A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [106]
A moment later, something struck her ankle gently and skirled away-to where a longfangs dropped from the ceiling and stood guard over it causing two hurrying armaragors to shrink back in horror. They were the first two knights Embra killed, ere she turned and saw that Glarsimber was dead.
He'd been an unexpected friend-and now the baron was sprawled in his blood, with another pair of armaragors making sure of his passing by driving their swords between the sagging plates of his hacked and battered armor, right through him. They were the next knights she slew.
Behind her, the longfangs dwindled into Sarasper, a man who seemed truly old now. The hand that reached for the dragon scepter trembled, and its skin was mottled and wrinkled. The healer grasped the scepter slowly, almost reluctantly, and there was a strange look in his eyes. Sarasper glanced over at Brightpennant's body, shook his head, and stared at the scepter again.
Embra Silvertree saw none of this. She was aloft again, whirling up into the air with a wordless snarl of fury bubbling from her lips, the Dwaer a bright star in front of her brow and her eyes blazing tears of white fire.
"You rogues! she shouted. "You slaying bastards! Die, all of you! Die.!
And she stretched forth her hands and called on the Dwaer in earnest. Deadly lances of white light stabbed out from her hands, stabbing through dozens of Bloodblade's warriors as if they were made of parchment.
Raulin whimpered in fear as he saw scores of men die in a heartbeat, heads seared off or bodies burned through. He shrank back, and turned to run-only to be grabbed and spun around by Craer, whose own face was wet with tears. "Prefer her when she's cheerful," he hissed into the bard's terrified face. "Prefer all of us that way. Always."
And then the procurer spun around with a wild cry and hurled himself at the nearest armaragors, springing so high that his codpiece slammed into a helm. Craer promptly wrapped his legs around the head of that knight-a foe who was dead before crashing to the ground, as Overduke Delnbone rode the enemy armaragor down to the marble, sinking daggers into throat and back of neck and eyeslits in a snarling fury.
"Halduth!" Bloodblade roared. "Strike down that sorceress!"
Hawkril Anharu looked wildly for whoever Halduth might be-and behind the press of armaragors in front of his blade he saw an armored arm rise up, holding a spear as large as a horse-lance. With a roar he gave ground, planted himself on the shifting bodies of the dead before the men he'd been fighting could rush forward, and sprang into the air, chopping-and the spear shrieked as the overduke's blade struck it aside, hurling Hawkril back to crash down on more of the dead-crash and roll and find his feet, in time to sword a rushing man and sidestep another, slashing backhanded at the man's neck.
Hawkril's blade caught in armor plate as that man died with a splintering of bone and a frantic choking sound, and he tugged, kicked, and staggered free of his foe-in time to face the next charge.
Embra struck again, more deadly lances of searing magic striking down dozens of armsmen. Men were shouting in fear, now, and trying to flee, everywhere-everywhere, that is, save above, through the hole in the ceiling, where angry-eyed scaled priests were murmuring incantations, their eyes on Embra.
Armaragors melted away in terror before Hawkril, leaving him standing face-to-face with the spearman-an armored giant who was dragging a huge mace out of a baldric-sling and hefting it in his hands. Hawkril charged forward, found his blade parried by the mace about where he'd expected, found the arm behind that mace was every bit as strong as he'd feared-and also found that his free hand had a clear path to the man's eyes. He punched and rode with his blow, scraping the sharp knuckles of his gauntlet back and forth across the man's brow, trying to blind the giant with his own blood.
They fell together, and rolled, the giant underneath-and grunting