A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [53]
Craer launched himself into one armaragor and sent the man sprawling from his saddle. Alighting on its cantle doubled up like a frog, he leaped to the next horse, catching its rider by the neck. They struggled for a moment ere Craer's dagger found a way under a helm and into the throat beneath-and then the procurer was scrambling to his feet for another leap.
Lances stabbed at him from horsemen beyond, so he spun around and jumped at the back of the first rank of battling armaragors-specifically, onto the back of a shouting knight who was trying to carve up the longfangs perched on the head of his screaming, bucking horse.
The last Raulin saw of the procurer was two daggers rising and falling in a vicious whirlwind, and Craer's face appearing momentarily above them to snarl, "Are you deaf, Castlecloaks? Get Embra clear!"
"They certainly enjoy their butchery," the man with no face commented, as he rose smoothly from in front of the glowing whorl of magic.
The man still crouched over the whorl looked up sharply. "An Aglirtan failing, but not one exclusive to the folk of the Vale. You're off to-?"
"Find and follow Flaeros Delcamper, and see that the dragon scepter is kept safe. It's worth a thousand dead Aglirtans."
"Or more," the Koglaur who'd cast the scrying whorl agreed, looking back at the bright scene at its heart, wherein battle was raging at the burning Silvertree docks. "Fare you well."
A fierce, beaklike nose and a high forehead grew smoothly on the smooth, blank flesh of the departing Koglaur's face. "Fare you better," he replied, still eyeless. He did something with one of his hands to a ring he wore on his other hand-and vanished.
The Koglaur above the whorl curved his lips in a smile that held no mirth and bent his will upon his scrying magic. Obediently the spinning wheel of flickering light grew larger, and the scene within it swam closer-reaching out to dwell upon one shouting, sweating man.
Glarsimber Belklarravus, the Baron of Brightpennant, wore an expression of fierce joy as he staggered and hacked, limping badly and covered with blood that was mostly his own. Lances stabbed and tore at him, clenched jaw and corded neck betrayed his pain, and he reeled in weariness-but he laughed betimes, amid the clang of arms, and his eyes danced with excitement, like a young boy at play.
"He's going to die," a new voice murmured, from above the whorl-caster's shoulder, "and yet he seems to… enjoy it."
"Aglirtans are like that," the scrying Koglaur replied. "I would find some of the customs of Sarinda strange, I'm sure. This, you'll get used to. It's one of the reasons I love this land."
The Koglaur from Sarinda leaned closer to the whorl. "Might I know some of the others?"
The whorl-caster's smile was real, this time. "So much old magic, waiting to be snatched up and used. Endlessly scheming barons, all of the doings of the Serpent-priests as they grow restless to get their hands on both magic and the Throne… and the folk of the Vale dream so fiercely, too. Right now, they've hunger for a strong king, and turn to this Blood-blade in hopes he'll become such."
"And will he?"
"Too early to say, yet. Warlords are seldom good kings-brutal, efficient kings, yes, but farsighted and caring for their realm, except as a prize to clutch tight and defend against the thieves, no." The whorl-caster shrugged. "Perhaps he'll be different."
The Koglaur from Sarinda gestured at the bright scene of battle, where Baron Glarsimber was still staggering and hacking happily, shouting defiance at the armaragors he was hacking down. "Yet for Bloodblade to crown himself, this man we watch must soon die."
The whorl-caster looked up. "We love this land, and admire some of its folk-but in our meddlings, we dare not favor a few." He waved a hand at the battling baron. "We needed him to do a thing, and he did it. His time is done; Thuulor goes now to guard the scepter."
"Ah, this one was