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

by R. A. Salvatore

  But then a form dropped beside the large warrior, expertly taking him down to the ground.

  Brynn forged Runtly in her leader’s direction, but she got cut off by a pair of Behrenese entwined with a To-gai-ru rider, and she had to put her sword to fast work to save her compatriot from getting pulled down from his mount.

  By the time she looked back toward the gate, Ashwarawu and the man who had dropped upon him were up and facing each other. The raider pulled a huge axe off his back and slashed out wildly.

  But he was dazed, it seemed to Brynn, and his overaggressive attack got nowhere near to hitting, while it left him off-balance.

  His opponent expertly backed to the side, then came in behind Ashwarawu’s strike, stepping forward with the horizontal slash, his fine sword cutting the raider leader’s belly. Ashwarawu leaped back and doubled over a bit, and the enemy came forward in a crouch, turning his sword, then straightened fast, lifting the blade and skinning Ashwarawu’s face from chin to forehead!

  Brynn cringed at the explosion of crimson mist, at the pitiful sight of Ashwarawu, standing there, arms outstretched down and to the side, back bent slightly and his head thrown back from the sheer force of the devastating blow.

  Brynn’s horror only increased, as well as her fear of this amazing enemy, as the Behrenese warrior spun a complete circle, gaining momentum for his flying blade, and brought it across perfectly to lop Ashwarawu’s head from his shoulders.

  The woman exploded into motion again, forcing her horse about, screaming for a full retreat, even slapping the rumps of To-gai-ru ponies to spur them on their exit from the battlefield.

  Many died right there, more Behrenese than To-gai-ru, but most of the raider band did turn and extract themselves from the mob, riding hard to the west, in a long and unorganized line.

  Through it all, Brynn strained to find her one friend among the raiders, a mystic who had become much more to her than mere ally. But she couldn’t find him, not on the wall nor in the tumult.

  He was likely dead or captured on the other side of the wall, she realized, and with that grim and unsettling thought in mind, and with nothing left for her here in the frenzy, the woman turned Runtly to the west and kicked him hard, sending him leaping away and trampling a pair of Behrenese soldiers in the process.

  She went back to her bow almost immediately after she had broken free, lifting her leg over her saddle and turning in one stirrup so that she was facing backward. Arrow after arrow flew back into the Behrenese ranks. She got off nearly ten shots before she was out of practical range, and before she heard the sounds of battle yet again, being joined to the south of her. Thinking only to aid her countrymen, Brynn cut her horse to the south, and saw the truth of their doom.

  Ranks of Behrenese, Jacintha soldiers, swarmed over the retreating To-gai-ru, both south and north, closing like the jaws of a killer wolf upon their prey. Tears in her eyes, thinking it all at an end, Brynn plunged right into the wild fight.

  She dealt a few blows and took a few in return, and for a while, got the best of those around her—so much so that many started to flee from her rather than engage.

  But she was growing weary, was bleeding from several wounds, and standing out so tall among the overwhelmed To-gai-ru certainly invited disaster.

  An arrow drove hard into Brynn’s side, cracking through her ribs and piercing her lung. All the world swam in blurry grayness then, the woman’s orientation fading away.

  She slumped forward over Runtly’s neck, lost in the swirl of pain—so lost that she did not see the imposing Behrenese rider come up right beside her, his curved sword poised to finish the task that the arrow had surely begun.

  For Chezhou-Lei Dahmed Blie, this was a crowning moment of glory, one that would elevate him within the ranks of his mighty order. This To-gai-ru woman had fought valiantly in the brief exchange out here, as many of Dahmed Blie’s warriors had witnessed. So he had managed to separate her and have her shot down, and now many would look on as he killed her, claiming the prize as his own.

  He lifted his sword above his head and brought his mount up beside the brown-and-white To-gai pinto.

  A form, a man, came up over Runtly’s other side in a great leap.

  Pagonel hooked his foot on the saddle and flank as he crested the pony’s back, right behind the slumping Brynn, his shin going down atop the pony’s broad back, affording him balance. His lead foot went out ahead, planting against the side of the stunned Chezhou-Lei’s mount, but that foot did not break the Jhesta Tu mystic’s momentum, for it was not the first contact. That came in the form of Pagonel’s thrusting hand, his stiffened fingers perfectly aimed to jab into the surprised Chezhou-Lei’s throat, driving through the man’s skin and shattering his windpipe.

  They held the pose for a long moment, the Chezhou-Lei’s sword slipping from his grasp to fall harmlessly into the dirt on the other side of his horse. Slowly, Dahmed Blie’s trembling hands reached for Pagonel’s extended arm.

  The Jhesta Tu mystic snapped free his bloody hand, then pulled back with his hooked foot, bringing him back fully to Brynn’s pony. He gathered up the woman in his arms and urged the pony to leap away.

  Behind him, Dahmed Blie fell over forward, but was well-secured in his saddle, which turned over with him, leaving the dead warrior dangling in the bloody dirt below his horse.

  Away from the battlefield to the south, Pagonel gently lowered the grievously wounded woman to the sand.

  He reached inside himself, to the source of his life and his power, and brought forth warmth to his hands, gently massaging the wound, where the arrow still protruded from the side of Brynn’s chest. He knew that he had to pull the arrow forth, but first he needed to lend her strength, to channel it from his own body and into hers.

  Pagonel heard the vultures overhead, heard the cries on the distant bloody field, of men dying in the dirt, helplessly.

  He blocked them out. He focused on Brynn, sent his energy into her.

  And then he stopped, his eyes going wide, as he came to know that he was not alone here, or at least, that his energy was not the only healing magic flowing into Brynn’s frail body.

  Her beret! Pagonel knew then that there was an enchantment upon it.

  The mystic nearly chuckled aloud, musing that he had just discovered the truth of why powries were so tough. But even with the aid of the beret, Pagonel could not find any mirth, for he wasn’t sure that it would be enough.

  He worked with her for nearly an hour. Then, exhausted, and with the bloody arrow lying on the ground, the mystic hoisted Brynn back up, laying her across Runtly’s back. He took up the pony’s reins and started off again to the south.

  Spring slipped into summer before Pagonel and Brynn, who was still comatose from her only slightly improved wounds, entered the region known as the Mountains of Fire. At the base of the five-thousand-step climb to the Walk of Clouds, the mystic stripped the gear from Runtly and gave him a slap, sending him running off in the direction of the low fields, where other horses ran wild.

  Then the mystic put the weak Brynn across his shoulders and started his climb, not stopping until he had reached the secluded monastery.

  The stares of disbelief that greeted his arrival were not unexpected, for the mystic had surely broken nearly every covenant concerning bringing visitors unannounced to the Walk of Clouds.

  Not the least of those surprised looks came to him from Master Cheyes, his mentor.

  And so it ended, so quickly, so brutally. When I reflect on how little I knew of this leader, Ashwarawu, I am amazed at the spell he held over me, over so many of us. Where was he born? Among what tribe? Did he witness the death of his parents, as did I? Are his parents even dead?

  So many questions now occur to me about who this man was and where he came from, about the history that would produce a leader so brave. The strange thing is, when I was with him, when I might have gotten answers to those questions, I never thought to ask them. Like all of the others, I was swept up
in the moment, in the hope of freedom, in the glory of our cause.

  In light of that realization, was it Ashwarawu’s greatness that moved us all behind him, I wonder, or our own desperation to believe that we could win back our freedom? Was Ashwarawu a great leader, or simply a strong man thrust into the forefront by a desperate people?

  Now, these months later, I must consider those questions honestly. For my own heart, at least, I must come to understand and accept the defeat.

  I was thrilled when I learned that many of my people had not broken to the ways of the Yatols. Not just the old, wishing for times long past, but the young and strong, as well. Most of Ashwarawu’s raiders were around my age, and many were significantly younger. We rode with passion and justice behind us.

  But we lost.

  When first I arrived at the Walk of Clouds, that seemed impossible to me, a nightmare that could not be. Is there not a god above, a god of justice and honor? If there is, then how could he side with the Yatols against us? Is there justice in their conquest? In their torture? In their reduction of an entire race of people to the class of slave? No god of justice could side with them!

  But we lost.

  And we did not lose because of any godly intervention, or because of any lack of godly intervention, I have come to understand through my meditations here. We lost because of human fault, because of pride, above all. We seemed so unbeatable out on the steppes, against the caravans, against the settlements. Even against an army nearing our size, such as the garrison that moved into the settlement of Dancala Grysh, I had no doubt that we would win, and decisively. In a battlefield of our choosing, where we can use our strengths and exploit the Behrenese weaknesses, the To-gai-ru will cut the Behrenese down. I have no doubt of this, but in that string of victories, we forgot the key to those victories: the battlefield of our choosing.

  The army that came to Dancala Grysh was not there to do battle against us, but to entice us to turn to the east. When I look back upon that terrible day with that in mind, how foolish I feel! How easily did Dharyan play upon the pride of Ashwarawu and upon us all! We were goaded and baited. We were allowed to believe in our invincibility. And how ridiculous those illusions seemed when the jaws of the Jacintha army closed upon us!

  The agonized cries of that defeat reverberate across the steppes of To-gai now, I fear. Given the absolute failure of Ashwarawu, a second insurgence will be much more difficult to organize than was the first.

  What now, then? Is the dream of a free To-gai lying dead on the field outside of Dharyan? Were my plans to battle the Behrenese and the plans of Lady Dasslerond that I would lead my people to freedom no more than the folly of impossible hopes?

  I do not know.

  That admission pains me. It brings that haunting moment of the death of my parents crashing around me like the dark wings of despair. And yet I know that I must honestly answer the question. I must honestly assess the chances of any uprising, the odds of every potential battle. If I am to lead To-gai against the Yatols, I must do so honestly, devoid of the encouragement of hubris. In my heart I knew, before the battle of Dharyan ever began, that something was not quite right, that it was too easy and too convenient and too grievous an error by the Yatol of Dharyan, who had proven again and again that he was no fool. I sensed the danger there, and so did Ashwarawu, I suspect. But he—we—were too caught up in the possibility of the decisive win to pay attention to such feelings.

  Ashwarawu believed in the opportunity that loomed before us because he wanted to believe in it. So desperately!

  In this most critical test, Ashwarawu failed.

  I have to carefully examine all that I know of the man now.

  The first lesson that Pagonel gave to me once I had recovered from my wounds was to force me to admit, to myself, that I was angry at the opportunity lost and angry at the man who had squandered that opportunity. Ashwarawu had beaten me to the war trail and was building that which I most desire, and he failed, and set back my cause—our cause—perhaps irreparably.

  My first task, then, is to release myself from the bitterness I feel toward Ashwarawu. I have to examine carefully all that I know of the man now. Without blame, I must examine his failures and his triumphs. It is my task to study what he did right and what he did wrong, to learn from it, to better prepare myself.

  Does this mean that I will take up the reins of battle again, that I still hope to lead To-gai in an uprising against the cursed Yatols?

  That is my hope, yes, but I cannot know now if ever again I will see the opportunity before me.

  And while the hope remains, it remains pushed far from the realities of the present. That is not the purpose of my path anymore.

  —BRYNN DHARIELLE

  Chapter 19

  The Play’s the Thing

  HE LOOKED UP THE SHEER, FIFTY-FOOT WALL, THEN GLANCED OVER HIS SHOULDERS at his tiny wings, lamenting that they were nowhere near strong enough to get him out of the hole.

  Belli’mar Juraviel could only sigh, reminding himself that even if he could somehow get out of the hole, he would still be a long way from free. He’d have to cross through the lair of Agradeleous, the dragon, and into the adjoining tunnels, and then somehow navigate his way out of the Path of Starless Night. Which way would he go, north or south? With the discovery of the Doc’alfar, and now finding the location of one of the great dragons, it seemed obvious to Juraviel that his road should be to the north, back to Andur’Blough Inninness to speak with Lady Dasslerond.

  But now, from Agradeleous’ own tales, it seemed as if Brynn had escaped the terrors of the dragon, and in the direction of the To-gai steppes. It was possible that she was already chasing her destiny—one that Belli’mar Juraviel had been charged with overseeing.

  And, of course, there remained his promise to King Eltiraaz that he would not return home with news of the Doc’alfar.

  And, of course, it was all moot anyway, because Agradeleous was as mighty a jailor as could be found in all the world, and the dread dragon wasn’t about to let his prisoners get away.

  A noise at the back of the small pit brought Juraviel from his contemplations and turned him toward the one tunnel exit out of the main prison, a long and low corridor leading to a steamy ledge, a waterfall pouring over it and dropping down to sizzle in a wide pit of molten lava. Cazzira, her black hair wet from washing, her creamy skin all red from the steam, entered the chamber, wearing nothing more than her short shirt.

  “Has he returned yet?” she asked casually, tossing her wet hair back from her face.

  Belli’mar Juraviel just stood and watched her for a moment, letting her question drift away.

  Cazzira froze, noting the stare. “What is it?” she asked, smiling, even giggling a bit.

  “I was only thinking how much longer this imprisonment would seem if you were not here beside me,” Juraviel admitted.

  Cazzira’s smile only widened and she moved right next to the golden-haired, golden-eyed Touel’alfar, placing her hand gently upon his slender and strong shoulder. Juraviel closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling himself with Cazzira’s sweet scent. For a moment, he thought of stepping forward and wrapping her in his arms, and kissing her, but that fleeting moment washed away as Cazzira asked him, “Why must you think of it as imprisonment?”

  Juraviel stepped back, blinking his eyes open. “Because that is what it is.”

  Cazzira shrugged. “And your time with my people was imprisonment, as well.” The Doc’alfar spun away as she made the remark, moving for her drying clothes spread on a rock at the far end of the wide pit.

  “It was,” Juraviel called after her. “And less pleasant than this time! Your people kept Brynn and me in a room of mud!”

  “Peat,” Cazzira corrected. “Where else were we to put you? We chose not to give you to the bog—for that you should be grateful.”

  A burst of helpless laughter escaped Juraviel. He shook his head and looked back up at the pit’s rim.

  “And Agra
deleous chose not to eat us, or burn the flesh from our bones,” Cazzira went on.

  “Which I still do not understand.”

  “He recognized us for who we are.”

  “And why might that spare us?” Juraviel asked. “When have either the Touel’alfar or the Doc’alfar been allied with the great dragons? I would have thought that any recognition of our heritage by Agradeleous would have prompted the flames all the more quickly.”

  Cazzira sighed and slumped to the side, tilting her head, her body language reminding Juraviel that they had discussed this issue many times before. “Four races,” she said. “Only four. Doc’alfar and Touel’alfar, the children of life, the dactyls and the dragons, the beasts of death.”

  “That is how it was, not how it is.”

  “But that is how Agradeleous still views the world,” Cazzira explained. “To him, the other races—human, powrie, goblin, giant—are no more than animals, vermin to be exterminated. But we, you and I, represent two of the true races, and to the dragon, we are a novelty, and a chance for companionship.”

  “Even if our races are avowed enemies?”

  “That means little if the races have been reduced to a few creatures. If the Tylwyn Doc and the Tylwyn Tou were at war, and all that remained were the two of us, would we continue the battle?”

  A wisp of a smile curled Juraviel’s lips. He could not imagine warring with Cazzira under any circumstances, not after spending these weeks beside her, learning so much of her dreams and hopes and philosophy. Not after realizing that he and she were so much alike in so many ways, both enigmas to their respective peoples.

  “But the dragons and the dactyl are creatures of darkness,” he argued. “When Bestesbulzibar, curse his name, walked Corona a decade ago, there was no parley. There was only war.”

  “The dragons are not so akin to the demon dactyls, then,” said Cazzira.