DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (240 page)

Belli’mar Juraviel felt as if the whole world was sliding away from him at that awful moment, felt as if he was receding into some surreal dimension. Aydrian was king? He knew in his heart that Dasslerond had never planned such a thing, and that if this really was the Aydrian he had known in Andur’Blough Inninness, the child of Elbryan and Jilseponie, then something had gone terribly wrong.

“You know of him?” Cazzira stated as much as asked.

Juraviel hardly heard her. “I beg of you, King Eltiraaz, learn more of these events, for they hold great consequence, I fear, for my people.”

“How so?”

“If this Aydrian is who I believe, then my people are either more intimately tied to the humans than ever before, or they are in more danger from the humans than ever before,” Juraviel honestly replied. “I must learn more of this new human king, and quickly.”

Cazzira put her hand on his arm, and when he glanced at her, he realized that the desperation must have sounded clearly in his voice. He looked at her helplessly for a moment, then turned back to the Doc’alfar king. “And I fear that my time here is short,” he went on. “I must be away, as soon as is possible, to my people.” He looked back at Cazzira, who nodded. “I pray you allow Cazzira to accompany me, and perhaps others of your court.”

King Eltiraaz wore a curious expression. “I thought that we had long ago agreed on a decidedly more gentle approach to heal the ancient breach between our peoples. Such a meeting cannot be forced, we agreed.”

“If Aydrian is king of the humans, then I fear for my people,” Juraviel admitted. “And I ask King Eltiraaz to aid us in this, what may be our time of need.”

“And so doing, endanger his own people?” the Doc’alfar king asked without hesitation, his tone growing more grave.

Juraviel conceded the point with a nod. “I must go,” he said. “And I pray you do not hinder me.”

“Then you must tell me more of this Aydrian,” King Eltiraaz insisted.

Juraviel considered the question for just a moment; he could not deny that it was a reasonable request.

“I will tell you all that I know, of Aydrian and his parents,” he agreed.

“And of your fears,” the Doc’alfar king added, and Juraviel nodded.

“And we will tell you of our travels to the south, through the Path of Starless Night, through the lair of the dragon, Agradeleous, and across the wild grasslands south of the mountains,” Cazzira put in. She looked at Juraviel, whose expression showed less patience with that prospect. But then Cazzira added, “And we will tell you of other developments that may sway your decision concerning Belli’mar Juraviel’s journey home, and what role I, and others of our people, might play in that journey.”

Juraviel understood her reasoning then, and he knew it was sound. Cazzira was going to leverage their love and their coming child, to try to force her king’s hand in opening up the dialogue between Touel’alfar and Doc’alfar.

“Yes,” Juraviel agreed. “We have much to share with you. And I beg of you to send your scouts out wider while we speak, to learn all that they can learn of King Aydrian and the affairs of the humans.”

“Which humans, Belli’mar Juraviel?” King Eltiraaz asked. “Those to the east, or those to the south?”

Juraviel, who had considered himself out of the tales of Brynn Dharielle, took a long moment to ponder that question, for he realized that if the Aydrian he knew was indeed the new king of Honce-the-Bear, the implications might prove far-reaching indeed. “Perhaps both,” he replied. “But for now, let us learn of the dramatic changes within the kingdom to the east.”

Chapter 3
 

H
E NEVER MADE IT BACK TO THE
M
OUNTAINS OF
F
IRE AND THE
W
ALK OF
C
LOUDS
, his beloved home, the monastery of the mystical Jhesta Tu. Pagonel, weary and battered and feeling every bit the four decades of life he had known, had left the northern city of Dharyan-Dharielle in the spring, intending to return to the monastery in the distant southland. He had much to report, after all, given the momentous events that had literally reshaped the region of Behren and To-gai. The Jhesta Tu had a friend now in Brynn, who led the To-gai-ru, and with the often antagonistic Behrenese in disarray, the Walk of Clouds seemed poised to prosper and grow in peace.

But it was precisely that disarray in Behren that quickly turned Pagonel’s path. In the reclaimed Behrenese city of Pruda, before he had even reached the halfway point of his journey home, Pagonel had heard rumors of war. All the southern coast of Behren had erupted in battle, with Yatols Peridan and De Hamman resuming their old feud now that the overseeing power of the Chezru Chieftain was no more. That news alone was troubling enough to Pagonel, though certainly not unexpected. But the second rumors of mounting conflict sounded even more ominous.

Apparently, the Yatol of Avrou Eesa, a most unpleasant imperialist named Tohen Bardoh, was gathering strength. At the truce between To-gai and Behren—between Brynn and Yatol Mado Wadon, who spoke for the great Behrenese city of Jacintha—Yatol Bardoh had led the prime opposition. Bardoh had left the field outside of Dharyan-Dharielle a bitter man, and one whom all the parties involved in the truce agreed might prove to be troublesome.

Rumors now seemed to support that very speculation. If Bardoh was indeed gathering a great army, then likely they would soon be fighting for the city of Jacintha, for the heart of Behren itself, and the fate of the Jhesta Tu and of Brynn and her To-gai-ru kinsmen was surely involved. Yatol Mado Wadon, the logical successor to the dead Chezru Chieftain as Yatol of Jacintha, might soon be challenged, forcefully so, by Yatol Tohen Bardoh.

Bardoh hated the Jhesta Tu, and more than anything in the entire world, Yatol Bardoh hated Brynn Dharielle, known as the Dragon of To-gai. In her journey to free To-gai, she had conquered his city of Avrou Eesa, and had made the man look like a fool in the process, not once, but twice. Pagonel had no doubt that if Bardoh won the struggle and seized control of Jacintha, his friend in Dharyan-Dharielle would soon find herself once more at war—and this time with an enemy far more determined to see her end.

Pagonel owed it to Brynn to learn more about these troubling reports, and to
determine if she and her legions should join in the fighting before the issue of Jacintha was decided. She had made something of a pact with Yatol Mado Wadon, after all, forcing him to agree to her keeping Dharyan as her own by using the threat of Bardoh against him. If she had not held the city, then Bardoh would surely have taken it, thereby strengthening his already considerable position among the remaining Behrenese leadership. Better for Yatol Wadon that she kept the city, she had reasoned effectively to the man, and when she had symbolically named the conquered and held city Dharyan-Dharielle, adding her To-gai-ru name to its previous Behrenese name, she had done so with the intent that this city would serve as a bridge between the two peoples.

If in control of Behren, Yatol Bardoh would only cross that bridge with a conquering army at his back.

The Jhesta Tu mystic, wearing his traditional red-and-orange robes, drew quite a few stares as he crossed through the Dahdah Oasis to the west of Jacintha. In the centuries of the reign of the Yatols, few Jhesta Tu walked the lands of Behren, but now Pagonel wore his robes openly so that he could gauge the reaction and thus, the significance of the recent changes.

There were no soldiers in the oasis this day, which surprised the mystic, given that much of the army was in the process of returning from the battle-scarred areas to the west. He had wondered if he would encounter the majority of the Jacintha garrison here, a logical stopping place on the road back to the east.

All that he found were merchants, though, their caravans clustered in various sections about the watering pond.

“A fair day to you,” Pagonel greeted one man, a farrier, as he worked on the infected foot of a hobbled horse.

The man looked up at him, his jaw dropping open despite his obvious attempts to remain calm and controlled.

“Ah, be you de man who made de peace?” the farrier answered in his heavily accented voice, a dialect that Pagonel knew to be from the Cosinnida region of southeastern Behren.

“I am a man dedicated to peace, yes,” Pagonel answered, dipping a slight bow.

“Den you be in de bad place now!” the farrier replied with a toothy grin and a burst of laughter.

Pagonel looked around at the many caravans, at the quiet, slightly rippling pond. “I see no armies drawing their lines of battle.”

“Not yet, but soon,” the farrier explained. “That Yatol Bardoh, he be very very angry. We see many soldiers returning to Jacintha, but many more do not. Or when they do, it will be in line with Yatol Bardoh, we hear, to take de place from Yatol Mado Wadon. It be very very bad, I tell you.”

Pagonel was more than a bit surprised that the man was being so forthcoming with him. Obviously, Behren was in flux here, an uncertain time where information gained and given would be crucial to the well-being of all. As he stood there with the farrier, others drew closer, listening with more than a passing interest.

“We be going to this new city,” the farrier said, and Pagonel noticed a few other merchants nodding.

“Dharyan-Dharielle,” the mystic said.

“You know de place, yes?”

“I do, and can promise you all that the woman sitting as governess there will welcome you with open arms,” Pagonel told them with complete confidence. “It is the desire of Brynn Dharielle that her city serve as a bridge between the Behrenese and the To-gai-ru, and that it remain an open city, exchanging goods and exchanging ideas. You will find your journey well worth your time, I assure you.”

That brought a lot of hopeful nods from the men and women, all of whom were so obviously on edge from the mounting tension within Behren.

“You break de bread with me this night,” the farrier said.

“And with me!” a merchant chimed in.

“And me!” said another, and so on down the line.

Pagonel readily agreed, knowing that the insights he gathered from these nomadic merchants would likely provide a greater understanding of the true goings-on within Behren than anything the leading Yatols might tell him.

“T
he events in Behren are of great importance to the new king of Honce-the-Bear,” Master Mackaront of St. Bondabruce, the longtime emissary of Abbot Olin to the Chezru Chieftain, told the new leader of the Yatols within Jacintha.

“I would think that your new King Aydrian has problems of his own,” Yatol Mado Wadon replied with obvious skepticism.

Mackaront spent a long while studying the man, his posture, and his movements. Mado Wadon was an old man, older than Mackaront’s fifty years, and the very foundation of Wadon’s world, the religion and spirituality that had guided his entire life, had just been stripped out from under him. He was frightened, obviously, and likely doubting the decision that had led him to dispose of Chezru Chieftain Yakim Douan. The pressure was growing on him, clearly, as more and more reports of the gathering strength of Yatol Tohen Bardoh filtered into Chom Deiru, the Yatol palace in Jacintha. Mackaront understood his fears to be justified, given the many territorial disputes that had erupted throughout the fracturing kingdom, particularly those just to the south, where Yatol Peridan seemed to be taking advantage of the fact that many of his neighbor’s soldiers had been pressed into service during the war in the west against the To-gai-ru and had not yet returned.

“You must understand that our new King Aydrian was guided on his ascent by none other than my master, Abbot Olin,” Mackaront said, a statement that he had offered several times already during this important meeting.

“Olin, who befriended Chezru Douan,” Mado Wadon remarked.

“Abbot Olin, who loves Behren,” Mackaront was quick to correct. “My master befriended Chezru Douan because Chezru Douan spoke for Behren. He holds no anger over the events that led to his friend’s downfall, though he is certainly saddened
by news of Douan’s death.”

“A most pragmatic man.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Yatol Wadon’s voice.

“As he was saddened in learning that the Yatols chose not to look more deeply into this joining of beliefs, Abellican and Chezru, that seemed exemplified by the actions of Yakim Douan,” Mackaront said, and Mado Wadon’s eyes popped open wide.

“Douan was a fraud, and a murderer!” the Yatol cried. “He used the evil gemstone to steal the bodies from unborn children, claiming them as his own in his pursuit of physical immortality! Do not for one moment try to justify such a heinous act as that!”

“I do not,” Mackaront said, shaking his head slowly throughout Wadon’s tirade. “But do not deny that the discovery of Yakim Douan’s actions have shaken your religion to its very foundations. Perhaps it is time to explore the possibilities of a middle ground here, between—”

“No.”

The denial was not unexpected to Mackaront, and he realized that he might be pushing a bit too fast and too hard here. It was not really his place, at this time, to lay the groundwork for Abbot Olin’s ascent to the leadership of Jacintha, but rather, to measure the level of desperation within Yatol Mado Wadon and use that desperation to pave the way for the first forays into Behren.