The Demon Awakens

PRELUDE

THE DEMON DACTYL CAME AWAKE. It didn’t seem such a momentous thing, just a gradual stirring in a deep cave in a far, empty mountain. An unnoticed event, seen by none save the cave worms and those few insomniacs among the bevy of weary bats hanging from the high ceiling.

But the demon spirit had awakened, had come back from its long dormancy into the statuelike form it had left behind after its last visit to the world called Corona. The tangible, corporeal body felt good to the wandering spirit. The dactyl could feel its blood, hot blood, coursing through its wings and mighty legs, could feel the twitching of its mighty muscles. Its eyes flickered open but saw only blackness, for the form, left standing in magical stasis in the deep cave, head bowed and wings wrapped tightly about its torso, had been covered by magma. Most of the fiery stuff of that time long past had bubbled and flowed away from the cavern, but enough had remained to harden about the dactyl’s corporeal form. The spirit had come back to Corona encased in obsidian!

The demon spirit fell deep within itself, summoned its powers, both physical and magical. By sheer will and brute strength, the dactyl flexed its wings. A thin crack ran down the center of the obsidian sarcophagus. The dactyl flexed again and the crack widened, and then, with a sudden powerful burst, the beast blew apart the obsidian, stretched its great wings out to the side, clawed tips grasping and rending the air. The dactyl threw back its head and opened wide its mouth, screeching for the sheer joy of the return, for the thoughts of the chaos it would bring again to the quiet human kingdoms of Corona.

Its torso resembled that of a tall, slender man, shaped and lined by corded strands of taut muscle and sporting a pair of tremendous batlike wings, twenty feet across when fully extended and with strength enough to lift a full-grown bull in swift flight. Its head, too, was somewhat human, except more angular, with a narrow jaw and pointed chin. The dactyl’s ears were pointed as well, poking up about the demon creature’s thin tuft of black hair. Neither did that hair hide the creature’s horns, thumb sized and curling in toward each other at the top of the demon’s brow.

The texture of its skin was rough and thick, an armored hide, reddish in hue and shiny, as if lit by its own inner glow. Shining, too, were the demon’s eyes, pools of liquid black at most times, but shifting to fiery red orbs, living flames, when the demon was agitated, a glow of absolute hatred.

The creature flexed and stretched, extended its wings to their full glory, reached and clawed at the air with its humanlike arms. The demon extended its fingernails, transformed them into hooked claws, and grew its teeth—two pointed canines extending down over its bottom lip. Every part of the demon was a weapon, devastating and deadly. And undeniably powerful though this monster appeared, this demon’s real strength lay in its mind and its purpose, the tempter of souls, the twister of hearts, the maker of lies. Theologians of Corona argued over whether the demon dactyl was the source or the result of evil. Did the dactyl bring the weakness, the immorality, to humanity? Was the dactyl the source of the deadly sins, or did it manifest itself and walk the world when those sins had festered to the point of eruption?

For the demonic creature in the cave, such questions hardly mattered. How long had it been? the dactyl wondered. How many decades, even centuries, had passed since its last visit to Corona?

The creature remembered that long-ago time now, savored the thoughts of the streaming blood as army after army had joined in delicious, desperate battle. It cursed aloud the name of Terranen Dinoniel, who had rallied the humans and the elves, chasing the dactyl’s armies back to the base of this mountain, Aida. Dinoniel himself had come into this cave after the beast, had skewered the dactyl…

The black-winged demon looked down at a darker red tear marring its otherwise smooth hide. With a sickening crackle of bone, the creature’s head rotated completely around and bowed, examining the second imperfection of its form, a scarred lump under its lower left shoulder blade. Those two scars were perfectly aligned with the dactyl’s heart, and thus, with that one desperate thrust, Dinoniel had defeated the demon’s corporeal body. Yet even in its death throes, the dactyl had won the day, using its willpower to bring up the magma from the bowels of Aida. Dinoniel and much of his army had been consumed and destroyed, but the dactyl…

The dactyl was eternal. Dinoniel was gone, a distant memory, but the demon spirit had returned and the physical wounds had healed. What man, what elf, will take Dinoniel’s place? the demon asked aloud in its hollow, resonating voice, always seeming on the edge of a thunderous roar. A cloud of bats shuddered to life at the unexpected noise and flew off down one of the tunnels formed when the lava had flowed from this spot. The dactyl cackled, thinking itself grand to be able to send such creatures—any creatures!—scurrying with a mere sound. And what resolve might the humans and the elves—if the elves were still about, for even in Dinoniel’s day they had been on the wane—muster this time?

Its thoughts turned from its enemies to those it would summon as minions. What creatures could the dactyl gather this time to wage its war? The wicked goblins certainly, so full of anger and greed, so delighting in murder and war. The fomorian giants of the mountains, few in number but each with the strength of a dozen men and a hide too thick and tough for a dagger to puncture. And the powries, yes, the powries, the cunning, warlike dwarves of the Julianthes, the Weathered Isles, who hated the humans above all others. Centuries before, powries had dominated the seas in their solid, squat barrelboats, whose hulls were made of tougher stuff than the larger ships of the humans, as the diminutive powries were made of tougher stuff than the larger humans.

A line of drool hung low from the dactyl’s mouth as it considered its former and future allies, its army of woe. It would bring them into its fold, tribe by tribe, race by race, growing as the night grows when the sun touches the western horizon. The twilight of Corona was at hand.

The dactyl came awake.

PART ONE

FATE

What song is this, drift through the trees

To lift men broken from their knees?

To untwist hearts from grasping sorrow,

To offer the promise of the morrow?

Hark, what song,

What music sweet?

Warm whispers of the dawn.

Hot blood waft steam in night air cold.

What hopes of treasure, what hunger of gold

Hath brought foul beast from caverns deep

To face the Nightbird, to know endless sleep?

They come for greed.

They come to bleed.

At gentle hands of elven breed.

The shining sword, the horse’s run,

The bane of monsters all and one.

To their midst the rider, Nightbird the Ranger,

Flashing Tempest’s anger, denying the danger

Cutting and slashing!

Tearing and gashing!

Chasing the nightmares away.

Fast run, you goblins, the Ranger sets his bow,

To let your blood, to stain white snow

Arrow and arrow, the river of red

Fast fall the Evil, to the one is dead.

Hawkwing’s fury,

Goblins to bury

In worm’s cold domain.

Scatter, goblins, fly and flee!

You’ll not outrun Symphony.

Hooves of music rend the gloom

Bearing Nightbird, know your doom!

At Tempest’s fall,

So shall you all

To blackness evermore.

Away drifts music, Symphony sweet.

Away goes Nightbird, the forest to greet

In springtime sunshine, of Evil no traces,

Through flowers and lovers, step measured paces

Hark, listen you all

The Nightbird’s call

And sleep peaceful lovers, secure.

—THE SONG OF THE NIGHTBIRD

CHAPTER 1

THE UNEXPECTED KILL

ELBRYAN WYNDON WAS UP BEFORE the dawn. He dressed quickly, fumbling with his clothes in the red light of the hearth’s glowing embers. He ran a hand through his tousled straight hair—a light brown shock that bleached pale on its top layers under the summer sun. He retrieved his belt and dagger, which he had reverently placed right near his bed, and Elbryan felt powerful as he ceremoniously strapped the weapon about his waist.

He grabbed the heaviest wrap he could find and rushed out into the dark and chill air, so anxious that he hardly remembered to close the cabin door behind him. The small frontier village of Dundalis was quiet and eerily still about him, sleeping off the well-earned weariness that followed every day’s hard labor. Elbryan, too, had worked hard the previous day—harder than normal, for several of the village men and women were out in the deep forest, and the boys and girls, like Elbryan, who was nearing his teens, had been asked to keep things aright. That meant gathering wood and tending the fires, repairing the cabins—which always seemed to need repair!—and walking the perimeter of the sheltered vale that held the village, watching for sign of bear, great cat, or the packs of hunting wolves.

Elbryan was the oldest of those children, the leader of the pack, as it were, and he felt important, truly he felt a man. This would be the last time he remained behind when the hunters went off on the season’s last and most important expedition. Next spring would bring his thirteenth birthday, the passage from childhood in the hardy land that was the northern wilderness. Next spring, Elbryan would hunt with the adults, the games of his youth left behind.

Indeed he was tired from the previous day’s labors, but so full of excitement that sleep had not come to him. The weather had turned toward winter. The men were expected back any day, and Elbryan meant to meet them and lead their procession into the village. Let the younger boys and girls see him then, and afford him the respect he deserved, and let the older men see that the village, under his watchful eye, had fared well in their absence.

He started out of Dundalis, stepping lightly despite his weariness, passing through the darker shadows of the small, one-story cabins.

Jilly! The call was not loud but seemed so in the quiet morning air. Elbryan moved up to the corner of the next house, smiling for his cleverness, and peered around.

It could be today! protested a young girl, Jilseponie, Elbryan’s closest friend.

You do not know that, Jilly, argued her mother, standing in the open doorway of their cabin. Elbryan tried to muffle his snicker; the girl hated that nickname, Jilly, though nearly everyone in town called her that. She preferred the simple Jill. But between her and Elbryan, the title was Pony, their secret name, the one Jilseponie liked most of all.

The snicker was soon gone, but the smile remained, all the wider for the sight. Elbryan didn’t know why, but he was always happy when he saw Pony, though only a couple of years before, he would have taunted her and the rest of the village girls, chasing them endlessly. One time Elbryan had made the mistake of catching Jilseponie without his male companions nearby, and of tugging too hard on her yellow mane to prove the point of his capture. He never saw the punch coming, never saw anything except how wide the blue sky had suddenly seemed as he lay on his back.

He could laugh at that embarrassment now, privately or even with Pony. He felt as though he could say anything to her, and she wouldn’t judge him or make merry of his feelings.

Candlelight spilled out onto the road, softly illuminating the girl. Elbryan liked the image; every day that passed, he found that he enjoyed looking at Pony more and more. She was younger than Elbryan by five months but taller than he, standing about three inches above five feet, while the young man, to his ultimate horror, had not yet reached the coveted five foot mark. Elbryan’s father had assured him that Wyndon boys were normally late in sprouting. All jealousy aside, Elbryan found the taller Pony quite a pleasing sight. She stood straight but not stiff, and could outrun and outfight any of the boys in Dundalis, Elbryan included. Still, there was a delicate aura about her, a softness that a younger Elbryan had viewed as weakness, but the older Elbryan viewed as oddly distracting. Her hair, which Jilseponie seemed to be constantly brushing, was golden, silken, and thick enough to lose a hand in; it bounced about her shoulders and back with an alluring wildness. Her eyes, huge eyes, were the richest and clearest blue Elbryan had ever seen, like great sponges soaking in the sights of the wide world and reflecting Jilseponie’s every mood. When Pony’s eyes showed sadness, Elbryan felt it in his heart; when they soared with sparkling joy, Elbryan’s feet moved involuntarily in dance.

Her lips, too, were large and thick. The boys had often taunted Pony about those lips, saying that if she ever stuck them to a window, they would surely hold her fast for all eternity! Elbryan felt no desire to tease when looking at Pony’s lips now. He sensed their softness, so very inviting…

I will be back in time for the morning meal, Pony assured her mother.

The night woods are dangerous, her exasperated mother replied.

I will be careful! Pony responded dismissively, before the older woman had even finished the sentence.

Elbryan held his breath, thinking that Pony’s mother, often stern, would scold the girl severely. She only sighed, though, and resignedly closed the cabin door.

Pony sighed, too, and shook her head as if to show her ultimate frustration with adults. Then she turned and skipped off, and was startled a moment later when Elbryan jumped out in front of her.

She reflexively cocked a fist, and Elbryan wisely jumped back.

You are late, he said.

I am early, Pony insisted, too early. And I am tired.

Elbryan shrugged and nodded down the road to the north, then led the girl off at a swift pace. Despite her complaints concerning the time, Pony not only paced him but skipped right by him, obviously as excited as he. That excitement turned to sheer joy when they passed out of the town and began their ascent of the ridge. Pony chanced to look back to the south, and she stopped, stunned and smiling, and pointing to the night sky. The Halo, she said breathlessly.

Elbryan turned to follow her gaze, and he, too, could not suppress a grin.

For stretched across the southern sky, more than halfway to the horizon, was Corona’s Halo, the heavenly belt—a subtle tease of colors, red and green and blue and deep purple, a flowing softness, like a living rainbow. The Halo was sometimes visible in the summer sky, but only during the deepest parts of the shorter nights, when children, and even adults, were fast asleep. Elbryan and Jilseponie had seen it on a few occasions, but never so clearly as this, never so vibrant.

Then they heard a distant piping, soft music, perfect melody. It floated through the chill air, barely perceptible.

The Forest Ghost, Pony whispered, but Elbryan didn’t seem to hear. Pony spoke the words again, under her breath. The Forest Ghost was a common legend in the Timberlands. Half horse and half man, he was the keeper of the trees and the friend of the animals, particularly of the wild horses that ran in the dells to the north. For a moment, the thought of such a creature not so far away frightened Pony, but then her fears were washed away by the sheer beauty of the Halo and the fitting melody of the enchanting music. How could anyone, or anything, that could pipe so beautifully pose a danger?

The pair stood on the side of the ridge for a long while, not speaking, not looking at each other, not even realizing that the other was there. Elbryan felt totally alone, yet one with the universe, a small part of majesty, a small but endless flicker in eternity. His mind drifted up from the ridge, from the solid ground, from the sensible experiences of his existence into the unknown, exhilarating joy of spirituality. The name of Mather came to him briefly, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything at that time, it seemed, and yet he knew everything—the secrets of the world, of peace, of eternity—it was all there before him, so simple and true. He felt a song in his heart, though it had no words, felt a warmth in all his body, though he was not at that moment a part of that corporeal form.

The sensation passed—too quickly. Elbryan sighed deeply and turned to Pony. He was about to say something but held the words, seeing that she, too, was immersed in something beyond language. Elbryan felt suddenly closer to the girl, as if they two had shared something very special and very private. How many others could look upon the Halo and understand the beauty of the thing? he wondered. None of the adults of Dundalis, certainly, with their grumbling and grouching, and none of the other children, he decided, who were too caught up in silliness to ponder such thoughts.

No, it was his experience and Pony’s—theirs alone. He watched her slowly drift back to the reality about them—the ridge, the night, and her companion. He could almost see her spirit flowing back into that five foot three inch body—a body that was growing more shapely by the day.

Elbryan resisted the sudden and inexplicable urge to run over and kiss Pony.

What? she asked, seeing turmoil, even horror, come over his face, despite the darkness.

The boy looked away, angry at himself for allowing such feelings. Pony was a girl, after all, and though Elbryan would openly admit that she was a friend, such deeper feelings were truly horrifying.

Elbryan? she asked. Was it the song, the Forest Ghost?

Never heard it, Elbryan retorted, though when he thought about it, he had indeed heard the distant piping melody.

Then what? Pony pressed.

Nothing, he replied gruffly. Come along. The dawn is not long away. He started up the ridge at a feverish pace then, even scrambling on all fours at times, crunching through the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Pony paused and watched him, confused at first. Gradually a smile found its way back onto her face, her dimples showing the slightest blush of red. She suspected she knew the feelings that Elbryan was fighting, the same feelings she had battled earlier that same year.

Pony had won that battle by accepting, even relishing, those private feelings, the warmth that washed over her whenever she looked upon Elbryan. She hoped Elbryan would wage a gallant war now, with an outcome similar to her own.

She caught up to her friend at the top of the ridge. Behind them, Dundalis sat quiet and dark. All the world seemed still, not a bird calling, not a whisper of wind. They sat together, yet apart, separated by a couple of feet and by the wall of Elbryan’s confusion. The boy didn’t move, hardly seemed to blink, just sat staring straight ahead at the wide vale before him, though it was too dark for him to even recognize the place.

Pony, though, was more animated. She let her gaze linger on Elbryan until the boy became obviously flustered, then she politely looked away, back to the village—a single candle was burning in one of the houses—and back to the Halo, which was now fast fading in the southern sky. She could still make out the brighter colors, but that special moment of beauty, of innermost reflection, had passed. Now she was again Jilseponie, just Jilseponie, sitting on a ridge with her friend, awaiting the return of her father and the other hunters. And the dawn was approaching. Pony realized that she could make out more of the village, could discern the individual houses, even the individual posts of Bunker Crawyer’s corral.

Today, Elbryan said unexpectedly, his voice turning her about to study him. He was at ease again, the uncomfortable feelings tossed out with the mystery of the night. They will return this day, he announced with a nod.

Pony grinned warmly, hoping he was right.

They sat in silence as the day grew about them. In the wide vale, the wall of blackness gave way to the individual dark spots that were the evergreens—rows and rows of ancient trees, Corona’s oldest soldiers, standing proud, though most were not twice Elbryan’s height. The starkness of the scene from this vantage point, in this mounting light, amazed the companions. The ground about the trees caught the morning light and held it fast, for the undergrowth was not dark but was white and thick, a padding of caribou moss. Elbryan loved the stuff—all the children did. Every time he gazed upon the white carpet, he wanted to take off his shoes and pants and run through it barefoot and bare legged, to feel its softness between his toes and brushing against his shins. In many places, the caribou moss was even deeper than his knees!

He wanted to do it, as he had so many times in his earlier years, wanted to cast off his shoes and all his clothes…

He remembered his companion, his earlier feelings, and turned away from Pony, blushing fiercely.

If they come in before the sun gets too high, we’ll see them a mile away, Pony remarked. The girl was not looking ahead, though, but at the ridge to the south behind them. Autumn was well advanced, and all the leaves of the deciduous trees, particularly the sugar maples, were bright with colors, shining red and orange and yellow, painting the ridge.

Elbryan was glad that the distracted girl had not noticed his own shade of red. Coming down that side of the vale, he agreed sharply, catching Pony’s attention, and pointing to the wide gentle slope of the vale’s northeastern face added, a mile away!

Their assessment proved overoptimistic, for the starkness of the scene had confused their sense of distance. They did indeed spot the returning hunters, to their complete joy, but not until the group was moving along the bottom of the bowl-shaped vale, a line of tiny forms far below them.

They watched, chattering wildly, trying to count and to guess who was leading but getting confused as parts of the line wove in and out of the tree shadows.

A shoulder pole! Elbryan cried out suddenly, spotting the line that seemed to join two of the men.

Another! Pony added happily, and she clapped her hands with glee as more came into view. The hunters would return with carcasses—elk, caribou, or white-tailed deer—slung on shoulder poles, and it seemed to the watching pair as if this hunt had been successful indeed! Their patience fast disintegrated; they leaped out together, running fast down the steeper slope, picking their angle to intercept the returning troop.

From the ridge top, the vale seemed stark and open, but descending into it, Elbryan and Pony quickly remembered just how confusing and intimidating a place it could be. Down among the squat but wide-spreading pines and spruce, vision in all directions was blocked after just a few feet; the companions became separated quickly and spent many minutes just talking themselves back together and then arguing over which direction would lead them to their fathers.

The sun is in the southeast, Elbryan reminded Pony, squaring his shoulders as he took command of the situation. The sun had not yet come up high enough to peer over the rim of the vale, but they could make out its position easily enough. The hunters approach from the northeast, so all we have to do is keep the sun just behind our right shoulders.

It seemed logical enough to Pony, so she shrugged and let Elbryan lead and didn’t mention to him that if they simply called out loudly, their fathers would likely hear them and guide them in.

Elbryan picked his way determinedly, weaving about the bushy evergreens, not even looking back to make sure Pony was keeping up with him. He moved faster still when he heard the voices of the hunters. His heart pounded when he recognized his father’s deep tones, though he couldn’t make out what the man was saying.

Pony caught up to him, even passed him over that last expanse, leading the way through the tangle of two wide pines, pushing aside the prickly branches and bursting into a clearing right beside the returning party.

The startled, almost feral, reaction of the hunters froze Elbryan in his tracks and sent Pony ducking for cover. Elbryan hardly heard the sharp scolding his father offered, the boy’s eyes basking in the sight, moving from the carcass of a caribou buck, to a deer, to a line of coneys, to…

Elbryan and Jilseponie stood perfectly still, stricken. Their fathers, who had come forward to meet the impetuous children, to scold them again for being so far away from Dundalis, let the opportunity pass. The object on the fourth shoulder pole, each man realized, would be enough to get the lesson across.

THE SUN WAS UP, THE day bright, and the village wide awake by the time Elbryan and Pony led the hunting party back into Dundalis. Expressions ran from excitement to awkward fear to blank amazement as the villagers took stock of the kills, especially the last carcass on the shoulder poles, a smallish humanoid form.

A goblin? asked one woman, bending low to regard the creature’s hideous features: the sloping forehead and the long thin nose, the tiny but perfectly round eyes, now glazed over, sickly yellow. The creature’s ears, pointed at the top and with a loose flapping, fat lobe at the bottom, stuck out several inches from its head. The woman shuddered when she considered the mouth, a tangle of greenish-yellow fangs, all crooked but each angled inward. The chin was narrow, but the jowls wide with muscle. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the power of the creature’s bite or the pain of getting free from those nasty teeth.

Are they really that color? asked another woman, and she dared to touch the creature’s skin. Or did it just turn that way after it died?

Yellow and green, an old man answered firmly, though he had not been out on the hunt. Elbryan watched the wrinkled and bent elder, Brody Gentle, by name, though the children usually called him Body Grabber in mock horror, teasing him and then running away. Old Brody was a snarling type, angry at the world and at his own infirmities, and an easy mark for children, always ready to give chase and never quick enough to make a catch. Elbryan considered the man’s true name now, for the first time, and nearly laughed aloud at the contradiction of the surname with Brody’s grouchy demeanor.

Surely is a goblin, Brody continued, obviously enjoying the attention, big one, too, and they’re yellow and green, he answered the second questioning woman, living and dead, though this one’s fast turning gray. He snickered as he finished, a sound of utter contempt that seemed to lend credence to his greater knowledge of the goblin race. Goblins were little seen creatures; many considered them more myth than truth. Even in Dundalis, and in other frontier villages nestled in the Timberlands on the borders of the deep Wilderlands, there had been no confirmed sightings of any goblins for longer than the villagers could remember—with the apparent exception of Brody Gentle.

You have seen goblins before? asked Olwan Wyndon, Elbryan’s father, and his tone and the fact that he crossed his large arms over his chest as he spoke showed he held many doubts.

Brody Gentle scoffed at him. Oft have I told the tales! the old man fumed.

Olwan Wyndon nodded, not wanting to get Brody into one of his legendary fits of outrage. Sitting by the hearth in the village’s common house, Brody had recounted endless tales of his youth, of battling goblins, even fomorian giants, in the first days of Dundalis, staking out the ground for proper folk. Most listened politely but turned up their eyes and shook their heads whenever Brody looked away.

We had the word of a goblin sighting in Weedy Meadow, offered another man, referring to another village some twenty miles to the west of Dundalis.

A child’s word, Olwan Wyndon promptly reminded them all, quieting nervous whispers before they could gain any momentum.

Well, we’ve much work to do, and you’ve a tale to tell, Pony’s mother intervened. Better suited for the common house, after a supper of venison stew.

Olwan nodded and the crowd gradually dispersed, one person taking a last, long look at the goblin, which was indeed fast turning gray. Elbryan and Pony lingered long by the corpse, studying it intently. Pony didn’t miss her companion’s derisive snort.

Small as an eight-year-old, the boy explained, waving a dismissive hand at the goblin. That was something of an exaggeration, but, indeed, the goblin wasn’t much above four feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than Elbryan’s ninety pounds.

Perhaps it is a child, Pony offered.

You heard Body Grabber, Elbryan countered. He screwed up his face, the ridiculous nickname sounding foolish in his ears. He said it was a big one. He ended with another snort.

It looks fierce, Pony insisted, bending low to study the creature more closely. She didn’t miss Elbryan’s third snort. Remember the badger? she asked quietly, stealing the boy’s bluster. Not a third the size of the goblin.

Elbryan blanched and looked away. Earlier that year, at the beginning of summer, some of the younger children had snagged a badger in a noose. When they came into the village with the news, Elbryan, the oldest of their group, had taken command, leading the way back to the spot. He approached the snared creature boldly, only to find that it had chewed right through the leather bindings. When it came around at him, teeth bared, Elbryan had, so the legend—and among the children, it was indeed a legend—said, run away so fast that he didn’t even notice he was running straight up a tree, not even using his hands to grab a branch.

The rest of the children had fled, as well, but not so far that they could not witness Elbryan’s ultimate humiliation, as the badger, like some vindictive enemy, had waited at the base of Elbryan’s tree, keeping the boy up in the branches for more than an hour.

Stupid badger, Elbryan thought, and stupid Pony for opening that wound once again. He walked away without another word.

Pony couldn’t sustain her smile as she watched him go, wondering if she had pushed him a little too hard.

EVERY VILLAGER WAS IN THE common house that night, though most had already heard the tale of the goblin fight by then. The hunting party had come upon a band of six creatures, or actually both groups had come upon each other, stepping out of the thick brush onto an open, rocky riverbank simultaneously, barely twenty paces apart. After a moment of shock, the goblins had thrown their spears, injuring one man. The ensuing fight had been brief and brutal, with many nicks and cuts to both sides and even a couple of bites to the humans, before the goblins, outnumbered two to one, had fled, disappearing into the brush as suddenly as they had appeared. The only serious wound to either side was the hit to the slain goblin—a spear thrust that had punctured the creature’s lung. It had tried to flee with its companions but fell short of the brush for lack of breath and died soon after.

Olwan Wyndon told the tale again in full to the gathering, trying hard not to embellish it. We spent three days looking but found no more sign of the other goblins, he finished.

Immediately a pair of mugs came up into the air from the side of the room. To Shane McMichael! the two mug holders bellowed together. Goblinslayer!

The cheer went up, and Shane McMichael, a quiet, slender young man just a few years older than Elbryan, reluctantly came forward to stand beside Olwan in front of the blazing hearth. With much prodding, the man was prompted to tell of the fight, of the cunning twist and parry and the straightforward thrust that had come too soon for the goblin to completely dodge.

Elbryan savored every word, envisioning the battle clearly. How he envied Shane!

Afterward, the conversation turned into an exchange of what other people had recently seen, of the report of a goblin sighting in Weedy Meadow, and even a few wild tales from Dundalis folk claiming that they had noticed some huge tracks but just hadn’t said anything about it. Elbryan at first listened intently to every word but, gradually taking the cue from his father’s posture, came to understand that most of the talk was no more than individual efforts to grab a bit of attention. It surprised Elbryan that adults would act that way, especially considering the gravity of the situation.

Next came a discussion, led by Brody Gentle, of goblinkind in general, from the numerous small goblins to the rare and dangerous disfigured fomorian giants. Brody spoke with an air of expertise, but few in the room hung on his every word. Even young Elbryan soon came to realize that the old man knew little more than anyone else concerning goblins, and Elbryan doubted that Brody had ever seen a fomorian giant. Elbryan looked at Pony, who seemed to be growing quite bored by it all, and motioned to the door.

She was out into the night before he got out of his chair.

Bluster, Elbryan insisted, joining her. The night was chill, and so the boy moved close to Pony, sharing their warmth.

But we cannot deny the goblin, Pony replied, motioning to the shed where the creature had been placed. Your father’s tale was real enough.

I meant Brody—

I know what you meant, said Pony, and I do not believe him either—not completely.

Elbryan’s surprise at her qualification of the remark reflected clearly on his face.

There are goblins, Pony explained. We know that well enough. So perhaps those who first came to the edge of the Wilderlands to settle Dundalis did have a few fights on their hands.

Fomorians? Elbryan asked skeptically.

Pony shrugged, not willing to discount the possibility of giants, not after viewing a dead goblin.

Elbryan conceded the point, though he still thought Brody Gentle more bluster than truth. He couldn’t hold that thought, though, or any other negative feelings, when Jilseponie turned to look him directly in the eye, when she, her face only a few inches from his own, locked his olive-green eyes with her stare.

Elbryan found his breath hard to come by. Pony was close—too close—and she wasn’t backing away!

And she was coming closer, Elbryan realized, her head slowly drifting toward his, her lips, so soft, in line with his! Panic hit him, wrestling hard with a jumble of other emotions that Elbryan did not understand. A part of him wanted to turn away, but another part, a larger and surprising part, would not let him move.

The door to the common house opened with a crash, and both Pony and Elbryan immediately spun away from each other.

The younger children came out in a mob, swarming around the older pair. What are we going to do? one of them asked.

Elbryan and Pony exchanged curious looks.

We must be ready for when the goblins come back, another boy remarked.

The goblins were never here, Pony interjected.

But they will be! claimed the boy. Kristeena says so.

All eyes turned to Kristeena, a girl of ten who always seemed to be staring at Elbryan. Goblins always come back for their dead, she explained eagerly.

How do you know that? Elbryan asked doubtfully, and his tone seemed to hurt the girl.

She looked down and kicked the dirt with one foot. My grandmother knows, she answered, her voice suddenly sheepish, and Elbryan felt a fool for making her so uncomfortable. All the gang was quiet, hanging on Elbryan’s every word.

Pony nudged him hard. Pony had told him many times that Kristeena was sweet for him, and the older girl, not viewing a ten-year-old as competition, had been charmed by the thought.

She probably does know, Elbryan said, and Kristeena looked up, suddenly beaming. And it sounds right. He turned to the shed, and all the younger children flowed about him, following his gaze.

And if the goblins do come back, we must be ready, Elbryan decided. He looked at Pony and winked, and was surprised when she returned the gesture with a serious frown.

Perhaps this was more than a game.

CHAPTER 2

TRUE BELIEVER

TWENTY-FIVE STOOD IN A LINE, cloaked in thick brown robes with voluminous sleeves and large hoods that were pulled low to hide their faces. Quiet and humble, they kept their heads bowed, their shoulders stooped, and their hands folded before them, though not a digit showed from beneath the folds of cloth, not a flash of flesh in the whole of the line.

Piety, dignity, poverty, the old father abbot, Dalebert Markwart, intoned in his nasal voice. He stood alone on the balcony above the main entrance of St.-Mere-Abelle, the most prominent monastery in all the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear, in the northern temperate zone of Corona. Intertwined with the rocky cliffs of the southeastern coast, St.-Mere-Abelle had stood solemn and dark for nearly a millennium, with each generation of monks adding their toil and craftsmanship to the already huge structure. Its gray rock walls seemed to grow right from the solid stone, an extension of the earth’s power. Squat towers anchored every turn in the wall; narrow windows showed that the place was built for somber reflection and defense. The visible parts of the monastery were impressive; the sea wall alone rose and melted back into the cliff face for more than a mile. But the bulk of the place could not be seen from beyond the walls; it was buried under the ground, in tunnels strong and square, in vast underground chambers—many smoky from the constant torchlight, others brightened by ways magical. Seven hundred monks lived here and another two hundred servants, many of them never leaving the place except to go on short visits, usually to market in the village of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland.

The new class of twenty-five stood one behind the other. As they were positioned according to height, Avelyn Desbris, tall and large-boned, was near the back, with twenty-two before him and only two behind. He could barely hear the Abbot above the constant groan of the wind, weaving always through the many rocks. But Avelyn hardly cared. For the majority of his twenty years, the young man had dreamed of this day, had set his sights on the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle as surely as any general would focus on his next conquest. Eight years of formal study, eight years of grueling testing, had brought Avelyn to this point, one of twenty-five remaining of the two thousand twelve-year-olds who had begun the process, each desperately vying to gain admittance in this class of God’s Year 816.

Avelyn dared to peek out from under his hood at the handful of spectators lining the road before the monastery’s front gates. His mother, Annalisa, and father, Jayson, were among that small group, though his mother had taken ill and would not likely make it back to their home in the village of Youmaneff, some three hundred miles from the coast. Avelyn knew with near certainty that this would be the last time he saw her, and likely the last time he’d see his father, as well. Avelyn was the youngest of ten, and his parents had been well into their forties when he was born. His next youngest sibling was seven years his senior, and so he wasn’t really close to any of them. By the time Avelyn was old enough to understand the concept of family, half the children had already moved out of the family house.

His life had been good, though, and he had been close to his parents, more so than any of his brothers or sisters had been. The bond had been particularly strong with Annalisa, a humble and spiritual woman, who had encouraged her youngest child to follow the path of God from his earliest recollections.

Avelyn dropped his gaze once more, fearful of discipline should he be caught peeking out from under his hood. Rumors hinted that students of St.-Mere-Abelle had been dismissed for less. He pictured his mother on that day many years before when he had announced that he would enter St.-Mere-Abelle: the tears that had come to her; the smile, gentle, even divine. That image, that confirmation, was burned into Avelyn’s thoughts as clearly as if it had been painted and magically illuminated on the inside of his eyelids. How much younger and more vibrant Annalisa had seemed! The last few years had been hard on her, one illness after another. She was determined to see this day, though, and Avelyn understood that with its passing, with his entering St.-Mere-Abelle, the woman would no longer fight against mortality.

It was all right, to Avelyn and to Annalisa. Her goals had been met, her life lived in the spirit of generosity. Avelyn knew he would cry when word reached him of her passing, but he knew, too, that his tears would be selfish—tears for himself and his loss, and not for Annalisa, whom he knew would be in a better place.

A grinding sound, the great gates sliding open, brought the young man from his contemplations.

Do you willingly enter the service of God? Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart asked.

The twenty-five responded with a unified Yes, say I!

Show then your desire, the Father Abbot demanded. Pass ye the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering!

The line shuffled forward. My God, our God, one God, they chanted, and they lifted their voices even higher when the first of their ranks entered the gauntlet, stepping between two lines of monks, those who remained of the classes of the previous two years, all armed with heavy wooden paddles.

Avelyn heard the slaps of wood, the unintentional groans, even an occasional cry from the younger students near the front. He fell deeper within himself, chanted with all his strength, and listened to his own words, grabbing at his faith and building with it a wall of denial. So strong was he in meditation that he did not even feel the first few blows, and those that slapped against him afterward seemed a minor thing, a momentary pain, lost in the ultimate sweetness that awaited him. All his life, he had wanted to live in service to God; all his life he had dreamed of this day.

Now was his time, his day. He came through the gauntlet without uttering a single sound beyond the range of his controlled, even-toned chant.

That fact was not lost on Father Abbot Markwart, nor on any of the other monks watching the initiation of God’s Year 816. None of the others in Avelyn’s line could make such a claim; not one in several years had walked the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering with so minimal complaint.

THE HUGE STONE GATES OF St.-Mere-Abelle slammed shut with a resounding crash that jolted Annalisa Desbris violently. Her husband held her tight then, understanding her pain, both physical and emotional.

Annalisa knew, as Avelyn had known, that she would never see her son in this world again. She had given him over to the service of God, to her ultimate joy, but still, the very real human pain of final parting tugged at her weak heart, stole the strength from her tiny arms and legs.

Jayson supported her, always. He, too, had tears in his eyes, but unlike Annalisa’s, which were of joy, Jayson’s tears came from a mix of emotions, ranging from simple sadness to anger. He had never spoken openly against Avelyn’s decision, but privately the pragmatic man had wondered if his son wasn’t merely throwing his life away.

He couldn’t say that to frail Annalisa, he knew. A simple word could break her. Jayson only hoped that he could somehow get her home, into her own bed, before she died.

THOUGHTS OF HIS PARENTS COULD not hold Avelyn’s attention as the group crossed the windblown courtyard and entered the grand entrance hall of St.-Mere-Abelle. Now the young man did utter an unintended sound, a gasp of disbelief and delight.

The place was not bright, having only a handful of tiny windows set high up on the tall walls. Torches burned at regular intervals, and the massive beams that supported the hall’s ceiling seemed to dance in their light. Avelyn had never seen a place so huge, could not comprehend the effort that had been expended to put this hall together. His own village of Youmaneff would fit inside this one hall, with room left over to stable the horses!

The tapestries that lined the place were no less magnificent and intriguing, woven into scenes that held a million details in every square foot—sights within sights, subtle lines and smaller images—that caught Avelyn’s eyes and his curiosity and would not let them go. The tapestries covered the walls almost completely, allowing for windows and for racked displays of shining weapons: swords and spears, great axes, long daggers, and a myriad of pole arms with hooked blades and prodding tips that Avelyn did not know. Suits of armor of various designs stood as silent sentinels, every type from the overlapping wooden plates of the ancient Behrenese to the strong metal-plate mail designed for Honce-the-Bear’s Allheart Brigade, the personal guards of the King—whoever that might be at the moment. Along one wall stood a gigantic statue, fifteen feet or more, dressed in a heavy leather jacket, trimmed in fur and set with spiked metal plates and heavy iron rings. A fomorian, Avelyn realized with a very visible shudder, in the typical battle dress of its warlike race. Beside it, dramatically, were two tiny figures, one just over half Avelyn’s height, the other a bit taller, but slender and lithe. The shorter of the pair wore a light leather tunic and arm shields, metal sleeves hooked over the figure’s thumbs and running from wrists to elbow. The red beret gave the figure’s identity away. It was a powrie mannikin, Avelyn realized. The cruel dwarflike powries were also called bloody caps for their gruesome habit of dipping their berets, enchanted pieces made of specially prepared human skin, in their victims’ blood until the cap took on—and kept—a shining red hue.

The statue beside the powrie, sporting a pair of nearly translucent wings, had to be a representation of an elf, the mysterious Touel’alfar. Its limbs were slender and long and its armor a silver shining coat of fine interlocking links. Avelyn wanted to go closer to it to study the stern facial features and the incredible craftsmanship of the armor. That thought, and the potential punishment it might bring, reminded the young man of where he was and that many seconds, minutes perhaps, had slipped past him unnoticed. He blushed deeply and lowered his head, taking a quick glance all around. He calmed quickly, though, seeing that all of his classmates were similarly entranced and that the Father Abbot and the other ranking monks seemed not to care.

The initiates were supposed to be overwhelmed, Avelyn suddenly realized, and he looked again around the room, this time more openly, nodding as he began to understand the true nature of the place. The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle was noted not just for its pious and humble priests but also for their long reputation as fierce warriors. The eight years of Avelyn’s pretraining had included only minor instruction in the martial arts, but he had suspected that the physical qualifications of the brotherhood, the ability to fight, would become more prominent once inside the monastery.

To Avelyn, it was more of a distraction than anything else. All that the gentle and idealistic young man wanted was to serve God, to foster peace, to heal, and to comfort. To Avelyn Desbris, nothing in all the world, not the treasures of a dragon’s hoard, nor the powers of a king, could outweigh that accomplishment.

Now he was on the other side of the great stone gates of St.-Mere-Abelle. Now he had his chance.

So he believed.

CHAPTER 3

THE LINGERING KISS

THINGS QUIETED QUICKLY IN DUNDALIS. As the days after the patrol’s return stretched out into an uneventful week, and then a second, thoughts of the slain goblin took second place to the very real threat of winter’s onset. There was much to be done: the last harvesting, preparing the meat, patching holes in the cottages, and cleaning the chimneys. Every passing day, danger from the goblins seemed more and more remote; every passing day, fewer and fewer men and women went out of the town to walk a patrol.

Elbryan and his friends, some as young as six or seven, saw their chance unfolding. For the adults, the specter of the goblins brought a sobering wariness and then a troublesome distraction. For the younger villagers, whose imaginations were far livelier and whose sense of adventure hadn’t yet been tempered by any real loss, thoughts of goblin raids brought excitement, a call to arms, a time for heroes. Elbryan and his friends had offered to walk patrols since the first day of the hunting party’s return. Each morning, they approached the village leaders, and each morning, they were politely refused and quickly put to some more mundane task. Even Elbryan, who would be entering the realm of adults that coming spring, had spent almost all the previous week with his head up a dirty chimney.

But the young man held faith and passed his hopes down the line. The adults were tiring of their patrols, he knew, and were growing more and more confident that the goblin incident was a chance thing—a single, unfortunate meeting—and that those creatures which had been chased away would not return to the site of the battle, let alone try to track the humans back to their village, some thirty miles away.

Now, with two calm weeks behind them and no further sightings except for a few wild rumors that were discounted by even the most cautious of Dundalis’ folk, Elbryan recognized the lessening of resistance in his father’s voice. He was not surprised that morning when Olwan, instead of shaking his head, bent low and sketched out in the dirt a rough map of the area, explaining to his son where he and his friends should be positioned.

Elbryan was surprised, though, and pleasantly so, when Olwan then presented him with the family sword, a short, thick blade of two-foot length. It wasn’t an impressive weapon—its blade showed many nicks and more than a little rust—but it was one of the few real swords in the village. Make certain that every one of your group is well armed, Olwan said seriously. And make sure that each knows the value, and the danger, of his or her weapon.

Olwan knew what this meant to his son, and if he had smiled or let on in any way that the patrols were no longer really necessary, he would have stolen something from Elbryan, a measure of importance that the young man desperately needed to feel.

Do you think it is wise to let the children go out with weapons? Shane McMichael asked Olwan, coming up to the large man soon after Elbryan had run off. Or to let them go out at all?

Olwan snorted and shrugged his muscular shoulders. We cannot spare the men and women, he replied, and there is the other patrol in the vale, the most likely route for our enemies to take, should they come. Olwan gave another snort, a helpless sound that surprised McMichael, who had always known Olwan as the coolest and most confident head in all the village.

Besides, Olwan went on, if the goblins or fomorians get close enough to Dundalis for my son and his friends to see, they will be as well off out in the woods as in the village.

Shane McMichael did not argue the point, though the weight of it grew steadily on his shoulders. Since Honce-the-Bear had been at peace for many years—and goblins and evil giants receding from the thoughts of most people to become little more than fireside tales—Dundalis had not been built for defense. The village was not even walled, as earlier settlements near the Wilderlands had been, and the folk were not well armed. The hunting party of twelve had carried with them more than half the total real weapons of the hundred folk of Dundalis. Olwan was right, Shane McMichael knew, and he shuddered with the thought; if the goblins got close enough for Elbryan and the others to spot them, then all the village would be in danger.

Olwan started away, and McMichael calmed and moved to follow. He really didn’t think any goblins would come; none in the village except for pessimistic old Brody Gentle spoke of such darkness.

The patrols began that day, with a score and five youngsters walking the rim of the bowl-shaped vale that held Dundalis. There was one other patrol, a handful of older teenagers, venturing further out, down among the pines and fluffy caribou moss to the northeast. Each of this group nodded respectfully at his younger counterparts as he passed them on the rim; some mentioned that Elbryan’s patrols would serve as their vital liaison with the village proper. After that exchange of compliments, even the passing of endless uneventful hours could not dampen the thrill for the youngsters. Elbryan and his friends were not being left out this time, were not being treated as mere children.

As each day slipped past—the weather growing a bit colder, the wind shifting more to the north—the twenty-five in Elbryan’s group perfected their patrol routes. Elbryan split them into four teams of five and one of three, which would move from group to group gathering information, while he and Pony served as anchor to them all, holding a position along the highest ridge directly north of Dundalis, overlooking the valley of evergreens and caribou moss. There were several complaints about this arrangement at first, mostly from the older boys who thought that they should serve as Elbryan’s second. Some even resorted to teasing Elbryan about his growing relationship with Pony, prompting him to ride the Pony, and other such crudities.

Elbryan took it all in stride, with the exception of any insults to Pony, which he promptly informed the teasers would bring them serious and painful retaliation. He didn’t care about their teasing him though, having at last admitted, to himself and openly, that Pony was his best and most-trusted friend.

Let the children have their fun, Elbryan, coming into manhood, whispered to Pony as the groups split up.

When he wasn’t looking her way, when he had moved off to set up a windbreak of dead wood, Pony regarded him knowingly, a warm smile spreading over her face.

SOMETHING ELSE WATCHED THE YOUNG man from a perch in one of the thicker pines on the ridge. It moved nimbly from branch to branch, crossing over to nearby trees with barely a whisper. It shadowed Elbryan’s every move, studying the young leader intently.

To Pony and Elbryan, alert as they were, the creature was invisible and unnoticed. Even if they had looked intently the creature’s way, its movements were so fluid and graceful—and always under the cover of pine boughs—that they would have considered the sway of the branches no more than the movement of the wind or a gray squirrel, perhaps.

ANOTHER WEEK PASSED BY UNEVENTFULLY. Work in the village was at full pace, readying for winter. On the ridge and in the vale beyond, the primary enemy became boredom. Elbryan lost half a dozen of his patrol at the beginning of that second week, the youths explaining that their parents needed them about the house and would not let them go out. Elbryan did not miss that every one of those soldiers seemed grateful to be relieved of the dull patrols.

Elbryan continued his diligent work, though, reorganizing the routes to cover more ground since he was down to three teams of five, with a couple of messengers.

We’ll lose Shamus tomorrow, Pony said as they sat side by side in a hollow on the high ridge, sheltered from the chill wind by a pair of large pines. The day was late, and gray clouds were rolling in to hide the afternoon sun. His mother told me this morning this would be his last day out.

Elbryan prodded the ground with the tip of his sword. His patrol group goes to four, then, he said matter-of-factly.

Pony recognized the frustration in his voice, though he did well to hide it. Elbryan was watching his first command crumbling about him, his soldiers being taken away so that they could help patch roofs or shore up barns. Pony sympathized with the young man, but logically, this was the best scenario they could have hoped for.

They are being called back home because no enemy has come, she gently reminded him. Better this than for your patrol to have been truly necessary.

Elbryan looked at her, little luster showing in his normally bright green eyes.

Or maybe we were necessary, Pony quickly added, trying to salvage some measure of the young man’s pride. How do we know that goblins have not ventured near Dundalis?

Elbryan cocked his head and ran a hand through his thick layers of straight, light brown hair.

Perhaps their scouts did come near us, Pony went on. Perhaps they saw our patrols and realized they would not have an easy time of it against the village.

We are just children, Elbryan said disgustedly.

Pony shook her head. And all but the smallest of our group is larger than a goblin, she replied without hesitation, and that truth seemed to lend some credence to her reasoning. Is not the best army the one so strong that enemies will not dare attack?

Elbryan didn’t answer, but that familiar sparkle lit up his eyes. He turned back to regard the ground in front of him, and the wild design he was cutting with the sword tip.

Pony smiled warmly, feeling that she had done well. It pleased her greatly to help out Elbryan, to guard his emotions. She didn’t really believe goblins had come near enough to see the patrols, and neither did Elbryan, but at least this way he could hold out some reason to believe his first real effort at something important by adult standards had not been in vain. The simple fact that they could not be absolutely certain offered Elbryan all the encouragement he needed.

Pony dared to reach out then; the connection was too strong to let the moment pass.