Echoes of the Fourth Magic (38 page)

   In the rank of elven horsemen, outside the fire wall, Del and the others could not see what was happening to the Calvans. But the screams and wails of their dying foes told them all they needed to know.

“The antics of a buffoon,” Del echoed somberly to Ryell.

“I apologize,” Ryell replied, his words reflecting both awe for the mage and pity for the tortured Calvans within the fires. “There is perhaps more to Ardaz than I have believed.”

“Call him not Ardaz,” Arien said. “Call him by his true name.” He extended his hand toward the bent figure, now leaning heavily on his staff. “Behold Glendower. Woe be to those who invoke the wrath of the Silver Mage!”

   Calvans died by the score in the panic, some caught by the wizard fires, others trampled, and still more leaping to the swamp. Then there came a barely audible buzzing sound, and as suddenly as it had started, the riot ended. Barren of all emotion it seemed, almost zombielike, the remainder of the Calvan army moved back into battle groups.

Still the walls converged.

But not a man screamed.

And not a horse reared or snorted in terror.

Only the crackling of the rolling fires consuming grass and flesh disturbed the eerie stillness.

Ardaz understood and was afraid.

A swirling cloud of red smoke floated out from the Calvan line, growing more tangible as it moved. Soon it resembled a rider and horse, and then it was; a red-cloaked man, cowl pulled low to hide his face, atop a gaunt, yellow-eyed black stallion that snorted smoky flames through its flared nostrils and pawed the ground as if it hated the living grass below it.

“Istaahl?” Sylvia asked Ardaz, but the distracted wizard did not reply.

The red-cloaked rider reached his bony arm toward the west, clenching and unclenching his fist as if gathering up the air from the distant expanses. Then he swung his arm at the cliff, as if throwing something, and a great gust of wind smote Ardaz, extinguishing the flame atop his oaken staff.

And the fire walls were gone.

“The wizard of Caer Tuatha?” Ryell cried when he saw the red-cloaked mage.

“It cannot be,” Arien replied, surprised. “Istaahl gathers his power from the sea. This mage is too far inland.”

“The master is come,” hissed an evil voice from under the red cowl.

Ardaz’s face went bloodless.

The red-robed wizard pulled back his hood, revealing his pallid, hairless head, and the many-faceted black sapphire that was his mark.

Ardaz groaned audibly, though he had already guessed that Thalasi had come.

“May the Colonnae be with us!” Arien gasped, for he, too, recognized the mark of the Black Warlock. “Angfagdul, the utter blackness, is come again!”

T
UCKED AWAY INTO
a small corner of his subconscious, in a place reserved for childish, supposedly irrational, fears, Del retained an image that very much resembled Morgan Thalasi, an image of evil incarnate, a demon embodied in human form. Thalasi’s withered body appeared broken and sickly beyond anything that could be alive, yet the life force within the Black Warlock exuded an aura frighteningly, paralyzingly, evil, and a strength sufficient to hold two armies at bay.

On the ledge, Ardaz spun about and waved his arms wildly, desperately summoning all of his strength. The air about him crackled as his power mounted; standing next to him, Sylvia’s hair tingled and was drawn toward the wizard by the growing charge. When he knew that he had reached his limits and could contain no more of the energy, the wizard uttered a rune of evocation and stamped his staff on the rock, releasing a blue bolt of lightning. Its flash blinded all who witnessed it for several seconds; the corresponding rumble of thunder rolled throughout the mountains for miles around.

But Thalasi had prepared himself against such obvious attacks. A protective globe of defensive energy encircling him dispersed the bolt into a shower of many-colored, harmless sparks before it ever reached its mark.

Thalasi curled a thin lip over his rotted teeth in a smile that seemed more a grimace, and drew out a thin, iron-shod rod. Pointing it at the ledge, he demonstrated his mastery, controlling elemental powers that Ardaz could only beg for assistance. Uttering only two simple runes, he returned Ardaz’s attack tenfold with a mighty white bolt.

The Silver Mage had worked frantically to construct his own defensive barrier when he saw Thalasi draw the rod, but he was overmatched. The violence of the white bolt shook the whole mountain, sending cracks deep into the stone from the ledge all the way down to the field, and the archers were thrown from their feet. The brunt of its malice focused on Ardaz, ripping through his defenses, charring and splintering his fine oaken staff and hurling him hard against the rock face at the rear of the ledge. He lay crumpled against the stone, patches of his clothing blackened and still smoking, his newly grown hair singed, and the fingers on the hand that had been holding his staff burned and blistered.

Sylvia regained her footing and rushed to his side. Blood streamed from the wizards’s lips as he mouthed the name of the Black Warlock. And then he fell silent.

Half in anger, half in desperate fear, the archers began firing at Thalasi. He laughed at them and turned his attention elsewhere, ignoring them, for their attempt proved pitifully inept against his shielding and the arrows were reduced to windblown ashes when they hit the defensive globe.

Arien called for his troops to gather their courage with him and charge, determined that their end would be unyielding to terror.

But this, too, proved futile.

Grinning broadly, Thalasi faced the elven line and began twirling the wand like a baton. Compelled by his dominating will, the Illuman horses responded in kind, turning circles of their own, oblivious to the commands of their riders. Ungden, and then his troops following his lead, broke out into taunting laughter at the sight of the helpless
elves struggling vainly to control their mounts. And all of the horses were dancing.

All except one.

The white mare snorted in fury and steeled her eyes against the onslaught of Thalasi’s wicked attack. Summoning every ounce of willpower within her, she cleansed her mind of Thalasi’s insinuation and began slowly to walk toward the bringer of perversion, bearing on her a confused and terrified DelGiudice.

Onward she marched, now crossing the grass blackened by Ardaz’s fire, her stride growing bolder as she grew more assured that she could resist the Black Warlock. A helpless pawn in their battle, caught in the middle between two powers far beyond him, Del held tightly to the mare’s mane with both hands and prayed that Arien or anybody would come to his aid.

Thalasi was deceived. Assuming the mare to be guided by the great will of her rider, he directed his next attack at Del. Extending one bony hand, he spoke a curse, and violently closed his fingers into a tight fist.

Del shrieked in agony as he felt an icy hand grasp and squeeze his heart. Horrified, he released his grip on the mare and clutched his chest.

He felt a lump in his shirt pocket.

Acting solely on his instinct to survive, Del tore open his shirt and pulled out the little derringer. His eyes bulged from the inner pressure, his breath would not come, and consciousness began to slip away, but he somehow managed to fumble the silver bullet into the chamber and point the pistol at Thalasi.

The sight of the weapon amazed Thalasi, and in his surprise, the Black Warlock released his deadly grip for just a moment. Del’s lungs expanded immediately, sucking in a deep breath of revitalizing oxygen, but he wasted no time enjoying the sensation. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the explosion and kick, he put his finger on the trigger.

He couldn’t do it.

* * *

Behind Thalasi, the Calvans laughed no more, instead staring curiously at Del, who had resisted their wizard and who now held this strangely shaped piece of metal. Mitchell grunted in anger at the sight of the gun, revolted by the possibility of his most hated enemy destroying his plans for conquest. Yet, certain that he would be Del’s primary target if he exposed himself, the captain made no move to rush to Thalasi’s aid.

Reinheiser, though, recognizing the danger to his master, reacted quickly and without regard for his personal safety. He broke through the line of Warders and—though he was hardly a rider, and nearly tumbled from the saddle with each stride—galloped his horse flat out across the field.

   Del stared at the derringer helplessly, feeling deceived by his own conscience and disgusted at his emotional failure in this time of need. Then came again the paralyzing pain, as Thalasi, now understanding the full potential of Del’s threat, renewed his assault even more furiously. Del’s arm trembled and drooped, blackness filled the edges of his vision, and he would have dropped the weapon altogether had not one voice rung clear with reason in his ears.

“Do it!” Billy Shank cried out to him.

But Del could not bring himself to move. He looked down at his hand, trying to fight against his own revulsion and Thalasi’s insidious assaults. The very sight of his arm, veins engorged with blood from the tremendous pressure, and bruises on his forearm where smaller veins had already begun to rupture, dismayed him. He understood that he was beaten, no match for the power before him, and knew with the utmost revulsion and horror that soon he would actually explode.

Reinheiser relaxed considerably when he pulled alongside Thalasi, the master seeming fully in control.

* * *

High on the ledge, Sylvia saw it, too. The black cloud that was Morgan Thalasi would soon consume Del, and then the doom would fall upon the rest of her people. Desperately, she grasped at the one faint hope she could see and ran to the side of the fallen wizard. “Please, Ardaz,” she pleaded, cradling his head. “You must help us. Angfagdul will destroy us all!”

Ardaz opened one eye. “Nasty shot, you know,” he said with a cough—a cough that produced blood. “Really quite beyond me.” He started to drift again, but Sylvia shook him roughly. “Of course, of course,” he groaned in reply. “We must do something. Perhaps …” He silently mouthed some words, trying to remember a spell.

“Bring me an arrow,” he instructed. Quickly Sylvia handed him the finest arrow she had remaining in her quiver. Ardaz stroked its wooden shaft and chanted a spell of seeking. The effort cost him the last of his strength and he fell silent, his eyes closed once more.

Sylvia slipped the arrow from the wizard’s loose grip and fitted it to her bow as she ran back to the ledge, praying that the enchantment had been completed and that it would be enough to get the arrow through to Thalasi. With a deep breath to steady her trembling arms, she took a bead on the Black Warlock and fired.

Del would have been dead by then, except that Thalasi took his time, savoring the torment of this man who dared oppose him.

Sparks flew as the arrow’s stone tip struck the magic barrier. It deflected slightly but was not destroyed, and though it did not hit its mark, it came close enough to surprise and distract Thalasi.

For the second time, Del was free.

A furious Thalasi spun at the ledge and loosed a second white bolt of destruction.

Instead of waiting to see if her arrow found its mark, though, wise Sylvia was already moving. She dove back
to the safety of the mountain wall just as the blast splintered the lip of the ledge into chunks of flying rubble.

Reinheiser, seated next to his master, hadn’t been so quick to react. The bolt crossed directly before his face and the intensity of the flash stunned and blinded him.

“Sylvia!” Del screamed in rage, and he thrust the pistol toward the Black Warlock, who countered by holding his staff horizontally in front of him with both hands and clenching down on its iron tips. Like the edged blade of a sword, waves of energy sliced viciously at Del, ripping his shirt and drawing a line of blood on his chest.

But Del would not be stopped this time. He thought of Ardaz and Sylvia, both of whom he believed killed by Thalasi’s thunderous attacks; he remembered again the image of Captain Mitchell on the beach, proclaiming himself a god. In his rage, Del found the strength to ignore the pain and resist the will of his foe.

As his sight returned, Reinheiser saw the look of undeniable determination on Del’s face and knew that his master was in mortal danger. “No!” he yelled, and leaped at Thalasi.

Too late. Del fired, and the bullet of the fourth magic, technology, sundered Thalasi’s black staff at its midpoint with a flash of brilliant green and tore into the Black Warlock with a fury heretofore unknown in Ynis Aielle. Reinheiser dove across the back of the hell-spawned stallion and fell headlong into the ground. In his hands he held an empty cloak, for there remained no sign of Thalasi, no sign that the warlock had ever been there, save a broken staff and a red cloak with a bullet hole in it.

Reinheiser pondered this turn of events for just a moment, until he felt warm blood trickling between his eyebrows and over the bridge of his nose. “Must have landed on a rock,” he mumbled as he slipped out of consciousness.