DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (185 page)

The Chezhou-Lei stopped in her tracks. All about gasped in astonishment at the sheer speed of the strike, for none in To-gai had ever before witnessed the precision and straightforward attack that was
bi’nelle dasada
. Dee’dahk’s wide-eyed look was as much in surprise as in pain, Brynn knew. In truth, Brynn wasn’t sure that the warrior woman had even registered the fact that she was already mortally wounded.

Mortally wounded, but probably still dangerous, Brynn realized.

Brynn’s fourth strike was perfectly aimed, taking her in the heart.

She stood there at the end of Brynn’s bloody blade for a long while, staring into the rich brown eyes of her killer.

Then she slid back off the blade, falling to the ground.

The reality of the moment, of the kill, hit Brynn hard indeed, but she pushed it away, having no time, and charged hard at Yatol Daek.

The man put his hands up, begging her for mercy. “Take your horse, wanderer!” he said, and he quickly called out to his soldiers trying to corner Runtly, telling them to desist. “Be gone from here—I have no quarrel with you!”

Brynn stared at him curiously, contemptuously. He was an appointed leader, but he was obviously a coward. So great a coward! Not lowering her sword, and not letting him slip away from her at all, Brynn glanced to the side and called to the pony, who came trotting over.

“There, you see?” said Yatol Daek. “I am not your enemy, wanderer. I am To-gai-ru.”

“No!” Brynn screamed at him before he had even finished the claim.

Yatol Daek put his trembling hands before him. “You cannot kill me and hope to survive,” he said. “Please, get on your horse and be gone.”

“No, fool,” Brynn said, in more controlled tones, and she lowered her blade somewhat, and Yatol Daek’s hands similarly drooped. “You are no To-gai-ru.”

“The religion of Yatol—”

“This is not about the robes you wear!” Brynn shouted. “No, this goes deeper.” Runtly reached her then, and she pulled the brown-and-white head in close and rubbed her cheek against the soft hair.

“No,” she said to Daek. “No To-gai-ru would steal a horse.”

“The horses are the property—” he started to protest, but Brynn wasn’t listening.

“No To-gai-ru would ever order a horse slaughtered.” When she finished, she was still nuzzling Runtly, still seeming quite at ease.

But then came that explosive thrust of
bi’nelle dasada
, so suddenly that Yatol Daek never registered the movement. His expression was of genuine astonishment when he looked down to see Brynn’s magnificent sword buried deep in his belly.

“Damn you, and damn your new ways,” Brynn said, and her thoughts went into the sword, then, calling forth the fire!

Yatol Daek screamed in agony, and Brynn jerked the blade once and then again, the fine metal slicing him open, the flames consuming him.

She tore it free then, and turned to see the many Behrenese and the many To-gai-ru, staring at her with disbelief.

It didn’t hold, and the Behrenese soldiers howled and started to charge.

Brynn went up to Runtly’s back, guiding him with her strong legs. She clenched her left fist, bringing forth the pulsing white shield of her enchanted powrie bracer.

She didn’t run off, though, but turned and galloped into the heart of the charging Behrenese line. Behrenese soldiers scattered before her; she ran one down, finishing him with a devastating chop, and let Runtly trample another to the dirt.

Brynn charged back the other way, toward the home of Barachuk and Tsolona. To her relief, the couple was waiting for her, throwing her the bow and quiver.

The pursuit was halfhearted at that point, and Brynn could have taken Runtly out of the village easily enough. But the young ranger was far from satisfied. She slid her sword under one leg and took up her bow, charging back toward the Behrenese pursuit.

A couple of enemy soldiers were up on horseback by then.

Brynn smiled wickedly as she thought of the first major challenge Lady Dasslerond had thrown at her. She saw her enemies as she had seen the targets that dark night in Andur’Blough Inninness on the torchlit field, and her aim was no less true.

By the time Brynn Dharielle and Runtly charged out of the small village, her quiver was emptied of its twelve arrows and ten Behrenese, including Yatol Daek
and Chezhou-Lei Dee’dahk, lay mortally wounded.

A few arrows arched out of the town in her general direction, none coming close to striking the mark.

Brynn pulled up a short distance away, turning to measure the danger.

But no pursuit was forthcoming.

Chapter 14
 

T
HE TRIBESMEN OF THE SOUTHERN STEPPES OF
T
O-GAI
,
NEAR TO THE
M
OUNTAINS
of Fire, had never been true nomads, and so the intrusion of Behrenese conquerors had not changed the ways of these To-gai-ru as profoundly as it had their brethren farther to the north. The northern slopes of the volcanic mountain range were so very fertile year-round that there was no need to wander or follow any herd. And there, far removed from Jacintha and the edicts of the Chezru Chieftain, and where the borderland between the two kingdoms was not so clearly defined as the barren sand to plateau steppe change farther to the north, many Behrenese and To-gai-ru had lived and worked in relative proximity for centuries. There were even children of mixed heritage, though they were not common, and the practice had never been openly accepted.

The only real difference since the conquest of To-gai was the presence of Behrenese soldiers, a single eight-square, traveling from settlement to settlement to tribe encampment, fostering many ill feelings among the To-gai-ru, and trying, obviously, to rouse the sentiments of the Behrenese in the region against their Ru neighbors. Typically, though, as soon as the eight-square moved on, those Behrenese and To-gai-ru commoners who were left behind resumed their typical daily routines.

Another thing that the Behrenese and To-gai-ru of the southern stretches had in common was a mistrust, even fear, of the mysterious order of mystics rumored to be wandering the Mountains of Fire, the Jhesta Tu. These reservations were amplified among the Behrenese, for the Yatol religion had long ago condemned the Jhesta Tu as heretics. Even among the To-gai-ru, though, traditionally more tolerant of other beliefs—since their own tribes often varied in their respective deities—the Jhesta Tu had never been looked upon fondly.

Into this environment, following the vision that had been shown to him in the days before he had earned the Sash of All Colors, walked Pagonel, carrying a backpack of various colored threads and sewing supplies so that he could continue work on producing the Sash of All Colors for the next master to walk the path. Pagonel knew that he would be in somewhat hostile territory no matter what direction he took out of the Mountains of Fire, but he had seen the truth, had experienced his Chi life force in a conscious and intimate way, and so he feared nothing.

In the common room of the first village he entered, he felt the many stares focused his way, and since he spoke both Behrenese and To-gai-ru fluently, he understood the many whispered insults surrounding him. But he let them slide right past him. They didn’t understand. How could they understand?

The To-gai-ru proprietor of the common room served him as requested—certainly not promptly!—though he charged more pieces of silver than normal, Pagonel knew.

“You offer rooms for the night?” Pagonel asked him.

The proprietor, a To-gai-ru, glanced around at the many patrons whose eyes were upon him.

“Fear not, friend, for I’ll not even ask about acquiring shelter,” the mystic said, letting the obviously nervous man off the hook. “The night will not be cold, and the stars are the finest roof a man might know.” Pagonel drained his glass of water, smiled and bowed at the flustered proprietor, then turned and similarly saluted the rest of the gathering.

He heard many whispered conversations, almost all derogatory, aimed at his back as he exited the building.

At least they had not been openly hostile, and none, not even the few Behrenese in the room, had made any movements to challenge him. Still, Pagonel thought it unwise to remain in the settlement that night, so he went out to the surrounding forest and found a comfortable niche in a tree, settled back, and watched the lazy glide of the moon across the starry sky.

He was gone long before the next dawn, walking north at a leisurely pace. He still was not quite sure why his vision had beckoned him out into the wide world, but he was curious about the continuing assimilation of To-gai-ru into the conquerors’ culture. Perhaps that was the experience to which he had been called, to learn more of this clash of cultures that was reshaping the civilizations south of the larger mountain range. Perhaps there, where old traditions were being challenged daily, Pagonel might learn more about the truth of the world and about this life.

That was what the mystic told himself as he wandered north. He never imagined that other, deeper emotions would soon be stirring within him.

T
he mystic wandered for many days, enjoying the sights about him as the season changed to winter. He wasn’t overly concerned for his safety; he was Jhesta Tu and had learned well how to survive in the harshest of climates.

He recognized the signs of an approaching storm—one that would likely be snow and not rain—one afternoon, at about the same time he saw the wispy gray lines of smoke rising from a nearby village.

He crested a ridge, looking down upon the collections of mud and wood houses, the sun setting behind them. He noted a line of tethered horses—not the pinto ponies of the To-gai-ru, but taller mounts, chestnut and roan. Noting movement about the mounts, Pagonel recognized the white robes of a Behrenese man, then looked closer to see the crossed black straps over the man’s chest, showing him to be a Behrenese soldier.

“This could be of interest,” Pagonel remarked, and he strode down to the village. The stares that greeted the mystic, with his identifying Jhesta Tu tan tunic and sash, were identical to the ones he had felt upon him in the previous village.
Except for the Behrenese soldier; when that man took note of Pagonel, his dark eyes widened in obvious horror, and he ran headlong, even tripping to his knees once as he tried to scramble inside the town’s common room.

Pagonel went in soon after, to find a dozen soldiers, all adorned in the white robes with the black leather chest straps, staring at him hard. The mystic nodded to them, then moved to the long table that served as a bar.

The scuffling of feet behind him told him that one of the soldiers had scrambled out of the room, no doubt to warn his superiors.

“Long way from your home,” said the innkeeper, a broad-shouldered Ru with black stubble on his face that seemed to reach all the way up to his dark eyes.

“Not so long,” Pagonel replied. “A week’s march and no more, if my pace is brisk.”

“Them Behrenese dog-soldiers are going to think that you’re far from home,” said the innkeeper.

As he finished, Pagonel heard another scuffling, and he turned to see the soldier returning, glancing at him from over the shoulder of an older, stern-faced man who was dressed in Behrenese soldier robes, but with golden straps and not black, crossing his broad, muscled chest.

He stared hard at Pagonel, who took care not to match that look, but rather nodded deferentially and tipped his glass of water. Then the mystic turned back around, facing the bar, and placed his cup down on the table.

“What is your name?” came the question behind him, spoken in To-gai-ru, if a bit strained in dialect.

Pagonel sipped his water, making no move to answer.

“You, Jhesta Tu!” came a snarl. “What is your name?”

Pagonel slowly turned to face the man, and the line of a dozen warriors standing behind him, most of them glancing about nervously. The reputation of the Jhesta Tu preceded him, apparently.

“What is your name?” the leader asked yet again.

“I am called Pagonel. And what is yours?”

“I will ask, you will answer.”

“I already have.”

“Silence!” The man narrowed his eyes, his stare boring into the mystic. “You mock me?”

“Hardly.”

“I am Commander of the Square,” the soldier said in haughty tones.

“And that is a source of pride?”

“Should it not be?”

“Should it be?” Pagonel understood that he might be pushing a bit too hard, though all of his remarks had been offered in neutral, matter-of-fact tones, and all had been merely observations and not judgments. Or had they been? the mystic had to honestly ask himself. He reviewed his last few comments—while pointedly not locking stares with the infuriated Commander of the Square—and he had to
admit that, while everything he said had been simple truth, it was also bait.

“I am Pagonel, Commander of the Square,” he said calmly. “I have journeyed from my home in search of wisdom and enlightenment, and with no desire for any trouble, I assure you.” He lowered his eyes as he finished, which he believed that the prideful commander would surely view as a sign of peace and submission.