The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [18]
Hawkril felled the next roaring, wild-eyed carter who came running his way with a kick to the throat, ere turning in his saddle to meet Blackgult's grim gaze. His onetime master pointed urgently over Hawk's shoulder, and the armaragor whirled around in time to see a trio of carters trampling down the awning of their own wagon to take up stances atop it as it crashed and clattered past, hauled by oxen in a hurry to be somewhere safer.
Three blades thrust down at Hawkril. He snarled and struck two of them aside with a savage swing, knowing even as he did so that the third was going to slice at his unprotected throat Embra shouted something, the Dwaer flashed in her hand-and the world exploded in blue-white fire that made every hair on Hawkril's tingling skin stand out like a needle. Atop the cart three men stiffened into helpless statues and started to topple, as Tshamarra screamed, Craer cursed… and Aglirta erupted in blinding, blistering flame.
3
A Plague of Magic
People called to each other up and down the muddy lane that ran through the heart of Fallingtree, and their voices were high, fearful, and dismayed. Men swore and snatched weapons from walls, or curtly ordered their younglings to "Get within!" Too excited to whisper, women cried the news over sty fences to neighbors, and everywhere folk were running.
"Now we'll see," someone said nervously, from the trees where they watched. A hand like an iron claw choked off his words, and laid a warning finger across his lips. The someone nodded violently, and made no more sound, not even when the bruising grip was gone from his throat.
Small groups of villagers were staring down the lane at the distant sprawled bodies where the flies buzzed. A few men of Fallingtree traded expressionless glances, hefted whatever served them as weapons, and then, slowly and reluctantly, strode toward the dead. They looked like a doomed warband going up against a dragon, knowing they were dead men but walking forward anyway.
"Three look down!" the foremost gasped hoarsely, counting his slaughtered friends. Drunter, and Gelgarth the miller's son, and Huldin… so much blood! Brains spilled like-like wet cheese…
He retched, turning away hastily, and more than one of his fellows swallowed, looked aside, and stalked grimly on, past familiar puddles that now ran dark red. The rest of the villagers watched in pale-faced silence. No one stepped forward to join the plodding men.
Fists clenched white around weapons, they walked on. There was more death on the smithy threshold, and that terrible quiet reigned over all. Ruld's hammer would clang no more.
The cobbler who dared to be the first to step inside came back out again with a face that was green where it wasn't bone-white. He moved his lips twice before the words came out. "None left living. Fetch the priests."
Slowly and reluctantly, but unable to stay back, the women and the bolder children started to drift down the lane, until most of Fallingtree was gathered in stunned bewilderment, staring down at the blood and carnage. Two pairs of eyes watched that whelming through the bushes that flanked the smithy outhouse. "I'm well pleased," the owner of one pair murmured, fingering the tiny serpent-pendant he wore under his robe. "The Malady comes down both hard and swiftly. Now we'd best get gone-once the bereaved start their weeping and wailing, the menfolk'll look around for something heroic to do… and that'll mean someone to blame."
"And we're the strangers, and so the cause," the other watcher replied, daring to speak at last. His throat still hurt; he rubbed at it gingerly as he glanced down the tiny trail that led past the outhouse, down to the creek and the little pool where Ruld had been wont to wash off the oil, soot, singed hair, and sweat of his daily labors. In all other directions the trees had been thinned by much cutting, and the brush was too thick for anyone