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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “You do,” she accused. “You keep speaking of the Behrenese in very human terms, hoping that I will forget my hatred toward them and, it follows, hoping that I will abandon my course against them.”

  “Or perhaps I understand that if you do not come to understand the Behrenese, even the Chezru, even the Chezru Chieftain and his Yatols, as people of varying intelligence and desires, then your road will surely end as Ashwarawu’s ended, in the bloody dirt.”

  Now it was Brynn’s turn to stand and stare. “Do you believe that I should abandon my road altogether?” she asked after a long pause.

  “I believe that you should continue to grow personally,” the Jhesta Tu master replied. “And when your heart tells you that it is time for you to go and decide your place in the world, among your own people or among the Behrenese, then you should go. Revelations ultimately come from within, not from without.”

  “Like your own journey to Ashwarawu’s camp,” Brynn remarked. “Now that I have seen the Walk of Clouds, now that I have come to know what it is to be Jhesta Tu, your choice puzzles me even more. Why did you go out to the steppes?”

  “Perhaps it was simply fate, or a silent command within from a god that I do not understand,” the mystic answered. “Or perhaps it was nothing but luck—and only time will tell us if that luck was good or bad.” He ended with a chuckle and turned to leave, but Brynn grabbed him by the arm and forcefully turned him back around to face her.

  “Do you believe that it was bad luck that you found me?”

  Both became acutely aware of how close they were to each other. The tension between them had somewhat cooled since that uncomfortable day on the field below, but now it was there again, palpably.

  “No,” Pagonel answered. “I could never believe that.”

  Brynn kissed him before he ever finished the sentence, and then they held each other there in the hallway for a long, long time.

  “Another unremarkable village,” Cazzira remarked, standing on a ridge and looking down at a small collection of houses, ringed by stables.

  “Then let me raze it and eat all the villagers, and its name will be long remembered,” Agradeleous offered, and both elves scowled at him, to which the dragon only sighed.

  They had spent several weeks moving about the open and empty steppes, with the dragon remaining in his bipedal form—except on occasional nights, when Agradeleous resumed his true and magnificent form and went out hunting, returning with stolen livestock or a wild horse or other things that both Juraviel and Cazzira thought it best not to ask him about.

  The trio had encountered two villages previous to this one, and had spent time haunting the areas about them, eavesdropping on the conversations of any who happened by. One such discussion, between a pair of elderly women cleaning their laundry on stones at the side of a small stream, had told of a revolt in a town not so far away, of how a Yatol and a Chezhou-Lei warrior had been slain, though now the town had been reclaimed by the Wraps, and was held more tightly than even before.

  And this before them was that village, which Juraviel thought might prove not so unremarkable. Few warriors could slay a Chezhou-Lei warrior, he had come to believe.

  But he knew one that could.

  “You will remain here this night,” he instructed Agradeleous.

  “Unless I hear an oxen lowing on the grasses,” the dragon replied.

  “You feasted last night.”

  The dragon curled its mouth in a grinning reply.

  “I ask you to remain here,” Juraviel said firmly. “If you cause any tumult on the grasses nearby, you will rouse the villagers.”

  Agradeleous’ smile faded. “I will stay,” he agreed. “Do you mean to go and listen in?”

  “It would be wonderful if we could start finding some direction to our path,” the elf replied, and at his side, Cazzira certainly did not disagree.

  Later on, when the sun went down and the bright stars twinkled above, many people gathered in the village common room, talking animatedly. Just outside, huddled in the shadows beside a slightly opened window, Juraviel and Cazzira sat and listened, as silent as those shadows hiding them.

  They heard many discussions about many things, most unrelated to any information they could use. They did hear some Behrenese soldiers boasting about a great battle, though.

  “You will all learn your place, you Ru!” one cried out, the man obviously a bit drunk.

  “Aye, cleaning the dung from your boots!” one of the To-gai-ru man villagers replied, and all about him laughed.

  “Better for you that our boots are covered in dung than in blood, as they were at Dharyan!” the Behrenese soldier shot back, and in the blink of an eye, the room went dead silent.

  Both Juraviel and Cazzira peeked up and over the window rim, trying to get a better measure of it all. Another soldier jumped from his seat and grabbed the speaker, holding him steady and bidding him to be quiet.

  “They know of Dharyan!” the drunken speaker protested. “Do you not?” he asked the room, leaning forward and smiling wickedly. “When all of your heroes were trampled into the mud by the power of Yatol Grysh? When brave Ashwarawu’s head parted from his shoulders?”

  Several To-gai-ru men stood up at that, their chairs skidding out behind them, while others held them back.

  “A fairly recent battle,” Juraviel observed to Cazzira, for it was obvious that the emotions here were too high for Dharyan to be a memory from the war when Behren had conquered To-gai.

  “We remember it,” one To-gai-ru from the far corner did respond. “Aye, and well. Almost as well as we remember Yatol Daek Gin Gin Yan and Dee’dahk, and the fine To-gai-ru lass who cut them down!”

  Juraviel could hardly draw his breath, and felt as if he would simply fall over.

  “Speak no more of it!” the soldier holding the drunk ordered the To-gai-ru, and when his drunken friend started to respond, he smacked the man hard across the back of his head.

  All the Behrenese soldiers were standing then, and several drew out their weapons.

  But it was all bluster and boast, and no real challenge came against them, and soon enough the room settled back into its easy flow of many disjointed conversations.

  Over the course of the next couple of hours, Juraviel did note, though, that many of the To-gai-ru veered on the path to the common room’s door to a table where a pair of elderly couples sat quietly, and often patted one old man on the shoulders, sometimes looking back as they did to the boastful and drunken Behrenese soldier.

  When that old man and his wife left the common room later on, a pair of quiet little figures followed them through the town and to their small and humble cottage, and when they sat down within, at their own table, they did not know that they were not alone.

  “I am warmed whenever they speak of her,” the old man said, and his companion walked behind him and put her arms about his neck, bending low.

  “You think they refer to Brynn?” Cazzira whispered to Juraviel.

  The elf nodded, and held his breath as he put his ear back up to the crack in the cottage wall.

  “Come, old man, let us find our sleep,” he heard the old woman say, and he was sorely disappointed.

  “A good one, it will be,” the old man agreed, and the elves heard the creak of wood as he stood, and the shuffling of feet as the old couple made their way across the room to their bedding.

  “Now what?” Cazzira asked. “Back to Agradeleous or back to the common room?”

  Juraviel took a third route, around the house so that he was against the wall closest to the couple’s bed. As soon as he got there, purely on instinct, he tapped on the wall.

  When no response came back, he tapped again, harder.

  “Eh?” he heard the old man say, followed by movement within.

  “Tell me of her,” Juraviel said to them, though Cazzira was grabbing his arm so tightly that the blood couldn’t get to his fingers. “Tell me of the fall of Yatol Daek Gin Gin Yan.”

 
“Who are you?” came a harsh whisper.

  “I am a friend.”

  There came some muffled conversation within, and the elves heard the old woman remark, “A friend of the Behrenese!”

  “A friend, I believe, of she who slew the Yatol,” Juraviel said, and Cazzira tugged him hard, pulling him away from the wall.

  “You cannot do this!” she protested.

  “It is the only way!”

  They both stopped as they heard the door around the other side of the cottage swing open. Around the corner, armed with a small hammer, came the old man. “Who are you?” he demanded, though neither elf was anywhere in sight. He looked all about, shaking his hammer.

  “I traveled with Brynn Dharielle,” Juraviel said, using a Touel’alfar trick to throw his voice, so that the old man spun the wrong way in response.

  “Then show yourself!”

  “That I cannot do,” Juraviel replied, throwing his voice to a different place, and the old man spun again. When he had settled, Juraviel started again, his voice coming from a completely different shadow. “She thought me lost in the Path of Starless Night, tunnels beneath the great mountains to the north. But I have found my way to here and, I hope, soon to her side again.”

  The man’s shoulders seemed to slump a bit at that last statement, and a lump wrought of fear welled in Juraviel’s throat.

  “Bah, but I’ll not talk to ghosts!” the old man said firmly. “Nor to Behrenese spies—and how do I know you’re not that?”

  Juraviel started out and Cazzira grabbed him tightly. “No,” she whispered.

  “He knows,” Juraviel said back at her, and he pulled away.

  The old man was heading back around the house by that time, so Juraviel jumped out behind him. “Have you ever seen a Behrenese soldier who looks like this?” he asked, and the man spun about.

  And then he stood there, trembling, his hammer falling to the ground at his feet.

  “I am no enemy of To-gai,” Juraviel declared. “And I am a friend of Brynn Dharielle. Tell me, I beg of you.”

  “Tu d’elfin faerie,” the man stuttered, using the To-gai-ru label for the elven people, a race that was prominent in their fireside tales.

  “Belli’mar Juraviel at your service,” the elf said with a sweeping bow. “You know of Brynn, so tell me, I beg of you.”

  “I sent her to her death,” the old man remarked, trembling, his hands coming up to hide his face.

  “No, Balachuk!” the old woman said, rushing around the house and grabbing at his arms. “We do not know that!”

  “She did battle here, against a Yatol priest and one named Dee’dahk?” Juraviel prompted.

  “A Chezhou-Lei warrior,” the old woman said, nodding. “She killed them both, and others besides, and she freed the horses, though the Wraps have returned to put them back.”

  The couple exchanged worried looks.

  “You’d best come inside,” the old woman said. “We saw Brynn once again after she fled, and we know where she went, but it is not a pretty tale.”

  Juraviel entered the humble cottage behind the couple and took an offered seat at their table, with Balachuk sitting across from him and the woman—Balachuk introduced her as Tsolona—moving to the fire to heat some water for tea.

  After a few uncomfortable moments, where Juraviel had to reassure the couple repeatedly that he was no spy, and that, yes, he was of the tu d’elfin faerie spoken of in their legends, he managed to coax the story out of them. Balachuk told it, primarily, recounting Brynn’s time in the village, and how she had taken down the Yatol priest and the warrior. He spoke of his last meeting with her, when she had left to join Ashwarawu’s rebel band.

  Balachuk’s voice grew solemn as he told Juraviel of the disastrous battle of Dharyan.

  “She is dead, then?” the elf asked, barely able to get the words past the lump in his slender throat.

  “So I would guess,” Balachuk replied, seeming equally troubled.

  “We heard rumors that a Jhesta Tu was there, and took her riding off from the battle,” Tsolona quickly interjected. “Heard that she, or he, killed another of the Chezhou-Lei.”

  “Rumors,” Balachuk huffed.

  “Not all of them died at the gates of Dharyan!” Tsolona insisted.

  “Then why did she not return to us?” the old man countered.

  “So you just do not know?” Juraviel asked.

  “A few To-gai-ru returned from the battlefield and are scattered about the steppes,” Balachuk explained. “It is not something they are free to talk about.”

  “Not in pride or practicality,” said Tsolona, echoing a common To-gai-ru saying.

  Belli’mar Juraviel paused for a bit to digest it all. “Jhesta Tu?” he asked at length, unfamiliar with the name.

  “Group of mystics who live somewhere far to the south,” Balachuk explained. “One was said to be riding with Ashwarawu.”

  “Do you have any idea of where I might turn to find Brynn’s trail, if it did lead from Dharyan?” the elf asked, and the old couple looked to each other, but Juraviel knew even before the two blank stares came back at him that they had no idea of how to respond.

  Juraviel found Cazzira outside of the house, waiting for him in the shadows.

  “A legend comes to life,” she said with a grin.

  “Let us hope that another one remains alive,” Juraviel replied grimly, and they left the village to find Agradeleous, that they might head out to the south and east.

  “This is what Yatol has shown to me,” Chezru Douan said calmly, bringing his arms in dramatically and crossing them over his chest as he slowly closed his eyes.

  Around him, all of the priests in attendance murmured their accord and their prayers, and even one of the other two Chezhou-Lei warriors nodded, his face a mask of acceptance. Kaliit Timig wanted to scream out! He hadn’t come for permission to go to the Mountains of Fire, but rather, just to inform the Chezru Chieftain that the Chezhou-Lei warriors had assembled and were ready to begin their march. Months had passed since he had first informed Yakim Douan of the need for the Chezhou-Lei to exact revenge over the hated Jhesta Tu, and not once before this day had Yakim Douan indicated that there would be anything but agreement coming from him.

  And now the Chezru Chieftain had walked into the morning audience with the surprising announcement that he would allow Kaliit Timig to take only half of the warriors to the south, and that a force of Jacintha soldiers, not Chezhou-Lei, would accompany them. The Kaliit’s frustration was only more profound, since Douan had proclaimed this as a vision of Yatol. The Chezhou-Lei, like all of the Chezru, considered Douan the God-Voice, who communicated directly with Yatol; and thus, it was not their place to question him.

  Not publicly, at least.

  Kaliit Timig bowed his head. “In what capacity are the soldiers of Jacintha to be used?” he asked.

  “In whatever capacity the leader of the Chezhou-Lei contingent desires,” Douan answered, his eyes still closed as if he was then in direct contact with Yatol.

  Kaliit Timig tilted his head to the side a bit at the surprising words. “The leader” of the Chezhou-Lei? What might Yakim Douan mean by that, since Kaliit Timig was obviously the leader, and had obviously, despite his advanced age, planned to travel to the Mountains of Fire? Had the Chezru Chieftain just subtly stated that Timig would not be going?

  “I do not question your words, God-Voice,” Timig began, his old voice holding steady, “but—”

  “It is good that you do not question Yatol,” Douan interrupted, ending that line of probing before it could ever begin. “I am shown that the honor of your order is in need, and thus, whatever my personal fears, Yatol demands that I allow the Chezhou-Lei this journey. But I am shown, as well, that the integrity of Behren rests in no small part upon the valued swords of the Chezhou-Lei, and the kingdom cannot be unguarded for the months of this journey. Appoint your leader—Yatol Grysh’s man, Wan Atenn, is battle-seasoned and has earned high regard—and
select those warriors who will go to avenge the death of Chezhou-Lei Dahmed Blie. Let them begin their march, and then you and I will determine the best way to redistribute those warriors left to my disposal.

  “You do not approve?” Yakim Douan asked a moment later, and Kaliit Timig realized that his expression was betraying his heart. “Do you fear the Jhesta Tu that much? They number fewer than two hundred, closer to a hundred, by every account, and many of those mystics are mere novices, young disciples who have never seen battle. Indeed, it is likely that this mystic who felled Chezhou-Lei Dahmed Blie is the only one of their order who has lifted a weapon, or his fist, against a real enemy. You will send a like number of seasoned, veteran warriors to battle mere children, and I will reinforce your warriors with four times that number. Rest assured, Kaliit Timig, that when the slaughter is completed, the Chezhou-Lei will be given all of the glory for the defeat of the Jhesta Tu.”

  Kaliit Timig understood that he had been flanked on every front, and since Douan was speaking with the weight of Yatol behind him, the logic walls he had used to surround the Kaliit could not be scaled. The old man snapped a respectful bow, then stood at rigid attention. “Wan Atenn is a fine choice, God-Voice.”

  “That is the advice of Yakim Douan, not Yatol,” the Chezru Chieftain said with a chuckle, and all about him smiled, even snickered, at the sudden break of any tension.

  “And it is advice I will take into consideration,” Kaliit Timig assured him, and with another bow, the old Chezhou-Lei warrior left the audience chamber and the temple altogether. He had nearly three hundred of the world’s finest warriors preparing themselves for the long journey to the Mountains of Fire, choosing their mounts and fitting armor to horse and man. Now he had to go to them and explain that only half would take that ride.

  He didn’t expect many cheers at that proclamation.

  But Yakim Douan was God-Voice and could not be questioned.

  And so on a bright morning in the second month of the year, half of the Chezhou-Lei warriors in all the world, a formidable army unto themselves, paraded out of Jacintha to the music of a hundred horns, their armored horses striding easily and proudly down the main boulevard of the city and out the southern gate. Behind them came a marching twenty-square, spear tips gleaming in the morning light.