The Witch's Daughter (22 page)

“That is not for the ears of the living,” came a distant reply, as much empathic as audible.

“Of course,” said Thalasi. “Perhaps we can talk more when you have arrived.”

“Arrived?” The voice reflected concern. “Leave the dead in their sleep, Martin Reinheiser. Especially ones who owe you a wicked debt. I have not forgotten your treachery; eternity itself will not erase my anger!”

“Reinheiser?” chuckled the Black Warlock. “But that is only part of the being you will face. Sleep again, Hollis Mitchell,” he said, and he tapped the top of the skull once more, extinguishing the red dots of light. “And know that
when you awaken to walk in the world of the living, you will be the slave of Morgan Thalasi.”

Thalasi dropped the skull into a deep pocket of his robe and clenched his staff tightly. He conjured an image of Mitchell’s grave below the cliff face, every detail coming into clearer and clearer focus as he deepened his concentration. And then the Black Warlock stepped through his thoughts, walked a mental bridge back to the remaining pile of Mitchell’s bones.

Carefully, Thalasi lifted the bones free of the muck that had begun to envelop them and reassembled the skeleton. He knew that what he was about to attempt was a powerful enchantment indeed; it would test him to his very limits, and even the slightest error could prove catastrophic. But arrogance had ever been the calling card of Morgan Thalasi and of Martin Reinheiser, and even the specter of embodied death could not dissuade the Black Warlock in his quest.

When the skeleton was complete, Thalasi walked a slow circuit around it, his staff tracing out the circumference on the soft ground. The staff glowed with an eager black light; this was the primary purpose of its creation.

“Hollis Timothy Mitchell,” Thalasi called softly.
“Benak raffin si.”

Another circuit, another summons. And again.

The ground around the skeleton bubbled, and a thin wisp of black smoke rose up and wove in and out of the bones. Thalasi controlled his excitement and continued the ritual. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but he sensed that the spirit of the dead captain was near, very near.

“Benak raffin si,”
he whispered again.

“You dare to disturb the dead?” thundered an unearthly voice. The Black Warlock wheeled to face the skeletal sickle-wielding figure that every man since the earliest days of
the race had come to recognize as the embodiment of the netherworld.

“Mitchell?” Thalasi squeaked, his heart failing at the sight.

“Hardly,” replied the specter. “You know who I am, Morgan Thalasi Martin Reinheiser. I purposely assumed the form that you would surely recognize.”

After the initial shock had worn away, Thalasi found himself more curious than afraid. He stooped over a bit, trying to catch a peek under the low cowl of the specter’s hood. “Charon?” he asked, now more curious than afraid.

“Charon, Orcus, Arawn—my names are many,” replied the specter.

“As are your powers, by every reputation, attached to any of the names,” said Thalasi. “So Death himself—itself—has answered my call,” he mused. “Truly I have outdone myself.”

“Fool,” retorted the specter. “Truly you have overstepped the bounds of mortals. You are strong, Black Warlock, but I am blacker still!” The specter uplifted its arms, its bony fingers reaching out toward Thalasi. “Death has indeed answered your call, warlock—your own death!”

Thalasi swung at the bony hands with his staff. The specter caught it in midswing, but the contact between the embodiment of Death and the perverted staff was not what either of the combatants had expected. Black shocks of electricity engulfed both of them, cutting and tearing, draining at their vital forces with a chilling eagerness.

“What have you done?” the embodiment of Death demanded.

“I have beaten even you, inevitable victor!” laughed Thalasi. The lightning crackles wounded the Black Warlock deeply, but he knew already that in wielding the ultimate perversion that was the staff he had created, he was the
stronger. He and Death were linked; he could feel the specter’s horror and pain.

“Fool!” Death cried again, but it was Thalasi’s response that carried the most conviction.

“Death will not take me,” he growled. “I am no longer a part of the world you rule. And I can hurt you.” To emphasize his point, the Black Warlock clenched the staff tighter, sending a wicked blue-black bolt coursing through the corporeal form of his nemesis.

“But I ask only a small thing of you,” Thalasi continued, not even trying to mask his sarcastic snicker. “Grant me my wish and I shall let you return to your dark realm.”

The specter’s eyes shot lines of killing red energy at the Black Warlock, but Thalasi accepted the pain of the blast and returned it twofold with another crackle of his staff.

“I want Mitchell.”

“Mitchell is mine,” Death replied. “Fairly won and fairly taken.”

“I gave him to you; I shall take him back.”

“I will have you—”

“You will have nothing!” Thalasi boomed. “I will hold you here, and those that enter your realm will find no one to greet them. Lost souls forever lost!”

The specter’s grasp of the staff weakened at the wicked truth of the Black Warlock’s words. Death could not be so engaged with one resistant mortal—if Thalasi was indeed mortal. With a flash that knocked the Black Warlock to the ground, the specter was gone.

Thalasi glanced around nervously. Despite his boasting, he was not so certain of the wisdom of making such a powerful enemy. A moment later another being did rise above him as he sat on the ground, but to the relief of Thalasi, it was not the return of the embodiment of Death.

“Greetings, old friend,” smiled Thalasi, holding his staff
out in front defensively until he could fathom the intentions of the one he now faced: the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.

“Greetings,” Mitchell replied, his voice grating and broken.

Thalasi rose slowly, taking full measure of the wraith. It looked vaguely like Mitchell, the bloated corpse of the captain, at least, though its form wavered and shifted between two opposing planes of existence. Thalasi had taken the essence of Hollis Mitchell from the realm of the dead, but a part of the wraith existed there still, a fact that would only heighten the being’s power.

Thalasi almost laughed out loud. “What will my talons think when they look upon the likes of you,” he asked, “with a bloated face colored in the grayness of death, and eyes that are no more than simmering red flames?”

“If I am horrid, and truly I am, then only Martin Reinheiser can take the credit,” the wraith answered.

“Oh, truly you are,” agreed the Black Warlock. “And truly you are angry.”

“I face now the being who murdered me,” Mitchell replied. “Should I be otherwise?”

“Indeed you should,” Thalasi replied immediately.

The wraith cocked its head to the side, a curiously human gesture from so unnatural a thing.

“Ever did Hollis Mitchell crave power,” Thalasi explained after he took a moment to consider the somewhat disturbing movements of the wraith. “I have given you that. Power beyond your belief!”

“An undead thing,” remarked Mitchell. “Yes, I am powerful,” it admitted, taking a quick measure of itself, “but at what cost?”

“What price should we set upon the throne of all the world?” Thalasi laughed. Suddenly Mitchell seemed more curious than angry.

“Yes, the world!” Thalasi said again to the wraith’s blank, simmering stare. “Did you think that I would battle with the likes of Charon simply to torment you? Do not be a fool, old friend. I would not have called you back to my side without due cause.”

“What cause?” All traces of anger had slipped from the wraith’s voice. Mitchell understood the power of the wizard standing before him; he knew that this being was somehow much more than the hollowed shell of his old companion, Martin Reinheiser.

“Do you know who I am?” Thalasi asked.

“I knew you as Reinheiser.”

“And still I am and yet I am not!” the Black Warlock proclaimed, his weirdly dual-pitched voice lending credence to his words. “Within me remains he who was Martin Reinheiser, and he who was Morgan Thalasi. You see the result of the joining, a power beyond your comprehension. A power mighty enough to wrest you from the arms of Death itself.

“You will forget my treachery, Hollis Mitchell,” Thalasi promised. “Beside me, you will come to rule the world.” He moved to the side, to the skeleton of a horse.

“Witness my power,” he said, and he touched his staff to the white bones. He would not summon the spirit of the beast; he did not need it and was in no mood for another contest against the embodiment of Death. But where the bones had been, now stood the animated body of a horse, coal-black with dull eyes. Thalasi added a few enhancements to his handiwork and created a saddle and bridle, handing the reins to Mitchell.

“Its run is swifter than any natural beast,” the Black Warlock proudly explained. “Its breath is fire! Water and air will neither slow nor turn your ride! Truly a fitting steed for the commander of my talon army.”

Mitchell took the reins eagerly, taking full measure of the enchanted mount. The horse’s eyes glowed like embers, and sparks shot out every time it lifted and dropped one of its hooves to the ground. Physically the stallion appeared gaunt and frail, but Mitchell understood the power within its frame. Magical, unearthly power.

The stallion dropped to its knees at Mitchell’s mere thought, to allow its master to mount easily. The wraith did so, and turned back to the Black Warlock, but Thalasi was off on another chore. He returned to Mitchell’s side a moment later, bearing yet another gift for his general.

“Your weapon,” he explained, handing it to Mitchell. It was the leg bone of a horse, capped with a human skull, a garish mace that glowed blue-black.

Mitchell’s twisted smile widened when he took it.

“What shield will stop your blow?” Thalasi asked him.

“None!” the wraith roared.

“Wrong!” Thalasi retorted. “You are mighty, wraith of Mitchell, and you will rule all of the world. All of the world except for me.” Thalasi pointed his staff at the wraith and uttered a simple rune.

The form of Mitchell wavered and faded. For a second the hellish stallion seemed a broken pile of waste again, and the mighty mace appeared as simple bone. But Thalasi’s lesson was a quick one, and in the blink of an eye the stallion, mace, and wraith were restored to their previous strength.

“Know always who is the master,” Thalasi remarked. “If ever you forget, I shall—”

“You promised me rulership,” Mitchell interrupted.

“And so you shall have it,” said Thalasi, a smile widening on his thin lips. “Once the wretched people of this world are conquered, my purpose will be fulfilled.”

“And what is your purpose, Black Warlock?”

“Power!” Thalasi growled. “I care not for the petty
responsibilities of such a pitiful command. When I am finished with this place, I will find another. And another after that.”

“Will there be no end?” Again Mitchell seemed amused.

“Never!” Thalasi sneered, white drool on his lips. “That is the joy of infinity and eternity; there will always be something more for the taking, and always the time to steal it.

“I am back to the field now; too long have my talons waited for my return. You will ride south—be wary of Avalon’s cursed borders—and keep the great river to your left-hand side. With the tireless energy of your mount, you will rejoin me in three short days.” He held his black staff out in front of him and launched himself into a dizzying twirl. And then he was gone, walking through his thoughts to the talon encampment beside the Four Bridges.

Mitchell took his mace up and spurred his stallion on, gliding easily through the tangle of Blackamara. He slowed as he approached one huge boulder, smacking the thing with all his strength. When the smoke and crackling power diminished, the horrid wraith chuckled at his handiwork, for the rock had split and cracked under the blow of the skull-headed mace.

Perhaps he would indeed find this second journey through the realm of the living enjoyable.

“H
E’LL LOSE IT
for sure,” the excited girl cried. “We came to you as soon as we heard of your miracle-working, but too late for his leg.”

Rhiannon moved beside the feverish young lad to examine the wound. The talon spear had dug very deep, severing muscles and tendons, even snapping the bone. And now infection had set in: the limb was purplish and green and pus oozed from the edges of the bandages.

“A wicked cut,” Rhiannon remarked. She put her hand on the lad’s sweaty head. He was beyond sensibility, lost in a feverish delirium. “What is his name?” Rhiannon asked the girl.

“Lennard,” Siana replied.

Rhiannon moved close to the lad’s face. “Lennard,” she called softly.

Lennard stirred slightly, but could not respond.

“Will he live?” Siana asked.

Rhiannon tossed her a comforting smile. “The wound is bad and the sickness has set in,” she explained. “But we might be findin’ a way to fight back against it. Ye should be leaving.”