The Demon Awakens (5 page)

Carley dan Aubrey’s whimper brought him back to his senses. He dashed back up the slope, finally getting to the boy.

“Cold,” Carley mouthed quietly. Elbryan fell to his knees, reaching for the wound, gingerly touching the spear and wondering if he should pull it free. He looked at the boy, and he held his breath.

But Carley was dead.

Pony ran off, stumbled and fell, then scrambled on all fours—anything to get away. The goblin was behind her; she could imagine it readying its spear, lining up her vulnerable back. She cried out and fell around a corner, flat on her face. Realizing she hadn’t been hit by anything, she put her feet back under her and ran on.

Around the back of the house, Thomas Ault, Pony’s father, tore his dagger free and let the dead goblin fall to the ground. He looked plaintively at the corner around which his daughter had run, hoping, praying she would somehow escape.

Thomas had done all he could. He felt the sting of the light spears, six of them, in his back, his side, deep in one thigh. He heard the footsteps as the band of pursuing goblins closed the distance to him.

He prayed Pony would get away.

Before Elbryan could start back toward the town, he saw the shadows moving among the trees in the area from which Carley had come. He knew these were not his other friends, knew instinctively the others had fallen. He moved slowly, quietly, away from Carley’s body, taking cover behind a larger tree.

Seven goblins came into sight, trotting easily down the slope. They hooted and laughed when they spotted the dead boy, then hooted even louder when they saw their fallen companion, not even pausing as they passed.

Elbryan wanted to jump out at them, to slash them all. Wisdom overruled his rage, though, and he stayed hidden and let them pass. Then he stalked after them, his bloody sword in his bloody hand, hoping one of the creatures would stray from its friends.

The smoke was growing thicker down in the village now. The screams had diminished, but when he crossed an area that offered him a clear view of Dundalis, Elbryan saw the scrambling forms were still thick about the place.

The young man knew it was hopeless, knew that his village was lost, knew all of his friends, his parents, his Pony, were gone.

Elbryan knew it, yet he did not slow his pace and did not alter his course. He was beyond grief, beyond logic, with no tears to cry. He would go down to Dundalis; he would kill every goblin he could catch.

She saw the dead, saw the dying. She didn’t know why she hadn’t yet been caught, but as she darted from shadow to shadow, from the side of one burning building to the next, she knew that her luck would not hold out for long. All thought of rescuing anyone was gone. All that she wanted now was to get away, far away.

But how? The roads were thick with goblins. Groups of the ugly creatures ran into each house, ransacked the place, and then set it ablaze. They showed no mercy; Pony saw one woman beg for her life, offer herself to the goblins circling about her.

They hacked her down.

The noose was getting tighter, Pony knew. As villagers died, more and more goblins were free to run about. She looked in every direction, trying to find some course out of the town to the trees. But there was no escape, no way to get beyond Dundalis without being seen. And there were other goblins in the woods, coming in a few at a time.

No escape.

Pony squeezed in tight between two buildings and put her head against a wall. She wondered if it would be better to run out into the road and get it over with. “Better that than to wait,” she mumbled determinedly, but she found she could not do it, that her most basic instinct for survival would not let her.

Pony took a deep breath. She felt the heat against her hands as this houses, too, started to burn. Now where could she run?

The girl cocked her head, suddenly realizing exactly where she was. This was Shane McMichael’s house in front of her, Olwan Wyndon’s right behind her. Olwan’s house, Elbryan’s house.

Elbryan’s new house!

Pony remembered the building of the place, only two years previously. The whole village had buzzed about the house because Olwan Wyndon was laying a stone foundation.

Pony fell to her knees and began to scrape the ground at the base of Olwan’s house. Her fingers bled, she felt the heat growing behind her, but she dug on desperately.

Then her hand broke through into an open area. She reached deeper, perhaps a foot and a half down, and her hand met cold, wet ground. Olwan had used large slabs for the base, and, as Pony suspected, the house hadn’t completely settled.

The smoke grew thick about Pony; Olwan’s house, too, went up in flames. Still she dug, widening the hole, trying desperately to squeeze under the slab.

The angry young man didn’t have long to wait. The goblin band, sentries apparently and not part of the attacking force, did not continue down toward Dundalis but split ranks and filtered left and right into the trees.

Elbryan went left, shadowing a group of three. He heard the continuing screams in Dundalis, more of a pitiful weeping now than any cries of resistance. He saw the houses burning, was close enough to realize that his own house was among them.

That only fueled the young man’s outrage. He stalked quietly from tree to tree, and when one of the goblins paused and fell behind the others, he was quickly to the spot.

The kill was swift, a single thrust through the creature’s ribs, but not quiet, for the goblin managed to let out a dying cry.

Elbryan tore free his sword and started to run, but too late. He swiped left and right, picking off a pair of thrusting spears as the two other goblins bore down on him, howling and shouting. Their eyes—so full of glee, so uncaring for their fallen comrade—unnerved Elbryan, and he tried hard not to look at them, tried to concentrate on their stabbing spears.

All the while he was backtracking, realizing he had to flee before the other group answered the howling call. The goblin on his left came in hard and straight. Elbryan snapped his sword over and around the spear, angling it past on his right, and he skittered out to the left, up the slope, gaining the higher ground.

All advantage was lost as the young man stumbled, the loose earth slipping out from under his foot. The other goblin ran around the back of its companion and moved higher, coming in at Elbryan from above.

Desperately, he threw himself backward, put a foot under him, and kicked off, flying past the turning spear of the first goblin and rushing to get out of range of the second. He slashed out with his sword as he careened past, gaining hope as he felt it connect with something solid.

Then the world was spinning as Elbryan bounced and rolled. He finally controlled his slide and tried to angle himself so he could stop his roll and come up in a defensive posture. He expected the goblin—perhaps both of the creatures—to be right behind him.

They weren’t. The one Elbryan had slashed lay very still on the ground—apparently he had hit it harder than he’d believed. The other was also on the ground, squirming and groaning.

The only explanation Elbryan could think of was that it had charged at him as he had leaped away and had slammed hard against the ground or against a tree trunk. Not one to argue with good fortune, Elbryan scrambled to his feet.

Something tapped him on the shoulder, not hard at first, but then he was flying once more, sidelong this time. He hit the ground in a roll but slammed hard against a tree trunk as he came around. Confused and dazed, Elbryan staggered to his feet.

And all hope flew from him as a fomorian giant, holding a club as large as Elbryan’s entire body, casually walked toward him. And Elbryan heard hoots from behind him and knew the other four goblins were on the way.

The young man glanced all around. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He braced himself, used the solid tree as support. When the giant was within one huge stride, Elbryan leaped out, trying to confuse it with sheer savagery. He stabbed and slashed, came in close to the monster’s knees and stabbed again, then rolled right between the giant’s legs.

But the giant had seen the move dozens of times in its battles with little folk. Elbryan got halfway through before the giant clamped his knees together, holding the youth so securely he could barely draw breath. Elbryan tried to stab the monster again, but the giant squeezed even tighter, and all the young man could do was groan. He managed to turn sideways, and from that perspective could see the giant’s club rise up over its head.

A sickening feeling washed over Elbryan. Stubborn to the end, he stabbed again as hard as he could, then closed his eyes.

The air came alive with a strange humming sound. The giant released its grip and Elbryan fell to the ground. He scrambled out, running on for several steps. He heard the continuing whistles and thought for a moment that a swarm of bees had flown up around him. Instinctively he whipped out his hand, and then he cried out for the sudden sting and pulled it back in close.

He turned about, regarding the giant, which was dancing and slapping at the air. Beyond it he could see a pair of the four goblins that were coming in, both of them jerking weirdly and then falling to the ground.

“What?” Elbryan asked in utter confusion. Dots of red, like grotesque chicken pox, covered the giant’s face and arms. Looking closer, and then at his own injured hand, Elbryan realized that these were not caused by bees, but were bolts, small arrows, the likes of which he had never seen.

Scores and scores of small arrows, filling the air all about him!

But they hardly seemed to stop the behemoth. The fomorian charged ahead with a tremendous, hideous howl, its cudgel going high. Elbryan, puny and helpless beneath it, held aloft his short sword, though he could not possibly deflect such a mighty blow.

The next volley was concentrated, sixty arrows flying fast for the giant’s face and throat, sixty bolts that looked indeed like a swarm of bees. The fomorian staggered once, twice, and then again, as the bolts burrowed in, one on top of the other, a dozen on top of the previous dozen. Finally, the stinging ended, and the fomorian tried to move forward, back toward its prey. But before it could get anywhere near to the young man, the giant went down, choking in its own blood.

Elbryan never saw it; he had fainted dead away.

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CHAPTER 5

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God’s Chosen

Brother Avelyn turned hard on the crank, both wood and man groaning with each rotation. When would that bucket finally appear? the young novice wondered.

“Faster,” insisted Quintall, Avelyn’s work partner and classmate. The class had been divided by birth dates; Avelyn and Quintall had been put together solely because they had been born in the same week, and not for compatibility, either physical or emotional. Indeed, the two seemed obviously mismatched. Quintall was the shortest man in the class of twenty-five, while Avelyn was among the tallest. Both were large boned, but Avelyn was gawky and awkward, whereas Quintall was muscular, a fine athlete.

They were opposites in temperament, as well: Avelyn calm and reverent, always in control, and Quintall a “firework,” as Master Siherton, the class overseer, often appropriately referred to him.

“Is it near?” Avelyn asked after a few more unrewarded turns.

“Halfway,” Quintall answered coldly, “if that.”

Avelyn sighed deeply and put his aching arms into motion.

Quintall offered a disgusted snort; he would have had the bucket up by this time and the pair could have gone off and gotten their midday meal. But it was Avelyn’s turn to crank, and the taskmasters were particular about such things. If Quintall tried to sneak in and push that crank, it would likely cost them both their meal.

“He is an impatient one,” noted Master Jojonah, a portly man of about fifty, with soft brown eyes and rich brown hair that showed not a speck of gray. Jojonah’s skin was tanned and smooth, except for a fan of lines spreading out from each of his eyes—“credibility wrinkles,” he called them.

“Firework,” explained Master Siherton, tall and angular and thin, though his shoulders were wide, protruding many inches from either side of his skinny neck. Siherton’s features befit his rank of class overseer, the disciplinarian of the newest brothers. His face was sharp and hawkish, his eyes small and dark—and smaller still on those many occasions that he squinted ominously at his young students. “Quintall is full of passion,” he added with obvious admiration.

Jojonah regarded the man curiously. They were inside the abbey’s highest chamber, a long, narrow room with windows overlooking the rough ocean breakers on one side and the abbey courtyard on the other. All twenty-four—one novice had been forced to leave because of illness—brothers of the newest class were out in the courtyard, tending their chores, but the focus of the two masters was Avelyn and Quintall, considered the exceptional novices.

“Avelyn is the best of the class,” Jojonah remarked, mostly to gauge Siherton’s reaction.

The taller man shrugged noncommittally.

“Some say that he is the best in many years,” Jojonah pressed. It was true enough; Avelyn’s incredible dedication was fast becoming the talk of St.-Mere-Abelle.

Again, the shrug. “He is without passion,” Siherton replied.

“Without human passion because he is closer to God?” Jojonah replied, thinking that he had finally caught Siherton.

“Perhaps because he is already dead,” the tall man said dryly, and he turned to glare at his counterpart.

Master Jojonah settled back on his heels but met the penetrating stare firmly. It was no secret that Siherton favored Quintall among this most important class, but the man’s overt insult of Avelyn, the choice of every other master—and reportedly of Father Abbot Markwart as well—surprised him.

“We received news this day that his mother died,” Siherton said evenly.

Jojonah looked back at the courtyard, to Avelyn at work as always as though nothing was amiss. “You have told him?”

“I did not bother.”

“What macabre game do you play?”

Again came that annoying shrug. “Would he care?” Siherton replied. “He would say that she is with God now, and so she is happy; and then he would go on.”

“Do you mock his faith?” Jojonah asked rather sharply.

“I despise his inhumanity,” replied Siherton. “His mother has died, yet will he care? I think not. Brother Avelyn is so smug within the cocoon of his beliefs that nothing can unbalance him.”

“That is the glory of faith,” Jojonah said evenly.

“That is a waste of life,” Siherton retorted as he leaned out the window. “You, Brother Quintall!” he called.

Both the novices stopped their work and looked up at the window. “Go to your meal,” Master Siherton instructed. “And you, Brother Avelyn, do come and join with me at my—at Master Jojonah’s chambers.” Siherton pulled back into the hall and eyed Jojonah.

“Let us see if our young hero has any heart at all,” Siherton remarked coldly, and he stalked off toward the stairwell that would lead him down to the master’s quarters.

Jojonah watched him for a long moment, wondering which of them it was, Siherton or Avelyn, who was truly lacking in heart.

“You are using this loss for a most unworthy point,” Jojonah insisted when he caught up to Siherton three levels below.

“He must be told,” Siherton replied. “Let us not miss the opportunity to measure this man in whom we may soon put so much trust.”

Jojonah caught Siherton by the shoulder, stopping him in midstride. “Avelyn has spent eight years proving himself worthy,” he reminded the taller man. “Unbeknownst to him, he has been under constant scrutiny these last four years. What more would Siherton demand?”

“He must prove that he is a
man
,” the hawkish master growled. “He must prove that he can feel. There is more to spirituality than piety, my friend. There is emotion, anger, passion.”

“Eight years,” Jojonah repeated.

“Perhaps the next class—”

“Too late,” Master Jojonah said quietly. “The Preparers must be selected from this class, or from one of the three previous, and not a man among the seventy-five admitted in the last three years has shown the promise of Avelyn Desbris.” Jojonah paused and spent a long while studying the other man. Siherton knew the truth of Jojonah’s words, and seemed now caught within that truth, helpless in the face of reality. His arguments against Avelyn would be duly noted, but they rang hollow in light of the choices before the abbey. And even with any credible arguments, Siherton’s posture, bordering on anger, on outrage, seemed so out of place.

“Why, my dear Siherton,” Jojonah said a moment later, figuring it out, “you are jealous!”

Master Siherton growled and turned away, heading for the door to Jojonah’s private room.

“Our misfortune to be born between the showers,” Jojonah said, sincerely sympathetic to Siherton’s frustration. “But we have our duty. Brother Avelyn is the best of the lot.”

The words stung Siherton profoundly. He stopped at the door, bowed his head, and closed his eyes, conjuring images of the young Avelyn. Always working or praying; there were no other recollections of Avelyn to be found. Strength, or weakness? Siherton wondered, and he wondered, too, about the potential danger of having one so devout getting involved with the precious stones. There were pragmatic matters concerning the magic which might not sit well in a man so deep in faith, in a man so obviously convinced that he understood the desires of God.

“Father Abbot Markwart is quite pleased with the young man,” Jojonah remarked.

True enough, Siherton had to admit, and he understood that he would not win any debate he might wage against the selection of Avelyn as one of the Preparers. The position of the second Preparer remained wide open, though, and so the tall master decided then and there that he would use his energy to put forth a student better to his liking. Someone like Quintall, a young man full of fire and full of life. And, because of that passion, because of worldly lusts, a man who could be controlled.

He was not surprised; his lip didn’t quiver.

“Pray tell me, Master Siherton, was it peaceful?” he heard himself ask.

Master Jojonah was glad to hear the sympathetic question. Avelyn’s lack of initial response to the news that his mother had died had lent credence to Siherton’s complaints. “The messenger said that she died in her sleep,” Jojonah interrupted.

Master Siherton eyed his peer sternly, considering the lie, for the messenger, a young boy, had only delivered news of the death and had offered no details surrounding it. Master Jojonah hadn’t even conversed with the messenger. In a rare display of sympathy, with Jojonah glaring at him out of the corner of his brown eye, Siherton let it go.

Avelyn nodded, accepting the news.

“You will want to leave at once,” Siherton offered, “to join your father at your mother’s gravesite.”

Avelyn stared at him incredulously.

“Or you may choose to stay,” Jojonah put in immediately, seeing the lure. If Avelyn left St.-Mere-Abelle for any reason, he would have to wait until the following year to enter. His reentry would be guaranteed, but his position as a Preparer—though he had no idea that he would be offered such a position or even that there was such a thing—would be lost.

“My mother is already buried, I assume,” Avelyn responded to Siherton, “and my father has surely left her grave to return home. Given the short time since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, he has yet a long road before him.”

Master Siherton squinted ominously and leaned close over Avelyn, glaring openly. “Your mother has died, boy,” he said slowly, accentuating each syllable. “Do you care?”

The words hit young Avelyn hard. Did he care? He wanted to punch out at the tall master for even insinuating otherwise. He wanted to fly into a rage, tear the room—and anyone who tried to stop him—apart!

But that would be a disservice to Annalisa, Avelyn knew, an insult to the memory of the gentle woman. Avelyn’s mother had lived in the light of God. Avelyn had to believe that, or else all of her life—and all of his own life—would be no more than a lie. The reward for such a life, for such a good heart, was a better existence in a better place. Annalisa was with God now.

That thought bolstered the young man. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the imposing Master Siherton.

“My mother knew that she would not make it home,” he said quietly, aiming his words at Jojonah. “We all knew it. She lived on, in sickness, only to see me enter the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was her glory that I join the Abellican Church, and I would be stealing that glory if I left now.” He sucked in his breath, bolstering his declaration.

“The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle, God’s Year 816,” Brother Avelyn said without the slightest quiver in his voice. “That is my place. That is the vision that allowed Annalisa Desbris to pass on peacefully from this world.”

Master Jojonah nodded, seeing the calm and logical reasoning, and at once impressed with, and frightened of, the depth of this young man’s faith. It was obvious that Avelyn had loved his mother dearly, and yet, there was a sincerity in his demeanor. In that, Jojonah could clearly see Siherton’s point. Either Avelyn had a direct line to God or the young man simply had no idea of what it was to be human.

“May I go?” Avelyn asked.

The question caught Jojonah off guard, and as he considered it, he came to realize that Avelyn’s stoicism was, perhaps, not so deeply rooted. “You will be excused from your duties this day,” the master stated.

“No,” Avelyn replied without hesitation. He bowed his head as soon as he realized that he had just spoken against a master’s command, an offense that could lead to exile from the abbey. “Please allow me to continue my duties.”

Jojonah looked to Siherton, who was shaking his head disgustedly. Without a word, the tall master stalked from the room.

Jojonah suspected that young Brother Avelyn should be careful in the coming weeks. Master Siherton would see to his dismissal if given any real cause. The gentle master hesitated for a long while, making sure that Siherton would be far away by the time that Avelyn left the room.

“As you wish, Brother Avelyn,” Jojonah subsequently agreed. “Be away, then. You have a few minutes left for your midday meal.”

Avelyn bowed deeply and exited the room.

Jojonah folded his hands on his desk and spent a long while staring at the closed door. What was it about Avelyn that really bothered Siherton? he wondered. Was it, as Siherton insisted, the young man’s apparent inhumanity? Or was it something more profound? Was Avelyn, perhaps, a higher standard, a shadowy mirror, held up before all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, a testament of true faith that seemed so rare in these times, even in the holy abbey?

That thought shook Jojonah as he looked around at his decorated chamber, at the beautiful tapestry he had commissioned from the gallery of Porvon dan Guardinio, among the most respected artists in all the world. He considered the gold leaf highlighting the carved hardwood of the room’s support beams, the rich rug from some exotic land, the cushiony chairs, the many baubles and trinkets on his vast bookshelf, every one of them worth more gold than a common laborer would make in a year.

Piety, dignity, poverty,
that was the pledge offered upon entering the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. That was the standard. Jojonah glanced around the room again, reminding himself that most of the other masters, even some of the tenth-year immaculates, had chambers more richly adorned.

Piety, dignity, poverty.

But pragmatism, too, should be part of that pledge, so said Father Abbot Markwart, and so had declared the abbey’s previous leaders, dating back more than two centuries. In Honce-the-Bear, wealth equalled power, and without power, how could the Order hope to influence the lives of the common folk? Wasn’t God better served by strength than by weakness?

So went the widely accepted argument that allowed for relaxing some aspects of the holy pledge.

Still, Master Jojonah could see why a student such as Avelyn Desbris would so unnerve Master Siherton.

That night, Avelyn retired to his room, thoroughly exhausted, both emotionally and physically. He had spent all his waking hours at demanding work, volunteering for the most difficult parts of each task. He had lost count of the buckets he had cranked up from the well—somewhere near fifty—and had gone right from that heavy work to removing loose stones near to the northern end of the abbey’s top wall, pulling them free and piling them neatly for the masons who would follow the next day.