Calamus dove suddenly in a steep descent, but Mitchell reacted quickly and was back on the tail of the winged horse in an instant. Calamus rolled out to the side, narrowly avoiding the swipe of the wraith’s mace.
The dark silhouette of Avalon was in sight now in the distance. Too far, perhaps.
The Pegasus rose again into the sky, finding the cover of a cloud to give it time. Mitchell plunged right in behind, flailing away, his evil mace hissing as it tore through the mist.
Back out the other side, Calamus continued to rise, higher and higher. Then, as Mitchell steadily closed in again, the Pegasus leveled out and bent its head low, gathering as much speed as it could. Calamus could only hope that Belexus wouldn’t fall; the Pegasus could not take the time now to ensure that the ranger held his seat.
And even as Mitchell raised his mace for the blow that surely would find its mark, Calamus dropped into an almost vertical stoop. Belexus half opened one eye, and his shock at seeing the ground rushing up brought both his eyes open wide. He could only trust in Calamus. He threw both his arms around his steed’s muscular neck and held on for his life.
Mitchell roared in rage when he understood the white horse’s intent. He could not match the dive of Calamus; and no flying creature, Calamus included, could hope to pull out of such a stoop.
Not without help.
Brielle watched both Calamus’ suicidal plummet to the ground and the pursuit of the wraith, and knew that the brave Pegasus was counting on her. She waved her hand in a wide arc, and the air around her filled with strands of floating, sticky goo. They clung to the trees and to each other, growing into a symmetrical web.
Calamus pivoted and broke the fall as much as possible, but the sudden motion sent Belexus tumbling from its back. Too concerned with its own landing at that moment, the terrified Pegasus didn’t even notice. Belexus hit first, Calamus right behind, their weight driving Brielle’s web down toward the earth in a rush. But the strength of the Emerald Witch was in the magical strands and they held, as fine a net as the world had ever known.
Brielle wanted to rush to the fallen heroes, but she still had other business to attend. She ran to the edge of her domain where the black horse soon put down, and faced the wraith of Mitchell once again.
“So that one escaped,” Mitchell laughed.
His inference that there had been others present when he had attacked unnerved the witch; her daughter was still traveling with the ranger as far as she knew.
“Not so fortunate was Andovar,” Mitchell roared. “And I will get that one, too. You cannot always be there to protect him, wicked witch; I will find Belexus again. The next time he will not escape.”
Brielle trembled in agonized rage. She was relieved that Mitchell had made no reference to her daughter, but she felt the loss of Andovar, the ranger she had watched grow into manhood, as keenly as if he had been her own child. Her only answer came out in an explosion of unbridled rage, a bolt of mighty white energy that sent Mitchell flying far from his saddle and reduced the evil mount to a mere pile of ashes.
All boasts stolen from the wraith’s tongue, he fled with all speed back to the south, painfully aware of his stupidity in challenging the likes of Brielle, and hoping that his dark master would be forgiving.
Sorrowing over the events of the night, the great River Ne’er Ending rolled relentlessly along its southern course, past the farmlands, past the encampments talon and human, unerringly on its trek to find the southern sea.
And in its waters that night, the great river carried the body of Andovar, the ranger who had died to save his friend.
Chapter 18
River Song
THE FIGHTING ACROSS the Four Bridges slowed considerably during the Black Warlock’s absence, and even after Thalasi returned to his forces, he held them in check, knowing that they would be much more effective once their new commander arrived to lead them.
Likewise did the stream of refugees making their silent way across the river diminish. The talons recognized that many potential victims were slipping right through their clawed fingers, so they began to patrol on the riverbanks. Few humans remained alive on the western side, and those unfortunate stragglers who did no longer found crossing to safety an easy feat.
And so for Rhiannon the days became longer and more tedious. The refugee encampment beside Rivertown continued to dwindle-the farther from Thalasi’s army the helpless people could get, the safer they would be-and the witch’s daughter spent her hours staring into the emptiness of the horizon. In some ways she was grateful for the free time and the lull in the action. Without the sound of battle ringing in her ears, the possessing power did not well within her, tearing her apart. And with little healing to be done, she finally had the chance to find the rest she so badly needed.
But free time also gave Rhiannon the opportunity to contemplate the events that had occurred, particularly the destruction she had wreaked on the field against the talon cavalry and against the earth itself.
In truth, the young witch was not yet ready to ponder the implications of such thoughts. Nor could she sort through the unknown feelings that the ranger Andovar had stirred in her. Rhiannon did not yet understand the true depth of her caring for the man, but she had begun to miss him terribly as soon as he and Belexus had ridden out of sight. And whenever the weight of all the world seemed to descend upon her delicate shoulders, she firmed them up and reminded herself that Andovar would soon return to her side. Together, Rhiannon was beginning to believe, she and her ranger could get through anything.
She found some measure of relief, though, in the three new friends, Siana, Jolsen, and Lennard, who had come across with firsthand knowledge of the young half-elven hero. The three were near to Rhiannon’s age and could match every tale the witch’s daughter could tell them of wondrous Avalon with a story of their own adventures in Corning and in the Baerendel Mountains. Rhiannon listened eagerly as each new-and no doubt exaggerated-story rolled by, but was especially attentive to those adventures concerning Bryan, the lad that had caught the attention and the hearts of all the Calvan people. More than a dozen groups of refugees had given Bryan of Corning full credit for their escape from the talon-occupied lands. As with all heroic tales, the feats of Bryan grew larger and larger with each telling, but even those who recognized the embellishments did not doubt that the young warrior had truly earned his reputation. And with the talons now working hard to shut down the escape routes, the general consensus was that any others finding their way across would only be able to do so because of the efforts of that special young half-elf.
Rhiannon sat beside the great river to watch the sunset one evening, as she did every evening, listening to the song of the flowing water, quiet and strong, and enjoying the splash of colors hanging low in the western sky. Here each night the witch’s daughter allowed herself to contemplate those disturbing questions, but gradually, as the days drifted by, she began to find her longing to see Andovar overcoming her fears of magical powers.
How long had the ranger been gone? she wondered. She had lost count of the days; early on, when the line of wounded was still long and her work did not begin or end with the cycles of the sun, one or many might have passed.
“Five,” she decided. Andovar had been gone five days. She could be satisfied with that estimate, but the answer to the other, more important question remained elusive. When would Andovar return?
“Rhiannon!” cried Siana, running down toward the lone form sitting beside the river. “Rhiannon!” She rushed up to the young woman and plopped down on the grass, her smile nearly taking in her ears.