that spot.
The goblin, the closest form, was dead, its head bashed. Unreasonable hope pushing him on, Elbryan scrambled over the thing to the next body, sitting in the very corner.
It was his mother, dead as well—of smoke, Elbryan soon realized, for she had not a wound on her. In her hand she clutched her heavy wooden spoon. Often had she waved that thing at the children, Elbryan and his friends, when they were bothering her, threatening to warm their bottoms.
She had never used it, Elbryan only then remembered. Not until this day, he silently added, looking at the slain goblin.
All the images of her in life—waving that spoon, shaking her head at her impetuous son, teasing Olwan, and sharing a wink with Jilseponie as if they knew a secret about Elbryan—came flooding back to the boy in an overwhelming jumble. He moved in further and sat beside his mother, shifting her stiffening form that he might hug her one final time.
And he cried. He cried for his mother and father, for his friends and their parents, for all of Dundalis. He cried for Pony, not knowing that if he had rushed into town as soon as he had awakened, he would have spotted the battered girl stumbling down the south road.
And Elbryan cried for himself, his future bleak and uncertain.
He was in that corner of his house, that tiny link to what had been, cradling his mother, when the sun went down, and there he remained all through the cold night.
> CHAPTER 7
> The Blood of Mather
“The blood of Mather!” scoffed Tuntun, an elf maiden so slight of build that she could easily hide behind a third-year sapling. Tuntun’s normally melodic voice turned squeaky whenever she got excited, and several of the others cringed and some even put their hands over their sensitive, pointed ears. Tuntun pretended not to notice. She batted her huge blue eyes and her translucent wings, and crossed her slender arms imperiously over her tiny, pointy breasts.
“Mather’s nephew,” replied Belli’mar Juraviel, never taking his gaze from Elbryan as the boy moved about the ruins of his house. Juraviel didn’t have to look Tuntun’s way to know her pose, for the obstinate elf struck it often.
“His father fought well,” remarked a third of the gathering. “Were it not for the fomorian—”
“Mather would have slain the fomorian,” Tuntun interrupted.
“Mather wielded Tempest,” Juraviel said grimly. “The boy’s father had nothing more than a simple club.”
“Mather would have choked the fomorian with his bare—”
“Enough, Tuntun!” demanded Juraviel; even in a shout, the elf’s voice rang like the clear chime of a bell. It didn’t bother Juraviel, or any of the others, how loud their conversation had become, for though Elbryan was barely fifteen yards away from them, they had erected a sound shield, and no human ear could have discerned anything more than a few chirps, squeaks, and whistles, sounds easily enough explained away by the natural creatures in the area. “Lady Dasslerond has declared this one a fitting choice,” Juraviel finished, calming himself. “It is not your place to argue.”
Tuntun knew she could not win this debate, so she held fast her defiant pose and began tapping her foot on the ground, all the while staring at young Elbryan—and not liking what she saw. Tuntun had little fondness for the big, bumbling humans. Even Mather, a man she had trained and had known for more than four decades, had more often than not driven her away with his pretentious purpose and stoicism. Now, looking at Elbryan, this sniveling youngster, Tuntun could barely stand the thought of seven years of training!
Why did the world need rangers, anyway?
Belli’mar Juraviel suppressed a chuckle, for he liked seeing Tuntun flustered. He knew the maiden would make his life miserable if he embarrassed her now, though, so he leaped up high, his little wings beating hard, lifting him a dozen feet from the ground; he came to rest on a
The goblin, the closest form, was dead, its head bashed. Unreasonable hope pushing him on, Elbryan scrambled over the thing to the next body, sitting in the very corner.
It was his mother, dead as well—of smoke, Elbryan soon realized, for she had not a wound on her. In her hand she clutched her heavy wooden spoon. Often had she waved that thing at the children, Elbryan and his friends, when they were bothering her, threatening to warm their bottoms.
She had never used it, Elbryan only then remembered. Not until this day, he silently added, looking at the slain goblin.
All the images of her in life—waving that spoon, shaking her head at her impetuous son, teasing Olwan, and sharing a wink with Jilseponie as if they knew a secret about Elbryan—came flooding back to the boy in an overwhelming jumble. He moved in further and sat beside his mother, shifting her stiffening form that he might hug her one final time.
And he cried. He cried for his mother and father, for his friends and their parents, for all of Dundalis. He cried for Pony, not knowing that if he had rushed into town as soon as he had awakened, he would have spotted the battered girl stumbling down the south road.
And Elbryan cried for himself, his future bleak and uncertain.
He was in that corner of his house, that tiny link to what had been, cradling his mother, when the sun went down, and there he remained all through the cold night.
> CHAPTER 7
> The Blood of Mather
“The blood of Mather!” scoffed Tuntun, an elf maiden so slight of build that she could easily hide behind a third-year sapling. Tuntun’s normally melodic voice turned squeaky whenever she got excited, and several of the others cringed and some even put their hands over their sensitive, pointed ears. Tuntun pretended not to notice. She batted her huge blue eyes and her translucent wings, and crossed her slender arms imperiously over her tiny, pointy breasts.
“Mather’s nephew,” replied Belli’mar Juraviel, never taking his gaze from Elbryan as the boy moved about the ruins of his house. Juraviel didn’t have to look Tuntun’s way to know her pose, for the obstinate elf struck it often.
“His father fought well,” remarked a third of the gathering. “Were it not for the fomorian—”
“Mather would have slain the fomorian,” Tuntun interrupted.
“Mather wielded Tempest,” Juraviel said grimly. “The boy’s father had nothing more than a simple club.”
“Mather would have choked the fomorian with his bare—”
“Enough, Tuntun!” demanded Juraviel; even in a shout, the elf’s voice rang like the clear chime of a bell. It didn’t bother Juraviel, or any of the others, how loud their conversation had become, for though Elbryan was barely fifteen yards away from them, they had erected a sound shield, and no human ear could have discerned anything more than a few chirps, squeaks, and whistles, sounds easily enough explained away by the natural creatures in the area. “Lady Dasslerond has declared this one a fitting choice,” Juraviel finished, calming himself. “It is not your place to argue.”
Tuntun knew she could not win this debate, so she held fast her defiant pose and began tapping her foot on the ground, all the while staring at young Elbryan—and not liking what she saw. Tuntun had little fondness for the big, bumbling humans. Even Mather, a man she had trained and had known for more than four decades, had more often than not driven her away with his pretentious purpose and stoicism. Now, looking at Elbryan, this sniveling youngster, Tuntun could barely stand the thought of seven years of training!
Why did the world need rangers, anyway?
Belli’mar Juraviel suppressed a chuckle, for he liked seeing Tuntun flustered. He knew the maiden would make his life miserable if he embarrassed her now, though, so he leaped up high, his little wings beating hard, lifting him a dozen feet from the ground; he came to rest on a
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