A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [65]
Perhaps Blackgult had died in that spasm of sorcery, doing something to Bloodblade-or trying to. Dabblers in magic seldom succeeded in what they tried, after all…
Or succeeded all too well, to richly rue their deed.
That meant, Ingryl supposed, that the gods had very cruel senses of humor. But enough of wizardry wit and hazarding; he was growing cold and stiff, and no hint of what the cause of the great wave of spell-force might have been came to him-or would come. His dazed mind was as dark as the Silvertree cellars around him.
"Something mighty has happened," Ingryl Ambelter repeated to himself, a little angrily, "and I've missed it." Feebly and painfully he wormed his way through the doorway, and dragged himself onward into the cold and waiting darkness.
Light flashed like the lashing lightnings of a wild storm, racing across the splendid high ceiling of a certain chamber in Arlund, where a sphere of spell-rathance floated. Thrice it burst from the sphere to snarl around the room. The five robed Bowdragons in the chamber trembled uncontrollably as it clawed through them.
Even when smoke curled up from their robes, pain lashed their eyes to tears, and blood filled their mouths and streamed from their noses, they ignored the stabbing lances of wizard-fire-to stare intently into the sphere.
Abruptly one of them made a halfhearted grab at the glowing orb, choking back what might have been a sob.
The other four recoiled from the sphere in horror. "No!" one of them shouted. "Not again! Not Jhavarr!"
"That's it! Another snarled, drawing himself up to his full height and shaking a fist in the air-a fist that suddenly crackled with tiny fires and lightnings of its own, spitting from between clenched fingers. "Aglirta and all of its cruel, grasping mages must be destroyed!"
Bloodblade seemed not to notice the gentle sighings of his own shielding spells dying away around him. He peered through the fine rain of blood at smoke and ruin, seeking a particular hilltop-where-yes!-shimmerings he'd warned the swordcaptain against were winking out.
"And so passes Blackgult!" he chuckled, watching the last one flicker and die. "The swaggering Shield of the Risen King is shattered!"
Snatching the rally horn from his belt, he blew it and spurred his snorting, fearful mount to the nearest hilltop, beckoning his warcaptains with great sweeps of his arm.
Soon enough he was ringed by eager faces, staring at him hungrily out of helms adew with blood. Everything had that iron tang-and everything was covered in a dripping wash of red. Gods, but sorcery bought impressive deaths, if naught else!
"Get you to Flowfoam as fast as you can," he told his men grimly. "Seize me the Throne! Once Kelgrael is good and dead and I'm king, the rest of the barons will come to me-on their knees, or waving vain swords, or as corpses. Barons always come to Flowfoam, as surely as water flows downward. There I'll be victorious!"
They still stared at him in eager, expectant silence.
He looked around at them all, struck the flat of his sword against his thigh with a ringing clang, and shouted, "What're you waiting for? Ride!"
"For Bloodblade!" one of them roared. "Ride!"
"Ride!" they took up the cry, and were off, galloping like madmen, blowing their own rallying horns wildly as they went. Bloodblade waved his sword on high to his troops, and allowed himself a grim smile. With a sound like reluctant thunder, his whole army started to move. East, to the docks-and thence to Flowfoam!
"Embra," Sarasper muttered, as their boat grated against the Flowfoam dock. "Embra, awaken! I need your wits, quickly!"
"You're not the only one," Lady Silvertree murmured drowsily. "In fact, if I gave a piece of mind to all in Aglirta who needed it…"
"Not now!" the old healer hissed, as both Craer and Hawkril, busily mooring the boat,