The Witch's Daughter (10 page)

Rhiannon caught up to them then, walking through the huddled and confused crowd.

“By me eyes,” she declared. “Ne’er have I seen such sufferin’.”

“And ye’ll find more when we see the wounded,” Belexus assured her. He turned to Meriwindle and the mayor, their eyes wide at the sight of Rhiannon, to introduce the young woman. But before he could even begin, Rhiannon stepped out of and to the side of the western gate. Belexus shrugged an apology and led the others out after her.

Rhiannon moved to the empty grass beyond the confusion of the road. She paused for a long moment, looking to the west, then fell to the ground, putting her ear to the grass.

“We have no time—” the mayor began.

Belexus cut him off, believing that Rhiannon’s actions, however confusing they might appear, were somehow important.

“But talons approach!” the mayor demanded, and he turned back to the gates. “Four thousand, perhaps.”

“More than that,” Rhiannon assured him, lifting her head from the grass.

“What?” barked Tuloos. “How could you know?” Rhiannon shrugged, not really understanding the answer. Something had compelled her to this spot, as though the ground itself had called out to her. And when she put her ear close to hear its words, it had told her the truth of the size of the approaching army.

“You could not know, of course,” the mayor went on.
“Come, Meriwindle,” he said, a bit perturbed. “We have many preparations—”

“Five times that number,” Rhiannon said, more to Belexus and Andovar than to the mayor. “And from a long wood beyond the mountains, more’re coming to join the force.”

“That would be Windy Willows,” Meriwindle put in, amazed and not yet knowing whether to believe the young woman or not. He turned to Belexus. “But how could she—”

“She could not!” the mayor insisted.

“Methinks she could,” Andovar replied. “How, Rhiannon?” he asked softly. “How do ye be knowing these things?”

Rhiannon shrugged again and looked back at the spot on the field, hardly believing the answer herself.

“ ’Tis the grass that telled me,” she said honestly.

“We have no time for such foolish words,” the mayor spouted.

Meriwindle looked helplessly to the rangers. “It does seem incredible.”

“Do ye know who she is?” Andovar asked the elf.

Meriwindle shook his head.

“Have ye heard, then, of fair Brielle?” Andovar went on.

Meriwindle’s eyes popped open wide. He had lived most of his long life in Illuma Vale, and of course he knew of Brielle of Avalon. “The Emerald Witch,” he breathed. “Rhiannon is the daughter of the Emerald Witch?”

“That she is,” said Andovar. “And me heart’s for heeding to her claims.”

“As is mine,” Belexus added. “Twenty thousand. Can Corning hold back such a number?”

Mayor Tuloos had also heard of the Emerald Witch, but in Corning, Brielle was only a fireside tale and hardly taken seriously. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded. “The count
is four thousand, no matter what the grass has to say to her.” Rhiannon dipped her head at the bite of his sarcasm, but Meriwindle rushed to her defense.

“Believe the woman,” he told the mayor.

“Meriwindle!” Tuloos cried. “Certainly you have more sense—”

“Believe her,” Meriwindle said grimly. “If the grass talked to Rhiannon, then be assured that it spoke truthfully.”

As if in confirmation, a new pillar of smoke rose up into the western sky only a few miles down the road.

Caer Minerva was burning.

Thoroughly flustered, Tuloos slumped down from his haughty stance. “Twenty thousand?” he asked Rhiannon, his sarcasm gone. But Rhiannon didn’t hear him; she had dropped back to a second call from the grass.

“A lot of talons,” the mayor conceded. “But we’ve all the men of the western fields at our disposal and our walls are sturdy enough. I suppose—”

“No!” Rhiannon cried, springing to her feet, her eyes riveted on the growing smoke cloud over Caer Minerva. “Do not fight with them!” she pleaded, and when she turned back to the four men, they saw that her face was ashen. “Run away. Run away as swift as ye may!”

“What is it?” Belexus asked before Meriwindle and Andovar could get the words out of their mouths.

“I do no’ know,” Rhiannon answered with a shudder. “But we cannot hope to stop them. A corruption leads them—never have I felt such strength!”

Belexus and Andovar exchanged grim looks, then turned to Meriwindle, who shared their knowing concern.

“He is back,” the elf said with as much calmness as he could muster. Meriwindle had witnessed the evil of Morgan Thalasi twenty years before, at the Battle of Mountaingate.
Even now the memory, the terror of the appearance of the Black Warlock, remained vivid in his mind.

Mayor Tuloos, never having witnessed the scourge of the Black Warlock, did not understand, nor did Rhiannon, who knew only that something terribly evil was leading the talon army. But over the years, Tuloos had come to trust Meriwindle as one of his closest advisers, and he could not deny the look of sheer horror on the elf’s fair face.

“If they are in Caer Minerva, how long do we have?” Belexus asked grimly.

Mayor Tuloos fidgeted for a moment, trying to remember the obvious answer. “Five hours, perhaps,” he said. “If the city is fully beaten.” He looked again at Meriwindle for an answer to his growing problem.

“We must run,” the elf replied to the mayor’s helpless expression.

Tuloos turned back to the rangers. “I am hesitant to leave my home,” he explained. “Corning is the pride of the western fields. She was built and designed for the very purpose of fending off such a raid.”

“Not such a raid,” Belexus replied. “If the Black Warlock has indeed risen again, yer height o’ yer walls’ll not be stopping him.”

Tuloos looked from person to person, rubbing his face, trying vainly to find an answer to the dilemma. “Help me, then,” he begged the others. “Get the weak off and running, as swift as they may. But I will remain in Corning with a garrison. More will come down the western road, fleeing the destruction of Caer Minerva. I will not leave them stranded and alone in the fields.”

“And know in yer heart that we will stand beside ye,” Andovar assured the man.

*   *   *

Rhiannon moved up and down the eastern road, keeping the refugees in organized retreat and whispering words of encouragement to man and horse alike.

Andovar watched her from the town gate, his love for her doubling.

“She does well,” Belexus noted, moving up to join his friend.

“No fear in her,” Andovar replied. “And her words’re keeping the whole in stride.”

“Quite a lass,” said Belexus.

Andovar put a steely gaze on him. “Do ye fancy her, then?”

Andovar hid his feelings well, but Belexus understood the tinge of jealousy that edged his words. “No, me friend,” he laughed, “not as ye do.”

Andovar turned back to the road, embarrassed but unable to refute Belexus’ observation.

“ ’Tis her mother that holds me heart,” Belexus admitted, and he clapped his friend on the shoulder. Their chatting was interrupted a moment later, though, when Rhiannon suddenly bolted with her horse away from the line of fleeing citizens, riding hard to the north. She dropped from her mount and to the ground.

“Trouble,” Belexus realized, and he and Andovar jumped down from the wall to their horses and rode out after the woman.

“What do ye hear?” Andovar cried when he caught up to her. The woman was standing now, beside her horse, looking toward the empty northland.

Rhiannon turned to her friends, then led their gaze down the eastern road. “They’ll not make the river,” she explained gravely. “Another force rides to the north. Swift they run, getting ahead o’ the fleein’ folk.”

“They’ll cut the way,” Andovar agreed, again not doubting the woman.

“How many?” Belexus asked.

“As many as the mayor thought to be the whole o’ the force,” Rhiannon answered grimly.

Belexus called upon all of his many years of training then, searching for some solution to the devious trap they had stepped into. They could not hope to defeat the approaching army, especially if the Black Warlock was indeed at its head, yet they could not spare enough fighters to destroy the force circling around from the north.

“Ye must ride!” he said to Andovar. “Swift as only Andovar can ride!”

Andovar understood, but was not thrilled at leaving Belexus, or Rhiannon, behind.

“To the bridges and Rivertown,” Belexus went on. “Send the cry to every town from here to Pallendara!”

“I’m not for leaving,” Andovar replied. “There’s a fight coming, ye know that. Me sword’ll help.”

“If ye fail on yer ride, then yer sword and all other swords’ll be to no avail,” Belexus told him. “And all the folk running from Corning this day are suren to be killed. The kingdom must be roused! Only the might of Pallendara can turn the darkness aside.”

Andovar could not deny the truth of the words. He rushed back to his horse, then turned to regard Rhiannon. “I’m not for leaving ye, me fairest lady,” he said. “Ride beside me.”

“Ye’ve yer duty,” Rhiannon replied, moving over to him. “And I’ve me own. They’ll be needing me eyes.”

Andovar kissed her then, knowing that if he never saw her again, he would die a broken man. But he was a Ranger of Avalon, a disciplined warrior, and his duty was clear. He nodded his accord at Belexus and sprang into his saddle.

Rhiannon whispered into the horse’s ear and chanted some arcane verses, stroking the steed’s muscular flanks.

“What’re ye doing?” Belexus asked her.

She shrugged in reply. “I do no’ rightly know,” she answered honestly. “But me thinkin’s that it might help.”

True were her suspicions, for when Andovar kicked his mount to action a moment later, it sped off swifter than any living horse could possibly run.

T
HEY THUNDERED OUT
of Corning’s eastern gate, a thousand grim-faced riders—nearly half the town’s garrison—with the ranger Belexus at their lead.

“They must keep the road clear if the fleeing people are to have any chance of getting across the river,” Meriwindle remarked to Mayor Tuloos as they watched the cavalry roll away.

“They will,” Tuloos growled. “We must believe in that.” He turned and led Meriwindle back across the town. They had their own business to attend.

    Belexus spotted the lone rider, coming hard from the south, speeding like the wind, on a course to intercept his group. He gave over the lead position to the next in line and veered his mount away.

“Yer place is not here,” he said to the lone rider when she reined in beside him.

“But it is,” Rhiannon answered. “Those on the road know well enough the path o’ their flight; they’ll not be needing me.”

Belexus studied the young woman. She carried no weapon, and none would have rested comfortably in her soft hands.
But there was something about Rhiannon, some growing power, that the ranger had a feeling might prove critical to the events of this day.

“How can ye help?” he asked.

“I’m no’ for knowing,”’ Rhiannon answered honestly. For all of the powers she had exhibited that day, the witch’s daughter understood them no better than the amazed witnesses. “But if ye fail in yer mission,” Rhiannon went on, “those fleeing’ll not make the river, whether I’m guidin’ them or not. Me place is here.”

Belexus’ first instinct was to send her back; he had promised his father he would watch out for the witch’s daughter. But looking at Rhiannon now, sitting so resolute and grim on her black and white horse, Belexus sensed that she did not need his protection. Indeed, it seemed that her presence would bolster his chances against the talon force.

“Come then, and be quick,” he said to her. She nudged her mount up beside his and bent low to whisper her magical encouragement into his horse’s ear. Then they were off, gaining on their comrades with each powerful stride.

    A tear rimmed Mayor Tuloos’ eye as he looked back over his city, deserted except for the remaining garrison and the line of refugees, being guided from the west gate out through the east. But the stout mayor shook the moment of weakness away and turned back to his post on the western gate, reassuring each poor refugee in turn.

“The day will be won!” he told one man. “And fear not, the King of Calva will lend you aid to rebuild your home!” The man nodded and managed a weak smile.

They are all so tired, Tuloos noted. How can they possibly run all the way to the river? He patted the man on the back, hurrying him along.

“Another group!” the lookout called. “And talons at their backs.”

Tuloos rushed up to the parapets to stand beside Meriwindle. A few hundred yards down the road came a band of stragglers, mostly women and children, running for their lives. Behind them, and gaining quickly, charged a band of bloodthirsty talons, weapons clanging.

The few able men among the refugees turned to slow the monsters, brandishing pitchforks, wood axes, even clubs.

“They’ll not make it,” Meriwindle said with a grimace. Even as he spoke, the talons trampled down the meager resistance and bore down on the women and children.