DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (47 page)

“Are you prepared to begin?” the ranger asked solemnly; and both men, after a glance at each other, nodded.

Andacanavar took a small pot out of his seemingly bottomless backpack, and then produced packets of various herbs from his many belt pouches. He poured them all together in the pot, added a little snow, and set it over the fire. Soon a sweet aroma filled the small chamber, permeating Midalis’ consciousness with rainbow dreams and blurring images.

He felt light, as if he could glide on mountain winds. He felt sleepy, and then strangely energetic. He watched Andacanavar’s movements as if in a dream, as the ranger took the venison off of the spit, then unhooked one chain from the metal center bar and skewered the venison upon it. He reattached the chain and handed it to Bruinhelde. Then the ranger, with a final salute to both men, crawled back into the tunnel that had brought them to this chamber and began to sing softly outside.

Bruinhelde gathered a pair of spurs and began tying them on his heavy boots, and Midalis did likewise; then, without even a glance at the Prince, Bruinhelde collected the rest of the items and began crawling up the steep tunnel. Midalis, feeling as if he was simply floating up the shaft, followed closely.

The Prince couldn’t see much through the smoke, but he sensed that Bruinhelde had exited the chimney, and then heard the barbarian’s sharp intake of breath, as if in fear.

Fighting his own fears, reminding himself that Bruinhelde was depending on him, Midalis clawed up the last ten feet of tunnel, pulling himself onto the floor of a higher chamber, beside the barbarian. Midalis followed the man’s gaze across this larger chamber to a light-colored mound on the floor. Midalis at first thought it was a pile of snow.

But then it moved, uncoiled, coming toward them slowly, sniffing. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Midalis could make out more and more of the creature—this shaggoth spirit—and it took every ounce of will he could muster not to simply dive back down the tunnel!

It resembled a great centipede, perhaps ten times the length of a man and thrice as thick, its wormlike torso gleaming white, with one line of glowing bright orange along its back. Even from this distance, Midalis could feel the heat of that stripe and realized that the spirit shaggoth used that hot strip to help it burrow under the snow.

It kept its monstrous head off the ground as it clattered toward them, its single, bulbous, black insectlike eye glittering eagerly from the middle of its flat face, and its many legs skittering. Midalis shivered at the sight of the creature’s ample teeth: great elongated fangs and tusks, too large to be contained even by its considerable mouth.

“We go now,” Bruinhelde whispered, and he thrust one of the chains into Midalis’ hand. The Prince looked at it curiously for just a moment; but Bruinhelde was already moving, so he, too, leaped up, working rapidly to take up the slack.

The spirit shaggoth sprouted small white wings from the sides of its upper torso, beating them furiously to lift its head farther off the ground, raising its front quarter up, like one of the great hooded snakes of Behren.

And that eye! That glittering eye! Looking right through him, Midalis believed. He nearly lost all hope then, nearly threw himself on the ground before the mighty creature that it could kill him swiftly.

But Bruinhelde kept moving, and the barbarian’s calm allowed Midalis to keep his wits about him. A moment later the pair, swinging their chains in unison, sent the skewered venison steak flying out before them, to land on the ground near the spirit shaggoth.

The creature eyed the meat curiously. Midalis heard it sniffing again and recognized the spirit shaggoth’s nose was a mere hole in its face right below the bulbous eye.

“What if it does not strike the meat?” Midalis asked quietly, working, fastening his javelin to the free end of his chain, as was Bruinhelde.

The spirit shaggoth began to sway, back and forth. Hypnotizing movements, back and forth, back and forth. Andacanavar had warned them about this, had told them that to stare into that eye was to forget all plans, was to freeze in the face
of the spirit shaggoth and be devoured.

Midalis glanced at Bruinhelde and saw the barbarian was standing perfectly still, staring at the creature. The Prince lashed out, punching the barbarian’s shoulder. Then he and Bruinhelde both jumped in terror as the spirit shaggoth struck, taut muscles propelling the head forward with blinding speed at the venison and the bar, snapping it up.

“Now!” Bruinhelde yelled. Both he and Midalis launched their javelins past the spirit shaggoth’s head, which was up high again, to the floor behind. Bruinhelde immediately brought forth Towalloko, snapping flint against steel to light the wick. Then he ran before the great beast, holding out the bringer of dreams, turning the ring slowly, slowly.

Prince Midalis knew what he was supposed to do—run past the distracted monster, scoop up one chain as a rein, and mount it, straddling the orange line of fire to catch the other chain. He knew that the sooner he went, the better their chances of success, and silently screamed at himself to move. But he couldn’t bring his legs to action.

“Go!” Bruinhelde called to him.

Midalis tried to move. He thought of the disaster this day would bring if he did not go—if, because of his cowardice, Bruinhelde was killed, or they both were forced out in disgrace. What loss to Honce-the-Bear, to Vanguard, which had been saved by the Alpinadorans.

Yes, that was it, the image of St. Belfour besieged, of the goblins closing in on Midalis’ small force. Surely those creatures would have destroyed the Vanguardsmen had not Bruinhelde and his clansmen come to their aid.

Now Midalis was running low in a crouch, his spurs crunching into the ice-covered floor or sparking whenever they struck bare stone. He tried to keep his movements fluid, to make no abrupt move that would break the swaying spirit shaggoth from its Towalloko-induced trance.

He came around the side of its swaying neck and saw the first chain on the floor. Then it seemed to him as if everything was happening in a dreamlike fog, his own motions slow, so slow! He gathered up the chain and leaped for the spirit shaggoth’s back, planting one foot on the bony ridge separating the outer segments from that glowing orange stripe. Midalis didn’t even consider the plain good luck that kept his foot securely in place, for to slip here and fall upon that superheated back would have melted the skin from his bones! Nor did he even consider his next motion, but quickly swung his free leg over that glowing stripe and planted his foot on the opposite bony ridge, then reached down low and scooped up the other chain.

Then he saw the many bones littering the chamber—whitened skulls and charred leg bones—and the Prince nearly froze in horror.

But he growled away his fear. In a moment, he was standing straight, holding the chains, frantically taking up the slack.

The spirit shaggoth turned suddenly to the left and reared even higher; and
Midalis, thrown off balance, fell forward and just managed to throw his arm out and stop himself, his chest and face barely an inch from the glowing stripe.

He realized that Bruinhelde was moving, heading for a side exit, holding forth Towalloko, luring the creature out.

They went down a corridor and came out on a long, snow-covered ledge, with a thousand-foot drop to Midalis’ left and a towering cliff face to his right. Now Bruinhelde scrambled out of the way, and Midalis was on his own.

Immediately, the spirit shaggoth began to tug and buck, but Midalis held the reins, keeping the creature’s head high.

The Prince heard the wind in his ears as the creature ran down the length of the ridge, scattering the snow from the rock, its hundred feet clacking on the stone. At the far end, the Prince tugged hard on the right rein, bringing the creature around in a dizzying turn, and before he had even oriented himself, he discovered that they were almost back to Bruinhelde.

Now the barbarian put up Towalloko again, entrancing the creature. Prince Midalis found getting off the beast was even more trying than getting on, out here in the wind, where one slip could burn his leg or send him flying to his death.

He managed it somehow and went to Bruinhelde, taking Towalloko, keeping the mesmerizing rainbow working.

He retreated into the creature’s chamber as Bruinhelde rode the beast the length of the precipice and back again, and was ready to catch the creature’s attention and hold it as the barbarian dismounted and joined him.

Out of breath, hardly believing what they had just done, the pair slowly backed toward the chimney.

Without warning, the candle went out; the mesmerizing rainbow hues were no more.

Midalis knew beyond doubt that the creature would strike at Bruinhelde. He knew, too, that he could escape in a wild slide down the steep tunnel. But how could he do that to this man, his new brother?

He leaped in front of Bruinhelde—or tried to, for the barbarian, harboring the same thoughts, tried to leap in front of him at the same moment. They crashed together, Midalis’ forehead smacking Bruinhelde’s shoulder, their knees crashing together, and then they stumbled, certain that they were doomed.

The spirit shaggoth inexplicably missed the strike, as if their sudden movements and collision had confused it.

The pair scrambled all over each other, pushing each other toward the downward-slanting tunnel, then falling into it together, bouncing and tumbling, and finally crawling out the lower opening, to find Andacanavar waiting for them.

“A fun ride, then.” The ranger laughed at the disheveled pair, for Midalis’ forehead was bleeding and Bruinhelde was holding one knee. “We could go up and ride it again.”

“With all our blessings,” Midalis said, holding out Towalloko. “You go.”

But Andacanavar only laughed again and led them out of the cave.

Midalis hardly noticed the first part of their descent, for he was lost in a haze of smoky dreams. Then, as his thoughts cleared, he found himself with a most profound headache, could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. At first, he thought it the result of the collision with Bruinhelde, but when he looked at him, he found that the barbarian was similarly rubbing his head.

The herbal smoke, Midalis reasoned; and a strange notion occurred to him then. How much of this experience had been real and how much had been hallucination? Was there even really a creature within that cavern? And if so, was it as they had seen it, so terrifying, so mighty? Yes, that was it, Midalis thought. This whole experience had been naught but an elaborate deceit!

“What are you thinking?” Andacanavar asked, seeing Midalis’ perplexed expression; but then the ranger exploded in laughter, and so did Bruinhelde.

Midalis stared at them both curiously.

Andacanavar, laughing still, produced a small sheet of polished metal and held it out to the man. “Your face,” he explained.

Midalis took the mirror and held it up before him, then gasped and had to reconsider his assumption.

For the Prince’s face was bright red, burned by his close encounter with the spirit shaggoth’s back.

“You have some ugly monsters in Alpinador,” Midalis remarked.

“We say the same of your women,” Bruinhelde replied; and they laughed again, all three.

“You are brethren now,” Andacanavar remarked in all seriousness.

Midalis and Bruinhelde nodded—each had willingly risked his own safety to save the other. Even in that moment of victory, the Prince wondered how his natural brother would feel about the newest addition to the family.

“I
’m only eight years in the Church,” Brother Haney said to Liam O’Blythe and Brother Dellman as they walked along the docks of Pireth Vanguard, toward the waiting
Saudi Jacintha
. “There be two brothers older than meself in all of Vanguard, not counting Abbot Agronguerre.”

His doubts touched Dellman, for he had heard the rumors that had named Haney as Agronguerre’s choice for abbot, if he was indeed elected father abbot. Haney wasn’t of the correct age, of course, wasn’t even a master, but such premature appointments were not unusual at all in Vanguard, where brothers were few. On occasion, St.-Mere-Abelle had been forced to send a master north to replace a fallen abbot. Given the turmoil in the southland these days, and the absence of masters and other high-ranking brethren, Dellman thought that unlikely. And if Abbot Agronguerre did indeed become father abbot, then his faith in Haney would likely secure the man’s ascent as abbot at St. Belfour.

“Will ye come back to us?” Liam O’Blythe asked Dellman.

“My course is not my own to decide,” the brother answered, then quickly added, “but if given the chance to name my road, it will indeed include Vanguard. Perhaps
I will take my first appointment as master in service to Abbot Haney of St. Belfour.” It was just the right thing to say, a remark that widened a smile on Brother Haney’s face, and just the right time to say it, for they had come to the gangplank leading aboard the
Saudi Jacintha
, with Captain Al’u’met looking across at them approvingly. The three, their friendship forged that night on the beach, and grown since, joined hands then.

“Would that we had a jigger o’ single malt to toast,” Liam said with a wink.

Dellman looked at him curiously. “I have but one fear of returning to Vanguard,” he said seriously, drawing concerned looks from his companions.

“I fear that I will begin to speak like you!” Dellman explained, and all three broke down in laughter and fell into a great hug.

“Ye do return to us, Brother Dellman,” Brother Haney remarked as the man started up the gangplank. Dellman glanced back over his shoulder and nodded sincerely, for he had every intention of doing just that.

“A
nd if I do not return—” Abbot Agronguerre began to Prince Midalis, the two standing in a side room off the docks of Pireth Vanguard while the
Saudi Jacintha
was readied for leaving.

“Then Brother Haney will be named as abbot of St. Belfour,” the Prince assured the monk. “We are no strangers to succession, my friend. Is there an abbey more independent than St. Belfour in all Honce-the-Bear?”