Bastion of Darkness Page 3

  The thought surely intrigued him—perhaps he would indeed name himself as a king. Again Mitchell found his focus in the distant memories. He recalled his feelings on the day the survivors of the Unicorn had set out from the halls of the Colonnae, across the brown stretches of the desolate land of Brogg. Mitchell had vowed then that he would someday soon rule this world.

  Perhaps …

  But it was a fantasy for another day, the wraith realized, for those campfires across the way tugged at the wraith’s incessant hunger, promised him warm blood and flesh.

  So there it was, settled in his mind. He meant to rule the world, but now, he understood, was not the time to reveal himself, especially on the other side of the river, where, perhaps, two wizards and a witch worked their magic.

  No, not now. That night by the river, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell gained perspective and purpose. And direction. He would go west, not east, to the Kored-dul and the castle Talas-dun. He would confront the Black Warlock—as servant if Thalasi were still the more powerful, as master if not—and from that place of dark strength he would gather his powers and his minions.

  The Calvans and their brave King Benador had won the day at the Four Bridges, and the magically swollen river was indeed an impressive barrier, but the war was not over, the wraith decided then and there.

  Not at all.

  He found a dark hole before the sun came up; he was on the road west soon after it had set.

  Chapter 3

  Reflecting Pool

  “ONLY SIX,” THE warrior muttered quietly as he stalked down the forested hillside on the western borders of Avalon. “Only six.” He wasn’t speaking to bolster his confidence as he approached the half dozen talons butchering the deer they had just slain. While lesser warriors might have needed such soothing words, or might have simply turned about and run away from half a dozen talons, this one’s words sounded as an honest lament that there were merely six of the creatures to stand against him.

  “Six, six.” He spat, and then he called in an even louder voice, so that the talons surely heard him. “Where are all yer stinking friends?”

  The creatures came up from the deer carcass, dancing all about, falling all over each other. They should have fanned out, forming a semicircle about this lone figure stalking them through the morning mist; they should have formed a defensive alignment, seeking any other humans that might be about; they should have set a line based on the strength of each, and which sidekicks best complement. They should have done many things, but talons were neither very bright nor very brave, and each glanced nervously at another, as if hoping to use its companion as a shield should the need arise to flee.

  The warrior, Belexus Backavar, waded into them with hardly a hesitation, his heavy broadsword swinging easily at the end of one arm. He was taller than the talons, and much stockier, with corded bulging muscles and broad shoulders that had not even begun to slacken with the passage of fifty winters. His hair, too, held the luster of youth, tousled and raven black, such a stark contrast to his sparkling blue eyes.

  Those eyes burned with angry fires now, simmering and then explosive as the man neared the hideous talons.

  “Alone?” the closest talon asked skeptically, and its lips curled into a smile at that notion, for indeed, there seemed to be no other humans in the immediate area. “Alone,” it said again, not a statement and not a question, a remark that showed it thought the man foolish.

  In response, Belexus leaped ahead in a wild rush, his sweeping blade leading the way. The talon put up a staff to deflect the obvious attack, but it couldn’t properly gauge the strength of mighty Belexus, the strength of a giant, and even greater now for the rage that burned hot in his blood. The sword swept the staff aside, and Belexus thundered ahead, rushing past the talon and reversing his grip so quickly that there was no parry and no dodge for his vicious backhand swipe, the blade spilling talon guts.

  The other talons whooped and charged, but Belexus skipped ahead another stride and launched a fast thrust at the nearest, beating the parry and skewering the beast in the chest. A roar and a heave brought the dying creature flying about with the blade, and then tumbling at the feet of the next two, tripping them up.

  Belexus kicked one in the face, drove the butt of his sword hilt onto the back of the other’s head, then leaped over them, growling like an animal. The blood lust had taken hold of him fully now, had brought a red blur into his eyes. The last two talons wanted no part of this monstrous human, and off they ran.

  Belexus, swift and graceful, caught up to one as it turned about a tree. The creature made a deft move then, cutting left, then back to the right, actually putting itself in solid position to the warrior’s left flank. With a shriek, thinking the prize grand indeed, the talon pivoted and sliced with its sword, but Belexus flipped his sword from right hand to left and swung, too, a powerful backhand, aiming for the descending weapon. By far the stronger, the warrior drove the talon’s blade from its hands, sent the inferior sword flying far through the air.

  The talon staggered and straightened, trying to catch its balance, trying to run away.

  Belexus spun and came in fast, pinning its outstretched right arm with his sword, and clamped his free hand over the thing’s face.

  With hardly an effort, with a bellow that sent all creatures scurrying in fear, the powerful man lifted the talon from the ground and shook it violently.

  The pitiful creature whimpered and clawed, thrashed desperately with both hands, and kicked futilely with dangling feet.

  One long stride put the warrior in line and he drove the talon’s head hard against the unyielding trunk of a wide oak, the resulting splatter bringing to Belexus’ thoughts a distant time when his old friend Andovar had dropped a melon twenty feet to a flat stone.

  The thought of Andovar sobered the mighty warrior. He tossed the talon aside and took many long and steadying breaths, then stalked back to the original scene, to the deer carcass and the four talons.

  One, the one the warrior had kicked, was back up by then, trying to rouse its dying friend. The talon abandoned that course when it noted the approach of the dangerous man. Waving its sword defensively out in front, it steadily backed as Belexus calmly came on.

  Blades met several times in quick, darting movements; hope came into the talon’s sickly eyes as it parried thrust after thrust.

  Belexus calmly continued, playing the fencer now, maneuvering, working his opponent’s blade left, then right, then a bit farther left, then a bit less right. And so on, until he had the talon turned awkwardly. Then came a sudden, violent two-stroke, both hits aimed for the talon’s sword, the first nearly knocking the creature all the way about, the second deftly weaving over and around the blade as the talon tried to turn back to face the man squarely.

  A flick of Belexus’ wrist sent the talon’s sword skipping to the ground out to the right.

  The creature whined and stumbled back, the warrior easily pacing. Both glanced to their surroundings, but only briefly, neither truly breaking the stare.

  The talon noted a tree, Belexus knew, and he came forward in a slight rush, forcing the creature’s hand. Predictably, the talon darted behind the tree, rushing past it, putting it in the way of the human.

  “Andovar!” the warrior cried suddenly, brutally, throwing out all of his rage in one cut, taking up his sword in both hands and sweeping it mightily across, sweeping it through the two-inch diameter trunk of the young tree, and through the waist of the surprised talon behind it.

  The top half of the tree fell to the side of the trunk, planted in the ground for just a moment, then fell away. The talon was already on the ground, its upper body lying awkwardly across its lower, mouth gasping in horror, gulping air uselessly.

  Belexus spat on it and walked away.

  In a clearing not so far from the spot, Calamus, the winged lord of horses, awaited the warrior’s return. Without a word, Belexus climbed onto the mount’s strong back and the pegasus took to the air,
flying low and steady to the northwest, the direction in which the last talon had fled. Belexus soon spotted the miserable creature, running, stumbling, out of the wood, along a grassy slope, cutting a straight line to the west. The warrior urged Calamus ahead.

  But then a song came into his ears, causing him to hesitate, a voice sweet and pure, the soothing voice of Brielle, the Emerald Witch of Avalon. “Greater will be yer reputation, greater their fear of ye, if ye let some live to tell the tale,” the witch coaxed.

  Her words, or more particularly, the gentle way in which they were carried to the warrior’s ears, almost made Belexus turn Calamus about, almost allowed him to let this last talon run off.

  But then came that all-too-familiar image, the haunting memory of Andovar being bent in half backward by the horrid wraith of Hollis Mitchell, the image of the proud ranger, Belexus Backavar’s dearest friend, then being tossed carelessly into the great River Ne’er Ending.

  Calamus, charmed by the intonations of the witch, had indeed slowed and begun a long, easy turn.

  “Onward!” the warrior demanded, grabbing the long white mane, forcing the pegasus back on course for the fleeing talon.

  Calamus owed no man, could not be so commanded, but there was indeed a bond between this magnificent horse and Belexus, son of Bellerian, who was lord of the rangers of Avalon, and so the pegasus relented, dismissed the song of the witch, and flew on with all speed, angling for the scrambling talon, diving fast and straight.

  The talon saw the terrible shadow, stretching long from the east and the rising sun, and shrieked, diving into a roll.

  Calamus swooped by, and Belexus leaped from the mount’s back, scrambling as he landed, with amazing dexterity, and somehow holding his footing. A firmly planted, booted foot promptly stopped the rolling talon, and then a second clamped on its other side, holding it fast. The creature tried to turn about onto its back, to face and defend, and managed it easily enough, for Belexus wanted the talon to see him clearly, to see his rage, to know its doom.

  As the talon turned, the warrior grabbed its spiked club with one hand and tore it free of the talon’s grasp, throwing it far aside. The talon lifted its arms above its face, then moved them in confusion and gave an incredulous stare when the warrior tossed his own sword to the ground.

  Any hope that surprising action might have inspired soon flew from the talon, though, as Belexus reached down and grabbed it by the head, one hand clamped to its chin, the other grabbing fast to a scraggly clump of hair on the back of its head. With a grunt, the powerful ranger lifted the talon to its feet, lifted it right from the ground so that it was looking straight into his piercing blue eyes.

  The creature clawed at the warrior’s cheek. Ignoring the claws, keeping firm his grasp, Belexus drove one hand out and yanked the other in, turning the talon’s head right about on its shoulders. Then he tossed the thing aside and gathered his sword, calling for Calamus.

  He spent a long while waiting, and thought of Andovar. Even the blood of six talons had done little to diminish the pain.

  Finally the winged horse lighted on the field, and Belexus was swift to Calamus’ back, urging him up into the air and then flying straight off for the deeper boughs of Avalon.

  He was not surprised to find Brielle waiting for him, was not surprised that her look was clearly one of disapproval. Even so, even with a pout upon her face, and even with Belexus in so foul a mood, he could not deny her beauty. Her golden hair hung far down her delicate back, a wild and untamed mane, and her eyes shone greener than the emerald wizard’s mark set in her forehead. Brielle was the shining day to her daughter Rhiannon’s alluring night, and either of them could fell a man with a look, tearing his heart so completely that he would spend a long time retrieving his strength.

  “And yet again, ye let the rage take ye,” the witch said, her voice calm and even, and not overtly accusatory.

  Belexus understood that tone completely, knew that Brielle was not really judging him, but was, rather, subtly forcing him to judge himself. That trial, both of them knew well, would prove far worse to the proud ranger’s reckoning.

  “I slay talons,” he replied firmly after a moment of thought and a deep sigh. “That is me lot in life.”

  “Ayuh, and a good one it might be,” Brielle answered. “It’s the way ye do it that’s got me so worried.”

  “I’m not for denying me pleasure at me tasks,” the ranger said, and turned away. “With each talon that falls dead to the ground, the world, by me own estimation, is a bit better a place.”

  “Ayuh,” the witch honestly agreed. “And so ye should be cutting the beasties down. But if ye let the rage take ye, if ye’re thinking about what was, and not what is, then ye’re losing yerself, me friend, and worse, ye’re liken to make a mistake that’ll cost ye yer own neck.”

  “Not to a talon,” the ranger spat sarcastically. Brielle’s words had stung Belexus profoundly, particularly her reference to “what was”—her reference, Belexus understood, to Andovar. She knew Belexus so well, too well—knew even his thoughts. Was he that transparent, he wondered, or was Brielle just so damned perceptive?

  “There be darker things than talons walking the ways of Aielle,” Brielle said quietly, but grimly, and her tone told Belexus of whom she was speaking. Again, that only added to the ranger’s frustration. He wanted to destroy the wraith of Hollis Mitchell more than he wanted anything in the world, even more than he wanted the love of Brielle. Mitchell had shattered Belexus’ world, had utterly destroyed his dearest friend, and through it all, the ranger had only been able to look on in horror. Nothing he could have done would have made a difference, would have bothered the wraith in any way, for his weapon, so solid and deadly to most of Aielle’s monsters, could not even scratch the undead wraith.

  Nor had the river brought any harm to Mitchell, Brielle had informed Belexus, and had told her brother, Rudy Glendower, the Silver Mage of Illuma, who was known by the name of Ardaz. For the fair witch of Avalon, with her senses so attuned to the natural world, had sensed the return, the sheer perversion, of the undead thing. She had sent out her eyes to search for her daughter, and had found instead the horrid wraith, staining the very ground with its every step.

  “Might that the beast will come to Avalon,” Brielle said after a long and uncomfortable silence. “I canno’ go out and destroy the thing, for to leave would be to leave behind the power I’m needing against it, but if it comes near to me wood …”

  She let the ominous threat hang there, but Belexus would not seize the thought and revel in it. He didn’t doubt her claim, but neither did he want to see that battle. “The wraith is mine to slay,” he announced coldly and determinedly.

  “Ye canno’,” the witch said calmly.

  “Then, by the Colonnae, I’ll die in trying!” the ranger growled, spinning back on her, his blue eyes flashing with fury.

  Brielle took a good measure of the man, this man, this prince of rangers. Always, Belexus had been the cool and calm leader of men, the warrior who had single-handedly rallied the Calvans to hold the Four Bridges against Thalasi’s assaults until reinforcements could arrive, the man who had saved the elves on the field of Mountaingate when he had put aside his own desires and used his body and that of his pegasus mount to clear the way for Arien Silverleaf, that the elf lord, fittingly, might be the one to slay wicked Ungden the Usurper, who had led his army north to destroy all of Arien’s people. Always, Belexus had been unselfish, purely giving, and unquestioning of the code of rangers, a pledge to a set of tenets and principles that worked for the betterment of the world, and not of the rangers.

  But now … now that Brielle had informed the man that the wraith was still about, that the wraith, with the weakening of magic in the last desperate battle, might well stand as the most powerful creature in all Aielle, Belexus had changed. Now his thoughts festered on poor dead Andovar, his rage becoming singular and all-consuming. His only smiles of late were ones of cruel glee, a grin that more r
esembled a grimace and that only appeared when he cut another talon down.

  Brielle, so gentle and wise, remained patient with him. In his anger, he had taken a vow that superseded all others, she realized; a vow that he would avenge the death of Andovar. With that seeming an impossibility, the ranger’s frustration continued to grow. Perhaps it would pass as the darkness further retreated toward the Kored-dul, as time itself replaced those last bitter images of Andovar’s life with the memories of better times Belexus and Andovar had shared throughout the decades.

  Belexus gave a nod then, a curt bow, and walked away into the forest, preferring to be alone, and Brielle was left to wonder if this frustration would ever pass, if Belexus would ever truly recover from his inability to fulfill his vow.

  “He’s gone ugly,” the beautiful witch said to Calamus, and the pegasus, a creature far more intelligent than its equine frame would indicate, gave a snort and pawed the ground.

  The truth of her words assaulted her, and made her determine then and there that she had to do something to help the man, for though he would not admit it, he needed her now.

  At sunset, the emerald witch began her preparations upon a still pool of water, melted snow that had collected in the broken stump of an ancient oak, a tree that had been battered to death in the magical battle the witch had waged against Morgan Thalasi. There was still some resonance of power in that tree, Brielle knew, in its deepest roots and in the inner rings that had seen the dawn and death of centuries. And so it was here that Brielle began her enchanting, pouring oils into the water, singing and dancing about the tree, offering a bit of her own blood, and offering all of her thoughts and, more important, her wishes, to the mix. She focused those thoughts on the wraith, and soon the image of the blackness that was the zombielike Mitchell came into focus within the depths of the pool.

  Brielle had found him with her divining, crawling out of a small cave—his daytime shelter, it seemed—stepping out into the night. The mere fact that she had so easily located the wraith, how easily her enchantment had sensed his presence though he was obviously far, far away, hinted to her just how powerful Mitchell had become. Now the witch called to the deepest knowledge of the tree, to the understanding of the earth itself, begging it to give her a sign, a hint, of how such a perversion as the wraith could be destroyed, of what magic, or magical weapon, perhaps, might at least hurt the thing.