DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (165 page)

The zombie stopped and looked around stupidly.

Juraviel slashed it again, and then a third time, in the face, as it at last looked up.

Showing no pain, the zombie reached stiff arms up for the nimble elf. Juraviel wasted no time in slashing one hand, then the other, taking off a couple of fingers. Greenish pus flowed from the stumps, and Juraviel could smell the disease. He backed off a few skittering steps and, apparently realizing that it could not reach him, the zombie clamped both arms about the branch and began pulling itself into the tree.

Juraviel saw his opening and didn’t hesitate, leaping right to the spot on the branch between the zombie’s arms, taking up his sword in both hands and slashing it down with all his might, cleaving the zombie’s head right down the middle. He retracted the blade immediately, brought it back around to his left, then in a circular motion up over his head and back down to the right, driving it in hard against the side of the zombie’s head, creasing all the way to the gash of the great downward cut.

A huge piece of head fell away, but the zombie kept pulling itself up.

Eyes wide with disbelief, Juraviel transferred his horror into power and slashed away with abandon.

The zombie slowly turned and looped one leg over the branch, and Juraviel promptly slashed and slashed at that limb until it, too, fell free of the body. Down tumbled the undead monster, holding on with just one hand.

Juraviel cut that hand away.

The creature fell to the ground and tried to rise, but just fell over again and again.

Watching it struggling, but not lying still, Juraviel knew that this fight could not be won. The creatures were not difficult enemies, one at a time. But the sheer amount of punishment they could take ensured that no fight against the mob would be one against one for any amount of time.

“We must flee!” Juraviel called out to Brynn, as he ran along the branches, trying to find his companion. Diredusk’s frenzy cued him in, and he ran toward it until horse and woman were in sight.

Brynn’s work was nothing short of magnificent, a tribute to the woman and the training of the Touel’alfar. Juraviel watched her bow-staff swinging this way and that, coming in for a sudden clutch and stab, then working back out for a devastating smash. Or at least, it should have been devastating, for it would have felled a living opponent.

He watched Brynn shift her tactics to more effect, watched her drop a zombie with a brilliant combination, watched her free up Diredusk and send him galloping off into the forest night.

That was all-important to her, Juraviel knew, and he managed a slight smile despite the terrible situation. For the To-gai-ru, the bond with their mounts could not be underestimated. A To-gai-ru would risk her life gladly in an effort to save her horse.

Again Brynn worked brilliantly against the closing horde.

Juraviel realized then that he should not simply be standing there in the safety
of the boughs, watching her, that he should rush down to her side!

But, despite that realization, the elf did not explode into motion, did not move at all toward his young ranger friend.

Because Belli’mar Juraviel understood the truth of it, understood that he and Brynn could not win out and could not escape. Or at least, that the woman could not get away.

His heart torn, Belli’mar Juraviel chewed his bottom lip, his hand grasping his sword so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He wanted to go to Brynn, wanted to fight beside her and die beside her, if that was the ultimate ending. And he would have done that, he knew in his heart, would have willingly given his life for her.

But he could not.

For this horror, this atrocity, held implications beyond the lives of Belli’mar Juraviel and Brynn Dharielle, beyond even the failure of returning Brynn to To-gai to try to lead her people in revolt against the Behrenese. This horror, a perversion of life itself, held implications that went right to Caer’alfar and Juraviel’s people. His duty was clear to him, though it was a duty that burned his heart. His duty was to his people above Brynn, was to return with all speed to Caer’alfar to report to Lady Dasslerond, to warn the Touel’alfar of the grotesque army that walked the southern night.

The elf watched as Brynn was borne down to the ground by a mob of zombies, the stubborn woman fighting all the way.

Juraviel turned his back and started away, picking a course along the higher boughs that would take him far from the scene of horror and send him running on his way back to the north.

The elf stopped before he had gone three strides.

No, he could not do this. Despite his heritage, despite the Touel’alfar code that elevated his people to the highest regard and placed all of the other races, including humans, including human rangers, far below, Belli’mar Juraviel could not leave Brynn to her fate.

As the woman had done for Diredusk, so Juraviel did for her, turning back and half-flying, half-leaping from limb to limb and then from limb to the back of one zombie, his small sword thrashing violently.

He managed to get that one creature off the woman, then rushed into two of the others, slashing wildly and forcing them back, creating enough of an opening for Brynn, who was still fighting fiercely, somehow to climb back to her feet.

She held her staff out horizontally before her, hands widespread on its solid shaft. She punched out, left and right repeatedly, forcing two zombies back, then went out with a stab hard to the right, crushing the face of a third.

“There is no escape!” she cried out, as Belli’mar Juraviel came up behind her, so that they were back-to-back.

“Then die well,” the elf calmly replied.

And so they tried to do just that, as the walls of zombies closed upon them, sword and staff flailing wildly, tirelessly, brutally.

They had several of the creatures down soon after and had forced their way back toward the encampment, back toward the fire.

Juraviel found the new weapon first, grabbing up a flaming stick and thrusting it into the nearest zombie’s face. A puff of smoke carried with it a sickening smell, but the torch had much more effect than either sword or staff, igniting the creature. Juraviel worked frantically to keep its burning arms away.

The zombie beside it began to burn as well.

“A torch! A torch!” Juraviel yelled, hope creeping back into his voice.

Brynn reacted quickly, throwing her staff into the nearest creatures to make them hesitate, then spinning back to the fire and trying desperately to find a torch. She burned her hand as she grabbed up one long stick, but ignored the pain and spun about, thrusting the flaming end right into the eye of a zombie.

And so the tide of battle turned, briefly, as zombies fell back from the flames. One toppled, fully ablaze, and then another.

But even so, Juraviel and Brynn knew that they could not win out against so many, for their supply of firebrands was limited indeed, and would fast exhaust itself.

“Cut through one line and run away!” Juraviel instructed.

Brynn nodded and turned to move beside the elf, but then stopped suddenly, feeling a burning sting in the side of her neck. She reached up, her expression curious.

“Brynn?” Juraviel cried.

The woman exploded into motion, coming forward again, thrusting her brand into the face of one zombie and driving it back.

But then Juraviel watched as her movements unexpectedly and inexplicably slowed, as her arms drooped.

“Brynn!” he cried again, slapping his torch to the side, then leaping out the other way as the zombie went up in a blaze of fire.

Juraviel turned just in time to see Brynn tumbling down, zombies falling over her, thrashing and punching.

He could not get to her, could do nothing to help her!

Now Juraviel knew that he had to escape, to flee to Caer’alfar with this horrible news. He turned a complete circuit, his outstretched torch forcing the mob back. He ended the turn by throwing the torch into the face of one creature, then leaped straight up, his wings fluttering to carry him to the boughs.

He almost made it, but one zombie caught him by the ankle.

Juraviel fought against it, his little wings flapping frantically. But elven wings were not meant for flight. They were meant for enhancing leaps and breaking falls, and the zombie’s grip was too strong and unrelenting.

Juraviel felt himself spinning down to the side, then swinging about fast.

He saw the tree right before the zombie smacked him into it.

Dazed and on the ground, Juraviel’s thoughts were for Brynn, and for his own failure in coming back to her. He should have flown off immediately for the north.
His duty to the Touel’alfar demanded it.

But what of his duty as a friend?

He saw Brynn, then, briefly, lifted from the ground by a zombie and thrown back down hard, while others fell over her limp form, kicking and punching, though she was offering no resistance at all. She appeared to Belli’mar to be dead already.

He kicked and thrashed, trying to break free. He scrambled away as soon as he felt the grip relent, climbing to his feet and taking two quick strides.

But he was tackled, then he was punched, and, finally, half-conscious and helpless against the rain of blows, he saw another creature, this one fully engulfed in flames, coming toward him.

In his last flicker of consciousness, Juraviel felt fortunate that one of the other zombies smashed him into blackness before he felt the burning flames.

Belli’mar Juraviel knew no more.

Chapter 6
 

T
HE LONG CARAVAN SNAKED ITS WAY ACROSS THE BROKEN BROWN CLAY
. I
T APPEARED
like a giant centipede, its torso a long line of camels and covered coaches, its legs the flanking soldiers riding tall horses. In the middle of that center line, in the largest and most lavish coach, Yatol Grysh sat back in his cushy seat, complaining about the heat constantly, though he had several attendants, all beautiful young women, fanning him and patting his brow with moistened towels.

“I do so hate this,” the Yatol said repeatedly. “With the To-gai dogs, there is never any rest from my duties.”

The two of his four attendants who were of obvious To-gai-ru descent, with their softer and straighter hair and almond-shaped eyes, didn’t flinch at the remark, having long ago gotten used to Grysh’s demeaning manner.

“It will calm the outposters,” said Carwan Pestle, Grysh’s advisor Shepherd, and the sixth and final person in the wide coach. “They fear that the thieves grow bolder by the day.”

The caravan had been barely out of Jacintha, making its way along the southern shadows of the Belt-and-Buckle toward Dharyan, the town controlled by Yatol Grysh, the seat of his power in northwestern Behren, when couriers from Temple Yaminos of Dharyan had caught up to them, informing the ruling Yatol that the thieves of the Corcorca region of To-gai, just west and south of Yaminos, always a thorn, had become even more active. That, of course, had unsettled the outposters, the Behrenese emigrants who had begun to settle outside the old Behren-To-gai border.

Yatol Grysh had campaigned for those settlements, to the Behrenese people and to Chezru Douan, figuring that his job would become all the easier as the Behrenese settlers gradually began to civilize the wild To-gai-ru. But the early transition was proving to be something of a trial for the lazy man.

Thus, Grysh had diverted his caravan to the south and ridden right past Dharyan, determined to enter Corcorca with his two hundred escorting soldiers, a contingent that included a score of fierce Chezhou-Lei warriors. He’d teach the dogs. Though there weren’t all that many miles separating Dharyan from the To-gai region, it was a difficult trek, with the wagons bouncing along a narrow, rocky, steeply ascending trail, up to the higher elevations of the To-gai plateau. Yatol Grysh did not enjoy the several days of discomfort.

Grysh leaned back and looked out his window at the wide and barren landscape. In the distance to the north, he could see the towering peaks of the mountain range that had been a backdrop to his home for his entire life. He wanted to be back under their cooling shadow, in the temple that was his palace, full of luxuries
and sweet foods, of clean baths and beautiful and dutiful women.

But Yatol Grysh understood that the only way to ensure the continuation and safety of his precious palace was to rule these eastern stretches of To-gai with an iron hand. He hated the To-gai-ru, with their barbaric, nomadic ways. He hardly considered them human.

Grysh looked at his To-gai-ru attendants and smiled lewdly. He did like their women, though.

“The people of Douan Cal near completion of their wall?” he asked Carwan. Douan Cal, named after the Chezru Chieftain, was the largest and most important of the Behrenese settlements, and also the one most plagued by the rogue To-gai-ru bandits.

“They work tirelessly, Yatol,” Carwan replied. “But their life is difficult. Water must be carried far and crops constantly tended. Their hunters have not learned the way of the local game yet, and thus often return without food. They are not many, but still, they work as they can, whenever they can, at cutting the blocks for their encircling wall.”