R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

“No, Arien,” Ardaz interrupted. “No, no, I say! Your daughter died content; her spirit is not restless. Content, my friend, that her role was well played, that the defense held and that wicked Thalasi was beaten back. That was Sylvia’s choice, as it would have been Arien’s choice if he had been in Sylvia’s place.”

“Would that Arien had been in Sylvia’s place,” the elf lord remarked, and to Ardaz he seemed very old and very weary indeed at that moment. He nodded and handed back the hat, then began the long and slow descent down the invisible stairway that would take him back to the valley floor.

Ardaz watched him go, knowing well that the light would never shine quite the same way as before in Arien Silverleaf’s eyes.

With a deep sigh, a profound regret for all that was gone, Ardaz put his hat back on his head, and when the wind took it immediately, the wizard just getting his hands up to catch hold of it before it sailed miles away, he decided it was time to go in. He moved through an angled slot in the wall, cunningly concealed so that from below it appeared as no more than a crack, into a snow-filled lea. At the back end of the small clearing, which seemed smaller because of the towering sheer walls that encompassed it, stood Brisenballas, the wizard’s tower, carved right into the side of the mountain, its darkened windows seeming as eyes and a nose, its great door as a mouth.

Ardaz paused as he headed for that door, hearing the imperative cry of a raven. He looked up as the bird descended swiftly, coming to light on the wizard’s shoulder. The creature was purring even as the transformation commenced, a most curious thing for a raven to do, but then it was not a raven, but a cat, a shining black cat, wrapping herself comfortably about the wizard’s neck and shoulders.

“Oh, Desdemona,” the wizard complained. “Out causing trouble again, no doubt, you nasty little puss. Can I expect a hawk to come swooping in here on your tail?”

What passed between them then was more telepathy than speech, though the cat uttered a few “meows,” mostly for effect.

“How very odd,” Ardaz remarked as he considered the news, scratching at his bushy hair and beard. “How very odd.” And with that, he pulled the complaining cat from his shoulders and threw her high into the air. With a shriek, Desdemona became a bird again, and so did Ardaz, a great and strong eagle, bidding his little raven companion to show him the way.

Thalasi sat in his throne room late that night, the storm raging outside, heavy rains and bright flashes of crackling lightning. His throne seemed too large for him somehow-both figuratively and literally-as if his corporeal form had shriveled as his powers had become less substantial. He had no talon guards stationed outside the room, as had always been the norm; the Black Warlock wouldn’t risk putting any talons near to him at this time, when he was so vulnerable, when any of the wretched, warlike creatures could strike him down like the feeble old man he had become.

Thalasi’s hand strummed absently on the throne, then he reached out to brush his fingers against the smooth wood of his staff, the Staff of Death, taken from the most ancient tree in Blackemara, the very heart of the swamp. With this staff, Thalasi had brought back the wraith of Hollis Mitchell, had battled and defeated Charon himself for the control of the dead man’s spirit. If that feat alone wasn’t amazing enough, Thalasi had then animated simple zombies, further extensions of his dominating will, further proof of his power over Death itself. He could feel the power within the staff still, brimming, tingling to his sensitive touch.

He had thought of using it again-he felt that he could safely do that, since the power would come not from him, but from the staff-but he feared the potential results. Surely another wraith such as Mitchell would laugh in his face if he tried to command it, would tear him and grab him and bring him down to the realm of Death, where Charon waited eagerly to pay back Thalasi for that past defeat. Even minor zombies, the Black Warlock feared, would be above his control, would devour him and mindlessly wander the world.

Still, despite the potentially dire consequences, the Black Warlock was thinking again of using the staff. His situation worsened by the day, he knew; talons were whispering about replacing him, and if they tried, he would have no counter, not even a bluff, to deter them.

Thalasi looked out the throne room’s small window, to the storm, and viewed the storm, then, not as an unseasonable but natural event, but as a signal to him, a sign that the time had come. He took up the staff and gathered his robes and heavy cloak, then went out from the throne room and out from Talas-dun altogether, trying hard not to be seen-not so great a feat considering that the talons were all busy at their nightly orgies.

He made his shaky way along the rain-slickened stone paths, buffeted by the winds, his black cloak whipping about the red robes. Soon he came to a place out of sight of the black fortress, a place where the talons of Talas-dun buried their dead-when the talons even bothered to bury their dead.

Thalasi glanced around nervously at the many broken markers, at the mounds of raw, wet earth that showed newer grave sites. It was to one of these that he went, reasoning that a more recently dead talon would be easier to raise. He clutched the staff tightly, brought his lips to it, and tried to look inside of its power, to see if he was playing the fool. He almost left the cemetery, more than once, but the one image that kept coming to mind was the pair of talons on the walkway that afternoon, the pair that had disregarded him, had ignored him. No, he was no longer truly the master of Talas-dun; he was the buffoon, the sideshow for the benefit of the talon audience. And when that merciless audience grew bored…

Thalasi stamped the staff upon the earthen mound, released a bit of its energy, crackling like small arcs of black lightning into the dirt. “Benak raffin si,” he called softly, taking care not to look at the marker of the grave, not even to think of the talon’s name, fearing that the sentient spirit of the thing might come forth with the body. He called again, and he could feel the magical enhancement of his voice, the power of the staff joining with his mortal coil.

And how grand it felt! That energy, that power, bathing him, strengthening him, though it was still a mere shadow of the glories Morgan Thalasi had once known.

Then he was done, and for a long while there was only the wind and the rain.

And then, finally, the mound of wet dirt stirred. Thalasi backed from it gingerly, then fell back yet another step when a gray hand, flesh holed by rot and filled with maggots, reached up through the ground and clawed at the empty air. Another hand came forth, and the pair found a hold upon the ground and pushed up the head and shoulders. And then the creature stood, shrugging away the dirt, barely a yard from the Black Warlock, who was poised to strike at it, and to take flight if that failed.

A long moment passed; even the storm seemed to hold quiet then, awaiting the rush, the charge of the undead predator.

It did not come. The zombie stood impassively, staring at the Black Warlock, the holder of the staff, through one dull eye and one empty socket.

Staring at its master.

When Thalasi discovered the truth, he could hardly contain his joy. With the staff, he had again found power-true, controllable power-and the zombie obeyed his every word without the slightest hesitation. Confidence mounting, the Black Warlock moved to another mound and brought forth a second zombie, then to an older grave, where a skeleton arose to his will.

Before the next dawn, he made his way back to Talas-dun, an army of undead at his heels. As fortune would have it, he encountered a talon just inside the castle’s open gate, the same talon that had been on the walkway the previous afternoon. Thalasi took particular delight, for it was the larger of the pair, the one who had disregarded a direct command. The horrified creature backed against a wall, hands waving, eyes bulging, and its voice surely caught deep in its throat.