R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

Bryan, ever alert, was there to catch her.

Freed of the magical assault, the Black Warlock slithered to the west. His day was ended; all the talons on this side of the river were in full flight, and those across the way would soon be exterminated by the Calvan forces. There would be no more crossing of the river anytime soon; all four of the bridges had been washed away.

And now Thalasi had only one thought: get back to Talas-dun, where he might lick his wounds. Little optimism remained in the Black Warlock, for even if he could manage the journey to his bastion of power, he understood that Brielle had been right in her scolding: he, and the other wizards in response, had ripped at the very heart of the magic energies that gave them their powers. And that heart, Thalasi now for the first time feared, would never mend.

Brielle leaned heavily against an ancient oak, her legs too weary to support her. “Ye stupid bastard, Morgan Thalasi,” she panted, hardly able to speak the words. Weary as she was, the Emerald Witch understood that she had to regain her strength and her resolve very soon, for though Thalasi’s storm clouds and her own enchantments had been blasted apart, the fires that now ravaged several sections of Avalon remained in full force.

Brielle would save a portion of the wood, and the rest would grow back in time. But the Emerald Witch’s enchanted reign over Avalon had reached its pinnacle. Brielle was determined that she would stubbornly hold on to a portion of what had once been; she would keep a shining light burning in the heart of the forest for many centuries to come. But the rest of vast Avalon would survive only as an ordinary forest. What the witch already knew, and what the rest of the world would soon find out, was that Avalon had put its best days behind it.

Both it and the Emerald Witch were on the wane.

Even more disastrous was the scene in Pallendara, for Istaahl, just recently recovered from three decades as a prisoner of the Black Warlock, had fared badly in the conflict. His tower was gone, and he knew he would never find the strength to rebuild it. Stone masons would flock to his aid, no doubt, but then the tower of Istaahl the White, like the greater part of the new Avalon that would eventually return, would be a normal work, not an enchanted one.

Istaahl showed no emotion to the many healers who tended his serious-mortal for a mortal man-wounds.

He sat silent and unblinking, his thoughts a lament for days gone by and a concern for the days ahead. For while the diminishing of the magics would also lessen the threat of the Black Warlock, the goodly people of Ynis Aielle, the men and elves, would have to stand on their own for the first time.

And with the tragedy of the battle across the bridges and the destruction of the western fields, they would begin their singular reign on a dark note indeed.

Benador and his troops soon had the bulk of the talons on the eastern side of the river fully contained. Smaller bands of the wretched things ran loose, fleeing every which way, and would have to be hunted down, but the determined King remained confident that the battle now neared its end. He focused his thoughts on the future of his kingdom, on the rebuilding that would have to be done, beginning with the construction of a new bridge across the great river.

He watched now as the swollen river subsided to its normal flow, wondering how many of his own warriors had been washed away in the deluge. Of the Four Bridges, only the eastern and western third of the northernmost remained, but they seemed so cracked that the whole of the structure would probably have to be scrapped.

Arien Silverleaf charged his mount up and down the northern edges of the battlefield, frantic in his search. Ryell, his dearest friend, rode beside him, but had already accepted the grim news as true. Sylvia, Arien’s valiant daughter, had perished in the flood.

“Her death was not in vain,” the human archer had told them. “Many are alive because of her valor in getting us from the edges of the river.”

At the time, the archer’s words had rung hollow in the ears of the elven Eldar, but in years to come, Arien would use them often as a litany against his unending grief.

He would have spent the entire day riding back and forth and all about the nearby encampments in search of his daughter, but a sight he could not ignore, no matter how deep his own grief, assailed him when he ventured near the broken bridges.

There, on the very lip of the blasted eastern spur of the northernmost bridge, hung two figures: the top with one hand locked on a jutting piece of stone, the other hand grasping the limply hanging form of his companion.

Arien and Ryell charged back up the bank and swung around toward the bridge. “Survivors on the bridge!” Ryell cried to the two men nearest the structure. Bellerian and Billy Shank.

Billy, supporting the Ranger Lord in his grief, was nearly knocked to the ground when Bellerian heard the call. They both had watched in horror only a moment before as the Silver Mage destroyed the bridge, and then as the floodwaters had surged through, apparently taking Belexus and the wizard with them.

And now Billy Shank had all he could do to hold the Ranger Lord back from the structure.

“It might not be safe!” Billy cried.

“Me son!” was all Bellerian replied.

“If you rush out there, you might cave in the whole structure,” Billy scolded. “Then there would remain no survivors!”

Bellerian calmed as he realized the truth of Billy’s words.

King Benador noticed the commotion and charged to the base of the structure just as Arien and Ryell arrived. The two elves leaped from their saddles and tentatively started out onto the first stones of the spur, Billy and Bellerian right beside them.

“Beware the bridge!” the King warned.

Arien held out his arms to stop his companions. “I go alone,” he insisted. “We know not how much weight the structure can support.”

“Then I go,” argued Ryell. “You are the Eldar of our people. Better that I should perish if the bridge falls away.”

Arien turned a cold stare on Ryell. “I go,” he said with bitter finality. “I have lost my daughter this day. I will not risk my closest friend as well.” He turned and took a long stride out onto the bridge, and Ryell moved to stop him.

But Benador, understanding the grief on Arien’s face, agreed that the Eldar must do this, and he grabbed Ryell’s shoulder and held him back.

Arien got out to the end and dropped to his knees. Belexus-he had known all along that it could only be Belexus-hung below him, apparently unconscious. But even in that blackness the mighty ranger had not faltered. His left hand clutched the stone of the bridge with strength enough to defeat the pull of the flood. That feat alone would be the stuff of legends, but even more amazing, the ranger’s right hand held with equal strength the thick folds of Ardaz’s blue robes.

“It is your son, Ranger Lord!” Arien called back. “And the Silver Mage.” With the confirmation, it now took Billy, Benador, and Ryell to hold Bellerian back.

Arien quickly pulled a length of rope from his pack and crept down the facing of the broken bridge to a point where he could loop an end around the wizard. Ardaz opened one eye to watch and shot a hopeful smile at his rescuer. But the wizard did not dare move, aware that his robes had started to tear away in several places.

Arien winked his reassurance, then climbed back to the top, keeping one hand tightly on Belexus in case the ranger’s grip should fail.

Bellerian, though sorely wounded and weary, scrambled out through the grasps of Billy and Ryell when he saw Arien come back up, dragging the rope.

“As I am your king,” Benador said to Billy and Ryell, “I command you to remain here!” And then Benador, despite the horrified shrieks of his entourage, sprinted out onto the bridge.