DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (28 page)

“I tried to do just that,” Juraviel admitted, hoping to alleviate Roger’s guilt. “I was within the abbey when the alarm sounded, when Jilseponie began her determined march across the city. I could not find them, sword or bow.”

“They were both within St. Precious,” Roger said. He was nodding and did seem relieved. “We found them afterward, locked in a secret place by Father Abbot Markwart. Brother Braumin brought them to Jilseponie, but she bade him to send them north with the caisson, to be buried with Nightbird. I just wish Nightbird
had them in his grasp when he went into Chasewind Manor after Pony.”

“It was a confused moment,” Juraviel agreed. “Much was misplaced.” The way he said that and the look he gave to Roger seemed to throw the young man off balance.

“Well, we found them at least,” Roger insisted—too eagerly, Juraviel noted. The elf knew then that Roger was hiding something, and, given the man’s demeanor when he spoke of Jilseponie’s impending arrival and the rumors Lady Dasslerond had told him that the woman’s cache of gemstones had not been recovered from Chasewind Manor, Juraviel had a pretty good idea what that might be.

“Yes, and you dispensed them properly,” Juraviel agreed. “And never did I doubt that Roger Lockless and Bradwarden would act in any way that was not in the best interests of all.”

“We did not know if the Touel’alfar would want them back,” Roger explained.

Juraviel looked down at the cairns, at the burial places of two great rangers and of two marvelous elven weapons. He suspected that these cairns might be disturbed in the not too distant future, as a new ranger, heir to the bloodline of Mather and Elbryan, came to claim his territory and his birthright. The boy would have to do battle with the spirit of Mather to win the right to wield Tempest, and likewise would have to face his own father for the right to carry Hawkwing. Lady Dasslerond had better train the child well, Juraviel thought.

“You did well in the aftermath of the tragedy,” Juraviel said at length. “It was a confusing time, and much, I suspect, was misplaced.” There, the elf thought, he had left Roger an opening.

But Roger didn’t take the bait, just shrugged his shoulders.

Belli’mar Juraviel could accept that. To Roger’s understanding—to the understanding of all of them, Jilseponie included—the gemstones were neither the province nor the interest of the Touel’alfar. When Jilseponie had thought that she and Elbryan might be killed at St.-Mere-Abelle, she had begged Juraviel to take the cache of gemstones stolen by Avelyn Desbris, the source of Markwart’s anger at the pair, and carry them far away to Andur’Blough Inninness. Juraviel had steadfastly refused, insisting that the gemstones were a problem for the humans, not the elves.

How ironic that seemed to the elf, given one of his missions to this place.

“Come,” he bade Roger. “I will take you to the northern slope that overlooks Dundalis and you can go see if there is any word from Jilseponie. Bradwarden and I will meet you on the hillock tonight that we might enjoy together a fine meal, fine conversation, and the centaur’s song.”

Roger followed the elf out of the grove and across the few forested miles back to the village. Juraviel set off as soon as Roger was out of sight, half running, half flying back to find the centaur.

Bradwarden had marked his trail well for the elf, and so Juraviel had little trouble locating him on a long ridge of birch, overlooking a wide field. Below, a herd of wild horses, including the magnificent black, white-booted stallion, grazed. Soon after Juraviel arrived beside the centaur, Symphony picked his head up and turned
their way, and the elf caught the glimmer of turquoise set in the stallion’s chest, a magical gemstone Avelyn Desbris had placed there to heighten the connection between rider and mount.

“I told him ye mean to take him,” Bradwarden remarked. Even as he finished, Symphony galloped their way, skidded to a stop, and reared, front legs pawing the air. Then the horse swung about and thundered off, and the whole herd took up the charge in his wake.

“I’m not thinkin’ he’s likin’ the idea,” Bradwarden added dryly.

Juraviel studied the running horse for a moment, the seeming urgency in Symphony’s long and thundering stride.

“Symphony’s pickin’ his own course,” Bradwarden went on. “He might be thinkin’ that there’s work to be done about here.”

“Would Symphony consider the fate of his own herd above my needs?” Juraviel asked.

“Sounds like an elf,” Bradwarden quipped with a snort.

Juraviel eyed him sternly, which, of course, only made the centaur laugh harder.

“Whatever Symphony might be thinking or feeling, his path is his own to choose, and I’ll not try to drag him to Andur’Blough Inninness,” Juraviel announced.

Bradwarden snorted all the louder, as if the mere thought of that was absurd—which indeed, Juraviel knew, it was. Even in the days when Nightbird rode Symphony, the stallion knew no master.

“Have you any other prospects?” Juraviel asked.

“Symphony showed me one,” Bradwarden explained, pointing down the line to a small, muscular sorrel stallion running near the back of the herd, and not in tight formation like the rest, but lagging and ranging out wide, this way and that. “A two-year-old, and getting a bit edgy.”

“Symphony showed you?” Juraviel asked. The elf really didn’t doubt that Symphony and Bradwarden were capable of such communication, but he had to wonder at the stallion’s intent, if there was any, in picking out one of its own herd.

“He’s got the mare smell in his nose,” Bradwarden explained, “and it’s takin’ out all his senses. He even took a run at Symphony. Ye’ll be takin’ him away or Symphony’ll be kickin’ him deep into the forest. If the little one’s lucky, Symphony won’t kill him.”

Juraviel nodded, for now it made sense. There were other stallions in the herd besides Symphony, but not many, and apparently none in competition with the great stallion. Juraviel had reservations, though—would this spirited young stallion be too much for young Brynn?—and they showed clearly in his expression.

“Ye take him away from the mare smell, and he’ll be a fine one,” the centaur said, obviously catching the elf’s drift. “Ye might be geldin’ him, o’ course, though I’ve never been fond o’ that treatment!”

“Will Symphony help us secure him?”

“Oh, I’ll get him for ye,” the centaur assured him. “I’ll have him this very night,
though it’ll take a couple o’ days for me and Roger to break him.”

The image brought on by Bradwarden’s choice of partners brought a smile to Juraviel. Roger had never been much of a rider, and if this young stallion was as spirited and strong as he appeared, the young man might be finding getting out of bed each morning a bit of a trial.

“Same hill?” Bradwarden asked.

“Sheila will be bright tonight,” Juraviel replied. “I will meet you there when she passes her midpoint.”

The centaur reached down and hoisted a long length of strong rope, slinging it over one shoulder. He gave a quick salute to Juraviel, then trotted down along the ridgeline, paralleling the course of Symphony and the herd. “I’m hopin’ none o’ them mares’re hot with the smell,” he remarked quietly.

“For the stallion’s sake or for your own?” Juraviel asked with a laugh, and Bradwarden joined in.

Juraviel thought to go directly to the outskirts of Dundalis then, to listen in on the conversations of unwitting humans and learn what he might about events since the fall of Markwart and also to discern any further information about Jilseponie’s progress to the north. He found himself sidetracked, though. Again he found himself standing in the grove before the two stone cairns. Whatever words Juraviel might find, like
n’Touel’alfar
, they did little to relieve his pain at that moment. He remembered Mather, and the man’s gallant fall while saving the young Bradwarden from the clutches of a goblin horde—no wonder that the centaur insisted upon returning Tempest to Mather’s side. Mostly, though, Juraviel explored the newer, raw wound—the loss of Elbryan. He remembered all his days with the young man, training him, bringing him along in his understanding of the elven way of seeing the world, and teaching him
bi’nelle dasada
. He remembered the night of Elbryan’s naming, when the young man became Nightbird the ranger, under a starry sky in Caer’alfar. He contrasted that event with Dasslerond’s continuing anger at the man and at Jilseponie, and considered his own initial reaction, anger, upon learning that Nightbird had taught the woman the sword dance. But then Juraviel remembered the first time he had seen the two fighting together within
bi’nelle dasada
, battling goblins on a hillock above a trapped wagon caravan. How beautiful they had been together, how complementary to each other’s movements, and how deadly to the goblins. Watching that display, Belli’mar Juraviel had thrown away his anger at Nightbird, had then considered the man’s instruction of Jilseponie a gift upon the elven gift, heightening the value of that the elves had given to him.

If only Lady Dasslerond had been able to witness such a display!

But she had not, and Juraviel’s description of the scene could hardly sway her.

“Rest well, my fallen friend,” the elf said. “Keep Hawkwing close to your side until the day that your son comes to claim it.”

That last statement brought a smile to Juraviel’s face, as he turned and started for Dundalis, but how much wider that smile would have been, he realized, if he
were allowed to play some role in tutoring the child of Nightbird.

The elf spent the rest of the day about the outskirts of Dundalis, resting on high branches, and listening to conversations of some of the townsfolk. He fell asleep to dreams of his lost friend and didn’t awaken until the moon was high in the clear night sky.

He arrived at the base of the hillock, serenaded by Bradwarden’s piping, a short while later. The young stallion was there, tethered to a tree, grazing easily and not even lifting its head to mark the approach of the quiet elf.

He found Roger reclining beside the centaur, much in the same position as the night before.

“Got him,” Bradwarden remarked. “Oh, but he’s a spirited beastie. Yer little ranger friend is in for some wild ridin’.”

“And what about my little friend Roger?” Juraviel asked with a smile.

Roger, who obviously had already been informed of his role, put on a sour look that the elf knew was mostly bluster.

“He’ll be sittin’ funny for a bit, don’t ye doubt,” the centaur said with a laugh. “But we’ll get the stallion so he’ll take a saddle, at least.”

“A week?” Juraviel asked. “For I’ve some business to attend to.”

Bradwarden nodded. “I’ll break ’em both by then,” he said, glancing wryly sidelong at Roger.

The three spent the rest of the night relaxing on the hillock. After Roger had fallen asleep, Juraviel wandered down to the stallion to better inspect him.

With his ragged sorrel coat, he wasn’t the prettiest of horses, certainly nothing compared to Symphony, but he was strong and well muscled, with enough inner fires showing in his dark eyes to keep Brynn Dharielle working hard indeed.

Juraviel was back on the road in the morning, leaving Bradwarden and Roger to their work with the stallion. He headed south, shadowing the one road, with a hundred and fifty miles before him. He meant to arrive in Caer Tinella in three days.

Chapter 12
 

“T
HERE THEY GO
,” L
IAM
O’B
LYTHE REMARKED AS THE LINE OF GOBLINS STREAMED
along the ravine floor below them. “Right along yer big friend’s course and right on time.”

“Signal the archers,” Prince Midalis instructed. “Let us be done with this.”

Liam lifted his spear, tipped with a red flag emblazoned with the black cow: the sign of death. Before the man had gone through three waves of the pennant, the eager archers, set along both sides of the ravine, began firing their missiles down upon the running goblins.

Bruinhelde and his kinsmen had caught this band, one of the few remaining anywhere near Pireth Vanguard, as they camped in the forest. Using Andacanavar as scout and as liaison to Midalis and his men, the Alpinadorans had orchestrated this little ambush.

The archers thinned the goblin line, and those monsters sprinting out in front of the main host soon came upon a series of traps, trip lines, and ankle pits, buried spikes, and one deep trench that bottled up the whole retreat. And that, of course, merely gave the archers more time to let fly their arrows, and into a more concentrated group of targets.

Not to miss any of the fun, Bruinhelde and his horde then appeared at the end of the ravine to Midalis’ right. The lead Alpinadorans charged out and fell into their hammer-spins, launching a devastating barrage at the nearest goblins.

And still the archers rained death upon the confused and frightened creatures.

Midalis’ cavalry appeared at the left end of the ravine, coming in slowly and in tight ranks, spears leveled before them.

“I should be down with them,” the Prince remarked, and, indeed, this was the first action of the season in which he had not been leading the way. There had been no time, for Midalis had been at St. Belfour when the call had come in, and the goblin retreat had been on in full by the time he had even reached this spot on the ridge in the center of the ravine’s northern side.