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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Thus, the fact that I disappointed her on the highest level of expectations translated into a shattering of all of her hopes and expectations at every level. I could not be her epitome of a ranger, thus I could not be a ranger at all, in her eyes.

  How I hate her and all of her superior-minded folk!

  How I long, more than anything else in all the world, to show her the truth of Aydrian, to not only become a ranger, as she claims I cannot, but to become the best of the rangers, the stuff of legend. Let them sing of Aydrian in lyrics more reverent than those to Terranen Dinoniel, and in terms more reverent than those now reserved for my own father, Elbryan the Nightbird. When I have reached that pinnacle, I will visit Lady Dasslerond again, I think, to stand over her valley and let them know the truth. I will force from her an admission that she was wrong about me, that not only am I worthy but that I am most worthy!

  Those are my revelations, as shown to me by the guiding force of Oracle.

  That is my dream, the force within me that carries me on now from day to day.

  —AYDRIAN WYNDON

  Chapter 12

  Home

  HE SAT ON THE SIDE OF THE HILL, EXPERTLY HIDDEN IN THE SHADOWS OF THE trees and as quiet as those shadows, watching them at their work. Two women, human women, and a young man of about his own age knelt by a small stream, washing clothes. And they were talking, and how good it was to hear human voices! Not the singsong higher-pitched melodies of the elves but human voices! Even if he could hardly understand a word they said, Aydrian felt more at home here than he had for years in the foreign land of Andur’Blough Inninness. For, indeed, he knew now, sitting there and looking at the people, that the elven land was, and would forever be, foreign to him. To be truly at home in Andur’Blough Inninness, Aydrian had come to understand, one had to be possessed of an elven viewpoint, and that was something that he, with barely a tenth the expected life span of an elf, could never have.

  So now here he was, someplace far to the east of the elven valley, lurking near a small farm town. There were hunters in the town as well, he knew, for he had shadowed them on several excursions through the nearby forest. How clumsy they seemed to him, and how loud! In watching them plodding along the paths, oblivious of prey barely fifteen strides away and scaring off more game than they could possibly have carried back, Aydrian could almost understand Lady Dasslerond’s disdain for humans.

  More than that, though, the young man was quite pleased to see the bumbling hunters at work, for their ineptness made him more confident that he could make a great name for himself here, much as Brynn would likely do in the southern kingdoms of To-gai and Behren.

  He had come here this morning with the hopes of making his first contact with these people—with Elene, the oldest of the women, and perhaps with Kazik, the young man, for both were out here every day. Unfortunately, old Danye had come out this morning, as well, with her hawkish, hooked nose and foul temper. He had seen her here a few times, and never once had she showed the hint of a smile, never once had she spent more than a quarter of an hour without yelling at Kazik.

  Aydrian sat and watched, having no intention of going anywhere near Danye. Sometime later, he was about to give up and wander back into the forest—and was, in truth, feeling more than a little relief that circumstance had brought him a reprieve—when the old woman unexpectedly departed, leaving Elene and Kazik alone.

  Aydrian was out of excuses to delay. As nervous as he had ever been in his young life, he took a deep breath, and rose to his feet. Then, before he could begin to second-guess, he walked down the side of the hill, out from under the trees.

  “Hey there!” Kazik greeted, seeing him first. Then, as if it suddenly registered with the young man that Aydrian was no one of the village, was no one that he knew, Kazik’s face screwed up curiously, and, his gaze never leaving Aydrian, he reached out to the side and tapped Elene on the shoulder. “Mums,” he said, “ye best look over here.”

  With his limited understanding of the language, Aydrian could hardly pick out the words through the thick dialect. He kept approaching, slowly and without making any movements that could be construed as threatening.

  “Who are ye?” Kazik said loudly, taking a defensive stance as Aydrian neared the opposite bank of the stream. He glanced around and spotted a large stick, then picked it up. “And what’d ye want?” he demanded.

  Aydrian’s perplexed look was genuine. He held up his hands and stopped. “Aydrian,” he said, “Ni tul … I am Aydrian.” He almost said his surname but bit it back, realizing that if his father was nearly as important as the Touel’alfar had indicated, then the name would be recognized. And that, for some reason that Aydrian had not yet sorted out, the young man did not want.

  After some uncomfortable moments, Elene moved in front of Kazik and said, “Bah, he ain’t no bandit, he ain’t. Who are ye then, boy, and what’s bringed ye all the way out here? Yer family comin’ to Festertool?”

  Many of the words went right past Aydrian, but he did recognize the sympathy in the gentle woman’s tone. “I am Aydrian,” he said again, more confidently.

  “Where’d ye come from?” the woman asked.

  Aydrian smiled and looked back over his shoulder, opposite the rising sun, then looked back at Elene.

  “From the west?” she asked skeptically. “Ain’t nothing out in the west. Just a few o’ them huntin’ towns …”

  “He’s a bandit,” Kazik whispered, but Aydrian heard, and though he didn’t know exactly what a bandit might be, he could easily enough discern that it was nothing good.

  “Then he’s a damned bad one,” Elene replied with a snicker, and she turned back to Aydrian and motioned for him to approach. “C’mere, boy,” she said.

  Aydrian crossed the stream and stood near her. Kazik stared at him hard, silently challenging; but Aydrian, so desperate to find some companionship, at least knew better than to return that stare. If he did, if he engaged in some kind of a duel with Kazik, it might soon become explosive, and he figured that he’d have a hard time being welcomed in the town after that battle, especially by Kazik’s grieving parents.

  “Where’s your family?” Elene said quietly, looping her arm in his.

  “Dead,” Aydrian answered. “No more.”

  “Where ye been living, then?” the woman pressed.

  Aydrian turned back to the forest and answered, “Trees.”

  “Ain’t for speaking much, is he?” Kazik remarked.

  “I’m thinkin’ he’s not catchin’ our meanin’s,” said Elene. She turned back to Aydrian. “Well, whate’er’s yer trouble, boy, ye come back with me. I’ll get ye a fine meal and a warm bed, at least!” She pushed him along the trail heading back to the village and told him to go along, but she lingered for a moment with Kazik.

  “Bandit,” the young man said.

  “And better for us if we got him under our eye now, if he is,” Elene replied.

  Aydrian caught every word and understood most. He only smiled again, feeling very much like he had just found a home.

  The reaction from the rest of the villagers ranged from apprehensive to warm, except for Danye, who insisted that the strange young man be put right out. His sudden, unexpected, and still unexplained appearance caused quite a stir, of course; and later on that day Aydrian found himself sitting at a table with many of the village leaders, tough men and women, all. They grilled him all through the afternoon and far into the evening; and whenever he couldn’t understand a question, they rephrased it, searching for an answer. Most of all, they wanted to know where he had come from, and when he answered “tolwen,” the elven word for west, they all looked around at one another, their expressions puzzled.

  “Tolwen, yeah, Tolwen,” one man said suddenly. “Hunting camp. Yeah, I heared o’ Tolwen.”

  Aydrian looked at the man curiously but didn’t try to correct him.

  The group began talking among themselves then, and Aydrian sat back and let himself drift out of the conversat
ion. The first thing he had to do, he realized, was gain a stronger command of the language, and he had an idea how he might do that.

  They put him up in one of the small rooms above the town’s common room, the only building in the small community that had two stories. It also had, Aydrian quickly discovered when he followed Rumpar, the tavern keeper, to fetch his dinner, a small cool cellar to help keep the food fresh.

  Aydrian was back at the cellar before dawn, propping open the outside trapdoor and crawling down into the musty room. He used one of the gemstones, a diamond, to bring up a soft light, but as soon as he had himself situated, his mirror placed on a shelf along the opposite wall, he dismissed the magical glow and let his eyes adjust to the early morning light.

  Sure enough, the shadowy figure was waiting for him in the mirror, and it seemed to recognize his needs immediately. When he emerged from the cellar soon after the sun climbed over the eastern horizon, Aydrian felt more confident about his ability to understand both the language and the dialect of the people of Festertool.

  He spent that day in the company of many of the village leaders, being questioned again about where he had come from, this mysterious town of Tolwen, and about what had happened to his family.

  Throughout it all, Aydrian remained vague and even cryptic, following their leads. After some time, and fearing that he might slip up as he became more and more tired, the young man had an idea. He put his hand in his pocket, feeling about for the cool smooth hematite, the soul stone. He established a magical connection almost immediately, then reached out with his thoughts into the mind of one of the village leaders, a woman who customarily led the hunts out of town. Inside her thoughts, Aydrian listened carefully. She believed that he was from some town named Tolwen, and of course had no idea that tolwen was the elvish word for west. Furthermore, the woman had a picture of Tolwen Town in her head, one that Aydrian easily extracted and then repeated for the interrogating panel. The young man watched in amusement as the woman’s head nodded with satisfaction at each detail he offered.

  After using the mind-searching to confirm their thoughts of him, Aydrian left the room that night in the good graces of every one of Festertool’s leaders. He had passed the test and was now accepted fully. They now put him up with Elene, who was a widow, and Kazik, who, Aydrian learned, was her only living child. Kazik was given the task of teaching the newcomer his duties—mostly simple, manual labor, like washing things in the stream and dividing the firewood among the village houses—which Kazik was delighted to do, for he was promised that once Aydrian could take over his former duties, he would assume more important chores like herding animals and fending away wolves from the outer fields.

  Aydrian, too, went at his tasks eagerly, determined to settle in here and learn all that he could about these people as quickly as possible. Every dusk and every dawn, the young man went back to Oracle, and each time, the shadowy figure was waiting for him in the mirror, to teach him more and more. Within two weeks, he was speaking the language as well as the people who had grown up with it, and he had learned, as well, to use his soul stone to read the thoughts of anyone speaking to him, using them as a guide to help him understand the words.

  Within two weeks after that, though, young Aydrian was beginning to get a little restless and bored.

  He cleaned clothes, he cooked, and he carried wood. These were his basic chores, the ones that earned him his food and shelter. If he wanted more than that, wanted a little coin with which to buy anything from the traders’ caravans that often came through Festertool, he had to work at night for Rumpar in the tavern common room. But that was not only where Aydrian could earn money but also where he enjoyed himself the most. For there, in the evenings, with the drinking, the tales began. There Aydrian began to learn more about his heritage, about the society he had just entered and its history.

  “Here now, boy, are ye meanin’ to spend the whole o’ the night standin’ there talkin’?” Rumpar said one night, as Aydrian stood transfixed near one table of boisterous men, one of whom was recounting his perilous adventures along the road during his journey to the Barbacan to enter the covenant of Avelyn.

  Aydrian heard a familiar name in that story, Nightbird, and heard another name mentioned repeatedly, Jilseponie, which at that time meant nothing to him.

  “He’s a puffer,” Rumpar said late that night, after all but a handful of his closest friends had left the tavern, and those few had joined him in a private back room for some of the more expensive drink with Aydrian assigned the task of serving the group.

  Far from being angry at having to remain so late, Aydrian relished the time with Rumpar’s colorful group of friends, four middle-aged men full of tales of battle and adventure. All had fought in the Demon War, so they said, and all had killed many goblins. The room itself was a testament to that war, decked with strange souvenirs, including a jagged dagger, a small, seemingly misshapen helm, and a meticulously maintained sword hanging over the mantel.

  “Old Rumpar, he saw the most fighting,” one of the others said to Aydrian. “Fought in the King’s army he did, the Kingsmen.”

  “Bah, but they should’ve put him in the Allhearts!” another chimed in.

  Rumpar snorted at that and settled back more deeply in his chair. Aydrian studied him closely, scrutinized the look in his eyes, and discerned somehow, through some instinct that he didn’t quite understand, that there might be more bluster than truth to this tale.

  “I did what was demanded, for country and Crown,” Rumpar said modestly. “Little pride I’m takin’ in havin’ to fight the beasts, or in the many I killed.”

  Every word of that last sentence was a lie, Aydrian realized. The man puffed with pride, that much was obvious from his tone, his expression, and from the gleam in his eyes. Also, the condition of the sword marked it as Rumpar’s most prized possession, with not a hint of rust about it.

  “Goblin blood stained that blade,” Rumpar said solemnly, apparently noticing Aydrian’s interest in it. “Aye, and that blood o’ them powrie dwarfs, too.”

  Despite the fact that he didn’t believe Rumpar, Aydrian found himself transfixed by the image of the sword and by his own envisioning of its gleaming blade slashing in the morning light, driving across the chest of some horrid monster, spraying the red bloody mist as it cut. It was no elven blade, certainly, much cruder and ill-fashioned. But it held the young man’s interest. Aydrian had survived his time in the wilderness after he had left Andur’Blough Inninness by using his wits, his ability to hide, and on the two occasions it had been necessary, his magical gemstones. Despite the overwhelming power of those gemstones, something about the sword—this sword, any sword—touched Aydrian at a deeper level. The gemstone power was a gift, one that set him above his potential enemies, but mastery of a sword was an earned power, one that matched him, muscle and thought, against an enemy.

  Hardly thinking of the movement, Aydrian found his hand drifting toward the hilt of the blade.

  “Hear now! Don’t ye be touching it!” Rumpar yelled at him, breaking his trance. He recoiled immediately, his hand coming back to his side. He turned to face the man.

  “Probably hurt hisself,” another man said with a chuckle.

  “And get yer finger marks all over the blade,” Rumpar added.

  Aydrian held back his smirk—if only they knew! This was not the time to push this issue, he recognized, and so he stepped away from the mantel obediently. He went about his duties for the rest of the night. Though the men all indulged a bit too much in drink and he believed that he could likely take down the sword and study it without being noticed, Aydrian did not. He exercised some of the patience that the Touel’alfar had taught him, realizing that he would soon enough find a better opportunity to handle the blade.

  Rumpar and his close friends met again a few nights later, and then again soon after, and each time, Aydrian was asked to attend them. That confirmed to him that he had chosen right in exercising patience, in not taking any
chances of angering Rumpar. In those subsequent gatherings, he kept away from the sword, though he glanced at it strategically, to get Rumpar and his buddies talking about the Demon War, and at the same time gleaning more information about his human heritage, about the folk of the region, and even about his legendary father from the tales.

  Settling into the routines of the village fully, his command of the language grew daily. Another couple of weeks slipped past before Festertool and Aydrian faced their first real crisis. It wasn’t much of a threat, really, starting merely as a report from some children who had gone out fishing that the river was running very low.

  For Aydrian, who knew so well the ways of nature, it wasn’t much of a mystery. The rain had been steady over the last few weeks, and on his journey to Festertool, he had seen the snow-capped mountains. Eliminating drought from the equation made it obvious to him why the stream was running thin.

  He went out even as the villagers began discussing the issue, backtracking the stream to the expected beaver dam. Two strikes of lightning from his graphite had the river running again, and soon after, he returned to Festertool with two beaver pelts in hand, even as the first scouting party was heading out for the stream.

  It was Aydrian’s first taste of applause from his own people, and though it was for a rather minor feat, and certainly nothing heroic, he found that he enjoyed the attention immensely.

  So much so that, as all talk of his exploits fast faded over the next couple of days, Aydrian found himself searching for some other way to bring his name back to the forefront.

  He was in the back room with Rumpar and his friends a few nights later, the older men indulging in drink and Aydrian sitting quietly and listening again to their overblown tales of wartime heroics. His thoughts drifted out of the conversation, going to the sword, and then, soon enough, he found himself drifting toward the sword physically as well. This time no one noticed as Aydrian clasped the hilt and lifted the weapon from its perch, bringing it easily down in front of him.