“So it’s me own magic,” she pondered, tapping a finger on her pursed lips. And then those lips spread into another smile as Rhiannon came to understand the implications of this particular ability. “Go get yer friends,” she whispered to the bird. “I’m needin’ to talk to ye all.”
A short while later a dozen birds flitted all about the blueberry patch on the side of a mountain where Rhiannon had found her breakfast. She chatted a few “good mornings” with the avian creatures, then sent them off on a mission.
Before the sun had climbed very high in the eastern sky, the young witch had a growing network of spies soaring all about the land.
Bryan watched anxiously as two talons pulled their cart through a narrow gorge, two others flanking them. This would be a simple ambush, one of the easiest he had ever pulled, but the half-elf found himself jittery nonetheless. He gathered up a handful of arrows and crept down the rocky mountainside to the defensive bluff he had chosen earlier.
The talons came on unconcerned. Their standard marked them as a group from the south, from the Ballendul Mountains beyond the forest of Windy Willows, no doubt bringing supplies at the summons of the Black Warlock. Apparently they hadn’t heard of the dangers to talons in this section of the Baerendels; Bryan’s reputation wasn’t as widespread as he had feared. He smiled at his continued good fortune and put an arrow to his bowstring as the cart neared the trip wire.
It was a simple trap: a loose stone along the rocky path holding down a length of cord, which in turn secured several boulders on the opposite cliff face. The cart bumped across the loose trip stone, bouncing it up and releasing the cord. A moment later the boulders came cascading down the cliff, leaping higher with each thunderous rebound.
Bryan didn’t expect to actually get any of the talons with the boulders, but the diversionary effect was well worth his efforts in putting the trap together. As the four beasts screamed and scrambled to get out of harm’s way, Bryan set his bow into action, firing off three shots before the terrified talons even knew he was there. Two of the arrows found their marks, killing one talon and dropping another in writhing agony on the stony ground.
And as the remaining two talons turned to consider their fallen comrades, Bryan sprang down upon them.
The closest beast turned and charged, spear leading the way, as Bryan came down to ground level. But the talon was confused and it overbalanced as it roared in. Bryan fell backward, his shield easily lifting the spear tip harmlessly high. Unable to break its momentum, the talon rolled right over the half-elf, and when Bryan completed his roll and came back to his feet, he had to pause and brace himself to pull out his sword, buried to the hilt in the unfortunate monster’s gut.
The last talon launched its spear, but the heavy, unbalanced thing had little chance of connecting with the nimble half-elf. Bryan slipped right by it in its flight and charged out after the talon. It shrieked and fled back toward the wagon, where the small avalanche had ended.
“Too easy,” Bryan muttered to himself as he closed the gap, and his words rang out as a warning in his own ears. Before he could consider them more closely, however, he found the truth of them painfully clear.
A spear caught him in the side.
Reeling and grasping the weapon to keep its bounce from tearing him apart, Bryan glanced back up the gorge, where five more talons, ambushers for the ambusher, were now coming on, howling with glee.
He knew he had gotten careless, had overestimated himself and underestimated his enemies. The talon at the wagon was still unarmed, but Bryan had no strength for any battles. He limped and scrambled to the side, to the cliff face, and put his back against it for support.
The talons closed in cautiously, not understanding the extent of the half-elf’s wounds. They had indeed heard of the “ghost fighter,” and were not so eager to plunge in at him, however assured their victory seemed.
But Bryan, hardly conscious, could only inch his way along the rough wall, hoping against reality that he would find some way out. He put a small thicket of growth, barely more than a knee-high bush and a finger-thin sapling, between himself and the talons before he found that he could go no farther.
Still the six talons took their time, fanning out around the half-elf in a semicircle. One threw a spear in, but its aim was not so good and Bryan managed to block it weakly with his shield.
The largest of the talons, standing next to the spear thrower, slapped it on the head for wasting its weapon. Then the big beast, apparently the leader, took a bold step in, continuing slowly to within ten yards of Bryan, studying the sweat and anguish on his fair face.
Bryan could hardly see it. Tears glistened in his eyes. He had known all along that it would eventually end this way, but he never would have believed that he could feel such pain, or such terror. And the terror only heightened when he did finally focus on the big talon, its crude and wicked spear tip waving menacingly out in front.
Then the talon roared and charged, leaning over the spear. Bryan couldn’t begin to get his shield back up, and even if he had managed it, he had no strength to deflect such a heavy blow.
At full speed and only two steps away, the talon roared a cry of victory.
But then, in his daze, Bryan saw the shaft of the spear snap as if the weapon had been plunged into stone, and he heard the talon thump face first into a solid object.
Where the sapling had been now stood a full-grown oak.
The talon bounced back a step, considering the tree with stunned incomprehension. As if in response, the oak sent a heavy branch swinging down that split the beast’s skull and drove its head right down between its shoulders. The other talons, when they had recovered from their shock, turned to flee.
But the oak wasn’t finished. Thick limbs pounded down on the closest of the monsters, while longer, more supple branches reached out to snatch those farthest away.
Bryan somehow knew the tree was an ally, and he was not afraid, just amazed and even a bit horrified as the slashing and pounding continued. One talon went up into the air, a branch firmly about its neck. It dangled and kicked for a few agonizing moments, then hung very still, turning slowly on the afternoon breeze.
It was over as quickly as it started, and not a talon, not even the one wounded by Bryan’s initial arrow, remained alive.
A bit of his strength returned with the realization of his salvation, Bryan slipped out tentatively from behind the enchanted oak.
And then he saw her.
Rhiannon stood on a small outcropping of rocks across the gorge, near the bluff where Bryan had begun the assault. Her gossamer gown caught the sunlight and held it, surrounding the witch in a preternatural glow that enhanced the spectacle of her power. Her eyes were closed, her expression one of grim satisfaction, and she stood perfectly still, one arm remaining upraised in its call to the powers of the heavens and the earth. Only Rhiannon’s gown whipped about her in the breeze, that glowing, mysterious gown that seemed so much a part of the young witch.
She had come upon the gorge as Bryan’s ambush began, remaining in the background to consider the work of the noted young hero and having no intention of interfering with the events at hand-on either side.
But when the talons forced Bryan against the wall, rage flooded through Rhiannon. It was Andovar she saw there, helpless and facing death, and when the power gathered within her limbs, she did not try to push it away.
And now it was over, and sooner or later, Rhiannon knew, she would have to look down upon the carnage she had wreaked. Grim satisfaction turned into a painful lament, another stain upon the innocence of the witch’s daughter. The power, its task completed, flowed out of her, leaving her empty and weak, and only by great effort, and by continually reminding herself that Bryan had been sorely wounded, was she able to climb down the rocks to the floor of the gorge.
The half-elf was still conscious and standing when she reached him, though she suspected that he would fall to the ground if the stone wall was not holding him up.
“Who?” Bryan gasped. “How-”
“Me name’s not important for now,” Rhiannon said softly. She moved to examine the wound, and eased Bryan down to the ground. The spear had dug in deep, and no doubt its tip was barbed. But Rhiannon had been numbed to such sights over the past weeks, and she went about her task calmly and efficiently. She realized that she could not hope to remove the spear through any normal means, not here in the dust, with each movement of the shaft causing the young half-elf such incredible pain.
Instead she spoke the runes of a spell-none that she had learned, but simply words that now came to her in her time of need-and the spear shaft warmed to her touch. A moment later it came alive, a serpent writhing in Rhiannon’s hands. At her call, it backed out of the wound, leaving the spear tip unattached and still inside the half-elf.
Bryan watched it all through the blur of his pain, hardly believing his eyes and unable to utter any of the dozen questions that flooded through his daze. Rhiannon eased her hand across the open gash, numbing the pain, and she watched as Bryan slipped down and closed his eyes. Then Rhiannon stood beside him, considering where she could take him to finish the healing.
But though her gaze began up over the steep rocky slopes of the gorge, it inevitably came back to the scene at hand, to the giant oak and its gruesome victims. She had killed again, had allowed the possessing power its outlet to devastation. She thought Bryan asleep and moved to the tree, stroking its bark and whispering apologies for the decades she had stolen from its life.
Bryan half opened one eye and watched the raven-haired woman, understanding her even less than he had when she first appeared. He understood her to be a friend beyond all doubt, and knew that he would be safe enough under her care. For the first time in so very long, Bryan put his faith in someone other than himself and let a comforting and necessary slumber overtake him.
“Oh, damn,” Bryan whispered when he opened his eyes and found himself barely inches from the face of a gigantic brown bear. He was in a cave, and if he had taken a moment to consider anything other than the snuffling nose-and the white teeth beneath it-of the bear, he would have noticed that the pain was altogether gone from his side. Right then, though, the half-elf lay very still, looking for some way out of this unexpected predicament.
“So ye’re awake, then?” came a voice from the other side of the shallow cave.
At first Bryan disregarded the question, concentrating on holding his breath and keeping his eyes lightly closed, feigning death. Bears do not feast on dead meat, he silently reminded himself, a lesson from his father that he had hoped he never would have to put to the test.
But gradually, as nothing happened, Bryan’s curiosity got the better of him. He peeked out again. The bear had slumped back on its haunches, munching on some unknown treat, and its inquisitive stare had been replaced by one that Bryan found much more pleasant.
Rhiannon’s thick black hair hung down, brushing his bare chest, and her dark eyes considered him for a long moment unblinkingly. “How do ye feel?” she asked.
Her question reminded the half-elf of his wound, and his hand reflexively went to his side. But neither blood nor bandages greeted him, just the smooth skin of a new scar.
“Who are you?’ Bryan stammered, looking at his still clean hand in disbelief. It was all coming back to him: the spear, the charging talon, the intercepting tree, and it all seemed too preposterous to be true. But here was the perpetrator of the impossibilities, barely half a foot from his face.
“Me name’s Rhiannon,” the young witch replied. “And I’m knowing yerself as Bryan of Corning.”
“How did you know?”
“Ye’ve made quite a name for yerself.” Rhiannon smiled. “Many’s the one coming across the river and giving ye credit for the escape.”
Bryan accepted the compliment humbly, a bit embarrassed, but too caught up in the beautiful woman’s name for any self-conscious feelings to take hold. “Rhiannon,” he muttered under his breath, certain that he had heard that name before. Perhaps in one of his father’s tales.
“Ye’ve slept through most o’ the night,” Rhiannon remarked, seeing the confusion on the half-elf’s face.
“How many nights?” Bryan asked, giving up on trying to remember and more interested in going forward with this introduction.
“Just the one,” said Rhiannon.
Bryan’s jaw dropped open. “I took a spear,” he gasped. He forced himself up and looked to the scar line on his side. “A wicked hit.”
“So it was,” said Rhiannon. “But you’re a tough one.”
Bryan had been unconscious during the healing, but even in that state he had felt the presence of Rhiannon. In the witch’s healing sessions she and her victim became linked, two souls battling one wound, and now Bryan began to unravel some of that strange bonding. “You healed me,” he said matter-of-factly, and looked up at her blankly.
“ ’Tis a gift o’ me mother,” was all that Rhiannon could offer. “Fret not on it. The pain is past, and nothin’ more is of any concern.”
“When can I-we, leave?”
Rhiannon glanced over at the surly bear. “As soon as ye feel up to leavin’,” she replied. “Me friend wants his cave back to himself, and I’m not for arguin’ with that one!”
“You, you and he, carried me up here?”
“Couldn’t be carrying ye by meself,” Rhiannon answered. “He’s friendly enough if ye don’t cross him.” She sent a wink Bryan’s way. “And he’ll work for a drop o’ honey.”
“But how can you talk to a bear?” Bryan had to ask.
Rhiannon accepted this next question, and the next, and the next after that, as inevitable, considering the surprises she had shown the half-elf. She answered him honestly each time, though she took care not to reveal too much about herself and she reminded Bryan in every other sentence that their bear friend wanted his cave back. All in all, it was a lighthearted conversation, almost a celebration, for these two who were seemingly destined to become close friends and allies. But then Bryan asked something that changed the entire tone of the discussion.
“That tree!” he exclaimed. “How did you make it grow so quickly?”
The half-elf did not miss the black cloud that crossed Rhiannon’s fair face.
“I…” she began hesitantly. “Me powers… I could not let ye die!” Rhiannon exhaled a deep breath and looked away, her light eyes rimmed by tears.
Bryan was sensitive enough to let it go at that. He propped himself up on one elbow and draped an arm across Rhiannon’s shoulders.
They said no more through the rest of the night, and when dawn came, they walked out of the bear’s cave to the animal’s grunting relief-and into the sunlight.
“I have a secret camp,” Bryan said after discerning their location. “Not far from here.” He pointed to a distant spur of the mountain.
“Let’s be going, then,” Rhiannon replied, and she started off along the rocky trail.
Bryan paused a moment to watch her go. She had freely discussed her powers concerning the healing, even of talking to the birds to learn of his whereabouts. But when he had shifted the conversation to the darker side of Rhiannon’s magic, to the killing wrath of the animated tree, she had choked up. Apparently the young woman wasn’t comfortable with that facet of her existence. Bryan had to pity her, for he knew that if she meant to spend any length of time on this side of the River Ne’er Ending, she would have to use those destructive tactics quite often.
The notion intrigued Bryan. What was the extent, he wondered, of Rhiannon’s strength? With her by his side, how much more could he do against the talons? Or even more important, what part might this magic-worker play in the overall outcome of the war?
Bryan took up his bow and started down the path after Rhiannon. He would have to let those questions hang unanswered for a while at least, for he had no intention of pressing Rhiannon about them. For all of his curiosity, he could not bear to see that dark cloud pass o
ver her fair features again.
Chapter 21
Enter the Wraith
THE BLACK WARLOCK paced anxiously about the field, his eyes darting from talon to talon, and each of the beasts in turn fell to the ground in abject terror. They knew that their boss was nervous and angry, and they knew, too, that the Black Warlock often released his anger on the nearest living target, friend or foe.
But more than angry, Morgan Thalasi was afraid. He had returned several days before, eager for his next, most glorious assault across the bridges. Mitchell, with his ghost horse, should have returned the very next day, but the wraith had not yet made his appearance.
“I cannot do this alone,” Thalasi growled at a nearby talon. He clenched his bony fist in rage, and the talon slumped to the ground, choking, as if a replica of the Black Warlock’s fist had appeared within its skinny throat.
Thalasi stormed away without concern for the dying thing. He needed Mitchell. Every day, it was necessary to renew his attacks against Avalon and the White Tower to keep his archenemies on the defensive and prevent them from striking out hard against his army. That alone was draining enough, but with no sign of Mitchell, Thalasi also had to continue to manage the rabble forces of the talons, a task made even more difficult by the constant pressure applied by King Benador and his trained and talented army. Several times each day the Calvans charged across the bridges, cutting into the closest ranks of talons, and then retreated to the safety of their seemingly impregnable defenses.
To further the Black Warlock’s troubles, reports from the Baerendels told of groups of heroes harassing the supply caravans and the lines of reinforcements.
Thalasi simply could not keep track of it all. He wondered how many more mistakes he would make, how many more opportunities he would lose for the lack of organization in his army. They should have swept through the western fields and right across the Four Bridges long before the King and his troops ever arrived on the field.
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