The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [88]
Hawkril cut down another tapestry and added it to the fire. Then he kicked aside chairs and stabbed into dark corners, making sure no snakes still lurked unseen.
Outside, the last Serpent screamed despairingly as Craer's second flung bow tangled between his legs, sent him crashing helplessly onto his face, and Craer pounced on his back.
A wall panel burst into Hawkril's face, hurling him back across the room-and two men raced for the door that Craer had taken: a priest, face contorted in fear and rage; and the Tersept of Stornbridge, in full armor, with a gleaming sword in his hand. Reeling, Hawkril ran after them.
"Stop him!" the priest ordered sharply. The overduke saw Stornbridge look back nervously, run on a few paces, and then turn, sword flashing.
Hawkril didn't wait for the tersept to take a stance. He swerved, clawing at the night air for balance as Stornbridge slashed at him, let the tip of the tersept's sword whistle past him-then leaned in, still running hard, and slammed his arm across the tersept's throat.
Lord Stornbridge crashed over backwards and bounced, sobbing for breath and feebly clutching at his windpipe. His warsword clattered away, but Hawk ran on. He had to get to the priest before that Serpent-lover had time to stop and cast a proper spell, or he and Craer would be dead in a few breaths.
The priest looked back, and Hawkril slashed at the air between them with his warsword, not slowing a whit. The Serpent grimaced, and swerved toward the line of merlons that guarded the moat side of the bat-dements. Hawkril thundered after him, still unsteady, his sword slashing back and forth.
"Fangbrother Maurivan!" the tersept sobbed from behind Hawkril, his voice raw and feeble.
The priest ran on, giving no sign he'd heard that cry-but in front of him Craer rose up, grinning like a fox, and said merrily, "Good evening, Serpent! Shall we dance?"
Fangbrother Maurivan swerved again, whirling to dive between two merlons. Craer and Hawkril both sprang to the wall, peering, but there was no splash. The robed figure plunged down, down-and vanished in a soundless flash of light, a moment or so before he should have struck the cortahar-strewn water.
"Magic!" Craer said scornfully. "Are we done?"
"Stornbridge," Hawkril growled, and they hurried back together.
The tersept was on his feet, still clutching his throat, his recovered warsword in his other hand. "Don't-don't you dare!" he croaked, backing away from them.
"Lord Stornbridge," Craer replied reproachfully, "we could hardly butcher and maim your faithful cortahars and these snakes you've made welcome in this castle, and not exact the proper punishment on you, now, could we? Hey?"
Stornbridge moaned in despair, and then charged, hacking wildly at the procurer. Craer dodged left-that magnificent blade smashed down on the flagstones, striking sparks-and then right-the blade clanged down again- and then drop-kicked the tersept, aiming his knife-toed feet high.
Those points skittered harmlessly across the tersept's steel breastplate, but sent Stornbridge back on his heels-and Hawkril's lunge, arriving a moment later, caught him flat-footed.
Through the space between two plates of the tersept's splendid armor the armaragor's warsword bit, only going in an inch or so through the under learners, but Stornbridge reeled back again-and Craer, still on the ground by the tersept's feet, hooked his legs around Stornbridge's ankle and flung himself over on his side.
Lord Stornbridge toppled like a felled tree, crashing hard onto the flagstones and losing his warsword once more. Hawkril kicked him hard, rolling him clear of Craer, and then kicked him again, forcing the tersept into a frantic crawl that brought Stornbridge to his knees and then to triumphantly seizing on two fallen cortahar's swords.
With a bark of triumph he spun around, blades glittering in both hands. Hawkril charged, smashing one aside with his own warsword and then ducking after it, so Stornbridge's vicious thrust with the second blade stabbed