The Witch's Daughter (37 page)

The White Tower crumbled to the ground.

“B
Y THE
C
OLONNAE!
” Brielle gasped as the flames ate at her forest. Thalasi’s storm continued to flash and rumble, but that singular, massive bolt had taken the bite out of its thunderous bark as surely as it had shattered Brielle’s shield.

Brielle reached down inside herself, called to the earth power that fueled her magic. Hers was the first school of magic, the guardian school wherein the energies used her as their guiding hand to fight back against that which went against the natural order of the universe.

“Ye’ve pulled it too far,” the witch moaned when she at last contacted the fabric of her strength. Harmony was the norm for the universal powers, energy all working in accord toward the perfection of natural order. But Morgan Thalasi had grasped at that harmony with his perverted claws, had pulled the heartstrings of the powers beyond their limits.

Brielle had no time to stop and contemplate the grim consequences of the Black Warlock’s actions. The battle was far from over, though neither would find the energy needed to continue to wage their destructive war across the leagues. Now the contest became more personal, a test of wills removed from the material world.

Brielle did not flinch when the specter of the Black Warlock entered the gray field surrounding her thoughts. She conjured a spectral manifestation of herself and strode calmly toward the evil one.

“All the world is mine,” Thalasi cackled at her. “Witness how the magic bends to my control.”

“Ye’re a fool,” Brielle hissed back. “What magic do ye leave in yer wake? ’Twas the Colonnae that blessed us with the powers of all the universe, but ye’ve ruined that blessing, Morgan Thalasi. Ye’ve torn the heart out o’ our power to the ruin of us all.”

“No!” Thalasi shouted back in angry denial. “I’ve stolen the harmony that gives you strength, wicked witch! And Istaahl in Pallendara is no more, buried in the ruins of his own tower. Who will stand against me when Brielle is gone? Your pitiful brother? The buffoon who plays with elves?”

Brielle offered no response. She had lived for centuries as the principal guardian of the natural world, and now that world was under siege more than it had been since the great holocaust that destroyed the original race of man. The Emerald Witch knew her duty.

“All yer grand words,” she laughed at Thalasi. “First ye must beat me!” Her mental specter walked into battle, but as she reached the manifestation of the Black Warlock, the being split into two separate entities: Morgan Thalasi as he had been before the Battle of Mountaingate, and Martin Reinheiser. They moved out to flank the surprised witch, taunting her with laughter.

“Grand?” they asked together. “Minor claims against the truth of our being.”

Then they rushed in on her. Brielle flailed at them valiantly, but within mere seconds icy hands grasped at her throat.

*   *   *

Istaahl climbed through the last layer of rubble, a garish sight of torn and tattered clothing and bruised and bleeding flesh. A thousand curious onlookers in Pallendara shook their heads almost as one, stunned again by the powers of their wizard. For no mortal man could possibly have survived the fall of the tower.

Istaahl started to walk the perimeter of the devastation, ignoring the curious and terrified gazes surrounding him and following his every move.

“You fool!” the White Mage scolded himself, suddenly guessing the logical continuation of the Black Warlock’s magical campaign. How long had he tarried, wallowing in his own grief? Seconds? But even seconds could be too long in such a contest. Without further delay, Istaahl launched himself into the gray nothingness of the magical plane of existence, threw himself fully and bravely into the fight against the twin beings that were the Black Warlock.

    “I have you—” Thalasi and Reinheiser started to proclaim in dual-voiced unison. But then the manifestation of the White Mage leaped onto the back of the spirit of Reinheiser, tearing his hands from the throat of Brielle.

The odds had suddenly changed.

“Did ye think one o’ the Four so easily killed?” Brielle said to Thalasi. “But one of us has died indeed, Morgan Thalasi. Yerself. Centuries ago when ye forgot our purpose, when ye took it upon yerself to challenge all the goodness o’ the Colonnae.”

“Weakling,” Thalasi retorted. “All the powers of the world at your fingertips and you play nursemaid to a copse of trees. Gods we could be! The world is ours to rule.”

“Not ours!” Brielle retorted. “Never ours! Ye ignore yer place, and yer greed is suren to be the ruin o’ all the world!”

To the side, the spirits of Reinheiser and Istaahl rolled
about in the fog in combat as vicious and desperate as any that had been fought on the Four Bridges. And now Thalasi sprang upon Brielle like a beast, his claws reaching out for her fair neck. But Brielle’s appearance, so innocent and beautiful, belied the strength of the woman. She accepted the Black Warlock’s attack and responded with her own, vicious and mighty.

    Venerable Bellerian had been assigned to the rear of the army, directing wayward troops and relaying vital information to the battle commanders from his distant, more encompassing vantage point. But when the Ranger Lord saw his son on the northernmost bridge, facing that horrid wraith, he could not remain at his post. He was in his eighties now, not old for a man raised under the beauty of Avalon, who, by the words of Brielle, could expect to live a century and a score of years beyond that. But Bellerian’s fighting days had ended abruptly many years before. He had been bent over nearly double—he could hardly walk without the assistance of a cane—by a wound he received in the foul swamp of Blackamara, a wound so wicked that even the powers of Brielle could not fully heal it.

The Ranger Lord felt no pain now as he charged his mount down to the bridges, leaping from the saddle when he got there and rushing as fast as his crooked back would allow to go to the side of his son.

“Ye should no’ have come, me father,” Belexus said to him, truly concerned.

“Ye think I’d let ye fight the likes o’ this one alone?” Bellerian replied, a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” the wraith agreed. “Yes, old man, do join in our play.”

“Play, the thing calls it,” Bellerian scoffed. “We’ll see the name the thing gives to it when we put it back where it
belongs!” And then the Ranger Lord struck out wickedly and cunningly, a swooping slash of his sword that forced Mitchell to stumble off balance. And by the time the wraith managed to straighten himself enough to return the blow, Bellerian was far out of reach.

Even Belexus looked upon his father with sincere surprise.

“Ye’re not believin’ that I had it left in me old bones,” Bellerian chuckled at his stunned son. “I should’ve whipped ye in battle more often to keep yer thoughts in their proper place.”

Belexus just shook his head and moved out a pace to the side, suddenly very glad to have Bellerian fighting beside him.

    At Ardaz’s bidding, Calamus soared over the eastern edge of the battlefield. In the west and visible from the wizard’s high vantage point, the physical being of the Black Warlock remained firmly in place behind his charges, within his pool of perverted darkness and with those awful black bolts of energy still drawing on the fabric of the world, still shooting into the sky to fuel the unnatural gloom.

Ardaz understood the peril his sister and Istaahl faced at that moment, and he searched for a sanctuary where he could put down on the ground and join in the magical war against Thalasi.

But as the Pegasus neared the Four Bridges, another darkness beckoned to Ardaz, a call so doom-filled that the wizard could not ignore it.

    “Yes, Ardaz,” the wraith of Mitchell hissed. “Do come and join the fun!”

Belexus and Bellerian did not have to look over their shoulders to confirm that the Silver Mage had come. Shouts of hope echoed throughout the battlefield behind them.
The wraith, too, seemed preoccupied with the approach of the wizard, and both of the rangers were wise enough to grasp the opportunity. With a sudden ferocity that Mitchell had not anticipated, Belexus dove in at him, the ranger’s huge sword cutting deep into his belly and striking at his very heart.

Black energy shot through the blade, a fire on Belexus’ hands. The mighty ranger ignored the searing pain and held firm to his grasp, confident that he had struck a mortal blow. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip.

But then, unbelievably, the sword came loose from the wraith. Belexus looked down, mouth agape.

The blade had melted away.

    From the distant sky, Ardaz watched in horror as the skull-headed mace chopped down at the ranger. Belexus’ head would have certainly been crushed if not for the reaction of his father. Bellerian had started in for his own strike on Mitchell, but seeing the sudden disaster befalling Belexus, he reversed his sword for a defensive parry. Mitchell’s weapon came down heavily, shattering Bellerian’s sword to its hilt and numbing the Ranger Lord’s arms with awful coldness.

But the sword deflected the strike enough so that Belexus only received a glancing blow. Still, the sheer power of the evil instrument jolted the ranger and sent him flying back down the length of the bridge, where he crumpled into darkness.

Blind rage contorted Bellerian’s fair features. “Ye bastard!” he spat at Mitchell, and he threw his sword hilt viciously into Mitchell’s face, smashing the wraith’s contented grin.

*   *   *

Now Ardaz found himself truly torn. He felt that he must go into the magical plane to the aid of his peers, but he knew, too, that this critical battle on the bridges could not be won without his aid. Even if he and the other magic-users managed to defeat Thalasi, this horrid wraith would surely lead the dark forces to victory.

Ardaz, too, had his predetermined duty. He was a master of the second school of magic, a discipline that drew its energy from the universal powers to aid in the causes of the goodly races. The Silver Mage could not ignore that calling now. His sister and Istaahl would have to hold out; Ardaz could not forsake the needs of the Calvans and elves.

He brought Calamus down in a furious dive, landing in a wild gallop that took him right up to Bellerian, who was now steadily backing away from the wraith. The wizard jumped off, and Billy Shank swung the Pegasus around toward the still unmoving form of the younger ranger.

The wraith lost all interest in Bellerian at the sight of the wizard. “Come and play,” Mitchell hissed at Ardaz, again waving that horrible scepter of darkness. Ardaz replied by summoning a ball of sunlike light atop his oaken staff.

“Go to your son,” the wizard said to the Ranger Lord.

“Nay, I’ll not leave ye in yer need,” Bellerian replied, ever vigilant in spite of his feelings.

“You can do nothing here,” Ardaz assured him. “This is a creature beyond our world and beyond your power. Go to your son, Bellerian, I beg you. You will only steal some of my concentration in this battle if you remain out here exposed.”

Bellerian put a hand on the wizard’s shoulder.

“Fight well, me friend,” he whispered, and then rushed back to join Billy, working to comfort Belexus.

“This is our fight, wizard,” the wraith agreed. “But when
I am through with you, your pitiful friends will have their turn.”

Ardaz never even blinked in response. He held his staff out proudly and resolutely and strode in for the fight.

And they met on the middle of the bridge, darkness and light.

    Bryan wept openly as he viewed the inner struggle of the young witch, repeating his plea to her, “Please!” over and over with all the voice he could muster.

Rhiannon, too consumed by the drama playing out within her soul, did not even hear him. Ecstasy and anguish flooded through her all at once, joyous tingles of magical energy that both thrilled and frightened her beyond anything she had ever known. She could not have imagined such pleasure and power being contained within her mortal form. Yet there was a darker side to it all, a possession that threatened Rhiannon’s very identity.

Bryan hugged her close, fighting against her trembling horror.

Rhiannon, though, felt no comfort at the half-elf’s touch, for she was no longer part of her physical being, was falling into a pit of darkness that had no bottom.

    For the first time in his life, King Benador saw action in battle, and any of those close enough to witness the valor and strength of the man would hold no argument against his claim as their king. He had grown up among the Rangers of Avalon, had been trained in the ways of battle by Belexus himself, and it didn’t take the talons long to realize that he was one to be avoided. With the Warders of the White Walls at his side, Benador swept back and forth across the two southern bridges, driving back the greater numbers of
talons and securing the southern defense lines guarding Rivertown and the tents of healing.

Still, with the appearance of the wraith and Thalasi’s un-dead brigades, the other two bridges had been fully breached. Thousands of talons poured across the bridge second from the north; none would cross the northernmost, where the wraith and the Silver Mage now faced off. Most of the Calvan defenders had been swept away in the dark tide, pushed back to the east beyond the protection of Benador and his elite corps.