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 unshakable 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.