DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  When the immediate area finally appeared clear of monsters, Nightbird got his group moving again, putting the men in a tight formation, that they could guide each other by touch.

  Torches flared to life in several places deeper in the forest, screams issued from the darkness in many others, and there were no clear lines of combat for the group to engage. But those with the ranger held their calm, methodical way, moving along in their tight and organized formation, the tireless Nightbird continually circling about them, guiding them. More than once the ranger spotted enemies moving in the brush, but he held his forces in quiet check, not willing to reveal them. Not yet.

  Soon the sounds of fighting withered away, leaving the forest night as quiet as it was dark. A torch flared to life in the distance; Nightbird understood it to be powries, the cocky dwarves likely confident now that the battle had ended. He moved to the nearest of his soldiers and bade the man to pass the word that the time to strike was near.

  Then the ranger settled the group once more into a defensive posture and moved out alone. No stranger to powrie tactics, he figured that those with the torch would form the hub of their formation, with their forces encircling them like the spokes of a wheel. The torchlight was still more than two hundred feet away when the ranger encountered the tip of one of those spokes, a pair of goblins crouched beside a tight grouping of small birch trees.

  With all his great skill, Nightbird slipped around and moved in behind the oblivious pair. He thought to flash his diamond light, that his archers could mow the goblins down, but decided against that tactic, preferring to make this one strike decisive. He went in alone, inch by inch.

  His hand clamped over the mouth of the goblin to his left; his sword drove through the lungs of the goblin to the right. He let Tempest fall free with the dead goblin, and grabbed the remaining creature’s hair with his now free right hand, sliding his left down enough to cup the monster’s chin. Before the goblin could begin to cry out, the ranger drove both arms across his body, right to left, left to right, then violently yanked them back the other way.

  The goblin hardly found the chance to squeal, and the only sound was the snapping of its neck bone—it might have been a footstep on a dry twig.

  The ranger retrieved Tempest and moved in deeper, nearer the hub, surveying the enemy formation, which was exactly as he had suspected. Taking as accurate a count as possible, he silently went back to his waiting force.

  “There are monsters about,” he explained. “A trio of powries within that torchlight.”

  “Then show them to us and let us be done with this night,” one eager warrior piped in, and his words were echoed many times over.

  “It is a trap,” the ranger explained, “with more powries and goblins waiting in the darkness and a pair of giants lurking behind the trees.”

  “What do we do?” one man asked, his tone very different now, more subdued.

  The ranger looked around at all his men, a wry smile widening on his face. They thought they were outmatched—that much was obvious from their expressions. But Nightbird, who had been fighting bands of monsters all the way from the Barbacan, knew better. “We kill the giants first,” he coolly explained.

  Belster and Tomas watched and listened from a distant hilltop. The innkeeper rubbed his hands repeatedly, nervously, trying to guess at what might be happening down there. Should he retract his forces? Should he press the fight?

  Could he? The plans seemed so logical when they were made, so easily executed and, if need be, retracted. But the truth of battle never worked out that way, particularly in the dark and confusing night.

  Beside him, Tomas Gingerwart was fighting an equally difficult dilemma. He was a tough man, battle hardened, but for all his hatred of the monsters, Tomas understood that to engage them in drawn-out conflict was a fool’s game.

  But he, too, could not get a clear picture of what might be happening. He heard the occasional screams—more often a monster’s voice than a man’s—and saw the flares of light. A couple of surprising flashes, brilliant and sudden, caught his and Belster’s attention more keenly, though, for they were not the fires of torches. Belster recognized them well enough as an obvious stroke of lightning magic.

  The problem was, neither Belster nor Tomas had any idea which side was tossing the magic about. Their little band possessed no gemstones, and wouldn’t have known how to use them if they did, but likewise, powries, goblins, and giants had never been known to wield such magic.

  “We must decide, and quickly,” Tomas remarked, his voice edged with frustration.

  “Jansen Bridges should return soon,” Belster replied. “We must find out who loosed that magic.”

  “We haven’t seen it in a long while,” Tomas went on. “The point may be moot, with the magic expended or the wielder dead.”

  “But who?”

  “Roger Lockless, likely,” Tomas replied. “Ever has he a trick to play.”

  Belster wasn’t so sure of that, though the notion that Roger had a bit of magic about him was nothing new to the innkeeper. The legends of Roger might be exaggerated, but his exploits were indeed amazing.

  “Call them back,” Tomas decided then. “Light the signals and send runners with the word. The battle is ended.”

  “But Jansen—”

  “We haven’t time to wait,” Tomas interrupted firmly. “Call them back.”

  Belster shrugged, and couldn’t rightly disagree, but before either he or Tomas could give the retreat signal, a man came loping up the side of the hillock.

  “Nightbird!” he cried to the two. “Nightbird, and Avelyn Desbris!”

  Belster ran down to meet him. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw Nightbird myself,” Jansen replied, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch his breath. “It had to be him, for no other could move with such grace. I saw him kill a goblin, oh, and beautifully, too. Sword left and right.” He waved his arm about, imitating the move as he spoke.

  “Who does he speak of?” Tomas asked, coming down to join them.

  “The ranger,” Belster replied. “And Avelyn?” he asked of Jansen. “Did you speak with Avelyn?”

  “It had to be him,” Jansen replied. “The flash of lightning, scattering powries, felling giants. They have returned to us!”

  “You assume much,” pragmatic Tomas put in, then to Belster he added, “Are we to hope that this man’s observations ring true? If he is wrong—”

  “Then still it would seem as if we have found some allies, powerful allies,” Belster replied. “But let us indeed light the torches. Let us regroup and see how strong we have become.” Belster eagerly led the way from the hillock, silently hoping that his old comrades from Dundalis had indeed returned to help in the cause.

  *

  Their expressions were mixed, some nodding eagerly, others hesitantly, and still others glancing doubtfully to their fellows.

  “The torchlight marks the hub of the powrie defensive position,” Nightbird quickly explained. “The way is open to it if we are quiet enough and clever enough. We must strike hard and sure, and be prepared for any attacks that come in about us.”

  “The hub?” one man echoed doubtfully.

  “The center of the powrie defensive ring,” the ranger clarified. “A small grouping in the middle of a wide perimeter.”

  “If we attack there, right in the middle, then we will be surrounded,” the man replied, and several incredulous grunts of accord sprang up about him.

  “If we hit them strong enough at the center and kill the giants, the others, particularly the goblins, will not dare to come in against us,” the ranger countered with confidence.

  “The torches are naught but bait,” the man argued, raising his voice so that the ranger and several others had to motion for him to be quiet.

  “The torches are indeed meant to bring in enemies,” Nightbird conceded. “But those enemies are supposed to be identified and engaged on the edge of the ring. If we move without further delay, the path
is open all the way to the hub; our enemies will not expect so strong an attack.”

  The man started to argue again, but those near him, their trust in the ranger growing, hushed him before he could begin.

  “Go in quiet and in a line three abreast,” Nightbird explained. “Then we shall form a tight circle about the hub, and kill it before any reinforcements can arrive.”

  Still, many of the others exchanged doubtful glances.

  “I have been fighting powries for many months, and these are powrie tactics, to be sure,” Nightbird explained.

  His tone, full of absolute confidence, bolstered those nearest him, and they in turn turned back to nod to the men behind.

  The group set off immediately, with Nightbird far in the lead. He went back to the spot where he had slain the two goblins, and was relieved to find their bodies as he had left them, and that no new tracks were about the area. The enemy force was not numerous and the spokes of this defensive wheel were few, he reasoned, for when he searched both left and right, using the light of the powries’ own torches as his guiding beacon, he saw no other monsters.

  Nightbird led his force straight in, then fanned them out, barely thirty feet from the powries—and the giants, he realized, for the behemoth pair was still in place, their lanky forms pressed up tight against the back side of the oak tree, using its girth to shadow them from the revealing light.

  The ranger picked his course quietly. He moved along his line, signaling for all to be ready, and clutched the diamond tight in his fist. Far out to the left of the powrie trio, he found a low, thick limb. He went onto it slowly, easing his weight up so it would not rustle, then picked his careful path along the solid wood, moving nearer, nearer, to the trunk.

  Nearer to the giants.

  Nightbird concentrated on the stone, building its energy, but not yet releasing it.

  Building, building—all his hand was tingling from the stone’s magic, begging release.

  Nightbird ran along the branch; the powries looked up at the sound.

  And then they, and the giants, looked away, blinded by the sudden burst of radiance, a brilliant white light, brighter than the day itself.

  Nightbird rushed above the stunned powries and bore down on the nearest giant, its head even with his own. He knew he wouldn’t get many swings; he grabbed up Tempest in both hands and came in running, jerking to a stop and transferring every ounce of his momentum and strength into that one downward chop.

  The blade, trailing a line of white light hardly discernible in the brilliant diamond glare, smashed down through the giant’s forehead, cleaving bone and tearing brains, and the behemoth, howling, grasped at its head and tumbled backward.

  The other giant rushed in, only to be met by a hail of stinging arrows.

  Nightbird changed direction, scampering straight up the tree.

  Powries and goblins cried out and scrambled all about the area; the archers had to shift their rain to nearer, closing targets.

  The remaining behemoth shrugged away the initial volley and grabbed hard on the tree, thinking to tear it right from the ground, thinking to smash the ranger, the miserable rat who had just inflicted a mortal wound on its brother. It looked up, roaring in pain and outrage, and then went quiet, seeing the ranger looking back at it, down the arrow set on his strange-looking bow.

  Nightbird had Hawkwing drawn all the way back. With corded muscles perfectly taut, arms locked with the bow, legs locked about the branch and trunk, he had held the pose until the giant was in position, directly below him, and the behemoth glanced up at him.

  Then he released, the arrow burrowing into the monster’s face, driving deep, deep, disappearing.

  The giant’s outstretched arms flailed wildly, helplessly, and then it slumped to its knees, crumbling right beside its brother, dying even as its brother continued to squirm in the dirt.

  Nightbird wasn’t watching, was too busy climbing, realizing he was vulnerable at this low position. Then, from a branch higher up he watched the fight and carefully picked his shots, taking out those couple of monsters too well hidden, from ground level, for his companions to spot them.

  “To hiding!” the ranger called, and a moment later he dropped the diamond light, leaving the area black, save one fallen torch flickering in its death throes on the ground.

  Nightbird closed his eyes, then opened them slowly, letting them adjust to the new lighting, letting the cat’s-eye take control once more. The monsters were far from defeated, he realized immediately, for several groups had banded together and were stubbornly coming in, mostly from the south. He had to make a decision, and quickly. The element of surprise was gone, and the enemy still badly outnumbered his meager force of thirty.

  “Take to the north,” he called down, keeping his voice as low as possible. “Stay together at all costs. I will rejoin you as soon as I can.”

  As his soldiers slipped away through the brush, the ranger turned his attention back to the south, to the many monstrous groups, thinking he would find some way to deter them, perhaps to lead them on a long and roundabout chase back to the south.

  But then he looked behind the monstrous lines, saw the blue-glowing form of a woman on a horse.

  “Run on!” the ranger cried to the humans. “Run for all your life!” And Nightbird began to climb, scampering wildly up the tree, and not in fear of any powrie crossbow.

  Trusting in Symphony’s superior senses to get her through the tangle, Pony urged the horse ahead. She crossed by a pair of startled powries—who hooted and gave chase—and strengthened her serpentine shield.

  They were all about her, rushing in, crying in savage glee.

  And then, in the blink of a powrie eye, they were all burning, and so were the trees.

  Using the light to guide her way, Pony moved through the conflagration, straining to keep the protective fire shield in place. She blinked in disbelief as she neared a huge oak on the very edge of the fires, for coming down the far side, dropping frantically from branch to branch, came Nightbird.

  Pony guided Symphony under the lowest branch, and the ranger dropped to the ground right before her, immediately diving into a roll to smother a few errant flames. He rolled to his feet and scrambled away. “You might have warned me!” he scolded, wisps of smoke trailing from his leather tunic.

  “The night is warm,” Pony remarked with a snicker. She took Symphony right by him then, leaning to the side and offering him her hand. He grabbed on—falling into the protective shield as soon as their fingers touched—scrambled up behind her, and away they trotted, confident that no monsters were anywhere near in pursuit.

  “You should be more careful about where you blow up,” the ranger scolded.

  “You should be wiser about where you hide,” Pony countered.

  “There are options other than the gemstones,” the ranger argued.

  “Then teach mebi’nelle dasada,” the woman said without hesitation.

  The ranger let it go at that, knowing all too well that with Pony, he would never get the last word.

  CHAPTER 8

  Intervention of Conscience

  In a meadow a score of miles east of the town of Landsdown, the caravan from St.-Mere-Abelle made its last exchange of horses. Friar Pembleton, who brought the fresh animals, also brought news that was not welcomed by the leaders of the caravan.

  “We must go farther to the east, then,” Brother Braumin Herde reasoned, looking to the northwest, their intended course, as if he expected a host of monsters to rush down upon them.

  Brother Francis eyed Braumin dangerously, the young and ambitious monk taking every little change to his itinerary personally.

  “Be at ease, Brother Francis,” Master Jojonah remarked, seeing the anxious man chewing hard on his lip. “You have heard good Friar Pembleton. All the lands between Landsdown and the Wilderlands are thick with our enemies.”

  “We can hide from them,” Brother Francis argued.

  “At what magical cost?” Master Jojo
nah asked. “And at what delay?” Jojonah gave a sigh, and Francis growled and spun away. That settled, for the moment at least, Jojonah turned back to Friar Pembleton, a large and round man with a thick black beard and bushy eyebrows. “Pray tell us, good Pembleton,” he bade the man. “You know the region far better than we.”

  “Where are you going?” the friar asked.

  “That I cannot say,” Master Jojonah replied. “You need know only that we must get through the Timberlands, to the north.”

  The friar rubbed a hand over his bushy chin. “There is a road that will lead you to the north, though into and through the eastern sections of the Timberlands, not the western reaches, as you had originally planned. It is a good road, though little used.”

  “And what word of powries and goblins up there?” Brother Braumin asked.

  The friar shrugged. “No word,” he admitted. “It appears as though the monsters came from the northwest, sweeping through the Timberlands past the three towns of Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o’-the-World. From there they have extended south, but, as far as I have heard, not to the east.

  “It seems a reasonable detour,” the friar added hopefully, “for there is little in the east that would give the monsters sport. No towns, and very few, if any, homesteads.”

  A younger monk joined the group then, bearing a satchel full of rolled parchments, their ends sticking from the leather bag. Brother Francis moved immediately to intercept, and yanked the satchel away.

  “Thank you, Brother Dellman,” Master Jojonah said calmly to the young monk, and he made a gentle motion for the startled young man to go back to the others.