A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [38]
There was a sudden, scrambling rush, and Ilibar Quelver was alone again, shaking his head at the retreating backs of men busily scampering up staircases and along balconies, each heading for his favorite bower or back closet.
"They'll all be lonely in their various hiding places," he murmured, as he swung his sword at empty air a few times and prepared himself to die, "lacking their usual chambermaid companionship. I hope they won't all be bared!"
The skirl and clang of swords grew louder. Ilibar swallowed. By the "three, but we're giving ground fast!
Only the eldest and most infirm guards had stayed on Flowfoam, he well knew-and this handful of fussing courtiers who truly had no welcome elsewhere. Everyone else had taken horse to ride with Blackgult, and hurl back Bloodblade… if they could. Even with the Sirl hireswords, it probably wouldn't be enough. Not if the warlord truly was rolling over baronies like a boy tumbling down a riverbank, and all their surviving soldiery was now marching under his banners.
Well, at least he'd die somewhere important, doing something that mattered. Hurriedly, Ilibar took up a stance in front of the empty throne, bared blade in hand, and said aloud to the empty, echoing chamber, "Horned Lady, bring us victory from beyond hope; Forefather Oak, keep me standing; Dark One, guide my biting blade. Be with me, you Three, if you love Aglirta half as much as I do!"
His last words had been almost a whisper, but they rang clear in the empty room-and as their last echoes died, he heard a desperate shout from outside the room, followed by a crash, some cursing, and then a louder boom as the doors he was wont to guard burst open.
Ranking Sword Garzhar-his helm gone and one shoulder-plate dangling uselessly-and two other guards reeled back into the room, grunting and gasping with every weary swing of their swords. Slow, weak, and reeling with weariness, they'd have been dead long ago, Ilibar saw, if they'd faced young, fresh foes.
"Yet in some ways, the Melted were worse. Unseeing, inexorable, staggering forward heedless of pain, they kept coming-
Ilibar winced as two blades slashed from different directions. Old Garzhar flung up his sword in a desperate parry, tilting his head away, and sparks flew from the fury of that meeting of war steel.
Unscathed by any swordblade, the old man in armor staggered back and almost fell-and Ilibar could take no more.
"Garzhar!" he cried. "To me! To the throne! Rest you, and let me sport a while!"
The old, weathered face turned towards him, in surprise, and then grew a slow grin. The ranking sword waved his blade in a weary gesture as the two Melted pressed forward. "Be my-guest, good Ilibar," he gasped, his words almost drowned out in the scream of one of the other guards dying with two swords through him. "I'm-about done-"
Ilibar launched himself forward in a rush, almost losing his footing on the slick marble. As it was, he came sliding into the fray faster than he'd intended, lost his balance ducking back from the slashing sword of a Melted-they were blind, yet they always knew where living foes stood!– and sat down hard on his behind, crashing into the dead legs of one of the cadavers.
It crashed over past him, and he hacked at its head and arm and leg as he rose-dancing back as the next Melted came at him. He stepped aside so that two couldn't catch him between them-and then looked down the hall at a legion of stiffly marching Melted, coming towards him, and knew just how soon his doom would come.
"Three be with me!" he snarled, and lashed out recklessly at the nearest Melted. By luck his blade caught its throat, spinning it around with its head lolling at a horrible angle-but it swung back at him as if he'd done nothing to it.
"Fall back!" Garzhar shouted, his voice cracked and breathless. "Back f to the throne, lads!"
The other guard-Keldert, perhaps, though Ilibar never had time to look properly