The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [152]
All over the room, dark-winged daggers abruptly winked out of existence.
Sarasper rode that avalanche of tumbling furniture down into the midst of the Swords of Sirlptar, watching armaragors leap or sprint out of the way-or run out of room or time to flee, and get bowled over as if they were flung toys. Well before the furniture came to rest, the longfangs sprang from it to crash into the chest of Nlorvold the Balestaff, who'd just found his feet again, to stand leaning on his staff and breathing heavily.
The wizard went down, wolflike jaws tore out a throat, and claws tore off the head that had sported that throat and tossed it into the lap of a horrified bard, all in a whirl of motion that was begun and ended before the warriors of the Swords could do more than gape and yell.
Furry limbs snatched at a bouncing staff, missed, and then caught hold. A terrified Swords armaragor flung himself forward and hacked desperately at the wolf-spider's limbs, right at the spot where they curved around the staff.
A flood of blue sparks and flame flared in the wake of that swordblow, even as Sarasper roared in pain and shrank back, trailing a spray of blood. Emboldened, the Swords warrior struck again, and one of his fellows joined him in the hacking. Twice, thrice-brutal chopping blows that rained down before a shouting Hawkril, smashing and bounding his way through knee-deep wrack, could get to the fray.
And the Balestaff exploded.
The force of the blast flung the longfangs the length of the chamber, plucked Hawkril off his feet and dashed him against the base of a pillar halfway down the room, and sent a shower of Swords warriors' legs and arms tumbling and spattering bards and tall cabinets and riven furniture alike. On his litter, Flaeros Delcamper winced and curled his half-healed arms over his head, huddling down desperately as the world around him tore itself apart with a roar. The force of the blast spun the litter around end for end and slammed it back into the doorway with a splintering crash. Moments later, the head of another Swords armaragor sailed over it, almost catching Flaeros in the face, to thump and bounce wetly to a stop well down the passage.
And then, almost unbelievably to the numbed and near-deafened survivors, a stillness fell upon the room at the heart of the tower. Flaeros peered into the vast chamber from the ruin of his litter and saw four or five of his fellow bards doing the same thing, while another handful moaned and twisted in pain.
Right in front of him, two armaragors of the Swords of Sirlptar were staggering unsteadily forward to where someone was moving in the rubble. In the distance, Flaeros could see the procurer and the Lady of Jewels doing their own staggering.
Then, with a snarl of rage from between clenched teeth and some helpful tugs by the armaragors, Ressheven of Two Moons reared upright with blood on his face and fury in his eyes.
Raising his trembling hands like claws, he fought for control over them, shaped a spell the moment he gained it, and then whirled around and pointed down the room at the Lady Embra Silvertree.
"Die, whore of the king!" he spat-and something rushed from his hands that was neither fire nor lightning, but blazed red and white as it howled forth, in a beam like the shaft of a thrusting spear, swift and straight down the room to where Embra flung herself desperately through the air, frantic to get out of the way.
The ravening magic thrust past Embra and Craer and tore on-to smash straight into the base of one of the massive pillars, like a wave breaking on the rocks of a savage shore.
And with a flash that blinded the eyes and a crash that shrieked in already-ringing ears, stone shattered and was flung away-and for a brief, jaw-dropping moment, there was only rushing, tortured air for about the height of a man between the floor and the rest of the