The Witch's Daughter (31 page)

The talons, chilled by the touch that promised a death of unspeakable horror, did not offer any further resistance, did not even rise from the ground until the wraith was far away.

    Thalasi saw the entire northern perimeter of his encampment parting, talons running this way and that, and he heard the excited and horrified whispers erupting all about him. But more than anything else, the Black Warlock felt the presence of his child, this undead thing that numbered among his greatest achievements. For all the relief the Black Warlock felt at the entrance of Hollis Mitchell, though, his primary emotion remained his unending rage, and after his initial elation upon seeing the approach of the wraith, Thalasi went right to work scheming a suitable punishment for his tardy general.

If Mitchell realized that Thalasi would be angry, he showed no outward signs of it. He strode through the ranks of the talons and right up to the Black Warlock.

“Where have you been?” Thalasi demanded. “You should have arrived four days ago!”

“The road was not so empty,” Mitchell replied casually.

Thalasi paused to weigh the implications of the answer and to survey the area around the wraith.

“Where is your steed?” he asked.

“Gone.”

A flame of anger lighted in the deep sockets of Thalasi’s eyes. “Gone?”

“Ashes to ashes,” Mitchell replied sarcastically.

Now the Black Warlock was beginning to understand. He waved the curious talons away and led Mitchell to the privacy of his tent, not wanting to scold the talon commander in front of the creatures he would lead.

“Who have you battled?” Thalasi asked when he was certain they were alone. “Who was it that destroyed the horse I created for you?” Considering the route Mitchell had crossed, the Black Warlock already suspected the answer and was more than a little concerned.

“It was a witch,” Mitchell answered. “A friend of yours?”

“Save your sarcasm,” Thalasi hissed. “What brought you near Avalon? Are you that much of a fool?”

Mitchell laughed at him. “You fear her?”

“I respect her powers,” Thalasi corrected. “As should you. Especially near the boughs of her domain. You are mighty, wraith, but do not overstep the limitation of that power. Consider yourself fortunate that Brielle did not reduce you to the nothingness you once were.”

“Bah!” Mitchell spat. “Damn her and her wood! I had him! I had Belexus, that cursed ranger. But he got to Avalon and she appeared, the mothering witch.”

“Belexus?” Thalasi stammered, knowing the name all too well from the disastrous assaults on the bridges and from the past encounters between the ranger and the being that had been Martin Reinheiser. “What … why did you meet with that one? You had your orders.”

“I found him, and his friend—who is now deceased,” Mitchell explained, his chuckle unnerving even the Black Warlock. “They had camped along the banks of the river, offering an opportunity for pleasure I could not bypass.”

“So you crossed and attacked them.”

“And I would have had both of them if that damned witch and her flying horse hadn’t saved Belexus.”

Thalasi slammed his palms together, releasing a jolt of black energy that blasted the wraith to the ground in a heap. Mitchell looked up at the master, fearful respect in his flaming eyes for the first time. He thought himself a doomed and damned thing at that moment, as surely as he had seen his doom when Reinheiser had revealed himself as the new Black Warlock at the bottom of the cliff in Blackamara those twenty years before.

“You revealed yourself to them,” Thalasi scolded, but he was calm again, his outrage quickly dissipating as he tried to salvage his plans. “Brielle knows who you are, what you are, and now she will direct attacks against you. I had hoped to reveal you in the final battle over the river, to let King Benador and the others discover their doom even as it fell upon them.”

Mitchell floated to his feet. “They won’t stop us,” he declared. “Maybe I should not have crossed, but the thought of catching Belexus, of stealing him so easily from the Calvan effort! I did not forget what that one did at the Battle of Mountaingate. With his strength and his leadership he can sway a battle as surely as an entire brigade of skilled warriors.”

“True enough,” the Black Warlock admitted. “The Four Bridges would surely have fallen on the first assault if it had not been for his efforts. The Calvans rally around him, throw themselves in the path of spears aimed for him.”

“His friend, that other ranger, Andovar, is dead,” Mitchell said, his evil smile returning. “And Belexus is wounded—perhaps he, too, is dead by now. I doubt that he will rejoin the battle anytime soon.”

“Do not underestimate the healing powers of Brielle and her forest,” Thalasi warned grimly, but he was also wearing
an evil smile upon his face. The notion that his wraith had sent the mighty son of Bellerian running in fright amused him profoundly, so much so that he wasn’t certain if the cost had been too high.

“I shall make you another steed,” he said to the wraith. “But later, when I have the time. You are here now, and you must meet with the talon commanders at once and take immediate command of the army. Summer is slipping from us, and I mean to get to the walls of Pallendara before the first snow.”

“We should cross the bridges this week,” Mitchell agreed.

“Perhaps,” replied Thalasi. “But we have many tasks before us.”

“Boats,” Mitchell said.

Thalasi considered the option and nodded, pleased that Mitchell was so quickly formulating the plans they would need. “I must leave the mechanics of crossing the river to your judgment,” he explained. “It is my task to discern the best way to defeat the witch and Istaahl in Pallendara, or at least hold them at bay. And I must find you the tools to defeat Ardaz, for he has not yet shown himself, but I do not doubt that he shall.”

“Then make me the tools,” Mitchell replied, still grinning. “And worry about the wizard and the wretched witch. I will have the army ready to cross, and at their lead, I will see to the destruction of the Calvan forces.”

“Among them, only Ardaz can stand against you,” Thalasi declared with all confidence. “And together, we will take care of that one.”

    
Andovar reached out to her, hopelessly begging her to save him. And Rhiannon reached back, stretched her arms out across the misty barrier to catch the doomed man
.

But even as her fingers neared the ranger, the cold
blackness of death fell over him in an opaque veil so final that even Rhiannon’s magic could not penetrate it. The young witch screamed again and again, crying out in hopeless denial
.

And Andovar screamed back, a distant cry falling, ever falling, away from Rhiannon
.

Away from the world of the living
.

Her breath came in loud gasps; the streaked sweat on her forehead loomed stark in the thin moonlight.

And Bryan was by her side. “A dream,” he whispered into her ear. “Only a dream.”

Rhiannon looked at him for support, took comfort in his touch as though it was some kind of material litany against her inability to grasp the pleading hands of Andovar.

But even as the young witch began to separate the dream from the reality about her, she realized that something was wrong. “Evil,” she said to Bryan’s concerned look. “There be great evil about this night.”

Bryan glanced around, suddenly back on the alert. One hand went to his sheathed sword.

“Not here,” Rhiannon assured him. She let her sixth sense, her witching sense, guide her eyes back to the east and the north, to the talon encampment.

Bryan did not miss the direction of Rhiannon’s gaze.

“What happened?” he asked.

Rhiannon shrugged. “An ally of the Black Warlock?” she asked as much as answered. “Some great and powerful evil has entered the battlefield.” She groped for words to explain her vague sensations. “Me heart sees a blackness.”

Bryan considered her comments and their present position. They had moved deeper into the mountains, but the half-elf knew paths that would get them back to the north-easternmost slopes overlooking the battlefield in merely two or three days. “Do you wish to go back there?” he asked.

Rhiannon wasn’t certain how she might help against whatever was causing this insistent, frightening sensation, or what her role in such a large-scale battle might be. But she felt it her duty to go back to the field, as though somehow fate demanded that she be in attendance when the Black Warlock made his move.

“I must,” she said to Bryan.

Bryan didn’t try to argue. He, too, wondered what his final place in all of this might be. He had carved a fine niche thus far, but when all was over, his contribution to the overall effort would not be so dramatic, particularly if the Black Warlock proved victorious.

“We will set out in the morning,” he agreed. “But for now, get some sleep. The trails ahead will not be easy marching.”

Rhiannon squeezed his arm in thanks, then slipped back to her blanket bed. But she would find no more sleep that night, not with the vision of Andovar falling into darkness so clear in her thoughts.

And not with her suspicion that this evil she now sensed was somehow connected to Andovar’s death.

    The talons were no more comfortable around the wraith of Mitchell than they were around the Black Warlock himself. But like Thalasi, Mitchell incited more than enough terror in the beasts to persuade them to follow his every command. He met with the leaders that very night and laid the groundwork for the effort needed to get them across the river.

When the bright summer sun climbed into the sky the next morning, the wraith took shelter under the thick folds of a tent. But the 268talons went to work, organizing their troops into divisions and setting them about the tasks that General Mitchell had outlined.

*   *   *

Across the river, King Benador and his commanders watched with growing concern as all of the wood the talons could gather—deserted wagons, walls of buildings, even uprooted trees—was brought to the northern corner of the encampment.

“It seems that our enemies have found some direction to their meandering ways,” the King remarked to an adviser at his side.

The other man scanned the entirety of the camp, his eyes falling on battle formations that several groups of talons were practicing. “The wedge,” he remarked pointedly, surprised that the untrained things even knew of such advanced tactics. “We might find them better prepared the next time they decide to storm the bridges.”

“A few days of practice.” Benador shrugged. “It will not stand up against the lifelong dedication of the Warders of the White Walls. Alas for the talons, the result will be the same.”

Benador’s confidence did much to boost the spirits of those around him, but even the determined King had to pause in concern a short time later. For by the day’s end, many boats had already been constructed.

D
AY AFTER DAY
King Benador watched the activity across the river with growing concern. The talons seemed more of an army now, not just a collection of bloodthirsty killers. Someone or something was putting them in line and giving them the discipline they needed to strike out effectively against the Calvan army. And while the numbers of Benador’s camp continued to grow daily as volunteers found their way in from all across eastern Calva, the talon army swelled even more. On a single day a troop of several thousand flowed in from the Baerendels, all eager to join the Black Warlock in his glorious conquest.

Benador and his troops kept the pressure on the talons constantly. Several times each day, brigades of cavalry rushed out over the bridges, trampling whatever defenses the talons had hastily erected and cutting down as many of the wretched beasts as they could before they were forced to retreat. Lately, though, the talons had found ways to counter the attacks, and the cost in soldiers for the excursions continued to escalate. And with Rhiannon gone, Siana had to work all the day through tending to the wounded.

But if the King’s hopes had started to wane throughout
the remainder of that third week at the river, they were brought back tenfold one bright and shining morning.

“Let our ride be strong and proud,” Arien said to Bellerian and Belexus at his side. “Let the shake of the earth and the winding of our horns announce our arrival this morn. And let the Calvans take heart and the talons pale in fright!”

Bellerian grasped the elven Eldar’s outstretched hand as Belexus pulled out his great horn and winded the first call, and with that clear, strong note, the charge of the elves and the rangers was on.

    The sudden blast of a hundred horns brought the Calvan camp awake, and sent Benador scrambling for the flap of his tent, thinking that the talons had launched their expected attack. But by the time the King got outside, he understood the truth of the disturbance, for the trumpeters of the Calvan camp took up a resoundingly joyful answer.

And then came the bellsong of the elven steeds, dancing in the joyful melody with the pounding of hooves. Benador clenched his fists, a determined grimace on his face, when he saw them break across the northern horizon, half a thousand elves and their escort of mighty rangers. Around the King, the Calvan camp erupted in cheers and shouts, and soldiers rushed out to greet the newcomers.