Echoes of the Fourth Magic

by R. A. Salvatore

“And that’s Reinheiser behind him,” Billy added.

  The captain and the ranger stared each other down.

  “I warned ye,” Andovar growled.

  Mitchell spat up at him.

  “Lord Arien,” Andovar called, “for meself, I am begging a favor of ye. Will ye grant it?”

  “If I may,” Arien replied cautiously.

  “A sword for this man,” Andovar asked. “I’ve a debt for settling.”

  Mitchell squared himself before the ranger. “A weapon of your world, not mine, he said with a growl. “You made the challenge, so I choose the weapons.”

  Without hesitation, Andovar handed his own sword to an elf beside him.

  “Fists,” Mitchell said wickedly. “And nothing else. I want to kill you with my bare hands.”

  “Suren ye’ll die slower,” Andovar replied with the same even tones. “But suren ye’ll be just as dead.”

  “Wait!” Del called, rushing over to them.

  “Ye look better than when I left ye yesterday,” the ranger greeted him, but Del, in no frame of mind for courtesies, waved that thought away.

  “It’s my fight, Andovar,” he said as he and the captain locked in unblinking stares. “It’s been my fight for a long, long time.”

  Andovar surveyed the two men. He feared for his friend, believing Mitchell to be the stronger, but realized that he had no right to take this battle away from Del. Reluctantly, he stepped aside.

  Del knew what he had to do. “Violence is not the answer,” he reminded himself softly, and took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

  He felt that he had himself settled then, but he wasn’t prepared for the viciousness of Mitchell’s initial attack. The captain charged like an angry bull, knocking Del backward, and began his onslaught, raining blow after blow on his stunned opponent.

  Unnoticed in the background, Martin Reinheiser held a single blade of grass in his hand, softly stroking it and whispering unfamiliar words.

  Del somehow managed to stagger away from Mitchell and regroup. Dazed, the sickly sweet taste of blood rich in his mouth, he had almost gone down under the brutal beating. “I’m not going to fight you, Mitchell,” he said. “I won’t lower myself.”

  Mitchell didn’t understand Del’s motives, but he roared in again. And Del had to wonder if he was proving any point, or simply showing himself to be a fool.

  Then, slipping in from somewhere in his subconscious, came the words of Belexus, advice the great warrior had given him several weeks before. “The greatest advantage of a true warrior is not strength or quickness, but courage,” Belexus had told him.

  Del gritted away the pain and stood tall against the punishment. He was right; this had to work!

  Reinheiser marveled at how easily the transformation spell had been completed. In disbelief of his own handiwork, he gingerly fingered the razor edges of the small knife he now held in his hand.

  Mitchell’s hands found Del’s throat. Grinning with murderous glee, the captain drove Del to his knees. But Andovar, having seen enough, rushed over and grabbed Mitchell, pulling him free of Del. Then, with strength that horrified the helpless captain, the ranger tossed him back, sending him sprawling into the Calvan prisoners.

  The elves stood silent, confused and shocked, as if Del had held a mirror up before them, showing them their dark reflection.

  Reinheiser moved over to Mitchell and roughly pulled him to his feet. “Kill DelGiudice,” he instructed as he slipped Mitchell the dagger. “On your life, kill him.”

  Mitchell shuddered at the sudden coldness in the physicist’s eyes and stumbled back out from the crowd.

  Andovar stepped defensively to block the captain, but Del regained his footing and pushed the ranger aside. Andovar looked at him in disbelief.

  “I must,” Del told him. “They have to learn.”

  “You are indeed brave, Jeffrey DelGiudice,” Andovar said, and he clasped Del’s shoulder and stepped aside.

  “It’s over,” Del told Mitchell.

  Mitchell shook his head and lashed out, the tip of the concealed dagger sticking out from between his fingers. Del deflected the blow aside, then felt a burning pain. Amazed, he looked down at the bleeding gash in his hand.

  Mitchell smiled wickedly and struck out again, but Del, realizing the danger, was quick to dodge back from the blow.

  He recited Belexus’ advice again to keep from panic as he backed from the stalking captain.

  “You’re running out of room,” Mitchell taunted as they neared the ledge overlooking Blackemara.

  Even as he spoke, Del’s heels slipped out over that ledge. He hoped his death would make his point.

  Mitchell bared the dagger now, caring for nothing but his lust for Del’s blood. He raised his arm to strike.

  But an arrow found his wrist.

  Stunned, both he and Del looked to the side where Ryell stood, grim-faced, bow in hand.

  The knife dropped and Mitchell slumped, grasping his wrist in agony.

  Instinctively, Del retrieved the blade and straddled Mitchell’s chest, putting its point to the captain’s throat. Caught up in the frenzied celebration that suddenly erupted all around him, he almost struck. A wave of nausea swept over him when he realized what he was about to do and when he looked at the elves crowding in close and shouting in wild glee for Mitchell’s death.

  “Stop it!” Del screamed at them as he jumped away. He flung the dagger over the cliff, far into the night, and charged through the confused crowd, wanting only to get away from the infectious madness.

  Billy and Sylvia ran over to calm him, but they had no answer for Del when he looked them squarely in the eye and said, “Are you so sure the right side won?” Then he darted across the field and through the silver archway, seeking out the sanctuary of the mountain trails.

  With the attention of the elves diverted, Reinheiser calmly strolled over to Mitchell. “Do not worry,” he said. “Our escape is at hand.” He pointed over the ledge.

  Still clutching his wounded wrist, Mitchell peered into the gloom, trying to understand what Reinheiser was talking about.

  He felt an icy cold, incredibly strong hand pushing on his back, and then he was falling.

  Some of the elves noticed the movements as Mitchell went over. Reinheiser answered their dumbfounded stares with a shrug of his shoulders, then merely laughed and leaped off the cliff.

  Andovar rushed over, but the two men had disappeared into the dark night. “It is good they are dead,” the ranger said. “Suren they’d’ve bringed harm t’our Aielle.”

  The calm that followed ignited Ryell. He ran to the brighter area beside the pyre. “Let us not forget our great victory!” he shouted, fearing that the crowd’s confusion would steal his momentum. “This is a night of celebration!” Welcoming emotions that buried the disturbing accusations Del had raised, most of the elves responded with renewed and heightened enthusiasm.

  A helpless shake of his head was the only apology Arien could offer to Andovar.

  Reinheiser wasn’t dead.

  He cast a simple spell as he fell, manipulating the air currents to slow his descent and cushion his landing. He stepped down gently into Blackemara just a few feet from the crumpled and twisted body of Captain Mitchell.

  Amazingly, the captain managed to half open one eye.

  “You will be dead soon,” Reinheiser assured him.

  Mitchell knew the truth of the physicist’s words, for his lungs had collapsed and he could not draw any breath.

  “Before, you were merely an inconvenience,” Reinheiser explained. “But now, with your knowledge of weapons and your obsession with power, you have become a danger to me.” In a powerful voice that was not his own, he added, “Ever you would remain a simple Faustus!”

  Mitchell’s eyes widened in terror at the evil aura that suddenly engulfed him. He felt his gaze drawn up the trail of dried blood on Reinheiser’s face to the physicist’s forehead, where the cut tip of a shining black sapphire was just be
ginning to show through the skin.

  “Your soul is mine,” Reinheiser proclaimed.

  Blood and bile rose in Mitchell’s throat as he realized his eternal doom.

  He died without hope.

  Del ran on along the dark and twisting paths, desperate to outdistance the sounds of the renewed party on the field below. Finally exhausted, he slumped back against a boulder. Great patches of dark clouds raced furiously across the sky above him, driven by a violent wind that had come slicing through the mountain gaps from the northern peaks.

  He could still see the field. The fire had been refueled, its wild flames leaping high into the night, clearly outlining the silhouettes of the elves as they danced in orgiastic frenzy.

  Del could not hold back the tears as he watched his utopian fantasies dispelled. He had dared to believe that he could make a difference in the future of Aielle, had allowed himself the naive optimism that the course of civilization could be different here than in his own war-ravaged time.

  He sat tormented by the cruel visions for a long while, until sleep mercifully overtook him.

  On Mountaingate, the vicious party raged.

  Chapter 26

  The Challenge

  DEL THOUGHT IT was the sun that stole his troubled dreams, but it was not. Calae stood before him, bright and glorious as the dawn itself.

  “You expect much of us,” Del said to the Colonnae prince.

  “We expect nothing and ask nothing,” Calae replied.

  “And give nothing,” Del quipped sharply. He wanted to retract the insult as soon as he heard it spoken. Certainly the Colonnae, who had given salvation to his race in its darkest hour, did not deserve such words.

  He felt even more ridiculous when Calae laughed softly, accepting the sarcasm with good-natured understanding of the frustration behind it.

  “Can’t you help me?” Del pleaded. “Can’t you stop them and show them what they’re doing?”

  “What would be the gain?” Calae replied. “The destiny of mankind lies in the hands of men. If it were otherwise, there would be no meaning. Your race is free, Jeffrey DelGiudice, and you would have it no other way. Mankind must bear its own burdens and accept the responsibilities of self-reliance.”

  Del’s gaze dropped as the weight of salvation fell with heavy finality onto his shoulders.

  “You may find that you have the strength to win your fight,” Calae comforted. “There are stirrings in Avalon that offer hope.” His words trailed away.

  Del looked back at him, but had to shield his eyes as the light intensified, blurring the image of the Colonnae prince. The first rays of the new dawn had found their way over the Crystals, and by the time Del was able to sort through the glare, Calae was gone.

  Del considered the words and looked to the field far below. Shadowed by the high cliff along its eastern border, Mountaingate had not yet seen the dawnslight. The fires burned low and most of the elves slept, their celebration interrupted by physical and emotional exhaustion.

  Del rushed down the mountain paths, spurred by the undeniable truth of Calae’s observations and determined to face his responsibilities bravely, to bear the weight of his duties with his back stubbornly straight.

  “You have become a pitiful sight, Arien Silverleaf,” Ryell taunted a short while later, the mob behind him, nearly all of Illuma, agreeing with his every word. “Sworn to the service of your people, yet you stand against them. What form of consistency is this?”

  “We gave our promise to the ranger that we would wait for word from Bellerian,” Arien reminded.

  “We agreed to wait until morning,” Ryell retorted. “The dawn is come; I have heard no messages from the cursed wood.”

  “I hold for the just course,” Arien stated.

  “You are alone in your folly.”

  “Not true. I stand alone before you because the others who are able to perceive the evil that has befallen our people fear to oppose you. You feed upon the sorrow of many, Ryell. They follow you that they might shield their grief in anger and hatred, black thoughts easily sated by vengeance. Is it not the same for you and your loss of Erinel?”

  * * *

  “You should have stayed away longer,” Billy said grimly when he saw Del approach from beneath the shadows of the telvensils. “Ryell has just announced the decision of the council.”

  “Innocence will not defend the prisoners from his unmerciful blade,” Sylvia stuttered, and turned away, obviously ashamed at that moment to be numbered among the people of Lochsilinilume. “He is going to kill them all.”

  “The hell he is,” Del growled as he started forward.

  Billy grabbed him by the arm.

  “You can’t,” he said.

  “Let go,” Del ordered, his eyes unyielding as he stared down at his friend. “A few days ago you convinced me that we were brought here to help the right side win. That battle isn’t over.”

  “Get out of our way, Arien,” Ryell threatened, regaining his composure against Arien’s stinging reference to Erinel. “Or we shall cut you down as a traitor.”

  Appalled that the demon possessing his onetime friend had gained such control, Arien’s hand went for his sword hilt. But Del stepped in front of him, face-to-face with Ryell.

  “This is none of your affair, human,” Ryell spat at him.

  “Oh, it is,” Del retorted. “I won’t stand by and let you murder innocent people.”

  “Innocent?” Ryell balked. “They marched against our homes! Had they won, would they have shown mercy?”

  “I don’t know,” Del answered sincerely. “But that doesn’t give you the right to do this. Can’t you see that these men came here honestly believing in their cause? They were misinformed by evil, and we can only guess what magical persuasions Thalasi exerted over them.

  “The Black Warlock is dead, Ryell,” Del went on. “Ungden is gone and can harm your people no more. Do you really believe that these men here remain a threat to you? Or do you just want revenge?”

  Ryell spoke now to the crowd as much as to Del. “I want to teach a lesson to Calva that the humans will not forget.”

  “All you’ll breed is hatred!” Del shouted back at him. “You cannot know the horrors of the world before Aielle.” He stepped out to the side, that all the crowd might see him. “Hear me well!” he cried. “For my purpose in returning from that past age is upon me now.” He looked Ryell straight in the eye. “Wars breed war; killing breeds killing. Once you begin that cycle, there can be only one ending.

  “When my world burned, Ryell,” he said quietly. “Five billion people died with it. Five billion. Can you even comprehend that number?

  “Five billion hopes, five billion hearts.” Truly Del hated speaking his next words, but he understood that shock might be his only weapon. “Five billion Erinels. There will be no reprieve from the horror you begin this day.”

  Flames simmered in Ryell’s eyes, and he slid his sword from its sheath. “Move aside, human,” he snarled. “Or my blade shall find your heart.”

  Del’s smile bore the serenity of truth. He held his arms outstretched, a posture purely defenseless. “Then do it,” he said impassively. “My faith in your people is undaunted, and apparently greater than your own. When your venom has played itself out, they will look upon their bloodstained hands with horror. They will remember this moment, Ryell. What will become of you when they realize the truth of the path you led them down?”

  Ryell’s sword tip dipped. He thought of Del’s fight with Mitchell the previous night. How could this man so willingly accept death?

  Before he could find an answer, a cry of alarm rang out. “Look to the south!” yelled one of the elves, and the others soon understood his panic.

  Streaming out of Avalon and northward across Mountaingate, spear tips and helms glistening in the early sun, came the regrouped remnants of the Calvan army, even now more than a thousand strong. All the elves realized at once that they had been caught unawares, never imagining that th
e scattered and leaderless army could be turned back on them so quickly.

  “Deceiver!” Ryell cried in hopeless rage, and he spun back and launched his sword in a deadly arc for Del’s throat.

  Ardaz was quicker, though, throwing a spell with a wave of his hand that stayed the blade and held Ryell motionless in mid-swing.

  “Hold calm!” Arien commanded his people as the Calvans, still walking their mounts and showing no signs of breaking into a charge, passed the midpoint of the field. “The Rangers of Avalon are among their ranks.”

  The army stopped a short distance from the stunned elves and three men rode out from their ranks. In the middle a fair-haired young man, dressed like a king in a flowing white robe with golden trimmings, rode a great roan stallion. Belexus, upon Calamus the Pegasus, flanked him on his right, and on his left rode the Ranger Lord Bellerian. In his arm Bellerian cradled a coral crown, pinkish white and inlaid with dozens of lustrous pearls.

  Following closely came a line of eleven, ten Warders of the White Walls centered by Andovar, who bore a furled standard.

  Arien grew more at ease when he noted the sincerity of the fair-haired young man’s keen, dark eyes. There was noble blood in the lad; he was not diminished by the mighty rangers flanking him.

  He eyed Arien for a long moment, then raised his clenched fist above his head.

  The Calvans had come too close if they meant to charge, but still Arien started defensively when the lad dropped his arm in a quick movement.

  And to the utter amazement of the elves, the entire Calvan army, and the rangers riding with them, threw their weapons to the ground and remained at silent attention. At the same time, Andovar unfurled the standard—four white bridges and four pearls set against a blue field.

  The banner of Pallendara before the reign of Ungden.

  “I am Benador,” the young man announced in a strong, clear voice befitting his station. “Heir to the line of Ben-rin and rightful Lord of Pallendara. I was but an infant when Ben-galen, my father, and Darwinia, my mother, were murdered by Ungden the Usurper, and I owe my life to venerable Bellerian and the wizard you call Ardaz.”