Bastion of Darkness

by R. A. Salvatore

  Ultimately, the ranger had to remember the one time the magnificent weapon had failed him, the one enemy against whom it had no power.

  The ranger’s gaze drifted up from the sword, staring into the fog, into nothing at all. He conjured to mind an image of the sword Brielle had shown to him in the reflecting pool the night before, a weapon superior to anything Belexus had ever seen, a mightier weapon even than Fahwayn, the enchanted sword wielded by Arien Silverleaf. He imagined the fine cutting edge of the displayed weapon, could almost feel its sharpness against his finger, the blade lined in diamond and edged in a white, inner light that promised power against even the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.

  Yes, he could fight Mitchell with that sword, Brielle had assured him, could avenge the death of Andovar and put to rest the battle-lust demons that threatened more than his life, that threatened his very soul.

  “I’m knowing yer thoughts,” came a soft voice behind him, soft like the warm fog, like the essence of Avalon itself.

  Belexus blinked his eyes and turned about to view the Emerald Witch, splendid, as always, in her white gossamer gown, her green eyes sparkling, golden hair shining, even in the dull light. “Might be that ye know too much sometimes, me lady,” he replied with a grin.

  “Sword in hand, sword in mind,” the witch reasoned.

  “Ayuh,” the ranger confirmed. “And more in mind, and more in heart, is the task that sword ye showed me will bring to me.”

  Brielle’s fair face clouded over. “One task at a time,” she said in all seriousness.

  Belexus understood her fear. When she had shown to him the sword, she had told him, too, of the guardian she suspected, for only one creature in Ynis Aielle could likely hold such a vast treasure hoard; only one creature could keep for itself a sword such as that, unused through decades untold.

  Belexus had fought a true dragon once, and though it was but a hatchling, the creature had nearly sizzled the ranger’s blood, and after Belexus had dealt it a mortal blow, in its wild death throes, its claws had torn deep ridges in the solid stone. What might a true adult dragon do, then, and how could Belexus ever hope to defeat it? For one brief instant, a cloud of doubt and weakness passed over his face. But it could not hold, for the memory of his dragon battle incited another thought, one of Andovar, for his companion had so often told the tale of Belexus and the dragon, to any who would hear, even if they had listened a hundred times before. And of course, coming from Andovar’s mouth, the tale of Belexus’ exploits had always sounded much grander, much more heroic.

  “I have to go for the sword,” the ranger said resolutely, those memories of Andovar steeling his gaze and his jaw.

  Brielle said nothing for a few, long moments. “When winter lets go of the Crystals,” she reasoned, but the stoic ranger was shaking his head before she ever finished the thought.

  “This day,” he said. “I’ll not find the comfort of true sleep until Andovar’s avenged, and each day lets the rage burn me heart more deeply, and takes me strength. This moment’s not soon enough, I say, to start on the road that’ll put the wraith back in the dark domain.” He studied Brielle’s face for a long time, her posture, too, to try to find some hint of her feelings concerning his declaration. And in trying to see things through the witch’s eyes, the ranger recognized his words as a rash proclamation. Winter in the great Crystal Mountains could prove a more formidable foe than any ancient dragon! But, even with that discomforting thought so clear in mind, the ranger saw no choice before him, and he put up a firm, unyielding visage against the wave of reasonable protests he suspected Brielle would soon send his way.

  “I know ye mean to go this day,” was what she said, and quietly, both her words and tone surprising Belexus. “I’m only wishing that I might be going with ye.”

  He studied her some more, saw the pain in her green eyes, a resignation that showed she did not like the choice, but understood the necessity of it.

  “But I canno’ go,” Brielle went on. “Me home’s not safe from Morgan Thalasi, not yet, and I’m fearing, too, that I’d be of little help to ye, to anyone, outside me domain.”

  The way in which the words came forth, a great and rushed release, torn by truth from Brielle’s very heart, showed Belexus that she dearly wanted to join him, desperately wanted to remain by his side, friends and allies, but that she could not. He understood that she had thought long and hard on the dilemma, probably had lain awake throughout the night in search of some solution.

  But there was none, Brielle knew, and the ranger knew, as well. Brielle could not go off into the Crystal Mountains now, with the dark shadow of Morgan Thalasi still lurking about, with the deep wound to the domain of magic and hordes of talons running wild in the west. Brielle’s place was Avalon, and no other, and only her heart and hopes could go out with the ranger. She would not try to dissuade him, though, he realized with some surprise.

  “I’ll say not a thin’ to me Father, nor to any other rangers,” Belexus explained, trying to offer some comfort, at least. “Nor will Arien Silverleaf know o’ me going. The task is for meself, and for none other.”

  “Seeming a bit foolish to me for ye to be off on such a quest without a one to help ye,” Brielle said dryly. “Ye might trip in a hole and lay out with yer leg broken until the cold steals yer life.”

  Belexus smiled at her concern, and understood that it was not without basis. Yet there was only one whom he could have trusted to go with him, only one who had been close enough to him to stand beside him through such a dangerous quest, and that one, Andovar, was dead. “I’ll not trip,” he said with a casual chuckle, but it was obviously a strained laugh.

  Brielle nodded and moved closer. “Arien would go beside ye,” she said. “The eldar of Lochsilinilume would see the quest as a way he could help in these times dark, a way he might be mending his own heart for the death o’ Sylvia.”

  The words almost convinced the usually stubborn Belexus to run off and ask Arien. He had seen Arien’s face, seen the grief, as profound as his own, when the elf lord had learned that his dearest daughter, Sylvia, his only child, had been killed and taken by the flood of the great river, had followed the same cold trail as Andovar. If the quest for the sword would bring to Arien the same hope of inner peace that it promised to Belexus, then how could he deny the elf lord that chance?

  He had to deny it, he reminded himself, because if Arien went along, then so too would many elves, refusing to allow their eldar to walk off into such extreme danger without them. Then so, too, would Ryell, Arien’s closest friend. And if the dragon wakened in all its terrible wrath, could all the elves of Lochsilinilume, could all the rangers of Avalon, could all the army of Calva, hope to contain its power? How many then would be devoured, and likely in a futile quest? If that chilling scenario ever came to pass, Belexus hoped that he would be among the first to die, for surely, if he lived to see the fall of those who accompanied him on this quest that he viewed as his own, his grief would multiply a hundred times over, and his life, and death, would forever be without hope.

  “I go alone, because I must,” he said quietly into the witch’s face, for Brielle had moved very close to him, was standing right before him, her warm breath tickling his neck.

  Her reply was a kiss, a long and sweet kiss, a passionate kiss, for luck and farewell.

  It surprised Belexus, but only for a moment, and then he let his sword fall to the ground and wrapped his powerful arms about Brielle’s lithe form, hugging her close, kissing her all the while, not letting go, wanting to never, ever let her go. They made love that morning for the first—and, they both feared, for the last—time, a joining that had been long anticipated by Belexus, and long feared by Brielle. When Belexus had come to her after the battle with the wraith, with Andovar dead and his own grievous wounds threatening to take him, Brielle had saved him with sympathetic magical healing—as intimate a bond as this lovemaking. She had gone into Belexus’ soul to find his emotional hurts and take them from him, t
o restore to him hope that he could better fight against his physical wounds. She had gone in there, to that private place, and had seen clearly his feelings for her.

  She had been surprised, though she had truly suspected all along that the prince of rangers loved her. But the depth of that love was amazing to her, for he loved her as deeply as Jeffrey DelGiudice had loved her. And what had surprised her even more was her own private response. Yes, she did love Belexus, but that realization carried with it more than a little guilt, for though Jeffrey DelGiudice had been gone from her for a score of years, she had given to him her heart, and he had given to Brielle her only child, Rhiannon, the lasting love.

  But when Brielle made love to Belexus that soft and quiet Avalon morning, she was able to put aside any feelings of guilt. It was too sweet, too pure, and too real to be denied. She loved Belexus and hated the thought that he would go from her now, but if he went out from Avalon and never returned without this one lovemaking, without the two of them revealing the truth of their feelings for each other, without the dropping of defenses, the ultimate joining … That, the witch could not bear.

  Later that morning, she walked Belexus to the edge of the forest, the narrow trail that led onto the field of Mountaingate, gateway to the Crystals. And there she kissed him again, softly, and then spun away, twirling in the soft light of morning, her gossamer gown blurring her graceful form, undefining the lines of Brielle until she blended fully into the fog and was gone.

  Gone from sight, but Belexus surely took the scent of Brielle, the taste of Brielle, the burning image of Brielle with him as he exited Avalon and started his long journey into the great and towering range.

  He was far up the mountain trail, having crossed the narrow field of Mountaingate and passed under the bended telvensil trees, their silvery bark lined with streaks of white, clinging snow, before he was able to clear his thoughts of the witch enough that he might consider the path before him. His travels could well take a month and more, just to get to the lair wherein lay the mighty sword. When Brielle had shown him the image of the glittering sword, her divining had also given him an outward clue of where it might be found: a peculiar outcropping of stone which, when viewed from a particular angle, resembled the profile of an old man. If Belexus could find that ridge of stone, he would be in the vicinity of the dragon’s cave.

  The Crystals were huge, though, with towering peaks, many inaccessible, and luck would have to be with him. Perhaps, he feared, the dragon’s cave had long been sealed; perhaps he would wind up standing atop it, oblivious and with no way to enter.

  The ranger growled the negative thoughts away. He had to try. He owed that, at least, to Andovar, and was certainly duty-bound to attempt it for the sake of all the world. Indeed the task appeared daunting, even overwhelming, but the prize, a weapon that might rid the world of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell, was worth the try.

  He was looking for speed and mobility, and thus Belexus had chosen to travel light, carrying only his sword, a pair of daggers and his bow, a pack with extra clothing, a warm blanket, and a waterskin strung about his neck and shoulder. His food, he would catch along the way, as he would build shelters from whatever material Nature offered to him. He was a ranger of Avalon, a prince among rangers, and if he had been dropped naked into the middle of the wintry Crystals, Belexus was confident that he could survive. Belexus believed that, with all his heart, and that was his greatest advantage.

  So his progress that first day was remarkable indeed, ascending the southern face of the first mountain in line, passing by the entrance to the secret tunnels that snaked to the hidden valley, the Silver City of the elves known as Lochsilinilume, or in the more common tongue, Illuma. And then higher, the ranger went, seeking his first vantage point of mountain majesty, that he might lay his initial course more clearly.

  He came upon a plateau on the northeastern face of the peak shortly before sunset, with the mountain range spread wide before him, mica rivers and fields of ice that gave the Crystals their name glittering in the slanting late-day rays. Belexus put down the wood he had collected on his travels, but he did not immediately start a fire, suffering the cold winds for the sake of the splendid view. He hadn’t been up in the mountains often, just a handful of times over the course of the years between the Battle of Mountaingate—wherein an open alliance and friendship had formed between the humans and the elves—and the larger war with Thalasi’s talon minions. On those occasions, he had hunted with Arien Silverleaf and his daughter Sylvia, and with Andovar. This was the ranger’s first high view of these peaks since the war with Thalasi, and now it left a bittersweet taste in his mouth, full of fond memories, but with regrets in the clear knowledge that two of his companions on those previous occasions had been lost to him forever.

  The ranger leaned back against the mountain wall, eyes locked on the view, seeing the present majesty as he was imagining the past. He found peace there, a serenity against which he had to guard closely, lest he fall asleep before he set his fire, in this open exposure where the mountain night winds would not ever let him wake.

  With a great sigh nearly an hour later, Belexus forced himself up and went to the wood. The wind had begun to swirl, but not too strong, and the wall of the plateau was neither flat nor even, affording some protection. Just as the ranger put flint to steel, something distant caught his eye, a soaring form crossing an open expanse in the not-quite-dark sky, a black silhouette that quickly disappeared against the dark face of yet another mountain.

  Belexus straightened, then went into a cautious crouch, slipping to the edge of the flat stone, then falling flat to his belly. He peered intently out from the ridge as he slowly readied his bow. Likely it had only been a bird, a large one to be sure, but with thoughts of a dragon cave fresh in his mind, the ranger was certainly more than a bit wary!

  He continued his scan for several minutes, as the sky continued to darken. Belexus blew a deep sigh; soon it would be so dark that even if the flying creature came out from behind a mountain background, it would remain invisible to him. A few minutes later, with the sky turned to blackness, he found himself faced with another decision: to retreat back down the mountain or to risk his current position, for though he would not see a flying creature’s approach, it would certainly spot the glow of his fire.

  “A bird,” Belexus decided, and so he went to the kindling and struck his flint to steel, and soon had a warm fire blazing. He wrapped his blanket about him and put his back to the mountain wall, thinking to get some much-needed sleep, but he also placed his trusted sword, unsheathed, across his lap, and had his strung bow, arrow resting across string and wood, right beside him.

  He sensed the approach soon after, his eyelids just beginning to droop, and all sleepiness flew from him in a rush of adrenaline. He forced himself to hold steady, though, slumped against the wall, and kept his eyes half closed, feigning sleep, with one hand clenched tightly about his sword hilt.

  Up Belexus sprang as the creature glided in, his signature cry of “Oi Avalon!” issuing forth, his mighty sword flashing in the firelight.

  And then Belexus nearly toppled in surprise, as Calamus, winged lord of horses, lighted easily on the plateau, stomping his hooves with delight at the sight of his ranger friend.

  Belexus blinked many times as he viewed the unexpected, and not unappreciated, sight, as he noted the bulging saddlebags draped across the magnificent steed’s back, right behind the saddle in which Belexus had sat so many times. He went to the pegasus at once, stroked the muscled neck and flank, then moved to the saddlebags and was not surprised at their contents of wrapped foodstuffs and warm clothes.

  “Brielle,” Belexus reasoned, for someone had saddled the pegasus, and no one in all the world held a closer bond to Calamus than the Emerald Witch. “Brielle sent ye.”

  Calamus snorted and stomped a hoof.

  The ranger smiled warmly, glad for the company this cold night—but company he meant to keep only for this night. He had consider
ed asking Calamus to accompany him—of course he had!—before he had ever left Avalon, but like his decision not to ask any of the rangers or the elves, Belexus had determined that he could not accept such a responsibility. Surely the pegasus would make his journey far easier—though he doubted he could fly very high for any stretch of time in the cold mountain air—but if anything ill befell the pegasus, Belexus would never be able to forgive himself. And dragons were known to prize horseflesh!

  “I’ll take yer bags,” the ranger said. “And glad I am for the help. But in the morning light ye’re to go back to Avalon, me friend, back home where ye belong.”

  The pegasus snorted defiantly, and the stomp of hooves came more insistent now, and surely not in agreement with the ranger’s plan.

  Belexus let it go at that, an argument to be resolved in the light of morning. He tended the fire, then went back to the wall and slept soundly, confident of his companion’s diligence.

  Calamus proved no more agreeable in the morning, and was not about to leave, even when Belexus tried to push the winged horse from the ledge. After nearly an hour of the futile dispute, the ranger finally relented. It would be foolhardy to take a horse into the rough mountain terrain, but a pegasus could go almost anywhere. And in thinking about it without the blinding influence of his stubborn pride, Belexus had to admit again that Calamus might certainly prove valuable on this expedition, the pegasus taking him faster and higher than he could ever hope to climb. How much easier might his search be from the vantage point of the flying horse’s back?

  “So ye win,” he admitted to the pegasus, though he was really speaking to distant Brielle. He loaded up the saddlebags, climbed into the saddle, and urged the pegasus away, soaring high through the cold mountain air.

  Unbeknownst to steed and rider, a third creature, a large raven, watched their departure with more than a passing interest.

  Chapter 6