The Witch's Daughter

Chapter 8
Baerendel Nightmare

“CORNING IS BURNING!” Lennard cried.

Bryan and the others rushed over the final rise on the mountain spur, excited but not too concerned. A hearth out of control, perhaps, and nothing that the townsfolk couldn’t handle.

But as the group, one by one, crested the lip of the stone, their excitement washed away on a wave of dread, for the rising column was too great for any hearth fire.

Bryan scanned the plain to the east of the town, searching for some explanation. Another cloud, this one of dust, rose in the north, as if a long line of horses, wagons, and boots stirred the dirt of a road.

The awful truth became clear to all of them then, and Bryan spoke the word aloud. “War.”

“We must get home!” Lennard cried when he had found his breath, but then another call rang out.

“Talons!” shouted Tinothy, the one member of the band who had not yet seen the smoke from Corning. “Talons in the mountains.” The boy, at fourteen years the youngest of the band, caught up to them, eyes widening as he beheld the disaster of his homeland.

“Where?” Bryan pressed him.

The cloud of smoke held Tinothy entranced.

Bryan pulled him roughly aside. “Where?” he demanded again. “You have to tell me where.”

Tinothy pointed absently around the side of the mountain toward a wide valley. “Down there and moving south,” he explained, his voice a monotone, purely expressionless.

“How many?”

“Dozens. Hundreds, maybe.”

Bryan looked again at the crawling line of fleeing people along the road, beginning to understand.

“Forget the talons,” said Lennard. “We have to get home.” Several others echoed the young man’s sentiments, but Bryan realized a different need.

“No,” he said quietly. “There is nothing we can do for Corning. We know not if the town is still standing, and we are two full days’ march away.”

“Then what are we to do?” demanded Siana, one of the three girls in the band. “We cannot just sit here and watch as our people are destroyed.”

Bryan had no intention of doing anything of the kind. “Talons in the mountains,” he said grimly. “Do you understand their purpose?”

“They shan’t catch us!” Siana retorted, as if the notion that any talons could find them in this wild land of mountains and valleys was purely absurd.

“Moving south,” Bryan growled at her, at all of them. “Toward Doerning’s Walk.” He pointed down to the road, the others began to catch on. Doerning’s Walk was the swiftest route out of the northeastern tip of the Baerendels, an intercepting course for the main road of the western fields.

“Too many for us,” Siana remarked, the anger gone from her voice now.

“You mean to stop them?” Lennard balked.

“Not stop them,” Bryan replied. “We are but a few.” The grim light in his eyes when he looked around at his friends inspired their courage and determination. “But we can slow them down.”

“What do you plan?” asked Siana.

“We can get to Doerning’s Walk before them,” Bryan replied. “There are narrow trails where a few people and a few cunningly placed traps can bottle up a larger force for a long time.”

“That is our duty,” Jolsen Smithyson piped in. He looked back to the smoke cloud, knowing that if talons had indeed attacked the city, his father would have stood resolutely against them. He could not know, however, that his father was already dead.

“You are best with the bow,” Bryan said to Lennard. “Go with Tinothy and flank this talon band. A few well-placed arrows should turn them from their course, or at the least slow them. You must buy us some time so we can prepare the party near Doerning’s Walk.”

Andovar thundered past the leading edge of the refugee line, his cries and determination lending them some hope. “Ride!” they cheered after him, guessing that he was the herald who would alert all of Calva. “The King will come!” others shouted, punching determined fists into the sky, knowing that to be their only hope.

When the sky before the ranger darkened, and that behind him turned crimson with the setting of the sun, he did not stop. His horse, spurred by the magical urging of the witch’s daughter, continued its tireless pounding pace, and no weariness came over Andovar’s grim visage.

He crossed the great river and through the streets of Rivertown, crying, “Talons! Talons! Gather your arms and courage!”

The brave folk of the town, already more than a little suspicious at the sight of the clouds of smoke on the western horizon, rushed from their homes, shops, and taverns to heed the call of the ranger. A fresh horse was offered, but Andovar, trusting in the magic of Rhiannon, declined.

And then he was off again, to the few towns along his course, and beyond, to Pallendara and the only hope.

Lennard wiped the sweat from his fingers, then replaced them on the bowstring. A hundred yards below him marched the talon force, clearly visible along an open trail.

“How many?” an obviously frightened Tinothy dared to whisper.

“Let fly a few,” Lennard replied. “It will take them many minutes to get up that slope. Are you ready?”

On a nod from Tinothy, the bowstrings twanged.

Lennard, an amazing archer, had his fifth shot in the air before the first ever struck. He had gauged the distance correctly, but still it was more luck than skill that three of his five hit their mark, dropping talons to the ground. Tinothy was less successful, but still managed to get one.

The talon ranks split apart in confusion as the wretched creatures dove for cover, not even able to discern the direction of the hidden attackers.

A smile erupted on Lennard’s face. “Take that, dogs!” he cried as loudly as he dared. But when he turned his widespread grin upon Tinothy, he saw that his young friend wasn’t sharing his elation.

For the tip of a cruel spear prodded through the front of Tinothy’s chest.

They hadn’t figured on scouts.

Bryan peeked under the long, flat stone. “Deeply washed out,” he reported. “If we dig it out more, it will not support their weight on this end.” Heeding the command of the halfelf who had become their leader, Siana and three others set about the task.

All along this narrow stretch of trail, with rocky drops on either side, the majority of the group went to work, setting trip wires and deadfalls, and loosening stones along the edges. Thirty yards ahead, in a thick copse of trees, Jolsen Smithy-son led the work on camouflaged barricades and trip holes.

“Will this be the last?” Siana asked.

“The last big one,” Bryan replied. “Take as much time as you can; this one, above all the others, has to work if we are to have any chance of slowing the talons.”

“And how much time is that?” Siana asked grimly.

Bryan shrugged. “I’m going out to scout for Lennard and Tinothy,” he explained. “And for our guests.”

Tinothy dropped facedown, and an ugly talon leaped astride the dead boy and tore its barbed spear from his back, twisting the weapon as it came out, reveling in the gore.

Solely on instinct, Lennard snapped his foil out and poked the vicious creature. The tip of the slender blade slipped in through the talon’s makeshift armor, but the weight of the creature as it fearlessly bore in bent the foil over and snapped it in half. Lennard fell back, barely dodging the first jab of the crimson-stained spear.

Again Lennard’s luck prevailed, for as he stumbled, the eager talon overbalanced and came crashing down on top of him. The remaining half of Lennard’s foil, pinned point out between Lennard and the falling monster, did not bend so easily.

The talon thrashed wildly for a moment, bruising Lennard about the face with heavy blows. The young warrior thought his life was surely at its end, but then the thrashing stopped and the talon, quite dead, lay still. Lennard took a long moment to find his breath, then gingerly rolled the thing off him. His foil, still impaled deep in the talon’s chest, went over with it.

He knew Tinothy was dead, but he cradled his friend gently, not knowing whether to try to carry the body back with him or find a place for it here. The decision was stolen from him, though, as the sound of approaching talons reminded him that he was far from out of danger. He scooped up Tinothy’s sword and quiver and scrambled off over the rocks.

Flopping footsteps and angry grunts followed him every step. Stumbling, blinded by tears of remorse and fear, Lennard ran on, down the back paths toward Doerning’s Walk, toward his friends. If he could only get to them!

Most of the sounds receded, but Lennard’s sense of dread followed him vividly. He splashed into a mountain stream and cut around a huge boulder, looking back over his shoulder for the expected pursuit.

And in his haste, slammed blindly into the chest of a waiting talon.

Lennard bounced back against the stone, glancing up just in time to see doom, in the form of a talon sword, descending upon his head.

He screamed and closed his eyes, and hardly heard the clang as the blade met an intercepting shield and was deflected harmlessly aside.

And then Bryan was between Lennard and his attacker, slashing his elven sword in a quick cut across and then back. The talon dropped its weapon, choosing instead in the last fleeting moments of its life to clutch its spilling guts. Without so much as a grunt, it slipped to its knees in the cold stream.

Bryan spun and threw Lennard to the ground, out of the way of a thrusting spear. Lennard came up spitting water and watching in horrified amazement as Bryan and the newest attacker squared off.

Bryan’s father had schooled him well in the crude attack methods of these beasts. Savagery replaced finesse in talon fighters, and the trick to defeating them was to turn their own aggressiveness against them.

Bryan’s chance came in the very first seconds of battle, as the fire-eyed talon dove at him recklessly, spear leading the way.

Bryan launched a backhand parry with his sword, dipping the spear to the ground. The talon, unable to break its momentum-and not wanting to, anyway-lurched forward, where Bryan’s shield connected heavily with its face. The monster staggered backward and Bryan threw his shield out wide, following quickly with a perfectly angled slice of his blade, lopping the creature’s head from its shoulders.

“By the Colonnae,” gasped Lennard. “Bryan?”

But the young half-elf had no time to consider the events. “Where is Tinothy?” he asked.

“Dead,” Lennard muttered.

Bryan hardly flinched at the news. “Quickly,” he instructed, grabbing Lennard by the elbow. “We have only minutes to get back to the walk.”

“Hold your shots,” Bryan whispered as the trudging column of talons approached. Behind the wooden barricades, the friends twitched nervously, eager to let loose the first shots and be on with it. But Bryan wanted the monsters to spring the first trap or two before he set his friends into action.

The talons came on, more wary than before, but hardly expecting to find the ground beneath their feet laced with cunning traps. The leading rank stepped out across a long, flat rock.

Bryan and his friends pulled back on their bowstrings. They could only hope the rock would tumble as planned.

As the front talons crossed to the front edge-the section that had been dug out-the stone rolled and pivoted, dipping the leading talons into a crevice and sending those behind them into a slide down the now sloping trail. Several of the creatures had the life crushed out of them as the stone settled down at its new angle.

Bryan’s arrow went first, knocking deep into the chest of one of the unfortunate beasts splayed across the stone facing. Hoots and howls erupted as the talons recognized the ambush for what it was and came charging over the raised tip of the stone. Arrow after arrow soared in, most finding their mark.

But talons, for all of their other weaknesses, were not cowardly creatures, and they came on fearlessly, leaping down from the stone and rushing toward the copse. A trip wire sent one slamming down; loosened rocks gave way on the edge of the trail, spilling several others on a bouncing ride down the steep descent on the side of Doerning’s Walk.

And more arrows thudded home.

“Run!” cried Lennard when the leading edge of the charge neared the copse. Bryan held his position, not so quick to give up such easy kills.

But then one of the group, Damon, standing right beside the half-elf, caught a spear in the chest, and the talon followed its shot closely, springing atop the barricade.

Bryan wheeled and fired, point-blank, blowing the thing back. He realized, though, that the position was lost. Five others of the group had already fled, following Lennard’s lead, but the remaining six waited bravely, looking to Bryan for direction. In his rage, Bryan would have stayed on until the talon tide buried him, willingly giving up his own life in exchange for the talons he would surely slay.

But he could not be responsible for the deaths of more of his friends. Like Tinothy, and now Damon.

He fired a final shot and broke back from the wall, slinging his bow and drawing his gleaming sword. “Go! Go!” he cried to the others.

Connie, a girl with shining blue eyes and an innocent smile, lost her head to a talon sword.

And then they were running, one group to the west behind Lennard, and Bryan wisely taking the others to the east. The enraged talons forgot all about their mission and took off in hot pursuit, hungry for the blood of the young ambushers.

Siana led the way, with Bryan taking up the rear guard. Several talons got close to them in their wild flight, but each time, Bryan, possessed of a fury beyond anything he could ever have imagined, cut them down with vicious chops and perfect maneuvers. A short while later the five turned around a rocky outcropping and, confident that no pursuit was close behind, stopped to catch their breath.

Lennard and the others had less luck.

Though they had started with more ground between them and the talons, the group had no organization to their flight. They split apart around boulders or crevices, and lost time trying to find each other. Directionless, and with no clear destination in mind, they soon heard the flopping stamp of talon feet all about them.

An agonized scream told Lennard that their number was down to five. He stopped and looked about, searching for some way he could help. A talon spear found his leg.

Lennard dropped heavily to the ground, clutching his wound. Then the talon was above him, its sword up for the kill.

A heavy rock smashed the ugly creature’s head apart.

Blackness, from pain and fear, swirled over Lennard, and he hardly noticed when he was lifted from the ground in the strong arms of Jolsen Smithyson and borne away.

“Come on,” Bryan prodded after the others had regained their breath. They gathered their belongings, thinking Bryan to be leading them farther away. But to their astonishment, the half-elf started back around the outcropping toward the talons.

“Where are you going?” Siana demanded.

Bryan cast them all a look over his shoulder. “The talons are scattered,” he explained. “We can find small groups of them to hit.”

“You are crazy!” the girl retorted. “We cannot go back there!”

“We have no choice!” Bryan shot back.

“Think of Connie, and Damon!” said another.

“Think of the line of people we saw on the road,” Bryan countered. “Our people, helpless unless we can keep the talons tied up in the mountains.” His visage softened then as he looked upon the sorrow-filled, weary faces. Perhaps he was pushing the others too hard.

“You go and find a safer spot to rest,” he conceded quietly. “I’ll go after the talons. I can move faster alone anyway.”

But when Bryan started away, he heard the sound of the other four following at his back.

They played hit-and-run with bands of talons for the remainder of that day, striking from a distance with their bows, or rising from cover suddenly in front of a talon group and cutting the monsters down before they even knew they were being attacked.

Bryan and his friends knew the odds, and realized that sooner or later they would get themselves into a situation where they would find no escape. But whenever fear threatened to take the fight out of them, they remembered the cloud of dust from the refugees on the road and the cloud of smoke over Corning, and remembered their duty.

Disaster struck near sunset. The group surprised a band of four talons and quickly dispatched them. But another, larger band was close by, and got into the fight before the young warriors could escape. Bryan and his friends won out, but when the last talon fell at Bryan’s feet, he looked around to find that he and Siana were the only two left alive.

Their spirits fell with the fall of day, and they walked slowly away, seeking a safe haven. Siana leaned on Bryan for support, but the tears ran as freely down the cheeks of the halfelf as on her own.

All told, they had killed more than four dozen talons that day and wounded several score more. More important, they had halted the march. It would take the scattered bands of talons the rest of the night to get back together, and the people on the road would get through.

But to Bryan and Siana, the victory brought little consolation.

“At least seven,” Bryan noted grimly. “Tinothy first, then Damon and Connie on the walk, and-”

Siana held up her hand to stop him, for she needed no recounting. She had witnessed six of the seven deaths Bryan spoke of. “Do you think Lennard and the others got away?” she asked him hopefully.

“Lennard is a smart one,” Bryan replied. “And they had a better lead.” But if his words held conviction, it was feigned. Despair flowed over him fully that dark night. In a single day he had witnessed the burning of his city and, later, the deaths of seven of his closest friends.

Siana sensed his turmoil and put her own aside. She moved to him and snuggled close, lending him some of her strength. “We did a fine job,” she reminded him. “They won’t be getting back to their march anytime soon, and more than a few talons died this day. Our traps worked pretty well, I would say!”

Bryan looked down at her smiling face and was comforted. He kissed her then, and hugged her close.

But when the exhausted young warriors drifted into the solitude of slumber, the black despair came rushing back at them in their dreams, vivid recollections of the horrors they had witnessed that day.