at the men, noting the trembling of their fingers, studying every aspect of them, body and weapon, in an attempt to find a way. She didn’t think it likely that either would hit her, so unnerved they seemed, and yet …

“Are you still intent on this fight?” she asked sternly, walking slowly but deliberately toward the pair. She was balancing here, measuring a guess against practicality. One line of reasoning told her to stay back, that the darkness and the distance would make their shots all the more difficult. A second line of thought told Pony to intimidate these already unnerved men to the maximum, make them see their doom, shake them so badly that they could hardly loose an arrow, let alone hit anything.

Then she caught a glimmer from their metal arrowheads.

“Ye give us the stone and we’re on our way,” the smaller of the pair demanded, his cap, a triangular huntsman’s affair, pulled low, accentuating his dark eyes. He was the more dangerous of the two, Pony noted, the steadiest of hand and, likely, the better shot.

“I will give you nothing,” Pony replied, “but will take from you more than your hands, I promise!” She ended with a hiss and a flourish with her arms, and the larger man cried out and ran away, but the smaller growled and let fly his arrow.

As soon as he did, the man screeched and grabbed at his face, a great convulsion racking his frame. And then he dropped to the ground.

Pony didn’t see it, focusing instead on the arrow’s flight, aimed straight for her heart and too fast for her possibly to deflect. She did instinctively bring her sword across, and with hardly a conscious effort, sent her fears into Defender, a sword so named because of the line of small magnetites, lodestones, set into its guard.

In response those magnetites sent forth their waves of attracting energies, grabbing
at the metal arrowhead, altering its course enough so that the guard intercepted it and held the missile fast.

Stunned, Pony looked down at the sword, at the arrow held there, the arrow that, she knew, would have skewered her.

Then she looked back to the archer, lying very still. Had his own friend shot him? “Belster?” she called.

“Are ye all right, girl?” he asked from over by the wagon. Pony knew then that he had played no part in this. Confused, Pony went to the archer, lying facedown, and she grew even more perplexed, for the man showed no wound on his back.

Crouching beside him, her eyes scanning the forest for signs of trouble, her ears trying to tune away from Seano Bellick’s continuing wails, the woman rolled the archer over.

He was dead, still clutching his face, his hand over his left eye. Pony pulled that hand away and found her answer in the form of a tiny arrow shaft, protruding from the torn socket.

“Juraviel?” the woman whispered hopefully, turning, her eyes going up to the boughs.

Chapter 15
 

I
T WAS A LUMP OF ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
,
BOUND ON ONE SIDE BY THE
Gulf of Corona and on the other by the ferocious and cold water of the great Mirianic Ocean. A hundred people called this island, Dancard, home, mostly soldiers serving the Coastpoint Guards at Pireth Dancard, the twin-towered fortress rising above the surf.

They were hardy folk here, making their living harvesting the great strands of kelp and fishing. They suffered storms and giant sharks, and had repelled a sizable powrie attack in the demon war. But even when they talked of that heroic battle, the folk of Dancard did so with a stoic attitude, without excitement. Hardy and dour, pragmatic and accepting their lot in life, the folk of Dancard—soldier and civilian alike—depended upon themselves and each other, and were not very trusting of visitors. But neither were they hostile, and they had taken in the
Saudi Jacintha
for repairs and had helped resupply the ship, though Captain Al’u’met had not even asked for that much.

Brother Dellman was glad to be leaving, though, as the ship glided out of the one harbor along the island’s treacherous coast. The
Saudi Jacintha
had been out of Palmaris for more than a month, and had expected to be in Pireth Vanguard by this time, but bad luck and some broken rigging had forced the ship to limp into an unplanned stop in Dancard.

“A stern group of men and women,” remarked Captain Al’u’met, a tall and straight man with the dark skin and woolly hair indicative of his Behrenese heritage. Al’u’met was indeed a rarity in Honce-the-Bear, particularly this far north. While there was a sizeable Behrenese quarter in the dock area of Palmaris, few of the dark-skinned southerners were ever able to find any employment beyond simple manual work, if they were fortunate enough to find any work at all; and no Behrenese, outside the region near Entel, the very southernmost city of Honce-the-Bear, had risen anywhere near as high a level as captain of a sailing ship. There was nothing typical about Al’u’met. He was Abellican, not a follower of the yatols of his homeland, and was among the most impressive men Brother Holan Dellman had ever met, a man who commanded respect upon mere sight.

“They have to be to survive, I suppose,” Brother Dellman replied.

“Good folk,” Al’u’met added with a nod, then he turned from the taffrail and headed forward, the young monk right behind.

“How long before we see land?” Dellman asked.

“You can see it right now if you look behind us,” Al’u’met said with a chuckle, but the humor was lost on poor Dellman and on several of the other crewmen who had heard the remark, for they were all weary of staring out at an empty
ocean. Captain Al’u’met cleared his throat and explained, “Two weeks if the wind stays steady, but once land is in sight, we’ll not have far left to run, for our course is straight to Pireth Vanguard now.”

Brother Dellman leaned on the rail and stared ahead. “So be it,” he said, reminding himself silently of the solemn duty Abbot Braumin had put upon him. He would be the abbot’s principal adviser this fall, when the votes would be cast for the new father abbot. He was to take a measure of Abbot Agronguerre, and his judgment upon the man alone could well determine the course of the Abellican Church.

With that in mind, Brother Holan Dellman offered no complaints—to Al’u’met or to anyone else.

And so it went, day after day, until, just under a week later, the crewman in the crow’s nest called out, “A sail! Due north.”

Brother Dellman looked up from his deck cleaning. He saw Al’u’met stride by, heading for the prow, and so he followed in the dark man’s wake.

“The same one?” he asked, for the
Saudi Jacintha
had been trailing a ship for a couple of days before she put into Pireth Dancard. It had been barely a speck on the horizon at first, though the swift
Saudi Jacintha
had closed the distance considerably, enough for the lookout to get a decent view of the small vessel, an older ship with a single mast and a bank of oars. As the
Saudi Jacintha
had neared, those oars had set to work, keeping their distance.

“Not many sail this part of the gulf,” Al’u’met answered, “at this season or any other.” He looked up at the crow’s nest. “What do you make of it?” he called.

“Single square sail,” the crewman answered.

“Same as before?”

“Under no flag that I can see,” the man confirmed.

Al’u’met looked at Dellman. “I suspect it is the same ship,” he said. “Though why an old square-rigged reme would be out so far from the coast, I cannot begin to guess.”

Dellman looked up at the
Saudi Jacintha
’s sails, full of wind, and figured they’d have their answers soon enough.

“Y
ach, a chaser!” came the cry from the lookout on that square-masted reme.

Dalump Keedump kicked a bucket across the deck and stormed to the taffrail, cursing at every step.

“Yer friend Duke Kalas,” another powrie, Dokie Ruggs, grumbled, storming to the rail beside the powrie leader. “Set us out ’ere to die, ’e did!”

“We’re not knowin’ that!” the powrie leader screamed. “Could be a trader or one bringin’ supplies to that castle we passed, and now, mighten be goin’ to another up north.”

“Yach, but ye’re hopin’, and not believin’ yer own words,” Dokie Ruggs answered, and several others nearby nodded in agreement. “It be Kalas, I say. Sent us out here in this leaky tub and sent that one out behind to put us to the bottom, ’e did!”

“She was flyin’ a flag o’ Palmaris,” another remarked.

“Half the stinkin’ boats o’ the human lands fly the flag o’ Palmaris,” Dalump argued.

“It be Kalas,” insisted Dokie. “She’d o’ had us afore, if she hadn’t blown her rigging, and now she’ll catch us for sure. And us without a way to even fight back!”

Dalump Keedump leaned heavily on the rail to consider his options—and those seemed very few to the powrie leader at that time. He wasn’t certain that Dokie Ruggs and the others had it right, for he trusted Duke Kalas, somewhat. He and his fellows had performed well for the man, and with their help, Kalas had secured his position in Palmaris. But there was simply no reason for Kalas to have gone to the trouble of giving Dalump and his fellows a ship, then chasing them all the way across the Gulf of Corona to sink them. Kalas could have let them all die in the dungeons of Chasewind Manor, without anyone knowing about it.

No, Dalump Keedump wasn’t convinced that his frightened kindred were right, but still, whatever this ship might be, it represented danger. What might she do, even if she was just a trader, if she found a barely seaworthy old bucket like this one thick with powries? And powries unable to defend themselves! Every human sailor had reason to hate powries.

Dalump looked over his shoulder at the empty water before his creaking old ship, then looked back to the southern horizon, though the sail of the pursuing ship wasn’t visible from the deck yet. The powrie leader knew that he’d have to send his fellows to the oars again, and soon, bending their backs to compensate for the meager power the little square sail was providing.

That notion gave Dalump some hope, though, for none in all the world could row as strong and as long as a powrie, and he had a crew whose lives depended upon it.

T
he
Saudi Jacintha
closed very slowly over the next few days, close enough to see that the other boat’s oars were hard at work. On the morning of the fifth day, the lookout informed Al’u’met that the reme had turned more to the east, and the captain, curious as to why this boat was so intent on staying ahead of his ship, which flew no war flags, ordered his crew to follow. Soon after, the square-masted reme turned back to the north.

“They are trying to avoid us, obviously,” Al’u’met informed Brother Dellman.

“And to no harm,” the monk replied, trying to stay focused on his critical mission here, though he, too, was more than a little curious about the strange reme.

Al’u’met considered the man’s reply for a few moments, then nodded. “If she turns again, we’ll not pursue,” he said, “though I am not fond of allowing such a ship to sail the gulf without some explanation.”

“My dear Captain Al’u’met, you are not in service to Duke Bretherford,” Dellman said lightly, referring to the King’s man who commanded the Honce-the-Bear naval forces.

“But I am in service to all other traders who sail the region,” Al’u’met replied,
“as are they to me and my crew. It is a brotherhood out here, my friend, one that we all need to survive against the unspeakable power of the Mirianic. But my debt to you and your brethren is no less—well do I remember the services your allies performed for my people on the docks of Palmaris, when all the rest of the world seemed against us. I will deliver you, as promised, and as soon as I may. Perhaps I will find our reme friend on my return from Vanguard.”

Brother Dellman bowed and went back to his voluntary duties on deck. Every so often, he glanced northward, shielding his eyes from the glare off the water, and once or twice he thought he saw the distant sail.

They lost sight of the ship the next morning, when a thick fog came up. The wind was light, and it took the fog a long time to dissipate. When at last it was clear again, the reme, as much oar-powered as wind-driven, had moved out of sight.

Captain Al’u’met, Brother Dellman, and all the rest of the crew tried to put it out of mind, as well.

And so the days slipped past, and the wind came up strong again, and sure enough, the square sail appeared at the edge of the horizon once more.

But the weather was worsening, and they found that night full of rain and the next morning full of fog yet again, and when it at last cleared, the next evening after that, the captain and crew were greeted not by a distant sail, but by a distant light, high above the water.

“Pireth Vanguard,” Al’u’met informed Dellman and all the others.