The Witch's Daughter

by R. A. Salvatore

  The Black Warlock, confident that the swell of numbers during the night would push his talons through, paid little heed to the give-and-take assaults on the bridges. He was weaker this day, drained from the magical expenditures of his previous battles against Brielle and Istaahl. But the witch and wizard were equally exhausted, he recognized, and though the storms over Avalon and the white tower in Pallendara were less powerful this day, so too were the defenses fighting against them.

  There would be no sudden, vicious assault forthcoming from Thalasi; his method of attack held consistent and persistent, designed only to keep Brielle and Istaahl from throwing any offensive magic against the talons. And Thalasi knew that he had to conserve some of his own strength. For some reason he could not understand, the third of his enemies, that most hated wizard Ardaz, had not yet made an appearance, personally or from afar, on the battlefield.

  Rhiannon continued to grow weaker that day, though she tried to keep her eyes averted from the action on the bridges. The lines of wounded only lengthened when rumors of the young woman’s magical healing powers spread throughout the refugee camp, and Rhiannon, no matter how much the magical acts sapped her vitality, would not turn anyone away.

  Here she felt as though she was giving some positive value to the horrible power that possessed her being. Whenever a lull in her work brought Rhiannon the sounds and sights of battle, that power threatened to transform into something darker, something the young woman could not tolerate.

  She could not forget the scar she had torn across the land, nor the cries of those, however evil, she had sent to their deaths.

  The momentum shift in the battle carried the defenders through the morning, and many talons fell to the sword. But fresh talons, hungry for their first taste of battle, kept replacing their fallen comrades, while the defenders had to continually shrug away their weariness and fight on.

  Belexus came to the same conclusion as the Black Warlock: the bridges would fall. He sought out the general of the Rivertown garrison, a leader wise enough to recognize the inevitable.

  “Ye should set the wagons off again,” the ranger explained.

  The general had feared that advice, though he knew it was honest. “How much strength will our soldiers find when the rest of the people have fled?” he asked.

  “Ayuh, ye’re right enough in that,” replied Belexus. “But how much life will the others find when the defenders are no more?”

  Within an hour the field beside Rivertown was nearly deserted, and the long line of refugees, even longer now with the addition of the Rivertown populace, made its trudging way down the eastern road.

  Now the task before the valiant defenders was to buy time for their kinfolk, and when night came on, not a single bridge had fallen. But the number of able defenders rapidly dwindled; Belexus took up his sword again out of necessity, though he was in no condition to partake of battle.

  * * *

  Watching from one of the few wagons remaining near Rivertown, Rhiannon fought against the destructive urging of her power. She knew that she had to act—the men could not hope to survive for much longer—but her instinctual revulsion of this foreign strength, of its consuming and uncontrollable nature, kept her focus too blurred for any definite action.

  Confused and feeling betrayed by her weakness, the witch’s daughter could only slump back and watch in helpless frustration as more men died.

  Thalasi ended his storms when the sun went down, knowing that Brielle and Istaahl could not hope to strike out across the miles at his force without many hours of rest. The Black Warlock, too, was drained beyond his limits, and didn’t even think of using any magics against the defenders of the bridges. He had other tasks to attend. His rabble talons had done well in wearying and depleting the ranks of the humans, though the cost in talon lives had been excessive, but they could not organize well enough to properly complete the attack, to gain a secure foothold on the other side of the river.

  Thalasi let the course of the battle continue on the bridges, concentrating instead on assembling a spearheading force of reserves that could wait until the precise moment and simply bash through the weakened human lines.

  And the Black Warlock could be patient, so he believed. His only objective now was to get his army across the river, and at this point he didn’t see how he could possibly fail.

  The battle slowed in the blackness of a moonless night, and Belexus and his charges held on. Every minute, they knew, took the fleeing people a little farther from the talon horde.

  The Black Warlock was not concerned. He let the deepest hours slip by, waiting for the brightening of predawn to loose his killing reserves.

  And when the moment at last arrived, the talons, spurred by threats of Thalasi, were up to the task. They plowed through the length of the southernmost bridge and swung back to the next, trapping the humans on this second bridge. More and more talons poured onto the eastern field, securing the hold.

  The second bridge fell in only minutes.

  Tears streaked down the cheeks of the witch’s daughter. They would all soon die, even Belexus, and she could not find the strength within herself to help them. The surge of power came again, and she tried to welcome it, tried to use herself as its focusing channel.

  But her deepest instincts fought back, holding the power in check.

  A thousand defenders remained, but ten times and more that number of talons stood against them in the openness of the field. There could be no retreat; to break ranks and flee would only mean that the defenders would be hunted down individually and slaughtered.

  Few would have fled anyway. Watching Belexus, wounded again but refusing to yield, refusing to show any hints of fear, the humans fought and sang.

  Without hope.

  His plan running of its own accord, the Black Warlock loosed all of the magics the night had restored to him in a renewed attack against the witch’s forest and the wizard’s tower. Now, with his too-numerous talons leading the way, only his magic-wielding enemies could deny his victory, he believed, and he would give them no opportunity to launch an offensive.

  His army was barely minutes from complete victory.

  The sound of a hundred horns split the air, the thunder of pounding hooves shook the ground. And above the sudden confusion that startled the men and talons alike came the powerful blast of one note, one so familiar to Belexus.

  “Andovar!” he cried. “Fight on, brave warriors, for the army of Pallendara is come!”

  Eyes turned to the east and the hearts of the men leaped in hope and pride, while the talons cursed and shrieked in rage.

  On came the Warders of the White Walls, led by the Ranger of Avalon and by the King of Calva himself. Five hundred spear tips glistened in the morning light, though the riders seemed little more than ghostly silhouettes with the dawn breaking behind them.

  And on the flanks and behind the elite soldiers of Pallendara came groups of volunteers from all of southern Calva, five times greater in number and no less determined than the professional soldiers they followed. Farmers and fishermen who had grabbed up their weapons and ridden in the wake of their beloved King. But it was the practiced regiment of the great city soldiers, who had spent the bulk of their lives in training for just such an occasion, that swiftly turned the tide of battle. The Warders formed a wedge-shaped formation, and King Benador drove them into the talons in a thunderous rush, trampling and scattering the invaders with such brutal efficiency that the bulk of the talon force turned tail and fled back across the river.

  Fully engaged with his magical opponents, his powers almost depleted, the Black Warlock could only watch as his army was repelled once again. He would not gain the river this day, and with the kingdom of Calva so fully roused, the cost of breaking through, if ever he could, would be expensive indeed.

  “How?” he demanded. He had not believed that the army could possibly arrive for another full day. “It is not possible!” he cried out in such fierce rage that he sent his closest
talon commanders and his litter bearers fleeing into the field.

  But Thalasi’s denials were futile; this day the Black Warlock’s bark had little bite. In an hour the bridges were secured once again, and the new army now facing Thalasi, well-trained and led by the King, would not be so easily pushed aside.

  Rhiannon watched the victory unfold with sincere relief. Her guilt had been lessened by the charge of the Warders, but she would not soon forget the torment that her welling powers had put her through this morn. Would she ever come to terms with this hideous strength? Or was she a damned thing, always to be torn apart by magics she could neither control nor understand?

  They were questions Rhiannon wanted to sit and ponder, but a short time later the witch’s daughter had to put her emotions aside once again. One side effect of the battle did indeed concern her directly.

  The lines of wounded began anew.

  Chapter 12

  The Lull

  ANDOVAR WATCHED THE large tent patiently as the quiet hours of night drifted by. He wanted to rush inside to the young woman who had stolen his heart, but he understood that the wounded needed Rhiannon more than he. Every so often her shadowy silhouette crossed the side of the tent, hunched and weary.

  The ranger did not like to see the spirited lass that way.

  When the moans of the injured had become a soft murmur, and the witch’s daughter had turned down the lamp inside the tent to a slight glow, the ranger could wait no longer. He moved to the flap of the tent and pushed it aside. Rhiannon had her back to him, barely five feet away, yet so weary was she that she did not even sense his presence. She was bent over a basin, washing the blood and gore from her delicate hands.

  She knew it was Andovar as soon as he laid his gentle hand on her shoulder. Rhiannon spun into him, crushing her face into his chest, and all the frustration and sorrow she had suffered these past few days came pouring out in a deluge of tears and quiet sobs.

  Andovar fought back the wetness rimming his own eyes, knowing that he had to be strong for her at this moment. He was a Ranger of Avalon, living on the borderlands of civilization, and had known battle before, had lived it all of his life. But Rhiannon, grown twenty years under the springtime canopy of her mother’s enchanted forest, had no experience and no understanding for the horrible sights that fate had so abruptly thrown in her path.

  “Ye knew I’d return,” he said after a short while. “I’d not leave ye in yer trials.”

  Rhiannon nodded and stepped back from him. “Never did I doubt ye,” she replied. “But never could I guess if ye’d be in time.”

  “But I am a ranger,” Andovar protested with a spirit-lifting chuckle. “Me duty it is to arrive on time. And I’m not for missin’ me duty!”

  A smile crossed Rhiannon’s tired face, a wonderful smile that for an instant washed away all the pain and weariness. She started to say something, but Andovar’s lips pressed in against hers.

  And for both of them, for that brief moment, everything was all right.

  But only for a brief moment.

  Rhiannon pulled back suddenly and turned away.

  “What is it?” Andovar asked.

  Rhiannon still could not look him in the eye. “Many the things I have done,” she started to explain. “Terrible things.”

  Andovar did not understand.

  “The earth itself split apart at me call!” Rhiannon confessed. “And I know not how many I killed.”

  Now Andovar understood. Belexus had told him of the young woman’s—the young witch’s—actions against the talon cavalry. She had saved the day, but Belexus had observed, correctly it would seem, that the act had disturbed Rhiannon greatly.

  Now Rhiannon did look Andovar in the eye, and her expression was one of terror as much as remorse. “I do no’ know how I did it; truly I do not. The power grew in me and forced itself through, from the very ground at me feet, it did.”

  “Ye did as ye had to do,” Andovar replied softly. “Ye should feel no guilt for killing an enemy that picked the fight.”

  The ranger didn’t comprehend that killing the talons was but a small part of Rhiannon’s trauma. “I’ll be takin’ no credit for the killing,” she said sharply. “For suren ’twas not meself that did the deed. Ye canno’ understand, though I know ye mean to try.” She paused, searching for the words to express her feelings of being possessed, of being violated, by the terrible power.

  “And how many have ye saved this day?” came a voice from the tent flap. The two turned to see Belexus enter. “I number meself among them, for me wounds had me down and dying just a day ago.”

  Rhiannon shrugged; the good deeds she accomplished seemed almost unimportant compared to the confusion this power, even in the act of healing, brought to her. And compared to her failure in the course of the day’s events, when she had pushed the power away and denied its call, when she was too weak and cowardly to use it even to save what remained of the brave defenders of the bridges, any good she had done surely paled.

  “Many still draw breath because of the work of Rhiannon,” Andovar agreed. “Ye have brought comfort and rest; look around ye for the proof.” He led her gaze to the dozens of men sleeping peacefully on the cots of the large tent. “What guilt then should ye feel?”

  “But how many would have felt the pain not at all?” Rhiannon cried. She looked at Belexus, and he could not understand the apologetic expression etched into her delicate features. “I could’ve crushed them, every one, when they came on us this morn! I felt it growing in me, and stronger than the fury when I tore up the western field.”

  No anger crossed the faces of the rangers, only sincere pity.

  “But I pushed it out!” Rhiannon hissed, a new wave of tears rolling down her cheeks. “I threw it away, though me own cowardice sent men to their deaths!”

  Andovar pulled her close and hugged her with all his strength. “No,” he said.

  Belexus agreed. “Ye did as ye could, lass. And more than any other, it was. Ye owe yerself no guilt, and no apologies do ye owe to any others, though me guess’s that many owe ye their thanks.”

  “And the day was won,” Andovar reminded her.

  Rhiannon buried her face in the folds of Andovar’s cloak and did not reply. Belexus left them with a nod to his friend, and Andovar put his head on Rhiannon’s and held her as her sobs soon transformed into the steady rhythm of merciful sleep.

  And still he held her, slipping into a chair and cradling his love until the first light of dawn pinkened the eastern skies.

  The Black Warlock did not sleep that night—again—and truly this wretched being no longer required any sleep. The thing that Morgan Thalasi and Martin Reinheiser had joined to become little resembled a living creature now, and each day the absolute evil that bound the two spirits stole more of the remaining resemblance away. But this drawing vileness did not take from the life force of the being. Quite the contrary, the Black Warlock felt himself growing stronger every day as the harmony of the two spirits increased into a singular obsession for power.

  But at this moment Thalasi knew only rage. His plans for a swift and brutal march to the Calvan seat of power had come to an abrupt end, for though his talons still outnumbered the human defenders across the river, the rabble force could not hope to break through the skilled defenses of the more experienced soldiers. Both sides would dig in now, with reinforcements streaming in daily. Thalasi could only guess which army would eventually prove the larger.

  And so it was with the battle of magics as well. The Black Warlock knew that he would only get stronger, but he had lost the offensive against his rivals in Avalon and Pallendara. Istaahl and Brielle would confer and seek methods of combining their powers against him.

  And what of Ardaz? The Silver Mage of Lochsilinilume had not yet even made an appearance, a situation that the Black Warlock knew would not last much longer.

  Above all the other contemplations and possibilities that the Black Warlock faced on this calm night, one inescap
able fact hammered at him relentlessly: he had erred greatly. If his talons had been better organized and controlled, the sweep across the western plains would not have sent so thick a line of refugees in flight down the roads to warn the more eastern towns. And even after those initial blunders, if he had better coordinated the assault against the Four Bridges, his army would have broken through and gained a firm foothold on the eastern bank before the forces from Pallendara had joined in the battle.

  “I have taken on too much,” the Black Warlock lamented aloud. “I have played too many roles in this war.” He looked around at the vast talon encampment, tribes separated by clear boundaries, and with a dozen fights breaking out between the anxious, dispirited beasts every minute.

  “What choice do I have?” Thalasi asked. “Where among this rabble am I to find a proper general?”

  He shook his head in dismay, but while he lamented, a tiny spark from that part of his spirit that had been Martin Reinheiser sent a chilling memory into the path of his thoughts. In his life before the joining, Reinheiser had known a cunning tactician leader who could change the course of this battle.

  Hollis Mitchell.

  “A pity I killed that one,” the Black Warlock whispered, but even as he remembered that fateful day on the field of Mountaingate when he had shoved Mitchell over the cliff, another notion took root in his craven mind.

  How strong was he? he wondered, subconsciously turning his gaze to the north. He was a master of the third school of magic, after all, the discipline predicated on its wielder’s desire and belief that he could bend the natural laws to suit his own needs.

  “How strong am I?” Thalasi roared loudly, sending several nearby talons squealing and scampering for cover. “Strong enough, perhaps, to tear the spirit of Hollis Mitchell from the realm of the dead and bring him to the battle as my general?”

  An evil smile made its way across the Black Warlock’s face as he considered the magical energy he would need to teleport himself to Blackamara, the foul fen beneath the field of Mountaingate. How strong was he?