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

by R. A. Salvatore

Pony didn’t look back. She just kept walking away from the island, hoping that she would get out of the range of archer and catapult alike before those cries were relayed back to the artillerymen.

  The roll of the waves beneath her feet made her even more nauseous, but the woman stubbornly put one foot ahead of the other and trudged on. A couple of times, she lost her focus on the soul stone, and found herself gasping for breath. A couple of times, she lost her focus on the amber, and went down into the cold sea.

  Shivering, her skin blue, her energy fast failing, Pony soon enough lost all sense of where she was, and even of what she was doing. But there was someone else there, with her, guiding her, helping her to keep the gemstones in her hand, as if Elbryan was walking beside her, his hand cupped over hers, holding it closed.

  The sun beat down on her, but it offered her no warmth.

  Somehow, she continued. Her eyes were closed, she had no idea of where she was going, but she continued.

  So lost was Pony, so devastated and disoriented, that she never saw the sails of Saudi Jacintha, nor heard the shouts of Bradwarden and the others when they spotted her walking on the swelling azure sea. The swift ship came right beside her in short order, but the wounded woman only kept walking, oblivious to it, and oblivious to the gasps of those who loved her at the rail, all of them shaken to their core by the sight of her devastated form.

  Pony felt herself lifted from the surface of the sea, and that physical contact broke her from the trance. Andacanavar laid her down gently on Saudi Jacintha’s deck, his strong hands going to the arrow embedded so deeply in her side.

  Pony heard him say, “I know not how she is even still alive!”

  “Ah, me Pony,” she heard Bradwarden say from far, far away. “Oh, ye poor stubborn lass. Don’t ye know when time’s come to let go?”

  Pony opened her eyes to see both the ranger and the centaur hovering over her, with Al’u’met down at her feet, taking a blanket from a crewman and then gently covering her. She wanted to answer the centaur, but she had not the strength to speak aloud.

  “What can you do?” Captain Al’u’met asked. “Do something!”

  “I can’t pull the damned thing out or it’ll take half her insides with it!” the ranger cried. “And she’d not survive me pushing it through!”

  “How’d she survive this long, is what I’m asking?” remarked Bradwarden. “Suren them wounds’re mortal, and should’ve killed her long ago.”

  “Gemstones,” remarked Al’u’met, who had moved up to Pony’s side to tuck her hands under the blanket.

  Pony felt him lift her arm and gently loosen her fingers enough to show the amber and gray stones she held.

  “Don’t ye take that gray one away!” Bradwarden cried. “Ah, but that’s the key. She’s using the stone’s healing powers to keep herself livin’, though I’ve no idea where the woman’s findin’ the strength in her condition.” The centaur clenched her hand tightly, moving it to his breast. Then he bent down very low, and whispered into Pony’s ear. “Hey now, me good lass, ye reach inside o’ me with yer soul stone. Ye take me strength—I know ye can.”

  Pony heard the words, and she felt the connection with the amber go away—Bradwarden had interrupted it, she somehow understood. He was making her focus on the one; he was inviting her to leach his great strength.

  Hardly aware of anything through the haze of numbing cold and sharp agony, the woman did go deeper into that stone, establishing a connection to the centaur, feeling the solidity of the creature, the unbelievable health and strength.

  Bradwarden, her thoughts cried out.

  Ye take me strength, me lass, his spirit answered. Ye take all ye’re needing!

  Pony hesitated. Her wound was mortal—and would be so even to one of Bradwarden’s great equine constitution.

  “Ye take it!” he shouted, and imparted telepathically, as well.

  Despite herself, Pony’s instincts made her reach out; Elbryan’s plea to her, that she could not yet die, made her reach out. She felt a sudden surge of energy injected into her battered form.

  She fell into that warmth, that strength, leaching at the mighty centaur.

  And then sheets of fire erupted within her, and she heard herself cry out, screaming more loudly than she had ever before, for the pain was more acute than anything the woman had ever imagined.

  “Fight on, lass!” Bradwarden shouted at her between her screams. “Find me heart and take it as yer own!”

  Pony knew that she should not, knew that to do so would kill her friend! She would take his life energy, all of it, for nothing less would suffice!

  But the pain commanded her to grab on more tightly; she could not deny the call of that fiery agony.

  She heard a snap from somewhere far away, and then felt a sudden sliding sensation across her inner chest, as if her life force were sliding out of her corporeal form.

  She fell back in the fog, hoping that Elbryan would meet her in death once again.

  Chapter 35

  Harvesting the Crop of Friendship

  “IT IS AS WE FEARED, THEN,” BRYNN REASONED WHEN BELLI’MAR JURAVIEL AND Pagonel arrived back in Dharyan-Dharielle with news of Abbot Olin.

  “Abbot Olin insists that the strike against us was in error, but there is little mistaking his intent,” Pagonel confirmed.

  “I’ll not stay holed up in the city,” Brynn remarked, and she moved to the window of the tower overlooking Dharyan-Dharielle’s eastern wall and the encamped Behrenese army beyond. Over the last couple of days, the Behrenese force had shifted to the east, but not far, and while some caravans had moved off down the eastern road, Brynn had suspected that it was all a ruse, and that De Hamman wasn’t leaving at all. Pagonel and Juraviel, great-stepping through that region, had confirmed those suspicions, for a second Behrenese camp had been constructed, just to the east of the first.

  “They have moved away from the western borders,” the woman observed. “They leave that path open to us, that we might flee back to the steppes of To-gai.”

  Tanalk Grenk entered then, with a sheepish-looking Pechter Dan Turk beside him and Lozan Duk and Belli’mar Juraviel coming in on their heels. There had been talk of expelling the Behrenese emissary from the city, mostly from the fierce Grenk and his followers, but not only had Brynn dissuaded them from that course, she had insisted to Pechter Dan Turk that he remain in Dharyan-Dharielle.

  “Is that what your Yatol Wadon desires, Pechter Dan Turk?” the woman asked.

  The man looked all about in panic, obviously not understanding the question, for he had not heard Brynn’s previous statement.

  “Yatol De Hamman moves his force about to the east, inviting us to flee back to the steppes of To-gai,” Brynn explained.

  “You bade him to leave,” the Behrenese man replied. “Perhaps he does so, yes?”

  “No,” said Pagonel. “He makes us think that he leaves, that he might bide his time and gather more strength from Jacintha.”

  “What is the image of Behren that Yatol Mado Wadon truly desires?” Brynn asked.

  The man stammered and seemed at a loss.

  “We are not your enemy,” Brynn said to the man. “I beg you to speak freely here, without fear of repercussion.”

  “Yatol Wadon wishes Behren to remain united,” the man explained.

  “Does that include Dharyan-Dharielle?” Brynn asked. “Would he so quickly go against the very treaty that allowed him to conquer Jacintha in the first place?”

  The question, the accusation, seemed to wound Pechter Dan Turk.

  “What is in the heart of Pechter Dan Turk?” Brynn went on. “Do you desire to see Dharyan-Dharielle back in the Behrenese kingdom?”

  “I desire peace, good lady,” the man replied, and for the first time, it seemed as if he was speaking from the heart, and not from fear. “Behren has been shattered by the deception of Yakim Douan. You cannot understand how profoundly his lies brought rot to the heart and soul of my land and my people.”


  “Oh, but I can,” said Brynn.

  “Yatol Mado Wadon sought to reunite the kingdom under Jacintha, for only Jacintha holds enough power to keep the tribes from falling into complete chaos once more,” the emissary explained.

  “And Abbot Olin helped Jacintha to accomplish that,” reasoned Brynn. “So tell me, who is it that presses Jacintha to regain Dharyan-Dharielle? Is this the desire of Yatol Wadon, or Abbot Olin?”

  “Good lady, I have no answer for you,” the man admitted. “My master has never indicated …”

  “Then perhaps it is Abbot Olin,” Brynn reasoned. “Exacting a level of control over Yatol Wadon. Taking full advantage of your master’s desperate struggle.”

  Pechter Dan Turk started to answer, but then just half shrugged and half nodded, unwilling to agree or deny.

  “Mayhap we should send Yatol Wadon this one’s head to tell him that we do not accept his proposal,” fierce Tanalk Grenk said, and he stared hard at Pechter Dan Turk.

  The man seemed very small at that moment.

  Brynn walked right over, though, insinuating herself between the two and shooting a fierce scowl right back at Tanalk Grenk. “What does Pechter Dan Turk think of the recent battle?” she asked. “To whom does Dharyan-Dharielle belong? Or do you prefer the name simply as Dharyan?”

  The man bit his lip.

  “Speak freely,” said Brynn. “On my word, there is no consequence here to your honest words.”

  “The city’s rightful name is Dharyan-Dharielle,” the man said. “It was fairly given in treaty, and to the gain of both our peoples, so I believed then, when I advised Yatol Mado Wadon. And so I believe now!”

  “Then go out from here,” Brynn bade him, and Pechter Dan Turk’s expression became incredulous. “Go to Yatol De Hamman and discern his intentions. He will likely send you back to us with word that he is breaking camp and returning soon to Jacintha.”

  “And what am I to tell him from Brynn?”

  “Tell him that you are no friend to Brynn,” the woman instructed.

  The man studied her for a long while. “You would have me spy against my own people,” he reasoned.

  “Only if you consider Abbot Olin to be of your own people,” Brynn replied. “For this is the doing of Abbot Olin, not Yatol Wadon. And perhaps Yatol De Hamman truly intends to leave. If he believes that you are no friend to me, then he will likely speak truthfully to you.”

  “And you would have me report back,” the emissary added.

  Brynn shrugged. “That will be a choice for Pechter Dan Turk to make, and I will accept whatever choice that is. If Yatol De Hamman indicates that he means to expel me from the city, then perhaps you will come to understand the truth of my fears, that Abbot Olin—not Yatol Wadon—controls Behren, and in that revelation, perhaps you will believe that I am a better friend to Jacintha than the Abellican abbot.”

  The man paused and seemed as if he wanted to reply. But he said nothing, except, “I go,” and with a bow, he walked from the room.

  “He could betray us,” Tanalk Grenk remarked as soon as he was gone.

  “There is nothing to betray,” said Pagonel.

  “He could return with a lie from Yatol De Hamman,” Grenk reasoned.

  “We know the truth of Yatol De Hamman’s intentions, whatever Pechter Dan Turk might say,” Brynn answered.

  “Then what was the point of sending him?”

  “To give us a voice in Jacintha later on,” said Brynn, “should we survive the onslaught of Yatol De Hamman.” She turned to the elves, who were standing quietly off to the side. “You have met with Agradeleous?”

  “The dragon is in fine spirits,” Juraviel informed her. “And well on the mend. His wing should support him in flight within a few days’ time.”

  “But the danger to him remains, should he take wing at all,” Pagonel reminded. “The army of Behren has built weapons to counter Agradeleous, and at the end of the war for To-gai’s freedom, those weapons had the dragon in worse condition than he is now. The Behrenese had us beaten, and only their own inner turmoil pulled them from our gates.”

  Tanalk Grenk gave a bit of a snort at that, but even he did not openly disagree with the reasoning.

  “And now those weapons, in the ranks of Yatol De Hamman, do not even constitute the greatest threat to Agradeleous,” Pagonel finished.

  “The Abellican monks,” Brynn remarked.

  “They sorely stung the dragon—ever has Agradeleous held great respect for gemstone users, or magic users of any kind.”

  Brynn nodded throughout the mystic’s response. She remembered keenly the time she had flown Agradeleous south about the Mountains of Fire, the land of the Walk of Clouds monastery, which served as home to the Jhesta Tu. Agradeleous had little desire to go anywhere near the magical mystics. Brynn looked back out the window, weighing it all. What she knew beyond doubt was that to try to hole up in the city would eventually prove disastrous, for she and all her forces could not hope to resist the overpowering Behrenese for long. Neither did the prospect of retreating into To-gai appeal to her, particularly given Juraviel’s assessment of Aydrian, and the observations of Abbot Olin’s entrenchment in Jacintha.

  To Brynn, the lack of options all pointed her in the same direction, and that course seemed even more plausible given Pagonel’s report of potential unrest within the Honce-the-Bear ranks in Jacintha. She turned back to the group, and the look on her face, so full of determination and sheer grit—an expression that she had worn before most of these same allies for so very long—told them her intentions before she ever spoke them aloud.

  “We must shatter this siege before help can arrive,” she stated. “We must cut our enemy’s ranks apart and send the Behrenese fleeing in terror. We must steal the momentum of their heretofore glorious march and remind them why they once so feared the Dragon of To-gai.”

  “Our charge will shake the ground beneath their feet!” said an enthusiastic Tanalk Grenk, but the fire seemed to dull quickly, as he added, “But understand, my lady, that such a battle will cost us much in To-gai-ru blood. The Wraps—” He caught himself and stopped, and that, along with his caveat here concerning the battle, showed great progress to Brynn’s scrutinizing eyes. Tanalk Grenk was learning to temper his fierce To-gai-ru warrior heritage with the calm understanding of the greater picture that would prove a necessary wisdom within any leader.

  “The Behrenese,” the man corrected, “are numerous and will not be caught unawares. Without the walls before us, they will sting us with their arrows before battle is ever joined. But we will go, with all of our hearts, if Lady Brynn asks it of us!”

  Brynn nodded. “To go out in frontal assault against the encamped army would be folly,” she said. “Our greatest weapon here is Agradeleous. The dragon, unchallenged, will strike fear into the hearts of the Behrenese, and his fiery strafes of their ranks will split them asunder and send them running across the open desert sands. But to do that, we must first prepare the battlefield, and our enemies, to our liking.”

  She turned to Juraviel. “Could you take Agradeleous with you, using your emerald?”

  “If the dragon was in his humanoid form, perhaps,” the elf replied.

  “Then what if you take him out secretly behind Behrenese lines?” Brynn asked. “And Pagonel and me, and some other warriors.”

  “One at a time,” the elf reminded.

  “In the dark of night,” Brynn agreed. “You set us down, and in position to strike at those positions that would most threaten Agradeleous, and then I shall unbridle the beast, to our enemy’s doom.”

  “You would play the role of assassin before that of warrior?” Pagonel asked.

  “I would secure Dharyan-Dharielle and To-gai, by whatever means,” Brynn replied without missing a beat, and the nod of the Jhesta Tu told her that he agreed with her reasoning. “If we, if Agradeleous, can enact a devastating first strike against the Abellicans and Yatol De Hamman’s war engines, then we shall gain the upper hand
and shatter this siege.”

  “To what end?” asked Juraviel, and all looked at him curiously.

  “Will you then return to hide behind your walls, and await the march of Abbot Olin?” the elf asked.

  “I will take the fight all the way to Jacintha, all the way to Abbot Olin,” Brynn answered.

  “Then let me go out to the north at once and see if I might find us an ally,” Juraviel asked. “The winter nears its end up there, offering more mobility to those who would oppose Aydrian.”

  “And more mobility to Aydrian, should he decide to reinforce Jacintha,” Pagonel warned.

  “But do go, and return as soon as you may,” Brynn said to the elf. “We must gather all the information possible before we can execute this plan.” She turned her look upon Lozan Duk. “When you arrived here, you told me that moving through the lines of Yatol De Hamman had been of little difficulty.”

  The Doc’alfar grinned from pointed ear to pointed ear. “Give me two nights,” he said, “and I will have every area of Yatol De Hamman’s encampment mapped out for you in great detail. If Juraviel can delay for just a few hours, he and I can bring in many of my kinfolk, who are now stretched from the To-gai plateau to the southern entrance of the Path of Starless Night.”

  All of them looked about to each other then, everyone offering a grim and determined nod. The meeting broke up, with all heading to their respective duties, but Pagonel lingered to speak with Brynn alone.

  “You will need assurance that our suspicions of Abbot Olin’s intent is correct, that he means to attack and overrun Dharyan-Dharielle,” the mystic reasoned.

  “I expect Pechter Dan Turk to return and erase any hopes that I might otherwise have,” said Brynn.

  Pagonel nodded, and Brynn could see the sincere admiration in his brown almond-shaped eyes, the mark of his To-gai-ru heritage. She knew then, in that look from her greatest mentor, that she had played the situation perfectly on all counts.

  Still, in looking again out the window at the overwhelming enemy force, Brynn realized that it would take more than that for her to truly win through.