R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

So she stood quiet under the stars, her heart breaking, her imagination running wild with her fears for her dear daughter, for innocent Rhiannon who did not deserve any of this.

His approach was without fanfare, without announcement. The wraith stalked the last quarter mile to Talas-dun in the same manner that it had traveled the hundreds of miles before that. In Mitchell’s wake came a thousand talon soldiers, a nervous group indeed, all bloodshot eyes darting to and fro, looking for some signal from the bastion that all was well.

Thalasi watched it all from a tall tower. He first noted the talons’ movements, trying to discern if they had come for war or parlay. Then he focused on the wraith, and then, more particularly, on the body the wraith carried.

It was not Brielle, Thalasi knew, for the Emerald Witch had hair the color of gold, not raven black. But what other woman would Mitchell bother to cart across the miles? Certainly the wraith had no lustful intentions, and certainly Mitchell knew Thalasi well enough to understand that such a gift, if it was a gift, would mean little to the Black Warlock. Curious, but ever cautious, the Black Warlock held his ground, high up.

The wraith stalked up to the great iron front gate. “Throw it wide!” he commanded, and when no reaction seemed forthcoming, Mitchell struck the great doors with his mighty mace. The blow echoed about the courtyard, up in the towers, walls and floors shivering. “Throw it wide!” the wraith bellowed again, and this time, to the Black Warlock’s horror, some of the zombies moved toward the huge locking bar.

Thalasi reached out to them telepathically, sent his will upon them to stop them. He found that Mitchell’s thoughts were already there, and in the struggle that ensued, several of the zombies literally split apart, their rotted forms torn asunder by the war of wills.

At last the wraith backed off, relinquishing control of the zombies, and Thalasi wasn’t sure if he had won the battle or if Mitchell was just conserving strength.

“Am I to be shut out, then?” the wraith called.

“Do you enter as friend or foe?” Thalasi retorted, moving into Mitchell’s view at one of the tower’s narrow and tall windows.

The wraith issued its hideous laugh. “I am a pawn of the Black Warlock,” Mitchell replied unconvincingly. “An unthinking tool.”

“Never that!” the Black Warlock retorted sharply. He thrust forth the Staff of Death, and took some comfort in the fact that Mitchell recoiled before it. Yes, its power was strong, Thalasi decided, and so he sent his will down to the zombies again, and this time allowed them to open the great door.

In came the wraith and the talons, the living creatures stopping fast when they noted that gruesome undead monsters filled the courtyard.

Thalasi nearly chuckled, despite the tension. A tremendous turnaround might now occur, he realized, with Mitchell taking control of the zombies, and Thalasi similarly stealing away the living talons Mitchell had brought in.

Nothing of the sort happened. To Thalasi’s relief, the wraith placed its cargo down on the ground and called up to him. “I have brought a gift,” Mitchell explained.

Thalasi started to reply sharply but thought the better of it, and after a moment’s hesitation, he swept down the tower stairs and out the door, leaving several talons to guard the portal and hold open his escape should battle begin. Even as he approached the wraith and the body, Thalasi felt the unusual sensation. The wizards of Aielle could feel each other, could recognize each other’s aura as a dog could recognize its master’s smell. Thalasi did not know this woman, and yet he did, had felt her presence before, on a field so far away…

All fear of the wraith flew away, and the intrigued Black Warlock rushed to the woman and turned her over, his hollow eyes going wide indeed to see that she carried a wizard’s mark, a diamond set in the middle of her forehead.

“The daughter of Brielle,” Mitchell explained.

Thalasi looked up at him.

“Rhiannon by name.”

The Black Warlock hardly remembered to draw breath. This was too beautiful, too unexpected. “Why have you returned to me?” he asked bluntly, for, with his hopes suddenly soaring, he needed to have things properly sorted and clarified.

“The war is not yet over,” the wraith replied, just the answer Morgan Thalasi had hoped for. “We have been thrown back, but not down; wounded, but not killed.”

“And wounded, too, were our enemies,” Thalasi was quick to put in. “The wizards will be of little consequence when next the battle ensues.”

“Perhaps the time of wizards is past,” the wraith dared to say, drawing itself up to its full, imposing height; and there it was, spoken openly and plainly.

A threat if Morgan Thalasi had ever heard one.

“DELGIUDICE?” THE SPIRIT asked repeatedly, pondering the name, its former name, and all the memories the mere sound of the word inspired. “DelGiudice.” All through the cold night-though the spirit had no sensation of the wintry mountain chill, unless he willfully experienced it-the spirit had sat vigilant guard over his new companions. Belexus sat propped against a tree, but fast asleep, confident in this new manifestation of Jeffrey DelGiudice as a sentry. Ardaz lay wrapped in many blankets, dangerously close to the fire, snoring contentedly. Calamus stood nearby, wings folded, head down, dark eyes closed. Only Desdemona remained awake, watching DelGiudice. The cat, above all the others, had not taken well to the ghost. She remained apprehensive, and every time Del so much as glanced Desdemona’s way, she arched her back and spat at him.

And though he couldn’t touch living flesh, Del found cat spittle a bit uncomfortable.

The spirit did not need to sleep, couldn’t even comprehend such a notion, and so he agreed to keep the watch, and while he did, he remembered. He kept repeating key words, particularly names, over and over, changing the inflection until the ring became familiar, thus tapping another memory or name, like a growing chain. By the end of the first night, Del had rebuilt his memory to include his time aboard the Unicorn, the advanced submarine that had brought Del and some others, including Mitchell and Reinheiser, to this new world. Before the dawn, before the others awoke, he recalled his adventures crossing Ynis Aielle; his first meeting with Calae, prince of the Colonnae; his unexpected rescue by Belexus in Blackemara, the ancient swamp; his meeting with the other rangers, Bellerian and Andovar; and his stay in the most marvelous Emerald Room that served as throne chamber to Bellerian. And of course-and, to his thinking even now, most important of all-Del remembered his first glimpse of, and all his subsequent meetings with, Brielle of Avalon.

Brielle. That name rang most familiar of all, sent a warmth through the spirit, the fondest of memories. How he had loved her, though their time together had been so painfully short. It was, at the end, Brielle’s rejection of Del that had caused him to wander to Shaithdun O’Illume, the shelf of the moon, that fateful night, when Calae had come to him and bade him to travel the stars. So had ended Del’s life on earth; so had begun his journey with the Colonnae.

He was deep in thought, deep in memory, both sad and glad, when the sun broke the eastern rim and Belexus stirred, rising and stretching, then coming to the spirit quietly.

“A fine watch ye keep,” the ranger teased, for Del apparently did not notice his approach. “Or are ye looking out and not in?” he added, nodding to the camp’s perimeter.

“Looking in,” DelGiudice said, meaning something completely different. “Looking back.”