The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [162]
Craer peered, leaped high as he kicked a man in the face, and peered again on the way down. Yes! The Melted were hacking down Adelnan armaragors!
Blades rose and fell like threshing flails, close-packed men screamed and convulsed and died, some of them pinned so close together that it was minutes after they'd died before their bodies could topple, and the Adelnan ranks grew thinner and thinner… and more and more frantic.
Such was the fury of the warriors hacking at Hawkril-always at least three, no matter how many he sent to the floor dead or dying-that there came a time at last when five blades struck against his own at once.
There was a soft groan of metal, almost like the sound Embra made when sorely hurt, and the warsword that had served Hawkril so well for so long broke in three places, bright shards tumbling, and left him wielding a broken stump of a blade.
In an instant steel had scored thrice in or across the corded muscles of his midriff. With a roar of pain and fury, Hawkril punched aside the last blade to plunge into him and rushed in behind its bloody arc to grab its wielder around the middle. Lifting the kicking and twisting Adelnan warrior on high, the snarling armaragor hurled the man to the floor. The shivering crack of an Adelnan back breaking fell loudly into a momentary lull in the battle din, and then there came a roar from the men hearing it-a roar that broke off into stunned silence a moment later by an apparition.
In the air above Hawkril, a figure of glowing white light appeared, as if standing on an unseen podium. It was the ghostly image of the Risen King.
A Serpent hissed and his fingers writhed in Banishing magic, but the image ignored him. There were murmurs at that, and men started to push forward-but silence and stillness fell again when the voice of the king resounded in every head: "Blackgult, open your mind to me!"
The Baron Blackgult went to his knees. "Of course, Majesty," he said simply. Men stared, and saw him grow pale.
Silence stretched.
There was suddenly a sheen of sweat on Blackgult's calm face. It gathered into beads, and then became a dripping torrent.
Stillness deepened. The kneeling baron began to tremble, and his face worked in uncontrolled spasms.
"I-" he whispered, in the tense silence. "I am loyal."
Ezendor Blackgult's eyes closed, and he swayed. Men murmured, anticipating his fall.
Then the voice of the Risen King echoed through the chamber: "He speaks truth! Arise, Blackgult, as Regent of Aglirta!"
There came a gathering rumble of wordless discontent, awe, and fear from the men crowded into that room-and the Risen King's voice rose over all to quell it, rolling through heads until men winced and cowered under its thunder.
"Let there be no more strife among my barons and the warriors of Aglirta! Drive out the Serpent-spawn! Let the realm be scoured of all who'll not kneel to Regent Blackgult! Let them be cast out, part of Aglirta no more! I have spoken!"
By the time those last words rang back from the vaulting overhead like a thunderclap, everyone was on their knees, wincing or huddled to the floor with their hands clutching at their heads.
It was a long, numbed, warily-looking-around-and-blinking time before men rose and fumbled for their swords again-and as they did, three Dwaer spinning around a wolfishly smiling baron's head spat dark bolts of fell magic with whipcracks that made men wince and clutch at their ears again.
Dazed, the men in the chamber saw that the image of the king was gone-and where those three black bolts had stabbed, pillars of flame roared up to lick at the ceiling. Trapped men danced in dying agony in the heart of each: the mage Corloun, Baron Glarond, and the Tersept of Tarlagar. The tersept's body changed as he clawed vainly at the air and died-and men staring at it, contorted as it was, recognized the face of the mighty mage