R. Salvatore: Bastion of Darkness

Bryan let it complete the maneuver, let the axe turn about and come swishing in. He was down on one knee before it ever got close, though, and as it swished overhead, the half-elf poked his sword straight out, scoring a wicked hit on the talon’s breast.

The creature tried to recover, but the momentum of the wide-flying axe forced it off balance, and that, combined with the prodding sword, confused the talon. Trying to counter, trying to retreat, it got its feet all tangled up and went down on its back.

Bryan moved forward for the kill, but changed his mind and veered far out to the side when he heard a low growl behind him.

The cougar leaped atop the talon in a flash of white lightning, its powerful maw clamping firmly on the unfortunate creature’s skinny neck.

Bryan sheathed his sword and went to retrieve the bow, hoping the scar upon its beautiful wood would not be too evident. He was not surprised, whatever logic told him, to find that there was not a mark at all on the enchanted bow, to find that the heavy axe and its undeniably sharp blade had not even scratched the polished wood.

“Too easy,” Bryan lamented, and he gathered up his belongings and set off in search of the young witch.

He found her resting in a hollow, her back against a tree, her eyes closed. She hadn’t used much of her magic, certainly nowhere near the amount Bryan had previously witnessed, when Rhiannon had gathered the very strength of the earth itself and hurled it skyward to battle the gloom of Morgan Thalasi’s thunderclouds. But lately, Bryan noted, even the simplest of enchantments seemed to tire Rhiannon, and he shuddered to think of what might happen if the young witch was ever forced to utilize her powers to their greatest limit again. Rhiannon had nearly died on that occasion when she had battled Thalasi, and not from any attack from the Black Warlock, but rather from her own sheer exhaustion, as if she had thrown a substantial amount of her own life force into that magical response.

Bryan remembered that day vividly, remembered cradling beautiful, unconscious Rhiannon in his arms, remembered how pale and fragile she had seemed, a flower dying in the cold wind. He had feared that he would lose her then, and he had realized that if she did indeed go away, a huge part of his own heart would forever die beside her.

He let her sleep now, just sat facing her, watching her, admiring the soft curve of her, the way her lips slightly parted, the beauty of her lithe form, a dancer’s body with strong but smooth muscles. He was in love with her, only her, with all his heart and all his soul.

He couldn’t deny it; he didn’t want to deny it.

He wanted to shout it out to all the world.

HE WAITED FOR the dark of a moonless night, his time, the time of lurking nightmares. His substance a shadow blacker than the darkest hole, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell glided along the riverbank. A creature half of this world, half of the realm of death, he made no weighted impression in the snow, but every so often he absently flicked his hollow-headed mace, his scepter, and loosed a small shower of black flakes that burned the white powder, that melted deeper, right through the watery stuff to stain the very ground beneath it.

All the while, the wraith’s red-glowing eyes held their focus across the river, to the hundreds of burning fires showing the campsites of Pallendara’s army. Only a few short months ago, those fires had been more than matched by the glorious blaze of Morgan Thalasi’s army, which Hollis Mitchell had commanded, but the talons were gone now, all fled into the fields and mountains, many back to their swampy homes miles and miles away. They had scattered when they saw Mitchell, their general, drop from the blasted bridge, and when they saw their highest master, the Black Warlock himself, hurled to the ground by the great bolt of the witch’s daughter, and when they saw the river itself rise up before them, defeating their charge and sweeping thousands of them away to a watery death.

This western bank of the River Ne’er Ending had remained dark since then, every night, an empty plain of blackness.

Until this night. The wraith had seen it; a single campfire, burning low on the plain less than a half mile from the river. Perhaps it had been set by talons, though the ugly beasts didn’t normally set fires this close to potential enemies. Perhaps, the hungry wraith hoped, it had been set by human refugees trying to make their way to King Benador’s side, or even better, by scouts from the Pallendara army. In truth, so full of venom was the wraith, that he knew it really didn’t matter. Mitchell had pulled himself from the river far to the south and had gradually worked his way back to this spot, pausing only when he found talons or humans to slaughter. Those kills had proven few and far between, however, and hardly satisfying to this creature of death, this unnatural perversion whose very sustenance was the horror of others, the life force of others.

Mitchell had not killed in more than two weeks; he veered to the northwest, away from the river.

“Cold again,” one of the men remarked, a tall and lean fellow of forty winters. His beard gave testament to his observations, for icy crystals glittered among the curly gray-and-brown whiskers in the firelight.

“Cold every night,” a second man said. He was similar in build and features to the other-indeed, was his brother-except that he sported only a bushy mustache. “I’m wishing that the war had gone through the winter, leaving us to our duties in the warmer spring!”

“But how many might’ve died for your comfort, then?” the third and last of the group asked as he walked back in toward the fire, a huge black-and-tan dog at his side. He was the oldest of the party by at least ten years, his hair and beard silvery gray. But his eyes still held the sharp, twinkling blue hue of his youth.

“Very nice, Clouster,” the first said. “So good of you to put things in such a comforting light.”

“Comfort?” Clouster replied, spitting heavily on the ground, that simple action drawing a growl from the nervous, dangerous canine. “Comfort’s not for the likes of us. I told you I’d teach you, so you best learn well and fast; a scout’s life is a thankless, dirty one, and if you cannot get your satisfaction in knowing a well-done job, then, by the Colonnae, you’re in the wrong line of work, I say!”

“Benador needs us,” the second brother agreed. “All of Pallendara needs us.”

“When they finish the bridge and come rushing across, they’ll be better served if they know the positioning of the talon forces,” Clouster added.

“What few remain,” the first brother grumbled.

“Few?” Clouster barked. “Few! Why, ten thousand got away, and there’s probably another fifty thousand still out there, waiting to come in. And don’t you forget the Black Warlock. He was thrown down to be sure-I saw that with my own eyes, and a beautiful sight it was indeed!-but often’s been the times we’ve thought him dead, only to see his ugly face arise once more!

“No, my friends, this war’s not yet won. Not yet. Not until we chase the damned talons all the way back to Mysmal Swamp, all the way to Talas-dun and pull the damned place down around them.”

The mere mention of Talas-dun, the black fortress, the heart of Morgan Thalasi, sent a shudder coursing down the spines of the brothers. They glanced at each other nervously, silently agreeing that poor old Clouster had lost his wits. Truly the men loved their king, good Benador of the line of Ben-Rin, restored to the throne after the fall of Ungden the Usurper at the Battle of Mountaingate. Truly Benador had given all of Calva back its pride and hope for the future, had secured an alliance with the rangers of Avalon and even with the Moon Dancers, the elves of Illuma. Yes, they each loved Benador, and would gladly take an arrow aimed for the king’s breast, but neither entertained any notion of following the king to Talas-dun. Not that.