Thalasi staggered to his feet, thoroughly drained. In Avalon, Brielle slumped against a tree, and in Pallendara, Istaahl the White fell to his knees. Never had any of the three witnessed such a singular display of power.
For all of them, the battle this day was ended.
Without the guidance, or even the visible specter, of their warlock leader, the talons could not sustain any offensive thrusts. They battled back and forth with the defenders for several long hours, but never found another foothold on the other side of the river.
And through it all loomed Belexus, fearless and strong. Talons fled at the mere sight of the ranger-at least those talons who had some measure of wisdom.
For others there was only the doom of a mighty sword.
“They’ll win the day,” came a soft voice behind Rhiannon. She turned to see the young boy she had attended to on the wagons the day before.
“Suren they will.” Rhiannon smiled at him.
“My arm’s all better,” the lad said, and he thrust the limb out for Rhiannon’s inspection.
She grasped the arm gently and turned it to see the wound. It hadn’t been too serious, just a small gash and a deep bruise that had looked far worse than it truly was. Rhiannon had done what she could, applying a clean strip of cloth to the cut and gently massaging the bruise, more to give the distressed boy some comfort than for any medicinal purposes.
But when she removed the cloth now, her breath was stolen away. In trembling surprise Rhiannon turned the arm and looked all about for some sign of the injury.
The arm was healed; not a mark remained.
Rhiannon could only guess that some of the power had flowed through her on that wagon ride, too subtle perhaps for her to even sense it. The implications now overwhelmed her. Could that same force that had sundered the earth, had torn the ground apart with such appalling fury, be used for healing?
Every day, it seemed, the world got more intriguing, and more terrifying.
The fighting ended before sunset, the talons fleeing from the death corridors that were the Four Bridges, and the defenders retrieving their wounded and dead, and trying to replace some of the wrecked defensive barricades.
For one of the principals, though, the battle had apparently ended forever.
“You should come,” a grim-faced soldier said to Rhiannon as the first stars twinkled in the sky.
Rhiannon knew at once his sad tale.
“The ranger took many hits this day,” the soldier explained. “His blood stains the stones of every bridge; alas, not much is left within him. We fear he will not live the night.”
When the Black Warlock surveyed the scene on both sides of the bridges, he was not unhappy. He had lost many talons this day, many more than the defenders lost men, and Brielle and Istaahl had showed themselves to be more powerful foes than he had anticipated. But still more talons flocked to the encampment that night, and many of them brought news that more and more tribes had heard of the battle and were rushing to join in the glorious campaign against the humans. And while Thalasi’s army continued to swell, the ranks of the defenders could only dwindle.
He understood that sheer weight of numbers would get him across the great river the next day, or if not, most assuredly the day after that. Istaahl had learned of the return of Morgan Thalasi during the first battle on the bridges, Thalasi assumed, unaware of the ride of Andovar. So the King in Pallendara had been warned. But had the White Mage or King Benador really fathomed the weight of the assault?
Even if they had, the army of Pallendara would still be at least a day too late.
Once the talon army gained a foothold on the other side of the wide river, they would stamp the ground flat all the way to Pallendara.
Her face ashen, Rhiannon followed without a word as the soldier led her to the camp up by the bridges and to the small tent that held the fallen warrior.
How weak mighty Belexus seemed to her now, his face hollowed and his muscular arms lying slack by his side. He was breathing but could not answer, could not even hear, when Rhiannon knelt beside him and whispered some words of comfort into his ear. The soldier’s estimate had been accurate; the young woman knew at once that Belexus would not live through the night.
Rhiannon sat there in silent sadness for many minutes, and then her sorrow began to transform. She felt the power growing within her, and at first pushed it away, instinctively fearing it. But the image of Belexus lying near death frightened her even more, and when her subconscious let the power in again, she fought against her revulsion and fear to accept it.
“Leave us,” she instructed the two soldiers in the tent. They looked at each other, owing their respect to the ranger who had led them, not wanting his passing to be without proper witnesses. Rhiannon insisted again, her voice stern and powerful, and they could not ignore her pleas.
When the soldiers were gone, the witch’s daughter leaned over her fallen friend, sensitive fingers touching his wounds, drawing the pain out of them. Rhiannon flinched as the ranger’s pain became her own, burning, burning beyond anything she had ever imagined. She held on stubbornly, knowing that she was drawing the wounds away from Belexus, determined that he would survive even if the cost proved to be her own life.
Rhiannon wasn’t certain how much she and her magics would really be able to help, but after many minutes-minutes that seemed like agonized hours-Belexus appeared to be resting more comfortably, and the burn of drawing the injuries had lessened dramatically. Some color had returned to the ranger’s face and his breathing now came deep and steady.
Rhiannon would have liked to stay with him, but she knew that many others had suffered grievous wounds this day. She left the tent, sending one of the soldiers back in to watch over Belexus and bidding the other to take her to those most seriously injured.
All through the night, the power of the earth flowed through the witch’s daughter, each attempt at healing sapping her own strength. Soon, even walking became a difficult task, requiring more strength than the young woman had left to give.
But Rhiannon ignored the concern of the soldier guiding her, and would not relent, and those left in her wake seemed the better for her visit to their bedside.
The talons came on again before the next light of dawn, their numbers greater than at the start of the previous day. The beasts understood that they had worn the defenders down; their master had promised them that this would be the day of victory.
In the first moments of battle it seemed as if Thalasi’s predictions would swiftly prove accurate. Disheartened and weary, the defenders gave ground step by step. Within fifteen minutes the defense of two of the bridges had nearly collapsed.
But then the ranger came out of his tent. Though still weak, the fire in his pale eyes simmered no less intensely. Belexus rushed to his mount and moved out to the back ranks of his comrades. His mere presence inspired the men and stole some of the heart out of the talons, and the ensuing rally of the defenders pushed the monsters back on every bridge. Without even lifting his sword, Belexus had turned the tide of the battle.
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.