"You are of a rare breed indeed," Tuntun remarked one starry evening. "It might be that you are the only ranger alive, though we have not felt the sorrow of Andacanavar's demise."
The reverence with which she spoke touched Elbryan and at the same time laid a great weight upon his strong shoulders. He had come to feel special, in many ways superior. Because of the elves, he had been given a rare and precious gift: another language — physical and verbal — another way of looking at the world about him, another way of perceiving the movements of his own body. He had come so far from that frightened waif stumbling out of burned Dundalis. He was the blood of Mather, Elbryan the Ranger.
Why, then, was he so terrified?
To find his answer, Elbryan often visited the Oracle. Each time, it became easier for him to conjure the spirit of Mather, and though the specter never offered any words in response, Elbryan's own soliloquies allowed the young man to keep things fairly sorted out, to keep his perspective and his nerve.
The winter, a difficult one even in the enchanted valley — as Lady Dasslerond had predicted — passed slowly, the snows coming early and deep and holding on stubbornly as the season shifted to spring.
For Elbryan, life went along at its usual frantic pace, learning and growing. He was truly an archer now, not as proficient as some of the elves, but certainly an expert by the measure of humans. His understanding of the natural world about him would never be complete — there was simply too much for any individual to know — but it continued to deepen with each passing day and each new experience. The entire way in which Elbryan now viewed the world around him was conducive to such learning; truly he was the sponge and all the world a liquid.
The shift came dramatically, unexpectedly, when Elbryan was roused from his bed one blustery Toumanay night by Juraviel and Tuntun. The elves prodded and pushed him, finally getting him out of his low tree house wearing only a cloak and a loincloth. They escorted him to a wide tree-lined field, where all two hundred elves of Caer'alfar had gathered.
Juraviel pulled away Elbryan's cloak, while Tuntun pushed him, shivering, to the middle of the field.
"Remove it," she said sternly, indicating the loincloth.
Modesty caused Elbryan to hesitate, but Tuntun wasn't in the mood for a debate. With a flick of her daggers, one in each hand, she cut away the meager covering, caught it before it dropped two inches, then skittered away, leaving the confused, naked man standing alone, with all the eyes of Andur'Blough Inninness upon him.
Holding hands, the elves formed a wide circle about him. Then they began to dance, the circle rotating to the left. They broke their line often, individual elves leaping into pirouettes or simply following steps of their own choosing, but in general the rotation continued about Elbryan.
The elven song filled his ears and all his body, gradually taking him from his place of modesty, relaxing him, intoxicating him. All the forest seemed to join in — the gusty breezes, the birdsong, the croaking of frogs.
Elbryan tilted back his head, considering the stars, the few rushing clouds. He found he was turning as the circle turned, as if compelled, as if the elven movement had summoned a whirlpool about him, spinning him with its currents. All seemed a dream, vague and somehow removed.
"What do you hear?" came a question near him. "At this, your moment of birth, what do you see?"
Elbryan didn't even consider the source — Lady Dasslerond standing right before him. "I hear the birds," he answered absently. "The night birds."
All the world around him went silent, the dream state shattered by the sudden change. Elbryan blinked a few times as he came to a halt, though, to his dizzy perspective, the stars above him continued on their merry rotating way.
"Tai'marawee!" Lady Dasslerond cried out, and Elbryan, hardly conscious that she was out in the middle of the field with him; jumped at the sound of her voice. He looked down at her as the two hundred elves echoed the cry of
"Tai'marawee!"
Elbryan considered the words: tai for "bird" and marawee for "night."
"The Nightbird," Lady Dasslerond explained. "You have been named Nightbird on this, the evening of your birth."
Elbryan swallowed hard, not comprehending what this was all about.
Juraviel and Tuntun certainly had not prepared him for such a ceremony.
Without explanation, Lady Dasslerond then threw a handful of glittering powder in Elbryan's face.
All the world seemed to stop, then to start again but more slowly. The elvish singing and all the harmony of the forest had renewed, and he was alone again in the middle of the field, turning as the circle turned. So gradually that Elbryan never noticed it, the elven voices faded away one by one. He realized he was alone long after all the elves had gone, and before he could decipher any meaning to it all, sleep overtook him, right there, naked in the middle of the field.
The night of his birth.
Belli'mar Joycenevial nodded his head as he considered the product of his love. They had named the ranger Nightbird, and so the elf's dream had not deceived him. This bow, Hawkwing by name, certainly fit all that Elbryan had become.
Joycenevial held the beautiful weapon up before him. It was taller than he, rubbed and stained to glassy smoothness — even in the dim light of the single candle, Hawkwing's dark green, silverlined hue shone clearly — with a sculpted handgrip and delicate, tapered ends. The removable high tip was set with three feathers, so perfectly aligned that they appeared as one when the bow was at rest.
Hawkwing and Nightbird — the old elf liked the connection. This would be the last bow he ever crafted, for he knew beyond doubt that if he made a thousand more, he would never near the perfection of this weapon.
Elbryan awoke as he had fallen asleep, alone and naked on the field, except that he found a red strip of cloth tied about his left arm, a green strip tied about his right, both crossing the middle of his huge biceps. He considered them for a moment, but didn't even think of removing them. Then he turned his attention to the awakening world about him. The dawn had long passed; Elbryan knew that he had missed his sword-dance, for the first time since it had been taught to him. Somehow, that morning, it didn't matter. The young man spotted his cloak and wrapped it about him, but then, instead of returning to his tree house, he went to the Oracle, where he had left his mirror, blanket, and chair.
"Uncle Mather?"
The spirit was waiting for him, serene in the depths of the mirror. A thousand questions came to Elbryan, but before he could utter even the first, his mind was clouded, by images of a road, of a moor and a forest, of a valley of evergreen trees that seemed vaguely familiar.
Elbryan fought to steady his breathing; he was beginning to understand.
Dark terror crept up all around him, threatening to swallow him where he sat, and he desperately wanted to ask Uncle Mather about it all, to relieve himself one more time of those doubts.
But this time, Elbryan was a receptacle and not the speaker. This time, he rested back, even closed his eyes, and let that unknown path find its place in his mind.
He came out of the cave even less relaxed than he had been when he had gone in, his face reflecting his fear and uncertainty, more questions raised than answered.
When he got back to Caer'alfar, he was surprised to see the place deserted. He moved quickly to his tree house and found it empty of all his possessions — his clothing, his baskets for collecting the milk-stones.
A new set of clothes, finely made, was laid out on the floor before him.
They had to be for him, for they would obviously fit none other in Caer'alfar.
Unless, Elbryan pondered, another would-be ranger had been brought in.
He shook that thought away, shrugged off his cloak, and began donning the clothing: deerskin boots, high arid soft; supple breeches with a narrow belt made of rope lined with silverel for strength; a soft sleeveless shirt with a leather vest lined in silverel; and finally, a thick forest-green traveling cloak and a lighter-green
triangular huntsmen's cap.
Elbryan looked around, wondering what he was expected to do next. He thought of the field again and made his way there, to find all the elves of Caer'alfar waiting for him, this time standing quietly in neatly ordered rows.
In front of the gathering stood Lady Dasslerond and Belli'mar Juraviel. They motioned immediately for Elbryan to join them.
When he got there, Juraviel handed him a full pack, a fine knife strapped on one side, a balanced hand axe on the other.
A long moment passed before Elbryan realized that the elves were waiting for him to properly inspect the gift. He fumbled with the ties and opened the pack, then bent low and gingerly dumped it out onto the ground. Flint and steel, a slender cord of the same silverel-lined rope as his belt, a packet of the same red gel he had seen Juraviel use on the darkfern, the blanket and mirror needed for Oracle — which must have been retrieved soon after he had left the place — and most telling of all, a, waterskin and a supply of food, carefully salted and packed.
Elbryan looked up to his elven friend, but found no answer there.
Carefully, his hands trembling, he repacked the satchel, then stood tall before Juraviel and the Lady of Andur'Blough Inninness.
"The red band is soaked in permanent salves," Juraviel explained. "Both bandage and tourniquet. The green will filter air when placed over nose and mouth, will even allow you to pass under water for a short time."
"These are our gifts to you, Nightbird," Lady Dasslerond added. "These and this!" She snapped her fingers and Belli'mar Joycenevial stepped forth from the ranks of elves, cradling the beautiful bow.
"Hawkwing," the old elf explained, handing it over. "It will serve as a staff, as well." With a simple movement, he removed the feathered tip, taking the bowstring with it, then just as easily replaced it, bending the bow to restring it with hardly an effort. "Fear not, for though it seems delicate, you'll not break it. Not by striking, not by a bolt of lightning, not by the breath of a great dragon!"
His proclamation was met by a sudden burst of well-deserved cheering for the old elf.
"Draw it," Juraviel prompted.
Elbryan put down the pack and raised the bow. He was amazed by its balance, by the smoothness of its long and comfortable draw. As the bow bent, the three feathers on its top tip separated from one another, looking like the
"fingers" on the end of the wing of a gliding hawk.
"Hawkwing," the old bowyer said again to Elbryan. "It will serve you as bow for all your days, and as staff until you have earned your sword, if ever you do."
Tears in his eyes, the old elf handed over a quiver full of long arrows, then slowly turned and moved back to his place in line.
"Our gifts to you," Lady Dasslerond said again. "Which do you consider the most precious?"
Elbryan paused for a long while, understanding that this was a critical moment for him, a subtle test that he could not fail. "All the supplies and clothes," he began, "are worthy of a king, even a king of elves. And this bow,"
he said with all reverence, looking at Joycenevial. "I am sure that it has no equal and know that I am truly blessed in carrying it.
"But the Oracle," Elbryan continued, turning back to Lady Dasslerond, his voice firm, "that is the gift I hold most precious."
The Lady didn't blink, but suddenly Elbryan knew that he spoke mistakenly.
Perhaps it was the slightly crestfallen look of his friend Juraviel that tipped him to the truth of his own thoughts.
"No," he said quietly, "that is not the greatest of your gifts."
"What is?" the Lady prompted anxiously.
"Nightbird," Elbryan replied without hesitation. "All that I am; all that I have become. I am a ranger now, and no gift in all the world — not all the gold, not all the silverel, not all the kingdoms — could be greater. The greatest gift is the name you have given me, the name I have earned through your patience and your time, the name that marks me as elf-friend. There could be no higher honor, no higher responsibility."
"You are ready to face that responsibility," Juraviel dared to interject.
"It is time for you to go," Lady Dasslerond stated.
Elbryan's first instinct was to ask where, but he held the thought private, trusting that the elves would tell him if he needed to know. When they did not, when they did nothing but bow to him once, then filter out of the field, leaving him, once again completely alone, he had his answer.
The Oracle had shown him the way.
The land was relatively flat and brown, with sparse low shrubs poking here and there. But the gentle slopes were deceiving and the ranger, running smooth, could not usually see very far in any direction. There were the Moorlands — the Soupy Bogs, they had been affectionately called by the settlers on the edge of the Wilderlands. To the child Elbryan, this had been the place of wildly exaggerated fireside tales.
Except that now, he ran through the Moorlands, and recalling those tales of howling beasts and horrid guardians wasn't very comforting.
The mist was light this day, not closing in on the man as it had the previous day, when Elbryan felt as if watching eyes were with him every step. He came over a rise and saw a silvery stream winding below him, meandering this way and that across the brown clay. Instinctively, the ranger's hand went to his waterskin, and he found it less than half full. He trotted down to the stream, which was just a few feet across and less than a foot deep, and dipped his hand, nodding when he found that the water was quite clear. The ground here was simply too compacted to be swept up in the light flow. Rivulets of runoff had been crystalline all through the Moorlands, except in those low basins where the water collected and remained, where the ground and water seemed to blend, to melt together into a thick muddy stew.
Elbryan continued his inspection of the stream to make sure that nothing ominous was swimming along its course, then hooked his pack on the stiff branch of a prickly shrub and gingerly removed his boots. He had been running for five days, the last two in the Moorlands. The cool water and the soft bed beneath it felt good indeed on his sore feet; he briefly considered pulling off all his clothes and lying down in the flow.
But then he felt something, or heard something. One of his senses subtly called out a warning to him. The ranger froze where he stood, tuned his senses outward to his environment. The muscles in his feet relaxed, nerves on end, feeling for vibrations beneath him. He turned his head side to side slowly, eyes sharp.
He noted a splash, not so far in the distance upstream.
Elbryan considered his position. The stream flowed around one of the deceivingly high rises, turning out of sight just a couple dozen yards from where he stood.
He heard another splash, closer, and then a voice, though he could not make out the words. He looked around again, this time searching for a vantage point, a perch from which he might ambush any enemies. The terrain wasn't very promising; the best he could do would be backtrack up the rise and crouch just beyond the ridgeline. He would have to time his move perfectly, though, for various areas of that high ground would be visible from around the upstream bend.
Elbryan dismissed the notion altogether; he was on the eastern edge of the Moorlands by now, not so far from human settlements. Whoever or whatever was coming certainly wasn't kicking up a storm — it could not be giants. There was no reason for him to think that these would be enemies.
Even if they were, Nightbird had Hawkwing in hand.
He pulled his forest-green cloak tighter about his shoulders, lifted the hood up over his head and cap, then went about his business, crouching low to dip his waterskin in the stream.
The noise increased — by the volume and consistency of the splashing, Elbryan figured there must be about a half dozen bipedal creatures approaching.
More important to him, though, was the continuing conversation, not the words, of which he could understand only a few, but the high, grating tone of the voices. Elbryan had heard such voices before.
The splashing and tal
king stopped suddenly; the creatures had rounded the bend. Elbryan remained crouching. He peeked out around the side of his hood to make sure that they carried no bows.
Goblins, six of them, stood and gawked from barely thirty feet away, one with a spear up on its shoulder, but not yet ready to throw. The others held clubs and crude swords, but thankfully, no bows.
Elbryan stayed low. With his posture and his cloak the creatures couldn't be sure of his race.
"Eeyan kos?" one of them called.
Elbryan smiled under his hood and did not look the goblins' way.
"Eeyan kos?" the same one asked again. "Dokdok crus?"
"Duck, duck, goose," Elbryan said under his breath, the name of a game he had played perhaps a decade before. He smiled again as he thought of that innocent time, but it was not a longlasting sentiment, swept away in the wave of darker emotions as he considered what creatures such as these had done to his world.
The goblin called out again. It was time to answer, he knew, and since he had no idea what the goblin was saying, he merely stood up tall, too tall to be any goblin, and slowly dropped back the hood of his cloak.
Half of the goblin party shrieked; the spear wielder accompanied its yell by rushing three strides forward and hurling its weapon.
Elbryan waited until the last possible moment, then flashed Hawkwing across in front of him, deflecting the spear. He moved the bow around and out as it connected, diverting then defeating the spear's momentum, turning it harmlessly in midair and then catching it mid-shaft in his right hand as his left brought Hawkwing back to his side.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 30
