The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [72]
All at once, the other raised their hands to smite him with spells, chanted in angry unison, and hurled-nothing.
Their looks of amazement were comical, and two of them even tried again. The baron said something stern-and in response one of the priestesses cried aloud for aid.
All over the hollow, brown-robed priestesses rose out of the bushes and ferns with long knives in their hands. Their horned superiors fell back swiftly, gesturing with their blades-and all of the lesser clergy surged forward, to slay, in a swiftly closing ring around one man with a sword in his hand.
Hawkril's horn was already to his lips, and his feet were already racing. He blew loud and long as he pounded down into the hollow, sprinting as hard as he'd ever run in his life, and on all sides of the hollow other armaragors in Blackgult armor were descending-into a crowd of fully armored priests erupting from trees and brush piles. By the Three, the clergy of Sharaden mustered eighty or more!
Hawkril threw his horn into the face of the first to stand in his way, cut down the second with a vicious chop, ran right over the third, trampling hard, and slashed open the face of a fourth. Then he was through the armored faithful, with others converging on him from all sides, and his Lord still a good sixty or seventy paces distant, in the heart of a surging mob of eager slayers.
Hawkril started to snatch and hurl the line of knives scabbarded across his chest, and across the hollow he could see other armaragors doing the same. Someone with a bow was seeking out horned helms and the ladies beneath them, with deadly accuracy; Hawkril cursed at that disobedience of orders, and vaulted over a priest who must have learned to lunge in some elegant school of arms somewhere. "Later!" he roared over his shoulder, as he sprinted on, waving his fists wide to strike aside blades, knife-wielding priestesses, and anyone else foolish enough to dispute the way.
A breath later, and he'd reached the tightening ring around the baron. He plied his sword like a madman, throwing knives at any face that turned his way, screaming and spitting and seeking any way he could to turn their attention from the man sinking down in the center of the ring with blood glistening all over him, and two blades at least protruding from his body.
He was still cutting his way forward, too, seeking to stand over the baron if he could. Blood was everywhere, and a dozen armaragors, or more, were cutting their way slowly-too slowly-toward the ring, from other directions. The next few breaths would be crucial. Hawkril cut open a snarling holy face, booted a holy crotch as hard as he could, and the way was clear for a desperate, twisting leap. He landed, swept his blade around in a great circle that struck a few swords aside, and hit at least one more solid obstacle, then slapped at the vial at his breast, to make sure it was still there.
The eyes that stared up at him were darkening, but the bloody lips beneath them framed a rueful smile. "You… right. Hawk… but too late…"
Hawkril shook himself, as if to drive off a chill, and stared around, on a creaking boat on the dark Silverflow once more, not in the midst of bloody butchery and dying priestesses. Some memories never stopped burning.
But then, what was a man's life but a bonfire of blazing memories?
Beside him, Craer Delnbone smiled and shrugged. "We have the most powerful and cruel man in all Coiling Vale trying to catch and slay us, and using three evil and formidable mages to do it-of course something isn't right. I don't need a bard or an old sage to tell me that."
"Something isn't right," the armaragor insisted. "Silvertree has some sort of trap waiting for us…"
"You hardly think the Cold Baron would risk even one of his Dark Three in Adeln just now," Craer replied, "with everyone whispering 'war,' do you? Baron Adeln has archers enough to overwhelm