Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [11]
The bull stiffened and let out a tremendous roar. Internal bellows whined, and the burnt-orange smoke billowed from the monster's maw and empty eye socket with renewed vigor.
Poison, Thomdor reminded himself grimly as he lumbered forward on rubbery legs. Horns slashed, but he drove them aside with his battered blade and then lifted it and drove it weakly into the gaping eye socket amid the flowing smoke.
The bull shook its head, and Thomdor's blade was wrenched from his grasp. He stumbled again, the tunnel before him becoming smaller, the beast receding in the distance.
Azoun struck at the monster's other eye, and the clockwork golden head swung around again. The bull stamped once and then charged, trying to impale the king on its wicked horns. Its maw was open, and the acrid smoke wreathed its head, trailing behind it in oily wisps.
To dodge left or right was to be gored on those glittering horns. Azoun dropped to one knee, raising his blade in front of him. As the creature bore down on him, the king made a desperate lunge, striking into the bull's open maw, driving his blade in to the hilt.
Sparks sprayed and metal skirled as the blade bounced from one unseen innard to another. There was a metallic singing and snapping, and the blade burst out the back of the bull's skull, spraying a thick purple-black fluid.
The clockwork beast hung motionless for a moment, pinioned on the blade, its horns inches from the king's face. Then it slowly, almost gracefully, dropped in its tracks. Whirring noises rose and clattered briefly from its collapsing form, only to die away once more.
Silence descended immediately on a battlefield wreathed in acrid-smelling fog. The king let go his blade and stood up unsteadily, shoulders trembling. Aunadar, the only man still holding a sword, poked at the glittering body a few times.
It lay still, but Thomdor could barely see it through the swimming tunnel. He staggered forward. He had to tell Azoun to summon aid for Bhereu.
The baron stopped short at the sight of His Majesty. The king's flesh was bone-white and drawn as tightly over his skull as that of any mummy in a tomb. The royal eyes were wide, almost panicked, and Azoun's brow and beard were beaded with dripping sweat.
The king mouthed a few words Thomdor could not catch, then collapsed in front of the golden bull's horns.
Thomdor stared down at him, feeling his own knees going weak, but Aunadar was at his elbow in an instant, holding him up, voice shrill with fear. "What happened? What's wrong with the king-and the duke? Are they ill? The bull didn't strike him. What's wrong?"
The tunnel of his vision was growing smaller, Thomdor sagged against an arm that seemed afraid to hold him. He had to get this boy to summon help, or House Obarskyr was lost.
"Right… boot," the baron gasped. The words felt like acid in his throat, he could barely speak. "King's right boot," he rasped. "Wand."
Aunadar looked at him blankly for a moment, as if trying to translate Thomdor's wheezing words, then knelt down beside the king and peered into his right boot. His fingers closed on something, and he looked questioningly back at Thomdor as he drew it forth: a slender ivory wand, sheathed just inside the royal boot top.
Thomdor set his teeth and managed a nod, mentally snarling at the young man to get on with it. The tunnel had closed almost to nothing, and the darkness around it was crawling with dark, monstrous serpents and spiders, waiting for the Warden of the Eastern Marches to falter so they could claim all three of the royals.
Aunadar turned to the baron with the wand flat across his palms. There was a shocked, questioning look on his young face.
Thomdor licked lips that were suddenly thick and numb. "Break it," he tried to roar, but it came out as a husking