A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [33]
Halvan's troops numbered nigh a thousand, but a fifth of those were untrained younglings eager to bloody their blades for the first time-and apt to be reckless wildheads in the field, a danger to friend and foe alike.
Yet Halvan could be trusted, his loyalty guaranteed by the spells of three Sirl wizards, who could dash his head to bloody gobbets from afar if he betrayed Blackgult. That was the best thing about hiring Sirl mercenaries, and made them worth three times any muster of other hireswords.
And if they were all fated to die at the hands of Bloodblade-well, at least he'd have to be a strong warcaptain to take them down, perhaps strong enough to hold the Throne against fell wizards and sneaking Serpent-priests, and make Aglirta strong again.
The Golden Griffon had enjoyed a long run and a good one, and the gods gather us all in the end.
Not that it wasn't more fun to send others into the everlasting embrace of the Three first, cheating the Sirl oddsmakers one more time…
The breeze gathered force, setting the leaves of the trees ahead to rustling-and Blackgult grinned again, like a carefree lad let out to play. He was riding to war in his old armor once more, free of chattering courtiers, scuttling scribes, and endless papers, papers, and more papers to read and sign.
There was a brief confusion of jostling horses and good-naturedly cursing riders as the Royal Host of Aglirta narrowed to a point, like a gigantic spear, to pour down the dark, narrow road ahead.
When things were sorted out, the riders gathered speed. "Lances down," Blackgult and Halvan ordered the armaragors ahead, in unplanned unison, and then traded grins again as the thunder of hooves grew loud in the dim-shaded corridor around them. From the farms nigh the docks, the main road through southbank Silvertree ran through these tangled woods to the open meadows of Sarth Fields.
There, with the sleepy hamlet of Sardi hard by, they'd meet Blood-blade's army, with room enough to swing swords. If the day went against them, they could always fall back into this wood and fight in the shade, sword to sword-but if that befell, it was likely Bloodblade would send barges past them, seize Flowfoam, and proclaim himself king.
Similar forests-and bogs to the south, so treacherous and stinging with insects that no man dwelt there-trammeled Duthjack's way east from Maerlin. Unless he made all his armsmen swim, or built a hundred new barges overnight, the usurper would have to come to Sarth.
If Blackgult could only get there first, he could use the old ditches and cart bridges and hedgerows as his shields, and make Bloodblade pay dearly for daring the snatch at the Crown. If only…
There was a shout of triumph from his foremost riders as they spurred out of the trees and found the rolling fields empty of banners and waiting, glittering steel. They were in time! They were-
Pitching from their saddles in startled silence, to be trampled under-hoof and lost, man after man of Blackgult's best. What, by all the gods?– there!
"Lances to the side-strike at will! Visors down!" Blackgult roared, standing in his stirrups to make his voice carry back.
Serpent-priests were standing among the last few trees, hurling tiny javelins overhand at the riders pounding past.
Javelins that trailed fleeting glows of magic, and found targets with unerring aim: the unprotected faces and throats of men who hadn't laced gorgets up and clasped visors down. No, not javelins, but arrows… arrows with strange heads, like the gaping fangs of-
"Serpents!" Halvan swore. "They're throwing snakes at us!"
The priests threw snake after snake, little rigid darts that struck down all too many warriors, tumbling them dying out of their saddles. Those that missed hissed and slithered underfoot, though many were crushed by the plunging hooves. Blackgult saw one priest throw his last snake and then race forward with knife in hand, screaming with rage, eyes fearless, to slash