R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

“Oh, pooh,” Ardaz said.

“Well, thieves,” the deafening dragon voice bellowed, and Del feared that the vibrations alone would shatter his semisubstantial form. “Have you any thoughts you wish to share before I enjoy my first meal in centuries?”

The Master

Long and uncomfortable had been the first reunion, the meeting of Thalasi and his former henchman, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell, out in the rainy, mud-slickened courtyard of Talas-dun. That initial discussion had ended without battle, but it had been only a prelude, a testing ground, both of the powerful and evil beings understood, for it was no longer clear which of them was the stronger, which the true master. And both craved that position and that power.

Nor was the pecking order among the castle’s troops firmly established. Talons argued and fought with talons: those Mitchell brought in, tribes mostly from the lowland swamps south of Kored-dul, against those of the mountain tribes Thalasi already had stationed in the place; and the zombies, standing perfectly still unless ordered to some action by either the wraith or the Black Warlock, kept every living creature on the edge of its nerves.

That heavy tension had to be alleviated, and soon, Thalasi knew, or their discomfort and confusion would not only destroy any plans of conquest, but would likely spell doom for the mighty fortress itself, an eruption of insanity that would take down the very walls of the place. Thus, Thalasi bade Mitchell to join him in his throne room the next day.

Again the cold rain pelted the castle, the gloomy day nearly as dark as the night, with heavy clouds and drenching downpours and the occasional flash of lightning. Thalasi thought that quite appropriate, and perhaps advantageous. Reaching out for universal power had always been easier in times of thunderstorms, when some of those violent powers were so near and readily available.

Mitchell had to know that, too, and the fact that the wraith came into the throne room without being asked twice was a bit unnerving to the Black Warlock. Why was Mitchell so confident?

“When first I returned to Talas-dun after the battle of Mountaingate, there were two in charge here,” the Black Warlock began.

“Talons?” Mitchell said, scoffing, as if to remind his former mentor that no talon could ever prove any real threat.

Thalasi shook his head. “Two within me,” he explained. “The dueling spirits of Martin Reinheiser and Morgan Thalasi, each fighting for dominance in this singular mortal shell. It could not be so, not then and not now, not within me and not within Talas-dun. The talons must know without doubt the identity of their true leader, and the zombies cannot be effective if caught in a tug-of-war of wills.”

“The talons are yours, the zombies mine,” Mitchell decided.

“No!” Thalasi was quick to retort.

“Only the staff gives you any power over them,” the wraith went on, not backing down an inch. “Yet I have innate powers to command the undead. With the staff in my hands-”

“With the staff in your hands, you would have no need of me, and no need of any living talons.” Thalasi sneered, so easily understanding the true intent behind the wraith’s proposal. “Take me for no fool, wraith, and forget not that it was I who created you.”

“That alone may mark you as a fool,” the confident wraith replied calmly.

Thalasi straightened in his throne, rubbing his hands along the burnished black wood of the Staff of Death, which lay ready across his lap. “The staff is mine; the zombies are mine; the talons are mine.”

“And am I also yours?”

“You are my general, as it was before,” Thalasi offered.

The wraith’s hideous, rasping laughter filled the room and echoed throughout the walls of the fortress. “By whose word? Yours? The time of magic is passed; you admitted that much yourself.”

“Not passed, but lessened,” the Black Warlock said. “And I have this, always at the ready.” He held the mighty staff aloft, level with the wraith’s simmering eyes. “And this gives me you, Hollis Mitchell, and all the un-dead I can spare the time to animate.”

“Perhaps you overestimate its power and your own,” the wraith replied, confidence still strong in his voice. A peal of thunder aptly accentuated the point.

“Let us see,” the Black Warlock said, his voice a hiss, and he thrust forth the staff, reaching his power out through it in a mighty assault on the wraith’s sensibilities.

An overwhelming desire to kneel nearly dropped the wraith to his knees, but Mitchell found within him enough independent will to resist, to gradually turn the force back on Thalasi. “Give me the staff!” the wraith demanded, and he came forward, reaching with both hands.

Thalasi growled and redoubled his efforts, waves of energy rolling out to halt the wraith’s progress. Mitchell moved forward an inch, then back several, then stubbornly forward again. Soon Thalasi was roaring like some wild animal, and Mitchell was issuing forth a long unbroken hiss.

Thunder boomed outside; waves of energy passed back and forth between them, hammering at them.

“It is mine!” both declared, and then they roared and hissed and fought with all their strength. Mitchell’s gray fingers were barely an inch from the staff, and Thalasi knew that if the wraith managed to grasp it at all, his own advantage would be stolen and this creature, many times more powerful than he, would utterly and horribly destroy him, would take Talas-dun and all that he had created.

Sheer desperation caused the Black Warlock to reach out from that room, into the rain and wind, and, as fortune would have it, into the lightning stroke that had just begun. Thalasi’s power channeled that stroke into the room, into his body, then down his arms and through the staff, to blast out at Mitchell, hurling him across the room. The wraith slammed against the wall and slumped there, dazed.

Simple luck had won the day, Thalasi realized, but he knew, too, that he could not let the wraith in on that secret. “The time of magic is not fully passed,” he said sharply, confidently. “You would do well to remember that, my pawn, for the next time we battle, I assure you that I will decide you are not worth the trouble! Now be gone, before the next lightning, and the one after that, sears the dead skin from your bones!”

The wraith pulled himself to his feet, the red fires of his eyes simmering, simmering, as he looked with the purest hatred upon Morgan Thalasi. Mitchell suspected that the fight had been much closer than the Black Warlock’s bravado would indicate, suspected that bad fortune, and not a superior will, had won the day for Thalasi.

But defeated the wraith was, and Mitchell could not rightfully deny Thalasi’s words when the Black Warlock proclaimed, “I am the master.”

She awoke in a place of near darkness, with only the shadowy light of a single torch burning outside her chamber in a low earthen corridor. Cobwebs hung all about the corners of the small room, about the thick stones of the archways, muting the light, tasting thick in her mouth and nostrils with every breath she took. It took Rhiannon a few seconds even to register that she was not lying down, that she was hanging from the wall, her wrists and ankles tightly chained.

She saw a humanoid form nearby and tried to speak to it through the cobwebs that seemed to be, too, in her throat and mouth. “Please,” she begged.

The form turned about, another joined it, and the young witch recoiled in horror, for these were not humans, nor even living talons, but were zombies: horrid, rotting things with skin hanging off in flaps, bones showing in many places. Silently they approached her, and then they beat her, bony fists pounding about her head, until she knew no more.