They ran into the night, coming to a high bluff, warded with pillars on all sides save the path upward.
“Wait here,” Stela told Briar. Without waiting for him to respond, she gave a whoop, thrusting an alagai-catcher into the air, then ran off with the others.
Briar itched to follow the sounds of battle and flashes of wardlight that followed, or to flee them, but he waited patiently as it went on, noting after a time that the sounds and flashing grew closer.
Soon the Wardskins came back into sight, led by Stela and Franq. Between them they dragged a struggling wood demon, bent almost double by the alagai-catcher’s cable and crooked staff hooked around its neck. Behind, the other Wardskins jeered, kicking and punching to keep the corie off balance as it was dragged into the warded circle were Briar stood.
The sight answered any questions Briar might have about his “initiation.” He began unwrapping the bandages on his hands as the Wardskins formed a circle around them. His palms were a little tender, but the impact and pressure wards were sharp and clear.
Stela looked at him as she and Franq dragged the demon to the center of the bluff to stand before Briar. “Initiation’s over when it’s dead.”
Briar nodded, and she pressed a button on her alagai-catcher, releasing the cable even as Franq unhooked his staff. He drew a ward in the air over Briar. “Blessings of the Deliverer upon you, Briar Damaj.” Then the two of them stepped back into the ring of onlookers.
The wood demon shook itself off with a roar, hauling in great breaths and scratching at its throat. It was not seriously injured, and in moments its magic would restore it to full combat ability.
Briar never gave it time, leaping in close and driving his open right palm into its knee. The impact ward flared and the demon toppled with a shriek as a rush of power rocked up Briar’s arm. While the demon was prone, Briar spit hogroot juice in its eyes, blinding it. The Wardskins cheered.
Briar gave ground as the corie lurched back to its feet, seven feet tall with arms long enough to drag talons on the ground. It tried to pinpoint Briar by sound, but the shouts of the Pack drowned its ears. It sniffed for him, sneezing at the scent of hogroot.
Like humans, demons closed their eyes and clenched up when they sneezed. Briar used that moment to step in, catching the woodie’s arm in his left hand. The pressure ward smoked against its skin, flooding Briar with strength as he shattered its wrist with the impact ward.
The demon howled, clutching at its limp talons as Briar slipped back out of reach, circling.
Wisdom dictated he take his time. He was growing stronger with every blow, delivering harm quicker than the demon could heal, especially with Briar draining its magic. That kind of caution was why Briar had survived so many years, living in the naked night since he was six summers old.
He struck again, hitting the corie in the back and knocking it off balance. It swept its good arm at him. Briar ducked back, then shot forward, delivering an open-palm blow to its snout.
His mind told him to retreat again, but the demon seemed to have slowed. It was vulnerable as it reeled back, and Briar kept the offensive, landing blow after blow. He forgot caution. Forgot defense. He sensed the kill.
A wild swing of the wood demon’s great gnarled arm took Briar in the stomach, cracking ribs and launching him through the air. He hit the ground hard several feet away, and the crowd, cheering a moment ago, gasped.
Coughing blood, Briar shook himself off, rolling to his feet. Already the magic was healing him, but the world spun as he tried to take a step, and the recovered demon leapt at him.
The Wardskins shouted encouragement, Stela loudest of all, but none of them moved to help him. This was part of the initiation. Either the initiate killed the demon, or the demon killed them.
Wood demons’ arms were long and powerful, but they were not nimble. Too dizzy to fight, Briar fell flat on the ground. The talons whiffed overhead as the demon passed.
Briar kept prone, letting the magic rushing through his body do its work. The world had stopped spinning by the time the woodie pulled up short, talons tearing the soil atop the bluff in great clumps.
It roared, rushing him again. Briar rolled away at the last moment, throwing a pouch into the demon’s gaping maw. The woodie snapped at it instinctively, filling its mouth and nostrils with powdered hogroot.
While the demon choked and retched, Briar got back to his feet. He watched for a moment, then saw his chance and rushed in, using the woodie’s gnarled knee as a step to climb onto its back. He put a leg into its armpit, hooking it around the corie’s good arm to lock it in place as he caught its throat with his left hand. The pressure ward smoked and burned, Briar’s grip growing strong enough to crush steel. The demon’s neck was filled with powerful corded muscle and sinew, but it was only flesh.
Briar put his right hand against the back of the woodie’s neck. The impact ward flared, pushing forward even as Briar’s other hand pulled back. Slowly, his hands moved closer together.
The demon thrashed wildly, stumbling around the bluff. It drew close to the onlookers, but the crowd only jeered, shoving it back toward the center with warded kicks and punches.
The demon threw its free arm at its back, but with the wrist broken, it could not bring its talons to bear. Briar accepted the blows, keeping his hold. The more the magic built, the stronger he felt.
The woodie threw itself to the ground, rolling to try to dislodge him. The wind was knocked out of him, but Briar sensed desperation and tightened his grip. The Wardskins stood silent, holding collective breath until the corie’s neck broke with an audible snap.
The crowd erupted in cheers, everyone rushing in as Briar lifted the huge demon clear over his head and threw it off.
Then he was up in their arms, bounced above the crowd as they carried him about the bluff chanting, “Wardskin! Wardskin! Wardskin!”
Briar had never felt so alive.
One of the girls produced a pipe, playing a lively song, and the crowd began to dance.
Briar tired of being tossed about, slipping down to his own feet right in front of a beaming Stela Inn.
“Knew you could do it!” Stela kissed him, his lips still tingling from magic. “That was the fastest kill yet, and I didn’t pick a little one.” She winked. “Wanted to show you off.”
Briar knew he should say something, but no words came. He just stood there, stupidly grinning at her.
Stela drew her knife and flipped it in her hand, holding it out to him handle-first. “Ent over. You have to cut out its black heart.”
Briar stared dumbly at her for a moment, then shook himself, taking the knife. He strode over to the demon, catching one of its armor plates and prising the knife underneath. Cutting wards flared as Briar yanked on the plate, half cutting, half tearing its chest open.
Black ichor covered the wards on his hands. They glowed, leaching its magic, making him strong beyond belief. He dropped the knife, ripping the next armor plate off with his bare hands. He weakened the demon’s rib cage with the pressure ward, then struck hard with the impact, shattering bone.
Briar thrust his hands inside the creature. In a moment he held up its heart, and the Wardskins cheered again. They had produced a great barrel of ale and were passing sloshing cups.
“My uncle Keet didn’t think Mudboy had it in him!” Stela boomed to the crowd. “Said Briar Damaj wasn’t good enough to be Pack.”
There was jeering in response, and Stela put her hands on her hips. “What do the Wardskins say?”
“Pack!” the others shouted, punching fists in the night air. “Pack! Pack!”
Stela stepped up to Briar, putting her hands on the heart. They came away black with ichor. “Pack.” She wiped the fluid across her breast, gasping in pleasure as her wards glowed, absorbing the power.
“The Deliverer is strong within you,” Franq agreed, stepping up next to touch the heart. Like Stela, he wiped the blood across his tattoos, shivering as they brightened. Then he turned to Briar, reaching out a black finger to trace a ward on his forehead. “Pack.”
The Wardskins formed a queue, each touching the heart and wiping ichor across their wards. “Pack,” they whispered.
“Want another taste,” Stela said, giving the heart a squeeze, rubbing ichor onto her warded arms like lotion.