DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (100 page)

Now he brought forth the magic of that stone, and as the first powrie neared, De’Unnero’s arms were transformed, taking the shape of the mighty forelegs of a tiger.

“Yach!“the lead powrie cried, lifting its weapon defensively.

De’Unnero was too quick for that, springing ahead like a hunting cat, slashing his right arm down across the powrie’s face, tearing away its features.

The master seemed to go into a frenzy then, but in truth, he was in perfect control, springing from side to side to prevent any powries from getting past him, though a dozen other monks stood in the corridor to meet their charge. The stone had stayed with his transformed paw, melding to the skin, and De’Unnero fell deeper into its grasp now, and though his outward appearance changed no more, his inner muscles became those of the cat.

A swipe of his tiger arm sent one of the powries flying; with a flick of his leg muscles, he darted to the side, avoiding a smash from a hammer. Then a second muscular twitch brought him back in front of the attacking powrie before the startled dwarf had even lifted its hammer.

The claws raked viciously, and that powrie’s face disappeared, too.

Those powries behind were giving ground now, but De’Unnero’s battle lust was far from sated. His legs twitched, launching him fully twenty-five feet ahead, landing in the midst of the dwarves. He became a whirlwind of flailing claws and kicking feet. Powries were no minor enemy, but though they outnumbered this creature nine to one, they wanted nothing to do with him. They scrambled and rushed. Two went back for the portcullis, crying to their comrades who were still outside, while several others staggered past the fighting De’Unnero, stumbling down the corridor, where they were met by a second volley of crossbow quarrels.

All but one of the monks dropped their crossbows and drew weapons for close melee, though a handful rushed forward to finish the dwarves with only their bare hands.

Farther down the corridor, De’Unnero held the last powrie standing before him by the head, between his great paws. His claws had dug right through the powrie’s skull, and he whipped the creature back and forth now as easily as if it was a down-filled child’s doll. Then he threw it aside and started an advance on the two at the portcullis.

Beyond them, a powrie leveled a blowgun and let fly, scoring a hit on De’Unnero’s belly, just below his rib cage.

The monk roared, a tiger’s roar, and tore the dart free, along with a considerable amount of flesh, continuing his determined advance. The powrie gunner popped another dart into place; the two dwarves at the portcullis screamed and tried to squeeze through.

Then the inner sliding door fell, snapping the blowgun and squashing the two powries flat.

De’Unnero skidded to a stop as a spray of blood washed over him. He turned about and roared again, a battle cry that became a call of frustration as he realized that his soldiers had efficiently dealt with the remaining dwarves. The fight was over.

The fierce master came back fully to his human form, exhausted by the effort both physical and magical. He felt the profound sting in his belly then, a burning, washing sensation, and realized he had been poisoned. Most of that poison, a paralyzing and painful concoction, had been defeated by the sheer energy of the magical transformations, but enough remained to bring such a fit of trembling to the monk that he was soon down on one knee.

His soldiers crowded around him, concerned.

“Man the ballistae!” he growled at them, and though De’Unnero was fully human once more, his voice was as ferocious as the roar of the hunting tiger. The younger monks obeyed, and by sheer determination Master De’Unnero soon joined them, directing their shots.

With the main tangle of powrie vessels burning and out of the fight, the watching monks dispersed from that area, running to bolster the wall defenses wherever necessary. Many powries gained the wall through that long and vicious morning, but none found a lasting hold, and by midday, with still no sign of any approaching ground force, the outcome was no longer in doubt. The powries fought on, as powries always will, and more than fifty monks were slain, and several times that number injured, but the powrie losses were staggering, with more than half the thousand vessel fleet going to the bottom of All Saints Bay, and the hundreds that escaped slipping out into deeper waters, manned by only skeleton crews.

By mid-afternoon Master Jojonah had joined with the other older monks proficient in stone use in tending the many wounded, while younger brothers had already organized burial detail for those beyond the help of the soul stones. The battle had slipped into its last stage, the cleanup, as the chaos of fighting died away. Soon the discipline of the brothers put the duties into order, pragmatic and efficient. One thing did strike Master Jojonah as curious, though. The Father Abbot, who had in his possession, Jojonah knew, the most powerful soul stone in all St.-Mere-Abelle, walked among the wounded and offered hopeful words, but seemed to be tending none. The concussive fireball, and a couple of other lightning blasts that Markwart had screeched along the wall top, were hours old now, and so Markwart’s remarks that he had no magical energy left made little sense.

The portly master could only shrug helplessly and shake his head, then, when Master De’Unnero arrived at the wall, his side torn open wide, though the fierce man was hardly limping or showing any sign that he felt any pain at all. Still, Markwart moved near and promptly sealed the wound with the soul stone. Jojonah had known that the bond between these two was tight, as tight as the one between the Father Abbot and Brother Francis.

He went about his work quietly, digesting it all, filing it away until he could find enough private time to properly reason it through.

“You insist upon thrusting yourself in danger’s way,” Markwart scolded De’Unnero as the gaping wound sealed under the influence of the hematite.

“A man must find his enjoyment,” the master replied with a mischievous grin. “Enjoyment you continue to deny me.”

Markwart stepped back and looked harshly at him, understanding the complaint all too well. “How goes the training?” he asked sharply.

“Youseff shows promise,” De’Unnero admitted. “He is cunning and will use any weapon and any tactic to find victory.”

“And Brother Dandelion?”

“A mighty bear, strong of arm but weak of mind,” said De’Unnero. “He will serve our purposes well, as long as Youseff guides his actions.”

The Father Abbot nodded, seeming pleased.

“I could defeat them both together,” De’Unnero asserted, stealing his superior’s smug look. “They will hold the title of Brothers Justice, yet I could crush them both, and easily. And I could go and retrieve Avelyn and the gemstones.”

Markwart had no practical argument against the claim. “You are a master, and have other duties,” he said.

“More important than the hunt for Avelyn?”

“Equally important,” Markwart said with a tone of finality. “Youseff and Dandelion will serve this purpose, if Master Marcalo De’Unnero properly trains them.”

De’Unnero’s face crinkled severely, his eyes narrowing, throwing imaginary daggers at the Father Abbot. He did not like to be questioned, not at all.

Markwart recognized the look, for he had seen it often. He knew, though, that De’Unnero would not cross him, and given that, such intensity could be put to good use.

“Let me go hunting,” De’Unnero said plainly.

“You train the hunters,” Markwart shot back. “Trust me, you will find rewards for your efforts.” With that, the Father Abbot walked away.

“We were valiant this day,” Master De’Unnero proudly offered to Markwart and the other masters at their summary meeting after vespers.

“But also fortunate,” Master Jojonah reminded them all. “For neither the powrie ground force nor the goblin army that has been oft sighted in the region made its appearance.”

“More than luck, I would reason,” Francis piped in, though it was not the man’s place to speak at such a meeting. Francis wasn’t even an immaculate yet, after all, and was only at the meeting as an attendant of the Father Abbot. Still, Markwart made no move to silence him, and the other masters afforded him the floor. “This is uncharacteristic of our enemy,” Francis went on. “Every tale from the battle lines north of Palmaris indicate that our monstrous foes fight with cohesion and guidance, and it is obvious from the success of our ruse that those powrie ships were indeed waiting for the ground army to engage.”

“Where, then, were—are—the enemy, ground armies?” Markwart asked impatiently. “Will we awake on the morrow to find that we are besieged once again?”

“The fleet will not return,” another master responded immediately. “And if the monsters come at us from the ground, they will find our fortifications even more formidable than those that protected us by sea.”

Master Jojonah happened to be looking at De’Unnero when these words were spoken, and was disgusted to see the man’s almost feral smile, a grin truly unbefitting a master of the Abellican Order.

“Triple the guard along the walls this night, land and sea,” the Father Abbot decided.

“Many are weary from the fighting,” said Master Engress, a gentle man and a friend of Jojonah’s.

“Then use the peasants,” Markwart snapped at him abruptly. “They have come in to eat our food and hide behind the shelter of abbey walls and brother flesh. Let them earn their keep at watch, this night and every night.”

Engress looked at Jojonah and at several other masters, but none dared question Markwart’s tone. “It will be done, Father Abbot,” Master Engress said humbly.

The Father Abbot pushed his chair back forcefully, the legs screeching on the wooden floor. He rose and waved his hand dismissively, then walked out of the room, the meeting at its end.

By Markwart’s reasoning, all important business had been concluded. The man wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and with his emotions, some of which were troubling indeed. He had sent a man flying to his death this day, an act that still required a bit of rationalization, and he was also conscious of the fact that he had not been greatly involved in the healing process after the fight. There had remained magical energy within him—he had known that even as he spoke falsely to excuse himself—but he simply hadn’tfeltlike helping out. He had gone to one injured monk, a man sitting against the seawall, his arm badly torn from a sliding powrie grapnel, but when he moved to heal the man with the hematite, an action that required an intimate connection, he recoiled, feeling… what?

Loathing? Repulsion?

Markwart had no practical answers, but he trusted in his instincts completely. There was a perversion, a weakness, growing within the Order, he realized. Avelyn—always it was that foul Avelyn!—had begun the rot, and now, it seemed, it was a more general thing than even he had believed.

Yes, that was it, the Father Abbot understood. They were growing weak and so full of compassion that they could no longer recognize and properly deal with true evil. Like Jojonah and his foolish sympathy for the peasant whose sacrifice had saved so many lives.

But not De’Unnero, Markwart thought, and he managed a smile. The man was strong, and brilliant. Perhaps he should concede to the man’s wishes and let him be the one to hunt down Avelyn and the gemstones; with Marcalo De’Unnero set to the task, success would almost be assured.

The Father Abbot shook his head, reminding himself that he had other plans for the master. De’Unnero would be moved high in line as his successor, the Father Abbot silently vowed. As soon as he had seen De’Unnero’s wounds, Markwart had desired to heal them, as though the sacred soul stone had called to him to act, had shown him the truth.

It was all sorting out neatly for Father Abbot Markwart. He made a mental note to properly eulogize the fireballing peasant, perhaps even to erect a statue in the man’s honor, and then he went to bed.

He slept soundly.

Scouts went out from St.-Mere-Abelle the next day, scouring the countryside and then returning to report that no sign of monsters was to be found anywhere near the abbey. Within a week the situation was made clear: the powrie invasion force had gone back to their ships and departed—for where, no one knew. The goblin army, and indeed there was a huge force in the region, had fractured, with rogue bands running haphazard, sacking towns.

The Kingsmen, Honce-the-Bear’s army, were tracking down the rogue bands one at a time and destroying them.

At St.-Mere-Abelle, the implications of this seemingly good news went far deeper.

“We must look to the source of our enemy’s disarray,” Father Abbot Markwart told his senior monks. “To the Barbacan and this rumored explosion.”

“You believe that the demon dactyl has been destroyed,” Master Jojonah reasoned.

“I believe that our enemy has been decapitated,” Markwart replied. “But we must know the truth of it.”

“An expedition,” Master Engress stated plainly.

Brother Francis was the first out of the room, eager to put together the plans for a trip to the Barbacan, eager, as always, to please the Father Abbot.