"We might be gettin' there without a fight," the centaur offered. "Not many of the ugly goblins on this side o' the mountain."
"Just goblins?" the ranger asked.
Bradwarden nodded. "All that I seen, but hunnerds o' the damned things, all set up in caves and shelters along the northern and western walls o' the Barbacan."
The ranger scanned the ring of mountains, his gaze moving from east, around the northern ridge and then back to the west. Then he looked at flat-topped Aida again, the lone mountain in the south-central region of the natural ring, several miles away. He could tell from the outlines of the mountain's highest sections the approximate region where Avelyn was entombed, almost felt as if he might spot that arm, even from this distance, so clear was the image in his mind.
"Did see footprints of a giant," the centaur admitted, "but not many o' them about, to be sure —and not a damned sign that any powries remain."
"Good," the ranger added. He, like all the others who had battled the cunning and tough dwarves during the war, had little desire ever to see one again.
"We can get there," Brother Braumin echoed, his face brightening.
"But what do we do
when
we get there?" the ranger asked. "We shall need a fire if we mean to spend the night on the exposed top of Aida, and that will surely be seen by our unfriendly neighbors, no matter how hard we try to conceal it."
"The place has caves," Braumin reasoned, obviously not willing to give up this close to his goal.
"And thank ye for remindin' me," the centaur replied dryly.
"Still..." Brother Braumin pressed.
"If the place has caves, then it is possible that those caves are full of goblins," Elbryan interrupted, "or worse things."
Brother Braumin gave a great sigh and turned away.
"We have come too far to turn back," Brother Castinagis put in.
"I am going to Aida, to see Brother Avelyn's grave, even if I must make the journey alone," added the usually timid Brother Mullahy. "I have given my life to the principles of Master Jojonah, and of Avelyn Desbris, and I will see that special place now, even if it means that there I shall die."
The assertion caught them all off guard and pleased the other monks —except perhaps for poor Marlboro Viscenti, who was so nervous that he had been trembling since Bradwarden's return.
"And we will go," Shamus Kilronney put in, "some of us, at least, while the rest will stay with the horses back here."
Elbryan looked to Bradwarden for counsel, knowing that his decision would be vital, but the centaur only shrugged, apparently willing to go along with whatever decision they all made.
"I do not know if we, I at least, can remain there for long," the ranger said. "But if Bradwarden says that we might be able to get there without a fight, then I am willing to take the chance. We have come too far. Brother Castinagis, and I, too, wish to visit the grave of my dear friend."
At that moment, Roger Lockless appeared on a trail immediately below them, returning from his own scouting mission. "No goblins on the lower slopes," he called up. "The way is clear to the valley."
They set out at once, Bradwarden and Elbryan, Roger and the five monks, Shamus Kilronney and a dozen soldiers —half the contingent that had continued north with Elbryan's band after the unpleasant meeting with Bishop De'Unnero. They left a still-weak Tiel'marawee in the care of the remaining soldiers, along with Symphony and all the other horses.
The journey down was easy, the windblown trails relatively clear of any snow, except on one or two icy and treacherous descents. By early afternoon, they were in the valley, making their way along the same long arm —and even longer now, since the eruption had added tremendous width to the base of the mountain—that Elbryan and the others had followed on their first trip into the dactyl's home. It was much warmer down here, even comfortably so—perhaps from the residual heat of the cooling stone, though the eruption had occurred many months before. Or, Elbryan mused with some concern, perhaps the mountain had remained alive with bubbling, molten lava.
"We should camp on the southern side of the mountain," the ranger decided as they neared the huge mound. "There will be little trouble in finding an alcove sheltered from both the wind and any goblin eyes."
They found such a spot soon after, set a fire, and spent a peaceful, uneventful night, waking early, full of anticipation for what the new day would bring. They had barely gotten out of their alcove and were picking their way along the broken and jagged mountain face, when hope turned to dread. Goblins —a horde of goblins!—poured out of a cave far below them, pointed up at them, and howled. Within moments, the whole base of the southern wall crawled with the ugly creatures, cutting off any escape.
"Too many to fight," the ranger told Kilronney, as Shamus started to put his men in defensive positions. "Keep going, all of you. Bradwarden and I will hold the trail!"
"And thanks to ye for volunteerin' me," Bradwarden remarked after Shamus and the others had climbed out of sight, and the swarms of goblins had climbed considerably nearer the two friends.
"If I decide to charge down through the creatures, I will need something to ride," Elbryan replied lightheartedly. They had made their choice to come to the mountain, knowing the risks; and now, it seemed, they had lost, or soon would lose, everything. But Elbryan had lived on the edge of disaster since the day he had walked out of Andur'Blough Inninness. Such was the life of a ranger, an existence he had accepted fully. He lamented then that he would never see Pony again, or their child, but he deliberately pushed those thoughts from his mind. He was a warrior, trained in body and mind. Elbryan —no, Nightbird—determined that he would go down with such a fight that the goblins of all the world would not soon forget!
The closest creatures were barely fifty yards away then, coming on strong. Nightbird lifted Hawkwing and blew one wretch from its place on the mountainside. That slowed the others down —but only somewhat. Nightbird knew, and Bradwarden knew—and the goblins surely knew—that this time the ranger and his friends, however gallant, could not hope to win.
More arrows flew from Nightbird's and Bradwarden's bows; and many goblins died. But many more continued to move in, and soon the ranger and the centaur had to find a narrow spot on the trail, one where they could not be flanked; and they had to change from bows to sword and club.
And many goblin bodies soon piled at their feet.
For a short time, the pair almost thought that they might hold the pass and save the day, thought that they might kill enough of the creatures so that the rest would give up and run away. But then a rock crashed down beside the pair, narrowly missing Nightbird's head.
Some goblin had found a tunnel that exited higher up on the side of the mountain. The day, and the pass, were lost.
"Get ye runnin'!" Bradwarden cried, and he broke in to a sudden, devastating charge that chased back the closest creatures.
Nightbird turned and rushed up the path, leaping over stones and scrambling over rocky outcroppings —always with Hawkwing ready. Whenever he caught sight of those goblins dropping rocks from up above, he sent an arrow flying at them. One creature plummeted from the ledge down to crash where he and Bradwarden had made their stand, rebounded off that ledge with a sickening crack of bone, and fell the rest of the way to the valley floor.
Then the ranger ran around a sharp bend in the trail —to find a handful of goblins waiting for him.
Braumin Herde, appropriately, was the first to gaze upon the grave site of Avelyn Desbris. And though he knew that the monsters were closing in and that he would not likely live out the day, he was thrilled, overwhelmed even, by the spectacle of that upraised arm.
All nineteen men gathered silently about that upraised mummified arm, and even Roger and the soldiers offered not a word of complaint. All seemed at ease though they could hear the sounds of fighting below and knew that soon, all too soon, the monsters would find them.
Bradwarden realized that though his sudden, brutal charge had certainly taken a toll on the goblin mob —a couple were dead, several more injured, and many more running away—the moment was over, the goblins were coming at him hard, and he couldn't possibly hold them back.
In desperation, he leaped and kicked with his hind legs, hitting nothing and taking a vicious cut from a rusty goblin sword on one of his hind legs. Still, he ran on —and was struck by a spear in the rump and another grazed his back. Even worse, a stone from above clipped the side of his head and his shoulder. With one eye closed and covered in blood and screaming goblins right behind, the centaur ran, thinking it ironic that he would die in this forlorn place, where he thought he had died before.
They believed that they had him by surprise, and so the closest two goblins came at Nightbird with wild, hungry abandon.
But Nightbird was a ranger, and rangers were rarely, if ever, caught by surprise. With a flick of his wrist, he unstrung Hawkwing, and quickly brought the tip of the weapon, now a sturdy staff, straight before him.
The goblins came in, one on either side. Both thought —it seemed the most obvious move—the ranger would try to sweep the one on his right, the one nearest the sheer drop, over the edge. Expecting that, the goblin ducked.
Nightbird would not settle for just one. Faster than the goblins could contemplate the move, the ranger swung Hawkwing around, accepting a hit from the club of the creature on his left in exchange for getting the staff flat across its side. The goblin grabbed him, but the ranger, with the strength of a giant, roared and heaved the goblin back, tearing its hands from him. It hit its stooping companion and somersaulted over the edge, flying free down the side of the mountain.
Then the ranger brought Hawkwing around and landed a terrific blow to the remaining goblin, knocking it, dazed, to the ground.
Nightbird strode past, pausing only long enough to swap Hawkwing for Tempest and to kick the stunned goblin over the edge.
The four remaining goblins came on, stupidly, one goblin far ahead of its companions.
Tempest flashed; then there were three.
They pressed the attack —a club, a spear, and a sword thrusting and jabbing, swishing in from every conceivable angle. But Nightbird was now fully immersed in
bi'nelle dasada.
He dodged a spear thrust from the goblin standing right before him, then ducked a swishing sword from the one on the left, then accepted another stinging, wicked hit from the club wielder.
Tempest dove ahead, and the goblin with the spear shrieked and fell back. The ranger tricked them; he pulled the blade up, twisting his wrist so that Tempest's tip shot out suddenly ahead and to the right just as the sword-wielding goblin moved for what it thought was an opening. Tempest bore into its chest just below the shoulder.
Nightbird now leaped out to the right, slamming his shoulder into the chest of the goblin with the club. The creature went flying back, teetered on the edge, and finally caught its desperate and precarious balance. When it managed to look back, it saw Nightbird standing before it. The goblin brought its club across, frantically trying to block the ranger's deadly sword. To its credit, it would have parried, but instead the ranger struck with his free hand, a mighty punch to the face that launched the flailing goblin away.
Then Nightbird, standing with his back to the remaining goblins, instinctively stepped to the side with his right foot. Bending his right knee, he leaned sideways but his left leg blocked the path.
The goblin he had stabbed went over that leg, pitching headlong into the open air.
The ranger spun, Tempest deflecting the spear the last goblin threw at him. The creature turned and ran for the nearly sheer wall, scrambling to get a handhold.
Nightbird rushed after him, leaping up and catching the fleeing goblin by one foot, pulling it down. He grabbed its other foot and with one pull sent the creature smashing down to the stone. It didn't stay down, for the ranger, still holding its ankles, took it up and hurled it out over the edge.
"Good technique," Bradwarden congratulated, coming around the bend just as Nightbird launched the creature. Their smiles were fleeting in the face of the many wounds on the centaur and the sound of the goblin horde closing in.
On the man and centaur ran, coming at last to the final ascent. That climb of ten feet was sheer, and without enough distance to get a running start, the centaur saw no way of getting up there. "Just as well that I do me stand right here," he said, but the ranger would hear none of it.
"Get your hands up on that ledge and pull with all your might," he instructed, "and I will push from behind."
Doubting, Bradwarden did as instructed, lifting his forelegs high, gaining a tentative hold with his human hands, and struggling.
He heard a growl behind him, felt Nightbird grabbing hard at his flanks.
And then all thousand pounds of him was in the air, up, up, but against the wall and unable to get high enough to scramble over.
Then Roger and Shamus Kilronney were there above him, grabbing his arms; then the others joined and together, all together, they managed somehow to get the great equine body over the edge and onto the plateau where rested Avelyn's body.
Nightbird came up behind, and he, too, glanced upon the beauty of Avelyn's would-be shrine, and he, too, was at ease.
Then goblin hands appeared on the ledge, and the fighting began anew, all twenty-one defenders fanning out and fighting for all their lives. Many goblins died, many were beaten back, but more and more the defenders had to turn their attention from the next climbing creature to battle one that had slipped up from another position —and that, of course, only allowed more to scramble up on the plateau. One soldier went down, screaming in pain, a spear in his belly. Brother Dellman soon followed, knocked out by a blow to his head.