Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [3]
Across the threshold, he saw Guardcaptain Ruldel's face twist in pain as he sagged back into the arms of a young man in mage robes. Many arrows stood out of the dragons on the warrior's surcoat and shield, and already his armor was dark with blood. Above him stood a dwarf, face grim, bloody axe in hand. The war wizard goggled at them all from the doorway, frozen in disbelief. As the commander sank into the boy's arms, he groaned, struggled to speak for a moment, and looked up at the dwarf.
The words came in a rough hiss. "Tell Azoun, I… we were togeth…"The rest was lost forever in a last rush of blood.
Delg shook his head as he tugged the shield out of the man's lifeless hand; the fool had not even had time to get it properly on his arm. Now he was past needing it. DeIg crouched, holding the shield-it was as tall as he was-up to protect Narm. The young mage was drenched with sweat, exhausted from deflecting far too many arrows with a feeble, invisible magic meant for hanging cloaks on pegs or fetching small things from across a room. The spell had failed in the end, and Narm barely clung to wakefulness.
Arrows hissed and hummed past them, reaching hungrily through the air close by… toward the open door of the guardhouse. The war wizard stood there, still looking astonished as the shafts tore into him.
Irritation joined puzzlement on his face before he gurgled and toppled slowly sideways, an arrow through his throat. Errant shafts cracked off the stone wall beside him. There was a barked command from whence the arrows had come. Through the sudden stillness that followed, one man came riding, trotting up to confront the young man and the dwarf. The frightened faces of villagers peered from windows. All around the Zhentilar, the soldiers of Cormyr lay sprawled in blood, pinned down by many arrows. One warrior hung limply out the open window of a cottage that was already crackling into rising flames.
As he reined up in front of Delg, the dark-armored Zhentilar swung a drawn long sword lazily through the air, trailing drops of fresh blood. He looked down at the grim dwarf, over at the sprawled wizard in the guardhouse doorway, and then around at the frightened, watching faces, and his cruel face brightened in satisfaction. He rose in his saddle with insolent grace and brandished his bloody sword again.
"Come out, wench!' he bellowed at the open guardhouse door. "Come out, or well burn this village, and you with it".
A murmur of fear went up. The bewildered folk of Thundarlun could not believe so many strong, capable Purple Dragons – a soldier for every three villagers could be slain so quickly and easily. In numb silence, they looked down again at the still forms and the blood. Had the gods forsaken Thundarlun?
The Zhentilar beckoned impatiently without looking behind him; one of his men obediently rode up with a blazing torch in hand. With a cold smile, the Zhent swordmaster looked around at the stunned, fearful faces of the watching villagers. Slowly and deliberately, he wiped his blade on the flank of his horse-it snorted and shifted under him-and he sheathed it. Then he reached out, took the torch, and brandished it like a blade, trailing rippling flames through the air. His horse rolled its eyes in fear, the Zhent pulled back sharply on the reins to prevent it from bolting and swung his new weapon in arcs of flame. "Come out!" he snarled, or taste fire!"
Silence fell… and lengthened, hanging heavy on the smoky air. Villagers murmured in fear as the wait continued, and the swordmaster's face grew stony. He raised the torch and sat his saddle like a statue of impending doom. The silence stretched. The fire he held on high spat and crackled.
The dwarf stood watching it, eyes narrow and shield raised over the kneeling form of Narm, who had grown pale and seemed to be having trouble swallowing. And then a slim girl in dusty travel leathers