She watched the desperate dance in the sky for a few breaths longer, then snapped, "There's someone riding the beast! The third Doom, Narmarkoun, I'll lay you a gleaming gold broon."
"No, I'll lose no coins to ye this night," Gar growled, pounding his fists on the sill in frustration. Almost directly overhead, rolling in the air above the battlements of Stormcrag Castle, the great wyrm twisted, snapping its jaws but just failing to catch a desperately-diving Aumrarr.
They saw the rider on its back shaping air with his hands, in the strange fluid gestures that meant magic was being worked-and then the air in front of those hands blossomed into shadowy shapes that bit and snapped and darted in an echo of the bitings of the huge, arrow-shaped head of the greatfangs. Phantom spell-jaws reached hungrily for the flying Aumrarr, trailing the little winking lights of fresh-spun sorcery, and bit down. Hard.
An Aumrarr reeled in midair, the magic that had savaged her sapping her strength, and fell… and as Gar and Isk watched, hard-eyed, the huge head of the greatfangs swung up to finally catch a darting foe.
Teeth as long as the falling Aumrarr's body closed on the winged woman, blood sprayed in all directions, and severed limbs came tumbling down out of the sky in the wake of that many-fanged, busily chewing head.
Another Aumrarr rushed up to stab at a large and heavy-lidded eye, howling in rage and grief-and the head drew away from her and then thrust back, slamming its snout into her. She spun helplessly away across the sky, wings curling and convulsing, and the great wyrm lunged after her and bit her apart, too.
Gar and Isk saw a third Aumrarr swoop up from beneath the greatfangs to slice and stab at its rider, and-
Brightness burst across the darkness, an explosion that rocked Stormcrag Castle and tore the night sky asunder.
Gar roared in pain, clutching at his eyes, and Isk whimpered beside him. They could see nothing more.
Blindly, they groped for each other, hoping their sightlessness wouldn't last long.
"Lass," Garfist rumbled, as his arms went around a familiar bony shape, that clung to him and nipped at his shoulder lovingly, "I'm thinking we're now the guardians of this mindgem that's waiting for the right Lord Archwizard to come along."
"I'm thinking that, too," Isk whispered, nigh his neck. "Glork. Glork and be-frawling bugger."
A flash of light split the sky above Harstorm Ridge, driving blinded knights on the walls of Hammerhold to curse or cry out. They had scarce clutched at their eyes and shouted for fresh watchers to come up from below when Hammerhand's castle rocked and shuddered under them in the throes of a second great crash.
This one was coming from behind them, and it was moving. As knights pounded up stairs onto the battlements to peer into the night, it groaned on for a long, rending time in which trees shrieked aloud as they were torn apart, snapped like so much kindling, and hurled down amid many smaller crashings. Then it all faded.
The hard-eyed watchers on the walls of Hammerhold saw that something had smashed a path of devastation across the Raurklor above them, on the forested heights that looked down on Ironthorn. An eerie glow-flames? — was flickering up there now, and silhouetted against it were tumbled and broken trees that should have towered unbroken up into the starry sky.
It was then that Lord Burrim Hammerhand came up onto the battlements in a growling rush, to glare all around at the surrounding forest as if he held it personally responsible.
"Darlok," he snapped, knowing without turning to look which of his warcaptains had hastened up the steps after him, "gather some knights-enough to hurl back three Lyrose patrols-and get up yonder to see what's befallen. If it's some dread spellhurler or other, fill him up with arrows for me. If it's something worse, get word back to me, or get yourself back to tell the tale, just as fast as you can run."
"Lord," Darlok agreed with a nod, and plunged back down the stone stair. Hammerhand followed him, slamming one shoulder against the stone as he always did when he came to the archers' bend, and cursing-only to fall silent, aghast, as a guard's shout arose from below: "Lorn! Lorn in the castle!"
Swearing, Lord Hammerhand hurled himself down flight after flight of stairs, collecting a trotting Tarlkond and almost a score of knights by threes and fours at each floor.
They snatched out their swords when they reached the still-shouting guard, and flung just one question at him: "Where?"
At the sight of his lord that knight gave off crying his warning and spun around to point down the passage that led to the fore-hall. Hammerhand and the rest were streaming past him almost before he got his arm aimed properly.
"This is Lyrose mischief," Tarlkond snarled. "Who else can call down lorn?"
"Tesmer," another knight gasped.
"Or wizards," the Lord Leaf snapped darkly, from where he was suddenly panting along beside them, come from out of some dark side-passage or other.
He turned his head to catch Burrim Hammerhand's eye, and said urgently, between gasps for breath, "We will never see any limits to the evil and the wanton slaughter done by wizards. We must kill them, Lord! Kill them all!"
"Lorn first," the lord of Hammerhold growled back at him. "One foe at a time. All the wizards in the world will just have to wait; my swordarm isn't getting any younger."
Though the moon was well risen and they were both within reach of the soaring highlance canopied bed they were wont to share, Lord and Lady Tesmer were still up and dressed. As the fairest flower of Imtowers had put it to her lord earlier, she was not in the habit of receiving spies-no matter how deeply trusted nor well paid-in her bed-silks. Or less.
The spy, a slender and softly-murmuring man of nondescript looks, had slipped out of the best bedchamber in the castle of Imtowers a bare few indrawn breaths earlier. Presumably he was now hastening back to his scullery in Hammerhold, before his absence might be remarked upon.
He had not borne overmuch news, and the most interesting of what he'd imparted came not from Ironthorn, but from Helnkrist in Helnadar.
It had taken Lord Tesmer, who loved maps but thought slowly when he was aware of his wife's disapproving glare and trying not to meet it, all this time to recall just where the small market-moot town of Helnadar was. On the easternmost edge of the Raurklor, of course; he'd remembered that much the moment he heard the name, but it had taken until now to bring to mind that-unsurprisingly-it straddled the Heln River, where that narrow, winding water flowed out of the forest into Sardray.
Helnkrist was the tower of the fell wizard Narmarkoun, the Doom who bred greatfangs. Until the wizard had slain them all to take possession of that keep, it had been the safehold of a consortium of Stormar merchants-a refuge in the green heart of nowhere they could retreat to in times of war, or retire from their rivals when old age crept into their bones. Well, Narmarkoun had saved them that most feeble of fates.
Now, it seemed, Helnkrist stood empty, the wizard gone.
Gone but not dead. Lord and Lady Tesmer knew that much without exchanging a word.
They were under Narmarkoun's sway, and right now he was just as he had been to them every moment of these last few seasons-a dark, heavy, everpresent, stifling weight in their minds. Watching their thoughts whenever he pleased, steering them when he desired. Yes, the breeder of greatfangs was very much still alive.
Just as they were very much still awake, and conferring together.
"This is not helpful," Lord Tesmer muttered worriedly, running one hand through his stylishly long, but thinning, hair. "Malraun's army advances without pause or check. No lorn harry it, no foe can stand against it; the best chance of destroying it would be greatfangs attacks, by night-and what chance of that now, if the Master is a fugitive, wandering and hiding somewhere in the Raurklor? Just when we need him."