The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [67]
Hard-faced, Embra hurled them again, and again. Her gorge was rising, but this was war, and she didn't want a man still able to stand or bend a bow or throw a dagger when she released Hawk and the seven Storn men trapped with him. Again. And again.
Many of the forms were shapeless now, and trailed blood as they went. More and more of them slumped, not responding to her magic… which meant that they must no longer be living.
Embra Silvertree drew in a tremulous, unhappy breath, strode to the center of the room with the Dwaer ready in her hand, and ended her magic. She stood somewhat off to one side of Hawkril, and as he staggered away from the wall, she sent a gout of fire in front of him-washing over the groaning Storn men following him.
There were a few screams and struggles from within those flames, but most of the men toppled without a sound, blazing.
When Embra and Hawkril were the only moving things left in the room, the armaragor turned to his lady and murmured, "My thanks for my life, Em. Remind me, please, never to get you really angry."
Embra stared at him, white-faced and trembling-and then flung herself into his arms, sobbing bitterly. Hawk held and rocked her gently as she wept, turning her slowly around and around-so as to look in turn through each of the six open doorways he could see, for any signs of more attackers. He'd known about only two of those doors when getting into bed.
The Dwaer, pressed between them, was hard and cool. Hawkril stole a hand up under it to make sure it didn't fall when they did draw apart-and discovered that one of Embra's hands was clenched around the Stone as tightly as any beast's claw could grip.
The touch of his fingers on it made her draw back in alarm and glare at him-and then dissolve into fresh tears, and embrace him all the more fiercely. Hawkril let her cry while his eyes roved about the chamber. His armor there and there, his boots over yonder beside the shattered, facedown wreckage of a wardrobe with two crushed servants sprawled half out from under it, and a blade Em could probably heft over there, by the splintered wreckage of the bed.
When his lady mastered her tears, Hawkril said gently, "Lady Silvertree, 'tis best we be going. We must find the other overdukes and make a stand together. Stand ready with the Stone whilst I salvage what we need, and think you on which doorway we should leave this place by."
Embra gulped, sniffed furiously, gulped again, and nodded. Her face was as white as moonlit snow, but she managed a lopsided wreck of a smile when he looked at her.
Hawkril gripped her shoulder reassuringly for a moment, and then hurried to his task, holding out his breastplate to her in the space of three breaths. "Hand me the Dwaer, and start buckling."
He stood patiently through the wild, helpless flood of laughter and fresh tears that followed-and for that, Embra knew, she would always love him.
She buckled and tightened and adjusted as fast as she could, heedless of cut or pinched fingers. For his patience and his kindness, most of all, she so loved this great bear of a man…
9
Impressing Overdukes to Death
Wake up, my lord!"
The voice above the candle was insistent and young. The Tersept of Stornbridge knuckled his eyes and growled, "What is it? Get that flame out of my eyes, man!"
"Get up! The castle's under attack!"
"The-what?
"The overdukes are slaughtering your people, Lord-up and down the passages. They're setting fire to things, too! You're needed-before they bring all Stornbridge Castle down on our heads!"
Lord Stornbridge spat out a heartfelt curse and rolled to a sitting position, running a hand through the matted mess of his hair and recoiling from what he saw in his bedside mirror. A sword-hilt was suddenly thrust between him and his reflection-a familiar sword-hilt. His own.
"Your sword, sir," the servant said unnecessarily.
The tersept looked at it and then peered at the man, eyes narrowing. "Where're Alais and Jhaundra? I don't know you!"
The face of the man