R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

“Do it!” Billy Shank cried out to him.

But Del could not bring himself to move. He looked down at his hand, trying to fight against his own revulsion and Thalasi’s insidious assaults. The very sight of his arm, veins engorged with blood from the tremendous pressure, and bruises on his forearm where smaller veins had already begun to rupture, dismayed him. He understood that he was beaten, no match for the power before him, and knew with the utmost revulsion and horror that soon he would actually explode.

Reinheiser relaxed considerably when he pulled alongside Thalasi, the master seeming fully in control.

High on the ledge, Sylvia saw it, too. The black cloud that was Morgan Thalasi would soon consume Del, and then the doom would fall upon the rest of her people. Desperately, she grasped at the one faint hope she could see and ran to the side of the fallen wizard. “Please, Ardaz,” she pleaded, cradling his head. “You must help us. Angfagdul will destroy us all!”

Ardaz opened one eye. “Nasty shot, you know,” he said with a cough-a cough that produced blood. “Really quite beyond me.” He started to drift again, but Sylvia shook him roughly. “Of course, of course,” he groaned in reply. “We must do something. Perhaps…” He silently mouthed some words, trying to remember a spell.

“Bring me an arrow,” he instructed. Quickly Sylvia handed him the finest arrow she had remaining in her quiver. Ardaz stroked its wooden shaft and chanted a spell of seeking. The effort cost him the last of his strength and he fell silent, his eyes closed once more.

Sylvia slipped the arrow from the wizard’s loose grip and fitted it to her bow as she ran back to the ledge, praying that the enchantment had been completed and that it would be enough to get the arrow through to Thalasi. With a deep breath to steady her trembling arms, she took a bead on the Black Warlock and fired.

Del would have been dead by then, except that Thalasi took his time, savoring the torment of this man who dared oppose him.

Sparks flew as the arrow’s stone tip struck the magic barrier. It deflected slightly but was not destroyed, and though it did not hit its mark, it came close enough to surprise and distract Thalasi.

For the second time, Del was free.

A furious Thalasi spun at the ledge and loosed a second white bolt of destruction.

Instead of waiting to see if her arrow found its mark, though, wise Sylvia was already moving. She dove back to the safety of the mountain wall just as the blast splintered the lip of the ledge into chunks of flying rubble.

Reinheiser, seated next to his master, hadn’t been so quick to react. The bolt crossed directly before his face and the intensity of the flash stunned and blinded him.

“Sylvia!” Del screamed in rage, and he thrust the pistol toward the Black Warlock, who countered by holding his staff horizontally in front of him with both hands and clenching down on its iron tips. Like the edged blade of a sword, waves of energy sliced viciously at Del, ripping his shirt and drawing a line of blood on his chest.

But Del would not be stopped this time. He thought of Ardaz and Sylvia, both of whom he believed killed by Thalasi’s thunderous attacks; he remembered again the image of Captain Mitchell on the beach, proclaiming himself a god. In his rage, Del found the strength to ignore the pain and resist the will of his foe.

As his sight returned, Reinheiser saw the look of undeniable determination on Del’s face and knew that his master was in mortal danger. “No!” he yelled, and leaped at Thalasi.

Too late. Del fired, and the bullet of the fourth magic, technology, sundered Thalasi’s black staff at its midpoint with a flash of brilliant green and tore into the Black Warlock with a fury heretofore unknown in Ynis Aielle. Reinheiser dove across the back of the hell-spawned stallion and fell headlong into the ground. In his hands he held an empty cloak, for there remained no sign of Thalasi, no sign that the warlock had ever been there, save a broken staff and a red cloak with a bullet hole in it.

Reinheiser pondered this turn of events for just a moment, until he felt warm blood trickling between his eyebrows and over the bridge of his nose. “Must have landed on a rock,” he mumbled as he slipped out of consciousness.

The white mare started in surprise at the gunshot, and Del, in his weakened state, tumbled off her back and to the ground. The pain in his chest had subsided, but his life’s blood flowed from numerous cuts and gashes. Del didn’t notice, too busy staring at the little pistol.

And at the blood on his hands.

Reinheiser’s horse flattened its ears and backed away as the white mare and Thalasi’s gaunt stallion squared off. Bent on destruction, the black horse reared and snorted its fire. Then, as if it suddenly realized the true nature and power of the being it faced, it dropped its head in submission, dissipated into vapors, and was gone.

In the northern end of the field, the elves’ horses stopped dancing. On the ledge, the archers reached for their remaining arrows.

The battle of magics was ended.

The battle of swords was about to begin.

A lone rider burst through the Calvan ranks, pushing all aside in his blind fury. Mitchell charged across the field, his great shield held high to protect against attacks from the ledge, and his spear level, leading him unmistakably toward his prey. Arrows cracked into his shield and whistled all about him, but he would not be deterred. His eyes saw nothing other than his quarry, his rage and frustration leading him down a narrow tunnel toward this man who had disrupted all of his plans.

By the time Arien realized the identity and intent of the rider, he knew it was too late to save Del. Angered at his failure to react, he spurred his stallion into motion and the elven charge began.

Rallied only by the threats of Ungden and their commanders, the Calvan army, hesitant and unsure, answered the elven assault.

Mitchell reared up alongside his helpless enemy, dipping the tip of his spear just above Del’s head. “Now you die,” he calmly, callously stated, a victory smile stamped upon his face. He raised his weapon for the death plunge.

Del’s eyes fixed upon the wicked tip of the spearhead, its image ringing unnaturally clear in the field of his blurred vision like the balancing point of his consciousness. Dazed and slipping from reality, he could not truly appreciate that he was indeed about to die.

Still, even as he fainted away, somewhere in the back of his mind he understood a sensation of relief when he saw the blur that was the white mare’s hind leg smashing into Mitchell’s side.

Viewing the whole scene from the ledge, and hardly understanding the true nature of the white mare, Sylvia could hardly believe that this beast had come to the rescue.

Then the battle was joined and her joy left her, for even with all that had transpired, the Calvans badly outnumbered the elves. The sorceries had been played out; this clash was now solely sword against sword. And in that context, with no more tricks to spring, the elven cause seemed hopeless.

“Pick your shots carefully,” Sylvia told her companions. “We haven’t an arrow to waste.”

One of the other archers, a young maiden with eyes too pure to be witnessing such carnage, walked over to her. “Lady Sylvia,” she said. “Arien declared me message bearer to those that departed the city. I await your word on how I should proceed.”

Sylvia turned back to the field. Already the sheer number of Calvans had created a distinct advantage. A portion of Ungden’s army had swung around the elven line and Arien’s warriors found themselves flanked on three sides and were being driven back toward the drop to Blackemara.