Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [67]
Another stone came winging right toward him. He lowered his head hastily and the rock struck his helm a solid, ringing blow. Kalam snarled and jerked the lance up and down roughly, trying to tear it free.
Folk were moving now, looking over their shoulders and scattering to the right and left. Good! Reinforcements had arrived, no doubt, and not a moment too soon.
Pushing forward into view from the rear of the crowd were two men in worn, nondescript, bloodstained leathers whom he'd never seen before, with naked swords in their hands. An old man with an older war axe in his hands followed them, grinning from ear to ear. The first two men fixed eyes on the leader of the Wolves. As he met their gazes, Kalam's blood ran cold. They meant his death.
The leader of the Wolves let go the lance and snatched at his sword. He got it out in time to strike aside the first reaching blade, but the man danced past, moving with Kalam's parry, and struck at him from behind.
Kalam ducked and dodged, and grunted with the sudden pain brought by the second blade, running up under the edge of his breastplate. He reeled away, doubled up against the burning, stabbing pain, and found himself face-to-face with the graybearded veteran who'd stopped his lance. His blade swept up as he snarled, "Death!"
"Aye," came the calm reply. "Yours."
The short sword that stopped his own blade as if it had been driven against a stone wall leapt suddenly into his face, and Kalam of the Wolves had time for only a gurgle or two before he fell and was trampled in the general surge forward. The last, fading thing he heard was a voice far behind him yelling, "Freedom for the dale! Death to the Zhent Wolves!"
* * * * *
Shoulder to shoulder, Heladar Longspear and Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak stood on the battlements, looking down as the mob below surged forward and the lancers were overwhelmed.
As their roar of victory rose and the ragged band surged triumphantly up the cobbled road, Longspear ordered curtly, "Now. Break their charge."
Guards around him hastened to the wall, loaded heavy crossbows in their hands. Their bolts fell like rain on the road below, and villagers fell back-or fell transfixed, to lie crumpled on the ground like crows slain around a guarded granary.
"And now?" Lord Longspear said, looking old. "Those are my people we're killing."
The mage who called himself Stormcloak turned cold eyes on Heladar. "What of it?"
"I'd rather not rule an open graveyard," Longspear replied coldly. "Who knows where it'll end, now that the bloodletting's begun? There's not a one left we can trust, and if we slay them all, what do I rule then?"
"A strategic pass that we can hold with twice our strength in two days, by means of the gate," Stormcloak told him. "If it's rabble you want to rule over, are there no prisons in Zhentil Keep? Are there no outlaws in these mountains? Manshoon's orders will bring all he wants to let out or be rid of, and if we spread the word in Cormyr and Sembia that there are hill farms for the taking, well soon have the dale as crowded as you like, Lord Longspear."
He turned away from Longspear and gave an order to the Overswords who stood behind them. "I want twenty full-armored men-lances and blades, all of them- mounted and ready in the courtyard as fast you can get them there."
The Overswords looked at him, and at the magnificently armored back of Lord Longspear. The back did not turn, and Stormcloak snarled, "Move at my orders, you thickheaded orc-sons! When I signal, send them out. They're to ride down the mob at full gallop, slaying any who resist. Longspear, you lead them."
The lord of the dale did not move or reply. The mage snarled and advanced on the Overswords, cursing them and raising threatening hands in gestures of spellcasting, until they wheeled and ran down the stairs. Men on the walls around them reloaded their crossbows and carefully looked