Bastion of Darkness Read Free Page A

into the fields and mountains, many back to their swampy homes miles and miles away. They had scattered when they saw Mitchell, their general, drop from the blasted bridge, and when they saw their highest master, the Black Warlock himself, hurled to the ground by the great bolt of the witch’s daughter, and when they saw the river itself rise up before them, defeating their charge and sweeping thousands of them away to a watery death.
    This western bank of the River Ne’er Ending had remained dark since then, every night, an empty plain of blackness.
    Until this night. The wraith had seen it; a single campfire, burning low on the plain less than a half mile from the river. Perhaps it had been set by talons, though the ugly beasts didn’t normally set fires this close to potential enemies. Perhaps, the hungry wraith hoped, it had been set by human refugees trying to make their way to King Benador’s side, or even better, by scouts from the Pallendara army. In truth, so full of venom was the wraith, that he knew it really didn’t matter. Mitchell had pulled himself from the river far to the south and had gradually worked his way back to this spot, pausing only when he found talons or humans to slaughter. Those kills had proven few and far between, however, and hardly satisfying to this creature of death, this unnatural perversion whose very sustenance was the horror of others, the life force of others.
    Mitchell had not killed in more than two weeks; he veered to the northwest, away from the river.
    “Cold again,” one of the men remarked, a tall and lean fellow of forty winters. His beard gave testament to his observations, for icy crystals glittered among the curly gray-and-brown whiskers in the firelight.
    “Cold every night,” a second man said. He was similar in build and features to the other—indeed, was his brother—except that he sported only a bushy mustache. “I’m wishing that the war had gone through the winter, leaving us to our duties in the warmer spring!”
    “But how many might’ve died for your comfort, then?” the third and last of the group asked as he walked back in toward the fire, a huge black-and-tan dog at his side. He was the oldest of the party by at least ten years,his hair and beard silvery gray. But his eyes still held the sharp, twinkling blue hue of his youth.
    “Very nice, Clouster,” the first said. “So good of you to put things in such a comforting light.”
    “Comfort?” Clouster replied, spitting heavily on the ground, that simple action drawing a growl from the nervous, dangerous canine. “Comfort’s not for the likes of us. I told you I’d teach you, so you best learn well and fast; a scout’s life is a thankless, dirty one, and if you cannot get your satisfaction in knowing a well-done job, then, by the Colonnae, you’re in the wrong line of work, I say!”
    “Benador needs us,” the second brother agreed. “All of Pallendara needs us.”
    “When they finish the bridge and come rushing across, they’ll be better served if they know the positioning of the talon forces,” Clouster added.
    “What few remain,” the first brother grumbled.
    “Few?” Clouster barked. “Few! Why, ten thousand got away, and there’s probably another fifty thousand still out there, waiting to come in. And don’t you forget the Black Warlock. He was thrown down to be sure—I saw that with my own eyes, and a beautiful sight it was indeed!—but often’s been the times we’ve thought him dead, only to see his ugly face arise once more!
    “No, my friends, this war’s not yet won. Not yet. Not until we chase the damned talons all the way back to Mysmal Swamp, all the way to Talas-dun and pull the damned place down around them.”
    The mere mention of Talas-dun, the black fortress, the heart of Morgan Thalasi, sent a shudder coursing down the spines of the brothers. They glanced at each other nervously, silently agreeing that poor old Clouster had lost his wits. Truly the men