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

by R. A. Salvatore

  That hope was lost on Brynn as she slumped back against the wall, though, for the derisive title, n’Tylwyn Doc, sounded to her like the call of the executioner.

  The two elves moved out of the room with far more ease and grace than had the zombie waiter. Brynn again considered moving, not to follow, but to attack their jailor, though she realized that she would likely have no chance against an elf in her weakened state. The only thing that held her back were the implications for Belli’mar Juraviel. Brynn was likely doomed, as Juraviel had admitted, but perhaps her friend would find some way to get out of this.

  So she sat back against the cool wall and let the minutes slip into uneventful hours.

  Juraviel followed Lozan Duk into a smaller chamber down near the exit of the earthen tunnel—which was still blocked, as far as he could tell—where Cazzira was waiting. Without a word from the female, and without a word of protest from Juraviel, the Doc’alfar moved and slipped a thick belt about Juraviel’s waist, tightening it down and pinning his wings, then buckling the front with some locking mechanism.

  “You will not fly away, little bird,” Cazzira remarked as she fastened the lock, and Juraviel noted that the Doc’alfar word for “bird” was exactly the same as the word in his own tongue: marrawee.

  “Do you believe that I wish to fly away?” he answered. “Perhaps this is a long-overdue meeting between the alfar, and fate has guided me to you for a reason.”

  “Perhaps,” Lozan Duk said.

  “Or perhaps it was simply bad fortune on your part,” Cazzira was quick to add. Juraviel maintained a nonchalant visage until the female added, “And even worse fortune for your n’Tylwyn Doc companion.”

  “Come,” Lozan Duk instructed, seeming as eager to be done with this particular line of conversation as was Juraviel. The Doc’alfar crawled into the ascending tunnel then, Juraviel right behind, and Cazzira following a short distance back.

  Soon after, Juraviel crawled out of the tunnel, but not into the light, though he was outside and the sun was up.

  But not there. The fog was even thicker than it had been in the graveyard of trees by the peat bog, casting the place in a moist and perpetual gloom.

  “King Eltiraaz has accepted your request to speak with him,” Lozan Duk explained. “You should be honored.”

  “Indeed I am,” Juraviel replied with all sincerity. A twinge of guilt struck him as he responded, as he thought of Brynn and her likely fate. Still, Juraviel had to admit his excitement in seeing his white-skinned and wingless cousins. For the Touel’alfar, this was monumental news, at least as important as anything Brynn might accomplish in To-gai, and though Juraviel was surely torn and upset about the possibilities of Brynn’s lack of future, he couldn’t deny his excitement, his thrill, at the opportunity to represent his people to the king of the Doc’alfar!

  “Though I fear that I am hardly properly attired for an audience with your king,” Juraviel added.

  “Your clothing will do,” Cazzira remarked. “The road-worn, weathered outfit of a traveler, of a thief, perhaps.”

  Juraviel took the comment in stride and thought he detected a bit of softening in Cazzira’s tone, if not her actual words.

  Lozan Duk motioned for Juraviel to follow, leading him down a winding trail to a large, hollowed tree stump. Juraviel found two depressions within, one with soapy oil and the other with clear rainwater.

  The washing felt good indeed!

  He turned when he was done, just in time to catch a towel Cazzira threw his way, then they were off again, walking the winding, fog-enshrouded trails, through skeletal black trees that all looked the same. Juraviel doubted he would be able to retrace his steps on his own, and he suspected that his two guards were tracking all about on purpose, to obscure the true path even more. They seemed a lot like the Touel’alfar, he mused.

  Almost without warning, Juraviel found himself on a narrow trail amidst towering mountain walls, a narrow gorge trail that led to a huge cave. The two Doc’alfar each picked up one of those strange-glowing lanterns right inside the cave and paused, turning to their prisoner.

  Juraviel looked all about, though the other walls of the cavern were far beyond the limit of the light. When his gaze at last settled on Lozan Duk and Cazzira, he found Lozan Duk coming toward him, a black hood in hand.

  Juraviel didn’t protest at all as they popped it over his head, pulling a drawstring set about its opening to somewhat close it. Lozan Duk took him by the arm and led him off, and they walked for a long and winding way, down corridors that closed in on Juraviel and through chambers that he sensed were very vast indeed.

  A long while later, they stopped again, and Juraviel was surprised when Cazzira pulled off his hood, staring at him intently with her icy blue eyes. They were in a large chamber, and it seemed to Juraviel that he was actually out of doors again, in some secret mountain hole.

  His eyes scanned up, up, eagerly, but as he turned, he quickly forgot all about the chamber itself, for there before him towered the magnificent gates of the Doc’alfar city.

  “Tymwyvenne,” Lozan Duk explained. “You are the first who is not Doc’alfar to look upon the gates of Tymwyvenne in many centuries.”

  “I am honored,” Juraviel said, again with all sincerity and more than a bit of awe, for the entrance to Tymwyvenne was what he would expect of any cousins of the Touel’alfar—and more! The doors, huge doors, as thick as ten elves side by side, were of some golden-hued wood. They hung open, flanked by two huge round pillars of the same material, which were set against a wall of gray-and-black stone. Across the top of the pillars was a third, lying horizontally above the doorway, and made of the same wood, with thousands of designs carved into it, many of them shining of various colors. Juraviel looked more closely and noted that many, many gemstones were set in that beam, a king’s treasure, and he was glad to see that there was an appreciation of beauty there, as in Caer’alfar—though his own people’s ideal of beauty was evidenced in the perfection of nature itself. Juraviel understood that such appreciation often signaled an understanding of the higher orders and stations of life, including mercy.

  Through the doors, the trio came into an immense cavern, a place of quiet, but steady, light, where the fog was not so thick. Structures loomed all about them, made of burnished wood of varying hues and textures. There was no one singular dominant design, but each house, for that is what they obviously were, was its own free-flowing work of art.

  Many other Doc’alfar milled about, making Juraviel’s path a veritable parade route. All wanted to catch a glimpse of the captured Tylwyn Tou, obviously, and he noted many expressions there, from curiosity to some almost giddy faces, to many, many profound scowls.

  The place had a somber tone about it, to Juraviel’s thinking, gloomy but not dark. It wasn’t hard for him to figure out his escorts’ intended destination as they crossed a large central open area. Ahead of them, a crisscross of balconies lined the back wall, climbing up above the city. There, on a higher level, sat the grandest house of all, which he knew without doubt was the palace of King Eltiraaz.

  Belli’mar Juraviel fixed his gaze on that house and the many surrounding landings and ornate railings and balusters, trying to get a feeling for the occupants through their choice of design. The alfar could do this more easily than could humans because elven houses were rarely handed down—were, ultimately, a product of centuries of choices and intuitions and creativity from a single driving heart and mind.

  This house looked inviting enough, very much like a place expecting many guests and revelers.

  Of course, a pair of Doc’alfar guards darkened that notion. They were dressed in strange skin and wooden armor and held thin and nasty-looking hooked clubs, their full-faced helms showing only their dark eyes, and those eyes revealing nothing of their feelings toward this strange newcomer to their land.

  The trio entered a wide foyer, then turned down a side passage and around a series of bends, at last coming into another wide room,
set with two rows of decorated columns, with a thick green carpet running the length of the room between them. The only piece of furniture in the room was a large golden-wood throne near the far wall, behind which a fire blazed in a great hearth, and upon which sat a Doc’alfar with long black hair and large dark eyes. Like that of the rest of his kin, his skin was creamy white. His clothing, though, was far more remarkable. Thus far, most of the Doc’alfar Juraviel had seen were either in that curious armor or in rather plain garb. Lozan Duk and Cazzira both wore dark brown outfits—suitable for hunting the foggy bogs, Juraviel figured.

  This one—King Eltiraaz, Juraviel knew before the formal introduction—wore light-colored breeches, embroidered with many gemstones, and a rich purple shirt. A cape that seemed a combination of the two hung back off his shoulders, bunching on the chair behind him. His vest was full of sewn images, in a thread that seemed almost metallic to Juraviel. He wore a crown of leafy vines wrapped about a silvery band, metal that the Touel’alfar recognized as silverel. That was very telling to Juraviel, for no race other than the Touel’alfar knew how to farm the exotic metal from the ground, as far as he knew; that crown proved to him that either the Doc’alfar had held that secret during the centuries of separation, or that this particular crown was a relic left over from the days when the races were one. Likely the second, he surmised, for he had seen no darkferns about, and no other silverel. If the Doc’alfar had the knowledge and the means to farm the wondrous silverel, they surely would not have their soldiers carrying wooden clubs!

  Unless, of course, the wood of those clubs, a variety that Juraviel did not know, carried a few special properties of its own.

  Flanked by Lozan Duk and Cazzira, Juraviel walked along the carpet to stand before Eltiraaz.

  The King of Tymwyvenne sat very straight on his throne, staring hard at Juraviel, his expression stern and regal, his shoulders perfectly squared. He had his hands on his lap, holding a gem-capped scepter fashioned out of that same strange wood.

  “You will tell King Eltiraaz your tale, Belli’mar Juraviel of the Touel’alfar, from the very beginning of the road that brought you to our lands,” Lozan Duk explained. “And of why you walk the trails with a living human beside you.”

  Juraviel winced a bit at that last statement, further confirmation that the Doc’alfar’s contempt for humans was nearly absolute. He pushed past his emotions, though, and did as instructed, relating his tale from the battle with the goblins south and east of Andur’Blough Inninness—whose whereabouts he had no intention of disclosing—to the night of his and Brynn’s capture.

  King Eltiraaz listened intently to his every word, sometimes tilting his head to the side, as if he wanted to ask a question. But he remained silent and patient throughout the tale.

  “Long have we known that our kin, the Tylwyn Tou, remained in the northland,” Eltiraaz said after Juraviel had finished. His voice was both regal and melodic, a great baritone that seemed strange to Juraviel, coming out of so diminutive a creature. “Yet no less is our surprise in seeing one, in seeing you, walk into our lands. Know that you are the very first of our lost brethren to look upon Tymwyvenne.”

  “I am truly honored, King Eltiraaz.” Juraviel thought it appropriate to bow at that solemn moment.

  The King of the Doc’alfar nodded, then looked to Lozan Duk.

  “King Eltiraaz wishes to know why you were in the company of a human,” Lozan Duk asked.

  Juraviel looked from the king to the other male, curious as to why Eltiraaz had not simply asked him himself. “Brynn Dharielle is a ranger,” he explained. “Trained by the Touel’alfar. It is a practice that we have employed for centuries—taking in human orphans who show promise and training them in the ways of the Touel’alfar, that they might serve as eyes and ears for my Lady Dasslerond in the wider human world.”

  “Why not just kill every human who wanders into your domain?” Cazzira asked, and Juraviel noted, in all seriousness. “They are lesser creatures, and if a threat, should be eliminated.”

  “We view them more highly than do you, perhaps,” the Touel’alfar replied, trying to remain civil, knowing that Brynn’s life might be on the line here. “We have come to see the humans as valuable allies at times, if often a bit troublesome.”

  “More than troublesome,” said Cazzira.

  “Rangers are not like other humans,” Juraviel stated clearly, aiming the words at King Eltiraaz. “They understand much more about the world than their clumsy kin. They are expert warriors, and with the temperament and instilled discipline to use their fighting prowess wisely. They are friends to the natural world, friends to the Touel’alfar, and surely no ranger would be a threat or enemy to the Doc’alfar.”

  “How do you know?” asked Eltiraaz.

  Juraviel started to echo the question, but caught himself, understanding it, and replied, “Rangers who do not show the proper temperament and judgment are not allowed back out into the wide world.”

  “And your companion has passed these tests?” Eltiraaz asked.

  “Brynn is as fine a ranger as has ever walked out of Andur’Blough Inninness and Caer’alfar.”

  “Then why does she need the company of Belli’mar Juraviel?”

  The Touel’alfar took a deep breath and considered the question, and considered how much he should reveal to Eltiraaz and the others. He had already spoken the name of his valley, his Lady, and his city, and sensed that he should trust these kin somewhat, but how might they feel about a human heading through their lands on her way to begin a war?

  “Brynn Dharielle was selected among the To-gai-ru of the wild steppes south of the great mountains,” he explained.

  “We know of the To-gai-ru,” Eltiraaz replied.

  “Then you know that they are not like their kinfolk,” Juraviel said. “They are more attuned to the land and to—”

  “A few of our soldiers are of To-gai-ru descent,” Cazzira said, and her grim tone reminded Juraviel of the type of “soldier” to which she was referring. He looked at her, wondering how deep her enmity truly ran, and was taken in again by those exotic eyes of hers, shining icy orbs layered with emotion and thought.

  He shook off his revulsion and focused on an interesting question: how had any To-gai-ru come to the land of the Doc’alfar? And how did the Doc’alfar know of Brynn’s people? True, the To-gai-ru settled the land only a hundred miles or so south of this region, but on the other side of supposedly impassable mountains. Or perhaps, not so impassable?

  But how to bring the conversation to that point, to where he could even begin to hope that these captors would allow him and Brynn to go free at all, let alone tell them of a possible way through the mountains?

  “Have you found no redeeming qualities in the To-gai-ru?” he dared to ask. “Are they no more than the other humans to you?”

  “Should we look, Belli’mar Juraviel?” King Eltiraaz asked. “Is it your word to us that the To-gai-ru can be better trusted by our people? Do you believe, perhaps, that we have erred in judging them so harshly?”

  Juraviel saw the potential trap, particularly in that last question, but he knew that he had to hold fast to his principles, both for his own heart and for any chance that he might find in getting past those fierce people. “I believe that you should look, if that is what you desire,” he said. “It is my word to you that the To-gai-ru are more attuned to the ways of both the Tylwyn Tou and Tylwyn Doc, if the Tylwyn Doc hold at all to the old ways of our people.”

  “More, perhaps, than the Tylwyn Tou, Belli’mar Juraviel,” King Eltiraaz replied, “if the Tylwyn Tou have come to befriend the humans.”

  Juraviel conceded the point without any countering statement at all, for indeed, during the old times when the races of elves were united, they had no contact with anyone who was not of the People.

  “I would not say that you have erred, King Eltiraaz. That is not a judgment for me to make. In my own land, we preserve our secrecy with equal ferocity; a human who cannot be trust
ed is treated in the same manner in which we would deal with a goblin who wandered onto our land. Well, perhaps not as harshly as that—we would kill the human more quickly and mercifully.

  “But not a To-gai-ru,” he quickly added, though he had no idea if he was speaking the truth or not, since no To-gai-ru had ever wandered anywhere near to Andur’Blough Inninness, except for those taken in as rangers-in-training, of course. He felt that his reasoning was sound, though, and so he continued. “My Lady Dasslerond would hold back on the killing blow against a To-gai-ru until the intruder’s intent could be discerned.”

  “By then, it is often too late,” Cazzira remarked.

  “Too late for what? We fear no threat from anything short of an invading army.”

  That set all three of the Doc’alfar back on their heels a bit, Juraviel noted.

  “Perhaps your clan is more numerous than our own,” King Eltiraaz said after a short pause and a glance at his two kinfolk. “We are not numerous, and thus we take threats against our land more seriously.”

  “Or you are more quick to judge intrusion as threat,” Juraviel dared to say, and Cazzira at his side sucked in her breath sharply. Juraviel started to modify the statement, to make it seem less an accusation, but he stopped himself short, letting King Eltiraaz weigh the words.

  “Perhaps we must be,” the king said a short while later. “And I doubt not that we will hold on to our ways, Belli’mar Juraviel. They have served us well through these centuries, have kept Tymwyvenne alive. I care not enough for the clumsy and bumbling humans to risk a single Tylwyn Doc life, and if I had to destroy the entire human race to safeguard my people, then I would do so, without hesitation.”

  “And what of a Tylwyn Tou who inadvertently wandered onto your land, good King Eltiraaz? Would such an unfortunate—or perhaps fortunate—distant cousin be similarly executed, or would the King of the Doc’alfar think that preserving the life of a relative was worth the risk to his people?”