Bastion of Darkness

by R. A. Salvatore

  The Black Warlock

  HE STOOD IN the driving rain on the narrow walkway overlooking the muddy courtyard. This was his home, his bastion, Talas-dun, that he, with powerful magics, had pulled up from the very stone of these mountains, bending and shaping it to the designs of his mighty will. Talas-dun had stood for centuries, since the time Morgan Thalasi had led the wicked talons, the first mutation of mankind, out of Pallendara, ostensibly so that they could cause no more mischief, but in reality, to breed them and train them and bend them, as he had shaped the stone of Talas-dun to the designs of his will. How like a god Morgan Thalasi had felt then! To bring an entire race under his absolute control! The talons were his pawns: sentient, reasoning creatures that he had transformed into mere extensions of his will. They would not disobey him, even if he told them to leap from a cliff to jagged stones, preferring certain and horrible death above facing the wrath of Morgan Thalasi, the anger of their god.

  Because they feared him, feared the Black Warlock, more than they feared Death itself.

  There were many of the ugly talons milling about the courtyard now, wandering aimlessly and without the strict discipline that had always been the norm of Talas-dun.

  No, not always, the Black Warlock recalled; there had been one notable lull in discipline before this latest one. When first Thalasi had come back to this place after the disaster at Mountaingate, after Jeffrey DelGiudice had brought forth that terrible weapon from the ancient times and shot him through the heart, he had been a weakened creature indeed. He had stolen the body of Martin Reinheiser, but with that feeble mortal coil came the stubborn and powerful spirit of the dispossessed man. The resultant dual being, Thalasi and Reinheiser in one physical form, so uncomfortable, so out of control of even its simplest bodily movements, had found little power over the talons those first years, those twenty agonizing years. But during all of that troubled period, even after a new generation of talons, one that did not remember Thalasi as he had been, had arisen as Talas-dun’s primary guard, the creatures had shown the Black Warlock fear, had shown him respect.

  A movement along the walkway stirred Thalasi from his recollections. He turned to see a pair of talons walking his way, conversing in their guttural tongue and laughing, looking at each other mostly, and apparently oblivious to the presence of their master.

  “Close enough!” the Black Warlock bellowed, and the talons skidded to an abrupt halt and looked up, their eyes wide with surprise.

  Thalasi liked that look.

  “How dare you disturb me?” The Black Warlock fumed. “I did not summon you.”

  The larger of the pair held up its arms helplessly, apparently having no excuses. It was obvious to Thalasi that the pair had come upon him quite by accident, that they had no idea he was up here, else they would have chosen a different route.

  “Enough!” he cried, though neither talon had uttered a sound. “I care not for excuses. You,” he said, indicating the larger, “throw your companion from the wall as penalty for your insolence!”

  The larger talon’s face screwed up curiously. It looked from Thalasi to its companion, who stood tense, eying it and the Black Warlock nervously. The big brute grunted and whispered something, then the pair, with a unified shrug, simply turned around and walked back the way they had come.

  Thalasi tried to call out after them, but he was too stunned, too stupefied, to even get a meaningful word out of his mouth. He clutched the banister, his bony knuckles whitening even more than their normal, pallid hue, and trembled violently. How he trembled, explosive rage building within him!

  But it was an empty threat of explosion, he knew, a firecracker’s pop where once such anger might have leveled a mountain. Thalasi, perhaps more than any of the other wizards of Aielle, had been wounded in the war, had been struck hard in that special place wherein wizards found and fostered their power. Across the lands, Brielle used her pool for divining, Rhiannon spoke often with the birds, Istaahl worked with masons and magic to construct a new tower, and Ardaz often assumed the forms of various animals, that he might get about his mountainous home more easily. But all of those spells, even the simplest, were beyond Morgan Thalasi at that time. He could see only with his physical eyes, could speak only with creatures that used the same language as he, could build nothing, save what his feeble hands could place together, and could take no form other than this one: a battered, frail body, appearing more skeletal than human, face hollowed and eyes sunken so deeply that they appeared as black holes in a gray skull.

  Yes, it was a pitiful thing that he had become, a weakling. And worst of all for the Black Warlock, the talons were apparently beginning to catch on to the truth of it. And unlike the last time Thalasi had been wounded, the talons now held a particular, seething grudge. Many thousands of them had been slain in the fight at the Four Bridges, the failed invasion of Calva.

  The fight that Morgan Thalasi had demanded and commanded.

  The Black Warlock looked back along the walkway where the pair of talons had disappeared. Now they were showing outright disrespect; before long, he realized, their lack of respect would become open hostility, and their outrage would find its sharp focus on the being who had led them to disaster.

  The unseasonable rain poured down in wind-blown sheets, drenching Thalasi’s red robes, weighing them heavily on the bowed shoulders of the Black Warlock.

  The wizard Ardaz, the famed Silver Mage of Lochsilinilume, sat with the lord of Illuma, Arien Silverleaf, on a high ledge overlooking the enchanted valley of the elves. The chill wind whipped the wizard’s voluminous blue robes about him and took his great pointed cap from his head again and again, and only the quick reactions of the elf lord, sitting downwind from Ardaz, prevented the great cap from spinning out from the ledge and soaring high and far on wild breezes.

  “Benador continues the fight at the river,” Arien said, snapping his arms up to catch the hat for the fourth time in as many minutes. He handed it over to Ardaz, and sighed when the sometimes-foolish wizard plopped it right back on his bushy head, where it was sure to be soon blown off once more. “Work will be completed on the bridge soon enough, and Benador will be swift across to the western fields at the head of his mighty cavalry.”

  “Well, he is king, you know,” Ardaz replied dryly. “That is his job, of course, ha ha!”

  Arien put a sidelong glance over the wizard, then slapped his hand on Ardaz’ head as another gust threatened the cap.

  “Wouldn’t be much of a king, after all, if he let talons run wild all over his farmlands!” the wizard went on, apparently oblivious to the elf lord’s hand. “Oh, I daresay, that would not do at all. Not at all, no, no.”

  “I, too, am a king,” Arien replied somberly, drawing the wizard’s gaze.

  Ardaz screwed up his face as he looked over the stoic elf, Arien’s long and raven black hair blowing in the breeze, his eyes staring below, to Illuma perhaps, but more likely to nothing at all. The wizard briskly rubbed his bushy beard, gray and flecked with white so that it had an overall silvery appearance. For all his outward foolishness, Ardaz was a wise and sympathetic friend. He understood Arien’s dilemma here, the fact that the eldar of Lochsilinilume and his followers were back in the safety of their mountain home, though the wider world outside the elven valley was far from secured. The elves had suffered terribly in the battle with the Black Warlock; more than half of those who had gone to the Four Bridges to battle beside King Benador did not make the trip home, but though the swollen river had ceased the heavy fighting, and though the wizards had battered Thalasi and sent him scrambling to the west, the war, as Arien had said, was not yet won. Arien, torn by grief for his daughter, and on advice from Ardaz and Ryell, his closest elven advisor, had led the remainder of his battered people home, but even though that course seemed prudent—it made sense that Thalasi might strike out in smaller groups while he tried to reorganize his main host, and that some of those raiding bands might find their way to Illuma Vale—it hurt the proud and
angry elf profoundly to be sitting here idly while the battle raged, while other swords sought vengeance for his lost daughter.

  “Yes, yes,” the wizard spouted on sudden impulse. “You are a king. But, hah, you have no western fields to reclaim! Or to defend, for that matter, ha ha.”

  The remark didn’t have the impact Ardaz had hoped for. Arien seemed not relieved, but even more wounded.

  “Well, you don’t,” Ardaz said more quietly. “You have your borders, and they are secured now, and that is your duty, of course it is. Oh, I daresay, Arien, play your part and let Benador and the far more numerous—and more prolific—Calvans, play theirs. The Calvans could not have asked for such a helping hand as your people gave to them, could not have asked for such a sacrifice, for any sacrifice, from a people they had persecuted for years, after all! Oh, I daresay, your guilt is not so well placed. Oh no, not at all!”

  “It pains me,” the elf said wearily, looking back over the small valley, the one little piece of Ynis Aielle that truly belonged to the Illumans. The valley was full of wide-limbed telvensil trees, shining silver against the white snow though their leaves had long ago drifted away. Most of the great trees supported crafted and decorated houses, all with sweeping balconies and many-pointed rooftops. Grander still were the stone houses on the ground, and Arien’s was the grandest of all, shining with gemstones, edged by intricate, crafted gutterwork, gargoyles of young elves at play and the like, and with a roof with too many angles to count, and dozens of chimneys, all puffing out lazily drifting smoke and the promise of a warm hearth. A white carpet of snow now covered the thick grass of the valley, but that did little to slow the elves in their perpetual dance, a dance that continued even though so many of them were gone. A hundred elves at least were out and about now, though the day was cold, enjoying the company of their neighbors, enjoying the simple pleasure of being alive.

  “Of course it pains you,” Ardaz replied after a long silence, his voice quieter now, calmer and more in control. “Thalasi’s force is scattered now, and in many ways, more dangerous. More unpredictable. We do not know now where they will strike, and if Illuma Vale is to be a target—and surely Thalasi hates no place more than Illuma Vale!—then Arien Silverleaf must be here with his people. Send a minor force back to Benador, if that is your will, as a symbol of Lochsilinilume’s support, but you, as eldar, must remain here with your people, steadfast in your protection of your home, and of the Crystals.”

  The wind gusted again, sending the wizard’s great hat flying away, and Arien, with typical agility, snatched it in midflight. “You are wise, my old friend,” he said, rising. “And if I am to respect my elders, you are one of only four who qualify for that title.”

  Ardaz glanced up at Arien, surprised by that statement, and found the elf lord smiling at his own joke.

  “So I must stay,” Arien continued, the mirth passed. “I must remain in this, my home, though Fahwayn surely thirsts for talon blood, though Sylvia’s spirit calls out to me for vengeance.”

  “No, Arien,” Ardaz interrupted. “No, no, I say! Your daughter died content; her spirit is not restless. Content, my friend, that her role was well played, that the defense held and that wicked Thalasi was beaten back. That was Sylvia’s choice, as it would have been Arien’s choice if he had been in Sylvia’s place.”

  “Would that Arien had been in Sylvia’s place,” the elf lord remarked, and to Ardaz he seemed very old and very weary indeed at that moment. He nodded and handed back the hat, then began the long and slow descent down the invisible stairway that would take him back to the valley floor.

  Ardaz watched him go, knowing well that the light would never shine quite the same way as before in Arien Silverleaf’s eyes.

  With a deep sigh, a profound regret for all that was gone, Ardaz put his hat back on his head, and when the wind took it immediately, the wizard just getting his hands up to catch hold of it before it sailed miles away, he decided it was time to go in. He moved through an angled slot in the wall, cunningly concealed so that from below it appeared as no more than a crack, into a snow-filled lea. At the back end of the small clearing, which seemed smaller because of the towering sheer walls that encompassed it, stood Brisenballas, the wizard’s tower, carved right into the side of the mountain, its darkened windows seeming as eyes and a nose, its great door as a mouth.

  Ardaz paused as he headed for that door, hearing the imperative cry of a raven. He looked up as the bird descended swiftly, coming to light on the wizard’s shoulder. The creature was purring even as the transformation commenced, a most curious thing for a raven to do, but then it was not a raven, but a cat, a shining black cat, wrapping herself comfortably about the wizard’s neck and shoulders.

  “Oh, Desdemona,” the wizard complained. “Out causing trouble again, no doubt, you nasty little puss. Can I expect a hawk to come swooping in here on your tail?”

  What passed between them then was more telepathy than speech, though the cat uttered a few “meows,” mostly for effect.

  “How very odd,” Ardaz remarked as he considered the news, scratching at his bushy hair and beard. “How very odd.” And with that, he pulled the complaining cat from his shoulders and threw her high into the air. With a shriek, Desdemona became a bird again, and so did Ardaz, a great and strong eagle, bidding his little raven companion to show him the way.

  Thalasi sat in his throne room late that night, the storm raging outside, heavy rains and bright flashes of crackling lightning. His throne seemed too large for him somehow—both figuratively and literally—as if his corporeal form had shriveled as his powers had become less substantial. He had no talon guards stationed outside the room, as had always been the norm; the Black Warlock wouldn’t risk putting any talons near to him at this time, when he was so vulnerable, when any of the wretched, warlike creatures could strike him down like the feeble old man he had become.

  Thalasi’s hand strummed absently on the throne, then he reached out to brush his fingers against the smooth wood of his staff, the Staff of Death, taken from the most ancient tree in Blackemara, the very heart of the swamp. With this staff, Thalasi had brought back the wraith of Hollis Mitchell, had battled and defeated Charon himself for the control of the dead man’s spirit. If that feat alone wasn’t amazing enough, Thalasi had then animated simple zombies, further extensions of his dominating will, further proof of his power over Death itself. He could feel the power within the staff still, brimming, tingling to his sensitive touch.

  He had thought of using it again—he felt that he could safely do that, since the power would come not from him, but from the staff—but he feared the potential results. Surely another wraith such as Mitchell would laugh in his face if he tried to command it, would tear him and grab him and bring him down to the realm of Death, where Charon waited eagerly to pay back Thalasi for that past defeat. Even minor zombies, the Black Warlock feared, would be above his control, would devour him and mindlessly wander the world.

  Still, despite the potentially dire consequences, the Black Warlock was thinking again of using the staff. His situation worsened by the day, he knew; talons were whispering about replacing him, and if they tried, he would have no counter, not even a bluff, to deter them.

  Thalasi looked out the throne room’s small window, to the storm, and viewed the storm, then, not as an unseasonable but natural event, but as a signal to him, a sign that the time had come. He took up the staff and gathered his robes and heavy cloak, then went out from the throne room and out from Talas-dun altogether, trying hard not to be seen—not so great a feat considering that the talons were all busy at their nightly orgies.

  He made his shaky way along the rain-slickened stone paths, buffeted by the winds, his black cloak whipping about the red robes. Soon he came to a place out of sight of the black fortress, a place where the talons of Talas-dun buried their dead—when the talons even bothered to bury their dead.

  Thalasi glanced around nervously at the many broken markers, at the moun
ds of raw, wet earth that showed newer grave sites. It was to one of these that he went, reasoning that a more recently dead talon would be easier to raise. He clutched the staff tightly, brought his lips to it, and tried to look inside of its power, to see if he was playing the fool. He almost left the cemetery, more than once, but the one image that kept coming to mind was the pair of talons on the walkway that afternoon, the pair that had disregarded him, had ignored him. No, he was no longer truly the master of Talas-dun; he was the buffoon, the sideshow for the benefit of the talon audience. And when that merciless audience grew bored …

  Thalasi stamped the staff upon the earthen mound, released a bit of its energy, crackling like small arcs of black lightning into the dirt. “Benak raffin si,” he called softly, taking care not to look at the marker of the grave, not even to think of the talon’s name, fearing that the sentient spirit of the thing might come forth with the body. He called again, and he could feel the magical enhancement of his voice, the power of the staff joining with his mortal coil.

  And how grand it felt! That energy, that power, bathing him, strengthening him, though it was still a mere shadow of the glories Morgan Thalasi had once known.

  Then he was done, and for a long while there was only the wind and the rain.

  And then, finally, the mound of wet dirt stirred. Thalasi backed from it gingerly, then fell back yet another step when a gray hand, flesh holed by rot and filled with maggots, reached up through the ground and clawed at the empty air. Another hand came forth, and the pair found a hold upon the ground and pushed up the head and shoulders. And then the creature stood, shrugging away the dirt, barely a yard from the Black Warlock, who was poised to strike at it, and to take flight if that failed.

  A long moment passed; even the storm seemed to hold quiet then, awaiting the rush, the charge of the undead predator.

  It did not come. The zombie stood impassively, staring at the Black Warlock, the holder of the staff, through one dull eye and one empty socket.