DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (149 page)

It could not have been like that in the beginning, Jojonah reasoned. St.-Mere-Abelle, so vast and impressive, could not have been built with the few who would have agreed, in heart, with the teachings of the present-day Church.

Bolstered by his insight, Master Jojonah approached the strong gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, the place he had called home for more than two-thirds of his life, the place that now seemed to him a facade. He did not yet understand the truth of the abbey, but, with Avelyn’s spirit guiding nun, he meant to find it out.

Connor Bildeborough didn’t feel nervous in the least as he left the familiar and safe, until now, confines of Palmaris behind. He had been in the open northland many times in the last months, and was confident he could avoid any trouble from the large numbers of monsters still to be found up there. The giants, with their dangerous rock-throwing abilities, had become quite scarce, and goblins and powries did not ride horses and would never catch Greystone.

Even when he set camp that first night, some thirty miles north of the city, the nobleman wasn’t concerned. He knew how to conceal himself, and since it was summer, he didn’t even need a fire. He reclined under the boughs of a bushy spruce, his horse nickering softly nearby.

The next day and night were much the same. Connor avoided the one real road that ran up this way, but he knew where he was going, and found enough level and clear ground to keep the pace swift.

On the third day, well over a hundred miles north of Palmaris, he came upon the ruins of a farmhouse and barn, and the tracks in the area told the experienced hunter exactly what had happened: a goblin troupe, a score at least, had come this way within the last couple of days. Fearing rain and an obscurement of the tracks, for the sky was heavy, Connor was back on his horse at once, following the easy trail. He caught up to the raiding band late that afternoon, a light rain just beginning to fall. While Connor was glad to see that it was indeed only goblins, their numbers were twice his estimate and they were outfitted for war and marching with some measure of discipline. The nobleman considered their course, north-by-northwest, and thought it prudent to follow them. If what he suspected, if what the rumors had told him, were true, then these foolish goblins might lead him to the warrior band, and to the person using the magical gemstones operating in the area.

He rested within half a mile of the noisy goblin encampment. At one point, late in the night, he dared to sneak close to the perimeter—and was again impressed by the professionalism shown by the normally slovenly creatures. Still, Connor managed to get close enough to hear pieces of various conversations, complaints mostly, and a confirmation that most of the giants had gone home and the powries were too concerned with their own welfare to worry about any goblins.

Then Connor listened with great interest as a pair of goblins argued about their destination. One wanted to go north, to the encampment at the two towns—Caer Tinella and Landsdown, Connor realized.

“Argh!“the other scolded. “Yer knowin’ that Kos-kosio’s dead and gone, and so’s Maiyer Dek! Ain’t nothing up there but that Nightbird and his killers! The towns’re all but lost, ye fool, and gettin’ hit with balls o’ fire every day!”

A smile widened on Connor’s face. He went back to his impromptu camp and his horse and managed to steal a few hours’ sleep, but was up and ready to go well before the dawn. He followed the goblin troupe again, thinking to swing wide to the west with them, just in case, then turn back to explore the area near Caer Tinella and Landsdown.

The rain was back, heavier this day, but Connor hardly cared.

They took their rest under the shelter of the buildings, using the well, and they did indeed find fresh eggs and fresh milk for their enjoyment. They also found a wagon in the barn, and oxen to pull it, some whetstones to hone their blades and a pitchfork, which Tomas thought would look fine tucked into the belly of a giant. Roger, snooping about every corner of the barn, found a thin but strong rope and a small block and tackle, small enough that he could carry it without trouble. He had no idea what he might use it for, except maybe to rescue the wagon from some mud, but he took it anyway.

And so when the refugees left the farmhouse later that same night, they were refreshed and ready for the last leg of their flight to safety.

As usual, Roger and Juraviel moved into the point position, the elf scrambling nimbly along the lower branches of the trees, the tireless young Roger running a sweeping arc, always alert, always looking for signs of danger.

“You did well today,” Juraviel said unexpectedly, catching Roger off his guard.

The young man looked up at the elf curiously. The two hadn’t spoken much since Juraviel’s thrashing of Roger, other than to agree to plans for their common scouting routes.

“After you spotted the farmhouse and barn, you accepted the position Nightbird gave to you without question,” the elf explained.

“What was I to do?”

“You could have argued,” the elf replied. “Indeed, the Roger Lockless I first met would have seen the duty of staying with the caravan as a slight to his abilities, would have grumbled and complained and probably run off to the farmhouse anyway. In fact, the Roger Lockless I first met would not even have come to Nightbird and the others with the news, not until he had first had his way with the powries and the goblins.”

Roger considered the words for a moment, and found that he could not disagree with the assessment. When he had first spotted the farmhouse, his instincts goaded him to go in for a better look, and a bit of light-fingered fun, perhaps. But that course had screamed as dangerous to Roger, not so much for him, but for the others, who were moving along not so far behind. Even if he hadn’t been caught—which seemed to him likely, whatever monsters might have been inside—he might have had to lie low and stay put, and thus the caravan would not have been warned in time, and a fight—not on favorable terms—might have ensued.

“You understand, of course,” the elf went on.

“I know what I did,” Roger replied curtly.

“And you know that you did well,” Juraviel said, and then, with a sly smile, he added, “You learn quickly.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed as he snapped his angry gaze over the elf; he certainly didn’t need to be reminded of the “lesson.”

Juraviel’s continuing smile defeated him, though, put his pride in its proper place. Roger knew then that they had come to an understanding, he and this elf. The lesson had taken, he had to admit. The cost of failure in this situation was bigger than his own life, and thus he had to accept directions from those more experienced than he. He relented his angry glare, and even managed a nod and a grin.

Juraviel perked up his ears suddenly, his eyes darting to the side.

“An approach,” he said, and then he was gone, slipping into the tree cover so quickly that Roger blinked many times.

Then the young man moved fast, finding cover. He spotted the “approach” soon after, and relaxed when he recognized the source, a woman of his group, also out scouting. He startled her so much when he stepped out from behind a tree that she nearly drove her dagger into his chest.

“Something has put you on edge,” Roger understated.

“A group of enemies,” the woman replied. “Moving west, south of our position.”

“How strong?”

“There are quite a few, two score, perhaps,” she answered.”

“And what manner of enemies?” came a question from the trees above.

The woman looked up, though she knew she would not catch a glimpse of this ever-elusive friend of Nightbird. Few of the advance scouts had seen Juraviel, though all had heard his melodic voice from time to time. “Goblins,” she replied. “Just goblins.”

“Back to your place, then,” the elf bade her. “Find the next in line, and he, the next in line, that all the scouts are linked, that word can be passed quickly.”

The woman nodded and sped away.

“We could let them pass,” Roger offered as Juraviel came back in sight on a lower branch.

The elf was not looking at him, was staring far away. “Go back and tell Nightbird to prepare a surprise,” he instructed Roger.

“By Nightbird’s own words, we are not to engage,” Roger argued.

“Just goblins,” Juraviel replied. “And if they are part of a larger band, they might be flanking us, and thus should be defeated quickly. Tell Nightbird that I insist we attack.”

Roger looked long and hard at the elf, and for a moment Juraviel thought he would refuse the order. And that was exactly what Roger was thinking. The young man bit back that response, though, nodded and ran off.

“And Roger,” Juraviel called, stopping him before he had gone five strides. He turned back to regard the elf.

“Tell Nightbird that this was your plan,” Juraviel said. “And that I approve completely. Tell him that you believe we must hit the goblins fast and hard. The plan is yours to claim.”

“That would be a lie,” Roger protested.

“Would it?” asked the elf. “When you heard of the goblins, did you not first think that we should attack? Was it not only your obedience to the words of the ranger that stopped you from saying so?”

The young man pursed his lips as he considered the words, the simple truth of them.

“There is nothing wrong with disagreeing,” Juraviel explained. “You have proven repeatedly that your opinion in these matters is truly valuable, and Nightbird understands this, as does Pony, as do I.”

Again Roger turned and sped off, and this time with a noticeable spring in his step.

“My baby!” the woman screamed. “Oh, do not hurt him, I beg of you!”

“Duh?” one goblin asked its leader, scratching its head at the unexpected voice. This band had come from the Moorlands, and were not well-versed in the common language of the land. From their dealings with powries, they knew enough words to understand the general meaning of it all, though.

The goblin leader saw its band shuffling anxiously. They were thirsty for blood, though in no mood for any real battle, and now, delivered into their hands, it seemed, was an easy kill. The overcast had finally broken, and a bright full moon illuminated the night.

“Please,” the unseen woman went on. “They are all just children.”

That was all the goblins could stand. Before the leader of the band even gave the word, they were off and running into the forest, each wanting to be the first to claim a kill.

Another cry came out of the shadows, but seemed no closer. The goblins continued their blind charge, crashing through the brush, tripping over roots, but scrambling right back to their feet and running on. Eventually they all came into a small clearing, bordered on the back by a tumble of boulders, on the left by a stand of pines, and on the right by an equally thick mix of oak and maple.

From somewhere behind those pines came the woman’s voice, but now it did not seem so frantic as she sang:

Goblins, goblins, running hard,

Delivering songs unto the bards.

For in your folly you’ve come to play

And every goblin dies this day!

“Duh?” the goblin asked its leader again.

Another voice, melodious and clear, the voice of an elf, picked up the impromptu tune from somewhere within the shadows of the oak.

Dies from arrow, dies from blade,

From magic woven, the toll is paid.

For every person who at your hands

Was murdered most foul while you walked these lands,

We take revenge, we cleanse the night,

That dawn might bring a shining light.

More verses came at the confused monsters as many others took up the song, and laughter followed some of the lines, particularly the ones insulting to the goblins. Finally a resonating, powerful voice joined in, in a tone calm and deathly serious, and all the forest went quiet, as if to hear the words:

By your own evil have you brought this hour,

And by my hands and by my power,

Beg not for mercy, for judgment is passed,

We cut you down unto the last.

As he finished, the man walked his shining black stallion out from the shadows behind the boulders, in plain view of the stunned goblins.

“Nightbird,” more than one creature whispered, and they knew then, every one, that they were truly doomed.

From a hillock not so far away, Connor Bildeborough watched the unfolding spectacle with more than a passing interest. For that first voice, the woman’s, haunted the man, a voice he had listened to for so many wonderful months.

“I would give you a chance to surrender,” the ranger said to the goblins. “But I am afraid that I have no place to put you, nor do I trust the likes of smelly goblins.”

The goblin leader strode forward boldly, clenching tight its weapon.