Bastion of Darkness

Chapter 20
Thalasi’s Guest Chambers

“IF ALL THE blackness in all the world had been bunched together, then suren it’d be such an evil sight as this,” Bellerian muttered grimly as he and Bryan stared across a wide rocky valley to the black castle perched upon a high plateau overlooking the sea. Patches of fog drifted past their line of sight, obscuring the image-and both were glad for those moments, for the relief offered against the pain of merely looking upon the bastion of Morgan Thalasi.

For Bryan felt no less strongly about the sight than Bellerian, and his heart sank when he considered that Rhiannon was in there.

“We can go no further with the light on the wane,” the ranger lord explained. “We’ll set the camp about, then be out with the morn. If luck be with us, we’ll be into Talas-dun afore the setting of the next sun.”

The estimate was obviously optimistic, given the terrain, and truly disheartening to both anxious warriors, but given the trouble the group had already experienced in crossing the Kored-dul range, Bryan knew that Bellerian had to voice a positive opinion if for no other reason than the morale of the frustrated group. They had been in the mountains for several days, winding their way along treacherous trails where even the surefooted Avalon horses could barely cross. They had followed a path that seemed promising, but that had ended abruptly at a thousand-foot drop on the edge of a long ravine that they had then spent hours and hours circuiting. And always, with every step, the troupe had been aware that danger was never far away. These were Morgan Thalasi’s mountains, for centuries infected by his pervasively evil will, serving as a breeding ground for talons and the man-eating lizards the creatures often rode.

Now, at least, Talas-dun was in sight, but there was no clear trail to get to the place, and Bryan feared that they might spend several days simply looking for the correct approach. And each of those days, the young half-elf knew, Rhiannon would remain in the dark one’s clutches.

Bellerian kept on speaking of his plans, but Bryan was only half listening-a fact that was not lost on the ranger lord. Thus, when the rangers awoke the next morning, Bellerian was not surprised to find that the young half-elf had stolen away in the night, though his Avalon horse remained tethered beside the others.

“We can find his trail,” one of the other rangers said to Bellerian.

The ranger lord thought that over for a minute, then shook his head. “He’s gone by ways our horses canno’ follow,” Bellerian reasoned, and he was not upset-though surely concerned-by the thought. He and his kin had delivered Bryan in sight of Talas-dun, but the rest of the trek was better made by the half-elf alone. The score of rangers could not storm the castle with any hope of success, of course, and a path of stealth was better accomplished by one than by twenty.

“Then what’s for us?” the ranger asked.

“Others will be along, unless I miss me guess,” Bellerian reasoned. “Benador’s sure to come, Arien as well. And by the time they get near to Kored-dul, we’ll have all the region scouted.”

The ranger nodded, then ran off to rejoin the rest of the troop, informing them of their new mission.

Bellerian watched them at their hasty, practiced preparations, secure in the knowledge that his rangers were the best scouts in all the world and that when Benador, or Arien, arrived, the rangers would be able to give them a complete report on the enemy’s strength and whereabouts, and on the best passes for their approach.

The ranger lord’s gaze inevitably shifted back across the misty valley, to the black heart of the mountains. Bryan had done well in slipping off in the night, Bellerian knew; the young half-elf had absolved the rangers of a duty that was better left unserved. If Bryan had announced openly that he planned to go on alone, Bellerian would have had a hard time in convincing some of his more headstrong proteges to agree-might have had a hard time agreeing, himself. And even if they all did come to consensus that Bryan’s choice was best, then every one of the proud rangers would carry a heavy heart, beset by the knowledge that they had sent a warrior who was not one of their own to attempt this most dangerous and important mission.

No, Bellerian understood, young Bryan of Corning had done him, and all the rangers, a great service by setting off alone, in the dark of night. No easy path, that, in the dreaded Kored-dul, and such a display of bravery gave the ranger lord hope. Now he held faith in the young warrior. Still, it pained the old ranger that he was not beside Bryan of Corning, and that his son was not there. For forty years, Bellerian had lived in the shadows of Brielle’s enchanted forest, and now, when she needed him most, he wanted nothing more than to aid her. But he could not; he was old and he was crooked with a wound from a whip-dragon, and he could not climb steep mountain walls, or castle walls.

“Fare well, young Bryan,” he said into the wind. “Bring her back to her home, for Brielle’ll not survive losing her daughter dear.”

“They are yours,” Morgan Thalasi announced to Hollis Mitchell, quite unexpectedly.

The wraith glanced down at the courtyard and the open region surrounding Talas-dun, the whole of the place filled with thousands and thousands of gruesome standing corpses and animated skeletons, mostly talon, but with hundreds of animals in the mix.

“You are my general, the conqueror, and to you I give this army,” Thalasi explained.

“To command at your will?” the wraith asked suspiciously.

“To command at your own,” the Black Warlock replied, and then, with a wicked grin, he added, “So long as your desires and my own are one and the same.”

Mitchell marked well that threat.

“Take them,” Thalasi instructed. “Go out from Talas-dun with your army, my general. Meet King Benador and Arien Silverleaf on the field and let them see their folly!”

Mitchell did not immediately respond to the battle cry. “Perhaps our stand would be all the stronger if made here,” he reasoned.

“And perhaps our enemies will learn the truth of our power and turn away before they ever reach the place,” Thalasi countered. “Perhaps Belexus will not come.” He knew that bait would prove too much for Mitchell to ignore.

“Look at your thousands,” Thalasi added. “The humans and elves cannot resist us.”

Mitchell did look out at the standing throng, so perfectly disciplined, mere weapons for his will, extensions of his very thoughts. Then he looked back to Thalasi and came to share the Black Warlock’s confident smile.

And then they went out, a great black wave, and all living things fled before them. And Mitchell had started the march with a mere thought, a telepathic call that the zombies and skeletons could not resist.

After they had gone, flowing like black lava from Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi gathered his talon commanders and sent them, too, and nearly all of their warriors, out into the field, to flank the army, to watch over Mitchell, and to join in the joy of slaughter.

While the night had been difficult for Bryan, it had gone much better than he ever would have hoped. He had encountered no enemies-none that had seen him, at least-as he nearly blindly picked his way among the boulders and scrub. Instead of traversing the valley, the young warrior had crossed it up high, hugging its western wall, and now he was halfway up its steep northern face, climbing hand over hand, finding holds on juts of barely half an inch, then using his strong muscles to twist his agile body ever higher. When the sun came up-and again, it was a sun dimmed by the perpetual gloom of Kored-dul-Bryan noted that he was nearing the top of the cliff face, fully five hundred feet above the rocky valley floor. The young warrior was no stranger to mountains, having spent many weeks in the Baerendils south of Corning hiking with his father. He knew better than to keep looking down, and focused instead on what lay above him, and soon enough, he was over the lip of the nearly vertical climb.

Talas-dun was not in sight from this vantage, for the ground continued to slope upward, winding among pillars of wind-blasted, gray stone. Anxious, Bryan was off in a slow trot, and he was soon enough berating himself for that eagerness.

He scrambled up a series of narrow and high natural stairs, each about chest height above the previous. The sides were fairly enclosed by rock walls except for a few narrow breaks, almost like the corridors of a castle. Bryan hardly noted them, except to quickly pass them by, until he came alongside one in which a large lizard was resting.

The half-elf cursed himself silently and rushed on, leaping the next stair at a full run, and then the next, and the next. The lizard had seen him, though, and the vicious and ever-hungry creatures could run nearly as swiftly as a horse, and on sure, sticky feet, well-designed for travel in the rocky mountains. Four steps up, Bryan could hear the slapping lizard feet right behind him, gaining on him by the moment, and he had to turn and fight. He scrambled to the back end of the step as he swung about, forcing the lizard to climb before it could attack. Across whipped the elvish blade, the fine sword his father had given to him, scoring hard on the pointy end of the lizard’s nose, cleaving through scales, right to the creature’s teeth. The stubborn thing came on anyway, putting its hind claws on the lip of stone and propelling itself forward, maw wide, front claws slashing.

Bryan leaped and rolled over backward on the next higher step, landing on his knees and coming ahead once more fiercely, slashing his sword, left and right.

The lizard, surprised by the sudden move, by its own clean miss, lunged off balance, smacking against the riser of stone with only its head and neck going over, with no defense, no chance to do anything except catch Bryan’s sword with its face.

The half-elf hit it several times before it managed to get its claws over the stone and come forward once more, and by then, the creature’s mouth was hanging open, nose split, jaw shattered. Still, it came on, and Bryan had to be agile indeed, climbing continually backward, up the next step, and several more after that, to avoid the slashing claws. He continued to score hits on the creature’s face, tearing out one eye.

But then, as the half-elf backed up yet another step, this one open on his left flank, another lizard came rushing at him. Bryan saw it at the last second and whipped his sword about powerfully. The weapon caught on a foreleg, digging a vicious wound, but the lizard continued forward, its maw rushing for scrambling Bryan. He tried to twist, tried to dart ahead, but the first lizard blocked his way, and the second, coming in like an elvish arrow, clamped its jaws about the half-elf’s side.

Bryan beat it again about the head, swinging with all his strength, crying in desperation.

The jaws tightened; the half-elf felt the sharp teeth crunching through his elven-forged chain mail. The enchanted armor held strong-if it had not, Bryan would have been bitten in half-but even still, the lizard’s jaws crunched on him so tightly that his hip cracked apart under the sheer pressure.

Bryan screamed out in agony and hit the beast again, but that only sent it into a frenzy, whipping its head back and forth, battering Bryan against the stone riser and putting him in line with the other beast’s slashing claws. One got him across the face, digging deep lines, and then, suddenly, Bryan was free, flying through the air to crash hard against the stone. He saw the second lizard amble by him, locking together with the first, all thrashing and biting. Together, they rolled away, bouncing down the steps.

Bryan realized that this would be his only chance for escape, but he could not take advantage of it, could not possibly stand, or even crawl. He tried once, then slumped, clutching at his mortal wounds, and then all was blackness.

He felt the hard stone, but the pressure was gone. The pain remained, however, searing lines of fire across his face and neck. Bryan’s hip felt as if a dozen spearmen had embedded their weapons there and were slowly turning them all about. He bit hard on his lower lip so that he would not cry out, and he managed to bring his arm up enough to wipe the blood from his eye.

He saw no sign of the lizard, saw no sign of anything really, for he was surprised to discover that he was no longer on the steps, but lying underneath a mound of twigs and branches set between several huge boulders.

The lizard had dragged him to a secret place, that it might feast upon him later, he knew. With great effort, Bryan turned his head, and saw the glimmer of his sword-that, too, had been collected by the beast. It was out of Bryan’s reach, though, and there was no way he could squirm through the pile to get near to it. It rang as the ultimate frustration to the young warrior-his sword in plain sight, yet beyond his grasp-that he could not die fighting.

His thoughts did not stay on his own desperate situation, though, but went back to Rhiannon, always to Rhiannon.

“I have failed,” the half-elf whispered. He brought Brielle’s amulet up to his lips. “Forgive me, Brielle. I was not strong enough.”

And then Bryan kissed the emerald in the amulet’s center and passed out once more, settling down under the branch blanket, knowing in his heart that he had indeed failed his love, that the horrible lizard would return and devour him before he ever wakened.

In Avalon, hundreds of miles away, Bryan’s desperate lament rang clear and strong. Brielle rushed to a tree stump, wherein lay a pool of still water. Pouring in some oils, the witch began to sing softly, and soon the pool clouded over, and then cleared again in its middle.

Brielle saw the twigs and branches, saw the half-elf’s torn side. She was looking out the amulet, as clearly as if her own eye were set in it. Her heart skipped a few beats as she sent more of herself through the pool to Bryan, to try and discern if he was even still alive.

He was, but wouldn’t be for long, she realized.

Brielle saw no options. Bryan was near to Rhiannon-she could tell by the terrain about him that he was somewhere in Kored-dul-and if he could not get to her girl, then Rhiannon’s chances diminished by far. Since the last great battle, Brielle had avoided any great usage of magic, but not now. She fell into the amulet, heart and soul, threw her energy into the connection, and gave to Bryan a considerable amount of her own life force.

“Bryan! Bryan!” The call was from far away, but the half-elf heard it. He opened his bleary eyes to find that he was still in the twig pile, still buried. The sun was low in the west, the shadows long and dark. One form came clear to Bryan, though, large and reptilian; the great, hungry lizard.

Bryan was amazed to be alive, to be conscious, and to find such strength as this! Without taking the time to consider his miraculous recovery, he tucked his legs under him and shoved out in the direction of his sword. The lizard was digging furiously at the branch pile by the time he got his hand on its hilt, the snapping, toothy maw barely inches from his leg.

Hope quickly reverted to despair as Bryan considered that he would soon be right back where he had started. Defiantly, he pulled free his sword and turned it at his foe, just as the lizard cleared enough of a path to bite at him.

“No!” Bryan cried, knowing that he could not possibly kill the armored creature with one strike. His sword flashed by, the blade engulfed by blue arcs of lightning. It hit the lizard squarely in the open mouth, bashing through teeth and bone and scales as easily as if they were a pile of soft snow, driving through the creature’s brain.

Arcs of blue lightning flashed about the lizard’s head, sizzling and crackling. The lizard fell away, convulsing, scales smoking, and then it tumbled and lay very still.

Bryan fell back against the ground, stunned, confused. He looked at his sword, a normal-looking elvish blade once more, and thanked the Colonnae.

Brielle sat down hard. All the world was spinning. She wondered if she might die from exhaustion at that moment, her energy totally spent. She wondered if she had gone too far in grasping so strongly at the torn realm of magic, in forcing the strength into her body and through her reflecting pool to Bryan, both healing power and lightning magic.

Perhaps she had given him, and his sword, too much of herself.

She rolled to her side and let sleep take her.

He could walk with little pain, just discomfort in the recently crushed hip. As he continued on his way to the north, Bryan replayed the scenes after the lizard attack, searching for some clue. Again and again, his thoughts were drawn to the amulet, and he came to believe that his gratitude, his prayer to the Colonnae, had been misplaced. Bryan understood then that Brielle was with him, that he did not walk alone, and so he was bolstered, striding more boldly as night descended.

Soon after, he came over a stony ridge and lost his breath, for there, right before him, loomed the great castle of Morgan Thalasi. Huge black walls and sky-reaching towers seemed to mock the young half-elf and his desperate mission, and a sense of the deepest hopelessness he had ever known weakened his knees and nearly overwhelmed him. What could he accomplish against the tremendous power standing dark and ageless before him? What could he, a mere mortal, do against the likes of the godlike being who had built this bastion?

Bryan gritted his teeth and determinedly shook the thoughts away. He could do little, he honestly believed, perhaps nothing at all. But he had to try. Above all else, he had to make the attempt, even at the likely price of his life. For Bryan knew the alternative. To walk away when Rhiannon needed him, no matter the odds, would leave him forever in grief and shame, would break him more completely than Morgan Thalasi ever could.

“Better death,” he muttered under his breath, and with a look to either side, he started forward. Soon after, he saw the march, the lines and lines of undead, the horrid blackness, and even though he understood that so much power was flowing out of Talas-dun, and that might make his task all the easier, the sight only filled him with dread.

For in his heart, Bryan of Corning understood that all the goodly armies of all the world could not stand against that force, would be swallowed by the blackness as surely as day gave way to night.

With a growl, the half-elf went on, remembering his role, more determined than ever to get Rhiannon out of Talas-dun. He made the base of the castle wall without incident. “Better death,” he repeated, for he didn’t dare voice his real opinion. For he understood in his heart that if Morgan Thalasi, the Black Warlock, the greatest horror to ever infect Ynis Aielle, ever got him, then death would be the least of his troubles.

But still, his enemy was secure inside that mighty bastion, Bryan knew-secure and unsuspecting. Thalasi was too busy looking for armies to notice the movements of a small and insignificant half-elf. That was Bryan’s only chance; that was why he had set out from Avalon alone. He had to tell himself all of those things repeatedly just to continue, just to be able to put one shaking foot in front of the other.

And so he was moving, but where to go? There was one gate evident, a hundred yards east along the wall, set small between two massive guard houses, but from the torches glowing through window slits there, Bryan recognized that it was well guarded.

He looked up instead, thinking of going over the wall. He could only guess at its height-thirty feet? forty? And the surface, unlike the masoned bricks of Pallendara’s wall, was perfectly smooth, metallic, without a ridge to be seen.

He went to the west, where the sky was wide, the mountainous land falling away suddenly to the sea. As he neared the southwestern corner of the square castle, Bryan heard the waves far below, crashing endlessly against the unyielding cliff wall. A small strip of land, a curving, uneven walkway open to the west, wound behind the castle, generally descending. It seemed plausible to Bryan that this back side, far too narrow and treacherous a path for any invading army, would be the least defended of all, and so on he went, picking his careful way along the slick stones.

Soon after, moonlight slanting over the castle wall, but at an angle that left Bryan in shadow, he heard talking, deep and guttural. He fell to his belly and moved to the next ridge, peering over.

A single talon stood below him, bathed in torchlight, the beast grumbling and complaining as it carried a bucket of slop out an open door to dump into the sea.

“Clean the kitchen, Fogump,” the talon bitched. “Wipe the blimin’ floors, Fogump. Lick me blimin’ feet, Fogump!”

The talon moved to the edge of a small landing and tossed the contents of the bucket over, nearly losing the pot in the act. Overbalanced, the talon just managed to keep a hold on the bucket and to keep its own balance, and it was just setting itself firmly in place again when it felt a sudden explosion against the back of its head.

Mercifully, the beast fell from consciousness as it plummeted down the cliff face, and didn’t see the ocean ready to swallow its remains.

Bryan moved immediately to the open door; a tiny portal leading into the castle’s larders. From his course along the back wall, he realized that he was far below the level of the plateau-indeed the black castle walls began some distance above him, past the natural stones. The half-elf nodded in satisfaction, for it seemed plausible to him that Rhiannon might be in some dungeon below ground level.

Voices from inside the room brought him from his contemplations. He moved to the shadows along the side of the door, clutched his sword tight, and whispered for Brielle, hoping that she would hear.

“Where is you?” a talon barked from just inside the door. “Fogump!”

The talon stepped outside, and then it was dead, in the single swipe of Bryan’s sword. The half-elf headed into the room immediately, where two other talons busied themselves cleaning great buckets of slop. He fell over the first before they ever knew he was there and caught the second just before it reached the small chamber’s inner door, stabbing it hard in the kidney. He stuck it again and again, rushing up so that he could bring his hand over its mouth to stifle its dying screams.

Even as that one slumped dead to the floor, Bryan rushed back across the room and outside, to drag the dead talon back in.

Footsteps in the hall beyond the inner door alerted him that yet another was approaching. He took up a pot in one hand, his sword in the other, and moved beside the door.

The creature came right in, then stopped, stunned.

Bryan smacked it over the head with the pot, shoulder-blocked it out of the way-closing the door as he moved past it-and pinned the beast up against the wall, his sword tip coming right in under its chin, his other hand, free of the dropped pot, slapping across the talon’s mouth.

“If you cry out, I will drive my sword into your puny brain,” Bryan promised, and from the look on the brute’s face, he knew that it understood.

“The woman?” Bryan asked. “The wraith of Mitchell brought a woman here? Do you know this?”

The talon nodded. Bryan felt its hand move a bit along its belt, and he understood its plan.

“Where is she?” He took his hand from the beast’s mouth, but stayed right up against it.

“Down,” the talon said, its answer cut short as Bryan slapped his hand back over its mouth.

Again the half-elf felt the movement along the waist, felt the talon grabbing hold of something.

Bryan’s sword drove up under the creature’s chin, through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. The talon twitched and shuddered and fell limp, upright only because Bryan still had it pinned against the wall. He eased the talon to the floor, taking note of the dagger in its belt.

Then the half-elf set about making the room look as if the talons had engaged in a fight among themselves. He left one dead at the door, but jumbled the other three together, planting the knife of his last kill into one of the wounds of another, then taking the sharp scraper one had been using to clean hardened food from the plates and sliding it into the last talon’s garish wound. With one talon missing, it was likely that any guards uncovering this scene would begin a search for the murderous Fogump. That search should keep them from the dungeons, Bryan reasoned, for what fugitive would deliver himself to Thalasi’s prison?

“Down,” the half-elf muttered. He eased the door open and peeked into the corridor. Torches lined the walls, but they were far-spaced, creating many shadows. Bryan glanced left, then right, looking for some clues.

Nothing.

He went left, moving swiftly and silently, crossing the corridor as he approached every bend to get the best vantage point around it. He took too many turns to keep track, even went through several empty rooms, then slipped into a dark alcove that ended at a door.

He heard the slapping feet of talons beyond and judged from the sound that they were below him, coming up some stairs. Bryan considered the door, then moved to the side of the alcove into which it would open.

He held his breath as the talons-three of them, heavily armed-came through, swinging wide the door then continuing on, the last of the line giving a yank to close the door.

Bryan sucked in his breath even more, for the three stood barely five feet away!

They didn’t notice him, though, and just went on their way.

Through the door went the half-elf, and down the stairs. He passed several landings with doors similar to the one he had come through, but he ignored them, thinking it best to start at the bottom.

Finally, the stair ended in a tunnel of natural stone, hardly worked, and with a dirt floor, the only light coming from a partially opened door far down the corridor.

Bryan crept along. He could hear the roar of the fire; it was no mere torch. He also heard a talon chuckle, an evil-sounding laugh, and a low moan, but he was relieved to recognize that the moan was not one of a woman, but of another talon. At the door, he peeked in enough to see a brutish talon wearing heavy leather gloves, studded bracers on its wrists, a leather collar about its thick neck, and a thick black hood rolling a poker about on top of the stone rim of a blazing fire pit. The end of the rod glowed a wicked orange.

The half-elf went down to one knee and dared to peek in a bit more. Hanging on the wall opposite the door was a rotting talon corpse, shackled at the wrists, and next to it, apparently very close to joining its dead companion, hung another talon, trembling and sobbing.

The talon at the fire lifted the glowing poker, turned slowly and deliberately, and headed for its new victim; Bryan slipped into the room, quickly motioning for the hanging talon to be quiet, thinking errantly that this creature would welcome potential salvation, whatever race that savior might be.

“Elf! Elf! Elf!” the hanging talon barked, drawing a blank stare from the torturer.

Three strides brought Bryan past the fire pit, but the warning had registered enough for the brute to pivot about, bringing the glowing poker up defensively. Bryan batted it aside and thrust his sword straight ahead, but so heavy was the talon torturer’s glove that even Bryan’s fine blade did not cut deeply. Back came the sword at once, just parrying the swinging poker.

“Yous’ll tell the Thalasi?” the talon hanging on the wall said over and over. “I helps! I helps!”

The torturer just grunted and came on ferociously, whipping the poker all about, then stabbing ahead with it. Bryan back-stepped each swing and sidestepped the thrust, snapping a backhand parry that forced the poker across the brute’s body and put the talon off balance. Quicker than his bulky opponent, the agile half-elf stepped into the opening and thrust his sword into the heavy shoulder.

The talon yelped and dropped its poker, and Bryan came in hard, silencing the cries with a series of fast stabs about the creature’s throat. That finished, the talon squirming and gurgling on the floor, the half-elf looked to the hanging prisoner and again motioned for it to remain silent. This time it seemed as if the creature would comply, but Bryan wasn’t about to take the chance. As the talon relaxed, the half-elf rushed in and killed it cleanly with one thrust.

“You should have been quiet the first time,” Bryan whispered. Then he went and took the leather collar and hood, and the great gloves to hide slender elvish hands.

There was a second door in this room, leading deeper into the dungeons. As he opened it, Bryan was greeted by a chorus of groaning. He flipped up the hood of his cowl, though he didn’t seem very talonlike, and down he slipped, past dozens of cells, their doors solid and with only a high and small barred window. Several desperate, ugly faces peered out at him as he passed, but the light in here was very poor, and they couldn’t recognize him for what he was-or if they did, they made no sounds to indicate so. Every few feet he paused to listen, or even to peek into the windows of the few cells that didn’t resound with talon groaning.

He was beginning to get discouraged, to think that this area was only for Thalasi’s worthless talon prisoners, when he heard another voice, lucid and not filled with pain, utter a short phrase that sent the hairs on the back of Bryan’s neck standing on end.

“Pretty lady.”

Back in Avalon, Brielle heard it, too.