R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

Rhiannon trembled with rage, not fear. Her mind focused on Andovar, on the record of his death, which was painted indelibly within the features of this horrid creature. She reached into the earth, felt the life there, dormant beneath the wintry blanket, felt the energy there, the strength, and brought it forth. Strands of grass erupted all about the feet of the wraith, pushing through the snow, climbing higher and thicker.

Mitchell hissed as he felt them brush his half-substantial form, as he felt the sting of earth energy, the burning power of life itself. The wraith growled and lifted one foot, but the grass, moving to Rhiannon’s will, was quick to wrap about the other foot and leg, twining about them, tighter and tighter.

Now the pain became intense, as searing as anything Hollis Mitchell had ever known. He worked frantically, first by waving his scepter out at Rhiannon, the black flakes filling the air before her and above her, drifting to attack. Then Mitchell went at the grass, raining the black flakes all about it. The earth energy burned at the wraith, how it burned! But wherever one of the mace’s black regurgitations hit, that patch of grass shriveled and died, and gradually, the grip lessened.

Rhiannon worked furiously as well, to dodge the perverted snowstorm that Mitchell had put over her. She waved her hands about in the air, summoned the wind to her grasp, and blew many of the flakes away. A couple did get through, though, and the young witch yelped in sizzling pain, the first real physical battle wound she had ever felt.

When at last the deadly storm was passed, Rhiannon looked up to see Mitchell free of the grassy grasp, his constantly wavering form standing amidst a wide patch of death, an enduring black scar upon the earth itself. Again Rhiannon reacted with anger, at the wraith for what it had done, and at herself for involving the sacred earth in her fight. She grabbed at the wind once more and hurled it sharply at Mitchell, the force knocking him back a step.

But the wraith was laughing now, recognizing that the blow could not truly hurt him and coming to understand that this magic-using creature, whoever she might be, was not so strong, was minor indeed compared to Mitchell’s former master, or to that cursed witch of Avalon, or even to the Silver Mage of Lochsilinilume, both of whom had so humiliated and wounded him. He pushed back against the windy assault, but gained no ground. Far from worried, the wraith understood that this small woman would tire first, and then he would fall over her, and then she would cry out for mercy. And so they held, pushing against each other, as many seconds passed.

Mitchell used the momentary standoff to consider his adversary. When the grass had sprouted through the snow, he at first had thought that this was Brielle before him in some disguise. But in looking at Rhiannon now, Mitchell knew that that could not be the case. This woman’s features were similar to Brielle’s: the same shining eyes, though this woman’s were blue where Brielle’s were green, and the same flowing hair, though this woman’s was dark as night, where Brielle’s was golden as sunshine. Most telling of all, though, shone the gemstone, a glittering diamond set in the middle of her forehead, for this was her wizard’s mark, and it, the wraith knew, she could not alter-neither in size, nor in shape, nor in color.

Brielle’s wizard’s mark was green, an emerald.

“Who are you?” the wraith asked aloud, pushing mightily against the witch’s wind, and though he gained no ground, he was certainly not losing any.

Rhiannon fumbled through her thoughts for some smart retort, but only growled and intensified her wind. It transformed into a series of gusts then, rather than a steady blow, showing that the witch was growing magically weary.

“Who are you?” Mitchell asked again. “So much like Brielle, you appear, but with only a fraction of her power.”

Rhiannon growled again, more loudly, more stubbornly, and the next mighty gust backed the wraith several steps. The young witch thought to turn and run then, for she feared that she had no tools with which to truly hurt this creature, feared that she had overstepped her bounds in coming to meet this blackness.

On came Mitchell in the lull that followed the wave of wind, his ire rising, his patience gone. He didn’t know who this witch might be, but he had his suspicions. Above all others in the world, with the sole exception of Belexus, Mitchell hated Brielle. Brielle, who had stolen his kill of Belexus. Brielle, who had reduced his ghost horse to ashes beneath him, dropping the humiliated wraith on his rump. Brielle, the essence of Nature, the epitome of everything that the undead wraith was not. This creature before him, this young witch, was somehow connected to Brielle, Mitchell understood, had been trained in the same school of magic, at least, and he took great comfort in the confidence that his victory here would surely sting the witch of Avalon.

On he came, roaring, accepting the pounding as Rhiannon’s frantic wind caused his form to waver, caused the edges of it to stretch thin.

It would not be enough to stop him now, they both knew, and so as Mitchell neared, Rhiannon abruptly released the wind and raced to the side, the sudden cessation causing Mitchell to overbalance.

But not nearly as far as Rhiannon had hoped, and she was just reaching her arms up to the sky, reaching for the power of thunder, that most violent of natural forces, when Mitchell fell upon her, the flakes of his awful mace drifting over her.

She shrieked and tried to run, but her strength seeped away and she stumbled, falling to the ground, looking up at the towering blackness. Looking up at her doom.

A flying form crossed between the pair, rushing, slashing, and the wraith fell away in surprise.

“Foul beast!” Bryan of Corning cried. “Back to Death’s land with you!” And on the young warrior came, unafraid, too concerned with Rhiannon to care for his own safety. His sword flashing brilliantly, wildly, snapping past Mitchell’s awkward defenses, scoring hit after hit.

“Bryan,” Rhiannon breathed, and she was not relieved, for she knew that the reprieve would be short-lived, knew that the wraith would get her, and get Bryan, too. For even combined, even if Belexus and King Benador stood beside them, they were no match for this one.

Thrust and slash went Bryan’s sword, followed by a sudden shield rush that halted abruptly, with the elven sword deftly slipping in from under it, taking the wraith in the belly. But there was no sting to that blade, both Mitchell and Bryan soon enough realized. Like all the others, this sword could do the unearthly creature no harm.

And so Mitchell accepted Bryan’s hits, soon didn’t even lift his arms to block, and soon after that, wasn’t even flinching at the half-elf’s cunning thrusts, but rather, was laughing and determinedly stalking in.

Rhiannon reached to the heavens, called out with all the strength she could muster, with all that she had remaining. She felt the energy gathering there, in the clouds, the tingling sensation, coursing down to her waiting grasp, focusing through her lithe form, and then crackling out from her fingertip, a bolt of white lightning, slamming the wraith, blasting through it and smashing the stone of a skeleton cottage. Mitchell went flying into that pile of rubble, tumbling among the broken stones.

Rhiannon stood panting, trying to hold her balance. She nearly swooned when she saw the wraith pick itself up from the ground, laughing all the while, when she saw Bryan rushing in fearlessly, foolishly, his shining sword leading, and when she saw, worst of all, a flick of that dreaded weapon, only a glancing blow on Bryan, but one that nonetheless hurled the young half-elf through the air, to land hard against the stone. He lay on the ground, jerking spasmodically, groaning between violent gasps.