R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Pitifully, Ungden drew his ornate sword, hardly able to hold the heavy blade steady in his feeble arms. Fahwayn twirled above Arien’s head once, then smashed into Ungden’s sword, driving it from his grasp. No mercy stayed Arien’s rage; he didn’t even realize that his whimpering opponent was now unarmed as he brought Fahwayn above his head again in a twirl. Without the slightest hesitation, he unleashed all of his anger into one mighty swing and lopped off the Usurper’s head.

Ungden’s body held its position for a moment, as if frozen in disbelief, then slumped onto the back of its horse. Arien watched with grim satisfaction as the head rolled about in the dirt. He expected the Warders to rush in and kill him now, but the only rider approaching was Belexus, bending low over the side of Calamus to scoop up the head.

Soon the ranger was soaring over the field, displaying the gruesome trophy and blowing wildly on his horn.

To Arien’s amazement, the Warders of the White Walls saluted him for his victory and, heads down in shame, started back across the field. The Eldar looked upon them with pity now, honorable men broken by the bindings of an oath that had forced them into servitude to a tyrant. Only by defeating them in battle had Arien and Belexus freed them of their responsibilities.

With the sight of their own champions leaving, and the great ranger-with two score of his brutal allies charging down upon them-holding their Overlord’s severed head, the Calvans’ heart for this fight shattered. Some fought on, more in fear than in anger, but most rode wildly back across Mountaingate and fled into the cover of Avalon. Many merely dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.

The Battle of Mountaingate was ended.

“DANCE WITH ME!” she teased, and twirled across the moonlit field, the short cape tossing about her naked form as she ran, heightening his hunger. He could not resist her, was defenseless against her innocent smile, her bewitching eyes, and her simple purity. She could break him with a word.

And yet he knew only security in her presence.

The cape rode up high as she spun with a careless laugh, her thighs catching the quiet rays of moonlight in a soft, enticing glow that held his longing gaze.

A long moment passed and still the light commanded his full attention. Subtly the light transformed, intensified, an entity unto itself now.

It should have been gone… the cape would fall back down… surely she must have moved again.

But it remained.

And she was gone, and the field. He tried to recapture the moment, the feeling, but they were no more. Only the light remained.

The light.

He became aware of something chill and wet against his cheek. Gradually he realized that he was lying facedown.

Doggedly, Del willed one of his eyes open. The brightness soon came into focus as bedewed grass, holding a crystalline sparkle that could only be the light of morning. Beyond stood the arching silver telvensils that formed the gateway to the paths up the mountains.

He was on Mountaingate, he realized, and the name triggered other recollections. Slowly he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows to survey the field. A harsh reality awaited him.

Mountaingate, once proud and fitting entrance to the great Crystal Mountains, lay in ruin. Beneath the maddened charge of armies, its waving grasses had been trampled and churned into broken sod, now slick with the blood and gore of the fallen. Crumpled and broken forms, elven and human alike, littered the field, and riderless horses wandered mournfully about in aimless confusion. Wisps of gray smoke still rose from the areas charred and blackened by wizard’s fire, dulling Del’s vision with a dreamlike quality.

But Del understood the reality. A bitter mixture of revulsion and anger welled in his throat as he gazed upon the carnage. He thought of the beauty and magic of this land, given to man as a gift from the gods, and one word alone escaped from the bile in his mouth. “Sacrilege.”

He turned away, unable to face Billy and Sylvia as they approached, and saw yet another travesty.

Along the western side of Mountaingate by the drop to Blackemara, the Calvan prisoners sat huddled and miserable under a brutal guard of unsympathetic elves. The wretched humans were not allowed to move or speak, and punishment for any disobedience came swift and harsh, the butt end of a spear or a well-aimed kick.

“Their hate runs deep,” Billy said, noticing that Del had taken an interest in the scene.

Helplessly Del shook his head, desperately wishing that he could block out all of the grisly scenes before him. “Ardaz?” he asked suddenly, remembering Thalasi’s assault on the ledge.

“He is well,” Sylvia replied. “Angfagdul’s attack wounded him.” She mimicked Ardaz’s voice lightheartedly. “ ‘But we wizards are a sturdy lot, you know, tougher than the stones in a mountain, though a bit more cracked, I do daresay!’ ” But even Sylvia couldn’t hold her smile. “He is at council now, with Ryell and Arien and the other elders,” she explained.

“And Erinel?”

Billy and Sylvia looked to each other for support.

“Gone, Del,” Billy answered grimly. He looked forlornly over the blasted field. “Like so many others.”

Del had to force himself to breathe steady over the next few minutes.

“Did the council go well, Father?” Sylvia dared to ask when Arien found them later that morning.

“Hatred,” Arien replied sadly. “It is my belief that the destruction of Ungden and Morgan Thalasi ended this war, and perhaps could mark a new and better age. Caer Tuatha will not attack us again.”

“Why would they want to?” Billy reasoned.

“Such was my argument,” Arien said. “But the death of kin and friend breeds vengeance.”

“Oh, damn,” Del groaned. He looked again at the miserable Calvan prisoners and the unchanging grimace of the elven guards. “And what of them?” he asked somberly, fearing the answer.

Arien hesitated and shrugged. “The Calvan dead shall be left on the field for the carrion birds, and the prisoners tried before the council for crimes against Illuma. Some may be set free to give the appearance of justice, but most I fear, are doomed.”

Del trembled on the edge of control. “And those that fled?”

“Hunted down and punished.”

“You have to stop this!”

“I am helpless!” Arien shouted back at him. The Eldar calmed at once and true sorrow showed in his eyes. “Never have I felt so alone among my people. None but Ardaz stood beside me at council.”

As if on cue, Ardaz walked by at that moment, though he seemed to pay no notice to his friends. “Terrible,” he muttered to himself, wandering off toward the cliff wall. “Just terrible.”

The wizard pulled the black cat off of his shoulder and blew gently into her face to awaken her. “Des,” he said, “I need you now, my sweet. Get to Avalon, bring us some help!” And at his bidding, Desdemona became a raven and flew off into the afternoon sky.

The searchers Arien had dispatched arrived on the field later that day with the group of elves that had fled to the mountains. All were overjoyed at the unexpected return to their homeland, yet there a grim task remained before them, and the victory celebration would have to wait.

Using responsibility and respect to their dead as a shield against grief, the elves worked tirelessly long after sunset to complete the huge pyre. And when the many-tiered wooden tower, beautifully crafted and worked to be a fitting monument to the heroic dead, was at last completed, all of Illuma looked on solemnly as nearly fourscore Children of the Moon, friends who should have lived for centuries to come, were gently laid upon its benches.