“Now I repay you,” the wraith roared in its unearthly, grating voice. Andovar’s sword struck again, to no effect. For the first time in his life Andovar’s battle skill would not be enough.
The ranger knew he was doomed.
Then came a sudden flurry of blows so powerful and well-aimed that even the magical wraith could not hold his footing. Mitchell gave ground as Belexus came on, the ranger’s sword snapping and driving with incredible force and precision.
Again and again the broadsword of Belexus drove in at its target.
But the metal of the weapon could not truly harm this being from the netherworld, and the ranger’s advantage was short-lived. Mitchell, not even trying to deflect the blows, came back on the offensive, swinging his skull-headed mace wildly. Belexus felt the power of the thing each time it swooshed by him, and he realized that a single blow could spell his defeat.
He was arguably the finest warrior in all of Aielle, and the strength in his iron-corded arms was unrivaled in all the world. Backavar, the enchantish word for iron-arm, he was called by his admirers. Belexus Backavar, Belexus Iron-arm.
But for all the truth to his nickname, Belexus gave ground now, steadily and helplessly backing from the horror of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
Andovar rolled onto his side and struggled to his knees. His shield arm was useless, a dead thing, and he doubted that he would ever be able to raise it again. More than that, though, the wound had numbed his side, penetrated him with a ghastly chill that crept through his limbs. But Ando-var found a measure of his strength returning when he looked at Belexus, his truest friend, frantically parrying the wicked blows of Mitchell’s mace now and not even attempting to launch his own strikes. Andovar gathered up his sword again and fought away the deathly cold.
“Farewell, ranger,” Mitchell laughed. “You have met a foe this day that you cannot hope to defeat.” Belexus could not find a reply to the claim when he looked into the dots of fire that served as eyes and the bloated gray skin of the animated corpse.
The mace came around to bear again, and Belexus, knowing that he could not play this defensive game much longer, sent his sword into it with every ounce of strength he could muster.
His sword blade splintered and fell to the ground.
Without hesitation, before Mitchell could cry out in victorious glee, Belexus leaped right onto the wraith, grabbing the mace-wielding arm and throwing his other arm around Mitchell’s neck. He twisted and heaved, pulling Mitchell off balance, and for just a split second it seemed that the sheer strength of Belexus would carry him through to victory. But after the initial shock of the move wore off, Belexus realized his folly.
Mitchell’s skin was so cold that it burned on contact. The ranger felt the searing pain stealing the strength from his arms, and when Mitchell put his free hand on Belexus’ back, the ranger felt its clawing fingers tearing into his very heart. Then Mitchell laughed wickedly and heaved, sending Belexus flying onto his back. He scrambled to his hands and knees, fighting a wave of weakened dizziness.
“Run, me friend!” came a cry. “To Avalon! Suren the witch’s the only one who can stop this beast!”
Belexus managed to focus his eyes just in time to see Andovar’s sword tip explode out through the front of Mitchell’s chest.
Mitchell glanced down to consider the weapon, then laughed again. He wheeled about in wild fury, snapping Andovar’s sword at its hilt, and threw his arm around the stunned ranger.
“Run, Belexus!” Andovar pleaded, his voice falling away for lack of breath.
“No!” Belexus cried, willing himself to his feet. But even as he started back to help his friend, Mitchell twisted Andovar about into an awkward position and wrenched with all of his undead strength.
The image of Rhiannon, the love he would never know, came to Andovar one final time. And then it was gone, stolen in the burning explosion of pain.
Belexus watched in horror as Andovar’s body bent over backward, and he heard vividly, so very vividly, the cracking of his friend’s spine. Then the wraith grasped the broken form by the neck in one dark hand and lifted it high into the air.
“Doom is upon you, foolish mortal!” the wraith roared. “Tonight is the night you die!” Mitchell heaved Andovar back behind him with such force that the body fell lifelessly into the great river.
For all of his need of vengeance, Belexus knew he could do nothing against the wraith. He stumbled away into the night, choked by anger and sorrow and a horror beyond anything he had ever before known.
Mitchell called to his hellish stallion and thundered off in pursuit. The night was not dark, but even had it been moonless, the wraith would have had no trouble locating its fleeing prey. Mitchell was a creature of the night; darkness only added to his strength.
Belexus heard the pounding of the hooves closing on him. He could not possibly get back to his camp and his own horse in time. He could not possibly escape.
A white form soared by him, the force of its windy wake knocking the weakened ranger from his feet. Belexus was not the target of this magnificent creature, however, for its fury was aimed squarely at the charging wraith and his mount.
And with all the strength of Avalon spurring its rush, and with the blessings of Brielle upon it, Calamus the Pegasus, the winged Lord of Horses, met Mitchell in full flight. A crackle like a bolt of lightning splitting a huge tree sounded, and the flash as the witching magic crashed head-on into the dark enchantments of Morgan Thalasi blinded the ranger for several seconds. And when he recovered his vision, Belexus saw Mitchell sprawled out on the ground, scrambling to find his mace. The black horse was similarly dazed, wandering about in circles and shaking its smoky head back and forth.
Calamus, running now, and in a wavering line that revealed that it, too, had not escaped the fury of the collision unharmed, headed for the injured ranger. The Pegasus dropped to its front knees when it reached Belexus, nudging him to his feet, urging him to take his place on its back.
Belexus climbed on and grasped the snowy mane of the winged horse with all of his remaining strength. He managed to hold his place even when the blackness of unconsciousness overtook him, and he never knew the fury of the ensuing chase.
Calamus took to the air, its mighty wings lifting it high and fast back to the north.
But Mitchell and his stallion were quick to follow, soaring up into the night sky on the wings of the Black Warlock’s enchantment.
Toward Avalon the great Pegasus flew, taking as much care as it could not to drop its rider, but holding fast to the straight course.
Spurring his mount, the wraith of Mitchell steadily gained. That wicked smile, the grimace of the wraith, found its way onto his face again and he raised his mace for a strike.
Calamus dove suddenly in a steep descent, but Mitchell reacted quickly and was back on the tail of the winged horse in an instant. Calamus rolled out to the side, narrowly avoiding the swipe of the wraith’s mace.
The dark silhouette of Avalon was in sight now in the distance. Too far, perhaps.
The Pegasus rose again into the sky, finding the cover of a cloud to give it time. Mitchell plunged right in behind, flailing away, his evil mace hissing as it tore through the mist.
Back out the other side, Calamus continued to rise, higher and higher. Then, as Mitchell steadily closed in again, the Pegasus leveled out and bent its head low, gathering as much speed as it could. Calamus could only hope that Belexus wouldn’t fall; the Pegasus could not take the time now to ensure that the ranger held his seat.
And even as Mitchell raised his mace for the blow that surely would find its mark, Calamus dropped into an almost vertical stoop. Belexus half opened one eye, and his shock at seeing the ground rushing up brought both his eyes open wide. He could only trust in Calamus. He threw both his arms around his steed’s muscular neck and held on for his life.
Mitchell roared in rage when he understood the white horse’s intent. He could not match the dive of Calamus; and no fl
ying creature, Calamus included, could hope to pull out of such a stoop.
Not without help.
***
Brielle watched both Calamus’ suicidal plummet to the ground and the pursuit of the wraith, and knew that the brave Pegasus was counting on her. She waved her hand in a wide arc, and the air around her filled with strands of floating, sticky goo. They clung to the trees and to each other, growing into a symmetrical web.
Calamus pivoted and broke the fall as much as possible, but the sudden motion sent Belexus tumbling from its back. Too concerned with its own landing at that moment, the terrified Pegasus didn’t even notice. Belexus hit first, Calamus right behind, their weight driving Brielle’s web down toward the earth in a rush. But the strength of the Emerald Witch was in the magical strands and they held, as fine a net as the world had ever known.
Brielle wanted to rush to the fallen heroes, but she still had other business to attend. She ran to the edge of her domain where the black horse soon put down, and faced the wraith of Mitchell once again.
“So that one escaped,” Mitchell laughed.
His inference that there had been others present when he had attacked unnerved the witch; her daughter was still traveling with the ranger as far as she knew.
“Not so fortunate was Andovar,” Mitchell roared. “And I will get that one, too. You cannot always be there to protect him, wicked witch; I will find Belexus again. The next time he will not escape.”
Brielle trembled in agonized rage. She was relieved that Mitchell had made no reference to her daughter, but she felt the loss of Andovar, the ranger she had watched grow into manhood, as keenly as if he had been her own child. Her only answer came out in an explosion of unbridled rage, a bolt of mighty white energy that sent Mitchell flying far from his saddle and reduced the evil mount to a mere pile of ashes.
All boasts stolen from the wraith’s tongue, he fled with all speed back to the south, painfully aware of his stupidity in challenging the likes of Brielle, and hoping that his dark master would be forgiving.
Sorrowing over the events of the night, the great River Ne’er Ending rolled relentlessly along its southern course, past the farmlands, past the encampments talon and human, unerringly on its trek to find the southern sea.
And in its waters that night, the great river carried the body of Andovar, the ranger who had died to save his friend.
Chapter 18
River Song
THE FIGHTING ACROSS the Four Bridges slowed considerably during the Black Warlock’s absence, and even after Thalasi returned to his forces, he held them in check, knowing that they would be much more effective once their new commander arrived to lead them.
Likewise did the stream of refugees making their silent way across the river diminish. The talons recognized that many potential victims were slipping right through their clawed fingers, so they began to patrol on the riverbanks. Few humans remained alive on the western side, and those unfortunate stragglers who did no longer found crossing to safety an easy feat.
And so for Rhiannon the days became longer and more tedious. The refugee encampment beside Rivertown continued to dwindle-the farther from Thalasi’s army the helpless people could get, the safer they would be-and the witch’s daughter spent her hours staring into the emptiness of the horizon. In some ways she was grateful for the free time and the lull in the action. Without the sound of battle ringing in her ears, the possessing power did not well within her, tearing her apart. And with little healing to be done, she finally had the chance to find the rest she so badly needed.
But free time also gave Rhiannon the opportunity to contemplate the events that had occurred, particularly the destruction she had wreaked on the field against the talon cavalry and against the earth itself.
In truth, the young witch was not yet ready to ponder the implications of such thoughts. Nor could she sort through the unknown feelings that the ranger Andovar had stirred in her. Rhiannon did not yet understand the true depth of her caring for the man, but she had begun to miss him terribly as soon as he and Belexus had ridden out of sight. And whenever the weight of all the world seemed to descend upon her delicate shoulders, she firmed them up and reminded herself that Andovar would soon return to her side. Together, Rhiannon was beginning to believe, she and her ranger could get through anything.
She found some measure of relief, though, in the three new friends, Siana, Jolsen, and Lennard, who had come across with firsthand knowledge of the young half-elven hero. The three were near to Rhiannon’s age and could match every tale the witch’s daughter could tell them of wondrous Avalon with a story of their own adventures in Corning and in the Baerendel Mountains. Rhiannon listened eagerly as each new-and no doubt exaggerated-story rolled by, but was especially attentive to those adventures concerning Bryan, the lad that had caught the attention and the hearts of all the Calvan people. More than a dozen groups of refugees had given Bryan of Corning full credit for their escape from the talon-occupied lands. As with all heroic tales, the feats of Bryan grew larger and larger with each telling, but even those who recognized the embellishments did not doubt that the young warrior had truly earned his reputation. And with the talons now working hard to shut down the escape routes, the general consensus was that any others finding their way across would only be able to do so because of the efforts of that special young half-elf.
Rhiannon sat beside the great river to watch the sunset one evening, as she did every evening, listening to the song of the flowing water, quiet and strong, and enjoying the splash of colors hanging low in the western sky. Here each night the witch’s daughter allowed herself to contemplate those disturbing questions, but gradually, as the days drifted by, she began to find her longing to see Andovar overcoming her fears of magical powers.
How long had the ranger been gone? she wondered. She had lost count of the days; early on, when the line of wounded was still long and her work did not begin or end with the cycles of the sun, one or many might have passed.
“Five,” she decided. Andovar had been gone five days. She could be satisfied with that estimate, but the answer to the other, more important question remained elusive. When would Andovar return?
“Rhiannon!” cried Siana, running down toward the lone form sitting beside the river. “Rhiannon!” She rushed up to the young woman and plopped down on the grass, her smile nearly taking in her ears.
“What’s excitin’ ye so?” Rhiannon replied, trying to calm the girl. “Might it be Lennard? Has the lad found his walking legs?”
“No, not Lennard. Not yet,” Siana puffed, fighting to find her breath.
“What then?”
“It is Bryan!” Siana shouted. “He is alive!”
“Has he come across?” Rhiannon gasped, unable to hide the eagerness on her face. She, like so many others, badly wanted to meet the half-elven hero.
“No,” replied Siana. “But another family, a woman and her two children, came into the camp just a few minutes ago, looking for me. She brought news of Bryan; ’twas he who saved her and her children.”
Rhiannon, though obviously disappointed, was far from surprised. “Suren that one’s making a name that will live on through the centuries,” she remarked, a twinkle of admiration in her bright eyes.
“He is making a name with the talons, too!” laughed Siana. “They call him the ’ghost fighter’ and greatly fear him.”
“As well they should,” Rhiannon replied. “Me hopes and heart’s out to the lad; so much good he has done. Come now, take me to this woman. I’m wishing to hear another tale of Bryan of Corning. Never will I tire of them!”
Later that evening, Rhiannon attended to the young boy and his infant sister, mostly cleaning their scrapes and washing the grime of their ordeal from their bodies and their thoughts, while the woman recounted the exploits of her rescuer.
“He saved me and mine,” she kept saying, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I try not to think of what the talons would have done to us if they…” She coul
dn’t complete the thought, and Rhiannon did not want her to.
“Rest easy,” said the witch’s daughter. “Yer children are fine, and the thoughts of their troubles will soon fall far behind. What ye all be needin’ now is sleep. She left the tent with Siana close behind. Jolsen stayed on awhile, talking to Lennard.
Siana started off to the north, toward the Calvan encampment, but Rhiannon took her by the arm and steered her toward the riverbank instead. Rhiannon did not like going to the army camp, with its grim reminders of the soldiers’ true purpose in being here.
“Let us go and see the river,” she said. “Her song’ll put us far from this place.”
Siana readily agreed and followed Rhiannon down to the water’s edge, slumping down in the grass beside her friend. Rhiannon clutched her knees up close to her chest and let the notes of the flowing water fill her ears.
Siana sat in silence, respecting the privacy of Rhiannon’s thoughts. And soon Siana, too, fell under the calming spell of the rhythmic roll of the wide river, and time slipped by both of them without notice and without care.
But then suddenly Rhiannon sprang up, her eyes wide in surprise as she stared at the river.
“What is it?” Siana pressed, amazed at her friend’s distress. Unlike Rhiannon, so attuned to the voice of the natural world, Siana did not hear the discordant notes of the river’s song.
“Not to me knowing,” Rhiannon answered, equally perplexed. She had heard the river’s lament, clearly and undeniably, just as surely as she had understood the truth of the talon force and their dark leader back when she and the rangers had arrived in Corning. She stepped down to the water and knelt, putting her hands into the flow.
“Is something wrong?” Siana asked, moving down beside her. “What did you see?”
“Hear,” Rhiannon corrected, still examining the water.
The Witch_s Daughter tcoya-2 Page 19
