R. Salvatore - Bastion of Darkness

Belexus was quick to reverse the momentum, taking up his sword in both hands and rushing in, hammering away, slashing and beating, knowing that one mistake, one slip, would let Mitchell get that mace in, would surely destroy him. He cried out for Avalon, for all the world. He cried out and he swung with all his strength, over and over, the diamond light spreading, the sword humming through the air. He ignored the pain as the black flakes settled about him, screamed out too loudly, tensed his muscles too tightly. If he had paused and thought about it, he would have realized how heavy his exhausted arms had become.

But he would not pause, would not slow in the least.

Again and again, Pouilla Camby drove through. Again and again.

It ended suddenly, with a great shudder from the wraith that sent Belexus skidding backward. He regarded Mitchell; the curious, stunned look that glared at him through those glowing white lines. Like the flakes of his own mace, Mitchell fell apart, just broke into pieces, the blackness falling to the stone and dissipating there into swirling tendrils of smoke.

And then Belexus, his hunger for vengeance sated, stood alone.

“Come, and be quick,” Bellerian called, setting Calamus down on the stone beside his battered son. “The talon devils are all about us!”

Belexus looked at the hollowed corpse that had been Hollis Mitchell, the empty dead thing. He thought of Andovar and felt warmed, felt that his friend could now, finally, rest easy. And now Belexus could rightly turn his thoughts to the more pressing problems, to the larger battle and the good of all Aielle. He bounded over to Bellerian, a talon spear skipping off the stone behind his rush, and leaped atop the pegasus’ back, and Calamus, so strong of wing, had no trouble in lifting the two of them high into the air.

His run became a desperate rush, the spirit launching himself at his daughter, seeing her mortal danger, every instinct within him telling him to go and protect her. Fast as thought, DelGiudice careened into the chamber, arrowing for Rhiannon. But that thought had come an instant too late, an instant after the young witch had chopped Thalasi’s staff in half. Del reached her as the blast reached her. He dove for her soul, trying somehow to spiritually embrace her, but he found instead a passage; a long and confusing tunnel.

Gone was the blast, the tower, the fortress. Gone was his daughter.

The confused ghost found himself standing in Avalon, beside a shocked and horrified Brielle.

Far out at sea, the swell rolled, mounting and mounting, a giant wall of water. Istaahl threw all of his energy into it, gave to it all his thoughts and hopes, all his memories and all his fantasies.

On it rolled, inevitably for Talas-dun, the last gasp of Istaahl the White, the purest creation of his magic. As he ascended from the pressing depths, he felt himself spreading out in the water, his very life essence thinning, joining with the rising swell.

All of it, all his energy and all his purpose.

He found her atop a pile of blasted and charred rubble, a delicate flower amidst a mountain of scarred black stone. She didn’t look the least bit battered, didn’t look as if she had been anywhere near that awful explosion, and Bryan watched in pure amazement as the last glow of Brielle’s protective enchantment faded to nothingness. Rhiannon’s body was intact, completely undamaged, and yet Bryan knew, before he ever drew near to her, that she was dead.

The half-elf, his eyes dripping streams of tears, lifted her gently and bore her out of that dark place. There was no resistance, for all the zombies and skeletons were back to their sleep of death, and those talons who had not been killed in the frenzied moments before the explosion were either fleeing Talas-dun or were simply too confused to pay the half-elf any notice.

But damn the talons, every one, the half-elf thought, and then he dismissed them.

Rhiannon was dead, and Bryan could do nothing to help her.

SHE HAD BEEN here once before, but the experience had seemed far different then, as if she was only a spectator in this eternal ritual, as if she didn’t truly belong. On that previous occasion, Rhiannon had been called back from the walk of death. But this time…

This time, she belonged.

She saw the poor departed souls wading past her, seemingly floating among the thick fog blanketing the unseen ground. Humans and elves, soldiers of Arien and Benador, walked solemnly along, their ranks insignificant compared to the many, many talons. Even more numerous, though seeming less substantial, came the hosts of those stolen from their sleep of death, Thalasi’s undead army, released to rest once more with the destruction of the perverted staff.

Rhiannon understood, and had no choice but to accept. She took her place in the line and began the descent, the crossing of the barrier between the living and the dead. She paused, though, for she found a pair of souls she could not ignore.

Morgan Thalasi and Martin Reinheiser. Joined in life, they were two once more, separate souls moving down, down to their rewards. For them, the walk would not end pleasantly, Rhiannon knew, and she pitied them, despite the horrors they had caused. And then she didn’t even care about them anymore. Just like that, she dismissed them, and wandered along.

The thing about the walk that struck the young witch most profoundly was the sense of peace-even the normally brutal talons showed it on their faces-and those returning to the realm of Death showed it most clearly of all. Not Thalasi and Reinheiser, though. Both struggled against the inevitable, tried to turn about and run back the way they had come, back to the living. And they seemed to be making some progress, as if their mighty wills could fight against even this inevitability.

But then Rhiannon spotted the specter, the common image of Death personified, coming for them. The pair tried to scramble away, screaming in futile protest, but Arawn hooked them both with a single swipe of his long sickle and drew them in.

“I have waited for you, John Morgan, who calls himself Morgan Thalasi,” the contented specter of Death said. “And for you, Martin Reinheiser. You joined with John Morgan against me. You stole what was mine. You chose badly.”

And, with a black flash and a swirl of the fog, they were gone from Rhiannon’s view, and soon, she realized, though she did not know how it happened, she was all alone, stranded in a vast, dark plain, the flatness broken by an endless line of barrows.

She kept walking, not knowing what else she might do. There was no sense of time here, so she did not know how long it had been before she came to a tunnel, the flickering light of a fire burning within. Compelled, she entered, and came almost immediately into a wide chamber with a single bier set in its middle. And behind it, holding up a shroud, stood the specter Charon, Arawn, impassive, inevitable.

Understanding flooded through the young witch, the dead witch. This was her place now, and though she did not want to be here, did not want to be dead, she could not resist. Slowly, regretfully, the young witch moved to take her eternal bed.

“A rout!” a joyous Arien Silverleaf cried to Ardaz. “Never could we have hoped for such a victory!” Indeed, with the undead horde’s last attacks against the talons and the ensuing confusion in the enemy ranks, the men of Calva and the elves of Illuma seemed well on their way to the most complete victory ever known in Ynis Aielle. The elf lord surveyed the battle scene before him, saw, far to the south, another ball of pitch soar high and far to scatter a talon position. Then he felt something more profound, a growling rumble beneath his feet, and saw, far to the west, a tremendous plume of black smoke rising. He looked to Ardaz for an explanation, but his question was lost in his throat when he glanced upon the wizard.