DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (169 page)

De’Unnero kept running, using the club to knock aside a spear thrust, then around again to smash the first goblin a third time— though it was already nearly unconscious on its feet—laying it out in the dirt.

Around he came, launching the club at the spear-wielder, then following the weapon’s flight with a quick rush, moving inside the tip of the spear and pushing it aside, while his free hand rained heavy blows about the creature’s face and throat.

Other monks were on the road now, overwhelming the goblins, breaking them apart. A few monsters scampered out to the side, whining, but De’Unnero had left several of his warriors in place, and they had their powerful crossbows ready by that time.

And then, with the goblin horde already falling apart, came perhaps the worst blow of all, as brutal De’Unnero fell into his signature gemstone, the tiger’s paw, as his arms, already deadly, transformed into the mighty limbs of a tiger and began raking apart those nearest goblins.

It was over before Master Jojonah could even get back to his companions.

When he did return, huffing and puffing, he found De’Unnero in an excited, almost frantic state, the man rushing all about the line of young monks, clapping them hard on the back, verily snarling at their great victory.

Only a few monks were down, and the worst injured of the group had been hit by a crossbow quarrel from across the road, the firing monk not taking care with the angle of his shot. Several goblins on the road were still alive, but in no condition to continue any fight, and several more had escaped, running fast across the fields to the sides of the road.

De’Unnero seemed not to care. The man even found a wide smile for Jojonah.

“It could not have been quicker even with the use of magic,” the would-be abbot said.

“Something you obviously never intended, other than your personal stone,” Jojonah replied sharply, tossing back the useless stone. “I do not like being a pawn, Master De’Unnero,” Jojonah went on.

De’Unnero glanced around at the young monks, and Jojonah did not miss the sly grin on his face. “You played a necessary role,” De’Unnero argued, not bothering to scold the man for referring to him as merely a master.

“With a true gemstone, I could have been more useful.”

“Not so,” said De’Unnero. “Your lightning stroke may have killed a few, but the rest would have scattered, making our task all the more difficult.”

“Several did get away,” Jojonah reminded him.

De’Unnero waved the thought away. “Not enough to cause any real mischief.”

“So you needed me frightened and running.”

“To lure them in,” De’Unnero replied.

“Me? A master of St.-Mere-Abelle?” Jojonah pressed, for he understood the more subtle reasoning of Marcalo De’Unnero. The man had humiliated him in front of the younger monks, thus securing his own standing among them; while Jojonah had run like a frightened child, De’Unnero had leaped into the midst of the enemy and personally killed at least a handful.

“Forgive me, my brother,” De’Unnero said insincerely. “You are the only one appearing infirm enough to so lure the goblins. The whole troupe of them might have fled from a younger, sturdier man, like myself.”

Jojonah went quiet, staring hard at this man, his nemesis.

Such an action, such a deception upon an Abellican master, could be brought before higher authorities, with the likely result that De’Unnero would be severely punished for his presumption and for so embarrassing him. But to what higher authorities might he appeal? Master Jojonah wondered. To Father Abbot Markwart? Hardly.

De’Unnero had won this day, Jojonah accepted, but he also determined then and there that this personal fight would be a long, long battle.

“The hematite, if you please,” he said to De’Unnero. “We have wounded in need of assistance.”

De’Unnero glanced around, seemed less than impressed by the severity of any wounds, then tossed the stone to Jojonah. “Again you prove that you have some value,” he said.

Jojonah just turned away.

“You taught her,” Juraviel, sitting in a tree, stated accusingly when Elbryan came back to the ridge, his hunting successfully completed.

The ranger didn’t have to ask what the elf was talking about, for he knew that Juraviel had watched his dance with Pony, and that no two humans could ever find that level of grace and harmony withoutbi’nelle dasada. Without retort, Elbryan ignored the accusation. He looked down to the circled wagons, to see Pony moving among the merchants, helping out.

Juraviel gave a great sigh and rested back against the trunk. “You cannot even admit it?” he asked.

Now the ranger did snap a glare over the elf. “Admit it?” he echoed incredulously. “You speak as though it was a crime.”

“And is it not?”

“Is she not worthy?” Elbryan shot right back, waving his arm out toward the wagons and Pony.

That somewhat deflated the elf’s anger, but still he pressed on. “And is Elbryan to be the judge of who is worthy and who is not?” he argued. “Is Elbryan, then, to become the instructor in place of the Touel’alfar, who perfectedbi’nelle dasada when the world itself was young?”

“No,” the ranger said grimly. “Not Elbryan, but Nightbird.”

“You presume much,” said Juraviel.

“You gave me the title.”

“We gave you your life and more,” the elf retorted. “Take care that you do not abuse the gifts, Nightbird. Lady Dasslerond would never suffer such an insult.”

“Insult?” the ranger echoed, as though the whole notion was ridiculous. “Consider the situation that I, that we, were put in. Pony and I had just destroyed the dactyl, and now had to fight our way through hordes of monsters, and that just to reach Dundalis. And so, yes, I shared my gift with her, for both our sakes, as she shared the gift that Avelyn had given to her, for both our sakes.”

“She taught you to use the stones,” Juraviel reasoned.

“I am nowhere near her level of power with them,” the ranger admitted.

“Nor is she near to your fighting prowess,” said the elf.

Elbryan was about to offer a stinging retort, for he wouldn’t suffer such an insult to Pony, especially one so obviously ridiculous, but Juraviel kept on talking.

“And yet, a human who can move with such grace, who can complement one trained by the Touel’alfar so very beautifully, is a rare find indeed,” the elf went on. “Jilseponie dances as though she had spent years in Caer’alfar.”

That brought a smile to Elbryan’s face. “She was trained by the master,” he said with a grin.

Juraviel didn’t even challenge the joking boast. “You did well,” the elf decided. “And yes, Jilseponie is worthy of the dance, as worthy as any human has ever been.”

Satisfied with that, the ranger looked down the dale and out to the east. “A large group went out that way,” he remarked.

“Likely they ran right into the approaching monks.”

“Unless the monks chose to hide and let the goblins pass,” Elbryan said.

Juraviel understood his cue. “Go to your companion and see to the merchants,” he offered. “I will scout to the east and find out what has become of our goblin friends.”

The ranger walked Symphony down the slope to the wagons. One frightened man raised a weapon as if to fend the newcomer away, but another nearby boxed him on the ear.

“Ye fool!” the second man said. “He’s just saved yer stinking life. Killed half the goblins by himself!”

The other man dropped his weapon to the ground and began dipping a series of ridiculous bows. Elbryan only smiled and walked Symphony past, right into the ring, He spotted Pony at once and slipped down from the horse, handing the reins to a young woman, barely more than a girl, who rushed over to help him.

“They have many sorely wounded,” Pony explained, and indeed at the time she was tending to one man who it seemed would not survive. “From the earlier fight, not the last one.”

Elbryan looked up, turning his nervous gaze to the east. “The monks are not far, I fear,” he said quietly. When he looked back down, he found Pony staring up at him, chewing her thick upper lip, her blue eyes wide, questioning. He knew what she meant to do, whether he argued against it or not, and realized she was only waiting for him to explain where he stood on the issue.

“Be quiet with the soul stone,” he bade her. “Wrap the wound as though you were tending it more conventionally. And use the gem only—” He stopped, seeing the transformation in Pony’s expression. She had wanted his opinion, out of respect, but she did not need his commandments. The ranger went silent then, nodding to show that he trusted her judgment.

He watched as she drew out the gray stone from her pouch, clutching it close and bending over the man. Elbryan, too, went down low, taking a bandage and beginning to wrap it about the man’s wound, a slash in the right side of his chest, through the ribs and quite deep, perhaps even through a lung. The ranger wrapped the wound, and tightly—he didn’t want to bring the man any more pain, but he needed him to cry out a bit to cover Pony’s secret work.

The man gasped, Elbryan offered words of comfort, and then, in mere seconds, the man relaxed, looking up at the ranger quizzically. “How?” he asked breathlessly.

“Your wound was not nearly as bad as it looked,” Elbryan lied. “The blade did not get past your rib bone.”

The man’s look was doubtful, but he let it go at that, just relieved that the pain was gone now, or nearly so, and that his breath was coming to him easily once more.

Elbryan and Pony made their way about the camp then, searching out any too injured for conventional methods. They found only one more, an older woman who had been hit in the head, whose eyes stared vacantly across the way, drool running freely from her mouth.

“Senseless,” a man attending her said. “I seen it before. The goblin club breaked her head. She’ll die tonight, in her sleep.”

Pony bent low, examining the wound. “Not so,” she replied. “Not if she’s properly wrapped.”

“What?” the man asked skeptically, but fell silent as Elbryan and Pony went to work, the ranger putting bandages about the old woman’s head, while Pony, the soul stone tucked under one palm, put her hands near the wound as if to hold the head together while it was being wrapped.

Pony closed her eyes and fell into the stone, sent the healing magic through her fingers. She felt stings of pain, the tenderness and swelling, but she had tended far worse in the battles of the northland.

She came out of her trance a moment later, the wound reduced so as to not be life-threatening, to the cries of “Approach! From the east!”

“Goblins!” one frightened merchant yelled.

“No!” another cried. “Brothers! St.-Mere-Abelle has come to our aid!”

Elbryan cast a nervous glance at Pony, who quickly pocketed the gemstone.

“I don’t know how ye did it, but ye suren saved Timmy’s life,” said a woman, rushing up behind Elbryan. Both Elbryan and Pony followed her gaze across the way, to the man with the chest wound, who was standing now and talking easily, even managing a laugh.

“It was not so bad,” Pony offered.

“It was to the lung,” the woman insisted. “Checked it meself, and thought he’d be dead afore the dinner bell.”

“You were nervous and shaken,” Pony offered. “And rushed, for you knew that the goblins were coming back.”

The woman’s face brightened with a disarming grin. She was older than the two, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with the worn but pleasant demeanor of an honest worker who had known a hard but satisfying life. She glanced by the pair, to the wounded old woman sitting on the ground, her eyes already showing signs of life once more.

“Not so shaken,” she said softly. “I seen much in the battles these last weeks, and lost a son, though me other five children are safe, God be praised. They only asked me along on the caravan to Amvoy because of me reputation for putting broken people back together.”

The ranger and Pony exchanged a serious look, something the woman didn’t miss.

“I’m not knowing what ye’re hiding,” she said quietly. “But I’m not for talking. I seen ye up on the hill, fighting for us, though ye know not a one in the group, from what I’m hearing. I’ll not betray ye.” She finished with a wink and turned away to join the commotion as the procession of monks approached along the eastern road.

“Where is our son?” Pony asked Elbryan with a smirk.

The ranger looked around, though of course Juraviel was nowhere in sight. “Probably behind the monks,” he answered dryly. “Or under one of their robes.”

Pony, nervous that her use of the stones might have drawn these brothers in and that the quest might soon be over, appreciated the levity. She hooked her arm inside her lover’s and led him toward the gathering.

“I am Abbot De’Unnero, departing St.-Mere-Abelle for St. Precious,” they heard the lead monk, a man full of so much energy that his eyes verily glowed. “Who is the leader here?” Before anyone could answer, De’Unnero’s discerning eye settled on the pair, Elbryan and Pony. Their stride and the weapons they carried distinguished them.

The would-be abbot walked up to them, looking hard.

“We are as new to the group as are you, good friar,” the ranger said humbly.

“And you happened upon them by mere chance?” De’Unnero asked suspiciously.

“We saw the smoke rising, as you must have in the east,” Pony answered, her tone sharp and showing clearly that she was not intimidated. “And being folk of goodly heart, we rushed to see if we might help. When we arrived, the second fight was brewing, so we made it our own.”

De’Unnero’s dark eyes flashed, and it seemed to both Elbryan and Pony that he wanted to strike out at her for the implied accusation. She had, for all intents and purposes, just asked the monk why he and his fellows had not hustled to join in.

“Nesk Reaches,” came a call from a heavy man in bright clothing, the same man Pony had spoken with when she had first approached the caravan before the fight. The merchant hustled forward, extending his left hand, for his right was bandaged. “Nesk Reaches of Dillaman Township,” he said, ” ‘Tis my caravan, and glad we are to see you.”