Master of fantasy adventure and #1 New York Times bestselling author R. A. Salvatore returns in the imaginative tour de force hailed by critics and readers as his finest work yet in the stunning fourth volume of the epic fantasy DemonWars Saga.
The long struggle is over at last. The demon dactyl is no more, its dark sorceries shattered by the powerful gemstone magic wielded by the woman known as Pony. But victory did not come easily. Many lives were lost, including Pony’s lover, the elf-trained ranger Elbryan Wynden.
Yet despite the dactyl’s demise, the kingdom still seethes in the same cauldron of plots and machinations. Was it for this, Pony wonders, that her beloved gave his life? Assailed by grief and doubt, Pony retreats to the northern lands where she and Elbryan once shared their brief happiness. There, among old friends, her wounded spirit can begin to heal.
Then a deadly plague appears suddenly among the people of Corona. Only Pony, with her supreme magical abilities, can heal the victims…or so she believes. But the plague resists her as if possessed by a malevolent strength and intelligence all its own.
Now Pony must undertake a pilgrimage that will test her powers—and her faith—as never before. Watchful eyes follow her: the eyes of the elves who have stolen something precious from her and keep it for their own mysterious purposes. And the eyes of the man she hates above all else: Marcalo De’Unnero, the villain responsible for Elbryan’s death…who would desire nothing more than to lead Pony down that same treacherous path to destruction.
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As one of the fantasy genre’s most successful authors, R. A. Salvatore enjoys an ever-expanding and tremendously loyal following. His books regularly appear on The New York Times bestseller lists and have sold more than 30 million copies. Salvatore’s most recent original hardcover, The Two Swords, book three of The Hunter’s Blades Trilogy debuted at #1 on The Wall Street Journal bestseller list and at #4 on The New York Times bestseller list. His books have been translated into numerous foreign languages, including German, Italian, Finnish, Greek, Hungarian, Turkish, Croatian, Bulgarian, Yiddish, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Czech, and French.
#1 New York Times bestselling author R. A. Salvatore is the modern master of fantasy adventure. After creating the spectacular DemonWars trilogy--an imaginative tour de force hailed by critics and readers as his finest work yet--Salvatore has surpassed himself once again in Mortalis, the stunning first volume in a brilliant new DemonWars quartet.
Chapter 1: The Show of Strength CHAPTER 1 THE SHOW OF STRENGTH
THE MUD SUCKED AT HIS boots as he walked along the narrow, smoky corridor, a procession of armored soldiers in step behind him. The conditions were not to his liking—he didn’t want his “prisoners” growing obstinate, after all.
Around a bend in the tunnel the light increased and the air cleared, and before Duke Targon Bree Kalas loomed a wider and higher chamber, its one entrance securely barred. Kalas motioned to a soldier behind him, and the man hustled forward, fumbling with keys and hastily unlocking the cell door. Other soldiers tried to slip by, to enter the cell protectively before their leader, but Kalas slapped them back and strode in.
A score of dwarvish faces turned his way, the normally ruddy-complexioned powries seeming a bit paler after months imprisoned underground.
Kalas studied those faces carefully, noting the narrowing of eyes, a reflection, he knew, of seething hatred. It wasn’t that the powries hated him particularly, but rather that they merely hated any human.
Again, almost as one, the dwarves turned away from him, back to their conversations and myriad games they had invented to pass the tedious hours.
One of the soldiers began calling them to attention, but Duke Kalas cut him short and waved him and the others back. Then he stood by the door, calmly, patiently letting them come to him.
“Yach, it’s to wait all the damned day if we isn’t to spake with it,” one powrie said at last. The creature removed its red beret—a cap shining bright with the blood of its victims—and scratched its itchy, lice-filled hair, then replaced the cap and hopped up, striding to stand before the Duke.
“Ye comin’ down to see our partyin’?” the dwarf asked.
Kalas didn’t blink, staring at the powrie sternly. This dwarf, the leader, was always the sarcastic one, and he always seemed to need a reminder that he had been captured while waging war on the kingdom, that he and his wretched little fellows were alive only by the grace of Duke Kalas.
“Well?” the dwarf, Dalump Keedump by name, went on obstinately.
“I told you that I would require your services at the turn of the season,” Duke Kalas stated quietly.
“And we’re to be knowin’ that the season’s turned?” Keedump asked sarcastically. He turned to his fellows. “Are ye thinkin’ the sun to be ridin’ lower in the sky these days?” he asked with a wicked little laugh.
“Would you like to see the sun again?” Duke Kalas asked him in all seriousness.
Dalump Keedump eyed him long and hard. “Ye think ye’re to break us, then?” the dwarf asked. “We spent more time in a barrelboat, tighter and dirtier than this, ye fool.”
Kalas let a long moment slip past, staring at the dwarf, not daring to blink. Then he nodded slightly and turned, leaving the cell, pulling its door closed behind him as he returned to the muddy corridor with his soldiers. “Very well, then,” he said. “Perhaps I will return in a few days—the first face you will see, I assure you. Perhaps after you have murdered some of your companions for food, you will better hear my propositions.” And he walked away, as did his men, having every intention of carrying through with his threat.
He had gone several steps before Dalump called out to him. “Ye came all the way down here. Ye might as well be tellin’ us what ye gots in mind.”
Kalas smiled and moved back to the cell door. Now the other dwarves, suddenly interested in the conversation, crowded behind Dalump.
“Extra rations and more comfortable bedding,” the Duke teased.
“Yach, but ye said we’d be walkin’ free!” Dalump Keedump protested. “Or sailin’ free, on a boat back to our homes.”
“In time, my little friend, in time,” Kalas replied. “I am in need of an enemy, that I might show the rabble the strength of the Allhearts and thus bring them the security they desperately need. Assist me in this, and the arrangements will be made for your release soon enough.”
Another of the dwarves, his face a mask of frustration, rushed forward, shouldering past Dalump. “And if we doesn’t?” he asked angrily.
Duke Kalas’ fine sword was out in the blink of a powrie eye, its point snapping against the obstinate fellow’s throat, pressing firmly. “If you do not, then so be it,” Kalas said calmly, turning to eye Dalump directly as he spoke. “From our first meeting, I have been clear in my intentions and honest in our deal-ings. Choose your course, Dalump Keedump, and accept the consequences.”
The powrie leader glared at his upstart second.
“Fairly caught,” Duke Kalas reminded, rather poignantly, considering that his sword was still out and the statement was true enough. Dalump and his group had been fairly caught on the field of battle, as they had attacked this city. Duke Kalas was bound by no codes or rules in dealing with the powries. He could execute them openly and horribly in Palmaris’ largest square, or he could let them starve to death down here in the dungeons beneath Chasewind Manor, forgotten by all.
Dalump shifted his gaze back and forth between Kalas and the upstart powrie, his expression hinting that he wanted to choke them both—wanted to choke anybody or anything—just to relieve the mounting frustration accompanying this wretched situation. “Tell me yer stinkin’ plan,” he reluctantly agreed.
Duke Kalas nodded and smiled again.
DUKE KALAS WALKED ONTO THE rear balcony of Chasewind Manor early in the morning a few days later. The air was heavy with fog and drizzle, a perfectly miserable day, but one to Kalas’ liking. It had turned warmer again, though they still had more than a month before the winter solstice. The remnants of the previous blizzard, winter’s first blast, were fast melting, and the reports Kalas had received the day before indicated that grass was showing again on the windblown western fields.
That fact, plus the gathering storm clouds in the west threatening a second storm, had prompted the Duke’s action, and now, with the poor visibility, he could not have asked for a better morning. He heard the door open behind him, and he turned to see King Danube Brock Ursal step out to join him.
He was a few years older than his dear friend Kalas, and rounder in the middle, but his hair remained thick and black, and his beard, a new addition, showed no signs of graying.
“I hope to sail within the week,” Danube remarked. Kalas was not surprised, since Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic and commander of the King’s navy, had indicated as much to him the previous evening.
“You will have favorable weather all the way back to Ursal,” Duke Kalas assured his beloved king, though he feared the decision to travel. If winter weather came on again with the fleet still in the northern waters of the Masur Delaval, the result could be catastrophic.
“So Bretherford believes,” said Danube. “In truth, I am more concerned about the situation I leave behind.”
Kalas looked at him, his expression wounded.
“Brother Braumin seems formidable and, to the common man, likable,” Danube elaborated. “And if the woman Jilseponie stands by him—along with Markwart’s former lackey Francis—then their appeal to the folk of Palmaris will be considerable. I remind you that Brother...
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