DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (195 page)

Then the mystic put the weak Brynn across his shoulders and started his climb, not stopping until he had reached the secluded monastery.

The stares of disbelief that greeted his arrival were not unexpected, for the mystic had surely broken nearly every covenant concerning bringing visitors unannounced to the Walk of Clouds.

Not the least of those surprised looks came to him from Master Cheyes, his mentor.

And so it ended, so quickly, so brutally. When I reflect on how little I knew of this leader, Ashwarawu, I am amazed at the spell he held over me, over so many of us. Where was he born? Among what tribe? Did he witness the death of his parents, as did I? Are his parents even dead?

So many questions now occur to me about who this man was and where he came from, about the history that would produce a leader so brave. The strange thing is, when I was with him, when I might have gotten answers to those questions, I never thought to ask them. Like all of the others, I was swept up in the moment, in the hope of freedom, in the glory of our cause
.

In light of that realization, was it Ashwarawu’s greatness that moved us all behind him, I wonder, or our own desperation to believe that we could win back our freedom? Was Ashwarawu a great leader, or simply a strong man thrust into the forefront by a desperate people?

Now, these months later, I must consider those questions honestly. For my own heart, at least, I must come to understand and accept the defeat
.

I was thrilled when I learned that many of my people had not broken to the ways of the Yatols. Not just the old, wishing for times long past, but the young and strong, as well. Most of Ashwarawu’s raiders were around my age, and many were significantly younger. We rode with passion and justice behind us
.

But we lost
.

When first I arrived at the Walk of Clouds, that seemed impossible to me, a nightmare that could not be. Is there not a god above, a god of justice and honor? If there is, then how could he side with the Yatols against us? Is there justice in their conquest? In their torture? In their reduction of an entire race of people to the class of slave? No god of justice could side with them!

But we lost
.

And we did not lose because of any godly intervention, or because of any lack of godly intervention, I have come to understand through my meditations here. We lost because of human fault, because of pride, above all. We seemed so unbeatable out on the steppes, against the caravans, against the settlements. Even against an army nearing our size, such as the garrison that moved into the settlement of Dancala Grysh, I had no doubt that we would win, and decisively. In a battlefield of our choosing, where we can use our strengths and exploit the Behrenese weaknesses, the To-gai-ru will cut the Behrenese down. I have no doubt of this, but in that string of
victories, we forgot the key to those victories: the battlefield of our choosing
.

The army that came to Dancala Grysh was not there to do battle against us, but to entice us to turn to the east. When I look back upon that terrible day with that in mind, how foolish I feel! How easily did Dharyan play upon the pride of Ashwarawu and upon us all! We were goaded and baited. We were allowed to believe in our invincibility. And how ridiculous those illusions seemed when the jaws of the Jacintha army closed upon us!

The agonized cries of that defeat reverberate across the steppes of To-gai now, I fear. Given the absolute failure of Ashwarawu, a second insurgence will be much more difficult to organize than was the first
.

What now, then? Is the dream of a free To-gai lying dead on the field outside of Dharyan? Were my plans to battle the Behrenese and the plans of Lady Dasslerond that I would lead my people to freedom no more than the folly of impossible hopes?

I do not know
.

That admission pains me. It brings that haunting moment of the death of my parents crashing around me like the dark wings of despair. And yet I know that I must honestly answer the question. I must honestly assess the chances of any uprising, the odds of every potential battle. If I am to lead To-gai against the Yatols, I must do so honestly, devoid of the encouragement of hubris. In my heart I knew, before the battle of Dharyan ever began, that something was not quite right, that it was too easy and too convenient and too grievous an error by the Yatol of Dharyan, who had proven again and again that he was no fool. I sensed the danger there, and so did Ashwarawu, I suspect. But he—we—were too caught up in the possibility of the decisive win to pay attention to such feelings
.

Ashwarawu believed in the opportunity that loomed before us because he wanted to believe in it. So desperately!

In this most critical test, Ashwarawu failed
.

I have to carefully examine all that I know of the man now
.

The first lesson that Pagonel gave to me once I had recovered from my wounds was to force me to admit, to myself, that I was angry at the opportunity lost and angry at the man who had squandered that opportunity. Ashwarawu had beaten me to the war trail and was building that which I most desire, and he failed, and set back my cause—our cause—perhaps irreparably
.

My first task, then, is to release myself from the bitterness I feel toward Ashwarawu. I have to examine carefully all that I know of the man now. Without blame, I must examine his failures and his triumphs. It is my task to study what he did right and what he did wrong, to learn from it, to better prepare myself
.

Does this mean that I will take up the reins of battle again, that I still hope to lead To-gai in an uprising against the cursed Yatols?

That is my hope, yes, but I cannot know now if ever again I will see the opportunity before me
.

And while the hope remains, it remains pushed far from the realities of the present. That is not the purpose of my path anymore
.

—B
RYNN
D
HARIELLE

Chapter 19
 

H
E LOOKED UP THE SHEER
,
FIFTY-FOOT WALL
,
THEN GLANCED OVER HIS SHOULDERS
at his tiny wings, lamenting that they were nowhere near strong enough to get him out of the hole.

Belli’mar Juraviel could only sigh, reminding himself that even if he could somehow get out of the hole, he would still be a long way from free. He’d have to cross through the lair of Agradeleous, the dragon, and into the adjoining tunnels, and then somehow navigate his way out of the Path of Starless Night. Which way would he go, north or south? With the discovery of the Doc’alfar, and now finding the location of one of the great dragons, it seemed obvious to Juraviel that his road should be to the north, back to Andur’Blough Inninness to speak with Lady Dasslerond.

But now, from Agradeleous’ own tales, it seemed as if Brynn had escaped the terrors of the dragon, and in the direction of the To-gai steppes. It was possible that she was already chasing her destiny—one that Belli’mar Juraviel had been charged with overseeing.

And, of course, there remained his promise to King Eltiraaz that he would not return home with news of the Doc’alfar.

And, of course, it was all moot anyway, because Agradeleous was as mighty a jailor as could be found in all the world, and the dread dragon wasn’t about to let his prisoners get away.

A noise at the back of the small pit brought Juraviel from his contemplations and turned him toward the one tunnel exit out of the main prison, a long and low corridor leading to a steamy ledge, a waterfall pouring over it and dropping down to sizzle in a wide pit of molten lava. Cazzira, her black hair wet from washing, her creamy skin all red from the steam, entered the chamber, wearing nothing more than her short shirt.

“Has he returned yet?” she asked casually, tossing her wet hair back from her face.

Belli’mar Juraviel just stood and watched her for a moment, letting her question drift away.

Cazzira froze, noting the stare. “What is it?” she asked, smiling, even giggling a bit.

“I was only thinking how much longer this imprisonment would seem if you were not here beside me,” Juraviel admitted.

Cazzira’s smile only widened and she moved right next to the golden-haired, golden-eyed Touel’alfar, placing her hand gently upon his slender and strong shoulder. Juraviel closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling himself with Cazzira’s
sweet scent. For a moment, he thought of stepping forward and wrapping her in his arms, and kissing her, but that fleeting moment washed away as Cazzira asked him, “Why must you think of it as imprisonment?”

Juraviel stepped back, blinking his eyes open. “Because that is what it is.”

Cazzira shrugged. “And your time with my people was imprisonment, as well.” The Doc’alfar spun away as she made the remark, moving for her drying clothes spread on a rock at the far end of the wide pit.

“It was,” Juraviel called after her. “And less pleasant than this time! Your people kept Brynn and me in a room of mud!”

“Peat,” Cazzira corrected. “Where else were we to put you? We chose not to give you to the bog—for that you should be grateful.”

A burst of helpless laughter escaped Juraviel. He shook his head and looked back up at the pit’s rim.

“And Agradeleous chose not to eat us, or burn the flesh from our bones,” Cazzira went on.

“Which I still do not understand.”

“He recognized us for who we are.”

“And why might that spare us?” Juraviel asked. “When have either the Touel’alfar or the Doc’alfar been allied with the great dragons? I would have thought that any recognition of our heritage by Agradeleous would have prompted the flames all the more quickly.”

Cazzira sighed and slumped to the side, tilting her head, her body language reminding Juraviel that they had discussed this issue many times before. “Four races,” she said. “Only four. Doc’alfar and Touel’alfar, the children of life, the dactyls and the dragons, the beasts of death.”

“That is how it was, not how it is.”

“But that is how Agradeleous still views the world,” Cazzira explained. “To him, the other races—human, powrie, goblin, giant—are no more than animals, vermin to be exterminated. But we, you and I, represent two of the true races, and to the dragon, we are a novelty, and a chance for companionship.”

“Even if our races are avowed enemies?”

“That means little if the races have been reduced to a few creatures. If the Tylwyn Doc and the Tylwyn Tou were at war, and all that remained were the two of us, would we continue the battle?”

A wisp of a smile curled Juraviel’s lips. He could not imagine warring with Cazzira under any circumstances, not after spending these weeks beside her, learning so much of her dreams and hopes and philosophy. Not after realizing that he and she were so much alike in so many ways, both enigmas to their respective peoples.

“But the dragons and the dactyl are creatures of darkness,” he argued. “When Bestesbulzibar, curse his name, walked Corona a decade ago, there was no parley. There was only war.”

“The dragons are not so akin to the demon dactyls, then,” said Cazzira.

Juraviel let his line of reasoning end with that, for indeed, there were profound
differences between the two dark races. The dragons, always rare, were mortal creatures and were of Corona, while the demon dactyls were creatures of another plane of existence, creatures that found an inviting rift to come and terrorize the world. Elven legend said that this rift was caused by the evil in the hearts of men, and thus, the elves often considered the humans as children of the demon dactyls.

“Will he tire of us?” Juraviel asked. “Will we become vermin in Agradeleous’ snake eyes?”

Cazzira held her pose for a long moment, then shook her head. “I think that the dragon has grown fond of us, or fond of companionship, at least.”

“Then Agradeleous will never let us go.”

Cazzira only shrugged.

Juraviel went back to studying the high walls of his prison, searching for minute ledges, for cracks, for anything that would allow him a handhold, landing and liftoff places where his diminutive wings might propel him out. This prison had been well prepared, however, with the walls fire-blasted to slag that ran down in smooth sheets.