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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Fine words, brother,” said Bou-raiy. “We will speak them together, and loudly, for all to hear, when King Aydrian comes knocking.”

  Bou-raiy offered a slight bow to Braumin and left the room.

  Braumin remained there for a long while, staring up at the grand depiction of the arm of Avelyn, considering the implications of the many pivotal decisions of his life.

  He believed that St.-Mere-Abelle and the entire Abellican Order was now facing its greatest challenge in the history of the Church. He doubted that the abbey walls would hold back the tempest that was Aydrian and fully expected that he would be dead before the turn of the autumn season.

  But he was at peace.

  “Pireth Tulme and now St. Gwendolyn,” Duke Kalas fumed, crumpling the parchment. He took a step forward and the runner who had arrived with the disturbing news of Prince Midalis’ victory blanched and seemed ready to faint dead away. “I knew that we should have left greater forces to defend each.”

  “Prince Midalis’ army was not that powerful, by all reports,” said Sir Blaxson Tre’felois, one of Kalas’ finest commanders, the field general of the Allheart Brigade’s most dependable company. “We could arrive at St. Gwendolyn within three days.”

  Kalas was shaking his head before the man ever finished the thought. “Prince Midalis has already deserted the place, as he deserted Pireth Tulme,” he explained.

  “Because he knows that he cannot stand against us.”

  “And so he wears at our edges,” said Kalas. “Hoping to erode support for King Aydrian among the populace. I would do the same if I were in his unenviable position.”

  “Unenviable because we know that he will achieve minor victories alone,” Sir Blaxson remarked. “In the end, he must face us and must face King Aydrian.”

  “Where is King Aydrian?” Duke Kalas asked.

  “Last reports placed him in Ursal with Father Abbot De’Unnero,” Sir Blaxson replied. “Though by now, I suspect that he is back on the road, perhaps heading to join us as we complete the encirclement of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  Duke Kalas shook his head. “We will reach the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle before his arrival. And I wish to construct batteries along the shore to either side of the abbey. If Prince Midalis’ fleet has any intention of sailing into St.-Mere-Abelle’s minor docks, we will defeat that notion.”

  “You believe that Midalis has turned back to the north from St. Gwendolyn?”

  Kalas nodded. “I would. Summer draws near and the sailing through the gulf is clear. Prince Midalis’ retreat from both Pireth Tulme and St. Gwendolyn shows that he understands his weakness. He must seek more aid, and with Pireth Dancard closed to him, that can only mean St.-Mere-Abelle.” Kalas nodded as he considered his own planning. “Send word to Palmaris,” he instructed. “The rest of the Masur Delaval’s fleet is to set sail at once for St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “Prince Midalis’ armada is formidable, by the words of King Aydrian himself,” Sir Blaxson warned.

  “We will not engage Prince Midalis at sea,” Duke Kalas assured him. “Let us beat the prince to St.-Mere-Abelle. Our fleet need only to destroy the abbey’s docks, and that should prove no difficult task with our soldiers pressing the monks hard at their wall. After that, let our warships settle under the protective range of our coastal artillery.”

  “Then St.-Mere-Abelle must stand alone, as Prince Midalis must stand alone,” reasoned Sir Blaxson.

  Duke Kalas squared his shoulders. “We must keep our two great enemies separate.”

  Braumin Herde was quite surprised later on when Master Viscenti entered his private chambers to announce a guest—a female. He was even more surprised when that guest, To’el Dallia of the Touel’alfar, walked in behind the nervous master!

  “Juraviel’s kin?” he stammered. “How … what are you doing here?”

  “The Touel’alfar have aligned themselves with our cause,” Master Viscenti answered. “They serve as scouts and liaison between St.-Mere-Abelle, the forces of Prince Midalis, and another potential ally doing battle with Abbot Olin in Behren.”

  “In Behren?”

  “Aydrian reaches far and wide,” To’el Dallia replied. “Too wide, let us hope.”

  “The news is both good and bad,” Master Viscenti explained. “Prince Midalis has won three minor victories and seeks his fourth, which will be the greatest yet. But he is in the far south, while Duke Kalas and his forces even now march to St.-Mere-Abelle. Prince Midalis will offer us no support for the early stages of defense.”

  “And if Prince Midalis wins in the south, Aydrian will likely attack St.-Mere-Abelle even more forcefully,” the elf added.

  “You sound as if you know him,” said Braumin.

  “I do indeed. I was his trainer in Andur’Blough Inninness. I taught him the ways of the ranger, though his temperament unfortunately did not match that calling. He has become the catastrophe of my home and my people, and will be the darkness of all the world if we cannot stop him.” The diminutive creature paused and nodded grimly at Braumin Herde. “And you must stop him here.”

  “You have spoken with Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy?”

  “She has,” Master Viscenti answered. “Though she was nearly attacked by the gate guards when she so boldly arrived before them!”

  “To see such a legend come to life,” Braumin reasoned. “I can understand their trepidation!”

  “We will meet with Father Abbot Bou-raiy in a short while better to coordinate our plans,” To’el Dallia explained. “But I wished for you to be there, as you are less a stranger to my race than your peers. Jilseponie speaks highly of Bishop Braumin.”

  “Not as highly as Bishop Braumin speaks of Jilseponie,” the man replied.

  “This is all too surprising,” Braumin went on, shaking his head and running his hand through his thinning hair. “And most welcome. If Aydrian easily claims St.-Mere-Abelle, then it will only be a matter of time before he catches up with Prince Midalis. Who will be left to oppose him?”

  “We will hold,” Master Viscenti said, his teeth gritted and chattering as he continued his typical trembling. “We will make Aydrian regret ever coming against the walls of St.-Mere-Abelle!”

  “Let us hope, brother,” said Braumin, rising and walking past the man into the hall. “Let us hope.”

  They came in sight of the great abbey’s mile-long wall late one afternoon, and there set camp, their own lines so long that they were easily able to form a semicircle about the place, with men both north and south of the abbey looking out over the dark waters of All Saints Bay. Assembly of great catapults and spear-throwing devices began immediately at both of those points, while all along the line other soldiers went about the task of setting up the tents.

  From somewhere near the middle of that line, directly across the beaten field leading to the abbey’s great gates, Duke Kalas sat and watched, and waited for word of the ships approaching from Palmaris. He could not attack St.-Mere-Abelle’s docks by land, for they were located far below the abbey’s eastern wall, which was built upon a cliff face. He needed the ships to take out the long wharf, and to patrol the waters under the watchful eye of his artillery crews.

  Early the next morning, sails appeared along the coast to the west.

  Duke Kalas went into action immediately, forming up the ranks about the center of his line. He used his Allhearts and Kingsmen more as prods against the peasant army than as a leading strike force, forcing the all-out assault upon the abbey’s front wall. In short order, the ground was shaking under the charge of more than twenty thousand men. Behind them, the duke’s batteries of catapults launched huge rocks high and far into the air to smash down among the structures of the abbey.

  The response reaching out from St.-Mere-Abelle’s walls was no less spectacular, with lightning bolts, lines of magical fire, and responding catapult fire slicing through the duke’s ranks. Men died by the score, but they kept up the cry for King Aydrian and charged on.

  The monks slaugh
tered them.

  Duke Kalas, still sitting astride his pony across the field, grimaced with every magical discharge, with every scream. He glanced continually over to his left, awaiting the signal.

  “You fool!” came an unexpected roar beside him, and he turned to see a fuming Marcalo De’Unnero. “Who gave you orders to attack the abbey? You were to encircle and besiege, nothing more!”

  Even as the monk ranted along, Kalas noted the signalman to the north of the abbey waving his flags, red and blue. Red indicating that the docks had been destroyed; blue showing that the fleet had slipped away.

  The diversion had worked.

  Kalas called to the trumpeters beside him, ordering them to blow a retreat.

  “You have lost hundreds!” De’Unnero yelled at him. “And what have you gained?”

  “I—we—have gained the sea access to the abbey,” Kalas calmly explained. “St.-Mere-Abelle’s docks are destroyed and the waters about the abbey are now secured—and will grow more unfriendly to Prince Midalis and his raiding fleet with every passing hour.” The Allheart commander, his face a mask of complete confidence, looked back at St.-Mere-Abelle, seeming quite pleased with himself.

  “Now they are isolated and properly besieged,” he explained.

  De’Unnero looked all around at the retreat, and at the many dead lying on the field near to the abbey’s gates. “If Aydrian and his secondary force were here, we could have overrun them,” he insisted.

  “But Aydrian is not here, nor will he arrive anytime soon, from what my scouts have told me. Now the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle cannot flee, nor can Prince Midalis slip in to reinforce their ranks upon those strong walls.”

  Duke Kalas knew that it was tearing Marcalo De’Unnero apart to admit that he was wrong, and so he took the man’s silence, even with the dismissive wave of his hand as he walked off, as compliment enough.

  Chapter 39

  Playing the Fears

  “YOU COULD HAVE SLAUGHTERED THEM,” YATOL DE HAMMAN SAID TO BRYNN AS they looked down into the windswept and sandy valley where a splinter of De Hamman’s army was in full flight from the To-gai-ru forces who had circled about them and turned them back to the southwest. All around this northeastern side of the circular valley loomed the silhouettes of To-gai-ru horsemen, awaiting a signal from Brynn to sweep down upon the helpless Behrenese.

  But that signal would not come.

  “I have no desire to slaughter Behrenese, or Bearman, or any people,” Brynn replied.

  “Your attack upon my forces outside of Dharyan-Dharielle would indicate otherwise.”

  Brynn walked Runtly around to put her directly in front of the Yatol, who sat upon a yellow nag, a horse too old to run away even if De Hamman had had the courage to try such an escape.

  “You and I both understand the truth of that situation,” the woman said with unnerving calm. “My information about your intentions—to reinforce and overrun the city—was correct. Your inability to admit as much is your failing, Yatol De Hamman, and not mine.”

  Yatol De Hamman chewed his bottom lip and pointedly looked away—but he could not maintain that distant stare for long and kept glancing back at the imposing woman.

  Brynn never took her eyes off him, and neither did she even blink.

  Behind the Yatol and to the side, Pagonel cleared his throat. “I will take Agradeleous back to the skies to seek out any other groups intent on retreating to Jacintha,” he said.

  “Turn them,” Brynn agreed. “None are to reinforce Abbot Olin’s garrison.”

  Such had been the plan all during the week-long march out of Dharyan-Dharielle. Brynn and Pagonel had taken Agradeleous up scouting, and with the great dragon flying about with impunity, their advantage had proven tremendous. One by one, they had encountered the pockets of fleeing Behrenese, and one by one, they had turned the men from the eastern road, often scattering them to the desert sands, or driving them like cattle toward the nearest city or oasis. There had been only a trio of minor battles, routs for the To-gai-ru, and even in those, Brynn had quickly stayed her hand, minimizing the enemy losses. In fact, since the Behrenese retreat from Dharyan-Dharielle, the largest number of casualties among the defeated force’s ranks had been in the accompanying force of Bearmen, many of whom had been turned upon by the outraged Behrenese and slaughtered in the sands.

  “Do you believe that you can defeat Jacintha?” Yatol De Hamman dared to say.

  “I believe that Jacintha will defeat herself—if she has not already done so.”

  Yatol De Hamman put on a quizzical look.

  “You would surrender your country to King Aydrian?” Brynn continued. “You would surrender your heritage and your ways to the imperialist northmen?” She could see from the man’s expression that she had touched a nerve here. Yatol De Hamman understood the truth of Abbot Olin, Brynn believed.

  “What gain, Yatol De Hamman?” she asked. “Or more to the point, what sustained gain?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yatol Mado Wadon’s position becomes secured,” Brynn reasoned. “He assumes the mantle of Chezru Chieftain. That is what we all desired when Yakim Douan fell and our war ended at the gates of Dharyan-Dharielle.”

  “A goal that was realized!” the Yatol argued.

  “Not so, because the title of Chezru Chieftain became subordinated to the desires of Abbot Olin,” said Brynn. “I know that you understand the truth of this, as surely as I know your true intent in overrunning Dharyan-Dharielle. So tell me, was the attack upon my city the order of Yatol Wadon, or of Abbot Olin?”

  “It was an error.”

  Brynn gave a helpless laugh. “You are a fool. Hold fast to your pride and your lies, if you so choose. I will rescue the identity of Behren from the designs of King Aydrian of Honce-the-Bear with or without your help.”

  “You believe that you can defeat Jacintha,” the Yatol said derisively.

  Brynn looked around at her considerable force, some thousand To-gai-ru warriors. In the open desert, she could take on an army twice, perhaps even thrice, her size, but against a fortified city, she knew that many of her greatest advantages, primarily the mobility and skill of her forces, would be for naught. “I could not hope to defeat Jacintha,” she admitted. As she watched Yatol De Hamman’s shoulders square, she added teasingly, “Alone.”

  That put a fearful expression on the man’s smug face.

  “Not even with my dragon friend,” Brynn admitted.

  “Have you resurrected the spirit of Yatol Bardoh, then?” the Yatol spat. “Do you think to pit Behrenese against Behrenese?”

  “An imperialistic king makes many enemies,” was all that Brynn would say. She held her expression sly and walked Runtly away.

  Leaving a flustered De Hamman sputtering on his ugly yellow nag.

  “Those few who managed to return …” Yatol Wadon stammered, hardly able to get the words out. Not that he needed to say them, in any case, for his audience—Abbot Olin, new Yatol Paroud, and Master Mackaront just returned from Entel—understood the message quite clearly. De Hamman had been routed outside of Dharyan-Dharielle. Brynn had pulled yet another trick on them, and the Behrenese force, already so tentative about doing battle with the infamous Dragon of To-gai, had broken ranks and fled, and were still fleeing, by all accounts, in ever-shrinking numbers.

  Yatol Wadon’s inability to express his outrage was certainly understandable.

  “Your losses were not so great, by every report,” Abbot Olin replied, seeming unperturbed by it all.

  “Not so great?” Wadon yelled at him. “Hundreds, perhaps thousands, have been slaughtered, and worse, the remaining thousands are scattering to the four winds. You cannot begin to understand the depth of this; Behren is not like Honce-the-Bear.”

  “The victory has lured Brynn Dharielle out of her hole,” Abbot Olin calmly replied.

  “The To-gai-ru are more dangerous on the open sands,” Yatol Paroud dared to interject.

  “Not against Abellica
ns,” said Abbot Olin.

  “A shrinking number,” Paroud dryly reminded, and Olin shot him a hateful look.

  “Enough!” demanded Yatol Wadon.

  “Where will Brynn carry the fight?” Abbot Olin said. “Will she run across the desert, striking haphazardly against the smaller towns? Will she attack Jacintha? Surely that would be the purest folly.”

  “In the open desert, then,” reasoned Yatol Wadon.

  “To what gain?” Abbot Olin asked, and he rose from his seat and moved about the room, more animated than any had seen him in a long while. “Time does not work in favor of Brynn Dharielle. She has few resources, and the toll on her army will be great. She cannot defeat us, so likely she will sate her warriors’ hunger for revenge and then retreat into her hole. All we need do is regroup our forces and wait her out.”

  Yatol Wadon glared at the man.

  “So we do not reunite Behren at this time,” the abbot went on. “Dharyan will have to wait until King Aydrian can fully turn his attention to Behren. It will not be long.”

  “Even when reinforcements from Honce-the-Bear arrive, Brynn will be within her secure walls, and with her dragon beside her,” Yatol Wadon argued. “That is no minor thing!”

  “In the face of King Aydrian, it is indeed,” said Abbot Olin. “If the dragon arrives on the field before the king of Honce-the-Bear, he will destroy it, and with ease. You see the fight at Dharyan as a disaster, my friend, but you are not scrutinizing the details well enough, I fear.”

  Yatol Wadon’s glare softened just a bit, showing some intrigue.

  “My monks stung the dragon profoundly,” Abbot Olin explained. “Their lightning knocked it from the sky, and yet all of their bolts combined are minuscule compared to the power of Aydrian.”