The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 131
“My mum,” Pony said repeatedly, falling back against the wall as Juraviel battled the creature. The woman knew rationally that she should go to Juraviel’s side, or that she should use the gemstones now, perhaps the soul stone to force this evil spirit from Pettibwa’s body. But she could not act, could not get past the horror at seeing Pettibwa, her adopted mother, in this state!
She forced herself to find a level of calm, told herself repeatedly that if she could get into the soul stone, she might learn the truth of this creature. Before she could begin the move, though, Juraviel thrust ahead powerfully, right between the reaching arms, stabbing his sword deep into the corpse’s heart, a sight that froze Pony in place.
The demon laughed wildly and batted the elf’s hand from the sword hilt, then swatted Juraviel with a backhand that launched him head over heels.
The elf accepted the blow, and was moving with it before it ever connected, diminishing much of the shock. A flutter of his wings, a perfect twist in midair, landed him squarely on his feet, facing the demon creature—which still had the sword sticking from its chest.
Then another form came charging into the small cell, rushing past the elf. Without slowing, Jojonah slammed hard into the demon, burying it under his tremendous weight, taking it heavily into the back wall.
And then Bradwarden entered, and the cell was packed full of bodies!
“What is it about?” the centaur gasped.
With an unearthly roar, the demon launched Jojonah away, but Bradwarden found his answers quickly, and as the creature rushed forward, the centaur spun about and hit it with a double-kick that sent it careening back into the wall. Bradwarden moved right in on the creature, front hooves smashing away, fists pounding hard, a sudden and brutal beating that would not allow the demon to find any time to go on the offensive.
“Get her out of here,” Juraviel instructed Jojonah. As the monk scooped Pony into his arms, the elf leveled his bow and waited for an opening.
All the months of Bradwarden’s frustration came pouring out in the next seconds as the centaur rained blow after blow on the demon creature, battering it, tearing bloated flesh, smashing bone into pulp. Still, if he was truly harming the creature, it didn’t show it, just kept trying to find some way to grab at him.
But then an arrow popped into one of those red-glowing eyes, and how the demon howled!
“Oh, but ye didn’t like that one!” the centaur said, using the opportunity to spin about and drive his rear legs right into the demon face. With the head already pressed against the stone wall, the skull exploded in a shower of gore, but still the body fought on, arms flailing wildly.
Jojonah ushered Pony into the hall and set her down against the wall.
“Damned thing, lie down and die!” came Elbryan’s voice from the next cell.
The monk charged away to the door and then looked back, a disgusted expression on his face, waving for Pony to stay back.
Inside the cell, Elbryan slashed hard with Tempest, abandoning his normal thrusting style, for he had stabbed the creature several times, driving his sword tip deep into flesh and organs, with little effect. So he had gone to a more conventional style, taking up the mighty sword in both hands and swinging it in devastating, slashing motions. One of the demon’s arms was severed at the elbow, and a down stroke of Tempest took the other, right at the shoulder.
Still the creature came on, but a straight-across cut of Tempest stopped its momentum and gave the ranger time to level and line up his backswing.
Jojonah looked away, understanding, as the great sword flashed across, lopping the head off. When the monk looked back, his revulsion was even greater, for that head, lying to the side against the wall, was still biting at the air, fires still burning in the eyes! And the body continued to press the attack.
Elbryan punched out with his fist and knocked the body back, then took up Tempest in both hands, did a complete pivot, coming around with the sword low, taking off one leg. The corpse tumbled to the side, one stump thrashing, one leg kicking, and with the head, just a few inches away, snapping futilely at the air.
The fires in the eyes were diminishing, though, and Elbryan soon realized that the fight was over. He rushed back into the hall, past Jojonah, past Bradwarden and Juraviel as they exited the first cell, to grab up the hysterical Pony in his arms.
“Still kicking,” Bradwarden explained to Jojonah when the monk saw that Pettibwa’s body, the gory remains of its head flapping about its shoulders, was still flailing against the wall, tearing at the stone.
“But not for knowing which way to turn,” the centaur added, closing the door.
Jojonah went to the ranger and the woman. Amazingly, Pony was fast composing herself.
“Demon spirits,” the monk explained, looking Pony right in the eye. “Those were not the souls of Graevis and Pettibwa.”
“I saw them,” Pony stuttered, gasping for breath, her teeth trembling. “I saw them come in, but there were three.”
“Three?”
“Two shadows and an old man,” she explained. “I thought it was Graevis, though I could not see clearly.”
“Markwart,” Jojonah breathed. “He brought them here. And if you saw them—”
“Then he saw you,” Elbryan reasoned.
“We must be gone from this place, and quickly,” Jojonah cried. “Markwart is on his way, do not doubt, and with an army of brothers behind him!”
“Run on,” said Elbryan, pushing Jojonah toward the same ancient corridors that had brought them to this cursed place. He glanced back once at the side passage where they had put the guards, then took up the rear of the line, with Pony beside him. They moved as swiftly as the often tight and twisting corridors would allow, and soon came upon the dock doors of the abbey, closed and with the portcullis down, as they had left them.
Master Jojonah started for the crank, but Pony, steadier now and with a grim determination set upon her face, held him back. She took out the malachite once more and fell into its magic, and though she was weary and emotionally battered, she brought up a wall of rage and channeled it into the stone. With hardly an effort, it seemed, the portcullis slid up into the ceiling holes.
Elbryan went right to the great doors, lifting the locking bar and pulling one open. He moved to put the bar aside, but again Pony, still in the throes of the levitational magic, intervened.
“Hold the bar above the locking latch,” she instructed. “Quickly.”
They could hear the terrific strain in her voice, so Bradwarden ushered Jojonah out the open door, while Juraviel went behind Pony and gently eased her along, as well. As she passed the open door and Elbryan, Pony put her other hand, holding the magnetite, against the outside of the metallic door and fell into that magic as well.
The portcullis shifted dangerously over Elbryan’s head, but Jojonah, understanding what the clever woman meant to do, was at Pony’s side, easing the magnetite from her hand and strengthening the magnetic pull, through the door and onto the metal locking bar. Pony fell fully into the malachite once more, steadying the portcullis as Elbryan, too, came outside.
The ranger pulled the door closed, and Jojonah released his magnetic magic, then gave a satisfied sigh as the locking bar fell into place across the latches of the two doors. Then Pony gradually let go of her magic, easing the portcullis down, making it look as if these doors had not been breached.
She turned about and blinked in the glare, as did the others, the morning sun low in the sky before her, cutting shafts of light through the thick fog lifting from All Saints Bay. The tide was not in, but it was on the way, and so they set off immediately and at a swift pace, back down the beach and along the trail to their horses.
Snarling with rage, and despite the protests of the two dozen brothers rushing about him, the Father Abbot was the first to crash through the doors to the dungeon area on the lower level.
There was the battered Francis, the hood still tight about his head, struggling to stand, being helped by one of the other guards Elbryan had overpowered. Farther along the corridor, just inside the doors of their cells, lay the destroyed bodies of the Chilichunks, Pettibwa’s still thrashing at the floor as the demon spirit struggled to the end.
Markwart was not surprised, of course, since be had seen the intruder, the woman kneeling over Pettibwa, on his escort of the demons, but the other monks could not have expected this grisly scene. Some cried and fell away, others fell to their knees in prayer.
“Our enemies brought demons against us,” Markwart cried, waving a hand at the plump woman’s body. “Well fought, Brother Francis!”
With some help from another young brother, Francis finally escaped the hood and his bonds. He started to explain that he had done little fighting, but stopped in the face of Markwart’s glare. Francis wasn’t certain what was going on here, hadn’t seen the Chilichunks’ animated corpses, and wasn’t sure exactly who had destroyed the demons. He had a fair idea, though, and that notion sent many things careening through his thoughts.
Elbryan grew ill at ease, even frightened, as he watched Pony make her way along the trails. Her grunts were not of weariness, though she surely must have been exhausted after her magical feats, but of anger, a primal rage. The ranger stayed close to her, put his hand on her when ever the trail allowed, but she hardly looked at him, just continually blinked away any hint of tears, her jaw set firmly, her gaze locked ahead.
At the horses, Pony methodically retrieved the rest of her gemstones.
Jojonah offered to use healing hematite on Bradwarden, if the woman would loan him one, but the centaur brushed away that idea before Pony could begin to answer. “I’m just needing a bit o’ food,” he insisted, and truly, he did look healthy enough, though quite a bit skinnier than the last time the others had seen him. He patted his arm, the red elven armband securely in place. “Good gift ye gave to me,” he said to Elbryan with a wink.
“Our road will be long and fast,” the ranger warned, but Bradwarden only patted his less than ample belly and laughed. “I’m running all the faster for me lack o’ belly,” he said cheerily.
“Then let us go,” said the ranger. “At once. Before the monks come out of their abbey to search for us. And let us deliver Master Jojonah to St. Precious on time.”
“Ride Greystone,” Pony bade the monk, handing him the reins.
Jojonah accepted them without protest, for it made sense that the lighter woman, and not he, should climb on the back of the centaur.
But Pony caught them all by surprise, turning not for Bradwarden, but back toward St.-Mere-Abelle, running full out, gemstones in hand.
Elbryan caught up to her twenty yards away and had to tackle her to stop her progress. Now she was indeed crying, shoulders bobbing with sobs, but she fought against him furiously, trying to get free, trying to get back to the abbey to exact some revenge.
“You cannot defeat them,” the ranger said to her, holding her tightly. “They are too many and too strong. Not now.”
Pony continued to fight, even unintentionally clawed Elbryan’s face.
“You cannot dishonor Avelyn like this,” Elbryan said to her, and that gave her pause. Gasping, tears streaming down her face, she looked at him skeptically.
“He gave you the stones to keep them safe,” Elbryan explained. “Yet if you go back to the abbey now, you will be defeated and the gemstones will fall into the hands of our—of Avelyn’s—enemies. They will be taken by the same one who brought such turmoil and pain to the Chilichunks. Would you give him that?”
All strength seemed to fall away from the woman then, and she slumped into her lover’s arms, burying her face in his chest. He led her gently back to the others and put her in place atop Bradwarden, with Juraviel behind her to keep her steady.
“Give me the sunstone,” he bade her, and when she did, he took it to Jojonah, explaining that they should put up some blocking magic to defeat any magical attempts to find them. Jojonah assured him that such a feat would be easy enough, so the ranger went to Symphony and took the lead as the group thundered away at full gallop, putting St.-Mere-Abelle far, far behind them before the sun climbed high in the eastern sky.
“Find them!” the Father Abbot fumed. “Search every passage and every room. All doors barred and guarded! Now! Now!”
The other monks scrambled, some heading back the way they had come to alert the rest of the library.
When the reports filtered back to Markwart that the back dock doors had apparently not been opened, the search within the library intensified, and by mid-morning nearly every corner of the great structure had been scoured. The outraged Markwart setup a central reporting area in the abbey’s huge chapel, surrounded by the masters, each in command of a number of searching monks.
“They had to come in, and depart, through the dock doors,” one of the masters reasoned, a sentiment backed by many. His scouting leader had just returned to him to report that no other door in the abbey showed any sign of entry.
“But the doors were closed and barred, an impossible feat from outside the abbey,” another master reasoned.
“Unless they used magic,” someone offered.
“Or unless someone within the abbey was there to meet them, to open the doors for them, to close the doors behind them,” Markwart reasoned, and that thought drew an uncomfortable shift from every man in the room.
Soon after, when it was obvious that the enemies were indeed long gone from the abbey, Markwart ordered half the monks out in searching parties and another two dozen out magically, using quartz and hematite.
He knew the futility, though, for the Father Abbot was finally getting a true appreciation of the cunning and power of his real enemies. With that hopelessness came a pit of rage deeper than Markwart had ever known, one that he honestly believed would overwhelm him forever.
He found relief later that afternoon, though, when he interviewed Francis and the two monks who had been on guard near the cells, when he learned more about these intruders who had come to St.-Mere-Abelle, including one who was no stranger to the place.
Perhaps he wouldn’t need the centaur and the Chilichunks after all. Perhaps he could shift the blame, even of the original theft of the gemstones by Avelyn, by theorizing about a larger conspiracy within the Order. Now, he understood. Now, he had a scapegoat.
And Je’howith would be bringing a contingent of Allheart soldiers.
Markwart stood in his private quarters that night, staring out the window. “We shall see,” he said, a hint of a grin spreading on his face. “We shall see.”
“You’re not even to ask for the stones?” Pony said, standing on the streets of Palmaris with Elbryan and Master Jojonah. The group had landed earlier that morning north of the city, traveling across the great river on Captain Al’u’met’s Saudi Jacintha, which, fortunately, had still been docked in Amvoy. Al’u’met had agreed to Jojonah’s request for help without question and without payment, and with a promise that not a word of the impromptu ferry would be spoken to anyone.
Juraviel and Bradwarden were still in the north, while Elbryan, Pony, and Jojonah entered Palmaris, the monk to return to St. Precious, the other two to check on old friends.
“The sacred gems were given into fine care,” Jojonah replied with a sincere smile. “My Church owes you much, but I fear that you will get no just rewards from the likes of Father Abbot Markwart.”
“And you?” Elbryan asked.
“I go to deal with one less cunning, but equally wicked,” Jojonah explained. “Pity all the monks of St. Precious, to have lost Abbot Dobrinion to Abbot De’Unnero.”
They parted then as friends, with Jojonah retiring to the abbey and the other two moving along the streets of the city, trying to find some information. Pure luck brought them in the path of Belster O’Comely soon after, the man howling with glee to see them both alive.
“What information about Roger?” the ranger asked.
“He went south with the Baron,” Belster explained. “To the King, so I’ve heard.”
That bit of news pleased them immensely and filled them with hope, for word of the Baron’s demise had not yet reached the common folk of Palmaris.
With Belster in tow, and Pony leading, they went next to Fellowship Way, the tavern that had been Pony’s home for those difficult years after the first sacking of Dundalis. Profound pain assaulted Pony as she looked upon the place, and she could not stay, pleading with Elbryan to get her out of the city, back to the northland where they both belonged.
The ranger agreed, but first turned to Belster. “Go into the Way,” he bade the innkeeper. “You have been looking to remain in Palmaris, so you told me. They will need help in there to keep the business open and running smoothly. I can think of none better suited for the job than you.”
Before the innkeeper denied the request, he paused long enough to study the ranger and to follow Elbryan’s gaze to Pony.
Then he understood.
“The finest tavern in all of Palmaris, so I’ve been told,” he said.
“It was,” Pony added grimly.
“And so it shall be again!” Belster said enthusiastically. He patted Elbryan on the shoulder, gave Pony a great hug, then started for the tavern, a noticeable spring in his step.
Pony watched him, even managed a smile, then looked up to Elbryan. “I love you,” she said quietly.
The ranger returned her smile and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Come,” he said, “we have friends waiting for us on the road to Caer Tinella.”
Epilogue
The morning was brisk, despite the brilliant sunlight streaming in from the east. The breeze was not stiff, but Pony felt it keenly across every inch of her bare skin as she danced bi’nelle dasada among the falling many-colored leaves. She was not with Elbryan this morning, nor had she been for many days, preferring to dance alone now, for a time, as she used these moments of deep meditation as an escape from her grief and her guilt.
