A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [75]
The white light was fading around him, now-and a sudden, angry sob or snarl erupted from Ariathe Talasom, a moment before she hissed an incantation-and a ruby-red beam of fell magic stabbed out from her fingers to smite the king.
Kelgrael turned a little to face her, but did no more. Her spell raced at him, seemed to be sucked aside into his sword-which glowed briefly, as if white starlight had raced down it, from tip to pommel and back-and then sent her own ruby rathance back at her.
"The, murderer!" she shrieked, her cry echoing strangely in the ragged vault overhead. Its echoes were still shouting back at the room below when the red fire reached her, washed over her with horrible speed, and left only crumbling ashes in its wake. In so fleering an instant, Ariathe Talasom was no more.
"No!" Dacele cried, and swung her head around to glare at Olone. "Sister, aid me! Together-thornarrows!"
"Yes" Olone snarled, her hands already shaping intricate gestures. The last sister-it was the one who'd slipped him the healing potion, Raulin saw-stood silent, her hands raised but unmoving, as she watched her sisters. She took a step back and shook her head slightly, looking uncertain.
Sarasper and Brightpennant exchanged grim glances. There was nothing they could do against spells-even if they hurled something right now and by some miracle struck down a sorceress, it would be too late.
Olone was a skilled spellweaver; she brought her magic to readiness and held it there, risen force keening in the air around her, until Dacele's thornarrow spell was ready. They nodded to each other, took a few strides farther apart-and hurled their spells in unison at the king, striking at him from both flanks at once.
Kelgrael lifted his sword and held it out before him, shaking his head slightly. Long, slender dark needles of force-maroon thorns two feet or more long-raced at it, swirled somehow into and then out and around that sword, despite their length-and sped back at the sorceresses who'd cast them.
The deaths were bloodier this time. Raulin choked after one glimpse of Olone swaying and spitting blood, transfixed by a dozen dark needles, one sprouting from an eye-but before the young bard could look away, the thornarrows erupted in angry maroon fire. In an instant of raging flame the sagging, arrow-bristling women became forms of ash amid dying purple flickerings… dark things that sank, crumbled, and were gone.
The only light left in the throne chamber now came from the king's sword. He held it up like a lantern so that Sarasper, Raulin, and the baron could dearly see him raise his other hand in salute to them, and then wave at them to stay back and keep clear of what he was about to do now. Thrice he gravely waved them away, ere turning with sudden speed to stride across the broken, littered marble to where the last Talasorn sorceress knelt by the ashes that had been her sisters, sobbing.
She looked up when the glowing blade came down, eyes streaming- and the king put the sharp point of his sword to her trembling throat.
Despite the king's gestures, Sarasper took a step or two nearer, to see clearly what befell. The Talasorn sorceress was staring fearlessly up at Kelgrael, fury shining bright through her tears.
"Who are you," the king asked quietly, "and why did you four do"- his free hand waved at the wreckage around, but his eyes never left her face-"all this?"
"Tshamarra Talasorn am I," she spat, "and we came here, we sisters, to shy you, King of Aglirta! Our father's dead because of you, and-and if you gave me a blade right now, I'd use it on you! So kill me now, King Snowsar! I've sworn to be your bane, and by the blood of my sisters and of my father, I will be your death. I'll never rest until one of us is dead!"
The swordtip moved ever so slightly at her throat, like an icy finger stroking her skin. "I've grown so very tired of slaying," the man above it said wearily, and his eyes looked as old and tired as the seaswept mountains of the Isles. "And the