“You are man,” the largest spat. Unlike their mountain kin, whose solitary existence in the Kored-dul range kept them far from contact with other races, these talons were quite familiar with humans. They constantly skirmished with the westernmost villages of the Calvan kingdom, stealing supplies or simply for the sheer pleasure of killing men.
Taking heart from their leader’s undeniable proclamation, the army of swamp talons took up their chant again and rattled their weapons against their shields. Thalasi’s army responded in kind, and the whole of the field teetered on the brink of battle.
The Black Warlock realized that he had to act quickly but carefully. He hesitated in using his magical power. In addition to scaring off these potential new recruits, a show of wizardly force, reaching into that magical realm that he shared with his counterparts might ring out across the plains like a beacon to his mightiest enemies, the two wizards and the witch. Thalasi was out of the protection of the Kored-dul Mountains now, and could sense the presence of the other magic users. For his plans of conquest to have any chance of succeeding, he had to make certain that the others did not learn of his return before the western fields were overrun.
Still the Black Warlock had to act or lose everything here and now. The opposing forces were equal enough to guarantee that little would remain of either—too little to carry him to glory.
The five swamp talon leaders shouted commands to their forces; a line of lizard-riding cavalry formed to lead the charge. Thalasi’s army roared to similar life, their loyalty to the Black Warlock, wrought of abject terror, standing strong against the specter of the swamp talon army.
Thalasi silenced them all in the blink of an eye.
“I am Thalasi!” he roared in his godlike voice. A pillar of fire engulfed the Black Warlock, blazing yet not consuming his mortal form. Stunned talons on both sides fell back from the spectacle.
Thalasi reached a hand out of the fiery pillar, and a line of flame sprouted from each finger to gobble up the five opposing leaders. They, too, found themselves enshrouded by pillars of blazing white fires, yet they, too, lived on.
Thalasi addressed the largest, the one who had so openly opposed him. “Who is your master?” he demanded.
“Men die!” the stubborn creature growled. The fire devoured it.
“Who is your master?” Thalasi demanded of the other four, witnesses to the folly of their peer’s defiance.
They gave themselves over to him wholeheartedly.
Thalasi released them from the fiery pillars and swept his fisted hand in a wide arc. Again the flame leaped out from him, this time reaching out behind the swamp talon army, building a deadly barrier behind them to discourage those who had started to flee. When the herding was completed, Thalasi shut down the magic, hoping that he had not revealed himself to his distant enemies.
“I am Thalasi!” he said yet again. “Follow me, join in my war! Taste the blood of Calvans!”
The rivalry of swamp talons and mountain talons had spanned centuries, grown since the first defeat of Morgan Thalasi on the Four Bridges. But none dared resist the specter of power that loomed before them now, and none wanted to resist the promises of man-flesh.
Thalasi walked across the encampment that night, a new and more complete attack plan formulating in his mind. He had doubled the size of his army this day, and had more to work with now; no need to keep his entire force together as a single entity. He could send them out across the fields to the north and through the Baerendel Mountains in the south, engulfing the entire region in a ring of hungry talons and cutting off any chance of escape.
He looked out over the countless campfires and smiled.
In the morning he met with all of his commanders and laid his plans out to them. Five thousand riders, swamp talons on the swifter, sleeker lizards of the lowlands, would spur to the north, sweeping out the few villages that lined the borders of the desolated wasteland of Brogg, then cut back to the road between the town of Corning and the Four Bridges.
A second group, only a few hundred smaller in number and without the lizard mounts, would cross the Baerendels, not pausing for any battles in the slow terrain, but to get beyond Corning before the main attack force arrived at the city. These flanking riders would slaughter the first, unorganized groups that would surely flee, and then hinder any other retreating forces, giving the northern cavalry the time it would need to get into position.
The whole of the force started out that same day, around the northern rim of the great Mysmal Swamp and down the straight southeastern run that would take them unerringly to the city of Corning.
And through a dozen helpless communities in between.
Chapter 5
Bryan of Corning
MERIWINDLE EASED THE gleaming sword halfway out from its jeweled sheath, remembering the land, his homeland, where it had been forged. The weapon’s slender design and graceful hilt marked it as elvish, and of course it was, and so was Meriwindle, though he had not walked the ways of Illuma Vale, that magical mountain valley called Lochsilinilume, in half again more than a dozen years. Not such a long time in the ageless lifespan of an elf.
Still, thoughts of mortality now led Meriwindle’s gaze out through the window of his small cottage to the solitary marker in the backyard: the gravestone of his wife.
He would return this year, in the autumn, he vowed, to visit those many friends he had left behind in the elven city. Ever the wanderer, Meriwindle had been the first out of Illuma Vale after the Battle of Mountaingate, when Benador, the new King of Calva, had opened his doors to the elves. What sights the adventurous elf had seen in those days!
But none more beautiful than his sweet Deneen.
She had caught the nimble elf in her gaze, and held his wandering feet firmly in place. Love took them both by proverbial storm, overwhelming them and refuting their denials. Both of them feared the inevitable joining—not all of the prejudices the two races, human and elf, held for each other had been washed away by the carnage of the battle. Such a mixed marriage would invite whispers, even open hostility. And as Meriwindle and Deneen were the first couple to actually attempt such a union, none knew what to expect from any offspring they might bring into the world.
But emotions greater than fear kept Meriwindle and Deneen together and brought them to marriage.
The whispers did come, but less than the couple had expected, and it did not take long for the northern elf to carve out a place for himself and his soon-to-be-growing family among the kindly farmer folk of Corning.
And then Bryan had come into their lives, had brought to the small cottage on the western edge of town more joy than the couple would ever have believed possible. That baby smile, Bryan’s whole face lighting up at the sight of mother or father, surely washed away any of the fears either of them had ever felt. If any believed that the union of the two races was against some unspoken laws of nature, one sight of Bryan would surely change their stubborn minds.
But then Deneen had gone away, taken in the pain of her second birthing, with the tiny girl who would never see the world beyond the womb.
“Are you all right?” came a voice that shook Meriwindle from his memories. He turned to find Bryan, now a fine young lad of fifteen years, standing in the doorway to the little kitchen.
“Yes, yes.” Meriwindle brushed away his son’s concern, and sniffed away a final thought of Deneen and the unnamed baby girl.
Bryan took a moment to consider his father’s position in front of the window, and the view such a seat gave to him, and he understood. “Thinking of Mother?”
“Always,” Meriwindle replied, and Bryan did not doubt that his father spoke the truth. A sadness touched the corners of the elf’s gray eyes, a sadness that would endure through the centuries.
“Are you still planning to go?” Meriwindle asked, needing to change the subject.
“Yes,” Bryan replied, but he quickly added, “unless you would like me to stay. I can change my plans. The others would
understand.”
He would do that for me, Meriwindle thought, and without regret. What a fine young man his son was growing into! “No,” he said to Bryan. “I gave you my word, and you certainly did more than your fair share of the spring planting. But all of the work is done now, and summer nears its high point. As we agreed, you may go.”
Bryan’s face lit up. He would indeed have remained beside his father without complaint if he believed that Meri-windle needed him. But he was thrilled to be going. He and his friends had been planning this expedition for the whole winter.
“But …” Meriwindle said, stealing a bit of the smile. The elf paused for a long, teasing moment. “You must take this.” He spun and tossed sword and scabbard to Bryan.
Bryan’s eyes popped wide at the gift. So long he had admired the crafted blade hanging over the mantel in the sitting room. His father had trained him in the use of a sword—all fathers taught their children in this land, so close to the wilds of the Baerendel Mountains—but never had this blade been used in those practice sessions. It was a family heirloom, a magical blade from the elven valley, the sword Meriwindle had wielded during the Battle of Mountaingate, when he had fought beside Arien Silverleaf himself.
Bryan slid the slender blade out to feel the perfection of its balance and to witness the soft glow of blue light that held the magic of the fine edge.
“The Baerendels are a wild place,” Meriwindle explained. “It is best to be prepared.”
“I fear I might break it,” said Bryan, so obviously overwhelmed, his hands trembling.
“I have trained you myself,” Meriwindle reminded the lad. “And your talents exceed any I have ever seen of your age and experience. Few understand the dance of the blade as well as you, my son. And that sword is elven make, hardened by the magical fires of the Silver Mage and far stronger than its slender size would lead you to believe. No, you’ll not break it, nor will you break the armor and shield.”
“Armor and shield?” Bryan could hardly speak the words.
“Of course,” answered his father. “If you wish to act the part of an elven warrior, then you must look the part of an elven warrior.”
Bryan mocked a quick inspection of himself. “But I am not true elven,” he said skeptically. “Half my blood is human.”
“So it is,” muttered Meriwindle, but the disappointment in his tone was feigned, and Bryan knew it. If Bryan was an example of the offspring of elf and human joined, then more would be wise to consider the formula. He was possessed of the best of both worlds, slender and handsome as an elven lad, yet with the hardened muscles and strength more common to the humans.
“You decline the gifts, then?”
“Oh no!” Bryan cried, hoping his father would not rescind his offer. “Truly I will wear them as best I may. Truly—”
Meriwindle stopped him with an outstretched hand. “No need to plead your case, my son,” he assured the boy. He walked over and put his hands on Bryan’s hardened shoulders. “Never has a father been more proud of his child,” he said, moisture rimming his large eyes. “You have all my faith. You will wear the outfit more finely than ever I could.”
Bryan responded in the only way he possibly could. He gave his father a hug.
Meriwindle answered the excited knock on his door with a mixture of pride and sadness. He recognized the unique pattern to the knock—that of Bryan’s best friend—and he knew what that meant.
“Good morning, sir,” greeted the diminutive lad at the head of a column of twelve, every one of them outfitted for the road.
“Welcome, Lennard,” Meriwindle replied. “Do come in.” He called out to Bryan, who was getting ready in another room, while the adventuring party, boys and girls of Bryan’s age, marched into the sitting room.
“Are you all gathered and prepared?” Meriwindle asked them.
“All except for Bryan and Jolsen Smithyson,” replied Lennard. He drew out a narrow blade, a foil, for Meriwindle’s inspection.
“Fine weapon,” the elf commented politely, though he had reservations about the wisdom of carrying such a blade into the wilds of the mountains. In trained hands, the whipping speed of a foil could be a great advantage against an armed opponent, poking through defenses before one’s enemy ever brought his heavier blade to bear. But the dangers the troupe would likely encounter up in the Baerendels, bears and boars and giant lizards, would better be fought with a heavier blade such as a broadsword or an ax.
No matter, Meriwindle reminded himself. All of the youngsters carried bows and knew how to use them, and Bryan would certainly be prepared to handle anything that came his way.
“Bah, you should have brought the spear,” remarked Siana, one of the girls. “That little blade will snap the first time you strike something bigger than you.”
Meriwindle tried to hide his agreeing smile. He liked Siana perhaps best of all, and was pleased that she was wise enough to see the logic.
“Never it will!” Lennard shouted back. “In and out.” He accentuated his point by snapping off a quick back-and-forth stab with the foil. “Before anyone—or anything—even knows what hits him.”
“A bear will know soon enough when it looks down and sees half the silly thing broken off and sticking out the front of its hide,” Siana replied without missing a beat. The others, Meriwindle included, shared a laugh at Lennard’s expense, but the diminutive lad just shrugged and joined in.
“Should have known better than to match wits with Siana,” the defeated Lennard reminded himself under his breath.
“Let the day begin!” came Bryan’s call as he entered the room. Meriwindle tried to hide his satisfaction as a general gasp rolled through the group, stealing their laughter. And when the elf turned and looked upon his son, he, too, caught his breath.
The elven sword hung easily on Bryan’s hip, hidden by the jeweled scabbard, but from the rest of Bryan’s outfit the others could well imagine the sword’s incredible workmanship. Bryan wore the chain-mail armor common to the elven folk, yet rarely seen outside of Illuma Vale, a fine mesh of interlocking links so perfectly crafted—and so perfectly fitting Meriwindle’s son—that it bent and formed to the contours of Bryan’s body like a second skin. The shield was of a shining silvery metal, inlaid with the quarter-moon crescent of Lochsilinilume. A wide-brimmed hat cunningly inlaid with strips of protective metal, high but supple leather boots, and a thick forest-green cloak completed the trimmings over Bryan’s normal clothing.
“Are you going somewhere?” Lennard remarked, an awe-inspired smile spreading over his face.
“Just to market,” replied Bryan, and he swept off the hat, dipping into a gentleman’s bow.
“The Baerendels are not a game,” Meriwindle put in sternly. He didn’t want to dispel the fun, but neither did he want the troupe moving out from the safety of the town with an improper attitude. “You will find danger up there, do not doubt. Many animals wander the course of those uncharted mountains, and talons have been spotted there on more than one occasion.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” one of the girls that Meriwindle did not recognize assured him.
Meriwindle regarded the group for a long moment. They were the children of farmers and craftsmen, more accustomed to wielding a hammer or hoe than a weapon. But they were a smart lot, and grown straight and tall under the brilliant sunshine of western Calvan fields.
They all waited now, breathless and anxious, for the judgment of the most famous warrior in all of Corning, perhaps in all of the lands west of the great River Ne’er Ending.
“So you can,” Meriwindle told the girl sincerely. “I do not doubt that for a moment. If I did, I would not allow my son to accompany you.” The group relaxed visibly, a smile finding its way onto every face. If Meriwindle, the elven warrior who had fought in the Battle of Mountaingate, had faith in them, they could not fail.
“To the road, then!” cried Lennard. “To Jolsen’s and then to the Baerendels!”
They filed out of
the small cottage with a heightened spring in their step. Bryan lagged behind for some final words with his father.
“Do you really believe that we can take care of ourselves?” he had to ask.
“If I did not, I would surely not let you go,” Meriwindle replied.
“We will return within the span of two months,” Bryan assured him. “In time for the autumn harvest.”
“Of course,” said Meriwindle. “And after that …” he began tentatively.
Bryan cocked his head, realizing from the suddenly grim tone that his father had something important to tell him.
“I had thought to do some traveling myself,” Meriwindle explained. “After the crop is in and safely off to market.”
“Pallendara?” Bryan asked excitedly. “We will go with the wagons?”
“A road longer,” replied Meriwindle.
The hesitant look on Bryan’s face showed that he suspected but did not dare to speak the true meaning of his father’s words.
“I had thought to be returning to Lochsilinilume,” Meri-windle said plainly. “I desire to walk again through the land of my birth.”
Bryan fell back a step, not knowing how to take the news. “But, could I?” he stammered, hopeful and afraid all at once. He would like nothing better than to see the enchanted valley, but he wasn’t certain how long his father planned to be gone. Certainly they could not leave the farm unattended. “Would I … I mean, there’s the farm to consider. Would you want—”
“I most certainly would!” Meriwindle replied with a hearty laugh. He dropped an arm over Bryan’s shoulder and shook him. “The farm will be here when—if—we choose to return. But you must come with me. What fun would an old elf find along the road if his most trusted companion was not riding by his side?
“Besides,” he continued, giving Bryan another playful shake, “the armor and the blade belong to you now. It is your duty, in return for the gifts, to protect your aging father on his long journey.”
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