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

by R. A. Salvatore

  The tiger leaped forth right after, hitting the river with a rush and swimming powerfully out toward the small boat. But they were in the currents now, being swept along more quickly than the cat could hope to swim.

  Braumin was free.

  But he felt trapped, surely, as he looked back at the river’s western bank, as he imagined the waters running red with the blood of Hoyet and Destou, and he imagined the torn bodies of the two loyal men bobbing along. He thought of Roger, too, and knew the man had not escaped.

  So many had died for him this night.

  A large part of Bishop Braumin wanted just to let go of the boat and slide back into the water, letting the river take him.

  But another part would not let him dishonor the heroic sacrifices of the brave men who had rescued him. They had freed him because they knew that as a prisoner of King Aydrian, he was unwittingly working against the cause of justice. A captured Braumin was a mouthpiece for a usurper king. A freed Braumin could speak against that imposter king and help rally men to the cause of Prince Midalis.

  Braumin knew all of that logically, and he hoped that if faced with a similar situation, he would have found it within himself to act as bravely as Roger and Hoyet and Destou and all the others had this night.

  But that didn’t make their deaths hurt any less. Hanging on to the side of the boat, no longer even trying to scramble in despite the numbness that was creeping into his body, the former bishop of Palmaris lowered his head and wept.

  Chapter 22

  Second-guessing

  “YATOL WADON! BY GREAT CHEZRU HIMSELF, WE ARE MOST FORTUNATE TO HAVE you in control of Jacintha at this most troublesome hour!” Yatol De Hamman cried, clapping his hands together and leaping and skipping across the great audience hall in Chom Deiru.

  Across the way, a very dour-looking Yatol Mado Wadon sat in the throne normally reserved for the Chezru Chieftain of Behren. The old holy man was slumped forward, his wrinkled head in his hand, his eyes unblinking, and his stare more downward than at the bounding man heading his way.

  Yatol De Hamman, so excited at the news that Yatol Peridan had surrendered, with his forces crushed, didn’t even notice the confusing expression. “I have the most promising young apprentice ready to step into Peridan’s place, after we execute the dog, of course,” De Hamman explained, slowing as he approached the raised platform that held the throne of the Chezru Church, and thus the throne of Behren itself. Only then did he notice another figure, that of Abbot Olin of Entel, standing just off to the side. Flanked by Honce-the-Bear soldiers, the man seemed almost amused by De Hamman’s approach, and that curious expression, combined with the look De Hamman then noticed upon the Jacintha Yatol, set off alarms within the excited man.

  “You need not trouble yourself with replacements for Yatol Peridan,” Abbot Olin explained in perfect Behrenese, with an accent befitting a man who had spent his life in Jacintha rather than in Entel. His hands folded before him, invisible within the wide sleeves of his brown robe, Abbot Olin moved forward to De Hamman’s side.

  “Surely we will not let him continue his rule,” De Hamman replied, looking to Yatol Wadon. “He is not to be trusted.”

  “Yatol Peridan will be properly punished, fear not,” said Abbot Olin. “And no, he will not be allowed to continue his rule in any manner. Should he be spared his life, he will then live out his days here, at Chom Deiru, under the watchful eye of Yatol Wadon and the palace guards.”

  Yatol De Hamman was more confused by the speaker than by the actual reasoning. Why was a priest of the Abellican Church relaying plans for a traitorous Yatol, especially with the serving leader of Behren seated right before them?

  “We have already selected a replacement for Yatol Peridan,” Abbot Olin went on. “A man of proper temperament and loyalties.”

  “We?” De Hamman asked, looking from Wadon to Olin and back again. “What business is this of an Abellican abbot?”

  “Perhaps you did not notice that the soldiers who fought back the legions of Yatol Peridan and Yatol Bardoh wore the uniform of Honce-the-Bear,” Abbot Olin answered. “Perhaps it missed your perceptive eye that the soldiers who moved to the south to expel Peridan from your lands wore that same uniform, and that they were accompanied by warships flying the flag not of Behren, but of your northern neighbor.”

  “And thus you have earned our friendship,” De Hamman reasoned. “That does not equate to a voice—”

  “Everything I relate to you, I say with the blessing of Yatol Wadon,” Abbot Olin interrupted, and the two men stared at each other for a long, long while, with De Hamman trying to get a full measure of this foreigner.

  “We cannot dismiss, nor should we, the friendship that Abbot Olin has shown to us, nor the aid that he has offered in our time of direst need,” Yatol Wadon said, somewhat diffusing the tension—at least enough to turn De Hamman’s focus back to him. “And it is strength we will continue to need, my friend, if we are to have any hope of restoring Behren to a singular and strong nation.”

  “A nation?” De Hamman dared to say, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Or a province of our northern neighbor?”

  Abbot Olin burst into laughter. “We are your friends, Yatol De Hamman,” he said. “Can you not see that? King Aydrian has taken a great risk in sending so many warriors to your aid at this desperate time, when his own kingdom is not yet secured. But he felt that a secure Behren was necessary for the safety not only of you and your fellow Yatols, but for Entel and all the Honce-the-Bear cities who regularly trade with Jacintha.”

  “And your assistance was appreciated,” De Hamman said, somewhat dismissively, and he turned back to Yatol Wadon.

  “And it came with a price,” Abbot Olin assured him. At that De Hamman’s eyes popped open wide and he slowly turned back to face the man.

  “A price?”

  “If I were to leave today, with all of my soldiers and my fleet, do you really believe that you and Yatol Wadon could hold Behren together?” Abbot Olin asked.

  “Peridan is defeated, as is Bardoh.”

  “And Avrou Eesa has been secured? And Pruda? And Yatol Peridan’s territory is in the hands of one loyal to Jacintha?”

  Yatol De Hamman winced with each stinging question.

  “The price of keeping the warriors of Honce-the-Bear is suffering the advice of an old Abellican priest,” Abbot Olin explained. “Yatol Wadon understands our new arrangement, and accepts my counsel, and you would be wise to follow suit.”

  De Hamman bristled but offered no overt response.

  “Who is to become the new Yatol of the province to my south?” De Hamman asked.

  “Paroud, my trusted advisor,” Yatol Wadon answered. “His loyalty cannot be questioned, and with him ruling below you, and answering to Jacintha, your province is more secure than it has ever been.”

  “Particularly true if you consider that Honce-the-Bear warships will continue to patrol your coast,” Abbot Olin added. “As well as the pirate fleet, once loyal to Peridan, but now convinced that they would be a healthier lot if they served the Yatol of Jacintha.”

  Yatol De Hamman was not an inexperienced leader, and he knew a power play when he saw one. He knew, beyond any doubt, that Abbot Olin’s price for the assistance of Honce-the-Bear was far greater than an advisory role to Yatol Wadon. But he knew, too, that there was nothing he could do about that. Wadon had all but lost the kingdom to Yatol Bardoh—and such an event would have precipitated a swift beheading of Yatol De Hamman, to be sure!—and only through the efforts of Abbot Olin had the present power structure within the tumultuous kingdom been somewhat secured. Yatol Wadon had accepted the price demanded by Abbot Olin of Entel because he had been given no practical alternative.

  Could Yatol De Hamman say otherwise?

  “You are surrounded,” Abbot Olin said to the man, whose excitement had been dissipated by the unexpected turn of events. De Hamman straightened, wondering if he should meet the challenge in those words, when Olin added,
“by friends.”

  De Hamman didn’t know how to respond. Surely he was better off than he would have been had not Olin and his soldiers arrived to rescue the hierarchy in Jacintha. But the situation ground at his sensibilities. He understood the damage Chezru Douan had done to the order when he had been secretly using the magical gemstone, long considered the greatest of heresies by the Yatol priests of Chezru. Worse still was the design and manner of Douan’s usage, to steal the bodies of babies in the womb to use as his own, becoming God-Voice over and over again through the last centuries. Douan’s indiscretions had shattered the order and the faith of so many. The immediate problem was to hold the kingdom intact, and in that, Abbot Olin had surely helped.

  But Yatol De Hamman understood, if Yatol Mado Wadon apparently did not, that the challenge immediately following the securing of the kingdom’s body would be the securing of the kingdom’s soul, and if that return to faith was to bear any resemblance to the ancient tenets of Chezru, then the presence of an Abellican priest might not prove such a beneficial thing.

  The Yatol reminded himself that he had regained control of his province, that the threat of Peridan and Bardoh was no more.

  Now they might move forward, wherever that road would lead.

  With many pressing duties ahead of him, not the least of which was reorganizing his garrison from the scattered remnants, the man offered a gracious bow to Yatol Mado Wadon and a nod to Abbot Olin and took his leave.

  From the side of the great audience hall, Pechter Dan Turk watched the proceedings with growing concern. At first glance, it had surprised the man that the often contentious Yatol De Hamman had so readily accepted the presence of the Abellican abbot, but as he considered the situation, he came to understand, as De Hamman had, that there was really very little that could be done to correct the situation at that time. Without Olin and the Honce-the-Bear soldiers, Yatol Mado Wadon’s edicts held little bite.

  Pechter Dan Turk moved a bit closer to the raised platform and perked up his ears as Yatol De Hamman made his way out of the great room. As an advisor, as with the soldiers in the room, he was considered a nonentity, and thus, Yatol Wadon and Abbot Olin could speak freely in his presence about the ramifications of the words with De Hamman.

  “You were a bit abrupt with him,” Yatol Wadon remarked.

  “He annoys me,” Abbot Olin admitted. “His life would have been forfeit had I not arrived. A bit of gratitude would not have been out of line.”

  “And a bit of respect from you would carry us a long way at present,” said Yatol Wadon. “We will need Yatol De Hamman now. Tremendously so.”

  Abbot Olin gave a dismissive snort.

  “Your warriors and ships dominate the coastal region, Abbot,” Yatol Wadon reasoned. “In wars past with Honce-the-Bear, this has always been the case.”

  “We are not at war.”

  “And that is why your hopes of reaching farther, of encompassing the entire kingdom, have a possibility of fruition,” Yatol Wadon explained.

  Pechter Dan Turk’s eyes widened and he had to fight hard not to gasp and reveal his interest.

  “How will your armored warriors fare away from the cool coastal breezes, when the hot sun heats their armor so greatly that they can no longer even stand to wear it?” Yatol Wadon went on, and Pechter Dan Turk understood that the man was almost pleading here, as if he was trying to make Abbot Olin understand that the Behrenese were still needed to control Behren!

  “The coast controls the commerce,” Abbot Olin countered. “Commerce determines the health of the theocracy. If you have no trade with Honce-the-Bear, and indeed, no routes for merchant ships to connect your own greatest cities, and no roads from Jacintha outward upon which caravans might travel, then what have you left?”

  “Yatol De Hamman understands how to wage war, and he alone might raise the forces necessary to strike westward to Avrou Eesa,” said Yatol Wadon.

  “Bardoh’s city is virtually undefended,” agreed the abbot. “It is ours for the taking.”

  “With Behrenese soldiers,” insisted the old Yatol, and he did indeed appear very old and weary to Pechter Dan Turk at that moment. It was obvious that Abbot Olin was the one with the final say, and that observation sent a chill coursing along Pechter Dan Turk’s spine. He had not missed the reference Olin had made. Abbot Olin had not said that Avrou Eesa was Yatol Wadon’s for the taking, but had included himself in that victory!

  The two leaders continued their private discussions for some time, turning the subject across many borders, from trade to the potential loyalty or lack thereof of Maisha Darou the pirate, to future trade policies between Entel and Jacintha and the proper assignment of soldiers, Behrenese or Bearmen, within Chom Deiru and the city as a whole.

  In all of it, Pechter Dan Turk recognized clearly that Abbot Olin and not Yatol Wadon was in charge. On every issue, Olin made the statements and Wadon then countered with questions and concerns, some of which were answered by the Abellican abbot and others of which were summarily dismissed with a wave and a derisive snort. And how it hurt Pechter Dan Turk to see his beloved master so belittled by an Abellican heretic!

  For the first time, Pechter Dan Turk wondered if he had done right in enlisting the aid of Brynn Dharielle to defeat Yatol Bardoh. For the first time, he wondered if the wrong side had perhaps prevailed. He had never been a supporter of Yatol Bardoh—though he had often considered Yatol Peridan a superior Chezru to the perpetually whining Yatol De Hamman—but Bardoh was Chezru, at least!

  Only then did Pechter Dan Turk come out of his contemplations to realize that Abbot Olin and Yatol Wadon were both staring at him. For a moment, panic hit him, as he wondered if the two had somehow read his traitorous thoughts.

  “Do we know how many of Yatol De Hamman’s warriors survived the battle in the southern district of the city?” Yatol Wadon said, his tone making it clear that he was reiterating his unanswered question.

  Pechter Dan Turk gave a sigh of relief, then stiffened and shook his head. “But I can quickly find the numbers.”

  “Do so,” Abbot Olin ordered him. “At once!” He waved Pechter Dan Turk away and turned back to Yatol Wadon, and Pechter Dan Turk heard him remark, “We must set De Hamman on the road west immediately and force every province under our control.”

  The man’s last words as Pechter Dan Turk moved out of hearing range struck the advisor particularly hard: “Perhaps we can entice the Dragon of To-gai to do war with any foolish enough to resist the changes that we know must befall Behren.”

  The guest quarter of Chom Deiru was quiet this night, in sharp contrast to the revelry of a gathering of the victorious Yatols and Chezhou-Lei warlords that was going on in the lower feasting halls. Pechter Dan Turk was supposed to be there among the revelers, and surely not here!

  The man pressed on. He held his sandals in his hand, having taken them off so that he could more completely mask the sounds of his movements. Fortunately there were few guards about, and even more fortunately, Yatol Wadon kept a spare of all of the room keys hanging in an office—an office to which Pechter Dan Turk had full access.

  The nervous man stopped before Abbot Olin’s guest room and looked both ways along the quiet and dark corridor. He took a deep breath, praying that the Abellican wizard hadn’t placed some gemstone-riddled wards about the portal, then he slowly turned the key and moved into the dark room. He fiddled in his pocket to produce a candle and flint and steel, then moved, shading the light with his free hand, toward the large desk opposite the door.

  In but a few moments, he found an unsealed letter addressed to King Aydrian. Hands trembling, Pechter Dan Turk slowly flattened the parchment on the desk. He was versed in all the known languages, nevertheless Olin’s scrawl was at first hard to decipher.

  As the pieces and intent of the letter became apparent, Pechter Dan Turk began to tremble even more, his worst fears realized. Abbot Olin was not writing of aiding Yatol Wadon and Chezru, but was hinting that the Chezru were ready t
o receive the truth of the Abellican Order!

  He was hinting that they were ready to be subverted to the precepts of that order!

  Pechter Dan Turk brought his hand to his cheek, but he was shaking so badly that he wound up slapping himself repeatedly in the face. He read through the letter again, as well as he could decipher it, but found no comfort in any misunderstanding of his first passage through the foreign words.

  Abbot Olin was here as an opportunist, not as a friend.

  The trembling man considered his next move. He could bring this to Yatol Wadon and reveal the treachery …

  That thought died before it ever gained any momentum.

  Because in his heart, Pechter Dan Turk knew the truth.

  Yatol Wadon would not be surprised. Yatol Wadon was a part of this conspiracy.

  The man left the room in such a fit that he forgot his candle on the desk and even forgot to relock the door. He didn’t go back to the feasting room, where he was expected, but rather, left Chom Deiru altogether, moving out along the streets of the city, where the revelry had become a general thing ever since the victory over Yatol Bardoh.

  Victory? Pechter Dan Turk had to wonder. Could the intrusion of the Abellicans at the head of a Honce-the-Bear army rightly be called so?

  The man left Jacintha altogether soon after, having procured a cart, horse, and supplies for his journey. He moved westward along the northern road, bound for Dahdah Oasis and beyond, to the city of Dharyan-Dharielle. What he might accomplish there, he did not know.

  He only knew that he had to get away from the place that was no more his home.

  Chapter 23

  In Need of Glory

  BROTHER STIMSON OF CHAPEL AUBEARD HAD BEEN HANDPICKED BY MARCALO De’Unnero to lead the contingent of monks accompanying the Ursal fleet because of his absolute loyalty to De’Unnero’s cause and his strong proficiency with the gemstones. The young brother, barely into his forties, was one of the few of his generation who rejected the teachings of Brother Avelyn outright. Stimson’s peers, after all, had come to their full power as Abellicans during the time of the rosy plague and the Miracle of Avelyn at Mount Aida. Brother Stimson, too, had partaken of that miracle, and he could not deny that God had touched the world through Avelyn to defeat the rosy plague. Still, to Stimson, the magical gemstones were the gift of God reserved for the chosen of God—the Abellican brothers. The notion of using these stones among the populace so readily, as was espoused by the followers of Avelyn, seemed absolutely abhorrent to the man.