A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [47]
Fountaining blood, huge lumps of meat studded with horse heads, hooves, and protruding bones sagged and fell aside-and through their ruin galloped snarling men in armor, lances lowered. Raulin saw one of them swing viciously with his mace at another mounted man he was passing- and the wizard who'd wrought such ruin spewed blood and brains as he pitched forward out of his saddle, the back of his head missing.
"Bastard idiot!" the armaragor screamed at the falling mage. It wasn't the sort of battle cry Raulin had heard before-but then, he'd never been in a battle like this before!
Boats were drifting away from the shattered docks now, plucked by the river-some of them overturned or full of water already, soon to sink or fetch up on the rocks a little way downstream-and then Raulin had no more time to snatch glances at anything, as a glittering forest of lancetips reached for him.
A stocky figure in torn and jangling armor sprang past him, smiling wolfishly. " Well now," Glarsimber Belklarravus cried jovially, sword flashing in his hand. "Well now!"
The baron ran along the heaved and shattered dock to meet the lances, even as his would-be slayers reined in sharply, horses reared-and one overeager armaragor and his mount slid helplessly along the muddy, board-strewn bank and plunged into the water.
"Stand and hold, men of Aglirta! Hold!" Glarsimber roared, in a voice that must have carried clearly to the far-off north bank of the Aglirta. "As a Baron of Aglirta, I command you! Get you back!
His answer was a chorus of sneering laughter-and two viciously thrusting lances. He chopped one aside and ran a few paces along the other ere grasping it and tugging, hard.
Its wielder pitched from his saddle to crash heavily down onto a broken tangle of timbers. Bloody points of wood jutted up through twisted armor-and that armaragor flopped and arched twice or thrice, like a fish landed on the bank, then fell limp and still.
More lances thrust at the baron, but he danced back onto the ruined dock with that same wolfish smile on his lips, and said, "Treason, is it? Men of Loushoond, and Tarlagar, and Ornentar, I charge thee with treason against the River Throne! For that, the penalty is death!
"Hah! As to that, we'll feed you death soon enough!" one of the knights snarled, urging his mount forward. Its hooves slipped on wet planks, and he drew it hastily to a halt, lance wavering, as he saw Over-duke Delnbone advancing along a lone dock timber to his left with a cluster of knives protruding from between the fingers of one hand, Brightpennant smiling bleakly at him to his right-and straight ahead of him, beyond a twisted ruin of splintered spars and oars, the old man of the overdukes slowly changing shape into something large, and hairy, and spider-legged…
There was a sudden growl from the water beyond, and a large, gauntleted hand came into view. It closed over the end of a piling, fingers tightening like talons, trailing a grunt-almost a growl-of effort in its wake, and then the familiar hulking shoulder-plates of Hawkril Anharu rose into view, trailing river water, and through a wet and tousled forest of hair Raulin saw the armaragor's eyes blazing like two coals. The cause of his rage hung like a rag in the fold of one of Hawkril's mighty arms-a slender and shapely rag. Embra Silvertree's eyes were closed and her mouth hung open, limp and slack.
"I believe," Hawkril said, with terrible care and gentleness, "that it's time-and past time-I did some killing. Of men who richly deserve it."
He took two swift, ponderous strides forward and thrust Embra's body at Raulin. "Here, lad," he said curtly. "Don't let her fall, see that she breathes, and keep her shielded from arrows behind this!