Then all the bridges were thrown into chaos, a clawing, hacking swirl of talon and man. No quarter was asked and none was given; to lose was to die. For the talons, to lose was to face the fury of Morgan Thalasi. For the Calvans, to lose was to realize the destruction of all the world.
Black bile wetted Rhiannon’s throat, sheer horror and disgust at the sight of the conflict. The screams of agony and rage rolled across the distance to her ears. Even Bryan, familiar with smaller-scale and more choreographed skirmishes, felt his knees go weak at the sheer viciousness of the battle, and he winced each time one death scream wailed above all the others.
But Bryan soon steeled himself against his revulsion, reminding himself of the importance of the scene before him. He turned to Rhiannon for counsel, but found the young witch fully entranced by the continuing spectacle of Morgan Thalasi, as if Rhiannon could better understand the deadly implications of his dark efforts.
Now the black bolts ripping upward into the sky from the arms of the Black Warlock came as one unending stream, one reaching north and the other east, fueling the frenzy of the storms as they raced to their destinations.
Bolt after bolt of lightning blasted into the defensive shell over Avalon, a bubble of energy that Brielle had created to protect her forest. The initial blasts were dispersed into showers of multicolored sparks. But each ensuing bolt jolted the Emerald Witch, strained her powers to their very limits, and she knew that soon her shell would collapse.
“Too much!” she yelled, echoing her brother’s words and sending the thought through the connection of their magical energies to the mind of the Black Warlock. “Ye’ll break it all, ye fool!”
Thalasi’s answer came as another blast of lightning, a furious bolt that split the earth around the perimeter of Brielle’s fortress forest.
Hurricane winds buffeted Istaahl’s tower, swaying the tall structure far to the side and then back again. The desperate wizard evoked magical arms to engulf the structure, holding it together in its wild ride.
“Damn you, Thalasi!” Istaahl growled, for he, too, understood that the Black Warlock had broken all bounds of sensibility, had grabbed at the powers of the universe and pulled them to his evil will with such blatant ferocity that it all could unravel at his feet. All the world would feel the destruction.
But if the Black Warlock had any concern for such possibilities, he did not show it. The winds around the White Tower slammed into the stone and swirled about it, and bolts of lightning scorched its sides and split the ground around its base.
And Istaahl, though he feared the consequences, could only respond by pushing his own magic further, by tugging back on the universal powers with an intensity that rivaled Thalasi’s.
“I am the god!” Thalasi roared, his voice shaking the ground for miles around. “And all the world is mine! Behold Morgan Thalasi and know you are doomed!”
The power continued its twisted flow through the Staff of Death and through Thalasi’s limbs, conductors that bent the natural strength of the world to suit the Black Warlock’s foul purposes. Thalasi was drunk with it, fully enraptured in the ecstasy of unbelievable might. He had outdone his own expectation, had grabbed at the core of the world and pulled it to his hands. His black globe cracked and crumbled the ground below it into pockets of broken, barren rubble. And then Thalasi moved on to another spot, for the Staff of Death demanded more.
“I am the god!” Thalasi yelled again. One group of talons rushed by, spurred by the proclamations of their unholy leader.
Too close.
The black sphere of Thalasi sucked them into its vortex, and the unfortunate creatures came out as mere pulses in the black bolts the warlock aimed at the sky.
“What is it?” Bryan demanded. He shook Rhiannon violently, but the young witch showed no signs of consciousness. Her thoughts were fully turned inward as the evil spectacle of Thalasi continued its roar in her ears. Still the magic grew in the young witch despite her efforts, born of sheer instinctual terror, to drive it out.
Bryan understood his companion’s dilemma. He had seen her hesitation at calling forth the most destructive uses of her power, and he understood that the power now demanded more of her than ever before, more even than Rhiannon had used when she and he had routed the talon caravan back in the mountains two days before.
And that effort had nearly destroyed the young witch.
“Let it in!” Bryan implored Rhiannon. “Accept the power for the sake of all the world!”
Rhiannon did not blink, every instinct within her fighting against the awful possession, the complete surrender to a strength that might never let her go.
The lines on the bridges rolled back and forth, with each side gaining ground only to be hammered back to where they had started. A dozen men and a score of talons died each minute, and their blood mixed with the rainwater, washing from the sides and staining the great river itself in a garish crimson hue.
Arien still held his elven forces back. They had been assigned as the reserves of the army and would no doubt see more action than they cared to before all was finished. And with all that had gone on in the talon camp the past few days, the Eldar feared something else, a different line of attack. Surely this new general of Thalasi’s army was skilled enough to know that he would not so easily breach the defenses of the bridges.
When Arien’s daughter called out a short while later, the Eldar knew he had been wise to keep to the side.
“Boats on the river!” Sylvia yelled. A hundred craft, riding low under the weight of talon flesh, moved out from the western bank.
Arien put his archers to action and called for all the reserves that Benador could spare. The trip across the wide River Ne’er Ending would not be an easy one for Thalasi’s wicked minions.
But a moment later the Eldar found his attention turned back to the bridges, or more particularly, to the northernmost bridge. The ranks of Calvan defenders split apart suddenly, the brave men fleeing in horror.
The wraith and his legions of undead had made their appearance.
Only the Rangers of Avalon, spurred by the unflinching courage of Belexus Backavar, came onto the bridge to fill the breach.
Mitchell stayed back and let his zombie minions pass him by. They fell by the dozen to the flashing blades of the rangers, but they outnumbered the brave warriors of Avalon by more than five to one, and gradually the press of rotting flesh made its inevitable way toward the eastern exit of the bridge.
Belexus held out in their midst, whacking away arms and heads with each mighty stroke, and soon he no longer even flinched when he beheaded a creature only to see it reach back toward him with its filthy, bone-clawed hands.
And then many zombies focused on the single rider, and they lashed at Belexus’ horse, driving the thing down under their sheer weight.
Arien had to leave much of his force behind with Sylvia to contend with the closing line of boats, but the elves, with their deeper understanding of mortality and of experience beyond this life, did not fear the animated corpses as did the humans, and their charge caught the zombie horde at the eastern base of the northernmost bridge.
Arien spurred his stallion right through the zombie ranks, trampling the things to the stone in the singular path of his ride. He had seen Belexus fall and would not accept the death of the gallant ranger.
But Belexus was not finished. He found himself kneeling and then struggled against the press to his feet, brought his huge sword in a killing sweep that cut three of the monsters fully in half. Blood from a score of clawed wounds ran down the ranger’s arms and chest, but he lashed out with sword and fist, smashing the zombies away.
Still, their sheer numbers would have buried him where he stood. But then, for some reason he could not understand, the zombies moved away from him, walked past without showing any concern for him at all.
Arien, finally halted in his attempt to get to the ranger, was glad when he saw the sea of corpses flow away from a still standing Belexus, but t
he Eldar’s relief turned to dread when he, like the ranger, at last came to understand the meaning of the zombies’ sudden disinterest.
For near the center of the arching bridge now stood only two figures, Belexus of Avalon and Hollis Mitchell, the wraith whose mere thoughts guided the zombie army.
“I could not let them kill you,” Mitchell explained in his grating voice. “That task is for my pleasure alone!”
“Yer boasts are mere words,” Belexus retorted, steadying himself and taking full measure of this newest adversary. Brielle had warned him about facing the wraith again, but the ranger could not control the rage within himself, which demanded he avenge the death of his dearest friend and banish this perverted creature and its horrid minions from the world of the living.
“Come and see for yourself, fool.” Mitchell laughed at him, teasing him with an easy swing of the skull-headed scepter.
Belexus could not know the dark evil that was in that weapon. He clutched his great sword in both hands and worked his way in.
The zombie army continued its push along the eastern range of the bridges, disrupting the defensive lines wherever they went. And on the great river, the line of boats steadily approached, heedless of the shower of arrows. Whatever his desires at that moment, Arien Silverleaf had an army to command, and he could not go to the ranger’s side.
From the distant mountainside, Bryan surveyed the dismal scene. Only on the southern bridges, where King Benador and the Warders of the White Walls stood against mere talons, was the defense holding strong. On the northernmost bridge, and riding on a huge fleet on the river north of that, Thalasi’s army was clearly winning through. And if they continued to pour across, all the efforts of King Benador and his men would surely be to no avail.
If Bryan’s hopes were weakened when he took note of the course of the battle, they were blasted away altogether whenever he glanced at the unholy sphere of Morgan Thalasi. The evil warlock’s fury did not relent; the black bolts of energy ripped up into the sky with continued power.
Clearly, some new variable had to enter the battle and claim it back for the forces of good. Bryan turned to Rhiannon, trembling and appearing so frail in her rain-soaked gown.
How could he lend her strength?
The flow of the power drenched the Black Warlock in ecstasy. “Still more!” he demanded, stamping the heel of the Staff of Death on a new patch of ground. A renewed surge exploded upward, nearly blasting the mortal body of the Black Warlock apart. But Thalasi contained it, and bent it, throwing it out to Avalon and Pallendara.
It came in the fury of a single bolt over the enchanted forest. Brielle’s weakened shield of defensive magics stood to block it, and the resulting blast dissipated the bolt to a mountain of sparks.
But gone, too, was the shield, and the next lightning bolt that descended on the witch’s domain sundered a tree.
In seconds Avalon was burning.
It came in the fury of a wall of wind beside the White Tower of Istaahl, bending the structure far to the side. The civilian onlookers in Pallendara gasped in horror as Istaahl’s gigantic conjured arms clutched at the tower like an imperiled mother holding her infant.
But the stones split apart around the enchanted limbs.
The White Tower crumbled to the ground.
Chapter 27
The Fabric Torn
“BY THE COLONNAE!” Brielle gasped as the flames ate at her forest. Thalasi’s storm continued to flash and rumble, but that singular, massive bolt had taken the bite out of its thunderous bark as surely as it had shattered Brielle’s shield.
Brielle reached down inside herself, called to the earth power that fueled her magic. Hers was the first school of magic, the guardian school wherein the energies used her as their guiding hand to fight back against that which went against the natural order of the universe.
“Ye’ve pulled it too far,” the witch moaned when she at last contacted the fabric of her strength. Harmony was the norm for the universal powers, energy all working in accord toward the perfection of natural order. But Morgan Thalasi had grasped at that harmony with his perverted claws, had pulled the heartstrings of the powers beyond their limits.
Brielle had no time to stop and contemplate the grim consequences of the Black Warlock’s actions. The battle was far from over, though neither would find the energy needed to continue to wage their destructive war across the leagues. Now the contest became more personal, a test of wills removed from the material world.
Brielle did not flinch when the specter of the Black Warlock entered the gray field surrounding her thoughts. She conjured a spectral manifestation of herself and strode calmly toward the evil one.
“All the world is mine,” Thalasi cackled at her. “Witness how the magic bends to my control.”
“Ye’re a fool,” Brielle hissed back. “What magic do ye leave in yer wake? ’Twas the Colonnae that blessed us with the powers of all the universe, but ye’ve ruined that blessing, Morgan Thalasi. Ye’ve torn the heart out o’ our power to the ruin of us all.”
“No!” Thalasi shouted back in angry denial. “I’ve stolen the harmony that gives you strength, wicked witch! And Istaahl in Pallendara is no more, buried in the ruins of his own tower. Who will stand against me when Brielle is gone? Your pitiful brother? The buffoon who plays with elves?”
Brielle offered no response. She had lived for centuries as the principal guardian of the natural world, and now that world was under siege more than it had been since the great holocaust that destroyed the original race of man. The Emerald Witch knew her duty.
“All yer grand words,” she laughed at Thalasi. “First ye must beat me!” Her mental specter walked into battle, but as she reached the manifestation of the Black Warlock, the being split into two separate entities: Morgan Thalasi as he had been before the Battle of Mountaingate, and Martin Reinheiser. They moved out to flank the surprised witch, taunting her with laughter.
“Grand?” they asked together. “Minor claims against the truth of our being.”
Then they rushed in on her. Brielle flailed at them valiantly, but within mere seconds icy hands grasped at her throat.
***
Istaahl climbed through the last layer of rubble, a garish sight of torn and tattered clothing and bruised and bleeding flesh. A thousand curious onlookers in Pallendara shook their heads almost as one, stunned again by the powers of their wizard. For no mortal man could possibly have survived the fall of the tower.
Istaahl started to walk the perimeter of the devastation, ignoring the curious and terrified gazes surrounding him and following his every move.
“You fool!” the White Mage scolded himself, suddenly guessing the logical continuation of the Black Warlock’s magical campaign. How long had he tarried, wallowing in his own grief? Seconds? But even seconds could be too long in such a contest. Without further delay, Istaahl launched himself into the gray nothingness of the magical plane of existence, threw himself fully and bravely into the fight against the twin beings that were the Black Warlock.
“I have you-” Thalasi and Reinheiser started to proclaim in dual-voiced unison. But then the manifestation of the White Mage leaped onto the back of the spirit of Reinheiser, tearing his hands from the throat of Brielle.
The odds had suddenly changed.
“Did ye think one o’ the Four so easily killed?” Brielle said to Thalasi. “But one of us has died indeed, Morgan Thalasi. Yerself. Centuries ago when ye forgot our purpose, when ye took it upon yerself to challenge all the goodness o’ the Colonnae.”
“Weakling,” Thalasi retorted. “All the powers of the world at your fingertips and you play nursemaid to a copse of trees. Gods we could be! The world is ours to rule.”
“Not ours!” Brielle retorted. “Never ours! Ye ignore yer place, and yer greed is suren to be the ruin o’ all the world!”
To the side, the spirits of Reinheiser and Istaahl rolled about in the fog in combat as vicious and desperate as any that had been foug
ht on the Four Bridges. And now Thalasi sprang upon Brielle like a beast, his claws reaching out for her fair neck. But Brielle’s appearance, so innocent and beautiful, belied the strength of the woman. She accepted the Black Warlock’s attack and responded with her own, vicious and mighty.
Venerable Bellerian had been assigned to the rear of the army, directing wayward troops and relaying vital information to the battle commanders from his distant, more encompassing vantage point. But when the Ranger Lord saw his son on the northernmost bridge, facing that horrid wraith, he could not remain at his post. He was in his eighties now, not old for a man raised under the beauty of Avalon, who, by the words of Brielle, could expect to live a century and a score of years beyond that. But Bellerian’s fighting days had ended abruptly many years before. He had been bent over nearly double-he could hardly walk without the assistance of a cane-by a wound he received in the foul swamp of Blackamara, a wound so wicked that even the powers of Brielle could not fully heal it.
The Ranger Lord felt no pain now as he charged his mount down to the bridges, leaping from the saddle when he got there and rushing as fast as his crooked back would allow to go to the side of his son.
“Ye should no’ have come, me father,” Belexus said to him, truly concerned.
“Ye think I’d let ye fight the likes o’ this one alone?” Bellerian replied, a smile on his lips.
“Yes,” the wraith agreed. “Yes, old man, do join in our play.”
“Play, the thing calls it,” Bellerian scoffed. “We’ll see the name the thing gives to it when we put it back where it belongs!” And then the Ranger Lord struck out wickedly and cunningly, a swooping slash of his sword that forced Mitchell to stumble off balance. And by the time the wraith managed to straighten himself enough to return the blow, Bellerian was far out of reach.
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