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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “So we know what happened to the powries,” Brynn remarked dryly.

  “But more importantly, what happened to the one who assembled this hoard?” asked Cazzira.

  Juraviel motioned to the side of the largest mound of gold and silver, to a single curving white rib bone. A gigantic bone, that even a tall human could walk under without ducking.

  “And so the wurm is dead,” Cazzira said as they approached. “And its treasure lies unguarded.”

  “And so one of the wurms is dead,” came a correction, in a voice that was neither human nor elf.

  The pile of gold and silver shifted and broke apart, and from within came the dread wurm, the great dragon, its scales all red and gold, its horns taller than a tall man, its blazing eyes slitted, like those of a cat, and with wisps of smoke coming forth from its great nostrils. Three sets of eyes went wide with surprise and horror, three mouths dropped open in simple awe at the most magnificent beast.

  “Welcome, thieves!”

  “Not so …” Juraviel started to say, gasping and stuttering through each word. But he stopped his sentence and started his legs, leaping aside as a great foreleg came swatting down at him, smashing into the gems and coins where he had been standing, rending the very stone of the floor!

  Cazzira leaped in near to that foreleg and whipped her wooden club about hard, smacking it against the scaly limb.

  She might as well have smashed it against the side of a rocky mountain.

  “Run away!” Belli’mar Juraviel cried, and all three scattered, diving about the treasure mounds, using them for cover from the beast. The dragon thrashed its tail, sending a fountain of coins, gems, and trinkets flying about the room, showering poor Brynn, who went tumbling down over a smaller pile of spears and other weapons. She hit hard and turned about, fearing that the wurm was upon her.

  But the dragon had gone the other way, in pursuit of Cazzira. The Doc’alfar cut around one pile of coins; the dragon lowered its head and plowed right through.

  Apparently anticipating the move, Cazzira came right back out the way she had gone in, scaling another nearby pile and rolling right over the top, to slide down the other side.

  “Good!” bellowed the dragon, and its voice boomed off the rock and seemed as if it would sunder the very stones that supported the chamber. “Make me work for my meal, that I might enjoy it all the more!”

  In her worst nightmares, Brynn Dharielle had never imagined anything as powerful and monstrous as the dragon. It seemed as if it could kill her with its voice alone, and every time it spouted a word, a bit of flame came out with it! All that Brynn could think of was running away, diving back down the pit and rushing back across the fiery lake. Despite the plight of her two companions, the young ranger actually started on that very course—until something else caught her eye.

  A specter hovered by the pile of weapons over which she had just tripped, the ghost of a man, a To-gai-ru.

  “Emhem Dal,” she whispered, though she had no idea of how she knew the ghost’s identity.

  The specter lifted a translucent arm, pointing to the side, and Brynn felt a command, one that she could not ignore. Pushing away the continuing thunder of the dread wurm, the shouts of Juraviel and Cazzira, the screeching of dragon claws on stone, Brynn rushed out to the side, toward a mound of assorted treasures, following the specter’s command. She reached the pile and began digging, having no idea of what she might be looking to find, for she had not taken a moment to consider any of this.

  She just dug and dug, tossing aside goblets and jewelry, strangely shaped coins stamped with a dwarven face, and even a helm and short sword. And then another sword …

  Brynn almost threw that second one, until she felt a wave of comprehension as her hand closed about its fashioned golden hilt, beautiful in design. It was formed into a sculpture of an elf dancing, her arms outstretched as she twirled, forming the crosspiece, and her head, fashioned of a light red ruby, serving as the joint between the slender blade and the pommel.

  The blade was no less magnificent, razor thin and with delicate carvings running the length of the flat sides. It wobbled as Brynn flicked her wrist, but despite that, the woman could sense its immense strength.

  Understanding the truth of the sword, a ranger sword, Brynn looked back to the ghost … but the specter was gone.

  She came out of her trance then, and abruptly, seeing Juraviel flying over one mound, his bow in hand, launching a series of arrows back at the pursuing dragon.

  Brynn sucked in her breath as Juraviel approached another treasure mound, thinking that it would stop him and that serpentine neck would catch up to him!

  But the clever elf dropped right before he got there, and the lunging dragon snapped over him as he fell, colliding with the mound and sending a shower of coins and gems flying about the chamber.

  “Run away!” Juraviel cried again. “To each your own, and find a way out!”

  “No escape!” the dragon promised.

  “Not for me, perhaps,” Brynn said under her breath, and with a howl, she charged forward, rushing past the surprised Juraviel as he continued his flight, rushing right toward the dread wurm, her sword held high.

  “Feel the sting of Flamedancer!” the furious ranger cried, rolling past the snaking head, coming up between the gigantic forelegs. She chose her mark carefully, the hollow of the breast, and threw all of her momentum into the powerful strike, stabbing the mighty ranger sword for the dragon’s heart with all of her strength and passion.

  To the sword’s credit, it did not break.

  And to Brynn’s credit, she did manage to scratch the targeted scale a little bit. “Brynn!” Juraviel cried.

  The young ranger considered the mark on the scale, realizing that if she had the time to strike a hundred times more, she might manage to get through that outer armor. With a sigh, she looked up, to see the wurm’s retracted head, those awful catlike eyes beaming down at her.

  Up went a foreleg.

  Brynn dove aside.

  The dragon hit the floor with enough force to split the stone, the shudder knocking Brynn from her feet. The foreleg bore right through the floor, and the overbalanced wurm fell to the side, against yet another pile of treasure, disturbing it so that it began to flow out of the chamber and into the opened crack. It wasn’t nearly enough of a flow to topple the dragon, but the momentum of it did catch poor Brynn, carrying her along on a river of gems and gold, to spill out of the chamber, to tumble and bounce and fall along a rocky decline, smashing her body and head, tearing her clothing.

  She didn’t know how far she had fallen, for she lost consciousness long before she settled far, far below the chamber of the dragon.

  Cazzira never even tried to go in against the great dragon. As soon as the beast made its presence known, the elf turned and fled, and she almost made it into a side passage. Almost, but a great tail stamped down in front of the opening, blocking the way even as she reached it.

  She stumbled into the tail, regained her balance immediately, and started off to the side, but a sudden swish of the great tail caught her and sent her flying away.

  She hit the side of a treasure mound, and the unstable nature of that pile alone saved her from serious injury. For the mound gave beneath her, then tumbled about her, and she went down in a heap, coins and gems and jewels spilling over her, burying her as she lay there unconscious.

  The dragon wasn’t even paying attention to her. The human woman had fallen down the hole, and so the beast had started into the hole in pursuit, its head snaking down after the tumbling human and dropping treasure. But the descent narrowed too quickly for the dragon to continue the pursuit to catch up, and the great head came back out, the beast roaring in anger!

  That rage focused almost immediately upon a second figure, Belli’mar Juraviel, skittering for the open hole.

  A huge claw slammed down in front of the running elf, barring the way—or seemed to, for the elf leaped, his wings flapping furiously, getting
him up and around the blocking leg. And then he dropped, like a stone, into the opening.

  But this time the dragon was not caught by surprise, and with frightening speed, the quickness of a striking serpent, the great head snapped down.

  And when it came back up, the elf’s flailing legs stuck out between the beast’s huge fangs.

  Brynn Dharielle opened her eyes, or rather, one eye, for the other was caked closed by dried blood. She was not in darkness, for her glow torch had fallen beside her, but she knew at once that the globe had been cracked, for unlike the sharp edge of light it had previously shown, it was now dulled, surrounded by a glowing white mist.

  She remembered Cazzira’s explanation of the torches and feared that she would soon be in total blackness.

  Spurred by that, Brynn rolled to her side and forced herself into a sitting position. At first, her thoughts went right back to the cavern above, to the huge beast and her fall, to her friends and the grim fate they had likely found before the dragon. But soon enough, Brynn noted all the glittering items about her: gems and jewels, and her newfound sword, a ranger sword.

  Brynn picked it up reverently, then nearly threw it aside in anger, feeling that it had betrayed her with its inability even to pierce the great monster’s scaly hide.

  She didn’t throw it, though, but held it up before her eyes. “Flamedancer,” she said, reciting the name Juraviel had spoken. She studied the fabulous detailing of the long and very slender blade, her eyes and her free hand roaming down to feel the cool metal and the sculpted hilt, the female elven form with the ruby head.

  Brynn stood up and with a nod, slid the sword into her belt. She considered the tunnel far above her and realized that she could hardly retrace her steps back to the dragon’s lair.

  Nor did she want to. The woman closed her eyes in a silent salute to Belli’mar Juraviel, and to Cazzira, who had become somewhat of a friend over the days of traveling the Path of Starless Night. But they were dead, she told herself—or else they, too, had escaped, and would likely do better than she in these dark tunnels. Either way, Brynn understood that she had to be strong, had to put Juraviel and Cazzira behind her, had to find her way out of those black tunnels and to her homeland, where she could lead the To-gai-ru to freedom and do honor to Belli’mar Juraviel and to all the elves who had trained her for the task.

  She searched all about the fallen treasure then, ignoring the gems and the coins, seeking a light source, or anything else that might help her on her way.

  The first thing of note that she happened upon was a beret, shining red even in the dimming light. She picked it up and put it on, more to keep her bloody and sticky hair out of her face than out of any fashion sense.

  Almost immediately, Brynn began feeling a little better, but it was a subtle thing and she didn’t make the connection.

  A gem-studded bracer lay nearby. Looking at her left wrist, which had been cut and bruised in the fall, she took the bracer and tightly strapped it in place. She completed the outfit by replacing her torn shirt with a fine-looking surcoat, lined with sown metal rings and tied with a red sash that held her sword perfectly.

  And then she picked up her broken glow torch and started off along the hot and dark tunnels, determinedly putting one foot in front of the other. She shrugged off the pain as the hours passed, and searched out some food as Cazzira had taught her.

  She made her camp in a side alcove and spent some time, futilely, in trying to repair her broken lamp.

  Then she fell into a fitful sleep, remembering her lost friends in terrible dreams and awakening in a cold sweat.

  But she dragged herself up and moved on, step after step, day after day.

  The fourth day out, with miles of snaking tunnels behind her, her light source grew dimmer and dimmer, then winked out altogether, leaving her in total darkness. Overwhelmed by the sudden blackness, more profound than anything she had ever known, the ranger fell into a crouch and drew out her sword, praying for light, some light, any light.

  And then her magical blade erupted in flames, and Brynn shrieked in surprise and dropped it to the stone. It lay there, burning, for just a moment, then the fire went away.

  After she had recovered from the shock, Brynn fell to her knees, searching all about and finally gathering up the fallen blade. Then she stood again and presented the sword before her, and willed it to ignite once again.

  It did so, as bright as any torch. Since she had no idea of how long the fire might last, Brynn started away immediately, and with renewed hope.

  Days slipped past. Brynn walked among the shadows, climbed hand over hand up black chutes, and crossed an underground river, the waters freezing cold. She went on at times with the sounds of other creatures, predators likely, off in the shadows about her, and at other times in complete silence. She kept her focus on her goal, wherever it might lie and tried not to think of Cazzira’s remark that most who died in the Paths of Starless Night did so of old age.

  On and on she went, through the hours and the days, and though her torch did not seem to be based upon any finite fuel, for it did not dim, the battered woman nearly surrendered on many, many occasions.

  Nearly. For Brynn was a ranger, elven-trained, and Brynn was To-gai-ru. Her people needed her; she could not fail. It was as simple as that.

  One morning, or perhaps it was evening, Brynn squeezed through a narrow opening into a wider, ascending chamber. It was a tight crawl, and an exhausting one, and so she paused in the larger area to catch her breath.

  And felt a current of air.

  Not the rising hot air of lava, but a true breeze.

  Invigorated by the thought that her ordeal might at last be at its end, Brynn rushed along the tunnel. But as the minutes became an hour, she slowed; and when another hour passed, and then another, the woman had to stop and take her rest.

  She walked on again after a short nap, and the feeling of the air became lighter about her, and the breeze seemed to intensify, just a bit.

  And then she saw it, far ahead: a dot of light, real light, daylight!

  Brynn extinguished her fiery sword and stood there staring numbly at the pale light.

  And then she ran, as fast as her legs would carry her.

  She exited the tunnel on the side of a mountain, but not too high up. Down below her, spread wide, were the blowing, brown-green grasses of her homeland, of To-gai.

  At long last, Brynn Dharielle had come home.

  I have a strong belief that where we live greatly influences who we are and how we view the wider world. The people of Behren are quite different than To-gai-ru, and both are different from those people I met, Aydrian Wyndon included, from the kingdom north of the mountains, Honce-the-Bear. And by all accounts, the fierce barbarians of Alpinador are far removed from any of the other three human races.

  Many people confuse the implications of these differences, though, for in truth, we all share a similar hope for our lives, that of improvement for self and community, for a better world for our children, for the continuation of our ways. Many people use the differences of the four cultures, exemplified by variations in appearance, to demean another race, and thus to elevate themselves. Even with my profound hatred of the Behrenese Yatols who conquered my homeland, I must try not to do that. I must try to recognize that their beliefs are the result of different experiences in a different land. Societies, like individuals, develop in response to the world about them, to the realities of the climate and the environment, the dangers and the joys they can find.

  For the To-gai-ru, I prefer the old ways, the culture that evolved in response to the realities of the steppes. I believe with all of my heart that the old ways are the better ways—for us.

  For we are a product of our culture, and our culture is, in great part, a product of the land around us. The people of To-gai are nomadic, because our survival is dependent upon the animal herds; whereas the people of Behren are settled, for the most part, in city enclaves. Their cities, all on fertile groun
ds, are often separated by miles of barren, blowing sand, and thus, their travels are limited by the harsh environment. Many of the characteristics that define the two races, To-gai-ru and Behrenese, are results of those different lifestyles. The To-gai-ru are riders, the finest in all the world, hunting on strong and swift ponies; we love our ponies as brothers sharing a journey. The To-gai-ru are archers, the finest in all the world, using great bows from horseback to bring down the beasts that bring us shelter and food. Because our lifestyle is so intertwined with the fruits of the steppes, we revere those beasts. We thank them for that which they give to us. We understand the delicacy of the land about us, the balance that must not be disturbed if our culture and our people are to survive.

  The Behrenese, in contrast, more often ride the plodding camels that carry them across the great expanses of desert dunes. They farm more than hunt, for their land provides little game. They fashion and practice with weapons meant for war, not for hunting. There is a different mind-set necessary for a culture based on farming, I think. The Behrenese harvest and hoard; they do not live day to day, as do my people. They look to that which will increase their yield and their wealth, rather than merely reveling in the simple joys of existence. As they huddle deeper within the cities and farms, as they fashion the land more and more to their specific needs, they lose sight of the greater world about them, one that thrives on diversity.

  And as they hoard, they covet, and greed feeds upon itself. They remove themselves from the natural pleasures and beauties, and replace these honest joys with created necessities: wealth and dominance. Only in assembling hoards of useless wealth do the Behrenese leaders, Yatols mostly, justify their existence to themselves. Only by building great burial mounds, filled with glittering jewels and sculpted artifacts, and built on the broken bones and backs of slaves, do the Behrenese leaders seek to assure their stature in the netherworld.

  How they have lost their way! A presiding Yatol might have a treasury of golden goblets, too many to inspect or to hold, while his people live in squalor outside the crafted walls of his home—walls that he must construct for his own defense because his people live in poverty.