The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [103]
Horns that had not sounded for many a year awoke into frantic life, bellowing brokenly over the rooftops, calling on Sirl archers and mages to drop whatever affairs presently pressed them, and leap to the defense of their city.
They did not have to reach a watchtower to see why the alarum had been raised.
Over the oldest and wealthiest streets of Sirlptar the sinuous and splendid wyrms of the air banked, gliding along the ridge like black ghosts while the robed men astride them worked with strands of hair feverish magic… magic that did not go well.
As the wind of his wyrm's glide tossed back his hair and cooled his cheeks, Klamantle finished his spell and used its risen power with his customary care. He'd been careful to phrase his incantation to "feel" the Lady Embra within-and a goodly way beneath-the entire city, and all river and land now within his sight.
Yet the spell found nothing.
Markoun raised a similarly baffled and angry face from his own casting, and their eyes met in shared fury and frustration as the two wyrms flashed past each other and circled under the frustrated guidance of their creators, for a parley that both already knew the opening and sole concern of: the Lady Silvertree was not to be found anywhere in or near Sirlptar.
"Our fury will be nothing to the baron's," Klamantle told his fellow mage grimly.
The younger mage flashed his teeth in a smile too fearful to be pleasant and shouted back, "Only if we fail!" He bent low over the neck of his conjured mount and, as it turned into a savage dive, began to murmur words Klamantle knew all too well.
Tiny whirlwinds of flame spun out from Markoun's fingertips, slashing through the air like arrows streaming one after the other.
Arrows of flickering fire that streaked down into the many-gabled roof of the Wavefyre Inn.
The building shuddered, and many shingles spun into the air, trailing flames. There were shouts and screams, and Markoun smiled tightly as he followed his fiery darts down in a deadly plunge.
With easy grace he pulled his mount out of its dive at the last possible moment and leaned out to almost nonchalantly hurl a Fist of Fury down through that shattered and blazing roof as he swept over the inn. Most of its uppermost story erupted into the air in his wake.
Klamantle watched, shrugged, and sent a Woodmelt spell of his own into the Wavefyre, to hasten its collapse onto the heads of folk within. That at least would send Markoun's reckless flames down into the heart of the Wavefyre, rather than dancing over rooftops to raze half Sirlptar.
Floorboards and pillars alike melted away and slumped, and screams rose among the crackle and rising roar of flames. Markoun snarled another firespell, uncaring of the destruction he might cause-and most of the next floor down was blasted into flaming wreckage. Men shrouded in flames could be seen staggering vainly about amid collapsing floors and toppling walls, seeking a way out that they would never find in time. Raw-throated wailing accompanied patron after desperate patron in frantic leaps to the street, where they lay dashed and broken on the unyielding cobbles. Behind them, among the milling many who'd streamed out of the common room to stand aghast and stare, drinks still clutched in their hands, the Wavefyre Inn went up like a wind-whipped bonfire.
Sobbing for air, Daerentar Jalith and Lharondar Laernsar clawed at a door already darkening with rippling flame and died together in the hungry smoke with their curses choking them. They were only paces away from a hasty magic that was keeping a column of air free of fire and smoke, but it might as well have been a broad barony distant. Seconds after they'd fallen, the door that had resisted them collapsed over their bodies in a shower of sparks.
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