R. Salvatore - The Witch_s Daughter

“And now we have two rangers to help us organize the defense,” Meriwindle added. “Glad I am to have the likes of Belexus and Andovar standing beside me in defense of my home.”

“Yer words are kind,” said Belexus. “But me hopes are that we’ll need not be raising those blades.”

“We should out for Caer Minerva,” Andovar suggested, looking forlornly down to the west at the continuing stream of pitiful refugees.

Rhiannon caught up to them then, walking through the huddled and confused crowd.

“By me eyes,” she declared. “Ne’er have I seen such sufferin’.”

“And ye’ll find more when we see the wounded,” Belexus assured her. He turned to Meriwindle and the mayor, their eyes wide at the sight of Rhiannon, to introduce the young woman. But before he could even begin, Rhiannon stepped out of and to the side of the western gate. Belexus shrugged an apology and led the others out after her.

Rhiannon moved to the empty grass beyond the confusion of the road. She paused for a long moment, looking to the west, then fell to the ground, putting her ear to the grass.

“We have no time-” the mayor began.

Belexus cut him off, believing that Rhiannon’s actions, however confusing they might appear, were somehow important.

“But talons approach!” the mayor demanded, and he turned back to the gates. “Four thousand, perhaps.”

“More than that,” Rhiannon assured him, lifting her head from the grass.

“What?” barked Tuloos. “How could you know?” Rhiannon shrugged, not really understanding the answer. Something had compelled her to this spot, as though the ground itself had called out to her. And when she put her ear close to hear its words, it had told her the truth of the size of the approaching army.

“You could not know, of course,” the mayor went on. “Come, Meriwindle,” he said, a bit perturbed. “We have many preparations-”

“Five times that number,” Rhiannon said, more to Belexus and Andovar than to the mayor. “And from a long wood beyond the mountains, more’re coming to join the force.”

“That would be Windy Willows,” Meriwindle put in, amazed and not yet knowing whether to believe the young woman or not. He turned to Belexus. “But how could she-”

“She could not!” the mayor insisted.

“Methinks she could,” Andovar replied. “How, Rhiannon?” he asked softly. “How do ye be knowing these things?”

Rhiannon shrugged again and looked back at the spot on the field, hardly believing the answer herself.

“ ’Tis the grass that telled me,” she said honestly.

“We have no time for such foolish words,” the mayor spouted.

Meriwindle looked helplessly to the rangers. “It does seem incredible.”

“Do ye know who she is?” Andovar asked the elf.

Meriwindle shook his head.

“Have ye heard, then, of fair Brielle?” Andovar went on.

Meriwindle’s eyes popped open wide. He had lived most of his long life in Illuma Vale, and of course he knew of Brielle of Avalon. “The Emerald Witch,” he breathed. “Rhiannon is the daughter of the Emerald Witch?”

“That she is,” said Andovar. “And me heart’s for heeding to her claims.”

“As is mine,” Belexus added. “Twenty thousand. Can Corning hold back such a number?”

Mayor Tuloos had also heard of the Emerald Witch, but in Corning, Brielle was only a fireside tale and hardly taken seriously. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded. “The count is four thousand, no matter what the grass has to say to her.” Rhiannon dipped her head at the bite of his sarcasm, but Meriwindle rushed to her defense.

“Believe the woman,” he told the mayor.

“Meriwindle!” Tuloos cried. “Certainly you have more sense-”

“Believe her,” Meriwindle said grimly. “If the grass talked to Rhiannon, then be assured that it spoke truthfully.”

As if in confirmation, a new pillar of smoke rose up into the western sky only a few miles down the road.

Caer Minerva was burning.

Thoroughly flustered, Tuloos slumped down from his haughty stance. “Twenty thousand?” he asked Rhiannon, his sarcasm gone. But Rhiannon didn’t hear him; she had dropped back to a second call from the grass.

“A lot of talons,” the mayor conceded. “But we’ve all the men of the western fields at our disposal and our walls are sturdy enough. I suppose-”

“No!” Rhiannon cried, springing to her feet, her eyes riveted on the growing smoke cloud over Caer Minerva. “Do not fight with them!” she pleaded, and when she turned back to the four men, they saw that her face was ashen. “Run away. Run away as swift as ye may!”

“What is it?” Belexus asked before Meriwindle and Andovar could get the words out of their mouths.

“I do no’ know,” Rhiannon answered with a shudder. “But we cannot hope to stop them. A corruption leads them-never have I felt such strength!”

Belexus and Andovar exchanged grim looks, then turned to Meriwindle, who shared their knowing concern.

“He is back,” the elf said with as much calmness as he could muster. Meriwindle had witnessed the evil of Morgan Thalasi twenty years before, at the Battle of Mountaingate. Even now the memory, the terror of the appearance of the Black Warlock, remained vivid in his mind.

Mayor Tuloos, never having witnessed the scourge of the Black Warlock, did not understand, nor did Rhiannon, who knew only that something terribly evil was leading the talon army. But over the years, Tuloos had come to trust Meriwindle as one of his closest advisers, and he could not deny the look of sheer horror on the elf’s fair face.

“If they are in Caer Minerva, how long do we have?” Belexus asked grimly.

Mayor Tuloos fidgeted for a moment, trying to remember the obvious answer. “Five hours, perhaps,” he said. “If the city is fully beaten.” He looked again at Meriwindle for an answer to his growing problem.

“We must run,” the elf replied to the mayor’s helpless expression.

Tuloos turned back to the rangers. “I am hesitant to leave my home,” he explained. “Corning is the pride of the western fields. She was built and designed for the very purpose of fending off such a raid.”

“Not such a raid,” Belexus replied. “If the Black Warlock has indeed risen again, yer height o’ yer walls’ll not be stopping him.”

Tuloos looked from person to person, rubbing his face, trying vainly to find an answer to the dilemma. “Help me, then,” he begged the others. “Get the weak off and running, as swift as they may. But I will remain in Corning with a garrison. More will come down the western road, fleeing the destruction of Caer Minerva. I will not leave them stranded and alone in the fields.”

“And know in yer heart that we will stand beside ye,” Andovar assured the man.

Rhiannon moved up and down the eastern road, keeping the refugees in organized retreat and whispering words of encouragement to man and horse alike.

Andovar watched her from the town gate, his love for her doubling.

“She does well,” Belexus noted, moving up to join his friend.

“No fear in her,” Andovar replied. “And her words’re keeping the whole in stride.”

“Quite a lass,” said Belexus.

Andovar put a steely gaze on him. “Do ye fancy her, then?”

Andovar hid his feelings well, but Belexus understood the tinge of jealousy that edged his words. “No, me friend,” he laughed, “not as ye do.”

Andovar turned back to the road, embarrassed but unable to refute Belexus’ observation.

“ ’Tis her mother that holds me heart,” Belexus admitted, and he clapped his friend on the shoulder. Their chatting was interrupted a moment later, though, when Rhiannon suddenly bolted with her horse away from the line of fleeing citizens, riding hard to the north. She dropped from her mount and to the ground.