Chapter 33
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“WE SURPRISED AND WOUNDED THEM,” PAGONEL SAID TO BRYNN AND THE OTHER leaders of Dharyan-Dharielle as soon as the courier from Yatol De Hamman had gone. The man had come in under a flag of truce, and had insisted that the battle had all been a terrible mistake, a result of a miscommunication between Jacintha and Dharyan-Dharielle. The courier had expressed apologies from Yatol De Hamman, Yatol Mado Wadon, and, pointedly, from Abbot Olin.
“Too many of De Hamman’s soldiers remember the last siege of this city,” the mystic reasoned.
“It took them weeks to bury their dead the last time!” Tanalk Grenk added. “And if they press the attack once again, there will be none of them left alive to bury the stinking corpses!” The man’s typically fierce words brought nods and cheers from all the others in the room.
Brynn shot Tanalk Grenk a look of sincere admiration. He had grown in stature over the last few months, from the warlord of a single tribe to a spokesman for all the warriors of To-gai. She trusted in him implicitly, and had given him the most important and delicate missions to perform, always with complete confidence that he would accomplish the tasks beyond her wildest expectations—as with his ride to the rescue of Dharyan-Dharielle when De Hamman had attacked. Brynn had sent Grenk and his force out along the plateau divide to make sure that there were no easily exploitable weak spots along the border. As ordered, Grenk had solidified the defenses of every possible route over the plateau divide into central or northern To-gai; he had had the wisdom to go beyond that. When his scouts had informed him of De Hamman’s move to the north, Grenk had assembled a crack corps of elite riders and shadowed the Behrenese army’s movements, secretly putting his force into position in the shadows of the plateau divide a short ride from the city. When De Hamman had attacked, Grenk’s cavalry had come in at exactly the right time, and at exactly the right place.
Even more impressive, Grenk had set up a line of communication, using the sun reflection system that the To-gai-ru had long ago perfected, and was now orchestrating the arrival of yet another secondary force, one ready to strike hard at De Hamman’s flank yet again if he persisted in attacking the city. It was a daring move, perhaps even desperate, for in shifting so much of To-gai’s forces this far north, the warrior leader had badly exposed their southern flanks.
But Brynn agreed with his reasoning, especially when he had given her all assurances that he had sent many scouts into the desert to the south. As far as he could tell, De Hamman’s army was the only organized Behrenese force in all the region.
“Their admission that Abbot Olin was intimately involved in this march does not bode well,” Brynn remarked. “Particularly in light of our guest Lozan Duk’s information. King Aydrian of Honce-the-Bear looks beyond his borders, it would seem; and all of our suspicions about Abbot Olin’s true role in coming south of the mountains seem confirmed.”
“Are we to war with Behren and the Bearmen north of the mountains?” one of the other leaders asked.
A cloud passed over Brynn’s face—and Pagonel’s as well—at that dim prospect. To-gai was not a heavily populated country. The To-gai-ru possessed no magic other than Brynn’s sword, little in the way of true armor, and few resources with which to build engines of war. Their one advantage, other than fierce riders and fine ponies, would be Agradeleous, and the Behrenese had learned effective countermeasures to the dragon. In all practicality, Brynn understood that she could not raise an army strong enough to defeat a united Behren alone on even ground, and had, in fact, only survived against the forces of Chezru Chieftain Yakim Douan because Pagonel had turned the Chezru court against their leader and thrown the country of Behren into chaos. If Abbot Olin and Mado Wadon were uniting Behren once more with an eye toward To-gai, Brynn would find the defense of the city impossible, and the defense of her entire country improbable—and all of that with only minimal involvement from the northern kingdom. If Honce-the-Bear threw in her weight with Behren in full, To-gai would surely be crushed. Brynn knew that, so did Pagonel, and so did every other warrior in the room, even proud Tanalk Grenk.
“I fear that Abbot Olin is biding his time,” Brynn said. “The army has not decamped and begun their march home in any meaningful way.”
“He expects that King Aydrian will come and strengthen him,” Lozan Duk reasoned when the woman translated her thoughts into elvish.
Brynn nodded and explained the elf’s words to the others.
“Or Abbot Olin believes that he must strengthen his hold over Behren more completely before throwing his army at Dharyan-Dharielle,” Pagonel said. “No doubt many of Yatol De Hamman’s warriors were not pleased at the thought of doing battle with the Dragon of To-gai yet again. But if he holds Behren secure, then the force he can muster against us will be much more impressive and truly overwhelming. Sheer numerical advantage will bring strength to the Behrenese morale, and we will be hard-pressed.”
“Then are we to attack?” Brynn asked. “Or to continue to strengthen our defenses in the hopes that we will wound our enemies so greatly that they will reconsider their designs on the city?”
“I will go to Jacintha as your emissary,” Pagonel decided. “Let me fathom better the intentions of Abbot Olin and your friend King Aydrian.”
“You will be gone a month at least,” Brynn argued. “Do we have such time?”
To the side, Lozan Duk put a quizzical look over her, and the woman translated the mystic’s intentions.
“I will call to Belli’mar Juraviel,” Lozan Duk offered. “We will get your friend to Jacintha and back again in short order.”
Later on, the Doc’alfar sat cross-legged on the flat roof of a small tower, the blue sapphire of his people in his lap. He put his thoughts into the gemstone and envisioned the emerald held by Juraviel.
And then he felt the contact, and he called to his golden-haired cousin. For a long while, Lozan Duk held that meditative state, guiding Juraviel with his thoughts.
Less than an hour later, Lozan Duk blinked open his eyes, to see Belli’mar Juraviel standing on the tower top before him, magical emerald in hand.
With the pressing business at hand, the reunion between Brynn and Juraviel was kept short; the two had barely an hour together while Pagonel prepared for the journey to the east. Juraviel offered his promises that they would speak at length about the events in the northern kingdom when he returned, then he led the mystic up to the top of the city’s eastern wall and bade Pagonel to take his hand.
Juraviel called to the emerald, and Pagonel watched the ground distort suddenly, folding as if it were a rolling wave. He followed Juraviel’s lead in stepping forward off the wall, then the ground unwound suddenly and Pagonel found himself standing far to the east of Dharyan-Dharielle, east even of the line of Behrenese warriors.
“An amazing feat,” Pagonel congratulated.
“The emerald’s powers are few, but the stone is powerful in that which it does,” the elf answered. “The distance distorts for the wielder and those in the immediate area alone, and only those for whom the wielder wishes the distance distorted. Only you and I could have walked from that wall, for only you and I could even see the distortion.” Juraviel closed his eyes and called again and the land rolled up. He and Pagonel took their next mile-long step.
They found themselves in the foothills outside of Jacintha with still several hours to go before the dawn. Pagonel bade the elf to wait for him there, and started off toward the city.
“If I have not returned to you by sundown, then return to Brynn,” the mystic instructed.
“That would be a tiding of war,” Juraviel replied. “For something so important, I will give you two days to return.”
Pagonel agreed and walked away, arriving at Jacintha’s gate even as the first light of dawn began to peek in over the eastern horizon.
Recognized by the gate guards, Pagonel was not turned away. But they made him sit in the guard tower for several hours, refusing to rouse Yatol M
ado Wadon and Abbot Olin so early. Finally, Pagonel was escorted across the city to Chom Deiru, and there, in the palace, he was made to wait once more—while the lords ate their breakfast, it was explained.
If they were trying to rattle the mystic, they did not succeed, for patience was the true mark of any Jhesta Tu. Pagonel would allow them their vanity and superior attitude; it did not matter.
“Ah, so it is Pagonel himself,” Yatol Wadon said when at last Pagonel was escorted onto the eastern balcony setting. The place was a garden of great flowers and singing birds, and trees perfectly placed to create equal areas of shade and sun throughout the long daylight hours. A waterfall splashed into a small pond at the side, providing comfortable mist and a cool and welcome dampness to the air. Brightly colored fish, red and orange mostly, swam about in the pond.
Five men were seated about two small tables, including Abbot Olin and Mado Wadon, another Yatol whom Pagonel did not know, another Abellican monk, and a Honce-the-Bear soldier—of high rank, the mystic presumed, given his much-decorated uniform.
“Had we known that the Jhesta Tu who came knocking at our city was the emissary of Brynn Dharielle, we would have set another place for breakfast,” Yatol Wadon went on. “Please, sit and join us. I will have more food brought out at once.”
Pagonel held his arm out to block the servant even as the man started away. “I have little time. I have come swiftly from Dharyan-Dharielle,” the mystic explained. “From a city under siege.”
“You left before my—before our—emissaries arrived, then,” Abbot Olin put in. “With all apologies to Brynn Dharielle that the attack was a terrible mistake.”
“I was there when the emissary relayed your message,” said Pagonel, which brought curious looks from both the leaders, since that had occurred only the day before! “I come in response to the claim.”
“Brynn Dharielle does not believe our words?” Abbot Olin asked.
Pagonel paid more attention to the subtle notes in the man’s voice than to the actual words. He recognized something there, some truth in Abbot Olin’s heart, as if the man were hoping that his conclusion was correct.
“Following the actions of Yatol De Hamman, we thought it prudent to confirm those words before standing down,” Pagonel replied.
“Of course, of course,” Abbot Olin said, with unconvincing friendliness. “And where are our manners, Yatol Wadon? Pagonel of the Jhesta Tu—or are you of the To-gai-ru once more?—I give you Master Mackaront of St. Bondabruce, my trusted second, and Bretherford, the Duke of the Mirianic, commander of the mighty Ursal fleet.”
“And I am Yatol Sin-seran,” said the other man, when it became apparent that Abbot Olin had no intention of including him in the introductions—a point that Pagonel did not miss.
The mystic, though, kept his eyes on the duke of the Mirianic through it all, seeing something there. Disgust?
“You are a long way from home, good Duke,” Pagonel offered with a bow.
Pagonel noted that Duke Bretherford had offered no hint of disagreement to his words.
“The same could be said of a Jhesta Tu mystic,” Abbot Olin put in.
“I—and Brynn Dharielle—of course expect that Yatol De Hamman will be recalled with his legions to Jacintha,” Pagonel replied.
“I will see to it,” Yatol Wadon started to say, but Olin interrupted him with, “Is not Yatol De Hamman properly encamped upon Behrenese soil?”
Pagonel noted Yatol Wadon’s slight wince, and noted, too, that Bretherford obviously did not share the enthusiasm of his companions, even less so than did Mado Wadon.
“Their presence on the fields surrounding Dharyan-Dharielle forces the city into a state of war readiness,” Pagonel countered.
“Only if you do not trust us,” said the smug Abbot Olin.
“And we are in a state of siege, for all practicality,” the mystic went on. “Are we to allow our traders to wander down the eastern road through the lines of an army recently scarred by battle against us?”
“You seemed to get out easily enough,” Abbot Olin dryly replied.
“I had ways not available to others.”
“The mysterious Jhesta Tu,” Yatol Sin-seran said, his voice full of mystery and sarcasm.
“Will your army stand down?” Pagonel asked, ignoring the fool.
Yatol Wadon started to answer, but again, Abbot Olin cut him short. “That is the decision of Yatol De Hamman, as he is charged with securing the borders of Behren. He will go where he needs to go to accomplish his task in full, and so long as he remains on Behrenese sovereign soil, then he is well within his rights.
“And we were truly surprised to learn of the events that precipitated the unfortunate battle,” Olin went on. “Dharyan-Dharielle was to remain an open city, was it not? And yet, Yatol De Hamman has informed us that his decision to attack was based on the breaking of the treaty by Brynn Dharielle. Perhaps he was a bit rash in his judgment, but you should inform your leader that treaties are more than words on parchment. All parties to them are honor-bound or the treaties are worthless.”
“The city is open to scholars and travelers,” Pagonel replied. “We could not admit an entire army, one that outnumbers our own garrison by more than five to one. Above all other edicts, Brynn Dharielle is charged with the security of Dharyan-Dharielle and To-gai. Her people live there; she cannot expose them to mortal danger.”
“Interpret it as you will,” Abbot Olin warned. “But break the treaty at your own peril. Dharyan-Dharielle has not worn that name for long, and the city is, or always was, Behrenese at its roots, and those roots are within the memories of every soldier on the field.”
“You believe that Yatol De Hamman had the right to enter Dharyan-Dharielle with his army behind him?” Pagonel asked, pointedly turning to Yatol Wadon as he did.
“That is, perhaps, a point for discussion,” Abbot Olin answered anyway. “But certainly by treaty, Brynn Dharielle was given little right to refuse them entrance.”
“I agree that the words of a treaty are to be honored,” the mystic said, never taking his eyes from Yatol Mado Wadon. “As is the intent behind the treaty.”
He did note a slight nod of agreement from the Chezru priest, but Yatol Wadon did not openly reply.
Pagonel turned to survey each of them in turn. Yatol Sin-seran was no ally, he recognized immediately, nor did Master Mackaront seem to him in any way of different heart than Abbot Olin. Once again, though, Duke Bretherford caught his attention. The mystic clearly saw a conflict behind the man’s tired eyes.
Pagonel quickly took his leave and wasted no time in the city, returning at once to Belli’mar Juraviel in the foothills to the north.
“Abbot Olin’s demeanor would agree with everything you have warned us of concerning young King Aydrian,” he reported. “He will find an excuse to retake Dharyan-Dharielle for Behren—his Behren.”
“Aydrian was nothing if not ambitious,” the elf replied.
“But when a leader reaches so far, he may leave untended business closer to home,” Pagonel said. “I did not note equal enthusiasm from one of the other Honce-the-Bear noblemen in attendance.”
“Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic,” the surprising elf replied.
Pagonel shot him a curious look.
“I traveled down to the dock area, and recognize the flagship of the Ursal fleet,” Juraviel explained. “In the days of Elbryan, and then with Jilseponie, Aydrian’s mother, as queen, we of the Touel’alfar learned much of the personalities of those leading the armies of Honce-the-Bear. My Lady Dasslerond feared an attack from Jilseponie’s court, as she never truly understood the truth of the goodly woman.”
“So you know Duke Bretherford?”
“I know of him,” Juraviel explained. “He was a man loyal to King Danube.”
“And perhaps not so loyal to Aydrian.”
“A man caught in the web Aydrian has spun,” said Juraviel. “What choices were put before Duke Bretherford, or any of the others,
if Aydrian assumed the throne with overpowering forces?”
Pagonel sat back against a boulder and considered the words for a long while, playing them against the reactions and expressions he had noted from the duke of the Mirianic. “Perhaps we could offer him an option?” the mystic asked more than stated.
“Stepping to his flagship would be no difficult task,” said Juraviel. “But what might you tell him in opposition to Aydrian? Would you reveal the conspiracy of Jilseponie and Prince Midalis?”
“Would I be telling him anything that King Aydrian does not already know?”
Now it was Juraviel’s turn to sit and consider the reasoning for a moment. “Let us go down to the rocks near to Jacintha’s gates,” the elf remarked, and he lifted the emerald stone and offered Pagonel his hand. “We can watch for Duke Bretherford’s skiff to return him to his flagship, then we can decide.”
Twinkling stars blanketed the sky and the quiet sea lapped softly against the planking of the Honce-the-Bear warships. Most of Jacintha slept, as did most of the sailors on the ships, and so no one noticed when Juraviel and Pagonel stepped aboard Rontlemore’s Dream, the flagship of Duke Bretherford’s Mirianic fleet. Juraviel remained aft, easily hiding amidst the rigging and weapons’ lockers, while Pagonel calmly and openly strode toward the center of the deck.
So surprised was the poor watchman at the sight of the mystic that he nearly tumbled off the deck and into the dark water!
“Hold!” he cried. “Hold! Attack! Attack! To arms!” He stammered and stuttered, falling all over himself and trying to ready his bow.
Suddenly, Pagonel, moving with the speed and grace that only a Jhesta Tu mystic might know, was flanking him, with one arm up to hold tight to the bowstring.
“Be at ease,” the mystic started to say, but the man whirled and tried to stab his long knife into Pagonel’s belly.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 222
