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

by R. A. Salvatore

Brynn looked down at the elf, who stood staring to the south. To her surprise, her irritation at Juraviel’s words could not take hold. No, Brynn appreciated Juraviel at that moment, more so perhaps than she had since their departure from Andur’Blough Inninness. Only then and there, standing with their goal somewhat in sight and yet still so far away, did Brynn truly understand the sacrifice that her mentor, her friend, was making for her. He was giving up months and months, years even, away from his home and kin, and for what? For no personal gain that Brynn could see, however much Lady Dasslerond preferred the To-gai-ru over the Behrenese. When Juraviel returned home to Andur’Blough Inninness, if he managed to stay alive throughout the war and return home, the daily routines, the daily joys and sorrows of his existence would not be dependent upon whether or not Brynn had prevailed in To-gai. What did it truly matter to Juraviel and the Touel’alfar whether the To-gai-ru or the Behrenese ruled the windy steppes of that far-distant land?

  And yet, here he was, uncomplaining, traveling beside her, leading her to her destiny.

  Brynn stooped a bit and draped her arm across Juraviel’s small shoulders. He turned a curious expression toward her, and she smiled in response and kissed him on the cheek, and then, when he returned her smile, she nodded, silently conveying her appreciation, silently explaining to him—and she knew that he understood—that she at last understood and appreciated that she could not possibly make this journey without him.

  That was the truth that Brynn Dharielle realized, standing there on that warm afternoon, the southern breezes blowing through her dark, silken hair. And as she had grown on that day of her dark epiphany, when she had learned what it was to kill, so she believed that she had grown even more this day, the day of her second epiphany, the next stage of her maturation along the road to her destiny.

  A good leader understood her enemies.

  A better leader understood, and appreciated, her allies.

  The days blended together, but with each dawn Brynn noted that the mountains did indeed seem taller, if only just a bit. She tried to put it out of her mind, for she was becoming as anxious as if those mountains were not just the landmark that would lead into her land, but marked the very steppes of To-gai itself.

  One day on the road, with Brynn leaning forward eagerly, her body language speaking clearly to the fact that she believed her final goal was already in sight, and almost in hand, Belli’mar Juraviel threw a bit of cold water over her.

  “It is good that we make the foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle before midsummer,” he said casually. “For then we have a chance, at least, of finding our way through the divide before the winter snows begin.”

  Brynn’s expression as she turned to regard him was one of curiosity and confusion.

  “For winter will come early up in those high passes,” Juraviel explained. “Oh, down here, amidst the trees and this far south, I doubt the snows ever pile very deep, or indeed, if it ever snows at all. But note that the caps of the mountains are still encased in snow, though summer nears its midpoint. I suspect that we will not have to climb very high, and not very late into the winter season, before we find the passes fully blocked.

  “Of course, that is assuming that we even find a pass,” he finished grimly.

  That last sentence had Brynn’s eyes widening tellingly. “You do not know the way through?” she asked, almost with a gasp. “But you were there—or your people were—barely a decade ago! When you rescued me from the Chezru! Surely the Touel’alfar have not forgotten the way already!”

  “Lady Dasslerond was the one who rescued you,” Juraviel explained. “She has ways, with her gemstones, to travel great distances quickly. When she had you in tow, though you remember it not, she and her attendants lulled you to sleep, then used the power of the emerald stone to turn a hundred miles into a short walk.”

  “Then why didn’t Dasslerond do the same thing now?” Brynn demanded. “We could have saved weeks of travel! And the mountains would be no barrier, while you sit there telling me that we might not even be able to get through them!”

  “The road is preparation for the trials at its end.”

  Brynn snorted, obviously not impressed with that argument. “And what do we do if we cannot find a way through the mountains? Do we sit in their shadows and share dreams that we know cannot come true? Do we turn back for Caer’alfar and beg Lady Dasslerond to do that which she should have done before?”

  That last statement brought a glare of disapproval that reminded the young ranger that there were boundaries concerning the Touel’alfar she should not cross.

  She pressed on anyway, but in more reserved tones, trying to justify her outrage. “My people are enslaved. Every day that we tarry is another day of misery for the To-gai-ru. The revolution could be taking place by now.”

  Belli’mar Juraviel chuckled and shook his head, and Brynn, thinking that she was being mocked, narrowed her brown eyes.

  “If Lady Dasslerond had summoned the power of the emerald and placed you within a To-gai-ru village enclave, do you believe that you would have stepped forward and simply taken control?” the elf asked. “By what declaration would you have been named as hero and leader?”

  “By the same declaration I must use, I suppose, when at last we arrive in To-gai,” came the sarcastic response, and Brynn added under her breath, “If we ever arrive in To-gai.”

  “If we find no way over the mountains, then we shall turn east along the foothills, all the way to the coast, to the city of Entel, where we will secure passage to Jacintha easily enough.”

  Brynn knew the name of the second city, Jacintha, and understood the extent of the hike.

  “Jacintha,” Juraviel said again. “The seat of Behrenese power. The home of the Chezru Chieftain who rules the Yatols.”

  Predictably, Brynn’s expression became one of intense anger.

  “You are worldly in many ways,” Juraviel said to her. “And yet, in many others, you know so little of the wide world. Perhaps that is our fault, but we are, by need, a reclusive people. So, instead of begrudging the delays in returning to To-gai, consider this journey, and the one far to the east that we might well have to make, as a continuation of your training, as preparation for the trials you will soon enough face.”

  Brynn stared at Juraviel long and hard, but she had heard the words clearly, and could accept that explanation to some degree. She reminded herself that the Touel’alfar had rescued her from a life of certain slavery, an existence that would never have led to the possibilities spread wide before her. She reminded herself that the Touel’alfar had trained her in the arts she would need to make an attempt to lead her people. In light of all that history and training and friendship, Brynn suddenly felt very foolish indeed for so severely questioning Belli’mar Juraviel!

  She looked down and gave a self-deprecating chuckle, then said, “Perhaps I have spent too much time in the company of Aydrian.”

  She glanced back up as she finished and saw that her words had indeed brought a smile to the elf’s fair face.

  “Aydrian will find his own way in the world, I doubt not,” Juraviel replied. “But his temperament would never have proven suitable to the task you have at hand. You are a warrior, but foremost you are a diplomat, a leader with words above the sword, an inspiration through courage and …” The elf paused, raising a finger into the air to signify the importance of his point. “An inspiration through wisdom. Without the second quality, you will lead your people into nothing but disaster. It will take more than force to pry To-gai from the grasp of Behren, my young friend. It will take unparalleled courage and cunning, and will take a leader so elevated that her people will die for her willingly, gratefully. Do you fully appreciate the gravity of that position?”

  Brynn suddenly found it hard to draw breath.

  “Do you truly understand that you will one day order your warriors into battle, knowing that many of them will die on the field?”

  Breathing didn’t get any easier.

&
nbsp; “Do you truly understand that you may have to turn your army aside, knowing full well that in doing so you will leave a To-gai-ru village unprotected, and that the Behrenese will likely take out their anger against your insurrection on that unprotected village? Perhaps your actions will lead to more children watching their parents die—or even more horrifying, will lead to some parents watching their children die. Are you ready to take that responsibility, Brynn Dharielle?”

  She stood there, trembling, unblinking.

  “Is the potential cost worth the gain?”

  That last question grounded her again, tossed aside the images of potential horror and clarified the potential victory. Victory for To-gai meant only one thing, in truth, but to Brynn Dharielle, that one thing outweighed all the pain and all the deaths.

  “Freedom,” she whispered, her teeth clenched tightly.

  Belli’mar Juraviel stared at her for a few moments, then nodded his approval.

  She was learning.

  Lozan Duk watched the curious couple sitting at the campfire that warm summer night in the rolling foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle, a mountain range that Lozan Duk’s people considered the very end of the world. Lozan Duk was not too concerned with the female, for though her skin was darker and her eyes a bit unusual in shape, she did not seem so much different from the other bumbling humans who every so often wandered into these lands.

  But the other one, with his angular features and diminutive form …

  At first Lozan Duk and his companion, Cazzira, had thought the second creature a human child, but closer inspection had nullified that viewpoint. He was no child, and indeed spoke in the tones of a leader. And more than that, this one had a set of features that neither of the onlookers could have expected: a pair of nearly translucent wings.

  A branch to the side shuddered slightly as Lozan Duk’s companion returned, leaping through the boughs as nimbly as any squirrel might. “Debankan,” she said with a nod, confirming their suspicions that the wings were akin to those of a debankan, a butterfly.

  The two hesitated, staring at each other, at a loss. Their histories told of only one race of creatures who sported such ornaments, the Tylwyn Tou, the elves of the day.

  But those creatures, the Tylwyn Tou, had receded into the oldest memories of the Tylwyn Doc. To many of the younger people, they had become no more than legends.

  Was this, then, a legend come to life? For the diminutive creature down by the campfire surely resembled the Tylwyn Doc, with his deceivingly delicate stature and his angular features, except that his hair was light, where the Tylwyn Doc had hair almost universally black. And his skin, though creamy, seemed somewhat colored by the sun, where the skin of all the Tylwyn Doc, creatures who rarely if ever ventured out from under the nearly solid canopy of their forest home of Tymwyvenne, was milky white.

  “Tylwyn Tou?” Cazzira asked, echoing Lozan Duk’s thoughts exactly.

  “And what does that mean?” Lozan asked with a shrug.

  Normally, the procedure for dealing with intruders was fairly straightforward, and certainly of uniform intent. No reasoning being who wandered into the realm of the Tylwyn Doc, the Doc’alfar, would wander back out. Intruders were given to the peat bog.

  Lozan Duk looked back down at the duo, particularly at the curious creature who seemed in many ways a mirror image of himself, and wondered.

  Chapter 4

  Details, Details

  THEIR BICKERING WAS BECOMING MORE THAN AN ANNOYANCE TO YAKIM DOUAN.

  “The pirates must be handled more delicately!” yelled Yatol Peridan, the highest-ranking priest of southeastern Behren, the land known as Cosinnida—and a man well known to be in league with many of the notorious coast runners. The argument that he was now making in Jacintha—that the crackdown Yatol De Hamman had imposed along his section of the coast, the area north of Peridan’s territory and just south of Jacintha, was unreasonable and dangerous for security—almost had the Chezru Chieftain laughing aloud. How transparent this one was! Yakim always got a good chuckle out of Peridan’s antics; he had only appointed the man as a Yatol because Peridan had done a fine job in getting valuable marble up to the palace in Jacintha for recent improvements.

  “The pirates must be handled!” Yatol De Hamman countered angrily. “Leave it at that. You call for delicate handling because you fear for your own purse!”

  Yatol Peridan’s eyes widened at the blunt accusation, but Yakim Douan was paying more attention to the other seven priests, who were sitting back and watching the rising conflict with obvious amusement. The only analogy the Chezru Chieftain could draw upon at that moment was that of a group of youngsters, encircling a pair that had squared off, calling for them to fight.

  Yes, this was more than an annoyance. Yakim Douan wanted to begin the time of Transcendence, wanted a new and younger body. But how could he leave the Chezru flock so vulnerable when it was in such disarray, when even the Yatols, the supposed leaders of the Chezru, were bickering amongst themselves? The verbal sparring between Peridan and De Hamman continued to escalate dangerously, until finally the Chezru Chieftain slammed his fists down on the round whitewood table and rose so forcefully that his chair skidded out behind him.

  “Do you use the pirates, Yatol Peridan?” he asked, the bluntness of his question drawing gasps from all in attendance. It was one thing for a pair of priests to spar and accuse, but something altogether different for the Chezru Chieftain, the God-Voice of Yatol, to ask a question with such implications.

  “God-Voice, how can you ask me …” Yatol Peridan stammered clumsily.

  “Exactly as I have asked you,” Yakim Douan replied with all calm and confidence. “Do you use the pirates, for your own gain or for the gain of the church?”

  Peridan continued to squirm, obviously seeking an escape, but Yakim Douan fixed him with a withering glare—a look perfected over the centuries, a look that allowed no possibilities of dodge here.

  “The pirates have tithed to my church, yes, God-Voice,” Peridan finally admitted, lowering his eyes. The other priests all looked to each other with concern. Peridan’s admission was not news to them, of course, for everyone there knew the truth of Yatol Peridan’s relationship with some of the most notorious thugs sailing the coastline. But to hear the admission openly, in front of the Chezru Chieftain, was no small thing!

  Yatol De Hamman sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, seeming quite pleased with himself.

  “And you have used this … tithing, for the betterment of your church and flock?” the Chezru Chieftain asked, and all eyes looked at him then with continued surprise.

  “I have,” Yatol Peridan answered enthusiastically after the shock of the question had worn off. “And I have spoken with many of the pirates about their activities, God-Voice. I try to alter their behavior. I seek to channel their strengths into the betterment of all.”

  “They are killers!” Yatol De Hamman cried out. “Killers all!”

  He started to spout on, but Yakim Douan held up his hand, halting the man. “You speak truly, Yatol De Hamman,” the Chezru offered. “And I hold little sympathy for those pirates your warships have sent into the depths of the dark waters. But as they are killers, they are also an inevitability. The pirates have run their catamarans across the coral reefs and away from Behrenese warships for centuries. They have always been there and will always be there. Accept that truth, and you will come to understand that Yatol Peridan’s profiting from the pirate activities is beneficial to the Chezru.”

  “Bless you, God-Voice,” Yatol Peridan started to say.

  “But,” Yakim Douan said sternly, lifting his pointing, accusatory finger Peridan’s way, “do not confuse the issue. You complain that Yatol De Hamman is sinking pirate ships, and thus sinking your profits, but to do so shows a disregard for the needs of Yatol De Hamman. How is he to rule his flock effectively if they do not believe that he can be trusted to protect them? So come not to Jacintha with complaints that your fellow Yatols are
upholding the laws, Yatol Peridan. Come not to Jacintha with complaints that your temple will not be layered in gold.”

  Yatol Peridan again lowered his eyes. “Yes, God-Voice.”

  “And for the rest of you, find some insight!” Yakim Douan went on. “There are unpleasant inevitabilities to society, much as we see with the pirates off our coastline. We try to diminish these unpleasantries, indeed, but we are not wrong to find gain from them. As for you, Yatol Grysh,” he said, referring to, and looking to, the Yatol of the northwesternmost reaches of Behren, who presided under the shadows of the great mountains and the plateau along the borderlands of To-gai, in the great Behrenese city of Dharyan. Grysh, a bald, heavyset man with sleepy eyes who noticeably lacked any chin, was, in effect, Yakim Douan’s principal sheriff over the conquered To-gai-ru. The Yatol who had done the conquering, Tohen Bardoh, had been so brutal in his tactics that Douan had been forced to pull him back from the steppes. There were other Yatol priests in To-gai, of course, but they were either quick-promoted and expendable, eager young men, lifted from the ranks of the Shepherds and sent to the wilderness of the steppes, or they were of To-gai-ru descent, traitors to their own people, who obviously, therefore, could not be trusted by the Chezru Chieftain. That left Grysh, a cunning and often callous man, the perfect liaison to handle the savages of To-gai.

  “There are many, many bandits running just west of your domain, are there not?” Yakim Douan asked the large man.

  Yatol Grysh blinked sleepily, smiled, and nodded.

  “Do you not find a way to tap into their growing resources?” Yakim Douan asked slyly.

  Yatol Grysh, who was easily the most confident and self-assured of all those gathered, excepting of course Yakim Douan himself, merely smiled and nodded again, his demeanor drawing a chuckle or two from the others seated about the table.

  “Inevitabilities,” Yakim Douan said to them all. “We cannot achieve perfection of our world. This is the teaching of Yatol. Perfection is to be found in an existence beyond this mortal realm. We know of this, and so, while we cannot be publicly tolerant of such behaviors or risk losing our hold, I applaud a Yatol wise enough to turn unpleasantness into gain.”