But to Bryan and Siana, the victory brought little consolation.
“At least seven,” Bryan noted grimly. “Tinothy first, then Damon and Connie on the walk, and-”
Siana held up her hand to stop him, for she needed no recounting. She had witnessed six of the seven deaths Bryan spoke of. “Do you think Lennard and the others got away?” she asked him hopefully.
“Lennard is a smart one,” Bryan replied. “And they had a better lead.” But if his words held conviction, it was feigned. Despair flowed over him fully that dark night. In a single day he had witnessed the burning of his city and, later, the deaths of seven of his closest friends.
Siana sensed his turmoil and put her own aside. She moved to him and snuggled close, lending him some of her strength. “We did a fine job,” she reminded him. “They won’t be getting back to their march anytime soon, and more than a few talons died this day. Our traps worked pretty well, I would say!”
Bryan looked down at her smiling face and was comforted. He kissed her then, and hugged her close.
But when the exhausted young warriors drifted into the solitude of slumber, the black despair came rushing back at them in their dreams, vivid recollections of the horrors they had witnessed that day.
Chapter 9
To the Bridges
BELEXUS AWOKE JUST before dawn. As the light grew around him, so too did the scene of carnage. He and the remaining cavalry contingent had camped just beyond the stench of the battlefield, too weary to continue that day and wanting to watch for any return of the talon forces that had fled.
But the night had been quiet, except for the occasional cry from the south.
From the road.
Movement from one figure caught Belexus’ eye, the one he had been most concerned about. Rhiannon walked slowly across the field, head down, toward the legacy of her display of power. Belexus forced himself to his feet and rushed after her. He felt his spirits sag when he moved next to her. So frail she seemed, only a hollowed shell of the confident and carefree woman he had escorted along the road these past couple of months.
When dawn fully broke just a moment later, the two friends saw the enormity of Rhiannon’s accomplishments. She had cut a gorge nearly a half mile long and fully twenty feet across, and deep beyond sight. More than three hundred talons had fallen to their deaths along the chasm, most in the final battle when Rhiannon had bottled them up. No guilt for those talon dead brought a tear to Rhiannon’s eye this morning, but when she looked upon her handiwork, she did indeed cry. She had scarred the land, had loosed a terrible strength that was beyond her control or comprehension. The power had consumed her and forced itself through her, leaving profound questions hanging unanswered. Questions of her very identity.
“Suren ye saved our lives,” Belexus remarked to her, seeing the moistness rolling across her fair face. “And more important, ye kept the beasts running to the north. Ye kept them away from the road.”
Rhiannon only shrugged helplessly, finding no words that could slip past the lump that had welled in her throat.
Belexus felt her pain as he studied the deep torment on her face. He understood that Rhiannon’s distress was far too deep for simple words to dispel. He looked to the south, where the dusty trail of rushing refugees continued to line the horizon, and to where a larger, more ominous cloud swelled in the early light.
“Come,” he said. “We must away to the south in all speed. The talon army is in pursuit.”
They were all tired, and most were wounded, but not one of the brave cavalrymen issued a word of complaint when the command came to break camp and ride with all their speed. They knew their duty, and knew, too, the suffering their kinfolk along the road would endure if they could not slow the talon rush.
Rhiannon cast a final glance at the destruction, at the black and white gelding the power-she-had destroyed. She accepted Belexus’ hand and rode in front of the ranger, needing his support just to hold her seat.
There had been no rest for Andovar that night, and no more stops along his road. Like the wind itself, the enchanted steed flew across the southern fields, merely a blur to onlookers. The horse did not tire; it gained momentum with each mighty stride, and Andovar, grim-faced, spurred it on, refusing to let any weariness defeat his mission.
The road connecting Corning and Pallendara was normally a week of hard riding. Andovar and his horse, flying under the power of the young witch, found the great city soon after the dawn of the second day.
“Talons to the west!” he cried, not even slowing as he soared through the open gates. The Pallendara city guard swarmed all around him to his call, and only minutes later the ranger found himself in audience with King Benador.
“My greetings, Andovar,” the young King said to him happily. Benador knew Andovar, and all of the rangers, as brothers. It was they who had sheltered him and taught him the duties of his proper station when the pretender Ungden had reigned in Pallendara, and it was they who helped him regain his rightful title.
Despite the familiarity, the ranger, as always, was amazed when he looked upon the young King of Calva. Benador had passed the age of fifty, only a few years younger than Andovar, but the wizards of Aielle had seemingly put Benador’s aging process into a state of stasis. Nurtured under the enchantments of Ardaz during the reign of Ungden, and even more so under the magical influences of his own magician, Istaahl, since he had taken the throne, King Benador was possessed of the vitality and appearance of a man in his early twenties. His curly light brown locks danced and flopped about his neck and shoulders, and his eyes twinkled as a child’s.
But Andovar knew the truth of Benador’s experience and wisdom. He did not let the King’s boyish charm dissuade him from the grim duty at hand.
“It has been a long time,” Benador said warmly.
“Longer still, we both would wish, when I tell ye o’ me purpose,” Andovar said grimly. As he recounted the disaster of the western fields, Istaahl entered to join the discussion.
“You have heard enough of Andovar’s grim words?” Benador asked.
Istaahl nodded. “And the invaders are led by Morgan Thalasi,” he replied.
Benador’s eyes went wide.
“That was our guess,” Andovar agreed. “Though we’ve not proof of it.”
“We wizards work with different intent, yet we call upon the same universal powers,” Istaahl explained. “I have sensed magical disturbances from the west throughout the day yesterday and all the night. I had meant to confer with Brielle this morning to further investigate, fearing the very truth you bring to us, gallant ranger.” Suddenly realizing the timetable involved, the wizard cast a curious glance Andovar’s way. “How did you get here so quickly, all the way from Corning?” he asked.
“ ’Twas the witch’s daughter,” Andovar replied. “Put a spell on me horse an’ quickened the pace. Suren all the world was a blur to me eyes.
“And ’twas Rhiannon who warned us of the comin’ o’ the Black Warlock,” Andovar went on. “Suren the lass deserves the thanks of all Calva, of all the world.”
Istaahl paused to consider this revelation. Brielle had suspected that Rhiannon had some power about her, and now there could be little doubt.
“We must be off at once,” King Benador decreed. “With all of the force we can muster. We will meet the talons at the great river and hold them there until the strength of all of Calva can be gathered and brought to bear.” He looked at Istaahl for further suggestions.
“You have no choice,” the White Mage replied to the inquiring gaze. “But I will not join you, not yet. I must contact the other wizards. Together we can hold back the Black Warlock.”