The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [163]
The pillars of flame suddenly collapsed and died away, the burning men within them falling away to ash-and amid a roar from scores of throats, the chamber erupted in bloodshed once more.
Bards stabbed at hissing Serpent-priests, who bit at some unarmored faces and thrust long knives into others. Men sought specific foes, seeking to settle old scores before the regent could restore order. Freed of Corloun's control, the Melted began to wander like dazed men, responding to no one but blundering everywhere, until one by one the disgusted and fearful cut them down.
It was only to be expected that, with no ghostly image of King Snowsar thundering overhead, men loyal to their barons would follow the hastily snapped orders of their masters-and try to slay the new regent before he could speak a single edict.
A hail of arrows, darts, hurled spears and blades descended on Blackgult, and warriors in plenty tried to charge in or hack from a distance… but the three Dwaer whirled around the head of the gently smiling baron, and nothing could penetrate the web they wove.
Sarasper dared to kneel down and put his hands on Hawkril and Embra, to heal-and Craer felt around for a fallen sword and put it into the bleeding armaragor's hand. Their eyes never left the battle.
Soon enough they saw what they'd feared: Serpent-priests and wizards stepping forward in ragged unison, spell-glows spinning in their cupped hands. Without a word of plotting or agreement, they were trying together what none of them could hope to do alone: breach the barrier of the Dwaer, so that someone could fell the Baron Blackgult.
As the glow of a dwindling statuette faded under his fingers and Embra made a faint, sleepy sound of relief under his other hand, Sarasper caught at Hawkril's arm and gestured. The armaragor in turn alerted Craer-and together they half-lifted, half-dragged the limp Lady of Jewels forward, to almost touch Blackgult's boots.
The baron looked down, saw what they were about, and stepped smoothly back a pace, so that the still-bleeding Embra lay in front of him, and the three men of the Four were clustered around his feet.
And that was when the endless flash and shudder of spells shattering against the woven magic of the three whirling Dwaer and being sucked away to nothingness ended in a searing rift of purple and white radiance-the work of a certain triumphant Sirl mage who'd seen his last attempt to shatter the Four fail-and a thrown sword whipped through that fleeting breach to bite deep into a baronial shoulder.
Ezendor Blackgult reeled and then sagged back, the Dwaer dimming and drawing close around him as they descended.
With another roar-exulting, this time-the remaining warriors surged forward. The men of the Four stood ready to meet them, above the sprawled bodies of the baron and his daughter.
As the first blades crossed, Craer traded quick glances with the old man on the other side of Hawkril and shouted, "No fangshape, Sass?"
"No time!" the reply came back, a moment before they both took nicks from the swords of foes who didn't quite dare to lean close enough to slay-and so be slain. Procurer and healer grunted and shuddered in unison, before Sarasper laughed suddenly.
"Happy?" Craer called to Sarasper in disbelief.
The old man laughed again.
"The realm hanging in the balance, hundreds of knights trying to hack me into bloody beef, and with good friends fighting at my side?" Sarasper called back. "There's no place I'd rather be!"
29
No Small Strife Unseen
The Risen King smiled a little frostily as the gleamingly armored knights of Loushoond crowded into the throne chamber. Their Lord strode at their head, and the handful of courtiers in attendance fell back to give them passage to the River Throne.
"Be welcome," the king said smoothly, as the Lord Baron Berias Loushoond ascended the dais with slow, deliberate steps, his face impassive. "I called you here today, my Lord of Loushoond, because of great peril to the realm, and-"
The baron had probably never moved so swiftly in his life before.