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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Do you know me, Yatol Thei’a’hu? Yakim Douan’s spirit telepathically demanded.

  The body stopped thrashing, lying very still in what remained of the bathwater.

  Look upon me! Yakim Douan went on. Let your heart tell you who has come to visit!

  Chezru Chieftain Douan? Thei’a’hu’s mind silently asked.

  That is one incarnation, came the teasing, cryptic response.

  The onlookers in the room, some of them just gathering the nerve to approach the man once again, leaped back as Thei’a’hu’s body jerked in surprise.

  Yatol! Yatol! Yatol! Thei’a’hu’s spirit screamed.

  You are a nonbeliever! Yakim Douan accused. You disappoint me, Yatol Thei’a’hu.

  No!

  You consort with heretics who deny the truth of Yatol!

  Thei’a’hu’s call, both telepathic and physical, held the inflections of a whimper then, as he repeated over and over, “Mercy.”

  Correct your sacrilege, Yatol Thei’a’hu! This night! Now! You have but one chance to again walk the path to Paradise! Yakim Douan ended by imparting more specific visual instructions, and then he departed Thei’a’hu’s physical body, his spirit drifting up to the ceiling to observe, and though he was invisible and silent, those others in the room sensed that spirit, or something. Yakim Douan was amused again to watch the looks of confusion and fear upon their faces, to see the hairs standing up on the back of their necks, to see the women hugging themselves as if suddenly chilled. The Chezru Chieftain even went back down among them, a cold ghost brushing close, heightening the fear. More than one of those attendants ran out of the room, screaming.

  But the show hadn’t even yet begun, Yakim Douan knew, and so he continued to watch, taking great pleasure as Yatol Thei’a’hu climbed out of the tub, pushing past any attendants who moved to help him, or to try to put a robe about his naked shoulders.

  Thei’a’hu did have a blanket wrapped about him as he exited the house, more to ward the chill than out of any modesty, for it was obvious to all looking upon him, Yakim Douan’s spirit included, that the man was suddenly obsessed and single-minded.

  That blanket also conveniently hid the tool Thei’a’hu would need to find his way back to Paradise.

  The visiting Yatols had all been quartered in the same area, and so Thei’a’hu did not have far to walk to get to the house of Yatol Bohl, pushing right through the two soldiers standing guard at the door and banging on it loudly. When it was opened, by yet another soldier, Yatol Thei’a’hu did not wait to offer an explanation, but just forced his way through, screaming for Yatol Bohl.

  The man came down the sweeping staircase at the back of the foyer a moment later, dressed exactly as he had been when Yatol Thei’a’hu had left him three hours earlier.

  “Thei’a’hu,” he said, obviously stunned at the man’s appearance. “What is wrong?”

  Thei’a’hu stormed up to him, Bohl holding his arms wide, his expression incredulous.

  That look grew even more incredulous when Thei’a’hu’s knife jabbed into his belly.

  “Heretic! Unbeliever!” Thei’a’hu cried, pumping his arm repeatedly, and with the strength of a man possessed and with the determination of a man who truly believed that his own salvation was at stake.

  By the time Bohl’s stunned soldiers could restrain the intruding Yatol, Yatol Bohl lay curled on the floor, his lifeblood pouring out into a widening puddle that already took in more than half of the foyer.

  Hovering above the entryway, the spirit of Yakim Douan watched it all, with a bit of regret, but in truth, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. He considered his voyeurism there and felt a twang of guilt, wondering if he was no better than Thei’a’hu, taking his pleasure vicariously.

  It mattered not, he decided, and he retreated back to his waiting corporeal form, preparing himself, for he knew that Yatol Thei’a’hu would soon be paraded before him to answer for the crime of murder.

  Yakim Douan decided to play this delicately, and with ultimate contempt for those around him. He would hear Thei’a’hu’s story, then would retreat to consult with Yatol, then would return and proclaim Thei’a’hu a hero of Yatol.

  The old Chezru Chieftain was still chuckling at the beautiful irony of it all when Merwan Ma rushed into his meditation room to tell him that he was needed in the audience chamber immediately.

  Chapter 9

  Dark Solitude

  THE PATH OF STARLESS NIGHT OFFERED A DARKNESS BEYOND ANYTHING THAT Brynn had ever known, deeper even than the blackness of the peat cave. Walking the tunnels, descending under the mountains beside Juraviel and Cazzira, Brynn began to understand a second element to the darkness, a profound sense of brooding, a quiet so intense that it numbed the ears and made her retreat within herself. She tried to consider the goal ahead, tried to find strength and determination in the realization that this dark path marked the end of her journey home. When they exited the Path of Starless Night, they would look upon To-gai, the grassy steppes of her homeland.

  Brynn couldn’t hold the thought against the pounding silence, stifling and seeming almost hungry.

  They had lamps, those curious glass-and-wood creations of the Doc’alfar, all glowing bluish white. But even the light seemed uncomfortable there, diminished and out of place. Given the limited range of the glow, it occurred to Brynn that their lamps served to highlight them to predators more than they revealed any predators to them.

  The air was warm and still—so still that it settled about them like a heavy blanket, weighing down their steps. The tunnel was broken and uneven, so that even they, two elves and an elven-trained ranger, had to take care with every step not to stub their toes or trip and fall. Similarly, the walls were broken, with jags of stone all about, casting ominous shadows in the dim light.

  “How much worse are these shadows in the flickering light of a flaming torch,” Cazzira said suddenly, her voice breaking the stillness so starkly that both Juraviel and Brynn jumped. “With each flicker, the shadows come to life,” Cazzira went on. “Many died in here in times long past, before we learned the secrets of the fazl pods. Those who traveled these paths became so numbed to any danger from the repeated dancing of the shadows that when real danger presented itself, they were caught unawares.”

  Brynn regarded her glowing scepter, its carved wood handle and the frosted glass ball set at its top. The light was fairly constant, but in looking closely, the ranger did note that there were some things moving about within the frosted sphere.

  “Fazl pods?” Juraviel asked, as if reading Brynn’s mind.

  “Small centipedes of the deep peat,” Cazzira explained. “They make the light, though it normally dissipates into the air like a glowing mist. Encased in an airless globe, they glow for many weeks. Without them, we would have little chance of crossing under the mountains, for we could not carry enough wood and I doubt we’ll find any down here!”

  The conversation died at that, and the trio went on. They came to many forks in the trail, and intersections, and crossed a few wider chambers, some that had many exits. But Cazzira went on in seeming confidence that she knew the way, and it took Brynn a long while to catch on to the secret: all choices in the path had been marked, subtly, in flowing elven script delicately carved upon the walls.

  “Your people come down here often,” she said, and she winced, for her words sounded as an accusation.

  Cazzira looked at her hard, as did Juraviel, the Touel’alfar silently signaling for Brynn to tread cautiously.

  “You know the way, because the passages have been marked by Tylwyn Doc, I mean,” Brynn stuttered, trying hard to keep her tone nonconfrontational. “Your people are not strangers to the Path of Starless Night, I would assume.”

  “We used to come in here quite often,” Cazzira answered after a long pause. “Once, many centuries ago, Tymwyvenne was comprised of two settlements, the one you have walked and one in here.”

  “Why was the second abandoned?” Juraviel a
sked before Brynn could, the elf apparently past his trepidation at broaching the subject.

  “The reasons are many, but in truth, this is not our place. Dark things crawl along these corridors, and after a few more days in here, you will understand why we prefer the open air.”

  “I understand it already,” Brynn remarked, and Juraviel laughed in agreement.

  They walked through the rest of the day—to the best of their estimation—and set a camp in a small side chamber, placing their glowing lamps strategically in the corridor outside, so that whoever was on watch would see the approach of a threat before it saw them.

  The next day went the same way, with brief conversations punctuating the silent blackness. The second day, Cazzira showed them some moss and fungi that they could eat, and some other mushrooms that they would be wise to avoid. On and on they walked, and oftentimes crawled in corridors too low for even the two elves, and then set a similar camp.

  The next day was much the same, and the next after that, and the next after that, where the only highlight was the discovery of a small stream where they could refill their waterskins, and even bathe a bit. Brynn was glad of that, very glad, but despite the clear water, every day they got a bit dirtier and a bit smellier.

  On and on they walked, and the paths were so winding, left and right, that they had to wonder how much progress they were really making to the south. At times, the trail before them ascended at such an angle that they had to climb hand over hand, struggling for finger- and toeholds. At other times, the path dropped so dramatically that they had to take out the fine silken ropes Cazzira’s kin had provided, and slide down.

  None of them complained; they just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

  So many wondrous things did Brynn, Juraviel, and Cazzira see in the days to come: a wide underground lake, its water gently lapping at the shore, disturbed somewhere out in the darkness by something unseen and unknown; an underground waterfall, tumbling noisily, echoing like tumultuous music in all of the caverns and corridors about; strange and beautiful formations of crystals squeezed from the rocks, twisting and turning into exotic, shining shapes as they became pushed out over the eons.

  The trio were walking through another wondrous place, a three-tiered plateau of gigantic mushrooms, thicker of trunk than a large oak and thrice Brynn’s height, when they came to know, for the first time, that they were not alone.

  It came as a flicker of movement, a subtle brushing of darker shadows at the edge of Brynn’s consciousness. The woman couldn’t react defensively, couldn’t get her staff up to intercept the rushing creature as it ran past her, but she did let out an alarmed yelp.

  His muscles toned to their finest warrior edge, Belli’mar Juraviel dove immediately to the side, launching himself into a somersault. As he came around, easily finding his feet again, he noted the shiny line of a thick blade, slashing through the air where he had just been. He started to call out to Cazzira, but saw that the Doc’alfar was already exploding into motion.

  She came around on her tiptoes, her arms out wide, her small, golden-wood club flying at the end of one extended limb. She whipped it past the dark attacker, too far away for a strike, but with enough of a whipping sound to freeze the creature in place for an instant.

  That was all Brynn needed. As the creature jerked upright, the woman dashed forward, slipping her bow between its widespread legs. She caught the leading edge of her bow with her now free hand and continued on, lowering her shoulder as she lifted with both hands, slamming into the creature, which was somewhat smaller than she, while her lifting bow took away its balance.

  Down it went, crashing to the floor.

  Before Brynn could pursue, she noted other movement, all about, and she came up just in time to set herself in a defensive posture against a second attacker.

  “Goblins!” Juraviel yelled, as a pair of the creatures rushed through a well-lit area, their ugly features showing clearly. The elf leaped toward Brynn, then fell into another roll to avoid the thrust of a pair of spears.

  Brynn shifted her bow out toward him, and Juraviel grabbed on, welcoming the momentum assist as Brynn pulled him right past her, to dive into yet another roll that brought him up between Brynn and Cazzira, and closer to the Doc’alfar. He started toward her, alarmed, but realized almost at once that Cazzira needed no help at that time.

  Her movements were every bit as fluid, graceful, and beautiful as bi’nelle dasada, the elven sword dance. She twirled about, spinning on a pointed toe, leaping and kicking, and all the while shifting her small club from hand to hand, letting it flow out from her, an extension of her perfectly controlled body.

  She seemed to leave an opening, and a goblin rushed in at her back, spear leading.

  But Cazzira spun and the spear went past her turning back, and the goblin got too close, inside the reach of her club.

  The crack was so pronounced that Juraviel and Brynn figured the Doc’alfar’s club must have split apart, but when the strike was finished, Cazzira continued her dance, intact weapon in hand, and the goblin skidded down and lay very still, the side of its head caved in.

  Cazzira’s club swiped past another goblin, which hunched back out of range, then came on, for it seemed clear that the diminutive Cazzira had overbalanced.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. The club went sliding harmlessly past, but the Doc’alfar flipped it over to her other hand, her left hand, weaving against the flow of her body as she turned right to left. Her left turned under and handed the club back to her right, reversing the weapon so that Cazzira took its thick end.

  Out snapped that right hand, stabbing the thinner, handle end of the club into the face of the attacker, whose own momentum worked against it.

  Two goblins down and the dance went on.

  Belli mar Juraviel’s fascination with the tantalizing dance of Cazzira nearly cost him dearly, for the goblins coming at him paid no heed to anything other than their intended prey.

  The elf got his sword out in front to parry one spear and force the wielder of the second to hold back its thrust.

  And then Brynn was there, right behind the attacking pair, her bow-staff held horizontally before her with widespread hands. She punched out, left and right, smacking both goblins hard, one on the back of the head, one on the shoulder, and both stumbled forward.

  Where Juraviel’s fine-tipped sword stabbed them, one-two, one-two.

  The elf spun about, and Brynn leaped up beside him, but the remaining goblins on the flank ran off screaming and shouting, shadowy forms blending into the darkness.

  Both Brynn and Juraviel spun about to regard Cazzira, who seemed stuck in place, like a statue fashioned after a dancer caught in a pose, one arm extended above her head, her weapon held perpendicularly to it, back over and across her head, and her other arm out before her like some targeting instrument. She was up on one foot—on one toe, actually—with her other leg looped about the supporting limb, lending to her perfect balance.

  No goblins approached; no goblins, save those on the ground about her, were to be seen.

  “We must move from this place,” Juraviel said. “To tighter tunnels where goblins cannot throw spears at us from the shadows!”

  “Some are wounded,” Brynn remarked, but if that meant anything to the two elves, they did not reveal it.

  “Away! Away!” Juraviel demanded, and on the trio ran, past the towering mushrooms and out of the wide chamber, rushing down one narrow corridor.

  Around the first bend, Juraviel, in the lead, came face-to-face with yet another goblin, its sickly eyes wide with surprise.

  A fine sword slid into its belly; a club came past Juraviel’s shoulder to smash it in the face.

  The three ran over it as it fell back, stomping it flat to the stone.

  They heard the loud flapping of wide goblin feet in pursuit sometime later.

  Brynn handed her lamp to Juraviel, then strung her bow as they ran, and when the sound closed in at th
eir backs, she turned suddenly and let fly, her arrow disappearing into the darkness. She knew not if she hit anything, or if her arrow skipped harmlessly across the stones, but the sound of pursuit stopped for a bit, and the three ran on.

  They crossed a large chamber, keeping near to the wall, then turned into the first opening, only to hear goblins, many goblins!

  They passed that, and the second opening and the third, as well. Then, using nothing more than a simple guess, they charged down the next. In the dim light of her glowing lamp, Cazzira in the lead nearly stumbled over the edge of a precipice. She fell to her knees, watching in horror as a few loose stones fell before her, dropping out of sight.

  Seconds later, the three heard the echoes of the stones bouncing along the deeper rocks.

  “Back!” Juraviel yelled. “Quickly, before the goblins cut us off!”

  “They already have!” cried Brynn.

  “There is a way!” said Cazzira, pointing to the right, past the precipice.

  Peering into the gloom, just at the edge of the lights, Brynn noted a rocky descending trail that seemed full of loose stones. She was about to point out the obvious danger there, but Juraviel and Cazzira weren’t waiting, with the Doc’alfar leaping out and beginning her controlled slide, and Juraviel hopping out behind her, his wings flapping furiously so that he put as little weight on the unstable slope as possible.

  Brynn turned and let fly another couple of arrows, wanting the other two to be far below before she tried the slope with her greater mass. Then she went out, gingerly, and lay out on her side, using her bow like a guiding oar as she slid down, down, into the deeper blackness.

  She caught up to Juraviel and Cazzira at an apparent dead end: a lip overlooking a deep, deep drop.

  The two were working furiously—to set up some defense, Brynn figured at first, but she looked on curiously as they unpacked the fine silken rope, Cazzira taking one end and handing the bulk of it to Juraviel.

  With a shared nod, the Touel’alfar leaped out into the blackness, wings beating furiously. He disappeared from sight, but the fact that the rope didn’t seem to be tugging at all gave Brynn hope that his descent was controlled, at least.