"Tearing and scarring!" the centaur wailed, stomping about, splashing in the mud and puddles and smashing his heavy club against the ground. A drenching rain fell all about the region, turning the last of the snow to slush and softening the ground.
"They are cutting the evergreens in the vale north of Dundalis," Elbryan explained grimly to Pony. "All of them."
"Then the day is all the grayer," she replied, looking in the general direction of what had once been her home. Of alb the places in the area, only Elbryan's private grove was more beautiful than the pine vale and the caribou moss, and none elicited more wistful memories from the young woman.
"We can stop them," the ranger said suddenly, seeing the profound pain on Pony's fair features. He sighed as he finished, though, for he and Bradwarden had just concluded a similar conversation in which the centaur had called for an attack, but Elbryan had reasoned that the clear-cutting might be no more than a trap set for their band. They had become a large thorn in the side of the invading army, and no doubt the monstrous leaders in Dundalis and the other villages wanted to get the secretive band out in the open and deal with them once and for all. Goblins were stupid things, but powries were not, Elbryan knew, and he understood that these dwarvish generals would recognize the importance of beauty to the humans.
"Too close to Dundalis," Pony lamented. "They would have reinforcements upon us before we could do any real harm to their clear-cutters."
"But if we sting them and send them running," Bradwarden argued again, "might that they'll be thinking twice before going back in that valley!"
Pony looked at Elbryan, the Nightbird. This was his game, his force to command. "I would like to hit at them," she said quietly, "if for no other reason than to show my respect for the land they despoil."
Elbryan nodded grimly. "What of Avelyn?"
"He is in no state to entertain thoughts of battle," Pony replied with a shake of her head, the movement spraying little droplets of water from her thick, soaked hair. "And he is busy with his gemstones, looking far, so he said."
Elbryan had to be satisfied with that; any work Avelyn was doing was likely vital, for the monk was at least as dedicated as Elbryan himself, or any of the others out here. "Symphony can bring us only a handful of horses," the ranger stated, improvising, thinking out loud. "We'll take only as many as can ride, and only volunteers."
"My roan will bear me," said Pony.
"I ride when I'm walking." The centaur laughed.
Elbryan replied with a smile, then fell within his thoughts, calling out through the rain and the trees to Symphony, the black stallion not so far away. Within the hour, seven riders, Paulson and Chipmunk among them -- both still fuming over the loss of Cric -- and Bradwarden beside them, set out through the forest, making their winding way toward the evergreen valley. The elves were with them, as well, Elbryan knew, shadowing their every move, serving as silent scouts.
They arrived at the northern slope of the valley without incident, to look down upon a score of powries, a like number of goblins, and a pair of giants, clearing away the trees. This was one of the few times of the year when the ground in the vale was brown, for the caribou moss wasn't in season and the snow was all but gone. Still, the sight of the low, neat evergreens was impressive, a reminder to the ranger and Pony of the beauty of this place, this valley that they had so treasured in their youth.
"We stay close, we hit fast, and we get away," Elbryan explained; addressing them all but eyeing Paulson directly. The big man, so pained by the loss of his friend, was likely to ride right out the other end of the valley, the ranger realized, and charge into Dundalis, killing everything in his pates. "Our mission here is not to kill them all -- we've not the numbers for such a task -- but to scare them and sting them, to chase them away in the hope that they will fear to leave the shelter of the village."
Pony, Paulson, and Chipmunk went with Elbryan, moving down to the left, while the other three followed Bradwarden down to the right. The rain intensified then, as did the wind, sheets of water blowing past, making them and their mounts all thoroughly miserable. But Elbryan welcomed the deluge. The monsters were as miserable as they, he knew, and the noise of the storm would cover their approach, perhaps even their first attacks. The one drawback was that the elves, even then moving into position lower on the slope, would have a difficult time with their bows.
No matter, the ranger mused as he picked his way among the low pines, wide of the area where the monsters hacked away. Today was a day for swords, then, and Elbryan felt comfortable indeed drawing Tempest and laying the magnificent sword across his lap.
The blade came up swiftly as the ranger passed around one bushy spruce, to see the branches jostled by something within.
Belli'mar Juraviel popped his head out in plain view; Elbryan heard Paulson and Chipmunk suck in their breath behind him, their first real sight of the ever-elusive elves.
"They are behind the ridge in great numbers," Juraviel said to the ranger. "Many giants among them, and those with stones for throwing! Be gone from this place, oh, be gone!"
Before Elbryan could begin to respond, the elf disappeared within the thick boughs, and then a rustle across the way told Elbryan that Juraviel had exited the back side of the tree and was probably long gone already.
"Trap," the ranger whispered harshly to his three companions, and he kicked Symphony into a run. The four widened their line, weaving about the trees, coming suddenly upon a group of powries and goblins, the monsters too startled to react.
Elbryan leaned low in the saddle and slashed one across the face, then drove Tempest into the chest of another as Symphony thundered past. Chipmunk took one in the eye with a dagger and cut the ear off another as it tried to dive aside, while Pony scattered a trio of goblins, the whining creatures more than willing to run away.
Paulson's maneuvers were more direct, the bearish man running down one powrie, trampling it under his mount, then splitting the skull of another with his heavy axe. Roaring and charging, looking for another target, the big man guided his horse out to the side of the others, cut a close circuit of one tree, and ran smack into a fomorian giant, the horse and rider bouncing more than the behemoth.
Paulson fell from his mount into the mud and looked up to see the giant, a bit dazed but far from defeated, shove his horse aside, then take up its monstrous, spiked club.
He knew that he would soon be with poor Cric.
He was weak and sore, but he could wait no longer. Brother Avelyn understood that he and his friends, that all the world, needed answers, needed to know the exact cause of this invasion. And so he fell into the enchantment of his powerful hematite, let his spirit walk free of his battered body, and then let it fly upon the winds.
He looked to the south, to Dundalis and the fight in the vale. He saw the monsters readied on the hill, beginning their charge, organized as an army and not a simple collection of marauding tribes.
Avelyn could do nothing except pray that Elbryan and his riders were swift enough and lucky enough to get away.
The monk's thoughts turned him back to the north, and there he went with all speed. Soon he was far beyond the sounds of battle, the forest rushing past beneath his floating spirit. How free he felt, as he had on that long-ago day -- that day a million years ago in another life, it seemed -- when Master Jojonah had first let him walk outside of his corporeal form, when he had floated above St.-Mere-Abelle to set the carvings on the monastery roof.
Yet another caravan of monsters, laden with engines of war and moving inexorably south, washed those peaceful thoughts from Avelyn's mind.
He came past the storm, out of the rain, but though the sky was brighter, the scene before the monk, the towering outline of the Barbacan, was not. Avelyn felt the evil, feared the evil, and knew suddenly that if he went in that dark place now, he would not get out.
Still; his spirit moved toward the Barbacan, drawn by the monk's need to know. He floated up past the towering spires of natural stone, over the southern lip of the barrier mountains, and looked down upon a blackness more complete than any moonless night.
If ten thousand monsters had marched south, five times that number were gathered here, their dark forms filling the valley from this southern mountain wall all the way to the plain between the black arms of a singular, smoking mountain some miles to the north.
A smoking mountain! It was alive with the magic of molten stone, the magic of demon dactyls.
Avelyn didn't need to go any closer, and yet he felt compelled to do so, driven by curiosity, perhaps.
No, it wasn't curiosity, the monk realized suddenly, nor was it any false hope that he might do battle with the creature then and there. Yet he could not deny the tug of that lone, smoking mountain, calling to him, compelling him . . .
He had been noticed; there could be no other answer! The demon dactyl had sensed his spirit presence and was trying to draw him in, to destroy him. That realization bolstered Avelyn's strength, and he turned away, the southlands wide before him.
"You have come to join with us," came a soft call, more a telepathic message than an actual voice, though Avelyn recognized the tone of the speaker. His spirit swung about again, and there, coming over a rocky bluff, was the ghost of the man who had trained beside him all those years in St.-Mere-Abelle, the man who had gone to Pimaninicuit to share in the glory. of their God, and who, so it now seemed, had fallen so very far.
"To join with us," Quintall had said. To join with us.
"You court demons," Avelyn's spirit cried out.
"I have learned the truth," Quintall countered. "The light within the shadows, revealing the lies --"
"You are a damned thing!"
Avelyn sensed the spirit's amusement. "I am with the victor," Quintall assured him.
"We will fight you, every mile, every inch!"
Again, the amusement. "A minor inconvenience and no more," Quintall replied. "Even as we speak, your mighty champion and your precious companion are dying. You cannot win, you cannot hide."
The spirit stopped abruptly as Avelyn, boiling with outrage, attacked, his spirit flying fast against the nearly translucent outline of the evil ghost, locking with the creature, their battle as much one of wills as of physical strength.
They wrestled about, their power borne of faith, Avelyn's for his God, and Quintall's for the demon dactyl. They twisted and gouged, floating about and through the bare windblown rocks of
the Barbacan. Quintall's grasp was the darkness of the demo cold, drawing the very life force from his opponent. Avelyn's grasp was the sharpness of light burning his foe. They locked in agony, neither gaining an advantage, rolling and floating, and finally, they were apart, facing each other, circling, loathing.
Avelyn knew he could not win, not here, not with the demon dactyl so close, and the notion that the ghost knew something about Elbryan and Pony that he did not bothered Avelyn more than a little. Even worse, their fight would draw unwanted attention from the smoking mountain, the monk feared; and if the dactyl came upon him as he battled this evil spirit, he would surely be destroyed.
Avelyn was strangely unafraid of that possibility, would go. willingly to his God's side if his death came in a battle with this purest of evil. But the monk had to put his own desires aside, for the others back in the forest would need to know what he had learned, would need to know of the smoking mountain and the Barbacan, the confirmation; of their dark suspicions.
Avelyn would get his fight, he decided, but not until the world was properly warned.
"You are a damned thing, Quintall," he said to his dark foe, but the ghost only laughed and came on.
Avelyn resisted the urge to meet that charge and his spirit flew away, soaring fast for the south. He heard the taunts of Quintall, the ghost wrongly thinking the monk had fled in fear, and he ignored those barbs as meaningless.
Avelyn hoped that he and Quintall would meet again.
Pony and Chipmunk continued their wild ride, weaving about the pines, cutting sharp corners, Pony's sword flashing, Chipmurk's seemingly endless stream of daggers spinning out. Or, when either of them was too close for such weapons, they merely spurred their powerful steeds on, running down the helpless powries or goblins that ventured into their path.
Even those monsters not in panic, even those trying to get some angle on the riders, could do little against the sheer power and speed of the rushing horses.
"To me! To me!" Pony heard Bradwarden call, and she led the way to the centaur and his three companions, who were enjoying similar success.
Elbryan, though, did not follow. He was not surprised. by the disappearance of Paulson; the man was too consumed lay grief and rage, and in truth, the ranger feared that he should not have brought Paulson out here, not now, not so soon after Cries demise.
The ranger was surprised, however, when he saw the big man's delay was not by choice, when he saw Paulson scrambling in the mud, trying desperately to stay out of reach of a giant's smashing club. Elbryan kicked Symphony into a straight charge. He wished that he had Hawkwing readied, that he could lead the way with a stinging arrow. He let the horse serve as missile instead, rushing in right beside the engaged giant, slamming against the creature as it stooped low in its attempt to get at Paulson.
The giant slipped down into the mud; Symphony staggered and slid but held his balance.
"Run!" Elbryan cried to the man, and terrified Paulson didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled about the pines, blinded by the rain and by sheer terror. He fell in the mud, but was scrambling up even as he hit the ground, his legs pumping desperately.
Elbryan tried to keep a rear guard, thought to go and, scoop Paulson into the saddle behind him, but then realized that such a maneuver would cost them both too much time, would allow the stubborn giant to fall over them. And Elbryan had no time to spend in battling such a foe, not here, not now, for all the southern slope of the valley was thick with monsters, including many giants, most carrying sacks of heavy stones. Rocks began bouncing all about the valley floor, skipping in the mud, more likely to squash powrie or goblin than any of the eight attackers, though that possibility did little to dissuade the monstrous reinforcements.
Elbryan noted to his relief that Pony, Bradwarden, and the others were making a clean escape, running fast in a line up the north slope, back for the cover of the deeper forest. The ranger noted, too, that Paulson's riderless mount was close behind them, and while he was glad that the horse had escaped, he was not pleased by the sight.
Now Paulson would have to run all the way out of the valley, and he would never make it unless Elbryan and Symphony could cause enough confusion behind him. On the ranger went, now taking and deftly stringing Hawkwing, weaving a zigzag course about the pines, and letting fly an arrow whenever a monster showed its ugly face.
He kept up the dodging, the quick bursts to break free of any flanking movements, for several minutes, but time was soon working against him as more and more monsters poured onto the valley floor, as his options for flight lessened. A glance back showed the ranger Paulson's lumbering form at least he thought the dark speck scrambling up the southeastern slope was Paulson -- but showed him also the huge form of the stubborn giant in close pursuit.
His game was ended, the ranger knew, and he spun Symphony in a tight circle about the next tree -- poked a powrie hiding amid the thick boughs in the eye with Hawkwing for good measure -- then cut a straight line in pursuit of Paulson and the giant.
Huge stones splattered in the mud all about him, stripping the branches from the sides of nearby trees, and the shouts of a hundred monsters followed Elbryan out of that valley.
But those shouts were fast receding, Symphony's great strides outdistancing the pursuit, and sheer luck saw the ranger through the shower of giant-thrown stones. He got over the lip of the valley, spotted the distant form of the lumbering giant, and plunged fast among the skeletal forms of the leafless trees.
Paulson was caught; he tripped over an exposed root and went facedown into the mud and slush. He heard the giant's victorious laughter, imagined the spiked club coming up high, and covered his head with his hands, though he realized that meager defense would do him little good.
The giant was indeed closing for the kill, lifting its deadly weapon, when an arrow thudded hard into its back, turning its evil laughter into a sudden wheeze. Outraged, the behemoth spun.
Elbryan stood right up on Symphony's back, the horse in full gallop. He drew out Tempest and put his bow to the saddle. The giant was near a wide- branching elm with thick, solid limbs.
"Be quick and be sure," the ranger said to Symphony, who understood his plan perfectly.
The horse angled near a second elm, its branches intertwined with the one near the giant, and Elbryan leaped away, running, surefooted, along one rain- slicked limb.
The giant turned and stared curiously as the suddenly riderless horse continued to bear down upon it, but the monster, after a moment's thought, seemed satisfied with that and lifted its club to meet Symphony's charge.
At the last second, the horse veered sharply to the side, and the giant lunged, and only then did the stupid fomorian notice the second form, running along the branches, running right by its bending form.
Tempest flashed like blue-white lightning, tearing a long line across the monster's throat. The giant came up with a roar and swung hard, but Elbryan had already dropped off the back of the limb, and that sturdy branch stopped the club far short of the mark. Under the limb came Elbryan, Tempest stabbing, then slashing upward into the monster's loins as it tried futilely to extract its spiked club from the stubborn branch.
And even worse for the giant than the stabbing, searing pain down low was the wound across its throat, the wound that spurted blood wildly and refused to allow the monster to draw breath. Its rage played. out, as the terrible wound and the flying blood took away the monster's strength. The giant let go of the club, then, and staggered backward; grasping at its torn throat. It looked down through blurred eyes to see the wicked man back atop his stallion, the other man, the easy prey, climbing up behind him.
The giant reached for Elbryan and Paulson, but its senses were playing tricks now and the men were fully twenty feet away. Reaching, reaching, the giant overbalanced and fell to the ground.
The behemoth heard the hooves receding into the forest, heard the distant voice of a human female, and then the darkness closed in.