• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Someone had left behind a shield with broken straps in the vessel; Hawk dug into the water with it as if he was stirring gruel, and drove his boat up against Raulin in a few furious strokes.

"Roll them in, lad," he growled, clamping the boats together with his huge hands. "Gently."

Raulin grunted and banged and even muttered a curse before it was done, but Hawkril hadn't had time to do more than look around, see that there were only three other boats still afloat-all of them adrift, and well downriver already-ere the bard said, "Uh, Overduke Hawk… Hawkril! Uh, sir!"

Hawkril turned his head, saw that Brightpennant, Embra, and Raulin were all now in his boat, and roared, "Craer! Sarasper! To me!"

Swords clashed, beyond the smoke, and there came no answer. For a moment Hawkril wondered if his friends had fallen-and then the wolf-spider came scrambling into view, someone threw a lance far too feebly after it, and Craer vaulted into sight over the heaved and splintered wreckage of a boat that had been driven partway through the dock, and came sprinting past the still-quivering lance. "About time!" he called. "I was almost out of daggers!"

"Behind you!" Hawkril roared. "Right behindyou!"

Craer dodged abruptly sideways, leaping into the water-and the armaragor racing after him hacked desperately at empty air, overbalanced, and pitched into a tangle of timbers, face-first, with a grunt and a very meaty thud.

The second armaragor tried to slow and turn, skidded, and finally managed to lurch to a stop-in time to see the wolf-spider, on the very end of the dock, dwindle into a bony old man who lowered himself clumsily over the edge, and was gone.

"After them!" Baron Ornentar bellowed, waving his sword in reckless flourishes. "After them!"

"Up and in, old Longfangs," Craer said, coming up beside Sarasper in the water and boosting him towards the boat. "We're bound for Flow-foam."

"Ah, yes," Sarasper agreed sourly, "where we'll be sure to find restful peace in plenty. Thankee."

With a splash and tumble, he was aboard, Hawkril's iron strength holding him until he could catch hold of the nearest thwart. Craer surged after him, up and in, as smoothly as a river otter-and Hawkril leaned out with his warsword in his hand, and drove it solidly into the bottom of Raulin's leaking boat. Water welled up in a rush, and Hawkril snatched back his sword and shoved down, enthusiastically.

The boat was half-full as it slid astern, and they watched pursuing armaragors run out of dock and discover there were no usable boats handy, at about the same moment. Ornentar pointed downriver at the few fast-dwindling boats in the distance and shouted something, and as Hawkril tugged oars out from under Embra's slumped body and handed his shield down the boat to Craer, they saw the armaragors begin to run the other way, back along the ruined dock towards shore.

"Well, at least there're no bowmen left!" Raulin said brightly.

"Still your tongue, lad," Sarasper snapped. "We're not out of bowshot yet-give them no ideas!"

The old healer was already clambering awkwardly along the boat towards Brightpennant, who still wore someone else's sword in his side. "Have any of them started swimming yet?"

"In that armor?" Craer looked back. "No, they're idiots, but not complete fools. I think."

"No," Sarasper agreed, "we're the complete fools-on our way to we-know-not-what, in yonder castle, with our Dwaer gone and our sorceress stricken." He glanced up at Craer, and added gravely, "We fight well, though."

"A score and seven," Craer replied promptly. "One more if the one who was chasing me just now broke his neck."

Sarasper shook his head. "Life isn't all a matter of keeping score, look you," he growled, gently turning Glarsimber over.

"Oh? What else does it hold?" Craer asked innocently.

"Well, there's food," Hawkril replied, rowing hard. "And-" He glanced at Embra's shapely form, and then at Raulin. "Yes," he growled. "As I said, there's food."

Craer snorted-and then fell silent,