A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [73]
Someone else was swearing, not far overhead. "Such power! Dacele Talasorn cried, her hands trembling. "Sisters, are you sure-?"
"Strike at it with Sarandor's Seekings!" Olone shouted. "Waver not! This is the way!"
"The Sleeping King must die," Ariathe snarled, lips drawn back from clenched teeth, spell-sparks swirling from her eyes, "and Aglirta with him! Strike, sisters-strike!"
Hawkril was still a few stumbling strides short of the River Throne and Embra's pleading eyes when the murmured chantings ceased, and the air above his right shoulder suddenly shone with a strange shifting light-first coppery and bright, and then green, deepening to dark emerald.
"Back!" Sarasper shouted from somewhere. "Hawkril, get back!"
The armaragor could not have stopped if he'd wanted to-and with the lady he loved struggling in pain right in front of him, Hawkril Anharu didn't want to. Gods, for a Vale free of all sorcery! If the Three were in no mood to grant that, what he wanted was somehow to have magic enough in his hands that he could turn and rend these Thrice-cursed sorceresses, and all others of their ilk, too, smashing them up into the sky and out of Aglirta forever!
What Hawkril did was lumber dizzily on as copper and emerald lances of light stabbed down around him, seeking the throne-and then, as the armaragor stretched out his hands to try to snatch Embra from the faltering, spitting lightnings once more-finding it.
The River Throne flashed as the beams of magic touched it, and suddenly blazed up as bright and orange as glossy-polished copper, with Embra frozen at its heart a handspan above the stone seat, fingers and every tress of her hair outflung in all directions like a bristling of straight, rigid arrows. Emerald lightnings snarled warningly at Hawkril's fingertips as he flung himself nearer, and then there was a sound like the shriek of a great bell riven in twain, and-
There was nothing in front of his eyes but white emptiness.
He was falling, flung off his feet by a great upleap of the unseen marble beneath him, and there was a strange, discordant singing in his ears. Other things were falling, too, and whirling past, felt more than seen, and-something hard and heavy struck him across the face and chest, and he was tumbling through the air, clutching at nothing… nothing…
Raulin Castlecloaks sobbed, clutching Baron Brightpennant's arm so tightly that Glarsimber roared in startled pain-a roar unheard amidst the ear-shattering cacophony of the River Throne exploding.
Magic erupted in sprays and bolts and struggling helices of light so bright that it hurt the eyes, and Embra Silvertree was hurled screaming across the room, carrying Hawkril with her. They cartwheeled through Melted who'd all suddenly ignited into a walking forest of greasy flames, and in their wake-as Craer Delnbone was flung along the back wall like a torn corner of parchment caught in a gale-the ceiling began to fall.
Sarasper Codelmer stared up at spreading cracks and tumbling slabs of stone, and found the only possible shield: he got himself right under one of those floating whorls of blue flame where sorceresses stood shrieking their triumph.
As tons of stone began to fall, shattering marble in a deafening, never-slowing thunder, he only hoped that Raulin and Glarsimber would have time to do the same.
The ground trembled under racing hooves, and more than one man fell from his saddle. Lord Bloodblade of Aglirta clutched at his reins as the armaragors around him, riding hard, shouted their alarm and amazement.
The rumbling went on, the leaves of the swaying trees hissing loudly, and-they all knew where it was coming from, even when it spread to the mountains and echoed back, until it seemed all Aglirta was atremble.
The thunder was coming from Flowfoam Isle.
Men cried out in fear. "The Risen King!" an armsman shouted, not far away. "The king returns!"
Others took up that cry. With a snarl of rage Sendrith Duthjack stood up