The Demon Awakens (37 page)

The questions spiraled into a singular line of thought, a singular fear that threatened to break the monk’s very mind. He knew! From his lessons, years of religious training, years of his masters imparting the fears of that which opposed their God.

He knew!

You have destroyed the fool Dosey, then, the creature telepathically imparted to the monk, and have stolen his treasure. The instant that last thought ended, Brother Justice felt an intrusion that he could not deny, a sudden scouring of his brain, of his identity, his intentions. Sheer revulsion saved him, catapulted his spirit out of that terrible place like a slingshot snapping back through the tunnels, across the plateau, above the swarming soldiers that he knew then were an army of evil, across the mountains and then the forests, the lakes, careening all the way back to Palmaris, to the merchant’s study, and back into his body so suddenly that the physical form nearly toppled over.

“Do you know now?” Dosey asked him even as his eyes blinked open.

Brother Justice looked into that maniacal expression and saw the result of contact with such a creature clearly etched on Dosey’s face. He wanted to shake the man and ask him what he had done, what he had awakened—but it was far beyond that, Brother Justice realized before he ever uttered a word. The man had passed the point of redemption and had perhaps awakened a dangerous curiosity in the demon.

Up came the monk’s hands, locking fast on Dosey’s throat. Dosey grabbed at the monk’s wrists, tugging futilely, trying to cry for help, scream, anything. The muscles on Brother Justice’s arms stood taut and too strong to fight. The monk drove the feeble merchant to his knees and held fast long after the struggling stopped, long after the merchant’s arms fell slack at his sides.

His mind whirling with outrage and fear, Brother Justice stalked about the house, finding the servants and the merchant’s family.

He left long after midnight, battling his confusion with a wall of sheer anger. The broach was in his pocket, the house of Folo Dosindien was dead.

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CHAPTER 30

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Symphony

“I am at peace, a greater sense of belonging than I have ever known,” the ranger said at length after more than half an hour sitting in his wooden chair in the darkness, staring at the barely perceptible mirror. He gave a chuckle at the irony of his own words. “And yet, Uncle Mather, I count my current friends as but two, and one of them is no more than a shadowy image, a specter that cannot speak!”

Elbryan laughed again as he considered the preposterous illogic of it all. “I belong here,” he declared. “This area, these towns—Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o’-the-World—are my towns, these folk, my folk, though they hardly tolerate the sight of me. What is it then that gives me acceptance in this place, a greater sense of peace and belonging than I knew among the Touel’alfar, who became my friends, who cared for me much more deeply than any of the folk of the three villages, than any but you and Bradwarden?”

He stared hard at the image at the edge of the dark mirror for a long while, considering his words, seeking his answers.

“It is duty,” Elbryan said finally. “It is the belief that here I am doing something to better the world—or at least my corner of the wide world. With the elves, I felt a sense of personal growth, learning and training, perfecting my skills, always moving toward something better. Here, I use those skills to better the world, to protect those who need protection—whether or not they believe they need protection.

“So here I belong. Here I fit into a necessary niche and know that my daily toils, my watchful eye, my rapport with the forest—creatures and plants—is surely valuable, if not appreciated.”

Elbryan closed his eyes and kept them shut for a long moment, his mind filling with the thoughts of the many duties left to him this day. He soon realized that Uncle Mather would not be in the mirror when he again opened his eyes, for the trance was broken. That was the way it always happened, the needs of the day dispatching the spirit soon before the dawn, turning Elbryan’s thoughts from philosophical to pragmatic. He used the Oracle regularly now, sometimes two or even three times in a week, and he never failed to bring up the image of his relative, the ranger who had gone before him. He wondered often if he might also find the image of Olwan in that mirror or of his mother or Pony, perhaps.

Yes, Elbryan would like to converse with Pony, to see her again, to remember that innocent time when patrolling was play and nightmares were not real.

He left the small cave, crawling out past the large tree roots, with a sincere smile on his face, rejuvenated and ready for the day’s work, as always. He was hoping to find Bradwarden, for the centaur, after weeks of Elbryan’s teasing, had at last promised him an archery contest. Perhaps Elbryan would make his prize, should he win—and he had no reason to believe that he would not—an indenture of the centaur, forcing Bradwarden to accompany him on his coming visit to the forest about the western village of End-o’-the-World.

First things first, the ranger told himself. He took up Hawkwing, removed its feathered tip and its string, and went to a place he had claimed as his own, a nearly treeless hillock much like the one he had frequented in Andur’Blough Inninness, one that lifted him up into the heavens on starry nights and brought him the first rays of dawn and the last rays of the sunset.

The ranger quickly removed his clothes, the grass feeling scratchy but not unpleasant to his feet. He greeted the dawn with his dance, weaving the staff about as he would wield a sword, stepping slowly, perfectly balanced, the moves coming with hardly a thought, since the movement memories were ingrained deep within his muscles. The sword-dance was perfected now, and there were no steps to be added, no more difficult maneuvers, no increase in speed. These movements alone would continue to heighten Elbryan’s balance, his sense of control over his body. In the half hour that it now took Elbryan to perform the dance, he would put his body through every movement needed in battle, he would reinforce in his muscles the memory of which action properly followed which. Truly the ranger was a thing of beauty, moving with animal-like grace but with human control. A combination of strength and agility, a balanced, thinking warrior. The greatest gift of the Touel’alfar was his name, Nightbird, and all the training that had come with it. The greatest gift of the elves was this harmony the man had achieved, this joining of two philosophies, of two ways of looking at the world, of two ways to do battle.

Sweat glistened in the morning light, beading and rolling about the man’s hard, sculpted form. For though he was not moving quickly, the energy required to maintain the balance of the sword-dance was tremendous, often a working of muscle against muscle or an isolation of a muscle group so completely that it was worked to its limits.

When he was done, Elbryan gathered up his clothing and ran to a nearby pond, diving into the chilly water without hesitation. A quick swim refreshed him, and he dressed and went at once to his morning meal, then set off to find the centaur.

To Elbryan’s relief, Bradwarden was in the appointed area, though not exactly in the spot where he had told Elbryan their contest would be held. To make things even easier for the tracking ranger, the centaur was playing his pipes this morning, a haunting melody that seemed akin to the dawn, gentle and rising, rising, until the notes burst forth as the rays of the sun, cresting the long bill and spreading wide. Following that music, compelled by its notes, Elbryan soon came upon the half-equine beast, standing amid a tumble of boulders.

The centaur stopped his playing when he spotted his friend, his white smile growing wide within his bushy black beard. “I feared ye would not have the courage to show yer face!” Bradwarden roared.

“My face and my bow,” the ranger replied, holding Hawkwing up before him.

“Aye, that elven stick,” the centaur remarked. Bradwarden held aloft his own bow then, the first time Elbryan had seen it, and he was truly astonished. Mounted sidelong on a platform, the thing would have passed for a fair-sized ballista!

“You throw arrows with a tree?” the ranger scoffed.

Bradwarden’s smile didn’t lessen a bit. “Call ‘em arrows,” he said evenly, placing his pipes on the ground and hoisting a quiver that would have passed for a sleeping bag for Elbryan, with arrows each as long as the man was tall. “Call ‘em spears. But if ye get hit by one, know that ye’ll call ‘em death!”

Elbryan didn’t doubt that for a minute.

Bradwarden led the way out of the area to an open meadow upon which he had placed a series of six targets, each a different distance from the appointed line.

“We’ll be starting close and working our way to the back,” the centaur explained. “First one to miss a target is the loser.”

Elbryan considered the rules, so befitting the centaur’s blunt style. Normally in a test of archery, each contestant would be granted a specified number of shots, with the best total score serving as the measure. With Bradwarden, though, it was a simple challenge of hit or miss.

Elbryan stepped up and let fly first, confident that the first target, no more than thirty paces, would pose no difficulty. His arrow slapped into the target near the bull’s-eye, a straight, level shot.

Without a word of congratulations, Bradwarden lifted his monstrous bow and drew back. “Ye only stung the giant,” the centaur remarked, then let fly. His great bolt thudded into the target near Elbryan’s arrow and overturned the whole three-legged thing. “Now,” the centaur declared, “the beast is properly killed.”

“Perhaps I should shoot first at each target,” Elbryan said dryly.

The mighty centaur laughed heartily. “If ye don’t,” he agreed, “then ye’ll be aiming high for the clouds and hoping yer bolt drops straight down on the mark, don’t ye doubt!”

Before the centaur had even finished, Elbryan’s second arrow thudded dead center into the next target, ten paces farther away than the first.

Bradwarden hit it as well, and again the target fell over.

They were up to the fifth target in no time, the first three having been knocked flat, and the fourth still standing, for Bradwarden’s great arrow, though true in aim, had not pushed it all the way over. This fifth target, some hundred yards away, was the first for which Elbryan had to elevate his shot. Not much, though; so strong was Hawkwing that the arrow’s flight was barely arched, cutting a sure line through the gentle wind to strike perfectly.

The centaur, for the very first time, seemed honestly impressed. “Good bow,” he muttered, and then he took aim and let fly.

Elbryan clenched a fist, thinking himself victorious as he marked the flight. Bradwarden’s arrow did hit the target, though, barely catching hold in its outer edge, as far to the left of center as it could go.

Elbryan turned a wry gaze on the centaur. “A bit of luck,” he remarked.

Bradwarden pawed hard at the ground. “Not so,” he insisted in all seriousness. “I aimed for the beast’s weapon hand.”

“Ah, but if it was left-handed . . .” the ranger replied without hesitation.

Bradwarden’s smile was gone. “Last shot,” he said evenly. “Then we’ll be picking out farther trees to substitute for targets.”

“Or leaves,” Elbryan replied, and lifted his bow.

“A bit too much,” the centaur said suddenly, and the ranger eased the tension on his bowstring, having almost lost his concentration and the shot.

“Too much?”

“Too much faith in yerself,” the centaur clarified. “Next, ye’ll be wanting to wager.”

Elbryan paused and thought hard on that line, then looked back to consider the centaur’s last shot, so near a miss. Or had it been planned that way? he had to wonder. Was Bradwarden setting him up? Certainly the centaur was a fine archer, but was he even better than Elbryan had recognized?

“Me pipes’ll be needing a new bag,” Bradwarden mused. “Not a difficult chore, but a dirty one—taking a hide.”

“And if I win?” Elbryan asked. His eyes betrayed his idea, roaming to the centaur’s strong back.

Bradwarden started to laugh, as if the notion that Elbryan might win was absurd. The centaur stopped abruptly, though, and glared hard at his human companion. “I know ye’re thinking ye might be riding me, but if ever ye try, I’ll be giving human flesh another taste.”

“Just to End-o’-the-World,” Elbryan clarified. “I wish to be there and back in a hurry.”

“Never!” the centaur declared. “Only a maiden I’d let ride, and then she’d be letting me,” he finished with a lewd wink.

Elbryan didn’t even want to conjure the image.

“What, then?” he asked. “I’ll wager against you, but the prize must be named.”

“I could make ye a real bow,” the centaur chided.

“And I could put an arrow up your arse from a hundred paces,” Elbryan retorted.

“Big target,” the huge centaur admitted. “But what might ye be needing, me friend, not that ye’ve a chance at winning.”

“I already told you,” Elbryan replied. “I enjoy my walks, but I fear that I need a faster method to cover the ground about the three towns.”

“Ye’ll never climb on me back.”

“Do you lead the wild horses?” Elbryan asked, surprising the centaur.

“Not I,” Bradwarden replied. “That’s the work of another.” A strange smile came over the centaur, a strange expression as if he had found the solution to some puzzle. “Aye,” he said at length, “that’ll be yer prize. If lightning hits me arrow—for that’s the only way ye’ll beat me—I’ll take ye to the one who leads the wild herd. I’ll take ye, mind ye, but then ye’ll make yer own deals.”

Elbryan realized that he was being duped, that this prize, in Bradwarden’s estimation, was more a punishment. The ranger felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, felt a tingling of trepidation. Who might this leader of the herd be to inspire such uncharacteristic respect from cocky Bradwarden? Along with the realization came an undeniable sense of intrigue, however, and so the ranger agreed.

Up came Hawkwing and off flew the arrow, striking hard on the far distant target.

Bradwarden gave a grunt of respect, then let fly, his arrow, too, hitting the mark.

“Three,” said Elbryan, and he put up his bow three times in rapid succession, each bolt flying unerringly.

Bradwarden followed and scored three hits.

“Fourth, fifth, sixth!” Elbryan cried, letting three more shots fly, the first hitting the fourth target squarely, the second striking the fifth—splitting Elbryan’s previous shot on that target—and the last zipping into the final target, dead center.

The centaur sighed, beginning to understand that he had, for the first time, possibly met his match in a human. He got the fourth target easily enough, and then the fifth, but his shot at the last in line skipped off the top of the target and flew away into the brush beyond the far edge of the meadow.

Elbryan smiled widely and clenched a fist. He looked up at Bradwarden and found the centaur eyeing him with an expression he had not really seen from the creature before: respect.

“Ye’ve got yerself one dragon-killer of a bow, me friend,” Bradwarden offered. “And be sure that I’ve not seen a steadier hand.”

“I had the best bowyer,” Elbryan replied, “and the best tutors. None in all the world can match the archery of the Touel’alfar.”

Bradwarden snorted. “That’s because the skinny little folks don’t dare to get close to an enemy!” he replied. “Come on then, let us go and get our arrows, and then I’ll show ye something fine.”

They gathered together their arrows and their belongings and set off at once, the centaur leading Elbryan deep into the forest, past the pine and the caribou moss, down a deep valley, then up its other side. They walked for several hours, speaking little, but with the centaur often lifting his pipes to play. At last, the sun moving low in the western sky, they came to a secluded grove of pines, neatly tended into roughly a diamond shape. It sat on the gentle slope of a wide hill, surrounded on all sides by a meadow of tall grass and wildflowers. Elbryan could hardly believe that he hadn’t found this grove before, that his ranger instincts hadn’t guided him to a place so naturally perfect, so in tune with the harmony of the forest. This grove—every flower, every bush, every tree and stone, and the trickling brook that crossed it—was something more than the ordinary forests of the region. It was something sacred, something befitting Andur’Blough Inninness, and not of the tainted world of men.