The Witch's Daughter (32 page)

Once, under the rule of an unlawful king in Pallendara, these peoples, elf and human, had been mortal enemies, but now the Calvans recognized the arrival of Arien Silverleaf and his kin as their possible salvation. Many of the older Calvan soldiers had witnessed the elves in battle, and their prowess with horse, sword, and bow was nothing short of legendary.

    Across the river the talons, too, watched the arrival of the children of Lochsilinilume, and under the shade of one tent,
red dots of fire looked out to survey the scene. The wraith of Hollis Mitchell only smiled when he realized it was Arien Silverleaf who had come on the scene, another of his enemies from his previous journey through this world of Aielle.

Confident that the elves would not change the course of the coming battle, Mitchell viewed their arrival as a convenience, allowing him to defeat even more of his enemies in this single sweep.

The wraith’s evil grin only widened when he learned that the rangers, Belexus included, accompanied the elves.

    “It is good that you have come,” Benador said to Arien and Bellerian a short time later, after the initial commotion had died away. He and the two leaders had retired to his tent to lay their plans. “There has been a change in the talon camp—more organization and purpose to their movements. I fear they might strike soon.”

“The Black Warlock has raised a new commander,” Bellerian explained. “And a monster that one is, a wraith from the netherworld come to lead the horde o’ talons against us.”

The King took the news stoically. “I had suspected as much,” he said. “For no talon could have made such changes in the encampment so quickly, and the Black Warlock has not shown such understanding for battle tactics thus far.”

“The wraith will be a formidable opponent,” said Arien. “He was called Hollis Mitchell in his former life, one of the ancient ones who fell soon after the Battle of Mountaingate. Once, he was a commander in his own world and quite learned in the ways of warfare, beyond our experience. You will not find obvious mistakes in his tactics, I fear.”

A grim expression passed over Benador’s face, but it faded quickly. “But Mitchell will find few holes in our defenses,”
the King replied, his smile genuine above his firm-set jaw. “With the joining of the elves and rangers, we have the strength and skill to repel the talons. The defense of the bridges will not falter.”

“Ayuh,” agreed Bellerian, and he took the hand of this king who had been as a son to him for so very long. Then he turned his gaze, with Arien and Benador, toward the tent flap as his birth son entered, grim-faced.

“The witch’s daughter is gone,” Belexus said bluntly, and all eyes turned on Benador for an explanation.

“She is safe,” Benador assured them, “though I fear that her heart will be long in mending.”

“Andovar,” Belexus reasoned. “She knew of Andovar.”

“It is true, then,” Benador remarked.

“It is,” replied Belexus. “He fell to the wraith on our journey to the north.”

“Then my fears are justified,” the King said softly. “I knew that it would not be wise to doubt the guess of Rhiannon, but I had held out hope in my heart that she was mistaken.”

“A great loss to us all,” Bellerian put in. “But where is the daughter of Brielle, then? Her value to our cause canno’ be undervalued.”

“I knew not where she went,” Benador admitted. “But I could not stop her going, and I know with all certainty that Rhiannon’s role in this war is not yet through. She has trained another healer in her absence, a young lass who has performed admirably these last few days.”

“Siana of Corning,” said Belexus. “I have spoken with the girl and seen her at her work. But she would no’ tell me o’ the going of Rhiannon.”

“Nor would Siana tell me,” said Benador. “And I did not press her on the point; I claim no rank over the daughter of Brielle and would not hinder her choice, whatever it might be.”

“A wise course,” said Bellerian. “Me and me kin have lived for many years trustin’ in the Emerald Witch, and I dare say that her daughter’s also deservin’ of that trust. Wherever Rhiannon’s got herself to, not to be doubtin’ that she’ll help out in the best way she can.”

That was all that could be said, but for Belexus, feeling almost like a father to the witch’s daughter, mere words could not bring him any measure of comfort. He had seen firsthand the awesome power of Rhiannon, but he had seen, too, the young woman’s vulnerability. The loss of Andovar would weigh heavily upon her innocent shoulders and might drive her to desperation.

But like the others, Belexus could only hope and trust in the decisions of the young witch.

They spent many hours in Benador’s tent, laying out defensive strategies and playing through, with paper and ink, possible scenarios of a talon attack across the bridges. They all agreed that the next move belonged to Thalasi. With summer nearing its end, time was on their side, and they had no desire to risk defeat in their own offensive strike. They would continue their tactics of hit-and-run, but if a major battle was to be fought, the Black Warlock would have to initiate it.

Of the Black Warlock himself and his undead commander, the leaders could only put their hope in their own magicusers; in Brielle and Istaahl, and Ardaz, if that one could ever be found.

And in Rhiannon, Belexus reminded them all, if the young witch had truly come into her power.

The concern of the four battlefield commanders had to be the containment of the vast talon forces. If Morgan Thalasi managed to defeat their wizards, all of their horn blowing and sword wielding, however valiant, would be for naught.

But the mood of the council was not dark. Their armies were trained and fearless, and fighting under a combination of leaders—Benador, Belexus, Arien Silverleaf, and Bellerian—heretofore unrivaled in the history of Aielle. Each of these heroes held faith in the others, and they believed that together they could weather the tide of Thalasi, however dark.

    “The elves have joined,” Thalasi said to Mitchell when the wraith emerged just before sunset.

“I watched,” Mitchell replied. “Are you afraid?”

Thalasi’s hideous cackle scared away several nearby talons. “It only puts all of the pigeons in one pot,” he answered. “I fear not mortals; they cannot defeat me.”

“But talons feel the bite of sword,” Mitchell reminded him. “You have erred, my master. You should have struck with a separate force to the north in the very beginning to keep Arien Silverleaf and his elven kin in their valley.”

Thalasi’s scowl showed that he didn’t appreciate being reprimanded by his subordinate. “It will not matter in the end,” he declared. “The world will be mine, wherever Arien and his kin might stand against us, wherever they might fall before us! In the end, they will prove insignificant.”

“We will take them,” Mitchell agreed. “But twice the pleasure to take them in their sheltered valley, to stain the silver trees and the enchanted mountainsides with elven blood. I think I might use Illuma when I am lord of all the land as a restful retreat from my duties in Pallendara.”

For all of his arrogance, Thalasi liked the way Mitchell was thinking. “We will rule from the white city,” he agreed. “And all the world shall be yours for the choosing. All except for one spot that I reserve as my own.”

“And that is?”

“Avalon,” the Black Warlock replied, a low feral growl
escaping his lips at the mere mention of the forest. “Of all the places, of all the fortresses, in all the world, none can stand against me as mightily as the wood of Brielle. But it will all change, so very soon. I am growing stronger, my wraith. With you in command of the talons, I can focus my energies and seek greater depths of my magical power. Soon Brielle and Istaahl will be no match for my strength; my storms will ravage their homes and I will banish them from the world!”

“And the third wizard?” Mitchell asked, his fiery eyes simmering at the thought of dealing with that one.

“We will defeat Ardaz,” Thalasi promised. “I will give to you darkness to match his light, to hold his power back from our assault. And when our talons have crossed the river, when the armies of Calva and Illuma are smashed and Brielle and Istaahl are no more, Ardaz will have to stand alone against us.”

“I almost pity him,” Mitchell snickered. But there was not a trace of pity in his grating voice.

Thalasi’s cackle erupted again, chiming in with Mitchell’s for several savored moments. “When will we be ready?” the Black Warlock asked, unconsciously rubbing his bony hands together.

“We are ready,” Mitchell assured him. “And every day we grow more ready. We could go tomorrow to victory, but there remain two problems.”

“Ardaz has not yet shown himself,” Thalasi reasoned.

Mitchell nodded. “And I find my power diminished by the light of the sun. We could strike at them in the dark of night, but I do not know how the organization of the talons would hold up. The stupid things would probably get lost and land their boats miles to the south, leaving their comrades stranded on the bridges.”

Thalasi considered the dilemma for a long while, then a
smile returned to his face. “A fitting solution,” he explained. “I will deal with both our problems at once. I will send a calling card to Ardaz, and at the same time solve your discomfort with the light of day.”

    The sun started its climb above the eastern horizon the next morning, riding across the clear blue summer sky in all its glory.

But in the west, darkness rose to meet it, a gray gloom that seeped eerily upward over the western plain.

Noontime shone bright and clear, but when the sun started its inevitable descent, it fell behind the conjured veil of Morgan Thalasi, and a dimness as profound as twilight engulfed the land.

And still the gray shroud moved higher, rolling out endlessly from the west, from Talas-dun and the Kored-dul, the bastions of Thalasi’s evil power.

    From Avalon, Brielle watched in horror. Atop the White Tower in Pallendara, Istaahl put his head in his hands and moaned. And on the field by the Four Bridges, the leaders of elves and humans shared that concern.

“Has he grown strong enough to blot out the very light of the sun?” Benador demanded.

Belexus remembered the blackness of the wraith of Mitchell and he knew the answer. “So it would seem,” he muttered in grim reply.

    Far to the east, beyond the banks of the Elgarde River and the borders of the Great Forest, the wizard Ardaz climbed out of a tunnel he had been exploring, sensing some unnatural event in the world above. For some time he stared at the approaching line of dismal gray and the dull blur that was
the sun behind it, instinctively knowing that it was more than a simple storm front.

“How very strange,” the confused wizard muttered, scratching his bearded chin. “How very strange indeed.”

“W
HAT DO YOU
sense?” Bryan asked, recognizing Rhiannon’s trancelike state. He had witnessed the witch’s meditation several times over the past couple of days, as Rhiannon looked into the distance to report on talons flocking to Thalasi’s side. “Another group?”

Rhiannon nodded and leaned on the half-elf for support. “Another big one,” she replied softly. “Bearin’ wagons and ridin’ donkeys.”

Bryan needed her support as well. How many talons had come to join the fight? he wondered. Ten thousand? Twenty? The call of the Black Warlock had spread wide indeed, for the columns of new troops flocking to join his army did not seem to have an end.

Rhiannon steeled herself against the despair that threatened to swallow her and moved away from Bryan. Earlier that day the young witch had witnessed Thalasi’s greatest perversion: the gray that shrouded the sun. Now, as she felt the power of the earth once again tingling within her, she wanted with all of her heart to strike back.

“Not this time,” she growled at the half-elf, and Bryan took a step back from the bared power in her voice. He watched from a cautious distance as the mysterious young woman moved to a nearby tree stump, hollowed and filled with rainwater.

“Come,” Rhiannon bade him as she waved her hand and took up a chant over the still water. Gradually the darkness within the stump lessened, and where before the water had shown only the reflection of Rhiannon and Bryan, there appeared an image of a nearby trail.

“Hundreds,” Bryan muttered, staring at the result of Rhiannon’s divining. For along the trail moved a caravan of talons, some walking, some riding donkeys, and still more leading beasts hitched to dozens of wagons laden with supplies.

“They must be from Windy Willows,” the half-elf reasoned, considering the donkeys. “The Black Warlock is reaching out to all the wide corners of his western domain.”

“They’re not far,” Rhiannon remarked. “We can get to them.”

“Why would we want to?” Bryan asked incredulously. “We can do little against so many. Unless …” His voice trailed off as he took a closer look at the young witch’s grim face. “What tricks,” he asked slyly, “might you have in store for this group?”

Rhiannon wouldn’t let him in on her secret. “Come,” was all she answered as she started off toward the trail. Bryan smiled widely as he fell into step beside her. He had seen the result of Rhiannon’s wrath once before, and with her on his side, he was not afraid, no matter the odds. He slid his elven sword from its sheath, too eager to let it wait on his hip.