R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

He looked all around, his eyebrows cocking curiously. “Istaahl has not joined you?” he asked.

Benador shook his head. “He remains in Pallendara, as far as I know.”

Ardaz scratched his beard, wondering what his old wizard friend had in mind. He knew Istaahl well enough to understand that the White Mage would certainly find a way to insinuate himself in the battle, but he knew, too, that Istaahl drew his power from the sea, and would be stronger in Pallendara than out here. “No matter,” he said to Benador. “Istaahl will be about, or at least, his magic will, ha, ha!”

“I have never doubted the value of the White Mage,” Benador replied.

“Nor I,” Ardaz agreed. “And he will have something good planned for Thalasi, though not good for Thalasi, if you catch my meaning, I do dare say!” He hopped about as he spoke, and on his shoulder, the shaken Desdemona gave a growl and dug her claws in for support.

Benador instructed his army to rest, then, while he, Belexus, and Ardaz moved aside to discuss the coming conflict. The ranger gave them the layout of the approaching army and some insights concerning the terrain, and then promised to guide the battle from the sky.

“Oh, Des will assist in that!” Ardaz promised, and he threw the half-sleeping cat into the air. Taken by surprise, she didn’t quite enact the transformation fast enough, though, and she hit the ground on cat paws, glowering, spitting, and hissing at the wizard.

“Oh, just do it,” Ardaz muttered.

It was a long and lonely wait for the ghost. He wanted to go down and join Belexus, but figured that he’d probably scare away half of Benador’s army! He found the wraith easily enough, even from this high vantage point, for Mitchell was a blackness quite beyond the lesser undead, and Del was seeing clearly into both realms.

But was that his only purpose in being here? He had to wonder. Had he come back to the world only to snatch the important sword from the dragon, and now to guide the players in the battle? It was a frustrating possibility for the spirit who had seen the mysteries of the universe and who had returned only to find himself helpless to aid his daughter in her desperate straits.

Del’s attention was caught by a group moving high along trails far to the side of the main talon and undead host. Curious, he willed himself to the region, and when he saw Bellerian and the rangers, he knew that he had found another way.

Among the clouds once more, the ranger took note of the movements of the various forces. He saw a flash in the east and knew that Ardaz had returned to Arien’s side. He saw Benador’s ranks re-form, lines of glittering spear tips, and then begin again their march to the north.

What he didn’t find was DelGiudice, a fact that bothered him more than a little. The ghost was undependable, Belexus believed, very unlike DelGiudice had been in life. The ranger believed that he understood the cause: These events that seemed so titanic to Belexus, to all in Aielle, seemed as minor things to the universe-wise spirit.

“Don’t ye be running off when we’re needing ye,” the ranger muttered, looking all about.

He saw a flash, as sunlight might make on a mirror, from the higher foothills of Kored-dul, followed by a second and third in rapid succession, then a pause, and then three more. Belexus knew well that signal, one used by the rangers in their scouting of Avalon’s borders, and he could guess easily enough who it was that was signaling. Down he went with all speed, taking a wide route so as not to alert all of Thalasi’s forces to the presence of the rangers.

He found Bellerian and the others in a small clearing, their faces brightening at his approach, and their horses, Avalon horses, snorting and stomping when Calamus stepped among them.

“We’ve met yer friend, the ghost,” Bellerian explained, nodding. “And we’re knowing the way to Mitchell.”

He flew along the mountain trails with ease, taking care to avoid any of Thalasi’s marching minions, particularly the undead, for he feared that they would be able to sense and perhaps even do battle with a spirit. Del had seen the black fortress before, when first he and his companions had stepped from their life raft onto the shores of Ynis Aielle, but that previous sight did little to prepare him for the awful spectacle of Thalasi’s home: a blackness deeper than anything even he, with his deeper understanding of the universal powers, could begin to imagine. He recognized that Talas-dun was somehow beyond those powers Calae had shown to him, was supernatural, and more than that, was supremely perverted, as if the most beauteous events, places, and things in all the universe had been thrown together and twisted horribly.

Still, the spirit didn’t hesitate, couldn’t hesitate, with his daughter’s life-and more than that, her very existence-at stake, and so he moved to the least-guarded spot along the castle wall and searched for a way in. He knew at once that this was no ordinary construction, was nothing built of the labors of craftsmen, for not a seam could he find, not a crack in the metallic black walls. Finally, his patience running thin, Del floated up over the wall, then down into the courtyard. He was spotted immediately, but before the talon guard could even cry out, he discerned that the interior walls were not like the outside wall, were made of bricks masoned in a more conventional manner, and he was gone, slipping through a crack into the castle’s interior. Just inside the thick wall, he paused and listened, but heard no obvious cry, and could only hope that he had been out of sight so quickly that the guard considered him no more than a trick of the morning light.

He moved with caution, but with speed as well, trying not to alert any within-for alerted talons would make escape more difficult for Bryan and Rhiannon, if they were still within the castle-but with the eagerness of a father who knows his child is in peril. He crossed through corridor after corridor, drifted up high in the ceiling shadows of rooms large and small, and gradually, as he collected his wits about him and reasoned out the situation, began to make his way downward.

The place was nearly deserted, most of the talons out on the march to meet Arien and Benador. Del did find a few talon bodies, though, in a scullery room at the back of Talas-dun, and it wasn’t hard to figure that Bryan of Corning had come this way. From the placement of the bodies, though, and the fact that the outside door was closed, Del suspected that the half-elf had hit this on his way in, and that he, and Rhiannon, were still inside. He could only hope that Bryan had found her, and that they were together, supporting each other.

And he meant to be there, too, to offer whatever help he might. He set off at once, flying faster now, using less caution.

“CAN YOU USE it?” Bryan asked, stringing his short bow.

Rhiannon shrugged and eyed the weapon fearfully. “I’ve not been trained in fighting arts,” she explained, and it was obvious from her hesitant, even disgusted, tone that she didn’t want to be so trained at that time.

Bryan didn’t press the point-in their weeks together as the war had raged down by the Four Bridges, he had come to know Rhiannon’s value, and he didn’t doubt that she would find some way to be of great help now. Up to this point, the half-elf had preferred his sword to his bow, but now he sheathed the powerful sword and took up the bow, for he didn’t want any talons to get anywhere near the young witch.

“Take this, then,” he offered, drawing a dagger from his belt.

Rhiannon shook her head vigorously, and again, Bryan could not find the heart to argue with her.

They went up the stairs quietly, Bryan holding his bow ready. He only had half a dozen arrows with him, not wanting to trek to Talas-dun overburdened, and he meant to make every shot count. He glanced back over his shoulder at Rhiannon often, hoping that she had some magic left in her.