Andovar pulled her close and kissed her softly on the cheek. “That I will,” he said. “Keep a safe place for me in yer heart, me sweet Rhiannon.”
“Ye’ve put the place there yerself,” she assured him, and with no more to be said, the two stood in a silent embrace until Andovar had to go.
“Another storm?” Arien Silverleaf asked, exiting the tunnel to stand next to Ryell, his closest friend and adviser, and Sylvia, his daughter.
Ryell shook his head. “Quiet so far,” the elf said, his gaze never leaving the forest at the bottom of the mountain trail and across the long and narrow field.
“Brielle has held on,” Sylvia put in hopefully.
“But what do the storms foretell?” Arien asked, maintaining a grim view of the situation. “If it is indeed the Black Warlock-”
“Who else could it be?” Ryell quickly put in.
Arien nodded his agreement; he knew enough of the realm of magics to understand that only Morgan Thalasi could empower such destructive forces against Avalon. “Then we cannot believe that his assaults are against Avalon alone.”
“So the smoke clouds we have seen in the western sky foretell a darkness indeed,” said Sylvia. “Calva is at war.”
“We cannot be certain,” said Ryell. “There may be other explanations.”
Both Arien and Sylvia cast him incredulous looks, and Ryell, for all of his hopes, had little conviction in the notion.
“If Calva is at war, then we should go to their aid,” he said. “King Benador is our friend; his ascent to the throne has changed our lives greatly, and all for the better.”
“Should we assemble, then, all of us, and ride off to the west and south?” Sylvia asked. “Some scouting would seem prudent before all the valley is roused.”
“Our scouting has been done for us,” Arien explained. He pointed down to the dark boughs of Avalon. “Brielle has all the answers we need. Back to Lochsilinilume, then. We will call out the whole of the valley. If Calva is indeed at war, then the elves will take their place beside the soldiers of the kingdom!”
Sheltered in a nest of sheer mountain walls, Lochsilinilume, Illuma Vale, was as magical and secure a place as anywhere in Aielle. This was the land of telvensils, glittering silver trees, and the unending song of the elves, sweet and sad all at once. But as delicate as these folk appeared, and as much as they abhorred violence, they came together with the precision of a professional army when the call of Arien Silverleaf went out.
And then they came down from the Crystal Mountains on proud horses adorned in jingling bells, five hundred strong, their grim faces belying the almost childlike joy that forever rimmed their eyes.
Benador rode with Belexus and Andovar down to the eastern bank of the great river. On the opposite bank, a hundred yards away, they could see the squat forms of talons milling about, and every so often an arrow rose up into the air on an arcing trail toward their side. But talons were not skilled at making either bows or arrows, and the vast majority of the shots fell with hardly a splash into the water.
The archers on the Calvan side, bending great bows of yew, had better luck, and every so often, just to keep the talons honest, they sent a whistling volley across the river. Grim faces lit with laughter as the distant talons scurried this way and that to get out of harm’s way.
“A pity,” Benador observed, “that heroes come to light only in times of great pain. And a few have been made this day.” He pointedly let his gaze fall alternately on each of the two rangers.
“More than a few, by me seein’,” Belexus replied. “Eight hundred died on the northern fields, stopping the charge o’ the mounted talons, and a thousand and more fell with Corning, giving their own lives that the fleeing folk’d put more ground between themselves and the invaders.”
“Meriwindle and Mayor Tuloos,” Andovar agreed. “And a thousand more whose names I do not know.”
“I’ll not argue the point,” said Benador. “But still, some rise above the efforts of the crowd to make known their names. Belexus at the defense of the bridges and Andovar for his tireless ride will surely find their names scribed on the parchments of the bards.”
“Me thanks for yer praise,” Belexus replied. “But others’ll be putting their names on the same parchments.”
“Not to doubt,” laughed the King. “Already we have heard tales of valor echoing from across the river, carried under the cover of night by stragglers. One group came in just this morn, farther to the south. Mere children-warriors of necessity. They crossed to warn us of the continued gathering of the army of our enemies. And with them they brought a woman and her two young children who had been captives of the talons, and were alive now only because of the heroic efforts of yet another lad who remains across the way.”
“How many do ye still put across on the talon side?” asked Andovar.
“Not to know,” replied Benador. “They drift in every night, and logic tells me that dozens of others will not survive to cross for every one that does. For all of those who do manage to make it across to safety inevitably have tales dark and bold to tell of their desperate escape from the occupied land, tales of friends who appeared to aid in their cause, or of strangers who rescued them from the very clutches of talon scum.”
He took a wide survey of his own forces, then across the way to the wide, flat plain of the western fields.
“So many heroes will emerge from this,” the King said, his voice plainly edged in sorrow.
“Too many,” Belexus agreed sadly. He remembered Meriwindle, the noble elf he had met briefly in Corning, centuries old but with centuries yet before him in his long-lived life.
Except for the intrusion by the Black Warlock.
“And how many will be needed?” Belexus asked, speaking as much to the mourn of the wind as to his companions. “What toll o’ death and terror will appease the likes o’ Morgan Thalasi? Or does the foul wizard never plan to take his beasts back to their dark holes; will we have to fight them every inch?” Belexus looked back at his friends.
“Too many heroes,” he whispered. “Too many dead heroes.”
Chapter 14
Showdown
BRIELLE DRIFTED THROUGH the afternoon mist of Avalon, floating like a ghost in her woodland domain. Bone weary from her battles against the storms of the Black Warlock, the fair witch knew that many days would probably pass before she was allowed any true rest. For she and Istaahl, and Ardaz whenever he returned, were the only known guardians in all the world against the workings of Morgan Thalasi. Ever vigilant they had to be, for without their countering enchantments, the Black Warlock could sweep down great numbers of Calvan soldiers with ease.
They had been lucky so far, for the valor of Andovar and his heroic ride and the good sense of her own daughter had foretold the coming of Thalasi early on in the conflict. And only the appearance of the Black Warlock himself even tied Brielle to the war. Without that link, the earth-staining perversion that was the Black Warlock, Brielle would have found little powers at her disposal in the battle at the Four Bridges. Hers was a magic of the earth, a sentinel’s role of guarding her secluded domain against any uninvited intrusion; and beyond her domain, the borders of Avalon, the Emerald Witch would have had little influence or purpose fighting in a war between men and talons.
Now, however, Brielle found herself wholeheartedly in the middle of it, the earth providing her with all of the power she could contain in her efforts against the unnatural perversion that was Morgan Thalasi.
She moved to a small clearing, and to the hollowed stump of a tree in its midst, its bole filled with water from the last rain. Reflections from a dozen stars dotted the still black surface, but with a simple chant and a wave of her hand, Brielle dismissed them and brought up the image of Istaahl’s room in their stead.