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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Yatol,” Woh Lien said, snapping into a formal bow.

  “Greetings to you, Chezhou-Lei.”

  “We have come to inform you that our duties here are done. The supplies have been delivered and distributed. Your requested eight-square has been selected from among the finest of our warriors.”

  “And so you plan to leave?”

  “That is our command, Yatol.”

  “To return to Jacintha, where you can chase birds from the fountains?” Grysh asked incredulously. “You are warriors, my friend, and here is a war for you to fight. You would turn from that to return to a city basking in peace and security?”

  Chezhou-Lei Woh Lien glanced nervously over at his companion, who seemed equally ill-at-ease. “It is not our decision to make, Yatol.”

  “Yet you are the commanders of your respective forces,” Grysh countered. “Surely you hold discretion in emergency situations.”

  “True, Yatol. But there is no such emergency. Not at this time, at least, and the God-Voice has determined that we are to return, at the first break in the weather.”

  He continued, but Grysh held up his hand, motioning for him to relent. “Go, then,” he said, looking from Carwan Pestle to Wan Atenn, his expression perfectly conveying a sense of worry—an emotion he certainly did not feel. “And let us pray that the wretch Ashwarawu was the first to taste of the last raid’s spoils!”

  The Yatol, feigning anger and frustration, dismissed them all, then walked with a huff from the grand room, back to his private quarters, an honestly confused and concerned Carwan Pestle close behind.

  But Yatol Grysh was not concerned. Not at all. He had a measure of this rebel, Ashwarawu, now. He was beginning to recognize the man’s patterns, and he knew that he was adding to the self-confidence that would ultimately bring the man down.

  It would be an enjoyable spring in Dharyan.

  “You are unnerved,” Pagonel remarked to Brynn the day after the caravan raid. Brynn was sitting off to the side of the camp cleaning her sword, alone and apparently calm and composed, but the perceptive mystic had seen through the façade. “It is one thing to kill a man in combat—the rush of fear and the need for self-defense allows for conscious justification. But it is quite another to kill a man lying helpless on the ground. Be relieved, my friend, that there were no uninjured Behrenese after the raid, no men who had just been knocked aside and captured.”

  “You presume much.”

  Pagonel gave a disarming smile. “A soldier invading your homeland deserves death, perhaps.”

  “Any Behrenese entering To-gai uninvited deserves death,” Brynn said with as much conviction as she could muster.

  “Do they?” The question was spoken, again, with perfect calm and the appearance of sincere reasoning. “If you happened upon a settlement and found a young Behrenese mother with her child, would you kill them? Without guilt?”

  Brynn stared hard at him.

  “You would put them on the road to their own land, perhaps,” the mystic remarked. “And likely with enough supplies so that their road would not be dangerous.”

  Brynn went back to her work on the sword, her expression intense. “You presume much.”

  “Presumptions, perhaps, but based upon considerable observation,” the mystic explained, taking a seat beside the young ranger. “I watched you at your practice this morning.”

  The statement froze Brynn in place. She had walked off far from the To-gai-ru encampment early that morning to practice her bi’nelle dasada, the elven sword dance, a ritual that she had been neglecting far too often of late. In the elven valley, Brynn had performed the dance nude, but since it was winter here on the steppes, with that constantly chill wind cutting across the iced grasses, she had worn a slight shift that morning. Still, Pagonel’s proclamation caught her off guard, and made her feel no less violated than if she had been dancing nude. Bi’nelle dasada was an intensely personal exercise, a disciplined series of elaborate motions designed to physically train the muscles in the motions of battle, but even more than that, to extend the consciousness, to heighten the bond between body and mind.

  Slowly, the young woman looked up at Pagonel.

  “We of Jhesta Tu have similar routines,” the mystic explained. “Quite similar, though we rarely fight or practice with weapons. The Chezhou-Lei warriors do, as well. As do certain factions of the Abellican Church to the north. I am curious as to how you came to learn such a dance, for yours, I believe, is quite extraordinary.”

  “It is not your business,” Brynn said, with all the warnings of Dasslerond that bi’nelle dasada was a secret not to be shared echoing in her mind. She went back to her work on the sword again, pointedly.

  “One day we will speak of it, I hope. But of course, the choice is yours. As for the events of yesterday, I am glad to see that you are troubled by them.”

  Brynn looked back at him again, her expression skeptical, though Pagonel could not be sure if she was trying to deny the premise of his statement, that she was troubled, or if she was merely confused that he should be glad to witness her guilt.

  “You trouble yourself needlessly,” he explained. “Those men were dead anyway—by Ashwarawu’s hand if not by the wounds they had already received. And you struck with mercy and compassion, which is more than most would have done, and is as much as the doomed soldiers could have expected. Our mighty leader would not allow his reputation to be diminished for the sake of Behrenese soldiers.”

  “Should he?” Brynn asked, her tone making it fairly clear that she sided with Pagonel on this issue.

  “I know not,” the mystic admitted. “Ashwarawu’s reputation serves him, and To-gai, well, I believe. Can the cost of conscience be weighed against that?”

  “If you do not believe that the Behrenese must be forced from To-gai, then why are you here?”

  “I do not know,” the mystic honestly replied, and he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “That is a question that I must answer myself. Still, I beg that you consider the question I posed to you, because if we happen upon a village of Behrenese that contains women and children and other noncombatants, you may well find yourself in need of the answer. Will you kill an innocent child at Ashwarawu’s insistence? Or are you so convinced that there are no innocent Behrenese?”

  “Are you intent upon sowing dissent within our band?”

  Pagonel chuckled again. “I speak with none of the others, unless they ask something of me.”

  “Then why do you take such an interest in Brynn Dharielle?”

  “I saw you at your practice this morning,” the mystic replied, and he let it go at that.

  Brynn started to look back at him, but was interrupted by a figure approaching—a quite intimidating figure, large and chiseled.

  “Another glorious victory!” Ashwarawu proclaimed. “Will the trail of Ashwarawu end before it has run right through Jacintha?”

  Brynn smiled at him, but his reference to himself in the third person settled uneasily within her. Mostly because Brynn did not believe that Ashwarawu was speaking of “Ashwarawu” as anything greater than himself.

  “But the caravans will cease, I fear,” the rebel leader went on. “Fat Yatol Grysh will not dare to send many more against the power of Ashwarawu. We may have to destroy a few outposter settlements to garner our supplies through the winter.”

  Brynn’s façade cracked for just a moment as images of herded noncombatants flashed through her mind.

  “Or maybe we go right into Behren, eh?” Ashwarawu said with a wicked grin.

  Brynn shrugged and held her smile.

  “And what of you, mystic?” Ashwarawu asked, turning abruptly to Pagonel. “Have you decided why you have joined with us?”

  “Contemplation follows its own hourglass,” Pagonel replied.

  Ashwarawu looked at him incredulously for a moment, then exploded into a great burst of laughter. “Well, take your time, then!” he said. “You were helpful in controlling the horses, even if you did not
fight. Just continue to be helpful. Continue to earn the food I give to you.”

  Pagonel decided not to point out the fact that his skilled foraging was bringing in far more food than he was consuming.

  “A curious pair, if ever I saw one!” Ashwarawu said, stepping back and surveying Brynn and Pagonel. “Are you certain that you are not father and daughter?”

  Brynn winced. Ashwarawu had spoken the words in jest, obviously, but any reference to her father stung. The woman’s expression quickly reverted, though.

  Ashwarawu cleared his throat, obviously seeing the discomfort he had brought to Brynn. “Well, you fought magnificently yesterday,” he said. “I do not relinquish the pleasure of killing the wounded and captured Behrenese easily!”

  Brynn merely smiled, hearing Pagonel’s warnings in her head.

  “Come with me, my warrior,” the imposing leader said, and he held his hand out toward a confused Brynn.

  She glanced at Pagonel, but his expression offered little advice, and so she took Ashwarawu’s hand, stood and sheathed her sword, and followed the large young man away.

  He walked her right past the encampment—and Brynn didn’t miss several rather lewd snickers she heard from men along the perimeter—to a small tent set up in the distance.

  Inside were piles of furs, and Ashwarawu bade Brynn to sit down. She did so, moving to the far side of the small tent, and though she had her back against one side, and Ashwarawu had his against the opposite side, their legs were practically entwined.

  The leader began taking off some of his layers of furs, but Brynn thought nothing of it. The tent was warm; no doubt heated stones had been placed under the furs.

  “When we chased you about the valley on that first day of your arrival, you proved your skill,” Ashwarawu said. “In the battles against the Wraps, you have proven your worth. Your strength and your will.”

  Stripped to one shirt and simple breeches, the young man came forward suddenly, going to his knees before the woman. “I feared that I would not find a woman suitable for Ashwarawu,” he said, and he moved right in, wrapping Brynn with his powerful arms and pressing his lips against hers.

  A rush of confusion washed through Brynn. On the most basic level, Ashwarawu was undeniably handsome, with his strong features and honed muscles, the epitome of To-gai-ru manhood. Add to that the woman’s feelings of duty, that her role within Ashwarawu’s band at that time was whatever Ashwarawu determined her role to be, and she did not immediately refuse.

  Ashwarawu pulled her down to the furs and his hands started roaming about her body, sliding under the furs she wore. He kept kissing her, and started to undress her.

  Brynn could not deny some of the tingles his touch excited in her, in ways that the innocent young woman had never known. But neither could she deny her instincts that this was not right. Not for her. Not then and there.

  She pushed Ashwarawu away, or tried to, for the powerful young man just grabbed on tighter and pressed his lips against hers more forcefully.

  Brynn slipped her hand under his and gave a subtle twist, freeing her enough to pull back.

  “No,” she said.

  If she had picked up a knife and stabbed it into his chest, Ashwarawu’s expression would have been no less incredulous.

  “You deny Ashwarawu?”

  He lessened his grasp as he spoke, and Brynn wriggled free and went back to sitting against the side of the tent.

  “I do not even know you,” the woman replied. She hated the wounded look on his face, the expression that she had put there. For a moment, she felt very foolish and very ashamed that she was not more of a woman.

  “I am Ashwarawu!” he said. “I am the bringer of hope to the To-gai-ru. I am he whom the Behrenese fear!”

  “In all those things, you speak truly,” Brynn admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

  “You should feel proud that I have chosen you to lie with me!”

  Brynn looked at him hard, her expression sufficient to keep him at bay, for indeed he had started to advance again. She tried desperately to sort through the myriad feelings and thoughts that were swirling about her mind, but all that she could ask at that moment was, “Is gratitude a reason to make love?”

  Ashwarawu sat back, looking very much as if he did not understand.

  “I do not know!” Brynn spouted. “I am not sure.”

  “Pleasure me,” the man demanded. “Let me pleasure you, for tomorrow we might die upon the field!”

  On one level, his words made perfect sense to Brynn. Did she wish to die a virgin, after all? In truth, to that moment, she had hardly thought about it, for her life had been full of so many other joys and responsibilities.

  On another level, though, Brynn could not dismiss her feeling that this was not right for her. Not at that time. So many things about Ashwarawu seemed appealing—his appearance not the least of them. But so many other questions remained in the back of the woman’s mind.

  “No,” she said with conviction. “I do not know you. I serve you with my blade, and with my body in battle.”

  “You would serve me well tonight,” the man complained.

  “That is not a role I choose,” Brynn said, and though the conflicts remained within her, she was on solid emotional ground, had made up her mind and would not be persuaded otherwise.

  “Ashwarawu!” came a voice from outside, some distance away.

  The To-gai-ru leader glanced at the tent flap, then back at Brynn, coldly, but then moved and pushed the flap aside.

  “Barou is very sick,” the distant voice explained. “And others are feeling ill.”

  Ashwarawu grabbed his furs and crawled for the tent entrance. He glanced back at Brynn once, his expression clearly conveying his demand that the events of that night be kept secret between them. “We will finish this another time,” he said.

  Brynn didn’t know if he was referring to the discussion or the lovemaking, and she even got an uneasy feeling that there was a veiled threat in his statement.

  She collected herself then and started to follow, but paused once, considering the irony of it all.

  On the field the day before, Ashwarawu had been able to make her put aside the questions of her conscience and take the lives of the two wounded men. In here, he had essentially tried to do the same thing, to use her as an extension of his wishes, whatever her own desires might have been.

  So much of what Ashwarawu did offended Brynn at a very instinctive level, and yet, he was proving to be effective. Undeniably.

  Was this the definition of a leader?

  Brynn did not know.

  That night, Barou, a young warrior still in his teens, died, and many others grew sick. It didn’t take the To-gai-ru long to realize that the men had been poisoned.

  Pagonel stepped in, offering to examine all of the foodstuffs. No one quite understood what the mystic meant to do, but no one questioned him, either.

  He approached each bundle of food solemnly, falling deep within himself, and, as an Abellican monk employing hematite might do, he sent his sensibilities right into the food, visualizing any “sickness” within the foodstuff.

  He told them which of the supplies were fit to eat, and which were not, and though many sent questioning looks his way, unable to comprehend his methods and therefore doubting his conclusions, Ashwarawu nodded his agreement.

  The powerful leader walked up to the first bundle Pagonel had proclaimed as safe, lifted the meat to his mouth, and tore off a huge chunk.

  “So, you have found a way to be useful!” Ashwarawu declared, and all of the raiders began to cheer for Pagonel.

  Brynn watched it all, scrutinizing Ashwarawu’s every move, studying how he played upon the emotions of the crowd, turning their hope to the benefit of his own stature, but also to the general good feeling and morale. It was obvious to her that Ashwarawu understood that the poison placed in the food could have more emotional impact than the physical toll it had inflicted. The poison could have shaken the co
nfidence of the raiders in themselves, in the weaknesses of their enemy, and in their leader.

  That was all behind them now, suddenly, as long as Pagonel’s proclamations about the food proved accurate.

  Brynn, who understood the deeper levels of magic and perception because of her time with the elves, was beginning to recognize the depth of this Jhesta Tu mystic, and had no doubt that his decisions about the foodstuffs would prove correct.

  They did indeed over the course of the next week.

  Several uneventful days followed, as the raider band regrouped. As with the period following almost every victory, more soldiers came in to join with mighty Ashwarawu. Brynn watched the leader closely throughout that time period, measuring his words and his actions, trying to determine what he was doing that worked well, and what seemed not so effective. All the while, she couldn’t dismiss the obvious fact that Ashwarawu was really a very young man, younger than she was herself.

  What he lacked in maturity and tact, though, he made up for in sheer bravery and ferocity.

  That was his secret, Brynn decided. His bravery was dominant, so much so that his mere presence lent strength and courage to those around him—as it had when he had lifted the meat Pagonel had said was untainted to his lips and taken a huge bite of it. He had not ordered a lesser to taste the food. And in battle, Ashwarawu did not follow his warriors in.

  No, he led, howling and cheering, inviting the enemy to fight him.

  Also to the man’s credit, Ashwarawu did not pressure Brynn in those days, nor did he try to ignore her. He treated her pretty much as he treated everyone else—except that Brynn often caught him stealing glances at her.

  Brynn awoke one morning to find the camp all abuzz. She found Pagonel not far from her tent flap, the mystic looking on in amusement as many of the other raiders flocked about a middle-aged To-gai-ru woman.

  “Ya Ya Deng has arrived,” the mystic explained, though the name meant nothing to Brynn.