“It cannot be,” Arien replied, surprised. “Istaahl gathers his power from the sea. This mage is too far inland.”
“The master is come,” hissed an evil voice from under the red cowl.
Ardaz’s face went bloodless.
The red-robed wizard pulled back his hood, revealing his pallid, hairless head, and the many-faceted black sapphire that was his mark.
Ardaz groaned audibly, though he had already guessed that Thalasi had come.
“May the Colonnae be with us!” Arien gasped, for he, too, recognized the mark of the Black Warlock. “Angfagdul, the utter blackness, is come again!”
Chapter 24
Jericho
TUCKED AWAY INTO a small corner of his subconscious, in a place reserved for childish, supposedly irrational, fears, Del retained an image that very much resembled Morgan Thalasi, an image of evil incarnate, a demon embodied in human form. Thalasi’s withered body appeared broken and sickly beyond anything that could be alive, yet the life force within the Black Warlock exuded an aura frighteningly, paralyzingly, evil, and a strength sufficient to hold two armies at bay.
On the ledge, Ardaz spun about and waved his arms wildly, desperately summoning all of his strength. The air about him crackled as his power mounted; standing next to him, Sylvia’s hair tingled and was drawn toward the wizard by the growing charge. When he knew that he had reached his limits and could contain no more of the energy, the wizard uttered a rune of evocation and stamped his staff on the rock, releasing a blue bolt of lightning. Its flash blinded all who witnessed it for several seconds; the corresponding rumble of thunder rolled throughout the mountains for miles around.
But Thalasi had prepared himself against such obvious attacks. A protective globe of defensive energy encircling him dispersed the bolt into a shower of many-colored, harmless sparks before it ever reached its mark.
Thalasi curled a thin lip over his rotted teeth in a smile that seemed more a grimace, and drew out a thin, iron-shod rod. Pointing it at the ledge, he demonstrated his mastery, controlling elemental powers that Ardaz could only beg for assistance. Uttering only two simple runes, he returned Ardaz’s attack tenfold with a mighty white bolt.
The Silver Mage had worked frantically to construct his own defensive barrier when he saw Thalasi draw the rod, but he was overmatched. The violence of the white bolt shook the whole mountain, sending cracks deep into the stone from the ledge all the way down to the field, and the archers were thrown from their feet. The brunt of its malice focused on Ardaz, ripping through his defenses, charring and splintering his fine oaken staff and hurling him hard against the rock face at the rear of the ledge. He lay crumpled against the stone, patches of his clothing blackened and still smoking, his newly grown hair singed, and the fingers on the hand that had been holding his staff burned and blistered.
Sylvia regained her footing and rushed to his side. Blood streamed from the wizards’s lips as he mouthed the name of the Black Warlock. And then he fell silent.
Half in anger, half in desperate fear, the archers began firing at Thalasi. He laughed at them and turned his attention elsewhere, ignoring them, for their attempt proved pitifully inept against his shielding and the arrows were reduced to windblown ashes when they hit the defensive globe.
Arien called for his troops to gather their courage with him and charge, determined that their end would be unyielding to terror.
But this, too, proved futile.
Grinning broadly, Thalasi faced the elven line and began twirling the wand like a baton. Compelled by his dominating will, the Illuman horses responded in kind, turning circles of their own, oblivious to the commands of their riders. Ungden, and then his troops following his lead, broke out into taunting laughter at the sight of the helpless elves struggling vainly to control their mounts. And all of the horses were dancing.
All except one.
The white mare snorted in fury and steeled her eyes against the onslaught of Thalasi’s wicked attack. Summoning every ounce of willpower within her, she cleansed her mind of Thalasi’s insinuation and began slowly to walk toward the bringer of perversion, bearing on her a confused and terrified DelGiudice.
Onward she marched, now crossing the grass blackened by Ardaz’s fire, her stride growing bolder as she grew more assured that she could resist the Black Warlock. A helpless pawn in their battle, caught in the middle between two powers far beyond him, Del held tightly to the mare’s mane with both hands and prayed that Arien or anybody would come to his aid.
Thalasi was deceived. Assuming the mare to be guided by the great will of her rider, he directed his next attack at Del. Extending one bony hand, he spoke a curse, and violently closed his fingers into a tight fist.
Del shrieked in agony as he felt an icy hand grasp and squeeze his heart. Horrified, he released his grip on the mare and clutched his chest.
He felt a lump in his shirt pocket.
Acting solely on his instinct to survive, Del tore open his shirt and pulled out the little derringer. His eyes bulged from the inner pressure, his breath would not come, and consciousness began to slip away, but he somehow managed to fumble the silver bullet into the chamber and point the pistol at Thalasi.
The sight of the weapon amazed Thalasi, and in his surprise, the Black Warlock released his deadly grip for just a moment. Del’s lungs expanded immediately, sucking in a deep breath of revitalizing oxygen, but he wasted no time enjoying the sensation. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the explosion and kick, he put his finger on the trigger.
He couldn’t do it.
* * *
Behind Thalasi, the Calvans laughed no more, instead staring curiously at Del, who had resisted their wizard and who now held this strangely shaped piece of metal. Mitchell grunted in anger at the sight of the gun, revolted by the possibility of his most hated enemy destroying his plans for conquest. Yet, certain that he would be Del’s primary target if he exposed himself, the captain made no move to rush to Thalasi’s aid.
Reinheiser, though, recognizing the danger to his master, reacted quickly and without regard for his personal safety. He broke through the line of Warders and—though he was hardly a rider, and nearly tumbled from the saddle with each stride—galloped his horse flat out across the field.
Del stared at the derringer helplessly, feeling deceived by his own conscience and disgusted at his emotional failure in this time of need. Then came again the paralyzing pain, as Thalasi, now understanding the full potential of Del’s threat, renewed his assault even more furiously. Del’s arm trembled and drooped, blackness filled the edges of his vision, and he would have dropped the weapon altogether had not one voice rung clear with reason in his ears.
“Do it!” Billy Shank cried out to him.
But Del could not bring himself to move. He looked down at his hand, trying to fight against his own revulsion and Thalasi’s insidious assaults. The very sight of his arm, veins engorged with blood from the tremendous pressure, and bruises on his forearm where smaller veins had already begun to rupture, dismayed him. He understood that he was beaten, no match for the power before him, and knew with the utmost revulsion and horror that soon he would actually explode.
Reinheiser relaxed considerably when he pulled alongside Thalasi, the master seeming fully in control.
* * *
High on the ledge, Sylvia saw it, too. The black cloud that was Morgan Thalasi would soon consume Del, and then the doom would fall upon the rest of her people. Desperately, she grasped at the one faint hope she could see and ran to the side of the fallen wizard. “Please, Ardaz,” she pleaded, cradling his head. “You must help us. Angfagdul will destroy us all!”
Ardaz opened one eye. “Nasty shot, you know,” he said with a cough—a cough that produced blood. “Really quite beyond me.” He started to drift again, but Sylvia shook him roughly. “Of course, of course,” he groaned in reply. “We must do something. Perhaps …” He silently mouthed some words, trying to remember a spell.
“Bring me an arro
w,” he instructed. Quickly Sylvia handed him the finest arrow she had remaining in her quiver. Ardaz stroked its wooden shaft and chanted a spell of seeking. The effort cost him the last of his strength and he fell silent, his eyes closed once more.
Sylvia slipped the arrow from the wizard’s loose grip and fitted it to her bow as she ran back to the ledge, praying that the enchantment had been completed and that it would be enough to get the arrow through to Thalasi. With a deep breath to steady her trembling arms, she took a bead on the Black Warlock and fired.
Del would have been dead by then, except that Thalasi took his time, savoring the torment of this man who dared oppose him.
Sparks flew as the arrow’s stone tip struck the magic barrier. It deflected slightly but was not destroyed, and though it did not hit its mark, it came close enough to surprise and distract Thalasi.
For the second time, Del was free.
A furious Thalasi spun at the ledge and loosed a second white bolt of destruction.
Instead of waiting to see if her arrow found its mark, though, wise Sylvia was already moving. She dove back to the safety of the mountain wall just as the blast splintered the lip of the ledge into chunks of flying rubble.
Reinheiser, seated next to his master, hadn’t been so quick to react. The bolt crossed directly before his face and the intensity of the flash stunned and blinded him.
“Sylvia!” Del screamed in rage, and he thrust the pistol toward the Black Warlock, who countered by holding his staff horizontally in front of him with both hands and clenching down on its iron tips. Like the edged blade of a sword, waves of energy sliced viciously at Del, ripping his shirt and drawing a line of blood on his chest.
But Del would not be stopped this time. He thought of Ardaz and Sylvia, both of whom he believed killed by Thalasi’s thunderous attacks; he remembered again the image of Captain Mitchell on the beach, proclaiming himself a god. In his rage, Del found the strength to ignore the pain and resist the will of his foe.
As his sight returned, Reinheiser saw the look of undeniable determination on Del’s face and knew that his master was in mortal danger. “No!” he yelled, and leaped at Thalasi.
Too late. Del fired, and the bullet of the fourth magic, technology, sundered Thalasi’s black staff at its midpoint with a flash of brilliant green and tore into the Black Warlock with a fury heretofore unknown in Ynis Aielle. Reinheiser dove across the back of the hell-spawned stallion and fell headlong into the ground. In his hands he held an empty cloak, for there remained no sign of Thalasi, no sign that the warlock had ever been there, save a broken staff and a red cloak with a bullet hole in it.
Reinheiser pondered this turn of events for just a moment, until he felt warm blood trickling between his eyebrows and over the bridge of his nose. “Must have landed on a rock,” he mumbled as he slipped out of consciousness.
The white mare started in surprise at the gunshot, and Del, in his weakened state, tumbled off her back and to the ground. The pain in his chest had subsided, but his life’s blood flowed from numerous cuts and gashes. Del didn’t notice, too busy staring at the little pistol.
And at the blood on his hands.
Reinheiser’s horse flattened its ears and backed away as the white mare and Thalasi’s gaunt stallion squared off. Bent on destruction, the black horse reared and snorted its fire. Then, as if it suddenly realized the true nature and power of the being it faced, it dropped its head in submission, dissipated into vapors, and was gone.
In the northern end of the field, the elves’ horses stopped dancing. On the ledge, the archers reached for their remaining arrows.
The battle of magics was ended.
The battle of swords was about to begin.
A lone rider burst through the Calvan ranks, pushing all aside in his blind fury. Mitchell charged across the field, his great shield held high to protect against attacks from the ledge, and his spear level, leading him unmistakably toward his prey. Arrows cracked into his shield and whistled all about him, but he would not be deterred. His eyes saw nothing other than his quarry, his rage and frustration leading him down a narrow tunnel toward this man who had disrupted all of his plans.
By the time Arien realized the identity and intent of the rider, he knew it was too late to save Del. Angered at his failure to react, he spurred his stallion into motion and the elven charge began.
Rallied only by the threats of Ungden and their commanders, the Calvan army, hesitant and unsure, answered the elven assault.
Mitchell reared up alongside his helpless enemy, dipping the tip of his spear just above Del’s head. “Now you die,” he calmly, callously stated, a victory smile stamped upon his face. He raised his weapon for the death plunge.
Del’s eyes fixed upon the wicked tip of the spearhead, its image ringing unnaturally clear in the field of his blurred vision like the balancing point of his consciousness. Dazed and slipping from reality, he could not truly appreciate that he was indeed about to die.
Still, even as he fainted away, somewhere in the back of his mind he understood a sensation of relief when he saw the blur that was the white mare’s hind leg smashing into Mitchell’s side.
Viewing the whole scene from the ledge, and hardly understanding the true nature of the white mare, Sylvia could hardly believe that this beast had come to the rescue.
Then the battle was joined and her joy left her, for even with all that had transpired, the Calvans badly outnumbered the elves. The sorceries had been played out; this clash was now solely sword against sword. And in that context, with no more tricks to spring, the elven cause seemed hopeless.
“Pick your shots carefully,” Sylvia told her companions. “We haven’t an arrow to waste.”
One of the other archers, a young maiden with eyes too pure to be witnessing such carnage, walked over to her. “Lady Sylvia,” she said. “Arien declared me message bearer to those that departed the city. I await your word on how I should proceed.”
Sylvia turned back to the field. Already the sheer number of Calvans had created a distinct advantage. A portion of Ungden’s army had swung around the elven line and Arien’s warriors found themselves flanked on three sides and were being driven back toward the drop to Blackemara.
“Go then, now,” Sylvia instructed the maiden. “Find our brothers and sisters in the mountains and tell them not to forget us or the noble cause we undertook that they might live freely.”
The maiden began to weep.
“Be at ease,” Sylvia assured her. “Take comfort the knowledge that all who died here this morn accepted their fate willingly.
“Any who wish to leave may go now,” Sylvia said to all the others on the ledge. “Those of us who remain behind shall pass no judgment upon you, and of you, all we shall ask is that you do not forget us.”
But the elves truly believed in their cause, and the maiden Arien had appointed as messenger departed alone.
Backed into a corner, the elves fought with unbelievable fury and many Calvans were cut down. Fahwayn rang again and again, and soon the Calvan troops backed away whenever Arien—Deathbringer, they called him—moved toward them.
Amidst all the confusion, the white mare reared up on her hind legs over Del’s body and shrieked an unearthly howl that scraped the marrow of even the sturdiest warriors, and from that moment neither man nor elf dared approach her or the man she protected.
Still more Calvan warriors fell, but fatigue and sheer numbers played more and more against the elves as the minutes of unrelenting battle passed. Fresh Calvans pressed in on their weary foes, and elven blood mixed with the blood of the humans on the scarred grass of Mountaingate, and elven screams of pain and death soon rivaled those of the Calvans.
The archers on the ledge had little to offer their brothers on the field now, and Arien recognized that the battle neared an abrupt end. The Calvans continued to avoid him wherever they could, allowing him virtually free movement on the field, and that maneuverability offered him one desperate flicker
of hope. Back toward the far end of the field sat Ungden, surrounded by two seemingly impregnable rings of guardsmen. With Thalasi gone, and Mitchell and Reinheiser out of the battle, only the fear of the Overlord’s wrath kept many of the Calvan soldiers committed to the fight.
Nearly blind with rage, Arien bolted at the Usurper and was promptly intercepted by two of Ungden’s outer defensive line. And behind them, two others from the inner ring stood at the ready should Arien, against all odds, force his way through. The remaining elite guardsmen held their posts, alert for any further attempts.
Fury drove all the weariness from Arien’s muscles and his sword work was nothing short of magnificent. Yet these were the Warders of the White Walls that he faced, the finest warriors that Calva had to offer, and though none of them could have withstood his assault alone, two proved more than his equal. Every time he launched Fahwayn into a deadly thrust at one of his opponents, a well-aimed counter by the other forced him to retreat and parry. As the Warders grew accustomed to the feints and dodges of the Eldar, they had little trouble keeping him almost exclusively on the defensive.
Before long the frustration of his ineffectiveness tempered the rage that had given Arien strength. He was tiring now, and making mistakes that he knew would eventually cost him his life.
He lunged desperately, but the flashing speed wasn’t there, and his intended target deflected Fahwayn aside while the other Warder drove his sword at the opening in Arien’s defenses. The Eldar felt the cold tip bite at his chest and he recoiled instinctively, though he knew it was too late.
Yet he still lived.
Blood trickled from a wound just below his breast, but the sword did not puncture him deeply, as if something had stayed the Warder’s hand. With Fahwayn now on guard before him, Arien studied his opponents, and saw respect in their eyes rather than blood lust. “You could have finished me,” he said to the Warder.
“Nay, you were the quicker,” came the reply.
“You had me dead,” Arien insisted. “Yet you held. You have no heart for this fight.”