Bastion of Darkness Read Free Page B

loved their king, good Benador of the line of Ben-Rin, restored to the throne after thefall of Ungden the Usurper at the Battle of Mountaingate. Truly Benador had given all of Calva back its pride and hope for the future, had secured an alliance with the rangers of Avalon and even with the Moon Dancers, the elves of Illuma. Yes, they each loved Benador, and would gladly take an arrow aimed for the king’s breast, but neither entertained any notion of following the king to Talas-dun. Not that.
    Not ever.
    “You’ve gone daft, poor Clouster,” the first brother, the older of the pair, said. “We’ll win back the western fields, to Corning and beyond, perhaps even to the eastern edge of Mysmal, but no further: not to the coast, and certainly not to the Kored-dul! I’ve no desire to ever see the likes of black Talas-dun.”
    “Ah, but it does seem a wondrous place,” an unfamiliar voice said from the side of their small camp, just on the edge of the firelight. At that moment, the dog raised his hackle and growled, white teeth gleaming in the firelight. “A place to seem as the fitting throne-seat of all the world,” the deep resonating voice continued.
    The brothers gained their feet quickly, swords drawn, standing beside Clouster, who held a throwing dagger in each hand. Of the group, Clouster was the most concerned, for he couldn’t understand why his dog, Yostrol, a trusted companion for several years, hadn’t noted the approach long before the man, or whatever it might be lurking in the shadows, got so close. The three couldn’t get a good view of the speaker from this vantage point, but they knew, at least, that he was no talon. He was too large, much too large, for that, and his voice did not have the guttural croak of the wicked race, but sounded human, though perhaps more resonant than usual, a deep and commanding baritone.
    Yostrol trembled then, growling and whining all atonce, a reaction Clouster had never before witnessed. Clearly the dog was afraid, terrified, yet Clouster had seen this brave companion go at a thousand-pound bear with hardly a thought, and had watched the dog rip up talon after talon in the fight for the river three months before.
    “State your name and business,” the older brother demanded.
    The speaker held his distance and chuckled softly, an unnerving sound indeed.
    “We can kill without fear of retribution,” the younger brother remarked. “On word of the king—”
    “Not my king,” said the intruder.
    “Benador is king to all!” the youngest man cried defiantly.
    “Not my king,” the intruder said again.
    Clouster let go the leash, a movement that eager Yostrol would usually take as a signal to attack. Amazingly, though, the dog held his ground, even shifted a bit backward, behind his master.
    “Who is your king then, if not Benador?” Clouster asked, hoping to clarify things in a proper light, but fearing, given the intruder’s cryptic attitude and the reactions of his dog, that this meeting would end in a bad way. “Arien Silverleaf of Illuma, perhaps? Or Bellerian, lord of rangers?”
    “Who is my king?” the intruder echoed, ending with a snort. “A fine question, and one that I must consider.” As he spoke, he moved into the firelight, and all three men gasped in unison at the specter of the wraith of Hollis Mitchell. He was huge and barrel-chested, as Mitchell had been in life, but he was also obviously dead, his skin gray and bloated, blotched by rot, his eyes red dots of flame.
    Clouster reached around and grabbed Yostrol andyanked the dog in front, and the animal, spurred beyond reason, barked and charged.
    Hardly considering the action, the wraith flicked his unholy scepter, and the air before it, the air in the dog’s path, filled with black flakes. How Yostrol yelped when he entered that zone, when the flakes of the deadly weapon fell over him, burning his hide, boring through his hide. The dog whined pitifully, turning tight circles, biting at his