A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [81]
Someone on the battlements murmured a soft curse, and lowered what he'd used as a club. The Spellmaster still had a back side to his skull purely because too much haste had been necessary to deliver a proper, killing blow-a mistake that would be addressed next time.
The problem was that wizards not thoroughly dealt with always charged Darsar such a high price to arrange a "next time."
Something was happening, up ahead. Men were falling-no, their horses were falling, spilling riders in all directions, of course-and his hurrying host was riding over them. There were screams, and men cursing, and fights breaking out, as everything slowed into tight-packed confusion.
Furiously Bloodblade snatched out his horn again-but already sword-captains were blowing theirs, calling a halt.
"Three Above!" the warlord snarled, standing in his stirrups in a vain attempt to see what was going on. Everyone was crammed together along the road, with the trees standing like dark walls close by-walls that could sprout arrows at any moment, or even a few enraged boars, for that matter!
He wanted to get to Flowfoam now, before anyone could steal away with the crown or the Throne, or whelm a force there against him!
"What befalls?" he shouted. "Why're we stopping?" The nearest swordcaptain relayed his shout, and others took it up, over the heads of the cursing, clanging, packed-together armsmen.
With Blackgult gone, if he could but outrace word of the regent's passing to the Isle, he might just be able to take the Throne without bloodshed-and without any courtier having the chance to sneak off with royal riches or treaties… or, graul it, with their own heads still on their shoulders!
The shouts were bringing word back, now. "The horses, Lord Blood-blade!" a swordcaptain called. "That blast in the sky-many of them now bleed from the head, and cannot keep balance, and so fall! And all are exhausted!"
Duthjack was too good a warlord not to see, now that everyone was halted, that many of the horses near him-and the men riding them, too- were weary. He saw no mounts staggering or streaming blood, but for some under his eye, the choices were rest or collapse. He was not so desperate, yet, that he need gain the cloak of cruelty in the eyes of Aglirtans, before he even took the Throne over them.
Raging inwardly, he called to the nearest swordcaptain, "Spread the word: we halt, and camp. The foreguard are to walk their horses far enough ahead for us to have room to dismount, tether, and lie down for sleep. All others, dismount and be easy."
The robed figure on the horse beside Bloodblade turned his head, and a single soft word came out of his shadowed cowl: "No."
Bloodblade scowled. " 'Tis true: men and mounts are spent. The best deed for us now is to make camp, right here."
"And what if you all stood at the Flowfoam docks right now?" the robed man murmured. "How weary would you all be then?"
Bloodblade stared at his questioner, his face flaming and his temper rising to match it. He saw a cold smile in the depths of the cowl ere the robed man turned in his saddle to snake out a hand and close it on the neck of an armsman who rode nearby, helm in hand and his hair a tousled, sweat-stiff tangle.
The armsman stiffened, turned his head to see who'd touched him-and froze in that twisted position, his angry eyes acquiring a staring, wide-eyed gaze.
The cowled figure raised his other hand and cast a spell. Bloodblade watched, fury falling away to a faint feeling of sickness, as here and there throughout the host, he saw other robed, cowled figures grasping other warriors. Their other hands rose more or less in unison, to cast the same spell that had just been worked beside Bloodblade.
As Bloodblade watched numbly, he saw that there was nothing left in the eyes of the armsman he'd seen touched-no, nothing left of the eyes: they were empty, dark pits!
The armsman toppled from his saddle onto the saddle horn of his cowled slayer, and Bloodblade could