DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (5 page)

Out in the mist, the sounds of battle began to recede, the powries obviously in flight, the Duke and his men giving chase.

The hundreds on or near Palmaris’ western wall broke out into cheers for the Duke, the new Baron of Palmaris.

“Pray they are not being baited,” Brother Francis remarked, an obvious fear given the ease of the rout.

Pony, standing quietly next to him, staring hard at the opaque veil that had kept so much from her eyes, didn’t fear that possibility. She simply had a sense that it was not so, that Kalas and his Allheart knights had not gone off into great danger.

Something about the whole battle hadn’t seemed … right.

She thought about taking up a hematite then, and spirit-walking across the field, through the veil of mist to watch the Duke’s moves more closely. But she dismissed the notion with a shake of her head.

“What is it?” the observant Brother Braumin asked.

“Nothing at all,” Pony replied, running her hand through her damp mop of thick blond hair. She continued to stare out at the mist, continued to listen to the cries of battle and dying powries, continued to feel that something here was not quite right. “Nothing at all.”

F
rom a copse across the field, another set of eyes curiously watched the spectacle of battle. Bedraggled, wet, and miserable with a scraggly beard, his monk’s robes long ago tattered by inner demons, Marcalo De’Unnero could not understand how a substantial powrie force—and he figured any force that would go so boldly against Palmaris had to be substantial—had arrived on the field so suddenly without his noticing the approach. He had been here for several days, seeking food and shelter, trying to stay alive and stay sane. He had watched every movement of the few farmers who had dared to come back out from within the walls of their city, to sit buttoned down in their modest homes for the winter. He had spent long hours studying the graceful movements of the skittish animals.

Mostly De’Unnero had watched the animals, his primary prey. He could sense their moods now, could see the world as they did, and he had noted no unusual smell of fear in the air that any approaching army, especially one dragging machines as large as catapults, would likely provoke.

So where had the powries come from?

De’Unnero made his way back into the copse and through the trees, at last sighting the catapult—just a single war engine—and its crew, its human crew, in a small lea amid the trees. The gunners, as far as he had discerned, had lobbed but a single shot and appeared in no hurry to load and fire another.

“Clever Duke Kalas,” De’Unnero, the former brother justice, remarked, figuring out the ruse and the purpose behind it.

He hushed immediately, hearing the snap of a twig not so far away. Close enough for him to smell the blood.

“Yach, damned swordsman,” he heard a powrie grumble, then he spotted the bloody cap dwarf, trudging along a path.

Then De’Unnero spotted the gash on the dwarf’s shoulder, a bright line of blood crystal clear to him despite the fog. Yes, he saw it and smelled it, the sweet fragrance filling his nostrils, permeating his senses.

He felt the first convulsions of change an instant later, growled quietly against the sudden, sharp pains in his fingers and toes, and then in his jaw—the transformation of the jaw always hurt the most.

De’Unnero’s shoulders lurched forward suddenly as his spine twisted. He fell to all fours, but that was a more comfortable position anyway, as his hips rotated.

Now he was a cat, a great orange, black-striped tiger.

“Damned,” the approaching powrie cursed. “Said ’e wouldn’t hit me so hard!”

The last words vanished in the powrie’s throat as the dwarf came on guard, sensing suddenly that he was not alone. He started to turn back, but swung in a terrified rush as the brush rustled and the great cat leaped over him, bearing him to the ground with frightening speed and ease. The dwarf flailed wildly and tried to call out, but the cat paws were quicker and stronger, hooking leathery skin and forcing the powrie’s arms away. The powerful jaws clamped onto his throat.

A moment later, De’Unnero began his morning meal.

His keen senses soon discerned the sounds of others approaching—horsemen and cursing dwarves—so he bit into the dead powrie’s shoulder and dragged the meal away.

“Y
e kilt them to death in battle!” Dalump Keedump accused, spitting with every word, waggling his stubby finger at Duke Kalas, who sat tall astride his brown-and-white To-gai-ru pony, seeming unconcerned.

“I told you that several might die,” Kalas replied.

“Too many!” grumbled another dwarf, the same one who had challenged Kalas in the dungeons of Chasewind Manor those days before. “Ye’re a lyin’ bastard dog.”

A single urging kick sent the Duke’s well-trained pony into a leap that brought him right by the powrie; and with a single fluid motion, Kalas, as fine a warrior as Honce-the-Bear had to offer, brought his shining sword out and swiped down, lopping off the powrie’s head.

“You think this a game?” the Duke cried at Dalump, at all the remaining powries. “Shall we cut you all down here and now and make our victory complete?”

Dalump Keedump, hardly frightened by the death of several of his kinfolk—in fact, a bit relieved that Kalas had finally disposed of the loudmouth—hooked his stubby thumbs under the edges of his sleeveless tunic and tilted his head, staring hard at the Duke. “I’m thinkin’ that our blood just bought us a boat fer home,” he said.

Duke Kalas calmed, stared long at the dwarf, and then nodded his head. “In the spring,” he agreed, “as soon as the weather permits. And you will be treated well until then, with warm blankets and extra food.”

“Keep yer blankets and get us some human women for warmin’,” Dalump pressed.

Kalas nearly gave the command to slaughter the rest of the powries then and there. He’d keep his word to let this group go free, back to their distant homeland, and he would make sure that they fared better in the dungeons over the winter, with more supplies. But if he ever saw a grubby powrie hand anywhere near a human woman, even a lowly peasant whore, he’d surely cut it off and then take the powrie’s head, as well.

“Drag them back in chains tonight,” he instructed one of his knights, “as quietly as possible. Tell any city guards that the captured dwarves will be interrogated and summarily executed, then put them back in their cell.”

Kalas spun his pony and started away, his closest commanders hurrying to get their mounts at his side. The Duke stopped, and turned back. “Count the dead and the living and scour the field,” he instructed. “Every powrie is to be accounted for.”

“Ye think we’d stay in yer miserable land any longer than we’re havin’ to?” Dalump Keedump asked, but Kalas simply ignored him.

His triumphant return into the city awaited.

T
hey came out of the mist more gloriously than they had entered, the Duke and his men, and the grime and blood of battle only made their armor seem all the more brilliant.

Duke Kalas drew out his bloodstained sword and lifted it high into the air. “Honor in battle, victory to the King!” he cried, the motto of the mighty Allheart Brigade. Nearly every person on or near the western wall was cheering wildly, and most were crying.

Duke Kalas soaked it all in, reveling in the glory of the moment, in the triumph that would strengthen his, and thus, King Danube’s, grasp upon this fragile frontier city. He swept his gaze along the wall, taking in the relieved and appreciative expressions but then lingering on one figure who was neither crying nor cheering.

Still, Kalas was thrilled to see that beautiful and dangerous Jilseponie had witnessed his glorious moment.

Chapter 2
 

“W
E MUST STAND UNITED ON THIS
,”
THE ALWAYS EXCITABLE
B
ROTHER
V
ISCENTI
loudly insisted to Abbot Je’howith. “Would you prefer that King Danube insinuated himself into affairs of the Church?”

The way Brother Viscenti changed his inflection at the end of that question altered it from rhetorical to skeptical, even to sarcastic, a point not lost on brothers Francis and Braumin Herde, who were holding their own conversation a short distance away. All the important monks who were in Palmaris had gathered this morning in preparation for their final meeting with King Danube before his departure from the city. Braumin Herde and his trusted companions, Holan Dellman, Castinagis, and Viscenti, were there, along with Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle, Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce in Ursal, and a contingent of lower-ranking monks, the only remaining leaders of the home abbey of St. Precious, led by Brother Talumus, a young but eager man who had been instrumental in the momentous events of the previous months. All the Abellican Church owed a great debt to brave Brother Talumus, in the estimation of many, Braumin Herde included.

“You think of the King as an enemy,” Abbot Je’howith replied at length to Brother Viscenti. “That is a mistake, and possibly a very dangerous one.”

“Nay,” Brother Braumin remarked, coming over to intervene. Brother Viscenti would often lose his good sense in the throes of his agitation, and any ill-considered retorts at that time would not bode well. Abbot Je’howith, who had lived for so many years in Ursal, who had helped tutor young Danube Brock Ursal upon the man’s premature ascent to the throne, held the base of his power in the secular rulers of Honce-the-Bear. “Not as an enemy,” Braumin Herde continued, pointedly moving in front of Brother Viscenti, cutting him off from Je’howith. “But King Danube’s agenda is not our own. His is based in the worldly, while ours must ascend to the spiritual.”

“Pretty words,” Je’howith said with more than a little sarcasm.

“But true enough,” Master Francis was swift to respond, moving quickly to Braumin’s side.

Je’howith glared at the man; there was no love between them. Francis had been Markwart’s right hand. Markwart had even prematurely promoted him to master, and then to interim bishop of Palmaris, and then to the coveted position of abbot of St. Precious, though Francis had immediately resigned when Markwart died, after the revelations that the demon dactyl had been guiding the Father Abbot. But Je’howith, too, had been firmly in Markwart’s court, and that court could
have remained strong even after the Father Abbot’s demise. Indeed, if Francis and Je’howith had stood unified then—with Elbryan the Nightbird dead in the other room and Jilseponie unconscious—both the abbots might have taken up the reins of power right where Markwart had left off, assuring Je’howith the position of Father Abbot. He would have groomed young Francis to take his place after his death, and he was not a young man. But, for some reason that Je’howith could not understand, Francis would not play the political game.

Indeed Francis, citing Markwart’s last words and drawing liberal inference from them, had called upon the Church to appoint Jilseponie Wyndon as mother abbess!

“King Danube would take us in a direction that best suited him,” the Abellican Church’s youngest master went on.

“And in these times of despair, when so many have died in the fighting, when food is short in so many reaches, and illness is rampant across the land, when so many are unsure in both their secular and spiritual concerns, would not a joining of Church and Crown be seen as a reassurance that they, the common folk, have not been abandoned?” Abbot Je’howith recited with a dramatic flourish. “Would not the show of a bond between beloved King Danube and the new leaders of the Church bring confidence and hope to the despairing kingdom?”

“And there will be such a bond,” Brother Braumin replied, “a partnership, but we will not be subjugated to the King of Honce-the-Bear. While our immediate goals of alleviating the ravages of war seem similar, our long-term aspirations remain very different.”

“Not so different,” Je’howith insisted.

Brother Braumin slowly shook his head, making it clear to Je’howith and all who were watching—and that included every monk in the room, by this time—that he was not going to surrender this crucial point.

Everyone in the room understood that if King Danube tried to insinuate himself into the Abellican Church now, it would be very difficult, given the lack of experienced and charismatic leadership, for the Church to hold him at bay.

“Father Abbot Markwart attempted such a joining,” Master Francis reminded them, referring to the fairly recent appointment of Marcalo De’Unnero as bishop of Palmaris, a title that conveyed the power of both Church leadership and secular control over the city. The city had been without a baron since beloved Rochefort Bildeborough had been murdered on the road to Ursal—and the subsequent evidence had implicated De’Unnero and his preferred use of the tiger’s paw gemstone as the killer—and Markwart had tried to take advantage of the emergency.

But that action had only prompted Danube to come north, with his army and his entourage, to protect his power base within the city.

“A complete disaster,” Francis went on. “And so it will be again if the King asserts his power and influence where they do not belong.”