Bastion of Darkness

Chapter 17
Rally Cry

THE AVALON MARE responded with greater ease and greater strength than anything Bryan had ever known, weaving in and out of the towering snow drifts along the twisting ways of lighter snow cover. Not an experienced rider, the half-elf struggled for many miles, soreness settling in across his knotted leg muscles and buttocks. Finally, though, after more than two hours in the saddle, Bryan began to grow at ease, his natural elven affinity for animals helping him to empathize with the mount, to understand the signals he was sending to it, and that allowed him to figure out the proper posture and movements for a smoother and swifter run. His confidence growing, the half-elf loosened his grip on the reins, and the mare bent her head low.

Then the mare was running strong and tireless, the snow-covered land speeding by Bryan as he crouched low, his legs working in a rhythmic and painless posting action.

All the rest of that day, the mare pounded on, with Bryan stopping only when the horse seemed to need a break. Late that afternoon, the half-elf found an appropriate campsite, a patch of frozen brown earth in this mostly white wasteland sea. Though the snow was deep out here, the winds had brought it up in high drifts, and those areas in the shadows of the drifts had little snow cover.

The next day was much the same, and the next after that, but Bryan did notice that the snow cover was gradually lessening the farther he got out from Avalon. The strong winds of the empty plain continued to pile the white stuff up in drifts, but this far out, the winds were more from the west than the north, carrying the warmer air from the sea and turning most winter storms into rainy events. That would prove a mixed blessing, Bryan knew, for though the going would be straighter with less snow obstacles, the concealing cover, too, would be lessened. The brown-and-white streaked plain stretched out far in every direction, a skeletal bush sticking through here and there, and Bryan understood that if he could see that far, then creatures far away might also spot him in his telltale rider’s silhouette.

His fears came to fruition later that fourth morning. A fog covered all the region early on, but it lifted rapidly, leaving the half-elf and his mount dangerously exposed on a stretch of flat ground. Sure enough, Bryan soon saw many forms breaking the horizon north and west of his position, and when he veered more to the south, he noted that there, too, were talons. They were not walking or running, but were riding on their lizard mounts, swift creatures that could almost catch a horse.

The half-elf grimaced and considered his course. He knew that his Avalon mount could outrun the lizards, tired as she had to be, but if he split the talon ranks, running straight to the west, it wouldn’t be hard for this band to figure out his destination. His only chance of getting into Talas-dun would be through stealth, and this group of obviously organized talons, even if they could not catch him, could certainly jeopardize that, could pass word along secret ways, perhaps with signal fires.

Reluctantly Bryan swung his horse about, turning to the southeast, the general direction of Corning, he figured. He figured that he would allow the talons to close on him, then lead them on a long chase, finally outdistancing them and circling wide in an arc that would bring him around a hundred and eighty degrees.

The talons closed as expected, those north of Bryan gradually catching their closer companions, all the band of about thirty creatures forming together into one whooping mob. They thought they had ambushed a single rider on a tired mount, one they could run down to exhaustion and then easily overwhelm. On they came, hollering and hooting, close enough so that Bryan could make out their every threatening word.

But the talons did not understand the power of an Avalon horse, and the mare easily paced them. Bryan had to rein her in many times to keep the talons hot on the trail. They covered several miles, and the talon hoots grew less and less, and Bryan understood that it was time to fly away. He fast approached a ridgeline, the backside of it conveniently hidden. He would go over the top, he decided, and cut fast to the east, and by the time his pursuers got to the ridge, he would be out of sight. He looked back once, offered a few choice curse words of his own, then turned back and lowered his head, letting the mare run free.

Her thunder had only just begun when Bryan’s heart caught in his throat, when the ridgeline verily exploded with rushing forms. For an instant the half-elf thought he was trapped and surely to die, thought that a third talon band had encircled him, thought that those behind him, perhaps, had even herded him in this direction. He winced, even cried aloud as the air about him filled with the buzzing of rushing arrows.

A horn blew, a note so clear that no talon could ever have produced it, and then Bryan understood. “Rangers,” he breathed, turning back to take note of the devastation the arrow volley had inflicted on the pursuing talons. When he looked ahead again to the ridgeline, he witnessed the splendor of the thunderous charge, Bellerian and his warrior kin tilting low their long spears, twenty-two Avalon mounts pounding up snow and frozen dirt, hooves ringing on the hard ground.

They passed by Bryan in such a rush that the wind of them nearly tumbled him from his seat, and as he collected his wits, he pulled the mare to a stop, thinking to turn back and join in the fight.

That notion left him as soon as he regarded the scene. The talons, too, had tried to stop and turn, and several had. The others, though… Every one that had survived the arrow barrage had been lifted from its saddle by a ranger spear and now lay dead or squirming on the ground. As for those few who had turned in flight, the powerful Avalon horses easily caught up to them, and a ranger sword finished them each with one clean stroke.

Bryan hardly knew what to say as the efficient warriors collected about him, some moving to finish whining talons or to chase off any remaining lizards, others following Bellerian to face the stunned young half-elf.

“Me name’s Bellerian,” the ranger lord introduced himself.

“Bryan,” the half-elf responded, his voice cracking. He steadied himself and took a deep breath. “Bryan of Corning.”

“We’re knowing yer name, and knowing who sent ye, and knowing, too, where ye’re going, lad,” Bellerian explained. “Rhiannon’s been kin to us since the day o’ her birth. Ye’ll not be going alone.”

Bryan nodded his agreement-what else could he do?-but while he was truly glad to have such fine swordsmen accompany him, he held deep reservations. A group of a score and three would be much more noticeable than a single rider, after all, and Bryan was hoping for stealth, not strength, because he knew that all the strength of all the goodly folk in all the world might not be enough to defeat Talas-dun. He couldn’t find it in his heart to argue against awesome Bellerian, though, the legendary ranger lord of Avalon, a man whom Bryan’s father, Meriwindle, had oft spoken of, and always in the most reverent of tones. So Bryan would let the rangers accompany him and get him to Talas-dun, however they might, he decided, and then he would go it alone, into the darkness after Rhiannon.

“A dark day,” a soldier working on the bridge remarked to his fellows, the lot of them watching the procession as the king inspected the progress. Word had come into camp that morning, dark word, of the suspected fate of Brielle’s daughter. Rhiannon was no stranger to these soldiers; during the fierce fighting at the bridges, the young witch had served as healer, and many of the men now working owed their lives to her.

“Work well,” King Benador called to the group. “When the bridge is ready, we shall cross the great river; then let Morgan Thalasi tremble.”

That brought nods of resolve and a few angry grunts, and the men turned right back to their task, doubling their efforts. The whispers that had carried the rumors out of Benador’s tent had also spoken of the king’s determination to get across the river, to ride out to the west, all the way to Talas-dun if need be, to rescue Rhiannon or, at least, to punish those responsible for bringing her harm. Every man and woman in the great force gathered on the eastern bank of the river wholeheartedly agreed, and so that same day a secret pact was drawn up among the bridge builders, unbeknownst to Benador or any of the other commanders. All of their work shifts would be lengthened, that the work on the bridge would not cease, all day, and through the long and cold night.

Two days later, when the secretive plan became obvious enough to all around, when word of the double labor reached King Benador’s ears, he came out again to the bridge for a conference with the workers, asking for an explanation of the lights burning through the night.

“Two weeks, my king.” The grim answer came from the appointed spokesman for the group. “The bridge will be ready within two weeks.” All around the man came words of assent.

“It’s not safe to work at night,” one of the job commanders remarked, to the speaker and to Benador. “Too cold and too dark. One of you might fall into the river, and be swept away.”

“A risk we’ll gladly take for Rhiannon of Avalon.” The reply came from several of the workers, a cry seconded by everyone about.

King Benador spent a long while looking them over, searching their faces to find the truth in their hearts. And that truth, that every one of these men and women agreed and accepted the risks, was indeed heartening to the young king. Unexpectedly, he dropped from his mount and dropped off his kingly robes and moved to a stone. “For Rhiannon of Avalon,” he said determinedly, putting his back to the lever, and a great cheer arose.

Benador worked with them those days, and they were able to shorten the shifts once more, less hours and more intense grueling work per shift, but with double the number of shifts, for many others followed the king’s lead and came down to the bridge to offer their support. The prediction of two weeks to open the bridge had seemed ludicrous when first proclaimed, but within a couple of days, it seemed as if that prediction might prove far too conservative.

In Lochsilinilume, the city of elves, response to word of the missing witch was instant and universal, and that same day, preparations were made, provisions packed and weapons sharpened, and the very next morning, Arien Silverleaf led his determined forces out of the enchanted valley. The bells on the elvish horses jingled gaily, but the mood was truly grim. This outrage, the abduction of the daughter of Brielle, the daughter of Avalon, the elves could not tolerate.

Not long after the dark news of Rhiannon passed the gathering at the remains of the Four Bridges, it continued south and east, to the gates of Pallendara. Most distressed in all the city was Istaahl the White, a personal friend of Brielle and of her daughter.

“Brielle,” the White Wizard called into his crystal ball, sending his thoughts across the miles to Avalon. “Jennifer Glendower, do you hear?” he added, using the witch’s ancient name.

Within minutes, Brielle had enchanted her reflecting pool and stood facing the far-distant wizard, and his expression alone told her that he had heard the news of Rhiannon’s abduction, and that his heart, too, had broken.

“You believe he took her to Talas-dun?” Istaahl asked.

“Where else might the dark wraith be going?” Brielle replied. “No, he took her there, to Thalasi, to his master.”

“Then to Talas-dun I shall go!” Istaahl proclaimed.

“To tear down every wall around the Black Warlock until he surrenders Rhiannon to me!”

Brielle offered a warm smile, though she knew, despite the wizard’s good intentions, that there was little Istaahl could truly do. Talas-dun was quite beyond his power, as it was beyond Brielle’s, in these times of waning magic. And though Istaahl would remain close to his source of strength, the great ocean, in the region of Talas-dun, he could not begin to match the power of Morgan Thalasi in that evil place.

But Istaahl could not accept that helplessness. For hundreds of years, he had served as advisor to the various kings of Pallendara, had served as wise man and court wizard. For hundreds of years he had been one of the four most powerful persons in all the known world, and now, with this most terrible crisis looming, his impotence did not sit well on his old shoulders. “I will find a way,” the White Wizard promised, and he bade the fair witch farewell, promising to speak with her again to allow her to mark his progress.

Istaahl stopped his work at rebuilding the broken white tower that same day, even dismissed the workers assisting him in the task. He considered going out then to King Benador to help in the bridge reconstruction, but no, he decided, by the time he even got out to the river, the work would be nearly completed. He would not go across with Benador’s legions, for his power base was the sea, not the inland plains, and by the time he got near to that power again, he would be in the shadows of Kored-dul, in the domain of Morgan Thalasi.

No, Istaahl knew, that was not his place, not his destiny in this great struggle.

Instead, he went into seclusion in the rooms below the ground level of the structure, locking himself in.

No more could he tolerate the impotence, no more could he, could all the world, tolerate the ugly plague that was Morgan Thalasi. Istaahl fell into a deep trance then, as deep as the one that had sustained him during the score of years he had been a prisoner of the Black Warlock, when Thalasi had stolen his identity to serve in disguise as Istaahl at the side of Ungden the Usurper.

Deeper and deeper the White Mage slipped, far from the world of men and beasts, into the realm of magic-his magic, the power of the sea. He knew the risks, knew the price, and soon enough it became obvious to him that the cost would not be a possibility, but a truth.

And yet he went deeper still, gave himself over heart and soul to this one great task.

This one final task.

Far to the west in the black bastion that was Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi and Hollis Mitchell plotted and schemed, taking heart that they would soon again loose their armies upon the world, their courage bolstered by the fact that they had a most valuable prisoner now, one who would give them tremendous leverage over their enemies-particularly their two greatest enemies, the Emerald Witch and the Silver Mage.

Neither could understand or appreciate the deeper implications of the capture of Rhiannon, the solidarity and sheer determination that heinous act would inspire among their enemies. Neither could appreciate the added hours of back-breaking labor at the broken bridges, nor the ride of Bryan and the rangers, nor the charge of Arien Silverleaf and the elves, nor, most of all, the mounting, desperate efforts of Istaahl the White. That single act of capturing the witch’s daughter, who had become so beloved by the soldiers of Calva, by the elves of Lochsilinilume, and by the rangers of Avalon, had straightened the shoulders of war-weary warriors, had forced the grief aside, temporarily, in all of those who had lost so much. Now the expressions were much the same from Pallendara to the Four bridges, to Avalon, to Lochsilinilume; faces locked in grim determination.

This outrage would not stand.