Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [63]
A phalanx of warriors marched out next, their armor and swords no longer hidden beneath robes. Every second one carried a bright torch, the shadows surrounding them were banished by the light. Illuminated by the flickering fire, Corin could plainly see the mark of the Cult of the Dragon emblazoned on their breastplates.
Next came a tall man in wizard's robes. His head was bald, his face clean shaven. He looked too young to be a mage of any import, but the immediate, unquestioning responses of the soldiers as he gave them his orders told another story. From experience, Corin knew that those who made a living with the blade generally held magicians and sorcerers in disdain. Only a wizard of great power could command such respect from a whole company of warriors.
The mage quickly arranged the guards into a formation that was familiar to Corin. They built a protective wall around their leader, guarding him against physical attacks from any direction. The firelight reflected off the wizard's shaved skull, poking up from the near solid mass of shields, swords, and armor that surrounded him. Between their formation and the torches it would be impossible to get closer without being seen.
Finally two more figures emerged, quickly joining the young magic-user in the protection of the center of the company. One was completely covered in heavy robes. From the size, Corin suspected it to be a woman, though her face was veiled to protect her identity. She must be the mysterious package Lhasha had been sent after.
However, Corin registered all the information about her in a small, subliminal corner of his mind. On the conscious level, his full attention was focused on the figure guiding her out.
The sight of Fhazail, gingerly holding the woman's arm as if she were a lethal viper, filled Corin with a sense of vindication. If anything, the steward looked even fatter than before. His clothes looked more garish, and even from this distance Corin could plainly see that the steward still wore his hideous rings. The tawdry gemstones reflected tiny spots of flaming orange and red that danced across the helmets and armor of the guards surrounding him.
Corin resisted the urge to leap out and attack. He wanted vengeance, and he was willing to die for it-but only if it meant he could take Fhazail's life in the process. He wasn't about to waste his opportunity by launching himself against impossible odds.
If he had worn armor, Corin might have risked a brazen frontal assault. Protected by the heavy steel of full battle gear, he just possibly might have been able to withstand enough blows to reach Fhazail, and deal a fatal strike to the steward before succumbing to the combined blades of the guards surrounding his quarry.
Unfortunately, Corin was not wearing full battle gear. He wasn't even wearing so much as a thin mail shirt. After careful consideration, Corin had chosen to wear no armor at all on this night. It would have hampered his ability to lurk unseen, to pursue unheard. The cumbersome gear would have slowed his pursuit of a cowardly, fleeing opponent. And Corin knew he would have no need of armor to protect him from Fhazail.
Now he regretted the decision. With nothing to protect his vulnerable flesh from the attacks of his enemies, his hand was stayed. The wall of guards protecting the steward forced Corin to bide his time, and wait for a break in the shield wall.
In tight formation, the cultists moved out. The soldiers' boots struck the pavement in perfect unison, the result of many hours of intense drills and training as a unit. As he watched the guards march in perfect precision, Corin realized there was little chance of finding a weakness in their wall. He might not get a chance to strike Fhazail down after all, not tonight. Now that he had found his quarry, he would keep him in sight until he saw