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

by R. A. Salvatore

Rider and horse had become as one, and a series of turns and sudden accelerations had Brynn weaving through the ranks of her pursuers, her staff working furiously to take one, and then another, to the ground.

  But then she had to pull up short, for a standing line of dark riders appeared before her, and as she turned her head side to side, she saw that others were filling in about her. At her command, Runtly reared and went right around on his hind legs.

  But there, too, behind her, loomed a line of grim-faced riders.

  With a growl of defiance, Brynn threw down the staff and pulled forth her sword, and with a thought, set the blade aflame, challenging any and all to approach.

  But none did. They sat solemn and stoic, patiently waiting.

  And then, after Brynn had turned Runtly about several times, a large man on a black-and-white pinto appeared in the middle of one line, walking slowly and deliberately toward her. He had no weapon drawn, but still seemed to Brynn to be the most imposing and dangerous of the bunch!

  He walked his horse right up before Runtly, staring at Brynn unblinkingly.

  “Ashwarawu,” the woman said, and she was indeed surprised. Not because this was the legendary warrior sitting astride his horse before her, but merely because he was so young! He couldn’t even be her age, and she hadn’t seen twenty summers as yet!

  He was tall and strong-featured, with a wide face and a square jaw and penetrating light gray eyes—made all the more remarkable because of his dark complexion and black hair. His shoulders were wide, as well, a girth exaggerated by the layers of furs that he wore as armor.

  His expression didn’t change when Brynn spoke his name, and he seemed aloof to the woman, as if he had no doubts that she would know who he was. After a long moment, he held up one huge hand, an unthreatening gesture.

  “You are far from any village, woman.”

  “I am where I meant to be.”

  The man cocked his eyebrows, smiling at her confident response. “You ride well.”

  “I am To-gai-ru,” Brynn answered. “It is expected of me.”

  Ashwarawu smiled and nodded his approval.

  Brynn knew that the display that she had just put on had impressed all who had witnessed it, particularly the few warriors who had found the misfortune to cross her path. Given that, her matter-of-fact attitude about her riding skill seemed to impress Ashwarawu even more.

  Just as she had hoped.

  “Who are you, and why have you come?” the leader asked.

  “I am Brynn Dharielle,” she answered loudly, wanting all about her to hear. “I have no home, and was a wanderer until very recently, when I happened upon a village controlled by a despised Yatol.”

  “You fled the Yatol?”

  “I killed the Yatol, and his Chezhou-Lei lackey beside him,” Brynn answered. “And so again, I have no home.”

  “And others directed you to me,” Ashwarawu reasoned, fighting hard, obviously, to keep his expression and voice calm, though those about were murmuring with excitement and disbelief that this young and small warrior had defeated a Chezhou-Lei! To say nothing of the fact that through some magic they did not know, she had just set her sword aflame!

  “It seemed a logical road, I suppose,” the woman answered.

  Ashwarawu spent a long while studying her then, his eyes roaming over her, over her horse, out to her fabulous, still-burning weapon. “You are To-gai-ru,” he said at last. “We will not turn you out in the winter.”

  Brynn let her sword’s fire burn out and slid the weapon away.

  “But neither will you enjoy any treatment of privilege!” Ashwarawu roared suddenly. “You will work for your food and will serve as you are told to serve!”

  Brynn nodded, expecting nothing more.

  “And I will seek to find out the truth of your words, Brynn Dharielle,” the fierce leader promised. “If I find that you have spoken falsely to impress, then know that you have failed. If you have spoken falsely to deceive, to gain advantage for our enemies, then know that a most unpleasant death awaits you.”

  “And if I have spoken truly?” Brynn asked slyly.

  “Then you are welcome as one of my warriors,” Ashwarawu answered without hesitation. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Before Brynn could say another word, the leader spun his horse and walked away, passing through the line, which collected into formation behind him.

  Brynn waited as the rest of the force walked past her, then took her place at the end of the line, melting into the mountains with the rest of her new family.

  Chapter 17

  The Grim Reality

  BRYNN SAT ASTRIDE RUNTLY NEAR THE FAR END OF THE LONG LINE OF TO-GAI-RU warriors, her position showing her rank within Ashwarawu’s band, which was mostly determined by the time when she had joined. Next to her, higher up the ranking, sat a most curious man, dressed in a tan tunic and breeches, finely made, underneath a heavy bearskin wrap, and with a marvelous sash that seemed black most of the time but every so often flashed a myriad of colors in the light, like a tightly woven rainbow.

  “Another caravan,” Brynn remarked, as the Behrenese train came into view far below in the crisp and clear winter-morning air. “How stupid are our enemies?”

  Brynn had been with Ashwarawu’s band for three weeks, and this was the third caravan the rebel leader had found out, and now intended to destroy. The first two had proven to be easy victories, with the To-gai-ru warriors sweeping down upon the wagons, slicing apart the drivers and the meager contingent of guards.

  “The Yatol of Dharyan hears the desperation of To’in Ru,” the monk replied, referring to a large and well-defended outposter settlement in the region, one that Ashwarawu had not yet gone against. “Perhaps the Yatol’s compassion for his own people blinds him. Or perhaps he does not understand our resolve.”

  Brynn always listened carefully to this man, Pagonel, because he had a manner of putting things into a different perspective. It wasn’t always one with which she agreed, as now, but often over the last couple of weeks, she had found herself widening her opinions because of Pagonel’s softly spoken words—particularly concerning the Behrenese. The others of Ashwarawu’s band always referred to them with the derogatory “Wraps,” but never did Pagonel. And often, Pagonel dared to assume the likely perspective of the individual Behrenese, though Ashwarawu surely didn’t like him putting a human face on their enemies!

  A To-gai-ru rider came galloping back then, running the line to the middle, where Ashwarawu sat waiting.

  “Twenty soldiers guarding seven wagons,” the man reported. “Just like the last one.”

  “We should take them as prisoners,” Brynn remarked under her breath.

  “Ashwarawu will not,” Pagonel replied quietly.

  Brynn turned to regard the mystic. She had not been speaking to him, but could not deny the truth of his response. Ashwarawu had made it perfectly clear to all of them: no Behrenese inside the borders of To-gai would be allowed to live.

  Not the women, not the children.

  Fortunately for Brynn, she had not been forced into killing noncombatant women and children as of yet. Both of the previous caravans, and this one, too, apparently, had been comprised mostly of soldiers, warriors, instruments of the imperial Yatols. Brynn could fight and kill such men, and a few warrior women, with clear conscience, for these were the invaders, the source of To-gai’s ills, the people who would destroy the To-gai-ru culture and heritage.

  The woman tried not to think of the inevitable conflict that would arise between her and the fiery, dominating leader when at last the warrior band encountered Behrenese noncombatants.

  She turned her attention to the situation at hand, eyeing the caravan as it meandered down below. Brynn understood her part well enough, for in Ashwarawu’s sweeping tactics, every role was the same. The raiders would wait until the caravan was directly below them. Then, with war whoops and weapons brandished high, the force would sweep down the sloping ground, slicing through the cara
van like a swarm of angry bees, overwhelming the force with sheer numbers and sheer brutality, and with a deep-set confidence, the belief that a To-gai-ru warrior was simply superior to any Behrenese fighter.

  The caravan continued along, drivers and guards seeming oblivious to the threat.

  And so it began, a whirlwind, a charge, two hundred battle cries rising above the wind.

  The drivers and soldiers tried to turn the wagons, tried to get into some sort of defensive position, but the charge was too fast.

  On Runtly, Brynn leaped ahead of those closest to her, the strong pony outdistancing the others. Eager for battle, the young ranger veered in toward the center, outpacing even the strong black-and-white horse of Ashwarawu.

  She came to the caravan first, her sword alight with fire, slashing across to fell the nearest mounted Behrenese soldier. She veered immediately back to the left as she connected, to meet a second warrior, her pulsating shield deflecting his thrusting spear up high.

  Brynn cut even sharper to the left, with Runtly understanding and accepting the angle and smashing hard against the taller horse of the Behrenese soldier. The horse jumped to the side and the man lurched over, and Brynn wasted no time in smashing the soldier across the face with her shield. She pulled Runtly up to a rearing stop and turn, and slashed her sword across.

  The soldier’s head dropped to the snow.

  Runtly burst ahead, leaping the hitch between a pair of horses and the wagon behind them, then Brynn cut him sharply to the left, bringing her down the line along the undefended side of the caravan. She stabbed at each wagon driver in line, scoring a couple of hits, one fatal, and forcing three other drivers off the other side.

  All semblance of defense was shattered as the frightened horses of those four wagons, some aided by a slap on the rump by Brynn, broke formation.

  The ensuing frenzy was just the type of chaos favored by Ashwarawu and his warriors, and each Behrenese, soldier and driver, was quickly isolated from his kin, and quickly slashed, stabbed, or trampled.

  It was over in a matter of moments, as fast as a passing avalanche. Only a couple of the Behrenese weren’t quite dead, lying bleeding in the snow, crying out in agony, crying out for mercy.

  Brynn found Pagonel collecting one of the wayward wagons. She moved to help him, trying hard to ignore the cries of the wounded.

  “It is not a pretty business,” the mystic remarked, seeing the distress on the young ranger’s face.

  “I do not enjoy the killing,” Brynn admitted. She grabbed up the loose reins of one team then, and started to turn them about, but she stopped, noting that Pagonel was glancing at her and then to the side, silently motioning for her to take notice.

  Brynn turned to see the To-gai-ru line reformed beside the bulk of the caravan, with Ashwarawu walking his horse slowly toward her.

  “You fought well this day,” the leader observed. “As you have in the last encounters. As you did on the morning you were taken into my band.”

  “I was well-trained,” Brynn replied. “And am To-gai-ru.” She managed a smile. “And none have ever found a better mount …” She stopped, realizing that the proud leader wasn’t even listening to her.

  “You will move up seven places in the line, closer to me, I think,” Ashwarawu said offhandedly.

  Brynn knew that she should be thrilled, but something about his tone and demeanor had her quite concerned.

  “After you finish the task,” he said, and he slowly turned his head to regard one of the Behrenese soldiers lying upon the ground, writhing in pain.

  Brynn looked at the man, understanding what was expected of her. But this task hit her hard, assaulting her sensibilities. It was one thing to do battle against an enemy, one she profoundly hated, but how could she view a man lying helpless upon the ground in such a light as that?

  She looked back to Ashwarawu, to see him staring hard at her, not blinking, not flinching.

  Brynn turned to Pagonel for support, for anything, and found him sitting there staring alternately at her and at the leader, as if weighing both.

  The seconds slipped past.

  “Finish the task,” Ashwarawu said slowly and deliberately.

  Brynn found it hard to draw breath. She understood the depth of this trial, understood that if she was not strong, her place among the raiders, among all the To-gai-ru, would be forever diminished. She thought to argue about taking captives again, but knew that Ashwarawu was uncompromising on this point. The raider band did not have the resources to keep prisoners, to feed them or even to watch over them. And since no Behrenese soldiers or caravan drivers would offer any bargaining leverage whatsoever with any of the Yatol leaders, they were worthless to Ashwarawu.

  Brynn scanned the leader and the others again, wishing that she had a way out, but understanding that she most certainly did not. She slid down from her pony; she could have done the deed astride, but she didn’t want to include Runtly in the dirty business.

  Her bloody sword in hand, Brynn walked up to a wounded Behrenese. She chose the most grievously wounded man first, one who could not plead to her, could not even look her in the eye. He gasped for breath, blood pouring from his mouth with each exhalation, and Brynn knew that even if Ashwarawu had agreed to taking prisoners, there was nothing that she and the others could do to help this one.

  Juraviel’s warnings about the cruelty of war echoed in the woman’s mind.

  She struck fast and cleanly, stabbing the man through the heart, stilling his body and ending his misery.

  The next wounded man looked up at her as she stood over him, his eyes pleading for mercy. He even managed a slight shake of his head, begging her not to strike.

  Brynn looked up, then closed her eyes. She remembered keenly the moment when her parents had been murdered, purposely replaying that awful scene in her head again.

  She struck, imagining that she was stabbing the man who had killed her parents.

  And then she walked away. She held her sword out to the side and called forth its fire, using the flames to burn away the bloodstains.

  She heard the cries of encouragement, the cheers, from the To-gai-ru, though she did not feel much like a hero at that moment. She saw the approving look of Ashwarawu.

  Or was it an approving look? She had to wonder, for somewhere in the leader’s powerful expression, Brynn saw something more, and something far less. He had chosen her to carry out the executions, under the rationalization of glory, that she had performed well and so deserved the task of finishing the battle. But in looking at him then, Brynn understood that Ashwarawu had just tested her, and perhaps, that he had just tried to diminish her, in her own eyes if in no one else’s. Had Ashwarawu just taken a bit more control over Brynn?

  The woman looked to Pagonel, who sat astride his horse, holding Runtly’s reins. She saw a sadness there in his face, and a measure of sympathy that she had not expected.

  She took the reins and pulled herself up onto Runtly’s strong back, the pony accepting her, as always. She took some comfort in that, for Runtly would not judge her, as she could not help but judge herself.

  “They were utterly overrun,” Wan Atenn reported to Yatol Grysh in the audience chamber of the great temple in Dharyan. “The dead of our people were left on the frozen ground and all but one destroyed wagon was taken.” The Chezhou-Lei warrior said it all matter-of-factly, as if the loss of a few soldiers and drivers was no big event.

  Yatol Grysh’s stern look melted away. “And the foodstuffs were prepared as I ordered?” he asked, grinning.

  “They were.”

  At Grysh’s side, Carwan Pestle shifted in his seat and put a curious look over the Yatol.

  “The food was poisoned,” Grysh happily explained. “That caravan had to ride back and forth several times before the rebels even took notice of it!”

  “You sent them out there to be sacrificed?” Pestle asked, in surprise and not in judgment.

  “Ashwarawu is a fool, but a dangerous one,” Grysh r
eplied. “Of course, he may well be a dead fool now.”

  The Yatol nodded, trying very hard not to glance in the direction of any of the several slaves—To-gai-ru all—who were working in the temple. He had no doubt that word of the treachery would soon spread to the steppes, and to Ashwarawu’s ears, but that was part of the fun of it, was it not? He looked to the stunned Carwan Pestle, and was a bit disappointed that his protégé hadn’t caught on to all of this sooner. None of the outposter towns truly needed any supplies, after all, so why had Grysh sent out three separate caravans?

  Pestle was too innocent, the Yatol reasoned, to understand the need of such sacrifices. The first two caravans were necessary predecessors to the third batch of poisoned supplies.

  Of course, even the third was no more than a ruse. There were no poisons available in any quantities that could kill a large group of men after days and days of sitting in foodstuffs that would not be readily detectable by even casual observation.

  No, this too was a ruse, designed to bolster Ashwarawu’s confidence—in his own forces, in the incompetence of his enemies, and in the spy network that was so obviously working for him out of Dharyan. No doubt one of the workers in the temple would pass the word of the poisoned food, and another wretched Ru would rush out in the dark of night to find the rebel leader.

  Grysh was glad he didn’t have to try to hide his sly smile, because he doubted that he could at that time.

  He was drawing the rebel fool in, and he had eight hundred trained, professional soldiers at his disposal.

  “You are surprised that I take so bold and decisive a step against the fool rebels?” Grysh asked Pestle.

  “No, Yatol.”

  “Yes, you are,” Grysh corrected. “Why not wait until the spring, after all, when we could send the might of Jacintha’s army against the rabble and be done with them quickly and easily?” Grysh paused, studying the man, mocking him with a wry grin. “Yes, you are surprised, and so our next visitor this day should help you to understand.”

  With that, he looked to Wan Atenn and nodded, and the Chezhou-Lei relayed the signal to one of his guards by the great double doors. That man turned out to the hall and clapped his hands sharply, twice, and in walked Woh Lien and Dahmed Blie, the Chezhou-Lei leaders of the two visiting twenty-squares.