DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) by R.A. Salvatore Page A
Authors: R.A. Salvatore
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breaking out onto the field, his men flowing behind him, left flank and right.
And by then, the rescued archers had gained the abbey’s parapets and their bows began to sing anew, leading the Prince’s charge.
F rom the wall of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre watched with tears welling in his gentle eyes. He had been in Vanguard for three decades and knew well its history—knew of the massacre at Fuldebarrow, where his Church had tried to establish a monastery. He knew of the many skirmishes between the men of Honce-the-Bear and the hardy Alpinadorans, knew the prejudice that lingered on both sides of the border.
But now, apparently, both the men and women of Honce-the-Bear and of Alpinador had found a common enemy too great to be ignored; and if this enemy, these minions of the demon dactyl, could bring these peoples together—could get the Alpinadoran barbarians to fight for the sake of St. Belfour of the Abellican Church!—then perhaps the light had begun to shine through the darkness.
The old abbot could hardly believe it, and the emotions of the moment lent him new strength. He took the graphite from Brother Haney, lifted his hand, and let fly the most powerful lightning stroke of the morning, a searing blast that blew aside a score of goblin spearthrowers, the monsters dying with their weapons stillin hand.
“Ring the bells!” the invigorated old abbot cried, and he let fly another thunderous bolt. “To arms! To arms!”
T he tide had turned, the appearance of the powerful Alpinadorans lending strength and courage to the besieged men of Honce-the-Bear and shattering the previous discipline of the goblin attackers. As many monsters turned and fled as remained to do battle, and those that did remain caught arrows from above or lightning from the abbot, or they were trampled down by horses and barbarians alike.
Within a matter of minutes, the only goblins that remained alive on the field were on the ground and squirming in agony. Some begged for mercy, but they would find none, neither from Midalis and his men nor from the fierce barbarians.
The day was won, the siege broken, the goblin army scattered and running, and Prince Midalis trotted his mount across the field to meet with Andacanavar and Bruinhelde, each with their respective forces lining up behind them.
“A great debt we owe you this day,” the Prince graciously offered.
Andacanavar looked to Bruinhelde, but the stoic chieftain did not reply to the Prince in kind, nor did he offer any hint of where his heart might be. He did glance up at the abbey wall, though, his face stern and set, and Midalis followed that gaze to the reciprocal look of Abbot Agronguerre.
The abbey doors had opened again, and monks were fast exiting, many carrying bandages, some with soul stones in hand. Their line bent to the right, Midalis noted with distress, toward the wounded warriors of Vanguard, and not at all to the left, where lay the wounded Alpinadorans.
The day was not yet won.
Chapter 4
Harsh Reality
W INTER HAD FOUND THE MOUNTAIN PASSES WEST OF H ONCE - THE -B EAR , WITH snow falling deep about the elven valley of Andur’Blough Inninness, strong winds piling it up into towering drifts. That hardly proved a hindrance to Belli’mar Juraviel, though, the nimble elf skipping across the white blanket, leaving barely a trace of his passing. For the Touel’alfar of Corona did not battle the moods of nature, as did the humans. Rather, they adapted their ways to fit the seasons outside their protected valley, and they reveled in each season in turn: a dance of rebirth each spring, of excitement and play in the lazy summer heat, of harvest and preparation in the autumn, and of respite in the winter. To the Touel’alfar, the harshest winter blizzard was a time of snow sculpting and snow-throwing games, or a time to huddle by the fire.
Prepared, always prepared.
This blizzard had been just that type, with stinging, blowing snow; and though it had abated
And by then, the rescued archers had gained the abbey’s parapets and their bows began to sing anew, leading the Prince’s charge.
F rom the wall of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre watched with tears welling in his gentle eyes. He had been in Vanguard for three decades and knew well its history—knew of the massacre at Fuldebarrow, where his Church had tried to establish a monastery. He knew of the many skirmishes between the men of Honce-the-Bear and the hardy Alpinadorans, knew the prejudice that lingered on both sides of the border.
But now, apparently, both the men and women of Honce-the-Bear and of Alpinador had found a common enemy too great to be ignored; and if this enemy, these minions of the demon dactyl, could bring these peoples together—could get the Alpinadoran barbarians to fight for the sake of St. Belfour of the Abellican Church!—then perhaps the light had begun to shine through the darkness.
The old abbot could hardly believe it, and the emotions of the moment lent him new strength. He took the graphite from Brother Haney, lifted his hand, and let fly the most powerful lightning stroke of the morning, a searing blast that blew aside a score of goblin spearthrowers, the monsters dying with their weapons stillin hand.
“Ring the bells!” the invigorated old abbot cried, and he let fly another thunderous bolt. “To arms! To arms!”
T he tide had turned, the appearance of the powerful Alpinadorans lending strength and courage to the besieged men of Honce-the-Bear and shattering the previous discipline of the goblin attackers. As many monsters turned and fled as remained to do battle, and those that did remain caught arrows from above or lightning from the abbot, or they were trampled down by horses and barbarians alike.
Within a matter of minutes, the only goblins that remained alive on the field were on the ground and squirming in agony. Some begged for mercy, but they would find none, neither from Midalis and his men nor from the fierce barbarians.
The day was won, the siege broken, the goblin army scattered and running, and Prince Midalis trotted his mount across the field to meet with Andacanavar and Bruinhelde, each with their respective forces lining up behind them.
“A great debt we owe you this day,” the Prince graciously offered.
Andacanavar looked to Bruinhelde, but the stoic chieftain did not reply to the Prince in kind, nor did he offer any hint of where his heart might be. He did glance up at the abbey wall, though, his face stern and set, and Midalis followed that gaze to the reciprocal look of Abbot Agronguerre.
The abbey doors had opened again, and monks were fast exiting, many carrying bandages, some with soul stones in hand. Their line bent to the right, Midalis noted with distress, toward the wounded warriors of Vanguard, and not at all to the left, where lay the wounded Alpinadorans.
The day was not yet won.
Chapter 4
Harsh Reality
W INTER HAD FOUND THE MOUNTAIN PASSES WEST OF H ONCE - THE -B EAR , WITH snow falling deep about the elven valley of Andur’Blough Inninness, strong winds piling it up into towering drifts. That hardly proved a hindrance to Belli’mar Juraviel, though, the nimble elf skipping across the white blanket, leaving barely a trace of his passing. For the Touel’alfar of Corona did not battle the moods of nature, as did the humans. Rather, they adapted their ways to fit the seasons outside their protected valley, and they reveled in each season in turn: a dance of rebirth each spring, of excitement and play in the lazy summer heat, of harvest and preparation in the autumn, and of respite in the winter. To the Touel’alfar, the harshest winter blizzard was a time of snow sculpting and snow-throwing games, or a time to huddle by the fire.
Prepared, always prepared.
This blizzard had been just that type, with stinging, blowing snow; and though it had abated
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