The Witch's Daughter

by R. A. Salvatore

  “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 moment 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.

  Belexus took his troops in full stride straight across the central two bridges, then spun them about to survey the battle and determine where they would best fit in.

  The talons did not slow when they reached the massive, arching structures. They crashed onto each bridge, flailing away wildly and crying out for the deaths of the human defenders.

  But the men and women of Calva, fighting for their homes and the lives of their kin, met the monsters with equal savagery. And whenever the talon press threatened to break through to the other side of one of the bridges, Belexus and his troops met them and drove them back.

  The Black Warlock, following in the middle ranks of his army, snickered with wicked satisfaction at each mutilated human corpse he passed. The sight of the carnage inflicted by the Rivertown Firethrowers stole that evil smile, but only for a moment, for farther up the line came the shouts that the army had finally reached the Four Bridges. Thalasi spurred his litter bearers on when he heard the ring of weapons and the cries as the forces engaged. By the time he came upon the scene at the bridges, it had become obvious that his talon soldiers would not break through. The bulk of the talon army was still miles behind, plodding down the road on weary feet, and while these leading groups of his force alone outnumbered the enemy across the way, the defenders were better organized and firmly entrenched in defensible positions.

  Thalasi considered calling back his charges, holding them until the rest of his dark force could catch up. But then a more devious alternative came to mind. Why should he hold back any longer? A simple flex of his magical muscles here and the bridge would be won. With his talons spilling into the eastern Calvan fields, he could not be stopped, not by the army of Pallendara or by the feeble wizards that would stand to oppose him.

  The Black Warlock clutched at the air around him, gathering in his power. He slipped into the magical plane, bending the powers to his vile call. They resisted, as they always resisted the likes of the perverted warlock. But as always, Thalasi’s sheer will pulled them in to his desires. In mere seconds he felt the tingle of explosive magic surging within him, greater and greater as he spoke the first runes of his spell.

  But then he heard the music.

  It wafted down on the northern breezes, as sweet and pure as a clear-running brook. But to the ears of the Black Warlock the perfect notes rang out as discordant, fighting back against the guttural strains of his own magical intonations, blocking the notes he needed to launch his strike. His hollowed eyes widened in rage as he came to understand.

  And from the south came another call, a soft but insistent moaning leading the edge of a breeze from the sea. Just as Thalasi began to counter the effects of Brielle’s disruption, the cry of Istaahl sounded in his ears.

  Thorny vines sprouted up out of the earth to entangle Thalasi’s legs, pulling at him. He was on the defensive now, fighting with all his strength just to ward off the sudden and unexpected attacks of the wizard and the witch.

  And all the while his talons died by the score on the Four Bridges.

  The talons finally broke off the encounter when the sun dipped below the rim of the western horizon.

  “We have won the day,” Belexus remarked to another soldier, one of the cavalrymen who had ridden beside him in the northern encounter. All four of the bridges had been secured, a thousand talons and more lay dead, and, for all that Belexus could tell, the Black Warlock had not even entered the contest.

  But there was no proclamation of victory in the ranger’s observation. Belexus remembered vividly the heavy cost of their “victory.” All of the western fields had been lost to the enemy. Even now, in the waning light, the ranger could see the swell of monsters across the river as more and more of Thalasi’s minions marched down the western road to flock into the encampment.

  “Twenty thousand?” the other soldier pondered. “Thirty? My heart fails at such a sight.”

  “They will come on again tomorrow, if not this very night,” a third soldier standing nearby replied. “And again after that if we hold them back.”

  “Then we will have to hold them tomorrow, and again after that,” Belexus declared. He threw a calming wink at the two men, then trotted his mount away to let them consider his words.

  “I would give us not a chance of holding them, even in the next of the engagements,” the first of the two remarked, his eyes following the unsha
kable movements of the departing ranger. “Were it not for the likes of that one at our lead!”

  The other soldier agreed with the observation, but when he looked back at the darkness gathering across the river, he could not help but shudder.

  Across the river, Thalasi stalked up and down the talon ranks, enraged and concerned as his plans continued their downward spiral. He had wanted to get across the river quickly and without heavy losses, but the stubborn Calvans, and his own blunders, had foiled that notion.

  He watched now as more defenses were set in place on and around the bridges. He knew as he viewed the scene that other eyes were also watching, the eyes of a witch in a distant wood and the eyes of a wizard in a white tower. For three hours they had held his magical intentions at bay, countering his every move.

  And the third of his powerful enemies, the wizard Ardaz, had not yet even entered the battle.

  Chapter 10

  Bryan’s Choice

  “THOUSANDS OF THEM,” Siana cried in dismay, looking out over the fields to the west and north. From her high mountain vantage point, the young girl could see dots of light—campfires—stretching off to the horizon.

  “Talons,” Bryan observed. “They have heard the tides of war and are coming to join the main force down by the river.”

  “What can we do?” Siana whispered hopelessly. “What can anyone do?”

  “We must warn the people,” Bryan replied in an even tone. “Come, we can get to the river this very night.” They started off at once, down the mountain trails they knew so well. They passed by several talon camps without incident, though Bryan would have dearly loved to stop and pay a visit upon the evil things.

  For now, though, he had his mind focused on the mission at hand. Someone had to get across the river and warn the defenders at the Four Bridges of the true size of the gathering talon force. Skirmishes with roving bands seemed unimportant next to delivering the warning.

  But a few hours later, plodding along the eastern foothills of the Baerendels with the great river in sight, Bryan and Siana came upon an encampment they could not ignore. From inside a small cave, its entrance hastily blocked by piled stones and brush, the two heard groans of pain.

  Bryan recognized the voice before he even entered; Lennard had been his closest friend for all of his life.

  “Bryan!” Jolsen Smithyson cried when he saw his friends. The large lad dropped his sword to the floor and gave Bryan and Siana a great bear hug.

  Bryan pushed by him, more concerned with the garish wound showing on Lennard’s leg. Jolsen had broken the shaft off the spear and had tried his best to get the tip out and clean the wound, but the talon’s strike had been vicious indeed, twining tendons and shattering bone. Lennard lay on a fleeting edge of consciousness, more delirious than awake.

  “Can you carry him?” Bryan asked Jolsen.

  “I fear to move him,” Jolsen replied. “Or leave him. I meant to go back out along the trails to see if I could find any of our friends—”

  “Forget the others,” Bryan snapped coldly, startling both Jolsen and Siana. “We have to get Lennard across the river.”

  “The others might be out there,” Siana reminded Bryan. “Wounded like Lennard, and lying all alone in the cold of the night.”

  Bryan felt the pain as intensely as Siana and Jolsen, but he understood his place in this predicament. “We go to the river,” he said. “Jolsen will carry Lennard.”

  Jolsen and Siana exchanged concerned looks. “What if we refuse?” Siana dared to ask.

  “Then I go alone,” Bryan was quick to answer. “And you will remain here to watch Lennard die, and probably to find a similar fate for yourselves at the hands of the foul talons.”

  “You do not offer us much of a choice,” Jolsen remarked, his voice holding an uncharacteristically angry edge.

  “There is none to offer,” Bryan replied in the same tone. “We have not the time—the troops camped across the river have not the time—to waste. If any of our friends are alive out there—and I know that none of those who fled Doerning’s Walk in the group beside me remain alive—they will simply have to fend for themselves.” He led their glances to Lennard.

  “How long do you think he might live out here in this filth?” he asked earnestly. “We have to get him across the river.”

  Jolsen’s eyes narrowed, but he did not refute the half-elf’s observations. The big lad was fairly certain that all of the others who had fled from Doerning’s Walk were indeed dead, but he could not shake the terrible notion that one of them might be out in the night, huddled in a hole, trembling with fright.

  They cleared the mountains about an hour later and picked their way cautiously across the short expanse of open field. The bulk of the gathering talon army remained miles to the north by the bridges, but some of the scum had made camps even this far south. The four got safely to the river, though, and moved north along the bank in search of a way to get across.

  Dozens of cottages lined the great river this close to Rivertown, many having docks and small boats. Bryan and his friends came upon such a place only a short while later. Talons now inhabited the main cottage, but the human cries inside told the friends that the original inhabitants had not escaped in time.

  “Two guards on the wharves,” Bryan remarked from his concealment behind some shrubs.

  “What about inside the house?” Jolsen asked, unable to block out the wails.

  “If we work it correctly, we can get the guards too quickly and quietly for any others to join in,” Bryan explained.

  “But we cannot leave!” Siana hissed as loudly as she dared.

  Bryan gave her an icy glare. “We’ll get the guards and ready the boat,” he instructed her coldly. “Do as you are told.”

  Siana wanted to respond but could not find the words. Her expression of horror spoke for her, though, and Bryan realized that he might have been a bit too rough.

  “We have to make certain that we will fulfill our mission,” he explained. “And we have to save Lennard. Once we’ve got the docks secured, we can attend to the people in the house.”

  That promise appeased Siana and Jolsen, for neither wanted to go against Bryan. Not out here, not with other people’s lives hanging on their every decision. They followed Bryan’s lead to a closer position to the docks, drawing their bows as they went.

  “Wait till I am close,” Bryan whispered. “Your shots will lead me in; I’ll make certain that the job is done. Then get Lennard to the boat and wait with him there.” And before either of his friends could question him again about the plan for the talons inside the house, Bryan disappeared into the darkness.

  The two arrows whistled off together, both finding their marks but only Siana’s killing a talon. Before the remaining creature could cry out to its friends, though, Bryan was upon it, his sword’s fine edge turning the talon’s intended shout into a quiet gurgle.

  Jolsen scooped up Lennard and followed Siana down to the docks, where Bryan had untied two boats.

  “The house?” Siana questioned.

  “Trust me,” replied Bryan. “Get in one of the boats and hold a position a few feet from the docks.” All their eyes turned abruptly back to the cottage at the sound of yet another cry of pain.

  “If I do not return,” Bryan went on, “get across the river and warn the soldiers of the approaching talon forces.”

  Jolsen complied, setting Lennard down softly and taking up the oars. Siana, though, appeared doubtful.

  “I am coming with you,” she insisted, fitting another arrow to her bow.

  “Not this time,” said Bryan. He flicked his sword out, severing the eager girl’s bowstring. “Do not make me cut anything else,” he threatened, his sword still dancing out in front of him and an angry glower flashing in his elven-bright eyes. “Get in the boat.”

  Stunned, Siana backed away and slipped into the boat without taking her eyes off Bryan. And then he was gone again into the gloom.

  “Don’t yous
fight me!” the talon roared, as much in amusement as in anger. The young girl on the bed kicked out again, only to have her foot clawed viciously by the wretched thing. She tried to cry out, but had no more screams left to give. Sobbing, she lay very still on the bed and waited for the inevitable.

  “Better!” croaked the talon, giving the smooth leg a final twist. “Now yous gets to see me weapon,” the beast proclaimed, unhitching its belt.

  It wasn’t what the talon had intended, but an instant later the tip of a sword exploded through its backbone and out the front of its chest. The talon slumped to the floor. Bryan took its place.

  The terrified girl started to shriek, and Bryan did not try to stop her; the other talons in the house would expect such a noise. The half-elf put his sword away, slowly easing the girl into a gentle hug. He waited patiently for many long moments as the last of her sobs died away, then offered a hopeful smile to her tear-streaked face.

  “Come,” he whispered. “I will get you away from these beasts and across the river.” The girl snuffled away the pain and slipped off the bed to follow, pausing only to give the dying talon a kick in the face for good measure.

  “Who else?” Bryan asked her.

  “My mother and brother,” she replied. “Downstairs, in the room beside the kitchen.”

  “Go out the window and to the docks,” Bryan instructed her. He pointed to the open window—the window he had come in through—on the closest end of the hall. “Friends are waiting.” He started to go the other way, but the girl grabbed him by the arm and turned him about.

  “Please,” she whispered. “You must get them out of here. And if you cannot …” She paused, stuck on the words, then steadied herself and continued. “Do not leave them at the mercy of the talons, I beg of you. If you cannot get them out, take their lives quickly and painlessly.” Her voice died away and she had to grab at her mouth to stifle a rising sob.