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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Now Brynn was thinking again, and watching every terrible movement. As much in horror as in pragmatism, she picked up her staff, rushed over, and smashed the goblin in the head.

  It just yelled and thrashed even more.

  Brynn hit it again and again, just wanting this nightmare to be over, just wanting the wretched thing to lie still.

  A long while later, after what seemed like many, many minutes to Brynn, the goblin finally stopped its thrashing and its whining.

  Brynn slumped to her knees. There were still goblins about, some hurt, others perhaps not so, but she couldn’t think of that right at that moment, couldn’t think of anything except for the dead creatures about her, the goblins she had killed, and brutally so. She fought against the tears and against the urge to throw up, trying hard to steady her breathing and her sensibilities. She reminded herself that danger was all about her, told herself that a goblin might be creeping up even then, ready to drive a spear into her back.

  Brynn glanced over her shoulder at the unsettling thought, but all was quiet behind her. Even in the encampment, nothing seemed to be stirring, though she knew she had not killed all of the creatures back there in her initial charge. She noted Diredusk off to the side, standing calmly, tugging at some low brush, then lifting his head with a great haul of small branches and leaves in his munching mouth.

  Brynn took up her bow and strung it, then pulled the dagger out of the dead goblin’s leg and set it into her belt. Fitting an arrow, she crept along a circuitous route, gradually working her way back in sight of the camp.

  None of the goblins was moving. Belli’mar Juraviel walked about them, kicking at them, and when any showed signs of life, the elf bent down and slashed open its throat.

  Brynn hated him at that moment. Profoundly. Why had he done this to her? Why had he taken her off the straight trail to the south and toward To-gai, only to slaughter these creatures?

  It took the young ranger a few moments to realize how tightly she was gripping her bowstring about the set arrow, or the fact that she had inadvertently begun to pull back, just a bit, on the bow. She eased it to rest, then grabbed it up in one hand, clenching the bow at midshaft and wrapping one finger about the arrow to hold it steady. Then she determinedly, angrily, strode back into the encampment.

  Juraviel looked up at her. “A bit sloppy,” he said. “Your first charge through was beautifully executed, efficient and to the point. But you spent far too long with the pair in the brush. Three of these were not dead, and two could have soon enough gathered their wits and strength enough to come in at you. What would you have done if I had not been here to clean up?”

  His voice trailed away at the end, his expression showing Brynn that she was correctly conveying her outrage with her steely look.

  “Is there a problem?” the elf asked, his condescending tone alone telling Brynn that he knew well enough what was bothering her.

  “Was there a purpose?”

  “Need I give you another lecture about the wretchedness of goblins? How many examples should I provide you to settle your guilt, young ranger? Should I tell you about the forests they have burned to the ground, about the human settlements they have raided, slaughtering even the children, and eating more than a few? Should I recount for you again the great DemonWar and point out the hundreds of instances of misery the goblins perpetrated upon the land and upon the humans in that dark time?”

  “Raided human settlements,” Brynn echoed, looking about sarcastically.

  “Yes, and took pleasure in every kill.”

  “As did you!” Brynn knew that she was moving over the line even as the words left her mouth.

  “Not so,” Juraviel answered quietly and calmly, seeming to take no offense. “I—we—did as we had to do. With expediency and efficiency. Without true malice, and with actions spawned from pragmatism. Did I enjoy the killing? Not really. But I take heart in knowing that our actions here just made the entire world a bit brighter and a bit safer.”

  “And seasoned your ranger a bit more.” There was no mistaking the heavy sarcasm and anger in her tone.

  “And that, yes,” the elf answered, unperturbed.

  Brynn quivered on the verge of an explosion. “And do rangers often gain their first battle experience against goblins?” she asked. “Is that where they draw first blood, where they first can enjoy the sweet smell of death?”

  “Goblins or rabid animals, likely,” the elf was quick to respond, and still he seemed completely unshaken. “Though it could be argued that they are much one and the same.”

  His tone as much as his words only brought even more tension into poor Brynn, and she wanted to scream out in protest at that moment more than she ever had since the murder of her parents.

  “As worthy an enemy as can be found, if not so worthy as an opponent,” Juraviel went on.

  Brynn turned away and squeezed her eyes shut tightly, then opened them and stared off into the forest. She felt Juraviel’s gentle hand upon the small of her back.

  “How steep are the mountains you must climb if you cannot scale this tiny hillock?”

  “I did not leave Andur’Blough Inninness to become a murderess,” Brynn answered through her gritted teeth.

  “You left Andur’Blough Inninness to begin a war,” Juraviel reminded, with even more intensity. “Do you think that your revolution will be bloodless?”

  “That is different.”

  “Because the Chezru are deserving?”

  Brynn, her eyes narrowed, turned to face him directly, and said with an air of confidence, “Yes.”

  “And only the deserving Chezru will die?”

  “Many of my people will die, but they will do so willingly, if their sacrifice helps to free To-gai!”

  “And many innocents will die,” the elf pointed out. “Children too young to understand what is happening. The infirm. Women on both sides will be raped and slaughtered.”

  Brynn worked hard to hold firm her gaze, but she did wince.

  “War is not fought along clear lines, Brynn. The Yatols at war will call upon the fierce Chezhou-Lei warriors, and they, by reputation, will not suffer any of the enemy race to live. And will your own people be more generous? How many of the To-gai-ru have suffered horrible tragedies under the press of the Yatols? When you press into Behren, as surely you must if you are to force the people of the sand kingdom truly to allow you your freedom, you will overtake Behrenese villages, full of people who know nothing of To-gai and the plight of the To-gai-ru. But will not some of your own warriors take revenge on those innocents for the wrongs of the Yatol occupation?”

  Brynn didn’t relent in her stoic gaze. She could not, at that moment of dark epiphany. But she heard well Belli’mar Juraviel’s every word, and knew in her heart, if her head would not yet admit it, that he was correct.

  Chapter 2

  The Blood of Centuries

  YAKIM DOUAN, CHEZRU CHIEFTAIN OF ALL BEHREN, OPENED HIS EYES ON THIS, the 308,797th day of his life.

  The sun looked the same, peeking into his bedroom window. The springtime air, laced with the scents of flowers and spices and pungent camels, felt the same as it always had.

  Yakim Douan smiled at that thought, for he liked it this way, too much ever to let it go. He groaned a bit as he rolled off his bed—a hammock, as was customary in the city of Jacintha, where the aggressive and deadly brown-ringed scorpions often crawled into the padded bedding of mattresses or straw. Slowly the old man straightened, cursing the sharp pain in both his knees and the way his back always seemed to lock up after a long night’s sleep.

  His room was beautifully adorned, with all the trappings one would expect for the most powerful and the richest man south of the Belt-and-Buckle—and arguably north of it, as well. Wondrous tapestries lined the walls, their rich colors capturing the morning light, their intricate designs drawing in Yakim Douan’s gaze and holding it there. How long had he been studying those same images? Depictions of war and of the human form, of b
eauty and of tragedy? And still, they seemed as fresh and inspiring to him as they had when first he had gazed upon them.

  Thick woven rugs felt good on his bare feet. He stretched and widened his toes, taking it in fully, then made his creaking way across the large room to the decorated washbasin, all of shining white-and-pink marble, with a golden-framed mirror hanging above it. The Chezru Chieftain splashed cold water onto his old and wrinkled face and stared hard into the mirror, lamenting the way age had ravaged him. He saw his gray eyes and hated them most of all, and wished he had known their color before he had chosen this corporeal coil as his own.

  Blue eyes next time, he hoped. But, of course, some things were quite beyond his control.

  His current set of orbs was quite telling to him. Never did they seem white about the pupils anymore, just a dull yellowish hue. His body was sixty-two years old, and he had hated every minute of the last decade. Oh, of course he could have any luxuries he wanted. He kept a harem of beautiful young women at his beck and call, and should he desire a plaything, he could bring in any other woman he chose, even if she was already married. He was the Chezru Chieftain, the God-Voice of Behren. With a word he could have a person burned at the stake, or order one of his subjects to take his own life, and the idiot would unquestioningly comply.

  All the world was Yakim Douan’s to take, and so he did, over and over again.

  A soft, polite knock on his door turned the old Chezru from the mirror. “Enter,” he said, knowing full well that it was Merwan Ma, his personal attendant.

  “Your pardon, Great One,” Merwan Ma said, peeking his head around the door. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties, with short, black, tightly curled hair, and large black eyes that seemed all the darker because they were set in pools of white, pure white, with no veins and no yellow discoloration at all. The eyes of a child, Yakim thought, every time he looked upon them. Merwan Ma’s face was boyish as well, with hardly a shadow of hair, and his nose and lips were somewhat thin, which only made his eyes seem all the larger. “Shall I have your breakfast brought to you up here, or do you prefer a litter to take you to the Room of Morning Sun?”

  Yakim Douan suppressed his chuckle. He heard these same words every morning—every single morning! Without fail, without the slightest deviation. Exactly as he had ordered them spoken fifty-two years and seven personal attendants ago.

  “God-Voice?” Merwan Ma asked.

  A telling question, Yakim Douan realized, for the younger man had spoken out of turn, without prompting and without permission. The Chezru Chieftain glared at the attendant, and Merwan Ma shrank back, nearly disappearing behind the door.

  Yes, Yakim could still keep the overly curious young man in line, and with just a look. That, and the fact that he honestly liked Merwan Ma, was the only reason Yakim kept this one around. While one would normally expect intelligence to be a prized attribute for a personal attendant, Yakim Douan usually went out of his way to avoid that particular strength. The Chezru Chieftain was safer by far if those closest to him were somewhat dim-witted. Unfortunately for Yakim, though, by the time he had realized Merwan Ma’s brightness, he was already enamored of the young man, who had been only sixteen when he had begun to serve. Even after he had come to understand Merwan Ma’s intellect and curiosity, Yakim had kept him on, and now, with the day of his death approaching, he was glad that he had. Merwan Ma was bright and inquisitive, but he was also fiercely loyal and pious, dedicated enough to Yatol to rise into the priesthood. When Merwan Ma called Yakim “God-Voice,” he honestly believed the title to be literal.

  “Come in,” the Chezru Chieftain bade the attendant.

  Merwan Ma came around the door, standing straight. He was tall, well over six feet, and lean, as were most of the people of Behren, where it was hot all the time and extra pounds and layers of fat did not sit well. He’d seem even taller if he ascended to the priesthood, Yakim realized, for then he’d grow his hair up high, as was the custom for Yatols.

  Yakim nearly chuckled again as he considered the fact that his attendant was not a Yatol priest. For centuries, the Chezru Chieftain had been attended only by Yatol priests; for centuries, none but Yatol priests were even allowed to speak to the God-Voice. But Yakim Douan had changed that nearly four hundred years before, after one almost disastrous transformation when several of his attending Yatols had decided to make a try for the principal Chezru title themselves, claiming that the new God-Voice could not be found, despite the fact that they had a two-year-old in hand who could fully recite the Codex of the Prophet.

  Luck alone had allowed Yakim Douan to continue his reign in that instance, and so when he had risen to Consciousness at the tender age of ten, one of his first edicts was to change the strata at Chom Deiru, the Chezru Palace, putting those whose power was closest to the Chezru Chieftain out of the loop, removing personal ambition from the formula in times of Transcendence.

  “The Room of the Morning Sun is prepared for breakfast?” Yakim asked.

  “Yes, God-Voice.” Merwan Ma was careful to avert his eyes as he spoke. “But you have risen late this day and I fear that the room is already heated beyond comfort.”

  “Yes … well, then have my food delivered here.”

  “Yes, God-Voice.” Merwan Ma bowed quickly and turned to leave, but Yakim called out after him.

  “Have a second meal delivered, as well. You will dine with me this morning, I think. We have things that we should discuss.”

  “Yes, God-Voice.”

  Merwan Ma hustled out, and Yakim Douan nodded knowingly at the tremor in his last answer. Merwan Ma had always enjoyed sitting with Yakim—the two had become friends of a sort, a mentor-student relationship—but Merwan Ma knew now the reason for the invitation. Yakim wanted to speak with him about Transcendence again, about the Chezru Chieftain’s impending death and the duties that Merwan Ma must carry out perfectly during the time that would follow, the Beheading, it was called, a period when the Yatol Church would be without an official leader, when the Yatol priests would rule by consensus and were bound to make only little changes in standing policy.

  Yakim Douan was glad that his talks about the time of Transcendence so unsettled Merwan Ma. That revealed the young attendant’s love for his Chezru master, and that love, Yakim believed, would help to carry them both through the vulnerable few years they must face between Yakim’s death and his subsequent ascension.

  Merwan Ma returned a short while later, along with several younger attendants, all bearing trays of fruits and seasoned cakes, plates and fabulous utensils, and pitchers filled with many different types of juice. They quickly set the table at the northern window in the circular chamber, the one affording a spectacular view of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, towering black stone and white snowy peaks. The Belt-and-Buckle was the most imposing range in the known world, with few passes, and even those full of danger, rockslides and avalanches, great bears and cats and other monsters more dangerous by far. The view of the range from Yakim Douan’s palace displayed that awesome power in all its glory. That view, with the sun splayed on the eastern slopes and shining on the white caps, and with the dark shadows looming behind every jag, was considered quite spiritual by most who looked upon it. For the Yatols in particular, it held a reminder that there was a greater power than any they might witness in the domain of humankind. It was a spiritual and humbling view—humbling even to immortal Yakim Douan.

  When the pair sat down, the attendants hustled all about, pouring juice and serving the food, but Yakim Douan waved them away and ordered them out of the room. A couple of them hesitated, staring at the Chezru Chieftain with confusion, even disbelief, for they customarily served throughout the meal.

  “We are capable of pouring our own drinks,” Yakim Douan assured them. “And of cutting our own fruit. Now be gone.” He ended by waving his hands at them, and they skittered away.

  He looked back to Merwan Ma, smiling, and noted that the young man seemed to want to say something.r />
  “You will speak openly at this meal,” he instructed, and Merwan Ma shifted uncomfortably.

  Yakim went quiet then, but didn’t begin eating. He just sat there staring at his attendant, his expression prompting the young man to speak out.

  “You wish to discuss your death again, God-Voice. I am not fond of this topic.”

  “Everyone must die, my young friend,” said Yakim, and he smiled inwardly at the irony of the statement.

  “But you are still a young man,” Merwan Ma blurted, and he lowered his eyes immediately upon saying the words, as if he believed that, despite Yakim’s claim, he had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

  “In my bones, I feel the weight, the wrath, of every year and every morning,” Yakim replied with a warm smile, and he put his hand on Merwan Ma’s forearm, comforting the younger man.

  “But God-Voice, you seem as if you are surrendering to age without a fight.”

  “Do you believe in the Revelation of Yatol?” the Chezru Chieftain said suddenly, sternly, reminding the student of who he was, of his—of their—supposed purpose in life. The Revelation of Yatol was the binding force of the Yatol religion, a promise of eternal life on the Cloud of Chez, a place of Paradise. All of the rituals and practices, all of the codes of behavior that governed the Yatol religion were based upon that promise.

  “Of course, God-Voice!” Merwan Ma retorted, blurting the response with surprise and horror.

  “I am not accusing you, my son,” said the Chezru Chieftain. “I am merely reminding you. If we are to believe in the Revelation of Yatol, then we should accept the onset of death with open arms, confident that we have lived a life worthy of the Cloud of Chez. Am I to be sad, then, to think that Paradise is soon to be my home?”

  “But we do not ask for death, God-Voice—”

  “I know, however, when death begins to ask for me,” Yakim Douan interrupted. “This is part of my station, to understand when death approaches so that those around me—so that you, Merwan Ma—can begin their preparations for the search for the new God-Voice. Do you understand?”