The Witch's Daughter (30 page)

The half-elf was still conscious and standing when she reached him, though she suspected that he would fall to the ground if the stone wall was not holding him up.

“Who?” Bryan gasped. “How—”

“Me name’s not important for now,” Rhiannon said softly. She moved to examine the wound, and eased Bryan down to the ground. The spear had dug in deep, and no doubt its tip was barbed. But Rhiannon had been numbed to such sights over the past weeks, and she went about her task calmly and efficiently. She realized that she could not hope to remove the spear through any normal means, not here in the dust, with each movement of the shaft causing the young half-elf such incredible pain.

Instead she spoke the runes of a spell—none that she had learned, but simply words that now came to her in her time of need—and the spear shaft warmed to her touch. A moment later it came alive, a serpent writhing in Rhiannon’s hands. At her call, it backed out of the wound, leaving the spear tip unattached and still inside the half-elf.

Bryan watched it all through the blur of his pain, hardly believing his eyes and unable to utter any of the dozen questions that flooded through his daze. Rhiannon eased her hand across the open gash, numbing the pain, and she watched as Bryan slipped down and closed his eyes. Then Rhiannon stood beside him, considering where she could take him to finish the healing.

But though her gaze began up over the steep rocky slopes of the gorge, it inevitably came back to the scene at hand, to the giant oak and its gruesome victims. She had killed again, had allowed the possessing power its outlet to devastation. She thought Bryan asleep and moved to the tree, stroking its bark and whispering apologies for the decades she had stolen from its life.

Bryan half opened one eye and watched the raven-haired woman, understanding her even less than he had when she first appeared. He understood her to be a friend beyond all doubt, and knew that he would be safe enough under her care. For the first time in so very long, Bryan put his faith in
someone other than himself and let a comforting and necessary slumber overtake him.

    “Oh, damn,” Bryan whispered when he opened his eyes and found himself barely inches from the face of a gigantic brown bear. He was in a cave, and if he had taken a moment to consider anything other than the snuffling nose—and the white teeth beneath it—of the bear, he would have noticed that the pain was altogether gone from his side. Right then, though, the half-elf lay very still, looking for some way out of this unexpected predicament.

“So ye’re awake, then?” came a voice from the other side of the shallow cave.

At first Bryan disregarded the question, concentrating on holding his breath and keeping his eyes lightly closed, feigning death.
Bears do not feast on dead meat
, he silently reminded himself, a lesson from his father that he had hoped he never would have to put to the test.

But gradually, as nothing happened, Bryan’s curiosity got the better of him. He peeked out again. The bear had slumped back on its haunches, munching on some unknown treat, and its inquisitive stare had been replaced by one that Bryan found much more pleasant.

Rhiannon’s thick black hair hung down, brushing his bare chest, and her dark eyes considered him for a long moment unblinkingly. “How do ye feel?” she asked.

Her question reminded the half-elf of his wound, and his hand reflexively went to his side. But neither blood nor bandages greeted him, just the smooth skin of a new scar.

“Who are you?’ Bryan stammered, looking at his still clean hand in disbelief. It was all coming back to him: the spear, the charging talon, the intercepting tree, and it all seemed too preposterous to be true. But here was the perpetrator of the impossibilities, barely half a foot from his face.

“Me name’s Rhiannon,” the young witch replied. “And I’m knowing yerself as Bryan of Corning.”

“How did you know?”

“Ye’ve made quite a name for yerself.” Rhiannon smiled. “Many’s the one coming across the river and giving ye credit for the escape.”

Bryan accepted the compliment humbly, a bit embarrassed, but too caught up in the beautiful woman’s name for any self-conscious feelings to take hold. “Rhiannon,” he muttered under his breath, certain that he had heard that name before. Perhaps in one of his father’s tales.

“Ye’ve slept through most o’ the night,” Rhiannon remarked, seeing the confusion on the half-elf’s face.

“How many nights?” Bryan asked, giving up on trying to remember and more interested in going forward with this introduction.

“Just the one,” said Rhiannon.

Bryan’s jaw dropped open. “I took a spear,” he gasped. He forced himself up and looked to the scar line on his side. “A wicked hit.”

“So it was,” said Rhiannon. “But you’re a tough one.”

Bryan had been unconscious during the healing, but even in that state he had felt the presence of Rhiannon. In the witch’s healing sessions she and her victim became linked, two souls battling one wound, and now Bryan began to unravel some of that strange bonding. “You healed me,” he said matter-of-factly, and looked up at her blankly.

“ ’Tis a gift o’ me mother,” was all that Rhiannon could offer. “Fret not on it. The pain is past, and nothin’ more is of any concern.”

“When can I—we, leave?”

Rhiannon glanced over at the surly bear. “As soon as ye feel up to leavin’,” she replied. “Me friend wants his cave back to himself, and I’m not for arguin’ with that one!”

“You, you and he, carried me up here?”

“Couldn’t be carrying ye by meself,” Rhiannon answered. “He’s friendly enough if ye don’t cross him.” She sent a wink Bryan’s way. “And he’ll work for a drop o’ honey.”

“But how can you talk to a bear?” Bryan had to ask.

Rhiannon accepted this next question, and the next, and the next after that, as inevitable, considering the surprises she had shown the half-elf. She answered him honestly each time, though she took care not to reveal too much about herself and she reminded Bryan in every other sentence that their bear friend wanted his cave back. All in all, it was a lighthearted conversation, almost a celebration, for these two who were seemingly destined to become close friends and allies. But then Bryan asked something that changed the entire tone of the discussion.

“That tree!” he exclaimed. “How did you make it grow so quickly?”

The half-elf did not miss the black cloud that crossed Rhiannon’s fair face.

“I …” she began hesitantly. “Me powers … I could not let ye die!” Rhiannon exhaled a deep breath and looked away, her light eyes rimmed by tears.

Bryan was sensitive enough to let it go at that. He propped himself up on one elbow and draped an arm across Rhiannon’s shoulders.

They said no more through the rest of the night, and when dawn came, they walked out of the bear’s cave to the animal’s grunting relief—and into the sunlight.

“I have a secret camp,” Bryan said after discerning their location. “Not far from here.” He pointed to a distant spur of the mountain.

“Let’s be going, then,” Rhiannon replied, and she started off along the rocky trail.

Bryan paused a moment to watch her go. She had freely
discussed her powers concerning the healing, even of talking to the birds to learn of his whereabouts. But when he had shifted the conversation to the darker side of Rhiannon’s magic, to the killing wrath of the animated tree, she had choked up. Apparently the young woman wasn’t comfortable with that facet of her existence. Bryan had to pity her, for he knew that if she meant to spend any length of time on this side of the River Ne’er Ending, she would have to use those destructive tactics quite often.

The notion intrigued Bryan. What was the extent, he wondered, of Rhiannon’s strength? With her by his side, how much more could he do against the talons? Or even more important, what part might this magic-worker play in the overall outcome of the war?

Bryan took up his bow and started down the path after Rhiannon. He would have to let those questions hang unanswered for a while at least, for he had no intention of pressing Rhiannon about them. For all of his curiosity, he could not bear to see that dark cloud pass over her fair features again.

T
HE
B
LACK
W
ARLOCK
paced anxiously about the field, his eyes darting from talon to talon, and each of the beasts in turn fell to the ground in abject terror. They knew that their boss was nervous and angry, and they knew, too, that the Black Warlock often released his anger on the nearest living target, friend or foe.

But more than angry, Morgan Thalasi was afraid. He had returned several days before, eager for his next, most glorious assault across the bridges. Mitchell, with his ghost horse, should have returned the very next day, but the wraith had not yet made his appearance.

“I cannot do this alone,” Thalasi growled at a nearby talon. He clenched his bony fist in rage, and the talon slumped to the ground, choking, as if a replica of the Black Warlock’s fist had appeared within its skinny throat.

Thalasi stormed away without concern for the dying thing. He needed Mitchell. Every day, it was necessary to renew his attacks against Avalon and the White Tower to keep his archenemies on the defensive and prevent them from striking out hard against his army. That alone was draining enough, but with no sign of Mitchell, Thalasi also had to continue to
manage the rabble forces of the talons, a task made even more difficult by the constant pressure applied by King Benador and his trained and talented army. Several times each day the Calvans charged across the bridges, cutting into the closest ranks of talons, and then retreated to the safety of their seemingly impregnable defenses.

To further the Black Warlock’s troubles, reports from the Baerendels told of groups of heroes harassing the supply caravans and the lines of reinforcements.

Thalasi simply could not keep track of it all. He wondered how many more mistakes he would make, how many more opportunities he would lose for the lack of organization in his army. They should have swept through the western fields and right across the Four Bridges long before the King and his troops ever arrived on the field.

Yet here they sat, hopelessly stalemated.

The Black Warlock’s greatest concern of all was his personal strength. Trying to do so many things prevented him from concentrating on the most important task: the defeat of the other wizards. Though the continuing tie of harmony between the two spirits of the Black Warlock should have added to his power, each day he grew more weary, his strength slipping from him. And Thalasi knew, to his horror, that if the fourth wizard, Ardaz, made his appearance on the field, he and his talons would surely be crushed.

His creation of the wraith was supposed to have changed all of that. With Mitchell handling the day-to-day affairs of the army, the Black Warlock would be free to pursue his magical growth. Only then could he hope to destroy his more powerful enemies, the other wizards and that infernal witch.

“So where are you?” Thalasi screamed to the empty black horizon of the northland.

*   *   *

He rested when the sun was at its brightest, unable to stand its shining glory. But his march in those darkest hours was tireless, calling on energies unlimited by the restrictions of a mortal body. Mitchell knew the need for haste; he could see the fires of the opposing camps far to the south. But Brielle had stolen the wraith’s mount, and the distance from Avalon to the Four Bridges was a long walk indeed.

Finally, though, the wraith came upon the talon army. His first encounter with the troops he would lead came in the form of a thrown spear. Mitchell saw it coming and merely puffed out the apparition of his chest, accepting the blow from the meager weapon without the slightest flinch.

Three talons charging in behind the throw stopped in their tracks, the blood draining from their hideous faces when they recognized the wraith for what it was.

“Hold!” Mitchell commanded. One of the beasts fled anyway, but the other two could find no strength to move their legs.

“What is your name?” Mitchell demanded of the one who had thrown the spear.

The talon cowered and trembled, giving no indication that it would answer.

“Name?” Mitchell roared, moving right up to the pitiful thing.

The talon garbled something in its native guttural tongue, a language quite unknown to Mitchell. The wraith reached down and grabbed the beast by the front of its shabby jerkin and pulled it to its feet.

“A good throw,” he said, handing the talon back its spear. “And a fine guard you all have set! It is promising to see my troops so alert!”

The talon exchanged a confused look with its companion.

“Who you?” it dared to ask.

Mitchell’s grating laughter sent shivers through their spines.
“A friend of the master,” he said. “I have come to lead you to victory over your enemies.”

“What you?” the other asked.

Again the otherworldly laughter erupted from the wraith, a godless and eerie sound. “The general,” was all Mitchell offered in reply. With a whisk of his hand he sent the two talons sprawling to the side, and he strode by them toward the center of the encampment.