The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [133]
"Hawkril?" a voice husked, and then broke off to cough. "Craer?"
Something moved elsewhere in the gloom, an agile shadow that slid a dagger into an Ornentarn throat, and then glided down a spiral stair.
"Hawkril?" the voice came again, sharp with alarm. "Where are you?"
The warrior of Ornentar who'd begun to move slowly toward that voice, sword raised to slay, suddenly staggered, twisted over backward under the cruel force of a choking arm-and then stiffened as a dagger slid into an eye slit of his helm. The shadow bounded away even before the warrior crashed onto a heap of fallen stones-and when Hawkril came stumbling past a moment later, peering this way and that for Sarasper or a foe, the shadow was gone amid the swirling dust.
It rose up again to scale a bookshelf, outlined for a moment against the steady, unchanged glow of the columns of light, and the only person to notice it saw it steal along the lofty wood like a prowling cat, drawing nearer to an unsuspecting Hawkril Anharu… and nearer…
A knife flashed as the shadow sprang, fingers reaching for an unprotected throat, steel ready to slash an un-helmed face.
A second shadow hurtled out of the dust, boots spread to smash aside a knife arm and drive a heel solidly into the side of a head. The two shadows met, twisted-and crashed to the floor, bouncing and rolling apart.
The armaragor spun around. "Craer?" he called, trotting forward. He recognized that slim, agile figure.
But two short and slender bodies rose in the dust, and two knives flashed. Hawkril slowed, peering over his raised sword, seeking to know his friend.
A steel ball flashed at Craer's temple. He ducked away and sensed rather than saw the thin cord trailing behind it-the cord that tugged at his arm as the ball spun in a curve. The procurer who'd thrown it pulled hard, seeking to haul Craer into his raised dagger.
Craer planted one foot and lunged in the direction he was being pulled in, bringing his dagger up with both hands to fend off that stabbing blade as he plunged past it, kicking hard at where an unseen belly must be. His boot touched something that was fading away, and a faint chuckle came to his ears as the waxed cord dropped across Craer's throat-and tightened.
The procurer threw himself onto his back and kicked out wildly with both feet, hoping to hurl himself out of his foe's reach before his shoulders struck the floor-and out of the darkness overhead a hulking body reached out a war sword over him, stabbing at his foe.
"Little dancing man," Hawkril growled. "Who are you?"
The answer that came out of the gloom was delivered with soft amusement. "Luthtuth am I, and your death this day."
Someone snorted, not far away, and Sarasper's unmistakable voice complained, "How many times have I heard such claims? How churlish! Not even 'You must die because my master decrees it!' or 'Know that the price of your doom is six golden sarcrowns, and he who paid it is-'! These younglings have no style, no respect for the rules and lightness of things!"
Luthtuth replied silkily, "I dislike babblers. Be then the first to fall!"
Sarasper snorted again, and as the shadow sprang at him, the old man was gone, and a longfangs scuttled away through the drifting dust. In the distance they heard him shout, "Embra? We need you!"
The voice could not be mistaken, nor its cry ignored. The Lady Silvertree sighed and turned reluctantly from the pleasurable job of chasing and slaying Klamantle to swoop back through a window into the library. It took but two thoughts to banish dust and make the air glow brightly as she went. Framing magics was tiring, yes, despite the coursing power of the Stone-but she was being drained no more, and by the Three it felt good to work spells unafraid!
Rubble lay everywhere, and among it her three companions-Sarasper halfway up one of the stairs-and a stranger. A slim, crouching man who by garb and manner was probably another procurer. There was a knife in his hand,