R. Salvatore: Bastion of Darkness

Blades met several times in quick, darting movements; hope came into the talon’s sickly eyes as it parried thrust after thrust.

Belexus calmly continued, playing the fencer now, maneuvering, working his opponent’s blade left, then right, then a bit farther left, then a bit less right. And so on, until he had the talon turned awkwardly. Then came a sudden, violent two-stroke, both hits aimed for the talon’s sword, the first nearly knocking the creature all the way about, the second deftly weaving over and around the blade as the talon tried to turn back to face the man squarely.

A flick of Belexus’ wrist sent the talon’s sword skipping to the ground out to the right.

The creature whined and stumbled back, the warrior easily pacing. Both glanced to their surroundings, but only briefly, neither truly breaking the stare.

The talon noted a tree, Belexus knew, and he came forward in a slight rush, forcing the creature’s hand. Predictably, the talon darted behind the tree, rushing past it, putting it in the way of the human.

“Andovar!” the warrior cried suddenly, brutally, throwing out all of his rage in one cut, taking up his sword in both hands and sweeping it mightily across, sweeping it through the two-inch diameter trunk of the young tree, and through the waist of the surprised talon behind it.

The top half of the tree fell to the side of the trunk, planted in the ground for just a moment, then fell away. The talon was already on the ground, its upper body lying awkwardly across its lower, mouth gasping in horror, gulping air uselessly.

Belexus spat on it and walked away.

In a clearing not so far from the spot, Calamus, the winged lord of horses, awaited the warrior’s return. Without a word, Belexus climbed onto the mount’s strong back and the pegasus took to the air, flying low and steady to the northwest, the direction in which the last talon had fled. Belexus soon spotted the miserable creature, running, stumbling, out of the wood, along a grassy slope, cutting a straight line to the west. The warrior urged Calamus ahead.

But then a song came into his ears, causing him to hesitate, a voice sweet and pure, the soothing voice of Brielle, the Emerald Witch of Avalon. “Greater will be yer reputation, greater their fear of ye, if ye let some live to tell the tale,” the witch coaxed.

Her words, or more particularly, the gentle way in which they were carried to the warrior’s ears, almost made Belexus turn Calamus about, almost allowed him to let this last talon run off.

But then came that all-too-familiar image, the haunting memory of Andovar being bent in half backward by the horrid wraith of Hollis Mitchell, the image of the proud ranger, Belexus Backavar’s dearest friend, then being tossed carelessly into the great River Ne’er Ending.

Calamus, charmed by the intonations of the witch, had indeed slowed and begun a long, easy turn.

“Onward!” the warrior demanded, grabbing the long white mane, forcing the pegasus back on course for the fleeing talon.

Calamus owed no man, could not be so commanded, but there was indeed a bond between this magnificent horse and Belexus, son of Bellerian, who was lord of the rangers of Avalon, and so the pegasus relented, dismissed the song of the witch, and flew on with all speed, angling for the scrambling talon, diving fast and straight.

The talon saw the terrible shadow, stretching long from the east and the rising sun, and shrieked, diving into a roll.

Calamus swooped by, and Belexus leaped from the mount’s back, scrambling as he landed, with amazing dexterity, and somehow holding his footing. A firmly planted, booted foot promptly stopped the rolling talon, and then a second clamped on its other side, holding it fast. The creature tried to turn about onto its back, to face and defend, and managed it easily enough, for Belexus wanted the talon to see him clearly, to see his rage, to know its doom.

As the talon turned, the warrior grabbed its spiked club with one hand and tore it free of the talon’s grasp, throwing it far aside. The talon lifted its arms above its face, then moved them in confusion and gave an incredulous stare when the warrior tossed his own sword to the ground.

Any hope that surprising action might have inspired soon flew from the talon, though, as Belexus reached down and grabbed it by the head, one hand clamped to its chin, the other grabbing fast to a scraggly clump of hair on the back of its head. With a grunt, the powerful ranger lifted the talon to its feet, lifted it right from the ground so that it was looking straight into his piercing blue eyes.

The creature clawed at the warrior’s cheek. Ignoring the claws, keeping firm his grasp, Belexus drove one hand out and yanked the other in, turning the talon’s head right about on its shoulders. Then he tossed the thing aside and gathered his sword, calling for Calamus.

He spent a long while waiting, and thought of Andovar. Even the blood of six talons had done little to diminish the pain.

Finally the winged horse lighted on the field, and Belexus was swift to Calamus’ back, urging him up into the air and then flying straight off for the deeper boughs of Avalon.

He was not surprised to find Brielle waiting for him, was not surprised that her look was clearly one of disapproval. Even so, even with a pout upon her face, and even with Belexus in so foul a mood, he could not deny her beauty. Her golden hair hung far down her delicate back, a wild and untamed mane, and her eyes shone greener than the emerald wizard’s mark set in her forehead. Brielle was the shining day to her daughter Rhiannon’s alluring night, and either of them could fell a man with a look, tearing his heart so completely that he would spend a long time retrieving his strength.

“And yet again, ye let the rage take ye,” the witch said, her voice calm and even, and not overtly accusatory.

Belexus understood that tone completely, knew that Brielle was not really judging him, but was, rather, subtly forcing him to judge himself. That trial, both of them knew well, would prove far worse to the proud ranger’s reckoning.

“I slay talons,” he replied firmly after a moment of thought and a deep sigh. “That is me lot in life.”

“Ayuh, and a good one it might be,” Brielle answered. “It’s the way ye do it that’s got me so worried.”

“I’m not for denying me pleasure at me tasks,” the ranger said, and turned away. “With each talon that falls dead to the ground, the world, by me own estimation, is a bit better a place.”

“Ayuh,” the witch honestly agreed. “And so ye should be cutting the beasties down. But if ye let the rage take ye, if ye’re thinking about what was, and not what is, then ye’re losing yerself, me friend, and worse, ye’re liken to make a mistake that’ll cost ye yer own neck.”

“Not to a talon,” the ranger spat sarcastically. Brielle’s words had stung Belexus profoundly, particularly her reference to “what was”-her reference, Belexus understood, to Andovar. She knew Belexus so well, too well-knew even his thoughts. Was he that transparent, he wondered, or was Brielle just so damned perceptive?

“There be darker things than talons walking the ways of Aielle,” Brielle said quietly, but grimly, and her tone told Belexus of whom she was speaking. Again, that only added to the ranger’s frustration. He wanted to destroy the wraith of Hollis Mitchell more than he wanted anything in the world, even more than he wanted the love of Brielle. Mitchell had shattered Belexus’ world, had utterly destroyed his dearest friend, and through it all, the ranger had only been able to look on in horror. Nothing he could have done would have made a difference, would have bothered the wraith in any way, for his weapon, so solid and deadly to most of Aielle’s monsters, could not even scratch the undead wraith.