The Demon Awakens (30 page)

He didn’t see but heard the movement as the goblin that had come in at his left struggled to its feet. Hawkwing went swinging again, turning a vertical circle under and then over Elbryan’s right shoulder as he turned and leaped out to the left. Down raced the staff above the angle of the terrified goblin’s pitiful attempt to parry, crashing hard against the base of the creature’s neck. The goblin jolted perfectly still and then, as if the wave of energy had rolled right down to its feet and then come rushing back up, the creature went into a weird backward leap, landing on its feet for a long moment, then slowly falling over.

Elbryan turned and dropped into a defensive crouch, but no enemies presented themselves. The first one he had hit, the leader, was on its hands and knees in the middle of the stream, facing away; too dazed to even get back to its feet. The one he had hit to the right of the stream was still on the ground, squirming and gasping for air that would hardly come. This last one he had hit was surely dead, as was the spear wielder, and the one who had taken four blows to the head lay unmoving at the stream’s edge, its face in the water. The last of the group, the one with the sword, faced Elbryan from twenty paces, hopping up and down, hurling curses that the ranger did not understand.

Casually, in no hurry, Elbryan replaced the feathered tip of his bow and in one fluid motion, bent the shaft around his leg and hooked the bowstring over the bottom edge.

The goblin caught on, howled, and fled.

Up came Hawkwing; three feathers separated. Clear and straight for thirty-five feet.

The arrow slammed the goblin square in the back, lifting it clear of the stream and sending it another five feet. Arms and legs flailing, it flopped heavily, facedown in the water.

Grim Elbryan retrieved the axe from the side of his pack and finished the task at hand.

Then he was on his way, running across the Moorlands.

>PART THREE

>
CONFLICT

Did you go home, Uncle Mather? When you walked away from Andur’Blough Inninness, from your elven home, did you return to the place you had known in your childhood?

I had thought it a vision that led me across the Moorlands then north to a sweeping vale of knee-deep caribou moss and stark pines. Now I wonder if it wasn’t merely a memory returned, a backtracking of the same course the elves had taken on that day when they pulled me from Dundalis. Perhaps they then placed a veil over my memory, that I had no desire to escape Caer’alfar and run back to the place of my kinfolk. Perhaps that last Oracle in Andur’Blough Inninness was no more than a lifting of the veil.

I had not even considered this until my northern trek led me back to these lands familiar. I feared that I had erred in my course, that I had returned home by memory, not by vision.

Now 1 understand. This land is my land, my ranger haunt. It is under my protection, though the proud and hardy folk here would hardly believe they need it, and certainly would refuse it should I ask.

They are more numerous than when I lived here last. Weedy Meadow remains a village of four score—the goblins never attacked after the sacking of Dundalis—and a new village, nearly twice that in number, has been built some thirty miles to the west, even further into the Wilderlands. End-o’-the-World, they call it, and a fitting name it seems.

And Uncle Mather, they have rebuilt Dundalis and have kept its name. 1 do not yet understand how I feel about this. Is the new Dundalis a tribute to the last or a mockery? It pained me when, walking along the wide cart path, I happened upon a signpost—a new signpost, for we never had such things—proclaiming the village limits, the edge of Dundalis. For a moment, I admit, I even held fast a fantasy that my memory of the destruction, of the carnage, was in error. Perhaps, I dared to think; the elves had tricked me into believing that Dundalis and all its folk had died, to keep me from fleeing their custody, or from wanting to flee.

Under the name on the signpost, someone had scrawled “Dundalis dan Dundalis,” and under that, another prankster had added “McDundalis,” both indications that this place was “the son of Dundalis.” I should have understood the implication.

It was with great anticipation that I walked that last mile to the village proper—to see a place that I knew not.

There is a tavern now, larger than the old common house and built on the foundation of my old home.

Built by strangers.

It was such an awkward moment, Uncle Mather, a feeling of absolute displacement. I had come home, and yet, this was not my home. The people were much the same—strong and firm, tough as the deepest winter night—and yet, they were not the same. No Brody Gentle, no Bunker Crawyer, no Shane McMichael, no Thomas Ault, no Mother and Father, no Pony.

No Dundalis.

I refused the invitation of the tavern’s proprietor, a jolly-looking man, and, without a word—I suppose that was the moment the folk of the village began to suspect that I was a bit unusual—headed back the way I had come. I took my frustrations out on the signpost, I admit, tearing off the lowest board, the scribbled references to the original village.

Never had I felt so alone, not even that morning after the disaster. The world had moved on without me. I meant to come and speak with you then, Uncle Mather, and so I crossed by the town, up the slope on the northern edge. There are several small caves on the backside of that slope, overlooking the wide vale. In one of those, so I believed, I would find Oracle. I would find Uncle Mather. I would find peace.

I never made it over that ridge. It is a funny thing, memory. To the elves, it is a way to walk backward in time, to rediscover old scenes from the perspective of new enlightenments.

So it was that morning on the ridge north of Dundalis. I saw her, Uncle Mather, my Pony, as alive to me as ever she was, as wonderful and beautiful. I remembered her so very vividly that she was indeed beside me once again—for a few fleeting moments.

I have no new friends among the current residents of Dundalis, and in truth, I expect none. But I have found peace, Uncle Mather. I have come home.

—E
LBRYAN
W
YNDON

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CHAPTER 23

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The Black Bear

“It came roaring down that hill,” the man was saying, waving his arm frantically in the direction of the forested slope north of Dundalis. “I got my family into the root cellar—damned glad I dug the thing!”

The speaker was about his own age, the ranger noticed as he approached the group of ten—eight men and two women—who were gathered outside the nearly destroyed cabin on the outskirts of Dundalis.

“Damn big bear,” one of the other men said.

“Twelve footer,” the first man, the victim of the attack, remarked, holding his arms as far apart as he could possibly stretch.

“Brown?” Elbryan asked, though the question was merely a formality, for a twelve-foot-tall bear would have to be brown.

The group turned as one to regard the stranger. They had seen Elbryan about town on several occasions over the last few months, mostly sitting quietly in the tavern, the Howling Sheila, but none, save Belster O’Comely, the innkeeper, had spoken a word to, the suspicious man. Their reluctance was clearly etched on their faces as they regarded the outsider and his unusual dress: the forest green cloak and the triangular cap.

“Black,” the victim corrected evenly, his eyes narrowed.

Elbryan nodded, accepting that as more likely the truth than the man’s previous statement. He knew two things from the color: first, that the man was surely exaggerating the bear’s size and second, that this attack was far from normal. A brown bear might come roaring down the hill, hurling itself upon the cabin as if the shelter were some elk, but black bears were shy creatures by nature, far from aggressive unless cornered, or defending their cubs.

“What business is it of yours?” another man asked, his tone making it seem to Elbryan as if he were being accused of the attack.

Ignoring the comment, the ranger walked past the group and knelt low, inspecting a set of tracks. As he suspected, the bear was nowhere near the size the excited farmer was claiming, probably closer to five or six feet in height, perhaps two to three hundred pounds. Elbryan didn’t really begrudge the man his excitement, though. A six-foot bear could indeed appear twice that height when angered. And the amount of damage to the house was remarkable.

“We cannot tolerate a rogue,” a large man, Tol Yuganick, insisted. Elbryan looked up to regard him. He was broad shouldered and strong, forceful in manner as he was in speech. His face was clean shaven, seeming almost babyish, but anyone looking at powerful Tol knew that to be a deceptive façade. Elbryan noticed the man’s hands—for hands were often the most telling of all—were rough and thick with calluses. He was a worker, a true frontiersman.

“We’ll get together a group and go out and kill the damned thing,” he said, and he spat upon the ground.

Elbryan was surprised that the burly man hadn’t decided to go out alone and hunt the bear.

“And what of you?” the man bellowed, looking at the ranger. “You were asked what business this might be of yours, but of yet I’ve heard no answer.” Tol moved closer to the stooping ranger as he spoke.

Elbryan came up to his full height. He was as tall as the man and, while not as heavy, certainly more muscular.

“Do you think that you belong in Dundalis?” the man asked bluntly, again the words sounding like an accusation, or a threat.

Elbryan didn’t blink. He wanted to scream out that he belonged in this place more than any of them, that he had been here when the foundation of their beloved tavern was that of his own home!

He held the words, though, and easily. His years with the elves had given him that control, that discipline. He was here, in Dundalis, in Weedy Meadow, in End-o’-the-World, to give the folk some measure of protection that they had never known. If an elven-trained ranger had been about those seven years before, then Dundalis would not have been sacked, Elbryan believed, and in the face of that responsibility, the surly man’s demeanor seemed a minor thing.

“The bear will not return,” was all the ranger said to them, and he calmly walked away.

He heard the grumbling behind him, heard the word “strange” several times—and not spoken with any affection. They were still planning to go out and hunt the bear, Elbryan realized, but he was determined to get there first. A black bear had attacked a farmhouse and that alone was enough of a mystery to force the ranger to investigate.

Elbryan was amazed at how easy it was for him to track the bear. The beast had run off from the farmhouse, creating a swath of devastation through the brush, even knocking over small trees, venting a rage that the ranger had never before witnessed in an animal. The tracks were surely those of a medium-sized bear, but Elbryan felt as if he were tracking a fomorian giant or some other evil, reasoning creature, some creature purposefully bent on destruction. He feared that the bear was in the grip of some disease, perhaps, or was wounded. Whatever the source, with every passed scene of utter destruction, the ranger’s fear mounted that he would not be able to spare the creature. He had hoped simply to drive the bear far away into the deeper woodlands.

He moved up the side of one steep hill, peering intently into every shadow. Bears were not stupid creatures; they had been known to backtrack hunters, taking the men from behind. Elbryan crouched by the side of one small tree. He placed his hand on the ground, feeling for subtle vibrations, anything that might offer a hint.

He caught a slight movement of a bush out of the corner of his eye. The ranger didn’t move except to shift his head to better view the shadow. He noted the wind, noted that he was upwind of the spot.

Out came the bear in full charge, roaring.

Elbryan shifted to one knee, fitted a heavy arrow, and, with a sigh of complete resignation, let fly. He scored a hit, the arrow skipping off the bear’s face and burrowing into its chest, but the bear kept coming. The ranger was amazed at the sheer speed of the thing. He had seen bears in Andur’Blough Inninness, had even seen one run off when Juraviel had banged two stones together, but this creature’s speed was outrageous, as fast as any horse might run.

A second arrow followed the first, diving deep into the bear’s shoulder. It bellowed again and hardly slowed.

Elbryan knew that he would not get the third shot away. If it had been a brown bear, he would have taken to the trees, but a black could climb any tree faster than he could.

He waited, crouched, as the bear bore down on him, then, at the last instant, the ranger went into a sidelong roll, down the hill.

The bear skidded to a stop and turned to follow. When Elbryan rolled to his knees, facing up the hill to the bear, the creature went up onto its hind legs, standing tall and imposing.

But leaving some vital areas exposed.

Elbryan pulled the bowstring back with all his strength; Hawkwing’s three feathers were as wide apart as they could go. The ranger hated this business as he sighted the hollow on the bear’s breast.

And then it was over, suddenly, the creature rolling, dead. Elbryan went to the corpse. He waited a while to make sure that it would not stir, then moved to its muzzle, lifting its upper lip. He feared that he would find foamy saliva there, an indication of the most wicked disease. If that was the case, then Elbryan would have his work cut out from him indeed, hunting almost day and night for other infected animals, everything from raccoons and weasels to bats.

No foam; the ranger breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, though, as Elbryan tried to figure what, then, had caused this normally docile animal to go so bad. He continued his inspection of the mouth and face, noted that the eyes were clear and not runny, then moved along the bear’s torso.

He found his answer in the form of four barbed darts, stuck deep into the bear’s rump. He worked one out—not an easy task—and inspected its tip. Elbryan recognized the black, sappy poison, a pain-inducing product of a rare black birch tree.

With a growl, the ranger threw the dart to the ground. This was no accident but a purposeful attack on the bear. The poor beast had been driven mad by pain, and someone—some human, most likely, given the type of the darts—had done it.

Elbryan gathered his wits and began his dance of praise to the spirit of the bear, thanking it for its gift of food and warmth. Then he methodically went about skinning and cleaning it. To waste the creature’s useful body, to leave the bear to rot or even to bury it whole in the ground would, by elven standards—and by Elbryan’s—be a complete insult to the bear, and thus to Nature.

His work was done late that afternoon, but the ranger did not rest, nor did he return to Dundalis to inform the townsfolk of the kill. Something, someone, had brought on this tragedy.

Nightbird went hunting again.

They were not much more difficult to find than the bear. Their hut, a mere shack of logs and old boards—Elbryan got the distinct impression that many of these had come from the ruins of Dundalis—was at the top of a hill. Branches had been tossed all about, for camouflage, but many of these had already withered, their dry and brown leaves a telltale sign.

The ranger heard them long before he caught sight of them, laughing and singing terribly off-key, though the voices were surely human, as he had suspected.

Elbryan glided stealthily up the hill, tree to tree, shadow to shadow, though he doubted the men inside would have heard him had he been accompanied by a hundred villagers and a score of fomorian giants! He recognized the implements of the trapping trade hanging all about the shack, along with dozens of drying pelts. These men knew animals, Elbryan understood. In a vat not far from the back wall of the shack, the ranger found a thick concoction of black liquid, and quickly surmised it to be the same irritant poison that had been used on the bear.

The walls of the shack were in bad disrepair, with cracks between every board. Elbryan peeked in.

Three men lay about on piled skins, black bear mostly, drinking foamy beer from old mugs. Every so often, one would shift to the side and dip his mug into a barrel, first brushing away the many flies and bees drawn to the liquid.

Elbryan shook his head in disgust, but he reminded himself to keep a measure of respect. These were men of the Wilderlands, strong and heavily armed. One had many daggers within easy grasp, hanging on a bandolier that crisscrossed his chest. Another sported a heavy axe, while the last carried a slender sword. From his vantage point, the ranger noted, too, that a bar was in place across the one door.

He moved around to the front of the house and took the dagger from his pack. The door did not fit the opening well, leaving a wide crack on one side, wide enough to admit the dagger’s blade. A flick of the wrist dislodged the bar and Elbryan kicked open the door, striding a single step into the shack.

The men scrambled, spilling beer, one shouting aloud as he rolled across his sword, the hilt catching hard on his hip. They were up soon enough, Elbryan standing impassively by the door, Hawkwing, its feathered tip and string removed, in his hand like some unthreatening walking stick.

“Whad’ye want?” asked one of the men, a barrel-chested brute whose face was more scar than beard. Except for that hardened face with its wild, untended beard, this man could have passed as a brother of Tol Yuganick, Elbryan noted distastefully. Surely their bodies were cut from the same, rather large, mold. The fellow had his huge axe out in front of him, and if Elbryan couldn’t offer a reasonable answer, there was little doubt what he meant to do with it. The swordsman, tall and lean with not a hair anywhere on his head, shadowed the burly man, gaping at Elbryan from over his companion’s shoulder; while the third, a skinny, nervous wretch, moved to the far corner, rubbing his fingers—which weren’t so far from his many daggers.

“I have come to speak with you about a particular bear,” Elbryan answered coolly.

“What bear?” the burly man replied. “We got skins.”

“The bear you maddened with poisoned darts,” Elbryan answered bluntly. “The bear that destroyed a farm in Dundalis and nearly killed a family.”

“Go on now.” The man spat.

“The same poison you have brewing out back,” Elbryan went on, “a rare concoction, known to few.”

“That don’t prove nothing,” the man retorted, snapping his dirty fingers in the air. “Now get on out of here, else ye’ll soon feel the edge of me axe!”

“I think not,” the ranger answered. “There is the matter of compensation—to the farmers and to me for my efforts in hunting the bear.”

“C-compen—?” the tall, bald man stuttered.

“Payment,” said Elbryan. He saw the movement even as he spoke, the man from the corner drawing and throwing a dagger with practiced ease.

Elbryan planted the ball of his left foot and spun clockwise, the dagger flying harmlessly past to stick deep in the wall. The ranger came round as if he would launch a horizontal swipe, but he recognized the move was anticipated: the burly man’s axe was up to block. As soon as he started around, then, Elbryan turned his right foot out and went around counterclockwise, pulling in his hip to avoid a swipe of that axe.

Now he launched his attack, dropping down to one knee, slapping his staff across to, catch the inside of the overbalanced man’s leg. A shift of the angle sent his staff poking straight up, smacking the man’s groin. Faster than a cat, Elbryan retracted the staff a foot, shifted its angle, and poked ahead three times in rapid succession, prodding the burly man in the hollow of his chest.

He fell away and Elbryan came up hard, bringing Hawkwing horizontal above his head in both hands to catch the downward chop of the second man’s sword. Up came the ranger’s knee, slamming the man’s belly, and as he started to double over, Elbryan turned his staff, deflecting the sword to the side. He twisted his staff around the man’s arm, hooking him under the armpit, stepped with his left foot across his body behind the man’s entangled side, then heaved with all his strength, launching the wretch into the air to land heavily on his back and the back of his head.