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.
“Are you the leader of this ragged band?” the ranger asked.
No answer.
“Impertinence!” the Nightbird shouted, and he pointed his finger at the goblin’s helmeted head. “Die!” he commanded.
The sharp retort had every goblin jumping, and then staring incredulously as their leader’s head snapped violently to the side, as this powerful goblin who had bullied its way to a position of prominence simply fell over dead!
“And who is now the leader?” the ranger asked ominously.
The goblins went into a frenzy, scrambling every which way, most turning about, trying to run out the way they had come in. But Nightbird’s band had not been idle during the minutes of the taunting song, and a strong contingent of archers was now in place in the forest behind the monsters. As they turned to the trees, they were met by a hail of stinging arrows, and then, when they scrambled yet another way, a sizzling bolt of lightning thundered out of the pines, blinding them all and killing several.
On came Nightbird, on came his warriors, charging down on the confused and disorganized band.
And on came Connor Bildeborough, as well, Defender in hand. The nobleman had seen and heard enough, and galloped headlong into the battle, the name of Jilly ringing from his lips.
Nightbird seemed to be everywhere he was most needed, bolstering his soldiers wherever the goblins appeared to have gained any advantage.
From the oak stand, Belli’mar Juraviel, so sure of hand and eye, peppered the monsters with his small arrows, even stinging several who were engaged in close combat.
Across the way from the elf, Pony held her magic in check, conserving her strength, thinking, fearing, that she would have to use the healing soul stone soon enough.
By the time he got near the clearing, Connor was truly impressed. No ragtag band this! The lightning, the arrows, the perfect timing of the ambushhe lamented that if the King’s soldiers were as well-trained, this war might have ended long ago!
He hoped to find Jilly when he came onto the clearing, but she was not about and he couldn’t rightly go looking for her. His sword was needed now, and so he kicked Greystone into a short burst, slashing one goblin as he passed and then trampling a second who had put a man to the ground.
The horse stumbled and Connor lost his seat, tumbling hard to the ground. No matter, though, for he was not badly hurt and he was up and ready with his sword in an instant.
Luck was not with the nobleman, though, for several goblins had chosen this particular place as their exit point, and now only Connor stood between them and the forest. He raised his sword and bravely assumed defensive posture, slipping his thoughts to the magnetites, activating their attracting magic.
A goblin sword slashed in, but Defender easily got in its path, blade against blade. When the goblin tried to retract its weapon, it found the blade somehow stuck to the nobleman’s sword.
A deft twist and swing of Defender, a release of the magnetite magic, and the goblin’s sword was flying free.
But Connor was far from free, for other goblins pressed in, and many carried not metal weapons, but thick wooden clubs.
A small arrow zipped out from behind Connor, taking one goblin in the eye. Before he could even glance back to discern the source, the warrior astride the stallion was there beside him, his magnificent sword glowing of its own magical light.
The goblins turned about, shouting “Nightbird!” and “Doom!” repeatedly, and seemed not to care that they were running from two men into the whirling swords of two score.
It was over in a matter of minutes, and the woundedand there weren’t many, and only one or two appeared seriously injuredwere quickly ushered back to the forest in the north, into the pines.
Connor went to his horse, carefully inspecting the beast’s legs and breathing a deep sigh indeed when he discerned that beautiful Greystone had not been seriously injured.
“Who are you?” the man on the stallion asked him, walking near. His tone was not threatening, was not even suspicious.
Connor looked up to see that many of the warriors were about him, eyeing him curiously.
“Forgive us, but we have not found many allies so far from the more populated lands,” the ranger added calmly.
“I am a friend from Palmaris, it would seem,” Connor answered. “Out hunting goblins.”
“Alone?”
“There are advantages to riding alone,” Connor answered.
“Then hail and good greetings,” Elbryan said, sliding down from Symphony and walking to stand directly before the man. He took Connor’s hand in a firm shake. “We have food and drink, but we will not be stopping for long. Our road leads to Palmaris, and we plan to use the hours of the night to our advantage.”
“So it would seem,” Connor said dryly, looking at the many goblin dead.
“You are welcome to join us,” Elbryan said. “In fact, we would consider it an honor and a great favor.”
“I did not prove myself so worthy a fighter in that battle,” Connor remarked. “Not measured next to the one called Nightbird,” he added, offering the ranger a smile.
Elbryan only smiled in reply, and started away, Connor falling in beside him. He went to the first kill, the goblin who had led the band, and bent low, pulling aside the creature’s bent and torn helmet.
“How far to the city?” another man, young and slight, asked.
“Three days,” Connor replied. “Four, if you have any who will slow you down.”
“Four, then,” Roger replied.
Connor looked from him to the ranger just in time to see the large man dig a gemstone out of the goblin’s smashed head.
“Then you are the worker of magic,” the nobleman reasoned.
“Not I,” replied Elbryan. “I can use the stones to some small degree, but pale indeed beside the true wielder.”
“A woman?” Connor asked breathlessly.
Elbryan turned and rose, facing Connor directly, and Con
nor realized that his question had touched some nerve, had unsettled this man as surely as a threat. As eager as he was, Connor was wise enough to let the matter drop for now; these folks, the magic-user at least, were outlaws in the eyes of the Church, and they might know it, and might be more than a little suspicious of anyone asking too many probing questions.
“I heard the woman’s song,” Connor went on, deflecting his true intent. “I am a nobleman, and have seen magic before, but never have I witnessed such a magnificent display.”
Elbryan didn’t reply, but his visage softened somewhat. He looked around, to see that the refugees were efficiently ending the suffering of those goblins who had not yet succumbed to their wounds, then going about the task of taking whatever supplies they could find among the dead monsters. “Come,” he bade the stranger. “I must ready the folk for the continuing march.”
He led Connor, Roger in tow, into the forest then, moving to an area where the undergrowth was not so dense. Several fires were burning, guiding the people as they went about their work, and beside one such blaze Connor saw her.
Jilly, working over the wounded. His Jilly, as beautifulmore beautiful!than she had been back in Palmaris, before the war, before all the pain. Her blond hair was shoulder-length now, and so thick that he felt as if he could lose himself in it, and even in the dim light of the fires her eyes shone blue, sparkling and rich.
All color left Connor’s handsome face and he broke away from Elbryan, walking as if in a daze toward her.
The ranger caught up to him in an instant, taking him by the arm. “Are you wounded?” Elbryan asked.
“I know her,” was Connor’s breathless reply. “I know her.”
“Pony?”
“Jilly.”
Still the ranger held him firmly, more firmly, in place, turning him and eyeing him directly. Elbryan knew that Pony had married a nobleman in Palmaris, with disastrous consequences. “Your name, sir,” the ranger inquired.
The man straightened. “Connor Bildeborough of Chasewind Manor,” he answered boldly.
Elbryan didn’t know how to react. One part of him wanted to punch the man in the face, to lay him low… because he had hurt Pony? No, that wasn’t the reason, the ranger had to admit, to himself if not openly. He wanted to punch Connor out of sheer jealousy, out of the fact that, for a time at least, this man had found Pony’s heart. She may not have been in love with Connor as she now loved him, may not even have consummated their relationship, but she had cared deeply about Connor Bildeborough, had even married him!
The ranger closed his eyes for a brief moment, finding his center and his calm. He had to consider how Pony would feel if he clobbered the man now, had to consider how she would feel at the mere sight of Connor Bildeborough. “Better to wait until she is finished with the wounded,” he explained calmly.
“I must see her and speak with her,” Connor stuttered.
“To the detriment of those who just battled the goblins beside her,” the ranger said firmly. “You will prove a distraction, Master Bildeborough, and the work with the stones requires absolute concentration.”
Connor glanced again to the woman, even took a step that way, but the ranger tugged him insistently back, with strength that frightened the man. He turned again to face Elbryan, and understood he would not get near Jilly now, that this man would drag him away forcibly, if need be.
“She will be finished within the hour,” Elbryan said to him. “And then you may see her.”
Connor studied the ranger’s face as he spoke, and realized only then that there was something more than friendship between this man and the woman who had been his wife. He sized up Elbryan in light of his new observation, taking a measure of the ranger should they come to blows.
He didn’t like the prospect.
So he followed the ranger as the man went about the business of preparing for the move. Connor glanced over at Jill often, as did Nightbird, and neither of them doubted that they were thinking much the same things. Finally Connor broke away from the ranger and moved to the far end of the encampment, putting as much distance, and as many people, between himself and Jill as possible. The sight of her, the realization that she was once again so near, was finally settling in on the nobleman; he had gone past the pleasant recollections to that one horrible night, their wedding night, when he had almost raped his unwilling bride. And then he had paid for an annulment, and forced charges against Jill for refusing him, an accusation that had taken her from her family and indentured her to the King’s army. How would she feel about seeing him again? he wondered, and worried, for Connor could not believe that she would return his wistful smile.
They were on the road for nearly half an hour before Connor finally mustered the courage to ride up beside the woman, who was riding Symphony, the ranger walking along beside her.
Elbryan saw him coming first. He looked up at Pony, locking her gaze. “I am here in support of you,” he said. “For whatever you need of me, even if that means that I must leave you alone.”
Pony eyed him curiously, not understanding, then heard the hoofbeats. She knew that a stranger had joined in the battle, a nobleman from Palmaris, but Palmaris was a big city, and she had never imagined that it might be…
Connor.
Pony nearly toppled from Symphony at the sight of the man; her arms and legs went weak, her stomach churned. The black wings of remembered pain fluttered up about her, threatening to bury her. It was a part of her life that she did not want to recall, a memory better lost. She had survived the pain, had even grown from the pain, but she did not wish to relive it, especially not now, with the future so uncertain and so full of challenges.
Still, she could not avoid those images. She had been held down, like an animal, her clothes torn from her and her limbs held steady. And then, when he, this man who had professed to love her, could not follow through, she had been summarily dismissed, dragged from her bedchamber. Even that was not enough for him, for then Connorthis man, this gallant-looking figure so splendid on his well-groomed riding horse, with jewels in his sword belt and clothes cut of the finest clothhad ordered both the handmaidens to return to him for his pleasure, had cruelly shot the barb right into her heart.
And here he was, astride his horse right beside her, a smile finding its way onto his undeniably handsome face. “Jilly,” he blurted, so full of excitement.
CHAPTER 21
In the Bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle
“You would allow your beloved husband to be tortured for the sake of your outlaw, adopted daughter?” Father Abbot Markwart asked the poor woman.
Pettibwa Chilichunk was a wretched sight. Dark bluish bags circled her eyes and all of her skin seemed to sag, for she had not slept more than a few hours in many days, ever since Grady had died on the road. Pettibwa had been heavy for many years, but had always carried her round form with grace and a light bounce in her step. No more. Even during those times when sheer exhaustion laid the woman low, she was ultimately awakened by horrible nightmares, or by her captors, who seemed as wicked as any dream could ever be.
“We will take his nose first,” Father Abbot Markwart went on.
“Right to here,” he added, running his finger along the crease of a flared nostril. “It makes for a gruesome sight indeed, and assures that poor Graevis will be forever an outcast.”
“Why would ye be doin’ such a thing, and yerself claimin’ to be a man o’ God!” Pettibwa cried. She knew that the old man was not lying, that he would do exactly what he had threatened. She had heard him just minutes before, in the adjoining room in the southernmost cellar of St.-Mere-Abelle, formerly a storage area but now converted to hold the two Chilichunks and Bradwarden. Markwart had gone to Graevis first, and Pettibwa heard the agonized screams quite clearly through the earthen wall. Now the woman wailed and repeatedly made the holy sign of the evergreen, the symbol of the Abellican Order.
Markwart was unrepentant and unimpressed. He came forward suddenly, powerful
ly, moving his leering visage to within a hair’s breadth of Pettibwa’s face. “Why, you ask!” he roared. “Because of your daughter, foolish woman! Because your dear Jilly’s evil alliance with the heretic Avelyn could bring about the end of the world!”
“Jilly’s a good girl!” Pettibwa yelled back at him. “Never would she do”
“But she has!” Markwart interrupted, growling out every word. “She has the stolen gemstones, and I will do whatever is necessarypity Graevis!to see that they are returned. Then Pettibwa can look upon her disfigured outcast husband and know that her own foolishness condemned him, as it condemned her son!”
“Ye killed him!” Pettibwa cried, tears streaming down her face. “Ye killed me son!”
Markwart’s expression went perfectly cold, stone-faced, and that, in turn, seemed to freeze the woman, locked her in his gaze. “I assure you,” the Father Abbot said in even tones, “that your husband, and then you, will soon envy Grady.”
The woman wailed and fell backand would have fallen right to the ground had not Brother Francis been behind to support her. “Oh, what’re ye wantin’ o’ poor Pettibwa, Father,” she cried. “I’ll tell ye. I’ll tell ye!”
A wicked smile crossed the Father Abbot’s face, though he had been looking forward to cutting off the stupid Graevis’ nose.
St.-Mere-Abelle was buttoned up tight, with guards, young monks armed with crossbows, and the occasional older student armed with a potent gemstone, graphite or ruby, patrolling every section of wall. Master Jojonah, recognized by all and liked by most, had no trouble getting back into the abbey, though.
Word of his arrival preceded him, and he was met in the main hall almost as soon as he entered by a very sour-looking Brother Francis. Many other monks were in that hall, as well, curious as to why Jojonah had returned.
“The Father Abbot will speak with you,” the young monk said curtly, looking around as he spoke, as though playing to the audience, showing them which of them, he or Jojonah, was truly in the favor of Markwart.
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