In rebuttal, the Warder swung mightily, Arien easily deflecting the blow. “I’ll have the Usurper’s worthless head!” the elf-lord proclaimed.
“That we cannot allow,” the Warder said, but his voice was unconvincing and Arien took confidence in his beliefs that the Warders held Ungden in contempt.
Then a horn blew, and so clear and strong was its note that for a moment the fighting stopped and all heads turned toward Avalon. There, at the edge of the field by the magical wood, hovered Calamus, winged lord of horses, and atop him, dressed in shining mail, sat Belexus, an ivory horn pressed to his lips and a huge sword raised triumphantly. Below him, emerging from the wood, straight-backed and proud on mighty steeds, came the Rangers of Avalon, swords bared and faces grim.
Barely two score strong, yet preceded by a whispered reputation of ferocity that was the meat of valorous tales throughout the taverns of all Aielle, they struck a chord of fear in the hearts of Calvan and Illuman alike.
For neither side understood the purpose that brought the rangers to the field of battle this morn, or could guess whose cause this legendary order would champion.
“What crimes huv ye done by the Children o’ the Moon?” Belexus cried, answering that question immediately. “Ware me sword, Ungden. Throne-stealing murderer, now ye get yer due!” And on came the rangers.
Calamus, soaring on mighty wings, quickly outdistanced the other horses, and from his high vantage point, Belexus spotted Arien and understood at once the elf-lord’s desperate attempt.
They shared much, these two warriors who had never met. Akin and unrivaled in their battle prowess, adhering to a common code of morality and justice that would not tolerate one such as Ungden the Usurper, elf-lord and ranger prince realized immediately an empathetic bond.
Even as he noticed several of the Warders closest to Ungden pull long glaives off their mounts to protect against an assault from the air, Arien knew without doubt what action the mighty ranger would take.
Timing would be the key.
Bearing down on the Overlord of Pallendara, Belexus shared Arien’s fire, blood coursing hot with rage through his veins.
Arien moved sluggishly now, intentionally tempering the pace of his fight to dull the edge of his foes’ wariness. He had no margin for error; there would be no second chance.
A fleeting shadow passed as Calamus swooped, and as Arien had hoped, it caused a slight distraction in the eyes of his opponents.
The flashing speed returned to the Eldar’s sword arm. Fahwayn razored across the chest of one Warder, and with a subtle twist of his wrist, Arien continued the same motion of the blade and drove its point under the breastplate of the other. He finished neither move, having not the time nor the will to kill either of his worthy adversaries. But still his attack proved successful, with both Warders falling back to avoid Fahwayn’s fell cut, stumbling aside and leaving the path to Ungden cleared before Arien.
For Belexus now executed his role in the assault. He had started, predictably, toward Ungden, bringing up a wall of pole arms. But then he swerved Calamus aside, and as Arien cracked through the first line, drawing the attention of the two Warders of the second ring, Belexus dove upon them.
A battering ram of flesh and muscle, the ranger and his winged steed smashed into the first rider and drove him and his mount into the second and beyond. Belexus had played his part perfectly, and the demon in his blood was placated when he felt the rush of air as Arien charged through the gap behind him.
Desperately, the Warders closest to the Usurper tried to swing their cumbersome weapons about. But to their horror, Arien was already beyond them, and for that moment it seemed to the Eldar and to the Usurper that they were the only two people on the field. All other sights diminished to meaningless blurs by singular, all-consuming emotions: the anger in Arien, and the terror in Ungden.
Pitifully, Ungden drew his ornate sword, hardly able to hold the heavy blade steady in his feeble arms. Fahwayn twirled above Arien’s head once, then smashed into Ungden’s sword, driving it from his grasp. No mercy stayed Arien’s rage; he didn’t even realize that his whimpering opponent was now unarmed as he brought Fahwayn above his head again in a twirl. Without the slightest hesitation, he unleashed all of his anger into one mighty swing and lopped off the Usurper’s head.
Ungden’s body held its position for a moment, as if frozen in disbelief, then slumped onto the back of its horse. Arien watched with grim satisfaction as the head rolled about in the dirt. He expected the Warders to rush in and kill him now, but the only rider approaching was Belexus, bending low over the side of Calamus to scoop up the head.
Soon the ranger was soaring over the field, displaying the gruesome trophy and blowing wildly on his horn.
To Arien’s amazement, the Warders of the White Walls saluted him for his victory and, heads down in shame, started back across the field. The Eldar looked upon them with pity now, honorable men broken by the bindings of an oath that had forced them into servitude to a tyrant. Only by defeating them in battle had Arien and Belexus freed them of their responsibilities.
With the sight of their own champions leaving, and the great ranger—with two score of his brutal allies charging down upon them—holding their Overlord’s severed head, the Calvans’ heart for this fight shattered. Some fought on, more in fear than in anger, but most rode wildly back across Mountaingate and fled into the cover of Avalon. Many merely dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.
The Battle of Mountaingate was ended.
Chapter 25
To the Victor
“DANCE WITH ME!” she teased, and twirled across the moonlit field, the short cape tossing about her naked form as she ran, heightening his hunger. He could not resist her, was defenseless against her innocent smile, her bewitching eyes, and her simple purity. She could break him with a word.
And yet he knew only security in her presence.
The cape rode up high as she spun with a careless laugh, her thighs catching the quiet rays of moonlight in a soft, enticing glow that held his longing gaze.
A long moment passed and still the light commanded his full attention. Subtly the light transformed, intensified, an entity unto itself now.
It should have been gone … the cape would fall back down … surely she must have moved again.
But it remained.
And she was gone, and the field. He tried to recapture the moment, the feeling, but they were no more. Only the light remained.
The light.
He became aware of something chill and wet against his cheek. Gradually he realized that he was lying facedown.
Doggedly, Del willed one of his eyes open. The brightness soon came into focus as bedewed grass, holding a crystalline sparkle that could only be the light of morning. Beyond stood the arching silver telvensils that formed the gateway to the paths up the mountains.
He was on Mountaingate, he realized, and the name triggered other recollections. Slowly he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows to survey the field. A harsh reality awaited him.
Mountaingate, once proud and fitting entrance to the great Crystal Mountains, lay in ruin. Beneath the maddened charge of armies, its waving grasses had been trampled and churned into broken sod, now slick with the blood and gore of the fallen. Crumpled and broken forms, elven and human alike, littered the field, and riderless horses wandered mournfully about in aimless confusion. Wisps of gray smoke still rose from the areas charred and blackened by wizard’s fire, dulling Del’s vision with a dreamlike quality.
But Del understood the reality. A bitter mixture of revulsion and anger welled in his throat as he gazed upon the carnage. He thought of the beauty and magic of this land, given to man as a gift from the gods, and one word alone escaped from the bile in his mouth. “Sacrilege.”
He turned away, unable to face Billy and Sylvia as they approached, and saw yet another travesty.
Along the western side of Mountaingate by the drop to Blackemara, the Calvan pr
isoners sat huddled and miserable under a brutal guard of unsympathetic elves. The wretched humans were not allowed to move or speak, and punishment for any disobedience came swift and harsh, the butt end of a spear or a well-aimed kick.
“Their hate runs deep,” Billy said, noticing that Del had taken an interest in the scene.
Helplessly Del shook his head, desperately wishing that he could block out all of the grisly scenes before him. “Ardaz?” he asked suddenly, remembering Thalasi’s assault on the ledge.
“He is well,” Sylvia replied. “Angfagdul’s attack wounded him.” She mimicked Ardaz’s voice lightheartedly. “ ‘But we wizards are a sturdy lot, you know, tougher than the stones in a mountain, though a bit more cracked, I do daresay!’ ” But even Sylvia couldn’t hold her smile. “He is at council now, with Ryell and Arien and the other elders,” she explained.
“And Erinel?”
Billy and Sylvia looked to each other for support.
“Gone, Del,” Billy answered grimly. He looked forlornly over the blasted field. “Like so many others.”
Del had to force himself to breathe steady over the next few minutes.
“Did the council go well, Father?” Sylvia dared to ask when Arien found them later that morning.
“Hatred,” Arien replied sadly. “It is my belief that the destruction of Ungden and Morgan Thalasi ended this war, and perhaps could mark a new and better age. Caer Tuatha will not attack us again.”
“Why would they want to?” Billy reasoned.
“Such was my argument,” Arien said. “But the death of kin and friend breeds vengeance.”
“Oh, damn,” Del groaned. He looked again at the miserable Calvan prisoners and the unchanging grimace of the elven guards. “And what of them?” he asked somberly, fearing the answer.
Arien hesitated and shrugged. “The Calvan dead shall be left on the field for the carrion birds, and the prisoners tried before the council for crimes against Illuma. Some may be set free to give the appearance of justice, but most I fear, are doomed.”
Del trembled on the edge of control. “And those that fled?”
“Hunted down and punished.”
“You have to stop this!”
“I am helpless!” Arien shouted back at him. The Eldar calmed at once and true sorrow showed in his eyes. “Never have I felt so alone among my people. None but Ardaz stood beside me at council.”
As if on cue, Ardaz walked by at that moment, though he seemed to pay no notice to his friends. “Terrible,” he muttered to himself, wandering off toward the cliff wall. “Just terrible.”
The wizard pulled the black cat off of his shoulder and blew gently into her face to awaken her. “Des,” he said, “I need you now, my sweet. Get to Avalon, bring us some help!” And at his bidding, Desdemona became a raven and flew off into the afternoon sky.
The searchers Arien had dispatched arrived on the field later that day with the group of elves that had fled to the mountains. All were overjoyed at the unexpected return to their homeland, yet there a grim task remained before them, and the victory celebration would have to wait.
Using responsibility and respect to their dead as a shield against grief, the elves worked tirelessly long after sunset to complete the huge pyre. And when the many-tiered wooden tower, beautifully crafted and worked to be a fitting monument to the heroic dead, was at last completed, all of Illuma looked on solemnly as nearly fourscore Children of the Moon, friends who should have lived for centuries to come, were gently laid upon its benches.
Then the midnight hour was upon them, and the orange flames roared into the night, consuming the mortal bodies of the fallen and lifting their spirits on hot winds to the heavens above.
And carried, too, on the winds were the wails and cries of the living. Death was not a common visitor to the land of the ageless elves, and grief of such magnitude had never before been known.
Throughout the ordeal of the funeral loomed Ryell, a specter of singular purpose. With boundless energy, he seemed to be everywhere at once, consoling mourners and sharing in their grief for the fallen. Yet, though his grief was genuine, his actions were calculated, subtly nurturing in his people the same seeds of vengeance that drove him. He spoke of the dead always in terms of glory and honor, and ended each encounter with a reminder that the Calvans had brought this upon them.
Fearing for their safety as angry eyes turned upon them with increasing frequency, the Calvan prisoners huddled close together.
“They’ll rally behind him,” Del remarked to Arien.
Arien understood the awful truth of the words. One elf even pulled a small stick from the pyre and threw it at the prisoners. It fell harmlessly short of its mark, but drew a cheer from several other of Arien’s people.
Relentlessly, Ryell stepped up his prodding, rushing to and fro about the fire, sweeping up excited and angry followers in his wake. Soon the whole group had gathered around him and he raised his arms for silence.
“This is not good at all, no, no,” Ardaz mumbled. “Arien, stop him now! Who will wash the blood from our hands?”
Arien shrugged helplessly and dropped his eyes.
“It seems that the trial has begun,” Del remarked.
Sylvia glared at him, not appreciating the bite his sarcasm put on her father.
“Friends! Kin!” Ryell called loudly. “This is a night of sorrow, to bid farewell to our brave brothers. But do not linger in grief for them, for they died with the knowledge that their sacrifice would help to free us from the bonds of our imprisonment. I only hope that my own death will be as glorious and purpose-filled!
“How many injustices have we suffered at the hands of the humans? Are there any among us who have not lost kin at this very battle? And have you not, as I, felt the belittlement when you looked out over the southern fields and knew that you could not travel them, even if you so desired, because you were not born of the proper heritage?
“That degradation is ended!” Ryell proclaimed. “The army of Caer Tuatha is smashed and all Calva is open to us!”
Arien flinched and sank even deeper at the chorus of wild shouts that arose in support of Ryell.
His daughter squared off in front of him, forcing him to look her in the eye. “When the army of Ungden threatened, you fought, though you had no hopes of winning,” Sylvia said sharply. “You drew your strength from the righteousness of your cause, and from the injustice of your enemy. Look at Ryell. Hate drives him. Is he any better than Ungden?”
“With our victory in the Battle of Mountaingate, we began the age of Illuma!” Ryell proclaimed above the hysterical cheers. “Let us tonight begin the lessons we shall teach to all of Calva.” He pointed his menacing sword at the helpless prisoners while elves all about him scooped up sticks or drew their own swords.
“They brought this pain upon us,” Ryell cried. “Let them feel the sting of their folly!” Grim-faced, he led the mob toward the prisoners.
Arien’s jaw clenched as a spasm of renewed anger burned through him, and he rushed to intercept.
“Move aside,” Ryell snarled, and his sword point came up threateningly.
Arien grasped Fahwayn’s hilt and held his ground. “This is wrong,” he declared flatly. “This is not the way of our people.”
“Your day is passed, Arien Silverleaf,” Ryell asserted, though he dropped the sword point and backed away a step. “The people will not listen to you.”
“They are maddened by the same demon that possesses you,” Arien retorted. “Hear me!” he cried, but the mob, beyond reason, shouted him down.
“Move aside, Arien,” Ryell said again. “You cannot win.”
Suddenly there came a great flash behind the Eldar, and from the ensuing smoke emerged, coughing, the wizard Ardaz, with the raven, Desdemona, returned to his shoulder. “Wait!” he cried. “A rider is coming! From the south, from the south.”
The crowd fell silent and as one peered southward.
“I see no rider!” Ryell snapped.
“Hush!” Ardaz scolded. “Have a care, Ryell. Your impatience tries my patience!”
Ryell glared at him, but having witnessed Ardaz’s power, did not challenge him further.
It would have been pointless anyway, for the sound of a galloping horse now could be heard. A moment later the tall silhouette of a ranger crossed through the light of the fire. He paused to observe the gathering for a moment, then walked his mount over to Arien.
“Lord Silverleaf,” he said respectfully as he dismounted, stooping right down into a low bow.
Arien nodded.
“I am Andovar, courier from Avalon,” the ranger said. “Bellerian, Lord of Rangers, sends his greetings.”
“And ours to him,” Arien responded. “Your names are welcome in Illuma. Our debt to your people is great.”
Andovar surveyed the mob and the huddled prisoners. “Vengeance?” he asked.
“Justice,” Ryell spat back at him.
“As ye wish,” the ranger conceded calmly. “It seems, then, that I’ve come to ye just in time, for Bellerian bids ye to take no action before the morn.”
“For what reason?” Ryell demanded.
“ ’Tis no’ for me to say. Accept that the dawnslight will bring new tidings.”
Ryell moved to argue, but Arien cut him off and ended the grumbling of the crowd. “Silence!” he commanded. “Is there no limit to your rancor? Were it not for the Rangers of Avalon, your corpse and mine would be numbered among the dead. Surely we owe them the respect to trust in their request without question.”
Having no rebuttal, Ryell shook his head and walked away. The crowd, too, settled back into uneasy appeasement, and both Arien and Andovar breathed easier.
“I should like to speak to the prisoners,” Andovar said.
Most of the Calvans stood up as the ranger approached, and some even saluted. Andovar’s eyes, though, met with those of one who neither stood nor saluted. In the distance, Billy and Del saw him, too.
“Mitchell!” Del cried.