The Demon Awakens (52 page)

Elbryan went into a sidelong dive, meaning to put some distance between himself and the monster, thinking that he should string his bow and let fly some stinging arrows.

But when he came up from the roll, the zombie was there, suddenly, magically. The ranger got his staff and his arm up to block, but the creature’s backhand sweep was too heavy, sending Elbryan tumbling back the other way.

He came up in a run and ducked low to avoid another blow—for again, the zombie had somehow beaten him to the spot—and scrambled through the thick pine branches, cutting this way and that, trying to keep away from any predictable course.

Twice he turned corners to see the monster waiting for him. One time he ducked the attack, skidding to his knees but coming right back up agilely to run on. The second time, the ranger got grabbed painfully by the shoulder but somehow squirmed free before the monster could crush him in a hug.

Soon Elbryan was at the edge of the grove, standing before the candled field.

The monster was across the way, off to the side.

Elbryan’s jaw slackened at the familiar sight, at the exact image he had last seen in the mirror, except that the zombie now stood where the specter of his uncle Mather had stood before. All was too quiet, too serene.

“Uncle Mather?” he asked the thing.

Then it was before him, so suddenly, clubbing him with those rock-stiff arms, sending him tumbling back into the pines.

Elbryan felt warm blood rolling from one ear and had to shake his head repeatedly to force the dizziness away. The creature, whatever it was, could hit like a giant!

He turned a corner within a triangle of tight pines, expecting correctly that the zombie would be there. Up came Hawkwing in a blurring defensive circle, Elbryan working brilliantly to parry and dodge the deceptively quick strikes of the stiff-limbed monster, then even countering once, twice, thrice with a deft stab, a sudden club to the side of the monster’s head, and a third stab, this one nailing the zombie right between the eyes.

The vicious blows seemed not to affect the creature at all.

Across came its clubbing arm, and Elbryan, confused, dove away from the blow, taking the hit but not hard as he fell. He rolled through several branches, coming to his feet again in full flight, wondering what he might do against the likes of this monster, fearing that the dactyl itself had come against him, had lured him to this spot that he might be destroyed once and for all.

He crashed through a tangle of branches to find the zombie standing before him. Not surprised, the ranger continued on, bringing his staff down hard, right into the creature’s face.

It didn’t flinch, except to smack Elbryan across the shoulder with one arm, stealing his forward momentum and launching him sideways instead.

“I have to get a sword,” the ranger lamented, glad that the branches had softened his tumbling fall. Then he was up and running, hoping to put some distance between himself and the creature, that he might devise some strategy. He wondered if he should flee the area, into the deeper forest where he was more at home.

Elbryan dismissed that thought; however futile his efforts seemed, he had played a part in bringing this creature to the world, and he must see to its destruction.

He ran on instead through the winding ways of the grove, cutting down every side path, trying to keep his movements unpredictable so that the monster could not appear before him. All the while, he was circling in toward the heart of the grove, moving determinedly toward the ruined cairn.

He came through the last line of trees into the green light. The opened grave loomed before him, and the zombie monster appeared ‘right behind him! The creature pounded him hard between the shoulder blades, launching him into a forward roll that ended abruptly when he crashed against some of the cairn rocks.

Dazed, bleeding, Elbryan pulled himself up to his elbows, looking over the edge of the cairn. He knew that he must get up and run, knew that the monster was stalking in from behind.

The ranger froze in place, staring wide-eyed into the open pit. There, positioned as if it were the very heart of the grave, lay a sword—and not just any common sword but a work of art, a beautiful, gleaming treasure. If the tip of its blade was set upon the ground, the end of its balled hilt would not have reached Elbryan’s waist, and the width of the blade was no more than the distance between the knuckle and first joint of Elbryan’s smallest finger, but there was an unmistakable solidity and strength to the weapon, an aura of power.

The ranger reached in to the limit of his arm, to find that the sword was just out of range.

He heard the zombie right behind him.

Then, somehow, the sword was in his hand, and Elbryan spun and swept the weapon in a furious arc. Bluish-white light trailed the length of its path, stealing the green hue, and the zombie fell back and growled.

Elbryan scrambled to his feet, trying to inspect the blade without losing sight of his dangerous opponent. The sword was incredibly light; a blood trough ran down the center of the blade—and that blade was forged of silverel, the ranger suddenly recognized! The crosspiece, which curved back toward the tip of the blade, was similarly forged of the precious elven metal and tipped in gold; the hilt was wrapped in blue leather, tied tight by unmistakable silverel strands. Most wondrous of all, though, was the ball anchoring the hilt, a balance to the blade, for it, too, was of silverel, but was hollowed and set with such a gemstone as Elbryan had never seen—blue and with patches of gray and white like storm clouds crossing an autumn sky. And there was a power in that gem, the ranger knew, magic such as the magic of Avelyn’s stones.

Elbryan let Hawkwing fall to the ground—he wondered if he would ever again need to use the bow as a staff—and brought the sword out before him, weaving it slowly, feeling its balance.

He tossed it easily from hand to hand, moving it in the sword-dance, then thrusting the sword out to keep the zombie at bay, swinging it wide to entice the monster in.

But the zombie showed the man new respect and stayed back, growling, the red dots of light that were its eyes glowing furiously.

“Come on, then,” Elbryan said quietly. “You would have me dead, so come along and play.”

The zombie fell back into the branch tangle; Elbryan rushed to follow.

But the creature was gone, out of sight, and the ranger realized that he, too, had to keep moving, that the fight had become even more a game of cat and mouse, for this time, both he and the zombie were the cats.

He stayed on the narrow trails mostly, using his speed, hoping to spot the monster before it was right beside him. He decided to angle his way back to the candlelit field and was not surprised when he arrived there to find the zombie waiting for him. The ranger understood then that this was how it was supposed to be, that this challenge on this field had been predetermined. He stalked toward the monster, and it came to him slowly at first, then in a furious rush, its arms flailing wildly.

Elbryan parried and struck, fell back on his heels, tumbled sidelong in a roll, and came right back in a ferocious charge, that magnificent sword leading. Now his hit did indeed sting the zombie, the sword tearing a deep gash in the rotted flesh, smacking hard against a rib.

The zombie came across with a sweeping backhand that caught ducking Elbryan hard across the shoulder. But the ranger stubbornly held his position and stood straight, stabbing at the ribs again and then sweeping the blade in an arc for the monster’s neck.

Up came a zombie arm to block; the sword’s gemstone flared with sudden power and the blade crackled with energy, as if it had caught a bolt of white lightning and held it fast

The sword severed that blocking arm cleanly, right above the elbow and slashed across the face of the ducking monster.

Blinded, the zombie fell back and howled in agony, but Elbryan was upon it in an instant, the mighty sword diving through the monster’s chest in a quick thrust, then coming out and sweeping down diagonally, shearing through the collarbone, down and across, deep into the rotted chest.

The zombie went hard to the ground and burst apart with a bright green flash that sent Elbryan stumbling backward, that sent all the world spinning in the ranger’s eyes.

Elbryan awakened sometime later, the eastern sky just brightening with dawn, his head cradled in his arms atop the bottom stones of the intact cairn.

“Whole again?” he asked skeptically, or perhaps, he realized, it had been whole all along.

The ranger started to rise but found that every bone in his body ached, and only then did he realize how cold he was. He put his head back down, wondering if he would die out here, alone and cold, wondering what had brought such a nightmare.

Then a curious thought hit him, and he looked up, truly puzzled, staring hard at the cairn.

“Uncle Mather?” he asked breathlessly, and he knew that it was true, that this was the grave of his uncle Mather, the ranger.

But, he wondered, had it all been a dream, then? The monster?

The sword?

Too intrigued to feel his pain, the ranger struggled to his feet, and as he came up above the stones, he saw, on the ground at the head of the cairn, a familiar, beautiful sword.

Elbryan stiffly reached out his hand and started around to retrieve the weapon, but the sword came to him, floating to his grasp!

He held it up before his admiring gaze, studying the craftsmanship, the gleaming silverel, the magnificent gemstone pommel, the blue, the storm clouds.

“Tempest,” he whispered, suddenly realizing the significance of that unique gemstone. This was Tempest, Mather’s sword, one of the six ranger swords forged by the elves in a time long past.

“Indeed,” came a melodic voice from behind and above.

Elbryan spun to see Belli’mar Juraviel sitting calmly on a low branch, smiling at him.

“Mather’s sword,” Elbryan said.

“No more,” replied ‘Juraviel. “Elbryan’s sword, earned in the dark of night.”

The ranger could hardly draw breath.

“My old friend,” Elbryan said at length, “all the world has gone mad, I fear.”

Juraviel only nodded, unable to disagree.

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CHAPTER 42

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Reputation

Winter’s icy grip weakened at last, more than three weeks after the vernal equinox. Snow still fell, but often it turned in mid-storm to a cold rain, and ground that had been deep with white powder was now slick with gray slush. The change came as a mixed blessing to Elbryan and his forest band. While their lives certainly became more comfortable, their nights no longer spent so closely huddled to a fire that their eyebrows singed, winter’s relaxed grip offered the invading monsters even more mobility. Now goblin, powrie, and fomorian giant patrols struck deep into the forest, and though these scouts were often discovered and destroyed by Elbryan’s people, the danger to the group increased daily.

Pony still had not returned from the south. After three weeks, though, Paulson and his two trapper companions had come back with a fairly thorough description of the monstrous army’s movements. It was as they had feared—the monsters using the occupied towns as base and supply camps while they sent their dark tendrils further south, first in probes, but soon, so Paulson believed, in great numbers.

“They’ll strike Landsdown within a week, unless we get hit with another storm,” Paulson explained grimly.

“The season’s past,” Avelyn remarked. “There will be no more storms severe enough to slow our enemies.”

Elbryan agreed; Belli’mar and the other elves—who remained far in the shadows about the human camps, hidden from all save the ranger and the centaur—had told him as much.

“Then Landsdown’s to fall,” said Paulson.

“We must get word to them,” Avelyn offered, looking at the ranger, who in turn looked at Paulson.

“We already telled some farmers,” Paulson explained, “and yer girl’s been through with the same news.”

Elbryan perked his ears up considerably at that bit of news.

“But will they listen?” Avelyn wanted to know.

“Who’s to make them?” asked Paulson.

Elbryan closed his eyes and considered that. Indeed, the men and women of the frontier towns north of Palmaris could be a stubborn lot! The ranger decided then that it was time to put Belli’mar’s troop to good use. The mobile elves could get to Landsdown ahead of the monsters, and if the sight of an elf didn’t shake some sense into thick heads, then let the folk of Landsdown get what they deserved!

“I will see to Landsdown,” the ranger promised, and he moved on to other matters. “What of our own folk?”

“We’ve got a hundred not taking well to the life,” said Bradwarden. “Tough enough folk, but we’ve asked too much o’ them.”

“Is there any place we might take them?” the ranger asked.

The three trappers were at a loss; Brother Avelyn could think of no sanctuary closer than St. Precious in Palmaris, but how they could ever get a hundred people that far south without alerting the monsters was beyond the monk. Bradwarden’s expression told the ranger that the centaur was thinking along the same lines as he, that the elves and the sanctuary of their hidden home might prove valuable here. But Elbryan, who had lived long in Andur’Blough Inninness, didn’t think it likely that so many humans, however desperate their situation might be, would be invited in. Belli’mar Juraviel, easily the friendliest of the elven band, and the one most acquainted with humans, had even refused to be seen among the encampments explaining that his presence would probably only frighten those too foolish to know friend from foe.

“Then we must make a place for them,” the ranger decided, “and keep them away from our enemies until such time as we may usher them far to the south, behind the militia lines of Honce-the-Bear’s Kingsmen.” He looked at Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk. “See to it,” he bade them, and they nodded.

Good soliders, Elbryan mused.

The next week moved along uneventfully. Elbryan, Bradwarden, and Avelyn came upon a group of a dozen goblins chopping firewood, and summarily destroyed them. When a fomorian came rushing to the goblins’ rescue, Bradwarden tripped the giant, and the first thing it saw when it looked up—and the last thing it ever saw—was the fierce ranger glaring down at it, powerful Tempest sweeping down.

Elbryan had little contact with the elves that week. He had met with Juraviel soon after his fireside discussion with his more conventional commanders, and the elf had reluctantly agreed to send a handful of his fellows south to warn Landsdown.

“I fear that we are being dragged into the middle of a fight that is meant for humans,” Juraviel had groaned, to which Elbryan only lightly responded, “Of your own accord.”

At the end of the week, Juraviel and Tuntun came to the ranger with welcome news indeed. “The folk of Landsdown are on the road south ahead of the advancing monsters,” Juraviel explained. “Every one.”

“And they are being met and ushered more swiftly by soldiers of your king,” added Tuntun.

“My thanks to you and yours,” the ranger said solemnly with a low bow.

“Not to us”—Tuntun laughed—“for the folk were on the road before we ever arrived.”

Elbryan’s expression turned quizzical.

“Your thanks to her,” explained Juraviel, and on cue, Pony stepped out of the shadows of a thick spruce.

Elbryan rushed to her, embracing her in a huge hug. It took him some time to realize that the elves had announced her, and thus, that the elves had met her! He looked from Pony back to Juraviel and Tuntun.

“You had already told her of us,” Juraviel said dryly.

“But I believe our appearance shocked her anyway,” added Tuntun, again, in better spirits than was normal for the surly elf.

“I was still in Landsdown, the last one there, when they came upon me,” Pony explained.

Elbryan looked her over carefully, satisfied that she was not injured, only muddy and weary from so long a ride.

“All the way to Palmaris,” she answered his unspoken question. “No horse will ever match the run of Symphony! He took me all the way to Palmaris without complaint, and all the way back at equal speed. The kingdom is alerted now, the soldiers are on the road, and our enemies will win no more victories by surprise.”

Elbryan lifted his hand to brush back a stray lock of the woman’s thick, dirty hair. He turned his fingers gently to flick a speck of mud from her cheek, though his gaze never left her shining blue eyes. How much he loved her, admired her, respected her! He wanted to crush her to him, to make love to her forever, and to protect her—and that was his dilemma, for if he tried to protect this marvelous woman, Jilseponie Ault, then he would surely be stealing the very essence of her, the will and the strength that he so loved.

“All the world should thank you,” he whispered. He turned to make a remark to the elves, but the pair, so wise in the ways of all the world, were long gone, granting the lovers their privacy.

“They knew we were out here, in great numbers, and now they wonder why the signs have lessened,” Elbryan explained to Avelyn, the ranger astride his horse, beside the standing man just inside the cover of thick trees lining a bowl-shaped field. A blanket of slushy snow still covered the field, shining blue-white in the pale light of a bright half moon. Diagonally, across the field to the northwest, moving through the stark lines of thinner trees, came three forms, obviously goblin scouts.

“Perhaps they will believe that we have all departed,” Avelyn offered hopefully. Indeed, more than two thirds of the human group had gone further to the east, leaving less than forty warriors at Elbryan’s disposal, not counting the secretive elves, whose number even the ranger didn’t know.

“That would be their mistake,” the ranger answered grimly.

The tone of his voice made Avelyn glance his way, and the monk was glad to see that Tempest was still sheathed at the side of the saddle Belster O’Comely had commissioned for Elbryan before the coming of the monsters, and that Hawkwing was likewise in place, on a holder that looped the bow about a quiver of arrows.

But then, to Avelyn’s surprise, Elbryan stepped Symphony out of the shadows onto the mild southern slope of the bowl-shaped vale, out of cover.

Across the way, perhaps a hundred yards, the goblins stopped and stared, then scrambled among the trees, fitting arrows to bowstrings.

“Elbryan!” Avelyn whispered harshly. “Come back!”

The ranger sat quietly, cutting a regal figure, his bow and sword at rest.

Three arrows went up into the night sky, errant shots that landed far short or far wide of the ranger.

“They do not even believe that we can see them,” Elbryan said quietly, obviously amused.

Avelyn scrambled out to Elbryan’s side, putting Symphony between him and the goblins. “Better that we had not seen them,” the monk huffed, “or better still that they had not seen us!”

“Calm, my friend,” the ranger replied as another arrow thudded into the snowy ground, barely twenty feet away. Brave Symphony held perfectly steady; Elbryan wished that his human friend had as much faith.

Avelyn peeked under Symphony’s head, to see that the goblins had gone to the bottom of the field’s slope, still under the respectable cover of the stark deciduous trees.

“Three shots at a time, and they’re likely to get lucky,” Avelyn remarked. The monk looked up to see Elbryan slowly bringing Hawkwing to bear, then, with hardly a movement, letting fly an arrow.

Avelyn looked back in time to see a goblin catch it in his chest He couldn’t see the arrow, of course, just the sudden jerk of the dark silhouette, followed by a backward drop to the ground. The other two scrambled in sudden retreat, slipping as they tried to get back up the slope.

Elbryan held his pose, his bowstring fully drawn and perfectly steady.

“Get them quick,” Avelyn prodded.

“It must be sure,” Elbryan answered. “There can be no miss.” He waited as the goblin pair weaved, then at last found his opening and let fly, the arrow cutting a straight, swift line to take a second goblin in the side of the head. The one remaining howled and scrambled, fell to its belly, and slid halfway back to the bottom.

“Oh, get him!” cheered Avelyn. “Ho, ho, what!”

But Elbryan had put up his bow, sitting calmly on Symphony, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, as if he were simply enjoying the breeze of the moonlit night.

“What?” Avelyn asked, the monk watching the goblin running off once again to the top of the ridge and then beyond, lost from view. “Ho, ho, what?”

Elbryan slowly opened his eyes and looked down at the man. “It is all about reputation,” the ranger explained, and he turned Symphony and started walking back to the trees.

“Reputation?” Avelyn echoed. “You let the last one get away! It will surely report that we have not left, that we, that you, at least, remain . . .” The monk’s voice trailed off and a smile spread across his round face. Of course, terrified goblin would return, blabbering its report. Of course, the goblin would tell them that the mysterious ranger on his mighty stallion remained, would tell them that death waited for them in the forest.

“Ho, ho, what!” Avelyn bellowed in sincere admiration. “Let them know of Elbryan, then!”

“No,” the ranger corrected. “Let them know of Nightbird. Let them know and let them be afraid.”

Avelyn nodded as he watched the ranger and his mount melt away into the forest night. Indeed, he thought, and well they should be afraid!

Elbryan did his sword-dance, as he had done so many times in Andur’Blough Inninness. Tempest weaved its wondrous lines about him slowly—turning, stooping, and rising in perfect balance. One foot followed the other and then took up the lead: step, step, thrust, and retreat.

All flowed slowly, beautifully. He was the embodiment of the warrior, this muscular naked man, the height of harmony, one with his weapon.

From the trees behind Elbryan, Pony and Avelyn watched awestruck. They had come upon the scene quite accidentally, and the monk, seeing Elbryan first and seeing that he was quite naked, had tried to turn Pony down a different path. But she, too, had spotted the man, and no amount of coercing from Avelyn would deflect her.

In watching Elbryan, his graceful moves, his trancelike intensity, Pony came to know so much more of him, to see him as clearly as if she were lying in his arms, sharing his heights of passion and joy.

This was different but no less intense, she realized. Like their coupling, this was a joining of body and spirit, a physical meditation somehow above the norm of human experience, somehow sacred.

Avelyn had seen this type of practice before—it was not so different from the physical training the monks received at St-Mere-Abelle—but he had never seen a dance as graceful as Elbryan’s, as perfectly harmonious.

And Tempest, seeming no more than an extension of the ranger, only added to that beauty, the light sword swishing about, leaving a glowing trail of bluish-white.

“We should be away,” the monk whispered to Pony as Elbryan came to one long pause in his routine.

Pony didn’t disagree; perhaps they were indeed peeping at something which was Elbryan’s alone. But as the ranger started his movements again, as Tempest came up and about, perfectly level and parallel with his broad shoulders, she found that she could not turn away.

Nor could Avelyn.

Elbryan finished soon after and slumped to the grass; Pony and Avelyn stole away.

When Pony met Elbryan more than an hour later, she had to work hard to hide her feelings of guilt, her feelings that she had somehow violated him. Finally, it was too much.

“I saw you this morning,” she admitted.

Elbryan raised an eyebrow.

“At your exercise,” Pony admitted. “I—I did not mean . . .” She stopped, stammering, and lowered her gaze.

“And were you alone?” said Elbryan.

Something in his tone brought Pony’s gaze up to meet his, and in the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the woman found the truth revealed.

“You already knew!” she accused.

Elbryan brought a hand to his chest, as if wounded.

“You knew!” Pony said again, and she slapped her hand against his shoulder.

“But I did not know if you would tell me,” the ranger said evenly, and Pony backed away.