“Well met, ornrion,” said a cold, sarcastic voice, and Dauntless found himself blinking into a wintry gaze he recognized. “Islif Lurelake, at your service.”
Onrushing bullyblades washed over Florin Falconhand in a tide of pounding boots and thrusting swords. He parried, danced aside, and slashed like a madwits, running another few strides toward the Ride whenever he could snatch an instant amid the frantic swordplay.
After those brief skirmishes, most of the bullyblades swept past him and across the clearing, seeking easier prey. Of the few who tarried, Florin sent one man staggering away clutching a slashed face, plunged his sword into the shouting mouth of a second to silence him forever, and drove a third to his knees, gurgling and feebly trying to hold his head on an almost-severed neck.
Not that there seemed to be any great shortage of arriving bullyblades. Whirling and panting in the heart of a ring of steel, the ranger fought on, wondering how soon it would be before it was his turn to be one of the dying.
Morkoun was doomed, as good as dead, and Hanstel would be too, if he didn’t stir his boots and get gone!
Blade of the Dragons Hanstel Harrow ducked aside from an outlaw sword, tripped the man, then whirled and ran.
Head down, sprinting like a youngling in a race, he fled across the clearing, heading for the open road. If he could—
He tripped on one of the bodies he’d been trying hard not to look down at, and he went sprawling. Rolling to his feet and wincing, he looked back at what had tripped him.
It was the body of First Sword Aubrus Norlen, huddled dead on the ground with flies already buzzing around staring eyes and open mouth. Out of which hung that runaway tongue, now forever stilled. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to listen to that particular flood of utter nonsense, ever ag—hold!
Norlen had been carrying something deadly, a “battle blast” or some such, for hurling at foes when a fray was going poorly. And if this wasn’t going poorly, he didn’t know what would be.
The weapon would be at his belt.
Hanstel found his feet and darted forward cautiously, half-expecting some deadly magic—or worse still, the corpse of the First Sword, stiff in fresh undeath—to lash out at him. There! That must be it, that hand-sized, unfamiliar thing tied at Norlen’s hip. Gingerly Hanstel bent, plucked it, tugged hard, and dashed away, feeling the body stirring under his hands for one horrible instant before the thong broke and the carrion slumped back, leaving him the new owner of … of whatever it was, round and dark in his palm. It was starting to glow now.
Glow. Magic. It was going to do whatever deadly thing it was intended to do, very soon. The glow was spreading across it with frightening speed!
Something flashed in the air before him. Hanstel looked up.
He saw the dagger that had flashed as it came whirling end over end toward him. It arced down, falling short and thunking deep into the dirt right in front of him.
Beyond it, back across the clearing, was the one who’d thrown it. He’d seen her once, back in the Royal Palace when the reception for the envoy of Silverymoon had been so dramatically disrupted. It was the little flame-haired Knight of Myth Drannor, the one who could hurl spells like a novice war wizard. Quite a looker, he’d thought, and still did. A lass he’d not mind a kiss and cuddle with. Who’d just tried to kill him.
Their eyes met.
With a certain wild glee—he had the means to kill a mage! A Mystra-loving she-wizard!—Hanstel Harrow hurled the deadly glowing thing in his hand right at her.
At this range, he could hardly miss.
Bullyblades were everywhere, and he was meat for their blades, holy symbol of Lathander and all.
Semoor Wolftooth scrambled wildly across the clearing, fleeing he knew not where, still half-blind behind his mask of blood. His own blood, still streaming down his face, getting in his eyes with every step, stlarn it, keeping him from seeing—
He tripped over something, probably a body, and crashed to the ground like a felled tree, driving all the wind out of his lungs and shaking every bone in his body. Dazed and trying to groan, he rocked back and forth in agony.
Something slammed into his ribs, hard—something that cursed and thudded hard to the ground right beside him, a sword cartwheeling past his blurred gaze. It seemed he’d tripped a bullyblade who’d been rushing up to gut him.
He had to move fast, to get at the man before a knife came out or that sword got snatched up again, and “dicing-handy-Lathanderite-holy-man time” arrived. He had to—
Something slammed hard into his ears and heaved the ground under him in the same explosive instant. A blast hurled men off their feet all over the clearing, and the bullyblade’s fallen sword spun up into the air again. Semoor’s face met the trampled weeds of the ground, his ears ringing, and a sudden wet rain thumped and pattered to the ground all around him, like mud hurled in the wake of speeding hooves.
Wiping and blinking furiously so he could see what was going on, he caught sight of the bullyblade just beyond him, who’d struggled up to a sitting position and was now reeling dazedly. The man was drenched in gore—and more than gore: large wet things that were now sliding off him.
As the bullyblade groaned and tried to gather his legs under him, Semoor spotted a staring eyeball in the midst of one large and hairy chunk. His stomach lurched.
He knew what he was staring at.
He’d not have to turn around to see what wouldn’t be standing there, back across the clearing.
The Knights’ hobbled horses.
He swallowed, trying hard not to be sick. Well, at least there hadn’t been any Knights of Myth Drannor slaughtered along with them.
Had there?
Desperately, Dauntless parried again. Steel shrieked, spitting sparks as it was driven back almost to his nose.
He gave ground, panting, as the sword came at him again. This farm wench wasn’t giving him time to set himself, time to fight her off! He was—
He lurched aside, twisting so the thrust that had been reaching for his codpiece sang off his armored thigh. Bitch! Murderous bitch!
“I am an ornrion of the Purple Dragons of Cormyr,” he shouted, retreating again, “and my words and my sword are the law of Cormyr! I command you to—”
“Surrender so you can butcher us?” Islif snapped back at him. “I wondered how soon you’d start to trumpet your legal right to butcher us on sight! The law, indeed! Vangerdahast’s secret orders, more like—and your own gleeful desires!”
Dauntless was forced to parry again. She was driving him back, besting him in both strength and swordwork.
“Well, I have gleeful desires, too!” she told him, eyes blazing. “I desire to stay alive and ride Cormyr freely, so I can obey the royal orders given to me! Or do you and the Royal Magician of Cormyr now presume to ignore the words of their king and queen, in favor of what you would prefer to do? Hey? Hey?”
Her latest roundhouse slash almost struck his sword from his numbed hands; parrying it sent him slipping backward on something wet.
He was afraid now, more afraid than he’d been in a long time. This hairy-armed farm girl could match him and more, toe-to-toe in a sword fray, and—
Dauntless backed right into someone, in a collision that startled them both and left him hopping awkwardly aside, his flank and face undefended against the Lady Knight’s seeking blade.
She came not after him, though. Instead, she slashed at the man who’d blundered against Dauntless, laying open the side of the man’s head and sending him spinning and squalling to the ground. Dauntless knew that face. It was one of the Lord Yellander’s bullyblades, a man who’d once—
Someone screamed, right behind Dauntless, and it was a voice he knew, too.
The shriek died into a rattling gurgle before he could hurl himself around to see its source: Blade of the Purple Dragons Albaert Morkoun, dying with two bullyblade swords in his neck.
As Morkoun staggered and fell, Dauntless hacked at the face of one of his slayer
s in a fury, then plunged past to get behind the man, to make him a shield against Islif Lurelake.
He needn’t have bothered. The Lady Knight seemed to have forgotten him for the moment. She was hewing her way through bullyblades like a drunken reaper at harvest-tide, and wounded men reeled and fled in all directions. One tripped over the thief Knight and went boots-in-the-air, crashing down on his face and coming up reeling worse than she’d ever been. Another flinched back from Sulwood as if the priest had been some sort of roaring clawed monster, and sprinted away across the dark, spattered gore that blast had left strewn everywhere.
Dauntless felt like running after him. They were between him and the Ride, all of them, these Knights, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
Whenever he had dealings with the Knights of Myth Drannor, everything always went horribly wrong.
Another bullyblade fell, this one merely grunting as he staggered forward and then went down, face first into the trampled turf. Florin barely had time to notice. He was still running and fighting, frantically fencing and thrusting and then rushing on to run and fight some more, trying above all to keep from being surrounded by bullyblades and cut down by blades he couldn’t hope to parry. He was leaving a trail of slain or sorely wounded bullyblades in his wake, yes, but how many of them were left?
Florin sidestepped a man wielding a pair of swords who greeted him with a defiant yell and two vicious thrusts. He whipped his own blade across the man’s throat and ran on.
Hadn’t Yellander quietly assembled something like a private army? Not that he was the only oh-so-loyal noble the Knights had taken a hand—however clumsy or unwitting—in bringing down. They all had private armies, didn’t they?
The bullyblade’s eyes widened as he made it up to his knees, coming face to belt with Semoor Wolftooth. Instead of shoving himself to his feet, the bullyblade grabbed for a dagger at his belt.
Whereupon the Pride of Lathander swung the large and bloody warhammer he’d found lying nearby just as hard as he could in a roundhouse swing at the side of the man’s head.
That swinging cost him his balance and all sight of his foe, but the hammer hit something solidly enough to rattle Semoor’s teeth before whatever it was sagged a bit and then fell away. Letting go of the hammer and rolling hastily over and away, Semoor peered back at the man he’d struck, as swiftly as he could.
All he could see was knees, thrust upward at awkward angles and not moving. Little wonder, he discovered a few moments later; there wasn’t much left of one side of the man’s head. It looked as if some unskilled idiot had driven a warhammer just as hard as he could into the bullyblade’s head.
Semoor started to chuckle, but it turned into choking, and he found himself spewing up his stomach all over the man’s knees.
Which promptly vanished again behind a wet, red curtain of blood. Starfall, he had to stop this bleeding!
The dead bullyblade was wearing a broad leather sword belt over his breeches-belt, its sword sleeve and dagger sheath already empty. Semoor fought with the buckle only briefly, managed to drag it out from under the man, and wound it twice around his own forehead before buckling it up again.
It was tight—throbbingly tight—but at least his own blood wasn’t sheeting down into his eyes any longer. One last swipe with the back of his own gore-sticky hand, and he could see again.
Really see. Which meant, as the belt’s empty dagger sheath dangled into his eyes, bumping against his nose, Semoor could clearly behold four—no, five!—bullyblades now bearing down on him, running hard.
With a yell, he grabbed at the warhammer and rose to meet them.
Hoping, as he struggled to lift the heavy weapon, that Lathander wouldn’t be overly offended at what he was bellowing.
“Beard of Omthas, you useless Star of the Morning! Protect me, damn you! How can I spread the stlarning holy word of stlarning Lathander if I’m dead? Hey?”
Doust Sulwood was hopping and whirling among enemy blades to parry and lash out with his mace this way and then that, not daring to stand still for a moment.
He hoped—oh, how he hoped—Holy Tymora would stand with him when he most needed her. Right now, for instance.
Semoor’s shout brought a grin to his lips. Well, at least he wasn’t the only priest fighting to stay alive. And being as he wasn’t the one cursing Lathander, perhaps the Morninglord would aid him rather than Semoor. As long as that aid didn’t offend Tymora, of course.
A sword missed him entirely, and Doust reached over it and leaned into his swing. His mace crashed home above a bullyblade ear, and that foe dropped like a full potato sack. Ah, but he was lucky these murderers weren’t wearing armor!
Oh. Aha. Tymora had seen to that, of course!
“Ah, but I’m lucky to so bask in the bright favor of Lady Luck!” he said as he spun to face a new foe.
And promptly slipped and fell.
Chapter 7
WHIRLWINDS COME A-REAPING
Though brave words ring out strong
Setting every bold heart to leaping
There’ll be lessons hard and lessons long
When the whirlwinds come a-reaping.
The character Selgur the Savage
In the play Karnoth’s Homecoming
by Chanathra Jestryl, Lady Bard of Yhaunn
First performed in the Year of the Bloodbird
Jhessail backed away, breathing hard. Her dagger was gone, hurled at the thing the Purple Dragon had thrown at her. It had stuck into that missile and had probably been blasted to dust in the explosion that had followed after the thing had skipped aloft, spinning end over end to crash down among the horses.
Her ears were ringing, and she was drenched in horse gore. More of it was splattered everywhere around her, leaving her slipping and sliding at every step as she retreated, trembling. She circled to the right as she went, not wanting to go into unknown forest where she might well get tangled among trees and trapped with no way to flee.
Wearing the grim beginnings of a sly and cruel smile, the bullyblade leader stalked after her, drawn sword in hand.
“Don’t make me use my spells,” she warned, raising a hand.
The man sneered. “A little cantrip that will make the end of your nose glow, perhaps? Or banish the rust from my dagger? Or perhaps you’d like me to stop and watch you light a candle with your fingertip?”
“Oh, I can light more than candles,” Jhessail told him, smiling with a confidence she was very far from feeling. They were back amid the fighting now, curling around behind bodies and frays still raging.
“Then why don’t you, Lady Silvertree? Mage so mighty of the Knights of Myth Drannor? Little lying slut.”
“Oh,” Jhessail said, still backing away. “Is there something wrong with your sword? Is that why you’re trying to insult me to death?”
The man stalked forward. “Lady, I am Eerikarr Steldurth. I served a great and noble lord of Cormyr long and well. I feel no need to insult a landless, lowborn, backcountry hedge mage. I can merely say ‘lawbreaker’ or ‘murderer of lords.’ When I speak thus of you, I utter truths, not insults.”
Then he was upon her, dropping into a lunge that brought his blade thrusting in so close to Jhessail that it whispered between her right arm and her body, slicing garment and skin alike.
She gave a little shriek, flung up her arm, and ducked away to the left as he rose back into balance and slashed at her, backhanded.
He was an instant too late. She was just out of reach and bounding back to the right as his blade swept by. Steldurth sprang after her, hacking, and caught one of his own men in the shoulder as that bullyblade hastily backed away from Florin’s flashing sword.
The man yelled, lashed out blindly, and kept on turning and retreating, blindly jostling Jhessail and sending her staggering.
Steldurth sidestepped the bullyblade’s wild slash then ran right at Jhessail. She ducked away, diving between two bullyblades, and then dodged around a third—and almost into th
e waiting arms of Steldurth, who’d guessed her tactic correctly.
She spun away, leaving a great torn-out handful of her hair in his hand, and plunged past a bullyblade. Or tried to.
That outlaw was in full retreat from Florin, and she tripped over one of his swiftly moving boots. Jhessail sprawled, clawing at the ground to try to get up and run. She almost made it, rising but being turned over in midair by a boot deftly hooked around her ankle.
She fell again, face up this time, and found that it had been Eerikarr Steldurth who’d tripped her. Looming over her, he grinned—and drew his sword back to plunge down into her breast.
A slender arm clad in dark leathers and fresh blood rose up under his sword arm, blocking his thrust. Pennae’s head came into view over Steldurth’s shoulder as she finished swarming up him from behind. Grinning through teeth clenched in pain, she plunged the dagger in her other hand into Steldurth’s throat.
Blade Hanstel Harrow was a fairly skilled warrior, but there were five bullyblades around him. Five cruel swords sliding in at his face and hands and every seam and chink of his armor, darting past his parries to spread ice in their wake, ice and the sticky wetness of his spilling blood. He was going to die here.
He threw all caution to the winds and hurled himself wildly at one foe and then another, taking foolish chances as he lunged, slashed, charged forward where no sensible swordsman would dare—and managed to slay an astonished bullyblade.
He didn’t get even a moment to exult at his daring before the rest cut him down, slashing at the backs of his knees and leaving him crumpled at their feet ere their blades came plunging at him.
Harrow died with one last name on his lips, but cold steel had pinned his tongue to the back of his mouth and was keeping his teeth apart. He gurgled helplessly, face twisting in disappointment.
The grinning faces above him did not look one little bit like the faraway lasses he was remembering.
The Sword Never Sleeps Page 9