Mather glanced at Olwan, at his brother, at the strength of the man’s body and the determination on his face. He wondered then what feats they two might accomplish together, allowed himself to fantasize about the two of them hunting goblins in concert. Perhaps he could give give to Olwan some of the gifts the Touel’alfar had given to him. Perhaps he could tutor the man on the ways of the forest and the fighting styles that would elevate him above other warriors.
But that was for another day, Mather promptly reminded himself as Olwan returned his gaze and smiled.
“We did well together,” the man said, a voice strong and resonant.
Mather smiled in reply. “But we’ve a ways yet to go,” he reminded, and they each went right back to work, urging on the horses, pulling hard the wagons, and somehow, against the odds and against the fury of the storm, they crested the ridge and rolled and slid into Dundalis proper. Mather pointed out the common house.
“You will be welcomed there,” he assured Olwan.
“Are you not accompanying us?” the man asked incredulously.
“This is not my place, though the folk here are friendly enough to those who come in peace,” the ranger replied.
“Where, then, will you go?” Olwan asked. “Which house?”
“None in town.”
“Surely you don’t mean to go back out in this storm?”
“I am safe enough,” Mather assured him, and with a smile and a pat on the man’s arm, the ranger started away.
“And what is your name?” Olwan called after him.
Mather almost answered, but then considered the possible implications of revealing a name that might be familiar to Olwan Wyndon. All of the townsfolk knew him merely as “the dirty hunter,” so that is what he replied. With a smile to assure Olwan once again that all was well with him, he melted into the snowstorm.
And what an entrance the winter had made! Snow piled and piled, blown into drifts twice the height of a man, whipping and stinging so ferociously that Mather could hardly see a line of towering pine trees, though they were barely twenty yards away. He crawled under one large specimen, its branches wide, the lower one pushed right down to the ground by the heavy snow. With fingers that could hardly fell, he fumbled in his pack for kindling and flint and steel. Soon he had a small fire going. He wouldn’t get much sleep this night, he realized, for he had to keep the fire burning and had to tend it constantly to ensure that it did not ignite the tree about him.
But that was his way, his calling, and as his hands began to thaw and to hurt, he accepted that, too, as the lot of a ranger. He would spend the night here, and in the morning, would dig himself out and perhaps go to Dundalis and speak with his brother.
Perhaps.
The snow continued that night but lightened, and the wind died away at last to a few remnant gusts. On one of those gusts came a cry of anguish that sliced the heart of Mather Wyndon, a scream of pain and fear from a voice that he knew well.
He drew out his sword and used it to lead the way through the tangle of branch and snow, pushing out into the frigid air, trying to orient himself and determine the direction of Bradwarden’s howl. The wind was from the northwest still, and it had carried Bradwarden’s cry, so Mather set out that way, circumventing Dundalis, the smoke of the many chimneys thick in the air. Soon he found a path cut through the drifts-by goblins, he knew, though he could hardly see on this dark night. He didn’t dare light a torch, fearing to make himself a target, but he understood his disadvantage here. Goblins were creatures of caves and deep tunnels. They could see much better in the dark than even an elven-trained ranger.
Mather was not surprised when he came through one large drift and caught a flicker of movement to the side, a missile flying straight for him.
He sent his energy into Tempest, and the sword flared with angry light. He brought the blade whipping about, intercepting the hurled spear and knocking it harmlessly aside, and then slashed back, deflecting a second.
The third got through.
In the brutal cold, Mather hardly felt the impact, but he knew it was bad, for the spear had caught him in the side, under the ribs, its tip driving front to back. When he grasped at the bleeding wound, grabbing the shaft to steady it, for every twitch sent a wave of agony rolling through him, he felt the slick point of the weapon sticking out of his back.
He hardly realized he was lying down now, on his back in the snow, staring up at the descending flakes, and suddenly, so very, very cold.
Movement nearby, the goblins rushing in for the kill, brought him back to his senses, made him understand that death was imminent.
But not now, Mather determined. Not like this. With a growl, he snapped apart the spear shaft just above the wound entrance and fought away the surge of blackness that threatened to engulf him. Growling still, teeth clenched in sheer determination, he closed his hand upon Tempest and lay very still, waiting, waiting.
Three goblins came upon him, laughing and hooting, and then howling in surprise as Mather sprang up at them like a cornered wolverine. He whipped and stabbed Tempest in a furious flurry, hardly bothering to aim, and when his sword flew above the closest ducking creature, leaving it an opening on his left side, he simply punched out his free hand with all his strength, connecting solidly on the goblin’s jaw and launching it to the snow.
Mather let his rage take him, knowing that if he stopped and considered his movements, if he played out this fight with insight and thoughtfulness, his pain might overwhelm him. Thus, he was surprised mere seconds later, to find that all three goblins were down, two dead and the third groaning. Mather moved for that one, thinking to make it tell him where he could find Bradwarden, but then he heard the centaur cry out again and marked the direction well.
He killed the goblin with a clean stroke.
And then he fell to his knees, the waves of pain buckling him, the dark and cold weakness creeping into his every joint. He looked down at the bloody spear stump. He wanted to pull it out, but understood that the barbs would take half of his belly with it. He wanted to push it through and knew that soon he would have to, but he understood that to extract that point now would be fatal, for he would likely bleed to death before he ever found help.
He looked back in the direction of Dundalis, peaceful, oblivious Dundalis. Not so far away, he thought, and he realized that he could make it there, and that someone there would tend to him, his brother, perhaps.
Bradwarden cried out again, and Mather took his first steps… away from Dundalis.
Half blind with pain, his limbs numb with cold, he plowed on. His blood came thick in his mouth, that sickly sweet taste promising death.
He spat it out.
Purely focused, beyond pain and weakness, he knew where he was and could guess easily enough from the direction of Bradwarden’s cry where the goblins would be. On he went, refusing to surrender to the pain and the cold, refusing to die. He tried to pick his path carefully but wound up having to burst right through snow drifts, the wet stuff only increasing the cold’s grip on him. But on he went, and some time later, he saw a campfire, and then, as he neared, saw the silhouettes of several goblins, and one large form, balled in a net and hanging above the camp, above the fire.
He could only pray that he was not too late.
The goblins had their eyes turned to Bradwarden, the centaur squirming in the heat and the smoke as flames licked at him.
And then Mather was among them, and one, and then another fell dead to Tempest’s mighty cut.
The others did not flee, though, as goblins often did, for they outnumbered this obviously wounded man seven to one, and in this snow and in this cold, they had nowhere to run. On they came, howling and hooting.