R. Salvatore - The Witch_s Daughter

Thalasi’s answer came as another blast of lightning, a furious bolt that split the earth around the perimeter of Brielle’s fortress forest.

Hurricane winds buffeted Istaahl’s tower, swaying the tall structure far to the side and then back again. The desperate wizard evoked magical arms to engulf the structure, holding it together in its wild ride.

“Damn you, Thalasi!” Istaahl growled, for he, too, understood that the Black Warlock had broken all bounds of sensibility, had grabbed at the powers of the universe and pulled them to his evil will with such blatant ferocity that it all could unravel at his feet. All the world would feel the destruction.

But if the Black Warlock had any concern for such possibilities, he did not show it. The winds around the White Tower slammed into the stone and swirled about it, and bolts of lightning scorched its sides and split the ground around its base.

And Istaahl, though he feared the consequences, could only respond by pushing his own magic further, by tugging back on the universal powers with an intensity that rivaled Thalasi’s.

“I am the god!” Thalasi roared, his voice shaking the ground for miles around. “And all the world is mine! Behold Morgan Thalasi and know you are doomed!”

The power continued its twisted flow through the Staff of Death and through Thalasi’s limbs, conductors that bent the natural strength of the world to suit the Black Warlock’s foul purposes. Thalasi was drunk with it, fully enraptured in the ecstasy of unbelievable might. He had outdone his own expectation, had grabbed at the core of the world and pulled it to his hands. His black globe cracked and crumbled the ground below it into pockets of broken, barren rubble. And then Thalasi moved on to another spot, for the Staff of Death demanded more.

“I am the god!” Thalasi yelled again. One group of talons rushed by, spurred by the proclamations of their unholy leader.

Too close.

The black sphere of Thalasi sucked them into its vortex, and the unfortunate creatures came out as mere pulses in the black bolts the warlock aimed at the sky.

“What is it?” Bryan demanded. He shook Rhiannon violently, but the young witch showed no signs of consciousness. Her thoughts were fully turned inward as the evil spectacle of Thalasi continued its roar in her ears. Still the magic grew in the young witch despite her efforts, born of sheer instinctual terror, to drive it out.

Bryan understood his companion’s dilemma. He had seen her hesitation at calling forth the most destructive uses of her power, and he understood that the power now demanded more of her than ever before, more even than Rhiannon had used when she and he had routed the talon caravan back in the mountains two days before.

And that effort had nearly destroyed the young witch.

“Let it in!” Bryan implored Rhiannon. “Accept the power for the sake of all the world!”

Rhiannon did not blink, every instinct within her fighting against the awful possession, the complete surrender to a strength that might never let her go.

The lines on the bridges rolled back and forth, with each side gaining ground only to be hammered back to where they had started. A dozen men and a score of talons died each minute, and their blood mixed with the rainwater, washing from the sides and staining the great river itself in a garish crimson hue.

Arien still held his elven forces back. They had been assigned as the reserves of the army and would no doubt see more action than they cared to before all was finished. And with all that had gone on in the talon camp the past few days, the Eldar feared something else, a different line of attack. Surely this new general of Thalasi’s army was skilled enough to know that he would not so easily breach the defenses of the bridges.

When Arien’s daughter called out a short while later, the Eldar knew he had been wise to keep to the side.

“Boats on the river!” Sylvia yelled. A hundred craft, riding low under the weight of talon flesh, moved out from the western bank.

Arien put his archers to action and called for all the reserves that Benador could spare. The trip across the wide River Ne’er Ending would not be an easy one for Thalasi’s wicked minions.

But a moment later the Eldar found his attention turned back to the bridges, or more particularly, to the northernmost bridge. The ranks of Calvan defenders split apart suddenly, the brave men fleeing in horror.

The wraith and his legions of undead had made their appearance.

Only the Rangers of Avalon, spurred by the unflinching courage of Belexus Backavar, came onto the bridge to fill the breach.

Mitchell stayed back and let his zombie minions pass him by. They fell by the dozen to the flashing blades of the rangers, but they outnumbered the brave warriors of Avalon by more than five to one, and gradually the press of rotting flesh made its inevitable way toward the eastern exit of the bridge.

Belexus held out in their midst, whacking away arms and heads with each mighty stroke, and soon he no longer even flinched when he beheaded a creature only to see it reach back toward him with its filthy, bone-clawed hands.

And then many zombies focused on the single rider, and they lashed at Belexus’ horse, driving the thing down under their sheer weight.

Arien had to leave much of his force behind with Sylvia to contend with the closing line of boats, but the elves, with their deeper understanding of mortality and of experience beyond this life, did not fear the animated corpses as did the humans, and their charge caught the zombie horde at the eastern base of the northernmost bridge.

Arien spurred his stallion right through the zombie ranks, trampling the things to the stone in the singular path of his ride. He had seen Belexus fall and would not accept the death of the gallant ranger.

But Belexus was not finished. He found himself kneeling and then struggled against the press to his feet, brought his huge sword in a killing sweep that cut three of the monsters fully in half. Blood from a score of clawed wounds ran down the ranger’s arms and chest, but he lashed out with sword and fist, smashing the zombies away.

Still, their sheer numbers would have buried him where he stood. But then, for some reason he could not understand, the zombies moved away from him, walked past without showing any concern for him at all.

Arien, finally halted in his attempt to get to the ranger, was glad when he saw the sea of corpses flow away from a still standing Belexus, but the Eldar’s relief turned to dread when he, like the ranger, at last came to understand the meaning of the zombies’ sudden disinterest.

For near the center of the arching bridge now stood only two figures, Belexus of Avalon and Hollis Mitchell, the wraith whose mere thoughts guided the zombie army.

“I could not let them kill you,” Mitchell explained in his grating voice. “That task is for my pleasure alone!”

“Yer boasts are mere words,” Belexus retorted, steadying himself and taking full measure of this newest adversary. Brielle had warned him about facing the wraith again, but the ranger could not control the rage within himself, which demanded he avenge the death of his dearest friend and banish this perverted creature and its horrid minions from the world of the living.

“Come and see for yourself, fool.” Mitchell laughed at him, teasing him with an easy swing of the skull-headed scepter.

Belexus could not know the dark evil that was in that weapon. He clutched his great sword in both hands and worked his way in.

The zombie army continued its push along the eastern range of the bridges, disrupting the defensive lines wherever they went. And on the great river, the line of boats steadily approached, heedless of the shower of arrows. Whatever his desires at that moment, Arien Silverleaf had an army to command, and he could not go to the ranger’s side.