DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (44 page)

Elbryan was amazed at how easy it was for him to track the bear. The beast had run off from the farmhouse, creating a swath of devastation through the brush, even knocking over small trees, venting a rage that the ranger had never before witnessed in an animal. The tracks were surely those of a medium-sized bear, but Elbryan felt as if he were tracking a fomorian giant or some other evil, reasoning creature, some creature purposefully bent on destruction. He feared that the bear was in the grip of some disease, perhaps, or was wounded.

Whatever the source, with every passed scene of utter destruction, the ranger's fear mounted that he would not be able to spare the creature. He had hoped simply to drive the bear faraway into the deeper woodlands.

He moved up the side of one steep hill, peering intently into every shadow. Bears were not stupid creatures; they had been known to backtrack hunters, taking the men from behind. Elbryan crouched by the side of one small tree. He placed his hand on the ground, feeling for subtle vibrations, anything that might offer a hint.

He caught a slight movement of a bush out of the corner of his eye, The ranger didn't move except to shift his head to better view the shadow. He noted the wind, noted that he was upwind of the spot.

Out came the bear in full charge, roaring.

Elbryan shifted to one knee, fitted a heavy arrow, and, with a sigh of complete resignation, let fly. He scored a hit, the arrow skipping off the bear's face and burrowing into its chest, but the bear kept coming. The ranger was amazed at the sheer speed of the thing. He had seen bears in Andur'Blough Inninness, had even seen one run off when Juraviel had banged two stones together, but this creature's speed was outrageous, as fast as any horse might run.

A second arrow followed the first, diving deep into the bear's shoulder.

It bellowed again and hardly slowed.

Elbryan knew that he would not get the third shot away. If it had been a brown bear, he would have taken to the trees, but a black could climb any tree faster than he could.

He waited, crouched, as the bear bore down on him, then, at the last instant, the ranger went into a sidelong roll, down the hill.

The bear skidded to a stop and turned to follow. When Elbryan rolled to his knees, facing up the hill to the bear, the creature went up onto its hind legs, standing tall and imposing.

But leaving some vital areas exposed.

Elbryan pulled the bowstring back with all his strength; Hawkwing's three feathers were as wide apart as they could go. The ranger hated this business as he sighted the hollow on the bear's breast.

And then it was over, suddenly, the creature rolling, dead. Elbryan went to the corpse. He waited a while to make sure that it would not stir, then moved to its muzzle, lifting its upper lip. He feared that he would find foamy saliva there, an indication of the most wicked disease. If that was the case, then Elbryan would have his work cut out from him indeed, hunting almost day and night for other infected animals, everything from raccoons and weasels to bats.

No foam; the ranger breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, though, as Elbryan tried to figure what, then, had caused this normally docile animal to go so bad. He continued his inspection of the mouth and face, noted that the eyes were clear and not runny, then moved along the bear's torso.

He found his answer in the form of four barbed darts, stuck deep into the bear's rump. He worked one out — not an easy task — and inspected its tip.

Elbryan recognized the black, sappy poison, a pain — inducing product of a rare black birch tree.

With a growl, the ranger threw the dart to the ground. This was no accident but a purposeful attack on the bear. The poor beast had been driven mad by' pain, and someone — some human, most likely, given the type of the darts —
had done it.

Elbryan gathered his wits and began his dance of praise to the spirit of the bear, thanking it for its gift of food and warmth. Then he methodically went about skinning and cleaning it. To waste the creature's useful body, to leave the bear to rot or even to bury it whole in the ground would, by elven standards

— and by Elbryan's — be a complete insult to the bear, and thus to Nature.

His work was done late that afternoon, but the ranger did not rest, nor did he return to Dundalis to inform the townsfolk of the kill. Something, someone, had brought on this tragedy.

Nightbird went hunting again.

They were not much more difficult to find than the bear. Their hut, a mere shack of logs and old boards — Elbryan got the distinct impression that many of these had come from the ruins of Dundalis — was at the top of a hill. Branches had been tossed all about for camouflage, but many of these had already withered, their dry and brown leaves a telltale sign.

The ranger heard them long before he caught sight of them, laughing and singing terribly off-key, though the voices were surely human, as he had suspected.

Elbryan glided stealthily up the hill, tree to tree, shadow to shadow, though he doubted the men inside would have heard him had he been accompanied by a hundred villagers and a score of fomorian giants! He recognized the implements of the trapping trade hanging all about the shack, along with dozens of drying pelts. These men knew animals, Elbryan understood. In a vat not far from the back wall of the shack, the ranger found a thick concoction of black liquid, and quickly surmised it to be the same irritant poison that had been used on the bear.

The walls of the shack were in bad disrepair, with cracks between every board. Elbryan peeked in.

Three men lay about on piled skins, black bear mostly, drinking foamy beer from old mugs. Every so often, one would shift to the side and dip his mug into a barrel, first brushing away the many flies and bees drawn to the liquid.

Elbryan shook his head in disgust, but he reminded himself to keep a measure of respect. These were men of the Wilderlands, strong and heavily armed.

One had many daggers within easy grasp, hanging on a bandolier that crisscrossed his chest. Another sported a heavy axe, while the last earned a slender sword.

From his vantage point, the ranger noted, too, that a bar was in place across the one door.

He moved around to the front of the house and took the dagger from his pack. The door did not fit the opening well, leaving a wide crack on one side, wide enough to admit the dagger's blade. A flick of the wrist dislodged the bar and Elbryan kicked open the door, striding a single step into the shack.

The men scrambled, spilling beer, one shouting aloud as he rolled across his sword, the hilt catching hard on his hip. They were up soon enough, Elbryan standing impassively by the door, Hawkwing, its feathered tip and string removed, in his hand like some unthreatening walking stick.

"Whad'ye want?" asked one of the men, a barrel-chested brute whose face was more scar than beard. Except for that hardened face with its wild, untended beard, this man could have passed as a brother of Tol Yuganick, Elbryan noted distastefully. Surely their bodies were cut from the same, rather large, mold.

The fellow had his huge axe out in front of him, and if Elbryan couldn't offer a reasonable answer, there was little doubt what he meant to do with it. The swordsman, tall and lean with not a hair anywhere on his head, shadowed the burly man, gaping at Elbryan from over his companion's shoulder; while the third, a skinny, nervous wretch, moved to the far corner, rubbing his fingers —
which weren't so far from his many daggers.

"I have come to speak with you about a particular bear," Elbryan answered coolly.

"What bear?" the burly man replied. "We got skins."

"The bear you maddened with poisoned darts," Elbryan answered bluntly.

"The bear that destroyed a farm in Dundalis and nearly killed a family."

"Go on now." The man spat.

"The same poison you have brewing out back," Elbryan went an, "a rare concoction, known to few."

"That don't prove nothing," the man retorted, snapping his dirty fingers in the air. "Now get on out of here, else yell soon feel the edge of me axe!"

"I think not," the ranger answered. "There is the matter of compensation —
to the farmers and to me for my efforts in hunting the bear."

"C-compen —?" the tall, bald man stuttered.

"Payment," said Elbryan. He saw the movement even as he spoke, the man from the corner drawing and throwing a dagger with practiced ease.

Elbryan planted the ball of his left foot and spun clockwise, the dagger flying harmlessly past to stick deep in the wall. The ranger came round as if he would launch a horizontal swipe, but he recognized the move was anticipated: the burly man's axe was up to block. As soon as he started around, then, Elbryan turned his right foot out and went around counterclockwise, pulling in his hip to avoid a swipe of that axe.

Now he launched his attack, dropping down to one knee, slapping his staff across to catch the inside of the overbalanced man's leg. A shift of the angle sent his staff poking straight up, smacking the man's groin. Faster than a cat, Elbryan retracted the staff a foot, shifted its angle, and poked ahead three times in rapid succession, prodding the burly man in the hollow of his chest.

He fell away and Elbryan came up hard, bringing Hawkwing horizontal above his head in both hands to catch the downward chop of the second man's sword. Up came the ranger's knee, slamming the man's belly, and as he started to double over, Elbryan turned his staff, deflecting the sword to the side. He twisted his staff around the man's arm, hooking him under the armpit, stepped with his left foot across his body behind the man's entangled side, then heaved with all his strength, launching the wretch into the air to land heavily on his back and the back of his head.

Elbryan immediately swung about, realizing he was vulnerable. Predictably, another dagger was on its way, and the ranger just got Hawkwing up in time to block its flight. He loosened his grip on his staff as the dagger connected so that it wouldn't bounce far away. As fortune would have it, the dagger went straight up, and Elbryan seized it, catching it by the tip.

In the blink of an eye, the ranger stood, staff in one hand out before him, his other hand holding a dagger cocked behind his ear, ready to throw.

The skinny man, two daggers in hand, blanched and let his blades drop to the floor.

Elbryan fought hard to restrain the rage that called for him to put that dagger right into the foul man's chest, a rage that only intensified when the ranger thought of what these three had done to the bear and of the potentially devastating consequences of their foolhardy actions.

With a growl, he let fly, the dagger slamming hard into the wall right beside the man's head. Never taking his eyes from Elbryan, whimpering all the way, the skinny man slumped to a sitting position in the corner.

Elbryan looked about; the other two were staggering to their feet, neither holding a weapon.

"What are your names?" the ranger demanded.

The men looked curiously at one another.

"Your names!"

"Paulson," the burly man answered, "Cric, and Chipmunk," he finished, indicating first the tall man, then the dagger thrower.

"Chipmunk?" Elbryan inquired.

"Skittery type," Paulson explained.

The ranger shook his head. "Know this, Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk: you share the forest with me, and I will be watching your every move. Another prank, another cruelty, as with the bear, will bring you more harm than this, I promise. And I will be watching your trap lines — no longer shall you use the jaw traps —"

Paulson started to complain, but Elbryan glared so fiercely at him that he seemed to melt.

"Nor any other traps that inflict suffering on your prey."

"We've to earn our money," Chipmunk remarked in a shaky voice.

"There are better ways," Elbryan answered evenly. "And in the hopes that you will find those ways, I'll demand no coins from you for compensation . . .

this time." He looked at each of them, meeting their stares, his own showing clearly that he was not speaking empty threats.

"And who might ye be?" Paulson dared to ask.

Elbryan shifted back on his heels, considering the question. "I am Nightbird," he answered.

Cric snickered, but Paulson, locked with that intense gaze, held a hand up in his companion's face.

"A name you would do well to remember," Elbryan finished, and he headed for the door, boldly turning his back on the dangerous threesome.

They didn't begin to entertain any thoughts of attacking.

The ranger went around to the back and dumped out the cauldron of poison.

As he left, he took a few of the jaw traps, nasty pieces of toothy iron hinged and set with heavy springs so that they would clamp hard on the leg of any passing animal.

His next stop was the tavern, the Howling Sheila, in Dundalis. A dozen men and women were in the common room, boisterous until the stranger entered.

Elbryan went to the bar first, nodding to Belster O'Comely, the closest thing he had to a friend in the area.

"Just water," the ranger said, and Belster mouthed the predictable words right along with him, then pushed a glass out to him.

"Word of the bear?" the jolly innkeeper asked.

"The bear is dead," Elbryan replied grimly, and he walked to the far side of the room, taking a seat at the corner table, his back to the wall.

He noted that several other patrons shifted their seats, one woman even bluntly turning her back on him.

Elbryan brought the tip of his triangular cap down low and smiled. He understood that it would be like this. He was not much like these folk; no longer was he much like any human, except for those rare few who had ventured to the valley of the elves, who had spent years beside the likes of Belli'mar Juraviel and Tuntun. Elbryan missed those friends now — even Tuntun. It was true that he had been out of place in Caer'alfar, but in many ways the ranger felt even more out of place here among folk who looked so much like him but who saw the world through very different eyes.