"Behold, tower stairs," Blackgult gasped, after what seemed an eternity of running and slaying later. "Up or down, lads and lasses?"
"Down," Craer growled, hefting blood-drenched daggers.
"Up," Embra panted, "because it gives us more choices of ways on, and because the Serpents will be up high. Priests prefer to be above, looking down, in command. You're a thief, and so think of skulking-"
"Lady Silvertree! 'Procurer,' please!" Craer protested, in mimicry of a scandalized matron. "Agreed: up 'tis."
"Where we'll meet them teeth to teeth," Blackgult said in satisfaction, "and get our first strike at our real foes."
"Conjure a shield first," Tshamarra panted. "One for each of us, to float and flank Hawk's real one. There may be bows ready."
Embra nodded, and they hurried up the stairs with unseen shields shimmering before them.
The uppermost passage was deserted, but the Lady of Jewels urged them on. "If we can get to yonder room first and make ready by its doors, they'll be coming through in haste, thanks to all the fires we've set, and we can-"
The door at the far end of the passage burst open, and armaragors in full battle armor clanked hastily through, swords out. Seven-no, eight-knights, with shields at the ready, forming a neat, practiced-and menacing-wall. Craer whistled and grinned. "A proper fight at last!"
"Embra! Shields high, on edge, and fly them forward," Tshamarra hissed. "We might just be able to break a Serpent-worshipping neck!"
The Lady of Jewels replied with a smile and nod, as Blackgult and Craer hurried to flank Hawkril, and the two groups of armored men hastened to meet each other.
Coming through the door behind the Storn armaragors, as the overdukes had expected, were the Tersept's Champion, in gleamingly magnificent armor, and a haughty-looking man in robes adorned with wriggling serpent designs. Champion Pheldane drew his sword with a flourish and stood guard before the priest, who raised his hands dramatically and began to intone a loud, slow incantation.
"Lady look down, he's trying to impress us to death," Tshamarra murmured. Embra chuckled at that as their unseen shields flashed over Pheldane's shoulders… and struck the priest's throat, edge-on, from two directions at once.
They did not behead the man-quite-but broke his neck in an instant, leaving a gurgling head to loll on suddenly blood-spattered shoulders, ere the corpse toppled headlong.
It struck Pheldane's arm, and he whirled, aghast-at about the same time as Tshamarra snatched the magic of the invisible shields into a new spell, using the Dwaer to send lightning crackling through the Storn armaragors, a step or two before their swords reached the trio of overdukes.
Hawkril and Blackgult sprang back, swearing, but the Lady Talasorn's spell had been precise: their foes were still alive-barely-but quite helpless. To a man, the Storn armaragors crashed to the passage floor and lay there, twitching uncontrollably.
"Safe to proceed?" Craer called. Tshamarra shouted reassurance, and the three overdukes rushed over the stricken knights to confront Pheldane, who licked his lips, backed away, and then turned to flee.
Craer raced past him, eluding a wicked side thrust as he went, and spun in midair to fetch up barring the door with his blade raised. "Is this a Tersept's Champion I see before me?" he taunted. "Or a craven coward?"
Pheldane snarled and hacked at him furiously. He must hew down this little thief before the two armored overdukes reached him, and get out that door!
Craer deflected one mighty blow. The force of the next bent the procurer's parrying blade and drove him to the floor, where he overbalanced onto his back. The glittering point of the Champion's blade drew back to slay.
The procurer beneath it kicked out at the Champion's legs before Pheldane could skewer him. The Champion staggered, roaring in rage, and almost fell on his face atop Craer-but caught the door handle as he toppled forward. Gathering his great strength, he plucked the door open, crashing it hard into Craer's shoulder.
It was Craer's turn to roar, as bones splintered and the door drove him helplessly across the floor. The Champion wasted no time on trying to slay his foe, but trampled the procurer in a frantic rush to get out and away and-
Hawkril Anharu's diving lunge caught Pheldane's elbow, and whirled the man around against the wall with a crash. The Champion staggered, caught his balance, and sprang for the door again-only to find the edge of Blackgult's blade barring his way, at throat height. Recoiling, Pheldane found himself spun around by Hawkril's hand, as the armaragor clambered up from the floor.
Together, the two armored overdukes herded the Champion into a corner, away from the moaning, writhing procurer. It was Hawkril who withstood Pheldane's frantic sword blows with his own sword, while sparks flew and metal belled deafeningly-and it was Hawkril who in the end ducked low and then came lunging back up in the same motion to bury his blade hilt-deep in the gap between the Champion's gleamingly fluted codpiece and the tasset beside it.
Pheldane screamed, fountaining blood and trying to beat Hawkril aside with the hilt and quillons of his sword. The overduke stood firm.
For a moment they stood nose to nose, the one quivering in agony and disbelief, and the other blazing with anger.
"M-mercy," the Champion gasped. "Get me a healer, and chests of gold'll be yours!! -"
"You," Hawkril told him in a voice of doom, "are all that is wrong with Aglirta. Men like you, who kneel to the Serpents and take their coin. I have no use for chests of gold. Die, and so rid this fair realm of one small stain!"
And he twisted his blade, ramming it upward with all his strength as he did so.
Pheldane sobbed in pain and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, making the Sign of the Three with trembling fingers. But no healing stirred within him, nor shining cortahars appeared to deliver him from his foes. It seemed the gods were as hard of hearing as always.
10
A Night of Destroying Castles
Hawkril Anharu twisted his blade again. The man transfixed on it sobbed, choked, and then stared over the armaragor's shoulder at Tshamarra and Embra, seizing the chance to gaze on beauty one last time.
They stared coldly back at Onskur Pheldane as his gaze became fixed, his jaw fell slack, and his sword slipped from failing fingers.
Hawkril tugged out his blade and let the body fall. It crashed heavily down the wall to sprawl beside the groaning procurer.
"Bones broken," the armaragor snapped, looking from Craer up at the two sorceresses.
"No doubt. Did he damage the door?" Tshamarra asked wryly, as she and Embra hastened forward. Hawkril and Blackgult stood watchful guard as the Dwaer shone and spun again, and Craer came wincing back to his feet, muttering, "I've got to get me my own magic Stone, really I do!"
"Later," the Golden Griffon told him with a grim smile-as shouts arose from the passage behind them. The overdukes whirled around.
Dozens of Stornbridge cortahars, bright blades gleaming in their hands, were advancing toward them, a Serpent-robed man snapping orders at their rear. Craer eyed the foremost knights and observed, 'Just now, Lady Silvertree, would be a very good time to do something destructive."
"Indeed," Embra replied with dignity. "I'll turn this shielding into something deadly, if our friendly priest yonder doesn't-"
It seemed the Lady of Jewels was fated never to comfortably end a sentence during this early morning excursion through Stornbridge Castle. Fire roared up into a thundering sphere at the far end of the passage, a shouted command made all the cortahars scatter and crouch by the walls… and the passage shook as the ball of flames started to roll forward.