The Witch's Daughter (12 page)

From every wall, from the courtyard below, the remaining people of Corning sent a final cheer into the air.

Thalasi trembled in rage. He hadn’t wanted to use his power—not yet. But such arrogance could not go unpunished, and his army could not afford to get bogged down at the gates of this city. He threw his arms up into the air and fell into that magical plane, gathering, demanding power.

Then Thalasi hurled his collected force at the battered town.

The western gates exploded into a million burning splinters. Now it was the talons’ turn to hoot and cheer, as they poured through the wide breach.

Meriwindle leaped down from his perch to meet them head-on.

Thus did Meriwindle die.

And thus did the town of Corning die.

    In the frenzy of a few moments, the remaining talons on the south side of Rhiannon’s gorge were cut down, and Belexus led the charge in pursuit of the young woman. She had slowed, pacing herself to keep even with the weary lizard-riding talons across the chasm.

Still, when Belexus caught up to her, he was alarmed to look upon her pale and drained face, for her magical efforts had indeed exacted a heavy toll.

“Go,” Rhiannon told him. “I will keep this group from the road.”

Across the splitting earth, only two dozen yards away, more than a thousand talons rushed along, spitting curses at the wicked sorceress that kept them from their prey and from their goal in the south.

“Ye mean to cut the earth all the way to the river?” Belexus called to Rhiannon. “A day o’ riding and more that’ll be.”

Rhiannon knew the grim truth of his words. Already she felt her power beginning to wane. “Follow me, then!” she cried, formulating a desperate plan. “All of ye!” The cavalry fell in stride behind Belexus and Rhiannon as she picked up the pace again, easily outdistancing the talons across the way. And when she had gained enough ground ahead of the leaders of the invading army, she cut sharply to the north, turning the break of the chasm with her.

The change in direction, the breaking of momentum, sapped the last of the young woman’s strength. Holding on as tightly as she could, she spurred her mount back around to the west, encircling the terrified talons.

Belexus and the others understood her motives. Though few of the talons were surprised enough to tumble into the new angle of the gorge, the whole of their force had been suddenly stopped and thrown into disarray. Belexus charged ahead of Rhiannon, leading his soldiers head-on into the confused ranks.

Exhausted beyond its mortal limits, the black and white mare stumbled and went down. Rhiannon, barely able to remain conscious, crawled over to the poor beast and wept, caught in a tumult of confusion and revulsion. What awful power had she aroused? It had fully possessed her in a fury that she could not begin to comprehend, much less control. Was it her destiny, then, to rain destruction upon the earth, and upon the beasts of the earth, innocent and evil alike? She stroked the trembling flanks of the horse and spoke softly into its ear as it passed from life.

And then Rhiannon, fainting from exhaustion, knew no more.

    Belexus did not miss the fall of his friend, and the sight of it spurred him on to new heights of rage, stole the weariness from his muscular arms. He tore into the talon ranks, hacking down two creatures at a time.

And then a new sight came over the battlefield, a sight that inflicted equal heights of rage in Belexus’ soldiers. Rising over the western plain came yet another pillar of black smoke.

Corning was burning.

They drove the talons into the gorge and trampled those who could not get out of their path. The hunter became the hunted as the talon forces were split in half, and many of the creatures broke from the back ranks to flee into the empty northland.

For a full hour they fought, men and talons with nothing
left to lose. Again and again Belexus chopped down a foe, only to find another ready to take its place. But whenever weariness began to slow the ranger’s fell blade, he only had to look back beyond the edge of the fighting to the still forms of Rhiannon and her horse.

And for the men of Corning there remained the constant reminder of the billowing cloud on the western horizon. One soldier went down under the pull of three talons, and when he fell, five of the beasts leaped upon him for the kill. But it was the soldier that finally climbed out of that tangle, mortally wounded a dozen times but refusing to stop fighting, refusing to lie down and die, until the talon force had been beaten back.

How many talons died and how many managed to flee to the north in that savage battle would never be tallied, but of Belexus’ force of one thousand, only two hundred remained, and the ranger was convinced that five talons had died for every man.

“C
ORNING IS BURNING!
” Lennard cried.

Bryan and the others rushed over the final rise on the mountain spur, excited but not too concerned. A hearth out of control, perhaps, and nothing that the townsfolk couldn’t handle.

But as the group, one by one, crested the lip of the stone, their excitement washed away on a wave of dread, for the rising column was too great for any hearth fire.

Bryan scanned the plain to the east of the town, searching for some explanation. Another cloud, this one of dust, rose in the north, as if a long line of horses, wagons, and boots stirred the dirt of a road.

The awful truth became clear to all of them then, and Bryan spoke the word aloud. “War.”

“We must get home!” Lennard cried when he had found his breath, but then another call rang out.

“Talons!” shouted Tinothy, the one member of the band who had not yet seen the smoke from Corning. “Talons in the mountains.” The boy, at fourteen years the youngest of the band, caught up to them, eyes widening as he beheld the disaster of his homeland.

“Where?” Bryan pressed him.

The cloud of smoke held Tinothy entranced.

Bryan pulled him roughly aside. “Where?” he demanded again. “You have to tell me where.”

Tinothy pointed absently around the side of the mountain toward a wide valley. “Down there and moving south,” he explained, his voice a monotone, purely expressionless.

“How many?”

“Dozens. Hundreds, maybe.”

Bryan looked again at the crawling line of fleeing people along the road, beginning to understand.

“Forget the talons,” said Lennard. “We have to get home.” Several others echoed the young man’s sentiments, but Bryan realized a different need.

“No,” he said quietly. “There is nothing we can do for Corning. We know not if the town is still standing, and we are two full days’ march away.”

“Then what are we to do?” demanded Siana, one of the three girls in the band. “We cannot just sit here and watch as our people are destroyed.”

Bryan had no intention of doing anything of the kind. “Talons in the mountains,” he said grimly. “Do you understand their purpose?”

“They shan’t catch us!” Siana retorted, as if the notion that any talons could find them in this wild land of mountains and valleys was purely absurd.

“Moving south,” Bryan growled at her, at all of them. “Toward Doerning’s Walk.” He pointed down to the road, the others began to catch on. Doerning’s Walk was the swiftest route out of the northeastern tip of the Baerendels, an intercepting course for the main road of the western fields.

“Too many for us,” Siana remarked, the anger gone from her voice now.

“You mean to stop them?” Lennard balked.

“Not stop them,” Bryan replied. “We are but a few.” The grim light in his eyes when he looked around at his friends inspired their courage and determination. “But we can slow them down.”

“What do you plan?” asked Siana.

“We can get to Doerning’s Walk before them,” Bryan replied. “There are narrow trails where a few people and a few cunningly placed traps can bottle up a larger force for a long time.”

“That is our duty,” Jolsen Smithyson piped in. He looked back to the smoke cloud, knowing that if talons had indeed attacked the city, his father would have stood resolutely against them. He could not know, however, that his father was already dead.

“You are best with the bow,” Bryan said to Lennard. “Go with Tinothy and flank this talon band. A few well-placed arrows should turn them from their course, or at the least slow them. You must buy us some time so we can prepare the party near Doerning’s Walk.”

    Andovar thundered past the leading edge of the refugee line, his cries and determination lending them some hope. “Ride!” they cheered after him, guessing that he was the herald who would alert all of Calva. “The King will come!” others shouted, punching determined fists into the sky, knowing that to be their only hope.

When the sky before the ranger darkened, and that behind him turned crimson with the setting of the sun, he did not stop. His horse, spurred by the magical urging of the witch’s daughter, continued its tireless pounding pace, and no weariness came over Andovar’s grim visage.

He crossed the great river and through the streets of Rivertown, crying, “Talons! Talons! Gather your arms and courage!”

The brave folk of the town, already more than a little suspicious at the sight of the clouds of smoke on the western horizon, rushed from their homes, shops, and taverns to heed the call of the ranger. A fresh horse was offered, but Andovar, trusting in the magic of Rhiannon, declined.

And then he was off again, to the few towns along his course, and beyond, to Pallendara and the only hope.

    Lennard wiped the sweat from his fingers, then replaced them on the bowstring. A hundred yards below him marched the talon force, clearly visible along an open trail.

“How many?” an obviously frightened Tinothy dared to whisper.

“Let fly a few,” Lennard replied. “It will take them many minutes to get up that slope. Are you ready?”

On a nod from Tinothy, the bowstrings twanged.

Lennard, an amazing archer, had his fifth shot in the air before the first ever struck. He had gauged the distance correctly, but still it was more luck than skill that three of his five hit their mark, dropping talons to the ground. Tinothy was less successful, but still managed to get one.

The talon ranks split apart in confusion as the wretched creatures dove for cover, not even able to discern the direction of the hidden attackers.

A smile erupted on Lennard’s face. “Take that, dogs!” he cried as loudly as he dared. But when he turned his widespread grin upon Tinothy, he saw that his young friend wasn’t sharing his elation.

For the tip of a cruel spear prodded through the front of Tinothy’s chest.

They hadn’t figured on scouts.

    Bryan peeked under the long, flat stone. “Deeply washed out,” he reported. “If we dig it out more, it will not support
their weight on this end.” Heeding the command of the halfelf who had become their leader, Siana and three others set about the task.

All along this narrow stretch of trail, with rocky drops on either side, the majority of the group went to work, setting trip wires and deadfalls, and loosening stones along the edges. Thirty yards ahead, in a thick copse of trees, Jolsen Smithy-son led the work on camouflaged barricades and trip holes.

“Will this be the last?” Siana asked.

“The last big one,” Bryan replied. “Take as much time as you can; this one, above all the others, has to work if we are to have any chance of slowing the talons.”

“And how much time is that?” Siana asked grimly.

Bryan shrugged. “I’m going out to scout for Lennard and Tinothy,” he explained. “And for our guests.”

    Tinothy dropped facedown, and an ugly talon leaped astride the dead boy and tore its barbed spear from his back, twisting the weapon as it came out, reveling in the gore.

Solely on instinct, Lennard snapped his foil out and poked the vicious creature. The tip of the slender blade slipped in through the talon’s makeshift armor, but the weight of the creature as it fearlessly bore in bent the foil over and snapped it in half. Lennard fell back, barely dodging the first jab of the crimson-stained spear.

Again Lennard’s luck prevailed, for as he stumbled, the eager talon overbalanced and came crashing down on top of him. The remaining half of Lennard’s foil, pinned point out between Lennard and the falling monster, did not bend so easily.

The talon thrashed wildly for a moment, bruising Lennard about the face with heavy blows. The young warrior thought his life was surely at its end, but then the thrashing stopped and the talon, quite dead, lay still. Lennard took a
long moment to find his breath, then gingerly rolled the thing off him. His foil, still impaled deep in the talon’s chest, went over with it.

He knew Tinothy was dead, but he cradled his friend gently, not knowing whether to try to carry the body back with him or find a place for it here. The decision was stolen from him, though, as the sound of approaching talons reminded him that he was far from out of danger. He scooped up Tinothy’s sword and quiver and scrambled off over the rocks.

Flopping footsteps and angry grunts followed him every step. Stumbling, blinded by tears of remorse and fear, Lennard ran on, down the back paths toward Doerning’s Walk, toward his friends. If he could only get to them!