The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [61]
"So lastalans skip into battle like young lasses now, do they?" one of them sneered. "Well, well, always a new tactic to bedazzle us."
A knife spun from him, flashing towards Embra, but Craer flicked out a hand almost casually and struck it aside. Four magical disguises, it seemed, had abruptly vanished.
"Don't killthe wench!" someone shouted. "We need her alive! The rest don't matter!"
"Now, that," Craer said, springing at an armsman who was trying to rush past him and driving his dagger hilt-deep into the man's ear, "annoys me."
The man made a strangled, gurgling sound as Craer pushed him away, using the falling warrior to propel himself into a leap at someone else. As he sprang, the thief added, "It always annoys me when folk dismiss me as someone who doesn't matter. Know this, dolts: we all matter. Even your deaths diminish me… a little."
By then the wellhouse was a chaos of charging warriors, blades glinting and clanging off friendly armor, walls, and the well-rampart as they were waved wildly. Behind Craer, Hawkril growled like a bear and strode forward to meet the armaragors. There was a sudden flash from between Embra's hands, and by its light the Four saw that the large round room held even more men than they'd thought. Craer planted both of his boots hard in the gut of a warrior who folded up around the thief, groaning out his pain as he let a sword fall from one hand and a dagger from the other-and the light between Embra's hands was suddenly a raging bolt of snarling brightness that danced across the rear of the chamber like a restless snake, leaving men gasping and staggering in its spark-strewn wake.
"Get her!" one of the six warriors facing Hawkril shouted. "Take the witch down!"
Armored bodies surged sideways, bursting past a tumbling Craer and beyond the reach of Hawkril's blade. Sarasper spun away from one sword-cut with blood fountaining from the side of his head-and the next warrior lunged through the space where the healer had stood and put the tip of his blade through one of Embra's moving, spell-weaving hands.
Light leaked out of the wound as she shrieked, and as dark blood streamed forth in its wake the sorceress looked up with fire in her eyes and cried out an incantation that made the very air shake. Figurines burst along her belt in a row of little flames.
Something unseen but heavy rippled in the air, rolling out from her. It moved like a huge wave crashing ashore, sweeping men off their feet and hurling them back against the stone walls in a clatter and shrieking of armor. Men shouted in fear and pain, and Embra snarled back her fury at them.
Hawkril grimly hoisted a man into the air like a hog on a spit, slowly raising his blade as the man transfixed on it convulsed like a wriggling eel, spat forth blood in a great spasm, and then fell limp.
Beside the armaragor, Craer found his feet and reached down to haul up a crawling Sarasper. Between them and the far wall was nothing but emptiness-living and dead, the warriors of the wellhouse had been swept back against the stones.
The old healer clawed his way upright, swayed, and caught hold of Craer for support. For just a moment then, no one moved. Embra stood with her hands raised, holding the men who'd attacked them pinned against the wall, straining and snarling, their sneering smiles changed to fear and fury.
Abruptly she noticed that one man-a man without armor, but who wore a cowl and ragged shoulder-cloak, his face lost in its shadow-was stepping forward, as if her spell wasn't touching him. He walked with one hand thrust into the breast of his tunic, as if hurt, but he moved like doom coming for Embra-slow but inexorable.
She slashed at him with the last of its force, an outpouring that should have sent him tumbling away helplessly. Yet he strode on, limping as he came, slow but somehow… confident.
With a shock Embra became aware of something else: the Stone she wore against her ribs was thrumming and swiftly growing warm. Soon, she knew, it would sear her flesh, and begin to cook her. Another Stone