R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

Powerful Mitchell was quick to improvise, coming forward as well and grabbing the man by the shoulder.

Belexus ignored the coldness of that grip, the permeating iciness that chilled to the bone. He dropped Pouilla Camby, and Mitchell howled, thinking his grip had forced that. Belexus caught the sword in his left hand, though, before it had fallen far, as he was stepping ahead, and a quick turn of his wrist changed the angle and stabbed the weapon’s point right into Mitchell’s face. Belexus turned and slashed the holding arm next, then scrambled out of the tangle as the mace whipped in a flurry, black flakes filling the air. For all his speed and agility, though, the ranger didn’t quite make it out; several of the flakes caught him on the back and hip, and he rushed away, grimacing against the burning pain.

The pair squared off once more. Mitchell was hurt, clearly so, with white lines creasing his chest and arm, a blotch of white marring his gray face, and another on his back. But Belexus was hurt, too, with several blistering burns on his back.

Mitchell narrowed his flaming eyes; he had no more taunts for the ranger, no more games. Just hatred, and a bit of respect.

For Belexus, there was only hatred.

They circled and stalked for a long while, each showing caution now.

A catapult shot broke the tension, a ball of pitch slamming into a boulder tumble not so far away, followed by the screams of burning talons.

“They’re getting closer, Mitchell,” the ranger said. “King Benador and Lord Arien. Yer army’s to fall this day, along with their dead leader.”

Mitchell glanced far and wide from the high rock. In the minutes he and Belexus had been fighting, battle had begun in full all about the rocky arm. He heard the twang of bows, the rush of horses, the swoosh of catapults, the cries of man and talon. This was the moment Mitchell had craved, the moment of his glory, and he was stuck up here with the ranger, fighting a personal battle. Anger welled within him and drove him to the attack once more.

Belexus, understanding the wraith’s urgency, understanding the frustration this delay would bring to Mitchell, was more than ready. Deceivingly, he stared at the spot where the catapult shot had struck, his smile wide as he watched one talon, engulfed in flames, thrashing about futilely. But it was all a ruse, and the ranger really watched the wraith’s approach, and as the mace went high for a strike, Belexus exploded into motion, diving ahead and down, passing right by the surprised Mitchell and coming up a full stride away, but close enough so that he could hit home with a mighty backhand slash.

The wraith howled in pain and frustration and was quick to pursue.

The specter of Morgan Thalasi, that bone-skinny, hollowed creature, stole Bryan’s breath. Rhiannon had faced him before, though, in magical combat, and she was not deterred.

“How dare you?” the Black Warlock cried.

A lightning bolt slammed him in response, throwing him back against the wall of his throne room. It hadn’t really hurt him, but it gave Bryan’s wits the time to recover. Rhiannon began her charge immediately, thinking it wise to get the Black Warlock in close, that she might disrupt his powerful magics, yet Bryan, so quick of foot, beat her to the spot, his sword slashing hard at the Black Warlock’s arm, trying to cut loose the mighty staff.

Thalasi accepted the blow with hardly a flinch, and his backhand slap sent poor Bryan flying head over heels across the room. He landed hard, groaning, dazed, and by the time he looked up again, Rhiannon and the Black Warlock were in a desperate clinch, sparks of power arcing all about their mortal forms.

The young witch howled in pain as she grabbed hard at the staff, for merely touching the perverted weapon wounded her to her soul. Grab it she did, though, and she held it with all her strength and stubbornness even as Thalasi began raining powerful blows all about her. Then they were wrestling, each holding tight the staff, all energy, magical and physical, bursting out about their twined forms, the cloud of Thalasi’s blackness matching the white shine of Rhiannon’s diamond wizard mark.

Bryan understood that the young witch could not win, not while the Black Warlock held that terrible staff. He forced himself to his feet, forced the dizziness from his head. And then he charged, headlong, hurling himself through the air to crash hard against Thalasi, twisting and pushing so that he was in between the Black Warlock and Rhiannon, facing Thalasi and with the staff behind him. Desperately, Bryan pulled the amulet from his neck and hooked it over Rhiannon’s arm, and then he twisted and turned again, trying to find leverage to weaken Thalasi’s grasp on the staff.

Rhiannon pulled it from Thalasi’s hands.

Bryan tried to hold on a bit longer, to delay the Black Warlock’s pursuit, but Thalasi slapped him aside once more, as easily as if he were some young child, and this time, crumpled against the wall, he could not muster the strength to regain his feet.

Lying twisted on the floor, he watched Rhiannon flee the room, the Black Warlock close behind. He saw the ghost of Rhiannon’s father stand to block Thalasi, but the Black Warlock ran right through the apparition, apparently too consumed in his chase with Rhiannon even to notice Del.

THEY WATCHED THE old man, the man who had been as their father for all the years, who had taken them in and sheltered them, these children of Pallendara’s nobles, when wicked Ungden had stolen the throne. They watched him now, this man who had trained them in the ways of survival and of war, this man who had transformed them into the proud rangers. Now, from a seat on the returned pegasus, Bellerian led them again, soaring out on high and issuing subtle signals concerning the whereabouts and strength of the enemy positions.

So the rangers were not surprised in the least when they came around a bend in the trail to find a rocky dell filled with talon spear throwers and archers-all of whom had their gazes set the other way, out across the long spur of Kored-dul to the approaching armies.

Arrows leading, the rangers charged the surprised talons in a wild rush, and so coordinated and efficient was their attack that not a single man was even injured in the sudden and swift fight. In the span of barely a minute, a score of talons lay dead.

“They’ve set talons with spears in pockets all about the arm,” one ranger remarked, peeking up over the other side of the dell.

“Lord Bellerian will sight them for us,” another replied.

“And for the Calvan artillerists,” a third remarked, and with grim nods, they were off again, following the signals of their flying leader, in search of new prey.

None could perform such deadly and secretive tactics as well as the rangers of Avalon, but even with such powerful allies, the armies on the field found themselves hard-pressed before they even reached the rocky arm. Arien’s elves had approached the foothills expecting to battle for every inch of ground, and when the first talons, even the first of Thalasi’s gruesome undead, had risen against them, the elves had maintained their order and their progress, lining their marvelous steeds into a fighting wedge and slicing through the enemy ranks with hardly an effort.

The elf lord fully expected that the talon lizard riders would come next, a more difficult and maneuverable foe, but what he found instead was more undead; thousands and thousands and thousands of zombies and skeletons rising from every shadow, coming out fearlessly though the elves were cutting them down dozens at a time.

“We cannot hope to defeat this many,” Ryell said to him. “Weariness will lay our weapons low, if these perversions do not! We should turn to the south and join with Benador.”