Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [165]
Augrathar Buruin, High Huntmaster of Vaunted Malar, raised an imperious hand. It was swathed in a furry gauntlet whose fingers were tipped with the claws of great cats, and whose outer side was studded with the bone barbs of beasts. He pointed at the royal magician, then swept his arm to one side, still pointing. There was a sneer on his face, and his eyes glittered with contempt through his obvious excitement. "Back, Vangerdahast!" he snarled.
The old man in the torn and dirty robe neither moved nor spoke.
The huntmaster snapped, "In this, wizard, you're but an ignorant, meddling courtier. Stand back, and take your puny spells with you. The divine might of Malar shall prevail, as it always has-and always will."
A swelling of light occurred in the air behind the priests then, and several of them whirled around in swiftness born of fear, faces tightening. The light outlined a figure, then swiftly faded into streaming sparks. Out of their heart trudged a man in hacked and blood-drenched armor. He was bareheaded, his face wore the weathered calm of a veteran warrior, and the bare-bladed miniature sword floating upright a foot in front of his breastplate marked him for all eyes as a battlelord, a senior priest of Tempus, come late to the feast. On this battlefield, first rank should be his, yet the huntmaster of Malar gave no sign of noticing the war-priest's arrival, but merely gestured imperiously to Vangerdahast once more to stand back.
Something that might have been the faint echo of a smile passed across the old wizard's face, and without turning away, he retreated three slow steps.
The huntmaster drew himself up in triumph and cried, "Oh, Malar, Great Lord of Blood and master of all who hunt, as this brave king has done, look down upon thy true servant in this hour of a kingdom's need, and grant thy special favor upon this endeavor! Let the strength of the lion, the suppleness of the panther, and the stamina of the ice bear flow through me now, to touch this fair monarch in his time of need!"
The healing spell needed neither the invocation nor the grand gestures that followed, but no one moved or spoke as the huntmaster almost leisurely completed what must surely have been the most spectacular casting of his holy career, stretching forth both hands to Azoun with white purifying fire dancing between them.
The fire leaped forth to the bed of shields and plunged into the body of the king. Azoun convulsed, hands curling into claws as the surge of magic lifted him, back arched, amid sudden snarls of lightning and rolling, fist-sized balls of flame. Fire fell to the turf, and smoked, shields buckled with a shrill shriek, and out of the fading white fire a crackling arm of lightning reached, with an almost insolent lack of haste, to wash over the huntmaster.
Buruin staggered back with a strangled cry of his own, crashing into the watching priests behind him. Only the steadying arms of Owden Foley and Battlelord Steelhand kept him from falling. As they steadied him, the Malarite's face was gray, his eyes were dark, staring pits, and his teeth chattered.
Holy faces turned pale, holy hands-some of them trailing radiance that hung in the air, glowing, in the wake of where the hands had been-hastily sketched warding signs in the air, and holy boots as hastily moved back. Fearful glances had not failed to notice that more than one war captain of Cormyr had half drawn a blade and stepped forward in slow menace, faces as cold and set as stone.
"Your concern for and your devoted service to the king are both noted and appreciated," Vangerdahast told the priests gravely, the iron crown on his brows giving him the look of an old and mighty monarch. "Stand you back, now, and bear witness. Your gods would desire you to be present and to pray, but the time for healing, I fear, is past." He allowed a frown to cross his face as he lifted an imperious hand and added, "The king fades swiftly. Rob him not of