The Witch's Daughter (33 page)

This was going to be fun.

*   *   *

Rhiannon chanted over each of the arrows individually, then handed the entire quiver back to Bryan. “Shoot for the biggest groups,” she instructed.

Bryan took the gift reverently, not certain whether he wanted to ask the witch what enchantment she had put in the weapons or to just let them fly and watch the magic as it loosed its fury on the talons. Rhiannon offered no explanation, though, for something off to the side had caught her attention.

In the distance a tree shuddered to life and dropped a heavy branch on the head of a crouching talon.

“Talon scout,” Rhiannon explained to Bryan matter-of-factly. She moved off through a thicket to take her position in front of the approaching caravan. Bryan followed a few steps behind, watching her every move.

Without a thought the young witch waved her hand, and another tree a bit farther in front of them rustled, catching a talon around the neck with a supple branch and hoisting it up off the ground, kicking and gasping for breath.

And Bryan found his own breath hard to catch. He had never seen Rhiannon so grim and callous, even when she had come to his rescue in the stony canyon. She moved on from the scene of her second kill, impassive and strong, a lioness at hunt.

    The talon caravan rolled down the wide trail, unmindful of its impending doom. They came to answer the call of Morgan Thalasi, the father of their race, to join in his moment of triumph over the hated humans. They could not know the power that stood to block them.

Rhiannon sensed them before they came into sight. She remained in position behind the cover of a stony ridge and motioned for Bryan to ready his bow. Then the young witch moved away a bit and sat quietly, knowing that the
magic she had let into her body would dictate its place in the confrontation.

Bryan drew his bowstring and waited as the caravan rolled into sight. He still did not know the extent of the power within his arrows, but he felt a tingle in the one he had notched, as if the arrow itself was eager for the coming flight.

“The biggest groups,” Rhiannon said again, and so the half-elf took aim on the first cluster of talons, huddled around a wagon and fighting over the scraps of food they could pull from it as they went.

“Now,” Rhiannon whispered, and Bryan let it fly. The arrow soared off into the night, leaving a glowing trail in its wake. And then Bryan had to blink to be certain that his eyes were not playing tricks on him, for the arrow split apart and became two, and those two split into four, and those became eight, and again and again until a score and twelve soared into the talon horde. Nearly two dozen talons dropped to the ground, mortally wounded, and all the caravan began hooting and howling to warn of the attack.

Bryan fired several more of the enchanted arrows off quickly, showering the confused monsters in a virtual rain of arrows before they could find cover. Even so, the half-elf’s attacks barely dented the large force, and these talons had marched all the way from the Ballendul Mountains in search of battle. Ignoring the cries of their wounded, the group rallied and charged on against the onslaught.

But then the young witch started to sing.

Rhiannon’s voice rang out strong and sweet in the night, filling Bryan with courage and draining the blood from the faces of the talons.

Trees along the edges of the trail danced to the witch’s melody, swatting and strangling those talons that tried to move from the stony center of the path. Still the throng
rushed on and Bryan cut them down. He fired off four shots that became six score and eight, evenly spaced across the breadth of the trail, and decimated the front ranks with a wall of killing darts.

Still the young witch sang, and now the donkeys heard her call. They bucked and spun, tossing their riders to the ground and trampling them before they understood what had happened. Those donkeys pulling wagons charged about wildly, overturning the carts and scattering lines of talons.

Rhiannon stepped out into the open, glowing with power. She thrust her hands out before her and sheets of flame sprang forth, reaching down the trail to engulf those talons brave enough, or stupid enough, to continue their charge.

“Rhiannon!” Bryan gasped, horrified and elated all at once. But the witch didn’t hear him, too consumed by the power she loosed upon her enemies.

For the talons, the trees had been bad enough. But this open display of witchery was simply too much for them to accept. They scattered and fled, back down the trail and all the way through the pass toward their dark holes in the Ballenduls. This group would find no place of glory beside the Black Warlock.

Bryan meant to follow their retreat with a few showers of arrows, grim reminders of what awaited them should they return. But the half-elf could not. His eyes remained transfixed on Rhiannon, studying her expression as she completed her release of magic.

And while he had been in awe of her during the brief battle, he felt only pity when it ended. Rhiannon looked at him, tears streaking her face. So frail she seemed that Bryan could hardly believe she was the same being who had just wreaked such destruction.

“Help me,” she whispered, and then she collapsed, thoroughly drained, into Bryan’s arms.

*   *   *

If the Black Warlock had been paying attention, he most certainly would have sensed the display of magic in the Baerendel Mountains that night. But Thalasi was off on his own exercise of magic, creating the finishing touches to his army.

He strolled to a wide pit behind the vast talon encampment, an open grave for the many talons and humans who had fallen on the field in the previous days.

“Beigen kaimen dee,”
the Black Warlock chanted, waving his most powerful tool, the Staff of Death, over the pit. For a moment nothing happened.

“Beigen kaimen dee,”
Thalasi growled again, sensing the conception of the enchantment. There came a stirring in the pit and then several of the corpses rose up and crawled out to the summons of the Black Warlock. Thalasi chuckled as the wretched things, some missing an arm or a leg, one without a head, scrambled to his bidding, and all the while thinking it grand that he could so easily steal from the realm of death.

The Black Warlock repeated the spell several times until he sensed that the host of his zombie army had reached the limits of his control. These were not like Hollis Mitchell, not wraiths encompassing the spirit and consciousness of the beings they had once been. Rather, these were unthinking zombies, slow-moving and capable of following only rudimentary commands.

But Thalasi understood their value in the coming battle. How the humans would flee from the specter of his undead brigade!

“Rest, my pets,” he bade them, and as one the zombie force dropped to the ground and lay still. Thalasi knew he would have to be very careful with them. Even his talons might flee the camp at the appearance of such horrifying
comrades. The Black Warlock would give them over to Mitchell’s command and let the wraith hold them in check until battle was fully joined.

“Then let all of Calva tremble,” Thalasi muttered to the empty night. “Let them know the power of Morgan Thalasi. Let them know their doom.”

    Rhiannon shot up from the blankets Bryan had set out for her bed, her face stark with terror.

“What is it?” Bryan asked, rushing to her side.

Rhiannon just shook her head and buried her face in the front of the half-elf’s tunic. Bryan rested a hand on her back to calm her trembling. “Yet another nightmare?” he asked.

Rhiannon looked up at him, unable to find the words to explain. But Bryan was sensitive to the young witch’s dilemma; he had come to understand her quite well in their few days together, and he knew from the expression on her face that her release of power had nearly torn her apart.

“You did as you had to,” he said to her. “You cannot accept any blame for your actions.”

“Ye canno’ understand,” Rhiannon replied. “It takes me, steals me from meself.”

“But it passes,” Bryan reasoned.

“And leaves nothin’ but destruction in its wake.”

“Not true!” Bryan was quick to protest. “You saved my life! And many others, from what you have told me of your work on the field of Rivertown.”

“Suren it is two-faced,” Rhiannon admitted. “But the healin’ side and the seein’ side are at me bidding. This other, this anger ye’ve seen, comes of its own and goes when it’s through with me.”

“Accept it for what it is,” Bryan urged her. “How many lives did you save this night, dear Rhiannon? How many men
would have died on the bridges fighting off the talons you dispatched?”

Somehow the answer seemed inadequate to the young witch. “I have scarred the earth,” she said. “I have killed—talon and beast.” The image of her black and white horse on the northern field, lying dead after it had split the earth with its enchanted run, assaulted her thoughts.

“You have done what you were forced to do,” Bryan said stubbornly. “Thanks are owed to the daughter of Brielle. Yet to herself she gives only blame.”

“Ye canno’ understand,” the young witch whispered again, and she dropped her face back into the security of the folds of Bryan’s shirt.

Bryan did not reply; for all of his pretty words, he suspected that Rhiannon was right in her estimation. He had seen the coldness in her eyes as she executed the spells of destruction upon the talon caravan, a simmering wrath so foreign to the young woman’s gentle character. Such emotions exacted a heavy toll, Bryan knew from his own grim experiences. He tried to remember the last time he had flashed a carefree smile, and he wondered if he would ever smile that way again.

“And it must be worse for you,” he whispered, though his voice was so soft that the witch, finding comfort in slumber, did not stir. While his strength came from his skills, he could see that the power that Rhiannon used insinuated itself into her being, possessed her and controlled her.

That image of the young witch, standing coldly beside him as her fires burned away the stain of the talons, stayed with Bryan for the remainder of the night. He wanted to tell her that she would never have to use that destructive power again, that her world would be one of creation and healing. He wanted to help her fight off the insinuating power and be true to her gentle spirit.

But the thought of the armies on the fields beside the Four Bridges washed away Bryan’s hopes. For all of his desire to shield Rhiannon, the awful reality told him the truth of his duties.

Rhiannon had a part to play in all of this, Bryan knew, a voice in the outcome of the war and the very future of Ynis Aielle. Her power was there whether she or he accepted it or not, and with the carnage of war so thick in the air, that power could not be denied.

“I will help you,” Bryan promised when Rhiannon awoke the next morning—the first sunless morning.

Rhiannon considered the gray shroud of Thalasi’s dark magic, now stretching from horizon to horizon, and knew she would need that help.

H
AD HE LOOKED
back to Kored-dul, to his black fortress of Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi might have been concerned. In the weeks after he had found harmony of his twin spirits, before he set out with his talon army, he had reinforced the iron fortress to its previous state of power.

But now, with Thalasi out on the Calvan fields, pulling at the magical plane with all of his power-hungry desperation, some of those old cracks in Talas-dun had reappeared, and when the heavy sea breeze rolled in on the high cliff, the tallest of the black castle’s towers swayed ominously, no longer able to fully defy the force.

The Black Warlock was consumed in the business at hand, with his eyes looking to conquest in the east, not back to those lands he already claimed as his own. He took no note of the strain his dominating will, and the responses of his magic-using adversaries, placed upon that shared magical plane.

    Brielle walked slowly through Avalon, taking advantage of the unexpected lull in Thalasi’s attacks to soothe her trees
with comforting promises of a brighter time. But while the Emerald Witch held fast to the belief that Morgan Thalasi would once again be defeated and driven back to his black fortress, she honestly wondered whether Ynis Aielle would ever be as it had been.

Avalon, the shining light of all the world, had weakened in the weeks of Thalasi’s assaults, and more than the borderlands of the forest had been affected. Even in the heart of the wood, in the fields and groves that Brielle held most dear, the colors of the flora seemed less vibrant and the permeating fragrance of the wildflowers could not hold up against the burning stench of decay and devastation. For Thalasi’s assaults were more than physical manifestations of destructive power. The response demanded by the Black Warlock’s attacks heavily taxed the defending witch, to the core of her magic itself. Brielle had aged more in the past weeks than she had in a dozen centuries, and her growing weariness, she feared, was merely a reflection of the exhaustion of her magical energy.

And it was that same magical energy, drawn upon by the Emerald Witch, that bound the forest of Avalon in its perpetual enchantment of beauty.