DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Pony considered that for just a moment, and nodded her agreement with the concession. Then, with a sudden wistful smile, she took a step closer to Elbryan, hooked her finger in the top of his tunic and pursed her sensual lips. “Every waking moment?” she asked coyly.

  Elbryan couldn’t find the breath to reply. That was what he most loved about this woman: her ability to keep him always off-balance, to surprise him and entice him with the simplest statements, with movements subtly suggestive. Every time he thought he was planted firmly in the ground, Pony found a way to make him realize that the ground was as tentative as the shifting silt of the Moorlands.

  They were late for the trail, the ranger knew, and he knew, too, that they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a little while.

  What struck them most was the pure majesty of the mountains— there was simply no other word for it. They walked along rocky trails, with Elbryan in the lead, checking the trail and watching for tracks. Pony, walking behind, held Symphony by the bridle, though with its telepathic connection to both these humans, the horse would have followed anyway. Neither Elbryan nor Pony spoke, for the sound of voices seemed out of place here, unless those voices were raised in glorious song.

  All about them great mountains reached up their white caps of snow to touch the sky. Clouds drifted by, sometimes above them, sometimes below them, and often they walked right through the gray air. The wind blew constantly, but it only dulled the sound even more, making this majestic place utterly silent, utterly serene. So they walked and they looked, and were humbled by the sheer power and glory of nature.

  Elbryan knew he was on the right trail, knew he was closing in on his intended destination. This place, so powerful, so overwhelming,felt like Andur’Blough Inninness.

  The trail forked, going up and to the left, down and to the right, around an outcropping of stone. Elbryan started left and motioned for Pony to move on to the right, figuring the paths would cross again soon enough. He was still climbing, and still veering left, when he heard Pony cry out. Down he sprinted, cutting over the rough ground between the paths, leaping atop any boulders in his path and springing away, as surefooted as any mountain cat. How often Nightbird had run along such terrain during his years of training with the Touel’alfar!

  He slowed his pace when he spotted Pony standing calmly with Symphony by her side. When he got up beside her and followed her gaze over the lip of a steep descent, he understood.

  There was a valley below them, obviously, but it was hidden from view by a wall of thick fog, an unbroken blanket of gray.

  “It cannot be natural,” Pony reasoned. “No cloud as I have ever seen.”

  “Andur’Blough Inninness,” Elbryan replied breathlessly, and when he finished his statement, the corners of his mouth rose in a wide smile.

  “The Forest of Cloud,” Pony added, the common translation of the elven words.

  “There is a cloud above it all the day, every day—” Elbryan started to explain.

  “Not a cheery place,” the woman interrupted.

  Elbryan gave her a sidelong glance. “But it is,” he replied. “When you want it to be.”

  Now it was Pony’s turn to regard her companion curiously.

  “I cannot even begin to explain it,” Elbryan stammered. “It seems so gray from up here, but it’s not like that underneath, not at all. The blanket is illusionary, and yet it is not.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Elbryan gave a great sigh and searched for a different approach. “It is gray down there, and melancholy, beautifully so,” he said. “But only if you want it to be. For those who prefer a day in the sun, there is plenty to be found.”

  “The gray blanket looks solid,” Pony remarked doubtfully.

  “Appearances are often far from the truth where the Touel’alfar are concerned.”

  Pony couldn’t miss the reverence with which Elbryan spoke of the elves, and having met a couple of them, she could understand his respect—though she wasn’t so enamored of them, and in truth found them to be a bit arrogant and callous. Still, looking at Elbryan now, she noticed that he was beaming, as obviously delighted and charmed as she had ever seen him.

  And the source of that charm, she knew, was right below them. She stopped her arguing then, taking the ranger at his word.

  “It was not until this very moment that I realized how much I miss my days in Caer’alfar,” Elbryan said quietly. “Or how much I miss Belli’mar Juraviel, and even Tuntun, who made my life quite difficult in those years.”

  Pony nodded grimly at the mention of Tuntun, the gallant elf maiden who had given her life in Aida saving Elbryan and her from one of the demon dactyl’s monstrous creations, the spirit of a man encased in magma.

  Elbryan chuckled, stealing the somber mood.

  “What is it?” Pony prompted.

  “The milk stones,” the ranger replied.

  Pony looked at him curiously; he had told her quite a bit about his days with the elves, but had only mentioned the milk stones in passing. Day after day, week after week, month after month, young Elbryan had spent his mornings with the stones. They were sponge-like, though harder and more solid. Each day they would be placed in a bog, where they would soak up the liquid. It was Elbryan’s job to fish them out and carry them to a trough, where he would squeeze the now-flavored water out of them, a concoction that the elves used to create a sweet and potent wine.

  “The warmth of my meal would depend on how fast I could get those stones milked,” Elbryan went on. “I would gather a basket and run to the trough, then return again and again until I had collected my quota. Meanwhile, the elves would set out my meal, piping hot.”

  “But you were not fast enough and had to eat it cold,” Pony teased.

  “At first,” Elbryan admitted in all seriousness. “But soon enough I could complete my task fast enough to burn my tongue.”

  “And so you ate many a hot meal.”

  Elbryan shook his head and smiled wistfully. “No,” he replied. “For Tuntun was always there, setting traps, slowing me down. Sometimes I was the trickier, and got the meal hot. Many times I wound up sitting in the brush, my feet entangled by invisible elven cords, and often right in view of the meal, watching the steam go off the soup.” Elbryan could talk about it wistfully now, could remember with the wisdom of hindsight, with the knowledge of the great value of the often brutal lessons that the Touel’alfar had taught him. How strong his arms had become from squeezing those stones! And how resilient his spirit had become from dealing with Tuntun. He could laugh about it now, but the treatment had brought him near to blows with the elf many times, and had actually put him in a very real fight with her once—a fight that he lost badly. Despite the rough treatment, the humiliation and the pain, Elbryan had come to realize that Tuntun, in her heart, had only his best interests in mind. She was not his mother, not his sibling, and, at that time, not even his friend. She was his instructor, and her methods, however punishing, had been undeniably effective. Elbryan had come to love the elf maiden.

  And now all that he had of Tuntun were his memories.

  “Blood of Mather,” he said with a sneer.

  “What?”

  “That’s what she always used to call me,” Elbryan explained. “And, at first, she always edged it with heavy sarcasm. Blood of Mather.”

  “But you soon proved to her that it was a true enough title,” came a melodious voice from within the shroud of fog, and not so far below the pair.

  Elbryan knew that voice; so did Pony. “Belli’mar!” they called together.

  Belli’mar Juraviel answered that call, emerging from the fog blanket, his gossamer wings beating to help him navigate the steep angle of the mountainous slope. The sheer beauty of the elf, his golden hair, his golden eyes, his angular features and lithe form, gave both humans pause and added to the already majestic aura of this place. Elbryan and Pony could almost hear music with every one of Juraviel’s short, hopping steps, with every beat of
his nearly translucent wings. His movements were a dance of harmony, of perfect balance, a compliment to Nature itself.

  “My friends,” the elf greeted them warmly, though there was also an edge to his voice that rang unfamiliar to Elbryan. Juraviel had started with them on the quest to Aida, as the sole representative of the elven race, but sacrificed his place in the journey to serve as a guide for a band of haggard refugees.

  Elbryan walked over and clasped hands with the elf, but the ranger’s smile did not hold. He would have to tell Juraviel of the fate of his friend, for the elves had not known that Tuntun was following the band. The ranger glanced back to his companion, his expression revealing his distress to Pony.

  “You know that the demon dactyl has been defeated?” Pony asked, to get things moving.

  Juraviel nodded. “Though the world remains a dangerous place,” he answered. “The dactyl has been thrown down, but the fiend’s legacy lives on, in the form of a monstrous army rampaging through the civilized lands of your human kin.”

  “Perhaps we should talk about these dark matters down in the valley,” Elbryan put in. “Hope is ever-present under the fair boughs of Caer’alfar.” He started moving down the slope, but Juraviel put out a hand to stop him, and the elf’s suddenly grim expression showed that there was no possibility of debate on this subject.

  “We will speak here,” the elf said quietly.

  Elbryan stood straight and studied his friend for a long moment, trying to decipher the emotions behind the unexpected declaration. He saw pain there, and a bit of anger, but not much else. Like all the elves, Juraviel’s eyes possessed that strange and paradoxical combination of innocence and wisdom, of youth and great age. Elbryan would learn nothing more until Juraviel offered it openly.

  “We have killed many goblins and powries, even giants, on our passage back to the south,” the ranger remarked. “Yet it seems as if we have made little progress against the hordes.”

  “The defeat of the dactyl was no small thing,” Juraviel offered, a hint of his smile returning. ” ‘Twas Bestesbulzibar who bound the three races together. Our … your enemies are not so well organized now, and fight with each other as much as they battle the humans.”

  Elbryan hardly heard the rest of the sentence after the elf had shifted possession of the enemies solely to Elbryan’s people. The Touel’alfar had stepped out of the fight, he realized then, and that was something the world could ill afford.

  “What of the refugees you escorted?” Pony asked.

  “I delivered them to Andur’Blough Inninness safely,” Juraviel replied. “Though we were accosted by the demon dactyl itself—a meeting in which I never would have survived had not Lady Dasslerond personally come forward from the elven home to stand beside me. We did get through to safety, and those beleaguered people have been delivered back to the southland with their kin,safe.” Juraviel managed a chuckle as he finished the thought. “Though they returned south lacking quite a few of their more recent memories.”

  Elbryan nodded, understanding that the elves could work a bit of their own magic, including some to erase directions, as they had enacted that magic on him. Lady Dasslerond meant to keep the location of her valley secret at any costs. Perhaps that was why Juraviel was upset at his appearance here; perhaps, by returning, he had violated some elven code.

  “As safe as any can be in these times,” Pony remarked.

  “Indeed,” said the elf. “But safer now than before, due to the efforts of Elbryan and Jilseponie, and to the sacrifices of Bradwarden the centaur and Avelyn Desbris.” He paused and took a deep breath, then looked Elbryan squarely in the eye. “And of Tuntun of Caer’alfar,” he finished.

  “You know?” the ranger asked.

  Juraviel nodded, his expression grave. “We are not numerous. My people and our community are joined in many ways which humans cannot begin to understand. We learned of Tuntun’s death as Tuntun realized it. I trust that she died valiantly.”

  “Saving us both,” Elbryan was quick to say. “And saving the quest. Were it not for Tuntun, Pony and I would have perished before we ever reached the lair of the dactyl.”

  Juraviel nodded and seemed satisfied with that answer, a great peace washing over his fair features. “Then Tuntun will live on in song forever,” he said.

  Elbryan nodded his agreement with the sentiment, then closed his eyes and imagined the elves, gathered in a field in the valley, under a starry sky, singing of Tuntun.

  “You should tell me the details of her death,” Juraviel said. “But later,” he added quickly, holding up his hand before Elbryan could begin. “For now, I fear, the business is more pressing. Why have you come here?”

  The bluntness of his question, the almost accusing tone, set Elbryan back on his heels. Why had he come? Why wouldn’t he, once he had remembered the way? It had never occurred to Elbryan that he might not be welcomed in Andur’Blough Inninness, a place he considered as much his home as any he had ever known.

  “This is not your place, Nightbird,” Juraviel explained, trying to sound friendly, sympathetic even, though the mere words he spoke could not help but wound Elbryan. “And to bring her here without the permission of Lady Dasslerond—”

  “Permission?” the ranger balked. “After all that we have shared? After all that I have given to your people?”

  “It was we who gave to you,” Juraviel promptly corrected.

  Elbryan paused and thought it over. Indeed, the Touel’alfar had given him much, had raised him from a boy, had trained him as a ranger. But the generosity had been reciprocal, the young ranger now realized, as he considered the relationship in the sober tones of Juraviel’s attitude. The elves had given him much, that was true, but in return he had given to them the very course of his life. “Why do you treat me so?” he asked bluntly. “I had thought we were friends. Tuntun gave her life for me, for my quest, and did not the success of that quest benefit the Touel’alfar as well as the humans?”

  Juraviel’s stern expression, exaggerated by his angular features, softened somewhat.

  “I wield Tempest,” Elbryan went on, drawing forth the shining blade, a weapon forged of the secret silverel by the elves. “And Hawkwing,” he added, pulling the bow from his shoulder. Hawkwing was fashioned from the darkfern, a plant the elves cultivated and which leached the silverel from the ground. “Weapons of the Touel’alfar both,” the ranger went on. “Your own father crafted this bow for me, for the human friend and student of his son. And Tempest I rightfully carry, having passed the challenge of my uncle Mather’s ghost—”

  Juraviel held up his hand to stop the speech. “Enough,” he begged. “Your words are true to me. All of them. But that does not change the details of this moment. Why have you come, my friend, unbidden, to this place which must remain secret?”

  “I came to find out if your people will lend aid to mine in this time of great darkness,” Elbryan replied.

  A great sadness washed over the face of Belli’mar Juraviel. “We have suffered,” he explained.

  “As have the humans,” Elbryan replied. “Many more humans have died than Touel’alfar, if all the elves of Andur’Blough Inninness had perished!”

  “Not many of my people have perished,” Juraviel admitted. “But death is only one measure of suffering. The demon dactyl came to our valley. Indeed, Lady Dasslerond had to take the foul fiend there to defeat it when it came upon me in my quest to rescue the refugees. The demon was sent away, but Bestesbulzibar, curse his name; left a scar upon our land, a wound in the earth itself that will never heal and that continues to expand despite all our efforts.”

  Elbryan looked to Pony, and her expression was grave. He did not need to explain the implications.

  “There is no place in all the world for us save Andur’Blough Inninness,” Juraviel went on somberly. “And the rot has begun. Our time will pass, my friend, and the Touel’alfar will be gone from this world, a children’s fireside tale to most, a memory for those descendants of the few,
like Nightbird, who knew us well.”

  “There is always hope,” Elbryan replied past the lump in his throat. “There is always a way.”

  “And so we shall seek one,” Juraviel agreed. “But for now, our borders are closed to any who isn’Touel’alfar. If I had not come out to you, if you had descended into the mist that veils our home, it would have choked you and left you dead on the mountainside.”

  Pony gave a surprised gasp. “That cannot be,” she said. “You would not kill Nightbird.”

  Elbryan knew better. The Touel’alfar lived by a different code than did humans, one that few people could understand. To them, any who was not of their race, even those few selected to be trained as rangers, was considered inferior. The Touel’alfar could be among the greatest allies in all the world, would fight to the death to save a friend, would risk everything, as Juraviel had done with the refugees, out of compassion. But when threatened, the elves were unbending, and it didn’t surprise Elbryan in the least to learn that such a deadly trap had been set up to keep strangers from their land in this time of peril.

  “Am In’Touel’alfar ?“the ranger asked boldly, looking Juraviel right in the eye. He saw the pain there, a profound disappointment within his elven friend.

  “It does not matter,” Juraviel offered halfheartedly. “The mist distinguishes only physical form. To it, you are human, and nothing more. To it, you are indeedn’Touel’alfar.”

  Elbryan wanted to press that point, wanted to hear how his friend felt about the situation. This was not the time, he decided. “If there was any way in which I might have asked permission to come, and to bring Pony, I would have,” he said sincerely. “I remembered the path, and so I came, that is all.”

  Juraviel nodded, satisfied, then managed a sudden and warm smile. “And I am glad that you have,” he said cheerily. “It is good to see you again, good to know that you—and you,” he added, looking to Pony, “survived the ordeal at Aida.”

  “You know of Avelyn and Bradwarden?”

  Juraviel nodded. “We have ways of gathering information,” he said. “That is how I knew that two too-curious humans were approaching the warded borders of Andur’Blough Inninness. By all reports, only two forms, Nightbird and Pony, left the blasted Barbacan.”