The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [20]
The shoulder that shook itself free of the procurer's hand was trembling with fear and excitement, but Lady Silvertree's voice was calm and level as she turned to face them and said, "For all our fates, I hope you have a secure lair and some swift way to reach it." Without waiting for a reply, she waved her hand in a haughty noblewoman's flourish, bidding them lead the way.
Craer looked at her, tried not to think of stone statues waiting to crush and maim, then turned and raced into the trees, shifting the sack on his shoulders to keep from falling in his rush. Hawkril broke into a lumbering run in his wake, and as the trees flashed past, the procurer was surprised to see the sorceress sprinting along barefooted at his shoulder, hair streaming behind her and bosom heaving as her gasps began.
No wolves came at them out of the nighted woods, but all too soon there came the dull shuddering of the ground that marked the strides of the stone knight.
"I thought you broke it apart," Hawkril growled, hauling out his sword and glaring back at the guardian of the wall as if his anger could lay it low.
"I did," Craer gasped. "Do they heal, Lady?"
"Unless someone breaks enchantments I dare not, lest I face my father's mages here and now," the sorceress told him in a level voice. "Nor have I governance over that one any longer. Ambelter's weavings lie over and beneath my work, to guard against independence on my part."
"He trusts you so little?" the procurer muttered, stepping away from Embra to force the advancing knight to choose a target.
"He trusts no one," Embra said, in a voice that was little louder than a whisper but as bitter as a winter wind. "He is proud to entertain no such weaknesses."
"How do you suggest we fell this thing, then, Lady?" Hawkril called, hefting his blade and moving forward to draw the guardian to him. Anger rang clear in his voice.
"Craer, you run at it, and then draw it off that way," she said, rousing herself into briskness. "Hawkril, be ready to carry me clear if it comes at me-like a grain sack, just scoop me without speaking or slapping me or suchlike. We've one chance left."
The armaragor's reply was an angry growl, but he fell back as Craer caught his eye, nodded-and rushed forward.
The stone blade swept down, and the procurer sprang into the air, looking for all the world like an oversize spider, landed on all fours, and leaped away, rolling through bushes as the guardian turned to pursue, hacking with more speed than accuracy.
Hawkril took a stand beside the sorceress, his eyes narrow with suspicion and his blade not far from her breast. He glanced quickly around in search of wolves, armsmen, or wizards, but the greatest foe just might be this beautiful statue of a lass right in front of his blade.
The Lady Silvertree stood with her eyes closed, swaying a little. A low murmuring, almost a drone, was coming from her slightly parted lips, and as Hawkril watched, she slowly put her head back until she was looking-had her eyes been open-right up at the starry sky.
Then she shivered, suddenly huddling down like a woman scuttling down a storm-lashed street, and said roughly, "There. 'Tis done. Hawkril, put away your sword."
"That, Lady," the armaragor growled, "is something I'll decide. I have a mistrust of wizards telling me to do anything, and if half the things you've let slip about your father's mages are true, so should you."
He stiffened as something thundered out of the night