R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

“Twenty years, it’s been,” Belexus went on.

That settled the time question, though the spirit wasn’t quite sure of how long a year might be. “Thirty-one million, five hundred thirty-six thousand seconds,” it replied immediately, and then all it had to do was figure out what a second might be. And of course, it remembered, there was the matter of “leap year”…

Now it was Belexus’ turn to wear the perplexed expression, but it couldn’t hold against his sincere delight. “Twenty years,” he said, “and suren ye don’t look a day older.”

Ardaz skidded to a stop right behind the ranger, seeing the vision, hearing the words, but unlike with Belexus, they brought little immediate delight to the wizard. His first thought was that this was some trap by Thalasi, and not a very good one, for if the Black Warlock truly wanted Ardaz and Belexus to think this was DelGiudice standing before them, then he should have aged the man, at least.

“What is a day?” the spirit asked. “Truly this concept of time is confusing!”

The exasperation seemed real enough, and Ardaz, himself taken by the Colonnae to be trained among the stars, understood that feeling, understood it all too well. “By the Colonnae,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” DelGiudice replied.

“They took you in, my boy!” Ardaz reasoned. “The Colonnae took you from that ledge that starry night. Took you and trained you, as they trained myself, and Brielle, and Istaahl, and Thalasi, curse his name!”

“Trained?” the spirit echoed skeptically, and then shrugged its shoulders. “Perhaps. They showed me, is what they did.”

“All of it,” Ardaz reasoned.

“Not all, but much,” DelGiudice replied. “So very much!” He looked to Belexus, and felt a smile-and what a strange and wonderful feeling it was!-cross his face. “Jeffrey DelGiudice?” he asked. “Is that what I am called?”

“That is who you are,” Ardaz answered, “and you’ll remember it soon enough.”

“Me friend,” Belexus said, “suren ye’ve come back to us at a dark time, but one in which ye’re needed!” With that, the ranger reached out to clasp hands with Del-Giudice, and the spirit returned the motion, but as with the deer, DelGiudice’s hand passed right through that of the ranger, a most uncomfortable sight and feeling for poor Belexus, and one that sent Ardaz’ bushy eyebrows arching heavenward.

“Oh, there is that,” DelGiudice said, and he felt as if he should shrug, though he did not.

AT FIRST HE ran, tears in his eyes, anger and anguish ripping at his heart, and the awful coldness from the strike of the wraith’s bone mace sending dull aches through every muscle in his body, seeming to freeze the very blood within him. But he ran, for Rhiannon he ran, and when he was too tired to run, he walked, and when he was too tired to walk, he crawled. On and on he went, to the river first, and then north along its western bank. He vaguely considered that he was heading for Avalon, but in truth, he wasn’t even certain of where the enchanted wood lay, for he had only heard of it in the tales of his father and of Rhiannon, and he had never truly ventured far north of Corning.

The first night proved terrible for poor Bryan, wretched beyond anything the young half-elf, who had seen so much tragedy, could ever have imagined. The wind whipping across the frozen field gnawed at him, all the more for that inner chill that permeated his entire being. When he awoke, shivering, he knew that he was with fever, and when he tried to stand, he found that he could hardly feel his feet at all. Many times he fell hard to the ground, shivering and vomiting. Still, he went on with all the haste he could muster, stumbling often, half blind, half delirious. He would have stopped, would have just dropped down in the snow and let the cold take him, welcoming death, but he could not, he determined, he told himself without argument, for the young witch, the woman he had come to love, would not survive his failure. Bryan had to get to her mother, to someone, before he died.

Later that morning, Bryan spied a black dot, a wagon, creeping slowly through the foot-deep snow, and he staggered toward it, praying that his ordeal was at its end, that he could pass along news of Rhiannon and then die. He fell flat to the ground, though, and huddled in fear, for the creatures mercilessly driving the poor, battered horse team were not humans or elves but talons, ugly croaking brutes, cursing and snarling and beating the animals.

Outrage welled in Bryan and for a moment took away the delirium and the weakness and the cold. He wanted to charge that wagon and destroy the talons, wanted to transmute all of his frustrations and pains into sheer rage, to place all the blame upon those certainly deserving creatures and hack them down, and hack them again and again until their pieces were scattered about in the snow.

Again Bryan thought of Rhiannon and of his responsibility to her. If, as he suspected, the wraith had captured her, then he was her only hope. If he died, then so would she, without hope, and so the half-elf ducked lower behind a snow berm, even covered much of his body with the white powder, and let the wagon pass. Then he was moving again, and soon the pain and the weakness came back to him tenfold, buckling his knees. He had no idea of how far he had to go, hours or days or weeks, and so he denied it all, just kept his mind filled with images of Rhiannon and forced his body to move on, one foot ahead of the other, one knee ahead of the other.

Days blended together, time became irrelevant except that he felt colder in the darkness of night. Bryan went beyond hunger, beyond any sensation in his hands and feet, and still he scratched along, eating snow, surely no colder than the great dark iciness that filled every corner of his battered body. He saw other talon bands and avoided them, for even if he could have found some way to temporarily dismiss his responsibility to Rhiannon, he was no longer in any condition at all to fight. He would have discarded his sword, his father’s sword, his most precious possession, simply to lessen the weight he carried, except that he felt he could not even find the strength to draw it from its scabbard.

Then he was beyond thought, beyond even the images that had for so long sustained him. He crumpled in the snow one night, beyond pain, beyond hope, beyond direction, and then, it was simply over. Bryan could go no farther, not even another inch, even if that inch would have taken him right to Rhiannon, even if that inch would have somehow freed his love from some horrid fate. There was no more strength, nothing, just the cold and the black.

He curled up to die, almost called out for the spirit of Death to come to him and whisk him from the agony.

But it was Brielle who came upon him. She had been restless since Belexus had left, had been looking throughout her forest and then beyond her borders, seeking her daughter, praying for Rhiannon’s return. One night she had sensed a presence and had thought it Rhiannon, but it soon blackened, became complete darkness, and she knew it to be the wraith, for she had battled Mitchell before. And she was very afraid then, thinking that her daughter might have encountered the undead fiend. But Brielle could not get out of Avalon that night in time, for she was in the north of the forest, and the sensations proved but fleeting feelings and were gone before she could truly find their focus. Since that night, though, the Emerald Witch had stayed closer to the southwestern edge of the forest, looking mostly south, along the river.

It was more than luck, then, it was the bond of love, that the last word Bryan uttered before he slumped for that final time in the snow was “Rhiannon.”