R. Salvatore - The Witch_s Daughter

The blood drained from the wizard’s face. “But he died! Got shot, he did-bang!-on the field.”

“His talons stormed across the western fields and now hold camp across the great river from the combined army of Calvans, elves, and rangers.”

“Evil,” Ardaz breathed.

“We do not know how many thousands have died already,” Billy went on. “But we were certain that doom would overtake all of the known lands if Ardaz could not be found.” He motioned toward Calamus. “The final battle might already be under way,” he explained. “We have no time to tarry. I’ll try to answer your questions as we fly.”

“Of course,” Ardaz agreed quietly. “If only I could remember the proper spell,” he lamented, scratching his beard. “Could be there in a flash. But I don’t like that way of travel-miss too many of the sights along the road, you know. Oh bother, well, it does not matter.” He skipped over to the Pegasus and leaped onto its back. “I’ll help Calamus speed along-are you coming? We have not the time to tarry, after all.”

Billy didn’t bother to respond-caught up in the news and trying to devise some plan of action, Ardaz wouldn’t have heard him anyway.

And then they were soaring in the dullness that had become the Aiellian sky. Ardaz whispered some words of magical encouragement into the winged horse’s ear and Calamus’ flight grew doubly swift. Gradually, as the world rolled out below them, Ardaz calmed and settled silently into his seat. Billy recounted the events of the war to him, of the strange dual being that was now the Black Warlock, and of the wraith that had infected the land and had taken Andovar, the valiant ranger, from the realm of the living.

Ardaz, understanding the gravity of the tale, did not interrupt even once. He just sat very still and piped in with a “How very wicked!” or a “Terrible, just terrible!” every few minutes.

There were no skirmishes across the bridges that day, as both sides fell under the hush of anticipation. Tensions grew as thick as Thalasi’s gray sky, and the King of Calva, with Arien, Belexus, and Bellerian at his side, walked his horse about the field, checking and rechecking the defenses and the morale of his troops.

“They will come on the morn,” he predicted.

The others did not disagree. They could sense the pent-up excitement across the river, could see the talons pacing about, fingering their weapons in sweating hands.

“And we will be ready for them,” Arien Silverleaf promised. The Eldar had fought against greater odds than he now faced, and if there was any fear at all behind his noble eyes, the others could not sense it. King Benador drew strength both from Arien and from the two rangers, who had long ago vowed that their principles were more important than their mortal bodies. A ranger did not fear death by the sword, and a ranger did not surrender his hopes no matter how dark the blackness.

“I have spoken with Istaahl this day,” Benador announced, his tone more casual. “Thalasi has ceased his attacks upon the White Tower and upon Avalon, though it is not known if the cause is weariness or prudence.”

“I suspect the latter,” Arien said. “He gathers his strength, like his army.”

“Then if the dawning o’ the morrow harkens the dark day,” said Belexus, “let us pray to the Colonnae for the strength we will surely need. Noble and just is our cause; the truth will bring us victory.”

“And damn the Black Warlock to the hell he deserves,” agreed a young woman behind them. They turned to see Siana, Jolsen Smithyson, and Lennard standing proudly, fully arrayed for battle.

“Your place is with the wounded,” Benador said to her, though his tone was not scolding.

“They have been tended as well as they may,” Siana assured her king. “And those who could travel are long down the road toward Pallendara.”

“Go with them,” Benador bade them, honest sympathy in his voice. “All three of you. You have done your part in this war, more than your part. No more sacrifices can we ask of you.”

“Then take what is not asked for,” Lennard replied determinedly. “We will stand beside the wounded who cannot be moved.”

“And Thalasi will have to get across our lifeless bodies to strike at the helpless ones!” Jolsen agreed.

“Surely I did not heal them only to give them over,” Siana reasoned. “You will see, my King, that I am of value with sword as well as with the healing powers Rhiannon imparted to me.”

Benador could only smile at their defiant courage. “I do not doubt your words,” he said. “But let us hope that you will not see battle. Let us hope that the talons do not get as far as the tents of healing.”

The three young warriors nodded their agreement, but when Benador and his entourage moved away, their gazes drifted across the river to the swollen ranks of the talon camp, and they suspected that their leader’s hopes were in vain.

And from across the river, other, darker eyes looked back.

“Has the stupid wizard answered your challenge?” Mitchell asked impatiently.

“Logic says that he is on the way,” Thalasi replied. “Though I fear to rely on logic where Rudy Glendower is concerned.”

“We must go soon,” the wraith explained. “I have whipped them into a frenzy, and any delay will only steal from their excitement.”

“I want the missing wizard on the field,” Thalasi replied. “I want him where we can watch his every move. Ever does that one have a trick to pull!”

Mitchell looked down at the Black Warlock’s bony hands, clenched, as they always seemed to be, in fists of rage.

“But you are right,” Thalasi went on, calming again. “And I commend your work with the talons.”

“We will sweep the Calvans from the bridges,” Mitchell promised. “And chase them all the way back to Pallendara.”

“You understand the purpose of your undead legions?” Thalasi asked.

The wraith nodded, that evil smile spreading over his dark features. “I will hold them in reserve,” he replied. “And when the battle reaches a critical moment, I will lead them in.”

“The northernmost bridge,” Thalasi said. “That is the one I enchanted in that past age. Its enchantment is strong; it will not be destroyed.”

Mitchell nodded his assent. “And when-if-the wizard Ardaz appears to halt me? Have you prepared my weapon?”

Thalasi reached under the folds of his black robes and produced the wraith’s skull-headed mace. Mitchell felt it vibrating with dark power when his master handed it to him.

“It feels different to my touch,” he commented, a bit confused, for the instrument’s heavy balance had changed, had lessened; it seemed less a striking weapon, and its mighty head, the mace that had split boulders, was now lined with tiny holes.

Thalasi laughed at Mitchell’s hesitation. “Still you have not learned the true meaning of power,” he remarked. “Think not of your weapon as a striking mace, my friend, but as your scepter. Strike with it if you choose-it has lost none of its battering strength.”

Mitchell relaxed visibly.

“But the weapon has another feature now, a darker feature which should dim the light of Ardaz, or of any other fools who try to stand against you.” Calling an unfortunate talon to come over and stand before him, he took the scepter from Mitchell.

The talon trembled and rubbed its hands together.

It understood, or thought it understood, the terrible implications of becoming a testing ground for the Black Warlock’s powers, but the pitiful creature was simply too terrified to run away.

Still, for all its fears, the talon could not have been prepared for the ultimate doom that descended on it when Morgan Thalasi waved the scepter in its direction. Black flakes puffed out of the weapon’s head, falling over the talon in a perverted snowfall. The talon’s eyes widened in stark, disbelieving horror as it felt the coldness of doom engulf it, stealing its very soul. So terrible was its inner anguish that the talon did not even feel the physical burn of the flakes before it died. But burn they did, and in seconds the scepter’s first victim had been reduced to a bubbling mass of smoldering, shapeless ooze.