The Witch's Daughter (28 page)

“Trust in her,” said Belexus.

Brielle nodded and managed to return his smile. “Rest easy,” she said. “A council’s to begin this night and ye’re to attend.”

Belexus slumped back, more than willing to oblige. But then another memory came over him, with such violence that he bolted upright. Brielle knew his next question before he had even asked it. “Andovar?”

Brielle shook her head, finding no words suitable to break the news. She knew of the bond between the two rangers, best of friends since their childhood days, always counting on the other in times of trouble—and the other always being there.

“I will avenge his death,” Belexus decreed. “Mitchell will not go unpunished.”

“Hardly the Mitchell ye once knew,” Brielle put in. “An undead thing, a wraith from the netherworld and beyond yer power is me fear.”

But Brielle could not deny the determination on the ranger’s face when he looked at her, an expression so grim that she took an involuntary step back.

“I will find a way,” Belexus promised.

“We will find a way,” Brielle corrected. “The passing of Andovar hurts me as it hurts yerself. I’ll not let Mitchell take another so dear to me.”

She looked away as she spoke these last words, and her voice softened to become barely audible. Embarrassment? Belexus wondered, and then some of the other implications of Brielle’s melding with him, this joining of their thoughts and souls, brought him his own measure of embarrassment.

“Ye be needin’ rest,” Brielle said to him again, easing him down onto the soft grass and pulling a warm blanket up over
his chest. She bent low and kissed him on the forehead, then pulled back from him.

“Glad I am that ye found yer way back, Belexus,” was all she said as she turned and moved off into her forest.

    Sad on sweet voices, the song of the elves drifted through the boughs of Avalon, a fitting complement to the magic of the trees.

Brielle found Belexus standing near a grove of pines, quiet and enchanted by the distant harmony. She watched awhile from afar, letting the ranger enjoy the peaceful song. The witch wished that she could leave him to his enjoyment all the night through, or go and join him, but the business of war would not allow for such breaks.

“Come,” Brielle bade him. “We’re to be goin’ to council this night.”

Belexus’ eyes stared into the dark wood, toward the elven singing. “They fit in yer wood,” he said. “Th’elven song seems a friend to yer trees. A kinship.”

Brielle nodded her accord. “Joyful and sad,” she said. “A harmony of balance. Suren me wood rings true to the children o’ the moon.”

“Then they are wise indeed,” Belexus replied with a smile, his gaze drifting to the fair witch.

Brielle met his stare for a long moment, accepting his compliment and affection. “Come,” she said again, and she led him off down a forest path.

The notes of the song carried them along, and soon they saw the glow of a large fire in the midst of a wide glade. The host of Illuma encircled it, five hundred strong, joined by the Rangers of Avalon. As Belexus and Brielle approached, the words of the song became clearer, and though the elves sang in enchantish, the wizards’ ancient tongue that Ardaz had taught them, Belexus soon understood the meaning.

They sang to Andovar.

Belexus’ father, Bellerian, and Arien Silverleaf, the Eldar of Illuma, met the witch and the ranger on the edge of the glade.

“By the Colonnae,” said Bellerian when he saw his son. “Never would I have believed ye could heal so quickly. When last I saw ye just three days hence, ye seemed on the door o’ death. And though the witch told me ye’d recover, me hopes …” He let the grim thought fade away unspoken.

Belexus ran a hand through Brielle’s golden locks. “ ’Twas Brielle that gived me life,” he said.

“ ’Twas yer own strength,” replied the witch. “A lesser man’d not have made it to me wood.”

“Surely it was the both of you,” Arien Silverleaf said. “And such strength we shall need often in these dark times. And wisdom. The song to Andovar will run through many more verses, for long were the feats of that ranger. Let us enjoy its completion, then find our place of council.”

“Is there word o’Ardaz?” Bellerian asked.

Brielle shook her head. “Billy Shank set off on Calamus this morn in search o’ me brother,” she explained. “But I fear that he is at the far end of the world and will not return to us for many days.”

“But he will return to us in time,” Arien assured them. “None have come to know the value of Ardaz more than the elves of Illuma, and ever will we trust in him to arrive when the hour is darkest.”

“So he will,” Brielle agreed, and then they fell silent to hear the continuing song. The elves had known Andovar only briefly, but their melody captured the spirit of the slain ranger so completely that Belexus found himself walking in dreams beside his lost friend.

It went on for more than an hour, and then the four of
them moved to a more private meadow for their council, joined by Sylvia, Arien’s daughter, and by Ryell, the elflord’s closest adviser.

“We have heard the tidings of war,” Arien began. “And though they ring out far to the south, in the kingdom of man, their cry to the ears of Illuma is not diminished. We have come to know King Benador and his people as friends these last twenty years, and we will not forsake them in their dark hour.”

“Still, we fear to leave our homes,” Ryell added. “If the talons are on the march, might they not strike north as well? What protection would Illuma Vale find if our people are all away in the southland?”

“Yer fears are known to me,” said Brielle, a bit uncomfortable with the gathering. Such politics were not usually the way of the Emerald Witch, but with Morgan Thalasi at the head of this invasion, these were not usual times. “We will address them before the council is ended. But first we should be hearing the words o’ Belexus, for he alone among us has fought in the southland.”

Then Belexus recounted his tale, from the rout in the western fields to the mad rush back to the river to the defense of the Four Bridges. All but Brielle blanched when he spoke of the Black Warlock, denial clear upon their faces. But Brielle dashed their hopes that the ranger might be mistaken in his guess.

“With me own eyes I have seen the specter of Thalasi,” she assured them. “In the body of Martin Reinheiser, and even more powerful than last we knew.”

“But Reinheiser is dead,” Ryell argued. “He fell over the cliff to Blackamara. And Angfagdul”—he used Thalasi’s enchantish name—“was slain on the field of Mountaingate.”

“A wizard is not so easily slain,” Brielle reminded them
all. “The Black Warlock has returned. I have battled with him meself.”

“Then the talons have a powerful leader,” Arien lamented, knowing beyond those flickering hopes that their cause was even more desperate now.

“Two leaders,” Brielle corrected. “Another of the ancient ones walks Aielle.” As soon as the others took the time to consider Brielle’s words, they understood who she was referring to. There had been only four ancient ones, and now two—Billy Shank, off on his quest to find the wizard Ardaz, and Martin Reinheiser, the embodiment of the Black Warlock—were accounted for. If Jeff DelGiudice had somehow returned to Aielle, he most surely would have fought on their side. That left only one.

“Mitchell,” growled Bellerian. “Suren that one’s a scourge on the world.”

“And more so now,” Belexus added. “No man is he, but a spirit o’ the netherworld, an undead thing of great power. ’Twas he who killed Andovar, and nearly meself.”

The words hung in the air like the weight of doom, bowing heads in dismay.

“But we are not lost!” cried Sylvia, Arien’s fiery daughter. “Never before in all the world have the men of Calva and the elves of Illuma joined together against an enemy. And three wizards fight on our side.”

“Truth in yer words,” Bellerian piped in. “The Black Warlock has found himself some mighty foes indeed. He’ll not be likin’ the reception we’ll be givin’ to him when he tries again to cross the bridges.”

“But can we go there?” asked Ryell, ever the pragmatic one. “What force does Angfagdul hold in reserve in the Crystal Mountains, ready to fall upon the northern fields when the elves and the rangers have gone to the south?”

“Not to fear,” said Brielle. She stood and walked to the
center of the group. “Istaahl of Pallendara and meself have fought with Thalasi these many days, and it is our belief that the Black Warlock has erred in his attack. He did not get across the bridges quick enough, afore all the wide world learned of his presence.”

“A ruse?” asked Bellerian.

“Nay, too many are with him,” Brielle replied. “Thalasi did not figure on the resolve of the Calvans.”

“Or on the presence o’ yer daughter,” Belexus reminded her.

“Me hopes are that the Black Warlock has not yet come to understand the power of Rhiannon,” Brielle said grimly. Every minute of every day, the witch feared for her daughter, so exposed right beside the Black Warlock’s army. “ ’Tis me feeling that Rhiannon’ll have more to say in this war.

“But the bridges have been held,” the witch continued, “to the rage o’ the evil warlock. Thus he has summoned the wraith of Mitchell, and more tricks he’ll suren find. But Morgan Thalasi canno’ go north, not nearen me domain, or south, where Istaahl holds the sea. He has committed his forces to the bridges, to the heart o’ Calva, and if he means to turn his forces aside, he’ll find them slowed and cut down by meself and me friend in Pallendara.

“But neither can we leave our domains,” she explained. “The Black Warlock is strong indeed, and he does not end his assaults on Avalon and on the Tower of Istaahl. Even as we sit here speakin’, the White Mage o’ Pallendara fights off another o’ Thalasi’s attacks.” The others, having witnessed many strange storms raging over the western borders of Avalon, understood her reasoning and the seriousness of her words.

“It is only our closeness to our places of power that gives us the strength to keep Morgan Thalasi away, and so are we trapped here,” Brielle explained.

“At least until Ardaz returns,” Arien remarked. “The Silver Mage might turn the course of battle.”

“He might indeed,” agreed Bellerian. “But we must fight without that hope. With or without the aid of the Silver Mage, the Black Warlock and his pig-faced army’ll be driven back to their holes!”

A determined chorus of agreement sprang up among the fearless assembly. All of them had known adversity in their lives—the elves had lived with it for centuries—and they would not surrender, whatever the odds. And none in the world so enjoyed fighting talons as the grim Rangers of Avalon.

“To the south, then!” cried Ryell. “King Benador is in need!”

“Aye,” said Brielle. “Away ye all should go. Winter’ll be no friend to the Black Warlock with his rabble army; the stalemate works against him.”

“So he has created a new leader to get him across the river,” Belexus agreed, painfully aware of the power of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.

“His hopes are to find the walls o’ Pallendara afore the season’s change,” Brielle reasoned. “Me thoughts say he’ll strike out hard afore many more days have passed.”

“Then he shall strike out against the army of King Benador, the army of Arien Silverleaf, and the warriors of Lord Bellerian!” Sylvia growled. “And woe is to him!”

“To the south, then!” cried Ryell. “And to the side of King Benador!”

All of them, Sylvia and Ryell included, had their doubts about the certainty with which the rallying words had been spoken. But none of them would speak those doubts aloud.

Now was not the time for the weak of heart.

*   *   *

Billy Shank watched the gathering dawn. Beside him, the great Pegasus grazed calmly. They had stopped only a couple of hours before, the urgency of their mission overruled by a needed rest. But already Calamus had regained his strength, and when the lord of horses saw Billy approaching, he stamped and agreed that it was time to depart.

Then they were up on the breezes again, climbing high into the morning sky, and all who saw them in their flight, mostly simple farmers of Calva’s northern fields, looked upon them in amazement, not understanding the drama of the quest but well aware that this spectacle was merely an extension of the growing conflict along the river.

The world had changed so suddenly.

Billy kept the southeastern line of the Crystal Mountains to his left, cutting a course for the Great Forest, the largest woodland in all Aielle, where he would begin his search for the missing wizard. His only hope, Aielle’s only hope, was that Ardaz would spot the Pegasus high up against the sky and reveal himself. The wizard had said only that he would be out beyond the Elgarde River, out in the uncharted wild lands, and Billy knew his chances of finding Ardaz’s exact location were slim indeed.

But he had to try. Once again Ardaz had become a critical player in the hope of the world.

    Out beyond the Elgarde, beyond the Great Forest, in lands unknown to the Calvans, to the Illumans, even to the wizards of Aielle, Ardaz picked his way among the rubble and tunnels of a deserted town. He had suspected all along that there were others in the world beyond its known borders, races not Calvan, Illuman, or talon, and now he had found his proof.

The wizard danced happily through the ancient ruins,
thinking it grand that there was apparently much more to be learned about the world. His eyes did not turn back to the west.

He did not hear the call of Brielle and Istaahl, and could not know that the Black Warlock once again walked Aielle.

    They rode out of Avalon with the rise of the next sun, to the blast of horns and the pounding thunder of hooves. On came the elves of Illuma, five hundred strong, their sleek steeds adorned in shining armor and draped in lines of jingling bells. Arien Silverleaf led the way, his silvery armor and shield glistening in the morning light, and his magical sword, Fahwayn, held high above him.

And beside the Eldar of Illuma rode Bellerian, the Ranger Lord, leading his own column of grim-faced, mighty warriors. Though they were but fourscore strong, none who had seen the Rangers of Avalon in battle underestimated their value.