R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

But it was an empty threat of explosion, he knew, a firecracker’s pop where once such anger might have leveled a mountain. Thalasi, perhaps more than any of the other wizards of Aielle, had been wounded in the war, had been struck hard in that special place wherein wizards found and fostered their power. Across the lands, Brielle used her pool for divining, Rhiannon spoke often with the birds, Istaahl worked with masons and magic to construct a new tower, and Ardaz often assumed the forms of various animals, that he might get about his mountainous home more easily. But all of those spells, even the simplest, were beyond Morgan Thalasi at that time. He could see only with his physical eyes, could speak only with creatures that used the same language as he, could build nothing, save what his feeble hands could place together, and could take no form other than this one: a battered, frail body, appearing more skeletal than human, face hollowed and eyes sunken so deeply that they appeared as black holes in a gray skull.

Yes, it was a pitiful thing that he had become, a weakling. And worst of all for the Black Warlock, the talons were apparently beginning to catch on to the truth of it. And unlike the last time Thalasi had been wounded, the talons now held a particular, seething grudge. Many thousands of them had been slain in the fight at the Four Bridges, the failed invasion of Calva.

The fight that Morgan Thalasi had demanded and commanded.

The Black Warlock looked back along the walkway where the pair of talons had disappeared. Now they were showing outright disrespect; before long, he realized, their lack of respect would become open hostility, and their outrage would find its sharp focus on the being who had led them to disaster.

The unseasonable rain poured down in wind-blown sheets, drenching Thalasi’s red robes, weighing them heavily on the bowed shoulders of the Black Warlock.

The wizard Ardaz, the famed Silver Mage of Lochsilinilume, sat with the lord of Illuma, Arien Silverleaf, on a high ledge overlooking the enchanted valley of the elves. The chill wind whipped the wizard’s voluminous blue robes about him and took his great pointed cap from his head again and again, and only the quick reactions of the elf lord, sitting downwind from Ardaz, prevented the great cap from spinning out from the ledge and soaring high and far on wild breezes.

“Benador continues the fight at the river,” Arien said, snapping his arms up to catch the hat for the fourth time in as many minutes. He handed it over to Ardaz, and sighed when the sometimes-foolish wizard plopped it right back on his bushy head, where it was sure to be soon blown off once more. “Work will be completed on the bridge soon enough, and Benador will be swift across to the western fields at the head of his mighty cavalry.”

“Well, he is king, you know,” Ardaz replied dryly. “That is his job, of course, ha ha!”

Arien put a sidelong glance over the wizard, then slapped his hand on Ardaz’ head as another gust threatened the cap.

“Wouldn’t be much of a king, after all, if he let talons run wild all over his farmlands!” the wizard went on, apparently oblivious to the elf lord’s hand. “Oh, I daresay, that would not do at all. Not at all, no, no.”

“I, too, am a king,” Arien replied somberly, drawing the wizard’s gaze.

Ardaz screwed up his face as he looked over the stoic elf, Arien’s long and raven black hair blowing in the breeze, his eyes staring below, to Illuma perhaps, but more likely to nothing at all. The wizard briskly rubbed his bushy beard, gray and flecked with white so that it had an overall silvery appearance. For all his outward foolishness, Ardaz was a wise and sympathetic friend. He understood Arien’s dilemma here, the fact that the eldar of Lochsilinilume and his followers were back in the safety of their mountain home, though the wider world outside the elven valley was far from secured. The elves had suffered terribly in the battle with the Black Warlock; more than half of those who had gone to the Four Bridges to battle beside King Benador did not make the trip home, but though the swollen river had ceased the heavy fighting, and though the wizards had battered Thalasi and sent him scrambling to the west, the war, as Arien had said, was not yet won. Arien, torn by grief for his daughter, and on advice from Ardaz and Ryell, his closest elven advisor, had led the remainder of his battered people home, but even though that course seemed prudent-it made sense that Thalasi might strike out in smaller groups while he tried to reorganize his main host, and that some of those raiding bands might find their way to Illuma Vale-it hurt the proud and angry elf profoundly to be sitting here idly while the battle raged, while other swords sought vengeance for his lost daughter.

“Yes, yes,” the wizard spouted on sudden impulse. “You are a king. But, hah, you have no western fields to reclaim! Or to defend, for that matter, ha ha.”

The remark didn’t have the impact Ardaz had hoped for. Arien seemed not relieved, but even more wounded.

“Well, you don’t,” Ardaz said more quietly. “You have your borders, and they are secured now, and that is your duty, of course it is. Oh, I daresay, Arien, play your part and let Benador and the far more numerous-and more prolific-Calvans, play theirs. The Calvans could not have asked for such a helping hand as your people gave to them, could not have asked for such a sacrifice, for any sacrifice, from a people they had persecuted for years, after all! Oh, I daresay, your guilt is not so well placed. Oh no, not at all!”

“It pains me,” the elf said wearily, looking back over the small valley, the one little piece of Ynis Aielle that truly belonged to the Illumans. The valley was full of wide-limbed telvensil trees, shining silver against the white snow though their leaves had long ago drifted away. Most of the great trees supported crafted and decorated houses, all with sweeping balconies and many-pointed rooftops. Grander still were the stone houses on the ground, and Arien’s was the grandest of all, shining with gemstones, edged by intricate, crafted gutterwork, gargoyles of young elves at play and the like, and with a roof with too many angles to count, and dozens of chimneys, all puffing out lazily drifting smoke and the promise of a warm hearth. A white carpet of snow now covered the thick grass of the valley, but that did little to slow the elves in their perpetual dance, a dance that continued even though so many of them were gone. A hundred elves at least were out and about now, though the day was cold, enjoying the company of their neighbors, enjoying the simple pleasure of being alive.

“Of course it pains you,” Ardaz replied after a long silence, his voice quieter now, calmer and more in control. “Thalasi’s force is scattered now, and in many ways, more dangerous. More unpredictable. We do not know now where they will strike, and if Illuma Vale is to be a target-and surely Thalasi hates no place more than Illuma Vale!-then Arien Silverleaf must be here with his people. Send a minor force back to Benador, if that is your will, as a symbol of Lochsilinilume’s support, but you, as eldar, must remain here with your people, steadfast in your protection of your home, and of the Crystals.”

The wind gusted again, sending the wizard’s great hat flying away, and Arien, with typical agility, snatched it in midflight. “You are wise, my old friend,” he said, rising. “And if I am to respect my elders, you are one of only four who qualify for that title.”

Ardaz glanced up at Arien, surprised by that statement, and found the elf lord smiling at his own joke.

“So I must stay,” Arien continued, the mirth passed. “I must remain in this, my home, though Fahwayn surely thirsts for talon blood, though Sylvia’s spirit calls out to me for vengeance.”