"Stop him!" the priest ordered sharply. The overduke saw Stornbridge look back nervously, run on a few paces, and then turn, sword flashing.
Hawkril didn't wait for the tersept to take a stance. He swerved, clawing at the night air for balance as Stornbridge slashed at him, let the tip of the tersept's sword whistle past him-then leaned in, still running hard, and slammed his arm across the tersept's throat.
Lord Stornbridge crashed over backwards and bounced, sobbing for breath and feebly clutching at his windpipe. His warsword clattered away, but Hawk ran on. He had to get to the priest before that Serpent-lover had time to stop and cast a proper spell, or he and Craer would be dead in a few breaths.
The priest looked back, and Hawkril slashed at the air between them with his warsword, not slowing a whit. The Serpent grimaced, and swerved toward the line of merlons that guarded the moat side of the bat-dements. Hawkril thundered after him, still unsteady, his sword slashing back and forth.
"Fangbrother Maurivan!" the tersept sobbed from behind Hawkril, his voice raw and feeble.
The priest ran on, giving no sign he'd heard that cry-but in front of him Craer rose up, grinning like a fox, and said merrily, "Good evening, Serpent! Shall we dance?"
Fangbrother Maurivan swerved again, whirling to dive between two merlons. Craer and Hawkril both sprang to the wall, peering, but there was no splash. The robed figure plunged down, down-and vanished in a soundless flash of light, a moment or so before he should have struck the cortahar-strewn water.
"Magic!" Craer said scornfully. "Are we done?"
"Stornbridge," Hawkril growled, and they hurried back together.
The tersept was on his feet, still clutching his throat, his recovered warsword in his other hand. "Don't-don't you dare!" he croaked, backing away from them.
"Lord Stornbridge," Craer replied reproachfully, "we could hardly butcher and maim your faithful cortahars and these snakes you've made welcome in this castle, and not exact the proper punishment on you, now, could we? Hey?"
Stornbridge moaned in despair, and then charged, hacking wildly at the procurer. Craer dodged left-that magnificent blade smashed down on the flagstones, striking sparks-and then right-the blade clanged down again- and then drop-kicked the tersept, aiming his knife-toed feet high.
Those points skittered harmlessly across the tersept's steel breastplate, but sent Stornbridge back on his heels-and Hawkril's lunge, arriving a moment later, caught him flat-footed.
Through the space between two plates of the tersept's splendid armor the armaragor's warsword bit, only going in an inch or so through the under learners, but Stornbridge reeled back again-and Craer, still on the ground by the tersept's feet, hooked his legs around Stornbridge's ankle and flung himself over on his side.
Lord Stornbridge toppled like a felled tree, crashing hard onto the flagstones and losing his warsword once more. Hawkril kicked him hard, rolling him clear of Craer, and then kicked him again, forcing the tersept into a frantic crawl that brought Stornbridge to his knees and then to triumphantly seizing on two fallen cortahar's swords.
With a bark of triumph he spun around, blades glittering in both hands. Hawkril charged, smashing one aside with his own warsword and then ducking after it, so Stornbridge's vicious thrust with the second blade stabbed only air.
Hawkril kept on circling, striding around behind the tersept until Stornbridge was forced to wheel around, leaving his back open to Craer.
The procurer promptly sprang onto the tersept's back and perched there, slapping Stornbridge's eyes with his fingers until the frantic noble flung himself over backwards to try to crush Craer on the flagstones.
The procurer leaped nimbly away, landed, and then sprang back, landing with both feet together and as hard as he could on Stornbridge's right wrist.
The tersept screamed as bones crunched audibly and his fingers spasmed open, letting fall one of his borrowed swords. Hawkril stalked forward, his warsword gleaming, but Craer called merrily, "Hey, now! You got to carve up Pheldane, and the lornsar, too, whilst declaiming grand doom- this one's mine!"
His next bound brought him down with crushing force on Stornbridge's other wrist-or rather, on a few fingers, as the tersept twisted desperately away.
Stornbridge screamed again, rolling over, and then found his feet and tried to flee, running desperately along his own battlements in the moonlight.
Craer sighed and pursued, springing once more onto Stornbridge's back. Off-balance, the tersept staggered, still running but trying at the same time to claw the procurer off his back.
Craer reached around and quite deliberately broke Stornbridge's nose.
Snarling, the tersept came to a halt, elbowed Craer free of him, snatched out his own dagger, and slashed wildly.
The procurer grinned, just beyond the reach of Stornbridge's fang-and then sat down suddenly and kicked upwards, slicing the tersept's arm with one of his toe-blades.
Stornbridge howled, staggered-and then stabbed down in a blind, frantic fury, again and again, seeking to bury his steel in the infuriating little man beneath him. Kick after kick thudded against the tersept's armor as Craer twisted, rolled, arched, and spun, always avoiding that dagger. Eventually the tersept lost his balance and staggered back until he fetched up against a merlon.
Panting, he glared at the procurer, gathered himself-and then rushed at Craer once more. The procurer ducked sideways, toward the crenellations, and the snarling tersept whirled to follow, reaching out with his dagger-
His wrist was gripped in one strong hand, and another clamped down on his arm above it, tugging in the direction of his thrust, but also turning… and, with a sob of sudden fear and disbelief, Lord Stornbridge was forced to stab his own armpit.
Moaning in pain, he staggered back along a merlon, and felt the dagger ripped from his fingers.
"Enough sport," the procurer told him quietly. "You've lived quite long enough for a man who hurt my Tshamarra, Stornbridge. Oh, yes-and betrayed Aglirta, too. Die, now, and feed some fishes. You might as well be of some use."
A line of liquid fire seemed to erupt across the tersept's brow. Blinking through his own blood, Stornbridge felt tugs at his armpits as straps were deftly cut. Striking out feebly with his fists, he drove his assailant away, hearing a grunt of pain but also the clang of his own breastplate dangling and clashing against his other armor.
Again the deft slicing, and this time cool air touched Stornbridge's sweating chest. His leathers! The little fox must have-
And then something that was both fire and ice together drove into his chest, and he could no longer breathe, could no longer move, could only sag into the warm, waiting chill…
Craer hooked one boot behind the tersept's knee and hauled on the dagger-hilt like a handle, shoving-and the battlements of Stornbridge Castle were suddenly short one tersept.
From somewhere, Lord Stornbridge found the breath and strength for a dying scream, as the cold waters of the moat rushed up to receive him.
The splash was satisfying. Craer straightened up to trade glances with Hawkril-and their gazes were caught by a sudden tongue of bright flame flaring into the night sky from a nearby hilltop. As they watched, it began to curve, changing from a pillar of raging fire to a fiery serpent, swaying as its head cast about for foes, forked tongue licking forth repeatedly.
"All hail the Great Serpent," a weak voice husked from nearby. The overdukes turned to see the priest Craer had felled earlier lying on his side, with the fire-serpent reflected in his dying eyes. The man swallowed, struggled to speak as blood welled from his mouth, and then managed a single word: "Auncrauthador!"