Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [87]
They were struck aside, harmlessly. The other foe, the warrior, plucked something from his throat and threw it over Torm's shoulder.
The world burst into flames. Torm and Rathan were thrown forward in that terrible silence. Blistering flames raged over and past them. Those they faced reeled back against the tower wall at the searing heat.
The rope, still standing upright by itself, was blackened but not burned. Torm stared at it as he sank to his knees in agony, face twisting in a soundless scream.
Laelar staggered grimly forward, his rod of smiting raised to strike.
Out of the night came something long and slim and feet first. The Hammer of Bane was struck in the neck and throat and flipped over backward like a child's toy, the black rod bouncing free of his weakening grasp as he hit the ground. Sharantyr, her wet gown plastered to her, landed on her shoulders after her devastating kick, and rolled over and up in time to face the warrior.
She stood, panting, hands spread but weaponless, facing that advancing blade. She suddenly realized that she could hear the wet grass slithering as her foe advanced and Torm groaning on the ground beside her. The spell of silence had been lifted. Light suddenly sprang into being all about them, and Sharantyr saw Rathan struggling to his feet out of the corner of her eye for an instant before the warrior of Bane charged. Someone-she had not time to see who-fell heavily out of the darkness above, and crashed to earth beside the rope with a horrible thud.
The warrior was rushing at her.
"Die, bitch!" she heard him hiss under his breath, as he slashed down at her crosswise, a blow she could not hope to avoid. Sharantyr flung herself backward, and felt the very tip of his blade burn along her ribs as she fell. She cursed weakly, as she struck the ground, and rolled desperately away to her left-straight into Torm. Oh, gods, she thought, this is it. She twisted around, trying to raise her feet to kick away the killing blade.
But it never came. There was a solid, meaty thwack off to her right, grunts and the ringing clang of hard-drI’ven metal upon metal, and crashing about in the grass. Then a very weak, whispering voice by her elbow said, "Good lady, I fear you are lying upon my arm. It's almost worth the pain, though, for the view." Sharantyr grinned in spite of herself.
"Sorry, Torm," she said, wincing, as she fell onto her side and rolled clear of him again. Across the beaten grass, a blackened and burned Rathan was thoughtfully picking up the black rod. Hefting it, he brought it down on the back of the warrior's neck, and then rapped the helm of the cleric with it smartly.
Then he looked up.
Mourngrym was leaning out of the window above, Jhessail beside him, wand in hand. "All well?" he called. Mutely shaken heads answered him, and then guards and hastily-roused acolytes from the temples were around them.
"Don't kill that one," Rathan said faintly, indicating the cleric. "Mourngrym will want to question someone about this, and I'd rather it wasn't me."
Then he fainted, laying aside his mace and all his cares for a time.
Dawn was clear and chillingly cold, despite the sunrise that shone brightly on the Thunder Peaks above. The small party of dragon cultists climbed the last reaches of a familiar trail and stared at the destruction before them. Where an abandoned but solid keep had stood, over the caverns that led to the lair of Rauglothgor the Undying Wyrm, there was now a vast, round basin of tumbled rock. Here and there gold coins glimmered in the bright, early light.
"May the Dead Dragons wake," Arkuel muttered, shocked. Malark ignored the blasphemy in his own amazement and gathering rage. It was even as those cowards had said. The girl-or others, but there was no reason to doubt their story now that he'd seen this-had blown the entire mountaintop asunder.
The hallowed Rauglothgor, his treasure, the storage caverns, and all