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

by R. A. Salvatore

  So he brought up his sword hand again, and with an urgency and power born of desperation, threw every ounce of magical energy he could muster into the graphite.

  The lightning bolt flashed out, smashing the boulder, exploding it into a thousand flying splinters. The concussion of the blast sent Aydrian and the three bandits tumbling. The remaining man—who had the misfortune to be almost directly under the blast—and one of the women screamed out in pain as rocky shards battered them.

  Aydrian, too, took a few painful hits from debris, but he scrambled quickly to his feet.

  He hardly noticed the unhurt woman rising a short distance away, for charging through the forest, shaking the trees and tearing away branches, came the behemoth, bellowing wildly.

  The young ranger set himself against that charge, reminding himself in the few seconds before they engaged of everything he had learned: the fighting strategies, the fluid movements, and necessary patience.

  In came the roaring giant, swinging a club that more resembled an uprooted tree. Aydrian’s instincts, or perhaps it was simple fear, told him to run back, to run away, but he fought that urge and charged ahead, inside the swipe of the club, scrambling forward and diving into a roll. He came up smoothly and under control, in a spring that took him between the giant’s legs. He stabbed out to the right as he went, striking the behemoth’s calf.

  How he wished he had an elvish blade! For Rumpar’s rather ordinary sword barely dug in, and Aydrian had no time to pause and drive the blade in deeper.

  He skittered through the gap in the behemoth’s legs, rolling ahead, then coming up and diving sidelong just in time to avoid the thump of the great club. What followed looked like some weird dance, with Aydrian diving, rolling over a huge foot, landing on his feet, and moving on without hesitation, always seeming to be one step ahead of the stomping and clubbing giant. And with each turn and each shift, Aydrian somehow managed to get in a slash or a stab, bringing a howl of protest from the giant but doing little real damage.

  “You will get tired, puny one!” the giant promised. And Aydrian had a hard time disagreeing with the assessment, for his every movement had to be quick and precise, had to be a measure of anticipation rather than reaction. And he knew that he was hardly hurting the behemoth—stinging it, yes, but causing no wounds that would bring the giant down.

  He rushed out as if to dive into another headlong roll, then pulled up short, cut around, and tumbled back toward the giant, wincing as he heard the club slam the ground to intercept his original course—certainly with enough force to have squashed him flat. Then Aydrian took a chance and charged at the giant’s leg, stabbing hard at the ankle and scoring his deepest hit yet.

  But he got kicked for his efforts, the slam sending him scrambling and sprawling right over the foot he had just attacked. He heard the woman behind him cheer, saw his pouch fly open and his gemstones go bouncing all over the ground. He grabbed one with his free left hand, then let go of his sword to take up another, the complementary stone, scrambling still to get out of the behemoth’s reach.

  The giant roared in pursuit, its great club going up high. But that roar became a questioning grunt when it noted that Aydrian was suddenly glowing a bluish-white.

  A split second later, even as the giant hefted its club again to begin the killing swing, the fireball exploded.

  The giant howled—how it howled!—and dropped its smoking club, both its singed hands slapping at the flames burning its thick mop of hair. Roaring in pain and confusion, it started running away.

  Aydrian grabbed up another stone and his sword, fast in pursuit. He neared and leaped, catching the giant’s belt and pulling himself up to get a toehold there, then propelling himself upward even more. In one huge stride, the young man was kneeling atop the dazed behemoth’s shoulder, and he took his sword by the hilt in both hands and stabbed with it as he might with a dagger, his finely toned muscles driving the blade deep into the side of the giant’s throat. Aydrian let go of the blade, but followed through with the movement, rolling into a forward somersault down the front of the giant, catching hold of the smoking tunic and pulling himself out to the side. He hit the ground in a sprint, trying to get out of the behemoth’s reach, but he needn’t have worried, for the giant continued to retreat, both its hands at its throat, trying to extract the sword. It did finally pull the blade out and throw it to the side, both hands coming back to try to stem the fountain of blood that then erupted.

  Aydrian casually lifted his arm, aiming for the giant’s back. He let his thoughts flow into the graphite and struck the fleeing behemoth with a blinding stroke of lightning. The giant staggered, but to its credit, the stubborn thing would not fall down, and it kept on running.

  Aydrian hit it again with a lightning bolt, and then a third time. Then the giant staggered forward, stumbling to its knees, to smash face first into a tree, nearly uprooting it.

  Aydrian waited a moment longer, to make sure that the brute was indeed dead, then glanced back at the now-crying woman, who was still holding her mortally wounded friend, and at the man with the torn shoulder, trying futilely to stand.

  Keeping one wary eye their way, the young ranger retrieved the gemstones that had fallen from his pouch, then went to gather up his bloody sword. He stayed on his guard, reminding himself that there remained one unaccounted-for highwayman.

  By the time Aydrian got back to the main group, the wounded man was standing and glaring at him. He lifted his good arm, as if to throw a punch or make a rude gesture, but Aydrian hardly waited to see which it might be, just reached up and planted his hand on the man’s chest and gave a shove, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “Ere, who are ye now?” the woman, caught somewhere between grief and pain and outrage, demanded.

  Aydrian walked to the first man he had struck. The man was sitting against a tree and even as he neared, Aydrian knew that he was dead. The lodestone had driven hard into the metal medallion, taking it right into the man’s throat, then had apparently been deflected as it tore through the metal, for the back of the man’s head had been blown right off, soaking the tree with blood and gore.

  Aydrian tried to remain methodical, gently pushing the man over to the side so that he might retrieve his gemstone. But as he dug at the tree, for the lodestone was deeply embedded in the trunk, the weight of his actions fell upon him.

  He had killed. Had killed men, his own kind. Two for certain, and likely a third, he realized, when he considered the concussion and debris from the boulder blast, right above the bandit’s head. And likely he had killed a woman as well, judging from the sobs of the other woman. A thousand different emotions washed over Aydrian then, from guilt to remorse to a feeling of utter helplessness. He suddenly felt—though he quickly tried to dismiss the notion—that he had somehow just knocked himself off of his pedestal of purity.

  The young ranger took a deep breath and scolded himself for his momentary weakness. All men died, he reminded himself, and this group had brought their fate upon themselves.

  With a growl, Aydrian cut harder into the tree and extricated the lodestone. He pulled away from the gory scene and stormed back to the woman and the wounded man.

  “Get up,” he demanded.

  “Ye killed her!” the woman wailed.

  “Get up, or you will soon join her,” Aydrian promised grimly, and he reached over and grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and yanked her to her feet. “You, too,” he instructed the man.

  “What are ye to do with us?” the woman asked.

  “You are both going to Roadapple,” Aydrian explained. “I will lead you there and leave you to walk in on your own, surrendering to the people. You will admit your guilt with this group of highwaymen, though whatever role you choose to portray for your part in the band is of no concern to me. Perhaps they will kill you; perhaps they will show mercy. Again, I care not which.”

  “Generous,” the man grumbled, but Aydrian shut him up with a glare that promised a sudden a
nd brutal death.

  “All that I demand of you is that you guide the folk of Roadapple back to this place and that you tell them who it was that rescued their town from the work of your murdering band.”

  “And who might ye be?” the woman asked.

  “Tell them that it was Nighthawk, the ranger of Festertool.”

  The woman started to snort derisively, but Aydrian was in her face with such suddenness that her breath caught in her throat. “You will do as I instructed, or you will die,” he promised, and he pushed her along in the direction of the town.

  “And where is your missing companion?” Aydrian asked.

  “Ye got us all,” the wounded man remarked, and Aydrian gave him a sudden kick that sent him sprawling into the dirt and howling in agony as his torn shoulder scraped along.

  “Where is your missing companion?” Aydrian asked again.

  The woman looked at him hard. “Scouting,” she said. “Could be anywhere.”

  Aydrian gave a little smile. Anywhere, indeed, and likely back along the way he had come, for someone had tipped off the band to his approach.

  With his two prisoners in tow, he veered from his course, retracing the steps that had brought him to the bandits. Sure enough, he soon spotted the missing member of the band, squatting in a tree, obviously intending to ambush Aydrian as he passed underneath.

  So the young ranger kept his course straight and seemingly predictable, walked right under the tree, pushing the woman ahead of him and tugging the wounded man along at his side.

  The thug leaped down, but Aydrian was already moving, stepping back and pulling the wounded man into his dropping companion’s path. The two crashed down in a tumble, and Aydrian ran right past them, shoving the woman hard into a forward sprawl. The ranger ran right to the tree trunk, then right up the tree trunk, with three quick steps, leaping into a back somersault, then snapping his body out flat as he came around, double-kicking, catching the would-be ambusher in the face and chest and launching him back to the ground.

  Three bandits walked into Roadapple soon after, telling a tale of Nighthawk, the ranger of Festertool.

  And the people of the quiet village were surely impressed, Aydrian saw from the concealment of a faraway tree, when they found the dead highwaymen and the blackened and battered body of a giant!

  The young ranger smiled, despite certain nagging feelings that kept bubbling up into his consciousness. He was on the road to immortality, he knew.

  Chapter 15

  Eye Batting

  JILSEPONIE SETTLED IN TO LIFE AT DANUBE’S COURT QUICKLY, IF A BIT UNCOMFORTABLY. The palace itself was spectacular, with richly detailed tapestries lining every wall and great statues gracing many rooms. Every door was surrounded with bas reliefs, every wall with murals depicting the greatest events of Honce-the-Bear’s long history. Also, to Jilseponie’s delight, the palace held many secret doors and corridors, used for escape in times of crisis or for spying—which she suspected might be a common thing in this place of countless intrigues.

  She didn’t get as much time as she would have liked to explore, though, for Danube insisted that she sit beside him each morning while he attended to the duties of State, a process of hearing disputes among Ursal citizens and continual—and always exaggerated—reports from the outlying counties, each trying to outdo the other in the eyes of the King.

  This was a time of peace and prosperity, though, and so the majority of her duties occurred at eventide almost daily, when all the nobles gathered for feasting and dancing. For Jilseponie, these supposed celebrations proved the most tedious of all, a peacock show of primp and paint, where ladies tittered and batted their eyelashes at every nobleman, married or not, who crossed their paths. More than a few of those lecherous noblemen veered from their original course to follow the flirtatious women, often to more private areas, and often repeatedly and with different women, throughout the course of the night.

  Jilseponie watched all of the pretentious and lewd games with distaste. More than judging the noblemen, though, she pitied them. For she had known love, true love, with Elbryan, and the thought of either of them straying from their pledge of fidelity seemed preposterous to her.

  But Jilseponie worked hard to take it all in stride. This was not her world—certainly not!—and she could not pretend to understand the society of Ursal after only a few weeks in the castle. She had come here for good reason, personally and for her desire to do good for the general population, and so she watched the goings-on with a sense of detached amusement.

  When she could.

  At one such dinner, with Danube surrounded by a bevy of tittering ladies, Jilseponie moved to the side of the room, to the fountain of sweet juice. She dipped her cup and began to sip, watching the party from afar.

  “So, you waited for the greater prize?” came a resonant, somewhat gruff voice beside her. She turned to see Duke Targon Bree Kalas, dressed in his regal Allheart finery, his great plumed helmet tucked tightly under one arm. “Clever woman.”

  Jilseponie shot him a skeptical glance and tried very hard to keep the disappointment off her face. Kalas had left Ursal on the day of her arrival—on official business, it was said. Jilseponie had hoped that he would stay away for a long, long time. He had made a play for her back in Palmaris years ago, when Elbryan was barely cold in the ground, and she had refused his advances. He had never forgiven her. In truth, Jilseponie knew that even if she and Kalas didn’t share that uncomfortable memory, they would hardly have been friends. She thought the man a puffer; even his walk was a swagger. Perhaps Duke Kalas had reason to feel pride—his list of accomplishments in governing and in battle was extensive—but Jilseponie never had any time for such self-importance, whatever actual achievements might lay behind it. To her, it seemed as if Kalas and so many of the other nobles spent an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to elevate themselves above everyone else. A perfectly human attitude, Jilseponie had to admit, for hadn’t every person alive done so at one time or another? But still, the level of such behavior at Danube’s court amazed her.

  “Had I known that you desired the King, I would have acted differently, m’lady,” the Duke remarked, dipping a curt, insincere bow. His tone, too, showed the truth of his emotions: it revealed a deep-seated resentment toward Jilseponie and possibly toward Danube, too.

  It wasn’t hard for Jilseponie to see right through this man, for she understood his pride was the source of his every action. He might have acted differently back in Palmaris had he known that King Danube desired Jilseponie, but, Jilseponie believed, he would have merely been more insistent in his advances toward her. For Duke Kalas, bedding a woman was a measure of ego even more than a measure of lust—and certainly no indication of love! He would come to her now, in this public place, feigning friendship, for he certainly did not want to fall out of favor with his friend, Danube. But, in truth, the man remained outraged at her, even after all these years, simply because she had refused his advances—and that, during a time of her grief.

  She didn’t quite know how to respond to his last statement. If she gave any indication that things might have been different between them had she not desired Danube—which was preposterous, especially since at the time of Kalas’ proposals, Jilseponie had had no interest in Danube or anyone else!—she would likely be inviting even more covert advances from the Duke. And if she denied the possibility of anything at all ever developing between them, Danube or not, then she would only anger Kalas all the more.

  So she said nothing and didn’t change the expression on her face. Kalas rambled on, then, speaking of some obscure business of State, some duties he had performed while traveling through his province of Wester-Honce. He spoke in general terms, and casually, matter-of-factly, but his persistent efforts to portray himself in the most favorable of lights were not lost on Jilseponie. When it came to self-promotion, the man simply could not help himself. Jilseponie listened politely, but her eyes, wandering around the room to watch the move
ments of so many others, betrayed her true lack of interest to Duke Kalas.

  “Enjoy the evening, m’lady,” he said rather stiffly, gave a curt bow, and walked away.

  Jilseponie watched him go, relieved that she was done with him but also wise enough to know that she would have to do better in the future. She didn’t care much for the man, obviously, but her future husband counted him among his best friends. Jilseponie spent a long while reminding herself of that truth and convincing herself that she had to be a generous spirit here. She had not traveled all the way up the Masur Delaval to drive wedges between Danube and his friends.

  That was not her place.

  So she wanted to believe, with all her heart, but as her gaze meandered around the great ballroom, it inevitably settled upon another of her future husband’s closest advisers and dearest friends. Constance Pemblebury, prettily dressed in a gown that showed off all her best features, sipped her drink and chuckled and charmed a group of men and women.

  Constance Pemblebury. The woman who had seemed destined, in the eyes of many at Danube’s court, to become queen, the woman who had bedded Danube many times over the years and who had borne him two children—children Danube had placed in the royal line of succession. And now Jilseponie had come to Ursal, shutting the door on Constance’s greatest ambitions—and perhaps on her heart, as well. Constance had been pleasant enough these last days, always smiling at Jilseponie, but there was something far more sinister beneath that façade, Jilseponie sensed. And indeed, even as she watched Constance now, the woman glanced her way, and, for just a moment, a look of distaste, even hatred, flashed across her painted face.

  Jilseponie caught that expression but didn’t think about it, for another idea came over her then; and the only thing surprising to her about it was that it was truly the first time she had considered Constance in this manner. Always before, Jilseponie had wondered and feared how Constance might view her, and had tried to figure out how she might smooth their relationship, for the sake of poor Danube, who could not help but be caught in the middle. But now, suddenly and unexpectedly, Jilseponie did not view Constance as one who had to be mollified, but rather as one who had spent many nights in the embrace, in the bed, of King Danube. More than a few dark thoughts crept into Jilseponie’s mind at that moment. She wondered if she could have Danube send the woman away, to live in another province, another city, somewhere far to the east, perhaps. She thought, just briefly, of coercing her future husband into disavowing his relationship with Constance’s—with his own—children, removing them from the royal line.