The Witch's Daughter

  But Ardaz, suspecting that the gloomy sky indicated something important, would not be so easily dismayed. “Enough of that, you silly puss!” he scolded, pulling the cat from her perch and shaking her before his eyes. “Wake up now, wake up! We’ve no time for your laziness; the catnaps will simply have to wait!”

  Desdemona growled in protest.

  “Now, I’ll hear none of that,” scolded Ardaz. “You go find out what you can find out. And be quick, you silly puss!” The cat let out a shriek a moment later when Ardaz threw her up into the sky. As she was falling, Desdemona transformed into a raven and stretched out her wings to catch the breeze. Then she was soaring up into the gray sky, reluctant but obedient to Ardaz.

  “That’s better,” Ardaz muttered to himself as Desdemona faded to a black dot in the distance. “Sleep all day, silly puss. Pass her life away, she would, I do dare say!”

  The agitated Ardaz, with typical focus, forgot all about Desdemona a moment later. “Oh, time to see, time to see!” he spouted, and he rubbed his eager hands together and turned back to the tunnel in the latest stretch of ruins he had uncovered. The darkened sky might be important; then again, it might not. But he honestly believed that this find, revealing a civilization in Ynis Aielle wholly unknown, could reshape the world. The wizard slipped back into the tunnel and paused, confused, for a few long minutes, scratching his beard and trying to remember in which direction he had been exploring.

  Desdemona caught the updrafts and rode up high into the sky, almost glad now, with the whistle of the wind in her face, that Ardaz had disturbed her lazy slumber. She didn’t really know what her wizard expected her to find up here, or where she would even begin her search to learn more of the unnatural gloom shrouding the world. But if there was information to be gained, Desdemona suspected that it would probably be found back in the populated world. Catching a wind current, the raven spread her wings wide and glided back toward the Elgarde River, just a silvery snake in the distance.

  But then another form rose into the sky, much larger than Des and unmistakable in shape. Des swooped off toward her unexpected companion, thinking it grand that Calamus the Pegasus had come out to play.

  Billy Shank noticed the approach of the large raven, and initially he reached for his sword hilt, thinking the bird to be perhaps a manifestation of Morgan Thalasi or one of his dark minions. Calamus recognized the familiar of Ardaz, though, and the obvious delight of the Pegasus as Des drew near reminded Billy of the creature’s true identity.

  “Desdemona!” he called, making room for the raven to alight on the Pegasus’ back in front of him. As if in answer to his call, Desdemona became a cat again and rolled comfortably against Billy’s belly.

  “No, no,” Billy scolded, remembering the cat’s penchant for untimely naps. “You can’t rest yet, kitten; you have to lead us to your master.”

  Desdemona’s only answer was a steady purr as she rolled over onto her back, her paws stretched up into the sky and her eyes closed. Billy prodded her and called to her, but that only made her purr all the louder. He knew what Ardaz would do, though he held some reservations about that course of action. But as the cat continued to delay, the man found that he had no choice.

  “It’s for your own good,” he explained, and he picked up the apparently boneless cat and tossed her off Calamus’ back. Desdemona let out her second shriek of the morning, and Billy held his breath until the animal became a raven again, her wings catching the air and slowing her descent.

  “Lead us, to Ardaz!” Billy called. “It is so very important!”

  Desdemona, of course, couldn’t fathom anything more important than her nap, but she wasn’t going to get much sleep gliding around in midair. She cut back toward the east and soared off, landing a few minutes later beside the tunnel in the ruins.

  “Finally,” Billy breathed. He jumped from his mount’s back and rushed to the hole in the ground, poking his head down into the darkness. “Ardaz!” he shouted. “Ardaz, are you in there?”

  A few seconds later, just when Billy was preparing to drop into the tunnel and go off to find the wizard, the steady glow of a magical light appeared down one of the twisting passages and Billy heard the familiar voice.

  “Oh how grand, how grand, how grand!” the wizard rambled, speeding along back to the exit. “Desdemona, my sweet, you have finally learned how to talk! How very grand! So many years—” Billy flinched when he heard a thud and saw the light drop as the wizard tripped and fell.

  “Who put that—” Ardaz snapped angrily. “Oh yes, oh silly me,” the wizard answered himself. “My own pack. Ha ha. Thought I’d lost it, too.”

  “Ardaz,” Billy called again.

  “Coming, Des,” the wizard replied. He hopped and stumbled to the hole, his robes and face covered with dust, and stopped short at the unexpected sight of Billy Shank.

  “Finally,” Billy muttered again. “I have been—”

  “Oh, Billy!” Ardaz interrupted. “Of course it wasn’t Des,” he scolded himself. “Glad to see you, my boy, I do dare say. Long way from home—what brings you all the way out here?—but I’ll see that the trip is worth the trouble, I shall indeed!”

  Billy held his palm out, trying to slow the wizard’s frantic pace. “I did not—” he began again.

  “Have you seen them?” Ardaz cried. “Of course you have. Ruins, my boy, ruins! Do you know what that means? Could you know? No, of course you couldn’t. Ha ha!”

  “But—”

  “Other people, of course!” Ardaz cried. “There are, or were—oh, I hope it’s not ’were,’ I do so want to meet them, after all.” He stopped, confused by his own banter. “But where was I?” he asked, though Billy knew that the wizard would not wait for an answer. “Oh yes, oh yes. Other people! An entire civilization existing right here on our back door.”

  Billy understood that he had to find some way to stop the wizard, or Ardaz’s monologue could ramble on for an hour, and he knew of only one word carrying the shock value necessary to stop Ardaz in midramble.

  “Thalasi,” he said, with all the grimness that the name deserved.

  “Of course, they are not—” Ardaz’s eyes bulged and his tongue got all wrapped around itself. He lunged at Billy, attempting his usual hand-over-the-mouth technique whenever anyone uttered the name of the Black Warlock, but Billy expected the attack and pulled back out of the tunnel as the wizard came on.

  Ardaz came leaping out of the hole in a shot. “Speak not that name!” he yelled, still coming after Billy with outstretched palms. By the time he finally caught up to the man, though, there seemed no need for his patented silencing technique.

  “Speak not that name,” Ardaz said again, his voice now a somber whisper. Ever did the name of Morgan Thalasi take the bubble out of Ardaz’s voice. He glanced all around, as if he expected some demon to spring upon them where they stood, in punishment for Billy’s foolishness. “You will bring the evil one upon us, I do dare say.”

  Billy’s eyes led the wizard’s gaze up to the dreary overcast sky, and Ardaz began to understand.

  “But what brought you all the way …” the wizard began. “And with Calamus, indeed, why is he out of Avalon?” The wizard’s eyes popped open wide. “You do not mean …”

  Billy nodded. “I came in search of you. The Black Warlock has returned.”

  The blood drained from the wizard’s face. “But he died! Got shot, he did—bang!—on the field.”

  “His talons stormed across the western fields and now hold camp across the great river from the combined army of Calvans, elves, and rangers.”

  “Evil,” Ardaz breathed.

  “We do not know how many thousands have died already,” Billy went on. “But we were certain that doom would overtake all of the known lands if Ardaz could not be found.” He motioned toward Calamus. “The final battle might already be under way,” he explained. “We have no time to tarry. I’ll try to answer your questions as we fly.”

  “Of course,” Ar
daz agreed quietly. “If only I could remember the proper spell,” he lamented, scratching his beard. “Could be there in a flash. But I don’t like that way of travel—miss too many of the sights along the road, you know. Oh bother, well, it does not matter.” He skipped over to the Pegasus and leaped onto its back. “I’ll help Calamus speed along—are you coming? We have not the time to tarry, after all.”

  Billy didn’t bother to respond—caught up in the news and trying to devise some plan of action, Ardaz wouldn’t have heard him anyway.

  And then they were soaring in the dullness that had become the Aiellian sky. Ardaz whispered some words of magical encouragement into the winged horse’s ear and Calamus’ flight grew doubly swift. Gradually, as the world rolled out below them, Ardaz calmed and settled silently into his seat. Billy recounted the events of the war to him, of the strange dual being that was now the Black Warlock, and of the wraith that had infected the land and had taken Andovar, the valiant ranger, from the realm of the living.

  Ardaz, understanding the gravity of the tale, did not interrupt even once. He just sat very still and piped in with a “How very wicked!” or a “Terrible, just terrible!” every few minutes.

  * * *

  There were no skirmishes across the bridges that day, as both sides fell under the hush of anticipation. Tensions grew as thick as Thalasi’s gray sky, and the King of Calva, with Arien, Belexus, and Bellerian at his side, walked his horse about the field, checking and rechecking the defenses and the morale of his troops.

  “They will come on the morn,” he predicted.

  The others did not disagree. They could sense the pent-up excitement across the river, could see the talons pacing about, fingering their weapons in sweating hands.

  “And we will be ready for them,” Arien Silverleaf promised. The Eldar had fought against greater odds than he now faced, and if there was any fear at all behind his noble eyes, the others could not sense it. King Benador drew strength both from Arien and from the two rangers, who had long ago vowed that their principles were more important than their mortal bodies. A ranger did not fear death by the sword, and a ranger did not surrender his hopes no matter how dark the blackness.

  “I have spoken with Istaahl this day,” Benador announced, his tone more casual. “Thalasi has ceased his attacks upon the White Tower and upon Avalon, though it is not known if the cause is weariness or prudence.”

  “I suspect the latter,” Arien said. “He gathers his strength, like his army.”

  “Then if the dawning o’ the morrow harkens the dark day,” said Belexus, “let us pray to the Colonnae for the strength we will surely need. Noble and just is our cause; the truth will bring us victory.”

  “And damn the Black Warlock to the hell he deserves,” agreed a young woman behind them. They turned to see Siana, Jolsen Smithyson, and Lennard standing proudly, fully arrayed for battle.

  “Your place is with the wounded,” Benador said to her, though his tone was not scolding.

  “They have been tended as well as they may,” Siana assured her king. “And those who could travel are long down the road toward Pallendara.”

  “Go with them,” Benador bade them, honest sympathy in his voice. “All three of you. You have done your part in this war, more than your part. No more sacrifices can we ask of you.”

  “Then take what is not asked for,” Lennard replied determinedly. “We will stand beside the wounded who cannot be moved.”

  “And Thalasi will have to get across our lifeless bodies to strike at the helpless ones!” Jolsen agreed.

  “Surely I did not heal them only to give them over,” Siana reasoned. “You will see, my King, that I am of value with sword as well as with the healing powers Rhiannon imparted to me.”

  Benador could only smile at their defiant courage. “I do not doubt your words,” he said. “But let us hope that you will not see battle. Let us hope that the talons do not get as far as the tents of healing.”

  The three young warriors nodded their agreement, but when Benador and his entourage moved away, their gazes drifted across the river to the swollen ranks of the talon camp, and they suspected that their leader’s hopes were in vain.

  And from across the river, other, darker eyes looked back.

  “Has the stupid wizard answered your challenge?” Mitchell asked impatiently.

  “Logic says that he is on the way,” Thalasi replied. “Though I fear to rely on logic where Rudy Glendower is concerned.”

  “We must go soon,” the wraith explained. “I have whipped them into a frenzy, and any delay will only steal from their excitement.”

  “I want the missing wizard on the field,” Thalasi replied. “I want him where we can watch his every move. Ever does that one have a trick to pull!”

  Mitchell looked down at the Black Warlock’s bony hands, clenched, as they always seemed to be, in fists of rage.

  “But you are right,” Thalasi went on, calming again. “And I commend your work with the talons.”

  “We will sweep the Calvans from the bridges,” Mitchell promised. “And chase them all the way back to Pallendara.”

  “You understand the purpose of your undead legions?” Thalasi asked.

  The wraith nodded, that evil smile spreading over his dark features. “I will hold them in reserve,” he replied. “And when the battle reaches a critical moment, I will lead them in.”

  “The northernmost bridge,” Thalasi said. “That is the one I enchanted in that past age. Its enchantment is strong; it will not be destroyed.”

  Mitchell nodded his assent. “And when—if—the wizard Ardaz appears to halt me? Have you prepared my weapon?”

  Thalasi reached under the folds of his black robes and produced the wraith’s skull-headed mace. Mitchell felt it vibrating with dark power when his master handed it to him.

  “It feels different to my touch,” he commented, a bit confused, for the instrument’s heavy balance had changed, had lessened; it seemed less a striking weapon, and its mighty head, the mace that had split boulders, was now lined with tiny holes.

  Thalasi laughed at Mitchell’s hesitation. “Still you have not learned the true meaning of power,” he remarked. “Think not of your weapon as a striking mace, my friend, but as your scepter. Strike with it if you choose—it has lost none of its battering strength.”

  Mitchell relaxed visibly.

  “But the weapon has another feature now, a darker feature which should dim the light of Ardaz, or of any other fools who try to stand against you.” Calling an unfortunate talon to come over and stand before him, he took the scepter from Mitchell.

  The talon trembled and rubbed its hands together.

  It understood, or thought it understood, the terrible implications of becoming a testing ground for the Black Warlock’s powers, but the pitiful creature was simply too terrified to run away.

  Still, for all its fears, the talon could not have been prepared for the ultimate doom that descended on it when Morgan Thalasi waved the scepter in its direction. Black flakes puffed out of the weapon’s head, falling over the talon in a perverted snowfall. The talon’s eyes widened in stark, disbelieving horror as it felt the coldness of doom engulf it, stealing its very soul. So terrible was its inner anguish that the talon did not even feel the physical burn of the flakes before it died. But burn they did, and in seconds the scepter’s first victim had been reduced to a bubbling mass of smoldering, shapeless ooze.

  A hiss of sheer elation escaped the wraith’s mouth.

  “You will come to understand power,” Thalasi promised. “And you will enjoy your new toy. We will go in the morning, whether Ardaz has made his appearance or not. Let the Silver Mage come in late, if he will. Let him witness the rout of all the army of Calva.” Thalasi’s glare at the wraith seemed double-edged, promising ultimate glory if they succeeded and ultimate blame if they failed.

  “The army is fully yours,” Thalasi explained. “I must prepare for my strikes on the witch and wizard. Tomorrow
, Avalon burns to ash, and the White Tower crumbles to dust.”

  Mitchell brought the menacing scepter up before his fiery eyes. “And if Ardaz shows his face …” the wraith promised through his wicked grin.

  Chapter 26

  The Storm

  A GLOBE OF darkness rested on the field behind the stirring talon army, a perverted black ball that scorched the grass as it moved. And in the center of this wicked sphere loomed a figure, tall and terrible. Morgan Thalasi called now upon the Staff of Death, tapping its lethal black heel against the soft earth and uttering arcane words of power. The staff responded to the commands of its master, its horrid magic drawing the life force from the ground beneath it and giving it to Thalasi.

  “What is that?” Bryan gasped when he noticed the dark spectacle. He and Rhiannon had come over the northwesternmost slopes of the Baerendels just before the gray dawn and were still several miles from the talon encampment, but even from this distance, the globe of blackness shone clearly before their eyes.

  “Morgan Thalasi,” Rhiannon replied in a whisper, as if speaking that name would alert the Black Warlock to their presence.

  “Angfagdul,” Bryan muttered, using the name his father had used for Thalasi when recounting the legendary Battle of Mountaingate.

  “He’s gathering his power,” Rhiannon explained, though she had no idea of why she was so certain of her observation.

  “Then we have arrived just in time,” Bryan reasoned. “The battle is about to begin.”

  “Just in time?” Rhiannon balked. “To watch, then? What good’ll we do against the likes o’ that one?”

  Bryan’s expression turned angry. “Words of doom,” he scolded. “You surrender before the first arrow is loosed!”

  Rhiannon dropped her gaze and accepted his rebuke. Bryan was right: she knew that she would indeed play some vital role in the day’s events. For all of her outward helplessness, the young witch could already feel the call of the power tingling within her body.