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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Are you ready?” she heard her opponent ask. From his tone, she realized that he must have already asked that question several times.

  She smiled and nodded, and Liam came on suddenly, a side slash with the sword, followed by a sudden short dagger thrust.

  Pony easily had Defender in line to parry the slash, then angled her sword the other way, abbreviating the dagger move.

  The man smiled, obviously impressed. Pony came on suddenly, a lunge and thrust that became a sideways slap that sent his sword wide, followed by another quick step forward, Defender’s tip coming ahead briefly, then angling down, parrying his dagger parry before it could begin.

  The man was quick, though, and he brought his sword back in, recovering from his surprise, and went on the sudden forward attack.

  But the sword dance was flowing mightily through Pony, filling her with a joy she had feared she would never know again. On came Liam’s sword thrust and dagger thrust, but Pony skittered back, her legs working fast, her upper body hardly moving at all, in perfect balance.

  Liam came on even farther, seeing that she was running out of room, with a clump of birch trees close behind.

  Pony backed right up to them, and as her opponent closed, she came forward with a thrust—a measured thrust, for she ended it abruptly, her left hand catching hold of the birch behind her, all her momentum shifting suddenly, so that she spun around the bending tree.

  “Well done,” her opponent congratulated her. But before he even finished his salute, sword to forehead, he had to launch his weapon out in a desperate parry, for Pony leaped through the birch tangle and came on once again—thrust, thrust, thrust.

  He parried each stroke in succession, barely, and now found himself backing fast, and with far less balance than Pony had shown.

  She pressed her advantage, rushing forward, sword stabbing for his belly, for his chest, for his face, and then his belly again, and with his using both his weapons frantically to fend off her blows.

  Now her momentum had seemingly played out, and she should have retreated into a defensive stance again, but she did not, instead coming forward even more aggressively.

  It appeared as if she had erred, and her opponent, obviously no novice to battle, took the initiative and the offensive, easily parrying one unbalanced thrust and reversing his footing, coming forward fast, sword leading, dagger following in two commanding thrusts that hit …

  Nothing.

  And Liam stopped, stunned, for in his flurry he had blocked his own vision and now he couldn’t even locate his opponent!

  Then he felt the tip of a sword against the back of his neck, just under his head, and he froze in place.

  “I would call that an advantage!” Andacanavar roared. Liam dropped sword and dagger and shrugged.

  “No blood, I pray,” he said to Pony as she walked by, staring intently into her deep blue eyes.

  “It will heal,” she promised, and she sheathed Defender and moved beside the ranger.

  He nodded approvingly.

  “Nightbird gave you a great gift,” he remarked.

  Pony nodded her agreement, for right then, feeling that tingling power of the sword dance coursing through her, she gained an even greater appreciation of the gift.

  “Was that all he taught you?” Andacanavar asked.

  Pony looked at him, not understanding. How could she begin to list all the things that she and Elbryan had taught each other, or had learned together?

  “Your hesitance alone answers my question,” the ranger said. “He did not teach you, and so I shall. Tomorrow.”

  Pony looked at him skeptically.

  “Trust me on this, woman,” the ranger bade her. “You will find more than you expect, I promise.” He paused and held Pony’s stare for a long time, while her expression went through skepticism and trepidation and then into some measure of hopefulness.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked again.

  “Early,” Pony promised, and she gathered her things and took up Greystone’s reins and walked away.

  “A remarkable woman,” Andacanavar’s companion, who was not Liam O’Blythe, remarked as Pony and Greystone disappeared into the forest.

  “Skilled and determined, and a feast for a man’s eyes,” the ranger replied, looking down at his friend. “I told you last night that she would beat you, and easily.”

  “Brother Dellman described her as beautiful,” the ranger’s companion remarked, “and I do not think that our friend Dellman makes that observation often of women.”

  “His words could not begin to tell the whole truth of her,” Andacanavar replied, and he gave his companion a sly look. “Beauty enough to make any man swoon.”

  “And are you not a man?” came the next question.

  “Too old for her, but I’m thinking that she is about your own age.”

  The man, so easily defeated in the sword fight, only shrugged and smiled.

  “Was that good enough for you?” Andacanavar called out to their newest companion, as Bradwarden trotted into the grove, though he stayed the proper distance from the humans, as centaur law demanded in times of the plague.

  “She left with a smile,” the centaur admitted, “one I’ve not seen on that beautiful face o’ hers in a long while.”

  “Rangers have a way of doing that to beautiful women,” Andacanavar said with a wink.

  “Her pain’s deep,” the centaur remarked seriously.

  “And tomorrow it might be deep again,” Andacanavar replied, “for she will be meeting her lover again. It will hurt, no doubt, but it is a pain she is needing.”

  “I wouldn’t’ve asked for yer help if I didn’t think ye’d be helpin’,” Bradwarden said.

  “And glad we are that you did,” said the ranger’s companion. The tone of his voice, wistful, even enchanted, made Bradwarden and Andacanavar look at each other and wink knowingly.

  “I see it all the time,” the centaur mumbled to Andacanavar.

  Once again, Pony found her dreams filled with pleasant memories of her lover, of sword dancing and making love, of long walks in the forest or just sitting and talking on a bare hillock, hearing Bradwarden’s song.

  She awoke in a fine mood and once again rushed through her chores and out of Dundalis, riding Greystone as hard as the trails would permit back to the sheltered grove.

  She found Andacanavar there alone, waiting for her, but she found that Bradwarden was not far away, for his piping filled the crisp winter air with warming notes.

  “When I hear the centaur’s song, it feels like Elbryan is still with me,” Pony said wistfully. “He and I used to listen to that song when we were children, living in Dundalis.”

  “He is still with you!” Andacanavar roared. “Of course he is!” He looked all about, as if expecting a ghost to materialize nearby, and then a curious expression appeared on his face. “Did he not teach you anything of the other gift?” he asked. “The more important gift of the Touel’alfar?”

  Pony looked at him curiously.

  “Oracle,” Andacanavar explained.

  Pony nodded; she should have known. “He once tried,” she explained, “that I might better contact the spirit of another friend lost to us. But I did not need it, for Avelyn was with me at that time. I could feel it.”

  “But now you need it.”

  Again Pony fixed him with a skeptical and curious expression.

  “You do not believe that Nightbird, your Elbryan, is still with you,” Andacanavar explained. “You are not even certain that he has found the next level of existence, or even if such a level truly exists. Oh, yes, Avelyn was with you, you say, but was it really his spirit, or was it just your own hopes and memories of him?”

  Pony stared at him hard, feeling uncomfortable suddenly, feeling as if his words were a bit too intimate.

  “That is your fear, I say,” the ranger declared. “And because of it, you cannot get past your mourning.”

  “You assume much.”

  “I read well,
” Andacanavar corrected. “And the message is clear upon your face whenever you speak of Elbryan.” He dusted the snow off his pant legs and stood up, bending and holding out his hand to Pony. “Come,” he said. “Let me show you the other gift of the Touel’alfar, the one that will free you.”

  “Lady Dasslerond—”

  “Is not here, now is she?” Andacanavar replied. “And if she allows you to live with the secret of bi’nelle dasada, then know that she has already passed judgment upon you, and that it is a favorable one. Come on, then. The weather will not hold another day and I’ve a long road before me.”

  Skeptical still, Pony accepted the large man’s hand, and he pulled her up to her feet with hardly the slightest effort.

  He had already prepared the cave, a hollow at the base of a great elm, for he had used the place extensively to contact the spirits of both Elbryan and Avelyn. He explained the process to Pony, carefully, then helped her into the hole.

  She found that Andacanavar had set a log at one end, for her to sit on, and had propped a mirror against the opposite wall, facing it. He barely let her orient herself to the surroundings before he dropped the blanket over the opening, darkening the cave so that Pony could hardly make out the shapes.

  But that was the way of Oracle. As Andacanavar had instructed, she took her seat upon the log and stared hard into the mirror, thinking of Elbryan, remembering their times together, and then her thoughts drifted deeper, deeper, until she was far into meditation, not unlike that which she used to enter the sword dance, not unlike that which she used to fall within the magic of a gemstone.

  And then she saw him, her love, a shadow moving about the mirror.

  “Elbryan,” she whispered, and the tears came freely. “Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t get any audible response, nor did the dark shadow move, but Pony sensed a warmth suddenly and knew that her lover was with her.

  But not close enough for her liking, and she shifted forward, even coming off the log seat, but her movement broke her level of concentration and the image faded—or maybe it had never really been there. Maybe it was a trick her heart had played upon her imagination.

  No, that wasn’t it, Pony realized. He had been there, in spirit. Truly.

  She settled back on the log, thinking to fall again into the trance, but only then did she realize how much time had passed. And she had to be out of the grove long before dark.

  She went to the cave opening and pushed aside the blanket, blinking repeatedly at the relatively bright afternoon light.

  “Did you find him, then?” asked the ranger, seated comfortably nearby, his black-haired companion beside him.

  Pony nodded. “I think …”

  “Do not think too much, lass,” said Andacanavar. “Feel.”

  He came over then and pulled her out of the hole.

  “Your road is back to Dundalis,” the ranger remarked, “and fast, for a storm will come up tonight, I am sure.”

  “And your own road?”

  “Back to the east,” the ranger replied.

  “And the storm?”

  “Not much of one for one from Alpinador,” the ranger replied with a laugh. “We’ll find a difficult road, no doubt, but one that we can manage.”

  Pony stood and stared at the huge man for a long time, realizing then that, though they had known each other for only a few days, she was going to miss him very much. “You said that you would teach me,” she argued.

  “And so I have,” the ranger replied. “You said that you think you saw your lost lover, and that is better success than one can ever expect for their first tries at Oracle. You’ll get more tries, for I’ll leave the mirror in place. It will become easier—you will begin to teach yourself—and then you will know, my friend. You will know that you are not alone, and that there is a place of peace awaiting us after this life. And when you know that, truly, and not just hope it, then you will be free.”

  Pony stared at him curiously, not really knowing what to make of him and his promise.

  The cynical part of her remained doubtful that even Oracle could take her to such enlightenment, but another part of her, a very private and very big part, prayed that he was right.

  “The covering should be over that window, brother,” Master Fio Bou-raiy said when he came upon Francis in his room, staring out the window at the western fields.

  Francis turned about to face the master, his face a mask of pain. “To keep out the cold?” he asked. “Or the sounds of the misery?”

  “Both,” Bou-raiy answered, his expression grim. He softened it, though, and gave a sigh. “Will you not join us in the mass of celebration for the new year?” he asked.

  “For what will we pray?” Francis asked sincerely. “That the plague stays outside our walls?”

  “I’ve not the heart nor the time for your unending sarcasm, brother,” Bou-raiy replied. “Father Abbot Agronguerre asked me to come and tell you that we are soon to begin. Will you join us?”

  Francis turned and looked back out the window. In the field beyond, he saw the fires—meager fires, for they had little to burn. He saw the dark, huddled silhouettes of the miserable victims moving about the encampment, the many makeshift tents set up in the mud and snow.

  “No,” he answered.

  “This is a required mass,” Master Bou-raiy reminded him. “I ask once more, will you not join us?”

  “No,” Francis answered without hesitation, not bothering to turn to face the man.

  “Then you will answer to Father Abbot Agronguerre in the morning,” Bou-raiy said, and he left the room.

  “No,” Francis said again. He considered the night, the last of God’s Year 829. He knew that the turn of the year was mostly a symbolic thing, the imposition of a human calendar on God’s universal clock. But he understood, too, the need for such symbols, the inspiration that a man might draw from them. The strength and resolve that a man might draw from them.

  Brother Francis Dellacourt, an Abellican master, walked out of St.-Mere-Abelle that night, while the rest of the monastery sang in the mass in celebration of the New Year. He pulled a donkey behind him, the beast laden with mounds of blankets.

  Across the frozen and long-dead tussie-mussie bed he went, into the muddy field, into the cold wind blowing back off All Saints Bay.

  Many curious gazes settled upon him, and then a woman came out of the darkness to stand before him. Her face was half torn away, a mask of scars, and she tilted her head, regarding him with her one remaining eye.

  “Do ye reek o’ the plague then?” Merry Cowsenfed asked.

  Brother Francis came forward a step and fell to his knees before the woman, taking her hand in his own and pressing it to his lips.

  He had found his church.

  She talked and chatted with him easily, bouncing her ideas off him, and her fears; and though he never answered, Pony knew beyond doubt that he was truly with her again, that there was a sentient, conscious spirit of Elbryan out there, ready to help her sort out her feelings and her fears.

  This was no trick of magic, she believed, no trick of imagination, and no imparting of false hopes. This was Elbryan, her Elbryan, within the mirror, looking at her, knowing her, and she him.

  She found her strength there, though the world about her continued to darken, because there, in that hollow beneath the elm, in that mirror, Jilseponie Wyndon had found her church.

  How easy it is for a person to overwhelm herself merely by considering too big a picture. I have spent many, many months despairing over my inability to find a balance between community and self, fearing selfishness while becoming paralyzed by a world I know to be too far beyond my, or anyone’s, control.

  What point was fighting the battle if the war could not, could never, be won?

  And in that confusion, compounded by the purest grief, I became lost, a wandering, aimless person, searching for nothing more than peace. That peace I found in Fellowship Way, with Belster beside me, and with Bradwarden’s t
unes and the ultimate serenity of the starry sky to calm my nights.

  But those are frozen moments, I have come to know, little pieces of serenity in a storm of chaos. The world does not stop for the stars; the errors of mankind continue, and the dangers of nature are ever present. There is no end of turmoil, but far from a terrible thing, I have come to see that turmoil—change—is what adds meaning.

  My lament was that perfection of society was not attainable, and I still hold by my words: There is no paradise in this existence for creatures as complex as human beings. There is no perfect human world bereft of strife and battle of one sort or another. I have not come to see a different truth than that. I have not found some magical remedy, some honest hope for paradise within the swirl of chaos.

  Or perhaps I have.

  In considering only the desired destination, I blinded myself to the road; and there lies the truth, there lies the hope, there lies the meaning. Since the end seemed unattainable, I believed the journey futile, and there was my error—and one I will forgive myself because of my fog of grief.

  No one can make the world perfect. Not Nightbird. Not King Danube. Not Father Abbot Agronguerre, nor Father Abbot Markwart—and I do believe that Markwart, in his misguided way, tried to do just that—before him. No one, nor any one group, be it Church or Crown. Perhaps the perfect king could bring about paradise across the land—but for only a few short blinks in the rolling span of time. Even the great heroes, Terranen Dinoniel, Avelyn Desbris, and my own dear Nightbird, will fade in the fog of the ages, or their memories will be perverted and warped to suit the needs of current historians. Their message and their way will shine brightly, but briefly, in the context of history, because we are fallible creatures, doomed to forget and doomed to err.

  Yet there is a point to it all. There is a meaning and a joy and a hope. For while perfection is not attainable, the glory and the satisfaction lie along the road.

  And now I know, and perhaps this is the end of grief, that such a journey is worth taking. If all that I can accomplish is the betterment of a single day in the life of a single individual, then so be it. It is the attempt to do what is right—the attempt to move myself and those around me toward a better place—that is worth the sacrifice, however great that sacrifice must be.