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

by R. A. Salvatore

  But still, he did want Olin to ascend, did want allies within the northern kingdom, men who would not put any pressure on Behren during the time of Transcendence, and men who, through trade and gifts, would make his life a little bit more pleasurable in the next incarnation.

  “Our relationship with the Abellicans will prove of utmost importance in the crucial time that will soon be before us,” Yakim Douan went on, and as Merwan Ma’s eyes widened, just a bit, the Chezru Chieftain recognized that an urgency had crept into his voice.

  A burst of laughter from Yakim mocked the attendant’s fearful expression. “All is in place, and you know your duties.”

  “Are you not afraid?”

  Yakim Douan waved the question away with such confidence that Merwan Ma’s shoulders slumped. “We will not travel this circular path again, my young companion, nor will I tolerate your continued lack of faith.”

  Merwan Ma stepped back and lowered his eyes, and Yakim Douan was touched by the moisture rimming those brown orbs, touched that the very pious young Shepherd was so concerned about him.

  He walked over and draped an arm across Merwan Ma’s shoulders, giving a slight tug to jostle the man from his slumping posture.

  “I will be reborn, and you will be there to watch over me, until we are again united,” the older priest said. “The word of Yatol is, in this case, literal. I know this because I have been reborn time and time again, and so, no, my young friend, I am not afraid. And after you witness the great Transcendence, after you hear the words of consciousness spoken from the mouth of the babe, you will rest easier at night, in full confidence that Yatol is with us, every step of the way.”

  He coaxed a smile from Merwan Ma, then hustled the man out of the room. The sun was almost down behind the western-stretching line of the Belt-and-Buckle and Yakim Douan wanted to enjoy the sunset alone.

  He was asleep again before darkness engulfed the city.

  Chapter 5

  Conflicting Responsibilities

  “WHAT IS IT?” BRYNN ASKED JURAVIEL, FOR THE ELF WAS UP AGAIN FROM HIS SEAT before their small fire, pacing the small clearing they had selected for that evening’s camp.

  Juraviel stared out into the dark forest for a moment, then just shook his head. “There is something …” he tried to explain.

  “I feel it, too,” said Brynn. “A scent in the air … like death.”

  Belli’mar Juraviel turned to regard her, considering her words. He could sense something, some feeling about the forest, a bit of a hush, perhaps. Perceptive Brynn had put a proper label to it, though she wasn’t exactly right.

  “Not death,” he corrected. “Decay. There is the smell of decay in the air, like old logs rotting on the ground.”

  “There are many dead logs about us.”

  Juraviel shook his head again. “No, this is different,” he explained, but he couldn’t quite find the words. It was as if there was a wetness in the air, heightening the scent of decay, though the week had been dry and there were no streams or swamps or ponds about that could account for the odor.

  What might it be?

  “It is getting stronger,” Brynn remarked a few moments later, and she rose and moved near to Juraviel, who still stood on the perimeter of the encampment, at the edge of the firelight, staring out into the dark woods.

  It was indeed getting stronger, Belli’mar Juraviel understood, and since there was no wind, that had to mean that the source of the smell was growing or moving closer. Soon Juraviel had to twitch his nose, so full was it of the scent, and only then did he recognize it for what is was.

  “Peat,” he explained, and even as the word got out of his mouth, he choked it off and turned suddenly, his attention caught by a flicker of movement out in the forest.

  “Peat?” Brynn echoed curiously, scratching her head, and Juraviel realized that she didn’t even know the word. No time to explain it to her now, though, for something—or perhaps several somethings—was moving out in the dark.

  The elf bent lower and crept out a bit farther from the light, his keen eyes scanning the forest. Another movement caught his attention to the side, then another back the other way. He actually caught a silhouette of this last mover. Too big to be an elf, powrie, or goblin, he realized with a bit of relief. It had appeared much the same size as a human man, but stood up very straight and walked stiffly, barely bending torso or legs.

  “Go back by the fire,” he instructed Brynn. The elf’s first instinct was to tell her to put out the fire, but he realized it was far too late for that, that the light of the flames had already shown whoever or whatever was out there the location of the camp. “Stoke it up, and keep your bow ready by your side.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Go,” the elf repeated, and as Brynn started away, Juraviel slipped into the cover of the brush. Likely these were humans, frontier huntsmen and trappers. Or perhaps they were outlaws, chased out of civilized lands. Either way, Brynn and Juraviel would be better off if the elf was out of sight.

  Sitting back by the fire, Brynn Dharielle seemed the picture of calm, and indeed, there was little nervousness about the confident young woman. She was a ranger, elven-trained, and whatever Juraviel had seen out there in the darkness, she was confident that she and he could handle it. Her hand closed about the smooth, burnished darkfern wood of her elven-crafted bow, its rich and dark hue crossed by thin lines of the silverel metal that the towering darkferns leached out of the ground.

  Yes, Brynn believed, she and Juraviel could handle anything they might expect out there.

  But what walked into the light of the encampment a moment later was certainly nothing that either Brynn or Juraviel could have ever expected!

  It looked like a man, a Bearman of Honce-the-Bear, but it was covered in a muddy substance that made Brynn think of the rich and rotting mud she had seen under the edge of mossy carpets after a heavy spring rain. Straight and stiff, the intruder was more than a foot taller than Brynn. His clothing, too, was filthy, soaked with the mud, and was torn in several places, and his eyes …

  Yes, those eyes! When Brynn looked into them—or rather, at them—a shudder coursed down her spine. She saw the firelight reflected there, but not in any sparkling gleam. No, the eyes of this one showed no life, no inner spark at all.

  They were dead eyes.

  “What do you want?” Brynn managed to ask, and she rose fast, bringing her bow across in front of her, an arrow ready in her other hand. “Who are you?”

  The man, the zombie, didn’t respond in any way, just kept moving toward her, and now Brynn was backing to keep pace, to keep the distance between them. She heard movement behind her, though, out in the forest, and knew she didn’t have far to retreat.

  “Stay back!” she warned, fitting the arrow and lifting the bow before her.

  The intruder continued its calm approach.

  “Last warning!” shouted Brynn, drawing back and taking deadly aim.

  “It is inhuman,” came Juraviel’s quiet assurance from above. “Shoot it!”

  And as the creature came another step forward, Brynn did exactly that, letting fly, her arrow smacking into the intruder, right between the eyes.

  The creature flinched and missed a step, wavering off to the side. But that was just a matter of the weight and momentum of the missile, a horrified Brynn realized, for the creature, seemingly uninjured, soon righted its course and calmly came on.

  Brynn had another arrow up and away in the blink of an eye, this time aiming lower and putting her shot right through the creature’s heart. Right through it went, and out the other side, drilling a hole through which came a greenish, milky substance.

  The intruder passed the fire then, and Brynn scrambled to the side, fitting yet another arrow.

  “What is it?” she cried out, but no voice came back in response.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, but the creature just continued to pursue her, walking slowly and deliberately.

  She let fly again
, and again after that, scoring hits that would have dropped any living man, but again, to no apparent effect.

  Brynn turned toward Diredusk, thinking to flee.

  She gasped in horror and froze at the sight, for the pony was surrounded by more of these foul-smelling intruders, these undead creatures of her nightmares.

  But they couldn’t have her horse! Never that! With a snarl and a flick of her wrist, Brynn unstrung her bow, the solid wood straightening into a deadly club. Seeing Diredusk in trouble, whinnying and stomping its hooves, even kicking one of the creatures to launch it back into the brush, washed away Brynn’s fears for herself. Staff spinning and twirling, she charged in, coming up short before one turning zombie. She fell to one knee as the staff came around, transferring all of her running energy into that perfectly aimed swing.

  With a sickening thud, the staff smashed against the side of the zombie’s head, leaving a huge and grotesque dent. The creature rocked to the side, skipping on one foot several times. But it did not fall over, showed no sign that it was feeling any pain, and came on again.

  Brynn let out a cry and smashed it again, the squishy head flattening a bit more, and then, when that didn’t work, the ranger retracted the weapon, repositioned her hands, and stabbed its end straight out, smashing the creature, which was offering absolutely no defense at all, square in the face.

  The head snapped back. The zombie moved forward.

  Again, Brynn hit it in the face, then lower in the exposed throat. Then she brought the staff back in and turned it over in her hands, spinning and spinning. Around it went, behind her back, coming out into her other hand for another strike, then going back around the other way and coming in hard from the other side, again scoring a square and brutal hit.

  The zombie’s head lolled as if without any support. As Brynn leaped aside, the creature continued forward, arms reaching and outstretched, as if it couldn’t see her. She took up her staff in both hands as it passed and, just because she wanted to, took a mighty swing and smashed the passing zombie on the back of the skull, sending the head into a bobbing motion.

  The zombie started to turn toward her, but just toppled over to the ground.

  Brynn didn’t even watch the descent, leaping into the pair of creatures grabbing at Diredusk’s flank. She landed between them, both hands set firmly on her staff, and jabbed it out left and right, and then again, scoring two wicked hits on the zombies’ heads.

  Diredusk whinnied and bucked, kicking out with both hind legs, splattering the chest of another zombie and launching it into a short flight through the trees. The pony landed and bucked again, throwing its head, spinning and leaping.

  Brynn went with that movement, made her way past the pony’s shoulders and head, to the tether, which she quickly undid.

  “Go! Go!” she cried to Diredusk, and the pony, bucking and leaping, dragging two zombies with it, charged off into the forest night.

  Tears streaked Brynn’s face, and she was glad, at least, that Diredusk had a chance to get away. For herself, though, there seemed no such escape, walls of zombies were coming at her from every direction. She growled away her fears and charged the nearest group, staff stabbing and swinging mightily, scoring splattering hit after splattering hit. Twisting and dodging, Brynn somehow got through that line and seemed for a moment to be running free.

  But more zombies moved before her, and one of those behind, toppled by her burst of speed, grabbed on to her ankle with a grip inhumanly strong.

  Brynn wailed and stumbled, stopped in her tracks, but managing, at least, not to fall over. She spun back on the grabbing zombie and punished it with a series of smacks all about its head, frantically bashing and bashing.

  Others closed all about her.

  The zombie on the ground lay very still, seemingly back in the realm of death where it belonged, but still it held on stubbornly, its fingers locked about Brynn’s slender ankle. She kicked and twisted, stomping the wrist with her free foot.

  But then she had to alter her attacks, as the other zombies descended over her.

  High in the boughs before the zombies ever entered the encampment, Belli’mar Juraviel put his bow to work, the string humming as the elf launched arrow after arrow into the circling mob of intruders. Unlike Brynn, Juraviel had understood the nature of this perversion, the undead state of the intruders, right away, and so he did not hesitate at all, just set his small, but normally effective, bow to its work.

  He had half emptied his quiver before he even realized that the arrows were having absolutely no effect.

  With a groan of frustration, Juraviel leaped and fluttered down to a lower branch, just above the heads of the zombies. Intent on Brynn and on Diredusk, the horrid creatures seemed not to notice him, and so the elf waited and quietly moved from limb to limb until he came to one creature relatively isolated from its undead companions.

  Down slashed the small sword, cutting a deep gash in the zombie’s head.

  The zombie stopped and looked around stupidly.

  Juraviel slashed it again, and then a third time, in the face, as it at last looked up.

  Showing no pain, the zombie reached stiff arms up for the nimble elf. Juraviel wasted no time in slashing one hand, then the other, taking off a couple of fingers. Greenish pus flowed from the stumps, and Juraviel could smell the disease. He backed off a few skittering steps and, apparently realizing that it could not reach him, the zombie clamped both arms about the branch and began pulling itself into the tree.

  Juraviel saw his opening and didn’t hesitate, leaping right to the spot on the branch between the zombie’s arms, taking up his sword in both hands and slashing it down with all his might, cleaving the zombie’s head right down the middle. He retracted the blade immediately, brought it back around to his left, then in a circular motion up over his head and back down to the right, driving it in hard against the side of the zombie’s head, creasing all the way to the gash of the great downward cut.

  A huge piece of head fell away, but the zombie kept pulling itself up.

  Eyes wide with disbelief, Juraviel transferred his horror into power and slashed away with abandon.

  The zombie slowly turned and looped one leg over the branch, and Juraviel promptly slashed and slashed at that limb until it, too, fell free of the body. Down tumbled the undead monster, holding on with just one hand.

  Juraviel cut that hand away.

  The creature fell to the ground and tried to rise, but just fell over again and again.

  Watching it struggling, but not lying still, Juraviel knew that this fight could not be won. The creatures were not difficult enemies, one at a time. But the sheer amount of punishment they could take ensured that no fight against the mob would be one against one for any amount of time.

  “We must flee!” Juraviel called out to Brynn, as he ran along the branches, trying to find his companion. Diredusk’s frenzy cued him in, and he ran toward it until horse and woman were in sight.

  Brynn’s work was nothing short of magnificent, a tribute to the woman and the training of the Touel’alfar. Juraviel watched her bow-staff swinging this way and that, coming in for a sudden clutch and stab, then working back out for a devastating smash. Or at least, it should have been devastating, for it would have felled a living opponent.

  He watched Brynn shift her tactics to more effect, watched her drop a zombie with a brilliant combination, watched her free up Diredusk and send him galloping off into the forest night.

  That was all-important to her, Juraviel knew, and he managed a slight smile despite the terrible situation. For the To-gai-ru, the bond with their mounts could not be underestimated. A To-gai-ru would risk her life gladly in an effort to save her horse.

  Again Brynn worked brilliantly against the closing horde.

  Juraviel realized then that he should not simply be standing there in the safety of the boughs, watching her, that he should rush down to her side!

  But, despite that realization, the elf did not explo
de into motion, did not move at all toward his young ranger friend.

  Because Belli’mar Juraviel understood the truth of it, understood that he and Brynn could not win out and could not escape. Or at least, that the woman could not get away.

  His heart torn, Belli’mar Juraviel chewed his bottom lip, his hand grasping his sword so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He wanted to go to Brynn, wanted to fight beside her and die beside her, if that was the ultimate ending. And he would have done that, he knew in his heart, would have willingly given his life for her.

  But he could not.

  For this horror, this atrocity, held implications beyond the lives of Belli’mar Juraviel and Brynn Dharielle, beyond even the failure of returning Brynn to To-gai to try to lead her people in revolt against the Behrenese. This horror, a perversion of life itself, held implications that went right to Caer’alfar and Juraviel’s people. His duty was clear to him, though it was a duty that burned his heart. His duty was to his people above Brynn, was to return with all speed to Caer’alfar to report to Lady Dasslerond, to warn the Touel’alfar of the grotesque army that walked the southern night.

  The elf watched as Brynn was borne down to the ground by a mob of zombies, the stubborn woman fighting all the way.

  Juraviel turned his back and started away, picking a course along the higher boughs that would take him far from the scene of horror and send him running on his way back to the north.

  The elf stopped before he had gone three strides.

  No, he could not do this. Despite his heritage, despite the Touel’alfar code that elevated his people to the highest regard and placed all of the other races, including humans, including human rangers, far below, Belli’mar Juraviel could not leave Brynn to her fate.

  As the woman had done for Diredusk, so Juraviel did for her, turning back and half-flying, half-leaping from limb to limb and then from limb to the back of one zombie, his small sword thrashing violently.