R. Salvatore - The Witch_s Daughter

The talons were no more comfortable around the wraith of Mitchell than they were around the Black Warlock himself. But like Thalasi, Mitchell incited more than enough terror in the beasts to persuade them to follow his every command. He met with the leaders that very night and laid the groundwork for the effort needed to get them across the river.

When the bright summer sun climbed into the sky the next morning, the wraith took shelter under the thick folds of a tent. But the 268talons went to work, organizing their troops into divisions and setting them about the tasks that General Mitchell had outlined.

Across the river, King Benador and his commanders watched with growing concern as all of the wood the talons could gather-deserted wagons, walls of buildings, even uprooted trees-was brought to the northern corner of the encampment.

“It seems that our enemies have found some direction to their meandering ways,” the King remarked to an adviser at his side.

The other man scanned the entirety of the camp, his eyes falling on battle formations that several groups of talons were practicing. “The wedge,” he remarked pointedly, surprised that the untrained things even knew of such advanced tactics. “We might find them better prepared the next time they decide to storm the bridges.”

“A few days of practice.” Benador shrugged. “It will not stand up against the lifelong dedication of the Warders of the White Walls. Alas for the talons, the result will be the same.”

Benador’s confidence did much to boost the spirits of those around him, but even the determined King had to pause in concern a short time later. For by the day’s end, many boats had already been constructed.

DAY AFTER DAY King Benador watched the activity across the river with growing concern. The talons seemed more of an army now, not just a collection of bloodthirsty killers. Someone or something was putting them in line and giving them the discipline they needed to strike out effectively against the Calvan army. And while the numbers of Benador’s camp continued to grow daily as volunteers found their way in from all across eastern Calva, the talon army swelled even more. On a single day a troop of several thousand flowed in from the Baerendels, all eager to join the Black Warlock in his glorious conquest.

Benador and his troops kept the pressure on the talons constantly. Several times each day, brigades of cavalry rushed out over the bridges, trampling whatever defenses the talons had hastily erected and cutting down as many of the wretched beasts as they could before they were forced to retreat. Lately, though, the talons had found ways to counter the attacks, and the cost in soldiers for the excursions continued to escalate. And with Rhiannon gone, Siana had to work all the day through tending to the wounded.

But if the King’s hopes had started to wane throughout the remainder of that third week at the river, they were brought back tenfold one bright and shining morning.

“Let our ride be strong and proud,” Arien said to Bellerian and Belexus at his side. “Let the shake of the earth and the winding of our horns announce our arrival this morn. And let the Calvans take heart and the talons pale in fright!”

Bellerian grasped the elven Eldar’s outstretched hand as Belexus pulled out his great horn and winded the first call, and with that clear, strong note, the charge of the elves and the rangers was on.

The sudden blast of a hundred horns brought the Calvan camp awake, and sent Benador scrambling for the flap of his tent, thinking that the talons had launched their expected attack. But by the time the King got outside, he understood the truth of the disturbance, for the trumpeters of the Calvan camp took up a resoundingly joyful answer.

And then came the bellsong of the elven steeds, dancing in the joyful melody with the pounding of hooves. Benador clenched his fists, a determined grimace on his face, when he saw them break across the northern horizon, half a thousand elves and their escort of mighty rangers. Around the King, the Calvan camp erupted in cheers and shouts, and soldiers rushed out to greet the newcomers.

Once, under the rule of an unlawful king in Pallendara, these peoples, elf and human, had been mortal enemies, but now the Calvans recognized the arrival of Arien Silverleaf and his kin as their possible salvation. Many of the older Calvan soldiers had witnessed the elves in battle, and their prowess with horse, sword, and bow was nothing short of legendary.

Across the river the talons, too, watched the arrival of the children of Lochsilinilume, and under the shade of one tent, red dots of fire looked out to survey the scene. The wraith of Hollis Mitchell only smiled when he realized it was Arien Silverleaf who had come on the scene, another of his enemies from his previous journey through this world of Aielle.

Confident that the elves would not change the course of the coming battle, Mitchell viewed their arrival as a convenience, allowing him to defeat even more of his enemies in this single sweep.

The wraith’s evil grin only widened when he learned that the rangers, Belexus included, accompanied the elves.

“It is good that you have come,” Benador said to Arien and Bellerian a short time later, after the initial commotion had died away. He and the two leaders had retired to his tent to lay their plans. “There has been a change in the talon camp-more organization and purpose to their movements. I fear they might strike soon.”

“The Black Warlock has raised a new commander,” Bellerian explained. “And a monster that one is, a wraith from the netherworld come to lead the horde o’ talons against us.”

The King took the news stoically. “I had suspected as much,” he said. “For no talon could have made such changes in the encampment so quickly, and the Black Warlock has not shown such understanding for battle tactics thus far.”

“The wraith will be a formidable opponent,” said Arien. “He was called Hollis Mitchell in his former life, one of the ancient ones who fell soon after the Battle of Mountaingate. Once, he was a commander in his own world and quite learned in the ways of warfare, beyond our experience. You will not find obvious mistakes in his tactics, I fear.”

A grim expression passed over Benador’s face, but it faded quickly. “But Mitchell will find few holes in our defenses,” the King replied, his smile genuine above his firm-set jaw. “With the joining of the elves and rangers, we have the strength and skill to repel the talons. The defense of the bridges will not falter.”

“Ayuh,” agreed Bellerian, and he took the hand of this king who had been as a son to him for so very long. Then he turned his gaze, with Arien and Benador, toward the tent flap as his birth son entered, grim-faced.

“The witch’s daughter is gone,” Belexus said bluntly, and all eyes turned on Benador for an explanation.

“She is safe,” Benador assured them, “though I fear that her heart will be long in mending.”

“Andovar,” Belexus reasoned. “She knew of Andovar.”

“It is true, then,” Benador remarked.

“It is,” replied Belexus. “He fell to the wraith on our journey to the north.”

“Then my fears are justified,” the King said softly. “I knew that it would not be wise to doubt the guess of Rhiannon, but I had held out hope in my heart that she was mistaken.”

“A great loss to us all,” Bellerian put in. “But where is the daughter of Brielle, then? Her value to our cause canno’ be undervalued.”

“I knew not where she went,” Benador admitted. “But I could not stop her going, and I know with all certainty that Rhiannon’s role in this war is not yet through. She has trained another healer in her absence, a young lass who has performed admirably these last few days.”