Bastion of Darkness (10 page)

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 mounds 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.

Staring at its master.

When Thalasi discovered the truth, he could hardly contain his joy. With the staff, he had again found power—true, controllable power—and the zombie obeyed his every word without the slightest hesitation. Confidence mounting, the Black Warlock moved to another mound and brought forth a second zombie, then to an older grave, where a skeleton arose to his will.

Before the next dawn, he made his way back to Talas-dun, an army of undead at his heels. As fortune would have it, he encountered a talon just inside the castle’s open gate, the same talon that had been on the walkway the previous afternoon. Thalasi took particular delight, for it was the larger of the pair, the one who had disregarded a direct command. The horrified creature backed against a wall, hands waving, eyes bulging, and its voice surely caught deep in its throat.

With a thought and a shrug, Thalasi set the nearest zombies upon it, and when it was dead, the Black Warlock took up his unholy staff and, just for effect, raised that talon, too, into an undead state. “One way or another, you will obey me,” he chuckled into the dead thing’s blank stare.

Yes, he meant to teach the living talons, his pets, a few new tricks this day.

H
IS SLEEPY EYES
opened wide when the young half-elf awoke and realized that he was alone in the encampment; he should have known better, he believed, should have realized the depth of his companion’s despair. And in these dangerous times, Bryan knew, such black despair often translated to foolishness.

Rhiannon had gone off alone, much as he had the previous night. To face danger, no doubt, probably to prove something that didn’t need proving.

Bryan cursed himself repeatedly as he straightened his clothes and gathered up his other belongings. It was his fault, he believed, for he had stung Rhiannon profoundly with his words about the diminishing power of magic.

Now, if anything happened to her, he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself.

The young warrior found the witch’s trail easily enough in the fresh covering of light snow. She was moving north—not surprisingly—out of the Baerendils, to the wider fields where talons were still thick for the fighting.

Bryan made fine progress that morning, running as often as walking, for there were few options along the rocky and broken terrain. Rhiannon was obviously traveling north, to the foothills, at least, and there were no more than a handful of trails she might follow that way, and the light snow, so revealing of even the young witch’s
light step, kept Bryan running fast and true. Still, he knew that he was not appreciably gaining on her, and that fact worried him greatly. For as they came to the lower foothills, and to the fields beyond that, Rhiannon’s direction options would widen, and as they moved from the rock walls sheltering the lower mountain trails, the wind would erase the footprints. By the end of that day, Bryan was out of the mountains, following the one main road crossing this region to the west, the direction indicated by the last signs he had seen of Rhiannon. He trotted along, glancing side to side often and hoping that if the witch did leave the road, she would not be so far away that he could not see her, or that she could not see him.

The sun was setting in his face, and silhouetted against the pink background, the half-elf spotted a wagon, rolling along slowly. Bryan ducked low in a crouch but continued on, settling his shield comfortably on his arm and drawing forth his sword. These dark days, any wagons in the western fields meant talons, and only talons. Bryan wondered if Rhiannon had passed this band, or if, perhaps, she was off to the side of the road even then, scrutinizing the passing monsters, devising plans to destroy them.

Or, perhaps, on a darker note, if she had already encountered them, if she had met a foe beyond her diminished capabilities …

Spurred by that last thought, the half-elf put his head down and charged off in a dead run. Fortunately for the desperate Bryan, the two talons outside the wagon were experiencing more than a little difficulty with their burdened beasts, for a pair of great and huge lizards, and not horses or oxen, pulled the wagon, a task for which the reptiles were obviously not overly fond.

The wagon was covered, its back open, so Bryan, not
too concerned that either of the obviously busy drivers would turn about to regard him, veered out to the side instead of approaching from directly behind. Quiet as death, the stealthy Bryan slipped up to the back corner, took a deep and steadying breath, then leaped to the footboard on the wagon’s tail and, in the same fluid motion, hauled himself in.

He tumbled into the midst of three very surprised talons.

Bryan’s sword flashed out to the right, slashing one talon across the chest. He punched out with his shield to the left, staggering the brute on that side, then, with a quick turn of his wrist, brought his sword thrusting ahead, impaling the middle of the group. A second swipe to the right, a bit higher this time, throat level to the sitting, lurching talon, finished the creature, and then a second slam with the shield dropped the last of the three to the floor, dazed.

“What is you fighting ’bout now?” one of the drivers growled, and the talon finished with an even louder roar, one of sheer agony, as Bryan’s sword came through the material of the wagon cover, slipped through a crease in the back of the seat, and then deep into the talon’s spine.

The wagon lurched as that driver slumped and its companion, whooping in fright, let go the reins and leaped from the seat, stumbling and scrambling in the wet mud and snow.

Bryan was already exiting the back of the wagon by then, moving methodically, casually, leaping to the ground and landing in a trot, stringing his bow as he went. When he came around the corner, he spotted the talon, twenty feet away and running, and foolishly moving in a straight line. An easy shot, one that Bryan gladly took, and the talon lay facedown, the snow turning red about its squirming form.

Bryan didn’t bother to go over and finish the task quickly. He went back into the wagon, to the shield-slammed beast, and propped the still-groggy creature up against the sideboard. He slapped it lightly across the face, even splashed it with water, prompting it back to lucidity.

“I seek a friend,” the half-elf growled into the talon’s face. “Have you seen her?”

The creature looked at him incredulously; impatient, Bryan promptly smacked it across the face. “Have you seen her?” he asked again, more forcefully. A movement to the side caught his attention, and he couldn’t have asked for a better chance to accentuate his point, to show the level of his hatred to this ugly, wretched thing. A quick maneuver put him over the squirming talon, the one he had swiped twice in the initial fight, and he promptly shifted his sword tip to the thing’s temple, pinning its head.