Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [168]
His gaze sought Bronwyn, and this time his eyes were hard. “As will we.”
And then he was gone, leaving behind a small wisp of purple smoke.
Bronwyn caught Cara’s eye, jerked her head toward the still-fighting dwarves, and mouthed the word, run!
Then she took her knife away from Algorind’s throat and danced back a step. Still holding her grip on his hair, she kicked with all her strength at the back of his knee. His leg buckled. At the same moment, she yanked back hard. The paladin fell backward and landed in a painfully twisted heap. Bronwyn resisted the urge to kick him while he was down, and took off running madly after Cara.
A small knot of dwarves had run out of opponents and seemed to be quarreling among themselves. Cara ran straight at them.
“Good girl,” Bronwyn panted as she pounded along behind. The dwarves looked up as Cara approached and parted to let first her and then Bronwyn past. Bronwyn glanced back to see that they had closed ranks, forming a wall of dwarven resolve against the paladin.
For once again, Algorind was fervently pursuing his quest.
Bronwyn groaned. “Stop him,” she shouted back.
She snatched up Cara and all but threw the girl over her shoulder. There was an open door before them. The chapel. Bronwyn remembered the steps that ran up the back of the chapel into the towers. She dashed into the low building.
The sight before her stopped her in mid stride. Hanging over the altar was an enormous black skull, behind which burned a lurid purple sun. Malevolence emanated from the manifestation, washing over her with a wave of hatred and evil that was fully as debilitating as the lich’s touch.
Algorind clattered in after her, barely noticing the dwarf who clung doggedly to one of his legs. He stopped, as Bronwyn had done, and raised his eyes to the unholy fira. But there was no fear on his face, and his eyes held calm certainty. For a moment, Bronwyn envied him the simple beauty of his faith.
Again he began to sing, the same chant that had banished the purple fire from Dag Zoreth’s sword. Such was the power of his prayer that the dwarf-who had given up his hold and was now attempting repeatedly to bash at the paladin with a battle hammer-could not even get close. After several moments of this, the dwarf shrugged and took off in search of something he could actually hit.
The manifestation of Cyric was more difficult to banish than the sword’s enchantment, and it resisted Algorind’s prayers with a hideous crackling and hissing. The sunburst’s rays fairly danced with rage.
Bronwyn did not stay to see the outcome. She put Cara down and took her hand. They edged around the chapel, hugging the walls and keeping as much distance as possible between themselves and the angry evil fire in the midst of the room. Once, a spray of purple sparks showered them. The skirt of Cara’s dress began to smolder. Bronwyn dropped to her knees and beat out the tiny flames with her hands. To her relief, the child was not burned-only a few empty, brown-ringed holes marred the pink silk.
To her astonishment, this loss brought a tremble to the girl’s lip. This, after all Cara had endured. “I will get you another,” Bronwyn told her as she pulled her into a run.
The fire was dying now, and Algorind would not be far behind them. They dashed up the winding stone steps, and out onto the walkway that ringed the interior of the wall. Their way was clear, for all the Zhentarim had flooded down into the bailey to meet the dwarf invaders.
They ran toward the front gate tower, hoping to get to the horses. The dwarves had shut the door and barred it. There were but two horses outside the gate. If they could get to the horses, they could outrun the paladin.
But swift footsteps closed in and a heavy hand dropped on Bronwyn’s shoulder. She huried her elbow back in a sharp jab and whirled after it. Stiffening her fingers, she went for his eyes.
The paladin was quick, and he dodged her jabbing attack. Her hand stabbed into his temple, and she changed tactics-