All the huntsmen called out to him as they headed off, with many offering, as they offered every day, to take him along and show him the trade.
But Bertram politely declined every offer with a smile and a shake of his head.
“I can show ye good,” the last man called. “Inside a month, I’ll have ye better than half the fools in Micklin’s!”
Again Bertram only smiled and shook his head, not letting on in the least how perfectly ridiculous he thought those words to be. Within a month, indeed! For this man who called himself Bertram Dale knew that he could outhunt any man in the village already and that he could outfight any two of them put together with ease. It wasn’t lack of skill that kept him from the forest and the hunt; it was fear. Fear of himself, of what he might become when the smell of blood was thick in his nostrils.
How many times, he wondered, had that happened to him over the last few years? How many times had he settled into a new home—always on the outskirts of the civilized lands—only to be on the run again within a short time, a month or two, because that inner demon had freed itself and had slaughtered a villager?
As much as the fear of being caught and killed, Bertram hated the killing, hated the blood that indelibly stained his warrior’s hands. He had never been a gentle man, had never been afraid of killing his enemies in battle, but this …
This was beyond tolerance. He had killed simple farmers, had killed the wives of simple farmers, had killed even the children of simple farmers!
And with each kill had come more self-loathing and an even greater sense of helplessness and hopelessness.
Now he was in Micklin’s Village, a place inhabited only by strong, able-bodied huntsmen. He had found a daily routine that kept him fed and sheltered and away from the temptations of his inner demons. No, Bertram Dale would not go out on those hunts, where he might smell blood, where he might go into a murderous frenzy and find himself on the run yet again.
How many villages were there on the western borderlands of Honce-the-Bear?
The axe arced down, cleanly splitting another log.
He had it all cut and piled by mid-morning. He was alone in the village then and would be until late afternoon, likely. He did a quick circuit of the area to ensure that no one was about, then stripped to his waist in a small square between four of the buildings.
He took a deep breath, letting his thoughts drift back across the years and the miles, back to a great stone fortress far to the east, a bastion of study and reflection, of training and piety.
A place called St.-Mere-Abelle.
He had spent well over a decade of his life there, training in the ways of the Abellican Order and in the arts martial. He had been an Abellican master, and his fame had approached legend. Before taking the name of Bertram Dale, and several other names before that, he had been Marcalo De’Unnero, master of St.-Mere-Abelle. Marcalo De’Unnero, abbot of St. Precious. Marcalo De’Unnero, Bishop of Palmaris. He had been named by most who had seen him in battle as the greatest warrior ever to bless St.-Mere-Abelle—or any other abbey, for that matter.
He fell into a crouch, perfectly balanced. His hands began weaving in the air before him, drawing small circles, flowing gracefully out in front and to the sides.
So many had bowed before him, had respected him, had feared him. Yes, that was his greatest pleasure, he had to admit to himself. The fear in the eyes of his opponents, of his sparring partners, when they looked upon him. How he had enjoyed that!
Now his hands worked faster, over and under each other, weaving defensive circles with such speed and precision that little would ever find its way through to strike him. Every so often, he would cut the circle short and snap off a wicked punch or a stiff-fingered jab in front or to either side or even, with a subtle and sudden twisting step, behind him. In his mind’s eye, he saw his opponents falling before his deadly strikes.
And they had indeed fallen to him, so many times! Once during his tenure at St.-Mere-Abelle, the abbey had been attacked by a great force of powries, and he had leaped into the middle of one group, fighting bare-handed, dropping the sturdy bloody-cap dwarves with heavy blows and kicks that stole their breath or precision strikes that jabbed through tender eyes to tear at brain matter, leaving the dwarves twitching on the cold ground.
That had been his truest realization of joy, he thought; and his movements increased in tempo and intensity, blocking and striking, first like a snake, then like a leaping and clawing lion, then like a kicking stork. To any onlooker, the former monk would have seemed a blur of motion, his movements too quick to follow, taut limbs snapping and retracting in the blink of an eye. This was his release, his litany to stay the rage that knew no true and lasting release. How far he had fallen! How much his world had been shattered! Father Abbot Markwart had shown him new heights of gemstone power, had shown him how to engage the power of his favored stone, the tiger’s paw, more fully. With that stone, Marcalo De’Unnero had once been able to transform his arm into the killing paw of a tiger; with Markwart’s assistance, the transformation had taken on new dimensions, had been complete.
But in that mutation, De’Unnero’s body had somehow apparently absorbed the gemstone, the tiger’s paw, and now its magical energies were an indelible part of his very being. He was no longer human—he didn’t even seem to be aging anymore! He had only come to this realization very recently, for he had previously assumed that his superb physical training was merely giving him the appearance of youth. But now he was forty-nine years old, with the last decade spent in the wilderness, in harsh terrain and climate. He had changed in appearance, in complexion, and in the cut of his hair, but the essence of his physical body was still young and strong, so very strong.
De’Unnero understood the implications. He was no longer truly human.
He was the weretiger now, the beast whose hunger could not be sated. When he had come to realize that this inner power could not be completely controlled, De’Unnero understood it to be a curse, not a blessing. He hated this creature he had become more than anything in all the world. He despised himself and his life and wanted nothing more than to die. But, alas, he could not even do that, for, as he had merged with the powers of his tiger’s paw, so had he merged with another stone, a hematite, the stone of healing. Any injuries he now sustained, no matter how grievous, mortal or not, mended completely and quickly.
As if in response to that very thought, De’Unnero leaped into the air, spinning a complete airborne circle, his feet lashing out with tremendous kicks, first one, then a second that slammed the side of a building. He landed lightly, bringing himself forward over his planted feet in a sudden rush and snapped out his hands against the hard logs repeatedly, smashing, splintering wood, tearing his skin and crushing his knuckles. He felt the burning pain but did not relent, just slammed and slammed again, punching that wall as if breaking through it would somehow free him of this inner curse, would somehow break him free of the weretiger.
His hands swelled and fiery explosions of pain rolled up his arms, but still he punched at that wall. He leaped and kicked, and would have gone on for a long time except that then he felt the inner callings. Then he felt the mounting power, the rage transformed—and transforming him into the killing half-human, half-feline monstrosity.
Marcalo De’Unnero pulled back immediately, fighting for control, refusing to let loose the beast. He staggered backward until he banged into the wall of the opposite building, then slumped down to the ground, clutching his hands to his chest, curling up his legs, and yelling out a denial of the weretiger—a denial of himself, of all his life.
Sometime later, the former Abellican brother pulled himself to his feet. He wasn’t concerned with his wounds, knowing that they would be almost fully mended by the time any of the huntsmen returned. He went about his chores but only did those that were essential, for his mind wandered back to his emotional explosion in the small courtyard. He had almost ruined this new life he had found, and though it wasn’t
really much of a life by Marcalo De’Unnero’s estimation, it seemed like one of his very few choices.
He wandered out around mid-afternoon, over to the woodpile, and then, knowing that the supply of logs could always be increased, decided to go out into the forest to retrieve some more, despite the waning daylight.
De’Unnero didn’t like being away from the village at this hour, for there were too many animals about, too many deer, smelling like the sweetest prey, tempting the weretiger to break loose and devour them. Rarely did he venture out after mid-afternoon; but this day he felt as if he had something to prove to himself.
Long shadows splayed across the ground before him, their sharp edges gradually fading to an indistinct blur as the daylight dimmed to twilight. De’Unnero found a dead tree and hit it with a running, flying kick that laid it on the ground. He hoisted one end and started dragging it back the few hundred yards to Micklin’s Village but stopped almost immediately, catching a scent. He dropped the end of the log and stood very still in a balanced crouch, sniffing the air with senses that suddenly seemed very much more keen.
A movement to the side caught his attention, and he knew even as he turned that way that he, the human, would never have noticed it. He realized that meant the weretiger was rising within him, was climbing out along a trail of that sweetest of scents.
The doe came into view, seemingly oblivious of De’Unnero, dipping her head to chew the grass, then biting the low leaves of a maple, her white tail flipping up repeatedly.
How easy it would have been for De’Unnero to succumb to the call of the weretiger, to allow the swift transformation of his physical being, then leap away to his waiting meal. He would have the deer down and dead in a few heartbeats. Then he could feast upon the blood and the tender flesh.
“And then I would rush back to Micklin’s Village and find fifteen more meals set at my table!” the former monk said loudly, growling in anger at his moment of weakness—and the deer leaped away at the sudden sound of his voice.
Then came the most difficult moment of all, that instant of flight, that sweetest smell of fear growing thick in his nostrils. The weretiger caught that scent so clearly and leaped for it, rushing through the man, trying to steal his humanity and bring forth the deeper and darker instincts.
But De’Unnero was ready for the internal assault, had come out here specifically for this moment of trial. He clenched his fists at his sides and began a long and low growl, a snarl of denial, fighting, fighting.
The scent receded as the deer bounded far away, out of sight, and so, too, did the urging of the weretiger.
Marcalo De’Unnero took a long, deep breath, then picked up his tree trunk and started off for Micklin’s Village. He found some satisfaction in the victory, but he realized that it truly signified nothing, that his little win here had been on a prepared battlefield against a minor foe. How might he have responded if the deer had come upon him unexpectedly, perhaps in the village when he had been letting loose his rage? How might he respond if he found himself in a fight against a bear or a vicious wolverine or, even worse, another human? A skilled human, and not one he could easily dispatch before the beast screamed for release?
Could he suppress the weretiger then?
Marcalo De’Unnero knew that he could not, and so he understood his victory out here to be symbolic and nothing more, a small dressing to tie over his wounded pride.
Some of the huntsmen were back in the village by the time he arrived, yelling at him for their supper, with one tossing a wild goose at his feet.
There was that smell of blood again, but now De’Unnero was merely Bertram Dale, a woodcutter and a cook.
He went off quietly to prepare the meal.
Chapter 4
Glory and Immortality
“I WATCHED YOU,” AYDRIAN ANNOUNCED BLUNTLY AND BOLDLY WHEN HE AND THE older ranger-in-training found some time alone out in the forest beyond the elven homeland of Caer’alfar.
Brynn looked at him with a hint of curiosity but with no outward sign that the bravado in his tone, the subtle insinuation that he somehow had something over her, was bothering her—or could bother her—in the least.
“When you were riding and shooting the arrows,” Aydrian explained.
There came a slight and swift flash of an angry sparkle in Brynn’s dark eyes. “I practice my jhona’chuk klee, my tü’equest-martial every day for hours and hours,” she said, mustering complete calm and using first the To-gai phrase, then the elven one for battling from horseback. “And most of that warrior training in To-gai fashion involves the use of my horse and my bow. The sessions are not secret, as far as I have been told.” She seemed almost bored as she finished—indeed, she yawned and looked away.
But Aydrian could read her, could read anyone, better than that; and he saw Brynn’s nonchalance for the dodge that it was. “I saw you on the field with the elves,” he needled her, taking great pleasure in watching her fighting to maintain that sense of confidence and calm. “Only eight arrows for six targets, and that with an unfair call against the value of one of your hits.”
Brynn kept her expression calm and content for a few moments longer, but then a hint of a shadow crossed her brown-skinned face, and that flash in her dark eyes revealed itself once more. “Do the Touel’alfar know that you witnessed the challenge?” she asked quietly.
Aydrian shrugged as if it did not matter, but then Brynn turned the tables on him, put him into an uncomfortable position, by remarking matter-of-factly, “Well, they likely know now, since you spoke it aloud in Andur’Blough Inninness, and we both realize that little we say or do in this elven valley can escape the notice of the Touel’alfar. Likely, your every word was heard clearly, and the message is well on its way to Lady Dasslerond.”
Aydrian’s smug smile changed into a grimace and then a frown. “They did not tell me that I could not watch the challenge,” he vehemently protested.
Brynn only smiled in reply, marveling at the great paradox that she recognized within young Aydrian. He was unparalleled in his skills, the humble Brynn readily admitted, exceeding the limits of every previous ranger, his own legendary father included. He could beat her in sparring almost every time—and it had been that way for several years. Furthermore, though he was not yet fourteen, he could beat many of the elves, which flustered them profoundly. Many times, rangers preparing to depart Andur’Blough Inninness could defeat most or all of the elven warriors, but always before, that had been because of the greater size and strength possessed by humans. Not so with Aydrian. He was bigger than any of the Touel’alfar, but his muscles were still young. For the first time, the Touel’alfar were losing to a human, time and again, because he was quicker with the blade and more cunning in his attacks. Brynn could outride him and could shoot a bow as well as Aydrian. In tracking and handling animals, she was certainly as good as any, but in every other aspect of ranger training—from fighting to fire building to running to climbing—this young man, five years her junior, knew no equal.
In so many ways, Aydrian was as polished as any of the warriors the Touel’alfar had loosed upon the world—more polished—yet every now and then, something would happen, some comment or situation, that revealed the vulnerability and the youth of the ranger-in-training. His protest that he hadn’t been forbidden to watch the challenge had been exactly that type of revealing remark, Brynn knew. It was not the protest against an injustice of an adult but the whine over a technicality so common from a child. Brynn enjoyed these moments when Aydrian reminded her that he was human—and she enjoyed them more for his sake than for the sake of her pride.
“You are almost done,” Aydrian stated then, quickly changing his tone to one more melancholy.
“Done?”
“Your training,” the young man explained. “If Lady Dasslerond brought everyone out to watch your exhibition, then it seems likely that you are nearing the end of your training. In fact, I think that you might have already finished the training. I know not
what is left for you, but you are almost done and will be leaving Andur’Blough Inninness soon.”
“You cannot know that for certain,” said Brynn, but she didn’t really disagree, for she had suspected the same thing. Belli’mar Juraviel had spoken to her concerning something called a “naming,” but as usual the elf had been elusive when she had tried to press him for details. Brynn suspected that that ceremony, whatever it was, would mark the end of her days in the elven valley.
Aydrian just smirked at her.
Brynn flashed a smile at him. “You are likely right,” she admitted. “There is great turmoil in my homeland, and I suspect that Lady Dasslerond would like to send me back there in time to make a difference.”
Aydrian’s expression was one of curiosity and even confusion.
“Many years ago, my people, the To-gai-ru, were conquered by the Behrenese,” Brynn explained. “It is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue.”
“I know the tale,” Aydrian reminded her, and his tone also reminded her that she had told him of the Behrenese conquest of To-gai countless times over the last few years—ever since Lady Dasslerond had started allowing the two some time together.
“You are to be a ranger in To-gai, then,” Aydrian remarked.
“That is the land I know,” said Brynn. “I understand the ways of the great oxen and the high tundra lions, of the black-diamond serpent and the wild horses. Never did I doubt that my tenure with the Touel’alfar would end with my return to To-gai, my land, my home, my love.”
Aydrian nodded, but then put on a curious expression that Brynn did not miss. Nor did his perplexed look confuse her. Aydrian was wondering where he might go at the end of his training, she knew, for he had no home to return to. He didn’t even know where he had been born: what kingdom, what city. Nor did Brynn. Lady Dasslerond had made Brynn’s ultimate mission quite clear to her early in her days in Andur’Blough Inninness, and Brynn suspected they had a plan for Aydrian as well, though it seemed less obvious to her and, apparently, to the boy.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 69
