The Witch's Daughter

Chapter 16
Tales of Valor

“HE’LL LOSE IT for sure,” the excited girl cried. “We came to you as soon as we heard of your miracle-working, but too late for his leg.”

Rhiannon moved beside the feverish young lad to examine the wound. The talon spear had dug very deep, severing muscles and tendons, even snapping the bone. And now infection had set in: the limb was purplish and green and pus oozed from the edges of the bandages.

“A wicked cut,” Rhiannon remarked. She put her hand on the lad’s sweaty head. He was beyond sensibility, lost in a feverish delirium. “What is his name?” Rhiannon asked the girl.

“Lennard,” Siana replied.

Rhiannon moved close to the lad’s face. “Lennard,” she called softly.

Lennard stirred slightly, but could not respond.

“Will he live?” Siana asked.

Rhiannon tossed her a comforting smile. “The wound is bad and the sickness has set in,” she explained. “But we might be findin’ a way to fight back against it. Ye should be leaving.”

“I wish to-” Siana started to say, but her large friend, Jolsen Smithyson, standing behind her, put his huge hands on her shoulders and urged her toward the door.

“It will be better if we go,” he said.

“Save him, won’t you please?” Siana begged, resisting Jolsen’s gentle tug. “We have lost so much, and with Bryan still across the river…”

Rhiannon did not miss the reference to Bryan, a name that she and everyone else in the encampment had been hearing quite a lot lately. Rhiannon decided that she would have to speak with Siana later on about this mysterious hero.

But for now, she reminded herself, taking another look at the ugly wound, she had another matter to attend.

She waited until Jolsen had escorted Siana from the tent, then let the magic well inside her. She waited until her body throbbed with the power; she would need all the strength she could muster against so wicked an infection as now ate away at Lennard’s leg.

And then the young witch pulled away Lennard’s bandages and attacked the wound with fury. Her hands burned as soon as they came into contact with the rotting skin, but Rhiannon grimaced away the pain and held her ground. Behind the closed lids of her eyes, she could envision the battle in imaginary embodiments: a grotesque lump of disease, with sickly stumps of arms reaching out to smother her, and she slapped back with hands that glowed of the earth’s power, a hiss of ugly smoke bursting from the bulbous fiend’s form with each strike. They went back and forth in their struggles for many minutes. The monster lump almost smothered her in its wretched hug on several occasions. But each time the resilient witch beat the thing back, and gradually it began to shrink and lose its form.

Rhiannon did not know how much time had passed, minutes or hours, when she again opened her eyes. She was lying across the waist of the young man. She was incredibly weary and her hands hurt still, but she knew that those ills would eventually pass. And to her heartfelt relief, Rhiannon saw that Lennard’s misery would also pass. He rested comfortably now, all hints of his fever gone and a look of genuine peace etched on his young face. The wound was still wicked, but the infection had been fully beaten and it seemed that the leg would heal cleanly.

With great effort Rhiannon pulled herself up to her feet. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to fall down on a cot and sleep.

But another battle had been fought that afternoon across the Four Bridges, small but vicious, and more groups of pitiful refugees had no doubt found their way across the river. Rhiannon knew without even looking beyond the tent flap that the line of wounded had been renewed.

After a short, impromptu nap curled up on the floor beside the bed of her last patient, Rhiannon emerged into the brightening morning sun of the next day. Siana and Jolsen were just outside her tent, waiting anxiously but patiently for her.

“How is he?” Siana was quick to ask.

“Comfortable,” Rhiannon replied with a smile. “Suren ’twas a wicked disease that put its claws into him, but me thinks he’s fought the thing away. He’s a brave lad, and not to be giving up.”

“And he had a bit of help,” Siana said, her eyes rimmed with tears and her hand resting easily on Rhiannon’s arm.

“A bit, perhaps,” Rhiannon admitted.

“Can we go to him?” asked Jolsen.

“Ye can, though I’m not for knowing if he’ll hear yer words.” Jolsen started off toward the tent flap, but Rhiannon motioned for Siana to stay behind.

“I will join you in a moment,” the young girl said to Jolsen.

“Ye spoke a name that I’m wanting to hear more about,” Rhiannon explained after Jolsen had disappeared into the tent.

Siana did not understand.

“Bryan,” Rhiannon explained. “Do ye know o’ the lad?”

“Indeed I do,” replied Siana. “We were companions, all of us.” Her eyes dropped and her voice came out barely as a whisper. “Along with ten others who did not escape when the talons came. I, too, would now lie dead in the Baerendels if not for Bryan.”

“Why did he not cross with the rest of ye?”

Siana’s gaze instinctively went to the dark form of the distant mountain range.

“He felt there was more that needed to be done,” she replied. “Many others have spoken of his deeds in helping them across the river since the night we came in; it would seem that he was right.”

“He must be a brave lad,” Rhiannon remarked, watching the young girl’s distant gaze. Siana’s eyes sparkled at the compliment, as surely as if Rhiannon had aimed it at her.

“Oh, he is,” she said. “His father is-was-an elven warrior. He fought at the Battle of Mountaingate beside Arien Silverleaf himself. It seems that he passed a measure of his valor to his son.”

“Bryan’s an elf?” Rhiannon asked, startled. She did not think that many elves lived in the southland, so far from Illuma Vale.

“Half-elf,” Siana explained. “His father married a human woman, but she died when Bryan was very young. Bryan and his father stayed on in Corning.”

“Meriwindle!” Rhiannon exclaimed, putting the pieces together as she recalled the valiant elf she had met when she and the rangers ventured into the town.

“You know him?”

“ ’Twas in Corning we met,” said Rhiannon, “on the very morn-” She held the rest of her thought to herself, not wanting to evoke any more unpleasant memories in the battle-weary girl.

“I believe that he died bravely,” Siana remarked, steeling her jaw.

“Me guess’d be the same,” Rhiannon assured her, and she let a few moments of silence slip by, seeing Siana deep in private thoughts, her gaze distant, to the west.

“How long do ye think he’ll be staying out there?” the young witch asked when Siana finally looked back at her.

“Until he has done his work,” Siana said grimly. She still held her jaw firm. “Or until the talons finally catch him.” She looked at Rhiannon squarely, her hands unconsciously clenching her sides.

“But know this,” she continued in the same determined tone. “Bryan will do more than his share in the war.”

“He has already,” Rhiannon was quick to put in.

“And a hundred talons and more will wish he had crossed the river with the rest of us!”

Rhiannon dropped a hand on Siana’s shoulder to steady the young girl. “Go to yer friend,” she said, glancing over at the tent flap. “Suren he’ll be looking for yer face when again he finds the strength to open his eyes.”

The tension eased out of Siana’s expression. “Thank you,” she said to Rhiannon. “For everything.”

And then she was gone, and Rhiannon was left alone in that empty spot on the field, gazing across the river, wondering how many more brave deeds this newfound hero would perform before a talon sword found his heart.

The cloaked body of the talon rose slowly in the tree. High above it, his feet planted firmly on thick branches and his back against the trunk, Bryan pulled and tugged on the rope, looping it farther over a branch every time he gained an inch of slack. It took the half-elf nearly a half hour to get the dead talon into place, but he knew that the decoy would be worth the trouble if he was discovered.

Then, on the lower branches, Bryan spent another half hour setting the heavy crossbow into place and checking the tension on the trip line. He suspected that none of these precautions would be necessary, but he had survived this long by keeping all of his options open. In the wilds that had formerly been western Calva, carelessness would surely bring his doom.

Back in his high perch, Bryan looked out to the west beyond the copse to the shadow of an outcropping of rocks and a small cluster of houses. Talons now occupied the little settlement, Bryan knew, for every now and then one of the filthy things peeked its head over the wall surrounding the houses. On the field outside the wall, a dozen or so talon corpses lay stretched out in the morning sun, carrion for the vultures. The frontiersmen hadn’t fled from this settlement, not all of them anyway, and they had apparently taken their share of invaders before they were overrun.

Bryan shuddered as he thought of the grim fate those people must have met when their defenses finally collapsed. Talons were not a merciful bunch.

“But they shall be avenged,” the half-elf vowed to the empty wind, and he looked to the east. Talons were not overly fond of daylight, he knew, and when the shadows of the outcropping slipped away as the sun rose higher in the sky, the activity along the settlement wall diminished. Bryan crept in along the rocks, making a complete circuit of the place, and saw only one guard, cowl pulled low and leaning heavily-probably asleep, Bryan thought-against a wooden beam.

The young warrior drew back on his bowstring, taking deadly aim. Bryan held the shot and reconsidered. Still the talon did not move; perhaps he could get in closer for a less risky strike.

He slipped up to the base of the wall, just a few feet to the side of the guard. The wall was fully ten feet high, but the nimble half-elf had little trouble scaling it enough to poke his head over.

No activity.

Bryan stepped over onto the parapet; still the guard did not move. Bryan knew for certain that the thing was snoozing now. He inched his way in, dagger in hand.

The talon would never again open its bulbous eyes.

There were only six houses inside the wall, and a couple of smaller storage sheds. Like so many similar settlements on the eastern end of the Baerendels, this cluster of houses had no name, at least none that Bryan knew of. The people here were trappers mostly, traveling down to Corning or Rivertown twice a year to trade their skins for the supplies they would need. They probably had had no idea of the extent of the talon invasion when this one small force attacked and conquered their town.

Bryan moved along the parapet and down a ladder near one of the houses, a small one-story building. The place had no windows, but one of its doors was cracked open enough for Bryan to get a glimpse inside.

“Nothins to eat,” he heard. “Nothins, nothins, nothins! What’s these peoples do fer food, then?”

At the door now, Bryan scanned the room: a pantry, with a large talon going from cupboard to cupboard, knocking over sacks and boxes and issuing a steady stream of curses to no one in particular.

When Bryan was certain that the thing was talking to itself, he slipped in, scooping an apple from a shelf just inside the door as he went.

“Nothins!” the big talon bitched again.

“How about this?” Bryan asked.

The startled talon spun about to see Bryan, a clever smile on his face, holding out the piece of fruit.

“Here,” Bryan offered to the thing’s dumbfounded look, and he tossed the apple up into the air. And when the stupid talon instinctively cocked its head to follow the apple’s flight, Bryan drove his sword tip through the front of its exposed neck.

The next room was empty, but snores from the third put Bryan back into a cautious crouch. From the thunderous sounds and the ensuing complaints, he knew there were several of the monsters within. Prudence demanded that he retreat.

But Bryan’s elven sword, glowing an angry blue, told him otherwise. He managed to stifle his chuckle for the moment it took him to spring across the empty room and barrel through the door.

Two of the five talons in the room were awake, and Bryan honestly felt that the horrified looks on their faces alone had been worth the risk.

He quieted one of the snoring talons with a sidelong chop of his sword, then got his shield up just in time to deflect a thrown chair from one of the standing beasts. The other talon bolted for the room’s second door, but Bryan had anticipated such a move. He flipped his sword up into the air, catching it with his shield hand, while in the same easy motion his free hand grabbed a dagger off his belt and launched it at the fleeing talon. It thudded into the monster’s back, hilt deep, knocking the talon off balance.

The talon accepted the blow with a grudging smile; one dagger wouldn’t stop its flight for reinforcements. But the creature’s grim elation proved short-lived, for Bryan’s thoughts followed the same line of reasoning. Even as the first dagger thudded into the talon’s back, two more were on their deadly way.

The second dagger dropped the talon to its knees, the third sprawled it out facedown; it slammed the door open on its rapid descent and lay still halfway through.

“Damn!” Bryan spat. He had hoped to get the thing before it reached the door. He couldn’t worry about his failure now, though, for the talon that had thrown the chair was on him, sword drawn, and the other two in the room were quickly coming out of their slumbers.

Bryan smacked away a lunge with his shield, then spun for the door at his back. He reversed his grip on his sword, though, and stopped suddenly, launching the deadly weapon with a lightning backhand out behind him.

It slipped deep into the talon’s chest as the creature took its very first step of pursuit, blowing its breath out in a whoosh. Bryan spun about and tore out the blade, finishing the gasping talon with an overhand chop.

Another was up, though, and frantically trying to find its weapon. But Bryan came upon it in a hacking fury, first taking off the arms it threw up to block his slicing blows, then driving deeper into the heart of the thing, smashing it down into the blackness of death.

The remaining talon charged from across the room, battle-ax up over its head. A sudden twisting leap brought Bryan crashing into the thing before it could react, and the half-elf’s shining shield flattened its face with enough force to drive its nose way out over its cheek.

The talon reeled backward, blood pouring from its shattered nose, and tried to find its wits.

Bryan followed sword first, easily finding enough holes in the staggered thing’s defensive posture to finish it off quickly.

“They are fighting in the house!” the young boy whispered excitedly to his mother.

“Shhh!” the woman scolded, clutching her younger child tighter to her bosom. But the woman, too, had heard the sharp ring of metal and could not deny the truth of her son’s observations.

Satisfied that the house was cleared, Bryan moved back into the pantry, replacing the daggers on his belt. He should move on, he knew, back to the wall and over, but he could not ignore the rumbling in his stomach. How many days had he gone without a decent meal?

So the half-elf gathered some food and had a seat, crossing his muddy boots comfortably up on the room’s small table.

The sound of talons approaching the door only a moment later told him of his folly.

Two of the beasts burst into the pantry, stopping short to regard the young half-elf, still sitting calmly at the table, peeling an apple with a knife. “Ghost fighter!” one of them roared, and it rose up on its toes.

“Want some?” Bryan offered casually, smiling at the well-earned nickname the talons had given him. Too enraged to be confused, the monster charged.

Bryan flicked the knife into its eye.

The other talon came on and met a skidding table before it got halfway to its intended prey. Struggling to hold its balance, the creature finally recovered and threw the table aside. Growling and sputtering a hundred threats and curses, it stalked in more cautiously.

Bryan stood behind the chair now, sword in hand. He hooked his boot under the cross-leg and waited patiently for the creature to come close enough.

The talon moved at him defensively, expecting to catch a flying chair at any moment.

“Come on, then,” Bryan prompted.

When the talon was only a few feet away, Bryan jerked his leg. The talon hunched immediately, throwing its arms into a cross over its chest.

But the chair never came. Bryan stopped his leg jerk as quickly as he had started it, instead leaping out over the chair toward the talon and driving his sword in a swiftly descending arc. The talon, its hands down at its chest in anticipation of the flying chair, caught the sword squarely on the top of its ugly head.

“They never know when I’m kidding,” Bryan remarked, stepping over the thing to finish off the other, still squirming on the floor with the dagger buried in its eye.

For all his outward calm, Bryan knew that the time had come for him to leave. This last fight, particularly the groans of the one-eyed talon on the floor, had caused enough ruckus to stir the rest of the compound. Bryan slipped to the door and peeked out, but then, hearing a scrape behind him, he whirled back, dagger poised to throw.

Instead of another talon, however, the young warrior’s eyes met those of a frightened woman, peeking out from the trapdoor of a root cellar, cleverly concealed under a bench along the side wall of the pantry.

“I told ye, Ma,” came a young boy’s voice from below her.

Bryan looked back at the compound, where talons were now running about.

“Get back down!” he whispered to the woman. “I will be back for you. I promise.”

The woman hesitated, not wanting to retreat again into the dark and dirty hole. “Me and the boy and me daughter been in there the better part of a week-” she began to explain, but Bryan gave her no choice in the matter. He rushed over and gently pushed down the trapdoor, promising again that he would soon return to get her and her children to safety. And when the door was closed tightly, he then slid a heavy box over it to further disguise it from talon eyes.

The woman hid her disappointment well from her anxious son. “Sit quiet,” she instructed him. “That one will come back for us, I know.”

Bryan slipped his bow off his shoulder as he went up the ladder.

“On the wall!” cried one of the talons, spotting him. “The ghost fighter!” A whole group of the monsters rushed across the compound toward the marauding half-elf, but they quickly changed their minds, and their direction, when the first of Bryan’s arrows whistled in.

Bryan got another few good shots off, killing two other talons before the lines of defense and retaliation began to organize around him. As the first spear came out from behind a barricade, he hopped over the wall, dropping lightly to the ground, and rushed off for the protection of the rocky outcropping.

The wooden gates burst open and a score of talons charged out, one of them dropping with an arrow in its throat. Bryan sprinted off into the open, but never too far ahead to dissuade his pursuers. Normally he would have taken that last shot offered and slipped away along the cover of the mountainside, but the appearance of a woman and her children had changed the purpose of this encounter.

Bryan sprinted across the open ground ahead of the talons, sending an arrow whizzing off wildly over his shoulder every so often. One of the talons got out ahead of its comrades, gaining on the half-elf.

“Too close,” Bryan noted, measuring the distance to the trees. He notched another arrow to his bowstring and let the talon come on a bit more.

Just as the thing heaved its spear, Bryan spun about and fired.

Bryan’s aim proved the better. The talon dropped to the ground.

But on sudden impulse the young warrior flinched to the side, putting himself dangerously in line with the flying spear, one hand reaching for a dagger on his belt. With perfect timing he spun just as the spear connected, feigning a solid hit while taking only a glancing blow.

Bryan stumbled backward and started off again for the trees, purposely leaning to the side, lurching and stumbling, and, secretly, cutting a small line into his forearm.

“Gurgrol’s got ’im!” he heard one of the pursuing talons cry in glee, apparently unconcerned that Gurgrol had paid for the effort dearly.

Then Bryan disappeared into the thick copse, heading straight for his trap tree and taking care to leave a noticeable, splotchy blood trail. When he reached the massive elm, he smeared a red stain on its trunk, then wrapped his cloak around his superficial wound and rushed off farther into the mass of tangled underbrush.

Spurred by the apparent hit, the talons crashed into the copse soon after Bryan, tearing apart the shrubs as they went. The blood trail showed clearly, and it led them straight to the elm.

“There ’e is!” shouted one of the talons, spotting the cloaked body straddling the high branches. Spears and arrows went up into the tree, coming closer to their throwers in their descent than they ever got to the high figure. Then one talon got a small rock and whipped it up, bouncing it off a branch right next to the figure.

“Bah, ’e’s prob’ly dead already,” the talon spat, noting that the figure didn’t move.

“If only you knew,” Bryan whispered under his breath from a vantage point a short distance away.

The talon leaped into the lowest branches, a knife in its teeth, and began making its way up. Bryan waited anxiously as it stepped on one particular branch-chosen because any talon climbing the tree would have to step on that particular branch to get up any higher.

The branch bent under the talon’s weight, pulling tight a hidden string. The beast heard a click off to the side, but didn’t discern it as the release of a crossbow.

To the amazement of the talons on the ground, their comrade slumped to the side and came crashing down, quite dead.

“Ghost fighter,” one of them muttered, and they all backed away a cautious step.

“Burn ’im!” another cried, and immediately a chorus of assenting cheers rose up. Several of the talons scrambled around in search of kindling.

Bryan knew it was time to leave, but he paused when he was a safe distance from the copse to watch the flames leap high into the air and to listen to the victorious hoots of the talons.

“They never know when I’m kidding,” Bryan remarked again, and he went off to find some rest. He would be busy that night.

Again, a lone guard on the compound wall found a dagger in its chest.

The night was more than half through, but the talon party continued undaunted. They danced and sang their guttural songs all around the cluster of houses, paying little heed to the cloaked figure on the wall.

Bryan managed to get back into the house by the ladder, and he found, to his relief, the pantry empty of talons. He heard some shuffling in the next room, but couldn’t wait to find out if the talons meant to come out or not. Moving to the trapdoor, he lifted it gently, calling to the woman in a quiet whisper to calm any startled outbursts.

“Come quickly,” Bryan prompted, pulling the young boy out of the hole and then taking the infant girl from her mother.

“Did-” the boy blurted before Bryan could stop him. Bryan verily tossed the baby back to her mother, drawing his sword and throwing himself beside the door to the next room. But the talons were engaged in their own games and apparently took no note of the noise.

When he was certain that all was clear, Bryan led the family out of the house and up to the wall, pulling the ladder up behind them and dropping it over the other side. He could kill a score of talons this night, he knew, so engrossed were they in their celebration over the death of the “ghost fighter.” But one look at the mother and her two children flushed any such thoughts out of the young warrior’s mind. He had only one purpose this night.

“We have to get to the river.”

They were in a boat-one of Bryan’s hidden and growing stash-a couple of hours later, Bryan rowing the three across to the safety of the eastern bank.

“Why were they at such a party?” the mother asked, the first words she had spoken to Bryan since they left the compound.

“They thought they had killed me.”

“You must be mighty indeed to inspire such joy,” the woman remarked.

“They make me more than I am,” Bryan replied humbly. “And I only use their fear to my advantage.”

“You have been doing this a long time?” the young boy asked.

“It seems like years,” Bryan replied, and the woman noticed for the first time how weary the young hero appeared.

“And is it over now?” she asked. “They think you are dead; why not let it be so?”

Bryan had to take a long moment to find an answer.

How much longer could he hope to evade the talons?

Why not continue on with this family and join up with the Calvan army in the north at the Four Bridges? Certainly he could use the rest and the company of humans.

But how many more families now crouched in dark holes, waiting without hope?

“I must go back,” he said at length.

The woman did not question him further. She had seen too much death and suffering in the past few days to be concerned with the antics of one young warrior.

“Is there anything I can do to repay you?” she offered.

“I have some friends on the other side,” Bryan replied. “Somewhere near Rivertown, I would guess. A young girl named Siana, and two boys my own age, Jolsen Smithyson and Lennard-” The name caught in his throat as he wondered suddenly if Lennard had survived his wicked wound.

“Of Corning,” he continued when he got past the dark thought. “Find them for me. Tell them that Bryan hopes they fare as well as he.”

The woman nodded. “And when, should I tell them, will Bryan return?”

The flash of Bryan’s smile caught her off guard. She knew beyond doubt the grim truth behind Bryan’s optimistic facade, and she could guess from that resigned smile that Bryan knew it, too.

“Soon.”

Then the half-elf was alone in the boat again, rowing off silently toward the western bank, toward the army of evil talons.

So very alone.