It took the talon some time to gather its wits, but Bryan, wanting this fight more than he cared to admit—and more than he would ever admit to Rhiannon!—patiently waited. The half-elf preferred always to let his adversary make the first move, but he recognized that this talon’s heart for the fight, especially with such a scene of carnage before it, had long flown, and it was thinking more of fleeing than of attacking. So, as soon as the creature had steadied itself, ahead came Bryan, his magnificent sword, his father’s elven-crafted sword, flashing in the sunny, snowy brightness. The talon lumbered awkwardly, but somehow managed a parry with its heavy axe, and even tried to bring its weapon about for a fast counter.
Bryan let it complete the maneuver, let the axe turn about and come swishing in. He was down on one knee before it ever got close, though, and as it swished overhead, the half-elf poked his sword straight out, scoring a wicked hit on the talon’s breast.
The creature tried to recover, but the momentum of the wide-flying axe forced it off balance, and that, combined with the prodding sword, confused the talon. Trying to counter, trying to retreat, it got its feet all tangled up and went down on its back.
Bryan moved forward for the kill, but changed his mind and veered far out to the side when he heard a low growl behind him.
The cougar leaped atop the talon in a flash of white lightning, its powerful maw clamping firmly on the unfortunate creature’s skinny neck.
Bryan sheathed his sword and went to retrieve the bow, hoping the scar upon its beautiful wood would not be too evident. He was not surprised, whatever logic told him, to find that there was not a mark at all on the enchanted bow, to find that the heavy axe and its undeniably sharp blade had not even scratched the polished wood.
“Too easy,” Bryan lamented, and he gathered up his belongings and set off in search of the young witch.
He found her resting in a hollow, her back against a tree, her eyes closed. She hadn’t used much of her magic, certainly nowhere near the amount Bryan had previously witnessed, when Rhiannon had gathered the very strength of the earth itself and hurled it skyward to battle the gloom of Morgan Thalasi’s thunderclouds. But lately, Bryan noted, even the simplest of enchantments seemed to tire Rhiannon, and he shuddered to think of what might happen if the young witch was ever forced to utilize her powers to their greatest limit again. Rhiannon had nearly died on that occasion when she had battled Thalasi, and not from any attack from the Black Warlock, but rather from her own sheer exhaustion, as if she had thrown a substantial amount of her own life force into that magical response.
Bryan remembered that day vividly, remembered cradling beautiful, unconscious Rhiannon in his arms, remembered how pale and fragile she had seemed, a flower dying in the cold wind. He had feared that he would lose her then, and he had realized that if she did indeed go away, a huge part of his own heart would forever die beside her.
He let her sleep now, just sat facing her, watching her, admiring the soft curve of her, the way her lips slightly parted, the beauty of her lithe form, a dancer’s body with strong but smooth muscles. He was in love with her, only her, with all his heart and all his soul.
He couldn’t deny it; he didn’t want to deny it.
He wanted to shout it out to all the world.
Chapter 2
The Wraith
HE WAITED FOR the dark of a moonless night, his time, the time of lurking nightmares. His substance a shadow blacker than the darkest hole, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell glided along the riverbank. A creature half of this world, half of the realm of death, he made no weighted impression in the snow, but every so often he absently flicked his hollow-headed mace, his scepter, and loosed a small shower of black flakes that burned the white powder, that melted deeper, right through the watery stuff to stain the very ground beneath it.
All the while, the wraith’s red-glowing eyes held their focus across the river, to the hundreds of burning fires showing the campsites of Pallendara’s army. Only a few short months ago, those fires had been more than matched by the glorious blaze of Morgan Thalasi’s army, which Hollis Mitchell had commanded, but the talons were gone now, all fled into the fields and mountains, many back to their swampy homes miles and miles away. They had scattered when they saw Mitchell, their general, drop from the blasted bridge, and when they saw their highest master, the Black Warlock himself, hurled to the ground by the great bolt of the witch’s daughter, and when they saw the river itself rise up before them, defeating their charge and sweeping thousands of them away to a watery death.
This western bank of the River Ne’er Ending had remained dark since then, every night, an empty plain of blackness.
Until this night. The wraith had seen it; a single campfire, burning low on the plain less than a half mile from the river. Perhaps it had been set by talons, though the ugly beasts didn’t normally set fires this close to potential enemies. Perhaps, the hungry wraith hoped, it had been set by human refugees trying to make their way to King Benador’s side, or even better, by scouts from the Pallendara army. In truth, so full of venom was the wraith, that he knew it really didn’t matter. Mitchell had pulled himself from the river far to the south and had gradually worked his way back to this spot, pausing only when he found talons or humans to slaughter. Those kills had proven few and far between, however, and hardly satisfying to this creature of death, this unnatural perversion whose very sustenance was the horror of others, the life force of others.
Mitchell had not killed in more than two weeks; he veered to the northwest, away from the river.
“Cold again,” one of the men remarked, a tall and lean fellow of forty winters. His beard gave testament to his observations, for icy crystals glittered among the curly gray-and-brown whiskers in the firelight.
“Cold every night,” a second man said. He was similar in build and features to the other—indeed, was his brother—except that he sported only a bushy mustache. “I’m wishing that the war had gone through the winter, leaving us to our duties in the warmer spring!”
“But how many might’ve died for your comfort, then?” the third and last of the group asked as he walked back in toward the fire, a huge black-and-tan dog at his side. He was the oldest of the party by at least ten years, his hair and beard silvery gray. But his eyes still held the sharp, twinkling blue hue of his youth.
“Very nice, Clouster,” the first said. “So good of you to put things in such a comforting light.”
“Comfort?” Clouster replied, spitting heavily on the ground, that simple action drawing a growl from the nervous, dangerous canine. “Comfort’s not for the likes of us. I told you I’d teach you, so you best learn well and fast; a scout’s life is a thankless, dirty one, and if you cannot get your satisfaction in knowing a well-done job, then, by the Colonnae, you’re in the wrong line of work, I say!”
“Benador needs us,” the second brother agreed. “All of Pallendara needs us.”
“When they finish the bridge and come rushing across, they’ll be better served if they know the positioning of the talon forces,” Clouster added.
“What few remain,” the first brother grumbled.
“Few?” Clouster barked. “Few! Why, ten thousand got away, and there’s probably another fifty thousand still out there, waiting to come in. And don’t you forget the Black Warlock. He was thrown down to be sure—I saw that with my own eyes, and a beautiful sight it was indeed!—but often’s been the times we’ve thought him dead, only to see his ugly face arise once more!
“No, my friends, this war’s not yet won. Not yet. Not until we chase the damned talons all the way back to Mysmal Swamp, all the way to Talas-dun and pull the damned place down around them.”
The mere mention of Talas-dun, the black fortress, the heart of Morgan Thalasi, sent a shudder coursing down the spines of the brothers. They glanced at each other nervously, silently agreeing that poor old Clouster had lost his wits. Truly the men loved their king, good Benador of the line of Ben-Rin, restored to the throne
after the fall of Ungden the Usurper at the Battle of Mountaingate. Truly Benador had given all of Calva back its pride and hope for the future, had secured an alliance with the rangers of Avalon and even with the Moon Dancers, the elves of Illuma. Yes, they each loved Benador, and would gladly take an arrow aimed for the king’s breast, but neither entertained any notion of following the king to Talas-dun. Not that.
Not ever.
“You’ve gone daft, poor Clouster,” the first brother, the older of the pair, said. “We’ll win back the western fields, to Corning and beyond, perhaps even to the eastern edge of Mysmal, but no further: not to the coast, and certainly not to the Kored-dul! I’ve no desire to ever see the likes of black Talas-dun.”
“Ah, but it does seem a wondrous place,” an unfamiliar voice said from the side of their small camp, just on the edge of the firelight. At that moment, the dog raised his hackle and growled, white teeth gleaming in the firelight. “A place to seem as the fitting throne-seat of all the world,” the deep resonating voice continued.
The brothers gained their feet quickly, swords drawn, standing beside Clouster, who held a throwing dagger in each hand. Of the group, Clouster was the most concerned, for he couldn’t understand why his dog, Yostrol, a trusted companion for several years, hadn’t noted the approach long before the man, or whatever it might be lurking in the shadows, got so close. The three couldn’t get a good view of the speaker from this vantage point, but they knew, at least, that he was no talon. He was too large, much too large, for that, and his voice did not have the guttural croak of the wicked race, but sounded human, though perhaps more resonant than usual, a deep and commanding baritone.
Yostrol trembled then, growling and whining all at once, a reaction Clouster had never before witnessed. Clearly the dog was afraid, terrified, yet Clouster had seen this brave companion go at a thousand-pound bear with hardly a thought, and had watched the dog rip up talon after talon in the fight for the river three months before.
“State your name and business,” the older brother demanded.
The speaker held his distance and chuckled softly, an unnerving sound indeed.
“We can kill without fear of retribution,” the younger brother remarked. “On word of the king—”
“Not my king,” said the intruder.
“Benador is king to all!” the youngest man cried defiantly.
“Not my king,” the intruder said again.
Clouster let go the leash, a movement that eager Yostrol would usually take as a signal to attack. Amazingly, though, the dog held his ground, even shifted a bit backward, behind his master.
“Who is your king then, if not Benador?” Clouster asked, hoping to clarify things in a proper light, but fearing, given the intruder’s cryptic attitude and the reactions of his dog, that this meeting would end in a bad way. “Arien Silverleaf of Illuma, perhaps? Or Bellerian, lord of rangers?”
“Who is my king?” the intruder echoed, ending with a snort. “A fine question, and one that I must consider.” As he spoke, he moved into the firelight, and all three men gasped in unison at the specter of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell. He was huge and barrel-chested, as Mitchell had been in life, but he was also obviously dead, his skin gray and bloated, blotched by rot, his eyes red dots of flame.
Clouster reached around and grabbed Yostrol and yanked the dog in front, and the animal, spurred beyond reason, barked and charged.
Hardly considering the action, the wraith flicked his unholy scepter, and the air before it, the air in the dog’s path, filled with black flakes. How Yostrol yelped when he entered that zone, when the flakes of the deadly weapon fell over him, burning his hide, boring through his hide. The dog whined pitifully, turning tight circles, biting at his own burning skin.
Clouster had both his daggers away, and both sailed right into the wraith—and both simply disappeared, as if they had passed right through the monster, or had been somehow absorbed within its blackness.
“Yes, my king,” Mitchell went on, obviously taking no overt notice of the attacks. “Why, I believe that I shall be my own king! Yes, that will do fine.” He looked at the three terrified men and advanced a long step.
“I am King Mitchell,” he declared, then slyly added, “Tell me again, who is your king?”
Clouster never blinked, staring defiantly at the man, looking down only once to see that the poor dog was lying on the ground, panting his last breaths. The two brothers looked to each other desperately, not knowing how to respond.
Clouster spoke for them, though they weren’t sure that he gave the right answer.
“My king is Benador of Pallendara,” the man stated flatly, moving out toward the fire, standing across from the pallid specter. “The true and rightful king, and if you mean to call yourself a king within the borders of lawful Calva, then know that King Benador will surely destroy you.”
Mitchell roared with laughter.
Clouster dove down and grabbed up a burning stick, then thrust it hard at the wraith.
The fire stung, but more than that, Mitchell was wounded by the sheer impudence, the sheer lack of respect. He grabbed the end of the burning brand, clasping it right about the fire, which immediately began to glow a weird, blackish hue.
Clouster cried out and let go of the brand, meaning to flee, but the wraith moved more quickly, striding right through the fire—and it, too, turned that eerie, blackish hue—and grabbing the horrified man by the hand.
How cold was that touch! Clouster cried out in fear and pain and wrenched wildly to break free. Then he saw his doom and shielded himself from the expected shower of burning flakes as Mitchell raised the scepter up high. But now the weapon served Mitchell as a conventional mace, an extension of Mitchell’s wrath, and he brought the weapon down hard on Clouster’s head, shattering the man’s skull into a thousand pieces.
Back a few paces, the two brothers gasped and flinched, showered with flecks of their mentor’s brains. “Run on!” the older cried. “And apart!”
And so they did flee, one running into the darkness to the left, the other straight back, and then to the right. It was the second, the younger of the two, that Mitchell first followed, gaining easily, for while the man stumbled in the darkness, the wraith, a creature of the night, surely did not. And then he was upon the frightened man, who turned and thrust his sword at Mitchell.
And then the man was dead.
With that kill completed, Mitchell tuned his senses to the night around him. He felt the eyes of night animals upon him, creatures huddling in deep holes, their hearts beating furiously as this undead monster passed by. In a few moments, Mitchell sensed a stronger life force, and a greater fear, the fear of a rational creature. Easily tuning in to that sensation, knowing it to be the remaining man, the wraith took up the pursuit.
Mitchell caught him near to the riverbank, and the horrifying shrieks of those last terrible moments echoed across the way, to the ears of the gathered Calvans, to the ears of King Benador, unnerving them, shaking them to the marrow of their bones. They knew not who or what had made the cries, be it human or talon or some other beast, and they knew not what manner of creature had brought about such terror.
Few on the eastern side of the river slept well that night.
Nor did the wraith, friend of the night, creature of the darkness, sleep. Hollis Mitchell stood quiet on the riverbank, looking across the way at the campfires, barely able to contain the hunger that burned within his bloated form, despite the recent feasting. It was never sated, this hateful desire to destroy and devour. It itched constantly, burning at Mitchell’s belly, tugging at his will.
He controlled it this night, with all those inviting campfires so very close, only by reminding himself of who he was, of who he had been. He had come from the sea, drifting in on a life raft from the destroyed submarine, the Unicorn, along with six other men, survivors from another age. Two whose names were long lost to the perverted memory of the evil wraith had died quickly, before ever the part
y had reached the halls of the angelic Colonnae, before they had discovered the truth of this world, their world, burned in flames and reborn. A third man—the wraith could not remember his name, either—had died in Blackemara, the tangled swamp north of Avalon, the place where Mitchell, too, had died, and where his spirit, a score of years later, had been pulled from the realm of Death and brought back to this world.
The death of the third man had left only four survivors of the Unicorn, and of the two who had sided with the elves in the Battle of Mountaingate, Billy Shank and Jeffrey DelGiudice, Mitchell now knew little. Of the last, Martin Reinheiser, once Mitchell’s friend, then Mitchell’s betrayer, the wraith knew much. Somehow, through some incomprehensible act of magic, Reinheiser had joined in body to become one with Morgan Thalasi, the Black Warlock. The result of that joining, that curious dual being, Reinheiser and Thalasi, had then brought the wraith to the world, to serve as commander of their talon army. And now the Black Warlock was gone from this place, slithering, Mitchell suspected, back to his dark hole at Talas-dun. Mitchell would go there and meet again with this creature, this betrayer, this salvation, this bringer of death and undeath.
And then what? the wraith wondered. Would he do battle with the Black Warlock? Like all otherworldly beings, creatures living half in the world and half in the realm of Death, surviving only through magic, Mitchell suspected that something was amiss within the realm of the wizard, suspected that the Black Warlock, and the other wizards and the witch of Avalon, as well, if they still lived, were weaker now. Might he then destroy the Black Warlock and take Talas-dun as his own?