A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [7]
"I can only conclude," the strained tones of Sarasper rasped next to his ear, "that you wish to proclaim to the listening land once more your usual complaint, procurer? Too much magic, wallowing in the dust, and arrows-have I captured the list rightly?"
"Fancy yourself a herald?" Craer murmured back. "So I started shouting, eh? Pray pardon… Embra must be still aware for the farhearing to work. I'm flat on my face, still seeing purple-and-white fire whenever I try to stare at anything-care to enlighten me as to what happened?"
"Later," the healer told him grimly. "For now, be silent, and lie still."
"Eh?"
"Silence, procurer!"
Something in the steely fury of Sarasper's tone made Craer obey, for once. Through slitted eyes he stared at the curling dust-just visible as lazy shadows beyond the white-and-purple fire that still danced before his mazed eyes-and waited until his sight returned enough to show him something more of what had so scared Sarasper.
Whatever it was must have slain or stunned the archers with those lightnings; the only sound was the muffled thudding of a downed horse twisting in its last throes. Craer waited tensely, dagger in hand, hoping he'd be able to see a foe before a sword or spear was driven through him.
A boot crunched on road stones very close to his head, and he heard Embra gasp. Should he fling himself wildly away, or-?
Not all that far from the roiling dust and many sprawled bodies in the road, a cautious hand closed around a knob where once a branch had sprouted, so its owner could lean around the curve of a dark, old tree trunk and peer through the rustling leaves at the few figures still moving, where battle had raged moments before.
Not an arrow sang, nor did any bowman stand ready to shoot more-yet the Overdukes of Aglirta had, it seemed, fallen far short of victorious. The thief among them lay in the road, motionless. But for a betraying ripple of tense, quivering shoulders, he might have been dead.
Wincing in a half crouch on the road not far away, his arm dark and wet with blood and transfixed by many arrows, Overduke Hawkril Anharu grimaced at a lone figure walking slowly up the road towards him. Twice the hulking armaragor tried to pick up his warsword in the trembling, blood-dripping fingers of his stricken arm… and twice he failed.
Beyond the armored warrior, against the ferny bank that bounded the far side of the road, the healer and the sorceress lay huddled, the old man trying to shield the slumped, white-faced body of the woman with his own. He, too, glared his defiance at the lone approaching figure.
The watcher in the trees drew back, crouching low and pressing close against the concealing trunk, yet watching still.
Red mists of pain curled at the corners of Hawkril's vision. Spitting blood, he fought to hold them at bay, to keep clear sight of the man now walking towards him. Tall, slender, dark, and young. Handsome, too… a small tattoo like a vertical drawn dagger on his left cheek, and sharp-nay, smouldering-dark eyes above. A few rings on long, slender fingers, those hands not marked by work. A dagger at belt, black hose, high boots, and a dark tunic above, richly made but bearing no device nor noble colors. Someone, Hawk knew, he'd never laid eyes on before.
The newcomer stopped just out of reach of any desperate lunge a man of the armaragor's size might make, and stared down at the pain-wracked warrior. His hands hung empty at his sides, but cupped slightly. Wisps of purple smoke studded with winking white sparks still rose from his palms-sparks that crackled menacingly as he raised his hands to point at Hawkril and Sarasper.
"Should I slay you all, Overdukes of Aglirta?" this unfamiliar wizard asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Or