Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [64]
He was gone, out into the sun. The two strangers rushed out after him, swords in their hands, and old Yoster with his axe followed, stumbling in weariness or perhaps because he'd been hurt. On her knees, fighting for breath, she could not tell.
Daera gasped for air, wishing she was at her father's side this instant to watch him smite down soldier after soldier of the tyrants. To see these black-armored Wolves fall…
Gods watch over us-their bows! He'll be slain, sure!
A terrified Daera, still doubled over in pain, staggered out into the light. She saw much blood, and men in black armor lying still in the midst of it, hands raised vainly to clutch at life now fled.
Dalefolk had gathered, eyes wide and excited. Down the road she saw her father's broad shoulders amid the small knot of hurrying men moving steadily on toward the castle.
Daera stared at her neighbors as they watched him go and screamed, "Aid me! In the name of the High Dale, aid! He'll be killed!"
They knew her as she shuddered, whooped breath back into her bruised chest, and staggered upright again. Pity was in some eyes, and rising anger in others. But at her cry, men looked away or shook their heads sadly, and women backed away. "They've magic, lass." "Aye, strong magic. We dare not…" Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, but Daera wiped them away impatiently and ran grimly back to one of the bodies to snatch up a fallen sword and pluck a dagger from a belt.
She shook hair out of her eyes with a despairing snarl and rose to look around, hefting the sword. It was much too heavy; it was all she could do to hold the tip higher than her hands. She thrust the dagger through the bunched cloth at her hip, not caring what happened to the rags she wore, and used both hands to raise the blade, laying it back on her shoulder.
When she looked down the road again, her father's striding figure was much smaller. Would she be able to catch up with him in time?
In time to see him die? Daera shuddered, furiously blinking away fresh tears, and then saw men near her. She looked around wildly.
Old eyes met her own. She saw pride, and anger that matched hers, and shining hope in them.
Four-no, five-old men of the dale, graybeards she'd known as long as she could remember, leaning on fences to talk and smoke pipes, and shuffling into the inn for a tankard. Except on their chins, their hair was sparse, and they wore clothes as ragged as her own.
But in their hands shone old, lovingly cared for weapons, swords worn thin with years of sharpening, gleaming now, and axes with long curving blades. One carried a halberd in spiked gauntlets so old and worn that she could see his bony fingers through rents in the leather.
"We're with ye," one said simply.
"Aye," another spoke through a moustache that almost hid his missing teeth. "Like in the old days. We'll follow a Mulmar to the death, for the High Dale."
"My thanks," Ylyndaera said thickly, fresh tears streaming. Then she added hurriedly, almost sobbing, "Come, then, before it's too late!"
She hurried down the road. The graybeards trotted and shuffled and kept up with her. Some even had the breath to call out as they passed cottages.
To arms!"
"For the dale!"
"Out, lads! To arms!"
One man looked out his door, amazed, and yelled, "Ho, Baerus! Where be ye off to?"
The old man just behind Daera grinned ferociously and waved his sword. "The high constable's free! An' we're following the maid, here-Irreph's lass-to the castle, to see to the running of these Wolves!"
There were roars of approval, and Daera saw men with pitchforks and axes running to catch up.
"For the dale!" another of the graybeards bellowed. The answering roar drowned out the fit of coughing that shook him a moment later.
"For the running of the Wolves!" a younger voice roared. Daera looked around. She was leading a band now.
"Death," she cried, "to all Wolves!"
"Death!" they roared back at her in excitement and anger, and swept down toward the castle.
12
Blood in the Marketplace
The sun shone down brightly. Eyes drawn into