The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) Read Free Page B

storm as an enemy, would not surrender anything. He went behind the wagon and grabbed it with hands that could hardly feel, and with strength beyond that of nearly any living man, began to lift.
    And then he was not alone, Olwan beside him, setting his legs and his back and hauling with all of his strength, and somehow, impossibly, the two brought the wheel over the root and shoved the wagon back onto the trail.
    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 largespecimen, 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,