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

by R. A. Salvatore

  He heard the call again, a greeting, a question, a connection that he sensed was as confusing to the horse as it was to him.

  The stallion reared and Aydrian noted a flash in the muscled area at the center of its powerful chest.

  “A gemstone,” he breathed, and he understood that to be the telepathic connection. “Who are you?” he asked, approaching.

  The horse reared again and whinnied threateningly, but Aydrian didn’t shy away. He reached into his pouch and produced the soul stone, then went out with his spirit to explore.

  Symphony—for of course it was Symphony, the horse of Nightbird, though Aydrian didn’t know it—accepted that communication eagerly at first, but then, suddenly, and for some reason that Aydrian did not understand, the stallion resisted, obviously alarmed. Aydrian blinked open his eyes to see the stallion whinnying and rearing, kicking out at him, then leaping away.

  But Aydrian would not let Symphony run away! No, this would be his horse, he had already decided. This was the horse of a king, of a conqueror, an unparalleled mount for an unparalleled leader. He flew through the soul stone again, his thoughts rushing into Symphony aggressively, commanding and not parlaying with the beast.

  The horse responded with a wave of denial, of repulsion, throwing back at Aydrian a wall of instinctive fear and rage.

  But they were in the realm of the gemstones now, and no creature in all the world could stand against the dark willpower of Aydrian. The struggle went on and on, much as a man might break a horse with a saddle. Symphony recoiled, and Aydrian pressed further. Still more, and the horse tried to back away; but there was no escape in this realm, nowhere for the powerful stallion to run. Relentlessly, growing in confidence and in intensity, Aydrian charged on.

  And when Aydrian broke the connection at last, Symphony obediently walked over to him. For the first time, Symphony had, not a partner, but a master.

  The future king had his horse.

  “You’ve seen twenty winters,” Aydrian remarked, examining the truly magnificent beast.

  “Thirty’d be closer to me own guess,” came a resonant voice from the side. The startled Aydrian drew Tempest and spun to see a curious and imposing creature, with a human head and torso set upon the body of a horse!

  “Who are ye, boy, and what’re ye doin’ with me friend Symphony?” the centaur asked.

  “Symphony?” Aydrian echoed quietly, hardly able to breathe, for it was all falling into place now. He had heard of Symphony, and knew of the speaker, Bradwarden, from Belli’mar Juraviel’s old tales. Yes, this all made sense. He smiled eagerly at the centaur, who returned the look for just a moment.

  But then Bradwarden noticed and recognized the blade in Aydrian’s hand. “So, ye’re more than a grave robber then,” the centaur reasoned.

  Aydrian followed Bradwarden’s gaze to his hand, to Tempest. “Hardly a robber,” he said. “Merely taking that which is rightfully mine, from the graves and from the forest.” As he finished, he brought his hand up to stroke the neck of the horse—his horse. “Tempest went from Mather to Nightbird. Hawkwing belonged to Nightbird, as did Symphony. And now they, all three, move to Nighthawk, as is proper.”

  Bradwarden stared at him curiously. “Nighthawk?” he asked.

  “Tai’maqwilloq,” Aydrian stated proudly. “I am Nighthawk, the ranger of Festertool, the son—”

  “Ranger?” Bradwarden interrupted. “And where did ye learn to be a ranger?”

  Aydrian, not appreciating the demeaning tone, squared his shoulders. “Properly trained by those who instruct the rangers,” he answered.

  Bradwarden’s expression grew even more confused, for the centaur had not been informed of any new rangers coming out his way—and was certain that Dasslerond and Juraviel would surely have alerted him. Besides, this one hardly seemed old enough to have completed the rigorous training the Touel’alfar exacted upon the rangers.

  “Ye best be lettin’ go o’ the horse, boy, and givin’ meself the bow and the sword until I—”

  “Come and take them,” Aydrian challenged with a wry grin.

  “Don’t ye be a fool, boy,” Bradwarden warned.

  “As my father carried them, so shall I,” Aydrian answered resolutely, and Bradwarden, who had indeed begun to stride toward him, abruptly halted.

  “What d’ye say?” the centaur asked.

  “As these belonged to Nightbird,” Aydrian answered boldly, “so they pass to Nighthawk, the son of Nightbird. I’ll not ask your permission, centaur, to take that which is rightfully mine.”

  “Son of Nightbird?” Bradwarden asked doubtfully.

  Aydrian stared at him hard, not backing down an inch.

  “Ye’re meanin’ that ye’re the Touel’alfar’s appointed follower to Nightbird,” the centaur reasoned.

  “Son of Nightbird. By blood, and soon enough by deed,” Aydrian assured him. “Nightbird, Elbryan, was my father, and I am a ranger, trained as was he. I claim Tempest and Hawkwing and Symphony, and let any who refute that claim stand before me now and learn the truth.” He brandished Tempest as he spoke, and Symphony reared and whinnied again.

  Bradwarden hardly knew what to say; and he stood there, shaking his head, unable to even argue, as Aydrian mounted Symphony and trotted off into the forest.

  Bradwarden was deeply troubled during the next few days. He knew that he should have confronted Aydrian, should have demanded the complete tale from the obviously lying young upstart. And yet Bradwarden could not deny the strange familiarity he had felt when looking at the boy and the nagging sensation that this young warrior was not lying.

  But how could it be?

  Bradwarden soon enough learned the problem of holding those doubts. He had assumed that finding young Nighthawk would prove no difficult feat, since he had figured that the “ranger” would haunt the region, as Nightbird had for so many years. To his surprise, only a few days later, he learned that Aydrian and his other companions, an older man and a woman, had left Dundalis for the south, with Aydrian riding a large black stallion.

  Bradwarden tried to find their trail, even traveled far past Caer Tinella in pursuit. But, alas, the trio were moving swiftly, as if expecting the pursuit, and the centaur realized that he could not catch up to them before they reached Palmaris.

  So Bradwarden returned to his forest home, to the cairns and the trails that had so often shown the tracks of mighty Symphony, leading the wild horses of the area. He tried to dismiss Nighthawk and the rest of it—Bradwarden had never been Symphony’s protector, of course, as Elbryan had never been the horse’s master. Nor did the centaur pretend to understand the designs of Dasslerond and her rangers.

  He tried to put it out of his mind as the weeks passed, though of course, he could not, and his worries were only multiplied one night when a quiet and melodious voice called out to him.

  “How could ye not tell me?” the centaur demanded when Lady Dasslerond and several others of the Touel’alfar walked into view.

  “Then he has been here,” Dasslerond reasoned.

  “Ye send a ranger with no warnin’ to me?” the centaur asked. “Why, I almost killed the boy when I saw him holdin’ the damned sword and bow.”

  His words obviously surprised and alarmed Dasslerond and the others; and they all exchanged glances, seeming none too happy that the cairns had been pilfered. “The child of Nightbird is no ranger,” the lady of Caer’alfar flatly declared.

  Bradwarden started to answer, then started to answer differently as he fully comprehended her words, then simply stammered for a long while, overwhelmed. “Child of Nightbird?” he cried at last. “Ye mean he was speakin’ literally?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he was the damned child o’ Nightbird, though I wasn’t thinkin’ he meant it!” Bradwarden roared. “How can it be? I knowed Nightbird all the time he was out o’ yer care, and knowed Jilseponie, too. She lost her only—” Bradwarden stopped as the awful truth came to him then. “Ye can’t mean …
” he started slowly, hesitantly, shaking his head.

  “Aydrian is the son of Nightbird and of Jilseponie,” Lady Dasslerond replied evenly. “Taken from Jilseponie outside Palmaris, else both mother and child would have perished from the attack of the demon Markwart.”

  Bradwarden sputtered over that for a long while!

  “We did as we thought best,” Dasslerond explained.

  “Ye never telled her!” Bradwarden roared. “She’s sittin’ on a throne in far-off Ursal, never knowin’ that she’s got herself a child—Nightbird’s child! Ye stupid elf! I should throttle ye with me own hands!”

  “Enough!” Dasslerond demanded, and she waved her hands to calm her minions, all of them seeming more than ready to engage the centaur should he make any move toward their beloved lady. “It is not our place to explain ourselves to the lesser races.”

  “Even if ye ignore all decency?” Bradwarden asked.

  “I do what is necessary,” Lady Dasslerond countered. “What is necessary for the Touel’alfar and not for a meaningless little human woman.”

  “The Queen of Honce-the-Bear,” Bradwarden reminded.

  “Indeed,” Dasslerond replied. “And that is why I have sought you out, Bradwarden. Jilseponie knows of us.”

  “Yerself and yer kin made of yerselves more than tales about the fire in the recent past,” the centaur replied.

  “She knows of Andur’Blough Inninness and other secrets.”

  “Are ye still frettin’ that she’ll give away yer sword-dancing?” Bradwarden asked incredulously. “She’s been a score o’ months and more on the throne. If she wanted to wage war—”

  “We have only come out of prudence,” Dasslerond interrupted. “To learn what we may from Bradwarden, who knows Jilseponie well.”

  The centaur mulled over the words for a bit, weighing them against the unlikely coincidence that Lady Dasslerond, who rarely ventured from her sheltered valley, should pick this time to come forth, so soon after the arrival, and departure, of the one who called himself Nighthawk. He saw the lie for what it was.

  “Ye came out because ye sensed that the sword and the bow had been disturbed,” he accused, and he knew well that the elves could do things like that, had some strange connection to anything elvish or elvish-made. “Ye came out after yer escaped secret, and how could ye be keeping such a thing?” His voice boomed in indignation. “And keepin’ the truth from the mother, too! Ah, but ye’ve stepped across a line here! And what an awful secret ye’ve kept!”

  “More awful than you imagine,” Lady Dasslerond quietly replied, her tone and her agreement giving the angry centaur pause. “The boy is wild and beyond all control. He is no ranger and does not deserve to hold the sword or the bow. Truly Belli’mar Juraviel would be pained to learn that the last bow his father ever crafted fell to the hands of Aydrian.”

  Bradwarden could hardly believe her words.

  “If the means befell me to destroy Aydrian, then I would, without remorse,” Dasslerond said coldly.

  “He is the son of Nightbird and of Jilseponie, no small thing,” the centaur remarked.

  Dasslerond shook her head. “Of both and of neither, I say,” she insisted. “He is the seed of something darker.” She looked up plaintively at the centaur. “We envisioned Aydrian as the savior of Andur’Blough Inninness. We thought his bloodline and his immersion into training would bring to us the one capable of erasing the demon stain from our land. Alas, now I fear that our savior has deserted us to become a greater stain upon the wider world.”

  The gravity of her tone stole all protests from Bradwarden’s mouth, for he knew Dasslerond well and understood that she did not speak lightly or idly of such things, that she, who had faced Bestesbulzibar, did not easily admit her fears.

  “Ye should’ve telled Jilseponie,” he said.

  Dasslerond half shrugged, half nodded, not conceding but not disputing the reasoning. “The point is moot,” she said. “For he is out and about. Perhaps Jilseponie will learn of him in time—I doubt that one such as Aydrian will have no influence on the world—or perhaps the fates will be kinder and the boy will be killed.”

  “Harsh words,” said Bradwarden.

  Dasslerond again offered a noncommittal look, and the coldness of her indifference showed Bradwarden the sincerity of her hatred for Aydrian and sent a shudder along the centaur’s normally unshakable spine. “We had hoped to find him out here,” she said.

  “He is long gone.”

  “Perhaps that is better, for our sakes,” the lady admitted, and again, Bradwarden was taken aback, understanding then that he could hardly comprehend the depth and the strength of this renegade ranger.

  “From you, we ask only your prudence and your silence,” Dasslerond went on. “Should you find occasion to speak with Jilseponie again, I trust that you will remain silent concerning the taken child.”

  “ ’Tis a lot ye’re askin’.”

  “Would you then welcome a war between Honce-the-Bear and my people?” Lady Dasslerond asked bluntly. “For who can predict the reaction of Queen Jilseponie?”

  Bradwarden believed that he knew Jilseponie better than to expect any such thing, but he had to admit that Dasslerond had a point. The centaur had pretty much remained out of the politics and intrigue of humans for many years, and now he was thinking that to be the better course for him. In the end, he agreed with Dasslerond and promised, in addition, to keep a careful watch over the region, and to put out a call to her if Aydrian, this young Nighthawk, ever returned.

  When the centaur took his leave of the elven lady and her entourage later on, he wandered the forest trails. Many times did Bradwarden put his pipes to his lips that night, thinking to play his haunting songs, but not once did he find the heart to blow as much as a single note.

  The peace of the forest remained, it seemed, but the peace in Bradwarden’s heart had been shattered.

  He traveled to the grave of Nightbird, and spent many hours remembering his old friend.

  And hoping.

  Chapter 24

  The Road to Ursal

  “I THINK IT BETTER TO SKIRT THE CITY,” DE’UNNERO SAID TO SADYE AS THEY crested a hill and came in sight of the mighty city of Ursal, the many sails beyond the docks and the great castle and abbey set on the hill facing the water.

  “You fear that Aydrian will hear talk of his mother the queen,” Sadye reasoned, and both glanced back at Aydrian and Symphony, who were just crossing the gully behind them.

  “I fear that he will hear things from the wrong perspective,” De’Unnero explained. “He is ready to learn the truth, I think, but not the adoring lies that would inevitably accompany that truth on the streets of Jilseponie’s city.” He looked back at Aydrian again. “Come here, lad,” he said. “Come and see the greatest city in all the world.”

  Aydrian hardly had to urge Symphony forward, the great stallion picking up the pace as soon as he hit the upward slope. The awe on Aydrian’s face was visible when he, too, saw the view of Ursal, his eyes wide, his smile bright. Almost without thinking, he urged Symphony on, but De’Unnero caught the horse’s rein and held him back.

  “Are we not going in?” a surprised Aydrian asked.

  “Not now,” De’Unnero answered. “We have business to the east. Important business. It would not do well to reveal ourselves within Ursal at this time.”

  Those last words caught Aydrian’s attention and he looked at the former monk curiously.

  “You see the castle?” De’Unnero asked.

  “How could I not?” Aydrian asked with a grin.

  “Tell me again of your mother,” De’Unnero prompted, and Aydrian’s smile disappeared.

  “I know nothing of her, not even her name,” the young ranger remarked sourly. “She died in childbirth.…”

  “No, she did not,” said De’Unnero.

  Aydrian’s face went stone cold.

  “I confirmed it when we were in Dundalis,” De’Unnero lied, for he did not want Aydrian to f
igure out that he had been lying to him, by omission at least, since first they met. “It is as I suspected, confirmed by reliable sources. Your father, Nightbird, had but one lover, one wife, and she did not die when you were born, though surely the world would have been spared much misery if she had.”

  Sadye winced at those harsh words.

  “Do you see the castle, lad?” De’Unnero asked again. “There is your mother, Jilseponie, queen of Honce-the-Bear.”

  “W-what?” the stunned young man stammered, and he swayed as if he might fall off his horse.

  “Jilseponie, once the wife of Elbryan and now the wife of King Danube Brock Ursal,” De’Unnero explained. “ ’Twas she who gave birth to you on a battle-ravaged field outside Palmaris. There can be no doubt.”

  “But Lady Dasslerond—”

  “Lied to you,” De’Unnero finished. “Does that surprise you?”

  Aydrian started to respond, then stopped, then started again, but just shook his head, his words trailing away into grunts and soft moans.

  “You missed nothing through your ignorance, I assure you,” said De’Unnero.

  Aydrian turned on him sharply; and Sadye, positioning her horse behind the young ranger, flashed De’Unnero a sour expression and shook her head slowly, trying to tell the eager former monk that he was pushing too hard, too fast.

  “But enough,” De’Unnero said abruptly, throwing up his hands. “Look upon the castle, young warrior. Castle Ursal, the home of Jilseponie, your mother. Look upon it and hold faith that it will one day be yours.”

  The ranger held fast his angry and hurt posture and expression, but there was no mistaking the flash, the gleam, that flickered behind his eyes at those tantalizing words.

  “You will live to hear Jilseponie call you king,” De’Unnero promised. “And to have her explain to you her actions those years ago—when you are in a position of power, when she must tell you the truth.