The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [151]
"And did you find such a place, Sir Nameless?"
"Ah, forgive me, Lady. No, we did not. As of yet. I did forget to unfold to you my name. Know that I am Ressheven, of Two Moons."
Craer made a small sound in his throat that might have been a "harrumph" had it been louder. He looked sidelong up at Embra and whispered, "He is who he says he is."
Embra did not look impressed. Two Moons was a name known to all who hoisted tankards in taverns up and down the Vale: a notorious, now fallen, "cursed" mage-school whose students had been trained to make war with magic.
Ressheven favored the procurer with that catlike smile. "I see the name of my former home is not unknown to you."
Embra shrugged. "So now we know each other, sir, yet find that this familiarity brings us-"
She broke off as two of the armaragors whirled around, blades flashing, to face the door they'd come in by, and a small commotion ensued. "We come to bear witness!" was said loudly, more than once.
"More bards?" Hawkril growled in disbelief, as a dozen men or more, one at least bearing a lute, and two more carrying a third man on a litter, shuffled hesitantly in through the door.
"Your chroniclers?" Embra asked the Swords wizards. "Or admirers who trail everywhere avidly behind you?"
"Enough!" Nlorvold "Balestaff" spat disgustedly to his fellow Swords. "They'll never yield a Dwaer! They just want to unburden themselves of a lot of clever preening talk before bards!"
He raised his staff as he spoke, and fire spat from it. Hawkril dove headlong for the floor. The wizard turned his staff to follow the armaragor, and its arc of flames caught alight much shattered furniture.
"He sounds like me grumbling about wizards!" Hawkril said with a grin, hefting his warsword.
Embra smiled crookedly and released a spell that had been whirling ready in her cupped hand, behind her back. It caused the floor tiles around the staff-wielding wizard to rise up in a small, snarling whirlwind that plucked Nlorvold off his feet and slammed him into two of the warriors behind him, driving them together heavily to the ground.
"Really?" the Lady of Jewels replied to the armaragor as Hawkril scrambled to his feet. "He looks a lot like you grumbling about wizards, too!"
Ressheven had intoned his own spell by then-and the air was suddenly full of dozens of darting, swooping daggers that flew on black crow-wings. In a dark flock of stabbing death they fell on the Four and bards alike, as the Swords warriors crouched low around their wizard and watched the carnage.
Craer fell and rolled, wincing and clutching at his shoulder. Hawkril swore as two lines of blood were laced across his side and back in as many seconds, and batted blades away as they swerved and then banked hungrily down at him.
Two bards toppled from their high perches, clutching at their throats. Another sprouted a flying fang in one eye, and toppled over in silence.
As each dagger drew blood, the Lady of Jewels saw, it faded slowly away, but its damage remained behind. She shrieked as one came right at her eyes-and struck it aside with a desperate slap that made her palm burn.
As it tumbled away, it faded… and she did not have to look down to know that her hand was running wet with blood.
"Embra!" Hawk snarled, his face contorting in agony as he stopped a dagger through the palm of his hand. "Do something!"
27
Gods Serve Up Surprises
The Lady of Jewels stared at Hawkril and the swarming daggers around them, swallowed, and thought hard. A "Many Lightnings"? She had nothing that could ensnare and drag down these knives, and her Banishment could destroy only one flying blade, not the whole spell. If she could slay or strike senseless the mage who'd cast it, now…
But it was Sarasper who acted first. Unseen by bard or any man of the Swords, he'd climbed the heap of fallen furniture and lurked just behind its crest. Now he sprang high into the air and forward, like a gigantic, shaggy spider jumping into the air, and crashed down with all of his legs bent forward