The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) Read online

“About my life?” Mather asked. “About who I am? That we are brothers?”

  Tuntun held her hands out and scrunched up her delicate face. “That choice is Mather’s,” she explained. “We gave you gifts: your life, your training, your elven title, Riverhawk. But we did not take your tongue in payment, nor your free will. Mather will do as Mather chooses.

  “To tell him that I was trained by elves?” the ranger asked.

  “He will think you crazy, as do all the others, no doubt,” Tuntun said with a laugh. “We have found that the Alpinadoran barbarians to the north and the Toi-gai horseman to the south have oft been accepting of rangers, but the men of the central lands, the kingdom you call Honce-the-Bear, so smug in their foolish religion, so superior in their war machines and great cities, have little tolerance for childish tales. Tell Olwan your brother what you will, or tell him nothing at all. That, you may find, could prove the easier course.”

  *****

  “They’ll not make the towns before it breaks,” Bradwarden said to Mather, the two of them watching the caravan of three wagons trudging along the north road. They were still ten miles south of Dundalis, half a day’s travel, and Mather knew that the centaur spoke truly. Tuntun had returned to him before dawn, warning of an impending storm, a big one, and also warning him that she had seen quite a bit of goblin sign in the region. Apparently, the trio Mather and Bradwarden had killed were not the whole of the group.

  Mather had not disagreed with either grim prediction. He too, had noted signs of the impending storm, and of the goblins, and all of this with his brother making slow time along the road to the south.

  So Mather had come out, and Bradwarden with him, to watch over the caravan. When he looked to the western sky, dark clouds gathering like some invading enemy, and when he felt the bite of the increasing northeastern wind through layers of clothing, he thought it a good thing indeed that he had not waited for their arrival in Dundalis.

  “I cannot go down to them,” Bradwarden remarked. “Whatever ye’re thinkin’ ye might do to help them through the storm, ye’ll be doin alone.’

  Mather nodded his understanding and agreement. “And with the weather worsening, I fear that Dundalis might become the target for the desperate goblins,” he said. “So go back and look over the town. Find Tuntun, if she is still about, and make sure that you keep a watch.”

  With a nod, the centaur galloped away. Mather continued shadowing the caravan, silently debating whether he should go down to help them construct some kind of shelter or whether he should just hope. Another hour, another couple of miles, meandered by.

  The first few snowflakes drifted down; the wind’s bite increased.

  And then it hit, as if the sky itself had simply torn apart, dumping its contents earthward. What had been a gentle flurry became, in mere seconds, a driving blizzard of wind-whipped, stinging snow. Mather continued to watch the wagons, nodding his approval of the skill shown by the lead driver, the man bunching his cloak against the cold and forcing the team on.

  Another mile slipped past slowly. By then, three inches of snow covered the trail.

  “You can get there,” Mather said quietly, urging the wagons on, for now they slowed and men scrambled together, likely discussing the possibility of stopping to ride out the storm. But they were southerners—likely not one of them had ever been north of Palmaris, which was some three hundred miles away—and they couldn’t appreciate the fury of a Timberland snowstorm. If they circled their wagons now and huddled against the storm, they might find themselves stuck out here, with no help coming from Dundalis, or anywhere else, for many days, even weeks.

  Winter would only get rougher. They’d never survive.

  Mather pulled the cowl of his cloak low, as much to hide his face as to ward the cold, and rushed down to join the group. “Are you looking for Dundalis?” he asked in greeting as he approached, yelling loudly so that the men could hear him, though they were but a dozen feet from him.

  “Dundalis, or any place to hide from the storm,” said the lead driver, a large and strong man, a man who, as Tuntun had said, bore some resemblance to Mather Wyndon.

  “Dundalis is your only choice,” Mather replied, running up to grab the bridle of one of the horses. “You’ve got five miles to go.”

  We’ll not make it,” another man cried.

  “You have to make it,” Mather replied sternly. “Even if you must desert the wagons and follow me on foot.”

  “But all our possessions…” the man started.

  Mather cut him off and looked directly at Olwan as he spoke. “To stay out here is to die,” he explained. “So tie your wagons together, front to back, and drive your teams—and drive them hard.

  “I can hardly see the road before us,” Olwan replied.

  “I will guide you.” As Mather finished, a haunting melody came up about them, music carried on, and cutting through, the howling wind.

  “And what is that?” the stubborn man on the second wagon yelled.

  “Another guide,” Mather replied, silently applauding Bradwarden, understanding that the centaur was using the music to help Mather keep his bearings.

  On they went, against the driving snow, against the howling, stinging wind. Mather, his body numb from the cold, pulled the lead horse along, kicking through the piling snow. Several hours passed, and still they were a mile away, and now the snow was a foot deep all about them and before them, and the afternoon was fast giving way to evening.

  It grew colder, the wind only increased, and the snow did not relent.

  Mather hardly knew where he was, the snow stealing landmarks. He plodded on, yanking at the reluctant horses, and then he found he was not alone, that his brother, with equal determination, was beside him, pulling hard.

  “How far?” Olwan yelled. Mather hardly heard him.

  The ranger glanced around, searching, searching, for something, for anything that would give him some indication. Then he saw a tree, and he knew that tree, and he recognized that they had but one climb to go, a few hundred yards and no more. But it would be a difficult climb, and by the time they capped the last ridge, darkness would be deep about them.

  They fought and scrambled for every foot of ground. At one point, the trailing wagon slipped off the trail and hooked on a tree root. They thought they would have to cut it free, but stubborn Mather, now thinking of this storm as an enemy, would not surrender anything. He went behind the wagon and grabbed it with hands that could hardly feel, and with strength beyond that of nearly any living man, began to lift.

  And then he was not alone, Olwan beside him, setting his legs and his back and hauling with all of his strength, and somehow, impossibly, the two brought the wheel over the root and shoved the wagon back onto the trail.

  Mather glanced at Olwan, at his brother, at the strength of the man’s body and the determination on his face. He wondered then what feats they two might accomplish together, allowed himself to fantasize about the two of them hunting goblins in concert. Perhaps he could give give to Olwan some of the gifts the Touel’alfar had given to him. Perhaps he could tutor the man on the ways of the forest and the fighting styles that would elevate him above other warriors.

  But that was for another day, Mather promptly reminded himself as Olwan returned his gaze and smiled.

  “We did well together,” the man said, a voice strong and resonant.

  Mather smiled in reply. “But we’ve a ways yet to go,” he reminded, and they each went right back to work, urging on the horses, pulling hard the wagons, and somehow, against the odds and against the fury of the storm, they crested the ridge and rolled and slid into Dundalis proper. Mather pointed out the common house.

  “You will be welcomed there,” he assured Olwan.

  “Are you not accompanying us?” the man asked incredulously.

  “This is not my place, though the folk here are friendly enough to those who come in peace,” the ranger replied.

  “Where, then, will you go?” Olwan a
sked. “Which house?”

  “None in town.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to go back out in this storm?”

  “I am safe enough,” Mather assured him, and with a smile and a pat on the man’s arm, the ranger started away.

  “And what is your name?” Olwan called after him.

  Mather almost answered, but then considered the possible implications of revealing a name that might be familiar to Olwan Wyndon. All of the townsfolk knew him merely as “the dirty hunter,” so that is what he replied. With a smile to assure Olwan once again that all was well with him, he melted into the snowstorm.

  And what an entrance the winter had made! Snow piled and piled, blown into drifts twice the height of a man, whipping and stinging so ferociously that Mather could hardly see a line of towering pine trees, though they were barely twenty yards away. He crawled under one large specimen, its branches wide, the lower one pushed right down to the ground by the heavy snow. With fingers that could hardly fell, he fumbled in his pack for kindling and flint and steel. Soon he had a small fire going. He wouldn’t get much sleep this night, he realized, for he had to keep the fire burning and had to tend it constantly to ensure that it did not ignite the tree about him.

  But that was his way, his calling, and as his hands began to thaw and to hurt, he accepted that, too, as the lot of a ranger. He would spend the night here, and in the morning, would dig himself out and perhaps go to Dundalis and speak with his brother.

  Perhaps.

  The snow continued that night but lightened, and the wind died away at last to a few remnant gusts. On one of those gusts came a cry of anguish that sliced the heart of Mather Wyndon, a scream of pain and fear from a voice that he knew well.

  He drew out his sword and used it to lead the way through the tangle of branch and snow, pushing out into the frigid air, trying to orient himself and determine the direction of Bradwarden’s howl. The wind was from the northwest still, and it had carried Bradwarden’s cry, so Mather set out that way, circumventing Dundalis, the smoke of the many chimneys thick in the air. Soon he found a path cut through the drifts—by goblins, he knew, though he could hardly see on this dark night. He didn’t dare light a torch, fearing to make himself a target, but he understood his disadvantage here. Goblins were creatures of caves and deep tunnels. They could see much better in the dark than even an elven-trained ranger.

  Mather was not surprised when he came through one large drift and caught a flicker of movement to the side, a missile flying straight for him.

  He sent his energy into Tempest, and the sword flared with angry light. He brought the blade whipping about, intercepting the hurled spear and knocking it harmlessly aside, and then slashed back, deflecting a second.

  The third got through.

  In the brutal cold, Mather hardly felt the impact, but he knew it was bad, for the spear had caught him in the side, under the ribs, its tip driving front to back. When he grasped at the bleeding wound, grabbing the shaft to steady it, for every twitch sent a wave of agony rolling through him, he felt the slick point of the weapon sticking out of his back.

  He hardly realized he was lying down now, on his back in the snow, staring up at the descending flakes, and suddenly, so very, very cold.

  Movement nearby, the goblins rushing in for the kill, brought him back to his senses, made him understand that death was imminent.

  But not now, Mather determined. Not like this. With a growl, he snapped apart the spear shaft just above the wound entrance and fought away the surge of blackness that threatened to engulf him. Growling still, teeth clenched in sheer determination, he closed his hand upon Tempest and lay very still, waiting, waiting.

  Three goblins came upon him, laughing and hooting, and then howling in surprise as Mather sprang up at them like a cornered wolverine. He whipped and stabbed Tempest in a furious flurry, hardly bothering to aim, and when his sword flew above the closest ducking creature, leaving it an opening on his left side, he simply punched out his free hand with all his strength, connecting solidly on the goblin’s jaw and launching it to the snow.

  Mather let his rage take him, knowing that if he stopped and considered his movements, if he played out this fight with insight and thoughtfulness, his pain might overwhelm him. Thus, he was surprised mere seconds later, to find that all three goblins were down, two dead and the third groaning. Mather moved for that one, thinking to make it tell him where he could find Bradwarden, but then he heard the centaur cry out again and marked the direction well.

  He killed the goblin with a clean stroke.

  And then he fell to his knees, the waves of pain buckling him, the dark and cold weakness creeping into his every joint. He looked down at the bloody spear stump. He wanted to pull it out, but understood that the barbs would take half of his belly with it. He wanted to push it through and knew that soon he would have to, but he understood that to extract that point now would be fatal, for he would likely bleed to death before he ever found help.

  He looked back in the direction of Dundalis, peaceful, oblivious Dundalis. Not so far away, he thought, and he realized that he could make it there, and that someone there would tend to him, his brother, perhaps.

  Bradwarden cried out again, and Mather took his first steps… away from Dundalis.

  Half blind with pain, his limbs numb with cold, he plowed on. His blood came thick in his mouth, that sickly sweet taste promising death.

  He spat it out.

  Purely focused, beyond pain and weakness, he knew where he was and could guess easily enough from the direction of Bradwarden’s cry where the goblins would be. On he went, refusing to surrender to the pain and the cold, refusing to die. He tried to pick his path carefully but wound up having to burst right through snow drifts, the wet stuff only increasing the cold’s grip on him. But on he went, and some time later, he saw a campfire, and then, as he neared, saw the silhouettes of several goblins, and one large form, balled in a net and hanging above the camp, above the fire.

  He could only pray that he was not too late.

  The goblins had their eyes turned to Bradwarden, the centaur squirming in the heat and the smoke as flames licked at him.

  And then Mather was among them, and one, and then another fell dead to Tempest’s mighty cut.

  The others did not flee, though, as goblins often did, for they outnumbered this obviously wounded man seven to one, and in this snow and in this cold, they had nowhere to run. On they came, howling and hooting.

  A feinted slice, a turn of the wrist and a straight ahead stab, and Tempest took down another.

  Mather backhanded away a club strike from the right, but a third goblin, running right over its dying companion, thrust with its spear, inside the ranger’s defenses. A quick retraction of the sword severed the spear shaft even as the point dug into Mather’s shoulder, but the goblin thrust took the strength from his arm.

  Quick to improvise, Mather simply grabbed up the sword in his left hand and stabbed the goblin in the face, then brought it about powerfully to take a club from an attacker at his left. The ranger pivoted to square up with the creature. With a roar of defiance against the blackness that edged his faltering vision, he brought the sword up in an arc and then down diagonally atop the goblins shoulder, so powerfully that the enchanted silvered blade slashed through the creature’s collarbone, down through its spine, cracking ribs apart and tearing flesh. Another growl and Mather rolled about, the fine blade finishing the cut, exiting the goblin’s other side and dropping the two bloody pieces to the snow.

  But four other goblins were about him in a frenzy, two whacking at him with clubs and the others stabbing him with spears.

  He connected with one, or thought he had, but took a thump on the back of his head that sent his thoughts spinning, that brought the darkness closer… too close.

  And then Mather knew. He could not win this time. Through blurry eyes, he saw the goblin before him slump into the snow, but took no comfort, for another spear found him,
digging into his hip.

  He knew that Bradwarden would die if he went down, reminded himself of that pointedly, and that thought alone kept him on his feet. He blocked a spear thrust but was hit again on the side of the head. He staggered away, somehow managing to hold his footing. But now one eye was closed, and darkness crept at the edges of his other eye, narrowing and blurring his vision to the point where he could not even see his enemies, could see nothing at all except the pinpoint of light that was the goblin’s fire.

  Mather made for the light.

  The goblins pursued, hooting and howling, stabbing and smacking the defenseless man through ever step.

  But on he went, determinedly putting one foot in front of the other, stepping, stepping, feeling no pain, pushing it away, burying it under the mantle of responsibility, as a ranger and a friend. He hardly saw the light now, but heard the crackle of the fire and knew he was close.

  He was hit again, on the back of the head; the blackness swallowed him.

  He felt himself falling, falling, thoughts of Olwan and the times they would not share, and he thought of Bradwarden.

  Mather roared one last defiant roar and forced himself to stand straight and tall. He swung about, the slicing Tempest forcing the goblins back and that buying him the time he needed to turn again to the fire, to look above it, and using more memory than vision, to aim his cut.

  He felt the sword bite at the supporting rope, felt the rush of weight as Bradwarden dropped before him, brushing him and throwing him to the ground.

  Then, from somewhere far away, he heard the centaur’s outraged roar, heard the goblin’s shrieks of fear, heard the trample of hooves, the cries of pain.

  And then he knew… peace. A cool blackness.

  It all came back to Mather in that last fleeting moment, memories of his childhood before the Touel’alfar, his times with Tuntun and the other elves, his days silently protecting Dundalis and Weedy Meadow, unappreciated, but hardly caring.

  Doing as he had been trained to do, acting the role of ranger, and of friend.

  And he had this night.