Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [14]
The Bright Spear blazed in Burlane's grasp. He held it out to her. "Never freeze in a fight," was all he said.
As he raised his head to look past her, Shandril noticed the white line of an old scar on his neck that she had not seen before.
The mist had lifted enough to reveal, trampled in the grass, the still bodies of fallen enemy warriors.
Before them stood the company's warriors, leaning on their weapons and panting. Thail looked worried as he turned to Burlane.
"Perhaps I can use the art to drI’ve some of them to slumber," he said, "but too many remain-far too many."
Shandril knew he was right. The strangers had drawn back from the company's blades to gather their strength and attack as one. Shandril counted nearly twenty men, clad in leathers or chain mail.
None bore any sigil or blazon; all were armed. They seemed to be led by a stout warrior who wore a dark helm. At his gesture, his men had spread out in a long crescent, curving around the company, advancing slowly to either side.
Shandril turned to Burlane to warn him to pull back, to run now, but as her eyes saw his face-calm and bleak and a little sad-the cry died on her lips.
Where was there to run to? She turned back to look at their foes. So many, so intent on her death. Beyond their grim, slowly advancing line, more men held the reins of a score of mules, all laden as the first one had been. There was no escape. Shandril, her shoulder throbbing, gripped the Bright Spear firmly, determined to please the war god Tempus even if Tymora, the Lady of Luck, had turned her face from them. She should never have left Gorstag and The Rising Moon… But she had, and she was going to see this through. She hoped she would not run.
"Clanggedin!" Delg roared hoarsely, as if to the ground at his feet. He flung down his axe.
"Battle-Father, let this be a good fight!" He drew the war hammer at his belt and brought it down hard on the axe with a ringing sound-a sound that thrummed and echoed around them before rolling away. To Shandril's amazement, Delg began to sing.
The axe at his feet glowed and shimmered and then lifted slowly into the air before him.
The whole company and their foes alike stood amazed. Delg, his weathered face wet with tears and his voice cracking as he sang on, extended one stubby hand and the axe rose into it, winking with a light that had not been there before. Delg seemed to grow and straighten. His beard jutted defiantly, and the war hammer he held began to glow faintly. Its radiance pulsed and grew as he sang, until it matched the sheen of the axe in his other hand.
The dwarf stepped forward, then, singing old ballads in his rough voice. Pride and awe and gratitude rang in his songs as Ferostil and Rymel stepped forward to join him.
Shandril looked to Burlane and whispered, "Does he do this every time? I mean-" She stopped, embarrassed at the twinkle in his eye. Suddenly, Burlane roared his laughter aloud and clasped her to him, and she felt foolishly happy. Ah, but if one is to die, she heard the voice of an old wandering priest of Tempus who sometimes stopped at the inn, it is best to die in a good cause, fighting shoulder to shoulder with good friends.
That thought brought a sudden chill, and Shandril raised the Bright Spear's glowing point before her and tensed. Across the trampled grass, the enemy warriors exchanged a few barked commands and replies and began to trot forward, blades raised to slay. Delg sang on.
The gleam of the dwarfs weapons grew dazzling and then died away suddenly as the mist parted.
In the sudden morning light there was movement.
Between the two warring bands walked two newcomers. One was tall and handsome, clad in forest green. A great sword was scabbarded at his hip, and a gray hawk rode on his shoulder. He strode easily, obviously slowing his stride