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

by R. A. Salvatore

  But the crowd would hear none of it, and neither, apparently, would King Danube, for the claim was truly without merit.

  Kalas growled and replaced his helm, motioning for his attendant, who brought him a fine sword, thicker than Tempest, but seeming well balanced from the way Kalas twirled it.

  “You will wish that they had granted the foul and ended your suffering,” Kalas promised as he came in ferociously, his sword cutting whistling swaths through the air.

  Aydrian ducked as the blade swished by, then stabbed ahead suddenly, Tempest scoring the Duke’s shield, then jumped back again as Kalas slashed across with a powerful backhand.

  On came the Duke, roaring with every stride and every cut, nothing less than magnificent, and the crowd howled in appreciation.

  But Aydrian knew the truth, if stubborn Kalas did not. The elven sword dance, bi’nelle dasada, had been designed specifically to combat this slashing and whirling fighting style, and though Kalas was better than most—better than any, perhaps, in this particular style—Aydrian found holes in his defenses repeatedly, and quickly stepped forward with a sudden thrust, Tempest chipping away at the Duke’s shield.

  Ahead came Aydrian, another solid hit, and this time Tempest’s mighty blade drove through the shield, just below its top. Kalas backed and ducked, and Tempest pierced through.

  With a roar, the Duke slashed once, twice, thrice, striding forward each time, and narrowly—so narrowly!—missing Aydrian’s head with each cut. The crowd gasped, once, twice, thrice, in accord with the deadly cuts.

  They thought the Duke had the young knight dead. And Kalas, his expression one of complete elation, apparently believed the insurmountable advantage his.

  Aydrian let that blade get close enough so that he could hear it breaking the air beside his head, let the Duke press forward, let the crowd lose their collective breath.

  He sent his thoughts into the serpentine and the ruby, enacting a shield and setting his blade aflame, then stepped back, bending his knees so that he went down beneath the fourth cut, then came up strong, his fiery sword ringing against the side of Kalas’ heavier blade.

  A fiery sword! The people of Ursal had never seen such a thing!

  Now Aydrian played the Duke’s game to dazzling perfection, spinning his blade to perfectly complement the movements of the other sword, parrying here, swishing beneath or above there. He worked his feet fast, not back and forth, but in a dancing, roundabout manner that had both Aydrian and the Duke spinning. The young warrior got one advantage and darted behind Kalas’ flank, smashing the length of Tempest’s blade across Kalas’ armored back, a ringing hit but one that did little damage to anything more than the Duke’s inflated pride.

  Around came Kalas with a mighty swing, and the two went into their dance again, blades spinning high and low, Tempest trailing flames. Then Aydrian, who wanted the show to be nothing short of spectacular, sent his energy in short bursts through the graphite in Tempest’s blade so that sparks flew with the flames whenever the blades came ringing together.

  Kalas cut down and across, and Tempest picked it off. The Duke replied with a downward semicircle, slashing at Aydrian’s belly; but Aydrian’s blade countered with a similar movement, in perfect timing to pick it off again. The Duke shield-rushed—and Aydrian, his left arm still sore, was vulnerable to that, except that he danced back and back again and smashed Tempest against that shield with enough force to draw a groan from the raging Duke.

  Kalas spun out of it and slashed again, and then again, but Tempest was there—was always there—deflecting each blow harmlessly aside in a sliding and sparking parry or catching the Duke’s sword and holding it immobile.

  Kalas surprised Aydrian then, starting another wide-swinging slash, then stopping abruptly and stabbing straight ahead, a move more akin to the elven fighting style. Tempest errantly started across Aydrian’s body, but he retracted it in time to prevent receiving a serious stab, getting merely a glancing hit, though the sudden, jarring retreat he was forced into brought another wave of pain from his shoulder.

  “Your mistake,” Kalas said to him, pressing on.

  “Yours,” Aydrian corrected, for he knew that the time had come, and he wanted to make the ending dramatic.

  Kalas’ sword worked a series of whipping sideways figure eights in the air as he charged, a dazzling display for the unskilled onlookers.

  Nothing but pure opportunity for Aydrian. Kalas’ sword rolled out to Aydrian’s right, and so the young warrior stepped that way.

  Back flashed Kalas’ sword, to center and ahead in a devious thrust, but Aydrian had seen it coming and had kept his run to the right. He dove into a roll, came up, and dashed behind the Duke.

  Around spun Kalas with a mighty roar, shield sweeping out wide, sword trailing in a mighty cut.

  Aydrian rushed ahead and stabbed him through the chest, suddenly, easily. Fiery Tempest pierced the Duke’s fine armor, and Aydrian heightened the drama and the effect by releasing the energy of the graphite fully.

  Kalas was flying backward, his sword sailing wide to one side, shield flapping on the other. His helm blew off from the lightning jolt, and the straps on his greaves exploded so that he left his boots behind. He landed more than five strides away, on his back, arms out wide to the side.

  The crowd … was perfectly silent. Aydrian looked at the royal pavilion, to see both King and Queen, and every other noble, leap to their feet, hands over mouths.

  An attendant rushed out to the fallen Duke and lifted his head. Now the crowd was murmuring; Aydrian heard crying and screaming.

  “He is dead, my King!” the attendant cried, and the wailing heightened.

  Aydrian searched the throng and finally spotted De’Unnero, who was looking down at him and nodding approvingly. Never had Ursal seen such a spectacle as the fall of Duke Kalas!

  Still looking at De’Unnero, Aydrian put his hand over his breast, and the former monk understood, and nodded his head toward the fallen knight.

  “Make way!” Aydrian commanded, shoving the squire aside and to the ground. Several Allheart knights were at the Duke’s side by then, but Aydrian pushed through, kneeling before the fallen man.

  “What devil magic did ye use?” one of the knights yelled at him.

  Aydrian ignored him, concentrating instead on Duke Kalas. He bent over the man, very close, let the hematite, the soul stone, set in his armor cover the wound in Kalas’ chest, and put his face very near the Duke’s.

  “Live,” he commanded, and he sent his healing energies out through the stone. “Live!”

  The spirit of Duke Kalas walked down a long and shadowy road, gray fog drifting up about him. He knew that he was dead or dying, understood that the power that had struck him was beyond anything he could have ever anticipated.

  And now he was going, going, falling into the dark abyss of death.

  A glowing hand appeared before him, hovering in midair, the warmth of its light burning away the gray fog.

  The hand of death, Duke Kalas believed, and he knew that he could not deny the call, knew that he was gone from life.

  He took the hand with his own, and then he understood.

  Tai’maqwilloq!

  He felt life in that hand, not death, felt energy coursing back into him, into his spirit and into his broken body.

  Who was this young man who had come to win the tournament?

  Who was this young man who had defeated him with power beyond his comprehension?

  Who was this man, this giver of life, reaching out to him now to pull him back from the walk of the dead?

  A moment later, Duke Kalas began to cough and sputter, very much alive.

  The crowd went into an approving frenzy.

  Aydrian rose, to find that a squire had retrieved his mount and brought it near. With a final look into Kalas’ eyes, a final sharing of the truth of the strength that was Aydrian, he mounted and walked the horse to face the royal pavilion.

  “I know not what to sa
y, Tai’maqwilloq!” King Danube proclaimed when the throng at last quieted and the young champion had presented himself before the pavilion—though he had still not removed his fabulous helm. “The pennant of victory is yours!” With cheers ringing from every angle, King Danube tossed his flag, the same one Kalas had retrieved to claim victory in the general melee, to Aydrian.

  Who stiffened in his seat and let the prize fall to the dirt.

  “I rode not for King Danube,” the young warrior declared loudly and resolutely. “I would take as my prize the pennant of Queen Jilseponie.”

  He could see that he had her totally flustered, totally unprepared to answer his request. She stared at him for what seemed like hours, shaking her head in disbelief and confusion. Then she reached back and claimed the queen’s pennant, which hung from the back post of her seat, and tossed it out to him.

  Aydrian gave a half bow. Raising the pennant high, he kicked Symphony—and he knew that Jilseponie knew that it was indeed Symphony—into a victory lap of the field, then thundered away down one of the ramps, through the throng, and away.

  Leaving behind a fuming Danube, a completely perplexed Duke Kalas, and an equally amazed Queen Jilseponie.

  Chapter 32

  A Bold Step Forward

  AYDRIAN LEFT HIS ATTENDANTS BEHIND AND RODE OUT OF URSAL AND ACROSS the fields surrounding the city, going past the estate where he was staying and returning only much later, under cover of night.

  He was anxious and nervous, almost giddy with relief and pride at his performance, but he had no idea how De’Unnero would react to the manner in which he had felled Duke Kalas.

  It was late into the night before De’Unnero and Sadye returned, but despite his tremendous exertion that day, Aydrian hadn’t begun to find any sleep. He was there, pacing just inside the door, when the pair walked in.

  De’Unnero held Sadye back, then walked up to the young warrior, standing barely an inch away, eye to eye.

  “You improvised,” the former monk said quietly.

  “Duke Kalas changed the rules,” Aydrian replied.

  “Your lance was weakened, his own strengthened,” De’Unnero agreed. “I thought you were defeated.”

  Aydrian managed a smile. “As did I,” he answered, “for a moment. It went beyond the lances, for there was a moment when Symphony was not my mount, was answering to another call, that of the Queen.”

  “Your mother?” De’Unnero asked sarcastically, a wry grin widening on his face. “Working against you?”

  “Or simply calling to the horse,” Aydrian reasoned unconvincingly, for, indeed, De’Unnero’s innuendo shook him.

  “You handled yourself and the unexpected situation beautifully,” De’Unnero went on. “Better than I would have expected from one your age, despite your training and your experience. The defeat of Duke Kalas was one that the peasants, the nobles, the churchmen, and particularly Duke Kalas, will not soon forget.”

  He reached up with both hands and patted Aydrian on the shoulders, nodding and grinning.

  “I wonder about the wisdom of restoring Duke Kalas’ life, though,” Sadye remarked a moment later, from back by the door. “That one might prove to be a thorn.”

  But De’Unnero was shaking his head before she ever finished. “He loves his King, ’tis true,” he answered, “but he hates the Queen profoundly, even more so as Lady Constance Pemblebury continues to deteriorate. She was not even at the tournament either day.”

  “The absence was notable,” Sadye agreed. “And there was a melancholy about her children, I noted; one that I believe stemmed as much from concern for their mother as from their own inability to join the games.”

  De’Unnero didn’t disagree with her assessment. “If we do not overtly go against the King, Duke Kalas will prove to be no obstacle.”

  “Our very presence goes against the King,” Aydrian remarked.

  “But no one knows that,” said De’Unnero. “Against the Queen, yes. That will soon enough be revealed. Indeed, in my guise as Bruce of Oredale, I have already made that position quite plain to the beloved Duke—in a manner, though, that speaks in the King’s best interests. I do believe that many in attendance at the games understand that Tai’maqwilloq is no friend to Danube, but Tai’maqwilloq will not be seen for a long while among the folk of Ursal.”

  Aydrian looked at him curiously.

  “Put your armor away and rub a bit of dirt onto your handsome cheeks, young attendant,” the former monk explained, “for you will not leave this house as Tai’maqwilloq but only as just another hopeless and helpless peasant.”

  “Or perhaps as a monk from St. Bondabruce,” Sadye remarked. “That guise would be easily enough achieved.”

  Neither of the options was particularly pleasing to Aydrian, who had heard the cheers of the crowd and wanted desperately to be done with this, to claim the kingdom as the first step on his road to complete glory. His look was sour then, as much the pout of a child as the arrogance of the champion.

  De’Unnero and Sadye laughed at him, but in such a way as to invite him to join in.

  “Patience,” said De’Unnero. “The seed is planted and well fed. It will grow. Now, to bed with you, with all of us. I must be away before the dawn to Abbot Olin’s emissaries, who witnessed the tournament with great relief and pleasure, I believe.”

  “And then?” Sadye asked.

  “Why, back to the court of King Danube, of course,” said De’Unnero. “My target now is the stunned Duke of Wester-Honce, once dead, once raised, and that by the man who killed him. It will be interesting to see how this sudden and unexpected course of events sits with the man. Quite interesting indeed.”

  Aydrian let the conversation drop at that, for he well understood the importance of converting Duke Kalas to their cause. When the moment of the coup came, an alliance with Duke Targon Bree Kalas would guarantee their securing Ursal and the backing of upper echelons of the King’s army. No matter how they went about it, they all understood that this coup would not be bloodless, even if King Danube were to cooperate and die soon of natural causes. But with Kalas beside them, the bloodshed would not likely begin until Aydrian and the others had built an insurmountable advantage.

  The only thing that bothered Aydrian at that point was his understanding that his major part in the seeding was now done. He’d likely spend the next few weeks hidden away in the estate—if he was lucky. If not, it could drag out to months, to years.

  No, not years, Aydrian decided. His patience would not last much longer, and when it broke, he would bring about his ascension by any means necessary.

  Nor would he truly be confined within the estate, he silently decided, and his hand slipped down over the breastplate of his armor, over the soul stone.

  The next day, De’Unnero did not seek out Duke Kalas, as he had intended, for when he arrived at court, dressed as Bruce of Oredale, he discovered that the Duke had sent out agents throughout the castle and throughout Ursal, seeking to learn more of the mysterious Tai’maqwilloq.

  De’Unnero went back to his work among the other nobles, spreading rumors against the Queen—no difficult task—figuring that Duke Kalas would come to him soon enough.

  Out in the garden, he ran into an unexpected potential ally, sitting quietly by herself off to the side.

  “Bruce of Oredale at your service, Lady Pemblebury,” he said, moving to join her.

  Constance Pemblebury looked up at him, and only then did De’Unnero truly appreciate the devastation that had come to this woman since the Queen’s return. Her blond hair seemed much less lustrous, thinner and grayer, her skin was chalky and dry, and heavy bluish bags lined her eyes. Those eyes were the most telling of all. There was no inner sparkle. No life.

  De’Unnero had seen that dead look before, usually in the eyes of people right before they succumbed to a deadly illness. There was a hopelessness there and a helplessness.

  “Do I know you?” Constance replied, her hand trembling as she reached for a glass
of wine.

  “Nay, though surely I have heard of you, Lady Pemblebury, the great lady of Ursal!” De’Unnero said, trying to breathe some fire into her by using so flattering a title.

  Constance laughed at him. “The old cow who did her duty, then was pushed aside, you mean,” she answered, and she looked away.

  There was nothing coy in her answer, no indication that she was fishing for more compliments.

  De’Unnero reconsidered his course. If Constance Pemblebury was to be his ally, it would have to be unintentional, two separate entities striving for the same goal, he decided.

  “You did not attend the tournament, I believe,” he said, thinking to lead her in a roundabout manner to discern if she had any inside information on Duke Kalas’ latest efforts.

  Constance didn’t answer, didn’t even look back at him, and he wondered if she had even heard him.

  He waited a bit longer, repeated the question, and then, when no answer seemed forthcoming, he merely said, “G’day, my lady,” and rose from his seat and walked away, all the while wondering how he could use Constance’s breakdown as a weapon to further ensnare Duke Kalas, well-known to be her dearest friend.

  He spent the rest of the day wandering about the many garden gatherings, this private end to the days of feasting for the select few who comprised Danube’s court, this quiet and more cultivated event without the troublesome rabble. De’Unnero politely excused himself from any conversation that seemed meaningless in light of his focus, and earnestly joined in any talk of the previous day’s events, especially those that hinted that this Tai’maqwilloq warrior was somehow linked to the Queen, was likely her young lover.

  Ah, but Marcalo De’Unnero was truly enjoying this day of gossiping and sniping. He was surprised, though, and more than a little disappointed, when, even after the King and Queen were announced and took their places among the guests, Duke Kalas did not make an appearance.

  The leader of the Allhearts was likely still recovering from his first-ever tournament defeat, De’Unnero figured.