Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [166]
In moments, the tower had reached its full height. It stood in their midst, like a shining beacon showing Dag the way to the future he craved.
Not a man moved, not a person spoke. All gazed in awe at the huge siege tower in their midst.
Suddenly the silence was shattered by the sound of splintering wood. A door on the side of the enclosed tower flew open, sending shards of wood spinning as the bolt which had held it shut gave way.
A fierce, red-bearded dwarf erupted from the tower in full charge. Ringlets of bright red sprang from her head in wild profusion and streaked behind her as she ran, giving her the appearance of a vengeful medusa. Though stunned into immobility, Dag remembered that dwarf. His raid had disrupted her wedding feast and had left her new-made husband lying dead from many wounds. As he eyed the female’s furious approach, it came to Dag that he might well have done that slaughtered dwarf a favor.
Then the shock lifted, and fierce anger took its place. Sensation flooded into his dazed mind. The thunder of perhaps fifty pairs of dwarven booth, the roars and cries of the vengeful attackers, the sound of axe against sword, the smell of blood and of bodies already voiding themselves in death, and the bright, coppery taste of fear.
Dag whiried and seized a sword from the scabbard of the soldier nearest him. He ignored the battle raging around him as his eyes sought out the gift his sister had so thoughtfully delivered.
The paladin was not difficult to find. His bright hair caught the faint light of the dying day, and his young, strong baritone was raised in a hymn to Tyr. Dajs jaw tightened. He knew that hymn and could sing along with Algorind of Tyr if he chose to do so.
What he chose to do was to cut that song from the man’s throat.
* * * * *
Never had Algorind seen such a transformation come over a mortal face. As the priest of Cyric gazed upon him, life and warmth and humanity itself drained away.
Dag Zoreth raised a sword and touched it slowly to his forehead in salute, his eyes holding Algorind’s. As he lifted it, the silver blade darkened, and began to glow. Purple fire danced along the edges, throwing eerie shadows across the sharp lines and hollows of the Cyricist’s face.
“You signed on to fight evil, boy,” Dag Zoreth said, in a voice that was less like that of a single mortal man than a chorus of angry beings speaking in concert. The voice rang out easily over the chaos of battle and reached out for Algorind like a grasping, unseen hand. “You are about to realize your fondest ambition.”
The force of so much evil, so much hatred, drained the blood from the paladin’s face, but he lifted his sword, mirrored Dag Zoreth’s salute, and ran to meet the priest’s charge.
Black and violet fire flashed forward. Algorind parried, sending sparks flying. He advanced, his eyes steady on that inhumanly evil face, his sword dipping and slashing, working the priest’s blade and keeping him on the defensive. He had little choice. The unholy fire gave incredible speed and strength to the Cyricist’s sword, more than compensating for the difference in their stature and training. Algorind had found more skilled opponents, but never had he faced one as dangerous.
This victory, if such he was granted, would be not his, but Tyfs.
* * * * *
Bronwyn covered Cara’s eyes from the glare of the purple fire and the terrible fury of the duel raging just a few feet away, and-most horrifying of all-the evil incarnated on Dag Zoreth’s face. She scooped Cara into her arms and started to rise. “We’ve got to get away,” she whispered.
The child wrenched out of her grasp. “I won’t leave him,” she insisted. “I can’t! It’s my right to see what happens.”
Bronwyn remembered her own despair at the siege of Thornhold and knew she could not deny the child this. Nor could they leave if they wanted to. They were backed against the inner wall, and the duel had shifted to block their escape.
A clear, baritone voice began to ring above