Salvatore, R A - The Demon Awakens

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The Demon Awakens by R.A. Salvatore
Copyright 1996
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.
A way drifts music, Symphony sweet.
A way 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 comer 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 he 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
"The night woods are dangerous," her exasperated mother
"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 soft ness, 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?
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
a 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."
0lwan 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.
摘要：

TheDemonAwakensbyR.A.SalvatoreCopyright1996PreludeThedemondactylcameawake.Itdidn'tseemsuchamomentousthing,justagradualstirringinadeepcaveinafar,emptymountain.Anunnoticedevent,seenbynonesavethecavewormsandthosefewinsomniacsamongthebevyofwearybatshangingfromthehighceiling.Butthedemonspirithadawakened,...

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