The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series

by R. A. Salvatore

  "I thought you would stay low on the hill to check on the mer­chants," Nightbird said, seeming not too pleased that Pony was with him in this dangerous situation.

  "And I thought it was past time that I tried out this sword-dance you have been teaching me," she casually replied.

  "Do you have the stones ready?"

  "We will not need them."

  The determination in her voice bolstered the ranger, even brought a smile to his face.

  The goblins circled, trying to get a measure of these two. Their many dead companions lying about them vividly reminded them of the consequences of any foolhardy attacks. Still, they outnum­bered Pony and Nightbird by more than five to one.

  One creature hooted and rushed ahead, launching a spear at Pony. Up flashed her sword, at the last moment, deflecting the weapon high, over her shoulder, and taking most of its momentum. Pony hadn't cried out at all, but she didn't have to, for Nightbird, feeling her muscles against his back, recognized the movement as clearly as if he had made it. He half turned as the spear rebounded over Pony's shoulder, and a quick snap of his hand snared it. In the same fluid movement, the ranger brought the goblin spear past him and heaved it hard right into the chest of another goblin that had ventured too close.

  "How did you do that?" Pony asked, though she had never even glanced back to see the movement.

  Nightbird only shook his head, and Pony sensed it and went quiet, as well, the two of them settling more comfortably into their defensive stance. They felt an amazing symbiosis growing be­tween them, as though they were communicating through their very muscles as clearly as if using open speech. Pony anticipated every twitch, every bend, of Nightbird's stance.

  The ranger felt it, too, and was surely amazed by the intimacy. Despite his logical fears, Elbryan knew enough to trust in this strange extension of bi'nelle dasada. He did pause and wonder if the elves even knew that the sword-dance could be taken to this ex­treme. But his musing lasted only an instant, for the goblins were getting edgy, some skittering closer, another readying a spear as if to throw it—though the goblins across the way, having witnessed the first disastrous attempt, weren't pleased by that prospect.

  Pony understood that Nightbird wanted her to go out to the left. A quick glance that way told her the reason: a particularly bold goblin needed to learn a swift and painful lesson. She look a deep breath, eliminating all doubts from her thoughts, for she knew that doubt would bring hesitation, and hesitation would bring disaster. This was the real meaning of their morning ritual, she realized, a dance as intimate as lovemaking, and now was the real test of their trust. Her love wanted her to go out to the left.

  Nightbird felt the tension in her back, then the sudden lunge, and as she moved, he moved, rolling around, off her back foot, a complete pivot that took the two goblins rushing in at the apparent opening completely by surprise. The closest goblin was prodding out at Pony with its spear when Tempest slashed down, taking both its arms at the elbows.

  The second goblin at least managed to get its club in the way, though the ranger merely slapped the blocking weapon aside and stabbed the creature hard in the belly.

  Now Pony was moving, rolling over Nightbird's trailing foot, as he had gone over hers. And again, those goblins coming in at the apparent opening Nightbird's movement had caused were caught by surprise, and by Pony's slashing sword. One fell to the ground, grasping at its torn throat, while two others leaped into a short and hasty retreat.

  And Pony and Nightbird were back-to-back again, crouched, in perfect defense and perfect harmony.

  * * *

  From the tree line, Belli'mar Juraviel watched in satisfaction as Symphony ushered the riderless Greystone to safety. Many times the elf had witnessed the intelligence of Symphony, but every time, as now, he was thrilled and awed by the display.

  Even more awesome was the spectacle that Juraviel witnessed when he glanced back down to his human companions and saw the harmony of their movements, Pony and Nightbird complementing each other with absolute perfection. To the Touel'alfar, bi'nelle dasada was a personal dance, a private meditation of a warrior, but now, watching this, Juraviel soon understood why Nightbird had taught it to Pony, and why they danced together.

  Indeed, at that moment on the grassy slope—a slope fast turning red with spilled goblin blood—Pony and Nightbird were as one, a single warrior.

  Juraviel realized that his bow should not be idle, that he should be helping out his friends. They hardly seemed to need it, though, playing off each other's movements so fluidly that the goblin circle was widening, not closing, and was thinning, the creatures giving more and more ground.

  Juraviel did finally blink away his awe long enough to retrieve a single arrow, and his shot took a goblin in the back of the neck, just under the skull.

  The line around Nightbird and Pony thinned considerably, with more goblins turning and running away than falling to the pair's harmonious dance. Pony scored a kill, and the ranger cut down a goblin stupidly going for her back again as she turned, but then it all seemed to come to a standstill, with no monsters venturing near enough for any attacks.

  Nightbird sensed the mounting fear and tension, saw the goblins looking as much behind them now as ahead. They wanted to break and run off, every one, and the battle was about to enter its most critical stage. He started to explain as much to Pony, but she cut him short before he had hardly begun, saying simply, "I know."

  And she did know, Nightbird recognized, from the subtle move­ments of her muscles as she dug herself in, finding balance and po­sitioning her legs for a fast shift.

  The spears came in at them in no coordinated fashion; the first goblin let fly, turned and fled, and a shower of missiles followed, the creatures using the barrage to cover their flight.

  Nightbird and Pony spun and dove, came up with swords slash­ing, deflecting and dodging. There was no pause on the part of the ranger or his companion as they came through the volley un­scathed, each rushing out at the closest goblins, cutting them down and running on to the next in line. No longer did the two work in concert, but neither did any of the goblins, so every fight became an individual contest. Pony worked her sword marvelously, weaving circles about her opponent until she found an opening, and then striking true, a measured thrust, her second or third hit usually fin­ishing the task.

  Nightbird, stronger and more skilled, was less finesse and more sheer power. As goblins raised their weapons to block, he merely smashed through the defense, and usually through the goblin in the same deadly strike. He darted back and forth, rushed ahead and turned completely about, whatever was needed to bring him to his next kill. The goblins should have calmed and organized a coordi­nated resistance, but they were stupid creatures, and frightened.

  They died quickly.

  Those few who managed to get up the hill to the tree line ahead of the ranger found yet another foe, a lithe little creature, hardly as tall as a goblin, wielding a sword so slender that it seemed more fitted to a dinner table than a battleground.

  The leading goblin swerved to meet this newest foe, thinking it to be a human child, thinking to score a quick kill.

  Juraviel's sword smacked against the tip of the goblin's blade, once, and then three more times, so rapidly that the creature had no time to react. And each time, the elf inched ahead, so that when the fourth parry rang out, Juraviel was only a foot from the surprised goblin.

  The elf's sword flashed again in rapid succession, once, twice, thrice, driving three holes into the goblin's chest.

  Out charged Juraviel, meeting the next, this one unarmed, having thrown its spear at the ranger. The goblin held up its hands.

  Belli'mar Juraviel of the Touel'alfar had no mercy for goblins.

  The rout on the slope ended at about the same time as the rout at the wagons. The lead group of goblins, the ones Pony had tripped up, fell dead to the last without ever getting into the ring.

  There remained one more substantial group, though, r
unning down the road to the east, out of the dale.

  Pony spotted Juraviel first, sitting calmly on a low branch up the hill, wiping the blood off his sword with a rag of goblin clothing.

  "I counted four who passed beyond me," he called down to his friends. "Taking full flight down the back side of the ridge."

  Nightbird whistled, but Symphony was moving to him before he made a sound.

  "Are none to get away to carry on the legend of the Nightbird?" Pony teased him as he reached for the saddle. In the northland war, Nightbird had often let one or two monsters run away, to whisper his name in fear.

  "These goblins will only cause more mischief," the ranger ex­plained, swinging himself up. "There are too many innocents around whom they might harm."

  Pony looked at him quizzically, then to Greystone, wondering if she should join him.

  "Keep watch on the merchants," the ranger explained. "They will likely need your talents at healing."

  "If I see one close to death, I will use the soul stone," Pony explained.

  The ranger conceded the point.

  "And what of them?" Pony asked, pointing to the band fleeing to the east. There had to be at least a score of the creatures, maybe thirty or more.

  The ranger considered their course and gave a chuckle. "It would seem that the monks may yet be involved," he said. "If not, we will hunt that band down when we are finished here. Our road is east anyway."

  He was off before Pony even nodded her assent, thundering Symphony up the ridge and down the back side, preparing Hawkwing as he went. He spotted the first of the goblins running through the grass and closed the distance quickly, meaning to go right past the creature and use his sword. Then he caught sight of the second, running in a completely different direction; the group had scattered.

  No time for Tempest, the ranger decided, and up came his bow.

  Only three remained.

  CHAPTER 29

  Hungry for Battle

  "If we join in prayer, a single stroke of God's lightning hand will destroy them all," offered one young monk, who had also been on the expedition to Aida, including the battle outside the Alpinadoran village.

  Master De'Unnero's sharp eyes narrowed as he considered the monk and the assenting nods of those nearby, men who had heard the tale of the great victory in the northland, the tale of sparking fin­gers reaching down from the line of monks to utterly vanquish their enemies.

  There was something else inspiring them, too, De'Unnero rec­ognized. Fear. They wanted a clean and quick blow against the ap­proaching goblin force because they were afraid of engaging these relatively unknown creatures in melee. The would-be abbot strode powerfully up to the speaker, his gaze setting the man back on his heels, draining the blood from his face. "Master Jojonah alone will use the magic," he snapped, his head jerking side to side so that all could see his expression, so that none would dare question him. "He is too old and infirm to fight."

  Looking at the wretched man, Jojonah had an almost irresistible urge to rush over and prove him wrong.

  "As for the rest of us," De'Unnero went on, barking the words, "let us consider this an exercise of valuable training. We may yet see battle in our new home in Palmaris."

  "This 'training' could be deadly," Master Jojonah piped in, and the measure of calm in his quiet voice only added to the sarcasm.

  "All the more valuable, then," De'Unnero said without hesita­tion, and when he saw Jojonah shaking his head, he stormed over to stand before him, crossing his strong arms defiantly over his chiseled chest.

  Not now, Master Jojonah reminded himself quietly, not wanting to embarrass the man, for that would only make De'Unnero dig in all the more. "I beg of you to be done with this approaching band efficiently and cleanly," he said. "Let us blast them away, a single, combined stroke of lightning, and go see to whoever is beyond that rise." He pointed behind De'Unnero as he finished, to the plume of black smoke still drifting lazily into the air.

  In response, De'Unnero handed him a piece of graphite, a single stone. "Use it well, brother," he said. "But not too well, for I wish to have my new attendants properly trained in the pleasures of battle."

  "Pleasures of battle?" Jojonah echoed, but under his breath, as De'Unnero spun away, calling to the brothers to ready their cross­bows. The old master could only shake his head in disbelief. He rubbed the graphite about his palm, thinking to hit the goblin troupe hard and fast, to kill them or scatter them, that few, if any, of the younger monks would see any real battle. His rubbing became more urgent when the forward scout signaled back that the goblins were approaching, for Jojonah could not feel the power of the stone.

  The master fell within himself, seeking that special place of magic—in his mind, that special place of God. He dismissed thoughts of De'Unnero, believing that such negativity might be having an adverse effect. And he rubbed the graphite about his fin­gers, felt its every groove.

  But not its magic. Jojonah opened his eyes to find he was alone in the road. Near panic, he glanced around, and then relaxed some­what, seeing that De'Unnero had positioned the others in the brush to the side. The lead goblins were in sight now, running hard around a bend in the road. Jojonah looked down at the graphite, in­credulous, feeling betrayed.

  The goblins came on, their rush changing from one of retreat to a hungry charge.

  Jojonah lifted his arm and closed his eyes, calling to the stone.

  Nothing, no lightning, came forth, not even a sparkle, and the goblins were closer now. Jojonah tried again, but found no source of magic within that graphite. Then he understood the truth of it, that this stone was not enchanted, was just an ordinary rock. Fear gripped Jojonah; he thought that De'Unnero had set him up to die, here on the road. He was an old man and had no weapon, and could not possibly do battle! He gave a cry and turned about, hobbling as fast as his thick legs would take him.

  He heard the goblins howling, closing. He expected a spear to take him in the back at any moment

  But then De'Unnero and the brothers struck hard at the goblin mob, monks leaping up from the brush at the sides of the road, firing heavy crossbows designed to take down powries, or even gi­ants, point-blank. Thick bolts tore through goblin flesh, blasting holes in the diminutive creatures, and sometimes even in goblins behind the first victim. The goblin mob was leaping, spinning, falling, and the goblin cries of attack turned fast to screams of sur­prise and agony.

  Jojonah dared to slow and glance back, to see that half the gob­lins were already down, some squirming, others dead, and that Master De'Unnero had leaped out onto the road in the midst of the rest. De'Unnero was a perfect killing machine now, leaping and twisting. Out snapped his extended fingers, hand rigid, driving through a goblin throat. He turned as another tried to club him on the head. Up came De'Unnero's arms in a stiff cross above his head, catching the downswing between his forearms. Thrusting the arms out wide, he tore the club from the startled goblin's grasp, caught it while it spun about, then snapped it hard across the crea­ture's face, and then again, even more forcefully, with a powerful backhand.

  De'Unnero kept running, using the club to knock aside a spear thrust, then around again to smash the first goblin a third time— though it was already nearly unconscious on its feet—laying it out in the dirt.

  Around he came, launching the club at the spear-wielder, then following the weapon's flight with a quick rush, moving inside the tip of the spear and pushing it aside, while his free hand rained heavy blows about the creature's face and throat.

  Other monks were on the road now, overwhelming the gob­lins, breaking them apart. A few monsters scampered out to the side, whining, but De'Unnero had left several of his warriors in place, and they had their powerful crossbows ready by that time.

  And then, with the goblin horde already falling apart, came perhaps the worst blow of all, as brutal De'Unnero fell into his signature gemstone, the tiger's paw, as his arms, already deadly, transformed into the mighty limbs of a tiger and began
raking apart those nearest goblins.

  It was over before Master Jojonah could even get back to his companions.

  When he did return, huffing and puffing, he found De'Unnero in an excited, almost frantic state, the man rushing all about the line of young monks, clapping them hard on the back, verily snarling at their great victory.

  Only a few monks were down, and the worst injured of the group had been hit by a crossbow quarrel from across the road, the firing monk not taking care with the angle of his shot. Several gob­lins on the road were still alive, but in no condition to continue any fight, and several more had escaped, running fast across the fields to the sides of the road.

  De'Unnero seemed not to care. The man even found a wide smile for Jojonah.

  "It could not have been quicker even with the use of magic," the would-be abbot said.

  "Something you obviously never intended, other than your per­sonal stone," Jojonah replied sharply, tossing back the useless stone. "I do not like being a pawn, Master De'Unnero," Jojonah went on.

  De'Unnero glanced around at the young monks, and Jojonah did not miss the sly grin on his face. "You played a necessary role," De'Unnero argued, not bothering to scold the man for referring to him as merely a master.

  "With a true gemstone, I could have been more useful."

  "Not so," said De'Unnero. "Your lightning stroke may have killed a few, but the rest would have scattered, making our task all the more difficult."

  "Several did get away," Jojonah reminded him.

  De'Unnero waved the thought away. "Not enough to cause any real mischief."

  "So you needed me frightened and running."

  "To lure them in," De'Unnero replied.

  "Me? A master of St.-Mere-Abelle?" Jojonah pressed, for he understood the more subtle reasoning of Marcalo De'Unnero. The man had humiliated him in front of the younger monks, thus se­curing his own standing among them; while Jojonah had run like a frightened child, De'Unnero had leaped into the midst of the enemy and personally killed at least a handful.