“Three thousand died,” Andovar said solemnly. “But not in vain. The talon army was crushed and Morgan Th-” He paused, reconsidering the wisdom of speaking that vile name aloud. “The Black Warlock was thrown down.”
“Not to rise again until the time of Ungden the Usurper,” Belexus added.
“Me mum has oft told me o’ the Battle of Mountaingate,” said Rhiannon. “When Thalasi was again thrown down.”
“And ’twas yer father that did the throwin’,” chuckled Andovar. “A finer man I’ve never seen!”
Rhiannon smiled and let her gaze drift out into the mist of the river. She had never known her father, and his passing had put an edge of sadness forever on the eyes of her mother. But the joy of Brielle’s memories of her times with Jeff DelGiudice, that special man from the other world, outweighed the sorrow, and Rhiannon knew that her mother did not lament for his loss as often as she smiled at memories of her times with him.
“Here now,” called a voice from the south. The three turned to see a portly man running toward them, a helmet flopping wildly on his head as he tried futilely to buckle the thing.
“Greetings,” Belexus said when the man reached them.
“And mine,” the man huffed, trying to catch his breath. “First morning in ten years I overslept. Figures, how it figures, that you’d be picking this day to arrive at our bridges.”
“Your-”
“Gatsby’s the name,” the man interrupted. “Gatsby of Rivertown. Not ‘our’ bridges, of course-none can be claiming them-but we like to consider ourselves guardians of the place.”
“And ye’re the gatekeeper?” Rhiannon asked.
The man had to wait a long moment before responding, caught up suddenly in the overwhelming beauty of the raven-haired woman. “No,” he stammered, hardly able to withstand the disarming stare of Rhiannon’s bluest blue eyes. “Not really. More of a guide, you might say. There is so very much to tell of this place! We keep it all safe-sort of our mission, you might say. Safe, but not secret.” He pulled a huge book and a quill and ink set out of his backpack, and fumbled through a hundred pages until at last he found an empty one.
“And who might you be?”
“I am Belexus, son of Bellerian,” the ranger replied.
Gatsby’s eyes popped up from the page at the mention of the Ranger Lord, a name he obviously recognized.
“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.
“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”
“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”
“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”
Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”-the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion-“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”
“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”
“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”
“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail-which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away-and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.
“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”
The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.
Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This army, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.
Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.
Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.
Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.
He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons of Mysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.
How powerful he had become!
But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.
“Man!” it grunted in open rage, less familiar with words than its mountain-bred counterparts.
Thalasi understood its confusion and threw his hood back to reveal the glittering black gemstone that marked his identity. Still, these creatures apparently did not recognize that evil mark, for a large group of them immediately took up the chant that had served as the liturgy of their entire existence.
“Men die!”
“Do you know who I am?” the Black Warlock roared, and the sheer strength of his dual voice drove the five leaders back a step. But mighty, too, was the ominous chant, growing stronger as more and more of the creatures joined in. Behind Thalasi, his army started in with their own growls and protests. The situation grew grave, the Black Warlock now knew. Mountain talons and swamp talons had never been the best of friends.
“I am Thalasi!” the Black Warrior declared in a magically enhanced roar, his booming voice silencing the cries on both sides. “The master is come!”
The five opposing leaders looked at each other for support. They knew the name, though their legends spoke of “Talagi,” not Thalasi. But in any case, that is all the Black Warlock had ever been to these particular creatures: a legend.
“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.