Bastion of Darkness by R. A. Salvatore
Mitchell used the momentary standoff to consider his adversary. When the grass had sprouted through the snow, he at first had thought that this was Brielle before him in some disguise. But in looking at Rhiannon now, Mitchell knew that that could not be the case. This woman’s features were similar to Brielle’s: the same shining eyes, though this woman’s were blue where Brielle’s were green, and the same flowing hair, though this woman’s was dark as night, where Brielle’s was golden as sunshine. Most telling of all, though, shone the gemstone, a glittering diamond set in the middle of her forehead, for this was her wizard’s mark, and it, the wraith knew, she could not alter—neither in size, nor in shape, nor in color.
Brielle’s wizard’s mark was green, an emerald.
“Who are you?” the wraith asked aloud, pushing mightily against the witch’s wind, and though he gained no ground, he was certainly not losing any.
Rhiannon fumbled through her thoughts for some smart retort, but only growled and intensified her wind. It transformed into a series of gusts then, rather than a steady blow, showing that the witch was growing magically weary.
“Who are you?” Mitchell asked again. “So much like Brielle, you appear, but with only a fraction of her power.”
Rhiannon growled again, more loudly, more stubbornly, and the next mighty gust backed the wraith several steps. The young witch thought to turn and run then, for she feared that she had no tools with which to truly hurt this creature, feared that she had overstepped her bounds in coming to meet this blackness.
On came Mitchell in the lull that followed the wave of wind, his ire rising, his patience gone. He didn’t know who this witch might be, but he had his suspicions. Above all others in the world, with the sole exception of Belexus, Mitchell hated Brielle. Brielle, who had stolen his kill of Belexus. Brielle, who had reduced his ghost horse to ashes beneath him, dropping the humiliated wraith on his rump. Brielle, the essence of Nature, the epitome of everything that the undead wraith was not. This creature before him, this young witch, was somehow connected to Brielle, Mitchell understood, had been trained in the same school of magic, at least, and he took great comfort in the confidence that his victory here would surely sting the witch of Avalon.
On he came, roaring, accepting the pounding as Rhiannon’s frantic wind caused his form to waver, caused the edges of it to stretch thin.
It would not be enough to stop him now, they both knew, and so as Mitchell neared, Rhiannon abruptly released the wind and raced to the side, the sudden cessation causing Mitchell to overbalance.
But not nearly as far as Rhiannon had hoped, and she was just reaching her arms up to the sky, reaching for the power of thunder, that most violent of natural forces, when Mitchell fell upon her, the flakes of his awful mace drifting over her.
She shrieked and tried to run, but her strength seeped away and she stumbled, falling to the ground, looking up at the towering blackness. Looking up at her doom.
A flying form crossed between the pair, rushing, slashing, and the wraith fell away in surprise.
“Foul beast!” Bryan of Corning cried. “Back to Death’s land with you!” And on the young warrior came, unafraid, too concerned with Rhiannon to care for his own safety. His sword flashing brilliantly, wildly, snapping past Mitchell’s awkward defenses, scoring hit after hit.
“Bryan,” Rhiannon breathed, and she was not relieved, for she knew that the reprieve would be short-lived, knew that the wraith would get her, and get Bryan, too. For even combined, even if Belexus and King Benador stood beside them, they were no match for this one.
Thrust and slash went Bryan’s sword, followed by a sudden shield rush that halted abruptly, with the elven sword deftly slipping in from under it, taking the wraith in the belly. But there was no sting to that blade, both Mitchell and Bryan soon enough realized. Like all the others, this sword could do the unearthly creature no harm.
And so Mitchell accepted Bryan’s hits, soon didn’t even lift his arms to block, and soon after that, wasn’t even flinching at the half-elf’s cunning thrusts, but rather, was laughing and determinedly stalking in.
Rhiannon reached to the heavens, called out with all the strength she could muster, with all that she had remaining. She felt the energy gathering there, in the clouds, the tingling sensation, coursing down to her waiting grasp, focusing through her lithe form, and then crackling out from her fingertip, a bolt of white lightning, slamming the wraith, blasting through it and smashing the stone of a skeleton cottage. Mitchell went flying into that pile of rubble, tumbling among the broken stones.
Rhiannon stood panting, trying to hold her balance. She nearly swooned when she saw the wraith pick itself up from the ground, laughing all the while, when she saw Bryan rushing in fearlessly, foolishly, his shining sword leading, and when she saw, worst of all, a flick of that dreaded weapon, only a glancing blow on Bryan, but one that nonetheless hurled the young half-elf through the air, to land hard against the stone. He lay on the ground, jerking spasmodically, groaning between violent gasps.
That would have been the end of Bryan of Corning, except that Rhiannon, rightly judging herself to be the wraith’s main target, turned and ran, drawing Mitchell behind her. Through the open graveyard that was Corning she ran, stumbling often, forcing herself to her feet by sheer willpower, by the resolution that she would save Bryan, at least.
Mitchell closed with every stride, his taunting laughter assailing Rhiannon, coming closer and closer.
Then she was a bird—somehow she found the energy—flying away, but not so fast that Mitchell could not keep up. On and on they went, through the gates and across the fields. Seconds became minutes, and those turned to hours, and still Rhiannon flew on, and still Mitchell kept up the pursuit. Before long the river was in sight, and there Rhiannon meant to make her escape, praying that Bryan had recovered enough to flee and hide. She started to fly more swiftly, started her ascent, out of Mitchell’s reach, but the wraith had anticipated such a move, and rushed ahead more furiously right before it began, waving his scepter, hitting the witch-turned-bird with a shower of painful flakes.
Her magic failed her; she came down hard to the ground, skidding in the snow. She was up at once, stumbling, crying, in agony and fear, but then he had her, his gray, dead hand clamped about her shoulder, a grasp so deathly cold! And that awful mace waved near to her head, promising a horrible death.
Rhiannon knew no more.
Chapter 8
A Party of Two … er, Three … er, Four
AS HE HAD suspected when he first set out, on foot, from Avalon, Belexus found that he could not fly on Calamus for long stretches. The wind was simply too cold whenever the pair moved from behind the shelter of a rock wall, and while the shaggy pegasus, winter coat in full and strong muscles working hard to cut that wind, didn’t complain in any way, the ranger’s fingers and toes grew numb far too quickly. More often than not, each flight ended at the first sighting of a potential campsite.
The stoic Belexus remained undaunted, though, and saw a distinct advantage in having Calamus with him, besides the fine company. The high vantage point on Calamus offered the ranger a better opportunity to plot his walking trails, and to keep a good idea of where, exactly, in the seemingly unending mountains, he was; at times, when the inconsistent weather and mountain walls permitted, he could see for miles, and even when the view was not blocked, the ranger’s progress in five minutes of flying time with Calamus was often greater than Belexus could manage in half a day of hiking along the winding and treacherous trails.
It took Belexus nearly two full days simply to sort out the best searching pattern. The Crystals were wide and tall, wider than the ranger had ever imagined, and he came to feel that his journey would surely have been folly had Calamus not come to him. Even with the pegasus, he feared that he had months of searching ahead of him, feared that he might pass over the dragon’s lair a hundred times and never notice it. Those possibilities would be greatly enhanced, Belexus knew, if he w
His progress improved, and so did the weather, over the next few days. “We’ll have to go down to the lower valley,” he announced to Calamus soon after waking, the sky just beginning to brighten around them. They had camped in a sheltered nook, almost a cave, along the southern face of a rocky mountain. They weren’t above the tree line, but on this particular summit, a fire or some other disaster had apparently destroyed the foliage, and the earth had washed away before more trees or any sizable scrub could take hold.
“I’m needing food,” he explained, and he didn’t feel the least bit foolish in talking to Calamus, whom he was certain could understand his every word. To illustrate his point, the ranger held up his pack, which was much lighter now. “Got to thicken me skin against the cold wind.”
The pegasus nickered and stamped the ground.
Belexus threw another log on the fire, taking his time, making sure that he was properly fed and warmed before attempting the move. Impatience would be the death of him in the wintry Crystals, he constantly reminded himself, fighting back his eagerness to be through with this part of the adventure, that he might take his revenge on the wraith, that he might truly put his friend Andovar to rest. But this was a place where preparation was needed before every step. Thus, it was midmorning before he had everything packed neatly in the saddlebags and loops of the saddle. Last, he took up his bow and quiver, keeping it handy, as always, when he was up in the air upon his winged steed.
A movement high above, a black speck flitting through the edges of his vision in the empty air, caught his attention just as he was about to mount. In the blink of an eye, he had an arrow set on the bowstring, the heavy bow pulled back to its limit and leveled. He saw the speck again, and then a larger one behind it, way up high but descending rapidly.
The ranger said a prayer to the Colonnae, and to the spirit of the bird, thanking them for bringing bounty to him, perhaps saving him an entire day of foraging through the low valleys.
Down came the specks, up went the bow. The first of the pair, a raven, swerved fast out of sight, but the second, an eagle, continued its direct descent. Belexus thought it curious that the bird of prey had so given up the chase of the smaller bird, and as the eagle drifted lower and lower, moving into range, he wondered just how great a part the Colonnae might be playing in delivering this meal.
Truly Belexus hated to shoot an eagle, that most majestic of hunters. But he could not ignore the growling of his belly or the importance of his quest, and so he took deadly aim, drew back his string, and let fly.
The ensuing squawk, long before the arrow struck home, was not the sound the ranger had expected, nor was the defensive movement, for the eagle, instead of turning fast on wing, broke its stoop and fluttered wildly, and in frenzied movements, its outline became indistinct, wavering, enlarging, shifting shape and color.
The ranger’s fearful cry caught in his throat, for before the arrow had closed half the distance, the creature was no longer an eagle but a man, in blue robes and with a bushy white beard and a tall, pointy hat. The wizard flapped his arms frantically, tried to twist and turn, and cried out, “Oh, I daresay!”
The arrow disappeared into that blue jumble, and Ardaz plummeted down nearly fifty feet, to land with a crunch through the icy snow on the exposed ledge not far from Belexus and Calamus.
“By the Colonnae!” Belexus cried, leaping stone in a desperate charge that sent him skidding down the last slippery expanse to tumble into the snow not far from fallen Ardaz. “Oh, but I’m not for knowing!” he cried, pulling himself upright and reaching to turn the fallen man about.
To his ultimate surprise, the wizard hopped to his feet right before him and began frantically straightening his robes.
“Well, that one hurt, of course it did!” Ardaz scolded. “Too old I am, I say, and I am, I am, to be playing in the snow!”
Belexus gawked at him incredulously, hardly believing that the wizard was apparently uninjured, hardly believing that Ardaz was even alive, and hardly believing that he was here, so many miles from his home in Illuma Vale.
Ardaz continued to fumble with his robes, pulling them around his side. There hung the ranger’s arrow, caught in the folds of the voluminous garment right where it covered the wizard’s backside. Ardaz tugged the arrow free and handed it to Belexus, a disgruntled smirk on his bearded face. Then he reached back to display the robes, or more particularly, the two holes now showing in the thick material.
“Of course, when the wind blows, it will tickle my fancy, I do daresay,” the wizard grumbled. “And oh, but where is my hat?” He looked all around, obviously distressed.
Belexus had noted the descent of the tall and pointed cap as well, and he was not happy to inform Ardaz that it had missed the ledge. Given the strong and swirling wind, that could put it anywhere within a mile or two.
Ardaz was fast to the ledge, leaning over so far to peer down that Belexus cautiously moved up to grasp the back of his flapping robes.
“I can fix the robe, oh yes,” Ardaz rambled, turning to face the ranger and slapping Belexus’ hand away—and when Belexus did let go, the overbalanced Ardaz nearly tumbled from the ledge. “I’m good at that sort of thing, you know, and have had more than my share of practice, I do daresay! But that hat! There’s a loss, and I’ve had it for so long. So very, very long!
“And where is Des, that silly puss?” he continued, hopping all around the ledge, glancing up and to the side. “Magical hat, you know,” he offered to Belexus, and then to the wide wind, he shook his fist, then called out, “Desdemona!”
“I thinked ye were—” the ranger began.
“Oh, yes,” Ardaz interrupted, snapping his fingers, and he seemed not even aware that Belexus was trying to speak. “Enchanted hat to keep my head warm. Not much plumage up there when I’m an eagle, after all! But no matter; I’ll catch my death of cold and wake every talon in the Crystals with my sneezing, no doubt, and then you shall have to kill every one—every one, I say!—in penance for your foolishness.”
“Ye weren’t … I’m not for …” Belexus tried again, futilely.
“Of course, I’ve got a head full now, now don’t I?” Ardaz rambled, grabbing at his thick shock of hair, shining more silver than white in the morning light. “Desdemona!”
Belexus started to speak again, thought the better of it, and clapped his strong hands down hard on the wizard’s shoulders, settling Ardaz’ dangerous movements, and hopefully the wizard’s rambling words, as well. Ardaz looked him right in the eye and blinked repeatedly.
“Take ease, me friend,” the ranger calmly prompted.
“Would’ve, would be, would never have not been, if you hadn’t shot me,” Ardaz replied dryly.
Belexus couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer, erupting in a howl, and drawing a scowl from the old man, but one that fast melted as Ardaz, too, joined in the mirth. “Oh, and a good shot, I do daresay!” the wizard roared, reaching around to the twin holes once more. “Right between the drumsticks!”
His laughter flew away as he thought on that last statement for a moment, his face blanching white. “A bit too good,” he muttered under his breath.
“Suren I’m glad to be seeing ye, me friend,” Belexus said. “But why’re ye here, so far from yer home?”
Ardaz snorted. “Not so far from my home as is Belexus of Avalon,” he shot back. “And coming of my own powers, instead of forcing a poor cold pegasus out here with me, I do daresay!”
Belexus conceded the point with a nod, not even trying to explain that Calamus had come of his own volition.
“So what is it, what could it be, that might bring a ranger from the forest in midwinter?” Ardaz asked bluntly. “Especially a one who has so taken a fancy to my sister—and you and I, oh yes, we shall talk about that later!”
Belexus blushed fiercely, but the mere mention of Brielle brought warmth flowing through his veins. “A quest,” he admitted.
“A quest?” Ardaz echoed, in a somewhat more sober and controlled tone. “Well, well, so the tale gets more interesting. But what quest?” he pressed. “I’m guessing that a hundred hundred could be found in this time of Thalasi, a hundred thousand, I do daresay! Hunting talons, then?”
“I’ve but one true enemy,” Belexus said seriously.
Ardaz snorted again. “One?” he asked skeptically. “I’ll show you a thousand more than one. Fly with me to the Four Bridges … er, to where the Four Bridges used to be four bridges, with King Benador, and I’ll—”
“One enemy,” Belexus said again, his voice so grim that it had a sobering effect even on Ardaz. “And when Mitchell’s wraith is put to rest, only then will I be looking for me next.”
Ardaz nodded and understood. Of course, Mitchell’s wraith, the slayer of Andovar. “I beg your pardon if stupid I prove, but are you not going in the wrong direction?” the wizard said, as politely as he could manage. “The wraith, if it even pulled itself from the river, would be far south of here, and likely to the west. Do you mean to circle the world—and it is round, you know—” he added with a wink, “and catch up with the beastie from behind?”
The absurdity of the question might have drawn anger from serious Belexus, except for the subtle reminder that Ardaz had stood beside him in his last encounter with the wraith, had stood shoulder to shoulder on the northernmost of the Four Bridges and, in fact, had sundered the bridge, thus putting Mitchell in the river.