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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Pagonel turned to regard Brynn, but to his relief, she was already moving along.

  Brynn leaped down to the courtyard, the rest of her entourage close behind. “Mount up!” she ordered, knowing that foot soldiers would likely be overwhelmed by the riders pressing at the gate.

  Men screamed all about her, horrible sounds of battle that Brynn Dharielle had prayed she would never again be forced to endure. She could hardly believe the sudden turn of events, and it pained her greatly to consider that Aydrian, her companion for so many years, was in fact the source of this chaos!

  With fierce determination, the leader of To-gai climbed up on Runtly and led her force to the courtyard directly before the collapsing gates.

  “Fight well,” she said.

  “Die well,” came the appropriate To-gai-ru response.

  Out in the distance, horns began to blow, and many cries of “Tanalk Grenk!” came echoing down from the walls.

  Brynn nodded grimly, knowing that her loyal and able commander would strike hard at De Hamman’s flank and ease some of the pressure on the town.

  More hopeful and excited shouts came from the wall, and Brynn followed them to see many men pausing for just a moment, and pointing to the southwestern sky.

  “Meet my dragon, Yatol De Hamman,” the woman said grimly. She wished she could go and watch that spectacle—she did indeed!—but then the gate creaked and cracked, and one of the great doors tumbled down into the courtyard. Charging over it even as it fell came the rush of Honce-the-Bear cavalry.

  “Fight well!” Brynn called again.

  “Die well!” came the eager battle cry.

  Brynn was first in, her solid pony not shying in the least as she took it right against the flank of one larger horse, and tightly in between that and a second. Flamedancer flashed left and then right, defeating one attack and initiating a second. The Bearman rider managed to block and started to counter, but Brynn maneuvered Runtly expertly out of his reach, and then the pony leaped back in at him in perfect coordination with her second stab.

  This time, her sword got past the man’s defenses and banged hard against his fine armor, the elven blade driving a crease that had him lurching. Not wasting a second, Brynn spun Runtly around to face the other warrior, and urged the pony to buck, its hind legs coming up and kicking hard against the stunned man’s dented armor, launching him from his seat.

  Now one against one, Brynn worked her sword in a series of slashes, stabs, and defensive parries, twice ringing her blade off the back of the Bearman’s helmet, and three times scratching his solid chest plate. He tried to counter repeatedly, but each of the lumbering blows of his far heavier sword were neatly picked off, or hit nothing but air as Brynn dodged and retreated.

  All along that courtyard, the To-gai-ru riders, as skilled on horseback as any in all the world, matched the Bearmen cut for cut, using speed and agility to counter heavier weapons and armor. They gave no ground, but neither were they gaining any, and the press behind the Bearman was greater, slowly but surely widening the breach at the gate.

  “Archers!” Brynn called, trying desperately to redirect more fire into that breach, but her warriors all along the wall were too engaged already to offer much help. She did see Pagonel right above the gate, directing the fire of the archers and keeping the wall clear all about them so that they could concentrate on the impending disaster below, but she feared it would not be enough.

  Beyond the wall, more lightning flashed, some streaming up into the air, and the screams increased tenfold, along with a sudden roar of agony, a cry so feral and huge that it made many men stop their fighting and cover their ears, and made others simply turn away and flee.

  Following the cry came the crash as the dragon fell from the sky, skidding hard into the wall right beside the opened gate. Stone crumbled at that impact, launching defenders and attackers alike from the wall top. Even some of those archers above the gate were thrown down.

  But not Pagonel.

  The mystic held his ground stubbornly and cried out to the dragon, pointing to the breached gate. “Here, Agradeleous!”

  Dragon fire filled that breach suddenly, immolating those poor attackers behind the front ranks of riders.

  Pagonel climbed over the wall and dropped the dozen feet to the ground amidst that burning carnage. All about him, all about the nearby dragon, Behrenese were fleeing in terror. “Come,” Pagonel bade the dragon.

  Another volley of lightning bolts, diminished from the originals, but stinging nonetheless, reached out to slam against the wounded dragon’s side.

  “I so hate monks and their nasty toys!” Agradeleous roared, swinging his reptilian neck about to face the distant gemstone-wielders. One fleeing man inadvertently stumbled too close to the angry dragon, and Agradeleous wasted no time in grabbing him up in his great jaws. He lifted the flailing man up high so that many could see, then snapped his great maw fully. Pieces of the dead man fell all about.

  Agradeleous growled and roared and forced himself up on his haunches, brushing aside blocks of the wall that had tumbled atop him.

  Men shrank away from the spectacle, for the dragon seemed unbeatable and all-powerful.

  But Pagonel recognized the way the beast was favoring one wing and knew that Agradeleous was sorely wounded from the lightning. Agradeleous took a step out from the wall, as if he meant to go after the monks.

  “No!” Pagonel called to him. “That is what they want!”

  The dragon turned on him, smoke wafting from his nostrils, licks of flame erupting from the sides of his mouth, and sheer hatred shining in his reptilian eyes.

  “They are ready for you,” the mystic explained. “They have the weapons that were built specifically for your destruction. And they have the gemstones.”

  The dragon growled again, long and low, and then roared as yet another lightning bolt flashed in against his great scaled side.

  Pagonel continued to coax and to warn him, bidding him into the city.

  Almost as soon as the mystic and the dragon crossed through the felled gate, the remaining Bearman warriors threw down their swords, and the courtyard and wall were secured.

  A few moments later, the city’s western gate swung open and Tanalk Grenk led his force into Dharyan-Dharielle. All about the walls, archers ran toward that area to send volleys at the pursuing Behrenese.

  In truth, though, the battle was over. With the gates secured by the imposing dragon, the Behrenese retreated.

  As Tanalk Grenk rode toward her, Brynn nodded her appreciation and deference, for she knew that he had played his role to perfection. He had come down with his skilled riders from their positions just along the shadows of the plateau divide, just to the southwest of Dharyan-Dharielle. With the typical and unmatched ferocity of the To-gai-ru, Grenk had struck hard at the Behrenese western flank, then immediately turned his forces in a run to the western gate, diverting many Behrenese and easing the pressure on the southern wall.

  “We have won no victory here today,” Brynn told Grenk and all the others nearby. “But we have held our enemy at bay and have stung them hard.” She looked all around, the determination in her blazing brown eyes stilling all doubts and all confusion in a moment of crystalline clarity. “Perhaps we have stung them hard enough to make them turn back for their homes.”

  “If not, there is always tomorrow,” said a determined Grenk.

  His unabashed support touched Brynn at that desperate moment, for she knew that more than a few of her people would be privately questioning her leadership at that time. Had these attackers not come from the same man Brynn had just helped seat on the throne of Behren, after all?

  But she did not allow any of her doubts to cloud her eyes or her strong features.

  “Shore up the gate,” she instructed her warriors, then she dismounted and walked off with Runtly to shore up her own resolve, reminding herself of the peculiar circumstances and telling herself repeatedly that she had done right in fighting the wicked Tohen B
ardoh, whatever treachery Yatol Wadon and Abbot Olin now offered.

  She had to believe that.

  Chapter 29

  The Hopeful Miscalculation

  ABBOT GLENDENHOOK OF ST. GWENDOLYN CRUMPLED THE PARCHMENT IN HIS large and strong hands. His thick brow furrowed over deep-set eyes and he clenched his huge fist powerfully, the muscles on his massive arm tightening the fabric of his brown robes. More than any other master of the Abellican Order, Toussan Glendenhook had ridden Fio Bou-raiy’s coattails to power. For many years, he had walked in Bou-raiy’s shadow, and willingly so. Glendenhook had accomplished much on his own, especially in the arts martial, where he had risen as one of the finest warriors to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle—not on a par with legendary Marcalo De’Unnero, of course, but Glendenhook had been the best of his class.

  Still, Glendenhook had always been very aware that he had no chance of ever rising in the hierarchy beyond the rank of master—until, that is, his friend Bou-raiy had ascended the dais as the Abellican Church’s Father Abbot. Glendenhook had been there every step of the way with Fio Bou-raiy, supporting his friend. When Bou-raiy had made his successful bid for the position of Father Abbot, Glendenhook had lobbied long and hard for the votes. Subsequent to gaining the seat in St.-Mere-Abelle, Fio Bou-raiy had repaid his loyal friend with this appointment as abbot of St. Gwendolyn, a monastery traditionally run by a woman.

  There had been little resistance to the appointment; the then–Master Glendenhook had rushed to the rescue of St. Gwendolyn when the rogue De’Unnero had come to dominate the place, organizing his infamous Brothers Repentant from the ranks of the plague-devastated abbey. Over the last couple of years since his appointment, Abbot Glendenhook had compiled a strong record at the abbey and among the people of the neighboring villages. His abbey was among the leaders in per capita attendance and donations, and though he was not really a great follower of Avelyn Desbris and the reform that had swept the Abellican Church, Abbot Glendenhook had not reined in his sisters, brothers, and masters when they had desired to go out among the people with the healing soul stones. Like his mentor, Fio Bou-raiy, Abbot Glendenhook had adapted to the change, if not embracing it, and had brought St. Gwendolyn back from the ashes.

  And now this.

  The burly man looked down at the crumpled parchment, trying to find every angle between the actual words. He was not surprised, of course, to learn that Duke Kalas was fast approaching St. Gwendolyn with his enormous army; Glendenhook and all the other citizens of central and southern Honce-the-Bear had watched Kalas’ march from Palmaris throughout the winter, with every town falling into obedient line. Kalas had cut a line straight out to the coast south of St. Gwendolyn, and so it had been obvious for nearly two weeks that he would not stop there, but would turn north to finish his blanketing march.

  But this decree, from Duke Kalas himself, had not been so predictable, especially coming in some thirty miles ahead of the front ranks of Kalas’ force! The nobleman had formally announced his approach, and his demand that St. Gwendolyn be opened to him and to King Aydrian Boudabras, and that the brothers and sisters of the abbey formally declare Abbot Olin and Master De’Unnero as the rightful leaders of the Abellican Order.

  “He knows that we, that I, will never accede to the demands of Marcalo De’Unnero,” Glendenhook said to Master Belasarus, another transplant from St.-Mere-Abelle.

  “Not in any form!” the master declared. “The man is a dangerous rogue! He is beyond the bounds of rationality itself. There is no place in the Abellican Church for Marcalo De’Unnero, curse his name!”

  Abbot Glendenhook patted his large hands in the air to calm the frightened and angry master. “Of course there is no place for him. Father Abbot Bou-raiy has formally banished Marcalo De’Unnero—he did so almost immediately after De’Unnero’s disgrace in Palmaris at the hands of Sister Jilseponie.”

  “And now Abbot Olin has embraced him?” Master Belasarus spat incredulously. “Has the man gone mad?”

  “Beyond mad, it would seem,” said Glendenhook. “It is no secret that Abbot Olin did not take his defeat by Father Abbot Bou-raiy well. But never could we have imagined this.”

  “They will march to the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Master Belasarus reasoned. “Father Abbot Bou-raiy will not open the abbey for them. Does King Aydrian mean to tear those great gates down?”

  Abbot Glendenhook looked down at the parchment once again and offered only a shrug. That was an issue that would be settled later in the season, it seemed, likely before midsummer’s day. For Glendenhook now, though, the issue was here before him in the form of this letter. Why had Kalas sent it?

  Glendenhook and Kalas had met only briefly a couple of times in their lives. In many ways, they were men cut of the same mold. Both lurked in the background of the true power, Fio Bou-raiy and Father Abbot Agronguerre for Glendenhook, and King Danube and now, apparently, King Aydrian for Kalas. They were generals in their respective armies, Glendenhook for the Church and Kalas for the crown. There had been no animosity between them, at least none that Glendenhook had ever noticed. Was it possible that Duke Kalas had sent this letter so far ahead of the army to give Glendenhook the opportunity to gather up his staff and escape to St.-Mere-Abelle? By all accounts, the roads to the mother abbey were clear of any soldiers.

  “What do you want of me, Duke Kalas?” the abbot said quietly.

  “He knows that we cannot open our gates for a king demanding such change within the Abellican Church,” Master Belasarus remarked.

  Glendenhook looked up at him.

  “Duke Kalas surely understands that we, none of us, will ever accept the rule of Marcalo De’Unnero,” the master explained. “Nor of Abbot Olin, unless he wins the position he so covets by our rules at a College of Abbots.”

  “Where is Olin?” Glendenhook asked. “Is he still in Behren?”

  “By all accounts.”

  A soft knock sounded on the door of Glendenhook’s office. The abbot motioned to Belasarus, who answered, opening the door wide to admit Sovereign Sister Treisa, the highest-ranking woman at the abbey, and a likely successor to Glendenhook. Before the storm that was Aydrian had clouded the Honce-the-Bear sky, there had been rumors that Father Abbot Bou-raiy intended to move Glendenhook to another position, perhaps even as abbot of St. Honce in Ursal, to thus elevate Sovereign Sister Treisa and restore St. Gwendolyn to the control of a woman. Nearing forty, the comely Treisa seemed more than ready to assume the mantle. She had lived through many trials during her years at St. Gwendolyn, including the devastation of the rosy plague and the perversion of Marcalo De’Unnero. She had come through it all with grace and dignity, and had returned from her personal pilgrimage to Mount Aida to partake of the Miracle of Avelyn with such a profound sense of serenity that she calmed any room simply by entering. She had supported Glendenhook brilliantly over the last couple of years, since her return from a walking tour of the Mantis Arm, and the two had become as close as any brother and sister of the Abellican Order dared. There were even rumors that their friendship had gone beyond propriety.

  But no one really cared to investigate the rumors, and many actually hoped they were true. For whatever reason and by everyone’s estimation—even Glendenhook’s—Sovereign Sister Treisa had made Glendenhook a better and more generous abbot.

  Abbot Glendenhook rose when she entered, offering a warm smile despite his foul mood.

  The sovereign sister didn’t return that smile. “Duke Kalas will arrive in two days,” she explained. “His army has been spotted to the south, moving hard and without resistance.”

  “They will have to cross through two villages, and securing them may slow them,” Master Belasarus offered.

  “I would not count on that,” Treisa replied. “His army’s ranks have swollen. By all reports, he left Palmaris with a few thousand.”

  “What is the estimate of his force in the field now?” Glendenhook asked.

  “Twenty thousand, perhaps. Perhaps more.”


  The staggering number had Glendenhook sliding back into his seat.

  “All towns are rallying to King Aydrian,” Treisa explained. “Their menfolk are running to join in Duke Kalas’ glorious march.”

  “One that will take him to the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, no doubt,” a dour Belasarus added.

  “Twenty thousand,” Glendenhook echoed quietly.

  “Perhaps more,” Treisa said again. “There are rumors of a second force moving north to the west of here.”

  “Encircling us,” Belasarus reasoned.

  “So many have joined him,” Glendenhook said, shaking his head.

  “How could they not?” asked Treisa. “Duke Kalas and his Allheart Knights in their shining armor have stormed into every village, praising King Aydrian. To contest them would be suicide.”

  “To follow them is to deny the true line of kings!” Belasarus protested.

  “The common folk care little who is their king, master,” Treisa replied. “They care only that their families have enough to eat, and that their children might live more comfortably than they. All this rattle of politics is background gossip for the folk, unless the rattle leads to the misery of war.”

  “Which it certainly shall when Prince Midalis arrives,” insisted Belasarus.

  “If he is not too late,” said Glendenhook, and his pessimism seemed for a moment as if it would knock Belasarus from his feet.

  “They join Duke Kalas because they have no one to lead them otherwise,” Treisa reasoned. “Perhaps King Aydrian’s army will fracture when and if Prince Midalis arrives. Perhaps not.”

  “And what is the role of the Abellican Church in all of this, then?” asked Belasarus. “Are we to cater to the demands of the usurping young king if doing so means demanding the abdication of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy for the likes of Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero?”

  “Of course not!” Abbot Glendenhook said without the slightest hesitation. He held a stern stare upon Belasarus for a bit, then softened his strong features as he turned back to Treisa. “What counsel do you offer?”