The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [44]
"Steady," Sarasper growled, plucking at the torn and bloody thews of the armaragor's other arm. "A charge right back into those jaws right now would not be a glorious, effective, or even particularly useful thing! I need you to lure and run away just now!"
"Oh?" Hawkril grunted, tugging his warsword free from the shards and tangled padding of the armor across his chest and down his right side, whence it had been driven deep by the bulk and smashing blows of the longfangs. "And how am I to lure it if I have not its attention, hey?"
"Gods above if you haven't found another unassailable reason for brainless battle," the old healer snapped. "Well, just mind you lead it through that archway, mind-d'you hear?"
"But of course, Lord of Battles," the armaragor growled. "Yon archway 'tis!" And at that he raised his voice in a wordless bellow of rage that became a trumpeted, echoing challenge, and launched himself across the chamber.
His charge banished the bone-wizard's control for the nonce, and the longfangs roared back its answer as it spun around to face him, ignoring both the procurer it had already been scorning and the sorceress it had been trying its utmost to slay. They both turned startled faces to the charging Hawkril-but were distracted by the wildly waving healer.
"Here, to me!" Sarasper called. "Through here!"
The sorceress and the procurer exchanged glances, and then Craer gave Embra a shove towards the door and growled, "Go! It's not as if there're any minstrels watching to see what a mess we're making of being bold heroes, now-get going!"
"Without you?" Embra replied teasingly, over her shoulder. Craer demonstrated another rude gesture of the Vale to her in reply, as they broke into a run together. Hawkril burst between them with a savage grin, going the other way with speed and enthusiasm, and the wet thud of his first blow landing-and the pain-laced squalling of the longfangs it provoked- sounded clearly over the scrapes of their hurrying boots on the loose stones.
"Hawkril!" the hurrying pair heard Sarasper call warningly. "Don't get enthralled in battling it, now-just draw it back here!"
"Healer," the armaragor grunted back, between gasps for breath and the snarls that marked him swinging his blade hard to strike aside reaching limbs or striking limbjaws, "do I tell you how to heal?"
"Hawk," the old man replied reprovingly, "I was swinging a sword before you were-"
"A gleam in the eye of the unborn granddaughter of the lass being born as you picked your first blade up by its wrong end, I know," Hawkril called. "Just one more-unnhh! There!-and I'm your enthusiastic lure!"
"Whatever became of warriors who just grimly and silently followed orders?" Embra wondered aloud, as she gasped her way up a short flight of steps to the archway where Sarasper stood waiting-and barring the way beyond.
"They all got killed unquestioningly following the orders of utter idiots," the healer grunted back, "meaning no offense, Lady Baron."
"I'll take none," Embra told him, "if you refrain from calling me that." As Craer joined them, they turned together to watch the armaragor, his blade dark and wet with longfangs gore, lumbering across the stones towards them, the wolf-spider lurching along in pained pursuit.
"Are you all enjoying the sight?" Hawkril called. "Or placing bets, perhaps? Or just standing in my way like utter idiots?"
"There're traps ahead, bone-for-brains," Sarasper told him. "Through this arch, swing hard and fast to your left, and run ahead until you come to a room lit by a faint glow. Enter it not, but put your hand on its entry arch and turn hard right, ducking down the passage then before you. It descends to a room of many pillars. Wait therein for me-but don't, if you would cling to your life, touch a single pillar!"
"In, left, right before light, touch no pillars as we tarry," Embra chanted.
"Indeed," the healer agreed, at the same time as Craer, watching the chase hurtle across