Belexus propped himself up on his elbows, separating the reality of the moment from the haunting memories of the dream. “What do ye see?” he asked, checking that his weapon was comfortably by his side.
“Darker than the night,” Andovar replied. “Come, ye must take heed o’ this.” Even before Belexus could respond, the blackness crossed the midpoint of the river, and its true image came clear to Andovar in the moonlight.
“By the Colonnae!” the ranger gasped.
Belexus scrambled to his feet at the urgency-the sheer fear-in his friend’s tone. But swifter still was the flight of Mitchell’s black steed, and the wraith rushed across the remaining expanse of the river and fell over the startled ranger.
“What foulness is this?” Andovar cried, hacking futilely at the undead thing with his sword.
Mitchell took the blows without so much as a wince of pain and then brought his deadly mace down at Andovar. The ranger got his shield up to block, but the wicked weapon shattered the thing and the arm that held it, and drove Andovar to the ground. Mitchell dropped from his seat, straddling the man and raising his mace up for a killing blow.
“Now I repay you,” the wraith roared in its unearthly, grating voice. Andovar’s sword struck again, to no effect. For the first time in his life Andovar’s battle skill would not be enough.
The ranger knew he was doomed.
Then came a sudden flurry of blows so powerful and well-aimed that even the magical wraith could not hold his footing. Mitchell gave ground as Belexus came on, the ranger’s sword snapping and driving with incredible force and precision.
Again and again the broadsword of Belexus drove in at its target.
But the metal of the weapon could not truly harm this being from the netherworld, and the ranger’s advantage was short-lived. Mitchell, not even trying to deflect the blows, came back on the offensive, swinging his skull-headed mace wildly. Belexus felt the power of the thing each time it swooshed by him, and he realized that a single blow could spell his defeat.
He was arguably the finest warrior in all of Aielle, and the strength in his iron-corded arms was unrivaled in all the world. Backavar, the enchantish word for iron-arm, he was called by his admirers. Belexus Backavar, Belexus Iron-arm.
But for all the truth to his nickname, Belexus gave ground now, steadily and helplessly backing from the horror of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
Andovar rolled onto his side and struggled to his knees. His shield arm was useless, a dead thing, and he doubted that he would ever be able to raise it again. More than that, though, the wound had numbed his side, penetrated him with a ghastly chill that crept through his limbs. But Ando-var found a measure of his strength returning when he looked at Belexus, his truest friend, frantically parrying the wicked blows of Mitchell’s mace now and not even attempting to launch his own strikes. Andovar gathered up his sword again and fought away the deathly cold.
“Farewell, ranger,” Mitchell laughed. “You have met a foe this day that you cannot hope to defeat.” Belexus could not find a reply to the claim when he looked into the dots of fire that served as eyes and the bloated gray skin of the animated corpse.
The mace came around to bear again, and Belexus, knowing that he could not play this defensive game much longer, sent his sword into it with every ounce of strength he could muster.
His sword blade splintered and fell to the ground.
Without hesitation, before Mitchell could cry out in victorious glee, Belexus leaped right onto the wraith, grabbing the mace-wielding arm and throwing his other arm around Mitchell’s neck. He twisted and heaved, pulling Mitchell off balance, and for just a split second it seemed that the sheer strength of Belexus would carry him through to victory. But after the initial shock of the move wore off, Belexus realized his folly.
Mitchell’s skin was so cold that it burned on contact. The ranger felt the searing pain stealing the strength from his arms, and when Mitchell put his free hand on Belexus’ back, the ranger felt its clawing fingers tearing into his very heart. Then Mitchell laughed wickedly and heaved, sending Belexus flying onto his back. He scrambled to his hands and knees, fighting a wave of weakened dizziness.
“Run, me friend!” came a cry. “To Avalon! Suren the witch’s the only one who can stop this beast!”
Belexus managed to focus his eyes just in time to see Andovar’s sword tip explode out through the front of Mitchell’s chest.
Mitchell glanced down to consider the weapon, then laughed again. He wheeled about in wild fury, snapping Andovar’s sword at its hilt, and threw his arm around the stunned ranger.
“Run, Belexus!” Andovar pleaded, his voice falling away for lack of breath.
“No!” Belexus cried, willing himself to his feet. But even as he started back to help his friend, Mitchell twisted Andovar about into an awkward position and wrenched with all of his undead strength.
The image of Rhiannon, the love he would never know, came to Andovar one final time. And then it was gone, stolen in the burning explosion of pain.
Belexus watched in horror as Andovar’s body bent over backward, and he heard vividly, so very vividly, the cracking of his friend’s spine. Then the wraith grasped the broken form by the neck in one dark hand and lifted it high into the air.
“Doom is upon you, foolish mortal!” the wraith roared. “Tonight is the night you die!” Mitchell heaved Andovar back behind him with such force that the body fell lifelessly into the great river.
For all of his need of vengeance, Belexus knew he could do nothing against the wraith. He stumbled away into the night, choked by anger and sorrow and a horror beyond anything he had ever before known.
Mitchell called to his hellish stallion and thundered off in pursuit. The night was not dark, but even had it been moonless, the wraith would have had no trouble locating its fleeing prey. Mitchell was a creature of the night; darkness only added to his strength.
Belexus heard the pounding of the hooves closing on him. He could not possibly get back to his camp and his own horse in time. He could not possibly escape.
A white form soared by him, the force of its windy wake knocking the weakened ranger from his feet. Belexus was not the target of this magnificent creature, however, for its fury was aimed squarely at the charging wraith and his mount.
And with all the strength of Avalon spurring its rush, and with the blessings of Brielle upon it, Calamus the Pegasus, the winged Lord of Horses, met Mitchell in full flight. A crackle like a bolt of lightning splitting a huge tree sounded, and the flash as the witching magic crashed head-on into the dark enchantments of Morgan Thalasi blinded the ranger for several seconds. And when he recovered his vision, Belexus saw Mitchell sprawled out on the ground, scrambling to find his mace. The black horse was similarly dazed, wandering about in circles and shaking its smoky head back and forth.
Calamus, running now, and in a wavering line that revealed that it, too, had not escaped the fury of the collision unharmed, headed for the injured ranger. The Pegasus dropped to its front knees when it reached Belexus, nudging him to his feet, urging him to take his place on its back.
Belexus climbed on and grasped the snowy mane of the winged horse with all of his remaining strength. He managed to hold his place even when the blackness of unconsciousness overtook him, and he never knew the fury of the ensuing chase.
Calamus took to the air, its mighty wings lifting it high and fast back to the north.
But Mitchell and his stallion were quick to follow, soaring up into the night sky on the wings of the Black Warlock’s enchantment.
Toward Avalon the great Pegasus flew, taking as much care as it could not to drop its rider, but holding fast to the straight course.
Spurring his mount, the wraith of Mitchell steadily gained. That wicked smile, the grimace of the wraith, found its way onto his face again and he raised his mace for a strike.