Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [66]
Bealomondore heartily wished that Fenworth, Maxon, and Librettowit would appear behind him. But he’d outdistanced them. He’d stand his ground until reinforcements came. Hopefully they wouldn’t stop for another slice of tangonut crème pie.
He lifted his sword to salute the brute that stood before him. “The Grawl, I presume.”
He nodded. “I am The Grawl.”
“I’m Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore of Greeston.”
The Grawl bent his head in acknowledgment, as smoothly as any nobleman of the king’s court. Bealomondore shook off the feeling of being boorish in comparison to the huntsman. The cultured tumanhofer rarely greeted gentlemen by brandishing a sword. In fact, he’d never before worn a sword to brandish. If he had to defend his lack of etiquette in this situation, he’d claim the sword took the initiative and brandished itself.
My mind is babbling. Where are the others? If I could mindspeak, I’d holler for help.
“I’m interested in your sword,” said The Grawl. “I have a fine collection of unique weapons.”
“It was given to me by a friend.”
The Grawl took a step closer. “Then you wouldn’t be willing to sell it?”
“Stay where you are.” Bealomondore heard Tipper move behind him. “Tipper, you go on upstream. Our friends are only a little behind me.”
One moment The Grawl stood next to the raft. The next he loomed in front of Bealomondore. The girls behind him squealed. The Grawl’s long arm reached the remaining distance, and his large hand grasped the top of Bealomondore’s head, lifting him off his feet. The sword swung once, slashing through the underside of The Grawl’s sleeve. The beast jerked from the pain but held on. His other hand captured Bealomondore’s sword arm above the elbow.
The fingers squeezing his arm felt like they would meet around the bone. Bealomondore couldn’t feel his own hand, but he heard the sword drop to the ground. The Grawl released his arm and lifted him higher by the grip on his head. Bealomondore heard a crack, and the intense pain in his head convinced him his skull would collapse. He ground his teeth. He couldn’t stand much more. With a flick of his wrist, The Grawl sent him flying through the air. He sailed into darkness, knowing he’d land in the river.
The splash of her friend’s body hitting the water galvanized Tipper. She rushed to pick up Bealomondore’s sword, but The Grawl snatched it first. Seeing the rage on his face, she halted and scrambled back. The beast dropped the sword and roared. Clasping the hand that had gripped the hilt with the other, he dropped to his knees beside the river. Plunging his hand into the water, The Grawl let out a sigh of relief. Then he stood, towering over Tipper, his eyes bulging.
“The sword burned me.” Fury boomed in his voice. “What type of metal is this?”
“I don’t know.” She scanned the river. She couldn’t see the tumanhofer. Her voice quivered. “It’s never hurt Bealomondore.”
“There he is, Tipper.” Taeda Bel jumped in the water and looked like a skipping stone as she sped to his side.
Tipper clutched Rayn’s limp form against her shoulder. She had to follow. Stepping into the shallow water, she kept her eye on Bealomondore. She had to follow, had to reach him in time.
Her long skirt clung to her legs, constraining her stride, tripping her with every other step. Anger brought tears to her eyes but gave her the strength to forge on.
He needed help. She would get there.
Taeda Bel struggled to turn Bealomondore over where he floated facedown. Tipper arrived at last. Tucking Rayn in a pocket, she managed to flip her friend’s body.
She jerked around at the sound of splashing. It wasn’t The Grawl but Librettowit and Maxon. And Hollee!
“He’s hurt,” she called. “The Grawl threw him.”
Librettowit, Hollee, and Maxon passed her. They surrounded Bealomondore and helped her support his body with their