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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Duke Kalas!” he shouted down from the wall at the group of men even then turning their To-gai steeds back toward their line. As one, the Allhearts turned back. “Be gone with your army. This is the house of God.”

  “Open your gates, Abbot Glendenhook,” the duke warned.

  “We will open our gates here at St. Gwendolyn and even at St.-Mere-Abelle when your King Aydrian assumes his proper place,” the abbot yelled at the top of his voice, wanting as many of Kalas’ men as possible to hear. “When the criminal Marcalo De’Unnero is imprisoned and Abbot Olin is turned over to Church authority for judgment. Until then, St. Gwendolyn is closed to you.”

  Duke Kalas again seemed more pleased than concerned.

  “Duke Kalas!” Abbot Glendenhook shouted down again as the man turned away once more. As he called, Glendenhook fished into his belt pouch, finding a particularly heavy gemstone.

  The duke turned about.

  “What is your intention?” Glendenhook demanded.

  Duke Kalas turned his mount about to face the abbot squarely. “I spread the word of King Aydrian across the breadth of Honce-the-Bear,” he replied. “For those who accept the word, there is alliance and friendship from the crown. For those who do not, there is only the sword.”

  “St. Gwendolyn will not open her gates!”

  “Then I declare you enemy,” Duke Kalas called.

  Abbot Glendenhook lifted his hand toward Kalas and focused his vision through the images sent to him from the stone. He saw all the fine armor the man wore more vividly then, as if the rest of the world had dulled to his senses. He focused on one spot in the duke’s armor, the plate covering the man’s heart, and he let the energy of the gemstone build in his heart and soul.

  Kalas was shouting out something to him, but he did not hear. Behind him, Sovereign Sister Treisa cried out, but he didn’t register any of it. All that mattered was the gemstone and its mounting energy; all that mattered was this one wound he intended to give to young King Aydrian.

  Glendenhook gave the lodestone all the power he could muster, tightening and strengthening its magnetic attraction to that one spot on Duke Kalas’s armor. And then, with a cry, the abbot let the bullet fly.

  So fast was its flight that the very air crackled about it, and the ring as the gemstone smashed against Duke Kalas’ chest sounded as loudly as an abbey bell.

  Duke Kalas flew backward from his mount, landing hard in the dirt.

  “What have you done?” Treisa cried, running up beside the abbot.

  “I have sent a loud message to King Aydrian that the Abellican Church will not buckle to unreasonable demands of the state!”

  Below them on the field, some of the Allhearts shielded the fallen duke while others leaped down from their mounts and lifted him. Other men rode out from the army ranks to assist in bringing Kalas back.

  At once the catapults fired and huge stones pounded against St. Gwendolyn’s walls, crumbling the ancient stone. And then came the charge, more than twenty thousand strong, shaking the ground beneath the abbey, and it seemed as if the place would simply collapse beneath the thunder.

  Abbot Glendenhook ran all about, gathering his brothers to him and ordering them to stand down. “Offer no resistance,” he commanded when he had them all assembled in the nave of the abbey’s great chapel. “We have made our statement.”

  A brother at the back of the hall, peering out the doors cried, “They have breached the gate!”

  “Close the door, brother,” Abbot Glendenhook bade him. “Come and sit, and pray.”

  A few moments later, the doors of the chapel burst in, and soldiers swept into the place.

  “Join us in prayer, my friends,” Abbot Glendenhook said to them.

  He was the first to fall, beaten down under the weight of a shield rush, then pounded into submission. His frightened brothers and Sovereign Sister Treisa were similarly dragged away.

  Two surprises greeted Glendenhook later that afternoon, when he was dragged, half-dead, to the same room where he had met with Duke Kalas that morning.

  “And so we meet again,” said the first surprise, Duke Kalas himself, sitting in Glendenhook’s own chair and still wearing his now-dented, but intact, armor.

  Glendenhook was roughly placed in the chair across the desk from the duke.

  “Never underestimate the Allheart armorers, good Abbot,” Kalas explained. “They designed our fine suits with just you troublesome Abellicans in mind.”

  “Had I been stronger,” Glendenhook remarked under his breath. “Had it been Jilseponie behind the weight of that stone …”

  “Had it been King Aydrian, then I assure you that my armor would have shattered like glass,” Kalas replied. “But no matter. Your cowardice was open for all to see.”

  “You declared us your enemy, not I.”

  “And I rode under a flag of truce,” Duke Kalas countered. “Yours was the attack of an assassin—not a popular role to play, wouldn’t you agree?

  “But no matter,” the duke said again. “St. Gwendolyn flies the flag of King Aydrian and is thus incorporated once more into the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear. All of her monks, brothers and sisters alike, will be properly interrogated.”

  “Brothers and sister, you mean,” Glendenhook said, wanting to score some point at least, in referring to the escape of the bulk of St. Gwendolyn’s monks.

  But Duke Kalas merely smiled and motioned to a man at the side of the room, who immediately turned and pulled open a side door. Two soldiers came through, holding a battered Master Belasarus between them.

  The monk was shaking his head and crying. “We tried,” he pleaded with Glendenhook. “They were waiting for us, just five miles up the coast.”

  Glendenhook’s mouth drooped open, despite his desire to hold strong in the face of Duke Kalas.

  Duke Kalas waved his hand and the soldiers dragged Belasarus back out of the room.

  “Now, as I was saying,” the duke went on casually, “they will be interrogated and those who accept King Aydrian will find that he is a beneficent ruler.”

  “And those who do not?”

  “Will face the court of Abbot Olin, no doubt,” Kalas replied. “I care little.”

  “And what of my fate?”

  Duke Kalas looked away. “I sympathize with you. I truly do.”

  To Glendenhook’s surprise, he found that he believed the man. “Then I am to face the wrath of Olin and De’Unnero as well.”

  “Your unprovoked attack was made on an official of the State, not of the Church,” the duke replied, and he looked back at the doomed abbot. “You will be tried, of course, but you know, as do I, that such a trial is but a formality. There can be no doubt of your crime.”

  Glendenhook’s gaze lowered.

  “I might be willing to call for a finding of mitigating circumstances, lessening your sentence,” the duke offered, and Glendenhook looked back up at him.

  “But in return, I would have to proclaim Aydrian as rightful king of Honce-the-Bear,” the abbot reasoned.

  “That is the first part, yes.”

  “You would demand of me that I support Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero?”

  “I assure you that in doing so, you would alleviate much suffering that will soon befall your brethren,” the duke answered. “And if all of your foolish Church would cooperate, the kingdom would know less confusion and less war.”

  Abbot Glendenhook thought on that for a few moments. “Perhaps there are some things worth dying for,” he said quietly.

  “I bid you reconsider,” Duke Kalas replied. “For your own sake and for those who will errantly follow your lead to their deaths.”

  Glendenhook sat back once again and closed his eyes, looking deep into his own heart and soul. He had never been the most pious of Abellican brothers, but rather, more of a pragmatist, as was his mentor, Father Abbot Bou-raiy. On the surface, this predicament seemed the epitome of such a dilemma, principle versus pragmatism, and for the first time in his li
fe, Abbot Toussan Glendenhook felt himself truly tested at every level. This was the ultimate pragmatic moment, obviously, but so, too, the ultimate denial of his faith.

  He thought of his true inspiration in life, Sovereign Sister Treisa, and answered with a voice strong in conviction.

  “Build your gallows.”

  Chapter 30

  The Apology

  “YOU’RE A LONG WAY FROM HOME,” PONY REMARKED. THE WORDS JUST FELL OUT of her mouth in her astonishment at seeing Belli’mar Juraviel suddenly appearing at the entrance of the cave where she and Bradwarden had put up for the night. Outside a blizzard raged, wind blowing the snow sidelong and piling it high against the sides of trees and hills.

  Pony’s remark was true enough, for they were far to the east of Dundalis now, and even that place was far from Juraviel’s home.

  Juraviel trembled a bit, but did not reply.

  Recovering from the shock of seeing Juraviel, Pony went on. “I believe that your Lady Dasslerond and I said all that needed to be said, Belli’mar Juraviel,” she said curtly, and she felt Bradwarden’s strong hand on her shoulder as she spoke.

  “Easy, girl,” the centaur advised. “This one’s ever been yer friend.”

  Pony turned on him sharply. “Enough of a friend to tell me of his Lady’s—”

  Bradwarden stopped her by placing a finger over her pursed lips. “There’s something bigger amiss, unless I miss me guess,” he said softly, and he turned back to the obviously shaken Juraviel.

  “The girl’s right, elf,” Bradwarden said to him. “Suren that ye’re a long way from yer home—farther than I’ve ever seen any elf wander in a long time, to tell the truth, unless ye’re lookin’ to find Andacanavar, yer ranger friend, out and about.”

  Juraviel shook his head slowly.

  “You came to see me, then,” Pony reasoned. “Well, know that I have nothing left to say to you or to any of the Touel’alfar. Of your people, I hold least enmity to you, but after what you did to me, I doubt that I could ever call you ‘friend’ again. Please begone.” As she spoke, the woman dropped her hand into her pouch of gemstones, preparing to defend herself should Juraviel or any other elf that might be hiding in the area make a move against her.

  In response, Juraviel slowly lifted his hand and opened it, revealing the emerald gemstone that was the heart and soul of his people, and of Andur’Blough Inninness.

  “Lady Dasslerond is no more,” he said softly.

  Pony’s eyes widened and Bradwarden gasped.

  “She gave herself to Andur’Blough Inninness, wrapping the valley in her life’s essence to shield it from searching eyes.”

  “I would not have come back,” Pony stammered.

  “Not yours.”

  “Yer son,” Bradwarden reasoned. “Aye, but the new king went hunting for the elves that trained him!”

  “Many of my people are dead at Aydrian’s hand,” Juraviel confirmed. “He marched to our valley with hundreds of warriors. We tried to stop him. We tried to defeat him, or turn him aside. But he is powerful. So powerful.”

  “What are you saying?” Pony demanded. “Aydrian attacked?”

  “We tried to turn him aside, to dissuade him from his designs of conquest,” Juraviel explained. “But he crushed our resistance through his power with the gemstones.”

  “And so yer Lady went out to face him?” Bradwarden asked.

  “She went out to deny him, in the only way she knew,” the elf explained. “She gave herself to this gemstone; and wrapped in her life’s essence, Andur’Blough Inninness is lost to the world until the conditions of her enchantment are met.”

  “And Aydrian cannot break this enchantment?” the centaur asked. “Well, it seems he’s not all-powerful then!”

  “He cannot,” Juraviel replied.

  “Then why are you out here?” Pony asked. “Why isn’t Juraviel with the rest of his people in their hidden valley?”

  “It is hidden from all, human and Touel’alfar alike,” he admitted, and that widened the eyes of both Pony and Bradwarden.

  “A desperate enchantment indeed,” the centaur remarked.

  “We are homeless, and hiding.”

  “Out here?” Pony asked incredulously.

  “I have come alone,” the elf explained. “The gemstone of the Touel’alfar holds many powers, including one that allows me to travel great distances quickly. Still, it has taken me several days to find you.”

  “And now you have, and I bid you go away,” said Pony, and Bradwarden clasped her shoulder again and gave a squeeze.

  The woman turned sharply on the centaur once more. “What do you expect of me?” she asked, then whirled back on Juraviel, her blue eyes clearly reflecting the anger and pain she felt at that moment. “And what do you expect of me?” she asked the elf. “I thought that you, above all your people, were my friend.”

  “I was always your friend, Jilseponie,” Belli’mar Juraviel quietly replied.

  “But you were always Touel’alfar first,” the woman snapped.

  Juraviel lowered his gaze, conceding the point. “I erred,” he admitted.

  “An apology from an elf ain’t no small thing,” Bradwarden said softly.

  “An apology because he needs me now,” the woman reasoned. “Is that not so?” she asked Juraviel.

  “Lady Jils—” Juraviel began, but he stopped short and took a deep breath. “Pony,” he corrected. “I come to you because it is right that I come to you. I should have come to you with news of Aydrian as soon as Markwart was thrown down and peace was restored to the land.”

  “Yes, you should have.” There was no compromise in Pony’s stern tone.

  “We all should have, and I spoke with my Lady Dasslerond more than once on that very subject,” Juraviel went on. “But we did not. It was her choice that Aydrian was the price of our involvement in aiding you and Elbryan against the errant Markwart.”

  “Her price!” Pony roared.

  “It was her choice to make, not mine. When one is appointed to rule Andur’Blough Inninness, she does so with advisement, perhaps, but not through a poll of her subjects. The rules were Lady Dasslerond’s to make, and mine to follow. You have known that about us for many years; never have I misled you on our rule. We are not a people who make our choices independently of Lady Dasslerond’s rule—not even my friend Tuntun who died beside you and Elbryan in the bowels of Mount Aida.”

  The mention of Tuntun did set Pony back on her heels a bit, and stole a bit of her angry edge. Gallant Tuntun had given her life to save Pony and Elbryan, had offered herself up to a most horrible death to serve the greater cause of defeating the demon dactyl. The mere mention of her reminded Pony of all the good the Touel’alfar had done for her and for those she had loved. The elves had saved her and Elbryan on that terrible day three decades before when the goblins had overwhelmed Dundalis. The elves, particularly Belli’mar Juraviel, had been with her throughout her ordeals, and had indeed saved her life that fateful night on the field outside of Palmaris—and had saved Aydrian’s life as well.

  “My Lady was wrong in her choices regarding your son,” Juraviel admitted. “She knew that before she gave her life. I apologize to you for her, as well as for myself. It will forever haunt Belli’mar Juraviel that he failed Pony as her friend.”

  His words had Pony’s legs going weak under her. She knew that he meant them, profoundly, and saw the honest pain that was etched on his fair elven features.

  “There is nothing that I can do now to undo that which has happened,” Juraviel went on. “But now we face—together, I hope—a trial as great as that brought upon us by the advent of the demon dactyl. Your son, this tyrant Aydrian, desires no less than did Bestesbulzibar.”

  Pony slumped back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position. She noted that Bradwarden, hovering over her, silently asked her permission, and so she gave a slight nod.

  “Well, ye might come in then outa the cold,” the centaur told the Touel’alfar.
“I just bringed in some more logs and me friend here’s to get the fire blazing again soon enough.”

  Juraviel moved in tentatively and sat down opposite the low-burning fire pit from Pony. They said nothing as Bradwarden dropped some more kindling on the coals and Pony took out her ruby gemstone and her serpentine. She brought a white-glowing shield up over her hand and forearm, then thrust the hand among the logs and called upon the powers of the ruby. In seconds, she had a fire blazing.

  Then she sat back, her blue eyes staring at Juraviel above and through the leaping orange flames. She didn’t speak at all, and made no motion for him to do so.

  And so they sat quietly for a long time, just getting the feel of one another again—as friends and not as enemies.

  “Lady Dasslerond believed that your Aydrian was the only hope of our home,” Juraviel finally explained. “He alone could defeat the spreading rot of the demon dactyl, so she believed. And so she kept him as her weapon. In her mind, the Aydrian who was your son died that night on the field, and while you were saved, he was not. Not truly. What was taken from you was not your son, but rather the hope of Andur’Blough Inninness.

  “I know that it must sound horrible to you to hear it put so callously,” Juraviel continued. “But you must understand that our entire existence is threatened. Even saying all of that, I tell you without condescension and without condition that my Lady was wrong in her assessment, and in trying to use any man in such a manner.”

  “And we see the result.”

  “Her price has been ultimate,” Juraviel reminded. “But now we must get beyond her grave error and salvage what is left of the world.” He gave a helpless little laugh—a curiously human gesture, and nothing Pony had never heard from him or any other elf before.

  “The great irony here is that the root of my Lady’s error was my own doing, I fear,” Juraviel explained. “It was I who pushed Lady Dasslerond and my people too close to the affairs of humans. We became more involved than ever since the time of Terranen Dinoniel—and the world was certainly a different place back then. And now here I am, risen from the ashes of my ruined homeland, once again to interject myself and my people into the affairs of humans.”