The Witch's Daughter (16 page)

But Bryan was gone.

T
HE CRY OF
battle, the ring of weapon against weapon, shattered Rhiannon’s slumber before the first light of dawn. She had slept among the refugees, in an encampment on the field normally reserved for trading caravans just outside Rivertown. Looking back at the bridges, Rhiannon could see the unfolding events. On again came the talon horde, ferociously charging across the expanse of the Four Bridges. Caltrops, crossed spikes, and wires slowed them, though, and then the valiant defenders, Belexus at their lead, sprang upon them.

Rhiannon felt a tingle of power growing within her once more, prickling her skin, stealing her breath. Tremendous power, might beyond anything the warriors could imagine, and she felt as if she could shatter the talon army with a thought.

But the witch’s daughter was more terrified of that unknown strength than of the talons—she could not rid herself of the image of the field she had battered and cracked, or the sight of her poor horse dying—and she cried out in dismay and pushed the urges away.

*   *   *

The magic-wielder on the western side of the bridges held no such reservations. The Black Warlock sank within the magical plane, once more grabbing at all the power his fragile mortal form could endure. He gathered the energy and then threw it into the sky in the form of two blackened thunderclouds that sped away from him with preternatural fury, the roiling dark shapes barely containing their explosive power.

The first of the violent storms broke over Avalon in the north; the other released its fury upon the tower of the White Mage in Pallendara. Hardly seeming cognizant of the battle unfolding before him, the Black Warlock stood behind the thick ranks of his talons, his arms outstretched to the skies, his mind drawing power from the plane of wizards.

Morgan Thalasi’s grimace revealed his intent and determination; he would feed the power of his storms until he could draw no more, until sheer exhaustion laid him low.

Lightning crackled into Brielle’s forest, sundering trees and lighting wind-whipped fires, a furious, relentless barrage.

But nature was the Emerald Witch’s domain. Brielle was nature’s guardian, while Thalasi was no more than a crafty thief. As swift as thought, Brielle countered the Black Warlock’s storm with cloudbursts and opposing winds of her own.

This time, though, the Black Warlock was not caught by surprise by the magics of the witch. This time Brielle would have to fight with all of her strength just to save her homeland.

    Istaahl found himself in similar straits. One bolt thundered through his magical wardings and cracked a line across the side of his tower. The White Mage called upon his own domain of power to counter, summoning a mighty wind from
the sea to blow the black clouds of Thalasi away. But Thalasi fought back, resisting all of Istaahl’s considerable gusts.

“Not this time!” the curious dual voice of the Black Warlock roared. Thalasi clenched his bony fists and grasped the magic even harder, pulling the universal powers to his will, perverting them to their very limits for the sake of his battle.

They would come to his call, or he would tear them into chaos for their resistance.

    Most of the traps on the bridges were expended now, their barbs and spikes covered to ineffectiveness by the sheer number of talon corpses. But the talons, their numbers swelled throughout the night, pushed on right over their fallen kin, driving the defenders steadily backward.

Then, inevitably, they breached the southernmost bridge, and eager talons swarmed onto the eastern fields.

The Black Warlock howled in glee at the sight, but did not dare to relinquish his assaults on his more powerful enemies and join in the conquest.

Again came Belexus and the battle-weary cavalry of Corning, blowing their horns and urging on their steeds. The ranger led a brutal charge down the second bridge, trampling and hacking his way until the press of horse and steel got him and his soldiers to the western banks. The talons fell back readily, willing to let the horsemen onto the open field where they could be assaulted from every side.

But Belexus had other plans. As soon as he and his men came off the second bridge, they swung to the south and back onto the bridge that had been lost, coming up behind the pressing talons and splitting them off from their rear support.

Half of the cavalry unit secured the bridge, while Belexus and the other riders cleared the remaining portion of the bridge and came all the way back onto the eastern
fields, trapping those talons who had crossed within a noose of defenders.

The Black Warlock watched his victory unraveling before him. “No!” he cried, seeing yet another of his unskilled army’s attacks foiled. Thalasi could stand the sight of defeat no longer. He released the fury of his storms in several quick, vicious strokes against the wood and the tower, then pulled himself from the magical battle with his rival wizards and rushed to squash the defenders on the bridges.

    Desperate bolts of power roared out of Istaahl’s tower to counter the sudden rush of Thalasi’s storm. Istaahl heard the thunder again and again as lightning crackled into his home. Somehow the walls of the White Tower withstood the blasts, and the storm burned itself away in only moments.

In Avalon, the witch’s conjured storm, so pure in its call to the magical forces, had been gradually winning through, and as soon as Thalasi turned his attention from his battle with Brielle, she blew his dark clouds to harmless bits of scattered energies.

    A line of fire shot out from the Black Warlock’s finger, incinerating a dozen men and their mounts on the southernmost bridge. Spurred by the appearance of the godlike leader, the talons roared in again.

Thalasi, running even closer to the fray, pointed his hand again for another strike.

But a vine rushed out of the earth and caught his feet, tripping him facedown. And a crack opened in the ground behind him, like an earthen mouth hungry for his flesh. Thalasi clawed at the ground, but the vine’s insistent tug dragged him backward.

*   *   *

Belexus did not see Thalasi fall. He rushed back out onto the bridge to shore up the wavering line of cavalry. Right past his comrades he charged, diving fearlessly into the talon ranks.

His troops watched in horror, thinking their leader slain. But it was Belexus who emerged from the jumbled pile of flesh, still secure in his saddle and scattering talons with each mighty swing of his sword. The ranger’s blood ran from a dozen wounds, but his fury would admit no pain. And the talons, thinking him some immortal demon who had risen up against them, fell back and fled altogether.

    “Damn you, Brielle!” Thalasi spat, too concerned with his own predicament to even consider the disastrous events on the bridge. He uttered a quick spell to counter, thrusting one of his arms straight down into the ground up to the shoulder, an impromptu anchor.

But then the wind of Istaahl, gathered from the might of the sea, slammed the Black Warlock in the face, nearly tearing that anchoring limb from its socket.

A primal scream of tremendous power erupted from Thalasi’s thin-lipped mouth, splitting Istaahl’s wind apart. The Black Warlock spun about, one of the fingernails on his free hand growing out to the length of a scythe. One swipe of that unnatural blade severed Brielle’s vines cleanly, and a second scream of rage from Thalasi shook her earthen maw apart into a formless sandy pit.

Thalasi staggered to his feet, thoroughly drained. In Avalon, Brielle slumped against a tree, and in Pallendara, Istaahl the White fell to his knees. Never had any of the three witnessed such a singular display of power.

For all of them, the battle this day was ended.

*   *   *

Without the guidance, or even the visible specter, of their warlock leader, the talons could not sustain any offensive thrusts. They battled back and forth with the defenders for several long hours, but never found another foothold on the other side of the river.

And through it all loomed Belexus, fearless and strong. Talons fled at the mere sight of the ranger—at least those talons who had some measure of wisdom.

For others there was only the doom of a mighty sword.

    “They’ll win the day,” came a soft voice behind Rhiannon. She turned to see the young boy she had attended to on the wagons the day before.

“Suren they will.” Rhiannon smiled at him.

“My arm’s all better,” the lad said, and he thrust the limb out for Rhiannon’s inspection.

She grasped the arm gently and turned it to see the wound. It hadn’t been too serious, just a small gash and a deep bruise that had looked far worse than it truly was. Rhiannon had done what she could, applying a clean strip of cloth to the cut and gently massaging the bruise, more to give the distressed boy some comfort than for any medicinal purposes.

But when she removed the cloth now, her breath was stolen away. In trembling surprise Rhiannon turned the arm and looked all about for some sign of the injury.

The arm was healed; not a mark remained.

Rhiannon could only guess that some of the power had flowed through her on that wagon ride, too subtle perhaps for her to even sense it. The implications now overwhelmed her. Could that same force that had sundered the earth, had torn the ground apart with such appalling fury, be used for healing?

Every day, it seemed, the world got more intriguing, and more terrifying.

    The fighting ended before sunset, the talons fleeing from the death corridors that were the Four Bridges, and the defenders retrieving their wounded and dead, and trying to replace some of the wrecked defensive barricades.

For one of the principals, though, the battle had apparently ended forever.

“You should come,” a grim-faced soldier said to Rhiannon as the first stars twinkled in the sky.

Rhiannon knew at once his sad tale.

“The ranger took many hits this day,” the soldier explained. “His blood stains the stones of every bridge; alas, not much is left within him. We fear he will not live the night.”

    When the Black Warlock surveyed the scene on both sides of the bridges, he was not unhappy. He had lost many talons this day, many more than the defenders lost men, and Brielle and Istaahl had showed themselves to be more powerful foes than he had anticipated. But still more talons flocked to the encampment that night, and many of them brought news that more and more tribes had heard of the battle and were rushing to join in the glorious campaign against the humans. And while Thalasi’s army continued to swell, the ranks of the defenders could only dwindle.

He understood that sheer weight of numbers would get him across the great river the next day, or if not, most assuredly the day after that. Istaahl had learned of the return of Morgan Thalasi during the first battle on the bridges, Thalasi assumed, unaware of the ride of Andovar. So the King in Pallendara had been warned. But had the White Mage or King Benador really fathomed the weight of the assault?

Even if they had, the army of Pallendara would still be at least a day too late.

Once the talon army gained a foothold on the other side of the wide river, they would stamp the ground flat all the way to Pallendara.

    Her face ashen, Rhiannon followed without a word as the soldier led her to the camp up by the bridges and to the small tent that held the fallen warrior.

How weak mighty Belexus seemed to her now, his face hollowed and his muscular arms lying slack by his side. He was breathing but could not answer, could not even hear, when Rhiannon knelt beside him and whispered some words of comfort into his ear. The soldier’s estimate had been accurate; the young woman knew at once that Belexus would not live through the night.

Rhiannon sat there in silent sadness for many minutes, and then her sorrow began to transform. She felt the power growing within her, and at first pushed it away, instinctively fearing it. But the image of Belexus lying near death frightened her even more, and when her subconscious let the power in again, she fought against her revulsion and fear to accept it.

“Leave us,” she instructed the two soldiers in the tent. They looked at each other, owing their respect to the ranger who had led them, not wanting his passing to be without proper witnesses. Rhiannon insisted again, her voice stern and powerful, and they could not ignore her pleas.

When the soldiers were gone, the witch’s daughter leaned over her fallen friend, sensitive fingers touching his wounds, drawing the pain out of them. Rhiannon flinched as the ranger’s pain became her own, burning, burning beyond anything she had ever imagined. She held on stubbornly, knowing that she was drawing the wounds away
from Belexus, determined that he would survive even if the cost proved to be her own life.

Rhiannon wasn’t certain how much she and her magics would really be able to help, but after many minutes—minutes that seemed like agonized hours—Belexus appeared to be resting more comfortably, and the burn of drawing the injuries had lessened dramatically. Some color had returned to the ranger’s face and his breathing now came deep and steady.