DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (9 page)

She kept silent; indeed, she turned inward through the rest of the meeting. No further surprises came forth, from either Danube or the monks, and their business was quickly concluded. Pony did note the glare that Constance Pemblebury bestowed on her as they were leaving the audience hall, a scowl that deepened tenfold when King Danube took Pony’s hand and kissed it, expressing his gratitude yet again for her actions and her sacrifice and proclaiming that Honce-the-Bear was a better place by far because of Jilseponie and Elbryan, Avelyn Desbris and the centaur, Bradwarden, Roger Lockless, and—to Pony’s and everyone else’s absolute surprise—because of the quiet working of the Touel’alfar.

And then Danube and that moment of gratitude were abruptly gone; the King, Constance Pemblebury, and Duke Bretherford rode forth to the docks and the waiting ships. The reality of the still-gloomy day settled over St. Precious.

A temporary moment of truce, Pony thought as she considered the King’s last words to her. A brief shining moment, unlasting in the gloom. Like all such moments.

Pony was on the roof of St. Precious’s highest tower again later that day. The spectacle over at the dock section—with the tall ships unfurling their sails, the
crowds cheering, the trumpets blaring—did not hold her attention for long. Rather, she found herself looking north, beyond the city’s great wall, beyond the farmhouses and the rolling hills. Looking in her mind’s eye to Dundalis and her past—and perhaps, she thought seriously, her future.

Chapter 3
 

T
HE ICY RAIN DRUMMED HEAVILY AGAINST THE BARE TREES
,
BLOWING IN SHEETS
through the forest, soaking Prince Midalis and his army. They had hoped for snow, a great blizzard as so often blasted Vanguard, a storm gathering strength over the Gulf of Corona, drawing up the water and then dumping snow thigh deep throughout the region. But it was just rain this time: icy rain, and miserable to be sure, but nothing that would drive the goblin horde from their entrenched positions around the large, solitary stone structure, St. Belfour, on the small, bare hill amid the trees.

The cowls of their cloaks pulled as low as they could go, the young Prince and his closest adviser and confidant, Liam O’Blythe, the Earl of Tir-Mattias, made their cautious way to the rocky ridgeline that afforded them a view of the abbey and of the monstrous army firmly encamped about it.

“There’s two thousand o’ the skizzes if there’s a dozen,” Liam remarked, surveying the scene before them. He was a thin fellow, all gangly arms and legs, freckle faced with red hair and gray eyes, as was common among the Vanguardsmen. “They got us five to one, even countin’ that them monks’ll come out and give a hand.”

“A bolt of lightning would be better welcome,” Midalis replied with just a hint of the Vanguard brogue creeping into his Ursal court–trained diction. His crystal blue eyes peeked out from under the edge of the hood, sparkling brightly despite the dullness of the day. When he stood in a room with native Vanguardsmen, it was obvious that Midalis was not from the region. He was of medium height and build, but with a darker complexion and dark brown hair. Anyone who saw Midalis standing beside the older Danube would guess that they were brothers.

“If they got any o’ the magic left to ’em,” said Liam, and he pulled off his soaked hood and shook his unruly mop of red hair, running his hand through it to get it out of his eyes. “They ain’t tossed a bolt or a burst o’ fire out at the goblins in a fortnight.”

“They’ve got it left,” Midalis answered with confidence. “But they know that if they use their magic, they’ll just bring the goblins on in full against them. The goblins understand how much the monks have got to throw, and if those in the abbey grow weary from using their magic, they will find a difficult task in holding back the horde.”

Liam nodded, but his expression remained doubting and grim. “Well, they better have a bolt or two for throwin’ when we go against the horde, or we’ll be chased
off or cut down.”

Prince Midalis did not doubt the man’s observations. Vanguard was having a much harder time in the aftermath of the war than the rest of Honce-the-Bear, because in Vanguard, the war wasn’t over. The minions of the demon dactyl had hit the region hard, both along the rocky coast and with a force marching across the land. South and west of the Gulf of Corona, the lands were cultivated, and much more heavily populated; and there, the King’s army had been able to push the hordes away. But here, where the land was much wilder, where forests predominated over farmland and the population of humans was measured in hundreds instead of tens of thousands, the powries and goblins had not so readily retreated. Always, Vanguard had been the roughest region of Honce-the-Bear, its forests full of huge brown bears and hunting cats, its northern border continually crossed by the warlike barbarian tribesmen of Alpinador. The folk of Vanguard had known goblins and powries as more than fireside tales to scare children long before the demon dactyl had awakened to remind the more civilized regions that such monsters did exist.

And though they were certainly outnumbered by their monstrous enemies in the region, the people of Vanguard knew how to fight such foes.

Still, this was a battle that Midalis did not want; this particular army of goblins was too large and too skilled, and the ground around St. Belfour of Tir-Mattias was too rugged for the Prince’s troops to fully utilize their greatest advantage: horses. Thus, Midalis had hoped the dark clouds they had seen gathering over the gulf would bring a killer blizzard, a storm that would weaken the goblins’ resolve to continue their siege.

“The weather won’t be holdin’ so warm much longer,” Liam remarked.

Midalis shook his head, his expression grim. “The monks haven’t got much longer,” he explained. “The goblins have held them in there for near to two months now, and with all the folk who came running before the horde, they’ve not the food to hold on.” He paused there and stood staring long and hard at the windswept rain slashing against the abbey’s stone walls and at the dozens and dozens of sputtering, smoking campfires of the goblin army encircling the place.

“Ye’re to go to him, ain’t ye?” Liam asked.

Midalis turned to regard him. “I see no choice,” he answered. “Abbot Agronguerre came to me last night, in my dreams, begging for our help. They’ve a day more of food, and then they’ll be going hungry. We cannot wait any longer.”

Liam’s expression showed that he was less than enthusiastic about the prospects.

“I’m no more happy about the possibilities than you,” Midalis said to him. “In another time, we’d be fighting the barbarian savages, and now I am asking them for help.”

“Help for the Abellican Church,” Liam reminded him, which only made the prospects darker still.

“Aye, there’s no friendship between the barbarians of Alpinador and the
Church,” Midalis agreed; for indeed, the Church had made many forays into the wild northern kingdom, usually with disastrous results, particularly one not so distant memory of slaughter in a small town called Fuldebarrow. “But I’ve got to try, for the abbot and his brethren.”

“And I’ll try with ye, me Prince,” Liam said with a nod. “And all yer men’ll fight beside the demon hisself, if Prince Midalis’ naming him an ally!”

Midalis put his hand on Liam’s elbow, grateful, as always, for the unyielding loyalty of his hardy men and women. The folk of Vanguard had survived all the trials, the killer storms, and now the invasion, by standing united behind their beloved Prince Midalis, younger brother of King Danube Brock Ursal. And Midalis’ loyalty was no less heartfelt and intense. As Danube’s brother, he could have ruled whatever duchy he chose. He could have taken the Mantis Arm and its prosperous trade, or the Yorkey region between Ursal and Entel, with its gentle climate and rolling farmlands. He could have even been named Duke of Ursal, as was usual for a lone sibling prince, ruling the mighty city beside his brother in the luxury of Ursal’s bountiful court.

But Vanguard had held Midalis’ heart ever since his childhood, when his father had sailed with him into the Coastpoint Guard fortress of Pireth Vanguard on a trip to hunt the huge northern elk. Something about the nature of the place—untamed, seemingly unconquerable—had touched a spiritual chord within young Midalis, had shown him an alternative to the bustle and the dirt of the cities. His brother had been leery about letting Midalis come up to this wild land—would the nearly autonomous people accept him? Or might he meet with an “accident” on a hunting trip?

Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their new Prince.

Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into action.

Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis’ camp that night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Vanguard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.

Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?

Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on poor
Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey’s walls.

At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men, the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just below the beasts’ mouths, pulling down forcefully.

“Which is Midalis?” the third of the group, standing back a couple of steps, asked.

The Prince reached up and pulled back his hood, shaking the wetness from his straight brown hair. “I am the Prince of Honce-the-Bear,” he said, noting that all three of the barbarians narrowed their eyes at the proclamation.

“Your leader bade me to come to him,” Midalis went on, “under a banner of alliance.”

The barbarian in the back nodded his head quickly to the side, indicating that the pair should dismount; then, while his two companions walked the horses away, he motioned Midalis and Liam to follow him.

“They should be unsaddled and brushed down,” Prince Midalis remarked.

The barbarian turned back on him skeptically.

“They’re not knowin’ much about horses,” Liam whispered to his companion. “The folk of Alpinador ain’t much for ridin’.”

“But we have eaten more than a few,” their huge escort promptly added. He looked at Liam and snickered, for Liam’s voice, like his frame, was quite delicate.

Midalis and Liam exchanged skeptical glances; this wasn’t going to be easy.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Both noticed that few eyes were upon them throughout the march, and when their escort pulled aside the flap, they understood why.

More than three hundred barbarian warriors—all tall and most with long flaxen hair, some with braids, others with ornamental jewelry tied in—filled the tent, hoisting great foaming mugs and making such a general ruckus that Midalis was amazed that he and Liam hadn’t heard them a mile away or that the goblins outside St. Belfour hadn’t taken note and sent scouts to investigate.

Or maybe they had, Midalis realized, when he looked to the side and saw a row of goblin heads staked out like macabre party decorations.

“Tunno bren-de prin!”
their escort cried above the tumult in his native tongue, a rolling, bouncing language that the Vanguardsmen jokingly referred to as “bedongadongadonga.”

Almost immediately, the hall quieted, all eyes turning toward the two smaller men at the entrance. The Prince heard Liam swallow hard, and he shared that nervous sentiment completely. Though it was late fall, and cold, most of the barbarians were wearing sleeveless tunics, revealing their huge, muscled arms, as thick around as Midalis’ thigh.

The barbarian ranks slowly parted then as an older man, his face weathered by
more than fifty winters, scooped up an extra pair of goblets and started to walk slowly across the tent. He was huge, his muscles taut despite his age; and though there were others his size or even larger, and though most of the men in the hall weren’t half his age, from his balanced gait and stern visage, from the obvious respect he commanded from everyone in the hall, Midalis understood that this man Andacanavar could best any two of the others, perhaps any three, in battle.