Authors: R.A. Salvatore
The Demon Awakens
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THE
DEMON
AWAKENS
R. A. Salvatore
A Del Rey
®
Book
BALLANTINE BOOKS * NEW YORK
CONTENTS
Running Fast Down a Long, Long Road
A Place of Particular Interest
Other books by R. A. Salvatore
To learn more about other great books by Ballantine Books . .
.
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To Owen Lock, for having faith in me
and reminding me to have faith in myself.
To Veronica Chapman, for her open mind and sharp eye.
To Kuo-yu Liang—energy is infectious.
And to one other, privately, who found me in a dark place
at a dark time, and lit a candle.
And, of course, as with everything I do, to Diane and the kids.
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Prelude
The demon dactyl came awake. It didn’t seem such a momentous thing, just a gradual stirring in a deep cave in a far, empty mountain. An unnoticed event, seen by none save the cave worms and those few insomniacs among the bevy of weary bats hanging from the high ceiling.
But the demon spirit had awakened, had come back from its long dormancy into the statuelike form it had left behind after its last visit to the world called Corona. The tangible, corporeal body felt good to the wandering spirit. The dactyl could feel its blood, hot blood, coursing through its wings and mighty legs, could feel the twitching of its mighty muscles. Its eyes flickered open but saw only blackness, for the form, left standing in magical stasis in the deep cave, head bowed and wings wrapped tightly about its torso, had been covered by magma. Most of the fiery stuff of that time long past had bubbled and flowed away from the cavern, but enough had remained to harden about the dactyl’s corporeal form. The spirit had come back to Corona encased in obsidian!
The demon spirit fell deep within itself, summoned its powers, both physical and magical. By sheer will and brute strength, the dactyl flexed its wings. A thin crack ran down the center of the obsidian sarcophagus. The dactyl flexed again and the crack widened, and then, with a sudden powerful burst, the beast blew apart the obsidian, stretched its great wings out to the side, clawed tips grasping and rending the air. The dactyl threw back its head and opened wide its mouth, screeching for the sheer joy of the return, for the thoughts of the chaos it would bring again to the quiet human kingdoms of Corona.
Its torso resembled that of a tall, slender man, shaped and lined by corded strands of taut muscle and sporting a pair of tremendous batlike wings, twenty feet across when fully extended and with strength enough to lift a full-grown bull in swift flight. Its head, too, was somewhat human, except more angular, with a narrow jaw and pointed chin. The dactyl’s ears were pointed as well, poking up about the demon creature’s thin tuft of black hair. Neither did that hair hide the creature’s horns, thumb sized and curling in toward each other at the top of the demon’s brow.
The texture of its skin was rough and thick, an armored hide, reddish in hue and shiny, as if lit by its own inner glow. Shining, too, were the demon’s eyes, pools of liquid black at most times, but shifting to fiery red orbs, living flames, when the demon was agitated, a glow of absolute hatred.
The creature flexed and stretched, extended its wings to their full glory, reached and clawed at the air with its humanlike arms. The demon extended its fingernails, transformed them into hooked claws, and grew its teeth—two pointed canines extending down over its bottom lip. Every part of the demon was a weapon, devastating and deadly. And undeniably powerful though this monster appeared, this demon’s real strength lay in its mind and its purpose, the tempter of souls, the twister of hearts, the maker of lies. Theologians of Corona argued over whether the demon dactyl was the source or the result of evil. Did the dactyl bring the weakness, the immorality, to humanity? Was the dactyl the source of the deadly sins, or did it manifest itself and walk the world when those sins had festered to the point of eruption?
For the demonic creature in the cave, such questions hardly mattered. How long had it been? the dactyl wondered. How many decades, even centuries, had passed since its last visit to Corona?
The creature remembered that long-ago time now, savored the thoughts of the streaming blood as army after army had joined in delicious, desperate battle. It cursed aloud the name of Terranen Dinoniel, who had rallied the humans and the elves, chasing the dactyl’s armies back to the base of this mountain, Aida. Dinoniel himself had come into this cave after the beast, had skewered the dactyl . . .
The black-winged demon looked down at a darker red tear marring its otherwise smooth hide. With a sickening crackle of bone, the creature’s head rotated completely around and bowed, examining the second imperfection of its form, a scarred lump under its lower left shoulder blade. Those two scars were perfectly aligned with the dactyl’s heart, and thus, with that one desperate thrust, Dinoniel had defeated the demon’s corporeal body.
Yet even in its death throes, the dactyl had won the day, using its willpower to bring up the magma from the bowels of Aida. Dinoniel and much of his army had been consumed and destroyed, but the dactyl . . .
The dactyl was eternal. Dinoniel was gone, a distant memory, but the demon spirit had returned and the physical wounds had healed. “What man, what elf, will take Dinoniel’s place?” the demon asked aloud in its hollow, resonating voice, always seeming on the edge of a thunderous roar. A cloud of bats shuddered to life at the unexpected noise and flew off down one of the tunnels formed when the lava had flowed from this spot. The dactyl cackled, thinking itself grand to be able to send such creatures—any creatures!—scurrying with a mere sound. And what resolve might the humans and the elves—if the elves were still about, for even in Dinoniel’s day they had been on the wane—muster this time?
Its thoughts turned from its enemies to those it would summon as minions. What creatures could the dactyl gather this time to wage its war? The wicked goblins certainly, so full of anger and greed, so delighting in murder and war. The fomorian giants of the mountains, few in number but each with the strength of a dozen men and a hide too thick and tough for a dagger to puncture. And the powries, yes, the powries, the cunning, warlike dwarves of the Julianthes, the Weathered Isles, who hated the humans above all others. Centuries before, powries had dominated the seas in their solid, squat barrelboats, whose hulls were made of tougher stuff than the larger ships of the humans, as the diminutive powries were made of tougher stuff than the larger humans.
A line of drool hung low from the dactyl’s mouth as it considered its former and future allies, its army of woe. It would bring them into its fold, tribe by tribe, race by race, growing as the night grows when the sun touches the western horizon. The twilight of Corona was at hand.
The dactyl came awake.
>PART ONE
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FATE
What song is this, drift through the trees
To lift men broken from their knees?
To untwist hearts from grasping sorrow,
To offer the promise of the morrow?
Hark what song,
What music sweet?
Warm whispers of the dawn.
Hot blood waft steam in night air cold.
What hopes of treasure, what hunger of gold
Hath brought foul beast from caverns deep
To face the Nightbird, to know endless sleep?
They come for greed.
They come to bleed.
At gentle hands of elven breed.
The shining sword, the horse’s run,
The bane of monsters all and one.
To their midst the rider, Nightbird the Ranger,
Flashing Tempest’s anger, denying the danger
Cutting and slashing!
Tearing and gashing!
Chasing the nightmares away.
Fast run, you goblins, the Ranger sets his bow,
To let your blood, to stain white snow
Arrow and arrow, the river of red
Fast fall the Evil; to the one is dead.
Hawkwing’s fury,
Goblins to bury
In worm’s cold domain.
Scatter, goblins, fly and flee!
You’ll not outrun Symphony.
Hooves of music rend the gloom
Bearing Nightbird know your doom!
At Tempest’s fall,
So shall you all
To blackness evermore.
Away drifts musk Symphony sweet.
Away goes Nightbird, the forest to greet.
In springtime sunshine, of Evil no traces,
Through flowers and lovers, step measured paces
Hark, listen you all
The Nightbird’s call
And sleep peaceful lovers, secure.
—“The Song of the Nightbird”
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CHAPTER 1
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The Unexpected Kill
Elbryan Wyndon was up before the dawn. He dressed quickly, fumbling with his clothes in the red light of the hearth’s glowing embers. He ran a hand through his tousled straight hair—a light brown shock that bleached pale on its top layers under the summer sun. He retrieved his belt and dagger, which he had reverently placed right near his bed, and Elbryan felt powerful as he ceremoniously strapped the weapon about his waist.
He grabbed the heaviest wrap he could find and rushed out into the dark and chill air, so anxious that he hardly remembered to close the cabin door behind him. The small frontier village of Dundalis was quiet and eerily still about him, sleeping off the well-earned weariness that followed every day’s hard labor. Elbryan, too, had worked hard the previous day—harder than normal, for several of the village men and women were out in the deep forest, and the boys and girls, like Elbryan who was nearing his teens, had been asked to keep things aright. That meant gathering wood and tending the fires, repairing the cabins—which always seemed to need repair!—and walking the perimeter of the sheltered vale that held the village, watching for sign of bear, great cat, or the packs of hunting wolves.
Elbryan was the oldest of those children, the leader of the pack, as it were, and he felt important, truly he felt a man. This would be the last time he remained behind when the hunters went off on the season’s last and most important expedition. Next spring would bring his thirteenth birthday, the passage from childhood in the hardy land that was the northern wilderness. Next spring, Elbryan would hunt with the adults, the games of his youth left behind.
Indeed he was tired from the previous day’s labors, but so full of excitement that sleep had not come to him. The weather had turned toward winter. The men were expected back any day, and Elbryan meant to meet them and lead their procession into the village. Let the younger boys and girls see him then, and afford him the respect he deserved, and let the older men see that the village, under his watchful eye, had fared well in their absence.
He started out of Dundalis, stepping lightly despite his weariness, passing through the darker shadows of the small, one-story cabins.
“Jilly!” The call was not loud but seemed so in the quiet morning air. Elbryan moved up to the corner of the next house, smiling for his cleverness, and peered around.
“It could be today!” protested a young girl, Jilseponie, Elbryan’s closest friend.
“You do not know that, Jilly,” argued her mother, standing in the open doorway of their cabin. Elbryan tried to muffle his snicker; the girl hated that nickname, Jilly, though nearly everyone in town called her that. She preferred the simple “Jill.” But between her and Elbryan, the title was Pony, their secret name, the one Jilseponie liked most of all.
The snicker was soon gone, but the smile remained, all the wider for the sight. Elbryan didn’t know why, but he was always happy when he saw Pony, though only a couple of years before, he would have taunted her and the rest of the village girls, chasing them endlessly. One time Elbryan had made the mistake of catching Jilseponie without his male companions nearby, and of tugging too hard on her yellow mane to prove the point of his capture. He never saw the punch coming, never saw anything except how wide the blue sky had suddenly seemed as he lay on his back.
He could laugh at that embarrassment now, privately or even with Pony. He felt as though he could say anything to her, and she wouldn’t judge him or make merry of his feelings.
Candlelight spilled out onto the road, softly illuminating the girl. Elbryan liked the image; every day that passed, he found that he enjoyed looking at Pony more and more. She was younger than Elbryan by five months but taller than he, standing about three inches above five feet, while the young man, to his ultimate horror, had not yet reached the coveted five foot mark. Elbryan’s father had assured him that Wyndon boys were normally late in sprouting. All jealousy aside, Elbryan found the taller Pony quite a pleasing sight. She stood straight but not stiff, and could outrun and outfight any of the boys in Dundalis, Elbryan included. Still, there was a delicate aura about her, a softness that a younger Elbryan had viewed as weakness, but the older Elbryan viewed as oddly distracting. Her hair, which Jilseponie seemed to be constantly brushing, was golden, silken, and thick enough to lose a hand in; it bounced about her shoulders and back with an alluring wildness. Her eyes, huge eyes, were the richest and clearest blue Elbryan had ever seen, like great sponges soaking in the sights of the wide world and reflecting Jilseponie’s every mood. When Pony’s eyes showed sadness, Elbryan felt it in his heart; when they soared with sparkling joy, Elbryan’s feet moved involuntarily in dance.
Her lips, too, were large and thick. The boys had often taunted Pony about those lips, saying that if she ever stuck them to a window, they would surely hold her fast for all eternity! Elbryan felt no desire to tease when looking at Pony’s lips now. He sensed their softness, so very inviting . . .
“I will be back in time for the morning meal,” Pony assured her mother.
“The night woods are dangerous,” her exasperated mother replied.
“I will be careful!” Pony responded dismissively, before the older woman had even finished the sentence.
Elbryan held his breath, thinking that Pony’s mother, often stern, would scold the girl severely. She only sighed, though, and resignedly closed the cabin door.
Pony sighed, too, and shook her head as if to show her ultimate frustration with adults. Then she turned and skipped off, and was startled a moment later when Elbryan jumped out in front of her.
She reflexively cocked a fist, and Elbryan wisely jumped back.
“You are late,” he said.
“I am early,” Pony insisted, “too early. And I am tired.”
Elbryan shrugged and nodded down the road to the north, then led the girl off at a swift pace. Despite her complaints concerning the time, Pony not only paced him but skipped right by him, obviously as excited as he. That excitement turned to sheer joy when they passed out of the town and began their ascent of the ridge. Pony chanced to look back to the south, and she stopped, stunned and smiling, and pointing to the night sky. “The Halo,” she said breathlessly.
Elbryan turned to follow her gaze, and he, too, could not suppress a grin.
For stretched across the southern sky, more than halfway to the horizon, was Corona’s Halo, the heavenly belt—a subtle tease of colors, red and green and blue and deep purple, a flowing softness, like a living rainbow. The Halo was sometimes visible in the summer sky, but only during the deepest parts of the shorter nights, when children, and even adults, were fast asleep. Elbryan and Jilseponie had seen it on a few occasions, but never so clearly as this, never so vibrant.
Then they heard a distant piping, soft music, perfect melody. It floated through the chill air, barely perceptible.
“The Forest Ghost,” Pony whispered, but Elbryan didn’t seem to hear. Pony spoke the words again, under her breath. The Forest Ghost was a common legend in the Timberlands. Half horse and half man, he was the keeper of the trees and the friend of the animals, particularly of the wild horses that ran in the dells to the north. For a moment, the thought of such a creature not so far away frightened Pony, but then her fears were washed away by the sheer beauty of the Halo and the fitting melody of the enchanting music. How could anyone, or anything, that could pipe so beautifully pose a danger?
The pair stood on the side of the ridge for a long while, not speaking, not looking at each other, not even realizing that the other was there. Elbryan felt totally alone, yet one with the universe, a small part of majesty, a small but endless flicker in eternity. His mind drifted up from the ridge, from the solid ground, from the sensible experiences of his existence into the unknown, exhilarating joy of spirituality. The name of “Mather” came to him briefly, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything at that time, it seemed, and yet he knew everything—the secrets of the world, of peace, of eternity—it was all there before him, so simple and true. He felt a song in his heart, though it had no words, felt a warmth in all his body, though he was not at that moment a part of that corporeal form.
The sensation passed—too quickly. Elbryan sighed deeply and turned to Pony. He was about to say something but held the words, seeing that she, too, was immersed in something beyond language. Elbryan felt suddenly closer to the girl, as if they two had shared something very special and very private. How many others could look upon the Halo and understand the beauty of the thing? he wondered. None of the adults of Dundalis, certainly, with their grumbling and grouching, and none of the other children, he decided, who were too caught up in silliness to ponder such thoughts.
No, it was his experience and Pony’s—theirs alone. He watched her slowly drift back to the reality about them—the ridge, the night, and her companion. He could almost see her spirit flowing back into that five foot three inch body—a body that was growing more shapely by the day.
Elbryan resisted the sudden and inexplicable urge to run over and kiss Pony.
“What?” she asked, seeing turmoil, even horror, come over his face, despite the darkness.
The boy looked away, angry at himself for allowing such feelings. Pony was a girl, after all, and though Elbryan would openly admit that she was a friend, such deeper feelings were truly horrifying.
“Elbryan?” she asked. “Was it the song, the Forest Ghost?”
“Never heard it,” Elbryan retorted, though when he thought about it, he had indeed heard the distant piping melody.
“Then what?” Pony pressed.
“Nothing,” he replied gruffly. “Come along. The dawn is not long away.” He started up the ridge at a feverish pace then, even scrambling on all fours at times, crunching through the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Pony paused and watched him, confused at first. Gradually a smile found its way back onto her face, her dimples showing the slightest blush of red. She suspected she knew the feelings that Elbryan was fighting, the same feelings she had battled earlier that same year.
Pony had won that battle by accepting, even relishing, those private feelings, the warmth that washed over her whenever she looked upon Elbryan. She hoped Elbryan would wage a gallant war now, with an outcome similar to her own.
She caught up to her friend at the top of the ridge. Behind them, Dundalis sat quiet and dark. All the world seemed still, not a bird calling, not a whisper of wind. They sat together, yet apart, separated by a couple of feet and by the wall of Elbryan’s confusion. The boy didn’t move, hardly seemed to blink, just sat staring straight ahead at the wide vale before him, though it was too dark for him to even recognize the place.
Pony, though, was more animated. She let her gaze linger on Elbryan until the boy became obviously flustered, then she politely looked away, back to the village—a single candle was burning in one of the houses—and back to the Halo, which was now fast fading in the southern sky. She could still make out the brighter colors, but that special moment of beauty, of innermost reflection, had passed. Now she was again Jilseponie, just Jilseponie, sitting on a ridge with her friend, awaiting the return of her father and the other hunters. And the dawn was approaching. Pony realized that she could make out more of the village, could discern the individual houses, even the individual posts of Bunker Crawyer’s corral.
“Today,” Elbryan said unexpectedly, his voice turning her about to study him. He was at ease again, the uncomfortable feelings tossed out with the mystery of the night. “They will return this day,” he announced with a nod.
Pony grinned warmly, hoping he was right.
They sat in silence as the day grew about them. In the wide vale, the wall of blackness gave way to the individual dark spots that were the evergreens—rows and rows of ancient trees, Corona’s oldest soldiers, standing proud, though most were not twice Elbryan’s height. The starkness of the scene from this vantage point, in this mounting light, amazed the companions. The ground about the trees caught the morning light and held it fast, for the undergrowth was not dark but was white and thick; a padding of caribou moss. Elbryan loved the stuff—all the children did. Every time he gazed upon the white carpet, he wanted to take off his shoes and pants and run through it barefoot and bare legged, to feel its softness between his toes and brushing against his shins. In many places, the caribou moss was even deeper than his knees!
He wanted to do it, as he had so many times in his earlier years, wanted to cast off his shoes and all his clothes . . .
He remembered his companion, his earlier feelings, and turned away from Pony, blushing fiercely.
“If they come in before the sun gets too high, we’ll see them a mile away,” Pony remarked. The girl was not looking ahead, though, but at the ridge to the south behind them. Autumn was well advanced, and all the leaves of the deciduous trees, particularly the sugar maples, were bright with colors, shining red and orange and yellow, painting the ridge.
Elbryan was glad that the distracted girl had not noticed his own shade of red. “Coming down that side of the vale,” he agreed sharply, catching Pony’s attention, and pointing to the wide gentle slope of the vale’s northeastern face added, “a mile away!”
Their assessment proved overoptimistic, for the starkness of the scene had confused their sense of distance. They did indeed spot the returning hunters, to their complete joy, but not until the group was moving along the bottom of the bowl-shaped vale, a line of tiny forms far below them.
They watched, chattering wildly, trying to count and to guess who was leading but getting confused as parts of the line wove in and out of the tree shadows.
“A shoulder pole!” Elbryan cried out suddenly, spotting the line that seemed to join two of the men.
“Another!” Pony added happily, and she clapped her hands with glee as more came into view. The hunters would return with carcasses—elk, caribou, or white-tailed deer—slung on shoulder poles, and it seemed to the watching pair as if this hunt had been successful indeed! Their patience fast disintegrated; they leaped out together, running fast down the steeper slope, picking their angle to intercept the returning troop.