DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (168 page)

Pony understood that Nightbird wanted her to go out to the left. A quick glance that way told her the reason: a particularly bold goblin needed to learn a swift and painful lesson. She look a deep breath, eliminating all doubts from her thoughts, for she knew that doubt would bring hesitation, and hesitation would bring disaster. This was the real meaning of their morning ritual, she realized, a dance as intimate as lovemaking, and now was the real test of their trust. Her love wanted her to go out to the left.

Nightbird felt the tension in her back, then the sudden lunge, and as she moved, he moved, rolling around, off her back foot, a complete pivot that took the two goblins rushing in at the apparent opening completely by surprise. The closest goblin was prodding out at Pony with its spear when Tempest slashed down, taking both its arms at the elbows.

The second goblin at least managed to get its club in the way, though the ranger merely slapped the blocking weapon aside and stabbed the creature hard in the belly.

Now Pony was moving, rolling over Nightbird’s trailing foot, as he had gone over hers. And again, those goblins coming in at the apparent opening Nightbird’s movement had caused were caught by surprise, and by Pony’s slashing sword. One fell to the ground, grasping at its torn throat, while two others leaped into a short and hasty retreat.

And Pony and Nightbird were back-to-back again, crouched, in perfect defense and perfect harmony.

*

From the tree line, Belli’mar Juraviel watched in satisfaction as Symphony ushered the riderless Greystone to safety. Many times the elf had witnessed the intelligence of Symphony, but every time, as now, he was thrilled and awed by the display.

Even more awesome was the spectacle that Juraviel witnessed when he glanced back down to his human companions and saw the harmony of their movements, Pony and Nightbird complementing each other with absolute perfection. To the Touel’alfar,bi’nelle dasada was a personal dance, a private meditation of a warrior, but now, watching this, Juraviel soon understood why Nightbird had taught it to Pony, and why they danced together.

Indeed, at that moment on the grassy slope—a slope fast turning red with spilled goblin blood—Pony and Nightbird were as one, a single warrior.

Juraviel realized that his bow should not be idle, that he should be helping out his friends. They hardly seemed to need it, though, playing off each other’s movements so fluidly that the goblin circle was widening, not closing, and was thinning, the creatures giving more and more ground.

Juraviel did finally blink away his awe long enough to retrieve a single arrow, and his shot took a goblin in the back of the neck, just under the skull.

The line around Nightbird and Pony thinned considerably, with more goblins turning and running away than falling to the pair’s harmonious dance. Pony scored a kill, and the ranger cut down a goblin stupidly going for her back again as she turned, but then it all seemed to come to a standstill, with no monsters venturing near enough for any attacks.

Nightbird sensed the mounting fear and tension, saw the goblins looking as much behind them now as ahead. They wanted to break and run off, every one, and the battle was about to enter its most critical stage. He started to explain as much to Pony, but she cut him short before he had hardly begun, saying simply, “I know.”

And she did know, Nightbird recognized, from the subtle movements of her muscles as she dug herself in, finding balance and positioning her legs for a fast shift.

The spears came in at them in no coordinated fashion; the first goblin let fly, turned and fled, and a shower of missiles followed, the creatures using the barrage to cover their flight.

Nightbird and Pony spun and dove, came up with swords slashing, deflecting and dodging. There was no pause on the part of the ranger or his companion as they came through the volley unscathed, each rushing out at the closest goblins, cutting them down and running on to the next in line. No longer did the two work in concert, but neither did any of the goblins, so every fight became an individual contest. Pony worked her sword marvelously, weaving circles about her opponent until she found an opening, and then striking true, a measured thrust, her second or third hit usually finishing the task.

Nightbird, stronger and more skilled, was less finesse and more sheer power. As goblins raised their weapons to block, he merely smashed through the defense, and usually through the goblin in the same deadly strike. He darted back and forth, rushed ahead and turned completely about, whatever was needed to bring him to his next kill. The goblins should have calmed and organized a coordinated resistance, but they were stupid creatures, and frightened.

They died quickly.

Those few who managed to get up the hill to the tree line ahead of the ranger found yet another foe, a lithe little creature, hardly as tall as a goblin, wielding a sword so slender that it seemed more fitted to a dinner table than a battleground.

The leading goblin swerved to meet this newest foe, thinking it to be a human child, thinking to score a quick kill.

Juraviel’s sword smacked against the tip of the goblin’s blade, once, and then three more times, so rapidly that the creature had no time to react. And each time, the elf inched ahead, so that when the fourth parry rang out, Juraviel was only a foot from the surprised goblin.

The elf’s sword flashed again in rapid succession, once, twice, thrice, driving three holes into the goblin’s chest.

Out charged Juraviel, meeting the next, this one unarmed, having thrown its spear at the ranger. The goblin held up its hands.

Belli’mar Juraviel of the Touel’alfar had no mercy for goblins.

The rout on the slope ended at about the same time as the rout at the wagons. The lead group of goblins, the ones Pony had tripped up, fell dead to the last without ever getting into the ring.

There remained one more substantial group, though, running down the road to the east, out of the dale.

Pony spotted Juraviel first, sitting calmly on a low branch up the hill, wiping the blood off his sword with a rag of goblin clothing.

“I counted four who passed beyond me,” he called down to his friends. “Taking full flight down the back side of the ridge.”

Nightbird whistled, but Symphony was moving to him before he made a sound.

“Are none to get away to carry on the legend of the Nightbird?” Pony teased him as he reached for the saddle. In the northland war, Nightbird had often let one or two monsters run away, to whisper his name in fear.

“These goblins will only cause more mischief,” the ranger explained, swinging himself up. “There are too many innocents around whom they might harm.”

Pony looked at him quizzically, then to Greystone, wondering if she should join him.

“Keep watch on the merchants,” the ranger explained. “They will likely need your talents at healing.”

“If I see one close to death, I will use the soul stone,” Pony explained.

The ranger conceded the point.

“And what of them?” Pony asked, pointing to the band fleeing to the east. There had to be at least a score of the creatures, maybe thirty or more.

The ranger considered their course and gave a chuckle. “It would seem that the monks may yet be involved,” he said. “If not, we will hunt that band down when we are finished here. Our road is east anyway.”

He was off before Pony even nodded her assent, thundering Symphony up the ridge and down the back side, preparing Hawkwing as he went. He spotted the first of the goblins running through the grass and closed the distance quickly, meaning to go right past the creature and use his sword. Then he caught sight of the second, running in a completely different direction; the group had scattered.

No time for Tempest, the ranger decided, and up came his bow.

Only three remained.

“If we join in prayer, a single stroke of God’s lightning hand will destroy them all,” offered one young monk, who had also been on the expedition to Aida, including the battle outside the Alpinadoran village.

Master De’Unnero’s sharp eyes narrowed as he considered the monk and the assenting nods of those nearby, men who had heard the tale of the great victory in the northland, the tale of sparking fingers reaching down from the line of monks to utterly vanquish their enemies.

There was something else inspiring them, too, De’Unnero recognized. Fear. They wanted a clean and quick blow against the approaching goblin force because they were afraid of engaging these relatively unknown creatures in melee. The would-be abbot strode powerfully up to the speaker, his gaze setting the man back on his heels, draining the blood from his face. “Master Jojonah alone will use the magic,” he snapped, his head jerking side to side so that all could see his expression, so that none would dare question him. “He is too old and infirm to fight.”

Looking at the wretched man, Jojonah had an almost irresistible urge to rush over and prove him wrong.

“As for the rest of us,” De’Unnero went on, barking the words, “let us consider this an exercise of valuable training. We may yet see battle in our new home in Palmaris.”

“This ‘training’ could be deadly,” Master Jojonah piped in, and the measure of calm in his quiet voice only added to the sarcasm.

“All the more valuable, then,” De’Unnero said without hesitation, and when he saw Jojonah shaking his head, he stormed over to stand before him, crossing his strong arms defiantly over his chiseled chest.

Not now, Master Jojonah reminded himself quietly, not wanting to embarrass the man, for that would only make De’Unnero dig in all the more. “I beg of you to be done with this approaching band efficiently and cleanly,” he said. “Let us blast them away, a single, combined stroke of lightning, and go see to whoever is beyond that rise.” He pointed behind De’Unnero as he finished, to the plume of black smoke still drifting lazily into the air.

In response, De’Unnero handed him a piece of graphite, a single stone. “Use it well, brother,” he said. “But not too well, for I wish to have my new attendants properly trained in the pleasures of battle.”

“Pleasures of battle?” Jojonah echoed, but under his breath, as De’Unnero spun away, calling to the brothers to ready their crossbows. The old master could only shake his head in disbelief. He rubbed the graphite about his palm, thinking to hit the goblin troupe hard and fast, to kill them or scatter them, that few, if any, of the younger monks would see any real battle. His rubbing became more urgent when the forward scout signaled back that the goblins were approaching, for Jojonah could not feel the power of the stone.

The master fell within himself, seeking that special place of magic—in his mind, that special place of God. He dismissed thoughts of De’Unnero, believing that such negativity might be having an adverse effect. And he rubbed the graphite about his fingers, felt its every groove.

But not its magic. Jojonah opened his eyes to find he was alone in the road. Near panic, he glanced around, and then relaxed somewhat, seeing that De’Unnero had positioned the others in the brush to the side. The lead goblins were in sight now, running hard around a bend in the road. Jojonah looked down at the graphite, incredulous, feeling betrayed.

The goblins came on, their rush changing from one of retreat to a hungry charge.

Jojonah lifted his arm and closed his eyes, calling to the stone.

Nothing, no lightning, came forth, not even a sparkle, and the goblins were closer now. Jojonah tried again, but found no source of magic within that graphite. Then he understood the truth of it, that this stone was not enchanted, was just an ordinary rock. Fear gripped Jojonah; he thought that De’Unnero had set him up to die, here on the road. He was an old man and had no weapon, and could not possibly do battle! He gave a cry and turned about, hobbling as fast as his thick legs would take him.

He heard the goblins howling, closing. He expected a spear to take him in the back at any moment

But then De’Unnero and the brothers struck hard at the goblin mob, monks leaping up from the brush at the sides of the road, firing heavy crossbows designed to take down powries, or even giants, point-blank. Thick bolts tore through goblin flesh, blasting holes in the diminutive creatures, and sometimes even in goblins behind the first victim. The goblin mob was leaping, spinning, falling, and the goblin cries of attack turned fast to screams of surprise and agony.

Jojonah dared to slow and glance back, to see that half the goblins were already down, some squirming, others dead, and that Master De’Unnero had leaped out onto the road in the midst of the rest. De’Unnero was a perfect killing machine now, leaping and twisting. Out snapped his extended fingers, hand rigid, driving through a goblin throat. He turned as another tried to club him on the head. Up came De’Unnero’s arms in a stiff cross above his head, catching the downswing between his forearms. Thrusting the arms out wide, he tore the club from the startled goblin’s grasp, caught it while it spun about, then snapped it hard across the creature’s face, and then again, even more forcefully, with a powerful backhand.