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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “These people breed like hares,” he snickered, and he sighed. “Find out who is in charge of this wretched camp.”

  Wan Atenn snapped to attention, then spun off, motioning for one of the Douan Cal men to come with him. Together, they went tent to tent, Wan Atenn saying something to the outposter, and the man translating it to the To-gai-ru.

  Always, a shake of the head came back in response, followed by a more insistent bark from Wan Atenn and a more insistent reiteration from the outposter.

  When that, too, brought no apparent acceptable response, Wan Atenn stepped forward and, with a simple and balanced twist and push movement, shoved the To-gai-ru to the ground, and the pair moved along.

  “They are afraid,” Yatol Grysh explained to Carwan. “They do not answer because they know not what to say.”

  “Your man, Atenn, inspires fear.”

  “No,” Yatol Grysh replied. “They know not what to answer because the truth would damn them. The fools have not properly rehearsed their lies because they did not expect that such a force would come against them. Their hesitance is telling, do you see?”

  “Yes, Yatol.”

  “Do you?” Grysh asked again, more emphatically, turning to face Carwan. “Why are they afraid?” he asked when Carwan gave him his full attention.

  Carwan knew the answer, but he chewed on it for a few seconds, not even wanting to speak it aloud, fearing the consequences. “Because they are guilty,” he said at last, and Yatol Grysh nodded slowly and deliberately, turning his head as he did, his eyes narrowing, to face the gathered To-gai-ru.

  Carwan could not deny the logic of his claim, for it seemed obvious to him that this village was at least aware of, if not in league with, the bandits. But as he looked around at the gathering, frightened women and children, and a few old men staring out from the shadows, the word “guilty” just did not seem appropriate.

  A commotion to the side caught his attention, and he turned that way to see a Behrenese warrior emerging from a tent, a young To-gai-ru man held before him, arm wrapped painfully and effectively behind his back.

  “They say that their men are all out hunting, Yatol,” Wan Atenn said at that same moment, for the Chezhou-Lei warrior and the translator had continued the conversation to the side.

  “All but one, it would seem.”

  The soldier with the prisoner moved before Wan Atenn and threw the man at his leader’s feet. “A tunnel concealed within the tent,” he explained.

  Wan Atenn nodded to a pair of soldiers and they ran off to the tent, disappearing within its folds without hesitation.

  “Who is this?” Yatol Grysh said to Wan Atenn and the interpreter, and the outposter immediately turned to the To-gai-ru woman with whom he had been speaking and barked out a series of questions. The woman was slow to answer at first, but the outposter began screaming at her, the same question over and over.

  She started screaming back, answering with such enthusiasm that her lie was easy for all to see, even for those who didn’t understand the To-gai-ru language.

  Then it stopped, suddenly, the outposter and the defiant woman staring hard at each other.

  “Where are the others?” Yatol Grysh calmly asked, and his translator echoed the question in the same tone.

  “No others,” the woman answered, and both Carwan and Grysh understood the simple phrase before their man turned to explain.

  “Where are the others?” Grysh asked again, in the same calm tones, and again, it was properly translated.

  The woman responded exactly the same way, and as the outposter turned to Grysh, the Yatol held up his hand and turned to Wan Atenn.

  “No trees to hang the prisoner properly,” he said. “Stake him.”

  Carwan’s eyes widened with shock. “Yatol …” he started to say, but the look Grysh shot him clearly said that he was out of bounds.

  Wan Atenn began barking orders, and in short order, the prisoner had been dragged to the side of the encampment and laid out, spread-eagled, staked down by his wrists and ankles. Every time he tried to struggle, a Behrenese soldier kicked him in the ribs.

  The gathering of To-gai-ru screamed and jostled, but Grysh’s escorting contingent was more than able to hold them at bay.

  At the next moment of calm, Grysh again nodded to Wan Atenn, and the fierce warrior, no novice to these techniques, fetched a torch from the fire his companions were preparing. Another soldier dutifully ran to intercept Wan Atenn, handing him a bulging waterskin.

  A waterskin of lamp oil, Carwan knew. Carwan was at a loss, hardly able to draw breath, let alone speak a word of protest. A word that his unquestionable master did not want to hear, in any case.

  He watched, fighting hard to hide his revulsion, as Wan Atenn stuck the torch into the ground between the man’s knees.

  “Ask her again where the others might be,” Grysh instructed his outposter interpreter.

  The woman, her eyes wide and unblinking, hesitated for a long, long time, then answered with the same words, though in a much more subdued tone.

  Grysh nodded to his fierce Chezhou-Lei warrior, who immediately began splashing the lamp oil all over the staked man.

  Then the Yatol turned to the woman, a wide smile on his face. “One last time,” he said, somewhat flippantly.

  The woman looked away, and Carwan wanted to as well, but found that he could not, mesmerized by the sight of his master calmly nodding to Wan Atenn, by the sight of Wan Atenn, showing no emotion at all, as he grabbed up the torch and touched it to the oiled prisoner.

  Carwan knew that the man was screaming, knew that the gathered To-gai-ru were screaming, but he didn’t really hear any of it. He was trapped by the vision before him, locked by horror and sheer amazement.

  “Now,” he at last heard from the side, and realized that Yatol Grysh, who was motioning for him to follow to the coach, had likely called to him several times.

  Carwan spun away and sprinted to the stairs, guiding his master up, then retracting the stairs and leaping into the coach, eager to close the door on the gruesome scene.

  “Do as you will,” Yatol Grysh said to Wan Atenn, then ordered his driver to be off.

  They all left then, except for the twenty warriors and their fierce Chezhou-Lei leader. For a long, long time, Carwan Pestle sat in the quiet coach, determined not to look back. Eventually, though, he did peek out.

  The encampment was not in view, lost behind the sloping ridgeline, but several lines of smoke rose into the pale air. Not thin gray smoke, as from the campfires, but evil black snaking lines.

  Carwan shuddered and fell back into his seat, trying hard not to throw up.

  Chapter 7

  Tymwyvenne

  BELLI’MAR JURAVIEL WAS SURPRISED INDEED WHEN HE OPENED HIS EYES TO LOOK upon a strange, almost preternatural scene. A thick fog blanketed the ground, with dark patches of moss and muddy mounds showing sporadically. He was in a copse of trees, but they were all dead, black-armed, empty things, their crooked limbs snaking out like the last desperate limb-waving pleas of a doomed man. At first the elf saw no signs of life, but then he heard a groan, and managed with great effort to roll over.

  Brynn stood there, or at least, hung there, her arms up high above her head, tied at the wrists to a thick, dead branch. Her head lolled about her shoulders and she kept trying to stand up straight—to take the painful pressure off of her arms, Belli’mar reasoned. Her legs would not support her, though, and she kept sagging, often uttering a groan as her arms straightened.

  “Brynn,” Juraviel whispered. “Waken, ranger.”

  She didn’t answer, so Juraviel repeated his words, more loudly and insistently.

  Still no answer.

  Not from Brynn. However, at the second call, forms rose up out of the fog. Hulking, stiff-limbed forms, rising silently and moving deliberately toward the pair.

  Shaken by the gruesome image, Juraviel tried to stand, only to find that he was strapped down tightly to his makeshift cot, another dead l
imb, by a series of looped cords.

  “Brynn!” he cried out. “Wake up, girl!”

  The zombies moved methodically about the woman. One grabbed her about the ribs, and with seemingly no effort at all, lifted her into the air. A second zombie grabbed the woman’s arms and hoisted them back up straight, lifting the loop of the rope over the peg that was holding it.

  Brynn started, suddenly awake, and her initial thrash broke her free of the zombies. But again, her legs would not support her, and she tumbled down into the mist, and as she tried to scramble away, the zombies fell over her, grabbing her, punching her.

  Belli’mar Juraviel cried out to her repeatedly and thrashed about, to no avail. A few moments later, one of the zombies lifted the limp form of the young ranger into its arms, cradling her under the knees and shoulders, and started away on its stiff legs.

  Juraviel continued to thrash, thinking that the undead creatures would come for him next. But to his surprise, they all continued away, a solemn and gruesome procession.

  Juraviel fought hard to suppress his revulsion and collect his wits. What was going on here? As he settled, he realized that there had to be a higher intelligence about other than the zombies; they seemed unthinking creatures. But why, then, had both Juraviel and Brynn been tied up? Why hadn’t the creatures simply battered them both into the realm of death?

  It made no sense to Juraviel, but how could it, after all? He had never seen an animated corpse before, had never even heard of such a thing!

  The zombies and their captive disappeared into the fog, and Juraviel heard Brynn utter a plaintive cry, helpless and hopeless.

  The elf sagged back, staring up into the dark sky. He noted only then, and curiously, that his perch had been made somewhat comfortable. A thick blanket was under him, between him and the gnarly branch. He craned his neck, trying to find some clues, but he could only see the edge of a wayward flap, nothing that offered him any information. Why had he been treated with some consideration, while Brynn had been mercilessly hung up by her wrists? And why was he still lying there, while his friend had been dragged away to some unknown horror?

  Juraviel figured that he was about to get some answers—and likely none that he wanted to hear!—when a hulking form came up beside him, down by his legs, stiff arms reaching out to him!

  Panic welled in Juraviel, but was soon overwhelmed by anger—anger at himself, mostly, for the elf knew then that he had done wrong in standing beside Brynn. He should have run off to report this atrocity to Lady Dasslerond; all of his people might be threatened now because of his miserable failure.

  “Hefle!” came a shout, a word that sounded vaguely familiar to Juraviel. When the zombie halted and lowered its arms, the elf understood the word more clearly, for it sounded like an offshoot of the elven word “hefele,” which meant, “desist.”

  Juraviel craned his neck again, straining to get a look at the speaker, and when he did, his eyes went wide indeed! For there, standing beside him, were a pair of creatures, a male and female, of similar stature to his own. Their hair was dark, black like a raven’s wing, and the eyes of the male seemed like an inky black pool, while the other’s were the lightest shade of blue, a stark and startling contrast to her black hair. They had no wings, as did the Touel’alfar, but their features were similarly angular and pronounced. Juraviel’s own skin had been tanned under the sun, but these two looked as if they had never seen the sunlight, their skin chalky white, almost luminescent in the gray fog.

  The female started hurling words Juraviel’s way. Questions, he supposed, or threats, but the creature was speaking too fast for him to catch up to the meaning or the intent.

  But then he did catch a word, “intruder,” and another, “thief,” and he was surprised indeed when he paused long enough to recognize that the creature was speaking to him in his own tongue! Or in a tongue that resembled that of the Touel’alfar, both in specific wording and in the various inflections that could be placed on any word.

  The female continued to ramble, with Juraviel’s ears keeping pace with the flow of the words now, and the elf truly understood that the danger was far from past, that these two, and their kinfolk, apparently, were not pleased that he and Brynn had stumbled onto their land. The creature spoke of “the severest of penalties” for the human woman and mentioned that they might kill Juraviel instead of that worst of fates if he cooperated appropriately.

  Finally, Juraviel had recovered his wits enough for him to look the rambling and outraged creature in the eye, and say, “We meant no harm.”

  Both creatures fell back, their eyes going wide. The female stammered over a few syllables, while she trembled, with nerves, with rage, with … something.

  “Who are you who know my language?” Juraviel said, trying to use inflections similar to those the creatures had used, though his tone was obviously far less confrontational.

  The pair looked at each other curiously, as if trying to sort through the question. They each repeated the last word, “language,” several times, shaking their heads and wearing confused expressions.

  Juraviel rattled off several synonyms and tried to explain what he meant, and the thought came clear to the pair.

  “Who are you who know our … language?” the one with the dark eyes asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” the two demanded in unison.

  Belli’mar Juraviel lay back on his branch and closed his eyes, trying to sort out the web of confusion and surprise. Could it be? the elf wondered. Was it possible? He took a deep breath, and answered, knowing full well that he was taking a great chance here, “Touel’alfar. I am Touel’alfar.”

  “Tylwyn Tou!” the female cried, her bright eyes going wide, and her tone made it sound like an accusation.

  Belli’mar Juraviel looked at her directly. If this was what he now suspected, then he certainly understood that tone. In times long past, the Touel’alfar and these creatures, the Doc’alfar, had lived together as one race. But the primary difference in the elves, the fact that some were adorned with wings while others were not, had caused strife among the people. Add to that a devastating disease that had afflicted the elves without wings for some reason, but not their cousins, and the elven peoples of Corona had been split apart, Touel and Doc.

  Juraviel didn’t blink, but neither did he frown or show any intentions of intimidation. He was walking a fine line, he knew, balancing on a perch where a fall would cost him his life—and cost him any chance at all to save Brynn, if she was even still alive.

  “Doc’alfar,” Juraviel said quietly, and as the elf mouthed the word, he became even more certain that he should have abandoned Brynn in the initial fight.

  “Tylwyn Doc,” the male corrected, calmly, though his companion seemed as if she was about to leap forward and throttle Juraviel.

  “Tylwyn Doc,” Juraviel conceded.

  “And you are Tylwyn Tou,” said the elf with the bright eyes.

  “We name ourselves Touel’alfar, but I accept Tylwyn Tou.”

  “You accept?” the female said with a snort. “Have you a choice?”

  Juraviel merely shrugged, or tried to, for his bindings were too tight for such movement.

  “What is your name?” the male demanded.

  “Belli’mar Juraviel,” he answered without hesitation.

  “Where have you come from?” the female snapped.

  Juraviel tightened his lips. “I am Belli’mar Juraviel,” he said again, aiming the words at the male, who seemed the more reasonable of the two.

  The male Tylwyn Doc stared at him hard for a short while, then said, “I am Lozan Duk.” He paused and looked to his companion, as did Juraviel.

  The Tylwyn Doc with the remarkable light eyes didn’t look at her companion, but continued to stare ominously at Juraviel. “Cazzira,” she said at length. “Know that your doom is named Cazzira, Belli’mar Juraviel.”

  The elf’s question came out simply, “Why?”

  Caz
zira narrowed her bright eyes, her face tightening with anger.

  “You have intruded where you do not belong,” Lozan Duk explained. “The Tylwyn Doc make no exceptions.”

  Juraviel pondered that for a bit. “You routinely execute any who wander onto your land, though you have no warning markers to ward intruders away?”

  “Warning markers would tell the world where we are, would they not?” Cazzira asked with biting sarcasm. “Perhaps we do not want the world to know.”

  Juraviel lay back again, considering the words, trying to figure out what was going on, and what steps he might take, what words he might say to try to calm the situation.

  “Where is my companion?” he asked. “Brynn Dharielle is her name. A ranger, trained by the Touel’alfar and returning to her home beyond the mountains. She poses no threat to the Tylwyn Doc.”

  “She is being prepared for the bog,” Lozan Duk answered matter-of-factly.

  “All humans are given to the bog,” Cazzira eagerly added. “We throw them in, and then our priests return them to us as slaves.”

  A shudder coursed Juraviel’s spine. He pictured Brynn as one of those “slaves,” an undead monstrosity under the complete control of these creatures.

  “We have not taken much of the land as our own,” Lozan Duk explained. “But that which is ours, we guard with all diligence.”

  Those words rang true to Belli’mar Juraviel, for his own people held beliefs not so different. The Touel’alfar guarded Andur’Blough Inninness fanatically. They didn’t often kill intruders, because their elven magic, along with Lady Dasslerond’s emerald gemstone, could make those who wandered onto their lands forget the way. But if there was any doubt—if the intruder learned too much about the Touel’alfar, if a ranger, perhaps, failed in his training—then Juraviel knew that Dasslerond would not hesitate to kill the human.

  Juraviel thought of Aydrian at that moment, for the young ranger had been walking a fine line for some time. Another shudder coursed through him.