The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [43]
Had they lost the Stone? It seemed like an eternity before Sarasper found his feet, waved a wordless reassurance to her, and set out across a small forest of loose rocks that turned underfoot treacherously to where the armaragor lay. Staggering awkwardly, waving his arms for balance and cursing softly and often, while keeping one eye on the stalking longfangs, the healer finally reached Hawkril-and winced at what he saw.
The hulking warrior lay on his back, sprawled and bloody, his armor gnawed and twisted where it wasn't missing altogether. No healer in all Darsar had power enough, alone, to set all this harm right and snatch the armaragor back onto his feet, fresh and hale. But perhaps, for a start, a little less would serve…
Sarasper set his teeth in a grimace and hauled at torn edges of armor plate here and there, prying tortured metal away from bruised flesh beneath. As he forced broken bones gratingly back into their proper places, Hawk murmured and moved beneath his fingers.
"Well?" Embra called, her voice high with excitement and fear.
Sarasper shook his head at her. "Patience," he muttered. "A little patience!"
"Hand that sage advice to this longfangs," the sorceress shot back, "not to me!"
Sarasper gave her a mirthless grin and bent back to his task, feeling himself grow weak and tired again as vitality flowed out through his fingers into the warming flesh beneath. He had to get from this part of the House, all broken and crumbling furnishings and traps, to certain rooms east and south of here, in those depths of the Silent House never reached by looters or overbold hired adventurers foraging for earlier Barons Silvertree. One chamber he recalled, its walls sheathed in glossy green marble, held a great-front cabinet bristling with some long-vanished Silvertree's collection of music boxes, every last one of them enchanted-some so lavishly as to glow and pulse where they sat, down the long and waiting years. He had to get there, to have the makings for healings and give Embra the stored fire to power her battle-spells, but a score or more of traps awaited betwixt here and there, and…
"Lady Embra!" he called, excitement making him shout. "Remember you Thaalen's Nightguard?"
The Lady Silvertree lost her footing in calf-deep loose rubble and toppled helplessly sideways, sobbing out a curse as gray-furred limbs swept down at her.
A knife flashed and those limbs flinched back. Craer sprang over her, humming something merrily as he stabbed and slashed, his dagger a bright and slicing fang. Embra rolled to her hands and knees, snarling as stones tore at her desperately clawing fingers, and shouted back, "Yes, sargh you, and what-"
As she gained her feet, full remembrance of the Nightguard-an inner fortress within the Silent House that a certain particularly fearful-of-slayers-lurking-behind-every-face baron had built, and retreated to, nightly-came to her, and Embra added in a very different voice, "Oh."
"Exactly," Sarasper called, as Hawkril groaned under his hands and made his first feeble struggle to rise. "If you, as the Silvertree heir, know the words that call up the power of the Nightguard-"
"I do," the sorceress shouted back. "Those enchantments-taught to all of the blood Silvertree as amusing family lore, because the curse was always thought to make them useless-gave my father the beginnings of his 'Living Castle' spellchains for me. But we have to get there first, and there're the traps…"
"Leave those to me," the old healer cried, "and behold! Your favorite Hawk is with us once more!"
With a growl, the armaragor rose ponderously upright, trying a smile. It was obviously an experiment, and wavered alarmingly as he staggered in a half-circle, swinging his arms and wincing, ere he caught sight