Bastion of Darkness (27 page)

That notion left him as soon as he regarded the scene. The talons, too, had tried to stop and turn, and several had. The others, though … Every one that had survived the arrow barrage had been lifted from its saddle by a ranger spear and now lay dead or squirming on the ground. As for those few who had turned in flight, the powerful Avalon horses easily caught up to them, and a ranger sword finished them each with one clean stroke.

Bryan hardly knew what to say as the efficient warriors collected about him, some moving to finish whining talons or to chase off any remaining lizards, others following Bellerian to face the stunned young half-elf.

“Me name’s Bellerian,” the ranger lord introduced himself.

“Bryan,” the half-elf responded, his voice cracking. He steadied himself and took a deep breath. “Bryan of Corning.”

“We’re knowing yer name, and knowing who sent ye, and knowing, too, where ye’re going, lad,” Bellerian explained. “Rhiannon’s been kin to us since the day o’ her birth. Ye’ll not be going alone.”

Bryan nodded his agreement—what else could he do?—but while he was truly glad to have such fine swordsmen accompany him, he held deep reservations. A group of a score and three would be much more noticeable than a single rider, after all, and Bryan was hoping for stealth, not strength, because he knew that all the strength of all the goodly folk in all the world might not be enough to defeat Talas-dun. He couldn’t find it in his heart to argue against awesome Bellerian, though, the legendary ranger lord of Avalon, a man whom Bryan’s father, Meriwindle, had oft spoken of, and always in the most reverent of tones. So Bryan would let the rangers accompany him and get him to Talas-dun, however they might, he decided, and then he would go it alone, into the darkness after Rhiannon.

“A dark day,” a soldier working on the bridge remarked to his fellows, the lot of them watching the procession as the king inspected the progress. Word had come into camp that morning, dark word, of the suspected fate of Brielle’s daughter. Rhiannon was no stranger to these soldiers; during the fierce fighting at the bridges, the young witch had served as healer, and many of the men now working owed their lives to her.

“Work well,” King Benador called to the group. “When the bridge is ready, we shall cross the great river; then let Morgan Thalasi tremble.”

That brought nods of resolve and a few angry grunts, and the men turned right back to their task, doubling their efforts. The whispers that had carried the rumors out of Benador’s tent had also spoken of the king’s determination to get across the river, to ride out to the west, all the way to Talas-dun if need be, to rescue Rhiannon or, at least, to punish those responsible for bringing her
harm. Every man and woman in the great force gathered on the eastern bank of the river wholeheartedly agreed, and so that same day a secret pact was drawn up among the bridge builders, unbeknownst to Benador or any of the other commanders. All of their work shifts would be lengthened, that the work on the bridge would not cease, all day, and through the long and cold night.

Two days later, when the secretive plan became obvious enough to all around, when word of the double labor reached King Benador’s ears, he came out again to the bridge for a conference with the workers, asking for an explanation of the lights burning through the night.

“Two weeks, my king.” The grim answer came from the appointed spokesman for the group. “The bridge will be ready within two weeks.” All around the man came words of assent.

“It’s not safe to work at night,” one of the job commanders remarked, to the speaker and to Benador. “Too cold and too dark. One of you might fall into the river, and be swept away.”

“A risk we’ll gladly take for Rhiannon of Avalon.” The reply came from several of the workers, a cry seconded by everyone about.

King Benador spent a long while looking them over, searching their faces to find the truth in their hearts. And that truth, that every one of these men and women agreed and accepted the risks, was indeed heartening to the young king. Unexpectedly, he dropped from his mount and dropped off his kingly robes and moved to a stone. “For Rhiannon of Avalon,” he said determinedly, putting his back to the lever, and a great cheer arose.

Benador worked with them those days, and they were able to shorten the shifts once more, less hours and more intense grueling work per shift, but with double the number of shifts, for many others followed the king’s lead
and came down to the bridge to offer their support. The prediction of two weeks to open the bridge had seemed ludicrous when first proclaimed, but within a couple of days, it seemed as if that prediction might prove far too conservative.

In Lochsilinilume, the city of elves, response to word of the missing witch was instant and universal, and that same day, preparations were made, provisions packed and weapons sharpened, and the very next morning, Arien Silverleaf led his determined forces out of the enchanted valley. The bells on the elvish horses jingled gaily, but the mood was truly grim. This outrage, the abduction of the daughter of Brielle, the daughter of Avalon, the elves could not tolerate.

Not long after the dark news of Rhiannon passed the gathering at the remains of the Four Bridges, it continued south and east, to the gates of Pallendara. Most distressed in all the city was Istaahl the White, a personal friend of Brielle and of her daughter.

“Brielle,” the White Wizard called into his crystal ball, sending his thoughts across the miles to Avalon. “Jennifer Glendower, do you hear?” he added, using the witch’s ancient name.

Within minutes, Brielle had enchanted her reflecting pool and stood facing the far-distant wizard, and his expression alone told her that he had heard the news of Rhiannon’s abduction, and that his heart, too, had broken.

“You believe he took her to Talas-dun?” Istaahl asked.

“Where else might the dark wraith be going?” Brielle replied. “No, he took her there, to Thalasi, to his master.”

“Then to Talas-dun I shall go!” Istaahl proclaimed.

“To tear down every wall around the Black Warlock until he surrenders Rhiannon to me!”

Brielle offered a warm smile, though she knew, despite the wizard’s good intentions, that there was little Istaahl could truly do. Talas-dun was quite beyond his power, as it was beyond Brielle’s, in these times of waning magic. And though Istaahl would remain close to his source of strength, the great ocean, in the region of Talas-dun, he could not begin to match the power of Morgan Thalasi in that evil place.

But Istaahl could not accept that helplessness. For hundreds of years, he had served as advisor to the various kings of Pallendara, had served as wise man and court wizard. For hundreds of years he had been one of the four most powerful persons in all the known world, and now, with this most terrible crisis looming, his impotence did not sit well on his old shoulders. “I will find a way,” the White Wizard promised, and he bade the fair witch farewell, promising to speak with her again to allow her to mark his progress.

Istaahl stopped his work at rebuilding the broken white tower that same day, even dismissed the workers assisting him in the task. He considered going out then to King Benador to help in the bridge reconstruction, but no, he decided, by the time he even got out to the river, the work would be nearly completed. He would not go across with Benador’s legions, for his power base was the sea, not the inland plains, and by the time he got near to that power again, he would be in the shadows of Kored-dul, in the domain of Morgan Thalasi.

No, Istaahl knew, that was not his place, not his destiny in this great struggle.

Instead, he went into seclusion in the rooms below the ground level of the structure, locking himself in.

No more could he tolerate the impotence, no more
could he, could all the world, tolerate the ugly plague that was Morgan Thalasi. Istaahl fell into a deep trance then, as deep as the one that had sustained him during the score of years he had been a prisoner of the Black Warlock, when Thalasi had stolen his identity to serve in disguise as Istaahl at the side of Ungden the Usurper.

Deeper and deeper the White Mage slipped, far from the world of men and beasts, into the realm of magic—his magic, the power of the sea. He knew the risks, knew the price, and soon enough it became obvious to him that the cost would not be a possibility, but a truth.

And yet he went deeper still, gave himself over heart and soul to this one great task.

This one final task.

Far to the west in the black bastion that was Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi and Hollis Mitchell plotted and schemed, taking heart that they would soon again loose their armies upon the world, their courage bolstered by the fact that they had a most valuable prisoner now, one who would give them tremendous leverage over their enemies—particularly their two greatest enemies, the Emerald Witch and the Silver Mage.

Neither could understand or appreciate the deeper implications of the capture of Rhiannon, the solidarity and sheer determination that heinous act would inspire among their enemies. Neither could appreciate the added hours of back-breaking labor at the broken bridges, nor the ride of Bryan and the rangers, nor the charge of Arien Silverleaf and the elves, nor, most of all, the mounting, desperate efforts of Istaahl the White. That single act of capturing the witch’s daughter, who had become so beloved by the soldiers of Calva, by the elves of Lochsilinilume, and by the rangers of Avalon, had straightened the shoulders of war-weary warriors, had forced
the grief aside, temporarily, in all of those who had lost so much. Now the expressions were much the same from Pallendara to the Four bridges, to Avalon, to Lochsilinilume; faces locked in grim determination.

This outrage would not stand.

T
HE UNDERGROUND COMPLEX
of the Architect Tribe was huge, tremendous, larger than anything Ardaz or Belexus would ever have believed possible. Their tunnels ran on and on, often ending in cavernous chambers, some full of stalagmite mounds, decorated pillars, carved with strange symbols and faces with exaggerated lips or ears or some other such feature. The wizard marveled at the workmanship, the artistry, and remarked repeatedly that he would simply have to return and engross himself in this most wonderful culture. Desdemona, predictably, slept through it all, while Calamus, not used to being underground, remained edgy and anxious, as did Belexus, the ranger wanting only to be on his way now that he had the all-important sword.

He grew quite impatient with Ardaz, for the wizard became distracted by every sculpture, by every ornate pillar lining every side passage. Ardaz babbled and waved his arms and promised Okin Balokey a thousand times that he would return.

On several occasions, the wizard became so distracted that Belexus had to hand over the reins of the pegasus to Del and walk over to pull Ardaz physically from whatever it was he was inspecting. After a couple of hours, with one marvel showing after another, the ranger finally just held Ardaz close at his side, his strong
hand resting firmly on the wizard’s shoulder, clutching whenever Ardaz seemed about to run off for another inspection.

Despite all the delays and the nervousness of the pegasus, the detour through the tunnels proved worthwhile, when, late that afternoon, Okin Balokey led the way up a sloping corridor, into a wide chamber with only one other exit, one that more resembled a rock than a door. It seemed to the ranger that the door must weigh tons, and when he glanced around, he saw no apparent crank, nor any levers. The craftsmanship proved perfect, though, and a small push by the proudly grinning Okin Balokey had the thing pivoting around, opening the portal to the dazzling daylight beyond.

Belexus stepped out first, squinting and glancing about, looking for familiar landmarks. He did indeed spot one, a peak he knew well, and he realized then that the shortcut through the tunnels had taken them far under the mountains, back to an area that would have taken the pegasus three days of flying, and that in good and warm weather, weaving about the tall peaks and landing often, that Belexus and Ardaz might take a break from the too-cold air.

“Dere you go, boss,” Okin remarked. “You should be staying in dem tunnels dis cold night, and be out early in the morning.”

It was an invitation that Belexus, to Ardaz’ obvious relief, could not refuse, and so the three, and the pegasus and cat, followed Okin back into the complex, to a nearby room that had already been prepared for them.

“We’re owing ye much,” the ranger remarked to the brown-skinned man before he departed.

“Dat you are,” Okin Balokey replied with a chuckle. “So you be using well dat sword!” he insisted. “You
make Pouilla Camby sing. Dat be de way you pay back the Architect Tribe.”

They shook hands then, and it seemed to DelGiudice that the often-aloof ranger was full of gratitude and warmth toward these mountain folk.

The next morning, after many good-byes to Okin and several others who had come back with him, the friends were off, Calamus flying hard to the south and west. The day was not especially cold, and the pegasus stayed aloft for many minutes at a time, and that evening, the friends camped in a sheltered lea only three short hours’ travel from Lochsilinilume. The ranger was even more eager now, pacing and mumbling, handling often the magnificent sword, the promise of vengeance upon the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.