The Demon Awakens (56 page)

“You cannot outrun me in the woods at night,” Elbryan said evenly.

“Then you outrun me,” the big man retorted. “I’ve wanted your head since the first day we met, smelly ranger, and be gone now or be sure that I’ll get it!”

Elbryan recognized the true fear behind that bluff. Tol had no desire to fight him, had no desire to face the mighty cut of Tempest.

“Throw your weapon to the ground,” Elbryan said calmly. “I’ll not play judge to you, Tol Yuganick, not out here. You come with me back to the camp and speak your crimes plainly, and let us see what the people choose for you.”

Tol scoffed at the notion. “Drop my weapon that you might more easily wrap a noose about my neck?” he said.

“Unlikely,” the ranger replied. “The folk are merciful.”

Tol spat at him. “I give you one last chance to run,” he said.

“Do not do this,” Elbryan warned, but Tol came upon him in a wild rush, his heavy sword slashing.

Tempest flashed left, parried up, went out left again and then right, Elbryan easily fending off the clumsy attacks. The ranger poked the smaller blade ahead, bringing its tip near the hilt of Tol’s jabbing sword as he deftly sidestepped the large man’s forward thrust. A twist of Elbryan’s wrist brought Tempest’s blade hard against the big man’s hand, and a further twist turned Tol’s hand right over awkwardly.

Elbryan shoved wide his sword arm, and Tol’s weapon went flying harmlessly to the side, splashing down into a muddy puddle.

The big man gasped in desperation, unarmed and eyeing the deadly ranger.

“Do not,” Elbryan began, but Tol turned and stumbled away.

Elbryan flipped Tempest up above his head, lining the blade for a throw. He held back, though, as Tol passed the nearest tree, as a pair of muscled equine legs flashed out, connecting solidly on the side of the man’s head, launching him head over heels to crash hard at the base of a wide ash tree.

Bradwarden stepped into the small clearing.

“I followed him out here,” Elbryan explained.

“And I followed yerself,” the centaur replied. “And I was carrying Avelyn on me back. Ye should be more to looking past yer arse, though yer target’s past yer nose.”

Elbryan glanced all about. “And where is the monk?”

“Chasing a powrie,” Bradwarden explained. “Said not to worry about that little one.”

Elbryan looked over at Tol, the man’s head lolling about on his shoulders. He was in a sitting position, wedged in tightly against the hard trunk.

“I’ll not presume to judge him,” the ranger said.

“Always for mercy, as ye were with the three rogue trappers.”

“And that choice was the best,” Elbryan reminded.

“Aye, but this one is not,” the centaur insisted. “This one’s a fallen thing, with no redeeming. His crime cannot be tolerated, so I say, for he’d have given us all to the beast to save his skin.” Bradwarden eyed the dazed man contemptuously. “He knows it, too. Suren that ye’re showing him less mercy by letting him live with the terrible thing he’s done.”

“I’ll not play judge.”

“But I will,” Bradwarden said firmly. “Ye might want to be going now, me friend. Avelyn might be needing ye, and ye might want to not be watching this.”

Elbryan eyed the brutal centaur squarely, but understood that he had little power to sway Bradwarden’s determination. And whatever his feelings of mercy, Elbryan would not battle Bradwarden for the sake of Tol Yuganick, who had indeed fallen too far. He looked back at Tol, the man oblivious and probably already mortally wounded by the powerful kick.

“Be merciful,” the ranger said to Bradwarden. “He laments his choice.”

“He made the choice willingly.”

“Even if that is true, mercy is friend to the just,” Elbryan insisted.

Bradwarden nodded somberly, and Elbryan scooped up Hawkwing and ran off into the night, behind the departing powrie, though the ranger held faith that Avelyn would know how to deal with the dwarf. Less than ten steps into the woods, he heard a single thump, a centaur’s kick against a head propped by a tree trunk, and he knew that it was finished.

He felt sick to his stomach, but he could not disagree, not out here with so many lives at stake. Tol had chosen, and Tol had paid for his choice.

Around a bend far down the dark trail, the ranger happened upon a band of powries lying on the ground, most dead but some still twitching in the last moments of their lives. A lightning bolt had hit them, the ranger realized, and he knew that he was close.

He paused and tuned his senses to the night, and he heard speaking, not so far away. Running fast, but silently, Elbryan soon spotted Avelyn, making fast work of yet another powrie, the burly monk holding the dwarf under his arm, repeatedly slamming the creature’s head into a tree trunk.

Elbryan meant to stop there, but a movement farther to the south along the trail caught his attention. He came in sight of the last powrie—the one, Ulg Tik’narn, who had been speaking with Tol Yuganick. Sliding down to one knee, Elbryan had Hawkwing up and leveled. Again his shot was true, but again, the arrow swerved at the last possible moment and flew off harmlessly into the night.

Frustrated, the ranger abandoned his bow and ran on, sword in hand.

The powrie, apparently realizing that it could not possibly outdistance the long-legged human, skidded to a stop and turned about, a gleaming, serrated sword in hand.

“Nightbird,” the dwarf breathed. “Yach, ye die!”

Elbryan said nothing, just came in hard and fast, batting Tempest twice against the powrie’s blade, then thrusting the sword through the opened defenses, straight for the unarmored dwarf’s heart.

The blade turned aside, compelled by some force Elbryan did not understand, and the startled ranger was overbalanced suddenly, falling forward. He slapped his free hand across desperately, accepting the hit on his open palm from the smiling powrie’s sword.

“What?” the ranger asked, skidding aside and turning to squarely face this deceptive foe.

Laughing, Ulg Tik’narn advanced.

From a short distance away, Brother Avelyn watched the scene curiously, saw Elbryan perform another apparently successful attack, only to have Tempest fly wide at the last instant. The ranger was not caught unaware this time, though, and he held his balance and reverted to defensive posture quickly enough to prevent any stinging counters.

Avelyn put away the stone he was holding, graphite, for the lightning had been of little effect on this one when he had last used it. There was something very unusual about this powrie, the monk realized, some defensive magic that Avelyn did not understand.

He took out the carbuncle he had taken from dead Quintall, fell into its magic even as Elbryan slashed his weapon—to no avail—twice at the laughing powrie’s head.

Then Avelyn saw the reason, saw clearly the powrie’s studded bracers, glowing fiercely with enchantment.

“Good enough, then,” the monk growled. “Ho, ho, what!” Avelyn took out the other stone he had retrieved from dead Quintall, the powerful sunstone, and he sent its focused energies out.

“Yach, ye can not kill me, foolish Nightbird,” Ulg Tik’narn was saying, holding wide his short arms and steadily advancing on the confused Elbryan. “Me master protects me. Bestes—”

The word ended with a gurgle as the waves of magic-suppression rolled over the dactyl-forged bracers, as Tempest pierced through the dwarf’s chest.

“I do not know the name,” Juraviel admitted, looking across the campfire at Elbryan.

“But I do,” Avelyn put in, resting his bulk against a fallen log. “Bestesbulzibar, Aztemephostophe, Pelucine, Decambrinezarre—”

“All names of the dactyl demons,” Juraviel said, for two of the strange titles rang familiar to the elf.

“Then we know, if the powrie can be believed, that there is indeed a beast, a physical beast, guiding our enemy,” said Pony.

“Then we know,” Avelyn said with certainty, and he threw down the enchanted bracers, evil items that the monk would not allow to be worn. “I have known for some time of this beast and of its home.”

“The Barbacan,” said Elbryan.

“The smoking mountain,” Avelyn added.

A long moment of silence ensued, all five—the three humans, Juraviel, and Tuntun—feeling the weight of confirmation and feeling suddenly vulnerable. There was indeed a very real dactyl, and it controlled Quintall’s ghost, and—whether through Quintall or reports from its monstrous forces—it knew of their raiding band, knew of Nightbird.

Avelyn stood up and started away; Pony rushed to catch up to him.

“I know my destiny,” he said to her quietly, though Elbryan, who had moved to follow, and the two elves, with their keen ears, heard him clearly. “I know now why I was compelled by the spirit of God to steal the stones and run from St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“You mean to go to the Barbacan,” Pony reasoned.

“I have seen the army that has gathered there,” Avelyn replied. “I have seen the darkness that will soon sweep down upon us, upon all the kingdom: St.-Mere-Abelle and Palmaris, Ursal, and even to Entel on the Belt-and-Buckle. Perhaps far Behren is not safe.”

The monk turned back to look Pony directly in the eye, then past her, to Elbryan. “We cannot defeat the dactyl and its minions,” Avelyn insisted. “Our people have grown weak, and the elves have become too isolated and too few. The only way in which the darkness might be averted is if our enemy is decapitated, if the binding force that holds powrie beside hated goblin, if the sheer evil willpower that focuses the wild giants is destroyed.”

“You mean to travel hundreds of miles to do battle with a creature of such power?” Elbryan asked skeptically.

“No army gathered by all the human kingdoms could get near the dactyl,” Avelyn replied, “but I might.”

“A small group might,” Pony added, looking at Elbryan.

The ranger considered that notion for a moment, then nodded grimly.

Pony looked back at Avelyn, stared deeply into the eyes of this man who had become to her as a brother. She saw the pain there, the fear that was not present when the monk had proclaimed that he alone would go. Avelyn was afraid for her, and not for himself.

“You say it is your destiny,” Pony remarked, “and so, since fate has put me beside you, is it mine.”

Avelyn was shaking his head, but Pony pressed on.

“Do not even think to try to stop me,” she insisted. “Where am I to be safe, in any case? Here, when the powries lay traps meant for us? In the southland, perhaps, running ahead of the advancing hordes?”

“Or even in the elven home?” Juraviel added grimly, unexpectedly lending support to Pony’s argument.

“Where indeed?” asked the woman. “I would rather confront the monster face-to-face, to stand by Avelyn’s side as he meets his destiny, as all the world holds its breath.”

Avelyn looked at Elbryan as if he expected the ranger to protest. How could. Elbryan, so obviously in love with Pony, allow her to go?

But Avelyn didn’t fully understand the nature of that love.

“And I will stand by Pony’s side,” the ranger said firmly. “And by Avelyn’s.”

The monk’s expression was one of sheer incredulity.

“Was not Terranen Dinoniel an elf-trained ranger?” Elbryan asked, looking about and finally settling his gaze on Juraviel and Tuntun.

“He was half-elf, as well,” Tuntun put in, as if that fact put the legendary hero somewhat above Elbryan’s station.

“Then I will have to go along to make up the other half,” Juraviel said somberly. He met Tuntun’s wide-eyed stare without surprise. “With Lady Dasslerond’s blessings, of course,” he said.

“Ho, ho, what!” Avelyn burst out suddenly, surprised and obviously pleased by the unexpected support. But the boisterous moment could not last, not with so grim a prospect as a journey to the Barbacan before them. The monk looked in turn at each of them and nodded, then walked off to be alone with his conscience and his courage.

When Elbryan and Pony left the elves, they were surprised to find an eavesdropping friend, standing only a dozen or so paces into the forest, unseen and unheard despite his great bulk.

“Ah, but I knew it’d come to this,” Bradwarden said. “Humans”—the centaur spat derisively—“always thinking o’ ways to be remembered.” He shook his head. “Get yer saddlebags for me, then, ye’ll need one to carry supplies, and better if that one knows how to get away from trouble.”

“You intend to accompany us?” Elbryan asked.

“A long road,” the centaur replied. “Ye’ll be needing me pipes to soothe yer nerves, don’t ye doubt!”

>PART FIVE

>
THE
BEAST

It is settled, Uncle Mather, a new stasis, a level of play. Our enemies know of us, and there is certainly concern among their ranks, but they have a bigger goal before them and that diversion gives us some hope, gives us the ability to proclaim with confidence that they will not catch us.

But neither will we deliver any significant blows. A pair of catapults fell before our fires, but what are they compared to the hundreds of war engines in a line rolling down from the Barbacan? We have killed nearly
a
dozen giants in the last two weeks, but how significant are they when a thousand more march against Honce-the-Bear? And now that we are known, our enemies take precautions, moving about in larger, better-prepared bands. Each kill comes harder.

So we will survive for the time, I believe, but we will do nothing decisive, not here, halfway between the fighting front and the source of the invasion. Yet, if Brother Avelyn is correct, if his destiny lies in the north and we can deliver him there, if he can battle and defeat the demon dactyl, then our enemies will be without their binding force. Who will quell the ancient and deep hatred between powrie and goblin when Bestesbulzibar is gone? It is likely that all the invasion will disintegrate into separate groups, fighting one another as much as the folk of the kingdom. It is likely that most of the giants, normally reclusive beasts, will turn back for their mountain homes, far from the villages of humans.

I do laugh when I consider how simple it all sounds, for I know that the path ahead is the darkest that ever I will tread, and that the end of that path is darker still.

Dark, too, is the journey for those men and women I leave behind, who will continue the fight while ushering their more helpless kin to a safer place—if one can ever be found. I hold no comforting illusions; that group is in danger as great as my own. Eventually, if they cannot find a haven, they will be killed, one at a time, perhaps, as was poor Cric, or perhaps the goblins will discover their camp in the night and slaughter them all.

What clouds are these that so cover our heads, blacker than the blackest storm?

It is the life that fate has chosen for us, Uncle Mather. It is the life that fate has thrust upon us, and I am proud indeed that few, so very few, have shrunk before their sudden, unasked-for responsibilities. For every Tol Yuganick, there are a hundred, I say, who will not give in to any threat, to any torture, who share loyalty and courage and who willingly take up the fight, even if that means their death, that their kin might win out.

I am a ranger, trained to accept duty, however harsh, and to accept whatever fate holds for me during the execution of that duty. That is my debt and my honor. I will fight, with all the skills the elves gave me, with all the weapons at my disposal, for those tenets I hold dear—for the protection of innocents and for the higher principles of justice above all else. And in that course, in these times, I have by reason of necessity become leader of the folk of the three villages. But they, these innocents placed in the path of war, and not I, are the true heroes of the day, for each of them—the trappers who could have been far from harm’s way; Bradwarden, whose fight this is not; Belster O’Comely and Shawno of End-o’-the-World—each of them willingly fights on, though they are not bound by debt. Every man, every woman, every child willingly takes up arms because of their common heritage, because they understand the value of unity, because they care for the fate of those in the towns to the south.

I understand now what it means to be a ranger, Uncle Mather. To be a ranger is to accept the frailties of humanity with the knowledge that the good outweighs the bad, to serve as an example, often an unappreciated one, that when darkness descends upon those about you—even many of those who, perhaps, persecuted you—they will recognize your value and follow that lead. To be a ranger is to show by example those about you what they might be when the need arises, to reflect openly the better aspects of what is in every human character.

The men and women I leave behind will serve as I have served, will lift up the spirits and the will, the courage and the conviction, of all those they subsequently meet.

And for myself I pledge now that I will deliver Brother Avelyn to the Barbacan, to the fiendish head of our enemy. And if I perish in the journey, then so be it. If all of us, my beloved Pony included, perish and fail, then let another take up my sword and my cry.

The blackness will not fall complete until the last free human spirit has succumbed.

—E
LBRYAN THE
N
IGHTBIRD