Bastion of Darkness

Chapter 19
Comrades of Convenience

THE LAST SEVERAL blows didn’t even register, as the young witch fell far, far away from the brutal beating Thalasi’s zombies exacted upon her, escaping from the pain to a place deep within herself. She recalled scenes of Avalon in springtime, of feeding birds and squirrels, of swimming naked and free in the dancing waters of the great River Ne’er Ending. And yet, even here, the Black Warlock found a way to reach her, for each of those calming images were invaded, tainted, by the specters of Thalasi and Mitchell, hovering at the edges of the scene, laughing wickedly, promising doom.

So Rhiannon stopped dreaming altogether, stopped thinking, as she had stopped feeling. She fell so far into herself that she came, at last, to a place beyond Thalasi’s reach, and no longer did she hear the taunts or the slaps, and no longer did she feel even the shackles that had her hanging from the wall by her torn wrists.

“I will wake the witch,” Mitchell promised, and started for her.

Thalasi held the Staff of Death out in the wraith’s path, stopping him short. “You will not reach her,” the Black Warlock explained. “She is far from us now, and is strong, so very strong.”

“And so very stubborn,” the wraith added, drawing a chuckle from Thalasi.

“Like her mother,” the Black Warlock remarked.

“Like her father,” Mitchell growled, and Thalasi laughed again.

“She cannot hide forever,” the Black Warlock calmly explained. “Rhiannon has achieved a state of high meditation, and any tortures we might now exact upon her physical body would be wasted effort.”

“How long?” the impatient wraith wanted to know.

Thalasi, who seemed to be enjoying Mitchell’s ignorance as much as the discomfort given to the daughter of Brielle, laughed yet again. “Be calm, my dead friend,” he said. “Rhiannon will return to consciousness soon enough, and we will be waiting.”

His prediction proved accurate, for the next morning, the battered young witch opened her crystal blue eyes to see Thalasi and Mitchell standing right before her, their zombie guards standing behind them, as unmoving and impassive as stone columns.

The wraith growled low and advanced, ready to punish some more, and Rhiannon closed her eyes at once. Again Thalasi stopped Mitchell by presenting the Staff of Death before him. “She will be gone from us in a matter of moments,” he explained, and he moved right up to Rhiannon, put his face right before hers.

“They are coming for you,” he whispered.

Rhiannon was already moving away from him, slipping fast to that secret inner place. The words caught her, though, and stopped her. She blinked open her eyes.

“They are coming for you,” Thalasi said again. He looked back to Mitchell and winked.

“All of them,” the Black Warlock said suddenly, sharply. “Coming in a rush to Talas-dun because they know you are mine. Do you understand all the trouble you have caused?”

A slight whimper escaped Rhiannon’s lips. She could take any punishment Thalasi and Mitchell could hand out; she did not fear the pain nor death itself. But the thought that many others-people that she loved and who loved her-were on their way to Talas-dun for her sake assaulted Rhiannon’s gentle sensibilities profoundly.

Which was, of course, exactly the effect that the Black Warlock had sought, for adding that anxiety to Rhiannon’s fears would confuse her, would jumble her concentration to the point where she might not be able mentally to slip away from him any longer.

Stubbornly, Rhiannon closed her eyes again and began to sing softly, a merry tune that she had often shared with the birds of Avalon.

Thalasi’s cackling laughter got through those notes, and so did many of his words as he conversed with Mitchell, as he and the wraith spoke of battle plans to defend against the coming forces. He mentioned Arien Silverleaf and Belexus, and Brielle often. “Out of Avalon, the cursed witch is no match for us,” the Black Warlock said pointedly, and before he was finished with that statement, Rhiannon’s song was no more. “Brielle knows it, too,” he added. “She knows that she cannot stand against me anywhere in all the world save her precious Avalon.”

“Then why would she come out?” the wraith asked, cuing on the devious prompt and looking knowingly at Rhiannon all the while.

“Because of her!” the Black Warlock snapped, rushing over so that his skeletal face was right before Rhiannon’s eyes, so that she could see his supreme confidence and joy. “At long last, I have lured her from her forest. Brielle comes out because of her poor daughter.”

The Black Warlock stood close, examining Rhiannon for a short while. Then, convinced that despair would prevent her mental escape, he motioned for Mitchell to move back in and resume the beating.

Some time later, Rhiannon hanging unconscious in the dungeon, Mitchell and Thalasi walked the parapets of their fortress, surveying their army.

“We must not underestimate our enemy,” the Black Warlock cautioned. “Many heroes will come out against us, unless I miss my guess. The rangers of Avalon, surely, and likely Arien Silverleaf and his elven kin.”

“And the witch,” Mitchell added.

Thalasi wasn’t so sure of that. “Brielle would be ultimately foolish to leave Avalon,” he explained. “For if she did, then know that I would be quick in the back door, claiming the forest as my own, or at least staining the place evermore. I have never known the Emerald Witch to be a fool.”

“But this is her daughter,” the wraith retorted. “Could she stand by and let her daughter be tortured?”

“She is grieving, no doubt,” Thalasi replied. “And I do not discount her, for it is likely that she will have some surprise to throw our way, as she did with the river at the Four Bridges. But still, she will not leave her forest. Among all the four, she is the most restricted. In coming to Talas-dun, Brielle would leave most of her power behind, and would leave that power vulnerable to my attack.

“But the others will come,” the Black Warlock quickly added. “Rudy Glendower-Ardaz-will lead the way, cursing my name every step! And Istaahl will ride beside Benador, and Arien Silverleaf and the cursed rangers beside them. Their powers are no longer great, though certainly considerable, but what they will be counting on is the sword, and not the magic.”

“If they all muster, elves and men, their numbers and strength will be formidable,” Mitchell asserted.

“They will all muster,” Thalasi assured him. “Our greatest weapon against Calvan, elf, and ranger hangs in our dungeon. They will all ride for her.”

The wraith appeared pensive.

“And they will all lie dead before my gates,” Thalasi was quick to add. “I will bring forth such an army of undead creatures that Benador and Arien Silverleaf will tremble at the mere sight of it. How many thousands shall I need? Ten? Twenty? They are available to me, all of them, lying cold in graves, awaiting my call. Combined with the talon hordes, they will prove such an army that has never been seen before in Aielle, such an army that will sweep away the forces of Pallendara. And you shall lead that army, my friend.”

“No friend,” the wraith replied bluntly, stewing over Thalasi’s exclusion of him as he had recited his plans.

“Comrades of convenience, then,” Thalasi readily agreed. “I detest you as much as you do me, I assure you, but I know, as do you, that we are both better off for the other. You wanted Pallendara’s throne, and so, with my assistance, you shall have it.”

“And if I am to be granted the throne of Pallendara, what reward does Thalasi find for his efforts?” Mitchell asked suspiciously.

“I am rid of the interference of the other wizards,” the Black Warlock insisted. “And then alone can I explore the realm of magic more fully. Without their petty concerns and interference, without them constantly tapping into the sources of power that I need for myself, I will bring magic back to what it was, and make it all the greater.”

The wraith did not appear convinced, and indeed, Mitchell was not. He suspected that if Thalasi’s plan came to fruition, then the Black Warlock would not suffer him to truly act as king of Calva. There was nothing that Mitchell could do about it, though, not while Thalasi held the Staff of Death.

“Comrades of convenience,” Thalasi said again, smiling that wicked smile. “We each shall get what we most desire.”

“And more,” Mitchell said.

Thalasi laughed, but his gaze continued its scan of the wraith as he did, studying Mitchell, recognizing the suspicion. “I have no desire for the petty duties of ruler-ship,” Thalasi said to him. “As it was with Ungden, when I was but an advisor. Let the king, be it Ungden or Mitchell, handle the rabble, while I explore the greater mysteries of the universe and exploit the greater powers.”

Mitchell did not blink at the hollow words. He remembered well the relationship between Thalasi and Ungden in that time two decades before. Mitchell and Martin Reinheiser had escaped from Illuma and the watchful eyes of the elves and gone to Pallendara to tell Ungden about the secret valley. What they had found in Pallendara had surprised Mitchell, for Ungden, a fop and no warrior, was hardly in control.

No, that control came from behind the throne: from Morgan Thalasi posing as Istaahl the White, the King’s “advisor.”

The wraith understood too much to find any comfort in the Black Warlock’s offers as to how they would sort out the conquered lands. Mitchell understood, too, however, that the Staff of Death gave the Black Warlock all of the trump cards in this game.

Hanging on the dungeon wall, Rhiannon opened a bleary eye. The coldness of the wraith’s intrusions remained, a gross chill that stung the young witch to the marrow of her bones.

The zombies remained, too, and as soon as Rhiannon licked her lips, trying to put some moisture there, they closed on her and beat her.

She fell limp almost immediately and the zombies moved back, and so she hung there, keeping her eyes closed, making no movement at all beyond her shallow breathing. She tried to conjure images of happier days, but they only made her more miserable, for in her ultimate despair, she believed that those days were forever lost to her.

Lost to her, and to her mother, as well, if Thalasi’s prediction proved correct. Rhiannon had been no match for Mitchell alone, let alone Thalasi; and so Brielle, if she were really coming out to Talas-dun, would likely be overwhelmed.

The deepest pit of despair opened below the young witch as she hung there motionless, eyes closed, and it took every effort Rhiannon could muster to keep from that fall.

She knew that she could not last, in heart or in body, much longer.

The elven procession passed through Avalon and out the western edge of the wood, following the same trail that Bellerian and the rangers had used, the same trail that Bryan had ridden. Ardaz was with them, on a roan stallion up front beside Arien and Ryell, all grim faced and ready for battle.

Belexus was not among the ranks, but he watched the procession from a grassy knoll north of the troop, with Brielle standing beside him. Despite the dark situation, the overwhelming odds, the loss of Rhiannon, the ranger’s heart soared at the sight: two hundred elven warriors riding hard on powerful steeds, bells jingling, armor and weapons gleaming. Belexus had seen Arien’s fierce kin in battle before, and he knew that two hundred elves could defeat five times that number of talons. They were a joyous race, more attuned to dancing beneath the stars than wielding a sword or bow, but when battle pressed, none in all the world could fight better. The elves could move and maneuver as a single unit, turning battle into something as choreographed as one of their dances, and their sharp eyes and steady hands made them the finest archers in all Aielle.

But there were only two hundred of them.

“They’ll not be catching me father and kin,” the ranger remarked as the last of the elves passed out from under the forest boughs.

“Unless Bellerian’s found a fight,” Brielle replied.

Belexus shook his head. “He’ll get around any fight that would slow him down,” the ranger reasoned. “Rhiannon’s his goal, and nothing more, and horses are faster than lizards.”

Brielle didn’t openly disagree, though she feared that if Thalasi had spotted Bellerian and Bryan, he would have sent out too great a force for them to circumvent, or might even have gone out personally with his lackey wraith to end the threat once and for all. The witch knew that Belexus understood that possibility as well, but as was his way, Belexus would hold fast to hope.

“Incredible,” came a voice behind them, and they turned to see DelGiudice, a part of him anyway, blended into a huge oak tree. Only his face and hands were showing, sticking out from the rough bark.

“It’s living matter,” the ghost explained. “I can pass through it as easily as… well, as easily as I pass through you!” With that, he stepped out of the oak and onto the knoll.

“And it is an incredible experience,” he explained. “Every time.”

“I’ve no time for play,” Belexus said, rather sternly. He looked to Brielle. “Arien’s not to catch me father, but meself and Calamus suren will. And I’ll get to yer girl, don’t ye doubt, and pay back that wretched Mitchell in the while.”

The ranger started for the witch, then hesitated and looked to the ghost, who was standing quietly before the oak. It was a critical moment for Belexus, with DelGiudice watching him, but he could not deny what was in his heart, no matter if it cost him his friend. He moved to Brielle then and crushed her in his hug, then tilted up her fair face and kissed her.

Both looked to the ghost as soon as the kiss was ended.

“I’m not wanting to pain ye,” Belexus explained. “But ye should be knowing that me heart’s for Brielle.”

The words jolted the spirit from the warmth that he was feeling in watching these two people that he so loved. He turned a curious gaze squarely on the ranger.

“I canno’ deny me feelings,” Belexus said.

“Why should you?” a truly perplexed DelGiudice asked.

“I know what yerself and Brielle shared,” the ranger went on. “And know the beauty o’ that; I’m seeing it in Rhiannon’s eyes and smile. But…”

The ghost lifted a hand to stop the ranger, DelGiudice at last catching on, touched to discover that Belexus was afraid that he would be jealous of the new love that had come into Brielle’s life. The spirit smiled as he considered that, for nothing could be further from the truth. To Del-who had seen the mysteries of eternity, who had felt the greater love of the Colonnae-this humanly love was not a thing for jealousy, but a thing for joy. He felt no pangs when looking upon Brielle and Belexus, unless they were from a sense of personal loss, that he could not so hug and kiss the wondrous woman. But in his heart, Del was truly glad that Brielle had found love again, and glad that it was Belexus, a man of pure heart, a man that Del loved as a brother.

“I wish that my own mortal coil was more than illusion,” the ghost explained. “I wish that my own arms could so go around Brielle, for in spite of all the greater wonders I have seen, I love her still, and ever shall. But don’t fear my reaction to your love.” He smiled warmly and winked at the witch. “I always knew that you had good taste.”

Brielle returned the smile, then looked back at Belexus, locking stares and then sharing another kiss. “Ye bring her back,” the witch said.

Belexus nodded.

“And ye make sure that ye come back to me,” Brielle went on.

Again the nod, and with not another word to her, Belexus walked to the other side of the knoll and climbed atop the waiting pegasus. “Will you fly with me?” the ranger asked Del.

The ghost considered the offer for a moment, then answered. “Not yet. I have faith that I can get to the west much more quickly than any of you,” he explained, “though of what help I might be, I cannot say. You go on, and fly fast and straight, Belexus Backavar. I will find my place in all of this, I am certain.”

“Fare ye well, then,” the ranger said. He gave Calamus a kick, and the pegasus went into a short run and then lifted off into the morning sky.

Belexus and Brielle waved, and soon the ranger was no more than a speck in the western sky, easily overtaking Arien’s procession.

“And what’re ye thinking yer place to be?” Brielle asked Del.

“I don’t honestly know,” the ghost replied. “I could work as a spy, I suppose.”

Something was bothering him, the perceptive witch recognized, and after a moment’s thought, she figured it out. “Ye’re afraid to go and see yer girl,” she reasoned.

“I’m afraid of what I might find,” the ghost confirmed. “Suppose that…” His voice drifted off to something as insubstantial as his body.

There was nothing more that needed to be said about it, for Brielle certainly understood.

“We’ll get her back,” Del promised, seeing the fair witch’s expression drop. “I know that you must feel helpless, stuck here in the forest,” he dared to say, and he wished he hadn’t when Brielle looked up sharply. Her expression was not one of helplessness, however, but one of determination.

“Not so stuck,” she said. “I gave a piece of meself to Bryan o’ Corning, Rhiannon’s friend and love, and if he gets to me girl, then I’ll be there beside him, don’t ye doubt.”

Del’s thoughts went back to the battle he had fought on the field of Mountaingate, when Brielle had been there, posing as a small horse. The witch had been pivotal in that battle, resisting Thalasi, delivering Del and the one weapon that could defeat the Black Warlock. She had found a way then to be useful, and so she would again, the ghost knew. He took great comfort in that-as he had in the passage of Arien and the elves, as he had in the flight of Belexus-knowing that Rhiannon, his daughter, had so many powerful allies on her side.

For all the days of Benador’s march, for all the long nights awaiting word of Rhiannon, Istaahl the White had sat calmly in a private place, gathering his strength, allowing the weakened magic to build strong within his weary bones once more.

He called out to the sea often, and heard its distant reply, but he came to realize that such a call would not suffice, that to truly find a weapon against the power of Talas-dun, the White Wizard of Pallendara would have to go to the source. As Brielle gathered her power from Avalon, so did Istaahl from the great sea, and so there he went, mind and soul, soaring out and diving down.

He felt the great press of the place as he descended into darkness, more fully engulfed by the watery realm than he had ever before been.

And still his thoughts dove: down, down, to the ocean floor, to the source.

And there, he studied. And there, he called.

And there, he begged.

Morgan Thalasi went out from Talas-dun that very night, his powerful staff in hand. He filtered his senses through that staff as he walked, sensing below him any remains of creatures that had gone before.

And he found them, and everywhere, and with a thought and the tap of his staff, he brought them to clawing animation, struggling, many futilely, for their bones had settled centuries before under tons of solid stone. But many more, garish zombies and white-boned skeletons, did find their way to the surface: lizards and birds, small animals and talons, so many talons.

The procession behind Thalasi grew with every step he took, winding his way through the mountain passes. He found another talon graveyard and promptly emptied it, then entered the remains of a talon village that he remembered, that had been destroyed in an earthquake a hundred years before.

Five hundred animated talon skeletons and nearly half that number of bony lizards followed Thalasi out of that village.

And so it went, through the day and through the night, and all the next and the next after that, the Black Warlock growing his power out of the very ground, robbing Death yet again. In but a few days, Thalasi’s ghoulish army easily dwarfed that of the forces coming to Talas-dun.

And with the Staff of Death in his hands, the Black Warlock found that he could control these unthinking minions as easily as he could clench his own fist.

Hollis Mitchell watched it all, and was not pleased.