R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

“But first to Corning,” Belexus reminded them, not wanting their visit to still another splendid place lessened by thoughts of what was yet to come. And as the small troupe passed the crest of a hill, off in the distance, shrouded by the morning mist that rose off the river, stood the unmistakable shapes of the Four Bridges of Calva, structures that had spanned the great river for centuries, before the elves or even the talons had walked the land.

They kicked up their horses with the bridges in sight, galloping the mounts down from the rise and across the last expanse in a wild rush.

Belexus and Andovar, as skilled as any horsemen in all the world, would never have believed it, but Rhiannon, whispering compliments into her sleek mare’s ear, got there first.

A short distance to the south lay the fairly large community of Rivertown, but Rhiannon hardly noticed the place. Before her loomed the Four Bridges, ancient and legendary, arcing pathways of solid stone. The young woman could sense the magic that had created these structures, could feel the song of wizardry humming still in their mighty stones. They were all of the same size and design, and four carts could ride abreast across any of them without nearing the solid stone banisters.

And these railings were perhaps the most special of all. Bas reliefs lined every inch of them, scenes depicting the birth of the new race of man, cradled in the arms of the angelic Colonnae, and images of the rise of Pallendara.

Belexus and Andovar had never before crossed the bridges and were no less enchanted than Rhiannon when they caught up to the young woman.

“They’ve more tales to tell than Ardaz himself,” Belexus proclaimed. “So long they’ve stood.”

“Ayuh,” Andovar agreed. “ ’Twas here that the Black Warlock first fell.” He led Rhiannon down to the southernmost structure. A shining black plaque had been cut into the stone at the entrance to the bridge, commemorating the exact spot where Ardaz, Istaahl, and Rhiannon’s mother had teamed together to defeat the Black Warlock in an age long past.

“Three thousand died,” Andovar said solemnly. “But not in vain. The talon army was crushed and Morgan Th-” He paused, reconsidering the wisdom of speaking that vile name aloud. “The Black Warlock was thrown down.”

“Not to rise again until the time of Ungden the Usurper,” Belexus added.

“Me mum has oft told me o’ the Battle of Mountaingate,” said Rhiannon. “When Thalasi was again thrown down.”

“And ’twas yer father that did the throwin’,” chuckled Andovar. “A finer man I’ve never seen!”

Rhiannon smiled and let her gaze drift out into the mist of the river. She had never known her father, and his passing had put an edge of sadness forever on the eyes of her mother. But the joy of Brielle’s memories of her times with Jeff DelGiudice, that special man from the other world, outweighed the sorrow, and Rhiannon knew that her mother did not lament for his loss as often as she smiled at memories of her times with him.

“Here now,” called a voice from the south. The three turned to see a portly man running toward them, a helmet flopping wildly on his head as he tried futilely to buckle the thing.

“Greetings,” Belexus said when the man reached them.

“And mine,” the man huffed, trying to catch his breath. “First morning in ten years I overslept. Figures, how it figures, that you’d be picking this day to arrive at our bridges.”

“Your-”

“Gatsby’s the name,” the man interrupted. “Gatsby of Rivertown. Not ‘our’ bridges, of course-none can be claiming them-but we like to consider ourselves guardians of the place.”

“And ye’re the gatekeeper?” Rhiannon asked.

The man had to wait a long moment before responding, caught up suddenly in the overwhelming beauty of the raven-haired woman. “No,” he stammered, hardly able to withstand the disarming stare of Rhiannon’s bluest blue eyes. “Not really. More of a guide, you might say. There is so very much to tell of this place! We keep it all safe-sort of our mission, you might say. Safe, but not secret.” He pulled a huge book and a quill and ink set out of his backpack, and fumbled through a hundred pages until at last he found an empty one.

“And who might you be?”

“I am Belexus, son of Bellerian,” the ranger replied.

Gatsby’s eyes popped up from the page at the mention of the Ranger Lord, a name he obviously recognized.

“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.

“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”

“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”

“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”

Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”-the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion-“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”

“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”

“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”

“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail-which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away-and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.

“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”

The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.

Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This army, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.

Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.

Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.

Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.

He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons of Mysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.

How powerful he had become!

But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.