Thalasi almost laughed out loud. “What will my talons think when they look upon the likes of you,” he asked, “with a bloated face colored in the grayness of death, and eyes that are no more than simmering red flames?”
“If I am horrid, and truly I am, then only Martin Reinheiser can take the credit,” the wraith answered.
“Oh, truly you are,” agreed the Black Warlock. “And truly you are angry.”
“I face now the being who murdered me,” Mitchell replied. “Should I be otherwise?”
“Indeed you should,” Thalasi replied immediately.
The wraith cocked its head to the side, a curiously human gesture from so unnatural a thing.
“Ever did Hollis Mitchell crave power,” Thalasi explained after he took a moment to consider the somewhat disturbing movements of the wraith. “I have given you that. Power beyond your belief!”
“An undead thing,” remarked Mitchell. “Yes, I am powerful,” it admitted, taking a quick measure of itself, “but at what cost?”
“What price should we set upon the throne of all the world?” Thalasi laughed. Suddenly Mitchell seemed more curious than angry.
“Yes, the world!” Thalasi said again to the wraith’s blank, simmering stare. “Did you think that I would battle with the likes of Charon simply to torment you? Do not be a fool, old friend. I would not have called you back to my side without due cause.”
“What cause?” All traces of anger had slipped from the wraith’s voice. Mitchell understood the power of the wizard standing before him; he knew that this being was somehow much more than the hollowed shell of his old companion, Martin Reinheiser.
“Do you know who I am?” Thalasi asked.
“I knew you as Reinheiser.”
“And still I am and yet I am not!” the Black Warlock proclaimed, his weirdly dual-pitched voice lending credence to his words. “Within me remains he who was Martin Reinheiser, and he who was Morgan Thalasi. You see the result of the joining, a power beyond your comprehension. A power mighty enough to wrest you from the arms of Death itself.
“You will forget my treachery, Hollis Mitchell,” Thalasi promised. “Beside me, you will come to rule the world.” He moved to the side, to the skeleton of a horse.
“Witness my power,” he said, and he touched his staff to the white bones. He would not summon the spirit of the beast; he did not need it and was in no mood for another contest against the embodiment of Death. But where the bones had been, now stood the animated body of a horse, coal-black with dull eyes. Thalasi added a few enhancements to his handiwork and created a saddle and bridle, handing the reins to Mitchell.
“Its run is swifter than any natural beast,” the Black Warlock proudly explained. “Its breath is fire! Water and air will neither slow nor turn your ride! Truly a fitting steed for the commander of my talon army.”
Mitchell took the reins eagerly, taking full measure of the enchanted mount. The horse’s eyes glowed like embers, and sparks shot out every time it lifted and dropped one of its hooves to the ground. Physically the stallion appeared gaunt and frail, but Mitchell understood the power within its frame. Magical, unearthly power.
The stallion dropped to its knees at Mitchell’s mere thought, to allow its master to mount easily. The wraith did so, and turned back to the Black Warlock, but Thalasi was off on another chore. He returned to Mitchell’s side a moment later, bearing yet another gift for his general.
“Your weapon,” he explained, handing it to Mitchell. It was the leg bone of a horse, capped with a human skull, a garish mace that glowed blue-black.
Mitchell’s twisted smile widened when he took it.
“What shield will stop your blow?” Thalasi asked him.
“None!” the wraith roared.
“Wrong!” Thalasi retorted. “You are mighty, wraith of Mitchell, and you will rule all of the world. All of the world except for me.” Thalasi pointed his staff at the wraith and uttered a simple rune.
The form of Mitchell wavered and faded. For a second the hellish stallion seemed a broken pile of waste again, and the mighty mace appeared as simple bone. But Thalasi’s lesson was a quick one, and in the blink of an eye the stallion, mace, and wraith were restored to their previous strength.
“Know always who is the master,” Thalasi remarked. “If ever you forget, I shall-”
“You promised me rulership,” Mitchell interrupted.
“And so you shall have it,” said Thalasi, a smile widening on his thin lips. “Once the wretched people of this world are conquered, my purpose will be fulfilled.”
“And what is your purpose, Black Warlock?”
“Power!” Thalasi growled. “I care not for the petty responsibilities of such a pitiful command. When I am finished with this place, I will find another. And another after that.”
“Will there be no end?” Again Mitchell seemed amused.
“Never!” Thalasi sneered, white drool on his lips. “That is the joy of infinity and eternity; there will always be something more for the taking, and always the time to steal it.
“I am back to the field now; too long have my talons waited for my return. You will ride south-be wary of Avalon’s cursed borders-and keep the great river to your left-hand side. With the tireless energy of your mount, you will rejoin me in three short days.” He held his black staff out in front of him and launched himself into a dizzying twirl. And then he was gone, walking through his thoughts to the talon encampment beside the Four Bridges.
Mitchell took his mace up and spurred his stallion on, gliding easily through the tangle of Blackamara. He slowed as he approached one huge boulder, smacking the thing with all his strength. When the smoke and crackling power diminished, the horrid wraith chuckled at his handiwork, for the rock had split and cracked under the blow of the skull-headed mace.
Perhaps he would indeed find this second journey through the realm of the living enjoyable.
Chapter 16
Tales of Valor
“HE’LL LOSE IT for sure,” the excited girl cried. “We came to you as soon as we heard of your miracle-working, but too late for his leg.”
Rhiannon moved beside the feverish young lad to examine the wound. The talon spear had dug very deep, severing muscles and tendons, even snapping the bone. And now infection had set in: the limb was purplish and green and pus oozed from the edges of the bandages.
“A wicked cut,” Rhiannon remarked. She put her hand on the lad’s sweaty head. He was beyond sensibility, lost in a feverish delirium. “What is his name?” Rhiannon asked the girl.
“Lennard,” Siana replied.
Rhiannon moved close to the lad’s face. “Lennard,” she called softly.
Lennard stirred slightly, but could not respond.
“Will he live?” Siana asked.
Rhiannon tossed her a comforting smile. “The wound is bad and the sickness has set in,” she explained. “But we might be findin’ a way to fight back against it. Ye should be leaving.”
“I wish to-” Siana started to say, but her large friend, Jolsen Smithyson, standing behind her, put his huge hands on her shoulders and urged her toward the door.
“It will be better if we go,” he said.
“Save him, won’t you please?” Siana begged, resisting Jolsen’s gentle tug. “We have lost so much, and with Bryan still across the river…”
Rhiannon did not miss the reference to Bryan, a name that she and everyone else in the encampment had been hearing quite a lot lately. Rhiannon decided that she would have to speak with Siana later on about this mysterious hero.
But for now, she reminded herself, taking another look at the ugly wound, she had another matter to attend.
She waited until Jolsen had escorted Siana from the tent, then let the magic well inside her. She waited until her body throbbed with the power; she would need all the strength she could muster against so wicked an infection as now ate away at Lennard’s leg.