The Witch's Daughter (7 page)

“Seven thousand strong,” Andovar added. “But o’ the same flavor as the smaller towns. We’ll make the bridges this very morn, and Corning in two days.”

“How much farther could we go?” Rhiannon asked. “The land’s seeming so wide.”

“Another week of hard riding’d bring us to the
western-most borders of Calva,” Belexus replied. “Hardy towns of hardy folk. To go beyond them’d be folly.”

Rhiannon seemed not to understand.

“The dark lands,” the ranger continued. “Home to talons and lizards and beasts darker still. Not for the wise.”

His grave tone passed beyond the young woman. Growing up among the flowers of Avalon, Rhiannon could not understand such evil notions as talons.

Not yet.

“We’ll be wandering about Corning for a week or more,” said Belexus, and he cast a wry glance at the innocent witch’s daughter. “And then ye’ll be seeing Pallendara.”

“Caer Tuatha,” Rhiannon said, using the elven name for the great city. “Istaahl and Uncle Ardaz have told me such grand tales of the place. Suren she’ll be a fine sight if only half their spoutings run to truth.”

“More liken that Pallendara will outweigh the most wonderful o’ their tales,” said Andovar. He had been to the white city only twice since his childhood, but the image had stuck in his head vividly. Pallendara was the only true city of Ynis Aielle, a place of towers and markets, and minstrels—a thousand minstrels! It rested at the tip of a narrow harbor, and the sails of a hundred boats rose up along the sea wall like the bare, jutting tops of a wintry forest.

“But first to Corning,” Belexus reminded them, not wanting their visit to still another splendid place lessened by thoughts of what was yet to come. And as the small troupe passed the crest of a hill, off in the distance, shrouded by the morning mist that rose off the river, stood the unmistakable shapes of the Four Bridges of Calva, structures that had spanned the great river for centuries, before the elves or even the talons had walked the land.

They kicked up their horses with the bridges in sight,
galloping the mounts down from the rise and across the last expanse in a wild rush.

Belexus and Andovar, as skilled as any horsemen in all the world, would never have believed it, but Rhiannon, whispering compliments into her sleek mare’s ear, got there first.

A short distance to the south lay the fairly large community of Rivertown, but Rhiannon hardly noticed the place. Before her loomed the Four Bridges, ancient and legendary, arcing pathways of solid stone. The young woman could sense the magic that had created these structures, could feel the song of wizardry humming still in their mighty stones. They were all of the same size and design, and four carts could ride abreast across any of them without nearing the solid stone banisters.

And these railings were perhaps the most special of all. Bas reliefs lined every inch of them, scenes depicting the birth of the new race of man, cradled in the arms of the angelic Colonnae, and images of the rise of Pallendara.

Belexus and Andovar had never before crossed the bridges and were no less enchanted than Rhiannon when they caught up to the young woman.

“They’ve more tales to tell than Ardaz himself,” Belexus proclaimed. “So long they’ve stood.”

“Ayuh,” Andovar agreed. “ ’Twas here that the Black Warlock first fell.” He led Rhiannon down to the southernmost structure. A shining black plaque had been cut into the stone at the entrance to the bridge, commemorating the exact spot where Ardaz, Istaahl, and Rhiannon’s mother had teamed together to defeat the Black Warlock in an age long past.

“Three thousand died,” Andovar said solemnly. “But not in vain. The talon army was crushed and Morgan Th—” He paused, reconsidering the wisdom of speaking that vile name aloud. “The Black Warlock was thrown down.”

“Not to rise again until the time of Ungden the Usurper,” Belexus added.

“Me mum has oft told me o’ the Battle of Mountaingate,” said Rhiannon. “When Thalasi was again thrown down.”

“And ’twas yer father that did the throwin’,” chuckled Andovar. “A finer man I’ve never seen!”

Rhiannon smiled and let her gaze drift out into the mist of the river. She had never known her father, and his passing had put an edge of sadness forever on the eyes of her mother. But the joy of Brielle’s memories of her times with Jeff DelGiudice, that special man from the other world, outweighed the sorrow, and Rhiannon knew that her mother did not lament for his loss as often as she smiled at memories of her times with him.

“Here now,” called a voice from the south. The three turned to see a portly man running toward them, a helmet flopping wildly on his head as he tried futilely to buckle the thing.

“Greetings,” Belexus said when the man reached them.

“And mine,” the man huffed, trying to catch his breath. “First morning in ten years I overslept. Figures, how it figures, that you’d be picking this day to arrive at our bridges.”

“Your—”

“Gatsby’s the name,” the man interrupted. “Gatsby of Rivertown. Not ‘our’ bridges, of course—none can be claiming them—but we like to consider ourselves guardians of the place.”

“And ye’re the gatekeeper?” Rhiannon asked.

The man had to wait a long moment before responding, caught up suddenly in the overwhelming beauty of the raven-haired woman. “No,” he stammered, hardly able to withstand the disarming stare of Rhiannon’s bluest blue eyes. “Not really. More of a guide, you might say. There is so very much to tell of this place! We keep it all safe—sort of our
mission, you might say. Safe, but not secret.” He pulled a huge book and a quill and ink set out of his backpack, and fumbled through a hundred pages until at last he found an empty one.

“And who might you be?”

“I am Belexus, son of Bellerian,” the ranger replied.

Gatsby’s eyes popped up from the page at the mention of the Ranger Lord, a name he obviously recognized.

“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.

“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”

“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”

“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”

Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”—the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion—“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”

“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”

“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”

“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail—which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away—and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.

“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”

The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.

    Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This army, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.

Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.

Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.

Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.

He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons of
Mysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.

How powerful he had become!

But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.

“Man!” it grunted in open rage, less familiar with words than its mountain-bred counterparts.

Thalasi understood its confusion and threw his hood back to reveal the glittering black gemstone that marked his identity. Still, these creatures apparently did not recognize that evil mark, for a large group of them immediately took up the chant that had served as the liturgy of their entire existence.

“Men die!”

“Do you know who I am?” the Black Warlock roared, and the sheer strength of his dual voice drove the five leaders back a step. But mighty, too, was the ominous chant, growing stronger as more and more of the creatures joined in. Behind Thalasi, his army started in with their own growls and protests. The situation grew grave, the Black Warlock now knew. Mountain talons and swamp talons had never been the best of friends.

“I am Thalasi!” the Black Warrior declared in a magically enhanced roar, his booming voice silencing the cries on both sides. “The master is come!”

The five opposing leaders looked at each other for support. They knew the name, though their legends spoke of “Talagi,” not Thalasi. But in any case, that is all the Black Warlock had ever been to these particular creatures: a legend.

“You are man,” the largest spat. Unlike their mountain kin, whose solitary existence in the Kored-dul range kept them far from contact with other races, these talons were quite familiar with humans. They constantly skirmished with
the westernmost villages of the Calvan kingdom, stealing supplies or simply for the sheer pleasure of killing men.

Taking heart from their leader’s undeniable proclamation, the army of swamp talons took up their chant again and rattled their weapons against their shields. Thalasi’s army responded in kind, and the whole of the field teetered on the brink of battle.

The Black Warlock realized that he had to act quickly but carefully. He hesitated in using his magical power. In addition to scaring off these potential new recruits, a show of wizardly force, reaching into that magical realm that he shared with his counterparts might ring out across the plains like a beacon to his mightiest enemies, the two wizards and the witch. Thalasi was out of the protection of the Kored-dul Mountains now, and could sense the presence of the other magic users. For his plans of conquest to have any chance of succeeding, he had to make certain that the others did not learn of his return before the western fields were overrun.

Still the Black Warlock had to act or lose everything here and now. The opposing forces were equal enough to guarantee that little would remain of either—too little to carry him to glory.

The five swamp talon leaders shouted commands to their forces; a line of lizard-riding cavalry formed to lead the charge. Thalasi’s army roared to similar life, their loyalty to the Black Warlock, wrought of abject terror, standing strong against the specter of the swamp talon army.

Thalasi silenced them all in the blink of an eye.

“I am Thalasi!” he roared in his godlike voice. A pillar of fire engulfed the Black Warlock, blazing yet not consuming his mortal form. Stunned talons on both sides fell back from the spectacle.

Thalasi reached a hand out of the fiery pillar, and a line of flame sprouted from each finger to gobble up the five
opposing leaders. They, too, found themselves enshrouded by pillars of blazing white fires, yet they, too, lived on.

Thalasi addressed the largest, the one who had so openly opposed him. “Who is your master?” he demanded.

“Men die!” the stubborn creature growled. The fire devoured it.

“Who is your master?” Thalasi demanded of the other four, witnesses to the folly of their peer’s defiance.

They gave themselves over to him wholeheartedly.

Thalasi released them from the fiery pillars and swept his fisted hand in a wide arc. Again the flame leaped out from him, this time reaching out behind the swamp talon army, building a deadly barrier behind them to discourage those who had started to flee. When the herding was completed, Thalasi shut down the magic, hoping that he had not revealed himself to his distant enemies.

“I am Thalasi!” he said yet again. “Follow me, join in my war! Taste the blood of Calvans!”

The rivalry of swamp talons and mountain talons had spanned centuries, grown since the first defeat of Morgan Thalasi on the Four Bridges. But none dared resist the specter of power that loomed before them now, and none wanted to resist the promises of man-flesh.

Thalasi walked across the encampment that night, a new and more complete attack plan formulating in his mind. He had doubled the size of his army this day, and had more to work with now; no need to keep his entire force together as a single entity. He could send them out across the fields to the north and through the Baerendel Mountains in the south, engulfing the entire region in a ring of hungry talons and cutting off any chance of escape.

He looked out over the countless campfires and smiled.

In the morning he met with all of his commanders and laid his plans out to them. Five thousand riders, swamp
talons on the swifter, sleeker lizards of the lowlands, would spur to the north, sweeping out the few villages that lined the borders of the desolated wasteland of Brogg, then cut back to the road between the town of Corning and the Four Bridges.