Mortalis (The DemonWars Saga)
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The long struggle is over at last. The demon dactyl is no more, its dark sorceries shattered by the gemstone magic wielded by the woman known as Pony. But victory did not come easily. Many lives were lost, including Pony’s lover, the elf-trained ranger Elbryan Wynden.
Despite the dactyl’s demise, the kingdom still seethes in the same cauldron of plots and machinations. But when a deadly sickness suddenly appears among the people of Corona, Pony must undertake a pilgrimage that will test her powers–and her faith–as never before. Watching her every step of the way is the man she hates above all else: Marcalo De’Unnero, the villain responsible for Elbryan’s death . . . who would desire nothing more than to lead Pony down that same treacherous path to destruction.
about? Or another of the Touel’alfar, then? To be sure, I know that arrow!” “What’re ye talkin’ about, girl?” Belster O’Comely asked, coming around the wagon. “My hand!” Seano howled. “Put it back, I say! Use your magic, I beg you!” “I cannot put your hand back on your arm,” Pony said sharply, turning on him with a snarl. “You must!” “There is no such magic!” Pony scolded, and it took all of her willpower to stop her from walking over and kicking the ugly brute in the face. Seano Bellick
unhitched him and walked him, trying to cool him down slowly and safely. And all the while, she wondered what she could do next. How could she save Colleen? Her soul stone seemed the only answer. Perhaps she could reach out and find some nearby help. Of course, if she was honest with any nearby farmers or woodsmen, they wouldn’t likely come anywhere near her or Colleen. Perhaps she could swap a horse with them, though she’d hate to part with wonderful Greystone. She came back to the wagon
Abbot Braumin. Roger knew what was coming even as the small panel slid away at the end of the narrow gatehouse corridor, and the grim face of a brother appeared beyond. “You may enter, but the woman cannot,” came the voice—a voice that Roger recognized. “She is my heart and my soul, Brother Castinagis,” Roger argued. “She is thick with plague,” came the reply, firm but somewhat tempered by compassion. “She cannot enter St. Precious. I am sorry, my friend.” “I want to speak with Abbot
Tetrafel’s archers turned their bows toward her, but not one had the heart and courage to fire. On the abbey walls, the brothers of St. Precious stared in awe, knowing, as each came to recognize the rider, that their salvation was upon them. Down went Jilseponie and Symphony, onto the square, the horse neighing and stomping the ground. “What idiocy is this?” Jilseponie demanded, and the battlefield had gone so quiet that she was heard in every corner. “Is not the rosy plague a great enough
Midalis, a man he had not seen in years. Constance believed with all her heart that he would come to love their child and would train the child, boy or girl, as he had not trained the others and could not train Midalis, to serve as heir to the throne of Honce-the-Bear. Constance recognized the unlikelihood that she would ever be queen, but she realized that she would be more than pleased with the title of queen mother. Still, she wished it could be different, wished that she could inspire an