“Donnings Down,” Ardaz said, recognizing the next town they crossed through. “And after Donnings Down is Torthenberry.”
“Where ye leave us?” Belexus asked, obviously disappointed. The wizard’s tales had been the best of the lot, and few could steal the tedium from a long road as well as Ardaz.
“I meant to go there, I think I did,” Ardaz replied. “But too long we’ve wandered. Too, too long, I do dare say. Why, May is blooming upon us. No, I have to go now, straightaway.”
“What could be so important in the empty east?” Andovar asked, obviously as unhappy about the parting as the others.
“The east?” Ardaz echoed, not seeming to understand.
Rhiannon smiled at his expression, recognizing the fairly common glazed look in the wizard’s eye.
“Ye’re going to the east, so ye said,” Andovar tried to explain.
“Who said?” the wizard demanded.
“Ye did yerself,” said Andovar. “To some ruins. The meat of a farmer’s tale.”
“I did?” Ardaz’s face crinkled in confusion. “Of course I did not! Oh, why do you try to confuse me, you nasty boy? But why would I want to go there, if it is so empty, after all? Or are you just trying to get rid of me?”
“No, never that,” laughed Andovar, familiar enough with the wizard’s forgetfulness to let the issue drop. “Ride along with us, then, for as long as ye wish.”
“Well, how can I do that?” Ardaz demanded. He looked at Belexus in sincere concern. “The boy’s bitten,” he said with a sly nod at Rhiannon.
“But enough,” the wizard said, rising straight in his saddle and pulling out a long oaken staff. “I’ve business in the east, of course—and no tricks by you!” he added quickly before the flustered Andovar could put his thoughts in. Ardaz mumbled some arcane chants into his horse’s ear, and the beast perked up, snorting anxiously to be off at a gallop.
“Good-bye and farewell!” Ardaz said to the three. “A busy summer sits before me.” He stopped and snapped his fingers as if he suddenly remembered something, then reached under his robes.
“Grrr,” came a muffled reply to his intrusion.
“Oh, silly puss,” Ardaz huffed, rubbing the newest of many scratches on his hand. He reached back into his robe more forcefully and pulled Desdemona from her catnapping slumbers. “Go now!” he demanded, and to the astonishment of his companions, he threw the cat high into the air.
Desdemona shrieked in protest, but her cry was transformed into the excited caw of a raven as the cat shifted into her avian state and flew off ahead of the wizard.
“Got to light a fire under them sometimes,” the wizard explained to the others.
“She likes her sleep,” Rhiannon agreed.
“But she likes the adventures more,” Ardaz replied. “You just have to remind her of that sometimes.”
High overhead, Desdemona squawked out a complaint at the wizard’s delay.
“Well, good-bye again,” Ardaz said to them. “And have a fine summer. I will return to the north before winter. Or maybe I won’t. One can never tell about such things. But I will return, I do dare say.”
“With new tales to tell?” Rhiannon asked hopefully.
The wizard put his arms out wide. “One never knows when one might walk into a tale,” he said, and he kicked his horse off into a blinding run that seemed impossibly swift.
In the springtime sunshine on the peaceful Calvan plain, none of the group, or the wizard himself, could have guessed how prophetic those final words would prove to be.
Chapter 4
The Western Fields
THEIR ROAD TOOK no definitive course, meandering east away from the river, then north or south to whatever community they could find, only to return eventually to the riverbank. Gradually they moved farther south, but spring was still in the air and they had no need to hurry. At Rhiannon’s request, they spent an entire week in one village, just talking to the farm folk and learning their ways. With her knowledge of nature, Rhiannon had more than a few bits of good advice for them.
And then they went on to the next town, and the next after that, truly an easy-paced holiday. Belexus approved of the comfortable pace; he saw Rhiannon reveling in the many meetings and budding friendships, and he saw something deeper, something wonderful, growing between the witch’s daughter and his ranger friend.
Surely Andovar cared not where they were or where they were going. All that came to matter to him was that Rhiannon was by his side, sharing his adventures and widening his smiles.
And Rhiannon, Belexus was observant enough to know, felt the same way.
* * *
They rolled down from the rocks of the Kored-dul like the black clouds of a thunderstorm. Ten thousand strong and hungry for blood came the army of Morgan Thalasi. The master himself led the march, borne in a pillowy litter by four of his largest talon soldiers.
Rain greeted the army as it came down from the mountains onto the dreary beaches of the western shore of Aielle. Unbothered, the single-minded force trudged onward. They would leave the beaches soon enough and turn inland, where their feast awaited.
The master had promised.
But as the group prepared to camp that first night down from their rocky homes, they were met by something more tangible than a gloomy weather front. Facing them, fanning out to encircle the front half of the vast camp, loomed a second army of talons, larger than the force that had accompanied Morgan Thalasi.
Rhiannon continued to become more and more comfortable with each village the threesome crossed, and now she was fully at ease with the strangers they met on their way. The little troupe had been out of Avalon for the better of two months, riding that meandering, though generally southern, course along the edge of the great shining river. As summer came in, though, their excursions to the east grew less frequent, for Belexus had some definite goals in mind for this journey—and he had promised Brielle that he would return Rhiannon to Avalon soon after the summer’s wane. So he set the pace a bit quicker and kept the course straight along the line of the River Ne’er Ending.
Fully pleased in her dealings with other people, even in large numbers, Rhiannon wanted to press right on to Pallendara, the greatest city in all the world. But Belexus held fast to his plan that Pallendara would serve as their final stopover as the season turned to autumn before they turned back toward home. The ranger wanted to cross over the famous Four Bridges and view the western fields, lands he had never journeyed to before.
The green fields of the season’s crop waved in warm breezes over the tilled soil of the wide Calvan farms. Herds of cattle and sheep grazed lazily, for not even the onset of summer could shake the beasts from their perpetual lethargy. Farmers and shepherds greeted the northerners at every stop with friendly smiles and invitations to dinner.
The region had known peace for many years, no monsters threatened the borders, and strangers were a welcome sight. Indeed, the small company could have dined as guests of one farmer or another for every night since they had crossed into the more populated farmlands. But they politely declined more often than they accepted. Their friendship was newly formed, fresh and exciting, and ultimately private. While they enjoyed the company and stories of the Calvans, they enjoyed each other and each other’s stories—a supply still far from exhausted—all the more.
“We’ll be finding more of the same across the water,” Belexus explained to Rhiannon. “The towns’re bigger near the Four Bridges, and scattering out wide far, far to the west.”
“And how far to the west will ye be taking me?”
“Corning,” the ranger explained. “Fair-sized and the second city of Calva.”
“Seven thousand strong,” Andovar added. “But o’ the same flavor as the smaller towns. We’ll make the bridges this very morn, and Corning in two days.”
“How much farther could we go?” Rhiannon asked. “The land’s seeming so wide.”
“Another week of hard riding’d bring us to the western-m
ost borders of Calva,” Belexus replied. “Hardy towns of hardy folk. To go beyond them’d be folly.”
Rhiannon seemed not to understand.
“The dark lands,” the ranger continued. “Home to talons and lizards and beasts darker still. Not for the wise.”
His grave tone passed beyond the young woman. Growing up among the flowers of Avalon, Rhiannon could not understand such evil notions as talons.
Not yet.
“We’ll be wandering about Corning for a week or more,” said Belexus, and he cast a wry glance at the innocent witch’s daughter. “And then ye’ll be seeing Pallendara.”
“Caer Tuatha,” Rhiannon said, using the elven name for the great city. “Istaahl and Uncle Ardaz have told me such grand tales of the place. Suren she’ll be a fine sight if only half their spoutings run to truth.”
“More liken that Pallendara will outweigh the most wonderful o’ their tales,” said Andovar. He had been to the white city only twice since his childhood, but the image had stuck in his head vividly. Pallendara was the only true city of Ynis Aielle, a place of towers and markets, and minstrels—a thousand minstrels! It rested at the tip of a narrow harbor, and the sails of a hundred boats rose up along the sea wall like the bare, jutting tops of a wintry forest.
“But first to Corning,” Belexus reminded them, not wanting their visit to still another splendid place lessened by thoughts of what was yet to come. And as the small troupe passed the crest of a hill, off in the distance, shrouded by the morning mist that rose off the river, stood the unmistakable shapes of the Four Bridges of Calva, structures that had spanned the great river for centuries, before the elves or even the talons had walked the land.
They kicked up their horses with the bridges in sight, galloping the mounts down from the rise and across the last expanse in a wild rush.
Belexus and Andovar, as skilled as any horsemen in all the world, would never have believed it, but Rhiannon, whispering compliments into her sleek mare’s ear, got there first.
A short distance to the south lay the fairly large community of Rivertown, but Rhiannon hardly noticed the place. Before her loomed the Four Bridges, ancient and legendary, arcing pathways of solid stone. The young woman could sense the magic that had created these structures, could feel the song of wizardry humming still in their mighty stones. They were all of the same size and design, and four carts could ride abreast across any of them without nearing the solid stone banisters.
And these railings were perhaps the most special of all. Bas reliefs lined every inch of them, scenes depicting the birth of the new race of man, cradled in the arms of the angelic Colonnae, and images of the rise of Pallendara.
Belexus and Andovar had never before crossed the bridges and were no less enchanted than Rhiannon when they caught up to the young woman.
“They’ve more tales to tell than Ardaz himself,” Belexus proclaimed. “So long they’ve stood.”
“Ayuh,” Andovar agreed. “ ’Twas here that the Black Warlock first fell.” He led Rhiannon down to the southernmost structure. A shining black plaque had been cut into the stone at the entrance to the bridge, commemorating the exact spot where Ardaz, Istaahl, and Rhiannon’s mother had teamed together to defeat the Black Warlock in an age long past.
“Three thousand died,” Andovar said solemnly. “But not in vain. The talon army was crushed and Morgan Th—” He paused, reconsidering the wisdom of speaking that vile name aloud. “The Black Warlock was thrown down.”
“Not to rise again until the time of Ungden the Usurper,” Belexus added.
“Me mum has oft told me o’ the Battle of Mountaingate,” said Rhiannon. “When Thalasi was again thrown down.”
“And ’twas yer father that did the throwin’,” chuckled Andovar. “A finer man I’ve never seen!”
Rhiannon smiled and let her gaze drift out into the mist of the river. She had never known her father, and his passing had put an edge of sadness forever on the eyes of her mother. But the joy of Brielle’s memories of her times with Jeff DelGiudice, that special man from the other world, outweighed the sorrow, and Rhiannon knew that her mother did not lament for his loss as often as she smiled at memories of her times with him.
“Here now,” called a voice from the south. The three turned to see a portly man running toward them, a helmet flopping wildly on his head as he tried futilely to buckle the thing.
“Greetings,” Belexus said when the man reached them.
“And mine,” the man huffed, trying to catch his breath. “First morning in ten years I overslept. Figures, how it figures, that you’d be picking this day to arrive at our bridges.”
“Your—”
“Gatsby’s the name,” the man interrupted. “Gatsby of Rivertown. Not ‘our’ bridges, of course—none can be claiming them—but we like to consider ourselves guardians of the place.”
“And ye’re the gatekeeper?” Rhiannon asked.
The man had to wait a long moment before responding, caught up suddenly in the overwhelming beauty of the raven-haired woman. “No,” he stammered, hardly able to withstand the disarming stare of Rhiannon’s bluest blue eyes. “Not really. More of a guide, you might say. There is so very much to tell of this place! We keep it all safe—sort of our mission, you might say. Safe, but not secret.” He pulled a huge book and a quill and ink set out of his backpack, and fumbled through a hundred pages until at last he found an empty one.
“And who might you be?”
“I am Belexus, son of Bellerian,” the ranger replied.
Gatsby’s eyes popped up from the page at the mention of the Ranger Lord, a name he obviously recognized.
“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.
“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”
“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”
“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”
Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”—the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion—“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”
“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”
“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”
“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail—which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away—and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.
“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”
The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.
Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This ar
my, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.
Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.
Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.
Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.
He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons of Mysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.
How powerful he had become!
But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.
“Man!” it grunted in open rage, less familiar with words than its mountain-bred counterparts.
Thalasi understood its confusion and threw his hood back to reveal the glittering black gemstone that marked his identity. Still, these creatures apparently did not recognize that evil mark, for a large group of them immediately took up the chant that had served as the liturgy of their entire existence.
“Men die!”
“Do you know who I am?” the Black Warlock roared, and the sheer strength of his dual voice drove the five leaders back a step. But mighty, too, was the ominous chant, growing stronger as more and more of the creatures joined in. Behind Thalasi, his army started in with their own growls and protests. The situation grew grave, the Black Warlock now knew. Mountain talons and swamp talons had never been the best of friends.
“I am Thalasi!” the Black Warrior declared in a magically enhanced roar, his booming voice silencing the cries on both sides. “The master is come!”
The five opposing leaders looked at each other for support. They knew the name, though their legends spoke of “Talagi,” not Thalasi. But in any case, that is all the Black Warlock had ever been to these particular creatures: a legend.