DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (187 page)

The sword-wielding powrie attacked powerfully, sword slashing in wild arcs, and Pony retreated to the left, Defender only occasionally making contact with the powrie's wildly swinging short sword. Through the lodestone, she focused her mind on a metal choker the second powrie wore, a silver skull set in the center of its neck.

Around the tree came the second powrie, roaring in glee, club up over his head. Up, too, came Pony's hand, and she opened wide her fingers and sent her magical powers flowing into the magnetite.

Suddenly there came a snapping sound, then another, and the club-wielding dwarf was staggering backward, his roars lost in gurgles, as a crimson mist erupted from his throat.

"Yach, ye witch!" the first powrie cried, charging ahead.

Now Pony turned, continuing her defense through a few twists and turns, letting the dwarf play out its anger, easily parrying or simply avoiding the swings of his shorter blade. The powrie rushed at her, his blade cutting downward diagonally.

Pony flipped Defender to her left hand and brought it up fast, stopping the dwarf's sword short. Then, with a twist of her wrist, she flicked her blade over, then under, the dwarf's. A second twist of her wrist brought her sword in line, and she lunged, stabbing the dwarf's shoulder. Pony flipped her sword back to her right hand as she spun left, Defender smacking the stubborn powrie's pursuing blade hard.

She stopped in mid-turn, stepping ahead suddenly with her right foot, sliding her sword into the dwarf's belly. She retreated as the dwarf howled and doubled up, and then came forward again, powerfully stabbing the powrie in the chest. Pony had complete control now, and she could have finished the fight quickly with a stab to the dwarf's throat or heart, but she was enjoying this moment, was playing out her rage inch by painful inch.

Again and again, the woman thrust her blade into the powrie, never wounding mortally. She had hit the dwarf nearly a dozen times by the time Bradwarden arrived, leading Greystone by the reins.

"Be done with it, then," the centaur remarked, recognizing the macabre game. "I think I'm needin' a bit o' yer magic."

Pony glanced at her friend, her anger dissipated by the wheeze in his voice, and she saw the red stain along the side of Bradwarden's humanlike torso. She drove Defender deep into the powrie's chest, slipping the tip between ribs and into the creature's heart.

She put the soul stone to its healing work on Bradwarden immediately, and found to her relief that the centaur was not badly injured.

"On we go," Bradwarden said determinedly, now taking up his huge bow and a bolt that more resembled a spear than an arrow.

Pony held up a hand and moved to the club-wielding powrie lying at the base of the nearby tree. She bent low to inspect the hole neatly blasted through the silver skull pendant and the lodestone's exit hole at the back of the creature's neck. Standing straight, she then examined the tree and found that her flying gemstone had driven itself deep into the trunk. With a sigh, Pony lifted her sword and began chipping at the hole, trying to extract the magnetite. "I will lose this one some day," she explained to the centaur.

Bradwarden nodded. "But tell me," he asked, "can ye use the stone for repellin' metal as well as ye use it for attractin'?"

Pony looked at her friend curiously and nodded. The magnetite gemstones along the hilt of Defender were enchanted, and Pony had used their magic both ways, to attract an opponent's blade that she might powerfully parry, and to repel any of her foe's defensive maneuvers.

"I might help ye in findin' a better use for the stone, then," the centaur said slyly. "But that's talk for another day."

It took Pony several minutes, but finally she dug out the stone. She flipped the blanket back over Bradwarden's broad shoulders, and the centaur dipped his telltale human torso low and led on. Pony mounted Greystone and followed, moving from tree to tree, scouting in case any powries had heard the commotion. She thought to slip back into the hematite and scout out of body again, but decided to save her remaining magical energies to use on the cave entrance with the piece of graphite she now held in hand. When a flash of lightning lit up the area near the cave entrance Pony and Bradwarden spotted the remaining powrie sentry —and the dwarf spotted them, too. He skittered down the rocky outcropping, landing on his feet and turning to call his kin.

Bradwarden's huge arrow took the powrie in the back, lifted him off his feet, and sent him flying ten feet to slam into the stones beside the cave entrance. The centaur had his bow leveled again right away, aimed at that dark hole in the hill, waiting for any other enemies to show their ugly faces.

Pony calmly walked by him, arm extended.

"Yach, what're ye about out there?" came a call from within.

Pony thought of her parents, murdered in Dundalis; of her second family, the Chilichunks, tortured to death by the evil Church leaders. And most of all, Pony recalled the images of the demonically possessed corpses of Graevis and Pettibwa, saw again that horrible moment, felt again the sickness, the revulsion. Her rage mounted and was transformed into magical energy that flowed from her hand into the graphite, building the power within the stone to explosive levels. Pony held on until all the air around her was tingling with magical energy, until her rain-matted hair began to fly wildly from the mounting static electricity.

Then she loosed a streaking blast of white light, thundering straight through the cave entrance, exploding in the cave in a burst of blinding energy, instantaneously ricocheting from stone wall to stone wall. Powries howled and screamed in agony; and, spurred by that wonderful sound, Pony loosed another bolt, equally lethal.

The thunder echoed for several seconds within the cave, and then a powrie staggered out the entrance —only to be driven back at the end of a flying centaur arrow.

More dwarves scrambled for the exit —and Pony's next blast laid them low.

On and on, her magical assault continued, bolt after bolt smashing into the cave. The residual rumbles echoed; chunks of rock and dust fell from the overhang above the entrance.

Pony put another blast into the cave, though few cries sounded from within. Those powries still alive were hiding now, she knew, probably flat on their bellies behind stones. Her arm went higher, taking aim at the rocky outcropping, and another tremendous bolt shot forth, slamming hard into loosened stone, followed by another and then a third, bringing the entire front of the hill rolling down in front of the cave.

A few steps behind Pony, Bradwarden lowered his bow and studied his friend closely. She was on the edge of control, he realized, throwing her grief and anger into every mighty bolt as if the destructive magic was somehow purifying her from those demons that haunted her memories.

But Bradwarden had spent many hours beside Pony these last weeks. He understood the depth of those demons and knew that it would take much more than this release of energy and revenge to put the troubled woman at ease. The centaur moved a bit closer. If Pony's strength failed and her legs gave way, Bradwarden would be there to catch her.

"It is too early in the morning for such important talk," King Danube Brock Ursal remarked as he settled behind an enormous plate of toasted bread smothered in sauced beans and topped with poached eggs. Danube was a handsome man, though he had packed an extra thirty pounds onto his already stocky frame over the last three years. His hair and beard were light brown, cut short and neatly trimmed, with just a hint of gray about the sideburns, and his eyes were light gray.

"But my King," Abbot Je'howith protested, "many of the children in Palmaris will not find the luxury of a morning meal this day."

King Danube dropped his silverware roughly to the metal plate, and the others in the room, the secular advisers, shuffled nervously, some uttering words of dismay and even anger.

"The situation in Palmaris is dire, no doubt, but I fear that you exaggerate," replied Constance Pemblebury, a woman of thirty-five years, the youngest of the advisers and often the most reasonable.

"And I fear that you underestimate —" Je'howith started to respond, but he was interrupted by the sharp voice of Duke Targon Bree Kalas.

"Good Abbot, you act as if Baron Rochefort Bildeborough fed the waifs personally!" the fiery man protested. "And how many have starved in the three months since the man's death?"

Je'howith wasn't surprised in the least that Kalas had come at him so forcefully; he and the man, once the leader of the famed Allheart Brigade, were often at odds, and their shaky relationship had become even more strained since King Danube, over Kalas' vehement protests, had allowed Je'howith to take a contingent of Allheart soldiers with him to the College of Abbots at St.-Mere-Abelle. It was no secret that Je'howith had involved the soldiers in the Church's power struggle, something that Kalas, a man of the King, did not like at all.

"The city lost its baron, his nephew, and its abbot, all in the space of a few weeks," Je'howith argued, looking directly at the King as he spoke —for the opinion that would matter in the end was that of the King. "And now they have learned, or soon shall, that there is no heir to the barony, no one to carry on the name and legacy of Bildeborough—and understand that Bildeborough is a beloved name indeed in Palmaris. And all of this on the heels of a war that hit that region quite hard. By all accounts, there is great turmoil in Palmaris, which will likely worsen as winter comes on, and that may threaten the loyalty of the folk there."

"What accounts?" Kalas retorted. "Word of the Baron's death was followed by nothing other than silence. And word that there is no obvious heir arrived only a few days ago. I have heard of no subsequent messengers from Palmaris."

Je'howith looked up at the warrior, his old eyes gleaming dangerously. "The Abellican Order has its ways of communication," he said almost threateningly.

Kalas snorted derisively and narrowed his eyes.

"The city is in trouble," Je'howith went on to King Danube. "And every day we delay in setting order there, the danger of anarchy grows. Already there is talk of looting in the merchant district, and the Behrenese yatols who make their pagan temples on the docks will use this time to their advantage, do not doubt."

"So therein lies the truth of your concerns, Abbot Je'howith," Kalas interrupted. "You fear that the yatol priests of the southern religion will steal some of your flock."

"I do fear such a thing," Je'howith admitted, "and so should the King of Honce-the-Bear."

"Are not the Church and the state separate entities?" Kalas asked, before King Danube had a chance to speak.

The king eyed the man, but made no protest. He pushed his plate away, resigned that he would get no quiet morning meal, and folded his hands before him, letting the two rivals debate.

"They are brothers, hand in hand in Honce-the-Bear," Je'howith agreed, "but not so in Behren. Yatol priests rule the kingdom and dominate every aspect of the lives of the common folk. Let the yatols gain a foothold in Palmaris, Duke Kalas, and see if your king benefits," he finished, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Duke Kalas grumbled something under his breath and turned away.

"What do you suggest we do?" King Danube asked Je'howith.

"Appoint an interim leader at once," the abbot replied. "It has been too long already, but now that the matter of blood heir is settled, you must act decisively."

King Danube glanced around at the others. "Suggestions?" he asked.

"There are many nobles here suitable for such a position," Kalas replied.

"But few, if any, who would willingly rush to Palmaris at any time of the year, and even less with the solstice fast approaching," Constance Pemblebury was quick to add. All in the room knew that her words were true. Palmaris was a rough city, with a harsher climate and many more problems than Ursal, the city of King Danube's court, where the nobles who attended the king lived in absolute luxury. Even the dukes, like Kalas, let their barons rule the distant cities, while they hunted and fished, dined fabulously, and chased the ladies here.

"There is one possible choice," Je'howith put in, "a man of great charisma already holding command over much of the city."

"Do not even speak the name!" Kalas protested, but Je'howith would not be dissuaded.

"Any semblance of order remaining in Palmaris is due to the tireless work of Marcalo De'Unnero, the new abbot of St. Precious," he said.

"You want me to bestow the title of baron on an abbot?" King Danube asked skeptically.

"The Church will give De'Unnero an equivalent title," Je'howith explained: "bishop of Palmaris."

"Bishop? "Kalas balked.

"A little-used title in these times," Je'howith explained, "but surely not without precedent. In the early days of the kingdom, bishops were as common as barons and dukes."

"And the distinction between a bishop and an abbot?" King Danube asked.

"The title of bishop confers power equal to that of a secular ruler," Je'howith explained softly.

"But with the bishop answering to the Father Abbot, and not the King," an obviously angry Kalas put in, and Danube's expression darkened at the notion. The others in the room, even cool Constance Pemblebury, bristled and whispered harshly to one another.

"No," Je'howith was quick to respond. "Bishops answer to the Father Abbot on matters of the Church, but to the King alone in matters of state. And I recommend Marcalo De'Unnero highly, King Danube. He is young and full of energy, and perhaps the finest warrior ever to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle —no small boast indeed!"

"Methinks the abbot has overstepped his bounds," Constance remarked. "With all respect, good Je'howith, you ask the King to relinquish much power to the Father Abbot, yet have offered no better reason than avoiding inconvenience to some nobleman who might be appointed to the northern city."