Connie, a girl with shining blue eyes and an innocent smile, lost her head to a talon sword.
And then they were running, one group to the west behind Lennard, and Bryan wisely taking the others to the east. The enraged talons forgot all about their mission and took off in hot pursuit, hungry for the blood of the young ambushers.
Siana led the way, with Bryan taking up the rear guard. Several talons got close to them in their wild flight, but each time, Bryan, possessed of a fury beyond anything he could ever have imagined, cut them down with vicious chops and perfect maneuvers. A short while later the five turned around a rocky outcropping and, confident that no pursuit was close behind, stopped to catch their breath.
Lennard and the others had less luck.
Though they had started with more ground between them and the talons, the group had no organization to their flight. They split apart around boulders or crevices, and lost time trying to find each other. Directionless, and with no clear destination in mind, they soon heard the flopping stamp of talon feet all about them.
An agonized scream told Lennard that their number was down to five. He stopped and looked about, searching for some way he could help. A talon spear found his leg.
Lennard dropped heavily to the ground, clutching his wound. Then the talon was above him, its sword up for the kill.
A heavy rock smashed the ugly creature’s head apart.
Blackness, from pain and fear, swirled over Lennard, and he hardly noticed when he was lifted from the ground in the strong arms of Jolsen Smithyson and borne away.
“Come on,” Bryan prodded after the others had regained their breath. They gathered their belongings, thinking Bryan to be leading them farther away. But to their astonishment, the half-elf started back around the outcropping toward the talons.
“Where are you going?” Siana demanded.
Bryan cast them all a look over his shoulder. “The talons are scattered,” he explained. “We can find small groups of them to hit.”
“You are crazy!” the girl retorted. “We cannot go back there!”
“We have no choice!” Bryan shot back.
“Think of Connie, and Damon!” said another.
“Think of the line of people we saw on the road,” Bryan countered. “Our people, helpless unless we can keep the talons tied up in the mountains.” His visage softened then as he looked upon the sorrow-filled, weary faces. Perhaps he was pushing the others too hard.
“You go and find a safer spot to rest,” he conceded quietly. “I’ll go after the talons. I can move faster alone anyway.”
But when Bryan started away, he heard the sound of the other four following at his back.
They played hit-and-run with bands of talons for the remainder of that day, striking from a distance with their bows, or rising from cover suddenly in front of a talon group and cutting the monsters down before they even knew they were being attacked.
Bryan and his friends knew the odds, and realized that sooner or later they would get themselves into a situation where they would find no escape. But whenever fear threatened to take the fight out of them, they remembered the cloud of dust from the refugees on the road and the cloud of smoke over Corning, and remembered their duty.
Disaster struck near sunset. The group surprised a band of four talons and quickly dispatched them. But another, larger band was close by, and got into the fight before the young warriors could escape. Bryan and his friends won out, but when the last talon fell at Bryan’s feet, he looked around to find that he and Siana were the only two left alive.
Their spirits fell with the fall of day, and they walked slowly away, seeking a safe haven. Siana leaned on Bryan for support, but the tears ran as freely down the cheeks of the halfelf as on her own.
All told, they had killed more than four dozen talons that day and wounded several score more. More important, they had halted the march. It would take the scattered bands of talons the rest of the night to get back together, and the people on the road would get through.
But to Bryan and Siana, the victory brought little consolation.
“At least seven,” Bryan noted grimly. “Tinothy first, then Damon and Connie on the walk, and-”
Siana held up her hand to stop him, for she needed no recounting. She had witnessed six of the seven deaths Bryan spoke of. “Do you think Lennard and the others got away?” she asked him hopefully.
“Lennard is a smart one,” Bryan replied. “And they had a better lead.” But if his words held conviction, it was feigned. Despair flowed over him fully that dark night. In a single day he had witnessed the burning of his city and, later, the deaths of seven of his closest friends.
Siana sensed his turmoil and put her own aside. She moved to him and snuggled close, lending him some of her strength. “We did a fine job,” she reminded him. “They won’t be getting back to their march anytime soon, and more than a few talons died this day. Our traps worked pretty well, I would say!”
Bryan looked down at her smiling face and was comforted. He kissed her then, and hugged her close.
But when the exhausted young warriors drifted into the solitude of slumber, the black despair came rushing back at them in their dreams, vivid recollections of the horrors they had witnessed that day.
Chapter 9
To the Bridges
BELEXUS AWOKE JUST before dawn. As the light grew around him, so too did the scene of carnage. He and the remaining cavalry contingent had camped just beyond the stench of the battlefield, too weary to continue that day and wanting to watch for any return of the talon forces that had fled.
But the night had been quiet, except for the occasional cry from the south.
From the road.
Movement from one figure caught Belexus’ eye, the one he had been most concerned about. Rhiannon walked slowly across the field, head down, toward the legacy of her display of power. Belexus forced himself to his feet and rushed after her. He felt his spirits sag when he moved next to her. So frail she seemed, only a hollowed shell of the confident and carefree woman he had escorted along the road these past couple of months.
When dawn fully broke just a moment later, the two friends saw the enormity of Rhiannon’s accomplishments. She had cut a gorge nearly a half mile long and fully twenty feet across, and deep beyond sight. More than three hundred talons had fallen to their deaths along the chasm, most in the final battle when Rhiannon had bottled them up. No guilt for those talon dead brought a tear to Rhiannon’s eye this morning, but when she looked upon her handiwork, she did indeed cry. She had scarred the land, had loosed a terrible strength that was beyond her control or comprehension. The power had consumed her and forced itself through her, leaving profound questions hanging unanswered. Questions of her very identity.
“Suren ye saved our lives,” Belexus remarked to her, seeing the moistness rolling across her fair face. “And more important, ye kept the beasts running to the north. Ye kept them away from the road.”
Rhiannon only shrugged helplessly, finding no words that could slip past the lump that had welled in her throat.
Belexus felt her pain as he studied the deep torment on her face. He understood that Rhiannon’s distress was far too deep for simple words to dispel. He looked to the south, where the dusty trail of rushing refugees continued to line the horizon, and to where a larger, more ominous cloud swelled in the early light.
“Come,” he said. “We must away to the south in all speed. The talon army is in pursuit.”
They were all tired, and most were wounded, but not one of the brave cavalrymen issued a word of complaint when the command came to break camp and ride with all their speed. They knew their duty, and knew, too, the suffering their kinfolk along the road would endure if they could not slow the talon rush.
Rhiannon cast a final glance at the destruction, at the black and white gelding the power-she-had destroyed. She accepted Belexus’ hand and rode in front of the ranger, needing his support just to hold her seat.
> ***
There had been no rest for Andovar that night, and no more stops along his road. Like the wind itself, the enchanted steed flew across the southern fields, merely a blur to onlookers. The horse did not tire; it gained momentum with each mighty stride, and Andovar, grim-faced, spurred it on, refusing to let any weariness defeat his mission.
The road connecting Corning and Pallendara was normally a week of hard riding. Andovar and his horse, flying under the power of the young witch, found the great city soon after the dawn of the second day.
“Talons to the west!” he cried, not even slowing as he soared through the open gates. The Pallendara city guard swarmed all around him to his call, and only minutes later the ranger found himself in audience with King Benador.
“My greetings, Andovar,” the young King said to him happily. Benador knew Andovar, and all of the rangers, as brothers. It was they who had sheltered him and taught him the duties of his proper station when the pretender Ungden had reigned in Pallendara, and it was they who helped him regain his rightful title.
Despite the familiarity, the ranger, as always, was amazed when he looked upon the young King of Calva. Benador had passed the age of fifty, only a few years younger than Andovar, but the wizards of Aielle had seemingly put Benador’s aging process into a state of stasis. Nurtured under the enchantments of Ardaz during the reign of Ungden, and even more so under the magical influences of his own magician, Istaahl, since he had taken the throne, King Benador was possessed of the vitality and appearance of a man in his early twenties. His curly light brown locks danced and flopped about his neck and shoulders, and his eyes twinkled as a child’s.
But Andovar knew the truth of Benador’s experience and wisdom. He did not let the King’s boyish charm dissuade him from the grim duty at hand.
“It has been a long time,” Benador said warmly.
“Longer still, we both would wish, when I tell ye o’ me purpose,” Andovar said grimly. As he recounted the disaster of the western fields, Istaahl entered to join the discussion.
“You have heard enough of Andovar’s grim words?” Benador asked.
Istaahl nodded. “And the invaders are led by Morgan Thalasi,” he replied.
Benador’s eyes went wide.
“That was our guess,” Andovar agreed. “Though we’ve not proof of it.”
“We wizards work with different intent, yet we call upon the same universal powers,” Istaahl explained. “I have sensed magical disturbances from the west throughout the day yesterday and all the night. I had meant to confer with Brielle this morning to further investigate, fearing the very truth you bring to us, gallant ranger.” Suddenly realizing the timetable involved, the wizard cast a curious glance Andovar’s way. “How did you get here so quickly, all the way from Corning?” he asked.
“ ’Twas the witch’s daughter,” Andovar replied. “Put a spell on me horse an’ quickened the pace. Suren all the world was a blur to me eyes.
“And ’twas Rhiannon who warned us of the comin’ o’ the Black Warlock,” Andovar went on. “Suren the lass deserves the thanks of all Calva, of all the world.”
Istaahl paused to consider this revelation. Brielle had suspected that Rhiannon had some power about her, and now there could be little doubt.
“We must be off at once,” King Benador decreed. “With all of the force we can muster. We will meet the talons at the great river and hold them there until the strength of all of Calva can be gathered and brought to bear.” He looked at Istaahl for further suggestions.
“You have no choice,” the White Mage replied to the inquiring gaze. “But I will not join you, not yet. I must contact the other wizards. Together we can hold back the Black Warlock.”
“While we destroy his rabble,” Benador said with a determined grimace. He clapped Andovar on the shoulder. “You have had no rest,” he said. “But if you plan to ride beside me to the Four Bridges, as I hope, you will find little idle time in the next few days!”
Two hours later, to the cheers of those who would remain behind, the Warders of the White Walls, the elite guard of Pallendara, charged out of the city’s gates, King Benador and Andovar at their lead.
From his tower window high above the city wall, Istaahl watched them go. Five hundred strong and superbly trained and outfitted, they would cut down the talons ten for every man. But no smile crossed the White Mage’s face as he watched the onrush of the proud army. He knew that even they would find only disaster if he and his wizard peers could not hold back the strength of Morgan Thalasi, strength that could sweep all the soldiers in the world away in the course of a single day.
The flight of the refugees had actually gained momentum during the dark hours of that wicked night. The two hamlets between Corning and the river, alerted by the ride of Andovar and by the thickening smoke on the western horizon, met the line with wagons and carts and a fresh garrison to form a rear guard.
But swift, too, came the forerunners of Thalasi’s army, and in numbers sufficient to bury any impromptu defensive attempts. Thus, when Belexus and his remaining cavalry found the trailing end of the fleeing refugees near midday, they saw as well the leading edge of the talons, dangerously close and gaining with every stride.
“More fightin’s before me, and ye’ve not the strength to help this time,” Belexus explained as he set Rhiannon into one of the wagons. Rhiannon, so weak and exhausted, would have tried to dissuade him, but beside her in the wagon she saw a young boy, barely ten, gravely wounded and needing attention.
Belexus would not have heard her complaints in any event. As soon as the wagon began to roll away, he called his troops together to lay out the battle plans. They would not meet the talon line head-on, nor would they dig in and fight a pitched battle. Instead they would follow the wagons in flight. Let the overeager talons come at them in clusters, with no proper formation, only to find a coiled snake when at last they caught up with the group.
But for all of the wisdom of the ranger’s plan, and for all of the determined grunts and shouts of the brave cavalrymen, Belexus had cause to worry. The Four Bridges were fully five miles away, and considering the rate of the approaching army, the ranger wondered if the last groups of refugees would even get halfway there before they were overtaken.
“Present torch!” the sergeant cried out.
Ten men, the front line of Rivertown’s defense, snapped to attention and brought their arms out wide, bearing a torch in each hand.
“Present grenades!” the sergeant ordered.
The second line, one hundred strong and including Gatsby, the record keeper, performed a similar movement. But instead of torches, each member of this group held two flasks of highly flammable oil, stoppered with oil-soaked rags.
The sergeant leaped into his saddle and rushed off ahead, seeking a better view of the drama unfolding before him. The last groups of refugees were coming on fast now; Thalasi’s army was right on their heels, hurling spears with devastating effect. But the brave men of the Rivertown regiment known as the Firethrowers had already put more than a mile between themselves and the Four Bridges.
The flight was a dead run. Wagons crossed by the Rivertown regiment, bouncing and tossing wildly. In back of the last group, Belexus’ line of cavalry had fully engaged the front talon ranks, fighting a retreating action but trying to hold the monsters long enough for the helpless refugees to get to the bridges.
They wouldn’t have had a chance if it weren’t for the Rivertown Firethrowers.
“Light torches!” the sergeant cried, nervous beads of sweat now evident on his brow and on the faces of all of his men. He watched as two men made their way up and down the line of torchbearers, igniting the items. Behind them the grenadiers shifted anxiously. The sergeant had to hold them until the last moment, to time their strike perfectly to allow all of the fleeing people to get behind them.
As he came up on the Rivertown line, Belexus recognized the intent of the defensive line. The ranger held his troops for a momen
t longer, then ordered them into full flight. They pounded away from the leading talons and crossed through the Rivertown line just as the sergeant put his men into action.
In one fluid motion the grenadiers of Rivertown swept into small lines and rushed through the line of torchbearers, lighting their flasks as they passed. The charging talons were barely fifteen feet away when the first flaming grenade crashed in, but in mere seconds two hundred burning flasks of oil erupted in the faces of the horrified monsters. A wild rush of fire scattered and decimated their center ranks, and the screams of burning talons replaced battle cries.
Proud tears streaked the sergeant’s face as he watched his troops perform their practiced maneuver to perfection. He understood what their bravery would cost them, for though they had broken the center of the talon line, talons to the north and south had continued their sweep beyond the ranks of the Rivertown Firethrowers and were now turning in toward the road, cutting off any chance of escape.
Belexus wanted to turn his troops back around and rush to the rescue of the brave men of Rivertown. Such an act would steal the meaning from their sacrifice, though, for they had gone onto the field that day knowing their duty and accepting their fate. And with Belexus’ cavalry continuing their rearguard action, they had bought enough time for the helpless refugees to get to the bridges.
The Rivertown Firethrowers drew their swords and put a song on their lips as the black walls of talons closed around them. They had done their duty.
Not a man of them survived the next ten minutes.
The remaining garrison of Rivertown, along with the forces of several neighboring villages and those refugees still fit to fight, had already organized a hasty defense of the bridges. Lines of archers showered the talons closest in pursuit, and skilled horsemen rode out to catch the wagons and put them in proper lines for getting across the bridges safely and quickly.
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