Bastion of Darkness (31 page)

The half-elf hit it several times before it managed to get its claws over the stone and come forward once more,
and by then, the creature’s mouth was hanging open, nose split, jaw shattered. Still, it came on, and Bryan had to be agile indeed, climbing continually backward, up the next step, and several more after that, to avoid the slashing claws. He continued to score hits on the creature’s face, tearing out one eye.

But then, as the half-elf backed up yet another step, this one open on his left flank, another lizard came rushing at him. Bryan saw it at the last second and whipped his sword about powerfully. The weapon caught on a foreleg, digging a vicious wound, but the lizard continued forward, its maw rushing for scrambling Bryan. He tried to twist, tried to dart ahead, but the first lizard blocked his way, and the second, coming in like an elvish arrow, clamped its jaws about the half-elf’s side.

Bryan beat it again about the head, swinging with all his strength, crying in desperation.

The jaws tightened; the half-elf felt the sharp teeth crunching through his elven-forged chain mail. The enchanted armor held strong—if it had not, Bryan would have been bitten in half—but even still, the lizard’s jaws crunched on him so tightly that his hip cracked apart under the sheer pressure.

Bryan screamed out in agony and hit the beast again, but that only sent it into a frenzy, whipping its head back and forth, battering Bryan against the stone riser and putting him in line with the other beast’s slashing claws. One got him across the face, digging deep lines, and then, suddenly, Bryan was free, flying through the air to crash hard against the stone. He saw the second lizard amble by him, locking together with the first, all thrashing and biting. Together, they rolled away, bouncing down the steps.

Bryan realized that this would be his only chance for escape, but he could not take advantage of it, could
not possibly stand, or even crawl. He tried once, then slumped, clutching at his mortal wounds, and then all was blackness.

He felt the hard stone, but the pressure was gone. The pain remained, however, searing lines of fire across his face and neck. Bryan’s hip felt as if a dozen spearmen had embedded their weapons there and were slowly turning them all about. He bit hard on his lower lip so that he would not cry out, and he managed to bring his arm up enough to wipe the blood from his eye.

He saw no sign of the lizard, saw no sign of anything really, for he was surprised to discover that he was no longer on the steps, but lying underneath a mound of twigs and branches set between several huge boulders.

The lizard had dragged him to a secret place, that it might feast upon him later, he knew. With great effort, Bryan turned his head, and saw the glimmer of his sword—that, too, had been collected by the beast. It was out of Bryan’s reach, though, and there was no way he could squirm through the pile to get near to it. It rang as the ultimate frustration to the young warrior—his sword in plain sight, yet beyond his grasp—that he could not die fighting.

His thoughts did not stay on his own desperate situation, though, but went back to Rhiannon, always to Rhiannon.

“I have failed,” the half-elf whispered. He brought Brielle’s amulet up to his lips. “Forgive me, Brielle. I was not strong enough.”

And then Bryan kissed the emerald in the amulet’s center and passed out once more, settling down under the branch blanket, knowing in his heart that he had indeed failed his love, that the horrible lizard would return and devour him before he ever wakened.

*  *  *

In Avalon, hundreds of miles away, Bryan’s desperate lament rang clear and strong. Brielle rushed to a tree stump, wherein lay a pool of still water. Pouring in some oils, the witch began to sing softly, and soon the pool clouded over, and then cleared again in its middle.

Brielle saw the twigs and branches, saw the half-elf’s torn side. She was looking out the amulet, as clearly as if her own eye were set in it. Her heart skipped a few beats as she sent more of herself through the pool to Bryan, to try and discern if he was even still alive.

He was, but wouldn’t be for long, she realized.

Brielle saw no options. Bryan was near to Rhiannon—she could tell by the terrain about him that he was somewhere in Kored-dul—and if he could not get to her girl, then Rhiannon’s chances diminished by far. Since the last great battle, Brielle had avoided any great usage of magic, but not now. She fell into the amulet, heart and soul, threw her energy into the connection, and gave to Bryan a considerable amount of her own life force.

“Bryan! Bryan!” The call was from far away, but the half-elf heard it. He opened his bleary eyes to find that he was still in the twig pile, still buried. The sun was low in the west, the shadows long and dark. One form came clear to Bryan, though, large and reptilian; the great, hungry lizard.

Bryan was amazed to be alive, to be conscious, and to find such strength as this! Without taking the time to consider his miraculous recovery, he tucked his legs under him and shoved out in the direction of his sword. The lizard was digging furiously at the branch pile by the time he got his hand on its hilt, the snapping, toothy maw barely inches from his leg.

Hope quickly reverted to despair as Bryan considered
that he would soon be right back where he had started. Defiantly, he pulled free his sword and turned it at his foe, just as the lizard cleared enough of a path to bite at him.

“No!” Bryan cried, knowing that he could not possibly kill the armored creature with one strike. His sword flashed by, the blade engulfed by blue arcs of lightning. It hit the lizard squarely in the open mouth, bashing through teeth and bone and scales as easily as if they were a pile of soft snow, driving through the creature’s brain.

Arcs of blue lightning flashed about the lizard’s head, sizzling and crackling. The lizard fell away, convulsing, scales smoking, and then it tumbled and lay very still.

Bryan fell back against the ground, stunned, confused. He looked at his sword, a normal-looking elvish blade once more, and thanked the Colonnae.

Brielle sat down hard. All the world was spinning. She wondered if she might die from exhaustion at that moment, her energy totally spent. She wondered if she had gone too far in grasping so strongly at the torn realm of magic, in forcing the strength into her body and through her reflecting pool to Bryan, both healing power and lightning magic.

Perhaps she had given him, and his sword, too much of herself.

She rolled to her side and let sleep take her.

He could walk with little pain, just discomfort in the recently crushed hip. As he continued on his way to the north, Bryan replayed the scenes after the lizard attack, searching for some clue. Again and again, his thoughts were drawn to the amulet, and he came to believe that his gratitude, his prayer to the Colonnae, had been misplaced.
Bryan understood then that Brielle was with him, that he did not walk alone, and so he was bolstered, striding more boldly as night descended.

Soon after, he came over a stony ridge and lost his breath, for there, right before him, loomed the great castle of Morgan Thalasi. Huge black walls and sky-reaching towers seemed to mock the young half-elf and his desperate mission, and a sense of the deepest hopelessness he had ever known weakened his knees and nearly overwhelmed him. What could he accomplish against the tremendous power standing dark and ageless before him? What could he, a mere mortal, do against the likes of the godlike being who had built this bastion?

Bryan gritted his teeth and determinedly shook the thoughts away. He could do little, he honestly believed, perhaps nothing at all. But he had to try. Above all else, he had to make the attempt, even at the likely price of his life. For Bryan knew the alternative. To walk away when Rhiannon needed him, no matter the odds, would leave him forever in grief and shame, would break him more completely than Morgan Thalasi ever could.

“Better death,” he muttered under his breath, and with a look to either side, he started forward. Soon after, he saw the march, the lines and lines of undead, the horrid blackness, and even though he understood that so much power was flowing out of Talas-dun, and that might make his task all the easier, the sight only filled him with dread.

For in his heart, Bryan of Corning understood that all the goodly armies of all the world could not stand against that force, would be swallowed by the blackness as surely as day gave way to night.

With a growl, the half-elf went on, remembering his role, more determined than ever to get Rhiannon out of Talas-dun. He made the base of the castle wall without
incident. “Better death,” he repeated, for he didn’t dare voice his real opinion. For he understood in his heart that if Morgan Thalasi, the Black Warlock, the greatest horror to ever infect Ynis Aielle, ever got him, then death would be the least of his troubles.

But still, his enemy was secure inside that mighty bastion, Bryan knew—secure and unsuspecting. Thalasi was too busy looking for armies to notice the movements of a small and insignificant half-elf. That was Bryan’s only chance; that was why he had set out from Avalon alone. He had to tell himself all of those things repeatedly just to continue, just to be able to put one shaking foot in front of the other.

And so he was moving, but where to go? There was one gate evident, a hundred yards east along the wall, set small between two massive guard houses, but from the torches glowing through window slits there, Bryan recognized that it was well guarded.

He looked up instead, thinking of going over the wall. He could only guess at its height—thirty feet? forty? And the surface, unlike the masoned bricks of Pallendara’s wall, was perfectly smooth, metallic, without a ridge to be seen.

He went to the west, where the sky was wide, the mountainous land falling away suddenly to the sea. As he neared the southwestern corner of the square castle, Bryan heard the waves far below, crashing endlessly against the unyielding cliff wall. A small strip of land, a curving, uneven walkway open to the west, wound behind the castle, generally descending. It seemed plausible to Bryan that this back side, far too narrow and treacherous a path for any invading army, would be the least defended of all, and so on he went, picking his careful way along the slick stones.

Soon after, moonlight slanting over the castle wall, but
at an angle that left Bryan in shadow, he heard talking, deep and guttural. He fell to his belly and moved to the next ridge, peering over.

A single talon stood below him, bathed in torchlight, the beast grumbling and complaining as it carried a bucket of slop out an open door to dump into the sea.

“Clean the kitchen, Fogump,” the talon bitched. “Wipe the blimin’ floors, Fogump. Lick me blimin’ feet, Fogump!”

The talon moved to the edge of a small landing and tossed the contents of the bucket over, nearly losing the pot in the act. Overbalanced, the talon just managed to keep a hold on the bucket and to keep its own balance, and it was just setting itself firmly in place again when it felt a sudden explosion against the back of its head.

Mercifully, the beast fell from consciousness as it plummeted down the cliff face, and didn’t see the ocean ready to swallow its remains.

Bryan moved immediately to the open door; a tiny portal leading into the castle’s larders. From his course along the back wall, he realized that he was far below the level of the plateau—indeed the black castle walls began some distance above him, past the natural stones. The half-elf nodded in satisfaction, for it seemed plausible to him that Rhiannon might be in some dungeon below ground level.

Voices from inside the room brought him from his contemplations. He moved to the shadows along the side of the door, clutched his sword tight, and whispered for Brielle, hoping that she would hear.

“Where is you?” a talon barked from just inside the door. “Fogump!”

The talon stepped outside, and then it was dead, in the single swipe of Bryan’s sword. The half-elf headed into the room immediately, where two other talons busied
themselves cleaning great buckets of slop. He fell over the first before they ever knew he was there and caught the second just before it reached the small chamber’s inner door, stabbing it hard in the kidney. He stuck it again and again, rushing up so that he could bring his hand over its mouth to stifle its dying screams.

Even as that one slumped dead to the floor, Bryan rushed back across the room and outside, to drag the dead talon back in.

Footsteps in the hall beyond the inner door alerted him that yet another was approaching. He took up a pot in one hand, his sword in the other, and moved beside the door.

The creature came right in, then stopped, stunned.

Bryan smacked it over the head with the pot, shoulder-blocked it out of the way—closing the door as he moved past it—and pinned the beast up against the wall, his sword tip coming right in under its chin, his other hand, free of the dropped pot, slapping across the talon’s mouth.

“If you cry out, I will drive my sword into your puny brain,” Bryan promised, and from the look on the brute’s face, he knew that it understood.

“The woman?” Bryan asked. “The wraith of Mitchell brought a woman here? Do you know this?”

The talon nodded. Bryan felt its hand move a bit along its belt, and he understood its plan.

“Where is she?” He took his hand from the beast’s mouth, but stayed right up against it.

“Down,” the talon said, its answer cut short as Bryan slapped his hand back over its mouth.

Again the half-elf felt the movement along the waist, felt the talon grabbing hold of something.

Bryan’s sword drove up under the creature’s chin, through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. The
talon twitched and shuddered and fell limp, upright only because Bryan still had it pinned against the wall. He eased the talon to the floor, taking note of the dagger in its belt.

Then the half-elf set about making the room look as if the talons had engaged in a fight among themselves. He left one dead at the door, but jumbled the other three together, planting the knife of his last kill into one of the wounds of another, then taking the sharp scraper one had been using to clean hardened food from the plates and sliding it into the last talon’s garish wound. With one talon missing, it was likely that any guards uncovering this scene would begin a search for the murderous Fogump. That search should keep them from the dungeons, Bryan reasoned, for what fugitive would deliver himself to Thalasi’s prison?