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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “He may need burying,” De’Unnero replied, and he veered his horse away from the royal entourage. He motioned for the crowd to part, then trotted his mount across the open ground to the chapel and the lone man.

  Aydrian paid the scene no heed, confident that Marcalo De’Unnero would handle the situation as he saw fit. Aydrian had long ago decided that De’Unnero would set the tone concerning the conversion of the Abellican Church to his own conservative vision. However De’Unnero conducted the conquered Church was irrelevant to the young king, so long as that Church remained a loyal ally to him in his pursuit of the wider conquests. Secretly, Aydrian hoped that De’Unnero would take the Abellican Church mercilessly and would bring it to a posture that evoked fear in the common man. Let the Church do the dirty work in keeping the common folk in line, leaving the way open for him to become a truly beloved king. Let De’Unnero become the tyrant that Aydrian clearly recognized was lurking in his heart; Aydrian would only shine all the brighter beside him.

  His entourage remained behind as Aydrian paced Symphony to the center of the town square. Magnificent upon the magnificent stallion, the young king surveyed this newest group of his flock for some time, letting them bask in the sight of him while he took some measure of their enthusiasm. What he sensed most of all, as in all the other towns, was fear. The common folk of Honce-the-Bear were afraid of change. Common folk took comfort in routines. How well Aydrian had learned this when first he had run away from the wicked elves, settling in with villagers in a nondescript and wretched little place named Festertool in Wester-Honce. In their routine, ultimately boring, lives, those folk had taken solace in the emptiness. That was the way of commoners, Aydrian understood keenly, and all that he had to do to win their love was offer them security within their little corners of the kingdom—and to look resplendent upon his great horse.

  “Good people of Pomfreth,” he began, speaking loudly, his voice resonant. He kept his line of vision just above the heads of the gathering, as he had learned, and he swept one arm out in a grand gesture. “You have heard of the passing of good King Danube, and no doubt the news has saddened you as it has saddened all of the court of Ursal.”

  “The king is dead!” cried one man from the back of the gathering, a man that Duke Kalas had planted in the town ahead of the army’s approach, as he had done in every town.

  “Long live the king!” came the appropriate responding cry in many voices, repeated over and over in a mounting cheer for King Aydrian.

  Aydrian sat quiet and let the momentum gather, then play out to renewed silence.

  “I march now, with the army of Ursal behind me, to comfort you and assure you all that there is no struggle within the kingdom,” he explained. “King Danube is dead, and I, as the son of Jilseponie, have rightfully and legally, by the late king’s own words, assumed the throne of Honce-the-Bear. You see with me Duke Kalas and the Allhearts, and many of the nobles of the court of Ursal.

  “Let the word spread throughout the land that a new and just king has ascended. Let the word spread from this town throughout the land that this King Aydrian is a friend to the folk of Honce-the-Bear, and that I will serve you as your king with the same love and affection of my worthy predecessor, King Danube!”

  It was all he had to say. The folk erupted into great cheering, calling out the name of King Aydrian. All signs of nervousness and fear were flown now, in light of his assurances. He had told them exactly what they had desperately hoped to hear.

  And now he could move on, confident that he had secured his kingdom just a little bit more.

  The town’s grandest house—which wasn’t much of anything, really—was gladly turned over to Aydrian soon after, and he entered with Sadye by his side, both glancing toward the small chapel, into which Marcalo De’Unnero had disappeared with the parson.

  “With each town taken, your relief grows more evident on your face,” Sadye remarked, as soon as they were alone.

  “Each town is farther removed from Ursal, and so more likely to offer resistance to the change.”

  “Resistance?” the woman asked doubtfully. “Against the army you carry in tow? Duke Kalas would burn Pomfreth to the ground so quickly that your march through would hardly be slowed. Aye, more quickly than the little speech you are required to give at every stop.”

  Aydrian’s fast-souring expression stopped her abruptly. Sadye put a hand on one hip and leaned a bit, studying the young king.

  “Or is that it?” she asked. “You fear having to kill people.”

  “Fear?” Aydrian echoed the same tone of doubt Sadye had just used. “No, I do not fear anything or anyone. Nor will I hesitate to trample anyone who gets in the way of this march I intend to make from one end of the world to the other. But I do wish to keep the slaughter at a minimum, you see. I take no pleasure in killing—that joy is reserved for those like your lover.”

  Sadye stiffened a bit at that remark, though neither she nor Aydrian were quite certain of which part of the comment had stung her—the statement that De’Unnero took pleasure in killing or the mere observation from Aydrian that De’Unnero was her lover.

  “I do what I must do,” Aydrian explained. “I walk a road of greater purpose and design than these peasants could understand—greater even than any of the nobles and generals can understand.”

  “Greater than Marcalo can understand?” Sadye asked.

  “His purpose is narrower,” Aydrian replied. “His purpose is determined by the weight he carries from his bitterness toward the Abellican Church. It takes less to satisfy him. The prize of St.-Mere-Abelle, of executing those who moved away from the vision he embraced for the Church, will suffice. So yes, greater than Marcalo can understand.”

  “Greater than Sadye can understand?” the woman asked, without missing a beat.

  Aydrian’s blue eyes, so much like those of his mother, bored into her, and a wry smile grew on his handsome and strong face.

  Sadye shrugged, prompting an answer.

  “No,” Aydrian said with a shake of his head. “Sadye understands. She wants no less for herself. That is what drew you to Marcalo’s arms, is it not? The search for something greater, something more exciting and more gratifying?”

  Unsure of the young man’s direction, Sadye put on a frown and assumed a more defensive posture, turning one shoulder toward Aydrian.

  “What will Sadye do when Marcalo’s vision pulls him to St.-Mere-Abelle, I wonder?” Aydrian teased. “Sovereign Sister Sadye?” He laughed as he finished, but Sadye did not find the preposterous title so very amusing at that moment.

  “Where will Sadye look, I wonder?” Aydrian went on undaunted, and he walked around her, reaching out one hand to play with her hair as he moved behind her.

  He pulled away quickly at the sound of someone approaching, and he was glad that he did when the door opened and Marcalo De’Unnero strode in.

  “The town fell under our embrace easily,” said the monk. “Though I do not trust the parson. He claimed allegiance, but if our enemies find their way to him …”

  He stopped and looked hard at Aydrian, then at Sadye. “What is it?” he asked.

  Sadye blew out a big sigh and managed a laugh. “Our young Aydrian became quite defensive when I observed that he was relieved to learn that there would be no fighting this day,” she explained, and she hopped over to De’Unnero’s side and wrapped her arm playfully about his waist.

  De’Unnero gave a snort. “As we all should be relieved,” he said seriously, “with every town that gladly throws its allegiance to Aydrian. We will find battle soon enough—probably at the gates of Palmaris, if not before. The more of the kingdom that comes over willingly, the greater our claim of legitimacy against Prince Midalis.”

  “And against Fio Bou-raiy,” Aydrian put in, eliciting a wicked smile from De’Unnero.

  “I do believe that our friend Sadye is bored,” Aydrian remarked offhandedly. “She spoils for a fight. Take care, Sadye,” he warned. “Boredom is the impe
tus to greater heights, ’tis true, but it can prove the enemy to those who do not truly understand the heights to which they aspire.”

  The irony of that statement in light of their private conversation, especially with De’Unnero nodding his agreement at her side, was not lost on Sadye. But she wouldn’t give Aydrian the satisfaction of seeing it on her face, and so she just laughed absently and moved off, towing De’Unnero with her.

  Aydrian watched her go, every step.

  Ever was he the ambitious lad. Ever was he ready to conquer every challenge.

  Chapter 7

  A Soft Wall of Resistance

  “I WANT YOU TO GO WITH ME,” JILSEPONIE SAID TO ROGER LOCKLESS, A DIMINUTIVE man, stunted by a childhood illness that had nearly taken his life. But while Roger was short in stature, he was long on character. In the war with the demon’s minions, Roger had stood firm as a beacon of hope, a lone hero to forlorn people. And he had stood strong beside Jilseponie and Elbryan through the ordeal of Markwart. Roger had grown under Elbryan’s tutelage and proven to be the best friend Jilseponie—Pony—could ever know.

  “Go?” Roger asked hesitantly, and he glanced to the side of the table, where his wife Dainsey was looking on silently. Like Roger, the woman appeared somewhat frail, with spindly limbs. She had nearly succumbed to the rosy plague, was on her last breaths when Jilseponie had brought her to the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris. Dainsey had been the first to taste of the Miracle of Aida, but though she had beaten the plague, she had never fully recovered her previous robust health. Now her hair was gray and thin, and her eyes were sunken back in her skeletal head.

  “To Dundalis first,” Jilseponie explained. “I must find Bradwarden. And then to Andur’Blough Inninness—though that journey I expect to make alone.”

  “You will go and question the elves?” Roger asked skeptically.

  “How can I not?”

  “How can you?” Roger countered. “Do you believe them to be your friends?” He shook his head and insisted, “They are not your friends. Surely this development proves that beyond all—”

  “Dasslerond must answer for this!” Jilseponie demanded, and the flash of power and anger in her blue eyes set Roger back a bit. Again, though, the diminutive man looked over at Dainsey, who was nodding at him approvingly, and gathered his strength.

  “Lady Dasslerond is not your friend, Pony,” Roger said quietly.

  Jilseponie started to answer, but was given pause by his suddenly somber tone, by the obvious implication that he knew something here that she did not.

  “When you were in Ursal, sitting as queen, Dasslerond’s people came to me,” Roger quietly explained.

  “You knew of Aydrian?” The flash of anger was there again, suddenly and explosively, and Jilseponie even leaped up from her seat.

  “No, of course not,” Roger replied, and he placed his hands on her shoulders in a calming motion. “Lady Dasslerond’s people came to me in Ursal, asking that I watch you carefully. Dasslerond fears you, and always has, for you possess something that you should not—in her eyes, at least.”

  Jilseponie eased back into her chair. “Bi’nelle dasada,” she reasoned, her voice calm once more. “Lady Dasslerond fears—has ever feared—that I will teach the elven sword dance to the soldiers of Honce-the-Bear.”

  “Her people are not numerous,” Roger remarked. “They fear for their very existence.”

  “And that gives her the right to steal a child from the womb?” Jilseponie cried, her voice rising in indignation once more.

  “ ’Course it doesn’t, and no one’s saying such a thing,” Dainsey interjected.

  “I know how you feel—” Roger started to say.

  “No you do not,” Jilseponie insisted.

  Roger conceded the point with a slight nod. “We have an enemy rising right here in our midst,” he said. “Why will you go to the elves to begin another war, when one has come to you?”

  “There are questions—”

  “For another day,” Roger interrupted.

  “For now!” Jilseponie shot back. “This battle within the kingdom is not my war. I have no more wars in me. De’Unnero be damned—and he shall, I am confident—but he and Aydrian are a problem for the folk of Honce-the-Bear.”

  “Not of Jilseponie?” Roger asked, and the woman stared at him hard. “You will abandon these people? You have served them all your life.”

  “And given all that I have to give.”

  “That loss is yours more than theirs,” Roger replied.

  Those words stung Jilseponie profoundly, but they did little to change her mind or her course at that moment. “I leave for Dundalis in the morning. I intend to ride hard all the way. I welcome your company, Roger, and yours, Dainsey, but I will go alone if not beside you.”

  With that, the woman rose and walked out of Chasewind Manor, the greatest mansion in all Palmaris, formerly the house of the ruling Bildeborough family. Jilseponie had lived here when she had ruled this city as baroness and then as bishop, and she had passed the house on to Roger and Dainsey as her stewards when she had gone south to marry King Danube.

  She had barely exited the place, though, and had not even reached the gates across the courtyard, when she was assaulted by the sound of galloping horses and the shouts of a roused populace. She stood there on the front walk of Chasewind Manor, dumbfounded by the rising energy within the city—and it was a general tumult across the city, she could tell, even from where she stood on the elevated western edges.

  She stood quiet and she listened, picking out the calls of the heralds.

  A moment later, Roger and Dainsey were out beside her.

  “Braumin has roused them,” Roger observed. “He has decided to fight.”

  “And the folk’re welcoming the choice,” Dainsey added.

  Jilseponie looked at them both and started to reply, but then the shouts rang out very near to Chasewind Manor’s gate, as a rider galloped by, crying, “Long live Prince Midalis!” followed by the stinging, “Death to Aydrian!”

  Jilseponie swung about, her face a mask of horror and anger, her breathing suddenly shallow.

  “It won’t come to that,” Roger assured her, moving right beside her and wrapping one arm about her waist. “They are frightened, that is all. The bluster of criers is to rouse the people to a cause. They cannot—”

  Jilseponie held her hand up to stop him. She understood quite well the need for such strong words when the folk would soon be asked to stand firm against an army.

  But that didn’t lessen the sting.

  “So you have decided to fight,” Jilseponie remarked when she caught up to Bishop Braumin and Master Viscenti a bit later on, in Braumin’s office on the main floor of St. Precious.

  “The choice was never ours to make,” Braumin said to her. “I held audience on the square outside of St. Precious.”

  “Without sending word to me or to Roger in Chasewind Manor?”

  “I had not planned it to be so definitive a speech,” Braumin told her, and she knew the man to be sincere. “I planned to tell the gathering simply to measure their feelings on this.”

  “You understand what you ask of them?”

  “I know what they demanded of me,” Braumin replied.

  “As soon as he told them the truth of our self-proclaimed king, and the truth of his companion, the folk needed no convincing,” the recently arrived Master Viscenti put in. “They will not tolerate the return of Marcalo De’Unnero unless that return is with chains about him!”

  “They are loyal to the line of Ursal, and the crown has been stolen,” Braumin added.

  Jilseponie stared at him hard, recognizing clearly the conflict that remained within the man. Yes, he was somewhat relieved that the people had grabbed on to his simple statements of fact and taken control of the momentum from that point forward, but there remained within Braumin a good deal of guilt and trepidation about all of this.

  “You will lock the gates and not allow Aydrian entrance
?”

  The bishop of Palmaris squared his shoulders. “I will.”

  “And what will you do when Aydrian knocks those gates down?”

  “Are we to surrender to him?” Braumin asked, suddenly animated, waving his arms and storming about. “Can the strongest simply take the throne with impunity? Are we not a land of tradition and law?”

  Now it was Jilseponie’s turn to stand quiet and hold fast to her stance.

  “If you fight beside us, we have a chance,” said Braumin.

  Jilseponie was shaking her head before he ever finished the sentence. “I have business that will take me far from this place, likely never to return.”

  “You will forsake us in this dark time?” Viscenti put in.

  “The day is dark, I do not doubt,” Braumin added. “But who are we if we allow our mortal fears to defeat our principles? Who are we if we choose the comfort of the flesh over the serenity of the soul? We know what has happened here. We see the injustice clearly.”

  “And you resist that injustice,” Jilseponie remarked.

  “As should you. Are you not the same Jilseponie who stood fast beside Elbryan against the direst of odds? Are you not the same Jilseponie who would have given her life before denouncing her principles in the face of the demon-possessed Markwart?”

  Jilseponie gave Bishop Braumin a pleading look, as desperate an expression as the man had ever seen, as she answered, “He is my son.”

  “Then we cannot win!” Viscenti lamented, and he turned away, throwing up his hands in despair.

  “You cannot win in any case,” Jilseponie said to him. “Not here, not now. You have seen my strength with the gemstones, and believe that such power would bolster enough to resist. But I have seen Aydrian’s strength, and it is greater still! He will knock down the gates of Palmaris if they are closed before him.”

  “Then all hail King Aydrian!” Master Viscenti dramatically cried, swinging about to face the woman. “And all hail Father Abbot De’Unnero! Damn the traditions of Church and State alike! Damn the—”