Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [104]
Tanalasta jerked it off Luthax's neck. "Where did you get this?"
The old man smiled. "So you are interested," he said. "Funny, I can't seem to recall with this crown on my head..
"Never." Wondering what sort of wife would refuse the bargain Luthax offered, Tanalasta kicked the old man in the ribs and stepped away. "Lock this monster in his box."
Owden stuck his head down through the ceiling. "And be certain that he can cast no spells!"
"Yes," said Tanalasta. "We must be certain of that. See to it that his hands and jaw are broken-and broken well."
30
"Loose!" The arrowmaster's voice was level and calm, his eyes on the river below. The third volley of shafts he'd ordered hissed into the air, briefly sought the sun, then fell in a deadly rain on the orcs struggling below.
Tuskers staggered and fell in water that was already dark with their blood. The heaped bodies of those who'd fallen earlier rose out of the river like a dozen grotesque islets, so choking the Starwater that it was threatening to spill beyond its banks into the mud the orcs were advancing through.
They'd not even reached the front rank of Purple Dragons yet-a bristling line of lowered pikes and bills halfway up the hill that fell away to the river, fangs ready to greet their foe-so the archers of Cormyr could fire freely, raining their shafts on anything in or near the river. Hundreds of tuskers were already down, and still they came on, more afraid of the dragon behind them than the humans before them.
Even the arrowmaster winced at the sight of blinded, maddened orcs striking out at their fellows around them, snorting and squealing like gigantic hogs, with arrows that hadn't yet slain them jutting out of their eyes. Those who hadn't been hit lumbered ahead tirelessly, a few of them having wits enough to pluck up the dead and hold them over their heads and shoulders as meat shields against the hungrily hissing shafts.
"How fare you?" a self-important swordlord coming along the line shouted into the whistling din of arrows.
The arrowmaster did not-quite-smile as he replied, "Still standing, sir. No losses yet, and we've plenty of shafts still."
"Why're those men doing nothing?" the officer snapped, pointing with his drawn sword.
"They're not doing nothing, sir. They're waiting, shafts at the ready, you see?"
The swordlord blinked at the silence that followed the question, not realizing an answer was expected, and after a moment asked flatly, "Why?"
"They're waiting to defend the bridge."
The swordlord frowned like a lost thundercloud. "But we're holding the bridge untouched! The tuskers haven't even reached it yet, thanks to our bowmen down there-bowmen who, I might add, are fighting hard whilst these stand idle."
The arrowmaster nodded. "Indeed, sir. My eyes have actually revealed that to me, too, sir."
The swordlord drew back as if he'd been slapped, then thrust his face up against that of the archer, nose to nose. "Are you mocking me, soldier?" he snarled. "Explain why they're waiting, this instant."
Without bothering to turn his head, the arrowmaster bellowed, "Loose!"
As the swordlord flinched back with a snarl, another hissing volley of death leaped into the sky.
The arrowmaster gestured after it, to where dozens of orcs were falling, clutching at the shafts that had transfixed them. "This slaughter can't go on, sir, without something more from the foe."
" 'Something more'? What, man?"
"The dragon, sir. If we keep this up much longer, she'll come, sir. She'll strike at the bridge first, where men are crowded in and can't run from her. When it's clear, the tuskers'll be across it and up here for us, sir."
The swordlord swallowed and stared at the arrowmaster's calm face, then he looked back down at the bridge, and back again at the arrowmaster. Along the way, his face went slowly white.
"Ah, carry on," he choked out, and stumbled away down the