He watched now as the swollen river subsided to its normal flow, wondering how many of his own warriors had been washed away in the deluge. Of the Four Bridges, only the eastern and western third of the northernmost remained, but they seemed so cracked that the whole of the structure would probably have to be scrapped.
Arien Silverleaf charged his mount up and down the northern edges of the battlefield, frantic in his search. Ryell, his dearest friend, rode beside him, but had already accepted the grim news as true. Sylvia, Arien’s valiant daughter, had perished in the flood.
“Her death was not in vain,” the human archer had told them. “Many are alive because of her valor in getting us from the edges of the river.”
At the time, the archer’s words had rung hollow in the ears of the elven Eldar, but in years to come, Arien would use them often as a litany against his unending grief.
He would have spent the entire day riding back and forth and all about the nearby encampments in search of his daughter, but a sight he could not ignore, no matter how deep his own grief, assailed him when he ventured near the broken bridges.
There, on the very lip of the blasted eastern spur of the northernmost bridge, hung two figures: the top with one hand locked on a jutting piece of stone, the other hand grasping the limply hanging form of his companion.
Arien and Ryell charged back up the bank and swung around toward the bridge. “Survivors on the bridge!” Ryell cried to the two men nearest the structure. Bellerian and Billy Shank.
Billy, supporting the Ranger Lord in his grief, was nearly knocked to the ground when Bellerian heard the call. They both had watched in horror only a moment before as the Silver Mage destroyed the bridge, and then as the floodwaters had surged through, apparently taking Belexus and the wizard with them.
And now Billy Shank had all he could do to hold the Ranger Lord back from the structure.
“It might not be safe!” Billy cried.
“Me son!” was all Bellerian replied.
“If you rush out there, you might cave in the whole structure,” Billy scolded. “Then there would remain no survivors!”
Bellerian calmed as he realized the truth of Billy’s words.
King Benador noticed the commotion and charged to the base of the structure just as Arien and Ryell arrived. The two elves leaped from their saddles and tentatively started out onto the first stones of the spur, Billy and Bellerian right beside them.
“Beware the bridge!” the King warned.
Arien held out his arms to stop his companions. “I go alone,” he insisted. “We know not how much weight the structure can support.”
“Then I go,” argued Ryell. “You are the Eldar of our people. Better that I should perish if the bridge falls away.”
Arien turned a cold stare on Ryell. “I go,” he said with bitter finality. “I have lost my daughter this day. I will not risk my closest friend as well.” He turned and took a long stride out onto the bridge, and Ryell moved to stop him.
But Benador, understanding the grief on Arien’s face, agreed that the Eldar must do this, and he grabbed Ryell’s shoulder and held him back.
Arien got out to the end and dropped to his knees. Belexus-he had known all along that it could only be Belexus-hung below him, apparently unconscious. But even in that blackness the mighty ranger had not faltered. His left hand clutched the stone of the bridge with strength enough to defeat the pull of the flood. That feat alone would be the stuff of legends, but even more amazing, the ranger’s right hand held with equal strength the thick folds of Ardaz’s blue robes.
“It is your son, Ranger Lord!” Arien called back. “And the Silver Mage.” With the confirmation, it now took Billy, Benador, and Ryell to hold Bellerian back.
Arien quickly pulled a length of rope from his pack and crept down the facing of the broken bridge to a point where he could loop an end around the wizard. Ardaz opened one eye to watch and shot a hopeful smile at his rescuer. But the wizard did not dare move, aware that his robes had started to tear away in several places.
Arien winked his reassurance, then climbed back to the top, keeping one hand tightly on Belexus in case the ranger’s grip should fail.
Bellerian, though sorely wounded and weary, scrambled out through the grasps of Billy and Ryell when he saw Arien come back up, dragging the rope.
“As I am your king,” Benador said to Billy and Ryell, “I command you to remain here!” And then Benador, despite the horrified shrieks of his entourage, sprinted out onto the bridge.
“You should not be out here,” Arien scolded Bellerian. As if to accentuate the Eldar’s words, the spur creaked ominously under the added weight.
“He is my son,” the Ranger Lord replied sternly.
Benador moved right past them both before they even realized he had come out. He dropped to his belly and immediately understood the problem at hand. “Get the wizard,” he instructed Arien and Bellerian, then grabbed Belexus by the front of the ranger’s tunic.
The other two had no choice by to comply, and when Benador was certain they had Ardaz safely in tow, he tugged with all of his considerable strength and raised Belexus to safety.
Arien nodded his approval. “Let us retire from this broken place,” he advised, and he hoisted Ardaz over his shoulder. Benador did likewise with Belexus, and Bellerian led them off the bridge, to the cheers of the now fair-sized crowd that had gathered to watch it all.
The drama was only heightened a few moments later, when the entire section of the bridge fell into the river with a thunderous splash.
“As though it waited for us,” Benador said wistfully. “As though the bridge did not want us all to die this day.”
“Doubt it,” babbled Ardaz, spouting water with every word. “That was the northernmost bridge. Thalasi’s bridge.”
“Then thank our fortunes,” laughed Ryell.
But Arien, staring out over the meandering flow of the great river, did not partake of the mirth. He found few fortunes to thank this day.
Rhiannon walked along in the dim fog, descending a twisting trail that led into a deeper blackness. The young witch was not alone, though-hundreds, perhaps thousands, now made the steady pilgrimage. Rhiannon continued on for many steps, but then stopped abruptly, feeling a certain kindred to another figure moving farther up the line.
“Siana!” she cried, though no sound emanated from her lips. The young girl, moving slowly and staring blankly ahead, did not even seem to see Rhiannon. Nor did Siana take any notice of Lennard and Jolsen Smithyson, walking in the line beside her.
Rhiannon was about to say something more, but an overpowering urge turned her back into the line and held her silent. She understood, then, the spectacle around her. These were the dead, walking to the nether realm, and though death somehow had a lesser hold upon her than the others, she could not but continue her descent.
There was nothing to grab on to, nothing to guide her out from the foggy land.
But once again a singular voice cut through the din of confusion and called to her.
“Rhiannon,” Bryan whispered over and over into the pale woman’s ear. He could not let her die. He would give his own life if it would only bring Rhiannon back. He didn’t look at her now, so fragile. He just cradled her head close and kept calling to her, begging her not to die.
The voice rang like a clarion to the lost witch. She rushed toward it, focused all of her thoughts on it. And when she opened her blue eyes once more, the first sight that greeted her was the shining sun; the second was the smile of Bryan of Corning, brighter still.
Bryan knew at once that she would recover. She had no wounds, at least none that he could see, and the deathly pall that had fallen over her fair skin had already dissipated, gone away like the gloomy overcast of Morgan Thalasi.