The Witch's Daughter (29 page)

Belexus waited at the edge of the wood as the column passed, the fair witch at his side.

“So grand the preludes seem,” Brielle remarked, but there was not a hint of awe in her voice. She understood the end result of such a charge. She had witnessed it before, and she knew that the grime and blood and tears would dull the shine of weapons and armor, and that the mournful cry of a funeral horn outsounded the eager blare of heralding trumpets.

“We go because we must,” Belexus replied. “We growl and shout and prance with our steeds because to do else would beat us before we e’er faced our enemy.”

“But ’tis a sadness to know where the path will take ye all.”

“Ayuh,” Belexus agreed. He looked Brielle straight in the eye, his expression a mixture of tenderness and unyielding determination. “But sadder still would the endin’ be if we
ne’er trod that path. Were that it could be otherwise, me Lady, but the Black Warlock must be stopped and pushed back from the lands of Calva.”

“And so he shall!” Brielle replied, her face brightening a bit. She reached out to run a smooth hand gently over the ranger’s firm visage. “Know that I’ll be lookin’ for yer return, son o’ Bellerian.”

“And know that I shall return,” Belexus assured her.

Brielle’s concern did not diminish. She knew the vendetta that the ranger carried with him, and knew that he could not defeat Hollis Mitchell. “Ye mean to find the wraith?” she asked bluntly.

Belexus looked away, unable to deny the question that rang out more as an accusation.

“Before, I have telled ye that the thing is beyond yer knowin’ and yer power,” Brielle said to him. “All me fears for ye are suren to come true if ye go against the likes o’ the wraith o’ Hollis Mitchell.”

“Andovar will be avenged,” Belexus said grimly.

“Not to doubt,” Brielle agreed. “But not by yerself, not now. Ye have no’ the weapons to strike the wraith. Not yet.”

“Then when?” Belexus snapped, a sudden fire in his pale blue eyes. “Give me the weapons, Brielle. Grant me the power to avenge the death o’ me friend!”

Brielle shook her head helplessly. “I know not o’ them,” she admitted. “Nor even if they exist at all.” Belexus started to turn away, but she grabbed his elbow and forced him to look at her. “The wraith is but a tool o’ the Black Warlock,” she said. “Stop Morgan Thalasi. Crush his wretched army and drive him back to the west and ye’ll find yer revenge.”

Belexus had no choice but to agree—for now. He had fought the wraith, had seen the hopelessness of the battle all too clearly. “Find me the weapons,” he pleaded to Brielle
again, and he swung up in the saddle of his mount, ready to join the column.

“The day will come,” Brielle promised. “But remember yer cause above yer vengeance, son o’ Bellerian. More’s at stake then the fire in yer blood.”

“I know me duty,” answered Belexus, “to the rangers, and to the good folk o’ the world.”

“And come home again,” Brielle said softly. “To Avalon, where ye belong.”

“And I’m knowin’ me duty to Brielle,” Belexus continued. “I shall return to walk by yer side in Avalon, me Lady, and suren ’tis that very thought that’ll carry me through the trials o’ battle.”

He kicked his powerful steed into motion and bounded off across the southern field.

Brielle could only watch him go and hope—for Belexus and for all the world.

And then she had to go again, for another storm had risen from the wastelands beyond the western borders of Avalon. Morgan Thalasi had come calling upon her forest once again.

R
HIANNON HAD NO
trouble at all as she continued to make her way through the seemingly endless talon lines, though she did not know whether her inconspicuous movement was a matter of the talons’ inattentiveness or an unconscious effort on her own part, using her magic to disguise her flight. However she managed it, the young witch finally got beyond the southern fringes of the talon encampment and was cutting a southwesterly course toward the Baerendel Mountains before the night was halfway through.

She had a general idea of where to find Bryan, but the land seemed vast indeed and the mountains held innumerable hiding spots, and the witch’s daughter grew concerned with the wisdom of her decision. She could take care of herself, she knew, with or without the young hero, but without Bryan’s understanding of the landscape, Rhiannon believed that she would be of little help to any refugees wandering out alone in the Baerendels.

But Rhiannon found the answer to her dilemma early the next day. A bluebird fluttered down to her as she slept on a mossy bed, recognizing her as a friend. When Rhiannon
opened her eyes, she saw the thing hopping along the length of her arm, its head cocked as it stared into her face.

“A good mornin’ to ye,” the young witch said with a sincere smile, glad to be greeted by so friendly a face.

The bird chattered a response and Rhiannon’s eyes widened. She could understand it!

She had talked to birds, to all the animals, back in Avalon, but she had thought it a blessing of her mother’s enchantment, not an ability of her own.

“So it’s me own magic,” she pondered, tapping a finger on her pursed lips. And then those lips spread into another smile as Rhiannon came to understand the implications of this particular ability. “Go get yer friends,” she whispered to the bird. “I’m needin’ to talk to ye all.”

A short while later a dozen birds flitted all about the blueberry patch on the side of a mountain where Rhiannon had found her breakfast. She chatted a few “good mornings” with the avian creatures, then sent them off on a mission.

Before the sun had climbed very high in the eastern sky, the young witch had a growing network of spies soaring all about the land.

    Bryan watched anxiously as two talons pulled their cart through a narrow gorge, two others flanking them. This would be a simple ambush, one of the easiest he had ever pulled, but the half-elf found himself jittery nonetheless. He gathered up a handful of arrows and crept down the rocky mountainside to the defensive bluff he had chosen earlier.

The talons came on unconcerned. Their standard marked them as a group from the south, from the Ballendul Mountains beyond the forest of Windy Willows, no doubt bringing supplies at the summons of the Black Warlock. Apparently they hadn’t heard of the dangers to talons in this section of the Baerendels; Bryan’s reputation wasn’t as
widespread as he had feared. He smiled at his continued good fortune and put an arrow to his bowstring as the cart neared the trip wire.

It was a simple trap: a loose stone along the rocky path holding down a length of cord, which in turn secured several boulders on the opposite cliff face. The cart bumped across the loose trip stone, bouncing it up and releasing the cord. A moment later the boulders came cascading down the cliff, leaping higher with each thunderous rebound.

Bryan didn’t expect to actually get any of the talons with the boulders, but the diversionary effect was well worth his efforts in putting the trap together. As the four beasts screamed and scrambled to get out of harm’s way, Bryan set his bow into action, firing off three shots before the terrified talons even knew he was there. Two of the arrows found their marks, killing one talon and dropping another in writhing agony on the stony ground.

And as the remaining two talons turned to consider their fallen comrades, Bryan sprang down upon them.

The closest beast turned and charged, spear leading the way, as Bryan came down to ground level. But the talon was confused and it overbalanced as it roared in. Bryan fell backward, his shield easily lifting the spear tip harmlessly high. Unable to break its momentum, the talon rolled right over the half-elf, and when Bryan completed his roll and came back to his feet, he had to pause and brace himself to pull out his sword, buried to the hilt in the unfortunate monster’s gut.

The last talon launched its spear, but the heavy, unbalanced thing had little chance of connecting with the nimble half-elf. Bryan slipped right by it in its flight and charged out after the talon. It shrieked and fled back toward the wagon, where the small avalanche had ended.

“Too easy,” Bryan muttered to himself as he closed the
gap, and his words rang out as a warning in his own ears. Before he could consider them more closely, however, he found the truth of them painfully clear.

A spear caught him in the side.

Reeling and grasping the weapon to keep its bounce from tearing him apart, Bryan glanced back up the gorge, where five more talons, ambushers for the ambusher, were now coming on, howling with glee.

He knew he had gotten careless, had overestimated himself and underestimated his enemies. The talon at the wagon was still unarmed, but Bryan had no strength for any battles. He limped and scrambled to the side, to the cliff face, and put his back against it for support.

The talons closed in cautiously, not understanding the extent of the half-elf’s wounds. They had indeed heard of the “ghost fighter,” and were not so eager to plunge in at him, however assured their victory seemed.

But Bryan, hardly conscious, could only inch his way along the rough wall, hoping against reality that he would find some way out. He put a small thicket of growth, barely more than a knee-high bush and a finger-thin sapling, between himself and the talons before he found that he could go no farther.

Still the six talons took their time, fanning out around the half-elf in a semicircle. One threw a spear in, but its aim was not so good and Bryan managed to block it weakly with his shield.

The largest of the talons, standing next to the spear thrower, slapped it on the head for wasting its weapon. Then the big beast, apparently the leader, took a bold step in, continuing slowly to within ten yards of Bryan, studying the sweat and anguish on his fair face.

Bryan could hardly see it. Tears glistened in his eyes. He had known all along that it would eventually end this way,
but he never would have believed that he could feel such pain, or such terror. And the terror only heightened when he did finally focus on the big talon, its crude and wicked spear tip waving menacingly out in front.

Then the talon roared and charged, leaning over the spear. Bryan couldn’t begin to get his shield back up, and even if he had managed it, he had no strength to deflect such a heavy blow.

At full speed and only two steps away, the talon roared a cry of victory.

But then, in his daze, Bryan saw the shaft of the spear snap as if the weapon had been plunged into stone, and he heard the talon thump face first into a solid object.

Where the sapling had been now stood a full-grown oak.

The talon bounced back a step, considering the tree with stunned incomprehension. As if in response, the oak sent a heavy branch swinging down that split the beast’s skull and drove its head right down between its shoulders. The other talons, when they had recovered from their shock, turned to flee.

But the oak wasn’t finished. Thick limbs pounded down on the closest of the monsters, while longer, more supple branches reached out to snatch those farthest away.

Bryan somehow knew the tree was an ally, and he was not afraid, just amazed and even a bit horrified as the slashing and pounding continued. One talon went up into the air, a branch firmly about its neck. It dangled and kicked for a few agonizing moments, then hung very still, turning slowly on the afternoon breeze.

It was over as quickly as it started, and not a talon, not even the one wounded by Bryan’s initial arrow, remained alive.

A bit of his strength returned with the realization of his
salvation, Bryan slipped out tentatively from behind the enchanted oak.

And then he saw her.

Rhiannon stood on a small outcropping of rocks across the gorge, near the bluff where Bryan had begun the assault. Her gossamer gown caught the sunlight and held it, surrounding the witch in a preternatural glow that enhanced the spectacle of her power. Her eyes were closed, her expression one of grim satisfaction, and she stood perfectly still, one arm remaining upraised in its call to the powers of the heavens and the earth. Only Rhiannon’s gown whipped about her in the breeze, that glowing, mysterious gown that seemed so much a part of the young witch.

She had come upon the gorge as Bryan’s ambush began, remaining in the background to consider the work of the noted young hero and having no intention of interfering with the events at hand—on either side.

But when the talons forced Bryan against the wall, rage flooded through Rhiannon. It was Andovar she saw there, helpless and facing death, and when the power gathered within her limbs, she did not try to push it away.

And now it was over, and sooner or later, Rhiannon knew, she would have to look down upon the carnage she had wreaked. Grim satisfaction turned into a painful lament, another stain upon the innocence of the witch’s daughter. The power, its task completed, flowed out of her, leaving her empty and weak, and only by great effort, and by continually reminding herself that Bryan had been sorely wounded, was she able to climb down the rocks to the floor of the gorge.