Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [85]
As Gorlist leaned away from the attack, Ansith followed hard with his other hand, which held a curved knife.
The leader seized the mutinous drow's wrist and gave it a vicious, bone-cracking twist, but Ansith used his weight as a weapon, throwing it against Gorlist. They fell together, twisted away, and rose catlike to their feet. They circled each other, watching for an opening.
Gorlist made a quick, jabbing feint, drawing a high parry. Before the swords touched, he ducked and drove back in, harder and lower. The point of his sword dived between the laces of Ansith's vest and touched the rippling muscle the young drow so proudly exposed. Just as quickly he swept the sword back and up, swatting aside Ansith's sword before parry could become attack. It was an astonishing display of speed: three forays against a single response.
Gorlist stepped back, a cocky smile on his face and his blade held almost casually in low guard position. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."
"Because you can't," the soldier said bluntly, not at all cowed by the bloodless coup his leader had just scored. His head lifted in pride and challenge. "No scars mar these arms, this body. I have never been bested in battle. As the red-haired elf woman pointed out, you cannot make that claim."
The smile dropped from Gorlist's face, and with a howl of rage he hurled himself at the younger warrior. The two fighters set to in a frenzy of slashing blades. The others gathered around to watch, twisted pleasure shining on their faces.
"The dark eye in a whirling storm of steel," murmured Brind-lor, watching his employer approvingly. He considered the phrase and nodded. It fit the general tone and tenor of the saga that was taking shape in his mind.
For many moments, Ansith managed to hold death at arm's length. Before he could falter, his brother Chiss joined the battle- not from any fraternal loyalty, Brindlor suspected, but from sheer frustrated bloodlust.
The drow bard frowned as he watched the uneven battle. He had no aversion to singing Gorlist's deathsong, but so far no one had offered to pay him for this feat. His own best interests lay in keeping Gorlist alive until the tale was told and the fees collected.
He glanced over at Taenflyrr and noted that the young warrior was considering him with cold, measuring eyes. Green dragon or not, it looked as if all of them would know battle tonight.
Before Brindlor could draw his sword, a soft, rising sound echoed through the trees, at first barely indistinguishable from the night winds. The deathsinger's trained ear divined its source at once.
"Hunting horns," he said, speaking just loud enough to be heard above battle.
The combatants immediately fell apart, panting and glaring at each other. They knew precisely what Brindlor meant, but the urge to fight and kill was not easily set aside.
"The hunting horns of Eilistraee," the deathsinger elaborated, "calling the Dark Maiden's followers to revelry or battle. I personally have no interest in the former, and I'm not sure whether the five of us would offer them much of a fight, either."
A second horn sounded, louder and closer. Two more answered, coming from each side of the small band.
Ansith backhanded a trickle of blood from his face and sneered at Gorlist. "The priestesses saved your life," he taunted.
"We will see that they come to regret it."
The retort came quickly, carrying with it the unmistakable promise of torture and death. Ansith's sneer melted away, to be replaced by an eager, almost comradely grin. He obviously read in Gorlist's words a closing of ranks, a shifting of focus from the internecine quarrel to the foe shared by all.
Ah, to be young and stupid, mused Brindlor with malicious amusement.