R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

“And I am Thalasi, not Reinheiser,” the Black Warlock muttered, testing out the depth of his newfound tranquillity with a proclamation that before would surely have brought resistance from the spirit of Martin Reinheiser.

“Of course,” the being agreed with himself. The logic was inescapable. “Morgan Thalasi. A name that strikes dread into every heart of Ynis Aielle.” The Black Warlock found no internal rage at the declaration, though the will of Martin Reinheiser remained an equal part of his makeup. Morgan Thalasi was the obvious choice for the name, both for keeping the talons in line and striking terror into the hearts of foes.

The part of the Black Warlock that remained Martin Reinheiser understood the value of this and accepted the conclusion without argument. All that mattered was the harmony.

And the power that harmony would bring.

He walked out onto the tower balcony. The day was remarkably clear for Kored-dul, and the Black Warlock could see for many miles from the high vantage point.

“Go out!” he cried to the talons assembling at the base of the structure. Their whispers faded away to a hush at the simple utterance of those two words. They sensed the change in the Black Warlock, sensed the hushed power of the being, and they wanted to hear the commands of their true master, the one possessed of the powers of a god that most of them knew only from the tales their fathers and grandfathers had told them.

“Go out to the dark holes and valleys,” Thalasi roared. “Find your kin! Tell them that Morgan Thalasi has returned to lead them all! Tell them that Morgan Thalasi is hungry!

“Tell them that Morgan Thalasi claims this world!”

The proclamation resounded off every stone in Kored-dul, found its way to every talon ear. The call to arms and to glory. And they came, every one, willingly, hungrily.

The Black Warlock had returned.

“YE’VE CHOSEN YER steeds and the road?” Bellerian asked.

“Ayuh,” replied Belexus, seeming the very image of his venerable father. Gray flecks peppered his unkempt black locks, but his huge corded muscles still held the hardness of youthful strength. “Across the bridges to the west and Corning, then back to great Pallendara afore we ride for home.”

Bellerian remembered the roads well, though he had not traveled them, except for a brief trek to the great city, in nearly half a century. He had once been a nobleman of great repute in the court of Pallendara, but then an unlawful king had stolen the throne and sent all of Calva into tumult. Bellerian had escaped to the borders of Avalon, taking many of the children of his fellow nobles-children who would become the proud warriors known as the Rangers of Avalon-with him.

Bitter years, those decades of Ungden’s rule had been, though Brielle and Ardaz had offered a good life to Bellerian and his troupe. Always the Ranger Lord turned his eyes southward to the rolling plains, where the scourge of Ungden the Usurper exacted a heavy toll on the land and people alike. The reign of terror lasted for three full decades, ending in the bloody Battle of Mountaingate, when the ancient ones came to Ynis Aielle. With Ungden’s forces defeated and the Usurper himself slain, Benador, the heir of the rightful king, sat on Pallendara’s throne, and after twenty years of the goodly man’s rule, the scars of Ungden were few and fading.

But Bellerian could not bring himself to return to Pallendara, the place of his early life. Avalon was his home now, but still, his son’s mention of traveling across Calva tugged at Bellerian’s heartstrings, and he found his eyes turning once again to the rolling fields south of the enchanted forest.

“Prepare a third horse,” Bellerian instructed his son.

Belexus looked at Andovar, his most trusted friend, standing beside him. Andovar wasn’t as formidable as the son of Bellerian, but he stood tall and straight, with the piercing eyes and firm chin that marked the proud rangers.

“Will ye be riding?” Andovar asked hopefully. “Suren we’d be blessed to have the likes o’ Bellerian beside us.”

“Me thanks for yer kind words,” Bellerian replied. “But ’tis not for meself that ye’ll be needing the third mount. Ye’ll have a guest for the trip, one ye’ll come to welcome beyond the company of an old man.”

“Who, then?” asked Belexus, intrigued by his father’s wry smile.

“A favor has been asked of us-of yerself-from one deserving our service,” Bellerian began slowly, searching for the right method of springing such amazing news on the two men. “The daughter of this deservin’ friend desires to see the world.”

Sour looks passed between Belexus and Andovar, the old Ranger Lord noted. These two were not an ungrateful lot, he understood, and they would certainly heed his wishes, but they had fancied a journey of excitement and exploration through the coming months and were not thrilled at the prospects of carrying along an inexperienced child.

“Ye know we’ll take the lass,” Belexus remarked. “But-”

“But?” Bellerian cut in. “Ye’ll take her, indeed! And gladly!” They hid their disappointment well, but Bellerian could sense that they still did not understand the true meaning of his words.

“Would it bring ye a smile if I told ye that ’twas the Emerald Witch, Brielle herself, doing the asking?”

Belexus snapped his eyes up on his father; Andovar swooned and nearly stumbled to the ground.

“The Lady,” Andovar breathed. He had spent the bulk of his life walking her domain, hoping for a tiny glimpse of the fair witch or, in more recent years, her enchanting daughter. But Avalon was a wide forest, and Brielle and Rhiannon kept few friends.

“Ye’re asking that we take Rhiannon along with us?” Belexus gasped, both afraid and hoping that his father would confirm the fact.

“That I be,” chuckled Bellerian. “I’m asking, as Brielle herself asked o’ me. Are ye willing?”

“We are!” Andovar roared before Belexus could open his mouth.

Both Belexus and his father could not contain their laughter. Andovar looked away, embarrassed, but soon joined in their mirth.

“A great responsibility follows ye, then,” Bellerian said, his voice suddenly grave. “Rhiannon’s a woman now-aye, what a woman, indeed-but unknowin’ of the ways of the world.”

“The witch’s daughter will be safe beside us,” Belexus assured his father.

Bellerian did not doubt it for a moment. “Ye are the finest warriors in all the world, and yer honor is above question. But ye might find other trials ridin’ the road beside the likes o’ Rhiannon. Her spirit is no more bridled than her mother’s, and she’s not versed in the ways of the men outside her wood.”

“Fear not for Rhiannon,” Andovar replied. “Fear for any fool that might try her honor!” Instinctively, Andovar’s hand fell to his sword hilt.

Bellerian smiled, but did not reply. Andovar spoke the truth, and it was that very truth that concerned the Ranger Lord. He knew the love that Andovar had for Avalon and its mysterious mentors, and suspected that the ranger would take on the entire garrison of Pallendara if any of them brought the slightest harm to Rhiannon. But Bellerian was satisfied. He looked at Belexus and winked, knowing that his levelheaded son would keep the reins tight on his overly exuberant companion.

“Let her run, but keep her safe,” Bellerian instructed both of them.

“How many?” Thalasi demanded in that peculiar dual-toned voice that only added to the terror he exuded.

“Lots an’ lots!” Burgle replied with a strained smile, obviously hoping the answer would suffice. The creature couldn’t count past ten, after all, and the ranks of the talons gathering around Talas-dun numbered more than a thousand times Burgle’s mathematical limit. From every corner of Kored-dul they came, heeding the summons of their master.