Bastion of Darkness tcoya-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  Mitchell did not blink at the hollow words. He remembered well the relationship between Thalasi and Ungden in that time two decades before. Mitchell and Martin Reinheiser had escaped from Illuma and the watchful eyes of the elves and gone to Pallendara to tell Ungden about the secret valley. What they had found in Pallendara had surprised Mitchell, for Ungden, a fop and no warrior, was hardly in control.

  No, that control came from behind the throne: from Morgan Thalasi posing as Istaahl the White, the King’s “advisor.”

  The wraith understood too much to find any comfort in the Black Warlock’s offers as to how they would sort out the conquered lands. Mitchell understood, too, however, that the Staff of Death gave the Black Warlock all of the trump cards in this game.

  Hanging on the dungeon wall, Rhiannon opened a bleary eye. The coldness of the wraith’s intrusions remained, a gross chill that stung the young witch to the marrow of her bones.

  The zombies remained, too, and as soon as Rhiannon licked her lips, trying to put some moisture there, they closed on her and beat her.

  She fell limp almost immediately and the zombies moved back, and so she hung there, keeping her eyes closed, making no movement at all beyond her shallow breathing. She tried to conjure images of happier days, but they only made her more miserable, for in her ultimate despair, she believed that those days were forever lost to her.

  Lost to her, and to her mother, as well, if Thalasi’s prediction proved correct. Rhiannon had been no match for Mitchell alone, let alone Thalasi; and so Brielle, if she were really coming out to Talas-dun, would likely be overwhelmed.

  The deepest pit of despair opened below the young witch as she hung there motionless, eyes closed, and it took every effort Rhiannon could muster to keep from that fall.

  She knew that she could not last, in heart or in body, much longer.

  The elven procession passed through Avalon and out the western edge of the wood, following the same trail that Bellerian and the rangers had used, the same trail that Bryan had ridden. Ardaz was with them, on a roan stallion up front beside Arien and Ryell, all grim faced and ready for battle.

  Belexus was not among the ranks, but he watched the procession from a grassy knoll north of the troop, with Brielle standing beside him. Despite the dark situation, the overwhelming odds, the loss of Rhiannon, the ranger’s heart soared at the sight: two hundred elven warriors riding hard on powerful steeds, bells jingling, armor and weapons gleaming. Belexus had seen Arien’s fierce kin in battle before, and he knew that two hundred elves could defeat five times that number of talons. They were a joyous race, more attuned to dancing beneath the stars than wielding a sword or bow, but when battle pressed, none in all the world could fight better. The elves could move and maneuver as a single unit, turning battle into something as choreographed as one of their dances, and their sharp eyes and steady hands made them the finest archers in all Aielle.

  But there were only two hundred of them.

  “They’ll not be catching me father and kin,” the ranger remarked as the last of the elves passed out from under the forest boughs.

  “Unless Bellerian’s found a fight,” Brielle replied.

  Belexus shook his head. “He’ll get around any fight that would slow him down,” the ranger reasoned. “Rhiannon’s his goal, and nothing more, and horses are faster than lizards.”

  Brielle didn’t openly disagree, though she feared that if Thalasi had spotted Bellerian and Bryan, he would have sent out too great a force for them to circumvent, or might even have gone out personally with his lackey wraith to end the threat once and for all. The witch knew that Belexus understood that possibility as well, but as was his way, Belexus would hold fast to hope.

  “Incredible,” came a voice behind them, and they turned to see DelGiudice, a part of him anyway, blended into a huge oak tree. Only his face and hands were showing, sticking out from the rough bark.

  “It’s living matter,” the ghost explained. “I can pass through it as easily as… well, as easily as I pass through you!” With that, he stepped out of the oak and onto the knoll.

  “And it is an incredible experience,” he explained. “Every time.”

  “I’ve no time for play,” Belexus said, rather sternly. He looked to Brielle. “Arien’s not to catch me father, but meself and Calamus suren will. And I’ll get to yer girl, don’t ye doubt, and pay back that wretched Mitchell in the while.”

  The ranger started for the witch, then hesitated and looked to the ghost, who was standing quietly before the oak. It was a critical moment for Belexus, with DelGiudice watching him, but he could not deny what was in his heart, no matter if it cost him his friend. He moved to Brielle then and crushed her in his hug, then tilted up her fair face and kissed her.

  Both looked to the ghost as soon as the kiss was ended.

  “I’m not wanting to pain ye,” Belexus explained. “But ye should be knowing that me heart’s for Brielle.”

  The words jolted the spirit from the warmth that he was feeling in watching these two people that he so loved. He turned a curious gaze squarely on the ranger.

  “I canno’ deny me feelings,” Belexus said.

  “Why should you?” a truly perplexed DelGiudice asked.

  “I know what yerself and Brielle shared,” the ranger went on. “And know the beauty o’ that; I’m seeing it in Rhiannon’s eyes and smile. But…”

  The ghost lifted a hand to stop the ranger, DelGiudice at last catching on, touched to discover that Belexus was afraid that he would be jealous of the new love that had come into Brielle’s life. The spirit smiled as he considered that, for nothing could be further from the truth. To Del-who had seen the mysteries of eternity, who had felt the greater love of the Colonnae-this humanly love was not a thing for jealousy, but a thing for joy. He felt no pangs when looking upon Brielle and Belexus, unless they were from a sense of personal loss, that he could not so hug and kiss the wondrous woman. But in his heart, Del was truly glad that Brielle had found love again, and glad that it was Belexus, a man of pure heart, a man that Del loved as a brother.

  “I wish that my own mortal coil was more than illusion,” the ghost explained. “I wish that my own arms could so go around Brielle, for in spite of all the greater wonders I have seen, I love her still, and ever shall. But don’t fear my reaction to your love.” He smiled warmly and winked at the witch. “I always knew that you had good taste.”

  Brielle returned the smile, then looked back at Belexus, locking stares and then sharing another kiss. “Ye bring her back,” the witch said.

  Belexus nodded.

  “And ye make sure that ye come back to me,” Brielle went on.

  Again the nod, and with not another word to her, Belexus walked to the other side of the knoll and climbed atop the waiting pegasus. “Will you fly with me?” the ranger asked Del.

  The ghost considered the offer for a moment, then answered. “Not yet. I have faith that I can get to the west much more quickly than any of you,” he explained, “though of what help I might be, I cannot say. You go on, and fly fast and straight, Belexus Backavar. I will find my place in all of this, I am certain.”

  “Fare ye well, then,” the ranger said. He gave Calamus a kick, and the pegasus went into a short run and then lifted off into the morning sky.

  Belexus and Brielle waved, and soon the ranger was no more than a speck in the western sky, easily overtaking Arien’s procession.

  “And what’re ye thinking yer place to be?” Brielle asked Del.

  “I don’t honestly know,” the ghost replied. “I could work as a spy, I suppose.”

  Something was bothering him, the perceptive witch recognized, and after a moment’s thought, she figured it out. “Ye’re afraid to go and see yer girl,” she reasoned.

  “I’m afraid of what I might find,” the ghost confirmed. “Suppose that…” His voice drifted off to something as insubstantial as his body.

  There was nothing more that needed to be said about it,
for Brielle certainly understood.

  “We’ll get her back,” Del promised, seeing the fair witch’s expression drop. “I know that you must feel helpless, stuck here in the forest,” he dared to say, and he wished he hadn’t when Brielle looked up sharply. Her expression was not one of helplessness, however, but one of determination.

  “Not so stuck,” she said. “I gave a piece of meself to Bryan o’ Corning, Rhiannon’s friend and love, and if he gets to me girl, then I’ll be there beside him, don’t ye doubt.”

  Del’s thoughts went back to the battle he had fought on the field of Mountaingate, when Brielle had been there, posing as a small horse. The witch had been pivotal in that battle, resisting Thalasi, delivering Del and the one weapon that could defeat the Black Warlock. She had found a way then to be useful, and so she would again, the ghost knew. He took great comfort in that-as he had in the passage of Arien and the elves, as he had in the flight of Belexus-knowing that Rhiannon, his daughter, had so many powerful allies on her side.

  For all the days of Benador’s march, for all the long nights awaiting word of Rhiannon, Istaahl the White had sat calmly in a private place, gathering his strength, allowing the weakened magic to build strong within his weary bones once more.

  He called out to the sea often, and heard its distant reply, but he came to realize that such a call would not suffice, that to truly find a weapon against the power of Talas-dun, the White Wizard of Pallendara would have to go to the source. As Brielle gathered her power from Avalon, so did Istaahl from the great sea, and so there he went, mind and soul, soaring out and diving down.

  He felt the great press of the place as he descended into darkness, more fully engulfed by the watery realm than he had ever before been.

  And still his thoughts dove: down, down, to the ocean floor, to the source.

  And there, he studied. And there, he called.

  And there, he begged.

  Morgan Thalasi went out from Talas-dun that very night, his powerful staff in hand. He filtered his senses through that staff as he walked, sensing below him any remains of creatures that had gone before.

  And he found them, and everywhere, and with a thought and the tap of his staff, he brought them to clawing animation, struggling, many futilely, for their bones had settled centuries before under tons of solid stone. But many more, garish zombies and white-boned skeletons, did find their way to the surface: lizards and birds, small animals and talons, so many talons.

  The procession behind Thalasi grew with every step he took, winding his way through the mountain passes. He found another talon graveyard and promptly emptied it, then entered the remains of a talon village that he remembered, that had been destroyed in an earthquake a hundred years before.

  Five hundred animated talon skeletons and nearly half that number of bony lizards followed Thalasi out of that village.

  And so it went, through the day and through the night, and all the next and the next after that, the Black Warlock growing his power out of the very ground, robbing Death yet again. In but a few days, Thalasi’s ghoulish army easily dwarfed that of the forces coming to Talas-dun.

  And with the Staff of Death in his hands, the Black Warlock found that he could control these unthinking minions as easily as he could clench his own fist.

  Hollis Mitchell watched it all, and was not pleased.

  Chapter 20

  Thalasi’s Guest Chambers

  “IF ALL THE blackness in all the world had been bunched together, then suren it’d be such an evil sight as this,” Bellerian muttered grimly as he and Bryan stared across a wide rocky valley to the black castle perched upon a high plateau overlooking the sea. Patches of fog drifted past their line of sight, obscuring the image-and both were glad for those moments, for the relief offered against the pain of merely looking upon the bastion of Morgan Thalasi.

  For Bryan felt no less strongly about the sight than Bellerian, and his heart sank when he considered that Rhiannon was in there.

  “We can go no further with the light on the wane,” the ranger lord explained. “We’ll set the camp about, then be out with the morn. If luck be with us, we’ll be into Talas-dun afore the setting of the next sun.”

  The estimate was obviously optimistic, given the terrain, and truly disheartening to both anxious warriors, but given the trouble the group had already experienced in crossing the Kored-dul range, Bryan knew that Bellerian had to voice a positive opinion if for no other reason than the morale of the frustrated group. They had been in the mountains for several days, winding their way along treacherous trails where even the surefooted Avalon horses could barely cross. They had followed a path that seemed promising, but that had ended abruptly at a thousand-foot drop on the edge of a long ravine that they had then spent hours and hours circuiting. And always, with every step, the troupe had been aware that danger was never far away. These were Morgan Thalasi’s mountains, for centuries infected by his pervasively evil will, serving as a breeding ground for talons and the man-eating lizards the creatures often rode.

  Now, at least, Talas-dun was in sight, but there was no clear trail to get to the place, and Bryan feared that they might spend several days simply looking for the correct approach. And each of those days, the young half-elf knew, Rhiannon would remain in the dark one’s clutches.

  Bellerian kept on speaking of his plans, but Bryan was only half listening-a fact that was not lost on the ranger lord. Thus, when the rangers awoke the next morning, Bellerian was not surprised to find that the young half-elf had stolen away in the night, though his Avalon horse remained tethered beside the others.

  “We can find his trail,” one of the other rangers said to Bellerian.

  The ranger lord thought that over for a minute, then shook his head. “He’s gone by ways our horses canno’ follow,” Bellerian reasoned, and he was not upset-though surely concerned-by the thought. He and his kin had delivered Bryan in sight of Talas-dun, but the rest of the trek was better made by the half-elf alone. The score of rangers could not storm the castle with any hope of success, of course, and a path of stealth was better accomplished by one than by twenty.

  “Then what’s for us?” the ranger asked.

  “Others will be along, unless I miss me guess,” Bellerian reasoned. “Benador’s sure to come, Arien as well. And by the time they get near to Kored-dul, we’ll have all the region scouted.”

  The ranger nodded, then ran off to rejoin the rest of the troop, informing them of their new mission.

  Bellerian watched them at their hasty, practiced preparations, secure in the knowledge that his rangers were the best scouts in all the world and that when Benador, or Arien, arrived, the rangers would be able to give them a complete report on the enemy’s strength and whereabouts, and on the best passes for their approach.

  The ranger lord’s gaze inevitably shifted back across the misty valley, to the black heart of the mountains. Bryan had done well in slipping off in the night, Bellerian knew; the young half-elf had absolved the rangers of a duty that was better left unserved. If Bryan had announced openly that he planned to go on alone, Bellerian would have had a hard time in convincing some of his more headstrong proteges to agree-might have had a hard time agreeing, himself. And even if they all did come to consensus that Bryan’s choice was best, then every one of the proud rangers would carry a heavy heart, beset by the knowledge that they had sent a warrior who was not one of their own to attempt this most dangerous and important mission.

  No, Bellerian understood, young Bryan of Corning had done him, and all the rangers, a great service by setting off alone, in the dark of night. No easy path, that, in the dreaded Kored-dul, and such a display of bravery gave the ranger lord hope. Now he held faith in the young warrior. Still, it pained the old ranger that he was not beside Bryan of Corning, and that his son was not there. For forty years, Bellerian had lived in the shadows of Brielle’s enchanted forest, and now, when she needed him most, he wanted nothing more than to aid her. But he could not; h
e was old and he was crooked with a wound from a whip-dragon, and he could not climb steep mountain walls, or castle walls.

  “Fare well, young Bryan,” he said into the wind. “Bring her back to her home, for Brielle’ll not survive losing her daughter dear.”

  “They are yours,” Morgan Thalasi announced to Hollis Mitchell, quite unexpectedly.

  The wraith glanced down at the courtyard and the open region surrounding Talas-dun, the whole of the place filled with thousands and thousands of gruesome standing corpses and animated skeletons, mostly talon, but with hundreds of animals in the mix.

  “You are my general, the conqueror, and to you I give this army,” Thalasi explained.

  “To command at your will?” the wraith asked suspiciously.

  “To command at your own,” the Black Warlock replied, and then, with a wicked grin, he added, “So long as your desires and my own are one and the same.”

  Mitchell marked well that threat.

  “Take them,” Thalasi instructed. “Go out from Talas-dun with your army, my general. Meet King Benador and Arien Silverleaf on the field and let them see their folly!”

  Mitchell did not immediately respond to the battle cry. “Perhaps our stand would be all the stronger if made here,” he reasoned.

  “And perhaps our enemies will learn the truth of our power and turn away before they ever reach the place,” Thalasi countered. “Perhaps Belexus will not come.” He knew that bait would prove too much for Mitchell to ignore.

  “Look at your thousands,” Thalasi added. “The humans and elves cannot resist us.”

  Mitchell did look out at the standing throng, so perfectly disciplined, mere weapons for his will, extensions of his very thoughts. Then he looked back to Thalasi and came to share the Black Warlock’s confident smile.