The Witch's Daughter (19 page)

Andovar had been listening to it all distantly, his thoughts still locked in the tender moments of the night he had spent cradling the witch’s daughter. But now the ranger purposely turned back into the conversation, concerned that his friends might unwittingly add to the pain of that beautiful young woman.

“The lookin’ for such strength’s for the eyes o’ Rhiannon alone,” he interrupted.

“What do you mean?” asked the King.

“The lass canno’ tolerate the power,” Andovar started to explain. Behind them, Rhiannon moved out of the tent. She started out to join the three, but held back, catching a bit of their conversation.

“Ayuh,” agreed Belexus. “Rhiannon fears the power, and knows not how to control it.”

“But the northern fields—” Benador started to argue.

“Nearly killed the child,” Belexus finished. “And she did not purposely call forth the strength.”

“A possessing thing it is,” Andovar remarked.

Benador shrugged. “Then my hopes are that Rhiannon will find her strength and the knowledge she needs,” he said sincerely. “Surely such power is a personal thing, and not for the whims of meddlesome outsiders such as a foolish king.”

Rhiannon bit her lip and forced the trembling out of her small frame. Benador spoke the truth, but even if he and the others left the decision concerning the use of the magic to her, she could not dismiss the gravity of their need. Rhiannon did not need the stress of prompting words; the carnage on the fields around her, the horde of evil talons across the river, and the specter of the Black Warlock were surely impetus enough.

Andovar put his hand on Benador’s sturdy shoulder. “Foolish?” the ranger said skeptically. “Me eyes think not.”

Benador shrugged the compliment aside. “What are your plans?” he asked. “I have the troops, but few skilled and experienced enough to lead them. My army would certainly welcome your command, as I would welcome your advice.”

“First we’re needing yer own,” replied Belexus. “What fighting do ye foresee?”

Benador looked over at the bridges. Another band of talons had crossed the western entrance to the northernmost structure, and once again a cavalry contingent of the Warders of the White Walls had charged out to smash them back to the western bank.

“They’ll not get across by the bridges alone,” Benador assured the rangers. “We have enough strength—and more
flowing in every day—to defend such narrow corridors no matter how large the talon force becomes.”

“And what o’ the Black Warlock, then?” Andovar asked. “We’ve seen the likes o’ Thalasi on the field before, and he’s not to be forgotten.”

“And yet he’s made but a small appearance,” added Belexus. “Me heart fears that he’s waiting, holding back, to strike full.”

“He has made but a small appearance at this battle,” Benador corrected the ranger. “But last night I spoke with Istaahl, my wizard in Pallendara, and learned of the Black Warlock’s efforts. Thalasi has summoned storms over Pallendara and over Avalon, has sent his fury across the leagues to battle his most formidable foes.”

Andovar and Belexus exchanged concerned looks. Still unnoticed behind them, Rhiannon held her breath.

“Not to fear,” Benador assured them. “Brielle and Istaahl found ample strength to fend off the evil necromancer. The wood and my city took only slight damage in Thalasi’s assault. And Istaahl has assured me that he and the Emerald Witch can hold the Black Warlock at bay for some time to come. And a bright spot might yet be found in all of this, for we have not yet heard from the Silver Mage. We can only hope that Ardaz makes his appearance soon, though none have yet been able to contact him.”

“He is off in the east,” Belexus said. “But I’ve no doubt that the likes o’ that one will join in the battle in time to lend his aid. Ever does the Silver Mage arrive when most he is needed.”

“So I have been told,” chuckled Benador. “It seems, then, that we have a stalemate, for some time at least. Thalasi will not get across, and I have no desire to ride onto the western fields against so great a talon army.

“But a stalemate may not be such a bad state of affairs,”
the King reasoned. “Talons are not an orderly bunch, and have as little love for each other as they have for humans. Summer has passed its midpoint and is soon to wane, and when the first of the chill winds blow down across the open plain from the north, many of the beasts might decide that this warring campaign is not so much fun after all.”

“Suren the Black Warlock’ll have his troubles keeping that bunch in line,” agreed Andovar.

“That is my hope,” said Benador. “If the snows of winter find us still fighting a draw at the riverbank, I suspect that the force across the river will break apart for the shelter of their dark holes.”

“And what o’ yerselves?” asked Belexus. “The cold wind’ll put a chill into the bones of yer men, as well.”

“But not so much that we will abandon our lands,” replied the King. “First lesson of war: severe weather always serves the defenders. And we have ample housing for those displaced, though with the western fields deserted and most of the men of all the kingdom in camp at the bridges, the crops will be meager, I fear.”

“But we’re to get through it,” declared Belexus. “And in a fortnight ye’ll have the Rangers of Avalon by yer side, and, unless I miss me guess, a host of elves besides.”

Benador gave the rangers a curious look. “You have made your decision, it would seem.”

“Ayuh,” replied Belexus. “Meself, Andovar, and Rhiannon’ll leave ye this day, back for the forest to the north. Suren ye can fight yer back’n’forth battles without the likes of us, and when we return, ye’re sure to find another fightin’ force beside us.”

“Good riding, then,” said the King. “Know that every day we’ll await your return. And be comforted by my guarantee that Thalasi will not get across the river while you are gone!”

“I’m not for going,” came a voice behind them, and they
turned in unison to greet the approach of Rhiannon. She seemed less haggard this day, to the relief of them all, but dark circles still rimmed the bottom of her eyes, contrasting with the light glow of the orbs.

“Yer mother surely fears for ye,” Belexus reasoned.

“Me mother knows where I am, not to doubt,” Rhiannon replied. “And she’d want me here, that I know.” She turned to Andovar, who was obviously not pleased with her announcement.

“I cannot be leavin’,” she said to him. “Even small battles bring sufferin’, and I’ve a dozen already who’ll be needin’ me tendin’ for many days to come. I know me place in all of this, and for the time, me place’s here.”

Andovar could not deny the resolve in the young woman, or the truth of her words, however he felt. But Andovar knew his place as well. The Rangers of Avalon did not assemble often in these times of peace, but when Bellerian called out for them, as surely he would now, their duty did not allow for exceptions.

“Come,” Rhiannon bade him, and he took her arm and followed her back into the tent of healing.

“Ye know I must be off,” Andovar said when they were under the privacy of the tent folds.

“And I know, too, that ye’ll be back,” Rhiannon replied, that heart-stealing wisp of a grin turning up the edges of her mouth.

Andovar pulled her close and kissed her softly on the cheek. “That I will,” he said. “Keep a safe place for me in yer heart, me sweet Rhiannon.”

“Ye’ve put the place there yerself,” she assured him, and with no more to be said, the two stood in a silent embrace until Andovar had to go.

*   *   *

“Another storm?” Arien Silverleaf asked, exiting the tunnel to stand next to Ryell, his closest friend and adviser, and Sylvia, his daughter.

Ryell shook his head. “Quiet so far,” the elf said, his gaze never leaving the forest at the bottom of the mountain trail and across the long and narrow field.

“Brielle has held on,” Sylvia put in hopefully.

“But what do the storms foretell?” Arien asked, maintaining a grim view of the situation. “If it is indeed the Black Warlock—”

“Who else could it be?” Ryell quickly put in.

Arien nodded his agreement; he knew enough of the realm of magics to understand that only Morgan Thalasi could empower such destructive forces against Avalon. “Then we cannot believe that his assaults are against Avalon alone.”

“So the smoke clouds we have seen in the western sky foretell a darkness indeed,” said Sylvia. “Calva is at war.”

“We cannot be certain,” said Ryell. “There may be other explanations.”

Both Arien and Sylvia cast him incredulous looks, and Ryell, for all of his hopes, had little conviction in the notion.

“If Calva is at war, then we should go to their aid,” he said. “King Benador is our friend; his ascent to the throne has changed our lives greatly, and all for the better.”

“Should we assemble, then, all of us, and ride off to the west and south?” Sylvia asked. “Some scouting would seem prudent before all the valley is roused.”

“Our scouting has been done for us,” Arien explained. He pointed down to the dark boughs of Avalon. “Brielle has all the answers we need. Back to Lochsilinilume, then. We will call out the whole of the valley. If Calva is indeed at war, then the elves will take their place beside the soldiers of the kingdom!”

Sheltered in a nest of sheer mountain walls, Lochsilinilume,
Illuma Vale, was as magical and secure a place as anywhere in Aielle. This was the land of telvensils, glittering silver trees, and the unending song of the elves, sweet and sad all at once. But as delicate as these folk appeared, and as much as they abhorred violence, they came together with the precision of a professional army when the call of Arien Silverleaf went out.

And then they came down from the Crystal Mountains on proud horses adorned in jingling bells, five hundred strong, their grim faces belying the almost childlike joy that forever rimmed their eyes.

    Benador rode with Belexus and Andovar down to the eastern bank of the great river. On the opposite bank, a hundred yards away, they could see the squat forms of talons milling about, and every so often an arrow rose up into the air on an arcing trail toward their side. But talons were not skilled at making either bows or arrows, and the vast majority of the shots fell with hardly a splash into the water.

The archers on the Calvan side, bending great bows of yew, had better luck, and every so often, just to keep the talons honest, they sent a whistling volley across the river. Grim faces lit with laughter as the distant talons scurried this way and that to get out of harm’s way.

“A pity,” Benador observed, “that heroes come to light only in times of great pain. And a few have been made this day.” He pointedly let his gaze fall alternately on each of the two rangers.

“More than a few, by me seein’,” Belexus replied. “Eight hundred died on the northern fields, stopping the charge o’ the mounted talons, and a thousand and more fell with Corning, giving their own lives that the fleeing folk’d put more ground between themselves and the invaders.”

“Meriwindle and Mayor Tuloos,” Andovar agreed. “And a thousand more whose names I do not know.”

“I’ll not argue the point,” said Benador. “But still, some rise above the efforts of the crowd to make known their names. Belexus at the defense of the bridges and Andovar for his tireless ride will surely find their names scribed on the parchments of the bards.”

“Me thanks for yer praise,” Belexus replied. “But others’ll be putting their names on the same parchments.”

“Not to doubt,” laughed the King. “Already we have heard tales of valor echoing from across the river, carried under the cover of night by stragglers. One group came in just this morn, farther to the south. Mere children—warriors of necessity. They crossed to warn us of the continued gathering of the army of our enemies. And with them they brought a woman and her two young children who had been captives of the talons, and were alive now only because of the heroic efforts of yet another lad who remains across the way.”

“How many do ye still put across on the talon side?” asked Andovar.

“Not to know,” replied Benador. “They drift in every night, and logic tells me that dozens of others will not survive to cross for every one that does. For all of those who do manage to make it across to safety inevitably have tales dark and bold to tell of their desperate escape from the occupied land, tales of friends who appeared to aid in their cause, or of strangers who rescued them from the very clutches of talon scum.”

He took a wide survey of his own forces, then across the way to the wide, flat plain of the western fields.

“So many heroes will emerge from this,” the King said, his voice plainly edged in sorrow.

“Too many,” Belexus agreed sadly. He remembered Meriwindle, the noble elf he had met briefly in Corning,
centuries old but with centuries yet before him in his long-lived life.

Except for the intrusion by the Black Warlock.

“And how many will be needed?” Belexus asked, speaking as much to the mourn of the wind as to his companions. “What toll o’ death and terror will appease the likes o’ Morgan Thalasi? Or does the foul wizard never plan to take his beasts back to their dark holes; will we have to fight them every inch?” Belexus looked back at his friends.

“Too many heroes,” he whispered. “Too many dead heroes.”