The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [161]
A roar went up from the Adelnans peering through the flames-for where the arms of their champion were encased in blue-sheen battle armor, the arms of his foe were covered only in hair, sweat, and now a line of crimson. An axe-barb had opened a long, serpentine swordcut along one of Hawkril's forearms.
The champion of Adeln stalked forward, menacing now, with rising triumph written in his cold smile and a cruel light in his eyes. He meant to slay swiftly and stride on to seize the Dwaer, encased in armor that-he'd been told-was proof against all mages.
All he had to do was fell one near-naked man. A big man, to be sure, but only one… one who couldn't possibly know about his little treasure.
The champion of Adeln kicked a bootheel against the floor, and then took two running steps and kicked out hard with that foot. He liked to drive men up into the air with their guts impaled on the toe-blade his kick had just unleashed-but all he had to do was gash them somewhere, if they were fast enough to slip away, for his little treasure was smeared thickly with poison. This would be good, this would be-
Both men moved too fast for the watchers to see clearly, the one kicking upwards, and the other bounding high and hurling himself in desperation.
Hawkril launched himself face-first at the Adelnan, whose kick struck only empty air, an armored calf striking Hawkril's boots. By then, one solid Anharu fist had slammed home on an Adelnan gorget, crumpling it and leaving the man behind it wheezing and strangling for air, toppling over backwards.
It was unfortunate for the champion of Adeln that Hawkril had once visited the back-street shop in Sirlptar that sold boots with spring-forth toe-blades, fancied a pair himself, and knew very well what they looked like.
It was fortunate for Hawkril that he was sufficiently wary of a last, desperate kick to bound free and fling himself hard to the right, to roll and come up to his feet far from his foe-for somewhere in the crowd behind the flames stood a Sirl wizard who'd helped enchant the champion's armor, and was even then working a desperate spell. If the armaragor fell, all of the mages here could surely overwhelm the Silvertree lass… and what would be left of the vaunted Four then? An old man and a thief? Hah! Die, warrior!
The winking Dwaer now hovering behind Blackgult's shoulder was guarding Hawkril against spells, and so did nothing to stop the Sirl mage's spell. Its magic landed like a bright net, winked once-and the armor of the champion of Adeln exploded with a roar, shredding its wearer and hurling shards of battle-steel in all directions.
Craer leaped in front of Embra-too slowly, of course. Men howled as shrapnel skidded through the flames and bit into flesh here, there, and everywhere. Hawkril threw up his hands to protect his eyes-what, after all, were a few more gashes now?-there were high-pitched clangs and singings of metal wherever shrapnel glanced off plate or blade… and the Lady of Jewels cried out sharply as flying metal tore through her shoulder.
Reeling, she fell before Craer, Sarasper, or Blackgult could reach her.
The ring of flames, born of her magic, promptly faded-and with a hungry roar, the warriors of Adeln charged.
Baron Blackgult strode to meet them. As he went, he plucked one Stone from the air and thrust it into his codpiece for safekeeping, snatching the other two Dwaer into his hands a pace farther.
Before he'd finished his next step, blades of glowing light had sprouted from both Stones, shimmering in the air as if the baron was holding two drawn longswords. He wove lines of spell-light in the air as he met the onrushing warriors-and where charging man or slashing blade met those radiances, they were hurled back.
Hawkril raced in to stand beside the baron, and Craer sprang to his feet on Blackgult's other flank and began hurling daggers and leaping about like a madman, trying to keep the men of Adeln at bay.
Men were shouting and shoving again, all over the chamber. Priests of the Serpent were