He was Nightbird now, the elven-trained warrior. Even his step seemed to change, to grow lighter, more agile.
Soon he was close enough to view the movements of the combatants, both human and monster. He had to keep reminding himself that they, unlike he with his gemstone, could not see very far ahead, that the powries and goblins were perfectly blind outside the tiny perimeter of their torchlight. And for those not carrying torches, this night fighting in the dark forest was as much a matter of feeling their way along as of seeing their enemies. The ranger watched, measuring the situation, trying hard not to chuckle at the utter ridiculousness of it all, as humans and powries often passed right by each other, barely ten feet apart, without ever noticing.
The ranger knew that it was time to find his place. He spotted a pair of goblins huddled low at the base of a tree, peering to the west, the direction from which the most recent assault had been launched. He saw the pair clearly, but without any source of light, they did not see him. Silent and swift, Nightbird put himself along a clear run to them, then inched closer, closer, and leaped into their midst. Mighty Tempest flashed left, then right, then Nightbird turned back to the left, driving his sword out straight with all his weight and strength behind it, a sudden, explosive thrust that skewered the first.
He tore the blade free and pivoted back the other way, to find the other goblin down on its knees, clutching its belly, staggered from the first strike. Tempest slashed across, powerful and sure, lopping off the creature’s ugly head.
Nightbird ran on, cutting swiftly across open patches of grass, climbing into trees at times to gain a better vantage of the unfolding scene around him. Always he tried to remain cognizant of where Pony might be waiting and of what help the woman might offer.
Seconds seemed like long minutes to anxious Pony, sitting quiet on Symphony within the sheltering boughs of the pine grove. Every so often she spotted or heard some movement not so far away, but could not tell if it was human or powrie, or perhaps even a deer frightened by the tumult of the battle.
All the while, Pony rubbed her fingers about several chosen stones: graphite and magnetite, the powerful ruby and protective serpentine and malachite.
“Hurry along, Elbryan,” she whispered, anxious to get into the fray, to launch the first blows that she might be rid of this typical nervousness. That was how battlesexcept, of course, for unexpected fightsalways started for her, with the churning stomach and the beads of sweat, the tingling anticipation. One strike would rid her of that edginess, she knew, when purpose and adrenaline would surge through her body.
She heard a commotion not far ahead and spotted a form, a huge silhouette. Pony needed no diamond light to discern the identity of that massive creature. Up came the graphite, the lightning stone, Pony holding it up at arm’s length, gathering its energies. She hesitated a bit longer, letting the power mount, letting the giant and its handful of allies settle into position on a ridge across a short depression of thin trees.
Still she waitedshe doubted that her lightning stroke would kill many of the creatures, and certainly it would not destroy the giant. If she loosed the magic, her position would be given away and she would indeed be in the thick of the fight. Perhaps a better opportunity would be presented to her.
But then the giant roared and hurled a huge stone to the west, where a group of humans was fast approaching, and the issue was settled. Goblins and powries howled in glee, thinking they had ambushed and would quickly overrun this one small band.
Then came the stroke, a sudden, jarring, blinding burst of searing white energy. Several goblins and a pair of powries went flying to the ground; the giant was thrown back so forcefully that it uprooted a small tree as it stumbled.
And most important of all, from Pony’s perspective, the human band had been warned, had seen the full extent of the enemies crouched in this area in one sudden, brightening instant.
But so, too, was Pony’s position surrendered. Fires flickered to life in the small vale between her and the monsters, lightning-clipped trees going up like candles. The giant, more angry than hurt, came right back her way, reaching into a huge sack to produce another boulder.
Pony thought to loose another lightning blast, but graphite was a particularly draining stone, and she knew that she would have to be more focused this time. She fumbled with the stones; she saw the giant’s arms go up high, and could only pray that his throw would be off the mark.
Another light appeared, bright and white, the glow of a diamond, backlighting the giant and its allies. It lasted only a second or two, giving Pony a clearer picture of the enemy and distracting the giant for just an instant.
All the time Pony needed. Out came the magnetite, the lodestone. The woman focused on the stone’s magics, saw through its magnetic energy, seeking an attraction, any attraction. She “saw” the powrie swords, the belt buckle of one dwarf. The image of the giant in the diamond backlight came clear in her mind, particularly its upraised arms, the great hands that held the boulder.
The giant was wearing metal-banded gauntlets.
Pony quickly focused the magnetite energy, blocked out all other metallic influences except one giant gauntlet. She brought the power of the stone to an explosive release and let it fly, many times the speed and power of one of Elbryan’s deadly bowshots.
The giant dismissed the flash of light behind it and brought the boulder over its head again, thinking to throw it in the direction of the unseen lightning caster. But suddenly its right wrist exploded in searing pain and lost all strength, and the boulder fell from its grasp, bouncing off one square shoulder before tumbling harmlessly to the ground.
The giant hardly felt the bruise on the shoulder, for its wrist and hand were thoroughly shattered, what little remained of the metal gauntlet crushed in against the behemoth’s hand. Two fingers hung loose on flaps of skin; another finger was altogether gone, just gone.
The giant staggered back a couple of long strides, blinded by surprise and agony.
Another lightning bolt slammed in then, driving the monster right over backward, dropping it, groaning, to the ground. Hardly conscious, the behemoth did hear the sounds of its few remaining comrades, all of them running away into the dark night.
Pony eased Symphony out of the pines and into the valley, picking her way through the tangle. She drew out her sword as she rode, and found no opposition when she came upon the squirming giant.
She killed it quickly.
Confident in Pony’s abilities and judgment, Nightbird didn’t stay around after he had marked out the target with the diamond light. Back in the darkness again, the ranger made his way farther north, cutting right across the monster and human lines.
He saw a group of men crawling through some ferns, and, on a low branch above them, a pair of goblins holding cruel spears, both peering down at the fern bed, trying to find an open shot.
Up came Hawkwing, and a split second later one of the goblins dropped heavily from the branch.
“Huh?” its companion said, turning to where the other had been standing, trying to figure out why it had jumped away.
The ranger’s second shot took it through the temple, and it, too, fell away, dead before it hit the ground.
The men in the ferns scrambled, not knowing what had dropped about them.
Nightbird moved ahead quickly, closing the distance. One man came up, hearing his approach, bow drawn and ready. “What?” he asked incredulously, and then added in a whisper as the ranger rushed by him, “Nightbird.”
“Follow me,” the ranger instructed. “The dark is no obstacle; I will guide you.”
“It is Nightbird,” another man insisted.
“Who?” asked another.
“A friend,” the first explained quickly, and the small group, five men and three women, set off after the ranger.
Soon enough the ranger spotted yet another band of allies crouching in the dark, and led his group that way. Suddenly his force was twenty strong, and he led them out to find enemies. He understood the realities of night-fighting in the dark forest, and the huge advantage the cat’s-eye afforded him and his band. All around the group the larger battle quickly deteriorated into pockets of screaming and cursing frustration, with arrows launched blindly into the darkness, or opponents inadvertently stumbling into each other, or even comrades stumbling into one another, often lashing out before they paused long enough to identify their allies. Somewhere far back in the distance there came a cry, the grating voice of a powrie, followed by a tremendous explosion, and Nightbird knew that another unfortunate enemy had stumbled upon Pony.
He bit his lip and resisted the urge to rush back and check on his love. He had to trust in her, had to remind himself repeatedly that she knew how to fight, day or night, and that, in addition to her expertise with a sword, she carried enough magical power to carry her through.
Another battle erupted far in the opposite direction, a group of goblins stumbling across the northern end of what remained of the human line. This time the results were less clear-cut, with screams of outrage and agony, both human and goblin, splitting the air. The fighting drew more combatants, spreading until all the forest seemed thick with tumult, monsters and humans rushing this way and that. The ranger set his band in a purely defensive posture, then moved out to walk a perimeter. Any humans who ventured near were ushered in, the numbers of the group soon rising to more than thirty. Whenever any enemies ventured near, Nightbird circled about them, bringing up the diamond light so his archers could take their sudden and deadly toll.
When the immediate area finally appeared clear of monsters, Nightbird got his group moving again, putting the men in a tight formation, that they could guide each other by touch.
Torches flared to life in several places deeper in the forest, screams issued from the darkness in many others, and there were no clear lines of combat for the group to engage. But those with the ranger held their calm, methodical way, moving along in their tight and organized formation, the tireless Nightbird continually circling about them, guiding them. More than once the ranger spotted enemies moving in the brush, but he held his forces in quiet check, not willing to reveal them. Not yet.
Soon the sounds of fighting withered away, leaving the forest night as quiet as it was dark. A torch flared to life in the distance; Nightbird understood it to be powries, the cocky dwarves likely confident now that the battle had ended. He moved to the nearest of his soldiers and bade the man to pass the word that the time to strike was near.
Then the ranger settled the group once more into a defensive posture and moved out alone. No stranger to powrie tactics, he figured that those with the torch would form the hub of their formation, with their forces encircling them like the spokes of a wheel. The torchlight was still more than two hundred feet away when the ranger encountered the tip of one of those spokes, a pair of goblins crouched beside a tight grouping of small birch trees.
With all his great skill, Nightbird slipped around and moved in behind the oblivious pair. He thought to flash his diamond light, that his archers could mow the goblins down, but decided against that tactic, preferring to make this one strike decisive. He went in alone, inch by inch.
His hand clamped over the mouth of the goblin to his left; his sword drove through the lungs of the goblin to the right. He let Tempest fall free with the dead goblin, and grabbed the remaining creature’s hair with his now free right hand, sliding his left down enough to cup the monster’s chin. Before the goblin could begin to cry out, the ranger drove both arms across his body, right to left, left to right, then violently yanked them back the other way.
The goblin hardly found the chance to squeal, and the only sound was the snapping of its neck boneit might have been a footstep on a dry twig.
The ranger retrieved Tempest and moved in deeper, nearer the hub, surveying the enemy formation, which was exactly as he had suspected. Taking as accurate a count as possible, he silently went back to his waiting force.
“There are monsters about,” he explained. “A trio of powries within that torchlight.”
“Then show them to us and let us be done with this night,” one eager warrior piped in, and his words were echoed many times over.
“It is a trap,” the ranger explained, “with more powries and goblins waiting in the darkness and a pair of giants lurking behind the trees.”
“What do we do?” one man asked, his tone very different now, more subdued.
The ranger looked around at all his men, a wry smile widening on his face. They thought they were outmatchedthat much was obvious from their expressions. But Nightbird, who had been fighting bands of monsters all the way from the Barbacan, knew better. “We kill the giants first,” he coolly explained.
Belster and Tomas watched and listened from a distant hilltop. The innkeeper rubbed his hands repeatedly, nervously, trying to guess at what might be happening down there. Should he retract his forces? Should he press the fight?
Could he? The plans seemed so logical when they were made, so easily executed and, if need be, retracted. But the truth of battle never worked out that way, particularly in the dark and confusing night.
Beside him, Tomas Gingerwart was fighting an equally difficult dilemma. He was a tough man, battle hardened, but for all his hatred of the monsters, Tomas understood that to engage them in drawn-out conflict was a fool’s game.
But he, too, could not get a clear picture of what might be happening. He heard the occasional screamsmore often a monster’s voice than a man’sand saw the flares of light. A couple of surprising flashes, brilliant and sudden, caught his and Belster’s attention more keenly, though, for they were not the fires of torches. Belster recognized them well enough as an obvious stroke of lightning magic.