DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (24 page)

Francis nodded, for he understood well the man’s trepidation. Markwart, Avelyn, and Jilseponie had all taken gemstone use to a higher level, where such feats as spirit-walking seemed almost routine. Francis, too, had learned much in his days beside the Father Abbot, and he had forgotten how daunting spirit-walking could be. And how dangerous. He took back the gemstone, then, regretting that he would be using even more of his magical energies, and set off out of body, rushing through the trees, across the small river, and over the wide bluffs.

He found the goblin band almost immediately and counted their number at only thirty. He stayed with them only a few seconds, to get a feel for their organization and readiness, then headed back, taking a circuitous route, which confirmed his suspicions that the rest of the group—another score, perhaps—was spread out among the trees.

“They have done well in choosing and setting up their encampment,” Francis explained when he returned to his brethren. Before the details of the terrain were lost from his memory, he bent down and sketched out a rough map in the dirt. “We’ll not get anywhere close to the goblins without being noticed.”

“Let us turn for St.-Mere-Abelle, then,” Brother Julius started to say, but Francis cut him short with an angry glare.

“We need not go to them,” Francis went on. “I doubt that they expect any trouble from the townsfolk—it seems more reasonable that they believe the people of Davon Dinnishire will await the next attack from behind the walls of their village. To get back there, the goblins will likely take this route.” He indicated the fairly obvious path on his map. “Let us prepare a section of that same path for their march.”

The monks headed out at once, coming to a stretch of wide-limbed maples,
with a clear and easily traveled path beneath that Francis reasoned the goblins would take, not expecting any ambush. Francis took a good, long look at the area. Never had he been much of a tactician, but rather more of a political animal.

“If I may, Master Francis,” said Brother Julius, apparently noting that the man was at a loss. “We put everyone up in the trees, except you, who will travel to the far end with the graphite. Those of us carrying crossbows will arm the weapons.” He glanced around and nodded, for more than half the monks did carry crossbows. “The rest will sharpen a stick to use as a spear or take as large a stone as they can carry up into the boughs with them.

“You come out first, reacting to a predetermined event, such as the lead goblins passing a specific tree,” Brother Julius went on. The other monks nodded, for they knew Julius had fought with Master De’Unnero, the finest of tacticians, on several occasions, including during the almost legendary slaughter of powries at St.-Mere-Abelle’s lower dock gates. “We will expect the flash, and so we will cover our eyes, and then …” He paused and smiled grimly, and it seemed to everyone, even to Francis, that Julius—now that he wasn’t going to get his way concerning the return to St.-Mere-Abelle—had put his heart into the fight.

A good student of De’Unnero, Francis noted, with just the right attitude.

Soon after, the monks were all in place, settled on their branches, with Francis farther down the lane, behind a large tree.

The minutes became an hour, became two and then two more. Though he was growing as impatient as any, Francis was glad of the delay, of the rest, that he might recover more and more of his magical energies. He didn’t really believe that he would kill many goblins with his lightning bolt, but the stronger the flash, the more likely a solid and quick victory.

The sun went below the western horizon, and still the forest remained quiet. Francis understood that the goblins would gain an advantage in the dark, for the night was their favored time, so he was relieved to see Sheila, Corona’s bright moon, nearly full, rising in the dark sky.

Still they waited—and Francis hoped that the other brothers remained awake!

And then he nearly jumped out of his boots, for a goblin slipped quietly past him, moving from tree to tree. Francis resisted the urge to chase the creature, understanding that this was a lead scout and that any noise from him would likely ruin their ambush. He took careful note of the goblin’s movements, though, for he expected that he would see that one again all too soon.

Soon after, there came a rustling down the trail, and Francis saw the dark forms, trotting easily, crossing the maple grove.

The master took a deep breath, rubbing his hands along the graphite, finding his heart. He harbored no doubt about the course of his actions; he merely feared that he would not be strong enough to see his brothers through this fight, that they would all die out here on the road with so many important messages, of the future of the Church and of the threat of plague, yet to deliver.

In any case, it was too late to change his mind or his plans, Francis deliberately
told himself, and so he crouched and focused on the leading goblins, waiting until they reached the appointed spot.

Out jumped Francis, falling to one knee and holding forth the graphite, calling out a single time—the signal for his brothers to shield their eyes—and letting loose a sizzling blast of white energy, a lightning bolt that charred three of the first five goblins, dropping the next bunch writhing to the ground, and stealing the vision of all for the moment—a moment long enough for the Abellican brothers to fire their crossbows and throw their stones and spears down upon the confused monsters, then to leap down to the ground and begin the wild melee—elbows, feet, and fists flying savagely.

And what a rout it seemed, with goblins falling, scrambling, shrieking, and ducking! For a moment, Francis thought the day would be won without damage to his brethren. And indeed, before the first two minutes of fighting had passed, a score and more of the goblins were down, with another score running haphazardly into the cover of the forest.

Francis called out rudimentary commands—cheers more than orders—and he leaped about, graphite in hand, his blood coursing fiercely, his heart pumping furiously, and in that heightened state of energy, confident that he could loose another equally powerful blast of lightning.

Maybe he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, or perhaps it was just a result of his heightened sense of awareness, but he sensed a movement behind him and spun about, just as the goblin who had earlier passed this spot thrust its spear at his chest. Francis gave a cry of surprise and fear and had no time to do anything but dive aside. He felt the spear tip slash, slip in, and bang against his rib. Had the goblin been carrying a better weapon, that would have been the sudden end of Master Francis Dellacourt. But the meager spear deflected off the rib and tore a longer but more superficial line as it came out along the side of Francis’ chest, lodging in the folds of his thick robe instead of in his flesh.

Francis staggered to his feet, aware that the spear was at his side and that the goblin was no longer holding it. But the vicious little creature was coming fast in pursuit, yellow teeth bared.

Francis didn’t try to extract the spear, but shrugged off his robe, dropping it—the weapon with it—to the ground. He brought his left arm into a defensive position before him, then drove his right arm to block and push aside the goblin’s first attack. The wretched little creature snarled and drooled, its tongue hanging out of its mouth; and it hardly reacted to the sudden movement as Francis snap-kicked it under the chin, driving its jaws together and nipping off the tip of that pointy little tongue.

The dazed creature staggered backward two steps, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial at St.-Mere-Abelle, came on to take the advantage, pushing aside the skinny goblin’s arms, then snapping off a left jab into the creature’s face, once and then again. The goblin staggered backward, and Francis fell over it, bearing it heavily to the ground beneath him.

The goblin bit hard into his shoulder, but Francis got his hands around the thing’s neck and squeezed with all his strength. It seemed to Francis to last an hour—an hour of fiery pain from the goblin’s bite and of horror as the thing squirmed pitifully in his unyielding grasp, arms flailing.

And then it lay still, very still; and even in the moonlight, Francis could see the blackness of death that had come over its face.

Reminding himself that there was still a battle being waged behind him, that other goblins even then might be running at him with cruel spears, Francis wrenched himself away and staggered to his feet.

He saw then that his brethren had performed well, that many goblins were down, and that any of those still near the monks, who had formed into a tight defensive circle, had no chance of gaining any advantage.

But those goblins who had run off had not gone far, Francis saw to his horror. At the left flank, a substantial group of goblins was approaching, spears up and ready to fly.

Francis dove down for his robe, scrambling for the pocket. A moment later, he lifted his hand and reached into the graphite gemstone, calling forth its power. The volley of spears flew in—he heard the cries of his brethren—and the lightning stroke fired off, dropping several more goblins, stunning several others.

On came the Abellican monks, leaping into the goblin ranks, punishing them in close combat with strength and skills no goblin could match.

Francis moved to join the fighting, but found his legs weak beneath him, and when he reached down to feel his chest, his hand came back covered in blood. He was on the ground then, suddenly, alone and vulnerable and expecting another goblin to come up and skewer him.

But then he heard Brother Julius call out his name; and a horde of monks gathered about him, defending him.

Francis reached up and gave Julius the graphite. “Crossbows,” he managed to gasp.

The remaining goblins regrouped and came back at the defending monks, but their barrage of spears was met by another blast of lightning and by a volley of more deadly crossbow quarrels. Those surviving goblins ran, scattered, into the forest night.

“How many?” Francis demanded of Julius shortly after.

“Rest, master,” Julius replied. “You will be tended by bandage and by gemstone, and will feel stronger in the morning.”

“How many?” came the determined question a second time.

“We have downed nearly two score,” Julius answered. “They will all be killed, and those remaining have fled without organization and should pose no further threat to Davon Dinnishire.”

Francis grabbed Julius by the front of his robe and pulled himself up, so that their faces nearly touched. “How many?” Francis growled.

“Six,” Brother Julius replied gravely. “Six are dead, master, and several wounded.
We must begin the healing at once.”

Francis held the grip for a moment longer, then sank back to the ground. Six brothers killed in a battle that he could have avoided. Master Francis felt breathless, and it had nothing to do with the wound in his side.

He spent a long while—perhaps an hour, perhaps two—lying there, in and out of consciousness, as the other brothers tended his wound with bandages and soul stones. When finally he awoke fully, he learned that another brother had died.

More than a third of his force.

Francis took little comfort in the fact that the number of goblin dead was much more substantial, being consoled only because he knew that he and his brethren had saved Davon Dinnishire from any further attacks—had, for the most part, put an end to this rogue band’s troublemaking. He made his slow way about the impromptu encampment, checking on the wounded. Though no anger seemed to be directed specifically his way, he was perceptive enough to understand that more than a few brothers were questioning his wisdom in pursuing this goblin band—queries that, Francis suspected, would be repeated, more forcefully, once he and his companions reached St.-Mere-Abelle.

“Prepare for the road, and we take the dead with us,” Francis instructed Brother Julius.

“Straight to St.-Mere-Abelle this time?” Julius asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Francis glared at him and nodded. “Have you searched the goblins?”

Julius looked at him incredulously. “You expect that they carry treasure?” he asked with a snort. “Their boots were falling off their feet, so worn and decrepit were they.”

“I want to know why they were still here,” Francis clarified.

“Because they found no escape from the kingdom,” Brother Julius replied, rather loudly and sharply. “They, like all the bands still roving this region, were trapped here when the powrie fleet that initially brought them to these shores east of Palmaris was crushed at St.-Mere-Abelle. Where were they to run?”

Francis stared hard at the man. He wasn’t sure if Julius was openly second-guessing his decision to fight the monsters, or if the man was simply reeling from the losses. It didn’t matter, Francis decided. Though his enemies within the Church might use this incident against him politically once he returned to St.-Mere-Abelle, he knew in his heart he had done right. As Master Jojonah had taken the all-important Barbacan caravan off its course to attack an even more substantial group of monsters for the sake of an Alpinadoran town, so Francis was bound to try to protect Davon Dinnishire.

“Prepare them all for the road,” Francis said evenly, not blinking and not backing down an inch. “To St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Julius matched the master’s stare for a long moment, but then nodded and began calling the camp to order.

Francis, meanwhile, gathered up a burning branch from the small fire the
brothers had built, and headed for the pile of goblin bodies. What was he expecting to find? he asked himself repeatedly. Treasure or information that would help him to justify his actions in pursuing this band? Some reward great enough to justify seven dead Abellican brothers?

With anger wrought of guilt, Master Francis pushed among the lice-ridden corpses, kicking them aside. He found a few coins—a pair of gol’bears and some smaller coins—but nothing, as Julius had predicted, that seemed worth the effort of searching the creatures, let alone battling them in the first place. With a helpless sigh, Francis confirmed that the boots of those goblins who were wearing any were ragged things, likely stolen from humans but now worn to shabby pieces. He kicked at one boot, and it fell away, and Francis started to turn back toward his brothers.