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

by R. A. Salvatore

  The prince’s expression grew curious indeed, his gray eyes, telltale as a mark of the line of Ursal, widening considerably.

  “They will scout the lands for us,” Pony explained. “They have ways to determine the movements of all. With the help of the elves, we will discover the vulnerable areas in Aydrian’s line, perhaps.”

  “Even if this is true—and it is welcome news indeed!—our options remain limited,” Prince Midalis answered. “If we are to take the war to Aydrian, then we must march south, and it will be of no small consequence to pass by Palmaris. Over the weeks, my scouts and commanders have given me much insight, and I have found but three choices, and three hopes. The first is that Aydrian will choose to divide the kingdom, with him taking the region south and west of the gulf, and leaving Vanguard alone.”

  “It’s not what we’re seein’ from him,” the centaur remarked.

  “The second is that he will choose to attack Vanguard, either by land or by sea,” Midalis went on. “In either case, he will find the fighting difficult, for I, too, have discovered an ally. I have set my army west of Vanguard, defending against any land invasion, though I do not expect one in the throes of winter. The city of Vanguard is well defended, as well, and we could return there quickly, if needed. But again, it would be of great fortune to us should Aydrian decide to sail the gulf in this season. Likely, more than half his forces would be taken to the bottom.”

  “He’ll not come north until St.-Mere-Abelle is conquered, I would guess, and that will be no easy task,” Pony agreed.

  “And just north of Vanguard city, and to the east, my ally has encamped, and they will defend my land as fiercely as my own subjects.”

  “Andacanavar has come to your aid,” Pony reasoned.

  “And Bruinhelde,” Midalis explained. “I do not expect that they will march with me when I go south to dislodge King Aydrian, but if he brings the battle to Vanguard, he will find my army strengthened by my loyal neighbors from the north.”

  “And what’re ye to do if word comes from Aydrian that he’s givin’ ye yer kingdom north o’ the gulf, and that he’s takin’ all the rest?” Bradwarden asked.

  The prince squared his shoulders, seeming every bit the man, the king, that his brother had been before him. “Honce-the-Bear is my kingdom, not Vanguard,” he said. “I deny Aydrian’s claim, and will fight him to my death or his own.” As he finished, he looked at Pony and winced, perhaps only then realizing to whom he was speaking.

  But then Pony dismissed that tentative look by saying, “And I will fight beside you, to the bitter end.”

  “Let us plan our first moves, then,” said Midalis.

  “Belli’mar Juraviel of the Touel’alfar is already on the move,” Pony informed him. “His scouts will scour the land in short order. We will have one advantage in this battle for your kingdom, that of information.” She turned to Al’u’met, a wry grin suddenly spreading on her fair face. “Tell me of Pireth Dancard, good Captain. Take me to the sea and point out the direction.”

  “What’re ye thinkin’, lass?” Bradwarden asked.

  Pony’s response came through a wicked smile. “I’m thinking that we should find every loose thread that Aydrian shows around the edges of his blanketing army and tug them hard until the whole of it unravels.”

  Most of all, the city seemed secure. Soldiers marched along the streets in orderly fashion, and the walls were thick with sentries. Defensive fortifications were under construction at every point along the wall, including many new catapults and ballistae.

  Aydrian could hardly contain his smile as he moved through the streets of tamed Palmaris, to the cheers of soldier and townsman alike.

  “Marcalo has done a magnificent job in putting the city in line, it would seem,” Sadye was happy to say at his side.

  Aydrian didn’t answer, but just kept looking around at the beehive of activity that was Palmaris. He and his charges made their way to the eastern end of the city, to the great square outside of St. Precious, where Aydrian’s commanders put the soldiers in line, rank upon rank.

  The doors to the great abbey creaked open and Marcalo De’Unnero came forth, flanked by a dozen Abellican monks. He walked up to stand right before the king, who dismounted.

  “Welcome back to your city, King Aydrian,” De’Unnero said when the cheering of the multitudes gathering about the square had at last ended. “You will find Palmaris most accommodating, I assure you.”

  “Accommodating and secure,” Aydrian replied.

  “More so than ever before,” the monk said with great pride and great conviction. “The garrison has spent the entirety of the season at work in preparing the defenses. Should our enemies choose to march south to this city, they will find the place a singular fortress designed to hold them back.”

  “Any word from Duke Kalas?” Aydrian asked.

  “He has pushed across the breadth of the land, and last word had him fast approaching St. Gwendolyn,” De’Unnero replied. “And his army has swelled to many times its size, with new recruits rushing in to join in the glory of King Aydrian.”

  Aydrian beamed and looked to Sadye, who verily glowed at the news. “And what of the Church?” he asked.

  “When St. Gwendolyn falls, if it has not already, then there will remain but two opposing abbeys: St.-Mere-Abelle and St. Belfour of Vanguard,” the monk replied. He wasn’t looking at Aydrian as he spoke, however, but rather at Sadye, who continued to stare at her liege, offering a look that was not hard to read.

  Aydrian hesitated a moment to take note of De’Unnero’s shifting expression as the monk looked over the woman. “Duke Kalas will turn his march to St.-Mere-Abelle as soon as St. Gwendolyn is secured?” the young king asked, thinking it wise to distract the monk at that moment.

  De’Unnero looked at him and blinked a few times, as if coming back to the situation at hand. “He will,” the monk stammered. “Of course he will. As we determined.”

  De’Unnero’s gaze went immediately back to the woman.

  “Let us continue this in the warmth of your private quarters,” Aydrian bade, and he turned to his commanders. “Dismiss the troops. Give them two days to rest and warm their bones, and then join in with the work already at hand here in Palmaris. I will not leave this city to be plucked from my grasp by the eager Midalis, but I expect to be on the road as soon as the weather begins its turn to spring. We will meet up with Duke Kalas in the southland, and then march together to the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle.” He turned back to De’Unnero as he again made pointed reference to that most coveted prize. “Father Abbot Bou-raiy will open those gates, or we will knock them down.”

  The two men sat together in a small room a short while later. Sadye had moved to join in, but Aydrian had dismissed her, telling her to go to Chasewind Manor and find some much-deserved rest. She had tried to argue, but only briefly, before Aydrian had fixed her with a glare that had told her there would be no debate on this matter.

  So he sat alone with De’Unnero, and he felt the keen tension within the man, a mixture of eagerness and anger.

  “I have begun training on nearly fourscore new monks,” De’Unnero explained, pacing back and forth in front of the blazing hearth while Aydrian reclined in a comfortable chair. “This war will no doubt deplete the Abellican ranks by more than half, and I intend to fill those positions quickly and efficiently. And I assure you, all of my monks are being trained in the gemstones from the start of their duties. I will have enough magical power ready to help counter the barrage we will no doubt face at the hands of the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “Well thought out,” Aydrian replied. “As were your decisions to fortify the city. I plan to march with you to St.-Mere-Abelle; indeed, I plan to knock down those gates myself, if need be. But perhaps it will not come to that. Perhaps I can persuade Abbot Braumin to serve as an emissary, even if I have to take his body as my own.”

  The young king didn’t miss the cloud that suddenly crossed De’Unnero’s face.<
br />
  “You’ve killed him,” Aydrian reasoned.

  “He escaped,” De’Unnero corrected. “A friend rescued him, though at the cost of his own freedom.”

  “A friend?”

  “Roger Lockless, companion of your mother,” the monk explained. “I have thrown him in a deep dungeon. He is likely already dead, but if not, then he surely wishes that he was.”

  Aydrian shook his head and tried hard, but futilely, to hide his mounting anger.

  “But it has proven a fair trade, I believe, for Roger Lockless was once the baron of Palmaris, and can be used as easily as was Abbot Braumin to keep the people of the city in proper order. And the man brought information with him of the whereabouts of our most dangerous enemy, the one you allowed to walk out of Ursal.”

  Aydrian smiled at the monk’s unrelenting sarcasm concerning his mother. “If my mother is our most dangerous enemy, then the kingdom is already mine, I would say.”

  “She moved north from the city before our arrival, to Dundalis, likely,” De’Unnero explained. “But she is gone from there, I believe, and on the road to the east. She seeks Midalis.”

  “Then let her die in his arms.”

  “Take heed of her, for the people love her,” De’Unnero warned. “And she is no minor force, trained in both the blade and the gemstones.”

  “And I have slain her trainer,” Aydrian said.

  “Elbryan was her trainer, and I claim that kill,” the monk corrected.

  “His trainer, then,” Aydrian agreed.

  “Ah, so you found your Lady Dasslerond and her people.”

  “The Touel’alfar will be of no consequence to my reign—those Touel’alfar who remain alive, that is.”

  De’Unnero stared at him for a long time, and Aydrian saw the sincere admiration on the man’s face. “Still,” the monk said, “we should not take Jilseponie and Midalis lightly.”

  “And I do not,” Aydrian assured him. “It would seem that we have but one more obstacle in our path to claiming all of the southern kingdom, that of St.-Mere-Abelle. She will stand strong against us, I am certain, but at the least, we will damage and demoralize her, and hole her monks up tight behind their walls. When Midalis comes, if he is so foolish, then St.-Mere-Abelle will be of little help to him. Your Palmaris must only hold him back for the week it will take us to swing our army back here across the river and properly destroy the line of Ursal.”

  “Easily achieved with but a few thousand warriors,” De’Unnero assured him. “Little magical power will accompany Midalis, other than that of your mother.”

  “And if Midalis does not come, then we will play the waiting game, finishing off St.-Mere-Abelle before turning our eyes to the region north of the gulf,” Aydrian replied. “Perhaps we will have to wait until the spring of next year to begin that final march, but with all the southern kingdom secured, and Behren added to our hold, we will only grow stronger while Midalis hides among his tall trees. The ending, it would seem, is inevitable.”

  “We always knew that it would be,” said De’Unnero.

  Aydrian waited for the monk to stop pacing long enough to look at him directly. “You will soon enough become Father Abbot,” he said.

  “I already am,” De’Unnero countered. “St.-Mere-Abelle is isolated, if Duke Kalas completed his march, and I cannot believe that he has not. No abbey of southern Honce-the-Bear is any longer aligned with the mother abbey and Fio Bou-raiy. He has lost before St.-Mere-Abelle even falls.”

  “Then I salute you, Father Abbot De’Unnero,” Aydrian said. “Perhaps we should hold a formal ceremony announcing your ascent before we march upon St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  De’Unnero paused for a bit, then nodded.

  “So tell me of your new Church,” Aydrian prompted. “You will not endorse the final canonization of Saint Avelyn, I would guess.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And you will return the Abellican Order to its cloistered roots, where the sacred gemstones are held tight by the brethren alone and their magics are not so openly offered to the common peasants?”

  “Of course, as you already know,” De’Unnero said. “Indeed, in your absence, my brothers have collected many of the gemstones from the folk of Palmaris—reimbursing them, of course, as we discussed. The old order is already returning to the land, elevating the Church above the ordinary, as it once was. But you know all of this, so why do you ask?”

  Aydrian stared at him long and hard, locking the monk’s gaze with his own. “I sent Sadye to Chasewind Manor,” he said bluntly. “There she will remain. With me.”

  De’Unnero narrowed his eyes, sucked in his breath, and stood very still, his hands clenched at his sides.

  “I offer her back to you,” the young king said. “Wholly. But only if you are willing to forsake that other prize you so crave.”

  “Take care your words,” De’Unnero warned.

  Aydrian rose from his chair and calmly walked to the hearth, pointedly putting his back to the monk, showing De’Unnero that he did not fear him in the least. “I am quite beyond you now. You know this. You desired the Abellican Order, and I have delivered it to you.” He turned about to face the monk. “To you alone. How convenient, was it not, that I sent Abbot Olin south to the land he most desired?”

  “And in exchange, you take my wife?”

  “I did not take anything that was not offered,” Aydrian replied.

  De’Unnero started forward, as if to attack, but stopped himself abruptly.

  Aydrian did not even make a move to defend himself.

  “Allow her to become queen of Honce-the-Bear,” Aydrian said. “You know that she desires such. Of course, she does! And why should she not? I have my kingdom, I give to you yours. What life will Sadye know at your side? That of a secret consort, to be whispered about and gossiped over by every other brother of the Abellican Order, and by the peasants, as well. What life is that for the woman who has served us both so brilliantly?”

  De’Unnero trembled as he stood there, hardly seeming mollified.

  “But it is not your choice, after all,” Aydrian went on. “Nor is it mine. It is Sadye’s to make, and so she has. Now I ask you to let her go without penalty. Fondly hold those times that you had side by side, my friend, but recognize the truth. Your position has outgrown her. You cannot lead the Church in its former image and glory if you openly hold a wife!

  “Be sensible, my friend! You are stepping into a most delicate situation. Obviously so! You would so risk everything to hold Sadye at your side?”

  “And if I would?” the monk spat.

  “Then I would sooner make peace with Fio Bou-raiy than elevate such a fool to the position of leader of the Church of Honce-the-Bear,” Aydrian bluntly replied. “This is no idle threat, Marcalo De’Unnero. You desire the Church, and I hope to give it to you. But if you will not hold fast your responsibility above all else, then I will not deliver St.-Mere-Abelle!” He drifted forward as he spoke, so that he and De’Unnero were face-to-face, barely an inch apart. “Choose wisely.”

  Aydrian clearly recognized the hatred that De’Unnero masked and the tension in the man’s arms that revealed his desire to reach up and throttle Aydrian where he stood.

  But Aydrian knew that the monk would not strike out at him, for Aydrian understood the truth of Marcalo De’Unnero’s heart.

  St.-Mere-Abelle would be his bride.

  Chapter 32

  The First Nibble

  WHAT STRUCK PONY MOST ABOUT PIRETH VANGUARD, THE CITY OF HONCE-THE-BEAR’S prince for so many years, was how small the place truly was. It didn’t even seem a city by the standards of the woman who had lived the majority of her life in Ursal and Palmaris, but rather, a village surrounding a castle fortress set at the head of a sheltered bay, overlooking many long docks and wharves. There were outlying farms, but they were not huge, unlike those outside of Palmaris. Neither were the roads truly definable structures. They were cart paths and nothing more, and seemed as if they were oft
en and easily redefinable.

  Pony had once served in the Coastpoint Guards and had spent considerable time at Pireth Tulme, the southernmost of the three fortresses—Tulme, Dancard, and Vanguard—that protected the Gulf of Corona. Vanguard was surely larger than that guard tower. But still, Pony had always imagined Pireth Vanguard to be much grander than this, along the lines of Palmaris, perhaps, with a great seaside castle surrounded by many streets and houses. How surprised and dismayed she was when Prince Midalis had explained to her that the population of all of Vanguard, this vast stretch of forested land, was not equal to that of Palmaris city alone. Given that, she had to wonder how they could hope to mount any kind of a threat against Aydrian, who controlled nearly all of the southland?

  The other thing that Pony noticed when she, Bradwarden, Prince Midalis, Captain Al’u’met, and Abbot Haney of St. Belfour entered Pireth Vanguard, was that the docks were nearly free of vessels. In fact, the only ship of any note that was in dock was Captain Al’u’met’s Saudi Jacintha, and she was fully crewed, with sails untied should she need to put out fast.

  “We must be ready to strike camp and march quickly as soon as the weather breaks,” Prince Midalis opened when the group settled into one of the large tower rooms overlooking the harbor.

  “In whichever direction Juraviel’s telling us to strike,” Bradwarden added.

  The talk became more of the same planning that they had gone over before, and Pony tuned out of the discussion rather quickly, after inquiring of Abbot Haney about the health of Master Dellman, an old friend who had stood with her and Elbryan and Braumin Herde in the last days of Markwart.

  “He is well,” Abbot Haney had replied. “Though he fears for his old friend, Abbot Braumin.”

  As did they all, Pony mused, knowing full well the grave implications of having Marcalo De’Unnero returned to Palmaris. She put those dark thoughts out of mind quickly, though, and forced herself to focus on the situation at hand. They had to find a way to strike and strike hard, to win some early decisive victories against Aydrian so that Prince Midalis could gain credibility with the common folk of Honce-the-Bear once more. As long as Aydrian seemed in complete control, Pony knew, it would be impossible to drum up any undercurrent of support for the rightful successor to her late husband.