Bastion of Darkness (23 page)

The plan did sound plausible, though Belexus was hesitant about parting with the weapon. Before the ranger could decide whether to agree or argue, though, the diamond sword suddenly appeared in Del’s hands. Belexus blinked many times, then looked to his own hand, and the sword he still held.

“A few tricks left in my old bones,” Ardaz remarked through his chattering teeth. He, too, would have winked, except that one of his eyelids was frozen closed. “I do daresay!”

Belexus caught on; Del already understood, since the sword in his hands was surely illusionary, a trick against
sight, but not against touch. The speeding spirit looked all around, his gaze finally settling on one particular spot, the same ledge beneath the rocky overhang that the friends had first set down upon when they had arrived at the mountain.

“Get up and out of sight and put down on a ledge somewhere to give Calamus a needed rest,” Del explained. “If my plan works, we’ll be rid of the foul wyrm, and soon enough.”

Following the spirit’s line of sight and considering the view, Ardaz and Belexus began to figure out what Del might have in mind. In any case, the spirit was right: They, especially weary Calamus, needed a break. And so the ranger lifted his mount up above the outcropping and found a sheltered ledge, tucking them all in tightly behind stone walls. Both of the men belly-crawled out from cover to the lip of the ledge, peeking out and down to see DelGiudice standing on the lower ledge, under the stone, waving the illusionary sword and calling for the wyrm.

“There,” Belexus announced soon after, spotting the flying dragon as it sped straight for Del.

The wyrm came in fast, turned upright at the last second, and hovered in the air just before the spirit.

“Looking for this?” Del shouted, holding forth the sword. “A trick, am I? Well, a trick, then, that steals from under a dragon’s nose! A trick that now carries the one weapon that the pitiful wyrm fears!”

A low, ominous growl spilled from the dragon’s mouth.

“Fire away, then!” Del said with a laugh. “Show me again your pitiful breath, weakling Salazar! No, wait; allow me to find a side of bacon, that I might cook it in the fire, if the fire is hot enough to cook bacon, that is.”

On the higher ledge, the wizard’s heart leaped into his throat, for he, like anyone who knew anything about dragons, understood that to insult the beast’s fiery breath was perhaps the very worst thing that anyone could possibly say.

But Del knew what he was doing, purposely goading forth that breath. Unfortunately, though, the dragon, too, figured out the ruse. The fires would engulf the spirit, true enough, but they would likely also melt out the supporting rock around him, and hovering Salazar was not so far away.

Instead of fire, therefore, the dragon attacked furiously with bite and claw, and with its sheer bulk, rushing to the ledge, barreling right at, and ultimately right through, the surprised spirit.

“Time for leaving,” Belexus reasoned, understanding that Del and the illusionary sword would not keep Salazar busy for long. The ranger blew a long breath as he watched the spectacle of dragon rage, as he watched Salazar tear and bite away huge chunks of solid stone. “Time for leaving fast,” he added.

But Ardaz had another idea. He pointed his staff out from the ledge, gathered all of his energy, so much so that his white hair and beard began tingling and standing on end. And then he let fly the greatest bolt he could muster, aiming not at the wyrm, for that would have done little more than feed Salazar’s anger, but at what he considered to be a critical spot in the overhang. The lightning stroke blasted in, the ensuing crack of thunder rolled and rolled, and so, too, sounded the ominous rumble within the stressed stones.

Salazar thought to leave, wisely so, but the image of that sword, of that prized piece of stolen treasure, held the dragon an instant longer, a clawed foreleg reaching out and grasping for the blade.

And passing right through the blade.

The dragon roared in outrage, and that tremendous sound only intensified the split of the stones. Out from the ledge leaped the wyrm, spinning and diving, but not quick enough, for the falling rock caught the beast by the wing, tangled it and pounded it, taking the dragon on a long and bouncing ride down the side of the mountain.

“Good enough for you, murderous beastie!” Ardaz cried.

Belexus stared at the wizard incredulously, not used to such obvious outrage from the gentle man.

“Oh, Desdemona,” Ardaz said softly, and the ranger understood.

For Del, there were moments when the rock was passing him by, followed by moments when one piece hooked him and took him along, followed by a confusing rush of stone that left him wedged into a crack of a dropping boulder. Then all was spinning chaos, the spirit wondering if this slide could harm him or perhaps even destroy him.

It ended three thousand feet below the ledge, the spirit of DelGiudice weaving about the openings in the crushed stone, finally coming to a place of living matter, the buried dragon, that he passed right through. At the very end of one of Salazar’s forelegs, Del found an escape, and he came out into the daylight, looking about for his friends. He spotted them at last, circling down slowly on Calamus, and he waved to them and hailed them, then went silent with fright as the rock all about him erupted and flew wildly.

Salazar pulled free of the rubble, roaring madly. Belexus turned Calamus about sharply, the pegasus all too willing to angle away from the dragon. Still, the ranger feared that he and his friends were bagged, for the
dragon could out-fly the pegasus and there was no apparent cover anywhere in this area.

But the dragon, as luck would have it, could not out-fly Calamus at that time, could not fly at all, for one of its wings had been torn and broken in the tumble. The battered wyrm loosed its breath at the trio, more for show than as a real attack, for they were long out of range. Then, grumbling and growling like a beaten cur, the defeated dragon began climbing through the rubble.

“Farewell, mighty Salazar,” DelGiudice, standing near, offered quietly.

The dragon head turned to face him.

“You cannot harm me,” the spirit calmly and rationally explained. “Nor should you desire to harm me.”

“THIEF!”

“But only of necessity,” Del replied. “Trust me when I say to you that my friends and I had no intention of waking you, had no desire to disturb you in any way. What fools would we be if we had come willingly, eagerly, to the lair of the greatest terror in all the world!” The spirit was trying to play up to the legendary ego of dragons, trying to settle Salazar down so that, when the wing finally healed, the dragon might not be so quick to come out of its hole.

“THIEF!” the hardly satisfied wyrm roared, and its breath fell over Del, who gave a motion like a sigh, though no breath was exhaled, and stood calmly, waiting for the conflagration to end.

“Thief indeed,” he called again after the wyrm, who had resumed its climb. “And know that if Salazar comes out of his lair, I, DelGiudice, will enter that smelly place and take more than a single sword!”

The dragon’s tail snapped down so hard that a wide crack appeared on the ground, but the battered beast did not bother to look back.

It was many hours later, the sun setting over the western horizon, before Belexus and the wizard drifted down to the spot where Del’s spirit patiently waited. Calamus dropped lightly to the stone, and Belexus hopped off, helping Ardaz to follow.

“You could have come up to us,” the weary wizard reasoned.

“I didn’t know where you had gone off to,” Del replied. “First rule when you’re lost: Stay put.”

“Well, stay put no longer,” Ardaz said, and Del noted that all the usual cheeriness was gone from his voice. “We’re far too near the dragon’s hole for my comfort.”

“And for me own,” Belexus agreed, glancing nervously up the mountainside. The two of them had watched Salazar slink back into the mountain hours before, but that fact brought little easiness, for dragons, particularly when hunting, have the patience of elves, as only creatures who live through the centuries might understand. “We’ve been too long near this place, and now’s not the time for merrymaking,” he added, seeing the ghost’s widening smile. “Back to Calamus for yerself and me,” he said to Ardaz, “and back to the air for yerself,” he added, pointing at Del. “And let us be long from this place afore we stop to consider our good fortunes.”

The others readily agreed—the others who had accompanied the ranger to this spot, at least, for all about the friends, from behind every conceivable stone, appeared dozens of short, sturdy men, with dark brown skin, and with the knotted muscles that come from years of working stone.

“Dwarves?” DelGiudice asked skeptically.

“What name do ye be puddin’ on us den?” one of them replied in a choppy but lyrical accent that sounded somehow familiar to the ghost.

“Hey boss, de Architect Tribe we be,” another added, poking Belexus hard as he spoke.

“Well, well,” Ardaz remarked. “This does get more interesting by the moment, now doesn’t it?”

H
E STOOD UP
. It seemed a minor thing to the animals in the forest about him: a man climbing unsteadily to his feet, as one who had been asleep might, or as one who had been sitting too long in an awkward position. But for Bryan of Corning, that movement felt momentous indeed. He remembered the pains and that deathly chill when he had crawled into Avalon more than a week before. He remembered the view of his own feet, black and thick, and he remembered most of all the pain when Brielle had warmed them again, the agony that had so quickly replaced the sheer numbness.

That was all past now. The half-elf wriggled his toes, all ten of them—and how glad Bryan was to see, to
feel
, that he still had all ten of them! And though his legs were surely tingling and prickly, it was a sensation that Bryan savored: the evidence of life.

“I thought ye’d sleep all the winter,” came a quiet yet strong voice from the side, from the shadows of the lower branches of an evergreen.

And Bryan saw her then, and surely his heart fluttered, though he had already given that heart to another. If the horrid wraith had been darkness incarnate, then this, before him, was the embodiment of beauty itself, walking softly, a dream creature on a blanket of gentle fog, her golden hair shining, green eyes and the emerald wizard’s
mark sparkling through the shadows. Bryan understood that the twinkle of those eyes could penetrate the darkest of nights, like the soft gasp or the sharp cry of a lover, like the very stars above.

Bryan’s smile widened as Brielle stepped out of the brush, dressed only in her white gossamer gown and her delicate slippers, though the air was not warm and the ground was covered still with snow. “I am truly indebted to you, fair sorceress of Avalon,” the half-elf said, bowing low.

“Nay,” the witch replied. “ ’Tis me place to do the things I do, and nothing more.”

Bryan didn’t believe a word of it. He knew what Brielle had gone through to save him, knew that she had taken his pains as her own, one at a time, and, with them inside her own seemingly fragile frame, had battled them and overcome them. He knew that she, for the better part of a week, had felt the same agony as he, and he understood, too, from their joining, that Brielle had been near to the brink of death, had come so very close to stepping over that thin line and slipping away forever into the dark realm.

“If Brielle went about the world trying to steal all the pains, as she stole mine, then surely she would have been worn away many centuries ago,” Bryan remarked, trying to put a bit of levity in his tone so as not to offend the witch.

“Not to all the world, but to those who come to me door,” Brielle replied. “Me magic gives to me the healing power; how wicked I’d be not to share it with those in need.”

Bryan nodded, conceding the point, though he still considered Brielle’s actions toward him heroic and beyond any call of duty. “Whatever you may call it, you have my thanks and my heart.”

“Indeed I could’ve had it,” the witch said with a smile. “I could’ve plucked it beating right from yer chest, so battered were ye!”

Bryan shared her laugh, but put on his serious expression almost immediately and dipped a low bow.

“Go on, then,” Brielle said to him. “For I’m thinking that another’s got yer heart.”

The half-elf straightened and eyed the witch directly, all traces of any smile fast flown from his serious expression.

“And it’s for her that I’m wondering,” Brielle went on, a bit tentatively, for she recognized the fear in Bryan’s look.

“And was it for her that you healed my wounds?” the young half-elf asked.

“Might be that I tried the harder,” Brielle admitted. “But no, for suren I’ve heard tell o’ Bryan o’ Corning, and he’s not one deserving death at the hands o’ Mitchell’s foul wraith.”

“How do you know about the wraith?” Bryan asked, letting the conversation continue its tangential flow, for he could not seem to muster the courage to tell the fair witch the truth about her daughter. Not yet.