A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [31]
Suddenly there was a coldness in the air around them that shouldn't have been there, and a blue mist or smoke, and then strange shadowy trees that didn't match the trees around them-and the blue rathance shaped a ring or arch around them, through which the thrusting blades of the Melted were forcing them, as Glarsimber cursed and stamped and slashed…
… And then, suddenly, they were somewhere else, in a forest that looked Aglirtan: Flaeros, Baron Belklarravus, and a dozen or more Melted.
"We were herded, lad! Watch sharp!" Glarsimber roared, hacking and parrying like a madman. Flaeros ducked away from one Melted, rolled away from the thrusting blade of another-and suddenly found himself with no foe standing in his way, amid long-dead branches in the undergrowth of a deep forest. Sun reached down to light up small pools of the forest floor in the distance-glades choked with green leaves blazing bright in the sunlight-and in the far, rolling distance, the green gloom brightened where mere must be an edge to the trees, with open land beyond.
The bard found his feet and ran like he'd never run before, crashing through brittle dead branches and plunging down slippery slopes choked in deep leaves and moss, whooping for breath and just running, running, all thoughts of brave barons and dragon scepters and regent's summons forgotten in his frantic flight to be away from silent, lurching corpses that reached for him with drooping, dripping flesh.
"For Brightpennant! For Sart! Ah, Lady take you-for me, damn it!"
Baron Glarsimber hacked through what must have been his fortieth severed Melted arm. None of these had caught flame, thank the watching gods-why, I wonder?
That had been a spell-gate, and they'd been herded through it, he and the lad-why? And where by the Claws of the Dark One was Flaeros, anyway?
The Smiling Wolf chopped aside a Melted blade and then an elbow, beyond, spinning the cadaver around. Then he hacked viciously at its knees from behind, pitching it over on its back, forever.
That was the last. He was done.
Wearily, Glarsimber leaned on his sword, panted for breath, and bellowed the lad's name. No reply.
He peered about, under the trees, fearing the worst, and shouted for the bard again. Nothing but Melted and their pieces, lying where they'd fallen. Not even a trail of blood.
The Baron of Brightpennant panted out a fervent curse on all bards, hacked aside a sapling that was in his way, and grimly started searching.
"Along the towpaths, Lord, all day and night," the man gasped, before he fell on his face on the polished marble of Flowfoam.
Blackgult knelt beside him, ignoring courtiers' shocked looks, and said to that battered, exhausted face, "Bloodblade claimed to be Baron of Glarond, ere his men carried Sart Castle?"
"Aye, Lord Regent," the man said in a dull, fading voice. "Glarond and Brightpennant both, he said-and our army to join his." His next word trailed off into an unintelligible moan, and his eyes closed.
"My thanks, loyal sir," the regent said, clasping the man's shoulder.
He rose and snapped at the nearest courtier, "Temple healers! Here, at once, to see to this brave man!"
"L-lord?"
Blackgult caught the disbelieving courtier by the shoulder, pointed at the unconscious and travel-stained body sprawled on the marble before the River Throne, and snarled, "'This is what a courtier should be! Remember well true loyalty, and its reward-and by the Horns of the Lady, get those healers! Run!"
This last bellow nearly deafened the courtier, and made him stumble backwards down the steps to a hard and painful landing on his behind-but he scrambled up and promptly trotted away, painfully but at a respectable speed.
Blackgult