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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Hundreds are dead,” Pony lamented.

  “My reports put the number into the thousands,” Brynn corrected after Pagonel had interpreted the words. “Perhaps into the tens of thousands.”

  Pony didn’t disagree with the estimate; never had she witnessed such brutality, man against man, as had occurred in the turmoil of Jacintha. Groups seemed to be operating independently, fighting anyone who came against them, or even near them, without bothering to determine if they were friend or foe.

  “And there is fighting beginning anew in other regions of Behren,” Brynn went on. “Yatol Wadon will find his task of reuniting the kingdom daunting, perhaps impossible.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Pony asked.

  “Only if the imperialistic Bearmen return,” said Brynn. “In that case, opposition to Aydrian and Honce-the-Bear will be minimal, I fear. He will find allies among the various tribes.”

  “Aydrian will not return here,” Pony vowed.

  “They are a tribal people, in their core,” Pagonel added, speaking it consecutively in both languages. “They will cluster together in their respective cities and regions, and defend their borders from any who would try to dominate them.”

  They stood in silence for a short while after that, just looking down at the devastated city.

  Pony appreciated Brynn’s patience here. The Dragon of To-gai didn’t press her at all to reveal the meaning of this unexpected visit.

  “Have you considered what you will say to my son … to Aydrian?” Pony finally asked.

  “Brynn travels to Entel to deliver the news of Abbot Olin’s defeat,” Pagonel answered, before he even translated the words to the To-gai warrior woman. “And to warn Aydrian against his apparent designs on the kingdoms south of the mountains. She will offer truce, but not alliance.”

  Pony waited for Pagonel to explain the exchange to Brynn, then bade the mystic, “Ask her if she will deliver for me a message to Aydrian. Tell him that Yatol Wadon has generously turned the prisoner Abbot Olin over to my care and that I wish an exchange.”

  Pagonel interpreted the request for Brynn, then assured Pony that they would arrange it.

  Pony explained the situation at length to Pagonel, who in turn spelled it out for Brynn.

  “Your message will be delivered,” Brynn promised. “And with my insistence that King Aydrian agree to your terms.”

  Pony nodded her gratitude, and the three turned back to the distant sights of Jacintha and the encampment. Eventually, the woman who had been queen turned as if to ask something else.

  But Pony hesitated and seemed uncomfortable.

  “What else do you wish of me?” the perceptive Brynn asked.

  “You knew Aydrian,” Pony began haltingly. “When he was young. I wish to know …” Her voice trailed off into a sigh.

  Brynn’s smile widened as Pagonel translated the words. “There is much I wish to tell you about him,” the ranger answered. “I did not see him daily in Andur’Blough Inninness, but enough to share with you many memories.”

  “I would enjoy that,” said Pony.

  The trio spent the remainder of the evening out there in the dark, with Brynn telling Pony so many things about the life her son had lived in the valley of the elves. She didn’t hide the truth of the headstrong young Aydrian behind empty compliments, but she spoke of many of his arguments with Lady Dasslerond with a wide grin upon her face.

  For Pony, it was all bittersweet. She loved hearing that Aydrian had found some bit of joy and innocence in his youth, at least.

  But that only made her realize even more poignantly how much she regretted all that she had missed.

  Chapter 41

  Necessary Disengagement

  “OLIN HAS FAILED,” AYDRIAN INFORMED SADYE. HE WAS STILL HOLDING THE NOTICE that had been posted anonymously in Ursal, requesting that he meet with the leaders of To-gai and Behren to discuss an end to the hostilities.

  “Failed?”

  “He invoked the wrath of Brynn Dharielle, and she joined with the Behrenese to defeat him,” Aydrian explained. “Even as Master Mackaront was requesting that I send more soldiers to Jacintha, To-gai was rising against Abbot Olin.”

  “Do you question your decision not to send the soldiers?”

  “No,” Aydrian said without the slightest hesitation. “Our fight is here. St.-Mere-Abelle remains strong and Prince Midalis is running free about the coast, with support from Alpinador. I cannot send ten thousand more warriors so that Abbot Olin can realize his dreams beyond the borders of Honce-the-Bear!”

  Sadye moved right beside her lover and gently slid her arm about his waist. “How big a loss have we suffered?” she asked quietly. “How many were killed?”

  “I know not,” Aydrian admitted. “There have been reports of a large force crossing the mountains to return to Entel. Olin took ten thousand with him; it will be a simple matter of subtraction to determine our casualties. There is one great concern to me, though: Where is Duke Bretherford? Surely he could have sailed from Jacintha to Entel by now.”

  “The reports from Entel,” Sadye remarked under her breath, for they had heard whispers that a large force had been deposited along the beaches outside of Entel, and that many were claiming to be the remnants of Duke Bretherford’s fleet after it had been conquered by Prince Midalis. Aydrian hadn’t put much stock in those scattered and confused reports, nor had anyone else outside of Entel; but now they suddenly took on a deeper resonance.

  “Is it possible that Prince Midalis sailed all the way to Jacintha to wage war with Abbot Olin?” the young king remarked.

  “You sound as if you almost hope that to be the case,” said Sadye.

  “Oh, but I do,” Aydrian replied, and he went on with a leading voice, “If Midalis is so far to the south …”

  Sadye looked at him curiously, studying his widening smile and considering the way he spoke the words. “Then Vanguard is less guarded,” she reasoned at last.

  “And our force at Dancard can be retrieved and sent at once across the gulf.”

  “Prince Midalis seems to be well informed of our every move,” Sadye cautioned. “If he sails fast and chases that force to Vanguard, they will be trapped.”

  That was the rub, Aydrian knew. Prince Midalis seemed to know their every move. He had retaken the nearly deserted Pireth Tulme in short order, and had avoided all the traps they had set about the coastline below St. Gwendolyn. And now, apparently, he had discovered Abbot Olin’s troubles in Jacintha. Something wasn’t right, but Aydrian couldn’t quite yet put his finger on it.

  “Let us travel to Entel and meet with Brynn Dharielle and the victorious Yatol,” he suggested. “They will tell us more, whether they wish to do so or not.”

  By the time Aydrian and Brynn rode back into Entel that early-summer morning, the young king had gotten confirmation that Prince Midalis had indeed joined in the fighting against Abbot Olin. Hearing the reports from some merchants on the road in eastern Yorkey County, Aydrian had retreated to his wagon and to his soul stone, and had personally gone out, his spirit flying across the winds to the Entel coast, and then down and around the Belt-and-Buckle until Jacintha came into sight. He wasn’t able to maintain his vision of the place for long, for that pesky sunstone shield held strong against him.

  Of course, that alone told him that he had come near to his mother. He had seen enough to realize the truth anyway. Many Honce-the-Bear warships were anchored in the Jacintha harbor, alongside oared craft of an unusual design, which Aydrian figured correctly to be Midalis’ Alpinadoran allies.

  A second bit of news greeted Aydrian in Entel, as well: that Duke Kalas and Marcalo De’Unnero had surrounded and besieged St.-Mere-Abelle, and had sealed the docks.

  That was something positive, at least.

  The Entel meeting was arranged in a small farmhouse west of the city, a secluded location where the interested parties might find the privacy needed to conduct such business. Aydrian was there first, along with his ento
urage. He waited before the hearth, staring into the flames. It wasn’t really cold enough to warrant a fire this night, but the young man desired one so that he could lose his thoughts in the swirl of orange.

  Sadye sat right beside him, wrapping his arm with both of hers and resting her head upon his strong shoulder.

  A knock on the door startled them both. Aydrian stood up and helped Sadye to her feet, then brushed himself off and straightened his shirt.

  “Allheart Mallon Yank, my King!” came the proclamation, and then another knock.

  “Do enter, Allheart,” Aydrian formally replied.

  The door creaked open and an old and very dignified-looking nobleman strode in, his posture perfect, his Allheart armor impeccable, and his helm tightly tucked under his arm. “I give you Brynn Dharielle of To-gai and Yatol De Hamman, who speaks for the Behrenese,” the man explained, and he turned about and swept his arm toward the door.

  Brynn led the procession into the room, and Aydrian had to catch his breath at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen her in more than five years, but he recognized her from the instant she appeared in the door. Those eyes! Aydrian would never forget those light brown eyes, contrasting so starkly with the woman’s raven hair. He couldn’t contain his smile, and forgot his protocol altogether, sweeping forward as if to embrace her.

  Brynn’s icy stare stopped him cold, even forced him back a step.

  Two men walked in behind, one wearing the robes that Aydrian recognized as those of a Yatol priest—De Hamman, he figured—and the other plainly dressed. This second man drew Aydrian’s attention more than the Yatol. He appeared in his midforties, but walked in such a way, with soft steps and certain balance, as to make Aydrian believe him to be a warrior.

  “Greetings, King Aydrian,” Yatol De Hamman began, his command of the Bearman tongue fairly solid. “I am an emissary from Chezru Chieftain Mado Wadon, and speak for Jacintha.”

  “Chezru Wadon could not be bothered to make the journey himself?”

  That took the stupid grin from Yatol De Hamman’s face. “The treachery of Abbot Olin has brought great distress to Behren,” he retorted, and he didn’t even note the scowl that Brynn shot his way for so easily offering such information. “The city is in flames because of the abbot, and war rages across the land!”

  “Enough, good Yatol,” Brynn said in a language that Aydrian didn’t understand. She turned immediately and spoke to him directly, using the language of the Touel’alfar. “Great devastation has been inflicted upon Behren. Abbot Olin has brought shame to the Abellican Church and to Honce-the-Bear, and has represented you as an imperialistic conqueror.” She stared hard at Aydrian then, and added, “Would Lady Dasslerond agree?”

  Aydrian couldn’t help but offer a smirk at the mere mention of the elf’s name. “Have you come to declare war?” he asked bluntly.

  “I have come to demand peace,” said Brynn. “And to warn you to honor the border between your lands and mine—and ours,” she finished, turning to include Yatol De Hamman in the mix.

  “Abbot Olin went beyond his edict,” Aydrian told her.

  “And that was?”

  “To help Behren to find stability, and nothing more,” said Aydrian, rather unconvincingly. “To determine whose cause was just and use the forces at his command to solidify that man’s hold on the shattered kingdom.”

  “A gesture from the beneficent ruler from the north?” Brynn asked, not hiding her skepticism in the least.

  “Exactly.”

  Brynn glanced back at the other two men, then turned back on Aydrian, her expression sour. She came forward a step, so that she was very near to the young king. “Aydrian, what are you doing?” she whispered, though if she had shouted the elvish words, no one else would have understood them anyway. “What did you do to Lady Dasslerond?”

  Aydrian’s face went very tight.

  “You came to Behren with intent of conquest,” said Brynn. “And you stole this kingdom you now command. What are you—”

  “Stole?” Aydrian retorted. “My mother was the queen, do you not know?”

  “Your mother bitterly opposes your rule,” Brynn replied.

  “And how might you know this?”

  Brynn stared at him for a long while, then stepped back. “I have come to form an agreement of nonaggression,” she said in the language of the To-gai-ru, and Pagonel translated it into Bearman. “Your place is not south of the mountains, except on invitation from Chezru Wadon or myself. If you accept that place, then understand that the events in Honce-the-Bear are not the concern of To-gai, or of Behren.”

  As Pagonel translated, Yatol De Hamman echoed his agreement.

  “Very well then,” Aydrian said, turning and motioning to the long table that had been set up deeper within the room, complete with piles of parchment, writing quills, and inkwells. On a motion from Aydrian, a pair of scribes walked out from the corners of the room and took their places opposite each other.

  Aydrian and Sadye sat on one side, with Brynn and Yatol De Hamman taking the two vacant seats across from them, and Pagonel standing directly behind Brynn.

  The terms were simple enough, with Brynn and Yatol De Hamman promising not to attack Honce-the-Bear, and Aydrian agreeing to keep his armies north of the mountains. Agreed upon without delay, they set the scribes to work, and soon enough, the three leaders signed.

  “Is there anything more?” Aydrian asked, eyeing Brynn with every word, and just to make sure that she understood his meaning, he repeated the question in the language of the Touel’alfar.

  “There is so much more that I need to say to you,” Brynn answered, again in the elvish tongue. “Who are you, Aydrian? What have you become?”

  “Everything that Lady Dasslerond hoped I would become, and more,” he answered flippantly.

  Brynn narrowed her brown eyes. “I know what you did to her, and to Andur’Blough Inninness.”

  “And how might you know that, pray tell?”

  Brynn didn’t reply to the question, instead changing back to the language of her people and offering, “There is one other matter, concerning the disposition of a prisoner.”

  Pagonel translated.

  “Do tell,” Aydrian prompted.

  “We have Abbot Olin, and will return him to you,” said Brynn.

  “How generous. Can you not afford enough rope?”

  “But in exchange for one you hold,” the woman went on. “His name is Roger Lockless, and he is kept in the dungeons of Palmaris. Abbot Olin will be traded for him, if you so agree, at a time and place of your choosing.”

  Aydrian laughed aloud as Pagonel translated it all. “Ah, my mother,” he said. “Ever the sentimental and loyal fool.”

  “You know nothing of your mother,” Pagonel dared to reply.

  Aydrian stared at him hard. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Pagonel offered a slight bow and deferentially receded a step.

  “Abbot Olin for Roger Lockless?” Aydrian said to Brynn directly, reverting to the elvish tongue.

  “It seems more than fair from your perspective.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because he was a friend to your mother, and she would see him free.”

  “That alone tells me that I should refuse you,” Aydrian said coldly. “Anything that brings comfort to my mother is of no interest to me.”

  Again came that judgmental, disapproving look from Brynn, but Aydrian held strong. He shoved his chair out from the table and crossed his powerful arms over his chest. “Your request is denied. Hang Olin from the tallest tower in Jacintha, or from the mast of Prince Midalis’ own ship. I have no interest in him. He failed me and disobeyed me, and the result, by your own admission, is that Behren has been reduced to utter chaos.”

  “Behren has its trouble, indeed,” Brynn agreed. She came forward in her chair, leaning right over the table to stare hard at Aydrian. “But I warn you, if you come south to take advantage of that chaos, you will find a unified Behren standing a
gainst you, and beside a To-gai ally.” The woman backed off just a bit, and reached out one last time. “Aydrian. Aydrian! You know me as your friend. We were nurtured together—”

  “You were nurtured while I was tortured!” the young king roared back, and he leaped from his chair and leaned over the table, so that his face was but an inch from Brynn’s. “Who am I? I am the nightmare of Lady Dasslerond! I am the maelstrom.”

  “You killed her!”

  “I wish I had!” Aydrian snapped back. “But no, I was robbed of that pleasure by the witch herself!”

  Brynn slammed the table, and Sir Mallon Yank rushed forward, as if to cut in front of Brynn.

  Of course, Pagonel was far the quicker, spinning past the yelping Yatol De Hamman to easily intercept the Allheart. Mallon Yank went for his sword, but Pagonel caught him by the wrist as he closed his hand over the hilt, and with a proper press on the sensitive areas, locked the man’s hand in place.

  Yank responded by swinging his left for the mystic, but Pagonel easily avoided the lumbering blow, stepped back, and pushed the man along in his swing, knocking him off balance and turning him right about. The mystic’s foot planted against the stumbling Allheart’s rump and shoved him hard across the room, to crash into the far wall, where he stumbled down in his heavy armor and floundered about.

  Yatol De Hamman yelped again and ducked for cover; Aydrian’s hand went to his sword, as did Brynn’s.

  Outside, the guards cried out, and then they screamed out, and a great roar shook the house. The door burst open and the lizardman Agradeleous stepped to the threshold, smoke wafting eagerly from his nostrils.

  Brynn threw up her hands and stepped back, shouting, “Enough!”

  But then something strange happened, something unexpected and frightening beyond anything the onlookers could have anticipated.

  For Aydrian looked at the dragon, and Agradeleous at he, and both roared out in revulsion! Agradeleous bared his great fangs and seemed as if he meant to immolate the entire room, but Aydrian was the quicker, lifting his hand from his pouch and covering himself in a blue-white serpentine shield, and then blasting a bolt of lightning at the dragon that knocked Agradeleous back out of the room.