The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [160]
Like a fearless armored wedge they came, hacking and thrusting-and where determined men stood against them, a Melted would burst into grume and flying bone, taking that foe with him into oblivion.
As if Corloun's magic had been a signal, the room was suddenly alive with magic, Serpent-priests and hitherto-hidden mages chanting and stammering incantations furiously.
Flamespells severed stairs and sent them crashing down into the fray, men tumbling helplessly onto the heads of bards and Serpent-priests alike. But the shimmering spell-serpents that ate away flesh with each bite were almost all sent at the Melted or at the mage in their midst, and Corloun's wedge became a small, embattled ring-even before armaragors wearing the badge of Adeln began to stream in through the door behind them, and carve their own bloody path into the fray.
The floor was red and wet with gore and strewn with the fallen now, and still screaming warriors were spitted on blades, wizards shrieked spells but were chopped down with axes nonetheless, and terrified bards and factors dodged this way and that among the thrusting blades.
The Melted had been beaten to one side, and were grappling with many cowled, hissing Serpent-priests-and the armaragors of Adeln, like a great and gleaming arrowhead, striding forward with an armored giant in the lead, were heading straight for Baron Blackgult… and straight for the Band of Four.
"Gods," Craer gasped, as the giant of a man deftly struck aside the procurer's third hurled dagger. "Look at him!"
"Mine," Hawkril growled promptly, and strode forward, his face set.
Embra sent a quick burst of lightning past the nearly naked armaragor, but when it struck the armor of the Adelnan giant, it flared into a nimbus of cracklings-and then flashed back at her. Lady preserve, a defensive enchantment!
When the searing bolt struck and clawed at her, the Lady of Jewels threw back her head and screamed. As she reeled, limbs trembling, tiny lightnings spat raggedly from her mouth, nose, and even eyes, but Blackgult looked at her, Dwaer flashed-and she was healed before Sarasper could even lift a hand.
Embra moaned and swayed on her feet. Before bending her attention back on the battle, she stole a quick, sidelong glance at the man who claimed to be her father. Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away. After a moment, as if of its own accord, her hand lifted in a gesture of thanks. Blackgult smiled thinly when he saw it.
The leader of the Adelnan charge was larger than Hawkril, and the long spike-headed axe in his hand was longer and heavier than Anharu's warsword-but the King's Hero sprang to meet him almost eagerly. Scorning any wary circling or menacing posturing, the two men crashed together like angry bulls, shoving shoulder-to-shoulder and growling before their shared whirlwind of hacking and punching began.
Warriors of Adeln crowded forward on both sides of the battling men, blades held low and wide to stab and hamstring Hawkril, but Embra grimly sent them fire-and they fell back with shrieks as Blackgult waved a hand and the flames became a purple ring around the two hulking armaragors, flames that roared man-high and steadily widened their ring until it was pushing men back towards the walls. There it stopped, becoming almost transparent-but so hot as to melt slung stones and daggers hurled through it. Men soon stopped trying, and a stillness of sorts fell upon the room as everyone watched the two big men battle.
Sword strained against axe, locked together with the weight and strength of their wielders behind them, and there came a shriek of tortured steel as the weapons sawed slowly back and forth, a contest of brute force that stretched on until the arms of both men were trembling.
Then, suddenly, one of the barbs on the Adelnan axe broke, Hawkril's