DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (253 page)

Now it was good to be home, though the specter of Aydrian, King Aydrian, held his smile in check.

He looked back along the trail, to see his companions, Doc’alfar all, moving along.

“What have you done?” came a sharp voice among the trees to Juraviel’s left, long before the elf’s companions had caught up to him.

Despite the uncharacteristically harsh tone, Juraviel recognized the voice of To’el Dallia. He turned and scoured the trees, and sorted his kinswoman out from amid the tangle of branches.

“Long-lost cousins, too far removed,” Juraviel replied solemnly.

To’el Dallia moved to the end of one branch, near to Juraviel, and studied him closely. She wanted to say that it was good to see him—he could see the warm familiarity clear upon her sparkling features. But there, too, resided a dark cloud, a deeper expression of true concern.

“It is no time to bring strangers to Andur’Blough Inninness,” To’el Dallia scolded. “Go to them and turn them away, and be fast about it!”

Juraviel nearly laughed at the absurd remark, and would have had he not caught the hints of deep and sincere distress resonating within his friend. For there was never a proper time to bring strangers to Andur’Blough Inninness! Few outside the Touel’alfar were ever permitted to look upon the beauty of the elven valley, and those were only the rangers-in-training, or other unexpected guests given shelter in times of great distress, as Lady Dasslerond had done with Juraviel’s human traveling companions, refugees all, when the demon dactyl had come upon them on the open road so many years before. That last unexpected and uninvited incursion had also brought the demon Bestesbulzibar himself to the elven valley, and the profound stain that the creature had left behind, the growing rot upon the beautiful ground, had led to …

All of this, Juraviel understood, and only then did the implications of Dasslerond’s uncharacteristically generous act that day on the open road ring true to him. Because of the presence of the dactyl in the elven valley, because of the stain
and the growing rot, Lady Dasslerond had sent Brynn south to free To-gai, thus securing a potential escape route for the Touel’alfar should they ever be forced out of their valley. Because of that stain, Juraviel had gone south with Brynn, whereas rangers would normally have departed alone. It was his presence that had saved the girl from the normally unmerciful—to humans at least—Doc’alfar.

And because of that stain, Dasslerond had taken Jilseponie’s baby, and had raised him to be her weapon against the demon sickness.

All of it resulting from that one incident on the road.

With a helpless shrug, Juraviel realized that if what he had heard about the rise of Aydrian in the east was true, the implications had only begun to play out.

He looked over at To’el Dallia then, still visible though she had retreated somewhat, and he noted the curious, even stunned, expression on her face. As if sensing his stare at her, the female turned to regard him once more, and asked again, “What have you done?”

“I have brought our cousins home,” Juraviel answered. He swept his arm out to the south, to the approaching band. “I give you Cazzira, my wife, and among those beside her is King Eltiraaz himself, who leads the Doc’alfar of Tymwyvenne.”

The names meant nothing to To’el Dallia of course, except for one. “Doc’alfar?” she echoed, hardly able to get the name out of her breathless throat, and so stunned was she that she apparently hadn’t even registered the fact that Juraviel had just announced one of them as his wife.

C
urious stares, some showing great alarm, and a cold wind followed Captain Al’u’met’s every step.

The sailor from Behren was no less curious in looking back at the scenes around him, the deerskin tents and the blond-haired people. Giants they seemed! Though Al’u’met was not a short man, he surely felt like one in the southern reaches of Alpinador. At last the good captain understood so much more vividly the mighty reputation of the warrior Alpinadoran barbarians. Not a man in this small village had an arm thinner than Al’u’met’s leg, discounting the Bearmen who had accompanied him, an entourage which included Prince Midalis and Abbot Haney of St. Belfour.

It was more than a little intimidating to the captain, but Prince Midalis seemed to know his way about the settlement and was obviously recognized by most of the barbarians. Midalis held himself with regal bearing. He was in his forties, but still had the physique and energy of a man fifteen years his junior. He looked much like his brother, King Danube, though he had ever been of a leaner build than the somewhat portly king. Both had the thick black hair of the Ursal line and the penetrating blue eyes, orbs that could shrivel most men under their intense stare. Midalis wore a beard, trimmed short and low on his strong jawline.

Beside him, Abbot Haney seemed a frail figure. Thin and well-groomed, the man walked with a much stiffer gait than did Midalis, the result of spending many, many hours seated at a desk, working with quill and ink rather than with heavy
tools or weapons. He had gone bald on top, which made his forehead seem ridiculously high, and he had developed a laziness in one eye that made it droop a bit. Still, though the recent years had not been kind, the abbot carried himself with dignity and poise.

It struck the tall and dark-skinned Al’u’met how odd-looking a trio they truly were.

A large man, even by Alpinadoran standards, emerged from a tent near the back of the settlement. His hair was long and thick, with feathers woven in on one side. He wore a sleeveless deerskin tunic and had a leather strap tied about his right upper arm, which only emphasized his enormous muscles.

His features were strong and stern, severe even, but he did smile when he saw the visitors.

“Bruinhelde!” Prince Midalis called to him. “It has been too long, my brother!”

The large man stepped forward to greet the prince. They clasped hands, but the barbarian pulled Midalis closer, wrapping him in a great hug. He glanced over at Al’u’met often, though, apparently almost as surprised by the appearance of a Behrenese man in Alpinador as were the other villagers.

“You found us too easily, eh?” the large man said in somewhat broken Bearman language. “We should do better to cover our tracks when we travel, if a simple southerner can follow them.”

“Only because this southerner was trained by Andacanavar of the north,” Prince Midalis was quick to reply, and that brought an even wider smile to the barbarian’s face. “Where is our friend these days?”

“He travels about the northland,” Bruinhelde started to answer, but he stopped suddenly. “Forgive me,” he begged and he half turned and swept his hand invitingly toward his tent. “Join me. We will have much food and strong mead.”

Prince Midalis nodded and motioned for his friends to follow him into the tent, and each ducked in turn beneath the doeskin flap. Though Bruinhelde was the leader of all the southern tribes of Alpinador, there was little in the way of luxury or ornamentation in here. The place was well stocked in comfortable furs, though, and soon enough, Bruinhelde’s attendants made good on his promise, bringing heaping plates of food and skins full of strong Alpinadoran mead.

“You know Abbot Haney,” Prince Midalis started, and the barbarian leader nodded and offered a warm look to the man. “And I give you Captain Al’u’met of the good
Saudi Jacintha
, a merchant ship sailing out of the great city of Palmaris.”

“The comforts of my tribe to you,” the barbarian said graciously. “You are a long way from the water. Though I do remember you, from the wedding of King Danube and Jilseponie.”

Al’u’met bowed slightly, impressed.

“Captain Al’u’met came to me with confirmation of disturbing news, my friend,” Prince Midalis explained. “News of the death of my brother.”

“It wounds my heart,” the barbarian replied genuinely, after giving Midalis a solemn look and nod. “I named King Danube as my friend.”

“There is more,” Prince Midalis began, and he glanced over at the captain, who had sailed into Vanguard with the tales of Aydrian Boudabras and Marcalo De’Unnero. “And this, too, will wound your heart, I fear. We come to you because it is important that your people know what is happening in the kingdom to the south. We come to you because we doubt that the new imposter king of Honce-the-Bear will honor the border between our countries if his army marches this far to the north.”

“Imposter king?” Bruinhelde echoed, surprise and anger equally evident in his tone. “What of Jilseponie, then? What of Midalis?”

The prince turned to Al’u’met and motioned for him to begin. And so the captain recounted the tales of the events in the southland again, in great detail.

Bruinhelde listened, riveted, for more than two hours, and when Al’u’met finished, the Alpinadoran leader sat there for a long while, digesting all the information. “What do you ask of our friendship?” he asked Midalis.

The prince glanced around at his two companions, then back at Bruinhelde, his expression alone conveying his sincere gratitude that this great warrior leader had even deigned to ask such a question.

The problem was, in that time of confusion, Prince Midalis didn’t really have an answer.

I
t was with great reluctance that Master Viscenti finally turned his back on the Masur Delaval and Palmaris truly to begin his second journey of the month to St.-Mere-Abelle. The monk had tarried long about the eastern banks of the great lazy river, grabbing every tidbit of news that had filtered across the waters. But finally, with Palmaris secured by the forces of Aydrian, the fleet had turned to the east, securing those cities along the riverbanks, and even off-loading legions of Kingsmen, who struck out on expeditionary missions about the region.

Marlboro Viscenti found himself in a long line of refugees fleeing for St.-Mere-Abelle, and when he had at last arrived at the great and ancient monastery, he found a city of tents on the fields before the gates, with nearly as many people as had congregated there during the time of the great rosy plague! They were afraid, Viscenti understood. Afraid and confused, and thus looking to the one solid foundation upon which they could throw their trust.

He wondered if Fio Bou-raiy, who had been no friend to the plague victims, would be more generous with this current crowd.

Inside, Viscenti found the great abbey all astir, and he was stopped with practically every step, hordes of brothers congregating about him, begging for information. He told them all as little as possible that would allow him an escape, for he had been met at the abbey gates by emissaries of the Father Abbot, bidding him to come straightaway for an audience. Finally, with help from some of the Father Abbot’s closest masters, the visitor managed to get to the private audience chamber.

Fio Bou-raiy was obviously not in good spirits this day. He met Viscenti with a scowl and a simple question: “What happened?”

“Aydrian happened,” the monk from St. Precious replied. And then he recounted all that he knew of the fall of Palmaris.

Even as he had finished telling the story of the battle proper, Fio Bou-raiy interrupted. “We have heard that Bishop Braumin has spoken in favor of this new king. And in favor of Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero.” There was no mistaking the anger behind those words, a sign that the ever-suspicious Bou-raiy was believing the stories of Braumin’s capitulation completely.

Master Viscenti lowered his eyes, for he had heard the same tales from many of the folk fleeing the great city. With their own ears they had heard Bishop Braumin’s endorsement of King Aydrian, so the informants from the conquered Palmaris had said.

“I have heard the same,” the nervous master admitted. “And it has troubled me all these days since the fall of Palmaris.”

“A fall, or a surrender?” Father Abbot Bou-raiy asked sternly.

“A fall!” Master Viscenti insisted. “I witnessed that with my own eyes. The folk of Palmaris fought valiantly, but they were overwhelmed! The brothers of St. Precious held on stubbornly, until flames licked the walls of the abbey and the forces of Aydrian forced their way in!”

“You saw all of this, and yet you escaped?”

“I watched much from across the river, and that which I believed I saw was confirmed by the first folk fleeing the city,” Viscenti answered.

“The same folk who claim that Bishop Braumin endorsed the new king and new Father Abbot?”

Viscenti started to give a helpless sigh, but then answered, “No,” with some conviction. “No,” he reasoned, and things started to sort themselves out a bit more clearly in his mind. “Those last reports of Bishop Braumin’s endorsements came later. Likely it is a disinformation campaign by the imposter king. Perhaps these people reporting the tragedy were placed—”

“Spies?” Fio Bou-raiy interrupted, and he shook his head in dismissal. “No, Master Viscenti. You have seen some of the same people as I, no doubt. They have come here of sincere intention and sincere confusion. And many tell the same tale.”

Then Viscenti did give that sigh.

“And what answer have you for this?” Fio Bou-raiy asked. “Has Bishop Braumin lost his faith? Is this the same man who stood against Father Abbot Markwart when all seemed lost?”

“It is!” Master Viscenti insisted.

“Then what answer have you?” the Father Abbot demanded.

Master Viscenti lowered his gaze, for though he did not doubt the reports from so many, he did not have any idea of what might have happened, or of how this might have happened.

Of course, neither Viscenti nor Fio Bou-raiy nor anyone else in the room had any idea that Aydrian Boudabras was powerful enough with the soul stone to possess the body of one as learned and formidable as Braumin Herde, and force that
mouth to say whatever he wanted it to say.

“T
hen you will need us more than we need you,” King Eltiraaz remarked after Lady Dasslerond had revealed to them and to Juraviel the truth of the new king of Honce-the-Bear.

Juraviel, now fluent in the languages of Doc’alfar and Touel’alfar—languages that were not far apart—translated Eltiraaz’s words, taking great care that every inflection was properly represented. For Eltiraaz wasn’t being in any way condescending, nor was he bargaining for anything from a position of power. He was making a statement, and in generous tones that made it quite clear that he intended for his people to aid the Touel’alfar in this possibly dangerous time.