The Witch's Daughter

Chapter 27
The Fabric Torn

“BY THE COLONNAE!” Brielle gasped as the flames ate at her forest. Thalasi’s storm continued to flash and rumble, but that singular, massive bolt had taken the bite out of its thunderous bark as surely as it had shattered Brielle’s shield.

Brielle reached down inside herself, called to the earth power that fueled her magic. Hers was the first school of magic, the guardian school wherein the energies used her as their guiding hand to fight back against that which went against the natural order of the universe.

“Ye’ve pulled it too far,” the witch moaned when she at last contacted the fabric of her strength. Harmony was the norm for the universal powers, energy all working in accord toward the perfection of natural order. But Morgan Thalasi had grasped at that harmony with his perverted claws, had pulled the heartstrings of the powers beyond their limits.

Brielle had no time to stop and contemplate the grim consequences of the Black Warlock’s actions. The battle was far from over, though neither would find the energy needed to continue to wage their destructive war across the leagues. Now the contest became more personal, a test of wills removed from the material world.

Brielle did not flinch when the specter of the Black Warlock entered the gray field surrounding her thoughts. She conjured a spectral manifestation of herself and strode calmly toward the evil one.

“All the world is mine,” Thalasi cackled at her. “Witness how the magic bends to my control.”

“Ye’re a fool,” Brielle hissed back. “What magic do ye leave in yer wake? ’Twas the Colonnae that blessed us with the powers of all the universe, but ye’ve ruined that blessing, Morgan Thalasi. Ye’ve torn the heart out o’ our power to the ruin of us all.”

“No!” Thalasi shouted back in angry denial. “I’ve stolen the harmony that gives you strength, wicked witch! And Istaahl in Pallendara is no more, buried in the ruins of his own tower. Who will stand against me when Brielle is gone? Your pitiful brother? The buffoon who plays with elves?”

Brielle offered no response. She had lived for centuries as the principal guardian of the natural world, and now that world was under siege more than it had been since the great holocaust that destroyed the original race of man. The Emerald Witch knew her duty.

“All yer grand words,” she laughed at Thalasi. “First ye must beat me!” Her mental specter walked into battle, but as she reached the manifestation of the Black Warlock, the being split into two separate entities: Morgan Thalasi as he had been before the Battle of Mountaingate, and Martin Reinheiser. They moved out to flank the surprised witch, taunting her with laughter.

“Grand?” they asked together. “Minor claims against the truth of our being.”

Then they rushed in on her. Brielle flailed at them valiantly, but within mere seconds icy hands grasped at her throat.

Istaahl climbed through the last layer of rubble, a garish sight of torn and tattered clothing and bruised and bleeding flesh. A thousand curious onlookers in Pallendara shook their heads almost as one, stunned again by the powers of their wizard. For no mortal man could possibly have survived the fall of the tower.

Istaahl started to walk the perimeter of the devastation, ignoring the curious and terrified gazes surrounding him and following his every move.

“You fool!” the White Mage scolded himself, suddenly guessing the logical continuation of the Black Warlock’s magical campaign. How long had he tarried, wallowing in his own grief? Seconds? But even seconds could be too long in such a contest. Without further delay, Istaahl launched himself into the gray nothingness of the magical plane of existence, threw himself fully and bravely into the fight against the twin beings that were the Black Warlock.

“I have you-” Thalasi and Reinheiser started to proclaim in dual-voiced unison. But then the manifestation of the White Mage leaped onto the back of the spirit of Reinheiser, tearing his hands from the throat of Brielle.

The odds had suddenly changed.

“Did ye think one o’ the Four so easily killed?” Brielle said to Thalasi. “But one of us has died indeed, Morgan Thalasi. Yerself. Centuries ago when ye forgot our purpose, when ye took it upon yerself to challenge all the goodness o’ the Colonnae.”

“Weakling,” Thalasi retorted. “All the powers of the world at your fingertips and you play nursemaid to a copse of trees. Gods we could be! The world is ours to rule.”

“Not ours!” Brielle retorted. “Never ours! Ye ignore yer place, and yer greed is suren to be the ruin o’ all the world!”

To the side, the spirits of Reinheiser and Istaahl rolled about in the fog in combat as vicious and desperate as any that had been fought on the Four Bridges. And now Thalasi sprang upon Brielle like a beast, his claws reaching out for her fair neck. But Brielle’s appearance, so innocent and beautiful, belied the strength of the woman. She accepted the Black Warlock’s attack and responded with her own, vicious and mighty.

Venerable Bellerian had been assigned to the rear of the army, directing wayward troops and relaying vital information to the battle commanders from his distant, more encompassing vantage point. But when the Ranger Lord saw his son on the northernmost bridge, facing that horrid wraith, he could not remain at his post. He was in his eighties now, not old for a man raised under the beauty of Avalon, who, by the words of Brielle, could expect to live a century and a score of years beyond that. But Bellerian’s fighting days had ended abruptly many years before. He had been bent over nearly double-he could hardly walk without the assistance of a cane-by a wound he received in the foul swamp of Blackamara, a wound so wicked that even the powers of Brielle could not fully heal it.

The Ranger Lord felt no pain now as he charged his mount down to the bridges, leaping from the saddle when he got there and rushing as fast as his crooked back would allow to go to the side of his son.

“Ye should no’ have come, me father,” Belexus said to him, truly concerned.

“Ye think I’d let ye fight the likes o’ this one alone?” Bellerian replied, a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” the wraith agreed. “Yes, old man, do join in our play.”

“Play, the thing calls it,” Bellerian scoffed. “We’ll see the name the thing gives to it when we put it back where it belongs!” And then the Ranger Lord struck out wickedly and cunningly, a swooping slash of his sword that forced Mitchell to stumble off balance. And by the time the wraith managed to straighten himself enough to return the blow, Bellerian was far out of reach.

Even Belexus looked upon his father with sincere surprise.

“Ye’re not believin’ that I had it left in me old bones,” Bellerian chuckled at his stunned son. “I should’ve whipped ye in battle more often to keep yer thoughts in their proper place.”

Belexus just shook his head and moved out a pace to the side, suddenly very glad to have Bellerian fighting beside him.

At Ardaz’s bidding, Calamus soared over the eastern edge of the battlefield. In the west and visible from the wizard’s high vantage point, the physical being of the Black Warlock remained firmly in place behind his charges, within his pool of perverted darkness and with those awful black bolts of energy still drawing on the fabric of the world, still shooting into the sky to fuel the unnatural gloom.

Ardaz understood the peril his sister and Istaahl faced at that moment, and he searched for a sanctuary where he could put down on the ground and join in the magical war against Thalasi.

But as the Pegasus neared the Four Bridges, another darkness beckoned to Ardaz, a call so doom-filled that the wizard could not ignore it.

“Yes, Ardaz,” the wraith of Mitchell hissed. “Do come and join the fun!”

Belexus and Bellerian did not have to look over their shoulders to confirm that the Silver Mage had come. Shouts of hope echoed throughout the battlefield behind them. The wraith, too, seemed preoccupied with the approach of the wizard, and both of the rangers were wise enough to grasp the opportunity. With a sudden ferocity that Mitchell had not anticipated, Belexus dove in at him, the ranger’s huge sword cutting deep into his belly and striking at his very heart.

Black energy shot through the blade, a fire on Belexus’ hands. The mighty ranger ignored the searing pain and held firm to his grasp, confident that he had struck a mortal blow. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip.

But then, unbelievably, the sword came loose from the wraith. Belexus looked down, mouth agape.

The blade had melted away.

From the distant sky, Ardaz watched in horror as the skull-headed mace chopped down at the ranger. Belexus’ head would have certainly been crushed if not for the reaction of his father. Bellerian had started in for his own strike on Mitchell, but seeing the sudden disaster befalling Belexus, he reversed his sword for a defensive parry. Mitchell’s weapon came down heavily, shattering Bellerian’s sword to its hilt and numbing the Ranger Lord’s arms with awful coldness.

But the sword deflected the strike enough so that Belexus only received a glancing blow. Still, the sheer power of the evil instrument jolted the ranger and sent him flying back down the length of the bridge, where he crumpled into darkness.

Blind rage contorted Bellerian’s fair features. “Ye bastard!” he spat at Mitchell, and he threw his sword hilt viciously into Mitchell’s face, smashing the wraith’s contented grin.

Now Ardaz found himself truly torn. He felt that he must go into the magical plane to the aid of his peers, but he knew, too, that this critical battle on the bridges could not be won without his aid. Even if he and the other magic-users managed to defeat Thalasi, this horrid wraith would surely lead the dark forces to victory.

Ardaz, too, had his predetermined duty. He was a master of the second school of magic, a discipline that drew its energy from the universal powers to aid in the causes of the goodly races. The Silver Mage could not ignore that calling now. His sister and Istaahl would have to hold out; Ardaz could not forsake the needs of the Calvans and elves.

He brought Calamus down in a furious dive, landing in a wild gallop that took him right up to Bellerian, who was now steadily backing away from the wraith. The wizard jumped off, and Billy Shank swung the Pegasus around toward the still unmoving form of the younger ranger.

The wraith lost all interest in Bellerian at the sight of the wizard. “Come and play,” Mitchell hissed at Ardaz, again waving that horrible scepter of darkness. Ardaz replied by summoning a ball of sunlike light atop his oaken staff.

“Go to your son,” the wizard said to the Ranger Lord.

“Nay, I’ll not leave ye in yer need,” Bellerian replied, ever vigilant in spite of his feelings.

“You can do nothing here,” Ardaz assured him. “This is a creature beyond our world and beyond your power. Go to your son, Bellerian, I beg you. You will only steal some of my concentration in this battle if you remain out here exposed.”

Bellerian put a hand on the wizard’s shoulder.

“Fight well, me friend,” he whispered, and then rushed back to join Billy, working to comfort Belexus.

“This is our fight, wizard,” the wraith agreed. “But when I am through with you, your pitiful friends will have their turn.”

Ardaz never even blinked in response. He held his staff out proudly and resolutely and strode in for the fight.

And they met on the middle of the bridge, darkness and light.

Bryan wept openly as he viewed the inner struggle of the young witch, repeating his plea to her, “Please!” over and over with all the voice he could muster.

Rhiannon, too consumed by the drama playing out within her soul, did not even hear him. Ecstasy and anguish flooded through her all at once, joyous tingles of magical energy that both thrilled and frightened her beyond anything she had ever known. She could not have imagined such pleasure and power being contained within her mortal form. Yet there was a darker side to it all, a possession that threatened Rhiannon’s very identity.

Bryan hugged her close, fighting against her trembling horror.

Rhiannon, though, felt no comfort at the half-elf’s touch, for she was no longer part of her physical being, was falling into a pit of darkness that had no bottom.

For the first time in his life, King Benador saw action in battle, and any of those close enough to witness the valor and strength of the man would hold no argument against his claim as their king. He had grown up among the Rangers of Avalon, had been trained in the ways of battle by Belexus himself, and it didn’t take the talons long to realize that he was one to be avoided. With the Warders of the White Walls at his side, Benador swept back and forth across the two southern bridges, driving back the greater numbers of talons and securing the southern defense lines guarding Rivertown and the tents of healing.

Still, with the appearance of the wraith and Thalasi’s un-dead brigades, the other two bridges had been fully breached. Thousands of talons poured across the bridge second from the north; none would cross the northernmost, where the wraith and the Silver Mage now faced off. Most of the Calvan defenders had been swept away in the dark tide, pushed back to the east beyond the protection of Benador and his elite corps.

Before long only Arien and his elven warriors stood to stem the flow. Their main concern had to be the undead brigade, and the zombies went down by the score to the slashing blades of the skilled elves. But so swift had been the zombies’ initial rout that Arien could not hope to contain those talons who had already crossed. Instead the elf Eldar and his troops cut the talon forces in half, slicing back through the throng to the breached bridge and then trampling their way onto the structure. They were fully surrounded, fighting back to back, but they had quelled the terror of the undead monsters and halted the tide of talons.

“Our fate is in the hands of the Calvans,” Arien remarked to Ryell, fighting by his side. “We have given them the opportunity to regroup and come back to the bridge, but if their charge is not swift enough, we will surely perish this day.”

“If the fates decree it,” Ryell said in stubborn determination. Arien looked at his friend with sincere admiration. Once Illuma’s most notorious human-hater, Ryell had indeed amended his ways.

Surveying the situation, King Benador knew despair. He and his troops could hold the two bridges, and the Calvan forces who had been pushed back had already begun their answering charge back toward the second bridge. But too many talons had crossed for the Calvans to fully contain them. Even as the King ordered a contingent away to the south and east, he saw several bands of talons converging on the tents of the wounded.

“We wanted our fight,” Jolsen remarked to Siana and Lennard. “Looks like we got it!” Almost on cue, a talon rushed through the flap at the burly lad. In his surprise, Jolsen never would have been able to block the attack, but Siana was not caught off her guard. A flip of her wrist put a dagger into the neck of the charging beast, and as it lurched over in pain, Lennard chopped it down.

“Teamwork!” Lennard cried.

But then a dozen more talons tore through the tent from every side, and the teamwork of the three, however complementary, however magnificent, hardly seemed adequate. Still, the young warriors could not complain, satisfied that they had more than avenged their dead kinfolk, had done more than their share in the efforts of this terrible but undeniably necessary war.

Most of their parents and kin had died in the fall of Corning and the subsequent retreat toward the river, they had learned, and they took faith now as the talons closed over them that those who had gone before them would be waiting to greet them on this, their last journey.

Farther to the north, beyond the bridges, the numbers seemed equally disturbing. Sylvia, the daughter of Arien Silverleaf, led a contingent of a hundred elven archers and twice that number of Calvan bowmen against the flotilla Mitchell’s charges had constructed. The men and elves peppered the talon armada as it made its slow but purposeful trudge across the river.

As each boat landed, it was met by a charging force of whirling swords and spears, but each contingent of man and elf forced down to the banks to fight in the hand-to-hand melee weakened the rain of arrows on the approaching boats. And more and more boats were on their way, some just being launched off the opposite bank, a continuing, seemingly endless line.

Sylvia was battle-seasoned enough to realize that though she and her forces could hold out for many minutes, they could not hope to win unless help came down from the army at the bridges-an army, the elven maiden lamented when she looked that way, that was even more pressed than her own forces.

But Sylvia and the hundred elves had faced greater odds than this; to a soldier, they had fought in the Battle of Mountaingate, and their undying optimism lent strength to the fearful Calvans.

“The talons may win through at this position,” Arien’s daughter noted grimly. “But their victory will come at heavy cost.” To accentuate her point, she let another arrow fly at an approaching boat. It whistled out over the water, true in its mark, and caught the craft’s commander right between the eyes.

“Watch, wizard!” the wraith taunted. “Watch as all of the world is destroyed.”

“Brave words, nonbeing,” Ardaz shot back. He thrust his staff out, and rays of light slammed into Mitchell’s dark form, burning holes where they struck.

Mitchell returned the effort, snapping his scepter above his head, showering Ardaz in black flakes.

Ardaz quickly pulled his light back to him, sensing the unearthly danger. He danced frantically, burning away as many of the flakes as he could with his staff. But many found their mark, and Mitchell struck again.

Ardaz stamped his staff to the ground, launching a blinding blue bolt that hurled the wraith to the ground.

But it was the wizard who was most dismayed, for when Ardaz had called upon that greater level of magical energy, he began to understand the depth of the breach that the Black Warlock had caused in the harmony.

“Thus ends an age,” the wizard lamented. He hated the thought of taxing that magical plane any further.

But Mitchell was already on his way back in, that wicked scepter raised high.

No more tender words escaped Bryan’s lips. Rhiannon fell limp in his arms, but he would not let her recline on the ground. “Stand against it!” he commanded, and he slapped the young witch across the face with enough force to raise a welt on her porcelain cheek.

Rhiannon tried to reach out and find a way to slow her descent, but the pit’s walls were too far away. She called out to her mother, ever her source of strength and protection.

Then she realized the true depth of the horror.

Her call brought her mind into the magical plane, where she saw the mental battle in all its fury. Brielle and Istaahl fought bravely and savagely, but so, too, did the twin specters of the Black Warlock. And while Rhiannon’s mother and the White Mage seemed weary, Thalasi and Reinheiser were only growing stronger, the Black Warlock feeding off the chaos he had created.

Rhiannon’s stay was short-lived, for soon she found herself back in the hopeless pit, falling away. A single word escaped her lips, a word that may have saved all of Aielle.

“Bryan.”

Spurred by her call, the half-elf doubled his efforts.

He pulled Rhiannon up straight, forced her to find her footing. “Beat it!” he yelled. “Do not surrender!” He had no idea of the true nature of the young witch’s dilemma, but he understood well enough that the only thing he could do was help her to hold her bearing.

“Rhiannon!”

The call came from a great distance, but Rhiannon heard it clearly. She focused on the sound, sent her thoughts spiraling back toward it.

“Rhiannon!”

Nearer now, but still beyond her grasp. The witch forgot the pain, dismissed the despair. All that mattered was that she find the source of that call.

“Rhiannon!”

The jolt as the young witch regained consciousness sent Bryan flying through the air. He landed heavily on his back. His first reaction was to return to Rhiannon, but then he recognized that she did not need him anymore.

A glow of power emanated from her form, which no longer seemed tiny and frail. Her light eyes glittered as pale sapphires in a bright sun, and her face twisted into a visage of powerful satisfaction.

Rhiannon felt all the power that the world had left to give rushing to her call, its purity burning sweet in her veins. She waited a moment, letting the forces gather until she thought she would burst apart. Then she swept her arms up into the air, releasing a mighty line of energy, radiant green, at that spot of the overcast that hid the sun. It roared into Thalasi’s cloud, sizzling and crackling.

Darkness rushed from every edge of the sky to gather against the bolt, but Rhiannon did not relent. Her mouth opened in a silent scream of stubborn rage, and she snapped her hands up higher, throwing every ounce of her strength into the battle.

Thunder rolled out, the rain crossing the path of the green bolt sizzled and steamed away, and as the black clouds rolled in, they were consumed. All the sky lightened, though the overcast remained unbroken.

But Thalasi’s efforts were elsewhere, locked in mortal combat against Brielle and Istaahl, and his gloom could not be reinforced. Rhiannon thought that this effort would surely kill her, but she did not worry about that now.

“So be it,” she muttered, throwing another pulse heavenward. Relentlessly, the green bolt burned away. The young witch, seeing into the very center of her energy bolt, squinted her eyes at the greater brightness as she cut through to the blue above the cloud.

Now the green beam widened the gap in the clouds, and Rhiannon called upon the sun to help her cause. A single ray came through, not angled back toward Rhiannon but shining through to the north, burning into the globe of darkness that surrounded the Black Warlock.

Brielle and Istaahl felt the weakening of their respective foes immediately, but before they could press further in and hold the twin spirits down, the Black Warlock’s manifestations blended together into one and vanished from the scene of the mental battle.

Brielle took a moment to contemplate the change in events, then announced to Istaahl, “ ’Tis me daughter!”

“We must go to her!” the White Mage replied, but then another call came to them, a call they could not ignore.

“All the world!” Ardaz cried.

“Me daughter!” gasped Brielle.

Ardaz could see the battle in the west clearly. The Black Warlock had regained his footing and responded to the sun ray with a bolt of midnight blackness. He had pushed the ray halfway back to the clouds, and the vile line of his blackness was still rising.

But the events at the river were even more desperate. Too many talons had come across, Arien and his troops would soon falter, and the defense along the northern banks was about to disintegrate altogether to the endless armada.

Brielle understood. Her every instinct told her to go to her daughter’s aid, but Rhiannon would simply have to hold on for a while longer.

“It will never be the same,” Istaahl lamented.

“But no choice is to us, then,” said Brielle. “Call to yer sea, me friend. Pull with all yer strength.” Then the witch went to her own work. She fell back into the magical plane, reached out with wide arms to gather all the power she could find.

And then she grabbed at the river.

Istaahl sent his summons out over the waves, calling to the ocean from the ruins of the White Tower. From far out, but rising swiftly and rushing in toward the mouth of the great river, came a wall of water.

Brielle pulled against the flow, drove the water back with an invisible wall of energy. In seconds the great river under the Four Bridges was an empty bank of mud. The talons in their boats, now sitting on soft ground, thought this a gift of their godlike master to speed their crossing. Whooping and shouting, they leaped from their craft and plodded out through the thick mud.

“See our power!” Mitchell hissed at Ardaz. “We rule even the river itself!”

But Ardaz recognized the truth of the event. He sent a magically enhanced shout ringing into the ears of all his comrades. “Get back from the river!”

At the end of the bridge, Billy and Bellerian finally got Belexus to his feet. Though wounded by the burning chill of Mitchell’s scepter, the ranger would not retreat. Billy pushed him, trying to get him back from the river as Ardaz had instructed. But Bellerian understood the fire that drove his son.

“Leave him to his duty,” the Ranger Lord instructed.

“Are ye coming with me?” Belexus asked. He knew the answer when he took a moment to consider his father, bent again under the pain of that old wound.

“No, me son,” Bellerian said with a smile. “Me fightin’s at its end.”

Belexus kissed him on the forehead, then helped his father onto the winged horse’s back as Billy turned Calamus toward the safety of the land.

Then Belexus strode out on the bridge to stand beside the brave wizard.

Benador and his troops needed no encouragement to heed the wizard’s call. They pushed the talons on the southern two bridges back to the west one final time, then broke back toward the fields, where they could have run to safety. But the King and his elite corps would not let the valiant elves die for their cause, not while they had any strength left in their bodies. Benador spearheaded a small group, driving like a wedge through the talon ranks to get to Arien and his forces.

“Fly away!” Arien called to his warriors, while he and Ryell fought as a rear guard.

Up in the north, Sylvia and her forces wanted to heed Ardaz’s call, but many talons had reached the eastern bank in the first moments after the river had emptied. The elven maiden rushed from group to group, freeing up men and elves and sending them on their retreat, but she remained on the muddy bank, refusing to leave until all the others had found safer ground.

“The weakling ranger returns,” the wraith laughed. “I am glad that you live, Belexus. I would not want you to miss this spectacle of my master’s glory.”

Belexus cast a knowing smile at Ardaz. Only one being in all Aielle could make such a demand of the River Ne’er Ending: the Emerald Witch.

“Ye’ve ever been a fool, Mitchell,” he spat at the wraith. “Ye think this yer master’s doin’?”

“Who-” Mitchell began to respond, but the smug look on the ranger’s face caused the wraith to glance back over his shoulder; then he saw the continuing struggle between the Black Warlock and the sun ray. The wraith spun back on Ardaz and the ranger, unbridled rage etched on its grotesque face.

“You’ll not escape the doom!” Ardaz promised, and he slammed his staff on the stone with enough force to break the instrument, and that in turn exuded enough force to split apart the bridge itself.

The center of the structure crumbled down into the mud, and the wraith, Ardaz, and Belexus fell away.

Brielle and Istaahl could not know the particulars at the battle scene, nor reverse the tide of their actions in any case. When she sensed the approach of Istaahl’s watery wall, the Emerald Witch let loose the gathered waters of the great river.

“No!” the Black Warlock screamed, turning back to the disastrous battle on the bridges for just an instant.

And Thalasi’s despair only heightened in that moment, for Rhiannon and her sun ray did not let the moment pass.

A burst of light burned away the Black Warlock’s sphere of darkness completely and slammed Thalasi to the ground.

And in a flash all of the Black Warlock’s overcast was consumed, and the sky shone bright and blue once more.

Still Rhiannon continued her assault, determined, as was the magic that flowed through her, to rid Aielle of the Black Warlock once and for all.

The stupid talons rushing across the bridges and standing in the mud of the empty riverbank could only gape at the converging doom, and when the magics of Brielle and Istaahl came together, nearly half of the evil force was simply washed away. Another group remained trapped on the eastern side, helpless in the face of the wrath of the warrior King and his minions, who were already regrouping for another assault.

But oh so many heroes, human and elf alike, went away in that watery grave.

Indeed, the world would never be the same.