R. Salvatore - The Witch_s Daughter

“Are you going somewhere?” Lennard remarked, an awe-inspired smile spreading over his face.

“Just to market,” replied Bryan, and he swept off the hat, dipping into a gentleman’s bow.

“The Baerendels are not a game,” Meriwindle put in sternly. He didn’t want to dispel the fun, but neither did he want the troupe moving out from the safety of the town with an improper attitude. “You will find danger up there, do not doubt. Many animals wander the course of those uncharted mountains, and talons have been spotted there on more than one occasion.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” one of the girls that Meriwindle did not recognize assured him.

Meriwindle regarded the group for a long moment. They were the children of farmers and craftsmen, more accustomed to wielding a hammer or hoe than a weapon. But they were a smart lot, and grown straight and tall under the brilliant sunshine of western Calvan fields.

They all waited now, breathless and anxious, for the judgment of the most famous warrior in all of Corning, perhaps in all of the lands west of the great River Ne’er Ending.

“So you can,” Meriwindle told the girl sincerely. “I do not doubt that for a moment. If I did, I would not allow my son to accompany you.” The group relaxed visibly, a smile finding its way onto every face. If Meriwindle, the elven warrior who had fought in the Battle of Mountaingate, had faith in them, they could not fail.

“To the road, then!” cried Lennard. “To Jolsen’s and then to the Baerendels!”

They filed out of the small cottage with a heightened spring in their step. Bryan lagged behind for some final words with his father.

“Do you really believe that we can take care of ourselves?” he had to ask.

“If I did not, I would surely not let you go,” Meriwindle replied.

“We will return within the span of two months,” Bryan assured him. “In time for the autumn harvest.”

“Of course,” said Meriwindle. “And after that…” he began tentatively.

Bryan cocked his head, realizing from the suddenly grim tone that his father had something important to tell him.

“I had thought to do some traveling myself,” Meriwindle explained. “After the crop is in and safely off to market.”

“Pallendara?” Bryan asked excitedly. “We will go with the wagons?”

“A road longer,” replied Meriwindle.

The hesitant look on Bryan’s face showed that he suspected but did not dare to speak the true meaning of his father’s words.

“I had thought to be returning to Lochsilinilume,” Meri-windle said plainly. “I desire to walk again through the land of my birth.”

Bryan fell back a step, not knowing how to take the news. “But, could I?” he stammered, hopeful and afraid all at once. He would like nothing better than to see the enchanted valley, but he wasn’t certain how long his father planned to be gone. Certainly they could not leave the farm unattended. “Would I… I mean, there’s the farm to consider. Would you want-”

“I most certainly would!” Meriwindle replied with a hearty laugh. He dropped an arm over Bryan’s shoulder and shook him. “The farm will be here when-if-we choose to return. But you must come with me. What fun would an old elf find along the road if his most trusted companion was not riding by his side?

“Besides,” he continued, giving Bryan another playful shake, “the armor and the blade belong to you now. It is your duty, in return for the gifts, to protect your aging father on his long journey.”

Bryan straightened at his father’s honest respect, smiling from ear to ear. “They’ll be picking a leader before we get out of town,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at the open door. “I believe that they meant to choose me when we planned this journey. Now, bearing the sword and armor, it is very likely that I will be selected.”

“Then accept,” Meriwindle was quick to reply. “But remember always that a true leader speaks less than he listens.”

“Come on, Bryan!” came an anonymous call from outside.

“To Jolsen’s!” the rest of the anxious troupe piped in on cue.

“I have to go.”

Meriwindle gave his son a final hug, then put him out at arm’s length to look him over. “You certainly do,” he said. For some time Meriwindle had feared the inevitability of this moment, but now, looking at Bryan, the elf found his fears washed away on a tide of sincere admiration.

No more was Bryan his little boy.

THE STURDY FOLK of Windywillow Village, the westernmost settlement in the Calvan kingdom, were not unused to skirmishes against talons. Tribes of the wretched things lived all about them, in the great forest that gave their village its name, and to the west, in the marshlands of Mysmal Swamp. Plundering talons constantly searched out the homes of the village seeking easy takings.

Mostly, though, what the talons got for their troubles was a general thinning of their raiding ranks. Windywillow Village had become a veritable fortress over the years, with tunnels connecting many of the cottages, and trenches and devious traps lining the perimeter of the entire settlement. And the people here, just over a hundred in number, including the few women, were practiced and fearless fighters.

But when the sun rose through a dreary gray mist on this particular summer morning, Windywillow Village saw the approach of doom.

“Big tribe,” one of the villagers remarked over the shouts of alarm at the coming cloud of dust.

“Biggest I e’er seen,” another man agreed. “Well, we’ll give ’em a taste o’ steel an’ set ’em runnin’ the right way.”

But the villager was not so sure. Before long the very ground beneath his feet began to vibrate under the stamp of the approaching army, and the throaty song of the talons carried along on the morning breeze.

“Damn big tribe,” he said, considering, for the first time in his fifteen years in Windywillow Village, the option of retreat. But he shook the notion away and clapped his great ax across his shoulder. “Just means there’ll be more to hit,” he grumbled, moving to his position in the first line of defense.

Less than fifteen minutes later, when the leading cavalry of Thalasi’s army burst into view, rushing over the horizon, followed by rank after rank of filthy talon soldiers, the villager thought of retreat again.

But swamp lizards are swift beasts, nearly as swift as a horse even bearing a rider. For the villager, and for all of Windywillow Village, it was already far too late, and had been too late since the first sightings of the dust cloud.

The villagers fought savagely even when their hopes of victory and survival had flown.

Twenty thousand talon soldiers stamped the village flat. Within half an hour not a man, woman, or child remained alive.

From his comfortable chair in his litter, the Black Warlock surveyed the devastation. An evil smirk became a laugh of joy. How easy this all would be! Thalasi’s only regret was that he could not take part in the slaughter, that he could not reveal himself. Not yet. The longer the Black Warlock was able to keep the news of his return from spreading throughout the land, the longer his talon army would be unhindered by the countering magics of his wizard adversaries.

He looked to the east, and his laughter continued. Another plume of smoke had already started its lazy climb into the late morning sky; another village had ceased to exist.

They would crush a third that same day, and two more the next. Thalasi clenched his bony fist in victory. Every kill kept the ranks of his rabble army at peace with each other; every kill spurred the wicked talons on in their relentless hunt for more human blood. With the eager pace they had set this day, and with only minor towns standing in their path, they would make Corning within a week, and the Four Bridges just a day or two after that. Pallendara would never be able to muster its peace-softened troops and get them to the banks of the great river, the only defensible spot in all the southland, in time.