Rhiannon’s crystal blue eyes narrowed.
“So you hang here, forever and more,” Thalasi said with a laugh. “Know that my pets-” He indicated the zombies. “-are close at hand, and with orders to beat you into unconsciousness every time you move, every time you utter a single sound.”
“And know that I will be about, as well,” the wraith added, moving so close to Rhiannon that she could feel the deathly cold that clung to the horrid creature’s gray body. “And I can do worse things than beat upon you, I promise.”
Rhiannon didn’t doubt that, not in the least, but while her expression was one of deep despair, her mind worked furiously for some solution. She would not give up, would never give up, no matter the pain, the hunger, the weakness, the cold.
She would find a way to hurt these two, some way, any way, before she left this life.
“The zombies will lead us out of the mountains,” Thalasi explained to Mitchell later on, when the two were alone-except for an insignificant talon guard-in the throne room. “Tens of thousands of zombies, and skeletons, too, who have lain in the cold ground for decades, even centuries, but who will rise again to my call. A sea of undead will lead us, to the river and beyond the river, and those who do not flee in terror, who do not yield to the power of Thalasi, will soon enough only add to our ranks.”
The wraith said nothing, just stared and wondered at where Hollis Mitchell might fit into these grandiose plans. Mitchell understood the depth of the Staff of Death, its true power, and he did not doubt that Thalasi could raise and control this sea of undead monsters, especially since zombies and skeletons, unlike the wraith, were unthinking and unquestioning animations, mere extensions of the staff and the Black Warlock who held it. But where did that leave Mitchell?
“You will not lead them,” Thalasi said suddenly, as if reading the wraith’s thoughts-and that, too, seemed a distinct possibility to the wraith, given the staff’s connection to him. “For you, I have other plans.”
The flames that were Mitchell’s eyes simmered.
“You will not disagree,” Thalasi promised. “For I offer to you your greatest wishes.”
“Then you will kill yourself,” Mitchell replied sarcastically.
Thalasi laughed that notion away, taking no offense. “I shall allow you to go out independently, to find Belexus, to find Ardaz, to find Brielle, and to do as you will with them, to torment them, to destroy them, perhaps to kill them-then raise them as undead under our control if we can find a way to facilitate such a thing.”
Suddenly the flames in Mitchell’s eyes reflected more intrigue than anger.
“You shall be my assassin,” Thalasi said with a laugh. “And none in all the world can stand against you.”
Mitchell was no fool and understood that Thalasi was deflecting him, distracting him to prevent him from finding some way to gain greater control over the undead soldiers. Mitchell understood, too, that he and Thalasi were bound by an unholy alliance indeed, one that would not hold when their common enemies were no more. But the wraith could accept that for now; there were greater enemies in the wide world yet to be slain, Belexus Backavar principal among them.
It was an offer the wraith could not refuse.
Chapter 14
Salazar
TRULY IT WAS a trying moment for Belexus, a pivotal moment in the life of this man who had been a warrior since his earliest recollections, who had trained for all of his life for battle. He had faced whip-dragons and talons by the score, had run into battle with odds a hundred to one against him, had slain a young true dragon, and had faced the wraith of Mitchell, and had done so willingly-so many times staring down the prospect of near-certain death. And always, even in his very first battle, the ranger had done so without hesitation, with a song-to Avalon, to King Benador, to Andovar-on his lips.
But none of those battles, none of that training, and none of the precepts of his warrior code, could have prepared Belexus for this awful moment. Time seemed to stand still, frozen, as the ranger’s thoughts whirled, recollections of every battle replaying in an instant. Everything stopped-the breathing, the heartbeat-and in that awful moment, for the first time, Belexus tasted fear, sheer terror, threatening to hold fast his legs and arms, tangibly weighing down his mighty sword.
Indeed it was a pivotal moment, the truest test of courage. And Belexus found then his warrior’s heart. And Belexus stepped through the terror. And Belexus charged.
He heard the wizard’s voice, though the words did not register, saw the dragon’s reddish hue, horned head rushing forward, maw gaping, spearlike teeth gleaming. With a growl, the ranger set his feet firmly, legs widespread, took up his sword in both hands, and drove a mighty upswing that connected on the dragon’s armored jawline with a screech like metal on metal, white sparks flying from the blade.
The dragon was not biting at Belexus, but at Ardaz: a wizard, obviously, and doubly dangerous to the sensibilities of this creature spawned of Thalasi’s magic. The great wyrm would have had Ardaz, too, and that surely would have been the end of the befuddled Silver Mage, but the ranger’s tremendous blow deflected the angle of the attack just enough, and the massive maw snapped with the crackle of a huge tree splitting just over the wizard’s head.
Belexus’ sword rang on and on, vibrating in his hands, and though he knew that its craftsmanship was superb, he feared for the integrity of the blade.
The dragon recoiled its neck past him, head shooting back twenty feet, like a giant snake coiling to strike, and the ranger recognized that he hadn’t even hurt the thing! He had hit the dragon harder than he had ever hit anything before, and he hadn’t even cracked the outermost scales, hadn’t even dug a deep scratch upon them!
A sharp intake of breath, a huge suction that tugged the ranger forward a step, showed that the next attack would neither be slowed nor deflected by any blade.
“My staff! Oh, grab my staff!” the ranger heard Ardaz cry, and he turned and saw the wizard holding the staff out toward him, both it and Ardaz glowing a soft blue.
Belexus dove. He heard the blasting exhale, the fiery gout, as he caught the staff’s end and fell facedown to the stone. He felt sticky, gooey, as if he had jumped in a vat of thick cream, and in the instant before the flames engulfed him, he noted that he, too, was suddenly glowing that same bluish color.
Then he felt the heat, and saw only the bright orange glow of the flames rolling over him, engulfing Ardaz, and rolling out toward the spirit of DelGiudice, who was standing off to the side and who was not glowing with the wizard’s protective shield. On and on came the searing blast; Belexus could feel the gooey shield thinning, and feared that it would not hold. He heard Ardaz screaming, whether in horror or in pain, he could not tell, and heard, too, DelGiudice’s shrieks. Had the ghost, who had not gotten to Ardaz or the staff, been consumed?
Then it was over, as abruptly as it had started, and the ranger pulled himself up from the soft, molten floor. The burn area did not reach to DelGiudice, Belexus noted with relief, seeing the ghost still standing there, terrified and unmoving. Ardaz was making fast through the molten sludge toward the exit, crying for Belexus to hold fast to his staff.
The ranger plodded to keep up, taking care to get his feet up high before the stone could solidify, thus trapping him in place.
They cleared the edge of the burn area, Ardaz tugging Belexus free of the last grasping stone then urging him on, both of them calling for DelGiudice as another line of fire came forth, licking at their backsides, chasing them right out of the room.
“DelGiudice!” Belexus called, his tone frantic, for the ghost was not with them.
“We have to make it into the narrow tunnel!” Ardaz yelled back, pulling fiercely at his staff, offering no room for debate. “Run, oh, run away! I do daresay, that one’s breath will melt us both!”