R. Salvatore: Bastion of Darkness

The death of the third man had left only four survivors of the Unicorn, and of the two who had sided with the elves in the Battle of Mountaingate, Billy Shank and Jeffrey DelGiudice, Mitchell now knew little. Of the last, Martin Reinheiser, once Mitchell’s friend, then Mitchell’s betrayer, the wraith knew much. Somehow, through some incomprehensible act of magic, Reinheiser had joined in body to become one with Morgan Thalasi, the Black Warlock. The result of that joining, that curious dual being, Reinheiser and Thalasi, had then brought the wraith to the world, to serve as commander of their talon army. And now the Black Warlock was gone from this place, slithering, Mitchell suspected, back to his dark hole at Talas-dun. Mitchell would go there and meet again with this creature, this betrayer, this salvation, this bringer of death and undeath.

And then what? the wraith wondered. Would he do battle with the Black Warlock? Like all otherworldly beings, creatures living half in the world and half in the realm of Death, surviving only through magic, Mitchell suspected that something was amiss within the realm of the wizard, suspected that the Black Warlock, and the other wizards and the witch of Avalon, as well, if they still lived, were weaker now. Might he then destroy the Black Warlock and take Talas-dun as his own?

The thought surely intrigued him-perhaps he would indeed name himself as a king. Again Mitchell found his focus in the distant memories. He recalled his feelings on the day the survivors of the Unicorn had set out from the halls of the Colonnae, across the brown stretches of the desolate land of Brogg. Mitchell had vowed then that he would someday soon rule this world.

Perhaps…

But it was a fantasy for another day, the wraith realized, for those campfires across the way tugged at the wraith’s incessant hunger, promised him warm blood and flesh.

So there it was, settled in his mind. He meant to rule the world, but now, he understood, was not the time to reveal himself, especially on the other side of the river, where, perhaps, two wizards and a witch worked their magic.

No, not now. That night by the river, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell gained perspective and purpose. And direction. He would go west, not east, to the Kored-dul and the castle Talas-dun. He would confront the Black Warlock-as servant if Thalasi were still the more powerful, as master if not-and from that place of dark strength he would gather his powers and his minions.

The Calvans and their brave King Benador had won the day at the Four Bridges, and the magically swollen river was indeed an impressive barrier, but the war was not over, the wraith decided then and there.

Not at all.

He found a dark hole before the sun came up; he was on the road west soon after it had set.

“ONLY SIX,” THE warrior muttered quietly as he stalked down the forested hillside on the western borders of Avalon. “Only six.” He wasn’t speaking to bolster his confidence as he approached the half dozen talons butchering the deer they had just slain. While lesser warriors might have needed such soothing words, or might have simply turned about and run away from half a dozen talons, this one’s words sounded as an honest lament that there were merely six of the creatures to stand against him.

“Six, six.” He spat, and then he called in an even louder voice, so that the talons surely heard him. “Where are all yer stinking friends?”

The creatures came up from the deer carcass, dancing all about, falling all over each other. They should have fanned out, forming a semicircle about this lone figure stalking them through the morning mist; they should have formed a defensive alignment, seeking any other humans that might be about; they should have set a line based on the strength of each, and which sidekicks best complement. They should have done many things, but talons were neither very bright nor very brave, and each glanced nervously at another, as if hoping to use its companion as a shield should the need arise to flee.

The warrior, Belexus Backavar, waded into them with hardly a hesitation, his heavy broadsword swinging easily at the end of one arm. He was taller than the talons, and much stockier, with corded bulging muscles and broad shoulders that had not even begun to slacken with the passage of fifty winters. His hair, too, held the luster of youth, tousled and raven black, such a stark contrast to his sparkling blue eyes.

Those eyes burned with angry fires now, simmering and then explosive as the man neared the hideous talons.

“Alone?” the closest talon asked skeptically, and its lips curled into a smile at that notion, for indeed, there seemed to be no other humans in the immediate area. “Alone,” it said again, not a statement and not a question, a remark that showed it thought the man foolish.

In response, Belexus leaped ahead in a wild rush, his sweeping blade leading the way. The talon put up a staff to deflect the obvious attack, but it couldn’t properly gauge the strength of mighty Belexus, the strength of a giant, and even greater now for the rage that burned hot in his blood. The sword swept the staff aside, and Belexus thundered ahead, rushing past the talon and reversing his grip so quickly that there was no parry and no dodge for his vicious backhand swipe, the blade spilling talon guts.

The other talons whooped and charged, but Belexus skipped ahead another stride and launched a fast thrust at the nearest, beating the parry and skewering the beast in the chest. A roar and a heave brought the dying creature flying about with the blade, and then tumbling at the feet of the next two, tripping them up.

Belexus kicked one in the face, drove the butt of his sword hilt onto the back of the other’s head, then leaped over them, growling like an animal. The blood lust had taken hold of him fully now, had brought a red blur into his eyes. The last two talons wanted no part of this monstrous human, and off they ran.

Belexus, swift and graceful, caught up to one as it turned about a tree. The creature made a deft move then, cutting left, then back to the right, actually putting itself in solid position to the warrior’s left flank. With a shriek, thinking the prize grand indeed, the talon pivoted and sliced with its sword, but Belexus flipped his sword from right hand to left and swung, too, a powerful backhand, aiming for the descending weapon. By far the stronger, the warrior drove the talon’s blade from its hands, sent the inferior sword flying far through the air.

The talon staggered and straightened, trying to catch its balance, trying to run away.

Belexus spun and came in fast, pinning its outstretched right arm with his sword, and clamped his free hand over the thing’s face.

With hardly an effort, with a bellow that sent all creatures scurrying in fear, the powerful man lifted the talon from the ground and shook it violently.

The pitiful creature whimpered and clawed, thrashed desperately with both hands, and kicked futilely with dangling feet.

One long stride put the warrior in line and he drove the talon’s head hard against the unyielding trunk of a wide oak, the resulting splatter bringing to Belexus’ thoughts a distant time when his old friend Andovar had dropped a melon twenty feet to a flat stone.

The thought of Andovar sobered the mighty warrior. He tossed the talon aside and took many long and steadying breaths, then stalked back to the original scene, to the deer carcass and the four talons.

One, the one the warrior had kicked, was back up by then, trying to rouse its dying friend. The talon abandoned that course when it noted the approach of the dangerous man. Waving its sword defensively out in front, it steadily backed as Belexus calmly came on.