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

by R. A. Salvatore

  He reminded himself constantly that he only had to get through this single night, and not even for much of the night, if Bradwarden’s plan worked.

  He made his way past the guardhouses and barracks that lined the wall, all manned by Ursal soldiers now with the bulk of the Palmaris garrison long fled to Vanguard. In a way, that was an advantage for Roger, since none of these men recognized him, as the Palmaris soldiers surely would have.

  Along this wall, too, were the city’s long stables, huge barns with small stalls with room for hundreds of horses. Roger knew the area well, and knew where the garrison commanders had kept the finest of their stock. Near that western end of the stabling area, Roger hoisted a bucket and moved about with familiarity and ease, acting very much as if he was supposed to be there. He held his breath as he entered the barn area, though, hoping against hope that Symphony was stabled nearby.

  If not, then he knew where the horse would be: in the finer, and undoubtedly well-guarded, stables at Chasewind Manor. The mere thought of going there unsettled him. The servants and groundskeepers would know him, after all, and no doubt the place was thick with Ursal men.

  “It’s about time ye got here!” an incredibly thin man with a shiny bald head and a dark and straggly beard assailed him as he entered with the bucket. “The damned mares’ve been screaming for their feed all the night!”

  “I … I don’t believe this is for them,” Roger stammered, thinking fast on his feet. “I was told to deliver the meal to King Aydrian’s own horse, and that one’s not a mare, by all accounts.”

  “King Aydrian’s horse?” the barn keeper replied, and his tone and incredulous expression confirmed Roger’s worst fears.

  “The big black,” he said, hoping against hope.

  “Ye got yerself a long way to carry the bucket!” The barn keeper snickered. “Or better yet, ye give me the bucket for the mares and get yerself another one at Chasewind Manor. They got plenty up there.”

  The man held out his hand for the bucket, and Roger readily turned it over.

  “Ye best be running!” The barn keeper scolded. “I’d not be the one to keep King Aydrian’s horse braying and kicking at the stall!”

  Roger just nodded and walked out, devising a plan as he went, envisioning the layout of Chasewind Manor’s grounds and stables—which of course were in the back of the house, in clear view of every sitting room! Worse still, that stable area was always well lit.

  But Roger had to go there, and he had to hurry, for Bradwarden’s song would soon fill the Palmaris night.

  He had little trouble navigating the city to the more exclusive western region, and though there were more soldiers patrolling the streets in that area, there were more hedgerows for stealthy Roger to hide behind. Soon enough, the small man was standing along the wall of Chasewind Manor, not far from the main gate. He tried to act casual, surveying the area and sorting out the routines of the skilled soldiers guarding the grounds—Allheart Knights this time and not just ordinary Kingsmen.

  Then, unexpectedly, Roger Lockless got his first view of Jilseponie’s son. He knew that it was Aydrian riding in the open coach that rushed out of Chasewind Manor’s gate. He only saw the man for an instant, but the young king looked at him directly and there could be no mistaking that resemblance. He possessed Pony’s thick lips and thick hair, and Elbryan’s eyes and jaw. In that moment of looking at him, Roger almost thought that he was looking upon his dead friend Elbryan once more!

  To Roger’s profound relief—after he had digested the truth of the encounter—the young king did not recognize him at all, and the coach wheeled away. Of even greater fortune, the guards seemed to relax almost immediately upon Aydrian’s departure.

  The shaken Roger grew even more unsettled a moment later, when a beautiful melody drifted across the Palmaris night. So unobtrusive was that song, so attuned to the night itself, that those around Roger didn’t even seem to notice it.

  But Roger surely did, and if Bradwarden was correct in his planning, then another in the city would not miss the significance of that song.

  Spurred by a sudden realization of urgency, Roger moved swiftly along the wall, away from the gate. He knew the layout of the area well and, using strategic places of concealment, the small and nimble man made his way around the back of the compound. With a quick glance about, and a long and deep breath to steady his nerves, Roger slipped up and over the wall, dropping into the shadows of a widespread elm on the other side. Glad that there were few guards visible in the area, and hoping that no one was looking out from any of the many darkened sitting rooms at the back of Chasewind Manor, Roger hastily made his way toward the stables, where he could already hear a commotion brewing.

  “Rouse King Aydrian!” he heard one man cry from inside the opulent barn. Every word was accompanied by an agitated whinny or the hard thump of a strong hoof smashing against wooden planks.

  Without hesitation, fearful that Symphony might hurt himself in his anger, Roger sprinted right into the barn.

  He found a trio of Allhearts standing before the great stallion’s stall, one holding a whip and looking very much like he intended to charge into the stall and discipline the increasingly agitated stallion.

  “He will kill you if you enter!” Roger cried reflexively, and he believed every word. Bradwarden was calling to the stallion with his haunting piping. Bradwarden, who had watched over Symphony and all the wild horses of the Timberlands for so many years, was musically bidding the great stallion to come home.

  And there could be no doubt about the fact that Symphony wanted to go!

  The three soldiers turned surprised expressions over at Roger. “Who are you?” one demanded.

  “A man who knows this horse well, and who has known him since before the days when King Aydrian found him!” Roger answered. He rushed up to the stall and gently called to the magnificent stallion, and it was obvious, though Symphony retained his agitation, that there was some recognition there.

  “We have to let him out, to run in the paddock,” Roger explained, and if he had told the soldiers to fall dead upon their swords, they could not have worn more skeptical expressions. “It is the strength of Symphony,” Roger tried to explain. “The stallion needs to run or he bursts with energy. Quickly! Help me to guide him out into the paddock. Let him run off the excess energy and he will rest more easily.”

  Not a soldier moved.

  “He is a wild stallion, bred and grown in the open hills of the Timberlands,” Roger desperately explained. “He can tolerate only short amounts of time in such an enclosure! Be quick, I beg you, or your king’s horse will break a leg!”

  “Who are you?” one of the soldiers demanded again.

  “I was a stable hand in Caer Tinella when this magnificent creature carried King Aydrian’s own father, Elbryan the Nightbird,” Roger lied. He lowered his eyes perfectly, playing as if he was embarrassed to admit, “And I served Queen Jilseponie when she was baroness here in Palmaris, in the early days of her rule here soon after the plague. Few know of this, and I beg of you not to speak of it, but this same magnificent creature was also the favored mount of Jilseponie.”

  That brought a trio of stunned expressions, which was exactly what Roger was counting upon to give him enough credibility to dupe the fools.

  “Please, I beg of you, if not for the sake of the horse, then to protect yourselves from the wrath of King Aydrian, help me to guide mighty Symphony out into the paddock,” Roger pleaded.

  “You cannot hope to control the beast!” one of the soldiers argued. “If we open the door, he will run you down!”

  “No he won’t,” said Roger, and he looked up at the horse. “You’ll not harm me, will you, Symphony?” he asked softly and the great stallion stopped its whinnying and kicking for a moment to consider Roger, as if he had understood every word. Roger didn’t wait for an answer, but used the opportunity offered by the moment of calm to move to the door and quickly unbolt and open it. Before the guard could rea
ct, Symphony moved right up to Roger and nuzzled him, seeming to calm down immediately.

  Roger looked to one of the soldiers, who tossed him a halter. He started to put it on the horse, but paused to stroke the horse’s face—and to strategically allow Symphony to edge a bit farther out of the stall.

  Roger moved as if to put the halter on again, and leaned in to whisper soothingly into the horse’s ear. He didn’t ask the horse for calm, though, but rather, urged Symphony to run!

  And then Roger fell away, crying out as if he had been injured, and Symphony bolted past him and past the three startled soldiers. Head down, the stallion galloped out of the barn, and snorting and bucking, charged about the compound.

  “Catch him! Oh, catch him!” Roger wailed, knowing full well that none of them would get near the great horse. His ploy worked to keep the soldiers off of him, though, and they ran out after the horse, calling out for help.

  “Run on, Symphony,” Roger whispered. “Follow the centaur’s call, back to one who deserves you.” He paused a moment, listening intently and taking some hope as the commotion moved away from the stables, toward the front gate.

  And then the small man wisely made his own escape, heading out the stable’s side door and into the shadows of another great tree. Or at least, that’s where he had hoped to go.

  “Master Lockless?” came a call right behind him, and though he didn’t immediately recognize the voice, Roger knew that it was a question of surprise alone and not of identity. He stiffened and stopped and slowly turned about, to find a stunned old Illthin Dingle, one of Chasewind Manor’s gardeners, looking back at him.

  “Master Lockless!” the old man said again, more emphatically. “But I thought ye’d gone out to the north with Jilseponie.”

  Roger moved a finger to pursed lips, hoping to quiet the man somewhat, and he glanced all about nervously. “So I did, good Master Dingle, and now I am back to see this king who is her son.”

  Illthin cocked his gray-stubbled, grizzled face. He wore his hair long and tied in a gray ponytail, giving the old man a carefree appearance that fairly well matched his often unpredictable personality. “Ye got to do better than that, Master Lockless,” Illthin said with a knowing grin.

  Roger looked all around, then settled himself into place. “True enough,” he admitted. “I returned for Symphony, and Symphony alone.”

  “Ye didn’t now!”

  “I did. Symphony is not the horse of this new king, worthy though he may be …”

  “Ye’re not for believing a word of that!” Illthin said with a phlegm-filled laugh.

  “Symphony is not the horse for this new king,” Roger reiterated deliberately.

  “Oh that ye believe suren enough,” said Illthin. “It’s the other, worthy, part …”

  Roger straightened and didn’t flinch or blink.

  “Many’re feelin’ the same way,” old Illthin said. “Despite the words from Bishop Braumin. Curious, that. I’d not’ve expected Braumin to turn in favor of that one! Not after he had men die holding back King Aydrian at the southern wall.”

  “What did Bishop Braumin say?”

  “He spoke for the king—the rightful and lawful king, he called him,” Illthin explained. “And for Abbot De’Unnero of St. Precious—now there’s a turn o’ the moss for ye!”

  Roger Lockless listened to it all silently. He didn’t doubt the veracity of what Illthin was saying, and it wasn’t hard for Roger, no stranger to the ways of gemstone magic, to figure out how Aydrian might have so manipulated Braumin into saying things so preposterous as that.

  “Perhaps all is not what it seems to be, good Illthin,” he replied, and old Illthin laughed again.

  “I pray you say nothing,” Roger bade the man. “For Symphony’s sake, if not my own.”

  Illthin eyed him suspiciously.

  “For Jilseponie’s sake, if not my own,” Roger added, and that seemed to melt the man’s doubting façade.

  Before Illthin could respond, the commotion moved about the side of the great house, with many men in pursuit of the agitated Symphony.

  “I must be away,” Roger said, and he and Illthin shared one last agreeing look before Roger Lockless melted into the shadows, expertly picking his way back to and over the wall.

  By the time Roger had worked his way back around the compound, many soldiers, some astride To-gai ponies, were charging out the main gate and down the street in pursuit of Symphony. Roger did not know that it was Illthin who, feigning terror and running from the charging horse, had conveniently opened the gate to make his own escape, and thus allowed Symphony to break free of the compound.

  The chase went on through the streets of Palmaris, but it was really no chase at all, for no horse could match the stride of Symphony, especially no horse carrying a rider. And none of the Allheart ponies was behaving with their usual discipline in any case, all lured by the same centaur piping that was leading Symphony home.

  Palmaris’ northern gate was open, as always, and no one there had a chance to close it in time when they realized the identity of the stallion charging their way. One soldier bravely and stupidly stepped out to block the horse, but Symphony just ran him down, knocking him to the ground.

  And then the stallion was running free across the rolling farmlands north of the city, following the promise of Bradwarden’s melody.

  The promise of freedom, the promise of home.

  For Aydrian, meetings such as this one were among the most useless and boring aspects of his running adventure. During all the planning with Abbot Olin and De’Unnero to design his ascent, Aydrian had been forced to sit through similar sessions, where the principals gathered to go over and over and over their upcoming actions. What amazed and dismayed Aydrian most of all was his absolute understanding that the gatherings, as they grew repetitive, did nothing productive. These were meetings to calm the nerves of the various leaders, to comfort them and reassure them that they were acting properly.

  Aydrian needed no such reassurances anymore. He had his guidance from the shadow at Oracle. Day by day, he was growing more confident in his abilities and more aware of his limitations, few that they were. To Aydrian, these bureaucratic exercises were merely delays along the course to the inevitable.

  He had to admit that this one was more important than most of those previous, though. This one was not for the benefit of Marcalo De’Unnero, who was busy putting the house of St. Precious in order, or Duke Kalas, who was off in the northland securing Caer Tinella and Landsdown, nor for any of the other war leaders who had traveled with Aydrian from Ursal. This meeting concerned the leaders of Palmaris—other than Bishop Braumin, obviously, who remained locked in a room in De’Unnero’s St. Precious.

  Aydrian looked around the huge table in the great hall at them, reminding himself of their importance to his cause. Palmaris would be the pivotal city if Midalis ever came south, and having the support of these many lords, the great landowners and influential citizens, would go far in making certain that Palmaris was not welcoming to the dispossessed prince.

  But still, it was tedious, at best, and whenever Duke Monmouth Treshay of Yorkey, the formal host at the event—though they had gathered at the home of a prominent Palmaris landowner—addressed an issue to the Palmaris lords, then referred to Aydrian, the young king had to sit up straighter and remind himself to care.

  “So, as you can well see, my lords,” he heard Monmouth saying, “the transition of power in Ursal was nearly bloodless, and would have been completely so if all in attendance had simply accepted the declarations of King Danube himself.”

  “King Danube was your friend, Duke Monmouth,” said one man, a wealthy merchant who often visited Ursal.

  “Indeed he was, and I was proud to call him so!”

  “Prince Midalis was your friend, as well, was he not?” the merchant asked, and that got Aydrian’s attention! “When he ventured south with the Alpinadoran barbarians to attend the wedding of Danube and Jilseponie, was not Duke M
onmouth pleased to see him? Did you not ride with him the very next morning?”

  “True enough, Lord Breyerton,” admitted Monmouth. “And I shall still call Prince Midalis friend if, when he learns of the transition of power, he accepts the desires of his dead brother who was king. And I expect he will.”

  That brought more than a few doubting stares from around the huge table, Aydrian noticed. Given Monmouth’s doubting expressions back in Ursal, Aydrian understood those doubts. Indeed, the young king had many times wondered if he might have to “replace” Monmouth, perhaps brutally so. Thus, soon before beginning the march out of Ursal, Aydrian had visited Monmouth Treshay, not in body, but in spirit, and he had shown the man the glories he might know in Aydrian’s shadow.

  And he had shown the man the horror he might realize out of that protective shadow.

  Lord Breyerton looked directly at Aydrian in what could only be interpreted as a challenge, which caused more than a few of the others to widen their eyes in alarm. “And if he does not?” the bold lord asked. “If Prince Midalis claims the throne as his own?”

  “He has no legal claim,” the all-too-convinced Duke Monmouth replied strongly. “He—”

  “He has no throne to claim,” said Aydrian, the first words he had spoken since the opening of the meeting more than an hour before. “The throne of Honce-the-Bear is occupied. That is the simple truth of it. If any others are to make a claim on this throne, given to me by my stepfather in his wisdom, then they are traitors to crown and country and will be accordingly dealt with by the soldiers who serve crown and country.”

  “Many people support Prince Midalis,” the defiant Lord Breyerton dared to remark. Eyes about the table opened even wider, and more than one man gasped.

  “Is Honce-the-Bear now a product of the will of the people, Lord Breyerton?” Aydrian asked. “If the people had decided that King Danube was not a good king, could they have simply found a replacement and set him upon the throne? What sort of anarchy do you profess?”