R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

“Ye’re knowing why I’ve come,” Belexus said firmly, sliding from the pegasus’ side.

“To die,” the wraith replied casually. Mitchell lifted his mace, the strange and awful-looking weapon fashioned of a leg bone and skull of a horse, and started forward, a wild grin stamped upon his gray and bloated face.

Belexus didn’t flinch in the least, took any fear within him and slammed it against the memory of Andovar’s death, buried it in a cascade of sheer hatred. “Come on then, Mitchell,” he growled, drawing Pouilla Camby.

An arrow skipped off the stone behind him, skimming the ground right between Calamus’ legs.

“Take flight!” the ranger cried, and the pegasus was already moving, three running strides off the side of the rock, then up into the air amidst a hail of arrows.

“Is all yer life to be treachery?” the ranger asked.

“I never demanded that the pegasus was mine to kill,” Mitchell answered. “Just you, ranger. Just you.”

A glance back satisfied Belexus that Calamus had risen above the range of the talons without taking any serious hits, so he turned his attention fully back to Mitchell. He was trapped now, with no way out, but that thought, too, ran up against a wall of sheer hatred and was buried.

“All the world will be mine,” Mitchell taunted. “All your kin and all the elves, and the witch, too.”

“I know not what outcome this dark day will see,” the ranger answered calmly, refusing to be caught in the trap of despair. “But whatever’s coming, then know that ye’ll not be seeing it!” And on Belexus came, Pouilla Camby flashing mightily, trailing white light from her diamond insets.

The two men crept cautiously along the darkened corridor of the partially rebuilt White Tower, sensing that something was very wrong. Istaahl had gone into the dungeons of his crumbled home leaving instructions that he was not to be disturbed, but he had also commanded that these two men, his most trusted aides, could come and “collect” him in a week.

What that cryptic instruction might mean, the two did not dare openly speculate, but they were not overly surprised when, hearing no answer to their knock on the door to the wizard’s private chamber, they entered the room to find Istaahl slumped over his desk.

“He dead?” the more timid of the pair asked as his companion went over and bent low, putting his face near the wizard’s lips.

“Don’t think so,” the other answered. He gave Istaahl several shoves, but the mage stirred not at all. “I know not,” the man corrected. “Some affliction has come over him.”

The two men gathered up the comatose wizard, and he did not stir in the least. They dragged him up the stairs and out of the tower, then through the streets of Pallendara to the house of an old woman known for the art of healing. But she, too, could get no response, could only note that some affliction had come over the wizard.

It was true enough: an affliction that Istaahl had put over himself. The wizard was no longer in his body, had dismissed that limiting form altogether and literally thrown himself out from his mortal coil.

Indeed, the life force, the spiritual entity that was Istaahl the White, was far out at sea, diving to the depths, arousing the power.

“I AM NO enemy,” the ghost said, trying hard to let his sincerity shine through. But he was distracted-so overwhelmed!-at the sight of the pair standing cautiously in the corridor before him, at the sight of his daughter.

Rhiannon and Bryan held their defensive posture, the half-elf standing with sword drawn, tip tilted toward Del.

“Rhiannon,” the spirit said softly, letting the name roll off his tongue like sweet music. “Rhiannon.”

She looked at him without understanding.

“Do you not know me?” the ghost asked. “Can you not look into your heart and see the truth?”

“Enough wasted time!” Bryan growled and advanced.

“Hold,” Rhiannon bade him, grabbing his shoulder. Then to the ghost, she said, “State it plainly, for me friend speaks the truth. We’ve not the time for wasting, and’re not about to fall for any o’ Thalasi’s tricks.”

“DelGiudice,” Del said immediately. “I am… I was… Jeffrey DelGiudice. I am your father.”

“What foolishness is this?” Bryan began, but Rhiannon’s gasp and the way she clutched his shoulder made him pause and glance back at her. Her expression, the blood drained from her fair face, told him that she harbored more than a little doubt.

“You know,” Del said, “though you cannot admit it, cannot take such a risk when your friend’s safety is also at stake. So hold your thoughts and questions, accept your doubts and let them keep you on your guard, until we are out of this hellish place and somewhere safe.”

“We must move along,” Bryan said to the young witch.

“The courtyard is guarded by talons,” Del offered. “And so are the passages along the way you are headed. Better that, I suppose, than what stalks the chambers that way,” he added, pointing down a side passage to the left.

“You know the place well for one who claims to be no friend to Morgan Thalasi,” Bryan said suspiciously.

“I have been searching for you,” Del explained. “I can move quite fast, and through most walls. I’ve seen nearly all of this level of the fortress, and most of the next higher level. Except down there and up,” he added, pointing again to the left. “Morgan Thalasi is up there, I believe, and so are many of his dead minions.”

Bryan and Rhiannon looked to each other anxiously.

“Rhiannon?” the half-elf asked.

“I’m trusting him,” she answered. “I’m thinking he’s who he’s saying he is, or at least, that he’s no friend o’ Thalasi’s. I see no evil upon him, and that’s a mark the Black Warlock could’no’ hide.”

“He said that Thalasi was there,” Bryan remarked.

“That’s where we’re going, then,” Rhiannon said flatly.

“I came… he came… we came… to get you out,” the spirit of DelGiudice protested, his eyes wide with surprise.

“When I’m done and not before,” Rhiannon answered, and started away, down the passage to the ghost’s left. She eyed Del curiously as she passed close by him, the first obvious sign that she found the mystery of his identity intriguing. But again, with the determination and stoicism that had marked the last months of her previously carefree life, the young witch would not be deterred in the least, and on she went, boldly.

Bryan scrambled to catch up; the ghost, with a mere thought, zipped in front of both of them. “You cannot do this,” Del said determinedly.

Rhiannon moved right to him, thinking to push past, and of course, only slipped right through the insubstantial spirit, drawing a gasp from Bryan. Still, the young witch shook the unsettling experience away and continued on.

And again, the spirit appeared before her. “How can I let you?” Del asked.

“How can ye stop me?” Rhiannon’s curt answer came.

And there it was, plain and simple, the truth of it all that only added to Del’s frustration. Once again, it seemed to him as if he could do little to protect his daughter, and now, of all the horrors, it seemed as if he had steered her right toward the one above all others he wanted her to avoid!

And she was right, for there was nothing he could do to stop her, even to slow her.

“I will stay ahead of you,” Del offered. “And guide your path.”

Bryan and Rhiannon didn’t know whether or not to trust the spirit; it occurred to both of them yet again that Del might be no more than a manifestation created by Thalasi to lure them into some trap. Still, they could not ignore the benefits of having so mobile and secretive a spy to lead their way. If it came to a pitched battle within this stronghold, the pair, for all Bryan’s skill and all Rhiannon’s powers, would have little chance of ever finding the Black Warlock. Rhiannon’s heart decided the matter, for the young witch, deep inside, found that she believed the tale of the ghost. She remembered the tales her mother had told her of her father; Brielle’s description of the man, both physical and in demeanor, seemed to fit the ghost.