DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Suddenly he held the spear, aimed right back at its original wielder. That stopped the goblins cold before they could even begin to charge.

  Emotions churned confusingly in the young man. He remembered the teachings of the elves, mostly of tolerance, though they held no love for goblinkind or for any of the fomorian races. However, Elbryan was not in any human settlement, not in any land claimed by his kind, and quite possibly was within the boundaries of goblin territory. If that was the case, would he be justified in waging battle with these six?

  Yet, one had just attacked him, though it might have come more from fear than aggression. And Elbryan, whatever logical reasoning he summoned, could not possibly dismiss those memories of Dundalis.

  He hesitated; were these goblins responsible for what their kin had done to Elbryan's home? The one the elves had named Nightbird had to give himself an honest answer; he owed that much, at least, to Belli'mar Juraviel.

  A flick of his powerful wrist sent the spear flying back the way it had come, to land with a splash and stick up from the stream just a foot or so in front of the creature who had thrown it. Elbryan cast a warning glance the goblins' way, then turned sideways to them, focusing on the water, and bent down to finish filling his waterskin.

  He had given them one chance; a large part of him, that boy who remembered Dundalis, hoped they would not take it.

  He heard and felt the water stirring as the creatures came on slowly. He sensed that at least two had broken away, moving out of the stream to flank him front and back.

  Elbryan measured their approach, kept wary for any hint that the spear was coming his way once more.

  Everything seemed to stop, all movement, all splashing. The creatures were not more than ten feet away, he knew. Slowly he turned square with the main group of four, rising to stand straight, a foot and more higher than his tallest foe.

  "Eenegash!" the closest and ugliest of the group demanded, holding forth its sword, a two-foot blade not unlike the one Olwan had given Elbryan for his patrols.

  "I do not understand," he replied evenly.

  The goblins muttered something among themselves; Elbryan realized that they could not understand his language either. Then the ugly one turned back to him.

  "Eenegash! " it said again, more forcefully, and it pointed its sword at the staff, then at the riverbank.

  "I hardly think so," Elbryan replied, smiling widely and shaking his head.

  In a barely noticeable movement, the ranger pulled the feathered tip from the bow, tucking it and the bowstring into his belt.

  The goblin gave a threatening growl. Elbryan shook his head again.

  The creature rushed to close half the distance and prodded with its sword, a movement more of intimidation than an actual attack. But it was the creature who was surprised.

  Elbryan grabbed the staff, right hand over left; reversed his grip with his left as the pole started moving, and snapped it across so quickly in front of him that the goblin never had a chance to move. The staff connected simultaneously on the sword and the goblin's hand, knocking the weapon from the creature's grasp and launching it a dozen feet away. A subtle shift, still too quick for the creature to dodge, and Elbryan stabbed the tapered end out straight, striking the goblin on its sloping forehead right above and between the eyes, laying it out straight in the stream.

  With a whoop of delight, the other goblins, predictably, came on.

  Elbryan brought his staff back in, letting go with his left hand, flipping with his right to send the forward tip under. Never breaking the momentum, he extended his right arm out, catching the closing goblin, the one that had run out of the stream to flank the man, completely by surprise, Hawkwing's tip stabbing right under its chin.

  Back in came the weapon, a full and defensive spin between the ranger and the three goblins coming along in the stream. Elbryan caught the staff firmly in his left hand and extended that arm out in similar fashion so that the other flanking goblin was poked away. Back in came the staff, half spun and caught again in the right hand, half spun, angled outward diagonally, and caught again in the left, and then the right hand catching it, too, as the trailing end came around and over, Elbryan shifting the weapon's angle and striding boldly ahead.

  The downward chop connected squarely on the head of the center goblin, the spearwielder, Hawkwing's incredible hardness splitting wide the creature's skull with a resounding crack!

  Elbryan swept his staff out to the left, knocking aside a club strike, then back to the right, parrying a sword. Back left, back right, each time the angle shifting to defeat the intended attack. Then back left, then left again, knocking wide the creature's club arm. Elbryan stepped left as well and spun, avoiding an awkward cut of its sword. He came around hard and low, Hawkwing flying before him. The goblin, to its credit, recognized the circuitous attack and managed to get its club down, but Elbryan merely lifted Hawkwing's flying tip, cracking across the creature's skinny forearm, shattering bone. The club fell into the stream; the goblin shrieked and clutched at its arm.

  Elbryan stepped forward, facing the creature squarely, staff coming horizontal in front of him, and punched out with his left, right, left, Hawkwing swishing about to smack the goblin hard on alternate sides of its head. The ranger dropped his right foot back after the last strike, retracting the staff, then turned sidelong to his current foe, expecting an attack from the sword wielder. Seeing that creature in full flight, Elbryan stabbed the staff back out hard to his left, hitting the dazed and battered goblin right in the face.

  He didn't see but heard the movement as the goblin that had come in at his left struggled to its feet. Hawkwing went swinging again, turning a vertical circle under and then over Elbryan's right shoulder as he turned and leaped out to the left. Down raced the staff above the angle of the terrified goblin's pitiful attempt to parry, crashing hard against the base of the creature's neck.

  The goblin jolted perfectly still and then, as if the wave of energy had rolled right down to its feet and then come rushing back up, the creature went into a weird Backward leap, landing on its feet for a long moment, then slowly falling over.

  Elbryan turned and dropped into a defensive crouch, but no enemies presented themselves. The first one he had hit, the leader, was. on its hands and knees in the middle of the stream, facing away, too dazed to even get back to its feet. The one he had hit to the right of the stream was still on the ground, squirming and gasping for air that would hardly come. This last one he had hit was surely dead, as was the spear wielder, and the one who had taken four blows to the head lay unmoving at the stream's edge, its face in the water.

  The last of the group, the one with the sword, faced Elbryan from twenty paces, hopping up and down, hurling curses that the ranger did not understand.

  Casually, in no hurry, Elbryan replaced the feathered tip of his bow and in one fluid motion, bent the shaft around his leg and hooked the bowstring over the bottom edge.

  The goblin caught on, howled, and fled.

  Up came Hawkwing; three feathers separated. Clear and straight for thirty-five feet.

  The arrow slammed the goblin square in the back, lifting it clear of the stream and sending it another five feet. Arms and legs flailing, it flopped heavily, facedown in the water.

  Grim Elbryan retrieved the axe from the side of his pack and finished the task at hand.

  Then he was on his way, running across the Moorlands.

  P A R T T H R E E

  Conflict

  Did you go home, Uncle Mother? When you walked away from Andur'Blough Inninness, from your elven home, did you return to the place you had known in your childhood?

  I had thought it a vision that led me across the Moorlands then north to a sweeping vale of knee-deep caribou moss and stark pines. Now I wonder if it wasn't merely a memory returned, a backtracking of the same course the elves.

  had taken on that day when they pulled rite from Dundalis. Perhaps they then placed a veil over my memory, that I had no
desire to escape Caer'alfar and run back to the place of my kinfolk. Perhaps that last Oracle in Andur'Blough Inninness was no more than a lifting of the veil.

  I had not even considered this until my northern trek led me back to these lands familiar. I feared that I had erred in my course, that I had returned home by memory, not by vision.

  Now I understand This land is my land, my ranger haunt. It is under my protection, though the proud and hardy folk here would hardly believe they need it, and certainly would refuse it should I ask.

  They are more numerous than when I lived here last. Weedy Meadow remains a village of four score — the goblins never attacked after the sacking of Dundalis — and a new village, nearly twice that in number, has been built some thirty miles to the west, even further into the Wilderlands. End-o'-the-World, they call it, and a fitting name it seems.

  And, Uncle Mother, they have rebuilt Dundalis and have kept its name. I do not yet understand how I feel about this. Is the new Dundalis a tribute to the last or a mockery? It pained me when, walking along the wide cart path, l happened upon a signposts new signpost, for we never had such things —

  proclaiming the village limits, the edge of Dundalis. For a moment, I admit, I even held fast a fantasy that my memory of the destruction, of the carnage, was in error. Perhaps, I dared to think, the elves had tricked me into believing that Dundalis and all its folk had died, to keep me from fleeing their custody, or from wanting to flee.

  Under the name on the signpost, someone had scrawled "Dundalis dan Dundalis, " and under that, another prankster had added "McDundalis, " both indications that this place was "the son of Dundalis. I should have understood the implication.

  It was with great anticipation that l walked that last mile to the village proper — to see a place that I knew not.

  There is a tavern now, larger than the old common house and built on the foundation of my old home.

  Built by strangers.

  It was such an awkward moment, Uncle Mather, a feeling of absolute displacement. l had come home, and yet, this was not my home. The people were much the same — strong and firm, tough as the deepest winter night — and yet, they were not the same. No Brody Gentle, no Bunker Crawyer, no Shane McMichaer no Thomas Ault, no Mother and Father, no Pony.

  No Dundalis.

  I refused the invitation. of the tavern's proprietor, a jolly-looking man, and without a word — I suppose that was the moment the folk of the village began to suspect that l was a bit unusual — headed back the way I had come. I took my frustrations out on the signpost, I admit, tearing off the lowest board, the scribbled references to the original village.

  Never had I felt so alone, not even that morning after the disaster. The world had moved on without me. I meant to come and speak with you then, Uncle Mather, and so I crossed by the town, up the slope on the northern edge. There are several small caves on the backside of that slope, overlooking the wide vale. In one of those, so I believed, I would find Oracle. I would find Uncle Mather. I would find peace.

  I never made it over that ridge. It is a funny thing, memory. To the elves, it is a way to walk backward in time, to rediscover old scenes from the perspective of new enlightenments.

  So it was that morning on the ridge north of Dundalis. I saw her, Uncle Mather, my Pony, as alive to me as ever she was, as wonderful and beautiful. I remembered her so very vividly that she was indeed beside me once again for a few fleeting moments.

  I have no new friends among the current residents of Dundalis, and in truth, I expect none. But I have found peace, Uncle Mather. I have come home.

  -ELBRYAN WYNDON

  CHAPTER 23

  The Black Bear

  "It came roaring down that hill," the man was saying, waving his arm frantically in the direction of the forested slope north of Dundalis. "I got my family into the root cellar — damned glad I dug the thing!"

  The speaker was about his own age, the ranger noticed as he approached the group of ten — eight men and two women — who were gathered outside the nearly destroyed cabin on the outskirts of Dundalis.

  "Damn big bear," one of the other men said.

  "Twelve footer," the first man, the victim of the attack, remarked, holding his arms as far apart as he could possibly stretch.

  "Brown?" Elbryan asked, though the question was merely a formality, for a twelve-foot-tall bear would have to be brown.

  The group turned as one to regard the stranger. They had seen Elbryan about town on several occasions over the last few months, mostly sitting quietly in the tavern, the Howling Sheila, but none, save Belster O'Comely, the innkeeper, had spoken a word to the suspicious man. Their reluctance was clearly etched on their faces as they regarded the outsider and his unusual dress: the forest green cloak and the triangular cap.

  "Black," the victim corrected evenly, his eyes narrowed.

  Elbryan nodded, accepting that as more likely the truth than the man's previous statement. He knew two things from the color: first, that the man was surely exaggerating the bear's size and second, that this attack was far from normal. A brown bear might come roaring down the hill, hurling itself upon the cabin as if the shelter were some elk, but black bears were shy creatures by nature, far from aggressive unless cornered, or defending their cubs.

  "What business is it of yours?" another man asked, his tone making it seem to Elbryan as if he were being accused of the attack.

  Ignoring the comment, the ranger walked past the group and knelt low, inspecting a set of tracks. As he suspected, the bear was nowhere near the size the excited farmer was claiming, probably closer to five or six feet in height, perhaps two to three hundred pounds. Elbryan didn't really begrudge the man his excitement, though. A six-foot bear could indeed appear twice that height when angered. And the amount of damage to the house was remarkable.

  "We cannot tolerate a rogue," a large man, Tol Yuganick, insisted. Elbryan looked up to regard him. He was broad shouldered and strong, forceful in manner as he was in speech. His face' was clean shaven, seeming almost babyish, but anyone looking at powerful Tol knew that to be a deceptive façade. Elbryan noticed the man's hands — for hands were often the most telling of all — were rough and thick with calluses. He was a worker, a true frontiersman.

  "We'll get together a group and go out and kill the damned thing," he said, and he spat upon the ground.

  Elbryan was surprised that the burly man hadn't decided to go out alone and hunt the bear.

  "And what of you?" the man bellowed, looking at the ranger. "You were asked what business this might be of yours, but of yet I've heard no answer."

  Tol moved closer to the stooping ranger as he spoke.

  Elbryan came up to his full height. He was as tall as the man and, while not as heavy, certainly more muscular.

  "Do you think that you belong in Dundalis?" the man asked bluntly, again the words sounding like an accusation, or a threat.

  Elbryan didn't blink. He wanted to scream out that he belonged in this place more than any of them, that he had been here when the foundation of their beloved tavern was that of his own home!

  He held the words, though, and easily. His years with the elves had given him that control, that discipline. He was here, in Dundalis, in Weedy Meadow, in End-o'-the-World, to give the folk some measure of protection that they had never known. If an elven-trained ranger had been about those seven years before, then Dundalis would not have been sacked, Elbryan believed, and in the face of that responsibility, the surly man's demeanor seemed a minor thing.

  "The bear will not return," was all the ranger said to them, and he calmly walked away.

  He heard the grumbling behind him, heard the word "strange" several times — and not spoken with any affection. They were still planning to go out and hunt the bear, Elbryan realized, but he was determined to get there first. A black bear had attacked a farmhouse and that alone was enough of a mystery to force the ranger to investigate.

  Elbryan was amazed at how easy it was for him t
o track the bear. The beast had run off from the farmhouse, creating a swath of devastation through the brush, even knocking over small trees, venting a rage that the ranger had never before witnessed in an animal. The tracks were surely those of a medium-sized bear, but Elbryan felt as if he were tracking a fomorian giant or some other evil, reasoning creature, some creature purposefully bent on destruction. He feared that the bear was in the grip of some disease, perhaps, or was wounded.

  Whatever the source, with every passed scene of utter destruction, the ranger's fear mounted that he would not be able to spare the creature. He had hoped simply to drive the bear faraway into the deeper woodlands.

  He moved up the side of one steep hill, peering intently into every shadow. Bears were not stupid creatures; they had been known to backtrack hunters, taking the men from behind. Elbryan crouched by the side of one small tree. He placed his hand on the ground, feeling for subtle vibrations, anything that might offer a hint.

  He caught a slight movement of a bush out of the corner of his eye, The ranger didn't move except to shift his head to better view the shadow. He noted the wind, noted that he was upwind of the spot.

  Out came the bear in full charge, roaring.

  Elbryan shifted to one knee, fitted a heavy arrow, and, with a sigh of complete resignation, let fly. He scored a hit, the arrow skipping off the bear's face and burrowing into its chest, but the bear kept coming. The ranger was amazed at the sheer speed of the thing. He had seen bears in Andur'Blough Inninness, had even seen one run off when Juraviel had banged two stones together, but this creature's speed was outrageous, as fast as any horse might run.

  A second arrow followed the first, diving deep into the bear's shoulder.

  It bellowed again and hardly slowed.

  Elbryan knew that he would not get the third shot away. If it had been a brown bear, he would have taken to the trees, but a black could climb any tree faster than he could.