The Witch's Daughter

Chapter 11
Give and Take

THE CRY OF battle, the ring of weapon against weapon, shattered Rhiannon’s slumber before the first light of dawn. She had slept among the refugees, in an encampment on the field normally reserved for trading caravans just outside Rivertown. Looking back at the bridges, Rhiannon could see the unfolding events. On again came the talon horde, ferociously charging across the expanse of the Four Bridges. Caltrops, crossed spikes, and wires slowed them, though, and then the valiant defenders, Belexus at their lead, sprang upon them.

Rhiannon felt a tingle of power growing within her once more, prickling her skin, stealing her breath. Tremendous power, might beyond anything the warriors could imagine, and she felt as if she could shatter the talon army with a thought.

But the witch’s daughter was more terrified of that unknown strength than of the talons-she could not rid herself of the image of the field she had battered and cracked, or the sight of her poor horse dying-and she cried out in dismay and pushed the urges away.

The magic-wielder on the western side of the bridges held no such reservations. The Black Warlock sank within the magical plane, once more grabbing at all the power his fragile mortal form could endure. He gathered the energy and then threw it into the sky in the form of two blackened thunderclouds that sped away from him with preternatural fury, the roiling dark shapes barely containing their explosive power.

The first of the violent storms broke over Avalon in the north; the other released its fury upon the tower of the White Mage in Pallendara. Hardly seeming cognizant of the battle unfolding before him, the Black Warlock stood behind the thick ranks of his talons, his arms outstretched to the skies, his mind drawing power from the plane of wizards.

Morgan Thalasi’s grimace revealed his intent and determination; he would feed the power of his storms until he could draw no more, until sheer exhaustion laid him low.

Lightning crackled into Brielle’s forest, sundering trees and lighting wind-whipped fires, a furious, relentless barrage.

But nature was the Emerald Witch’s domain. Brielle was nature’s guardian, while Thalasi was no more than a crafty thief. As swift as thought, Brielle countered the Black Warlock’s storm with cloudbursts and opposing winds of her own.

This time, though, the Black Warlock was not caught by surprise by the magics of the witch. This time Brielle would have to fight with all of her strength just to save her homeland.

Istaahl found himself in similar straits. One bolt thundered through his magical wardings and cracked a line across the side of his tower. The White Mage called upon his own domain of power to counter, summoning a mighty wind from the sea to blow the black clouds of Thalasi away. But Thalasi fought back, resisting all of Istaahl’s considerable gusts.

“Not this time!” the curious dual voice of the Black Warlock roared. Thalasi clenched his bony fists and grasped the magic even harder, pulling the universal powers to his will, perverting them to their very limits for the sake of his battle.

They would come to his call, or he would tear them into chaos for their resistance.

Most of the traps on the bridges were expended now, their barbs and spikes covered to ineffectiveness by the sheer number of talon corpses. But the talons, their numbers swelled throughout the night, pushed on right over their fallen kin, driving the defenders steadily backward.

Then, inevitably, they breached the southernmost bridge, and eager talons swarmed onto the eastern fields.

The Black Warlock howled in glee at the sight, but did not dare to relinquish his assaults on his more powerful enemies and join in the conquest.

Again came Belexus and the battle-weary cavalry of Corning, blowing their horns and urging on their steeds. The ranger led a brutal charge down the second bridge, trampling and hacking his way until the press of horse and steel got him and his soldiers to the western banks. The talons fell back readily, willing to let the horsemen onto the open field where they could be assaulted from every side.

But Belexus had other plans. As soon as he and his men came off the second bridge, they swung to the south and back onto the bridge that had been lost, coming up behind the pressing talons and splitting them off from their rear support.

Half of the cavalry unit secured the bridge, while Belexus and the other riders cleared the remaining portion of the bridge and came all the way back onto the eastern fields, trapping those talons who had crossed within a noose of defenders.

The Black Warlock watched his victory unraveling before him. “No!” he cried, seeing yet another of his unskilled army’s attacks foiled. Thalasi could stand the sight of defeat no longer. He released the fury of his storms in several quick, vicious strokes against the wood and the tower, then pulled himself from the magical battle with his rival wizards and rushed to squash the defenders on the bridges.

Desperate bolts of power roared out of Istaahl’s tower to counter the sudden rush of Thalasi’s storm. Istaahl heard the thunder again and again as lightning crackled into his home. Somehow the walls of the White Tower withstood the blasts, and the storm burned itself away in only moments.

In Avalon, the witch’s conjured storm, so pure in its call to the magical forces, had been gradually winning through, and as soon as Thalasi turned his attention from his battle with Brielle, she blew his dark clouds to harmless bits of scattered energies.

A line of fire shot out from the Black Warlock’s finger, incinerating a dozen men and their mounts on the southernmost bridge. Spurred by the appearance of the godlike leader, the talons roared in again.

Thalasi, running even closer to the fray, pointed his hand again for another strike.

But a vine rushed out of the earth and caught his feet, tripping him facedown. And a crack opened in the ground behind him, like an earthen mouth hungry for his flesh. Thalasi clawed at the ground, but the vine’s insistent tug dragged him backward.

Belexus did not see Thalasi fall. He rushed back out onto the bridge to shore up the wavering line of cavalry. Right past his comrades he charged, diving fearlessly into the talon ranks.

His troops watched in horror, thinking their leader slain. But it was Belexus who emerged from the jumbled pile of flesh, still secure in his saddle and scattering talons with each mighty swing of his sword. The ranger’s blood ran from a dozen wounds, but his fury would admit no pain. And the talons, thinking him some immortal demon who had risen up against them, fell back and fled altogether.

“Damn you, Brielle!” Thalasi spat, too concerned with his own predicament to even consider the disastrous events on the bridge. He uttered a quick spell to counter, thrusting one of his arms straight down into the ground up to the shoulder, an impromptu anchor.

But then the wind of Istaahl, gathered from the might of the sea, slammed the Black Warlock in the face, nearly tearing that anchoring limb from its socket.

A primal scream of tremendous power erupted from Thalasi’s thin-lipped mouth, splitting Istaahl’s wind apart. The Black Warlock spun about, one of the fingernails on his free hand growing out to the length of a scythe. One swipe of that unnatural blade severed Brielle’s vines cleanly, and a second scream of rage from Thalasi shook her earthen maw apart into a formless sandy pit.

Thalasi staggered to his feet, thoroughly drained. In Avalon, Brielle slumped against a tree, and in Pallendara, Istaahl the White fell to his knees. Never had any of the three witnessed such a singular display of power.

For all of them, the battle this day was ended.

Without the guidance, or even the visible specter, of their warlock leader, the talons could not sustain any offensive thrusts. They battled back and forth with the defenders for several long hours, but never found another foothold on the other side of the river.

And through it all loomed Belexus, fearless and strong. Talons fled at the mere sight of the ranger-at least those talons who had some measure of wisdom.

For others there was only the doom of a mighty sword.

“They’ll win the day,” came a soft voice behind Rhiannon. She turned to see the young boy she had attended to on the wagons the day before.

“Suren they will.” Rhiannon smiled at him.

“My arm’s all better,” the lad said, and he thrust the limb out for Rhiannon’s inspection.

She grasped the arm gently and turned it to see the wound. It hadn’t been too serious, just a small gash and a deep bruise that had looked far worse than it truly was. Rhiannon had done what she could, applying a clean strip of cloth to the cut and gently massaging the bruise, more to give the distressed boy some comfort than for any medicinal purposes.

But when she removed the cloth now, her breath was stolen away. In trembling surprise Rhiannon turned the arm and looked all about for some sign of the injury.

The arm was healed; not a mark remained.

Rhiannon could only guess that some of the power had flowed through her on that wagon ride, too subtle perhaps for her to even sense it. The implications now overwhelmed her. Could that same force that had sundered the earth, had torn the ground apart with such appalling fury, be used for healing?

Every day, it seemed, the world got more intriguing, and more terrifying.

The fighting ended before sunset, the talons fleeing from the death corridors that were the Four Bridges, and the defenders retrieving their wounded and dead, and trying to replace some of the wrecked defensive barricades.

For one of the principals, though, the battle had apparently ended forever.

“You should come,” a grim-faced soldier said to Rhiannon as the first stars twinkled in the sky.

Rhiannon knew at once his sad tale.

“The ranger took many hits this day,” the soldier explained. “His blood stains the stones of every bridge; alas, not much is left within him. We fear he will not live the night.”

When the Black Warlock surveyed the scene on both sides of the bridges, he was not unhappy. He had lost many talons this day, many more than the defenders lost men, and Brielle and Istaahl had showed themselves to be more powerful foes than he had anticipated. But still more talons flocked to the encampment that night, and many of them brought news that more and more tribes had heard of the battle and were rushing to join in the glorious campaign against the humans. And while Thalasi’s army continued to swell, the ranks of the defenders could only dwindle.

He understood that sheer weight of numbers would get him across the great river the next day, or if not, most assuredly the day after that. Istaahl had learned of the return of Morgan Thalasi during the first battle on the bridges, Thalasi assumed, unaware of the ride of Andovar. So the King in Pallendara had been warned. But had the White Mage or King Benador really fathomed the weight of the assault?

Even if they had, the army of Pallendara would still be at least a day too late.

Once the talon army gained a foothold on the other side of the wide river, they would stamp the ground flat all the way to Pallendara.

Her face ashen, Rhiannon followed without a word as the soldier led her to the camp up by the bridges and to the small tent that held the fallen warrior.

How weak mighty Belexus seemed to her now, his face hollowed and his muscular arms lying slack by his side. He was breathing but could not answer, could not even hear, when Rhiannon knelt beside him and whispered some words of comfort into his ear. The soldier’s estimate had been accurate; the young woman knew at once that Belexus would not live through the night.

Rhiannon sat there in silent sadness for many minutes, and then her sorrow began to transform. She felt the power growing within her, and at first pushed it away, instinctively fearing it. But the image of Belexus lying near death frightened her even more, and when her subconscious let the power in again, she fought against her revulsion and fear to accept it.

“Leave us,” she instructed the two soldiers in the tent. They looked at each other, owing their respect to the ranger who had led them, not wanting his passing to be without proper witnesses. Rhiannon insisted again, her voice stern and powerful, and they could not ignore her pleas.

When the soldiers were gone, the witch’s daughter leaned over her fallen friend, sensitive fingers touching his wounds, drawing the pain out of them. Rhiannon flinched as the ranger’s pain became her own, burning, burning beyond anything she had ever imagined. She held on stubbornly, knowing that she was drawing the wounds away from Belexus, determined that he would survive even if the cost proved to be her own life.

Rhiannon wasn’t certain how much she and her magics would really be able to help, but after many minutes-minutes that seemed like agonized hours-Belexus appeared to be resting more comfortably, and the burn of drawing the injuries had lessened dramatically. Some color had returned to the ranger’s face and his breathing now came deep and steady.

Rhiannon would have liked to stay with him, but she knew that many others had suffered grievous wounds this day. She left the tent, sending one of the soldiers back in to watch over Belexus and bidding the other to take her to those most seriously injured.

All through the night, the power of the earth flowed through the witch’s daughter, each attempt at healing sapping her own strength. Soon, even walking became a difficult task, requiring more strength than the young woman had left to give.

But Rhiannon ignored the concern of the soldier guiding her, and would not relent, and those left in her wake seemed the better for her visit to their bedside.

The talons came on again before the next light of dawn, their numbers greater than at the start of the previous day. The beasts understood that they had worn the defenders down; their master had promised them that this would be the day of victory.

In the first moments of battle it seemed as if Thalasi’s predictions would swiftly prove accurate. Disheartened and weary, the defenders gave ground step by step. Within fifteen minutes the defense of two of the bridges had nearly collapsed.

But then the ranger came out of his tent. Though still weak, the fire in his pale eyes simmered no less intensely. Belexus rushed to his mount and moved out to the back ranks of his comrades. His mere presence inspired the men and stole some of the heart out of the talons, and the ensuing rally of the defenders pushed the monsters back on every bridge. Without even lifting his sword, Belexus had turned the tide of the battle.

The Black Warlock, confident that the swell of numbers during the night would push his talons through, paid little heed to the give-and-take assaults on the bridges. He was weaker this day, drained from the magical expenditures of his previous battles against Brielle and Istaahl. But the witch and wizard were equally exhausted, he recognized, and though the storms over Avalon and the white tower in Pallendara were less powerful this day, so too were the defenses fighting against them.

There would be no sudden, vicious assault forthcoming from Thalasi; his method of attack held consistent and persistent, designed only to keep Brielle and Istaahl from throwing any offensive magic against the talons. And Thalasi knew that he had to conserve some of his own strength. For some reason he could not understand, the third of his enemies, that most hated wizard Ardaz, had not yet made an appearance, personally or from afar, on the battlefield.

Rhiannon continued to grow weaker that day, though she tried to keep her eyes averted from the action on the bridges. The lines of wounded only lengthened when rumors of the young woman’s magical healing powers spread throughout the refugee camp, and Rhiannon, no matter how much the magical acts sapped her vitality, would not turn anyone away.

Here she felt as though she was giving some positive value to the horrible power that possessed her being. Whenever a lull in her work brought Rhiannon the sounds and sights of battle, that power threatened to transform into something darker, something the young woman could not tolerate.

She could not forget the scar she had torn across the land, nor the cries of those, however evil, she had sent to their deaths.

The momentum shift in the battle carried the defenders through the morning, and many talons fell to the sword. But fresh talons, hungry for their first taste of battle, kept replacing their fallen comrades, while the defenders had to continually shrug away their weariness and fight on.

Belexus came to the same conclusion as the Black Warlock: the bridges would fall. He sought out the general of the Rivertown garrison, a leader wise enough to recognize the inevitable.

“Ye should set the wagons off again,” the ranger explained.

The general had feared that advice, though he knew it was honest. “How much strength will our soldiers find when the rest of the people have fled?” he asked.

“Ayuh, ye’re right enough in that,” replied Belexus. “But how much life will the others find when the defenders are no more?”

Within an hour the field beside Rivertown was nearly deserted, and the long line of refugees, even longer now with the addition of the Rivertown populace, made its trudging way down the eastern road.

Now the task before the valiant defenders was to buy time for their kinfolk, and when night came on, not a single bridge had fallen. But the number of able defenders rapidly dwindled; Belexus took up his sword again out of necessity, though he was in no condition to partake of battle.

Watching from one of the few wagons remaining near Rivertown, Rhiannon fought against the destructive urging of her power. She knew that she had to act-the men could not hope to survive for much longer-but her instinctual revulsion of this foreign strength, of its consuming and uncontrollable nature, kept her focus too blurred for any definite action.

Confused and feeling betrayed by her weakness, the witch’s daughter could only slump back and watch in helpless frustration as more men died.

Thalasi ended his storms when the sun went down, knowing that Brielle and Istaahl could not hope to strike out across the miles at his force without many hours of rest. The Black Warlock, too, was drained beyond his limits, and didn’t even think of using any magics against the defenders of the bridges. He had other tasks to attend. His rabble talons had done well in wearying and depleting the ranks of the humans, though the cost in talon lives had been excessive, but they could not organize well enough to properly complete the attack, to gain a secure foothold on the other side of the river.

Thalasi let the course of the battle continue on the bridges, concentrating instead on assembling a spearheading force of reserves that could wait until the precise moment and simply bash through the weakened human lines.

And the Black Warlock could be patient, so he believed. His only objective now was to get his army across the river, and at this point he didn’t see how he could possibly fail.

The battle slowed in the blackness of a moonless night, and Belexus and his charges held on. Every minute, they knew, took the fleeing people a little farther from the talon horde.

The Black Warlock was not concerned. He let the deepest hours slip by, waiting for the brightening of predawn to loose his killing reserves.

And when the moment at last arrived, the talons, spurred by threats of Thalasi, were up to the task. They plowed through the length of the southernmost bridge and swung back to the next, trapping the humans on this second bridge. More and more talons poured onto the eastern field, securing the hold.

The second bridge fell in only minutes.

Tears streaked down the cheeks of the witch’s daughter. They would all soon die, even Belexus, and she could not find the strength within herself to help them. The surge of power came again, and she tried to welcome it, tried to use herself as its focusing channel.

But her deepest instincts fought back, holding the power in check.

A thousand defenders remained, but ten times and more that number of talons stood against them in the openness of the field. There could be no retreat; to break ranks and flee would only mean that the defenders would be hunted down individually and slaughtered.

Few would have fled anyway. Watching Belexus, wounded again but refusing to yield, refusing to show any hints of fear, the humans fought and sang.

Without hope.

His plan running of its own accord, the Black Warlock loosed all of the magics the night had restored to him in a renewed attack against the witch’s forest and the wizard’s tower. Now, with his too-numerous talons leading the way, only his magic-wielding enemies could deny his victory, he believed, and he would give them no opportunity to launch an offensive.

His army was barely minutes from complete victory.

The sound of a hundred horns split the air, the thunder of pounding hooves shook the ground. And above the sudden confusion that startled the men and talons alike came the powerful blast of one note, one so familiar to Belexus.

“Andovar!” he cried. “Fight on, brave warriors, for the army of Pallendara is come!”

Eyes turned to the east and the hearts of the men leaped in hope and pride, while the talons cursed and shrieked in rage.

On came the Warders of the White Walls, led by the Ranger of Avalon and by the King of Calva himself. Five hundred spear tips glistened in the morning light, though the riders seemed little more than ghostly silhouettes with the dawn breaking behind them.

And on the flanks and behind the elite soldiers of Pallendara came groups of volunteers from all of southern Calva, five times greater in number and no less determined than the professional soldiers they followed. Farmers and fishermen who had grabbed up their weapons and ridden in the wake of their beloved King. But it was the practiced regiment of the great city soldiers, who had spent the bulk of their lives in training for just such an occasion, that swiftly turned the tide of battle. The Warders formed a wedge-shaped formation, and King Benador drove them into the talons in a thunderous rush, trampling and scattering the invaders with such brutal efficiency that the bulk of the talon force turned tail and fled back across the river.

Fully engaged with his magical opponents, his powers almost depleted, the Black Warlock could only watch as his army was repelled once again. He would not gain the river this day, and with the kingdom of Calva so fully roused, the cost of breaking through, if ever he could, would be expensive indeed.

“How?” he demanded. He had not believed that the army could possibly arrive for another full day. “It is not possible!” he cried out in such fierce rage that he sent his closest talon commanders and his litter bearers fleeing into the field.

But Thalasi’s denials were futile; this day the Black Warlock’s bark had little bite. In an hour the bridges were secured once again, and the new army now facing Thalasi, well-trained and led by the King, would not be so easily pushed aside.

Rhiannon watched the victory unfold with sincere relief. Her guilt had been lessened by the charge of the Warders, but she would not soon forget the torment that her welling powers had put her through this morn. Would she ever come to terms with this hideous strength? Or was she a damned thing, always to be torn apart by magics she could neither control nor understand?

They were questions Rhiannon wanted to sit and ponder, but a short time later the witch’s daughter had to put her emotions aside once again. One side effect of the battle did indeed concern her directly.

The lines of wounded began anew.