Demon Wars 01 - The Demon Awakens

by The Demon Awakens [lit]

  Elbryan put his back to a tree barely a dozen feet from the pair and considered his next move.

  "Within six strides," Juraviel was saying in the elven tongue. "Perhaps five. And the deer did not notice."

  "Well done!" the other congratulated.

  Elbryan nearly fainted away. He recognized the voice, melodic and higher pitched than Juraviel's, as that of Lady Dasslerond, the High Lady of Caer'alfar and of all Andur'Blough Inninness.

  And she was speaking of him! Elbryan held steady his breath, paying close attention, for though he could understand the melodic language, many individual words might elude him if he was not careful. With Lady Dasslerond speaking of him, the young man didn't want to miss a thing.

  "In the fighting, too," she went on, "he is losing much of the clumsiness that comes with his human heritage, and what a combination of power and grace he shall be when one of his stature learns to wield the sword as an elf!"

  Elbryan peeked around the tree to see Juraviel nodding his agreement. He forgot all about his game of surprising the pair then, and used his stealth ability to extract himself from the area, return to his tree house - which was closer to the ground than the sky - to shave and to prepare himself for his next sparring session, one he suddenly intended to win.

  Early that evening, Elbryan walked onto the low meadow, ringed by tall, thick pines and capped by the starry canopy. He carried only a long smooth pole, his weapon. The elf was already there, and Elbryan breathed a sigh of relief when he noted that it was not Tuntun waiting for him.

  He could never catch Tuntun off her guard; she relished the sparring matches, acting as if they were her personal forum for punishing the young man. After his first few encounters with the surly elf, Elbryan had wondered what it was that so prompted her desire to punish. Soon enough the young man had realized that it was for no particular act but merely because he was not elvish.

  His opponent this night was Tallareyish Issinshine, an older and calmer member of the elvish band. He was a quiet sort and rarely talked with Elbryan, though, according to Juraviel, Tallareyish had the finest singing voice in all of Andur'Blough Inninness. Elbryan had sparred with him only once, very early in his training, and had been put down rather easily.

  "Not this time," the young man muttered under his breath as he walked determinedly to the center of the meadow. He moved to a spot five feet from the sprite and bowed low, as did Tallareyish, in respect.

  Elbryan presented his long pole horizontally in front of him; the elf responded by crossing his two smaller poles, replicas of slender elvish swords, in the air before him.

  "Fight well," Tallareyish said, the proper beginning.

  "And you," Elbryan answered, and on he came, full of fury and determination. His skills had improved, so he had heard Juraviel say, and now he meant to show how much.

  He started with a cunning feint, boring in, mock spear leading, as if he meant to overrun the diminutive elf, and then pulling to an abrupt stop and swishing his weapon hard to the side. He had to guess, of course, which way agile Tallareyish would spin, and even though he guessed correctly that the elf would go to his right, his swipe was batted aside, not once but three times, before it ever got close to hitting the mark.

  Tallareyish came right back in, wooden swords dancing and weaving, cutting figure eights and then darting straight ahead suddenly, viciously. Elbryan could not watch them and try to react. He had to anticipate, and so he did, flipping his spear over one hand counterclockwise and then back again, then again clockwise, then back the other way. He hardly saw the elf's attacks, but he took comfort in the clicking sounds as the twirling pole picked off each one.

  "Well done!" Tallareyish commented, pressing the attack with every word.

  Elbryan's green eyes sparkled with pride. He kept his focus, though, and knew that he had to get off the defensive posture. He had spent many hours with Juraviel playing the game the elves called pellell, resembling something close to a three-tiered chess match, and he had learned well the value of taking the initiative. At this point, Tallareyish was playing white, pressing the attack, but Elbryan meant to reverse that.

  Over went his spinning pole, clockwise to his right, then it went over again, and then a third time, Elbryan sliding his foot further to the right with each spin. Tallareyish turned in pursuit and came forward, one step, left foot. Elbryan tensed.

  Another step, right foot.

  Elbryan caught his long pole in both hands to stop its spin. He threw it out diagonally to his left, then let go with his left hand, planted the pole against his right hip with his elbow, and swept it back across in front of him, forcing Tallareyish to fall a step to the side, forcing the elf's wooden weapon away.

  The eager young man rushed through the opening, shuffling a few steps past Tallareyish's right flank, then cut a swift pivot, grabbing his pole down low with both hands and sweeping it back.

  It swished through the air, hitting nothing, and Elbryan's eyes widened in shock as he came to realize that Tallareyish had followed his move perfectly, had run out right behind him. Elbryan was not surprised, therefore, when the elf's poles smacked him, but not so hard, on the rump and the back of the knee. His leg nearly buckled, but he managed to swing about, his pole still flying in a desperate, wide arc.

  Tallareyish ducked low under it and double-poked his weapons, stabbing at the young man's belly twice, though neither connected. The elf came forward suddenly, furiously, as Elbryan halted the flow of his pole and snapped it back to the ready, a beautiful recover.

  And one that might have worked against a human or a goblin. Tallareyish, though, was diving low before the pole ever got back in front of Elbryan. The elf went into a headlong roll, right between the young man's widespread legs, came up to his feet behind the yelling and turning Elbryan, and reversed his momentum, stabbing both his poles back over his shoulders.

  Elbryan was already into his responding turn but not far enough; and the elf's blades poked him hard in the kidneys. Waves of pain buckled the young man's legs. He continued to swing, but he was down on one knee then, and his blurred vision didn't even register that Tallareyish had moved again.

  The next hit, a heavy slash, caught the young man across the shoulder blades and laid him out facedown on the wet grass.

  Elbryan lay still for a long, long while, his eyes closed, his thoughts whirling. He had come in so full of hope, and had gone down so very hard.

  "Well done," he heard above him - Juraviel's voice. The young man rolled over and opened his eyes; he was surprised to find that Tallareyish was no longer there, that Juraviel was apparently speaking to him, was, for some reason that Elbryan could not understand, congratulating him.

  "Do you often salute corpses?" Elbryan asked sarcastically, each word strained from the pain.

  Juraviel only laughed.

  "I heard you," Elbryan said accusingly.

  The elf stopped his grinning and painted a serious expression, understanding the sudden gravity and frustration in the young man's tone.

  "You and Lady Dasslerond," Elbryan clarified. "You said that I had come far in fighting as well."

  Juraviel's expression hardly changed, as if he didn't understand the point Elbryan was trying to make.

  "You said that!" the frustrated young man accused.

  "Indeed," replied Juraviel.

  "But here I am." Elbryan spat, pulling himself to his knees and tossing aside his pole - a useless piece of wood, by his current estimation. He flinched as he straightened and grabbed at his kidney.

  "Here you are," Juraviel agreed, "fighting better than any, Tuntun included, would have believed possible."

  "Here I am," Elbryan corrected grimly, "spitting grass."

  Juraviel laughed aloud, something the young man obviously did not appreciate. "Two in three," the elf remarked.

  Elbryan shook his head, not understanding.

  "Tallareyish's maneuver," Juraviel explained. "The roll through your legs. Two in three attempts, it will w
ork; the third equals complete disaster."

  Elbryan quieted and considered the thought. He didn't like his odds in that prospect - only one in three - but the mere fact that he had forced Tallareyish into so desperate a routine - and any routine that held a reasonable chance of utter failure was indeed desperate - surprised him.

  "And of the two that work, only half will gain a solid strike," Juraviel went on. "Even worse, you have now seen the 'shadow dive,' as we call it, and you will never, ever be taken by it again."

  "Tallareyish was worried," Elbryan said quietly.

  "Tallareyish was nearly beaten," Juraviel agreed. "You executed the plant of your staff on hip perfectly, and your step timing was without error. Even in running behind you was Tallareyish forced off his balance; that is why his passing strikes were of little consequence. Your turn, and subsequent blows, would have forced a close-quarters parry, at the very least, and no elf desires that with one of your size and strength."

  "So he dove ahead," Elbryan concluded.

  "He was stumbling anyway," Juraviel explained. "And only that stumble allowed your mighty swipe to go over his head." The elf gave a chuckle. "Had it connected, I fear that Tallareyish would still be lying facedown on the field!"

  Elbryan managed a smile. To think that he had almost won! To think that he had put one of the agile elves off his balance!

  "When first we began the sparring, any elf in Caer'alfar could defeat you easily, with hardly any effort," Juraviel said. "We drew lots each night to find your opponent, for none, other than Tuntun, wanted to waste time in battling you."

  Elbryan chuckled, not surprised that predictable Tuntun enjoyed issuing the beatings.

  "Now your opponents are selected carefully, as we bring to you different fighting styles, ones that we believe will offer you the greatest challenge. You have come far."

  "I have far to go."

  Juraviel would not argue the point. "You heard my conversation," he replied. "Our Lady was not exaggerating when she spoke of your potential, my young friend. With your great strength, and the elven sword dancing style, you will be the match of any man, of any elf, of any goblin, of any fomorian. You have been with us only four years and a season. You have time."

  That last sentence brought a strange feeling over Elbryan. He was indeed grateful for the kind and optimistic words, and felt better, much better, about his loss to Tallareyish. But now something else tugged at him and put him on edge. What might come next for him? Elbryan had come to think of his life with the elves as a permanent arrangement, had figured that he would live in Andur'Blough Inninness for the rest of his mortal days. The notion of going out from the enchanted valley, perhaps of walking with his own kind again, scared him.

  But also intrigued him.

  Suddenly the world seemed much wider.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jilly

  Cat-the-Stray was more than a little surprised, and embarrassed, when her would-be rescuer ventured into the Way the following week. To his credit, the gentleman did not approach her directly, nor did he leer at her or make any remarks whatsoever that made the young woman feel uncomfortable.

  For her part, Cat kept her distance, offering a shy smile once or twice but mostly looking the other way. A part of her was very glad that the handsome man had returned, but another part of her, a very large part, was more than a little uncomfortable with the whole situation. She was closer to seventeen than sixteen now, by all appearances no more a girl, and surely the thought of the handsome man imparted intriguing, warm thoughts.

  The man left early, tipping his floppy beret to Cat as he exited, his light brown eyes sparkling gaily, and the young woman was both relieved and upset that this second meeting had ended so abruptly. She shrugged it away, though, and went about her work, giving the stranger not another thought.

  He came into the Way again the following week.

  Again, he was more than polite, the perfect gentleman, not pressuring Cat to even so much as offer a greeting to him. He watched her more closely this time, though, and whenever she looked back, his eyes widened with intensity.

  His intentions were becoming quite clear.

  That night, alone in her room, Cat-the-Stray found it more difficult to dismiss her thoughts of the man. She wondered what life might be like for her in the years to come, away from Pettibwa and Graevis perhaps. She dared to fantasize about a life without work in Fellowship Way, about a life in a home of her own, with children of her own. That notion inevitably led her back to images of her own childhood, of her mother . . .

  Cat-the-Stray shook her head violently, as if trying to launch the disturbing half memories right out of her ear. Suddenly the fantasy became a horrid thing that had no relevance to her present life. Her place was in the Way, with Graevis and Pettibwa. This was her home and, though she did not yet realize it, this place was also her shield against memories too terrible for her to face.

  But the handsome gentleman came back again the night after the next, and then again the next week, and, predictably, the whispers started that his heart had been stolen by a certain barmaid. Cat-the-Stray tried to ignore the whispers and the sidelong glances, but even Pettibwa, cheery cheeked and grinning slyly, caught Cat's gaze and nodded her head in the man's direction more than once.

  "Will ye wait the man at the table near to the window for me?" the conniving woman asked often, always with some excuse close at hand.

  Cat-the-Stray could hardly refuse, but she went to the man with a cold demeanor indeed, asking what he fancied and pointedly clarifying that she was referring to food or drink only. Again to his credit, the gentleman did not press the young woman, but ordered some wine only.

  He was in the tavern the next week, as well, and this time, Pettibwa, seeming a bit frustrated with the young woman, was more straightforward about insisting that the man was Cat's to serve. Even more disheartening to the frightened young woman, Pettibwa left the Way a short while later, only to return with Grady.

  "Gone on about long enough by me own thinking," Cat heard the woman say to her son, to which Grady laughed and eyed Cat directly. He moved from his mother immediately and took Cat by the hand, pulling her along toward the man who had become such a regular in the tavern.

  Cat resisted, tugging back, until she noted that half the patrons were watching and smiling, obviously understanding what was going on.

  Cat pulled her hand from Grady's grasp. "Lead on, then," she muttered grimly, as if he were some powrie captain walking her to the plank of his barrelboat.

  The gentleman smiled in recognition of Grady when he noticed the approach.

  "My greetings to you, Master Bildeborough," Grady said, sweeping a low bow.

  "And mine to you, Master Chilichunk," Bildeborough replied, though he didn't bother to get up from his seat and likewise bow.

  "I believe that you are acquainted with my . . ." Grady fished for the right word, and Cat, blushing fiercely, wanted to smack him on the back of the head.

  "My sister," Grady finished. "By adoption, of course."

  "Of course," Bildeborough agreed. "She is much too beautiful to be a blood sister of yours!"

  Grady's lips seemed to disappear, but in truth, there was indeed little family resemblance between him and Cat-the-Stray. The young woman was undeniably beautiful, even in her plain barmaid's dress. Her hair was long and golden, her eyes a startlingly clear and rich shade of blue, and her skin silken smooth and slightly tanned. Everything about her seemed to fit perfectly - her nose, eyes, and mouth in perfect proportion, her legs and arms long and slender but certainly not skinny. Her gait enhanced that perception as well, for she walked with ease and fluidity, always balanced.

  "Cat-the-Stray is her name," Grady said, eyeing the young woman somewhat contemptuously. "Or at least, that is the name Graevis, my father, gave to her when she was taken in."

  "Orphaned?" Bildeborough asked, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

  Cat nodded, and her expression told the gentleman to let i
t go, which, of course, he did.

  "And Cat," continued Grady. "I give to you Master Connor Bildeborough of Chasewind Manor. Master Bildeborough's father is the brother of Baron Bildeborough, who presides over the outlands of County Palmaris, third only to the duke, and of course, they both to the King himself."

  Cat realized that she should have appeared more impressed, but in truth, little about society had ever meant anything to her. She smiled at the man, at least - and from Cat-the-Stray, that was something! - and he returned the grin.

  "I do thank you for the introduction," Connor said to Grady, his tone begging the man to take his leave. Grady was more than willing to comply, practically shoving Cat right onto the man's lap as he moved behind her. Grady then gave a curt bow and rushed away, back to a wide-smiling Pettibwa.

  Cat backed away, glanced over her shoulder, and straightened her dress. She knew that her face was bright red, and felt the perfect fool, but Connor Bildeborough was no novice to the ways of courting.

  "For all these weeks, I have comeback to the Way hoping that you would once again find yourself in danger," he said, taking Cat completely off her guard.

  "Such a wonderful wish," the young woman replied sarcastically.

  "Well, I merely wanted to prove to you that I would be willing to rescue you," said Connor.

  Cat did well to keep the grimace from her face. Her pride didn't appreciate that condescending notion - she was never one to think she needed anyone's protection - but again she managed to check the defensive reflex, consciously reminding herself that this man truly meant no harm.

  "Is not that the way it is supposed to happen?" Connor asked lightly, pouring half his wine into an empty glass on the table, then handing Cat the original glass, from which he had not yet sipped. "The young damsel, caught by fiends, rescued by the gallant hero?"

  Cat couldn't quite decipher his tone, but she was quite certain that he was not mocking her.

  "Rubbish," Connor went on. "Perhaps I came here hoping that I would get into a bit of a stew, so to speak, that you might rescue me."