The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [86]
A sending, she must be.
Ambelter mastered his fear and astonishment, and addressed the stranger sharply. "I know not who you are, sending, but I am the Spellmaster of Aglirta, and I can destroy you-not merely this your seeming, but through it your true self. I intend to do this only after I've traced you and brought you here to us, to learn how it is that you found us, and all you know… and how you can be made to serve our pleasure. Prepare, rash one, to taste the first moments of your doom!"
The Dwaer tore free of Phelinndar's grasp and rose up before him, spinning and brightening. The baron let his hand fall, not daring to try to reclaim it.
"Lord Ambelter," their visitor said firmly, not moving, "these acts of rough-and all too traceable, by those who even now search for you and the Dwaerindim-magic won't be necessary." For a moment Phelinndar thought she was an immobile image, a portrait sent to hang before them, but then he noticed she was trembling-with excitement, by the sound of her voice, not fear.
"I'm called Maelra Bowdragon, and I believe you know my lineage. I witnessed your meetings with my uncles-and know who and what you are."
The Spellmaster's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"And I want you to know that not all Bowdragons are afraid of the Vale. I… I want to work with you."
Dark magic boiled up around them again. Hawkril winced, staggered, and dropped the bowman he was carrying. "Craer?"
"Keep at it," the procurer snapped. "Trust Embra to quell such, or we'll never be done here. I've not seen so many bowmen in one place since the Isles!" A splash announced the culmination of his latest guiding journey.
As the dark cloud faded, thinning rapidly, Craer came back dusting his hands together. "That's two dozen cortahars I've sent swimming. Possibly the first baths they've had this season. You're cutting all bowstrings?"
Hawkril nodded, and waved into the turret behind him. "A dozen or so are lying there yet-every time I bend to reach for a bow, one of these damned snakes tries to put its fangs in my face. Why couldn't Em stop them turning themselves into slitherers? I can't hack any of them without letting the rest fang me… which I suspect would be a very foolish tactic." With a grunt he heaved the limp cortahar onto a growing pile of senseless Storn warriors. To drop them into the moat now would be to slay helpless men-but the moment he saw one moving, he intended to pluck and toss.
"Very foolish," Craer agreed, "and I don't know why. Our ladies could probably do more if they could touch the priests directly, but… I long ago left the details of matters magical to others. I may be crazed enough to earn my coins as a procurer-but I'm not wolf-howling mad, like every mage I know."
Hawkril chuckled. "I'm sure Em and Tash will be happy to hear they're howling mad-just as I'm sure they're listening to us now."
"Truth," Craer replied with dignity, "is its own reward."
Hawkril swung around abruptly and dragged the third cortahar-who'd been stealthily but vainly trying to draw a dagger that was no longer in its sheath-out of the pile. Ignoring a stream of curses, he heaved.
There was a despairing, fading cry, and then a splash. Hawkril looked along the moonlit battlements of Stornbridge Castle, but the surviving wall-guards had long since disappeared down various towers. "I hope no one's rallying the Storn-"
"Hush!" Overduke Delnbone said severely. "Don't give these snakes any ideas!" He whirled around suddenly with a footstool in his hand, and flung it.
It crashed down into a corner as snakes whipped and wriggled frantically away. One of them wriDied in pain, half-crushed, as dark blood slid like a gleaming ribbon across the floor.
"Oh, dear, another Servant of the Serpent gone," Craer said mournfully. "Such a loss."
Overduke Anharu saw further movement out of the corner of his eye, turned with a sigh, and hauled another awakened cortahar out of his pile.
Protesting and cursing, the