The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Read online

  A shudder coursed down Pony's spine as she pictured an enemy impaled on that deadly blade, staring wide-eyed in disbelief at the suddenness of the attack.

  And then the ranger retracted, again quickly and in balance—no opening in his defenses throughout the move—and went back to his weaving dance.

  With a sigh of both appreciation and frustration, Pony snuck away, back to finish closing down the camp. Elbryan returned to her soon after, showing sweat on his exposed arms but looking re­vitalized and ready for the trials of another day on the road.

  They set out soon after, both astride the great stallion, with Sym­phony easily carrying them along. Elbryan guided them north, away from the line of the three towns, and then west, toward End-o'-the-World, and before midday they had found the smaller goblin encampment. A quick survey of the area provided the infor­mation they needed, and they retreated to the deeper woods to un­lade Symphony and prepare their assault.

  By early afternoon the ranger was creeping through the woods with Hawkwing, his elven-crafted bow, in hand. He came upon a group of three goblin perimeter guards soon enough, and, as was usually the case, the slovenly creatures were not on their best guarding posture. They were clustered about a wide elm, one leaning on the tree, one pacing before it and grumbling about something, and the third sitting at the base, back against the trunk, apparently asleep. The ranger was somewhat surprised to see that one of these guards carried a bow. Goblins usually fought with club, sword, or spear, and the sight of the bow tipped him off that there might well be powries in the vicinity.

  The ranger did a silent circuit of the area, ensuring that no others were about, then found his best angle of attack. Up came Hawkwing, so named for the three feathers set on its top end, which sepa­rated like the feathered "fingers" on the end of a hawk's extended wing when he drew back the bowstring. Those feathers went widely apart now as Elbryan lined up his shot.

  Hawkwing hummed; the ranger had a second arrow up and away almost immediately. He was the Nightbird now, the elven-trained warrior, and the mere mention of his name sent trembles through the hearts of even the sturdiest powries.

  The first arrow nailed the leaning goblin to the tree. The second took out its pacing companion before the creature had time to cry out its surprise.

  "Duh?" the third asked, coming from its slumber when Nightbird prodded it The goblin looked up just in time to see Tempest's descent, the mighty sword cleaving its head in half.

  The ranger retrieved his arrows, then took a couple from the goblin's quiver. They weren't well-crafted, hardly straight, but would suit his purposes well enough.

  On he went, drawing a complete perimeter of the encampment He encountered two more guard positions, and dispatched the guards with equal efficiency. Then he went back to Pony and Sym­phony, better detailing the layout his attack plans already formu­lated. The goblin camp itself was well-placed on a low bluff amidst a tumble of boulders. There were only two apparent approaches: one on the southeast up a trail between shoulder-high walls of stone, a path that turned in from a thirty-foot sheer drop; the second up the gentler-sloping western side of the hillock, a wide track of empty grass.

  Nightbird positioned himself in a copse of trees on the western side, where he could find clearer shooting, while Pony made her tentative way along the top of the cliff face.

  The ranger moved to a higher position, climbing from Sym­phony's back to one of the lower branches of an oak. That still left him below the level of the goblin camp, but with more than half of it exposed. Pony would wait for him, he trusted, and so he took his time in selecting his first target, trying to get a feel for the hierarchy of this patrol. No two groups of goblins were alike, the ranger had learned, for the smallish, yellow-green creatures were purely self­ish and not devoted to any greater cause than fulfillment of their present desires. The demon dactyl had changed that—that sud­den coordination of the monsters was the element that had made the darkness so complete—but now the dactyl was gone and the wretched creatures were fast reverting to their previous, chaotic nature.

  This encampment reflected that clearly. All the place was a tu­mult, pushing and shoving, shouting and grumbling.

  "We goes south for killing!" Nightbird heard one creature shout.

  "We goes the way I says we goes!" replied one especially weasely little runt, a spindly-armed and bowlegged wretch, short even by goblin standards—which meant that it barely topped four feet—and with a nose and chin so narrow that they appeared to be arrow shafts protruding from its ugly face.

  The ranger saw the larger goblin standing before the runt clench its hands in rage, saw the group of three goblins closest him—all carrying bows, he noted with disdain—put hands near their quivers. The tension held, silent for many seconds, just below an explosive level, and then another form rose up, a giant form, fifteen feet tall and more, two thousand pounds of muscle and bone.

  The fomorian stretched away its sleepiness and ambled over to join the conversation. The giant beast said not a word, but stood right behind the weasely goblin—and how that creature puffed its skinny chest with its bodyguard so near!

  "South," the other said again, but in a calm and unthreatening manner. "Peoples to kill to the south."

  "We was told to stay here and guard," the weasely goblin insisted.

  "Guard from what?" the other whined. "From bears or boars?"

  "Me bored," offered another, from the side, drawing a few half­hearted snickers—laughter that died away quickly when the weasely goblin put an unrelenting stare on the jokester.

  It was all taking shape perfectly from Nightbird's perspective, except of course for the appearance of a fomorian giant. His first in­stinct told him to put an arrow into that behemoth's face, but as he considered the general dynamics of the group, another, more in­sightful plan began to unfold.

  The arguing continued, followed by more than a few loud threats by the weasely goblin, the creature gaining in confidence with the giant standing right behind it. The goblin ended by promis­ing a cruel death to any that defied its commands, and then it turned about, walking away.

  Nightbird, using one of the arrows he had taken from the gob­lins, nailed it in the back, at an angle that sent the missile right be­tween two of the archers at the camp's edge. The goblin went down hard, squirming and screaming, trying to reach about to grab the painful bolt, and all the gathering erupted in pushing and shoving, in accusations and cries of murder.

  The three archers were the most confused, each yelling at the other two, each counting the arrows in their counterparts' quivers. One cried for a check of the shaft of the arrow in their leader's back, claiming that its own arrows had specific markings.

  The enraged fomorian had no such patience for any investiga­tion, though. The giant stalked over and slugged the protesting archer in the face, launching it head over heels down the grassy slope. The giant grabbed a second archer as the third scrambled away, lifting the unfortunate creature and squeezing the life out of it. All the rest of the camp fell upon the third, taking its flight as an admission of guilt. Their blood lust in full, they pounded and stomped long after the poor creature had stopped squirming.

  For the ranger, watching the brutal spectacle was a confirmation of his belief in the absolutely irredeemable nature of the wretched beasts. The killing was over quickly, but the pushing and shoving and accusations did not relent. He had seen enough, though. There were perhaps a dozen goblins left in the camp, not counting the leader, who wouldn't be up for any fighting anytime soon, and, of course, the one fomorian. Thirteen against three, counting Symphony.

  The ranger liked the odds.

  He hopped down from the tree, onto the back of waiting Sym­phony. The great stallion gave a snort and rushed away, out the back side of the copse. The last thing Nightbird wanted was to bring the goblins charging down the slope, where they could scatter. He went west, and then south, and then turned back to the east, coming in sight of Pony, who was in position
at the end of the long and narrow trail. They shared a wave, and the ranger searched out a new vantage point. Now came his turn to wait.

  The goblin camp remained astir, with accusations flying. The creatures seemed perfectly oblivious to the notion that an outsider, might have shot down their leader, until Pony struck hard.

  A goblin appeared at the end of the trail, leaning on one wall of stone. It removed its metal helmet—another oddity for the crude creatures-—and scratched at its hair, then replaced the cap, talking all the while with another who remained out of Pony's line of sight. She focused on the one goblin, on its helmet, as she held before her a black, rough-edged stone, magnetite, or lodestone, by name. Pony fell into the stone, saw through it, down the trail. Everything blurred and fogged over—everything except for that one helmet, the image of it sharpening to crystal clarity. Pony felt the energy building within the stone, energy she lent to it, combined with its own magical properties. She felt the attraction to that helmet growing, growing, the stone beginning to pull against her grasp.

  As she reached the pinnacle, as it seemed the stone would verily explode with tingling magic, she let it go. In the blink of an eye it covered the distance and smashed against then through the helmet, and the goblin flipped over once and lay dead.

  How its companion shrieked!

  Pony was not surprised when the fomorian giant turned down the narrow trail, running full out and bellowing with rage. She held forth another stone, malachite, the stone of levitation, and before the behemoth had gone three strides, it found that its feet were no longer touching the ground. It was moving, though, its momentum propelling its suddenly weightless form in a straight line.

  The trail curved slightly and the giant brushed the wall. It tried to reach down and find a hold, but the movement came too late and only sent the creature tumbling head over heels, twisting and turning, reaching desperately for any potential handhold.

  Pony could hardly believe the effort needed to keep the behe­moth aloft, and knew she would not be able to hold it there for long. She didn't have to, though. She ducked very low—the giant spin­ning over more quickly as it grabbed for her—and let the creature soar past her. Then, as soon as the giant moved out over the cliff, she dropped her concentration, releasing the stone's magical en­ergy, and let the brute drop.

  Looking back the other way, she saw a handful of goblins at the far end of the trail, gaping at her but not yet daring to approach.

  Quickly she went for her third stone, the graphite, and reached deep inside herself to find some more magical energy. Already she had done more magic in rapid succession than ever before, and she had little faith that her next casting, a bolt of lightning, would have much power behind it.

  She took hope, then, in the commotion that sprang up on the hillock behind the goblins, at the screams and cries of agony, at the sound of charging Symphony off to the side and the thrum of the ranger's deadly bow.

  But her love could not get there in time to help her, she knew. A line of five goblins came on, rushing down the narrow trail, howling. One let fly an arrow that barely missed the young woman.

  Pony stood resolute. She dismissed her fears and focused on the graphite, only the graphite. The bolt came forth more quickly than she had intended, wrung from her by sheer urgency as the nearest goblin closed to within three running strides.

  Pony staggered as if hit; the expenditure of energy was more than she could tolerate. Her knees wobbled and she instinctively ambled away, her eyes hardly open as she glanced back, with some relief, to see that the lightning had pushed the goblins back. Three of the five were down, jerking spasmodically, while the other two fought hard to hold their balance, their muscles trem­bling violently.

  Up on the hillock, Nightbird shot one last arrow, catching a nearby goblin right through its skinny nose, then turned the bow over in one hand, whipping it like a club as Symphony pounded past another creature. That creature dispatched, he dropped the bow altogether, drawing out Tempest, the elven blade, light and strong, forged of precious silverel and crackling with energy, from both elven magic and the gemstone set in the sword's pommel. The ranger turned Symphony in line and let the great stallion run down the next goblin, and as Symphony passed, hardly stumbling, Nightbird swung out with his sword at the next. This goblin held a metal shield and had it up to block, but the gemstone in Tempest's ball hilt, a blue stone clouded with white and gray, flared with power and the fine blade smashed right through the shield, snap­ping the straps that fastened it to the goblin's arm, then charged on past the turning metal to crease the creature's face.

  The hillock was clear, the only goblin in sight in fast flight down the grassy slope. The ranger, his blood lust high, thought to pursue, but changed his mind when he heard Pony's lightning bolt behind him, a sparking crackle and not a thunderous blast, and then heard the groans of goblins still very much alive.

  He rolled backward off the saddle, landing lightly on his feet. Symphony skidded to a stop and turned about to regard him, and Nightbird couldn't help but pause and do likewise. The horse's black coat glistened with sweat, accentuating the powerful muscles. Symphony looked hard at his companion and stamped the ground, ready, eager for more battle.

  The ranger looked from the horse's intelligent eyes to the tur­quoise set in his breast, the gift of Avelyn, the telepathic bond between Nightbird and Symphony. Elbryan used that bond now to instruct the horse.

  With an agreeing snort, Symphony wheeled and charged away, and the ranger went fast for his bow, in full run on his way to the narrow trail.

  He came to its lip, sliding to one knee, Hawkwing up and drawn. Only one goblin remained down now, with two starting off after Pony and two others still struggling to secure their balance. Off went the arrow, zipping between the two standing nearby and over the head of the third, to strike the lead goblin in the back. The crea­ture went into a weird hop then, seeming to fly for several feet be­fore falling facedown. Its running companion, fearing a similar fate, howled and dove to the ground.

  Elbryan's second shot got the closest goblin in the chest, and then he was up, Tempest in hand. He came in hard, sword flashing back and forth, maneuvers designed more to put the goblin off-balance than to score a hit The creature struggled to keep up with the flashing blade, its own crude sword ringing against Tempest only a couple of times in the ten-stroke routine. In short order the goblin was staggering again, nearly tripping on its own feet as it tried to twist and turn in tune with the darting blade. Tempest went left, then right, then right again, then Nightbird started back for the left but cut short the swing, and then came that signature lunge. Suddenly, immediately, he was simply there, fully extended, his sword tip two feet farther ahead than it had been, stabbing the goblin hard through the shoulder.

  Down went the goblin's arm, its sword falling uselessly to the ground. One step brought the ranger to the side, where he chopped down hard on the head of the remaining goblin even as it struggled to stand. Then he came back in, ignoring the last goblin's cry for mercy, driving his blade through the creature's ribs and into its lungs.

  The ranger glanced down the trail, to see that Pony, no unskilled fighter in her own right, had come back in, with sword this time and not gems, to finish off the goblin who had dived for cover. The woman looked up at Nightbird and nodded, then opened wide her eyes as the ranger let out a startled shout and launched himself toward her.

  He went right by Pony as she turned, throwing her sword up de­fensively in fear that something had come in at her back. Indeed, the giant had returned, stubbornly climbing the cliff face. It had both hands and one shoulder over the lip when Nightbird met it, Tempest flashing. The ranger slashed one arm, then the other, then again and again, all the while dodging the behemoth's futile at­tempts to grab at him. Finally the beating opened wide the giant's defenses and its grasp on the ledge weakened, and Nightbird calmly strode ahead and kicked the creature in the face.

  Down it went again, bouncing along the thirt
y-foot descent. Stubbornly, it shook its head and rolled to its knees, intent on climbing once again.

  Pony was beside Elbryan in a moment. "You might be needing this," she remarked, handing Hawkwing over.

  His fourth arrow slew the giant, while Pony walked back along the trail and encampment, finishing the wounded goblins. Sym­phony returned during that time, the horse's rear hooves splattered with fresh goblin blood.

  The three friends regrouped shortly after.

  "Just another day," Pony said dryly, to which the ranger only nodded.

  He noted that there was an almost dispirited edge to her tone, as though the battle, as smoothly as it had gone, had been somehow unsatisfying.

  CHAPTER 2

  St.-Mere-Abelle

  His wrinkles seemed even deeper now, shadowed by the torch­light. Deep grooves in that old and weathered face, the visage of a man who had seen too much. By Master Jojonah's estimation, Dalebert Markwart, the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle, the highest-ranking person in the Abellican Order, had aged tremen­dously over the last couple of years. The portly Jojonah, no young man himself, studied Markwart carefully as the pair stood atop the seaward wall of the great abbey, staring out into All Saints Bay. He tried to compare this image of the Father Abbot, unshaven, with eyes sunken deep into sockets, against the memory of the man just a few years previous, in God's Year 821 when they had all waited eagerly for the return of the Windrunner, the ship that had delivered four of St.-Mere-Abelle's brothers to the equatorial island of Pimani­nicuit, that they might collect the sacred stones.