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

by R. A. Salvatore

  The Chezhou-Lei seemed to anticipate the movement, and he immediately began a down-and-around twirl that neatly disengaged his blade, executing it with such speed that his sword came around in time to block Aydrian’s sudden thrust.

  Hardly discouraged, and thinking that he had stolen the advantage, Aydrian retracted and stabbed high, retracted and stabbed low, then skittered forward while delivering a series of three thrusts aimed at the Chezhou-Lei’s chest.

  None of the five hit home, but he had the southerner furiously backing, his curved sword furiously spinning.

  Recognizing that he had played out his momentum, and recognizing the outrage and surprise on the Chezhou-Lei’s face, Aydrian didn’t pursue further, but shifted backward, preparing a retreat, or at least something that would look like a retreat.

  On came the fierce warrior, his blade again a blurring spin; and back went Aydrian, measuring and adjusting for the charge stride for stride. The pursuit continued, as did Aydrian’s retreat, the young ranger deftly sliding close to one pole supporting a trellis in the courtyard, thinking that the pole would prevent the Chezhou-Lei from working his curved sword out too far to his right.

  The warrior reacted perfectly, though, sidestepping quickly to the left.

  Exactly as Aydrian had hoped. For now the muscled man was not directly before him; now the man’s whirling sword would not force him to flash Tempest very far side to side should he need to parry. Not far to his left, anyway, and so Aydrian quickly flipped his blade to that hand, reversing his footing, and as the Chezhou-Lei’s blade spun down, leaving his chest exposed, Aydrian struck.

  The beauty of the Chezhou-Lei fighting style was its speed, movements too quick to counter even when they forced the warrior into vulnerable positions.

  The beauty of bi’nelle dasada was that it was faster.

  Tempest stabbed through the loose sleeve and through the Chezhou-Lei’s right arm, halfway between the elbow and the armpit, the sudden move stopping the whirling blade. Aydrian drove on, pinning the arm to the pole.

  The young ranger shrugged, almost apologetically, for what he considered a victory.

  To the side, Olin gasped, apparently agreeing.

  The Chezhou-Lei had another interpretation. He flipped his sword to his left hand and started a swing, and Aydrian had to quickly pull Tempest from the now-bleeding arm and quickly retreat several steps.

  On came the outraged Chezhou-Lei, but Aydrian had the man’s full measure now. And Aydrian had measured the speed of bi’nelle dasada against the Chezhou-Lei technique. While the Chezhou-Lei technique appeared flashier and more impressive, the actual speed of attack surely favored bi’nelle dasada.

  Aydrian’s knowing smile seemed only to spur on the angry Chezhou-Lei even more ferociously, and Aydrian wondered what he would have to do to force a concession from this magnificent warrior.

  He gave a slight shrug, a clear appeal to the man to desist, to admit defeat. The Chezhou-Lei saw it, too—Aydrian knew that he did from the grimace that was his reply. Was it honor that now drove him, some desperation against reality that demanded he not concede?

  Aydrian continued to dodge and to parry, and to back away when necessary, but then he gave another shrug, this one resigned, and accepted that he had to prove his style beyond any doubts. Now he focused more clearly on the spinning blade.

  Back it went, and Aydrian came forward with a long thrust.

  Back again, and ahead came Tempest.

  Back again—more from sheer momentum than any conscious desire, Aydrian figured—and, for a third time, the ranger lunged.

  The Chezhou-Lei continued, but Aydrian now skittered far back, put up Tempest, and announced, “You are beaten.”

  To the side, Olin wore a puzzled expression, for Aydrian’s attacks had moved too quickly for him to actually follow their conclusion. To him, they had seemed like futile attempts to move forward by a helplessly retreating fighter.

  The Chezhou-Lei warrior wore a puzzled expression as well, though he understood the truth of Aydrian’s attacks obviously, even before the blood began spurting from three neat holes that had been stabbed in his chest.

  He looked over at Olin apologetically, and then he sank to his knees.

  Olin shrieked and rushed over, calling for a soul stone, but Aydrian merely pushed him out of the way and moved to his defeated opponent.

  “You are a most worthy foe,” he said to the man, who stared at him with nothing but respect.

  “That was foolishness,” Sadye scolded when Aydrian left the courtyard to find her nearby, obviously well aware of all that had just occurred. He walked past her with a nod, but of course she fell into step beside him.

  Aydrian grinned at her.

  “Do you deny it?” she asked, moving around in front of him and stopping his progress. “You could have been killed, and then where would all our plans be?”

  “If I was killed, then I would hardly care, I suppose,” Aydrian answered, holding fast his grin.

  Sadye shook her head and sighed. “The Chezhou-Lei …” she started.

  “Is alive and wounded, but more in pride than in body,” Aydrian assured her, holding up the soul stone he had just used on the man.

  “Abbot Olin doubted me as much as he doubted Tempest,” Aydrian went on.

  “And you cannot bear criticism?” Sadye asked sarcastically.

  “Do you doubt Olin’s importance in all this?” Aydrian asked incredulously. “He, more than we three, will raise the army. He supplied the ships for Pimaninicuit and the fleet we will need to control the southern coast. His weight in the Church cannot be underestimated nor ignored—it is Olin’s presence that gives us a foothold there, as much as my own gives us an opportunity for the Crown. Certainly the word of Marcalo De’Unnero would not be given any credence at all in the Abellican Church.”

  “He is back in Entel,” Sadye remarked, and the way she said it, and her expression, told Aydrian that, perhaps, De’Unnero’s unexpected return might not be welcome. Again, Aydrian was reminded of his suspicions that the sensuous and lustful young woman might be thinking of him in ways beyond the possible gains his bloodline afforded them.

  “He was not to return for another month,” Aydrian replied.

  “The weretiger,” said Sadye. “The beast demands to be released. He cannot be away from you for any length of time without the potential for disaster. It is yet another responsibility that you must shoulder and another reason why your accepting the challenge of Olin’s Chezhou-Lei warrior was foolish.”

  “It was enjoyable,” Aydrian corrected, and Sadye looked at him hard.

  “You err in thinking that I care for De’Unnero, for anyone or anything, beyond what it brings to me,” Aydrian said coldly. He studied Sadye closely as he spoke and did indeed note her slight, and revealing, grimace.

  Aydrian broke the tension with one of his innocent chuckles. “Abbot Olin doubted me,” he said again. “And we could not have that if we are to achieve that which we all desire. Now I have the man’s confidence, and that is no small thing. And, yes, it was worth the risk, because, in truth, there was no risk.”

  “The Chezhou-Lei cannot be underestimated,” Sadye said grimly.

  “If he had beaten me with the sword—which he could not—I would have destroyed him with the gemstones before he ever completed the winning move,” Aydrian assured her. “You think I underestimated the Chezhou-Lei, but it is Sadye, and not Aydrian, who is doing that. For you underestimate me, my desire to reach the heights that you and De’Unnero have been holding teasingly before me since soon after we met. And I assure you that your plans are nothing I did not aspire to before ever we met. I will get there.”

  “Where?”

  “To the highest point you can imagine.”

  “And where does Sadye fit into your grand schemes?” she asked.

  Aydrian smiled coyly, the only answer she was going to get now.

  Chapter 27

  Lies and Reality

 
EVERY HEAD TURNED THEIR WAY AS THEY WALKED THE LONG, FLOWER-BORDERED path toward the back gates of Castle Ursal.

  It didn’t bother Roger Lockless much to see their sour expressions on the occasions when he walked here alone. He was used to having people stare at him with expressions ranging from disgusted to curious to awestricken. Roger had been very ill as a child, had nearly died; and, indeed, all who cared for him had thought him lost on more than one occasion. The affliction had stunted his growth so much that he was now barely five feet tall and was very skinny; because of that, his features—eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—seemed somehow too large for his face. All his life, Roger had been the proverbial square peg, and as such had suffered the stares.

  There was more to those churlish expressions than curiosity on this occasion, he knew; and most of the onlookers, particularly the women, were not even looking at him.

  Dainsey walked beside him with her head held high, but Roger understood the pain she was undoubtedly feeling. She had been a peasant, living on the tough streets of Palmaris, surviving by her wits and any other means available. Dainsey could deal with a bare-knuckled brawl in an alley and had hidden from soldiers and the monks loyal to Markwart for weeks in terrible conditions. Dainsey could suffer the rosy plague with dignity and with courage, never complaining.

  But this kind of subtle injury was far more devastating.

  The nobles were looking at them the way they might at a wet, dirty dog that had leaped up on a dinner table. Their eyes screamed “peasant,” if their lips didn’t have the courage to follow.

  And it was true, Roger knew. He and Dainsey were peasants, despite their elevated status because of the circumstances following the war and the plague. Oh, Jilseponie had given them finery to wear, but in truth neither of them knew how to wear such garments. In the fancy clothing, the pair just looked uncomfortable and perhaps even more out of place.

  Roger reminded himself why they had come to Ursal so early that spring, as soon as the roads and the river had allowed. They were there to support Pony—not Queen Jilseponie but Pony Wyndon, their dear friend. And seeing these crinkled faces, these expressions disgusted at their mere presence, only reminded Roger more profoundly that Pony needed their support right now.

  Everything about her present life was souring around her. Rumors abounded on the streets that she was being unfaithful, or that King Danube was, and that the couple hardly spoke anymore. Jokes echoed in every tavern in Ursal and the nearby communities about the Peasant Queen.

  It was all emanating from these folks staring at him now, Roger knew, and he wanted to draw out a weapon and cut them down!

  “How can she be doin’ it day to day?” Dainsey asked him quietly. “How can she take the looks and not fight back?”

  “How could she fight back?” Roger asked in reply. “She would destroy the court and wound her husband deeply. And he is the King, Dainsey, so in the end, she would lose even more.”

  “If he’s toleratin’ these sniffers, then it might do him good to get a good kick in the arse,” Dainsey remarked.

  Her simple logic served as armor against the stares, and Roger even managed a little smile at Dainsey’s lovable ignorance of the ways of court.

  If only it were that simple!

  “Are there any other strays you wish to take into the shelter of Castle Ursal?” Duke Kalas said to Jilseponie when he found the Queen standing on a high balcony, looking out toward the Masur Delaval.

  Jilseponie bit back her curt response, hardly surprised. What a fool Kalas was! What fools were all of them, hardly recognizing that Roger Lockless was more deserving of his room in Castle Ursal than any of the others. How many lives had he saved during the Demon War? Fifty? Five hundred? He had waged battle fearlessly, had gone into Caer Tinella all alone to rescue prisoners of the powries, and then had stood resolutely on principle even though doing so seemingly assured him of a horrible death at the hands of Father Abbot Markwart. And all that time the noblemen and noblewomen sat here comfortably, sipping their wine and boggle, worrying more about fine clothes than a poor old widow who was about to be executed by the terrible powries in Caer Tinella, fighting with their quiet insults whispered behind backs rather than with sword and honest wit.

  Jilseponie narrowed her eyes when Kalas moved to stand right beside her, dropping his strong hands onto the balcony railing.

  “You cannot understand that some people do not belong here,” the Duke remarked.

  Jilseponie turned to him, and they locked stares.

  “And that other people do,” the Duke finished. Now Jilseponie was no longer surprised that Kalas had gone out of his way to find her and confront her. Of late, the Duke, like all the other nobles, had been shunning her outright; but now, it seemed, Kalas was up for a fight. That last line told Jilseponie why: he had just returned from Yorkeytown, from Constance Pemblebury.

  “She sits broken in the shadows,” Kalas went on, staring back out across the city. “Everything to which she ever aspired has been stolen from her—all her life has been taken away. And all because of the petty jealousy of a woman who should not be queen.”

  Jilseponie turned on him sharply, her eyes shooting daggers; and he turned and met her stare.

  She slapped him across the face.

  For a moment, she thought Kalas would respond in kind, and Jilseponie, ever the fighter, hoped he would!

  He composed himself and merely chuckled, though, staring at her. “Is it not enough that you have taken her man—her true love and the father of her children?” he asked. “Do you have to destroy her utterly?”

  “I do nothing to Constance,” Jilseponie replied.

  “Then she is free to return to Castle Ursal?”

  Jilseponie chewed on that for a moment. “No,” she said.

  Kalas gave another chuckle—more of a snort, actually—shaking his head. With a wave of disgust at Jilseponie, he turned and started away.

  “You think me petty and jealous,” Jilseponie called after him, and she could hardly believe the words as they came out of her mouth. Why did she need to explain herself to Duke Kalas, after all?

  The Duke paused and slowly turned back to face her.

  “There is much more I could have done to Constance,” Jilseponie went on, needing for some reason she did not quite understand to get this out in the open. She had suffered too many jokes, too many hurtful rumors, too many sneers and looks of disgust. “In response to her own actions.”

  “Because Danube loves her?” the Duke asked.

  “Because he does not,” Jilseponie was quick to respond.

  “He loves Jilseponie,” Kalas said sarcastically. Those words hurt her most of all, because in truth, she wasn’t sure she could deny the sarcasm. Things between the King and Queen had not been warm of late. Not at all.

  Jilseponie told him, then, though she had previously decided that she would not, of Constance’s tampering with her food, of the herbs Constance had garnered from Abbot Ohwan, and of the way she had coerced the chef into sprinkling them on the Queen’s food in huge quantities.

  Duke Kalas stared at her blankly throughout the recital, hardly seeming impressed. “If she tried to keep you from having King Danube’s child, a new heir to the throne, then I agree with her,” the Duke stated flatly. “And so, apparently from your own words, do many others, your own Church included.”

  “That alone is a crime of treason,” Jilseponie reminded. “But, no, Constance went beyond that goal. She tried to poison me, to kill me, that she could find her way back to Danube’s bed.”

  Duke Kalas snorted again. “So you say,” he remarked, unimpressed. “And again, I have to remind you that there are many who would agree with her.”

  Jilseponie’s full lips grew very tight.

  “After all these years, do you still really believe that you belong here?” the Duke asked her bluntly. “Do you harbor any notions that any children borne of you could lay claim to the throne? Better for the kingdom that you remain barren, wh
atever the cause.”

  Jilseponie could hardly believe what she was hearing! She knew that these words had been spoken often by the nobles, and, indeed, since the barrage of rumors, by many of the common folk, as well. But never would she have believed that any of them, Kalas included, would be so bold as to speak them to her!

  “Constance Pemblebury’s children are properly bred,” Duke Kalas went on, his square jaw firm and resolute. “Their bloodlines are pure, and in line for the crown, a responsibility to man and to God that you, as a peasant, cannot even begin to appreciate. If called upon to ascend, either Merwick or Torrence would rule with the temperance of nobility and the proper understanding of the natural order of things. They were bred for this!” He stared hard at Jilseponie, then gave a deprecating chuckle. “Any cubs from you, wild things that they would be—”

  She moved again to slap him across the face, but he caught her hand.

  A subtle twist easily disengaged his grip, and Jilseponie finished the move with a sharp slap.

  Duke Kalas laughed as he rubbed his chin and cheek, both dark with stubble, as he had just returned from the road.

  “Sharp words,” Jilseponie warned him, “unbefitting a noble of King Danube’s court.”

  “Pray, will you go to your husband the King and have me banished?” the Duke taunted. “Or will benevolent Queen Jilseponie have me stripped of rank, perhaps even tried for treason and executed?”

  “Or will I take up my sword and kill you myself?” Jilseponie added, not backing away a step, and reminding Kalas clearly that she was no courtesan queen, but a warrior seasoned in many, many battles. “You chide me by implying I would hide behind my husband’s royal robes. It is unbecoming, Duke Kalas, of the noble warrior you pretend to be.”

  “You are not the only one who has seen battle,” the Duke reminded her.

  “And it has been years since I have engaged in any true fight, whereas you practice with your Allhearts constantly,” Jilseponie readily agreed. Her tone made it quite clear that she didn’t think any of what she said would make any difference should Duke Kalas ever choose to wage battle personally against her. Jilseponie could feel the old fires burning within her again. All of the many battles of her daily life now had to be handled delicately, by diplomatic means; surely, on many levels, the battles of words were preferable to bloodshed. But a part of Jilseponie, the part that was Pony Wyndon, missed the old days, when the enemy was more easily definable, was clearly evil and irredeemable. There was something cleaner about speaking with her sword. In truth, Jilseponie was more easily able to wipe the blood of a slain goblin or powrie from her sword than she was able to wipe her harsh words to Constance Pemblebury from her conscience. For while she knew that Constance had brought her fate upon herself, Jilseponie felt much more sympathy for the woman than for her enemies of old.