DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  The ranger drove on, bending the goblin over backward, the tremendous muscles in his arm bulging and cording. With a grunt and a sudden, vicious burst, Nightbird snapped the creature’s neck, and dropped it dead to the ground.

  More goblins were coming in about him; the ranger welcomed them.

  The lead group of goblins heard the fighting but never bothered to look back, too intent on the apparently easy prey of the merchant caravan. Down the slope they ran, full speed, hooting wildly, hungrily. Arrows came out at them—one even went down—but that hardly slowed the fierce charge.

  But then, suddenly, those in the lead were sprawling, flying headlong to the ground. More and more tumbled, the whole group becoming entangled and bogged down.

  Off to the side, in the brush, Pony urged Greystone ahead, keeping the rope taut as goblin after goblin tripped across it. She had tied one end securely to the stump, then had strewn it across the grass to these trees, carefully noting the angle so that when the horse pulled, the rope would come up at the right height, just under a goblin’s knee. Before she tied off the other end to her mount, she had looped it under an exposed root to prevent the jerking of the tripping goblins from affecting Greystone directly. Now the powerful stallion, straining forward, kept the rope taut.

  From below, the two-score archers at the caravan had more time to pick their shots, at relatively stationary targets, and their next barrage was far more effective. Even worse for the goblins, those that got back up had lost their momentum, had to begin their rush anew from a standstill barely forty yards from the bowmen.

  The merchants and their guards, though not true warriors, were not fools, and several were not firing arrows, but were holding their shots for whatever goblin ventured too near. The monsters came at the wagons in random order, one or two at a time, and without the panic-inspiring confusion of a rushing mob. Thus the archers were able to focus clearly and most of their shots rang true.

  Pony knew that her job here was done. She reached back with her sword and cut Greystone free, then turned the horse about, thinking at first to charge out into the midst of those goblins still pulling themselves up from the grass. But then she looked back up the hill and saw her love in the midst of yet another group. Resisting the urge to take out her magical gems, she drove her heels hard into Greystone’s flanks and the horse leaped away, thundering up the hill.

  With the bulk of the goblin horde moving beyond the ridge, leaving the few dead and wounded behind, Juraviel could more freely pick his shots. At first he concentrated on those creatures battling the ranger, but as the extent of the disaster began to sink in to the goblins, several turned about and tried to flee, running back up over the hill, passing right below the elf’sposition with no intention of stopping, or even slowing.

  Juraviel’s bow hummed continuously, arrow after arrow stinging the frightened and fleeing monsters. He shot every goblin he could see, and had nearly emptied his quiver when one creature skidded to a stop at the base of his tree, hopping excitedly and pointing up at him.

  Juraviel promptly drove an arrow into its ugly face, dropping it right beside its dead and kneeling companion. Then the elf shot two more of the creatures, who had come to see what the goblin was yelling about.

  Juraviel reached back methodically for his quiver, to find that he had only one arrow remaining. With a shrug, he shot yet another, then hooked the bow over a jut in the limb, drew out his slender sword and moved lower in the tree, looking for the proper moment to strike hard.

  He realized, though, that this fight was already nearing its end, for more than a score of goblins lay dead on the hill, another score were fast dying down by the merchant caravan, several had gone back over the ridge, and another substantial group were running full out down the slope, but angling to the east. The sight brought great hope to Juraviel, for these were the goblins of old, the cowardly, easily confused enemy that could not hold formation in the face of unexpected resistance. These were the goblins that, though much more numerous than the humans and elves of Corona, had never posed any organized threat of domination.

  The goblins’ eagerness to get at the exposed warrior waned fast as one after another fell dead at the end of Nightbird’s glowing sword.

  Fully surrounded by five, the ranger came ahead powerfully, then, seeing those before him falling back and knowing that those behind would be pressing forward, he quickly reversed his direction, spinning about with a powerful slash of his sword, knocking aside a swinging club and a stabbing spear. With the perfect balance of years ofbi’nelle dasada, the ranger’s feet shuffled fast, before those goblins now behind him could come in at his back, and with these two taken by surprise with his sudden shift, he scored a solid stab in the club-wielder’s chest.

  As that creature fell away, clutching its wound in a futile attempt to hold in its spouting lifeblood, its companion retracted its spear and let fly.

  The throw was true, right for the ranger’s head, but a subtle twist and duck, and Tempest flashing up diagonally, deflected it harmlessly over his shoulder—harmless for Nightbird, that is, for the missile’s continuing flight caused those goblins behind the ranger to dodge aside frantically, slowing their progress, giving the ranger more time to press his newest attack.

  The now unarmed goblin threw up its arms in a feeble defense. Tempest flashed three times repeatedly, the first slashing one arm aside, the second stabbing the other shoulder, dropping that defense, and the third going straight for the throat.

  Nightbird spun about in time to defeat the charge of the remaining three, and was back in a low and balanced defensive crouch as two more replaced their fallen comrades, again surrounding the ranger, but this time seeming less eager to make the first attack.

  Nightbird continued to turn about, ready to defend from every angle. Every so often he let Tempest out in a measured thrust, not to score a hit, but to entice those goblins behind the strike to come in. He thought to play on their mistakes, to let them lead and, inevitably, err, but then he came to a different understanding, a confident smile, so unsettling to the goblins, widening on his face.

  They understood his contentment a moment later when Greystone thundered into their midst, plowing them aside, Pony’s slashing sword chopping one and then another to the ground. At first the woman moved to rush right beside her love, even freeing up her hand so she could reach down and help him onto the horse behind her.

  But the ranger was motioning for her to come down and join in the fun.

  Pony threw her leg over the saddle, quickly reversing her feet so her closest foot was in the lone stirrup. She waited for two more goblins to dive aside in the face of Greystone’s mighty charge, then she leaped free, slapping the horse to continue its run, and hitting the ground in a fierce charge.

  One goblin stood between her and Nightbird, its sword out straight.

  Pony’s rush was too fast. She went down low and came up hard, her sword lifting the goblin’s blade up high, sending it, along with a couple of goblin fingers, flying away. She continued her run, right beside the creature, turning the angle of her blade so it drove right through the goblin’s chest as she passed.

  The goblin squealed and got yanked about, Pony tearing the sword free, leading her charge with her bloody blade slashing wildly.

  Nightbird had not been idle, moving with a ferocity that stunned his enemies, opening the way and positioning himself so Pony could get in to join him. In the span of a few seconds the lovers were standing back-to-back.

  “I thought you would stay low on the hill to check on the merchants,” Nightbird said, seeming not too pleased that Pony was with him in this dangerous situation.

  “And I thought it was past time that I tried out this sword-dance you have been teaching me,” she casually replied.

  “Do you have the stones ready?”

  “We will not need them.”

  The determination in her voice bolstered the ranger, even brought a smile to his face.

  The goblins circl
ed, trying to get a measure of these two. Their many dead companions lying about them vividly reminded them of the consequences of any foolhardy attacks. Still, they outnumbered Pony and Nightbird by more than five to one.

  One creature hooted and rushed ahead, launching a spear at Pony. Up flashed her sword, at the last moment, deflecting the weapon high, over her shoulder, and taking most of its momentum. Pony hadn’t cried out at all, but she didn’t have to, for Nightbird, feeling her muscles against his back, recognized the movement as clearly as if he had made it. He half turned as the spear rebounded over Pony’s shoulder, and a quick snap of his hand snared it. In the same fluid movement, the ranger brought the goblin spear past him and heaved it hard right into the chest of another goblin that had ventured too close.

  “How did you do that?” Pony asked, though she had never even glanced back to see the movement.

  Nightbird only shook his head, and Pony sensed it and went quiet, as well, the two of them settling more comfortably into their defensive stance. They felt an amazing symbiosis growing between them, as though they were communicating through their very muscles as clearly as if using open speech. Pony anticipated every twitch, every bend, of Nightbird’s stance.

  The ranger felt it, too, and was surely amazed by the intimacy. Despite his logical fears, Elbryan knew enough to trust in this strange extension ofbi’nelle dasada. He did pause and wonder if the elves even knew that the sword-dance could be taken to this extreme. But his musing lasted only an instant, for the goblins were getting edgy, some skittering closer, another readying a spear as if to throw it—though the goblins across the way, having witnessed the first disastrous attempt, weren’t pleased by that prospect.

  Pony understood that Nightbird wanted her to go out to the left. A quick glance that way told her the reason: a particularly bold goblin needed to learn a swift and painful lesson. She look a deep breath, eliminating all doubts from her thoughts, for she knew that doubt would bring hesitation, and hesitation would bring disaster. This was the real meaning of their morning ritual, she realized, a dance as intimate as lovemaking, and now was the real test of their trust. Her love wanted her to go out to the left.

  Nightbird felt the tension in her back, then the sudden lunge, and as she moved, he moved, rolling around, off her back foot, a complete pivot that took the two goblins rushing in at the apparent opening completely by surprise. The closest goblin was prodding out at Pony with its spear when Tempest slashed down, taking both its arms at the elbows.

  The second goblin at least managed to get its club in the way, though the ranger merely slapped the blocking weapon aside and stabbed the creature hard in the belly.

  Now Pony was moving, rolling over Nightbird’s trailing foot, as he had gone over hers. And again, those goblins coming in at the apparent opening Nightbird’s movement had caused were caught by surprise, and by Pony’s slashing sword. One fell to the ground, grasping at its torn throat, while two others leaped into a short and hasty retreat.

  And Pony and Nightbird were back-to-back again, crouched, in perfect defense and perfect harmony.

  *

  From the tree line, Belli’mar Juraviel watched in satisfaction as Symphony ushered the riderless Greystone to safety. Many times the elf had witnessed the intelligence of Symphony, but every time, as now, he was thrilled and awed by the display.

  Even more awesome was the spectacle that Juraviel witnessed when he glanced back down to his human companions and saw the harmony of their movements, Pony and Nightbird complementing each other with absolute perfection. To the Touel’alfar,bi’nelle dasada was a personal dance, a private meditation of a warrior, but now, watching this, Juraviel soon understood why Nightbird had taught it to Pony, and why they danced together.

  Indeed, at that moment on the grassy slope—a slope fast turning red with spilled goblin blood—Pony and Nightbird were as one, a single warrior.

  Juraviel realized that his bow should not be idle, that he should be helping out his friends. They hardly seemed to need it, though, playing off each other’s movements so fluidly that the goblin circle was widening, not closing, and was thinning, the creatures giving more and more ground.

  Juraviel did finally blink away his awe long enough to retrieve a single arrow, and his shot took a goblin in the back of the neck, just under the skull.

  The line around Nightbird and Pony thinned considerably, with more goblins turning and running away than falling to the pair’s harmonious dance. Pony scored a kill, and the ranger cut down a goblin stupidly going for her back again as she turned, but then it all seemed to come to a standstill, with no monsters venturing near enough for any attacks.

  Nightbird sensed the mounting fear and tension, saw the goblins looking as much behind them now as ahead. They wanted to break and run off, every one, and the battle was about to enter its most critical stage. He started to explain as much to Pony, but she cut him short before he had hardly begun, saying simply, “I know.”

  And she did know, Nightbird recognized, from the subtle movements of her muscles as she dug herself in, finding balance and positioning her legs for a fast shift.

  The spears came in at them in no coordinated fashion; the first goblin let fly, turned and fled, and a shower of missiles followed, the creatures using the barrage to cover their flight.

  Nightbird and Pony spun and dove, came up with swords slashing, deflecting and dodging. There was no pause on the part of the ranger or his companion as they came through the volley unscathed, each rushing out at the closest goblins, cutting them down and running on to the next in line. No longer did the two work in concert, but neither did any of the goblins, so every fight became an individual contest. Pony worked her sword marvelously, weaving circles about her opponent until she found an opening, and then striking true, a measured thrust, her second or third hit usually finishing the task.

  Nightbird, stronger and more skilled, was less finesse and more sheer power. As goblins raised their weapons to block, he merely smashed through the defense, and usually through the goblin in the same deadly strike. He darted back and forth, rushed ahead and turned completely about, whatever was needed to bring him to his next kill. The goblins should have calmed and organized a coordinated resistance, but they were stupid creatures, and frightened.

  They died quickly.

  Those few who managed to get up the hill to the tree line ahead of the ranger found yet another foe, a lithe little creature, hardly as tall as a goblin, wielding a sword so slender that it seemed more fitted to a dinner table than a battleground.

  The leading goblin swerved to meet this newest foe, thinking it to be a human child, thinking to score a quick kill.

  Juraviel’s sword smacked against the tip of the goblin’s blade, once, and then three more times, so rapidly that the creature had no time to react. And each time, the elf inched ahead, so that when the fourth parry rang out, Juraviel was only a foot from the surprised goblin.

  The elf’s sword flashed again in rapid succession, once, twice, thrice, driving three holes into the goblin’s chest.

  Out charged Juraviel, meeting the next, this one unarmed, having thrown its spear at the ranger. The goblin held up its hands.

  Belli’mar Juraviel of the Touel’alfar had no mercy for goblins.

  The rout on the slope ended at about the same time as the rout at the wagons. The lead group of goblins, the ones Pony had tripped up, fell dead to the last without ever getting into the ring.

  There remained one more substantial group, though, running down the road to the east, out of the dale.

  Pony spotted Juraviel first, sitting calmly on a low branch up the hill, wiping the blood off his sword with a rag of goblin clothing.

  “I counted four who passed beyond me,” he called down to his friends. “Taking full flight down the back side of the ridge.”

  Nightbird whistled, but Symphony was moving to him before he made a sound.

  “Are none to get away to carry on the legend of the Nightbird?�
� Pony teased him as he reached for the saddle. In the northland war, Nightbird had often let one or two monsters run away, to whisper his name in fear.

  “These goblins will only cause more mischief,” the ranger explained, swinging himself up. “There are too many innocents around whom they might harm.”

  Pony looked at him quizzically, then to Greystone, wondering if she should join him.

  “Keep watch on the merchants,” the ranger explained. “They will likely need your talents at healing.”

  “If I see one close to death, I will use the soul stone,” Pony explained.

  The ranger conceded the point.

  “And what of them?” Pony asked, pointing to the band fleeing to the east. There had to be at least a score of the creatures, maybe thirty or more.

  The ranger considered their course and gave a chuckle. “It would seem that the monks may yet be involved,” he said. “If not, we will hunt that band down when we are finished here. Our road is east anyway.”

  He was off before Pony even nodded her assent, thundering Symphony up the ridge and down the back side, preparing Hawkwing as he went. He spotted the first of the goblins running through the grass and closed the distance quickly, meaning to go right past the creature and use his sword. Then he caught sight of the second, running in a completely different direction; the group had scattered.

  No time for Tempest, the ranger decided, and up came his bow.

  Only three remained.

  CHAPTER 29

  Hungry for Battle

  “If we join in prayer, a single stroke of God’s lightning hand will destroy them all,” offered one young monk, who had also been on the expedition to Aida, including the battle outside the Alpinadoran village.

  Master De’Unnero’s sharp eyes narrowed as he considered the monk and the assenting nods of those nearby, men who had heard the tale of the great victory in the northland, the tale of sparking fingers reaching down from the line of monks to utterly vanquish their enemies.